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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3656776 
 
POOR ^ ^ 
 RELATIONS 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 POOR RELATIONS 
 SYLVIA & MICHAEL 
 FLASHERS MEAD 
 SYLVIA SCARLETT 
 
 Harper (jf Brothers 
 Publithers 
 
POOR RELATIONS 
 
 By COMPTON MACKENZIE Ji ^ 
 
 Author rf " SYLVIA SCARLETT" "SYLVIA AND MICHAEL" ETC. 
 
 HARPER 6? BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON ■Q'^ 
 
Poor Relations 
 
 Copyright, igxg, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 Printed in the United States of Ame^ca 
 
 Publiehed February. 1920 
 
THIS THEME IN C MAJOR WITH 
 VARIATIONS IS INSCRIBED TO THE 
 ROMANTIC AND MYSTERIOUS 
 MAJOR C BY ONE WHO WAS 
 PRIVILEGED TO SERVE UNDER HIM 
 DURING MORE THAN TWO YEARS 
 OF WAR 
 
 Cafsi, Afsil 30, igig. 
 
Poor Relations 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THERE was nothing to distinguish the departure of 
 the Murmania from that of any other big liner leaving 
 New York in October for Liverpool or Southampton. At 
 the crowded gangways there was the tisual rain of ultimate 
 kisses, from the quayside the usual gale of speeding hand- 
 kerchiefs. Ladies in blanket-coats handed over to the ar- 
 rangement of their table-stewards the expensive bouquets 
 presented by friends who, as the case might be, had been 
 glad or sorry to see them go. Middle-aged gentlemen, who 
 were probably not at all conspicuous on shore, at once made 
 their appearance in caps that they might have felt shy about 
 wearing even during their university prime. Children in 
 the first confusion of settling down ate more chocolates from 
 the gift boxes lying about the cabins than they were likely 
 to be given (or perhaps to want) for some time. Two 
 young women with fresh complexions, short skirts, tam 
 o' shanters, brightly colored jumpers, and big bows to their 
 shoes were already on familiar terms with one of the junior 
 ship's officers, and their laughter (which would soon become 
 one of those unending oceanic accompaniments that make 
 land so pleasant again) was already competing with the noise 
 of the crew. Everybody boasted aloud that they fed you 
 really well on the Murmania, and hoped silently that per- 
 haps the sense of being imprisoned in a decaying hot-water 
 bottle (or whatever more or less apt comparison was in- 
 vented to suggest atmosphere below decks) would pass away 
 in the fresh Atlantic breezes. Indeed it might be said, except 
 
2 Poor Relations 
 
 in the case of a few ivory-faced ladies already lying back 
 with the professional aloofness of those who are a prey to 
 chronic headaches, that outwardly optimism was rampant. 
 
 It was not surprising, therefore, that John Touchwood, 
 the successful romantic playwright and unsuccessful realistic 
 novelist, should on finding himself hemmed in by such in- 
 vincible cheerfulness surrender to his own pleasant fancies of 
 home. This was one of those moments when he was able to 
 feel that the accusation of sentimentality so persistently laid 
 against his work by superior critics was rebutted out of the 
 very mouth of real life. He looked round at his fellow- 
 passengers as though he would congratulate them on con- 
 forming to his later and more profitable theory of art; and 
 if becasionally he could not help seeing a stewardess with a 
 glance of discreet sympathy reveal to an inquirer the ship's 
 provision for human weakness, he did not on this account 
 feel better disposed toward morbid intrusions either upon art 
 or life, partly because he was himself an excellent sailor and 
 partly because after all as a realist he had unquestionably 
 not been a success. 
 
 "Time for a shave before lunch, steward?" he inquired 
 heartily. 
 
 "The first bugle will go in about twenty minutes, sir." 
 
 John paused for an instant at his own cabin to extract 
 from his suitcase the particular outrage upon conventional 
 headgear (it was a deerstalker of Lovat tweed) that he had 
 evolved for this voyage ; and presently he was sitting in the 
 barber shop, wondering at first why anybody should be ex- 
 pected to buy any of the miscellaneous articles exposed for 
 sale at such enhanced prices on every hook and in every nook 
 of the little saloon, and soon afterward seriously considering 
 the advantage of a pair of rope-soled shoes upon a heeling 
 deck. 
 
 "Very natty things those, sir," said the barber. "I laid 
 in a stock once at Gib., when we did the southern rowt. 
 Shave you close, sir?" 
 
 "Once over, please." 
 
Poor Relations 3 
 
 "Skin tender?" 
 
 "Rather tender." 
 
 "Yes, sir. And the beard's a bit strong, sir. Shave your- 
 self, sir?" 
 
 "Usually, but I was up rather early this morning." 
 
 "Safety razor, sir?" 
 
 "If you think such a description justifiable — ^yes — a 
 safety." 
 
 "They're all the go now, and no mistake . . . safety 
 bicycles, safety matches, safety razors . . . they've all 
 come in our time . . . yes, sir, just a little bit to the right 
 — thank you, sir! Not your first crossing, I take it?" 
 
 "No, my third." 
 
 "Interesting place, America. But I am from Wands- 
 worth myself.- Hair's getting rather thin round the temples. 
 Would you like something to brisken up the growth a bit? 
 Another time? Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Parting on the 
 left's it, I think?" 
 
 "No grease," said John as fiercely as he ever spoke. The 
 barber seemed to replace the pot of brilliantine with regret. 
 
 "What tvould you like then?" He might have been ad- 
 dressing a spoilt child. "Flowers-and-honey ? Eau-de- 
 quinine? Or perhaps a friction? I've got lavingder, carna- 
 tion, wallflower, vilit, lilerk ..." 
 
 "Bay rum," John declared, firmly. 
 
 The barber sighed for such an unadventurous soul ; and 
 John, who could not bear to hurt even the most superficial 
 emotions of a barber, changed his mind and threw him into 
 a smiling bustle of gratification. 
 
 "Rather strong," John said, half apologetically ; for, while 
 the friction was being administered the barber had explained 
 in jerks how every time he went ashore in New York or 
 Liverpool he was in the habit of searching about foj some 
 novel wash or tonic or pomade, and John did not want to 
 make hint ^eel that his enterprise was unappreciated. 
 
 "Strong is it? Well, that's a good fault, sir." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is." 
 
4 P oor R e I a t ion s 
 
 "What took my fancy was the natural way it smelled." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, painfully natural," John agreed. 
 
 He stood up and confronted himself in the barber's mir- 
 ror; regarding the fair, almost florid man, rather under six 
 feet in height, with sanguine blue eyes and full, but clearly 
 cut, lips therein reflected, he came to the comforting conclu- 
 sion that he did not look his forty-two years and nine months ; 
 indeed, while his mufiled whistle was shaping rather than 
 uttering the tune of Nancy Lee, he nearly asked the barber 
 to guess his age. However, he decided not to risk it, pulled 
 down the lapels of his smoke-colored tweed coat, put on his 
 deerstalker, tipped the barber sufficiently well to secure a 
 parting caress from the brush, promised to meditate the pur- 
 chase of the rope-soled shoes, and stepped jauntily in the 
 direction of the luncheon bugle. If John Touchwood had 
 not been a successful romantic playwright and an unsuccess- 
 ful realistic novelist, he might have found in the spectacle 
 of the first lunch of an Atlantic voyage an illustration of hu- 
 man madness and the destructive will of the gods. As it was, 
 his capacity for rapidly covering the domestic offices of the 
 brain with the crimson-ramblers of a lush idealism made him 
 forget the base fabric so prettily if obviously concealed. As 
 it was, he found an exhilaration in all this berserker greed, 
 in the cries of inquisitive children, in the rumpled appearance 
 of women whom the bugle had torn from their unpacking 
 with the urgency of the last trump, in the acrid smell of 
 pickles, and in the persuasive gesture with which the glisten- 
 ing stewards handed the potatoes while they glared angrily at 
 one another over their shoulders. If a cynical realist had in 
 respect of this lunch observed to John that a sow's ear was 
 poor material for a silk purse, he would have contested the 
 universal truth of the proverb, for at this moment he was 
 engaged in chinking the small change of sentimentality in 
 just such a purse. 
 
 "How jolly everybody is," he thought, swinging round to 
 his neighbor, a gaunt woman in a kind of draggled mantilla, 
 with an effusion of goodwill that expressed itself in a request 
 
Poor Relations 5 
 
 to pass her the pickled walnuts. John fancied an impulse to 
 move away her chair when she declined his offer; but of 
 course the chair was fixed, and the only sign of her distaste 
 for pickles or conversation was a faint quiver, which to any 
 one less rosy than John might have suggested abhorrence, but 
 which struck him as merely shyness. It was now that for the 
 first time he became aware of a sickly fragrance that was 
 permeating the atmosphere, a fragrance that other people, 
 too, seemed to be noticing by the way in which they were 
 looking suspiciously at the stewards. 
 
 "Rather oppressive, some of these flowers," said John to 
 the gaunt lady. ^, ■ 
 
 "I don't see any flowers at our end of the table," she 
 replied. 
 
 And then with an emotion that was very nearly horror 
 John realized that, though the barber was il^ponsible, he 
 must pay the penalty in a vicarious mortificatioH; His first 
 impulse was to snatch a napkin and wipe his hair ; then he 
 decided to leave the table immediately, because after all no- 
 body could suspect him, in these as yet unvexed waters, of 
 anything but repletion; finally, hoping that the much pow- 
 dered lady opposite swathed in mauve chiffons was getting 
 the discredit of the fragrance, he stayed where he was. 
 Nevertheless, the exhilaration had departed ; his neighbors all 
 seemed dull folk; and congratulating himself that after this 
 first confused lunch he might reasonably expect to be put at 
 the captain's table in recognition of the celebrity that he could 
 fairly claim, John took from his pocket a bundle of letters 
 which had arrived just before he had left his hotel and busied 
 himself with them for the rest of the meal. 
 
 His success as a romantic playwright and his failure — of, 
 as he would have preferred to think of it in the satisfaction 
 of fixing the guilty fragrance upon the lady in mauve chif- 
 fons, his comparative failure — as a realistic novelist had not 
 destroyed John's passion for what he called "being practical 
 in small matters," and it was in pursuit of this that hj.ving 
 arranged his letters in two heaps which he mentally labeled 
 
^ PoorRelations 
 
 as "business" and "pleasure" he began with the former, as 
 a child begins (or ought to begin) his tea with the bread and 
 In^ter and ends it with the plumcake. In John's case, fresh 
 f rtm what really might be described as a triumphant produc- 
 tion in New York, the butter was spread so thickly that 
 "business" was too forbidding a name for such pleasantly 
 nutritious communications. His agent had sent him the re- 
 turns of the second week; and playing to capacity in one of 
 the largest New York theaters is nearer to a material para- 
 dise than anything outside the Mohammedan religion. Then 
 there was an offer from one of the chief film companies to 
 produce his romantic drama of two years ago, that wonder- 
 ful riot of color and Biblical phraseology. The Fall of Baby- 
 lon. They ventured to think that the cinematograph would 
 do his imagination more justice than the theater, particularly 
 as upon their dramatic ranch in California they now had 
 more than a hundred real camels and eight real elephants. 
 John chuckled at the idea of a few animals compensating for 
 the absence of his words, but nevertheless . . . the en- 
 trance of Nebuchadnezzar, yes, it should be wonderfully 
 effective . . . and the great grass-eating scene, yes, that 
 niight positively be more impressive on the films . . . 
 with one or two audiences it had trembled for a moment 
 between the sublime and the ridiculous. It was a pity that 
 the offer had not arrived before he was leaving New York, 
 but no doubt he should be able to talk it over with the 
 London representatives of the firm. Hullo here was Janet 
 Bond writing to him . . . charming woman, charming 
 actress. . . . He wandered for a few minutes rather 
 vaguely in the maze of her immense handwriting, but disen- 
 tangled his comprehension at last and deciphered : 
 
 The Parthenon Theater. 
 Sole Proprietress: Miss Janet Bond. 
 October lo, IQIO. 
 Dear Mr. Touchwood, — I wonder if you have for- 
 gotten our talk at Sir Herbert's that night? I'm so hoping 
 
P o or Rel ations 7 
 
 not. And your scheme for a real Joan of Arc? Do think 
 of me this winter. Your picture of the scene with Gilles de 
 Rais — ^you see I followed your advice and read him up— has 
 haunted me ever since. I can' hear the horses' hoofs coming 
 nearer and nearer and the cries of the murdered children. 
 I'm so glad you've had a success with Luerezia in New York, 
 I don't think it would suit me from what I read about it 
 You know how particular my public is. That's why I'm so 
 anxious to play the Maid. When will Luerezia be produced 
 in London? And where? There are many rumors. Do 
 come and see me when you get back to England, and I'll tell 
 you who I've thought of to play Gilles. I think you'll find 
 him very intelligent. But of course everything depends on 
 your inclination, or should I say inspiration ? And then that 
 wonderful speech to the Bishop! How does it begin? 
 "Bishop, thou hast betrayed thy holy trust." Do he a little 
 flattered that I've remembered that line. It needn't all be in 
 blank verse, and I think little Truscott would be so good as 
 the Bishop. You see how enthusiastic I am and hoiv I be- 
 lieve in the idea. All good wishes. 
 
 Yours sincerely and hopefully, 
 
 Janet Bond. 
 
 John certainly was a little flattered that Miss Bond should 
 have remembered the Maid's great speech to the Bishop of 
 Beauvais, and the actre^'s enthusiasm roused in him an an- 
 swering flame, so that the cruet before him began to look 
 like the castelated walls of Orleans, and while his gaze was 
 fixed upon the bowl of salad he began to compose Act II. 
 Scene I — Open country. Enter Joan on horseback. . From 
 the summit of a grassy knoll she searches the horizon. So 
 fixedly was John regarding his heroine on top of the salad 
 that the head steward came over and asked anxiously if there 
 was anything the matter with it. And even when John 
 assured him that there was nothing he took it away and told 
 one of the under-stewards to remove the caterpillar and 
 
 bring a fresh bowl. Meanwhile, John had picked up the 
 2 
 
8 Poor Relations 
 
 other bundle of letters and begun to read his news from 
 home. 
 
 6s Hill Road, 
 
 St. John's Wood, N.W., 
 
 October lO. 
 Dear John, — ^We have just read in the Telegraph of 
 your great success and we are both very glad. Edith writes 
 me that she did have a letter from you. I dare say you 
 thought she would send it on to us but she didn't, and of 
 course I understand you're busy only / should have liked to 
 have a letter ourselves. James asks me to tell you that he is 
 probably going to do a book on the Cymbalist movement in 
 literature. He says that the time has come to take a final 
 survey of it. He is also writing some articles for the Fort' 
 nightly Review. We shall all be so glad to welcome you 
 -home again. 
 
 Your affectionate sister-in-law, 
 
 Beatrice Touchwood. 
 
 "Poor Beatrice," thought John, penitently. "I ought to 
 have sent her a line. She's a good soul. And James . . . 
 what a plucky fellow he is! Always full of schemes for 
 books and articles. Wonderful really, to go on writing for 
 an audience of about twenty people. And I used to grumble 
 because my novels hadn't world-wide circulations. Poor old 
 James ... a good fellow." 
 
 He picked up the next letter; which he found was from 
 his other sister-in-law. 
 
 Halma House, 
 198 Earl's Court Square, S.W., 
 October g. 
 Dear John, — ^Well, you've had a hit with Lucrezia. 
 Lucky man 1 If you sent out an Australian company, don't 
 you think I might play lead? I quite understand that you 
 couldn't manage it for me either in London or America, but 
 after all you are the author and you surely have some say in 
 
Poor Relations 9 
 
 the cast. I've got an understudy at the Parthenon, but I 
 can't stand Janet. Such a selfish actress. She literally 
 doesn't think of any one but herself. There's a chance I may 
 get a decent part on tour with Lambton this autumn. 
 George isn't very well, and it's been rather miserable this 
 wet summer in the boarding-house as Bertram and Viola 
 were ill and kept away from school. I would have suggested 
 their going doVvn to Ambles, but Hilda was so very un- 
 pleasant when I just hinted at the idea that I preferred to 
 keep them with me in town. Both children ask every day 
 when you're coming home. You're quite the favorite uncle. 
 George was delighted with ybur success. Poor old boy, he's 
 had another financial disappointment, and your success was 
 quite a consolation. Eleanor. 
 
 "I wish Eleanor was anywhere but on the stage," John 
 sighed. " But she's a plucky woman. I must write her a 
 part in my next play. Now for Hilda." 
 
 He opened his sister's letter with the most genial antici- 
 pation, because it was written from his new country house 
 in Hampshire, that county house which he had coveted for 
 so long and to which the now faintly increasing motion of 
 the Murmemia reminded him that he was fast returning. 
 
 Ambles, 
 Wrottesford, Hants, 
 
 October 11. 
 My Dear John, — ^Just a line to congratulate you on your 
 new success. Lots of money in it, I suppose. Dear Harold 
 is quite well and happy at Ambles. Quite the young squire ! 
 I had a little coolness with Eleanor— entirely on her side of 
 course, but Bertram is really such a bad influence for Harold 
 and so I told her that I did not think you would like her 
 to take possession of your new house before you'd had time 
 to live in it yourself. Besides, so many children all at once 
 would have disturbed poor Mama. Edith drove over with 
 Frida the other day and tells me you wrote to her. I 
 
lo PoorRelations 
 
 should have liked a letter, too, but you always spoil poor 
 Edith. Poor little Frida looks very peaky. Much love from 
 Harold who is always asking when you're coming home. 
 Mama is very well, I'm glad to say. 
 
 Your affectionate sister, 
 
 Hilda Curtis. 
 
 "She might have told me a little more about the house," 
 John murmured to himself. And then he began to dream 
 about Ambles and to plant old-fashioned flowers along its 
 mellow red-brick garden walls. "I shall be in time to see 
 the coloring of the woods," he thought. The Murmania 
 answered his aspiration with a plunge, and several of the 
 rumpled ladies rose hurriedly from table to prostrate them- 
 selves for the rest of the voyage. John opened a fourth letter 
 from England. 
 
 The Vicarage, 
 Newton Candover, Hants, 
 
 October 7. 
 My Dearest John, — I was so glad to get your letter, 
 and so glad to hear of your success. Laurence says that if 
 he were not a vicar he should like to be a dramatic author. 
 In fact, he's writing a play now on a Biblical subject, but he 
 fears he will have trouble with the Bishop, as it takes a very 
 broad view of Christianity. You know that Laurence has 
 recently become very broad? He thinks the village people 
 like it, but unfortunately old Mrs. Paxton — ^you know who 
 I mean — the patroness of the living — is so bigoted that Lau- 
 rence has had a great deal of trouble with her. I'm sorry 
 to say that dear little Frida is looking thin. We think it's 
 the wet summer. Nothing but rain. Ambles was looking 
 beautiful when we drove over last week, but Harold is a 
 little bumptious and Hilda does not seem to see his faults. 
 Dear Mama was looking very well — better than I've seen 
 her for ages. Frida sends such a lot of love to dearest Uncle 
 John. She never stops talking about you. I sometimes get 
 
Poor Relations ll 
 
 quite jealous for Laurence. Not really, of course, because 
 family affection is the foundation of civil life. Laurence is 
 out in the garden speaking to a man whose pig got into our 
 conservatory this morning. Much love. 
 
 Your loving sister, 
 
 Edith. 
 
 John put the letter down with a faint sigh: Edith was his 
 favorite sister, but he often wished that she had not married 
 a parson. Then he took up the last letter of the family 
 packet, which was from his housekeeper in Church Row. 
 
 39 Church Row^ 
 
 Hempstead, N. W. 
 Dear Sir, — ^This is to inform you with the present that 
 everythink is very well at your house and that Maud and 
 Elsa is very well as it leaves me at present. We as heard 
 nothink from Emily since she as gone down to Hambles your 
 other house, and we hope which is Maud, Elsa and myself 
 you wont spend all your time out of London which is look- 
 ing lovely at present with the leaves beginning to turn and 
 all. With dutiful respects from Maud, Elsa and self, I am, 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 Mary Worfolk. 
 
 "Dear old Mrs. Worfolk. She's already quite jealous of 
 Ambles . . . charming trait really, for after all it means 
 she appreciates Church Row. Upon my soul, I feel a bit 
 jealous of Ambles myself." 
 
 John began to ponder the pleasant heights of Hampstead 
 and to think of the pale blue October sky and of the yellow 
 leaves shuffling and slipping along the quiet alleys in the 
 autumn wind; to think, too, of his library window and of 
 London spread out below in a refulgence of smoke and gold ; 
 to think of the chrysanthemums in his little garden and of 
 the sparrows' chirping in the Virginia-creeper that would 
 soon be all aglow like a well banked-up fire against his com- 
 
12 Poor Relations 
 
 ing. Five delightful letters really, every one of them full of 
 good wishes and cordial afEection ! The Murmatiia swooped 
 forward, and there was a faint tingle of glass and cutlery. 
 John gathered up his correspondence to go on deck and bless 
 the Atlantic for being the pathway to home. As he rose 
 from the table he heard a voice say: 
 
 "Yes, my dear thing, but I've never been a poor relation 
 yet, and I don't intend to start now." 
 
 The saloon was empty except for himself and two women 
 opposite, the climax of whose conversation had come with 
 such a harsh fitness of comment upon the letters he had just 
 been reading. John was angry with himself for the dint so 
 easily made upon the romantic shield he upheld against life's 
 onset ; he felt that he had somehow been led into an ambush 
 where all his noblest sentiments had been massacred; five 
 bells sounded upon the empty saloon with an almost funereal 
 gravity; and, when the two women passed out, John, not- 
 withstanding the injured regard of his steward, sat down 
 again and read right through the family letters from a fresh 
 standpoint. The fact of it was that there had turned out 
 to be very few currants in the cake, for the eating of which 
 he had prepared himself with such well-buttered bread. Few 
 currants? There was not a single one, unless Mrs. Wor- 
 folk's antagonism to the idea of Ambles might be considered 
 a gritty shred of a currant. John rose at once when he had 
 finished his letters, put them in his pocket, and followed the 
 unconscious disturbers of his hearth on deck. He soon caught 
 sight of them again where, arm in arm, they were pacing 
 the sunlit starboard side and apparently enjoying the gusty 
 southwest wind. John wondered how long it would be 
 before he was given a suitable opportunity to make their 
 acquaintance, and tried to regulate his promenade so that 
 he should always meet them face to face either aft or for- 
 ward, but never amidships where heavily muffled passengers 
 reclined in critical contemplation of their fellow-travelers 
 over the top of the last popular novel. 
 
 "Some men, you know," he told himself, "would join 
 
Poor Relations 13 
 
 their walk with a mere remark about the weather. They 
 wouldn't stop to consider if their company was welcome. 
 They'd be so serenely satisfied with themselves that they'd 
 actually succeed . . . yes, confound them . . . they'd 
 bring it o£E! Yet, after all, I suppose in a way that without 
 vanity I might presume they would be rather interested to 
 meet me. Because, of course, there's no doubt that people 
 are interested in authors. But, it's no good ... I can't 
 do that . . . this is really one of those moments when I 
 feel as if I was still seventeen years old . . . shyness, I 
 suppose . . . yet the rest of my family aren't shy." 
 
 This took John's thoughts back to his relations, but to a much 
 less complacent point of view of them than before that ma-» 
 liciously apposite remark overheard in the saloon had lighted 
 up the group as abruptly and unbecomingly as a magnesium 
 flash. However inconsistent he might appear, he was afraid 
 that he should be more critical of them in future. He began 
 to long to talk over his affairs with that girl and, looking 
 up at this moment, he caught her eyes, which either because 
 the weather was so gusty or because he was so ready to hang 
 decorations round a simple fact seemed to him like calm 
 moorland pools, deep violet-brown pools in heathery soli- 
 tudes. Her complexion had the texture of a rose in Novem- 
 ber, the texture that gains a rare lucency from the grayness 
 and moisture by which one might suppose it would be ruined. 
 She was wearing a coat and skirt of Harris tweed of a shade 
 of misty green, and with her slim figure and fine features 
 she seemed at first glance not more than twenty. But John 
 had not passed her another half-dozen times before he had 
 decided that she was almost a woman of thirty. He looked 
 to see if she was wearing a wedding ring and was already 
 enough interested in her to be glad that she was not. This 
 relief was, of course, not at all due to any vision of himself 
 in a more intimate relationship; but merely because he was 
 glad to find that her personality, of which he was by now 
 more definitely aware than of her beauty (well, not beauty, 
 but charm, and yet perhaps after all he was being too grudg- 
 
14 PoorRelations 
 
 ing in not awarding her positive beauty) would be her own. 
 There was something distinctly romantic in this beautiful 
 young woman of nearly thirty leading her own life unim- 
 peded by a loud-voiced husband. Of course, the husband 
 might have had a gentle voice, but usually this type of woman 
 seemed a prey to bluffness and bigness, as if to display her 
 atmosphere charms she had need of a rugged landscape for a 
 background. He found himself glibly thinking of her as 
 a type; but with what type could she be classified? Surely 
 she was attracting him by being exceptional rather than 
 typical; and John soothed his alarmed celibacy by insisting 
 that she appealed to him with a hint of virginal wisdom 
 which promised a perfect intercourse, if only their acquaint- 
 anceship could be achieved naturally, that is to say, without 
 the least suggestion of an ulterior object. She had never 
 been a poor relation yet, and she did not intend to start being 
 one now. Of course, such a woman was still unmarried. 
 But how had she avoided being a poor relation ? What was 
 her work? Why was she coming home to England? And 
 who was her companion? He looked at the other woman 
 who walked beside her witb a boyish slouch, wore gold pince- 
 nez, and had a tight mouth, not naturally tight, but one that 
 had been tightened by driving and riding. It was absurd to 
 walk up and down forever like this ; the acquaintance must 
 be made immediately or not at all; it would never do to 
 hang round them waiting for an opportunity of conversation. 
 John decided to venture a simple remark the next time he 
 met them face to face ; but when he arrived at the after end 
 of the promenade deck they had vanished, and the embarrass- 
 ing thought occurred to him that perhaps having divined 
 his intention they had thus deliberately snubbed him. He 
 went to the rail and leaned over to watch the water undu- 
 lating past; a sudden gust caught his cap and took it out 
 to sea. He clapped his hand too late to his head ; a fragrance 
 of carnations breathed upon the salt windy sunlight; a voice 
 behind him, softly tremulous with laughter, murmured : 
 "I say, bad luck." 
 
Poor Relations 15 
 
 John commended his deerstalker to the care of all the 
 kindly Oceanides and turned round: it was quite easy after 
 all, and he was glad that he had not thought of deliberately 
 letting his cap blow into the sea. 
 
 "Look, it's actually floating like a boat," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, it was shaped like a boat," John said ; he was think- 
 ing how absurd it was now to fancy that swiftly vanishing, 
 utterly inappropriate piece of concave tweed should only a 
 few seconds ago have been worn the other way round on a 
 human head. 
 
 "But you mustn't catch cold," she added. "Haven't you 
 another cap?" 
 
 John did possess another cap, one that just before he left 
 England he had bought about dusk in the Burlington Arcade, 
 one which in the velvety bloom of a July evening had seemed 
 worthy of summer skies and seas, but which in the glare of 
 the following day had seemed more like the shreds of barbaric 
 attire that are brought back by travelers from exotic lands to 
 be taken out of a glass case and shown to visitors when the 
 conversation is flagging on Sunday afternoons in the home 
 counties. Now if John's plays were full of fierce hues, if 
 his novels had been sepia studies of realism which the public 
 considered painful and the critics described as painstaking, 
 his private life had been of a mild uniform pink, a pinkish- 
 ness that recalled the chaste hospitality of the best spare bed- 
 room. Never yet in that pink life had he let himself go to 
 the extent of wearing a cap, which, even if worn afloat by a 
 colored prizefighter crossing the Atlantic to defend or chal- 
 lenge supremacy, would have created an amused consterna- 
 tion, but which on the head of a well-known romantic play- 
 wright must arouse at least dismay and possibly panic. Yet 
 this John (he had reached the point of regarding himself 
 with objective surprise), the pinkishness of whose life, though 
 it might be a protest against cynicism and gloom, was eter- 
 nally half-way to a blush, went off to his cabin with the 
 intention of putting on that cap. With himself for a while 
 he argued that something must be done to imprison the smell 
 
i6 Poor Relations 
 
 of carnations, that a bowler hat would look absurd, that he 
 really must not catch cold; but all the time this John knew 
 perfectly well that what he really wanted was to give a 
 practical demonstration of his youth. This John did not 
 care a damn about his success as a romantic playwright, but 
 he did care a great deal that these two young women should 
 vote him a suitable companion for the rest of the voyage. 
 
 "Why, it's really not so bad," he assured himself, when 
 before the mirror he tried to judge the effect. "I rather 
 think it's better than the other one. Of course, if I had seen 
 when I bought it that the checks were purple and not black 
 I dare say I shouldn't have bought it— but, by Jove, 
 I'm rather glad I didn't notice them. After all, I have a 
 ri^t to be a little eccentric in my costume. What the deuce 
 does it matter to me if people do stare? Let them stare! 
 I shall be the last of the lot to feel seasick, anyway." 
 
 John walked defiantly back to the promenade deck, and 
 several people who had not bothered to remark the well- 
 groomed florid man before now asked who he was, and fol- 
 lowed his progress along the deck with the easily interested 
 gaze of the transatlantic passenger. 
 
 For the rest of the voyage John never knew whether the 
 attention his entrance into the saloon always evoked was due 
 to his being the man who wore the unusual cap or to his 
 being the man who had written The Fall of Babylon; nor, 
 indeed, did he bother to make sure, for he was fortified dur- 
 ing the rest of the voyage by the company of Miss Doris 
 Hamilton and Miss Ida Merritt and thoroughly enjoyed 
 himself. 
 
 "Now am I attributing to Miss Hamilton more discretion 
 than she's really got?" he asked himself on the last night of 
 the passage, a stormy night off the Irish coast, while he 
 swayed before the mirror in the creaking cabin, John was 
 accustomed, like most men with clear-cut profiles, to take 
 advice from his reflection, and perhaps it was his dramatic 
 instinct that led him usually to talk aloud to this lifelong 
 friend. "Have I in fact been too impulsive in this friend- 
 
Poor Relations 17 
 
 ship? Havel? That's the question. I certainly told her a 
 lot about myself, and I think she appreciated my confidence. 
 Yet suppose that she's just an ordinary young woman and 
 goes gossiping all over England about meeting me ? I really 
 must remember that I'm no longer a nonentity and that, 
 though Miss Hamilton is not a journalist, her friend is, and, 
 what is more, confessed that the sole object of her visit to 
 America had been to interview distinguished men with the 
 help of Miss Hamilton. The way she spoke about her vic- 
 tims reminded me of the way that fellow in the smoking- 
 saloon talked about the tarpon fishing off Florida . . . 
 famous American statesmen, financiers, and architects existed 
 quite impersonally for her to be caught just like tarpon. 
 Really when I come to think of it I've been at the end of 
 Miss Merritt's rod for five daySj and as with all the others 
 the bait was Miss Hamilton." 
 
 John's mistrust in the prudence of his behavior during the 
 voyage had been suddenly roused by the prospect of reaching 
 Liverpool next day. The word positively exuded disillusion- 
 ment; it was as anti-romantic as a notebook of Herbert 
 Spencer. He undressed and got into his bunk; the motion 
 of the ship and the continual opening and shutting bf cabin 
 doors all the way along the corridor kept him from sleep, 
 and foT a long time he lay awake while the delicious freedom 
 of the seas was gradually enslaved by the sullen, prosaic, 
 puritanical, bilious word — Liverpool. He had come down 
 to his cabin, full of the exhilaration of a last quick stroll up 
 and down the spray-whipped deck ; he had come down from 
 a long and pleasant talk all about himself where he and Miss 
 Hamilton had sat in the lee of some part of a ship's furni- 
 ture the name of which he did not know and did not like to 
 ask, a long and pleasant talk, cozily wrapped in two rugs 
 glistening faintly iir the starlight wifti salty rime; he had 
 come down from a successful elimination of Miss Merritt, 
 his whole personality marinated in freedom, he might say; 
 and now the mere thought of Liverpool was enough to disen- 
 chant him and to make him feel rather like a man who was 
 
i8 P o or R e I ation s 
 
 recovering from a brilliant, a too brilliant revelation of him- 
 self provoked by champagne. He began to piece together the 
 conversation and search for indiscretions. To begin w^ith, 
 he had certainly talked a great deal too much about himself ; 
 it was not dignified for a man in his position to be so prodi- 
 gally frank with a young woman he had only known for 
 five days. Suppose she had been laughing at him all the time ? 
 Suppose that even now she was laughing at him writh Miss 
 Merritt? "Good heavens, what an amount I told her," John 
 gasped aloud. "I even told her what my real circulation 
 was when I used to write novels, and I very nearly told her 
 how much I made out of The Fall of Babylon, though since 
 that really was a good deal, it wouldn't have mattered so 
 much. And what did I say about my family? Well, per- 
 haps that isn't so important. But how much did I tell her 
 of my scheme for Joan of Arc? Why, she might have been 
 my confidential secretary by the way I talked. My confi- 
 dential secretary? And why not? I am entitled to a secre- 
 tary — in fact my position demands a secretary. But would 
 she accept such a post? Now don't let me be impulsive." 
 
 John began to laugh at himself for a quality in which as 
 a matter of fact he was, if anything, deficient. He often used 
 to chaff himself, but, of course, always without the least hint 
 of ill-nature, which is perhaps why he usually selected imag- 
 inary characteristics for genial reproof. 
 
 "Impulsive dog," he said to himself. "Go to sleep, and 
 don't forget that confidential secretaries afloat and confiden- 
 tial secretaries ashore are very different propositions. Yes, 
 you thought you were being very clever when you bought 
 those rope-soled shoes to keep your balance on a slippery 
 deck, but you ought to have bought a rope-soled cap to keep 
 your head from slipping." 
 
 This seemed to John in the easy optimism that prevails 
 upon the borders of sleep an excellent joke, and he passed 
 with a chuckle through the ivory gate. 
 
 The next day John behaved helpfully and politely at the 
 Customs, and indeed continued to be helpful and polite until 
 
P o or Relatio ns 19 
 
 his companions of the voyage were established in a taxi at 
 Euston. He had carefully written down the Hamiltons' 
 address with a view to calling on them one day, but even 
 while he was writing the number of the square in Chelsea 
 he was thinking about Ambles and trying to decide whether 
 he should make a dash across London to Waterloo on the 
 chance of catching the 9:5 p.m. or spend the night at his 
 house in Church Row. 
 
 "I think perhaps I'd better stay in town to-night," he 
 said. "Good-by. Most delightful trip across — see you both 
 again soon, I hope. You don't advise me to try for the 9 :5 ?" 
 he asked once more, anxiously. 
 
 Miss Hamilton laughed from the depths of the taxi ; when 
 she laughed, for the briefest moment John felt an Atlantic 
 breeze sweep through the railway station. 
 
 "/ recommend a good night's rest," she said. 
 
 So John's last thought of her was of a nice practical young 
 woman; but, as he once again told himself, the idea of a 
 secretary was absurd. Besides, did she even know short- 
 hand? 
 
 "Do you know shorthand?" he turned round to shout as 
 the taxi buzzed away ; he did not hear her answer, if answer 
 there was. 
 
 "Of course I can always write," he decided, and without 
 one sigh he busied himself with securing his own taxi for 
 Hampstead. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 " I'VE got too many caps, Mrs. Worfolk," John proclaimed 
 
 1 next morning to his housekeeper. "You can give this 
 one away." 
 
 "Yes, sir. Who would you like it given to?" 
 
 "Oh, anybody, anybody. Tramps very often ask for old 
 boots, don't they? Some tramp might like it." 
 
 "Would you have any erbjections if I give it to my 
 nephew, sir?" 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "It seems almost too perky for a tramp, sir ; and my sister's 
 boy — ^well, he's just at the age when they like to dress their- 
 selves up a bit. He's doing very well, too. His employers is 
 extremely satisfied with the way he's doing. Extremely satis- 
 fied, his employers are." 
 
 "I'm delighted to hear it." 
 
 "Yes, sir. Well, it's been some consolation to my poor 
 sister, I mean to say, after the way her husband behaved 
 hisself, and it's to be hoped Herbert'll take fair warning. 
 Let me see, you ivill be having lunch at home I think you 
 said?" 
 
 John winced: this was precisely what he would have 
 avoided by catching the 9:5 at Waterloo last night. 
 
 "I shan't be in to lunch for a few days, Mrs. Worfolk, 
 no— er — nor to dinner either as a matter of fact. No — ^in 
 fact I'll be down in the country. I must see after things 
 there, you know," he added with an attempt to suggest as 
 jovially as possible a real anxiety about his new house. 
 
 "The country, oh yes," repeated Mrs. Worfolk grimly; 
 John saw the beech-woods round Ambles blasted by his 
 housekeeper's disapproval. 
 
 "You wouldn't care to — er— come down and give a look 
 
Poor Relations 21 
 
 round yourself, Mrs. Worfolk? My sister, Mrs^ 
 Curtis—" 
 
 "Oh, I should prefer not to intrude in any way, sir. But 
 if you insist, why, of course — " 
 
 "Oh no, I don't insist," John hurriedly interposed. 
 
 "No, sir. Well, we shall all have to get used to being 
 left alone nowadays, and that's all there is to it." 
 
 "But I shall be bacis: in a few days, Mrs. Worfolk, I'm 
 a Cockney at heart, you know. Just at first — " 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk shook her head and waddled tragically to 
 the door. 
 
 "There's nothing else you'll be wanting this morning, sir?" 
 she turned to ask in accents that seemed to convey forgive- 
 ness of her master in spite of everything. 
 
 "No, thank you, Mrs. Worfolk. Please send Maud up to 
 help me pack. Good heavens," he added to himself when his 
 housekeeper had left the room, "why shouldn't I be allowed 
 a country house ? And I suppose the next thing is that James 
 and Beatrice and George and Eleanor will all be offended 
 because I didn't go tearing round to see them the moment I 
 arrived. One's relations never understand that after rfie 
 production of a play one requires a little rest. Besides, I 
 must get on with my new play. I absolutely must." 
 
 John's tendency to abhor the vacuum of success was cor- 
 rected by the arrival of Maud, the parlor-maid, whose statu- 
 esque anemia and impersonal neatness put something in it. 
 Before leaving for America he had supplemented the rather 
 hasty preliminary furnishing of his new house by ordering 
 from his tailor a variety of country costumes. These Maud, 
 with feminine intuition superimposed on what she would 
 have called her " understanding of valeting," at once pro- 
 duced for his visit to Ambles; John in the prospect of half 
 a dozen unworn peat-perfumed suits of twfeed flung behind 
 him any lingering doubt about there being something in suc- 
 cess, and with the recapture of his enthusiasm for what he 
 called "jolly things" was anxious that Maud should share 
 in it. 
 
22 Poor Relations 
 
 "Do you think these new things are a success, Maud?" he 
 asked, perhaps a little too boisterously. At any rate, the 
 parlor-maid's comprehension of valeting had apparently never 
 been so widely stretched, for a faint coralline blush tinted her 
 waxen cheeks. 
 
 "They seem very nice, sir," she murmured, with a sli^t 
 stress upon the verb. 
 
 John felt that he had trespassed too far upon the confines 
 of Maud's humanity and retreated hurriedly. He would 
 have liked to explain that his inquiry had merely been a ven- 
 ture into abstract esthetics and that he had not had the least 
 intention of extracting her opinion about these suits on him; 
 but he felt that an attempt at explanation would embarrass 
 her, and he hummed instead over a selection of ties, as a bee 
 hums from flower to flower in a garden, careless of the gar- 
 dener who close at hand is potting up plants. 
 
 "I will take these ties," he announced on the last stave of 
 J Fine Old English Gentleman. 
 
 Maud noted them gravely. 
 
 "And I shall have a few books. Perhaps there won't be 
 room for them?" 
 
 "There won't be room for them, not in your dressing- 
 case, sir." 
 
 "Oh, I know there won't be room in that," said John, 
 bitterly. 
 
 His dressing-case might be considered the medal he had 
 struck in honor of The Fall of Babylon: he had passed it 
 every morning on his way to rehearsals and, dreaming of the 
 triumph that might soon be his, had vowed he would buy it 
 were such a triumph granted. It had cost iys, was heavy 
 enough when empty to strain his wrist and when full to 
 break his back, and it contained more parasites of the toilet 
 table and the writing desk than one could have supposed 
 imaginable. These parasites each possessed an abode of such 
 individual shape that leaving them behind made no difference 
 to the number of really useful articles, like pajamas, that 
 could be carried in the cubic space lined with blue corded 
 
Poor Relations 23 
 
 silk on which they looked down like the inconvenient houses 
 of a fashionable square. Therefore wherever John went, 
 the fittings went too, a glittering worthless mob of cut-glass, 
 pigskin, tortoiseshell and ivory. 
 
 •"But in my portmanteau," John persisted. "Won't there 
 be room there?" 
 
 "I might squeeze them in," Maud admitted. "It depends 
 what boots you're wanting to take with you, sir." 
 
 "Never mind," he sighed. "I can make a separate parcel 
 of them." 
 
 "There's the basket what we were going to use for the 
 cat, sir." 
 
 "No, I should prefer a brown paper parcel," he decided. 
 It would be improper for the books out of which the his- 
 torical trappings of his Joan of Arc were to be manufac- 
 tured to travel in a lying-in hospital for cats. 
 
 John left Maud to finish the packing and went down- 
 stairs to his library. This double room of fine proportions 
 was, as one might expect from the library of a popular 
 writer, the core — ^the veritable omphalos of the house; with 
 its fluted pilasters, cream-colored panels and cherub-haunted 
 ceiling, the expanse of city and sky visible from three sedate 
 windows at the south end and the glimpse of a bu^ Hamp- 
 stead street caught from those facing north, not to speak of 
 the prismatic rows of books, it was a room worthy of art's 
 most remunerative triumphs, the nursery of inspiration, and, 
 save for a slight suggestion that the Muses sometimes drank 
 afternoon tea there, the room of an indomitable bachelor. 
 When John stepped upon the wreaths, ribbons, and full- 
 blown roses of the threadbare Aubusson rug that floated 
 like gossamer upon a green carpet of Axminster pile as soft 
 as some historic lawn, he was sure that success was not a 
 vaxnium. In his now optimistic mood he hoped ultimately 
 to receive from Ambles the kind of congratulatory benedic- 
 tion that the library at Church Row always bestowed upon 
 his footsteps. Indeed, if he had not had such an ambition 
 for his country house, he could scarcely have endured to quit 
 3 
 
24 PoorRelations 
 
 even for a week this library, where fires were burning in 
 two grates and where the smoke of his Partaga was haunting, 
 like a complacent ghost, the imperturbable air. John pos- 
 sessed another library at Ambles, but he had not yet had 
 time to do more than hurriedly stock it with the standard 
 works that he felt no country house should be without. His 
 library in London was the outcome of historical research 
 preparatory to writing his romantic plays; and since all 
 works of popular historical interest are bound with a much 
 more lavish profusion of color and ornament even than the 
 works of fiction to which they most nearly approximate, 
 John's shelves outwardly resembled rather a collection of 
 armor than a collection of books. There were, of course, 
 many books the insides of which were sufficiently valuable 
 to excuse their dingy exterior; but none of these occupied 
 the line, where romance after romance of exiled queens, con- 
 fession after confession of morganatic wives, memoir after 
 memoir from above and below stairs, together with catch- 
 penny alliterative gatherings as of rude regents and libidi- 
 nous landgraves flashed in a gorgeous superficiality of gilt 
 and text. In order to amass the necessary material for a 
 play about Joan of Arc John did not concern himself with 
 original documents. He assumed, perhaps rightly, that a 
 Camembert cheese is more palatable and certainly more port- 
 able than a herd of unmilked cows. To dramatize the life 
 of Joan of Arc he took from his shelves Saints and Sinners 
 of the Fifteenth Century . . , but a catalogue is unneces- 
 sary: enough that when the heap of volumes chosen stood 
 upon his desk it glittered like the Maid herself before the 
 walls of Orleans. 
 
 "After all," as John had once pointed out in a moment of 
 exasperation to his brother, James, the critic, "Shakespeare 
 didn't sit all day in the reading-room of the British Mu- 
 seum." 
 
 An hour later the playwright, equipped alike for country 
 rambles and poetic excursions, was sitting in a first-class com- 
 partment of a London and South-Western railway train; 
 
Poor Relations 25 
 
 two hours after that he was sitting in the Wrottesford fly 
 swishing along between high hazel hedges of golden-brown. 
 
 "I shall have to see about getting a dog-cart," he exclaimed, 
 when after a five minutes' struggle to let down the window 
 with the aid of a strap that looked like an Anglican stole he 
 had succeeded in opening the door and nearly falling head- 
 long into the lane. 
 
 "You have to let down the window before you get out,^^ 
 said the driver reproachfully, trying to hammer the f rameles^ 
 window back into place and making such a noise about it 
 that John could not bear to accentuate by argument the out- 
 rage that he was offering to this morning of exquisite de- 
 cline, on which earth seemed to be floating away into a wind- 
 less infinity like one of her own dead leaves. No, on such a 
 morning controversy was impossible, but he should certainly 
 take immediate steps to acquire a dog-cart. 
 
 "For it's like being jolted in a badly made coflSn," he 
 thought, when he was once m'ore enca:sed in the fly and, 
 having left the high road behind, was driving under an ave- 
 nue of sycamores bordered by a small stream, the water of 
 which was stained to the color of sherry by the sunlight 
 glowing down through the arches of tawny leaves overhead. 
 To John this avenue alwa.ys seemed the entrance to a vast 
 park surrounding his country house ; it was indeed an almost 
 unfrequented road, grass-grown in the center and lively with 
 rabbits during most of the day, so that his imagination of 
 ancestral approaches was easily stimulated and he felt like 
 a figure in a painting by Marcus Stone. It was lucky that 
 John's sanguine imagination could so often satisfy his ambi- 
 tion; prosperous playwright though he was, he had not yet 
 made nearly enough money to buy a real park. However, 
 in his present character of an eighteenth-century squire he 
 determined, should the film version of The Fall of Babylon 
 turn out successful, to buy a lawny meadow of twenty acres 
 that would add much to the dignity and seclusion of Ambles, 
 the boundaries of which at the back were now overlooked 
 by a herd of fierce Kerry cows who occupied the meadow 
 
26 PoorRelations 
 
 and during the summer had made John's practice shots with 
 a brassy too much like big-game shooting to be pleasant or 
 safe. After about a mile the avenue came to an end where 
 a narrow curved bridge spanned the stream, which now 
 flowed away to the left along the bottom of a densely wooded 
 hillside. The fly crossed over with an impunity that was 
 surprising in face of a printed warning that extraordinary 
 vehicles should avoid this bridge, and began to climb the 
 slope by a wide diagonal track between bushes of holly, the 
 green of which seemed vivid and glossy against the prevailing 
 brown. The noise of the wheels was deadened by the heavy 
 drift of beech leaves, and the stillness of this russet world, 
 except for the occasional scream of a jay or the flapping of 
 disturbed pigeons, demanded from John's illustrative fancy 
 something more remote and Gothic than the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, 
 
 "Malory," he said to himself. "Absolute Malory. It's 
 almost impossible not to believe that Sir Gawaine might not 
 coDK galloping down through this wood." 
 
 Eager to put himself still more deeply in accord with the 
 romantic atmosphere, John tried this time to open the door 
 of the fly with the intention of walking meditatively up the 
 hJB in its wake ; the door remained fast ; but he managed to 
 open the window, or rather he broke it. 
 
 "I've a jolly good mind to get a motor," he exclaimed, 
 savagely. 
 
 Every knight errant's horse in the neighborhood bolted at 
 the thought, and by the time John had reached the top of the 
 hill and emerged upon a wide stretch of common land dotted 
 witk ancient hawthorns in full crimson berry he was very 
 much in the present. For there on the other side of the 
 common, flanked by shelving woods of oak and beech and 
 backed by rising downs on which a milky sky rufiled its 
 breast like a huge swan lazily floating, stood Ambles, a soli- 
 tary, deep-hued, Elizabethan house with dreaming chimney- 
 stacks and tumbled mossy roofs and garden walls rising from 
 the heaped amethysts of innumerable Michaelmas daisies. 
 
Poor Relations 27 
 
 "My house," John murmured in a paroxysm of owner- 
 ship. 
 
 The noise of the approaching fly had drawn expectant 
 figures to the gate; John, who had gratified affection, curi- 
 osity and ostentation by sending a wireless message from the 
 Murmania, a telegram from Liverpool yesterday, and an- 
 other from Euston last night to announce his swift arrival, 
 had therefore only himself to thank for perceiving in the 
 group the black figure of his brother-in-law, the Reverend 
 Laurence Armitage. He drove away the scarcely formed 
 feeling of depression by supposing that Edith could not by 
 herself have trundled the barrel-shaped vicarage pony all the 
 way from Newton Candover to Ambles, and, finding that 
 the left-hand door of the fly was unexpectedly susceptible to 
 the prompting of its handle, he alighted with such rapidity 
 that not one of his smiling relations could have had any im- 
 pression but that he was bounding to greet them. The two 
 sisters were so conscious of their rich unmarried brother's 
 impulsive advance that each incited her own child to re- 
 sponsive bounds so that they might meet him half-way along 
 the path to the front door, in the harborage of which 
 Grandma (whose morning nap had been interrupted by a 
 sudden immersion in two shawls, and a rapid swim with 
 Emily, the maid from London, acting as lifebuoy down the 
 billowy passages and stairs of the old house) rocked in 
 breathless anticipation of the filial salute. 
 
 "Welcome back, my dear Johnnie," the old lady panted. 
 
 "How are you, mother? What, another new cap?" 
 
 Old Mrs. Touchwood patted her head complacently. 
 
 "We bought it at Threadgale's in Galton. The ribbons 
 are the new hollyhock red." 
 
 "Delightful!" John exclaimed. "And who helped you to 
 choose it? Little Frida here?" 
 
 "Nobody helped me, Johnnie. Hilda accompanied me into 
 Galton; but she wanted to buy a sardine-opener for the 
 house," 
 
 John had not for a moment imagined that his mother had 
 
28 P oor Relations 
 
 wanted any advice about a cap; but inasmuch as Frida, in 
 what vras intended to be a demonstrative welcome, prompted 
 by her mother, was rubbing her head against his ribs like a 
 calf against a fence, he had felt he ought to hook her to the 
 conversation sohiehow. John's concern about Frida was 
 solved by the others' gathering round him for greetings. 
 
 First Hilda offered her sallow cheek, patting while he 
 kissed it her brother on the back with one hand, and with 
 the other manipulating Harold in such a way as to give 
 John the impression that his nephew was being forced into 
 his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 "He feels you're his father now," whispered Hilda with a 
 lode that was meant to express the tender resignation of 
 widowhood, but which only succeeded in suggesting a covet- 
 ous maternity. John doubted if Harold felt anything but 
 a desire to escape from being sandwiched between his 
 mother's crape and his uncle's watch chain, and he turned to 
 embrace Edith, whose cheeks, soft and pink as a toy balloon, 
 were floating tremulously expectant upon the glinting 
 autumn air. 
 
 "We've been so anxious about you," Edith murmured. 
 "And Laurence has such a lot to talk over with you." 
 
 John, with a slight sinking that was not altogether due to 
 its being past his usual luncheon hour, turned to be welcomed 
 by Ws brother-in-law. 
 
 The vicar of Newton Candover's serenity if he had not 
 been a tall and handsome man might have been mistaken for 
 smugness ; as it was, his personality enveloped the scene with 
 a ceremonious dignity that was not less than archidiaconal, 
 and except for his comparative youthfulness (he was the 
 same age as John) might well have been considered archi- 
 episcopal. 
 
 "Edith has been anxious about you. Indeed, we have all 
 been anxious about you," he intoned, offering his hand to 
 John, for whom the sweet damp odors of autumn became a 
 whiff of pious women's veils, while the leaves fluttering 
 
Poor Relations 29 
 
 gendy down from the tulip tree in the middle of the lawn 
 lisped like the India-paper of prayer-books. 
 
 "I've got an air-gun, Uncle John," ejaculated Harold, 
 who having for some time been inhaling the necessary breath 
 now expelled the sentence in a burst as if he had been an 
 air-gun himself. John hailed the announcement almost ef- 
 fusively; it reached him with the kind of relief with which 
 in childhood he had heard the number of the final hymn 
 announced; and a robin piping his delicate tune from the 
 garden wall was welcome as birdsong in a churchyard had 
 been after service on Sundays handicapped by the litany. 
 
 "Would you like to see me shoot at something?" Harold 
 went on, hastily cranuning his mouth with slugs. 
 
 "Not now, dear," said Hilda, hastily. "Uncle Joha is 
 tired. And don't eat sweets just before lunch." 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't tire him to see me shoot at something. 
 And I'm not eating sweets. I'm getting ready to load." 
 
 "Let the poor child shoot if he wants to," Grandma put in. 
 
 Harold beamed ferociously through his spectacles, took a 
 slug from his mouth, fitted it into the air-gun, and fired, 
 bringing down two leaves from an espalier pear. Every- 
 body applauded him, because everybody felt glad that it had 
 not been a window or perhaps even himself ; the robin cocked 
 his tail contemptuously and flew away. 
 
 "And now I must go and get ready for lunch," said John, 
 who thought a second shot might be less innocuous, and was 
 moreover really hungry. His bedroom, dimity draped, had 
 a pleasant rustic simplicity, but he decided that it wanted 
 living in : the atmosphere at present was too much that of a 
 well-recommended country inn. 
 
 "Yes, it wants living in," said John to himself. "I ^all 
 put in a good month here and break the back of Joan of 
 Arc." 
 
 "What skin is this, Uncle John?" a serious voice at his 
 elbow inquired. John started ; he had not observed Harold's 
 scout-like entrance. 
 
30 Poor Relations 
 
 "What skin is that, my boy?" he repeated in what he 
 thought was the right tone of avuncular jocularity and 
 looking down at Harold, who was examining with myopic 
 intensity the dressing-case. "That is the skin of a white 
 elephant." 
 
 "But it's brown," Harold objected. 
 
 John rashly decided to extend his facetiousness. 
 
 "Yes, well, white elephants turn brown when they're 
 shot, just as lobsters turn red when they're boiled." 
 
 "Who shot it?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know — ^probably some friend of the gentle- 
 man who keeps the shop where I bought it." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Well, I can't exactly say when — but probably about three 
 years ago." 
 
 "Father used to shoot elephants, didn't he?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy, your father used to shoot elephants." 
 
 "Perhaps he shot this one." 
 
 "Perhaps he did." 
 
 "Was he a friend of the gentleman who keeps the shop 
 where you bought it?" 
 
 "I shouldn't be surprised," said John. 
 
 "Wouldn't you?" said Harold, skeptically. "My father 
 was an asplorer. When I'm big I'm going to be an asplorer, 
 too; but I sha'n't be friends with shopkeepers." 
 
 "Confounded little snob," John thought, and began to 
 look for his nailbrush, the address of whose palatial residence 
 of pigskin only Maud knew. 
 
 "What are you looking for. Uncle John?" Harold asked. 
 
 "I'm looking for my nailbrush, Harold." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "To clean my nails." 
 
 "Are they dirty?" 
 
 "Well, they're just a little grubby after the railway jour- 
 ney." 
 
 "Mine aren't," Harold affirmed in a lofty tone. Then 
 
Poor Relations 31 
 
 after a minute he added : "I thought perhaps you were look- 
 ing for the present you brought me from America." 
 
 John turned pale and made up his mind to creep unob- 
 served after lunch into the market town of Gallon and visit 
 the local toyshop. It would be an infernal nuisance, but it 
 served him right for omitting to bring presents either for his 
 nephew or his niece. 
 
 "You're too smart," he said nervously to Harold. "Pres- 
 ent time will be after tea." The sentence sounded contra- 
 dictory somehow, and he changed it tO "the time for presents 
 will be five o'clock." 
 
 "Why?" Harold asked. 
 
 John was saved from answering by a tap at the door, 
 followed by the entrance of Mrs. Curtis. 
 
 "Oh, Harold's with you?" she exclaimed, as if it were 
 the most surprising juxtaposition in the world. 
 
 "Yes, Harold's with me," John agreed. 
 
 "You mustn't let him bother you, but he's been so looking 
 forward to your arrival. fFhen is Uncle coming, he kept 
 asking." 
 
 "Did he ask why I was coming?" 
 
 Hilda looked at her brother blankly, and John made up 
 his mind to try that look on Harold some time. 
 
 "Have you got everything you want?" she asked, solicit- 
 ously. 
 
 "He hasn't got his nailbrush," said Harold. 
 
 Hilda, assumed an expression of exaggerated alarm. 
 
 "Oh dear, I hope it hasn't been lost." 
 
 "No, no, no, it'll turn up in one of the glass bottles. I 
 was just telling Harold that I haven't really begun my un- 
 packing yet" 
 
 "Uncle John's brought me a present from America," Har- 
 old proclaimed in accents of greedy pride. 
 
 Hilda seized her brother's hand affectionately. 
 
 "Now you oughtn't to have done that. It's spoiling him. 
 It really is. Harold never expects presents." 
 
32 PoorRelations 
 
 "What a liar," thought John. "But not a bigger one than 
 I am myself," he supplemented, and then he announced 
 aloud that he must go into Galton after lunch and send off 
 an important telegram to his agent. 
 
 "I wonder ..." Hilda began, but with an arch look 
 she paused and seemed to thrust aside temptation. 
 
 "What?" John weakly asked. 
 
 "Why ... but no, he might bore you by walking too 
 slowly. Harold," she added, seriously, "if Uncle John is 
 kind enough to take you into Galton with him, will you be a 
 good boy and leave your butterfly net at home?" 
 
 "If I may take my air-gun," Harold agreed. 
 
 John rapidly went over in his mind the various places 
 where Harold might be successfully detained while he was 
 in the toyshop, decided that the risk would be too great, 
 pulled himself together, and declined the pleasure of his 
 nephew's company on the ground that he must think over 
 very carefully the phrasing of the telegram he had to send, 
 a mental process, he explained, that Harold might distract. 
 
 "Another day, darling," said Hilda, consolingly. 
 
 "And then I'll be able to take my fishing-rod," said Har- 
 old. 
 
 "He is so like his poor father," Hilda murmured. 
 
 John was thinking sympathetically of the distant Ama- 
 zonian tribe that had murdered Daniel Curtis, when there 
 was another tap at the door, and Frida crackling loudly in s 
 clean pinafore came in to say that the bell for lunch was 
 just going to ring. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said her aunt. "Uncle John knows already. 
 Don't bother him now. He's tired after his journey. Come 
 along, Harold." 
 
 "He can have my nailbrush if he likes," Harold offered. 
 
 "Run, darling, and get it quickly then." 
 
 Harold rushed out of the room and could be heard hust- 
 ling his cousin all down the corridor, evoking complaints of 
 "Don't, Harold, you rough boy, you're crumpling my frock." 
 
 The bell for lunch sounded gratefully at this moment, 
 
Poor Relations 33 
 
 and John, without even washing his hands, hurried down- 
 stairs trying to look like a hungry ogre, so anxious was he to 
 avoid using Harold's nailbrush. 
 
 The dining-room at Ambles was a long low room with a 
 large open fireplace and paneled walls; from the window- 
 seats bundles of drying lavender competed pleasantly with 
 the smell of hot kidney-beans upon the table, at the head of 
 which John took his rightful place; opposite to him, placid 
 as an untouched pudding, sat Grandmama. Laurence said 
 grace without being invited after standing up for a moment 
 with an expression of pained interrogation; Edith accompa- 
 nied his words by making with her forefinger and thumb a 
 minute cruciform incision between two of the bones of her 
 stays, and inclined her head solemnly toward Frida in a 
 mute exhortation to follow her mother's example. Harold 
 flashed his spectacles upon every dish in turn ; Emily's wait- 
 ing was during this meal of reunion colored with human 
 affection. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad to be back in England," said John, 
 heartily. 
 
 An encouraging murmur rippled round the table from his 
 relations. 
 
 "Are these French beans from our own garden?" John 
 asked presently. 
 
 "Scarlet-runners," Hilda corrected. "Yes, of course. We 
 never trouble the greengrocer. The frosts have been so 
 light ..." 
 
 "I haven't got a bean left," said Laurence. 
 
 John nearly gave a visible jump; there was something 
 terribly suggestive in that simple horticultural disclaimer. 
 
 "Our beans are quite over," added Edith in the astonished 
 voice of one who has tumbled upon a secret of nature. She 
 had a habit of echoing many of her husband's remarks like 
 this; perhaps "echoing" is a bad description of her method, 
 for she seldom repeated literally and often not immediately. 
 Sometimes indeed she would wait as long as half an hour 
 before she reissued in the garb of a personal philosophical 
 
34 P o or Re I ation s 
 
 discovery or of an exegltical gloss the most casual remark of 
 Laurence, a habit which irritated him and embarrassed other 
 people, who would look away from Edith and mutter a hur- 
 ried agreement or ask for the salt to be passed. 
 
 "I remember," said old Mrs. Touchwood;' "that beans 
 were a favorite dish of poor Papa, though I myself always 
 liked peas better." 
 
 "I like peas," Harold proclaimed. 
 
 "I like peas, too," cried Frida excitedly. 
 
 "Frida," said her father, pulling out with a click one of 
 the graver tenor stops in his voice, "we do not talk at table 
 about our likes and dislikes." 
 
 Edith indorsed this opinion with a grave nod at Frida, or 
 rather with a solemn inclination of the head as if she were 
 bowing to an altar. 
 
 "But I like new potatoes best of all," continued Harold. 
 "My gosh, all buttery!" 
 
 Laurence screwed up his eye in a disgusted wince, looked 
 down his nose at his plate, and drew a shocked cork from his 
 throat. 
 
 "Hush," said Hilda. "Didn't you hear what Uncle Lau- 
 rence said, darling?" 
 
 She spoke as one speaks to children in church when the 
 organ begins; one felt that she was inspired by social tact 
 rather than by any real reverence for the clergyman. 
 
 "Well, I do like new potatoes, and I like asparagus." 
 
 Frida was just going to declare for asparagus, too, when 
 she caught her father's eye and choked. 
 
 "Evidently the vegetable that Frida likes best," said John, 
 riding buoyantly upon the gale of Frida's convulsions, "is 
 an artichoke." 
 
 It is perhaps lucky for professional comedians that rich 
 uncles and judges rarely go on the stage; theiy occupation 
 might be even more arduous if they had to face such com- 
 petitors. Anyway, John had enough success with his joke 
 to feel much more hopeful of being able to find suitable 
 presents in Galton for Harold and Frida ; and in the silence 
 
Poor Relations 35 
 
 of exhaustion that succeeded the laughter he broke the news 
 of his having to go into town and dispatch an urgent tele- 
 gram that very afternoon, mentioning incidentally that he 
 might see about a dog-cart, and, of course, at the same time 
 a horse. Evnfybody applauded his resolve except his brother- 
 in-law who looked distinctly put out. 
 
 "But you won't be gone before I get back?" John asked. 
 
 Laurence and Edith exchanged glances fraught with the 
 unuttered solemnities of conjugal comprehension. 
 
 "Well, I had wanted to have a talk over things with you 
 after lunch," Laurence explained. "In fact, I have a good 
 deal to talk over. I should suggest driving you in to Galton, 
 but I find it impossible to talk freely while driving. Even 
 our poor old pony has been known to shy. Yes, indeed, poor 
 old Primrose often shies." 
 
 John mentally blessed the aged animal's youthful heart, 
 and said, to cover his relief, that old maids were ofte> more 
 skittish than young ones. 
 
 "Why?" asked Harold. 
 
 Everybody felt that Harold's question was one that should 
 not be answered. 
 
 "You wouldn't understand, darling," said his mother; and 
 the dining-room became tense with mystery. 
 
 "Of course, if we could have dinner put forward half 
 an hour," said Laurence, dragging the conversatk^ out 
 of the ^ough of sex, 'Sve could avail ourselves of the 
 moon." 
 
 "Yes, you see," Edith put in eagerly, "it wouldn't be so 
 dark with the moon." 
 
 Laurence knitted his brow at this and his wife hastened to 
 add that an earlier dinner would bring Frida's bed-time much 
 nearer to its normal hour. 
 
 "The point is that I have a great deal to talk over with 
 John," Laurence irritably explained, "and that," he looked 
 as if he would have liked to add "Frida's bed-time can go to 
 the devil," but he swallowed the impious dedication and 
 crumbled his bftad. 
 
36 P o or Relations 
 
 Finally, notwithstanding that everybody felt very full 
 of roast beef and scarlet-runners, it was decided to dine at 
 half-past six instead of half-past seven. 
 
 "Poor Papa, I remember," said old Mrs. Touchwood, 
 "always liked to dine at half-past three. That gave him a 
 nice long morning for his patients and time to smoke his 
 cigar after dinner before he opened the dispensary in the 
 evening. Supper was generally cold unless he anticipated a 
 night call, in which case we had soup." 
 
 All were glad that the twentieth century had arrived, and 
 they smiled sympathetically at the old lady, who, feeling 
 that her anecdote had scored a hit, embarked upon another 
 about being taken to the Great Exhibition when ^e was 
 eleven years old, which lasted right through the pudding, 
 perhaps because it was trifle, and Harold did not feel in- 
 clined to lose a mouthful by rash interruptions. 
 
 After lunch John was taken all over the house and all 
 round the garden and congratulated time after time upon 
 the wisdom he had shown in buying Ambles: he was made 
 to feel that property set him apart from other men even more 
 definitely than dramatic success. 
 
 "Of course, Daniel was famous in his way," Hilda said. 
 "But what did he leave me?" ' 
 
 John, remembering the £120 a year in the bank and the 
 collection of stuffed humming birds at the pantechnicon, the 
 importation of whidi to Ambles he was always dreading, felt 
 that Hilda was not being ungratefully rhetorical. 
 
 "And of course," Laurence contributed, "a vicar feels that 
 his glebe — the value of which by the way has just gone down 
 another £2 an acre — is not his own." 
 
 "Yes, you see," Edith put in, "if anything horrid hap- 
 pened to Laurence it would belong to the next vicar." 
 
 Again the glances of husband and wife played together in 
 mid-air like butterflies. 
 
 "And so," Laurence went on, "when you tell us that you 
 hope to buy diis twenty-acre field we all realize that in doing 
 
Poor Relations 37 
 
 so you would most emphatically be consolidating your prop- 
 erty." 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure you're wise to buy," said Hilda, weightily. 
 
 "It would make Ambles so much larger, wouldn't it?" 
 suggested Edith. "Twenty acres, you see . . . well, 
 really, I suppose twenty acres would be as big as 
 from ..." 
 
 "Come, Edith," said her husband. "Don't worry poor 
 John with comparative acres — ^we are all looking at the 
 twenty-acre field now." 
 
 The fierce little Kerry cows eyed the prospective owner 
 peacefully, until Harold hit one of them with a slug from 
 his air-gun, when they all began to career about the field, 
 kicking up their heels and waving their tails. 
 
 "Don't do that, my boy," John said, crossly — for him very 
 crossly. 
 
 A short cut to Galton lay across this field, which John, 
 though even when they were quiet he never felt on really 
 intimate terms with cows, had just decided to follow 
 
 "Darling, that's such a cruel thing to do," Hilda expostu- 
 lated. "The poor cow wasn't hurting you." 
 
 "It was looking at me," Harold protested. 
 
 "There is a legend about Francis of Assisi, Harold," his 
 Uncle Laurence began, "which will interest you and at the 
 same time ..." 
 
 "Sorry to interrupt," John broke in, "but I must be get- 
 ting along. This telegram . . . I'll be back for tea." 
 
 He hurried off and when everybody called out to remind 
 him of the short cut across the twenty-arce field he waved 
 back cheerfully, as if he thought he was being wished a jolly 
 walk; but he took the long way round. 
 
 It was a good five miles to Galton in the opposite direc- 
 tion from the road by which he had driven up that morn- 
 ing; but on this fine autumn afternoon, going down hill 
 nearly all the way through a foreground of golden woods 
 with prospects of blue distances beyond, John enjoyed the 
 
38 PoorRelations 
 
 walk, and not less because even at the beginning of it he 
 stopped once or twice to think how jolly it would be to see 
 Miss Hamilton and Miss Merritt coming round the next 
 bend in the road. Later on, he did not bother to include 
 Miss Merritt, and finally he discovered his fancy so steadily 
 fixed upon Miss Hamilton that he was forced to remind him- 
 self that Miss Hamilton in such a setting would demand a 
 much higher standard of criticism than Miss Hamilton on 
 the promenade deck of the Murmania. Nevertheless, John 
 continued to think of her; and so pleasantly did her sem- 
 blance walk beside him and so exceptionally mild was the 
 afternoon for the season of the year that he must have 
 strolled along the greater part of the way. At any rate, 
 when he saw the tower of Galton church he was shocked to 
 find that it was already four o'clock. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE selection of presents for children is never easy, be- 
 cause in order to extract real pleasure from the pur- 
 chase it is necessary to find something that excites the donor 
 as much as it is likely to excite the recipient. In John's case 
 this difficulty was quadrupled by having to find toys with an 
 American air about them, and on top of that by the narrowly 
 restricted choice in the Gal ton shops. He felt that it would 
 be ridiculous, even insulting, to produce for Frida as typical 
 of New York's luxurious catering for the young that doll, 
 the roses of whose cheeks had withered in the sunlight of 
 five Hampshire summers, and whose smile had failed to al- 
 lure as little girls those who were now marriageable young 
 women. Nor did he think that Harold would accept as 
 worthy of American enterprise those more conspicuous por- 
 tions of a diminutive Uhlan's uniform fastened to a dog's- 
 eared sheet of cardboard, the sword belonging to which was 
 rusting in the scabbard and the gilf lancehead of which no 
 longer gave the least illusion of being metal. Finally, how- 
 ever, just as the clock was striking five he unearthed from a 
 remote corner of the large ironmonger's shop, to which he 
 had turned in despair from the toys offered him by the two 
 stationers, a toboggan, and not merely a toboggan but a 
 Canadian toboggan stamped with the image of a Red Indian. 
 
 " It was ordered for a customer in 1895," the ironmonger 
 explained. " There was heavy snow that year, you may 
 remember." 
 
 If it had been ordered by Methuselah when he was still in 
 his 'teens John would not have hesitated. 
 
 "Well, would you — er — wrap it up," he said, putting 
 down the money. 
 
 "Hadn't the carrier better bring it, sir?" suggested the 
 
40 Poor Relations 
 
 ironmonger. " He'll be going Wrottesford way to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 Obviously John could not carry the toboggan five miles, 
 but just as obviously he must get the toboggan back to 
 Ambles that night: so he declined the carrier, and asked the 
 ironmonger to order him a fly while he made a last desperate 
 search for Frida's present. In the end, with twilight falling 
 fast, he bought for his niece twenty-nine small china animals, 
 which the stationer assured him would enchant any child 
 between nine and eleven, though perhaps less likely to appeal 
 to ages outside that period. A younger child, for instance, 
 might be tempted to put them in its mouth, even to swallow 
 them if not carefully watched, while an older child might 
 tread on them. Another advantage was that when the young 
 lady for whom they were intended grew out of them, they 
 could be put away and revived to adorn her mantelpiece when 
 she had reached an age to appreciate the possibilities of a 
 mantelpiece. John did not feel as happy about these animals 
 as he did about the toboggan : there was not a single buffalo 
 among them, and not one looked in the least distinctively 
 American, but the stationer was so reassuring and time was 
 going by so rapidly that he decided to risk the purchase. And 
 really when they were deposited in a cardboard box among 
 cotton-wool they did not look so dull, and perhaps Frida 
 would enjoy guessing how many there were before she un- 
 packed them. 
 
 "Better than a Noah's Ark," said John, hopefully. 
 
 "Oh yes, much better, sir. A much more suitable present 
 for a young lady. In fact Noah's Arks are considered all 
 right for village treats, but they're in very little demand 
 among, the gentry nowadays." 
 
 When John was within a quarter of a mile from Ambles 
 he told the driver of the fly to stop. Somehow he must creep 
 into the house and up to his room with the toboggan and 
 the china animals; it was after six, and the children would 
 have been looking out for his return since five. Perhaps the 
 cows would have gone home by now and he should not excite 
 
Poor Relations 41 
 
 their nocturnal apprehensions by dragging the toboggan 
 across the twenty-acre field. Meanwhile, he should tell the 
 fly to wait five minutes before driving slowly up to the house, 
 which would draw the scent and enable him vi^ith Emily's 
 help to reach his room unperceived by the backstairs. A 
 heavy mist hung upon the meadow, and the paper wrapped 
 round the toboggan, which was just too wide to be carried 
 under his arm like a portfolio, began to peel off in the dew 
 with a swishing sound that would inevitably attract the 
 curiosity of the cows were they still at large; moreover, 
 several of the china animals were now chinking together and, 
 John could not help feeling with some anxiety, probably 
 chipping off their noses. 
 
 "I must look like a broken-down Santa Claus with this 
 vehicle," he said to himself, " Where's the path got to now? 
 I wonder why people wiggle so when they make a path? 
 Hullo! What's that?" 
 
 The munching of cattle was audible close at hand, a 
 munching that was sometimes interrupted by awful snorts. 
 
 "Perhaps it's only the mist that makes them do that," 
 John tried to assure himself. "It seems very imprudent to 
 leave valuable cows out of doors on a damp night like this." 
 
 There was a sound of heavy bodies moving suddenly in 
 unison. 
 
 "They've heard me," thought John, hopelessly. "I wish 
 to goodness I knew something about cows. I really must get 
 the subject up. Of course, they may be frightened of me. 
 Good heavens, they're all snorting now. Probably the best 
 thing to do is to keep on calmly walking; most animals are 
 susceptible to human indifference. What a little fool that 
 nephew of mine was to shoot at them this afternoon. I'm 
 hanged if he deserves his toboggan." 
 
 The lights of Ambles stained the mist in front ; John ran 
 the last fifty yards, threw himself over the iron railings^ and 
 stood panting upon his own lawn. In the distance could be 
 heard the confused thudding of hoofs dying away toward 
 the far end of the twenty-acre meadow. 
 
42 PoorRelations 
 
 "I evidently frightened them," John thought. 
 
 A few minutes later he was calling down from the land- 
 ing outside his bedroom that it was rime for presents. In 
 the first brief moment of intoxication that had succeeded his 
 defeat of the cattle John had seriously contemplated tobog- 
 ganing downstairs himself in order to "surprise the kids" as 
 he put it. But from his landing the staircase looked all 
 wrong for such an experiment and he walked the toboggan 
 down, which lamplight appeared to him a typical product of 
 the bear-haunted mountains of Canada. 
 
 Everybody was waiting for him in the drawing-room; 
 everybody was flatteringly enthusiastic about the toboggan 
 and seemed anxious to make it at home in such strange sur- 
 roundings; nobody failed to point out to the lucky boy the 
 extreme kindness of his uncle in bringing back such a won- 
 derful present all the way from America — indeed one almost 
 had the impression that John must often have had to wake up 
 and feed it in the night. 
 
 "The trouble you must have taken," Hilda exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, I did take a good deal of trouble," John admitted. 
 After all, so he had — a damned sight more trouble than 
 any one there suspected. 
 
 "When will it snow?" Harold asked. "To-morrow?" 
 
 "I hope not — I mean, it might," said John. He must 
 keep up Harold's spirits, if only to balance Frida's depres- 
 sion, about whose present he was beginning to feel very 
 doubtful when he saw her eyes jittering with feverish 
 anticipation while he was undoing the string. He hoped she 
 would not faint or scream with disappointment when it was 
 opened, and he took off the lid of the box with the kind 
 of flourish to which waiters often treat dish-covers when they 
 wish to promote an appetite among the guests. 
 
 "How sweet," Edith murmured. 
 
 John looked gratefully at his sister; if he had made his 
 will that night she would have inherited Ambles. 
 
 "Ah, a collection of small china animals," said Laurence, 
 choosing a cat to set delicately upon the table for general 
 
P oor Relati ons 43 
 
 admiration. John wished he had not chosen the cat that 
 seemed to suffer with a tumor in the region of the tail and 
 disinclined in consequence to sit still. 
 
 "Yes, I was anxious to get her a Noah's Ark," John 
 volunteered, seeming to suggest by his tone how appropriate 
 such a gift would have been to the atmosphere of a vicarage. 
 "But they've practically given up making Noah's Arks in 
 America, and you see, these china animals will serve as toys 
 now, and later on, when Frida is grown-up, they'll look 
 jolly on the mantelpiece. Those that are not broken, of 
 course." 
 
 The animals had all been taken out of their box by now, 
 but a few paws and ears were still adhering to the cotton- 
 wool. 
 
 "Frida is always very light on her toys," said Edith, 
 proudly. 
 
 "Not likely to put them in her mouth," said John, heartily. 
 "That was the only thing that made me hesitate when I 
 first saw them in Fifth Avenue. But they don't look quite 
 so edible here." 
 
 "Frida never puts anything in her mouth," Edith general- 
 ized, primly. "And she's given up biting her nails since 
 Uncle John came home, haven't you, dear?" 
 
 "That's a good girl," John applauded ; he did not believe 
 in Frida's sudden conquest of autophagy, but he was anxious 
 to encourage her in every way at the moment. 
 
 Yes, the g!f t-horses had shown off their paces better than 
 he had expected, he decided. To be sure, Frida did not ap- 
 pear beside herself with joy, but at any rate she had not burst 
 into tears — she had not thrust the present from her sight with 
 loathing and begged to be taken home. And then Harold, 
 who ha,d been staring at the animals through his glasses, like 
 the horrid little naturalist that he was, said: 
 
 " I've seen some animals like them in Mr, Goodman's 
 shop." 
 
 John hoped a blizzard would blow to-morrow, that 
 Harold would toboggan recklessly down the steepest slope 
 
44 PoorRelations 
 
 of the downs behind Ambles, and that he would hit an oak 
 tree at the bottom and break his glasses. However, none 
 of these dark thoughts obscured the remote brightness with 
 which he answered: 
 
 "Really, Harold. Very likely. There is a considerable 
 exportation of china animals from America nowadays. In 
 fact I was very lucky to find any left in America." 
 
 "Let's go into Galton to-morrow and look at Mr, Good- 
 man's animals," Harold suggested. 
 
 John had never suspected that one day he should feel 
 grateful to his brother-in-law; but when the dinner-bell went 
 at half-past six instead of half-past seven solely on his ac- 
 count, John felt inclined to shake him by the hand. Nor 
 would he have ever supposed that he should one day welcome 
 the prospect of one of Laurence's long confidential talks. 
 Yet when the ladies departed after dessert and Laurence took 
 the chair next to himself as solemnly as if it were a fald- 
 stool, he encouraged him with a smile. 
 
 "We might have our little talk now," and when Lau- 
 rence cleared his throat John felt that the conversation had 
 been opened as successfully as a local bazaar. Not merely 
 did John smile encouragingly, but he actually went so far 
 as to invite him to go ahead. 
 
 Laurence sighed, and poured himself out a second glass 
 of port. 
 
 "I find myself in a position of considerable difEculty," he 
 announced, "and should like your advice." 
 
 John's mind went rapidly to the balance in his pass-book 
 instead of to the treasure of worldly experience from which 
 he might have drawn. 
 
 "Perhaps before we begin our little talk," said Laurence, 
 "it would be as well if I were to remind you of some of the 
 outstanding events and influences in my life. You will then 
 be in a better position to give me the advice and help — ah — 
 the moral help, of which I stand in need — ah — in sore 
 need." 
 
 "He keeps calling it a little talk," John thought, "but by 
 
Poor Relations 45 
 
 Jove, it's lucky we did have dinner early. At this rate he 
 won't get back to his vicarage before cock-crow." 
 
 John was not deceived by his brother-in-law's minifica- 
 tion of their talk, and he exchanged the trim Henry Clay he 
 had already clipped for a very large Upman that would 
 smoke for a good hour. 
 
 "Won't you light up before you begin?" he asked, push- 
 ing a box of commonplace Murillos toward his brother-in- 
 law, whose habit of biting off the end of a cigar, of letting it 
 go out, of continually knocking off the ash, of forgetting to 
 remove the band till it was smoldering, and of playing 
 miserable little tunes with it on the rim of a cofEee-cup, in 
 fact of doing everything with it except smoke it apprecia- 
 tively, made it impossible for John, so far as Laurence was 
 concerned, to be generous with his cigars. 
 
 "I think you'll find these not bad." 
 
 This was true; the Murillos were not actually bad. 
 
 "Thanks, I will avail myself of your offer. But to come 
 back to what I was saying," Laurence went on, lighting his 
 cigar with as little expression of anticipated pleasure as 
 might be discovered in the countenance of a lodging-house 
 servant lighting a fire. " I do not propose to occupy your 
 time by an account of my spiritual struggles at the Uni- 
 versity." 
 
 "You ought to write a novel," said John, cheerfully. 
 
 Laurence looked puzzled. 
 
 "I am now occupied with the writing of a play, but I 
 shall come to that presently. Novels, however ..." 
 
 "I was only joking," said John. "It would take too 
 long to explain the joke. Sorry I interrupted you. Cigar 
 gone out? Don't take another. It doesn't really matter 
 how often those Murillos go out." 
 
 "Where am I ?" Laurence asked in a bewildered voice. 
 
 "You'd just left Oxford," John answered, quickly. 
 
 "Ah, yes, I was at Oxford. Well, as I was saying, I shall 
 not detain you with an account of my spiritual struggles 
 there. ... I think I may almost without presumption refer 
 
46 Poor Relations 
 
 to them as my spiritual progress ... let it suffice that I 
 found myself on the vigil of my ordination after a year at 
 Cuddesdon Theological College a convinced High Church- 
 man. This must not be taken to mean that I belonged to 
 the more advanced or what I should prefer to call the Italian 
 party in the Church of England. I did not." 
 
 Laurence here paused and looked at John earnestly; since 
 John had not the remotest idea what the Italian party 
 meant and was anxious to avoid being told, he said in ac- 
 cents that sought to convey relief at hearing his brother-in- 
 law's personal contradiction of a charge that had for long 
 been whispered against him: 
 
 "Oh, you didn't?" 
 
 "No, I did not. I was not prepared to go one jot or one 
 tittle beyond the Five Points." 
 
 "Of the compass, you mean," said John, wisely. "Quite 
 so." 
 
 Then seeing that Laurence seemed rather indignant, he 
 added quickly, "Did I say the compass? How idiotic! Of 
 course, I meant the law." 
 
 "The Five Points are the Eastward Position ..." 
 
 "It was the compass after all," John thought. "What a 
 fool I was to hedge." 
 
 "The Mixed Chalice, Lights, Wafer Bread, and Vest- 
 ments, but not the ceremonial use of Incense." 
 
 "And those are the Five Points?" 
 
 Laurence inclined his head. 
 
 "Which you were not prepared to go beyond, I think 
 you said?" John gravely continued, flattering himself that 
 he was re-established as an intelligent listener. 
 
 "In adhering to these Five Points," Laurence proceeded, 
 "I found that I was able to claim the support of a number 
 of authoritative English divines. I need only mention Bishop 
 Ken and Bishop Andrews for you to appreciate my position." 
 
 "Eastward, I think you said," John put in ; for his brother- 
 in-law had paused again, and he was evidently intended to 
 say something. 
 
Poor Relations 47 
 
 "I perceive that you are not acquainted with the diver- 
 gences of opinion that unhappily exist in our national 
 Church." 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth — and I know you'll excuse 
 my frankness — I haven't been to church since I was a boy," 
 John admitted. "But I know I used to dislike the litany 
 very much, and of course I had my favorite hymns — wc 
 most of us have — and really I think that's as far as I got. 
 However, I have to get up the subject of religion very 
 shortly. My next play will deal with Joan of Arc, and, 
 as you may imagine, religion plays an important part in such 
 a theme — a very important part. In addition to the vision 
 that Joan will have of St. Michael in the first act, one of 
 my chief unsympathetic characters is a bishop. I hope I'm 
 not hurting your feelings in telling you this, my dear fel- 
 low. Have another cigar, won't you? I think you've 
 dipped the end of that one in the coffee-lees." 
 
 Laurence assured John bitterly that he had no reason to 
 be particularly fond of bishops. " In fact," he went on, 
 "I'm having a very painful discussion with the Bishop of 
 Silchestcr at this moment, but I shall come to that presently. 
 What I am anxious, however, to impress upon you at this 
 stage in our little talk is the fact that on the vigil of my 
 ordination I had arrived at a definite theory of what I could 
 and could not accept. Well, I was ordained deacon by the 
 Bishop of St. Albans and licensed to a curacy in Plaistow — 
 one of the poorest districts in the East End of London. 
 Here I worked for three years, and it was here that fourteen 
 years ago I first met Edith." 
 
 "Yes, I seem to remember. Wasn't she working at a 
 girls' club or something? I know I always thought that 
 there must be a secondary attraction." 
 
 "At that time my financial position was not such as to 
 warrant my embarking upon matrimony. Moreover, I had 
 in a moment of what I should now call boyish exaltation 
 registered a vow of perpetual celibacy. Edith, however, with 
 that devotion which neither then nor at any crisis since has 
 
48 Poor Relations 
 
 failed me expressed her willingness to consent to an indefinite 
 engagement, and I remember with gratitude that it was just 
 this consent of hers which was the means of widening the 
 narrow — ah — the all too narrow path which at that time I 
 was treading in religion. My vicar and I had a painful 
 dispute upon some insignificant doctrinal point; I felt bound 
 to resign my curacy, and take another under a man who 
 could appreciate and allow for my speculative temperament. 
 I became curate to St. Thomas's, Kensington, and had hopes 
 of ultimately being preferred to a living. I realized in fact 
 that the East End was a cul-de-sac for a young and — if I may 
 so describe myself without being misunderstood — ambitious 
 curate. For three years I remained at St. Thomas's and ob- 
 tained a considerable reputation as a preacher. You may or 
 may not remember that some Advent Addresses of mine were 
 reprinted in one of the more tolerant religious weeklies and 
 obtained what I do not hesitate to call the honor of being 
 singled out for malicious abuse by the Church Times. 
 Eleven years ago my dear father died and by leaving me 
 an independence of £417 a year enabled me not merely to 
 marry Edith^ but very soon afterwards to accept the living of 
 Newton Candover. I will not detain you with the history 
 of my financial losses, which I hope I have always welcomed 
 in the true spirit of resignation. Let it suffice that within a 
 few years owing to my own misplaced charity and some ba^ 
 advice from a relative of mine on the Stock Exchange my 
 private income dwindled to £152, while at the same time the 
 gross income of Newton Candover from £298 sank to the 
 abominably low nett income of £102 — a serious reflection, I 
 think you will agree, upon the shocking financial system of 
 our national Church. It may surprise you, my dear John, to 
 learn that such blows from fate not only did not cast me 
 down into a state of spiritual despair and intellectual atrophy, 
 but that they actually had the efEect of inciting me to still 
 greater efforts." 
 
 John had been fumbling with his check book when Lau- 
 rence began to talk about his income; but the unexpected 
 
Poor Relations 49 
 
 turn of the narrative quietened him, and the Upman was 
 going well. 
 
 "You may or may not come across a little series of devo- 
 tional meditations for the Man in the Street entitled Lamp- 
 posts. They have a certain vogue, and I may tell you in 
 confidence that under the pseudonym of The Lamplighter I 
 wrote them. The actual financial return they brought me 
 was slight. Barabbas, you know, was a publisher. Ha;ha! 
 No, although I made nothing, or irather practically nothing 
 out of them for my own purse, by leading me to browse 
 among many modern works of theology and philosophy I 
 began to realize that there was a great deal of reason for 
 modem indifference and skepticism. In other words, I d.is- 
 covered that, in order to keep the man in the street a Chris- 
 tian, Christianity must adapt itself td his needs. Filled with 
 a reverent enthusiasm and perhaps half-consciously led along 
 such a path by your conspicuous example of success, I have 
 sought to embody iny theories in a play, the protagonist of 
 which is the apostle Thomas, whom when you read the play 
 you will easily recognize as the prototype of the man in the 
 street. And this brings me to the reason for which I have 
 asked you for this little talk. The fact of the matter is that 
 in pursuing my studies of the apostle Thomas I have actually 
 gone beyond his simple rugged agnosticism, and I now 
 at forty-two years of age after eighteen years as a minis- 
 ter of religion find myself unable longer to accept in 
 any literal sense of the term whatever the Virgin 
 Birth." 
 
 Laurence poured himself out a third glass of port and 
 waited for John to recover from his stupefaction. 
 
 "But I don't think I'm a very good person to talk to 
 about these abstruse divine obstetrics," John protested. "I 
 really haven't considered the question. I know of course 
 to what you refer, but I think this is essentially an occasion 
 for professional advice." 
 
 "I do not ask for advice upon my beliefs," Laurence 
 explained. "I recognize that nobody is able to do anything 
 
50 Poor Relations 
 
 for them except myself. What I want you to do is to let 
 Edith, myself, and little Frida stay with you at Ambles— of 
 course we should be paying guests and you could use our 
 pony and trap and any of the vicarage furniture that you 
 thought suitable — until it has been decided whether I am 
 likely or not to have any success as a dramatist. I do not 
 ask you to undertake the Quixotic task of trying to obtain a 
 public representation of my play about the apostle Thomas. 
 I know that Biblical subjects are forbidden by the Lord 
 Chamberlain, surely a monstrous piece of flunfceyism. But I 
 have many other ideas for plays, and I'm convinced that you 
 will sympathize with my anxiety to be able to work undis- 
 turbed and, if I may say so, in close propinquity to another 
 playwright who is already famous." 
 
 "But why do you want to leave your own vicarage?" 
 John gasped. 
 
 "My dear fellow, owing to what I can only call the poi- 
 sonous behavior of Mrs. Paxton, my patron, to whom while 
 still a curate at St. Thomas's, Kensington, I gave an abun- 
 dance of spiritual consolation when she suffered the loss of 
 her husband, owing as I say to her poisonous behavior fol- 
 lowing upon a trifling quarrel about some alterations I made 
 in the fabric of my church without consulting her, I have 
 been subject to ceaseless inquisition and persecution. There 
 has been an outcry in the more bigoted religious press about 
 my doctrine, and in short I have thought it best and most 
 dignified to resign my living. I am therefore, to use a col- 
 loquialism, — ah — at a loose end." 
 
 "And Edith?" John asked. 
 
 "My poor wife still clings with feminine loyalty to those 
 accretions to faith from which I have cut myself free. In 
 most things she is at one with me, but I have steadily re- 
 sisted the temptation to intrude upon the sanctity of her 
 intimate beliefs. She sees my point of view. Of her sym- 
 pathy I can only speak with gratitude. But she is still an 
 old-fashioned believer. And indeed I am glad, for I should 
 not like to think of her tossed upon the stormy seas of doubt 
 
Poor Relations 51 
 
 and exposed to the — ^ah — hurricanes of speculation that surge 
 through my own brains." 
 
 "And when do you want to move in to Ambles?" 
 
 "Well, if it would be convenient, we should like to begin 
 gradually to-morrow. I have informed the Bishop that I 
 will — ah — be out in a fortnight." 
 
 "But what about Hilda?" John asked, doubtfully. "She 
 is really looking after Aiiibles for me, you know." 
 
 "While we have been having our little talk in the dining- 
 room Edith has been having her little talk with Hilda in the 
 drawing-room, and I think I hear them coming now." 
 
 John looked up quickly to see the effect of that other little 
 talk, and determined to avoid for that night at least any- 
 thing in the nature of little talks with anybody. 
 
 "Laurence dear," said Edith mildly, "isn't it time we were 
 going?" 
 
 John knew that not Hilda herself could have phrased more 
 aptly what she was feeling ; he was sure that in her opinion 
 it was indeed high time that Edith and Laurence were going. 
 
 Laurence went over to the window and pulled aside the 
 curtains to examine the moon. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, I think we might have Primrose harnessed. 
 Where is Frida?" 
 
 "She is watching Harold arrange the animals that John 
 gave her. They are playing at visiting the Natural History 
 Museum." 
 
 John was aware that he had not yet expressed his own 
 willingness for the Armitage family to move into Ambles; 
 he was equally aware that Hilda was trying to catch his eye 
 with a questioning and indignant glance and that he had 
 already referred the decision to her. At the same time he 
 could not bring himself to exalt Hilda above Edith who was 
 the younger and he was bound to admit the favorite of his 
 two sisters; moreover, Hilda was the mother of Harold, 
 and if Harold was to be considered tolerable in the same 
 house as himself, he could not deny as much of his forbear- 
 ance to Laurence. 
 
52 PoorRelations 
 
 " Well, I suppose you two girls have settled it between 
 you?" he said. 
 
 Hilda, who did not seem either surprised or elated at 
 being called a girl, observed coldly that naturally it was for 
 John to decide, but that if the vicarage family was going to 
 occupy Ambles extra furniture would be required immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 " My dear," said Laurence. "Didn't you make it clear 
 to Hilda that as much of the vicarage furniture as is re- 
 quired can be sent here immediately? John and I had sup- 
 posed that you were settling all these little domestic details 
 during your little talk together." 
 
 "No, dear," Edith said, "we settled nothing. Hilda felt, 
 and of course I can't help agreeing with her, that it is really 
 asking too much of John. She reminded me that he has come 
 down here to work." 
 
 The last icicle of opposition melted from John's heart ; he 
 could not bear to think of Edith's being lectured all the way 
 home by her husband under the light of a setting moor. 
 "I dare say we can manage," he said, "and really, you know 
 Hilda, it will do the rooms good to be lived in. I noticed 
 this afternoon a slight smell of damp coming from the un- 
 furnished part of the house." 
 
 "Apples, not damp," Hilda snapped. "I had the apples 
 stored in one of the disused rooms." 
 
 "All these problems will ^olve themselves," said Laurence, 
 grandly. "And I'm sure that John cannot wish to attempt 
 them to-night. Let us all remember that he may be tired. 
 Come along, Edith. We have a long day before us to- 
 morrow. Let us say good-night to Mama." 
 
 Edith started : it was the first time in eleven years of mar- 
 ried life that her husband had adopted the Touchwood style 
 of addressing or referring to their mother, and it seemed to 
 set a seal upon his more intimate association with her family 
 in the future. If any doubts still lingered about the forth- 
 coming immigration of the vicarage party to Ambles they 
 were presently disposed of once and for all by Laurence. 
 
Poor Relations 53 
 
 "What are you carrying?" he asked Frida, when they were 
 gathered in the hall before starting. 
 
 "Uncle John's present," she replied. 
 
 "Do not bother. Uncle John has invited us to stay here, 
 and you do not want to expose your little animals to the risk 
 of being chipped. No doubt Harold will look after them 
 for you in the interim — the short interim. Come, Edith, the 
 moon is not going to wait for us, you know. I have the 
 reins. Gee-up, Primrose!" 
 
 "Fond as I am of Edith," Hilda said, when the vicarage 
 family was out of hearing. "Fond as I am of Edith," she 
 repeated without any trace of affection in accent or expres- 
 sion, "I do think this invasion is an imposition upon your 
 kindness. But clergymen are all alike; they all become dic- 
 tatorial and obtuse; they're too fond of the sound of their 
 own voices." 
 
 "Laurence is perhaps a little heavy," John agreed, "a 
 little suave and heavy like a cornflour shape, but we ought to 
 do what we can for Edith." 
 
 He tactfully offered Hilda a share in his own benevolence, 
 in which she ensconced herself without hesitation. 
 
 "Well, I suppose we shall have to make the best of it. 
 Indeed the only thing that really worries me is what we are 
 to do with the apples." 
 
 "Oh, Harold will soon eat them up," said John ; though 
 he had not the slightest intention of being sarcastic, Hilda 
 was so much annoyed by this that she abandoned all dis- 
 cussion of the vicarage and talked so long about Harold's 
 inside and with such a passionate insistence upon what he 
 required of sweet and sour to prevent him from dropping 
 before her very eyes, that John was able fairly soon to plead 
 that the hour was late and that he must go to bed. 
 
 In his bedroom, which was sharp-scented with autumnal 
 airs and made him disinclined for sleep, John became senti- 
 mental over Edith and began to weave out of her troubles a 
 fine robe for his own good-nature in which his sentimentality 
 was able to show itself off. He assured himself of Edith's 
 
54 P oor Relations 
 
 luck in having Ambles as a refuge in the difficult time!- 
 through which she was passing and began to visualize her 
 past life as nothing but a stormy prelude to a more tranquil 
 present in which he should be her pilot. That Laurence 
 would be included in his beneficence was certainly a flaw in 
 the emerald of his bounty, a fly in the amber of his self- 
 satisfaction ; but, after all, so long as Edith was secure and 
 happy such blemishes were hardly perceptible. He ought 
 to think himself lucky that he was in a position to help his 
 relations; the power of doing kind actions was surely the 
 greatest privilege accorded to the successful man. And 
 what right had Hilda to object? Good gracious, as if she 
 herself were not dependent enough upon him! But there 
 had always been visible in Hilda this wretched spirit of 
 competition. It had been in just the same spirit that she had 
 married Daniel Curtis; she had not been able to endure her 
 younger sister's engagement to the tall handsome curate and 
 had snatched at the middle-aged explorer in order to be 
 married simultaneously and secure the best wedding presents 
 for herself. But what had Daniel Curtis seen in Hilda? 
 What had that myopic and taciturn man found in Hilda to 
 gladden a short visit to England between his life on the 
 Orinoco and his intended life at the back of the uncharted 
 Amazons? And had his short experience of her made him 
 so reckless that nothing but his spectacles were found by the 
 rescuers? What mad impulse to perpetuate his name beyond 
 the numerous beetles, flowers, monkeys, and butterflies to 
 which it was already attached by many learned societies had 
 led him to bequeath Harold to humanity? Was not his col- 
 lection of humming birds enough? 
 
 "I'm really very glad that Edith is coming to Ambles," 
 John murmured. "Very glad indeed. It will serve Hilda 
 right." He began to wonder if he actually disliked Hilda 
 and to realize that he had never really forgiven her for 
 refusing to be interested in his first published story. How 
 well he remembered that occasion — ^twenty years ago almost 
 to a day. It had been a dreary November in the time when 
 
Poor Relations 55 
 
 London really did have fogs, and when the sense of his 
 father's approaching death had added to the general gloom. 
 James had been acting as his father's partner for more than 
 a year and had already nearly ruined the practice by his in- 
 experience and want of affability. George and himself were 
 both in the city offices — George in wool, himself in deg- 
 biscuits. Greorge did not seem to mind the soul-destroying 
 existence and was full of financial ambition ; but himself had 
 loathed it and cared for nothing but literature. How he had 
 pleaded with that dry old father, whose cynical tormented 
 face on its pillow smeared with cigar ash even now vividly 
 haunted his memory; but the fierce old man had refused him 
 the least temporary help and had actually chuckled with 
 delight amidst all his pain at the thought of how his family 
 would have to work for a living when he should mercifully 
 be dead. Was it surprising, when that morning he had found 
 at the office a communication from a ssmdicate of provincial 
 papers to inform him of his story's being accepted, that he 
 should have arrived home in the fog, full of hope and enthu- 
 siasm ? And then he had been met with whispering voices and 
 the news of his father's death. Of course he had been shocked 
 and grieved, even disappointed that it was too late to an- 
 nounce his success to the old man ; but he had not been able 
 to resist telling Hilda, a gawky, pale-faced girl of eighteen, 
 that his story had been taken. He could recall her expres- 
 sion in that befogged gaslight even now, her expression of 
 utter lack of interest, faintly colored with surprise at his own 
 bad taste. Then he had gone upstairs to see his mother, who 
 was bathed in tears, though she had been warned at least 
 six months ago that her husband might die at any moment. 
 He had ventured after a few formal words of sympathy to 
 lighten the burden of her grief by taking the auspicious com- 
 munication from his pocket, where it had been cracking ner- 
 vously between his fingers, and reading it to her. He had 
 been sure that she would be interested because she was a 
 great reader of stories and must surely derive a grateful 
 wonder from the contemplation of her own son as an author. 
 5 
 
S6 Poor Relations 
 
 But she was evidently too much overcome by the insistency 
 of grief and by the prospect of monetary difficulties in the 
 near future to grasp what he was telling her; it had struck 
 him that she had actually never realized that the stories she 
 enjoyed were written by men and women any more than it 
 might have struck another person that advertisements were 
 all written by human beings with their own histories of love 
 and hate. 
 
 "You mustn't neglect your office work, Johnnie," was 
 what she had said. "We shall want every halfpenny now 
 that Papa is gone. James does his best, but the patients were 
 more used to Papa." 
 
 After these two rebuffs John had not felt inclined to break 
 his good news to James, who would be sure to sneer, or to 
 George, who would only laugh ; so he had wandered upstairs 
 to the old schoolroom, where he had found Edith sitting by 
 a dull fire and dissuading little Hugh from throwing coals 
 at the cat. As soon as he had told Edith what had hap- 
 pened she had made a hero of him, and ever afterwards 
 treated him with admiration as well as affection. Had she 
 not prophesied even that he would be another Dickens? 
 That was something like sisterly love, and he had volun- 
 teered to read her the original rough copy, which, notwith- 
 standing Hugh's whining interruptions, she had enjoyed as 
 much as he had enjoyed it himself. Certainly Edith must 
 come to Ambles; twenty years were not enough to obliterate 
 the memory of that warm-hearted girl of fifteen and of her 
 welcome praise. 
 
 But Hugh? What malign spirit had brought Hugh to 
 his mind at a moment when he was already just faintly dis- 
 turbed by the prospect of his relations' increasing demands 
 upon his attention ? Hugh was only twenty-seven now and 
 much too conspicuously for his own good the youngest of the 
 family; like all children that arrive unexpectedly after a 
 long interval, he had seemed the pledge of his parents' re- 
 nevved youth on the very threshold of old age, and had been 
 spoiled, even by his cross-grained old father, in consequence: 
 
Poor Relations 57 
 
 a3 for his mother, though it was out of her power to spoil 
 him extravagantly with money, she gave him all that she 
 did not spend on caps for herself. John determined to make 
 inquiries about Hugh to-morrow. Not another penny should 
 he have from him, not another farthing. If he could not 
 live on what he earned in the office of Stephen Crutchley, 
 who had accepted the young spendthrift out of regard for 
 their lifelong friendship, if he could not become a decent, 
 well-behaved architect, why, he could starve. Not another 
 penny . . . and the rest of his relations agreed with John 
 on this point, for if to him Hugh was a skeleton in the family 
 cupboard, to them he was a skeleton at the family feast. ; 
 
 John expelled from his mind all misgivings about Hugh, 
 hoped it would be a fine day to-morrow so that he could 
 really look round the garden and see what plants wanted 
 ordering, tried to remember the name of an ornamental shrub 
 recommended by Miss Hamilton, turned over on his side,, 
 and went to sleep. 
 
CHAPTER IV , 
 
 EARLY next morning John dreamed that he was buying 
 calico in an immense shop and that in a dreamlike in- 
 consequence the people there, customers and shopmen alike, 
 were abruptly seized with a frenzy of destruction so violent 
 that they began to tear up all the material upon which they 
 could lay their hands; indeed, so loud was the noise of rent 
 cloth that John woke up with the sound of it still in his ears. 
 Gradually it was borne in upon a brain wrestling with 
 actuality that the noise might have emanated from the direc- 
 tion of a small casement in his bedroom looking eastward 
 into the garden across a steep penthouse which ran down to 
 within two feet of the ground. Although the noise had 
 stopped some time before John had precisely located its 
 whereabouts and really before he was perfectly convinced 
 that he was awake, he jumped out of bed and hurried across 
 the chilly boards to ascertain if after all it had only been a^ 
 relic of his dream. No active cause was visible; but the. 
 moss, the stonecrop and the tiles upon the penthouse had been 
 clawed from top to bottom as if by some mighty tropical cat, 
 and John for a brief instant savored that elated perplejtfty 
 whidi generally occurs to heroes in the opening paragraphs 
 of a sensational novel. 
 
 "It's a very old house," he thought, hopefully, and began 
 to grade his reason to a condition of sycophantic credulity. 
 "And, of course, anything like a ghost at seven o'clock in 
 the morning is rare — very rare. The evidence would be 
 unassailable ..." 
 
 After toadying to the marvelous for a while, he sought a 
 natural explanation of the phenomenon and honestly tried 
 not to want it to prove inexplicable. The noise began again 
 overhead; a fleeting object darkened the casement like the 
 
P or Relati ns 59 
 
 svnft passage of a bird and struck the penthouse below; 
 there was a slow grinding shriek, a clatter of broken tHes 
 and leaden piping; a small figure stuck all over with feathers 
 emerged from the herbaceous border and smiled up at him. 
 
 "Good heavens, my boy, what in creation are you trying 
 to do?" John shouted, sternly. 
 
 "I'm learning to toboggan. Uncle John." 
 
 "But didn't I explain to you that toboggaiiiing can only be 
 carried out after a heavy snowfall?" 
 
 "Well, it hasn't snowed yet," Harold pointed out in an 
 ofiended voice. 
 
 "Listen to me. If it snows for a month without stopping, 
 you're never to toboggan down a roof. What's the good of 
 having all those jolly hills at the back of the house if you 
 don't use them?" 
 
 John spoke as if he had brought back the hills from Amer- 
 ica at the same time as he was supposed to have brought back 
 the toboggan. 
 
 "There's a river, too," Harold observed. 
 
 "You can't toboggan down a river — unless, of course, it 
 gets frozen over." 
 
 "I don't want to toboggan down the river, but if I had a 
 Canadian canoe for the river I could wait for the snow quite 
 easily." 
 
 John, after a brief vision of a canoe being towed across 
 the Atlantic by the Murmariia, felt that he was being sub- 
 jected to the lawless exactions of a brigand, but could think 
 of nothing more novel in the way of defiance than: 
 
 "Go away now and be a good boy." 
 
 "Can't I ..." Harold began. 
 
 "No, you can't. If those chickens' feathers ..." 
 
 "They're pigeons' feathers," his nephew corrected him. 
 
 "If those feathers stuck in your hair are intended to convey 
 an impression that you're a Red Indian chief, go and sit in 
 your wigwam till breakfast and smoke the pipe of peace." 
 
 "Mother said I wasn't to smoke till I was twenty-one." 
 
 "Not literally, you young ass. Why, good heavens, in my 
 
6o PoorRelations 
 
 young days such an allusion to Mayne Reid would have been 
 «agerly taken up by any boy." 
 
 Something was going wrong with this conversation, John 
 felt, and he added, lamely: 
 
 "Anyway, go away now." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, I ..." 
 
 "Don't Uncle John me. I don't feel like an uncle this 
 morning. Suppose I'd been shaving when you started that 
 fool's game. I might have cut my head off." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, I've left my spectacles on one of the 
 chimneys. Mother said that whenever I was playing a rough 
 game I was to take off my spectacles first." 
 
 "You'll have to do without your spectacles, that's all. The 
 gardener will get them for you after breakfast. Anyway, a. 
 Red Indian chief in spectacles is unnatural." 
 
 "Well, I'm not a Red Indian any longer." 
 
 "You can't chop and change like that. You'll have to be a 
 Red Indian now till after breakfast. Don't argue any more, 
 because I'm standing here in bare feet. Go and do some 
 weeding in the garden. You've pulled up all the plants on 
 the roof." 
 
 "I can't read without my spectacles." 
 
 "Weed, not read!" 
 
 "Well, I can't weed, either. I can't do anything without 
 my spectacles." 
 
 "Then go away and do nothing." 
 
 Harold shuffled off disconsolately, and John rang for his 
 shaving water. 
 
 At breakfast Hilda asked anxiously after her son's where- 
 abouts; and John, the last vestige of whose irritation had 
 vanished in the smell of fried bacon and eggs, related the 
 story of the morning's escapade as a good joke. 
 
 "But he can't see anything without his spectacles," Hilda 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, he'll find his way to the breakfast table all right," 
 John prophesied. 
 
 "These bachelors," murmured Hilda, turning to her 
 
P o or Rel ati o ns 6i 
 
 mother with a wry little laugh. "Hark ! isn't that Harold 
 calling?" 
 
 "No, no, no, it's the pigeons," John laughed. "They're 
 probably fretting for their feathers." 
 
 "It's to be hoped," said old Mrs. Touchwood, "that he's 
 not fallen into the well by leaving off his spectacles like this. 
 I never could abide wells. And I hate to think of people 
 leaving things off suddenly. It's always a mistake. I re- 
 member little Hughie once left off his wooUen vests in May 
 and caught a most terrible cold that wouldn't go away — 
 it simply wouldn't go." 
 
 "How is Hugh, by the way?" John asked. 
 
 "The same as ever," Hilda put in with cold disapproval. 
 She was able to forget Harold's myopic wanderings in the 
 pleasure of crabbing her youngest brother. 
 
 "Ah, you're all very hard on poor Hughie," sighed the old 
 lady. "But he's always been very fond of his poor mother." 
 
 "He's very fond of what he can get out of you," Hilda 
 sneered. 
 
 " And it's little enough he can, poor boy. Goodness knows 
 I've little enough to spare for him. I wish you could have 
 seen your way to do something for Hug^ie, Johnnie," the 
 old lady went on. 
 
 "John has done quite enough for him," Hilda snapped, 
 which was perfectly true. 
 
 "He's had to leave his rooms in Earl's Court," Mrs. 
 Touchwood lamented. 
 
 "What for? Getting drunk, I suppose?" John inquired, 
 sternly. 
 
 -"No, it was the drains. He's staying with his friend, 
 Aubrey Fenton, whom I cannot pretend to like. He seems 
 to me a sad scapegrace. Poor little Hughie. I wish every- 
 thing wasn't against him. It's to be hoped he won't go and 
 get married, poor boy, for I'm sure his wife wouldn't under- 
 stand him." 
 
 "Surely he's not thinking of getting married," exclaimed 
 John in dismay. 
 
62 P o or Relations 
 
 "Why no, of course not," said the old lady. "How you do 
 take anybody up, Johnnie. I said it's to be hoped he won't 
 get married." 
 
 At this moment Emily came in to announce that Master 
 Harold was up on the roof shouting for dear life. "Such a 
 turn as it give Cook and I, mum," she said, "to hear that 
 garshly voice coming down the chimney. Cook was nearly 
 took with the convolsions, and if it had of been after dark, 
 mum, she says she's shaw she doesn't know what she wouldn't 
 of done, she wouldn't, she's that frightened of howls. That's 
 the one thing she can't ever be really comfortable for in the 
 country, she says, the howls and the hearwigs." 
 
 "I'm under the impression," John declared, solemnly, "that 
 I forbade Harold to go near the roof. If he has disobeyed 
 my express commands he must suffer for it by the loss of his 
 breakfast. He has chosen to go back on the roof: on the 
 roof he shall stay." 
 
 "But his breakfast?" Hilda almost whispered. She was 
 so much awed by her brother's unusually pompous phrase- 
 ology that he began to be impressed by it himself and to feel 
 the first faint intimations of the pleasures of tyranny: he 
 began to visualize himself as the unbending ruler of all his 
 relations. 
 
 "His breakfast can be sent up to him, and I hope it will 
 attract every wasp in the neighborhood." 
 
 This to John seemed the most savage aspiration he could 
 have uttered: autumnal wasps disturbed him as much as 
 dragons used to disturb princesses. 
 
 "Harold likes wasps," said Hilda. "He observes their 
 habits." 
 
 This revelation of his nephew's tastes took away John's 
 last belief in his humanity, and the only retort he could think 
 of was a suggestion that he should go at once to a boarding- 
 school. 
 
 "Likes wasps?" he repeated. "The child must be mad. 
 You'll tell me next that he likes black beetles." 
 
 "He trained a black beetle once to eat something. I forget 
 
Poor Relations 63 
 
 what it was now. But the poor boy was so happy about his 
 little triumph. You ought to remember, John, that he takes 
 after his father." 
 
 John made up his mind at this moment that Daniel Curtis 
 must have married Hilda in a spirit of the purest empirical 
 science. 
 
 "Well, he's not to go training insects in my house," John 
 said, firmly. "And if I see any insects anywhere about 
 Ambles that show the slightest sign of having been encour- 
 aged to suppose themselves on an equal with mankind I shall 
 tread on them." 
 
 "I'm afraid the crossing must have upset you, Johnnicj" 
 said old Mrs. Touchwood, sympathetically. "You seem 
 quite out of sorts this morning. And I don't like the idea 
 of poor little Harold's balancing himself all alone on a 
 chimney. It was never any pleasure to rtie to watch tight- 
 rope dancers or acrobats. Indeed, except for the clowns, I 
 never could abide circuses." 
 
 Hilda quickly took up the appeal and begged John to le( 
 the gardener rescue her son. 
 
 "Oh, very well," he assented. "But, oncft for all, it 
 must be clearly understood that I've come down to Ambles 
 to write a new play and that some arrangement must be 
 concluded by which I have my mornings completely undis- 
 turbed." 
 
 "Of course," said Hilda, brightening at the prospect of 
 Harold's release. 
 
 "Of course," John echoed, sardonically, within himself. 
 He did not feel that the sight of Harold's ravening after his 
 breakfast would induce in him the right mood for Joan of 
 Arc. So he left the breakfast table and went upstairs to his 
 library. Here he found that some "illiterate oaf," as he 
 characterized the person responsible, had put in upside down 
 upon the shelves the standard works he had hastily amassed. 
 Instead of setting his ideas in order, he had to set his books 
 in order : and after a hot and dusty morning with the rows 
 of unreadable classics he came downstairs to find that the 
 
64 PoorRelations 
 
 vicarage party had arrived just in time for lunch, bringing 
 with them as the advance guard of their occupation a large 
 clothes basket filled with what Laurence described as "neces- 
 sary odds and ends that might be overlooked later." 
 
 "It's my theory of moving," he added. "The small things 
 first." 
 
 He enunciated this theory so reverently that his action 
 acquired from his tone a momentous gravity like the captain 
 of a ship's when he orders the women and children into the 
 boats first. 
 
 The moving of the vicarage party lasted over a fortnight, 
 during which John found it impossible to settle down to Joan 
 of Arc. No sooner would he have worked himself up to a 
 suitable frame of mind in which he might express dramatic- 
 ally and poetically the maid's reception of her heavenly 
 visitants than a very hot man wearing a green baize apron 
 would appear in the doorway of the library and announce 
 that a chest of drawers had hopelessly involved some vital 
 knot in the domestic communications. It was no good for 
 John to ask Hilda to do anything: his sister had taken up 
 the attitude that it was all Jdhn's fault, that she had done 
 her best to preserve his peace, that her advice had been 
 ignored, and that for the rest of her life she intended to 
 efface herself. 
 
 "I'm a mere cipher," she kept repeating. 
 
 On one occasion when a bureau of sham ebony that looked 
 like a blind man's dream of Cologne Cathedral had managed 
 to wedge all its pinnacles into the lintel of the front door, 
 John observed to Laurence he had understood that only such 
 furniture from the vicarage as was required to supplement 
 the Ambles furniture would be brought there. 
 
 "I thought this bureau would appeal to you," Laurence 
 replied. "It seemed to me in keeping with much of your 
 work." 
 
 John looked up sharply to see if he was being chaffed; 
 but his brother-in-law's expression was earnest, and the in- 
 
Poor Relations 65 
 
 tended compliment struck more hardly at John's self- 
 confidence than the most malicious review. 
 
 "Does my work really seem like gimcrack gothic?" he 
 asked himself. 
 
 In a fit of exasperation he threw himself so vigorously into 
 the business of forcing the bureau into the house that when 
 it was inside it looked like a ruined abbey on the afternoon 
 of a Bank Holiday. 
 
 "It had better be taken up into the garrets for the present," 
 he said, grimly. "It can be mended later on." 
 
 The comparison of his work to that burciau haunted John 
 at his own writing-table for the rest of the morning; think- 
 ing of the Bishop of Silchester's objection to Laurence, he 
 found it hard to make the various bishops in his play as 
 unsympathetic as they ought to be for dramatic contrast; 
 then he remembered that after all it had been due to the 
 Bishop of Silchester's strong action that Laurence had come 
 to Ambles: the stream of insulting epithets for bishops flowed 
 as strongly as ever, and he worked in a justifiable pun upon 
 the name of Pierre Cauchon, his chief episcopal villain. 
 
 "I wonder, if I were allowed to, whether I would con- 
 demn Laurence to be burnt alive. Wasn't there a Saint 
 Laurence who was grilled ? I really believe I Would almost 
 grill him, I really do. There's something exceptionally irri- 
 tating to me about that man's whole personality. And I'm 
 not at all sure I approve of a clergyman's giving up his 
 beliefs. One might get a line out of that, by the way — 
 something about a weathercock and a church steeple. I 
 don't think a clergyman ought to surrender so easily. It's 
 his business not to be influenced by modem thought. This 
 pa^ion for realism is everywhere, . . . Thank goodness, 
 I've been through it and got over it and put it behind me 
 forever. It's a most unprofitable creed. What was my cir- 
 culation as a realist? I once reached four thousand. What's 
 four thousand ? Why, it isn't half the poplulation of Galton. 
 And now Laurence Armltage takes up with it after being a 
 
66 PoorRelations 
 
 vicar for ten years. Idiot! Religion isn't realistic: it never 
 was realistic. Religion is the entertainment of man's spiritu^ 
 ality just as the romantic drama is the entertainment of his 
 mentality. I don't read Anatole France for my representa- 
 tion of Joan of Arc. What business has Laurence to muddle 
 his head with — ^what's his name — Colonel Ingoldsby — Inger- 
 soll — ^when he ought to be thinking about his Harvest Fes- 
 tival? And then he has the effrontery to compare my work 
 with that bureau ! If that's all his religion meant to him — 
 that ridiculous piece of gimcrack gothic, no wonder it 
 wouldn't hold together. Why, the green fumed oak of a 
 sentimental rationalism would be better than that. Con^ 
 found Laurence! I knew this would happen when he came. 
 He's taken my mind completely off my own work. I can't 
 write a word this morning." 
 
 John rushed away from his manuscript and weeded fu- 
 riously down a secluded border until the gardener told him 
 he had weeded away the autumn-sown sweet-peas that were 
 coming along nicely and standing the early frosts a treat. 
 
 "I'm not even allowed to weed my own garden now," 
 John thought, burking the point at issue ; and his disillusion- 
 ment became so profound that he actually invited Harold to 
 go for a walk with him. 
 
 "Can I bring my blow-pipe?" asked the young naturalist, 
 gleefully. 
 
 "You don't want to load yourself up with soap and 
 water," said John. "Keep that till you come in." 
 
 "My South American blow-pipe. Uncle John. It's a real 
 one which father sent home. It belonged to a little Indiad 
 boy, but the darts aren't poisoned, father told mother." 
 
 "Don't you be too sure," John advised him. "Explorers 
 will say anything." 
 
 "Well, can I bring it?" 
 
 "No, we'll take a non-murderous walk for a change. I'm 
 tired of being shunned by the common objects of the coun- 
 tryside." 
 
 "Well, shall I bring Ants, Bees, and JVaspsf 
 
Poor Relations 67 
 
 "Certainly not. We don't want to go trailing about 
 Hampshire like two jam sandwiches." 
 
 "I mean the book." 
 
 "No, if you want to carry something, you can carry my 
 cleek and six golf balls." 
 
 "Oh, yes, and then I'll practice bringing eggs down in 
 my mouth from very high trees." 
 
 John liked this form of exercise, because at the trifling 
 cost of making one ball intolerably sticky it kept Harold from 
 asking questions; for about two hundred yards he enjoyed 
 this walk more than any he had ever taken with his 
 nephew. 
 
 "But birds' nesting time won't come till the spring," Har- 
 old sighed. 
 
 "No," said John, regretfully: there were many lofty trees 
 round Ambles, and with his mouth full of eggs anything 
 might happen to Harold. 
 
 The transference of the vicarage family was at last com- 
 plete, and John was penitently astonished to find that Lau- 
 rence really did intend to pay for their board; in fact, the 
 ex-vicar presented him with a check for two months on 
 account calculated at a guinea a week each. John was so 
 much moved by this event — ^the manner in which Laurence 
 offered the check gave it the character of a testimonial and 
 thereby added to John's sense of obligation — that he was even 
 embarrassed by the notion of accepting it. At the same time 
 a faint echo of his own realistic beginnings tinkled in his 
 ear a warning not to refuse it, both for his own sake and for 
 the sake of his brother-in-law. He therefore escaped from 
 the imputation of avarice by suggesting that the check 
 should be handed to Hilda, who, as housekeeper, would 
 know how to employ it best. John secretly hoped that Hilda, 
 through being able to extract what he thought of as "a little 
 pin money for herself" out of it, might discard the martyr's 
 halo that was at present pinching her brains tightly enough, 
 if one might judge by her constricted expression. 
 
 "There will undoubtedly be a small profit," he told him- 
 
68 Poor Relations 
 
 self, "for if Laurence has a rather monkish appetite, Edith 
 and Frida eat very little." 
 
 Perhaps Hilda did manage to make a small profit ; at any 
 rate, she seemed reconciled to the presence of the Armitages 
 and gave up declaring that she was a cipher. The fatigue of 
 moving in had made Laurence's company, while he was suf- 
 fering from the reaction, almost bearable. Frida, apart from 
 a habit she had of whispering at great length in her mother's 
 ear, was a nice uninquisitive child, and Edith, when she was 
 not whispering back to Frida or echoing Laurence, was still 
 able to rouse in her brother's heart feelings of warm affection. 
 Old Mrs. Touchwood had acquired from some caller a new 
 game of Patience, which kept her gently simmering in the 
 lamplight every evening; Harold had discovered among the 
 odds and ends of salvage from the move a sixpenny encyclo- 
 pedia that, though it made him unpleasantly informative, at 
 any rate kept him from being interrogative, which John 
 found, on the whole, a slight advantage. Janet Bond had 
 written again most seriously about Joan of Arc, and the film 
 company had given excellent terms for The Fall of Babylon. 
 Really, except for two huffy letters from his sisters-in-law 
 in London, John was able to contemplate with much less 
 misgivings a prospect of spending all the winter at Ambles. 
 Beside, he had secured his dog-cart with a dashing chestnut 
 mare, and was negotiating for the twenty-acre field. 
 
 Yes, everything was very jolly, and he might even aim at 
 finishing the first draft of the second act before Christmas. 
 It would be jolly to do that and jolly to invite James and 
 Beatrice and George and Eleanor, but not Hugh — no, in no 
 circumstances should Hugh be included in the yuletide ar- 
 mistice — down to Ambles for an uproarious jolly week. 
 Then January should be devoted to the first draft of the 
 third act — really it should be possible to write to Janet Bond 
 presently and assure her of a production next autumn. John 
 was feeling particularly optimistic. For three days in succes- 
 sion the feet of the first act had been moving as rhythmically 
 and regularly toward the curtain as the feet of guardsmen 
 
Poor Relations 69 
 
 move along the Buckingham Palace Road. It was a fine 
 frosty morning, and even so early in the day John was tap- 
 ping his second egg to the metrical apostrophes of Uncle 
 Laxart's speech offering to take his niece, Joan, to interview 
 Robert de Baudricourt. Suddenly he noticed that Laurence 
 had not yet put in his appearance. This waS strange be- 
 havior for one who still preserved from the habit of many 
 early services an excited punctuality for his breakfast, and 
 lightly he asked Edith what had become of her husband. 
 
 "He hopes to begin working again at his play this morn- 
 ing. Seeing you working so hard makes him feel lazy." 
 Edith laughed faintly and fearfully, as if she would depre- 
 cate her own profanity in referring to so gross a quality as 
 laziness in connection with Laurence, and perhaps for the 
 first time in her life she proclaimed that her opinion was 
 only an echo of Laurence's own by adding, "he says that it 
 makes him feel lazy. So he's going to begin at once." 
 
 John, whose mind kept reverting iambically and trocha- 
 ically to the curtain of his first act, merely replied, without 
 any trace of awe, that he was glad Laurence felt in the vein^ 
 
 "But he hasn't decided yet," Edith continued, "which 
 room he's going to work in." 
 
 For the first time a puff of apprehension twitched the 
 little straw that might be going to break the camel's back. 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't offer him the library," John said 
 quickly. "And yon shall see the King of France to-day" he 
 went on composing in his head. "No — And you shall see 
 King Charles — no-^-and you shall see the King of France at 
 once — no — and you shall see the King of France forthwith^ 
 Sensation among the villagers standing round. Forthwith 
 is weak at the end of a line. / swear that you shall see the 
 King of France. Sensation. Yes, that's it." 
 
 The top of John's egg was by this time so completely 
 cracked by his metronomic spoon that a good deal of the 
 shell was driven down into the egg: it did not matter, how- 
 ever, because appetite and inspiration were both disposed of 
 by the arrival of Laurence. 
 
70 Poor Relations 
 
 "1 wish you could have managed to help me with some of 
 these things," he was muttering reproachfully to his wife. 
 
 The things consisted of six or seven books, a quantity of 
 foolscap, an inkpot dangerously brimming, a paper-knife 
 made of olive wood from Gethsemane, several pens and pen- 
 cils, and a roll of blotting paper as white as the snow upon 
 the summit of Mont Blanc, and so fat that John thought at 
 first it was a tablecloth and wondered what his brother-in- 
 law meant to do with it. He was even chilled by a brief 
 and horrible suspicion that he was going to hold a com- 
 munion service. Edith rose hastily from the table to help 
 her husband unload himself. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, dear, why didn't you ring?" 
 "My dear, how could I ring without letting my ma- 
 terials drop?" Laurence asked, patiently. 
 "Or call?" 
 
 "My chin was too much occupied for calling. But it 
 doesn't matter, Edith. As you see, I've managed to bring 
 everything down quite safely." 
 
 "I'm so sorry," Edith went on. "I'd no idea ..." 
 "I told you that I was going to begin work this morning." 
 "Yes, how stupid of me . . . I'm so sorry ..." 
 "Going to work, are you?" interrupted John, who was 
 anxious to stop Edith's conjugal amenity. " That's capital." 
 "Yes, I'm really only waiting now to choose my room." 
 "I'm sorry I can't offer you mine . . . but I must be 
 alone. I find ..." 
 
 "Of course," Laurence agreed with a nod of sympathetic 
 knowingness. "Of course, my dear fellow, I ' shouldn't 
 dream of trespassing. I, though indeed I've no right to com- 
 pare myself with you, also like to work alone. In fact I 
 consider that a secure solitude provides the ideal setting for 
 dramatic composition. I have a habit — perhaps it comes 
 from preparing my sermons with my eye always upon the 
 spoken rather than upon the written word — I have a habit 
 of declaiming many of my pages aloud to myself. That 
 necessitates my being alone — ^absolutely alone." 
 
P oor Relatio ns 71 
 
 "Yes, you see," Edith said, "if you're alone you're not 
 disturbed." 
 
 John who was still sensitive to Edith's truisms tried to 
 cover her last by incorporating Hilda in the conversation 
 with a "What room do you advise?" 
 
 "Why not the dining-room? I'll tell Emily to clear away 
 the breakfast things at once." 
 
 "Clear away?" Laurence repeated. 
 
 "And they won't be laying for lunch till a quarter-to-one." 
 
 "Laying for lunch?" Laurence gasped. "My dear Hilda! 
 I don't wish to attribute to my — ah — ^work an impor- 
 tance which perhaps as a hitherto unacted playwright I have 
 no right to attribute, but I think John at any rate will 
 appreciate my objection to working with — ah — ^the bread- 
 knife suspended over my head like the proverbial sword of 
 Damocles. No, I'm afraid I must rule out the dining-room 
 as a practicable environment." 
 
 "And Mama likes to sit in the drawing-room," said Hilda. 
 
 "In any case," Laurence said, indulgently, "I shouldn't 
 feel at ease in the drawing-room. So I shall not disturb 
 Mama. I had thought of suggesting that the children 
 should be given another room in which to play, but to tell 
 the truth I'm tired of moving furniture about. The fact 
 is I miss my vicarage study: it was my own." 
 
 "Yes, nobody at the vicarage ever thought of interrupting 
 him, you see," Edith explained. 
 
 "Well," said John, roused by the necessity of getting Joan 
 started upon her journey to interview Robert de Baudri- 
 court, " there are several empty bedrooms upstairs. One of 
 them could be transformed into a study for Laurence." 
 
 "That means more arranging of furniture," Laurence ob- 
 jected. 
 
 "Then there's the garret," said John. "You'd find your 
 bureau up there." 
 
 Laurence smiled in order to show how well he under- 
 stood that the suggestion was only playfulness on John's 
 side and how little he minded the good-natured joke. 
 
72 Poor Relations 
 
 "There is one room which might be made — ah — con- 
 ducive to good work, though at present it is occupied by a 
 quantity of apples ; they, however, could easily be moved." 
 
 "But I moved them in there from what is now your 
 room," Hilda protested. 
 
 "It is good for apples to be frequently moved," said Lau- 
 rence, kindly. "In fact, the oftener they are moved, the 
 better. And this holds good equally for pippins, codlins, 
 and russets. On the other hand it means I shall lose half a 
 day's work, because even if I could make a temporary be- 
 ginning anywhere else, I should have to superintend the ar- 
 rangement of the furniture." 
 
 " But I thought you didn't want to have any more furni- 
 ture arranging to do," Hilda contested, acrimoniously. 
 "There are two quite empty rooms at the other end of the 
 passage." 
 
 "Yes, but I like the room in which the apples are. John 
 will appreciate my desire for a sympathetic milieu." 
 
 "Come, come, we will move the apples," John promised, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 Better that the apples should roll from room to room 
 eternally than that he should be driven into offering Lau- 
 rence a corner of the library, for he suspected that notwith- 
 standing the disclaimer this was his brother-in-law's real 
 objective. 
 
 "It doesn't say anything about apples in the encyclopedia," 
 muttered Harold in an aggrieved voice. "Apoplexy treat- 
 ment of, Apothecaries measure. Appetite loss of. This may 
 be due to general debility, irregularity in meals, overwork, 
 want of exercise, constipation, and many other ..." 
 
 "Goodness gracious me, whatever has the boy got hold 
 of?" exclaimed his grandmother. 
 
 "Grandmama, if you mix Lanoline with an equal quantity 
 of Sulphur you can cure Itch," Harold went on with his 
 spectacles glued to the page. "And, oh, Grandmama, you 
 know you told me not to make a noise the other day because 
 jour heart was weak. Well, you're suffering from flatulence. 
 
Poor Relations 73 
 
 The enqrdopedia says that many people who are suffering 
 from flatulence think they have heart disease." 
 
 "Will no one stop the child?" Grandmama pleaded. 
 
 Laurence snatched away the book from his nephew and 
 put it in his pocket. 
 
 "That book is mine, I believe, Harold," he said, firmly, 
 and not even Hilda dared protest, so majestic was Laurence 
 and so much fluttered was poor Grandmama. 
 
 John seized the opportunity to make his escape ; but when 
 he was at last seated before his table the feet of the first act 
 limped pitiably; Laurence had trodden with all his might 
 upon their toes; his work that morning was chiropody, not 
 composition, and bungling chiropody at that. After lunch 
 Laurence was solemnly inducted to his new study, and he 
 may have been conscious of an ecclesiastical parallel in the 
 manner of his taking possession, for he made a grave joke 
 about it. 
 
 "Let us hope that I shall not be driven out of my new 
 living by being too — ah — broad." 
 
 His wife did not realize that he was being droll and had 
 drawn down her lips to an expression of pained sympathy, 
 when she saw the others all laughing and Laurence smiling 
 his acknowledgments; -her desperate effort to change the 
 contours of her face before Laurence noticed her failure 
 to respond sensibly gave the impression that she had nearly 
 swallowed a loose tooth. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd like me to bring up your tea, dear, so 
 that you won't be disturbed?" she suggested. 
 
 "Ah, tea ..." murmured Laurence. "Let me see. It's 
 now a quarter-past two. Tea is at half-past four, I will 
 come down for half an hour. That will give me a clear two 
 hours before dinner. If I allow a quarter of an hour for 
 arranging my table, that will give me four ,hours in all. 
 Perhaps considering my strenuous morning four hours will 
 be enough for the first day. I don't like the notion of work- 
 ing after dinner," he added to John. 
 
 "No?" queried John, doubtfully. He had hoped that his 
 
74 P o or Re I ations 
 
 brother-in-law would feel inspired by the port: it was easy 
 enough to avoid him in the afternoon, especially since on the 
 first occasion that he had been taken for a drive in the new 
 dogcart he had evidently been imbued with a detestation of 
 driving that would probably last for the remainder of his 
 life ; in fact he was talking already of wanting to sell Prim- 
 rose and the vicarage chaise. 
 
 "Though of course on some evenings I may not be able 
 to help it," added Laurence. "I may have to work." 
 
 "Of course you may," John assented, encouragingly. "I 
 dare say there'll -be evenings when the mere idea of waiting 
 even for coffee will make you fidgety. You mustn't lose the 
 mood, you know." 
 
 "No, of course, I appreciate that." 
 
 "There's nothing so easily lost as the creative gift, Balzac 
 said." 
 
 "Did he?" Laurence murmured, anxiously. "But I prom- 
 ise you I shall let nothing interfere with me if — " the con- 
 junction fizzed from his mouth like soda from a syphon, 
 "if I'm in the — ah — ^mood. The mood — ^yes — ah — ^precisely." 
 His brow began to lower; the mood was upon him; and 
 everybody stole quietly from the room. They had scarcely 
 reached the head of the stairs when the door opened again 
 and Laurence called after Edith : "I should prefer that who- 
 ever brings me news of tea merely knocks without coming 
 in. I shall assume that a knock upon my door means tea. 
 But I don't wish anybody to come in." 
 
 Laurence disappeared. He seemed under the influence of 
 a strong mental aphrodisiac and was evidently guaranteeing 
 himself against being discovered in an embarrassing situa- 
 tion with his Muse. 
 
 "This is very good for me," thought John. "It has taught 
 me how easily a man may make a confounded ass of himself 
 without anybody's raising a finger to warn him. I hope I 
 didn't give that sort of impression to those two women on 
 board. I shall have to watch myself very carefully in 
 future." 
 
P oor R el a ti o ns 75 
 
 At this moment Emily announced that Lawyer Deacle 
 was waiting to see Mr. Touchwood, which meant that the 
 twenty-acre field was at last his. The legal formalities were 
 complete ; that very afternoon John had the pleasure of watch- 
 ing the fierce little Kerry cows munch the last grass they 
 would ever munch in his field. But it was nearly dusk when 
 they were driven home, and John lost five balls in celebrating 
 his triumph with a brassy. 
 
 Laurence appeared at tea in a velveteen coat, which prob- 
 ably provided the topic for the longest whisper that even 
 Frida had ever been known to utter. 
 
 "Come, come, Frida," said her father. "You won't dis- 
 turb us by saying aloud what you want to say." He had 
 leaned over majestically to emphasize his rebuke and in 
 doing so brushed with his sleeve Grandmama's wrist. 
 
 "Goodness, it's a cat," the old lady cried, with a shudder. 
 "I shall have to go away from here, Johnnie, if you have a 
 cat in the house. I'd rather have mice all over me than one 
 of those horrid cats. Ugh! the nasty thing!" 
 
 She was not at all convinced of her mistake even when 
 persuaded to stroke her son-in-law's coat. 
 
 "I hope it's been properly shooed out. Harold, please 
 look well under all the chairs, there's a good boy." 
 
 During the next few days John felt that he was being in 
 some indefinable way ousted by Laurence from the spiritual 
 mastery of his own house. John was averse from according to 
 his brother-in-law a greater forcefulness of character than he 
 could ascribe to himself ; if he had to admit that he really 
 was being supplanted somehow, he preferred to search for 
 the explanation in the years of theocratic prestige that gave 
 a background to the all-pervasiveness of that sacerdotal per- 
 sonality. Yet ultimately the impression of his own relega- 
 tion to a secondary place remained elusive and incommuni- 
 cable. He could not for instance grumble that the times 
 of the meals were being altered nor compkin that in the 
 smallest detail the domestic mechanism was being geared 
 up or down to suit Laurence; the whole sensation was es- 
 
76 P o or R elations 
 
 sentially of a spiritual eviction, and the nearest he could 
 get to formulating his resentment (though perhaps resent- 
 ment was too definite a word for this vague uneasiness) was 
 his own gradually growing opinion that of all those at 
 present under the Ambles roof Laurence was the most im- 
 portant. This loss of importance was bad for John's work, 
 upon which it soon began to exert a discouraging influence, 
 because he became doubtful of his own position, hypercritical 
 of his talent, and timid about his social ability. He began 
 to meditate the long line of failures to dramatize the im- 
 mortal tale of Joan of Arc immortally, to see himself dan- 
 gling at the end of this long line of ineptitudes and to ask 
 himself whether bearing in mind the vastness of even our 
 own solar system it was really worth while writing at all. 
 It could not be due to anything or anybody but Laurence, 
 this sense of his own futility; not even when a few years 
 ago he had reached the conclusion that as a realistic novelist 
 he was a failure had he been so profoundly conscious of his 
 own insignificance in time and space. 
 
 "I shall have to go away if I'm ever to get on with this 
 play," he told himself. 
 
 Yet still so indefinite was his sense of subordinacy at 
 Ambles that he accused his liver (an honest one that did 
 not deserve the reproach) and bent over his table again with 
 all the determination he could muster. The concrete fact 
 was still missing; his capacity for self-deception was still 
 robust enough to persuade him that it was all a passing 
 fancy, and he might have gone plodding on at Ambles for 
 the rest of the winter if one morning about a week after 
 Laurence had begun to write, the door of his own library 
 had not opened to the usurper, manuscript in hand. 
 
 "I don't like to interrupt you, my dear fellow. ... I 
 know you have your own work to consider . . . but I'm 
 anxious for your opinion-^in fact I should like to read you 
 my first act." 
 
 It was useless to resist: if it were not now, it would be 
 later. 
 
P o or Re lati o ns 77 
 
 "With pleasure," said John. Then he made one effort. 
 "Though I prefer reading to myself." 
 
 "That would involve waiting for the typewriter. Yes, 
 my screed is — ah — difficult to make out. And I've indulged 
 in a good many erasures and insertions. No, I think you'd 
 better let me read it to you." 
 
 John indicated a chair and looked out of the window long- 
 ingly at the birds, as patients in the hands of a dentist re- 
 gard longingly the sparrows in the dingy evergreens of the 
 dentist's back garden. 
 
 "When we had our little talk the other day," Laurence 
 began, "you will remember that I spoke of a drama I had 
 already written, of which the disciple Thomas was the pro- 
 tagonist. This drama notwithstanding the probably obstruc- 
 tive attitude of the Lord Chamberlain I have rewritten, or 
 rather I have rewritten the first act. I call the play— ah^ — 
 Thomas." 
 
 "It sounds a little trivial for such a serious subject, don't 
 you think?" John suggested. "I mean, Thomas has come to 
 be associated in so many people's minds with footmen. 
 Wouldn't Saint Thomas be better, and really rather more 
 respectful? Many people still have a great feeling of rever- 
 ence for apostles." 
 
 "No, no, Thomas it is: Thomas it must remain. You 
 have forgotten perhaps that I told you he was the prototype 
 of the man in the street. It is the simplicity, the unpreten- 
 tiousness of the title that for me gives it a value. Well, to 
 resume. Thomas. A play in four acts. By Laurence Army- 
 tage. By the way, I'm going to spe^Il my name with a y in 
 future. Poetic license. Ha-ha! I shall not advertise the 
 change in the Tirries. But I think it looks more literary with 
 a y. Act the First. Scene the First. The shore of the 
 Sea of Galilee. I say nothing else. I don't attempt to de- 
 scribe it. That is what I have learnt from Shakespeare. 
 This modern passion for description can only injure the 
 greatness of the theme. Enter from the left the Virgin 
 Mary." 
 
78 P o or Relation s 
 
 "Enter who?" asked John in amazement. 
 
 "The Virgin Mary. The mother ..." 
 
 "Yes, I know who she is, but . . . well, I'm not a re- 
 ligious man, Laurence, in fact I've not been to church since 
 I was a boy . . . but ... no, no, you can't do that." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "It will offend people." 
 
 "I want to offend people," Laurence intoned. "If thy 
 eye offend thee, pluck it out." 
 
 "Well, you did," said John. "You put in a y instead." 
 
 "I'm not jesting, my dear fellow." 
 
 "Nor am I," said John. "What I want you to understand 
 is that you can't bring the Virgin Mary on the stage. 
 Why, I'm even doubtful about Joan of Arc's vision of the 
 Archangel Michael. Some people may object, though I'm 
 counting on his being generally taken for St. George." 
 
 "I know that you are writing a play about Joan of Arc, 
 but — and I hope you'll not take unkindly what I'm going 
 to say — ^but Joan of Arc can never be more than a pretty 
 piece of mediaevalism, whereas Thomas . . . " 
 
 John gave up, and the next morning he told the household 
 that he was called back to London on business. 
 
 "Perhaps I shall have some peace here," he sighed, looking 
 round at his dignified Church Row library. 
 
 "Mrs. James called earlier this morning, sir, and said not 
 to disturb you, but she hoped you'd had a comfortable 
 journey and left these flowers, and Mrs. George has tele- 
 phoned from the theater to say she'll be here almost directly." 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Worfolk," John said. "Perhaps Mrs. 
 George will be taking lunch." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I expect she will," said his housekeeper. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MRS. GEORGE TOUCHWOOD— or as she was 
 known on the stage, Miss Eleanor Cartright — was 
 big-boned, handsome, and hawklike, with the hungry look 
 of the ambitious actress who is drawing near to forty — she 
 vvas in fact thirty-seven — and realizes that the disappointed 
 adventuresses of what are called strong plays are as near as 
 she will ever get to the tragedy queens of youthful aspira- 
 tion. Such an one accustomed to flash her dark eyes in 
 defiance of a morally but not esthetically hostile gallery 
 and to have the whole of a stage for the display ,of what 
 well-disposed critics hailed as vitality and cavAlJers con- 
 demned as lack of repose, such an one in John's tranquil 
 library was, as Mrs. Worfolk put it, "rather too much of a 
 good thing and no mistake"; and when Eleanor was there, 
 John experienced as much malaise as he would have experi- 
 enced from being shut up in a housemaid's closet with a 
 large gramophone and the housemaid. This claustrophobia, 
 however, was the smallest strain that his sister-in-law in- 
 flicted upon him; she affected his heart and his conscience 
 more acutely, because he could never meet her without a 
 sensation of guilt on account of his not yet having found a 
 part for her in any of his plays, to which was added the fear 
 he always felt in her presence that soon or late he should 
 from sheer inability to hold out longer award her the leading 
 part in his play. George had often seriously annoyed him 
 by his unwillingness to help himself; but at the thought of 
 being married for thirteen years to Eleanor he had always 
 excused his brother's flaccid dependence. 
 
 "George is a bit of a sponge," James had once said, "but 
 Eleanor! Eleanor is the roughest and toughest loofah that 
 was ever known. She is irritant and absorbent at the same 
 time, and by gad, she has the appearance of a loofah." 
 
8o Poor Relations 
 
 The prospect of Eleanor's company at lunch on the morn- 
 ing after his return to town gave John a sensation of having 
 escaped the devil to fall into the deep sea, of having jumped 
 from the frying-pan into the fire, in fact of illustrating every 
 known proverbial attempt to express the distinction without 
 the difference. 
 
 "It's a great pity that Eleanor didn't marry Laurence," 
 he thought. "Each would have kept the other well under, 
 and she could have played Mary Magdalene in that insane 
 play of his. And, by Jove, if they had married, neither of 
 them would have been a relation! Moreover, if Laurence 
 had been caught by Eleanor, Edith might never have married 
 at all and could have kept house for me. And if Edith 
 hadn't married, Hilda mightn't have married, and then 
 Harold would never have been born." 
 
 John's hard pruning of his family-tree was interrupted by 
 a sense of the house's having been attacked by an angry mob 
 — an illusion that he had learnt to connect with his sister- 
 in-law's arrival. To make sure, however, he went out on 
 the landing and called down to know if anything was the 
 matter. 
 
 "Mrs. George is having some trouble with the taxi-man, 
 sir," explained Maud, who was holding the front-door open 
 and looking apprehensively at the pictures that were clatter- 
 ing on the walls in the wind. 
 
 "Why does she take taxis?" John muttered, irritably. "She 
 can't afford them, and there's no excuse for such extravagance 
 when the tube is so handy." 
 
 At this moment Eleanor reached the door, on the threshold 
 of which she turned like Medea upon Jason to have the last 
 word with the taxi-driver before the curtain fell. 
 
 "Did Mr. Touchwood get my message?" she was 
 asking. 
 
 "Yes, yes," John called down. "I'm expecting you to 
 lunch." 
 
 When he watched Eleanor all befurred coming upstairs, 
 he felt not much less nervous than a hunter of big game 
 
Poor Relations 8i 
 
 face to face with his first tiger; the landing seemed to 
 wobble like a howdah; now he had fired and missed, and she 
 was embracing him as usual. How many times at how many 
 meetings with Eleanor had he tried unsuccessfully to dodge 
 that kiss — ^which always seemed improper whether because 
 her lips were too red, or too full, he could never decide, 
 though he always felt when he was released that he ought to 
 beg her husband's pardon. 
 
 "You were an old beast not to come and see us when you 
 got back from America; but never mind, I'm awfully glad 
 to see you, all the same." 
 
 "Thank you very much, Eleanor. Why are you glad?" 
 
 "Oh, you sarcastic old bear!" 
 
 This perpetual suggestion of his senility was another trick 
 of Eleanor's that he deplored; dash it, he was two jrears 
 younger than George, whom she called Georgieboy. 
 
 "No, seriously," Eleanor went on. "I was just going to 
 wire and ask if I could send the kiddies down to the country. 
 Lambton wants me for a six weeks' tour before Xmas, and I 
 can't leave them with Georgie. You see, if this piece catches 
 on, it means a good shop for me in the new year." 
 
 "Yes, I quite understand your point of view," John said. 
 "But what I don't understand is why Bertram and Viola 
 can't stay with their father." 
 
 "But George is ill. Surely you got my letter?" 
 
 "I didn't realize that the presence of his children might 
 prove fatal. However, send them down to Ambles by all 
 means." 
 
 "Oh, but I'd mueh rather not after the way Hilda wrote 
 to me, and now that you've come back there's no need." 
 
 "I don't quite understand." 
 
 "Well, you won't mind having them here for a short 
 visit? Then they can go down to Ambles for the Christmas 
 holidays." 
 
 "But the Christmas holidays won't begin for at least six 
 weeks." 
 
 "I know." 
 
82 PoorRelations 
 
 "But you don't propose that Bertram and Viola should 
 spend six weeks here?" 
 
 "They'll be no bother, you old crosspatch. Bertram will 
 be at school all day, and I suppose that Maud or Elsa will 
 always be available to take Viola to her dancing-lessons. 
 You remember the dancing-lessons you arranged for?" 
 
 "I remember that I accepted the arrangement," said 
 John. 
 
 "Well, she's getting on divinely, and it would be a shame 
 to interrupt them just now, especially as she's in the middle 
 of a Spanish series. Her cachucha is . . . " Eleanor could 
 only blow a kiss to express what Viola's cachucha was. "But 
 then, of course, I had a Spanish grandmother." 
 
 When John regarded her barbaric personality he could 
 have credited her with being the granddaughter of a canni- 
 bal queen. 
 
 "So I thought that her governess could come here every 
 morning just as easily as to Earl's Court. In fact, it will 
 be more convenient, or at any rate, equally convenient for 
 her, because she lives at Kilburn." 
 
 "I dare say it will be equally convenient for the governess," 
 said John, sardonically. 
 
 "And I thought," Eleanor continued, "that it would be a 
 good opportunity for Viola to have French lessons every 
 afternoon. You won't want to have her all the time with 
 you, and the French governess can give the children their 
 tea. That will be good for Bertram's accent." 
 
 "I don't doubt that it will be superb for Bertram's accent, 
 but I absolutely decline to have a French governess bobbing 
 in and out of my house. It's bound to make trouble with 
 the servants who always think that French governesses are 
 designing and licentious, and I don't want to create a false 
 impression." 
 
 "Well, aren't you an old prude? Who would ever think 
 that you had any sort of connection with the stage? By the 
 way, you haven't told me if there'll be anything for me in 
 your next." 
 
P o or Relations 83 
 
 "Well, at present the subject of my next play is a secret 
 . . . and as for the cast ..." 
 
 John was so nearly on the verge of offering Eleanor the 
 part of Mary of Anjou, for which she would be as suitable 
 as a giraffe, that in order to effect an immediate diversion 
 he asked her when the children were to arrive. 
 
 "Let me see, to-day's Saturday. To-morrow I go down 
 to Bristol, where we open. They'd better come to-night, 
 because to-morrow being Sunday they'll have no lessons, 
 which will give them time to settle down. Georgie will be 
 glad to know they're with you." 
 
 "I've no doubt he'll be enchanted," John agreed. 
 
 The bell sounded for lunch, and they went downstairs. 
 
 "I've, got to be back at the theater by two," Eleanor an- 
 nounced, looking at the horridly distorted watch upon her 
 wrist. "I wonder if we mightn't ask Maud to open half- 
 a-bottle of champagne? I'm dreadfully tired." 
 
 John ordered a bottle to be opened; he felt rather tired 
 himself. 
 
 "Let us be quite clear about this arrangement," he began, 
 when after three glasses of wine he felt less appalled by the 
 prospect, and had concluded that after all Bertram and Viola 
 would not together be as bad as Laurence with his play, not 
 to mention Harold with his spectacles and entomology, his 
 interrogativeness and his greed. "The English governess will 
 arrive every morning for Viola. What is her name ?" 
 
 "Miss Coldwell." 
 
 "Miss Coldwell then will be responsible for Viola all the 
 morning. The French governess is canceled, and I shall 
 come to an arrangement with Miss Coldwell by which she 
 will add to her salary by undertaking all responsibility for 
 Viola until Viola is in bed. Bertram will go to school, and 
 I shall rely upon Miss Coldwell to keep an eye on his be- 
 havior at home." 
 
 "And don't forget the dancing-lessons." 
 
 "No, I had Madame What's-her-name's account last 
 week." 
 
84 Poor Relations 
 
 "I mean, don't forget to arrange for Viola to go." 
 
 "That pilgrimage will, I hope, form a part of what Miss 
 Coldwell would probably call 'extras.' And after all per- 
 haps George will soon be fit." 
 
 "The poor old boy has been awfully seedy all the summer." 
 
 "What's he suffering from? Infantile paralysis?" 
 
 "It's all very well for you to joke about it, but you don't 
 live in a wretched boarding-house in Earl's Court. You 
 mustn't let success spoil you, John. It's so easy when every- 
 thing comes your way to forget the less fortunate people. 
 Look at me. I'm thirty-four, you know." 
 
 "Are you really? I should never have thought it." 
 . "I don't mind your laughing at me, you old crab. But I 
 don't like you to laugh at Georgie." 
 
 "I never do," John said. "I don't suppose that there's 
 anybody alive who takes George as seriously as I do." 
 
 Eleanor brushed away a tear and said she must get back 
 to the rehearsal. 
 
 When she was gone John felt that he had been unkind, 
 and he reproached himself for letting Laurence make him 
 cynical. 
 
 "The fact is," he told himself, "that ever since I heard 
 Doris Hamilton make that remark in the salocMi of the 
 Murmania, I've become suspicious of my family. She began 
 it, and then by ill luck I was thrown too much with Lau- 
 rence, who clinched it Eleanor is right: I am letting myself 
 be spoilt by success. After all, there's no reason why those 
 two children shouldn't come here. They won't be writing 
 plays about apostles. I'll send George a box of cigars to 
 ^w that I didn't mean to sneer at him. And why didn't 
 I offer to pay for Eleanor's taxi? Yes, I am getting spoilt 
 I must watch myself. And I ought not to have joked about 
 Eleanor's age." 
 
 Luckily his sister-in-law had finished the champiagne, for 
 if John had drunk another glass he might have offered her 
 the part of the Maid herself. 
 
 The actual arrival of Bertram and Viola passed off more 
 
Poor Relations 85 
 
 successfully. They were both presentable, and John was 
 almost flattered when Mrs. Worfolk commented on their 
 likeness to him, remembering what a nightmare it had always 
 seemed when Hilda used to excavate points of resemblance 
 between him and Harold. Mrs. Worfolk herself was so 
 much pleased to have him back from Ambles that she was 
 in the best of good humours, and even the statuesque Maud 
 flushed with life like some Galatea. 
 
 "I think Maud's a darling, don't you. Uncle John?" ex- 
 claimed Viola. 
 
 "We all appreciate Maud's — er — capabilities," John 
 hemmed. 
 
 He felt that it was a silly answer, but inasmuch as Maud 
 was present at the time, he could not, either for his sake or 
 for hers give an unconditional affirmative. 
 
 "I swopped four blood-allys for an Indian in the break," 
 Bertram announced. 
 
 "With an Indian, my boy, I suppose you mean." 
 
 "No, I don't. I mean for an Indian — an Indian marble. 
 And I swopped four Guatemalas for two Nicaraguas." 
 
 "You ought to be at the Foreign Office." 
 
 "But the ripping thing is, Uncle John, that two of the 
 Guatemalas are fudges." 
 
 "Such a doubtful coup would not debar you from a diplo- 
 matic career." 
 
 "And I say, what is the Foreign Office? We've got a 
 French chap in my class." 
 
 "You ask for an explanation of the Foreign Office. That, 
 my boy, might puzzle the omniscience of the Creator." 
 
 "I say, I don't twig very well what you're talking about." 
 
 "The attributes of the Foreign Office, my boy, are rigidity 
 where there should be suppleness, weakness where there 
 should be firmness, and for intelligence the substitution of 
 hair brushed back from the forehead." 
 
 "I say, you're ragging me, aren't you? No, really, what 
 is the Foreign Office?" 
 
 "It is the ultimate preserve of a privileged imbecility." 
 
86 PoorRelations 
 
 Bertram surrendered, and John congratulated himself 
 upon the possession of a nephew whose perseverance and 
 curiosity had been sapped by a scholastic education. 
 
 "Harold would have tackled me word by word during 
 one of our walks. I shall enter into negotiations with Hilda 
 at Christmas to provide for his mental training on condition 
 that I choose the school. Perhaps I shall hear of a good one 
 in the Shetland Islands." 
 
 When Mrs. Worfolk visited John as usual at ten o'clock 
 to wish him good-night, she was enthusiastic about Bertram 
 and Viola. 
 
 "Well, really, sir, if yaul pardon the liberty, I must say 
 I wouldn't never of believed that Mrs. George's children 
 could be so quiet and nice-behaved. They haven't given a bit 
 of trouble, and I've never heard Maud speak so highly of 
 anyone as of Miss Viola. 'That child's a regular little 
 angel, Mrs. Worfolk,' she said to me. Well, sir, I'm bound 
 to say that children does brighten up a house. I'm sure I've 
 done my best what with putting flowers in all the vawses 
 and one thing and another, but really, well I'm quite taken 
 with your little nephew and niece, and I've had some experi- 
 ence of them, I mean to say, what with my poor sister's 
 Herbert and all. I have put the tantalus ready. Good- 
 night, sir." 
 
 "The fact of the matter is," John assured himself, "that 
 when I'm alone with them I can manage children perfectly. 
 I only hope that Miss Coldwell will fall in with my ideas. 
 If she does, I see no reason why we shouldn't spend an ex- 
 tremely pleasant time all together." 
 
 Unfortunately for John's hope of a satisfactory coalition 
 with the governess he received a hurried note by messenger 
 from his sister-in-law next morning to say that Miss Cold- 
 well was laid up : the precise disease was illegible in Eleanor's 
 communication, but it was serious enough to keep Miss Cold- 
 well at home for three weeks. "Meanwhile," Eleanor wrote, 
 "she is trying to get her sister to come down from" — the 
 abode of the sister was equally illegible. "But the most 
 
P or Re I at ions ,87 
 
 important thing is," Eleanor went on, "that little V. 
 shouldn't miss her dancing-lessons. So will you arrange for 
 Maud to take her every Tuesday and Friday? And, of 
 course, if there's anything you want to know, there's always 
 George." 
 
 Of George's eternal being John had no doubts; of his 
 knowledge he was less sanguine: the only thing that George 
 had ever known really well was the moment to lead trumps. 
 
 "However," said John, in consultation with his house- 
 keeper, "I dare say we shall get along." 
 
 "Oh, certainly we shall, sir," Mrs. Worfolk confidentlj^ 
 proclaimed, "well, I mean to say, I've been married my- 
 self." 
 
 John bowed his appreciation of this fact. 
 
 "And though I never had the happiness to have any little 
 toddlers of my own, anyone being married gets used to the 
 idea of having children. There's always the chance, as you 
 might say. It isn't like as if I was an old maid, though, 
 of course, my husband died in Jubilee year." 
 
 "Did he, Mrs. Worfolk, did he?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, he planed off his thumb when he was working 
 on one of the benches for the stands through him looking 
 found at a black fellow in a turban covered in jewelry who 
 was driving to Buckingham Palace. One of the new arriv- 
 als, it was; and his arm got blood poisoning. That's how I 
 remember it was Jubilee year, though usually I'm a terror 
 for knowing when anything did occur. He wouldn't of 
 minded so much, he said, only he was told it was the Char 
 of Persia and that made him mad." 
 
 "Why? What had he got against the Shah?" 
 
 "He hadn't got nothing against the Char. But it wasn't 
 the Char ; and if he'd of known it wasn't the Char he never 
 wouldn't of turned round so quick, and there's no saying 
 he wouldn't of been alive to this day. No, sir, don't you 
 worry about this governess. I dare say if she'd of come 
 she'd only of caused a bit of unpleasantness all round." 
 
 At the same time, John thought, when he sent for the 
 7 
 
88 Poor Relations 
 
 children in order to make the announcement of Miss Cold- 
 well's desertion, notwithstanding Mrs. Worfolk's optimism 
 it was a pity that the first day of their visit should be a 
 Sunday. 
 
 "I'm sorry to say, Viola, and, of course, Bertram, this 
 applies equally to you, that poor Miss Coldwell has been 
 taken very ill." 
 
 That strange expression upon the children's faces might 
 be an awkward attempt to express their youthful sympathy, 
 but it more ominously resembled a kind of gloating ecstacy, 
 as they stood like two cherubs outside the gates of paradise, 
 or two children outside a bunshop. 
 
 "Very ill," John went on, "so ill indeed that it is feared 
 she will not be able to come for a few days, and so . . ." 
 
 Whatever more John would have said was lost in the 
 riotous acclamations with which Bertram and Viola greeted 
 the sad news. After the first cries and leaps of joy had sub- 
 sided to a chanted duet, which ran somehow like ibis: 
 
 "Oh, oh. Miss Coldwell, 
 
 She can't come to Hampstead, 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, 
 
 Miss Coldwell's not coming:" 
 John ventured to rebuke the singers for their insensilnlitjr 
 to human suffering. 
 
 "For she may be dangerously ill," he protested. 
 
 "How fizzing," Bertram shouted. 
 
 "She might die." 
 
 The prospect that this opened before Bertram was ap- 
 parently too beautiful for any verbal utterance, and he re- 
 mained open-mouthed in a mute and exquisite anticipation 
 of liberty. 
 
 "What and never come to us ever again ?" Viola breathed, 
 her blue eyes aglow with visions of a larger life. 
 
 John shook his head, gravely. 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John," she cried, "wouldn't that be glorious?" 
 
 Bertram's heart was too full for words: he simply turned 
 bead over heels. 
 
Poor Relations 89 
 
 "But you hard-hearted little beasts," their uncle expostu- 
 lated. 
 
 "She's most frightfully strict," Viola explained. 
 
 "Yes, we shouldn't have been able to do anything deceat if 
 she'd come," Bertram added. 
 
 A poignant regret for that unknown governess sufEerkg 
 from her illegible complaint pierced John's mind. But per- 
 haps she would recover, in which case she should spend her 
 convalescence at Ambles with Harold ; for if when in good 
 health she was strict, after a severe illness she might be 
 ferocious. ^ 
 
 "Well, I'm not at all pleased with your attitude," John 
 declared. "And you'll find me twice as strict as Miss CsAi- 
 weU." 
 
 "Oh, no, we shan't," said Bertram with a smile of jovial 
 incredulity. 
 
 John let this contradiction pass: it seemed an imprudent 
 subject for debate. "And now, to-day being Sunday, you'd 
 better get ready for church." 
 
 "Oh, but we always dress up on Sunday," Viola said. 
 
 "So does (Sverybody," John replied. "Go and get ready." 
 
 The children left the room, and he rang for Mrs. Wor- 
 folk. 
 
 "Master Bertram and Miss Viola will shortly be going 
 to church, and I want you to arrange for somebody to take 
 them." 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk hesitated, 
 
 "Who was you thinking of, sir?" 
 
 "1 wasn't thinking of anybody in particular, but I sup- 
 pose Maud could go." 
 
 "Maud has her rooms to do." 
 
 "Well, Elsa." 
 
 "Elsa has her dinner to get." 
 
 "Well, then, perhaps you would ..." 
 
 "Yaul pardon the liberty, sir, but I never go ta diurch 
 except of an evening sometimes; I never could abide being 
 stared at." 
 
90 PoorRelations 
 
 "Oh, very well," said John, fretfully, as Mrs. Worfolk 
 retired. "Though I'm hanged if /'/« going to take 
 them," he added to himself, "at any rate without a re- 
 hearsal." 
 
 The two children soon came back in a condition of com- 
 plete preparation and insisted so loudly upon their uncle's 
 company that he yielded; though when he found himself 
 with a child on either side of him in the sabbath calm of the 
 Hampstead streets footfall-haunted, he was appalled at his 
 rashness. There was a church close to his own house, but 
 with an instinct to avoid anything like a domestic scandal 
 he bad told his nephew and niece that it was not a suitable 
 church for children, and had led them further afield through 
 the ghostly November sunlight. 
 
 "But look here," Bertram objected, "we can't go through 
 any sliuns, you know, because the cads will bung things at 
 my topper." 
 
 "Not if you're with me," John argued. "I am wearing a 
 top-hat myself." 
 
 "Well, they did when I went for a walk with Father 
 once on Sunday." 
 
 "The slums round Earl's Court are probably much fiercer 
 than the slums round Hampstead," John suggested. "And 
 anyway here we are." 
 
 He had caught a glimpse of an ecclesiastical building, 
 which unfortunately turned out to be a Jewish tabernacle 
 and not open : a few minutes later, however, an indubitably 
 Anglican place of worship invited their attendance, and 
 John trying not to look as bewildered as he felt let himself 
 be conducted by a sidesman to the very front pew. 
 
 "I wonder if he thinks I'm a member of parliament. But 
 I wish to goodness he'd put us in the second row. I shall be 
 absolutely lost where I am." 
 
 John looked round to catch the sidesman's eye and plead 
 for a less conspicuous position, but even as he turned his 
 head a terrific crash from the organ proclaimed that it was 
 too late and that the service had begun. 
 
Poor Relations 91 
 
 By relying upon the memories of youthful worship John 
 might have been able to cope successfully with Morning 
 Prayer, even with that florid variation of it which is gener- 
 ally known as Mattins. Unluckily the church he had chosen 
 for the spiritual encouragement of his nephew and niece 
 was to the church of his recollections as Mount Everest to 
 a molehill. As a simple spectator without encumbrances 
 he might have enjoyed the service and derived considerable 
 inspiration from it for the decorative ecclesiasticism of his 
 new play; as an uncle it alarmed and confused him. The 
 lace-hung acolytes, the candles, the chrysanthemums, the 
 purple vestments and the ticking of the thurible affected him 
 neither with Protestant disgust nor with Catholic devout- 
 ness, but much more deeply as nothing but incentives to the 
 unanswerable inquiries of Bertram and Viola. 
 
 "What are they doing?" whispered his nephew. 
 
 "Hush!" he whispered back in what he tried to feel was 
 the ri^t intonation of pious reproof. 
 
 "What's that little boy doing with a spoon?" whispered 
 his niece. 
 
 "Hush!" John blew forth again. "Attend to the service." 
 
 "But it isn't a real service, is it ?" she persisted. 
 
 Luckily the congregation knelt at this point, and John 
 plunged down with a delighted sense of taking cover. Pres- 
 ently he began to be afraid that his attitude of devotional 
 self-abasement might be seeming a little ostentatious; and 
 he peered cautiously round over the top of the pew; to his 
 dismay he perceived that Bertram and Viola were still 
 standing up. 
 
 "Kneel down at once," he commanded in what he hoped 
 would be an authoritative whisper, but which was in the 
 result an agonized croak. 
 
 "I want to see what they're doing," both children pro- 
 tested. 
 
 Bertram's Etons appeared too much attentuated for a 
 sharp tug, nor did John feel courageous enough in the front 
 row to jerk Viola down upon her knees by pulling her petti- 
 
92 Poor Relations 
 
 coats, which might come off. He therefore covered his face 
 wkh his hands in what was intended to look like a spasm 
 of acute reverence and growled at them both to kneel down, 
 unless they wanted to be sent back instantly to Earl's Court. 
 Evidently impressed by this threat the children knelt down; 
 but they were no sooner upon their knees than the perverse 
 congregation rose to its feet, the concerted movement taking 
 J«hn so completely unawares that he was left below and 
 fek when he did rise like a naughty boy who has been dis- 
 covered hiding under a table. He was not put at ease by 
 VkJa's asking him to find her place in the prayer-book; it 
 seemed to him terrible to discern the signs of a vindictive 
 spirit in one so young. 
 
 "Hush," he whispered. "You must remember that we're 
 in the front row and must be careful not to disturb the — " 
 he hesitated at the word "performers" and decided to en- 
 velop whatever they were in a cough. 
 
 There were no more questions for a while, nothing indeed 
 but tiptoe fidgetings until two acolytes advanced with lighted 
 candles to a position on each side of the deacon who was 
 preparing to read the gospel. 
 
 "Why can't he see to read?" Bertram asked. "It's not 
 dark." 
 
 'Tflush," John whispered. "This is the gospel." 
 
 He knew he was safe in affirming so much, because the 
 announcement that he was about to read the gospel had 
 been audibly given out by the deacon. At this point the 
 congregation crossed its innumerable features three times, 
 and Bertram began to giggle; immediately afterward fumes 
 poured from the swung censer, and Viola began to choke. 
 John felt that it was impossible to interrupt what was pre- 
 sumably considered the piece de resistance of the service by 
 leading the two children out along the whole length of the 
 church; yet he was convinced that if he did not lead them 
 out their gigglings and snortings would haye a disastrous 
 effect upon the soloist. Then he had a brilliant idea : Viola 
 was obviously much upset by the incense and he would escort 
 
Poor Relations 93 
 
 her out into fresh air with the solicitude that one gives to 
 a sick person : Bertram he should leave behind to giggle alone. 
 He watched his nephew bending lower and lower to contain 
 his mirth; then with a quick propulsive gesture he hurried 
 Viola into the aisle. Unfortunately when with a sigh of re- 
 lief he stood upon the steps outside and put on his hat he 
 found that in his confusion he had brought out Bertram's 
 hat, which on his intellectual head felt like a precariously 
 balanced inkpot; and though he longed to abandon Bertram 
 to his well merited fate he could not bring himself to walk 
 up Fitzjohn's Avenue in Bertram's hat, nor could he even 
 contemplate with equanimity the notion of Bertram's walk- 
 ing up under his. Had it been a week-day either of them 
 might have passed for an eccentric advertisement, but on a 
 Sunday. . . . 
 
 "And if I stand on the steps of a church holding this 
 minute hat in my hand," he thought, "people will think I'm 
 collecting for some charity. Confound that boy! And I 
 can't pretend that I'm feeling too hot in the middle of No- 
 vember. Dash that boy! And I certainly can't wear it A 
 Japanese juggler wouldn't be able to wear it. Damn that 
 boy. I" 
 
 Yet John would rather have gone home in a baby's bonnet 
 than enter the church again, and the best that could be hoped 
 was that Bertram dismayed at finding himself aloae woidd 
 soon emerge. Bertram, however, did not emerge, and Jobn 
 had a sudden fear lest in his embarrassment he might have 
 escaped by another door and was even now rushing blindly 
 home. Blindly was the right adverb indeed, for be woidd 
 certainly be unable to see anything from under his uncle's 
 hat Viola, having recovered from her choking fit, began 
 to cry at this point, and an old lady who must have noted 
 with tender approval John's exit came out with a bottle of 
 smelling-salts, which she begged him to make use of. Before 
 he could decline she had gone back inside the church leaviag 
 him with the bottle. If he could have forced the contents 
 down Viola's throat without attracting more attention he 
 
94 PoorRelations 
 
 would have done so, but by this time one or two passers-by 
 had stopped to stare at the scene, and he heard one of them 
 tell his companion that it was a street conjurer just going 
 to perform. 
 
 "Will anything make you stop crying?" he asked hi^ niece 
 in despair. 
 
 "I want Bertram," she wailed. 
 
 And at that moment Bertram appeared, led out by two 
 sidesmen. 
 
 "Your little boy doesn't know how to behave himself in 
 church," one of them informed John, severely. 
 
 "I was only looking for my hat," Bertram explained. "I 
 thought it had rolled into the next pew. Let go of my arm. 
 I slipped off the hassock. I couldn't help making a little 
 noise. Uncle John." 
 
 John was grateful to Bertram for thus exonerating him 
 publicly from the responsibility of having begotten him, and 
 he inquired almost kindly what had happened. 
 
 "The hassock slipped, and I fell into the next pew." 
 
 "I'm sorry my nephew made a noise," said John to the 
 sidesman. "My niece was taken ill, and he was left behind 
 by accident. Thank you for showing him the way out, yes. 
 Come along, Bertram, I've got your hat. Where's mine?" 
 Bertram looked blankly at his uncle. 
 
 "Do you mean to say — " John began, and then he saw a 
 passing taxi to which he shouted. 
 
 "Those smelling-salts belong to an old lady," he ex- 
 plained hurriedly and quite inadequately to the bewildered 
 sidesman into whose hands he had thrust the bottle. "Covat 
 along," he urged the children, and when they were scramb- 
 ling into the taxi he called back to the sidesmen, "You can 
 give to the jumble sale any hat that is swept up after the 
 service." 
 
 Inside the taxi John turned to the children. 
 
 "One would think you'd never been inside a church be- 
 fore," he said, reproachfully. 
 
 "Bertram," said Viola, in bland oblivion of all that her 
 
Poor Relations 95 
 
 uncle had endured, "when we dress up to-day shall we act 
 going to church, or finish Robinson Crusoe?" 
 
 "Wait till we see what we can find for dressing up," 
 Bertram advised. 
 
 John displayed a little anxiety. 
 
 "Dressing up?" he repeated. 
 
 "We always dress up every Sunday," the children burst 
 forth in unison. 
 
 "Oh, I see — it's a kind of habit. Well, I dare say Mrs. 
 Worfolk will be able to find you an old duster or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Duster," echoed Viola, scornfully. "That's not enough 
 for dressing up." 
 
 "I didn't suggest a duster as anything but a supplement 
 to your ordinary costume. I didn't anticipate that you 
 were going to rely entirely upon the duster." 
 
 "I say, V, can you twig what Uncle John says?" 
 
 Viola shook her head. 
 
 "Nor more can I," said Bertram, sympathetically. 
 
 Before the taxi reached Church Row, John found himself 
 adopting a positively deferential manner towards his nephew 
 and his niece, and when they were once again back in the 
 quiet house, the hall of which was faintly savoury with the 
 maturing lunch he asked them if they would mind amusing 
 themselves for an hour while he wrote some letters. 
 
 "For I take it you won't want to dress up immediately," 
 he added as an excuse for attending to his own business. 
 
 The children confirmed his supposition, but went on to 
 inform him that the domenical regime at Earl's Court pre- 
 scribed a walk after church. 
 
 "Owing to the accident to my hat I'm afraid I must ask 
 you to let me off this morning." 
 
 "Right-o," Bertram agreed, cheerfully. "But I vote we 
 come up and sit with you while you write your letters. I 
 think letters are a beastly fag, don't you ?" 
 
 John felt that the boy was proffering his own and his 
 sister's company in a spirit of altruism, and he could not 
 
96 PoorRelations 
 
 muster enough gracelessness to decline the proposal. So 
 upstairs they all went. 
 
 "I think this is rather a ripping room, don't you, V ?" 
 
 "The carpet's very old," said Viola. 
 
 "Have you got any decent books?" Bertram inquired, 
 looking round at the shelves. "Any Henty's, I mean, or 
 anything?" 
 
 "No, I'm afraid I haven't," said John, apologetically. 
 
 "Or bound up Boys Own Papers?" 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 "But I'll tell you what I have got," he added with a 
 sudden inspiration. "Kingsley's Heroes." 
 
 "Is that a pi book?" asked Bertram, suspiciously. 
 
 "Not at all. It's about Greek gods and goddesses, essen- 
 tially broad-minded divinities." 
 
 "Right-o. I'll have a squint at it, if you like," Bertram 
 volunteered. "Come on, V, don't start showing off your 
 rotten dancing. Come and look at this book. It's got some 
 spiffing pictures." 
 
 "Lunch won't be very long," John announced in order 
 to propitiate any impatience at what they might consider the 
 boring entertainment he was offering. 
 
 Presently the two children left their uncle alone, and he 
 observed with pride that they took with them the book. He 
 little thought that so mild a dose of romance as could be 
 extracted from Kingsley's Heroes would before the twilight 
 of that November day run through 36 Church Row like 
 fire. But then John did not know that there was a calf's 
 head for dinner that night; he had not realized the scenic 
 capacity of the cistern cupboard at the top of the house; and 
 most of all he had not associated with dressing up on 
 Sunday afternoon the histrionic force that Bertram and 
 Viola inherited from their mother. 
 
 "Is it Andromeda or Andromeda?" Bertram asked at 
 lunch. 
 
 "Andromeda, my boy," John answered. "Perseus and 
 Andromeda." 
 
Poor Relations 97 
 
 "1 think it would make a jolly good play, don't you?" 
 Bertram went on. 
 
 Really, thought John, this nephew was a great improve- 
 ment upon that spectacled inquisitor at Ambles. 
 
 "A capital play," he agreed, heartily. "Are you thinking 
 of writing it?" 
 
 "V and I thought we'd do it instead of finishing Robinson 
 Crusoe. Well, you see, you haven't got any decent fur rugs, 
 and V's awfully stupid about having her face blacked." 
 
 "It's my turn not to be a savage," Viola pleaded in de- 
 fense of her squeamishness. 
 
 "I said you could be Will Atkins as well. I know I'd 
 jolly well like to be Will Atkins myself." 
 
 "All right," Viola offered. "You can, and I'll be Robin- 
 son." 
 
 "You can't change like that in the middle of a piay," 
 her brother argued. 
 
 John, who appreciated both Viola's dislike of burnt-cork 
 and Bertram's esthetic objection to changing parts in the 
 middle of a piece, strongly recommended Perseus and An- 
 dromeda. 
 
 "Of course, you got the idea from Kingsley? Bravo, 
 Bertram," he said, beaming with cordial patronage. 
 
 "And I suppose," his nephew went on, "that you'd rather 
 we played at the top of the house. I expect it would be 
 quieter, if you're writing letters. Mother said you often 
 liked to be quiet." He alluded to this desire rather shame- 
 fully, as if it were a secret vice of his uncle, who hurriedly 
 approved the choice of the top landing for the scene of the 
 classic drama. 
 
 "Then would you please tell Mrs. Worfolk that we can 
 have the calf's head ?" 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "V found a calf's head in the larder, and it would make 
 a fizzing Gorgon's head, but Mrs. Worfolk wouldn't let 
 us have it." 
 
 John was so much delighted with the trend of Bertram's 
 
98 PoorRelations 
 
 ingenuity that he sent for Mrs. Worfolk and told her that 
 the calf's head might be borrowed for the play. 
 
 "I'll take no responsibility for your dinner," said his 
 housekeeper, warningly. 
 
 "That's all right, Mrs. Worfolk. If anything happens 
 to the head I shan't grumble. There'll always be the cold 
 beef, won't there?" 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk turned up her eyes to heaven and left the 
 room. 
 
 "Well, I think I've arranged that for you successfully." 
 
 "Thank you, Uncle John," said Bertram. 
 
 "Thank you. Uncle John," said Viola. 
 
 What nice quiet well-mannered children they were, after 
 all; and he by no means ought to blame them for the fiasco 
 of the churchgoing; the setting had of course been utterly 
 unfamiliar; these ritualistic places of worship were a mis- 
 take in an unexcitable country like England. John retired 
 to his library and lit a Corona with a sense that he thoroughly 
 deserved a good cigar. 
 
 "Children are not difficult," he said to himself, "if one 
 tries to put oneself in their place. That request for the 
 calf's head undoubtedly showed a rare combination of adap- 
 tiveness with for a schoolboy what was almost a poetic fancy. 
 Harold would have wanted to know how much the head 
 weighed, and whether in life it preferred to browse on 
 buttercups or daisies; but when finally it was cooked he 
 would have eaten twice as much as anybody else. I prefer 
 Bertram's attitude; though naturally I can appreciate a 
 housekeeper's feelings. These cigars are in capital condi- 
 tion. Really, Bertram's example is infectious, and by gad, 
 I feel quite like a couple of hours with Joan. Yes, it's a 
 pity Laurence hasn't got Bertram's dramatic sense. A great 
 pity." 
 
 The sabbath afternoon wore on, and though John did not 
 accumulate enough energy to seat himself at his table, he 
 dreamed a good deal of wonderful situations in the fourth 
 act, puffing away at his cigar and hearing from time to time 
 
Poor Relations 99 
 
 distant shouts and scamperings ; these, however, did not keep 
 him from falling into a gentle doze, from which he was 
 abruptly wakened by the opening of the library door. 
 
 "Ah, is that tea?" he asked cheerfully in that tone with 
 which the roused sleeper always implies his uninterrupted 
 attention to time and space. 
 
 "No, sir, it's me," a grim voice replied. "And if you 
 don't want us all to be drowned where we stand, it being 
 a Sunday afternoon, and not a plumber to be got, and Maud 
 in the hysterics, and those two young Tartars screaming like 
 Bedlamites, and your dinner ruined and done for, and the 
 feathers gone from Elsa's new hat, per-raps you could come 
 Upstairs, Mr. Touchwood. Gordon's head indeed, and the 
 boy as naked as a stitch !" 
 
 John jumped to his feet and hurried out on the landing; 
 at the same moment Bertram with nothing to cover him ex- 
 cept a pudding-shape on his head, a tea-tray on his arm, a 
 Turkish scimitar at his waist, and the pinions of a blue 
 and green bird tied round his ankles leapt six stairs of the 
 flight above and alighting at his uncle's feet, thrust the 
 calf's head into his face. 
 
 "You're turned to stone, Phineus," he yelled. "You can't 
 move. You've seen the Gorgon." 
 
 "Thei:e he goes again with his Gordon and his Gladstone," 
 said Mrs. Worfolk. "How dare you be so daring?" 
 
 "The Gorgon's sister," cried Bertram lunging at her 
 with the scimitar. "Beware, I am invisible." 
 
 Whereupon he enveloped the calf's head in a napkin, held 
 the tea-tray before his face, and darted away upstairs. 
 
 "I'm afraid he's a little over-excited," said John, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 At this moment a stream of water began to flow past his 
 feet and pour down upon him from the landing above. 
 
 "Why, the house is full of water," he gasped. 
 
 "It's what I'm trying to tell you, sir," Mrs. Worfolk 
 fumed. "He's done something with that there cistern and 
 burst it. / can't stop the water." 
 
lOO Poor Relations 
 
 John followed Perseus on his wild flight up the stairs 
 down which every moment water was flowing more freely. 
 When he reached the cistern cupboard he discovered Maud 
 bound fast to the disordered astern, while Viola holding 
 in her mouth a large ivory paper-knife and wearing what 
 looked like Mrs. Worfolk's sealskin jacket that John had 
 given her last Christmas was splashing at full length in a 
 puddle on the floor and clawing at Maud's skirts with 
 ferocious growls and grunts. 
 
 "You dare try to undress me again, Master Bertram," 
 the statuesque Maud was screaming. 
 
 "Well, Andromeda's got practically nothing on in the 
 book, and you said you'd rather not be the sea-monster," 
 Bertram was arguing. "Andromeda," he cried seeing by the 
 manner of his uncle's advance that the curtain must now 
 be rung down upon the play, "I have turned the monster 
 to stone. Go on, V, you can't move from now on." 
 
 Viola stifEened and without a twitch let the stream of 
 water pour down upon her, while Bertram plant;ing his 
 foot in the small of her back waved triumphantly the Gor- 
 gon's head, both of whose ears gave way under the strain, 
 so that John's dinner was soon as wet as he was. 
 
 The cistern emptied itself at last; Maud was released; 
 Bertram and Viola were led downstairs to be dried and 
 on Mis. Worfolk's recommendation sent instantly to bed. 
 
 "I told you," said Bertram, "that if Miss Coldwell had 
 come, we couldn't have done anything decent." 
 
 What woman, John wondered, might serve as a compar- 
 able deterrent? The fantastic idea of appealing for aid to 
 Doris Hamilton flashed through his mind, but on second 
 thoughts he felt that there would be something undignified 
 in asking her to come at such a moment. Then he remem- 
 bered how often he had heard his sister-in-law Beatrice la- 
 ment her childlessness. Why should he not visit James and 
 Beatrice this very evening? He owed them a visit, and his 
 domestics were all obviously too much agitated even to 
 contemplate the preparation of dinner. Mrs. Worfolk would 
 
Poor Relations loi 
 
 perhaps be in a better temper when he got back and he 
 would explain to her that the seal was a marine animal, 
 the skin of which would not be injured by water. 
 
 "I think I'll ask Mrs. James to give us a helping hand 
 this week," John suggested. "I shall be rather busy my- 
 self." 
 
 "Yes, sir, and so shall I, trying to get the house straight 
 again which it looks more like Shooting the Chutes at Earl's 
 Court than a gentleman's house, I'm bound to say." 
 
 "Still it might have been worse, Mrs. Worfolk. They 
 might have played with another element. Fire, for instance. 
 That would have been much more awkward." 
 
 "And it's thanks to me the house isn't on fire as well," 
 Mrs. Worfolk shrilled in her indignation. "For if that 
 young Turk didn't come charging down into the kitchen 
 and trying to tell me that the kitchen-fire was a serpent and 
 start attacking it tooth and nail. And there was poor Elsa 
 shut up in the coal-cellar and hollering fit to break anyone's 
 heart. 'She's Daniel in a tower of brass,' he says as bold 
 as a tower of brass himself." 
 
 "And what were you, Mrs. Worfolk?" John asked. 
 
 "Oh, his lordship had the nerve to say I was an atlas. 
 'Yes,' I said, 'my lord, you let me catch hold of you and 
 I'll make your behind look like an atlas before I've done 
 with it.'" 
 
 "Do you think that Mrs, James could control them?" 
 John asked. 
 
 "I wouldn't say as the Lord Mayor himself could control 
 them, but it's not for me to give advice when good food can 
 be turned into Gordon's heads. And whatever give them 
 the idea, I don't know, for I'm sure General Gordon was a 
 .very handsome man to look at. Yaul excuse me, sir, but if 
 you don't want to catch your death, you'd better change 
 your things." 
 
 John followed Mrs. Worfolk's advice, and an hour later 
 he was walking through the misty November night in the 
 dii'ection of St. John's Wood. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IF a taxi had lurked in any of the melancholy streets 
 through which John was making his way to Hill Road 
 he would have taken refuge in it gratefully, for there was 
 no atmosphere that preyed upon his mind with such a sense 
 of desolation as the hour of evening prayer in a respectable 
 Northern suburb. The occasional footsteps of uninspired 
 lovers dying away into by-streets; the occasional sounds of 
 stuffy worship proceeding from church or chapel; the occa- 
 sional bark of a dog trying to obtain admittance to an empty 
 house ; the occasional tread of a morose policeman ; the occa- 
 sional hoot of a distant motor-horn; the occasional whiff of 
 privet-shrubberies and of damp rusty railings; the occasional 
 effusions of chlorotic gaslight upon the raw air, half fog, half 
 drizzle; the occasional shadows that quivered upon the dimly 
 luminous blinds of upper windows ; the occasional mutterings 
 of housemaids in basements — not even John's buoyant spirit 
 could rise above such a weight of depressing adjuncts to the 
 influential Sabbath gloom. He began to accuse himself of 
 having been too hasty in his treatment of Bertram and 
 Viola; the scene at Church Row viewed in retrospect seemed 
 to him cheerful and, if the water had not reached his Aubus- 
 son rug, perfectly harmless. No doubt, in the boarding- 
 house at Earl's Court such behavior had been considered 
 impossible. Had not the children talked of finishing Robin- 
 son Crusoe and alluded to his own lack of suitable fur rugs? 
 Evidently last week the drama had been interrupted by the 
 landlady because they had been spoiling her fur rug^. John 
 was on the point of going back to Church Row and inviting 
 the children to celebrate his return in a jolly impromptu 
 supper, when he remembered that there were at least five 
 more Sundays before Christmas. Next Sunday they would 
 
Poor Relations 103 
 
 probably decide to revive the Argonauts, a story that, so 
 far as he could recall the incidents, offered many opportuni- 
 ties for destructive ingenuity. Then, the Sunday after, 
 there would be Theseus and the Minotaur; if there were 
 another calf's head in the larder, Bertram might easily try 
 to compel Mrs. Worfolk to be the Minotaur and wear it, 
 which might mean Mrs. Worfolk's resignation from his 
 service, a prospect that could not be faced with equanimity. 
 But would the presence of Beatrice exercise an effective con- 
 trol upon this dressing up, and could he stand Beatrice for 
 six weeks at a stretch ? He might, of course, engage her to 
 protect him and his property during the first few days, and 
 after that to come for every week end. Suppose he did in- 
 vite Doris Hamilton, but, of course, that was absurd — sup- 
 pose he did invite Beatrice, would Doris Hamilton — ^would 
 Beatrice come? Could it possibly be held to be one of 
 the duties of a confidential secretary to assist her employer 
 in checking the exuberance of his juvenile relations? Would 
 not Miss Hamilton decide that her post approximated too 
 pearly to that of a governess? Obviously such a woman 
 had never contemplated the notion of becoming a governess. 
 But had she ever contemplated the notion of becoming a 
 confidential secretary? No, no, the plan was fantastic, un- 
 real ... he must trust to Beatrice and hope that Miss 
 Coldwell would presently recover, or that Eleanor's tour 
 would come to a sudden end, or that George would have 
 paid what he owed his landlady and feel better able to with- 
 stand her criticism of his children. If all these hopes proved 
 unfounded, a schoolboy, like the rest of human nature, had 
 his price — ^his noiselessness could be bought in youth like his 
 silence later on. John was turning into Hill Road when he 
 made this reflection; he was within the area of James' 
 cynical operations. 
 
 John's eldest brother was at forty-six an outwardly rather 
 
 improved, an inwardly much debased replica of their father. 
 
 The old man had not possessed a winning personality, but 
 
 his energy and genuine powers of accomplishment had made 
 
 8 
 
I04 Poor Relations 
 
 him a successful general practitioner, because people over- 
 looked his rudeness in the confidence he gave them and for- 
 gave his lack of sympathy on account of his obvious devotion 
 to their welfare. He with his skeptical and curious mind, 
 his passion for mathematics and hatred of idealism, and his 
 unaffected contempt for the human race could not conceive 
 a worse hell in eternity than a general practice ofEered him 
 in life; but having married a vain, beautiful, lazy and con- 
 ventional woman, he could not bring himself to spoil his 
 honesty by blaming for the foolish act anything more tangible 
 than the scheme of creation; and having made himself a 
 damned uncomfortable bed with a pretty quilt, as he used 
 to say, he had decided that he must lie on it. No doubt, 
 many general practitioners go through life with the convic- 
 tion that they were intended to devote themselves to original 
 research ; but Dr. Robert Touchwood from what those who 
 were qualified to judge used to say of him had reason to 
 feel angry with his fate. 
 
 James, who as a boy had shown considerable talent, was 
 chosen by his father to inherit the practice. It was typical 
 of the old gentleman that he did not assume this succession 
 as the right of the eldest son, but that he deliberately awarded 
 it to James as the most apparently adequate of his offspring. 
 Unfortunately James, who was dyspeptic even at school, 
 chose to imitate his father's mannerisms while he was still 
 a student at Guy's and helping at odd hours in the dispen- 
 sary. Soon after he had taken his finals and had seen his 
 name engraved upon the brass plate underneath his father's, 
 old Dr. Touchwood fell ill of an incurable disease and 
 James found himself in full charge of the practice, which he 
 proceeded to ruin, so that not long after his father's death 
 he was compelled to sell it for a much smaller sum than 
 it would have fetched a few years before. For a time he 
 played alternately with the plan of setting up as a specialist 
 in Harley Street or of burying himself in the country to 
 write a monograph on British dragon-flies — for some reason 
 these fierce and brilliant insects touched a responsive chord 
 
Poor Relations 105 
 
 in James. He finally decided upon the dragon-flies and 
 went down to Ockham Common in Surrey to search for 
 Sympetrum Fonscolombii, a rare migrant that was reported 
 from that locality in 1892. He could not prove that it was 
 any more indigenous than himself to the sophisticated county, 
 but in the course of his observations he met Beatrice Pyrke, 
 the daughter of a prosperous inn-keeper in a ne^hboring 
 town, and married her. Nothwithstanding such a catch — 
 he used to vow that she was more resplendent than even 
 Anax Imperator — he continued to take an interest in dragon- 
 flies, until his monograph was unluckily forestalled a few 
 years later. It was owing to an article of his in one of the 
 entomological journals that he encountered Daniel Curtis — 
 a meeting which led to Hilda's marriage. In those days — 
 John had not yet made a financial success of literature — 
 this result had seemed to the embittered odonatist a com- 
 plete justification of the many hours he had wasted in pre- 
 paring for his never-to-be written monograph, because his 
 sister's future had for some time been presenting a disagree- 
 able and insoluble problem. Besides observing dragon-flies, 
 James spent one year in making a dock out of fishbones, and 
 another year in perfecting a method of applying gold lacquer 
 to poker-work. 
 
 A more important hobby, however, that finally displaced 
 all the others was foreign literature, in the criticism of which 
 he frequently occupied pages in the expensive reviews, pages 
 that gradually grew numerous enough to make first one 
 book and then another. James' articles on foreign literature 
 were always signed; but he also wrote many criticisms of 
 English literature that were not signed. This hack-work 
 exasperated him so much that he gradually came to deqjis- 
 ing the whole of English literature after the eighteenth 
 century with the exception of the novels of George Meredith. 
 These he used to read aloud to his wife when he was feeling 
 particularly bilious and derive from her nervous bewilder- 
 ment a savage satisfaction. In her the critic possessed a 
 perpetual incarnation of the British public that he so deeply 
 
io6 Poor Relations 
 
 scorned, and he treated his wife in the same way as he 
 fancied he treated the larger entity: without either of them 
 he would have been intellectually at a loose end. For all 
 his admiration of French literature James spoke the language 
 with a hideous British accent. Once on a joint holiday John, 
 who for the whole of a channel-crossing had been listening to 
 his brother's tirades against the rottenness of modern Eng- 
 lish literature and his paeans on behalf of modern French 
 literature, had been much consoled when they reached Calais 
 to find that James could not make himself intelligible even 
 to a porter. 
 
 "But," as John had said with a chuckle, "perl»aps Mere- 
 dith couldn't have made himself intelligible to an English 
 porter." 
 
 "It's the porter's fault," James had replied, sourly. 
 
 For some years now the critic with his wife and a fawn- 
 coloured bulldog had lived in furnished apartments at 65 
 Hill Road, a creeper-matted house of the early 'seventies 
 which James characterized as quiet and Beatrice as handy; 
 in point of fact it was neither, being exposed to barrel- 
 organs and remote from busses. A good deal of the original 
 furniture still incommoded the rooms; but James had his 
 own chair, Beatrice had her own footstool, and Henri Beyle 
 the bulldog his own basket. The fire-place was crowned by 
 an overmantel of six decorative panels, all that was left 
 of James' method of applying gold lacquer to poker-work. 
 There were also three or four family portraits, which John 
 for some reason coveted for his own library, and a drawer- 
 cabinet of faded and decrepit dragon-flies. Some bookshelves 
 filled with yellow French novels gave an exotic look to the 
 drab room, which, whenever James was not smoking his 
 unusually foul pipes, smelt of gravy and malt vinegar except 
 near the window, where the predominant perfume was of 
 ferns and oilcloth. Between the living-room and the bed- 
 room were double-doors hidden by brown plush curtains, 
 which if opened quickly revealed nothing but a bleak ex- 
 panse of bed and a gray window fringed with ragged creepers. 
 
Poor Relations 107 
 
 When a visitor entered this room to wash his hands he used 
 to look at James' fishbone clocii: under its bell-glass on a 
 high chest of drawers and shiver in the dampness; the fire- 
 place was covered by a large wardrobe, and one of Beatrice's 
 hats was often on the bed, the counterpane of which was 
 stenciled with Beyle's paws. John, who loathed this bed- 
 room, always said he did not want to wash his hands, when 
 he took a meal at Hill Road. 
 
 The depression of his Sunday evening walk had ftiade 
 John less critical than he usually was of James' rooms, and 
 he heard the gate of the front-garden swing back behind him 
 with a sense of pleasurable expectation. 
 
 "There will be cold mutton for supper," he said to him- 
 self, thinking rather guiltily of the calf's head that he might 
 have eaten and to partake of which he had not invited his 
 brother and Beatrice. "Cold mutton and a very wet salad, 
 with either tinned pears or tinned pineapple to follow — or 
 perhaps stewed figs." 
 
 When John entered, James was deep in his armchair with 
 Beyle snoring on his lap, where he served as a rest for the 
 large book that his master was reading, 
 
 "Hullo," the critic, exclaimed without attempting to rise. 
 "You are back in town then?" 
 
 "Yes, I came back on Friday." 
 
 "I thought you wouldn't be able to stand the country for 
 long. Remember what Horry Walpole said about the coun- 
 try?'" 
 
 "Yes," said John, quickly. He had not the least idea 
 really, but he had long ago ceased to have any ^cruples 
 about preventing James first of all from trying to remember 
 a quotation, secondly from trying to find it, thirdly from 
 asking Beatrice where she had hidden the book in which 
 it was to be found, and finally from not only reading it when 
 the book was found, but also from reading page after page 
 of irrelevant matter in the context. "Though Ambles is 
 really very joUy," he added. "I'm expecting you and Bea- 
 trice to spend Christmas with me, you know." 
 
io8 Poor Relations 
 
 James grunted. 
 
 "Well, we'll see about that. I don't belong to the Dickens 
 Fellowship and I shall be pretty busy. You popular authors 
 soon forget what it means to be busy. So you've had another 
 success? Who was it this time — Lucretia Borgia, eh?" 
 he laughed, bitterly. "Good lord, it's incredible, isn't it? 
 But the English drama's in a sick state — a very sick 
 state." 
 
 "All contemporary art is in a sick state according to the 
 critics," John observed. "Critics are like doctors; they are 
 not prejudiced in favor of general good-health." 
 
 "Well, isn't it in a sick state?" James demanded, trucu- 
 lently. 
 
 "I don't know that I think it is. However, don't let's 
 begin an argument before supper. Where's Beatrice?" 
 
 "She bought a new hat yesterday and has gone to demon- 
 strate its becomingness to God and woman." 
 
 "I suppose you mean she's gone to church? I went to 
 church myself this morning." 
 
 "What for? Copy?" 
 
 "No, HO, no. I took George's children." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you've got them with you ?" 
 
 John nodded, and his brother exploded with an uproarious 
 laugh. 
 
 "Well, I was fool enough to marry before I was thirty," 
 he bellowed. "But at any rate I wasn't fool enough to have 
 any children. So you're going to sup with us. I ought to 
 warn you it's cold mutton to-night." 
 
 "Really? Capital! There's nothing I like better than 
 cold mutton." 
 
 "Upon my soul, Johnnie, I'll say this for you. You may 
 write stale romantic plays about the past, but you manage to 
 keep plenty of romantic sauce for the present. Yes, you're 
 a born optimist. Look at your skin — pink as a baby's. Look 
 at mine — ^yellow as a horse's tooth. Have you heard my new 
 name for your habit of mind? Rosificatlon. Rather good, 
 eh? And you can rosify anything from Lucretia Borgia to 
 
Poor Relations 109 
 
 cold mutton. Now don't look angry with me, Johnnie; you 
 must rosify my ill-humor. With so many roses you can't 
 expect not to have a few thorns as well, and I'm one of 
 them. No, seriously, I congratulate you on your success. 
 And I always try to remember that you write with yowt 
 tongue in your cheek." 
 
 "On the contrary I believe I write as well as I can," said 
 John, earnestly. "I admit that I gave up writing realistic 
 novels, but that was because they didn't suit my tempera- 
 ment." 
 
 "No, by gad, they didn't ! And, anyway, no Englishman 
 can write a realistic novel — or any other kind of a novel if 
 it comes to that. My lord, the English novel!" 
 
 "Look here," John protested. "I do not want to argue 
 about either plays or novels to-night. But if you must talk 
 about books, talk about your own, not mine. Beatrice wrote 
 to me that you had something coming along about the 
 French Symbolists. I shouldn't have thought that they would 
 have appealed to you." 
 
 "They don't. I hate them." 
 
 "Well, why write a book about them ? Their day has been 
 over a long time." 
 
 "To smash them. To prove that they were a pretentious 
 set of epileptic humbugs." 
 
 "Sort of Max Nordau business?" 
 
 "Max Nordau! I hope you aren't going to compare me 
 with that flat-footed bus-conductor. No, no, Johnnie, the 
 rascals took themselves seriously and I'm going to smash 
 them on their own estimate of their own importance. I'm 
 going to prove that they were on the wrong track and led 
 nowhere." 
 
 "It's consoling to learn that even French literature can 
 go off the lines sometimes." 
 
 "Of course it can, because it runs on lines. English litera- 
 ture on the contrary never had any lines on which to run, 
 though in the eighteenth century it followed a fairly decent 
 Coaching-road. Modern English literature, however, is like 
 
no PoorRelations 
 
 a rogue elephant trampling down the jungle that its predeces- 
 sors made some attempt to cultivate." 
 
 "I never knew that even moral elephants had taken up 
 agriculture seriously." 
 
 James blew all the ashes of his pipe over Beyle in a gust 
 of contempt, and rose from his chair. 
 
 "The smirk!" he cried. "The traditional British smirk! 
 The gerumky-gerum horse-laugh! British humor! Ha-ha! 
 Begotten by Punch out of Mrs. Grundy with the Spectator 
 for godfather. 'Go to, you have made me mad.' " 
 
 "It's a pity you can't tell me about your new book without 
 flying into a rage," John said, mildly. "You haven't told me 
 yet when it's to appear." 
 
 "My fourteen readers aren't languishing. But to repay 
 politeness by politeness, my book will come out in March." 
 
 "I'm looking forward to it," John declared. "Have you 
 got good terms from Worrall?" 
 
 "As good terms as a consumptive bankrupt might expect 
 from Shylock. What does the British public care for criti- 
 cism? You should hear me reading the proofs to Beatrice. 
 You should really have the pleasure of watching her face, 
 and listening to her comments. Do you know why Beatrice 
 goes to church? I'll tell you. She goes to indulge in a de- 
 bauch of the accumulated yawns of the week." 
 
 "Hush, here she is," John warned him. 
 
 James laughed again. 
 
 "Johnnie, you're impayable. Your sensitiveness to Beatrice 
 betrays the fount of your success. You treat the British 
 public with just the same gentlemanly gurgle. And above 
 all you're a good salesman. That's where George failed 
 when he tried whisky on commission." 
 
 "I don't believe you're half the misanthropist you make 
 yourself out" 
 
 "Of course, I'm not. I love human nature. Didn't I 
 many Beatrice, and didn't I spend a year in making a clock 
 out of fishbones to amuse my landlady's children, and wasn't 
 I a doctor of medicine without once using my knowledge of 
 
Poor Relations ill 
 
 poisons? I love mankind — but dragon-flies were more com- 
 plex and dogs are more admirable. Well, Beatrice, did you 
 enjoy the sermon ?" 
 
 His wife had come in and was greeting John broadly and 
 effusively, for when she was excited her loud contralto voice 
 recaptured many rustic inflections of her youth. She was a - 
 tall woman, gaudily handsome, conserving in clothes and 
 coiffure the fashions of her prime as queens do and barmaids 
 who become the wives of publicans. On Sundays she wore 
 a lilac broadcloth with a floriated bodice cut close to the 
 figure; but she was just as proud of her waist on weekdays 
 and discreet about her legs, which she wrapped up in a 
 number of petticoats. She was as real or as unreal as a 
 cabinet-photograph of the last decade of the nineteenth 
 century: it depended on the attitude of the observer. Al- 
 though there was too much of her for the apartments, it 
 could not be said that she appeared out of place in them; 
 in fact she was rather like a daughter of the house who had 
 come home for the holidays. 
 
 "Why, it's John," she expanded in a voice rich with 
 welcome. "How are you, little stranger?" 
 
 "Thank you very much for the flowers, Beatrice. They 
 were much appreciated." 
 
 "I wanted you to know that we were still in the land of 
 the livin'. You're goin' to stay to supper, of course? But 
 you'll have to be content with cold mutton, don't you 
 know." 
 
 There was a tradition among novelists that well-bred 
 people leave out their final "g's"; so Beatrice saved on these 
 consonants what she squandered upon aspirates. 
 
 "And how do you think Jimmie's lookin'?" she went on. 
 "I suppose he's told you about his new book. Comin' out 
 in March, don't you know. I feel awfully up in French 
 poitry since he read it out to me. Don't light another pipe 
 now, dear. The girl's gettin' the supper at once. I think 
 you're lookin' very well, Johnnie, I do indeed. Don't you 
 think he's lookin' very well, Jimmie ? Has Bill Bailey been 
 
112 P o or R e I a tion s 
 
 out for his run?" This was Beatrice's affectionate diminu- 
 tive for Henri Beyle, the dog. 
 
 "No, I won't bother about my hands," John put in hastily 
 to forestall Beatrice's next suggestion. 
 
 "We had such a dull sermon," she sighed. 
 
 Her husband grunted a request to spare them the details. 
 
 "Well, don't you know, it's a dull time for sermons now 
 before Christmas. But it didn't matter, as what I really 
 wanted was a puff of fresh air. Yes, I'd begun to think 
 you'd forgotten all about us," she rambled on, turning 
 archly to John. "I know we must be dull company, but all 
 work and no play, don't you know • . . yours is all plays 
 and no work. Jinunie, I made a joke," she laughed, twitch- 
 ing her husband's sleeve to secure his attention. "Did you 
 hear?" 
 
 "Yes, I heard," he growled. 
 
 "I thought it was rather good, didn't you, Johnnie?" 
 
 "Very good indeed," he assented, warmly. "Though I do 
 work occasionally." 
 
 "Oh, of course, you silly thing, I wasn't bein* serious. I 
 told you it was a joke. I know you must work a bit. Here 
 comes the girl with supper. You'll excuse me, Johnnie, 
 while I go and titivate myself. I sha'n't be a minute." 
 
 Beatrice retired to the bedroom whence she could be heard 
 humming over her beautification. 
 
 "You're not meditating marriage, are you ?" James mocked. 
 
 The bachelor shook his head. 
 
 "At the same time," he protested, stoutly, "I don't think 
 you're entitled to sneer at Beatrice. Considering — " he 
 was about to say "everything," but feeling that this would 
 include his brother too pointedly he substituted, "the weather, 
 she's wonderfully cheerful. And you know I've always in- 
 sisted that these rooms are cramped." 
 
 "Yes, well, when a popular success oils my palm, John, 
 we'll move next door to you in Church Row." 
 
 John wished that James would not always harp upon 
 their respective fortunes: it made him feel uncomfortable, 
 
Poor Relations 113 
 
 especially when he was sitting down to cold mutton. Besides, 
 it was unfair; had he not once advised James to abandon 
 criticism and take up — he had been going to suggest "any- 
 thing except literature," but he had noticed James' angry 
 dismay and had substituted "creative work." What had 
 been the result? An outburst of contemptuous abuse, a vio- 
 lent renunciation of anything that approximated to his own 
 work. If James despised his romantic plays, why could he 
 not be consistent and despise equally the wealth they brought 
 him? He honored his brother's intellectual sincerity, why 
 could not his brother do as much for his? 
 
 "What beats me," James had once exclaimed, "is how a 
 man like you who professes to admire — no, I believe you're 
 honest — ^who does admire Stendhal, Turgenev, Flaubert and 
 Merimee, who recognizes the perfection of Manon Lescaut 
 and Adolphe, who in a word has taste, can bring himself 
 to eructate the Fall of Babylon." 
 
 "It's all a matter of knowing one's own limitations," John 
 had replied. "I tried to write realistic novels. But my 
 temperament is not realistic." 
 
 "No, if it were," James had murmured, "you wouldn't 
 stand my affectation of superiority." 
 
 It was this way James had of once in a very long while 
 putting himself in the wrong that used always to heal John's 
 ^wounded generosity. But these occasional lapses — as he sup- 
 posed his cynical brother would call them — were becoming 
 less and less frequent, and John had no longer much excuse 
 for clinging to his romantic reverence for the unlucky head 
 of his family. 
 
 During the first half 'of supper Beatrice delivered a kind 
 of lecture on housekeeping in London on two pounds twelve 
 shillings and sixpence a week, including bones for the dog; 
 by the time that the stewed figs were put on the table this 
 monologue had reduced both brothers to such a state of 
 gloom by striking at James' experience and John's imagina- 
 tion, that the sourness of the cream came as a natural corol- 
 lary; anything but sour cream would have seemed an obtru- 
 
114 Poor Relations 
 
 sive reminder of housekeeping on more than two pounds 
 twelve shillings and sixpence a week, including bones for 
 the dog. John was convinced by his sister-in-law's mood that 
 she would enjoy a short rest from speculating upon the com- 
 parative versatility of mutton and beef, and by James' re- 
 ception of her remarks that he would appreciate her house- 
 keeping all the more after being compelled to regard for a 
 while the long procession of chops that his landlady would 
 inevitably marshal for him while his wife was away. The 
 moment seemed propitious to the unfolding of his plan. 
 
 "I want to ask you both a favor," he began. "No, no, 
 Beatrice, I disagree with you. I don't think the cream is 
 really sour. I find it delicious, but I daren't ever eat more 
 than a few figs. The cream, however, is particularly de- 
 licious. In fact I was on the point of inquiring the nanie of 
 your dairy." 
 
 "If we have cream on Sundays," Beatrice explained, 
 "Jimmie has to put up with custard-powder on Wednesdays. 
 But if we don't have cream on Sundays, I can spare enough 
 eggs on Wednesdays for real custard." 
 
 "That's very ingenious of you," John declared. "But 
 you didn't hear what I was saying when I broke off in de- 
 fense of the cream, which is delicious. I said that I wanted 
 to ask a favoi^ of you both." 
 
 "King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid," James chuckled. 
 "Or were you going to suggest to Beatrice that next time 
 you have supper with us she should experiment not only with 
 fresh cream, but also with some rare dish like nightingales' 
 tongues — or even veal, for instance?" 
 
 "Now, Jimmie, you're always puttin' hits in at me about 
 veal ; but if I get veal, it throws me out for the whole week." 
 
 John made another effort to wrench the conversation free 
 from the topic of food: 
 
 "No, no, James. I was going to ask you to let Beatrice 
 come and give me a hand with our nephew and our niece." 
 He slightly accentuated the pronoun of plural possession. 
 "Of course, that is to say, if Beatrice would be so kind." 
 
Poor Relations 115 
 
 "What do you want her to do? Beat them?" James 
 asked. 
 
 "No, no, no, James. I'm not joking. As I explained to 
 you, I've got these two children — er — staying with me. It 
 appears that George is too overstrained, too ill, that is, to 
 manage them during the few weeks that Eleanor will be 
 away on tour, and I thought that if Beatrice could be my 
 guest for a week or two until the governess has re-created her 
 nervous system, which I understand will take about a month, 
 I should feel a great weight off my mind. A bachelor house- 
 hold, you know, is not primarily constructed to withstand 
 an invasion by children. You'd find them very difficult here, 
 James, if you hadn't got Beatrice." 
 
 "Oh, Johnnie, I should love it," his sister-in-law cried. 
 "That is if Jimmie could spare me." 
 
 "Of course, I could. You'd better take her back with 
 you to-night." 
 
 "No, really?" said John. "Why that would be splendid. 
 I'm immensely obliged to you both." 
 
 "He's quite anxious to get rid of me," Beatrice laughed, 
 happily. "I sha'n't be long packin'. Fancy lookin' after 
 Eleanor's two youngsters. I've often thought I would rather 
 like to see if I couldn't bring up children." 
 
 "Now's your chance," John jovially offered. 
 
 "Jimmie didn't ever care much for youngsters," Beatrice 
 explained. 
 
 Her husband laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Quite enough people hate me, as it is," he sneered, 
 "without deliberately creating a child of my own to add to 
 the number." 
 
 "Oh, no, of course, dear, I know we're better off as we 
 are," Beatrice said with a soothing pat for her husband's 
 round shoulders. "Only the idea comes into ray head now 
 and again that I'd just like to see if I couldn't manage them, 
 that's all, dear. I'm not complaining." 
 
 "I don't want to hurry you away," James muttered. "But 
 I've got some work to do." 
 
Ii6 P o or Relations 
 
 "We'd bettEr send the servant out to look for a taxi at 
 once," John suggested. "It's Sunday night, you know." 
 
 Twenty minutes later, Beatrice looking quite fashionable 
 now in her excitement — so many years had it obliterated — 
 was seated in the taxi; John was half-way along the garden 
 path on his way to join her, when his brother called him 
 back. 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Johnnie," he said in gruff embarrass- 
 ment, "I've got an article on Alfred de Vigny coming out 
 soon in The Nineteenth Century, It can't bring me in less 
 than fifteen guineas, but it might not be published for 
 another three months. I can show you the editor's letter, 
 if you like. I wonder if you could advance me ten guineas? 
 I'm a little bothered just at the moment. There was a vet's 
 bill for the dog and ..." 
 
 "Of course, of course, my dear fellow. I'll send you a 
 
 J;heck to-night. Thanks very much for — er — releasing 
 
 Beatrice, I mean — helping me out of a difSculty with 
 
 Beatrice. Very good of you. Good-night. I'll send the 
 
 check at once." 
 
 "Don't cross it," said James. 
 
 On the way back to Hampstead in the dank murkiness of 
 the cab, Beatrice became confidential. 
 
 "Jimmie always hated me to pass remarks about havin' 
 children, don't you know, but it's my belief that he feels it 
 as much as anyone. Look at the fuss he makes of poor old 
 Bill Bailey. And bein' the eldest son and havin' the pictures 
 of his grandfather and grandmother, I'm sure there are 
 times when he'd give a lot to explain to a youngster of his 
 own who they really were. It isn't so interestin' to explain 
 to me, don't you know, because they aren't my relations, ex- 
 cept, of course, by marriage. I always feel myself that 
 Jimmie for an eldest son has been very unlucky. Well, 
 there's you, for instance. I don't mean to say he's jealous, 
 because he's not ; but still I dare say he sometimes thinks that 
 he ought to be where you are, though, of course, that doesn't 
 
Poor Relations 117 
 
 mean to say that he'd like you to be where he is. But a 
 person can't help feelin' that there's no reason why you 
 shouldn't both have been where you are. The trouble with 
 Jimmie was that he wasted a lot of time when he was 
 young, and sometimes, though I wouldn't say this to any- 
 body but you, sometimes I do wonder if he doesn't think he 
 married too much in a hurry. Then there were his dragon- 
 flies. There they all are falling to pieces from. want of 
 interest. I don't suppose anybody in England has taken so 
 much trouble as Jimmie over dragon-flies, but what is a 
 dragon-fly ? They'll never be popular with the general public, 
 because though they don't sting, people think they do. And 
 then that fellow — ^who is it — it begins with an M — oh dear, 
 my memory is something chronic I Well, anyway, he wrote 
 a book about bees, and it's tremendously popular. Why? 
 Because a bee is well-known. Certainly they sting too, but 
 then they have honey and people keep them. If people kept 
 dragon-flies, it would be different. No, my opinion is that 
 for an eldest son Jimmie has been very unlucky." 
 
 The next day Bertram disappeared to school at an hour of 
 the morning which John remembered did exist in his youth, 
 but which he had for long regarded as a portion of the great 
 backward and abysm of time. Beatrice tactfully removed his 
 niece immediately after breakfast, not the auroral breakfast 
 of Bertram, but the comfortable meal of ten o'clock; and 
 except for a rehearsal of the bolero in the room over the 
 library John was able to put in a morning of undisturbed 
 diligence. Beatrice took Viola for a walk in the afternoon, 
 and when Bertram arrived back from school about six 
 o'clock she nearly spoilt her own dinner by the assistance 
 she gave him with his tea. John had a couple of quiet hours 
 with Joan of Arc before dinner, when he was only once 
 interrupted by Beatrice's coming as her nephew's ambassador 
 to ask what was the past participle of some Latin verb, 
 which cost him five minutes' search for a dictionary. After 
 dinner John played two sets of piquet with his sister-in-law 
 
ii8 PoorRelations 
 
 and having won both began to feel that there was a good 
 deal to be said for a woman's presence in the house. 
 
 But about eleven o'clock on the morning of the next day 
 James arrived, and not only James but Beyle the bulldog, 
 who had, if one might judge by his behavior, as profound 
 a contempt as his master for John's library, and a much more 
 unpleasant way of showing it. 
 
 "I wish you'd leave your dog in the hall," John pro- 
 tested. "Look at him now; he's upset the paper-basket. 
 Get down off that chair! I say, do look at him!" 
 
 Beyle was coursing round the room, steering himself with 
 the kinked blob that served him for a tail. 
 
 "He likes the soft carpet," his master explained. "He 
 thinks it's grass." 
 
 "What an idiotic dog," John scoffed. "And I suppose he 
 thinks my Aubusson is an herbaceous border. Drop it, you 
 brute, will you. I say, do put him downstairs. He's going 
 to worry it in a minute, and all agree that bulldogs can't 
 be induced to let go of anything they've once fairly gripped. 
 Lie down, will you!" 
 
 James roared with laughter at his brother's disgust, but 
 finally he turned the dog out of the room, and John heard 
 what he fancied was a panic-stricken descent of the stairs by 
 Maud or . . . 
 
 "I say, I hope he isn't chasing Mrs. Worfolk up and 
 down the house," he ejaculated as he hurried out on the 
 landing. What ever Beyle had been doing, he was at rest 
 now and smiling up at John from the front-door mat. "I 
 hope it wasn't Mrs. Worfolk," he said, coming back. "She's 
 in a very delicate state just at present." 
 
 "What?" James shouted, incredulously. 
 
 "Oh, not in that way, my dear fellow, not in that way. 
 But she's not used to having so many visitors in the house." 
 
 "I'm going to take one of them away with me, if that'll 
 be any consolation to her," James announced. 
 
 "Not Beatrice?" his brother stammered. 
 
 James nodded grimly. 
 
Poor Relations 119 
 
 "It's all very fine for you with a mob of servants to 
 look after you: but I can't spare Beatrice any more easily 
 than you could spare Mrs. Worfolk. I've been confoundedly 
 uncomfortable for nearly two days, and my wife must come 
 back." 
 
 "Oh, but look here," John protested. "She's been manag- 
 ing the children magnificently. I've hardly known they were 
 in the house. You can't take Beatrice away." 
 
 "Sorry, Johnnie, but my existence is not so richly en- 
 dowed with comforts as yours. You'd better get a wife 
 for yourself. You can afford one." 
 
 "But can't we arrive at a compromise?" John pleaded. 
 "Why don't you come and camp out with me, too ?" 
 
 "Camp out, you hypocrite!" the critic jeered. "No, no, 
 you can't bribe me with your luxuries. Do you think that 
 I could work with two children careering all over the place? 
 I dare say they don't disturb your plays. I dare say you can't 
 hear them above the clash of swords and the rolling of 
 thunder, but for critical work I want absolute quiet. Sorry, 
 Jjut I'm afraid I must carry off Beatrice." 
 
 "Well, of course, if you must. . . ." John murmured, 
 despondently. And it was very little consolation to think, 
 while Viola practised the fandango in the library preparatory 
 to dislocating the household by removing Maud from her 
 work to escort her to the dancing-class, that Beatrice her- 
 self would have liked to stay. 
 
 "However," John sternly resolved, "the next time that 
 James tries to scoff at married life I shall tell him pretty 
 plainly what I think of his affectation." 
 
 He decided ultimately to keep the children at Church 
 Row for a week, to give them some kind of treat on Satur- 
 day, and on Saturday evening, before dinner, to take them 
 back to their father and insist upon his being responsible for 
 them. If by chance George proved to be really ill, which he 
 did not suppose for a moment that he would, he should take 
 matters firmly into his hands and export the children to 
 Ambles until their mother came home: Viola could practise 
 9 
 
I20 Poor Relations 
 
 every known variety of Spanish dance over Laurence's head» 
 or even in Laurence's room; and as for Bertram he could 
 corrupt Harold to his heart's content. 
 
 On the whole, the week passed off well. Although Viola 
 had fallen like Lucifer from being an angel in Maud's mind, 
 she won back her esteem by behaving like a human little 
 girl when they went to the dancing-class together and did 
 not try to assume diabolic attributes in exchange for the 
 angelic position she had forfeited. John was allowed to 
 gather that Viola's chief claim to Maud's forgiveness was 
 founded upon her encouragement of the advances made to 
 her escort by a handsome young sergeant of the Line whom 
 they had encountered in the tube. 
 
 "Miss Viola behaved herself like a little lady," Maud had 
 informed John when they came home. 
 
 "You enjoyed taking her?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, sir, it's a pleasure to go about with anyone 
 so lady-like. Several very nice people turned round to ad- 
 mire her." 
 
 "Did they, Maud, did they?" 
 
 Later, when Viola's account of the afternoon reached him 
 he wondered if the sergeant was one of those nice people. 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk, too, was reconciled to Bertram by the 
 profound respect he accorded to her tales and by his ap- 
 preciation of an album of family photographs she brought 
 out for him from the bottom of her trunk. 
 
 "The boy can be as quiet as a mouse," she assured John, 
 "as long as he isn't encouraged to make a hullabaloo." 
 
 "You think I encourage him, Mrs. Worfolk?" 
 
 "Well, sir, it's not my place to offer an opinion about 
 managing children, but giving them a calf's head is as good 
 as telling them to misbehave theirselves. It's asking for 
 trouble. There he is now, doing what he calls his home 
 work with a little plate of toffee I made for him — as good 
 as gold. But what I do ask is where's the use in filling up a 
 child's head with Latin and Greece. Teach a child to be 
 a heathen goddess and a heathen goddess he'll be. Teach him 
 
« Poor Relations 121 
 
 the story of the Infant Samuel and he'll behave like the 
 Infant Samuel, though I must say that one child who I told 
 about God's voice, in the family to which I was nursemaid, 
 had a regular fit and woke up screaming in the middle of 
 the night that he could hear God routing about for him 
 under the bed. But then he was a child with very old- 
 fashioned notions and took the whole story for gospel, and 
 his mother said after that no one wasn't to read him nothing 
 except stories about animals." 
 
 "What happened to him when he grew up?" John asked. 
 
 "Well, sir, I lost sight of the whole family, but I dare say 
 he became a clergyman, for he never lost this habit of think- 
 ing God was dodging him all the time. It was God here, 
 and God there, till I fairly got the jumps myself and might 
 have taken up with the Wesleans if I hadn't gone as third 
 housemaid to a family where the master kept race-horses 
 which gave me something else to think about, and I never 
 had anything more to do with children until my poor sister's 
 Herbert." 
 
 "That must have been a great change, Mrs. Worfolk." 
 
 "Yes, sir, so it was; but life's only one' long changing 
 about, though they do say thefe'sr nothing new under the 
 sun. But good gracious me, fellows who make up mottoes 
 always exaggerate a bit: they've got to, so as to keep up 
 with one another." 
 
 . When Friday evening arrived John nearly emphasized 
 Mrs. Worfolk's agreement vJ'ith Heraclitus by keeping the 
 children at Church Row. But by the last post there came 
 a letter from Janet Bond to beg an earlier production of 
 Joan of Arc if it was by any means possible, and John look- 
 ing at the infinitesimal amount he had written during tfie 
 week resolved that he must stick to his intention of taking 
 the children back to their father on the following day. 
 
 "What would you like to do to-morrow?" he inquired. 
 "I happen to have a free afternoon, and — er — I'm afraid 
 your father wants you back in Earl's Court, so it will be 
 your last opportunity of enjoying yourselves for some time — 
 
122 PoorRelations 
 
 I mean of our enjoying ourselves for some time, in fact, until 
 we all meet at Ambles for Christmas." 
 
 "Oh, I say," Bertram protested. "Have vire got to go 
 back to rotten old Earl's Court? What a sell!" 
 
 "I thought we were going to live here always," Viola ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "But don't you want to go back to your father?" John 
 demanded in what he hoped was a voice brimming with re- 
 proaches for their lack of filial piety, but which he could not 
 help feeling was bubbling over with something very near 
 elation. 
 
 "Oh, no," both children affirmed, "we like teing with you 
 much best." 
 
 John's gratification was suddenly darkened by the suspicion 
 that perhaps Eleanor had told them to flatter him like this; 
 he turned swiftly aside to hide the chagrin that such a 
 thought gave him, and when he spoke again it was almost 
 roughly, because in addition to being suspicious of their 
 sincerity he was vexed with himself for displaying a spirit 
 of competitive affection. It occurred to him that it was 
 jealousy rather than love which made the world go round — 
 a dangerous reflection for a romantic playwright. 
 
 "I'm afraid it can't be helped," he said. "To-morrow is 
 definitely our last day. So choose your own method of 
 celebrating it without dressing up." 
 
 "Oh, we only dress up on Sundays," Viola said, loftily. 
 
 "I vote we go to the Zoo," Bertram opinionated after a 
 weighty pause. 
 
 Had his nephew Harold suggested a visit to the Zoo, John 
 would have shunned the proposal with horror; but with 
 Bertram and Viola the prospect of such an expedition was 
 positively enticing. 
 
 "I must beware of favoritism," John warned himself. 
 "Yes, and I must beware of being blarneyed." Then aloud 
 he added: 
 
 "Very well, we will visit the Zoo immediately after lunch 
 to-morrow. 
 
P oor Relati ons 123 
 
 "Oh, but we must go in the morning," Bertram cried. 
 "There won't be nearly time to see everything in the after- 
 noon." 
 
 "What about our food?" 
 
 "We can eat there." 
 
 "But, my dear boy," John said. "You are confusing 
 us with the lions. I much doubt if a human being can eat 
 at the Zoo, unless he has a passion for peanuts and stale 
 buns, which I have not." 
 
 "I swear you can," Bertram maintained. "Anyhow, I 
 know you can get ices there in the summer." 
 
 "We'll risk it," John declared, adventurously; and the 
 children echoed his enthusiasm with joy. 
 
 "We must see the toucans this time," Bertram announced 
 in a grave voice, "and last time we missed the zebu." 
 
 "I shouldn't have thought that possible," John demurred, 
 "with all those stripes." 
 
 "Not the zebra," Bertram severely corrected hirii. "The 
 zebu." 
 
 "Never heard of the beast," John said. 
 
 "I say, V," Bertram exclaimed, incredulously. "He's 
 never heard of the zebu." < 
 
 Viola was too much shocked by her uncle's ignorance to 
 do more than smile sadly. 
 
 "We'll show it you to-morrow," Bertram promised. 
 
 "Thanks very much. I shall enjoy meeting the zebu," 
 John admitted, humbly. "And any other friends of yours in 
 the animal world whose names begin with Z." 
 
 "And we also missed the ichneumon," Viola reminded 
 her brother. 
 
 "Your last visit seems to have been full of broken appoint- 
 ments. It's just as well you'lre going again to-morrow. 
 You'll be able to explain that it wasn't your fault." 
 
 "No, it wasn't" said Bertram, bitterly. "It was Miss 
 Coldwell's." 
 
 "Yes," said Viola. "She simply tore past everything. 
 And when Bertram gave the chimpanzee a brown marble 
 
124 P o or Relations 
 
 instead of a nut and he nearly broke one of his teeth, she 
 said it was cruel." 
 
 "Yes, fanqr thinking that was cruel," Bertram scoffed. 
 "He was in an awful wax, though; he bunged it back at 
 me like anything. But I swopped the marble on Monday 
 with Higginbotham Minor for two green commonys: at 
 least I said it was the marble; only really I dropped it while 
 we were waiting for the bus." 
 
 "You're a kind of juvenile Lord Elgin," John declared. 
 
 "What did he do?" 
 
 "He did the Greek nation over marbles, just as you did 
 the chimpanzee and Higginbotham Minor." 
 
 Next morning John made arrangements to send the chil- 
 dren's luggage to Earl's Court so that he should be able 
 when the Zoological Gardens were closed to take them di- 
 rectly home and not be tempted to swerve from his deter- 
 mination : then under the nearest approach to a blue sky that 
 London can produce in November they set out for Regent's 
 
 John with his nephew and niece for guides spent a pleas- 
 ant if exhausting day. Remembering the criticism leveled 
 against Miss Coldwell's rapidity of transit, he loitered earn- 
 estly hy every cage, although he had really had no previous 
 conception of how many animals the Zoo included and began 
 to dread a long list of uninvited occupants at the day's end. 
 He had a charming triumph in the discovery of two more 
 animals beginning with Z, to wit, the zibet and the zoril, 
 which was the sweeter for the fact that they were both new 
 beasts to the children. There was an argument with the 
 keeper of the snake's house, because Bertram nearly blinded 
 a lethargic alligator with his sister's umbrella, and another 
 with the keeper of the giraffes, because in despite of an 
 earnest plea not to feed them, Viola succeeded in temptmg 
 one to sniff moistly a piece of raspberry noyau. If some 
 animals were inevitably missed, there were several welcome 
 surprises such as seeing much more of the hippopotamus 
 than the tips of his nostrils floating like two bits of mud 
 
Poor Relations 125 
 
 on the surface of the water; others included the alleged 
 visibility of a beaver's tail, a conjugal scene between the 
 polar-bears, a truly demoniac exhibition of rage by the 
 Tasmanian-devil, some wonderful gymnastics by a baby 
 snow-leopard, a successful attempt to touch a kangaroo's 
 pose, an indisputable wriggle of vitality from the anaconda, 
 and the sudden scratching of its ear by a somnolent fruit- 
 eiating bat. 
 
 About ten minutes before the Gardens closed John, who 
 was tired out and had somehow got his cigar-case full of 
 peanuts, declared it was time to go home. 
 
 "Oh, but we must just have a squint at the Small Cats' 
 House," Bertram cried, and Viola clasped her hands in 
 apprehension at the bare idea of not doing so. 
 
 "All right," John agreed. "I'll wait for you three min- 
 utes, and then I'm going slowly along towards the exit." 
 
 The three minutes passed, and since the children still 
 lingered he walked on as he had promised. When they did 
 not catch him up as soon as he expected, he waited for a 
 while and then with an exclamation of annoyance turned 
 back. 
 
 "What on earth can they find to enjoy in this awful 
 smell?" he wondered, when he entered the Small Cats' 
 House to drag them out. The house was empty except for a 
 bored keeper thinking of his tea. 
 
 "Have you seen two children?" John asked, anxiously. 
 
 "No, sir, this is the Small Cats' House," replied the 
 keeper. 
 
 "Children," repeated John, irritably. 
 
 "No, sir. Or, yes, I believe there was a little boy and a 
 little girl in here, but they've been gone some minutes now. 
 It's closing time," he added, significantly. 
 
 John rushed miserably along, deserted paths through the 
 dusk, looking everywhere for Bertram and Viola without 
 success. 
 
 "All out," was being shouted from every direction. 
 
 "Two children," he panted to a keeper by the exit. 
 
126 Poor Relations 
 
 "All out." 
 
 "But two children are lost in the Gardens." 
 
 "Closing time, sir. They must have gone out by another 
 gate." 
 
 He herded John through the turnstile into the street as he 
 would have herded a recalcitrant gnu into its inclosure. 
 
 "But this is terrible," John lamented. "This is appalling. 
 I've lost George's children." 
 
 He hailed a taxi, drove to the nearest police-station, left 
 their descriptions, and directed the driver to Halma House, 
 Earl's Court Square. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 JOHN came to the conclusion while he was driving to 
 Earl's Court that the distinctive anxiety in losing two 
 children was to be sought for in an acute consciousness of 
 their mobility. He had often enough lost such articles as 
 sovereigns, and matchboxes, and income-tax demands; but 
 in the disappearance of these he had always been consoled 
 by the knowledge that they were stationary in some place 
 or another at any given moment, and that somebody or 
 another must find them at some time or another, with profit 
 or disappointment to himself. Sut Bertram and Viola 
 might be anywhere ; if at this moment they were somewhere, 
 before the taxi had turned the next corner they might be 
 somewhere else. The only kind of loss comparable to this 
 was the loss of a train, in which case also the victim was 
 dismayed by the thought of its mobility. Moreover, was it 
 logically possible to find two children, any more than it 
 was possible to find a lost train? They could be caught 
 like a train by somebody else; but except among gipsies, 
 who were practically extinct, the sport of catching children 
 was nowadays unknown. The classic instance of two lost 
 children — and by the way an uncle came into that — ^was 
 The Babes in the Wood, in which story they were neither ■ 
 caught nor found, though certainly their bodies were found 
 owing to the eccentric behavior of some birds in the vicinity. 
 It would be distressing to read in the paper to-morrow of 
 two children's having been found under a drift of paper- 
 bags in the bear-pit at the Zoo, hugged to death not by each 
 other, but by the bears. Or they might have hidden them- 
 selves in the Reptile House — Bertram had displayed a dread- 
 ful curiosity about the effect of standing upon one of the 
 alligators — and their fate might remain for ever a matter 
 
128 Poor Relations 
 
 of conjecture. Yet even supposing that they were not at 
 this moment regarding with amazed absorption — absorption 
 was too ominous a word — ^with amazed interest the nocturnal 
 gambols of the great cats, were they on that account to be 
 considered safe? If it was a question of being crunched up, 
 it made little difference whether one was crxmched up by the 
 wheels of an omnibus or by the jaws of a panther. To be 
 sure, Bertram was accustomed to go to school by tube every 
 morning, and obviously he must know by this time how to 
 ask the way to any given spot. . . . 
 
 The driver of the taxi was taking no risks with the traffic, 
 and John's tightly strung nerves were relaxed ; he began to 
 perceive that he was agitating himself foolishly. The wide 
 smoothness of Cromwell Road was all that was needed to 
 persuade him that the shock had deprived him for a short 
 time of common sense. How absurd he had been ! Of course 
 the children would be all right; but he should take good care 
 to administer no less sharp a shock to George than he had 
 experienced himself. He did not approve of George's atti- 
 tude, and if the temporary loss of Bertram and Viola could 
 rouse him to a sense of his paternal responsibilities, this dis- 
 turbing climax of a jolly day would not have been led up to 
 in vain. No, George's moral, mental, and physical laziness 
 must no longer be encouraged. 
 
 "I shall make the whole business out to be as bad as pos- 
 sible," he decided. "Though, now that I have had time to 
 think the situation out, I realize that there is really not the 
 least likelihood of anything's serious having happened to 
 them." 
 
 For James even when he was most exasperating John al- 
 ways felt an involuntary deference that stood quite apart 
 from the sentimental regard which he always tried to owe 
 him as head of the family ; for his second brother George he 
 had nothing but contempt. James might be wrongheaded; 
 but George was fatheaded. James kept something of their 
 father's fallen day about him ; George was a kind of gross 
 caricature of his own self. Every feature in this brother's 
 
Poor Relations 129 
 
 face reproduced the corresponding feature in his own with 
 such compelling suggestiveness of a potentially similar de- 
 generation that John could never escape from the reproach 
 of George's insistent kinship. Many times he had been seized 
 by a strong impulse to cut George ruthlessly out of his life ; 
 but as soon as he perceived that gibbous development of his 
 own aquiline nose, that reduplication of his own rounded 
 chin, that bull-like thickening of his own sanguine neck, 
 and that saurian accentuation of the eloquent pouches be- 
 neath his own eyes, John surrendered to the claims of f rar 
 ternity and lent George as much as he required at the 
 moment. If Daniel Curtis's desire to marry Hilda had 
 always puzzled him, Eleanor's willingness to be tied for life 
 to George was even more incomprehensible. Still, it was 
 lucky that she had been taken with such a whim, because 
 she was all that stood between George and absolute de- 
 pendence upon his family, in other words upon his younger 
 brother. Whatever Eleanor's faults, however aggressive her 
 perstmality, John recognized that she was a hard worker and 
 that the incubus of a husband like George (to whom she 
 seemed curiously and inexplicably devoted) entitled her to a 
 great deal of indulgence. 
 
 It was strange to look back now to the time when he and 
 George were both in the city, himself in dog-biscuits and 
 George in wool, and to remember that except their father 
 everybody in the family had foretold a prosperous com- 
 mercial career for George. Beyond his skill at Solo Whist 
 and a combination of luck with judgment in betting through 
 July and August on weight for age selling-plates and avoid- 
 ing the big autumn handicaps, John could not recall that 
 George had ever shown a glimmer of financial intelligence. 
 Once or twice when he had visited his brother in the wool- 
 warehouse he had watched an interview between George and 
 a bale of wool, and he had often chuckled at the reflection 
 that the protagonists were well matched — there had always 
 been something woolly about George in mind and body ; and 
 when one day he rolled stolidly forth from the warehouse 
 
130 Poor Relations 
 
 for the last time in order to enter into partnership with a 
 deluded friend to act as the British agents for a society of 
 colonial housewives, John felt that the deluded friend would 
 have been equally well served by a bale of wool. When 
 George and his deluded friend had tried the patience of the 
 colonial housewives for a year by never once succeeding in 
 procuring for them what diey required, the partnership was 
 dissolved, and George processed from undertaking to under- 
 taking till he became the business manager of a theatrical 
 touring company. Although as a business manager he 
 reached the nadir of his incompetence he emerged from the 
 post with Eleanor for wife, which perhaps gave rise to a 
 family legend that George had never been so successful as 
 when he was a business manager. This legend he never 
 dispelled by a second exhibition of himself in the part, al- 
 though he often spoke regretfully of the long Sundays in the 
 train, playing nap for penny points. After he married Elea- 
 nor he was commission-agent for a variety of gentlemanly 
 commodities like whisky and cigars; but he drank and 
 smoked much more than he sold, and when bridge was intro- 
 duced and popularized, having decided that it was the best 
 investment for his share of Eleanor's salary, he abandoned 
 everything else. Moreover, John's increasing prosperity gave 
 his play a fine stability and confidence ; he used to feel that 
 his wife's current account merely lapped the base of a solid 
 cliff of capital. A bad week at Bridge came to be known 
 as another financial disappointment; but he used to say 
 cheerfully when he signed the I.O.U. that one must not 
 expect everybody in the family to be always lucky, and that 
 it was dear old John's turn this week. John himself some- 
 times became quite giddy in watching the swift revolutions 
 of the wheel of fortune as spun by George. The effect of 
 sitting up late at cards usually made George wake with a 
 headache, which he called "feeling overworked"; he was 
 at his best in the dusky hours before dinner, in fact just at 
 the time when John was on his way to explode in his ear 
 the news of the children's disappearance ; it was then that 
 
Poor Relations 131 
 
 among the attenuated spinsters of Halam House his gross- 
 ness seemed nothing more than a ruddy well-being and that 
 his utter indifference to any kind of responsibility acquired 
 the characteristics of a ripe geniality. 
 
 Halma House, Earl's Court Square, was a very large 
 ! boarding-house, so large that Miss Moxley, the most attenu- 
 ated spinster who lived in it, once declared that i^ was more 
 like a residential hotel than a boarding-house, a theory that 
 was eagerly supported by all the other attenuated spinsters 
 who clung to its overstuffed furniture or like dusty cobwebs 
 floated about its garish saloons. Halma House was indeed 
 two houses squeezed or knocked (or whatever other uncom- 
 fortable verb can be found to express the welding) into one. 
 Above the front-door of number 198 were the large gilt 
 letters that composed HALMA : above the front-door of what 
 was once number 200 the equally large gilt letters that made 
 up HOUSE. The division between the front-door steps had 
 been removed so as to give an almost Medician grandeur to 
 the entrance, at the top of which beneath a folded awning a 
 curved garden-seat against the disused door of number 20 
 suggested that it was the resort for the intimate gayety of 
 the boarders at the close of a fine summer day; as Miss Mox- 
 ley used to vow, it was really quite an oasis, with the plane- 
 trees of the square for contemplation not to mention the 
 noising of the sparrows and the distant tinkling of milk- 
 cans, quite an oasis in dingy old London. But then Miss 
 Moxley had the early symptoms of exophthalmus, a malady 
 that often accompanies the poetic temperament; Miss Mox- 
 ley, fluttering out for five minutes' fresh air before dinner 
 on a gentle eve in early June, was capable of idealizing to 
 the semblance of a careless pastoral group the spectacle of 
 a half-pay major, a portly widow or two up from the coun- 
 try, and George Touchwood, all brushing the smuts from 
 their noses while they gossiped together on that seat: this 
 was by no means too much for her exophthalmic vision. 
 
 John's arrival at Halma House in raw November was not 
 greeted by such evidence of communal felicity; on the con- 
 
132 Poor Relations 
 
 traty, when he walked up the steps, the garden-seat looked 
 most defiantly uninviting; nor did the entrance ball with its 
 writhing gilt furniture symbolize anything more romantic 
 than the competitive pretentiousness of life in a boarding- 
 house that was almost a residential hotel. A blond waiter 
 whose hair would have been dishevelled but for the uses of 
 perspiration informed him that Mr, Tooshvood was in his 
 sitting-room, and led him to a door at the end of the hall 
 opposite another door that gave descent to the dungeons of 
 supply, the inmates of which seemed to spend their time in 
 throwing dishes at one another. 
 
 The possession of this sitting-room was the outstanding 
 advantage that George always claimed for Halma House, 
 whenever it was suggested that he should change his quarters: 
 Adam discoursing to his youngest descendant upon the glories 
 of Eden could hardly have outbragged George on the subject 
 of that sitting-room. John on the other hand disliked it and 
 took pleasure in pointing out the impossibility of knowing 
 whether it was a conservatory half transformed into a box- 
 room or a box-room nearly turned into a conservatory. He 
 used to call it George's amphibious apartment, with justice 
 indeed, for Bertram and Viola with true appreciation had 
 once selected it as the appropriate setting in which to repro- 
 duce Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues under the 
 Sea. The wallpaper of dark blue flock was smeared with 
 the glistening pattern as of seaweed upon rocks at low tide; 
 the window was of ground-glass tinted to the hue of water 
 in a swimming-bath on Saturday afternoon, and was sur- 
 rounded by an elaborate arrangement of cork that masked 
 a number of flower pots filled with unexacting plants; while 
 as if the atmosphere was not already sufficiently aqueous, a 
 stage of disheartened aspidistras cast a deep-sea twilight upon 
 the recesses of the room, in the middle of which was a jagged 
 table of particolored marble, and upon the walls of which 
 were hung cases of stuffed fish. Mrs. Easton, the pro- 
 prietress of Halma House, only lent the room to George as a 
 favor: it was not really his own, and while he lay in bed 
 
Poor Relations 133 
 
 of a morning she used to quarrel there with all the servants 
 in turn. Moreover, any of the boarders who had bicycles 
 stabled them in this advantageous apartment, the fireplace 
 of which smoked. Nevertheless, George liked it and uSed to 
 knit there for an hour after lunch, sitting in an armchair that 
 smelt like the cushions of a third-class smoker and looking 
 with his knitting needles and opaque eyes like a large lobster 
 preening his antennae in the corner of a tank. 
 
 When Jdbi visited him now, he was reading an evening 
 paper by the light of a rugged mantle of incandescent gas 
 and calculating how much he would have won if he had 
 backed the second favorite for every steeplechase of the day. 
 
 "Hullo, is that you, John?" he inquired with a yawn, 
 and one hand swam vaguely in his brother's direction while 
 the other kept its fingers spread out upon the second favorites 
 like a stranded starfish. 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid I've got very bad news for you, George." 
 
 George's opaque eyes rolled slowly away from the races 
 and fixed his brother's in dull interrogation. 
 
 "Bertran and Viola are lost," John proclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," George sighed with relief. "I 
 thought you were serious for a minute. Crested Grebe at 4 
 to I — ^yes, my theory that you ought to back second fa- 
 vorites works out right for tfie ninth time in succession. I 
 should have been six pounds up to-day, betting with level 
 sovereigns. Tut-tut-tut!" 
 
 John felt that his announcement had not made quite the 
 splash it ought to have made in George's deep and stagnant 
 pool. 
 
 "I don't think you heard what I said," he repeated. 
 "Bertram and Viola — your children — are definitely lost." 
 
 "I don't expect they are really," said George, soothingly; 
 "No, no, not really. The trouble is that not one singje 
 bookie will take on this second-favorite system. Ha-ha — they 
 daren't, the cowards! Don't you bother about the kids; 
 no, no, they'll be all right. They're probably hanging on 
 behind a van — ^they often do that when I'm out with them. 
 
134 Poor Relations 
 
 but they always turn up in the end. Yes, I should have made 
 twenty-nine pounds this week." 
 
 "Look here," said John, severely, "I want you clearly to 
 understand that this is not a simple question of losing them 
 for a few minutes or so. They have been lost now since the 
 Zoo was closed this afternoon, and I am not yet convinced 
 that they are not shut up inside for the night." 
 
 "Ah, very likely," said George. "That's just the kind 
 of place they might get to." 
 
 "The prospect of your children's passing the night in the 
 Zoo leaves you unaffected?" John demanded in the tone of 
 an examining counsel. 
 
 "Oh, they'll have been cleared out by now," said George. 
 "You really mustn't bother yourself about them, old boy." 
 
 "You have no qualms, George, at the notion of their 
 wandering for hours upon the outskirts of Regent's Park?" 
 
 "Now don't you worry, John. I'm not going to worry, 
 and I don't want you to worry. Why worry? Depend upon 
 it, you'll find them safe and sound in Church Row when 
 you get back. By the way, is your taxi waiting?" 
 
 "No, I dismissed it." 
 
 "I was afraid it might be piling up the twopences. 
 Though I dare say a pyramid of twopences wouldn't bother 
 you, you old plutocrat. Yes, these second favorites ..." 
 
 "Confound the second favorites," John exclaimed. "I 
 want to discuss your children." 
 
 "You wouldn't, if you were their father. They involve 
 me in far too many discussions. You see, you're not used to 
 children. I am." 
 
 John's eyes flashed as much as the melancholy illumination 
 permitted ; this was the cue for which he had been waiting. 
 
 "Just so, my dear George. You are used to children: I 
 am not. And that is why I have come to tell you that the 
 police have been instructed to return them, when found, to 
 you and not to me." 
 
 George blinked in a puzzled way. 
 
 "To me ?" he echoed. 
 
Poor Relations 135 
 
 "Yes, to you. To their father. Hasn't their luggage ar- 
 rived? I had it sent back here this morning." 
 
 "Ah, yes," George said. "Of course! I was rather late 
 getting up this morning. I've been overworking a bit lately, 
 and Karl did mutter something about luggage. Didn't it 
 come in a taxi?" 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 "Yes, I remember now, in a prepaid taxi; but as I couldn't 
 remember that I was expecting any luggage, I told Karl to 
 send it back where it came from." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you sent their luggage back 
 after I'd taken the trouble to . . ." 
 
 "That's all right, old boy. I was feeling too tired to deal 
 with any problems this morning. The morning is the only 
 opportunity I get for a little peace. It never occurred to 
 me whose luggage it was. It might have been a mistake ; in 
 fact I thought it was a mistake. But in any case it's very 
 lucky I did send it back, because they'll want it to-night." 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't keep then^ with me any longer." 
 
 Though irony might be lost on George's cold blood, the 
 plain fact might wake him up to the actuality of the situa- 
 tion and so it did. 
 
 "Oh, but look here, old boy," he expostulated, "Eleanor 
 won't be home for another five weeks. She'll be at Cardiff 
 next week." 
 
 "And Bertram and Viola will be at Earl's Court," said 
 John, firmly. 
 
 "But the doctor strongly recommended me to rest. I've 
 been very seedy while you were in America. Stomachic, old 
 boy. Yes, that's the trouble. And then my nerves are not as 
 strong as yours. I've had a lot of worry lately." 
 
 "I'm sorry," John insisted. "But I've been called away 
 on urgent business, and I can't leave the children at Church 
 Row, I'm sorry, George, but as soon as they are found, I 
 must hand them over to you." 
 
 "I diall send them down to the country," George threat- 
 ened. 
 10 
 
136 Poor Relations 
 
 "When they are once more safely in your keeping, you 
 can do what you like with them." 
 
 "To your place, I mean." 
 
 Normally John would have given a ready assent to such a 
 proposal; but George's attitude had by now aroused his 
 bitter disapproval, and he was determined that Bertram and 
 Viola should be planted upon their father without option. 
 
 "Ambles is impossible," he said, decidedly. "Besides, 
 Eleanor is anxious that Viola shouldn't miss her series of 
 Spanish dances. She attends the dancing-class every Tues- 
 day and Friday. No doubt your landlady will lend you 
 Karl to escort her." 
 
 "Children are very difficult in a boarding-house," George 
 argued. ''They're apt to disturb the other guests. In fact, 
 there was a little trouble only last week over some game — " 
 
 "Robinson Crusoe," John put in. 
 
 "Ah, they told you?" 
 
 "No, no, go on. I'm curious to know exactly what we 
 missed at Church Row." 
 
 "Well, they have a habit, which Eleanor most imprudently 
 encourages, of dressing up on Sundays, and as I've had to 
 make it an understood thing that none of my clothes are to 
 be used, they are apt to borrow other people's. I must admit 
 that generally people have been very kind about lending 
 their clothes; but latterly this dressing up has taken a more 
 ambitious form, and on Sunday week — I think it was — " 
 
 "Yes, it would have been a Sunday," John agreed. 
 
 "On Sunday week they borrowed Miss Moxley's parrot 
 for Robinson Crusoe. You remember poor Miss Moxley, 
 John?" 
 
 "Yes, she lent you five pounds once," said John, sternly. 
 
 "Precisely. Oh yes, she did. Yes, yes, that was why I 
 was so vexed about her lending her parrot." 
 
 "Why shouldn't she lend her parrot?" 
 
 "No reason at all why she shouldn't lend it; but appar- 
 ently parrots are very excitable birds, and this particular 
 one went mad under the strain of the children's performance, 
 
Poor Relations 137 
 
 bit Major Downman's finger, and escaped by an upper win- 
 dow. Poor Miss Moxley was extremely upset, and the bird 
 has never been seen since. So you see, as I told you, chil- 
 dren are apt to be rather a nuisance to the other guests." 
 
 "None of the guests at Halma House keeps a tame calf ?" 
 
 George looked frightened. 
 
 "Oh no, I don't think so. There's certainly never been the 
 least sign of mooing in the garden. Besides, I'm sure Mrs. 
 Easton would object to a calf. She even objects to dogs, as 
 I had to tell James the other day when he came to see me 
 very early about signing some deed or other. But what made 
 you ask about a calf? Do you want one?" 
 
 "No, I don't want one: I hate cows and calves. Bertram 
 and Viola, however, are likely to want one next week." 
 
 "You've been spoiling them, old chap. They'd never dare 
 ask me for a calf. Why, it's preposterous. Yes, you've 
 been spoiling them. Ah, well, you can afford it; that's one 
 thing." 
 
 "Yes, I dare say I have been spoiling them^ George; but 
 you'll be able to correct that when they're once again in your 
 sole charge." 
 
 George looked doubtful. 
 
 "I'm very strict with them," he admitted. "I had to be 
 after they lost the parrot and burned Mrs. Easton's rug. It 
 was most annoying." 
 
 "Yes, luckily I hadn't got any suitable fur rugs," John 
 chuckled. "So they actually burnt Mrs. Easton's?" 
 
 "Yes, and — er — she was so much upset," George went on, 
 "that she's — ^well — the fact is, they can't come back, John, 
 because she's let their room." 
 
 "How much do you owe her?" John demanded. 
 
 "Oh, very little. I think only froin last September. Well, 
 you see, Eleanor .was out of an engagement all th6 summer 
 and had a wretched salary at the Parthenon while she was 
 understudying — these actress-managers are awful harpies — do 
 you know Janet Bond?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm writing a tragedy for her now." 
 
138 Poor Relations 
 
 "Make her pay, old boy, make her pay. That's my advice. 
 And I know the business side of the profession. But to come 
 back to Mrs. Easton — I was really very angry with her, but 
 you see, I've got my own room here and it's uncommonly 
 difficult to find a private room in a boarding-house, so I 
 thought we'd stay on here till Eleanor's tour was over. She 
 intends to save three pounds a \freek, and if I have a little 
 luck over the sticks this winter, we shall be quite straight 
 with Mrs. Easton, and then the children will be able to 
 come back in the New Year." 
 
 "How much do you owe her?" John demanded for the 
 second time. 
 
 "Oh, I think it's about twenty pounds — it may be a little 
 more." 
 
 John knew how much the little more always was in 
 George's calculations, and rang the bell, which fetched his 
 brother out of the armchair almost in a bound. 
 
 "Old boy, I never ring the bell here," he expostulated. 
 "You see, I never consider that my private room is included 
 in the attendance." 
 
 George moved nervously in the direction of the door to 
 make his peace with whoever should answer the unwonted 
 summons; but John firmly interposed himself and explained 
 that he had rung for Mrs. Easton herself. 
 
 "Rung for Mrs. Easton?" George repeated in terrified 
 amazement. "But she may come!" 
 
 "I hope she will," replied John, becoming more divinely 
 calm every moment in the presence of his brother's agitation. 
 
 A tangled head flung itself round the door like one of 
 the minor characters in a Punch and Judy show. 
 
 "Jew ring?" it asked, hoarsely. 
 
 "Please ask Mrs. Easton to come down to Mr. Touch- 
 wood's sitting-room," said John, seriously. 
 
 The head sniffed and vanished. 
 
 "I wish you could realize, old chap, that in a boarding- 
 house far more tact is required than anywhere else in the 
 world," George muttered in melancholy apprehension. "An 
 
Poor Relations 139 
 
 embassy isn't in it with a boarding-house. For instance, if I 
 hadn't got the most marvelous tact, I should never have 
 kept this room. However," he added more cheerfully, "I 
 don't suppose for a moment that she'll come — unless of 
 course she thinks that the chimney is on fire. Dash it, John, 
 I wish you could understand some of the difficulties of my 
 life. That's why I took up knitting. My nerves are all to 
 pieces. If I were a rich man I should go for a long sea- 
 voyage." 
 
 George fell into a silent brooding upon his misfortunes 
 and ill-health and frustrated ambitions; John examined the 
 stuffed fish upon the walls, which made him think of wet 
 days upon the river and waiting drearily in hotel smoking- 
 rooms for the weather to clear up. Then suddenly Mrs. 
 Easton filled the room. Positive details of this lady's past 
 were lacking, although the gossip of a long line of attenuated 
 spinsters had evolved a rich apocrypha. It was generally ac- 
 cepted, however, that Halma House was founded partly 
 upon settlements made in her favor long ago by a generous 
 stockbroker and partly upon an insurance-policy taken out by 
 her late husband Dr. Easton, almost on the vigil of his 
 death, the only successful operation he ever performed. The 
 mixed derivation of her prosperity was significantly set forth 
 in her personal appearance: she either wore widow's black 
 and powdered her face with pink talcum or she wore bright 
 satins with plumed hats and let her nose shine: so that al- 
 though she never looked perfectly respectable, on the other 
 hand she never looked really fast. 
 
 "Good evening, ma'am," John began at once, assuming an 
 air of Grandisonian courtesy. "My brother is anxious to 
 settle his account." 
 
 The clouds rolled away from Mrs. Easton's brow; the 
 old Eve glimmered for a moment in her fierce eye; if he had 
 been alone with her, John would have thought that she was 
 about to wink at him. 
 
 "I hear my nephew and niece have been taking liberties 
 with your fug," he went on, but feeling that he might have 
 
I40 Poor Relations 
 
 expressed the last sentence better, he hurriedly blotted the 
 check and with a bow handed it to the proprietress. "No 
 doubt," he added, "you will overlook it this time? I am 
 having a new rug sent to you immediately. What — 
 er — skin do you prefer? Bear? I mean to say, the 
 rug." 
 
 He tried to think of any other animal whose personality 
 survived in rugs, but could think of none except a rabbit, and 
 condemning the ambiguity of the English language waited in 
 some embarrassment for Mrs. Easton to reply. She was by 
 this time so surely convinced of John's interest in her that 
 she opened to him with a trilling flutter of complacency like a 
 turkey's tail. 
 
 "It happened to be a bearskin," she murmured. "But 
 children will be children. We oughtn't to forget that we 
 were all children once, Mr. Touchwood." 
 
 "So no doubt," John nervously continued, "you will be 
 glad to see them when they come back to-night. Their 
 room ..." 
 
 "I shall give orders at once, Mr. Touchwood." 
 
 He wished that she would not harp upon the Mr. Touch- 
 wood; he seemed to detect in it a kind of reproachful 
 formality; but he thanked her and hoped nervously she 
 would now leave him to George. 
 
 "Oh dear me, why the girl hasn't lit the fire," Mrs. 
 Easton exclaimed, evidently searching for a gracious action. 
 
 George eying his brother with a glance between admira- 
 tion and disquietude told his landlady that he thought the 
 fire smoked a little. 
 
 "I shall have the chimney swept to-morrow," she answered 
 as grandly as if she had conferred a dukedom upon J»hn 
 and an earldom upon George. 
 
 Then with a special smile that was directed not so much 
 toward the successful author as toward the gallant male she 
 tucked away the check in her bodice, where it looked as 
 forlorn as a skiff upon the tumultuous billows of the Atlantic, 
 and went off to put on her green satin for dinner. 
 
Poor Relations 141 
 
 "We shall all hope to see you at half-past seven," she 
 paused in the doorway to assure John. 
 
 "You know, I'll tell you what it is, old chap," said George 
 when they were alone again, "You ought to have taken up 
 the commission business and / ought to have written plays. 
 But thanks very much for tiding me over this difficult time." 
 
 "Yes," said John, a little sharply. "Your wife's current 
 account wasn't flowing quite strongly enough, was it?" 
 
 "Wonderful woman, Mrs. Easton," George declared. 
 "She has a keen eye for business." 
 
 "And for pleasure too, I should imagine," said John, 
 austerely. "But get on your coat, George," he added, 
 "because we must go out and inquire at all the police 
 stations in turn for news of Bertram and Viola. We can't 
 stop here discussing that woman." 
 
 "I tell you the kids will be all right. You mustn't get 
 fussy, John. It's absurd to go out now," George protested. 
 "In fact I daren't. I must think of my health. Dr. Burnham 
 who's staying here for a congress of medical men has given 
 me a lot of advice, and as he has refused to charge me a 
 penny for it, the least I can do is to pay attention to what 
 he says. Besides, what are we going to do?" 
 
 "Visit all the police stations in London." 
 
 "What shall we gain by doing that? Have you ever been 
 to a police station? They're most uncomfortable places to 
 hang about in before dinner." 
 
 "Get on your coat," John repeated. 
 
 George sighed. 
 
 "Well, if you insist, I suppose you have the right to insist; 
 but in my opinion it's a waste of time. And if the kids are 
 in a police station, I think it would teach them a dashed 
 good lesson to keep them there for awhile. You don't want 
 to encourage them to lose themselves every day. I wish you 
 had half a dozen kids." 
 
 John, however, was inflexible; the sight of his brother 
 sitting in that aqueous room and pondering the might-have- 
 beens of the race course had kindled in his breast the fire of a 
 
142 Poor Kelations 
 
 reformer; George must be taught that he could not bring 
 children into the world without being prepared to look after 
 them. He must and should be taught 
 
 "Why, you'd take more trouble," he declared, "if you'd 
 lost a fox terrier." 
 
 "Of course I should," George agreed. "I should have to."^ 
 
 John reddened with indignation. 
 
 "Don't be angry, old chap. I didn't mean that I should 
 think more of a fox- terrier. But, don't you see, a dog is 
 dependent upon its collar, whereas Bertram and Viola can 
 explain where they come from. Is it very cold out?" 
 
 "You'd better wear your heavy coat." 
 
 "That means I shall have to go all the way upstairs," 
 groaned George. 
 
 The two brothers walked along the hall, and John longed 
 to prod George with a heavy, spiked pole. 
 
 "Going out, Touchwood?" inquired an elderly man of 
 military appearance, who was practicing golf putts from one 
 cabbage rose to another on the Brussels carpet. 
 
 "Yes, I'm going out. Major. You know my brother, don't 
 you? You remember Major Downman, John?" 
 
 George left his brother with the major and toiled list- 
 lessly upstairs. 
 
 "I think I once saw a play of yours, Mr. Touchwood." 
 
 John smiled as mechanically as the major might have 
 returned a salute. 
 
 "The Fall of Nineveh, wasn't it?" 
 
 The author bowed an affirmative: it was hardly worth 
 while differentiating between Nineveh and Babylon when he 
 was just going out. 
 
 "Yes," the major persisted. "Wasn't there a good deal 
 of talk about the scantness of some of the ladies' 
 dresses?" 
 
 "There may have been," John said. "We had to save on 
 the dresses what we spent on the hanging gardens." 
 
 "Quite," agreed the major, wisely. "But I'm not a puri- 
 tan myself. 
 
Poor Relations i43 
 
 John bowed again to show his appreciation of the admis- 
 sion. 
 
 "Oh, no. Rather the reverse, in fact. I play golf every 
 Sunday, and if it's wet I play bridge." 
 
 John wished that George would be quick with his coat. 
 
 "But I don't go in much for the dieater nowadays." 
 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "No, though I used to when I was a subaltern. By gad, 
 yes! But it was better, I think, in my young days. No 
 offense to you, Mr. Touchwood." 
 
 "Distance does lend enchantment," John assented. 
 
 "Quite, quite. I suppose you don't remember a piece at 
 the old Prince of Wales? What was it called? Upon my 
 soul, I've forgotten. It was a capital piece, though. I 
 remember there was a scene in which the uncle — or it may 
 not have been the uncle — no, I'm wrong. It was at the 
 Strand. Or was it? God bless my soul, I don't know which 
 it was. You don't remember the piece? It was either at 
 the Prince of Wales or the Strand, or, by Jove, was it 
 Toole's?" 
 
 Was George never coming? Every moment would bring 
 Major Downman nearer to the heart of his reminiscence, 
 and unless he escaped soon he might havie to submit to a 
 narrative of the whole plot. 
 
 "Do you know what I'm doing?" the Major began again. 
 "I'm confusing two pieces. That's what I'm doing. But I 
 know an uncle arrived suddenly." 
 
 "Yes, uncles are often rather fidgety," John agreed. "Ah, 
 excuse me. Major. I see my brother coming downstairs. 
 Good-by, Major, good-by. I should like to have a chat with 
 you one of these days about the mid-Victorian theater." 
 
 "Delighted," the Major said, fervently. "I shall think of 
 that play before to-night. Don't you be afraid. Yes, it's 
 on the tip of my tongue. On the very tip. But I'm con- 
 fusing two theaters, t see where I've gone wrong." 
 
 At that moment there was the sound of a taxi's arrival at 
 Halma House; the bell rang; when George opened the door 
 
144 Poor Relations 
 
 for John and himself to pass out, they were met by Mrs. 
 Worfolk holding Viola and Bertram tightly, one in each 
 hand. 
 
 "I told you they'd turn up," George said, and immediately 
 took off his overcoat with a sigh of relief. "Well, you've 
 given us a nice hunt," he went on with an indignant scowl 
 at the children. "Come along to my room and explain 
 where you've been. Good evening, Mrs. Worfolk." 
 
 In their father's sitting-room Bertram and Viola stood up 
 to take their trial. 
 
 "Yes," opened Mrs. Worfolk, on whom lay the burden of 
 narrating the malefactors' behavior. "Yes, I've brought back 
 the infant prodigals, and a nice job I've had to persuade 
 them to come quiet. In fact, I never had such a job since I 
 took my poor sister's Herbert hollering to the hospital with 
 a penny as he'd nearly choked himself with, all through him 
 sucking it to get at some sweet stuff which was stuck to the 
 edge. He didn't choke, though, because I patted him all 
 down the street the same as if I'd been bowling a hoop, and 
 several people looked at me in a very inquisitive way. Not 
 that I ever pay attention to how people looks, except in 
 church. To begin with, the nerve they've got. Well, I 
 mean to say, when any one packs up some luggage and sends 
 it off in a taxi, whoever expects to see it come back again 
 almost at once ? It came bouncing back, I do declare, as if 
 it had been India rubber. 'Well,' as I said to Maud, 'It 
 just shows how deep they are, and Mr. Touchwood'U have 
 trouble with them before the day's done. You mark my 
 words.' And, sure enough, just as I'd made up my mind that 
 you wouldn't be in to tea, rat-a-tat-tat on the front door, 
 and up drives my lord and my lady as grand as you like in a 
 taxi. Of course, it give me a bit of a turn, not seeing you, 
 sir, and I was just going to ask if you'd had an accident or 
 something, when my lord starts in to argue with the driver 
 that he'd only got to pay half fare for himself and his sister, 
 the same as his father does when they travel by train. Oh, 
 yes; he was going to pay the man himself. Any one would 
 
Poor Relations 145 
 
 of thought it was the Juke of Wellington, to hear him argu- 
 ing with that driver. Well, anyway, in the end, of course 
 I had to pay the difference out of my housekeeping money, 
 which you'll find entered in the book. And then, without 
 so much as a blink, my lord starts in to tell how they'd gone 
 into the Small Rat's House — " 
 
 "Cats," interrupted Viola, solemnly. 
 
 "Well, rats or cats, what does it matter, you naughty girl? 
 It wasn't of rats or cats you were thinking, but running away 
 from your poor uncle, as you perfeckly well know. Yes, 
 indeed, sir, they went into this small house and dodged you 
 like two pickpockets and then went careering out of the Zoo 
 in the opposite direction. The first taxi that came along 
 they caught hold of and drove back to Church Row, 'But 
 your uncle intended for you to go back to your father, Mr. 
 George, in Earl's Court,' I remarked very severely. 'We 
 know,' they says to me, laughing like two hyenas. 'But we 
 don't want to go back to Earl's Court,' putting in a great 
 deal of rudeness about Earl's Court, which, not wanting to 
 get them into worse trouble than what they will get into 
 as it is, I won't repeat. 'And we won't go back to Earl's 
 Court,' they said, what's more. 'We won't go back.' Well, 
 sir, when I've had my orders given me, I know where I am, 
 and the policeman at the corner being a friend of Elsa's, he 
 helped; for, believe me or not, they struggled like two con- 
 vicks with Maud and I. Well, to cut a long story short, 
 here they are, and just about fit to be put to bed on the 
 instant." 
 
 John could not fancy that Eleanor had contrived such an 
 elaborate display of preference for his company, and with 
 every wish to support Mrs. Worfolk by an exhibition of 
 avuncular sternness he could only smile at his nephew and 
 niece. Indeed, it cost him a great effort not to take them 
 back with him at once to Hampstead. He hardened himself, 
 however, and tried to look shocked. 
 
 "We wanted to stay with you," said Bertram. 
 
 "We wanted to stay with you," echoed Viola. 
 
146 Poor Relations 
 
 "We didn't want to dodge you in the Small Cats' House. 
 But we had to," said Bertram. 
 
 "Yes, we had to," echoed Viola. 
 
 "Their luggage 'as come back with them," interrupted 
 Mrs. Worfolk, grimly. 
 
 "Oh, of course, they must stay here," John agreed. "Oh, 
 unquestionably ! I wasn't thinking of anything else." 
 
 He beckoned to Bertram and Viola to follow him out of 
 the room. 
 
 "Look here," he whispered to them in the passage, "be 
 good children and stay quietly at home. We shall meet 
 at Christmas." He pressed a sovereign into each hand. 
 
 "Good lummy," Bertram gasped. "I wish I'd had this 
 on the fifth of November. I'd have made old Major Down- 
 man much more waxy than he was when I tied a squib to 
 his coat." 
 
 "Did you, Bertram, did you? You oughtn't to have done 
 that. Though I can understand the temptation. But don't 
 waste this on fireworks." 
 
 "Oh no," said Bertram. "I'm going to buy Miss Moxley 
 a parrot, because we lost hers." 
 
 "Are you, Bertram?" John exclaimed with some emotion. 
 "That shows a fine spirit, my boy. I'm very pleased with 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," said Bertram, "because then with what you gave 
 V we'll buy a monkey at the same time." 
 
 "Good heavens," cried John, turning pale. "A monkey?" 
 
 "That will be nice, won't it. Uncle John?" Viola asked, 
 tenderly. 
 
 But perhaps it would escape from an upper window like 
 the parrot, John thought, before Christmas. 
 
 When the children had been sent upstairs and Mrs. Wor- 
 folk had gone back to Hampstead, John told his brother that 
 he should not stop to dinner after all. 
 
 "Oh, all right," George said. "But I had something to 
 talk over with you. Those confounded children put it clean 
 out of my mind. I had a strange letter from Mama this 
 
Poor Relatians 147 
 
 week. It seems that Hugh has got intft rather a nasty fix. 
 She doesn't say what it is, and I don't kijow why she wrote 
 to me of all people. But she's evidently frightened about 
 Hugh and asks me to approach you on his behalf." 
 
 "What on earth has he been doing now?" asked John, 
 gloomily. 
 
 "I should think it was probably money," said George. 
 "Well, I told you I'd had a lot of worry lately, and I have 
 been very worried about this news of Hugh. Very worried. 
 I'm afraid it may be serious this time. But if I were you, 
 old chap, I should refuse to do anything about it. Why 
 should he come to you to get him out of a scrape? You've 
 done enough for him, in my opinion. You mustn't let people 
 take advantage of your good nature, even if they are rela- 
 tions. I'm sorry my kids have been a bit of a nuisance, but, 
 after all, they are still only kids, and Hugh isn't. He's old 
 enough to know better. Mama says something about the 
 police, but that may only be Hugh's bluff. I shouldn't 
 worry myself if I were you. It's no good for us all to 
 worry." 
 
 "I shall go and see Hugh at once," John decided. "You're 
 not keeping anything from me, George? He's not actually 
 under arrest?" 
 
 "Oh, no, you won't have to visit any more police stations 
 to-night," George promised. "Hugh is living with his friend, 
 Aubrey Fenton, at 22 Carlington Road, West Kensington." 
 
 "I shall go there to-night," John declared. 
 
 He had almost reached the front door when George called 
 him back. 
 
 "I've been trying to work out a riddle," he said, earnestly. 
 "You know there's a medicine called Easton's Syrup? Well, 
 I thought . . . don't be in such a hurry ; you'll muddle me 
 up . . . and I shall spoil it . . ." 
 
 "Try it on Major Downman," John advised, crossly, 
 slamming the door of Halma House behind him. "Fatuous, 
 that's what George is, utterly fatuous," he assured himself 
 as he hurried down the steps. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JOHN decided to walk from Earl's Court to West Ken- 
 sington. Being still in complete ignorance of what Hugh 
 had done, he had a presentiment that this time it was some- 
 thing really grave, and he was now beginning to believe that 
 George knew how grave it was. Perhaps his decision to go 
 on foot was not altogether wise, for he was tired out by a 
 convulsive day, and he had never experienced before such a 
 fathomless sinking of the stomach on the verge of being 
 mixed up in a disagreeable family complication, which was 
 prolonged by the opportunity that the walk afforded him for 
 dismal meditation. While he hurried with bowed head 
 along one ill-lighted road after another a temptation assailed 
 him to follow George's advice and abandon Hugh, and not 
 merely Hugh, but all the rest of his relations, a temptation 
 that elaborated itself into going back to Church Row, pack- 
 ing up, and escaping to Arizona or British East Africa or 
 Samoa. In the first place, he had already several times vowed 
 never moreio have anything to do with his youngest brother ; 
 secondly, he was justified in resenting strongly the tortuous 
 road by which he had been approached on his behalf ; thirdly, 
 It might benefit Hugh's morals to spend a week or two in 
 fear of the ubiquitous police, instead of a few stay-at-home 
 tradesmen ; fourthly, if anything serious did happen to Hugh, 
 it would serve as a warning to the rest of his relations, par- 
 ticularly to George; finally, it was his dinner hour, and if 
 he waited to eat his dinner before tackling Hugh, he should 
 undoubtedly tackle him afterward in much too generous a 
 frame of mind. Yes, it would be wiser to go home at once, 
 have a good dinner, and start for Arizona to-morrow morn- 
 ing. The longer he contemplated it, the less he liked the 
 way he had been beguiled into visiting Hugh. If the — the 
 
Poor Relations 149 
 
 young bounder — no, really bounder was not too strong a 
 vtrord — if the young bounder was in trouble, why could he 
 not have come forward openly and courageously to the one 
 relation who could help him? Why had he again relied 
 upon his mother's fondness, and why had she, as always, 
 chosen the indirect channel by writing to George rather than 
 to himself? The fact of the matter was that his mother and 
 George and Hugh possessed similar loose conceptions of in- 
 tegrity, and now that it was become a question of facing the 
 music they had instinctively joined hands. Yet George had 
 advised him to have nothing more to do with Hugh, which 
 looked as if his latest game was a bit too strong even for 
 George to relish, for John declined to believe that George 
 possessed enough of the spirit of competitive sponging to 
 bother about trying to poach in Hugh's waters; Hilda or 
 Eleanor might, but George. . . . George was frightened, 
 that was it; obviously he knew more than he had told, and 
 he did not want to be exposed ... it would not astonish 
 him to learn that George was in the business with Hugh 
 and had invented that letter from Mama to invoke his inter- 
 vention before it was too late to save himself. What could 
 it all be about ? Curiosity turned the scale against Arizona, 
 and John pressed forward to West Kensington. 
 
 The houses in Carlington Road looked like an over- 
 crowded row of tall, thin men watching a football match on 
 a cold day; each red-faced house had a tree in front of it 
 like an umbrella and trim, white steps like spats; in a fan- 
 tastic mood the comparison might be prolonged indefinitely, 
 even so far as to say that, however outwardly uncomfortable 
 they might appear, like enthusiastic spectators, they were 
 probably all aglow within. If John had been asked whether 
 he liked an interior of pink lampshades and brass gongs, he 
 would have replied emphatically in the negative ; but on this 
 chill November night he found the inside of number 22 
 rather pleasant after the street. The maid looked doubtful 
 over admitting him, which was not surprising, because an 
 
150 Poor Relations 
 
 odor of hot soup in the hall and the chink of plates behind 
 a closed door on the right proclaimed that the family was at 
 dinner. 
 
 "Will you wait in the drawing-room, sir?" she inquired. 
 "I'll inform Mr. Touchwood that you're here." 
 
 John felt a grim satisfaction in thus breaking in upon 
 Hugh's dinner; there was nothing so well calculated to dis- 
 turb even a tranquil conscience as an unexpected visit at 
 such an hour; but the effect upon guilt would be . . . 
 
 "Just say that a gentleman wishes to speak to him for a 
 minute. No name," he replied. 
 
 The walk through the dim streets, coupled with specula- 
 tions upon the various crimes that his brother might have 
 committed, had perhaps invested John's rosy personality with 
 an unusual portentousness, for the maid accepted his instruc- 
 tions fearfully and was so much flustered by them that she 
 forgot to turn up the gas in the drawing-room, of which 
 John was glad; he assured himself that the heavily draped 
 room in the subdued light gave the final touch to the atmos- 
 phere of horror which he aimed at creating; and he could 
 not resist opening the door to enjoy the consternation in the 
 dining-room just beyond. 
 
 "What is It?" 
 
 A murmur from the maid. 
 
 "Well, you'd better finish your soup first. I wouldn't let 
 my soup get cold for anybody." 
 
 There followed a general buzz from the midst of which 
 Hugh emerged, his long, sallow face seeming longer than 
 usual in his anxiety, his long, thin neck craning forward like 
 an apprehensive bird's, and his bony fingers clutching a nap- 
 kin with which he dusted his legs nervously. 
 
 "Like a flag of truce," John thought, and almost simul- 
 taneously felt a sharp twinge of resentment at Hugh's daring 
 to sport a dinner jacket with as much effrontery as if his life 
 had been as white as that expanse of shirt. 
 
 "Good Lord," Hugh exclaimed when he recognized his 
 brother. "I thought you were a detective, at least. Come 
 
P o or Rejations 151 
 
 in and have some grub, won't you? Mrs. Fenton will be 
 awfully glad to see you." 
 
 John demurred at the invitation. Judging by what he had 
 been told about Mrs. Fenton's attitude toward Hugh, he did 
 not think that Touchwood was a welcome name in 22 Car- 
 lington Road. 
 
 "Aubrey!" Hugh was shouting. "One of my brothers has 
 just blown in." 
 
 John felt sure that the rapid feminine voice he could 
 faintly hear had a distinct note of expostulation in it; but, 
 however earnest the objection, it was at once drowned in the 
 boisterous hospitality of Aubrey, who came beaming into the 
 hall — a well set up young man of about twenty-five with a 
 fresh complexion, glasses, an opal solitaire in his shirt, and a 
 waxy white flower in his buttonhole. 
 
 "Do come in," he begged, with an encouraging wave of 
 his napkin. "We've only just begun." 
 
 Although John felt that by dining in this house he was 
 making himself an accessory after the still undivulged fact, 
 he was really so hungry by now that he could not bring 
 himself to refuse. He knew that he was displaying weakness, 
 but he compounded with his austere self by arguing that he 
 was more likely to arrive at the truth if he avoided anything 
 in the nature of precipitate action. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton did not receive her guest as cordially as her 
 son; in fact, she showed plainly that she resented extremely 
 his having been invited to dinner. She was a well-preserved 
 woman and reminded John of a pink crystallized pear; her 
 frosted transformation glistened like encrusted sugar round 
 the stalk, which was represented by a tubular head ornament 
 on the apex of the carefully tended pyramid; her greeting 
 was sticky. 
 
 "My son's friend has spoken of you," Mrs. Fenton was 
 saying, coldly, in reply to John's apologies for intruding upon 
 her like this. He for his part was envying her ability to 
 refer to Hugh without admitting his individual existence, 
 when somebody kicked him under the table, and, looking up, 
 11 
 
152 Poor Relations 
 
 he saw that Hugh was frowning at him in a cautionary 
 manner. > 
 
 "I've already met your brother, the writer," his hostess 
 continued. 
 
 "My brother, James?" asked John in amazement. He 
 could not envisage James in these surroundings. 
 
 "No, I have not had the pleasure of meeting him yet. I 
 was referring to the dramatist, who has dined with me sev- 
 eral times." 
 
 "But," John began, when another kick under the table 
 silenced him. 
 
 "Pass the salt, will you, George, old boy?" Hugh said 
 loudly. 
 
 John's soup was cold, but in the heat of his suppressed 
 indignation he did not notice it. So George had been mas- 
 gnerading in this house as himself; no wonder he had not 
 encouraged the idea of an interview with Hugh. Evidently 
 a dishonest outrage had been perpetrated in his name, and 
 though Hugh might kick him under the table, he should 
 soon obtain his revenge by having Hugh kicked out of the 
 house. John took as much pleasure in his dinner that evening 
 as a sandbag might have taken in being stuffed with sand. 
 He felt full when it was over, but it was a soulless affair; 
 and when Mrs. Fenton, who had done nothing except look 
 down her nose all through the meal, left the table, he turned 
 furiously upon Hugh. 
 
 "What does this gross impersonation mean ?" he demanded. 
 
 Aubrey threw himself figuratively between the brothers, 
 which only seemed to increase John's irritation. 
 
 "We wanted to jolly the mater along," he explained. 
 "No harm was intended, but Hughie was keen to prove' his 
 respectability ; so, as you and he weren't on the most cordial 
 tenns, we introduced your brother, George, as yourself. It 
 was a compliment, really, to your public character; but old 
 George rather enjoyed dining here, and I'm bound to say he 
 sold the mater some very decent port. In fact, jTou're drink- 
 ing it now." 
 
Poor Relations 153 
 
 "And I suppose," said John, angrily, "that between you all 
 you've perpetrated some discreditable fraud, what? I sup- 
 pose you've been ordering shirts in my name as well as selling 
 port, eh? I'll disown the bill. You understand me? I 
 won't have you masquerading as a gentleman, Hugh, when 
 you can't behave like one. It's obtaining money under false 
 pretenses, and you can write to your mother till you're as 
 blue in the face as the ink in your bottle — it won't help you. 
 I can put up with laziness; I can tolerate stupidity; I can 
 endure dissipation ; but I'm damned if I'll stand being intro- 
 duced as George. Port, indeed! Don't try to argue with 
 me. You must take the consequences. Mr. Fenton, I'm 
 sorry I allowed myself to be inveigled like this into your 
 mother's houSe. I shall write to her when I get home, and 
 I hope she will take steps to clear that impostor out. No, I 
 won't have a cigar — though I've no doubt I shall presently 
 receive the bill for them, unless I've also been passed off as 
 a tobacconist's agent by George* As for him, I've done with 
 him, too. I shall advertise in the Times that neither he nor 
 Hugh has any business to order things in my name. I came 
 here to-night in response to an urgent appeal; I find that 
 I've been made a fool of ; I find myself in a most undignified 
 position. No, I will not have another glass of port. I 
 don't know how much George exacted for it, but let 
 me tell you that it isn't even good port: it's turbid and 
 fiery." 
 
 John rose from the table and was making for the door, 
 when Hugh took hold of his arm. 
 
 "Look here, old chap," he began. 
 
 "Don't attempt to soften me with pothouse endearments," 
 said John, fiercely. "I will not be called 'old chap.' " 
 
 "All right, old chap, I won't," said Hugh, "But before 
 you go jumping into the street like a lighted cracker, please 
 listen. Nobody has been ordering anything in your name. 
 You're absolutely off the lines there. Why, I exhausted your 
 credit years ago. And I don't see why you should grudge 
 poor old George a few dinners." 
 
154 Poor Relations 
 
 "You rascal," John stammered. "You impudent rascal!" 
 
 "Don't annoy him, Hughie," Aubrey advised. "I can see 
 his point." 
 
 "Oh, you can, sir, can you?" John snapped. "You can 
 understand, can you, how it affects me to be saddled with 
 brothers like these and port like this?" 
 
 John was so furious that he could not bring himself to 
 mention George or Hugh by name : they merely represented 
 maddening abstractions of relationship, and he longed for 
 some phrase like "my son's friend" with which he might dis- 
 own them forever. 
 
 "You mustn't blame your brother George, Mr. Touch- 
 wood," urged Aubrey. "He's not involved in this latest 
 affair. I'm sorry we told the mater that he was you, but the 
 mater required jollying along, as I explained. She can't 
 appreciate Hugh. He's too modern for her." 
 
 "I sympathize with Mrs. Fenton." 
 
 "You must forgive a ruse. It's just the kind of ruse I 
 should think a playwright would appreciate. You know. 
 Charley's Aunt and all that." 
 
 John clenched his fist: "Don't you mutter to me about a 
 sense of humor," he said to Hugh, wrathfuUy. 
 
 "I wasn't muttering," replied Hugh. "I merely observed 
 that a little sense of humor wouldn't be a bad thing. I'm 
 sorry that George has been dragged like a red herring across 
 the business, because it's a much more serious matter than 
 simply introducing George to Mrs. Fenton as you and selling 
 her some port which personally I think is not at all bad, eh, 
 Aubrey?" 
 
 He poured himself out another glass to prove his convic- 
 tion. 
 
 "You may think all this a joke," John retorted. "But I 
 don't. I consider it a gross exhibition of bad taste." 
 
 "All right. Granted. Let's leave it at that," sighed 
 Hugh, wearily. "But you don't give a fellow much encour- 
 agement to own up when he really is in a tight corner. 
 However, personally I've got past minding. If I'm sen- 
 
Poor Relations ISS 
 
 tenced to penal servitude, it'll be your fault for not listening. 
 Only don't say I disgraced the family name." 
 
 "Hugh's right," Aubrey put in. "We really are in a 
 deuce of a hole." 
 
 "Disgrace the family name?" John repeated. "Allow me 
 to tell you that when you hawk George round London as 
 your brother, the playwright, I consider that is disgracing 
 the family name." 
 
 "So that if I'm arrested for forgery," Hugh asked, "you 
 won't mind?" 
 
 "Forgery?" John gasped. 
 
 Hugh nodded. 
 
 "Yes, we had bad luck in the straight," he murmured, 
 tossing off two more glasses of port. "Cleared every hurdle 
 like a bird and . . . however, it's no good grumbling. 
 We just didn't pull it off." 
 
 "No," sighed Aubrey. "We were beaten by a short head." 
 
 John sat down unsteadily, filled up half a glass of Bur- 
 gundy with sherry, and drank it straight off without realiz- 
 ing that George's port was even worse than he had supposed. 
 
 "Whose name have you forged?" he brought himself to 
 ask at last. 
 
 "Stephen Crutchley's." 
 
 "Good heavens!" he groaned. "But this is horrible. And 
 has he found out? Does he know who did it?" 
 
 It was characteristic of John that he did not ask for how 
 much his friend's name had been forged. 
 
 "He has his suspicions," Hugh admitted. "And he's 
 bound to know pretty soon. In fact, I think the only thing 
 to do is for you to explain matters. After all, in a way it 
 was a joke." 
 
 "Yes, a kind of experimental joke," Aubrey agreed. 
 
 "But it has proved to me how easy it is to cash a forged 
 check," Hugh continued, hopefully. "And, of course, if you 
 talk to Crutchley he'll be all right. He's not likely to be 
 very severe on the brother of an old friend. That was one 
 of the reasons we experimented on him — ^that, and also 
 
156 Poor Relations 
 
 partly because I found an old check book of his. He's awfully 
 careless, you know, is Stephen — ^very much the high-brow 
 architect and all that, though he doesn't forget to charge. 
 In fact, so many people have had to pay for his name that it 
 serres him right to find himself doing the same for once." 
 
 "Does Mrs. Fenton know anything of this?" John asked. 
 
 "Why, no," Aubrey answered, quickly. "Well, women 
 i&n\ understand about money, do they? And the mater has 
 less idea of the wicked world than most. My father was 
 always a bit of a recluse, don't you see?" 
 
 "Was he?" John said, sarcastically. "I should think his 
 son will be a bit of a recluse, too, before he's done. But 
 forgery! No, it's incredible — incredible!" 
 
 "Don't worry, Johnnie," Hugh insisted. "Don't worry. 
 I'm not worrying at all, now that you've come along. No- 
 body knows anything for certain yet. George doesn't know. 
 Mana doesn't know. Mrs. Fenton doesn't know. And 
 Stevie only guesses." 
 
 "How do you know that he guesses?" John demanded. 
 
 "Well, that's part of the story, eh, Aubrey?" said Hugh, 
 turning to his accomplice, who nodded sagely. 
 
 "Which I suppose one ought to tell in full, eh, Aubrey?" 
 he went on. 
 
 "I think it would interest your brother — I mean — quite 
 apart from his being your brother, it would interest him as a 
 playwright," Aubrey agreed. 
 
 "Glasses round, then," called Hugh, cheerfully. 
 
 "There's a vacant armchair by the fireplace," Aubrey 
 p«inted out to John. 
 
 "Thanks," said John, stiffly. "I don't suppose that the 
 comfort of an armchair will alleviate my feelings. Begin, 
 sir," he commanded Hugh. "Begin, and get it finished 
 quickly, for heaven's sake, so that I can leave this house and 
 think out my course of action in solitude." 
 
 "Do you know what it is, Johnnie?" Hugh said, craning 
 his neck and examining his brother with an air of suddenly 
 aroused curiosity. "You're beginning to dramatize yourself. 
 
foor Relations IS7 
 
 I suppose it's inevitable, but I wish you wouldn't. It gives 
 me the same kind of embarrassed feeling that I get wheh a 
 woman starts reciting. You're not subjective. That's the 
 curse of all romantic writers. You want to get an objective 
 viewpoint. You're not the only person on in this scene. I'm: 
 on. Aubrey's on. Mrs. Fenton and Stevie Crutchley are 
 waiting in the wings, as it were. And, for all I know, the 
 police may be waiting there, too, by this time. Get an 
 objective viewpoint, Johnnie. Subjectivity went out vrith 
 Rousseau." 
 
 "Confound your impudence," John spluttered, 
 
 "Yes, that's much better than talking about thinking out a 
 course of action in solitude," Hugh approved. "But don't 
 run away with the idea that I'm trying to annoy you. I'm 
 not. I've every reason to encourage the romantic side of you, 
 because finally it will be the romantic side of you that will 
 shudder to behold your youngest brother in the dock. In 
 fact, I'm going the limit on your romance. At the same time 
 I don't like to see you laying it on too thick. I'll give you 
 your fine feelings and all that. I'll grant you your natural 
 mortification, etcetera, etcetera. But try to see my point 
 of view as weU as your own. When you're thinking out a 
 course of action in solitude, you'll light a cigar with a good 
 old paunch on it, and you'll put your legs up on the mantel- 
 piece, unless you've grown old-maidish and afraid of scratch- 
 ing the furniture, and you'll pat your passbook, which is 
 probably suffering from fatty degeneration. That's a good 
 phrase, Aubrey?" 
 
 "Devilish good," the accomplice allowed. "But, look 
 here, Hugh, steady — the mater gets rather bored if we keep 
 the servants out of the dining-room too long, and I think 
 your brother is anxious" to have the story. So fire ahead, 
 there's a good fellow." 
 
 Hugh looked hurt at the lack of appreciation which 
 greeted the subtler shades of his discourse, but, observing 
 that John looked still more hurt at being kept waiting, he 
 made haste to begin without further reference to style. 
 
158 Poor Relations 
 
 "Well, you see, Johnnie, I've always been unlucky." 
 
 John made a gesture of impatience; but Hugh raised a 
 sedative hand. 
 
 "I know there's nothing that riles lucky people so much as 
 when unlucky people claim the prerogatives of their bad luck. 
 I'm perfectly willing to admit that I'm lazier than you. But 
 remember that energy is a gift, not an attainment. And I 
 was born tired. The first stunning blow I had was when 
 the old man died. You remember he always regarded me as 
 a bit of an infant prodigy? So I was from his point of view, 
 for he was over sixty when he begot me, and he used to look 
 at me just as some people look at the silver cups they've won 
 for races. But when he died, all the advantages of being the 
 youngest son died with him, and I realized that I was an 
 encumbrance. I'm willing to grant that I was a nuisance, 
 too, but . . . however, it's no use raking up old scores 
 . . .I'm equally willing to admit that you've always 
 treated me very decently and that I've always behaved very 
 rottenly. I'll admit also that my taste in clothes was beyond 
 my powers of gratification; that I liked wine and women — 
 or to put a nicer point upon it — ^whisky and waitresses. I 
 did. And what of it? You'll observe that I'm not going 
 to try to justify myself. Have another glass of port? No? 
 Right-o; well, I will. I repeat I'm not going to attempt to 
 justify myself, even if I couldn't, which I can, but in vino 
 Veritas, which I think you'll admit is Latin. Latin, I said. 
 Precisely. Where was I ?" 
 
 "Hugh, old boy, buck up," his friend prompted, anxiously. 
 
 "Come, sir," John said, trembling visibly with indigna- 
 tion. "Get on with your story while you can. I don't want 
 to waste my time listening to the meanderings of a 
 drunkard." 
 
 Hugh's eyes were glazing over like a puddle in frost, but 
 he knitted his brows and regarded his brother with intense 
 concentration. 
 
 "Don't try to take any literary advantage of me, John- 
 nie. You can dig out the longest word in the dictionary. 
 
Poor Relations 159 
 
 but I've got a longer. Metempsychosis! Hear that? I'm 
 willing to admit that I don't like having to say it, but you 
 find me another man who can say it at all after George's 
 port. Metempsychosis! And it's not a disease. No, no, no, no, 
 don't you run away with the idea that it's a disease. Not 
 at all. It's a religion. And for three years I've been wast- 
 ing valuable knowledge like that on an architect's office. 
 Do you thing Stevie wants to hear about metempsychosis — 
 that's the third time I've cleared it — of course he doesn't. 
 Stephen Crutchley is a Goth. What am I ? I'm a Falladian. 
 There you have it. Am I right, Aubrey?" 
 
 "Quite right, old boy, only come to the point." 
 
 "That's all right, Aubrey, don't you be afraid. I'm nurs- 
 ing her along by the rails. You can lay a hundred pounds 
 to a box of George's cigars bar one. And that one's me. 
 Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, I'm not going to say a 
 word against Stephen, Johnnie. He's a friend of yours. 
 He's my boss. He's one of England's leading ecclesiastical 
 architects. But that doesn't help me when I find myself 
 in a Somersetshire village seven miles from the nearest sta- 
 tion arguing with a deaf parson about the restoration of 
 his moldy church. Does it? Of course not. It doesn't help 
 me when I find myself sleeping in damp sheets and woken 
 up at seven o'clock by a cross between a gardener and a char- 
 woman for early service. Does it? Of course not. Archi- 
 tecture like everything else is a good job when you're waving 
 the flag on top of the tower; but when you're digging the 
 foundations it's rotten, Stevie and I have had our little 
 differences, but when he's sober — I mean when I'm sober — 
 he'll tell you that there's not one of his juniors he thinks 
 better of than me. I'm against Gothic. I consider Gothic 
 the muddle-headed expression of a muddle-headed period. 
 But I've been loyal to Stevie, only. ..." 
 
 Hugh paused solemnly, while his friend regarded him with 
 nervous solicitude. 
 
 "Only," Hugh repeated in a loud voice. "Metempsy- 
 chosis," he murmured, and drinking two more glasses of 
 
i6o Poor Relations 
 
 wine, he sat back in his chair and shook his head in mute 
 despair of human speech. 
 
 Aubrey took John aside. 
 
 "I'm afraid Hugh's too far gone to explain all the details 
 to-night," he whispered. "But it's really very serious. You 
 see he found an old check book of Mr. Crutchley's, and 
 more from a joke than anything else he tried to see if it was 
 difficult to cash a check. It wasn't. He succeeded. But 
 he's suspected. I helped him indirectly," but of course I 
 don't come into the business except as an accessory. Only, 
 if you take my advice, you'll call on Mr. Crutchley as soon 
 as you can, and I'm sure you'll be able to square things up. 
 You'll know how to manage him; but Hugh has a way of 
 exasperating him." 
 
 All the bland, the almost infantine simplicity of Aubrey 
 Fenton's demeanor did not avail to propitiate John's rage; 
 and when the maid came in with a message from his hostess 
 to ask if it would soon be convenient to allow the table to 
 be cleared, he announced that he should not remain another 
 minute in the house. 
 
 "But can Hugh count on your support?" Aubrey per- 
 sisted. He spoke like an election agent who is growing 
 rapidly doubtful of his candidate's prospects. 
 
 "He can count on nothing," said John, violently. "He 
 can count on nothing at all. On absolutely nothing at all." 
 
 Anybody who had seen Hugh's condition at this moment 
 would have agreed with John. His eyes had already lost 
 even as much life as might have been discerned in the slow 
 freezing of a puddle, and had now assumed the glassy fixity 
 and perfect roundness of two bottle-stoppers. 
 
 "He can count on nothing," John asseverated. 
 
 "I see," said Aubrey, tactfully. "I'll try and get that 
 across to him. Must you really be going?" 
 
 "Immediately." 
 
 "You'll trot in and say ta-ta to the mater?" 
 
 John had no wish ever again to meet this crystallized lady, 
 but his politeness rose superior to his indignation, and he 
 
Poor Relations i6i 
 
 followed the son of the house into the drawing-room. His 
 last glimpse of Hugh was of a mechanical figure, the only 
 gesture of which was awkwardly to rescue every glass in 
 turn that the maid endeavored to include in her clearance 
 of the table. 
 
 "It's scandalous," muttered John. "It's — it's abominable! 
 Mrs. Fenton," he said with a courtly bow for her hospi- 
 tality, "I regret that your son has encouraged my brother 
 to impose himself upon your good-nature. I shall take 
 steps to insure that he shall do so no longer. I beg your 
 pardon, Mrs. Fenton, I apologize. Good-night." 
 
 "I've always spoilt Aubrey," she said. "And he always 
 had a mania for dangerous toys which he never could learn 
 to work properly. Never!" she repeated, passionately. 
 
 For an instant the musty sugar in which she was inclosed 
 cracked and allowed John a glimpse of the feminine hu- 
 manity underneath ; but In the same instant the crystallization 
 was more complete than ever, and when John released her 
 hand he nearly took out his handkerchief to wipe away the 
 stickiness. 
 
 "I say, what steps are you going to take to-morrow?" 
 Aubrey asked. 
 
 "Never mind," John growled. Inasmuch as he himself 
 had no more idea of what he intended to do than Aubrey, 
 the reply was a good one. 
 
 Where Carlington Road flows into Hammersmith Road 
 John waited for a passing taxi, apostrophizing meanwhile 
 the befogged stars in the London sky. 
 
 "I shall not forget to-night. No, I certainly sha'n't. I 
 doubt if any dramatist ever spent such another, A glimpse 
 at all the animals of the globe, a lunch that would have 
 made a jackal vomit, a search for two lost children, an inter- 
 view with a fatuous brother, a loan of over thirty pounds, 
 a winking landlady, a narrow escape from being bored to 
 death by a Major, a dinner that gave me the sensation of 
 being slowly buried alive, a glass of George's port, and for 
 climax the news that my brother has committed a forgery. 
 
1 62 PoorRelations 
 
 How can I think about Joan of Arc? A few more days 
 like this and I shall never be able to think or write again — 
 however, please God, there'll always be the cinema." 
 
 Whirring home to Hampstead John fell asleep, and when 
 he had supplemented that amount of repose in the taxi by 
 eight hours in his own bed, he woke next morning with his 
 mind made up to square matters with Stephen Crutchley, 
 to withdraw Hugh from architecture, to intern him until 
 Christmas at Ambles, and in the New Year to transport 
 him to British Honduras as a mahogany-planter. He had 
 met on board the Murmania a mahogany-planter who was 
 visiting England for the first time in thirteen years: the 
 profession must be an enthralling one. 
 
 It was only when John reached the oificies of Stephen 
 Crutchley in Staple Inn that he discovered it was Sunday, 
 which meant another whole day's idleness and suspense, and 
 he almost fell to wishing that he was in church again with 
 Bertram and Viola. But there was a sweet sadness in this 
 old paved court, where a few sparrows chirped their plain- 
 tive monotone from an overarching tree, the branches of 
 which fretted a sky of pearly blue, and where several dreary 
 men were sitting upon the benches regarding their frayed 
 boots. John could not remain unsusceptible to the antique 
 charm of the scene, and finding an unoccupied bench he 
 rested there in the timid sunlight. 
 
 "What a place to choose for a forgery," he murmured, 
 reproachfully, and tried to change the direction of his 
 thoughts by remembering that Dr. Johnson had lived here 
 for a time. He had no sooner concentrated upon fancies 
 of that great man than he began to wonder if he was not 
 mistaken in supposing that he had lived here, and he looked 
 round for some one who could inform him. The dreary 
 men virith frayed boots were only counting the Slow minutes 
 of divine service before the public-houses could open: they 
 knew nothing of the lexicographer. But the subject of 
 forgery was not to be driven away by memories of Dr. John- 
 son, because his friend. Dr. Dodd, suddenly jumped into 
 
Poor Relations , 163 
 
 the train of thought, and it was impossible not to conjure up 
 that poor and learned gentleman's last journey to Tyburn 
 nor to reflect how the latticed dormers on the Holborn side 
 of the Inn were the same now as then and had actually 
 seen Dr. Dodd go jolting past. John had often thought 
 how incomprehensible it was that scarcely a century ago 
 people should have been hanged for such crimes as forgery; 
 but n o/ it seemed rather more comprehensible. Of cours e^ 
 he should not like to know that his brother was going to be 
 hanged ; but for the sake of his future it would be an excel- 
 lent thing to revive capital punishment for minor crimes. 
 He should like when all this dreadful business was settled 
 JR) say to his brother, "Oh, by the way, Hugh, I hear they've 
 just passed a bill making forgery a capital offense once 
 more. I think you'll like mahogany-planting." 
 
 But would the fear of death act as a deterrent upon such 
 an one as Hugh, who after committing so dishonorable a 
 crime had lacked even the grace to make his confession of 
 it soberly? It was doubtful: Hugh was without shame. 
 From boyhood his career had been undistinguished by a 
 single decent action ; but on the contrary it had been steadily 
 marred by vice and folly from the time when he had stolen 
 an unused set of British North Borneo stamps from the 
 locker of his best friend at school to this monstrous climax. 
 Forgery! Great heavens, had he ever yet envisaged Hugh 
 listening abjectly (or worse impudently) to the strictures 
 of a scornful judge? Had he yet imagined the headlines in 
 the press? Brother of distinguished dramatist sent to penal 
 servitude. Judge's scathing comments. Mr. Touchwood 
 breaks down in court. Miss Janet Bond's production in- 
 definitely postponed. Surely Stephen would not proceed 
 to extreme measures, but for the sake of their lifelong sym- 
 pathy spare his old friend this humiliation; yet even as 
 John reached this conclusion the chink-diink of the sparrows 
 in the plane-tree sounded upon the air like the chink-chink 
 of the picks on Dartmoor. Hugh a convict! It might well 
 befall thus, if his jaunty demeanor hardened Stephen's heart. 
 
164 Poor Relations 
 
 Suppose that Stephen should be seized with one of those 
 moral crises that can only be relieved by making an example 
 of somebody? Would it not be as well to go down at once 
 to his place in the country and try to square matters, unem- 
 barrassed by Hugh's brazen impenitence ? Or was it already 
 too late? John could not bring himself to believe that his 
 old friend would call in the police without warning him. 
 Stephen had always had a generous disposition, and it might 
 well be that rather than wound John's pride by the revela- 
 tion of his brother's disgrace he had made up his mind to 
 say nothing and to give Hugh another chance: that would be 
 like Stephen. No, he should not intrude upon his week-end ; 
 though how he was going to pass the long Sunday unless he 
 occupied himself with something more cheerful than his own 
 thoughts he did not know. Should he visit James and 
 Beatrice, and take them out to lunch with a Symphony Con- 
 cert to follow? No, he should never be able to keep the 
 secret of Hugh's crime, and James would inevitably wind up 
 jJie discussion by making it seem as if it were entirely his 
 own fault. Should he visit George and warn him that the 
 less intercourse he had with Hugh the better, yes, and inci- 
 dentally observe to George that he resented his impersona- 
 tion of himself at Mrs. Fenton's? No, George's company 
 would be as intolerable as his port. And the children? 
 No, no, let them dress up with minds still untainted by their 
 Uncle Hugh's shame; let them enact Robinson Crusoe and 
 if they liked burn Halma House to the ground. What was 
 unpremeditated arson compared with deliberate forgery? 
 But if there was a genuine criminal streak in the Touch- 
 woods, how was he ever again to feel secure of his relations' 
 honor ? To-morrow he might learn that James had murdered 
 Beatrice because she had slept through the opening chapters 
 of Cord Ormont and his Aminta. To-morrow he might 
 learn that George was a defaulting bookmaker, that Hilda 
 had embezzled the whole of Laurence's board, and that 
 Harold was about to be prosecuted by the Society for Preven- 
 tion of Cruelty to Animals. Why, even his mother might 
 
Poor Relations 165 
 
 have taken to gin-drinking in the small hours of the morn- 
 ing! 
 
 "God forgive me," said John. "I am losing my faith in 
 humanity and my respect for my mother. Yet some imbeciles 
 prate about the romance of crime." 
 
 John felt that if he continued to sit here brooding upon his 
 relations he should be in danger of taking some violent step 
 such as joining the Salvation Army: he remembered how an 
 actor in The Fall of Babylon had brooded upon his inability 
 to say his lings with just the emphasis he as author had re- 
 quired, until on the night before the opening he had left the 
 theater and become a Salvationist. One of the loafers in the 
 court shuffled up to John and begged him for a match ; when 
 John complied he asked for something to use it on, and John 
 was so much distressed by the faint likeness he bore to his 
 eldest brother that he gave him a cigar. 
 
 "Without me that is what they would all be by now, every 
 one of them, James, George, and Hugh," he thought. "But 
 if I hadn't been lucky, so might I," he added, reprovingly, to 
 himself, "though at any rate I should have tried to join a 
 workhouse and not wasted my time cadging for matches in 
 Staple Inn." 
 
 John was not quite clear about workhouses ; he had aban- 
 doned realistic writing before he dealt with workhouse life as 
 it really is. 
 
 "However, I can't sit here depressing myself all day ; be- 
 sides, this bench is damp. What fools those sparrows are to 
 stay chirping in that tree when they might be hopping about 
 in Hampshire — out of reach of Harold's airgun of course — 
 and what a fool I am! But it's no use for me to go home and 
 work at Joan of Arc. The English archers will only be 
 shooting broad arrows all the time. I'll walk slowly to the 
 Garrick, I think, and have an early lunch." 
 
 Perversely enough the club did not seem to contain one 
 sympathetic acquaintance, let alone a friend, that Sunday; 
 and after lunch John was reduced to looking at the portraits 
 of famous dead players, who bored him nearly as much as 
 
1 66 PoorRelations 
 
 one or two of the live ones who were lounging in the smoking- 
 room. 
 
 "This is getting unendurable," he moaned, and there 
 seemed nothing for it but to sally forth and walk the hollow- 
 sounding city. From Long Acre he turned into St. Martin's 
 Lane, shook o£E the temptation to bore himself still more hope- 
 lessly by a visit to the National Gallery, and reached Cock- 
 spur Street Three or four Sabbath loiterers were staring at 
 a window, and John saw that it was the office of the Cunard 
 Line and that the attraction was a model of the S.S. Mur- 
 mania. 
 
 "What a fool I am!" John murmured much more em- 
 phatically than in Staple Inn. He was just going to call a 
 taxi to drive him to Chelsea, when he experienced, from yes- 
 terday a revulsion against taxis. Yesterday had been a night- 
 mare of taxis, between driving to the Zoo and driving to the 
 police station and driving home after that interview with the 
 forger — by this time John had discarded Hugh as a relation 
 — not to mention Mrs. Worfolk in a taxi, and the children in 
 a taxi, and their luggage buzzing backward and forward be- 
 tween Earl's Court and Hampstead in a taxi. No, he should 
 walk to Chealsea: a brisk walk with an objective would do 
 him good. 83 Camera Square. It was indeed rather a tribute 
 to his memory, he flattered himself, that he could remember 
 her address without referring to her card. He should walk 
 along the Embankment; it was only half -past two now. 
 
 It was pleasant walking by the river on that fine afternoon, 
 and John felt as he strode along Grosvenor Road, his spirit 
 rising with the eager tide, that after all there was nothing like 
 the sea, nothing! 
 
 "As soon as I've finished Joan of Arc, I shall take a sea- 
 voyage. It's all very well for George to talk about sea- 
 voyages, but let him do some work first. Even if I do send 
 him for a sea-voyage, how will he spend his time? I know 
 perfectly well. He'll feel seasick for the first week and 
 play poker for the rest of the passage. No, no, after the 
 Christmas holidays at Ambles he'll be as right as a trivet 
 
Poor Relations iS'j 
 
 without a sea-voyage. What is a trivet by the way? Now if 
 I had a secretary, I should make a note of a query like that. 
 As it is, I shall probably never know what a trivet is; but 
 if I had a secretary, I should ask her to look it up in the 
 dictionary when we got home. I dare say I've lost thou- 
 sands of ideas by not having a secretary at hand. I shall 
 have to advertise — or find out in some way about a secretary. 
 Thank heaven, neither Hilda nor Beatrice nor Eleanor nor 
 Edith knows shorthand. But even if Edith did know short- 
 hand, she'd be eternally occupied with the dactylography — 
 as I suppose he'd call it — of Laurence's apostolic successes — 
 there's another note I might make. Of course, it's noth- 
 ing wonderful as a piece of wit, but I might get an epigram 
 worth keeping, say three times a week, if I had a secretary 
 at my elbow. I don't believe that Stephen will make any 
 difficulties about Hugh. Oh no, I don't think so. I was 
 tired this morning after yesterday. This walk is making me 
 see events in their right proportion. Rosification indeed! 
 James brings out these things as if he were a second Sydney 
 Smith ; but in my opinion wit without humor is like marma- 
 lade without butter. And even if I do rosify things, well, 
 what is it that Lady Teazle says? / wish it were spring all 
 the year round and that roses grew under our feet. And it 
 takes something to rosify such moral anemia as Hugh's. 
 By the way I wonder just exactly whereabouts in Chelsea 
 Camera Square is." 
 
 Now if there was one thing that John hated, if there was 
 one thing that dragged even his buoyant spirits into the dust, 
 if there was one thing worse than having a forger for a 
 blood-relation, it was to be compelled to ask his way any- 
 where in London within the four miles radius. He would 
 not even now admit to himself more than that he did not 
 know the exact whereabouts of Camera Square. Although 
 he really had not the remotest idea beyond its location in the 
 extensive borough of Chelsea where Camera Square was, he 
 wasted half-an-hour in dancing a kind of Ladies' Chain with 
 all the side-streets off King's Road and never catching a 
 12 
 
1 68 PoorRelations 
 
 glimpse of his destination. It was at last borne in upon him 
 that if he wanted to call on Mrs. Hamilton at a respectable 
 hour for afternoon tea he should simply have to ask his way. 
 
 Now arose for John the problem of choosing the oracle. 
 He walked on and on, half making up his mind every moment 
 to accost somebody and when he was on the point of doing 
 so perceiving in his expression a latent haughtiness that 
 held him back until it was too late. Had it not been Sunday, 
 he would have entered a shop and bought sufficiently ex- 
 pensive to bribe the shopman from looking astonished at his 
 ignorance. Presently, however, he passed a tobacconist's, 
 and having bought three of the best cigars he had, which 
 were not very good, he asked casually as he was going out 
 the direction of Camera Square. The shopman did not 
 know. He came to another tobacconist's, bought three more 
 cigars, and that shopman did not know either. Gradually 
 with a sharp sense of impending disgrace John realized that 
 he must ask a policeman. He turned aside from the many 
 inviting policemen in the main road, where the contemptuous 
 glances of wayfarers might presume his rusticity, and tried 
 to find a policeman in a secluded by-street. This took an- 
 other half-an-hour, and when John did accost this ponderous 
 hermit of the force he accosted him in broken English. 
 
 "Ees thees ze vay to Cahmehra Squah?" he asked, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders in what he conceived to be the gesture of 
 a Frenchman who had landed that morning from Calais. 
 
 ^'Eh?" 
 
 "Cahmehra Squah?" John repeated. 
 
 The policeman put his hand in his pocket, and John 
 thought he was going to whistle for help ; but it was really 
 to get out a handkerchief to blow his nose and give him time 
 to guess what John wanted to know. 
 
 "Say it again, will yer?" the policeman requested. 
 
 John repeated his Gallic rendering of Camera. 
 
 "I ain't seen it round here. Where do you say you 
 dropped it?" 
 
 "Eet ees a place I vants." 
 
Poor Relations 169 
 
 What slow-witted oafs the English were, thought John 
 with a compassionate sigh for the poor foreigners who must 
 be lost in London every day. However, this policeman was 
 so loutish that he felt he could risk an almost perfect pro- 
 nunciation. 
 
 " Oh, Kemmerer Squer," said the policeman with a huge 
 smile of comprehension. "Why, you're looking at it." He 
 pointed along the road. 
 
 "Damn," thought John." "I needn't have asked at all. 
 Sank you. Good-evening," he said aloud. 
 
 "The same to you and many of them. Napoleon," the 
 policeman nodded. 
 
 John hurried away, and soon he was walking along a 
 narrow garden, very unlike a London garden, for it was full 
 of frost-bitten herbaceous flowers and smelt of the country. 
 Not a house on this side of the square resembled its neighbor ; 
 but Number 83 was the most charmingly odd of all, two 
 stories high with a little Chinese balcony and jasmine over a 
 queer pointed porch of wrought iron. 
 
 "Yes, sir, Mrs. Hamilton is at home," said the maid. 
 
 The last bars of something by Schumann or Chopin died 
 away; in the comparative stillness that succeeded John could 
 hear a canary singing, and the tinkle of tea-cups; there was 
 also a smell of muffins and — mimosa, was it ? Anyway it was 
 very delicious, he thought, while he made his overcoat as 
 small as possible, so as not to fill the tiny hall entirely. 
 
 "Mr. Touchwood was the name?" the maid asked. 
 
 "What an intelligent young woman," he thought. " How 
 much more intelligent than that policeman. But women are 
 more intelligent in small things." 
 
 John felt very large as he bowed his head to enter the 
 drawing-room. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A SUDDEN apprehension of his bulk (though he was 
 only comparatively massive) overcame John when he 
 stood inside the tiny drawing-room of 83 Camera Square; 
 and it was not until the steam from the tea-pot had ma- 
 terialized into Miss Hamilton, who in a dress of filmy gray 
 floated round him as a cloud swathes a mountain, that he 
 felt at ease. 
 
 "Why, how charming of you to keep your word," her 
 well-remembered voice, so soft and deep, was murmuring. 
 "You don't know my mother, do you ? Mother, this is Mr. 
 Touchwood, who was so kind to Ida and me on the voyage 
 back from America." 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton was one of those mothers that never de- 
 stroy the prospects of their children by testifying outwardly 
 to what their beauty may one day come: neither in face nor 
 in expression nor in gesture nor in voice did she bear the least 
 resemblance to her daughter. At first John was inclined to 
 compare her to a diminutive clown ; but presently he caught 
 sight of some golden mandarins marching across a lacquer 
 cupboard and decided that she resembled a mandarin ; after 
 which wherever he looked in the room he seemed to catch 
 sight of her miniature — on the willow-pattern plates, on the 
 mantelpiece in porcelain, and even on the red lacquer bridge 
 that spanned the tea-caddy. 
 
 "We've all heard of Mr. Touchwood," she said, picking 
 up a small silver weapon in the shape of a pea-shooter and 
 puffing out her already plump cheeks in a vain effort to 
 extinguish the flame of the spirit-lamp. "And I'm devoted to 
 the drama. Pouf ! I think this is a very dull instrument, 
 dear. What would England be without Shakespeare ? Pouf ! 
 Pouf ! One blows and blows and blows and blows till really 
 
P or Rejations i^i 
 
 — ^well, it has taught me never to regret that I did not learn 
 the flute when there was a question of my having lessons. 
 Pouf! Pouf!" 
 
 John offered his services as extinguisher. 
 
 "You have to blow very hard," she warned him; and he 
 being determined at all costs to impress Miss Hamilton 
 blew like a knight-errant at the gate of an enchanted castle. 
 It was almost too vigorous a blast: besides extinguishing the 
 flame, it blew several currants from the cake into Mrs. 
 Hamilton's lap, which John in an access of good-will tried 
 to blow off again less successfully. 
 
 ^'Bravo," the old lady exclaimed, clapping her hands. 
 "I'm glad to see that it can be done. But didn't you write 
 The Walls of Jericho? Ah no, I'm thinking of Joshua and 
 his trumpet." 
 
 "The Fall of Babylon, mother," Miss Hamilton put in 
 with a smile, in the curves of which quivered a hint of scorn- 
 fulness. 
 
 "Then I was not so far out. The Fall of Babylon to be 
 sure. Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen." 
 
 She beamed at the author encouragingly, who beamed 
 responsively back at her; presently she began to chuckle to 
 herself, and John, hoping that in his wish to be pleasant to 
 Miss Hamilton's mother he was not appearing to be imitat- 
 ing a hen, chuckled back. 
 
 "I'm glad you have a sense of humor," she exclaimed, 
 suddenly assuming an intensely serious expression and throw- 
 ing up her eyebrows like two skipping-ropes. 
 
 John, who felt as if he was playing a game, copied her 
 expression as well as he was able. 
 
 "I live on it," she pursued. "And thrive moreover. A 
 small income and an ample sense of humor. Yes, for thus 
 one avoids extravagance oneself, but enjoys it in other 
 people." 
 
 "And how is Miss Merritt?" John inquired of Miss 
 Hamilton, when he had bowed his appreciation of the witti- 
 cism. But before she could reply, her mother rattled on : 
 
172 Poor Relations 
 
 "Miss Merritt will not take Doris to America again. 
 Miss Merritt has written a book called The Aphorisms of 
 Aphrodite." 
 
 The old lady's remarkable eyebrows were darting about 
 her forehead like forked lightning while she spoke. 
 
 "The Aphorisms of Aphrodite!" she repeated. "A col- 
 lection of some of the most declassical observations that I 
 have ever encountered." Like a diver's arms the eyebrows 
 drew themselves together for a plunge into unfathomable 
 moral depths. 
 
 "My dear mother, lots of people found it very amusing," 
 her daughter protested. 
 
 "Miss Merritt," the old lady asserted, "was meant for 
 bookkeeping by double-entry, instead of which she had taken 
 to book-writing by double-entente. The profits may be 
 treble, but the method is base. How did she affect you, Mr. 
 Touchwood ?" 
 
 "She frightened me," John confessed. "I thought her 
 manner somewhat severe." 
 
 "You hear that, Doris? Her ethical exterior frightened 
 him." 
 
 "You're both very unfair to Ida. I only wish I had half 
 her talents." 
 
 "Wrapped in a napkin," said the old lady, "you have 
 your shorthand." 
 
 John's heart leapt. 
 
 "Ah, you know shorthand," he could not help ejaculating 
 with manifest pleasure. 
 
 "I studied for a time. I think I had vague ideas once of 
 a commercial career," she replied, indifferently. 
 
 "The suggestion being," Mrs. Hamilton put in, "that I 
 discouraged her. But how is one to encourage shorthand? 
 If she had learnt the deaf and dumb alphabet I might have 
 put aside half-an-hour every day for conversation. But it is 
 as hard to encourage shorthand as to encourage a person 
 who is talking in his sleep." 
 
 John fancied that beneath the indifference of the daughter 
 
Poor Relations 173 
 
 and the self-conscious humor of the mother he could detect 
 cross-currents of mutual disapproval; he could have sworn 
 that the daughter w^as beginning to be perpetually aware of 
 her mother's presence. 
 
 "Or is it due to my obsession that relations should never 
 see too much of each other?" he asked himself. "Yet she 
 knows shorthand' — an extraordinary coincidence. What a 
 delightful house you have," he said aloud with as much 
 fervor as would excuse the momentary abstraction into 
 which he had been cast. 
 
 "My husband was a sinologue," Mrs. Hamilton an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "W^Tje indeed?" said John, trying to focus the word. 
 
 "Ana the study of Chinese is nearly as exclusive as short- 
 hand," the old lady went on. "But we traveled a great 
 deal in China when I was first married and being upon our 
 honeymoon had but slight need of general conversation." 
 
 No wonder she looked like a mandarin. 
 
 "And to me their furniture was always more expressive 
 than their language. Hence this house." Her black eye- 
 brows soared like a condor to disappear in the clouds of her 
 snowy hair. "But do not let us talk of China," she con- 
 tinued. "Let us rather talk of the drama. Or will you 
 have another mufBn?" 
 
 "I think I should prefer the mufSn," John admitted. 
 
 Presently be noticed that Miss Hamilton was looking 
 surreptitiously at her watch and glancing anxiously at the 
 deepening twilight; she evidently had an appointment else- 
 where, and he rose to make his farewells. 
 
 "For I'm sure you're wanting to go out," he ventured. 
 
 "Doris never cares to stay at home for very long," said 
 her mother; and John was aware once again, this time un- 
 mistakably^ of the cross-currents of mutual discontent. 
 
 "I had promised to meet Ida in Sloane Square." 
 
 "On the holy mount of Ida," the old lady quoted ; John 
 laughed out of politeness, though he was unable to see the 
 point of the allusion; he might have concluded that after 
 
174 Poor Relations 
 
 all Mrs. Hamilton was really rather stupid, perhaps even 
 vain and tiresome, had she not immediately afterward pro- 
 posed that he should give Doris time to get ready and have 
 the benefit of her company along King's Road. 
 
 "For I assume you are both going in the same direc- 
 tion," she said, evoking with her eyebrows the suggestion q^ 
 a signpost. 
 
 "My dear mother, Mr. Touchwood doesn't want to be 
 bored with escorting me," her daughter was protesting. 
 
 John laughed at the idea of being bored; then he fancied 
 that in such a small room his laughter might have sounded 
 hysterical, and he raised the pitch of his voice to give the im- 
 pression that he always laughed like that. In the ^iPL after a 
 short argument, Miss Hamilton agreed somewfiw ungra- 
 ciously to let John wait for her. When she was gone to get 
 ready, her mother leaned over and tapped John's arm with a 
 fan. 
 
 "I'm getting extremely anxious about Doris," she con- 
 fided; the eyebrows hovering in her forehead like a hawk 
 about to strike gave her listener the impression that she was 
 really going to say something this time. 
 
 "Her health?" he began, anxiously. 
 
 "Her health is perfect. It is her independence which 
 worries me. Hence this house! Her father's brother is 
 only too willing to do anything for her, but she declines 
 to be a poor relation. Now such an attitude is ridiculous, 
 because she is a poor relation. To eash overture from her 
 uncle she replies with defiance. At one moment she drowns 
 his remarks in a typewriter; at another she flourishes her 
 shorthand in his face; and this summer she fled to America 
 before he had finished what he was saying. Mr. Touch- 
 wood, I rely on you!" she exclaimed, thumping him on the 
 shoulder with the fan. 
 
 John felt himself to be a very infirm prop for the old 
 lady's ambition, and wobbled in silence while she heaped 
 upon him her aspirations. 
 
 "You are a man of the world. All the wqrld's a stage! 
 
Poor Relations 175 
 
 Prompt her, my dear Mr. Touchwood, prompt hen You 
 must have had a great experience in prompting. I rely on. 
 you. Her uncle must be allowed to help her. For pray ap- 
 preciate that Doris's independence merely benefits charitable 
 institutions, and in my opinion there is a limit to anonymous 
 ■ benevolence. Perhaps you've heard of the Home for Epilep- 
 tic Gentlewomen? They can have their fits in peace and 
 comfort entirely because my daughter refuses to accept one 
 penny from her uncle. To a mother, of course, such be- 
 havior is unaccountable. And what is so unjust is that she 
 won't allow me to accept a penny either, but has even,gone 
 so far as to threaten to live with Miss Merritt if I do. 
 Apho^ns of Aphrodite! I can assure you that ther^ are 
 times when I do not regret that I possess an ample sensfe of 
 humor. If you were a mother, Mr. Touchwood ..." 
 
 "I am an uncle," said John, quickly. He was not going 
 to let Mrs. Hamilton monopolize all the privileges of kin- 
 ship. 
 
 "Then who more Sble to advise a niece? She will listen 
 to you. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. 
 You must remember tjjat she already admires you as a play- 
 wright. Insist that in future she must admire you from the 
 stalls instead of from the pit — as now. At presen^ she is 
 pinched. Do not misunderstand me. I sp,eak in metaphors. 
 She is pinched by straitened circumstances just as the 
 women of China are pinched by their shoes. She declines to 
 wear a hobble-skirt ; but decline or not, she hobbles through 
 life. She cannot do otherwise, which is why we live here in 
 Camera Square like two spoonfuls of tei in an old caddy!" 
 
 "But you know, personally," John protested while the 
 old lady was fanning back her lost breath, "personally, and I 
 am now speaking as an uncle, personally I must confess that 
 independence charms me." 
 
 "Music hath charms," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Who will 
 deny it? And independence with the indefinite article be- 
 fore it also hath charms ; but independence with no article at 
 all, indep"eiraeifce, the abstract noun, though it may be a pub- 
 
176 Poor Relations 
 
 lie virtue, is a private vice. Vesuvius lends variety to the 
 Bay of Naples; but a tufted mole on a woman's cheek affects 
 the observer with abhorrence, like a woolly caterpillar lurking 
 in the heart of a rose. Let us distinguish between the state 
 and the individual. Do, my dear Mr. Touchwood, let us 
 always preserve a distinction between wild nature and human 
 nature." 
 
 John was determined not to give way, and he once more 
 firmly asserted his admiration for independence. 
 
 "All the world's a stage," said Mrs. Hamilton. "Yes, and 
 all the men and women merely players ; yet life, Mr. Touch- 
 wood, is not a play. I have realized that since my husband 
 died. The widow of a sinologue has much to realize. At 
 first I hoped that Doris would marry. But she has never 
 wanted to marry. Men proposed in shoals. But as I always 
 said to them, 'What is the use<if proposing to my daughter? 
 She will never marry.' " 
 
 For the first time John began to pay a deep and respectful 
 attention to the conversation. 
 
 "Really I should have thought," he began ; but he stopped 
 himself abruptly, for he felt that it was not quite chivalrous 
 for him to appraise Miss Hamilton's matrimonial chances. 
 "No 4pubt Miss Hamilton is very critical," he substituted. 
 
 "She would criticize anybody," the old lady exclaimed. 
 "From the Creator of us all in general to her own mother 
 in particular she would criticize anybody. Anybody that is, 
 except Miss Merritt. Do not suppose, for instance, that she 
 will not criticize you." 
 
 "Oh, I have no hope of escaping," John said. 
 
 "But pay no attention and continue to advise her. Really, 
 when I think that on account of her obstinacy a number of 
 epileptic females are enjoying luxurious convulsions while I 
 am compelled to alternate between muffins and scones every 
 day of the week, though I never know which I like better, 
 really I resent our unnecessary poverty. As I say to her, 
 whether we accept her uncle's offer or not, we are always 
 
Poor Relations 177 
 
 poor relations; so we may as well be comfortably off poor 
 relations." 
 
 "Don't you suppose that perhaps her uncle is all the fonder 
 of her because of this independence?" John suggested. "I 
 think I should be." 
 
 "But what is the use of that?" Mrs. Hamilton demanded. 
 "Nothing is so bad for people as stunted affection. My hus- 
 band spent all his patrimony — ^he was a younger son — every- 
 thing he had in fact upon his passion for Chinese — ^well, not 
 quite everything, for he was able to leave me a small income, 
 which I share with Doris. Pray remember that I have never 
 denied her anything that I could afford. Although she has 
 many times plotted with her friend Ida Merritt to earn her 
 own living, I have never once encouraged her in such a step. 
 The idea to me has always been painful. A sense of humor 
 has carried me through life ; but Doris, alas, is infected with 
 gloom. Whether it is living in London or whether it is 
 reading Nietzsche I don't know, but she is iftfested with 
 gloom. Therefore when I heard of her meeting you I was 
 glad; I was almost reconciled to the notion of that vulgar 
 descent upon America. Pray do not imagine that I am trying 
 to flatter: you should be used to public approbation by now. 
 John Hamilton is her uncle's name, and he has a delightful 
 estate near the Mull of Kintyre — Glencockic House — some 
 of the rents of which provide carpets for the fits of epileptic 
 gentlewomen and some the children of indigent tradesmen in 
 Ayr with colonial opportunities. Yet his sister-in-law must 
 choose every morning between muffins and scones." 
 
 John tried unsuccessfully to change the conversation; he 
 even went so far as to ask the old lady questions about her 
 adventures in China, although it was one of the rules of his 
 conduct never to expose himself unnecessarily to the reminis- 
 cences of travelers. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she would reply, impatiently, "the bells in the 
 temple gardens are delicious. Ding-dong! ding-dong! But, 
 as I was saying, unless Doris sees her way to be at any rate 
 
178 Poor Relations 
 
 outwardly gracious ..." and so it went on until Doris her- 
 self, dressed in that misty green Harris tweed of the Mur- 
 mania, came in to say that she was ready. 
 
 "My dear child," her mother protested. "The streets of 
 London are empty on Sunday evening, but they are not a 
 Highland moor. What queer notions of dress you do have, 
 to be sure." 
 
 "Ida and I are going out to supper with some friends of 
 hers in Norwood, and I want to keep warm in the train." 
 
 "One of the aphorisms of Aphrodite, I suppose, to wear a 
 Norfolk-jacket — or should I say a Norwood jacket? — on 
 Sunday evening. You must excuse her, Mr. Touchwood." 
 
 John was by this time thoroughly bored by the old lady's 
 witticisms and delighted to leave her to fan herself in the fire- 
 light, while he and her daughter walked along toward King's 
 Road. 
 
 " No sign of a taxi," said John, whose mind was running 
 on shorthand, though he was much too shy to raise the topic 
 for a second time, "You don't mind going as far as Sloane 
 Square by motor-bus?" 
 
 A moment later they were climbing to the outside of a 
 motor-bus; when John pulled the waterproof rug over their 
 knees and felt the wind in his face while they swayed together 
 and apart in the rapid motion, he could easily have fancied 
 that they were once again upon the Atlantic. 
 
 "I often think of our crossing," he said in what he hoped 
 was an harmonious mixture of small talk and sentiment. 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 He tried to turn eagerly round, but was unable to do so 
 on account of having fastened the strap of the rug. 
 
 "Well, in Camera Square, wouldn't you?" she murmured. 
 
 "You're not happy there?" In order to cover his em- 
 barrassment at finding he had asked what she might consider 
 an impertinent question John turned away to fasten the rug 
 more tightly, which nearly kept him from turning around 
 again at all. 
 
 "Don't let's talk about me," she begged, dismissing the 
 
Poor Relations 179 
 
 subject with a curt little laugh. "liow fast they do drive 
 on Sunday." 
 
 "Yes, the streets are empty," he agreed. Good heavens, at 
 this rate they would be at Sloane Square in five minutes, and 
 he might just as well never have called on her. What did it 
 matter if the streets were empty? They were not half as 
 empty as this conversation. 
 
 "I'm working hard," he began. 
 
 "Lucky you!" 
 
 "At least when I say I'm working hard," he corrected 
 himself, "I mean that I have been working hard. Just at 
 present I'm rather worried by family matters." 
 
 "Poor man, I sympathize with you." 
 
 She might sympathize with him; but on this motor-bus 
 her manner was so detached that nobody could have guessed 
 it, John thought, and he had looked at her every time a street- 
 lamp illuminated her expression. 
 
 "I often think of our crossing," he repeated. "I'm sure 
 it would be a great pity to let our friendship fade out into 
 nothing. Won't you lunch with me one day?" 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "Wednesday at Princes? Or no, better say the Carlton 
 Grill." 
 
 "Thanks so much." 
 
 "It's not easy to talk on a motor-bus, is it?" John sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "No, it's like trying to talk to somebody whom you're 
 seeing off in a train." 
 
 "I hope you'll enjoy your evening. You'll remember me 
 to MissMerritt?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Sloane Square opened ahead of them ; but at any rate, John 
 congratulated himself, he had managed to arrange a lunch 
 for Wednesday and need no longer reproach himself for a 
 complete deadlock. 
 
 "I must hurry," she warned him when they had descended 
 to the pavement. 
 
i8o Poor Relations 
 
 "Wednesday at one o'clock then." 
 
 He would have liked to detain her with elaborate instruc- 
 tions about the exact spot on the carpet where she would find 
 him waiting for her on Wednesday ; but she had shaken him 
 lightly by the hand and crossed the road before he could 
 decide between the entrance in Regent Street and the entrance 
 in Pall Mall. 
 
 "It is bcoming every day more evident, Mrs. Worfolk," 
 John told his housekeeper after supper that evening, " that 
 I must begin to look about for a secretary." 
 
 "Yes, sir," she agreed, cheerfully. "There's lots of de- 
 serving young fellows would be glad of the job, I'm shaw." 
 
 John left it at that, acknowledged Mrs. Worfolk's wishes 
 for his night's repose, poured himself out a whisky and soda, 
 and settled himself down to read a gilded work at fifteen 
 shillings net entitled Fifteen Famous Forgers. When he had 
 read three shillings' worth, he decided that the only crime 
 which possessed a literary interest for anybody outside the 
 principals was murder, and went to bed early in order to 
 prepare for the painful interview at Staple Inn next morning. 
 
 Stephen Crutchley, the celebrated architect, was some 
 years older than John, old enough in fact to have been 
 severely affected by the esthetic movement in his early twen- 
 ties ; he had a secret belief that was nourished both by his pre- 
 eminence in Gothic design and by his wife's lilies and 
 languors that he formed a link with the Pre-Raphaelites. 
 His legs were excessively short, but short though they were 
 one of them had managed to remain an inch shorter than the 
 other, which in conjunction with a ponderous body made his 
 gait something between a limp and a shamble. He had a 
 long ragged beard which looked as if he had dropped egg or 
 cigarette-ash on it according to whether the person who was 
 deciding its color thought it was more gray or more yellow. 
 His appearance was usually referred to by paragraph writers 
 as leonine, and he much regretted that his beard was turning 
 gray so soon, when what the same writers called his "tawny 
 mane of hair" was still unwithered. He affected the Bo- 
 
Poor Relations i8i 
 
 hemian costume of the 'eighties, that is to say the velvet 
 jacket, the flowered silk waistcoat, and the unknotted tie of 
 deep crimson or old gold kept in place by a prelate's ring; he 
 lunched every day at the Arts Club, and since he was making 
 at least £6ocx) a year, he did not bother to go back to his 
 office in the afternoon. John had met him first soon after his 
 father's death in 1890 somewhere in Northamptonshire where 
 Crutchley was restoring a church — his first big job — and 
 where John was editing temporarily a local paper. In those 
 days John reacting from dog-biscuits was every bit as roman- 
 tic as he was now; he and the young architect had often 
 talked the sun up and spoken ecstatically of another medieval 
 renaissance, of the nobility of handicrafts and of t}ie glory 
 of the guilds. Later on, when John in the reaction from 
 journalism embarked upon realistic novels, Crutchley was 
 inclined to quarrel with him as a renegade, and even went 
 so far as to send him a volume of Browning's poems with 
 The Lost Leader heavily marked in red pencil. Consider- 
 ing that Crutchley was making more money with his gar- 
 goyles than himself with his novels John resented the accusa- 
 tion of having deserted his friend for a handful of silver; and 
 as for the ribborf which he was accused of putting in his 
 coat, John thought that the architect was the last person to 
 underline such an accusation, when himself for the advance- 
 ment of his work had joined every ecclesiastical society from 
 the English Church Union to the Alcuin Club. There was 
 not a ritualistic parson in the land who Wanted with or 
 without a faculty to erect a rood or reredos but turned to 
 Crutchley for his design, principally because his watch-chain 
 jingled with religious labels; although to do him justice, even 
 when he was fhaking £6000 a year he continued to attend 
 Choral Eucharists as regularly as ever. When John aban- 
 doned realistic novels and made a success as a romantic play- 
 wright his friend welcomed him back to the Gothic fold with 
 emotion and enthusiasm, 
 
 "You and I, John, are almost the only ones left," the 
 architect had said, feelingly. 
 
1 82 PoorRelations 
 
 "Come, come, Stephen, you mustn't talk as if I was Will- 
 iam de Morgan. I'm not yet forty, and you're not yet forty- 
 five," John had replied, slightly nettled by this ascription of 
 them to a bygone period. 
 
 Yet with all his absurdities and affectations Stephen was a 
 fine fellow and a fine architect, and when soon after this he 
 had agreed to take Hugh into his office John would have 
 forgiven him if ht had chosen to perambulate Chelsea in 
 doublet and hose. 
 
 Thinking of Stephen as he had known him for twenty 
 years John had no qualms when on Monday morning he 
 ascended the winding stone steps that led up to his office in 
 the oldest portion of Staple Inn; nor apparently had Hugh, 
 who came in as jauntily as ever and greeted his brother with 
 genial self-possession. 
 
 "I thought you'd blow in this morning. I betted Aubrey 
 half-a-doUar that you'd blow in. He tells me you went off 
 in rather a bad temper on Saturday night. But you were 
 quite right, Johnnie ; that port of George's is not good. You 
 were quite right. I shall always respect your verdict on 
 wine in future." 
 
 "This is not the moment to talk about wine," said John, 
 angrily. 
 
 "I'm afraid that owing to George and his confounded 
 elderberry ink I didn't put my case quite as clearly as I ought 
 to have done," Hugh went on, serenely. "But don't worry. 
 As soon as you've settled with Stevie, I shall tell you all 
 about it. I think you'll be thrilled. It's a pity you've moved 
 into Wardour Street, or you might have made a good story 
 out of it" 
 
 One of the clerks came back with an invitation for John 
 to follow him into Mr. Crutchley's own room, and he was 
 glad to escape from his brother's airy impenitence. 
 
 "Wonderful how Stevie acts up to the part, isn't it?" 
 commented Hugh, when he saw John looking round him at 
 the timbered rooms with their ancient furniture and medieval 
 blazonries through which they were passing. 
 
Poor Relations 183 
 
 "I prefer to see Crutchley alone," said John, coldly. "No 
 doubt he will send for you when your presence is required." 
 
 Hugh nodded amiably and went over to his desk in one of 
 the latticed oriel windows, the noise of the Holborn traffic 
 surging in through which reminded the listener that these 
 perfectly medieval rooms were in the heart of modern 
 London. 
 
 "I should rather like to live in chambers here myself," 
 thought John, "I believe they would give me the very 
 atmosphere I require fof Joan of Arc; and I should be close 
 to the theaters." 
 
 This project appealed to him more than ever when he 
 entered the architect's inmost sanctum, which containing 
 nothing that did not belong to the best period of whatever it 
 was, wrought iron or carved wood or embroidered stuff, im- 
 pressed John's eye for a scenic effect. Nor was there too 
 much of it: the room was austere, not even so full as a Car- 
 paccio interior. Modernity here wore a figleaf ; wax candles 
 were burned instead of gas or electric light; and even the 
 telephone was enshrined in a Florentine casket. When the 
 oaken door covered with huge nails and floriated hinges was 
 closed, John sat down upon what is called a Glastonbury 
 chair and gazed at his friend who was seated upon a gilt 
 throne under a canopy of faded azure that was embroidered 
 with golden unicorns, wyvems, and other fabulous monsters 
 in a pasture of silver fleurs-de-lys. 
 
 "Have a cigar," said the Master, as he liked to be called, 
 pushing across the refectory table that had come out of an 
 old Flemish monastery a primitive box painted with scenes 
 of saintly temptations, but lined with cedar wood and 
 packed full of fat Corona Coronas. 
 
 "It seems hardLy appropriate to smoke cigars in this 
 room," John observed. "Even a churchwarden-pipe would 
 be an anachronism here." 
 
 "Yes, yes," Stephen assented, tossing back his hair with 
 the authentic Vikingly gesture. "But cigars are the chief 
 consolation we have for being compelled to exist in this mod- 
 
 13 
 
1 84 Poor Relations 
 
 ern world. I haven't seen you, John, since you returned 
 from America. How's work?" 
 
 "Lucretia went splendidly in New York. And I'm in 
 the middle of Joan of Arc now." 
 
 "I'm glad, I'm glad," the architect growled as fiercely 
 as one of the great Victorians. "But for Heaven's sake get 
 the coats right. Theatrical heraldry is shocking. And get 
 the ecclesiastical details right. Theatrical ritual is worse. 
 But I'm glad you're giving 'em Joan. of Arc. Keep it up, 
 keep it up. The modern drama wants disinfecting." 
 
 "I suppose you wouldn't care to advise me about the cos- 
 tumes and processions and all that," John suggested, offer- 
 ing his friend a pinch of his romantic Sanitas. 
 
 "Yes, I will. Of course, I will. But I must have a free 
 hand. An absolutely free hand, John. I won't have any 
 confounded play-actor trying to tell me that it doesn't matter 
 if a bishop in the fifteenth century does wear a sixteenth 
 century miter, because it's more 'effective from the gallery. 
 Eh? I know them. You know them. A free hand or you 
 can burn Joan on an asbestos gasfire, and I won't help you." 
 
 "Your help would be so much appreciated," John assured 
 him, "that I can promise you an absolutely short hand." 
 
 The architect stared at the dramatist. 
 
 "What did I say? I mean free hand — extraordinary slip," 
 John laughed a little awkwardly. "Yes, your name, Ste- 
 phen, is just what we shall require to persuade the skeptical 
 that it is worth while making another attempt with Joan of 
 Arc. I can promise you some fine opportunities. I've got a 
 particularly effective tableau to show the miserable condi- 
 tion of France before the play begins. The curtain will rise 
 upon the rearguard of an army marching out of a city, heavy 
 snow will fall, and above the silence you will hear the 
 howling of the wolves following in the track of the troops. 
 This is an historical fact. I may even introduce several 
 wolves upon the stage. But I rather doubt if trained wolves 
 are procurable, although at a pinch we could use large dogs 
 — but don't let me run away with my own work like this. 
 
Poor Relations 185 
 
 I did not come here this morning to talk about Joan of 
 Arc, but about my brother Hugh." 
 
 John rose from his chair and walked nervously up and 
 down the room, while Stephen Crutchley managed to ex- 
 aggerate a slight roughness at the back of his throat into 
 a violent fit of coughing. 
 
 "I see you feel it as much as I do," John murmured, 
 while the architect continued to express his overwrought feel- 
 ings in bronchial spasms. 
 
 "I would have spared you this," the architect managed to 
 gasp at last. 
 
 "I'm sure you would," said John, warmly. "But since 
 in what I hope was a genuine impulse of contrition not 
 entirely dictated by motives of self-interest Hugh has con- 
 fessed his crime to me, I am come here this morning confident 
 that you will allow me to — in other words — what was the 
 exact sum ? I shall of course remove him from your tutelage 
 this morning." 
 
 John's eloquence was not spontaneous; he had rehearsed 
 this speech on the way from Hampstead that morning, and 
 he was agreeably surprised to find that he had been able 
 owing to his friend's coughing-fit to reproduce nearly all of 
 it. He had so often been robbed of a prepared oration by 
 some unexpected turn of the conversation that he felt now 
 much happier than he ought under the weight of a family 
 scandal. 
 
 "Your generosity . . ."he continued. 
 
 "No, no," interrupted the architect, "it is you who are 
 generous." 
 
 The two romantics gazed at one another with an expres- 
 sion of nobility that required no words to enhance it. 
 
 "We can afford to be generous," said John, which was 
 perfectly true, though the reference was to worth of char- 
 acter rather than to worth of capital. 
 
 "Eighty-one pounds six and eightpence," Crutchley mur- 
 mured. "But I blame myself. I should not have left an 
 old check book lying about. It was careless — it was, I 
 
1 86 Poor Relations 
 
 do not hesitate to say so, cJJminally careless. But you 
 know my attitude towards money. I am radically incapable 
 of dealing with money." 
 
 "Of course you are," John assented with conviction. "So 
 am I. Money with me is merely a means to an end." 
 
 "Exactly what it is with me," the architect declared. 
 "Money in itself conveys nothing to me. What I always 
 say to my clients is that if they want the best work they must 
 pay for it. It's the work that counts, not the money." 
 
 "Precisely my own attitude," John agreed. "What people 
 will not understand is that an artist charges a high price 
 when he does not want to do the work. If people insist on 
 his doing it, they must expect to pay." 
 
 "And of course," the architect added, "we owe it to our 
 fellows to sustain the dignity of our professions. Art in 
 England has already been too much cheapened." 
 
 "You've kept all your old enthusiasms," John told his 
 friend. "It's splendid to find a man who is not spoilt by 
 success. Eighty-one pounds you said? I've brought my 
 check book." 
 
 "Eighty-one pounds six and elghtpence, yes. It was like 
 you, John, to come forward in this way. But I wish you 
 could have been spared. You understand, don't you, that I 
 intended to say nothing about it and to blame mjrself in silence 
 for my carelessness? On the other hand, I could not treat 
 your brother with my former confidence. This terrible busi- 
 ness disturbed our whole relationship." 
 
 "I am not going to enlarge on my feelings," said John as 
 he handed the architect the stolen sum. "But you will under- 
 stand them. I believe the shock has aged me. I seem to 
 have lost some of my self-reliance. Only this morning I 
 was thinking to myself that I must really get a private 
 secretary." 
 
 "You certainly should have one," the architect agreed. 
 
 "Yes, I must. The only thing is that since this dreadful 
 escapade of Hugh's I feel that an unbusinesslike creature 
 such as I am ought not to put himself in the hands of a 
 
Poor Relations 187 
 
 young man. What is your experience of women? From a 
 business point of view, I mean." 
 
 "I think that a woman would do your work much bet- 
 ter than a man," said the architect, decidedly. 
 
 "So do I. I'm very glad to have your advice though." 
 
 After this John felt no more reluctant at parting with 
 eighty-one pounds six and eightpence than he would have 
 felt in paying a specialist two guineas for advising him to 
 take a long rest when he wanted to take a long rest. His 
 friend's aloofness from money had raised to a higher level 
 what might easily have been a most unpleasant transaction : 
 not even one of his heroes could have extricated himself 
 from an involved situation more poetically and more sym- 
 pathetically. It now only remained to dispose of the villain. 
 
 "Shall we have Hugh in?" John asked. 
 
 "I wish I could keep him with me," the architect signed. 
 "But I don't think I have a right to consult my personal 
 feelings. We must consider his behavior in itself." 
 
 "In any case," said John, quickly, "I have made arrange- 
 ments about his future; he is going to be a mahogany- 
 planter in British Honduras." 
 
 "Of course I don't use mahogany much in my work, but 
 if ever ..." the architect was beginning, when /John 
 waved aside his kindly intentions. 
 
 "The impulse is generous, Stephen, but I should prefer 
 that so far as you are concerned Hugh should always be as 
 if he had never been. In fact, I'm bound to say frankly 
 that I'm glad you do not use mahogany in your work. I'm 
 glad that I've chosen a career for Hugh which will cut 
 him completely off from what to me will always be the pain- 
 ful associations of architecture." 
 
 AVhile they were waiting for the sinner to come in, John 
 tried to remember the name of the mahogany-planter whom 
 he had met in the Murmania; but he could get no nearer to 
 it than a vague notion that it might have been Raikes, and 
 he decided to leave out for the present any allusion to 
 British Honduras. 
 
1 88 PoorRelations 
 
 Hugh entered his chief's room without a blush : he could 
 not have bowed his head, however sincere his repentance, 
 because his collars would not permit the least abasement; 
 though at least, his brother thought, he might have had the 
 decency not to sit down until he was invited, and when he 
 did sit down not to pull up his trousers in that aggressive 
 way and expose those very defiant socks. 
 
 Stephen Crutchley rose from his throne and shambled 
 over to the fireplace, leaning against the stone hood of which 
 he took up an attitude that would have abashed anybody 
 but Hugh. 
 
 "Touchwood," he began, "no doubt you have already 
 guessed why I have asked you to speak to me." 
 
 Hugh nodded encouragingly. 
 
 "I do not wish to enlarge upon the circumstances of your 
 behavior, because your brother, my old friend, has come for- 
 ward to shield you from the consequences. Nor do I pro- 
 pose to animadvert upon the forgery itself. However lightly 
 you embarked upon it, I don't doubt that by now you have 
 sufficiently realized its gravity. What tempted you to commit 
 this crime I do not hope to guess; but I fear that such a 
 device for obtaining money must have been inspired by debts, 
 whether for cards or for horse-racing, or perhaps even for 
 women I do not pretend to know." 
 
 "Add waistcoats and whisky and you've got the motive," 
 Hugh chirped. "I say, I think your trousers are scorching," 
 he added on a note of anxious consideration. 
 
 "I do not propose to enlarge on any of these topics," said 
 the architect, moving away from the fire and sniffing irri- 
 tably the faint odor of overheated homespun. "What I do 
 wish to enlarge upon is your brother's generosity in coming 
 forward like this. Naturally I who have known him for 
 twenty years expected nothing else, because he is a man of 
 ideals, a writer of whom we are all proud, from whom we 
 all expect great things and — ^however I am not going to 
 enlarge upon his obvious qualities. What I do wish to say is 
 that he and I have decided that after this business you must 
 
Poor Relations 189 
 
 leave me. I don't suppose that you expected to remain ; nor, 
 even if you could, do I suppose that you would wish to re- 
 main. Perhaps you are not enough in sympathy with my 
 aspirations for the future of English architecture to regret 
 our parting; but I hope that this lesson you have had will 
 be the means of bringing you to an appreciation of what your 
 brother has done for you and that in British Honduras you 
 will behave in such a way as to justify his generosity. 
 Touchwood, good-by! I did not expect when you came to 
 me three years ago that our last farewell would be fraught — 
 would be so unpleasant." 
 
 John was probably much more profoundly moved by 
 Crutchley's sermon than Hugh; indeed he was so much 
 moved that he rose to supplement it with one of his own 
 in which he said the same things about the architect that 
 the architect had said about him, after which the two roman- 
 tics looked at each other admiringly, while they waited for 
 Hugh to reply. 
 
 "I suppose I ought to say I'm very sorry and all that," 
 Hugh managed to mutter at last. "Good-by, Mr. Crutch- 
 ley, and jolly good luck. I'll just toddle through the office 
 and say good-by to all the boys, John, and then I dare say 
 you'll be ready for lunch." 
 
 He swaggered out of the room; when the two friends 
 were left together they turned aside with mutual sympathy 
 from the topic of Hugh to discuss Joan of Arc and a new 
 transept that Crutchley was designing. When the culprit 
 put his head round the door and called out to John that he 
 was ready, the two old friends shook hands affectionately 
 and parted with an increased regard for each other and 
 themselves. 
 
 "Look here, what's all this about British Honduras?" 
 Hugh asked indignantly when he and his brother had passed 
 under the arched entry of Staple Inn and were walking along 
 Holborn. "I see you're bent on gratifying your appetite for 
 romance even in the choice of a colony. British Honduras! 
 British humbug!" 
 
190 Poor Relations 
 
 "I prefer not do discuss anything except your inimediate 
 future," said John. 
 
 "It's such an extraordinary place to hit on," Hugh 
 grunted in a tone of irritated perplexity. 
 
 "The immediate future," John repeated, sharply. "To- 
 night you will go down to Hampshire and if you wish for 
 any more help from me, you will remain there in the 
 strictest seclusion until I have time to settle your ultimate 
 future." 
 
 "Oh, I sha'n't at all mind a few weeks in Hampshire. 
 What I'm grumbling at is British Honduras. I shall rather 
 enjoy Hampshire in fact. Who's there at present?" 
 
 John told him, and Hugh made a grimace. 
 
 "I shall have to jolly them up a bit. However it's a good 
 job that Laurence has lost his faith. I shall be spared his 
 Chloral Eucharists, anyway. Where are we going to 
 lunch?" 
 
 "Hugh!" exclaimed his outraged brother stopping short 
 in the middle of the crowded pavement. "Have you no 
 sense of shame at all? Are you utterly callous?" 
 
 "Look here, Johnnie, don't start in again on that. I 
 know you had to take that line with Stevie, and you'll do 
 me the justice of admitting that I backed you up ; but when 
 we're alone, do chuck all that. I'm very grateful to you 
 for forking out — ^by the way, I hope you noticed the nice little 
 touch in the sum? Eighty-one pounds six and eightpence. 
 The six and eightpence was for my lawyer." 
 
 "Do you adopt this sickeningly cynical attitude," John 
 besought. "Forgery is not a joke." 
 
 "Well, this forgery was," Hugh contradicted. "You see, 
 I got hold of Stevie's old check book and found he had quite 
 a decent little account in Croydon. So I faked his signa- 
 ture — ^you know how to do that?" 
 
 "I don't want to know." 
 
 "You copy the signature upside down. Yes, that's the 
 way. Then old Aubrey disguised himself with blue glasses 
 and presented the check at the bank, just allowing himself 
 
Poor Relations 191 
 
 five minutes to catch the train back to town. I was waiting 
 at the station in no end of a funk. But it was all right. The 
 clerk blinked for a minute, but old Aubrey blinked back at 
 him as cool as you please, and he shoveled out the gold. 
 Aubrey came jingling on to the platform like a milk-can just 
 as the train was starting." 
 
 "I wish to hear no more." 
 
 "And then I found that Stevie was cocking his eye at 
 this check book and scratching hb head and looking at me 
 and — ^well, he suspected me. The fact of the matter is that 
 Stevie's as keen on his cash as anybody. I suppose this is 
 a side account for the benefit of some little lady or other/' 
 
 "Silence," John commanded. 
 
 "And then I lost my nerve, so that when Stevie started 
 questioning me about his check book I must have looked em- 
 barrassed." 
 
 "I'm surprbed to hear that," John put in, bitterly. 
 
 "Yes, I dare say I could have bluffed it out, because I'd 
 taken the precaution to cash the check through Aubrey whom 
 Stevie knows nothing about. But I don't know. I lost my 
 nerve. Well, thanks very much for stumping up, Johnnie; 
 I'm only glad you got so much pleasure out of it yourself." 
 
 "What do you riiean — ^pleasure?" 
 
 "Shut up-— don't pretend you didn't enjoy yourself, you 
 old Pharisee. Lookhere where <zr^ we going to lunch? I'm 
 carrying a bag full of instruments, you know." 
 
 John told Hugh that he declined to lunch with him in 
 his present mood of bravado, and at the corner of Chancery 
 Lane they parted. 
 
 "Mind," John warned him, "if you wish for any help 
 from me you are to remain for the present at Ambles." 
 
 "My dear chap, I don't want to remain anywhere else; 
 but I wish you could appreciate the way in which the dark 
 and bloody deed was done, as one of your characters would 
 say. You haven't uttered a word of congratulation. After 
 all, it took some pluck, you know, and the signature was an 
 absolutely perfect fake— perfect. The only thing that failed 
 
192 Poor Relations 
 
 was my nerve afterwards. But I suppose I should be steadier 
 another time." 
 
 John hurried away in a rage and walked up the Strand 
 muttering : 
 
 "What was the name of that mahogany-planter? Was it 
 Raikes or wasn't it? I must find his card." 
 
 It was not until he had posted the following letter that 
 he recovered some of his wonted serenity. 
 
 36 Church Row, 
 Hampstead, N.W., 
 
 Nov. 28, jgio. 
 
 My DEAR Miss Hamilton, — In case I am too shy to 
 broach the subject at lunch on Wednesday I am writing to 
 ask you beforehand if in your wildest dreams you have ever 
 dreamt that you could be a private secretary. I have for a 
 long time been wanting a secretary, and as you often spoke 
 with interest of my work I am in hopes that the idea will 
 not be distasteful to you. I should not have dared to ask 
 you if you had not mentioned shorthand yesterday and if 
 Mrs. Hamilton had not said something about your type- 
 writing. This seems to indicate that at any rate you have 
 considered the question of secretarial work. The fact of the 
 matter is that in addition to my plays I am much worried 
 by family affairs, so much so that I am kept from my own 
 work and really require not merely mechanical assistance, but 
 also advice on many subjects on which a woman is competent 
 to advise. 
 
 I gathered also from your mother's conversation that you 
 yourself were sometimes harassed by family problems and I 
 thought that perhaps you might welcome an excuse to get 
 away from them for awhile. 
 
 My notions of the salary that one ought to offer a private 
 secretary are extremely vague. Possibly our friend Miss 
 Merritt would negotiate the business side, which to me as an 
 author is always very unpleasant. I should of course accept 
 whatever Miss Merritt proposed without hesitation. My 
 
Poor Relations 193 
 
 idea was that you would work with me every morning at 
 Hampstead. I have never yet attempted dictation myself, 
 but I feel that I could do it after a little practice. Then I 
 thought you could lunch with me, and that after lunch we 
 could work on the materials — that is to say that I should 
 give you a list of things I wanted to know, which you would 
 search for either in my own library or at the British Museum. 
 Does this strike you as too heavy a task? Perhaps Miss 
 Merritt will advise you on this matter too. 
 
 If Mrs. Hamilton is opposed to the idea, possibly I might 
 call upon her and explain personally my point of view. In 
 the meantime I am looking forward to our lunch and hoping 
 very much that you will set my mind at rest by accepting 
 the post. I think I told you I was working on a play with 
 Joan of Arc as the central figure. It is interesting, because 
 I am determined not to fall into the temptation of introduc- 
 ing a factitious love-interest, which in my opinion spoilt 
 Schiller's version. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 John Touchwood. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 WHEN after lunch on Wednesday afternoon John re- 
 linquished Miss Hamilton to the company of her friend 
 Miss Merritt at Charing Cross Station, he was relinquishing 
 a secretary from whom he had received an assurance that the 
 very next morning she would be at his elbow, if he might 
 so express himself. In his rosiest moments he had never ex- 
 pected so swift a fulfilment of his plan, and he felt duly 
 grateful to Miss Merritt, to whose powers of persuasion he 
 ascribed the acceptance in spite of Mrs. Hamiltwi's usually 
 only too effective method of counteracting any kind of inde- 
 pendent action on her daughter's part. On the promenade 
 deck of the Murmania Miss Merritt had impressed John 
 with her resolute character ; now she seemed to him positively 
 Napoleonic, and he was more in awe of her than ever, so 
 much so indeed that he completely failed to convey his sense 
 of obligation to her good offices and could only beam at her 
 like a benevolent character in a Dickens novel. Finally he 
 did manage to stammer out his desire that she would charge 
 herself with the financial side t)f the agreement and was lost 
 in silent wonder when she had no hesitation in suggesting 
 terms based on the fact that Miss Hamilton had no previous 
 experience as a secretary. 
 
 "Later on, if you're satisfied with her," she said, "you 
 must increase her salary; but I will be no party to over- 
 payment simply because she is personally sympathetic to you." 
 
 How well that was put, John thought. Personally sym- 
 pathetic! How accurately it described his attitude toward 
 Miss Hamilton. He took leave of the young women and 
 walked up Villiers Street, cheered by the pleasant conviction 
 that the flood of domestic worries which had threatened to 
 destroy his peace of mind and overwhelm his productiveness 
 was at last definitely stayed. 
 
Poor Relations 195 
 
 "She's exactly what I require," he kept saying to him- 
 self, exultantly. "And I think I may claim without unduly 
 flattering myself that the post I have offered her is exactly 
 what she requires. From what that very nice girl Miss 
 Merritt said, it is evidently a question of asserting herself 
 now or never. With what a charming lack of self-conscious- 
 ness she agreed to the salary and even suggested the hours of 
 work herself. Oh, she's undoubtedly practical — ^very prac- 
 tical ; but at the same time she has not got that almost pain- 
 fully practical exterior of Miss Merritt, who must have 
 broken in a large number of difficult employers to acquire 
 that tight set of her mouth. Probably I shall be easy to 
 manage, so working for me won't spoil her unbusinesslike 
 appearance. To-morrow we are to discuss the choice of a 
 typewriter; and by the way, I must arrange which room 
 she is to use for typing. The noise of a machine at high 
 speed would be as prejudicial to composition as Viola's step- 
 dancing. Yes, I must arrange with Mrs. Worfolk about a 
 room." 
 
 John's failli in his good luck was confirmed by the amaz- 
 ing discovery that Mrs. Worfolk had knovm his intended 
 secretary as a child. 
 
 "Her old nurse in fact!" he exclaimed joyfully, for such 
 a melodramatic coincidence did not offend John's romantic 
 palate. 
 
 "No, sir, not her nurse. I never was not what you might 
 call a nurse proper. Well, I mean to say, though I was al- 
 ways fond of children I seemed to take more somehow to 
 the house itself, and so I never got beyond being a nursemaid. 
 After that I gave myself up to rising as high as a housemaid 
 can rise until I married Mr. Worfolk. Perhaps you may 
 remember me once passing the remark that I'd been in service 
 with a racing family? Well, after I left them I took a situa- 
 tion as upper housemaid with a very nice family in the county 
 of Unts, and who came up to London for the season to Gros- 
 venor Gardens. Then I met Mr. Worfolk who was a car- 
 penter and he made packing-cases for Mr. Hamilton who was 
 
196 Poor Relations 
 
 your young lady's pa. Oh, I remember him well. There 
 was a slight argument between Mr. Worfolk and I— well, 
 not argument, because ours was a very happy marriage, but a 
 slight conversation as to whether he was to make cases for 
 Chi-ner or Chi-nese knick-knacks, and Mr. Worfolk was 
 wrong." 
 
 "But were you in service with Mr. Hamilton? Did he 
 live in Huntingdonshire?" 
 
 "No, no, sir. You're getting very confused, if you'll 
 pardon the obsivation. Very confused, you're getting. This 
 Mr. Hamilton was a customer of Mr. Worfolk and through 
 him coming to superintend his Chi-nese valuables being 
 packed I got to know his little girl — ^your secretary as is to 
 be. Oh, I remember her perfickly. Why, I mended a hole 
 in her stocking once. Right above the garter it was; and she 
 was so fond of our Tom. Oh, but he was a beautiful 
 mouser. I've heard many people say they never saw a finer 
 cat nowhere." 
 
 "You have a splendid memory, Mrs. Worfolk." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I have got a good memory. Why, when I 
 was a tiny tot I can remember my poor grandpa being took 
 sudden with the colic and rolling about on the kitchen hearth- 
 rug, groaning, as you might say, in a agony of pain. Well, 
 he died the same year as the Juke of Wellington, but though 
 I was taken to the Juke's funeral by my poor mother, I've 
 forgotten that. Well, one can't remember everything, and 
 that's a fact; one little thing will stick and another little 
 thing won't. Well, I mean to say, it's a good job anybody 
 can't remember everything. I'm shaw there's enough trouble 
 in the world as it is." 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk startled the new secretary when she pre- 
 sented herself at 36 Church Row next day by embracing her 
 affectionately in the hall before she had explained the reason 
 for such a demonstration. It soon transpired, however, that 
 Miss Hamilton's memory was as good as Mrs. Worfolk's 
 and that she had not forgotten those jolly visits to the car- 
 penter long ago, nor even the big yellow Tomcat. As 
 
Poor Relations 197 
 
 for the master of the house, he raised his housekeeper's 
 salary to show what importance he attacl^ed to a good 
 memory. 
 
 For a day or two John felt shy of assigning much work 
 to his secretary ; but she soon protested that, if she was only 
 going to type thirty to fifty lines of blank verse every other 
 morning, she should resign her post on the ground that it Was 
 an undignified sinecure. 
 
 "What about dictating your letters? You made such a 
 point of my knowing shorthand." 
 
 "Yes, I did, didn't I?" John agreed. 
 
 Dictation made him very nervous at first; but with a 
 little practice he began to enjoy it, and ultimately it became 
 something in the nature of a vice. He dictated immensely 
 long letters to friends whose very existence he had forgotten 
 for years, the result of which abrupt revivals of intercourse 
 was a shower of appeals to lend money to these companions 
 of his youth. Yet this result did not discourage him from 
 the habit of dictating for dictation's sake, and every night 
 before he turned over to go to sleep he used to poke about in 
 the rubbish-heap of the past for more forgotten friends. As 
 a set off to incommoding himself with a host of unnecessary 
 correspondents he became meticulously businesslike, and after 
 having neglected Miss Janet Bond for several weeks he 
 began to write to her daily about the progress of the play, 
 which notwithstanding his passion for dictation really was 
 progressing at last. Indeed he worked up the manageress of 
 the Parthenon to such a pitch of excitement that one morning 
 she appeared suddenly at Church Row and made a dra- 
 matic entrance into the library when John, who had for the 
 moment exhausted his list of friends, was dictating a letter 
 to The Times about the condition of some trees on Hamp- 
 stead Heath. 
 
 "I've broken in upon your inspiration," boomed Miss Bond 
 in tones that she usually reserved for her most intensely 
 tragic moments. 
 
 In vain did the author asseverate that he was delighted to 
 
198 Poor Relations 
 
 see her; she rushed away without another word; but that 
 evening she wrote him an ecstatic letter from her dressing- 
 room about what it had meant to her and what it always 
 would mean to her to think of his working like that for 
 her." 
 
 "But we mustn't deride Janet Bond," said the author to 
 his secretary, who was looking contemptuously at the actress's 
 heavy caligraphy. "We must remember that she will create 
 Joan of Arc" 
 
 "Yes, it's a pity, isn't it?" Miss Hamilton commented, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Oh, but won't you allow that she's a great actress?" 
 
 "I will indeed," she murmured with an emi^iatic nod. 
 
 Carried along upon his flood of correspondence John 
 nevertheless managed to steer clear of his relations, and in 
 his present frame of mind he was inclined to attribute his 
 successful course like everything else that was prospering 
 just now to the advent of Miss Hamilton. However, it 
 was too much to expect that with his newly discovered talent 
 he should resist dictating at any rate one epistolary sermon 
 to his youngest brother, of whose arrival at Ambles he had 
 been sharply notified by Hilda. This weighty address took 
 up nearly a whole morning, and when it was finished John 
 was disconcerted by Miss Hamilton's saying: 
 
 "You don't really want me to type all this out?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. But it seems to me that whatever he's 
 done this won't make him repent. You don't mind my 
 criticizing you?" 
 
 "I asked you to," he reminded her. 
 
 "Well, it seems to me a little false — a little, if I may say so, 
 complacently wrathful. It's the sort of thing I seem to re- 
 member reading and laughing at in old-fashbned books. 
 Of course, I'll type it out at once if you insist, but it's 
 already after twelve o'clock, and we have to go over the 
 material for the third act. I can't somehow fit in what 
 
Poor Relations 199 
 
 you've just been dictating with what you were telling me 
 yesterday about the scene between Gilles de Rais and Joan. 
 I'm so afraid that you'll make Joan preach, and of course 
 she mustn't preach, must she?" 
 
 "All right," conceded John, trying not to appear morti- 
 fied. "If you think it isn't worth sending, I won't send it." 
 
 He fancied that she would be moved by his sensitiveness 
 to her judgment; but, without a tremor, she tore the pages 
 out of her shorthand book and threw them into the waste- 
 paper basket. John stared at the ruthless young woman in 
 dismay. 
 
 "Didn't you mean me to take you at your word?" she 
 asked, severely. 
 
 He was not altogether sure that he had, but he lacked 
 the courage to tell her so and checked an impulse to rescue 
 his stillborn sermon from the grave. 
 
 "Though I don't quite like the idea of leaving my brother 
 at Ambles with nothing to occupy his energies," John went 
 on, meditatively, "I'm doubtful of the prudence of exposing 
 Jiim to the temptations of idleness." 
 
 "If you want to give him something to do, why don't you 
 intrust him with getting ready the house for your Christmas 
 party? You are always worrying about its emptiness." 
 
 "But isn't that putting in his way temptations of a more 
 positive kind?" he suggested. 
 
 "Not if you set a limit to your expenditure. Can you 
 trust his taste? He ought to be an adept at furnishings." 
 
 "Oh, I think he'd do the actual furnishing very well. 
 But won't ft seem as if I am overlooking his abominable 
 behavior too easily?" 
 
 With a great effort John kept his eyes averted from the 
 waste-paper basket. 
 
 "You must either do that or refuse to have anything more 
 
 to do with him," Miss Hamilton declared. "You can't 
 
 expect him to be the mirror of your moral superiority for the 
 
 rest of his life." 
 14 
 
200 Poor Relations 
 
 "You seem to take quite an interest in him," said John, a 
 little resentfully. 
 
 Miss Hamilton shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "All right," he added, hurriedly, "I'll authorize him to 
 prepare the house for Christmas. He must fight his own 
 battles with my sister, Hilda. At any rate, it will annoy 
 her." 
 
 Miss Hamilton shook her head in mock reproof. 
 
 "Act Three. Scene One," the dramatist announced in 
 the voice of a mystic who has at last shaken himself free 
 from earthly clogs and is about to achieve levitation. It was 
 consoling to perceive that his secretary's expression changed 
 in accord with his own, and John decided that she really was 
 a most attractive young woman and not so unsympathetic as 
 he had been upon the verge of thinking. Moreover, she was 
 right. The important thing at present, the only thing, in 
 fact, was the progress of the play, and it was for this very 
 purpose that he had secured her collaboration — ^well, per- 
 haps collaboration was too strong a word — but, indeed, so 
 completely had she identified herself with his work that 
 really he could almost call it collaboration. He ought not 
 to tax his invention at this critical point with such a minor 
 problem as the preparation of Ambles for a family reunion. 
 Relations must go to the deuce in their own way, at any rate 
 until the rough draft of the third act was finished, which, 
 under present favorable conditions, might easily happen be- 
 fore Christmas. His secretary was always careful not to 
 worry him with her own domestic bothers, though he knew 
 by the way she had once or twice referred to her mother 
 that she was having her own hard fight at home. He had 
 once proposed calling upon the old lady; but Doris had 
 quickly squashed the suggestion. John liked to think about 
 Mrs. Hamilton, because through some obscure process of 
 logic it gave him an excuse to think about her daughter as 
 Doris. In other connections he thought of her formally as 
 Miss Hamilton, and often told himself how lucky it was 
 that so charming and accomplished a young woman should 
 
Poor Relations 201 
 
 be so obviously indifferent to — well, not exactly to himself, 
 but surely he might allege to anything except himself as a 
 romantic playwright. 
 
 ^ Meanwhile, the play itself marched on with apparent 
 smoothness, until one morning John dictated the following 
 letter to his star: 
 
 My Dear Miss Bond, — Much against my will, I 
 have come to the conclusion that without a human 
 love interest a play about Joan of Arc is impossible. 
 You lyill be surprised by my abrupt change of front, 
 and you will smile to yourself when you remember how 
 earnestly I argued against your suggestion that I might 
 ultimately be compelled to introduce a human love interest. 
 The fact of the matter is that now I have arrived at the 
 third act I find patriotism too abstract an emotion for the 
 stage. As you know, my idea was to make Joan so much 
 positively enamoured of her country that the ordinary love 
 interest would be superseded. I shall continue to keep Joan 
 herself heart free ; but I do think that it would be effective 
 to have at any rate two people in love with her. My notion 
 is to introduce a devoted young peasant who will follow her 
 from her native village, first to the court at Chinon, and 
 so on right through the play until the last fatal scene in the 
 market place at Rouen. I'm sure such a simple lover could 
 be made very moving, and the contrast would be valuable; 
 moreover, it strikes me as a perfectly natural situation. 
 Further, I propose that Gilles de Rais should not only be in 
 love with her, but that he should actually declare his love, 
 and that she should for a brief moment be tempted to return 
 it, finally spurning him as a temptation of the Devil, and 
 thereby reducing him to such a state of despair that he is led 
 into the horrible practices for which he was finally con- 
 demned to death. Let me know your opinion soon, because 
 I am at this moment working on the third act. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 John Touchwood. 
 
202 Poor Relations 
 
 To which Miss Bond replied by telegram : 
 
 Complete confidence in you, and think suggestion mag- 
 nificent, there should be exit speech of renunciation for 
 Joan to bring down curtain of third act. 
 
 Janet Bond. 
 
 "You agree with these suggestions?" John asked his sec- 
 retary. 
 
 "Like Miss Bond, I have complete confidence in you," 
 she replied. 
 
 He looked at her earnestly to see if she was laughing at 
 him, and put down his pen. 
 
 "Do you know that in some ways you yourself remind 
 me of Joan?" 
 
 It was a habit of John's, who had a brain like a fly's eye, 
 to perceive historical resemblances that were denied to an 
 ordinary vision. Generally he discovered these reincarna- 
 tions of the past in his own personality. While he was writ- 
 ing The Fall of Babylon he actually fretted himself for a 
 time over a fancied similarity between his character and 
 Nebuchadnezzar's, and sometimes used to wonder if he was 
 putting too much of himself into his portrayal of that dim 
 potentate; and during his composition of Lucretia he was so 
 profoundly convinced that Csesar Borgia was simply John 
 Touchwood over again in a more passionate period and a 
 more picturesque costume that, as the critics pointed out, he 
 presented the world with an aspect of him that would never 
 have been recognized by Machiavelli. Yet, even when 
 Harold was being most unpleasant, or when Viola and Ber- 
 tram were deafening his household, John could not bring 
 himself to believe that he and Gilles de Rais, who was proved 
 to have tortured over three himdred children to death, had 
 many similar traits; nor was he willing to admit more than 
 a most superficial likeness to the feeble Dauphin Charles. 
 In fact, at one time he was so much discouraged by his in- 
 ability to adumbrate himself in any of his personages that he 
 began to regret his choice of Joan of Arc and to wish that 
 
Poor Relations 203 
 
 he had persevered in his intention to write a play about Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, with whom, allowing for the sundering 
 years, he felt he had more in common than with any other 
 historical figure. Therefore he was relieved to discover this 
 resemblance between his heroine and his secretary, in whom 
 he was beginning to take nearly as much interest as in 
 himself. 
 
 "Do you mean outwardly?" asked Miss Hamilton, look- 
 ing at an engraving of the bust from the church of St. 
 Maurice, Orleans. "If so, I hope her complexion wasn't 
 really as scaly as that." 
 
 "No, I mean in character." 
 
 "I suppose a private secretary ought not to say 'what 
 nonsense' to her employer, but really what else can I say? 
 You might as well compare Ida Merritt to Joan of Arc; in 
 fact, she really is rather like my conception of her." 
 
 "I'm sorry you find the comparison so far-fetched," John 
 said, huffily. "It wasn't intended to be uncomplimentary." 
 
 "Have you decided to introduce those wolves in the first 
 act, because I think I ought to begin making inquiries about 
 suitable dogs?" 
 
 When Miss Hamilton rushed away from the personal like 
 this, John used to regret that he had changed their relation- 
 ship from one of friendship to one of business. Although he 
 admired practicalness, he realized that it was possible to be 
 too practical, and he sighed sometimes for the tone that his 
 unknown admirers took when they wrote to him about his 
 work. Only that morning he had received a letter from one 
 of these, which he had tossed across the table for his secre- 
 tary's perusal before he dictated a graceful reply. 
 
 HiLLCREST, 
 
 Highfield Road, 
 
 Hornsey, N., 
 
 Dec. 14, igio. 
 Dear Sir: — I have never written to an author before, 
 but I cannot help writing to ask you when you are going to 
 
204 Poor Relations 
 
 give us another play. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy 
 your plays — they take me into another world. Please do 
 not imagine that I am an enthusiastic schoolgirl. I am the 
 mother of four dear little children, and my husband and I 
 both act in a dramatic club at Homsey. We are very anxious 
 to perform one of your plays, but the committee is afraid of 
 the expense. I suppose it would be asking too much of you 
 to lend us some of the costumes of The Fall of Babylon. 
 I think it is your greatest work up till now, and I simply 
 live in all those wonderful old cities now and read every- 
 thing I can find about them. I was brought up very strictly 
 when I was young and grew to hate the Bible — please do 
 not be shocked at this — ^but since I saw The Fall of Babylon 
 I have taken to reading it again. I went nine times — twice 
 in the gallery, three times in the pit, twice in the upper circle 
 and twice in the dress circle, once in the fifth row at the 
 side and once right in the middle of the front row! I cut 
 out the enclosed photo of you from The Tatler, and, would 
 it be asking too much to sign your name? Hoping for the 
 pleasure of a reply, I remain, 
 
 Your sincere admirer, 
 
 (Mrs.) Enid Foster. 
 
 "What extraordinary lunatics there are in this world," 
 Miss Hamilton had commented. "Have you noticed the one 
 constant factor in these letters? All the women begin by 
 saying that it is the first time they have ever written to an 
 author; of course, they would say the same thing to a man 
 who kissed them. The men, however, try to convey that 
 they're in the habit of writing to authors. I think there's 
 a moral to be extracted from that observation." 
 
 Now, John had not yet attained — and perhaps it was im- 
 probable that he ever would attain — those cold summits of 
 art out of reach alike of the still, sad music and the hurdy- 
 gurdies of humanity, so that these letters from unknown men 
 and women, were they never so foolish, titillated his vanity, 
 which he called "appealing to his imagination." 
 
Poor Relations 205 
 
 "One must try to put oneself in the writer's place," he had 
 urged, reproachfully. 
 
 "Um — yes, but I can't help thinking of Mrs. Enid Foster 
 living in those wonderful old cities. Her household will 
 crash like Babylon if she isn't careful, and her family will 
 be reduced to eating grass like Nebuchadnezzar, if the green- 
 grocer's book is neglected any longer." 
 
 "You won't allow the suburbs to be touched by poetry?" 
 
 John had tried to convey in his tone that Miss Hamilton 
 in criticizing the enthusiasm of Mrs. Foster was depreciat- 
 ing his own work. But she had seemed quite unconscious 
 of having rather offended him and had taken down his an- 
 swer without excusing herself. Now when in a spirit that 
 was truly forgiving he had actually compared her to his 
 beloved heroine, she had scoffed at him as if he was a kind of 
 Mrs. Foster himself. 
 
 "You're very matter-of-fact," he muttered. 
 
 "Isn't that a rather desirable quality in a secretary?" 
 
 "Yes, but I think you might have waited to hear why you 
 reminded me of Joan of Arc before you began talking abdut 
 those confounded wolves, which, by the way, I have decided 
 to cut out." 
 
 "Don't cut out a good effect just because you're annoyed 
 with me," she advised. 
 
 "Oh no, there are other reasons," said John, loftily. "It 
 is possible that in an opening tableau the audience may not 
 appreciate that they are wolves, and if they think they're 
 only a lot of stray dogs, the effect will go for nothing. It 
 was merely a passing idea, and I have discarded it," 
 
 Miss Hamilton left him to go and type out the morning's 
 correspondence, and John settled down to a speech by the 
 Maid on the subject of perpetual celibacy: he wrote a very 
 good one, 
 
 "She may laugh at me," said the author to himself, "but 
 she is like Joan — extraordinarily like. Why, I can hear her 
 making this very speech." 
 
 Miss Hamilton might sometimes profane John's poetic 
 
2o6 Poor Relations 
 
 sanctuaries and sometimes pull 4118 leg when he was on tiptoe 
 for a flight like Mr. Keats' sweetpeas, but she made existence 
 much more pleasant for him, and he had already reached 
 the stagfe of wondering how he had ever managed to get 
 along without her. He even went so far in his passion for 
 historical parallels as to compare his situation before she 
 came to the realm of France before Joan of Arc took it in 
 hand. He knew in his heart that these weeks before Christ- 
 mas were unnaturally calm; he had no hope of prolonging 
 this halcyon time much further ; but while it lasted he would 
 enjoy it to. the full. Any one who had overheard John an- 
 nouncing to his reflection in the glass an unbridled hedonism 
 for the immediate future might have been pardone^ for sup- 
 posing that he was about to amuse himself in a very des- 
 perate fashion. As a matter of fact, the averred intention 
 was due to nothing more exciting than the prospect of a long 
 walk over the Heath with Miss Hamilton to discuss an 
 outline of the fourth act, which John knew would gradually 
 be filled in with his plans for writing other plays and finally 
 be colored by a conversation, or, anyhow, a monologue about 
 himself as a himian being without reference to himself as an 
 author. 
 
 "What is so delightful about Miss Hamilton," he assured 
 that credulous and complaisant reflection, "is the way one 
 can talk to her without there being the least danger of her 
 supposing that one has any ulterior object in view. Not- 
 withstanding all the rich externals of the past, I'm bound to 
 confess that the relations between men and women are far 
 more natural nowadays. I suppose it was the bicycle that 
 began female emancipation ; had bicycles been invented in the 
 time of Joan of Arc she would scarcely have had to face so 
 much ecclesiastical criticism of her behavior." 
 
 The walk was a success; amongst other things, John dis- 
 covered that if he had had a sister like Miss Hamilton, most 
 of his family troubles would never have arisen. He shook 
 his head sadly at the thought that once upon a time he had 
 tried to imagine a Miss Hamilton in Edith, and in a burst of 
 
Poor Relations 207 
 
 self-revelation, like the brief appearance of two or three 
 acres of definitely blue sky overhead, he assured his secretary 
 that her coming had made a difference to his whole life. 
 
 "Well, of course you get through much more in the day 
 now," she agreed. 
 
 John would have liked a less practical response, but he 
 made the best of it. 
 
 "I've got so much wrapped up in the play," he said, "that 
 I'm wondering now if I shall be able to tear myself away 
 from London for Christmas. I dread the idea of a complete 
 break — especially with the most interesting portion just com- 
 ing along. I think I must ask you to take your holiday later 
 in the year, if you don't mind." 
 
 He had got it out, and if he could have patted himself on 
 the back without appearing ridiculous in a public thorough- 
 fare he would have done so. His manner might have sounded 
 brusque, but John was sure that the least suggestion of any 
 other attitude except that of an employer compelled against 
 his will to seem inconsiderate would have been fatal. 
 
 "That would mean leaving my mother alone," said Miss 
 Hamilton, doubtfully. 
 
 John looked sympathetic, but firm, when he agreed with 
 her. 
 
 "She would understand that literary work takes no ac- 
 count of the church calendar," he pointed out. "After all, 
 what is Christmas?" 
 
 "Unfortunately, my mother is already very much offended 
 with mte for working with you at all. Oh, well, bother 
 relations!" she exclaimed, vehemently. "I'm going to be 
 selfish in future. All right, if you insist, I must obey — or 
 lose my job, eh ?" 
 
 "I might have to engage a locum tenens. You see, now 
 that I've got into the habit of dictating my letters and relying 
 upon somebody else to keep my references in order and — " 
 
 "Yes, yes," she interrupted. "I quite see that it would 
 put you to great inconvenience ifl I cried oil. All the same, 
 I can't help being worried by the notion of leaving mother 
 
2o8 Poor Relations 
 
 alone on Christmas Day itself. Why shouldn't I join you 
 on the day after?" 
 
 "The very thing," John decided. "I will leave London on 
 Christmas Eve, and you shall come down on Boxing Day. 
 But I should travel in the morning, if I were you. It's apt 
 to be unpleasant, traveling in the evening on a Bank Holiday. 
 Hullo, here we are! This walk has given me a tremendous 
 appetite, and I do feel that we've made a splendid start with 
 the fourth act, don't you?" 
 
 "The fourth act?" repeated his secretary. "It seems to 
 me that most of the time you were talking about the position 
 of women in modern life." 
 
 John laughed gayly. 
 
 "Ah, I see you haven't even yet absolutely grasped my 
 method of work. I was thinking all the while of Joan's 
 speech to her accusers. I can assure you that all my re- 
 marks were entirely relevant to what I had in my head. 
 That's the way I get my atmosphere. I told you that you 
 reminded me of her, but you wouldn't believe me. In 
 doublet and hose you would be Joan." 
 
 "Should I? I think I should look more like Dick Whit- 
 tington in a touring pantomime. My legs are too thin for 
 tights." 
 
 "By the way, I wonder if Janet Bond has good legs?" said 
 John, pensively. 
 
 It was charming to be able to talk about women's legs like 
 this without there being the slightest suggestion that they had 
 any; yet, somehow the least promising topics were rehabili- 
 tated by the company of Miss Hamilton, and most of them, 
 even the oldest, acquired a new and absorbing interest. John 
 had registered a vow on the first day his secretary came that 
 he would watch carefully for the least signs of rosifying her 
 and he had renewed this vow every morning before his glass; 
 but it was sometimes difficult not to attribute to her all sorts 
 of mysterious fascinations, as on those occasions when he 
 would have kept her working later than usual in the after- 
 noon and when she would have been persuaded to stay for 
 
Poor Relations 209 
 
 tea, for which she made a point of getting home to please 
 her mother, who gave it a grand importance. John was 
 convinced that even James would forgive him for thinking 
 that in all England there was not a more competent, a more 
 charming, a more — ^he used to pull himself up guiltily at 
 about the third comparative and stifle his fancies in the par- 
 ticularly delicious cake that Mrs. Worfolk always seemed to 
 provide on the days when his secretary stayed to tea. 
 
 It was on one of these rosified afternoons, full of candle- 
 light and firelight and the warmed scent of hyacinths that 
 Miss Hamilton rallied John about his exaggerated dread of 
 his relations. 
 
 "For I've been working with you now for nearly three 
 weeks, and you've not been bothered by them once," she 
 declared. 
 
 "My name! My name !" he cried. "Touchwood?" 
 
 "I begin to think it's nothing but an affectation," she 
 persisted. "You're not pestered by charitable uncles who 
 want to boast of what they've done for their poor brother's 
 only daughter. You're not made to feel that you've wrecked 
 your mother's old age by earning your own living." 
 
 "Yes, they have been quiet recently," he admitted. "But 
 there was such a terrible outbreak of Family Influenza just 
 before you came that some sort of prostration for a time was 
 inevitable. I hope you don't expect my brother, Hugh, to 
 commit a forgery every week. Besides, that excellent sug- 
 gestion of yours about preparing Ambles for Christmas has 
 kept him busy, and probably all the rest of them down there 
 too. But it's odd you should raise the subject, because I 
 was going to propose your having supper here some Sunday 
 soon and inviting my eldest brother and his wife to meet 
 you." 
 
 "To-morrow is the last Sunday before Christmas. The 
 Sunday after is Christmas Day." 
 
 "Is it really? Then I must dictate an invitation for to-_ 
 morrow, and I must begin to see about presents on Monday. 
 By Jove, how time has flown !" 
 
2IO P o or R elation s 
 
 "After all, what is Christmas?" she laughed. 
 
 "Oh, you must expect children to be excited about It,*' 
 John murmured. "I don't like to disappoint them. But I'd 
 no idea Christmas was on top of us like this. You'll help me 
 with my shopping next week? I hope to goodness Eleanor 
 won't come and bother me. She'll be getting back to town 
 to-morrow. It's really extraordinary, the way the time has 
 passed." 
 
 John dictated an urgent invitation to James and Beatrice to 
 sup with them the following evening, and since it was too late 
 to let them know by post, he decided to see Miss Hamilton 
 as far as the tube and leave the note in person at Hill Road. 
 
 James arrived for supper in a most truculent mood, and 
 this being aggravated by his brother's burgundy, of which he 
 drank a good deal, referring to it all the while as poison, 
 much to John's annoyance, embroiled him half way through 
 supper in an argument with Miss Hamilton on the subject 
 of feminine intelligence. 
 
 "Women are not intelligent," he shouted. "The glim- 
 mering intelligence they sometimes appear to exhibit is only 
 one of their numerous sexual allurements. A woman thinks 
 with her nerves, reasons with her emotions, and speculates 
 with her sensations." 
 
 "Rubbish," said Miss Hamilton, emphatically. 
 
 "Now, Jimmie dear," his wife put in, "you'll only have 
 indigestion if you get excited while you're eatin'," 
 
 "I shall have indigestion anyway," growled her husband. 
 "My liver will be like dough to-morrow after this burgundy. 
 I ought to drink a light moselle." 
 
 "Well, you can have moselle," John began. 
 
 "I loathe moselle. I'd as soon drink syrup of squills," 
 James bellowed. 
 
 "All right, you shall have syrup of squills next time." 
 
 "Oh, Johnnie," Beatrice interposed with a wide reproach- 
 ful smile. "Jimmie's only joking. He doesn't really like 
 syrup of squills." 
 
Poor Relations 21 1 
 
 "For heaven's sake, don't try to analyze my tastes," said 
 James to his wife. 
 
 John threw a glance at Miss Hamilton, which was meant 
 to express "What did I tell you ?" But she was blind to his 
 signal and only intent upon attacking James on behalf of 
 her sex. 
 
 "Women have not the same kind of intelligence as men," 
 she began, "because it is denied to them by their physical 
 constitution. But they have, I insist, a supplementary intel- 
 ligence without which the great masculine minds would be 
 as ineffective as convulsions of nature. Women work like 
 the coral polyps. ..." 
 
 "Bravo!" John cried. "A capital comparison!" 
 
 "An absurd comparison!" James contradicted. "A 
 ludicrous comparison! Woman is purely individualistic. 
 The moment she begins to take up with communal effort, 
 she tends to become sterile." 
 
 "Do get on with your supper, dear," urged Beatrice, who 
 had only understood the last word and was anxious not "to 
 be made to feel small," as she would have put it, in front of 
 an unmarried woman. 
 
 John perceived her mortification and jumped through the 
 argument as a clown through a paper hoop. 
 
 "Remember I'm expecting you both at Ambles on Christ- 
 mas Eve," he said, boisterously. "We're going to have a 
 real old-fashioned Christmas party." 
 
 James forgot all about women in his indignation; but 
 before he could express his opinion Beatrice held up another 
 paper hoop for the distraction of the audience. 
 
 "I'm simply longin' for the country," she declared. 
 "Christmas with a lot of children is the nicest thing I 
 know." 
 
 John went through the hoop with aplomb and refused to 
 be unseated by his brother. 
 
 "James will enjoy it more than any of us," he chuckled. 
 
 "What!" shouted the critic. "I'd sooner be wrecked on 
 
212 Poor Relations 
 
 a desert island with nothing to read but a sixpenny edition 
 of the Christmas Carol. Ugh!" 
 
 John looked at Miss Hamilton again, and this time his 
 appeal was not unheeded ; she said no more about women and 
 let James rail on at sentimental festivities, which, by the time 
 he had finished with them, looked as irreparable as the re- 
 mains of the tipsy-cake. There seemed no reason amid the 
 universal collapse of tradition to conserve the habit of letting 
 the ladies retire after dinner. As there was no drawing- 
 room in his bachelor household, it would have been more 
 comfortable to smoke upstairs in the library; but James re- 
 turned to Fielding after demolishing Dickens and protested 
 against being made to hurry over his port ; so his host had to 
 watch Beatrice escort Miss Hamilton from the dining-room 
 with considerable resentment at what he thought was her 
 unjustifiably protective manner. 
 
 "As my secretary," he felt, "Miss Hamilton is more at 
 home in my house than Beatrice is. I suppose, though, that 
 like everything else I have my relations are going to take 
 possession of her now." 
 
 "Where did you pick up your lady-help?" James asked, 
 when he and his brother were left alone with the wine. 
 
 "If you're alluding to Miss Hamilton," John said, sharply, 
 "I met her on board the Murmania, crossing the Atlantic." 
 
 "I never heard any good come of traveling acquaintances. 
 She has a good complexion; I suppose she took your eye by 
 not being seasick. Beware of women with good complexions 
 who aren't seasick, Johnnie. They always flirt." 
 
 "Are you supposed to be warning me against my secre- 
 tary?" 
 
 "Any woman who finds herself at a man's elbow is dan- 
 gerous. Nurses, of course, are the most notoriously danger- 
 ous — but a secretary who isn't seasick is nearly as bad." 
 
 "Thanks very much for your brotherly concern," said 
 John, sarcastically. "You will be relieved to hear that the 
 relationship between Miss Hamilton and myself is a purely 
 practical one, and likely to remain so." 
 
PoorRelations 213 
 
 "Platonism was never practical," James answered with a 
 snort. "It was the most impractical system ever imagined." 
 
 "Fortunately Miss Hamilton is suflScrently interested in 
 her work and in mine not to bother her head about the 
 philosophy of the affections." 
 
 James was irritating when he was criticizing contemporary 
 literature; but his views of modern life were infuriating. 
 
 "I'm not accusing your young woman — how old is she, by 
 the way? About twenty-nine, I should guess. A damned 
 dangerous age, Johnnie. However, as I say, I'm not accusing 
 her of designs upon you. But a man who writes the kind of 
 plays that you do is capable of any extravagance, and you're 
 much too old by now to be thinking about marriage." 
 
 "I don't happen to be thinking about marriage," John 
 retorted. "But I refuse to accept your dictum about my 
 age. I consider that the effects of age have been very much 
 exaggerated by the young. You cannot call a man of forty- 
 two old." 
 
 "You look much more than forty-two. However, one 
 can't write plays like yours without exposing oneself to a 
 good deal of emotional wear and tear. No, no, you're mak- 
 ing a great mistake in introducing a woman into the house. 
 Believe me, Johnnie, I'm speaking for your good. If I hadn't 
 marriedj I might have preserved my illusions about women 
 and compounded just as profitable a dose of dramatic nux 
 vomica as yourself." 
 
 "What do you mean by a dose of dramatic nux vomica?" 
 
 "That's my name for the sort of plays you write, which 
 unduly accelerate the action of the heart and make a sane 
 person retch. However, don't take my remarks in ill part. 
 I was simply commenting on the danger of letting a good- 
 looking young woman make herself indispensable." 
 
 "I'm glad you allow her good looks," John said, wither- 
 ingly. "Any one who was listening to our conversation 
 would get the impression that she was as ugly and voracious 
 as a harpy." 
 
 "Yes, yes. She's quite good-looking. Very nice ankles." 
 
214 PoorRelations 
 
 "I haven't noticed her ankles," John said, austerely. 
 
 "You will, though," his brother replied with an encourag- 
 ing laugh. "By the way, what's that rascal, Hugh, been do- 
 ing? I hear you've replanted him in the bosom of the fam- 
 ily. Isn't Hugh rather too real for one of your Christmas 
 parties?" 
 
 John, after some hesitation, had decided not to tell any 
 of the others the details of Hugh's misdemeanor; he had even 
 denied himself the pleasure of holding him up to George as a 
 warning; hence the renewal of his interest in Hugh had 
 struck the family as a mere piece of sentimentality. 
 
 "Crutchley didn't seem to believe he'd ever make much of 
 architecture," he explained to James. "And I'm thinking 
 of helping him to establish himself in British Honduras." 
 
 "Bah! For less than he'll cost you in British Honduras 
 you could establish me as the editor of a new critical weekly," 
 James grunted, 
 
 "There is still time for Hugh to make something of his 
 life," John replied. He had not had the slightest intention 
 of trying to score off his eldest brother by this remark, and 
 he was shocked to see what a spasm of ill will twisted up 
 his face. 
 
 "I suppose your young woman is responsible for this sud- 
 den solicitude for Hugh's career? I suppose it's she who has 
 persuaded you that he has possibilities? You take care, 
 Johnnie. You can't manipulate the villain in life as you can 
 on the stage." 
 
 Now, Miss Hamilton, though she had not met him, had 
 shown just enough interest in Hugh to give these remarks a 
 sting; and John must have been obviously taken aback, for 
 the critic at once recovered his good humor and proposed 
 joining the ladies upstairs. Beatrice was sitting by the fire; 
 her husband's absence had allowed her to begin the digestion 
 of an unusually good dinner in peace, and the smoothness of 
 her countenance made her look more than ever like a cabinet 
 photograph of the early 'nineties. Miss Hamilton, on the 
 
P o or Re lati o ns 215 
 
 other hand, seemed bored, and very soon she declared that 
 she must go home lest her mother should be anxious. 
 
 "Oh, you have a mother?" James observed in such a tone 
 that John thought it was the most offensive remark of the 
 many he had heard him make that evening. He hoped that 
 Miss Hamilton would not abandon him after this first en- 
 counter with his relations, and he tried to ascertain her im- 
 pressions while she was putting on her things in the hall. 
 
 "I'm afraid you've had a very dull evening," he murmured, 
 apologetically. "I hope my sister-in-law wasn't more tire- 
 some than usual. What did she talk about?" 
 
 "She was warning me — no, I won't be malicious — she was 
 explaining to me the difficulties, of an author's wife." 
 
 "Yes, poor thing j I'm afraid my brother must be very 
 trying to live with. I hope you were sympathetic?" 
 
 "So sympathetic," Miss Hamilton replied, with a mocking 
 glance, "that I told her I was never likely to make the ex- 
 periment. Good night, Mr. Touchwood. To-morrow as 
 usual." 
 
 She hurried down the steps and was gone before he could 
 utter a word. 
 
 "I don't think she need have said that," he murmured to 
 himself on his way back to the library. "I've no doubt 
 3eatrice was very trying; but I really don't think she need 
 have said that to me. It wasn't worth repeating such a 
 stupid remark. That's the way things acquire an undue 
 importance." 
 
 With John's entrance the conversation returned to Miss 
 Hamilton ; but, though it was nearly all implied criticism of 
 his new secretary, he had no desire to change the topic. She 
 was much more interesting than the weekly bills at Hill Road, 
 and he listened without contradiction to his brother's qualms 
 about her experience and his sister-in-law's regrets for her 
 lack of it. 
 
 "However," said John to his reflection when he was un- 
 dressing, "they've got to make the best of her, even if they 
 15 
 
2i6 PoorRelattons 
 
 all think the worse. And the beauty of it is that they can't 
 occupy her as they can occupy a house, I must see about 
 getting Hugh off .to the Colonies soon. If I don't find out 
 about British Honduras, he can always go to Canada or 
 Australia. It isn't good for him to hang about in England." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 WHETHER it was due to the Christmas card look of 
 his new house or merely to a desire to flaunt a romantic 
 hospitality in the face of his eldest brother, it is certain that 
 John had never before in his life gone so benevolently mad 
 as during the week that preceded Christmas in the year igio. 
 Mindful of that afternoon in the town of Galton when he 
 had tried to procure for Harold and Frida gifts of such 
 American appearance as would excuse his negligence, he was 
 determined not to expose himself for a second time to juvenile 
 criticism, and in the selection of toys he pandered to every 
 idiosyncrasy he had so far observed in his nephews and nieces. 
 Thus, for Bertram he bought a large stamp album, several 
 sheets of tropical stamps, a toy theater, representatives of 
 every species in the great genus marbles, a set of expensive 
 and realistic masks, and a model fireman's outfit. For Viola 
 he filled a trunk with remnants of embroideries and all kinds 
 of stuffs, placing on top two pairs of ebony castanets and the 
 most professional tambourine he could find; and, in order 
 that nature might not be utterly subordinated to art, he 
 bought her a very large doll, rather older in appearance than 
 Viola herself; in fact, almost marriageable. In the hope of 
 obliterating the disappointment of those china animals, he 
 chose for Frida a completely furnished dolls' house with 
 garage and stables attached, so grand a house, indeed, that 
 by knocking all the rooms into one, she could with slight 
 inconvenience have lived in it herself ; this residence he popu- 
 lated with gentleman-dolls, lady-dolls, servant-dolls, nurse- 
 dolls, baby-dolls, horses, carriages, and motors; nor did he 
 omit to provide a fishmonger's shop for the vicinity. For 
 Harold he bought a butterfly collector's equipment, a vacuum 
 pistol, a set of climbing-irons, a microscope, and at the last 
 
2i8 Poor Relations 
 
 moment a juvenile diver's equipment with air pumps and all 
 accessories, which was warranted perfectly safe, though the 
 wicked uncle wondered if it really was. 
 
 "I don't want a mere toy for the bathroom," he explained. 
 
 "Quite so, sir," the shopman assented, with a bow. "This 
 is guaranteed for any ordinary village pond or small stream." 
 
 For his grown-up relations John bought the kind of pres- 
 ents that one always does buy for grown-up relations, the 
 kind of presents that look very ornamental on the counter, 
 seem very useful when the shopman explains what they are 
 for, puzzle the recipient and the donor when the shopman is 
 no longer there, and lie about the house on small tables for 
 the rest of the year. In the general odor of Russia leather 
 that clung to his benefactions John hoped that Miss Hamil- 
 ton would not consider too remarkable the attache case that 
 he intended to give her, nor amid the universal dazzle of 
 silver object to the few little luxuries of the writing-desk 
 with which he had enhanced it. Then there were the pres- 
 ents for the servants to choose, and he counted much on Miss 
 Hamilton's enabling him to introduce into these an utili- 
 tarian note that for two or three seasons had been missing 
 from his donations, which to an outsider might have seemed 
 more like lures of the flesh than sober testimonials to service. 
 He also counted upon her to persuade Mrs. Worfolk to ac- 
 company Maud down to Ambles: Elsa was to be left in 
 Church Row with permission to invite to dinner the police- 
 man to whom she was betrothed and various friends and 
 relations of the two families. 
 
 When the presents were settled John proceeded to lay in 
 a store of eatables and drinkables, in the course of which 
 enterprise he was continually saying: 
 
 "I've forgotten for the moment what I want next, but 
 meanwhile you'd better give me another box of Elvas plums." 
 
 "Another drum? Yes, sir," the shopman would reply, 
 licking his pencil in a way that was at once obsequious and 
 pedantic, though it was not intended to suggest more than 
 perfect efficiency. 
 
Poor Relations 219 
 
 When the hall and the adjacent rooms at 36 Church Row 
 had been turned into rolling dunes of brown paper, John 
 rushed about London in a last frenzy of unbridled acquisi- 
 tiveness to secure plenty of amusement for the children. To 
 this end he obtained a few well-known and well-tried favor- 
 ites like the kinetoscope and the magic lantern, and a number 
 of experimental diversions which would have required a 
 trained engineer or renowned scientist to demonstrate suc- 
 cessfully. Finally he bargained for the wardrobe of a Santa 
 Claus whose dignified perambulations round the Christmas 
 Bazaar of a noted emporium had attracted his fancy on ac- 
 count of the number of children who followed hirti every- 
 where, laughing and screaming with delight. It was not 
 until he had completed the purchase that he discovered it 
 was not the exterior of the Santa Claus which had charmed 
 his little satellites, but the free distribution of bags of coagu- 
 lated jujubes. 
 
 'T expect I'd better get the Christmas tree in the countr>'," 
 said John, waist-deep in the still rising drift of parcels. "I 
 dare say the Galton shops keep those silver and- magenta 
 globes you hang on Christmas trees, and I ought to patronize 
 the local tradesmen." 
 
 "If you have any local shopping to do, I'm sure you would 
 be wise to go down to-day," Miss Hamilton suggested, firmly, 
 "Besides, Mrs. Worfolk won't want to arrive at the last 
 minute." 
 
 "No, indeed, I shan't. Miss," said the housekeeper. "Well, 
 I mean to say, I don't think we ever shall arrive, not if we 
 wait much longer. We shall require a performing elephant 
 to carry all these parcels, as it is." 
 
 "My idea was to go down in the last train on Christmas 
 Eve," John argued. "I like the old-fashioned style, don't 
 you know ?" 
 
 "Yes, old-fashioned's the word," Mrs. Worfolk exclaimed. 
 
 Why, who'^s to get the house ready if we all go trooping 
 
 down on Christmas Eve? And if I go, sir, you must come 
 
 with me. You know how quick Mrs, Curtis always is to 
 
220 Poor Relations 
 
 snap any one up. If I had my own way, I wouldn't go 
 within a thousand miles of the country ; that's a sure thing." 
 
 John began to be afraid that his housekeeper was going 
 back on her word, and he surrendered to the notion of leav- 
 ing town that aftfcmoon. 
 
 "I say, what is this parcel like a long drain-pipe?" he 
 asked in a final effort to detain Miss Hamilton, who was 
 preparing to make her farewells and leave him to his packing. 
 
 "Ah, it would take some finding out," Mrs. Worfolk 
 interposed. "I've never seen so many shapes and sizes of 
 parcels in all my life." 
 
 "They must have made a mistake," said John. "I don't 
 remember buying anything so tubular as this." 
 
 He pulled away some of the paper wrapping to see what 
 was inside. 
 
 "Ah, of course! They're two or three boxes of Elvas 
 plums I ordered. But please don't go, Miss Hamilton," he 
 protested. "I am relying upon you to get the tickets to 
 Waterloo." 
 
 In spite of a strenuous scene at the station, in the course 
 of which John's attempts to propitiate Mrs. Worfolk led 
 to one of the porters referring to her as his mother, they 
 managed to catch the five o'clock train to Wrottesford. 
 After earnestly assuring his secretary that he should be per- 
 fectly ready to begin work again on Joan of Arc the day 
 after her arrival and begging her on no account to let herself 
 be deterred from traveling on the morning of Boxing Day, 
 John sank back into the pleasant dreams that haunt a warm 
 first-class smoking compartment when it's raining hard out- 
 side in the darkness of a December night. 
 
 "We shall have a green Christmas this year," observed one 
 of his fellow travelers. 
 
 "Very green," John assented with enthusiasm, only realiz- 
 ing as he spoke that the superlative must sound absurd to 
 any one who was unaware of his thoughts and hiding his 
 embarrassment in the Westminster Gazette, which in the 
 circumstances was the best newspaper he could have chosen. 
 
Poor Relations 221 
 
 John was surprised and depressed when the train arrived 
 at Wrottesford to find that the member of the Ambles party 
 who had elected to meet him was Hilda; and there was a 
 long argument on the platform who should drive in the 
 dogcart and who should drive in the fly. John did not want 
 to ride on the back seat of the dogcart, which he would have 
 to do unless he drove himself, a prospect that did not attract 
 him when he saw how impatiently the mare was dancing 
 about through the extreme lateness of the train. Hilda ob- 
 jected to driving with his housekeeper in the fly, and in the 
 end John was compelled to let Maud and Mrs. Worfolk 
 occupy the dogcart, while he and Hilda toiled along the wet 
 lanes in the fly. It was decided to leave the greater portion 
 of the luggage to be fetched in the morning, but even so it 
 was after eight o'clock before they got away from the station, 
 and John, when he found himself immured with Hilda in 
 the musty interior of the hired vehicle was inclined to 
 prophesy a blue Christmas this year. To begin with, Hilda 
 would try to explain the system she had pursued in allotting 
 the various bedrooms to accommodate the large party that 
 was expected at Ambles. It was bad enough so long as 
 she confined herself to a verbal exposition, but when she 
 produced a map of the house, evidently made by Hugh on an 
 idle evening, and to illuminate her dispositions struck away 
 most of John's matches, it became exasperating. His brain 
 was already fatigued by the puzzle of fitting into two ve- 
 hicles four pieces, one of which might not move to the square 
 next two of the remaining pieces, and another of which could 
 not move backward. 
 
 "I leave it entirely to you," he declared, introducing at 
 last into the intellectual torment of chess some of the happy 
 irresponsibleness of bridge. "You mustn't set me these chess 
 problems in a jolting fly before dinner." 
 
 "Chess!" Hilda sniffed with a shiver. "Draughts would 
 be a better name." 
 
 She did not often make jokes, and before John had recov- 
 ered sufliciently from his surprise to congratulate her with a 
 
222 Poor Relations 
 
 hearty laugh, she was off again upon her querulous and 
 rambling narration of the family news. 
 
 "If everything had been left to me, I might have man- 
 aged, but Hugh's interference, apparently authorized by you, 
 upset all my poor little arrangements. I need hardly say 
 that Mama was so delighted to have her favorite at home 
 with her that she has done everything since his arrival to 
 encourage his self-importance. It's Hughie this and Hughie 
 that, until I get quite sick of the sound of his name. And 
 he's very unkind to poor little Harold. Apart from being 
 very coarse and sarcastic in front of him, he is sometimes 
 quite brutal. Only this morning he shot him in the upper 
 part of the leg with a pellet from the poor little man's own 
 air-gun." 
 
 John did laugh this time, and shouted "Merry Christmas!" 
 to a passing wagon. 
 
 "I dare say it sounds very funny to you. But it made 
 Harold cry." 
 
 "Come, come, Hilda, it's just as well he should learn the 
 potentialities of his own instrument. He'll sjrmpathize with 
 the birds now." 
 
 "Birds," she scoffed. "Fancy comparing Harold with a 
 bird!" 
 
 "It is rather unfair," John agreed. 
 
 "However, you won't be so ready to take Hugh's part 
 when you see what he's been doing at Ambles." 
 
 "Why, what has he been doing?" 
 
 "Oh, never mind. I'd rather you judged for yourself," 
 said Hilda, darkly. "Of course, I don't know what Hugh 
 has been up to in London that you've had to send him down 
 to Hampshire. I always used to hear you vow that you 
 would have nothing more to do with him. But I know that 
 successful people are allowed to change their minds more 
 often than the rest of us. I know success justifies every- 
 thing. And it isn't as if Hugh was grateful for your kind- 
 ness. I can assure you that he criticizes everything you do. 
 Any stranger who heard him talking about your plays would 
 
Poor Relations 223 
 
 think that they were a kind of disgrace to the family. As 
 for Laurence, he encourages him, not because he likes him, 
 but because Hugh fills him up with stories about the stage. 
 Though I think that a clergyman who has got into such a 
 muddle with his bishops Would do better not to make himself 
 so conspicuous. The whole neighborhood is talking about 
 him." 
 
 "What is Laurence's latest?" 
 
 "Why, stalking about in a black cloak, with his hair hang- 
 ing down over his collar, stopping people in quiet lanes and 
 reciting Shakespeare to them. It's not surprising that half 
 the county is talking about his behavior and saying that he 
 was turned out of Newton Candover for being drunk when 
 the bishop took a confirmation, and some even say that he 
 kept a ballet girl at the vicarage. But do you think that 
 Edith objects? Oh, no! All that Laurence does must be 
 right, because it's Laurence. She prays for him to get back 
 his belief in the Church of England, though who's going to 
 ofEer him another living I'm sure I don't know, so she might 
 just as well spare her knees. And when she's not praying 
 for him, she's spoiling him. She actually came out of her 
 room the other morning with her finger up to her lips, be- 
 cause Laurence wasn't to be disturbed at that moment. I 
 need hardly tell you I paid no attention and went on saying 
 what I had to say to Huggins about the disgraceful way he's 
 let the pears get so sleepy." 
 
 "It's a pity you didn't succeed in waking them up in- 
 stead of Laurence," John chuckled. 
 
 "It's all very well for you to laugh, John, but if you could 
 see the way that Edith is bringing up Frida! She's turning 
 her into a regular little molly-coddle. I'm sure poor Harold 
 does his best to put some life into the child, but she shrinks 
 and twitches whenever he comes near her. I told Edith that 
 it wasn't to be wondered at if Harold did tease her some- 
 times. She encourages him to tease her by her affectations. 
 I used to think that Frida was quite a nice little girl when 
 I only saw her occasionally, but she doesn't improve on ac- 
 
224 Poor Relations 
 
 quaintance. However, I blame her mother more than I do 
 her. Why, Edith doesn't even make the child take her cod- 
 liver oil regularly, whereas Harold drinks his up like a little 
 Trojan." 
 
 "Never mind," said John, soothingly. "I'm sure we shall 
 all feel more cheerful after Christmas. And now, if you 
 don't mind, I'm afraid I must keep quiet for the rest of the 
 drive. I've got a scene to think about." 
 
 The author turned up the collar of his coat and retired 
 into the further corner while Hilda chewed her veil in rumi- 
 native indignation until the mellow voice of Laurence, who 
 had taken up a stauesque pose of welcome by the gate, broke 
 the dank silence of the fly. 
 
 "Ah, John, my dear fellow, we are delighted to see you. 
 The rain has stopped." 
 
 If Laurence had still been on good terms with his Creator, 
 John might have thought from his manner that he had per- 
 sonally arranged this break in the weather. 
 
 *^Is Harold there?" asked Hilda, sharply, 
 
 "Here I am, mother; I've just caught a Buff-tip, and it 
 won't go into my poison-bottle." 
 
 "And what is a Buff-tip?" inquired Laurence in a tone of 
 patronizing ignorance. 
 
 "Oh, it's a pretty common moth." 
 
 "Harold, darling, don't bother about moths or butterflies 
 to-night. Come and say how d'ye do to dear Uncle John." 
 
 "I've dropped the cork of my poison-bottle. Look out, 
 Frida, bother you, I say, you'll tread on it." 
 
 The combined scents of cyanide of potassium and hot metal 
 from Harold's bull's-eye lantern were heavy upon the moist 
 air; when the cork was found, Harold lost control over the 
 lantern which he flashed into everybody's face in turn, so 
 that John, rendered as helpless as a Buff-tip, walked head 
 foremost into a sopping bush by the side of the path. How- 
 ever, the various accidents of arrival all escaped being serious, 
 and the thought of dinner shortened the affectionate greet- 
 ings. Remembering how Hugh had paid out Harold with 
 
Poor Relations 225 
 
 his own air-gun, John greeted his youngest brother more 
 cordially than he could ever have supposed it was possible to 
 greet him again. 
 
 By general consent, the owner of the house was allowed 
 to be tired that evening, and all discussion of the Christmas 
 preparations was postponed until the next day. Harold made 
 a surreptitious attempt to break into the most promising 
 parcel he could find, but he was ill rewarded by the inside, 
 which happened to be a patent carpet sweeper. 
 
 Before old Mrs. Touchwood went to bed, she took John 
 aside and whispered: 
 
 "They're all against Hughie. But I've tried to make the 
 poor boy feel that he's at home, and dear Georgie will be 
 coming very soon, which will make it pleasanter for Hugh, 
 and I've thought of a nice way to manage Jimmie." 
 
 "I think you worry yourself needlessly over Hugh, 
 Mama; I can assure you he's perfectly capable of looking 
 after himself." 
 
 "I hope so," the old lady sighed. "All my patience came 
 out beautifully this evening. So I hope Hughie will be all 
 right. He seemed to think you were a little annoyed with 
 him." 
 
 "Did he tell you why?" 
 
 "Not exactly, but I understand it was something to do 
 with money. You mustn't be too strict with Hugh about 
 money, John. You must always remember that he hasn't 
 got all the money he wants, and you must make allowances 
 accordingly. Ah, dear, peace on earth, good-will towards 
 men ! But I don't complain. I'm very happy here with my 
 patience, and I dare say something can be done to get rid of 
 the bees that have made a nest in the wall just under my 
 bedroom window. They're asleep now, but when they begin 
 to buzz with the warm weather Huggins must try and in- 
 duce them to move somewhere else. Good-night, my dear 
 boy." 
 
 Next morning when John leaned out of his window to 
 inhale the Hampshire air and contemplate his domain he was 
 
226 Poor Relations 
 
 * 
 
 shocked to perceive upon the lawn below a large quadrangu- 
 lar excavation in which two workmen were actually digging. 
 
 "Hi! What are you doing?" he shouted. 
 
 The workmen stared at John, stared at one another, stared 
 at their spades, and went on with their digging. 
 
 "Hi! What the devil are you doing?" 
 
 The workmen paid no attention ; but the voice of Harold 
 came trickling round the corner of the house with a gurgle 
 of self-satisfaction. 
 
 "I didn't do it. Uncle John. I began geology last week, 
 but I haven't dug up anything. Mother wouldn't let me. 
 It was Uncle Hugh and Uncle Laurence. Mother knew 
 you'd be angry when you saw what a mess the garden was in. 
 It does look untidy, doesn't it? Huggins said he should 
 complain to you, first thing. He says he'd just as soon put 
 brown sugar on the paths as that gravel. Did you know 
 that Ambles is built on a gravel subsoil. Uncle John? 
 Aren't you glad, because my geology book says that a gravel 
 subsoil is the healthiest ..." 
 
 John removed himself abruptly out of earshot. 
 
 "What is that pernicious mess on the front lawn?" he 
 demanded of Hugh half-an-hour later at breakfast. 
 
 "Ah, you noticed it, did you?" 
 
 "Noticed it? I should think I did notice it. I under- 
 stand that you're responsible." 
 
 "Not entirely," Laurence interposed, gently. "Hugh and 
 I must accept a joint responsibility. The truth is that for 
 some time now I've felt that my work has been terribly at 
 the mercy of little household noises, and Hugh recommended 
 me to build myself an outside study. He has made a very 
 clever design, and has kindly undertaken to supervise its 
 erection. As you have seen, they are already well on with 
 the foundations. The design which I shall show you after 
 breakfast is in keeping with the house, and of course you 
 will have the advantage of what I call my little Gazebo when 
 I leave Ambles. Have I told you that I'm considering a 
 
Poor Relations 227 
 
 brief experience of the realities of the stage ? After all, why 
 not? Shakespeare was an actor." 
 
 If John had been eating anything more solid than a lightly 
 boiled egg at the moment he must have choked. 
 
 "You can call it your little Gazebo as much as you like, 
 but it's nothing but a confounded summerhouse," he shouted. 
 
 "Look here, Johnnie," said Hugh, soothingly. "You'll 
 like it when it's finished. This isn't one of Stevie's Gothic 
 contortions. I admit that to get the full architectural effect 
 there should be a couple of them. You see, I've followed 
 the design of the famous dovecotes at . . . " 
 
 "Dovecoats be damned," John exploded. "I instructed 
 you to prepare the house for Christmas; I didn't ask you to 
 build me a new one." 
 
 "Laurence felt that he was in the way indoors," Edith 
 explained, timidly. 
 
 "The impression was rather forced upon me," said Lau- 
 rence with a glance at Hilda, whp throughout the dispute 
 had been sitting virtuously silent; nor did she open her thin 
 lips now. 
 
 "He was going to pay for his hermitage out of the money 
 he ought to have made from writing Lamp-posU" Edith 
 went on in a muddled exposition of her husband's motives. 
 "He wasn't thinking of himself at all. But of course if 
 you object to his building this Gas — oh, I am so bad at 
 proper names — ^he'll understand. Won't you, dear?" 
 
 "Oh, I shall understand," Laurence admitted with an 
 expression of painfully achieved comprehension. "Though 
 I may fail to see the necessity for sych strong language." 
 
 Frida wiggled in the coils of an endless whisper from 
 which her mother extricated her at last by murmuring: 
 
 "Hush, darling, Uncle John is a little vexed about some- 
 thing." 
 
 Hilda and her son still sat in mute self -righteousness; and 
 Grandmama, who always had her breakfast in bed, was not 
 present to defend Hugh. 
 
228 Poor Relations 
 
 "If it had been anywhere except on the lawn right in 
 front of my room," John began more mildly. 
 
 "We tried to combine suitability of site with facility of 
 access," Laurence condescended to explain. "But pray do 
 not say another word," he added, waving his fingers like 
 magic wands to induce John's silence. "The idea of my 
 little Gazebo does not appeal to you. That is enough. I 
 do not grudge the money already spent upon the founda- 
 tions. Further discussion will irritate us all, and I for one 
 have no wish to disturb the harmony of the season." Then 
 exchanging his tone of polite martyrdom for the suave 
 jocularity of a vicar, he continued: "And when are we to 
 expect our Yuletide guests? I hear that the greater por- 
 tion of your luggage is still in the care of the station-master 
 at Wrottesford. If I can do anything to aid in the transport 
 of what rumor says is our Christmas commissariat, do not 
 hesitate to call upon my services. I am giving the Muse 
 a holiday and am ready for anything. Harold, pass the 
 marmalade, please." 
 
 John felt incapable of further argument with Laurence 
 and Hugh in combination, and having gained his point, he 
 let the subject of the Gazebo drop. He was glad that Miss 
 Hamilton was not here; he felt that she might have been 
 rather contemptuous of what he tried to believe was " good- 
 nature," but recognized in his heart as "meekness," even 
 "feebleness." 
 
 "When are Cousin Bertram and Cousin Viola coming?" 
 Harold asked. 
 
 "Wow-wow-wow!" Hugh imitated, and he was probably 
 expressing the general opinion of Harold's re-entry into the 
 breakfast-table conversation. 
 
 "For goodness' sake, boy, don't talk about them as if they 
 were elderly colonial connections," John commanded with 
 the resurgent valor that Harold always inspired. "Bertram 
 and Viola are coming to-morrow. By the way, Hilda, is 
 there any accommodation for a monkey? I don't know for 
 certain, but Bertram talked vaguely of bringing a monkey 
 
Poor Relations 229 
 
 down. Possibly a small annex could be attached to the 
 chickenhouse." 
 
 "A monkey?" Edith exclaimed in alarm. "Oh, I hope 
 it won't attack dear Frida." 
 
 "I shall shoot him, if he does," Harold boasted. "I shot 
 a mole last week." 
 
 "No, you didn't, you young liar," Hugh contradicted. 
 "It was killed by the trap." 
 
 "Harold is always a very truthful little boy," said his 
 mother, gla,ring. 
 
 "Is he? I hadn't noticed it," Hugh retorted. 
 
 "Far be it from me to indulge in odious comparisons," 
 Laurence interposed, grandly. "But I cannot help being a 
 trifle — ah — tickled by so much consideration's being exhibited 
 on account of the temporary lodging .of a monkey and so 
 much animus — however, don't let us rake up a disagreeable 
 topic." 
 
 John thought it was a pity that his brother-in-law had 
 not felt the same about raking up the lawn when after break- 
 fast he was telling Huggins to fill in the hole and hearing 
 that it was unlikely to lose the scar for a long time. 
 
 "You could have knocked me down with a feather, sir, 
 when they started in hacking away at a lovely piece of turf 
 like that." 
 
 "I'm sure I could," John agreed, warmly. 
 
 "But what's done can't be undone, and the best way to 
 mend a bad job would be to make a bed for ornamental 
 annuals. Yes, sir, a nice bed in the shape of a star — or a 
 shell." 
 
 "No thanks, Huggins, I should prefer grass again, even 
 if for a year or two the lawn does look as if it had been 
 recently vaccinated." 
 
 John's Christmas enthusiasm had been thoroughly damped 
 by the atmosphere of Ambles and he regretted that he had 
 let himself be persuaded into coming down two days earlier 
 than he had intended. It had been Mrs. Worfolk's fault, 
 and when his housekeeper approached him with a complaint 
 
230 Poor Relations 
 
 about the way things were being managed in the kitchen 
 John told her rather sharply that she must make the best 
 of the present arrangements, exercise as much tact as possible, 
 and remember that Christmas was a season when discontent 
 was out of fashion. Then he retreated to the twenty-acre 
 field to lose a few golf-balls. Alas, he had forgotten that 
 Laurence had proclaimed himself to be in a holiday humor 
 and was bored to find that this was so expansive as to include 
 I an ambition to see if golf was as diiScult as people said. 
 
 "You can try a stroke if you really want to," John offered, 
 grudgingly. 
 
 "I understand that the theory of striking involves the cor- 
 rect application of the hands to the club," said the novice. 
 "I set much store by the old adage that well begun is half 
 done." 
 
 "The main thing is to hit the ball." 
 
 "I've no doubt whatever about being able to hit the ball ; 
 but if I decide to adopt golf as a recreation from my dra- 
 matic work I wish to acquire a good style at the outset," 
 Laurence intoned, picking up the club as solemnly as if he 
 was going to baptize it. "What is your advice about the fore- 
 finger of my left hand ? It feels to me somewhat ubiquitous. 
 I assume that there is some inhibition upon excessive fidget- 
 tng. 
 
 "Keep your eye on the ball,^" John gruffly advised him. 
 "And don't shift your position." 
 
 "One, two, three," murmured Laurence, raising the club 
 above his shoulder. 
 
 "Fore !" John shouted to a rash member of the household 
 who was crossing the line of fire. 
 
 A lump of turf was propelled a few feet in the direction 
 of the admonished figure, and the ball was hammered down 
 into the soft earth. 
 
 "You distracted me by counting four," Laurence protested. 
 "My intention was to strike at three. However, if at first 
 you don't succeed ..." 
 
 But John could stand no more of it and escaped to Galton, 
 
Poor Relations 23 1 
 
 where he bought a bushel of lustrous ornaments for the 
 Christmas tree that was even now being felled by Huggins 
 in a coppice remote from Harold's myopic explorations. 
 Then for two days the household worked feverishly and 
 unitedly in a prevalent odor of allspice; the children were 
 decoyed from the house while the presents were mysteriously 
 conveyed to the drawing-room, which had been consecrated 
 to the forthcoming revelry; Harold, after nearly involving 
 himself in a scandal by hiding himself under the kitchen- 
 table during one of the servant's meals in order to verify the 
 cubic contents of their several stockings, was finally successful 
 in contracting with Mrs. Worfolk for the loan of one of 
 hers; Frida whispered as ceaselessly as a grove of poplars; 
 everybody's fingers were tattooed by holly-pricks; and the 
 introduction of so much decorative vegetation into the house 
 brought with it a train of somnambulant insects. 
 
 On Saturday afternoon the remaining guests arrived, and 
 when John heard Bertram and Viola shouting merrily up 
 and down the corridors he recognized the authentic note of 
 Christmas gayety at last. James was much less disagreeable 
 than he had expected, and did not even freeze Beatrice when 
 she gushed about the loveliness of the holly and reminded 
 everybody that she was countrified herself ; Hilda and Elea- 
 nor were brought together by their common dread of Hugh's 
 apparent return to favor; George exuded a gross reproduc- 
 tion of the host's good-will and wandered about the room 
 reading jokes from the Christmas numbers to those who 
 would listen to him; Laurence kissed all the ladies under 
 the mistletoe, bending down to them from his majesty as 
 patronizingly as in the days of his faith he used to communi- 
 cate the poor of the parish; Edith clapped her hands every 
 time that Laurence brought off a kiss and talked in a heart- 
 felt tremolo about the Christmas-tides of her girlhood ; Frida 
 conceived an adoration for Viola; Hugh egged on Bertram 
 to tease, threaten, and contradict Harold on every occasion ; 
 Grandmama in a new biitter-colored gown glowed in the 
 lamplight, and purred over her fertility, as if on the day 
 
232 Poor Relations 
 
 she had accepted Robert Touchwood's hand nearly half a 
 century ago she had foreseen this gathering and had never 
 grumbled when she found she was going to have anothei 
 baby. 
 
 "Snapdragon will be ready at ten," John proclaimed, 
 "and then to bed, so that we're all fit for Christmas Day." 
 
 He was anxious to get the household out of the way, be- 
 cause he had formed a project to dress himself up that night 
 as Santa Claus and, as he put it to himself, stimulate the 
 children's fancy in case they should be awake when their 
 stockings were being filled. 
 
 The clock struck ten; Mrs. Worfolk gave portentous 
 utterance to the information that the snapdragon was burn- 
 ing beautiful; there was a rush for the pantry where the 
 ceremony was to take place. Laurence picked out his raisins 
 as triumphantly as if he were snatching souls from a dis- 
 credited Romish purgatory. Harold notwithstanding his bad 
 sight seemed to be doing well until Bertram temporarily dis- 
 abled him by snatching a glowing raisin from the fiercest 
 flame and ramming it down his neck. But the one who ate 
 most of all, more even than Harold, was George, whose fat 
 fingers would scoop up half-a-dozen raisins at a go, were 
 they never so hot, until gradually the blue flames flickered 
 less alertly and finally went out altogether in a pungency 
 of burnt brandy. 
 
 "Half-past ten," John, who was longing to dress himself 
 up, cried impatiently. 
 
 His efforts to urge the family up to bed were rather inter- 
 fered with by Laurence, who detained Eleanor with nu- 
 merous questions about going on the stage with a view to 
 correcting a few technical deficiencies in his dramatic crafts- 
 manship. 
 
 "I'm anxious to establish by personal experience the exact 
 length of the interval required to change one's costume, and 
 also the distance from one's green-room to the — ah — wings. 
 I do not aim high. I should be perfectly satisfied with such 
 minor parts as Rosencrantz or Metellus Cimber. Perhaps, 
 
Poor Relations 233 
 
 Eleanor, you will introduce me to some of your theatrical 
 friends after the holidays? There is a reduced day return 
 up to town every Thursday. We might lunch together at 
 one of those little Bohemian restaurants where rumor says 
 that an excellent lunch is to be had for one and sixpence." 
 
 Eleanor promised she would do all she could, because 
 John evidently wanted her to go to bed, and he was the 
 uncle of her children. 
 
 "Thank you, Eleanor. I hope that as a catechumen I 
 shall do honor to you. By the way, you will be interested 
 in the part of Pontius Pilate's wife in my play. In fact 
 I'm hoping that you will — ah — interpret it ultimately." 
 
 "Did you ever think of writing a play about Polonius's 
 wife?" James growled on his way upstairs. "Good- 
 night." 
 
 When the grown-ups were safely in their rooms, John 
 could not understand why the children were allowed to linger 
 in the passage, gossiping and bragging; they would never go 
 to sleep at this rate. 
 
 "I've got two cocoons of a Crimson-underwing," Harold 
 was saying. 
 
 "Poof!" Viola scoffed. "What are they. Bertram 
 touched the nose of a kangaroo last time we went to the 
 Zoo." 
 
 "Yes, and I prodded a crocodile with V's umbrella," 
 added Bertram, acknowledging her testimonial by awarding 
 his sister a kind of share in the exploit. 
 
 "Well, I was bitten by a squirrel once," related Harold in 
 an attempt to keep his end up. "And that was in its nest, 
 not in a cage." 
 
 "A squirrel!" Viola sneered. "Why, the tallest giraffe 
 licked Bertram's fingers with his tongue, and they stayed 
 wet for hours afterwards." 
 
 "Well, so could I, if I went to the Zoo," Harold main- 
 tained with a sob at the back of his throat. 
 
 "No, you couldn't," Bertram contradicted. "Because 
 your fingers are too smelly." 
 
234 Poor Relations 
 
 "Much too smelly!" Viola corroborated. 
 
 Various mothers emerged at this point and put a stop to 
 the contest; the hallowed and gracious silence of Christmas 
 night descended upon Ambles, and John went on tiptoe up 
 to his bedroom. 
 
 "The beard, I suppose, is the most important item," he 
 said to himself, when he had unpacked his costume. 
 
 It was a noble beard, and when John had fixed it to his 
 cheeks with a profusion of spirit-gum, he made up his mind 
 that it became him so well that he would grow one of his 
 own, which whitening with the flight of time would in 
 another thirty years make him look what he hoped to be — 
 the doyen of romantic playwrights. The scarlet robe of 
 Santa Claus with its trimming of bells, iciclss, and holly and 
 its ruching of snow had been made in a single piece without 
 buttons, so that when John put it over his head the beard 
 caught in the folds and part of it was thinned out by an icicle. 
 In trying to disentangle himself John managed to get one 
 sleeve stuck to his cheek much more firmly than the beard 
 had ever been. Nor were his struggles to free himself made 
 easier by the bells, which tinkled with every movement and 
 made him afraid that somebody would knock at the door 
 soon and ask if he had rung. Finally he got the robe in 
 place, plucked several bits of sleeve from his cheek, reno- 
 vated the beard, gathered together the apples, oranges, 
 sweets, and small toys he had collected for the stockings, 
 looked at his watch, decided that it was at least an hour too 
 early to begin, and lay down upon his bed, where notwith- 
 standing the ticking of his beard he fell asleep. When he 
 woke, it was after one o'clock; the house was absolutely 
 still. He walked cautiously to the little room occupied by 
 Frida, turned the handle, and felt his way breathlessly along 
 the bed to where the stocking should be hung. Unfortu- 
 nately, the bed had somehow got twisted round or else his 
 beard had destroyed his sense of direction, for while he was 
 groping for the stocking he dropped an orange on Frida's 
 face, who woke with a loud scream. 
 
Poor Relations 235 
 
 "Hush, my little dear," John growled in what he sup- 
 posed to be the correct depth for the character, "It's only 
 Santa Claus." 
 
 "Go away, go away," shrieked the horrified child. 
 
 John tried to strike a match to reassure her, and at the 
 cost of a shower of apples on the floor, which sounded like 
 bombs in the tense darkness, he managed to illuminate his 
 appearance for an instant. The effect on Frida was appdl- 
 ing; she screamed a thousand times louder than before and 
 fled from the room. John ran after her to stop her before 
 she woke up everybody else and spoilt his fantasy; but he 
 was hampered by the costume and Frida gained the sanctuary 
 of her parents' bedroom. 
 
 "I only hope the little idiot will frighten them more than 
 I frightened her," muttered John, hurrying as fast as he 
 could back to his own room. 
 
 Suddenly from the hall below he heard a sound of sleigh- 
 bells that put to shame the miserable little tinkle that at- 
 tended his own progress; above the bells rose peals of hearty 
 laughter, and above the laughter Hugh's voice could be 
 heard shouting: 
 
 "Wake up ! Wake up ! Good people all ! Here's Santa 
 Claus! Santa Claus! Wake up!" 
 
 Just as John reached his own room, Hugh appeared at 
 the head of the stairs brandishing a lighted torch, while close 
 behind him dragging Harold's toboggan loaded with toys 
 was a really superb Santa Claus- 
 
 John locked his door ahd undressed himself savagely, tear- 
 ing off his beard in handfuls and flinging all the properties 
 into a corner. 
 
 "Anyway, whoever it is," he said, "he'll get the credit of 
 driving Frida mad. That's one thing. But who is it? I 
 suppose it's Laurence showing us how well he can act." 
 
 But it was Aubrey Fenton whom Hugh had invited down 
 to Ambles for Christmas and smuggled into the house like 
 this to sweeten the unpleasant surprise. What annoyed John 
 most was that he himself had never thought of using the 
 
236 Poor Relations 
 
 toboggan; but the new Santa Claus was an undoubted suc- 
 cess with the children, and Frida's sanity was soon restored 
 by chocolates. The mystery of the apples and oranges strewn 
 about her bedroom remained a mystery, though Hilda tried 
 to hint that her niece had abstracted them from the side- 
 board. 
 
 John was able to obtain as much sympathy as he wanted 
 from the rest of the family over Hugh's importation of his 
 friend. In fact they were so eager to express their disap- 
 proval of such calm self-assurance, not to mention the ob- 
 jectionable way in which he had woken everybody up in the 
 middle of the night, that John's own indignation gradually 
 melted away in the heat of their malice. As for Grandmama, 
 she shut herself up in her bedroom on Christmas morning and 
 threatened not to appear all day, so deep was her hatred of 
 that young Fenton who was the author of all Hugh's little 
 weaknesses — not even when she could shift the blame could 
 she bring herself to call her son's vices and crimes by any 
 stronger name. Aubrey, who lacked Hugh's serene insolence, 
 wanted to go back to London and was so much abashed in his 
 host's presence and so appreciative of what he had done in 
 the affair of the check that John's compassion was aroused 
 and he made the intruder welcome. His hospitality was re- 
 warded, because it turned out that Aubrey's lifelong pas- 
 sion for mechanical toys saved the situation for many of 
 John's purchases, nearly all of which he managed to set in 
 motion; nor could it be laid to his account that one of the 
 drawing-room fireworks behaved like an out-of-door fire- 
 work, because while Aubrey was lighting it at the right end 
 Harold was lighting it simultaneously at the other. 
 
 On the whole, the presentation of the Christmas gifts 
 passed oil satisfactorily. The only definite display of 
 jealousy occurred over the diver's equipment given to Harold, 
 which was more than Bertram notwithstanding his own 
 fireman's outfit could suppress. 
 
 "I'll swop with you, if you like," he began mildly enough. 
 
Poor Relations 237 
 
 But Harold clutched the diver's mask to his breast and 
 shrank from the proposal. 
 
 "I think you'd rather be a fireman," Bertram persisted. 
 "Anybody can be a diver, can't tl^ey, V?" 
 
 Viola left her doll in a state of semi-nudity and advanced 
 to her brother's support. 
 
 "You'd look much nicer as a fireman, Harold," she said, 
 coaxingly. "I wish I could be a fireman." 
 
 "Well, you can if you like," he answered, sullenly, looking 
 round with a hunted expression for his mother, who un- 
 luckily for her son was in another part of the house arguing 
 with Mrs. Worfolk about the sauce for the pliim-pudding. 
 
 "But wouldn't you rather wear a pretty brass helmet?" 
 Viola went on. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't," said Harold, desperately wrapping him- 
 self in the rubber tubes that was so temptingly conspicuous 
 a portion of his equipment; 
 
 "Oh, you little idiot," Viola burst out, impatiently. 
 "What's the good of your dressing up as a diver? In those 
 goggles you always look like a diver." 
 
 "I don't, do I, Frida?" Harold implored. 
 
 Now Frida was happy with her doUs'-house; she had no 
 reason to be loyal to Harold, who had always treated her 
 ^amefully ; but the spirit of the squaw rose in her breast and 
 she felt bound to defend the wigwam against outside criti- 
 cism. Therefore she assured Harold that in ordinary life 
 he did not look in the least like a diver. 
 
 "Well," Bertram announced, throwii^g aside the last pre- 
 tense of respecting property, "V and I want that diver's 
 dress, because we often act Twenty Thousand Leagues Under 
 the Sea." 
 
 "Well, I can act Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the 
 Sea too." 
 
 "No you can't because you haven't read it." 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 "What a bung !" exclaimed Bertram. "You've only read 
 
238 Poor Relations 
 
 A Journey to the Center of the Earth and Round the World 
 in Eighty Days." 
 
 Then he remembered Frida's attitude. "Look here, if 
 you take the fireman's uniform you can set fire to Frida's 
 house." 
 
 Frida yelled her refusal. 
 
 "And put it out, you little idiot," Bertram added. 
 
 "And put it out," Viola echoed. 
 
 Frida rushed to her mother. 
 
 "Mother, mother, don't let them burn my doUs'- 
 house! Mother, you won't, will you? Bertram wants to 
 bum it." 
 
 "Naughty Bertram !" said Edith. "But he's only teasing 
 you, darling." 
 
 "Good lummy, what a sneak," Bertram commented, bit- 
 terly, to his sister. 
 
 Viola eyed her cousin with the scorn of an Antigen. 
 
 "Beastly," she murmured. "Come on, Bertram, you don't 
 want the diver's dress!" 
 
 "Rather not. And anyway it won't work." 
 
 "It will. It will," cried Harold, passionately, "I'm go- 
 ing to practice in a water-butt the first fine day we have." 
 
 It happened that John was unable to feel himself happily 
 above these childish jealousies, because at that moment he was 
 himself smarting with resentment at his mother's handing 
 over to James all that she still retained of family heirlooms. 
 His eldest brother already had the portraits, and now he was 
 to have what was left of the silver, which would look utterly 
 out of place in Hill Road. If John had been as young as 
 Bertram, he would have spoken his mind pretty freely on the 
 subject of giving James the silver and himself a checkered 
 woolen kettle-holder. It was really too disproportionate, and 
 he did mildly protest to the old lady that she might have 
 left a few things at Ambles. 
 
 "But Jimmie is the eldest, and I expect him to take poor 
 Hugh's part. The poor boy will want somebody when I'm 
 gone, and Jimmie is the eldest." 
 
Poor Relations 239 
 
 "He may be the eldest, but I'm the one who has to look 
 after Hugh — and very often James for that matter." 
 
 "Ah well, you're the lucky one, but Jimmie is the eldest 
 and Hugh is the baby." 
 
 "But James hasn't any children." 
 
 "Nor have you, my dear boy." 
 
 "But I might have," said John. 
 
 If this sort of thing went on much longer, he would, 
 too — <lozens of children. 
 
 "Bertram," John called out. "Come here, my boy, and 
 listen to me. When I go back to London, you shall hav6 a 
 diving-suit too if I can find another." 
 
 Eleanor tossed her head back like a victorious game- 
 cock; she would have crowed, if she could. 
 
 "Dinner is ready," announced Hilda fresh from a triumph 
 over Mrs. Worfolk about the sauce and happily ignorant of 
 the dreadful relegation of her son. After an unusually large 
 meal even for Christmas the company lay about the drawing- 
 room like exhausted Roman debauchees, while the pink and 
 green paper caps out of the crackers one by one fluttered 
 from their brows to the carpet. Snores and the occasional 
 violent whizz of an overwound toy were all that broke the 
 stillness. At tea-time everybody woke up, and Bertram 
 was allowed to put on his fireman's uniform in order to 
 extinguish a bonfire that Huggins had hoped would burn 
 slowly over the holidays. After a comparatively light sup- 
 per games were played ; drawing-room fireworks were let off ; 
 Laurence blacked his nose in the magic lantern ; and George 
 walking ponderously across the room to fetch himself a cigar 
 was struck on the ear by a projectile from the vacuum 
 pistol, the red mark of which was visible for some time even 
 on his florid countenance. Then, when the children became 
 too quarrelsome to be any longer tolerated out of bed, a 
 bowl of punch was brought in and Auld Lang Syne was 
 sung. After which everybody agreed that it had been a 
 very merry Christmas, and Grandmama was led weeping up 
 to bed. 
 
240 Poor Relations 
 
 The next morning about midday John announced that he 
 was driving to Wrottesford for the purpose of meeting Miss 
 Hamilton. 
 
 "For though it is hoh'day time, I must do a certain amount 
 of work," he explained. 
 
 "Miss Hamilton?" said Grandmama. "And who may 
 Miss Hamilton be?" 
 
 Hilda, Edith, Eleanor, and Beatrice all looked very solemn 
 and mysterious; James chuckled; Hugh brightened visibly. 
 
 "Well, I suppose we mustn't mind a stranger's coming to 
 spoil our happy party," Hilda sighed. 
 
 "Ah, this will be your new secretary of whom rumor has 
 already spoken," said Laurence. "Possibly she will give me 
 some advice on the subject of the typing of manuscripts." 
 
 "Miss Hamilton will be very busy while she is staying 
 here," said John, curtly. 
 
 Everybody looked at everybody else, and there was an awk- 
 ward pause, which was relieved by Harold's saying that he 
 would show her where he thought a goldfinch would make a 
 nest in spring. 
 
 "Dear little man," murmured his mother with a sigh 
 for his childish confidence. 
 
 "Shall / drive in to meet her?" Hugh suggested. 
 
 "No, thank you," said John, quickly. 
 
 "That's right, Johnnie," James guffawed. "You stick to 
 the reins yourself." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 JOHN did not consider himself a first-class whip: if he had 
 been offered the choice between swimming to meet his 
 love like Leander, climbing into her father's orchard like 
 Romeo, and driving to meet her with a dog-cart, he would 
 certainly, had the engagement shown signs of being a long 
 one, have chosen any mode of trysting except the last. This 
 morning, however, he was not as usual oppressed by a sense 
 of imperfect sympatliy between himself and the mare ; he did 
 not think she was going to have hysterics when she blew her 
 nose, nor fancy that she was on the verge of bolting when 
 she tossed her chestnut mane; the absence of William the 
 groom seemed a matter for congratulation rather than for 
 regret; he felt as reckless as Phaeton, as urgent as Jehu, and 
 the mare knew it. Generally, when her master held the 
 reins, she would try to walk up steep banks or emulate in 
 her capricious greed the lofty browsings of the giraffe; this 
 morning at a steady swinging trot she kept to the middle of 
 the road, passed two motor-cars without trying to box the 
 landscape, and did not even shy at the new hat of the vicar's 
 wife. 
 
 Later on, however, when John was safe in the station- 
 yard and saw the familiar way in which Miss Hamilton 
 patted the mare he decided not to take any risk on the return 
 journey and in spite of his brother's parting gibe to hand 
 over the reins to his secretary; nor was the symbolism of 
 the action distasteful. How charming she looked in that 
 mauve frieze! How well the color was harmonizing with 
 the purple hedgerows ! How naturally she seemed to haunt 
 the woodland scene! 
 
 "Oh, this exquisite country," she Sighed, "Fancy staying 
 in London when you can write here!" 
 
242 Poor Relations 
 
 "It does seem absurd," the lucky author agreed. "But the 
 house is very full at present. We shall be rather exposed 
 to interruptions until the party breaks up." 
 
 He gave her an account of the Christmas festival, to 
 which she seemed able to listen comfortably and apprecia- 
 tively in spite of the fact that she was driving This im- 
 pressed John very much. 
 
 "I hope your mother wasn't angry at your leaving town," 
 he said, tentatively. "I thought of telegraphing an invita- 
 tion to her; but there really isn't room for another person." 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't say that she was gracious about my 
 desertion of her. Indeed, she's beginning to put pressure on 
 me to give up my post. Quite indirectly, of course, but 
 one feels the effect just the same. Who knows? I may 
 succumb." 
 
 John nearly fell out of the dog-cart. 
 
 "Give up your post?" he gasped. "But, my dear Miss 
 Hamilton, the dog-roses won't be in bloom for some months." 
 
 "What have dog-roses got to do with my post?" 
 
 He laughed a little foolishly. 
 
 "I mean the play won't be finished for some months. Did 
 I say dog-roses? I must have been thinking of the dog' 
 cart. You drive with such admirable unconcern. Still, you 
 ought to see these hedgerows in summer. Now the time I 
 like for a walk is about eight o'clock on a June evening. 
 The honeysuckle smells so delicious about eight o'clock. 
 There's no doubt it is ridiculous to live in London. I hope 
 you made it quite clear to your mother you had no intention 
 of leaving me?" 
 
 "Ida Merritt did most of the arguing." 
 
 "Did she? What a very intelligent girl she is, by th? 
 way. I confess I took a great fancy to her." 
 1 "You told mother once that she frightened you." 
 
 "Ah, but I'm always frightened by people when I meet 
 them first. Though curiously enough I was never frightened 
 of you. Some people have told me that / am frightening at 
 first. You didn't find that did you?" 
 
Poor Relations 243 
 
 "No, I certainly did not. And I can't imagine anybody 
 else's doing so either." 
 
 Although John rather plumed himself upon the alarm he 
 was credited with inspiring at first sight, he did not argue 
 the point, because he really never had had the least desire 
 to frighten his secretary. 
 
 "And your relations don't seem to find you very frighten- 
 ing," she murmured. "Good gracious, what an assemblage !" 
 
 The dog-cart had just drawn clear of the beechwood, and 
 the whole of the Ambles party could be seen vigilantly 
 grouped by the gate to receive them, which John thought 
 was a lapse of taste on the part of his guests. Nor was he 
 mollified by the way in which after the introductions were 
 made Hugh took it upon himself to conduct Miss Hamilton 
 indoors, while he was left shouting for William the groom. 
 If it was anybody's business except his own to escort her into 
 the house, it was Hilda's. 
 
 "What a very extraordinary thing," said John, fretfully, 
 "that the only person who's wanted is not here. Where is 
 that confounded boy?" 
 
 "I'm here," cried Bertram, responding to the epithet 
 instinctively. 
 
 "Not you. Not you. I wanted William to take the mare.' 
 
 When lunch was over John found that notwithstanding his 
 secretary's arrival he was less eager to begin work again upon 
 his play than he had supposed. 
 
 "I think I must be feeling rather worn out by Christmas," 
 he told her. "I wonder if a walk wouldn't do you good 
 after the journey." 
 
 "Now that's a capital notion," exclaimed Hugh, who was 
 standing close by and overheard the suggestion. "We might 
 tramp up to the top of Shalstead Down." 
 
 "Oh yes," Harold chimed in. "I've never been there yet. 
 Mother said it was too far for me ; but it isn't, is it, Uncle 
 John?" 
 
 "Your mother was right. It's at least three miles too 
 far," said John, firmly. "Oh, by the way, Hugh, I've been 
 
244 Poor Relations 
 
 thinking over your scheme for that summerhouse or what- 
 ever you call it, and I'm not sure that I don't rather like 
 the idea after all. You might put it in hand this afternoon. 
 You'd better keep Laurence with you. I want him to have 
 it in the way he likes it, although of course I shall undertake 
 the expense. Where's Bertram? Ah, there you are. Ber- 
 tram, why don't you and Viola take Harold down to the river 
 and practice diving? I dare say Mr. Fcnton will superin- 
 tend the necessary supply of air and reduce the chances of a 
 fatal accident." 
 
 "But the water's much too cold," Hilda protested in 
 dismay. 
 
 "Oh well, there's always something to amuse one by a 
 river without actually going into the water," John said. 
 "You like rivers, don't you, Fenton? I'm afraid we can't 
 offer you a very large one, but it wiggles most picturesquely." 
 
 Aubrey Fenton, who was still feeling twinges of embar- 
 rassment on account of his uninvited stay at Ambles, was 
 prepared to like anything his host put forward for his appre- 
 ciation, and he spoke wi'th as much enthusiasm of a promenade 
 along the banks of the small Hampshire stream as if he were 
 going to view the Ganges for the first time. John, having 
 disposed of him, looked around for other possible candidates 
 for a walk. 
 
 "You look like hard work, James," he said, approvingly. 
 
 "I've a bundle of trash here for review," the critic growled. 
 
 "I'm sorry. I was going to propose a stroll up Shalstead 
 Down. Never mind. You'll have to walk into your victims 
 instead." And, by gad, he would walk into them too, John 
 thought, after that dinner yesterday. 
 
 Beatrice and Eleanor were not about; old Mrs. Touch- 
 wood was imlikely at her age to venture up the third highest 
 elevation in Hampshire; Hilda was occupied with house- 
 hold duties; Edith had a headache. Only George now re- 
 mained unoccupied, and John was sure he might safely risk 
 an invitation to him; he looked incapable of walking two 
 yards. 
 
Poor Relations 245 
 
 "I suppose you wouldn't care for a constitutional, 
 George?" he inquired, heartily. 
 
 "A constitutional?" George repeated, gaping like a chub 
 at a large cherry. "No, no, no, no. I always knit after 
 lunch. Besides I never walk in the country. It ruins one's 
 boots." 
 
 George always used to polish his own boots with as much 
 passionate care as he would have devoted to the coloring of 
 a meerschaum pipe. 
 
 "Well, if nobody wants to climb Shalstead Down," said 
 John beaming happily, "what do you say. Miss Hamilton?" 
 
 A few minutes later they had crossed the twenty-?icre 
 field and were among the chalk-flecked billows of the rising 
 downs. 
 
 "You're a terrible fraud," she laughed. "You've aU 
 ways led me to believe that you were completely at the 
 mercy of your relations. Instead of which, you order them 
 about and arrange their afternoon and really bully them 
 into doing all sorts of things they never had any intention 
 of doing, or any wish to do, what's more." 
 
 "Yes, I seemed to be rather successful with my strategy 
 to-day," John admitted. "But they were stupefied by their 
 Christmas dinner. None of them was really anxious for a 
 walk, and I didn't want to drag them out unwillingly." 
 
 "Ah, it's all very well to explain it away like that, but 
 don't ever ask me to sympathize with you again. I believe 
 you're a replica of my poor mother. Her tyranny is deeply 
 rooted in consideration for others. Why do you suppose she 
 is always trying to make me give up working for you? For 
 her sake? Oh, dear no! For mine." 
 
 "But you don't forge my name and expect her to pay me 
 back. You don't arrive suddenly and deposit children upon 
 her doorstep." 
 
 "I dare say I don't, but for my mother Ida Merritt repre- 
 sents all the excesses of your relations combined in one per- 
 son. I'm convinced that if you and she were to compare notes 
 you would find that you were both suffering from acute 
 
'246 Poor Relations 
 
 ingratitude and thoroughly enjoying it. But come, come, 
 this is not a serious conversation. What about the fourth 
 act?" 
 
 "The fourth act of what?" he asked, vaguely. 
 
 "The fourth act of Joan of Arc." 
 
 "Oh, Joan of Arc. I think I must give her a rest. I 
 don't seem at all in the mood for writing at present. The 
 truth is that I find Joan rather lacking in humanity and I'm 
 beginning to think I made a mistake in choosing such an 
 abnormal creature for the central figure of a play." 
 
 "Then what have I come down to Hampshire for?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Well, it's very jolly down here, isn't it ?" John retorted 
 in an offended voice. "And anyway you can't expect me to 
 burst into blank verse the moment you arrive, like a canary 
 that's been uncovered by the housemaid. It would be an 
 aifectation to pretend I feel poetical this afternoon. I feel 
 like a jolly good tramp before tea. I can't stand writers who 
 always want to be literary. I have the temperament of a 
 country squire, and if I had more money and fewer relations 
 I should hardly write at all." 
 
 "Which would be a great pity," said his secretary. 
 
 "Would it?" John replied in the voice of one who has 
 found an unexpected grievance and is determined to make the 
 most of it. "I doubt if it would. What is my work, after 
 all? I don't deceive myself. There was more in my six 
 novels than in anything I've written since. I'm a failure to 
 myself. In the eyes of the public I may be a success, but in 
 the depths of my own heart — " he finished the sentence in a 
 long sigh, all the longer because he was a little out of breath 
 with climbing. 
 
 "But you were so cheerful a few minutes ago. I'm sure 
 that country squires are not the prey to such swift changes 
 of mood. I think you must be a poet really." 
 
 "A poet!" he exclaimed, bitterly, with what he fancied 
 was the kind of laugh that is called hollow. "Do I look 
 like a poet?" 
 
Poor Relations 247 
 
 "If you're going to talk in that childish way I sha'n't 
 say any more," she warned him, severely. "Oh, there goes 
 a hare!" 
 
 "Two hares," said John, trying to create an impression 
 that in spite of the weight of his despondency he would for 
 her sake aifect a light-hearted interest in the common inci- 
 dents of a country walk. 
 
 "And look at the peewits," she said. "What a fuss they 
 make about nothing, don't they?" 
 
 "I suppose you are comparing me to a peewit now?" 
 John reproachfully suggested. 
 
 "Well, a moment ago you compared yourself to an un- 
 covered canary ; so if I've exceeded the bounds of free speech 
 marked out for a secretary, you must forgive me." 
 
 "My dear Miss Hamilton," he assured her, "I beg you 
 to believe that you are at liberty to compare me to anything 
 you like." 
 
 Having surrendered his personality for the exercise of her 
 wit John felt more cheerful. The rest of the walk seemed 
 to offer with its wide prospects of country asleep in the 
 winter sunlight a wider prospect of life itself; even Joan 
 of Arc, became once again a human figure. 
 
 It was to be feared that John's manipulation of his guests 
 after lunch might have had the effect of uniting them against 
 the new favorite ; and so it had. When he and Miss Hamil- 
 ton got back to the house for tea the family was obviously 
 ,upon the defensive, so obviously indeed that it gave the 
 impression of a sculptor's group in which each figure was 
 contributing his posture to the whole. There was not as yet 
 the least hint of attack, but John would almost have pre- 
 ferred an offensive action to this martyred withdrawal from 
 the world in which it was suggested that he and Miss 
 Hamilton were living by themselves. It happened that a 
 neighbor, a colorless man with a disobedient and bushy dog, 
 called upon the Touchwoods that afternoon, and John could 
 not help being aware that to the eyes of his relations he and 
 his secretary appeared equally intrusive and disturbing; the 
 17 
 
248 Poor Relations 
 
 manner in which Hilda offered Miss Hamilton tea scarcely 
 differed from the manner in which she propitiated the dog 
 with a bun ; and it would have been rash to assert that she 
 was more afraid of the dog's biting Harold than of the 
 secretary's doing so. 
 
 "Don't worry Miss Hamilton, darling. She's tired after 
 her long walk. Besides, she isn't used to little boys. And 
 don't make Mr. Wenlow's dog eat sugar if it doesn't want 
 to." 
 
 Eleanor would ordinarily have urged Bertram to prove 
 that he could achieve what was denied to his cousin. Yet 
 now in the face of a common enemy she made overtures to 
 Hilda by simultaneously calling off her children from the 
 intruders. 
 
 "If I'd known that animals were so welcomed down 
 here," James grumbled, "I should have brought Beyle with 
 us." 
 
 It was not a polite remark ; but the disobedient dog in an 
 effusion of cordiality had just licked the back of James' 
 neck, and he was not nearly so rude as he would have been 
 about a human being who had surprised him, speaking figura- 
 tively, in the same way. 
 
 "Lie down. Rover," whispered the colorless neighbor with 
 so rich a blush that until it subsided the epithet ceased to 
 be appropriate. 
 
 Rover unexpectedly paid attention to the command, but 
 chose Grandmama's lap for his resting place, which made 
 Viola laugh so ecstatically that Frida felt bound to imitate 
 her, with the result that a geyser of tea spurted from her 
 mouth and descended upon her father's leg. Laurence rose 
 and led his daughter from the room, saying: 
 
 "Little girls who choke in drawing-rooms must learn to 
 choke outside." 
 
 "I'm afraid she has adenoids, poor child," said Eleanor, 
 kindly. 
 
 "I know what that word means," Harold bragged with 
 gloating knowledge. 
 
Poor Relations 249 
 
 "Shut up!" cried Bertram. "You know everything, glass- 
 eyes. But you don't know there are two worms in your 
 tea-cup." 
 
 "There aren't," Harold contradicted. 
 
 "All right, drink it up and see. I put them there myself." 
 
 "Eleanor!" expostulated the horrified mother. "D9 you 
 allow Bertram to behave like this?" 
 
 She hurriedly poured away the contents of Harold's cup, 
 which proved that the worms were only an invention of his 
 cousin. Yet the joke was successful in its way, becaiise there 
 was no more tea, and therefore Harold had to go without a 
 third cup. Edith, whose agitation had been intense while 
 her husband was brooding in the passage over Frida's chokes, 
 could stay still no longer, but went out to assist with tugs and 
 taps of consolation. The colorless visitor departed with his 
 disobedient dog, and soon a thin pipe was heard in vain 
 whistles upon the twilight like the lisp of reeds along the 
 dreary margin of a December stream. 
 
 John welcomed this recrudescence of maternal competi- 
 tion, which seemed likely to imperil the alliance, and he was 
 grateful to Bertram and Viola for their provocation of it. 
 But he had scarcely congratulated himself, when Hugh came 
 in and at once laid himself out to be agreeable to Miss 
 Hamilton. 
 
 "You've put the summerhouse in hand?" John asked, 
 fussily, in order to make it perfectly clear to his brother 
 that he was not the owner of Ambles. 
 
 Hugh shook his head. 
 "My dear man, it's Boxing Day. Besides, I know you 
 only wanted to get rid of me this afternoon. By the way, 
 Aubrey's going back to town to-night. Can he have the dog- 
 cart?" 
 
 John looked round at the unbidden guest with a protest 
 on his lips; he had planned to keep Aubrey as a diversion 
 for Hugh, and had taken quite a fancy to him. Aubrey 
 however, had to be at the office next day, and John was dis- 
 tressed to lose the cheerful young man's company, although 
 
250 Poor Relations 
 
 it had been embarrassing when Grandmama had shuddered 
 every time he opened his mouth. Another disadvantage of 
 his departure was the direction of the old lady's imagina- 
 tion toward an imminent marriage between Hugh and Miss 
 Hamilton, which was extremely galling to John, especially 
 as the rest of the family was united in suggesting a similar 
 conjunction between her and himself. 
 
 "I don't want to say a word against her, Johnnie," 
 Grandmama began to mutter one evening about a week later 
 when every game of patience had failed in turn through 
 congestion of the hearts. "I'm not going to say she isn't a 
 lady, and perhaps she doesn't mean to make eyes at 
 Hughie." 
 
 John would have liked to tell his mother that she was on 
 the verge of senile decay; but the dim old fetish of parental 
 respect blinked at him from the jungle of the past, and in a 
 vain search for a way of stopping her without being rude 
 he let her ramble on. 
 
 "Of course, she has very nice eyes, and I can quite under- 
 stand Hughie's taking an interest in her. I don't grudge the 
 dear boy his youth. We all get old in time, and its natural 
 that with us old fogies round him he should be a little in- 
 terested in Miss Hamilton. All the same, it wouldn't be a 
 prudent match. I dare say she thinks I shall have something 
 to leave Hugh, but I told her only yesterday that I should 
 leave little or nothing." 
 
 "My dear Mama, I can assure you that my secretary — 
 my secretary," John repeated with as much pomposity as 
 might impress the old lady, "is not at all dazzled by the 
 glamour of your wealth or James' wealth or George's wealth 
 or anybody's wealth for that matter." 
 
 He might have said that the donkey's ears were the only 
 recognizable feature of Midas in the Touchwood family had 
 there been the least chance of his mother's understanding 
 the classical allusion. 
 
 "I don't mean to hint that she's only after Hugh's money. 
 I've no doubt at all that she's excessively in love with him." 
 
Poor Relations 251 
 
 "Really?" John exclaimed with such a scornfully ironical 
 intonation that his mother asked anxiously if he had a sore 
 throat. 
 
 "You might take a little honey and borax, my dear boy," 
 she advised, and immediately continued her estimate of the 
 emotional situation. "Yes, as I say, excessively in love! 
 But there can't be many young women who resist Hugh. 
 Why, even as a boy he had his little love affairs. Dear me, 
 how poor papa used to laugh about them. 'He's going to 
 break a lot of hearts,' poor papa used to say." 
 
 "I don't know about hearts," John commented, gruffly. 
 "But he's broken everything else, including himself. How- 
 ever, I can assure you. Mama, that Miss Hamilton's heart is 
 not made of pie-crust, and that she is more than capable of 
 looking after herself." 
 
 "Then you agree \yith me that she has a selfish disposition. 
 I am glad you agree with me. I didn't trust her from the 
 beginning; but I thought you seemed so wrapped up in her 
 cleverness — though when I was young women didn't think it 
 necessary to be clever — that you were quite blind to her 
 selfishness. But I am glad you agree with me. There's 
 nobody who has more sympathy for true love than I have. 
 But though I always said that love makes the world go round, 
 I've never been partial to vulgar flirtations. Indeed, if it 
 had to be, I'd rather they got engaged properly, even if it 
 did mean a long engagement — but leading poor Hughie on 
 like this — ^well, I must speak plainly, Johnnie, for, after aU, 
 I am your mother, though I know it's the fashion now to 
 think that children know more than their parents, and, in 
 my opinion, you ought to put your foot down. There! I've 
 said what I've been wanting to say for a week, and if you 
 jump down my throat, well, then you must, and that's all 
 there is to it." 
 
 Now, although John thought his mother fondly stupid 
 and was perfectly convinced when he asked himself the ques- 
 tion that Miss Hamilton was as remote from admiring Hugh 
 as he was himself, he was nevertheless unable to resist ob- 
 
2J2 Poor Relations 
 
 serving Hugh henceforth with a little of the jealousy that 
 most men of forty-two feel for juniors of twenty-seven. He 
 was not prepared to acknowledge that his opinion of Miss 
 Hamilton was colored by any personal emotion beyond the 
 unqualified respect he gave to her practical qualities, and he 
 was sure that the only reason for anxiety about possible de- 
 velopments between her and Hugh was the loss to himself 
 of her valuable services. 
 
 "I've reached an age," he told his reflection, whose crow's- 
 feet were seeming more conspicuous than usual in the clear 
 wintry weather, "when a man becomes selfish in small mat- 
 ters. Let me be frank with myself. Let me admit that I 
 do dislike the idea of an entanglement with Hugh, because 
 I have found in Miss Hamilton a perfect secretary whom 
 I should be extremely sorry to lose. Is that surprising? No, 
 it is quite natural. Curious! I noticed to-day that Hugh's 
 hair is getting very thin on top. Mine, however, shows no 
 sign of baldness, though fair men nearly always go bald 
 before dark men. But I'm inclined to fancy that few ob- 
 servers would give me fifteen years more than Hugh." 
 
 If John had really been conscious of a rival in his youngest 
 brother, he might have derived much encouragement from 
 the attitude of all the other members of the family, none of 
 whom seemed to think that Hugh had a look in. But, since 
 he firmly declined to admit his secretary's potentiality for 
 anything except efEcient clerical work, he was only irritated 
 by it 
 
 "Are you going to marry Miss Hamilton?" Harold ac- 
 tually wanted to know one evening. He had recently been 
 snubbed for asking the company what was the difference 
 between gestation and digestion, and was determined to pro- 
 duce a conundrum that could not be evaded by telling him 
 that he would not understand the answer. John's soluti6n 
 was to look at his watch and say it was time for him and 
 Bertram to be in bed, hoping that Bertram would take it 
 out of his cousin for calling attention to their existence. One 
 of Bertram's first measures at Ambles had been to muffle. 
 
Poor Relations 253 
 
 impede, disorganize and finally destroy the striking of the 
 drawing-room clock. When this had been accomplished he 
 could count every night on a few precious minutes snatched 
 from the annihilation of bed during which he sat mute as a 
 mummy in a kind of cataleptic ecstasy. The betrayer of this 
 profound peace sullenly gathered up the rubbish with which 
 he was wont to litter the room every night, and John saw 
 Bertram's eye flash like a Corsican sharpening the knife of 
 revenge. But whatever was in store for Harold lacked 
 savor when John heard from the group of mothers, aunts, 
 sisters, and sisters-in-law the two words "Children know" 
 dying away in a sibilance of affirmative sighs. 
 
 After that it was small consolation to hear ascufHe outside 
 in the hall followed by the crash of Harold's dispersed col- 
 lections and a wail of protest. For the sake of a childish 
 quarrel Hilda and Eleanor were not going to break up the 
 alliance to which they were now definitely committed. 
 
 "It's so nice for poor Harold to have Bertram to play with 
 him," volunteered one mother. 
 
 "Yes, and it's nice for Bertram too, because Harold's such 
 a little worker," the other agreed. 
 
 Even George's opaque eyes glimmered with an illusion of 
 life when he heard his wife praise her nephew; she had not 
 surprised him so completely since on a wet afternoon, thir- 
 teen years ago, she accepted his hand. It was even obvious 
 to Edith that she must begin to think about taking sides; 
 and, having exhausted her intelligence by this discovery, she 
 had not enough wit left to see that now was her opportunity 
 to trade upon John's sentimental affection for herself, but 
 proceeded to sacrifice her own daughter to the success of the 
 hostile alliance. 
 
 "I think perhaps it's good for Frida to be teased some- 
 times," she ventured. 
 
 As for Beatrice, she was not going to draw attention to her 
 childlessness by giving one more woman the chance of feeling 
 superior to herself, and her thwarted maternity was placed 
 at the disposal of the three m6thers. Indeed it was she who 
 
254 Poor Relations 
 
 led the first foray, in which she was herself severely wounded, 
 as will be seen. 
 
 Among the unnecessary vexations and unsatisfactory 
 pleasures which the human side of John inflicted upon the 
 well-known dramatist, John Touchwood, was the collection 
 of press-cuttings about himself and his work; one of Miss 
 Hamilton's least congenial tasks was to preserve in a scrap- 
 book these tributes to egoism. 
 
 "You don't really want me to stick in this paragraph from 
 High Life?" she would protest. 
 
 "Which one is that?" 
 
 "Why, this ridiculous announcement that you've decided 
 to live on the upper slopes of the Andes for the next few 
 months in order to gather material for a tragedy about the 
 Incas." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. It's rather amusing, I think," John 
 would insist, apologetically. Then, rather lamely, he would 
 add, "You see, I subscribe." 
 
 Miss Hamilton, with a sigh, would dip her brush in the 
 paste. 
 
 "I can understand your keeping the notices of your produc- 
 tions, which I suppose have a certain value, but this sort of 
 childish gossip ..." 
 
 "Gossip keeps my name before the public." 
 
 Then he would fancy that he caught a faint mumur about 
 "lack of dignity," and once even he thought she whispered 
 something about "lack of humor." 
 
 Therefore, in view of the importance he seemed to attach 
 to the most irrelevant paragraph. Miss Hamilton could not 
 be blamed for drawing his attention to a long article in one 
 of those critical quarterlies or monthlies that are read in club 
 smoking-rooms in the same spirit of desperation in which at 
 railway stations belated travelers read time-tables. This 
 article was entitled What Is Wrong With Our Drama? and 
 was signed with some obscurely allusive pseudonym. 
 
 "I suppose I am involved in the general condemnation?" 
 said John, with an attempt at a debonair indifference. 
 
Poor Relations 255 
 
 Had he been alone he might have refrained from a descent 
 into particulars, but having laid so much stress upon the 
 salvage of worthless flotsam, he could not in Miss Hamil- 
 ton's presence ignore this large wreck. 
 
 "Let us pause now to contemplate the roundest and the 
 rosiest of our romantic cherubs. Ha-ha! I suppose the fel- 
 low thinks that will irritate me. As a matter of fact, I 
 think it's rather funny, don't you? Rather clever, I mean. 
 Eh? But, after alU should we take Mr. Touchwood 
 seriously? He is only an exuberant schoolboy prancing about 
 with a pudding-dish on his head and shouting 'Let's pretend 
 I'm a Knight-at-Arms' to a large and susceptible public. 
 Let us say to Mr. Touchwood in the words of an earlier 
 romantic who was the fount and origin of all this Gothic 
 stucco: 
 
 'O what can ail thee, Knight-at-Arms. 
 So staggered by the critics' tonef 
 The pit and gallery are full. 
 And the play has gone.' 
 
 "1 don't mind what he says about me," John assured his 
 secretary. "But I do resent his parodying Keats. Yes, I do 
 strongly resent that. I wonder who wrote it. I call it 
 rather personal for anonymous criticism." 
 
 "Shall I stick it in the book?" 
 
 "Certainly," the wounded lion uttered with a roar of 
 disdain. At least that was the way John fancied he said 
 "certainly." 
 
 "Do you really want to know who wrote this article?" 
 she asked, seriously, a minute or two later. 
 
 "It wasn't James?" the victim exclaimed in a flash of com- 
 prehension. 
 
 "Well, all I can tell you is that two or three days ago 
 your brother received a copy of the review and a letter from 
 the editorial offices. I was sorting out your letters and 
 noticed the address on the outside. Afterwards at breakfast 
 he opened it and took out a check." 
 
256 Poor Relations 
 
 "James would call me a rosy cherub," John muttered. 
 "Moreover, I did tell him about Bertram and the pudding- 
 dish when he was playing at Perseus. And— no, James 
 doesn't admire Keats." 
 
 "Poor man," said Miss Hamilton, charitably. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose one ought to be sorry for him rather than 
 angry," John agreed, snatching at the implied consolation. 
 "All the same, I think I ought to speak to him about his 
 behavior. Of course, he's quite at liberty to despise my 
 work, but I don't think he should take advantage of our 
 relationship to introduce a note of personal — ^well, really, I 
 don't think he has any right to call me a round and rosy 
 cherub in print. After all, the public doesn't know what a 
 damned failure James himself is. I shouldn't so mind if it 
 really was a big pot calling the kettle black. I could re- 
 taliate then. But as it is I can do nothing." 
 
 "Except stick it in your press-cutting book," suggested 
 Miss Hamilton, with a smile. 
 
 "And then my mother goes and presents him with all the 
 silver! No, I will not overlook this lapse of taste; I shall 
 speak to him about it this morning. But suppose he asks me 
 how I found out?" 
 
 "You must tell him." 
 
 "You don't mind?" 
 
 "I'm your secretary, aren't I ?" 
 
 "By Jove, Miss Hamilton, you know, you really are . . ." 
 
 John stopped. He wanted to tell her what a balm her 
 generosity was to his wound; but he felt that she would 
 prefer him to be practical. 
 
 It was like the critic to welcome with composure the accu- 
 sation of what John called his duplicity, or rather of what he 
 called duplicity in the privacy of his own thoughts: to James 
 he began by referring to it as exaggerated frankness. 
 
 "I said nothing more than I've said a hundred times to 
 your face," his brother pointed out. 
 
 "That may be, but you didn't borrow money from me on 
 
Poor Relations 257 
 
 the strength of what you said. You told me you had an 
 article on Alfred de Vigny appearing shortly. You didn't 
 tell me that you were raising the money as a post obit on my 
 reputation." 
 
 "My dear Johnnie, if you're going to abuse me in meta- 
 phors, be just at any rate. Your reputation was a corpse 
 before I dissected it." 
 
 "Very well, then," cried John, hotly, "have it your own 
 way and admit that you're a body-snatcher." 
 
 "However," James continued, with a laugh that was for 
 him almost apologetic, "though I hate excuses, I must point 
 out that the money I borrowed from you was genuinely on 
 account of Alfred de Vigny and that this was an unexpected 
 windfall. And to show I bear you no ill wiU, which is more 
 than can be said for most borrowers, here's the check I 
 received. I'm bound to say you deserve it." 
 
 "I don't want the money." 
 
 "Yet in a way you earned it yourself," the critic chuckled. 
 "But let me be quite clear. Is this a family quarriel? I don't 
 want to quarrel with you personally. I hate your work. I 
 think it false, pretentious and demoralizing. But I like you 
 very much. Do, my dear fellow, let us contract my good 
 taste in literature and bad taste in manners with your bad 
 taste in literature and good taste in manners. Like two 
 pugilists, let's shake hands and walk out of the ring arm-in- 
 arm. Even if I hit you below the belt, you must blame your 
 curves, Johnnie. You're so plump and rosy that ..." 
 
 "That word is becoming an obsession with you. You seem 
 to think it annOys me, but it doesn't annoy me at all." 
 
 "Then it is a family quarrel. Come, your young lady has 
 opened her campaign well. I congratulate her. By the way, 
 when am I to congratulate you?" 
 
 "This," said John, risihg with grave dignity, "is going 
 too far." 
 
 He left his brother, armed himself with a brassey, pro- 
 ceeded to the twentyracre field, and made the longest drive 
 
258 Poor Relations 
 
 of his experience. At lunch James announced that he and 
 Beatrice must be getting back to town that afternoon, a reso- 
 lution in which his host acquiesced without even a conven- 
 tional murmur of protest. Perhaps it was this attitude of 
 John's that stung Beatrice into a challenge, or perhaps she 
 had been egged on by the mothers who, with their children's 
 future to consider, were not anxious to declare open war 
 upon the rich uncle. At any rate, in her commonest voice 
 she said: 
 
 "It's plain that Jimmie and I are not wanted here any 
 longer." 
 
 The mothers looked down at their plates with what they 
 hoped was a stricdy neutral expression. Yet it was impos- 
 sible not to feel that they were triumphantly digging one 
 another in the ribs with ghostly fingers, such an atmosphere 
 of suppressed elation was discernible above the modest at- 
 tention they paid to the food before them. Nobody made an 
 effort to cover the awkwardness created by the remark, and 
 John was faced with the alternative of contradicting it or 
 acknowledging its truth; he was certainly not going to be 
 allowed to ignore it in a burst of general conversation. 
 
 "I think that is rather a foolish remark, Beatrice," was 
 his comment. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders so emphatically that her stays 
 creaked in the horrid silence that enveloped the table. 
 
 "Well, we can't all be as clever as Miss Hamilton, and 
 most of us wouldn't like to be, what's more." 
 
 "The dog-cart will be round at three," John replied, coldly. 
 
 His sister-in-law, bursting into tears, rushed from the 
 room. James guffawed and helped himself to potatoes. The 
 various mothers reproved their children for breaches of table 
 manners. George looked nervously at his wife as if she was 
 on the point of following the example of Beatrice. Grand- 
 mama, who was daily receding further and further into 
 the past, put on her spectacles and told John, reproachfully, 
 that he ought not to tease little Beatrice. Hugh engaged 
 Miss Hamilton in a conversation about Bernard Shaw. 
 
Poor Relations 259 
 
 John, forgetting he had already dipped twice in mustard the 
 morsel of beef upon his fork, dipped it again, so that his 
 eyes presently filled with tears, to which the observant Har- 
 old called everybody's attention. 
 
 "Don't make personal remarks, darling," his mother whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "That's what Johnnie said to me this morning," James 
 chuckled. 
 
 When the dog-cart drove off with James and Beatrice at 
 three o'clock to catch the 3 :45 train up to town, John retired 
 to his study in full expectation that when the mare came 
 back she would at once turn round for the purpose of driving 
 Miss Hamilton to catch the 5 :30 train up to town : no young 
 woman in her position would forgive that vulgar scene at 
 lunch. But when he reached his desk he found his secretary 
 hard at work upon the collection of material for the play as 
 if nothing had happened. In the presence of such well-bred 
 indifference the recollection of Beatrice's behavior abashed 
 him more than fever, and, feeling that any kind of even in- 
 direct apology from him would foe distasteful to Miss Hamil- 
 ton, he tried to concentrate upon the grouping of the trial 
 scene with an equal show of indifference to the mean events 
 of family life. He was so far successful that the afternoon 
 passed away without any allusion to Beatrice, and when 
 the gong sounded for tea his equanimity was in order 
 again. 
 
 After tea, however, Eleanor managed to get hold of John 
 for what she called a little chat about the future, but which 
 he detected with the mind's nose as an unpleasant rehash of 
 the morning's pasticcio. He always dreaded this sister-in- 
 law when she opened with zoological endearments, and his 
 spirits sank to hear her exclaim boisterously: 
 
 "Now, look here, you poor wounded old lion, I'm going 
 to talk to you seriously about Beatrice." 
 
 "There's nothing more to.be said," John assured her. 
 
 "Now don't be an old bear. You've already made one 
 poor aunt cry; don't upset me too." 
 
26o Poor Relations 
 
 Anybody less likely to be prostrated by grief than Eleanor 
 at that moment John could not have imagined. She seemed 
 to him the incarnation of a sinister self-assurance. 
 
 "Rubbish," he snapped. "In any case, yours would only 
 be stage tears, you old crocodile — if I may copy your manner 
 of speech." 
 
 "Isn't he in a nasty, horrid, cross mood?" she demanded, 
 with an affected glance at an imaginary audience. "No, but 
 seriously, John! I do want to give you a little advice. I 
 suppose it's tactless of me to talk about advising the great 
 man, but don't bite my head off." 
 
 "In what capacity?" the great man asked. "You've for- 
 gotten to specify the precise carnivore that will perform the 
 operation." 
 
 "Oh dear, aren't we sarcastic this afternoon?" she asked, 
 opening wide her eyes. "However, you're not going to 
 frighten me, because I'm determined to have it out with you, 
 even if you order the dog-cart before dinner. Johnnie, is it 
 jfair to let a complete stranger make mischief among rela- 
 tions?" 
 
 John played the break in Eleanor's voice with beautiful 
 ease. 
 
 ' "I will not have Miss Hamilton's name draped int» these 
 sordid family squabbles," he asseverated. 
 
 "I'm not going to say a word against Miss Hamilton. I 
 think she's a charming young woman — a little too charming 
 perhaps for you, you susceptible old goose." 
 
 "For goodness sake," John begged, "stick to the Jungle 
 and leave the farmyard alone." 
 
 "Now you're not going to rag me out of what I'm going 
 to say. You know that I'm a real Bohemian who doesn't 
 pay attention to the stupid little conventionalities that, for 
 instance, Hilda or Edidi might consider. Therefore I'm 
 sure you won't misunderstand me when I warn you about 
 people talking. Of course, you and I are accustomed to the 
 freedom of the profession, and as far as I'm concerned you 
 might engage half a dozen handsome lady secretaries without 
 
Poor Relations 261 
 
 my even noticing it. But the others don't understand. They 
 think it's funny." 
 
 "Good heavens, what are you trying to suggest?" John 
 demanded. 
 
 He could manage the break, but this full pitch made him 
 slog wildly. 
 
 '7'm not trying to suggest anything. I'm simply telling 
 you what other people may think. You see, after all, Hilda 
 and Edith couldn't help noticing that you did allow Miss 
 Hamilton to make mischief between you and your brother. 
 I dare say James was in the wrong; but is it a part of a 
 secretary's duties to manage her employer? And James is 
 your brother. The natural deduction for conventional peo- 
 ple like Hilda and Edith was that — now, don't be annoyed 
 at what I'm going to say, but I always speak out — I'm 
 famous for my frankness. Well, to put it frankly, they 
 think that Miss Hamilton can twist you round her little 
 finger. Then, of course, they ask themselves why, and for 
 conventional people like Hilda and Edith there's only one 
 explanation. Of course, I told them it was all nonsense and 
 that you were as innocent as an old Iamb. I dare say you 
 don't mind people talking. That's your business, but I 
 shouldn't have been a good pal if I hadn't warned you that 
 people will talk, if they aren't talking already." 
 
 "You've got the mind of an usher," said John. "I can't 
 say worse than that of anybody. Wasn't it you who sug- 
 gested a French governess should be given the freedom of 
 Church Row and who laughed at me for being an old beaver 
 or some other prudish animal because I objected? If I can 
 be trusted with a French governess, I can surely be trusted 
 with a confidential secretary. Besides, we're surrounded by 
 an absolute chevaux de frise of chaperons, for I suppose that 
 Hilda and Edith may fairly be considered efficient chaperons, 
 even if you are still too youthfully Bohemian for the post." 
 
 Eleanor's age was the only vulnerable spot in her self- 
 confidence, and John took advantage of it to bring her little 
 chat to a bitter end. 
 
262 Poor Relations 
 
 "My dear Johnnie," she said, tartly, "I'm not talking 
 about the present. I'm warning you about the future. How- 
 ever, you're evidently not in the mood to listen to anybody." 
 
 "No, I'm not," he assented, warmly. " I'm as deaf as an 
 old adder," 
 
 The next day John, together with Mrs. Worfolk and 
 Maud, left for Hampstead, and his secretary traveled with 
 him up to town. 
 
 "Yes," his housekeeper was overheard observing to Elsa in 
 the hall of 36 Church Row, "dog-cart is a good name for 
 an unnatural conveyance, but give me a good old London 
 cab for human beings. Turn again, Whittington, they say, 
 and they're right. They may call London noisy if they like, 
 but it's as quiet as a mouse when you put it alongside of all 
 that baaring and mooing and cockadoodledoing in the coun- 
 try. Well, I mean to say, Elsa, I'm getting too old for the 
 country. And the master's getting too old for the country, in 
 my opinion. I'm in hopes he'll settle down now, and not go 
 wearing himself out any more with the country. Believe 
 me or not as you will, Elsa, when I tell you that the pore 
 fellow had to play at ball like any little kid to keep himself 
 amused." 
 
 "Fancy that, Mrs. Worfolk," Elsa murmured with a 
 gentle intake of astonished breath. 
 
 "Yes, it used to make me feel all over melancholy to see 
 him. All by himself in a great field. Pore fellow. He's 
 lonely, that's what it is, however ..." 
 
 At this point the conversation born upon whispers and 
 tut-tut passed out of John's hearing toward the basement. 
 
 "I suppose my own servants will start gossiping next," he 
 grumbled to himself. "Luckily I've learnt to despise gossip. 
 Hullo, here's another bundle of press-cuttings. 
 
 "It is rumored that John Touchwood's version of Joan 
 of Arc which he is writing for that noble tragedienne. Miss 
 Janet Bond, will exhibit the Maid of Orleans in a new and 
 piquant light. The distinguished dramatist has just returned 
 from France where he has been obtaining some startling 
 
Poor Relations 263 
 
 scenic effects for what is confidently expected will be the 
 playwright's most successful production. We are sorry to 
 hear that Miss Bond has been suffering from a sharp attack 
 of 'flu, but a visit to Dr. Brighton has — " 
 
 These and many similar paragraphs were all pasted into 
 the album by his secretary the next morning, and John was 
 quite annoyed when she referred to them as worthless gossip. 
 
 "You don't know what gossip is," he said, thinking of 
 Eleanor. "I ignore real gossip." 
 
 Miss Hamilton smiled to herself. 
 18 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AFTER the Christmas party at Ambles John managed 
 to secure a tranquillity that, however brief and deceptive 
 he felt it was like to be, nevertheless encouraged him suffi- 
 ciently to make considerable progress with the play while it 
 lasted. Perhaps Eleanor's warning had sunk deeper than 
 she might have supposed from the apparent result of that 
 little chat with her brother-in-law about his future; at any 
 rate, he was so firmly determined not to give the most evil 
 mind the least opportunity for malicious exaggeration that 
 in self-defense he devoted to Joan of Arc a more exclusive 
 attention than he had hitherto devoted to any of his dramatic 
 personages. Moreover, in his anxiety to prove how abom- 
 inably unjust the insinuations of his family were, he imparted 
 to his heroine some of his own temporary remoteness from 
 the ordinary follies and failings of humanity. 
 
 "We are too much obsessed by sex nowadays," he an- 
 nounced at the club one afternoon, and was tempted to 
 expatiate upon his romantic shibboleth to several worn out 
 old gentlemen who had assented to this proposition. "After 
 all," he argued, "life is not all sex. I've lately been enor- 
 mously struck by that in the course of my work. Take Joan 
 of Arc for instance. Do we find any sex obsession in her? 
 None. But is she less psychologically interesting on that 
 account? No. Sex is the particular bane of modern writers. 
 Frankly, I cannot read a novel nowadays. I suppose I'm 
 old-fashioned, but I'd rather be called old-fashioned than 
 asked to appreciate one of these young modern writers. I 
 suppose there's no man more willing than myself to march 
 with the times, but I like the high roads of literature, not 
 the muddy lanes ..." 
 
 "The John Longs and John Lanes that have no turnings," 
 a club wag put in. 
 
Poor Relations 265 
 
 "Look at Stevenson," the dramatist continued, without 
 paying any attention to the stupid interruption. "When 
 Stevenson wrote a love scene he used to blush." 
 
 "So would any one who had written love scenes as bad as 
 his," sniggered a young man, who seemed oblivious of his 
 very recent election to the club. 
 
 The old members looked at him severely, not because he 
 had sneered at Stevenson, but because, without being spoken 
 to, he had volunteered a remark in the club smoking-room at 
 least five years too soon. 
 
 "I've got a young brother who thinks like you," said John, 
 with friendly condescension. 
 
 "Yes, I know him," the young man casually replied. 
 
 John was taken aback; it struck him as monstrous that a 
 friend of Hugh's should have secured election to his club. 
 The sanctity of the retreat had been violated, and he could 
 not understand what the world was coming to. 
 
 "How is Hugh?" the young man went on, without ap- 
 parently being the least conscious of any difference between 
 the two brothers. "Down at your place in Hampshire, isn't 
 he ? Lucky chap ; though they tell me you haven't got many 
 pheasants." 
 
 "I beg your pardon ?" 
 
 "You don't preserve?" 
 
 "No, I do not preserve." John would have liked to add 
 "except the decencies of intercourse between old and young 
 in a club smoking-room" ; but he refrained. 
 
 "Perhaps you're right," said the young man. "These are 
 tough times for landed proprietors. Well, give my love to 
 Hugh when you see him," he added, aud turning on his heel 
 disappeared into the haze of a more remote portion of the 
 smoking-room. 
 
 "Who is that youth?" John demanded. 
 
 The old members shook their heads helplessly, and one of 
 the waiters was called up to be interrogated. 
 
 "Mr. Winnington-Carr, I believe, sir," he informed them. 
 
 "How long has he been a member?" 
 
266 Poor Relations 
 
 "About a week, I believe, sir." 
 
 John looked daggers of exclamation at the other members. 
 
 "We shall have perambulators waiting in the lobby before 
 we know where we are," he said, bitterly. 
 
 Everybody agreed that these ill-considered elections were 
 a scandal to a famous club, and John, relinquishing the ob- 
 session of sex as a topic, took up the obsession of youth, which 
 he most convincingly proved to be the curse of modern life. 
 
 It was probably Mr. Winnington-Carr's election that 
 brought home to John the necessity of occupying himself 
 immediately with his brother's future ; at this rate he should 
 find Hugh himself a member of his club before he knew 
 where he was. 
 
 "I'm worrying about my young brother," he told Miss 
 Hamilton next day, and looked at her sharply to watch the 
 efEect of this remark. 
 
 "Why, has he been misbehaving himself again ?" 
 
 " No, not exactly misbehaving; but a friend of his has 
 just been elected to my club, and I don't think it's good for 
 Hugh to be hanging about in idleness. I do wish I could 
 find the address of that man Raikes from British Honduras." 
 
 "Where is it likely to be?" 
 
 "It was a visiting-card. It might be anywhere." 
 
 " If it was a visiting-card, the most likely place to find it 
 is in one of your waistcoat-pockets." 
 
 John regarded his secretary with the admiration that such 
 a practical suggestion justified, and rang the bell. 
 
 " Maud, please bring down all my waistcoats," he told his 
 valeting parlor-maid, who presently appeared in the library 
 bowed down by a heap of clothes as a laborer is bowed down 
 by a truss of hay. 
 
 In the twenty-seventh waistcoat that was examined the 
 card was found: 
 
 Mr. Sydney Ricketts. 
 14 Lyonesse Road, Belize, 
 
 Balam, S.W., British Honduras. 
 
Poor Relations 267 
 
 "I thought his name was Raikes," John muttered, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Never mind. A rose by any other name ..." Miss 
 Hamilton began. 
 
 John might almost have been said to interrupt what she 
 was going to say with an angry glare ; but she only laughed 
 merrily at his fierce expression. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon — I'd forgotten your objection to 
 roses." 
 
 Mr. Ricketts, who was fortunately still in London, ac- 
 cepted John's invitation to come and see him at Church Row 
 on business. He was a lantern-jawed man with a tremendous 
 capacity for cocktails, a sinewy neck, and a sentimental afEec- 
 tion for his native suburb. At the same time, he would not 
 hear a word against British Honduras. 
 
 "I reckon our regatta at Belize is the prettiest little regatta 
 in the world." 
 
 "But the future of logwood and mahogany?" John in- 
 sisted. 
 
 "Great," the visitor assured him. "Why don't you come 
 out to us? You'd lose a lot of weight if you worked for a 
 few months up the Zucara river. Here's a photograph of 
 some of our boys loading logwood." 
 
 "They look very hot," said John, politely. 
 
 "They are very hot," said Mr. Ricketts. "You can't ex- 
 pect to grow logwood in Iceland." 
 
 "No, of course not. I understand that." 
 
 In the end it was decided that John should invest £2000 
 in the logwood and mahogany business and that sometime in 
 February Hugh should be ready to sail with Mr. Ricketts 
 to Central America. 
 
 "Of course he'll want to learn something about the con- 
 ditions of the trade at first. Yes, I reckon your brother will 
 stay in Belize at first," said the planter, scratching his throat 
 so significantly that John made haste to fill up his glass, 
 thinking to himself that, if the cocktails at the Belize Yacht 
 Club were as good as Mr. Ricketts boasted, Hugh would 
 
268 Poor Relations 
 
 be unlikely ever to see much more of mahogany than he saw 
 of it at present cut and rounded and polished to the shape of 
 a solid dining-room table. However, the more attractive 
 Belize, the less attractive England. 
 
 "I think you told me this was your first visit home in 
 fifteen years?" he asked. 
 
 "That's right. Fifteen years in B.H." 
 
 "B.H. ?" repeated the new speculator, nervously. 
 
 "British Honduras." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon. The initials associated them- 
 selves in my mind for the moment with another place. B.H. 
 you call it. Very appropriate I should think. I suppose you 
 found many changes in Balham on your return?" 
 
 "Wouldn't have known it again," said Mr. Ricketts. 
 "For one thing they'd changed all the lamp-posts along our 
 road. That's the kind of thing to teach a man he's growing 
 old." 
 
 Perhaps Hugh wouldn't recognize Hampstead after fif- 
 teen years, John thought, gleefully; he might even pass his 
 nearest relations in the street without a salute when like a 
 Rip van Winkle of the tropics he returned to his native 
 country after fifteen years. 
 
 "I suppose the usual outfit for hot climates will be neces- 
 sary?" 
 
 Mr. Ricketts nodded; and John began to envisage him- 
 self equipping Hugh from the Army and Navy Stores. 
 
 "I always think there is something extraordinarily romantic 
 about a tropical outfit," he ventured. 
 
 "It's extraordinarily expensive," said Mr. Ricketts. "But 
 everything's going up. And mahogany's going up when I 
 get back to B.H., or my name isn't Sydney Ricketts." 
 
 "There's nothing you particularly recommend?" 
 
 "No, they'll tell you everything you want at the Stores 
 and a bit over, except — oh, yes, by the way, don't let him 
 forget his shaker." 
 
 "Is that some special kind of porous overcoat?" 
 
 Mr. Ricketts laughed delightedly. 
 
Poor Relations 269 
 
 "Well, if that isn't the hest thing I've heard since I was 
 home. Porous overcoat! No, no, a shaker is for mixing 
 drinks." 
 
 "Humph!" John grunted. "From what I know of my 
 brother, he won't require any special instrument for doing 
 that. Good-by, Mr. Ricketts; my solicitor will write to you 
 about the business side. Good-by." 
 
 When John went back to his work he was humming. 
 
 "Satisfactory?" his secretary inquired. 
 
 "Extremely satisfactory. I think Hugh is very lucky. 
 Ricketts assures me that in another fifteen years — that is 
 about the time Hugh will be wanting to visit England again 
 — there is no reason why he shouldn't be making at least 
 £500 a year. Besides, he won't be lonely, because I shall 
 send Harold out to British Honduras in another five years. 
 It must be a fascinating place if you're fond of natural his- 
 tory, B.H. — as the denizens apparently call it among them- 
 selves," he added, pensively. 
 
 It could not be claimed that Hugh was enraptured by the 
 prospect of leaving England in February, and John who was 
 really looking forward to the job of getting together his 
 outfit was disappointed by his brother's lack of enthusiasm. 
 He simply could not understand anybody's failure to be 
 thrilled by snake-proof blankets and fever-proof filters, by 
 medicine-chests and pith helmets and double-fly tents and all 
 the paraphernalia of adventure in foreign parts. Finally he 
 delivered an ultimatum to Hugh, which was accepted albeit 
 with ill grace, and hardening his heart against the crossed 
 letters of protest that arrived daily from his mother and 
 burying himself in an Army and Navy Stores' catalogue, 
 he was able to intrench himself in the opinion that he was 
 doing the best that could be done for the scapegrace. The 
 worst of putting Hugh on his feet again was the resentment 
 such a brotherly action aroused among his other relations. 
 After the quarrel with James he had hardly expected to 
 hear from him for a long time ; but no sooner had the news 
 about British Honduras gone the round of the family than 
 
270 Poor Relations 
 
 his eldest brother wrote to ask him for a loan of £1000 to 
 invest in a projected critical weekly of which he was to be 
 the editor. James added that John could hardly grudge him 
 as much as that for log-rolling at home when he was pre- 
 pared to spend double that amount on Hugh to roll logs 
 abroad. ' / 
 
 "I can't say I feel inclined to help James after that article 
 about my work," John observed to Miss Hamilton. "Be- 
 sides, I hate critical weeklies." 
 
 It happened that the post next morning brought a large 
 check from his agent for royalties on various dramas that 
 in various theaters all over the world were playing to big 
 business; confronted by that bright-hued token of pros- 
 perity he could not bring himself to sit down and pen a flat 
 refusal to his brother's demand. Instead of doing that he 
 merely delayed for a few hours the birth of a new critical 
 weekly by making an appointment to talk the matter over, 
 and it was only a fleeting pleasure that he obtained from 
 adding a postscript begging James not to bring his dog with 
 him when he called at Church Row. 
 
 "For if that wretched animal goes snorting round the 
 room all the time we're talking," he assured his secretary, 
 "I shall agree to anything in order to get rid of it. I shall 
 find all my available capital invested in critical weeklies 
 just to save the carpet from being eaten." 
 
 James seemed to have entirely forgotten that his brother 
 had any reason to feel sore with him ; he also seemed entirely 
 unconscious of there being the least likelihood of his refusing 
 to finance the new venture. John remembering how angry 
 James had been when on a former occasion he had reminded 
 him that Hugh's career was still before him, was careful to 
 avoid the least suggestion of throwing cold water upon the 
 scheme. Therefore in the circumstances James' unusual 
 optimism, which lent his sallow cheeks some of the play- 
 wright's roses, was not surprising, and before the conversa- 
 tion had lasted many minutes John had half promised a 
 thousand pounds. Having done this, he did try to retrieve 
 
Poor Relations 2lji 
 
 the situation by advising James to invest it in railway-st^k 
 and argued strongly against the necessity of another jourrial. 
 
 "What are you going to call this further unnecessi^ry 
 burden upon our powers of assimilation?" \ 
 
 "I thought The New Broom would be a good title." i 
 
 "Yes, I was positive you'd call it The New-Somethir /or- 
 other. Why not The New Way to pay Old Scores*'' I'll 
 back you to do that, even if you can't pay your old-:^bts. 
 However, listen to me. I'll lend the money to you Jper- 
 soqally. But I will not invest it in the paper. For secwrity 
 — or perhaps compensation would be a better word-Yyou 
 shall hand over to me the family portraits and the f^'^iily 
 silver." ''■ 
 
 "I'd rather it was a business proposition," James objeoed. 
 
 "My, dear fellow, a new critical weekly can never bf a 
 business proposition. How many people read your boot*?" 
 
 "About a dozen," James calculated. 
 
 "Well, why should more people read your paper? Mi, 
 you can have the money, but it must be regarded as a ^^|- 
 sonal loan, and I must have the portraits and the silver."^ * 
 
 "I don't see why you should have them." 
 
 "I don't see why you should start a new critical weekly."! 
 
 John could not help enjoying the power that his brother'- 
 ambition had put in his hands and he insisted firmly upon 
 the surrender of the heritage. 
 
 "All right, Jacob, I suppose I must sell my birthright for 
 a mess of pottage." 
 
 "A printer's pie would describe it better," said John. 
 
 "Though why you want a few bad pictures and a dozen 
 or so forks and spoons, I can't conceive." 
 
 "Why do you want them?" John countered, 
 
 "Because they're mine." 
 
 "And the money is mine." 
 
 James went away with a check for a thousand pounds in 
 his pocket; but he went away less cheerful than he arrived. 
 John, on the other hand, was much impressed by the manner 
 in which he had dealt with his eldest brother; it was worth 
 
272 Poor Relations 
 
 while losing a thousand pounds to have been able to demon- 
 strate clearly to James once for all that his taste in literature 
 was at the mercy of the romanticism he so utterly despised. 
 And while he felt that he had displayed a nice dignity in 
 fc'trcing James to surrender the portraits and the silver, he 
 w^calso pleasantly aware of an equally nice magnanimity in 
 beiiip willing to overlook that insulting article. But Miss 
 Hamilton was at his elbow to correct the slightest tendency 
 to jie too well pleased with himself. 
 
 '.iAfter all I couldn't disappoint poor old James," he said, 
 fisbi.ng for an encomium and dangling his own good heart 
 as „he bait. His secretary, however, ignored the tempting 
 morsel and swam away into the deeps of romantic drama 
 where his munificence seemed less showy somehow. 
 
 v'You know best what you want to do," she said, curtly. 
 ".?ind now, have you decided upon this soliloquy for Joan 
 in her dungeon?" 
 i"What do you feel about it?" 
 
 ft She held forth upon the advantages of a quiet front 
 ijcfine before the trial, and the author took her advice. He 
 wished that she were as willing to discant upon his treat- 
 iment of James, but he consoled himself for her lack of 
 ^interest by supposing that she was diffident about giving the 
 least color to any suggestion that she might be influencing him 
 to her own advantage. 
 
 Hugh came up to town in order to go more fully into 
 the question of his future, and John regarding Miss Hamil- 
 ton's attitude towards him tried to feel perfectly sure that 
 she was going out of her way to be pleasant to Hugh solely 
 with an idea of accentuating the strictly professional side of 
 her association with himself. If this were not the case, he 
 should be justified in thinking that she did really like Hugh 
 very much, which would be an uncomfortable state of affairs. 
 Still, explain it away as he might, John did feel a little 
 vmeasy, and once when he heard of a visit to the theater 
 preceded by dinner he was upon the verge of pointing out 
 to Hugh that until he was definitely established in ma- 
 
Poor Relations 273 
 
 hogany and logwood he must be extremely careful about 
 raising false hopes. He managed to refrain from approach- 
 ing Hugh on the subject, because he knew that if he betrayed 
 the least anxiety in that direction Hugh was capable of 
 making it a matter of public jest. He decided instead to 
 sound Miss Hamilton upon her views. 
 
 "You've never had any longing for the tropics?" he asked, 
 as casually as he was able. 
 
 "Not particularly, though of course I should enjoy any 
 fresh experience." 
 
 "^ was noticing the other day that you seemed to dislike 
 spiders; and, of course, the spiders in hot countries are 
 terrible. I remember reading of some that snare birds, and 
 I'm not sure that in parts of South America they don't even 
 attack human beings. Many people of course do not mind 
 them. For instance, my brother-in-law Daniel Curtis wrote 
 a very moving account of a spider as large as a bat, with 
 whom he fraternized on the banks of the Orinoco. It's 
 quite a little classic in its way." 
 
 John noted with the warmest satisfaction that Miss Hamil- 
 ton shuddered. 
 
 "Your poor brother," she murmured. 
 
 "Oh, he'U be all right," said John, hurriedly. "I'm equip- 
 ping him with every kind of protection against insects. 
 Only yesterday I discovered a most ingenious box which 
 is guaranteed to keep one's tobacco from being devoured by 
 cockroaches, and I thought Hugh looked very well in his 
 pith helmet, didn't you?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I really didn't notice," Miss Hamilton re- 
 plied, indifferently. 
 
 Soon after this conversation James' birthright was for- 
 mally surrendered and John gave up contemplating himself 
 upon a peak in Darien in order to contemplate himself as 
 the head of an ancient and distinguished family. While the 
 portraits were being hung in the library he discoursed upon 
 the romance of lineage so volubly that he had a sudden 
 dread of Miss Hamilton taking him for a snob, which he 
 
274 Poor Relations 
 
 tried to counteract by putting into the mouth of Joan of Arc 
 sentiments of the purest demophilism. 
 
 "I shall aim at getting all the material for the play com- 
 plete by April 1st — ^my birthday, by the way. Yes, I shall 
 be forty-three. And then I thought we might go into retreat 
 and aim at finishing entirely by the end of June. That 
 would enable Miss Bond to produce in September without 
 hurrying the rehearsals. Lucretia will be produced over 
 here in April. I think it would be rather jolly to finish off 
 the play in France. Domremy, Bourges, Chinon, Orleans, 
 Compiegne, Rouen — a delightful tour. You could have an 
 aluminum typewriter ..." 
 
 John's dreams of literature and life in France were inter- 
 rupted by Mrs. Worfolk, who entered the room with a 
 mystery upon her lips. 
 
 "There's the Reverend Armitage waiting to see you in the 
 hall, sir. But he was looking so queer that I was in two 
 minds if I ought to admit him or not. It was Elsa who 
 happened to open the door. Well, I mean to say, Maud's 
 upstairs doing her rooms, and Elsa was a bit frightened 
 when she saw him, through her being engaged to a police- 
 man and so her mind running on murders and such like. 
 Of course as soon as I saw it was the Reverend Armitage 
 I quieted her down. But he really does look most peculiar, 
 if you'll pardon the obsivation on Mrs. Armitage's husband. 
 I don't think he's actually barmy yet; but you know, he 
 gives any one the idea he will be soon, and I thought you 
 ought to be told before he started to rave up and down the 
 house. He's got a funny look in his eye, the same as what 
 a man once had who sat opposite me in a bus and five minutes 
 afterwards jumped off on Hammersmith Bridge and threw 
 himself into the river. Quite a sensation it created, I re- 
 member, and we all had to alight, so as the conductor could 
 give what information he had to a policeman who'd only 
 heard the splash." 
 
 Mrs. Worfolk had been tod garrulous; before she had 
 time to ascertain her master's views on the subject of ad- 
 
Poor Relations 275 
 
 mitting Laurence there was a tap at the door, and Laurence 
 -himself stalked into the room. Unquestionably, even to one 
 who had not known him as a clergyman, he did present an 
 odd appearance with his fur-lined cloak of voluminous black, 
 his long hair, his bundle of manuscript and theatrical news- 
 papers, and his tragic eye ; the only article of attire that had 
 survived his loss of faith was the clergyman's hat; but even 
 that had lost its former meekness and now gave the effect of 
 a farouche sombrero. 
 
 "Well met," he intoned, advancing solemnly into the 
 room and gripping his brother-in-law's hand with dramatic 
 effect. "I would converse with you, John." 
 
 "That's a blank verse line," said John. There really was 
 not much else that he could have said to such an affected 
 greeting. 
 
 "Probably, probably," Laurence muttered, shaking his 
 head. "It's difficult for me to talk in prose nowadays. But 
 I have news for you, John, good news. Thomas is finished." 
 
 "You needn't wait, Mrs. Worfolk," said John. 
 
 His housekeeper was standing by the door with a face 
 wreathed in notes of interrogation and seemed unwilling to 
 retire. 
 
 "You needn't wait, Mrs. Worfolk," he repeated, irritably. 
 
 "I thought you might have been wanting somebody 
 fetched, sir." 
 
 John made an impatient gesture and Mrs. Worfolk van- 
 ished. 
 
 "You know Miss Hamilton, Laurence," said John, 
 severely. 
 
 "Ah,, Miss Hamilton! Forgive my abstraction. How 
 d'ye do? But — ah — I was anxious to have a few words in 
 private." 
 
 "Miss Hamilton is my confidential secretary." 
 
 "I bow to your domestic arrangements," said Laurence. 
 "But — ah-:— my business is of an extremely private nature. 
 It bears in fact directly upon my future." 
 
 John was determined to keep his secretary in the room. 
 
276 Poor Relations 
 
 He had a feeling that money was going to be asked for, and 
 he hoped that her presence would encourage him to hold out 
 against agreeing to lend it 
 
 "If you have anything to say to me, Laurence, you must 
 say it in front of my secretary. I cannot be continually 
 shooing her from the room like a troublesome cat." 
 
 The ex-vicar looked awkward for a moment; but his 
 natural conceit reasserted itself and flinging back his cloak he 
 laid upon the table a manuscript. 
 
 "Fresh from Miss Quirk's typewriting office here is 
 Thomas," he announced. "And now, my dear fellow, I re- 
 quire a little good advice." There was flowing into his 
 voice the professional unction of the clergyman with a north 
 transept to restore. "Who was it that first said 'Charity 
 begins at home'? Yes, a little good advice about my play. 
 In deference to the Lord Chamberlain while reserving to 
 my conscience the right to execrate his despotism I have 
 expunged from my scenes the central figures of the gospel 
 story, and I venture to think that there is now no reason 
 why Thomas should not be — ah — produced." 
 
 "I'm afraid I can't invite you to read it to me just at 
 present, Laurence," said John, hurriedly. "No, not just at 
 present, I'm afraid. When I'm working myself I'm always 
 chary of being exposed to outside influences. You wouldn't 
 like and I shouldn't like to find in Joan of Arc echoes of 
 Thomas. Miss Hamilton, however, who is thoroughly con- 
 versant with my point of view, would perhaps ..." 
 
 "I confess," Laurence interrupted, loftily, "that I do 
 not set much store by its being read. No, no. You will 
 acquit me of undue self-esteem, my dear fellow, if I say 
 at once in all modesty that I am satisfied with my labors, 
 though you may be a little alarmed when I confide in you 
 my opinion that it is probably a classic. Still, such is my 
 deliberate conviction. Moreover, I have already allowed 
 our little party at Ambles to hear it. Yes, we spent a 
 memorable evening before the manuscript was dispatched to 
 Miss Quirk. Some of the scenes, indeed, proved almost too 
 
Poor Relations 277 
 
 dramatic. Edith was quite exhausted by her emotion and 
 scarcely slept all night. As for Hilda, I've never seen her 
 so overcome by anything. She couldn't say anything when 
 I finished. No, no, I sha'n't read it to you. In fact, to 
 be — ah — blunt, I could scarcely endure the strain a second 
 time. No, what I want you to do, my dear fellow, is to — 
 ah — back it. The phrase is Hugh's. We have all been 
 thrilled down at Ambles by rumors of your generosity, and 
 I know you'll be glad of another medium for exercising it. 
 Am I unduly proud of my work if I say that it seems to 
 rae a more worthy medium than British Honduras or weekly 
 papers?" 
 
 John had been gazing at Miss Hamilton with a mute ap- 
 peal to save him while his brother-in-law was talking; she, 
 however, bending lower every moment to hide her mirth 
 made no attempt to show him a way of escape and John 
 had to rely upon his own efforts. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be better," he suggested, mildly, "to submit 
 your play to a manager before we — before you try to put 
 it on yourself ? I have never invested any money in my own 
 plays, and really I , . ." 
 
 "My dear John, far be it from me to appear to cast the 
 least slur — to speak in the faintest way at all slightingly of 
 your plays, but I do not quite see the point of the com- 
 parison. Your plays — excellent as they are, most excellent — 
 are essentially commercial transactions. My play is not a 
 commercial transaction." 
 
 "Then why should I be inArited to lose my money over 
 it?" 
 
 Laurence smiled compassionately. 
 
 "I thought you would be glad of the opportunity to show 
 a disinterested appreciation of art. In years to come you 
 will be proud to think that you were one of the first to 
 give practical evidence of your belief in Thomas." 
 
 "But perhaps I'm just as skeptical as your hero was. I 
 may not believe in your play's immortality." 
 
 Laurence frowned. 
 
278 Poor Relations 
 
 "Come, my dear fellow, this is being petty. We are all 
 counting on you. You wouldn't like to hear it said that out 
 of jealousy you had tried to suppress a rival dramatist. But 
 I must not let my indignation run away with me, and you 
 must forgive my heat. I am overstrained. The magnitude 
 of the subject has almost been too much for me. Besides, I 
 should have explained at once that I intended to invest in 
 Thomas all that is left of my own little capital. Yes, I am 
 even ready to do that. Then I shall spend a year as an 
 actor, after which I shall indulge my more worldly self by 
 writing a few frankly commercial plays before I begin my 
 next great tragedy entitled Paul." 
 
 John decided that his brother-in-law had gone mad ; unable 
 to think of any action more effective at such a crisis, he rang 
 the bell. But when Maud came to inquire his need he could 
 not devise anything to tell her except that Mr. Armitage 
 was staying to lunch. 
 
 It was a most uncomfortable meal, because Miss Hamilton 
 in order to keep herself from laughing aloud had to be preter- 
 naturally grave, and John himself was in a continuous state 
 of nervous irritation at Laurence, who would let everything 
 on his plate grow cold while he droned on without a pause 
 about the simplicity of the best art. It was more than tan- 
 talizing to watch him gradually build up a mouthful upon 
 his fork, still talking; slowly raise it to his lips, still talking; 
 and wave the overloaded fork tp and fro before him, still 
 talking. But it was an agony to watch the carefully accumu- 
 lated mouthful drop back bit by bit upon his plate, until at 
 last very slowly and still talking he would insert one cold 
 and tiny morsel into his patient mouth, so tiny a morsel 
 that the mastication of it did not prevent him from still 
 talking. 
 
 "I'm afraid you're not enjoying your lunch," his host 
 said. 
 
 "Don't wait for me, my dear fellow; when I am inter- 
 ested in something else I cannot gobble my food. Though 
 in any case," he added in a resigned voice, "I shall have in- 
 
P oo_r Relatiutt^^ 279 
 
 digestion. One cannot write plays like Thomas without 
 exposing oneself to the ills that flesh is heir to." 
 
 After lunch, much to John's relief, his biother-in-law an- 
 nounced that he had an appointment with Eleanor and 
 would therefore be unable to stay even long enov^ to 
 ie a cigar. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Eleanor and I are going to interview 
 one or two of Iter theatrical friends. No doubt I shall soon 
 be able to piodaim myself a rogue and a vagabond. Yes, 
 yes, poor Edith was quite distressed this morning when I 
 told her that jestingly. However, she will be happy to hear 
 to-night when I get back that her brother has been so largfe." 
 ' "Eh?" 
 
 "Not that Edith expected him to be otherwise. No, no, 
 my dear fellow, Edith has a most exalted opinion of you, 
 which indeed I share, if I may be permitted so to do. 
 Good-by, John, and many thanks. Who knows? Our little 
 lunc^ may become a red-letter day in the calendar of Eng- 
 lish dramatic art. Let me see, the tube-station is on the left 
 as I go out? Good-by, John ; I wish I could stay the night 
 with you, but I have a cheap day-ticket which forbids any 
 extension of my plans." 
 
 When John got back to the library he turned in bewilder, 
 ment to bus secretary. 
 
 "Look here. I surely never gave him the least idea that 
 I was going to back his confounded play, did I?" 
 
 "On the contrary, you made it perfectly clear that you 
 ivere not." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say so, because he has gone away 
 from here apparently under the delusion that I am. He'll 
 brag about it to Eleanor this afternoon, and before I know 
 where I am she will jbe asking me to set George up with a 
 racing-stable." 
 
 Eleanor did no£ gd as far as that, but she did write to 
 John and piant out that the present seemed a suitable mo- 
 ment to deal with the question of George's health by sending 
 him on a voyage roimd the world. She added that for her- 
 
 19 
 
28o Poor Relations 
 
 self she asked nothing; but John had an uneasy impression 
 that it was only in the belief that he who asks not to him 
 shall it be given. 
 
 "Take down two letters, please, Miss Hamilton," he said, 
 grimly. 
 
 Dear Laurence, — I am afraid that you went away yes- 
 terday afternoon under a misapprehension. I do not see my 
 way to offer any financial contribution toward the produc- 
 tion of your play. I myself passed a long apprenticeship 
 before I was able to get one of my plays acted, and I do not 
 think that you can expect to do otherwise. Do not imagine 
 that I am casting any doubts upon the excellence of Thomas. 
 If it is as good as you claim, you will have your reward 
 without any help from me. Your idea of getting acquainted 
 with the practical side of the stage is a good one. If you 
 are not already engaged in the autumn, I think I can offer 
 you one of the minor bishops in Joan of Arc. 
 
 Your affectionate brother-in-law, 
 
 John Touchwood. 
 
 Dear Eleanor, — I must say decidedly that I do not per- 
 ceive any likelihood of George's health deriving much benefit 
 frran a voyage round the world. If he is threatened with 
 sleeping sickness, it would be rash to expose him to a tropical 
 climate. If he is suffering from a sluggish liver, he will get 
 no benefit from lolling about in smoking-saloons, whatever 
 the latitude and longitude. I have repeatedly helped George 
 with his schemes to earn a living for himself and he has 
 never failed to squander my money upon capricious race- 
 horses. You know that I am always willing to come for- 
 ward on behalf of Bertram and Viola; but their father must 
 show signs of helping himself before I do anything more for 
 him. I am sorry that I cannot offer you a good part in 
 Joan of Arc; there is really nothing to suit you for I pre- 
 sume you would not care to accept the part of Joan's mother. 
 However, it has now been decided to produce Lucretia in 
 
Poor Relations 281 
 
 April and I shall do my best to persuade Grohmann to offer 
 you a part in that. 
 
 Your affectionate brother-in-law, 
 
 John Touchwo0b. 
 
 John did not receive an answer to either of these letters, 
 and out of an atmosphere of pained silence he managed to 
 conjure optimistically an idea that Laurence and Eleanor 
 had realized the justice of his point of view. 
 
 "You do agree with me that they were going too far?" 
 he asked Miss Hamilton; but she declined to express an 
 opinion. 
 
 "What's the good of having a confidential secretary, if I 
 can't ask her advice about confidential matters?" he grum- 
 bled. 
 
 "Are you dissatisfied with me?" 
 
 "No, no, no. I'm not dissatisfied. What an exaggeration 
 of my remark ! I'm simply a little puzzled by your attitude. 
 It seems to me — I may be wrong — that instead of . . . well, 
 at first you were always perfectly ready to talk about my 
 relations and about me, whereas now you won't talk about 
 anything except Joan of Arc. I'm really getting quite bored 
 with Joan of Arc." 
 
 "I was only an amateur when I began," she lauded. 
 "Now I'm beginning to be professional." 
 
 "I think it's a great mistake," said John, decidedly. "Sup- 
 pose I insist upon having your advice?" 
 
 "You'd find that dictation bears two meanings in Eng- 
 lish, to only one of which are you entitled under the terms of 
 our contract" 
 
 "Look here, have I done anything to offend you?" he 
 asked, pathetically. 
 
 But she would not be moved and held her pencil so con- 
 spicuously ready that the author was impaled upon it before 
 he could escape and was soon hard at work dictating his 
 first arrangement of the final scene in a kind of indicant 
 absent-mindednesau 
 
282 Po_or Relations 
 
 Seoa aTfer this John received a note from Sir Percy Morti- 
 mer, asking if he could spare time to visit the great actor- 
 mafsger some evetuag in the course of the durreot week. 
 BetReen nine-thirty and ten was indicated as a suitable time 
 inaanuch as Sir Percy would then be in his dressing-room 
 gathering the necessary momentum to knock down all th 
 emotional fabric carefully built up in the first two acts by 
 the most cunning of contemporaiy dramatfets. Sir Percy 
 Mortimer, whose name was once Albert Snell, could com- 
 mand anybody, so it ought not to have been remarkable that 
 Joha rather flustered by the invitation made haste to obey. 
 Yet, be must have been aware of an Implied criticism in 
 Miss Hamilton's smile, which flashed across her still deep 
 eyea £i£ a sunny wind, for he muimured, apolcsetically: 
 
 "We poor writers of plays must always wait upoti our 
 masters." 
 
 lie tried to convey that Sir Percy was only a mortal like 
 hia^lf, but he failed somehow to eliniinate the dee{^rooted 
 lespact, almost it might be called awe of the actor that was 
 perceptible under the assumed carelessness of the author. 
 
 "You see, it may be that he is anxious to hear some of 
 tof fians for the near future," he added. 
 
 M Sir Percy Mortimer was impressive ia the smoking- 
 ro«H ef the Garrick Club as himself, he was dumbfounding 
 in his dressing-room as Lord Claridge, the ambassador, about 
 to flHter Princess Thingumabobski's salon and with diplo- 
 matic wiles and smiles to settle the future of several couples, 
 incidentally secure for himself the heart and hand of a young 
 heiress. His evening-dress had achieved an immacidation 
 that even Ouida never dreamed of ; he wore the Grand Cross 
 of tkb Victorian Order with as easy an atsurance as his 
 fatkBi had worn the insignia of a local friendly SDCoety in 
 Bimmghani; he wasi the quintessential diplonoat of girlish 
 dieMoSy and it was not surprising that "women were ready to 
 resMve even their hats to see him perform at matinees. 
 
 "Jth, it's very good of you to look me up, my dear fellow. 
 I Irare Just a quarter-of-an-hour. Godfreyl" He fumed io 
 
P^QQi" Relatiotis_ 283 
 
 address his valet^ who might have been a cardioal driwea by 
 an ecclesiastical crisis like the spread of Modem&m into 
 attoidance upoo an actor. 
 
 "Sir Percy?" 
 
 "I do not wish to be disturbed until I am called for the 
 third act" 
 
 "Very good, Sir Percy." 
 
 "And Ctedfrey!" 
 
 "Sir Per<y?" 
 
 "The whi^ and soda for Mr. Touchwood. Ok, and 
 Godfiey!" 
 
 "Sir Ptercy?" 
 
 "If the Duie of Shropshire comes behind^ tdl His I6icace 
 that I an> unavoidably prevented from seeing him untB ahxr 
 the thiiS act I will not be intfirrapted.'* 
 
 "No, Sir Bercy- I quite understand, Sir Percy." 
 
 The valet set the decanter at John's elbow and vinMicd 
 like the ghost of a king. 
 
 "It's just this, my dear fellow," the actor-manager begpn, 
 when John who had been trymg to dedde whether he aknld 
 suggest Peter the Great or Augustus the Strong as the next 
 part for Via hoet was inclining towards Augustus. "It^ just 
 this, i belkve that Miss Cartri^t, a former member tiS my 
 company, is «/*o a relation of yours,'^ 
 
 "She is my Bister-in-law," admitted John, sw^Uowioe both 
 Peter and Augustus in a disappointed gulp. 
 
 "In fact, I believe that in private life ^e is Mrs. George 
 Touchwood, Correct me if I am wrong in my namea" 
 
 Sir Percy waited, but John did npt avail humself trf the 
 offer, and he went on- 
 
 "WeB, my dear fellow, she has approached me upon a mat- 
 ter which I oonfeea I have found somewhat embariassing, re- 
 ferring as it does to another man's private afEairs; but as 
 one of tb P" a s h ow shall I describe myself?—" Hfc fin- 
 gered the xibhoa of the Victorian Order for uispiratioflt "As 
 an actor-manner of some standing, I felt that you would 
 prefer me to hear what she had to say in prder that I might 
 
284 Poor Relations 
 
 therdby adjudicate — ^yes, I think that is the word — ^without 
 any — no, forgive me — adjudicate is not the word. Ad- 
 judicate is too strong. What is the word for outsiders of 
 standing who are called in to assist at the settlement of 
 a trade dispute? Whatever the word is, that is the word I 
 wait. I understand from Miss Cartright — Mrs. George 
 Touchwood in private life — that her husband is in a very 
 grave state of health and entirely without means." Sir 
 Percy looked at himself in the glass and dabbed his face with 
 the powder-puff. "Miss Cartright asked me to use my in- 
 fluence with you to take some steps to mitigate this unpleasant 
 situation upon which, it appiears, people are beginning to com- 
 mant rather unfavorably. Now, you and I, my dear fellow, 
 are members of the same dub. You and I have high posi- 
 tions in our respective professions. Is it wise? There may 
 of course be a thousand reasons for leaving your brother to 
 starve with an incurable disease. But is it wise ? As a man 
 of the world, I think not." He touched his cheeks with the 
 hare's-foot and gave them a richer bloom. "Don't allow me 
 to make any suggestion that even borders upon the imperti- 
 nent, but if you care to accept my mediation — that is the 
 word I couldn't remember." In his enthusiasm Sir Percy 
 sm»:ked his leg, which caused him a momentary anxiety for 
 the perfection of his trousers. "Mediation ! Of course, that's 
 it — if you care, as I say, to accept my mediation I am willing 
 to mediate." 
 
 John stared at the actor-manager in angry amazement. 
 Then he let himself go: 
 
 "My brother is not starving — he eats more than any hu- 
 man being I know. Nor is he suffering from anything 
 incurable except laziness. I do not wish to discuss with 
 you or anybody else the affairs of my relations, which I regret 
 to say are in most cases only too much my own affairs." 
 
 "Then there is nothing for me to do," Sir Percy sighed, 
 deriving what consolation he could from being unable to find 
 a single detail of his dress that could be improved. 
 
 "Nothing whatever," John agreed, emphatically. 
 
Poor Relations 285 
 
 "But what shall I say to Miss Cartright, who you must 
 remember is a former member of my company, as well as 
 your sister-in-law?" 
 
 "I leave that to you." 
 
 "It's very awkward," Sir Percy murmured. "I thought 
 you would be sure to see that it is always better to settle 
 these unpleaisant matters — out of court, if I may use the 
 expression. I'm so afraid that Miss Cartright will air her 
 grievMice." 
 
 "She can wash as much dirty linen as she likes and air it 
 every day in your theater," said John, fiercely. "But my 
 brother George shall not go on a voyage round the world. 
 You've nothing else to ask me? Nothing about my plans 
 for the near future?" 
 
 "No, no. I've a success, as you know, and I don't expect 
 I shall want another play for months. You've seen my per- 
 formance, of course?" 
 
 "No," said John, curtly, "I've not." 
 
 And when he left the actor-manager's dressing-room he 
 knew that he had wounded him more deeply by that simf^e 
 negative than by all the mighty insults imaginable. 
 
 However, nothwithstanding his successful revenge John 
 left the theater in a rage and went off to his club with tlie 
 hope of finding a sympathetic listener into whose ears he 
 could pour the tale of Sir Percy's megalomania; but by ill 
 luck there was nobody suitable in the smoking-room that 
 nighti To be sure, Sir Philip Cranbourne was snoring in 
 an armchair, and Sir Philip Cranbourne was perhaps a 
 bigger man in the profession than Sir Percy Mortimer. Yet, 
 he was not so much bigger but that he would have welcomed 
 a tale against the younger theatrical knight whose promo- 
 tion to equal rank with himself he had resented very much. 
 Sir Philip, however, was fast asleep, and John doubted if 
 he hated Sir Percy sufficiently to welcome being woken up 
 to heai; a story against him — particularly a story by a play- 
 wright, one of that miserable class for which Sir Philip 
 as an actor had naturally a very profound contempt. More- 
 
286 Poor Relations 
 
 over, thinkii^ the matter bver, John came to the oondu- 
 sioQ €aa,t the stny. while it would tell gpimst Sir IPerqr 
 would also tell egaiast himsell, and he decided fa ssy ottth- 
 iog aboat it. When he was leaving the dob he i^an Into 
 Mr. HPimuogtonrCaxr, who greeted him airily. 
 
 "Evoung, Touchwood!" 
 
 "Good evening." 
 
 "What's this I hear about Hu^ going to ^erra Leone? 
 'Bit toughi isn't it, sending him over to a plagae spot like 
 that 3 You saw that paragraph in The Penffuiaf Things we 
 should like to know, don't you know? Why John Touch- 
 wood's brother is taking up a post in the tropics and whether 
 Joha himself b really sorry to see him go." 
 
 "No, I did not see diat paragraph," said John, idly. 
 
 If est morning a bundle of press-cuttings arrived. 
 
 '*Tbexe is nothing here but stupid gossip," said John to his 
 secre&iy, Singing the packet into the fire. "Kothibe that is 
 wordi preserving in the album, I mean tp txy." 
 
 MiEB Hamilton smiled to herself. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TH£ buzz of gossip, the eting of scandalous patascaph, 
 even the blundering impertinence of the actor-knight 
 were all forgotten the following afternoon when a telegram 
 arrived from Hampshire to say that old Mrs. Toudiwood 
 was dying. John left London immediately; but when he 
 readied Ambles he found that his mother was already dead. 
 
 "She paseed away at five o'clock," Edith sobbed. 
 
 Perhaps it was to stop his wife's crying that Laurence 
 zhaxuSoasd at any rate temporarily his unbelief and pro- 
 claimed as solemnly as if he were stiU Vicar of Newton Can- 
 dover that die old lady was waiting for diem all above. 
 Hilda eeemed chiefly worried by the fact that she had never 
 warned jiames of their mother's grave condition. 
 
 "I did telegraph Eleanor, who hasn't come; and how I 
 came to ovcrlodc James and Beatrice I can't think. They'll 
 be so hurt: But Mama didn't fret for anybody in particular. 
 No, Hv^ eat beside the bed and held her hand, which 
 seemed to give her a little pleasure, and I was kept occupied 
 with changing the hot-water bottles." 
 
 In the duiiag-toom George was knittlqg lugubriously. 
 
 "You mustn't worry yourself, old chap," he said to John 
 with his usual partiality for seductive advice. "You oan't do 
 anytbiog now. None of us can do anything till the funeral, 
 though r»B written to Eleanor to bring my top-hat with her 
 when she comes." 
 
 The embarrassment of death's presence hung heavily over 
 the household. The various members sat down to supper 
 with apdflgetic glances at one another, and nobody to^ a 
 second helping of any dish. The children were only cor- 
 rected in wtuspers for their manners, but they were given to 
 understand by j«proachful head-shakes that for a child to put 
 
288 Poor Relations 
 
 his elbows on the table or crumble his bread or drink with his 
 mouth full was at such a time a cruel exhibition of levity. 
 John could not help contrasting the treatment of children at 
 a death with their treatment at a birth. Had a baby arrived 
 upstairs, they would have been hustled out of sight and 
 sound of the unclean event; but over death they were ex- 
 pected to gloat, and their curiosity was encouraged as the 
 fit expression of filial piety. 
 
 "Yes, Frida, darling, dear Grandmama will have lots and 
 lots of lovely white flowers. Don't kick the table, sweet- 
 heart. Think of dear Grandmama looking down at you 
 from Heaven, and don't kick the table-leg, my precious," said 
 Edith in tremulous accents, gently smoothing back her daugh- 
 ter's indefinite hair. 
 
 "Can people only see from Heaven or can they hear?" 
 asked Harold. 
 
 "Hush, my boy," his Uncle Laurence interposed. "These 
 are mysteries into which God does not permit us to inquire 
 too deeply. Let it suffice that our lightest actions are known. 
 We cannot escape! the omniscient eye." 
 
 "I wasn't speaking about God," Harold objected. "I was 
 asking about Grandmama. Does she hear Frida kicking the 
 table, or does she only see her?" 
 
 "At this solemn moment, Harold, when we should all of 
 us be dumb with grief, you should not persist. Your poor 
 grandmother would be pained to hear you being persistent 
 like this." 
 
 Harold seemed to think he had tricked his uncle into 
 answering the question, for he relapsed into a satisfied si- 
 lence; Edith's eyes flashed gladly through her tears to wel- 
 come the return of her husband's truant orthodoxy. All 
 managed to abstain while they were eating from any more 
 conspicuous intrusion of the flesh than was inevitable; but 
 there was a painful scene after supper, because Frida insisted 
 that she was frightened to sleep alone, and refused to be 
 comforted by the offer of Viola for company. The terrible 
 increase of Grandmama's powers of hearing and seeing 
 
Poor Relations 289 
 
 might extend to new powers of locomotion in the middle 
 of the night, in which case Viola would be no protection. 
 
 "But Grandmama is in Heaven, darling," her mother 
 urged. 
 
 "I want to sleep with you. I'm frightened. I want to 
 sleep with you," she wailed. 
 
 "Laurence!" murmured Edith, appealingly. 
 
 "Death is a great leveler," he intoned. Grateful to the 
 chance of being able to make this observation, he agreed to 
 occupy his daughter's room and thereby allow her to sleep 
 with her mother. 
 
 "You're looking sad, Bertram," John observed, kindly, to 
 his favorite nephew. "You mustn't take this too much to 
 heart." 
 
 "No, Uncle John, I'm not. Only I keep wishing Grand- 
 mama had lived a little longer." 
 
 "We all wish that, old man." 
 
 "Yes, but I only meant a very little longer, so that I 
 needn't have gone back for the first week of term." 
 
 John nervously hurried his nephew up to bed beyond the 
 scorching of Laurence's rekindled flames of belief. Down- 
 stairs, he tried to extract from the attitude of the grown-up 
 members of the family the attitude he would have liked to 
 detect in himself. If a few months ago John had been told 
 that his mother's death would affect him so little he would 
 have been horrified by the suggestion; even now he was 
 seriously shocked at himself. Yet, try as he might, he 
 could not achieve the apotheosis of the old lady that he 
 would have been so content to achieve. Undoubtedly a few 
 months ago he would have been able without being conscious 
 of self-deception to pretend that he believed not only in 
 the reality of his own grief, but also in that of the others. 
 He would have taken his part in the utterance of platitudes 
 about life and death, separation and reunion. His own 
 platitudes would have been disguised with poetic tropes, and 
 he might have thought to himself how well such and such 
 a phrase was put; but he would quickly have assured him- 
 
290 Poor Relations 
 
 self that it was well put because it was the just expression 
 of a deep emotion. Now he could not make a singje con- 
 tribution to the woeful reflections of those round him. He 
 believed neither in himself nor in them. He knew that 
 George was faintly anxious about hi*' tot^-hat^ that Hilda 
 was agitated at the prospect of having to explain to James 
 and Beatrice her unintentional slight, diat Laurence waa un- 
 able to resist the opportunity of taking the lead at this 
 sorrowful time by reverting to his priestly office. And Hugh, 
 for whtam the old lady had always possessed a fond unrea- 
 soning afiPectioQ, did his countenance express more than a 
 hardly concealed relief that it was all over 3 Did he not 
 give tbe ifflpressioQ that he was stretching hia legs after sit- 
 ting still in one position for too longB Edith, I0 be sure, 
 waa feeling some kind of emotion that required an endless 
 flow of tears, but it seemed to John that she was weeping 
 more for the coming of death than for the going of her 
 mother. And the cbildnsn, bow could they be expected to 
 feel die loss of the old lady? There under the lamp like 
 a oenatapb recording the slow hours of age stood iter patience- 
 cards io llieir red morocco case; there they would lie allowed 
 to stand for a while to satisfy the brief craving foe rererence, 
 and tlteo one of the children xealtKing that GraniRHma had 
 no vaate need of playing would take possessjeo of them; 
 they would become grubby and dog-eared in younger hands; 
 they would disappear one by one, and the memory pf that 
 placid presence would hardly outlive them. 
 
 "Il's so nice to think that her little annuity died with 
 her," sighed Edith. She spoke of the annuity as if ft were 
 a favorite pug that had died out of sympathy with ite mis- 
 tresBu "I should hate to feel 1 was benefiting from the death 
 of somebody I loved," she explained presently., 
 
 John shivered; that remark of his sister's was like a 
 ghostly footstep upon bis own grave, and from a few years 
 henc^ perhaps much less, he seemed to hear the family 
 lawyer cough before he settled himself down to read the 
 last will and testament of John Touchwood. 
 
Poor Relations 291 
 
 "01 course, poor Mama had been dreadfully worried 
 these last weeks," Hilda said. "She felt very mu?h the 
 prospect of Hugh's going abroad— and other things." 
 
 John regarded his elder sister, and was on the point of 
 asking what she meant to insinuate by other things, ^en a 
 lament from upstairs startled the assembled family. 
 
 "Come to bed, mother, come to bed, I want you," Frida 
 was shrieking over the balustrade. "The door of Drand- 
 mama's room made a nbise just now." 
 
 "You had better go," said Laurence in answer lo his 
 wife's unvoiced appeal; and Edith went off gratefully. 
 
 "It will always be a consolation to me," said Lauionce, 
 "that Mama was able to hear Thomas read to her* Yes, 
 yes, she was so well upon that memorable evening. So very 
 well. By the way, John, I shall arrange with the Vicar 
 to read the burmi service myself. It will add the hsk. touch 
 to the intimacy of our common grief.'* 
 
 In he own room that night John tried hard not ta criti- 
 cize ao^iody exio^t himself. It was he who was csmiical, 
 he who was hard, he who was unnatural, not they. He tried 
 to evtSsB iwsa )3ie past early memories of bis mother, but he 
 could ast; recall one that might bring a tear to his eye. He 
 remembered that once she had smacked him for somdiung 
 George had done, that she had never realized what a success 
 he had made of his life's work, that she was— but he tote the 
 unfifial tbougjhts from his brain and reminded himself bow 
 mudh of her persondiiy endured in his ovra. George^ £dith, 
 and tnmself resembled her: James, Hilda, and Hugh resem- 
 bled tteir father. John's brothers and sisters haunted the 
 darkoees; and he knew that deep down in himself he blamed 
 his fadier and mother for bringing them all into the world ; 
 he could not help feeling that he ought to have been aa only 
 chUd. 
 
 "I do resent their existence," John thought. "I'm a heart- 
 less i^otifit. And Miss Hamilton thinks I'm an i^gotist. 
 Her nsuoner towards me lately has been distant, evea con- 
 temptuous. Could that suggestion of Hilda's have had anjr 
 
292 Poor Relations 
 
 truth in it? Was Mama worried to death by Hugh's going 
 abroad? Did James complain to her about my taking the 
 portraits and the silver? Is it from any standpoint conceiv- 
 ■ able that my own behavior did hasten her end ?" 
 
 John's self-reproaches were magnified in the darkness, 
 and he spent a restless and unhappy night, trybg to think 
 that the family was more important than the indi- 
 vidual. 
 
 "You feel It terribly, don't you, dear Johnnie?" Edith 
 asked him next morning with an affectionate pressure upon 
 his arm. "You're looking quite worn out." 
 
 "We all feel it terribly," he sighed. 
 
 During the three days before the funeral John managed to 
 ;ivork himself up into a condition of sentimentality which he 
 flattered himself was outwardly at any rate affecting. Con- 
 tinuous reminders of his mother's existence culminating in 
 the arrival of a new cap she had ordered just before her last 
 swift Ulness seemed to induce in him the illusion of sorrow; 
 and without the least idea of what he intended to do with 
 them afterwards he collected a quantity of small relics like 
 spectacle-cases and caps and mittens, which he arranged upon 
 his dressing-table and brooded over with brimming eyes. He 
 indulged Harold's theories about the psychical state of his 
 grandmother; he practiced swinging a golf club, but he never 
 once took out a ball; he treated everybody to magnificent 
 wreaths, and presented the servants as well as his nephews 
 and nieces with mourning; he ordered black-edged note- 
 paper ; he composed an epitaph in the manner of Sir Thomas 
 Browne with cadences and subtle alliterations Then came 
 the funeral, which ruined the last few romantic notions of 
 grief that he had been able to preserve. 
 
 To begin with, Beatrice arrived in what could only be 
 described as a towering rage: no less commonplace epithet 
 would have done justice to the vulgarity of her indignadbn. 
 That James the eldest son and she his wife should not have 
 been notified of the dangerous condition of Mama, but shmld 
 have been summoned to the obsequies like mere € riends of 
 
Poor Relations 293 
 
 the family had outraged her soul, or, as Beatrice herself put 
 it, had knocked her down like a feather. Oh yes, she had 
 always been considered beneath the Touchwood standard of 
 gentility, but poor Mama had not thought the worse of her 
 for that ; poor Mama had many times gone out of her way to 
 be specially gracious towards her; poor Mama must have 
 " laid " there wondering why her eldest daughter-in-law 
 did not come to give her the last and longest farewell. She 
 had not been lucky enough to be blessed with children, but 
 poor Mama had sometimes congratulated her upon that fact; 
 poor Mama had realized only too well that children were 
 not always a source of happiness. She knew that the unde- 
 served poverty which had always dogged poor old Jimmie's 
 footsteps had lately caused to be exacted from him the family 
 portraits and the family silver pressed upon him by poor 
 Mama herself ; but was that a reason for excluding him from 
 his mother's death-bed? She would not say whom she 
 blamed, but she had her own ideas, and though Hilda might 
 protest it was her fault, she knew better; Hilda was in- 
 capable of such barbarity. No, she would not walk beside 
 James as wife of the chief mourner; she would follow in 
 the rear of the funeral procession and hope that at any rate 
 she was not grudged that humble place. If some people 
 resented her having bought the largest wreath from a very 
 expensive flower-shop, she was not too proud to carry the 
 wreath herself; she had carried it all the way from town 
 first-class to avoid its being crushed by heedless third-class 
 passengers. 
 
 "And when I die," sobbed Beatrice, "I hope that James 
 will remember we weren't allowed to see poor Mama before 
 she went to Heaven, and will let me die quite alone. I'm 
 sure I don't want my death to interfere with other people's 
 amusements." 
 
 The funeral party gathered round the open grave; Lau- 
 rence read the service so slowly and the wind was so raw 
 that grief was depicted upon every countenance; the sniffing 
 of many noses, above which rose Beatrice's sobs of mortifica- 
 
294 Poor Relations 
 
 tion and rage, mingled with the sighing of the yews and the 
 sexton's asthma in a suitably lachiymose sympbot^. 
 
 "Now that poor Mama has gone," said Hilda to her 
 brother that afternoon, "I dare say you're an»0U9 for me to 
 be gone too." 
 
 "I really don'c think you are entitled to ascriEe to me 
 such unnatural sentiments," John expostulated. "Why 
 should i want you to die 2" 
 
 He could indeed ask diis, for such an event would in- 
 evitably connote his adoption of Harold. 
 
 "I didn't mean you wanted me to die," said Hilda, txossly. 
 "I meant you would like me to leave Atdbles" 
 
 "Not at all. I'm delighted for you to stay ieie to long 
 as it suits your convem'ence. And that applies cqaally to 
 Edith. Also I may say to George," he added wftih a glance 
 at Eleanor, who lutd taken the opportunity of nauming to 
 equip herself with a new set of bhxk bearskin furs. Eleanor 
 shook herself like a large anunal emerging from the stream. 
 
 "And to mtl" she asked with a diallenge in ber eyes. 
 
 "You must judge for yourself, Eleanor, how ht my hos- 
 pitality is likely to be extended willingly to yoa after last 
 we^" replied John, coldly. He had not yet spcXxa to his 
 sistei^in-Iaw about the interference of S^r Percy Mortimer 
 with his private affairs, and he now awaited her excuses 
 of reproadies with a curiosity that was veiy faintly tinged 
 with apprehension, 
 
 "Oh, I'm not at all ashamed of what I did," she declared. 
 "George can't speak up for himself, and it was my duly to 
 do all X could to help him in a matter of life and death." 
 
 John's cheeks flushed with stormy rose like a menacing 
 down, and he was about to break over his sister-in-law in 
 thunder and lightning when Laurence, entering the room at 
 the moment and onlj; bearing imperfectly her last speech, 
 nodHed and sighed; 
 
 "Yes, yes. Eleanor is indeed rigFt: Yes, yes. In the 
 midst of life. * -. .'* 
 
 Everybody hurried to take advantage of the diversion; 
 
Poor Relations 295 
 
 a hum of platitudes rose and fell upon the funereal air. John 
 in a convulsion of irritability ordered the dog-cart to drive 
 him to the station. He was determined to travel back to 
 town alone; he feared that if he stayed any longer at Ambles 
 his brother-in-law would revive the discussion about his 
 play; he was afraid of Hugh's taking advantage of his 
 mother's death to dodge British Honduras and of James' 
 trading upon his filial piety to recover the silver and the 
 family portraits. 
 
 When John got back to Church Row he found a note 
 from Miss Hamilton to say she had influenza and was un- 
 likely to be back at work for at least a week — if indeed, 
 she added, she was able to come back at all. This un- 
 pleasant prospect filled him with genuine gloom, and it was 
 with great difficulty that he refrained from driving immedi- 
 ately to Camera Square in order to remonstrate with her in 
 person. His despondency was not lightened by Mrs. Wor- 
 folk's graveside manner and her assumption of a black satin 
 dress hung with jet bugles that was usually reserved to mark 
 the more cheerful festivals of the calendar. Worn thus out 
 of season hung it about the rooms like a fog, and its numer- 
 ous rustlings coupled with the housekeeper's sighs of com- 
 miseration added to the lugubrious atmosphere a sensation 
 of damp which gave the final touch to John's depression. 
 Next morning the weather was really abominable; the view 
 over London from his library window showed nothing but 
 great cobwebs of rain, that seemed to be actually attached 
 to a sky as gray and solid as a dusty ceiling. Action offered 
 the only hope of alleviating life upon such a day, and John 
 made up his mind to drive over to Chelsea and inquire about 
 his secretary's health. He found that she was better, though 
 still in bed ; being anxious to learn more about her threatened 
 desertion he accepted the maid's invitation to come in and 
 speak to Mrs. Hamilton. The old lady looked more like a 
 clown than ever in the forenoon while the rice-powder was 
 still fresh upon her cheeks, and John found her humor as 
 irritating as he would have found the humor of a real clown 
 
 20 
 
296 Poor Relations 
 
 in similar circumstances. Her manner towards him was 
 that of a person who is aware of, but on certain terms is 
 willing to overlook a grave indiscretion, and she managed 
 most successfully to make him feel that he was on his defense. 
 
 "Yes, poor Doris has been very seedy. And her illness has 
 unluckily coincided with mine," 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry . . ."he began. 
 
 "Thank you. I'm used to being ill. I am always ill. At 
 least, as luck will have it, I usually feel ill when Doris has 
 anything the matter with her." 
 
 This John was ready to believe, but he tried to look at 
 once shocked and sympathetic. 
 
 "Do not let us discuss my health," Mrs. Hamilton went 
 on scorching her eyebrows in the aureole of martyrdom she 
 wore. "Of what importance is my health? Poor Doris has 
 had a very sharp attack, a very sharp attack indeed." 
 
 "I'm afraid that the weather ..." 
 
 "It's not the weather, Mr. Touchwood. It is over- 
 work." And before John could say a word she was off. 
 "You must remember that Doris is not used to hard work. 
 She has spent all her life with me, and you can easily 
 imagine that with a mother always at hand she has been 
 spared the least hardship. I would have done anything for 
 her. Ever since my husband died, my life has been one long 
 buffer between Doris and the world. You know how ob- 
 stinately she has refused to let me do all I wanted. I 
 refer to my brother-in-law, Mr. Hamilton of Glencockie. 
 And this is the result. Nervous prostration, influenza, a high 
 temperature — and sharp pains, which between ourselves I'm 
 inclined to think are perhaps not so bad as she imagines. 
 People who are not accustomed to pains," said the old lady, 
 jealously, "are always apt to be unduly alarmed and to 
 attribute to them a severity that is a leetle exaggerated. I 
 suffer so much myself that I cannot take these pains quite as 
 seriously as Doris does. However, the poor child really has 
 a good deal to put up with, and of course I've insisted that 
 she must never attempt such hard work again. I don't sup- 
 
Poor Relations 297 
 
 pose you meant to be inconsiderate, Mr. Touchwood. I 
 don't accuse you of deliberate callousness. Please do not 
 suppose that I am suggesting that the least cruelty in your 
 behavior; but you have overworked her. Moreover, she has 
 been worried. One or two of our friends have suggested 
 more in joke than in earnest that she might be compromised 
 by her association with you. No doubt this was said in 
 joke, but Doris lacks her mother's sense of humor, and I'm 
 afraid she has fretted over this. Still, a stitch in time saves 
 nine, and her illness must serve as an excuse for what with 
 a curiously youthful self-importance she calls 'leaving you in 
 the lurch.' As I said to her, 'Do riot, my dear child, worry 
 about Mr. Touchwood. He can find as many secretaries as 
 he wants. Probably he thought he was doing you a good 
 turn, and you've overstrained yourself in trying to cope with 
 duties to which you have not been accustomed. You can- 
 not expect to fly before you can walk.' " 
 
 The old lady paused to fan back her breath, and John 
 seized the conversation. 
 
 "Does Miss Hamilton herself wish to leave me like this, or 
 is it only you who think that she ought to leave me ?" 
 
 "I will be frank with you," the old lady panted. "Doris 
 has not yet made up her mind." 
 
 "As long as she is allowed to make up her own mind," 
 said John, "I have nothing to say. But I hope you are not 
 going to overpersuade her. After all she is old enough to 
 know what she wants to do." 
 
 "She is not as old as her mother." 
 
 He shook his head impatiently. 
 
 "Could I see her?" 
 
 "See her?" the old lady answered in amazement. "See 
 her, Mr. Touchwood? Didn't I explain that she was in 
 bed?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I'd forgotten." 
 
 "Men are apt to forget somewhat easily. Come, come, 
 do not let us get bitter. I took a great fancy to you when I 
 met you first, and though I have been a little disappointed 
 
298 Poor Relations 
 
 py the way in which you have taken advantage of Doris's 
 eagerness for new experiences I don't really bear you any 
 deep grudge. I don't believe you meant to be selfish. It is 
 only a mother who can pierce a daughter's motives. You 
 widi your recent loss should be able to appreciate that par- 
 ticularly now. Poor Doris! I wish she were more like 
 me. 
 
 "If you really think I have overworked her," said John, 
 "I'm extremely sorry. I dare say her enthusiasm carried me 
 away. But I cannot relinquish her services without a strug- 
 gle. She has been, and she is invaluable," he added, warmly. 
 
 "Yes, but we must think of her health. I'm sorry to seem 
 so intransigente, but I am only thinking of her." 
 
 John was not at all taken in by the old lady's altruism, but 
 he was entirely at a loss how to argue in favor of her daugh- 
 ter's continuing to work for him. His perplexity was in- 
 creased by the fact that she herself had written to express her 
 doubtfulness about returning; it might conceivably be that 
 she did not want to return and that he was misjudging Mrs. 
 Hamilton's sincerity. Yet when he looked at the old lady he 
 could not discover anything but a cold egotism in every fold 
 of those flabby cheeks where the powder lay like drifted 
 snow in the ruts of a sunless lane. It was surely impossible 
 that Doris should willingly have surrendered the liberty she 
 enjoyed with him ; she must have written under the depress- 
 ing effects of influenza. 
 
 While John was pondering his line of action Mrs. Hamil- 
 ton had fanned herself into a renewed volubility; finding 
 that it was impossible to cross the torrent of words that she 
 was now pouring forth, he sat down by the edge of it, con- 
 fused and deafened, and sometimes gasping a faint protest 
 when he was splashed by some particularly outrageous argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well, I'll write to her," he said at last. 
 
 "I beg you will do nothing of the kind. In the present 
 feeble state of her health a letter will only agitate her. I 
 hope to persuade her to come with me to Glencockie where 
 
Poor Relations 299 
 
 her uncle will, I know, once more suggest adopting her as 
 his heiress. ..." 
 
 The old lady flowed on with schemes for the future of 
 Doris in which there was so much talk of Scotland that in 
 the end his secretary appeared to John like an advertisement 
 for whisky. He saw her rosy-cheeked and tam-o-shantered, 
 smiling beneath a fir-tree while mockingly she quaffed a glass 
 to the health of her late employer. He saw her as a kind of 
 cross between Flora Macdonald and Highland Mary by the 
 banks of Loch Lomond. He saw her in every guise except 
 that in which he desired to see her — ^bending with that elu- 
 sive and ironical smile over the typewriter they had pur- 
 chased together. Damn! 
 
 John made hurried adieus and fled to his taxi from the 
 little house in Camera Square. The interview with Mrs. 
 Hamilton had cost him half-a-crown and his peace of mind: 
 it had cost the driver one halfpenny for the early edition of 
 the Star. How much happier was the life of a taxi-driver 
 than the life of a playwright! 
 
 "I wouldn't say as how Benedictine mightn't win at 
 Kempton this afternoon," the driver observed to John when 
 he alighted. "I reckon I'll have half-a-doUar on, any old 
 way. It's Bolmondeley's horse and bound to run straight." 
 
 Benedictine did win that afternoon at six to one: in- 
 dubitably the life of a taxi-driver was superior to his own, 
 John thought as he turned with a shudder from the virgin 
 foolscap upon his writing-desk and with a late edition of the 
 Star sank into a deep armchair. 
 
 "A bachelor's life is a very lonely one," he sighed. For 
 some reason Maud had neglected to draw the curtains after 
 tea, and the black yawning window where the rain glistened 
 drearily weighed upon his heart with a sense of utter aban- 
 donment Ordinarily he would have rung the bell and 
 pointed reproachfully to the omission ; but this afternoon, he 
 felt incapable of stirring from his chair to ring a bell. He 
 could not even muster enough energy to poke the fire, which 
 would soon show as little life as himself. He listened vainly 
 
300 Poor Relations 
 
 for the footsteps of Maud or Mrs. Worfolk that he mig^t 
 call out and be rescued from this lethargy of despair; but 
 not a sound was audible except the dripping rkin outside 
 and the consumptive coughs of the moribund fire. 
 
 "Perhaps I'm feeling my mother's death," said John, 
 hopefully. 
 
 jai made an effort to concentrate his mind upon an affec- 
 , -fionate retrospect of family life. He tried to convince him- 
 self that the death of his mother would involve a change in 
 the attitude of his relations. Technically he might not be 
 the eldest son, and while his mother had been alive he had 
 never assumed too definitely the rights of an eldest son. 
 Practically, however, that was his status, and his acquisition 
 of the family portraits and family silver could well be taken 
 as the visible sign of that status ; with his mother's death he 
 might surely consider himself in the eyes of the world the 
 head or the family. Did he want such an honor? It would 
 be an expensive, troublesome, and Ungrateful post like the 
 Lord-Lieutenancy of Ireland. Why didn't Maud come 
 and draw those curtains? A thankless job, and it would be 
 more congenial to have a family of his own. That meant 
 marriage. And why shouldn't he get married? Several 
 palmists had assured him he would be married one day: most 
 of them indeed had assured him he was married already. 
 
 "If I get married I can no longer be expected to bother 
 about my relations. Of course in that case I should give 
 back the portraits and the silver. My son would be junior 
 to Bertram. My son would occupy an altogether incon- 
 spicuous position in the family, though he would always 
 take precedence of Harold. But if my son had a child, 
 Harold would become an uncle. No, he wouldn't. Harold 
 would be a first cousin once removed. Harold cannot be- 
 come an uncle unless Hilda marries again and has another 
 child who has another child. Luckily, it's all very im- 
 probable. I'm glad Harold is never likely to be an uncle: 
 he would bring the relationship into an even greater dis- 
 repute. Still, even now an uncle is disreputable enough. 
 
Poor Relations 301 
 
 The wicked uncle! It's proverbial, of course. We never 
 hear o£ the wicked cousin or the nefarious aunt. No, uncles 
 share With stepmothers the opprobrium and with mothers-in- 
 law the ridicule of the mob. Unquestionably, if I do marry, 
 I ^all still be an uncle, but the status may perhaps be 
 merged in paternity. Suppose I marry and never have any 
 children? My wife will be pitied by Hilda, Edith, and 
 Eleanor and condoled with by Beatrice. She would find her 
 position intolerable. My wife? I wish to goodness Maud 
 would come in and draw those curtains. My wife? That's 
 the question. At this stage the problem of her personality is 
 more important than theoretical speculation about future 
 children. Should I enjoy a woman's bobbing in and out of 
 my room all the time? Suppose I were married at this 
 moment, it would be my wife's duty to correct Maud for 
 not having drawn those curtains. If I were married at this 
 moment I should say, 'My dear, Maud does not seem to 
 have drawn the curtains. I wonder why.' And my wife 
 would of course ring the bell and remonstrate with Maud. 
 But suppose my wife were upstairs? She might be trying 
 on a new hat. Apparently wives spend a great deal of time 
 with hats. In that case I should be no better off than 
 I am at present. I should still have to get out of this chair 
 and ring for Maud. And I should have to complain twice 
 over. Once to Maud herself and afterwards all over again 
 to my wife about Maud. Then my wife would have 'to 
 rebuke Maud. Oh, it would be a terribly complicated 
 business. Perhaps I'm better oil as a bachelor. It's an odd 
 thing that with my pictorial temperament I should never yet 
 have visualized myself as a husband. My imagination is 
 quite untrammeled in most directions. Were I to decide to- 
 morrow that I would write a play about Adam and Eve, I 
 should see myself as Adam and Eve and the Serpent and 
 almost as the Forbidden Fruit itself without any difficulty. 
 Why can't I see myself as a husband? When I think of 
 the number of people and things I've been in imagination it 
 really does seem extraordinary I should never have thought 
 
302 Poor Relations 
 
 of being a husband. Apparently Maud has completely for- 
 gotten about the curtains. It looks as if I should have to give 
 up all hope now of her coming in to draw them of her own 
 accord. Poor Miss Hamilton! I do trust that horrible 
 old clown of a mother isn't turning somersaults round her 
 room at this moment and sending up her temperature to 
 three figures. Of course, she must come back to me. She 
 is indispensable. I miss her very much. I've accustomed 
 myself to a secretary's assistance, and naturally I'm lost 
 without her. These morbid thoughts about matrimony are 
 due to my not having done a stroke of work all day. I will 
 count seventeen and rise from this chair." 
 
 John counted seventeen, but when he came to the fatal 
 number he found that his will to move was still paralyzed, 
 and he went on to forty-nine — the next fatal number in his 
 private cabbala. When he reached it he tightened every 
 nerve in his body and leapt to his feet. Inertia was. suc- 
 ceeded by the bustle of activity: he rang for Maud; he 
 poked the fire; he brushed the tobacco-ash from his waist- 
 coat; he blew his nose; he sat down at his desk. 
 
 My dear Miss Hamilton, [he wrote,] I cannot say how 
 distressed I was to hear the news of your illness and still 
 more to learn from your mother that you were seriously 
 thinking of resigning your post. I'm also extremely dis- 
 tressed to hear from her that there are symptoms of over- 
 work. If I've been inconsiderate I must beg your forgiveness 
 and ask you to attribute it to your own good-will. The fact 
 is your example has inspired me. With your encouragement 
 I undoubtedly do work much harder than formerly. To- 
 day, without you, I have not written a single word, and I 
 feel dreadfully depressed at the prospect of your desertion. 
 Do let me plead for your services when you are well again, 
 at any rate until I've finished Joan of Arc, for I really don't 
 think I shall ever finish that play without them. I have felt 
 the death of my poor mother very much, but I do not ascribe 
 my present disinclination for work to that. No, on the con- 
 
Poor Relations 303 
 
 traiy, I came back from the funeral with a determination to 
 bury myself — that might be expressed better — to plunge 
 myself into hard work. Your note telling me of your illness 
 was a great shock, and your mother's uncompromising atti- 
 tude this morning has added to my dejection. I feel that I 
 am growing old and view with horror the approach of age. 
 I've been sitting by the fire indulging myself in very morbid 
 thoughts. You will laugh when I tell you that amongst 
 them was the idea — I might call it the chimera of marriage. 
 Do please get well soon and rescue me from myself. 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 John Touchwood. 
 I do not, of course, wish to disturb the relationship be- 
 tween yourself and your mother, but my own recent loss has 
 reminded me that mothers do not live forever. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 JOHN waited in considerable anxiety for Miss Hamilton's 
 reply to his letter, and when a few days later she an- 
 swered his appeal in person by presenting herself for work 
 as usual he could not express in words the intensity of his 
 satisfaction, but could only prance round her as if he had 
 been a dumb domestic animal instead of a celebrated roman- 
 tic playwright. 
 
 "And what have you done since I've been away?" she 
 asked, without alluding to her illness or to her mother or to 
 her threat of being obliged to leave him. 
 
 John looked abashed. 
 
 "Not very much, I'm afraid." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Well, to be quite honest, nothing at all." 
 
 She referred sympathetically to the death of Mrs. Touch- 
 wood, and, without the ghost of a blush, he availed himself 
 of that excuse for idleness. 
 
 "But now you're back," he added, "I'm going to work 
 harder than ever. Oh, but I forgot. I mustn't overwork 
 you." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Miss Hamilton, sharply. "I don't think 
 the amount you write every day will ever do me much harm." 
 
 John busied himself with paper, pens, ink, and notebooks, 
 and was soon as deep in the fourth act as if there had never 
 been an intermission. For a mqnth he worked in perfect 
 tranquillity, and went so far as to calculate that if Miss 
 Hamilton was willing to remain forever in his employ there 
 was no reason why he should not produce three plays a year 
 until he was seventy. Then one morning in mid-February 
 Mr. Ricketts arrived in a state of perturbation to say that 
 he had been unable to obtain any reply to several letters 
 
Poor Relations 305 
 
 and telegrams informing Hugh when their steamer would 
 leave. Now here they were with only a day before departure, 
 and he was still without news of the young man. John 
 looked guilty. The fact was that he had decided not to open 
 any letters from his relations throughout this month, alleging 
 to himself the interruption they caused to his work and 
 trusting to the old superstition that if left unanswered long 
 enough all letters, even the most disagreeable, answered them- 
 selves. 
 
 "I was wondering why your correspondence had dwindled 
 so," said Miss Hamilton, severely. 
 
 "But that is no excuse for my brother," John declared. 
 "Because I don't write to him, that is no reason why he 
 shouldn't write to Mr. Ricketts." 
 
 "Well, we're off to-morrow," said the mahogany-planter. 
 
 An indignant telegram was sent to Hugh ; but the prepaid 
 answer came back from Hilda to say that he had gone off 
 with a friend a fortnight ago without leaving any address. 
 Mr. Ricketts, who had been telephoned for in the morning, 
 arrived about noon in a taxi loaded with exotic luggage. 
 
 "I can't wait," he assured John. "The lad must come on 
 by the next boat. I shan't go up country for a week or so. 
 Good-by, Mr. Touchwood; I'm sorry not to have your 
 brother's company. I was going to put him wise to the job 
 on the trip across." 
 
 "But look here, can't you ..." John began, despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Can't wait. I shall miss the boat. West India Docks," 
 he shouted to the driver, "and stop at the last decent pub in 
 the city on the way through." 
 
 The tax buzzed off. 
 
 Two days later Hugh appeared at Church Row, men- 
 tioned casually that he was sorry he had missed the boat, but 
 that he had been doing a little architectural job for a friend 
 of his. 
 
 "Very good bridge," he commented, approvingly. 
 
 "Over what?" John demanded. 
 
3o6 Poor Relations 
 
 "Over very good whisky," said Hugh. "It was up in the 
 North. Capital fun. I was designing a smoking-room for a 
 man I know who's just come into money. I've had a ripping 
 time. Good hands every evening and a very decent fee. In 
 fact, I don't see why I shouldn't start an office of my own." 
 
 "And what about mahogany?" 
 
 "Look here, I never liked that idea of yours, Johnnie. 
 Everybody agrees that British Honduras is a rotten climate, 
 and if you want to help me, you can help me much more 
 effectively by setting me up on my own as an architect." 
 
 "I do not want to help you. I've invested £2,000 in 
 mahogany and logwood, and I insist on getting as much 
 interest on my money as your absence from England will 
 bring me in." 
 
 "Yes, that's all very well, old chap. But why do you 
 want me to leave England?" 
 
 John embarked upon a justification of his attitude, in 
 the course of which he pointed out the dangers of idleness, 
 reminded Hugh of the forgery, tried to inspire him with 
 hopes of independence, hinted at moral obligations, and 
 rhapsodized about colonial enterprise. As a mountain of 
 forensic art the speech was wonderful : clothed on the lower 
 slopes with a rich and varied vegetation of example and 
 precept, it gradually ascended to the hard rocks of necessity, 
 honor, and duty until it culminated in a peak of snow where 
 John's singleness of motive glittered immaculately and in- 
 violably to heaven. It was therefore discouraging for the 
 orator when he paused and walked slowly up stage to give 
 the culprit an opportunity to make a suitably penitent reply, 
 after which the curtain was to come down upon a final out- 
 burst of magnanimous eloquence from himself, th^t Hugh 
 should merely growl the contemptuous monosyllable "rot." 
 
 "Rot?" repeated John in amazement. 
 
 "Yes. Rot. I'm not going to reason with you ..." 
 
 "Ah, indeed ?" John interrupted, sarcastically. 
 
 "Because reason would be lost on you. I simply repeat 
 'Rot!' If I don't want to go to British Honduras, I won't 
 
Poor Relations 307 
 
 go. Why, to hear you talk anybody would suppose that I 
 hadn't had the same opportunities as yourself. If you chose 
 to blur your intelligence by writing romantic tushery, you 
 must remember that by doing so you yielded to temptation 
 just as much as I did when I forged Stevie's name. Do you 
 think I would write plays like yours? Never!" he pro- 
 claimed, proudly. \ 
 
 "It seems to me that the conversation is indeed going out^ 
 side the limits of reason," said John, trying hard to restrain 
 himself. 
 
 "My dear old chap, it has never been inside the limits. 
 No, no, you collared me when I was down over that check. 
 Well, here's what you paid to get me out of the mess." He 
 threw a bundle of notes on the table. "So long, Johnnie, 
 and don't be too resentful of my having demonstrated that 
 when I am left for a while on my own I can earn money as 
 well as you. I'm going to stay in town for a bit before I 
 go North again, so I shall see you from time to time. By 
 the way, you might send me the receipt to Carlington Road. 
 I'm staying with Aubrey as usual." 
 
 When his brother had gone, John counted the notes in a 
 stupor. It would be too much to say that he was annoyed 
 at being paid back; but he was not sufficiently pleased to 
 mention the fact to Miss Hamilton for two days 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad," she exclaimed when at last he did 
 bring himself to tell her. 
 
 "Yes, it's very encouraging," John agreed, doubtfully. 
 "I'm still suffering slightly from the shock, which has been 
 a very novel sensation. To be perfectly honest, I never 
 realized before how much less satisfactory it is to be paid 
 back than one thinks beforehand it is going to be," 
 
 In spite of the disturbing effect of Hugh's honesty, John 
 soon settled down again to the play, and became so much 
 wrapped up in its daily progress that one afternoon he was 
 able without a tremor to deny admittance to Laurence, who 
 having written to warn him that he was taking advantage of 
 a further reduction in the price on day-tickets, had paid an- 
 
3o8 Poor Relations 
 
 other visit to London. Laurence took with ill grace his 
 brother-in-law's message that he was too busy on his own 
 work to talk about anybody's else at present. 
 
 "I confess I was pained," he wrote from Ambles on John's 
 own note-paper, "by the harsh reception of my friendly little 
 visit. I confess that Edith and I had hoped you would wel- 
 come the accession of a relative to the ranks of contemporary 
 playwrights. We feel that in the circumstances we cannot 
 stay any longer in your house. Indeed, Edith is even as I 
 pen these lines packing Frida's little trunk. She is being 
 very brave, but her tear-stained face tells its own tale, and 
 I confess that I myself am writing with a heavy heart. 
 Eleanor has been most kind, and in addition to giving me 
 several more introductions to her thespian friends has ar- 
 ranged with the proprietress of Halma House for a large 
 double room with dressing-room attached on terms which I 
 can only describe as absurdly moderate. Do not think we are 
 angry. We are only pained, bitterly pained that our happy 
 family life should suddenly collapse like this. However, 
 excelsior, as the poet said, or as another poet even greater 
 said, 'sic itur ad astra.' You will perhaps be able to spare 
 a moment from the absorption of your own affairs to read 
 with a fleeting interest that Sir Percy Mortimer has offered 
 me the part of the butler in a comedy of modern manners 
 which he hopes to stage — ^you see I am already up to the hilt 
 in the jargon of the profession — ^next autumn. Eleanor con- 
 siders this to be an excellent opening, as indeed so do I. 
 Edith and little Frida laugh heartily when they are not too 
 sad for such simple fun when I enter the room and assume 
 jhe characteristic mannerisms of a butler. All agree I have 
 a natural propensity for droll impersonation. Who knows? 
 I may make a great hit, allbough Sir Percy warns me that 
 the part is but a slight one. Eleanor, however, reminds me 
 that deportment is always an asset for an actor. Have I 
 not read somewhere that the great Edmund Kean did not dis- 
 dain to play the tail end of a dragon erstwhile? I wish you 
 all good luck in your own work, my dear John. People are 
 
Poor Relations 309 
 
 interested when they hear you are my brother-in-law, and I 
 have told them many tales of the way you are wont to con- 
 sult me over the little technical details of religion in which 
 I as a former clergyman have been able to afford you my 
 humble assistance." 
 
 "What a pompous ass the man is," said John to his secre- 
 tary. He had read her the letter, which made her laugh. 
 
 "I believe you're really quite annoyed that he's showing 
 an independent spirit now." 
 
 "Not at all. I'm delighted to be rid of him," John con- 
 tradicted. "I suppose he'll share George's aquarium at 
 Halma House." 
 
 "You don't mind my laughing? Because it is very funny, 
 you know." 
 
 "Yes, it's funny in a way," John admitted. "But even if 
 it weren't, I shouldn't mind your laughing. You have, if I 
 may say so, a peculiarly musical laugh." 
 
 "Are you going to have Joan's scaffold right center or left 
 center?" she asked, quickly. 
 
 "Eh? What? Oh, put it where you like. By the way, 
 has your mother been girding at jrau lately?" 
 
 Miss Hamilton shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "She isn't yet reconciled to my being a secretary, if that's 
 what you mean." 
 
 "I'm sorry," John murmured. "Confound all relations!" 
 he burst out. "I suppose she'd object to your going to 
 France with me to finish off the play?" 
 
 "She would object violently. But you mustn't forget that 
 I've a will of my own." 
 
 "Of course you have," said John, admiringly. "And you 
 will go, eh?" 
 
 "I'll see — I won't promise. Look here, Mr. Touchwood, 
 I Aon't want to seem — ^what shall I call it — timid, but if I 
 did go to France with you, I suppose you realize my mother 
 would make such a fuss about it that people would end by 
 really talking? Forgive my putting such an unpleasant idea 
 into your innocent head ; being your confidential secretaty, I 
 
3IO P o or Re la t ions 
 
 feel I oughtn't to let you run any risks. I don't suppose 
 you care a bit how much people talk, and I'm sure I don't ; 
 at the same time I shouldn't like you to turn round on me 
 and say I ought to have warned you." 
 
 "Talk!" John exclaimed. "The idea is preposterous. 
 Talk! Good gracious me, can't I take my secretary abroad 
 without being accused of ulterior motives?" 
 
 "Now, don't work yourself into a state of wrath, or you 
 won't be able to think of this terribly important last scene. 
 Anyway, we sha'n't be going to France yet, and we can dis- 
 cuss the project more fully when the time comes." 
 
 John thought vaguely how well Miss Hamilton knew how 
 to keep him unruffled, and with a grateful look — or what 
 was meant to be a grateful look, though she blushed unac- 
 countably when he gave it — ^he concentrated upon the site 
 of his heroine's scafiold. 
 
 During March the weather was so bright and exhilarating 
 that John and his secretary took many walks together on 
 Hampstead Heath; they also often went to town, and John 
 derived much pleasure from discussing various business af- 
 fairs with her clerical support; he found that it helped con- 
 siderably when dealing with the manager of a film company 
 to be able to say "Will you make a note of that, please. Miss 
 Hamilton?" The only place, in fact, to which John did 
 not take her was his club, and that was only because he was 
 not allowed to introduce ladies there. 
 
 "A rather mediaeval restriction," he observed one day to a 
 group assembled in the smoking-room. 
 
 "There was a time. Touchwood, when you used to take 
 refuge here from your leading ladies," a bachelor member 
 chuckled. 
 
 "But nowadays Touchwood has followed Adam with the 
 rest of us," put in another. 
 
 "What's tiiat?" said John, sharply. 
 
 There was a general burst of merriment and headshaking 
 and wagging of fingers, from which and a succession of 
 almost ribald comment John began to wonder if his private 
 
Poor Relations 311 
 
 life was beginning to be a subject for club gossip. He man- 
 aged to prevent himself from saying that he thought such 
 chaff in bad taste, because he did not wish to give point to 
 it by taking it too much in earnest. Nevertheless, he was 
 seriously annoyed and avoided the smoking-room for a 
 week. 
 
 One night, after the first performance of a friend's play, 
 he turned in to the club for supper, and, being disinclined for 
 sleep, because although it was a friend's play it had been a 
 tremendous success, which always made him feel anxious 
 about his own future he lingered on until the smoking-room 
 was nearly deserted. Towards three o'clock he was sitting 
 pensively in a quiet corner when he heard his name mentioned 
 by two members, who had taken seats close by without per- 
 ceiving his presence. They were both strangers to him, 
 and he was about to rise from his chair and walk severely out 
 of the room, when he heard one say to the other: 
 
 "Yes, they tell me his brother-in-law writes his plays for 
 him." 
 
 John found this so delightfully diverting an idea that he 
 could not resist keeping quiet to hear more. 
 
 "Oh, I don't believe that," said the second unknown 
 member. 
 
 "Fact, I assure you. I was told so by a man who knows 
 Eleanor Cartright." 
 
 "The actress?" 
 
 "Yes, she's a sister-in-law of his." 
 
 "Really, I never knew that." 
 
 "Oh yes. Well, this man met her with a fellow called 
 Armitage, an ex-monk who broke his vows in order to marry 
 Touchwood's sister." 
 
 John pressed himself deeper into his armchair. 
 
 "Really? But I never knew monks could marry," ob- 
 jected number two. 
 
 "I tell you, he broke his vows." 
 
 "Oh, I see," murmured number two, who was evidently 
 no wiser, but was anxious to appear so. 
 
 21 
 
312 Poor Relations 
 
 "Well, it seems that this fellow Armitage is a thundering 
 fine poet, but without much experience of the stage. Of 
 course, he wouldn't have had much as a monk." 
 
 "Of course not," agreed number two, decidedly. 
 
 "So, what does Johnnie Touchwood do — " 
 
 "Damned impudence calling me Johnnie," thought the 
 subject of the duologue. 
 
 "But make a contract with his brother-in-law to stay out 
 of the way down in Devonshire or Dorsetshire — I forget 
 which — but, anyway, down in the depths of the country 
 somewhere, and write all the best speeches in old Johnnie's 
 plays. Now, it seems there's been a family row, and they 
 tell me that Armitage is going to sue Johnnie." 
 
 "What was the row about?" 
 
 "Well, apparently Johnnie is a bit dose. Most of these 
 successful writers are, of course," said number one with the 
 nod of an expert. 
 
 "Of course," agreed his companion, with an air of equally 
 profound comprehension. 
 
 "And took advantage of his position as die fellow with 
 money to lord it over the rest of his family. There's another 
 brother — an awful clever beggar — ^James, I think his name 
 is — a real first-class scientist, original research man and all 
 that, who's spent the whole of his fortune on some great 
 discovery or other. Well, will you believe it, but the other 
 day when he was absolutely starving, Johnnie Touchwood 
 offered to lend him some trifling sum if he would break the 
 entail." 
 
 "I didn't know the Touchwoods were landed proprietors. 
 I always understood the father was a dentist," said number 
 two. 
 
 "Oh, no, no. Very old family. Wonderful old house 
 down in Devonshire or Dorset — I wish I could remember 
 just where it is. Anyway, it seems that the eldest brother 
 clung on to this like anything. Of course, he would." 
 
 "Of course," number two agreed. 
 
 "But Johnnie, who's hard as flint, insisted on breaking 
 
Po_or Relations 313 
 
 the entail in his own favor, and now I hear he's practically 
 turned the whole family into the street, including James' 
 boy, who in the ordinary course of events would have in- 
 herited." 
 
 "Did Eleanor Cartright tell your friend this?" asked 
 number two. 
 
 "Oh no, I've heard that from lots of people. It seems 
 that old Mrs. Touchwood died of grief over the way Johnnie 
 carried on. It's really a very grim story when you hear the 
 details; unfortunately, I can't remember all of them. My 
 memory's getting awfully bad nowadays." 
 
 Number two muttered an expression of sympathy, and the 
 other continued : 
 
 "But one detail I do remember is that another brother — " 
 
 "it's a large family, then?" 
 
 "Oh, very large. As I was saying, the old lady was 
 terribly upset not only about breaking the entail, but also 
 over her youngest son, who had some incurable disease. It 
 seems that he was forced by Johnnie to go out to the Gold 
 Coast — I think it was — in order to see about some money 
 that Johnnie had invested in rubber or something. As I 
 say, I can't remember the exact details. However, cherchez 
 la femme, I needn't add the reasons for all this." 
 
 "A woman?" 
 
 "Exactly," said number one. "Some people say it's a mar- 
 ried woman, and others say it's a young girl of sixteen. Any- 
 way, Johnnie's completely lost his head over her, and they 
 tell me ..." 
 
 The two members put their heads together so that John 
 ^ould not hear what was said : but it must have been pretty 
 bad, because when they put them apart again number two 
 was clicking his tongue in shocked amazement. 
 
 "By Joye, that will cause a terrific scandal, eh?" 
 
 John decided he had heard enough. Assuming an ex- 
 pression ,of intense superiority, the sort of expression a man 
 might, assume who was standing on the top of Mount Ever- 
 est, he rose from his chair, eyed the two gossips with disdain, 
 
314 PoorRelations 
 
 and strode out of the smoking-room. Just as he reached the 
 door, he heard number one exclaim: 
 
 "HuUoa, see who that was? That was old Percy Mor- 
 timer." 
 
 "Oh, of course," said number two, as sapiently as ever, 
 "I didn't recognize him for a moment. He's beginning to 
 show his age, eh?" 
 
 On the way back to Hampstead John tried to assure him- 
 self that the conversation he had just overheard did not 
 represent anything more important than the vaporings of an 
 exceptionally idiotic pair of men about town ; but the more 
 he meditated upon the tales about himself evidently now in 
 general circulation, the more he was appalled at the reck- 
 lessness of calumny. 
 
 "One has joked about it. One has laughed at Sheridan's 
 School for Scandal. One has admitted that human beings 
 are capable of almost incredible exaggeration. But — no, 
 really this is too much. I've gossiped sometimes myself about 
 my friends, but never like that about a stranger — a man in 
 the public eye." 
 
 John nearly stopped the taxi to ask the driver if he had 
 heard any stories about John Touchwood; but he decided it 
 would not be wise to run risk of discovery that he enjoyed 
 less publicity than he was beginning to imagine, and he kept 
 his indignation to himself. 
 
 "After all, it is a sign of — ^well, yes, I think it might fairly 
 be called fame — a sign of fame to be talked about like that 
 by a couple of ignorant chatterboxes. It is, I suppose, a 
 tribute to my position. But Laurence! That's what an- 
 noyed me most. Laurence to be the author of my plays! 
 I begin to understand this ridiculous Bacon and Shakespeare 
 I^end now. The rest of the gossip was malicious, but that 
 was — really, I think it was actionable. I shall take it up 
 with the committee. The idea of that pompous nincom- 
 poop writing Lucretia's soliloquy before she poisons her lips! 
 Laurence! Good heavens! And fancy Laurence writing 
 Nebuchadnezzar's meditation upon grass! By Jove, an 
 
Poor Relajions 315 
 
 audience would have some cause to titter then! And Lau- 
 rence writing Joan's defense to the Bishop of Beauvais! 
 Why, the bombastic pedant couldn't even write a satisfactory 
 letter to the Bishop of Silchester to keep himself from being 
 ignominiously chucked out of his living." 
 
 The infuriated author bounced up and down on the 
 cushions of the taxi in his rage. 
 
 "Shall I give you an arm up the steps, sir?" the driver 
 offered, genially, when John, having alighted at his front 
 door, had excessively overpaid him under the impression 
 ;from which he was still smarting of being called a skinflint. 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir. I thought you was a little bit tiddly. 
 You seemed a bit lively inside on the way up." 
 
 "I suppose the next thing is that I shall get the reputation 
 of being a dipsomaniac," said John to himself, as he flung 
 open his door and marched immediately, with a slightly ac- 
 centuated rigidity of bearing, upstairs to bed. 
 
 But he could not sleep. The legend of his behavior that 
 was obviously common gossip in London oppressed him with 
 its injustice. Every accusation took on a new and fantastic 
 form, while he turned over and over in an attempt to reach 
 oblivion. He began to worry now more about what had been 
 implied in his association with Miss Hamilton than about 
 the other stories. He felt that it would only be a very short 
 time before she would hear of the tale in some monstrous 
 shape and leave him forever in righteous disgust. Ought he, 
 indeed, to make her aware to-morrow morning of what was 
 being suggested ? And even if he did not say anything about 
 the past, ought he to compromise her more deeply in the 
 future? 
 
 It was six o'clod: before John fell asleep, and it was with 
 a violent headache that he faced his secretary after break- 
 fast. Luckily there was a letter from Janet Bond asking 
 him to come and see her that morning upon a matter of 
 importance. He seized the excuse to postpone any discussion 
 of last night's revelation, and, telling Miss Hamilton he 
 
3i6 PoorRelations 
 
 should be back for lunch, he decided to walk down to the 
 Parthenon Theater in the hope of arriving there with a 
 clearer and saner view of life. He nearly told her to go 
 home; but, reflecting that he might come back in quite a 
 di£Ferent mood, he asked her instead to occupy herself with 
 the collation of some scattered notes upon Joan of Arc that 
 were not yet incorporated into the scheme of the play. He 
 remembered, too, that it would be his birthday in three days' 
 time, and he asked her to send out notes of invitation to his 
 family for die annual celebration, at which the various mem- 
 bers liked to delude themselves with the idea that by pre- 
 senting him with a number of useless accessories to the 
 smoking-table they were repaying him in full for all his kind- 
 ness. He determined that his birthday speech on this occa- 
 sion should be made the vehicle for administering a stem 
 rebuke to malicious gossip. He would dam once for all this 
 muddy stream of scandal, and he would make Laurence 
 write a letter to the press disclaiming the authorship of his 
 plays. Burning with reformative zeal and fast losing his 
 headache, John swung down Fitzjohn's Avenue in the 
 spangled March sunlight to the wicked city below. 
 
 The Parthenon Theater had for its acropolis the heights 
 of the Adelphi, where, viewed from the embankment gardens 
 below, it seemed to be looking condescendingly down upon 
 the efforts of the London County Council to intellectualize 
 the musical taste of the generation. In the lobby — it had 
 been called the propylaeum until it was found that such a 
 long name had discouraged the public from booking seats 
 beforehand through fear of mispronunciation — a bust of 
 Janet Bond represented the famous statue Pallas Athene on 
 the original acropolis, and the programme-girls, dressed as 
 caryatides, supplied another channing touch of antiquity. 
 The proprietress herself was the outstanding instance in 
 modem times of the exploitation of virginity — it must have 
 been a very profitable exploitation, because the Parthenon 
 Theater itself had been built and paid for by her unsuccess- 
 ful admirers. Each year made Janet Bond's position as 
 
Poor Relations 317 
 
 virgin and actress more secure, and at the rate her reputation 
 was growing it was probable that she would soon be at 
 liberty to produce the most immodest plays. At present, 
 however, she still applied the same standard of her conduct 
 to her plays as to herself. Nor did she confine herself to 
 that. She was also very strict about the private lives of her 
 performers, and many a young actress had- been seen to leave 
 ^the stage door in tears because Miss Bond had observed her 
 in unsuitable company at supper. Mothers wrote from all 
 over England to beg Miss Bond to charge herself with the 
 care of their stage-struck daughters; the result was a con- 
 ventional tone among the supernumeraries slightly flavored 
 with militant suflragism and the higher mathematics. Nor 
 was art neglected; indeed some critics hinted that in the 
 Parthenon Theater art was cultivated at the expense 
 of life, though none of them attempted to gainsay that 
 Miss Bond had learned how to make virtue pay without 
 selling it. 
 
 In appearance the great tragedienne was somewhat 
 rounder in outline than might have been expected, and more 
 matronly than virginal, perhaps because she was in her own 
 words a mother to all her girls. Her voice was rich and 
 deep with as much variety as a cunningly sounded gong. 
 She never made up for the stage, and she wore hygienic 
 corsets : this intimate fact was allowed to escape through the 
 indiscretion of a widespread advertisement, but its publication 
 helped her reputation for decorum, and clergymen who read 
 their wives' Queen or Lady commented favorably on the 
 contrast between Miss Bond and the numerous open-mouthed 
 actresses who preferred to advertise toothpaste. England 
 was proud of Miss Bond, feeling that America had no longer 
 any right to vaunt a monopoly of virtuous actresses; and 
 John, when he rang the bell of Miss Bond's flat that existed 
 cleverly in the roof of the theater, was proud of his associa- 
 tion with her. He did not have to wait long in her austere 
 study; indeed he had barely time to admire the fluted calyx 
 of a white trumpet daffodil that in chaste symbolism was the 
 
3i8 Poor Relations 
 
 only occupant of a blue china bowl before Miss Bond herself 
 came in. - ' _ 
 
 "I'm so hating what I'm going to have to say to you," 
 she boomed. 
 
 This was a jolly way to begin an interview, John thought, 
 especially in his present mood. He tried to look attentive, 
 faintly surprised, dignified, and withal deferential; but, not 
 being a great actor, he failed to express all these states of 
 mind at a go, and only succeeded in dropping his gloves. 
 
 "Hating it," the actress cried. "Oh, hating it!" 
 
 "Well, if you'd rather postpone it," John began. 
 
 "No, no. It must be said now. It's just this!" She 
 paused and fixed the author more intensely than a snake fixes 
 a rabbit or a woman in a bus tries to see if the woman oppo- 
 site has blacked her eyelashes. "Can I produce Joan of 
 Arcf 
 
 "I think that question is answered by our contract," re- 
 plied John, who was used to leading ladies, and when they 
 started like this always fell back at once in good order on 
 business. 
 
 "Yes, but what about my unwritten contract with the 
 public?" she demanded. 
 
 "I don't know anything about that," said the author. 
 "Moreover, I don't see how an unwritten contract can inter- 
 fere with our written contract." 
 
 "John Touchwood, I'm going to be frank with you, 
 fiercely frank. I can't afford to produce a play by you about 
 a heroine like Joan of Arc unless you take steps to put things 
 right." 
 
 "If you want me to cut that scene ..." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not talking about scenes, John Touchwood. I'm 
 talking about these terrible stories that everybody is whisper- 
 ing alrout you. I don't mind myself what you do. Good 
 gracious me, I'm a broad-minded modern woman; but my 
 public looks for something special at the Parthenon. The 
 knowledge that I am going to play the Maid of Orleans has 
 
Poor Relations 319 
 
 moved them indescribably; I was fully prepared to give you 
 the success of your career, but . . . these stories! This 
 girl! You know what people are saying? You must have 
 heard. How can I put your name on my programme as 
 the author of Joan of Arc? How can I, John Touch- 
 wood?" 
 
 If John had not overheard that conversation at his club 
 the night before, he would have supposed that Miss Bond 
 had gone mad. 
 
 "May I inquire exactly what you have heard about me 
 and my private life?" he inquired, as judicially as he could. 
 
 "Please spare me from repeating the stories. I can hon- 
 estly assure you that I don't believe them. But you as a man 
 of the world know very well how unimportant it is whether 
 a story is true or not. If you were a writer of realistic 
 drama, these stories, however bad they were, wouldn't matter. 
 If your next play was going to be produced at the Court 
 Theater, these stories would, if anything, be in favor of suc- 
 cess . . . but at the Parthenon ..." 
 
 "You are talking nonsense. Miss Bond," interrupted John, 
 angrily. "You are more in a condition to play Ophelia than 
 Joan of Arc. Moreover, you sha'n't play Joan of Arc now. 
 I've really been regretting for some weeks now that you 
 were going to play her, and I'm delighted to have this op- 
 portunity of preventing you from playing her. I don't know 
 to what tittle-tattle you've been listening. I don't care. 
 Your opinion of your own virtue may be completely justified, 
 but your judgment of other people's is vulgar and — ^how- 
 ever, let me recommend you to produce a play by my brother- 
 in-law, the Reverend Laurence Armitage. Even your in- 
 satiable ambition may be gratified by the part of the Virgin 
 Mary, who is one of the chief characters. Good morning. 
 Miss Bond. I shall communicate with you more precisely 
 through my agent." 
 
 John marched out of the theater, and on the pavement out- 
 side ran into Miss Ida Merritt. 
 
320 Poor Relations 
 
 "Ah, you're a sensible woman," he spluttered, much to 
 her astonishment. "For goodness' sake, come and have lunch 
 with me, and let's talk over everything." 
 
 John, in his relief at meeting Miss Merritt, had taken her 
 aim in a cordial fashion, and steered her across the Strand to 
 Romano's without waiting to choose a less conspicuously 
 theatrical restaurant. Indeed in his anxiety to clear his repu- 
 tation he forgot everything, and it was only when he saw 
 various people at the little tables nudging one another and 
 bobbing their heads together that he realized he was holding 
 Miss Merritt's arm. He dropped it like a hot coal, and 
 plunged down at a table marked "reserved." The head 
 waiter hurried across to apprise him of the mistake, and 
 John, who was by now horribly self-conscious, fancied that 
 the slight incident had created a stir throughout the restau- 
 rant. No doubt it would be all over town by evening that 
 he and his companion in guilt had been refused service at 
 every restaurant in London. 
 
 "Look here," said John, when at last they were accom- 
 modated at a table painfully near the grill, the spitting and 
 hissing from which seemed to symbolize the attitude of a 
 hostile sodety. "Look here, what stories have you heard 
 about me? You're a journalist. You write diatty para- 
 graphs. For heaven's sake, tell me the worst." 
 
 "Oh, I haven't heard anything that's printable," Miss 
 Merritt assured him, with a laugh. 
 
 John put his head between his hands and groaned; the 
 waiter thought he was going to dip his hair into the hors 
 d'oeuvres and hurriedly removed the dishes. 
 
 "No, seriously, I beg you to tell me if you've heard my 
 name connected in any unpleasant way with Miss Hamil- 
 ton." 
 
 "No, the only thing I've heard about Doris is that your 
 brother, Hugh, is always pestering her with his attentions." 
 
 "What?" John shouted. 
 
 "Coming, sir," cried the waiter, skipping round the table 
 like a monkey. 
 
Poor Relations 331 
 
 John waved him away, and begged Miss Merritt to be 
 more explicit. 
 
 "Why didn't she complain to me?" he asked when he 
 had heard her stoiy. 
 
 "She probably thought she could look after herself. Be- 
 sides, wasn't he going to British Guiana?" 
 
 "He was," replied John. "At least he was going to some 
 tropical colony. I've heard so many mentioned that I'm 
 beginning myself to forget which it was now. So that's why 
 he didn't go. But he shall go. If I have to have him kid- 
 naped and spend all my savings on chartering a private yacht 
 for the purpose, by Heaven, he shall go. If he shriyels 
 up like a burnt sausage the moment he puts his foot on the 
 beach he shall be left there to shriyel. The rascal! When 
 does he pester her? Where?" 
 
 "Don't get so excited. Doris is perfectly capable of Ipok- 
 ing after herself. Besides, I think she rather likes him in a 
 way." 
 
 "Never," Jphn cried. 
 
 "Liver is finished, sair," said the officious waiter, dancing 
 in again between John and Miss Merritt. 
 
 John shook hie fist at him and leant earnestly over the 
 table with one elbow in the butter. 
 
 "You don't seriously surest that she is in love with 
 him?" he asked. 
 
 "No, I don't think so. But I met him myself once and 
 took rather a fancy to him. No, she just likes him as a 
 friend. It's he who's in loye with her." 
 
 "Under my very eyes," John ejaculated. "Why, it's over- 
 whelming." 
 
 A sudden thought struck him that even at this moment 
 while he was cahnly eating lunch with Miss Merritt, as he 
 somewhat loosely qualified the verb, Hugh might be making 
 love to Miss Hamilton in his own house. 
 
 "Look here," he cried, "have you nearly finished? Be- 
 cause I've suddaily remembered an important appointment at 
 Hampstead." 
 
322 Poor Relations 
 
 "I don't want any more," said Miss Merritt, obligingly. 
 
 "Waiter, the bill ! Quick I You don't mind if I rush off 
 and leave you to finish your cheese alone?" 
 
 His guest shook her head and John hurried out of the 
 restaurant. 
 
 No taxi he had traveled in had ever seemed so slow, and 
 he kept putting his head out of the window to urge the 
 driver to greater speed, until the man goaded to rudeness by 
 John's exhortations and the trams in Tottenham Court Road 
 asked if his fare thought he was a blinking bullet. 
 
 "I'm not bullying you. I'm only asking you to drive a 
 little faster," John shouted back. 
 
 The driver threw his eyes heavenward in a gesture of 
 despair for John's sanity but he was pacified at Church 
 Row by half-a-sovereign and even went so far as to explain 
 that he had not accused John of bullying him, but merely 
 of confusing his capacity for speed with that of a bullet's. 
 John thought he was asking for more money, gave hini half- 
 a-crown and waving his arm, half in benediction, half in 
 protest, he hurried into the hall. 
 
 "They've nearly finished lunch, sir," murmured Maud 
 who was just coming from the dining-room. "Would you 
 like Elsa to hot you up something?" 
 
 John without a word pounced into the dining-room, where 
 he caught Hugh with a stick of celery half-way to his mouth 
 and Miss Hamilton with a glass of water half-way down 
 from hers in the other direction. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry we began without you," said the cul- 
 prits simultaneously. 
 
 John murmured something about a trying interview with 
 Janet Bond, lit a cigar, realized it was rude to light cigars 
 when people were still eating, threw the cigar away, and sat 
 down with an appearance of exhaustion in one of those 
 dining-room armchairs that stand and wait all their lives to 
 serve a moment like this. 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I must ask you to go off as soon as you've 
 
Poor Relations 323 
 
 finished your lunch, Hugh. I've a lot of important business 
 to transact with Miss Hamilton." - ' 
 
 "Oh, but I've finished already," she exclaimed, jumping 
 up from the table. 
 
 It was the first pleasant moment in John's day, and he 
 smiled, gratefully. He felt he could even afford to be gen- 
 erous to this intrusive brother, and before he left the room 
 with Miss Hamilton he invited him to have some more 
 celery., 
 
 "And you'll find a cigar in the sideboard," he added. 
 "But Maud will look after you. Maud, look after Mr. 
 Hugh, pkase, and if anybody calls this afternoon, I'm not 
 at home." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 JOHN'S first impulse had been to pour out in Miss Hamil- 
 ton's ears the tale of his wrongs, and afterward, when he 
 had suiSciently impressed her with the danger of the posi- 
 tion in which the world was trying to place them, to ask 
 her to marry him as the only way to escape from it On 
 second thoughts, he decided that she might be offended by 
 the suggestion of having been compromised by him and that 
 she might resent the notion of their marriage's being no 
 more than a sop to public opinion. He therefore abandoned 
 the idea of enlarging upon the scandal their association had 
 apparently created and proposed to substitute the trite but 
 always popular scene of the prosperous middle-aged man's 
 renunciation of love and happiness in favor of a young and 
 penurious rival. He. recalled how many last acts in how 
 many sentimental comedies had owed their success to this 
 situation, which never failed with an audience. But then the 
 average audience was middle-aged. Thinking of the many 
 audiences on which from private boxes he had looked down, 
 John was sure that bald heads always predominated in the 
 auditorium ; and naturally those bald heads had been only too 
 ready to nod approval of a heroine who rejected the dashing 
 jeune premier to fling herself into the arms of the elderly 
 actor-manager. It was impossible to think of any infirmity 
 severe enough to thwart an actor-manager. Yet a play was 
 make-believe: in real life events would probably turn out 
 quite differently. It would be very depressing, if he offered 
 to make Doris and Hugh happy together l?y settling upon 
 them a handsome income, to find Doris jumping at the pros- 
 pect. Perhaps it would be more prudent not to suggest any 
 possibility of a marriage between them. It might even be 
 more prudent not to mention the subject of marriage at all. 
 
Poor Relations 325 
 
 John lodced at his secretary with what surely must have 
 been a very eloquent glance indeed, because she dropped her 
 pencil, blushed, and took his hand. 
 
 "How much simpler life is than art," John murmured. 
 He would never have dared to allow one of his heroes in a 
 moment of supreme emotion like this to crane his neck across 
 a wide table in order to kiss the heroine. Any audience would 
 have laughed at such an awkward gesture; yet, though he 
 only managed to reach her lips with half an inch to spare, 
 the kiss was not at all funny somehow. No, it ranked with 
 Paolo's or Anthony's or any other famous lover's kiss. 
 
 "And now of course I can't be your secretary any longer," 
 she sighed. 
 
 "Why? Do you disapprove of wives' helping their hus- 
 bands?" 
 
 "I don't think you really want to get married, do you ?" 
 
 "My dear, I'm absolutely dying to get married." 
 
 "Truly?" 
 
 "Doris, \ikAc at me." 
 
 And surely she looked at him with more admiration than 
 he had £ver looked at himself in a glEiss. 
 
 "What a time I shall have with mother," she gasped with 
 the gurgiiog triumphant laugh of a child who has unex- 
 pectedly found the way to open the store-cupbogrd. 
 
 "Oh, no, you won't," John prophesied, confidently. "I'm 
 not going to have such an excellent last scene spoilt by un- 
 necessary talk. We'll gef married first and tell everybody 
 afterwards. I've lately discovered what an amazing capacity 
 ordinary human nature has for invention. It really fri^tens 
 me for the future of novelists, who I cannot believe will be 
 wanted much longer. Oh no, Doris, I'm not going to run 
 the risk «>f hearing any preliminary gossip about our marriage. 
 Neither your mother nor my relations nor the general public 
 are going tp have any share in it before or after. In fact 
 to be brief I propose to elope. Notwithstanding my romantic 
 plays I have spent a private life of utter dullness. This is my 
 last opportunity to do anything unusual. Please, my dearest 
 
326 Poor Relations 
 
 girl, let me experience the joys of an actual elopement before 
 I relapse into eternal humdrummery." 
 
 "A horrid description of marriage!" she protested. 
 
 "Comparative humdrummery, I should have said, com- 
 parative, that is to say, with the excesses attributed to me 
 by rumor. I've often wanted to write a play about Tiberius, 
 and I feel well equipped to do so now. But I'm serious about 
 the elopment. I really do want to avoid my relations' 
 tongues." 
 
 "I believe you're afraid of them," 
 
 "I am. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm in terror of 
 them," he said. 
 
 "But where are we going to elope to?" 
 
 John picked up the Times. 
 
 "If only the Murmania," he began. "And by Jove, she 
 will too," he cried. "Yes, she's due to sail from Liverpool 
 on April 1st." 
 
 "But that's your birthday," she objected. 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "And I've already sent out those invitations." 
 
 "Exactly. For some years my relations have made an 
 April fool of me by dining at my expense on that day. I 
 have two comer-cupboards overflowing with their gifts — the 
 most remarkable exhibition of cheapness and ingenuity ever 
 known. This year I am going to make April fools of them." 
 
 "By marrying me?" she laughed. 
 
 "Well, of course it's no use pretending that they'll be 
 delighted by that joke, though I intend to play another still 
 more elaborately unpleasant. At the back of all their minds 
 exists one anxiety — the dispositions of my last will and 
 testament. Very well. I am going to cure that worry for- 
 ever by leaving them Ambles. I can't imagine anything more 
 irritating than to be left a house in common with a num- 
 ber of people whom you hate. Oh, it's an exquisite revenge. 
 Darling secretary, take down for dictation ■& your last task 
 the following: 
 
 " ' I, John Touchwood, playwright, of 36 Church Row, 
 
Poor Relations 327 
 
 Hampstead, N.W., and Ambles, Wrottesford, Hants, do 
 hereby will and bequeathe.' " 
 
 "I don't understand," she said. "Are you really making 
 a will? or are you only playing a joke?" 
 
 "Both." 
 
 "But is this really to take effect when you're dead? Oh 
 dear, I wish you wouldn't talk about death when I've just 
 said I'll marry you." 
 
 John paused thoughtfully: 
 
 "It does seem rather a challenge to fate," he agreed. "I 
 know what I'll do. I'll make over Ambles to them at once. 
 After all, I am dead to them, for I'll never have anything 
 more to do with any of them. Cross out what you took 
 down. I'll alter the form. Begin as for a letter: 
 
 » 
 
 " 'My dear relations, 
 
 " 'When you read this I shall be far away.' ... I think 
 that's the correct formula?" he asked. 
 
 "It sounds familiar from many books," she assured him. 
 
 " 'Far away on my honeymoon with Miss Doris Hamilton.' 
 Perhaps that sounds a little ambiguous. Cross out the 
 maiden name and substitute * with Mrs. John Touchwood, 
 my former secretary. Since you have attributed to us every 
 link except that of matrimony you will no doubt be glad of 
 this opportunity to contradict the outrageous tales you have 
 most of you' ... I say most of you," John explained, "be- 
 cause I don't really think the children started any scandal 
 . > . 'you have most of you been at such pains to invent and 
 circulate. Realizing that this announcement will come as a 
 sad blow, I am going to soften it as far as I can by making 
 you a present of my country house in Hampshire, and I am 
 instructing my solicitors to effect the conveyance in due 
 form. From now onwards therefore one fifth of Ambles will 
 belong to James and Beatrice, one fifth to George, Eleanor, 
 Bertram, and Viola, and one fifth to Hilda ajid Harold, one 
 fifth to Edith, Laurence; and Frida, and one fifth to Hugh.' 
 ... I feel that Hugh is entitled to a proportionately larger 
 22 
 
328 Poor Relations 
 
 share," he said with his eyes on the ceiling, "because I under- 
 stand that I'verobbed him of you." 
 
 "Who on earth told you that?" she demanded, putting 
 down her pencil. 
 
 "Never mind," said John, humming gayly his exultation. 
 "Continue please, Miss Hamilton ! 'I shall make no attempt 
 to say which fifth of the house shall belong to whom. Pos- 
 sibly Laurence and Hilda will argue that out between them, 
 and if any structural alterations are required no doubt Hugh 
 will charge himself with them. The twenty-acre field is 
 included in the gift, so that there will be plenty of ground 
 for any alterations or extensions deemed necessary by the 
 future owners.' " 
 
 "How ridiculous you are . . . John," she laughed. "It 
 all sounds so absurdly practical — as if you really meant it." 
 
 "My dear girl, I do mean it. Continue please. Miss 
 Hamilton ! 'I have long felt that the collection of humming- 
 birds made by Daniel Curtis in the Brazils should be suitably 
 housed, and I propose that a portion of the stables should be 
 put in order for their reception together with what is left of 
 the collection of British dragon-flies made by James. My 
 solicitors will supply a sum of £50 for this purpose and 
 Harold can act as curator of what will be known as the 
 Touchwood Museum. With regard to Harold's future, the 
 family knows that I have invested £20cx> in the mahogany 
 plantations of Mr. Sydney Ricketts in British Honduras, and 
 if Hugh does not take up his post within three months I 
 shall ask Mr. Ricketts to accept Harold as a pupil in five 
 years' time. He had better begin to study Hondurasian or 
 whatever the language is called at once. Until Harold is 
 called upon to make his decision I shall instruct Mr. Ricketts 
 to put the interest with the capital. While on the subject 
 of nephews and nieces, I may as well say that the family 
 pictures and family silver will be sent back to Ambles to be 
 held in trust fo#- Bertram upon his coming of age. Further- 
 more, I am prepared to pay for the education of Bertram, 
 
Poor Relations 329 
 
 Harold, Frida, and Viola at good boarding-schools. Viola 
 can practice her dancing in the holidays, Bertram's future 
 I will provide for when the time comes. I do not wish 
 George to have any excuse for remaining at Halma House — 
 and I have no doubt that a private sitting-room will be 
 awarded to him at Ambles. In the event of undue conges- 
 tion his knitting would not disturb Laurence's poetic com- 
 position, and his system of backing second favorites in imagi- 
 nation can be carried on as easily at Ambles as in London. 
 If he still hankers for a sea voyage, the river with Harold and 
 himself in a Canadian canoe will give him all the nautical 
 adventure he requires. My solicitors ha;ve been instructed to 
 place a canoe at his disposal. To James who has so often 
 reproved me for my optimism I would say once more "Be- 
 ware of new critical weeklies" and remind him that a bird in 
 the hand is worth two in the bush. In other words, he has 
 got a thousand pounds out of me, and he woa't get another 
 penny. Eleanor has shown herself so well able to look after 
 herself that I am not going to insult her by offering to look 
 after her. Hilda with her fifth of the house and her small 
 private income will have nothing to do but fuss about the 
 proportionate expenses of the various members of the family 
 who choose to inhabit Ambles. I am aifording her an unique 
 opportunity for being disagreeable, of which I'm sure she 
 will take the fullest advantage. I may say that no financial 
 allowance will be made to those who prefer to live else- 
 where. As for Laurence, his theatrical future under the 
 patronage of Sir Percy Mortimer is no doubt secure. How- 
 ever, if he grows tired of playing butlers, I hope that his 
 muse will welcome him back to Ambles as affectionately as 
 his wife. 
 
 " 'I don't think I have anything more to say, my dear 
 relations, except that I hope the presents you are bringing 
 me for my birthday will come in useful as knick-knacks for 
 your delightful house. You can now circulate as many 
 stories about me as you like. You can even say that I have 
 
330 Poor Relations 
 
 founded a lunatic asylum at Ambles. I am so happy in 
 the prospect of my marriage that I cannot feel very hardly 
 towards you all, and so I wish you good luck. 
 
 " 'Your affectionate brother, brother-in-law, and unde, 
 
 " 'John Touchwood.' 
 I 
 
 "Type that out, please. Miss Hamilton, while I drive 
 down to Doctors Commons to see about the license and book 
 our passage in the Murmania." 
 
 John had never tasted any success so sweet as the success 
 of these two days before his forty-third birthday ; and he was 
 glad to find that Doris having once made up her mind about 
 getting married showed no signs of imperilling the adventure 
 by confiding her intention to her mother. 
 
 "Dear John," she said, "I bolted to America with Ida 
 Merritt last year without a word to Mother until I sent 
 her a wireless from on board. Surely I may elope with you 
 . . . and explain afterwards." 
 
 "You don't think it will kill her," suggested John a 
 little anxiously. "People are apparently quite ready to 
 accuse one of breaking a maternal heart as lightly as they 
 would accuse one of breaking an appointment." 
 
 "Dear John, when we're married she'll be delighted." 
 
 "Not too delighted, eh, darling? I mean not so de- 
 lighted that she'll want to come and gloat over us all day. 
 You see, when the honeymoon's over, I shall have to get to 
 work again on that last act, and your mother does talk a 
 good deal. I know it's very intelligent talk, but it would 
 be rather an interruption." 
 
 The only person they took into their confidence about the 
 wedding, except the clergyman, the verger, and a crossing- 
 sweeper brought in to witness the signing of the register was 
 Mrs. Worfolk. 
 
 "Well, that's highly satisfactory! You couldn't have 
 chosen a nicer young lady. Well, I mean to say, I've known 
 her so long and all. And you expect to be back in June? 
 Oh well, I shall have everything nice and tidy you may be 
 
PoorRelations 331 
 
 sure. And this letter you want handed to Mr. James to be 
 read to the family on your birthday? And I'm to give them 
 their dinners the same as if you were here yourself? I see. 
 And how many bottles of champagne shall I open ? Oh, not 
 to stint them? No, I quite understand. Of course, they 
 would want to drink your healths. Certainly. And so they 
 ought! Well, I'm bound to say I wish Mr. Worfolk could 
 have been alive. It makes me quite aggravated to think he 
 shouldn't be here. Well, I mean to say, he being a family 
 carpenter had helped at so many weddings." 
 
 The scene on the Murmania did not differ much from the 
 scene on board the same ship six months ago. John had 
 jnsisted that Doris should wear her misty green suit of Har- 
 ris tweed ; but he himself had bought at the Burlington Ar- 
 cade a traveling cap that showed plainly the sobering effects 
 of matrimony. In the barber's saloon he invested in a pair 
 of rope-soled shoes; he wanted to be sure of being able to 
 support his wife even upon a heeling deck. Before dinner 
 they went forward to watch the stars come out in the twi- 
 light — stars that were scarcely as yet more luminous in the 
 green April sky than daisies in a meadow. They stood silent 
 listening to the splash of the dusky sea against the bows, 
 until the shore lamps began to wink astern. 
 
 "How savage the night looks coming after us," said John. 
 "It's jolly to think that in the middle of all that blackness 
 James is reading my birthday welcome to the family." 
 
 "Poor dears!" 
 
 ."Oh, they deserve all they've got," he said, fiercely. "And 
 to think that only six months ago I was fool enough to read 
 their letters of congratulation quite seriously in this very 
 ship. It was you with your remark about poor relations that 
 put your foot through my picture." 
 
 "You're very much married already, aren't you, John ?" 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "Yes, for you're already blaming me for everything." 
 
 "I suppose this is what James would call one of my con- 
 founded sentimental endings," John murmured. 
 
332 Poor Relations 
 
 "Whatever he called it, he couldn't invent a better ending 
 himself," she murmured back. "You know, critics are very 
 like disappointed old maids." 
 
 The great ship trembled faintly in the deeper motion, 
 and John holding Doris to him felt that she too trembled 
 faintly in unison. They stood like this in renewed silence 
 until the stars shone clearly, and the shore lamps were turn- 
 ing to a gold blur. John may be excused for thinking that 
 the bugle for dinner sounded like a flourish from Lohengrin. 
 He had reason to feel romantic now. 
 
 THE END