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Cornell University Library 
 PR6015.U61M21894 
 
 The maiden's progress; a "°«e' j" Jji^?" 
 
 3 1924 012 974 287 
 
\B Cornell University 
 B Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924012974287 
 
THE MAIDEN'S PROGHESS 
 
 H IRovel in Dialogue 
 
 BY 
 
 VIOLET HUNT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1894 
 
I BEG to thank the editors of The Sketch, Black and White, and the ' 
 Fall Mali Gazette, for permission to reprint several of the chapters of 
 this novel which have previously appeared in their papers. 
 
 V. H. 
 
 Copyright, 1894, by Harper & Brothers. 
 All righte reaerved. 
 
THE MAIDEN'S PEOGRESS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A girl's bedroom in a house in Queen's Gate. Maey Eliza- 
 beth Maskbltnb, afterward known as Modbkna, eighteen, 
 lying on the bed in a white peignoir. Enter on tiptoe her sis- 
 ters Vbkona and Peggt, aged seventeen and fifteen respec- 
 tively. 
 
 MoDEENA [sleepily, raising her head] : What is 
 it ? Is my dress come ? What time is it ? 
 
 Peggy : Sh-h ! There, you were asleep, though 
 you said nothing should induce you ! It's five 
 o'clock, and I've asked Minching, and there's not a 
 sign of it ! 
 
 MoDEENA [with tragic emphasis'] : I simply can't 
 go if it does not come. 
 
 Peggy : Oli, I (^re say it's all right. Mrs. Young 
 never fails. Besides, you could wear your white, or 
 your pink. 
 
 MoDEEN^A [oontempticouslg] : The same as you've 
 both got one of ! Don't you see that this is a 
 " come out " dress ? It's quite different. 
 
 Peggy : I know — got a train, and a waist, and 
 " decollted " ! [Drawing her breath between her 
 1 
 
teeth] : Oh, dear ! I know you won't be our " pal " 
 any more. [Zfisoonsolately.] 
 
 MoDEENA [jSeizing afoot of each as they lie on her 
 bed] : Oh, yes, I shall, girls; I shall, really ! Isha'n't 
 go away from you a bit. You know it will be ever 
 so much nicer for you both when you come out. I 
 shall be able to advise you, and tell you things. 
 
 Peggy : Good gracious, what a plague you will 
 be ! I sincerely hope you will be married off before 
 -Tcome on, or I shall have no peace. 
 
 Vekona [thoughtfully] : But, I say, doesn't it 
 seem absurd that coming out should make such a dif- 
 ference ! Here are you, you are only a year older 
 than me, and I am taller — but \liastily] I don't want 
 to fight ! — just a girl like anybody else, and to- 
 morrow To-morrow j'ou will be "grown up"; 
 
 you'll sit in the drawing-room and leave off lessons — 
 you're in the middle of the sUcle de Louis " Cart- 
 horse " now, I envy you getting out of that — you'll 
 forget how to turn somersaults; you'll neglect your 
 dormice, and leave your birds to P^ggy and me ; and 
 have secrets with mother, and just be a horrid grown- 
 up woman like the people that come on mother's 
 reception days. Hateful ! 
 
 Peggy [sententiously] : I read in a book the other 
 day that a woman was an infernal machine. 
 
 Both the Othees : What do you mean ? Where ? 
 
 Peggy : Study, second shelf from top, near the 
 
door. Such a funny book, all about Woman with a 
 capital W ! 
 
 MoDEENA : It was Carlyle, yon idiot ! 
 
 Peggy : Not at all. It wasn't history. Shall I see 
 if I can remember any of it ? " These delicate crea- 
 tures, as dangerous as a smiling sea, as wavering as 
 the winds, as subtle as fire. . . In their smiles lurk 
 unknown potentialities of destruction and death. . . 
 Tlieir frown may wreck empires. . ." I forget the 
 rest. 
 
 MoDEENA [pensively] : Is one all that, I wonder ? 
 
 Peggy : You ! You're not a woman ! You look 
 about ten ! 
 
 MoDEENA \^piteously\ : Ob, girls, do I really look 
 so awfully young ? It's too bad. Putting me to bed 
 like this is the worst thing possible. If I were tired 
 I should look much older. 
 
 Peggy : Well, you are not resting much. Lie 
 still, old girl, and don't wriggle so. 
 
 MoDEENA : You are sitting on my foot. Do you 
 know, I don't think men mind our looking young, 
 much — that is, if they are rather old themselves. 
 
 Peggy : And if they are very young, they snub us. 
 Look at Billy Danvers, he never will talk to anybodj'- 
 but Mrs. Mortimer. I don't suppose he will-give you 
 more than a couple of dances to-night at Aunt Rid- 
 dell's, Moderna. 
 
 Veeona : Who cares for Billy ? There will be 
 
new people. Promise, dear, promise faithfully to 
 tell us all the compliments you get. Every one ! 
 
 MoDEENA : All I can remember. [Hastili/.] , If 
 there are any, I mean. 
 
 Peggy : I wonder who you'll dance with ? Per- 
 haps you'll meet your Fate ? 
 
 Vbeona \_pensively\ : The Unknown God ! Papa 
 says every young girl raises altars to the Unknown 
 God. I wonder 
 
 Peggy : If Moderna finds a god to-night, I shall 
 think it very silly of her. As if she wanted to get 
 engaged straight off ! She ought to have some fun 
 first. Besides, you know, Aunt Riddell's people are 
 all so dull and political ; I'm sure the " Unknown 
 God " won't be there. 
 
 Verona : Billy is going, and Mrs. Mortimer, and 
 Miv Darcy, and the Rensselaers, and Edward 
 
 Peggy : Ah, but he isn't going till late ; he told 
 me so ; he's going to finish the Index. Papa wants 
 it done in a hurry. 
 
 Modeena : You seem to be always in the study, 
 Peggy. I am sure you must bother Edward dread- 
 fully. 
 
 Peggy : Not at all ! It is a mutual aid society. 
 He helps me with ray French exercises, and I cut his 
 pencils for him. Besides, he's papa's secretary and 
 a sort of relation ; and it is his business to be useful 
 to me. Papa pays him ! 
 
MoDEENA : Silly ! he doesn't care for the pay, he's 
 rich ; he comes because he likes grubbing at Ancient 
 Britons with papa. I prefer modern ones. [Medi- 
 tatively.] I sha'n't bother with Edward much. I 
 can see him here every day. 
 
 Pbggt : I like Edward, I must say. 
 
 MoDBENA : All children do. 
 
 Enter MiNCHiiirG with a dress-box. She nearly 
 drops it. 
 
 Mes. Minching : Miss Modernia, your dress has 
 come. Miss Peggy and Miss Veronaj, what are you 
 doing in here ? Orders was that Miss Modernia was 
 not to be disturbed, and Miss Peggy, your boots on 
 the nice clean counterpane ! I'm sure I never knew 
 you was here. 
 
 Peggy : We didn't mean you to, Minching. Here, 
 let us see ! [TTiey take out a dress, trimmed with 
 lilies of the valley.] 
 
 Mes. Minchim-g ^critically] : Very young, and 
 very pretty ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Minching, you are sickening with your 
 " young." Let me see if it fits. [Assumes the dress 
 in feverish haste.] 
 
 Peggy [her head on one side] : Anything would 
 fit you. You're as straight as a board. [ Critically.] 
 Well, I don't mind it. 
 
Verona : Yes, I like those bows on the shoulder. 
 Mind you don't bite them off. 
 
 Peggy : What has she made youv waist ? 
 
 MoDEENA [with dignity] : What it is. 
 
 Peggy : Oh, nonsense, I know better than that ; 
 waists are made, not born. I shall soon begin mine. 
 At present I prefer to be comfortable. 
 
 MoDEENA : You haven't laced this properly, 
 Minching. Look what a gap there is ! 
 
 Mes. Minching : What's the good, miss ? You're 
 only trying it on. 
 
 MoDBENA : I forgot. {Impatiently.] Well, will 
 it do? 
 
 Peggy : Yes, I think, on the whole, you do the 
 family credit. Sarah Fullerton Monteith Young has 
 surpassed herself. She looks almost grown up, 
 doesn't she, Aur61ie? [To Mrs. Maskelynb's maid, 
 who enters.] What have you got there ? 
 
 AuEELiE : Mademoiselle, un bouquet ! [Holds tip 
 her hands.] Ciel ! que c'est jeune, que c'est simple ! 
 C'est I'innocence mSme ! 
 
 Peggy [with contempt] : Who's innocent ? What 
 are you doing, Moderna ? 
 
 MoDEENA [seizing a hairpin, blackening it in the 
 flame of the candle, and applying it to the corners of 
 her eyes] : Perhaps a few wrinkles would make me 
 look older. 
 
 Peggy : You will only look as if you had a dirty 
 
face. Don't be a fool, and tell us who the bouquet 
 is from. 
 
 MoDBENA {^examining the card} : Pooh ! Only 
 Edward ! 
 
 Peggy : Now, who else do you think it could be 
 from ? Edward is the only man you know — as yet. 
 
 MoDEENA [closing her eyes as the dress is taken off 
 carefully\ : As yet ! 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 It is three o'clock in the morning. There is a light burning in 
 MOdbkna's room. Slie enters, flinging off her cloak. She is 
 unlaced in silence hy Mrs. Minching. 
 
 MoDBENA : There, Minching, you can go. Good- 
 night ! I don't like that dress at all. It's far too 
 high in the neck and too short in the train — mother 
 chose it — and there is quite a new way of doing#the 
 hair. You must learn it. Good-night ! [JEJxit 
 Mrs. Minching.] Dear me, my fan's broken, the 
 one Aunt Eliza gave me. It's very handsome, but 
 it's not at all the fan for a girl. [ Undoes her hair.'^ 
 Poor old Minching ! She really doesn't do for a 
 fashionable maid, and mother keeps Aur^lie all to 
 herself. We ought to change. Oh, dear, I'm not a 
 bit tired. I could go to another ball straight off. 
 \^The door of the wardrobe opens and Veeona 
 comes out in her nightgown, while Peggy 
 creeps from under the bed. 
 
 Veeona: Well? 
 
 Peggy : Well ? 
 
 Both at Once : Was it nice? Who did you 
 dance with ? Are you engaged ? Did you get 
 many compliments ? 
 
 MoDKENA : Not to my face, child. 
 
 8 
 
Peggy : Oh, she's going to call us child, now ! 
 [ Wrapping herself in an opera cloak with pink 
 ostrich feathers, and squatting on the floor.] Now, 
 let us be comfortable. How sci-atchy these feathers 
 are ! What sort of ices had you ? 
 
 MoDEBNA : Do you really suppose I noticed ? 
 
 Yerona : You generally do more than notice. 
 Did Cecilia Riddell wear her little brass heart like 
 mine ? She promised me she would. 
 
 MoDBENA : What babies you both are ! 
 
 Peggy [resignedly] : Yes,'I knew she would go on 
 like this. Well, Miss Come-outer, tell us all about 
 yourself. Did you meet HIM ? 
 
 Verona : The Unknown God ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Pm so tired of that nonsense of 
 father's. I hate the classics ; they're so old-fashioned. 
 
 Peggy : Yes, father is tiresome. I don't under- 
 stand what he's talking about, half the time, but I 
 pretend to. It's better than crying, like Verona. 
 
 Veeona : I hate having quotations squirted at me. 
 I get enough of it at school. Father would try the 
 patience of a saint, let alone a schoolgirl. How did 
 they behave, Mod ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Moderate.ly well. Mother kept smil- 
 ing at me all across the ballroom, and father actually 
 asked me in a loud voice if I was enjoying myself. 
 
 Veeona : And weren't you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, yes — pretty well — but he needn't 
 
10 
 
 have asked me before everybody. I'll have to teach 
 him. 
 
 Peggy : Gracious ! She's going to teach father 
 now ! We shall see what we shall see. [ Wrapping 
 the cloah about her.] Well, I wish you would give 
 a civil answer to a civil question. Who did you 
 dance with ? Any of my friends ? 
 
 MoDERNA : Who are j^our friends ? I danced 
 with, let me see \coimting on her fingers] : Mr. 
 Deverel 
 
 PteGGT : I know him. Towzer bit his leg once, as 
 he was coming in here. He was a brick, he never 
 told. How often with him ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Twice. Mr. Darcy twice 
 
 Peggy : I know him too — through the banisters. 
 Go on, who else ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Mr. Danvers. 
 
 Peggy : Mr. Danvers ! Billy ! Oh, he doesn't 
 count. He's only just out, like yourself. Go on. 
 
 MoDEENA : Mr. Gontram Vere, he's a poet ; he's 
 going to dedicate one to me ! Then there was Mr. 
 Smudg'em, the R. A., he wants to paint me — as an 
 angel 
 
 Peggy : Did you say an angel ? 
 
 MoDBENA : He says I've got a Botticelli profile, 
 and Mr. Vere says I'm like a Romney 
 
 Peggy : You will be so conceited there will be no 
 bearing you. Verona and I will have to keep you 
 
11 
 
 down. Well, go on, who did you dance most with 
 \searchingly'\ ? 
 
 MoDERNA : Well, let me see — it must have been 
 Edward, I fancy. 
 
 Peggy : You said you weren't going to bother 
 about Edward ! 
 
 MoDBENA : I know, but — our steps go well 
 together — and 
 
 Veeona : And who did you go in to supper 
 •with. ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Edward. 
 
 Veeona : And who put you into the carriage ? 
 
 MoDEKNA : Edward. 
 
 Peggy. Why, it seems all Edward. 
 
 Modbena [angrily] : It wasn't my fault — he 
 seemed to be there somehow. 
 
 Verona : I like Edward. [ Yawns.] What a 
 funny blue shade on that curtain. I never saw it 
 before. 
 
 MoDBENA : That's the dawn, silly. 
 
 Peggy : How can they call it " rosy-fingered," 
 then ? It's most dreadfully cold and unbecoming. 
 It makes you both look quite green, especially 
 Moderna. 
 
 MoDEENA : Look here, I hate being stared at. 
 You had better go to bed, both of you. It's four 
 o'clock. 
 
 Peggy : Ah, now you're getting fractious. Little 
 
12 
 
 girls ought not to sit up so late. [Politely.] We 
 won't keep you. Good-niglit. 
 
 Veeona : I can go back to bed, but I am sure I 
 can't sleep any more now, the birds are beginning to 
 make such a racket. Good-night. 
 
 [ITiey retire on tiptoe. 
 
 modeena's diaet. 
 
 April 29. My first ball. It is 4 a. m. Minching 
 and Peggy and Verona have just left me. I must 
 try and recall the events of the evening. I had 
 a white dress trimmed with lilies of the valley — 
 rather pretty. Cecilia Eiddell had daisies. Aunt 
 Riddell had diamonds. What waste ! I danced 
 twenty-one times — twice with the son of the house. 
 I danced three times with a Mr. Donkin. I can't 
 remember whether it was twice or three times with 
 Mr. Deverel. I danced the lancers with Edward: 
 and I went in to supper once with Mr. Vere and 
 once with Edward. That is all I can remember. 
 I was decidedly nervous at first. I don't think 
 people thought me pretty — there were such lots of 
 awfully pretty girls there. They seemed to know 
 everybody so well, and they all looked older than I. 
 I look too dreadfully young. Cissy Riddell looked 
 a perfect infant in her rational Liberty frock, that's 
 one consolation. Mrs. Mortimer was kind. She 
 said, "Who did your hair, child? " and gave it three 
 
13 
 
 pats that quite altered it. She's only twenty-seven 
 and her husband's an M. P. She snubs Billy as I 
 snub Edward. Edward said 
 
 April 30. What did Edward say ? I must have 
 fallen asleep just there. I have just come back from 
 the theatre. We saw Calder Marston as Ingomar. 
 I never saw anything so splendid in my life. He is a 
 great actor. I can't forget his face, nor can Cecilia. 
 I like plays better than balls. I could go every 
 night for a year to see him. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Mrs. Maskblyne'b drawing-room. Modekna seated at the 
 tea-table with her cousin Cecilia Riddell. Mrs. Mas- 
 KBLTNB and Lady Riddell in another part of the room. 
 Callers — conversation — tea. 
 
 Cecilia [to Modeena, in a low voice] : Well, 
 dear, and how are you after last night ? 
 
 MoDBRNA : Oh, darling, you know how I feel ! 
 I think I like him best in this part. Wasn't it 
 divine? Wasn't it splendid? His eyes— wait— I 
 must take mother some more tea. [ Coming back.] 
 Cecilia, dear, did you notice — I am sure it was acci- 
 dental — how his foot slipped in the third act just as 
 he was going to kneel ? What a funny little laugh 
 he gave. Quite a drawing-room laugh, wasn't it ? 
 
 Cecilia : Of course I noticed. Oh, how sweet he 
 must be off the stage ! 
 
 Modeena : Did I tell you I met a girl who knows 
 him at home. Her mother's uncle is his god-father. 
 I have made great friends with her. She's perfectly 
 hideous. 
 
 Cecilia : And last night I met a man who could 
 imitate him, and I shut my eyes and fancied it was 
 Ingomar. I made mother ask him to dinner. 
 
 Modeena : Oh, ask me ! 
 
15 
 
 Cecilia : Of course, darling. Did you see that 
 notice of liim in The Blowfly ? I was angry. It 
 said — no, I woin^t repeat it. Someone who had a 
 personal spite against him, I should say. 
 
 MoDEENA : Jealousy, dear, of course. 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne : What has Moderna put in my 
 tea ? It's perfectly abominable ! 
 
 Ladx Riddbll \laughing\ : Sprinkled it with salt 
 instead of the mufBn, I should say. What can you 
 expect of a girl with the Calder-Marston fever ? 
 
 Mes. Maskblyne : Don't laugh, Anne, I feel very 
 anxious about it. I am obliged to go away for a 
 week, and I have asked her Aunt Eliza to come and 
 stay here and look after Moderna. I am so afraid 
 of her taking some mad unusual step. 
 
 Ladt Riddell \sm,iling\ : I don't fancy Eliza 
 would be able to prevent Moderna taking any step 
 she chose. You have spoiled the child so. But still 
 there is not the least occasion for anxiety. It's one 
 of the girlish diseases. Works itself out. Treat 
 with tolerance and occasional visits to the theatre, 
 and counter irritants in the shape of desirable "young 
 men, and disillusionment very soon sets in. I know 
 five patients at this very moment. 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne : I know it's very common. 
 But Moderna knows all his plays by heart, and 
 plagues the other children's lives out with making 
 
16 
 
 them give her her cues, at all times and seasons. 
 She's quite capable of refusing a good offer for his 
 sake. 
 
 Lady Riddell: J/yridiculous girl is just the same. 
 She wears one of his photographs as Caliban next 
 her heart. Spoils her figure, that's all I say. Never 
 interfere with girls. Laugh at them, that's my plan. 
 Cecilia is going to Girton. That will cure her. 
 
 Mes. Maskelyne : I believe my daughter has 
 forty-nine photographs of him in her room. 
 
 Lady Riddell : And the fiftieth under her pillow, 
 I expect. Treat for the housemaids ! Who is this 
 long-haired idiot coming in with his mouth open, and 
 his eyes shooting out of his head ? A sort of Cupid 
 gone to seed. Deplorable ! 
 
 Mes. Maskelyne : Sh-sh ! He'll hear. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Always say what I think. What 
 does he do ? 
 
 Mes. Maskelyne : Mr. Gontram Vere. I'm afraid 
 he writes poetry. Moderna met him at your house. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Somebody brought him, then. I 
 don't know him. Seems very intimate. 
 
 Mes. Maskelyne : Quite harmless, I assure you. 
 He often comes here, but she laughs at him. 
 
 [GoNTEAM Veee and Lord Coniston and two 
 ladies go up to Mrs. Maskelyne and shake 
 hands. Lord Coniston walks up to the tea- 
 table. 
 
17 
 
 MoDBENA [offering him tea\ : Two lumps? 
 [Aside.'] Why did you come ? 
 
 CoNiSTON [to Mbderna] : One, please. [Aside.] 
 I had to go on coming, so I didn't see the use of 
 leaving off. 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, very well, if you don't mind. 
 Would you let me introduce you to those two ladies 
 over there ? I want to throw a man to them. [In- 
 troduces him and resumes her conversation with her 
 cousin.] Cecilia, listen ! Flossie Rensselaer con- 
 fessed to me that she went to the stage-door once, 
 with a huge bouquet of roses to give him. And 
 then when he came out she turned frightened, and 
 daren't give them ; but she heard him say, " Home, 
 Wilks," to the coachman. His name's Wilks, you see. 
 
 Cecilia : I wish I was Wilks. I should like to be 
 his servant, his page, and never marry anyone. 
 
 MoDBENA : Of course not, dear, nor will I. I must 
 tell you something. A man asked me to marry him 
 last night. 
 
 Cecilia : Oh, Moderna, how ni I mean, how 
 
 dreadful ! Who ? and how did he ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Only Edward. You know his uncle 
 died a month ago, and he's Lord Coniston now, and 
 he's going abroad — and so he thought — that I — ^any- 
 how, he proposed. 
 
 Cecilia : Tell me the very words. 
 
 MoDBEKA : He said, " I want to ask you some- 
 s 
 
18 
 
 thing"; and I said, "What?" and he said, "The 
 usual thing"; and I said, "It can't be." 
 
 Cecilia : Dear, you should have pretended not to 
 understand. 
 
 MoDBKNA : But I did know, he was so 
 
 Cecilia [eagerly] : Pale ? Ghastly ? 
 
 Modbena: No, red; and then I sajiil, " Forgive me." 
 
 Cecilia : What for ? 
 
 MoDEKNA : For — for refusing him, I suppose ; and 
 then he said, "Someone else?" and I nodded. 
 
 Cecilia [horrified] : You didn't say who, I hope ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, no. "Why should I compromise 
 HIM ? Bother ! Here's Mr. Vere coming. We 
 will have to talk to him. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee [to M.o'D'E.ws A, pompously]: Miss 
 Maskelyne, I have brought you a little offering. 
 [Produces a long, thin, green volume. She takes it 
 and exam,ines it.] 
 
 Modbena: " To Moderna" inside. How nicely you 
 print ! And how funny of you it is to always call 
 me that ! 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Moderna, or Madam Nowadaj's. 
 It suits you. Haven't you noticed how everyone 
 has adopted the name that I christened you with at 
 your first ball? I'm sure your people call you 
 Moderna, now. 
 
 Modbena : They do. Everybody does. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee ; Because it fits you exactly. You 
 
19 
 
 are so intensely, essentially modern. You are of the 
 times, you will grow with the times, you will take the 
 impress of every passing wave of modern thought and 
 yet preserve your individuality. You will never stop 
 growing till you die, like me. You have evolution in 
 you, you know. So few women have. Oh, yes, I can 
 read you like a hook. Some day you will remember 
 this little conversation, and my prophecy. Shall I read 
 the little poem I have written to you, " To Moderna " ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, no, please, it would make me so 
 dreadfully nervous. I will read it to myself to-night. 
 
 GoNTRAM Vbrb: Ah, you must not take it too seri- 
 ously. A small volume of poems and a large stock of 
 cynicism are as necessary to the equipment of a man 
 of the world as a visiting card. He must be able to 
 dance, make epigrams at call, to write a sonnet 
 
 Cecilia : I hate sonnets. I always think they are 
 like bricks. 
 
 GoNTRAM Vbre [sternly disregarding her'] : Son- 
 nets thrown off, as it were, in the unconsidered 
 moments of tliis worldly life one leads — that one can- 
 not help leading — lines written between two calls on 
 two of the prettiest women in London, or while I am 
 tying my white tie to go and dine with another. You 
 must read it in the spirit in which it was written. 
 
 MoDEENA [aside] : I will read it while I am lacing 
 my boots. [^^om(?.] Thank you so much. Why is 
 it — excuse me — dojj-eared ? 
 
20 
 
 GoNTEAM Veke : Symbolical ! I tried to choose 
 a binding that should suggest the ineonclusiveness 
 of it all ; something crude, inchoate, ragged, like 
 the thoughts inside — the long, vague, far-reaching, 
 infinitely touching thoughts of a young man. 
 There is nothing final, nothing set, about these 
 verses of mine ; they are the early blossoms of a 
 poet's garden, pale, blemished petals, blown this way 
 and that by the eai'ly winds that sweep across and 
 ravage it — tokens, signs of the stormy April of life, 
 the "confusions of a wasted youth." You know 
 Swinburne's magnificent lines : 
 
 "Earth is not spoilt for a single shower. 
 But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn." 
 
 I have called the volume " Green Thoughts," you see. 
 It was written, most of it, on a reading tour in the 
 New Forest — a party of beautiful boys — I myself 
 
 Cecilia [severely] : I thought you said just now 
 you lived on Chelsea Embankment ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee. Ah — oh — you see the idea. Miss 
 Maskelyne ? 
 
 Cecilia \irrepressihly~\ : I've read " Mr. Verdant 
 Green at Oxford." Is it that sort of thing in poetry ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : My dear Miss Riddell ! Is it 
 possible you don't know Marvell's exquisite lines ? 
 
 " Annihilating all that's made 
 To a green thought in a green shade." 
 
SI 
 
 Think of it ! Green, translucent, quivering 
 leaves 
 
 MoDBRNA : Take a back seat, Cecilia. [To Con- 
 iston]. More tea ? 
 
 CoKisTON : No, thank you. I'm off. 
 
 MoDBENA : Where to ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Japan. 
 
 MoDEENA [sharply'] : What nonsense ! 
 
 GoNTEAM Vbeb [languidly] : Why not Birming- 
 ham ? It's just as dull. 
 
 CoNisToisr : Very likely — but not so far. 
 
 [Shakes hands all around and exits. 
 
 GoNTEAM Vbeb [shaking his head] : Ah, poor 
 fellow ! 
 
 Cecilia [laughing] : What do you mean ! 
 
 GoNTEAM Vbeb : Well, that nervous terseness of 
 expression, that insane desire for complete social 
 occultation, in a person so rightly balanced as 
 Coniston — I admire his rationalism, though noth- 
 ing would induce me to emulate it — can point 
 only to one common form of aberration. He is in 
 love ! 
 
 Cecilia [severely] : Well, Mr. Vere, don't j'ou 
 believe in love ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Vbeb : Hardly. I am a poet. 
 
 Cecilia [stoutly] : I believe in it ; don't you, Mo- 
 derna ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Vbeb : Really, do you know. Miss 
 
22 
 
 Riddell, I think your excellent mother has not 
 brought you up properly. 
 
 Cecilia {giggling^ : Oh, do go on. You are so 
 funny. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : This is your first season, I be- 
 lieve. You ought still to be very cynical. Years 
 hence you will grow your first illusion. For a brief 
 period it will suflSce you ; you will be foolishly, 
 idiotically happy, then 
 
 Cecilia : What ?' 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee [sadly] : Illusions, like wisdom 
 teeth, are last to come and first to go. 
 
 Cecilia: I think you are horribly cynical, Mr. Vere. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee [(?eZ«grA«ec?] : Ami? But you, dear 
 Miss Riddell, are really a most curious anachronism. 
 You have begun at the wrong end of life. [His head 
 on one side.] So young, and yet so innocent ! 
 
 Cecilia : I don't care. I know there is such a 
 thing as true love nowadays ; isn't there, Moderna ? 
 [Exchanging glances.] The love that asks nothing, 
 expects nothing, is content with merely the thought 
 of [Blushes ; so does Modeena.] 
 
 MoDEENA : You see, I am not so up-to-date as you 
 think, Mr. Vere. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : You are so essentially up-to- 
 date that you have learned the value of pose — like 
 a true woman. The " Cynthia of the minute " knows 
 what rainbow cloud suits her best. 
 
23 
 
 Cecilia. : Always affected, always unnatural, are 
 we ? You have a low opinion of us, Mr. Vere. 
 
 GoNTKAM Veee [sighing] : Yes, I wish I were 
 not so cynical about ■women. 
 
 MoDERNA : One pose is as good as another. The 
 " modish Cupid of the hour " — how does it go on ? 
 This is in exchange for your Cynthia. 
 
 GoNTBAM Veke [a«ic?e] : Sharp little girl ! 
 [Aloud.] May I hope for j^our opinion on my poor 
 verses, dear Madam Nowadays ? [Jiising.] 
 
 MoDBENA : Thank you so much for giving me the 
 book, Mr. Vere. "TJngrown Corn" — no, "Confu- 
 sions " — what is it ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : I shall be proud if you will 
 rename it. Good-by ! [Mcit. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I think I shall write wiy book, Cecilia. 
 I've wasted my youth, too. What shall I call it? 
 " The Disused Peashooter," or "Paper Pellets of the 
 Past?" 
 
 Cecilia : If he were to guess we wei-e laughing at 
 him ! 
 
 Modeena : He would never guess, unless we 
 were to tell him. He must never know. It would 
 kill him. I am glad I remembered that quotation. 
 I wasn't going to be outdone. I say, do take your 
 mother away. "We are going to "The Tragedy of 
 Laughter ".to-night — so are you, aren't you? — and I 
 like to be very, very early for Calder-Marston. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 It is tlie morning of the Eton and narrow match. William 
 Hbnbt Gbkvaisb Maskeltne, sixteen — middle division at 
 Eton — in the boats — is woi'king an amateiir form of heliograph 
 with his cousin Riddell, minor, in the house opposite. He 
 has chosen his aunt's bedroom as most convenient for the pur- 
 pose. Enter his sister hastily, with a tear in each eye. 
 
 MoDEENA. : William ! 
 
 William [wiYA his mouth full of string\ : Oh, 
 blow, wbat do you want ? 
 
 MoDBENA [breathlessly^ : Look here, William. Is 
 it not too mean and unfair ? The Rensselaers 
 promised to call for me to-day to take me to the 
 match, and now, would j'ou believe it, Aunt Eliza 
 says I'm not to go! Tiresome, interfering old thing ! 
 If I had known it was going to be like this, I'd not 
 have let mother go away and leave her to manage me ! 
 
 William : Not to go ! Thunder ! The event of 
 the year ! I'll speak to 'em. Le' go a minute, Tom, 
 will you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Stop, William, dear, it's not that. I 
 may go with you, but I wanted to go on the Rens- 
 selaers' drag. 
 
 William \i-eturnin-g to the windoio] : What can it 
 raattei", as long as you see the match ? 
 
25 
 
 MoDEENA : You forget I'm not a schoolboy. I 
 don't care for the match, but I do cave who I go 
 with. It's so dull to go with you; you can talk of 
 nothing but the fielding, and you yelp so. I like to 
 go on a drag, and have luncli, and see people. Oh, 
 dear, why did mother need to ask a regular old moire 
 antique aunt like Aunt Eliza here, to spoil every- 
 tliing, and interfere, and manage us all. It's all very 
 well for you and father, you're men — I mean boys — 
 and do as you like, but I have got to obey Aunt 
 Eliza as if she was my mother, that's what mother 
 said when she left. 
 
 William : Girls want looking after. 
 
 Moderna: I'm far naughtier now that she is here; 
 you don't know the things I've done, just because 
 she forbids me. And she will call me Mary, and I am 
 not used to it, and she oi'ders everything for dinner 
 I hate, and rice pudding for my looks, and she scolds 
 the housemaids, and riles the cook, and she has 
 turned the canaries out of the morning-room, and sent 
 
 my blue dress to be cleaned without asking me 
 
 William, you're not listening ! 
 
 William : I'm so busy. 
 
 MoDEENA : But, William, do listen ; you don't 
 seem to see how I'm put upon. 
 
 William : I don't see what you have got to com- 
 plain of. The Rensselaers are horrid. They came 
 down to Eton last half to see Rensselaer — awful little 
 
26 
 
 smug, none of the fellows will know liim— and I saw 
 thera. 
 
 MoDEENA : Aunt Eliza doesn't know about that. 
 She only saw Flossie and her mother in the Park- the 
 other day, and she thought "they didn't look respecta- 
 ble." Just because Flossie is pretty and well dressed ! 
 
 William : Looks just like a chocolate box ! I say, 
 you are interrupting me so ! [liaising his voice.] 
 All right, old fellow ! [To Modeena.J There's 
 Tom hallooing. I can't attend to you any more. 
 [MoDERNA twitches the string out of his mouth.] Let 
 go — oh — ah — um. What a plagne you are ! Do go 
 away ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I hate you, William! [Goes slowly 
 toward the door.] He is a selfish pig. I wish Peggy 
 and Verona were home from school ! They would 
 think of something. [Stops in front of the pier- 
 glass.] I like this dress, it's the prettiest Pve had. 
 It fits me. It's far too good to walk round and 
 round the enclosure with William and Tom Riddell — 
 that's what it would be. Oh, it's too mean ! [Shakes 
 her fist in the direction of her aunfs pin- cushion.] I 
 hope, yes, I hope she will have toothache to-night. 
 She wants punishing. [ Takes a small bottle out of the 
 dressing-case.] I'll hide the laudanum. No, wait — 
 [she empties the contents out of the window, puts it 
 back, and takes out another bottle] — I've got it, I'll 
 make her sit up. [She drinks. She daubs her face 
 
27 
 
 with Bloom of Mnon.'] There ! I think I look pretty- 
 ghastly ! Oh, I wish Cecilia were here, she would enjoy 
 
 it so ! 
 
 Enter Aunt Eliza. 
 
 Atjnt Eliza : Oh, Mary ! You here ! You are 
 dressed to go, I see. So that's your costume, is it ? 
 A little too showy, isn't it ? In my days, girls 
 
 Modbena: Were dowdy. But it doesn't matter. 
 [^Gloomily.] I am going to take it off — if I have 
 strength to. I couldn't go to the match now, even if 
 I wanted. \^Stares fixedly at the laudanum bottleJ] 
 You'll miss it to-night, when you have toothache. 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Miss what ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Your laudanum. 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Mercy, child ! 
 
 MoDEENA : You drove me to it. I've swallowed 
 it. May you be forgiven ! Break it to them gently. 
 [^Sinks on to the sofa.^ 
 
 Aunt Eliza [wildly] : Gervaise ! William ! 
 Here ! Moderna says [ William turns round] that 
 she has taken poison. 
 
 William \coming away from, the window languid- 
 ly] : She's only " ragging " ! Look here. Mod, how 
 dai'e you frighten Aunt Eliza so ? It's not nice of you. 
 
 MoDEENA \sulkily] : It's not nice of her. She's 
 the unkindest aunt I ever heard of, and I hope we 
 shall meet in heaven, but I don't believe we shall. 
 Oh, my poor head ! 
 
28 
 
 Aunt Eliza: Here's the bottle, "William; it's 
 empty. There was half left from last night. What 
 am I to do, William ? Your fatlier's out. Send— ;■ 
 send for Pooley. [JF'lies to the bell.] 
 
 William [saffely examining the bottle] : Excuse 
 me, aunt. Will you leave this matter to me ? 
 
 Aunt Eliza: But you are only a lad 
 
 William : Excuse me, aunt — an Eton fellow ! 
 Kindly leave it all to me. I know chemistry. She's 
 not had enough to hurt her. Freeman Mudford at 
 m' tutor's did the very same thing last half, and 
 •we just lammed it into him with knotted towels 
 all niglit, and kept him awake, I promise you. 
 ^Moderna starts.] Keep her awake, that's all. 
 Get some strong coffee made — um — um — [Moderna 
 listens anxiously] — send for Pooley if you like, but 
 I assure you that there is no need. I know how to 
 manage these sort of cases. 
 
 MoDEENA [sings in a pathetic Ophelia-like man- 
 ner] : 
 
 " Sleep, little baby, do-oo-n't you cry 1 
 You'll be an angel by and by." 
 
 Aunt Eliza {awestruck] : What is she singing, 
 William ? 
 
 William : Some sentimental rot. OIi, dry up, 
 Moderna ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I always thought you went in for good 
 manners at Eton. [Rises and comes forward.] 
 
29 
 
 Please, Aunt Eliza, give mother my love when she 
 comes back. I have not been a very dutiful daughter 
 to her 
 
 William : I should think not. 
 
 MoDEENA : Shut up, you ! Please, aunt, ask her 
 to try to think kindly of me when I am gone, and 
 not weep for me. Pve made my will — it's in the 
 left-hand pigeon-hole of my desk. I did leave all 
 my jewelry to Calder-Marston, but now I want 
 Peggy and Verona to have it equally — quite equally, 
 or they will fight. I know them. 
 
 William [hums'] : 
 
 " Give my chewing gum to sister, 
 I shall never want it more." 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Be quiet, bad boy ! Are you sui-e 
 you are doing right? I can't have my brother's 
 child die on my hands. And slie does look dread- 
 fully excited, poor thing — her eyes are quite bright. 
 
 William [meaningly] : H'm ! Mudford's were all 
 glazey and fishy. 
 
 MoDEENA [aside, uneasily] : I wish I had had time 
 to look up the- symptoms. [Alotcd.] Aunt, my 
 features won't be distorted, I fancy. I shall pass 
 away quite quietly. Put snowdrops on my grave 
 — ah — for I die young. [Sinks bade] 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Oh, William, she's going off ! Save 
 her! 
 
30 
 
 William ; Here, take a corner of this towel and 
 tie a knot in it, and flick 
 
 MoDEKNA ; No, no, I won't be flicked ; it would 
 ruin my frock. Oh, do let me die quietly ! Quietly, 
 I say. Don't joggle me so. 
 
 William : Here, aunt, take one arm and I'll take 
 the other. It will ruin your dress, as you say, 
 Moderna ; but we can't let you die. [They hale her 
 up and doton.] 
 
 MoDEENA : You hurt me, William. Can't you 
 leave me alone"? Nothing you can do will save me. 
 What will they all say — what will Cecilia say [chokes 
 with laughter] when they hear ? 
 
 Aunt Eliza : This is dreadful ! These convulsive 
 
 sobs [ Wringing her hands.] Oh, if I had only 
 
 known what would happen, I should have let her go 
 a thousand times ovei". I should not have inter- 
 fered. Your mother never told me of Mary's head- 
 strong character — she should have warned me of it 
 before I took charge of her. William, she looks 
 worse and worse ! That deadly pallor ! [Modbena 
 again chokes with laughter. Aunt Eliza threatens 
 hysterics.] 
 
 William : I say, how's a fellow to manage both 
 of you ? Aunt, do go away and fetch the cook. I'm 
 tired, and my arms are nearly tugged ofp. There, do 
 go, or you'll faint. [Exit Aunt Eliza. 
 
 MoDBENA [aloud] : William, leave go of my arm. 
 
31 
 
 e.] Shall I tell him? No, it's such fun. 
 lAloud.] Look here, I'm not going to be dictated to 
 by a mere boy. You don't understand; I want to be 
 left alone, to make my peace with Heaven and say 
 my prayers, and think about good things. 
 
 William : Ah, but you might fall asleep, thinking 
 of them, as you do in chapel when you come down. 
 I've seen you. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, dear, oh, dear, I must have walked 
 miles ! 
 
 William : Can't say. Haven't got a pedometer. 
 Will j'ou have the towels, then ? 
 
 MoDEENA : No, I won't. I'm going to sit down. 
 I'm dead tired. 
 
 William : So am I, as tired as if I'd had a foot- 
 ball scrimmage. It's no joke keeping girls alive, I 
 can tell you. 
 
 MoDBENA [sittinff down and splitting with laugh- 
 ter] : Oh, William, you are the most absurd boy, and 
 you do think yourself so very clever, don't you ? 
 Wouldn't the fellows just laugh at you if they knew 
 how you had been taken in by a girl ! 
 
 William : What ! didn't you take laudanum ? 
 
 MoDEENA : No ; eau de Cologne. 
 
 William : You wicked girl ! 
 
 MoDEENA : You idiot ! 
 
 William : You ought to be slapped. 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't you dare ! 
 
33 
 
 William : Do you think I'd condescend to touch 
 a woman ? But somebody ought to. And now I'll 
 tell you something. You didn't do it at all well — 
 not like Freeman Mudford. Any doctor would have 
 seen in a moment that you were ragging. I didn't 
 think it was the real thing, but, of course, it is as well 
 to be on the safe' side. And spoiled my morning 
 with Tom ! What plagues girls are ! 
 
 Re-enter Aunt Eliza. 
 
 Aunt Eliza : William, what are you thinking of ? 
 You have let lier sit down ! 
 
 William : I'm about sick of this. Speak to her, 
 ma'am. 
 
 Modeena \lyrusquely'\ : So am I. William, what 
 o'clock is it ? 
 
 William : Twelve o'clock. Hallo ! You seem 
 
 pretty fit. 
 
 A Servant enters. 
 
 Servant : Mrs. and Miss Rensselaer called for 
 Miss Maskelyne. 
 
 MoDBRNA : There ! I am going. You said I 
 might just now when I was dying. And I am ready 
 dressed. Hooray ! Explain, William, you are good 
 at it. I'm off. Good-by, Aunt Eliza. You can't 
 say I'm disobeying you. {^Kisses the bewildered 
 Aunt Eliza effusively and goes off. William 
 explains cursorily and unsatisfactorily.] 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 At Mrs. Rbnsselabk's bal masque. Modeena a«(2 a Perfect 
 Stbangbb are sitting in the red baize balcony. Down below 
 is the street, and rows of carriages and blinking, clinking 
 hansoms. 
 
 The Perfect Steangee : Yes ? Do go on. It 
 interests me intensely, and there is really nothing 
 odd in your telling a perfect stranger all this. 
 
 Modeena: Is there not? Well — so then he 
 
 said There he is, over there ! As Masaniello ! 
 
 You are not looking ! 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : I needn't look. I know 
 the type. Please go on. 
 
 Modbrna: Well, then he said — you know, I have 
 only met him three or four times — I don't believe he 
 even knows my Christian name ! — " Then you really 
 and truly meant nothing ? " and I said, " Nothing, 
 believe me ! I am very sorry this has happened ! " 
 and he said quite bitterly, " Women always say 
 that ! " and I said, rather bitterly too, of course, 
 " Oh, do they ? Then you know from experience ? " 
 So he said, " That cheap cynicism is quite unworthy 
 of you ! but I will tell you the truth ; you are 
 literally the first woman I have ever spoken of love 
 to." 
 
 3 33 
 
34 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : And did he go down in 
 your estimation ? 
 
 MoDBESTA [blushing] : Yes — rather — but that's 
 not the point ! " You are the first woman, etc., and 
 I don't think there will ever be another." 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : He doesn't think ! 
 Cautious young Oxford ! 
 
 MoDBENA : So I said, " Oh, don't say that, Mr. 
 Donkin, there are lots of nicer girls in the world." 
 
 The Peefbct Steangek : I have heard that 
 phrase before. 
 
 MoDEKNA : Yes, I know ; but somehow in those sort 
 of situations one uses the stock phrases — at least I do. 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : Unless 
 
 MoDEENA : You interrupt ! Then he got up, and 
 he looked years older (which was an advantage), and 
 stared hard at me, and he said, " Those eyes — they 
 
 lied — they said " I was cross, and I said quickly, 
 
 " Well, what did they say ? I am not going to be 
 made responsible for them. They didn't say I cared 
 for you, I am sure ! You are not going to make out 
 that I have done you any harm in the two days I 
 have known you ? " Then he got very angry, and 
 he said, "You have done what you never can undo. 
 You have taken the love of a man, and all the time 
 you did not want it. My first love — I gave it you 
 freely, and I never can give it again ! It has gone 
 forever from me — my beautiful, boy's love." Wasn't 
 
35 
 
 that maddening ? I said dii-ectly I hadn't asked him 
 for his beautiful, boy's love, and that I was sure there 
 was some of it left, and that he was to take me back 
 to my mother, for I wanted to go home at once. 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : And you were really 
 going to pay him that compliment ? 
 
 MoDEENA : It seemed the proper thing to do. It 
 would have been so heartless to go on dancing 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : On a broken heart ! 
 Well, you know the ethics of these matters. But 
 you didn't go ! You compromised matters by 
 sitting out with me, and telling me all about it? 
 
 MoDEniaxlpiteousli/l : Oh, it is dreadful ! I don't 
 know you, and yet — you make me tell you things. 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : Women sometimes do. 
 [Smilinff.] 
 
 MoDEENA : Is it that you mesmerize them ? 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : Don't talk such dread- 
 ful nonsense, please. 
 
 MoDEENA : Well, the " empire of a strong mind 
 over a weak one " ? 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : Are you weak ? You 
 do not know if I am strong. I am a perfect stranger 
 to you. But shall I tell you why you have spoken 
 to me so frankly ? 
 
 Modeena: Yes, tell me, for I haven't the slightest 
 idea. 
 
 The Perfect Steangee : In the first place, be- 
 
cause to-night you are not quite yourself — your 
 society self, I mean. You are, without knowing it, 
 a little infected by the artificial, potential romance of 
 the hal masquk ; you breathe for a time the atmos- 
 phere of a different world, in which all things are 
 possible — till the Cinderella hour of twelve o'clock ! 
 You are excited by light and noise and music, you 
 hardly know what you are saying, you are sincere in 
 spite of yourself. If you were not a nice woman, 
 you would be hateful, do you know ? In the second 
 place, you y«e? you can trust me — you can have no 
 means of knowing — and I have told you that in half 
 an hour I bid you good-by, and hail one of those 
 jingling hansoms out there, and catch the 11.40 to 
 Tilbury, for the Vrynia, which sails by morning 
 light. So I shall have no more communication with 
 your world. I don't know your name and you don't 
 know mine — I could tell it you if you liked. 
 
 MoDEBNA : Don't. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : I knew you would say 
 that. You are wise. Now, can you not talk to me 
 for half an hour as to one condemned to death ? 
 You will be tolerablj'^ near the truth. Is it not good 
 to talk to a man openly, for once, without prejudice ; 
 to enjoy. the friendship of an hour — a friendship with- 
 out past or future ? I am a man, older than you, 
 somewhat versed in the ways of men — and of women ! 
 [Laughing.^ I ought to be a sort of father-confessor 
 
37 
 
 to you, with no power of absolution, it is true, but 
 far more secret than the grave — or a priest ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I have a brother. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : Brothers ! A brother is 
 half a father. A husband is — useless too. Let me tell 
 you, a man who is neither brother, husband, nor lover ; 
 who can pass over a woman's face in his haste to arrive 
 at her soul, and speak to her plainly ; as it were two 
 souls, spiritually and intellectually face to face 
 
 MoDEKNA : As you have to me. You don't speak 
 to me as if I were a woman. I like it. You don't' 
 even tliink me pretty, do you ? 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : No ; but you will be ! 
 Go on. .Tell me how many men — for they don't all 
 forget you are a woman — how many have told you 
 they loved you ? 
 
 Modeena [embarrassed 1 : I 
 
 The Perfect Stranger: You think me imper- 
 tinent, don't you ? 
 
 MoDERNA : Yes, rather. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger [coolly] : Very, in fact. 
 But you are at perfect liberty not to answer my 
 questions ! 
 
 Modeena : I know I need rot — I know I ought 
 not to — but I shall. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : I know you will. 
 
 MoDBRNA ; And supposing I were to get up and 
 walk across the room to my mother, and leave you ? 
 
The Peefbct Steangbe : Yes, you ought. I see 
 your mother. I know her by her likeness to you. 
 She is over there eating an ice, all unconscious of 
 blame. Shall I take you to her? 
 
 MoDBENA : What would you think of me if I 
 said "yes"? 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : That you were behav- 
 ing as a well-brought-up young lady should do, 
 under the circumstances. I should bow, and regret 
 that I was not a dancing man, and could not have 
 the pleasure, etc. 
 
 MoDBENA [suddenly'] : Why do you come to 
 balls ? 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : I suppose in the vague 
 hope of meeting some day with a real woman, and 
 talking to her. It is one of the very few social 
 opportunities one has of doing so. A dinner party 
 is complicated with eating ; how can two immortal 
 souls communicate with each other through a 
 medium of steaming soup, or the fumes of the roast ; 
 or at a musicale, where one is constantly "hushed" 
 until one's blood boils ? But at a dance, social con- 
 vention has decreed that one should have a woman 
 to one's self for a quarter of an hour at least. I 
 singled you out at once, and hoped that you would 
 let me speak to you — I was introduced, wasn't I ? 
 
 MoDBENA [smiling] : As the Prince of Abyssinia. 
 
 The Peefbct Steangee : To the Nut-brown 
 
39 
 
 Maid. But I should have spoken to you, anyhow — 
 such is my arrogance. 
 
 MoDEBNA : Am I a real woman ? 
 
 The Pekfect Stranger : Ah, you hark back ! 
 That is like a woman. Yes, you are a real woman, 
 but a very young one. I suppose I ought not to 
 have spoken to you as I have done. You are a 
 strange mixture. You have the ndivett of a child, 
 the wayward mouth of a child, but — your eyes — as 
 that unhappy youth said in his jargon of the affec- 
 tions — your eyes are not the eyes of a child ! I 
 wonder what will be the end of you ? The conven- 
 tional one, I suppose ! 
 
 MoDBRNA : I hope not. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : How delightfully 
 young of you ! You are — but unless I remain 
 impersonal I shall become impertinent. You know 
 it was really ymCr fault that we ever left the serene 
 heights of abstraction ; like a true woman, you 
 always brought Mie subject home. Well, ask me 
 any questions you like. I can give you any amount 
 of bad advice. 
 
 MoDEENA \laughing\ : Do. 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : Ah, you don't want any 
 advice. Your path is not devious as yet. But — 
 the world goes on, though I shall be out of it. \Sud- 
 denly.\ Your rule of life is simple. Find a man 
 you can love and trust, and then 
 
■40 
 
 MoDBEiTA : What ? 
 
 The Perfect Steangbk : Don't many him ! 
 
 MoDEKNA : Do you mean I sliould make him mis- 
 erable ? Oh, you are horribly cynical ! 
 
 The Pekebct Stbangee [smilinff] : I scorn to be. 
 It is the refuge of the mentally destitute. But I think 
 I am getting tired. Did I tell you I was an invalid ? 
 
 MoDERNA : I guessed. 
 
 The PEErECT Steangee : And that is why you 
 were so indulgent and patient with my wild talk ? 
 Tell me, are you sorry you met me ? Please answer 
 quickly. 
 
 MoDEENA : Why ? 
 
 The Peeeect Steangee : Because I am going to 
 say good-by. It is eleven o'clock. I must think of 
 my train. Where shall I take you ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, don't take me anywhere. 
 
 The Peepbct Steangee : I wish I could take 
 
 No, I don't ! Not take you back to your mother, you 
 say? 
 
 MoDEENA : I had rather not. Leave me here. 
 
 The Peefect Steangee : And go straight from 
 you without saying good-by to anyone else ? I 
 understand. Then I shall have no opportunity of 
 asking your name. What cowards women are ! 
 
 Modbena [sharply] : You don't know anything 
 about women. My name is Mary Elizabeth Mas- 
 kelvne. 
 
41 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : It represents nothing 
 to me. But I apologize for what I said. Do you 
 forgive me ? 
 
 Modeena: Of course. And are you really going? 
 
 The Perfect Stranger : I should spoil it if I 
 stayed. Good-by ! 
 
 Later. 
 
 Modeena {to Miss Rensselaer] : Who was the 
 man dressed as the Prince of Abyssinia? 
 
 Miss Rensselaer : Sir Richard Vyse, the famous 
 metaphysician. He is quite mad, they say, and dying 
 of consumption. Half a lung, and that sort of thing. 
 Can't live six months. I'll introduce you to his doc- 
 tor, who is here as Rasselas. 
 
 Modeena : No, don't ! 
 
 Miss Rensselaer : Didn't you like Sir Richard ? 
 
 Modeena : He's rather bad form. [Miss 
 Rensselaer passes o«.J Now, how could I say 
 that ? when I am — yes, I am sorry I shall never see 
 him again ! But it was impertinent of him to cate- 
 chise me in that way, and very idiotic of me to 
 answer. But it was very interesting. That's the 
 worst of it. Life would be so much more amusing if 
 one wasn't obliged to keep uji one's dignity. The 
 moment a man says anything he shouldn't, one has 
 to snub him. But one would like to hear it, all the 
 same. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 In the atelier of M. E^STtrefiKBS at Olielsea. Young men in 
 blouses; young girls in pinafores; easels, canvases, an all- 
 pervading smell of turpentiTie. 
 
 A Girl's Voice : Oli, I say, bother this square 
 touch ! I can't get into it at all. I'd rather do 
 pastel any day. 
 
 A Man's Voice : Flashy clap-trap ! Do take some 
 pains with this. You've got it in you to do it, you 
 know. 
 
 A Girl's Voice : No, I shall never get it. l^SigJis.] 
 
 A Man's Voice : Let's see- ! That's very clever, 
 what you have done. Carry it a little further. 
 
 A Girl's Voice : That's just it — I can't. Oh, do, 
 do, do a little bit of that shoulder-blade for me, just 
 to show me ! 
 
 A Man's Voice : Charmed ! \A silence. 
 
 A Girl's Voice : How do you like Mr. Carter's 
 composition ? Isn't it like Miss Vane ? 
 
 A Man's Voice : On Tuesday he came here early, 
 you know, and I caught him with his nose buried in 
 her turpentiny apron as it hung on the nail. Oh, I 
 beg your pardon, what have I done ? 
 
 A Girl's Voice \laughiny'\ : Knocked over my 
 turpentine with your great " square touch." 
 
43 
 
 A Man's Voice : You needn't chaff a fellow be- 
 cause he is only eighteen and has big hands. 
 
 A Girl's Voice : Yes, and can paint with them, 
 which is more than I can do with my little ones. 
 
 A Man's Voice : See now, you put it on just so. 
 
 A Giel's Voice ; But I want to hear some more 
 about Miss 
 
 Festugeres [suddenly/ from the other end of the 
 room, where he is occupied in perpetrating extraor- 
 dinary/ manoeuvres with a pen-knife and a red silk 
 handkerchief, on a girPs draioing'\ : Pscht ! Pscht ! 
 Silence ! {A silence as of the grave sets in. Fbstu- 
 GERES continues in meditative accents .•] II me semble 
 toujours entendre les tons argentins de Mile. Mas- 
 kelyne ! Je vous prie bien, mademoiselle, de garder 
 votre argot sociale pour le salon de Mme. votre m^re. 
 Qu'est ce que vous f abriquez la bas ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, M. Festug^res, do come to me; 
 I'm in such a muddle 'i 
 
 Festitgbres ; Allons, voyons ! Mais vous savez, 
 ce n'est pas mal du tout. C'est d'une admirable 
 fidelite. [Mutters.] Le talent y est — c'est bien I'en- 
 thousiasme qui manque. [Shrugs his shoulders and 
 passes on.] 
 
 A Man's Voice : Miss Maskelyne 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, don't speak to me, or he will be 
 down on us again ! I am going to work like a nigger 
 for the next couple of hours. [iShe works for a7i 
 
44 
 
 hour. At the end of that time her head drops on to 
 the rim. of her easel. Miss Pabkee leans across from 
 hers.] 
 
 Miss Paekbe [severely] : Miss Maskelyne, you 
 have been asleep ! 
 
 MoDEENA [rubhing her eyes] : Oli, don't scold me, 
 Parker, dear ; I was dancing till four this morning. 
 
 Miss Paekee [setting her palette carefully] : Yes, 
 it was a very picturesque pose, and I felt an insane 
 desire to sketch you. But, honestly now, do you 
 think that your being up till four in the morning is 
 any excuse for coming here in such a state ? 
 
 Modkena : My dear, one would think I was tipsy, 
 to hear you. 
 
 Miss Paekee : Well, I do consider it a form of 
 intemperance. You go out every night, and come 
 here for a few hours every diiy and doze between 
 two balls — it is not an edifying spectacle. What an 
 outsider you are ! You seem to have no idea that 
 life means work, life 
 
 MoDEENA : " Life is real, life is earnest ! " — how I 
 hate that poem ! 
 
 Miss Paekee [dryly] : It doesn't appeal to social 
 butterflies like you. Oh, it's too bad ! These men 
 and these women are here to make their lives, to 
 earn their living ; it is deadly earnest to them. 
 Then you come in, in lovely frocks, with an atmos- 
 phere of the ball-room clinging about you, and dis- 
 
45 
 
 tract us and demoralize us all by your prettiness — 
 for you are awfully pretty, my artistic eyes see 
 that ; pretty enough to suborn a hanging committee 
 or pervert a president. It's unfair, I say. It is 
 amateurs like you that choke up the avenues to fame 
 and encumber the ways of art. 
 
 MoDEENA : Parker, you talk like a book ! 
 
 Miss Paekee [abruptly] : What do you come here 
 for, I wonder ? 
 
 MoDEENA \m,ildly] : I come to paint, I suppose. 
 
 Miss Paekee : Paint ! You paint ! You have 
 an unholy facility, I must admit ; it is quite mad- 
 dening sometimes to us poor plodders to see you get 
 your effect with the minimum of trouble where some 
 of us mug away for days and don't even get it then. 
 But mark me, it is only the first stage ; you will stop 
 there — there the trouble begins ; with the real hard 
 work ; and that you are incapable of. You'll never 
 do anything ! Look at Miss Lane over there, with 
 her mock pearls and bare neck, and fourpenny-three- 
 farthings-a-yard muslin pinafore, and hair like a 
 bird's nest ! That girl has more art in her little 
 finger than you in your whole body ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Go on, dear. 
 
 Miss Paekee : Oh, I know I'm rude. I'm only a 
 Bohemian, and Irish at that. But, I tell you, I 
 respect Miss Lane. What do you think she does 
 when she goes home ? Do you fancy she goes to 
 
46 
 
 balls and parties like you ? No, she spoils her eyes 
 over a bedroom candle doing black and white, and 
 drawing herself in the looking-glass over and over 
 again for practice. She never has time to flirt. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I suppose that means that I do. 
 
 Miss Paekee : Oh, yes; we are not so utterly 
 beneath contempt, but that you condescend — in a 
 kind of Lady Clara Vere de Vere way — to make us 
 fall in love with you. You break an artist's heart, 
 for pastime, ere you go home to lunch. You can't 
 help it. You fascinate us all. You fascinate me. 
 It gives me quite a position in the studio that you 
 should choose me for your " pal." Irene Hand is so 
 jealous of me she won't speak to me hardly. She 
 adores you ; and look at the harm you've done her — 
 Philips was her devoted slave for years, and they 
 used to travel here from Putney together. Now, he 
 comes alone on the bare chance of meeting you on 
 the doorstep. Look at young Valentine ! He has 
 got his way to make by art, and he thinks more of 
 the privilege of washing your brushes for you 
 than Oh, it is too bad of you ! 
 
 MoDEENA l^sulMly'] : I'm going to wash them 
 myself. It's three, now. 
 
 Miss Paekbe [scornfully] : Going to chuck up 
 already ? \^Iielenting.] Here, let me do them for you. 
 
 Modeena: No. [They go into an inner room.'] 
 
 Miss Paekee [meditativeli/] : What a pretty ring 
 
47 
 
 that is ! I should think turpentine isn't good for 
 turquoises. They are not a present from Valentine, 
 are they ? He couldn't afford turquoises. 
 
 MoDBENA [suddenly'] : What do you want me to do? 
 
 Miss Paekeb : Work, dear Lady Clara, and let 
 the foolish yeoman go, or else 
 
 MoDEENA. : What ? 
 
 Miss Paekeb [bluntli/] : Go yourself. 
 
 MoDEENA : I was thinking of it. But it is rather 
 hard on me. You know I can't help 
 
 Miss Paekee : Yes, I know you can't help people 
 falling in love with you. Do you try ? [ Curiously.] 
 Why does Frank Graham look so glum always, and 
 why do you never speak to him now ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Because — he once proposed. 
 
 Miss Pabeee : How many have, if it isn't imper- 
 tinent to ask ? 
 
 Modeena : I really don't know — I mean — I can't 
 help it here — in society I can. They waylay me as I 
 go out, and they are all so silly and unpractical. 
 
 Miss Paekee [oracularli/] : If Dick Valentine 
 doesn't get his composition, he's done. 
 
 MoDEENA [impulsively] : I'll go to Stickleby, to 
 my cousin Cecilia's, at once. 
 
 Miss Paekee [incredulously] : And miss the 
 rest of your term here ? 
 
 MoDEEKA : Oh, I don't care — after what you have 
 said — I sha'n't be an artist now. 
 
Miss Paekee : "Well, dear Miss Maskelyne, to tell 
 you the truth 
 
 MoDEKNA : Do, do ! 
 
 Miss Paekee : I think you draw very nicely — 
 but I don't think you would ever be an artist. 
 
 Modeena {despairingly] : I must be something. 
 
 Miss Paekee : You'll be somebody, and that's 
 better. You'll marry and have a house, and a posi- 
 tion, and affect your generation that way. Leave 
 Art to us poor things who can never have a lover. 
 It is everything to us. It is only a fashionable amuse- 
 ment to you. Oh, and don't be cross ; I never had 
 any manners, and I have been saying outrageous 
 things to you. Forgive me ! but I feel so strongly 
 about you lovely amateui-s ! Here comes Festugferes 
 back from his lunch. I must go and get his final 
 verdict on mj pastel. Wait for me. I'll walk part 
 of the way home with you if I may. [Slips hack 
 again to her easel. Modeena idly plays with her 
 tools. Young Valentine timidly approaches her^ 
 
 Young Valentine : Miss Maskelyne, may I have 
 a few words with you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm afraid not, Mr. Valentine. I am 
 going home almost immediately with Miss Parker. 
 
 Young Valentine : Cannot I speak to j'ou on 
 a matter of urgent importance one moment in the 
 cloak room ? 
 
 MoDEKNA : No, you can't — really. [Severely.] Do 
 
49 
 
 go and mind your work. It's so much more impor- 
 tant to you than anything else. [Aside.] Parker is 
 riglit. It's time I left. 
 
 Ifexi day. The luncheon hour. Group of Girls. 
 
 The Giel in a Pink Pinafoee : Hi, Brown ! A 
 packet of gray stumps, and three pennyworth of 
 milk, and two sheets of French paper, and a Bath 
 bun — how much is that ? 
 
 The Poetee : Ten pence, miss. I wish you'd keep 
 them orders distinct. It do muddle me so. 
 
 The Girl in a Pink Pinafore : Don't be an ass. 
 Brown. Here's a shilling. [Fbllows him to the door.] 
 
 The Giel in a Blue Pinafoee : I say, do you 
 know, Miss Maskelyne is not coming back any more ? 
 
 The Giel in a Red Pinafoee : I say, who told you? 
 
 The Giel in a Blue Pinafoee : Brown. She 
 took all her traps away yesterday in a cab. 
 
 The Giel in a Red Pinafoee : Now we shall 
 have some peace. 
 
 The Giel in a Pink Pinafore : One got per- 
 fectly sick of the sound of her voice. 
 
 The Girl in a Red Pinafoee : She was always 
 borrowing my H. B., and forgetting to return it. 
 
 The Girl in a Blue Pinafoee : Who's going to 
 return a stump like that ? 
 
 The Giel in a Red Pinafoee : Five stumps make 
 a pencil, I consider. 
 
50 
 
 The Giel in a Blue Pinafoee : She hasn't a spark 
 of real talent. Festugferes used to work up her things 
 for her and make them presentable. 
 
 The Giel in a Pink Pinafoee : Oh, I say — that's 
 not true, she would never let liim. 
 
 The Giel in a Blue Pinafoee : Too beastly con- 
 ceited for that. 
 
 The Giel in a Pink Pinafoee : I sha'n't be able 
 to finish my sketch of her. 
 
 The Giel in a Red Pinafoee : Oh, did yon think 
 her pretty ? Not at all picturesque. 
 
 The Giel in a Pink Pinafoee : Because she 
 was tidy, eh ? 
 
 The Giel in a Blue Pinafoee : Too fashionable ! 
 
 The Giel in a Red Pinafoee : Going to be 
 married, I dare say. Art soon goes to the wall then. 
 
 Group of Men at the other side of the room. 
 
 Me. Bkiggs \the cad of the schooT] : I say, you 
 fellows, do you know little Maskelyne has left for 
 good? 
 
 Me. Muegateotd [the genius] : Not really ? 
 What a bore ! We shall all go to sleep. 
 
 Me. Shepheed [the flirt] : Yes, it's no fun now. 
 Such an ugly set of girls left ! 
 
 Me. Geaham [captain of the school] : I shall go 
 to Paris. 
 
61 
 
 Me. Muegateotd : She didn't draw badly — might 
 have done something. 
 
 Mk. Geaham: Yes, if you fellows would have let her. 
 
 Me. Beiggs : An awful chatterbox ! 
 
 Me. Muegateoyd : But not a bit spiteful ! 
 
 Mb. Graham : A good hand at caricature ! 
 
 Me. Shepheed : She's going to be married, of 
 course. I say — Muggles ! 
 
 Me. Muegateoyd : Shut up, you ass. 
 
 Me. Geaham : Here,! say; time's up ! Pose the 
 model, someone ! Here come all the girls — and 
 Festugferes ! Look out, Briggs, you have put your 
 " donkey " on my foot ! 
 
 Me. Briggs : Beg pardon ! [To Festtjgeees, 
 respectfully.] Has Miss Maskelyne left for good, 
 sir ? Her looker is empty, and her maid came for 
 her pinafore this morning. 
 
 Festugeees : Ah, 5a vous intrigue tous? Rest 
 tranquil. Cette charmante Miss Maskelyne is gone 
 — gone — how you say? never come back no more — 
 and now I shall hope for some solid results. Plus de 
 distractions, eh ? 
 
 Me. Beiggs : She wasn't much at working, was 
 she, sir ? Gracious me ! It used to amuse me to see 
 little Maskelyne come in and nod at the model, and 
 sit down gracefully, and sigh, and yawn, and do 
 three strokes in three-quarters of an hour. These 
 swell society girls are never any good ! 
 
52 
 
 Festugbees [frowning'] : Trha bien, monsieur, il 
 suf&t de la denigrer, maintenant ! Pas de talent, 
 vous dites? Eh bien, je vous conseille moi, d'en 
 avoir autant. You may laugh, vous autres, but I 
 will tell you la vraie v4rit6. EUe manquait d'en- 
 thousiasme, d'application, c'est, ma foi, vrai, elle 
 n'entendait rien de la " sainte ardeur du travail " — 
 belle phrase de Renan — mais elle avait — elle avait 9a 
 [snaps his finger Suggestively] et je vous en souhaite 
 tous autant ! [Passes on with a contemptuous look 
 at Me. Beiggs.] 
 
 Me. Beiggs : What's " pa " ? [Imitating the 
 gesture.] 
 
 Two Voices: What you haven't got, my dear 
 fellow. 
 
 Me. Beiggs : She has known how to get the soft 
 side of old Festy, at any rate. 
 
 Me. Shepheed : I should say " that " meant a 
 good French accent 
 
 Me. Geaham : And a good figure ! 
 
 Me. Beiggs : Lots of cheek ! 
 
 Me. Shepheed : Plenty of " devil," in fact. 
 
 Me. Muegateoyd : And that's another word for 
 genius. [With conviction.] Oh, I'm sure Festy 
 didn't mean that ! 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 At Stickleby Hall, TorksJiire. It is about six o'clock. Cecilia 
 RiDDELL is seated at her desk in her room, EnterMovuKNA, 
 a little dusty, a little out of In'eath. 
 
 Cecilia [rising hastily] : My beloved cousin ! I 
 am so glad — but we did not expect you till next 
 week ! 
 
 MoDEEiirA : No — I did not expect myself — but you 
 said I might come when I liked — so I did — and 
 Minohing is downstairs — and can you put us up ? — 
 and where is Aunt Riddell ? 
 
 Cecilia : I am not sure. In the dairy, per- 
 haps 
 
 MoDEENA [laicghinff] : Or the fernery, or the 
 piggery, or the hen-coop. I should never expect to 
 find her in the drawing-room. 
 
 Cecilia : She hates sitting there, except when we 
 have a meeting. 
 
 MoDEENA [sitting dowti] : I should be awfully 
 frightened of her, I think, if she hadn't inherited 
 some of her daughter's good qualities. 
 
 Cecilia [mildly] : How can she inherit from me, 
 dear ? Well, she will be in presently, and delighted 
 to see you. Where is your luggage ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Kicking its heels ,at the station. 
 
 53 
 
54 
 
 Please send. I walked up. I came in the guard's 
 van from Lee Junction. 
 
 Cecilia : How did you manage that ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Got out at Lee — contrived to nearly 
 miss the train — jumped in as we moved off. And so 
 the guard had to keep me ! He was so cross — hut I 
 soon soothed him ! 
 
 Cecilia : You funny girl ! Well, I am glad to 
 see you, though I am in the middle of my holiday 
 thesis, and — I must break it to you — we are going 
 out to-night. There is a branch temperance meet- 
 ing at Lee at seven, and I'm secretary, and have to 
 keep the minutes. 
 
 MoDBENA : Then I'll sit over the fire and read 
 inferior novels. I've been out every night for a 
 week. 
 
 Cecilia : Oh, no, you won't. Captain Jekyll is 
 here. 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm much too tired to cope with 
 country squires. Take him with you. 
 
 Cecilia : He wouldn't come. He hates mother's 
 temperance routs. He doesn't approve of our 
 radical ways and temperance preaching — wonders 
 everybody doesn't leave this house a Tory and a 
 drunkard ! Rude, isn't he ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Then can't I go with you ? [Aside.] 
 Oil, dear, what am I proposing ? 
 
 Cecilia : Compose yourself, my friend ; not room 
 
55 
 
 in the cart ! You'll just have to make up your mind 
 to dine here quietly with Frank. 
 MoDEENA [with affected horror] : Tete-d-tite ? 
 Cecilia : 'Sow, Moderna, if you want to " rile " 
 mother, let her hear you allude to the effete institu- 
 tion of chaperons ! She goes out with me, but she 
 has never chaperoned me in her life ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Dear little thing ! With a Girton 
 waist and sensible hair like that, it would be a bold 
 man who would venture to flirt with you. Think — 
 only twenty, and measure twenty-six round the 
 waist ! And yet you manage to be pretty ! 
 
 Cecilia : I like to be comfortable ; I don't care to 
 
 figure in the society papers like you. Have you that 
 
 black-and-white gown they described a month ago ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Yes ; I hate it — tired of it. 
 
 Cecilia : Put it on to-night. I should like to hear 
 
 what Frank says about it. 
 
 MoDEENA : No, I shall not. I shall borrow one of 
 your dresses and wind a Liberty sash five times 
 round my waist. I shall do at Stickleby what Stick- 
 leby does. [Sitting down.] Now, look here, don't 
 you want to hear all about Calder-Marston ? He's 
 just going to bring out Titus Andronicus. 
 
 Cecilia : I don't know that I am so much inter- 
 ested in Calder-Marston, now. Girton knocked all 
 that out of me. It was just a phase. They'd all 
 had it. 
 
56 
 
 MoDBENA : And Society knocked it out of me. 
 It was rather fun, though, while it lasted. 
 
 Cecilia : It gave us a good many sleepless nights. 
 
 MoDEENA : Bad for the complexion, but good for 
 the soul ! However, I saw him gluttonously eating 
 his own and partner's oysters at the Savoy one night, 
 and that finished me ! I went home and burned all 
 the photos I could find. 
 
 Cecilia : And every second girl at Girton was in 
 love with him. It was too common. I had an auc- 
 tion of all mine. 
 
 MoDEENA : Tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse. 
 
 Enter Lady Riddell with a large basket of eggs on 
 her arm. Modeena hastily slips off her rings 
 before incurring her truculent hand-shake. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Glad to see you, my dear. Cecilia 
 has doubtless informed you of to-night's programme. 
 Very inhospitable ! Can't be helped ! Affairs of 
 the country ! Can't take you with us — not room. 
 Pity ! Done you good. 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm rather tired, aunt. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Tired ! not you — at your age ! I 
 never allow Cecilia to say she is tired. If she does, 
 she knows what to expect. 
 
 Cecilia \in a low voice"] : Bryonia. 
 
 Lady Riddell : You'll have to make up your 
 mind to dine quietly with Captain Jekyll. Good 
 
57 
 
 heart — limited intellect ! A very poor Radical — 
 almost a Conservative. Make the best of him. Don't 
 flirt with him — or Cecilia will have somethingto say 
 to that. Must go and speak to the bailiff. ^Mxit. 
 
 Cecilia [with concentrated venoni] : I could kill 
 mother ! 
 
 MoDEENA [laughing] : Don't, dear. Such a loss to 
 the cause. 
 
 Cecilia : Why need she give me away like that ? 
 
 MoDBENA : But you don't mind me, do you, Cissy ? 
 You always confided in me about Calder-Marston, 
 you know. 
 
 Cecilia [slowly] : But this is different. 
 
 Modeena : Are you engaged ? 
 
 Cecilia : No ; but 
 
 Modeena : You needn't say any more, darling. 
 "No" and "but" are quite enough. What are his 
 advantages ? Is he good-looking ? 
 
 Cecilia : No — rather — yes — very. I think so. 
 
 Modeena : Clever ? 
 
 Cecilia : Yes — rather — well, no — not in your line, 
 at any rate. He is the best shot and the straightest 
 rider in the county. 
 
 Modeena: Well off? 
 
 Cecilia : Oh, yes. His property marches with 
 ours — a ring fence 
 
 Modeena : Oh, the ring fence settles it. You'll 
 marry him, of course. 
 
58 
 
 Cecilia : But he hasn't asked me. [Shrieking.] 
 Moderna, he has not asked me ! Remember that. 
 He most likely never will. Do take care — don't 
 know anything — you are so careless ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Shall I flirt with him to prove that 
 I am absolutely unaware of the state of affairs 
 between you ? 
 
 Cecilia : And cut me out ? 
 
 MoDEENA : You need not be afraid of that, dear. 
 Besides, he is sure not to be at all ray " sort." 
 
 Cecilia : He's everybody's " sort." 
 
 Moi)EENA : That's rather a profound remark, 
 though you don't know it. Handsome, ready, sharp, 
 active. I know exactly the sort of man. All the 
 same I shall not know what in the world to say to 
 him — unless we can talk about you. 
 
 Cecilia : Oh, Moderna, don't ! 
 
 Enter Lady Riddell. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Cecilia, the cart will be round 
 exactly in five minutes. We shall have some sand- 
 wiches in the committee room. Be quick ! 
 
 Cecilia : But, mother 
 
 Lady Riddell : But, what ? 
 
 Cecilia : I should like to introduce Moderna to 
 Frank before we go and leave her 
 
 Lady Riddell : Fiddle-de-dee ! The sooner that 
 idiotic convention is dropped the better. Walk up 
 
59 
 
 to the man and say, "I'm Modei-na Maskelyne. 
 Who are you ? " Eat a good dinner, and enjoy 
 yourself. Go to bed early. [ITie gong is sounded.'] 
 See you in the morning — breakfast at eight-thirty. 
 There you are ! Good-night. \_Exit. 
 
 Cecilia [whispers'] : Only Kop's ale, dear, or 
 lemonade ! Make out with brandy cherries ! That's 
 what Flossie Rensselaer does when she staj's here. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 MoDEEN'A [on her way downstairs] : Too bad ! 
 Three hours' tSte-dMte. Just like Aunt Riddell ! 
 And what on earth am I to say to a horsey and 
 doggy man ? I don't know a thing about one or the 
 other. [Sums. 
 
 " But native cheek, where facts were weak, 
 Pulled him in triumph through." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In the long gallery at Stickleby Hall. It is half -past ten o'clock. 
 
 MoDEENA [sitting in the window-seat'] : I wish I 
 were dead ! 
 
 A man has kissed me ! 
 
 There it is ! [RubMng her cheek.] Nothing can 
 ever take it away now. I can't think how it hap- 
 pened. I can't, I can't ! I never thought such a 
 thing would happen to me ! 
 
 Is there anything dreadful about me ? Do I look 
 the kind of girl men kiss for fun ? Like a bar-maid 
 or an actress ? No, I don't. I look serious. I look 
 as if no man had ever kissed me ; and no man ever 
 did till now. 
 
 He has insulted me. I ought to hate him. And 
 the worst of it is, I don't. No, I don't ! If I had 
 hated him, I shouldn't have let him do it, for it wasn't 
 exactly against my will — and yet I didn't for a 
 moment expect him to insult me. He has ! 
 
 60 
 
61 
 
 And after all what is a kiss to be so miserable 
 about ? A mere peck — on my cheek, such as my 
 brother William gives me, or my cousin Cecilia ! 
 Why should I mind ? But it was a man — a strange 
 man ! And now, if ever I fall in love — if anyone 
 ever falls in love with me — I shall have to tell him 
 that I have been kissed ! I can never give him the 
 first — I've given it to a mere stranger, and I can 
 never give it again. So I shall never marry — that 
 settles it. I didn't mean to, but I couldn't now if I 
 wanted to. 
 
 How did it happen ? I am confused. I don't 
 seem to remember. Did I flirt with him ? I sang to 
 him — that's not flirting. But I never sang so — so. 
 Then he came out with me and gave me my 
 candle — and then he looked at me. I remember his 
 eyes. They were so dark. I looked at them. I 
 wish I hadn't. Then we shook hands — and then. 
 [She hides her face.] I ran away. I didn't give 
 him time to say anything. I wonder how he looked ! 
 Did he think I was angry, or did he think Per- 
 haps he smiled ! JVbw, I hate him. [ Clenches her 
 hands.] He has kissed me ! [Sobs.] 
 Captain Jekyll comes slowly upstairs and suppresses 
 an exclamation on seeing the figure on the window- 
 seat. She raises her head and darts in the direc' 
 tion of her room. Her dress catches. 
 
62 
 
 Captain Jektll \stiffly'] : Let me [Dis- 
 engages her dress. She submits.\ There, you are 
 free ! Good-night. [He looks at her.] Good 
 Heavens, you are crying ! What a brute I have 
 been, Moderna ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't speak of it. Good-night ! 
 
 Captain Jbkyll : But I must. 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't you see that your speaking only 
 makes it worse ? Oh, go, go away — it is the best 
 thing you can do. 
 
 Captain Jektll : I know it is. I would do any- 
 thing to convince you ! I shall be off to-morrow 
 before breakfast — so could you shake hands with me, 
 and say you forgive me ? 
 
 Modeena [eagerly] : And will you really go? 
 How good of you ! 
 
 Captain Jekyll : But you must shake hands 
 with me first. 
 
 Modeena : I had so much rather not. 
 
 Captain Jekyll : Then you don't forgive me ? 
 
 Modeena : I do, I do, only — I don't want to see 
 your face. I don't want to be reminded of — my 
 disgrace. 
 
 Captain Jekyll : Miss Maskelyne, there is no 
 disgrace to you ! I shall never forgive myself — but 
 you — you must not for one moment imagine that I 
 construed your kindness to me to-night into any 
 form of encouragement. I was mad — perfectly 
 
63 
 
 mad for five minutes. "Won't you forgive me ? Say 
 you will ? 
 
 MoDEENA [wearily^ : Yes, oh, yes. 
 
 Captain Jekyll : And you will forget ? 
 
 MoDBKNA {violently'] : I can't ! I can't ! I shall 
 think of it, and be ashamed for all the rest of my 
 life. Good-night. [ Goes. 
 
 Captain Jekyll [slowlyl : Then there is only one 
 thing to be done now, that I can see 
 
 MoDEENA : There is nothing to be done. Oh, do 
 let it rest. Good-night. 
 
 Captain Jekyll [still hesitatingly'] : Listen to me 
 one moment. Miss Maskelyne. What I propose is 
 — that you should — become engaged to me ! Would 
 it be so very impossible ? [A pause. 
 
 MoDEENA [coldly] : It is very good of you to 
 think of it — but I don't see that there is any advant- 
 age to be gained by our both making ourselves 
 miserable for life. 
 
 Captain Jekyll [hotly] : I can answer for it that 
 it would not make me miserable. Try it ! Listen ! 
 I must not say I love you, you whom I have only 
 known five hours, but upon mj' soul ! — that word 
 more nearly expresses what I feel than any other I 
 could use — I wish I could make you believe me, 
 dear ! 
 
 MoDEENA [«s«(?e] : I almost wish you could. 
 [Aloud.] Thank you. [Laughing bitterly.] I sup- 
 
64 
 
 pose it's all right now. You have proposed to me, 
 and I have refused you. "What more could I want ? 
 I ought to be satisfied. I am. I will shake hands 
 and say good-night. 
 
 Captain Jbktll : For Heaven's sake, take me 
 seriously ! I never was more serious in my life — or 
 more in love. It is true, on my honor — no woman 
 in the world ever was to me what you are. [Takes 
 her hand; she does not draw it awa^.] Don't you 
 see, dear, it settles it all ? There is no harm in being 
 kissed by the man you ai"e going to marry. We 
 won't say anything about it yet. It would seem 
 rather sudden, and startle them — but in a few days 
 — Lady Riddell will be pleased — and Cecilia 
 
 MoBEENA [suddenly] : Cecilia ! Oh, what am I 
 doing ? Cecilia — and you 
 
 Captain Jekyll : Please don't couple our names 
 together. I am nothing, and can never be anything 
 to Cecilia. 
 
 MoDBENA : Nothing to Cecilia ! But you are — 
 you must be ! I mean — let me go 
 
 Captain Jbktll [holding her] : Not without yes 
 or no! [The noise of wheels is heard.] Here they 
 are ! [Hastily.] Give me an answer to-morrow. I 
 won't have one to-night. I must go and help them 
 in. Good-night, my darling. I would give the 
 world to repeat my oflfence — but not unless you give 
 me leave. I Don't speak — good-night ! 
 
65 
 
 Tlie morning after. Breakfast. Lady Riddell and 
 Cecilia seated. Enter Captain Jekyll. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Tea or coffee, Francis ? 
 
 Captain Jekyll : Coffee, please. Where is Miss 
 Maskelyne ? 
 
 Lady Riddell : Ob, don't ask me — gone off to 
 London by the eight-twenty. 
 
 Captain Jekyll : Without leaving a message ? 
 
 Lady Riddell : Came to my bedside at seven, and 
 wished me good-by. Looked like a ghost. Said 
 she must go up to town at once. Gave some silly 
 reason or other. Most exti'aordinary girl ! 
 
 Cecilia \^pettishly'] : I call it very unkind of her. 
 
 Lady Riddell : Oh, my niece is mad — plenty of 
 charm — but quite mad ! That is what I always say. 
 
 Captain Jekyll [savagely] : I quite agree with 
 you, Lady Riddell. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 In the Vicarage Garden at Merrow, Surrey. A tea-table spread 
 under the trees. A game of tennis going on in the distance. 
 
 Peggy : Well, I'm glad I'm not in that game. I'm 
 too good to play with muffs. Moderna has to take all 
 Arthur Deverel's balls first for fear he misses them, 
 and Verona is so busy talking to Tom Lawrence that 
 she forgets to play up. I don't know why they call 
 it tennis ; I call it talk. Grown-up people like talk 
 better than anything in the world, it seems to me. 
 Mother and Mrs. Jenkyn have gone in. Mrs. Jenkyn 
 is mad because she canH play tennis. She can do 
 everything but that. Her waist's too tight, and her 
 heels too high. Verona's glad she's gone in, I can 
 see. Verona hates her. Oh, these grown-up people ! 
 
 People are always asking me don't I wish I was 
 out? Not if I know it ! What should I want to be 
 out for ? 
 
 They don't understand. They say, " Poor thing, 
 only fifteen ! Three long years to wait, and don't I 
 wish it was me when I see the girls ready dressed for 
 a ball ? " No, thank you. I'm happier as I am. I 
 know what coming out is. I've seen two. 
 
 It's a horrid business, any way. First they order 
 a dress, and you'd think it was going to be the only 
 
67 
 
 dress in the world, instead of a very simple affair — 
 trimmed with daisies. Then when it comes home 
 there's a scene. They cry. It isn't riglit. It's hideous. 
 They'd rather die than wear it. There is no time to 
 alter it — the dressmaker takes care of that. Then 
 they must do their hair a different way, because 
 they're out. It isn't used to it, and it won't stay 
 up. They fuss — they bounce about — they keep the 
 carriage waiting — they douse on oceans of powder, 
 and forget to dust it off. Then they come home, and 
 lie on my bed in their ball dresses, and kick about, and 
 make it uncomfortable for me, and say that society is 
 a hollow fraud, and nothing ever happens as you think 
 it will. I could have told them that. They only 
 mean that they at once fixed their affections on the 
 most impossible man in the room, and that he was 
 never introduced to them — or that he only danced 
 once with them instead of twenty-one times. I 
 don't think life is a hollow fraud. I always get what 
 I want, but grown-up girls seem to expect such a lot. 
 I wonder if I could eat another petit four ? I've 
 had six, but then William has had eight. We were 
 beginning to make the dish look silly, so I sent him 
 away to field for balls. He was cross. He's a year 
 older than me. He's at Eton ! Poor Eton ! I 
 manage him, of course. I manage everybody. It's 
 all my doing that we took this sweet vicarage for 
 three months, and didn't go to Folkestone or East- 
 
bourne, or some other unearthly place. There is 
 never anything for me to do there, and I bore my- 
 self to extinguishers. But here there are woods and 
 tool-sheds and runaway bulls and everything excit- 
 ing, and not too many old frumps to come and call. 
 
 There are only the Deverels, and they're at Dunse 
 Court, a mile off. Fine old county family — don't 
 they just know it ? The old lady's terrible, but I 
 don't trouble about her much, except to stick teasel 
 balls in her train when she isn't looking. Almeria, 
 the girl, never says anything ; and as for the boys, 
 Arthur and Fred — well, Billy Danvers is worth a 
 hundred of them. 
 
 I don't know which I think the handsomest ! Fred, 
 I think. I'd rather have him for a brother-in-law — 
 only he's engaged to Flossie Rensselaer. That must 
 have been a bitter pill to old Lady Deverel. Flossie's 
 a bit larky. I mean to see a good deal of her when 
 she is married. 
 
 What an awfully long game ! Why don't they 
 play 'vantage all ? I daren't suggest it, for it might 
 interfere with their arrangements. I'll just have 
 some more tea, I think. 
 
 Oh, blow ! The kettle isn't properly spliced ! I 
 forgot to put the pin back. There's a mess ! I'll 
 lay my handkerchief over the place. I wish it was 
 cleaner ! What did I use it for ? Oh, I remember, 
 I carried those tadpoles in it. 
 
69 
 
 There ! Moderna's put her foot through her best 
 lace petticoat ! I knew she would. I told her she was 
 an idiot to wear it — nobody would see it. Of course 
 when you have a tumble, a lace petticoat comes vei-y 
 handy; but why tumble? Her frock's much too 
 good, too, but I suppose she had her reasons. 
 
 It doesn't in the least matter what I wear, only 
 I have to be very particular about my shoes, for, 
 naturally, they are the only things that show. I 
 always wear these plain white muslin frocks. They 
 go to the wash regularly once a week, with the 
 window blinds. Yes, I know my dress is short — 
 very short ! People think the girls do it to keep me 
 down. Nothing of the kind ! It's my own plan. 
 If it was long I should have to behave, and I don't 
 want to yet. It's such fun, now, when I make an 
 awful speech — as awful as I can — people stare, and 
 put up their eye-glasses and think. What a dreadful 
 girl ! Then they look right down till they come to 
 my feet, and they see I'm only a schoolgirl, and 
 don't know any better, and are quite amused. I do 
 know better — I know a great deal better than I 
 practice. 
 
 Of course I have beastly lessons to do, and all that. 
 I manage very nicely. " I do them, I do them, and 
 it doesn't take me long." I think the woman who 
 has come to my time of life without knowing how to 
 get round her lessons is a fool. People call me a 
 
70 
 
 little devil sometimes, but they never call me a fool. 
 I should like to see them. I don't object to "devil," 
 at all. 
 
 I've got a governess. She's French. She is quite 
 harmless. I chose her carefully. I rather like her. 
 She knows I don't like her to interfere with me. I 
 see very little of her. I have my meals in the school- 
 i"oom with her. She reads novels all the time. I 
 know they're improper — the girls say so — but I really 
 have not time to investigate. Perhaps I should not 
 understand them. I'm always in a hurry. I gobble. 
 She says I'll spoil my complexion. I say, all right, 
 I'll look after my complexion when the time comes. 
 
 We give dinner parties in town. When we 
 happen to be thirteen I dine down. Mother says 
 people are so superstitious. She is. We often hap- 
 pen to be thirteen ; I like dining down for a change, 
 though, as a matter of fact, I get more to eat on the 
 stairs. The servants jolly well know they've not got 
 to miss out a single dish, except the mutton. I can 
 do without that. The other day I persuaded Billy 
 Danvers to have hay fever, when he was engaged to 
 dine here. He was fourteenth, for I got hold of the 
 list. He did it, dear boy, to oblige me. But he 
 came in in the evening, and I thanked him. 
 
 Moderna thinks he's hers. He's not; he isn't any- 
 body's. He doesn't want to marry. I quite sym- 
 pathize. Lots of young men are like that. That's 
 
71 
 
 why he gets on so well with me, because he's not 
 afraid of my marrying him. 
 
 I disapprove of marriage, but I don't mind help- 
 ing those wretched grown-up girls a little. Poor 
 things, they are so dreadfully helpless ! I've heard 
 that burglars always have a small boy about that 
 they shove through keyholes and pantry windows to 
 open places for them. The girls are always shoving 
 me through the larder window, don't you know ? I 
 like it. I have a perfect genius for it. 
 
 Now, see here, to-day — this tea and tennis ! It's 
 all my getting up. On Tuesday night Moderna 
 couldn't sleep a wink— she says so, but she had a 
 horrid kind of broken sleep ; I heard her — because 
 she was quite sure that Arthur Deverel had gone 
 home from the picnic supper, thinking she had got 
 lost in the woods on purpose with Mr. Vere. With 
 Mr. Vere ! As if anybody would take the trouble 
 to get lost with him ! She knew, because he had 
 hardly spoken to her at supper, and she values his 
 good opinion — anybody's good opinion, she says, but 
 she can't take me in. Although she flirts with him, 
 do you know, I really think she's in love with him, 
 so I don't mind helping her. 
 
 She got me into her bedroom, and shut all the 
 doors and windows — I wonder she did not stop up 
 the chimney — and then she cried a little, and would 
 I help her and be a dear, and make him under- 
 
72 
 
 Stand— oh, veiy, very delicately — it would ruin her 
 if he ever guessed — and all that ! So I promised to 
 help her if she'd promise not to tell about Towzer. 
 That happened a month ago, but I've always been 
 anxious about it, and I was glad to have an opportunity 
 of making it safe. So I lent her my handkerchief, and 
 said she wasn't to bother, and I'd take the whole re- 
 sponsibility. She stopped howling — I really believe 
 she cares for him — and gave me an old hat and a yard 
 of Valenciennes that was lying about. Good business ! 
 So next day I rode over to Dunse Court on 
 Freckles and asked for Arthur Deverel. I can do 
 these things because I'm not out. He was in the 
 billiard room. I just said, " How-de-do," and then — 
 no silly beating about the bush — that I was quite 
 sure Moderna liked him a great deal better than Mr, 
 Vere. "We all think poets horrid. He stared a 
 little and said, " Really ! " — it seemed rather as if he 
 hadn't thought of it before. Perhaps he doesn't 
 want Moderna ? Anyhow, I have put the idea into 
 his head. Then I asked him over to tea and tennis 
 to-day — all off my own bat, you know — and here he 
 is as large as life, and letting all the balls go through 
 his racquet, because he's looking at Moderna. Oh, 
 we'll put it through, I fancy. 
 
 William, you fraud, where have you been ? You 
 found a chaffinch's nest? Good Heavens ! you say 
 
73 
 
 you called me ? I don't believe it. You wanted it 
 all to yourself — I know you. 
 
 No, you shall not have any more. Let go I 
 There, you can eat that one that's fallen, there, on 
 the ants' nest. I'd rather you had it than the ants, 
 anyway. 
 
 Are they quarrelling over there, or is the game 
 over? Cut along, William, and tell James I want 
 him. James, more tea — and — more cakes ! We had 
 a little accident with those last ones. 
 
 Oh, here you all are ! Game and set ! Who 
 won ? Moderna, I don't believe you have the 
 very haziest idea. You haven't ! Excuse her, Mr. 
 Deverel. There is some more tea corning. Have 
 some bread and butter, Tom. Where is the cake, I 
 wonder ? 
 
 William, you and I'll have a knock-out now, and 
 show 'era how. Moderna and Mr. Deverel, suppose 
 you field for us ? It's the least you can do. Come 
 on, William ! 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 In Modbrna's room at Merrow. Midnight. Enter Verona 
 en peignoir. Slie whispers. 
 
 " Send away Aurelie." 
 
 " VouB pouvez vous en aller, Aui-61ie." 
 
 " Aurelie hates going. She wanted to listen." 
 
 "Nonsense. Well, she's gone. Wliatisit?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Well, then, it's dreadfully late — hadn't you 
 better let me get to bed." 
 
 "How dreadfully unsympathetic you are. I want 
 to talk about the dinner party." 
 
 " Go on, then. Talk about the dinner party." 
 
 [^ pause. 
 
 Veeona [speaks] : " Did you notice the widow to- 
 night ? " 
 
 "I always do. It's good practice." 
 
 " She actually contrived to blush." 
 
 " How mean ! She ought to leave blushing to us." 
 
 " I never can, even when I want to." 
 
 " Tliat's the worst of being a girl." 
 
 "I wish I was a widow." 
 
 " My dear, Mrs. Jenkyn's twenty-six." 
 
 "Awful, isn't it? And yesterday she told poor 
 
75 
 
 Tom Lawrence that she would like to be a mother to 
 him." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 " Tom did. He wished she wouldn't — he's got a 
 mother of his own at home, he says, and " 
 
 " Tom tells you, does he ?" 
 
 " He tells me most things." 
 
 " Then I think you have the pull of the widow." 
 
 " Oh, but, Moderna, she is so clever and rusee. He 
 says she bores him ; but he always ends by going 
 back to her. She knows exactly what to do, and 
 what to say." 
 
 " And doesn't say it — looks it instead." 
 
 " Anybody can look foolish, but she looks — unutter- 
 able things ! " 
 
 " "Why did mother ask her to stay here ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose, as we have taken a country 
 house, we've got to fill it." 
 
 " She needn't have been asked." 
 
 " She makes things go." 
 
 "Not forme." 
 
 " The world isn't made for girls." [A pause. 
 
 Vbkona [resMJwes]: "Goodness! You are crimp- 
 ing it. Is it for the Deverels' picnic ? " 
 
 " Not particularly for the picnic. I like to look 
 nice always." 
 
 " Do you think it will rain ? " 
 
 " Wind's better." 
 
76 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " It takes her fringe out of curl ! " 
 
 " I hope it will LIow a gale, Moderna." 
 
 "You donkey." 
 
 " Why am I a donkey ? " 
 
 " You know best." \A pause. 
 
 Veeona [reswmes] : " You seem to get on with the 
 prig, Moderna ? " 
 
 " Who do you mean ? " 
 
 "Arthur Deverel." 
 
 " Who calls him that ? " 
 
 "Peggy and I do." 
 
 " Oh, you do ? " 
 
 " Well, he's so solemn ; we never can make him 
 talk." 
 
 " I never have any diflSculty." 
 
 " Yes, I wish I could let myself go as you do. I 
 freeze people up so." 
 
 " They seem to contrive to exist within a hundred 
 miles of you, dear." • 
 
 " Who contrive to exist ? " 
 
 " Don't fish ! " ' 
 
 " I'm not fishing." \A pause. 
 
 Verona [continues] : " Mrs. Jenkyn makes up to 
 Tom Lawrence a good deal, don't you think ? " 
 
 " It's a little way she has." 
 
 " But I don't fancy he cares very much for her." 
 
 " He sat next her at dinner." 
 
77 
 
 " He sat where mother put him, of course, but he 
 talked most to the woman on the other side." 
 
 " Who was it ? " 
 
 " Oh — a girl ! " [A pause. 
 
 Vebona [resumes] : " It was me." 
 
 " Was it ? I never noticed. I say, Verona, I am 
 tired of the way I do my hair. How would you like 
 it— so ? " 
 
 " No — hateful — doesn't suit you a bit ! " 
 
 " How then ? " 
 
 " So ! No — so ! Any way ! " 
 
 " You are unsympathetic." [A pause. 
 
 Verona [resumes] : " I shall go away now, I think." 
 
 " Shall you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; you won't talk." 
 
 " Talk about something sensible and I will." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, don't get like Arthur Deverel." 
 
 " Don't be rude." 
 
 "Oh, Moderna, you don't care for the prig, 
 really?" 
 
 " Suppose we drop that silly name." 
 
 "You can't alter him. I've heard of a reformed 
 rake, but of a reformed prig — never ! And he plays 
 tennis abominably. Who asks him here ? " 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 " Then I suppose Peggy does. She's too cheeky 
 for anything. I say, what will you swap that gown 
 for in the wardrobe, there — second frorn the end ? " 
 
78 
 
 " Make an offer." 
 
 " My vieux rose." 
 
 " That old deader ! Why, it's nearly worni out ! " 
 
 " I've hardly liad it on." 
 
 "Ah, but you ' sbab ' so easily. You would have 
 to throw in a hat or something to make it fair." 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 Veeona [speaks'] : " Why, you are in bed ! " 
 
 « Why not ? It's very late." 
 
 " I suppose I had better go." 
 
 " I suppose you had." 
 
 " I feel as if I could talk all night." 
 
 " Mercy ! " 
 
 " You are cross, Moderna." 
 
 " No, only sleepy." 
 
 " Good-night, dear." 
 
 " Good-night. Mind you shut the door." 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 VjiKONA [comes back]: " Mod, wake up, there's an 
 angel, and tell me one thing." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " But you must wake up properly, Moderna. It is 
 so important." 
 
 " Bother you, Verona ! You can have that dress 
 for your wretched old pink, only let me go to sleep, 
 there's a good child," 
 
 " It isn't the dress." 
 
 " What then ? Be quick, I'm just off again." 
 
79 
 
 " Oh, Moderna, wait one minute. Do you — do you 
 think — is it me or the widow ? " 
 
 " Neither, I should think." 
 
 "Moderna, please, you might be nice." 
 
 " I must, I see, if I am ever to go. to sleep at all. 
 Well, she's going by the eleven-ten, day after to- 
 morrow, if that's any consolation to you." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Mother told me ; besides, I saw Tom looking out 
 trains for her." 
 
 " Oh, dear! " 
 
 " Silly ! she's only playing him off against Mr. 
 Deverel." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! and is she going to take him away 
 from us, too ? " 
 
 " I'll see to that. Now, listen. Tom is going to 
 stay on at the Deverels' till Thursday ; and he said to 
 me yesterday didn't I think your eyes the most beau- 
 tiful eyes in the whole world ? Now, are you con- 
 tent ? " 
 
 " Yes, you darling. You are a dear ! You've 
 made me so happy. I'll let you have the Mercury 
 toque as well, if you take the vieiix rose — it will make 
 it worth while ; and I shall never, never forget what 
 a good sister you've been ; and I dare say if you cock 
 
 it up a bit at the back, and put new velvet 
 
 Pooh ! she's asleep ! " 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 At Mrs. Moktimbr's dance in St. John'sWood. With the open- 
 ing bars of the waltz there is a general move among the couples 
 in the conservatory. Modebna sits motionless as her partner 
 hows and leaves her. 
 
 MoDEENA : N"o, I'm not jealous. I don't liate her, 
 but — I wish Is that you, Verona ? 
 
 Vekona \leaving her partner for a moment^ : I 
 say, Moderna, don't be an idiot. Dance away and 
 have a good time. He is absolutely booked for Flos- 
 sie Rensselaer. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I don't know what you mean. 
 
 Veeona : There, you are cross — and I left my 
 partner to come and comfort you ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Comfort ! You may just go away ! 
 [Vekona goes.^ That is the worst of sisters. They 
 find out everything. Here's Flossie now ! 
 
 Miter Flossie Rensselaer. 
 
 Flossie : What are you sitting here alone for, 
 Moderna mia ? Have you not got a partner ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't be silly ! Of course I have got a 
 partner. 
 
 Flossie : Well, then, don't sit away here where 
 he can't possibly find you. It looks odd. Ta-ta ! 
 
 [ Goes on, 
 
 80 
 
81 
 
 MoDEENA : I suppose it does. I'll go back. No, 
 stop, here's my partner ! Is that you, Billy? [2b 
 BiLLT Danvebs, who comes stumblitig out into the 
 conservatory.^ 
 
 Billy : Flossie told me I should find you here. 
 
 MoDEENA : Kind, considerate Flossie ! Well, come 
 and sit down. I don't want to dance. 
 
 Billy : I'm sure I don't. It's awfully hot. I'd 
 rather talk to you than dance, any day. 
 
 MoDBENA [smiling'] : Do I dance so badly, then ? 
 
 Billy : Don't be silly ! You are a ripping good 
 partner. But sometimes a fellow feels disin- 
 clined 
 
 MoDEENA : Disinclined to prattle ? I know. I'm 
 not much at talking myself to-night. 
 
 Billy : Yes, you are pale. You do too mucli. 
 It's that blessed " Girls' Friendly" you go to. What 
 do girls want to fag for? But still, I like you 
 anyway, Mod, you are so soothing. Soothe 
 me ! 
 
 MoDEENA : You look very nice. Will that do ? 
 By the light of one Chinese lantern I see you are 
 wearing something very superb in buttonholes. 
 
 Billy: Rather big, don't you think? It isn't 
 mine, either. It was Arthur Deverel's. He gave it 
 me. 
 
 MoDEENA : Let me look ? 
 
 Billy : Hands off ! I should never get it back 
 
 6 
 
83 
 
 again. You may smell it on the tree. I am not 
 going to give it to you. 
 
 MoDEENA [nervousli/] : You very cheeky boy ! 
 You don't suppose I really want your horrid cabbage 
 of a flower, do you ? 
 
 Billy : Now you've left off being soothing. 
 Everybody is hateful to-night. 
 
 MoDEENA : Who have you been dancing with ? 
 Flossie ? 
 
 Billy: No, thank you ! I don't care to halve dances 
 with Deverel. 
 
 Modeena: Not Flossie? Well, who then? 
 [ Wearily.] I insist upon knowing. 
 
 Billy: Nobody, I tell you. Girls always think a 
 fellow must be in love with someone. I am not 
 going to fall in love any more till I have passed my 
 exam. Life is far too serious for that sort of liumbug. 
 
 MoDBBNA : Ah, but you will have to make a 
 special study of that sort of humbug when you go in 
 for being a diplomat. It is part of your duty to flirt 
 and make love prettily. 
 
 Billy [with conviction'] : Oh, I think I can man- 
 age that. But I consider falling in love — reallj' — 
 awful rot, don't you ? I mean to steer clear of all 
 that bother, as yet. I get on very well. I am not 
 in love with anyone, not even with you. 
 
 MoDEENA [bitterly] : It's very easy not to be in 
 love with me. 
 
83 
 
 Billy [politely] : Not at all. It takes me all my 
 time, I assure you. If anything, you're not old 
 enough. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, Billy, how funny you are ! Try 
 Flossie. 
 
 BiLLT : Is she older than you ? 
 
 MoDEKNA [repentant] : I don't know, I'm sure. 
 
 Billy : And besides I shouldn't like to go and cut 
 old Deverel out. 
 
 MoDERNA : Is Mr. Deverel 
 
 Billy : Well, just look at them ! They are 
 inseparable, and they don't dance — they talk, and 
 Flossie looks quite serious, for her ! Oh, it's a 
 settled affair, you bet, and we shall all hear of it 
 to-morrow. 
 
 MoDEKNA : But — I always thought — I understood 
 that she was engaged to his brother Fred. Last 
 autumn at Merrow 
 
 Billy : I know. But they had a split : things 
 went wrong somehow. Personally I prefer Fred to 
 Arthur, Arthur's such a prig. I can't think wliat the 
 saintly Arthur sees in Flossie. She's awful sport — 
 but 
 
 MoDEENA : Hush ! 
 
 Billy : Oh, she's not a bad sort, really, only a bit 
 flighty. I've got a note here, she shoved into ray 
 hand in the lancers. Shall I show it to you ? 
 
 MoDEENA [leaning forward] : Is it You 
 
84 
 
 ought not to — I suppose. [With sudden fury.] I'll 
 never speak to you again if you do. 
 
 Billy : Of course I slia'n't — I was only " ragging." 
 It's nothing, only to ask me to let her off three 
 dances she had promised me. She wanted them for 
 Deverel, I suppose. 
 
 MoDEENA [interrogativeli/l : She is just the kind 
 of girl who appeals to men 
 
 Billy : Yes, she's always appealing and making 
 eyes. Personally, I hate it. We all think Deverel 
 an infernal fool. But he's gone too far now to draw 
 back. The Deverels are all awfully punctilious and 
 all that. It will come off to-night. Look here, I'll 
 bet you — I'll bet you anything it comes off to-night. 
 I can find out. I've watched them. Do lay me 
 something on it ! 
 
 MoDEENA : But then I shall have to bet that it 
 will not come off, and I know it will. 
 
 Billy : Do it for the sake of argument, as neither 
 of us care twopence either way. But old Deverel's 
 a good sort — a bit of a prig and all that, but I like 
 him. 
 
 MoDBENA : I wonder why. 
 
 Billy : Oh, why do men take to each other ? 
 Besides, don't you be mean ; at Merrow you and 
 Arthur were rather pals, if I recollect. I'm sorry the 
 American girl has got him. He's too good for her. 
 \Meditatively.\ Perhaps her money may have some- 
 
85 
 
 thing to do with it. He wants to go into Parlia- 
 ment, I know. 
 
 MoDEENA [suddenly] : Have you got the next 
 dance ? 
 
 Billy : No ; gave it away. Why ? Want to 
 cut it? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes. 
 
 Billy [anxiouslyl : Whose is it ? 
 
 MoDEENA [layghingl : Billy, you are presuming 
 on our intimacy. Remember I am a young lady 
 who has been out three seasons, and you are a little 
 boy I can use to cut dances with, but I am not bound 
 to give names to you. 
 
 Billy : I am sorry for him, poor beggar, whoever 
 he is ! You look so nice to-night ; you are not 
 pale now, but so red — so red. I say, there is that 
 rattling good polka " Cut and Run " ! Oh, I can't 
 miss that ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Of course not. Run along. I'll wait 
 here. [Leans hack.] 
 
 Billy : Really leave you here ? [ Going.] By 
 the way, what is our bet to be ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't know. Anything ! Your 
 buttonhole ? 
 
 Billy : Aha, you did want it ! I say. Mod, I've 
 a great mind to stay and see who it is you want to 
 shirk ? 
 
 MoDEENA : If you don't cut and run at once, I'll 
 
86 
 
 never speak to you again ! All right. I won't for- 
 get the bet. 
 
 Exit BiLLT. Enter Aethuk Deveeel. 
 
 Deveeel [shortly] : Our dance ! Come and see 
 the night-flowering Cereus in the hothouse at the 
 bottom of the garden. 
 
 Modeena \raiher stiffly] : It's rather cold. 
 
 Deveeel : Excuse me, I had thought of that. 
 Isn't this your wrap ? I fetched it out of the cloak- 
 room for you. I noticed it particularly as you came 
 in. Let us go and look at this fabulous flower. 
 Everyone has been but me, and I waited till I could 
 go with you. I am glad to say I have done all my 
 duty dances. 
 
 MoDEENA : Whj'^, you were dancing with Miss 
 Rensselaer, Mr. Deverel ? 
 
 Deveeel : Yes. She is going to marry my 
 brother Fred, after all. I have pulled it straight. 
 He was so miserable about her. You have no idea 
 how worried I've been all these months. I have had 
 no time to attend to my own concerns. Come ! 
 [He puts the wrap carefully round her. Tliey go. 
 
 Half an hour later. They meet Billy Danvees and 
 Veeona in the supper-room. 
 
 MoDEENA : Is there any room in here, Billy ? 
 Billy : Yes ; Verona and I will make room for 
 
87 
 
 you. [Zooks at her.] I say, Mod, will you liave the 
 buttonhole ? 
 
 MoDEENA [softly] : Yes, dear boy. 
 
 FROM MODEENA's DIAET. 
 
 I have told him all. I hated doing it. He didn't 
 mind as much as I expected. He said Captain Jekyll 
 had behaved very well. I told him that Captain 
 Jekyll married Cissy Riddell six months ago, so 
 I hadn't done her any harm, at any rate. I am so 
 glad I confessed. I am quite happy. How could 
 I have been jealous — and of Flossie Rensselaer, too ! 
 It seems incredible ! Arthur doesn't think her good 
 form, I know, though he can't speak out, as she is 
 going to be his sister-in-law — and mine ! 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 Piccadilly on a summer morning. 
 
 Detebel : Well, and what did my little Moderna 
 do witli herself all yesterday ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Let me see, Arthur. Well, I had 
 rather a time of it yesterday. William has got his 
 Exeat and expects me to be a perfect slave to him — 
 and of course I am — and then I went to lunch with 
 your sainted mother 
 
 Deveeel \mildly] : My what ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I beg pardon ; Lady Deverel. It was 
 rather an ordeal. I kept hoping you would come in. 
 
 Deteeel [tenderly] : Did you ? I wish, dear, 
 you got on better with my mother. She might be of 
 use to you in many ways if 
 
 MoDEENA : But I do like her ! I think she's a 
 dear old thing ! And your sister is ripping ! Oh, I 
 beg your pardon. I seem to be always begging 
 your pardon, Arthur. When William is up from 
 Eton I always get rather slangy. But don't you 
 believe your mother and I don't get on ! We do. 
 She asked me to play to her, and I did — an air with 
 variations — old style. It was rather moi-e modern 
 than they thought. Guess what ? 
 
Deveeel : I cannot tell. What are the things 
 girls play now ? 
 
 MoDEENA [laughingl : It wasn't "The Maiden's 
 Prayer," at any rate. Listen ! it was " The Poor Girl 
 Didn't Know, You Know." A lovely air, and I 
 invented the variations. They never even guessed. 
 
 Deveeel [dryly'] : They wouldn't. Don't you 
 think, dear, it was rather 
 
 MoDEENA [wilfully] : Oh, that's nothing. Maude 
 White did " 'E Dunno Where 'E Are," for us the 
 other day as a fugue. 
 
 Deveeel [reconciled ] : It was clever of you, dear. 
 Why are we stopping ? 
 
 Modeena [earnestly surveying the posters on a 
 hoarding] : How pretty that dancing girl is ! I 
 wonder who drew her ? 
 
 Deveeel : For Heaven's sake, don't stop before a 
 hoarding ! 
 
 Modeena : All right, come on ! When we are 
 married, Arthur, sha'n't we go to one of those 
 places ? 
 
 Deveeel : What places ? Music halls ? My 
 dear child, they are so deplorably dull ! 
 
 Modeena [aggrieved]: I know, tiiat is what all 
 the married women say, who have been once, and 
 want to persuade their innocent sisters that it is sour 
 grapes. Why, Flossie Deverel, your own sister-in- 
 law, went the other day, and she and Fred pinned 
 
90 
 
 the curtains forward with her bonnet-pin, and looked 
 through, and had a perfectly lovely time. 
 
 Deveeel [sententiously] : Please don't take my 
 sister-in-law as your model. I had rather you didn't, 
 and I don't think Americanisms sound well in the 
 mouth of a lovely English girl. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I must say, Arthur, that when you 
 do pay one a compliment, you lay it on with a 
 trowel ! But I do really mean to learn skirt- 
 dancing. Don't you think I could do it rather well ? 
 I am not a bit stiflf ; I can twist any way. [Looks as 
 if she were going to begin that very minute.'] 
 
 Deveeel [fondly]: You shall, dear, and dance it 
 for me, your husband, alone. 
 
 MoDEENA [with modified enthusiasm] : Ah ! 
 [ Walks on in silence. Afire engine rattles by.] Oh, 
 look, Arthur, it's going down there ! Let's go and 
 see the fire. We must ! 
 
 Deveeel : But, dearest, it is quite out of the 
 question. There will be an awful crowd. 
 
 MoDEENA : Of course, that's half the fun. Do 
 let's! [To a small boy.] Tell me the way to the 
 fire? 
 
 The Boy : Only a chimbly in Montpelier Square, 
 miss. It's out, nearly. 
 
 Deveeel : Please, Moderna, don't speak to little 
 boys in the street. Come along, let's turn into the 
 gardens. 
 
91 
 
 MoDBENA [submissiveli/] : All right, dear. 
 [Makes a sudden dive between three converging omni- 
 buses. He joins her on the opposite side.'\ 
 
 MoDEENA : I love getting right under the horses' 
 noses, don't you? It's so exciting ! 
 
 Deveebl : Yes, dear ; only my trousers are 
 covered with mud. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, come along, no one will look at 
 you. [ They enter the gardens. Modeena picJcs bud- 
 ding horse-chestnut leaves and strips them with her 
 teeth.] 
 
 Deteeel : Don't, dear, it will make your teeth 
 quite green. [They appropriate two chairs under a 
 tree. Deveeel gazes tenderly at Modeena, who has 
 obediently left off eating green leaves and .nts back, 
 looking a little bored.] 
 
 Deveeel : Now, darling, let us talk seriously. 
 That pretty little head must make plans, and be 
 businesslike sometimes. I should like — that day we 
 know of 
 
 MoDEENA : Why can't you say wedding-day right 
 out? 
 
 Deveeel : The date of our marriage fixed, so that 
 I could arrange some nice place to go where I could 
 have you all to myself. 
 
 MoDEENA [eagerly] : I know where J should like 
 to go. 
 
 Deveeel: Where ? Scotland ? Norway ? It 
 
used to be quiet there, but latelj' it has been over- 
 run with tourists. 
 
 MoDEENA : Delightful ! Still, I had rather go to 
 Paris. Flossie and Fred did. 
 
 Deveeel : I'm sick to death of Paris ! If you 
 only knew how 
 
 MoDEENA : But -?'m not, and I dorCt know. 
 [Piteously.] I want to go to the theatres, and the 
 Palais Royal farces, and the Cafes, and the Quartier 
 Latin, and the Chaumidre 
 
 Deveeel [fondly^ : Silly little thing ! The 
 Chaumi^re died long before you were born. 
 
 MoDEENA : One reads of it in " The Newcomes." 
 But there is sure to be something new that corre- 
 sponds to it ! 
 
 Deveeel [^dryli/] : No doubt — but I couldn't take 
 my pearl there. [A pause. 
 
 Deveeel : And what other dreadful things do 
 you want to do when you are married ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Heaps of things ! Read French 
 novels — all those I may not read now. 
 
 Deveeel [indulgentlyl : I dare say I could look 
 out some French books that you can read now. 
 
 MoDEENA \rudely'\ : I know, like the French shelf 
 in the school library, " R^cit d'une Soeur," and the 
 " Romance of an Idiotic Young Man," or whatever it 
 is ? I want to read Droz, and De Maupassant, and 
 Zola, and 
 
93 
 
 Deveeel [with violence] : I had rather my wife 
 lay dead at ray feet than that she should read 
 Zola! 
 
 MoDEENA [sweetly] : Then I won't. You can 
 tell me all the plots yourself. 
 
 Deveeel : Heaven forbid ! You don't seem to 
 understand, dearest. I want to preserve you, my 
 flower, my white lily, as yon are ; to enfold you with 
 my love, to protect, to cherish you, and not let any- 
 thing painful or ugly or disagreeable come near you, 
 my sweet, if I can help it. I always think of that 
 beautiful observation of Shakspere's : 
 
 " That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
 Visit her face too rouglily." 
 
 MoDEENA [a little impressed] : Arthur, dear, it's 
 very pretty, but I enjoy the winds of heaven, and 
 [laugM?ig], to be prosaic, I don't chap easily. I'm 
 awfully strong. Feel my biceps. 
 
 Deveeel : You oughtn't to have a biceps. 
 
 MoDEENA : No biceps, no arm, no wrist, no finger 
 to put your pretty engagement ring on ! Feel, all 
 the same. Even Billy says it is fine — for a girl. 
 [JSe touches her arm gingerly, with an eye to an old 
 gentleman who is feeding the ducks. Mobees a takes 
 off her glove and examines her ring.] 
 
 Deveeel : "What pretty filbert nails you have ! 
 There is such distinction about them. I don't think 
 
94 
 
 I could have fallen in love with a woman who had 
 square nails. 
 
 MoDEBNA [wilfully] : I bite them. 
 
 Deveebl : Naughty little thing ! We must cure 
 you of that [ fondly], then you will be quite perfect. 
 I shall have the sweetest and prettiest woman in Eng- 
 land for my wife, 
 
 MoDEENA [bitterly] : Oh, yes ! people like you 
 always have everything perfect. Perfect house ! 
 Perfect wines ! Perfect wife 
 
 Deveeel [mildly] : Yes, Moderna. Do you know, 
 I always think that a man's wife, as it were, explains 
 him. 
 
 MoDEENA : Then it is to be my mission in life to 
 explain you ! But who is going to explain me? 
 [Deveeel /a«7s to find any point in her remark, but 
 is vaguely distressed. He takes her hand, which she 
 draws away pettishly.] 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't ! 
 
 Deveeel: Why not ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Somebody might be looking out of a 
 window in the Palace, and see you. 
 
 Deveeel [with discernment] : Have I said any- 
 thing to vex yon, darling ? 
 
 MoDEENA : No — yes — you can't help it — but you 
 talk so — foolishly — so narrowly. You don't seem to 
 see that a woman has a soul to save as well as a man ; 
 a personality she ought to develop ; a life to live 
 
95 
 
 Dbveeel [sadly] : Ah, dear, I see that you, too, 
 have got hold of that dreadful modern jargon of 
 " repressed personalities and balked vocations," 
 that leads eventually to public platforms and 
 "Women's Rights," and monstrous developments 
 of that kind. You have been reading Ibsen. If 
 women would only be content to stay in the niche 
 that Providence intended for them ! Dearest, don't 
 you see that a man like me is, or ought to be, able 
 to satisfy every yearning of a woman's nature, sym- 
 pathize with all the aspirations of her being, and 
 comprise them in his, as the greater includes the 
 less. She lives in his life, as it were, and her lighter 
 nature finds its expression in his deeper one. 
 
 MoDEKNA [loith sarcasm] : Arthur, you quite 
 overwhelm me with your rhetoric. The case has 
 never been put so clearly before. 
 
 Deveeel : You see my point, don't you, dear? 
 You know I iiold such very chivalrous views about 
 women. They are so infinitely pathetic to me, in 
 their gentle fragile dependence. Don't you know 
 Tennyson says : 
 
 " Men are God's trees, and women are his flowers." 
 
 MoDEENA : Pshaw ! " Half -hours witli the Poets." 
 There are dozens of quotations like that. Men wrote 
 them, of course. "The sturdy oak and the clinging 
 vine." [Shortly.] I don't want to cling. 
 
96 
 
 Deveebl : It's a law of nature. Women are 
 bound to be dependent. You can't help yojir dear 
 little selves. And think how beautiful an arrange- 
 ment it is ! Man goes out and toils in the heat and 
 labor of the day, and comes home in the evening, 
 weary and worn out, and finds his wife, in her soft, 
 warm nest, waiting for him. 
 
 MoDEENA [flippantly'] : In her boudoir, in a 
 lovely tea-gown, pouring out tea for half-a-dozen 
 men who are calling. 
 
 Deverel [revoltedl : Moderna ! 
 
 MoDEENA : It's no good, dear. I'm cross. Let's 
 go home ! 
 
 Deveeel : But 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, it's going to rain. These spring 
 mornings are so ti'eacherous. 
 
 Deteeel ; You surely don't mind a shower ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, I might melt. Fragile, with care. 
 l^Sises.] 
 
 Deveeel : Well, if you will ! Take my arm, then. 
 
 MoDEENA : No, thank you, dear. 
 
 At the Park Gates. 
 
 MoDEENA : Dear, I'm not at all nice to-day, and 
 I think you had better not come back to lunch. 
 William is there — and I'm going to have a headache 
 after lunch, and a real bad temper in my own room, 
 and I'm going to dine at the Mortimers' in the even- 
 
97 
 
 ing. [JTails a 'bus.] Best for you and best for me. 
 Good-by. You may come and dine to-morrow — 
 unless you hear. [The omnibus stops.] 
 
 Deveeel [surprised] : Did you liail it? [She 
 nods and gathers up her skirts.] Darling, when you 
 are mine, you shall never go in an omnibus ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Till then [ Gets in.] Good-by. 
 
 TInspoJcen thoughts. 
 
 His : Dear little girl ! But she needs an immense 
 amount of breaking in. My mother 
 
 Hees : Love in a cottage is all very well, but love 
 
 in a bandbox I should die. I shall have to 
 
 find some way out of this. 
 
CHAPTER Xin 
 
 I 
 Dearest : Why were you not at my mother's 
 reception to-day? I will go to you at three to- 
 morrow. Yours always, A. D. 
 
 II 
 Dearest : No, don't come at three. Come at four. 
 Yours always, M. M. 
 
 Ill 
 Dearest : I called at four precisely, and you had 
 gone out, I ascertained. How about Thursday ? 
 
 Yours always, A. D. 
 
 IT 
 
 Dear Arthur : I beg your pardon, but I did not 
 go out till five minutes past four. I am so sorry. 
 In haste, yours, M. M. 
 P. S. — I have an engagement on Thursday. 
 
 V 
 
 My Dear Moderna : When may I come, then ? I 
 have so much to say. Friday ? Yours, A. 
 
 VI 
 
 Dear Arthur : No, not Friday. I have to go to 
 my cookery class in the morning, and to my gym- 
 
99 
 
 nasium in the afternoon. I shall be too tired to do 
 
 anything after. Saturday I go to Eton to see 
 
 William, and a dinner in the evening. Sunday I am 
 
 going to the Temple Church with Billy Danvers, and 
 
 in the afternoon to a Bohemian tea-party that I 
 
 don't want to miss. It is no use my offering to take 
 
 you — you would hate it. Don't trouble to send me 
 
 flowers for to-night. I've left off wearing them, it's 
 
 not fashionable ; besides, it spoils the fronts of one's 
 
 gowns so. Yours, 
 
 M. Maskeltne. 
 
 VII 
 
 My Dearest Moderna : Do you realize that it is a 
 whole week since I have seen you, and you keep 
 putting me off ? I begin to think there is something 
 behind. Write by the next post. 
 
 Yours always, dear Moderna, 
 
 Aethue Deveeel. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Well, then, dear Arthur, if you will have it, thei-e 
 is. I have been meaning to tell you for a long time, 
 but you are always so nice tliat it is difficult to be 
 disagreeable to you. But I have been thinking — 
 don't you guess what I am coming to when I begin 
 like that ? Oh, I wish you would guess, and save 
 me the pain of telling you. You must see it your- 
 self, dear Arthur, you must see that we are not 
 really in sympathy with each other. We must not 
 
100 
 
 many. I should never make you happy — or you 
 me. That would be my fault, not yours. Do be 
 kind and sensible, and not want me to explain. I 
 cari!t explain — it's inexplicable, the divergence 
 between us. Put it this way — say I am horrid and 
 you are nice ; and congratulate yourself on having 
 been saved from a wife who would make you quite 
 miserable. 
 
 I am going away for a little. When I come back, 
 come and see me, and let us be friends, but don't 
 come now. I could not explain it to you if you 
 did — I can't explain it to myself — but I know we 
 should be miserable together. M. M. 
 
 IX 
 
 If it is as you say, I must accept your decision, 
 only I must hear it from your own lips. I vfill come 
 to-morrow evening at nine. A. D. 
 
 Peggy \reading the lasi\ : They always want to 
 hear it from one's own disagreeable lips ! So silly ! 
 Did you tell him you were dining out ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes. He must have forgotten. 
 
 Peggy : You carCt be so horrid as to go ? 
 
 MoDBENA : I am not going to play Mrs. Mortimer 
 false because Arthur can't take No for an answer. 
 Oh, why can't he understand, and stay away ? It's 
 so dreadfully unsympathetic of him. [ TTaife.] 
 
101 
 
 Peggy : That's just wliat you complain of in him, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes. Why can't he see that I don't 
 want a scene, that I can't explain or give a reason. 
 I have no reason — no tangible reason. 
 
 Peggy : Except that you think you are too good 
 for him. 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't. How caii you say such 
 things ? I wish I hadn't told you. 
 
 Peggy : Well, you think you are different from 
 other people ; that there is something distinctive 
 about you — more character, and all that. I don't 
 know what it is — but 
 
 MoDEENA : Then you think me conceited ? 
 
 Peggy : Oh, no ; I don't think you have anything 
 to be conceited about — really. Look here, he means 
 to-night, and it's six now. What are you going to 
 do about Arthur ? Must you really jilt him ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Is it really jilting ? I suppose it is. 
 Well, it must be given out that he has jilted me. 
 
 Peggy : No ; that I will not allow. I shall tell 
 everyone the version I mean them to accept. Look 
 here, Arthur's a prig, I know — I always said so ; but 
 must you — can't you put up with him — can't you 
 mould him ? It's so much nicer to have the eldest 
 engaged and married, so as to 
 
 MoDEENA : I can't spoil my whole life and his, 
 for the sake of taking my younger sisters out. 
 
102 
 
 Verona must do it, or you. I'm going to be a 
 bachelor. 
 
 Peggy [resignedly] : Or an obstinate idiot. Well, 
 he must be told — somehow. How do you mean to 
 do it? 
 
 MoDEENA [hesitating] : Don't you think I might 
 let him come, and 
 
 Peggy: And then you would make me see him! 
 Oh, you coward ! 
 
 MoDEENA [with scorn] : You — you would take 
 the skin off anybody with your tongue ! No, I 
 meant mother — she might explain to him. 
 
 Peggy : She'd muddle it ! 
 
 MoDEENA [sharply] : She would do it like a lady, 
 at any rate, and that's the point. All the better if 
 she does muddle him a little. I don't want to hurt 
 his feelings by explaining, so long as he knows I 
 don't want to be engaged any more ! Mother must 
 tell him that I am not going to marry ; that I think 
 a woman much happier not married ; that I think 
 men, when one knows them, are odious 
 
 Peggy [dryly] : He will like that. [Curiously.] 
 I say, Moderna, does he ever kiss you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes — I suppose so. 
 
 Peggy : And do you like it ? 
 
 MoDEENA [impatiently] : I never think about 
 it. It doesn't count. It's one of the formalities of 
 being engaged. I hate being engaged. I was never 
 
103 
 
 meant to be engaged. I wish I could be a boy, with 
 a cropped head, and a sword, and a sash tied on one 
 side, and flirt desperately with every woman I met, 
 and make her miserable — like a man. It must be 
 delightful to choose, instead of being chosen — to 
 " run around," as Flossie Deverel says, and do every- 
 thing, and go everywhere, and " love and ride 
 away." 
 
 Peggy [carried away] : It's a good thing you are 
 not a boy. What a villain you would be ! 
 
 MoDERNA : Still, as a mere wretched girl, I don't 
 see why I shouldn't have a very good time. I do so 
 want to see the world, and make my own mistakes, 
 and be accountable to nobody. 
 
 Peggy : A kind of Peregrina Pickle ! I see. 
 You will get into some awful muddle, I know, if you 
 begin like this. You frighten me, positively. [Shud- 
 ders.] 
 
 MoDBENA : Don't be affected, Peggy. Whatever 
 I do I shall hurt nobody but myself. Whereas, if I 
 had a husband, I assure you I should be quite idiot- 
 ically careful — not to give him away. I should feel 
 I was responsible for his peace of mind. I should 
 not like to hurt his vanity by being horrid and reck- 
 less and bad form. Just fancy having the honor of 
 the Deverels to take care of ! But now as I am, 
 unattached 
 
 Peggy : What awful rot ! You can disgrace your 
 
104 
 
 family ! Every fast thing you do, people will 
 say how badly mother brought you up ! I should 
 hate to have a larky sister. It wpuld injure my 
 prospects. No, it won't do. I have only been out 
 two years, but I am practical ; and I observe things. 
 You never do ; you are too harum-scarum and 
 artistic. It's all very well when you are young to be 
 unconventional ; people laugh with you, and think 
 it's only artlessness and youthful spirits ; but by and 
 by, when you are thirty and " stale and flat and un- 
 profitable," — I heard Billy Danvers say that of Lady 
 Dean the other day, — people will laugh at you, and 
 that isn't so nice. Now, while you are young and 
 pretty 
 
 MoDEENA \laugMng\ : I thought you said just 
 now that I had nothing to be conceited about. 
 
 Peggy [disconcerted] : You look rather nice in 
 that frock. It makes your waist quite small — it 
 really does. Come along and dress. [Mieunt. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The same evening. Twelve o'clock. Modbkna enters in her 
 white dress and cloak, to find Peggy in bed. She gently 
 touches hen- on the shoulder. 
 
 MoDBENA [eagerly] : "Well, what happened? 
 
 Peggy : Wait till I wake up ! [Sits tip in bed.] 
 Well, he came ! 
 
 MoDEEKA : Cross ? 
 
 Peggy : I didn't see the beginrings of him. I was 
 out on the balcony, "inhaling the vernal airs of 
 spring"; but when he was announced 1 left off 
 inhaling them^ and listened instead to what was 
 going on inside. 
 
 MoDEENA : Listened? 
 
 Peggy : I only mean Arthur didn't see me. List- 
 ening from a balcony is the same as reading a post- 
 card — everybody does it. 
 
 MoDEENA : I always notice post-cards take three 
 times as long as a letter to travel from the front door 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Peggy : Don't interrupt me if you want to hear. 
 Mother received him — she looked awfully dignified 
 and respectable. " Out, is she ? " was the first thing 
 I heard. Then mother mumbled something — I felt 
 
 105 
 
106 
 
 so inclined to shout, "Speak up ! " and he said, "I 
 assure you, Mrs. Maskelyne, I never dreamt of 
 this ! " What a hypoci'ite you must have been, 
 Modern a ! 
 
 MoDEENA : If he hadn't been so conceited he 
 would have guessed. Why, every time he took my 
 hand — I wanted hifli to sometimes — and then when 
 he did, I felt I'd rather not — oh, so much rather ! 
 He pretended so hard to be interested in the things I 
 was interested in — as if I was such a fool that I 
 could not find out he was pretending. And when 
 once we were married, he was going to shut me up in 
 a bandbox of society observances and conventionali- 
 ties. Now, I like dress and compliments and draw- 
 ing-rooms, and all that, well enough, but I wanted to 
 go down into the arena and fight with beasts, and he 
 would never have let me. 
 
 Peggy : As long as he offered to fight them for 
 you, I don't see 
 
 MoDBENA : I was to sit behind a lattice, like a 
 queen at a tournament — see the world through his 
 eyes 
 
 Peggy : Such fishy eyes, too ! They have no ex- 
 pression. Well, then mother said : " My daughter 
 is very young for her age ; she really kno'ws nothing 
 of the world — and her own good. She is full of 
 fancies, dear child. I wish you had waited a little 
 while before proposing." 
 
107 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, dear, that isn't at all the line I 
 meant her to take ! 
 
 Peggy : Then he said — he is always dragging 
 Lady Deverel in — " My mother will be so distressed." 
 
 MoDEENA : That's not true. They are awfully 
 well-bred, and are determined to treat me properly. 
 But they regard me with tolerance tempered with 
 aversion. 
 
 Peggy : " So am I distressed," mother said, " at 
 the turn things have taken " — and she " didn't know 
 what to do. You were so headstrong, she never ven- 
 tured to interfere with you." 
 
 MoDEENA : Doesn't she ? That is one of the 
 reasons I wanted to get married 
 
 Peggy : Nonsense. You were in love with 
 Arthur ! She " could do nothing at present, but she 
 hoped that it might all come right in the end — if 
 Arthur would go away for a little " 
 
 MoDEENA l^furious] : In short, she told him he 
 might " call again " ! [^Dashes across the room to a 
 loriting -table. \ She bade him hope — she hasn't dis- 
 illusioned him a bit — he just thinks it is a mere girl- 
 ish caprice. He'll send me alternate bouquets and 
 boxes of bonbons for a month, and then expect to 
 come back and find a repentant. Oh, I must write 
 to-night I 
 
 Peggy : Wait a bit. You needn't write. He is 
 quite disillusioned now. 
 
108 
 
 MoDEENA : What do you mean ? 
 
 Peggy : I mean that when I saw how things were 
 going, I thought it was time to put in my little, but 
 hy no means contemptible, oar. I consider I made 
 the engagement — don't you recollect that summer at 
 Merrow ? — and it was my business to unmake it. So 
 I walked right to the other end* of the balcony and 
 then rustled back, and came in airily and remarked 
 that it was getting cold. 
 
 MoDEEKTA : Peggy, you fraud ! 
 
 Pbggt : I know — for you ! I just tipped mother 
 the wink — not one of your ponderous ones, but a 
 dear little delicate wink that she caught at once — 
 and in five minutes she had neuralgia enough to. go 
 upstairs for her salts, and wit to stay there. 
 
 MoBEENA : Well, and then ? 
 
 Peggy : He sat still, and looked expectant. I sat 
 down and I said : " Very rude of my little sister to 
 go out to-night, wasn't it? But she always does 
 what she likes — she never troubles to consider any- 
 body's feelings." 
 
 Modeena : Really, Peggy ? 
 
 Peggy : Disillusioning him, you know. " Did she 
 know I was coming ? " he asked fiercely. " I imag- 
 ined she hadn't got my note." " Got it fast enough," 
 I said, " but she wanted to go to the Mortimers', and 
 she went." He said : " I can't believe in such want 
 of feeling " — I'm not sure he didn't say proper feel- 
 
109 
 
 ing — " She knew I had to see her on a matter of 
 urgent importance " 
 
 MoDEENA : I begged him not to try and see me ! 
 
 Peggy : I said so. I said you hated scenes, and 
 wanted it all to pass off with the least possible wear 
 and tear to your own nerves. " She is very hard," 
 I said ; " didn't you find her so ? " " Very reserved, 
 very simple, very unsophisticated," he said — how 
 I laughed inside — " but I always thought that would 
 pass off, after " 
 
 MoDEEBTA [scornfully] : When he had Mwsophisti- 
 cated me by contact with his " larger nature." Oh, 
 I know it all. 
 
 Peggy : Then he said : " I was fool enough to 
 imagine she cared for me." 
 
 MoDEENA : I did. I was dreadfully in love with 
 him once. I can't understand. I knew no better, 
 I suppose. 
 
 Peggy [severely] : It is a great pity you know 
 better now. Look at the trouble you give ! So then 
 I told him that he had never understood you — you 
 had all sorts of dreadful theories. I gave him a 
 general idea of them, and he didn't like it at all. He 
 
 kept saying, " I should never have thought " 
 
 And I told him you had all sorts of bad habits ; that 
 you were lazy and unpunctual and untidy and bad- 
 tempered and tiresome — he will think tliat I am 
 jealous of you, but never mind. I don't care what 
 
110 
 
 he thinks of me, I wouldn't many him for worlds. 
 There's absolutely nothing in him but good breed- 
 ing. 
 
 MoDEENA : "Well, but you needn't have said I 
 was bad-tempered. I am not. 
 
 Peggy : Not if you get all your own way. 
 Besides, if one wants to disillusion anybody one 
 can't pitch it too strong, and I flatter myself I've 
 done it thoroughly. He looked as if he had never 
 taken in so many new ideas in so short a time in his 
 life. 
 
 MoDEENA : Well, I suppose I am obliged to you, 
 dear, but — did he express no regret whatever ? 
 
 Peggy : Oh, yes, of course, conventionally; but I 
 think he felt as if he had escaped marrying a sort of 
 domestic earthquake — a kind of family typhoon. 
 
 MoDEENA : And didn't he ask if there was some- 
 one else ? 
 
 Peggy : I really can't remember. You needn't 
 feel any remorse, I assure you ; he is not going 
 either to die or to drop us ; he is going away for a 
 bit, and then coming to call as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. I made him promise not to write to you, or 
 interfere with you in any way. He accepts your 
 verdict as final. Now go away and let me go to 
 sleep, there's a good girl 
 
 MoDEENA \wearily'\ : Will you just unhook me 
 first ? [Pensively.] He never really cared for me, or 
 
Ill 
 
 he couldn't have taken it so calmly. Why, even I, 
 who don't love him, can't — I am quite nervous. 
 
 Peggy : You're nervous because you have taken 
 the plunge. 
 
 MoDBENA : Plunge into what? 
 
 Peggy : Into old-maid-hood, I'm afraid. I don't 
 know who is going to marry such a cantankerous 
 girl ! It's a bad business. I shall write and tell 
 Edward all about it to-morrow'. 
 
 MoDEENA [Jlercely] : Edward ! Why ? 
 
 Peggy : Because he charged me, when he went 
 away, to be the gazette of the Maskelyne family, 
 and tell him all the news — and this is a very impor- 
 tant event. 
 
 MoDEENA : I forbid you to mention it to him, do 
 you hear ? Let him find it out ! Good-night. I 
 suppose I ought to thank you. [Exit. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 In Billy Daitvees' rooms in the Temple. 
 
 MoDEEXA : Quick, Peggy -will be here in a 
 moment ! She's letting Mr. Darcy show her the 
 church. I said I was tired of the Templar tombs, 
 and I would come up here and put your kettle on 
 for you. 
 
 Billy : You oughtn't to come here alone, you 
 know. 
 
 MoDBENA : "What does it matter ? It's only you ! 
 I've known you since you were so high. [Indicat- 
 ing a certain vague level.~\ I told Peggy she was to 
 spin it out as long as she could, so we should have 
 time to read father's answer to my letter. Quick ! 
 Has he answered it ? 
 
 Billy : I declare, I've been too lazy to look. 
 There the letters are, on the mantel-piece, the ac- 
 cumulation of three days ! I've not been here since. 
 
 MoDBENA : Open them, quick, before the others 
 come. I'll put the kettle on for you. Where is the 
 silly thing ? 
 
 Billy : Over there. It's all ready. 
 
 MoDEENA : Get on, open them ! What a pile ! 
 Miss out the bills. 
 
 118 
 
113 
 
 Billy \taMng a sheaf of letters off the mantel- 
 shelf '\ : It's a wise man knows a bill when he sees 
 one. Here, I'm too lazy, you shall open them. 
 
 MoDERNA : Never ! — I should hate to. I should 
 be so afraid of coming on pink scented ones and 
 silver monograms and all that sort of thing. 
 
 Billy [delighted'\ : Not many of those, I think. 
 Bill — bill. What name did you write to your 
 father under ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Maude Grey. It sounds convincing, 
 doesn't it ? 
 
 Billy : About as convincing as Miss Clara 
 Montague and Miss Daisy Montgomeiy. He most 
 likely won't answer at all. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, you don't know father. He de- 
 lights in being given an opportunity of snubbing 
 someone, and I have the greatest opinion of his 
 judgment, really. He won't snub my novel unless it 
 deserves it. I dare say it does ; I dare say he'll say 
 I'm to put it in the fire. It's best to have an un- 
 biassed opinion, isn't it ? Go on, why don't you look 
 for the letter ? It must be there. It's three days 
 since I wrote. What is in that big envelope ? 
 
 Billy : Tailors' patterns, I know. 
 
 MoDEEifA \titrns the letters over in desperationi : 
 Not this — not this ! What a smell of bad scent ! 
 
 Billy \pausing\ : That's this one. Look ! Isn't 
 it smart ? 
 
114 
 
 MoDBENA [reads] : " The Sisters Brace (Maud and 
 Topsy) request the pleasure of Mr. Danvers' and 
 friend's company at a ball to be given on the occasion 
 of their benefit on the stage of the ' Vanities ' on 
 Friday, 16th." Are you going ? Take me ! 
 
 Billy : Masked ? 
 
 MoDBKNA : I'd manage somehow. Oh, Billy, 
 about papa's letter — I've gone through them all, and 
 the answer doesn't seem to be there. 
 
 Billy [taking up the big envelope] : Dear me ! It 
 isn't tailors' patterns, it's a manuscript. " To Miss 
 Maude Grey," and " G. E. M." in the corner. 
 
 MoDBENA [in great excitement'] : Quick! Open it. 
 Oh, I hope those Templar tombs will hold out a little 
 longer. I don't want Peggy and Mr. Darcy till we 
 have read father's letter. 
 
 Billy [reads] : " Madam : — I am deeply flattered 
 by your allusions to my literary sagacity and my 
 European reputation " 
 
 MoDBENA : That fetched him ! I thought it 
 would. 
 
 Billy [rea&J : " But I take this opportunity of 
 assuring you that I am the last person in the world 
 to consult with regard to a work of fiction. As a 
 matter of fact I never read any " 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh ! He reviews novels for the Incor- 
 ruptible once a week ! 
 
 Billy [reac?sj : "I review them. At the same 
 
115 
 
 time, I shall be delighted to give you the benefit of 
 my opinion, such as it is. You say, very nicely, that 
 you are not thin-skinned, and that you hope you can 
 bear the truth. You beg that I will not spare it you, ■ 
 however bitter. My dear madam, let me tell you no 
 one knows how thin-skinned they are till they try — 
 or are tried. Having glanced, superficially, at the 
 manuscript in question, it occurs to me that I can be 
 of greater assistance to you in your literary career if 
 I confine my remarks to generalities, and speak with 
 that total absence of knowledge which characterizes 
 the mere reviewer. I apprehend, wrongly perhaps, 
 that you are very young ; you think a literary career 
 will be the crowning glory of a well-spent girlhood. 
 So, having exhausted all the amusements proper to 
 your sex, such as bazaars, balls, ambulance classes, 
 tennis, and flirtation, you have at last sported your 
 feminine oak " 
 
 MoDEENA : I wrote it chiefly at Merrow, in the 
 apple tree. 
 
 Billy [reading] : " Laid in a gross of Waverley 
 pens " 
 
 MoDBENA : Mr. Clement Scott says they are the 
 best. 
 
 Billy [reading] : "And a ream of sermon paper, 
 and produced an immortal work " 
 
 MoDEBNA [nervously] : I begin to think, Billy, 
 that I should like to read this to myself. 
 
116 
 
 Billy : No — that's not fair ! " Letters Received 
 Here "only on condition the tobacconist — that's me ! 
 — reads tlietn too. 
 
 MoDEENA [resigned ] : Go on. 
 
 Billy [readinff'\ : " I take it for granted you have 
 found a plot — a good working plot ; one that will go 
 on all fours — the more commonplace the better. On 
 the other hand I trust you have not chosen the dis- 
 tressed-governess root, the missing-will root, the 
 femme incomprise root, the rascally-banker root, the 
 fair — false — fatal siren root, or the purloined-Ietter 
 root. You have had nothing to do, I hope, with 
 courts of justice, smoking rooms, dissecting rooms, 
 the turf, or the stage. You know nothing about them, 
 or if you do, you ought not to " There, miss ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Go on reading, Billy. 
 
 Billy [reading] : " If your heart is set on having 
 a marquis for a hero, be brave beyond the manner of 
 women, and drop him a peg lower. Avoid dukes and 
 detectives, ladies'-maids and lawyers, doctors and the 
 demi-monde. They are moi"e trouble than they are 
 worth " — Oh, I say, listen to this ! — " Don't de- 
 scribe papa, and mamma, your elder sister, your 
 maiden aunt, and the curate of the f)arish. It is a 
 delightful outlet, but leads to unpleasantness." 
 Have you described them, dear ? 
 
 MoDEENA : All of them, except the curate of the 
 palish. I don't know him. 
 
117 
 
 Billy. More shame foi* you. [Reading] " Steer 
 clear of your juvenile recollections. We have all 
 had them. Everybody has robbed the orchard once 
 in his youth, or tied a tin kettle to a dog's tail " 
 
 MoDEENA [indignantly/] : I never did anything so 
 commonplace. Go on. 
 
 Billy [reading] : "Now, as to your choice of a 
 heroine. Be advised. She need not unite in her 
 own person every virtue and every attraction, human 
 and divine. Make her like yourself " — I really think 
 he guesses, Moderna, don't you ? — " she had really 
 better not have fluffy golden hair, with soft tendrils 
 straying over a white forehead, a flower-like mouth, 
 ej'es in whose depths you can temporarily lose 
 yourself, or dark lashes lying on a pale pure cheek, 
 
 which, as a mere mechanical feat, is impossible " 
 
 What about yours ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Mine don't, nor do my heroine's. Go 
 on. 
 
 Billy [reading] : " Don't rush to the other extreme 
 and make her rather under than over middle height, 
 with eyes of no particular shade, mouse-colored hair, 
 and a sallow complexion. Stumpy heroines went out 
 with Jane Eyre, and it takes a Becky Sharp to make 
 green eyes go down. As for your hero, you will 
 probably make him like the only man you ever loved, 
 and I don't wish to be personal." That's as well, 
 isn't it ? " Don't give your villain away at the 
 
118 
 
 off-set, and spoil all his little plans by endowing him 
 with a dusky complexion, a cat-like tread, sinister 
 eyes, an exiguous mouth, and no belief in anything 
 whatever. And don't engage all our sympathies for 
 your villainess, in preference to the wishy-washy 
 heroine, by describing her as * a rare exotic,' with lips 
 like a scarlet thread, dark passionate eyes, an un- 
 dulating gait, masses of black hair, and no conscience 
 at all—" 
 
 MoDEKNA : Oh, deal', who could publish a novel 
 after this ! I'll bum it. 
 
 Billy [readingi : " Don't let your villain hiss any- 
 thing, whether vows of love or vengeance, in your 
 heroine's ears. Don't exhibit ' a stroijg man in his 
 agony.' Don't end a chapter, 'Tlieir lips met in one 
 long rapturous kiss.' It's stale and it's improper. 
 Don't let her go 'erect and tearless to meet her 
 doom,' or 'flash defiance on any number of her tra- 
 ducers ' " — I agree with all this. Now come a lot of 
 short sentences. Can you bear any more? 
 
 MoDBENA : Go on. 
 
 Billy [reading] : " Mind your spelling. Don't 
 abuse your own sex. Don't be long-winded. Don't 
 be snappy. Take out every third word and every 
 second adjective. Don't deal too much in dots, or 
 be lavish of lines, or abuse the useful asterisk. Don't 
 neglect the humble comma." — Just listen how he 
 ends ! " If there's anything left of it after this, take 
 
119 
 
 my advice and don't send it, tied up with blue ribbon, 
 to the first man you meet who has tlie misfortune to 
 be an editor. I am, dear madam, yours faithfuUj'-, 
 Gervaise Maskelyne." — Well, I call that a brutal 
 performance ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Oil, I don't care. It's frank. It's 
 clever. I don't think I shall send my novel to a pub- 
 lisher. It isn't quite like that, but it's rot. I shall 
 burn it. Here, make the tea ! I see Peggy and 
 Mr, Darcy just crossing the court. 
 
CHAPTEE XVI 
 
 The study of Gbrvaisb Maskelyne, Professor of Numismatics, 
 Egyptology, Philology, and several other 'ologies. lie is seated 
 at his desk. Moderna half opens the door. 
 
 MoDBENA : You sent fov me, father ? 
 
 Geevaisb Maskelyne [impatiently] : Come in, 
 come quite in. Don't stand rattling the handle of the 
 door in that fashion. 
 
 MoDBENA : No, father, I don't want to come in, 
 for I've got on a preposterous hat and you'll destroy 
 all my confidence in it. 
 
 Gbetaise Maskelyne [fretfully] : Come in, I toll 
 you. Take the hat off ! 
 
 MoDEENA : But, father, listen. I haven't a 
 minute. I'm off to my cookery class, and I only 
 wanted to ask you if you could get tickets for the 
 Royal Institution on Friday night, for me and Mrs. 
 Mortimer. There is a lecture about Phagocytes I 
 want to hear. 
 
 Geevaisb Maskelyne : Good Lord ! What do 
 you know of Phagocytes ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Not much, father, but I like to improve 
 my mind. Besides, it is so interesting. It's like the 
 story of a battle. The powers of Good and Evil, 
 Light and Darkness 
 
 120 
 
ISl 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Ormuzd and Ahriman, 
 Indra and Siva, and all tlie rest of it. "Women 
 always want a romantic basis to their science — don't 
 take it unless it's popularized. Lauder Brunton says 
 that "the death of a mouse from anthrax may be 
 compared with the destruction of the Roman Empire 
 by the Barbarians." There, will that do for you ? 
 Come here and sit down ; you have nothing to do, of 
 course. 
 
 MoDEENA : Why, father, I told you 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : You might look through 
 these numbers of the Numismatic Heview for me, 
 and see if you can find any mention of the coinage 
 of Cyzicus. Write it down, when you find it, on a slip. 
 
 MoDEENA : How do you spell Cyzicus ? 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Don't worry me, child. 
 Look in the dictionary. 
 
 MoDEENA [ffoes to a skelfl : How can I when I 
 don't know what letter it begins with, even ? Never 
 mind. I will go by the light of reason. S-Y, or 
 perhaps it's P-S-Y ? How clever of me. I'll look it 
 out both ways. [See/cs with ardor.] 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : What a draught you are 
 making, turning pages at that rate ? Here, let me 
 see, I'll find it myself. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, please, father, let me help you 
 some way. 
 
122 
 
 GeevAise Maskbltnb : You have made rather a 
 mess of it so far. [^Dryly.] Wait, I had some- 
 thing to say to you, but I can't remember it — your 
 mother was saying 
 
 MoDEENA : All right, father, dear, keep calm. I'll 
 stay here till you remember, and tidy up your papers 
 a bit. 
 
 Geevaisb Maskelyne : Eh, what ? [ Takes out 
 a pocket-lens and becomes absorbed.'] 
 
 MoDEENA : What's all this? Edward's writing. 
 [Reads.] "JVbw hath the lord of earth slain falls 
 the land under the descendants of Ella forward in 
 fight of rule head-stem three princes" What rot ! 
 
 Gbevaise Maskelyne [almost mechanically] : 
 Which being interpreted means, " JVbw hath the lord 
 of earth forward in fight, head-stem slain three 
 princes. The land falls under the rule of Ella. 
 
 MoDEEiirA : It doesn't make much sense either 
 way. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : That involution of words 
 is the constant practice of the Skalds. It sometimes 
 makes Scandinavian verse highly unintelligible. 
 How I wish I had Edward here to keep me up in it 
 all ! How did you stumble on those notes of his? I 
 lost them a hundred years ago. 
 
 MoDBENA : Tidying, father. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Tidying ! Mixing ! 
 
123 
 
 Confusing ! A woman in a study is as bad as a cow 
 in a garden. Confound it ! D m ! 
 
 MoDBENA [vertf seriously] : Father, wliat religion 
 are you ? 
 
 Gekvaise Maskeltnb [sharply] : Is that a ques- 
 tion for a nineteenth-century child to ask ? 
 
 MoDBEifA : Because I had a long argument with 
 Billy Danvers yesterday. He was trying to convert 
 me to he a Roman Catholic— he's going to be one ; 
 he says it is such a comfortable religion and saves so 
 much time ; and I said no, I would stick to the faith 
 of my fathers — that sounds well, don't you think ? — 
 and then he lauglied, and said it would puzzle any- 
 one to find out the religion of my father. So I 
 began to think about it 
 
 Geevaisb Maskblyne : And at what conclusion 
 did you arrive, most sapient of modern maidens ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Well, T think jou are an agnostic, at 
 any rate, because you said, only yesterday, d propos 
 of being invited to brush your hat before you went 
 out, that you didn't believe in a next world, and 
 didn't want to be plagued in this. 
 
 Gbevaise Maskeltne [suavely] : You've for- 
 gotten to put the stopper back in the ink-bottle. 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 MoDBEiirA : Well, father, if I cannot do anything 
 
 more for you [Aside.] They will have got to 
 
 the chaud-froid of chicken by now — oh, dear ! 
 
124 
 
 Geetaisb Maskelyne : Yes, you can. Look out 
 " Lawrence " in the " County Families " for me. 
 
 MoDEENA : Lawrence with aw? What do you 
 care about people's families ? 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : A father has duties. 
 What are the arms of the family of Lawrence ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I can't quite tell — it looks like three 
 sparrows running up an incline. 
 
 Geeyaise Maskelyne : My God, child ! Three 
 martlets on a bend. 
 
 MoDBENA : How was I to know ? 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne ; Don't you know 
 heraldry ? 
 
 Modeena [laughing] : No, father. It's your 
 fault ; you've never taught me either heraldry or 
 religion. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : I haven't time. [Sadly.] 
 I've never had time. 
 
 Modeena : Never mind, father, dear. You have 
 made a European reputation, and it's an exceedingly 
 useful property to me. I like being the daughter of 
 an eminent philologist, and one doesn't want religion 
 to know one has got to be a good girl. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne [helplessli/] : I left it all to 
 your mother. 
 
 Modeena : Poor dear mother ! she used to tell us 
 pretty little stories about Balaam and his ass, and 
 the prophet Jonah. I liked " Grimm's Tales " best, 
 
135 
 
 I say, what did you make me look out Lawrence 
 for? 
 
 Geevaisb Maskelyne : Ah, you remind me ! 
 There's a young fellow called Lawrence, it 
 appears 
 
 MoDEESTA : I know there is. He's always about. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne [portentously] : Do you 
 object to him ? 
 
 MoDBENA \scenting a proposal] : I'm not par- 
 ticularly attached to him. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : What do you think of 
 him? 
 
 MoDEENA : I never do think of him. I suffer 
 him, that's all. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Do you mind telling me 
 your objection to him ? 
 
 MoDEENA : None whatever, there's nothing to 
 object to. All men are alike — all marriageable 
 young men, I mean. They bore me. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne [feebly] : You must not 
 talk like that. Marriage was ordained 
 
 Modeena : Oh, father, please don't you begin to 
 talk like that, or I shall have to go away. It's no 
 good. It's so idiotic of them to go and speak to j'ou 
 and spring these scenes on me, when I could settle it 
 all in a moment if they would only tell me straight ! 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : I don't think you could — 
 in this case — but I am confused. Do I under- 
 
126 
 
 stand that you have a rooted objection to marriage 
 as an institution, or is it only a personal dislike to 
 this particular young man ? 
 
 MoDBENA [sturdili/] : Rooted objection to mar- 
 riage as an institution. 
 
 Gekvaise Maskelyne : On what do you base 
 these very strong convictions of yours, concerning 
 the unadvisability of the step, may I ask ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, I gave it a fair trial. I've been 
 engaged once. [Shivers.] 
 
 Geevaisb Maskeltne : And he jilted you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I beg your pardon, father. I jilted 
 him. 
 
 Geetaise Maskelyne : Yes, yes ; I remember 
 now. A very worthy young man, if I mistake not. 
 
 MoDEKNA : Very worthy, too worthy ; " not low 
 enough for me," as Queen Mary says. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Not " low enough " ! 
 What is it you want ? You seem to have some 
 most extraordinary notions. I hope you are not 
 intending to present me with a Villon for a son-in- 
 law, for I tell you frankly, I will not I'eceive anyone 
 without at least four quarterings. But now about 
 this young Lawrence ? 
 
 Modbena : Oh, father, haven't I said enough ? 
 Please let us say no more about it. He's very nice, 
 and good, and proper, and dull, and all that ; but I 
 don't care for him, and 1 can't marry him, there ! 
 
127 
 
 Gbevaise Maskelyne [searchinff among his 
 papers] : But my deai- child — you mistake. Where 
 is that note I made ? It is not you he wants ; 
 it's Verona — at least I think so. [Searching 
 frantically. 1 
 
 MoDEESTA [shrieking with laughter'] : Verona ! 
 Oh, father, did you really make a note of it ? 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne [nervouslt/] : I may have 
 done so — your mother came in when I was very 
 busy and told me something of a young man who 
 wanted to marry my daughter Verona — it appears — 
 yes, here is the paper ! 
 
 MoDEENA [asideli : And I thought, like the con- 
 ceited idiot I am, it was me. Verona — of course it's 
 Verona ! I remember now — at Merrow. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : And I was minded to ask 
 you, being the eldest, and possessed, I believe, of a 
 fair modicum of ordinary intelligence, what you 
 thought of the young man. He is well off, I hear, 
 which is an important consideration to an impecuni- 
 ous man of letters. Still, as your opinion is dis- 
 tinctly unfavorable, I sliall signify as much to your 
 mother ; and then I hope I shall be left in peace. 
 
 MoDEENA [wildlyl : Stop, stop, father ! He's a 
 (Jear — perfectly sweet — he's charming ! 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : Eh, what ? You've 
 changed your mind? 
 ' MoDEENA : Not my mind — Verona's mind. He's 
 
128 
 
 the very person to suit her, and he adores her, and 
 she likes him, I fancy — I think — in fact, I'm sure she 
 does. Oh, father, say he may ; you have nothing 
 against him, have you ? 
 
 Geevaisb Maskbltne [dryly] : Nothing but the 
 unfavorable opinion of my eldest daughter. 
 
 MoDEEiTA : I only meant he wouldn't suit me — or 
 I him. You see I'm so scatter-brained, and so reck- 
 less, and erratic, and tiresome, I should make any 
 ordinary man perfectly miserable. 
 
 Geevaisb Maskbltne [sneering] : You mean that 
 it would take something extremely superior and 
 extraordinary in the way of a man to attract you ? 
 
 MoDBEifA [humbly] : Only an extraordinary man 
 would put up with me. I couldn't be happy with a 
 thoroughly nice, good, clever man. It would take 
 a mixture of God and devil that does not exist — to 
 bear with me, and make me happy — and even then 
 I shouldn't make him happy; so you see [smelling] 
 I have very wisely decided to remain a bachelor 
 girl. 
 
 Gbevaise Maskbltne : A bachelor girl ! I don't 
 recognize the expression. You have completely 
 wasted my morning — you and Verona between you. 
 
 MoDBENA : I'll go — only, father, please be nice to 
 Tom. 
 
 Gbevaise Maskeltne : Is he Tom already ? 
 Well, I'll be as nice as I can. Will it be necessary 
 
139 
 
 for me to ascertain Verona's sentiments on the sub- 
 ject ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, no ! Not the least need. Leave 
 Verona to me. I'll look after her. [ Going. 
 
 Geevaisb Maskeltnb : It is you, madam, I 
 think, who need looking after. I intend to devote to 
 you some of my best attention — when I have shown 
 up my friend the Professor's absurdities in the 
 Journal of Philology. 
 
 MoDBENA : Ah, do ! Till then, I must get along 
 as well as I can ! \_Blows him a kiss and departs. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gekvaise Maskblyne 
 request the pleasure of the company of 
 
 at the marriage of their daughter, 
 
 Vbkona Alice, 
 
 with Mr. Thomas Bourchiek Lawbbnce, 
 
 at St. Alphege's, Queen's Gate, 
 
 at 2.30 o'clock, 
 
 and afterward, at 200 Queen's Gate. 
 
 B. S. V. P. 
 
 In the Library, \Q a. m. 
 
 Peggy [dictatorially] : Now, look here, William, 
 you won't " rag," will j'ou? not even Aunt Eliza S 
 
 William [earnestly'] : No, 'pen honor, I won't. I'll 
 be as grave as a judge on the bench, or 
 
 Peggy : An Eton boy in chapel will do. And oh, 
 I say, see that Tom has the soles of his boots dark- 
 ened. If I see two large white ghosts sticking up in 
 front of me during the ceremony I shall laugh, I 
 know I shall. 
 
 William : What a horrid girl you are, Peggy. 
 You laugh just like a hyena ! Very well, if you 
 will leave it to me, I'll manage Tom. 
 
 Peggy : And, William, I rely on you to look after 
 
 130 
 
131 
 
 Aunt Eliza, and keep her quiet. Now, don't say silly 
 things, and make her giggle — at her age — and swal- 
 low crumbs the wrong way. The honor of the 
 family is in your hands. But you mustn't offend 
 her. You must suppress her without letting her 
 know she's suppressed, and if she does make herself 
 ridiculous, you must contrive to let everybody 
 know she's fearfully rich. 
 
 William : I'll introduce her to Billy Danvers. It 
 will be awfully good sport. I bet you, he'll chaff 
 her to death, and she'll never even guess he's making 
 fun of her. 
 
 Peggy : No, that won't do at all. You must keep 
 her in the background, and talk to her yourself. 
 Immolate yourself ! 
 
 William : What a fearful snob you are to want 
 to hide her ! Every family has got an Aunt Eliza 
 they would like to keep dark, and that's bound to 
 ishow at these sort of gatherings. Make the best of 
 her, I say. Look at the Lawrences' comic uncle, just 
 returned from what he calls Cape o' D'ope ! He and 
 Aunt Eliza could buy us all up, I suppose. 
 
 Pbggt : Well, introduce them to each other. I 
 leave it to you. [Msit. 
 
 William : You've got to leave something to some- 
 body. You can't manage everything yourself. By 
 Jove, now, if Peggy was a fellow, wouldn't one just 
 lick her ? 
 
133 
 
 In Veronals Room, 1 p. m. 
 
 Peggy {tendering a plate of rice pudding to 
 Veronal : Here, you must eat something or you'll 
 faint. What possessed you to burst out crying at 
 lunch ? 
 
 Veeona : It was — the last lunch ! [ Cries anew.] 
 
 Peggy : What rubbish ! One would think you 
 were going to die, instead of only getting married. 
 Here, eat, do, or I shall have you fainting on my 
 liands. [A knock at the door.\ Who is it ? 
 
 Servant : Mr. Lawrence, miss, wants to know if 
 he can speak to Miss Verona for one minute ? 
 
 Peggy : No, of course he can't ; how dare the 
 bridegroom come to the bride's house on the day 
 of the wedding ? He ought to know better. 
 
 MoDEENA [coming ui] : Peggy, what a martinet 
 you are ! Go and speak to Tom. Perhaps he has 
 something particular to say ! I will go on feeding 
 Verona. 
 
 Peggy : Perhaps he has lost the license. He's 
 idiot enough for anything. [Mcit. 
 
 Veeona [faintly'] : Peggy rather takes one's 
 breath away ; she is so very managing. And I 
 should have liked to see Tom. [ Wistfully.'] 
 
 MoDEENA : You'll see him in half an hour, dear. 
 Do eat, for Tom's sake ! 
 
 Veeona [heroically swallowing a spoonful of 
 rice] ; Yes, I will. Isn't he sweet, Moderna ? 
 
133 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, dear. Delightful. Another ? 
 
 Veeona [imbibes another spoonful] : Aren't I 
 good ? Dear Tom ! Oh, I wish there was another 
 of him for you, dear ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Not quite the same, or you would be 
 jealous. 
 
 Verona : Oh, no, I shouldn't ! I should so like 
 you to be happy, too. He's so gentle and yet manly, 
 don't you think so ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, dear, he really is. 
 
 Veeona : And don't you think him awfully good- 
 looking ? 
 
 MoDEEKA : Oh, awfully ! 
 
 Veeona : And the noble way he has of throwing 
 back his head, and looking at you ! Moderna ! 
 
 Modeena : What, dear ? 
 
 Veeona : I don't really think you like Tom. 
 
 MoDEENA : What an idea ! Why not ? 
 
 Veeona : Because you are so grudging in your 
 praise. 
 
 MoDEENA : My dear Verona ! I think he's charm- 
 ing. Did I not say so ? Now, shall I tell you some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Veeona : Yes. 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't think you'll be quite happy, 
 unless I own that I am a little bit jealous of you. 
 
 Veeona [pensively] : I suppose not ; but then he 
 is so very sweet, isn't he ? He 
 
134 
 
 MoDEEiiTA : We ought to stick on your veil now. 
 These real orange flowers will give you an awful 
 headache, I'm afraid. 
 
 Veeona : Oh, I don't mind. Put them on. I like 
 them to be real — and come all the way from Nice. 
 
 MoDEBNA : By way of Paris ! Stand still ! 
 
 In the Hall, 2 p. m. 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne [suspiciously, meeting her hus- 
 band] : Ahem ! where are you going, Gervaise ? 
 
 Geevaise Maskelynb : My dear — to my club as 
 usual — I believe. 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne : Please to remember that you 
 have to give your daughter away at half-past two, 
 and it is now ten minutes past. 
 
 Geevaise Maskelyne : True, my dear. I was 
 forgetting. You should have given me a written 
 note. I will come back at once. 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne : But you can't give her away 
 in that coat. 
 
 Geevaise Maskeltne : True, my dear ; but what 
 am I to do ? 
 
 Mes. Maskeltne : Change it, of course. There, 
 quick, you have only five minutes. [Bundles him 
 into his dressing-room.] 
 
 Geevaise Maskeltne : I am as wax in your 
 hands. [^si(?e.] In another moment I should have 
 been off comfortably to the club. 
 
135 
 
 Mbs. Maskelyne : And I'm not ready myself. 
 [Calls gently.] Aur^lie ! Minching ! 
 
 MiNCHiNG [in the corridor] : There ! The old 
 lady's a-yelling for you, Miss Aurelia. 
 
 AuEELiE : I go ! I go ! Miss Peggy she just 
 dance on her hat, and I mend it. It not becoming, 
 she say. 
 
 In the Side Aisle, 2. SO p. m. 
 
 ToMSON OF BEASEisrosE : I say, I think old Tom's 
 got the best of the bunch, don't j'ou ? A nice, quiet, 
 modest little thing ! 
 
 Geaham of Teinitt : With no eyes for anybody 
 or anything but Tom, eh ? Good form, you know, 
 even if it's not genuine. She's doing the part all 
 right. 
 
 ToMSOif OF Beasenose : How do you like the 
 little sister Peggy, with her eyes all over the place ? 
 
 Geaham of Teinitt : Only a puppy — too much 
 tongue ! "Wants a month's cubbing, and a steady 
 whip. 
 
 ToMsoN OF Beasenose : How about the eldest? 
 
 Geaham of Teinitt : Nice girl enough ; rather 
 flighty, but runs pretty straight as yet. See later 
 on in the season. 
 
 ToMSON- OF Beasenose : Well, I don't know. 
 She's a deuced deal too morbid for me. Writes 
 
136 
 
 poetry, I'm told. " Come and kiss me when I'm 
 dead " kind of thing. Shouldn't have time for a girl 
 like that, thank you ! 
 
 Graham of Tbinitt : That's only her rot. She 
 doesn't know what she's talking about half the time. 
 I believe, if j'ou really knew her, that girl is just 
 about as good and simple as they make 'em. 
 
 ToMSON OP Brasenose : Not my style, at any 
 rate. I prefer something like the other bridesmaid, 
 Miss Fleming — isn't that her name ? Give me a girl 
 who, etc. 
 
 In the Morning-room, 3 o'clock. 
 
 Arthur Deyerel \in a whisper to his sister-in- 
 law, who has driven him bach from church^ : Do 
 oblige me by rubbing ofiE some of that powder. It's 
 too awfully obvious. 
 
 Mrs. Fred Deverel \nke Flossie Rensselaer, 
 gingerly applying a handkerchief^ : There, is that 
 better ? 
 
 Arthur Deverel : More, more ! You take good 
 care not to affect it. 
 
 Mrs. Fred Deverel [plaintivelyl : I really am not 
 sure I put any on at all. 
 
 Arthur Deverel [sneeringi : Your maid did, 
 then. You must rub it off. I can't have my sister- 
 in-law look like a second-rate actress. 
 
137 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel [signijicantly'\ : Talk about 
 actresses ! Look at that girl you jilted 
 
 Aethue Deveeel : Miss Maskelyne ? I beg your 
 pardon, Flossie, everybody knows sbe jilted me. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Everyone knows you say 
 so — it's part of your ridiculous code ; but I know 
 better, and I'm truly glad she didn't come into the 
 family. Just look what a color she's got ! 
 
 Aethue Deveeel : Do you mean to insinuate 
 that Miss Maskelyne is " made-up " ? 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : If she hasn't rouged, she 
 has been drinking eau de Cologne, at any rate. Look 
 at her cheeks ! 
 
 Aethue Deveeel [sententioiisly'l : Excitement. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : You mean because she is 
 talking to Lord Coniston ? Most girls flush when he 
 speaks to them. I fancy they would all like to get 
 him if they could. 
 
 Aethue Deveeel [stiffly] : Are you not aware 
 that he proposed to Moderna ? 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel [excitedly] : Prop — what — 
 did he really? I remember something about it. 
 "Well, he won't give her the chance again in a hurry. 
 He's disgusted with her. Everybody is. 
 
 Aethue Deveeel : Because she gets prettier 
 every day ? 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel [very angry] : Because she 
 gets queerer every day. Goodness knows, I'm not 
 
138 
 
 straitlaced, but the things that girl does ! Did 
 you hear of her going out as lady's maid to old 
 Lady Kernaway, to see what it was like ? And then 
 writing about it in a daily paper afterward ? And 
 selling in a shop all day in a village in Surrey ? 
 Fancy poor old Coniston married to a woman like 
 that! 
 
 Arthur Deveeel [severely] : I must say, Flossie, 
 I think these remarks of yours are in rather ques- 
 tionable taste, considering that you are her mother's 
 guest, and that I heard you a moment ago begging 
 and praying her to make one of your house party in 
 the autumn. 
 
 Mrs. Feed Deteeel : Oli, that's nothing ! This 
 sort of girls are enormously in request. They make 
 a thing go. I shall make a point of having her at 
 Blealiope. I shall ask little Violet Fleming as a foil. 
 You'll come, Arthur ? 
 
 Aethue Deveeel : Well, I dare say I shall look 
 you up — sometime. [She smiles malignly.] 
 
 In the Dining-room,, 4 o'clock. 
 
 Uncle Tom [of the Lawrences] : A glass of cham- 
 pagne, Miss Maskelyne ? 
 
 Aunt Eliza [of the Maskelynes]: A weeny, teeny, 
 little sip. Just to taste. 
 
 Uncle Tom : Nonsense about sips ; you must 
 drink the bride's health properly. Here's to Verona 
 
139 
 
 Lawrence ; and stop — while I am about it — here's to 
 the health of the chief bridesmaid ; she's the one for 
 my money. 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Ay, she's the best of them, though 
 she is no the bonniest. 
 
 Uncle Tom : I say she's the prettiest — and the 
 cleverest. Knows how to slin|f a barrel, by Jove ! 
 
 Aunt Eliza: "Sling a barrel," Mr. Lawrence? 
 What will that be ? 
 
 Uncle Tom : I'll tell you how it began. She was 
 bragging a bit at dinner last night, as girls will, you 
 know, and I asked her, just to stump her, if she 
 knew how to sling a barrel — and blest if she didn't 
 take an orange and a ribbon off her fan and sling it 
 as if she had been a drayman. That's the girl for 
 me. I'd have chosen her for Tom if he'd consulted 
 me. Well, well, her turn next, I suppose. I'm 
 sorry I've no more nephews. Who's that boy she's 
 talking to now ? Do you know ? 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Troth, and I do. Danvers, or 
 something like that. A bonny lad, but a freevolous. 
 I declare, after I had been talking to him for a 
 quarter of an hour, I didn't know if I was standing 
 on my head or my heels. ^ Such quips and cranks 
 and jokes as he was putting on me 
 
 Uncle Tom : Boys will be boj's, you are aware. 
 
 Aunt Eliza : Ay, if they would ; it's when they 
 will be old men, that it beats me. 
 
140 
 
 In the Drawing-room, 4.30 o^ clock. 
 
 Lady Riddell \to Moderna] : Well, young 
 woman, how are you? So you have lived to dance 
 at your sister's wedding in green slippers, eh? 
 
 MoDEENA : Thank you, dear aunt, I'm bearing up 
 wonderfuUjr. I am grateful for your kind con- 
 dolence, though. [Iidughinff.] 
 
 Lady Riddell : Condolence ? Rubbish ! I con- 
 dole with a girl for not getting married ! No. 
 You must go in for being useful. We want workers. 
 I must see if I cannot get you on to some of our ■ 
 committees. 
 
 MoDEENA [laughingl : But I have no opinions at 
 all, aunt. 
 
 Lady Riddell : No more had Cecilia, at your 
 age. At any rate you can work ; and the opinions 
 will come in time ! I'll write to you. By the way, 
 I shouldn't be so intimate with that dimpled devil 
 yonder, if I were you. 
 
 MoDEKNA : Dimpled devil ! Billy Danvers ! Oh, 
 aunt, he's a dear. I've known him ages. He's my 
 " play boy," as the Americans say. 
 
 Lady Riddell : I don't advise you to play with 
 him too much. It's an ungrateful, mean face. Well, 
 no matter. See for yourself. By the by, Cecilia's 
 love ! She's a regular backslider, if you like. No 
 good at all. Jekyll and Jekyll's babies ! 
 
 Modeena : She's happy, at any rate. 
 
141 
 
 Lady Riddell : A mere lotus-eater ! Give her up. 
 
 Adopt you, if you like. Think of it. Good-by. 
 
 [Exit. 
 In the Conservatory, 5 o'clock. 
 
 BiLLT Dantees : Oh, here you are ! I've been 
 looking for you. You're as pale as a ghost. Sit down. 
 Well, how did the bride go off ? Did she weep ? 
 
 Modbena: She did the usual thing. 
 
 Billy Danvees: You wept during the service — I 
 saw you. 
 
 MoDEEN^A [affectionatelyl : You lie, Billy. • 
 
 BiLLT Danvees : Well, it impressed Coniston very 
 much. Do you know, Mod, I can't help thinking 
 that he's got a sneaking kindness for you. 
 
 MoDEENA [scornfully'] : Do you really, Billy ? 
 
 Billy Danvees: Yes ; and I am sure — and I have 
 an eye for these things — you could bring him to the 
 point in a minute, if you chose ? Do — do, and ask 
 me down to Coniston for the shooting. Isn't that an 
 inducement? 
 
 MoDBENA : The greatest ! 
 
 Billy Danvees : And I'll give you such a wedding 
 present. I'm awfully good at wedding presents. 
 
 Modeena: Can't do it, dear boy. 
 
 Billy Danvees : Why? Do you consider Conis- 
 ton such a confirmed Benedict as all that ? 
 
 Modeena: How do you know that it isn't me 
 that's a confirmed 
 
143 
 
 Billy Danvees : Benedicta ? Ah, but you've been 
 addicted to it so long, no one believes in you. 
 
 Modeena: Oil, Billy, what an awful pun ! 
 
 Billy Danvees: It's your aunt who has cor- 
 rupted nie. We got on beautifully, do you know ? 
 I make a point of getting on with old ladies, as a 
 provision for my old age. She actually asked me to 
 take her to " one of those new opera buffaloes " ! 
 Wouldn't Letty Lind give her fits ? 
 
 Modeena: Billy, I do not permit you to laugh at 
 toy relations. [ Yaions.] I'm too tired to talk. 
 l^Pettis/ily.] Do go. 
 
 Billy Danvees : Here comes Coniston. [Aside.] 
 I'll slope. [£:xit. 
 
 Coniston: I'm so glad you've got rid of that 
 dreadful _;?/i de slide boy. Sit down a minute. It 
 has gone off very well, hasn't it ? And your father 
 managed to give away the right daughter, after all, 
 and your mother didn't sob too audibly, and William 
 showed us how young Eton can behave, and Peggy 
 wasn't too fussy, and you 
 
 Modeena: What was I? 
 
 Coniston ; The prettiest bridesmaid I ever saw. 
 But now both you and your bouquet look tired. 
 Well, good-by. I'm off by the Club train to-night. 
 
 Modeena: Where are you going? 
 
 Coniston: To Paris — Milan eventually. I thought 
 of attending the celebration of the rite of St. Am- 
 
143 
 
 brose there. Then Constantinople. Tlien — I have 
 let Coniston and 120 Grosvenor Square for two 
 years, you know. I don't suppose I shall be settled 
 in town for that time 
 
 MoDEENTA : You are nearly as restless in your way 
 as I am. 
 
 Coniston: I like to see everything. 
 
 Modeena: So do I — and I mean to — in my limited 
 woman's field. When you come back we will tell 
 each other of our discoveries. You'll write ? 
 
 Coniston [sadl^l : Peggy has promised to corre- 
 spond with me. Good-by. [JExit. 
 
 In the Hall, 6 o'clock. 
 
 Geetaise Maskeltnb : Why, my dear Verona — 
 still here? I thought I Iiad said good-by to yon an 
 hour ago ? Where's Tom ? 
 
 Modeena: It's me — Moderna, father. 
 
 Geetaise Maskeltne \writhing] : A — ie ! 
 Couldn't " me' — Moderna " use better grammar ? 
 
 Modeena: Too tired, fatlier. 
 
 Geevaise Maskeltne: So am I. These wed- 
 dings — ah, well — they are a little exhausting ! Allow 
 a decent interval to elapse before you ask me to give 
 you away, that's a good girl. 
 
 Modeena [with decision] : I'll never ask you at all, 
 father. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 EXTEACTS FKOM LETTEES, ETC. 
 
 July 9. — The last entry in this diary was on the 
 day of Verona's wedding, nearly two yeai's ago — and 
 it strikes me as terribly naive. That was the old me. 
 It frightens me to see how different the new me is. 
 But I won't burn it ; I will only write Finis, and 
 keep it as a human document. 
 
 From Pbgqt Maskbltne, Queen's Oate, London, to 
 Lord ComsTON, Borne. 
 
 . . . Some of those Roman fazzoletti, you know ; 
 to make a dress of. Moderna's love ; she's too 
 busy to write. 
 
 Pi'om Mrs. Fred Deverel to Tier brother-m-law, 
 Arthur Deverel. 
 
 . . . Find out for me which of the Maskelyne girls 
 Coniston did propose to four years ago. I know it 
 was one of them. He was secretary to old Maskelyne 
 before he came into the title, and almost lived in the 
 house, and saw the girls every day. It can't have 
 been that little cat Peggy, and Verona is too sensible 
 for anything. . . 
 
 144 
 
145 
 
 From Abthub Deveebl to Mrs. Fred Devekbl. 
 . . . Absolutely decline to make any enquiries 
 regarding the subject you mention. It concerns 
 neither of us. 
 
 From Verona Lawrence, Stours Castle, Perthshire, N. B., 
 to Cecilia Jbktll, StickUby Hall, Toi'Icshire. 
 
 . . . Father is ordered abroad for the winter. They 
 
 are going to let the house. Moderna declares she 
 
 won't go with them. She wants to go and live in a 
 
 flat with a dreadful girl, a Miss Tremaine, a jour- 
 
 "nalist. . . 
 
 From Mrs. Mortimer, Kensington, to Miss Maskeltnb, 
 Queen's Gate. 
 
 . . . Don't forget — dinner at eight. I want you to 
 take down a Mr. Brown. He's an East End clergy- 
 man, and a cousin of my husband's, and rather dull. 
 I know, though, you can make him talk. He will 
 fall a victim at once, but he would be no good to 
 you, I am afraid. But at any rate, don't, dear, I beg 
 of you, flaunt your hansoms and your latch-keys and 
 all the rest of it in his face, or talk about music halls 
 or French novels. J know you haven't, but he is 
 sure to fancy you have read the one and been to the 
 other if you talk of them. . . 
 
 From the " Blowfly." 
 . . . the experiments of a young lady in society, as 
 a lady's maid in one of the best families, lately given 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 to the world in the columns of the Incontrovertible. 
 It is no secret that this audacious young pioneer is a 
 daughter of one of our most prominent professors, a 
 man of well-known repute in social, literary, and 
 scientific circles. . . 
 
 I'rom the " Incontrovertible." 
 
 Why are all young poets so consistently, so irre- 
 trievably melancholy ? Here we have a little poem, 
 by M. E. Maskelyne, of very fair average merit, but 
 which, for settled gloom and concentrated despair,, 
 beats anything we have seen for a long time. Only 
 extreme youth on the part of the authoress could 
 justify such " mortuary reflections," as Mark Twain 
 would call them. . . 
 
 From Dolly Tremainb, 193b Strand, to Miss Maskelyse, 
 Queen's Gate. 
 
 . . . You won't fail me, old girl, will you ? for it 
 is not everybody I would ask. I must have a girl, 
 don't you know, with some go, and no nonsense 
 about her, or else she spoils the whole thing. Bring 
 your 
 
 Billy Dantbrs to Moderna. 
 
 . . . there's a dear. I'm in a devil of a hole. . . 
 Do arrange to say a good word for me to father. . . 
 You can do anything with him, and this is one of my 
 worst, . . 
 
147 
 
 Cecilia Jbktll to Vbbona Lawrence. 
 
 ... I haven't heard about this Miss Tremaine. 
 Moderna never writes to me now. She has got into 
 a very bad set, I hear. Francis (my husband) says 
 she is out and out a good sort, and that there never 
 was a straighter girl ; that she will get over this 
 phase, and " it will all come out in the wash." Isn't 
 ray husband slangy ? . . . 
 
 Lady Riddbli, to her daughter, Cecilia Jektll. 
 
 . . . Moderna is all right. Let her alone. Every 
 girl ought to have a Wanderjahr. So would you, if 
 you hadn't married. . . 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 In a conservatory opening out of a ballroom. Captain Heavi- 
 siDK, R. N. , is sitting with Mrs. MoRTruER. As the music 
 strikes up he rises. 
 
 Captain Heaviside : My dance witli Miss Maske- 
 lyne — oli, by Jove, I must not miss that ! 
 
 Mes. Moetimbe [sarcastically] : Ob, by Jove, no ! 
 Good-by for the present. [Enter John Daect.] 
 Well, Jack, your face looks crumpled. You've been 
 thinking. 
 
 Daect : Yes ; veiy seriously. 
 
 Mes. Moetimek : At a dance ! Fie ! 
 
 Daect : Oh, don't chaif. I want you to help me. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : I'll do anything for you — except 
 dance with you. 
 
 Daect [shortly^ : I don't want you to dance with 
 me. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee ; Thank you. 
 
 Daect : At least, not now. But why do you say 
 you won't ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Because I don't want my feet 
 trod on every minute because you are watching Miss 
 Maskelyne instead of minding your steps — she does 
 mind her steps very prettily, and I suspect her of 
 private skirt dancing ; to be your partner in the 
 
 148 
 
149 
 
 lancers so that you may be Miss Maskelyne's vis-d- 
 vis / to be brought up sharp in a waltz so that you 
 may stop where Miss Maskelyne is fanning herself 
 and talking to her partner 
 
 Daect : Heavens ! Do you mean to say that you 
 notice all that ? 
 
 Mrs. Moetimeh : The state of your affections is 
 patent to the meanest eye, Jack. And Moderna is 
 rather a friend of mine. I've known her ever since 
 she came out, you know. 
 
 Daect [eagerly] : Yes, I know 
 
 Mes. Moetimbe : But I think she should not be 
 allowed to devastate a ballroom in this way. She's 
 a very pretty girl and not a bit pass&e, but it is time 
 she selected a victim — a permanent victim, I say — 
 and cleared the decks for Peggy. The poor girl 
 hasn't a chance when her sister's present. 
 
 Daect : I can't stand Peggy. I always think of 
 that quotation, "an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 signifying nothing " ! 
 
 Mes. Moetimbe : She chaffs you, I suppose, or 
 daren't she ? I wonder you don't fall in love with 
 her ? She is your own age, while her sister Moderna 
 is a year older than you. 
 
 Daect : What's that got to do with it ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimbe : In every possible way she is 
 older. My poor boy, she wouldn't suit you a bit. 
 She could gallop all round you in five minutes. 
 
150 
 
 Daect : Oh, I know she's sharp, and all that, but, 
 after all, a man is master in the end — if only he 
 knows how to exert his authority properly. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : If only ! And do you think 
 you are the man to — we will say " influence " a head- 
 strong girl like that ? Remember she has had her 
 way ever since she came out, that her father's a 
 savant and her mother's a fool, and that neither 
 have ever been able to control her in the least. I 
 am the only person who has any influence over her, 
 and she thinks me almost too respectable and old- 
 fashioned. She tells me of all her escapades, though. 
 She has done everything, tried everything, got bored 
 over everything. Don't you think she would get 
 bored with you, sooner or later ? 
 
 Daect : Everything happens — sooner or later. 
 I'm not a fool. I know she is a modern woman and 
 all that ; has gone in for being independent, don't 
 you know, and trying everything — and all that sort 
 of rot. I don't care. One ought to let a woman 
 have a try at things, just to let her see what a mess 
 she makes of it ! — and hang it all, a woman must 
 marry in the end, you know ! 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Oh, must she ? Well, I dare 
 say you are right. She may be getting tired of it. 
 She's had plenty of fun. You might try ! 
 
 Dabct : The worst of it is, she is so confoundedly 
 enigmatical. Most women make up their minds 
 
151 
 
 long before a fellow does, and can't help letting 
 him see it, but Miss Maskelyne's always so awfully 
 polite. 
 
 Mrs. Moetimee : You mean she won't flirt with 
 you? 
 
 Dakct [shuddering]: Oh, no ! I have never even 
 made love to her. But still she might drop the 
 mask sometimes. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : In your favor ? Well, ask her 
 like a man. 
 
 Daect : And risk a refusal ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimee [sarcastically'] : The chances 
 against you are infinitesimal ! And as good men as 
 yon have risked the contingency. 
 
 Daect [pulling up his collar] : / have never 
 given myself away yet, and I don't mean to. But 
 I wish I were not so abominably <ipris. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : It's awkward, certainly. Those 
 are the accents of truth ! I am sorry for you. What 
 can I do for yon ? 
 
 Daect : A good deal. You can find out for 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : " Which way her affections 
 tend ? " Ask Peggy ! 
 
 Daect : Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Peggy knows, of course. 
 Sisters always do. 
 
 Daect : Well, I sha'n't ask that minx. It's you, 
 
152 
 
 I want to help me. Tou can. I only want you to 
 watch her. They're all here, confound them ! 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer : Who ? 
 
 Daect : My possible rivals. I mean this evening 
 to be decisive. Slie is going up to Scotland to her 
 sister's on Thursday, and they have asked me, too, 
 and I should like it settled before — make the visit 
 so much pleasanter. Let me see ? [ Counts on his 
 fingers.\ There is Bingham, and that ass Heaviside, 
 and Deverel, that old flame of hers 
 
 Mrs. Mortimeb : The man she jilted ? 
 
 Darct : Deserved it, pompous ass ! However, he 
 wants to have it on again, so I must count him. 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer : Is that all ? 
 
 Darct : That's really all. There's a parson called 
 Brown who hangs about, but he's absolutely out of 
 it. Those are the only three I'm at all afraid of, and 
 I'm not really afraid of them. There's Bingham — 
 her mother likes Bingham, thinks he, will be civil 
 to her when she's his mother-in-law. Good for 
 Bingham, but he won't get the girl — she laughs at 
 him. Then Deverel. I don't think Deverel has any 
 chance. He muffed it so before. 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer : How about Heaviside ? 
 
 Daect : Oh, we needn't bother about him. She 
 takes him in to supper. I fancy she's nursing him 
 for Peggy. 
 
 Mrs. Moetimee : "Well, Jack, I think I see. Tou 
 
153 
 
 wish me to read, mark, and inwardly digest the 
 significance of the glances she bestows on the three 
 gentlemen you have named. 
 
 Daecy : Glances ! Oh, Heavens ! 
 
 Mrs. Moetimee : Jealous already? Now go away 
 and leave me to conduct my observations in peace. 
 It has to happen to-night, you say. Go! Don't you 
 see [laughingl you prevent people who are not in 
 love with Miss Maskelyne coming to ask me to 
 dance ? [^Exit Daecy. 
 
 Later on. In the Ballroom. 
 
 Daecy [eagerly to Mrs. Moetimee] : Well ? 
 
 Mrs. Moetimee : I've found out notbing as yet, 
 except that she looks bored to death. She hasn't 
 got what she wants, I can tell you that much. 
 
 Daecy : Ah ! Our dance hasn't come off yet 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Is she as easily pleased as that ? 
 Do go away, you unsettle me. I shall know all by 
 the end of the evening. Meet me at the foot of the 
 stairs in an hour's time. 
 
 Later still. At the Door of the Ballroom. 
 
 Modeejsta \to Biitgham] : Oh, Mr. Bingham, I am 
 so very sorry to have to cut our dance, but I am 
 going. I am so tired. Don't I kiok it? 
 
 Bingham [enthusiastically^ : On the contrary, you 
 look [She passes on. 
 
154 
 
 Heaviside [meeting her] : Oli, Miss Maskelyne, 
 this is too bad of you — ^you promised I sbould take 
 you in to supper ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I must ask you to let me break my 
 promise. I am so dreadfully tired. I should eat 
 nothing, and that would bore you. Good-night ! 
 
 [She passes on. 
 
 Devbeel [meeting her] : May I come and call to- 
 morrow, Miss Maskelyne ? 
 
 MoDEEiirA [effusively] : Yes, do, Mr. Devei-el. 
 Heaps of people are coming. Peggy and I go to 
 Scotland on Thursday. 
 
 Dbveeel : Why do you always ask me to see you 
 in a crowd ? 
 
 MoDEENA [smiling] : It's the way I like to see you 
 best. [Aside.] Never another tete-d-tSte with him 
 as long as I live. [Aloud.] Don't forget ! 
 
 [Passes on. 
 
 On the Stairs. 
 
 CoNisTON [languidly] : Have you got a dance for 
 me, Moderna? I've just come. 
 MoDEENA : And I'm just going. Good-by. 
 
 [Passes on, 
 
 Daect [who has followed with Peggy, to Mrs. 
 MoETiMEE at the foot of the stairs] : Well ? 
 
155 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Well ? You have completely 
 spoiled my evening for me ! 
 
 Daecy : I am so eternally obliged to you. 
 Well ? It's all right, isn't it ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimee [smiling mgilignly] : You needn't 
 be afraid of Bingham 
 
 Daect [fervently'\ : Thank Heaven ! 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Nor of Heaviside ! Nor of 
 Deverel ! 
 
 Daecy : Thank Heaven again ! Now I breathe 
 freely. I shall call there to-morrow. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Better not. 
 
 Daecy : Why not ? I rely implicitly on your 
 judgment. I shall ask Miss 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Are you really quite blind and 
 deaf, Jack Darcy ? 
 
 Daecy : What do you mean ? I noticed nothing. 
 Please tell me, quick. 
 
 Mrs. Moetimee : I'll just tell you one thing. If 
 that girl ever marries, it will be the man she spoke 
 to on the stairs just now. Help me with my cloak. 
 I'll drive you home. 
 
 Daecy [dropping the window of the brougham] : 
 Are you really sure ? Coniston ? Why, she has 
 known him ages — ever since she came out. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : What of that ? 
 
 Daecy : I believe he proposed to her once, and 
 
156 
 
 she refused him. At least I heard some fellows say- 
 so at the Club. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : She was only a baby, and didn't 
 know her own mind then. 
 
 Daect : And do you mean that he has hung 
 about her ever since, hoping to make her change it ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : He's not such a fool. I don't 
 suppose he has ever said another word about it to 
 her. He goes about and lives his life. But I'm 
 perfectly certain that he never meant or means to 
 marry any other woman. Put it like that if you 
 like. He isn't one of your whiners, but he knows 
 what he wants. 
 
 Daect : And do you think she cares for him ? 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Didn't you see her eyes ? didn't 
 you hear her voice ? She cares for him, but without 
 knowing it. He has gone the right way with her. 
 That sort of girl always ends by marrying the man 
 who has the strength of mind to wait for her. 
 
 Daect : Well, I can't say Coniston looks at all 
 like a love-sick swain. And he's just going to sail 
 that yacht of his to America. Why doesn't he stay 
 in town and make love to her. 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Pas si Mte! That would not 
 be the way to fetch her. 
 
 Daect : And he has had all sorts of affairs since ! 
 They say he is engaged to that Frenchwoman, Mme. 
 Belenfante. 
 
157 
 
 Mbs. Moetimee : I don't believe a word of it. 
 
 Dabcy : Then there was that flirtation wftih 
 Lady 
 
 Mes. Moetimee [curtly^ : I suppose you will agree 
 that lie is a man of the world ? 
 
 Daecy : Oh, yes, of course — goes anywhere — has 
 everything right — very much in it 
 
 Mes. Moetimee : Very well, then ! 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Tom Lawkence's Shooting in Perthshire. Vebona Lawkencb 
 and MoDEKNA a/re sitting waiting for the guns. 
 
 Veeona : The men will be here soon. I see their 
 smoke over there. I'm hungry ; are not you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I am never hungry now. 
 
 Vbeona : You go out too much. How many 
 nights were you out last week ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Every night, I think — but I forget. 
 It's an awful bore, going out. [^Sighing.] 
 
 Veeona [sharply^ : Why do you do it, then ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Please, Verona, don't pretend to be 
 unsophisticated. Two years of marriage can't have 
 done all that. Why do I go out ? Because I can't 
 help it, I suppose. 
 
 Vbeona [sturdily] : Why can't you help it ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Because — I don't know — if one once 
 leaves off — one doesn't want to drop out altogether — 
 oh, don't be silly, Verona, you "know it all as well as 
 I do. 
 
 Veeona [sententiously] : You society girls always 
 talk as if you were indispensable ! I fancy society 
 would get on very well without you, if you could 
 only think so. It does without me ! 
 
 Modeena [as«c?e] : Verona never was — pretty ! 
 
 158. 
 
159 
 
 [Aloud.] But the awful thing is that jT can't get on 
 without society. I can't bear to stay at home, some- 
 how. I seem as if I must stand the racket, and 
 dress, and do my hair, and go out and talk to people 
 who don't care twopence about me. 
 
 Veeona [Jtrmlj/] : Nonsense ! You are a pretty, 
 lively girl, and people are only too glad to see you and 
 Peggy at their parties. You help to make things go. 
 
 MoDEENA [bitterly] : Oh, yes. We are part of the 
 furniture of a ball or reception. We are ordered in 
 like rout seats, or ice plates. It would never do, not, 
 to ask the Maskely nes ! But, oh, how tired I am of all 
 the wretched, selfish, commonplace routine of going 
 out — seeing the insides of other people's houses, 
 eating other people's suppers, night after night! 
 
 Veeosta [dryly] : You must be a pleasant sort of 
 guest to have ! 
 
 MoDEEisrA : My dear, you don't suppose I am so 
 rude as to allow my hostess to see I am bored. I am 
 quite equal to making her, and everybody else, think 
 I am enjoying myself, when I am not. But oh, how 
 cross I am vv'hen I get home ! I just gulp down my 
 beef-tea, and go up to bed without a word. I never 
 discuss partners with Peggy. I do not remember 
 them — or they me. Why should they? I know 
 everybody, and everybody knows me. Nobody ever 
 asks to be introduced now — they all have been some 
 time or other, if they could remember. 
 
160 
 
 Veeona [carelessly] : Well, you have been out a 
 good time. Look at that heron up there ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't care for herons. I should 
 like to go away for a little — like Ogier the Dane — 
 and come back. I could " come out " again, and be 
 very shy, and wear a little tulle — y dress " trimmed 
 daisies." [Makes a little mental excursion to her 
 dressmaker.] 
 
 Veeona : I don't think you could be shy — or 
 dignified either ; you are just yourself. But as for 
 being young again, don't you think men are very 
 glad to meet a nice girl who knows her way about, 
 and can talk sensibly ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, I dare say, as a sort of solid 
 background to fluffy giggling innocence, one is 
 tolerated. But the most intelligent man in the 
 world would leave one in a moment for a girl with 
 red arms — and whose first ball it was ! 
 
 Veeona : My dear girl, you are not so old as 
 all that — only twenty-four. 
 
 MoDBENA : I feel a hundred. I don't care for 
 anything or anyone, so why should anyone care for 
 me ! I am sure I bore people. I am always the 
 same. I can't even do my hair a different way. 
 Nothing excites me. The maddest waltz does not 
 make me flush or my pulse go quicker. I'm there, 
 that's all — and I always wish I wasn't. 
 
 Veeona : Marry. 
 
161 
 
 MoDEENA [angrily] : You all say that. It's 
 idiotic, and it puts an end to conversation. You 
 know I am never going to. 
 
 Verona : I know you say so. 
 
 MoDEENA . When I say a thing I mean it. 
 
 Veeona : You say that, too. Well, but, really, 
 my dear gii-1, if society bores you, I would give it 
 up. Take to art again ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Art ! I soon saw what a duffer I was 
 at that ! 
 
 Ymho'sa [pat}-09iizingly'\ : Write. You write very 
 pretty little verses sometimes. 
 
 MoDEENA : All girls can scribble a little. And I 
 should never get my things into magazines if it 
 weren't for Dolly Tremaine. What I want is some 
 really absorbing interest in life, 
 
 Vbeona : Why don't you take an interest in my 
 children ? They are sadly in want of a good 
 aunt. 
 
 MoDEENA [sneering] : Be Aunt Moderna, and 
 keep the family "log," and chronicle the growth and 
 movements of the family, and knit the socks, and 
 take the invalids to the seaside. No, thank you ! 
 
 Veeona [stolidly] : It's all very well, but my con- 
 tention is this : Even butterflies like you must settle 
 down some time. You can't expect to have always a 
 man at your feet, unless you marry one. 
 
 MoDEENA : What, marry the poor creature in order 
 
163 
 
 to keep bim there — bind him against his inclination ! 
 That is the most selfish policy I have ever heard ! 
 
 Veeona : It's every girl's policy. Once a woman 
 has got to a certain age, she ought to have found one 
 person who is sworn to think her perfect for the rest 
 of her existence, the most beautiful woman in the 
 world to him. 
 
 MoDEENA : To him ! A most insulting addition ! 
 
 Veeona : Then find someone who thinks you 
 beautiful to the rest of the world as well, and who 
 will be jealous of you and make your life a burden 
 to you. What is amiss with Mr. Brown ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Too earnest. 
 
 Vbeona : The earnest men make the best hus- 
 bands. You are far too flippant. And Mr. Donkin? 
 
 MoDEEifA : He offered to " make my life fuller 
 and happier." The verj' phrase offended me. 
 
 Veeona : And Mr. Heaviside ? I asked him here 
 for you. 
 
 MoDEENA : What waste ! He is impossible. No 
 sense of humor. 
 
 Veeona : And Coniston ? Why did you refuse 
 him? Be nice to him when he comes back from 
 America and bring it on again. 
 
 MoDEENA : He is back from America. He's in 
 Paris now — and I wouldn't for worlds bring it on again. 
 
 Veeona : I don't suppose you could. Well, 
 there's Mr. Darcy; he would marry you in a minute. 
 
163 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, if he could get me to propose ! 
 Too conceited. What's the good of talking about 
 it ? There's something wrong with everyone. It is 
 no good. I shall go back to town in a week, and it 
 will all begin over again. I shall go out, and play 
 the fool, and say spiteful things about other girls, 
 and try to make people fall in love with me, and 
 gossip, and talk scandal. No, Verona, I shall give 
 up Society, with a large S, and go into Bohemia — 
 there may be something new there, or I shall go on 
 the stage — or take to type-writing — anything ! I 
 can't go on as I am doing now. 
 
 Veeona : Take care — your eyes will be red ! Oli, 
 please, don't ! The men will be here directly 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't care. I don't care for anything 
 or anybody. 
 
 Yeeona : Really, Moderna, if I didn't know that 
 you had no heart, I should think 
 
 Modeesta : What should you think ? 
 
 Veeona [solem7ily] : That yon were in love. Are 
 you? 
 
 MoDBENA [violently] : In love ! I wish I was ! [A 
 pause.] Verona, are yon shocked ? 
 
 Veeona : I hate to hear you talk like that. Fancy 
 wanting to be in love ! 
 
 MoDEENA [excitedly] : It would be something to 
 live for, at any rate ; something to get out of breath 
 about, something to care for, to wait for, to be ex- 
 
164 
 
 cited, to lie awake, to dream about ! Fancy the 
 delicious moments of expectation — the corresponding 
 moods of despair ! — the delight of opening letters 
 eagerly, of hiding them — of making appointments, 
 and keeping them — of looking out of one's window 
 at night, and wondering where, in all blue-gray 
 London, he is at that moment — to be " in love " ! 
 
 Vbkona : You most extraordinary girl ! I should 
 never have imagined. Well, then, if you feel like 
 that, why not marry. 
 
 MoDERNA [with a forced laugh] : I said I wanted 
 to be in love ; I didn't say I wanted to be married. 
 That's quite a different thing. 
 
 Veeona [drawing herself up] : I think you are 
 both rude — and improper. 
 
 MoDBENA : Rude ? My dear, I did not mean any- 
 thing personal to you ! 
 
 Veeona : Then you mean I donH love my hus- 
 band ? 
 
 MoDEENA \]neditatixiely] : I don't know ; I suppose 
 you do. Here come all the men. Let's go and meet 
 them ! — but you " cheek" him ; you treat him like an 
 old woman, more or^ less. You say — I have often 
 heard j'ou — that you " know how to manage him now." 
 Good Heavens, talk of managing the being you 
 adore ! There's Mr. Heaviside and Tom. Could I 
 adore Mr. Heaviside, do you think, Verona, dear ? I 
 could manage him at any rate. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 At the Academy Soiree. 
 
 Mrs. Maskeltne : There they go ! Peggy to 
 supper with Billy Danyers, and Moderna to look at 
 her own portrait with Mr. Darcy ! 
 
 I sliall not see them again till the end of the even- 
 ing. It's not de rigueur now to come back to your 
 chaperon, Peggy tells me. It's not de rigueur to do 
 anything one does not want, I think. 
 
 If Peggy thinks Billy Danvers will ever propose 
 to her, she's mistaken. I could tell her — but she 
 never consults me. If he cares for anybody, it's 
 Moderna, but he is too selfish to care for anybody 
 but himself. 
 
 No one will ever marry Peggy if she cultivates 
 such a sharp tongue. Every clever thing she says 
 puts them against her. Moderna's far cleverer, but 
 there is a kind of sweet silliness about her that keeps 
 her womanly. 
 
 They are my children, after all, and I have the best 
 right to know all about them — and I do. 
 
 Yes, I could tell them things. I often know. 
 Lookers-on see most of tlie game. It's a fashion to 
 treat a mother as if she were blind, and saw nothing 
 but what she was told. But I see a great deal more 
 
 165 
 
166 
 
 than they think. I often pretend I don't see things 
 when I do. It's less trouble. It's such hard work 
 arguing with girls. They turn everything round so, 
 and even if one isn't convinced, one has to say so for 
 the sake of peace and quietness. People ask me if I 
 allow my daughters to do this or that. "Allow !" 
 They do as they like. It is the mothers who are not 
 " allowed," who are sent to school again, who are in 
 a continual state of tutelage, according to the present 
 state of things. I am continfcally putting my foot in 
 it. I "don't understand." I am not " up-to-date." 
 Well, perhaps I don't want to be ! Up-to-dateness 
 seems to my benighted intellect to mean bad manners, 
 irresponsibility, flippancy, and — to speak plainly — 
 selfishness. 
 
 I hate Ibsen. Moderna has seen lots of his plays. 
 She has got her life to live, she says. She must not 
 "repress her individuality," she must "develop her 
 personality." She wants to know, she wants to gain 
 her own experience, she doesn't care to make use of 
 her mother's befoi-e her. A mother is only a kind of 
 helpless Survival of the Unfittest — to be trained and 
 educated and dragged up to date as far as her obtuse- 
 ness and obstinacy will allow. 
 
 I resent it, but I can't help it. I do my best to 
 keep pace with " modern thought." I read. It is as 
 much as my place is worth to look shocked at the 
 terrible things people say in my own drawing-room, 
 
167 
 
 and I am quite willing to wear fly-away caps that 
 don't fit, because they are fashionable. 
 
 Silly, old, stupid, matter-of-fact, practical Verona 
 is my only satisfactory daughter. She has married 
 and settled down without any fuss and worry. She 
 has got a nice place in Scotland, and a house in town, 
 and two pretty children, and a husband who pets her 
 and takes care of her — and yet, she was the plain one. 
 
 Here comes Moderna. She's dropped Mr. Darcy, 
 and got a new escort, the man who put her into a 
 society novel the other day. I wouldn't speak to 
 him, but she doesn't seem to care. Poor Mr. Darcy 
 cares for her, I think. I wonder she doesn't shock 
 him. Poor child ! she looks sad, or is it her black 
 dress which is unbecoming ? She is getting very 
 thin. She ought to wear a necklace. People admire 
 her 'for her " morbidezza " — I think they call it — 
 people like Mr. Tremaine, and want to paint her. Is 
 it nice for a mother to be told her daughter looks 
 morbid ? And I know it's only because she will do 
 imprudent things and take no care of her healtli. 
 There never was a really healthier girl than Mo- 
 derna ; and she can be a rare tomboy when she likes ! 
 See her riding or playing tennis, there is not much 
 " morbidezza" about her then ! 
 
 "So, thank you, Mr. Bingham, I'm quite comfort- 
 able here. There is no draught, I assure you. No, I 
 
168 
 
 ■won't have any refreshment, thank you. I never do 
 here, there is such a struggle. 
 
 Why does he bother with an old woman like me ? 
 I hate heing worried. I want just to sit here and be 
 let alone, and close my eyes if I like. Tbey only 
 worry me by coming and offering me the brown- 
 bread ice of charity. It's only cupboard civility at 
 the best. Mr. Bingham is only polite to me because 
 he's in love with Moderna. 
 
 Lots of men are. Nice men. Men I should not 
 object to as sons-in-law. Those are the men she 
 hates. She prefers authors and actors, and people 
 who have " made their mark." I like your clean, 
 well-shaven, fresh-complexioned young man, who 
 doesn't burn the midnight oil and his eyes out over 
 books, or spoil his complexion with "make-up"; 
 who isn't tragic, or pedantic, or morbid — or anything 
 except a gentleman. 
 
 There was Coniston. I loved him as if he were my 
 own son. He was so nice about the house. I used 
 to consult him about things when he was Gervaise's 
 secretary. And I am sure he once cared for her. 
 He's just come home, too. Peggy had a letter. She 
 said he was coming here to-night — but I don't see 
 him. I wish Moderna could have cared for him. 
 
 I don't like my daughter's Bohemian friends. 
 There are a lot of them here, too, to-night. They 
 
169 
 
 may have superlative genius — but they haven't ordi- 
 nary manners. I don't like Mr. Kronofski, with the 
 long hair, and the gray complexion, and the bad 
 manners, and the kind of smell of the footlights lie 
 brings with him when he comes to call. He's a mu- 
 sician and breaks the strings of my piano. I hate 
 Miss Dolly Tremaine — they call her D. T. in her 
 own set — and her slang, and her fast French stories, 
 and her penny-a-lining, and her cropped head. She 
 sings Yvette Guilbert's songs with the improper 
 verses that even Yvette leaves out. She lives in 
 rooms over an aerated breadshop in the Strand, and 
 calls that "living in the odor of sanctity!" She's 
 "Ceres" in Home-crops, and "Sibjd" in the Wise 
 Woman Series, and takes presents from shops. She 
 never seems to have a regular meal, but she drinks 
 brandies-and-sodas, and reads the "Pink 'un." Mo- 
 derna thinks her original, and daring, and^w de sikcle. 
 I call her bad form, simply ! 
 
 That's her brother Ned that Moderna is talking to 
 now. She is going to sit to him, I believe. I have 
 no particular objection to him, but it would be all 
 the same if I had. He's an impressionist — supposed 
 to be clever. I don't really understand what they 
 mean by impressionism. But it can't mean many 
 sittings. 
 
 What time is it ? Twelve ! I hate this crowd 
 and crush, and for all the good I am I might as well 
 
170 
 
 be at home and in my bed. I yearn for my bed. 
 But when I'm in bed I can't sleep for listening for 
 the sound of the latch-key in the lock, so I may as 
 well be here. 
 
 No, dearie, I'm not a bit tired. I don't think of 
 going home yet. I was only shutting my eyes be- 
 cause I was thinking. I want a little talk with Mrs. 
 Fleming, and I have promised to go and look at your 
 portrait with the Admiral. Run away, deai-, don't 
 mind me. I'm all right. 
 
 Moderna's a good girl. It never occurs to Peggy 
 to come and see how I am getting on ! 
 
 Who is she talking to ? I declare I don't know. 
 What a thing it is not to know one's own daughter's 
 friends ! She is making an appointment with the 
 woman to go and dine. Where did she dine last 
 night ? I positively don't know. I suppose I was 
 told. 
 
 They might be young men for all I know of their 
 movements ! They both have latch-keys, and they 
 lose them continually, and the house is free to a cer- 
 tain number of burglars in consequence. It can't be 
 helped. I oughtn't to be nervous, they say, and if I 
 am, it's my own fault. 
 
 They generally do go out alone. I dare say it's 
 ■ best. Chaperons are not wanted under the present 
 
171 
 
 system. They chose to bring me to-night. I can't 
 think why. " So nice of you to bring your mother, 
 Miss Maskelyne," said Mrs. Rensselaer to Moderna as 
 we came in. She sniggered, so I suppose it was 
 meant for a joke, but I didn't like it — nor did Mo- 
 derna, I could see. 
 
 What ! Back again ? My dear child, how pale 
 you look ? Want to go home ? Are you bored ? 
 Vexed ? Oh, very well, I don't mind, only you must 
 settle it with Peggy. She's over there. 
 
 Something has gone wrong ! Somebody hasn't 
 come, or hasn't asked her to dance wlien he did ! 
 Girls are so funny ! It does not matter if a whole 
 ballroom is at their feet — if the right man isn't. I 
 wonder who it is ? I could help her if she would 
 tell me. 
 
 She won't. But for all her independence she will 
 come and cry on my slioulder to-night, and tell me 
 it's oh, nothing ! — but that she is perfectly, utterly, 
 absolutely, hopelessly miserable ! ' A mother is some 
 good, then ! 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 In Ned Tremainb's Studio in Chelsea. 
 
 Mes. Feed Detbeel [surveying a portrait 
 through a pince-nez] : It reminds me more of a 
 Cheret poster than anything else. However — I don't 
 know anything about it ! [Despairingly. ^^ 
 
 Ned Teemaine : About what ? 
 
 Mbs. Feed Deveeel: Impressionism. Is that all 
 you've done in ten sittings ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine [moodily'] : I'm not pleased with 
 it myself. All you see there was done at the last 
 sitting, and I shall probably paint it out again. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel: All very well if you did 
 paint it out, but I see five Modernas under this one. 
 
 Ned Teemaine [wearily]: C^ est la vie! And the 
 last shall be first. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : And what are all those 
 streaks of red and blue in the background ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Don't you recognize it — a Lock- 
 hart's cocoa saloon ? Miss Maskelyne is a modern 
 young lady ; I have painted her in a London street, 
 among the shops and posters and tokens of our 
 modern civilization. The cold blue of temperance, 
 and the sensuous glow of butcher's meat — don't you 
 see? 
 
 172 
 
173 
 
 Mes. Feed Dbveebl : Yes, I see — a combination 
 up to date. Well, I must say Moderna is the least 
 vain of women. Now, when I go to be painted 
 
 Ned Teemaine : You go to a first-rate bodice-and- 
 skirt hand, warranted to turn out both corsage and 
 face without wrinkle or crease ! There are lots of 
 artists like that. Here she comes ! [7b Modeena.] 
 Please pose yourself quickly. It's coming on very 
 well, I think. 
 
 Modeena : May I look ? 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Better not ! \^Aside.\ 
 Least seen is soonest mended — or forgiven. 
 
 Modeena \loolcing at the picture] : Oh, Mr. Tre- 
 maine, are my lips the color of sealing-wax, or of a 
 soldier's uniform ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : You remind me of the captious 
 art critic. Miss Maskelyne. Those are the kind of 
 unreasonable things they say. For the critic's 
 opinion, who has stultified himself with virtuous 
 theories and righteous traditions, I have not the 
 slightest regard ; but you, who know absolutely 
 notliing, I fondly believe, of the laws of art, are a 
 critic not to be disdained. [Modeena smiles.] Yes, 
 you can give me that smile. 
 
 ' Modeena : No, I haven't read Vasari, but I have 
 an opinion, and I am not sure you would agree with it. 
 
 Ned Teemainb : Who may abuse one if not one's 
 friends ? [JBecomes absorbed.] 
 
174 
 
 Mks. Feed Dbveebl [^suddenly] : I say, Moderna, 
 will you excuse me a minute while I go round to De 
 Chathuant's studio ? I promised to look in, some- 
 time, and see what he is doing. I'll only be a 
 minute. [Moueena nods.] [Exit Mrs. Deveeel. 
 
 Ned Tebmaine : Are you going to the next En 
 Avant Social Evening, Miss Maskelyne ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Of course. I am a member. 
 
 Ned Tebmaiste : You go with my sister Dolly, 
 don't you ? It is very odd to see you there. " A 
 snowy dove trooping with crows." 
 
 Moderna : That is not very polite to your sister. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Oh, Dolly is a law unto herself. 
 She's neither dove nor crow, but a kind of literary 
 bird of prey, seeking whom she may devour — and 
 interview ! 
 
 MoDEENA : Awfully clever people go to the Club ; 
 that's why I joined. One likes to keep pace with 
 modern thought. They are so frankly pagan there. 
 [Laughing.] At least the president of it told me 
 that such was her ambition. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Frankly " pot-house," I should 
 say. Still it's amusing, and you are not obliged to 
 soil your white wings. One can touch pitch and yet 
 not be defiled, if one snubs it well. You see a poor 
 devil like me has to go anywhere and everywhere, 
 and tout for commissions, and see fellows who may 
 be useful to him 
 
175 
 
 MoDEENA : And paint, too ! You are forgetting 
 you are an artist, Mr. Tremaine. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Yes, I made my little experi- 
 ments. 
 
 MoDEENA : On the patient public. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : We artists are all pilgrims, you 
 know, in a strange land — pioneers 
 
 MoDEENA [shyly] : I think if you took a little 
 more pains 
 
 Ned Teemaiite [laughing'] : Am I not always 
 explaining to you that the first impact of a scene on 
 the visual organs is the essential ; that all detail 
 ought to be subordinated to the flash of insight ; 
 that any sense of effort would be fatal ? The picture 
 must come right at once or not come at all ; it must 
 be seen and grasped in a flash. 
 
 MoDEENA : And seen and passed like a flash in a 
 kind of revolving picture gallery. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Take care, you're getting a little 
 mixed. 
 
 MoDEENA : So would the critics ! Go on painting. 
 I won't talk. [ Composes her features.] I hear the 
 studio bell. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Perhaps it's Lord Coniston ! 
 I'll see. No, it isn't. He promised to come. He's 
 just back from that infernal foolhardy yacht race of 
 his ; won it, though ! 
 
 MoDEENA : What is he coming here for ? 
 
176 
 
 Ned Teemaute : He's coming to see a portrait 
 I've done. He is interested in the sitter. He 
 brought her here, and I painted her in costume, by- 
 request, though it is not my way. 
 
 MoDEENA : Who is it ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : A Mrs. Belenfante, a French 
 woman. I used to hear about her when I lived in 
 Paris. A kind of beautiful cosmopolitan creature — 
 fur, cigarettes, diamonds 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, do you mean a person like that? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : My dear Miss Maskelyne, she's 
 rich enough to have her own way, that's all I mean. 
 She is tr&s Men vu in Paris — everyone raves about 
 her. Deuced clever woman ! They say Coniston is 
 going to marry her. 
 
 MoDEENA : Why should he ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Don't know. He fought a duel 
 about her once. He compromised her — or she him, 
 I forget which. She had a husband then, a villain, 
 who beat her 
 
 Modeena : And he died — and her beauty and her 
 misfortunes so affected Lord Coniston that he is to 
 marry lier ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : That's about it. She's in 
 London now. She wants to take lier portrait back 
 to Paris with her. 
 
 Modeena : Is it done ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : It depends entirely how you 
 
177 
 
 look at it. Coniston is coming to decide at twelve. 
 It's a quarter to, now. 
 
 MoDEENA : Show ! 
 
 Ned Teemaine : I knew you would want to see it. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, please. 
 
 Ned Teemaine [draws a canvas fbrwardl : You 
 see it is done in my old manner. 
 
 MoDEENA [a/ter a pause] : I wish you had done 
 me like that. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Do you think her pretty ? 
 
 MoDEENA [enthusiasticalli/l : Lovely ! 
 
 Ned TEBMAiiirE [asiWe] : I like this girl. She 
 doesn't deny the woman's beauty, though she's 
 deadly jealous of her, I can tell. [Aland.] Look, 
 here is her dress ! A marquise — Pompadour — 
 paniers — ruffles — all the rest of it. 
 
 MoDEEKA : She's just my height. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Rather like you, in fact. 
 
 MoDERNA [sicddeiili/] : What a time Flossie is ! 
 I wish you would go and dig her out. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : I don't want her. 
 
 MoDEENA [with hauteur] : But I do. Please, go ! 
 
 Ned Teemaine : But if Coniston conies? It's 
 his houi-. 
 
 MoDEENA : I'll entertain him. I know him, you 
 know. 
 
 Ned Teemainb [asicZe] : I didn't know. Con- 
 found that unruly member of mine. [Mcit. 
 13 
 
178 
 
 MoDEENA [sold] : Edward has been in town three 
 days, and not been to see me yet. And I shall meet 
 him. He will be surprised. This woman — 1 wonder 
 who she is ? He expects to see her here ! Suppose 
 I put on the marquise dress, and assume her atti- 
 tude ? Dare I ? I should like to give Edward a 
 shock. It would be so dramatic. I shall know on 
 what terms — oh, he can't care for a stagey woman 
 like that ! Lovely, she is, though. \_Begvis to put the 
 dress on.'\ If only he comes to time ! He will. He 
 was always so punctual; that was one of the things 
 that bored me so about him. The dress actually fits 
 — over my other ! She is stout, I suppose. [Poses 
 herself J\ Only I want a fan, paint, and powder, and 
 impudence to complete the costume. I hear the bell ! 
 The old woman will open. I can't think why I'm 
 trembling so. 
 
 Enter Lord Coniston. She stiffens her features. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Why — Elise ! 
 
 MoDEENA [dryly] : Do you call her Elise, then ? 
 [ Comes down from the estrade.] How do you do ! 
 Help me off with this before Flossie and Mr. Tre- 
 maine come back. [Feverishly unfastening the dress.] 
 
 CoNisTON [slowly] : Yes. How do you do ! But 
 why have you put on Mrs. Belefante's costume ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Because I was a malicious fool. Never 
 mind, my weapon has turned against myself. 
 
179 
 
 CoNiSTON [coldly] : I don't understand you. 
 MoDEENA : All the better. 
 
 [Iieaning against a chair. 
 CoNiSTON : Are you faint? You look quite pale. 
 MoDEENA : It's with sitting. Here comes Flossie. 
 Now I can go. 
 
 He-enter Mrs. Feed Dbveeel and Ned Tebmainb. 
 They both shake hands with Lord CoNisTOisr. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Sorry I was away, but I hope 
 Miss Maskelyne did the honors. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Indeed, yes ; she even got up a little 
 scena for my benefit. [Putting up his glass, and 
 looking at Modeena's portrait.] A — Tremaine — 
 what a delightful disregard of detail ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveebl \to Modeesta, aside] : My 
 dear girl, what is it ? You look quite yellow. 
 
 MoDEENA : Let's go, please, Flossie. I can't sit 
 any more to-day. [To Conistow, stiffly.] I am so 
 glad you have come home. Will you be my guest at 
 the .90iV^e of %\\e En Avant Club to-morrow night? 
 
 CoNiSTON : I shall be very happy. 
 
 MoDEEKA : I'll send you a card. Good-by. 
 Good-by, Mr. Tremaine. I will write to you when 
 I can come again, and Flossie can manage it. Give 
 Dolly my love, and say I'll call for her and take her 
 to the Club to-morrow night. 
 
 [Exit with Mrs. Feed Deveeei- 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 At the En Avant Club. A mixed social evening. Modeena 
 and Dolly Tremaine on the stairs. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I say, Dolly, can't you leave that book 
 in the rack ? 
 
 Dolly Tebmainb : No, dear, I'm afraid not. It's 
 so impi'oper I must stick to it. [^Looking closely at 
 MoDEENA.J Why, how respectable you look in your 
 pure white dress — almost dignified ! I can't think 
 why you always dress so primly at our social 
 evenings ? 
 
 Modeena : Perhaps I do it on purpose ! 
 
 DoLLT Teemaine : Well, you look sweet, anyhow ; 
 come on ! I see Ned over there looking like a saint 
 — my brother's worth a hundred pounds to me, any 
 day, in respectability. He is so brilliantlj'^ ugly. 
 Oh, and, Moderna, I must introduce you to my little 
 editor, sometime. He's dying to know you. 
 
 Modeena : What for ? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine : He probably wants to ask you 
 to write for him. 
 
 Modeena : Nonsense ! 
 , Dolly Teemaine : It's your name he wants. 
 You're nuts to him. You see, you have the entree 
 into all sorts of fashionable society. 
 
 180 
 
181 
 
 MoDEENA : How hatefullj- you talk, Dolly ! 
 
 Dolly Teemaine : It's business. There he is ! 
 Won't I just bully him for the way he mauled my 
 article on " 'Bus-tops." [ They enter a room full of 
 people and smoke.] 
 
 Db Chathuant : Tiens, la jolie philosophe ! and 
 her familiar spirit ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Why do you call her that ? 
 
 De Chathuant : Parce qu'elle discute si joliment 
 sur des choses dont elle ne comprend rien — heureus- 
 ement ! Pour I'autre, je ne dis pas ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deteeel : Oh, D. T. and her music 
 hall refrains are getting too much even for me ! She 
 leaves_;?w. de sQcle far behind. It's the beginning of 
 the one after next with her. How do you do, Miss 
 Tremaine ? Are you going to dance the chaliut in 
 that short frock ? 
 
 De Chathuant \to Modebna] : Bon soir, made- 
 moiselle. Quelle toilette ! Blanche comme une fee ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Except for those malign- 
 looking flowers. What are they? 
 
 Modeena: Fritillaries. I rather like these poison- 
 ous colors, don't you ? 
 
 De Chathuant : Un ange qui porte les Fleurs S\x 
 Mai ! Cette raise fantastique vous sied admirable- 
 ment. When will you come and let me 'ave a 
 croquis ? 
 
182 
 
 MoDEENA IdoubtfuUy] : I don't know. You say I 
 mustn't bring a chaperon ? 
 
 De Chathuant : Ah, pour 5a, non, mille f ois non ! 
 Can I work with a British matron at my elbow ? 
 The inspiration would leave me — paf ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I'll bring William some day when he 
 comes up from Eton. 
 
 De Chathuant : Un gar9on — diable ! Merci, 
 mademoiselle, je pref^re le croquis de souvenii-. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : I'll bring her some day, 
 M. De Chathuant. [Aside to Modeena.] You 
 mustn't snub a genius like that, you little idiot ! 
 Don't you want your picture in the Salon ? 
 
 MoDEENA [pettishly] : I'm tired of sitting to 
 people ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Take care, dear, you're 
 getting spoiled ! Talk to Mr. Tremaine ; he has been 
 waiting at your elbow for an age. [To Miss Tee- 
 MAiNE.J Well, Miss Dolly, where have you come 
 from, " with all your love locks flowing " 
 
 DoLLT Teemaine : And " vine leaves in my 
 hair " 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Some East End doss-house 
 — or an opium den — or some other low resort of 
 copy? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine [cheerfully] : The East End is 
 rather played out. I think I shall begin to turn my 
 attention to the low-lived deeps of the Upper Ten. 
 
183 
 
 Slumming at Belvoir ! Coster courtship of Lady 
 
 'Liza Vere de Vere and Lord Henry Wouldn't 
 
 it just sound novel ? For the present I've come from 
 behind the scenes at the " Vanities." Tilly Drew was 
 fine in tliat new song of hers," You Don't Draw Me ! " 
 You know, poor girl, she can't manage to get up 
 steam to sing it at all, now, unless she has a B and S 
 first. She's as sorry as anyone, but she can't do 
 without. 
 
 Mes. Feed Djevbeel [siieermg] : Talent obliges ! 
 
 Dolly Tkemainb : I wish I had been there last 
 night ! She had a lovely row with Bessie Bannister 
 — they call Tilly and Bessie " the cat " and " the 
 devil," at the theatre, you know ! Well, here it is : 
 Bessie contrives to stick her foot out in the third act, 
 when Tilly's dance is on and she wants the whole 
 stage to herself. Tilly has threatened to speak to 
 the management if it occurs again, but Bessie goes 
 on doing it, and last night Tilly went up to her and 
 said aloud, " You — you — jrou " 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Words failed her. 
 
 DoLLT Teemaine : At first, but [Shakes 
 
 her head.] 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Who is Moderna talking 
 to, over there, with a head like a burning bush ? 
 
 DoLLT Teemaine : That is Maurice Kronofski — 
 he wrote the " Devils' Chorus," you know — and oh, 
 there is Gontram Vere ! the new poet — " Flies in 
 
184 
 
 Amber," don't you know? lam to interview him 
 for the Blowfly, am I not, Mr. Spofforth ? [To the 
 Editor of the Blowfly, who approaches.'^ 
 
 The Editoe \shortly'\ : Will you make me known 
 to your friend Miss Maskelj'ne ? 
 
 Dolly Tebmaine : Pleasure. [Performs the cere- 
 mony and turns to Gonteam Veee.J You know 
 I am to have the pleasure of interviewing 
 you? 
 
 Gonteam Veee : Yes, but first tell me, who is 
 that young lady on your right ? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine [aside'] : Now, if I was of the 
 feminine persuasion, how jealous I should be! It's 
 lucky I am of the neuter gender. [AloudJ] My 
 friend. Miss Maskelyne. She's going in for jour- 
 nalism. 
 
 Gonteam Veee : Under your auspices ? That is 
 quite delightful. I am constantly seeing the 
 familiar initials D. T. in our leading periodicals. 
 By the way, I used to know Miss Maskelyne — I am 
 afraid to say how long ago. 
 
 Dolly Tebmaine : Do you think she has altered ? 
 
 Gonteam Veee : Well, she had hardly so much 
 aplomb. Who is she talking to now ? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine : My brother. 
 
 Gonteam Veee : Is that your brother ? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine : Yes, doesn't he look good — 
 and ugly ? 
 
185 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Shall I say, the exact opposite of 
 his sister ? 
 
 Dolly Teemaine [delighted'] : Yes, I flatter myself 
 7'm like the girl in the song. " Not too good," etc. 
 I hate your hardened saints. Do come and have a 
 sandwich. 
 
 MoDEENA [to Ned Teemaine] : He asked me to 
 write him society paragraphs. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Well ? 
 
 MoDEENA : And I said I couldn't — and he said, 
 oh, just jot down my impressions of society, and he 
 would pull them straight in the office ! Fancy 
 furnishing " spicy bits of gossip," and making capi- 
 tal out of ray friends ! 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Dolly does it. 
 
 MoDEENA : But Dolly's friends seem to like it. 
 Mine wouldn't. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Most of Dolly's .friends, you see, 
 have to make their way — as she has. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, I know, but I couldnH make a 
 friend of a serio-comic ! 
 
 Ned Teemaine : You've never even seen one, I 
 suppose. You ought to ; it is a feature of the age. 
 
 MoDEENA : Dolly is always wanting to take me to 
 a music hall. 
 
 Ned Teemaine ; Don't go with her. Go with 
 me. 
 
186 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, I couldn't ! 
 
 Ned Tebmaine : There you are ! The conven- 
 tional answer ! Haven't I heard you say a hundred 
 times that you wanted to see — to do everything ; 
 that a girl ought to be able to go about the same as 
 a man ! 
 
 MoDEENA : But not leith a man ! 
 
 Ned Tbemaine : But I don't count, do I ? I'm so 
 hideous. 
 
 MoDEENA {looking at him compassionately} : 
 Well, perhaps I will some day, with you — and 
 Dolly. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : It would be much more proper 
 to go alone with me. I am absolutely uncompromis- 
 ing, while Dolly 
 
 GoNTEAM Verb [interrupting] : Miss Maskelyne, 
 I really must re-introduce myself to you. You 
 remember me ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Qf course I do. 
 
 GoNTBAM Veee : I have been to India, and 
 America, and Australia, since I saw you. Oh, tliose 
 daj's at Merrow ! I shall never forget them. Have 
 you? 
 
 MoDBENA : I have been reading your book. It 
 reminded me of them. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : How good of you ! What do 
 you think of it? Abuse it if you would like. A 
 little adverse criticism would be so pleasant. Who 
 
187 
 
 may abuse a man if not his friends ? But tell me — 
 I am nothing if not transitional — what have you 
 been doing? I saw some verses of yours in a jour- 
 nal the other day. Do you throw off these little 
 gem-like effusions in the intervals of arranging those 
 wonderful toilets ? \Looking at her.] How I 
 remember the simple little gown in which I saw you 
 first ! 
 
 MoDBENA [laughingl : I have altered since then. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : You were like a Botticelli, now 
 you are like a Greuze — a lily, and now a rose. 
 
 MoDEENA [curtly] : I've grown up ; that's all ! 
 
 GoNTEAM Verb : But I'm not sure that I did not 
 love the old Moderna Maskelyne the best. The shy, 
 spiritual child, with eyes of wonder. Do you remem- 
 ber a sonnet I once wrote to you ? 
 
 MoDEENA [blushing] : Yes. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : How did it run ? Ah, you can't 
 remember. Strangely enough, nor can I ! But I am 
 bringing out a new edition of my poems — and I 
 should be glad to include it. 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm afraid 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Is it too personal ? 1 can modify 
 it. 
 
 MoDEENA : Not at all, only [Aside.] I've 
 
 torn it up ! [Aloucf.] Will you introduce me to 
 your wife ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Poor child, she's so shy! Praise 
 
188 
 
 my work, Miss Maskelyne, if you want to put her at 
 lier ease. Come here, Melilot, darling, and let me 
 introduce you to Miss Maskelyne. 
 
 MoDERNA [poUteli/l : I've just been reading your 
 husband's last article in the Incontrovertible, Mrs. 
 Vere. I tell him it is a shocking waste of sonnets. 
 
 Mes. Veee [earnestlt/^ : Oh, there are no rhymes 
 in it, I hope, are there, Gontram ? That would be 
 dreadful ! 
 
 MoDEENA : When are we to have another, Mr. 
 Vere ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee [wearily passing his hand through 
 his hair'] : I do not know, I am sure. It is a matter 
 for serious consideration. I don't want, you know, 
 to be flogged with my own laurels. 
 
 Mes. Veee : Flogged, Gontram ? 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Go and have a sandwich, dear, 
 with Mr. Saintfoin, who asks you. [She goes.] 
 What do you think of my wife? 
 
 MoDEENA : She is very good-looking. 
 
 GoNTEAM Veee : Indubitably. In everything 
 else she is my exact opposite. She is as domestic as 
 I am nomadic. She is my good angel and keeps me 
 straight — my aceounts, you know. She was an 
 orphan when I married her. The circumstances 
 were touching. I first saw her in her insignia of 
 grief — tenderly outlined against a pink background 
 of butcher's meat — she was choosing a chop for her 
 
189 
 
 invalid father. It moved me at once. But I must 
 not monopolize you. There is an extraordinarily 
 handsome man who has been glowering at me for the 
 ' last quai'ter of an hour. He will assassinate me if I 
 talk to you any longer. [ Goes. 
 
 MoDEENA [aside] : Yes, he looks a prince among 
 all these people. [Aloud to Lord Coniston.J So 
 you have come ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : You invited me. 
 ' MoDERNA : It was nice of you. [N'ervously.'] I 
 hope you know somebody here ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Only that clever old fellow over 
 there — De Chathuant. Whose guest is he ? 
 
 MoDEENA [triumphantly] : Miss Tremaine's ! 
 
 CoNiSTON [mildly] : I must present my respects to 
 Miss Tremaine. I see she is talking to that man 
 Caffrey. 
 
 MoDEEiirA : Who is Caffrey ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Oh, a very pleasant creature — a jour- 
 nalist, and a black-mailer, and all that sort of 
 thing 
 
 MoDEESTA [angrily] : Edward, I won't stand it ! 
 
 CoNiSTON [innocently] : What won't you stand ? 
 And why are you not smoking ? 
 
 MoDEENA [reproachfully] : You know I never do. 
 
 CoNiSTOiir : I don't know. I've been so long away. 
 Besides, everyone seems to smoke here. Have they 
 all nerves ? 
 
190 
 
 MoDBKNA : If you come here just to sneer at my 
 friends 
 
 CoNisTON : I didn't know they were your friends. 
 Mr. Caffrey can't be your friend. I did not come 
 here to sneer at anyone ; I came to see you, and I 
 shall do my best to see nobody else. 
 
 MoDBENA : That means to say that you think them 
 inferior 
 
 CoNisTON [gravely] : Don't let us discuss them. 
 Tell me about yourself, that is, if you can really 
 think it worth while to talk to an outsider like 
 myself. I am merely a private person. I can neither 
 offer to immortalize you in the New English Art 
 Club, nor give you the Ladies' Column in the 
 Blowfly to do, nor 
 
 MoDEKNA : Oh, Edward, how narrow you are ! 
 How intolerant ! How insulting ! Don't you see 
 these are real men and women, a thousand times 
 more interesting than the stiff, silly, idle mashers 
 and empty-headed women one meets in drawing- 
 rooms, who can only talk gossip and clothes and 
 parties 
 
 CoNisTON : Every class tal'ks its own shop ! 
 
 MoDBBNA : They are perhaps a little rough and 
 ready, and they call things by their right names, but 
 they are the people that make the world go round — 
 who affect millions through the press — they are the 
 levers that move the world. 
 
191 
 
 CoNiSTON : That's just it — they are not the real 
 levers. Do you suppose that there are not back- 
 waters of literature and journalism where the scum 
 collects, and curdles, and fumes, and eddies — quite 
 useless as far as the furtherance of the world is 
 concerned 
 
 MoDEKNA [lauffhing] : That is quite good copy, 
 though the metaphor's a little mixed, and you are 
 excessively unfair. I know you hate Bohemians. 
 You always did. 
 
 CoNisTON^ [earnestlyl : I do not hate Bohemians — 
 not the real, half-starved, half-clothed Bohemian, 
 who has no friends, and no visiting cards, and no 
 dress clothes to go out in — nothing but the touch of 
 genius which makes him come to the top. 
 
 MoDBENA : Yes, you would have patronized John- 
 son, as Lord Southampton patronized Shakspere ! 
 I know. 
 
 CoNiSTON : But I have nothing but scorn for the 
 men who have every attribute of Bohemia but its 
 genius ; who glory in never answering a letter or 
 keeping an engagement, and clog tlie wheels of the 
 world by their impertinent want of punctuality — the 
 men whose word isn't their bond, who consider the 
 phrase c'etait plus fort que moi an excuse for break- 
 ing every law, human and divine. I don't suppose 
 there is one man in the room with the most rudi- 
 mentary sense of conscience — and to see you mas- 
 
193 
 
 querading here among them, like the Lady in Comus ! 
 — and there is that bi'ute and cad Caffrey over there, 
 and I'm hanged, Moderna, if I'll stay another minute 
 in the same room with him. Good-night. Forgive 
 me. I'll see you to-morrow night at the Flemings'. 
 
 MoDBENA [drylyl : I don't think you will. Good- 
 night. [Mcit CoNisTON. To Ned Teemaine, breath- 
 lessly.] Mr. Tremaine, I'll go with you to a music 
 hall to-morrow niglit. Get Dolly. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : She's going to a rehearsal, 
 MoDEENA : Very well, then — with you, alone. 
 Write to me and arrange it. No, I'll write to you. 
 Good-night. I can't wait for Dolly. No, please, 
 I am never seen home. It is a principle. Good- 
 night. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 In Kensington Gardens, about seven o'clock, on a summer 
 evening. 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, this is perfectly hateful ! Which 
 seat did I say ? There must be a mistake. This is 
 the first assignation I ever made, and I'm here first ! 
 It is too liumiliating ! 
 
 Suppose I go a little way off and come up out of 
 bi-eath ? No. That would look as if I were in 
 a hurry to meet him. How dare he be late? It's 
 excessively rude ! [Looks at her watch.'\ Oh, I see; 
 I am too early. It was because I was so nervous, 
 and so afraid of Peggy catching me. I'll sit down 
 for five minutes, and if he isn't here exactly to the 
 minute, I'll go back. 
 
 I'd give anything to go back now, but I am not 
 going to be domineered over by Edward. But as for 
 enjoying it — I shall feel perfectly miserable all the 
 time. I had much better have gone to the Flem- 
 ings'. ' I shall cut it as short as I can. Let me see. 
 My people are going on to three things after the 
 Blakes' dinner. They will not be back for ages. 
 I shall be home and tucked up in bed by the time 
 tliey come — long before ! I shall stay no longer at 
 this place than is consistent with politeness. 
 
 13 193 
 
194 
 
 Here comes a policeman ! How he looks at me ! 
 Oh, I am not doing anything wrong ! He'll tell nie 
 to move on in a minute. I will. No, he's gone the 
 other way. And anyhow, I don't see how he could 
 stop me sitting on a bench in Ketisington Gardens. 
 I'm not "spoiling the shrubs and the flowers." 
 
 Suppose one of our servants should come by ? 
 They come here to meet their sweethearts, naturally. 
 That is what I seem to be doing. 
 
 Ned Ti-emaine ! 
 
 Oh, this is killing me. I'll go home, and send a 
 wire to him. [^Rises and gathers up her skirts in 
 a resolute knot, and turns away, just as Ned Tee- 
 MAiNB comes up.] 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Miss Maskelyne ! 
 
 MoDBENA [turning round, very calmly] : Dear me, 
 is that you, Mr. Tremaine ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Who else should it be ? I am 
 so sorry you got here first. [Looking at his watch.] 
 I never knew a woman so more than punctual. I 
 always time myself to be five minutes before. 
 
 MoDEENA : You speak as if you were in the 
 habit of keeping appointments. [^sjcfe.J Oh, dear ; 
 I wish I hadn't said that. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Ah, now you are cross because I 
 wasn't here first ! 
 
 MoDEENA [aside]: Cross ! How dare he say I am 
 cross ! [Aloud.] Oh, it doesn't matter. 
 
195 
 
 Ned Tebmaine : But it does matter. I hurried to 
 be here five minutes befoi-e you, and I am so dis- 
 appointed. Tell me, how long did you wait ? 
 
 MoDEKNA : Oh, please, Mr. Tremaine, don't say 
 any more about it. I said I'd go to a music hall with 
 you, and I will. Can we get a hansom? 
 
 Ned Tbemaine : No diflBculty. "We'll walk to 
 one if you don't mind. Well, about our Bohemian 
 dinner ? I thought we would go to Nick's — I mean 
 Nicolini's. 
 
 MoDBENA : Is it very Bohemian ? I think I 
 should like it as low as possible. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Quite low enough for you to 
 start with. I'll give you a real Italian dinner. It is 
 an experience. Tliey will do anything for me there. 
 Then we'll get a copy of the Entr' Acte, and see 
 where the best turns are. I think the Tivoli. We'll 
 have a box. 
 
 Modeena : No, I don't want to be in a box. I 
 want to sit with the people. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : People with a big P ! Are you 
 a socialist ? Well, we'll do exactly as you like ; 
 only in a box you can sit back, you know. 
 
 Modeena : I don't want to sit back, I am not 
 ashamed. [Aside.] What an awful lie ! [They get 
 into a hansom. He supports her elbow with his 
 hand.] 
 
 Modeena [suddenly] : Will you tell him to stop 
 
196 
 
 at the nearest telegraph oflBce ? I want to send a 
 wire — to my dressmaker. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : An urgent appeal to postpone 
 cutting the bodice till further instructions ? Blue 
 bows instead of white ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I see you know all about it, Mr. 
 Tremaine. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Portrait painter, you know ! 
 Here is the oiEce. Shall I send the wire for you ? 
 
 MoDEENA [getting out^ : No. What music hall 
 did we settle to go to ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : We didn't settle, exactly. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, we did; the Tivoli. {^They go 
 into the Post Office. Modbena scribbles a message, 
 and hands it to the cleric.'] 
 
 The Cleek : How do you spell this name, miss ? 
 
 Modeena : C-o-N — oh, it's all right. I wrote it 
 quite clearly. [To Teemaine.] Now let us go. 
 Are you sure I look plain enough. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Not half plain enough. 
 
 MoDEENA [impatiently] : I mean my clothes. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Oh, your dress ! That bonnet is 
 a masterpiece of discretion ! 
 
 MoDEENA : And my veil ? I've two on, I wish I 
 had three. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : " Through a veil darkly." This 
 sudden horror of publicity is not quite consistent 
 with your previous remarks, Miss Maskelyne. 
 
197 
 
 MoDBENA [petiishli/'l •: Why should I fee con- 
 sistent ? [They alight at Nicolini's. Ned Tee- 
 MAiNE orders a dinner.] 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 Ned Teemaine : How do you like an Italian 
 dinner, Miss Maskelyne? 
 
 Modeejsa : I thought it was a Bohemian one. 
 
 Very good indeed. I didn't expect But this 
 
 place is so smart, and quite clean. Is it really like 
 that place you go to in Paris — the Chat Noir, or the 
 Rat Mort, or whatever it is ? 
 
 Ned Teemaine : Well, no, not exactly — hut it is 
 very good for a beginning. We must not shock you 
 at first. Well, and where shall we go ? I see Cissie 
 Loftus is indisposed. Would you rather go to the 
 Pavilion ? 
 
 Modeena : Oh, no, tio ; I've set my heart on the 
 Tivoli. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : But isn't it a pity when Cissie is 
 not on ? 
 
 Modeena : I didn't come for any particular star. 
 I came — for the experience. 
 
 Ned Teemaine : And how do you like it — the 
 experience, so far ? 
 
 Modeena [aside} : Poor man, he's giving me my 
 dinner. [Aloud.] It is delightful, but — I don't feel 
 as if it would have done me any harm to have a 
 chaperon about ! 
 
198 
 
 Ned Tkemainb : It depends on the chaperon. A 
 skilled and trained chaperon is very difficult to pro- 
 cure. A really nice one is worth her weight — in 
 compliments. Dolly has long since given it up as a 
 bad business. I say, do have some of this Zam- 
 bulione ! 
 
 Modbeka: It's so sticky — and these veils are so 
 hot — and I am so afraid of eating through them, 
 and if I turn them up it makes a hard line over my 
 nose. 
 
 Ned Tremaitste : II faut souffiir pour etre 
 Bohemienne. You are dreadfully timorous now. 
 Next time you come you will only have one veil, and 
 the next after that — none ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Next time I come! What o'clock 
 is it? 
 
 Ned Tebmaine : Time to go. Allons! \^Offen 
 to help her on with her cape.] How independent you 
 are ! [ They go. The cab draws up in front of the 
 Tivol'.] 
 
 Ned Teemaine [getting om<] : Wait in the cab, 
 will you, please, while I get a box? We must have 
 a box this time, at any rate. Why are you looking 
 round so anxiously ? 
 
 Modeena: To see if there is anyone I know. 
 
 Ned Teemainb [going in] : Prudent child ! 
 
 MoDBENA : That is the last straw ! [Leans out 
 of the hansom, and beckons to Lord CoNiSTOiir, who is 
 
199 
 
 standing stiffly in the porcli]. Oh, Edward, you got 
 my wire ? You'll take care of me, won't you ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : I will ; but you must manage it 
 yourself. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, I'll manage it ; only stand by 
 me. Hei"e he is ! 
 
 Ned Teemaine [coining hack'l : How do, Conis- 
 ton ? Now, Miss Maskelyne, get out. Here we are, 
 a nice little cosey box 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm so sorry, Mr. Tremaine, but I've 
 got a dreadful headache, and I don't want to spoil 
 your evening, so I have asked Lord Coniston to take 
 me home. I hope you will forgive me. I'm very 
 sorry, but I'm sure you will understand. 
 
 Ned Teemaine [with studied poUtenessI : I quite 
 understand. Miss Maskelyne. You have turned 
 fainthearted about "the experience." At anj^ rate, 
 you have dined with me at Nicolini's — that will be 
 something to remember ! Good-night ! [Exit. 
 
 CoNrsTON : That was a nasty one ! Have you 
 deserved it? What does it all mean ? How do you 
 happen to be going about with this — gentleman ? 
 You sent for me, and I came ; but, upon my word, I 
 can't imagine what on earth you are about ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, don't ask me to explain. I was 
 an idiot. 
 
 CoNiSTOiir : But how did you 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't want to enter into particulars. 
 
300 
 
 I only know I'll never do it again. I never felt so 
 miserably uncomfortable in my whole life 
 
 CoNisTON : Did be 
 
 MoDEES-A : Oil, no ; he behaved all right, accord- 
 ing to his lights ; it was my fault. I got myself 
 into a hole, and I have asked you to get me out. 
 That's all, and- thank you ! 
 
 CoNisTON : It isn't all. He is a beastly little cad 
 to even propose to take a young lady to 
 
 Modbena: I made him, I tell you. Don't let us 
 bother with poor Ked Tremaine any more. He's 
 really so dreadfully ugly that I thought he wouldn't 
 matter. Thei-e's an end of it ! Are you not going 
 to take me in ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Take you in ? Into the music hall ? 
 Do the very thing I am abusing him for? 
 
 MoDEENA : You are different, Edward. 
 
 CoNisTON [laguhing] : I hope so, but still I don't 
 mean to do it. [To the cabman.] 280 Queen's 
 Gate. [ Crets in beside her.] I'm going to take you 
 home. 
 
 MoBEENA : I wish I hadn't sent for you. [*SMfe] 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 In the Maskelynes' Ih-awing-room. Tea-time. 
 
 Billy Danvees \taking up his hat^ : Well, I must 
 be oif. I promised to call on Flossie Deverel. Are 
 you coming to Bleahope for the hunting? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, for a fortnight ; after my people 
 have gone. 
 
 BiLLT Danvees : Oh, ah — yes — and when do they 
 go? 
 
 Modeena : Next week. 
 
 Billy Danvees : And you have really, seriously 
 decided not to go with them to the Riviera ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, really, seriously. 
 
 Billy Danvees : By Jove ! I think you must 
 be 
 
 MoDEENA : A fool. Say so ! 
 
 Billy Danvees : Well, if you ask me, it seems to 
 me perfectly idiotic that a girl can't manage to live 
 comfortably with her people and get on with them. 
 
 MoDEENA : A man never can. Why don't you live 
 in Mount Street with your papa and your mamma ? 
 
 Billy Danvees : A man is different. 
 
 MoDEENA [scornfully] : The usual answer ! 
 
 Billy Danvees : He is quite different. He's got 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 a profession ; he has got friends ; he wants to go 
 about freely without being asked a lot of beastly 
 questions. 
 
 MoDBBNA : So does a girl. 
 
 Billy Danvees : Rot ! She doesn't really want ; 
 and if she does, she oughtn't to. It won't do. I tell 
 you, I know. You women all screech for your 
 liberty; and when you have got it you don't know 
 what to do with it. You swagger about standing 
 alone and all that, and yet you want a fuss made 
 about you all the time. How you would come down 
 on a man if he did not look after you, and offer you 
 his arm and all that sort of thing ! 
 
 MoDEENA : That is mere ordinaiy politeness. 
 
 Billy Danveks : One man doesn't open the door 
 for another. It's only because you're women and 
 weak we do it — and we ought to leave off the 
 moment you all get so deuced independent. I think 
 women are getting horrid nowadays — nearly all. I 
 only hope there '11 be some nice little girl saved for 
 me out of the general wreck when I marry — well- 
 groomed, well-chaperoned, well looked after. And 
 who is going to chaperon you while they are away? 
 Are you going to have Aunt Eliza to stay with you? 
 
 MoDEENA : They have let the house for four 
 months. 
 
 Billy Danvees : The deuce they have ! And 
 where are you going to put up? 
 
203 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm going to share her flat with — I 
 think you know her — Miss Dolly Tremaine. 
 
 Billy Danybes : That little fuzzy-wuzzy journal- 
 ist ! I know her; yes, in assort of way. Oh, you 
 can't ; you absolutely can't stay with D. T. Every- 
 one will drop you ; take my word for it. 
 
 MoDEENA : She is quite — quite respectahle. 
 
 Billy Danvees : I dare say she is ; so is the 
 housemaid. What has that to do with it? But 
 she's an out-and-out Bohemian — she isn't in society. 
 Don't do it. Nobody will call on you ; nobody 
 
 MoDEKNA : The clergyman of the parish will, at 
 any rate. 
 
 Billy Daitvees : Mr. Brown. He's in love with 
 you, poor creature ! And you are actually giving up 
 three months on the Riviera to go and live in Bohe- 
 mia with that deplorable girl ! 
 
 MoDBENA : I never want to leave London, you 
 know. 
 
 Billy Danvees : But London in the winter ! 
 And there is such delightful society abroad just now. 
 Oh, you will never make me believe there isn't some 
 very strong motive for your wanting to stay in town 
 — something or somebody. 
 
 MoDBENA [after a pause] : I am not ti-ying to 
 make you believe anything, Billy. I think you had 
 better go now. I expect Miss Tremaine every mo- 
 ment ; and after what you have said of her I don't 
 
204 
 
 suppose you are anxious to meet her. Good-by. I 
 am not cross. 
 
 [Billy goes. Miss Tebmaine is announced. 
 
 Dolly Teemaine [boisterously] : Well, dear, and is 
 it all settled ? Have you triumphed ? 
 
 MoBERNA [^gloomily] : Yes, I have triumphed. 
 
 Dolly : Was there an awful row ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes ; we all spoke of nothing else for 
 three days — the last three days we have not spoken 
 at all. I am in disgrace, but I am going to do as I 
 choose. 
 
 Dolly : Of course you are. You are a grown-up 
 woman. No one has any right to control you. I 
 knew the moment you chose to put your foot down 
 that tliey couldn't stand out. It was an infamous 
 plan. The' idea of dragging you, one of the most 
 brilliant women in London, abroad, and burying you 
 alive for three months ! No, I said, directly I heard 
 of it, Moderna must not desert her sphere. 
 
 MoDEENA : What is my sphere, Dolly ? 
 
 Dolly : The sphere — our sphere — the sphere of 
 the people who really live, and think, and feel, and 
 enjoy life, and drink its cup to the dregs. Oh, what 
 a time we will have, 1 and you ! We will go every- 
 where, and see everything, and hear everything, and 
 be in it — right in it — up to our little chins — in the 
 stream of life. It will be delightful ! 
 
 MoDEENA [spiritlessly] : Delightful ! 
 
205 
 
 Dolly : And we will have jolly little unconven- 
 tional suppers up in my flat, you know, and ask all 
 the new people. You shall ask your men, and I shall 
 ask mine. We will get Maurice Kronofski to come 
 and play his maddest music to us ; and we will have 
 Gontram Vere — mustn't have his wife, I think ; she'll 
 spoil it ! And there's a delightful Anarchist come to 
 live on the third floor 
 
 MoDEENA [sarcasticallyl : He can bring us his 
 bombs to play with ! 
 
 Dolly : And Ned is invaluable. By the way, he 
 is cross with you. He says you played it rather low 
 down on him about the music hall the other day. 
 He says he didn't believe you had a headache at all; 
 you simply wanted to go off with Lord Coniston. I 
 don't much care for your friend Coniston, you know 
 — he snubs me — but I sha'n't object to your asking 
 him to the suppers, of course. There's nothing mean 
 about me ! 
 
 MoDBENA : No, dear. [Aside.] I don't seem to 
 see Edward there, though, with Kronofski — and 
 Yere — and a murderer. He would not come, even if 
 I did ask him. [Aloud.] It all sounds very nice, 
 but 
 
 Dolly : Yes ; and now we must discuss finances. 
 I have been making enquiries. The rent of the extra 
 room is nothing ; you can easily do it out of your 
 allowance. It will only mean a dress or two the less. 
 
206 
 
 MoDBENA : Yes, I planned it all out ; I can easily do 
 it out of my dress allowance — but — it's dreadf ul,Dolly. 
 
 DoLLT : You mean they have cut off your allow- 
 ance ? Never mind, dear. [Impnlsiveli/.] I'll finance 
 you. I must have you vi'itli me at any price. 
 
 MoDBKNA : Thank you, dear ; I know you would 
 be nice, but that isn't it ; poor mother 
 
 Dolly : Well, poor mother? 
 
 MoDEENA : She hates my doing it, you know ; 
 and yet — isn't it dreadful ? She went to papa, and 
 she spoke to him, and asked him to forgive me ; and 
 she made him write me a check for one hundred 
 pounds, and she gave it me, and kissed me, and said 
 she could not bear to think of my not having all I 
 wanted and had been accustomed to, and would that 
 do for four months ? 
 
 Dolly : Magnificent ! 
 
 MoDBENA : And she hoped that I should-^that my 
 experiment would be as successful as I expected, 
 and 
 
 DoLLT : Rosamond and the Purple Jar all over 
 again ! 
 
 MoDBENA : But, Dolly, are you not touched ? It 
 was heaping coals of fire on me — I 
 
 DoLLT : It was turning the tables on you very clev- 
 erly. Regular cliche of the situation — the natural 
 development of the maternal instinct ! Good old 
 mother ! 
 
207 
 
 MoDEENA : It makes me feel that I ought to throw 
 it all up and go with them. 
 
 Dolly : That's what she did it for. Safe draw ! 
 All known methods failed ! I should not have 
 believed her to be so astute ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Don't, Dolly ! [A pause. 
 
 Dolly : Well, old girl, what are you thinking 
 about so deeply ? I must go in a moment — now, in 
 fact. It's all settled, isn't it ? Good-by. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, it's all settled, Dolly ; I am very 
 sorry to play you false, but I ara going to tell my 
 mother that I am willing to go abroad with her on 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Dolly : You cannot be so weak ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I wonder how you can be so hard. It 
 frightened me. 
 
 Dolly : I retract all my sarcastic remarks about 
 mothers in general. Won't that do ? 
 
 MoDEENA : No, dear. Give up the idea. I must 
 offer to go with them. I cannot be so hateful, when 
 they are so kind. 
 
 Dolly [after a pause] : Look here, I'm off home. 
 I'm not going to bother you any more now ; but 
 write to me to-night, and say what you are going 
 to do. 
 
 MoDEENA [stolidly] : I have told you what I am 
 going to do. 
 
 Dolly [kissinff her] : Obstinate little thing ! I 
 
208 
 
 don't for one moment imagine that you mean to 
 tlii'ow me over. You will think better of it. You 
 know [smilinglT/] you will never be able to make up 
 your mind to leave London, when it comes to the 
 point. Au revoir ! I shall see you again to-day. 
 
 \Exit. 
 MoDEENA : Billy said that too. I wonder why I 
 do so hate the idea of leaving London ? 
 
 At Miss Teemaine's rooms, an hour later. Enter 
 
 MODEENA. 
 
 MoDEENA : Which is to be my room. [^Sits down 
 and bursts into tears.^ 
 
 Dolly : What is it, dear ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm coming to live with you. It serves 
 me right. They — they won't take me with them 
 now, even if I want to ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 At BleaJiope Hall, in Foxsldre. The Meet of the FoxsMre 
 Sounds. 
 
 Mks. Feed Dbverel [to her husband^ : Sir Henry 
 Graham wants you, Fred ! I say, Moderna, do be 
 civil to George Provis. You have no idea what a 
 lot they think of him about liere. 
 
 MoDEENA : He seems a cad to me. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Never mind. All swells 
 are cads, if you read the divorce cases. But one 
 needn't have much to do with them even if one does 
 marry them — if one's as clever as you are. Don't 
 let Violet Fleming and her mother get him. I've 
 told Captain Provis that you are considered the 
 cleverest girl in London, pretty — he sees that — 
 agreeable — when you like — that you dance like an 
 angel, and go to hounds like a bird 
 
 MoDBENA \laughing'\ : Quite necessary, that last 
 qualification ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deteeel : Well, yes, in a hunting 
 county like this, and Captain Provis is always in the 
 first flight and thinks no end of himself. It is lucky 
 that you do ride well, so few London girls keep it up. 
 Look here, Moderna, joking apart, you have been 
 
 H 209 
 
310 
 
 going about a long time, and you have made nothing 
 of it, so far ; try to look at the thing practically. I 
 assure you all the girls about here would give their 
 eyes for George Provis of Hetherland to propose to 
 them, and you have only to raise your little finger — 
 why, Arthur said only yesterday 
 
 MoDBENA : Arthur ! [^sjWe.] She is so afraid of 
 my making it up with Arthur. 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveebl : No, not Arthur — Conis- 
 ton — was it ? 
 
 MoDBENA \d/ryl'y\ : Well, what did he say ? 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : Oh, Coniston is a thorough 
 man of the world ; he would think you, or any girl, 
 an awful fool to refuse a magnificent position, and 
 all that. We had a long, long talk in the morning- 
 room yesterday, all about you. 
 
 MoDBENA : What, all about me ? Did my poor 
 concerns 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel \bridling a little] : Not all 
 about you, I must confess. Poor Coniston ! In spite 
 of that fashionable reserve of his, he is so touchingly 
 communicative when one gets him to one's self ! I 
 believe in tite-d-tStes, don't you ? 
 
 [Meit. Captain Peovis approaches. 
 
 MoDEENA [asic?e] : So you leave me to one with 
 this dreadful man, Provis ! You think he will pro- 
 pose, and I shall accept, and you'll have Edward all 
 to yourself to flirt with. I don't care how much you 
 
Sll 
 
 flirt with Edward ; but, all the same, I won't play 
 your game. I'll play one of my own, and it wiU 
 amuse them all so at dinner to-night when I tell 
 them. "A good seat, an indispensable qualification." 
 Very well ! [Aloud.^ Good-morning, Captain Provis. 
 
 Captain Peovis : So, Miss Maskelyne, you have 
 come to see what Foxshire can do ? 
 
 MoDEENA [blandly] : Yes, I thought I should like 
 a ride, so I asked the coachman to pick out a horse 
 for me, and 
 
 Captaiist Peovis : Coachman ? Horse ? You've 
 got Selima. I know her of old. I thought Fred had 
 sold her. You look a perfect picture on her. Miss 
 Maskelyne. 
 
 MoDBENA : Wait till I move ! I'm a terrible duf- 
 fer. Captain Provis, you know. 
 
 Captain Peovis [smiling] : Hardly, I should 
 think ! Why, the way you sit your mare 
 
 MoDBENA [beginning to slouch] : 1 suppose I sit 
 too upright ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Hdther not ! 
 
 MoDEENA : How sweet and peaceful all the dogs 
 do look, wagging their little tails ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : Dogs ? Don't you mean hounds 
 — or is that what they say in the Shires ? 
 
 MoDERNA : What shires ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Why — oh, it doesn't matter. 
 
 [ 27ie hounds are thrown into covert. 
 
212 
 
 MoDEENA : "What a fuss the — what do you call 
 them — hounds are making ! 
 
 Captaiit Peovis : There's a fox at home, I fancy, 
 but he declines to leave his lodgings. 
 
 MoDEENA Indivelyl : Oh, then lie will be minced 
 in covert ? I've got that right, haven't I ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : My dear young lady, don't say 
 minced. 
 
 MoDERNA : Hashed, then. I know it is hashed. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Oh, please, say chopped. 
 
 MoDEENA : Ah ! I knew it was something they do 
 in kitchens. [ TTiere is a general rush. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Jove ! Come on ! He's making 
 straight for Ford. 
 
 MoDEENA : Heavens ! what a pace ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : Yes, i-ather a cracker. 
 
 MoDEENA [breathlesslyl : My beast's pulling so. 
 I can't manage it ; I can't, really. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Give her her head, for Heaven's 
 sake ! 
 
 MoDEENA : And there's an awful fence coming ! 
 I shall never get over it — oh, dear ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : It's nothing when you come 
 to it. 
 
 Modeena : I can't help it, I'm going round by the 
 gate. Don't mind me. 
 
 Captain Peovis [aside] : Confound Lost 
 
 my place. [Aloud.] Oh, I could not think of 
 
213 
 
 leaving you. By Jove, here's a bullfinch and no 
 gate. 
 
 MoDEENA [eaxitedly] : A bullfinch, on a gate ? 
 Oh, show me. I do so love them. I've a cage of 
 them at home. 
 
 Captain Peovis : I mean this hawtliorn hedge. 
 [Aside, as Modeena scrambles through the hedge 
 Tninus her hat, and with several scratches.] One 
 would think it was her first day out ; yet Mrs. Dev- 
 
 eral told me [Aloud.] Lost your hat ? I'll 
 
 fetch it. By Jove, what hair ! 
 
 Modeena : Oh, thank you. I am afraid I am a 
 dreadful drag on j^ou ? 
 
 Captain Provis [gallantlg] : Not at all. Enjoy- 
 ing myself awfully ! Hello, what's happened ? 
 Hang it all, the brute lias gone down a drain. 
 
 Modeena [joi/fully] : Then he's safe. I'm so 
 glad! 
 
 Captain Peovis [as?We] : How refreshing a little 
 sentiment is nowadays ! [Aloud.] I'm afraid not ; 
 we shall soon dig him out. 
 
 Modeena : What ! Dig him out ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Certainly ; hounds deserve blood. 
 
 Modeena [shtcdderitig] : How disgusting ! And 
 will you really kill him ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Rather ! You mustn't be so 
 tenderhearted — spoil all your fun. [Z/Ooking at his 
 watch.] Clinking run, that ! Thirty-five minutes 
 
214 
 
 without a check. We shall try Bagley covert now, 
 you will see. 
 
 [Sbtmds are put in and there is a iong wait. 
 
 Captain Peovis : I'm afraid, after all, it's going 
 to prove a blank. 
 
 MoDBKNA : A blank ! what's that ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : No fox in it. 
 
 MoDEENA : How stupid — like the " history " of 
 Viola in " Twelfth Night." [ Captain Peovis stares.] 
 Oh, listen ; there's a poor dog whining ! He must 
 be hurt. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Hurt ! Not he. He's got on 
 to a fox. 
 
 MoDBENA [shuddering] : Don't speak of it ! • 
 
 Captain Peovis [aside] : She does look ripping — 
 
 but [Aloud.] How long do you stay here. 
 
 Miss Maskelyne? 
 
 MoDEENA [laughing] : Two days — three days — as 
 long as I am amused. 
 
 Captain Peovis : As long as you and Mrs. 
 Deverel can hit it off together, eh ? Two pretty 
 women in a house ! There is a fellow called Conis- 
 ton up there now, I'm told ; always sets all the 
 women by the ears. [Aside.] By Jove, she looks 
 lovely when she blushes. [Aloud.] I hope to call 
 when you are there. Miss Maskelyne — you must have 
 seen how very much I 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, please take care ! 
 
215 
 
 Captain Peovis : What's the matter ? 
 
 MoDEENA : I thought your horse was going to 
 kick mine. 
 
 Captain Peovis : No fear ! But he's a good 
 " peddy " horse, I can tell you. 
 
 MoDEENA : " Peddy ! " Is that a hunting word 
 for pretty ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : No, no ! A horse with a pedi- 
 gree, don't you know ? Don't let us talk of hunting. 
 I want to ask you 
 
 MoDEENA : Listen. Wasn't that the' horn ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : To ask you 
 
 MoDBENA : Look ; everybody is going ! Some- 
 thing must be happening. 
 
 Captain Peovis : They've found ! Confound it 
 all ! [ The field moves on. 
 
 Captain Peovis : I hope your mare doesn't dis- 
 like water ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Not when she is thirsty, , I suppose. 
 Why? 
 
 Captain Peovis \laughing in a superior manner'] : 
 Only there is a stiiBsh water jump coming — Hendon 
 brook. However, it may be more amiable than last 
 week. 
 
 MoDEENA : Amiable ? Oh, Selima is very amia- 
 ble, don't you think ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Like her rider. But I meant — 
 it's a way we have of putting it — the Hendon brook, 
 
210 
 
 you know. Sometimes it is a brimmer with rotten 
 banks. Then you mightn't get on with it. Here it 
 comes ! Hold up ! Don't haul at her mouth like 
 that ! Heavens ! What a shave ! 
 
 [MoDEENA barely manages to land on the other 
 side, hugging her mare's neclc. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Halloa. There's young Heavi- 
 side turned a spread eagle into the next field. 
 
 MoDEENA \looMng up into the sky] : An eagle ! 
 Oh, how curious ! You must write to the Field. 
 
 Captain Peovis [asic?e] : Good Lord ! she is too 
 great a donkey for anj'thing. [Aloud.] What are 
 you hanging back for ? 
 
 MoDEENA \ fumbling with her hat] : Stop ! My 
 hair is coming down ! 
 
 Captain Peovis: Mustn't stop — hounds are too full 
 of running. [Aside.\ Why can't she keep her hair 
 up like other people ? [.4Zomc?.] Look out for those 
 rails ! [Aside.] Funked it, by Jove ! [-4?omc?.] 
 Get to one side, quick ! Gad ! that was a near 
 thing ! 
 
 MoDEENA [innocently] : What was the matter ? 
 
 Captain Peovis [gravely] : You must never stop 
 short at timber like that. You forget that there was 
 the whole field behind you. 
 
 MoDEENA : But there was another field in front. 
 How silly you are ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : I mean riders. You would have 
 
217 
 
 been crushed in a moment. No one could pull their 
 horses in at that pace ! 
 
 MoDBENA : It reminds me of the last part of 
 " The Gadsbys " — Kipling, you know. All right, I'll 
 remember. 
 
 Captain Peovis [aside] : Hang lier litei-ary allu- 
 sions. [Aloud.] Come on ; I'll look after you. 
 Take care of the next fence ; it is rather a stretcher. 
 [^4s«(?e.J She simply can't ride a damn. 
 
 [MoDEENA evades the " stretcher " and finds a gap 
 lower down. 
 
 Captain Peovis [aside] : Never knew that mare 
 refuse before. [Shouting.] Keep back ! keep back ! 
 Good Heavens ! she's ridden over a hound ! 
 
 MoDEENA [calling back] : Oh, I've dropped my hat, 
 Captain Provis ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : No, by Jove, this is too much ! 
 I wash my hands of her. [Fretends not to hear and 
 rides on. Modekna/>m& up to lavgh as Mrs. Dev- 
 EEBL, Lord CoNisTON, and Billy Danvees come up.] 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : What are you laughing at, 
 Moderna ? and what a mess you are in — all mud 
 and scratches ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I know — but I've had such a good 
 time ! 
 
 Mes. Feed Deveeel : You don't look as if you 
 had — Captain Provis doesn't seem to have taken very 
 good care of you. [Aside.] Has it — has he 
 
318 
 
 MoDEENA : Why, oh, why did you tell him I could 
 ride ? 
 
 BiLLT Danvees : Well, you can ride, just ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I have nearly spoiled my day proving 
 to Captain Provis that I can't. Tell Lord Coniston 
 vrhat you said to me, Flossie. I'm sorry I can't con- 
 cur with you both in your plans for me. Look here, 
 Billy, we mustn't stop. Stick to me and we will 
 soon catch them up. Come along and watch me 
 break my neck. [Flicking her mare.] Poor old 
 Selima ! I've been giving you away ! [Hides on.] 
 
 Coniston : She'll kill herself ! She's so reckless. 
 
 Mes. Peed Deveeel : Nonsense ! You don't un- 
 derstand women. That is only pose. Something — 
 or somebody has put her out. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 After dinner. Lord Coniston and Modeena in the Hall. 
 It is ten o'clock. 
 
 MoDEENA : Good-night, Edward. 
 " CoNiSTOK : Good-night. Why are you going so 
 early ? 
 
 MoDEENA \ioearily\ : Don't know. Got a head- 
 ache. At least I said so. 
 
 CoOTSTON \coldly\ : Yoa must be tired after all 
 that 
 
 MoDEENA : You disapprove of me, I suppose ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : Perhaps you disapprove of yourself ? 
 
 MoDBENA [ciirilyl : No ! 
 
 CoNisTON : Why should you ? You do Miss Letty 
 Lind much credit, I am sure. 
 
 MoDEENA [pettishly] : I'm sure I didn't want to 
 dance — but Flossie was so positive — and one hates 
 refusing 
 
 CoNiSTON : Why should you refuse ? What is the 
 good of learning if one doesn't mean to perform ? You 
 can't dance under a bushel. Poor little Violet Fleming 
 would have given her eyes to be able to do likewise. 
 
 MoDBENA : Her mother would not let her. That 
 isn't her pose at all ! But Flossie really gave me no 
 peace when once she found I could dance. 
 
 219 
 
320 
 
 CoNiSTON : She wants to make it go, naturally ; 
 and we men are so sleepy and stupid after a day's 
 hunting 
 
 MoDBKNA [interrupting] : Oh, I say, I never sup- 
 posed that horrid little Provis was a friend of the 
 family ! Someone is sure to tell him to-night that 
 I am not the duffer I pretended to be. 
 
 CoNiSTO]sr [laughing] : Your faithful Billy will be 
 sure to chaff him about it. 
 
 MoDEENA [abruptly] : Edward, will you do some- 
 thing for me? 
 
 CojsriSTON : Anything — in reason. 
 
 MoDBENA : It isn't in reason. 
 
 CoNisTON : Out of reason, then. 
 
 MoDEKNA : Ah, now you are nice. I am glad you 
 came here, though I'll own I was dreadfully vexed 
 at first to find that you had accepted the Deverels' 
 invitation. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Why ? 
 
 MoDEKNA : Because I was cross with you ; you 
 scolded me so the last time you saw me in London, 
 and made me do a dreadfully rude thing. Poor Ned 
 Tremaine ! it was not his fault — the woman tempted 
 him [laughing] — but I have never been able to bring 
 myself to speak to him since ! 
 
 ComSTON: Did I scold you? I had no right to 
 scold you. 
 
 MoDBENA : No, for you are not responsible for 
 
231 
 
 me — so — will you do what I ask you, now ? Will 
 you take me into the smoking-room to-night, and 
 hide me there, so that I can hear what they say ? 
 
 CoNiSTON [quicJcly'] : Oh, I couldn't do that. 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, j'ou could ; there's a curtain. 
 
 CoNisTON : I meant morally couldn't. 
 
 MoDEENA : You said just now that you had noth- 
 ing to do with my morals — oh, Edward, do be nice, 
 you might ! I must — I must hear Provis on the 
 " Belle's Stratagem ! " 
 
 CoNiSTON : You might hear a good deal about it. 
 It wasn't very good form — excuse me — was it ? 
 
 MoDBENA : I dare say not ; but you don't know 
 how Flossie vexed me ! Never mind that. Edward, 
 I have always wanted so much to hear how men talk. 
 A woman's intellect is so maimed and stunted by her 
 enforced narrowness. She hasn't a chance, she goes 
 about with moral blinkers on — she can't see all 
 round 
 
 CoNisTON : No, thank the Lord ! 
 
 MoDEKNA : It would be like seeing the other side 
 of the moon. 
 
 CoNiSTON : The moon isn't so silly as to show it. 
 [Shaking his head.] You wouldn't like it — indeed — 
 you would be miserable. 
 
 MoDEENA : I can stand a good deal, I assure you. 
 I am not tliin-skinned. It will be delightful to hear 
 the truth for once. You must make them talk of me. 
 
223 
 
 CoNiSTON : Don't, dear, please. 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't you see, Edward, I may never 
 have a chance again. I am supposed to have gone 
 to bed with a headache. I'll only do it this once — I 
 promise. It is only because I want to know. It 
 would be good for me, it would teach me wisdom 
 
 CoNiSTON [laughing] : Oh, no ; nothing would do 
 that. 
 
 MoDEENA : "Well, anyhow, do manage it for me. 
 
 CoNisTON : Don't, dear. 
 
 MoDEENA [angrilyl : Edward, you make me tired 
 with your " don't, dears." I mean to do it, so there ! 
 whether you help me or not. Do you remember 
 Sliakspere? — "And if she will she will, you may 
 depend on't " 
 
 CoNiSTON : "And when she won't she won't, and 
 there's an end on't." Let it be won't, dear, and an 
 end of it, I beg you. It is a hateful thing you are 
 asking me to do. 
 
 MoDEENA : What are you afraid of ? "What would 
 happen ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Men are such brutes ! 
 
 MoDEENA : You say dreadfully clever, sarcastic 
 things, I suppose. 
 
 CoNisTON : On the contrary ! "We say intensely 
 stupid things. You wo^ldn't believe it, how awfully 
 dull we are ! 
 
 MoDEENA : I thought you meant you would talk 
 
223 
 
 sucli horrors I should come from behind that curtain 
 with gray hair. Well, Edward, I don't mean to 
 argue. "Will you help me or not ? I mean to do it, 
 but I am less likely to be found out if you hide me, 
 as you know where they all sit. [She moves toward 
 the billiard-room.'] Are you coming ? 
 
 CoNisTON [slowli/ following her]: Yes, like an idiot. 
 
 MoDEEKA [sweetly] : I see you have some little 
 regard for me. [Thei/ enter the billiard-room. She 
 goes behind a curtain.] Take care my foot does not 
 show. Oh, isn't it stuffy ! This heavy rep curtain 
 will make my cheeks so hot ! 
 
 CoifiSTOisr : If it were only the curtain ! Moderna, 
 give it up ! Come out ! No ; you can't now — keep 
 quiet, here they come ! [Aside.] I wish I were 
 through this. 
 
 Enter Feed Deveeel, the host, Aethue Deveeel, 
 Billy Danvees, Captains Peovis, Heaviside, 
 and Sir Henet Geaham. Feed Deveeel and Sir 
 Heney Geaham play billiards. The others smoke. 
 
 SiE Heney : Did you have much to do, Prov.? I 
 take it I didn't lose much, did I ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : No, but I did. It was a fairish 
 run, but they spoiled it for me — gave me that dancing- 
 girl — what's her name ? 
 
 Billy Danvees : Oh, come, Prov., you know you 
 were awfully gone on her at the last Hunt Ball. 
 
324 
 
 Captain Peovis : Was I ? That's six months 
 ago. Besides, that dancing to-night finished me. I 
 must say I think it's bad form for society girls to 
 try to cut out the professionals — they think there's 
 nothing in it but showing their legs. 
 
 CoNisTON ; Oh, come. Captain Proyis, I am 
 sure 
 
 Captain Peovis : Well, that's just about all they 
 can do. They are about as graceful as a kangaroo 
 with the rheumatism. Just compare that girl — 
 what's her infernal name ? — with little Kitty Clayton, 
 or even Maggie Brace ! She's simply a duffer at it. 
 
 Billy Danvbes : What makes you so shirty 
 about her, Provis ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : You'd be shirty, Billy, if you'd 
 had the best run since the frost spoiled for you by 
 that beastly girl. She is as big a duffer on a horse 
 as on a floor. 
 
 Coniston and Danvees : Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 Captain Peovis : Yes, you may well laugh ; but 
 it was worse than you think. \_Looking round 
 curiously.] Why, Billy, what the devil are you 
 laughing at? Don't be a donkey — don't make an 
 infernal laughing jackass of yourself ! Why, Con- 
 iston, are you taken bad, too? What is it? 
 
 Billy Danvees [laughing unrestrainedly] : You 
 owl ! you idiot ! you infernal donkey ! Don't you 
 know that 
 
235 
 
 CoNiSTON-; Why, Captain Provis, did you never 
 
 hear 
 
 Captain. Peovis : What ? "What ? 
 Billy Danvees : Only that Miss Maskelyne, the 
 girl we call Moderna, because she's more in the know 
 
 and more in the go than — anybody 
 
 Captain Peovis : Well— what don't I know ? 
 CoNisTON [still laughing] : Why, that Miss Mas- 
 kelyne is simply the best rider to hounds in the 
 whole county. 
 
 Billy Danvees : The straightest goer you'll find 
 anywhere. Where were you raised not to know 
 that, old man ? 
 
 SiE Heney [chalking his cue] : Ha, ha ! Prov., 
 you've been got at this time ! I wonder at you. 
 Yes, she's straight enough over a fence, whatever 
 she is in a drawing-room ! 
 
 CoNisTON : Come, you know, Graham 
 
 SiE Heney [aiming] : Oh, no particular harm. 
 If you like that sort of girl, that's the sort of girl 
 you'd like — I don't. 
 
 CoNiSTON [angrily] : Yon don't, don't you ? 
 SiE Heney [making his stroke] : No, I don't. I 
 don't care much for a lead from a woman when I'm 
 riding to hounds ; but, hang it, I say, I won't stand 
 having the running made for me by a girl at a dance 
 or a dinner. Bad form ! Deuced bad form ! 
 CoNisTON [getting up] : Confound it all ! I 
 
336 
 
 Hbatiside : Don't you defend her, Con. It's just 
 what I think, too. That girl's all over the place. I 
 remember her at her sister's wedding. She thinks 
 every man she talks to is gone on her ; and she's 
 always trying to persuade a fellow she's gone on 
 him. I don't like it myself — it's sickening ! Look 
 at Miss Fleming now — nice, quiet 
 
 Billy Danveks : Dull, I think. Well, I won't 
 say much for Moderna's manners — ^I won't say much 
 for Moderna's moi'als, if it comes to that — hut she's 
 very good fun, and her riding is Al. 
 
 CoNisTOiir [angry] : You shut up, Billy. 
 
 Billy Danvbes : Well, she does ride straight, 
 Coniston, doesn't she ? Why, Provis, couldn't you 
 see how she sat her horse ? 
 
 Captaiw Peotis : All hunched up whenever I 
 looked, like a blessed old farmer's wife going to 
 market. 
 
 Billy Danvbes [sniggering'] : Now, I wonder 
 what Moderna was humbugging you for ? 
 
 Captain Peovis : Humbugging me ? Impossible ! 
 
 Billy Danvees : Well, it seems she didn't find it 
 impossible. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Captain Peovis [thoughtfully] : By G" , if I 
 
 thought that — I'd 
 
 Coniston [sternly] : What would you do. Captain 
 Provis ? 
 
 Captain Peovis [very angry] ; Never mind. I 
 
337 
 
 know something ; and if that girl tries anj' of her 
 tricks on me, I'll show her up. 
 
 The Host : Let the girl alone, can't you, Provis ? 
 She may be a bit fast and a trifle foolish, but 
 
 CoNiSTON : Captain Provis ! I must trouble you to 
 remember that Miss Maskelyne is a connection of 
 mine. 
 
 Captain Peovis : By Jove, I didn't know. I'm 
 sure I beg your pardon. 
 
 BiLLT Danvees [to Coniston] : Don't get your 
 shirt out, old man ! 
 
 Coniston : Shut up, Billy, you infernal young 
 idiot. I don't want your apologies. Captain Provis ; 
 and I'll just trouble you to leave Miss Maskelyne 
 alone for the future. 
 
 Captain Peovis : Certainly I will. Never would, 
 you know, if I had known she was a connection of 
 yours. [To his host.'l Hang it, my weed's out. No, 
 thank you, I don't think I'll light another. Turn in, 
 I think. Rather tired. Lots of pottering about that 
 last woodland. In and out of it all day, and couldn't 
 get hold of my second horse. Tired horse tires a 
 man awfully. Good-night. 
 
 [Mxil yawning. Others at intervals follow. 
 Coniston stays. Modeena comes slowly from 
 behind the curtain. She puts her hands be/ore 
 her face and tries to pass him. 
 
338 
 
 CoNiSTON : I am so sorry, dear, 
 
 MoDBENA : Sorry ! What's the good of being 
 sorry now? You exposed me to it. Let me pass, 
 please. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Well, of all the unfair 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, I am unfair as well as all the 
 other things. , Let me go. I never wish to see any 
 of you again. \S6bhing.'\ I never thought men 
 were such brutes. 
 
 CoNisTON : We are ; we are ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Oh, don't include yourself, please ! 
 You came out of it all right. You see you had the 
 advantage of the others. You happened to know 
 /there was a woman hidden in the room. 
 
 CoM'isTON' \^fiercely\ : Do you mean to say that you 
 think I should have spoken differently if you had not 
 been there ? 
 
 MoDEEifA \jietulantly\ : Oh, how do I know ? It 
 all sounded very fine and high-flown. I believe you 
 got it up so that you might appear. Let me go ! I 
 don't know what I am saying ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : You saw I quarrelled with all my 
 friends ? 
 
 MoDBENA : Your friends ! Do you call those 
 wretches your friends ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : They were your friends, too, till now — 
 and yet they were always like that. Don't be unjust, 
 Moderna, it is the average man. They speak as they 
 
329 
 
 find ; they take their rough, coarse view of life ; 
 they don't pretend to go into matters deeply — they 
 are not subtle. If a girl says or does so and so, they 
 assess her at a certain valuation. A -woman can't be 
 too careful. 
 
 MoDEENA : No ; not in a world of howling wild 
 beasts, ready to misinterpret every speech, every 
 action ! Oh, it maddens me to think of it ! One 
 laughs and talks in one's silly innocence, and they 
 listen complacently and lead one on; and all the 
 while they are inferring the worst. 
 
 CoiiriSTO]sr : Yes, thej'^ do ; it's a way they have. 
 
 MoDEENA [violently] : Are you not ashamed of 
 them ? 
 
 CoNisTON : One can't undertake to be ashamed of 
 the whole of human kind. And Provis was a little 
 bitter against you for that trick you played him 
 to-day. 
 
 MoDEENA : Sir Henry Graham and Captain Heavi- 
 side, whom I have always been so kind to 
 
 CoNiSTOiir : Too kind, I am afraid ! 
 
 MoDEENA : They are so plain and so dull. The 
 other women neglect them so — I tried 
 
 CoNiSTON : The meanest man thinks he is more 
 than a match for tlie nicest woman in the world. 
 
 MoDEENA : I know one thing, I'll never shake 
 hands with any of them again ! 
 
 CoNisToiT : You must. You must not let them 
 
230 
 
 notice anything. It would be dreadful ! Go to bed 
 now lilce a good girl, and go to sleep and forget it 
 all! 
 
 MoDBENA : How can I go to sleep ? How can I 
 meet them all to-morrow, as if I hadn't seen their 
 hateful natures all spread out before me ? 
 
 CoNisTON : You've done it up till now ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes, but then I didn't know. How can 
 I sit down to breakfast with a man who thinks I am 
 in love with him ? 
 
 CosriSTON : Good Heavens ! do you think it would 
 be the first time ? Men are so vain You can bear 
 it when it's the other way round, too. 
 
 MoDEENA : It doesn't disgrace a man to be in 
 love. 
 
 CoNiSTON : And do you think it is a disgrace to 
 a woman ? 
 
 MoDBENA : We cannot stay up hei"e alone all night 
 arguing abstract questions. 
 
 CoNiSTON : No, by Jove ! I don't know what I am 
 thinking of to let you stay. Go to bed, will you ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Yes. \^Moves into the corridor.] 
 You've been very kind to me, Edward. I don't 
 know why I was so cross to you. I beg your par- 
 don. It was all my fault — my self-will. Will you 
 do something for me ? 
 
 CoNisTON : What ? Call Sir Henry out ? Call 
 'em all out? [Zaughinff.] I should get a dozen 
 
231 
 
 ■challenges to-morrow myself, if duelling was in 
 fashion. 
 
 MoDEEiTA : Yes ; you gave it them pretty strong. 
 No, it is this : I want you to meet me at the East 
 Gate — in half an hour 
 
 CoNiSTON \^flatly'\ : I won't ! Enough folly for 
 one night. 
 
 MoDEEisrA \earnestly\ : Yes, Edward, the East 
 Gate, in half an hour — sh — sh — don't ask questions 
 — do it — do it. I beg of you, dear Edward — please, 
 please — you must help me. I shall drown myself if 
 you don't. 
 
 CoNiSTON [hoarsely'] : Nonsense ! Stop, Moderna; 
 I can't let you beg me like this. I'll go there — but 
 if you don't come I'll conclude you have gone to bed 
 like a sensible girl. You will think better of it, 
 won't you ? It isn't so serious as you think. 
 
 MoDEENA [beginning to go upstairs] : Oh, I didn't 
 think Billy Danvers would turn against me ! My 
 own Billy, that I have brought up from a child. 
 
 CoifiSTON' : Don't cry over Billy. He's not worth 
 it. No heart. Good-night ; sleep well — and forget. 
 
 MoDEENA [on the top of the stairs] : Don't you 
 forget. [Meaningly.] Au revoir ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 The stable yard at Blea7u)pe.. A dogcart drawn out. Modbrna 
 mth a lantern, manipulating tlie Tw/meas. Lord Coniston 
 eomes up behind her. 
 
 CoNisTox : Moderna ! 
 
 MoDEENA [handing him a strap] : Here, do this ! 
 I quite forget how it goes. 
 
 CoNiSTOBT : What does this mean ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Quick — help me — don't talk. Harness 
 Kitty. I am going to catch the mail for the South 
 at Bellingham Junction, and you are to come to the 
 station with me, and drive the pony back and put 
 him in again. 
 
 CoNisTON : Where are you going ? 
 
 MoDEENA \wildly\ : Away — somewhere ! I won't 
 shake hands with these men again ! 
 
 CoNiSTOiT : What utter nonsense ! 
 
 MoDEENA : May be; but I am going, 
 
 CoNisTON' : But your people are all away on the 
 Riviera. You can't go home to an empty house. 
 
 MoDEENA : I'm going to Dolly's. I live with her 
 now. I shall arrive at about breakfast-time. I shall 
 wire to her from Old Fort. Oh, Edward, don't argue ! 
 I can put the pony in without your help, of course — 
 
 233 
 
233 
 
 but be kind and help me. It's all right. I've left 
 the traditional note on my pin-cushion for Flossie. 
 She knows I'm quite mad ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : I really think you are. Did anyone 
 ever 
 
 MoDEENA : I dare say no one ever did, but I do. 
 Someone wrote my epitaph once — "She was made 
 for irregular situations." Quiet, Kitty ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : Moderna, you mustn't go. I won't let 
 you. Wait till morning. 
 
 MoDEKNA : Then I couldn't get away till the after- 
 noon. [Appealingl^.'l Edward, you are the only 
 friend I have ! I assure you I can pull it through, 
 if you will help me? 
 
 CoNiSTON \^leading out the pony] : Do you remem- 
 ber what you said just now? 
 
 MoDBKifA : No, what ? I said a, number of things 
 in haste I shall repent at leisure, no doubt. 
 
 CoNiSTON : That I shouldn't have stood up for you 
 if I hadn't known you were hidden behind the 
 curtain ? 
 
 MoDEKNA [wearily getting up into the cart] : Oh, 
 yes, I dare say you would have defended me, out of 
 contrariety — you drive, will you ? — for you know, 
 in your heart of hearts, you agreed with them ? 
 
 CoNisTON : I agree with Provis I Good Heavens ! 
 No! 
 
 MoDEENA : Not in the manner, but in the sub- 
 
234 
 
 stance. You know you think — you know you do 
 disapprove of me ? 
 
 CoNisTON : I think, if you ask me, you have some 
 very bad friends. 
 
 MoDEENA : I don't see why you should put it on 
 my friends. One makes one's self ; one is responsible 
 for one's self. I was born, I developed according to 
 the laws o'f my growth, like an oak from an acorn. 
 No one interfered. I should like to have seen them 
 interfere. I always did exactly as I liked. 
 
 CoNiSTO]sr : I know. Your mother 
 
 MoDEENA : You are not to say a word against her. 
 How could she help it ? I " growed," like Topsy, 
 and I growed bad. 
 
 CoNisTON : Don't abuse yourself. I won't have it. 
 
 MoDEENA : Edward, be serious. 
 
 CoNiSTON [laughing] : I am serious. I won't 
 allow anybody to abuse you, not even yourself. 
 
 MoDBENA : Ah, but you must not abuse my 
 friends. 
 
 CoNisTON : Your ideals, then. 
 
 MoDEENA : What are they ? I think I have none. 
 
 CoNisTON : Then I should advise you to find some. 
 A woman without ideals is an uncomfortable, inhu- 
 man, unnatural creature, to my thinking. 
 
 MoDEENA : A woman without conventional ideals 
 is surely a finer, nobler, freer creature than the 
 unhappy slave that men have made. 
 
235 
 
 CoNiSTON [delicateli/ whipping up the pony'] : I 
 don't know. I begin to think that conventions are 
 useful — picturesque even. They put a kind of atmos- 
 phere round a woman — a sort of softening haze, 
 delightfully unreal, I dare say. 
 
 MoDEENA : Sonaething for a man to destroy when 
 he marries her! Men always choose a woman with 
 conventions, it seems to me. Violet Fleming, for 
 instance ? She has little nets to keep her front hair 
 in order, and a microscopic little prayer-book to take 
 to church, and a set of little principles to regulate 
 her conduct. She is full of little methodical habits 
 that would grow into fads if she were an old maid. 
 Marrying her would be like putting one's money into 
 the Funds. Safe, but slow. 
 
 CoNiSTON [thoughtfully'] : Yes, a man might do 
 worse than marry the retiring Violet. Someone 
 will, I suppose. 
 
 MoDBENA : Someone ? 
 
 CoNiSTON [quicldy] : Not me. Provis, perhaps. 
 
 \^A pause. 
 
 MoDEENA [shyly] : I always thought, Edward, do 
 you know, that you were going to marry that beauti- 
 ful Mrs. Belenfante, whose portrait I saw in Mr. 
 Tremaine's studio. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Did you»? Look here, do you mind 
 having the seat put back a bit ? Will you go to her 
 head while I do it ? 
 
236 
 
 'M.oi):Em!!A[Jvndlingthepon^J : Sweet, nice Kitty! 
 I love you. Is it done, Edward ? [She gets in again. 
 They start^ Yes, I think Violet Fleming is too 
 young and silly for you. Do you remembei- propos- 
 ing to me, once, when I was young and innocent like 
 that? 
 
 CoNiSTOiir : I do ; and you refused me so politely, 
 so seriously — not chaffingly, as you would now. 
 
 MoDEENA : I always refused even an invitation to 
 dance very solemnly in those days. I was an awful 
 baby. And did you never wonder who your rival 
 was? 
 
 CoNiSTON : Yes, often. I used to scrutinize all 
 your mother's guests. I believe I finally fixed on 
 Gontram Vere — only he seemed such an ass ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Was ! And he never even asked me. 
 
 CoNiSTON : People said he did. But, Moderna, 
 since we are in the vein of confidences, would you 
 mind telling me who the man really was ? 
 
 MoDBENA : An actor. A man I had never even 
 spoken to. 
 
 CoNisTON : But how, then 
 
 MoDEENA : Stage-fever. Lots of girls had it 
 then — and for Calder-Marston. Cecilia Riddell got 
 quite thin over it, till she went to Girton. You have 
 no idea how wild we all were»over that man. 
 
 CoNiSTON : And you only saw him across the foot- 
 lights ! What odd things girls are ! Why, if you 
 
237 
 
 had seen him come drunk into the " Savage " every 
 night of his life, and abuse his wife to the fellows 
 there, you would soon have been disillusioned. And 
 it was for the sake of a man you had never spoken 
 to, that you 
 
 MoDEENA : Don't you see ? We fell in love 
 with Hamlet or lago — yes, we even loved him as 
 lago — not the man Marston. Look at the lash of 
 the whip ! — it is like a fiery white snake writh- 
 ing in the light of the lantern. We wanted the 
 lantern — there is no moon — and you drive so 
 fast. 
 
 CoNiSTON : I thought you always preferred to 
 " take things fast." Are you afraid ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Of your spilling me ? No. [^Peering 
 into the nightJ] I believe I can see the signal at 
 Bellingham. 
 
 CoNisTOK [qiiickly] : It's not down ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, no — ^heaps of time. What were 
 we talking about? That was a lucky escape you 
 had, wasn't it ? 
 
 ComsTON : What ? I assure you, I sha'n't let her 
 down. 
 
 MoDBEN^A : I wasn't thinking of the pony. I 
 meant \bitterly\ an escape of marrying a girl who is 
 
 "d bad form" — and "all over the place" — 
 
 whose manners and morals even Billy Da»vers won't 
 defend. 
 
CoNiSTON : Don't quote those idiots, please. 
 
 MoDEBNA : But it's quite true ! I wouldn't marry 
 me if I were a man. I think I should plague my 
 husband's life out, should I not ? 
 
 CoNisTON : I verily believe you would — ^if he 
 didn't love you ! 
 
 MoDEKNA : Even if he did ! — worse if he did ! 
 But there's no chance of that. I'm not the kind of 
 girl a man falls in love with, now, or would want to 
 be married to. I don't try to be. I'm not a fair 
 Circassian, bred and brought up for the noble profes- 
 sion of marriage. I don't live up to that ideal. I 
 have arranged my life quite differently. 
 
 CoNisTON \dryly'\ : So I see. \A silence. 
 
 MoDEENA : Oh, I do wish we were there ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : Why ? Are you so dreadfully uncom- 
 fortable ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Dreadfully. 
 
 CoNisTON : Can't we arrange the cushions for 
 you — or something ? 
 
 MoDEENA [twisting about'] : No, it isn't that. I 
 don't want anything altered. I am not comfort- 
 able — in my mind. [ Violentli/.] I don't see wliy I 
 should be made to feel so small. I have done 
 nothing wrong. 
 
 CoNisTON : Nothing wrong, of course. 
 
 MoDEENA : But I feel as if I had — all wrong, and 
 ashamed, snubbed, and apologetic. I feel as if I were 
 
339 
 
 quite alone, somehow. You seem to sit there and 
 turn a cold brown frieze shoulder to me. 
 
 CoNiSTON [kindly] : I can't help its being brown 
 frieze, dear ; but it isn't cold, and I can't drive 
 properly in the dark and turn round to you as well. 
 What are we to do ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Nothing, only don't express so much 
 moral condemnation with your back. You can't 
 think how it oppresses me ! I could cry. 
 
 CoNiSTON' : Don't, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 MoDBENA : Let me drive, then. 
 
 CoNiSTON' : Then we would miss the train. Be 
 quiet, dear, and don't imagine things. I am not 
 reproving you. I haven't the right — or the wish. 
 
 MoDBENA : But I want us to be friends. 
 
 CoNiSTON : So we are, always, only [laughinffl 
 don't expect me to follow in the wild paths where 
 your theories are going to lead you. I am what is 
 called a plain man ; and, frankly, I don't take to 
 them. 
 
 MoDEENA : You, a plain man ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : I mean old-fashioned in ideas. I have 
 seen the world — a good deal of it — and I have a 
 great deal more respect for women than most of the 
 men I know who have got their illusions rubbed off. 
 And I have never seen any good come of the modern 
 spirit of dissatisfied curiosity and restlessness in 
 women who want to be different to other women — 
 
240 
 
 who can't conform to what the wisdom of ages has 
 decreed for them. It's bad form, to say the least of 
 it. 
 
 MoDEENA : I know you think it " not nice." It 
 isn't " nice " or dignified for a woman to assert her- 
 self. But somebody must. Edward, you are very 
 narrow. 
 
 CoNiSTON : Yes, I begin to glory in it. 
 
 MoDEKNA : And you don't understand women one 
 little bit. 
 
 CoNiSTON : I understand you, I think. Oh, it 
 seems to me such a pity. 
 
 MoDBENA : What's a pity ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : Nothing, nothing, I beg your pardon. 
 Don't let us discuss this. See if you can make out 
 the signal. 
 
 MoDEEKA : It's down ! The train is signalled ! 
 It was before ! How we have dawdled ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : All right, you sha'n't miss it. Here 
 we are ! Steady, mare ! I'll take your ticket. 
 Here, boy, hold her a moment. [^They go into the 
 station. He looks round.] Not a soul to go by this 
 train. Shall I go with you, Moderna ? I didn't 
 offer before, for fear of compromising you, but I 
 don't like your going that long way alone. 
 
 MoDEEifA [ffettinff into a compartment.] And 
 who would take the trap back ? It's all right, I'm 
 not afraid. [Shivering.] How cold it is ! 
 
341 
 
 CoNiSTON : Poor little thing ! You look so small 
 and thin, and your little chin so sharp. Let me 
 come with you ! 
 
 MoDERNA : No, thank you. But come and see 
 me when you come back to town, will you ? 
 
 CoNiSTON : Where ? 
 
 MoDEENA : At Dolly Tremaine's. 
 
 CoNiSTON [stiffly] : Are you going there ? No — 
 I don't think I can call on you at Miss Tremaine's. 
 I'll wait till you are home in Queen's Gate again. 
 
 MoDEENA : Ob, if yon wait till then I see I 
 
 must do witliout yon. Good-by ! we are just off. 
 
 CoNisTosr \raising his cap] : Do without me ? If 
 I can help you in any way 
 
 MoDEENA [as the train moves on] : You can't. 
 Besides, you have just refused. Good-night ! 
 
 16 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A Christmas Party at the Flemings'. Modbrna is sitting by 
 herself a little apart. 
 
 MoDEKNA : I wish I was dead. 
 
 I am twenty-seven years old. I really never 
 noticed it till now. I am perfectly sound in wind 
 and limb, as they say of horses ; I can't find a 
 wrinkle on my face if I look ever so hard ; I could 
 dance all night without stopping — but no matter. I 
 have had my day, and the sooner I realize the fact 
 the better. 
 
 Oil, dear, what a long day it has been, now I look 
 back on it ! I've done everything. I've done all the 
 things girls do, and a good many things girls don't 
 do. I've scribbled, and daubed, and strummed, and 
 acted, and tried everything under the sun. And 
 now I'm living with a little lady-journalist, in rooms 
 over a shop in the Strand, and I've quarrelled with 
 my people about her, and they have gone abroad, 
 and I'm here, alone, in London. Alone, for Dolly 
 hardly counts, she is out nearly all day. I'm quite 
 independent — quite ! 
 
 It's Christmas Eve. I don't go in for being senti- 
 mental about Christmas, but it seems odd to be 
 alone, somehow, at this time. I believe I could 
 
243 
 
 almost get up a kind of Christmas feeling. But not 
 with Dolly. Oh, I am sick of her ! I had rather be 
 with them in the Riviera, and that's saying a good 
 deal. 
 
 But it is my own wish, so I ought not to complain ; 
 I like my own way, and I have got it. I always 
 have, all my life. I ought to be content. 
 
 I've had a good time, on the whole. I came out 
 and was made a fuss of, and lots of people fell in 
 love with me — and that's always supposed to be 
 pleasant. Not for them, poor things ! — but then, no 
 woman ever thinks of that — till after ! 
 
 I've danced and flirted and gossiped and amused' 
 myself generally, and made a business of pleasure. 
 If all the dancing shoes I've worn out were collected, 
 what a' heap there would be ! And all the frocks I 
 have worn, and torn, and put my foot through — and 
 the bouquets I've ruined — and rtie compliments I've 
 had — and the offers I've refused! Oh, yes, I was a 
 success, not a doubt of it ! 
 
 And, now, what is the good of it all ? I have made 
 a certain number of people quite miserable, but I've 
 never been in love myself — not once — at least I think 
 not. 
 
 I've been told, times out of number, that I have 
 "no heart." Men always say that when they are 
 refused, to save their own vanity. I wonder if it is 
 true in my case ? 
 
244 
 
 No one cares now whether I have a heart or not. 
 It's all diflEerent. I have got a certain number of 
 friends whose step suits mine, who ask me for dances 
 — but without enthusiasm — and have the want of 
 tact to talk to me of this or that " dear little thing 
 over there, who is enjoying herself so ! " They say 
 I'm a " good sort " and " a real friend." A friend ! 
 What has friendship to do in a ballroom ? 
 
 At any rate, it doesn't exist between girls. They 
 don't want to be bothered with other girls in a ball- 
 room. What can you do for each other if you are 
 friends ? Own she's pretty if you are asked ; not 
 'defeat her little plans if you know them ; tell her 
 when her hair is coming down ; and tuck in her dress- 
 lace when it shows ; and introduce her to your cast- 
 off partners ? I've often done that. Violet Fleming 
 will do it for me in a moment if I catch her eye. I 
 won't. I don't wan*charity dances. I should say I 
 was 'engaged. I will not dance with veterans or 
 boys. I had rather sit out. 
 
 How dreadfully melancholy dance music is ! I 
 never noticed it so much before. I could lie down 
 on the floor this very minute and howl, if I were to let 
 myself go. It is as if they were all dancing on a grave. 
 
 Suppose I were to cross the room'and talk to Mrs. 
 Fleming, and ask her if she means to have influenza 
 again this winter ? Anything to seem occupied ! 
 No, I see she is asleep ; and if she was not, she would 
 
245'' 
 
 only tell me of Violet's perfections. I see them — 
 everybody sees tliem — oh, dear ! 
 
 There is Violet with Edwai-d. He is looking at 
 her exactly as he used to look at me, years ago, before 
 I forfeited his respect. Yes, I have forfeited his 
 respect. I live with Dolly, whom he doesn't think 
 nice. I don't, either, but I can't own it. He has 
 never been to see me since that wild flight of mine from 
 Bleahope a month ago. I wonder if he took the trap 
 back all right ? I have never heard since from the 
 Deverels. I suppose Flossie was cross — I sometimes 
 thought she was a little jealous of me and Edward. 
 
 Poor Edward ! he looks grave. I dare say he hates 
 meeting me ! We have to meet, of course, but some- 
 how, I fancy he takes every opportunity of not 
 dancing with me — waits till I am engaged, or going, 
 or something, so that it never comes off. If he were 
 to really come and talk to me I should think the end 
 of the world had come. I had much rather he didn't. 
 We don't get on somehow, now. We should only 
 feel awkward. 
 
 However, I needn't be afraid of his coming to me. 
 I am much too horrid. 
 
 I should not be surprised if he got engaged to 
 Violet Fleming. She is delightfully young, and 
 nawe, and enthusiastic. I know he thinks so. She 
 has the reddest arms I ever saw. 
 
 Oh, don't let me be spiteful I 
 
246 
 
 I know that cadence. The valse is nearly over. 
 They will all come by. That's the most awful mo- 
 ment of all. I wish I was talking to someone. It is 
 so hateful to try and look unconcerned and as if I 
 were sitting here because I liked it. 
 
 Oh, I can't bear it. I'll marry. I'll marry Mr. 
 Brown. He adores me. He pretends he isn't a bit 
 shocked at my Bohemianism. He would even 
 tolerate Dolly for my sake. "Well, it's more than I 
 can do sometimes. I shall condescend to let him see 
 that I don't absolutely dislike him. I shall be a 
 clergyman's wife. How terrible ! But it is the only 
 way out of it — for me ! 
 
 Yes, for me, but for him ? I don't love him. 
 How could I? I should have to tell him; and even 
 a Mr. Brown is not so abject as to want to marry a 
 woman who tells him point-blank that she can only 
 promise to tolerate him. And if I don't tell him 
 it would be mean. 
 
 No, I'll go into a convent. How dull ! Not so 
 dull, though, as marrying Mr. Brown. 
 
 I wish my people would come home. I would go 
 back and do the prodigal daughter, and beg their 
 pardon for wanting to be independent, and ask them 
 to let me live with them again. That's dull, too, 
 but less binding than marriage. I shall be a bach- 
 elor-girl to the end of tlie chapter. 
 
 Here they all come ! I must try to look uncon- 
 
247 
 
 oerned. I know every stick of my fan by heart. It 
 has seen me through many " situations," but I will 
 pretend it interests me deeply. And I can see over 
 the top of it ! 
 
 Here's the first couple ! Billy Danvers with Miss 
 Forrest. I was Billy's first love, and he is trying 
 hard to make Grace Forrest think she is. Let him ! 
 
 Mrs. Jenkyn and our host ! She's a widow. How 
 jealous Verona and I used to be of her ! We used to 
 study her little ways. She was a widow then, and 
 she's a widow now — prefers it. I wish someone 
 would make me a widow. What ami saying ? But 
 she's ten years older than I am, and she laughs like a 
 child. That comes of being a widow. 
 
 Here's Arthur Deverel. He really was in love with 
 me once, so now he detests me. "A man scorned " 
 is much worse than a woman scorned. He won't 
 even look at me. No — straight past ! 
 
 Why, here's Violet — with Mr. Darcy. I thought 
 she was sitting out in the blue room with Edward ! 
 And Edward — alone ! 
 
 May you see me home, Edward ? Why — yes — if 
 you like. In half an hour? Ten minutes? I'll go 
 and put on my cloak. 
 
 • • ■ * • 
 
 Oh, good Heavens ! The end of the world — or the 
 beginning ? 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The StraTid at midnight. Lord Coniston and Modbrna 
 alight from a hansom. There is snow on the ground. 
 
 MoDEENA : See, that is the aerated bread shop on 
 one side, and the spectacle shop on the other ! This 
 is our door. [Inserting her latch-key. '\ We are four 
 flights up. Pity me ! Good-night. 
 
 CoNiSTON : May I not see you up ? 
 
 MoDBENA [Jauntily'] : Oh, I am not afraid, though 
 we don't run to a single gas jet. [ Opening the door 
 on to a pitch-dark staircase.] 
 
 CoNisTON : I want to speak to you. 
 
 MoDEENA : Why did you not do it in the hansom, 
 instead of discussing the weather and Violet Flem- 
 ing? Very well, come along; but I warn you, Dolly 
 is most likely sitting up doing her proofs. Mind the 
 step, and don't wake the anarchist on the second 
 floor. 
 
 CoNisTOir : All right. [TTiey progress slowly.] 
 And who lives on this flight ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Heart of Woman. It's a weekly. If 
 it was light you would see a large placard on the 
 door. I always feel it is quite indelicate to go any 
 further — oh, dear '! [Pants.] 
 
249 
 
 CoNiSTON : Don't talk so much. You are quite 
 out of breath. [Modeena utters an exclamation.] 
 Did you swear? 
 
 MoDEENA \wearily] : No ; I am not sunk quite so 
 low as that ! I put my foot through my flounce, 
 that's all. Oh, will these stairs never end ? I never 
 found them so long before. 
 
 CoNiSTON : You are tired, with dancing 
 
 MoDEENA : No — not with dancing. \^Opens a 
 door.\ Here we are ! Why, it's quite dark ! Dolly 
 has gone to bed and put out the lamp. 
 
 CoNiSTOX : I Iiad better go. 
 
 MoDEENA : Please don't leave me till I get a light. 
 The room is so full of shadows. I believe I am 
 afraid. Help me to find the matches. \_ShiversJ] 
 It's all dark — and cold — and wretched 
 
 CoifiSTON : And not quite dark. How odd it 
 is ! I can see you faintly, like a white, wandering 
 ghost. 
 
 MoDEEifA : Edward, if you talk of ghosts I 
 shall scream. \^Gropes for matches.] They are 
 generally here — in the china dog. Where has 
 
 that tiresome Dolly put Oh— h ! What was 
 
 that? 
 
 CoNisTON : All right. The piano's open, and I 
 touched a note. 
 
 MoDEENA : Was that all ? What a fool I am ! I 
 thought — oh, Edward, do find the matches. I can't 
 
350 
 
 bear this a moment longer. There — I have knocked 
 mj"- head against that cornice. It hurts like any- 
 thing — my head swims — where am I ? 
 
 CoNisTON : In my arms, dear. Oh, won't you stay 
 there ? 
 
 MoDEENA [after a long pause] : And this is the 
 end of me? 
 
 CoNiSTON : Do you mind ? 
 
 MoDEENA : No ; not so much as I thought. [Let- 
 ting her head fall on his shoulder.] How soft this 
 fur is ! Oh, Edward, I am so tired of it all — of 
 Dolly, and Bohemia — and dances — and life and 
 literature and everything ! Tou understand, I 
 think. 
 
 CoNisTOjr : Yes, I do ; I always did. That was 
 my only merit. I understood you. 
 
 MoDEENA : I wasn't worth understanding. Listen, 
 here's Dolly. 
 
 DoLLT Teemaine [putting her head in at the 
 door] : Moderna ! is that you ? How late you are ! 
 [Sees CoNisTON.J Oh ! [Mcit, 
 
 CoNiSTON : What has she gone back for ? 
 
 MoDEENA : To put on a becoming tea-gown. You 
 must go before she comes back, I think. 
 
 CoNisTON : Very well. And may I come to tea 
 with you to-morrow ? 
 
 MoDBENA [significantly] : With me and Dolly ? 
 
251 
 
 CoNiSTON : I can stand Miss Tremaine, I can stand 
 anything — with you. 
 
 MoDEENA : I can hardly stand her myself, but you 
 were not nice about her — confess ! \^Pushing back 
 her hair from her face.] This is only a mood. I 
 am ashamed of it. I shall be all right to-morrow. 
 
 CoNisTON : All right ! — and all wrong for me ? 
 Do you mean you will go back on me to-morrow ? 
 
 MoDEENA : Are you happy now, then ? 
 
 CoNisTON : Yes. 
 
 MoDEENA : You are very good to me, dear. But 
 this isn't the way a man would like it to happen, is 
 it? Not picturesque — not romantic — a half-hyster- 
 ical, nervous woman crying on your shoulder in the 
 dark, because she's ill, and tired, and because she has 
 been to a ball, and people haven't asked her to dance, 
 and her vanity's hurt — a failure — a 
 
 CoNisTON [slowly] : Are you a failure ? I never 
 noticed. You seem to me the nicest, sweetest, pretti- 
 est girl in London ! 
 
 MoDEEKA : Pretty ! I am glad it's dark, that you 
 don't see my red eyes. What a fool I am ! 
 
 CoNiSTON : Be a fool, dear, an adorable fool ! I 
 don't care what it is brings you to me, so long as you 
 come. 
 
 MoDEENA [rising and putting her hands on his 
 shoulder] : Yes, I have come. You know, Edward, 
 you have not really asked me ! 
 
352 
 
 CoNiSTON : Ko man ought to i^ropose to a ■woman 
 twice. 
 
 MODEEBTA : But 
 
 CoNiSTON : Yes, dear, I asked you oncj — you re- 
 member tlie first time ? The second time I simply 
 take you ! [JSisses her.] 
 
 THE END.