THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT
 
 By ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 THE lion's share 
 
 THESE TWAIN 
 
 CLAYHANGER 
 
 HILDA LESSWAYS 
 
 THE OLD wives' TALE 
 
 DENRY THE AUDACIOUS 
 
 THE OLD ADAM 
 
 HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 
 
 THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS 
 
 THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 
 
 BURIED ALIVE 
 
 A GREAT MAN 
 
 LEONORA 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 A MAN FROM THE NORTH 
 
 ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 
 
 THE GLIMPSE 
 
 THE CITY OF PLEASURE 
 
 THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL 
 
 HUGO 
 
 THE GATES OF WRATH 
 
 POCKET PHILOSOPHIES 
 
 THE author's CRAFT 
 
 MARRIED LIFE 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND HAPPINESS 
 
 HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY 
 
 THE HUMAN MACHINE 
 
 LITERARY TASTE 
 
 MENTAL EFFICIENCY 
 
 PLAYS 
 
 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 
 CUPID AND COMMONSENSE 
 WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 
 POLITE FARCES 
 THE HONEYMOON 
 IN COLLABORATION WITH EDWARD KNOBLAUCH 
 MILESTONES 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 paris nights 
 
 the truth about an author 
 
 liberty! 
 
 OVER there: WAR SCENES 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 NEW YORK
 
 THE 
 
 LION'S SHARE 
 
 BY 
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' TALE," "CLAYHANGER," 
 
 "HILDA LESSWAYS," "THESE TWAIN," 
 
 ETC.. ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 Bt George H. Dohan Company 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1916, BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY
 
 
 V^o 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 Miss Ixgate, and the Yacht . 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 11. 
 
 The Thief's Plan Wrecked . 
 
 
 
 S4* 
 
 III. 
 
 The Legacy . . . . . 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mr. Foulger . . . . . 
 
 
 
 48 
 
 V. 
 
 The Dead Hand 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Young Widow . . . . 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Cigarette Girl 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Exploitation of Widowhood . 
 
 
 
 76 
 
 IX. 
 
 Life in Paris . . . . . 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 X. 
 
 Fancy Dress . . . . . 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 XI. 
 
 A Political Refugee 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 XII. 
 
 Widowhood in the Studio 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Swoon . . . . , 
 
 
 
 120 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Miss Ingate Points Oct the Door 
 
 
 
 126 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Right Bank . 
 
 
 
 . 134, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Robes ..... 
 
 
 
 145 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Soiree ..... 
 
 
 
 . 149 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A Decision .... 
 
 
 
 . 156 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The Boudoir .... 
 
 
 
 . 163 
 
 XX. 
 
 Paget Gardens . . . . 
 
 
 
 . 170 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Jane ..... 
 
 
 
 . 176 
 
 611590
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAQK 
 
 XXII. The Detective . . . ' . . 183 
 
 XXIII. The Bute City 191 
 
 XXIV. The Spatts 209 
 
 XXV. The Mute . 219 
 
 XXVI. Nocturne ....... 227 
 
 XXVII. In the Garden 232 
 
 XXVIII. Encounter ....... 244 
 
 XXIX. Flight 249 
 
 XXX. Ariadne ........ 255 
 
 XXXI. The Nostrum 268 
 
 XXXII. By the Binnacle . . . . . . 274 
 
 XXXIII. Aguilar's Double Life ..... 291 
 
 XXXIV. The Tank-Room 303 
 
 XXXV. The Third Sort of "Woman . . . . 318 
 
 XXXVI. In the Dinghy 32i 
 
 XXXVII. Afloat . . 332 
 
 XXXVIII. In the Universe 338 
 
 XXXIX. The Imminent Drive . , . . . . 351 
 
 XL. Genius at Bay ...... 365 
 
 XLI. Financial News 373 
 
 XLII. Interval ....... 381 
 
 XLIIL Entr'acte 390 
 
 XLIV. End of the Concert ..... 399 
 
 XLV. Strange Result of a Quarrel . . . 404 
 
 XLVI. An Epilogue ....... 415
 
 THE LION'S SHARE
 
 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 
 
 AuDEEY had just closed the safe in her father's 
 study when she was startled by a slight noise. She 
 turned like a defensive animal to face danger. It had 
 indeed occurred to her that she was rather like an 
 animal in captivity, and she found a bitter pleasure 
 in the idea, though it was not at all original. 
 
 "And Flank Hall is my Zoo!" she had said. (Not 
 that she had ever seen the Zoological Gardens, or vis- 
 ited London.) 
 
 She was lithe ; she moved with charm. Her short, 
 plain blue serge walking-frock disclosed the form of 
 her limbs and left them free, and it made her look 
 younger even than she was. Its simplicity suited her 
 gestures and took grace from them. But she wore the 
 old thing without the least interest in it — almost un- 
 consciously. She had none of the preoccupations caused 
 by the paraphernalia of existence. She scarcely knew 
 what it was to own. She was aware only of her body 
 and her soul. Beyond these her possessions were so 
 few, so mean, so unimportant, that she might have 
 carried them to the grave and into heaven without 
 protest from the authorities earthly or celestial. 
 
 The slight noise was due to the door of the study, 
 which great age had distorted and bereft of sense, and 
 
 11
 
 12 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 in fact almost unhinged. It unlatched itself, paused, 
 and then calmly but firmly swung wide open. When it 
 could swing no further it shook, vibrating into repose. 
 
 Audrey condemned the door for a senile lunatic, 
 and herself for a poltroon. She became defiant of 
 peril, until the sound of a step on the stair beyond 
 the door threw her back into alarm. But when the 
 figure of Miss Ingate appeared in the doorway she was 
 definitely reassured, to the point of disdain. All her 
 facial expression said: "It's only Miss Ingate." 
 
 And yet Miss Ingate was not a negligible woman. 
 Her untidy hair was greying; she was stout, she was 
 fifty; she was plain; she had not elegance; her accent 
 and turns of speech were noticeably those of Essex. 
 But she had a magnificent pale forehead; the eyes be- 
 neath it sparkled with energy, inquisitiveness, and sa- 
 gacity; and the mouth beneath the eyes showed by its 
 sardonic dropping corners that she had come to a 
 settled cheerful conclusion about human nature, and 
 that the conclusion was not flattering. Miss Ingate 
 was a Guardian of the Poor, and the Local Representa- 
 tive of the Soldiers' and Sailors' Families Association. 
 She had studied intimately the needy and the rich and 
 the middling. She was charitable without illusions ; 
 and, while adhering to every social convention, she 
 did so with a toleration pleasantly contemptuous ; in 
 her heart she had no mercy for snobs of any kind, 
 though, unfortunately, she was at times absurdly in- 
 timidated by them — at other times she was not. 
 
 To the west, within a radius of twelve miles, she 
 knew everybody and everybody knew her; to the east 
 her fame was bounded only by the regardless sea. 
 She and her ancestors had lived in the village of Moze 
 as long as even Mr. Mathew Moze and his ancestors. 
 In the village, and to the village, she was Miss Ingate,
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 13 
 
 a natural phenomenon, like the He of the land and the 
 river Moze. Her opinions offended nobody, not Mr. 
 Moze himself — she was Miss Ingate. She was laughed 
 at, beloved, and respected. Her sagacity had one flaw, 
 and the flaw sprang from her sincere conviction that 
 human nature in that corner of Essex, which she under- 
 stood so profoundly, and where she was so perfectly 
 at home, was diff'erent from, and more fondly foolish 
 than, human nature in any other part of the world. 
 She could not believe that distant populations could 
 be at once so pathetically and so naughtily human as 
 the population in and around Moze. 
 
 If Audrey disdained Miss Ingate, it was only because 
 Miss Ingate was neither young nor fair nor the pro- 
 prietress of some man, and because people made out 
 that she was peculiar. In some respects Audrey looked 
 upon Miss Ingate as a lifebelt, as the speck of light 
 at the end of a tunnel, as the enigmatic smile which 
 glimmers always in the frown of destiny. 
 
 "Well?" cried Miss Ingate in her rather shrill voice, 
 grinning sardonically, with the corners of her lips 
 still lower than usual in anticipatory sarcasm. It was 
 as if she had said: "You cannot surprise me by any 
 narrative of imbecility or turpitude or bathos. All 
 the same I am dying to hear the latest eccentricity of 
 this village." 
 
 "Well.''" parried Audrey, holding one hand behind 
 her. 
 
 They did not shake hands. People who call at ten 
 o'clock in the morning cannot expect to have their 
 hands shaken. Miss Ingate certainly expected noth- 
 ing of the sort. She had the freedom of Flank Hall, 
 as of scores of other houses, at all times of day. Serv- 
 ants opened front-doors for her with a careless smile, 
 and having shut front-doors they left her loose, like a
 
 14 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 familiar cat, to find what she wanted. They seldom 
 "showed" her into any room, nor did they dream of 
 acting before her the unconvincing comedy of going to 
 "see" whether masters or mistresses were out or in. 
 
 "Where's your mother.?" asked Miss Ingate idly, 
 quite sure that interesting divulgations would come, 
 and quite content to wait for them. She had been out 
 of the village for over a week. 
 
 "Mother's taking her Acetyl Salicylic," Audrey an- 
 swered, coming to the door of the study. 
 
 This meant merely that Mrs. Moze had a customary 
 attack of the neuralgia for which tlie district is justly 
 renowned among strangers. 
 
 "Oh !" murmured Miss Ingate callously. Mrs. Moze, 
 though she had lived in the district for twenty-five 
 years, did not belong to it. If she chose to keep on 
 having neuralgia, that was her afi^air, but in justice 
 to natives and to the district she ought not to make too 
 much of it, and she ought to admit that- it might well 
 be due to her weakness after her operation. Miss In- 
 gate considered the climate to be the finest in England : 
 which it was, on the condition that you were proof 
 against neuralgia. 
 
 "Father's gone to Colchester in the car to see the 
 Bishop," Audrey coldly added. 
 
 "If I'd known he was going to Colchester I should 
 have asked him for a lift," said MiSs Ingate with de- 
 termination. 
 
 "Oh, yes ! He'd have taken your* said Audrey, re- 
 served. "I suppose you had fine times in London!" 
 
 "Oh! It was vehy exciting! It was vehy exciting!" 
 Miss Ingate agreed loudly. 
 
 "Father wouldn't let me read about it in the paper," 
 said Audrey, still reserved. "He never will, you know. 
 But I did!"
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 15 
 
 Ui 
 
 *0h! But you didn't read about me playing the 
 barrel organ all the way down Regent Street, because 
 that wasn't in any of the papers." 
 
 "You didn't!" Audrey protested, with a sudden dark 
 smile, 
 
 "Yes, I did. Yes, I did. Yes, I did. And vehy 
 tiring it was. Vehy tiring indeed. It's quite an art 
 to turn a barrel organ. If you don't keep going per- 
 fectly even it makes the tune jerky. Oh ! I know a 
 bit about barrel organs now. They smashed it all to 
 pieces. Oh yes ! All to pieces. I spoke to the police. 
 I said, 'Aren't you going to protect these ladies' prop- 
 erty?' But they didn't lift a finger." 
 
 *'And weren't you arrested.-^" 
 
 "Me !" shrieked Miss Ingate. "Me arrested !" Then ■ 
 more quietly, in an assured tone, "Oh no ! I wasn't 
 arrested. You see, as soon as the row began I just 
 Walked away from the organ and became one of the 
 crowd. I'm all for them, but I wasn't going to be 
 arrested." 
 
 Miss Ingate's sparkling ej^es seemed to say : "Sylvia 
 Pankhurst can be arrested if she likes, and so can Mrs. 
 Despard and Annie Kenney and Jane Foley, or any 
 of them. But the policeman that is clever enough to 
 catch Miss Ingate of Moze does not exist. And the 
 gumption of Miss Ingate of Moze surpasses the united 
 gumption of all the other feminists in England." 
 
 "Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" repeated Miss Ingate 
 with mingled complacency, glee, passion, and sardonic 
 tolerance of the whole panorama of worldly existence. 
 "The police were awful, shocking. But I was not 
 arrested." 
 
 "Well, / was — this morning," said Audrey in a low 
 and poignant voice.
 
 16 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Miss Ingate was startled out of her mood of the 
 detached ironic spectator. 
 
 "What?" she frowned. 
 
 They heard a servant moving about at the foot of 
 the stairs, and a capped head could be seen through 
 the interstices of the white Chinese balustrade. The 
 study was the only immediate refuge ; Miss Ingate ad- 
 vanced right into it, and Audrey pushed the door to. 
 
 "Father's given me a month's C.B." 
 
 Miss Ingate, gazing at the girl's face, saw in its 
 quiet and yet savage desperation the possibility that 
 after all she might indeed be surprised by the vagaries 
 of human nature in the village. And her glance be- 
 came sympathetic, even tender, as well as apprehen- 
 sive. 
 
 "'C.B.\? What do you mean— * CB.'.?" 
 
 "Don't you know what C.B. means,'"' exclaimed Aud- 
 rey with scornful superiority over the old spinster. 
 "Confined to barracks. Father says I'm not to go 
 beyond the grounds for a month. And to-day's the 
 second of April!" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 *'Yes, he does. He's given me a week, you know, 
 before. Now it's a month." 
 
 Silence fell. 
 
 Miss Ingate looked round at the shabby study, with 
 its guns, cigar-boxes, prints, books neither old nor 
 new, japanned boxes of documents, and general litter 
 scattered over the volutcd walnut furniture. Her own 
 house was old-fashioned, and she reahscd that it was 
 old-fashioned ; but when she came into Flank Hall, and 
 particularly into Mr, Moze's study, she felt as if 
 she was stepping backwards into history — and this in 
 spite of the fact that nothing in the place was really 
 ancient, save the ceilings and the woodwork round the
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 17 
 
 windows. It was Mr. Moze's habit of mind that domi- 
 nated and transmogrified the whole interior, giving it 
 the quahty of a mausoleum. The suffragette proces- 
 sion in which Miss Ingate had musically and discreetly 
 taken part seemed to her as she stood in Mr. Moze's 
 changeless lair to be a phantasm. Then she looked at 
 the young captive animal and perceived that two cen- 
 turies may coincide on the same carpet and that time 
 is merely a convention. 
 
 "What you been doing.'"' she questioned, with deli- 
 cacy. 
 
 "I took a strange man by the hand," said Audrey, 
 choosing her words queerly, as she sometimes did, to 
 produce a dramatic effect. 
 
 "This morning?" 
 
 "Yes. Eight o'clock." 
 
 "What.? Is there a strange man in the village.?'* 
 
 "You don't mean to say you haven't seen the yacht!" 
 
 "Yacht?" Miss Ingate showed some excitement. 
 
 "Come and look, Winnie," said Audrey, who occa- 
 sionally thought fit to address Miss Ingate in the man- 
 ner of the elder generation. She drew Miss Ingate to 
 the window. 
 
 Between the brown curtains Mozewater, the broad, 
 shallow estuary of the Moze, was spread out glittering 
 in the sunshine which could not get into the chilly 
 room. The tide was nearly at full, and the estuary 
 looked like a mighty harbour for great ships ; but in 
 six hours it would be reduced to a narrow stream wind- 
 ing through mud flats of marvellous ochres, greens, 
 and pinks. In the hazy distance a fitful white flash 
 showed where ocean waves were breaking on a sand- 
 bank. And in the foreground, against a disused Hard 
 that was a couple of hundred yards lower down than 
 the village Hard, a large white yacht was moored.
 
 18 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 probably the largest yacht that had ever threaded that 
 ticklish navigation. She was a shallow-draft barge- 
 yacht, rigged like a Thames barge, and her whiteness 
 and the glint of her brass, and the flicker of her ensign 
 at the stern were dazzling. Blue figures ran busily 
 about on her, and a white and blue person in a peaked 
 cap stood importantly at the wheel. 
 
 "She was on the mud last night," said Audrey ea- 
 gerly, "opposite the Flank buoy, and she came up this 
 morning at half flood. I think they made fast at 
 Lousey Hard, because they couldn't get any further 
 without waiting. They have a motor, and it must be 
 their first trip this season. I was on the dyke. I 
 wasn't even locking at them, but they called me, so 
 I had to go. They only wanted to know if Lousey 
 Hard was private. Of course I told them it wasn't. 
 It was a very middle-aged man spoke to me. He must 
 be the owner. As soon as they were tied up he wanted 
 to jump ashore. It was rather awkward, and I just 
 held out my hand to help him. Father saw me from 
 here. I might have known he would." 
 
 "Why! It's going off!" exclaimed Miss Ingate. 
 
 The yacht swung slowly round, held by her stem 
 to the Hard. Then the last hawser was cast off, and 
 she floated away on the first of the ebb; and as she 
 moved, her mainsail, unbrailed, spread itself out and 
 became a vast pinion. Like a dream of happiness she 
 lessened and faded, and Lousey Hard was as lonely and 
 forlorn as ever. 
 
 "But didn't you explain to your father. ?" Miss In- 
 gate demanded of Audrey. 
 
 "Of course I did. But he wouldn't listen. He never 
 does. I might just as well have explained to the hall- 
 clock. He raged. I think he enjoys losing his temper. 
 He said I oughtn't to have been there at all, and it
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 19 
 
 was just like me, and he couldn't understand it in a 
 daughter of his, and it would be a great shock to my 
 poor mother, and he'd talked enough — he should now 
 proceed to action. All the usual things. He actually 
 asked me who 'the man' was." 
 
 "And who was it?" 
 
 "How can I tell? For goodness' sake don't go 
 imitating father, Winnie! . . . Rather a dull man, 
 I should say. Rather like father, only not so old. 
 He had a beautiful necktie; I think it must have been 
 made out of a strip of Joseph's coat." 
 
 Miss Ingate giggled at a high pitch, and Audrey 
 responsively smiled. 
 
 "Oh dear! Oh dearP' murmured Miss Ingate when 
 her gigghng was exhausted. "How queer it is that a 
 girl like you can't keep your father in a good temper I" 
 
 "Father hates me to say funny things. If I say 
 anything funny he turns as black as ink — and he 
 takes care to keep gloomy all the rest of the day, 
 too. He never laughs. Mother laughs now and then, 
 but I never heard father laugh. Oh yes, I did. He 
 laughed when the cat fell out of the bath-room window 
 on to the lawn-roller. He went quite red in the face 
 with laughing. ... I say, Miss Ingate, do you think 
 father's mad?" 
 
 "I shouldn't think he's what you call mad," replied 
 Miss Ingate judicially, with admirable sangfroid. 
 "I've known so many pecuHar people in my time. And 
 you must remember, Audrey, this is a peculiar part 
 of the world." 
 
 "Well, I believe he's mad, anyway. I believe he's 
 got men on the brain, especially young men. He's 
 growing worse. Yesterday he told me I mustn't have 
 the punt out on Mozewater this season unless he's with 
 me. Fancy skiffing about with father! He says I'm
 
 20 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 too old for that now. So there you are. The older 
 I get the less I'm allowed to do. I can't go a walk, 
 unless it's an errand. The pedal is off my bike, and 
 father is much too cunning to have it repaired. I 
 can't boat. I'm never given any money. He grumbles 
 frightfully if I want any clothes, so I never want any. 
 That's my latest dodge. I've read every book in the 
 house except the silly liturgical and legal things he's 
 always having from the London Library — and I've read 
 even some of those. He won't buy any new music. 
 Golf! Ye gods, Winnie, you should hear him talk 
 about ladies and golf!" 
 
 "I have," said Miss Ingate. "But it doesn't ruffle 
 me, because I don't play." 
 
 "But he plays with girls, and young girls, too, all 
 the same. He's been caught in the act. Ethel told 
 me. He little thinks I know. He'd let me play if he 
 could be the only man on the course. He's mad about 
 me and men. He never looks at me without thinking 
 of all the boys in the district." 
 
 "But he's really very fond of you, Audrey." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Audrey. "He ought to keep rae 
 in the china cupboard." 
 
 "Well, it's a great problem." 
 
 "He's invented a beautiful new trick for keeping me 
 in when he's out. I have to copy his beastly Society 
 letters for him." 
 
 "I see he's got a new box," observed Miss Ingate, 
 glancing into the open cupboard in which stood the 
 safe. On the top of the safe were two japanned boxes, 
 each lettered in white: "The National Reformation 
 Society." The uppermost box was freshly unpacked 
 and shone with all the intact pride of virginity. 
 
 "You should read some of the letters. You really 
 should, Winnie," said Audrey. "All the bigwigs of
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 21 
 
 the Society love writing to each other. I bet you 
 father will get a typewriting machine this year, and 
 make me learn it. The Chairman has a typewriter, 
 and father means to be the nest chairman. You'll 
 see. . . .Oh! What's that.? Listen!" 
 
 "What's what?" 
 
 A faint distant throbbing could be heard. 
 
 "It's the motor! He's coming back for something. 
 Fly out of here, Winnie, fly !" 
 
 Audrey felt sick at the thought that if her father 
 had returned only a few minutes earlier he might have 
 trapped her at the safe itself. She stiU kept one hand 
 behind her. 
 
 Miss Ingate, who with all her qualities was rather 
 easily flustered, ran out of the dangerous room in Aud- 
 rey's wake. They met Mr. Mathew Moze at the half- 
 landing of the stairs. 
 
 He was a man of average size, somewhat past sixty 
 years. He had plump cheeks, tinged with red; his 
 hair, moustache and short, full beard were quite grey. 
 He wore a thick wide-spreading ulster, and between his 
 coat and waistcoat a leather vest, and on his head 
 a grey cap. Put him in the Strand in town clothes, 
 and he might have been taken for a clerk, a civil serv- 
 ant, a club secretary, a retired military officer, a poet, 
 an undertaker — for anything except the last of a long 
 line of immovable squires who could not possibly con- 
 ceive what it was not to be the owner of land. His 
 face was preoccupied and overcast, but as soon as he 
 realised that Miss Ingate was on the stairs it instantly 
 brightened into a warm and rather wistful smile. 
 
 "Good morning, Miss Ingate," he greeted her with 
 deferential cordiality. "I'm so glad to see you back." 
 
 "Good morning, good morning, Mr. Moze," respond- 
 ed Miss Ingate. "Vehy nice of you. Vehy nice of you.'*
 
 22 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Nobody would have guessed from their demeanour 
 that they differed on every subject except their loyalty 
 to that particular corner of Essex, that he regarded 
 her and her political associates as deadly microbes in 
 the national organism, and that she regarded him as a 
 nincompoop crossed with a tyrant. Each of them had 
 a magic glass to see in the other nothing but a local 
 Effendi and familiar guardian angel of Moze. More- 
 over, Mr. Moze's public smile and public manner were 
 irresistible — until he lost his temper. He might have 
 had friends by the score, had it not been for his deep 
 constitutional reserve — due partly to diffidence and 
 partly to an immense hidden conceit. Mr. Moze's ex- 
 istence was actuated, though he knew it not, by the 
 conviction that the historic traditions of England were 
 committed to his keeping. Hence the conceit, which 
 was that of a soul secretly self-dedicated. 
 
 Audrey, outraged by the hateful hypocrisy of per- 
 sons over fifty, and terribly constrained and alarmed, 
 turned vaguely back up the stairs. Miss Ingate, not 
 quite knowing what she did, with an equal vagueness 
 followed her. 
 
 "Come in. Do come in,'* urged Mr. Moze at the 
 door of the study. 
 
 Audrey, who remained on the landing, heard her 
 elders talk smoothly of grave Mozian things, while 
 Mr. Moze unlocked the new tin box above the safe. 
 
 "I'd forgotten a most important paper," said he, as 
 he re-locked the box. "I have an appointment with the 
 Bishop of Colchester at 10.45, and I fear I may be 
 late. Will you excuse me, Miss Ingate.'"' 
 
 She excused him. 
 
 Departing, he put the paper into his pocket with a 
 careful and loving gesture that well symbolised his 
 passionate affection for the Society of which he was
 
 MISS INGATE, AND THE YACHT 23 
 
 already the Vice-Chairman. He had been a member 
 of the National Reformation Society for eleven years. 
 Despite the promise of its name, this wealthy associa- 
 tion of idealists had no care for reforms in a sadly 
 imperfect England. Its aim was anti-Romanist. The 
 Reformation which it had in mind was Luther's, and 
 it wished, by fighting an alleged insidious revival of 
 Roman Catholicism, to make sure that so far as Eng- 
 land was concerned Luther had not preached in vain. 
 Mr. Moze's connection with the Society had origi- 
 nated in a quarrel between himself and a Catholic 
 priest from Ipswich who had instituted a boys' sum- 
 mer camp on the banks of Mozewater near the village 
 of Moze. Until that quarrel, the exceeding noxious- 
 ness of the Papal doctrine had not clearly presented 
 itself to Mr, Moze. In such strange ways may an ideal 
 come to birth. As Mr. Moze, preoccupied and gloomy 
 once more, steered himself rapidly out of Moze towards 
 the episcopal presence, the image of the imperturb- 
 able and Jesuitical priest took shape in his mind, re- 
 freshing his determination to be even with Rome at 
 any cost.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE thief's plan WRECKED 
 
 "The fact is," said Audrey, "father has another 
 woman in the house now." 
 
 Mr. Moze had left Miss Ingate in the study and 
 Audrey had cautiously rejoined her there. 
 
 "Another woman in the house!" repeated Miss In- 
 gate, sitting down in happy expectation. "What on 
 earth do you mean? Who on earth do you mean.?" 
 
 "I mean me." 
 
 "You aren't a woman, Audrey." 
 
 "I'm just as much of a woman as you are. All 
 father's behaviour proves it." 
 
 "But your father treats you as a child." 
 
 "No, he doesn't. He treats me as a woman. If he 
 thought I was a child he wouldn't have anything to 
 worry about. I'm over nineteen." 
 
 "You don't look it." 
 
 "Of course I don't. But I could if I liked. I simply 
 won't look it because I don't care to be made ridiculous. 
 I should start to look my age at once if father stopped 
 treating me like a child." 
 
 "But you've just said he treats you as a woman!" 
 
 "You don't understand, Winnie," said the girl 
 sharply. "Unless you're pretending. Now you've 
 never told me anything about yourself, and I've always 
 told you lots about myself. You belong to an old- 
 fashioned family. How were you treated when you 
 Were my age?" 
 
 24
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 25 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "You know what way," said Audrey, gazing at 
 her. 
 
 "Well, my dear. Things seemed to come very nat- 
 urally, somehow." 
 
 "Were you ever engaged.?" 
 
 "Me ? Oh no !" answered Miss Ingate with tran- 
 quillity. "I'm vehy interested in them. Oh vehy ! 
 Oh vehy! And I like talking to them. But anything 
 more than that gets on my nerves. My eldest sister 
 was the one. Oh! She was the one. She refused 
 eleven men, and when she was going to be married she 
 made me embroider the monograms of all of them on 
 the skirt of her wedding-dress. She made me, and I 
 had to do it. I sat up all night the night before the 
 wedding to finish them." 
 
 'And what did the bridegroom say about it?" 
 
 *The bridegroom didn't say anything about it be- 
 cause he didn't know. Nobody knew except Arabella 
 and me. She just wanted to feel that the monograms 
 were on her dress, that was all." 
 
 "How strange !" 
 
 "Yes, it was. But this is a vehy strange part of 
 the world." 
 
 "And what happened afterwards?" 
 
 "Bella died when she had her first baby, and the baby 
 died as well. And the father's dead now, too." 
 
 "What a horrid story, Winnie !" Audrey murmured. 
 And after a pause: "I like your sister." 
 
 "She was vehy uncommon. But I liked her too. I 
 don't know why, but I did. She could make the best 
 marmalade I ever tasted in my born days." 
 
 "I could make the best marmalade you ever tasted 
 in your born days," said Audrey, sinking neatly to 
 
 "j
 
 26 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 the floor and crossing her legs, "but they won't let 
 
 me." 
 
 «1 
 
 'Won't let you! But I thought you did all sorts 
 of things in the house." 
 
 "No, Winnie. I only do one thing. I do as I'm 
 told — and not always even that. Now if I wanted to 
 make the best marmalade you ever tasted in your born 
 days, first of all there would be a fearful row about 
 the oranges. Secondly father would tell mother she 
 must tell me exactly what I was to do. He would also 
 tell cook. Thirdly and lastly, dear friends, he would 
 come into the kitchen himself. It wouldn't be my mar- 
 malade at all. I should only be a marmalade-making 
 machine. They never let me have any responsibility — 
 no, not even when mother's operation was on — and I'm 
 never officially free. The kitchen-maid has far more 
 responsibility than I have. And she has an evening 
 off and an afternoon off. She can write a letter with- 
 out everybody asking her who she's writing to. She's 
 only seventeen. She has the morning postman for a 
 young man now, and probably one or two others that 
 I don't know of. And she has money and she buys 
 her own clothes. She's a very naughty, wicked girl, 
 and I wish I was in her place. She scorns me, natu- 
 rally. Who wouldn't?" 
 
 Miss Ingate said not a word. She merely sat with 
 her hands in the lap of her spotted pale-blue dress, 
 faintly and sadly smiling. 
 
 Audrey burst out: 
 
 "Miss Ingate, what can I do.'' I must do some- 
 thing. What can I do?" 
 
 Miss Ingate shook her head, and put her lips tightly 
 together, while mechanically smoothing the sides of her 
 grey coat. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "It beats me."
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 27 
 
 "Then /'ll tell you what I can do !" answered Audrey 
 firmly, wriggling somewhat nearer to her along the 
 floor. "And what I shall do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Will you promise to keep it a secret?" 
 
 Miss Ingate nodded, smiling and showing her teeth. 
 Her broad polished forehead positively shone with 
 kindly eagerness. 
 
 "Will you swear?" 
 
 Miss Ingate hesitated, and then nodded again. 
 
 "Then put your hand on my head and say, *I 
 swear.' " 
 
 Miss Ingate obeyed. 
 
 "I shall leave this house," said Audrey in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "You won't, Audrey !" 
 
 "I'll eat my hand off if I've not left this house by 
 to-morrow, anyway." 
 
 "To-morrow!" Miss Ingate nearly screamed. 
 "Now, Audrey, do reflect. Think what you are!" 
 
 Audrey bounded to her feet. 
 
 "That's what father's always saying," she exploded 
 angrily. "He's always telling me to examine myself. 
 The fact is I know too much about myself. I know 
 exactly the kind of girl it is who's going to leave this 
 house. Exactly !" 
 
 "Audrey, you frighten me. Where are you going 
 to.?" 
 
 "London." 
 
 "Oh! That's all right then. I am relieved. I 
 thought perhaps you wanted to come to 7ny house. 
 You won't get to London, because you haven't any 
 money." 
 
 "Oh yes, 1 have. I've got a hundred pounds." 
 
 "Where?"
 
 28 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Remember, you've sworn. . . . Here!" she cried 
 suddenly, and drawing her hand from behind her back 
 she most sensationally displayeci a crushed roll of 
 bank-notes. 
 
 "And who did you get those from?" 
 
 "I didn't get them from anybody. I got them out 
 of father's safe. They're his reserve. He keeps them 
 right at the back of the left-hand drawer, and he's so 
 sure they're there that he never looks for them. He 
 thinks he's a perfect model, but really he's careless. 
 There's a duplicate key to the safe, you know, and 
 he leaves it with a lot of other keys loose in 
 his desk. I expect he thought nobody would ever 
 dream of guessing it was a key of the safe. I know 
 he never looked at this roll, because I've been opening 
 the safe every day for weeks past, and the roll was 
 always the same. In fact it was dusty. Then to-day 
 I decided to take it, and here you are! He finished 
 himself off yesterday so far as I'm concerned, with 
 the business about the punt." 
 
 "But do you know you're a thief, Audrey.?" breathed 
 Miss Ingate, extremely embarrassed, and for once 
 somewhat staggered by the vagaries of human na- 
 ture. 
 
 "You seem to forget, Miss Ingate," said Audrey 
 solemnly, "that Cousin Caroline left me a legacy of 
 two hundred pounds last year, and that I've never 
 seen a penny of it. Father absolutely declined to let 
 me have the tiniest bit of it. Well, I've taken half. He 
 can keep the other half for his trouble." 
 
 Miss Ingate's mouth stood open, and 1; . eyes seemed 
 
 startled. 
 
 "But you can't go to London alone. You wouldn't 
 
 know what to do." 
 
 "Yes, I should. I've arranged everything. I shall
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 29 
 
 wear mj best clothes. When I arrive at Liverpool 
 Street I shall take a taxi. I've got three addresses of 
 boarding-houses out of The Daily Telegraph, and 
 they're all in Bloomsbury, W. C. I shall have lessons 
 in shorthand and typewriting at Pitman's School, and 
 then I shall get a situation. My name will be Vava- 
 sour." 
 
 "But you'll be caught." 
 
 "I shan't. I shall book to Ipswich first and begin 
 again from there. Girls like me aren't so easy to catch 
 as all that." 
 
 "You're vehy cunning." 
 
 "I get that from mother. She's most frightfully 
 cunning with father." 
 
 "Audrey," said Miss Ingate with a strange grin, 
 "I don't know how I can sit here and listen to you. 
 You'll ruin me with your father, because if you go 
 I'm sure I shall never be able to keep from him that I 
 knew all about it." 
 
 "Then you shouldn't have sworn !" retorted Audrey. 
 "But I'm glad you did swear, because I had to tell 
 somebody, and there was nobody but you." 
 
 Miss Ingate might possibly have contrived to em- 
 ploy some of that sagacity in which she took a secret 
 pride upon a very critical and urgent situation, had 
 not Mrs. Moze, with a white handkerchief wrapped 
 round her forehead, at that moment come into the 
 room. Immediately the study was full of neuralgia and 
 eau de cologne. 
 
 When Mrs. Moze and Miss Ingate at length recov- 
 ered from the tenderness of meeting each other after 
 a separation of ten days or more, Audrey had vanished 
 like an illusion. She was not afraid of her mother ; 
 and she could trust Miss Ingate, though Miss Ingate 
 and Mrs. Moze were dangerously intimate ; but she
 
 30 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 was too self-conscious to remain in the presence of 
 her fellow-creatures ; and in spite of her faith in Miss 
 Ingate she thought of the spinster as of a vase filled 
 now with a fatal liquor which by any accident might 
 spill and spread ruin — so that she could scarcely bear 
 to look upon Miss Ingate. 
 
 At the back of the house a young Pomeranian dog, 
 which had recently solaced Miss Ingate in the loss of 
 a Pekingese done to death by a spinster's too-nourish- 
 ing love, was prancing on his four springs round the 
 chained yard-dog, his friend and patron. In a series 
 of marvellous short bounds, he followed Audrey with 
 yapping eagerness down the slope of the garden ; and 
 the yard-dog, aware that none but the omnipotent 
 deity, Mr. Moze, sole source of good and evil, had the 
 right to loose him, turned round once and laid him- 
 self flat and long on the ground, sighing. 
 
 The garden, after developing into an orchard and 
 deteriorating into a scraggy plantation, ended in a 
 low wall that was at about the level of the sea-wall 
 and separated from it by a water-course and a strip 
 of very green meadow. Audrey glanced instinctively 
 back at the house to see if anybody was watching her. 
 
 Flank Hall, which for a hundred years had been 
 called "the new hall" — was a seemly Georgian resi- 
 dence, warm in colour, with some quaint woodwork; 
 and like most such buildings in Essex, it made a very 
 happy marriage with the landscape. Its dormers and 
 fine chimneys glowed amid the dark bare trees, and 
 they alone would have captivated a Londoner possess- 
 ing those precious attributes, fortunately ever spread- 
 ing among the enlightened middle-classes, a motor-car, 
 a cultured taste in architecture, and a desire to enter 
 the squirearchy. Audrey loathed the house. For her 
 it was the last depth of sordidness and the common-
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 31 
 
 place. She could imagine positively nothing less ro- 
 mantic. She thought of the ground-floor on chill 
 March mornings with no fires anywhere save a red 
 gleam in the dining-room, and herself wandering about 
 in it idle, at a loss for a diversion, an ambition, an 
 effort, a real task ; and she thought of the upper-floor, 
 a mainly-unoccupied wilderness of iron bedsteads and 
 yellow chests of drawers and chipped earthenware and 
 islands of carpets, and her mother plaintively and 
 weariedly arguing with some servant over a slop-pail in 
 a corner. The images of the interior, indelibly printed 
 in her soul, desolated her. 
 
 Mozewater she loved, and every souvenir of it was 
 exquisite — red barges beating miraculously up the 
 shallow puddles to Moze Quay, equinoctial spring-tides 
 when the estuary was a tremendous ocean covered with 
 foam and the sea-wall felt the light lash of spray, 
 thunderstorms in autumn gathering over the yellow 
 melancholy of deathlike sunsets, wild birds crying 
 across miles of uncovered mud at early morning and 
 duck-hunters crouching in punts behind a waving 
 screen of delicate grasses to wing them, and the mys- 
 terious shapes of steamers and warships in the offing 
 beyond the Sand. . . . The sail of the receding yacht 
 gleamed now against the Sand, and its flashing broke 
 her heart; for it was the flashing of freedom. She 
 thought of the yachtsman; he was very courteous and 
 deferential ; a mild creature ; he had behaved to her 
 ag to a woman. . , . Oh ! To be the petted and capri- 
 cious wife of such a man, to nod commands, to enslave 
 with a smile, to want a thing and instantly to have it, 
 to be consulted and to decide, to spend with large ges- 
 tures, to be charitable, to be adored by those whom 
 you had saved from disaster, to increase happiness 
 wherever you went . , . and to be free ! . . .
 
 32 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 The little dog jumped up at her because he was 
 tired of being ignored, and she caught him and kissed 
 him again and again passionately, and he wriggled 
 with ecstasy and licked her ears with all the love in 
 him. And in kissing him she kissed grave and affec- 
 tionate husbands, she kissed the lovely scenery of the 
 Sound, and she kissed the magnificent ideal of emanci- 
 pation. But the dog had soon had enough of her arms ; 
 he broke free, sprang, alighted, and rolled over, and 
 arose sniffing, with earth on his black muzzle. . . . 
 
 He looked up at her enquiringly. . . . Strange, 
 short-f rocked blue figure looking down at him! She 
 had a bulging forehead; her brown eyes were tunnelled 
 underneath it. But what living eyes, what ardent eyes, 
 that blazed up and sank like a fire ! What delicate and 
 exact mirrors of the secret traffic between her soul and 
 the soul of the world! She had full cheeks, and a 
 large mouth ripe red, inviting and provocative. In 
 the midst, an absurd small unprominent nose that 
 meant nothing! Her complexion was divine, surpass- 
 ing all similes. To caress that smooth downy cheek 
 (if you looked close you could see the infinitesimal 
 down against the light like an aura on the edge of the 
 silhouette), even to let the gaze dwell on it, what an 
 enchantment ! . . . She considered herself piquant and 
 comely, and she was not deceived. She had long hands. 
 
 The wind from afar on her cheek reminded her 
 poignantly that she was a prisoner. She could not go 
 to the clustered village on the left, nor into the saltings 
 on the right, nor even on to the sea-wall where the new 
 rushes and grasses were showing. All the estuary 
 was barred, and the winding road that mounted the 
 slope towards Colchester. Her revolt against injustice 
 was savage. Hatred of her father surged up in her like 
 glittering lava. She had long since ceased to try to
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 33 
 
 comprehend him. She despised herself because she 
 was unreasonably afraid of him, ridiculously mute be- 
 fore him. She could not understand how anybody could 
 be friendly with him — for was he not notorious? Yet 
 everywhere he was greeted with respect and smiles, and 
 he would chat at length with all manner of people on 
 a note of mild and smooth cordiality. He and Miss 
 Ingate would enjoy together the most enormous talks. 
 She was, however, aware that Miss Ingate's opinion of 
 him was not very different from her own. Each time 
 she saw her father and Miss Ingate in communion she 
 would say in her heart to Miss Ingate: "You are dis- 
 loyal to me." ... 
 
 Was it possible that she had confided to Miss Ingate 
 her fearful secret? The conversation appeared to her 
 unreal now. She went over her plan. In the after- 
 noon her father was always out, and to-morrow after- 
 noon her mother would be out too. She would have a 
 few things in a light bag that she could carry — her 
 mother's bag! She would put on her best clothes and 
 a veil from her mother's wardrobe. She would take 
 the 4.5 p. m. train. The stationmaster would be at 
 his tea then. Only the booking-clerk and the porter 
 would see her, and neither would dare to make an 
 observation. She would ask for a return ticket to 
 Ipswich : that would allay suspicion, and at Ipswich she 
 would book again. She had cut out the addresses of 
 the boarding-houses. She would have to buy things in 
 London. She knew of two shops — Harrod's and Shool- 
 bred's ; she had seen their catalogues. And the very 
 next morning after arrival she would go to Pitman's 
 School. She would change the first of the £5 notes 
 at the station and ask for plenty of silver. She glanced 
 at the unlimited wealth still crushed in her hand, and 
 then she carefully dropped the fortune down the neck
 
 34. THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of her frock. . . . Stealing? She repulsed the idea 
 with violent disdain. What she had accomplished 
 against her father was not a crime, but a ven- 
 geance. . . . She would never be found in London. 
 It was impossible. Her plan seemed to her to be per- 
 fect in each detail, except one. She was not the right 
 sort of girl to execute it. She was very shy. She 
 suspected that no other girl could really be as shy 
 as she was. She recalled dreadful rare moments with 
 her mother in strange drawing-rooms. Still, she would 
 execute the plan even if she died of fright. A force 
 within her would compel her to execute it. This force 
 did not make for happiness ; on the contrary, it uncom- 
 fortably scared her; but it was irresistible. 
 
 Something on the brow of the road from Colchester 
 attracted her attention. It was a handcart, pushed 
 by a labourer and by Pohce Inspector Keeble, whom 
 she liked. Following the handcart over the brow came 
 a loose procession of villagers, which included no chil- 
 dren because the children were in school. Except on a 
 Sunday Audrey had never before seen a procession of 
 villagers, and these villagers must have been collected 
 out of the fields, for the procession was going in the 
 direction of, and not away from, the village. The hand- 
 cart was covered with a tarpaulin. . . . She knew 
 what had happened ; she knew infallibly. Skirting the 
 boundary of the grounds, she reached the main en- 
 trance to Flank Hall thirty seconds before the hand- 
 cart. The little dog, delighted in a new adventure, 
 yapped ecstatically at her heels, and then bounded 
 onwards to meet the Inspector and the handcart. 
 
 "Run and tell yer mother. Miss Moze," Inspector 
 Keeble called out in a carrying whisper. "There's been 
 an accident. He ditched the car near Ardleigh cross- 
 roads, trying to avoid some fowls,"
 
 THE THIEF'S PLAN WRECKED 35 
 
 Mr. Moze, hurrying too fast to meet the Bishop 
 of Colchester, had met a greater than the Bishop. 
 
 Audrey glanced an instant with a sick qualm at the 
 outlines of the shape beneath the tarpaulin, and ran. 
 
 In the dining-room, over the speck of fire, Mrs. Moze 
 and Miss Ingate were locked in a deep intimate gossip. 
 
 "Mother!" cried Audrey, and then sank like a sack. 
 
 "Why ! The little thing's fainted !" Miss Ingate ex- 
 claimed in a voice suddenly hoarse.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE LEGACY 
 
 Audrey and Miss Ingate were in the late Mathew 
 Moze's study, fascinated — as much unconsciously as 
 consciously — by the thing which since its owner's death 
 had grown every hour more mysterious and more 
 formidable — the safe. It was a fine afternoon. The 
 secondary but still grandiose enigma of the affair, Mr. 
 Cowl, could be heard walking methodically on the 
 gravel in the garden. Mr. Cowl was the secretary of 
 the National Reformation Society. 
 
 Suddenly the irregular sound of crunching receded. 
 
 "He's gone somewhere else," said Audrey. 
 
 "I'm so relieved," said Miss Ingate. "I hope he's 
 gone a long way off." 
 
 "Are you?" murmured Audrey, with an air of sur- 
 prised superiority. 
 
 But in secret Audrey felt just as relieved as Miss 
 Ingate, despite the fact that, her mother being pros- 
 trate, she was the mistress of the situation, and could 
 have ordered Mr. Cowl to leave, with the certainty of 
 being obeyed. She was astonished at her illogical sen- 
 sations, and she had been frequently so astonished in 
 the previous four days. 
 
 For example, she was free; she knew that she could 
 impose herself on her mother ; never again would she be 
 the slave of an unreasoning tyrant ; yet she was gloomy 
 and without hope. She had hated the unreasoning 
 tyrant ; yet she felt very sorry for him because he was 
 
 36
 
 THE LEGACY 37 
 
 dead. And though she felt very sorry for him, she 
 detested hearing the panegyrics upon him of the vil- 
 lage, and particularly of those persons with whom he 
 had quarrelled; she actually stopped Miss Ingate in 
 the midst of an enumeration of his good qualities — his 
 charm, his smile, his courtesy, his integrity, et cetera; 
 she could not bear it. She thought that no child had 
 ever had such a strange attitude to a deceased parent 
 as hers to Mr. Moze. She had anticipated the inquest 
 with an awful dread ; it proved to be a trifle, and a 
 ridiculous trifle. In the long weekly letter which she 
 wrote to her adored schoolfriend Ethel at Manningtree 
 she had actually likened the coroner to a pecking fowl ! 
 Was it possible that a daughter could write in such a 
 strain about the inquest on her father's body.'' 
 
 The funeral had seemed to function by itself, with 
 some guidance from the undertaker and still more from 
 Mr. Cowl. Villagers and district acquaintances had 
 been many at the ceremony, but relatives rare. Mr. 
 Moze's four younger brothers were all in the colonies; 
 Mrs. Moze had apparently no connections. Madame 
 Piriac, daughter of Mr. Moze's first wife by that lady's 
 first husband, had telegraphed sympathies from Paris. 
 A cousin or so had come in person from Woodbridge 
 for the day. 
 
 It was from the demeanour of these cousins, grave 
 men twice her age or more, that Audrey had first di- 
 vined her new importance in the world. Their defer- 
 ence indicated that in their opinion the future mistress 
 of Flank Hall was not Mrs. Moze, but Audrey. Aud- 
 rey admitted that they were right. Yet she took no 
 pleasure in issuing commands. She spoke firmly, but 
 she said to herself: "There is no backbone to this 
 firmness, and I am a fraud." She had always yearned 
 for responsibility, yet now that it was in her hand she
 
 38 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 trembled, and she would have dropped it and run away 
 from it as from a bomb, had she not been too cowardly 
 to show her cowardice. 
 
 The instance of Aguilar, the head-gardener and me- 
 chanic, well illustrated her pusillanimity. She loathed 
 Aguilar; her mother loathed him; the servants loathed 
 him. He had said at the inquest that the car was 
 in perfect order, but that Mr. Moze was too excitable 
 to be a good driver. His evidence was true, but the 
 jury did not care for his manner. Nor did the village. 
 He had only two good qualities — honesty and effi- 
 ciency; and these by their rarity excited jealousy 
 rather than admiration. Audrey strongly desired to 
 throw the gardener-mechanic upon the world; it nau- 
 seated her to see his disobliging face about the garden. 
 But he remained scatheless, to refuse demanded vege- 
 tables, to annoy the kitchen, to pronounce the motor- 
 car utterly valueless, and to complain of his own liver. 
 Audrey had legs ; she had a tongue ; she could articu- 
 late. Neither wish nor power was lacking in her to 
 give Aguilar the supreme experience of his career. 
 And yet she did not walk up to him and say : "Aguilar, 
 please take a week's notice." Why.'' The question 
 puzzled her and lowered her opinion of herself. 
 
 She was similarly absurd in the paramount matter 
 of the safe. The safe could not be opened. The vil- 
 lage, having been thrilled by four stirring days of the 
 most precious and rare fever, had suffered much after 
 the funeral from a severe reaction of dulness. It 
 would have suffered much more had the fact not 
 escaped that the safe could not be opened. In the deep 
 depression of the day following the funeral the village 
 could still say to itself: "Romance and excitement are 
 not yet over, for the key of the Moze safe is lost, and 
 the will is in the safe!"
 
 THE LEGACY 39 
 
 The village did not know that there were two keys 
 to the safe and that they were both lost. Nobody 
 knew that except Audrey and INIiss Ingate and Mr. 
 Cowl. The official key was lost because Mr. Moze's 
 key-ring was lost. The theory was that it had been 
 jerked out of his pocket in the accident. Persistent 
 search for it had been unsuccessful. As for the un- 
 official or duplicate key, Audrey could not remember 
 where she had put it after her burglary, the conclusion 
 of which had been disturbed by Miss Ingate. At one 
 moment she was quite sure that she had left the key in 
 the safe, but at another moment she was equally sure 
 that she was holding the key in her right hand (the 
 bank-notes being in her left) when Miss Ingate en- 
 tered the room ; at still another moment she was almost 
 convinced that before Miss Ingate's arrival she had 
 run to the desk and slipped the key back into its 
 drawer. In any case the second key was irretrievable. 
 She discussed the dilemma very fully with Miss Ingate, 
 who had obligingly come to stay in the house. They 
 examined every aspect of the affair, except Audrey's 
 guiltiness of theft, which both of them tacitly ignored. 
 In the end they decided that it might be wiser not to 
 conceal Audrey's knowledge of the existence of a sec- 
 ond key ; and they told Mr. Cowl, because he happened 
 to be at hand. In so doing they were ill-advised, be- 
 cause Mr. Cowl at once acted in a characteristic and 
 inconvenient fashion which they ought to have fore- 
 seen. 
 
 On the day before the funeral Mr. Cowl had tele- 
 graphed from some place in Devonshire that he should 
 represent the National Reformation Society at the 
 funeral, and asked for a bed, on the pretext that he 
 could not get from Devonshire to Moze in time for the 
 funeral if he postponed his departure until the next
 
 40 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 morning. The telegram was quite costly. He arrived 
 for dinner, a fat man about thirty-eight, with chestnut 
 hair, a low, alluring voice, and a small handbag for 
 luggage. Miss Ingate thought him very interesting, 
 and he was. He said little about the National Refor- 
 mation Society, but a great deal about the late Mr. 
 Moze, of whom he appeared to be an intimate friend; 
 presumably the friendship had developed at meetings 
 of the Society. After dinner he strolled nonchalantly 
 to the sideboard and opened a box of the deceased's 
 cigars, and suggested that, as he was well acquainted 
 with the brand, having often enjoyed the hospitality 
 of Mr. Moze's cigar-case, he should smoke a cigar 
 now to the memory of the departed. Miss Ingate then 
 began to feel alarmed. He smoked four cigars to the 
 memory of the departed, and on retiring ventured to 
 take four more for consumption during the night, as 
 he seldom slept. 
 
 In the morning he went into the bathroom at eight 
 o'clock and remained there till noon, reading and smok- 
 ing in continually renewed hot water. He descended 
 blandly, begged Miss Moze not to trouble about his 
 breakfast, and gently assumed a certain control of the 
 funeral. After the funeral he announced that he 
 should leave on the morrow : but the mystery of the safe 
 held him to the house. When he heard of the existence 
 of the second key he organised and took command of a 
 complete search of the study, and in the course of the 
 search he inspected every document in the study. He 
 said he knew that the deceased had left a legacy 
 to the Society, and he should not feel justified in quit- 
 ting Moze until the will was found. 
 
 Now in these circumstances Audrey ought certainly 
 to have telegraphed to her father's solicitor at Chelms- 
 ford at once. In the alternative she ought to have
 
 THE LEGACY 41 
 
 hired a safe-opening expert or a burglar from Col- 
 chester. She had accomplished neither of these down- 
 right things. With absolute power, she had done 
 nothing but postpone. She wondered at herself, for 
 up to her father's death she had been a great critic 
 of absolute power. 
 
 The heavy policemanish step of Mr. Cowl was heard 
 on the landing. 
 
 "He's coming down on us !" exclaimed Miss Ingate, 
 partly afraid, and partly sardonic at her own fear. 
 "I'm sure he's coming down on us. Audrey, I liked 
 that man at first, but now I tremble before him. And 
 I'm sure his moustache is dyed. Can't you ask him 
 to leave.'"' 
 
 "Is his moustache dyed, Winnie? Oh, what fun!" 
 
 Miss Ingate's apprehension was justified. There 
 was a knock at the study-door, discreet, insistent, 
 menacing, and it was Mr. Cowl's knock. He entered, 
 smiling gravely and yet, as it were, teasingly. His 
 easy bigness, florid and sinister, made a disturbing con- 
 trast with the artless and pure simplicity of Audrey 
 in her new black robe, and even with Miss Ingate's 
 pallid maturity, which, after all, was passably inno- 
 cent and ingenuous. Mr. Cowl resembled a great beast 
 good-humouredly lolloping into the cage in which two 
 rabbits had been placed for his diversion and hunger. 
 
 Pulling a key from the pocket of his vast waistcoat, 
 he said in his quiet voice, so seductive and ominous : 
 
 "Is this the key of the safe.?" 
 
 He offered it delicately to Audrey. 
 
 It was the key of the safe. 
 
 "Did they find it in the ditch.'"' Audrey demanded, 
 blushing, for she knew that the key had not been 
 found in the ditch; she knew by a certain indentation
 
 42 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 on it that it was the duplicate key which she herself 
 had mislaid. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Cowl. "I found it myself, and not 
 in the ditch. I remembered you had said that you had 
 changed at the dressmaker's in the village and had left 
 there an old frock." 
 
 "Did I.f"' murmured Audrey, with a deeper blush. 
 
 Mr. Cowl nodded. 
 
 "I had the happy idea that you might have had the 
 key and left it in the pocket of the frock. So I trotted 
 down to the dressmaker's and asked for the frock, in 
 your name, and lo ! the result !" * 
 
 He pointed to the key lying in Audrey's long hand. 
 
 "But how should I have had the key, Mr. Cowl? 
 Why should I have had the key?" Audrey burst out 
 like a simpleton. 
 
 "That, Miss Moze," said he with a peculiar grin 
 and in an equally peculiar tone, "is a matter about 
 which obviously you are better informed than I am. 
 Shall we try the key?" 
 
 With a smooth undeniable gesture he took the key 
 again from Audrey, and bent his huge form to open 
 the safe. As he did so Miss Ingate made a sarcastic 
 and yet affrighted face at Audrey, and Audrey tried 
 to send a signal in reply, but failed, owing to imperfect 
 self-control. However, she managed to say to Mr. 
 Cowl's curved back: 
 
 "You couldn't have found the key in the pocket of 
 my old frock, Mr. Cowl." 
 
 "And why?" he enquired benevolently, raising and 
 turning his chestnut head. Even in that exciting in- 
 stant Audrey could debate within herself whether or 
 not his superb moustache was dyed. 
 
 "Because it has no pocket." 
 
 "So I discovered," said Mr. Cowl, after a little
 
 THE LEGACY 43 
 
 pause. "I merely stated that I had the happy idea — • 
 for it proved to be a happy idea — that you might 
 have left the key in the pocket. I discovered it, as a 
 fact, in a slit of the lining of the belt. . . . Con- 
 ceivably you had slipped it in there — in a hurry." 
 He put strange implications into the last three words. 
 "Yes, it is the authentic key," he concluded, as the 
 door of the safe swung heavily and silently open. 
 
 Audrey, for the first time, felt rather like a thief 
 as she beheld the familiar interior of the safe which a 
 few days earlier she had so successfully rifled. "Is it 
 possible," she thought, "that I really took bank-notes 
 out of that safe, and that they are at this very mo- 
 ment in my bedroom between the leaves of 'Pictures of 
 Palestine'?" 
 
 Mr. Cowl was cautiously fumbling among the serried 
 row of documents which, their edges towards the front, 
 filled the steel shelf above the drawers. Audrey had 
 never experienced any curiosity concerning the docu- 
 ments. Lucre alone had interested the base creature. 
 No documents would have helped her to freedom. But 
 now she thought apprehensively : "My fate may be 
 among those documents." She was quite prepared to 
 learn that her father had done something silly in his 
 will. 
 
 "This resembles a testament," said Mr. Cowl, smil- 
 ing to himself, and pulling out a foolscap scrip, folded 
 and endorsed. "Yes. Dated last year." 
 
 He unfolded the document; a letter slipped from 
 the interior of it; he placed the letter on the small 
 occasional table next to the desk, and offered the will 
 to Audrey with precisely the same gesture as he had 
 offered the key. 
 
 Audrey tried to decipher the will, and completely 
 failed.
 
 44 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Will you read it, Miss Ingate?" she muttered. 
 
 "I can't ! I can't !" answered Miss Ingate in excite- 
 ment. "I'm sure I can't. I never could read wills. 
 They're so funny, somehow. And I haven't got my 
 spectacles." She flushed slightly. 
 
 "May / venture to tell you what it contains?" Mr. 
 Cowl suggested. "There can be no indiscretion on my 
 part as all wills after probate are public property, 
 and can be inspected by any Tom, Dick or Harry for 
 a fee of one shilling." 
 
 He took the document and gazed at it intently, 
 turning over a page and turning back, for an extraor- 
 dinarily long time. 
 
 Audrey said to herself again and again, with ex- 
 asperated impatience: "He knows now, and I don't 
 know. He knows now, and I don't know. He knows 
 now, and I don't know." 
 
 At length Mr. Cowl spoke : 
 
 "It is a perfectly simple will. The testator leaves 
 the whole of his property to Mrs. Moze for life, and 
 afterwards to you, Miss Moze. There are only two 
 legacies. Ten pounds to James Aguilar, gardener. 
 And the testator's shares in the Zacatecas Oil Devel- 
 opment Syndicate to the National Reformation So- 
 ciety. I may say that the testator had expressed to 
 me his intention of leaving these shares to the Society. 
 We should have preferred money, free of legacy duty, 
 but the late Mr. Moze had a reason for everything he 
 did. I must now big you good-bye, ladies," he went 
 on strangely, with no pause. "Miss Moze, will you 
 convey my sympathetic respects to your mother and 
 my thanks for her most kind hospitality.'* My grate- 
 ful sympathies to yourself. Good-bye, Miss In- 
 gate. . . . Er, Miss Ingate, why do you look at me 
 in that peculiar way?"
 
 THE LEGACY 45 
 
 "Well, Mr. Cowl, you're a very peculiar man. May 
 I ask whether you were born in this part of the coun- 
 try.?" 
 
 "At Clacton, Miss Ingate," answered Mr. Cowl im- 
 perturbably. 
 
 "I knew it," said Miss Ingate, and the corners of 
 her lips went sardonically down. 
 
 "Please don't trouble to come downstairs," said Mr. 
 Cowl. "My bag is packed. I have tipped the parlour- 
 maid, and there is just time to catch the train." 
 
 He departed, leaving the two women speechless. 
 
 After a moment. Miss Ingate said drily: 
 
 "He was so very peculiar I knew he must belong 
 to these parts." 
 
 "How did he know I left my blue frock at Miss 
 Pannell's.?" cried Audrey. "I never told him." 
 
 "He must have been eavesdropping!" cried Miss In- 
 gate. "He never found the key in your frock. He 
 must have found it here somewhere; I feel sure it must 
 have dropped by the safe, and I lay anything he had 
 opened the safe before and read the will before. I 
 could tell from the way he looked." 
 
 "And why should he suppose that I'd the key.?" 
 Audrey put in. 
 
 "Eavesdropping. I'm convinced that man knows too 
 much." (Audrey reddened once more.) "I believe 
 he thought you'd be capable of burning the will. That's 
 why he made you handle it in his presence and mine." 
 
 "Well, Winnie," said Audrey, "I think you might 
 have told him all that while he was here, instead of 
 letting him go off so triumphant." 
 
 "I did begin to," said Miss Ingate with a snigger. 
 "But you wouldn't back me up, you little coward." 
 
 "I shall never be a coward again!" Audrey said 
 violently.
 
 46 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 They read the will together. They had no difficulty 
 at all in comprehending it now that they were alone. 
 
 "I do think it's a horrid shame Aguilar should have 
 that ten pounds," said Audrey. "But otherwise I don't 
 care. You can't guess how relieved I am, Winnie. I 
 imagined the most dreadful things. I don't know what 
 I imagined. But now we shall have all the property 
 and everything, just as much as ever there was, and 
 only me and mother to spend it." Audrey danced an 
 embryonic jig. "Won't I keep mother in order! Win- 
 nie, I shall make her go with me to Paris. I've always 
 wanted to know that Madame Piriac — she does write 
 such funny English in her letters." 
 
 "What's that you're saying.^" murmured Miss In- 
 gate, who had picked up the letter which Mr. Cowl had 
 laid on the small table. 
 
 "I say I shall make mother go to Paris with me." 
 
 "You won't," said Miss Ingate. "Because she won't 
 go. I know your mother better than you do. . . . 
 Oh! Audrey!" 
 
 Audrey saw Miss Ingate's face turn scarlet from the 
 roots of her hair to her chin. 
 
 Miss Ingate had dropped the letter. Audrey 
 snatched it. 
 
 "My dear Moze," the letter ran. "I send you here- 
 with a report of the meeting of the Great Mexican Oil 
 Company at New York. You will see that they duly 
 authorised the contract by wliich the Zacatecas Oil 
 Corporation transfers our property to them in ex- 
 change for shares at the rate of four Great Mexican 
 shares for one Zacatecas share. As each of the Devel- 
 opment Syndicate shares represents ten of the Cor- 
 poration shares, and as on my recommendation you 
 put £4,500 into the Syndicate, you will therefore own 
 180,000 Great Mexican shares. They are at present
 
 THE LEGACY 47 
 
 above par. Mark my words, they will be worth from 
 seven to ten dollars apiece in a year's time. I think 
 you now owe me a good turn, eh.f"' 
 
 The letter was signed with a name unknown to either 
 of them, and it was dated from Coleman Street, E.G.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 MR. FOULGER 
 
 Half an hour later the woman and the girl, still in 
 the study and severely damaged by the culminating 
 events of Mr. Cowl's visit, were almost prostrated by 
 the entirely unexpected announcement of the arrival of 
 Mr. Foulger. Mr. Foulger was the late Mr. Moze's 
 solicitor from Chelmsford. Audrey's first thought was : 
 "Has heaven telegraphed to him on my behalf?" But 
 her next was that all the solicitors in the world would 
 now be useless in the horrible calamity that had be- 
 fallen. 
 
 It is to be noted that Audrey was no worse off than 
 before the discovery of the astounding value of the 
 Zacatecas shares. The Moze property, inherited 
 through generations and consisting mainly in farms 
 and tithe-rents, was not in the slightest degree im- 
 paired. On the contrary the steady progress of agri- 
 culture in Essex indicated that its yield must improve 
 with years. Nevertheless Audrey felt as though she 
 and her mother were ruined, and as though the Na- 
 tional Reformation Society had been guilty of a fear- 
 ful crime against a widow and an orphan. The lovely 
 vision of immeasurable wealth had flashed and scintil- 
 lated for a month in front of her dazzled eyes, — and 
 then blackness, nothingness, the dark void! She knew 
 that she would never be happy again. 
 
 And she thought, scornfully: "How could father 
 have been so preoccupied and so gloomy, with all those 
 
 48
 
 MR. FOULGER 49 
 
 riches?" She could not conceive anybody as rich as 
 her father secretly was not being day and night in a 
 condition of pure delight at the whole spectacle of 
 existence. Her opinion of Mathew Moze fell lower 
 than ever, and fell finally. 
 
 The parlourmaid, in a negligence of attire indicating 
 that no man was left alive in the house, waited at the 
 door of the study to learn whether or not Miss Moze 
 was in. 
 
 "You'll have to see him," said Miss Ingate firmly. 
 "It'll be all right. I've known him all my life. He's 
 a very nice man." 
 
 After the parlourmaid had gone, and while Audrey 
 was upbraiding her for not confessing earlier her ac- 
 quaintance with Mr. Foulger, Miss Ingate added: 
 
 "Only his wife has a wooden leg." 
 
 Then Mr. Foulger entered. He was a shortish man 
 of about fifty, with a paunch, but not otherwise fat ; 
 dressed like a sportsman. He trod very lightly. The 
 expression on his ruddy face was amiable but extremely 
 alert, hardening at intervals into decision or caution. 
 He saw before him a nervous, frowning girl in inelegant 
 black, and Miss Ingate with a curious look in her eyes 
 and a sardonic and timid twitching of her lips. For 
 an instant he was discountenanced; but he at once 
 recovered, accomplishing a bright salute. 
 
 "Here you are at last, Mr. Foulger!" Miss Ingate 
 responded. "But you're too late." 
 
 These mysterious words, and the speechlessness of 
 Audrey, upset him again. 
 
 "I was away in Somersetshire for a little fishing," he 
 said, after he had deplored the death of Mr. Moze, the 
 illness of Mrs. Moze, and the bereavement of Miss 
 Moze, and had congratulated Miss Moze on the pro- 
 tective friendship of his old friend. Miss Ingate. "I
 
 50 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 was away for a little fishing, and I only heard the sad 
 news when I got back home at noon to-day. I came 
 over at once." He cleared his throat and looked first 
 at Audrey and then at Miss Ingate. He felt that he 
 ought to be addressing Audrey, but somehow he could 
 not help addressing Miss Ingate instead. His grey 
 legs were spread abroad as he sat very erect on a chair, 
 and between them his dependent paunch found a com- 
 fortable space for itself. 
 
 "You must have been getting anxious about the will. 
 I have brought it with me," he said. He drew a white 
 document from the breast-pocket of his cutaway coat, 
 and he perched a pair of eyeglasses carelessly on his 
 nose. "It was executed before your birth. Miss Moze. 
 But a will keeps like wine. The whole of the property 
 of every description is left to Mrs. Moze, and she is 
 sole executor. If she should predecease the testator, 
 then everything is left to his child or children. Not 
 perhaps a very business-like will — a will likely to lead 
 to unforeseen complications, but the sort of will that 
 a man in the first flush of marriage often does make, 
 and there is no stopping him. Your father had almost 
 every quality, but he was not businesslike — if I may 
 say so with respect. However, I confess that for the 
 present I see no difficulties. Of course the death duties 
 will have to be paid, but your father always kept a 
 considerable amount of money at call. When I say 
 ^considerable,' I mean several thousands. That was a 
 point on which he and I had many discussions." 
 
 Mr. Foulgcr glanced around with satisfaction. Al- 
 ready the prospect of legal business and costs had 
 brought about a change in his official demeanour of 
 an adviser truly bereaved by the death of a client. 
 He saw the young girl, gazing fiercely at the carpet, 
 suddenly begin to weep. This phenomenon, to which
 
 MR. FOULGER 51 
 
 he was not unaccustomed, did not by itself disturb him ; 
 but the face of Miss Ingate gave him strange appre- 
 hensions, which reached a chmax when Miss Ingate, 
 obviously not at all at her ease, muttered: 
 
 "There is a later will, Mr. Foulger. It was made 
 last year." 
 
 "I see," he breathed, scarcely above a whisper. 
 
 He thought he did see. He thought he understood 
 why he had been kept waiting, why Mrs. Moze pre- 
 tended to be ill, why the girl had frowned, why the 
 naively calm Miss Ingate was in such a state of nerves. 
 The explanation was that he was not wanted. The 
 explanation was that Mr. Moze had changed his solici- 
 tor. His face hardened, for he and his uncle between 
 them had "acted" for the Moze family for oyer seventy 
 years. 
 
 He rose from the chair. 
 
 "Then I need not trouble you any longer," he said 
 in a firm tone, and turned with real dignity to leave. 
 
 He was exceedingly astonished when with one swift 
 movement Audrey rose, and flashed like a missile to the 
 door, and stood with her back to it. The fact was that 
 Audrey had just remembered her vow never again to 
 be afraid of anybody. When Miss Ingate with extraor- 
 dinary agility also jumped up and approached him, he 
 apprehended, recalling rumours of Miss Ingate's ad- 
 vanced feminism, that the fate of an anti-suffragette 
 cabinet minister might be awaiting him, and he pre- 
 pared his defence. 
 
 "You mustn't go," said Miss Ingate. 
 
 "You are my solicitor, whatever mother may say, 
 and you mustn't go," added Audrey in a soft voice. 
 
 The man was entranced. It occurred to him that he 
 would have a tale to tell and to re-tell at his club for
 
 52 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 years, about "a certain fair client who shall be name- 
 less." 
 
 The next minute he had heard a somewhat romantic, 
 if not hysterical, version of the facts of the case, and 
 he was perusing the original documents. By chance 
 he read first the letter about the Zacatecas shares. 
 That Mathew Moze had made a will without his aid 
 was a shock; that Mathew Moze had invested money 
 without his advice was another shock quite as severe. 
 But he knew the status of the Great Mexican Oil Com- 
 pany, and his countenance lighted as he reahsed the 
 rich immensity of the business of proving the will and 
 devolving the estate; his costs would run to the most 
 agreeable figures. As soon as he glanced at the testa- 
 ment which Mr. Cowl had found, he muttered, with 
 satisfaction and disdain: 
 
 "Hm! He made this himself." 
 
 And he gazed at it compassionately, as a cabinet- 
 maker might gaze at a piece of amateur fretwork. 
 
 Standing, he read it slowly and with extreme care. 
 And when he had finished he casually remarked, in the 
 classic legal phrase : 
 
 "It isn't worth the paper it's written on." 
 Then he sat down again, and his neat paunch re- 
 sumed its niche between his legs. He knew that he had 
 made a tremendous effect. 
 
 "But — but " Miss Ingate began. 
 
 "Not worth the paper it's written on," he repeated. 
 "There is only one witness, and there ought to be two, 
 and even the one witness is a bad one — Aguilar, because 
 he profits under the will. He would have to give up 
 his legacy before his attestation could count, and even 
 then it would be no good alone. Mr. Moze has not even 
 expressly revoked the old will. If there hadn't been a 
 previous will, and if Aguilar was a thoroughly reliable
 
 MR. FOULGER 53 
 
 man, and if the family had wished to uphold the new 
 will, I dare say the Court might have pronounced for 
 it. But under the circumstances it hasn't the ghost of 
 a chance." 
 
 "But won't the National Reformation Society make 
 trouble.^" demanded Miss Ingate faintly. 
 
 "Let 'em try!" said Mr. Foulger, who wished that 
 the National Reformation Society would indeed try. 
 
 Even as he articulated the words, he was aware of 
 Audrey coming towards him from the direction of the 
 door ; he was aware of her black frock and of her white 
 face, with its bulging forehead and its deliciously insig- 
 nificant nose. She held out her hand. 
 
 "You are a dear !" she whispered. 
 
 Her lips seemed to aim uncertainly for his face. Did 
 they just touch, with exquisite contact, his bristly 
 chin, or was it a divine illusion.'' . . . She blushed in 
 a very marked manner. He blinked, and his happy 
 blinking seemed to say: "Only wills drawn by me are 
 genuine. . . . Didn't I tell you Mr. Moze was not a 
 man of business.'"' 
 
 Audrey ran to Miss Ingate. 
 
 Mr. Foulger, suddenly ashamed, and determined to 
 be a lawyer, said sharply : 
 
 "Has Mrs. Moze made a will,?" 
 
 "Mother made a will? Oh no!" 
 
 "Then she should make one at once, in your favour, 
 of course. No time should be lost." 
 
 "But Mrs. Moze is ill in bed," protested Miss In- 
 gate. 
 
 "All the more reason why she should make a will. 
 It may save endless trouble. And it is her duty. I 
 shall suggest that I be the executor and trustee, of 
 course with the usual power to charge costs." His
 
 54 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 face was hard again. "You will thank me later on, 
 Miss Moze," he added. 
 
 "Do you mean now?" shrilled Miss Ingate. 
 
 "I do," said he. "If you will give me some paper, 
 we might go to her at once. You can be one of the 
 witnesses. I could be a witness, but as I am to act 
 under the will for a consideration somebody else would 
 be preferable." 
 
 "I should suggest Aguilar," answered Miss Ingate, 
 the comers of her lips dropping. 
 
 Miss Ingate went first, to prepare Mrs. Moze. 
 
 When Audrey was alone in the study — she had not 
 even offered to accompany her elders to the bedroom — • 
 she made a long sound : "Ooo !" Then she gave a leap 
 and stood still, staring out of the window at the 
 estuary. She tried to force her mood to the colour of 
 her dress, but the sense of propriety was insufficient 
 for the task. The magnificence of all the world was 
 unfolding itself to her soul. Events had hitherto so 
 dizzyingly beaten down upon her head that she had 
 scarcely been conscious of feeling. Now she luxu- 
 riously felt. "I am at last born," she thought. "Mir- 
 acles have happened. . . . It's incredible. ... I 
 can do what I like with mother. . . . But if I don't 
 take care I shall die of relief this very moment !"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DEAD HAND 
 
 Audrey was wakened up that night, just after she 
 had gone to sleep, by a touch on the cheek. Her 
 mother, palely indistinct in the darkness, was standing 
 by the bedside. She wore a white wrap over her night 
 attire, and the customary white bandage from which 
 emanated a faint odour of eau de cologne, was around 
 her forehead. 
 
 "Audrey, darling, I must speak to you." 
 
 Instantly Audrey became the wise directress of her 
 poor foolish mother's existence. 
 
 "Mother," she said, with firm kindness, "please do 
 go back to bed at once. This sort of thing is simply 
 frightful for your neuralgia. I'll come to you in one 
 moment." 
 
 And Mrs. Moze meekly obeyed ; she had gone even 
 before Audrey had had time to light her candle. Aud- 
 rey was very content in thus being able to control her 
 mother and order everything for the best. She guessed 
 that the old lady had got some idea into her head about 
 the property, or about her own will, or about the 
 solicitor, or about a tombstone, and that it was wor- 
 rying her. She and Miss Ingate (who had now re- 
 turned home) had had a very extensive palaver, in low 
 voices that never ceased, after the triumphant depar- 
 ture of Mr. Foulger. Audrey had cautiously pro- 
 tested; she was afraid her mother would be fatigued, 
 and she saw no reason why her mother should be ac- 
 
 65
 
 56 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 quainted with all the details of a complex matter; but 
 the gossiping habit of a quarter of a century was too 
 powerful for Audrey. 
 
 In the large parental bedroom the only light was 
 Audrey's candle. Mrs. Moze was lying on the right 
 half of the great bed, where she had always lain. She 
 might have lain luxuriously in the middle, with vast 
 spaces at either hand, but again habit was too pow- 
 erful. 
 
 The girl, all in white, held the candle higher, and 
 the shadows everywhere shrunk in unison. Mrs. Moze 
 blinked. 
 
 "Put the candle on the night-table," said Mrs. Moze 
 curtly. 
 
 Audrey did so. The bedroom, for her, was full of 
 the souvenirs of parental authority. Her first recol- 
 lections were those of awe in regard to the bedroom. 
 And when she thought that on that bed she had been 
 born, she had a very queer sensation. 
 
 "I've decided," said Mrs. Moze, lying on her back, 
 and looking up at the ceiling, "I've decided that your 
 father's wishes must be obeyed." 
 
 "What about, mother .^"^ 
 
 *'About those shares going to the National Reforma- 
 tion Society. He meant them to go and they must go 
 to the Society. I've thought it well over and I've quite 
 decided. I didn't tell Miss Ingate, as it doesn't con- 
 cern her. But I felt I must tell you at once." 
 
 "Mother!" cried Audrey. "Have you taken leave 
 of your senses.'^" She shivered; the room was very 
 cold; and as she shivered her image in the mirror of 
 the wardrobe sliivered, and also her shadow that 
 climbed up the wall and bent at right-angles at the 
 cornice till it reached the middle of the ceihng. 
 
 Mrs. Moze replied obstinately:
 
 THE DEAD HAND 5T 
 
 "I've not taken leave of my senses, and I'll thank 
 you to remember that I'm your mother. I have always 
 carried out your father's wishes, and at my time of 
 life I can't alter. Your father was a very wise man. 
 We shall be as well off as we always were. Better, 
 because I can save, and I shall save. We have no com- 
 plaint to make ; I should have no excuse for disobeying 
 your father. Everything is mine to do as I wish with 
 it, and I shall give the shares to the Society. What 
 the shares are worth can't affect my duty. Besides, 
 perhaps they aren't worth anything. I always under- 
 stood that things like that were always jumping up 
 and down, and generally worthless in the end. . . . 
 That's all I wanted to tell you." 
 
 Why did Audrey seize the candle and walk straight 
 out of the bedroom, leaving darkness behind her.^ Was 
 it because the acuteness of her feelings drove her out, 
 or was it because she knew instinctively that her 
 mother's decision would prove to be immovable? Per- 
 haps both. 
 
 She dropped back into her own bed with a soundless 
 sigh of exhaustion. She did not blow out the candle, 
 but lay staring at it. Her dream was annihilated. She 
 foresaw an interminable weary and futile future in 
 and about Moze, and her mother always indisposed, 
 always fretful, and curiously obstinate in weak- 
 ness. But Audrey, despite her tragic disillusion, was 
 less desolated than made solemn. In the most dis- 
 turbing way she knew herself to be the daughter 
 of her father and her mother; and she comprehended 
 that her destiny could not be broken oflp suddenly 
 from theirs. She was touched because her mother 
 deemed her father a very wise man, whereas she, 
 Audrey, knew that he was nothing of the sort. She 
 felt sorry for both of them. She pitied her father, and
 
 58 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 she was a mother to her mother. Their relations to- 
 gether, and the mystic posthumous spell of her father 
 over her mother, impressed her profoundly. . . . And 
 she was proud of herself for having demonstrated her 
 courage by preventing the solicitor from running away, 
 and extraordinarily ashamed of her sentimental and 
 brazen behaviour to the solicitor afterwards. These 
 various thoughts mitigated her despair as she gazed 
 at the sinking candle. Nevertheless her dream was 
 annihilated.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE YOUNG WIDOW 
 
 It was early October. Audrey stood at the garden 
 door of Flank Hall. 
 
 The estuary, in all the colours of unsettled, mild, 
 bright weather, lay at her feet beneath a high arch 
 of changing blue and white. The capricious wind moved 
 in her hair, moved in the rich grasses of the sea-wall, 
 bent at a curtseying angle the red-sailed barges, put 
 caps on the waves in the middle distance, and drew 
 out into long horizontal scarves the smoke of faint 
 steamers in the offing. 
 
 Audrey was dressed in black, but her raiment had 
 obviously not been fashioned in the village, nor even at 
 Colchester, nor yet at Ipswich, that great and stylish 
 city. She looked older; she certainly had acquired 
 something of an air of knowledge, assurance, domina- 
 tion, sauciness, and challenge, which qualities were all 
 partly illustrated in her large, audacious hat. The 
 spirit which the late Mr. Moze had so successfully sup- 
 pressed was at length coming to the surface for all 
 beholders to see, and the process of evolution begun at 
 the moment when Audrey had bounced up and pre- 
 vented an authoritative solicitor from leaving the 
 study was already advanced. Nevertheless at frequent 
 intervals Audrey's eyes changed, and she seemed for 
 an instant to be a very naive, very ingenuous and wist- 
 ful little thing — and this though she had reached the 
 age of twenty. Perhaps she was feeling sorry for the 
 girl she used to be. 
 
 59
 
 60 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 And no doubt she was also thinking of her mother, 
 who had died within eight hours of their nocturnal in- 
 terview. The death of Mrs. Moze surprised every one, 
 except possibly Mrs. Moze. As an unsuspected result of 
 the operation upon her, an embolism had been wander- 
 ing in her veins ; it reached the brain, and she expired, 
 to the great loss of the National Reformation Society. 
 Such was the brief and simple history. When Audrey 
 stood by the body, she had felt that if it could have 
 saved her mother she would have enriched the National 
 Reformation Society with all she possessed. 
 
 Gradually the sense of freedom had grown para- 
 mount in her, and she had undertaken the enterprise 
 of completely subduing Mr. Foulger to her own ends. 
 
 The back-hall was carpetless and pictureless, and 
 the furniture in it was draped in grey-white. Ever}' 
 room in the abode was in the same state, and, since 
 all the windows were shuttered, every room lay mori- 
 bund in a ghostly twilight. Only the clocks remained 
 alive, probably thinking themselves immortal. The 
 breakfast-things were washed up and stored away. The 
 last two servants had already gone. Behind Audrey, 
 forming a hilly background, were trunks and boxes, a 
 large bunch of flowers encased in paper, and a case 
 of umbrellas and parasols; the whole strikingly new, 
 and every single item except the flowers labelled "Paris 
 via Charing Cross and Calais." 
 
 Audrey opened her black Russian satchel, and the 
 purse within it. Therein were a little compartment full 
 of English gold, another full of French gold, another full 
 of multicoloured French bank-notes; and loose in the 
 satchel was a blue book of credit-notes, each for five 
 hundred francs or twenty pounds — a thick book ! And 
 she would not have minded much if she had lost the
 
 THE YOUNG WIDOW 61 
 
 whole satchel — it would be so easy to replace the satchel 
 with all its contents. 
 
 Then a small brougham came very deliberately up 
 the drive. It was the vehicle in which Miss Ingate 
 went her ways ; in accordance with Miss Ingate's im- 
 memorial command, it travelled at a walking pace up 
 all the hills to save the horse, and at a walking pace 
 down all hills lest the horse should stumble and Miss 
 Ingate be destroyed. It was now followed by a lug- 
 gage-cart, on which was a large trunk. 
 
 At the same moment Aguilar, the gardener, ap- 
 peared from somewhere — he who had been robbed of 
 a legacy of ten pounds, but who by his ruthless and 
 incontestable integrity had secured the job of care- 
 taker of Flank Hall. 
 
 The drivers touched their hats to Audrey and 
 jumped down, and Miss Ingate, with a blue veil tied 
 like a handkerchief round her bonnet and chin — sign 
 that she was a traveller — emerged from the brougham, 
 sardonically smiling at her own and everybody's ex- 
 pense, and too excited to be able to give greetings. The 
 three men started to move the trunks, and the two 
 women whispered together in the back-hall. 
 
 "Audrey," demanded Miss Ingate with a start, "what 
 are those rings on your finger?" 
 
 Audrey replied: 
 
 "One's a wedding ring and the other's a mourning- 
 ring. I bought them yesterday at Colchester. . . . 
 Hsh !" She stilled further exclamations from Miss 
 Ingate until the men were out of the hall. 
 
 "Look here ! Quick !" she whispered, hastily unlock- 
 ing a large hat-case that was left. And Miss Ingate 
 looked and saw a black toque, entirely unsuitable for 
 a young girl, and a widow's veil.
 
 62 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "I look bewitching in them," said Audrey, re-locking 
 the case. 
 
 "But, my child, what does it mean?" 
 
 "It means that I'm not silly enough to go to Paris 
 as a girl. I've had more than enough of being a girl. 
 I'm determined to arrive in Paris as a young widow. 
 It will be much better in every way, and far easier for 
 you. In fact, you'll have no chaperoning to do at 
 all. I shall be the chaperone. Now don't say you 
 won't go, because you will." 
 
 "You ought to have told me before." 
 
 "No, I oughtn't. Nothing could have been more 
 foolish." 
 
 "But who are you the widow of?" 
 
 "Hurrah!" cried Audrey. "You are a sport, Win- 
 nie! Ill tell you all the interesting details in the 
 train." 
 
 In another minute Aguilar, gloomy and unbending, 
 had received the keys of Flank Hall, and the procession 
 crunched down the drive on its way to the station.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 
 
 Audrey did not deem that she had begun truly to 
 live until the next morning, when they left London, 
 after having passed a night in the Charing Cross 
 Hotel. During several visits to London in the course 
 of the summer Audrey had learnt something about the 
 valuelessncss of money in a metropolis chieiSy inhabited 
 by people who were positively embarrassed by their 
 riches. She knew, for example, that money being very 
 plentiful and stylish hats very rare, large quantities 
 of money had to be given for infinitesimal quantities of 
 hats. The big and glittering shops were full of people 
 whose pockets bulged with money which they were ob- 
 viously anxious to part with in order to obtain goods, 
 while the proud shop-assistants, secure in the knowl- 
 edge that money was naught and goods were every- 
 thing, did their utmost, by hauteur and steely nega- 
 tives, to render any transaction impossible. It was 
 the result of a mysterious "Law of Exchange." She 
 was aware of this. She had lost her childhood's naive 
 illusions about the sovereignty of money. 
 
 Nevertheless she received one or two shocks on the 
 journey, which was planned upon the most luxurious 
 scale that the imagination of Messrs. Thomas Cook & 
 Son could conceive. There was four pounds and nine- 
 pence to pay for excess luggage at Charing Cross. 
 Half a year earlier four pounds would have bought all 
 the luggage she could have got together. She very 
 
 63
 
 64i THE LION*S SHARE 
 
 nearly said to the clerk at the window: "Don't you 
 mean shillings?" But in spite of nervousness, blush- 
 ings, and all manner of sensitive reactions to new ex- 
 periences, her natural sangfroid and instinctive knowl- 
 edge of the world saved her from such a terrible lapse, 
 and she put down a bank-note without the slightest 
 hint that she was wondering whether it would not be 
 more advantageous to throw the luggage away. 
 
 The boat was crowded and the sea and wind full of 
 menace. Fighting their way along the deck after laden 
 porters, Audrey and Miss Ingate simultaneously espied 
 the Private Cabin list hung in a conspicuous spot. 
 They perused it as eagerly as if it had been the account 
 of a cause ccUhrc. Among the list were two English 
 lords, an Honourable Mrs., a baroness with a Hun- 
 garian name, several Teutonic names, and Mrs. Mon- 
 creifF. 
 
 Audrey blushed deeply at the sign of Mrs. Mon- 
 creifF, for slie was I\Irs. Moncreiff. Behind the veil, 
 and with the touch of white in her toque, she might 
 have been any age up to twenty-eight or so. It would 
 have been impossible to say that she was a young girl, 
 that she was not versed in the world, that she had not 
 the whole catechism of men at her finger-ends. All who 
 glanced at her glanced again — with sympathy and cu- 
 riosity; and the second glance pricked Audrey's con- 
 science, making her feel like a thief. But her moods 
 were capricious. At one moment she was a thief, a 
 clumsy fraud, an ignorant ninny and a suitable prey 
 for the secret police; and at the next she was very 
 clever, self-confident, equal to the situation, and enjoy- 
 ing the situation more than she had ever enjoyed any- 
 thing and determined to prolong the situation indef- 
 initely. 
 
 The cabin was very spacious, yet not more so than
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 65 
 
 was proper, considering that the rent of it came to 
 about sixpence a minute. There was room, even after 
 all the packages were stowed, for both of them to lie 
 down. But instead of lying down they eagerly in- 
 spected the little abode. They found a lavatory basin 
 with hot and cold water taps, but no hot water and no 
 cold water, no soap and no towels. And they found 
 a crystal water-bottle, but it was empty. Then a stew- 
 ard came and asked them if they wanted anything, and 
 because they were miserable poltroons they smiled and 
 said No. They were secretly convinced that all the 
 other private cabins, inhabited by titled persons and 
 by financiers, were superior to their cabin, and that the 
 captain of the steamer had fobbed them off with an imi- 
 tation of a real cabin. 
 
 Then it was that Miss Ingate, who since Charing 
 Cross had been a little excited by a glimpsed newspaper 
 contents-bill indicating suffragette riots that morning, 
 perceived, through the open door of the cabin, a most 
 beautiful and most elegant girl, attired impeccably in 
 that ritualistic garb of travel which the truly cos- 
 mopolitan wear on combined rail-and-ocean journeys 
 and on no other occasions. It was at once apparent 
 that the celestial creature had put on that special hat, 
 that special veil, that special cloak, and those special 
 gloves because she was deeply aware of what was cor- 
 rect, and that she would not put them on again until 
 destiny took her again across the sea, and that if des- 
 tiny never did take her again across the sea never 
 again would she show herself in the vestments, whose 
 correctness was only equalled by their expenslveness. 
 
 The young woman, however, took no thought of her 
 impressive clothes. She was existing upon quite an- 
 other plane. Miss Ingate, preoccupied by the wrongs 
 and perils of her sex, and momentarily softened out
 
 66 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of her sardonic Irony, suspected that they might be 
 in the presence of a victim of oppression or neglect. 
 The victim lay half prone upon the hard wooden seat 
 against the ship's rail. Her dark eyes opened piteously 
 at times, and her exquisite profile, surmounted by the 
 priceless hat all askew, made a silhouette now against 
 the sea and now against the distant white cliffs of 
 Albion, according to the fearful heaving of the ship. 
 Spray occasionally dashed over her. She heeded it 
 not. A few feet further off she would have been 
 sheltered by a weather-awning, but, clinging fiercely 
 to the rail, she would not move. 
 
 Then a sharp squall of rain broke, but she entirely 
 ignored the rain. 
 
 The next moment Miss Ingate and Audrey, rushing 
 forth, had gently seized her and drawn her into their 
 cabin. They might have succoured other martyrs to 
 the modem passion for moving about, for there were 
 many ; but they chose this particular martyr because 
 she was so wondrously dressed, and also perhaps a 
 little because she was so young. As she lay on the 
 cabin sofa she looked still younger; she looked a child. 
 Yet when Miss Ingate removed her gloves in order to 
 rub those chill, fragile, and miraculously manicured 
 hands, a wedding-ring was revealed. The wedding- 
 ring rendered her intensely romantic in the eyes of 
 Audrey and Miss Ingate, who both thought, in private: 
 
 "She must be the wife of one of those lords !" 
 
 Every detail of her raiment, as she was put at her 
 ease, showed her to be clothed in precisely the manner 
 which Audrey and Miss Ingate thought peeresses 
 always were clothed. Hence, being English, they 
 mingled respect with their solacing pity. Neverthe- 
 less, their respect was tempered by a peculiar pride, 
 for both of them, in taldng lemonade on the Pullman,
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 67 
 
 had taken therewith a certain preventive or remedy 
 which made them loftily indifferent to the heaving of 
 ships and the eccentricities of the sea. The specific 
 had done all that was claimed for it — which was a 
 great deal — so much so that they felt themselves super- 
 women among a cargo of flaccid and feeble sub-females. 
 And they grew charmingly conceited. 
 
 "Am I in my cabin?" murmured the martyr, about 
 a quarter of an hour after Miss Ingate, having ob- 
 tained soda-water, had administered to her a dose of 
 the miraculous specific. 
 
 Her delicious cheeks were now a delicate crimson. 
 But they had been of a delicate crimson throughout. 
 
 "No," said Audrey. "You're in ours. Which is 
 yours ?" 
 
 "It's on the other side of the ship, then. I came 
 out for a little air. But I couldn't get back. I'd just 
 as lief have died as shift from that seat out there by 
 the railings." 
 
 Something in the accent, something in those fine 
 English words "hef" and "shift", destroyed in the 
 minds of Audrey and Miss Ingate the agreeable notion 
 that they had a peeress on their hands. 
 
 "Is your husband on board?" asked Audrey. 
 'He just is," was the answer. "He's in our cabin." 
 'Shall I fetch him?" Miss Ingate suggested. The 
 corners of her lips had begun to fall once more. 
 
 "Will you?" said the young woman. "It's Lord 
 Southminster. I'm Lady Southminster." 
 
 The two saviours were thrilled. Each felt that she 
 had misinterpreted the accent, and that probably 
 peeresses did habitually use such words as "lief" and 
 "shift." The corners of Miss Ingate's lips rose to 
 their proper position. 
 
 "I'll look for the number on the cabin list," said she 
 
 "]
 
 68 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 hastily, and went forth with trembling to summon the 
 peer. 
 
 As Audrey, alone in the cabin with Lady South- 
 minster, bent curiously over the prostrate form, Lady 
 Southminster exclaimed with an air of child-like 
 admiration : 
 
 "You're real ladies, you are !" 
 
 And Audrey felt old and experienced. She decided 
 that Lady Southminster could not be more than seven- 
 teen, and it seemed to be about half a century since 
 Audrey was seventeen. 
 
 "He can't come," announced Miss Ingate breath- 
 lessly, returning to the cabin, and supporting herself 
 against the door as the solid teak sank under her feet. 
 "Oh yes ! He's there all right. It was number 12. 
 I've seen him. I told him, but I don't think he heard 
 me, — to understand, that is. If you ask me, he couldn't 
 come if forty wives sent for him." 
 
 "Oh, couldn't he !" observed Lady Southminster, 
 sitting up. "Couldn't he !" 
 
 When the boat was within ten minutes of France, 
 the remedy had had such an effect upon her that she 
 could walk about. Accompanied by Audrey she man- 
 aged to work her way round the cabin-deck to No. 12. 
 It was empty, save for hand-luggage! The two girls 
 searched, as well as they could, the whole crowded ship 
 for Lord Southminster, and found him not. Lady 
 Southminster neither fainted nor wept. She merely 
 said: 
 
 "Oh ! All right ! If that's it. . . . !" 
 
 Hand luggage was being collected. But Lady South- 
 minster would not collect hers, nor allow it to be 
 collected. She agreed with Miss Ingate and Audrey 
 that her husband must ultimately reappear either on 
 the quay or in the train. While they were all standing
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 69 
 
 huddled together in the throng waiting for the gang- 
 way to put ashore, she said in a low casual tone, 
 a propos of nothing: 
 
 "I only married him the day before yesterday. I 
 don't know whether you know, but I used to make 
 cigarettes in Constantinopoulos's window in Piccadilly. 
 I don't see why I should be ashamed of it, d'you?" 
 
 "Certainly not," said Miss Ingate. "But it is rather 
 romantic, isn't it, Audrey,?" 
 
 Despite the terrific interest of the adventure of the 
 cigarette girl, disappointment began immediately after 
 landing. This France, of which Audrey had heard 
 so much and dreamed so much, was a very ramshackle 
 and untidy and onc-liorse affair. The custom-house 
 was rather like a battlefield without any rules of war- 
 fare; the scene in the refreshment-room was rather 
 like a sack after a battle ; the station was a desert with 
 odd files of people here and there ; the platforms were 
 ridiculous, and you wanted a pair of steps to get up 
 into the train. Whatever romance there might be in 
 France had been brought by Audrey in her secret heart 
 and by Lady Southminster. 
 
 Audrey had come to France, and she was going to 
 Paris, solely because of a vision which had been created 
 in her by the letters and by the photographs of 
 Madame Piriac. Although Madame Piriac and she 
 had absolutely no tie of blood, Madame Piriac being 
 the daughter by a first husband of the French widow 
 who became the first Mrs. Moze — and speedily died, 
 Audrey persisted privately in regarding Madame 
 Piriac as a kind of elder sister. She f^lt a very 
 considerable esteem for Madame Piriac, upon whom 
 she had never set eyes, and Madame Piriac had cer- 
 tainly given her the impression that France was 
 to England what paradise is to purgatory. Fur-
 
 70 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ther, Audrey had fallen in love with Madame 
 Piriac's portraits, whose elegance was superb. And 
 yet, too, Audrey was jealous of Madame Piriac, and 
 especially so since the attainment of freedom and 
 wealth. Madame Piriac had most warmly invited her, 
 after the death of Mrs. Moze, to pay a long visit to 
 Paris as a guest in her home. Audrey had declined — 
 from jealousy. She would not go to Madame Piriac's 
 as a raw girl, overdone with money, who could only 
 speak one language and who knew nothing at all of 
 this our planet. She would go, if she went, as a young 
 woman of the world who could hold her own in any 
 drawing-room, be it Madame Piriac's or another. 
 Hence Miss Ingate had obtained the address of a Paris 
 boarding-house, and one or two preliminary introduc- 
 tions from political friends in London. 
 
 Well, France was not equal to its reputation ; and 
 Miss Ingate's sardonic smile seemed to be saying: "So 
 this is your France !" 
 
 However, the excitement of escorting the youngest 
 English peeress to Paris sufficed for Audrey, even if 
 it did not suffice for Miss Ingate with her middle-aged 
 apprehensions. They knew that Lady Southminster 
 was the youngest English peeress because she had told 
 them so. At the very moment when they were dis- 
 patching a telegram for her to an address in London, 
 she had popped out the remark: "Do you know I'm 
 the youngest peeress in England?" And truth shone 
 in her candid and simple smile. They had not found 
 the peer, neither on the ship, nor on the quay, nor in 
 the station. And the peeress would not wait. She was 
 indeed obviously frightened at the idea of remaining 
 in Calais alone, even till the next express. She said 
 that her husband's "man" would meet the train in Paris. 
 She ate plenteously with Audrey and Miss Ingate in
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 71 
 
 the refreshment-room, and she would not leave them 
 nor allow them to leave her. The easiest course was 
 to let her have her way, and she had it. 
 
 By dint of Miss Ingate's unscrupulous tricks with 
 small baggage they contrived to keep a whole com- 
 partment to themselves. As soon as the train started 
 the peeress began to cry. Then, wiping her heavenly 
 silly eyes, and upbraiding herself, she related to her 
 protectresses the glory of a new manicure set. Un- 
 fortunately she could not show them the set, as it 
 had been left in the cabin. She was actually in posses- 
 sion of nothing portable except her clothes, some 
 English magazines bought at Calais, and a handbag 
 which contained much money and many bonbons. 
 
 "He's done it on purpose," she said to Audrey as 
 soon as Miss Ingate went off to take tea in the tea-car. 
 "I'm sure he's done it on purpose. He's hidden him- 
 self, and he'll turn up when he thinks he's beaten me. 
 D'you know why I wouldn't bring that luggage away 
 out of the cabin.'' Because we had a quarrel about it, 
 at the station, and he said things to me. In fact we 
 weren't speaking. And we weren't speaking last night 
 either. The radiator of his — our — car leaked, and we 
 had to come home from the Coliseum in a motor-bus. 
 He couldn't get a taxi. It wasn't his fault, but a 
 friend of mine told me the day before I was married 
 that a lady always ought to be angry when her husband 
 can't get a taxi after the theatre, — she says it does 
 'em good. So first I told him he mustn't leave me to 
 look for one. Then I said I'd wait where I was, and 
 then I said we'd walk on, and then I said we must take 
 a motor-bus. It was that that finished him. He said, 
 *Did I expect him to invent a taxi when there wasn't 
 one?' And he swore. So of course I sulked. You 
 must, you know. And ray shoes were too thin and I
 
 72 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 felt chilly. But only a fortnight before I was making 
 cigarettes in the window of Constantinopoulos's. 
 Funny, isn't it? Otherwise he's behaved splendid. 
 Still what I do say is a man's no right to be ill when 
 he's taking you to Paris on your honeymoon. I knew 
 he was going to be ill when I left him in the cabin, but 
 he stuck me out he wasn't. A man that's so bad he 
 can't come to his wife when she's bad isn't a man, — 
 that's what I say. Don't you think so.^ You know 
 all about that sort of thing, I lay." 
 
 Audrey said briefly that she did think so, glad that 
 the peeress's intense and excusable interest in herself 
 kept her from being curious about others. 
 
 "Marriage ain't all chocolate-creams," said the 
 peeress after a pause. "Have one.?" And she opened 
 her bag very hospitably. 
 
 Then she turned to her magazines. And no sooner 
 had she glanced at the cover of the second one than 
 she gave a squeal, and, fetching deep breaths, passed 
 the periodical to Audrey. At the top of the cover was 
 printed in large letters the title of a story by a famous 
 author of short tales. It ran : "MAN OVERBOARD." 
 
 Henceforward a suspicion that had lain concealed in 
 the undergrowth of the hearts of the two girls stalked 
 boldly about in full daylight. 
 
 "He's done it, and he's done it to spite me!" mur- 
 mured Lady Southminstcr tearfully. 
 
 "Oh no !" Audrey protested. "Even if he had fallen 
 overboard he'd have been seen and the captain would 
 have stopped the boat." 
 
 "Where do you come from.?" Lady Southminster 
 retorted with disdain. "That's an omen, that is," — 
 pointing to the words on the cover of the magazine. 
 "What else could it be.? I ask you." 
 
 When Miss Ingate returned the child was fast asleep.
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 73 
 
 Miss Ingate was paler than usual. Having convinced 
 herself that the sleeper did genuinely sleep, she breathed 
 to Audrey: 
 
 "Pie's in the next compartment ! . . . He must have 
 hidden himself till nearly the last minute on the boat 
 and then got into the train while we were sending off 
 that telegram." 
 
 Audrey blenched. 
 
 "Shall you wake her.?" 
 
 "Wake her, and have a scene — with us here.'' No, I 
 shan't. He's a fool." 
 
 "How d'you know.?" asked Audrey. 
 
 "Well, he must have been a fool to marry her." 
 
 "Well," whispered Audrey. "If I'd been a man I'd 
 have married that face like a shot." 
 
 "It might be all right if he'd only married the face. 
 But he's married what she calls her mind." 
 
 "Is he young?" 
 
 *'Yes. And as good-looking in his own way as she 
 
 is." 
 
 'Well- 
 
 ?j 
 
 But the Countess of Southminster stirred, and the 
 slight movement stopped conversation. 
 
 The journey was endless, but it was no longer than 
 the sleep of the Countess. At length dusk and mist 
 began to gather in the hollows of the land ; stations 
 succeeded one another more frequently. The reflec- 
 tions of the electric lights in the compartment could 
 be seen beyond the glass of the windows. The train 
 still ruthlessly clattered and shook and swayed and 
 thundered; and weary lords, ladies, and financiers had 
 read all the illustrated magazines and sixpenny novels 
 in existence and they lolled exhausted and bored amid 
 the debris of literature and light refreshments. Then 
 the speed of the convoy slackened, and Audrey, looking
 
 74 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 forth, saw a pale cathedral dome resting aloft amid 
 dark clouds. It was a magical glimpse, and it was 
 the first glimpse of Paris. "Oh!" cried Audrey, far 
 more lil<e a girl than a widow. The train rattled 
 through defiles of high twinkling houses, roared under 
 bridges, screeched, threaded forests of cold blue lamps, 
 and at last came to rest under a black echoing vault. 
 
 Paris ! 
 
 And, mysteriously, all Audrey's illusions concerning 
 France had been born again. She was convinced that 
 Paris could not fail to be paradisaical. 
 
 Lady Southminster awoke. 
 
 Almost simultaneously a young man very well dressed 
 passed along the corridor. Lady Southminster, with 
 an awful start, seized her bag and sprang after him, 
 but was impeded by other passengers. She caught him 
 only after he had descended to the platform, which 
 was at the bottom of a precipice below the windows. 
 He had just been saluted by, and given orders to, a 
 waiting valet. She caught him sharply by the arm. 
 He shook free and walked quickly away up the plat- 
 form, guided by a wise instinct for avoiding a scene in 
 front of fellow-travellers. She followed close after him, 
 talking with rapidity. They receded. Audrey and 
 Miss Ingate leaned out of the windows to watch, and 
 still further and further out. Just as the honeymoon- 
 ing pair disappeared altogether their two forms came 
 into contact, and Audrey's eyes could see the arm of 
 Lord Southminster take the arm of Lady Southminster. 
 They vanished from view like one flesh. And Audrey 
 and Miss Ingate, deserted, forgotten utterl}', un- 
 thankcd, buffeted by passengers and by the valet who 
 had climbed up into the carriage to take away the 
 impedimenta of his master, gazed at each other and 
 then burst out laughing.
 
 THE CIGARETTE GIRL 75 
 
 "So that's marriage!" said Audrey. 
 
 "No,'' said Miss Ingate. "That's love. I've seen a 
 deal of love in my time, ever since m}^ sister Arabella's 
 first engagement, but I never saw any that wasn't 
 vehy, vehy queer." 
 
 "I do hope they'll be happy," said Audrey. 
 
 "Do you?" said Miss Ingate.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 EXPLOITATION OF WIDOWHOOD 
 
 The carriage had emptied, and the two adventurers 
 stood alone among empty compartments. The plat- 
 form was also empty. Not a porter in sight. One after 
 the other, the young widow and the elderly spinster, 
 their purses bulging with money, got their packages 
 by great efforts down on to the platform. 
 
 An employee strolled past. 
 
 "Porteur?" murmured Audrey timidly. 
 
 The man sniggered, shrugged his shoulders and 
 vanished. 
 
 Audrey felt that she had gone back to her school 
 days. She was helpless, and Miss Ingate was the same. 
 She wished ardently that she was in Moze again. She 
 could not imagine how she had been such a fool as to 
 undertake this absurd expedition which could only end 
 in ridicule and disaster. She was ready to cry. Then 
 another employee appeared, hesitated, and picked up 
 a bag, scowling and inimical. Gradually the man, very 
 tousled and dirty, clustered all the bags and parcels 
 around his person, and walked off. Audrey and Miss 
 Ingate meekly following. The great roof of thfe station 
 resounded to whistles and the escape of steam and the 
 clashing of waggons. 
 
 Beyond the platforms there were droves of people, 
 of whom nearly every individual was preoccupied and 
 hurried. And what people ! Audrey had in her heart 
 expected a sort of glittering white terminus full of 
 
 76
 
 EXPLOITATION OF WIDOWHOOD 77 
 
 dandiacal men and elegant Parisiennes who had stepped 
 straight out of fashion-plates, and who had no cares, — 
 for was not this Paris ? Whereas in fact the multitude 
 was the dingiest she had ever seen. Not a gleam of 
 elegance ! No hint of dazzling colour ! No smiling 
 and satiric beauty! They were just persons. 
 
 At last, after formalities, Audrey and Miss Ingate 
 reached the foul and chilly custom-house appointed for 
 the examination of luggage. Unrecognisable peers and 
 other highnesses stood waiting at long counters, form- 
 ing bays, on which was nothing at all. Then, far 
 behind, a truck hugely piled with trunks rolled in 
 through a back door and men pitched the trunks like 
 toys here and there on the counters, and officials came 
 into view, and knots of travellers gathered round 
 trunks, and locks were turned and lids were lifted, and 
 the flash of linen showed in spots on the drabness of 
 the scene. Miss Ingate observed with horror the com- 
 plete undoing of a lady's large trunk, and the exposure 
 to the world's harsh gaze of the most intimate posses- 
 sions of that lady. Soon the counters were like a 
 fair. But no trunk belopging to Audrey or to Miss 
 Ingate was visible. They knew then, what they had 
 both privately suspected ever since Charing Cross, 
 that their trunks would be lost on the journey. 
 
 "Oh! My trunk!" cried Miss Ingate. 
 
 Beneath a pile of other trunks on an incoming truck 
 she had espied her property. Audrey saw it, too. The 
 vision was magical. The trunk seemed like a piece of 
 home, a bit of Moze and of England. It drew affection 
 from them as though it had been an animal. They sped 
 towards it, forgetting their small baggage. Their 
 porteur leaped over the counter from behind and made 
 signs for a key. All Audrey's trunks in turn joined 
 Miss Ingate's ; none was missing. And finally an official,
 
 78 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 small and fierce, responded to the invocations of the 
 porteur and established himself at the counter in front 
 of them. He put his hand on Miss Ingate's trunk. 
 
 "Op-en," he said in English. 
 
 Miss Ingate opened her purse, and indicated to the 
 official by signs that she had no key for the trunk, 
 and she also cried loudly, so that he should compre- 
 hend: 
 
 "No key ! . . . Lost !" 
 
 Then she looked awkwardly at Audrey. 
 
 "I've been told they only want to open one trunk 
 when there's a lot. Let him choose another one," she 
 murmured archly and sardonically. 
 
 But the official merely walked away, to deal with the 
 trunks of somebody else close by. 
 
 Audrey was cross. 
 
 "Miss Ingate," she said formally. "You had the 
 key when we started, because you showed it to me. You 
 can't possibly have lost it." 
 
 "No," answered Winnie calmly and knowingly. "I 
 haven't lost it. But I'm not going to have the things 
 in my trunk thrown about for all these foreigners to 
 see. It's simply disgraceful. They ought to have 
 women officials and private rooms at these places. And 
 they would have, if women had the vote. Let him open 
 one of your trunks. All your things are new." 
 
 The porteur had meanwhile been discharging French 
 into Audrey's other ear. 
 
 "Of course you must open it, Winnie," said she. 
 "Don't be so absurd !" There was a persuasive light- 
 ness in her voice, but there was also command. For 
 a moment she was the perfect widow. 
 
 "I'd rather not." 
 
 "The porteur says we shall be here all night," Audrey 
 persisted.
 
 EXPLOITATION OF WIDOWHOOD 79 
 
 "Do you know French?" 
 
 "I learnt French at school, Winnie," said the perfect 
 widow. "I can't understand every word, but I can 
 make out the drift." And Audrey went on translating 
 the porter according to her own wisdom. "He says 
 there have been dreadful scenes here before, when peo- 
 ple have refused to open their trunks, and the police 
 have had to be called in. He says the man won't upset 
 the things in your trunk at all." 
 
 Miss Ingate gazed into the distance, and privately 
 smiled. Audrey had never guessed that in Miss Ingate 
 were such depths of obstinate stupidity. She felt quite 
 distinctly that her undei-standing of human nature was 
 increasing. 
 
 "Oh! Look!" said Miss Ingate casually. "I'm sure 
 those must be real Parisians !" Her ofFhandedness, her 
 inability to realise the situation, were exasperating to 
 the young widow. Audrey glanced where Miss Ingate 
 had pointed, and saw in the doorway of the custom- 
 house two women and a lad, all cloaked but all 
 obviously in radiant fancy-dress, laughing together. 
 
 "Don't they look French!" said Miss Ingate. 
 
 Audrey tapped her foot on the asphalt floor, while 
 people whose luggage had been examined bumped 
 strenuously against her in the effort to depart. She 
 was extremely pessimistic ; she knew she could do noth- 
 ing with Miss Ingate; and the thought of the vast, 
 flaring, rumbling city beyond the station intimidated 
 her. The porteur, who had gone away to collect their 
 neglected small baggage, now returned, and nudged 
 her, pointing to the official who had resumed his place 
 behind the trunks. He was certainly a fierce man, but 
 he was a little man, and there was an agreeable 
 peculiarity in his eye. 
 
 Audrey, suddenly inspired and emboldened, faced
 
 80 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 him; she shrugged her shoulders Gallically at Miss 
 Ingate's trunk, and gave a sad, sweet, wistful smile, 
 and then put her hand with an exquisite inviting gesture 
 on the smallest of her own trunks. The act was a 
 deliberate exploitation of widowhood. The official 
 fiercely shrugged his shoulders and threw up his arms, 
 and told the porteur to open the small trunk. 
 
 "I told you they would," said Miss Ingate negli- 
 gently. 
 
 Audrey would have turned upon her and slain her, 
 had she not been busy with the tremendous realisation 
 of the fact that by a glance and a gesture she had 
 conquered the customs official — a foreigner and a 
 stranger. She wanted to be alone and to think. 
 
 Just as the trunk was being re-locked, Audrey heard 
 an American girlish voice behind her: 
 
 "Now, you must be Miss Ingate !" 
 
 "I am," Miss Ingate almost ecstatically .admitted. 
 
 The trio in cloaked fancy-dress were surrounding 
 Miss Ingate like a bodyguard.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 UPE IN PAEI3 
 
 Miss Thompkins and Miss Nickall were a charm to 
 dissipate all the affirighting menace of the city beyond 
 the station. Miss Thompkins had fluffy red hair, with 
 the freckles which too often accompany red hair, and 
 was addressed as Tommy. Miss Nickall had fluffy 
 grey hair, with warm, loving eyes, and was addressed 
 as Nick. The age of either might have been anything 
 from twenty-four to forty. The one came from Wyom- 
 ing, the other from Arizona; and it was instantly 
 clear that they were close friends. They had driven 
 up to the terminus before going to a fancy-dress ball 
 to be given that night in the studio of Monsieur 
 Dauphin, a famous French painter and a dehghtful 
 man. They had met Monsieur Dauphin on the previous 
 evening on the terrace of the Cafe de Versailles, and 
 Monsieur had said, in response to their suggestion, that 
 he would be enchanted and too much honoured if they 
 would bring their English friends to his little "leap- 
 ing", — that was, hop. 
 
 Also they had thought that it would be nice for the 
 travellers to be met at the terminus, especially as Miss 
 Ingate had been very particularly recommended to 
 Miss Thompkins by a whole group of people in London. 
 It was Miss Thompkins who had supplied the address 
 of reliable furnished rooms, and she and Nick would 
 personally introduce the ladies to their landlady, who 
 was a sweet creature. 
 
 81
 
 82 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Tommy and Nick and Miss Ingate were at once on 
 terms of cordial informality ; but the Americans seemed 
 to be a little diffident before the companion. Their 
 voices, at the introduction, had reinforced the surprise 
 of their first glances. "Oh! Mrs. Moncreiff!" The 
 slightest insistence, no more, on the "Mrs." ! Nothing 
 said, but evidently they had expected somebody else! 
 
 Then there was the boy, whom they called Musa. 
 He was dark, slim, with timorous great eyes, and at- 
 tired in red as a devil beneath his student's cloak. He 
 apologised slowly in English for not being able to speak 
 English. He said he was very French, and Tommy 
 and Nick smiled, and he smiled back at them rather 
 wistfully. When Tommy and Nick had spoken with 
 the chauffeurs in French he interpreted their remarks. 
 There were two motor-taxis, one for the luggage. 
 
 Miss Thompkins accompanied the luggage; she in- 
 sisted on doing so. She could' tell sinister tales of 
 Paris cabmen; and she even delayed the departure 
 in order to explain that once in the suburbs and in 
 the pre-taxi days a cabman had threatened to drive 
 her and himself into the Seine unless she would be his 
 bride, and she saved herself by promising to be his 
 bride and telling him that she lived in the Avenue de 
 I'Opera; as soon as the cab reached a populous thor- 
 oughfare she opened the cab door and squealed and 
 was rescued; she had let the driver go free because 
 of his good taste. 
 
 As the procession whizzed through nocturnal streets, 
 some thunderous with traffic, others very quiet, but all 
 lined with lofty regular buildings, Audrey was pene- 
 trated by the romance of this city where cabmen pas- 
 sionately and to the point of suicide and murder adored 
 their fares. And she thought that perhaps after all 
 Madame Piriac's impression of Paris might not be
 
 LIFE IN PARIS 83 
 
 entirely misleading. Miss Ingate and Nick talked 
 easily, ver}^ charmed with one another, both excited. 
 Audrey said little, and the dark youth said nothing. 
 But once the dark youth murmured shyly to Audrey 
 in English: 
 
 "Do you play at ten-nis, Madame?" 
 
 They crossed a thoroughfare that twinkled and glit- 
 tered from end to end with moving sky-signs. Serpents 
 pursued burning serpents on the heights of that thor- 
 oughfare, invisible hands wrote mystic words of 
 warning and invitation, and blazing kittens played with 
 balls of incandescent wool. Throngs of promenaders 
 moved under theatrical trees that waved their pale 
 emerald against the velvet sky, and the ground-floor 
 of every edifice was a glowing cafe, whose tables, full 
 of idle sippers and loungers, bulged out on to the broad 
 pavements. . . . The momentary vision was shut off 
 instantly as the taxis shot down the mouth of a dark 
 narrow street; but it had been long enough to make 
 Audrey's heart throb, 
 
 "What is that.?" she asked. 
 
 "That.?" exclaimed Nick kindly. "Oh! That's only 
 the grand boulevard.^'' 
 
 Then they crossed the sombre lamp-reflecting Seine, 
 and soon afterwards the two taxis stopped at a vast 
 black door in a very wide street of serried palatial 
 fa9ades that were continually shaken by the rushing 
 tumult of electric cars. Tommy jumped out and pushed 
 a button, and the door automatically split in two, dis- 
 closing a vast and dim tunnel. Tommy ran within, and 
 came out again with a coatless man in a black and 
 yellow striped waistcoat and a short white apron. This 
 man, Musa, and the two chauffeurs entered swiftly 
 into a complex altercation, which endured until Audrey 
 had paid the chauffeurs and all the trunks had been
 
 84 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 transported behind the immense door and the door 
 bangingly shut. 
 
 "Vehy amusing, isn't it?" whispered Miss Ingate 
 caustically to Audrey. "Aren't they dears?" 
 
 "Madame Dubois's establishment is on the third and 
 fourth floors," said Nick. 
 
 They climbed a broad, curving, carpeted staircase. 
 
 "We're here," said Audrey to Miss Ingate after 
 scores of stairs. 
 
 Miss Ingate, breathless, could only smile. 
 
 And Audrey profoundly felt that she was in Paris. 
 The mere shape of the doorknob by the side of a 
 brass-plate lettered "Madame Dubois" told her that 
 she was in an exotic land. 
 
 And in the interior of Madame Dubois' establish- 
 ment, Tommy and Nick together drew apart the cur- 
 tains, opened the windows, and opened the shutters 
 of a pleasantly stuffy sitting-room. Everybody leaned 
 out and they saw the superb thoroughfare, straight 
 and interminable, and the moving roofs of the tram- 
 cars, and dwarfs on the pavements. The night was 
 mild and languorous. 
 
 "You see that!" Nick pointed to a blaze of elec- 
 tricity to the left on the opposite side of the road. 
 "That's where we shall take you to dine, after you've 
 spruced yourselves up. You needn't bother about 
 fancy dress. Monsieur Dauphin always has stacks of 
 kimonos — for his models, you know." 
 
 While the travellers spruced themselves up in dif- 
 ferent bedrooms. Tommy chattered through one pair 
 of double doors ajar, and Nick through the other, and 
 Musa strummed with many mistakes on an antique 
 Pleyel piano. And as Audrey listened to the talk of 
 these acquaintances, Tommy and Nick, who in half 
 an hour had put on the hue of her lifelong friends,
 
 LIFE IN PARIS 86 
 
 and as she heard the piano, and felt the vibration of 
 cars far beneath, she decided that she was still growing 
 happier and happier, and that life and the world were 
 marvellous. 
 
 A little later they passed into the cafe-restaurant 
 through a throng of seated sippers who were spread 
 around its portals like a defence. The interior, low, 
 and stretching backwards, apparently endless into the 
 bowels of the building, was swimming in the brightest 
 light. At a raised semi-circular counter in the centre 
 two women were enthroned, plump, sedate, darkly 
 dressed, and of middle-age. To these priestesses came 
 a constant succession of waiters, in the classic garb of 
 waiters, bearing trays which they offered to the gaze 
 of the women, and afterwards throwing down coins 
 that rang on the marble of the counter. One of the 
 women wrote swiftly in a great tome. Both of them, 
 while performing their duties, glanced continually into 
 every part of the establishment, watching especially 
 each departure and each arrival. 
 
 At scores of tables were the most heterogeneous col- 
 lection of people that Audrey had ever seen ; men and 
 women, girls and old men, even a few children with 
 their mothers. Liquids were of every colour, ices 
 chromatic, and the scarlet of lobster made a luscious 
 contrast with the shaded tints of salads. In the extreme 
 background men were playing billiards at three tables. 
 Though nearly everybody was talking, no one talked 
 loudly, so that the resulting monotone of conversation 
 was a gentle drone, out of which shot up at intervals 
 the crash of crockery or a hoarse command. And this 
 drone combined itself with the glittering light, and with 
 the mild warmth that floated in waves through the open 
 windows, and with the red plush of the seats and with 
 the rosiness of painted nymphs on the blue walls, and
 
 86 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 with the complexions of women's faces and their hats 
 and frocks, and with the hues of the liquids — to produce 
 a totality of impression that made Audrey dizzy with 
 ecstasy. This was not the Paris set forth by Madame 
 Piriac, but it was a wondrous Paris, and in Audrey's 
 esteem not far removed from heaven. 
 
 Miss Ingate, magnificently pale, followed Tommy and 
 Nick with sardonic delight up the long passage be- 
 tween the tables. Her eyes seemed to be saying: "I 
 am overpowered, and yet there is something in me that 
 is not overpowered, and by virtue of my kind-hearted 
 derision I, from Essex, am superior to you all !" 
 Audrey, with glance downcast, followed Miss Ingate, 
 and Musa came last, sinuously. Nobody looked up at 
 them more than casually, but at intervals during the 
 passage Tommy and Nick nodded and smiled: "How 
 d'ye do.'^ How d'ye do?" "Bon soir," and answers 
 were given in American or French voices. 
 
 They came to rest near the billiard tables, and near 
 an aperture with a shelf where all the waiters congre- 
 gated to shout their orders. A grey-haired waiter, 
 with the rapidity and dexterity of a conjuror, laid a 
 cloth over the marble round which they sat, Audrey 
 and Miss Ingate on the plush bench, and Tommy and 
 Nick, with Musa between them, on chairs opposite. 
 The waiter then discussed with them for five minutes 
 what they should eat, and he argued the problem seri- 
 ously, wisely, helpfully, as befitted. It was Audrey, 
 in full view of a buflTet laden with shell-fish and fruit, 
 who first suggested lobster, and lobster was chosen, 
 nothing but lobster. Miss Ingate said that she was 
 not a bit tired, and that lobster was her dream. The 
 sentiment was universal at the table. When asked 
 what she would drink, Audrey was on the point of 
 answering "lemonade." But a doubt about the pro-
 
 LIFE IN PARIS 87 
 
 priety of everlasting lemonade for a widow with much 
 knowledge of the world, stopped her. 
 
 "I vote we all have grenadines," said Nick. 
 
 Grenadine was agreeable to Audrey's ear, and every 
 one concurred. 
 
 The ordering was always summarised and explained 
 by Musa in a few phrases, which to Audrey, sounded 
 very different from the French of Tommy and Nick. 
 And she took oath that she would instantly begin to 
 learn to speak French, not like Tommy and Nick, 
 whose accent she cruelly despised, but like Musa. 
 
 Then Tommy and Nick removed their cloaks, and 
 sat displayed as a geisha and a contadina, respectively. 
 Musa had already unmasked his devilry. The cafe was 
 not in the least disturbed by these gorgeous and strange 
 apparitions. An orchestra began to play. Lobster 
 arrived, and high glasses full of glinting green. Audrey 
 ate and drank with gusto, with innocence, with the in- 
 tensest love of life. And she was the most beautiful 
 and touching sight in the cafe-restaurant. Miss 
 Ingate, grinning, caught her eye with joyous mockery. 
 "We are going it, aren't we, Audrey?" shrieked Miss 
 Ingate. 
 
 Miss Thompkins and Miss Nickall began slowly to 
 differentiate themselves in Audrey's mind. At first they 
 were merely two American girls — the first Audrey had 
 met. They were of about the same age — whatever that 
 age might be — and if they were not exactly of the 
 same age, then Tommy with red hair was older than 
 Nick with grey hair. Indeed Nick took the earliest 
 opportunity to remark that her hair had turned grey 
 at nineteen. They both had dreamy eyes that looked 
 through instead of looking at; they were both hazy 
 concerning matters of fact; they were both attached 
 like a couple of aunts to Musa, who nestled between
 
 88 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 them like a cat between two cushions ; they were both 
 extraordinarily friendly and hospitable; they both 
 painted and both had studios — in the same house ; they 
 both showed quite a remarkable admiration and esteem 
 for all their acquaintances ; and they both lacked 
 interest in their complexions and their hair. 
 
 The resemblance did not go very much further. 
 Tommy, for all her praising of friends, was of a critical, 
 curious, and analytical disposition, and her greenish 
 eyes were always at work qualifying in a very subtle 
 manner what her tongue said, when her tongue was 
 benevolent, as it often was. Feminism and sufFragism 
 being the tie between the new acquaintances, these sub- 
 jects were the first material of conversation, and an 
 empress of militancy known to the world as "Rosa- 
 mund" 'having been mentioned, Miss Ingate said with 
 enthusiasm: 
 
 "She lives only for one thing." 
 
 "Yes," replied Tommy. "And if she got" it I guess 
 no one would be more disgusted than she herself." 
 
 There was an instant's silence. 
 
 "Oh ! Tommy !" Nick lovingly protested. 
 
 Said Miss Ingate with a comprehending satiric grin: 
 
 "I see what you mean. I quite see. I quite see. 
 You're right, Miss Thompkins. I'm sure you're right." 
 
 Audrey decided she would have to be very clever in 
 order to be equal to Tommy's subtlety. Nick, on the 
 other hand, was not a bit subtle, except when she. tried 
 to imitate Tommy. Nick was kindness, and sympathy, 
 and vagueness. You could see these admirable qualities 
 in every curve of her face and gleam of her eyes. She 
 was very sympathetic, but somewhat shocked when 
 Audrey blurted out that she had not come to Paris 
 in order to paint. 
 
 "There are at least fifty painters in this cafe this
 
 LIFE IN PARIS 89 
 
 very minute," said Tommy. And somehow it was just 
 as if she had said: "If you haven't come to Paris to 
 paint, what have you come for?" 
 
 "Does Mr. Musa paint, too?" asked Audrey. 
 
 "Oh no!" Both his protectresses answered together, 
 pained. Tommy added: "Musa plays the vioHn — of 
 course." 
 
 And Musa blushed. Later, he murmured to Audrey 
 across the table, while Tommy was ordering a salad, 
 that there were tennis courts in the Luxembourg 
 gardens. 
 
 "I used to paint," Miss Ingate broke out. "And 
 I'm beginning to think I should like to paint again." 
 
 Said Nick, enraptured: 
 
 "I'll let you use my studio, if you will. I'd just 
 love you to, now! Where did you study?" 
 
 "Well, it was like this," said Miss Ingate with satis- 
 faction. "It was a long time ago. I finished painting 
 a dog-kennel because the house-painter's wife died and 
 he had to go to her funeral, and the dog didn't like 
 being kept waiting. That gave me the idea. I went 
 into watercolours, but afterwards I went back to oils. 
 Oils seemed more real. Then I started on portraits, 
 and I did a portrait of my Aunt Sarah from memory. 
 After she saw it she tore up her will, and before I 
 could get her into a good temper again she married 
 her third husband and she had to make a new will in 
 favour of him. So I found painting very expensive. 
 Not that it would have made any difference, I suppose, 
 would it? After that I went into miniatures. The 
 same dog that I painted the kennel for ate up the best 
 miniature I ever did. It killed him. I put a cross over 
 his grave in the garden. All that made me see what a 
 fool I'd been, and I exchanged my painting things for 
 a lawn-mower, but it never turned out to be any good."
 
 90 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "You (dear ! You precious ! You priceless !" cooed 
 Nick. "I shall fix up my second best easel for you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Isn't she just too lovely !" Tommy murmured aside 
 to Audrey. 
 
 "I not much understand," said Musa. 
 
 Tommy translated to him, haltingly, and Audrey was 
 moved to say, with energy : 
 
 "What I want most is to learn French, and I'm going 
 to begin to-morrow morning." 
 
 Nick was kindly confusing and shaming Miss Ingate 
 with a short history and catechism of modern art, in- 
 cluding such names as Vuillard, Bonnard, Picasso, 
 Signac, and Matisse, — all very eagerly poured out and 
 all very unnerving for Miss Ingate, whose directory 
 of painting was practically limited to the names of 
 Raphael, Sir Joshua, Rembrandt, Rubens, Gainsbor- 
 ough, Turner, Lord Leighton, Mlllais, Gustave Dore 
 and Frank DIcksee. When, however, Nick referred to 
 Monsieur Dauphin, Miss Ingate was as it were washed 
 safely ashore and said with assurance : "Oh yes ! Oh 
 yes! Oh yes!" 
 
 Tommy listened for a few moments, and then, leaning 
 across the table and lighting a cigarette, she said in 
 an intimate undertone to Audrey: "I hope you don't 
 rmnd coming to the ball to-night. We really didn't 
 know . . ." She stopped. Her eyes, ferreting in 
 Audrey's black, completed the communication. 
 
 Unnerved for the tenth of a second, Audrey recovered 
 and answered; 
 
 "Oh no ! I shall like it very much." 
 
 "You've been up against life !" murmured Tommy in 
 a melting voice, gazing at her. "But how wonderful 
 all experience is, isn't it? I once had a husband. We
 
 / 
 
 LIFE IN PARIS 91 
 
 ■ 
 
 separated — at least, he separated. But I know the feel 
 of being a wife." 
 
 Audrey blushed deeply. She wanted to push away 
 all that sympathy, and she was exceedingly alarmed 
 by the revelation that Tommy was an initiate. The 
 widow was the merest schoolgirl once more. But her 
 blush had saved her from a chat in which she could 
 not conceivably have held her own. 
 
 "Excuse me being so clumsy," said Tommy con- 
 tritely. "Another time." And she waved her cigarette 
 to the waiter in demand for the bill. 
 
 It was after the orchestra had finished a Tango, and 
 while Tommy was examining the bill, that the first 
 violin and leader, in a magenta coat, approached the 
 table, and with a bow offered his violin deferentially 
 to Musa. Many heads turned to watch what would 
 happen. But Musa only shrugged his shoulders and 
 with an exquisite gesture of refusal signified that he 
 had to leave. Whereupon the magenta coat gracefully 
 retired, starting a Hungarian dance as he went. 
 
 "Musa is supposed to be the greatest violinist in 
 Paris, perhaps in the world," Tommy whispered casually 
 to Audrey. "He used to play here, till Dauphin dis- 
 covered him." 
 
 Audrey, overcome by this prodigious blow, trembled 
 at the contemplation of her blind stupidity. 
 
 Beyond question Musa now looked extremely impor- 
 tant, vivid, masterful. She had been mistaking him 
 for a nice, ornamental, useless boy.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FANCY DRESS 
 
 Just as the cafe-restaurant had been an intensifica- 
 tion of ordinary life, so was the ball in Dauphin's 
 studio an intensification of the cafe-restaurant. It had 
 more colour, more noise, more music, more heat, more 
 varied kinds of people, and of course far more riotous 
 movement than the cafe-restaurant. The only quality 
 in which the cafe-restaurant stood first was that of 
 sustenance. Monsieur Dauphin had not attempted to 
 rival the cafe-restaurant in the matter of food and 
 drink. And that there was no general hope of his doing 
 so could be deduced from the fact that many of the 
 more experienced guests arrived with bottles, fruit, 
 sausages, and sandwiches of their own. 
 
 When Audrey and her friends entered the precincts 
 of the vast new white building in the Boulevard Raspail, 
 upon whose topmost floor Monsieur Dauphin painted 
 the portaits of the women of the French, British, and 
 American plutocracies and aristocracies, a lift full of 
 gay-coloured figures was just shooting upwards past 
 the wrought-iron balustrades of the gigantic staircase. 
 Tommy and Nick stopped to speak to a Columbine who 
 hovered between the pavement and the threshold of 
 the house. 
 
 "I don't know whether it's the grenadine or the 
 lobster or whether it's Paris," said Miss Ingate con- 
 fidentially in the interval. "But I can scarcely tell 
 whether Pm standing on my head or my heels." 
 
 92
 
 FANCY DRESS 93 
 
 Before the Americans rejoined them, the lift had re- 
 turned and ascended with another covey of fancy cos- 
 tumes, including a man with a nose a foot long and a 
 girl with bright green hair, dressed as an acrobat. On 
 its next journey the lift held Tommy and Nick's party, 
 and it held no more. 
 
 When the party emerged from it, they were greeted 
 with a cheer, hoarse and half human, by a band of 
 light amateur mountebanks of both sexes who were 
 huddled in a doorway. Within a quarter of an hour 
 Audrey and Miss Ingate, after astounding struggles 
 in a dressing-room in which Nick alone saved their lives 
 and reputations, appeared in Japanese disguise accord- 
 ing to promise, and nobody could tell whether Audrey 
 was maid, wife, or widow. She might have been a crea- 
 ture created on the spot, for the celestial purpose of 
 a fancy-dress ball in Monsieur Dauphin's studio. 
 
 The studio was very large and rather lofty. Its 
 walls had been painted by gifted pupils of Monsieur 
 Dauphin and by fellow-artists, with scenes of life ac- 
 cording to Catullus, Theocritus, Propertius, Martial, 
 Petronius, and other classical writers. It is not too 
 much to say that the walls of the studio constituted a 
 complete novelty for Audrey and Miss Ingate. Miss 
 Ingate opened her mouth to say something, but, saying 
 nothing, forgot for a long time to shut it again. 
 
 Chinese lanterns, electrically illuminated, were strung 
 across the studio, at a convenient height, so that athletic 
 dancers could prodigiously leap up and make them 
 swing. Beneath this incoherent but exciting radiance 
 the guests swayed and glided, in a joyous din, under 
 the influence of an orchestra of men snouted like pigs 
 and raised on a dais. In a corner was a spiral stair- 
 case leading to the flat roof of the studio and a view
 
 94. THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of all Paris. Up and down this corkscrew contending 
 parties fought amiably for the right of way. 
 
 Tommy and Nick began instantly to perform intro- 
 ductions between Audrey and Miss Ingate and the other 
 guests. In a few moment Audrey had failed to catch 
 the names of a score and a half of people — many Amer- 
 icans, some French, some Argentine, one or two English. 
 They were all very talented people, and, according to 
 Miss Ingate, the most characteristically French were 
 invariably either Americans or Argentines. 
 
 A telephone-bell rang in the distance, and presently 
 a Toreador stood on a chair and pierced the music 
 with a message of yells in French, and the room hugely 
 guffawed and cheered. 
 
 "Where is the host?" Audrey asked. 
 
 "That's what the telephoning was about," said 
 Tommy, speaking loudly against the hubbub. "He 
 hasn't come yet. He had to rush off this afternoon 
 to do pastel portraits of two Russian princesses at 
 St. Germain, and he hasn't got back yet. The telephone 
 was to say that he's started." 
 
 Then one of the introduced- — it was a girl wearing 
 a mask — took Audrey by the waist and whirled her 
 strongly away and she was lost in the maze. Audrey's 
 first impulse was to protest, but she said to herself: 
 *'Why protest? This is what we're here for." And 
 she gave herself up to the dance. Her partner held 
 her very firmly, somewhat bending over her. Neither 
 spoke. Gyrating in long curves, with the other dancers 
 swishing mysteriously about them like the dancers of a 
 dream, and the music as far off" as another world, they 
 clung together in the rhythm and in the enchantment, 
 until the music ceased . . . The strong girl threw 
 Audrey carelessly off, and walked away, breathing hard. 
 And there was something in the strong girl's non-
 
 FANCY DRESS 95 
 
 chalant and curt departure which woke a chord in 
 Audrey's soul that had never been wakened before. 
 Audrey could scarcely credit that she was on the same 
 planet as Essex. She had many dances with men whom 
 she hoped and believed she had been introduced to by 
 Tommy, and no less than seventeen persons of either 
 sex told her in unusual English that they had heard 
 she wanted to learn French and that they would like 
 to teach her ; and then she met Musa, the devil. 
 
 Musa, with an indolent and wistful smile, suggested 
 the roof. Audrey was now just one of the throng, 
 and quite unconscious of herself; she fought archly 
 and gaily on the spiral staircase exactly as she had 
 seen others do, and at last they were on the roof, and 
 the silhouettes of other fantastic figures and of cowled 
 chimney pots stood out dark against the vague yellow 
 glow of the city beneath. While Musa was pointing 
 out the historic landmarks to her, she was thinking 
 how she could never again be the girl who had left Moze 
 on the previous morning. And yet Musa was so natural 
 and so direct that it was impossible to take him for 
 anything but a boy, and hence Audrey sank back into 
 early girlhood, talking spasmodically to Musa as she 
 used in school days to talk to the brother of her school 
 friend. 
 
 "I will teach you French," said Musa, unaware that 
 he had numerous predecessors in the offer. "But will 
 you play tennis with me in the gardens of the Luxem- 
 bourg.'^" 
 
 Audrey said she would, and that she would buy a 
 racket. 
 
 "Tell me about all those artists Miss Nickall spoke 
 of," she said. "I must know about all the artists, and 
 all the musicians, and all the authors. I must know 
 all about them at once. I shan't sleep until I know ali
 
 96 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 their names and I can talk French. I shan't sleep." 
 
 Musa began the catalogue. When a girl came and 
 chucked him under the chin, he angrily slapped her 
 face. Then, to avoid complications, they descended. 
 
 In the middle of the studio, wearing a silk hat, a 
 morning coat, striped trousers, yellow gloves, and boots 
 with spats, stood a smiling figure. 
 
 "Voila Dauphin!" said Musa. 
 
 "Musa !" called Monsieur Dauphin, espying the 
 youth on the staircase. Then he made a gesture to the 
 orchestra : "Give him a violin !" 
 
 Audrey stood by Musa while he played a dance that 
 nobody danced to, and when he had finished she was 
 rather ashamed, under the curtain of wild cheering, 
 because with her Essex incredulity she had not suffi- 
 ciently believed in Musa's greatness. 
 
 "Permit your host to introduce himself," said a voice 
 behind her, not in the correct Enghsh of a linguistic 
 Frenchman, but in utterly English English. She had 
 now descended to the floor of the studio. 
 
 Emile Dauphin raised his glossy hat, and then asked 
 to be allowed to put it on again, as the company had 
 decided that it was part of his costume. He had a 
 delicious smile, at once respectful and intimate. Audrey 
 had read somewhere that really great men were always 
 simple and unaffected, — indeed that it was often im- 
 possible to guess from their demeanour that, etc., etc. — 
 and this experience of the first celebrity with whom she 
 had ever spoken (except Musa, who was somehow only 
 Musa) confirmed the statement, and confirmed also her 
 young instinctive belief that what is printed must be 
 true. She was beginning to feel the stealthy oncomings 
 of fatigue, and certainly she was very nervous, but 
 Monsieur Dauphin's quite particularly sympathetic
 
 FANCY DRESS 97 
 
 manner, and her own sudden determination not to be 
 a little blushing fool gave her new power. 
 
 "I can't express to you," he said, moving towards 
 the dais and mesmerising her to keep by his side. "I 
 can't express to you how sorry I was to be so late." 
 He made the apology with lightness, but with sincerity. 
 Audrey knew how polite the French were. "But truly 
 circumstances were too much for me. Those two Rus- 
 sian princesses — they came to me through a mutual 
 friend, a dear old friend of mine, very closely attached 
 also to them. They leave to-morrow morning by the 
 St. Petersburg express, on which they have engaged a 
 special coach. What was I to do.'' I tried to tear 
 myself away earlier, but of course there were the por- 
 trait sketches to finish, and no doubt you know the 
 usages of the best society in Russia." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Audrey. 
 
 "Come up on the dais, will you?" he suggested. "And 
 let us survey the scene together." 
 
 They surveyed the scene together. The snouted band 
 was having supper on the floor in a corner, and many 
 of the guests also were seated on the floor. Miss Ingate, 
 intoxicated by the rapture of existence, and Miss 
 Thompkins were carefully examining the frescoes on 
 the walls. A young woman covered from head to foot 
 with gold tinsel was throwing chocolates into Musa's 
 mouth, or as near to it as she could. 
 
 "What a splendid player Mr. Musa is !" Audrey 
 inaugurated her career as a woman of the world. "I 
 doubt if I have ever heard such violin playing." 
 
 "I'm so glad you think so," replied Monsieur 
 Dauphin. "Of course you know I'm very conceited 
 about my painting. Anybody will tell you so. But 
 beneath all that I'm not so sure. I often have the 
 gravest doubts about my work. But I never had any
 
 98 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 doubt that when I took Musa out of the orchestra in 
 the Cafe de Versailles I was giving a genius to the 
 world. And perhaps that's how I shall be remembered 
 by posterity. And if it is I shall be content." 
 
 Never before had Audrey heard anybody connect 
 himself with posterity, and she was very much im- 
 pressed. Monsieur Dauphin was resigned and yet 
 brave. By no means convinced that posterity would 
 do the right thing, he nevertheless had no grudge against 
 posterity. 
 
 Just then there was a sharp scream at the top of 
 the spiral staircase. With a smile that condoned the 
 scream and excused his flight, Monsieur Dauphin ran 
 to the staircase, and up it, and disappeared on to the 
 roof. Nobody seemed to be perturbed. Audrey was 
 left alone and conspicuous on the dais. 
 
 "Charming, isn't he.?" said Miss Thompkins, arriving 
 with Miss Ingate in front of the flower-screened plat- 
 form. 
 
 "Oh ! He is !" answered Audrey with sincerity, leaning 
 downwards. 
 
 "Has he told you all about the Russian princesses.'"' 
 
 "Oh yes !" said Audrey, pleased. 
 
 "I thought he would," said Miss Thompkins, with a 
 peculiar intonation. 
 
 Audrey knew then that Miss Thompkins, having first 
 maliciously made sure that she was a ninny, was now 
 telling her to her face that she was a ninny. 
 
 Tommy continued: 
 
 "Then I guess he told you he'd given Musa to the 
 world." 
 
 Audrey nodded. 
 
 "Ah ! I knew he would. Well, when he comes back 
 he'll tell you that you must come to one of his real 
 entertainments here, and that this one is nothing. Then
 
 FANCY DRESS 99 
 
 he'll tell you about all the nobs he knows in London. 
 And at last he'll say that you have a strangely ex- 
 pressive face, and he'd like to paint it and show the 
 picture in the Salon. But he won't tell you it'll cost 
 you forty thousand francs. So I'll tell you that, be- 
 cause perhaps later on, if you don't know, you might 
 find yourself making a noise like a tenderfoot. You 
 see Miss Ingate hasn't concealed that you're a lady 
 millionaire." 
 
 "No, I haven't," said Miss Ingate, glowing and yet 
 sardonic. "I couldn't bring myself to, because I was 
 so anxious to see if human nature in Paris is anything 
 like what it is in Essex." 
 
 "And why should you hide it, Winnie.'"' Audrey 
 stoutly demanded. 
 
 "Well, au revoir," Tommy murmured delicately, with 
 a very oi'iginal gesture. "He's coming back." 
 
 As Monsieur Dauphin, having apparently established 
 peace on the roof, approached again, Audrey discreetly 
 examined his face and his demeanour, to see if she 
 could perceive in him any of the sinister things that 
 Tommy had implied. She was unable to make up her 
 mind whether she could or not. But in the end she 
 decided that she was as shrewd as anybody in the 
 place. 
 
 "Have you been to my roof-garden, Mrs. Moncreiff ?" 
 he asked in a persuasive voice, raising his eyebrows. 
 
 She said she had, and that she thought the roof was 
 heavenly. 
 
 Then from the corner of her eye she saw Miss Ingate 
 and Tommy sidling mischievously away, like conspira- 
 tors who have lighted a time fuse. She considered that 
 Tommy, with her red hair and freckles, and strange 
 glances and strange tones full of a naughty and 
 malicious sweetness, was even more peculiar than Miss
 
 100 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Ingate. But she was not intimidated by them nor by 
 the illustrious Monsieur Dauphin, so perfectly master 
 of his faculties. Rather she was exultant in the con- 
 tagion of their malice. Once more she felt as if she 
 had ceased to be a girl a very long time ago. And 
 she was aware of agreeable and exciting temptations. 
 
 "Are you taking a house in Paris .?" enquired Mon- 
 sieur Dauphin. 
 
 Audrey answered primly: 
 
 "I haven't decided. Should you advise me to do so?" 
 
 He waved a hand. 
 
 "Ah ! It depends on the life you wish to lead. Who 
 knows — with a young woman who has all experience 
 behind her and all life before her! But I do hope I 
 may see you again. And I trust I may persuade you 
 to come to my studio again." Audrey felt the thrill of 
 drama as he proceeded. "This is scarcely a night for 
 you. I ought to tell you that I give three entertain- 
 ments during the autumn. To-night is the first. It 
 is for students and those English and Americans who 
 think they are seeing Paris here. Then I give another 
 for the political and dramatic worlds. Each is secretly 
 proud to meet the other. The third I reserve to my 
 friends. Some of my many friends in London are good 
 enough to come over specially for it. It is on Christ- 
 mas Eve. I do wish you would come to that one." 
 
 "I suppose," she said, catching the diabolic glances 
 of Miss Ingate and Tommy, "I suppose you know 
 almost more people in London than in Paris.'"' 
 
 He answered : 
 
 "Well, I count among my friends more than two- 
 thirds of the subscribers to Covent Garden opera . . . 
 By the way, do you happen to be connected with the 
 MoncreifFs of Suddon Wester.? They have a charming
 
 FANCY DRESS 101 
 
 house in Hjde Park Terrace. But probably you know 
 it?" 
 
 Audrey burst out laughing. She laughed loud and 
 violently till the tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said, at a loss, deprecatingly. "Perhaps 
 these MoncreifFs are rather weird." 
 
 "I was only laughing," she said in gasps, but with a 
 complete secret composure. "Because we had such an 
 awful quarrel with them last year. I couldn't tell you 
 the details. They're too shocking." 
 
 He gave a dubious smile. 
 
 "D'you know, dear young lady," he recommenced 
 after a brief pause. "I should adore to paint a por- 
 trait of you laughing. It would be very well hung in 
 the Salon. Your face is so strangely expressive. It is 
 utterly different, in expression, from any other face 
 I ever saw — and I have studied faces." 
 
 Heedless of the general interest which she was arous- 
 ing, Audrey leaned on the rail of the screen of flowers, 
 and gave herself up afresh to laughter. Monsieur 
 Dauphin was decidedly puzzled. The affair might have 
 ended in hysteria and confusion, had not Miss Ingate, 
 with Nick and Tommy, come hurrying up to the dais.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A POLITICAI. REFUGEE 
 
 "Rosamund has come to my studio and wants to see 
 me at once. She has sent for me. Miss Ingate says 
 she shall go, too." 
 
 It was these words in a highly emotionalised voice 
 from Miss Nickall that, like a vague murmured message 
 of vast events, drew the entire qviartet away from the 
 bright inebriated scene created by Monsieur Dauphin. 
 
 The single word "Rosamund" sufficed to break one 
 mood and induce another in all bosoms save that of 
 Audrey, who was in a state of permanent joyous exulta- 
 tion that she scarcely even attempted to control. The 
 great militant had a surname, but it was rarely used 
 save by police-magistrates. Her Christian name alone 
 was more impressive than the myriad cognomens of 
 queens and princesses. Miss Nickall ran away home 
 at once. Miss Thompkins was left to deliver Miss 
 Ingate and Audrey at Nick's studio, which, being in 
 the Rue Delambre, was not far away. And not the 
 shedding of the kimono and the re-assumption of Euro- 
 pean attire could affect Audrey's spirits. Had she 
 been capable of regret in that hour, she would have 
 regretted the abandonment of the ball, where the refined, 
 spiritual, strange faces of the men, and the enigmatic 
 quality of the women, and the exceeding novelty of 
 the social code had begun to arouse in her sentiments 
 of approval and admiration. But she quitted the stag- 
 gering frolic without a sigh; for she carried within 
 
 102
 
 A POLITICAL REFUGEE 103 
 
 her a frolic surpassing anything exterior or physical. 
 
 The immense flickering boulevard with its double 
 roadway stretched away to the horizon on either hand, 
 empty. 
 
 "What time is it?" asked Miss Ingate. 
 
 Tommy looked at her wrist-watch. 
 
 "Don't tell me ! Don't tell me !" cried Audrey. 
 
 "We might get a taxi in the Rue de Babylone," 
 Tommy suggested. "Or shall we walk.?" 
 
 "We must walk," cried Audrey. 
 
 She knew the name of the street. In the distance 
 she could recognise the dying lights of the cafe-restau- 
 rant where they had eaten. She felt already like an 
 inhabitant of the dreamed-of city. It was almost in- 
 conceivable to her that she had been within it for only 
 a few hours, and that England lay less than a day 
 behind her in the past, and Moze less than two days. 
 And Aguilar the morose, and the shuttered rooms of 
 Flank Hall shot for an instant into her mind and out 
 again. 
 
 The othej- two women walked rather quickly, mes- 
 merised possibly by the magic of the illustrious 
 Christian name, and Audrey gave occasional school- 
 girlish leaps by their side. A little policeman appeared 
 inquisitive from a bye-street, and Audrey tossed her 
 head as if saying: "Pooh! I belong here. All the 
 mystery of this city Is mine, and I am as at home as in 
 Moze Street." 
 
 And as they surged through the echoing solitude of 
 the boulevard, and as they crossed the equally tre- 
 mendous boulevard that cut through it east and west. 
 Tommy told the story of Nick's previous relations with 
 Rosamund. Nick had met Rosamund once before 
 through her English chum, Betty Burke, an art-student 
 who had ultimately sacrificed art to the welfare of her
 
 104 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 sex, but who with Mrs. Burke had shared rooms and 
 studio with Nick for many months. Tommy's narrative 
 was spotted with hardly perceptible sarcasms concern- 
 ing art, women, Betty Burke, Mrs. Burke, and Nick; 
 but she put no barb into Rosamund. And when Miss 
 Ingate, who had never met Rosamund, asked what Rosa- 
 mund amounted to in the esteem of Tommy, Tommy 
 evaded the question. Miss Ingate remembered, how- 
 ever, what she had said in the cafe-restaurant. 
 
 Then they turned into the Rue Delambre, and Tommy 
 halted them in the deep obscurity in front of another 
 of those huge black doors which throughout Paris 
 seemed to guard the secrets of individual life. An 
 automobile was waiting close by. A little door in the 
 huge one clicked and yielded, and they climbed over a 
 step into black darkness. 
 
 "Thompkins !" called Miss Thompkins loudly to the 
 black darkness, to reassure the drowsy concierge in 
 his hidden den, shutting the door with a bang behind 
 them; and, groping for the hands of the others, she 
 dragged them forward stumbling. 
 
 "I never have a match," she said. 
 
 They blundered up tenebrous stairs. 
 
 "We're just passing my door," said Tommy. "Nick's 
 is higher up." 
 
 Then a perpendicular slit of light showed itself — 
 and a portal slightly open could be distinguished. 
 
 "I shall quit here," said Tommy. "You go right in." 
 
 "You aren't leaving us?" exclaimed Miss Ingate in 
 alarm. 
 
 "I won't go in," Tommy persisted in a quiet satiric 
 tone. "I'll leave my door open below, and see you 
 when you come down," 
 
 She could be heard descending.
 
 A POLITICAL REFUGEE 105 
 
 il^ 
 
 'Why, I guess they're here," said a voice, Nick's, 
 within, and the door was pulled wide open. 
 
 "My legs are all of a tremble !" muttered Miss 
 Ingate. 
 
 Nick's studio seemed larger than reality because of 
 its inadequate illumination. On a small paint-stained 
 table in the centre was an oil-lamp beneath a round 
 shade that had been decorated by some artist's hand 
 with a series of reclining women in many colours. 
 This lamp made a moon in the midnight of the studio, 
 but il was a moon almost without rays ; the shade 
 seemed to imprison the light, save that which escaped 
 from its superior orifice. Against the table stood a 
 tall thin woman in black. Her face was lit by the rays 
 escaping upward; a pale, firm, bland face, with rather 
 prominent cheeks ; loose grey hair above, surmounted 
 by a toque. The dress was dark, and the only noticeable 
 feature of it was that the sleeves were finished in white 
 linen; from these the hands emerged calm and veined 
 under the lampshade; in one of them a pair of gloves 
 were clasped. On the table lay a thin mantle. 
 
 At the back of the studio there sat another woman, 
 so engloomed that no detail of her could be distin- 
 guished. 
 
 "As I was saying," the tall upright woman resumed 
 as soon as Miss Ingate and Audrey had been intro- 
 duced. "Betty Burke is in prison. She got six weeks 
 this morning. She may never come out again. Almost 
 her last words from the dock were that you, Miss 
 Nickall, should be asked to go to London to look after 
 Mrs. Burke, and perhaps to take Betty's place in other 
 ways. She said that her mother preferred you to any- 
 body else, and that she was sure you would come. Shall 
 you?" 
 
 The accents were very clear, the face was delicately
 
 106 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 smiling, ^le little gestures had a quite tranquil quality. 
 Rosamund did not seem to care whether Miss Nickall 
 obeyed the summons or not. She did not seem to care 
 about anything whatever except her own manner of 
 existing. She was the centre of Paris, and Paris was 
 naught but a circumference for her. All phenomena 
 beyond the individuality of the woman were reduced 
 to the irrelevant and the negligible. It would have been 
 absurd to mention to her costume-balls. The frost of 
 her indifference would have wilted them into nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 "Yes, of course, I shall go," Nick answered. 
 
 ^'When.'"' was the implacable question. 
 
 "Oh! By the first train," said Nick eagerly. As she 
 approached the lamp, the gleam of the devotee could 
 be seen in her gaze. In one moment she had sacrificed 
 Paris and art and Tommy and herself, and had risen 
 to the sacred ardour of a vocation. Rosamund was 
 well accustomed to watching the process, and she gave 
 not the least sign of satisfaction or approval. 
 
 "I ought to tell you," she went on, "that I came 
 over from London suddenly by the afternoon service 
 in order to escape arrest. I am now a political refugee. 
 Things have come to this pass. You will do well to 
 leave by the first train. That is why I decided to call 
 here before going to bed." 
 
 "Where's Tommy?" asked Nick, appealing wildly to 
 Miss Ingate and Audrey. Upon being answered she 
 said, still more wildly: "I must see her. Can you — 
 No, I'll run down myself." In the doorway she turned 
 round: "Mrs. Moncreiff, would you and Miss Ingate 
 like to have my studio while I'm away.? I should just 
 love you to. There's a very nice bed over there behind 
 the screen, and a fair sort of couch over here. Do 
 say you will! DoT'
 
 A POLITICAL REFUGEE 107 
 
 "Oh! We will!" Miss Ingate replied at once, reas- 
 suringly, as though in haste to grant the supreme 
 request of some condemned victim. And indeed Miss 
 Nickall appeared ready to burst into tears if she should 
 be thwarted. 
 
 As soon as Nick had gone, Miss Ingate's smiling 
 face, nervous, intimidated, audacious, sardonic, and 
 good-humoured, moved out of the gloom nearer to 
 Rosamund. 
 
 "You knew I played the barrel-organ all down 
 Regent Street?" she ventured, blushing. 
 
 "Ah !" murmured Rosamund, unmoved. "It was you 
 who played the barrel-organ.'' So it was." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Ingate. "But I'm like you. I 
 don't care passionately for prison. Eh! Eh! I'm 
 not so vehy, vehy fond of it. I don't know Miss Burke, 
 but what a pity she has got six weeks, isn't it? Still, 
 I was vehy much struck by what some one said to me 
 to-day, — that you'd be vehy sorry if women did get 
 the vote. I think I should be sorry, too, — you know 
 what I mean." 
 
 "Perfectly," ejaculated Rosamund, with a pleasant 
 smile. 
 
 "I hope I'm not skidding," said Miss Ingate still 
 more timidly, but also with a sardonic giggle, looking 
 round into the gloom. "I do skid sometimes, you know, 
 and we've just come away from a " 
 
 She could not finish. 
 
 "And Mrs. Moncreiff, if I've got the name right, is 
 she with us, too?" asked Rosamund, miraculously 
 urbane. And added: "I hear she has wealth and is 
 the mistress of it." 
 
 Audrey jumped up, smiling, and lifting her veil. She 
 could not help smiling. The studio, the lamp, Rosa- 
 mund with her miraculous self-complacency, Nick with
 
 108 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 her soft, mad eyes and wistful voice, the blundering 
 ruthless Miss Ingate, all seemed intensely absurd to 
 her. Everything seemed absurd except dancing and 
 revelry and coloured lights and strange disguises and 
 sensuous contacts. She had the most careless con- 
 tempt, stiffened by a slight loathing, for political move- 
 ments and every melancholy effort to reform the world. 
 The world did not need reforming and did not want to 
 be reformed. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't know my story," Audrey began, 
 not realising how she would continue. "I am a widow. 
 I made an unhappy marriage. My husband on the day 
 after our wedding-day began to eat peas with his 
 knife. In a week I was forced to leave him. And a 
 fortnight later I heard that he was dead of blood- 
 poisoning. He had cut his mouth." 
 
 And she thought: 
 
 "What is the matter with me? I have ruined my- 
 self." All her exultation had collapsed. 
 " But Rosamund remarked gravely: 
 
 "It is a common story." 
 
 Suddenly there was a movement in the obscure corner 
 where sat the unnamed and unintroduced lady. This 
 lady rose and came towards the table. She was very 
 elegant in dress and manner, and she looked maturely 
 young. 
 
 "Madame Piriac," announced Rosamund. 
 
 Audrey recoiled . . . Gazing hard at the face, she 
 saw in it a vague but undeniable resemblance to certain 
 admired photographs which had arrived at Moze from 
 France. 
 
 "Pardon me!" said Madame Piriac in English with 
 a strong French accent. "I shall like very much to 
 hear the details of this story of pet'its pois." The tone 
 of Madame Piriac's question was unexceptionable ; it
 
 A POLITICAL REFUGEE 109 
 
 took account of Audrey's mourning attire, and of her 
 youthfulness ; but Audrey could formulate no answer 
 to it. Instead of speaking she gave a touch to her 
 veil, and it dropped before her piquant, troubled, in- 
 scrutable face like a screen. 
 
 Miss Ingate said with noticeable calm, but also with 
 the air of a conspirator who sees danger to a most 
 secret machination : 
 
 "I'm afraid Mrs. MoncreifF won't care to go into 
 details." 
 
 It was neatly done. Madame Piriac brought the 
 episode to a close with a sympathetic smile and an 
 apposite gesture. And Audrey, safe behind her veil, 
 glanced gratefully and admiringly at Miss Ingate, who, 
 taken quite unawares, had been so surprisingly able 
 thus to get her out of a scrape. She felt very young 
 and callow among these three women, and the mere 
 presence of Madame Piriac, of whom years ago she had 
 created for herself a wondrous image, put her into a 
 considerable flutter. On the whole she was ready to 
 believe that the actual Madame Piriac was quite equal 
 to the image of her founded on photographs and let- 
 ters. She set her teeth, and decided that Madame 
 Piriac should not learn her identity — yet! There was 
 little risk of her discovering it for herself, for no photo- 
 graph of Audrey had gone to Paris for a dozen years, 
 and Miss Ingate's loyalty was absolute. 
 
 As Audrey sat down again, the illustrious Rosamund 
 took a chair near her, and it could not be doubted that 
 the woman had the mien and the carriage of a leader. 
 
 "You are very rich, are you not?" asked Rosamund, 
 in a tone at once deferential and intimate, and she 
 smiled very attractively in the gloom. Impossible not 
 to reckon with that smile, as startling as it was seduc- 
 tive!
 
 110 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Evidently Nick had been communicative. 
 
 "I suppose I am," murmured Audrey, like a child, 
 and feeling like a child. Yet at the same time she was 
 asking herself with fierce curiosity : "What has Madame 
 Piriac got to do with this woman?" 
 
 "I hear you have eight or ten thousand a year and 
 can do what you like with it. And you cannot be more 
 than twenty three . . . What a responsibility it must 
 be for you ! You are a friend of Miss Ingate's and 
 therefore on our side. Indeed if a woman such as you 
 were not on our side, I wonder whom we could count 
 on. Miss Ingate is of course a subscriber to the 
 Union " 
 
 "Only a very little one," cried Miss Ingate. 
 
 Audrey had never felt so abashed since an ex-parlour- 
 maid at Flank Hall, who had left everything to join the 
 Salvation Army, had asked her once in the streets of 
 Colchester whether she had found salvation. She knew 
 that she, if any one, ought to subscribe to the 
 Suffragette Union, and to subscribe largely. For she 
 was a convinced suffragette by faith, because Miss 
 Ingate was a convinced suffragette. If Miss Ingate 
 had been a Mormon, Audrey also would have been a 
 Mormon. And, although she hated to subscribe, she 
 knew also that if Rosamund demanded from her any 
 subscription, however large — even a thousand pounds, 
 she would not know how to refuse. She felt before 
 Rosamund as hundreds of women, and not a few men, 
 had felt. 
 
 "I may be leaving for Germany to-morrow," Rosa- 
 mund proceeded. "I may not see you again — at any 
 rate for many weeks. May I write to London that you 
 mean to support us?" 
 
 Audrey was giving herself up for lost, and not with- 
 out reason. She foreshadowed a future of steely self-
 
 A POLITICAL REFUGEE 111 
 
 sacrifice, propaganda, hammers, riots, and prison; with 
 no self-indulgence in it, no fine clothes, no art, and no 
 young men save earnest young men. She saw herself 
 in the iron clutch of her own conscience and sense of 
 duty. And she was frightened. But at that moment 
 Nick rushed into the room, and the spell was broken. 
 Nick considered that she had the right to monopolise 
 Rosamund, and she monopolised her. 
 
 Miss Ingate prudently gathered Audrey to her 
 side, and was off with her. Nick ran to kiss them, and 
 told them that Tommy was waiting for them in the 
 other studio. They groped downstairs, guided by a 
 wisp of light from Tommy's studio. 
 
 "Why didn't you come up.'"' asked Miss Ingate of 
 Tommy in Tommy's antechamber. "Have you and she 
 quarrelled.'"' 
 
 "Oh no!" said Tommy. "But I'm afraid of her. 
 She'd grab me if she had the least chance, and I don't 
 want to be grabbed." 
 
 Tommy was arranging to escort them home, and had 
 already got out on the landing, when Rosamund and 
 Madame Piriac, followed by Nick holding a candle 
 aloft, came down the stairs. A few words of explana- 
 tion, a little innocent blundering on the part of Nick, 
 a polite suggestion by Madame Piriac, and an im- 
 perious affirmative by Rosamund, — and the two 
 strangers to Paris found themselves in Madame Piriac's 
 waiting automobile on the way to their rooms ! 
 
 In the darkness of the car the four women could not 
 distinguish each other's faces. But Rosamund's voice 
 was audible in a monologue, and Miss Ingate trembled 
 for Audrey and for the future. 
 
 "This is the most important political movement in 
 the history of the world," Rosamund was saying, not at 
 all in a speechifying manner, but quite intimately and
 
 112 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 naturally. "Everybody admits that, and that's what 
 makes it so extraordinarily interesting, and that is why 
 we have had such magnificent help from women in the 
 very highest positions who wouldn't dream of touching 
 ordinary politics. It's a marvellous thing to be in the 
 movement, if we can only realise it. Don't you think 
 so, Mrs. Moncreiff .?" 
 
 Audrey made no response. The other two sat silent. 
 Miss Ingate thought: 
 
 "What's the girl going to do next.'* Surely she could 
 mumble something." 
 
 The car curved and stopped. 
 
 "Here we are," said Miss Ingate, delighted. "And 
 thank you so much. I suppose all we have to do is just 
 to push the bell and the door opens. Now Audrey, 
 dear." 
 
 Audrey did not stir. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" murmured Madame Piriac. "What has 
 she, the little one.'"' 
 
 Rosamund said stiffly and curtly: 
 
 "She is asleep ... It is very late. Four o'clock." 
 
 Excellent as was Audrey's excuse for her lapse, 
 Rosamund was not at all pleased. That slumber was 
 one of Rosamund's rare defeats.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WIDOWHOOD IN THE STUDIO 
 
 Audrey was in a white pique coat and short skirt, 
 with pale blue blouse and pale blue hat, — and at the 
 extremity blue stockings and white tennis shoes. She 
 picked up a tennis-racket in its press, and prepared 
 to leave the studio. She had bought the coat, the 
 skirt, the blouse, the hat, the tennis shoes, the racket, 
 the press, and practically all she wore, visible and 
 invisible, at that very convenient and immense shop, 
 the Bon Marche, whose only drawback was that it was 
 always full. Everybody in the Quarter, except a few 
 dolls not in earnest, bought everything at the Bon 
 Marche, because the Bon Marche was so comprehensive 
 and so reliable. If you desired a toothbrush the Bon 
 Marche not only supplied it, but delivered it in a 30 
 h. p. motor-van manned by two officials in uniform. 
 And if you desired a bedroom suite, a pair of corsets, 
 a box of pastels, an anthracite stove, or a new wall- 
 paper, the Bon Marche would never shake its head. 
 
 And Audrey was now of the Quarter. Many simple 
 sojourners in the Quarter tried to imply the Latin 
 Quarter when they said the Quarter. But the Quarter 
 was only the Montparnasse Quarter. Nevertheless it 
 sufficed. It had its own boulevards, restaurants, 
 cafes, concerts, theatres, palaces, shops, gardens, 
 museums, and churches. There was no need to leave 
 it, and if you were a proper amateur of the Quarter, 
 you never did leave it save to scoff at other Quarters. 
 
 113
 
 114! THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Sometimes you fringed the Latin Quarter In the big 
 cafes of the Boulevard St. Michel, and sometimes you 
 strolled northwards as far as the Seine, and occa- 
 sionally even crossed the Seine in order to enter the 
 Louvre, which lined the other bank, but you did not 
 go any further. Why should you.^* 
 
 Audrey had become so acclimatised to the Quarter 
 that Miss Nickall's studio seemed her natural home. 
 It was very typically a woman's studio of the Quarter. 
 About thirty feet each way and fourteen feet high, with 
 certain irregularities of shape, it was divided into cor- 
 ners. There were the two. bed-corners, which were 
 lounge-corners during the day, the afternoon-tea cor- 
 ner, with a piece or two of antique furniture and some 
 old silk hangings, where on high afternoons tea was 
 given to droves of visitors, and there was the culinary 
 corner, with spirit-lamps, gas-rings, kettles, and a 
 bowl or two over which you might spend a couple of 
 arduous hours in ineffectually whipping up" a mayon- 
 naise for an impromptu lunch. Artistic operations 
 were carried out in the middle of the studio, not too 
 far from the stove, which never went out from Novem- 
 ber to May. A large mirror hung paramount on one 
 wall. The remaining spaces of the studio were filled 
 with old easels, canvases, old frames, old costumes and 
 multifarious other properties for pictures, trunks, 
 lamps, boards, tables, and bric-a-brac bought at the 
 Ham-and-Old-Iron Fair. There were a million objects 
 in the studio, and their situations had to be, and were, 
 learnt off by heart. The scene of the toilette was a 
 small attached chamber. 
 
 The housekeeping combined the simplicity of the 
 early Christians with the efficient organising of the 
 twentieth century. It began at about half past seven, 
 when unseen but heard beings left fresh rolls and The
 
 WIDOWHOOD IN THE STUDIO 115 
 
 New York Herald or The Daily Mail at the studio 
 door. You made your own bed, just as you cleaned 
 your own boots or washed your own face. The larder 
 consisted of tins of coffee, tea, sugar, and cakes, with 
 an intermittent supply of butter and lemons. The in- 
 fusing of tea and coffee was practised in perfection. 
 It mattered not in the least whether toilette or break- 
 fast came first, but it was exceedingly important that 
 the care of the stove should precede both. Between 
 ten and eleven the concierge's wife arrived with tools 
 and utensils ; she swept, and dusted under a consider- 
 able percentage of the million objects, — and the 
 responsibilities of housekeeping were finished until the 
 next day, for afternoon tea, if it occurred, was a 
 diversion and not a toil. 
 
 A great expanse of twelve to fifteen hours lay in 
 front of you. It was not uncomfortably and unchange- 
 ably cut into fixed portions by the incidence of lunch 
 and dinner. You ate when you felt inclined to eat, 
 and nearly always at restaurants where you met your 
 acquaintances. Meals were the least important hap- 
 penings of the day. You had no reliable watch, and 
 you needed none, for you had no fixed programme. 
 You worked till you had had enough of work. You 
 went forth into the world exactly when the idea took 
 you. If you were bored, you found a friend and went 
 to sit in a cafe. You were ready for anything. The 
 word "rule" had been omitted from your dictionary. 
 You retired to bed when the still small voice within 
 murmured that there was naught else to do. You 
 woke up in the morning amid cups and saucers, lingerie, 
 masterpieces, and boots. And the next day was the 
 iSame. All the days were the same. Weeks passed 
 with inexpressible rapidity, and all phenomena beyond
 
 116 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 the Quarter had the quality of vague murmurings and 
 noises behind the scenes. 
 
 May had come. Audrey and Miss Ingate had lived 
 in the studio for six months before they reahsed that 
 they had settled down there and that habits had been 
 formed. Still, they had accomplished something. Miss 
 Ingate had gone back into oils and was attending life 
 classes, and Audrey, by terrible application and by 
 sitting daily at the feet of an oldish lady in black, and 
 by refusing to speak English between breakfast and 
 dinner, had acquired a good accent and much fluency 
 in the French tongue. Now, when she spoke French, 
 she thought in French, and she was extremely proud 
 of the achievement. Also she was acquainted with 
 the names and styles of all known modern painters 
 from pointillistes to cubistes, and, indeed, with the 
 latest eccentricities in all the arts. She could tell who 
 was immortal, and she was fully aware that there was 
 no real painting in England. In brief, she was perhaps 
 more Parisian even than she had hoped. She had ab- 
 sorbed Paris into her system. It was still not the 
 Paris of her early fancy; in particular it lacked 
 elegance; but it richly satisfied her. 
 
 She had on this afternoon of young May an appoint- 
 ment with a young man. And the appointment seemed 
 quite natural, causing no inward disturbance. Less 
 than ever could she understand her father's ukases 
 against young men and against every form of self- 
 indulgence. Now, when she had the idea of doing a 
 thing, she merely did it. Her instincts were her only 
 guide, and, though her instincts were often highly 
 complex, they seldom puzzled her. The old instinct 
 that the desire to do a thing was a sufficient reason 
 against doing it, had expired. For many weeks she 
 had lived with a secret fear that such unbridled con-
 
 WIDOWHOOD IN THE STUDIO 117 
 
 duct must lead to terrible catastrophes, but as nothing 
 happened this fear also expired. She was constantly 
 with young men, and often with men not young; she 
 liked it, but just as much she liked being with women. 
 She never had any difficulties with men. Miss Thomp- 
 kins insinuated at intervals that she flirted, but she 
 had the sharpest contempt for flirtation, and as a 
 practice put it on a level with embezzlement or arson. 
 Miss Thompkins, however, kept on insinuating. Audrey 
 regarded herself as decidedly wiser than Miss Thomp- 
 kins. Her opinions on vital matters changed almost 
 weekly, but she was always absolutely sure that the 
 new opinion was final and incontrovertible. Her scorn 
 of the old English Audrey, though concealed, was 
 terrific. 
 
 And it is to be remembered that she was a widow. 
 She was never half a second late, now, in replying when 
 addressed as "Mrs. Moncreiff." Frequently she 
 thought that she in fact was a widow. Widowhood 
 was a very advantageous state. It had a free pass 
 to all affairs of interest. It opened wide the door of 
 the world. It recked nothing of girlish codes. It 
 abolished discussions concerning conventional pro- 
 priety. Its chief defect, for Audrey, was that if she 
 met another widow, or even a married woman, she had 
 to take heed lest she stumbled. Fortunately neither 
 widows nor wives were very prevalent in the Quarter. 
 And Audrey had attained skill in the use of the state 
 of widowhood. She told no more infantile perilous 
 tales about husbands who ate peas with a knife. In 
 her thankfulness that the tyrannic Rosamund had gone 
 to Germany and that Madame Piriac had vanished 
 back into unknown Paris, Audrey was at pains to take 
 to heart the lesson of a semi-hysterical blunder. 
 
 She descended the dark dusty oak stairs utterly
 
 118 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 content. And at the door of the gloomy den of the 
 concierge the concierge's wife was standing. She was 
 a new wife, the young mate of a middle-aged husband, 
 and she had only been illuminating the den (which was 
 kitchen, parlour, and bedroom in a space of ten feet 
 by eight) for about a month. She was plump and 
 pretty, and also she was fair, which was unusual for 
 a Frenchwoman. She wore a striped frock and a little 
 black apron, and her yellow hair was waved with art. 
 Audrey offered her the key of the studio with a smile, 
 and, as Audrey expected, the concierge's wife began to 
 chatter. The concierge's wife loved to chatter with 
 Anglo-Saxon tenants, and she specially enjoyed chat- 
 tering with Audrey because of the superior quality of 
 Audrey's French and of her tips. Audrey listened, 
 proud because she could understand so well and answer 
 so fluently. 
 
 The sun, which in May shone on the courtyard for 
 about forty minutes in the afternoon on clear days, 
 caught these two creatures in the same beam. They 
 made a delicious sight, — ^Audrey dark with her large 
 forehead and negligible nose, and the concierge's wife 
 rather doll-like in the regularity of her features. They 
 were delicious not only because of their varied charm, 
 but because they were so absurdly wise and omniscient 
 and because they had come to settled conclusions about 
 every kind of worldly problem. Youth and vitality 
 equalised their ranks, and the fact that Audrey 
 possessed many ascertained ancestors, and a part of 
 the earth's surface, and much money, and that the 
 concierge's wife possessed nothing but herelf and a 
 few bits of furniture, was not of the slightest im- 
 portance. 
 
 The concierge's wife, after curiosity concerning 
 tennis, grew confidential about herself, and more con-
 
 WIDOWHOOD IN THE STUDIO 119 
 
 fidential. And at last she lowered her tones, and with 
 sparkling eyes communicated information to Audrey 
 in a voice that was little more than a whisper. 
 
 "Oh! Truly? I must go," hastily said Audrey, blush- 
 ing, and off she ran, reduced in an instant to the 
 schoolgirl. Her departure was a retreat. These 
 occasional discomfitures made a faint blot on the ex- 
 cellence of being a widow.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE SWOON 
 
 In the north-east corner of the Luxembourg Gar- 
 dens, where the lawn-tennis courts were permitted by 
 a pubHc authority which was strangely impartial and 
 cosmopolitan in the matter of games, Miss Ingate sat 
 sketching a group of statuary with the Rue de Vaugi- 
 rard behind it. She was sketching in the orthodox 
 way, on the orthodox stool, with the orthodox combined 
 paint-box and easel, and the orthodox police-permit in 
 the cover of the box. 
 
 The bright and warm weather was tonic; it ac- 
 counted for the whole temperament of - Parisians. 
 Under such a sky, with such a delicate pricking vitali- 
 sation in the air, it was impossible not to be Parisian. 
 The trees, all arranged in beautiful perspectives, were 
 coming into leaf, and through their screens could be 
 seen everywhere children shouting as they played at 
 ball and top, and both kinds of nurses, and scores of 
 perambulators and mothers, and a few couples dallying 
 with their sensations, and old men reading papers, and 
 old women knitting and relating anecdotes or entire 
 histories. And nobody was curious beyond his own 
 group. The people were perfectly at home in this 
 grandiose setting of gardens and fountains and grey 
 palaces, with theatres, boulevards and the odour and 
 roar of motor-buses just beyond the palisades. And 
 Miss Ingate in the exciting sunshine gazed around with 
 her subdued Essex grin, as if saying: "It's the most 
 
 120
 
 THE SWOON 121 
 
 topsyturvy planet that I was ever on, and why am I, 
 of all people, trying to make tliis canvas look like a 
 piece of sculpture and a sti'eet?" 
 
 "Now Miss Ingate," said tall red-haired Tommy, 
 who was standing over her. "Before you go any 
 further, do look at the line of roofs and see how inter- 
 esting it is ; it's really full of interest. And you've 
 simply not got on speaking terms with it yet." 
 
 "No more I have ! No more I have !" cried Miss 
 Ingate, glancing round at Audrey, who was swinging 
 her racket. "Thank you, Tommy. I ought to have 
 thought of it for my own sake, because roofs are so 
 much easier than statues, and I must get an effect 
 somewhere, mustn't I?" 
 
 Tommy winked at Audrey, But Tommy's wink was 
 as naught to the great invisible wink of Miss Ingate, 
 the everlasting wink that derided the universe and the 
 sun himself. ♦ 
 
 Then Musa appeared, with paraphernalia, at the 
 end of a path. Accompanying him was a specimen 
 of the creature known on tennis-lawns as "a fourth." 
 He was almost nameless, tall, very young, with the 
 seedlings of a moustache and a space of nude calf 
 between his knickerbockers and his socks. He was very 
 ceremonious, shy, ungainly, and blushful. He played 
 a fair-to-middling game; and nothing more need be 
 said of him. 
 
 Musa by contrast was an accomplished man of the 
 world, and the fact that the fourth obviously regarded 
 him as a hero helped Musa to behave in a manner 
 satisfactory to himself in front of these English and 
 American women, so strange, so exotic, so kind, and 
 so disconcerting. Musa looking upon Britain as a 
 romantic isle where people died for love. And as for 
 America, in his mind, it was as sinister, as wondrous.
 
 122 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 and as fatal as the Indies might seem to a bank-clerk 
 in Bradford. He had need of every moral assistance 
 in this or any other social ordeal. For, though he 
 was still the greatest violinist in Paris, and perhaps in 
 the world, he could not yet prove this profound truth by 
 the only demonstration which the world accepts. 
 
 If he played in studios he was idolised. If he played 
 at small concerts in unknown halls, he was received 
 with rapture. But he was never lionised. The great 
 concert halls never saw him on their platforms ; his 
 name was never in the newspapers ; and hospitable 
 personages never fought together for his presence at 
 their tables, even if occasionally they invited him to 
 perform for charity in return for a glass of claret 
 and a sandwich. Monsieur Dauphin had attempted 
 to force the invisible barriers for him, but without suc- 
 cess. All his admirers in the Quarter stuck to it that 
 he was in the rank of Kreisler and Isaye; at the same 
 time they were annoyed with him inasmuch as he did 
 not force the world to acknowledge the prophetic good 
 taste of the Quarter. And Musa made mistakes. He 
 ought to have arrived at studios in a magnificent auto- 
 mobile, and to have given superb and uproarious 
 repasts, and to have rendered innumerable women ex- 
 quisitely unhappy. Whereas he arrived by tube or 
 bus, never offered hospitality of any sort, and was like 
 a cat with women. Hence the attitude of the Quarter 
 was patronising, as if the Quarter had said : "Yes, he 
 is the greatest violinist in Paris and perhaps in the 
 world; but that's all, and it isn't enough.." 
 
 The young man and the boy made ready for the 
 game as for a gladiatorial display. Their frowning 
 seriousness proved that they had comprehended the 
 true British idea of sport. Musa came round the
 
 THE SWOON 123 
 
 net to Audrey's side, but Audrey said in French: 
 
 "Miss Thompkins and I will play together. See, 
 we are going to beat you and Gustave." 
 
 Musa retired. A few indifferent spectators had col- 
 lected. Gustave, the fourth, had to serve. 
 
 "Play !" he muttered, in a thick and threatening 
 voice, whose depth was the measure of his nervousness. 
 
 He served a double fault to Tommy, and then a 
 fault to Audrey. The fourth ball he got over. Audrey 
 played it. The two males rushed with appalling force 
 together on the centre line in pursuit, and a terrible 
 collision occurred. Musa fell away from Gustave as 
 from a wall. When he arose out of the pebbly dust 
 his right arm hung very limp from the shoulder. No 
 sooner had he risen than he sank again; and the blood 
 began to leave his face; and his eyes closed. The 
 fourth, having recovered from the collision, knelt down 
 by his side, and gazed earnestly at him. Tommy and 
 Audrey hurried towards the statesque group, and 
 Audrey was thinking: "Why did I refuse to let him 
 play with me? If he had played with me there would 
 have been no accident." She reproached herself be- 
 cause she well knew that only out of the most absurd 
 contrariness had she repulsed Musa. Or was it that 
 she had repulsed him from fear of something that 
 Tommy might say or look.'' 
 
 In a few seconds, strongly drawn by this marvellous 
 piece of luck, promenaders were darting with joyous 
 rapidity from north, south, east, and west to witness 
 the tragedy. There were nurses with coloured stream- 
 ers six feet long, lusty children, errand-boys, lads, 
 and sundry nondescript men, some of whom care- 
 fully folded up their newspapers as they hurried to 
 the cynosure. They beheld the body as though it were 
 a corpse and the corpse of an enemy ; they formulated
 
 IM THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 and discussed theories of the event; they examined 
 minutely the rackets which had been thrown on the 
 ground. They were exercising the immemorial rights 
 of unmoved curiosity; they held themselves as indif- 
 ferent as gods ; and the murmur of their impartial 
 voices floated soothingly over Musa, and the shadow 
 of their active profiles covered him from the sparkling 
 sunshine. Somebody mentioned policemen, in the 
 plural, but none came. All remarked in turn that the 
 ladies were English, as though that were a sufficient 
 explanation of the whole affair. 
 
 No one said: 
 
 "It is Musa, the greatest violinist in Paris and per- 
 haps in Europe." 
 
 Desperately Audrey stooped and seized Musa be- 
 neath the armpits to lift him to a sitting position. 
 
 "You'd better leave him alone," said Tommy, with 
 a kind of ironic warning and innuendo. 
 
 But Audrey still struggled with the mass, convinced 
 that she was showing initiative and firmness of char- 
 acter. The fourth with fierce vigour began to aid her, 
 and another youth from the crowd was joining the 
 enterprise when Miss Ingate arrived from her stool. 
 
 "Drop him, you silly little thing!" adjured Miss 
 Ingate. "Instead of lifting his head you ought to lift 
 his feet." 
 
 Audrey stared uncertain for a moment, and then 
 let the mass subside. Whereupon Miss Ingate with all 
 her strength lifted both legs to the height of her waist, 
 giving Musa the appearance of a wheelless barrow. 
 
 "You want to let the blood run into his head," said 
 Miss Ingate with a self-conscious grin at the increasing 
 crowd. "People only faint because the blood leaves 
 their heads — that's why they go pale." 
 
 Musa's cheeks showed a tinge of red. You could
 
 THE SWOON 125 
 
 almost see the precious blood being decanted by Miss 
 Inffate out of the man's feet into his head. In a minute 
 he opened his eyes. Miss Ingate lowered the legs. 
 
 "It was only the pain that made him feel queer," 
 she said. 
 
 The episode was over, and the crowd very gradually 
 and reluctantly scattered, disappointed at the lack of 
 a fatal conclusion. Musa stood up, smiling apolo- 
 getically, and Audrey supported him by the left arm, 
 for the right could not be touched. 
 
 "Hadn't you better take him home, Mrs. Mon- 
 creifF.P" Tommy suggested. "You can get a taxi here 
 in the Rue de Vaugirard." She did not smile, but her 
 green eyes ghnted. 
 
 "Yes, I will," said Audrey curtly. 
 
 And Tommy's eyes glinted still more. 
 
 "And I shall get a doctor," said Audrey. "His arm 
 may be broken." 
 
 "I should," Tommy concurred with gravity. 
 
 "Well, if it is, / can't set it," said Miss Ingate 
 quizzically. "I was getting on so well with the high 
 lights on that statue. I'll come along back to the 
 studio in about half an hour." 
 
 The fourth, who had been hovering near like a crimi- 
 nal magnetised by his crime, bounded off furiously at 
 the suggestion that he should stop a taxi at the 
 entrance to the gardens. 
 
 "I hope he has broken his arm and he can never play 
 any more," thought Audrey, astoundingly, as she and 
 the fourth helped pale Musa into the open taxi. "It 
 will just serve those two right." She meant Miss 
 Ingate and Tommy. 
 
 No sooner did the taxi start than Musa began to 
 cry. He did not seem to care that he was in the midst 
 of a busy street, with a piquant widow by his side.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR 
 
 "Why did you cry this afternoon, Musa?" 
 
 Musa made no reply. 
 
 Audrey was lighting the big lamp in the Moncreiff- 
 Ingate studio. It made exactly the same moon as it 
 had made on the night in the previous autumn when 
 Audrey had first seen it. She had brought Musa to 
 the studio because she did not care to take him to his 
 own lodgings. (As a fact, nobody that she knew, except 
 Musa, had ever seen Musa's lodgings.) This was 
 almost the first moment they had had to themselves 
 since the visit of the little American doctor from the 
 Rue Servandoni. The rumour of Musa's misfortune 
 had spread through the Quarter like the smell of a 
 fire, and various persons of both sexes had called to 
 inspect, to sympathise, and to take tea, which Audrey 
 was continually making throughout the late afternoon. 
 Musa had had an egg for his tea, and more than one 
 girl had helped to spread the yoke and the whites on 
 pieces of bread-and-butter, for the victim of destiny 
 had his right arm in a sling. Audrey had let them 
 do it, as a mother patronisingly lets her friends amuse 
 her baby. 
 
 In the end they had all gone ; Tommy had enigmat- 
 ically looked in and gone ; and Miss Ingate had gone, 
 to dine at the favourite restaurant of the hour in the 
 Rue Leopold Robert. Audrey had refused to go, as- 
 serting that which was not true ; namely, that she had 
 
 126
 
 MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR 127 
 
 had an enormous tea, including far too many pefits 
 fours. Miss Ingate in departing had given a glance at 
 her sketch (fixed on the easel), and another at Audrey, 
 and another at Musa, all equally sardonic and kindly. 
 
 Musa also had declined dinner, but he had done 
 nothing to indicate that he meant to leave. He sat 
 mournful and passive in a basket-chair, his sling 
 making a patch of white in the gloom. The truth was 
 that he suffered from a disability not uncommon among 
 certain natures, — he did not know how to go. He 
 could arrive with ease, but he was no expert at vanish- 
 ing. Audrey was troubled. As suited her age and 
 condition, she was apt to feel the responsibility of the 
 whole universe. She knew that she was responsible for 
 Musa's accident, and now she was beginning to be 
 aware that she was responsible for his future as well. 
 She was sure that he needed encouragement and guid- 
 ance. She pictured him with his fiddle under his cliin, 
 masterful, confident, miraculous, throwing a spell over 
 every one within earshot. But actually she saw him 
 listless and vanquished in the basket-chair; and she 
 perceived that only a strongly influential and deter- 
 mined woman, such as herself, could save him from 
 disaster. No man could do it. His tears had shaken 
 her. She was willing to make allowances for a for- 
 eigner, but she had never seen a man cry before, and 
 the spectacle was very disturbing. It inspired her 
 with a fear that even she could not be the salvation of 
 Musa. 
 
 "I demanded something of you," she said, after 
 lowering the wick of the lamp to exactly the right 
 point, and staring at it for a greater length of time 
 than was necessary or even seemly. She spoke French 
 and as she listened to her French accent she heard that 
 it was good.
 
 128 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "I am done for!" came the mournful voice of Musa 
 out of the obscurity behind the lamp. 
 
 "What! You are done for? But you know what 
 the doctor said. He said no bone was broken. Only 
 a little strain, and the pain from your " Admir- 
 able though her French accent was, she could not think 
 of the French word for "funny-bone." Indeed she had 
 never learnt it. So she said it in English. Musa knew 
 not what she meant, and thus a slight chasm was opened 
 between them which neither could bridge. She finished : 
 "In one week, you are going to be able to play again." 
 
 Musa shook his head. 
 
 Relieved as she was to discover that Musa had cried 
 because he was done for, and not because he was hurt, 
 she was still worried by his want of elasticity, of 
 resiliency. Nevertheless she was agreeably worried. 
 The doctor had disappointed her by his light optimism, 
 but he could not smile away Musa's moral indisposi- 
 tion. The large vagueness of the studio, the very faint 
 twilight still showing through the great window, the 
 silence and intimacy, the sounds of the French lan- 
 guage, the gleam of the white sling, all combined to 
 permeate her with dehcious melancholy. And not for 
 everlasting bliss would she have had Musa strong, 
 obstinate, and certain of success. 
 
 "A week !" he murmured. "It is forever. A week of 
 practice lost is eternally lost. And on Wednesday one 
 had invited me to play at Foa's. And I cannot." 
 
 "Foa? Who is Foa?" 
 
 "What! You do not know Foa.? In order to suc- 
 ceed it is necessary, it is essential, to play at Foa's. 
 That alone gives the cachet. Dauphin told me last 
 week. He arranged it. After having played at Foa's 
 all is possible. Dauphin was about to abandon me 
 when he met Foa. Now I am ruined. This afternoon
 
 MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR 129 
 
 after the tennis I was going to Durand's to get the new 
 Caprice of Roussel — he is an intimate friend of Foa. 
 I should have studied it in five days. They would have 
 been ravished by the attention . . . But why talk I 
 thus? No, I could not have played Caprice to please 
 them. I am cursed. I will never again touch the violin, 
 I swear it. What am I? Do I not live on the money 
 lent to me regularly by Mademoiselle Thompkins and 
 Mademoiselle Nickall?" 
 
 "You don't, Musa?" Audrey burst out in English. 
 
 "Yes, yes !" said Musa violently. "But last month, 
 from Mademoiselle Nickall, — nothing! She is in Lon- 
 don; she forgets. It is better like that. Soon I shall 
 be playing in the Opera orchestra, fourth desk, one 
 hundred francs a month. That will be the end. There 
 can be no other." 
 
 Instead of admiring the secret charity of Tommy 
 and Nick, which she had never suspected, Audrey was 
 very annoyed by it. She detested it and resented it. 
 And especially the charity of Miss Thompkins. She 
 considered that from a woman with eyes and innuendoes 
 like Tommy's charity amounted to a sneer. 
 
 "It is extremely unsatisfactory," she said, dropping 
 on to Miss Ingate's sofa. 
 
 Not another word was spoken. Audrey tapped her 
 foot. Musa creaked in the basket-chair. He avoided 
 her eyes, but occasionally she glared at him like a 
 schoolmistress. Then her gaze softened, — he looked so 
 ill, so helpless, so hopeless. She wanted to light a 
 cigarette for him, but she was somehow bound to the 
 sofa. She wanted him to go — she hated the prospect 
 of his going. He could not possibly go, alone, to his 
 solitary room. Who would tend him, soothe him, put 
 him to bed.'^ He was an infant. . . .
 
 130 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Then, after a long while, Miss Ingate entered 
 sharply. Audrey coughed and sprang up. 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated Miss Ingate. 
 
 "I — I think I shall just change my boots," said 
 Audrey, smoothing out the short white skirt. And she 
 disappeared into the dressing-room that gave on to the 
 studio. 
 
 As soon as she was gone. Miss Ingate went close up 
 to Musa's chair. He had not moved. 
 
 She said, smiling, with the corners of her mouth 
 well down: 
 
 "Do you see that door, young man?" 
 
 And she indicated the door. 
 
 When Audrey came back into the studio, 
 
 "Audrey," cried Miss Ingate shrilly. "What you 
 been doing to Musa.'* As soon as you went out he up 
 vehy quickly and ran away." 
 
 At this information Audrey was more obviously 
 troubled and dashed than Miss Ingate had ever seen 
 her, in Paris. She made no answer at all. Fortu- 
 nately, lying on the table in front of the mirror was a 
 letter for Miss Ingate which had arrived by the evening 
 post. Audrey went for it, pretending to search, and 
 then handed it over with a casual gesture. 
 
 "It looks as if it was from Nick," she murmured. 
 
 Miss Ingate, as she was putting on her spectacles, 
 remarked : 
 
 "I hope you weren't hurt — me not coming with you 
 and Musa in the taxi from the gardens this afternoon, 
 dear." 
 
 "Me? Oh no!" 
 
 "It wasn't that I was so vehy interested in my sketch. 
 But to my mind there's nothing more ridiculous than 
 several women all looking after one man. Miss Thomp- 
 kins thought so, too."
 
 MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR 131 
 
 m 
 
 'Oh! Did she? . . . WTiat does Nick say?" 
 Miss Ingate had put the letter flat on the table in 
 the full glare of the lamp, and was leaning over it, 
 her grey hair brilliantly illuminated. Audrey kept in 
 the shadow and in the distance. Miss Ingate had a 
 habit of reading to herself under her breath. She read 
 slowly, and turned pages over with a deliberate move- 
 ment. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Ingate twisting her head side- 
 ways so as to see Audrey standing like a ghost afar 
 off. "Well, she has been going it! She's broken a 
 window in Oxford Street with a hammer; she had one 
 night in the cells for that. And she'd have had to go 
 to prison altogether only some unknown body paid 
 the fine for her. She says : 'There are some mean per- 
 sons in the world, and he was one. I feel sure it was 
 a man, and an American, too. The owners of the shops 
 are going to bring a law action against me for the 
 value of the plate glass. It is such fun. And our 
 leaders are splendid and so in earnest. They say we 
 are doing a great historical work, and we are. The 
 London correspondent of the New York Times inter- 
 viewed me because I am American. I did not want to 
 be interviewed, but our instructions are — never to avoid 
 publicity. There is to be no more window breaking 
 for the present. Something new is being arranged. 
 The hammer is so heavy and sometimes the first blow 
 does not break the window. The situation is very seri- 
 ous, and the government is at its wits' end. This we 
 know. We have our agents everywhere. All the most 
 thoughtful people are strongly in favour of votes for 
 women ; but of course some of them are afraid of our 
 methods. This only shows that they have not learnt 
 the lessons of history. I wonder that you and dear 
 Mrs. Moncreiff do not come and help. Many women
 
 132 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ask after you, and everybody at Kingsway is very 
 curious to know Mrs. Moncreiff. Since Mrs. Burke's 
 death, Betty has taken rooms in this house, but perhaps 
 Tommy has told you this already. If so, excuse. 
 Betty's health is very bad since they let her out last. 
 With regard to the rent, will you pay the next quarter 
 direct to the concierge yourselves.'* It will save so much 
 trouble. I must tell you ' " 
 
 Slowly Audrey moved up to the table and leaned 
 over the letter by Miss Ingate's side. 
 
 *'So you see !" said Miss Ingate. "Well, we must 
 show it to Tommy in the morning. 'Not learnt the 
 lessons of history,' eh.'' I know who's been talking to 
 Nick. / know as well as if I could hear them speaking." 
 
 "Do you think we ought to go to London.'"' Audrey 
 demanded bluntly. 
 
 "Well," Miss Ingate answered, with impartial irony 
 on her long upper lip. "I don't know. Of course I 
 played the organ all the way down Regent Street. I 
 feel very strongly about votes for women, and once 
 when I was helping in the night and day vigil at the 
 House of Commons and some ministers came out smok- 
 ing their cigahs and asked us how we liked it, I was 
 vehy, vehy angry. However, the next morning I had 
 a cigarette myself and felt better. But I'm not a pro- 
 fessional reformer, like a lot of them are at Kingsway. 
 It isn't my meat and drink. And I don't think it mat- 
 ters much whether we get the vote next year or in ten 
 years. I'm Winifred Ingate before I'm anything else. 
 And so long as I'm pretty comfortable no one's going 
 to make me believe that the world's coming to an end. 
 I know one thing, — if we did get the vote it would take 
 me all my time to keep most of the women I know from 
 voting for something silly."
 
 MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR 133 
 
 "Winnie," said Audrey. "You're very sensible some- 
 times." 
 
 "I'm always very sensible," Winnie retorted, "until 
 I get nervous. Then I'm apt to skid." 
 
 Without more words they transformed the studio, 
 by a few magical strokes, from a drawing-room into a 
 bedroom. Audrey, the last to retire, extinguished the 
 lamp, and tripped to her bed beliind her screen. Only 
 a few slight movements disturbed the silence. 
 
 "Winnie," said Audrey suddenly. "I do believe 
 you're one of those awful people who compromise. 
 You're always right in the middle of the raft." 
 
 But Miss Ingate, being fast asleep, offered no answer.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 
 
 The next day, after a studio lunch which contained 
 too much starch and was deficient in nitrogen, Miss 
 Ingate, putting on her hat and jacket, said with a 
 caustic gesture: 
 
 "Well, I must be off to my life-class. And much 
 good may it do me !" 
 
 The astonishing creature had apparently begun ex- 
 istence again, and begun it on the plane of art, but 
 this did not prevent the observer within her from taking 
 the same attitude towards her second career as she had 
 taken towards her first. Nothing seemed more meet 
 for Miss Ingate's ironic contemplation than the daily 
 struggle for style and beauty in the academies of the 
 Quarter. 
 
 Audrey made no reply. The morning had been un- 
 usually silent, giving considerable scope for Miss 
 Ingate's faculty for leaving well alone. 
 
 "I suppose you aren't coming out?" added Miss 
 Ingate. 
 
 "No. I went out a bit this morning. You know I 
 have my French lesson in twenty minutes.' 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Miss Ingate seized her apparatus and departed. The 
 instant she was alone Audrey began in haste to change 
 into all her best clothes, which were black, and which 
 the Quarter seldom saw. Fashionably arrayed, she sat 
 down and wrote a note to Madame Schmitt, her French 
 
 134
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 135 
 
 instructress, to saj that she had been suddenly called 
 away on urgent business, and asking her nevertheless 
 to count the time as a lesson given. This done, she 
 put her credit notes and her cheque book into her hand- 
 bag, and, leaving the note with the concierge's wife, 
 who bristled with interesting suspicions, she vanished 
 into Paris. 
 
 The weather was -even more superb than on the pre- 
 vious day. Paris glittered around her as she drove, 
 slowly, in a horse-taxi, to the Place de I'Opera on the 
 right bank, where the grand boulevard meets the Ave- 
 nue de I'Opera and the Rue de la Pais. Here was the 
 very centre of the fashionable and pleasure-ridden dis- 
 trict which the Quarter held in noble scorn. She had 
 seen it before, because she had started a banking ac- 
 count (under advice from Mr. Foulger), and the estab- 
 lishment of her bankers was situate at the corner of 
 the Avenue de I'Opera and the Rue de la Paix. But 
 she knew little of the district, and such trifling informa- 
 tion as she had acquired was tinged by the natural 
 hostility of a young woman who for over six months, 
 with no compulsion to do so, had toiled regularly and 
 fiercely in the pursuit of knowledge. She paid off the 
 cab, and went to test the soundness of her bankers. 
 The place was full of tourists, and in one department 
 of it young men in cages, who knew not the Quarter, 
 were counting, and ladling, and pinning together, and 
 engorging, and dealing forth, the currency and notes 
 of all the great nations of the earth. The spectacle 
 was inspiring. 
 
 In half a year the restive but finally obedient Mr. 
 Foulger had sent three thousand pounds to Paris in 
 the unpoetic form of small oblong pieces of paper 
 signed with his own dull signature. Audrey desired to 
 experience the thrill of authentic money. She waited
 
 136 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 some time in front of a cage, with her cheque boot 
 open on the counter, until a young man glanced at her 
 interrogatively through the bars. 
 
 "How much money have I got here, please?" she 
 asked. She ought to have said : "What is my balance, 
 please?" But nobody had taught her the sacred 
 formula. 
 
 "What name?" said the clerk. 
 
 "Moze — ^Audrey Moze," she answered, for she had 
 not dared to acquaint Mr. Foulger with her widow- 
 hood, and his cheques were made out to herself. 
 
 The clerk vanished, and in a moment reappeared, 
 silently wrote something on a little form, and pushed 
 it to her under the grill. She read: 73,065 frs. 50c. 
 
 The fact was that in six months she had spent little 
 more than the amount which she had brought with her 
 from London. Having begun in simplicity, in sim- 
 plicity she had continued, partly because she had been 
 too industrious and too earnest for luxurious caprices, 
 partly because she had never been accustomed to any- 
 thing else but simplicity, and partly from wilfulness. 
 It had pleased her to think that she was piling tens 
 of thousands upon tens of thousands — in francs. 
 
 But in the night she had decided that the moment 
 had arrived for a change in the great campaign of 
 seeing life and tasting it. 
 
 She timorously drew a cheque for eleven thousand 
 francs, and asked for ten thousand in notes and a 
 thousand in gold. The clerk showed no trace of cither 
 astonishment or alarm ; but he insisted on her endorsing 
 the cheque. When she saw the gold, she changed half 
 of it for ten notes of fifty francs each. 
 
 Emerging with false but fairly plausible nonchalance 
 from the crowded establishment, where other clerks were 
 selling tickets to Palestine, Timbuctoo, Bagdad, Ber-
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 137 
 
 lin and all the abodes of happiness in the world, she 
 saw at the newspaper kiosque opposite the little blue 
 poster of an English daily. It said: "More Suffragette 
 Riots." She had a qualm, for her conscience was apt 
 to be tyrannic, and its empire over her had been 
 strengthened by the long, steady course of hard work 
 which she had accomplished. Miss Ingate's arguments 
 had not placated that conscience. It had said to her in 
 the night : "If ever there was a girl who ought to assist 
 heartily in the emancipation of women, that girl is you, 
 Audrey Moze." 
 
 "Pooh !" she replied to her conscience, for she could 
 always confute it with a sharp word — for a time. 
 
 And she crossed to the grand boulevard, and turned 
 westward along the splendid, humming, roaring thor- 
 oughfare gay with flags and gleaming with such plate 
 glass as Nick the militant would have loved to shatter. 
 Certainly there was nothing like this street in the 
 Quarter. The Quarter could equal it neither in shops, 
 nor in cafes, nor in vehicles, nor in crowds. It was an 
 exultant thoroughfare, and Audrey caught its buoy- 
 ancy, which could be distinctly seen in the feather on 
 her hat. At the end of it she passed into the cool shade 
 of a music-shop with the name "Durand" on its fa9ade. 
 She had found the address, and another one, in the 
 telephone-book at the Cafe de Versailles that morning. 
 It was an immense shop containing millions of pieces 
 of music for all instruments and all tastes. Yet when 
 she modestly asked for the Caprice for violin of Roussel, 
 the morceau was brought to her without the slightest 
 hesitation, together with the pianoforte accompani- 
 ment. The price was twelve francs. 
 
 Her gloved hand closed round the slim roll with the 
 delicate firmness which was actuating all her proceed- 
 ings on that magnificent afternoon. She was deter-
 
 138 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 mined to save Musa not merely from himself, but from 
 Miss Thompkins and everybody. It was not that she 
 was specially interested in Musa. No ! She was inter- 
 ested in a clean, neat job, — that was all. She had begun 
 to take charge of Musa, and she intended to carry the 
 affair through. He had the ability to succeed, and 
 he should succeed. It would be ridiculous for him not 
 to succeed. From certain hints, and from a deeply 
 sagacious instinct, she had divined that money and 
 management were the only ingredients lacking to 
 Musa's triumph. She could supply both these elements ; 
 and she would. And her reward would he the pride of 
 the workman in his job. 
 
 Now her firmness hesitated. She retraced the boule- 
 vard to the Place de I'Opera, and then took the Rue de 
 la Paix. In the first shop on the left hand side, next 
 to her bankers, she saw, amid a dazzling collection of 
 jewelled articles for travellers and letter-writers and 
 diary-keepers, a sublime gold handbag, or, as the 
 French say, hand-sack. Its clasp was set with a 
 sapphire. Impulse sent her gliding right into the shop, 
 with the words already on her lips : "How much is that 
 gold hand-sack in the window .f"' But when she reached 
 the hushed and shadowed interior, which was furnished 
 like a drawing-room with soft carpets and tapestried 
 chairs, she beheld dozens of gold hand-sacks glinting 
 like secret treasure in a cave ; and she was embarrassed 
 by the number and variety of them. A well dressed 
 and affable lady and gentleman, with a quite remark- 
 able similarity of prominent noses, welcomed her in 
 general terms, and seemed surprised, and even a little 
 pained, when she talked about buying and selling. She 
 came out of the shop with a gold hand-sack which had 
 cost twelve hundred francs, and all her money was in it. 
 
 Fortified by the impressive bauble, she walked along
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 139 
 
 the street to the Place Vendome, where she descried in 
 the distance the ghttering signs and arms of the Hotel 
 du Danube. Then she walked up the opposite pave- 
 ment of the Rue de la Paix, and down again and up 
 again until she had grasped its significance. 
 
 It was a street of jewellery, perfumes, antiques, 
 gloves, hats, frocks, and furs. It was a stret wherein 
 the lily was painted and gold was gilded. Every window 
 was a miracle of taste, refinement, and costliness. Every 
 article in every window was so dear that no article was 
 ticketed with its price, save a few wafer-like watches 
 and jewelled rings that bore tiny figures such as 12,500 
 francs, 40,000 francs. Despite her wealth, Audrey felt 
 poor. The upper windows of nearly all the great build- 
 ings were arrayed with plants in full bloom. The 
 roadway was covered with superb automobiles, some 
 of them nearly as long as trains. About half of them 
 stood in repose at the kerb, and Audrey as she strolled 
 could see through their panes of bevelled glass the com- 
 plex luxury within of toy-dogs, clocks, writing-pads, 
 mirrors, powder-boxes, parasols, and the lounging 
 arrogance of uniformed menials. At close intervals 
 women passed rapidly across the pavements to or from 
 these automobiles. If they were leaving a shop, the 
 automobile sprang into life, dogs, menials, and all, the 
 door was opened, the woman slipped in like a mechan- 
 ical toy, the door banged, the menial jumped, and with 
 trumpet tones the entire machine curved and swept 
 away. The aspect of these women made Audrey feel 
 glad that she was wearing her best clothes, and simul- 
 taneously made her feel that her best clothes were worse 
 than useless. 
 
 She saw an automobile shop with a card at the door : 
 "Town and touring cars for hire by day, week, or 
 month." A gorgeous Mercedes, too spick, too span.
 
 140 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 altogether too celestial for earthly use, occupied most 
 of the shop. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Madame," said a man in bad Eng- 
 lish. For Audrey had misguided herself into the 
 emporium. She did not care to be addressed in her 
 own tongue; she even objected to the instant discovery 
 of her nationality, of which at the moment she was 
 ashamed. And so it was with frigidity that she en- 
 quired whether cars were to be hired. 
 
 The shopman hesitated. Audrey knew that she had 
 committed an indiscretion. It was impossible that cars 
 should be handed out thus unceremoniously to anybody 
 who had the fancy to enter the shop ! Cars were nat- 
 urally the subject of negotiations and references . . . 
 And then the shopman, espying the gold bag, and being 
 by it and by the English frigidity humbled to his proper 
 station, fawned and replied that he had cars for hire, 
 and the best cars. Did the lady want a large car or a 
 small car.'' She wanted a large car. Did she want a 
 town or a touring car? She wanted a town car, 
 and by the week. When did she want it? She wanted 
 it at once — in half an hour. 
 
 "I can hire you a car in half an hour, with liveried 
 chauffeur," said the shopman, after telephoning. "But 
 he cannot speak English." 
 
 "^a TTi'est cgal," answered Audrey with grim satis- 
 faction. "What kind of a car will it be?" 
 
 "Mercedes, Madam." 
 
 The price was eight hundred francs a week, inclu- 
 sive. As Audrey was paying for the first week the man 
 murmured : 
 
 "What address. Madam?" 
 
 "Hotel du Danube," she answered like lightning — in- 
 deed far quicker than thought. "But I shall call here 
 for the car. It must be waiting outside."
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 141 
 
 The dispenser of cars bowed. 
 
 "Can you get a taxi for me?" Audrey suggested. "I 
 will leave this roll here and this bag," producing her 
 old handbag which she had concealed under her coat. 
 And she thought: "All this is really very simple." 
 
 At the other address which she had found in the 
 telephone-book — a house in the Rue d'Aumale — she said 
 to an aged concierge: 
 
 "Monsieur Foa — which floor.''" 
 
 A very dark, rather short and negligently dressed 
 man of early middle-aged who was descending the stair- 
 case, raised his hat with grave ceremony : 
 
 "Pardon, Madame. Foa — it is I." 
 
 Audrey was not prepared for this encounter. She 
 had intended to compose her face and her speech while 
 mounting the staircase. She blushed. 
 
 "I come from Musa — the violinist," she began hesi- 
 tatingly, "You invited him to play at your flat on 
 Friday night, Monsieur." 
 
 Monsieur Foa gave a sudden enchanting smile: 
 
 "Yes, madame. I hear much good of him from my 
 friend Dauphin, much good. And we long to hear him 
 play. It appears he is a great artist." 
 
 "He has had an accident," said Audrey. Monsieur 
 Foa's face grew serious. "It is nothing — a few days. 
 The elbow — a trifle. He cannot play next Friday. 
 But he will be desolated if he may not play to you later. 
 He has so few friends ... I came ... I ... " 
 
 "Madame, every Friday we are at home, every Fri- 
 day. My wife will be ravished. I shall be ravished. 
 Believe me. Let him be reassured." 
 
 "Monsieur, you are too amiable. I shall tell Musa." 
 
 "Musa, he may have few friends — it is possible, 
 Madame — but he is nevertheless fortunate, ^tl-'dame 
 is English, is it not so.'^ My wife and I adore England
 
 142 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 and the English. For us there is only England. If 
 Madame would do us the honour of coming when Musa 
 plays . . . My wife will send an invitation, to the end 
 of remaining within the rules. You, Madame, and any 
 of your friends." 
 
 "Monsieur is too amiable, truly." 
 
 In the end they were standing together on the pave- 
 ment by the waiting taxi. She gave him her card, and 
 breathed the words "Hotel du Danube." He was en- 
 chanted. She offered her hand. He took it, raised it, 
 and kissed the back of it. Then he stood with his hat 
 off until she had passed from his sight. 
 
 Audrey was burning with excitement. She said to 
 herself : 
 
 "I have discovered Paris." 
 
 When the taxi turned again into the Rue de la Paix, 
 she thought: 
 
 "The car will not be waiting. It would be too lovely 
 if it were." 
 
 But there the car was, huge, glistening, unreal, in- 
 credible. And a chauffeur gloved and liveried in brown, 
 to match the car, stood by its side, and the shopman 
 was at the door, holding the Caprice of Roussel and 
 the old handbag ready in his hand. 
 
 "Here is Madame," said he. 
 
 The chauffeur saluted. 
 
 The car was closed. 
 
 "Will Madame have the carriage open or closed?" 
 
 "Closed." 
 
 Having paid the taxi-driver, Audrey entered the car, 
 and as she did so, she threw over her shoulder : 
 
 "Hotel du Danube." 
 
 While the chauffeur started the engine, the shopman 
 with brilliant smiles delivered the music and the bag. 
 The door clicked. Audrey noticed the clock, the rug,
 
 THE RIGHT BANK 143 
 
 the powder-box, the speaking-tube, and the mirror. 
 She gazed, and saw a face triumphant and delicious in 
 the mirror. The car began to ghde forward. She 
 leaned back against the pale grey upholstery, but in her 
 soul she was standing and crying with a wild wave of 
 the hand, to the whole street: 
 
 "It is a miracle !" 
 
 In a moment the gigantic car stopped in front of 
 the Hotel du Danube. Two attendants rushed out in 
 uniforms of delicate blue. They did not touch their 
 hats — they raised them. Audrey descended and pene- 
 trated into the portico, where a tall dandy saluted and 
 enquired her will. She wanted rooms ; she wanted a 
 flat.? Certainly. They had nothing but flats. A large 
 flat on the ground-floor was at her disposal absolutely. 
 Two bedrooms, sitting-room, bathroom. It had its own 
 private entrance in the courtyard. She inspected it. 
 The suite was furnished in the Empire style. Herself 
 and maid.? No. A friend! Well, the maids could 
 sleep upstairs. It could arrange itself. She had no 
 maid.? Her friend had no maid.? Ah! So much the 
 better. Sixty francs a day. 
 
 "Where is the dining-room.?" demanded Audrey. 
 
 "Madame," said the dandy, shocked. "We have no 
 dining-room. All meals are specially cooked to order 
 and served in the private rooms. We have the reputa- 
 tion ..." He opened his arms and bowed. 
 
 Good! Good! She would return with her friend in 
 one hour or so. 
 
 "106 Rue Delambre," she bade the chauffeur, after 
 being followed to the pavement by the dandy and a 
 suite. 
 
 "Rue de Londres?" said the chauff'eur. 
 
 "No. Rue Delambre." 
 
 It had to be looked out on the map, but the chauff'eur,
 
 144 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 trained to the hour, did not blench. However, when 
 he found the Rue Delambre, the success with which he 
 repudiated it was complete. 
 
 "Winnie !" began Audrey in the studio, with assumed 
 indifference. Miss Ingate was at tea. 
 
 "Oh! You are a swell. Where you been.'"' 
 
 "Winnie ! What do you say to going and living on 
 the right bank for a bit?" 
 
 "Well, well!" said Miss Ingate. "So that's it, is it.? 
 I've been ready to go for a long time. Of course you 
 want to go first thing to-morrow morning. I know 
 you." 
 
 "No, I don't," said Audrey. "I want to go to-night. 
 Now ! Pack the trunks quick. I've got the finest auto 
 you ever saw waiting at the door."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ROBES 
 
 On the second following Friday evening, Audrey's 
 suite of rooms at the Hotel du Danube glowed in every 
 corner with pink-shaded electricity. According to what 
 Audrey had everywhere observed to he the French cus- 
 tom, there was in this flat the minimum of corridor 
 and the maximum of doors. Each room communicated 
 dii'ectly with all the other rooms. The doors were open, 
 and three women continually in a feverish elation passed 
 to and fro. Empire chairs and sofas were covered with 
 rich garments of every colour and form and material, 
 from the transparent blue silk matinee to the dark 
 heavy cloak of velvet ornamented with fur. The place 
 was in fact very like the showrooms of a cosmopolitan 
 dressmaker after a vast trying-on. Sundry cosmopoli- 
 tan dressmakers had contributed to the rich confusion. 
 None had hesitated for an instant to execute Audrey's 
 commands. They had all been waiting, apparently 
 since the beginning of time, to serve her. All that dis- 
 trict of Paris had been thus waiting. The flat had 
 been waiting, the automobile had been waiting, the 
 chauffeur had been waiting, and purveyors of every 
 sort. A word from her seemed to have released them 
 from an enchantment. For the most part they were 
 strange people, these magical attendants, never men- 
 tioning money, but rather deprecating the sound of it, 
 and content to supply nothing but the finest produc- 
 tions of their unquestionable genius. Still, Audrey 
 
 145
 
 146 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 reckoned that she owed about twenty-five thousand 
 francs to Paris. 
 
 The third woman was the maid, Elise. The hotel 
 had invented and dehvered Ehse, and thereafter seemed 
 easier in its mind. Ehse was thirty years of age and 
 not repellent of aspect. On a black dress she wore the 
 smallest white muslin apron that either Audrey or Miss 
 Ingate had ever seen. She kept pins in her mouth, but 
 in other respects showed few eccentricities beyond an 
 extreme excitability. When at eight o'clock Mademoi- 
 selle's new gown, promised for seven, had not arrived, 
 Elise begged permission to use Madame's salts. When 
 the bell rang at eight-thirty, and a lackey brought in 
 an oval-shaped box with a long loop to it of leathern 
 strap, she only just managed not to kiss the lackey. 
 The rapid movement of Mademoiselle and Elise with 
 the contents of the box from the drawing-room into 
 Mademoiselle's bedroom was the last rushing and swish- 
 ing that preceded a considerable peace. 
 
 Madame was absolutely ready, in her bedroom. In 
 the large mirror of the dark wardrobe she surveyed her 
 victoriously young face, the magnificent grey dress, the 
 coiffure, the jewels, the spangled shoes, the fan; and 
 the ensemble satisfied her. She was intensely and calmly 
 happy. No thought of the past nor of the future, nor 
 of what was going on in other parts of the earth's 
 surface could in the slightest degree impair her happi- 
 ness. She had done nothing herself, she had neither 
 earned mone^'^ nor created any of the objects which 
 adorned her ; nor was she capable of doing the one or 
 the other. Yet she felt proud as well as happy, be- 
 cause she was young and superbly healthy, and not un- 
 attractive. These were her high virtues. And her 
 attitude was so right that nobody would have disagreed 
 with her.
 
 ROBES 147 
 
 Her left ear was listening for the sound, through the 
 unlatched window, of the arrival of the automobile with 
 Musa and his fiddle inside it. 
 
 Then the door leading from Mademoiselle's bedroom 
 opened sharply, and Mademoiselle appeared, with her 
 grey hair, her pale shining forehead, her sardonic grin, 
 and the new dress of those Empire colours, magenta, 
 and green. Elise stood behind, trembling with satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 "Well " Audrey began. But she heard the auto- 
 mobile, and told Elise to run and be ready to open the 
 front-door of the flat. 
 
 "Rather showy, isn't it? Rather daring?" said Miss 
 Ingate, advancing self-consciously and self-deprecat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Winnie," answered Audrey. "It's a nice question 
 between you and the Queen of Sheba." 
 
 Suddenly Miss Ingate beheld in the mirror the 
 masterpiece of an illustrious male dressmaker — a mas- 
 terpiece in which no touch of the last fashion was abated 
 — and little Essex Winnie grinning from within it. 
 
 She screamed. And forthwith putting her hands be- 
 hind her neck she began to unhook the corsage. 
 
 "What are you doing, Winnie?" 
 
 "I'm taking it ofF." 
 
 "But why.?" 
 
 "Because I'm not going to wear it." 
 
 "But you've nothing else to wear." 
 
 "I can't help that." 
 
 "But you can't come. What on earth shall you do?" 
 
 "I daresay I shall go to bed. Or I might shoot my- 
 self. But if you think that I'm going outside this room 
 in this dress, you're a perfect simpleton, Audrey. I 
 don't mind being a fool, but I won't look one." 
 
 Audrey heard Musa enter the drawing-room.
 
 148 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 She pulled the door to, keeping her hand on the knob. 
 
 "Very well, Winnie," she said coldly, and swept into 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 As she and Musa left the pink rose-shaded flat, she 
 heard a burst of tears from Elise in the bedroom. 
 
 "21, Rue d'Aumale," she curtly ordered the chauf- 
 feur, who sat like a god obscurely in front of the 
 illuminated interior of the carriage. Musa's viohn-case 
 lay amid the cusliions therein. 
 
 The chauffeur approvingly touched his hat. The 
 Rue d'Aumale was a good street. 
 
 "I wonder what his surname is.'"' Audrey thought 
 curiously. "And whether he's in love or married, and 
 h?.s children." She knew nothing of him save that his 
 Christian name was Michel. 
 
 She was taciturn and severe with Musa.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SOIEEE 
 
 "MoNSiEUE Fo^ — which floor?" Audrey asked once 
 again of the aged concierge in the Rue d'Aumale. This 
 time she got an answer. It was the fifth or top floor. 
 Musa said nothing, permitting himself to be taken about 
 like a parcel, though with a more graceful passivity. 
 There was no lift, but at each floor a cushioned seat 
 for travellers to use and a palm in a coloured pot in a 
 niche for travellers to gaze upon as they rested. The 
 quality of the palms, however, deteriorated floor by 
 floor, and on the fourth and fifth floors the niches were 
 empty. A broad embroidered bell-pull, twitched, gave 
 rise to one clanging sound within the abode of the Foas, 
 and the clanging sound reacted upon a small dog which 
 yapped loudly and continued to yap until the visitors 
 had entered and the door been closed again. Monsieur 
 came out of a room into the small entrance-hall, accom- 
 panied by a considerable noise of conversation. He 
 beamed his ravishment ; he kissed hands ; he helped with 
 the dark blue cloak. 
 
 "I brought Monsieur Musa in my car," said Audrey. 
 "The weather " 
 
 Monsieur Foa bowed low to Monsieur Musa, and 
 Monsieur Musa bowed low to Monsieur Foa. 
 
 "Monsieur !" 
 
 "Monsieur !" 
 
 "Monsieur, your accident I hope ..." 
 
 And so on. 
 
 149
 
 150 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Cloak, overcoat, hat, stick, — everything except the 
 viohn-case — were thrown pell-mell onto a piece of fur- 
 niture in the entrance-hall. Monsieur Foa, instead of 
 being in evening-dress, was in exactly the same clothes 
 as he had worn at his first meeting with Audrey. 
 
 Madame Foa appeared in the doorway. She was a 
 slim blonde Italian of pure descent, whereas only the 
 paternal grandfather of Monsieur Foa had been Italian. 
 Madame Foa, who had called on Audrey at the Danube, 
 exhibited the same symptoms of pleasure as her 
 husband. 
 
 "But your friend.'' But your friend?" cried she. 
 
 Audrey, being led gradually into the drawing-room, 
 explained that Miss Ingate had been prevented at the 
 last moment, etc., etc. 
 
 The distinction of Madame Foa's simple dress had 
 reassured Audrey to a certain extent, but the size of 
 the drawing-room disconcerted her again. She had 
 understood that the house of the Foas was the real 
 esoteric centre of musical Paris, and she had prepared 
 herself for vast and luxurious salons, footmen, foun- 
 tains of wine, rare flowers, dandies, and the divine 
 shoulders of operatic sopranos who combined wit with 
 the most seductive charm. The drawing-room of the 
 Foas was not as large as her own drawing-room at the 
 Danube. Still it was full, and double doors leading to 
 an unseen dining-room at right angles to its length 
 produced an illusion of space. Some of the men and 
 some of the women were elegant, and even very elegant ; 
 others were not. Audrey instantly with her expert eye 
 saw that the pictures on the walls were of the last cor- 
 rectness, and a few by illustrious painters. Here and 
 there she could see scrawled on them "a mon ami, Andre 
 Foa." Such phenomena were balm. Everybody in the 
 room was presented to her, and with the greatest partic-
 
 SOIREE 151 
 
 ularity, and the host and hostess gazed on her as on an 
 idol, a jewel, an exquisite and startling discovery. Musa 
 found two men he knew. The conversation was resumed 
 with energy. 
 
 "And now," said Madame Foa in English, sitting 
 down intimately beside Audrey, with a loving gesture, 
 "We will have a little talk, you and I. I find our friend 
 Madame Piriac met you last year." 
 
 "Ah ! Yes," murmured Audrey, fatally struck, but 
 admirably dissembling, for she was determined to 
 achieve the evening successfully. "Madame Piriac, will 
 she come to-night?" 
 
 "I fear not," replied Madame Foa. "She would if 
 she could." 
 
 "I should so like to have seen her again," said Audrey 
 eagerly. She was so relieved at Madame Piriac's not 
 coming, that she felt she could afford to be eager. 
 
 And Monsieur Foa, a little distance off, threw a sign 
 into the duologue, and called: 
 
 "You permit me.'' Your dress . . . Exquise! 
 Exquise! And these pigs of French persist in saying 
 that the English lack taste!" He clapped his hand 
 to his forehead in despair of the French. 
 
 Then the clanging sound supervened, and the little 
 fox-terrier yapped, and Monsieur Foa went out, ejacu- 
 lating "Ah !" and Madame Foa went into the doorway. 
 Audrey glanced round for Musa, but he was out of 
 sight in the dining-room. Several people turned at once 
 and spoke to her, including two composers who had 
 probably composed more impossibilities for amateur 
 pianists than any other two men who ever hved, and a 
 musical critic with large dark eyes and an eastern air, 
 who had come from the Opera very sarcastic about the 
 Opera. One of the composers asked the critic whether 
 he had not heard Musa play.
 
 152 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Yes," said the critic. "I heard him in the Ternes 
 Quarter — somewhere. He plays very agreeably. 
 Madame," he addressed Audrey. "I was discussing 
 with these gentlemen whether it be not possible to define 
 the principle of beauty in music. Once it is defined, 
 my trade will be much simplified, you see. What say 
 you?" 
 
 How could she discourse on the principle of beauty 
 in music when she had the whole weight of the evening 
 on her shoulders .^ Musa was the whole weight of the 
 evening. Would he succeed? She was his mother, his 
 manager, his creator. He was her handiwork. If he 
 failed she would have failed. That was her sole interest 
 in him, but it was an overwhelming interest. When 
 would he be asked to play? Useless for them to flatter 
 her about her dress, to treat her like a rarity, if they 
 offered callous, careless, ofF-hand remarks, such as "He 
 plays very agreebly." 
 
 She stammered : 
 
 "I — I only know what I like." 
 
 One of the composers jumped up excitedly: 
 
 **Voila! Madame has said the final word. You hear 
 me, the final word, the most profound. Argue as you 
 will, perfect the art of criticism to no matter what 
 point, and you wiU never get beyond the final word 
 of Madame." 
 
 The critic shrugged his shoulders, and with a smile 
 bowed to the ravishing utterer of last words on the most 
 bafiiing of subjects. This fluttered person soon per- 
 ceived that she had been mistaken in supposing that 
 the room was full. The clanging sound kept recurring, 
 the dog kept barking, and new guests continually 
 poured into the room, thereby proving that it was not 
 full. All comers were introduced to Audrey, whose 
 head was a dizzy riot of strange names. Then at last
 
 SOIREE 153 
 
 a girl sang, and was applauded. Madame Foa played 
 for her. "Now," thought Audrey, "they will ask Musa." 
 Then one of the composers played the piano, his themes 
 punctuated by the clanging sound and by the dog. The 
 room was asphyxiating, but no one except Audrey 
 seemed to be inconvenienced. Then several guests rang 
 in quick succession. 
 
 "Madame !" the suave and ardent voice of Foa could 
 be heard in the entrance-hall. "And thou, Roussell 
 . . . Ippolita, Ippolita!" he called to his wife. "It is 
 Roussel." 
 
 Audrey did not turn her head. She could not. But 
 presently Roussel, in a blue suit with a wonderful flow- 
 ing bow of a black necktie in crcye de chine, was led 
 before her. And Musa was led before Roussel. Audrey, 
 from nervousness, was moved to relate the history of 
 Musa's accident to Roussel. 
 
 The moment had arrived. Roussel sat down to the 
 piano. Musa tuned his fiddle. 
 
 "From what appears," murmured Monsieur Foa to 
 nobody in particular, with an ecstatic expectant smile 
 on his face, "this Musa is all that is most amazing." 
 
 Then, in the silence, the clanging sound was renewed, 
 and the fox-terrier reacted. 
 
 "Andre, my friend," cried Madame Foa, skipping 
 into the hall. "Will you do me the pleasure of ex- 
 terminating this dog."^" 
 
 Delicate osculatory explosions and pretty exclama- 
 tions in the hall ! The hostess was encountering an old 
 friend. There was also a man's deep English voice. 
 Then a hush. The man's voice produced a very strange 
 effect upon Audrey. Roussel began to play. Musa 
 held his bow aloft. Creeping steps in the doorway 
 made Audrey look round. A lady smiled and bowed 
 to her. It was Madame Piriac, resplendent and serene.
 
 154 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Musa played the caprice. Audrey did not hear him, 
 partly because the vision of Madame Piriac, and the 
 man's deep voice, had extremely perturbed her, and 
 partly because she was so desperately anxious for 
 Musa's triumph. She had decided that she could make 
 his triumph here the prelude to tremendous things. 
 When he had finished she held her breath. . . . 
 
 The applause, after an instant, was sudden and ex- 
 tremely cordial. Monsieur Foa loudly clapped, smiling 
 at Audrey. Roussel patted Musa on the back and 
 chattered to him fondly. On each side of her Audrey 
 could catch murmured exclamations of delight. Musa 
 himself was certainly pleased and happy . . . He had 
 played at Foa's, where it was absolutely essential to 
 play if one intended to conquer Paris and to prove one's 
 pretensions ; and he had found favour with this satiated 
 and fastidious audience. 
 
 "Ow/.'" sighed the musical critic orientally lounging 
 on a chair. "Andre, has it occurred to you that we 
 are expiring for want of air.?" 
 
 A window was opened, and a shiver went through 
 the assembly. 
 
 The clanging sounded again, but no dog, for the 
 dog had been exterminated. 
 
 "Dauphin, my old pig!" Foa's greeting from the 
 entrance floated into the drawing-room, and then a very 
 impressed : "Mademoiselle" from Madame Foa. 
 
 "What.'"' cried Dauphin. "Musa has played? He 
 played well.? So much the better. What did I tell 
 you.?" 
 
 And he entered the drawing-room with the satisfied 
 air of having fed Musa from infancy and also of having 
 taught him all he know about the violin. 
 
 Madame Foa followed him, and with her was Miss 
 Ingate, gorgeous and blushing. The whole company
 
 SOIREE 155 
 
 was now on its feet and moving about. Miss Ingate 
 scuttercd to Audrey. 
 
 "Well," she whispered. "Here I am. I came partly 
 to satisfy that hysterical Elise, and ^Monsieur Dauphin 
 met me on the stairs. But really I came because I've 
 had another letter from Miss Nickall. She's been and 
 got her arm broken in a street row. I knew those 
 policemen would do it one day. I always said they 
 would." 
 
 But Audrey seemed not to be listening. With a side- 
 long gaze she saw Madame Piriac talking with a middle- 
 aged Englishman, whose back alone was visible to her. 
 Madame Piriac laughed and vanished out of sight into 
 the dining-room. The Englishman turned and met 
 Audrey's glance. 
 
 Abruptly leaving Miss Ingate, Audrey walked 
 straight up to the Englishman. 
 
 "Good evening," she said in a low voice. "What Is 
 your name.?" 
 
 "Gilman," he answered, with a laugh. "I only this 
 instant recognised you." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Gilman," said Audrey, "will you oblige 
 me very much by not recognising me? I want us to be 
 introduced. I am most particularly anxious that no 
 one should know I'm the same girl that helped you to 
 jump ofF your yacht at Lousey Hard last year." 
 
 And she moved quickly away.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A DECISION 
 
 The entire company was sitting or standing round 
 the table in the dining-room. It was a table at which 
 eight might have sat down to dinner with a fair amount 
 of comfort; and perhaps thirty-eight now were suc- 
 cessfully claiming an interest in it. Not at the end, 
 but about a third of the way down one side, Madame 
 Foa brewed tea in a copper receptacle over a spirit 
 lamp. At the other extremity was a battalion of glasses, 
 some syphons and some lofty bottles. Except for a 
 border of tea-cups and glasses the rest of the white 
 expanse was empty, save that two silver biscuit boxes 
 and a silver cigarette-box wandered up and down it 
 according to the needs of the community. Audrey was 
 sitting next to the oriental musical critic, "on her left, 
 and on her right she had a beautiful stout woman who 
 could speak nothing but Polish, but who expressed her- 
 self very clearly in the language of smiles, nods, and 
 shrugs ; to Audrey she seemed to be extremely romantic ; 
 the musical critic could converse somewhat in PoHsh, 
 and occasionally he talked across Audrey to the Pole. 
 Several other languages were flying about. The sub- 
 ject of discussion was feminism, chiefly as practised in 
 England. It was Miss Ingate who had begun it; her 
 striking and peculiar appearance, and in particular 
 lier frock, had given importance to her lightest woi'd. 
 People who comprehended naught of English listened 
 to her entranced. The host, who was among these, 
 
 156
 
 A DECISION 157 
 
 stood behind her in a state of ecstasy. Her pale fore- 
 head reddened ; her sardonic grin became deliciously 
 self-conscious. "I know I'm skidding," she cried. "I 
 know I'm skidding." 
 
 "What does she say.'' Skeed — skeed.'"' demanded the 
 host. 
 
 Audrey interpreted. Shouts of laughter! 
 
 "Oh ! These English ! These Englishwomen !" said 
 the host. "I adore them. I adore them all. They 
 alone exist." 
 
 "It's vehy serious !" protested Miss Ingate. "It's 
 vehy serious !" 
 
 "We shall go to London to-morrow, shan't we, Win- 
 nie?" said Audrey across the table to her. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Miss Ingate. "I think we ought. 
 We're as free as birds. When the police have broken 
 our arms we can come back to Paris to recover. I 
 shan't feel comfortable until I've been and had my arm 
 broken — it's vehy serious." 
 
 "What does she say.'' What is it that she says.'"' 
 from the host. 
 
 More interpretation. More laughter, but this time 
 an impressed laughter. And Audrey perceived that just 
 as she was regarding the Pohsh woman as romantic, 
 so the whole company was regarding herself and Miss 
 Ingate as romantic. She could feel the polite, curious 
 eyes of twenty men upon her; and her mind seemed to 
 stiffen into a formidable resolve. She grew conscious 
 of the lifting of all depression, all anxiety. Her con- 
 science was at rest. She had been thinking for more 
 than a week past: "I ought to go to London." How 
 often had she not said to herself: "If any woman 
 should be in this movement, I should be in this move- 
 ment. I am a coward as long as I stay here, dallying
 
 158 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 my time away." Now the decision was made, abso- 
 lutely. 
 
 The oriental musical critic turned to glance upward 
 behind his chair. Then he vacated it. The next in- 
 stant Madame Piriac was sitting in his place. 
 
 She said: 
 
 "Are you really going to London to-morrow, 
 
 Madame?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame, really!" answered Audrey firmly, 
 without the least hesitation. 
 
 "How I regret it! For this reason. I wished so 
 much to make your acquaintance. I mean — to know 
 you a httle. You go perhaps in the afternoon? Could 
 you not do me the great pleasure of coming to lunch 
 with me? I inhabit the Quai Voltaire. It is all that 
 is most convenient." 
 
 Audrey was startled and suspicious, but she could 
 not deny the persuasiveness of the invitation. 
 
 "Ah ! Madame !" she said. "I know not at what hour 
 we go. But even if it should be in the afternoon there 
 is the packing — you know — in a word . . ." 
 
 "Listen," Madame Piriac proceeded, bending even 
 more intimately towards her. "Be very, very kind. 
 Come to see me to-night. Come in my car. I will see 
 that you reach the Rue Delambre afterwards." 
 
 "But Madame, we are at the Hotel du Danube. I 
 have my own car. You are very amiable." 
 
 Madame Piriac was a little taken aback. 
 
 "So much the better," she said, in a new tone. "The 
 Hotel du Danube is nearer still. But come in my car. 
 Mademoiselle Ingate can return in yours. Do not deso- 
 late me." 
 
 "Does she know who I am.?" thought Audrey, and 
 then: "What do I care if she does.?" 
 
 And she said aloud:
 
 A DECISION 159 
 
 "Madame, it is I who would be desolated to deprive 
 myself of this pleasure." 
 
 A considerable period elapsed before they could 
 leave, because of the complex discussion concerning 
 feminism which was delicately raging round the edge 
 of the table. The animation was acute, but it was 
 purely intellectual. The guests discussed the psychol- 
 ogy of English suffragettes, sympathetically, admir- 
 ingly; they were even wonderstruck ; yet they might 
 have been discussing the psychology of the ancient 
 Babylonians, so perfect was their detachment, so com- 
 pletely unclouded by any prejudice was their desire to 
 reach the truth. Many of the things which they im- 
 perturbably and politely said made Audrey feel glad 
 that she was a widow. Had she not been a widow, 
 possibly they would not have been uttered. 
 
 And when Madame Piriac and Audrey did rise to 
 go, both host and hostess began to upbraid. The host, 
 indeed, barred the doorway with his urbane figure. They 
 were not kind, they were not true friends, to leave so 
 soon. The morrow had no sort of importance. The 
 hour was scarcely one o'clock. Other guests were ex- 
 pected . . . Madame Piriac alone knew how to handle 
 the situation; she appealed privately to Madame Foa. 
 Having appealed to Madame Foa, she disappeared with 
 Madame Foa, and could not be found when Audrey an^ 
 Miss Ingate were ready to leave. While these two 
 waited in the antechamber. Monsieur Foa said suddenly 
 in a confidential tone to Audrey : 
 
 "He is charming, Musa, quite charming." 
 
 "Did you like his playing?" Audrey demanded 
 boldly. 
 
 She could not understand why it should be necessary 
 for a violinist to play and to succeed at this house 
 before he could capture Paris. She was delighted ex-
 
 160 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 cessively with the home, but positively it bore no 
 resemblance to what she had anticipated ; nor did it 
 seem to her to possess any of the attributes of influ- 
 ence ; for one of her basic ideas about the world was 
 that influential people must be dull and formal, mov- 
 ing about with deliberation in sombrely magnificent 
 interiors. 
 
 "Yes," said Monsieur Foa. "I like it. He plays 
 admirably." And he spoke sincerely. Audrey, how- 
 ever, was a little disappointed because Monsieur Foa 
 did not assert that Musa was the most marvellous 
 genius he had ever listened to. 
 
 "I am very, very content to have heard him," said 
 Monsieur Foa. 
 
 "Do you think he will succeed in Paris ?" 
 
 "Ah! Madame! There is the press. There are the 
 snobs ... In fine . . ." 
 
 "I suppose if he had money.?" Audrey murmured. 
 
 "Ah! Madame! In Paris, if one has money, one 
 has everything. Paris — it is not London, where to suc- 
 ceed one must be truly successful. But he is a player 
 very highly accomplished. It is miraculous that he 
 should have played so long in a cafe — Dauphin told 
 me the history." 
 
 Musa appeared, and after him Madame Piriac. More 
 appeals, more reproaches, more asseverations that 
 friends who left so early as one o'clock in the morning 
 were not friends, — and the host at length consented 
 to open the door. At that very instant the bell clanged. 
 Another guest had arrived. 
 
 When, after the long descent of the stairs (which, 
 however, unlike the stairs of the Rue Delambre, were 
 lighted), Audrey saw seven automobiles in the street, 
 she veered again towards the possibility that the Foas 
 might after all be influential. Musa and Mr. Gilman,
 
 A DECISION 161 
 
 the yachtsman, had left with the women. Audrey told 
 Miss Ingate to drive Musa home. She said not a word 
 to him about her departure the next afternoon, and 
 he made no reference to it. As the most imposing 
 automobile moved splendidly away, Mr. Gilman held 
 open the door of Madame Piriac's vehicle. 
 
 Mr. Gilman sat down opposite to the women. In 
 the enclosed space the rumour of his heavy breathing 
 was noticeable. Madame Piriac began to speak in 
 English — her own English — with a unique accent that 
 Audrey at once loved. 
 
 "You commence soon the yachting, my oncle?" said 
 she, and turning to Audrey : "Mistair Gilman is no oncle 
 to me. But he is a great friend of my husband. I 
 call always him oncle. Do not I, oncle? Mistair Gil- 
 man lives only for the yachting. Every year in May 
 we lose him, till September." 
 
 "Really!" said Audrey. 
 
 Her heart was apprehensively beating. She even sus- 
 pected for an instant that both of them knew who 
 she was, and that Mr. Gilman, before she had addressed 
 him in the drawing-room, had already related to 
 Madame Piriac the episode of Mozewater. Then she 
 said to herself that the idea was absurd; and lastly, 
 repeating within her breast that she didn't care, she 
 became desperately bold. 
 
 "I should love to buy a yacht," she said, after a 
 pause. "We used to live far inland and I know noth- 
 ing of the sea; in fact I scarcely saw it till I crossed 
 the Channel, but I have always dreamed about it." 
 
 "You must come and have a look at my new yacht, 
 Mrs. Moncreiff," said Mr. Gilman in his solemn, thick 
 voice. "I always say that no yacht is herself without 
 ladies on board, a yacht being feminine, you see." He 
 gave a little laugh.
 
 162 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Ah ! My oncle !" Madame Piriac broke in. "I see 
 in that no reason. If a yacht was masculine then I 
 could see the reason in it." 
 
 "Perhaps not one of my happiest efforts," said Mr. 
 Oilman with resignation. "I am a dull man." 
 
 "No, no !" Madame Piriac protested. "You are a 
 dear. But why have you said nothing to-night at the 
 Foas in the great discussion about feminism? Not one 
 word have you said!" • 
 
 "I really don't understand it," said Mr. Gilman. 
 "Either everybody is mad, or I am mad. I daresay I 
 am mad." 
 
 "Well," said Madame Piriac. "I said not much my- 
 self, but I enjoyed it. It was better than the music, 
 music, which they talk always there. People talk too 
 much shops in these days. It is out-to-place and done 
 over." N 
 
 "Do you mean overdone.''" asked Mr. Gilman mildly. 
 
 "Well, overdone, if you like better that." 
 
 "Do you mean shop, Hortense.'"' asked Mr. Gilman 
 further. 
 
 "Shop, shop! The English is impossible!" 
 
 The automobile crossed the Seine and arrived in the 
 deserted Quai Voltaire.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE BOUDOIR 
 
 In the setting of her own boudoir Madame Piriac 
 equalled, and in some ways surpassed, the finest pic- 
 tures which Audrey had imagined of her. Her evening 
 dress made Audrey doubt whether after all her own 
 was the genuine triumph which she had supposed; in 
 Madame Piriac's boudoir, and close by Madame Piriac, 
 it had disconcertingly the air of being an ingenious but 
 unconvincing imitation of the real thing. 
 
 But Madame Piriac's dress had the advantage of 
 being worn with the highest skill and assurance; 
 Madame Piriac knew what the least fold of her dress 
 was doing, in the way of effect, on the floor behind her 
 back. And Madame Piriac was mistress, not only of 
 her dress, but of herself and all her faculties. A hand- 
 some woman, rather more than slim, but not plump, 
 she had an expression of confidence, of knowing ex- 
 actly what she was about, of foreseeing all her effects, 
 which Audrey envied more than she had ever envied 
 anything. 
 
 As soon as Audrey came into the room she had said 
 to herself: "I will have a boudoir like this." It was 
 an interior in which every piece of furniture was loaded 
 with objects personal to its owner. So many signed 
 photographs, so much remarkable bric-a-brac, so many 
 intimate contrivances of ornamental comfort, Audrey 
 had never before seen within four walls. The chande- 
 lier, comprising ten thousand crystals, sparkled down 
 
 163
 
 164. THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 upon a complex aggregate of richness overwhelming to 
 everybody except Madame Piriac, who subdued it, 
 understood it, and had the key to it. Audrey wondered 
 how many servants took how many hours to dust the 
 room. She was sure, however, that whatever the num- 
 ber of servants required, Madame Piriac managed them 
 all to perfection. She longed violently to be as old as 
 Madame Piriac, whom she assessed at twenty-nine and 
 a half, and to be French, and to know all about every- 
 thing in life as Madame Piriac did. Yet at the same 
 time she was extremely determined to be Audrey, and 
 not to be intimidated by Madame Piriac or by any one. 
 
 Just as they were beginning to suck iced lemonade 
 up straws — a delightful caprice of Madame Piriac's, 
 well suited to catch Audrey's taste — the door opened 
 softly, and a tall, very dark, bearded man, appreciably 
 older than Madame Piriac, entered with a kind of soft 
 energy, and Mr. Gilman followed him. 
 
 "Ah, my friend !" murmured Madame Piriac. "You 
 give me pleasure. This is Madame Moncreiff, of whom 
 I have spoken to you. Madame — my husband. We 
 have just come from the Foas'." 
 
 Monsieur Piriac bent over Audrey's hand, and smiled 
 with vivacity, and they talked a little of the evening, 
 carelessly, as though time existed not. And then Mon- 
 sieur Piriac said to his wife: 
 
 "Dear friend. I have to work with this old Gilman. 
 We shall therefore ask you to excuse us. Till to-mor- 
 row, then. Good night." 
 
 "Good night, my friend. Do not do harm to your- 
 self. Good night, my oncle." 
 
 Monsieur Piriac saluted with formality but with 
 sincerity. 
 
 "Oh!" thought Audrey, as the men went away. "I 
 should want to marry exactly him if I did want to
 
 THE BOUDOIR 165 
 
 marry. He doesn't interfere ; he isn't curious ; he 
 doesn't want to know. He leaves her alone. She leaves 
 him alone. How clever they are !" 
 
 "My husband is now chief of the Cabinet of the For- 
 eign Minister," said Madame Piriac with modest pride. 
 "They kill themselves, you know, in that office, — espe- 
 cially in these times. But I watch. And I tell Mon- 
 sieur Gilman to watch . . . How nice you are when 
 you sit in a chair like that! Only Englishwomen know 
 how to use an easy-chair . . . To say nothing of the 
 frock." 
 
 "Madame Piriac," Audrey brusquely demanded with 
 an expression of ingenuous curiosity. "Why did you 
 bring me here.^" It was the cry of an animal at once 
 rash and rather desperate, determined to unmask all 
 the secret dangers that might be threatening. 
 
 "I much desired to see you," Madame Piriac an- 
 swered very smoothly, "in order to apologise to you for 
 my indiscreet question on the night when we first met. 
 Your fairy tale about your late husband was a very 
 proper reply to the attitude of Madame Rosamund — 
 as you all call her. It was very clever — so clever that 
 I myself did not appreciate it until after I had spoken. 
 Ever since that moment I have wanted to explain, to 
 know you more. Also your pretence of going to sleep 
 in the automobile showed what in a woman I call dis- 
 tinguished talent." 
 
 "But, Madame, I assure you that I really was 
 asleep." 
 
 "So much the better. The fact proves that your 
 instinct for the right thing is quite exceptional. It is 
 not that I would criticise Madame Rosamund, who has 
 genius. Nevertheless her genius causes her to commit 
 errors of which others would be incapable. ... So she 
 has captured you, too.'*
 
 166 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Captured me !" Audrey protested, — and she was 
 made stronger by the flattering reference to her distin- 
 guished talent. "I've never seen her from that day to 
 this !" 
 
 "No. But she has captured you. You are going." 
 
 "Going where?" 
 
 "To London, to take part in these riots." 
 
 "I shan't have anything to do with riots." 
 
 "Within a month you will have been in a riot, 
 Madame . . . and I shall regret it." 
 
 "And even if I am, Madame! You are a friend of 
 Rosamund's. You must be in sympathy." 
 
 "In sympathy with what.?" 
 
 "With — with all this sufFragism, feminism. / am 
 anyway !" Audrey sat up straight. "It's horrible that 
 women don't have the vote. And it's horrible the things 
 they have to suffer in order to get it. But they ivill 
 get it !" 
 
 "Why do you say 'they'.?" 
 
 "I mean 'we.' " 
 
 "Supposing you meant 'they,' after all?. And you 
 did, Madame. Let me tell you. You ask me if I sym- 
 pathise with suffragism. You might as well ask me 
 if I sympathise with a storm or with an earthquake, 
 or with a river running to the sea. Perhaps I do. 
 But perhaps I do not. That has no importance. 
 Feminism is a natural phenomenon; it was unavoid- 
 able. You Englishwomen will get your vote. Even 
 we in France will get it one day. It cannot be denied. 
 . . . Sympathy is not required. But let us suppose 
 that all women joined the struggle. What would hap- 
 pen to women? What would happen to the world? 
 Just as nunneries were a necessity of other ages, so 
 even in this age women must meditate. Far more 
 than men they need to understand themselves. Until
 
 THE BOUDOIR 167 
 
 they understand themselves how can they understand 
 men? The function of women is to understand. Their 
 function is also to preserve. All the beautiful and 
 luxurious things in the world are in the custody of 
 women. Men would never of themselves keep a tra- 
 dition. If there is anything on earth worth keeping, 
 women must keep it. And the tradition will be lost 
 if every woman listens to Madame Rosamund. That 
 is what she cannot see. Her genius blinds her. You 
 say I am a friend of Madame Rosamund. I am. Ma- 
 dame Rosamund was educated in Paris, at the same 
 school as my aunt and myself. But I have never helped 
 her in her mission. And I never will. My vocation is 
 elsewhere. When she fled over here from the English 
 police, she came to me. I received her. She asked me 
 to drive her to certain addresses. I did so. She was 
 my guest. I surrounded her with all that she had 
 abandoned, all that her genius had forced her to aban- 
 don. But I never spoke to her of her work, nor she 
 to me of it. Still, I dare to think that I was of some 
 value to the woman in Madame Rosamund." 
 
 Audrey felt very young and awkward and defiant. 
 She felt defiant because Madame Piriac had impressed 
 her, and she was determined not to be impressed. 
 
 "So you wanted to tell me all this," said she, put- 
 ting down her glass, with the straws in it, on a small 
 round table laden with tiny figures in silver. "Why 
 did you want to tell me, Madame.?" 
 
 "I wanted to tell you because I want you to do 
 nothing that you will regret. You greatly interested 
 me the moment I saw you. And when I saw you in 
 •that studio, in that Quarter, I feared for you." 
 
 "Feared what.?" 
 
 "I feared that you might mistake your vocation — 
 that vocation which is so clearly written on your face.
 
 168 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 I saw a woman young and free and rich, and I was 
 afraid that she might waste everything." 
 
 "But do you know anything about me?" 
 
 Madame Piriac paused before replying. 
 
 "Nothing but what I see. But I see that you are in 
 a high degree what all women are to a greater extent 
 than men — an individualist. You know the feeling that 
 comes over a woman in hours of complete intimacy with 
 a man.'' You know what I mean.'"' 
 
 "Oh, yes !" Audrey agreed, blushing. 
 
 "In those moments we perceive that only the indi- 
 vidual counts with us. And with you, above all, the 
 individual should count. Unless you use your youth 
 and your freedom and your money for some individual, 
 you will never be content; you will eternally regret. 
 All that is in your face." 
 
 Audrey blushed more, thinking of certain plans 
 formed in that head of hers. She said nothing. She 
 was both very pleased and very exasperated. 
 
 "I have a relative in England, a young girl," Ma- 
 dame Piriac proceeded, "in some unpronounceable 
 county. We write to each other. She is excessively 
 English." 
 
 Audrey was scarlet. Several times during the so- 
 journ in Paris she had sent letters (to Madame Piriac) 
 to be posted in Essex by Mr. Foulger. These letters 
 were full of quaint inventions about winter life in Essex, 
 and other matters. 
 
 Madame Piriac, looking reflectively at the red em- 
 bers of wood in the grate, went on : 
 
 "She says she may come to Paris soon. I have often 
 asked her to come, but she has refused. Perhaps next 
 month I shall go to England to fetch her. I should 
 like her to know you — very much. She is younger than 
 you are, but only a little, I think."
 
 THE BOUDOIR 169 
 
 "I shall be delighted, if I am here," Audrey stam- 
 mered, and she rose. "You are a very kind woman. 
 Very, very amiable. You do not know how much I 
 admire you. I wish I was like you. But I am not. 
 You have seen only one side of me. You should see 
 the inside. It is very strange. I must go to London. 
 I am forced to go to London. I should be a coward 
 if I did not go to London. Tell me, is my dress really 
 good.'* Or is it a deception.'"' 
 
 Madame Piriac smiled, and kissed her on both cheeks. 
 
 "It is good," said Madame Piriac. "But your maid 
 is not all that she ought to be. However, it is good." 
 
 "If you had simply praised it, and only that, I should 
 not have been content," said Audrey, and kissed Ma- 
 dame Piriac in the English way, the youthful and direct 
 way. 
 
 Not another word about the male sex, the female 
 sex, tradition or individualism, passed between them. 
 
 Mr. Gilman was summoned to take Audrey across 
 the river to the right bank. They went in a taxi. He 
 was protective and very silent. But just as the cab 
 was turning out of the Rue de Rivoli into the Rue 
 Castiglione he said : 
 
 "I shall obey you absolutely, Mrs. MoncreifF. It 
 is a great pleasure for an old, lonely man to keep a 
 secret for a young and charming woman. A greater 
 pleasure than you can possibly imagine. You may 
 count on me. I am not a talker, but you have put me 
 under an obligation, and I am very grateful." 
 
 She took care that her thanks should reward him. 
 
 "Winnie," she burst out in the rose-coloured secrecy 
 of the bedroom, "has Elise gone to bed.^^ . . . All 
 right. Well, I'm lost. Madame Piriac is going to 
 England to fetch me."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 PAGET GARDENS 
 
 "Has anything happened in this town?" asked Au- 
 drey of Miss Ingate. 
 
 It was the afternoon of the day following their ar- 
 rival in London from Paris, and it was a fine after- 
 noon. They were walking from the Charing Cross 
 Hotel, where they had slept, to Paget Gardens. 
 
 "Anything happened.?" repeated Miss Ingate. "What 
 do you mean.f* I don't see anything very particular on 
 the posters." 
 
 "Everybody looks so sad and worried, compared to 
 people in Paris." 
 
 "So they do ! So they do !" cried Miss Ingate. "Oh, 
 yes ! So they do ! I wondered what it was seemed so 
 queer. That's it. Well, of course you mustn't forget 
 we're in England. I always did say it was a very pe- 
 culiar place." 
 
 "Do we look like that?" Audrey suggested. 
 
 "I expect we do." 
 
 "I'm quite sure that I don't, Winnie, anyway. I'm 
 really very cheerful. I'm surprisingly cheerful." 
 
 It was true. Also she both looked and felt more 
 girlish than ever in Paris. Impossible to divine, watch- 
 ing her in her light clothes, and with her airy step, that 
 she was the relict of a man who had so tragically died 
 of blood-poisoning caused by bad table manners. 
 
 "I'vd a good mind to ask a policeman," said she. 
 
 "You'd better not," Miss Ingate warned her. 
 
 170
 
 PAGET GARDENS 171 
 
 Audrey instantly turned into the roadway, treating 
 the creosoted wood as though it had been rose-strewn 
 velvet, and reached a refuge where a policeman was 
 standing. The policeman bent with benevolence and 
 politeness to listen to her tale. 
 
 "Excuse me," she said, smiling innocently up at him, 
 "but is anything the matter.'"' 
 
 *'What street, miss.'*" he questioned, bending lower. 
 
 "Is anything the matter.? All the people round here 
 are so gloomy." 
 
 The policeman glanced at her. 
 
 "There will be something the matter," he remarked 
 calmly. "There will be something the matter pretty 
 soon if I have much more of that suffragette sauce. I 
 thought you was one of them the moment I saw you, 
 but I wasn't sure." 
 
 This was the first time Audrey had ever spoken to 
 a policeman, save Inspector Keeble, at Moze, who was 
 a friendly human being. And she had a little pang of 
 fear. The policeman was like a high wall of blue cloth, 
 with a marvellous imitation of a human face at the top, 
 and above the face a cupola. 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured reproachfully, and has- 
 tened back to Miss Ingate, who heard the tale with a 
 grinning awe that was, nevertheless, sardonic. They 
 pressed onwards to Piccadilly Circus, where the only 
 normal and cheerful living creatures were the van horses 
 and the flowerwomen; and up Regent Street, through 
 crowds of rapt and mystical women and romantical 
 men who had apparently wandered out of a play by 
 Henrik Ibsen. 
 
 They then took a motor-bus, which was full of the 
 same enigmatic, far-gazing heroines and heroes. When 
 they got off, the conductor pointed dreamily in a cer- 
 tain direction and murmured the words, "Paget
 
 172 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Square." Their desire was Paget Gardens, and, after 
 finding Paget Square, Paget Mansions, Paget Houses, 
 Paget Street, Paget Mews, and Upper Paget Street, 
 they found Paget Gardens. It was a terrace of huge 
 and fashionable houses fronting on an immense, blank 
 brick wall. The houses were very lofty; so lofty that 
 the architect, presumably afraid of hitting heaven with 
 his patent chimney cowls, had sunk the lowest storey 
 deep into the earth. Looking over the high palisades 
 which protected the pavement from the precipice thus 
 made, one could plainly see the lowest storey and all 
 that was therein. 
 
 "Whoever can she be staying with.'*" exclaimed Miss 
 Ingate. "It's a marchioness at least. There's no doubt 
 the very best people are now in the movement." 
 
 Audrey went first up massive steps, and, choosing 
 with marked presence of mind the right bell, rang it, ex- 
 pecting to see either a butler or a footman. 
 
 A young woman, however, answered the ring. She 
 wore a rather shabby serge frock, but no apron, and 
 she did not resemble any kind of servant. Her ruddy, 
 heavy, and slightly resentful face fronted the visitors 
 with a steady, challenging stare. 
 
 "Does Miss Nickall live here.?" asked Audrey. 
 
 "Ay ! She does !" came the answer, with a northern 
 accent. 
 
 "We've come to see how she is." 
 
 "Happen ye'd better step inside, then," said the 
 young woman. 
 
 They stepped inside to an enormous and obscure 
 interior ; the guardian banged the door, and negligently 
 led them forward. 
 
 "It is a large house," Miss Ingate ventured, against 
 the silent intimidation of the place. 
 
 "One o' them rich uns," said the guardian. "She
 
 PAGET GARDENS 173 
 
 lends it to the Cause when she doesn't want it herself, 
 to show her sympath3^ Saves her a caretaker — they 
 all know I'm one to look right well after a house." 
 
 Having passed two very spacious rooms and a wide 
 staircase, she opened the door of a smaller but still 
 a considerable room. 
 
 "Here y'are," she muttered. 
 
 This room, like the others, was thoroughly sheeted, 
 and thus presented a misty and spectral appearance. 
 All the chairs, the chandelier, and all the pictures, were 
 masked in close-fitting pale j^ellow. The curtains were 
 down, the cai'pet was up, and a dust sheet was spread 
 under the table in the middle of the floor. 
 
 "Here's some friends of yours," said the guardian, 
 throwing her words across the room. 
 
 In an easy-chair near the fireplace sat Miss Nickall, 
 her arm in splints and in a sling. She was very thin 
 and very pallid, and her eyes brightly ghttered. The 
 customary kind expression of her face was modified, 
 though not impaired, by a look of vague apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 "Mind how ye handle her," the guardian gave warn- 
 ing, when Nick yielded herself to be embraced. 
 
 "You're just a bit of my Paris come to see me," 
 said Nick, with her American accent. Then through 
 her tears : "How's Tommy, and how's Musa, and 
 how's — how's my studio.'' Oh! This is Miss Susan 
 Foley, sister of Jane Foley. Jane will be here for 
 tea. Susan — Miss Ingate and Mrs. Moncreiff." 
 
 Susan gave a grim bob. 
 
 "Is Jane Foley coming.'* Does she live here?" asked 
 Miss Ingate, properly impressed by the name of her 
 who was the St. George of Suffragism, and perhaps 
 the most efficient of all militants. "Audrey, we are 
 in luck !"
 
 174 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 When Nick had gathered items of information about 
 Paris, she burst out: 
 
 "I can't beheve I've only met you once before. You're 
 just like old friends." 
 
 "So we are old friends," said Audrey. "Your let- 
 ters to Winnie have made us old friends." 
 
 "And when did you come over?" 
 
 "Last night," Miss Ingate replied. "We should have 
 called this morning to see you, but Mrs. MoncreifF had 
 so much business to do and people to see. I don't 
 know what it all was. She's very mysterious." 
 
 As a fact, Audrey had had an interview with Mr. 
 Foulger, who, with laudable obedience, had come up 
 to town from Chelmsford in response to a telegram. 
 Miss Ingate was aware of this, but she was not aware 
 of other and more recondite interviews which Audrey 
 had accomplished. 
 
 "And how did this happen.'"' eagerly enquired Miss 
 Ingate, at last, pointing to the bandaged arm. 
 
 Nick's face showed discomfort. 
 
 "Please don't let us talk about that," said Nick. "It 
 was a policeman. I don't think he meant it. I had 
 chained myself to the railings of St. Margaret's 
 Church." 
 
 Susan Foley put in laconically : 
 
 "She's not to be worried. I hope ye'U stay for tea. 
 We shall have tea at five sharp. Janey'll be in." 
 
 "Can't they sleep here, Susan.'"' Nick whimpered. 
 
 "Of course they can, and welcome," said Susan. 
 "There's more empty beds in this barracks than they 
 could sleep in if they slept all day and all night." 
 
 "But we're staying at a hotel. We can't possibly 
 put you to aU this trouble," Audrey protested. 
 
 "No trouble. It's my business. It's what I'm h«re
 
 PAGET GARDENS 175 
 
 for," said Susan Foley. "I'd sooner have it than mill 
 work any day o' the week." 
 
 "You're just going to be very mean if you don't 
 stay here," Nick faltered. Tears stood in her eyes 
 aa-ain. "You don't know how I feel." She murmured 
 something about Betty Burke's doings. 
 
 "We will stay ! We will stay !" Miss Ingate agreed 
 hastily. And, unperceived by Nick, she gave Audrey 
 a glance in which irony and tenderness were mingled. 
 It was as if she had whispered: "The nerves of this 
 angel have all gone to pieces. We must humour the 
 Little sentimental simpleton."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 JANE 
 
 "We've begun, ye see,'* said Susan Foley. 
 It was two minutes past five, and Miss Ingate and 
 Audrey, followed by Nick with her slung arm, entered 
 the sheeted living-room. Tremendous feats had been 
 performed. All the Moncreiff and Ingate luggage, less 
 than two hours earlier lying at the Charing Cross 
 Hotel, was now in two adjoining rooms on the third 
 floor of the great house in Paget Gardens. Drivers 
 and loiterers had assisted, under the strict and taciturn 
 control of Susan Foley. Also Nick, Miss Ingate, and 
 Audrey had had a most intimate conversation, and the 
 two latter had changed their attire to suit the station 
 of campers in a palace. 
 
 "It's lovely to be quite free and independent," Au- 
 drey had said, and the statement had been acclaimed. 
 
 Jane Foley was seated opposite her sister at the 
 small table plainly set for five. She rose vivaciously, 
 and came forward v/ith outstretched hand. She wore 
 a blue skirt and a white blouse and brown boots. She 
 was twenty-eight, but her rather small proportions and 
 her plentiful golden, fluiFy hair made her seem about 
 twenty. Her face was less homely than Susan's, and 
 more mobile. She smiled somewhat shyly, with an 
 extraordinary radiant cheerfulness. It was impossible 
 for her to conceal the fact that she was very good- 
 natured and very happy. Finally, she limped. 
 
 176
 
 JANE 177 
 
 "Susan will have the meals prompt," she said, as 
 they all sat down. "And as Susan left home on pur- 
 pose to look after me, of course she's the mistress. As 
 far as that goes, she always was." 
 
 Susan was spreading jam on a slice of bread-and- 
 butter for the one-armed Nick. 
 
 "1 dare say you don't remember me playing the 
 barrel-organ all down Regent Street that day, do you.''" 
 said Miss Ingate. 
 
 "Oh, yes ; quite well. You were magnificent !" an- 
 swered Jane, with blue eyes sparkling. 
 
 "Well, though I only just saw you — I was so busy — 
 I should remember you anywhere, Miss Foley," said 
 Miss Ingate. 
 
 "Do jou notice any difference in her.'"' questioned 
 Susan Foley harshly. 
 
 "N-o," said Miss Ingate. "Except, perhaps, she 
 looks even younger." 
 
 "Didn't you notice she's lame?" 
 
 "Oh, well — yes, I did. But you didn't expect me 
 to mention that, did you? I thought your sister had 
 just sprained her ankle, or something." 
 
 "No," said Susan. "It's for life. Tell them about 
 it, Jenny. They don't know." 
 
 Jane Foley laughed lightly, 
 
 "It was all in the day's work," she said. "It was at 
 my last visit to Holloway." 
 
 Audrey, gazing at her entranced, like a child, mur- 
 mured with awe: 
 
 "Have you been to prison, then?" 
 
 "Three times," said Jane pleasantly. "And I shall 
 be going again soon. I'm only out while they're try- 
 ing to think of some new way of dealing with me, poor 
 things ! I'm generally watched. It must cost them 
 a fearful lot of money. But what are they to do?"
 
 178 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "But how were you lamed? I can't eat any tea if 
 you don't tell me — really I can't!" 
 
 "Oh, all right!" Jane laughed. "It was after that 
 Liberal mass meeting in Peel Park, at Bradford. I'd 
 begun to ask questions, as usual, you know — ques- 
 tions they can't answer — and then some Liberal stew- 
 ards, with lovely rosettes in their buttonholes, came 
 round me and started cutting my coat with their pen- 
 knives. They cut it all to pieces. You see that was 
 the best argument they could think of in the excite- 
 ment of the moment. I believe they'd have cut up 
 every stitch I had, only perhaps it began to dawn on 
 them that it might be awkward for them. Then two 
 of them lifted me up, one by the feet and the other 
 by the shoulders, and carried me off. They wouldn't 
 let me walk. I told them they'd hurt my leg, but they 
 were too busy to listen. As soon as they came across 
 a policeman they said they had done it all to save me 
 from being thrown into the lake by a brutal and infu- 
 riated mob. I just had enough breath left to thank 
 them. Of course, the police weren't going to stand 
 that, so I was taken that night to London. Every- 
 thing was thought of except my tea. But I expect 
 they forgot that on purpose so that I should be prop- 
 erly hungry when I got to Holloway. However, I said 
 to myself, 'If I can't eat and drink when / want, I 
 won't eat and drink when they want !' And I didn't. 
 
 "After I'd paid my respects at Bow Street, and 
 was back at Holloway, I just stamped on everything 
 they offered me, and wrote a petition to the Governor 
 asking to be treated as a political prisoner. Instead 
 of granting the petition he kept sending me more and 
 more beautiful food, and I kept stamping on it. Then 
 three magistrates arrived and sat on my case, and 
 sentenced me to the punishment cells. They ran off
 
 JANE 17i 
 
 as soon as they'd sentenced me. I said I wouldn't go to 
 their punishment cells. I told everybody again how 
 lame I was. So five wardresses carried me there, but 
 they dropped me twice on the way. It was a very 
 interesting cell, the punishment cell was. If it had 
 been in the Tower, everybody would go to look at it 
 because of its quaintness. There were two pools of 
 water near to the bed. I was three days in the cell, 
 and those pools of water were always there; I could 
 see them because from where I lay on the bed the light 
 glinted on them. Just one gleam from the tiny cob- 
 webby window high up. I hadn't anything to read, of 
 course, but even if I'd had sometliing I couldn't see 
 to read. The bed was two planks, just raised an inch 
 or two above the water, and the pillow was wooden. 
 Never any trouble about making beds like that! The 
 entire furniture of this cosy drawing-room was — you'll 
 never guess — a tree-stump, meant for a chair, I think. 
 And on this tree-stump was an india-rubber cup. I 
 could just see it across the cell. 
 
 "At night the wardresses were struck with pity, or 
 perhaps it was the Governor. Anyhow, they brought 
 me a mattress and a rug. They told me to get up off 
 the bed, and I told them I couldn't get up, couldn't 
 even turn over. So they said, 'Very well, then; you 
 can do without these things,' and they took them 
 away. The funny thing was that I really couldn't get 
 up. If I tried to move, my leg made me want to 
 shriek. 
 
 "After three days they decided to take me to the 
 prison hospital. I shrieked all the way — couldn't help 
 it. They laughed. So then I laughed. In the hos- 
 pital, the doctor decided that my left ankle was 
 sprained and my right thigh broken. So I had the 
 l^st of them, after all. They had to admit they were
 
 180 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 wrong. It was most awkward for them. Then I 
 thought I might as well begin to eat. But they had 
 to be very careful what they gave me. I hadn't had 
 anything for nearly six days, you see. They were 
 in a fearful stew. Doctor was there day and night. 
 And it wasn't his fault. I told him he had all my 
 sympathies. He said he was very sorry I should be 
 lame for life, but it couldn't be helped, as the thigh 
 had been left too long. I said, 'Please don't mention 
 it.' " 
 
 "But did they keep you after that?" 
 
 "Keep me ! They implored my friends to take me 
 away. No man was ever more relieved than the poor 
 dear Governor of Holloway Prison, and the Home Sec- 
 retary himself, too, when I left in a motor-ambulance. 
 The Governor raised his hat to two of my friends. He 
 would have eaten out of my hand if I'd had a few more 
 days to tame him." 
 
 Audrey's childlike and intense gaze had become ex- 
 tremely noticeable. Jane Foley felt it upon herself, 
 and grew a little self-conscious. Susan Foley noticed 
 it with eager and grim pride, and she made a sharp 
 movement instead of sa3ang: "Yes, you do well to 
 stare. You've got something worth staring at." 
 
 Nick noticed it, with moisture in her glittering, hys- 
 teric eyes. Miss Ingate noticed it ironically. "You, 
 pretending to be a widow, and so knowing and so supe- 
 rior ! Why, you're a schoolgirl !" said the expressive 
 curve of Miss Ingate's shut lips. 
 
 And, in fact, Audrey was now younger than she 
 had ever been in Paris. She was the girl of six or 
 seven years earlier, who, at night at school, used to 
 insist upon hearing stories of real people, either frqm 
 a sympathetic teacher or from the other member of 
 the celebrated secret society. But she had never heard
 
 JANE 181 
 
 any tale to compare with Jane Foley's. It was incred- 
 ible that this straightforward, simple girl at the table 
 should be the world-renowned Jane Foley. What most 
 impressed Audrey in Jane was Jane's happiness. Jane 
 was happy, as Audrey had not imagined that any one 
 could be happy. She had within her a supply of hap- 
 piness that was constantly bubbling up. The ridicu- 
 lousness and the total futility of such matters as mo- 
 tor-cars, fine raiment, beautiful boudoirs, and correct- 
 ness, smote Audrey severely. She saw that there was 
 only one thing worth having, and that was the myste- 
 rious thing that Jane Foley had. This mysterious thing 
 rendered innocuous cruelty, stupidity, and injustice, 
 and reduced them to rather pathetic trifles. 
 
 "But I never saw all this in the papers !" Audrey 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "No paper — I mean no respectable paper — would 
 print it. Of course we printed it in our own weekly 
 paper." 
 
 "Why wouldn't any respectable paper print it.'"' 
 
 "Because it's not nice. Don't you see that I ought 
 to have been at home mending stockings instead of gal- 
 livanting round with Liberal stewards and policemen 
 and prison governors.'"' 
 
 "And why aren't you mending stockings ?" asked Au- 
 drey, with a delicious quizzical smile that crept gradu- 
 ally through the wonder and admiration in her face. 
 
 "You pal!" cried Jane Foley impulsively. "I must 
 hug you !" And she did. "I'll tell you why I'm not 
 mending stockings, and why Susan has had to leave off 
 mending stockings in order to look after me. Susan 
 and I worked in a mill when she was ten and I was 
 eleven. We were 'tenters.' We used to get up at four 
 or five in the morning and help with the housework, and 
 then put on our clogs and shawls and be at the mill
 
 182 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 at six. We worked till twelve, and then in the after- 
 noon we went to school. The next day we went to 
 school in the morning and to the mill in the afternoon. 
 When we were thirteen we left school altogether, and 
 worked twelve hours a day in the mill. In the evenings 
 we had to do housework. In fact, all our housework 
 was done before half past five in the morning and after 
 half past six in the evening. We had to work just 
 as hard as the men and boys in the mill. We got a 
 great deal less money and a great deal less decent 
 treatment ; but to make up we had to slave in the early 
 morning and late at night, while the men either snored 
 or smoked. I was all right. But Susan wasn't. And a 
 lot of women weren't, especially young mothers with 
 babies. So I learnt typewriting on the quiet, and loft 
 it all to try and find out whether something couldn't 
 be done. I soon found out — after I'd heard Rosamund 
 speak. That's the reason I'm not mending stockings. 
 I'm not blaming anybody. It's no one's fault, really. 
 It certainly isn't men's fault. Only something has to 
 be altered, and most people detest alterations. Still, 
 they do get done somehow in the end. And so there 
 you are!" 
 
 "I should love to help," said Audrey. "I expect 
 I'm not much good, but I should love to." 
 
 She dared not refer to her wealth, of which, in fact, 
 she was rather ashamed, 
 
 "Well, you can help, all right," said Jane Foley, 
 rising. "Are you a member.?" 
 
 "No. But I will be to-morrow." 
 
 "They'll give you something to do," said Jane Foley. 
 
 "Oh yes!" remarked Miss Ingate. "They'U keep 
 you busy enough — amZ charge you for it." 
 
 Susan Foley began to clear the table. 
 
 "Supper at nine," said she curtly.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE DETECTIVE 
 
 Atjdiiey and Miss Ingate were writing letters to 
 Paris. Jane Foley had gone forth again to a com- 
 mittee meeting, which was understood to be closely 
 connected with a great Liberal demonstration shortly 
 to be held in a Midland fortress of Liberalism. Miss 
 Nickall, in accordance with medical instructions, had 
 been put to bed. Susan Foley was in the basement, 
 either clearing up tea or preparing supper. 
 
 Miss Ingate, putting her pen between her teeth and 
 looking up from a blotting-pad, said to Audrey across 
 the table: 
 
 "Are you writing to Musa?" 
 
 "Certainly not !" said Audrey, with fire. "Why 
 should I write to Musa.?" She added: "But you can 
 write to him, if you like." 
 
 "Oh! Can I.'"' observed Miss Ingate, grinning. 
 
 Audrey knew of no reason why she should blush be- 
 fore Miss Ingate, yet she began to blush. She resolved 
 not to blush ; she put all her individual force into the 
 enterprise of resisting the tide of blood to her cheeks, 
 but the tide absolutely ignored her, as the tide of ocean 
 might have ignored her. 
 
 She rose from the table, and, going into a comer, 
 fidgetted with the electric switches, turning certain 
 additional lights oiF and on. 
 
 "All right," said Miss Ingate, "I'll write to him. 
 I'm sure he'll expect something. Have you finished 
 your letters.'"'
 
 184 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, what's this one on the table, then?" 
 
 "I shan't go on with that one." 
 
 "Any message for Musa.'*" 
 
 "You might tell him," said Audrey, carefully exam- 
 ining the drawn curtains of the window, "that I hap- 
 pened to meet a French concert agent this morning who 
 was very interested in him." 
 
 "Did you.?" cried Miss Ingate. "Where.?" 
 
 "It was when I was out with Mr. Foulger. The 
 agent asked me whether I'd heard a man named Musa 
 play in Paris. Of course I said I had. He told me 
 he meant to take him up and arrange a tour for him. 
 So you might tell Musa he ought to be prepared for 
 anything." 
 
 "Wonders will never cease!" said Miss Ingate. 
 "Have I got enough stamps.?" 
 
 "I don't see anything wonderful in it," Audrey 
 sharply replied. "Lots of people in Paris know he's a 
 great player, and those Jew concert agents are always 
 awfully keen — at least so I'm told. Well, perhaps, 
 after all, you'd better not tell him. It might "make him 
 conceited. . . . Now, look here, Winnie, do hurry up, 
 and let's go out and post those letters. I can't stand 
 this huge house. I keep on imagining all the empty 
 rooms in it. Hurry up and come along." 
 
 Shortly afterwards Miss Ingate shouted downstairs 
 into the earth: 
 
 "Miss Foley, we're both just going out to post some 
 letters." 
 
 The faint reply came: 
 
 "Supper at nine." 
 
 At the further corner of Paget Square they discov- 
 ered a pillar-box standing solitary in the chill night 
 among the vast and threatening architecture.
 
 THE DETECTIVE 185 
 
 "Do let's go to a cafe," suggested Audrey. 
 
 "A cafe?" 
 
 "Yes. I want to be jolly. I must break loose some- 
 where to-night. I can't wait till to-morrow. I was 
 feeling splendid till Jane Foley went. Then the house 
 began to get on my nerves, not to mention Susan Foley, 
 with her supper at nine. Do all people in London fix 
 their meals hours and hours beforehand.'' I suppose 
 they do. We used to at Moze. But I'd forgotten. 
 Come along, Winnie." 
 
 "But there are no cafes in London." 
 
 "There must be some cafes somewhere." 
 
 "Only public houses and restaurants. Of course we 
 could go to a teashop, but they're all shut up now." 
 
 "Well, then, what do people do in London when they 
 want to be jolly? I always thought London was a 
 terrific town." 
 
 "They never want to be jolly," said Miss Ingate. 
 "If they f^el as if they couldn't help being jolly, then 
 they hire a private room somewhere and draw the 
 blinds down." 
 
 With no more words, Audrey seized Miss Ingate by 
 the arm and they walked off, out of the Square and 
 into empty and silent streets where highly disciplined 
 gas-lamps kept strict watch over the deportment of 
 colossal houses. In their rapid stroll they seemed to 
 cover miles, but they could not escape from the laby- 
 rinth of tremendous and correct houses, which in 
 squares and in terraces and in crescents displayed the 
 everlasting characteristics of comfort, propriety, and 
 self-satisfaction. Now and then a wayfarer passed 
 them. Now and then a taxicab sped through the ave- 
 nues of darkness like a criminal pursued by the impal- 
 pable. Now and then a red light flickered in a porch 
 instead of a white one. But there was no surcease
 
 186 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 from the sinister spell until suddenly they emerged 
 into a long, wide, illumined thoroughfare of shut shops 
 that stretched to infinity on either hand. And a ver- 
 milion motor-bus meandered by, and this motor-bus was 
 so sad, so inexpressibly wistful, in the solemn wilder- 
 ness of the empty artery, that the two women fled 
 from the strange scene and penetrated once more into 
 the gigantic and fearful maze from which they had 
 for an instant stood free. Soon they were quite lost. 
 Till that day and night Audrey had had a notion that 
 Miss Ingate, though bizarre, did indeed know every 
 street in London. The delusion was destroyed. 
 
 "Never mind," said Miss Ingate. "If we keep on 
 we're bound to come to a cabstand, and then we can 
 take a taxi and go wherever we like — Regent Street, 
 Piccadilly, anywhere. That's the convenience of Lon- 
 don. As soon as you come to a cabstand you're all 
 right." 
 
 And then, in the distance, Audrey saw a man appar- 
 ently tampering with a gate that led to an area. 
 
 "Why," she said excitedly, "that's the house we're 
 staying in!" 
 
 "Of course it isn't!" said Miss Ingate. "This isn't 
 Paget Gardens because there are houses on both sides 
 of it and there's a big wall on one side of Paget Gar- 
 dens. I'm sure we're at least two miles off our beds." 
 
 "Well, then, how is it Nick's hairbrushes are on 
 the window-sill there, where she put them when she 
 went to bed.? I can see them quite plain. This is 
 the side street — what's-its-name.? There's the wall over 
 there at the end. Don't you remember — it's a comer 
 house. This is the side of it." 
 
 "I beheve you're right," admitted Miss Ingate. 
 "What can that man be doing there.?"
 
 THE DETECTIVE 187 
 
 They plainly saw him open the gate and disappear 
 down the area steps. 
 
 "It's a burglar," said Audrey. "This part must be 
 a regular paradise for burglars." 
 
 "More likely a detective," Miss Ingate suggested. 
 
 Audrey was thrilled. 
 
 "I do hope it is !" she murmured. "How heavenly ! 
 Miss Foley said she was being watched, didn't she?" 
 
 "What had we better do?" Miss Ingate faltered. 
 
 "Do, Winnie?" Audrey whispered, tugging at her 
 arm. "We must run in at the front door and tell 
 Supper-at-nine-o'clock." 
 
 They kept cautiously on the far side of the street 
 until the end of it, when they crossed over, nipped into 
 the dark porch of the house and rang the bell. 
 
 Susan Foley opened for them. There was no light 
 in the hall. 
 
 "Oh, is there?" said Susan Foley, very calmly, when 
 she heard the news. "I think I know who it is. I've 
 seen him hanging round my scullery door before. How 
 did he climb over those railings?" 
 
 "He didn't. He opened the gate." 
 
 "Well, I locked the gate myself this afternoon. So 
 he's got a key. I shall manage him all right. We'll 
 get the fire-extinguishers. There's about a dozen of 
 'em, I should think, in this house. They're rather 
 heavy, but we can do it." 
 
 Turning on the light in the hall, she immediately 
 lifted from its hook a red-coloured metal cone about 
 twenty inches long and eight inches in diameter at the 
 base. "In case of fire drive in knob by hard blow 
 against floor, and let liquid play on flames," she read 
 the instructions on the side. "I know them things," 
 she said. "It spurts out like a fountain, and it's a 
 rather nasty chemistry sort of a fluid. I shall take one
 
 188 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 downstairs to the scullery, and the others we'll have 
 upstairs in the room over Miss Nickall's. We can put 
 'em in the housemaid's lift. ... I shall open the scul- 
 lery door and leave it a bit open like, and when he 
 comes in I'll be ready for him behind the door with 
 this. If he thinks he can come spying after our Janey 
 like this " 
 
 "But " Miss Ingate began. 
 
 "You aren't feeling very well, are ye, Miss?" Susan 
 Foley demanded, as she put two extinguishers into the 
 housemaid's lift. "Better go and sit down in the par- 
 lour. You won't be wanted. Mrs. Moncreiff and me 
 can manage." 
 
 "Yes, we can !" agreed Audrey enthusiastically. 
 "Run along, Winnie." 
 
 After about two minutes of hard labour Susan ran 
 away and brought a key to Audrey. 
 
 *'You sneak out," she said, "and lock the gate on 
 him. I lay he'll want a new suit of clothes when I 
 done with him !" 
 
 Ecstatically, joyfully, Audrey took the key and de- 
 parted. Miss Ingate was sitting in the hall, staring 
 about her like an undecided bird. Audrey crept round 
 into the side street. Nobody was in sight. She could 
 not see over the raihngs, but she could see between 
 them into the abyss of the area. The man was there. 
 She could distinguish his dark form against the inner 
 wall. With every conspiratorial precaution, she pulled 
 the gate to, inserted the key, and locked it. 
 
 A light went up in the scullery window, of which the 
 blind was drawn. The man peeped at the sides of the 
 blind. Then the scullery door was opened. The man 
 started. A piece of wood was thrown out onto the 
 floor of the area, and the door swung outwards. Then 
 the light in the scullery was extinguished. The man
 
 THE DETECTIVE 189 
 
 waited a few moments. He had noticed that the door 
 was not quite closed, and the interstice irresistibly 
 fascinated him. He approached and put his hand 
 against the door. It yielded. He entered. The next 
 instant there was a bang and a cry, and a strong spray 
 of white liquid appeared, in the middle of which was 
 the man's head. The door slammed and a bolt was 
 shot. The man, spluttering, coughing, and swearing, 
 rubbed his eyes and wiped water from his face with 
 his hands. His hat was on the ground. At first he 
 could not see at all, but presently he felt his way to- 
 wards the steps and began to climb them. Audrey 
 ran off towards the corner. She could see and hear 
 him shaking the gate and then trying to get a key 
 into it. But as Audrey had left her key in the other 
 side of the lock, he failed in the attempt. 
 
 The next thing was that a window opened in the 
 high wall-face of the house and an immense stream 
 of liquid descended full on the man's head. Susan 
 Foley was at the window, but only the nozzle of the 
 extinguisher could be seen. The man tried to climb 
 over the railings ; he did not succeed ; they had been 
 especially designed to prevent such feats. He ran 
 down the steps. The shower faithfully followed him. 
 In no corner of his hiding did the bountiful spray 
 neglect him. As soon as one supply of liquid slackened 
 another commenced. Sometimes there were two at 
 once. The man ran up the steps again and made an- 
 other effort to reach the safety of the street. Audrey 
 could restrain herself no more. She came, palpitating 
 with joyous vitality, towards the area gate with the 
 innocent mien of a passerby. 
 
 "Whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, stopping 
 as if thunderstruck. But in the gloom her eyes were
 
 190 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 dancing fires. She was elated as she had never been. 
 
 The man only coughed. 
 
 "You oughtn't to take shower-baths like this in the 
 street," she said, veiling the laughter in her voice. "It's 
 not allowed. But I suppose you're doing it for a bet 
 or something." 
 
 The downpour ceased. 
 
 "Here, miss," said he, between coughs, "unlock this 
 gate for me. Here's the key." 
 
 "I shall do no such thing," Audrey replied. "I be- 
 lieve you're a burglar. I shall fetch a policeman." 
 
 And she turned back. 
 
 In the house. Miss Ingate was coming slowly down 
 the stairs, a fire-extinguisher in her arms, like a red 
 baby. She had a sardonic smile, but there was diffi- 
 dence in it, which showed, perhaps, that it was directed 
 within. 
 
 "I've saved one," she said, pointing to an extin- 
 guisher, "in case there should be a fire in the night." 
 
 A little later Susan Foley appeared at the door of 
 the living-room. 
 
 "Nine o'clock," she announced calmly. "Supper's 
 ready. We shan't wait for Jane." 
 
 When Jane Foley arrived, a reconnaisance proved 
 that the martyrised detective had contrived to get 
 away.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE BLUE CITY 
 
 In the following month, on a Saturday afternoon, 
 Audrey, Miss Ingate, and Jane Foley were seated at an 
 open-air cafe in the Blue City. 
 
 The Blue City, now no more, was, as may be remem- 
 bered, Birmingham's reply to the White City of Lon- 
 don, and the imitative White City of Manchester. Bir- 
 mingham, in that year, was not imitative, and, with 
 its chemical knowledge, it had discovered that certain 
 shades of blue would resist the effects of smoke far 
 more successfully than any shade of white. And ex- 
 perience even showed that these shades of blue were 
 improved, made more delicate and romantic by smoke. 
 The total impression of the show — which it need hardly 
 be said was situated in the polite Edgbaston district — 
 was ethereal, especially when its minarets and towers, 
 all in accordance with the taste of the period, were 
 beheld from a distance. Nor was the exhibition en- 
 tirely devoted to pleasure. It had a moral object, and 
 that object was to demonstrate the progress of civili- 
 sation in our islands. Its official title, indeed, was "The 
 National Progress Exhibition," but the citizens of Bir- 
 mingham and the vicinity never called it anything but 
 the Blue City. 
 
 On that Saturday afternoon a Cabinet Minister his- 
 torically hostile to the idols of Birmingham was about 
 to address a mass meeting in the Imperial Hall of the 
 Exhibition, which held seven thousand people, in order 
 
 191
 
 m THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 to prove to Birmingham that the Government of which 
 he was a member had done far more for national prog- 
 ress than any other government had done for national 
 progress in the same length of time. The presence of 
 the Cabinet Minister accounted for the presence of 
 Jane Foley; the presence of Jane Foley accounted for 
 the presence of Audrey, and the presence of Audrey 
 accounted for the presence of Miss Ingate. 
 
 Although she was one of the chief organisers of 
 victory, and perhaps — next to Rosamund and the fam- 
 ily trio whose Christian names were three sweet sym- 
 phonies — the principal asset of the Suffragette Union, 
 Jane Foley had not taken an active part in the Union's 
 arrangements for suitably welcoming the Cabinet Min- 
 ister; partly because of her lameness, partly because 
 she was writing a book, and partly for secret reasons 
 which it would be unfair to divulge. Nearly at the 
 last moment, however, in consequence of news that all 
 was not well in the Midlands, she had been sent to 
 Birmingham, and, after evading the watch of the po- 
 lice, she had arrived on the previous day in Audrey's 
 motor-car, which at that moment was waiting in the 
 automobile park outside the principal gates of the Blue 
 City. 
 
 The motor-car had been chosen as a means of transit 
 for the reason that the railway stations were being 
 watched for notorious suffragettes by members of a 
 police force whose reputations were at stake. Audrey 
 owed her possession of a motor-car to the fact that 
 the Union officials had seemed both startled and grieved 
 when, in response to questions, she admitted that she 
 had no car. It was communicated to her that mem- 
 bers of the Union as rich as she reputedly was were 
 expected to own cars for the general good. Audrey 
 thereupon took measures to own a car. Having seen
 
 THE BLUE CITY 193 
 
 in many newspapers an advertisement in which a firm 
 of middlemen implored the public thus : "Let us run 
 your car for you. Let us take all the worry and re- 
 sponsibility," she interviewed the firm, and by writing 
 out a cheque disembarrassed herself at a stroke of 
 every anxiety incident to defective magnetos, bad pe- 
 trol, bad inibber, punctures, driving licenses, bursts, 
 collisions, damages, and human chauffeurs. She had 
 all the satisfaction of owning a car without any of 
 the cares. One of the evidences of progress in the 
 Blue City was an exhibit of this very firm of middlemen. 
 
 From the tripod pale blue table at which sat the 
 three women could be plainly seen the vast Imperial 
 Hall, flanked on one side by the great American Dragon 
 Slide, a side-show loudly demonstrating progress, and 
 on the other by the unique Joy-Wheel side-show. At 
 the doorway of the latter a man was bawling proofs 
 of progress through a megaphone. 
 
 Immense crowds had been gathering in the Imperial 
 Hall, and the lines of political enthusiasts bound thither 
 were now thinning. The Blue City was full of rumours, 
 as that the Cabinet Minister was too afraid to come, 
 as that he had been smuggled to the Hall inside a tea- 
 chest, and as that he had walked openly and unchal- 
 lenged through the whole Exhibition. It was no ru- 
 mour, but a sure fact, that two women had been caught 
 hiding on the roof of the Imperial Hall, under natural 
 shelters formed by the beams and boarding supporting 
 the pediment of the eastern fa9ade, and that they were 
 ammunitioned with flags and leaflets and a silk ladder, 
 and had made a hole in the roof exactly over the plat- 
 form. These two women had been seen in charge of 
 policemen at the Exhibition police-station. It was un- 
 derstood by many that they were the last hope of mili-
 
 194 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 tancy that afternoon ; many others, on the contrary, 
 were convinced that they had been simply a feint. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Ingate suddenly, glancing up at 
 the Imperial clock, "I think I shall move outside and 
 sit in the car. I think that'll be the best place for me. 
 I said that night in Paris that I'd get my arm broken, 
 but I've changed my mind about that." She rose. 
 
 "Winnie," protested Audrey, "aren't you going to 
 see it out?" 
 
 "No," said Miss Ingate. 
 
 *'Are you afraid?" 
 
 "I don't know that I'm afraid. I played the barrel- 
 organ all the way down Regent Street, and it was 
 smashed to pieces. But I don't want to go to prison. 
 Really, I don't want to. If me going to prison would 
 bring the Vote a single year nearer, I should say — 
 'Let it wait a year.' If me not going to prison meant 
 no Vote for ever and ever, I should say, 'Well, struggle 
 on without the Vote.' I've no objection to other people 
 going to prison, if it suits them, but it wouldn't suit 
 me. I know it wouldn't. So I shall go outside and 
 sit in the car. If you don't come, I shall know what's 
 happened, and you needn't worry about me." 
 
 The dame duly departed, her lips and eyes equally 
 ironic about her own prudence and about the rashness 
 of others. 
 
 "Let's have some more lemonade — shall we?" said 
 Jane Foley. 
 
 "Oh, let's!" agreed Audrey, with rapture. "And 
 more sponge-cake, too ! You do look lovely like that !" 
 
 "Do I.?" 
 
 Jane Foley had her profuse hair tightly bound round 
 her head and powdered grey. It was very advisable 
 for her to be disguised, and her bright hair was usually 
 the chief symptom of her in those disturbances which
 
 THE BLUE CITY 195 
 
 so harassed the police. She now had the appearance 
 of a neat old lady kept miraculously young by a pure 
 and cheerful nature. Audrey, with a plain blue frock 
 and hat which had cost more than Jane Foley would 
 spend on clothes in twelve months, had a face dazzling 
 by its ingenuous excitement and expectation. Her lit- 
 tle nose was extraordinarily pert; her forehead superb; 
 and all her gestures had the same vivacious charm as 
 was in her eyes. The white-aproned, streamered girl 
 who took the order for lemonade and sponge-cakes to a 
 covered bar ornamented by advertisements of whisky, 
 determined to adopt a composite of the styles of both 
 the customers on her next ceremonious Sunday. And 
 a large proportion of the other sippers and nibblers 
 and of the endless promenading crowds regarded the 
 pair with pleasure and curiosity, never suspecting that 
 one of them was the most dangerous woman in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 The new refreshments, which had been delayed by 
 reason of an altercation between the waitress and three 
 extreme youths at a neighbouring table, at last an'ived, 
 and were plopped smartly down between Audrey and 
 Miss Foley. Having received half a sovereign from 
 Audrey, the girl returned to the bar for change. "None 
 o' your sauce!" she threw out, as she passed the youths, 
 who had apparently discovered new arguments in sup- 
 port of their case. Audrey was fired by the vigorous 
 independence of the girl against three males. 
 
 "I don't care if we are caught !" she murmured low, 
 looking for the future through the pellucid tumbler. 
 She added, however: "But if we are, I shall pay my 
 own fine. You know I promised that to Miss Ingate." 
 
 "That's all right, so long as you don't pay mine, 
 my dear," said Jane Foley with an affectionate smile. 
 
 "Jenny !" Audrey protested, full of heroine-worship.
 
 196 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "How could you think I would ever do such a mean 
 thing!" 
 
 There came a dull vague voluminous sound from the 
 direction of the Imperial Hall. It lasted for quite a 
 number of seconds. 
 
 "He's beginning," said Jane Foley. "I do feel sorry 
 for him." 
 
 "Are we to start now?" Audrey asked deferentially. 
 
 "Oh, no!" Jane laughed. "The great thing is to 
 let them think everything's all right. And then, when 
 they're getting careless, let go at them full bang with 
 a beautiful surprise. There'll be a chance of getting 
 away like that. I believe there are a hundred and fifty 
 stewards in the meeting, and they'll every one be quite 
 useless." 
 
 At intervals a muffled roar issued from the Imperial 
 Hall, despite the fact that the windows were closely 
 shut. 
 
 In due time Jane Foley quietly rose from the table, 
 and Audrey did likewise. All around them stretched 
 the imposing blue architecture of the Exhibition, form- 
 ing vistas that ended dimly either in the smoke of 
 Birmingham or the rustic haze of Worcestershire. 
 And, although the Imperial Hall was crammed, every 
 vista was thickly powdered with pleasure-seekers and 
 probably pleasure-finders. Bands played. Flags waved 
 Brass glinted. Even the sun feebly shone at intervals 
 through the eternal canopy of soot. It was a great 
 day in the annals of the Blue City and of Liberalism. 
 
 And Jane Foley and Audrey turned their backs upon 
 all that, and — Jane concealing her limp as much as 
 possible — sauntered with affected nonchalance towards 
 the precincts of the Joy-Wheel enclosure. Audrey 
 was inexpressibly uplifted. She felt as if she had 
 stepped straight into romance. And she was right —
 
 THE BLUE CITY 197 
 
 she had stepped into the most vivid romance of the 
 modem age, into a world of disguises, flights, pursuits, 
 chicane, inconceivable adventures, ideals, martyrs and 
 conquerors, which only the Renaissance or the twenty- 
 first century could appreciate. 
 
 "Lend me that, will you?" said Jane persuasively 
 to the man with the megaphone at the entrance to the 
 enclosure. 
 
 He was, quite properly, a very loud man, with a loud 
 thick voice, a loud purple face, and a loud grey suit. 
 To Audrey's astonishment, he smiled and winked, and 
 gave up the megaphone at once. 
 
 Audrey paid sixpence at the turnstile, admittance 
 for two persons, and they were within the temple, which 
 had a roof like an umbrella over the central, revolving 
 portion of it, but which was somewhat open to the 
 skies around the rim. There were two concentric en- 
 closing walls, the inner one was unscalable, and the 
 outer one about five feet six inches high. A second 
 loud man was calling out: "Couples please. Ladies 
 and gentlemen. Couples if you please." Obediently, 
 numbers of the crowd disposed themselves in pairs in 
 the attitudes of close affection on the circling floor 
 which had just come to rest, while the remainder of 
 the numerous gathering gazed upon them with sar- 
 castic ecstasy. Then the wheel began slowly to turn, 
 and girls to shriek in the plentitude of happiness. And 
 progress was proved geometrically. 
 
 Jane, bearing the megaphone, slipped by an aper- 
 ture into the space between the two walls, and Audrey 
 followed. Nobody gave attention to them except the 
 second loud man, who winked the wink of knowledge. 
 The fact was that both the loud men, being unalter- 
 able Tories, had been very wilhng to connive at Jane 
 Foley's scheme for the affliction of a Radical minister.
 
 198 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 The two girls over the wall had an excellent and 
 appetising view of the upper part of the side of the 
 Imperial Hall, and of its high windows, the nearest 
 of which was scarcely thirty feet away. 
 
 "Hold this, will you?" said Jane, handing the mega- 
 phone to Audrey. 
 
 Jane drew from its concealment in her dress a small 
 piece of iron to which was attached a coloured streamer 
 bearing certain words. She threw, with a strong move- 
 ment of the left arm, because she was left-handed. She 
 had practised throwing; throwing was one of her sev- 
 eral specialties. The bit of iron, trailing its motto like 
 a comet its tail, flew across space and plumped into 
 the window with a pleasing crash and disappeared, 
 having triumphed over uncounted police on the out- 
 skirts and a hundred and fifty stewards within. A 
 roar from the interior of the hall supervened, and 
 varied cries. 
 
 "Give me the meg," said Jane gently. 
 
 The next instant she was shouting through the mega- 
 phone, an instrument which she had seriously studied: 
 
 "Votes for women. Why do you torture women.'* 
 Votes for women. Why do you torture women?" 
 
 The uproar increased and subsided. A masterful 
 voice resounded within the interior. Many people 
 rushed out of the hall. And there was a great scurry 
 of important and puzzled feet within a radius of a 
 score of yards. 
 
 "I think I'll try the next window," said Jane, hand- 
 ing over the megaphone. "You shout while I throw." 
 
 Audrey's heart was violently beating. She took the 
 megaphone and put it to her lips, but no sound would 
 come. Then, as though it were breaking through an 
 obstacle, the sound shot forth, and to Audrey it was a 
 gigantic voice that functioned quite independently of
 
 THE BLUE CITY 199 
 
 her will. Tremendously excited by the noise, she bawled 
 louder and still louder. 
 
 "I've missed," said Jane calmly in her ear. "That's 
 enough, I think. Come along." 
 
 "But they can't possibly see us," said Audrey, 
 breathless, lowering the instrument. 
 
 "Come along, dear," Jane Foley insisted. 
 
 People with open mouths were crowding at the aper- 
 ture of the inner wall, but, Jane going first, both girls 
 pushed safely through the throng. The wheel had 
 stopped. The entire congregation was staring agog, 
 and in two seconds everybody divined, or had been 
 nudged to the effect, that Jane and Audrey were the 
 authoresses of the pother. 
 
 Jane still leading, they made for the exit. But the 
 first loud man rushed chivalrously in. 
 
 "Perlice!" he cried. "Two bobbies a'coming." 
 
 "Here!" said the second loud man. "Here, misses. 
 Get on the wheel. They'll never get ye if ye sit in 
 the middle back to back. He jumped on to the wheel 
 himself, and indicated the mathematical centre. Jane 
 took the suggestion in a flash ; Audrey was obedient. 
 They fixed themselves under directions, dropping the 
 megaphone. The wheel started, and the megaphone 
 rattled across its smooth surface till it was shot off. 
 A policeman ran in, and hesitated; another man, in 
 plain clothes, and wearing a rosette, ran in. 
 
 "That's them," said the rosette. "I saw her with 
 the grey hair from the gallery." 
 
 The policeman sprang on to the wheel, and after 
 terrific effiorts fell sprawling and was thrown off. The 
 rosette met the same destiny. A second policeman ap- 
 peared, and with the fearless courage of his cloth, un- 
 deterred by the spectacle of prostrate forms, made a 
 magnificent dash, and was equally floored.
 
 200 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 As Audrey sat very upright pressing her back 
 against the back of Jane Foley and clutching at Jane 
 Foley's skirts with her hands behind her — the locked 
 pair were obliged thus to hold themselves exactly over 
 the axis of the wheel, for the slightest change of posi- 
 tion would have resulted in their being flung to the 
 circumference and into the blue grip of the law — she 
 had visions of all her life just as though she had been 
 drowning. She admitted all her follies and wondered 
 what madness could have prompted her remarkable 
 escapades both in Paris and out of it. She remem- 
 bered Madame Piriac's prophecy. She was ready to 
 wish the past year annihilated and herself back once 
 more in parental captivity at Moze, the slave of an 
 unalterable routine imposed by her father, without 
 responsibility, without initiative and without joy. And 
 she lived again through the scenes in which she had 
 smiled at the customs-official, fibbed to Rosamund, 
 taken the wounded Musa home in the taxi, spoken 
 privily with the ageing yachtowner, and laughed at 
 the drowned detective in the area of the palace in 
 Paget Gardens. 
 
 Everything happened in her mind while the wheel 
 went round once, showing her in turn to the various 
 portions of the audience, and bringing her at length 
 to a second view of the sprawling policemen. Where- 
 upon she thought queerly: "What do I care about 
 the vote, really .?" And finally she thought with anger 
 and resentment: "What a shame it is that women 
 haven't got the vote !" And then she heard a gay quiet 
 sound. It was Jane Foley laughing gently behind her. 
 
 "Can you see the big one now, darling.?" asked Jane 
 roguishly. "Has he picked himself up again?" 
 
 Audrey laughed. 
 
 And at last the audience laughed also. It laughed
 
 THE BLUE CITY SOI 
 
 because the big policeman, unconquerable, had made 
 another intrepid dash for the centre of the wheel and 
 fallen upon his stomach as upon a huge india-rubber 
 ball. The audience did more than laugh — it shrieked, 
 yelled, and guffawed. The performance to be wit- 
 nessed was worth ten times the price of entry. Indeed 
 no such performance had ever before been seen in the 
 whole history of popular amusement. And in describ- 
 ing the affair the next morning as "unique" The Bir- 
 mingham Daily Post for once used that adjective with 
 absolute correctness. The policemen tried again and 
 yet again. They got within feet, within inches, of their 
 prey, only to be dragged away by the mysterious pro- 
 tector of militant maidens, — centrifugal force. Prob- 
 ably never before in the annals of the struggle for 
 political freedom had maidens found such a protection, 
 invisible, sinister and complete. Had the education of 
 policemen in England included a course of mechanics, 
 these particular two policemen would have known that 
 they were seeking the impossible and fighting against 
 that which was stronger than ten thousand policemen. 
 But they would not give up. At each fresh attempt 
 they hoped by guile to overcome their unseen enemy, 
 as the gambler hopes at each fresh throw to outwit 
 chance. The jeers of the audience pricked them to 
 desperation, for in encounters with females like Jane 
 Foley and Audrey they had been accustomed to the 
 active sympathy of the public. But centrifugal force 
 had rendered them ridiculous, and the public never 
 sympathises with those whom ridicule has covered. The 
 strange and sidesplitting effects of centrifugal force 
 had transformed about a hundred indifferent young 
 men and women into ardent and convinced supporters 
 of feminism in its most advanced form. 
 
 In the course of her slow revolution Audrey saw the
 
 202 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 resetted steward arguing with the second loud man, 
 no doubt to persuade him to stop the wheel. Then out 
 of the tail of her eye she saw the steward run violently 
 from the tent. And then while her back was towards 
 the entrance she was deafened by a prodigious roar 
 of delight from the mob. The two policemen had fled 
 also — probably for reinforcements and appliances 
 against centrifugal force. In their pardonable excite- 
 ment they had, however, committed the imprudence of 
 departing together. An elementary knowledge of 
 strategy should have warned them against such a mis- 
 take. The wheel stopped immediately. The second 
 loud men beckoned with laughter to Jane Foley and 
 Audrey, who rose and hopefully skipped towards him. 
 Audrey at any rate was as self-conscious as though 
 she had been on the stage. 
 
 "Here's th' back way," said the second loud man, 
 pointing to a coarse curtain in the obscurity of the 
 nether parts of the enclosure. 
 
 They ran, Jane Foley first, and vanished from the 
 regions of the Joy-wheel amid terrific acclamations 
 given in a strong Midland accent. 
 
 The next moment they found themselves in a part 
 of the Blue City which nobody had taken the trouble 
 to paint blue. The one blue object was a small patch 
 of sky, amid clouds, overhead. On all sides were 
 wooden flying buttresses, supporting the boundaries 
 of the Joy-wheel enclosure to the south-east, of the 
 Parade restaurant and bar to the south-west, and of a 
 third establishment of good cheer to the north. Upon 
 the ground were brick-ends, cinders, bits of wood, bits 
 of corrugated iron, and all the litter and refuse cast 
 out of sight of the eyes of visitors to the Exhibition 
 of Progress. 
 
 With the fear of the police beliind them they
 
 THE BLUE CITY * 203 
 
 stumbled forward a few yards, and then saw a small 
 ramshackle door swinging slightly to and fro on one 
 hinge. Jane Foley pulled it open. They both went 
 in to a narrow passage. On the mildewed wall of the 
 passage was pinned up a notice in red ink: "Any 
 waitress taking away any apron or cap from the 
 Parade Restaurant and Bar will be fined one shilling." 
 Further on was another door, also ajar. Jane Foley 
 pushed against it, and a tiny room of irregular shape 
 was disclosed. In this room a stout woman in grey 
 was counting a pile of newly laundered caps and 
 aprons, and putting them out of one hamper into an- 
 other. Audrey remembered seeing the woman at the 
 counter of the Restaurant and Bar. 
 
 "The poHce are after us. They'll be here in a 
 minute," said Jane Foley, simply. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the woman in grey, with the care- 
 lessness of fatigue. "Are you them stone-throwing lot.? 
 They've just been in to tell me about it. What d'ye 
 do it for.?" 
 
 "We do it for you — amongst others," Jane Foley 
 smiled. 
 
 "Nay. That ye don't!" said the woman positively. 
 "I've got a vote for the city council, and I want no 
 more." 
 
 "Well, you don't want us to get caught, do you?" 
 
 "No, I don't know as I do. Ye look a couple o' 
 bonny wenches." 
 
 "Let's have two caps and aprons, then," said Jane 
 Foley smoothly. "We'll pay the shilling fine." She 
 laughed lightly. "And a bit more. If the police get 
 in here we shall have to struggle, you know, and they'll 
 break the place up." 
 
 Audrey produced another half sovereign.
 
 204 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "But what shall ye do with yer hats and coats?" 
 the woman demanded. 
 
 "Give them to you, of course." 
 
 The woman regarded the hats and coats. 
 
 "I couldn't get near them coats," she said. "And 
 if I put on one o' them there hats my old man 'ud rise 
 from the grave — that he would. Still, I don't wish ye 
 any harm." 
 
 She shut and locked the door. 
 
 In about a minute two waitresses in aprons and 
 streamered caps of immaculate purity emerged from 
 the secret places of the Parade Restaurant and Bar, 
 slipped round the end of the counter, and started with 
 easy indifference to saunter away into the grounds 
 after the manner of restaurant girls who have been 
 gifted with half-an-hour off. The tabled expanse in 
 front of the Parade erection was busy with people, 
 some sitting at the tables and supporting the estab- 
 lishment, but many more merely taking advantage of 
 the pitch to observe all possible exciting developments 
 of the suffragette shindy. 
 
 And as the criminals were modestly getting clear, a 
 loud and imperious voice called: 
 
 "Hey !" 
 
 Audrey, lacking experience, hesitated. 
 
 "Hey there !" 
 
 They both turned, for the voice would not be denied. 
 It belonged to a man sitting with another man at a 
 table on the outskirts of the group of tables. It was 
 the voice of the rosetted steward, who beckoned in a 
 not unfriendly style. 
 
 "Bring us two liqueur brandies, miss," he cried. 
 "And look slippy, if ye please." 
 
 The sharp tone, so sure of obedience, gave Audrey 
 a queer sensation of being in reality a waitress doomed
 
 THE BLUE CITY 205 
 
 to tolerate the rough bullying of gentlemen urgently 
 desiring alcohol. And the fierce thought that women 
 — especially restaurant waitresses — must and should 
 possess the vote surged through her mind more power- 
 fully than ever. 
 
 "I'll never have the chance again," she muttered to 
 herself. And marched to the counter. 
 
 "Two liqueur brandies, please," she said to the 
 woman in grey, who had left her apron calculations. 
 "That's all right," she murmured, as the woman stared 
 a question at her. Then the woman smiled to herself, 
 and poured out the liqueur brandies from a labelled 
 bottle with startling adroitness, and dashed the full 
 glasses on to a brass tray. 
 
 As Audrey walked across the gravel carefully bal- 
 ancing the tray, she speculated whether the public eye 
 would notice the shape of her small handbag, which 
 was attached by a safety pin to her dress beneath the 
 apron, and whether her streamers were streaming out 
 far behind her head. 
 
 Before she could put the tray down on the table, 
 the rosetted steward, who looked pale, snatched ,one 
 of the glasses and gulped down its entire contents. 
 
 "I wanted it !" said he, smacking his lips. "I wanted 
 it bad. They'll catch 'em all right. I should know 
 the young 'un again anywhere. I'll swear to identify 
 her in any court. And I will. Tasty little piece o' 
 goods, too! . . . But not so good-looking as you," 
 he added, gazing suddenly at Audre}^ 
 
 "None o' your sauce," snapped Audrey, and walked 
 off, leaving the tray behind. 
 
 The two men exploded into coarse but amiable laugh- 
 ter, and called to her to return, but she would not. 
 "You can pay the other young lady," s;-.e said over
 
 206 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 her shoulder, pointing vaguely to the counter where 
 there was now a bevy of other young ladies. 
 
 Five minutes later Miss Ingate, and the chauffeur ' 
 also, received a very appreciable shock. Half an hour 
 later the car, having called at the telegraph office, and 
 also at the aghast lodgings of the waitresses, to enable 
 them to re-attire and to pack, had quitted Birming- 
 ham. 
 
 That night they reached Northampton. At the post- 
 office there Jane Foley got a telegram. And when the 
 three were seated in a corner of the curtained and 
 stuffy dining-room of the small hotel, Jane said, ad- 
 dressing herself specially to Audrey: 
 
 "It won't be safe for us to return to Paget Gardens 
 to-morrow. And perhaps not to any of our places in 
 London." 
 
 "That won't matter," said Audrey, who was now 
 becoming accustomed to the world of conspiracy and 
 chicane in which Jane Foley carried on her existence 
 with such a deceiving air of the matter-of-fact. "We'll 
 go anywhere, won't we, Winnie.?" 
 
 And Miss Ingate assented. 
 
 "Well," said Jane Foley. "I've just had a telegram 
 arranging for us to go to Frinton." 
 
 "You don't mean Frinton-on-Sea.'"' exclaimed Miss 
 Ingate, suddenly excited. 
 
 "It is on the sea," said Jane. "We have to go 
 through Colchester. Do you know it?" 
 
 "Do I know it!" repeated Miss Ingate. "I know 
 everybody in Frinton, except the Germans. When I'm 
 at home I buy my bacon at Frinton. Are you going to 
 a hotel there.?" 
 
 "No," said Jane. "To some people named Spatt." 
 
 "There's nobody that is anybody named Spatt living 
 at Frinton," said Miss Ingate.
 
 THE BLUE CITY 207 
 
 "They haven't been there long." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Miss Ingate. "Of course if that's 
 it ... ! I can't guarantee what's happened since I 
 began my pilgrimages. But I think I shall wriggle 
 off home quietly as soon as we get to Colchester. This 
 afternoon's business has been too feverish for me. 
 When the policeman held up his hand as we came 
 through Blisworth, I thought you were caught. I shall 
 just go home." 
 
 "I don't care much about going to Frinton, Jenny," 
 said Audrey. 
 
 Indeed, Moze lay within not many miles of Frinton- 
 on-Sea. 
 
 Then Audrey and Miss Ingate observed a phe- 
 nomenon that was both novel and extremely disturb- 
 ing. Tears came into the eyes of Jane Foley. 
 
 "Don't say it, Audrey, don't say it!" she appealed 
 in a wet voice. "I shall have to go myself. And you 
 simply can't imagine how I hate going all alone into 
 these houses that we're invited to. I'd much sooner 
 be in lodgings, as we were last night. But these homes 
 in quiet places here and there are very useful some- 
 times. They all belong to members of the Union, you 
 know; and we have to use them. But I wish we hadn't. 
 I've met Mrs. Spatt once. I didn't think you'd throw 
 me over just at the worst part. The Spatts will take 
 all of us and be glad." 
 
 ("They won't take me," said Miss Ingate under her 
 breath. ) 
 
 "I shall come with you," said Audrey, caressing the 
 recreant who, while equal to trifles such as policemen, 
 magistrates, and prisons, was miserably afraid of a 
 strange home. In fact Audrey now liked Jane much 
 more than ever, liked her completely, — and perhaps 
 admired her rather less, though her admiration was
 
 208 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 still intense. And the thought in Audrej^'s mind was : 
 "Never will I desert this girl ! I'm a militant, ±00, now, 
 and I shall stick by her." She was full of a happiness 
 which she could not and did not want to understand. 
 
 The next morning all the newspaper posters in 
 Northampton bore the words: "Policemen and suf- 
 fragettes on Joy-wheel," or some variation of these 
 words. And they bore nothing else. And in all the 
 towns and many of the villages through which they 
 passed on the way to Colchester, the same legend 
 greeted their flying eyes. Audrey and Miss Ingate, 
 in the motor-car, read with great care all the papers. 
 Audrey blushed at the descriptions of herself, which 
 were flattering. It seemed that the Cabinet Minister's 
 political meeting had been seriously damaged by the 
 episode, for the reason that rumours of the perform- 
 ance on the Joy-wheel had impaired the spell of elo- 
 quence and partially emptied the hall. And this was 
 the more disappointing in that the police had been sure 
 that nothing untoward would occur. It seemed also 
 that the police were on the track of the criminals. 
 
 "Are they!" exclaimed Jane Foley, smiling. 
 
 Then the car approached a city of towers on a hill, 
 and as it passed by the station, which was in the valley, 
 Miss Ingate demanded a halt. She got out in the 
 station yard and transferred her belongings to a cab. 
 
 "I shall drive home from here," she said. "I've often 
 done it before. After all, I did play the barrel orgai 
 all the way down Regent Street. Surely I can rest on 
 the barrel organ, can't I, Miss Foley — at my age.? 
 , . . What a business I shall have when I do get home, 
 and nobody expecting me !" 
 
 And when certain minor arrangements had been 
 made, the car mounted the hill into Colchester and took 
 the Frinton road, leaving Miss Ingate' s fly far behind.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE SPATTS 
 
 The house of the Spatts was large, imposing, and 
 variegated. It had turrets, balconies, and architec- 
 tural nooks in such quantity that the unaided indi- 
 vidual eye could not embrace it all at once. It over- 
 looked, from a height, the grounds of the Frinton 
 Sports Club, and a new member of this club, upon first 
 beholding the residence, had made the immortal re- 
 mark: "It wants at least fourteen people to look at 
 it." The house stood in the middle of an unfinished 
 garden, which promised ultimately to be as hetero- 
 geneous as itself, but which at present was merely an 
 expanse of sorely wounded earth. 
 
 The time was early summer, and therefore the sum- 
 mer dining-room of the Spatts was in use. This dining- 
 room consisted of one white, windowed wall, a tiled 
 floor, and a roof of wood. The windows gave into the 
 winter dining-room, which was a white apartment, 
 sparsely curtained and cushioned with chintz, and con- 
 taining very few pieces of furniture or pictures. The 
 Spatts considered, rightly, that furniture and pictures 
 were unhygienic and the secret lairs of noxious germs. 
 Had the Spatts flourished twenty-five years earlier 
 their dining-room would have been covered with brown 
 paper upon which would have hung permanent photo- 
 graphs of European masterpieces of graphic art, and 
 there would have been a multiplicity of draperies and 
 specimens of battered antique furniture, with a warm- 
 
 209
 
 210 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ing-pan or so suspended here and there in place of 
 sporting trophies. But the Spatts had not begun to 
 flourish twenty-five years ago. They flourished very 
 few years ago and they still flourish. 
 
 As the summer dining-room had only one wall, it 
 follows that it was open to the powers of the air. This 
 result had been foreseen by the Spatts — had indeed 
 been expressly arranged, for they believed strongly in 
 the powers of the air, as being beneficent powers. It 
 is true that they generally had sniffling colds, but their 
 argument was that these maladies had no connection 
 whatever with the powers of the air, which, according 
 to their theory, saved them from much worse. 
 
 They and their guests were now seated at dinner. 
 Twilight was almost lost in night. The table was 
 illuminated by four candles at the corners, and the 
 flames of these candles flickered in the healthful eve- 
 ning breeze, dropping pink wax on the candlesticks. 
 They were surrounded by the mortal remains of tiny 
 moths, but other tiny moths would not heed the warn- 
 ing and continually shot themselves into the flames. 
 On the outskirts of the table moved with silent stealth 
 the forms of two middle-aged and ugly servants. 
 
 Mrs. Spatt was very tall and very thin, and the 
 simplicity of her pale green dress — sole reminder of 
 the brown-paper past — was calculated to draw atten- 
 tion to these attributes. She had an important red- 
 dish nose, and a mysterious look of secret confidence, 
 which never left her even in the most trying crises. 
 Mr, Spatt also was very tall and very thin. His head 
 was several sizes too small, and part of his insignificant 
 face, which one was apt to miss altogether in contem- 
 plating his body, was hidden under a short grey beard. 
 Siegfried Spatt, the sole child of the union, though but
 
 THE SPATTS 211 
 
 seventeen, was as tall and as thin as his father and 
 his mother; he had a pale face and red hands. 
 
 The guests were Audrey, Jane Foley, and a young 
 rubicund gentleman, beautifully clothed, and with fair 
 curly locks, named Ziegler. Mr. Ziegler was far more 
 perfectly at ease than anybody else at the table, which 
 indeed as a whole was rendered haggard and nervous 
 by the precarious state of the conversation, expecting 
 its total decease at any moment. At intervals some 
 one lifted the limp dying body — it sank back — was 
 lifted again — struggled feebly — relapsed. Young Sieg-^ 
 fried was excessively tongue-tied and self-conscious, 
 and his demeanour frankly admitted it. Jane Foley, 
 acknowledged heroine in certain fields, sat like a school- 
 girl at her first dinner-party. Audrey maintained her 
 widowhood, but scarcely with credit. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Spatt were as usual too deeply concerned about the 
 awful condition of the universe to display that 
 elasticity of mood which continuous chatter about noth- 
 ing in particular demands. And they were too worship- 
 ful of the best London conventions not to regard silence 
 at table as appalling. In the part of the country from 
 which Jane Foley sprang, hosts will sit mute through 
 a meal and think naught of it. But Mr. and Mrs. 
 Spatt were of different stuff. All these five appeared 
 to be in serious need of conversation pills. Only Mr. 
 Ziegler beheld his companions with a satisfied equanim- 
 ity that was insensible to spiritual suffering. Happily 
 at the most acute moments the gentle night wind, 
 meandering slowly from the east across leagues of 
 North Sea, would induce in one or another a sneeze 
 which gave some semblance of vitality and vigour to 
 the scene. 
 
 After one of these sneezes it was that Jane Foley,
 
 212 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 conscience-stricken, tried to stimulate the exchanges 
 by an effort of her own. 
 
 "And what are the folks like in Frinton?" she de- 
 manded, blushing, and looking up. As she looked up 
 young Siegfried looked down, lest he might encounter 
 her glance and be utterly discountenanced. 
 
 Jane Foley's question was unfortunate. 
 
 "We know nothing of them," said Mrs. Spatt, pained. 
 "Of course I have received and paid a few purely formal 
 calls. But as regards friends and acquaintances, we 
 •prefer to import them from London. As for the holi- 
 day-makers, one sees them, naturally. They appear 
 to lead an exclusively physical existence." 
 
 "My dear," put in Mr. Spatt stiffly. "The residents 
 are no better. The women play golf all day on that 
 appalling golf-course, and then after tea they go into 
 the town to change their library books. But I do not 
 believe that they ever read their library books. The 
 mentality of the town is truly remarkable. However, 
 I am informed that there are many towns like it." 
 
 "You bet!" murmured Siegfried Spatt, and then 
 tried, vainly, to suck back the awful remark whence it 
 had come. 
 
 Mr. Ziegler, speaking without passion or sorrow, 
 added his views about Frinton. He asserted that it 
 was the worst example of stupid waste of opportunities 
 he had ever encountered, even in England. He pointed 
 out that there was no band, no pier, no casino, no 
 shelters — and not even a tree; and that there were no 
 rules to govern the place. He finished by remarking 
 that no German state would tolerate such a pleasure- 
 resort. In this judgment he employed an excellent 
 English accent, with a scarcely perceptible thickening 
 of the t's and thinning of the d's. 
 Mr. Ziegler left nothing to be said.
 
 THE SPATTS 213 
 
 Then the conversation sighed and really did expire. 
 It might have survived had not the Spatts had a rule, 
 explained previously to those whom it concerned, 
 against talking shop. Their attachment to this rule 
 was heroic. In the present instance shop was suf- 
 fragism. The Spatts had developed into supporters 
 of militancy in a very curious way. Mrs. Spatt's sister, 
 a widow, had been mixed up with the Union for years. 
 One day she was fined forty shillings or a week's im- 
 prisonment for a political peccadillo involving a hatpin 
 and a policeman. It was useless for her to remind the 
 magistrate that she, like Mrs. Spatt, was the daughter 
 
 of the celebrated statesman B , who in the fifties, 
 
 had done so much for Britain. (Lo! The source of 
 that mysterious confidence that always supported Mrs. 
 Spatt!) The magistrate had no historic sense. She 
 went to prison. At least she was on the way thither 
 when Mr. Spatt paid the fine in spite of her. The 
 same night Mr. Spatt wrote to his favourite evening 
 paper to point out the despicable ingratitude of a 
 country which would have imprisoned a daughter of 
 the celebrated B , and announced that hencefor- 
 ward he would be an active supporter of suffragism, 
 which hitherto had interested him only academically. 
 He was a wealthy man, and his money and his house 
 and his pen were at the service of the Union, — but 
 always with discretion. 
 
 Audrey and Jane Foley had learnt all this privately 
 from Mrs. Spatt on their arrival, after they had told 
 such part of their tale as Jane Foley had deemed suit- 
 able, and they had further learnt that suffragism would 
 not be a welcome topic at their table, partly on ac- 
 count of the servants and partly on account of Mr. 
 Ziegler, whose opinions were quite clearly opposed to 
 the movement, but whom they admired for true and
 
 214 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 rare culture. He was a cousin of German residents 
 in First Avenue and, visiting them often, had been 
 discovered by Mr. Spatt in the afternoon-tea train. 
 
 And just as the ices came to compete with the night 
 wind, the postman arrived like a deliverer. The post- 
 man had to pass the dining-room en route by the 
 circuitous drive to the front-door, and when dinner was 
 afoot he would hand the letters to the parlourmaid, 
 who would divide them into two portions, and, putting 
 both on a salver, offer the salver first to Mrs. and 
 then to Mr. Spatt, while Mr. or Mrs. Spatt begged 
 guests, if there were any, to excuse the quaint and 
 indeed unusual custom, pardonable only on the plea 
 that any tidings from London ought to be savoured 
 instantly in such a place as Frinton. 
 
 After leaving his little pile untouched for some time, 
 Mr. Spatt took advantage of the diversion caused by 
 the brushing of the cloth and the distribution of finger- 
 bowls to glance at the topmost letter, which was ad- 
 dressed in a woman's hand. 
 
 "She's coming!" he exclaimed, forgetting to apolo- 
 gise in the sudden excitement of news. "Good heavens!" 
 He looked at his watch. "She's here. I heard the train 
 several minutes ago! She must be here! The letter's 
 been delayed." 
 
 "Who, Alroy?" demanded Mrs. Spatt earnestly. 
 "Not that Miss Nickall you mentioned.'"' 
 
 "Yes, my dove." And then in a grave tone to the 
 parlourmaid: "Give this letter to your mistress." 
 
 Mr. Spatt, cheered by the new opportunity for con- 
 versation, and in his eagerness abrogating all rules, 
 explained how he had been in London on the previous 
 day for a performance of Strauss's "Elektra," and 
 according to his custom had called at the oflSces of the 
 Suffragettes' Union to see whether he could in any man-
 
 THE SPATTS 215 
 
 ner aid the cause. He had been told that a house in 
 Paget Gardens lent to the Union had been baselj with- 
 drawn from service by its owner on account of some 
 embroilment with the supreme police authorities at 
 Scotland Yard, and that one of the inmates, a Miss 
 Nickall, the poor young lady who had had her arm 
 broken and was scarcely convalescent, had need of 
 quietude and sea-air. Mr. Spatt had instantly offered 
 the hospitality of his home to Miss Nickall, whom he 
 had seen in a cab and who was very sweet. Miss Nickall 
 had said that she must consult her companion. It now 
 appeared that the companion was gone to the Midlands. 
 This episode had occurred immediately before the re- 
 ceipt of the telegram from headquarters asking for 
 shelter for Miss Jane Foley and Mrs. Moncreiff. 
 
 Mr. Spatt's excitement had now communicated it- 
 self to everybody except Mr. Ziegler and Siegfried 
 Spatt. Jane Foley almost recovered her presence of 
 mind, and Mrs. Spatt was extraordinarily interested 
 to learn that Miss Nickall was an American painter 
 who had lived long in Paris, and that Audrey had first 
 made her acquaintance in Paris, and knew Paris well. 
 Audrey's motor-car had produced a considerable im- 
 pression on Aurora Spatt, and this impression was 
 deepened by the touch about Paris. After breathing 
 mysterious orders into the ear of the parlourmaid Mrs. 
 Spatt began to talk at large about music in Paris, and 
 Mr. Spatt made comparisons between the principal 
 opera-houses in Europe. He proclaimed for the Scala 
 at Milan; but Mr. Ziegler, who had metliodically ac- 
 cording to a fixed plan lived in all European capitals 
 except Paris — whither he was soon going, said that 
 Mr. Spatt was quite wrong, and that Milan could not 
 hold a candle to Munich. Mrs. Spatt enquired whether 
 Audrey had heard Strauss's "Elektra" at the Paris
 
 216 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Opera House. Audrey replied that Strauss's "Elcktra" 
 had not been given at the Paris Opera House. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mrs. Spatt. "This prejudice against 
 the greatest modem masterpieces because they are Ger- 
 man is a very sad sign in Paris. I have noticed it for 
 a long time." 
 
 Audrey, who most irrationally had begun to be an- 
 noyed by the blandness of Mr. Ziegler's smile, answered 
 with a rival blandness : 
 
 "In Paris they do not reproach Strauss because he 
 is German, but because he is vulgar." 
 
 Mrs. Spatt had a martyrised expression. In her 
 heart she felt a sick trembling of her religious belief 
 that "Elektra" was the greatest opera ever composed. 
 For Audrey had the prestige of Paris and of the auto- 
 mobile. Mrs. Spatt, however, said not a word. Mr. 
 Zicgler, on the other hand, after shuffling some seconds 
 for utterance, ejaculated with sublime anger: 
 
 "Vulgar!" 
 
 His rubicundity had increased and his blandness was 
 dissolved. A terrible sequel might have occurred, had 
 not the crunch of wheels on the drive been heard at 
 that very instant. The huge dim form of a coach drawn 
 by a ghostly horse passed along towards the front- 
 door, just below the diners. Almost simultaneously 
 the electric light above the front-door was turned on, 
 casting a glare across a section of the inchoate garden, 
 where no flower grew save the dandelion. Everybody 
 sprang up. Host and hostess, urged by hospitality, 
 spun first into the drive, and came level with the vehicle 
 precisely as the vehicle opened its invisible interior. 
 Jane Foley and Audrey saw Miss Nickall emerge from 
 it rather slowly and cautiously, with her white kind 
 face and her arm all swathed in white. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Spatt," came the American benevolent
 
 THE SPATTS 217 
 
 voice of Nick. "How glad I am to see you. And this 
 is Mrs. Spatt? Mrs. Spatt! Delighted, Your hus- 
 band is the kindest, sweetest man, Mrs. Spatt, that 
 I've met in years. It is perfectly sweet of you to have 
 mc. I shouldn't have inflicted myself on you — no, I 
 shouldn't — only you know we have to obey orders. I 
 was told to come here, and here I've come, with a glad 
 heart." 
 
 Audrey was touched by the sight and voice of grey- 
 haired Nick, with her trick of seeing nothing but the 
 best in everj^body, transforming everybody into saints, 
 angels, and geniuses. Her smiles and her tones were 
 irresistible. They were like the wand of some magical 
 princess come to break a sinister thrall. They nearly 
 humanised the gaunt parlourmaid, who stood grimly 
 and primly waiting until these tedious sentimental pre- 
 liminaries should cease from interfering with her duties 
 in regard to the luggage. 
 
 "We have friends of yours here. Miss Nickall," 
 simpered Mrs. Spatt, after she had given a welcome. 
 She had seen Jane Foley and Audrey standing ex- 
 pectant just behind Mr. Spatt, and outside the field 
 of the electric beam. 
 
 Nick glanced round, hesitated, and then with a sud- 
 den change of all her features rushed at the girls re- 
 gardless of her arm. Her joy was enchanting. 
 
 "I was afraid — I was afraid " she murmured as 
 
 she kissed them. Her eyes softly glistened. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, after a moment, "And I have 
 got a surprise for you! I have just! You may say 
 it's some surprise." She turned towards the cab. 
 "Musa, now do come out of that waggon." 
 
 And from the blackness of the cab's interior gingerly 
 stepped Musa, holding a violin case in his hand. 
 
 "Mrs. Spatt," said Nick. "Let me introduce Mr.
 
 218 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Musa. Mr. Musa is perhaps the greatest violinist in 
 Paris — or in Europe. Very old friend of ours. He 
 came over to London unexpectedly just as I was start- 
 ing for Liverpool Street station this afternoon. So 
 I did the only thing I could do. I couldn't leave him 
 there — I brought him along, and we want Mr. Spatt 
 to recommend us a hotel in Frinton for him." And 
 while Musa was shyly in his imperfect English greeting 
 Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, she whispered to Audrey: "You 
 don't know. You'd never guess. A big concert agent 
 in Paris has taken him up at last. He's going to play 
 at a lot of concerts, and they actually paid him two 
 thousand five hundred francs in advance. Isn't it a 
 perfect dream .P" 
 
 Audrey, who had seen Musa's trustful glance at Nick 
 as he descended from the cab, was suddenly aware of 
 a fierce pang of hate for the benignant Nick, and a 
 wave of fury against Musa. The phenomenon was 
 very disconcerting. 
 
 After self-conscious greetings, Musa almost dragged 
 Audrey away from the others. 
 
 "It's you I came to London to see," he muttered in 
 an unusual voice.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE MUTE 
 
 It was upon this evening that Audrey began alarm- 
 ingly to develop the quality of being incomprehensible 
 — even to herself. Like most young women and men, 
 she had been convinced from an early age that she was 
 mysteriously unlike all other created beings, and — 
 again like most young men and women — she could find, 
 in the secrecy of her o\^^l heart, plenty of proof of a 
 unique strangeness. But now her unreason became 
 formidable. There she sat with her striking forehead 
 and her quite unimportant nose, in the large austere 
 drawing-room of the Spatts, which was so pervaded by 
 artistic chintz that the slightest movement in its pro- 
 duced a crackle, — and wondered why she was so much 
 queerer than other girls could possibly be. 
 
 Neither the crackling of chintz nor the aspect of the 
 faces in the drawing-room was conducive to clear 
 psychological analysis. Mr. Ziegler, with a glass of 
 Pilsener by his side on a small table, and a cigar in 
 his richly jewelled hand, reposed with crossed legs in 
 an easy-chair. He had utterly recovered from the mo- 
 mentary irritation caused by Audrey's attack on 
 Strauss, and his perfect beaming satisfaction with him- 
 self made a phenomenon which would have distracted 
 an Indian saint from the contemplation of eternity and 
 nothingness. Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, seated as far as 
 was convenient from one another on a long sofa, their 
 emaciated bodies very upright and alert, gazed with 
 
 219
 
 220 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 intense expectation at Musa. Musa stood in the middle 
 of the room, tuning his violin with little twangs and 
 listening to the twangs as to a secret message. 
 
 Miss Nickall, being an invalid, had excusably gone 
 to bed, and Jane Foley, sharer of her bedroom, had 
 followed. The happy relief on Jane's face as she said 
 good night to her hosts had testified to the severity of 
 the ordeal of hospitality through Avhich she had so 
 heroically passed. She might have been going out of 
 prison instead of going out of the most intellectual 
 drawing-room in Frinton. 
 
 Audrey, too, would have liked to retire, for automo- 
 biles and sensations had exhausted her; but just at this 
 point her unreason had begun to operate. She would 
 not leave Musa alone, because Miss Nickall was leaving 
 him alone. Yet she did not feel at all benevolent 
 towards Musa. She was angry with him for having 
 quitted Paris. She was angry Math him for having said 
 to her, in such a peculiar tone: "It's you I came to 
 London to see." She was angry with him for not 
 having found an opportunity, during the picnic meal 
 provided for the two newcomers after the regular din- 
 ner, to explain why he had come to London to see her. 
 She was angry with him for the dark hostility which 
 he had at once displayed towards Mr. Ziegler, though 
 she herself hated the innocent Mr. Ziegler with the 
 ferocity of a woman of the Revolution. And further, 
 she was glad, ridiculously glad, that Musa h9,d come 
 to London to see her. Lastly she was aware of a most 
 irrational objection to the manner in which Miss 
 Nickall and Musa said good night to one another, and 
 the obvious fact that Musa in less than an hour had 
 reached terms of familiarity with Jane Foley. 
 
 She thought: 
 
 "I haven't the faintest idea why he has given up his
 
 THE MUTE 221 
 
 practising in Paris to come to see me. But if it is 
 what I feel sure it is, there will be trouble. . . . Why- 
 do I stay in this ghastly drawing-room? I am dying 
 to go to sleep, and I simply detest everybody in the 
 room. I detest Musa more than all, because as usual 
 he has been acting like a child. . . . Why can't you 
 smile at him, Audrey Moze.? Why frown and pretend 
 you're cross when you know you aren't, Audrey Moze.? 
 ... I am cross, and he shall suffer. Was this a time 
 to leave his practising — and the concerts soon coming 
 on? I positively prefer this Zieglcr man to him. Yes, 
 I do." So ran her reflections, and they annoyed her. 
 
 "What would you wish me to play?" asked Musa, 
 when he had definitely finished twanging. Audrey- 
 noticed that his English accent was getting a little less 
 French. She had to admit that, though his appear- 
 ance was extravagantly un-British, it was distinguished. 
 The immensity of his black silk cravat made the black 
 cravat of Mr. Spatt seem like a bootlace round his 
 thin neck. 
 
 "Whatever you like, Mr. Musa," replied Aurora 
 Spatt. "Phaser' 
 
 And as a fact the excellent woman, majestic now in 
 spite of her red nose and her excessive thinness, did 
 not care what Musa played. He had merely to play. 
 She had decided for herself, from the conversation, 
 that he was a very celebrated performer, and she had 
 ascertained, by direct questioning, that he had never 
 performed in England. She was determined to be able 
 to say to all comers till death took her that "Musa — 
 the great Musa, you know — first played in England 
 in my own humble drawing-room." The thing itself 
 was actually about to occur; nothing could stop it from 
 occurring; and the thought of the immediate realisa- 
 tion of her desire and ambition gave Mrs. Spatt greater,
 
 222 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 and more real, pleasure than she had had for years ; 
 it even fortified her against the possible resentment of 
 her cherished Mr. Ziegler. 
 
 "French music — would you wish?" Musa suggested. 
 
 "Is there any French music.'' That is to say, of 
 artistic importance.'"' asked Mr. Ziegler, calmly. "I 
 have never heard of it." 
 
 He was not consciously being rude. Nor was he 
 trying to be funny. His question implied an honest 
 belief. His assertion was sincere. He glanced, blink- 
 ing slightly, round the room, with a self-confidence that 
 was either terrible or pathetic, according to the degree 
 of your own self-confidence. 
 
 Audrey said to herself: 
 
 "I'm glad this isn't my drawing-room." And she 
 was almost frightened by the thought that that skull 
 opposite to her was absolutely impenetrable, and tliat 
 it would go down to the grave unpierced with all its 
 collection of ideas intact and braggart. 
 
 As for Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, they were both in the 
 state of not knowing where to look. Immediately their 
 gaze met another gaze it leapt away as from something 
 dangerous or obscene. 
 
 "I will play Debussy's Toccata for violin solo," Musa 
 announced tersely. He had blushed; his great eyes 
 were sparkling. And he began to play. 
 
 And as soon as he had played a few bars, Audrey 
 gave a start, fortunately not a physical start, and she 
 blushed also. Musa sternly winked at her. French- 
 men do not make a practice of winking, but he had 
 learnt the accomplishment for fun from Miss Thomp- 
 kins in Paris. The wink caused Audrey surreptitiously 
 to observe Mr. and Mrs. Spatt. It was no relief to 
 her to perceive that these two were listening to De- 
 bussy's Toccata for solo vioUn with the trained and
 
 THE ^lUTE 223 
 
 appreciative attention of people who had heard it often 
 before in the various capitals of Europe, who knew it 
 by heart, and who knew at just what passages to raise 
 the head, to give a nod of recognition or a gesture of 
 ecstasy. The bare room was filled with the sound of 
 Musa's fiddle and with the high musical culture of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Spatt. When the piece was over they clapped 
 discreetly, and looked with soft intensity at Audrey, 
 as if murmuring: "You, too, are a cultured cosmo-. 
 politan. You share our emotion." And across the 
 face of Mrs. Spatt spread a glow triumphant, for Musa 
 now positively had played for the first time in England 
 in her drawing-room, and she foresaw hundreds of 
 occasions on which she could refer to the matter with 
 a fitting air of casualness. The glow triumphant, how- 
 ever, paled somewhat as she felt upon herself the eye 
 of Mr. Ziegler. 
 
 "Where is Siegfried, ' Alroy .'"' she demanded, after 
 having thanked Musa. "I wouldn't have had him miss 
 that Debussy for anything, but I hadn't noticed that 
 he was gone. He adores Debussy." 
 
 "I think it is like bad Bach," Mr. Ziegler put in 
 suddenly. Then he raised his glass and imbibed a good 
 portion of the beer specially obtained and provided 
 for him by his hostess and admirer, Mrs. Spatt. 
 
 "Do you really?" murmured Mrs. Spatt, with depre- 
 cation. 
 
 "There's something in the comparison," Mr. Spatt 
 admitted, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why not like good Bach?" Musa asked, glaring in 
 a very strange manner at Mr. Ziegler, 
 
 "Bosh!" ejaculated Mr. Ziegler with a most notable 
 imperturbability. "Only Bach himself could com-pose 
 good Bach. 
 
 j>
 
 224 TPIE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Musa's breathing could be heard across the drawing- 
 room. < 
 
 "Eh bien!" said Musa. "Now I will play for you 
 Debussy's Toccata. I was not playing it before. I 
 was playing the Chaconne of Bach, the most famous 
 composition for the violin in the world." 
 
 He did not embroider the statement. He left it in 
 its nakedness. Nor did he permit anybody else to 
 embroider it. Before a word of any kind could be 
 uttered he had begun to play again. Probabl}^ in all 
 the annals of artistic snobbery, no cultured cosmopoli- 
 tans had ever been made to suffer a more exquisite 
 moral torture of humiliation than Musa had contrived 
 to inflict upon Mr. and Mrs. Spatt in return for their 
 hospitality. Their sneaped squirmings upon the sofa 
 were terrible to witness. But Mr. Ziegler's sensibility 
 was apparently quite unaffected. He continued to 
 smile, to drink, and to smoke. He seemed to be saying 
 to himself: "What does it matter to me that this 
 miserable Frenchman has caught me in a mistake .? I 
 could eat him, and one day I shall eat him.'* 
 
 After a little while Musa snatched out of his right- 
 hand lower waistcoat pocket the tiny wooden "mute" 
 which all violinists carry without fail upon all occasions 
 in all their waistcoats ; and, sticking it with marvellous 
 rapidity upon the bridge of the violin, he entered upon 
 a pianissimo, but still lively, episode of the Toccata. 
 And simultaneously another melody faint and clear 
 could be heard in the room. It was Mr. Ziegler hum- 
 ming "The Watch on the Rhine" against the Toccata 
 of Debussy. Thus did it occur to Mr. Ziegler to take 
 revenge on Musa for having attempted to humiliate 
 him. Not unsurprisingly, Musa detected at once the 
 competitive air. He continued to play, gazing hard 
 at his violin and apparently entranced, but edging lit-
 
 THE MUTE 225 
 
 tie by little towards Mr. Ziegler. Audrey desired either 
 to give a cry or to run out of the room. She did 
 neither, being held to inaction by the spell of Mr. 
 Ziegler's perfect unconcern as, with the beer-glass lifted 
 towards his mouth, he proceeded steadily to work 
 through "The Watch on the Rhine,** while Musa lilted 
 out the delicate gay phrases of Debussy. The en- 
 chantment upon the whole room was sinister and pain- 
 ful. Musa got closer to Mr. Ziegler, who did not 
 blench nor cease from his humming. Then suddenly 
 Musa, lowering his fiddle and interrupting the scene, 
 snatched the mute from the bridge of the violin. 
 
 "I have put it on the wrong instrument," he said 
 thickly, with a very French intonation, and simultane- 
 ously he shoved the mute with violence into the mouth 
 of Mr. Ziegler. In doing so, he jerked up Mr. Ziegler's 
 elbow, and the remains of the beer flew up and baptised 
 Mr. Ziegler's face and vesture. Then he jammed the 
 violin into its case, and ran out of the room. 
 
 "Barhare! Imbecile! Sauvage!" he muttered fero- 
 ciously on the threshold. 
 
 The enchantment was broken. Everybody rose, and 
 not the least precipately the streaming Mr. Ziegler, 
 who, ejecting the mute with much spluttering, and 
 pitching away his empty glass, sprang towards the 
 door, with justifiable homicide in every movement. 
 
 "Mr. Ziegler !" Audrey appealed to him, snatching 
 at his dress-coat and sticking to it. 
 
 He turned, furious, his face still dripping the finest 
 Pilsener beer. 
 
 "If your dress-coat is not wiped instantly, it will bo 
 ruined," said Audrey. 
 
 "Ach! Meiner Frack!" exclaimed Mr. Ziegler, for- 
 getting his deep knowledge of English. His economic 
 instincts had been swiftly aroused, and they dominated
 
 226 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 all the other instincts. "Mei/ner Frack! Vill you vipe 
 it?" His glance was imploring. 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Spatt will attend to it," said Audrey 
 with solemnity, and walked out of the room into the 
 hall. There was not a sign of Musa; the disappear- 
 ance of the violinist was disquieting; and yet it made 
 her glad — so much so that she laughed aloud. A few 
 moments later Mr. Ziegler stalked forth from the house 
 which he was never to enter again, and his silent scorn 
 and the grandeur of his displeasure were terrific. He 
 entirely ignored Audrey, who had nevertheless been 
 the means of saving his Frack for him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 NOCTURNE 
 
 Soon afterwards Audrey', who had put on a hat, 
 went out with Mr. Spatt to look for Musa. Not until 
 shortly before the musical performance had the Spatts 
 succeeded in persuading Musa to "accept their hospi- 
 tality for the night." (The phrase was their own. 
 They were incapable of saying "Let us put you up.") 
 Meanwhile his bag had been left in the hall. This bag 
 had now vanished. The parlourmaid, questioned, said 
 frigidly that she had not touched it because she had 
 received no orders to touch it. Musa himself must 
 therefore have removed it. With bag in one hand and 
 fiddle-case in the other, he must have fled, relinquishing 
 nothing but the mute in his flight. He knew naught 
 of England, naught of Frinton, and he was the least 
 practical creature alive. Hence Audrey, who was in 
 essence his mother, and who knew Frinton as some 
 people know London, had said that she would go and 
 look for him. Mr. Spatt, ever chivalrous, had impul- 
 sively offered to accompany her. He could indeed do 
 no less. Mrs. Spatt, overwhelmed by the tragic sequel 
 to her innocent triumph, had retired to the first 
 floor. 
 
 The wind blew, and it was very dark, as Audrey and 
 her squire passed along Third Avenue to the Front. 
 They did not converse — they were both too shy, too 
 impressed by the peculiarity of the predicament. They 
 simply peered. They peered everywhere for the truant 
 
 227
 
 228 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 form of Musa balanced on one side by a bag and on 
 the other by a fiddle-case. From the trim houses, each 
 without exception new, twinkled discreet lights, with 
 glimpses of surpassingly correct domesticity, and the 
 wind rustled loudly through the foliage of the prim 
 gardens, rufflng them as it might have ruffled the un- 
 willing hair of the daughters of an Archdeacon. No- 
 body was abroad. Absurd thoughts ran through 
 Audrey's head. A letter from Mr. Foulgcr had fol- 
 lowed her to Birmingham, and in the letter Mr. Foul- 
 ger had acquainted her with the fact that Great Mexi- 
 can Oil shares had just risen to £2. 3. apiece. She 
 knew that she had 180,000 of them, and now under 
 the thin protection of Mr. Spatt she tried to reckon 
 180,000 times £2. 3. 0. She could not do the sum. At 
 any rate she could not be sure that she did it correctly. 
 However, she was fairly well convinced beneath the 
 dark impenetrable sky that the answer totalled over 
 £400,000, that was, over ten million francs. And the 
 ridiculousness of a heiress who owned over ten million 
 francs wandering about a place like Frinton with a 
 man like Mr. Spatt, searching for another man like 
 Musa, struck her as exceeding the bounds of the per- 
 missible. She considered that she ought to have been 
 in a magnificent drawing-room of her own in Park Lane 
 or the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, welcoming counts, 
 princes, duchesses, diplomats, and self-possessed geni- 
 uses of finished manners, with witty phrase that dis- 
 played familiarity with all that was profoundest and 
 most brilliant in European civilisation. Life seemed 
 to be disappointing her, and assuredly money was not 
 the thing that she had imagined it to be. 
 
 She thought: 
 
 "If this walking lamp-post does not say something 
 soon I shall scream."
 
 NOCTURNE 229 
 
 Mr. Spatt said: 
 
 "It seems to be blowing up for rain." 
 
 She screamed in the silent solitude of Frinton. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she apologised quickly. "I thought 
 I saw something move." 
 
 "One does," faltered Mr. Spatt. 
 
 They were now in the shopping street, where in the 
 mornings the elect encounter each other on expeditions 
 to purchase bridge-markers, chocolate, bathing-cos- 
 tumes, and tennis-balls. It was a black and empty 
 canyon through which the wind raced. 
 
 "He may be down — down on the shore," Mr. Spatt 
 timidly suggested. He seemed to be suggesting suicide. 
 
 They turned and descended across the Greensward 
 to the shore, which was lined with hundreds of bathing 
 huts, each christened with a name, and each deserted, 
 for the bye-laws of the Frinton Urban District Coun- 
 cil judiciously forbade that the huts should be used as 
 sleeping-chambers. The tide was very low. They 
 walked over the wide flat sands, and came at length to 
 the sea's roar, the white tumbling of foamy breakers, 
 and the full force of the south-east wind. Across the 
 invisible expanse of water could be discerned the beam 
 of a lightship. And Audrey was aware of mysterious 
 sensations such as she had not had since she inhabited 
 Flank Hall and used to steal out at nights to watch 
 the estuary. And she thought solemnly: "Musa is 
 somewhere near, existing." And then she thought: 
 "What a silly thought ! Of course he is !" 
 
 "I see somebody coming!" Mr. Spatt burst out in a 
 dramatic whisper. But the precaution of whispering 
 was useless, because the next instant, in spite of him- 
 self, he loudly sneezed. 
 
 And about two hundred j^ards off on the sands 
 Audrey made out a moving figure, which at that dis-
 
 230 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 tance did in fact seem to have vague appendages that 
 might have resembled a bag and a fiddle-case. But 
 the atmosphere of the night was deceptive, and the 
 figure as it approached resolved itself into three 
 figures — a black one in the middle of two white ones. 
 A girl's coarse laugh came down the wind. It could 
 not conceivably have been the laugh of. any girl who 
 went into the shopping street to buy bridge-markers, 
 chocolate, bathing-costumes or tennis-balls. But it 
 might have been — it not improbably was — the laugh 
 of some girl whose mission was to sell such things. The 
 trio meandered past, heedless. Mr. Spatt said no word, 
 but he appreciably winced. The black figure in the 
 midst of the two white ones was that of his son Sieg- 
 fried, reputedly so fond of Debussy. As the group 
 receded and faded, a fragment of a music-hall song 
 floated away from it into the firmament. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's not much use looking any longer," 
 said Mr. Spatt weakly. "He — he may have gone back 
 to the house. Let us hope so." 
 
 At the chief garden-gate of the Spatt residence they 
 came upon Miss Nickall, trying to open it. The sling 
 round her arm made her unmistakable. And Miss 
 Nickall having alloAvcd them to recover from a pardon- 
 able astonishment at the sight of her who was supposed 
 to be exhausted and in bed, said cheerfully: 
 
 "I've found him, and I've put him up at the Excel- 
 sior Hotel." 
 
 Mrs. Spatt had related the terrible episode to her 
 guest, who had wilfully risen at once. Miss Nickall 
 had had luck, but Audrey had to admit that these 
 American girls were stupendously equal to an emer- 
 gency. And she hated the angelic Nick for having 
 found Musa. 
 
 "We tried first to find a cafe," said Nick. "But
 
 NOCTURNE 231 
 
 there aren't any In this city. What do you call them 
 in England — public-houses, isn't it?" 
 
 "No," agreed Mr. Spatt in a shaking voice. "Pub- 
 lic-houses are not permitted in Frinton, I am glad to 
 say." And he began to form an intention, subject to 
 Aurora's approval, to withdraw altogether from the 
 Suffrage Movement, which appeared to him to be get- 
 ting out of hand. 
 
 As they were all separating for the night Audrey 
 and Nick hesitated for a moment in front of each 
 other, and then they kissed with a quite unusual 
 effusiveness. j 
 
 "I don't think I've ever really liked her," said Audrey 
 to herself. 
 
 What Nick said to herself is lost to history.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE GARDEN 
 
 The next morning, after a night spent chiefly in 
 thought, Audrey issued forth rather early. Indeed 
 she was probably the first person afoot in the house 
 of the Spatts, the parlourmaid entering the hall just 
 as Audrey had managed to open the front-door. As 
 the parlourmaid was obviously not yet in that fulness 
 and spruceness of attire which parlourmaids affect 
 when performing their mission in life, Audrey decided 
 to offer no remark, explanatory or otherwise, and 
 passed into the garden with nonchalance as though her 
 invariable habit when staying in strange houses was 
 to get up before anybody else and spy out the whole 
 property while the helpless hosts were yet in bed and 
 asleep. 
 
 Now it was a magnificent morning: no wind, no cloud, 
 and the sun rising over the sea; not a trace of the 
 previous evening's weather. Audrey had not been in 
 the leafy street more than a moment when she forgot 
 that she was tired and short of sleep, and also very 
 worried by affairs both private and public. Her body 
 responded to the sun, and her mind also. She felt 
 almost magically healthy, strong, and mettlesome, and, 
 further, she began to feel happy ; she rather blamed 
 herself for this tendency to feel happy, calling herself 
 heedless and indifferent. She did not understand what 
 it is to be young. She had risen partly because of the 
 futility of bed, but more because of a desire to inspect 
 
 232
 
 IN THE GARDEN 233 
 
 again her own part of the world after the unprece- 
 dented absence from it. 
 
 Frinton was within the borders of her own part of 
 the world, and, though she now regarded it with the 
 condescending eyes of a Parisian and Londoner, she 
 found pleasure in looking upon it and in recognising 
 old landmarks and recent innovations. She saw, on 
 the Greensward separating the promenade from the 
 beach, that a rustic seat had been elaborately built by 
 the Council round the great trunk of the only tree in 
 Frinton ; and she decided that there had been question- 
 able changes since her time. And in this way she went 
 on. However, the splendour and reality of the sun, 
 making such an overwhelming contrast with the insub- 
 stantial phenomena of the gloomy night, prevented 
 undue cerebral activity. She reflected that Frinton 
 on a dark night and Frinton on a bright morning were 
 not like the same place, and she left it at that, and 
 gazed at the fa9ade of the Excelsior Hotel, wondering 
 for an instant why she should be interested in it, and 
 then looking swiftly away. 
 
 She had to glance at all the shops, though none of 
 them was open except the dairy-shop ; and in the shop- 
 ping-street, which had a sunrise at one end and the 
 railway-station at the other, she lit on the new palatial 
 garage. 
 
 "My car may be in there," she thought. 
 
 After the manner of most car-owners on tour, she 
 had allowed the chauffeur to disappear with the car 
 in the evening where he listed, confident that the next 
 morning he and it would reappear cleansed and in good 
 running order. 
 
 The car was in the garage, almost solitary on a 
 floor of asphalt under a glass roof. An untid}"- youth, 
 with the end of a cigarette clinging to his upper lip in
 
 234 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 a way to suggest that it had clung there throughout 
 the night and was the last vestige of a jollification, 
 seemed to be dragging a length of hose from a hydrant 
 towards the car, the while his eyes rested on a large 
 notice: "Smoking absolutely prohibited. By order." 
 
 Then from the other extremity of the garage came 
 a jaunty, dapper, quasi-martial figure, in a new grey 
 uniform, with a peaked grey cap, bright brown leg- 
 gings, and bright brown boots to match, — the whole 
 highly brushed, polished, smooth and glittering. This 
 being pulled out of his pocket a superb pair of kid 
 gloves, then a silver cigarette-case, and then a silver 
 match-box, and he ignited a cigarette — the unrivalled, 
 wondrous first cigarette of the day — casting down the 
 match with a large, free gesture. At sight of him the 
 untidy youth grew more active. 
 
 "Look 'ere," said the being to the youth. "What 
 the 'ell time did I tell you to have that car cleaned by, 
 and you not begun it !" 
 
 Pointing to the clock, he lounged magnificently to 
 and fro, spreading smoke around the intimidated and 
 now industrious youth. The next second he caught 
 sight of Audrey, and transformed himself instantane- 
 ously into what she had hitherto imagined a chauffeur 
 always was ; but in those few moments she had learnt 
 that the essence of a chauffeur is godlike, and that he 
 toils not, neither does he swab. 
 
 "Good morning, madam," in a soft, courtly voice. 
 
 "Good morning." 
 
 "Were you wanting the car, madam?" 
 
 She was not, but the suggestion gave her an idea. 
 
 "Can we take it as it is-f*" 
 
 "Yes, madam. I'll just look at the petrol gauge 
 . . . But ... I haven't had my breakfast, madam." 
 
 "What time do you have it.^"
 
 IN THE GARDEN 235 
 
 "Well, madame, when you have yours." 
 
 "That's all right, then. You've got hours yet. I 
 want you to take me to Flank Hall." 
 
 "Flank Hall, madam .'^" His tone expressed the fact 
 that his mind was a blank as to Flank Hall. 
 
 As soon as Audrey had comprehended that the situa- 
 tion of Flank Hall was not necessarily known to every 
 chauffeur in England, and that a stay of one night in 
 Frinton might not have been enough to familiarize this 
 particular one with the geography of the entire dis- 
 trict, she replied that she would direct him. 
 
 They were held up by a train at the railway-cross- 
 ing, and a milk-cart and a young pedestrian were also 
 held up. When Audrey identified the pedestrian she 
 wished momentarily that she had not set out on the 
 expedition. Then she said to herself that really it did 
 not matter, and why should she be afraid . . . etc., 
 etc. The pedestrian was Musa. In French they greeted 
 each other stiffly, like distant acquaintances, and the 
 train thundered past. 
 
 "I was taking the air, simply, Madame," said Musa, 
 with his ingenuous shy smile. 
 
 "Take it in my car," said Audrey with a sudden 
 resolve. "In one hour at the latest we shall have 
 returned." 
 
 She had a great deal to say to him and a great deal 
 to listen to, and there could not possibly be any occa- 
 sion equal to the present, which was ideal. 
 
 He got in; the chauffeur manoeuvred to oust the 
 milk-cart from its rightful precedence, the gates 
 opened, and the car swung at gathering speed into the 
 well-remembered road to Moze. And the two passen- 
 gers said nothing to each other of the slightest import. 
 Musa's escape from Paris was between them; the un- 
 imaginable episode at the Spatts was between them;
 
 236 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 the sleepless night was between them. (And had she 
 not saved him by her presence of mind from the mur- 
 derous hand of Mr. Ziegler.?) They had a million 
 things to impart. And yet naught was uttered save a 
 few banalities about the weather and about the health- 
 fulness of being up early. They were bashful, con- 
 strained, altogether too young and inexperienced. 
 They wanted to behave in the grand, social, easeful 
 manner of a celebrated public performer and an heiress 
 worth ten million francs. And they could only succeed 
 in being a boy and a girl. The chauffeur alone, at 
 from thirty to forty miles an hour, was worthy of him- 
 self and his high vocation. Both the passengers re- 
 gretted that they had left their beds. Happily the 
 car laughed at the alleged distance between Frinton 
 and Moze. In a few minutes, as it seemed, with but one 
 false turning, due to the impetuosity of the chauffeur, 
 the vehicle drew up before the gates of Flank Hall. 
 Audrey had avoided the village of Moze. The passen- 
 gers descended. 
 
 "This is my house," Audrey murmured. " 
 The gates were shut but not locked. They creaked 
 as Audrey pushed against them. The drive was 
 covered with a soft film of green, as though it were 
 gradually being entombed in the past. The young 
 roses, however, belonged emphatically to the present. 
 Dewdrops hung from them like jewels, and their odour 
 filled the air. Audrey turned off the main drive towards 
 the garden-front of the house, which had always been 
 the aspect that she preferred, and at the same moment 
 she saw the house windows and the thrilling perspective 
 of Mozewater. One of the windows was open. She was 
 glad, because this proved that the perfect Aguilar, 
 gardener and caretaker, was after all imperfect. It 
 was his crusty perfection that had ever set Audrey,
 
 IN THE GARDEN 237 
 
 and others, against Aguilar. But he had gone to bed 
 and forgotten a window — and it was the French win- 
 dow. While, in her suddenly revived character of a 
 harsh Essex inhabitant, she was thinking of some sar- 
 castic word to say to Aguilar about the window, 
 another window slowly opened from within, and 
 Aguilar's head became visible. Once more he had ex- 
 asperatingly proved his perfection. He had not gone 
 to bed and forgotten a window. But he had risen with 
 exemplary earliness to give air to the house. 
 
 " 'd mornin', miss," mumbled the unsmiling Aguilar, 
 impassively, as though Audrey had never been away 
 from Moze. 
 
 "Well, Aguilar." 
 
 "I didn't expect ye so early, miss." 
 
 "But how could you be expecting me at all.'"' 
 
 "Miss Ingate come home yesterday. She said you 
 couldn't be far off, miss." 
 
 "Not Miss . . . Mrs. — MoncreifF," said Audrey 
 firmly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam," Aguilar responded 
 with absolute imperturbabihty. "She never said noth- 
 ing about that." 
 
 And he proceeded mechanically to the next window. 
 
 The yard-dog began to bark. Audrey, ignoring 
 Musa, went round the shrubbery towards the kennel. 
 The chained dog continued to bark, furiousl}', until 
 Audrey was within six feet of him, and then he crouched 
 and squirmed and gave low whines and his tail wagged 
 with extreme rapidity. Audrey bent down, trembling 
 . . . She could scarcely see . . . There was something 
 about the green film on the drive, about the look of the 
 house, about the sheeted drawing-room glimpsed 
 through the open window, about the view of Mozewater 
 . . . ! She felt acutely and painfully sorry for, and
 
 238 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 yet envious of, the young girl in a plain blue frock who 
 used to haunt the house and the garden, and who had 
 somehow made the house and the garden holy forever 
 more by her unhappiness and her longings . . . 
 Audrey was crying . . . She heard a step and stood 
 upright. It was Musa's step. 
 
 "I have never seen you so exquisite," said Musa in a 
 murmur subdued and yet enthusiastic. All his facul- 
 ties seemed to be dwelling reflectively upon her with 
 passionate appreciation. 
 
 They had at last begun to talk, really, — he in 
 French, and she partly in French and partly in Eng- 
 lish. It was her tears, or perhaps her gesture in trying 
 to master them, that had loosed their tongues. The 
 ancient dog was forgotten, and could not understand 
 why. Audrey was excusably startled by Musa's words 
 and tone, and by the sudden change in his attitude. 
 She thought that his personal distinction at the mo- 
 ment was different from and superior to any other in 
 her experience. She had a comfortable feeling of con- 
 descension towards Nick and towards Jane Foley. And 
 at the same time she blamed Musa, perceiving that as 
 usual he was behaving like a child who cannot grasp 
 the great fact that life is very serious. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "That's all very fine, that is. You 
 pretend this, that, and the other. But why are you 
 here? Why aren't you at work in Paris? You've got 
 the chance of a lifetime, and instead of staying at home 
 and practising hard and preparing yourself, you come 
 gadding over to England simply because there's a bit 
 of money in your pocket !" 
 
 She was very young, and in the splendour of the 
 magnificent morning she looked the emblem of sim-. 
 plicity; but in her heart she was his mother, his sole 
 fount of wisdom and energy and shrewdness.
 
 IN THE GARDEN 239 
 
 Pain showed in his sensitive features, and then ap- 
 peal, and' then a hot determination. 
 
 "I came because I could not work," he said. 
 
 "Because you couldn't work.^ Why couldn't 3'ou 
 work.P" There was no yielding in her hard voice. 
 
 "I don't know! I don't know! I suppose it is be- 
 cause 3'ou are not there, because you have made j^ourself 
 necessary to me; or," he corrected quickl}"^, "because / 
 have made you necessary to myself. Oh ! I can prac- 
 tise for so many hours per day. But it is useless. It 
 is not authentic practice. I think not of the music. 
 It is as if some other person was playing, with my arm, 
 on my violin. I am not there. I am with you, where 
 3^ou are. It is the same day after day, every day, 
 every day. I am done for. I am convinced that I am 
 done for. These concerts will infallibly be my ruin, 
 and I shall be shamed before all Paris." 
 
 "And did you come to England to tell me this?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She was relieved, for she had thought of another 
 explanation of his escapade, and had that explanation 
 proved to be the true one, she was very ready to make 
 unpleasantness to the best of her ability. Nevertheless, 
 though relieved in one direction, she was gravely 
 worried in another. She had undertaken the job of 
 setting Musa grandiosely on his artistic career, and 
 the difficulties of it were growing more and more com- 
 plex and redoubtable. 
 
 She said: 
 
 "But you seemed so jolly when you arrived last 
 night. Nobody would have guessed you had a care in 
 the world." 
 
 "I had not," he replied eagerly, "as soon as I saw 
 you. The surprise of seeing you — it was that . . . 
 And you left Paris without saying good-bye! Why
 
 MO THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 did you leave Paris without saying good-bye? Never 
 since the moment when I learnt that you had gone have 
 I had the soul to practise. My violin became a wooden 
 box; my fingers, too, were of wood." 
 
 He stopped. The dog sniffed round. 
 
 Audrey was melting in bliss. She could feel herself 
 dissolving. Her pleasure was terrible. It was true 
 that she had left Paris without saying good-bye to 
 Musa. She had done it on purpose. Why? She did 
 not know. Perhaps out of naughtiness, perhaps . . . 
 She was aware that she could be hard, like her father. 
 But she was glad, intensely glad, that she had left 
 Paris so, because the result had been this avowal. She, 
 Audrey, little Audrey, scarcely yet convinced that she 
 was grown up, was necessary to the genius whom all 
 the Quarter worshipped ! Miss Thompkins was not 
 necessary to him. Miss Nickall was not necessary to 
 him, though both had helped to provide the means to 
 keep him alive. She herself alone was necessary to 
 him. And she had not guessed it. She had not even 
 hoped for it. The effect of her personality upon Musa 
 was mysterious — she did not affect to understand it — 
 but it was obviously real and it was vital. If any- 
 thing in the world could surpass the pleasure, her pride 
 surpassed it. All tears were forgotten. She was the 
 proudest young woman in the world ; and she was the 
 wisest, and the most harassed, too. But the anxieties 
 were delicious to her. 
 
 "I am essential to him," she thought ecstatically. 
 "I stand between him and disaster. When he has suc- 
 ceeded his success will be my work and nobody else's, 
 I have a mission. I must live for it ... If any one 
 had told me a year ago that a great French genius 
 would be absolutely dependent upon me, and that I 
 meant for him all the difference between failure and
 
 IN THE GARDEN 241 
 
 triumph, I should have laughed . . . And yet! ..." 
 She looked at him surreptitiously. "He's an angel. 
 But he's also a baby." The feelings of motherhood 
 were as naught compared to hers. 
 
 Then she remarked harshly, icily: 
 
 "Well, I shall be much obliged if you will go back to 
 Paris at once — to-day. Somebody must have a little 
 sense." 
 
 Just at this point Aguilar interrupted. He came 
 slouching round the corner of the clipped bushes, un- 
 tidy, shabby, implacable, with some set purpose in 
 his hard blue eyes. She could have annihilated him 
 with satisfaction, but the fellow was indestructible as 
 well as implacable. 
 
 "Could I have a word with ye, madam?" he mumbled, 
 putting on his well-known air of chicane. 
 
 With the unexplained Musa close by her she could 
 not answer: "Wait a little. I'm engaged." She had 
 to be careful. She had to make out especially that 
 she and the young man were up to nothing in particu- 
 lar, nothing that had the slightest importance. 
 
 "What is it, Aguilar?" she questioned, inimically. 
 
 "It's down here," said Aguilar, who recked not of 
 the implications of a tone. And by the mere force of 
 his glance he drew his mistress away, out of sight of 
 Musa and the dog. 
 
 "Is that your motor-car at the gates, madam?" he 
 demanded gloomily and confidentially, his gaze now 
 fixed on the ground or on his patched boots. 
 
 "Of course it is," said Audrey. "Why, what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "That's all right then," said he. "But I thought it 
 might belong to another person, and I had to make 
 sure. Now if ye'll just step along a bit further, I've 
 a little thing as I want to point out to ye, madam.
 
 2^2 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 It's my duty to point it out, let others say what they 
 will." 
 
 He walked ahead doggedly, and Audrey crossly came 
 after, until the}' arrived nearly at the end of the hedge 
 which, separating the upper from the lower garden, 
 hid from those immediately behind it all view of the 
 estuary. Here, still sheltered by the hedge, he stopped 
 and Audrey stopped, and Aguilar absently plucked up 
 a young plantain from the turf and dropped it into 
 his pocket. 
 
 "There's been a man a-hanging round this place 
 since yesterday mornin'," said Aguilar intimately. "I 
 call him a suspicious character — at least, I did, till 
 last night. He ain't slept in the village, that I do 
 know, but he's about again this morning." 
 
 "Well," said Audrey with impatience. "Why don't 
 you tell Inspector Keeble.'' Or have you quarrelled 
 with Inspector Keeble again.?" 
 
 "It's not that as would ha' stopped me from ac- 
 quainting Inspector Keeble with the circumstances if 
 I thought it my duty so to do," replied Aguilar. "But 
 the fact is I saw the chap talking to Inspector Keeble 
 yesterday evening. He don't know as I saw him. It 
 was that as made me think. Now is he a suspicious 
 character or ain't he? Of course Keeble's a rare 
 simple-minded 'un, as we all know." 
 
 "And what do you want me to do.'^" 
 
 "I thought you might like to have a look at him 
 3'^eself, madam. And if you'll just peep round the end 
 of this hedge casual-like, ye'll see him walking across 
 the salting from Lousey Hard. He's a-comin' this 
 way. Casual-like now, — and he won't see ye." 
 
 Audrey had to obey. She peeped casual-like, and 
 she did in fact see a man on the salting, and this man 
 was getting nearer. She could see him very plainly
 
 IN THE GARDEN 243 
 
 in the brilliant clearness of the summer morning. After 
 the shortest instant of hesitation she recognised him 
 beyond any doubt. It was the detective who had been 
 so plenteously baptised by Susan Foley in the area of 
 the house at Paget Gardens. Aguilar looked at Audrey, 
 and Audrey annoyed herself somewhat by blushing. 
 However, an agreeable elation quickly overcame the 
 blush.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 ENCOUNTER 
 
 "Good morning," Audrey cried, very gaily, to the 
 «till advancing detective, who, after the slightest hesi- 
 tation in the world, responded gaily: 
 
 "Good morning." 
 
 The man's accent struck her. She said to herself, 
 with amusement. 
 
 "He's Irish !" 
 
 Audrey had left the astonished but dispassionate 
 gardener at the hedge, and was now emerging from the 
 scanty and dishevelled plantation close to the boundary 
 wall of the estate. She supposed that the police must 
 have been on her track and on. the track of Jane Foley, 
 and that by some mysterious skill they had hunted her 
 down. But she did not care. She was not rn the least 
 afraid. The sudden vision of a jail did not affright 
 her. On the contrary her chief sensation was one of 
 joyous self-confidence, which sensation had been pro- 
 duced in her by the remarks and the attitude of Musa. 
 She had always known that she was both shy and 
 adventurous, and that the two qualities were mutually 
 contradictory ; but now it appeared to her that difri- 
 dence had been destroyed, and that that change which 
 she had ever longed for in her constitution had at least 
 really come to pass. 
 
 "You don't seem very surprised to see me," said 
 Audrey. 
 
 "Well, madame," said the detective. "I'm not paid 
 to be surprised — in my business." 
 
 244
 
 ENCOUNTER 245 
 
 He had raised his hat. He was standing on the 
 dyke, and from that height he looked somewhat down 
 upon Audrey leaning against the wall. The water- 
 course and the strip of eternally emerald-green grass 
 separated them. Though neither tall nor particularly 
 handsome, he was a personable man, with a ready smile 
 and alert, agile movements. Audrey was too far ofT 
 to judge of his eyes, but she was quite sure that they 
 twinkled. The contrast between this smart cheerful 
 fellow and the half-drowned victim in the area of the 
 house in Paget Gardens was quite acute. 
 
 "Now I've a good mind to hold a meeting for your 
 benefit," said Audrey, striving to recall the proper 
 phrases of propaganda which she had heard in the 
 proper quarters in London during her brief connection 
 with the cause. However, she could not recall them. 
 "But there's no need to," she added. "A gentleman 
 of your intelligence must be of our way of tliinking." 
 
 "About what.?" 
 
 "About the vote, of course. And so j^our conduct 
 is all the more shocking." 
 
 "Why!" he exclaimed, laughing. "If it comes to 
 that, your own sex is against you." 
 
 Audrey had heard this argument before, and it had 
 the same effect on her as on most other stalwarts of 
 the new political creed. It annoyed her, because there 
 was something in it. 
 
 "The vast majority of women are with us," said 
 she. 
 
 "My wife isn't." 
 
 "But your wife isn't the vast majority of women," 
 Audrey protested. 
 
 "Oh, yes, she is," said the detective, "so far as I'm 
 concerned. Every wife is, so far as her husband is 
 concei-ned. Sure, you ought to know that !" In his
 
 S46 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Irish way he doubled the "r" of the word "sure," 
 and somehow this trick made Audrey Hke him still more. 
 "My wife believes," he concluded, "that woman's sphere 
 is the home." 
 
 ("His wife is stout," Audrey decided within herself, 
 on no grounds whatever. "If she wasn't, she couldn't 
 be a vast majority.") 
 
 Aloud she said: 
 
 "Weil, then, why can't you leave them alone in their 
 sphere, instead of worrying them and spying on them 
 down areas?" 
 
 "D'ye mean at Paget Gardens .f"' 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Oh!" he laughed. "That wasn't professional— if 
 you'll excuse me being so frank. That was just due 
 to human admiration. It's not illegal to admire a 
 young woman, I suppose, even if she is a suffragette." 
 
 "What young woman are you talking about.'"' 
 
 "Miss Susan Foley, of course. I won't tell you what 
 I think of her, in spite of all she did, because I've 
 learnt that it's a mistake to praise one woman to an- 
 other. But I don't mind admitting that her going off 
 to the north has made me life a blank. If I'd thought 
 she'd go, I should never have reported the affair at the 
 Yard. But I was annoyed, and I'm rather hasty." He 
 paused, and ended reflectively: "I committed follies 
 to get a word with the young lady, and I didn't get it, 
 but I'd do the same again." 
 
 "And you a married man !" Audrey burst out, 
 startled, and diverted, at the explanation, but at the 
 same time outraged by a confession so cynical. 
 
 The detective pulled a silky moustache. 
 
 "When a wife is very strongly convinced that her 
 sphere is the home," he retorted slowly and seriously, 
 "you're tempted at times to let her have the sphere
 
 ENCOUNTER 247 
 
 all to herself. That's the universal experience of mar- 
 ried men, and ye may believe me, miss — madam." 
 
 Audrey said: 
 
 "And now INIiss Foley's gone north, you've decided 
 to come and admire me in my home !" 
 
 "So it is your home !" murmured the detective with 
 an uncontrolled quickness which wakened Audrey's old 
 suspicions afresh, — and which created a new suspicion, 
 the suspicion that the fellow was simply playing with 
 her. "I assure you I came here to recover; I'd heard 
 it was the finest climate in England." 
 
 "Recover?" 
 
 "Yes, from fire-extinguishers. D'ye know I coughed 
 for twenty- four hours after that reception.'' . . . And 
 you should have seen my clothes ! The doctor says 
 my lungs may never get over it . . . That's what 
 comes of admiration." 
 
 "It's what comes of behaving as no married man 
 ought to behave." 
 
 "Did I say I was married?" asked the detective with 
 an ingenuous air. "Well, I may be. But I daresay 
 I'm only married just about as much as you are your- 
 self, madam." 
 
 Upon this remark he raised his hat and departed 
 along the grassy summit of the sea-wall. 
 
 Audrey flushed for the second time that morning, 
 and more strikingly than before. She was extremely 
 discontented with, and ashamed of, herself, for she had 
 meant to be the equal of the detective, and she had 
 not been. It was blazingly clear that he had indeed 
 played with her, — or as she put it in her own mind: 
 "He just stuffed me up all through." 
 
 She tried to think logically. Had he been pursuing 
 the motor-car all the way from Birmingham? Ob- 
 viously he had not, since according to Aguilar he had
 
 248 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 been in the vicinity of Moze since the previous morn^ 
 ing. Hence he did not know that Audrey was involved 
 in the Blue City affair, and he did not know that Jane 
 Foley was at Frinton. How he had learnt that Audrey 
 belonged to Moze, and why and what he had come to 
 investigate at Moze, she could not guess. Nor did these 
 problems appear to her to have an importance at all 
 equal to the importance of hiding from the detective 
 that she had been staying at Frinton. If he followed 
 her to Frinton he would inevitably discover that Jane 
 Foley was at Frinton, and the sequel would be more 
 imprisonment for Jane. Therefore Audrey must not 
 return to Frinton. Having by a masterly process of 
 ratiocination reached this conclusion, she began to 
 think rather better of herself, and ceased blushing. 
 
 "Aguilar," she demanded excitedly, having gone 
 back through the plantation. "Did Miss Ingate hap- 
 pen to say where I was staying last night .?" 
 
 "No, madam." 
 
 "I must run into the house and write a note for 
 her, and you must take it down instantly." In her 
 mind she framed the note, which was to condemn JMiss 
 Ingate to the torture of complete and everlasting 
 silence about the episode at the Blue City and the 
 flight eastwards.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 FLIGHT 
 
 "Fast, madam, did you say?" asked the chauffeur, 
 bending his head back from the wheel as the car left 
 the gates of Flank Hall. 
 
 "Fast." 
 
 "The Colchester road?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's really just as quick to take the Frinton road 
 for Colchester — it's so much straighter." 
 
 "No, no, no! On no account. Don't go near 
 Frinton." 
 
 Audrey leaned back in the car. And as speed in- 
 creased the magnificence of the morning again had its 
 effect on her. The adventure pleased her far more than 
 the perils of it, either for herself or for other people, 
 frightened her. She knew that she was doing a very 
 strange thing in thus leaving the Spatts and her lug- 
 gage without a word of explanation before breakfast; 
 but she did not care. She knew that for some reason 
 which she did not comprehend the police were after 
 her, as they had been after nearly all the great ones 
 of the movement; but she did not care. She was alive 
 in the rushing car amid the magnificence of the morn- 
 ing. Musa sat next to her. She had more or less in- 
 completely explained the situation to him, — it was not 
 necessary to tell everything to a boy who depended 
 upon you absolutely for his highest welfare, — such 
 boys must accept, thankfully, what they received. And 
 ■» 249
 
 ^r.O THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Musa had indeed done so. He appeared to be quite 
 happy and without anxieties. Ah! That was the 
 worst of Musa, — his irresponsibihty, his short mem- 
 cry for trouble. He had wanted to be with her, and 
 he was with her, and he cared for nothing else. He 
 had no interest in what might happen next. He 
 yielded himself utterly to the enjoyment of her pres- 
 ence and of the magnificent morning. 
 
 And yet Musa, whom Audrey considered that she 
 understood as profoundly as any mother had ever un- 
 derstood any child, — even Musa could surprise. 
 
 He said, without any preparation: 
 
 "I calculate that I shall have 3,040 francs in hand 
 after the concerts, assuming that I receive only the 
 minimum. That is, after paying the expenses of my 
 living." 
 
 "But do you know how much it costs you to live.'^" 
 Audrey demanded, with careless superiority. 
 
 "Assuredly. I write all my payments down in a lit- 
 tle book. I have done so since some years." 
 
 "Every sou?" 
 
 "Yes. Every sou." 
 
 "But do you save, Musa.''" 
 
 "Save!" he repeated the word ingenuously. "Till 
 now to save has been impossible for me. But I have 
 always kept in hand one month's subsistence. I could 
 not do more. Now I shall save. You reproached me 
 with having spent money in order to come to see you 
 in England. But I regarded the money so spent as 
 part of the finance of the concerts. Without seeing 
 you I could not practise. Without practise I could 
 not play. Without playing I could not earn money. 
 Therefore I spent money in order to get money. Such, 
 madame, was the commercial side. What a beautiful 
 lawn for tennis you have in your garden !"
 
 FLIGHT 251 
 
 Audrey was more than surprised, she was staggered 
 by the revelation of the attitude of genius towards 
 money. She had not suspected it. Then she remem- 
 bered the simple natural tone in which Musa had once 
 told her that both Tommy and Nick contributed to 
 his income. She ought to have comprehended from 
 that avowal more than she, in fact, had comprehended. 
 And now the first hopes of worldly success were 
 strongly developing that unsuspected trait in the young 
 man's character. Audrey was aware of a great fear. 
 Could he -be a genius, after all.'' Was it conceivable 
 that an authentic musical genius should enter up daily 
 in a little book every sou he spent.'* 
 
 A rapid, spitting, explosive sound, close behind the 
 car and a little to the right, took her mind away from 
 Musa and back to the adventure. She looked round, 
 half expecting what she should see, — and she saw it, 
 namely, the detective on a motor-cycle. It was an 
 "Indian" machine and painted red. And as she looked 
 the car, after taking a corner, got into a straight bit 
 of the splendid road and the motor-bicycle dropped 
 away from it. 
 
 "Can't you shake off that motor-bicycle thing.'"' 
 Audrey rather superciliously asked the chauffeur. 
 
 Having first looked at his mirror, the chauffeur, who, 
 like a horse, could see in two directions at once, gazed 
 cautiously at the road in front and at the motor-bicycle 
 behind, simultaneously. 
 
 "I doubt it, madam," he said. And yet his tone 
 and glance expressed deep scorn of the motor-bicycle. 
 "As a general rule you can't." 
 
 "I should have thought you could beat a little thing 
 like that," said Audrey. 
 
 "Them things can do sixty when they've a mind to,"
 
 252 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 said the chauffeur, with finality, and gave all his atten- 
 tion to the road. 
 
 At intervals he looked at his mirror. The motor- 
 bicycle had vanished into the past, and as it failed to 
 reappear he gradually grew confident and disdainful. 
 But just as the car was going down the short hill into 
 the outskirts of Colchester the motor-bicycle came into 
 view once more. 
 
 "Where to, madam.'"' inquired the chauffeur. 
 
 "This is Colchester, isn't it?" she demanded neiv- 
 ously, though she knew perfectly well that it was Col- 
 chester. 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "Straight through! Straight through!" 
 
 "The London road.?" 
 
 "Yes. The London road," she agreed. London was, 
 of course, the only possible destination. 
 
 "But breakfast, madam.'"' 
 
 "Oh ! The usual thing," said Audrey. "You'll have 
 yours when I have mine." 
 
 "But we shall run out of petrol, madam." 
 
 "Never mind," said Audrey, sublimely. 
 
 The chauffeur, with characteristic skill, arranged 
 that the car should run out of petrol precisely in front 
 of the best hotel in Chelmsford, which was about half- 
 way to London. The motor-bicycle had not been seen 
 for several miles. But scarcely had they resumed the 
 journey, by the Epping road, when it came agair 
 into view — in front of them. How had the fellow 
 guessed that they would take the longer Epping road 
 instead of the shorter Romford road.? 
 
 "When shall we be arriving in Frinton.?" Musa in- 
 quired, beatific. 
 
 "We shan't be arriving in Frinton any more," said 
 Audrey. "We must go straight to London."
 
 FLIGHT 253 
 
 "It is like a dream," Musa murmured, as it were, in 
 ecstasy. Then his features changed and he almost 
 screamed : "But my violin ! My violin ! We must go 
 back for it." 
 
 "Violin!" said Audrey. "That's nothing! I've even 
 come without gloves." And she had. 
 
 She reassured Musa as to the violin, and the chauf- 
 feur as to the abandoned Gladstone bag containing the 
 chauffeur's personal effects, and herself as to many 
 things. An hour and twent}'- minutes later the car, 
 with three people in it, thickly dusted even to the eye- 
 brows, drew up in the courtyard of Charing Cross rail- 
 way station, and the motor-cycle was visible, its glaring 
 red somewhat paled, in the Strand outside. The time 
 was ten fifteen. 
 
 "We shall take the 11 o'clock boat-train for Paris," 
 she said to Musa. 
 
 "You also?" 
 
 She nodded. He was in heaven. He could even do 
 without his violin. 
 
 "How nice it is not to be bothered with luggage," 
 she said. 
 
 The chauffeur was pacified with money, of which 
 Audrey had a sufficiency. 
 
 And all the time Audrey kept saying to herself: 
 
 "I'm not going to Paris to please Musa, so don't let 
 him think it ! I'm only going so as to put the detective 
 off and keep Jane Foley out of his clutches, because if 
 I stay in London he'll be bound to find everything out." 
 
 While Musa kept watch for the detective at the door 
 of the telegraph office Audrey telegraphed, as lacon- 
 ically as possible, to Frinton concerning clothes and 
 the violin, and then they descended to subterranean 
 marble chambers in order to get rid of dust, and they
 
 254 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 came up to earth again, each out of a separate cellar, 
 renewed. And, lastly, Audrey slipped into the Strand 
 and bought a pair of gloves, and thereafter felt her- 
 self to be completely equipped against the world's gaze.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 AEIADNE 
 
 A FEW days later an automobile — not Audrey's but 
 a large limousine — bumped, with slow and soft dignity, 
 across the railway lines which diversify the quays of 
 Boulogne harbour and, having hooted in a peculiar 
 manner, came to a stop opposite nothing in particular. 
 
 "Here we are," said Mr. Gilman, reaching to open 
 the door. "You can see her masthead light." 
 
 It was getting dark. Behind, over the station, a 
 very faint flush lightened the west, and in front, across 
 the water, and reflected in the water, the thousand 
 lamps of the town rose in tiers to the lofty church 
 which stood out a dark mass against the summer sky. 
 On the quays the forms of men moved vaguely among 
 crates and packages, and on the water, tugs and boats 
 flitted about, puffing, or with the plash of oars, or 
 with no sound whatever. And from the distance ar- 
 rived the reverberation of electric trams running their 
 courses in the maze of the town. 
 
 Madame Piriac and Audrey descended, after Mr. 
 Gilman, from the car and Mr. Gilman turned off^ the 
 electric light in the interior and shut the door. 
 
 "Do not trouble about the luggage, I beg you," said 
 Mr. Gilman, breathing, as usual, rather noticeably. 
 ''Bon soir, Leroux. Don't forget to meet the nine 
 thirty-five." This last to the white-clad chauffeur, who 
 saluted sharply. 
 
 At the same moment two sailors appeared over the 
 
 255
 
 ^56 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 edge of the quay, and a Maltese-cross of light burst 
 into radiance at the end of a sloping gangway, whose 
 summit was just perched on "the solid masonry of the 
 port. The sailors were clothed in blue, with white caps, 
 and on their breasts they bore the white-embroidered 
 sign: "Ariadne, R. T. Y. C." 
 
 "Look lively, lads, with the luggage," said Mr. 
 Gilman. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Then another figure appeared under the Maltese- 
 cross. It was clad in white ducks, with a blue reefer 
 ornamented in gold, and a yachting cap crowned in 
 white: a stoutish and middle-aged figure, much like 
 Mr. Gilman himself in bearing and costume, except 
 that Mr. Gilman had no gold on his jacket. 
 
 "Well, skipper!" greeted Mr. Gilman, jauntily and 
 spryly. In one moment, in one second, Mr. Gilman 
 had grown at least twenty years younger. 
 
 "Captain Wyatt," he presented the skipper to the 
 ladies. "And this is Mr. Price, my secretary, and 
 Doctor Cromarty," as two youths, clothed exactly to 
 match Mr. Gilman, followed the skipper up the steep' 
 incline of the gangway. 
 
 And now Audrey could see the Ariadne lying below, 
 for it was only just past low water and the tide was 
 scarcely making. At the next berth higher up, with 
 lights gleaming at her innumerable portholes and two 
 cranes hard at work producing a mighty racket on her, 
 lay a Channel steamer, which, by comparison with the 
 yacht, loomed enormous, like an Atlantic liner. Indeed, 
 the yacht seemed a very little and a very lowly and a 
 very flimsy flotation on the dark water, and her illu- 
 minated deck-house was no better than a toy. On the 
 other hand, her two masts rose out of the deep high
 
 ARIADNE 257 
 
 overhead and had a certain impressiveness, though not 
 quite enough. 
 
 Audrey thought: 
 
 "Is this what we're going on? I thought it was a 
 big yacht." And she had a qualm. 
 
 And then a bell rang twice, extremely sweet and 
 mellow, somewhere on the yacht. And Audrey was 
 touched by the beauty of its tone. 
 
 "Two bells. Nine o'clock," said Mr. Oilman. "Will 
 you come aboard.? I'll show you the way." He tripped 
 down the gangway like a boy. Behind could be heard 
 the sailors giving one another directions about the 
 true method of handling luggage. 
 
 Audrey had met Madame Piriac by sheer hazard in 
 a corset-shop in the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. The 
 fugitive from justice had been obliged, in the matter of 
 wardrobe, to begin life again on her arrival trunkiess 
 in Paris, and the business of doing so was not disagree- 
 able. Madame Piriac had greeted her with most af- 
 fectionate warmth. One of her first suggestions had 
 been that Audrey should accompany her on a short 
 yachting trip projected by Mr. Gilman. She had said 
 that thouffh the excellent Gilman was her uncle, and 
 her adored uncle, he was not her real uncle, and that 
 therefore, of course, she was incapable of going un- 
 accompanied, though she would hate to disappoint the 
 dear man. As for Monsieur Piriac, the destiny of 
 France was in his hands and, the moment being some- 
 what critical, he would not quit the Ministry of For- 
 eign Affairs without leaving a fixed telegraphic ad- 
 dress. 
 
 On the next day Mr. Gilman and Madame Piriac had 
 called on Audrey at the Hotel du Danube, and the in- 
 vitation became formal. It was pressing and flatter- 
 ing. Why refuse it? Mr. Gilman was obviously pre-
 
 258 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 pared to be her slave. She accepted, with enthusiasm. 
 And she said to herself that in doing so she was put- 
 ting 3^et another spoke in the wheel of the British po- 
 lice. Immediately afterwards she learnt that jMusa 
 also had been asked. Madame Piriac informed her, in 
 reply to a sort of protest, that Musa's first concert 
 was postponed by the concert-agency until the au- 
 tumn. "I never heard of that!" Audrey had cried. 
 "And why should you have heard of it? Have you not 
 been in England.'"' Madame Piriac had answered, a 
 little surprised at Audrey's tone. Whereupon Audrey 
 had said naught. The chief point was that Musa could 
 take a holiday without detriment to his career. More- 
 over, Mr. Gilman, who possessed everytliing, possessed 
 a marvellous violin, which he would put at the disposal 
 of Musa on the yacht if Musa's own violin had not been 
 found in the meantime. The official story was that 
 Musa's violin had been mislaid or lost on the Metro- 
 politain Railway, and the fact that he had been to 
 England somehow did not transpire at all. - 
 
 Mr. Gilman had gone forward in advance to make 
 sure that his yacht was in a state worthy to receive two 
 such ladies, and he had insisted on meeting them in 
 his car at Abbeville on the way to Boulogne. He had 
 not insisted on meeting Musa similarly. He was a 
 peculiar and in some respects a stiff-necked man. He 
 had decided, in his own mind, that he would have the 
 two women to himself in the car, and so indeed it fell 
 out. Nevertheless his attitude to Musa, and Madame 
 Piriac's attitude to Musa, and everybody's attitude to 
 Musa, had shown that the mere prospect of star-con- 
 certs in a first-class hall had very quickly transformed 
 Musa into a genuine Parisian lion. He was positively 
 courted. His presence on the yacht was deemed an 
 honour, and that was why Mr. Gilman had asked him.
 
 ARIADNE 259 
 
 Audrey both resented the remarkable change and was 
 proud of it — as a mother perhaps naturally would do 
 and be. The admitted genius was to arrive the next 
 morning. 
 
 On boarding the Ariadne in the wake of Mr. Gilman 
 and Madame Piriac, the first thing that impressed Au- 
 drey was the long gangway itself. It was made of tliin 
 resilient steel, and the handrails were of soft white 
 rope, almost like silk, and finished off with fancy knots ; 
 and at the beginning of the gangway, on the dirty 
 quay, lay a beautiful mat bearing the name of the god- 
 dess, while at the end, on tlie pale, smooth deck, was 
 another similar mat. The obvious costliness of that 
 gangway and those superlative mats made Audrey feel 
 poor, in spite of her ten million francs. And the next 
 thing that impressed her was that immediately she got 
 down on deck the yacht, in a very mysterious manner, 
 had grown larger, and much larger. At the forward 
 extremity of the deck certain blue figures lounging 
 about seemed to be quite a long way off, indeed in an- 
 other world. Here and there on the deck were circles 
 of yellow or white rope, coiled as precisely and per- 
 fectly as Audrey could coil her own hair. Mr. Gil- 
 man led them to the door of the deck-house and they 
 gazed within. The sight of the interior drew out of 
 the ravished Audrey an ecstatic exclamation : "What 
 a darling!" And at the words she saw that Mr. Gil- 
 man, for all his assumed nonchalant sprjmess, almost 
 trembled with pleasure. The deck-house was a draw- 
 ing-room whose walls were of carved and inlaid wood. 
 Orange-shaded electric bulbs hung on short, silk cords 
 from the ceiling, and flowers in sconces showed bril- 
 liantly between the windows, which were draped with 
 curtains of silk matching the thick carpet. Several 
 lounge-chairs and a table of bird's-eye maple completed
 
 260 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 the place, and over the table were scattered newspapers 
 and illustrated weeklies. Everything, except the lit- 
 erature, was somewhat diminished in size, but the small- 
 ness of the scale only intensified the pleasure derived 
 from the spectacle. 
 
 Then they went "downstairs," as Audrey said; but 
 Mr. Gilman corrected her and said "below," whereupon 
 Audrey retorted that she should call it the "ground- 
 floor," and Mr. Gilman laughed as she had never heard 
 a man of his age laugh. The sight of the ground-floor 
 still further increased Audrey's notion of the dimen- 
 sions of the yacht, whose corridors and compartments 
 appeared to stretch away endlessly in two directions. 
 At the foot of the curving staircase Mr. Gilman, pull- 
 ing aside a curtain, announced: "This is the saloon," 
 When she heard the word Audrey expected a poky 
 cubicle, but found a vast drawing-room with more 
 books than she had ever seen in any other drawing- 
 room, many pictures, an open piano, with music on it ; 
 sofas in every quarter, and about a thousand -cupboards 
 and drawers, crch with a silver knob or handle. Above 
 all was a dome of multi-coloured glass, and exactly 
 beneath the dome a table set for supper, with the fin- 
 est napery, cutlery and crystal. The apartment was 
 dazzlingly lighted, and yet not a single lamp could be 
 detected in the act of illumination. A real parlour- 
 maid suddenly appeared at the far end of the room, 
 and behind her two stewards in gilt-buttoned white Eton 
 jackets and black trousers. Mr. Gilman, with serious- 
 ness, bade the parlourmaid take charge of the ladies 
 and show them the sleeping-cabins. 
 
 "Choose any cabins you like," said he, as Madame 
 Piriac and Audrey rustled off. 
 
 There might have been hundreds of sleeping-cabins. 
 And there did, in fact, appear to be quite a number of
 
 ARIADNE 261 
 
 them, to say nothing of two bathrooms. They in- 
 spected all of them save one, which was locked. In 
 an awed voice the parlourmaid said : "That is the 
 owner's cabin." At another door she said, in a differ- 
 ent, disdainful voice: "That only leads to the galley 
 and the crew's quarters." Audrey wondered what a 
 galley could be, and the mystery of that name, and the 
 mystery of the two closed doors, merely made the 
 whole yacht perfect. The sleeping-cabins surpassed 
 all else, — they were so compact, so complex, so utterly 
 complete. No large bedchamber, within Audrey's 
 knowledge, held so much apparatus, and offered so 
 much comfort and so much wardrobe room as even the 
 least of these cabins. It was impossible, to be sure, that 
 in one's amused researches one had not missed a cup- 
 board ingeniously disguised somewhere. And the multi- 
 plicity of mirrors, and the message of the laconic mono- 
 syllable "Hot" on silver taps, and the discretion of the 
 lighting, all indicated that the architect and creator 
 of these marvellous microcosms had "understood." The 
 cosy virtue of littleness, and the entire absurdity of 
 space for the sake of space, were strikingly proved, 
 and the demonstration amounted, in Audrey's mind, to 
 a new and delicious discovery. 
 
 The largest of the cabins had two berths at right 
 angles to one another, each a lovely little bed with a 
 running screen of cashmere. Having admired it once, 
 they returned to it. 
 
 "Do you know, my dear," said Madame Piriac, in 
 French, "I have an idea. You will tell me if it is not 
 good. ... If we shared this cabin . . . ! In this so 
 * curious machine one feels a satisfaction, somehow, in 
 being very near the one to the other. The ceiling is 
 so low. . . . That gives you sensations- — human sen-
 
 262 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 sations. ... I know not if you experience the 
 
 same. . . ." 
 
 "Oh! Let's!" Audrey exclaimed, impulsively in 
 Enghsh. "Do let's!" 
 
 When the parlourmaid had gone, and before the lug- 
 gage had come down, Madame Piriac caught Audrey 
 to her and kissed her fervently on both cheeks, amid 
 the ghnting confusion of polished woods and draperies 
 and silver mountings and bevelled glass. 
 
 "I am so content that you came, my little one !" 
 murmured Madame Piriac. 
 
 The next minute the cabin and the corridor outside 
 were full of open timnks and bags, over which bent the 
 forms of Madame Piriac, Audrey and the parlourmaid. 
 And all the drawers were gaping, and the doors of all 
 the cupboards swinging, and the narrow beds were hid- 
 den under piles of variegated garments. And while 
 they were engaged in the breathless business of in- 
 stalling themselves in the celestial domain, strange new 
 thoughts flitted about like mice in Audrey's head. She 
 felt as though she were in a refuge from the world, and 
 as though her conscience was being narcotised. In 
 that cabin, firm as solid land and yet floating on the 
 water, with Mr. Gilman at hand her absolute slave, — in 
 that cabin the propaganda of women's suffrage pre- 
 sented itself as a very odd and very remote phenome- 
 non, a phenomenon scarcely real. She had positively 
 everything she wanted without fighting for it. The 
 lion's share of life was hers. Comfort and luxury 
 were desirable and beautiful things, not to be cast 
 aside nor scorned. Madame Piriac was a wise woman 
 and a good woman. She was a happy woman. . . . 
 There was a great deal of ugliness in sitting on Joy- 
 wheels and being chased by policemen. True, as she 
 had heard, a crew of nineteen human beings was neces-
 
 ARIADNE 263 
 
 sary to the existence of Mr. Gilman and his guests on 
 board the yacht. Well, what then.'' The nineteen 
 were undoubtedly well treated and in clover. And the 
 world was the world ; you had to take it as you found 
 it. . . . And then in her mind she had a glimpse of 
 the blissful face of Jane Foley — blissfiil in a different 
 way from any other face she had met in all her life. 
 Disconcerting, this glimpse, for an instant, but only 
 for an instant! She, Audrey, was blissful, too. The 
 intense desire for joy and pleasure surged up in her. 
 . . . The bell which she had previously heard struck 
 three ; its delicate note vibrated long through the yacht, 
 unwilling to expire. Half-past nine, and supper and 
 the chivalry of Mr. Gilman waiting for them in the 
 elegance of the saloon! 
 
 As the two women approached the portiere which 
 screened the forward entrance to the saloon, they heard 
 Mr. Gilman say, in a weary and resigned voice: 
 
 "Well, I suppose there's nothing better than a 
 whisky and soda." 
 
 And the vivacious reply of a steward: 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 The owner was lounging in a corner, with a gloomy, 
 bored look on his face. But as soon as the portiere 
 stirred and he saw the smiles of Madame Piriac and 
 Audrey upon him, his whole demeanour changed in an 
 instant. He sprang up, laughed, furtively smoothed 
 his waistcoat, and managed to convey the general idea 
 that he had a keen interest in life, and that the keenest 
 part of that interest was due to a profound instinctive 
 desire to serve these two beautiful benefactors of man- 
 kind, — the idea apparently being that the charaiing 
 creatures had conferred a favour on the human race 
 by consenting to exist. He cooed round ^^hem, he of- 
 fered them cushions, he inquired after their physical
 
 264 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 condition, he expressed his fear lest the cabins had 
 not contained every convenience that caprice might 
 expect. He was excited ; surely he was happy ! Au- 
 drey persuaded herself that this must, after all, be his 
 true normal condition while aboard the yacht, and that 
 the ennui visible on his features a moment earlier could 
 only have been transient and accidental. 
 
 "I am sure the piano is as wonderful as all else on 
 board," said Madame Piriac. 
 
 "Do play!" he entreated. "I love to hear music 
 here. My secretary plays for me when I am alone." 
 
 "I, who do not adore music !" Madame Piriac pro- 
 tested against the invitation. But she sat down on the 
 clamped music stool and began a waltz. 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Gilman, dropping into a seat by 
 Audrey. "I wish I danced!" 
 
 "But you don't mean to say you don't," said 
 Audrey, with fascination. She felt that she could fas- 
 cinate him, and that it was her duty to fascinate him. 
 
 Mr. Gilman responded to the challenge. 
 
 "I suppose I do," he said, modestly. "We must have 
 a dance on deck one night. I'll tell my secretary to get 
 the gramophone into order. I have a pretty good 
 
 one." 
 
 "How lovely!" Audrey agreed. "I do think the 
 Adriadne's the most heavenly thing, Mr. Gilman! I'd 
 no idea what a yacht was ! I hope you'll tell me the 
 proper names for all the various parts — you know 
 what I mean. I hate to use the wrong words. It's 
 not polite on a yacht, is it?" 
 
 His smile was entranced. 
 
 "You and I will go round by ourselves to-morrow 
 morning, Mrs. Moncreiff," he said. 
 
 Just then the steward appeared with the whisky 
 and soda, but Mr. Gilman dismissed him with a sharp
 
 ARIADNE 265 
 
 gesture, and he vanished back into the unexplored parts 
 of the vessel. The implication was that the society of 
 Audrey made whisky and soda a superfluity for Mr. 
 Gilman. Although she was so young, he treated her 
 with exactly the same deference as he lavished on 
 Madame Piinac, indeed with perhaps a little more. If 
 ^ladame Piriac was for him the incarnation of sweet- 
 ness and balm and majesty, so also was Audrey, and 
 Audrey had the advantage of novelty. She was grow- 
 ing, moralljj every minute. The confession of Musa 
 had filled her with a good notion of herself. The im- 
 pulsive flattery of Madame Piriac in the joint cabin, 
 and now the sincere, grave homage of Mr. Gilman, 
 caused her to brim over with consciousness that she 
 was at last somebody. 
 
 An automobile hooted on the quay, and at the dis- 
 turbing sound Madame Piriac ceased to play and 
 swung round on the stool. 
 
 "That — that must be our other lady-guest," said 
 Mr. Gilman, who had developed nervousness ; his cheeks 
 flushed darkly. 
 
 "Ah?" cautiously smiled Madame Piriac, who was 
 plainly taken aback. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Gilman. "Miss Thompkins. Be- 
 fore I knew for certain that Mrs. Moncreiff* could 
 come with you, Hortense, I asked Miss Thompkins if 
 she would care to come. I only got her answer this 
 morning — it was delayed. I meant to tell you. . . . 
 You are a friend of Miss Thompkins, aren't you?" He 
 turned to Audrey. 
 
 Audrey replied gaily that she knew Tommy very 
 well. 
 
 "I'd better go up," said Mr. Gilman, and he de- 
 parted, and his back, though a nervous back, seemed 
 to be defying Madame Piriac and Audrey to question
 
 266 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 in the slightest degree bis absolute right to choose his 
 own guests on his own yacht. 
 
 "Strange man !" muttered Madame Piriac. It was a 
 confidence to Audrey, who eagerly accepted it as such. 
 "Imagine him inviting Mees Thompkins, without a 
 word to us, without a word ! But, you know, my dear 
 uncle was always bizarre, mysterious. Yet — is he mys- 
 terious, or is he ingenuous.'"' 
 
 "But how did he come to know Miss Thompkins.'"' 
 Audrey demanded. 
 
 "Ah! You have not heard that.?* Miss Thompkins 
 gave a — a musical tea in her studio, to celebrate these 
 concerts which are to occur. Musa asked the Foas to 
 come. They consented. It was understood they should 
 bring friends. Thus I went also, and Monsieur Gilman 
 being at my orders that afternoon, he went too. Never 
 have I seen so strange a multitude ! But it was amus- 
 ing. And all Paris has begun to talk of Musa. Miss 
 Thompkins and my uncle became friends on the in- 
 stant. I assume that it was her eyes. Also those 
 Americans have vivacity, if not always distinction. Do 
 you not think so.^"' 
 
 "Oh, yes ! And do you mean to say that on the 
 strength of that he asked her to go yachting.'^" 
 
 "Well, he had called several times." 
 
 "Aren't you surprised she accepted.'*" asked Audrey. 
 
 "No," said Madame Piriac. "It is another code, 
 that is all. It is a surprise, but she will be amusing." 
 
 "I'm sure she will," Audrey concurred. "I'm fright- 
 fully fond of her myself," 
 
 They glanced at each other very intimately, like 
 long^established allies who fear an aggression — and are 
 ready for it. 
 
 Then steps were heard. Miss Thompkins entered. 
 
 "Well," drawled Miss Thompkins, gazing first at
 
 ARIADNE 267 
 
 Audrey and then at Madame Piriac. "Of all the love- 
 liest shocks Say, Musa " 
 
 Behind her stood Musa. It appeared that he had 
 been able to get away by the same train as Tommy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE NOSTEUM 
 
 The hemisphere of heaven was drenched In moon- 
 light, and — rare happening either on British earth or 
 on the waters surrounding it, in mid-summer- — the 
 night was warm. In the midst of the ghttering sea 
 the yacht moved without the appearance of motion; 
 only by leaning over the rail and watching the bubbles 
 glide away from her could you detect her progress. 
 There were no waves, no ripples, nothing but a scarcely 
 perceptible swell. The gentle breeze, unnoticeable on 
 deck, was abaft; all the sails had been lowered and 
 stowed except the large square sail bent on a yard to 
 the mainmast and never used except with such a wind. 
 The Ariadne had a strong flood-tide under her, and 
 her 200 h. p. twin motors were stopped. Hence there 
 was no tremor in the ship and no odour of paraffin in 
 the nostrils of those who chanced to wander aft of the 
 engine-room. The deck-awning had been rolled up to 
 the centre, and at the four corners of its frame had 
 been hung four temporary electric lights within Chinese 
 lanterns. A radiance ascended from the saloon sky- 
 light; the windows of the deck-house blazed as usual, 
 but the deck-house was empty ; a very subdued glow 
 indicated where the binnacle was. And, answering these 
 signs of existence, could be distinguished the red and 
 green lights of steamers, the firm rays of lighthouses, 
 and the red or white warnings of gas-buoys run by 
 clockwork. ' 
 
 268
 
 THE NOSTRUM 269 
 
 The figures of men and women — the women In pale 
 gowns, the men in blue and white — lounged or strolled 
 on the spotless deck which unseen hands swabbed and 
 stoned every morning at 6 o'clock ; and among these 
 figures passed the figure of a steward with a salver, 
 staying them with flagons, comforting them with the 
 finest exotic fruit. Occasionally the huge square sail 
 gave an idle flap. "Get that lead out, 'Orace," com- 
 manded a grim voice from the wheel. A splash fol- 
 lowed, as a man straddled himself over the starboard 
 bow, swung a weighted line to and fro and threw it 
 from him. "Four." Another splash. "Four." An- 
 other splash. "Four." Another splash. "Three-half." 
 Another splash. "Three-half." Another splash. 
 "Three." Another splash. "Two-half." Another 
 splash. "Three." Another splash. "Five. "That'll 
 do, 'Orace," came the voice from the wheel. Then an 
 entranced silence. 
 
 The scene had the air of being ideal. And yet it 
 was not. Something lacked. That something was 
 the owner. The owner lay indisposed in the sacred 
 owner's cabin. And this was a pity because a dance 
 had been planned for that night. It might have taken 
 place without the owner, but the strains of the gramo- 
 phone and especially the shuffling of feet on the deck 
 would have disturbed him. True, he had sent up word 
 by Doctor Cromarty that he was not to be consid- 
 ered. But the doctor had delivered the message with- 
 out any conviction, and the unanimous decision was 
 that the owner must, at all costs, be considered. 
 
 It was Ostend, on top of the owner's original offer 
 to Audrey, that had brought about the suggestion of a 
 dance. They had coasted up round Gris-Nez from 
 Boulogne to Ostend, and had reached the harbour there 
 barely in time to escape from the worst of a tempest
 
 2T0 THE LION'S SH.\RE 
 
 that had already begun to produce in the minds of sun- 
 dry passengers a grave doubt whether vachtinff was, 
 after all, the most delightful of pursuits. Some miles 
 before the white dome of the Ivursaal was sicrhted the 
 process of moral decadence had set in, and passengers 
 were lying freely to each other, and boastfully Ivinff, 
 just as though somebody had been accusing them of 
 some dreadful crime of cowardice or bad breedino- in- 
 stead of merely inquiring about the existence of physi- 
 cal symptoms over which they admittedly had no con- 
 trol whatever. The security of a harbour, with a rail- 
 way station not fifty yards from the yacht's bowsprit, 
 had restored them, by dint of calming secret fears, to 
 their customary condition of righteousness and recti- 
 tude. Several days of gusty rainstorms had elapsed 
 at Ostend, and the passengers had had the opportunity 
 to study the method of managing a yacht, and to visit 
 the neighbourhood. The one was as wondrous as the 
 other. They found letters and British and French 
 newspapers on their plates at breakfast. And the first 
 object they had seen on the quay, and the last object 
 they saw there, was the identical large limousine which 
 they had left on the quay at Boulogne. It would have 
 taken them to Ghent but for the o^Tier's powerful ob- 
 jection to their eating any meal off the yacht. Seem- 
 ingly he had a great and sincere horror of local viands 
 and particularly of local water. He was their slave; 
 they might demand anything from him; he was the 
 very symbol of hospitality and chivalry, but somehow 
 they could not compass a meal away from the yacht. 
 Similarly he would have them leave the Kursaal not 
 later than 10 o'clock, when the evening had not verit- 
 ably begun. They did not clearly understand by what 
 means he imposed his will, but he imposed it. 
 
 The departure from Ostend was accomplished after
 
 THE X0STRT3I 9.71 
 
 the glass had bogiin to rise, but before it had finlshfed 
 rising, and there were apprehensions in the saloon and 
 out of it, when the spectacle of the open sea, and the 
 feel of it under the feet, showed that, as of old, water 
 was still un<»table. The process of moral decadence 
 would have set in once more but for the prudence and 
 presence of mind of Audrey, who had laid in a large 
 stock of the specific which had been of such notable 
 use to herself and Miss Ingate on previous occasions. 
 Praising openly its virtues, confessing frankly her 
 own weakness and preaching persuasively her own 
 faith, she had distributed the nostnum, and in about a 
 quarter of an hour had established a justifiable confi- 
 dence, Mr, Gilman alone would not partake, and in- 
 deed she had hardly dared to offer the thing to so 
 experienced a sailor. The day had favoured her. The 
 sea grew steadily more tranquil, and after skirting the 
 Belgian and French coasts for some little distance the 
 Ariadne, under orders, had turned her nose boldly 
 northward for the estuary of the Thames, The Ariadne 
 was now in the midst of that very complicated puzzle 
 of deeps and shallows. The passengers, in fact, knew 
 that they were in the region of the North Edinburgh, 
 but what or where the North Edinburgh was they had 
 onlyt the vaguest idea. The blot on the voyage had 
 been the indisposition of Mr. Gilman, who had taken 
 to his berth early, and who saw nobody but his doctor, 
 through whom he benignantly administered the world 
 of the yacht. Doctor Cromarty had a face which im- 
 parted nothing and yet implied everything. He said 
 less and meant more than even the average pure- 
 blooded Scotchman. It was imparted that Mr. Gilman 
 had a chronic complaint. The implications were vast 
 and baffling. 
 
 "We shall dance after all," said Miss Thompkins,
 
 272 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 bending with a mysterious gesture over Audrey, who 
 reclined in a deck-chair near the companion leading 
 to the deserted engine-room. Miss Thompkins was 
 dressed in lacy white, with a string of many-tinted 
 beads round her slim neck. Her tawny hair was ar- 
 ranged in a large fluffiness, and the ensemble showed to 
 a surprised Audrey what Miss Thompkins could ac- 
 complish when she deemed the occasion to be worthy 
 of an effort. 
 
 "Shall we? What makes you think so, dear?" ab- 
 sently asked Audrey, in whom the scene had induced 
 profound reflections upon life and the universe. 
 
 "He'll come up on deck," said Miss Thompkins, dis- 
 closing her teeth in an inscrutable smile that the 
 moonbeams made more strange than it actually was. 
 "Like to know how I know? Sure you'd like to know, 
 Mrs. Simplicity?" Her beads rattled above Audrey's 
 insignificant upturned nose. "Isn't a yacht the queer- 
 est little self-contained state you ever visited? It's as 
 full of party politics as Massachusetts ; and that's 
 some. Well, I didn't use all my medicine you gave me. 
 Didn't need it. So I've shared it with him. I got the 
 empty packet with all the instructions on it, and I put 
 two of my tablets in it, and if he hasn't swallowed them 
 by this time my name isn't Anne Tuckett Thompkins." 
 
 "But you don't mean he's been " 
 
 "Audrey, you're making a noise like a goose. Course 
 I do." 
 
 "But how did you manage to " 
 
 "I gave them to Mr. Price, with instructions to 
 leave them by the — er — bedside. Mr. Price is a friend. 
 I hope I've made that plain these days to everybody, 
 including Mr. Gilman. Mr. Price is a good sample of 
 what painters are liable to come to after they've found 
 out they don't care for the smell of oil-tubes. I knew
 
 THE NOSTRUM 273 
 
 him when he always said 'Puvis* instead of *Puvis de 
 Chavannes.* He's cured now. If I hadn't happened 
 to know he'd be on board I shouldn't have dared to 
 come. He's my lifebuoy." 
 
 "But I assure you, Tommy, Mr. Oilman refused the 
 stuff from me. He did." 
 
 "Oh! Dove! Wood-pigeon! Of course he refused 
 it. He was bound to. Owner of a two-hundred-and- 
 fifty-ton yacht taking a remedy for sea-sickness in pub- 
 lic on the two-hundred-and-fifty-ton yacht ! The very 
 idea makes you shiver. But he'll take it down there. 
 And he won't ask any questions. And he'll hide it from 
 the doctor. And he'll pretend, and he'll expect every- 
 body else to pretend, that he's never been within a mile 
 of the stuff." 
 
 "Tommy, I don't believe you." 
 
 "And he's a lovely man, all the same." 
 
 "Tommy, I don't believe you." 
 
 "Yes, you do. You'd like not to, but you can't help 
 it. I sometimes do bruise people badly in their organ 
 of illusions-about-human-nature, but it is fun, after all, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Getting down to the facts." 
 
 Accompanied by the tattoo of her necklace. Miss 
 Thompkins moved away in the direction of Madame 
 Piriac, who was engaged with Musa. 
 
 "Admit I'm rather brilliant to-night," she threw over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 The dice seem to be always loaded in favour of the 
 Misses Thompkins of society. Less than a quarter 
 of an hour later Doctor Cromarty, showing his head 
 just above the level of the deck, called out: 
 
 "Price, ye can wind up that box o' yours. Mr. Gil- 
 man is coming on deck. He's wonderful better."
 
 CHAPTER XXXn 
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 
 
 The owner was at the wheel. But he had not got 
 there at once. This singular man, who strangely 
 enough was wearing one of his most effulgent and het- 
 erogeneous club neckties, had begun by dancing. He 
 danced with all three ladies, one after the other; and 
 he did not merely dance, — he danced modernly, he 
 danced the new dances to the new tunes, given off like 
 intoxicating gas from the latest of gramophones. He 
 knew how to hold the arm of a woman above her head, 
 while coiling his own around it in the manner of a 
 snake, and he knew how to make his very body a vast 
 syncopation. The effect of his arrival was as singu- 
 lar as himself. Captain Wyatt, Doctor Cromarty and 
 Mr. Price withdrew to that portion of the deck about 
 the wheel which convention had always roped off for 
 them with invisible ropes. The captain, by custom, 
 messed by himself, whereas the other two had their 
 meals in the saloon, entering and leaving quickly and 
 saying little while at table. But apart from meals the 
 three formed a separate clan on the yacht. The indis- 
 position of the owner had dissolved this clan into the 
 general population of the saloon. The recovery of the 
 owner re-created it. Mr. Price had suddenly begun to 
 live arduously for the gramophone alone. And when 
 summoned by the owner to come and form half of the 
 third couple for dancing, Doctor Cromarty had the 
 air of arousing himself from a meditation upon medi- 
 
 274
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 275 
 
 cine. Also, the passengers themselves danced with con- 
 scientiousness, with elaborate gusto and with an earnest 
 desire to reach a high standard. And between dances 
 everybody went up to Mr. Gilman and said how lovely 
 it all was. And it really was lovely. 
 
 Mr. Gilman had taken the wheel after about the 
 sixth dance. Approaching Audrey, who owed him the 
 next dance, he had said that the skipper had hinted 
 something about his taking the wheel and he thought 
 he had better oblige the old fellow, if Audrey was quite, 
 quite sure she didn't mind, and would she come and sit 
 by him instead, — for one dance? ... As soon as two 
 sailors had fixed cushions for Audrey, and the skipper 
 had giA'en the owner the course, all persons seemed to 
 withdraw respectfully from the pair, who were in the 
 shadow of a great spar, with the glimmer of the bin- 
 nacle just in front of them. The square sail had been 
 lowered, and the engines started, and a steady, faint 
 throb kept the yacht mysteriously alive in every plank 
 of her. The gramophone and the shuffle of feet con- 
 tinued, because Mr. Gilman had expressly desired that 
 his momentary defection with a lady and in obedience 
 to duty should not bring the ball to an end. Laughter 
 and even giggles came from the ballroom. Males were 
 dancing together. The power of the moon had in- 
 creased. The binnacle-light, however, threw up a ra- 
 diance of its own on to Mr. Gilman's lowered face, the 
 face of a kind, a good, and a dependably expert indi- 
 viduality who was watching over the safety, the wel- 
 fare and the highest interests of every soul on board, 
 
 "I was very sorry to be laid up to-day," Mr. Gil- 
 man began suddenly, in a very quiet voice, frowning 
 benevolently at the black pointer on the compass. 
 *'But, of course, you know my great enemy." 
 
 "No, I don't," said Audrey, gently. 
 
 /
 
 276 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Hasn't Doc told you?" 
 
 "Doctor Cromarty? No, he doesn't tell much." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Gilman, looking round quickly and 
 shyly, rather in the manner of a boy, "it's liver," 
 
 Audrey seemed to read in his face, first, that Doctor 
 Cromarty had received secret orders never to tell any- 
 body anything, and, second, that the great enemy was 
 not liver. And she thought: "So this is human na- 
 ture ! Mature men, wise men, dignified men do de- 
 scend to these paltry deceits just in order to keep up 
 appearances, though they must know quite well that 
 they don't deceive any one who is worth deceiving." 
 The remarkable fact was that she did not feel in the 
 least shocked or disdainful. She merely decided — and 
 found a certain queer pleasure in the decision — that 
 human nature was a curious phenomenon, and that 
 there must be a lot of it on earth. And she felt kindly 
 towards Mr. Gilman. 
 
 "If you'd said gout " she remarked. "I always 
 
 understood that men generally had gout." And she 
 consciously, with intention, employed a simple, inno- 
 cent tone, knowing that it misled Mr. Gilman, and 
 wanting it to mislead him. 
 
 "No !" he went on. "Liver. All sailors suffer from 
 it, more or less. It's the bugbear of the sea. I have a 
 doctor on board because, with a score or so of crew, 
 it's really a duty to have a doctor." 
 
 "I quite see that," Audrey agreed, thinking mildly: 
 "You only have a doctor on board because you're al- 
 ways worrying about 3^our own health." 
 
 "However," said Mr. Gilman, "he's not much use to 
 me personally. He doesn't understand liver. Scotch- 
 men never do. Fortunately, I have a very good doctor 
 in Paris. I prefer French doctors. And I'm sure 
 they're right on the great liver question. All English
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 277 
 
 (doctors tell you to take plenty of violent exercise if 
 you want to shake off a liver attack. Quite wrong. 
 Too much exercise tires the body and so it tires the 
 liver as well — obviously. What's the result? You can 
 see, can't you .'* The liver works worse than ever. Now, 
 a French doctor will advise complete rest until the at- 
 tack is over. Then exercise, if you like ; but not before. 
 Of course, you don't know you've got a liver, and I 
 daresay you think it's very odd of me to talk about my 
 liver. I'm sure you do." 
 
 "I don't, honestly. I like you to talk like that. It's 
 very interesting." And she thought : "Suppose Tommy 
 was wrong, after all! . . . She's very spiteful." 
 
 "That's you all over, Mrs. MoncreifF. You under- 
 stand men far better than any other woman I ever saw, 
 unless, perhaps, it's Madame Piriac." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Oilman ! How can you say such a thing.'"' 
 
 "It's not the first time you've heard it, I wager!" said 
 Mr. Oilman. "And it won't be the last ! Any man who 
 knows women can see at once that you are one of the 
 women who understand. Otherwise, do you imagine I 
 should have begun upon my troubles.''" 
 
 Now, at any rate, he was sincere — she was con- 
 vinced of that. And he looked very smart as he spied 
 the horizon for lights and peered at the compass, and 
 moved the wheel at intervals with a strong, accustomed 
 gesture. And, assuredly, he looked very experienced. 
 Audrey blushed. She just had to believe that there 
 must be something in what he said concerning her tal- 
 ent. She had noticed it herself several times. 
 
 In an interval of the music the sea washed with a 
 long sound against the bow of the yacht ; then silence. 
 
 "I do love that sudden wash against the yacht," said 
 Audrey. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Mr. Oilman, "so do I. All doctors
 
 278 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 tell me that I should be better if I gave up yachting. 
 But I won't. I couldn't. Whatever it costs in health, 
 yachting's worth it." 
 
 "Oh ! It must be !" cried Audrey, with enthusiasm. 
 "I've never been on a yacht before, but I quite agree 
 with you. I feel as if I could live on a yacht forever — 
 always going to new places, you know; that's how I 
 feel." 
 
 "You do.'*" Mr. Gilman exclaimed and gazed at her 
 for a moment with a sort of ecstasy. Audrey instinc- 
 tively checked herself. "There's a freemasonry among 
 those who like yachting." His eyes returned to the 
 compass. "I've kept your secret. I've kept it like 
 something precious. I've enjoyed keeping it. It's been 
 a comfort to me. Now I wonder if you'll do the same 
 for me, Mrs. Moncreiff.?" 
 
 "Do what.'"' Audrey asked, weakly, intimidated. 
 
 "Keep a secret. I shouldn't dream of telling it to 
 Madame Piriac. Will you.? May I tell you.?" 
 
 "Yes, if you think you can trust me," said Aubrey, 
 concealing, with amazing ease and skill, her excite- 
 ment and her mighty pleasure in the scene . . . "He 
 wouldn't dream of telling it to Madame Piriac" ... It 
 is doubtful whether she had ever enjoyed anything so 
 much, and yet she was as prim as a nun. 
 
 "I'm not a happy man, Mrs. Moncreiff. Materially, 
 I've everything a man can want, I suppose. But I'm 
 not happy. You may laugh and say it's my liver. But 
 it isn't. You're a woman of the world ; you know what 
 life is; and yet experience hasn't spoilt you. I could 
 say anything to you ; anything ! And you wouldn't be 
 shocked, would you?" 
 
 "No," said Audrey, hoping, nevertheless, that he 
 would not say "anything, anything," but somehow
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 279 
 
 simultaneously hoping that he would. It was a dis- 
 concerting sensation. 
 
 "I want you always to remember that Fm unhappy 
 and never to tell anybody," Mr. Gilman resumed. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "It will be a kindness to me." 
 
 "I mean, why are you unhappy?" 
 
 "My opinions have all changed. I used to think I 
 could be independent of women. Not that I didn't like 
 women! I did. But when I'd left them I was quite 
 happy. You know what the facts of life are, Mrs. 
 MoncreifF. Young as you are you are older than me 
 in some respects, though I have a long Hfe before me. 
 It's just because I have a long Hfe before me — dyspep- 
 tics are always long-lived — that I'm afraid for the fu- 
 ture. It wouldn't matter so much if I was an old man." 
 
 "But," asked Audrey, adventurously, "why should 
 you be unhappy because your opinions have changed? 
 What opinions?" She endeavoured to be perfectly 
 judicial and indifferent, and yet kind. 
 
 "What opinions? Well, about woman suffrage, for 
 instance. You remember that night at the Foas', and 
 what I remarked afterwards about what you all said?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember," said Audrey. "But can you re- 
 member it? Fancy you remembering a thing like that !" 
 
 "I remember every word that was said. It changed 
 me . . . Not at first. Oh, no ! Not for several days, 
 perhaps weeks. I fought against it. Then I said to 
 myself, 'How absurd to fight against it!' . . . Well, 
 I've come to believe in women having the vote. You've 
 no more staunch supporter than I am. I want women 
 to have the vote. And you're the first person I've ever 
 said that to. I want you to have the vote." 
 
 He smiled at her, and she saw scores and scores of 
 excellent qualities in his smile; she could not believe
 
 280 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 that he had any defect whatever. His secret was 
 precious to her. She considered that he had confided 
 it to her in a manner both distinguished and poetical. 
 He had shown a quality which no youth could have 
 shown. Youths were inferior, crude, incomplete. Not 
 that Mr. Gilman was not young ! Emphatically he was 
 young, but her conception of the nvmiber of years com- 
 prised in youthfulness had been enlarged. She saw, as 
 in a magical enlightenment, that forty was young, fifty 
 was young, any age was young provided it had the 
 right gestures. As for herself, she was without age. 
 The obvious fact that Mr. Gilman was her slave touched 
 her; it saddened her, but sweetly; it gave her a new 
 sense of responsibility. 
 
 She said : 
 
 "I still don't see why this change of view should make 
 you unhappy. I should have thought it would have 
 just the opposite effect." 
 
 "It has altered all my desires," he replied. "Do you 
 know, I'm not really interested in this new yacht now! 
 And that's the truth." 
 
 "Mr. Gilman !" she checked him. "How can you say 
 such a thing.?" 
 
 It now appeared that she was not a nice girl. If 
 she had been a nice girl she would not have compre- 
 hended what Mr. Gilman was ultimately driving at. The 
 word "marriage" would never have sounded in her 
 brain. And she would have been startled and shocked 
 had Mr. Gilman even hinted that there was such a word 
 ^ in the dictionary. But not being, after all, a nice girl, 
 she actually dwelt on the notion of marriage with some- 
 body exactly like Mr. Gilman. She imagined how fine 
 and comfortable and final it would be. She admitted 
 that despite her riches and her independence she would 
 be and could be simply naught until she possessed a
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 281 
 
 man and could show him to the world as her own. 
 Strange attitude for a wealthy feminist, but she had 
 the attitude! And, moreover, she enjoyed having it; 
 she revelled in it. She desired, impatiently, that Mr. 
 Gilman should proceed further. She thirsted for his 
 next remark. And her extremely deceptive features 
 displayed only a blend of simplicity and soft pity. 
 Those features did not actually lie, for she was in- 
 genuous without being aware of it and her pity for the 
 fellow-creature whose lot she could assuage with a 
 glance was real enough. But they did suppress about 
 nine-tenths of the truth. 
 
 "I tell you," said Mr. Gilman, "there is nothing I 
 could not say to you. And — and — of course, you'll say 
 I scarcely know you — yet " 
 
 Clearly he was proceeding further. She waited as in 
 a theatre one waits for a gun to go off on the stage. 
 And then the gun did go off, but not the gun she was 
 expecting. 
 
 Skipper Wyatt's head popped up like a cannon-shot 
 out of a hole in the forward deck, and it gazed sharply 
 and apprehensively around the calm, moonlit sea. Mr. 
 Gilman was, beyond question, perturbed by the move- 
 ments of that head, though he could not see the expres- 
 sion of the eyes. This was the first phenomenon. The 
 second phenomenon was a swirling of water round the 
 after part of the ship, and this swirling went on until 
 the water was white with a thin foam. 
 
 "Reverse those d d engines !" shouted Captain 
 
 Wyatt, quite regardless of the proximity of refined 
 women. Pie had now cprung clear of the hole and was 
 running aft. The whole world of the yacht could not 
 but see that he was coatless and that his white shirt- 
 sleeves, being rather long, were kept in position by red 
 elastic rings round his arms. "Is that blithering en-
 
 282 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 gineer asleep?" continued Captain Wyatt, ignoring the 
 whole system of yacht etiquette. "She's getting harder 
 on every second!" 
 
 "Ay, ay, skipper!" came a muffled voice from the 
 engine-room. 
 
 "And not too soon either !" snapped the Captain. 
 
 The yacht throbbed more violently; the swirling in- 
 creased, furiously. The captain stared over the rail. 
 Then, after an interval, he stamped on the deck in 
 disgust. 
 
 "Shut ofF!" he yeUed. "It's no good." 
 
 The yacht ceased to throb. The swirling came to an 
 end, and the thin white foam faded into flat sombre 
 water. Whereupon Captain Wyatt turned back to 
 the wheel, which, in his extreme haste, he had passed by. 
 
 "You've run her on to the sand, sir," said he to Mr. 
 Gilman, respectfully but still accusingly. 
 
 "Oh, no! Impossible!" Mr. Gilman defended him- 
 self, pained by the charge. 
 
 "She's hard on, anyhow, sir. And many a good 
 yacht's left her bones on this Buxey." 
 
 "But you gave me the course," protested Mr. Gil- 
 man, with haughtiness. 
 
 Captain Wyatt bent down and looked at the bin- 
 nacle. He was contentedly aware that the compass of 
 a yacht hard aground cannot lie and cannot be made 
 to he. The camera can lie ; the speedometer of an auto- 
 mobile after an accident can lie — or can conceal the 
 truth and often does, but the compass of a yacht 
 aground is insusceptible to any blandishment; it shows 
 the course at the moment of striking and nothing will 
 persuade it to alter its evidence. 
 
 "What course did I give you, sir.?" asked Captain 
 Wyatt.
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 283 
 
 And as Mr. Gilman hesitated In his reply, the skip- 
 per pointed silently to the compass. 
 
 "Where's the chart? Let me see the chart," said 
 Mr. Gilman with sudden majesty. 
 
 The chart in its little brass frame was handy. Mr. 
 Gilman examined it in a hostile manner ; one might say 
 that he cross-examined it, and with it the horizon. 
 "Ah !" he muttered at length, peering at the print under 
 the chart, " 'Corrected 1906.' Out of date. Pity they 
 don't re-issue these charts oftener." 
 
 His observations had no relation whatever to the 
 matter in hand ; considered as a contribution to the un- 
 ravelling of the matter in hand they were merely idiotic. 
 Nevertheless such were the exact words he uttered, and 
 he appeared to get great benefit and solace from them. 
 They somehow enabled him to meet, quite satisfac- 
 torily, the gaze of his guests who had now gathered 
 in the vicinity of the wheel. 
 
 Audrey alone showed a desire to move away from 
 the wheel. The fact was that the skipper had glanced 
 at her in a peculiar way and his eyes had seemed to 
 say, with disdain : "Women ! Women again !" Noth- 
 ing but that ! The implications, however, were plain. 
 Audrey may have been discountenanced by the look 
 in the captain's eyes, but at the same time she had an 
 inward pride, because it was undeniable that Mr. Gil- 
 man, owing to his extreme and agitated interest in her- 
 self, had put the yacht off the course and was thereby 
 imperilling numerous lives. Audrey liked that. And 
 she exonerated Mr. Gilman, and she hated the captain 
 for daring to accuse him, and she mysteriously nursed 
 the wounded dignity of Mr. Gilman far better than 
 he could nurse it himself. 
 
 Her feehngs were assuredly complex, and they grew 
 more complex when the sense of danger began to dom-
 
 284. THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 mate them. The sense of danger came to her out of 
 the demeanour of her companions and out of the swift 
 appearance on deck of every member of the crew, in- 
 cluding the parlourmaid, and including three men who 
 were incompletely clothed. The yacht was no longer 
 a floating hotel, automobile and dancing-saloon ; it was 
 a stranded wreck. Not a passenger on board knew 
 whether the tide was making or ebbing, but, secretly, 
 all were convinced that it was ebbing and that they 
 would be left on the treacherous sand and ultimately 
 swallowed up therein, even if a storm did not super- 
 vene and smash the craft to bits in the classical manner. 
 The skipper's words about the bones of many a good 
 yacht had escaped no ear. 
 
 Further, not a passenger knew where the yacht was 
 or whither, exactly, she was bound or whether the glass 
 was rising or falling, for guests on yachts seldom con- 
 cern themselves about details. Of course, signals might 
 be made to passing ships, but signals were often, ac- 
 cording to maritime history, unheeded and the ocean 
 was very large and empty, though it was only the Ger- 
 man Ocean . . . Musa was nervous and angry. Audrey 
 knew from her intimate knowledge of him that he was 
 angry and she wondered why he should be angry. Ma- 
 dame Piriac, on the other hand, was entirely calm. 
 Her calmness seemed to say to those responsible, and 
 even to the not-responsible passenger: "You got me 
 into this and it is inconceivable that you should not get 
 me out of it. I have always been looked after and 
 protected, and I must be looked after and protected 
 now. I absolutely decline to be worried." But Miss 
 Thompkins was worried, she was very seriously 
 alarmed ; fear was in her face. 
 
 "I do think it's a shame!" she broke out almost 
 loudly, in a trembling voice, to Audrey. "I do think
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 285 
 
 it's a shame you should go flirting with poor Mr. Gil- 
 man when he's steering." And she meant all she said. 
 
 "Me flirting!" Audrey exclaimed, passionately re- 
 sentful. 
 
 Withal, the sense of danger continued to increase. 
 Still there were the boats. There were the motor- 
 launch, the cutter and the dinghy. The sea was — for 
 the present — calm and the moon encouraging. 
 
 "Lower the dinghy there and look lively now !" cried 
 the captain. 
 
 This command more than ever frightened all the 
 passengers who, in their nervousness and alarm, had 
 tried to pretend to themselves that nervousness and 
 alarm were absurd, and that first-class yachts never 
 did, and could not, get wrecked. The command was 
 a thunderstroke. It proved that the danger was im- 
 mediate and intense. And the thought of all the beau- 
 tiful food and drink on board, and all the soft cushions 
 and the electric hair-curlers and the hot-water supply 
 and the ice gave no consolation whatever. The idea 
 of the futility and wickedness of luxury desolated the 
 guests and made them austere, and yet even in that 
 moment they speculated upon what goods they might 
 take with them. 
 
 And why the dinghy, though it was a dinghy of large 
 size.'' Why not the launch.'' 
 
 After the dinghy had been dropped into the sea an 
 old sail was carefully spread amidships over her bot- 
 tom and she was lugged, by her painter, towards the 
 bow of the yacht where, with much grating of wind- 
 lasses and of temperaments and voices, an anchor 
 was very gently lowered into her and rested on the old 
 sail. The anchor was so immense that it sank the 
 dinghy up to her gunwale, and then she was rowed away 
 to a considerable distance, a chain grinding after her.
 
 286 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 and in due time the anchor was pitched with a great 
 splash into the water. The sound of orders and of re- 
 pHes vibrated romantically over the surface of the 
 water. Then a windlass was connected with the engine, 
 and the passengers comprehended that the intention 
 was to drag the yacht off the sand by main force. The 
 chain clacked and strained horribly. The shouting 
 multiplied, as though the vessel had been a great beast 
 that could be bullied into obedience. The muscles of 
 all passengers were drawn taut in sympathy with the 
 chain, and at length there was a lurch and the chain 
 gradually slackened. 
 
 "She's off!" breathed the captain. "We've saved a 
 good half hour." 
 
 "She'd have floated off by herself," said Mr. Gilman, 
 grandly. 
 
 "Yes, sir,' said the captain. "But if it had hap- 
 pened to be the ebb, sir " He left it at that and 
 
 began on a new series of orders, embracing the dinghy, 
 the engines, the anchor and another anchor. 
 
 And all the passengers resumed their courage and 
 their ancient notions about the excellence of luxury, 
 and came to the conclusion that navigation was a very 
 simple affair, and in less than five minutes were sin- 
 cerely convinced that they had never known fear. 
 
 Later the impressive sight was witnessed of Madame 
 Piriac, on her shoulders such a cloak as certainly had 
 never been seen on a yacht before, bearing Mr. Gil- 
 man's valuable violin like a jewel-casket. She had found 
 it below and brought it up on deck. 
 
 The Ariadne was now passing to port those twinkling 
 cities of delight, Clacton and Frinton, and the long pier 
 of Walton stretched out towards it, a string of to- 
 pazes. The moon was higher and brighter than ever, 
 but clouds had heaped themselves up to windward, and
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 287 
 
 the surface of the water was rippled. Moreover, the 
 yacht was now working over a strong, foul tide. The 
 company, with the exception of Mr. Gilman, who had 
 gone below — apparently in order to avoid being on the 
 same deck with Captain Wyatt, had decided that Musa 
 should be asked to play. Although the sound of his 
 practising had escaped occasionally through the port- 
 hole of a locked cabin, he had not once during the 
 cruise performed for the public benefit. Dancing was 
 finished. Why should not the yacht profit by the pres- 
 ence of a great genius on board.'' The doctor and 
 the secretary were of one mind with the women that 
 there was no good answer to this question, and even 
 the crew obviously felt that the genius ought to show 
 what he was made of. 
 
 "Dare we ask you.'"' said Madame Piriac to the 
 youth, offering him the violin-case. Her supplicatory 
 tone and attitude, though they were somewhat assumed, 
 proved to what a height Musa had recently risen as a 
 personage. 
 
 He hesitated, leaning against the rail and nervously 
 fingering it. 
 
 "I know it is a great deal to ask. But you would 
 give us so much pleasure," said Madame Piriac. 
 
 Musa replied in a dry, curt voice: 
 
 "I should prefer not to play." 
 
 "Oh ! But Musa " There was a general protest. 
 
 "I cannot play," Musa exclaimed with impatience, 
 and moved almost savagely away. 
 
 The experience was novel for Madame Piriac, left 
 standing there, as it were, respectfully presenting the 
 violin-case to the rail. This beautiful and not unpam- 
 pered lady was accustomed to see her commands re- 
 ceived as an honour; and when she condescended to 
 Implore, the effect usually was to produce a blissful and
 
 288 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 deprecatory confusion in the person besought. Her 
 husband and Mr. Gilman had for a number of years 
 been teaching her that whatever she desired was the 
 highest good and the most complete fehcity to every- 
 body concerned in the fulfilment of the desire. She 
 bore the blow from Muza admirably, keeping both her 
 smile and her dignity, and with one gesture excusing 
 Musa to all beholders as a capricious and a sensitive 
 artist in whom moodiness was lawful. It was ex- 
 quisitely done. It could not have been better done. 
 But not even Madame Piriac's extreme skill could save 
 the episode from having the air of a social disaster. 
 The gaiety which had been too feverishly resumed after 
 the salvage of the yacht from the sandbank expired 
 like a pricked balloon. People silently vanished, and 
 only Audrey was left on the after deck. 
 
 It was after a long interval that she became aware 
 of the reappearance of Musa. Seemingly, he had been 
 in the engine-room; since the beginning of the cruise 
 he had shown a fancy for both the engine-room and 
 the engineer. To her surprise, he marched straight 
 towards her deck-chair. 
 
 "I must speak to you," he said, with emotion. 
 
 "Must you?" Audrey replied, full of hot resent- 
 ment. "I think you've been horrid, Musa. Perfectly 
 horrid ! But I suppose you have your own notions 
 of politeness now. Everything has been done for you 
 and " 
 
 "What is that.''" he stopped her. "Everything has 
 been done for me. What is it that has been done for 
 me? I play for years. I am ignored. Then I succeed. 
 I am noticed. Men of affairs offer me immense sums. 
 But am I surprised? Not the least in the world. It 
 is the contrary which would have surprised me. It was 
 inevitable that I should succeed. But note well — it
 
 BY THE BINNACLE 289 
 
 is I myself who succeed. It is not my friends. It is 
 Hot the concert agent. Do I regard the concert agent 
 as a benefactor? Again, not the least in the world. 
 You say everything has been done for me. Nothing 
 has been done for me, Madame." 
 
 "Yes, yes," faltered Audrey, who was in a dilemma, 
 and therefore more resentful than ever. "I — I only 
 mean your friends have always stood by you." She 
 gathered courage, sat up erect in her deck-chair, and 
 finished haughtily : "And now you're conceited. You're 
 insufferably conceited." 
 
 "Because I refused to play.'"' He laughed stridently 
 and grimly. "No. I refused to play because I could 
 not, because I was outside myself with jealousy. Yes, 
 jealousy. You do not know jealousy. Perhaps you 
 are incapable of it. But permit me to tell you, Ma- 
 dame, that jealousy is one of the finest and most ter- 
 rible emotions. And that is why I must speak to you. 
 I cannot live and see you flirt so seriously with that 
 old idiot. I cannot live." 
 
 Audrey jumped up from the chair. 
 
 "Musa! I shall never speak to you again. . . . Me 
 . . . flirt . . . And you call Mr. Gilman an old idiot !" 
 
 "What words would you employ, Madame.'' He was 
 so agitated by your intimate conversation that he 
 brought us all near to death, in any case. Moreover, 
 it jumps to the eyes that the decrepit satyr is mad 
 about you. Mad !" 
 
 And Musa's voice broke. In the midst of all her 
 fury, Audrey was relieved that it did break, for the 
 reason that it was getting very loud, and the wheel, 
 with Captain Wyatt thereat, was not far off. 
 
 There was one thing to do, and Audrey did it. She 
 walked away rapidly. And, as she did so, she was 
 startled to discover a sob in her throat. The drawn,
 
 290 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 highly emotionalised face of Musa remained with her. 
 She was angry, indignant, infuriated, and yet her feel- 
 ings were not utteriy unpleasant, though she wanted 
 them to be so. In the first place, they were exciting. 
 And in the second place — what was it.? — well, she had 
 the strange, sweet sensation of being, somehow, the 
 mainspring of the universe, of being immensely im- 
 portant in the scheme of things. 
 
 She thought her cup was full. It was not. Staring 
 blankly over the side of the ship, she saw a buoy float 
 slowly by. She saw it with the utmost clearness, and 
 on its round black surface was painted in white letters 
 the word "Flank." There could not be two Flank 
 buoys. It was the Flank buoy of the Mozewater nav- 
 igable channel. . . . She glanced around. The well- 
 remembered shores of Mozewater were plainly visible 
 under the moon. In the distance, over the bowsprit, 
 she could discern the mass of the tower of Mozewater 
 church. She could not distinguish Flank Hall, but 
 she knew it was there. Why were they threading the 
 Mozewater channel.? It had been distinctly given out 
 that the yacht would make Harwich harbour. Almost 
 unconsciously she turned in the direction of the wheel, 
 where Captain Wyatt was. Then, controlling herself, 
 she moved away. She knew that she could not speak 
 to the Captain, She went below, and, before she could 
 escape, found the saloon populated. 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. MoncreifF!" cried Madame Piriac. "It 
 is a miraculous coincidence. You will never guess. 
 One tells me we are going to the village of Moze for 
 the night; it is because of the tide. You remember, 
 I told you. It is where lives my little friend, Audrey 
 Moze. To-morrow I visit her, and you must come 
 with me. I insist that you come with me. I have never 
 seen her. It will be all that is most palpitating."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 aguilae's double life 
 
 Madame Piriac came down into the saloon the next 
 afternoon. 
 
 "Oh ! You are still hiding yourself here !" she mur- 
 mured gaily to Audrey, who was alone among the cush- 
 ions. 
 
 "I was just resting," said Audrey. "Remember what 
 a night we had!" 
 
 It was true that the yacht had not been berthed at 
 Lousey Hard until between two and three o'clock in 
 the morning, and that no guest had slept until after 
 the job was done, though more than one had tried to 
 sleep. It was also true that in consequence the saloon 
 breakfast had been abrogated, that even the saloon 
 lunch lacked vivacity, and that at least one passenger 
 was at that moment dozing in his cabin. But not on 
 account of fatigue and somnolence was Audrey remain- 
 ing in the saloon instead of taking the splendid sum- 
 mer afternoon on deck under the awning. She felt 
 neither tired nor sleepy. The true secret was that 
 she feared the crowd of village idlers, quidnuncs, tat- 
 lers, and newsmongers who all day gazed from Lousey 
 Hard at the wonder-yacht. 
 
 Examining the line of faces as well as she could 
 through portholes, she recognised nearly every one of 
 them, and was quite sure that every one of them would 
 recognise her face. To go ashore or to stay promi- 
 nently on deck would, therefore, be to give away her 
 identity and to be forced, sooner or later, to admit 
 
 291
 
 292 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 that she had practised a long and naughty deception. 
 She could conceive some of those villagers greeting 
 her loudly from the Hard if she should appear; for 
 Essex manners were marked by strange freedoms. Her 
 situation would be terrible. It, in fact, was terrible. 
 Risks surrounded her like angry dogs. Musa, for 
 example, ought surely to have noticed that the estuary 
 in which the yacht lay was the same estuary which 
 he had seen not long before from the garden of the 
 house stated by Audrey to be her own, and he ought 
 to have commented eagerly on the marvellous coinci- 
 dence. Happily, he had not yet done so — no doubt 
 because he had spent most of the time in bed. If and 
 when he did so there would naturally be an excited 
 outcry and a heavy rain of amazed questions which 
 simply could not be answered. 
 
 "I am going almost at once to call on my little friend 
 Audrey Moze, at Flank Hall," said Madame Piriac. 
 "The house looks delicious from the deck. If you will 
 come up, I will show it to you. It is precisely like 
 the picture postcard which the dear little one sent 
 to me last year. Are you ready to come with me.?'* 
 "But, darling, hadn't you better go alone.'"' 
 "But certainly not, darling! You are not serious. 
 The meeting will be very agitating. With a third per- 
 son, however, it will be less so. I count on you abso- 
 lutely, as I have said already. Nay, I insist. I invoke 
 your friendship." 
 
 "She may be out. She may be away altogether." 
 "In that case we shall return," said Madame Piriac 
 briefly, and, not giving Audrey time to reply further, 
 she vanished, with a firm carriage and an obstinate look 
 in her eyes, towards the sleeping-cabins. 
 
 The next instant Mr. Gilman himself entered the 
 saloon.
 
 AGUILAR'S DOUBLE LIFE 293 
 
 "Mrs. MoncreifF," he started nervously, in a confi- 
 dential and deprecating tone, "this is the first chance 
 I have had to tell you. We came into Mozewater with- 
 out my orders. I won't say against my orders, but 
 certainly not with them. On the plea that I had re- 
 tired, Captain Wyatt changed our destination last 
 night without going through the formality of consult- 
 ing me. We ought to have made Harwich, but I am 
 now told that we were running short of paraffin, and 
 that if we had continued to Harwich we should have 
 had the worst of the tide against us, whereas in com- 
 ing up Mozewater the tide helped us ; also that Captain 
 Wyatt did not care about trying to get into Harwich 
 harbour at night with the wind in its present quarter, 
 and rising as it was then. Of course, Wyatt is re- 
 sponsible for the safety of the ship, and it is true 
 that I had her designed with a very light draught on 
 purpose for such waters as Mozewater; but he ought 
 to have consulted me. We might get away again on 
 this tide, but Hortense will not hear of it. She has 
 a call to pay, she says. I can only tell you how sorry 
 I am. And I do hope you will forgive me." The 
 sincerity and alarm of his manly apology were touch- 
 ing. 
 
 "But Mr. Oilman," said Audrey, with the simplicity 
 which more and more she employed in talking to her 
 host, "there is nothing to forgive. What can it mat- 
 ter to me whether we come here or go to Harwich.''" 
 
 "I thought, I was afraid " Mr. Oilman hesi- 
 tated. "In short . . . your secret, Mrs. Moncreiff, 
 which you asked me to keep, and which I have kept. 
 It was here, at this very spot, with my old barge-yacht, 
 that I first had the pleasure of meeting you. And I 
 thought . . . perhaps you had reasons. . . . How- 
 ever, your secret is safe."
 
 294 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "How nice you are, Mr. Gilman !" Audrey said, with 
 a gentle smile. "You're kindness itself. But there is 
 nothing to trouble about, really. Keep my little secret 
 by all means, if you don't mind. As for anything else 
 — that's perfectly all right. . . . Shall we go on 
 deck.?" 
 
 He thanked her without words. 
 
 She was saying to herself, rather desperately; 
 
 "After all, what do I care? I haven't committed 
 a crime. It's nobody's business but my own. And 
 I'm worth ten million francs. And if the fat's in the 
 fire, and anything is found out, and people don't like 
 it — well, they must do the other thing." 
 
 Thus she went on deck, and her courage was re- 
 warded by the discovery of a chair on the starboard 
 side of the deck-house, from which she could not pos- 
 sibly be seen by any persons on the Hard. She took 
 this chair like a gift from heaven. The deck was busy 
 enough. Mr. Price, the secretary, was making entries 
 in an account book. Dr. Cromarty was pacing to 
 and fro, expectant. Captain Wyatt was arguing with 
 the chauffeur of a vast motor-van from Clacton, and 
 another motor-van from Colchester was also present on 
 the Hard. Rows of paraffin cans were ranged against 
 the engine-room hatchway, and the odour of paraffin 
 was powerfully conflicting with the odour of ozone 
 and possibly ammonia from the marshes. Parcels kept 
 coming down by hand from the village of Moze. Fresh 
 water also came in barrels on a lorry, and lumps of ice 
 in a dog-cart. The arrival of six bottles of aspirin, 
 brought by a heated boy on a bicycle, from Clacton, 
 and seized with gusto by Dr. Cromarty, completed the 
 proof that money will not only buy anything but will 
 infallibly draw it to any desired spot, however out of 
 the way the spot may be. The probability was that
 
 AGUILAR'S DOUBLE LIFE 295 
 
 neither paraffin nor ice nor aspirin had ever found itself 
 on Louscy Hard before in the annals of the world. Yet 
 now these things foregathered with ease and natural- 
 ness owing to the magic of the word "yacht" in tele- 
 grams. 
 
 And over the scene floated the wavy, inspiring folds 
 of the yacht's immense blue ensign, with the Union 
 Jack in the top inside corner. 
 
 Mr. Price went into the deck-house and began to 
 count money. 
 
 "Mr. Price," demanded Mr. Gilman urgently, "did 
 you look up the facts about this village?" 
 
 "I was just looking up the place in 'East Coast 
 Tours,' sir, when the paraffin arrived," replied Mr. 
 Price. "It says that Moze is mentioned in 'Green's 
 Short History of the English people.' " 
 
 "Ah! Very interesting. That work is a classic. 
 It really treats of the English people, and not solely 
 of their kings and queens. Dr. Cromarty, Mr. Price 
 is busy, will you mind bringing me the catalogue of 
 the library up here.?" 
 
 Dr. Cromarty obeyed, and Mr. Gilman examined the 
 typewritten, calf-bound volume. 
 
 "Yes," said he. "Yes. I thought we had Green 
 on board, and we have. I should like extremely to 
 know what Green says about Moze. It must have been 
 in the Anglo-Saxon or Norman- period. Dr. Cromarty, 
 will you mind bringing me up the first three volumes 
 of Green.? You will find them on shelf Z8. Also the 
 last volume, for the index." 
 
 A few moments later Mr. Gilman, with three vol- 
 umes of Green on his knees and one in his hand, said 
 reproachfully to Mr. Price: 
 
 "Mr. Price, I requested you to see that the leaves
 
 296 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of all our books were cut. These volumes are abso- 
 lutely uncut." 
 
 "Well, sir, I'm working through them as fast as I 
 can. But I haven't got to shelf Z8 yet." 
 
 "I cannot stop to cut them now," said Mr. Gilman, 
 politely displeased. "What a pity ! It would have 
 been highly instructive to know what Green says about 
 Moze. I always like to learn everything I can about 
 the places we stop at. And this place must be full of 
 historic interest. Wyatt, have you had that paraffin 
 counted properly.'"' He spoke very coldly to the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 It thus occurred that what John Richard Green 
 said about Moze was never known on board the yacht 
 A riadne. 
 
 Audrey listened to the episode in a reverie. She 
 was thinking about Musa's intractability and Inexcus- 
 able rudeness, and about what she should do in the 
 matter of Madame Pirlac's impending visit to Audrey 
 Moze at Flank Hall, and through the texture of these 
 difficult topics she could see, as it were, shining the 
 sprightly simplicity, the utter ingenuousness, the en- 
 tirely reliable fidelity of Mr. Gilman. She felt, rather 
 than consciously realized, that he was a dull man. But 
 she liked his dullness ; it reassured her ; it was tran- 
 quillising; it was even adorable. She liked also his 
 attitude towards Moze. She had never suspected, no 
 one had ever hinted to her, that Moze was full of his- 
 toric interest. But looking at it now from the yacht 
 which had miraculously wafted her past the Flank 
 Buoy at dead of night, she perceived Moze in a quite 
 new aspect — a pleasure which she owed to Mr. Gil- 
 man's artless interest in things. (Not that he was art- 
 less in all affairs ! No ; in the great masculine affairs
 
 AGUILAR'S DOUBLE LIFE 297 
 
 he must be far from artless, for had he not made all 
 his money himself?) 
 
 Then Madame Piriac appeared on deck, armed and 
 determined. Audrey found, as hundreds of persons 
 had found, that it was impossible to deny Madame 
 Piriac. Beautiful, gracious, elegant, kind, when she 
 would have a thing she would have it, Audrey had 
 to descend and prepare herself. She had to reascend 
 ready for the visit. But at the critical and dreadful 
 moment of going ashore to affront the crowd she had 
 a saving idea. She pointed to Flank Hall and its 
 sloping garden, and to the sea-wall against which the 
 high spring-tide was already washing, and she sug- 
 gested that they should be rowed thither in the dinghy 
 instead of walking around by the sea-wall or through 
 the village. 
 
 "But we cannot climb over that dyke," Madame 
 Piriac protested. 
 
 "Oh, yes, we can," said Audrey. "I can see steps 
 in it from here, and I can see a gate at the bottom 
 of the garden." 
 
 "What a vision you have, darling!" murmured Ma- 
 dame Piriac. "As you wish, provided we get there." 
 
 The dinghy, at Audrey's request, was brought round 
 to the side of the yacht opposite from the Hard, and, 
 screening her face as well as she could with an open 
 parasol, she tripped down by the steps into it. If only 
 Aguilar was away from the premises she might ^e 
 saved, for the place would be shut up, and there would 
 be nothing to do but return. Should Madame Piriac 
 suggest going into the village to enquire — well, Audrey 
 would positively refuse to go into the village. Yes, 
 she would refuse! 
 
 As the boat moved away from the yacht, Musa 
 showed himself on deck. Madame Piriac signalled to
 
 298 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 him a salutation of the finest good-humour. She had 
 forgotten his pettishness. By absolutely ignoring it 
 she had made it as though it had never existed. This 
 was her art. Audrey, observing the gesture, and 
 Musa's smiling reply to it, acquired wisdom. She 
 saw that she must treat Musa as Madame Piriac treated 
 him. She had undertaken the enterprise of launching 
 him on a tremendous artistic career, and she must 
 carry it through. She wanted to make a neat, clean 
 job of the launching, and she would do it dispassion- 
 ately, like a good workwoman. He had admitted — 
 nay, he had insisted — that she was necessary to him. 
 Her pride in that fact had a somewhat superior air. 
 He might be the most marvellous of violinists, but he 
 was also a child, helpless without her moral support. 
 She would act accordingly. It was absurd to be angry 
 with a child, no matter what his vagaries. . . . At 
 this juncture of her reflections she noticed that Mr. 
 Gilman and Miss Thompkins had quitted the yacht 
 together and were walking seawards. They seemed 
 very intimate, impregnated with mutual understanding. 
 And Audrey was sorry that Mr. Gilman was quite so 
 simple, quite so straightforward and honest. 
 
 When the dinghy arrived at the sea-wall Audrey 
 won the startled admiration of the sailor in charge of 
 the boat by pointing at once to the best — if not the 
 only — place fit for a landing. The sailor was by no 
 means accustomed to such flair in a yacht's guests . 
 Indeed, it had often astonished him that people who, 
 as a class, had so little notion of how to get into or 
 out of a dinghy could have succeeded, as they all ap- 
 parently had, in any department of life. 
 
 With continuing skill, Audrey guided Madame Piriac 
 over the dyke and past sundry other obstacles, includ- 
 ing a water-course, to a gate in the wall which formed
 
 AGUILAR'S DOUBLE LIFE 299 
 
 the frontier of the grounds of Flank Hall. The gate 
 seemed at first to be unopenably fastened, but Audrey 
 showed that she possessed a genius with gates, and 
 opened it with a twist of the hand. They wandered 
 through a plantation and then through an orchard, 
 and at length saw the house. There was not a sign 
 of Aguilar, but the unseen yard dog began to bark, 
 hearing which, Madame Piriac observed in French: 
 
 "The property seems a little neglected, but there 
 must be some one at home." 
 
 "Aguilar is bound to come now !" thought Audrey. 
 "And I am lost!" Then she added to herself: "And 
 I don't care if I am lost. What an unheard-of lark!" 
 
 And to Madame Piriac she said lightly: 
 
 "Well, we must explore." 
 
 The blinds were nearly all up on the garden-front. 
 And one window — the French window of the drawing- 
 room — was wide open. 
 
 "The crisis will be here in one minute at the latest," 
 thought Audrey. 
 
 "Evidently Miss Moze is at home," said Madame 
 Piriac, gazing at the house. "Yes, it is distinguished. 
 It is what I had expected. . . . But ought we not to 
 go to the front door.'^" 
 
 "I think we ought," Audrey agreed. 
 
 They went round the side of the house, into the main 
 drive, and without hesitation Madame Piriac rang the 
 front door-bell, which they could plainly hear. "I 
 must have my cards ready," said she, opening her bag. 
 "One always hears how exigent you are in England 
 about such details, even in the provinces. And, indeed, 
 why not?" 
 
 There was no answer to the bell. Madame Piriac 
 rang again, and there was still no answer. And the 
 dog had ceased to bark.
 
 300 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 *'Mon Dieu!" she muttered. "Have you observed, 
 darling, that all the blinds are down on this fa9ade?" 
 
 She rang a third time. Then, without a word, they 
 returned slowly to the garden-front. 
 
 "How mj'stcrious ! Mon Dieu! How English it all 
 is !" muttered Madame Piriac. "It gives me fear." 
 
 Audrey had almost decided definitely that she was 
 saved when she happened to glance through the open 
 window of the drawing-room. She thought she saw 
 a flicker within. She looked again. She could not be 
 mistaken. Then she noticed that all the dust sheets 
 had been removed from the furniture, that the carpet 
 had been laid, that a table had been set for tea, that 
 there were flowers and china and a teapot and bread- 
 and-butter and a kettle and a spirit-lamp on the table. 
 The flicker was the flicker of the blue flame of the 
 spirit-lamp. The kettle over it was puffing out steam. 
 
 Audrey exclaimed, within herself: 
 
 "Aguilar!" 
 
 She had caught him at last. There were two cups- 
 and-saucers — the best ancient blue-and-white china, out 
 of the glass-fronted china cupboard in that very room ! 
 The celibate Aguilar, never known to consort with any- 
 body at all, was clearly about to entertain some one 
 to tea, and the aspect of things showed that he meant 
 to do it very well. True, there was no cake, but the 
 bread-and-butter was expertly cut and attractively ar- 
 ranged. Audrey felt sure that she was on the track 
 of Aguilar's double life, and that a woman was con- 
 cerned therein. She was angry, but she was also 
 enormously amused and uplifted. She no longer cared 
 the least bit about the imminent danger threatening 
 her incognito. Her sole desire was to entrap Aguilar, 
 and with deep joy she pictured his face when he should
 
 AGUILAR'S DOUBLE LIFE 301 
 
 come into the room with his friend and find the mistress 
 of the house already installed. 
 
 "I think we had better go in here, darling," she said 
 to Madame Piriac, with her hand on the French win- 
 dow. "There is no other entrance." 
 
 Madame Piriac looked at her. 
 
 "Eh bien! It is your country, not mine. You know 
 the habits. I follow you," said Madame Piriac calmly. 
 "After all, my dear little Audrey ought to be delighted 
 to see me. I have several times told her that I should 
 come. All the same, I expected to announce myself. 
 . . . What a charming room! So this is the English 
 provinces !" 
 
 The room was certainly agreeable to the eye. And 
 Audrey seemed to see it afresh, to see it for the first 
 time in her life. And she thought: "Can this be the 
 shabby old drawing-room that I hated so.^*" 
 
 The kettle continued to puff vigorously. 
 
 "If they don't come soon," said Audrey, "the water 
 will be all boiled away and the kettle burnt. Suppose 
 we make the tea?" 
 
 Madame Piriac raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "It is your country," she repeated. "That appears 
 to be singular, but I have not the English habits." 
 
 And she sat down, smiling. 
 
 Audrey opened the tea-caddy, put three spoonfuls 
 of tea into the pot, and made the tea. 
 
 The clock struck on the mantelpiece. The clock was 
 actually going. Aguilar was ever thorough in his 
 actions. 
 
 "Four minutes to brew, and if they don't come we'll 
 have tea," said Audrey, tranquil in the assurance that 
 the advent of Aguilar could not now be long delayed. 
 
 "Do you take milk and sugar, darling?" she asked 
 Madame Piriac at the end of the four minutes, which
 
 302 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 they had spent mainly in a curious silence. "I believe 
 you do." 
 
 Madame Piriac nodded. 
 
 "A little bread-and-butter.? I'm sorry there's no 
 cake or jam." 
 
 It was while Madame Piriac was stirring her first 
 cup that the drawing-room door opened, and at once 
 there was a terrific shriek. 
 
 "Audrey !" 
 
 The invader was Miss Ingate. Close behind Miss 
 Ingate came Jane Foley.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 
 
 «1 
 
 *DrD you get my letter?" breathed Miss Ingate 
 weakly, after she had a little recovered from the shock, 
 which had the appearance of being terrific. 
 
 "No," said Audrey. "How could I? We're yacht- 
 ing. Madame Piriac, you know Miss Ingate, don't 
 you.'' And this is my friend Jane Foley." She spoke 
 quite easily and naturally, though Miss Ingate in her 
 intense agitation had addressed her as Audrey, whereas 
 the Christian name of Mrs. MoncreifF, on the rare 
 occasions when a Christian name became necessary or 
 advisable, had been Olivia — or, infrequently, Olive. 
 
 "Yachting !" 
 
 "Yes. Haven't you seen the yacht at the Hard.''" 
 
 "No! I did hear something about it, but I've been 
 too busy to run after yachts. We've been too busy, 
 haven't we, Miss Foley.? I even have to keep my dog 
 locked up. I don't know what you'll say. Aud — 
 Mrs. Moncreiff ! I really don't ! But we acted for the 
 best. Oh ! How dreadfully exciting my life does get 
 at times ! Never since I played the barrel organ all 
 the way down Regent Street have I ! Oh ! dear !" 
 
 "Have my tea, and do sit down, Winnie, and remem- 
 ber you're an Essex woman!" Audrey adjured her, 
 going to the china cupboard to get more cups. 
 
 "I'll just tell you all about it, Mrs. MoncreifF, if 
 you'll let me," Jane Foley began with a serene and 
 happy smile, as she limped to a chair. "I'm quite 
 
 303
 
 804. . THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ready to take all the consequences. It's the police 
 again, that's all. I don't know how exactly they got 
 on the track of the Spatts at Frinton. But I daresay 
 you've seen that the police have seized a lot of docu- 
 ments at our headquarters. Perhaps that explains it. 
 Anyway I caught sight of our old friend at Paget 
 Gardens nosing about, and so as soon as it was dark I 
 left the Spatts. It's a horrid thing to say, but I never 
 was so glad about anything as I was at leaving the 
 Spatts. I didn't tell them where I was going, and they 
 didn't ask. I'm sure the poor things were very relieved 
 to have me go. Miss Ingate tells me to-day she's heard 
 they've both resigned from the Union. Mr. Spatt went 
 up to London on purpose to do it. And can you be 
 surprised.'' 
 
 "Yes, you can, and yet you can't !" exclaimed Miss 
 Ingate. "You can, and yet you can't !" 
 
 "I met Miss Ingate on Frinton front," Jane Foley 
 proceeded. "She was just getting into her carriage. 
 I had my bag and I asked her to drive me to the station. 
 'To the station.?' she said. 'What for.? There's no 
 train to-night.' " 
 
 "No more there wasn't!" Miss Ingate put in, "I'd 
 been dining at the Proctors' and it was after ten, I 
 know it was after ten because they never let me leave 
 until after ten, in spite of the long drive I have. Fancy 
 there being a train from Frinton after ten! So of 
 course I brought Miss Foley along. Oh ! It was vehy 
 interesting. Vehy interesting. You see we had to think 
 of the police. I didn't want the police coming poking 
 round my house. It would never do, in a little place 
 like Moze. I should never hear the last of it. So I — 
 I thought of Flank Hall. I " 
 
 Jane Foley went on: 
 
 "Miss Ingate was sure you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Mon-
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 305 
 
 creiff. And personally I was quite certain you wouldn't 
 mind. We left the carriage at Miss Ingate's, and 
 carried the bag in turns. And I stood outside while 
 Miss Ingate woke up Mr. Aguilar. It was soon all 
 right." 
 
 "I must say Aguilar was vehy reasonable," said Miss 
 Ingate. "Vehy reasonable. And he's got a great spite 
 against my dear Inspector Keeble. He suggested 
 everything. He never asked any questions, so I told 
 him. You do, you know. He suggested Miss Foley 
 should have a bed in the tank-room, so that if there 
 was any trouble all the bedrooms should look innocent." 
 "Did he tell you I'd come here to see him not long 
 since.'"' Audrey demanded. 
 
 "And why didn't you pop in to see me? I was hurt 
 when I got your note." 
 "Did he tell you.?" 
 
 "Of course he didn't. He never tells anybody any- 
 thing. That sort of thing's very useful at times, espe- 
 cially when it's combined with a total lack of curiosity. 
 He fixed everything up. And he keeps the gates locked, 
 so that people can't wander in." 
 
 "He didn't lock the gate at the bottom of the garden, 
 because it won't lock," said Audrey. "And so he didn't 
 keep me from wandering in." She felt rather disap- 
 pointed that Aguilar should once more have escaped 
 her reproof and that the dream of his double life should 
 have vanished away, but she was determined to prove 
 that he was not perfect. 
 
 "Well, I don't know about that," said Miss Ingate. 
 "It wouldn't startle me to hear that he knew you were 
 intending to come. All I know is that Miss Foley's 
 been here for several days. Not a soul knows except 
 me and Aguilar. And it seems to get safer every day. 
 She does venture about the house now, though she never
 
 306 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 goes into the garden while it's light. It was Aguilar 
 had the idea of putting this room straight for her." 
 
 "And it was he who cut the bread-and-butter," added 
 Jane Foley. 
 
 "And this was to be our first tea-party !" Miss Ingate 
 half shrieked. "I'd come — I do come, you know, to 
 keep an eye on things as you asked me — I'd come, and 
 we were just having a cosy little chat in the tank-room. 
 Aguilar's gone to Colchester to get a duplicate key 
 of the front-gates. He left me his, so I could get in 
 and lock up after myself, and he put the water on to 
 boil before leaving. I said to Miss Foley, I said, up 
 in the tank-room: 'Was that a ring at the door.?' 
 But she said it wasn't." 
 
 "I've been a little deaf since I was in prison," said 
 Jane Foley. 
 
 "And now we come down and find you here! I — I 
 hope I've done right." This, falteringly, from Miss 
 Ingate. 
 
 "Of course you have, you silly old thing," Audrey 
 reassured her. "It's splendid!" 
 
 "Whenever I think of the police I laugh," said Miss 
 Ingate in an unsettled voice. "I can't help it. They 
 can't possibly suspect. And they're looking every- 
 where, everywhere ! I can't help laughing." And sud- 
 denly she burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh! Now! Winnie, dear. Don't spoil it all!" 
 Audrey protested, jumping up. 
 
 Madame Piriac, who had hitherto maintained the 
 most complete passivity, restrained her. 
 
 "Leave her tranquil!" murmured Madame Piriac in 
 French. "She is not spoiling it. On the contrary! 
 One is content to see that she is a woman !" 
 
 And then Miss Ingate laughed, and blushed, and 
 called herself names.
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 307 
 
 "And so you haven't had my letter," said she. "I 
 wish you had had it. But what is this yachting busi- 
 ness.'' I never heard of such goings-on. Is it your 
 yacht.'' This world is getting a bit too wonderful for 
 me." 
 
 The answer to these questions was cut short by 
 rather heavy masculine footsteps approaching the door 
 of the drawing-room. Miss Ingate grew instantly seri- 
 ous. Audrey and Jane looked at each other, and Jane 
 Foley went quickly but calmly to the door and opened 
 it. 
 
 "Oh ! It's Mr. Aguilar — returned !" she said, quietly. 
 "Is anything the matter, Mr. Aguilar.'"' 
 
 Aguilar, hat in hand, entered the room. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Aguilar," Audrey greeted him. 
 
 " 'Noon, madam," he responded, exactly as though 
 he had been expecting to find the mistress there. "It's 
 like this. I've just seen Inspector Keeble and that 
 there detective as was here afore — you know, madam," 
 (nodding to Audrey) "and I fancy they're a-coming 
 this way, so I thought I better cut back and warn ye. 
 I don't think they saw me. I was too quick for 'em. 
 Was the bread-and-butter all right, Miss Ingate.? 
 Thank ye." 
 
 Miss Ingate had risen. 
 
 "I ought to go home," she said. "I feel sure it would 
 be wiser for me to go home. I never could talk to 
 detectives." 
 
 Jane Foley snatched at one of the four cups and 
 saucers on the table, and put it back, all unwashed, 
 into the china cupboard. 
 
 "Three cups will be enough for them to see, if they 
 come," she said with a bright happy smile to Audrey. 
 "Yes, Miss Ingate, you go home. I'm ever so much 
 obliged to you. Now, I'll go upstairs and Aguilar
 
 808 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 shall lock me In the tank-room and push the key under 
 the door. We are causing you a lot of trouble, Mrs. 
 MoncreifF, but you won't mind. It might hare been 
 so much worse." She laughed as she went. 
 
 "And suppose I meet those police on the way out, 
 what am I to say to them?" asked Miss Ingate when 
 Jane Foley and Aguilar had departed. 
 
 "If they're very curious, tell them you've been here 
 to have tea with me and that Aguilar cut the bread- 
 and-butter," Audrey replied. "The detective will be 
 interested to see me. He chased me all the way to 
 London not long since. Au revoir, Winnie." 
 
 "Dear friend," said Madame Piriac, with admirable 
 though false calm. "Would it not be more prudent 
 to fly back at once to the yacht — if in truth this is the 
 same police-agent of whom you recounted to me with 
 such drollness the exploits.'' It is not that I am 
 afraid " 
 
 "Nor I," said Audrey. "There is no danger except 
 to Jane Foley." 
 
 "Ah! You cannot abandon her. That is true. 
 Nevertheless I regret ..." 
 
 "Well, darling," Audrey exclaimed. "You would in- 
 sist on my coming!" 
 
 The continuing presence of Miss Ingate, who had 
 lost one glove and her purse, rendered this brief con- 
 versation somewhat artificial. And no sooner had Miss 
 Ingate got away, by the window — for the sake of dis- 
 patch, than a bell made itself heard and Aguilar came 
 back to the drawing-room in the role of butler. 
 
 "Inspector Keeble and a gentleman to see you, 
 Madam." 
 
 "Bring them in," said Audrey. 
 
 Aguilar's secret glance at Inspector Keeble as he 
 brought in the visitors showed that his life-long and
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 309 
 
 harmless enemy had very little to hope from his good- 
 will. 
 
 "Wait a moment, you!'* called the detective as 
 Aguilar like a perfect butler was vanishing. "Good 
 afternoon, ladies. Excuse me, I wish to question this 
 man." He indicated Aguilar with a gesture of apolo- 
 gising for Aguilar. 
 
 Inspector Keeble, an overgrown mass of rectitude 
 and kindliness, greeted Audrey with that constraint 
 which always afflicted him when he was beneath any 
 roof more splendid than that of his own police-station. 
 
 "Now, Aguilar," said the detective. "It's you that'll 
 be telling me. Ye've got a woman concealed in the 
 hou'se. Where is she?" 
 
 He knew, then, this ferreting and divinatory Irish- 
 man ! Of course Miss Ingate must have committed 
 some indiscretion, or was it that Aguilar was less 
 astute than he gave the impression of being? Audrey 
 considered that all was lost, and she was aware of a 
 most unpleasant feeling of helplessness and inefficiency. 
 Then she seemed to receive inspiration and optimism 
 from somewhere? She knew not exactly from where, 
 but perhaps it was from the shy stiffness of the de- 
 meanour of her old acquaintance Inspector Keeble. 
 Moreover, the Irishman's twinkling eyes were a chal- 
 lenge to her. 
 
 "Oh ! Aguilar !" she exclaimed. "I'm very sorry to 
 hear this. I knew women were always your danger, but 
 I never dreamt you would start carrying on in my 
 absence." 
 
 Aguilar fronted her, and their eyes met. Audrey 
 gazed at him steadily. There was no smile in Audrey's 
 eyes, but there was a smile glimmering mysteriously 
 behind them, and after a couple of seconds this phe- 
 nomenon aroused a similar phenomenon behind the eyes
 
 310 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of Aguilar. Audrey had the terrible and god-like sen- 
 sation of lifting a hired servant to equality with her- 
 self. She Imagined that she would never again be able 
 to treat him as Aguilar, and she even feared that she 
 would soon begin to cease to hate him. At the same 
 time she observed slight signs of Incertitude in the 
 demeanour of the detective. 
 
 Aguilar replied coldly, not to Audrey, but to the 
 police : 
 
 "If Inspector Keeble or anybody else has been mixing 
 my name up with any scandal about females, I'll have 
 him up for slander and libel and damages as sure I 
 stand here." 
 
 Inspector Keeble looked away, and then looked at 
 the detective — as If for support in peril. 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Aguilar, that you haven't got 
 a woman hidden in the house at this very moment.?" 
 the detective demanded. 
 
 "I'll thank ye to keep a civil tongue In your head," 
 said Aguilar. "Or I'll take ye outside and knock yer 
 face sideways. Pardon me, madam. Of course I ain't 
 got no woman concealed on the premises. And mark 
 ye. If I lose my place through this, ye'll hear of it. 
 And I shall put a letter In The Gardener's Chronicle, 
 too." 
 
 "Well, ye can go," the detective responded. 
 
 "Yes," sneered Aguilar. "I can go. Yes, and I 
 shall go. But not so far but what I can protect my 
 interests. And I'll make this village too hot for Keeble 
 before I've done, police or no police." 
 
 And with a look at Audrey like the look of a knight 
 at his lady after a joust, Aguilar turned to leave the 
 room. 
 
 "Aguilar," Audrey rewarded him. "You needn't be 
 afraid about your place."
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 311 
 
 » 
 
 "Thank ye, m'm. 
 
 "May I ask what your name is?" Audrey enquired 
 of the detective as soon as Aguilar had shut the door. 
 
 "Hurley," replied the detective. 
 
 "I thought it might be," said Audrey, sitting down, 
 but not offering seats. "Well, ]\Ir. Hurley, after all 
 your running after Miss Susan Foley, don't you think 
 it's rather unfair to say horrid things about a respect- 
 able man like Aguilar? You were funny about that 
 stout wife of yours last time I saw you, but you must 
 remember that Aguilar can't be funny about his wife, 
 because he hasn't got one." 
 
 "I really don't know what you're driving at, miss," 
 said Mr. Hurley simply. 
 
 "Well, what were you driving at when you followed 
 me all the way to London the other day ?" 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Hurley. "I didn't follow you 
 to London. I only happened to arrive at Charing 
 Cross about twenty seconds after you, that was all. 
 As a matter of fact, nearly half of the way you were 
 following me." 
 
 "Well, I hope you were satisfied." 
 
 "I only want to know one thing," the detective re- 
 torted. "Am I speaking to Mrs. Olivia Moncreiff ?" 
 
 Audrey hesitated, glancing at Madame Piriac, who, 
 in company with the vast Inspector Keeble, was care- 
 fully inspecting the floor. She invoked wisdom and 
 sagacity from heaven, and came to a decision. 
 
 "Not that I know of," she answered. 
 
 "Then, if you please, who are you?" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Audrey. "You're In the village 
 of Moze itself and you ask who I am. Everybody 
 knows me. My name is Audrey Moze, of Flank Hall, 
 Moze, Essex. Any child in Moze Street will tell you 
 ■that. Inspector Keeble knows as well as anybody."
 
 312 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Madame PIrlac proceeded steadily with the enquiry 
 into the carpet. Audrey felt her heart beating. 
 
 "Unmarried .P" pursued the detective. 
 
 "Most decidedly," said Audrey with conviction. 
 
 "Then what's the meaning of that ring on your 
 finger, if you don't mind my asking .?" the detective 
 continued. 
 
 Certainly Audrey was flustered, but only for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Mr. Hurley," said she. "I wear It as a protection 
 from men of all ages who are too enterprising." 
 
 She spoke archly, with humour; but now there was 
 no answering humour in the features of Mr. Hurley, 
 who seemed to be a changed man, to be indeed no longer 
 even an Irishman. And Audrey grew afraid. Did he 
 after all know of her share in the Blue City enterprise.? 
 She had long since persuaded herself that the police 
 had absolutely failed to connect her with that affair, 
 but now uncertainty was born in her mind. 
 
 "I must search the house," said the detective. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I have to arrest a woman named Jane Foley," an- 
 swered Mr. Hurley, adding somewhat grimly: "The 
 name will be known to ye, I'm thinking. . . . And I 
 have reason to believe that she is now concealed on 
 these premises." 
 
 The directness of the blow was terrific. It was 
 almost worse than the blow itself. And Audrey now 
 believed everything that she had ever heard or read 
 about the miraculous ingenuity of detectives. Still, 
 she did not regard herself as beaten, and the thought 
 of the yacht lying close by gave her a dim feeling of 
 security. If she could only procure delay . . . ! 
 
 "I'm not going to let you search my house," she said
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 313 
 
 angrily. "I never heard of such a thing! You've got 
 no right to search my house." 
 
 "Oh yes I have!" Mr. Hurley insisted. 
 
 "Well, let me see your paper — I don't know what 
 you call it. But I know you can't do anything without 
 a paper. Otherwise any bright young man might walk 
 into my house and tell me he meant to search it. 
 Keeble, I'm really surprised at you." 
 
 Inspector Keeble blushed. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, miss," said he contritely. "But 
 the law 's the law. Show the lady your search-warrant, 
 Mr. Hurley." His voice resembled himself. 
 
 Mr, Hurley coughed. "I haven't got a search-war- 
 rant yet," he remarked. "I didn't expect " 
 
 "You'd better go and get one, then," said Audrey, 
 calculating how long it would take three women to 
 transport themselves from the house to the yacht, and 
 perpending upon the probable behaviour of Mr. Gilman 
 under a given set of circumstances. 
 
 "I will," said Mr. Hurley. "And I shan't be long. 
 Keeble, where is the nearest justice of the peace.'' . . . 
 You'd better stay here or hereabouts. 
 
 "I got to go to the station to sign on my three con- 
 stables," Inspector Keeble protested awkwardly, look- 
 ing at his watch, which also resembled himself. 
 
 "You'd better stay here or hereabouts," repeated 
 Mr. Hurley, and he moved towards the door. In- 
 spector Keeble, too, moved towards the door. 
 
 Audrey let them get into the passage, and then she 
 was vouchsafed a new access of inspiration. 
 
 "Mr. Hurley," she called, in a bright, unofFended 
 tone. "After all I see no reason why you shouldn't 
 search the house. I don't really want to put you to 
 any unnecessary trouble. It is annoying, but I'm not 
 going to be annoyed." The ingenuous young creature
 
 314 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 expected Mr. Hurley to be at once disarmed and 
 ashamed by this kind offer. She was wrong. He was 
 evidently surprised, but he gave no evidence of shame 
 or of the sudden death in his brain of all suspicions. 
 
 "That's better," he said calmly. "And I'm much 
 obliged." 
 
 "I'll come with you," said Audrey. "Madame 
 Piriac," she addressed Hortense with averted eyes. 
 "Will you excuse me for a minute or two while I show 
 these gentlemen the house?" The fact was that she 
 did not care just then to be left alone with Madame 
 Piriac. 
 
 "Oh! I beg you, darling!" Madame Piriac granted 
 the permission with overpowering sweetness. 
 
 The procedure of Mr. Hurley was astonishing to 
 Audrey ; nay, it was unnerving. First he locked the 
 front-door and the garden-door and pocketed the keys. 
 Then he locked the drawing-room on the passage side 
 and pocketed that key. He instructed Inspector 
 Keeble to remain in the hall at the foot of the stairs. 
 He next went into the kitchen and the sculleries and 
 locked the outer doors in that quarter. Then he de- 
 scended to the cellars, with Audrey always in his wake. 
 Having searched the cellars and the ground-floor, he 
 went upstairs, and examined in turn all the bedrooms 
 with a thoroughness and particularity which caused 
 Audrey to blush. He left nothing whatever to chance, 
 and no dust-sheet was undisturbed. Audrey said no 
 word. The detective said no word. But Audrey kept 
 thinking: "He is getting nearer to the tank-room." 
 A small staircase led to the attic-floor, upon which 
 were only servants' bedrooms and the tank-room. After 
 he had mounted this staircase and gone a little way 
 along the passage he swiftly and without warning 
 dashed back and down the staircase. But nothing
 
 THE TANK-ROOM 315 
 
 seemed to happen, and he returned. The three doors 
 of the three servants' bedrooms were all ajar. Mr. 
 Hurley passed each of them with a careless glance 
 within. At the end of the corridor, in obscurity, was 
 the door of the tank-room. 
 
 "What's this.P" he asked abruptly. And he knocked 
 nonchalantly on the door of the tank-room. 
 
 Audrey was acutely alarmed lest Jane Foley should 
 respond, thinking the knock was that of a friend. She 
 saw how idiotic she had been not to warn Jane by 
 means of loud conversation with the detective. 
 
 "That's the tank-room," she said loudly. "I'm 
 afraid it's locked." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Mr. Hurley negligently, and he 
 turned the searchlight of his gaze upon the three bed- 
 rooms, which he examined as carefully as he had ex- 
 amined anything in the house. The failure to discover 
 in any cupboard or corner even the shadow of a human 
 being did not appear to discourage him in the slightest 
 degree. In the third bedroom — that is to say, the one 
 nearest the head of the stairs and furthest from the 
 tank-room — he suddenly beckoned to Audrey, who was 
 standing in the doorway. She went within the room 
 and he pushed the door to, without, however, quite 
 shutting it. 
 
 "Now about the tank-room. Miss Moze,' he began 
 quietly. "You say it's locked.'"' 
 
 "Yes," said the quaking Audrey. 
 
 "As a matter of form, I'd better just look in. Will 
 you kindly let me have the key?" 
 
 "I can't," said Audrey. 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 Audrey acquired tranquillity as she went on: "It's 
 at Frinton. Friends of mine there keep a punt on 
 Mozewater, and I let them store the sail and things in
 
 316 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 the tank-room. There's plenty of room. I give them 
 the key because that's more satisfactory. The tank- 
 room isn't wanted at all, you see, while I'm away from 
 home." 
 
 "Who are these friends.'"' 
 
 "Mr. and Mrs. Spatt," said Audrey at a venture. 
 
 *'I see," said the detective. 
 
 They came downstairs, and the detective made it 
 known that he would re-visit the drawing-room. In- 
 spector Keeble followed them. In that room Audrey 
 remarked : 
 
 "And now I hope you're satisfied." 
 
 Mr. Hurley merely said: 
 
 "Will you please ring for Aguilar,'"' 
 
 Audrey complied. But she had to ring three times 
 before the gardener's footsteps were heard on the un- 
 carpeted stone floor of the hall. 
 
 "Aguilar," Mr. Hurley demanded. "Where is the 
 key of the tank-room.'"' 
 
 Audrey sank into a chair, knowing profoundly that 
 all was lost. 
 
 "It's at Mrs. Spatt's at Frinton," replied Aguilar 
 glibly. "Mistress lets her have that room to store 
 some boat-gear in. I expected she'd ha' been over 
 before this to get it out. But the yachting season 
 seems to start later and later every year these times." 
 
 Audrey gazed at the man as at a miracle-worker. 
 
 "Well, I think that's all," said Mr. Hurley. 
 
 "No, it isn't," Audrey corrected him. "You've got 
 all my keys in your pocket — except one." 
 
 When the police had gone Audrey said to Aguilar 
 in the hall: 
 
 "Aguilar, how on earth did you ?" 
 
 But she was in such a state of emotion at the reali-
 
 THE TANK-ROOM SIT 
 
 satlon of dangers affronted and past that she could 
 not finish. 
 
 "I'm sorrj I was so long answering the bell, m'm," 
 replied Aguilar strangely. "But I'd put my list slip- 
 pers on — them as your father made me wear when I 
 come into the house, mornings, to change the plants, 
 and I thought it better to put my boots on again before 
 I come. . . . Shall I put the keys back in the doors, 
 madam .?" 
 
 So saying he touched his front-hair, after his man- 
 ner, and took the keys and retired. Audrey was as 
 full of fear as of gratitude. Aguilar daunted her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE THIRD SORT OF WOMAN 
 
 «1 
 
 'It was quite true what I told the detective. So I 
 suppose you've finished with me for evermore !" Audrey 
 burst out recklessly, as soon as she and Madame Piriac 
 were alone together. The supreme moment had come, 
 and she tried to grasp it like a nettle. Her adven- 
 turous rashness was, she admitted, undeniable. She 
 had spoken the truth to the police-officer about her 
 identity and her spinsterhood because with unusual 
 wisdom she judged that fibs or even prevarication on 
 such a subject to such an audience might entangle her 
 in far more serious difficulties later on. Moreover, with 
 Inspector Keeble present, she could not successfully 
 have gone very far from the truth. It was a pity that 
 Madame Piriac had witnessed the scene, for really, 
 when Audrey came to face it, the deception which she 
 had practised upon Madame Piriac was of a monstrous 
 and inexcusable kind. And now that Madame Piriac 
 kpew the facts, many other people would have to know 
 the facts — including probably Mr. Oilman. The pros- 
 pect of explanations was terrible. In vain Audrey 
 said to herself that the thing was naught, that she had 
 acted within her rights, and that anyhow she had long 
 ago ceased to be diffident and shy ! . . . She was intimi- 
 dated by her own enormities. And she also thought: 
 "How could I have been silly enough to tell that silly 
 tale about the Spatts ? More complications. And poor 
 dear Inspector Keeble will be so shocked." 
 
 318
 
 THE THIRD SORT OF WOMAN 319 
 
 After a short pause Madame Piriac replied, in a 
 grave but kind tone: 
 
 "Why would you that I should have finished with 
 you forever? You had the right to call yourself by 
 any name you wished, and to wear any ring that 
 pleased your caprice. It is the affair of nobody but 
 yourself." 
 
 "Oh ! I'm so glad you take it like that," said Audrey 
 with eager relief. "That's just what / thought all 
 along !" 
 
 "But it is your affair !" Madame Piriac finished, with 
 a peculiar inflection of her well-controUed voice. "I 
 mean," she added, "you cannot afford to neglect it." 
 
 "No, — of course not," Audrey agreed, rather dashed, 
 and with a vague new apprehension. "Naturally I 
 shall tell you everything, darling. I had my reasons. 
 I " 
 
 "The principal question is, darling," Madame Piriac 
 stopped her. "What are you going to do now? Ought 
 we not to return to the yacht?" 
 
 "But I must look after Jane Foley!" cried Audrey. 
 "I can't leave her here." 
 
 "And why not? She has Miss Ingate." 
 
 "Yes, worse luck for her! Winnie would make the 
 most dreadful mess of things if she wasn't stopped. If 
 Winnie was right out of it, and Jane Foley had only 
 herself and Aguilar to count on, there might be a 
 chance. But not else." 
 
 "It is by pure hazard that you are here. Nobody 
 expected you. What would this young girl Mees Foley 
 have done if you had not been here?" 
 
 "It's no good wasting time about that, darling, be- 
 cause I am here, don't you see?" Audrey straightened 
 her shoulders and put her hands behind her back. 
 
 "My little one," said Madame Piriac with a certain
 
 320 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 solemnity. "You remember our conversation in my 
 boudoir. I then told you that you would find yourself 
 in a riot within a month, if you continued your course. 
 Was I right? Happily you have escaped from that 
 horrible complication. Go no further. Listen to me. 
 You were not created for these adventures. It is im- 
 possible that you should be happy in them." 
 
 "But look at Jane Foley," said Audrey eagerly. "Is 
 she not happy .'^ Did you ever see anybody as happy 
 as Jane.? I never did." 
 
 "That is not happiness," replied Madame Piriac. 
 "That is exaltation. It is morbid. I do not say that 
 it is not right for her. I do not say that she is not 
 justified, and that that which she represents is not 
 justified. But I say that a role such as hers is not your 
 role. To commence, she does not interest herself in 
 men. For her there are no men in the world — there 
 are only political enemies. Do you think I do not 
 know the type.'* We have it, chez nous. It is full of 
 admirable qualities — but it is not your type. For 
 you, darling, the world is inhabited principally by 
 men, and the time will come — perhaps soon — when for 
 you it will be inhabited principally by one man. If 
 you remain obdurate, there must inevitably arrive a 
 quarrel between that man and these — these riotous 
 adventures." 
 
 "No man that I could possibly care for," Audrey 
 retorted, "would ever object to me having an active 
 interest in — er — politics." 
 
 "I agree, darling," said Madame Piriac. "He would 
 not object. It is you who would object. The quarrel 
 would occur within your own heart. There are two 
 sorts of women — individualists and fanatics. It was 
 always so. I am a woman, and I know what I'm say-
 
 THE THIRD SORT OF WOxMAN 321 
 ing. So do you. Well, you belong to the first sort of 
 
 woman." 
 
 "I don't," Audrey protested. Nevertheless she 
 recollected her thoughts on the previous night, near 
 the binnacle and Mr. Gilman, about the indispensa- 
 bility of a man and about the futility of the state of 
 not owning and possessing a man. The memory of 
 these thoughts only rendered her more obstinate. 
 
 "But you will not have the courage to tell me that 
 you are a fanatic.'"' 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then what.?" 
 
 "There is a third sort of woman." 
 
 "Darling, believe me, there is not." 
 
 "There's going to be, anyhow!" said Audrey with 
 decision, and in English. "And I won't leave Jane 
 Foley in the lurch, either ! . . . Now I'll just run up 
 and have a talk with her, if you don't mind waiting a 
 minute or two." 
 
 "But what are you going to do.'"' Madame Piriac 
 demanded. 
 
 "Well," said Audrey. "It is obvious that there is 
 only one safe thing to do. I shall take Jane on board 
 the yacht. We shall sail off, and she'll be safe." 
 
 "On the yacht!" repeated Madame Piriac, truly 
 astounded. "But my poor oncle will never agree. You 
 do not know him. You do not know how peculiar he 
 is. Never will he agree ! Besides " 
 
 "Darling," said Audrey quietly and confidently. "If 
 he does not agree, I undertake to go into a convent 
 for the rest of my days." 
 
 Madame Piriac was silent. 
 
 Just as she was opening the door to go upstairs, 
 Audrey suddenly turned back into the room.
 
 322 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Darling," she said, kissing Madame Piriac. "How 
 calmly you've taken it!" 
 
 "Taken what?" 
 
 "About me not being Mrs. Moncreiff nor a widow 
 nor anything of that kind." 
 
 "But darling," answered Madame Piriac with ex- 
 quisite tranquillity. "Of course I knew it before." 
 
 "You knew it before !" 
 
 "Certainly. I knew it the first time I saw you, in 
 the studio of Mademoiselle Nickall. You were the 
 image of your father! The image, I repeat — except 
 perhaps the nose. Recollect that as a child I saw your 
 father. I was left with my mother's relatives, until 
 matters should be arranged; but he came to Paris. 
 Then before matters could be arranged my mother died, 
 and I never saw him again. But I could never forget 
 him. . . . Then also, in my boudoir that night, you 
 blushed — it was very amusing — when I mentioned 
 Essex and Audrey Moze. And there were other 
 things." 
 
 "For instance!'" 
 
 "Darling, you were never quite convincing as a 
 widow — at any rate to a Frenchwoman. You may have 
 deceived American and English women. But not my- 
 self. You did not say the convincing things when the 
 conversation took certain turns. That is all." 
 
 "You knew who I was, and you never told me!" 
 Audrey pouted. 
 
 "Had I the right, darling? You had decided upon 
 your identity. It would have been inexcusable on my 
 part to inform you that you were mistaken in so essen- 
 tial a detail." 
 
 Madame Piriac gently returned Audrey's kiss. 
 
 "So that was why you insisted on me coming with
 
 THE THIRD SORT OF WOMAN 323 
 
 you to-day!" murmured Audrey, crestfallen. "You 
 are a marvellous actress, darling." 
 
 "I have several times been told so," Madame Piriac 
 admitted simply. 
 
 "What on earth did you expect would happen?" 
 
 "Not that which has happened," said Madame Piriac. 
 
 "Well, if you ask me," said Audrey with gaiety and 
 a renewal of self-confidence. "I think it's all happened 
 splendidly."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 IN THE DINGHY 
 
 When the pair got back to the sea-wall the tide had 
 considerably ebbed, and where the dinghy had floated 
 there was nothing more liquid than exquisitely coloured 
 mud. Nevertheless water still lapped the yacht, where- 
 as on the shore side of the yacht was now no crowd. 
 The vans and carts had all departed, and the quidnuncs 
 and observers of human nature, having gazed steadily 
 at the yacht for some ten hours, had thought fit to 
 depart also. The two women looked about rather 
 anxiously as though Mr. Oilman had basely marooned 
 them. 
 
 "But what must we do?" demanded Madame Piriac. 
 
 "Oh ! We can walk round on the dyke," said Audrey 
 superiorly. "Unless the stiles frighten you." 
 
 "It is about to rain," said Madame Piriac, glancing 
 at the high curved heels of her shoes. 
 
 The sky, which was very wide and variegated over 
 Mozewater, did indeed seem to threaten. 
 
 At that moment the dinghy appeared round the fore- 
 foot of the Ariadne. Mr. Oilman and Miss Thompkins 
 were in it, and Mr. Oilman was rowing with gentleness 
 and dignity. They had, even afar off, a tremendous 
 air of intimacy; each leaned towards the other, face 
 to face, and Tommy had her chin in her hands and 
 her elbows on her knees. And in addition to an air of 
 intimacy they had an air of mystery. It was surpris- 
 ing, and perhaps a little annoying, to Audrey that 
 
 324
 
 IN THE DINGHY 325 
 
 those two should have gone on living to themselves, in 
 their own self-absorbed way, while such singular events 
 had been happening to herself in Flank Hall. She put 
 several fingers in her mouth and produced a piercing 
 long-distance whistle which effectively reached the 
 dinghy. 
 
 "My poor little one !" exclaimed Madame Piriac, 
 shocked in spite of her broadmindedness by both the 
 sound and the manner of its production. 
 
 "Oh ! I learnt that when I was twelve," said Audrey. 
 "It took me four months, but I did it. And nobody 
 except Miss Ingate knows that I can do it." 
 
 The occupants of the dinghy were signalling their 
 intention to rescue, and Mr. Gilman used his back 
 nobly. 
 
 "But we cannot embark here !" Madame Piriac com- 
 plained. 
 
 "Oh, yes !" said Audrey. "You see those white stones .?* 
 . . . It's quite easy." 
 
 When the dinghy had done about half the journey 
 Madame Piriac murmured : 
 
 "By the way, who are you, precisely, for the pres- 
 ent? It would be prudent to decide, darling." 
 
 Audrey hesitated an instant. 
 
 "Who am I? . . . Oh ! I see. Well, I'd better keep 
 on being Mrs. Moncreiff for a bit, hadn't I.'"' 
 
 "It is as you please, darling." 
 
 The fact was that Audrey recoiled from a general 
 confession, though admitting it to be ultimately in- 
 evitable. Moreover, she had a slight fear that each 
 of her friends in turn might make a confession ridicu- 
 lous by saying: "We knew all along, of course." 
 
 The dinghy was close in. 
 
 "My!" cried Tommy. "Who did that whistle? It 
 was enough to beat the cars."
 
 326 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to know!" Audrey retorted. 
 
 The embarcation, under Audrey's direction, was 
 accomplished in safety, and, save for one tiny French 
 scream, in silence. The silence, which persisted, was 
 peculiar. Each pair should have had something to 
 tell the other, yet nothing was told, or even asked. 
 Mr. Oilman rowed with careful science, and brought 
 the dinghy alongside the yacht in an unexceptionable 
 manner. Musa stood on deck apart, acting indifl'er- 
 ence. Madame Piriac, having climbed into the Ariadne, 
 went below at once. Miss Thompkins, seeing her friend 
 Mr. Price half way down the saloon companion, moved 
 to speak to him, and they vanished together. Mr. Gil- 
 man was respectfully informed by the engineer that the 
 skipper and Dr. Cromarty were ashore. 
 
 "How nice it is on the water!" said Audrey to Mr. 
 Gilman in a low gentle voice. "There is a channel 
 round there with three feet of water in it at low tide." 
 She sketched a curve in the air with her finger. 
 
 "Of course you know this part," said Mr. Gilman 
 cautiously and even apprehensively. His glance seemed 
 to be saying: "And it was you who gave that fearful 
 whistle, too ! Are you, can you be, all that I dreamed ?" 
 
 "I do," Audrey answered. "Would you like me to 
 show it you." 
 
 "I should be more than delighted," said Mr. Gilman. 
 
 With a gesture he summoned a man to untie the 
 dinghy again and hold it, and the man slid down into 
 the dinghy like a monkey. 
 
 "PU pull," said Audrey, in the boat. 
 
 The man sprang out of the dinghy. 
 
 "One instant!" Mr. Gilman begged her, standing up 
 in the sternsheets, and popping his head through a 
 porthole of the saloon. "Mr. Price!" 
 
 "Sir.^" From the interior.
 
 IN THE DINGHY 327 
 
 "Will you be good enough to play that air with 
 thirty-six variations, of Beethoven's? We shall hear 
 splendidly from the dinghy." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 And Audrey said to herself: "You don't want him 
 to flirt with Tommy while you're away, so you've given 
 him something to keep him busy." 
 
 Mr. Oilman remarked under his breath to Audrey: 
 
 "I think there is nothing finer than to hear Bee- 
 thoven on the water." 
 
 "Oh ! There isn't !" she eagerly concurred. 
 
 Ignoring the thirty-six variations of Beethoven, 
 Audrey rowed slowly away, and after about a hundred 
 yards the boat had rounded a little knoll which marked 
 the beginning of a narrow channel known as the Lander 
 creek. The thirty-six variations, however, would not 
 be denied; they softly impregnated the whole beautiful 
 watery scene. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mr. Oilman suddenly, "perhaps 
 your ladyship wr,s not quite pleased at me rowing about 
 with Miss Thompkins- — especially after I had taken 
 her for a walk." He smiled, but his voice was rather 
 wistful. Audrey liked him prodigiously in that moment. 
 
 "Foolish man !" she replied, with a smile far surpass- 
 ing his, and she rested on her oars, taking care to keep 
 the boat in the middle of the channel. "Do you know 
 why I asked you to come out? I wanted to talk to you 
 quite privately. It is easier here." 
 
 "I'm so glad !" he said simply and sincerely. And 
 Audrey thought: "Is it possible to give so much 
 pleasure to an important and wealthy man with so 
 little trouble?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Of course you know who I really 
 am, don't you, Mr. Oilman?" 
 
 'I only know you're Mrs. Moncreiff," he answered. 
 
 «i
 
 828 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "But I'm not! Surely you've heard soviethmg. 
 Surely it's been hinted in front of you." 
 
 "Never!" said he. 
 
 "But haven't you asked — about my marriage, for 
 instance?" 
 
 "To ask might have been to endanger your secret," 
 he said. 
 
 "I see !" she murmured. "How frightfully loyal you 
 are, Mr. Gilman ! I do admire loyalty. Well, I dare- 
 say very, very few people do know. So I'll tell you. 
 That's my home over there." And she pointed to Flank 
 Hall, whose chimneys could just be seen over the bank. 
 
 "I admit that I had thought so," said Mr. Gilman. 
 "But naturally that was your home as a girl, before 
 your marriage." 
 
 "I've never been married, Mr. Gilman," she said. 
 "I'm only what the French call a jeune file." 
 
 His face changed; he seemed to be withdrawing 
 alarmed into himself. 
 
 "Never — been married.''" 
 
 "Oh! You must understand me!" she "went on, with 
 an appealing vivacity. "I was all alone. I was in 
 mourning for my father and mother. I wanted to see 
 the world. I just had to see it! I expect I was very 
 foolish, but it was so easy to put a ring on my finger 
 and call myself Mrs. And it gave me such advantages. 
 And Miss Ingate agreed. She was my mother's oldest 
 friend. . . . You're vexed with me." 
 
 "You always seemed so wise," Mr. Gilman faltered. 
 
 "Ah! That's only the effect of my forehead!" 
 
 "And yet, you know, I always thought there was 
 something very innocent about you, too." 
 
 "I don't know what that was," said Audrey. "But 
 honestly I acted for the best. You see I'm rather rich. 
 Supposing I'd only gone about as a young marriage-
 
 IN THE DINGHY 329 
 
 able girl — what frightful risks I should have run, 
 shouldn't I? Somebody would be bound to have mar- 
 ried me for my money. And look at all I should have 
 missed — without this ring! I should never have met 
 you in Paris, for instance, and wc should never have 
 had those talks. . . . And — and there's a lot more rea- 
 sons — I shall tell you another time — about INladame 
 Piriac and so on. Now do say you aren't vexed !" 
 
 "I think you've been splendid," he said, with enthu- 
 siasm. "I think the girls of to-day are splendid ! I've 
 been a regular old fogey, that's what it is." 
 
 "Now there's one thing I want you not to do," 
 Audrey proceeded. "I want you not to alter the way 
 you talk to me. Because I'm really just the same girl 
 I was — last night. And I couldn't bear you to change." 
 
 "I won't ! I won't ! But of course '* 
 
 "No, no ! No buts. I won't have it. Do you know 
 why I told you just this afternoon.? Well, partly be- 
 cause you were so perfectly sweet last night. And 
 partly because I've got a favour to ask you, and I 
 wouldn't ask it until I'd told you." 
 
 "You can't ask me a favour," he rephed, "because 
 it wouldn't be a favour. It would be my privilege." 
 
 "But if you put it like that I can't ask you." 
 
 "You must!" he said firmly. 
 
 Then she told him something of the predicament of 
 Jane Foley. He listened with an expression of trouble. 
 Audrey finished bluntly: "She's my friend. And I 
 want you to take her on the yacht to-night after it's 
 dark. Nobody but you can save her. There! I've 
 asked you !" 
 
 "Jane Foley !" he murmured. 
 
 She could see that he was aghast. The syllables of 
 that name were notorious throughout Britain. They 
 stood for revolt, damage to property, defiance of law.
 
 330 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 injured policemen, forcible feeding, and all sorts of 
 phenomena that horrified respectable pillars of society. 
 
 "She's the dearest thing!" said Audrey. "You've 
 no idea. You'd love her. And she's done as much for 
 women's suffrage as anybody in the world. She's a real 
 heroine, if you like. You couldn't help the cause better 
 than by helping her. And I know how keen you are 
 to help." And Audrey said to herself : "He's as timid 
 as a girl about it. How queer men are, after all !" 
 
 "But what are we to do with her afterwards ?" asked 
 Mr. Oilman. There was perspiration on his brow. 
 
 "Sail straight to France, of course. They couldn't 
 touch her there, you see, because it's political. It is 
 political, you know," Audrey insisted proudly. 
 
 "And give up all our cruise.''" 
 
 Audrey bent forward, as she had seen Tommy do. 
 She smiled enchantingly. "I quite understand," she 
 said, with a sort of tenderness. "You don't want to 
 do it. And it was a shame of me even to suggest it." 
 
 "But I do want to do it," he protested with splendid 
 despairful resolve. "I was only thinking of you — and 
 the cruise. I do want to do it. I'm absolutely at 
 your disposal. When you ask me to do a thing, I'm 
 only too proud. To do it is the greatest happiness 
 I could have." 
 
 Audrey replied softly: 
 
 "You deserve the Victoria Cross." 
 
 "Whatever do you mean.'"' he demanded nervously. 
 
 "I don't know exactly what I mean," she said. "But 
 you're the nicest man I ever knew." 
 
 He blushed. 
 
 "You mustn't say that to me," he deprecated. 
 
 "I shall, and I shall." 
 
 The sound of the thirty-six variations still came very 
 faintly over the water. The sun sent cataracts of
 
 IN THE DINGHY 381 
 
 warm light across all the estuary. The water lapped 
 against the boat, and Audrey was overwhelmed by the 
 inexplicable marvel of being alive in the gorgeous 
 universe. 
 
 "I shall have to back water," she said, low. "There's 
 no room to turn round here." 
 
 "I suppose we'd better say as little about it as 
 possible," he ventured. 
 
 "Oh ! Not a word ! Not a word till it's done." 
 
 "Yes, of course." He was drenched in an agitating 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Five bells rang clear from the yacht, overmastering 
 the thirty-six variations. 
 
 Audrey thought: 
 
 "So he'd never agree, wouldn't he, Madame Piriac !"
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 AFLOAT 
 
 That night, which was an unusually dark night for 
 the time of year, Audrey left the yacht, alone, to fetch 
 Jane Foley. She had made a provisional plan with 
 Jane and Aguilar, and the arrangement with Mr. Gil- 
 man had been of the simplest, necessitating nothing 
 save a brief order from the owner to the woman whom 
 Audrey could always amuse Mr. Oilman by calling the 
 "parlourmaid," but who was more commonly known 
 as the stewardess. This young married creature had 
 prepared a cabin. For the rest little had been said. 
 The understanding between Mr. Oilman and Audrey 
 was that Mrs. Moncreiff should continue to exist, and 
 that not a word as to the arrival of Jane Foley should 
 escape either of them until the deed was accomplished. 
 It is true that Madame Piriac knew of the probable 
 imminence of the affair, but Madame Piriac was dis- 
 cretion elegantly attired, and from the moment they 
 had left Flank Hall together, she had been wise enough 
 not even to mention Jane Foley to Audrey. Madame 
 Piriac appreciated the value of ignorance in a ques- 
 tionable crisis. Mr. Oilman had been less guarded. 
 Indeed he had shown a tendency to discuss the coming 
 adventure with Audrey in remote corners, — a tendency 
 which had to be discouraged because it gave to both 
 of them a too obvious air of being tremendous con- 
 spirators. Also Audrey had had to dissuade him from 
 accompanying her to the Hall. He had rather con- 
 
 332
 
 AFLOAT 333 
 
 volitional ideas about women being abroad alone after 
 dark, and he abandoned them with difficulty even now. 
 
 As there were no lampposts alight in summer in the 
 village of Moze, Audrey had no fear of being recog- 
 nised; moreover, recognition by her former fellow- 
 citizens could now have no sinister importance; she did 
 not much care who recognised her. The principal gates 
 of Flank Hall were slightly ajar, as arranged with 
 Aguilar, and -she passed with a suddenly aroused heart 
 up the drive towards the front entrance of the house. 
 In spite of herself she could not get rid of an absurd 
 fear that either Mr. Hurley or Inspector Keeble or 
 both would jump out of the dark bushes and slip hand- 
 cuffs upon her wrists. And the baffling invisibility of 
 the sky further affected her nerves. There ought to 
 have been a lamp in the front-hall, but no ray showed 
 through the eighteenth-century fanlight over the door. 
 She rang the bell cautiously. She heard the distant 
 ting. Aguilar, according to the plan, ought to have 
 opened ; but he did not open ; nobody opened. She 
 was instantly sure that she knew what had happened. 
 Mr. Hurley had been to Frinton and ascertained that 
 the Spatt story as to the tank-room was an invention, 
 and had returned with a search warrant and some tools. 
 But in another ten seconds she was equally sure that 
 nothing of the sort could have happened, for it was 
 an axiom with her that Aguilar's masterly lying, based 
 on masterly listening at an attic door, had convinced 
 Mr. Hurley of the truth of the story about the tank- 
 room. 
 
 Accidentally pushing against the front-door with 
 an elbow in the deep obscurity, she discovered that it 
 was not latched. This was quite contrary to the plan. 
 She stepped into the house. The unforeseeing simple- 
 ton had actually come on the excursion without a box
 
 334 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 of matches ! She felt her way, aided by the swift- 
 returning memories of childhood, to the foot of the 
 stairs, and past the stairs into the kitchen, for in 
 ancient days a candlestick with a box of matches in 
 it had always been kept on the ledge of the small square 
 window that gave light to the passage between the hall 
 and the kitchen. Her father had been most severely 
 particular about that candlestick (with matches) being 
 always ready on that ledge in case of his need. Ridicu- 
 lous, of course, to expect a candlestick to be still there ! 
 Times change so. But she felt for it, and there it was, 
 and the matches, too ! She lit the candle. The dim 
 scene thus revealed seemed strange enough to her after 
 the electricity of the Hotel du Danube and of the 
 yacht. It made her want to cry. . . . 
 
 She was one of those people who have room in their 
 minds for all sorts of things at once. And thus she 
 could simultaneously be worried to an extreme about 
 Jane Foley, foolish and sad about her immensely dis- 
 tant childhood, and even regretful that she had ad- 
 mitted the fraudulence of the wedding-ring on her hand. 
 On the last point she had a very strong sense of failure 
 and disillusion. When she had first donned a widow's 
 bonnet she had meant to have wondrous adventures 
 and to hear marvellous conversations as a widow. And 
 what had she done with her widowhood after all.^^ 
 Nothing. She could not but think that she ought to 
 have kept it a little longer, on the chance. . . . 
 
 Aguilar made a practice of sleeping in the kitchen; 
 he considered that a house could only be well guarded 
 at night from the ground-floor. There was his bed, 
 in the corner against the brush and besom cupboard, 
 all made up. Its creaselessness, so characteristic of 
 Aguilar, had not been disturbed. The sight of the 
 narrow bed made Audrey think what a strange exist-
 
 AFLOAT 335 
 
 ence was the existence of Aguilar. . . . Then, with a 
 boldness that was half bluster, she went upstairs, and 
 the creaking of the woodwork was affrighting. 
 
 "Jane ! Jane, dear !" she called out, as she arrived 
 at the second-story landing. The sound of her voice 
 was uncanny in the haunted stillness. All Audrey's 
 infancy floated up the well of the stairs and wrapped 
 itself round her and tightened her throat. She went 
 along the passage to the door of the tank-room. 
 
 "Jane, Jane !" 
 
 No answer! The door was locked. She listened. 
 She put her ear against the door in order to catch the 
 faintest sound of life within. But she could only hear 
 the crude, sharp ticking of the cheap clock which, as 
 she knew, Aguilar had supplied to Jane Foley. The 
 vision of Jane lying unconscious or dead obsessed her. 
 Then she thrust it away and laughed at it. Assuredly 
 Aguilar and Jane must have received some alarm as 
 to a reappearance of the police; they must have fled 
 while there had yet been time. Where could they have 
 gone? Of course through the garden and plantation 
 and down to the sea-wall, whence Jane might steal to 
 the yacht. Audrey turned back towards the stairs, 
 and the vast intimidating emptiness of the gloomy 
 house, lit by a single flickering candle, assaulted her. 
 She had to fight it before she could descend. The 
 garden-door was latched, but not locked. Extinguish- 
 ing the candle, she went forth. The gusty breeze from 
 the estuary was now damp on her cheek with the 
 presage of rain. She hurried, fumbling as it were, 
 through the garden. When she achieved the hedge the 
 spectacle of the yacht, gleaming from stem to stern 
 with electricity, burst upon her; it shone like some- 
 thing desired and unattainable. Carefully she issued 
 from the grounds by the little gate and crossed the
 
 336 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 intervening space to the dyke. A dark figure moved 
 in front of her, and her heart violently jumped. 
 "Is that you, madam?" 
 
 It was the cold, imperturbable voice of Aguilar. At 
 once she felt reassured. 
 
 "Where is Miss Foley?" she demanded in a whisper. 
 
 "I've got her down here, ma'am," said Aguilar. "I 
 presume as you've been to the house. We had to leave 
 it." 
 
 "But the door of the tank-room was locked!" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. I locked it a-purpose. ... I thought 
 as it would keep the police employed a bit when they 
 come. I seen my cousin Sarah when I went to tell Miss 
 Ingate as you instructed me. My cousin Sarah seen 
 Keeble. They been to Frinton to Mrs. Spatt's, and 
 they found out about that. And now the 'tec's back, 
 or nearly. I reckon it was the warrant as was delaying 
 him. So I out with Miss Foley. I thought I could take 
 her across to the yacht from here. It wouldn't hardly 
 be safe for her to walk round by the dyke. Hurley 
 may have several of his chaps about by this time." 
 
 "But there's not water enough, Aguilar." 
 
 "Yes, madam. I dragged the old punt down. She 
 don't draw three inches. She's afloat now, and Miss 
 Foley's in her. I was just a-going off. If you don't 
 mind wetting your feet ." 
 
 In one minute Audrey had splashed into the punt. 
 Jane Foley took her hand in silence, and she heard 
 Jane's low, happy laugh. 
 
 "Isn't it funny?" Jane whispered. 
 
 Audrey squeezed her hand. 
 
 Aguilar pushed off with an oar, and he continued to 
 use the oar as a punt-pole, so that no sound of their 
 movement should reach the bank. Water was pouring 
 into the old sieve, and they touched ground once. But
 
 AFLOAT 337 
 
 Aguilar knew precisely what he was about and got her 
 off again. They approached the yacht with the slow, 
 sure inexorability of Aguilar's character. A beam 
 from the portholes of the saloon caught Aguilar's erect 
 figure. He sat down, poling as well as he could from 
 the new position. When they were a little nearer, he 
 stopped dead, holding the punt firm by means of the 
 pole fixed in the mud. 
 
 "He's there afore us !" he murmured, pointing. 
 
 Under the Maltese-cross of electric lights at the 
 inner end of the gangway could clearly be seen the 
 form of Mr. Hurley, engaged in conversation with Mr. 
 Gilman. Mr. Hurley was fairly on board.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE 
 
 When Audrey, having been put ashore in execution 
 of a plan arranged with those naturally endowed 
 strategists, Aguilar and Jane Foley, arrived at the 
 Hard by way of the sea-wall, Mr. Hurley was still in 
 parley with Mr. Gilman under the Maltese-cross of 
 electric lights. From the distance Mr. Gilman had an 
 air of being somewhat intimidated by the Irishman, but 
 as soon as he distinguished the figure of Audrey at 
 the shore end of the gangway his muscles became mys- 
 teriously taut, and his voice charged with defiance. 
 
 "I have already told you, sir," Audrey heard him 
 say, "there is no such person aboard the yacht. And 
 I most certainly will not allow you to search. You 
 have no right whatever to search, and you know it. 
 You have my word. My name is Gilman; You may 
 have heard of me. I'm Chairman of the Board of 
 Foodstuffs Limited. Gilman, sir. And I shall feel 
 obliged if you will leave my decks." 
 
 "Are you sailing to-night.''" asked Mr. Hurley 
 placidly. 
 
 "What the devil has that got to do with you, sir.?" 
 replied Mr. Gilman gloriously. 
 
 Audrey, standing behind the detective and unseen 
 by him, observed the gloriousness of Mr. Gilman's de- 
 meanour and also Mr. Gilman's desire that she should 
 note the same and appreciate it. She nodded violently 
 several times to Mr. Gilman, to urge him to answer 
 the detective in the affirmative. 
 
 338
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE 339 
 
 "Ye-es, sir. Since you are so confoundly inqiiisi- 
 tive, I am sailing to-night. I shall sail as soon as the 
 tide serv-es," said Mr. Gilman hurriedly and fiercely, 
 and then glanced again at Audrey for further approval. 
 
 "Where for.'"' Mr. Hurley demanded. 
 
 "Where I please, sir," Mr. Gilman snorted. By this 
 time he evidently imagined that he was furious, and 
 was taking pleasure in his fury. 
 
 Mr. Hurley, having given a little ironic bow, turned 
 to leave and found himself fronting Audrey, who stiffly 
 ignored his salute. The detective gone, Mr. Gilman 
 walked to and fro, breathing more loudly than ever, 
 and unsuccessfully pretending to a scattered audience 
 which consisted of the skipper, Mr. Price, Dr. Cro- 
 marty, and sundry deck-hands, that he had done 
 nothing in particular and was not a hero. As Audrey 
 approached him he seemed to lay all his glory with 
 humble pride at her feet. 
 
 "Well, he brought that on himself!" said Audrey, 
 smiling. 
 
 "He did," Mr. Gilman concurred, gazing at the Hard 
 with inimical scorn. 
 
 "She can't come — now," said Audrey. "It wouldn't 
 be safe. He means to stay on the Hard till we're gone. 
 He's a very suspicious man." 
 
 Mr. Hurley was indeed lingering just beyond the 
 immediate range of the Ariadne's lamps. 
 
 "Can't come ! What a pity ! What a pity !" mur- 
 mured Mr. Gilman, with an accent that was not a bit 
 sincere. The news was the best he had heard for hours. 
 "But I suppose," he added, "we'd better sail just the 
 same, as I've said we should?" He did not want to 
 run the risk of getting Jane Foley after all. 
 
 "Oh ! Do !" Audrey exclaimed. "It will be lovely ! 
 If it doesn't rain — and even if it does rain! We all
 
 340 .THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 like sailing at night. . . . Are the others in the saloon? 
 I'll run down." 
 
 "Mr. Wyatt," the owner sternly accosted the cap- 
 tain. "When can we get off .P" 
 
 "Oh! About midnight," Audrey answered quickly, 
 before Mr. Wyatt could composed his lips. 
 
 Men gazed at each other surprised by this show of 
 technical knowledge in a young widow. By the time 
 Mr. Wyatt had replied Audrey was descending into the 
 saloon. It was Aguilar who, having ascertained the 
 Ariadne^ s draught, had made the calculation as to the 
 earliest possible hour of departure. 
 
 And in the saloon Musa was, as it were, being en- 
 veloped and kept comfortable in the admiring sym- 
 pathy of Madame Piriac and Miss Thompkins. Mr. 
 Gilman's violin lay across his knees — perhaps he had 
 been tuning it — and the women inclined towards him, 
 one on either side. It was a sight that somewhat 
 annoyed Audrey, who told herself that she considered 
 it silly. Admitting that Musa had genius, she could 
 not understand this soft flattery of genius. She never 
 flattered genius herself, and she did not approve of 
 others doing so. Certainly Musa was now being treated 
 on the yacht as a celebrity of the first order, and 
 Audrey could find no explanation of the steady growth 
 in the height and splendour of his throne. Her arrival 
 dissolved the spectacle. Within one minute, somehow, 
 the saloon was empty and everybody on deck again. 
 
 And then, drawing her away, Musa murmured to 
 Audrey in a disconcerting tone that he must speak to 
 her on a matter of urgency, and that in order that he 
 might do so, they must go ashore and walk seawards, 
 far from interruption. She consented, for she was 
 determined to prove to him at close quarters that she 
 was a different creature from the other two. They
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE S41 
 
 moved to the gangway amid discreet manifestations 
 from the doctor and the secretary — manifestations di- 
 rected chiefly to Musa and indicative of his importance 
 as a notability. Audrey was puzzled. For her, Musa 
 was more than ever just Musa, and less than ever a 
 personage. 
 
 "I shall not return to the yacht," he said, with an 
 excited bitterness, after they had walked some distance 
 along one of the paths leading past low bushes into 
 the wilderness of the marsh land that bounded the 
 estuary to the south. The sky was still invisible, but 
 there was now a certain amount of diffused light, and 
 the pale path could easily be distinguished amid the 
 sombreness of green. The yacht was hidden behind 
 one of the knolls. No sound could be heard. The 
 breeze had died. That which was around them — on 
 either hand, above, below — was the universe. They 
 knew that they stood still in the universe, and this idea 
 gave their youth the sensation of being very important. 
 
 "What is that which you say?" Audrey demanded 
 sharply in French, as Musa had begun in French. She 
 was aware, not for the first time with Musa, of the 
 sudden possibilities of drama in a human being. She 
 could scarcely make out his face, but she knew that 
 he was in a mood for high follies ; she knew that danger 
 was gathering; she knew that the shape of the future 
 was immediately to be moulded by her and him, and 
 chiefly by herself. She liked it. The sensation of her 
 importance was reinforced. 
 
 "I say I shall never return to the yacht," he re- 
 peated. 
 
 She thought compassionatel}' : 
 
 "Poor foolish thing!" 
 
 She was incalculably older and wiser than this irra- 
 tional boy. She was the essence of wisdom.
 
 342 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 She said, with acid detachment: 
 
 "But your luggage, your belongings? What an idea 
 to leave in this manner ! It is so polite, so sensible !" 
 
 "I shall not return." 
 
 "Of course," she said, "I do not at all understand 
 why you are going. But what does that matter.? You 
 are going." Her indifference was superb. It was so 
 superb that it might have driven some men to destroy 
 her on the spot. 
 
 "Yes, you understand ! I told you last night," said 
 Mu8a, overflowing with emotion. 
 
 "Oh! You told me.? I forget." 
 
 "Naturally Monsieur Gilman is rich. I am not rich, 
 though I shall be. But you can't wait," Musa sneered. 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," said Audrey. 
 
 "Ah!" said Musa. "Once I told you that Tommy 
 and Nick lent me the money with which to live. For 
 me, since then, you have never been the same being. 
 How stupid I was to tell you ! You could not compre- 
 hend such a thing. Your soul is too low to compre- 
 hend it. Permit me to say that I have already repaid 
 Nick. And at the first moment I shall repay Tommy. 
 My position is secure. I have only to wait. But you 
 will not wait. You are a bourgeoise of the most terrible 
 sort. Opulence fascinates you. Mr. Gilman has 
 opulence. He has nothing else. But he has opulence, 
 and for you that is all." 
 
 In an instant her indifference, self-control, wisdom 
 vanished. It was a sad exhibition of frailty ; but she 
 enjoyed it, she revelled in it, giving play to everything 
 in herself that was barbaric. The marsh around them 
 was probably as it had been before the vikings had 
 sailed into it, and Audrey rushed back with inconceiv- 
 able speed into the past and became the primeval 
 woman of twenty centuries earlier. Like almost all
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE 343 
 
 women she possessed this wondrous and afErighting 
 faculty. 
 
 "You are telling a wicked untruth !" she exploded 
 in English. "And what's more, ^^ou know you are. 
 You disgust me. You know as well as I do I don't 
 care anything for money — anything. Only you're a 
 horrid spoilt beast. You think you can upset me, but 
 you can't. I won't have it, either from you or from 
 anybody else. It's a shame, that's what it is. Now 
 you've got to apologise to me. I absolutely insist on 
 it. You aren't going to bully me, even if you think 
 you are. I'll soon show you the sort of girl I am, and 
 you make no mistake! Are you going to apologise or 
 aren't you?" 
 
 The indecorous creature was breathing as loudly as 
 iMr. Gilman himself. 
 
 "I admit it," said Musa yielding. 
 
 "Ah !" 
 
 "I demand your pardon. I knew that what I said 
 was not true. I am outside myself. But what would 
 you.'' It is stronger than I. This existence is terrible, 
 on the yacht. I cannot support it. I shall become 
 mad. I am ruined. My jealousy is intolerable." 
 
 "It is !" said Audrey, using French again, more 
 calmly, having returned to the twentieth century. 
 
 "It is intolerable to me." Then Musa's voice 
 changed, and grew persuasive, rather like a child's. "I 
 cannot live without you. That is the truth. I am an 
 artist, and you are necessary to me and to my career." 
 He lifted his head. "And I can offer you everything 
 that Is most brilliant." 
 
 "And what about my career?" Audrey questioned 
 inimically. 
 
 "Your career.'"' He seemed at a loss.
 
 34'i THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Yes. My career. It has possibly not occurred to 
 you that I also may have a career." 
 
 Musa became appealing. 
 
 "You understand me," he said. "I told you you 
 do not comprehend, but you comprehend everything. 
 It is that which enrages me. You have had experience. 
 You know what men are. You could teach me so much. 
 I hate young girls. I have always hated them. They 
 are so tasteless, so insufferably innocent. I could not 
 talk to a young girl as I talk to you. It would be 
 absurd. Now as to my career — what I said " 
 
 "Musa," she interrupted him, with a sinister 
 quietude, "I want to tell you something. But you 
 must promise to keep it secret. Will you.^" 
 
 He assented, impatient. 
 
 "It is not possible !" he exclaimed, when she had told 
 him that she belonged to precisely the category of 
 human beings whom he hated and despised. 
 
 "Isn't it.'"' said she. "Now I hope you see how little 
 you know, really, about women." She laughed. 
 
 "It is not possible !" he repeated. And then he said 
 with deliberate ingenuousness: *'I am so content. I 
 am so happy. I could not have hoped for it. It is 
 overwhelming. I am everything you like of the most 
 idiotic, blind, stupid. But now I am happy. Could 
 I ever have borne that you had loved before I knew 
 you? I doubt if I could have borne it. Your inno- 
 cence is exquisite. It is intoxicating to me." 
 
 "Musa," she remarked drily. "I wish you would 
 remember that you are in England. People do not 
 talk in that way in England. It simply is not done. 
 And I will not listen to it," Her voice grew a little 
 tender. "Why can we not just be friends?" 
 
 "It is folly," said he, with sudden disgust. "And 
 it would kill me."
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE 345 
 
 "Well, then," she replied, receding. "You're en- 
 titled to die." 
 
 He advanced towards her. She kept him away with 
 a gesture. 
 
 "You want me to marry you?" she questioned. 
 
 "It is essential," he said, very seriously. "I adore 
 you. I can't do anything because of you. I can't 
 think of anything but you. You are more marvellous 
 than any one can be. You cannot appreciate what 
 you are to me !" 
 
 "And suppose you are nothing to me.?" 
 
 "But it is necessary that you should love me!" 
 
 "Why? I see no necessity. You want me — because 
 you want me. That's all. I can't help it if you're 
 mad. Your attitude is insulting. You have not given 
 one thought to my feelings. And if I said 'yes' to 
 you, you'd marry me whatever my feelings were. You 
 think only of yourself. It is the old attitude. And 
 when I offer you my friendship, you instantly decline 
 it. That shows how horribly French you are. French- 
 men can't understand the idea of friendship between 
 a man and a girl. They sneer at it. It shows what 
 brutes you all are. Why should I marry you? I 
 should have nothing to gain by it. You'll be famous. 
 Well, what do I care? Do you think it would be very 
 amusing for me to be the wife of a famous man that 
 was run after by every silly creature in Paris or Lon- 
 don or New York? Not quite! And I don't see my- 
 self. You don't like young girls. I don't like young 
 men. They're rude and selfish and conceited. They're 
 like babies." 
 
 "The fact is," Musa broke in. "You are in love 
 with the old Gilman." 
 
 "He is not old !" cried Audrey. "In some ways he is 
 much less worn out than you are. And supposing I
 
 346 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 am in love with Mr. Gilman? Does it regard you? Do 
 not be rude. Mr. Oilman is at any rate polite. He is 
 not capricious. He is reliable. You aren't reliable. 
 You want some one upon whom you can rely. How 
 nice for your wife ! You play the violin. True. You 
 are a genius. But you cannot always be on the plat- 
 form. And when you are not on the platform . . . ! 
 Heavens ! If I wish to hear you play I can buy a seat 
 and come and hear you and go away again. But your 
 wife, responsible for your career — she will never be 
 free. Her life will be unbearable. What anxiety! 
 Misery, I should say rather ! You would have the lion's 
 share of everything. Now for myself I intend to have 
 the lion's share. And why shouldn't I? Isn't it about 
 time some woman had it.!* You can't have the lion's 
 share if you are not free. I mean to be free. If I 
 marry I shall want a husband that is not a prison 
 . . . Thank goodness I've got money; . . . Without 
 that !" 
 
 "Then," said Musa, "you have no feeling for me." 
 
 "Love.?" she laughed exasperatingly. 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 "Not that much !" She snapped her fingers. "But" 
 — in a changed tone — "I should like to like you. I 
 shall be very disgusted if your concerts are not a tre- 
 mendous success. And they will not be if you don't 
 keep control over yourself and practise properly. And 
 it will be your fault." 
 
 "Then, good-bye!" he said, coldly ignoring all her 
 maternal suggestions. And turned away. 
 
 "Where are you going to.'"' 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "I do not know. But if I do not deceive myself I 
 have already informed you that in certain circum- 
 stances I should not return to the yacht."
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE Ml 
 
 "You are worse than a schoolboy." 
 
 "It is possible." 
 
 "Anyway, / shan't explain on the yacht. I shall tell 
 them that I know nothing about it." 
 
 "But no one will believe you," he retorted maliciously 
 over his shoulder. And then he was gone. 
 
 She at any rate was no longer surrounded by the 
 largeness of the universe. He might still be, but she 
 was not. She was in mind already on the yacht trying 
 to act a surprise equal to the surprise of the others 
 when Musa failed to reappear. She was very angry 
 with him, not because he had been a rude schoolboy and 
 was entirely impossible as a human being, but because 
 she had allowed herself to leave the yacht with him 
 and would therefore be compelled sooner or later to 
 answer questions about him. She seriously feared that 
 Mr. Gilman might refuse to sail, unless she confessed 
 to him her positive knowledge that Musa would not be 
 seen again, and that thus she might have to choose be- 
 tween the failure of her plans for Jane Foley and her 
 own personal discomfiture. 
 
 Instead of being in the mighty universe, she was 
 struggling amid the tiresome littleness of society on a 
 yacht. She hated yachts for their very cosiness and 
 their quality of keeping people close together who 
 wanted to be far apart. And as she watched the 
 figure of Musa growing fainter she was more than ever 
 impressed by the queerness of men. Women seemed to 
 be so logical, so realistic, so understandable, so cal- 
 culable, whereas men were enigmas of waywardness and 
 unreason. At just that moment her feet reminded her 
 that they had been wetted by the adventure in the punt, 
 and she said to herself sagely that she must take pre- 
 cautions against a chill. 
 
 And then she thought she detected some unusual
 
 348 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 phenomenon behind a clump of bushes to the right 
 which hid a plank-bridge across a waterway. She 
 would have been frightened if she had not been very 
 excited. And in her excitement she marched straight 
 up to the clump, and found Mr. Hurley in a crouching 
 posture. She started, and recovered. 
 
 "I might have known !" she said, disdainfully. 
 
 "We all make mistakes," said Mr. Hurley defen- 
 sively. "We all make mistakes. I knew I'd made a 
 mistake as soon as I got here, but I couldn't get away 
 quietly enough. And you talked so loud. Ye'll admit 
 I had just cause for suspicion. And being a very 
 agreeable lady ye'll pardon me." 
 
 She blushed, and then ceased blushing because it 
 was too dark for him to perceive the blush, and she 
 passed on without a word. When, across the waste, 
 she had come within sight of the yacht again, she 
 heard footsteps behind her, and turned to withstand 
 the detective. But the overtaker was Musa. 
 
 "It is necessary that I should return to the yacht," 
 he said savagely. "The thought of you and Monsieur 
 Gilman together, without me. . . . No ! Idid not know 
 myself ... I did not know myself. . . . It is impossi- 
 ble for me to leave." 
 
 She made no answer They boarded the yacht as 
 though they had been for a stroll. Few could have 
 guessed that they had come back from the universe, ter- 
 ribly scathed. Accepting deferential greetings as a 
 right, Musa vanished rapidly to his cabin. 
 
 Several hours later Audrey and Mr. Gilman, alone 
 among the passengers, were standing together, both 
 tarpaulined, on the starboard bow, gazing seaward as 
 the yacht cautiously felt her way down Mozewater. 
 Captain Wyatt, and not Mr. Gilman, was at the bin-
 
 IN THE UNIVERSE 349 
 
 nacle. A little rain was falling and the night was 
 rather thick but not impenetrable. 
 
 "There's the light !" said Audrey excitedly. 
 
 "What sharp eyes you have !" said Mr. Gilman. "I 
 can see it, too." He spoke a word to the skipper, and 
 the skipper spoke, and then the engine went still more 
 slowly. 
 
 The yacht approached the Flank Buoy dead slow, 
 scarcely stemming the tide. The Moze punt was tied 
 up to the buoy, and Aguilar held a lantern on a boat- 
 hook, while Jane Foley, very wet, was doing a spell 
 of baling. Aguilar dropped the boathook and, casting 
 off, brought the punt alongside the yacht. The steps 
 were lowered and Jane Foley, with laughing, rain- 
 sprinkled face, climbed up. Aguilar handed her bag 
 which contained nearly everything she possessed on 
 earth. She and Audrey kissed calmly, and Audrey pre- 
 sented Mr. Gilman to a suddenly shy Jane. In the 
 punt Miss Foley had been seen to take an affectionate 
 leave of Aguilar. She now leaned over the rail. 
 
 "Good-bye !" she said, with warmth. "Thanks ever 
 so much. It's been splendid. I do hope you won't be 
 too wet. Can you row all the way home.^"' She 
 shivered. 
 
 "I shall go back on the tide, Miss Foley," answered 
 Aguilar. 
 
 He touched his cap to Audrey, mumbled gloomily a 
 salutation, and loosed his hold on the yacht; and at 
 once the punt felt the tide and began to glide away in 
 the darkness towards Moze. The yacht's engine quick- 
 ened. Flank Buoy faded. 
 
 Mr. Gilman and the two girls made a group. 
 
 "You're wonderful! You really are!" said Mr. Gil- 
 man, addressing apparently the pair of them. He was
 
 350 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 enthusiastic, . . . He added with grandeur : "And 
 now for France!" 
 
 "I do hope Mr. Hurley is still hanging about Moze," 
 said Audrey. "Mr. Gilman, shall I show Miss Foley 
 her cabin.'' She's rather wet." 
 
 "Oh, do ! Oh, do, please ! But don't forget that we 
 are to have supper together. I insist on supper." 
 
 And Audrey thought : "How agreeable he is ! How 
 kind-hearted! He hasn't got any 'career' to worry 
 about, and I adore him, and he's as simple as knitting."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE IMMINENT DRIVE 
 
 "Oh !" cried Miss Thompkins. "You can see it from 
 here. It's funn^'^ how unreal it seems, isn't it?" 
 
 She pointed at one of the large white-curtained win- 
 dows of the restaurant, through which was visible a 
 round column covered with advertisements of theatres, 
 music-halls, and concert-halls, printed in many colours 
 and announcing superlative delights. Names famous 
 wherever pleasure is understood gave to their varie- 
 gated posters a pleasant air of distinguished familiar- 
 ity, — names of theatres such as "Varietes," "Vaude- 
 ville," "Chatelet," "Theatre Fran9ais," "Folies-Ber- 
 gere," and names of persons such as "Sarah Bern- 
 hardt," "Huegenet," "Le Bargy," "Litvinne," "La- 
 valliere.' But the name in the largest type — dark 
 crimson letters on rose paper — the name dominating all 
 the rest, was the name of Musa. The ingenuous 
 stranger to Paris was compelled to think that as an 
 artist Musa was far more important than anybody 
 else. Along the length of all the principal boulevards, 
 and in many of the lesser streets, the ingenuous 
 stranger encountered, at regular distances of a couple 
 of hundred yards or so, one of these columns planted 
 on the kerb; and all the scores of them bore exactly 
 the same legend; they all spoke of nothing but blissful 
 diversions, and they all put Musa ahead of anybody 
 else in the world of the stage and the platform. Sarah 
 Bernhardt herself, dark blue upon pale, was a trifle 
 
 .351
 
 S52 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 t 
 
 compared to Musa on the columns. And it had been 
 so for days. Other posters were changed daily — 
 changed by mysterious hands before even bread-girls 
 were afoot with their ^^ards of bread — but the space 
 given to Musa repeated always the same tidings, namely 
 that Musa ("the great violinist") was to give an or- 
 chestral concert at the Salle Xavier, assisted by the 
 Xavier orchestra, on Thursday, September Sith, at 
 9 p. m. Particulars of the programme followed. 
 
 Paris was being familiarised with Musa. His four 
 letters looked down upon the fever of the thorough- 
 fares ; they were perused by tens of thousands of sit- 
 ters in cafes and in front of cafes ; they caught the eye 
 of men and women fleeing from the wrath to come in 
 taxi-cabs ; they competed successfully with newspaper 
 placards ; and on that Thursday — for the Thursday in 
 question had already run more than half its course — 
 they had so entered into the sub-conscious brain of 
 Paris that no habitue of the streets, whatever his ig- 
 norant indifference to the art of music, could have failed 
 to reply with knowledge, on hearing Musa. mentioned. 
 "Oh, yes !" implying that he was fully acquainted with 
 the existence of the said Musa. 
 
 Tommy was right : there did seem to be a certain 
 unreality about the thing; yet it was utterly real. 
 
 All the women turned to glance at the name through 
 the window, and some of them murmured sympathetic 
 and interested exclamations and bright hopes. There 
 were five women: Miss Thompkins, Miss Nickall, Ma- 
 dame Piriac, Miss Ingate and Audrey. And there was 
 one man, — Mr. Oilman. And the six were seated at a 
 round table in the historic Parisian restaurant. Mr. 
 Oilman had the air triumphant, and he was entitled 
 to it. The supreme moment of his triumph had come. 
 Having given a luncheon to these ladies, he had just
 
 THE IJVDIINENT DRIVE 353 
 
 asked, with due high negligence, for the bill. If there 
 was one matter in which ]Mr. Gilman was a truly great 
 expert, it was the matter of giving a meal in a res- 
 taurant. He knew how to dress for such an affair — 
 with strict conventionality but a touch of devil-may- 
 care youthfulness in the necktie. He knew how to 
 choose the restaurant; he had about half a dozen in 
 his repertoire — all of the first order and for the most 
 part combining the exclusive with the amusing — en- 
 tirely different in kind from the pandemonium where 
 Audrey had eaten on the night of her first arrival in 
 Paris ; he knew how to get the best out of head-waiters 
 and waiters, who in these restaurants were not head- 
 waiters and waiters but worldly priests and acolytes ; 
 his profound knowledge of cookery sprang from a genu- 
 ine interest in his stomach, and he could compose a 
 menu in a fashion to command the respect of head- 
 waiters and to excite the envy of musicians composing 
 a sonata ; he had the wit to look in early and see to 
 the flowers ; above all he was aware what women liked 
 in the way of wine, and since this was never what he 
 liked in the way of wine, he would always command a 
 half bottle of the extra dry for himself, but would 
 have it manipulated with such discretion that not a 
 guest could notice it. He paid lavishly and willingly, 
 convinced by hard experience that the best is inestima- 
 ble, but he felt too that the best was really quite cheap, 
 for he knew that there were imperfectly educated peo- 
 ple in the world who thought nothing of paying the 
 price of a good meal for a mere engraving or a bit of 
 china. Withal, he never expected his guests truly to 
 appreciate the marvels he offered them. They could 
 not, or very rarely. Their twittering ecstatic praise, 
 which was without understanding, sufficed for him, 
 though sometimes he would give gentle diffident instruc-
 
 354 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 tion. This trait in him was very attractive, proving 
 the genuineness of his modesty. 
 
 The luncheon was partly to celebrate the return of 
 various persons to Paris, but chiefly in honour of 
 Musa's concert. Musa could not be present, for dis- 
 tinguished public performers do not show themselves 
 on the day of an appearance. Mr. Gilman had learnt 
 this from Madame Piriac, whom he had consulted as 
 to the list of guests. It is to be said that he bore the 
 absence of Musa from his table with stoicism. For the 
 rest, Madame Piriac knew that he wanted no other men, 
 and she had suggested none. She had assumed that he 
 desired Audrey, and had pointed out that Audrey 
 could not well be invited without Miss Ingate, who, sick 
 of her old Moze, had rejoined Audrey in the splendour 
 of the Hotel du Danube. Mr. Gilman had somehow 
 mentioned Miss Thompkins, whereupon Madame Piriac 
 had declared that Miss Thompkins involved Miss Nic- 
 all, who after a complete recovery from the broken 
 arm had returned for a while to her studio. And then 
 Mr. Gilman had closed the list, saying that six was 
 enough, and exactly the right number. 
 
 "At what o'clock are you going for the drive?" 
 asked Madame Piriac in her improved, precise English. 
 She looked equally at her self-styled uncle and at 
 Audrey. 
 
 "I ordered the car for three o'clock," answered Mr. 
 Gilman. "It is not yet quite three." 
 
 The table with its litter of ash-trays, empty cups, 
 empty small glasses, and ravaged sweets, and the half- 
 deserted restaurant, and the polite expectant weariness 
 of the priests and acolytes, all showed that the hour 
 was in fact not quite three, — an hour at which such 
 interiors have invariably the aspect of roses overblown 
 and about to tumble to pieces.
 
 THE IMMINENT DRIVE 355 
 
 And Immediately upon the reference to the drive 
 everybody at the table displayed a little constraint, 
 avoiding the gaze of everybody else, thus demonstrating 
 that the imminent drive was a delicate, without being 
 a disagreeable, topic. Which requires explanation. 
 
 Mr. Gilman had not been seen by any of his guests 
 during the summer. He had landed them at Boulogne 
 from the Ariadne, — sound but for one casualty. That 
 casualty was Jane Foley, suffering from pneumonia, 
 which had presumably developed during the evening of 
 exposure spent with Aguilar in the leaking punt and 
 in rain showers. Madame Piriac and Audrey took 
 her to Wimereux and there nursed her through a long 
 and sometimes dangerous illness. Jane possessed no 
 constitution, but she had obstinacy, which saved her. 
 In her convalescence, part of which she spent alone 
 with Audrey (Madame Piriac having to pay visits to 
 Monsieur Piriac), she had proceeded with the writing 
 of a book, and she had also received in conclave the 
 rarely seen Rosamund, who like herself was still a fu- 
 gitive from British justice. These two had been elabo- 
 rating a new plan of campaign, which was to include 
 an incursion by themselves into England, and which 
 had in part been confided by Jane to Audrey, who, hav- 
 ing other notions in her head, had been somewhat 
 troubled thereby. Audrey's conscience had occasion- 
 ally told her to throw herself heartily into the cam- 
 paign, but her individualistic instincts had in the end 
 kept her safely on a fence between the campaign and 
 something else. The something else was connected with 
 Mr. Gilman. 
 
 Mr. Gilman had written to her regularly ; he had 
 sent dazzling subscriptions to the Suffragettes Union ; 
 and Audrey had replied regularly. His letters were 
 very simple, very modest, and quite touching. They
 
 356 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 were dated from various coastal places. However, he 
 never came near Wimereux, though it was a coastal 
 place. Audrey had excusably deemed this odd; but 
 Madame Piriac having once said with marked casual- 
 ness, "I hinted to him that he might with advantage 
 stay away," Audrey had concealed her thoughts on 
 the point. And one of her thoughts was that Madame 
 Piriac was keeping them apart so as to try them, so 
 as to test their mutual feelings. The policj^, if it was 
 a policy, was very like Madame Piriac ; it had the effect 
 of investing Mr. Gilman in Audrey's mind with a pecu- 
 liar romantic and wistful charm, as of a sighing and 
 obedient victim. Then Jane Foley and Rosamund had 
 gone off somewhere, and Madame Piriac and Audrey 
 had returned to Paris, and had found that practically 
 all Paris had returned to Paris too. And on the first 
 meeting with Mr. Gilman it had been at once estab- 
 lished that his feelings and those- of Audrey had sur- 
 mounted the Piriac test. Within forty-eight hours all 
 persons interested had mysteriously assumed that Mr. 
 Gilman and Audrey were coupled together by fate and 
 that a delicious crisis was about to supervene in their 
 earthly progress. And they had become objects of ex- 
 quisite solicitude. They had also become perfect. A 
 circle of friends and acquaintances waited in excited 
 silence for a palpitating event, as a populace waits for 
 the booming gunfire which is to inaugurate a national 
 rejoicing. And when the news exuded that he was tak- 
 ing her for a drive to Meudon, which she had never 
 seen, alone, all decided beyond any doubt that he mould 
 do it during the drive. 
 
 Hence the nice constraint at the table when the drive 
 grew publicly and avowedly imminent. 
 
 Audrey, as the phrase is, "felt her position keenly," 
 but not unpleasantly, nor with understanding. Not a
 
 THE IMMINENT DRIVE S57 
 
 word had passed of late between herself and Mr. GIl- 
 inan that any acquaintance might not have listened to. 
 Indeed, Mr. Oilman had become slightly more formal. 
 She liked him for that, as she liked him for a large 
 number of qualities. She did not know whether she 
 loved him. And strange to say, the question did not 
 passionately interest her. The only really interest- 
 ing questions were: Would he propose to her? And 
 would she accept him.? She had no logical ground for 
 assuming that he would propose to her. None of her 
 friends had informed her of the general expectation 
 that he would propose to her. Yet she knew that every- 
 body expected him to propose to her quite soon, — in- 
 deed within the next couple of hours. And she felt that 
 everybody was right. The universe was full of mys- 
 teries for Audrey. As regards her answer to any pro- 
 posal, she foresaw — another mystery — that it would 
 not depend upon self-examination or upon reason, or 
 upon anything that could be defined. It would depend 
 upon an instinct over which her mind — nay, even her 
 heart — had no control. She was quite certaintly aware 
 that this instinct would instruct her brain to instruct 
 her lips to say Yes. The idea of saying No simply 
 could not be conceived. All the forces in the universe 
 would combine to prevent her from saying No. 
 
 The one thing that might have countered that enig- 
 matic and powerful instinct was a consideration based 
 upon the difference between her age and that of Mr. 
 Gilman. It is true that she did not know what the 
 difference was, because she did not know Mr. Oilman's 
 age. And she could not ask him. No! Such is the 
 structure of society that she could not say to Mr. 
 Gilman, "By the way, Mr. Gilman, how old are you?" 
 She could properly ascertain his tastes about all man- 
 ner of fundamental points, such as the shape of chair-
 
 358 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 legs, the correct hour for dining, or the comparative 
 merits of diamonds and emeralds ; but this trifle of in- 
 formation about his age could not be asked for. And 
 he did not make her a present of it. She might have 
 questioned Madame Piriac, but she could not persuade 
 herself to question Madame Piriac either. However, 
 what did it matter? Even if she learnt his age to a 
 day, he would still be precisely the same Mr. Gilman. 
 And let him be as old or as young as he might, she 
 was still his equal in age. She was far more than six 
 months older than she had been six months ago. 
 
 The influence of Madame Piriac through the summer 
 had indirectly matured her. For above all Madame 
 Piriac had imperceptibly taught her the everlasting 
 joy and duty of exciting the sympathy, admiration 
 and gratitude of the other sex. Hence Audrey had 
 aged at a miraculous rate because in order to please 
 Mr. Gilman she wished — possibly without knowing it — 
 to undo the disparity between herself and him. This 
 may be strange, but it is assuredly more true than 
 strange. To the same end she had concealed her own 
 age. Nobody except Miss Ingate knew how old she 
 was. She only made it clear, when doubts seemed to 
 exist, that she had passed her majority long before. 
 Further, her wealth, magnified by legend, assisted her 
 age. Not that she was so impressed by her wealth as 
 she had been. She had met American women in Paris 
 compared to whom she was at destitution's door. She 
 knew one woman who had kept a 2,000-ton yacht lying 
 all summer in the outer harbour at Boulogne, and had 
 used it during that period for exactly eleven hours. 
 
 Few of these people had an establishment. They 
 would rent floors in hotels, or chateaux in Touraine, or 
 3'achts, but they had no home, and yet they seemed very 
 content and beyond doubt they were very free. And
 
 THE Ij\LVIINENT DRIVE 359 
 
 so Audrey did not trouble about having a home. She 
 had Moze, which was more than many of her acquaint- 
 ances had. She would not use it, but she had it. And 
 she was content in the knowledge of the power to create 
 a home when she felt inclined to create one. Not that 
 it would not have been absurd to set about creating a 
 home with Mr. Gilman hanging over her like a des- 
 tiny. It would have been rude to him to do so ; it 
 would have been to transgress against the inter-sexual 
 code as promulgated by Madame Piriac. . . . She 
 wondered what sort of a place Meuden was, and whether 
 he would propose to her while they were looking at the 
 view together. . . . She trembled with the sense of 
 adventure, which had little to do with happiness or 
 unhappiness. . . . But would he propose to her.'' Not 
 improbably the whole conception of the situation was 
 false and she was being ridiculous ! 
 
 Still the nice constraint persisted as the women began 
 to put on their gloves, while Mr. Gilman had a word 
 with the chief priest. And Audrey had the illusion of 
 being a dedicated victim. As she self-consciously and 
 yet proudly handled her gloves she could not help but 
 notice the simple gold wedding-ring on a certain finger. 
 She had never removed it. She had never formally re- 
 nounced her claim to the status of a widow. That she 
 was not a widow, that she had been guilty of a fraud 
 on a gullible pubhc, was somehow generally known ; but 
 the facts were not referred to, save perhaps in rare 
 hints by Tommy, and she had continued to be known 
 as Mrs. MoncreifF. Ignominous close to a daring enter- 
 prise ! And in the circumstances nothing was more 
 out of place than the ring, bought in cold, wilful, cal- 
 culating naughtiness at Colchester. 
 
 Just when Miss Ingate was beginning to discuss her 
 own plans for the afternoon, Mr. Price entered the res-
 
 360 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 taurant, and as he did so Miss Thompkins, saying some- 
 thing about the small type on the poster outside, went 
 to the window to examine it. Mr. Price, disguised as a 
 discreet dandy-about-town, bore a parcel of music. He 
 removed a most glossy hat ; he bowed to the whole com- 
 pany of ladies, who responded with smiles in which 
 was acknowledged that he was a dandy in addition to 
 being a secretary ; and lastly with deference he handed 
 the parcel of music to Mr. Gilman. 
 
 "So you did get it! What did I tell you.?" said Mr. . 
 Gilman with negligent condescension. "A minute later, 
 and we should have been gone. . . . Has Mr. Price got 
 this right.?" he asked Audrey, putting the music re- 
 spectfully in front of her. 
 
 It included the reduced score of the Beethoven violin 
 concerto, and other items to be performed that night 
 at the Salle Xavier. 
 
 "Oh! Thank you, Mr. Price!" said Audrey. The 
 music was so fresh and glossy and luscious to the eye 
 that it was like a gift of fruit. 
 
 "That'll do then, Price," said Mr. Gilman. "Don't 
 forget about those things for to-night, will you,?" 
 "No, sir. I have a note of all of them." 
 Mr. Price bowed and turned away, assuming his 
 perfect hat. As he approached the door Tommy in- 
 tercepted him; and said something to him in a low 
 voice, to which he uncomfortably mumbled a reply. 
 As they had admittedly been friends in Mr. Price's 
 artistic days, exception could not be taken to this col- 
 loquy. Nevertheless Audrey, being as suspicious as a 
 real widow, regarded it iU, thinking all manner of 
 things. And when Tommy, humming, came back to her 
 seat on Mr. Gilman's left hand, Audrey thought : "And 
 why after ail should she be on his left hand.? It is of 
 course proper that I should be on his right, but why
 
 THE IMMINENT DRIVE 361 
 
 should Tommy be on his left? Why not Madame Piriac 
 or Miss Ingate?" 
 
 "And what am / going to do this afternoon?" de- 
 manded Miss Ingate, lengthening the space between 
 her nose and her upper lip, and turning down the 
 corners of her lower lip. 
 
 "You have to try that new dress on, Winnie," said 
 Audrey rather reprovingly. 
 
 "Alone? Me go alone there? I wouldn't do it. It's 
 not respectable the way they look at you and add you 
 up and question you in those trying-on rooms, when 
 they've got you." 
 
 "Well, take Elise with you." 
 
 "Me take Elise? I won't do it, not unless I could 
 keep her mouth full of pins all the time. Whenever 
 we're alone, and her mouth isn't full of pins, she always 
 talks to me as if I was an actress. And I'm not." 
 
 "Well, then," said. Miss Nickall kindly, "come with 
 me and Tommy. We haven't anything to do, and I'm 
 taking Tommy to see Jane Foley. Jane would love 
 to see you." 
 
 "She might," replied Miss Ingate. "Oh! She might. 
 But I think I'll walk across to the hotel and just go 
 to bed and sleep it off." 
 
 "Sleep what off?" asked Tommy, with necklace rat- 
 tling and orchidaceous eyes glittering. 
 
 "Oh! Everything! Everything!" shrieked Miss 
 Ingate. 
 
 There was one other customer left in the restaurant, 
 a solitary fair, fat man, and as Mr. Oilman's party 
 was leaving, Audrey last, this solitary fair, fat man 
 caught her eye, bowed, and rose. It was Mr. Cowl, 
 secretary of the National Reformation Society. He 
 greeted her with the assurance of an old and valued 
 friend, and he called her neither Miss nor Mrs. ; he
 
 362 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 called her nothing at all. Audrey accepted his lead. 
 
 "And is your society still alive?" she asked with 
 casual polite disdain. 
 
 "Going strong!" said Mr. Cowl. "More flourishing 
 than ever— in spite of our bad luck." He lifted his 
 sandy-coloured eyebrows. "Of course I'm here on So- 
 ciety business. In fact I often have to come to Paris 
 on Society business." His glance deprecated the ap- 
 pearance of the table over which his rounded form was 
 protruding. 
 
 "Well, I'm glad to have seen you again," said 
 Audrey, holding out her hand. 
 
 "I wonder," said Mr. Cowl, drawing some tickets 
 from his pocket. "I wonder whether you — and your 
 friends — would care to go to a concert to-night at 
 the Salle Xavier. The concierge at my hotel is giv- 
 ing tickets away, and I took some — rather to oblige 
 him than anything else. For one never knows when 
 a concierge ma}^ not be useful. I don't suppose it will 
 be anything great, but it will pass the time, and — er — 
 strangers in Paris " 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Cowl, but I'm not a stranger in 
 Paris. I live here." 
 
 "Oh ! I beg your pardon," said Mr. Cowl. "Excuse 
 me. Then you won't take them.'* Pity! I hate to see 
 anything wasted." 
 
 Audrey was both desolated and infuriated. 
 
 "Remember me respectfully to Miss Ingate, please," 
 finished Mr. Cowl. "She didn't see me as she passed." 
 
 He returned the tickets to his pocket. 
 
 Outside IMadame Piriac, standing by her automo- 
 bile, which had rolled up with the silence of a halluci- 
 nation, took leave of Audrey, 
 
 "Eh hien! Au rcvoir!'' said she shortly, with a pecu- 
 liar challenging half-smile, which seemed to be saying,
 
 THE IIMMINENT DRIVE 363 
 
 (C 
 
 Are you going to be worthy of my education? Let 
 us hope so." 
 
 And Miss Nickall, with her grey hair growing fluffier 
 under a somewhat raking hat, said with a smile of 
 sheer intense watchful benevolence : 
 
 "Well, good-bye!" 
 
 While Nick was ecstatically thanking Mr. Giiman 
 for his hospitahty, Tommy called Audrey aside. Ma- 
 dame Piriac's car had vanished. 
 
 "Have you heard about the rehearsal this morning?" 
 she asked, in a confidential tone, anxious and yet 
 quizzical. 
 
 "No! What about it?" Audrey demanded. Various 
 apprehensions were competing for attention in her 
 brain. The episode of Mr. Cowl had agitated her con- 
 siderably. And now she was standing right against 
 the column bearing Musa's name in those large letters, 
 and other columns up and down the gay busy street 
 echoed clear the name. And how unreal it was ! . . . 
 Tickets being given away in half-dozens ! . . . She 
 ought to have been profoundly disturbed by such a 
 revelation, and she was. But here was the drive with 
 Mr. Giiman insisting on a monopoly of all her facul- 
 ties. And on the top of everything — Tommy with her 
 strange gaze and tone! Tommy carefully hesitated 
 before replying. 
 
 "He lost his temper and left it in the middle — or- 
 chestra and conductor and Xavier and all! And he 
 swore he wouldn't play to-night." 
 
 "Nonsense !" 
 
 "Yes, he did." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 Already the two women were addressing each other 
 as foes. 
 
 "A man I know in the orchestra."
 
 364 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "Why didn't you tell us at once — when you came?" 
 
 "Well, I didn't want to spoil the luncheon. But of 
 course I ought to have done. You, at any rate, seeing 
 your interest in the concert ! I'm sorry." 
 
 "My interest in the concert?" Audrey objected. 
 
 "Well, my girl," said Tommy, half-ca j olingly and 
 half-threateningly, "you aren't going to stand there 
 and tell me to my face that you haven't put up that 
 concert for him." 
 
 "Put up the concert! Put up the " Audrey 
 
 knew she was blushing. 
 
 "Paid for it! Paid for it!' said Tommy with im- 
 patience.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GENIUS AT BAY 
 
 Audrey got away from the group in front of the 
 restaurant with stammering words and crimson con- 
 fusion. She ran. She stopped a taxi and stumbled 
 into it. There remained with her vividly the vision of 
 the startled, entirely puzzled face of Mr. Gilman, who 
 in an instant had been transformed from a happy, 
 dignified and excusably self-satisfied human male into 
 an outraged rebel whose grievance had overwhelmed his 
 dignity. She had said hurriedly: "Please excuse me 
 not coming with you. But Tommy says something's 
 happened to Musa and I must go and see. It's ve'ry 
 important." And that was all she had said. Had 
 she asked him to drive her to Musa's, Mr. Gilman 
 would have been very pleased to do so ; but she did not 
 think of that till it was too late. Her precipitancy had 
 been terrible, and had staggered even Tommy. She had 
 no idea how the group would arrange itself. And she 
 had no very clear idea as to what was wrong with Musa 
 or how matters stood in regard to the concert. Tommy 
 had asserted that she did not know whether the or- 
 chestra and its conductor meant to be at their desks 
 in the evening just as though nothing whatever had 
 occurred at the rehearsal. All was vague, and all was 
 disturbing. She had asked Tommy the authority for 
 her assertion that she, Audrey, was financing the con- 
 cert. To which Tommy had replied that she had 
 "guessed, of course." And seeing that Audrey had 
 
 365
 
 366 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 only interviewed a concert-agent once — and he a Lon- 
 don concert-agent with relations in Paris — and that she 
 had never uttered a word about the affair to anybody 
 except Mr. Foulger, who had been keeping an eye on 
 the expenditure, it was not improbable that Tommy had 
 just guessed. But she had guessed right. She was an 
 uncanny woman. "Have you ever spoken to Musa 
 about — it.P" Audrey had passionately demanded; and 
 Tommy had answered also passionately: "Of course 
 not. I'm a white woman all through. Haven't you 
 learnt that yet?" 
 
 The taxi, although it was a horse-taxi and incapable 
 of moving at more than five miles an hour, reached the 
 Rue Cassette, which was on the other side of the river 
 and quite a long way off, in no time. That is to say, 
 Audrey was not aware that any time had passed. She 
 had received the address from Tommy, for it was a 
 new address, Musa having admittedly risen in the world. 
 The house was an old one ; it had a curious staircase, 
 with china knobs on the principal bannisters of the 
 rail, and crimson-tasselled bell cords at all the doors 
 of the flats. Musa lived at the summit of it. Audrey 
 arrived there short of breath, took the crimson-tasselled 
 cord in her hand to pull, and then hesitated in order to 
 think. 
 
 Why had she come? The response was clear. She 
 had come solely because she hated to see a job botched, 
 and there was not a moment to lose if it was not to be 
 botched. She had come, not because she had the slight- 
 est sympathetic interest in Musa — on the contrary, 
 she was coldly angry with him — but because she had a 
 horror of fiascoes. She had found a genius who needed 
 financing, and she, possessing some tons of money, had 
 financed him, and she did not mean to see an ounce of 
 her money wasted if she could help it. Her interest in
 
 GENIUS AT BAY 367 
 
 the affair was artistic and impersonal, and none other. 
 It was the duty of wealthy magnates to foster art, and 
 she was fostering art, and she would have the thing 
 done neatly and completely, or she would know the 
 reason. Fancy a rational creature making a scene at 
 a final rehearsal and swearing that he would not play, 
 and then bolting! It was monstrous ! People really did 
 not do such things. Assuredly no artist had ever done 
 such a thing before. Artists who had a concert all to 
 themselves invariably appeared according to advertised 
 promise. An artist who was only one among several 
 in a programme might fall ill and fail to appear, for 
 such artists are liable to the accidents of earthly ex- 
 istence. But an artist who shared the programme with 
 nobody else was above the accidents of earthly exist- 
 ence and magically protected against colds, coughs, 
 influenza, orange peel, automobiles, and all the other 
 enemies of mankind. But of course Musa was peculiar, 
 erratic, and unpredictable beyond even the wide range 
 granted by society to genius. And yet of late he had 
 been behaving himself in a marvellous manner. He had 
 never bothered her. On the vo^^age back to France he 
 had not bothered her. They had separated with punc- 
 tilious cordiality. Neither of them had written to the 
 other, but she knew that he was working diligently and 
 satisfactorily. He was apparently cured of her. It 
 was perhaps due to the seeming completeness of his 
 cure that her relations with Mr. Oilman had been what 
 they were. . . . And now, suddenly, this ! 
 
 So with clear conscience she pulled the bell-cord. 
 
 Musa himself opened the door. He was coatless and 
 in a dressing-gown, under which showed glimpses of a 
 new smartness. As soon as he saw her he went very 
 pale. 
 
 "Bon jour," she said.
 
 368 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 He repeated the phrase stiffly. 
 
 "Can I come In?" she asked. 
 
 He silently signified, with a certain annoying resig- 
 nation, that she might. For one instant she was under 
 a tremendous impulse to walk grandly and haughtily 
 down the stairs. But she conquered the impulse. He 
 was so pale. 
 
 "This way, excuse me," he said, and preceded her 
 along a short, narrow passage which ended in an open 
 door leading into a small room. There was no carpet 
 on the floor of the passage, and only a quite inade- 
 quate rug on the floor of the room. The furniture was 
 scanty and poor. There were a table, a music-stand, a 
 cheap imitation of a Louis Quatorze chair, two other 
 chairs, and some piles of music. No curtains to the 
 window ! Not a picture on the walls ! On the table a 
 dusty disorder of small objects, including ash-trays, 
 and towards the back of it a little account-book, open, 
 with a pencil on it and a low pile of coppers and a sil- 
 ver ten-sou piece on the top of the coppers. Neverthe- 
 less this interior represented a novel luxuriousness for 
 Musa ; for previously, as Audrey knew, he had lived in 
 one room, and there was no bed here. The flat, indeed, 
 actually comprised three rooms. The account-book 
 and the pitiful heap of coins touched her. She had ex- 
 pended much on the enterprise of launching him to 
 glory, and those coins seemed to be all that had filtered 
 through to him. The whole dwelling was pathetic, 
 and she thought of the splendours of her own daily life, 
 of the absolute unimportance to her of such sums as 
 would keep Musa in content for a year or for ten 
 years, and of the grandiose, majestic, dazzling career 
 of herself and Mr. Gilman when their respective for- 
 tunes should be joined together. And she mysteriously 
 saw Mr. Oilman's face again, and that too was pathetic.
 
 GENIUS AT BAY 369 
 
 Everything was pathetic. She alone seemed to be hard, 
 dominating, overbearing. Her conscience waked to 
 fresh activity. Was she losing her soul? Where were 
 her Ideals.'^ Could she really work in full honesty for 
 the feminist cause as the wife of a man like Mr. Gil- 
 man.'' He was adorable: she felt in that moment that 
 she had a genuine affection for him; but could Mrs. 
 Gilman challenge the police, retort audaciously upon 
 magistrates, and lie in prison? In a word, could she 
 be a martyr? Would Mr. Gilman, with all his amenabil- 
 ity, consent? Would she herself consent? Would it 
 not be ridiculous ? Thus her flying, shamed thoughts in 
 front of the waiting Musa ! 
 
 "Then you aren't ill?" she began. 
 
 "Ill !" he exclaimed. "Why do you wish that I should 
 be ill?" 
 
 As he answered her he removed his open fiddle-case, 
 with the violin inside it, from the Louis Quatorze chair, 
 and signed to her to sit down. She sat down. 
 
 "I heard that — this morning — at the rehearsal " 
 
 "Ah! You have heard that?" 
 
 "And I thought perhaps you were ill. So I came 
 to see." 
 
 "What have you heard?" 
 
 "Frankly, Musa, it is said that you said you would 
 not play to-night." 
 
 "Does it concern you?" 
 
 "It concerns every one. . . . And you have been so 
 good lately." 
 
 "Ah ! I have been good lately. You have heard that. 
 And did you expect me to continue to be good when you 
 returned to Paris and passed all your days in public 
 with that antique and grotesque Monsieur Gilman? All 
 the world sees you. I myself have seen you. It is 
 horrible."
 
 S70 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 She controlled herself. And the fact that she was 
 intensely flattered helped her to do so. 
 
 "Now, Musa," she said, firmly and kindly, as on pre- 
 vious occasions she had spoken to him. "Do be rea- 
 sonable. I refuse to be angry, and it is impossible for 
 you to insult me, however much you try. But do be 
 reasonable. Do think of the future. We are all wish- 
 ing for your success. We shall all be there. And now 
 you say you aren't going to play. It is really too 
 much." 
 
 "You have perhaps bought tickets," said Musa, and 
 a flush gradually spread over his cheeks. "You have 
 perhaps bought tickets, and you are afraid lest you 
 have been robbed. Tranquillise yourself, madame. If 
 you have the least fear, I will instruct my agent to re- 
 imburse you. And why should I not 'pla.j? Naturally 
 I shall play. Accept my word, if you can." He spoke 
 with an icy and convincing decision. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad !" Audrey murmured. 
 
 "What right have you to be glad, madame? If you 
 are glad it is your own affair. Have I -troubled you 
 since we last met? I need the sympathy of nobody. 
 I am assured of a large audience. My impresario is 
 excessively optimistic. And if this is so, I owe it to 
 none but myself. You speak of insults. Permit me 
 to say that I regard your patronage as an insult. I 
 have done nothing, I imagine, to deserve it. I crack 
 my head to divine what I have done to deserve it. You 
 hear some silly talk about a rehearsal and yqu precipi- 
 tate yourself chez moi " 
 
 Without a word Audrey rose and departed. He fol- 
 lowed her to the door and held it open. 
 
 ''''Bon jour, madame." 
 
 She descended the stairs. Perhaps it was his sudden 
 illogical change of tone ; perhaps it was the memory of
 
 GENIUS AT BAY 371 
 
 his phrase, "assured of a large audience," coupled with 
 a picture of the sinister Mr. Cowl unsuccessfully tr^'ing 
 to give away tickets, — but whatever was the origin of 
 the sob, she did give a sob. As she walked downcast 
 through the courtyard she heard clearly the sounds 
 of Musa's violin, played with savage vigour.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 FINANCIAL NEWS 
 
 The Salle Xavier, or Xavier Hall, had been built, 
 with other people's money, by Xayier in order to force 
 the general public to do something which the general 
 public does not want to do and neyer would do of its 
 own accord. Namely, to listen to high-class music. It 
 had not been built, and it was not run, strange to say, 
 to adyertise a certain brand of piano. Xayier was an 
 old Jew, of surpassing ughness, from Cracow or some 
 such place. He looked a rascal, and he was one — 
 admittedly; he himself would imply it, if not crudely 
 admit it. He had no personal interest in music, either 
 high-class or low-class. But he possessed a gift for 
 languages and he had mixed a great deal with musicians 
 in an informal manner. Wagner, at Venice, had once 
 threatened Xayier with a stick, and also Xayier had 
 twice run away with great exponents of the role of 
 Isolde. His competence as a connoisseur of Wkgner's 
 music, and of the proper methods of rendering Wag- 
 ner's music, could therefore not be questioned, and it 
 was not questioned. 
 
 He had a habit of initiating grandiose schemes for 
 opera or concerts and of obtaining money therefor from 
 wealthy amateurs. After a few months he would re- 
 turn the money less ten per cent for preliminary ex- 
 penses and plus his regrets that the schemes had un- 
 happily fallen through owing to unforeseen difficulties. 
 And wealthy amateurs were so astonished to get ninety 
 
 372
 
 FIXAXCLIL NEWS 373 
 
 per cent of their money back from a rascal that they 
 thought him almost an honest man, asked him to din- 
 ner, and listened sympathetically to details of his next 
 grandiose scheme. The Xavier Hall "svas one of the 
 few schemes — and the only real estate scheme — that 
 had ever gone through. With the hall for a centre, 
 Xavier laid daily his plans and conspiracies for per- 
 suading the public against its will. To this end he em- 
 ployed in large numbers clerks, printers, bill-posters, 
 ticket-agents, doorkeepers, programme-writers, pro- 
 gramme-sellers, charwomen, and even artists. He al- 
 ways had some new dodge or hope. The hall was let 
 several times a week for concerts or other entertaii^- 
 ments, and many of them were private speculations of 
 Xavier. Thev were nearly all failures. And the Hall, 
 thoroughly accustomed to seeing itself half empty, did 
 not pay interest on its capital. How could it.'' Upon 
 occasions there had actually been more persons in the 
 orchestra than in the audience. Seated in the foyer, 
 with one eye upon a shabby programme girl and an- 
 other upon the street outside, Xavier would sometimes 
 refer to these facts in conversation with a titled patron, 
 and would describe the public realistically and without 
 pretence of illusion. Nevertheless, Xavier had grown 
 to be a rich man, for percentages were his hourly food; 
 he received them even from programme-sellers. 
 
 At 9 o'clock the hall was rather less than half-full, 
 and this was rightly regarded as very promising, for 
 the management, like the management of every place 
 of distraction in Paris, held it a point of honour to 
 start from twenty to thirty minutes late, — as though all 
 Parisians had many ages ago decided that in Paris 
 one could not be punctual, and that, long since tired 
 of waiting for each other, they had entered into a com- 
 petition to make each other wait, the individual who
 
 374 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 arrived last being universally regarded as the winner. 
 The members of the orchestra were filing negligently 
 in from the back of the vast terraced platform, yawn- 
 ing, and ravaged by the fearful ennui of eternal high- 
 class music. They entered in dozens and scores, and 
 they kept on entering, and as they gazed inimically at 
 each 'other, fingering their instruments, their pale faces 
 seemed to be asking: "Why should it be necessary to 
 collect so many of us in order to prove that just one 
 single human being can play the violin? We can all 
 play the violin, or something else just as good. And 
 we have all been geniuses in our time." 
 
 In strong contrast to their fatigued and disastrous 
 indifference was the demeanour of a considerable group 
 of demonstrators in the gallery. This body had crossed 
 the Seine from the sacred Quarter, and, not owning 
 a wardrobe sufficiently impressive to entitle it to ask 
 for free seats, it had paid for its seats. Hence natur- 
 ally its seats were the worst in the Hall. But the group 
 did not care. It was capable of exciting itself about 
 high-class music. Moreover it had, for that night, an 
 article of religious faith, to wit, that Musa was the 
 greatest violinist that had ever lived or ever could live, 
 and it was determined to prove this article of faith 
 by sheer force of hands and feet. Therefore it was 
 very happy, and just a little noisy. 
 
 In the main part of the hall the audience could be 
 divided into two species, one less numerous than the 
 other. First, the devotees of music, who went to nearly 
 every concert, extremel}^ knowing, extremely blase, ex- 
 tremely disdainful and fastidious, with precise views 
 about every musical composition, every conductor and 
 every performer ; weary of melodious nights at which 
 the same melodies were ever heard, but addicted to them, 
 as some people are addicted to vices equally deleterious.
 
 FINANCIAL NEWS 375 
 
 These devotees would have had trouble with their con- 
 science or their instincts had they not, by coming to 
 the concert, put themselves in a position to affirm ex- 
 actl}'^ and positively what manner of a performer Musa 
 was. They had no hope of being pleased by him. In- 
 deed they knew beforehand that he was yet another 
 false star, but they had to ascertain the truth for 
 themselves, because — you see — there was a slight chance 
 that he might be a genuine star, in which case their 
 careers would have been ruined had they not been able 
 to say to succeeding generations : "I was at his first 
 concert. It was a memorable," etc., etc. They were 
 an emaciated tribe, and in fact had the air of mummies 
 temporarily revived and escaped out of museums. They 
 were shabby, but not with the gallery shabbiness ; they 
 were shabby because shabbiness was part of their un- 
 worldly refinement ; and it did not matter — they would 
 have got their free seats even if they had come in sacks 
 and cerements. 
 
 The second main division of the audience — and the 
 larger — consisted of the jolly pleasure-seekers, who 
 had dined well, who respected Beethoven no more than 
 Oscar Strauss, and who demanded only one boon — not 
 to be bored. They had full dimpled cheeks, and they 
 were adequately attired, and they dropped cigarettes 
 with reluctance in the foyer, and they entered adven- 
 turously with marked courage, well aware that they 
 had come to something queer and dangerous, something 
 that was neither a revue nor a musical comedy, and, 
 while hoping optimistically for the best, determined to 
 march boldly out again in the event of the worst. They 
 had seven mortal evenings a week to dispose of some- 
 how, and occasionally they were obliged to take risks. 
 Their expressions for the most part had that con-
 
 376 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 descension which is characteristic of those who take a 
 risk without being paid for it. 
 
 All around the hall ran a horse-shoe of private boxes, 
 between the balcony and the gallery. These boxes 
 gradually filled. At a quarter past nine over half of 
 them were occupied; which fact, combined with the 
 stylishness of the hats in them, proved that Xavier 
 had immense skill in certain directions, and that on 
 that night, for some reason or other, he had been doing 
 his very best. 
 
 At twenty minutes past nine the audience had coal- 
 esced and become an entity, and the group from the 
 Quarter was stamping an imitation of the first bars of 
 the C minor symphony, to indicate that further delay 
 might involve complications. 
 
 Audrey sat with Miss Ingate modestly and incon- 
 spicuously in the fifth row of the stalls. Miss Ingate, 
 prodigious in crimson, was in a state of beatitude, be- 
 cause she never went to concerts and imagined that she 
 had inadvertently slipped into heaven. The mere size 
 of the orchestra so overwhelmed her that she was con- 
 vinced that it was an orchestra specially enlarged to 
 meet the unique importance of Musa's genius. "They 
 must think highly of him !" she said. She employed 
 the time in looking about her. She had already found, 
 besides many other Anglo-Saxon acquaintances, Rosa- 
 mund, in black. Tommy with Nick, and Mr. Cowl, who 
 was one seat to Audrey's left in the sixth row of the 
 stalls. Also Mr. Gilman and Madame Piriac and Mon- 
 sieur Piriac in a double box. Audrey and herself ought 
 to have been in that box, and had the afternoon de- 
 veloped otherwise they probably would have been in 
 that box. Fortunately at the luncheon, Audrey, who 
 had bought various lots of seats, had with the strange 
 cautiousness of a young girl left herself free to utilise
 
 FINANCIAL NEWS 377 
 
 or not to utilise the offered hospitality of Mr. Gil- 
 man's double box, and Mr. Gilman had not pressed her 
 for a decision. Was it not important that the hall 
 should seem as full as possible? When Miss Ingate, 
 pushing her investigations further, had discovered not 
 merely Monsieur Dauphin, but INIr. Ziegler, late of 
 Frinton and now resident in Paris, her cup was full. 
 
 "It's vehy wonderful, vehy wonderful !" said she. 
 
 But it was Audrey who most deeply had the sense 
 of the wonderfulness of the thing. For it was Audrey 
 who had created it. Having months ago comprehended 
 that a formal and splendid debut was necessary for 
 Musa if he was to succeed within a reasonable space of 
 time, she had willed the debut within her own brain. 
 She alone had thought of it. And now the realisation 
 seemed to her to be absolutely a miracle. Had she read 
 of such an affair a year earlier in a newspaper — with 
 the words "Paris," "tout Paris,'^ "young genius," and 
 so on — she would have pictured it as gloriously, thrill- 
 ingly romantic, and it indeed was gloriously and thrill- 
 ingly romantic. She thought : "None of these people 
 sitting around me know that I have brought it about, 
 and that it is all mine." The thought was sweet. She 
 felt like an invisible African genie out of the Thousand 
 and One Nights. 
 
 And yet what had she done to bring it about .f^ Noth- 
 ing, simply nothing, except to command it! She had 
 not even signed cheques. Mr. Foulger had signed the 
 cheques ! Mr. Foulger, who set down the whole enter- 
 prise as incomprehensible lunacy! Mr. Foulger, who 
 had never been to aught but a smoking-concert in his 
 life, and who could not pronounce the name of Beetho- 
 ven without hesitations ! The great deed had cost 
 money, and it would cost more money; it would prob- 
 ably cost four hundred pounds ere it was finished with.
 
 378 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 An extravagant sum, but Xavler had motor-cars and 
 toys even more expensive than motor-cars to keep up ! 
 Audrey, however, considered it a small sura, compared 
 to the terrific spectacular eifect obtained. And she was 
 right. The attributes of money seemed entirely mag- 
 ical to her. And she was right again. She respected 
 money with a new respect. And she respected herself 
 for using money with such large grandeur. 
 
 And witlial she was most horribly nervous, just as 
 nervous as though it was she who was doomed to face 
 the indifferent and exacting audience with nothing but 
 a violin bow for weapon. She was so nervous that she 
 could not listen, could not even follow Miss Ingate's 
 simple remarks ; she heard them as from a long dis- 
 tance, and grasped them after a long interval. Still, 
 she was uplifted, doughty, and proud. The humiliation 
 of the afternoon had vanished like a mist. Nay, she 
 felt glad that Musa had behaved to her just as he did 
 behave. His mien pleased her; his wounding words, 
 each of which she clearly remembered, were a source 
 of delight. She had never admired him so much. She 
 had now no resentment against him. He had proved 
 that her hoj)es of him were after all well justified. He 
 would succeed. Only some silly and improbable acci- 
 dent could stop him from succeeding. She was not 
 nervous about his success. She was nervous for him. 
 She became him. She tuned his fiddle, gathered her- 
 self together and walked on to the platform, bowed to 
 the dim multitudinous heads in front of him, looked at 
 the conductor, waited for the opening bars, drew his 
 bow across his strings at precisely the correct second, 
 and heard the resulting sound under her ear. And 
 all that before the conductor had appeared ! Such were 
 the manifestations of her purely personal desire for 
 the achievement of a neat, clean job.
 
 FINANCIAL NEWS 379 
 
 "See!" said ^liss Ingate. "]\ir. Gilman Is bowing to 
 us. He does look splendid, and isn't Madame Piriac 
 lovely? I must say I don't care so much for these 
 French husbands." 
 
 Audre}' had to turn and join Miss Ingate in acknowl- 
 edging the elaborate bow. At any rate, then, Mr. Gil- 
 man had not been utterly estranged by her capricious 
 abandonment of him. And wh}' should he be.'^ He was 
 a man of sense ; he would understand perfectly when she 
 explained to-morrow. Further, he was her slave. She 
 was sure of him. She would apologise to him. She 
 would richly recompense him by smiles and honey and 
 charming persuasive simplicity. And he would see that 
 with all her innocent and modest ingenuousness she was 
 capable of acting seriously and effectively in a sudden 
 crisis. She would rise higher in his esteem. As for 
 the foreseen proposal, well 
 
 A sporadic clapping wakened her out of those reflec- 
 tions. The conductor was approaching his desk. The 
 orchestra applauded him. He tapped the desk and 
 raised his stick. And there was a loud noise, the thump- 
 ing of her heart. The concert had begun. IMusa was 
 still invisible — what was he doing at that instant, some- 
 where behind? — but the concert had begun. Stars do 
 not take part in the first item of an orchestral concert. 
 There is a convention that they shall be preluded ; and 
 ]Musa was preluded by the overture to "Die Meister- 
 singer." In the soft second section of the overture, a 
 most noticeable babble came from a stage-box. "Oh ! 
 It's the Foas," muttered Miss Ingate. "What a lot of 
 people are fussing around them !" "Hsh !" frowned 
 Audrey, outraged by the interruption. ]Madame Foa 
 took about fifty bars in which to settle herself, and 
 ^Monsieur Foa chattered to people behind him as freely 
 as if he had been in a cafe. Nobodv seemed to mind.
 
 380 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 The overture was applauded, but Madame Foa, in- 
 stead of applauding, leaned gracefully back, smiling, 
 and waved somebody to the seat beside her. 
 
 Violent demonstrations from the gallery ! . . . He 
 was there, tripping down the stepped pathway between 
 the drums. The demonstrations grew general. The 
 orchestra applauded after its own fashion. He reached 
 the conductor, smiled at the conductor and bowed very 
 admirably. He seemed to be absolutely at his ease. 
 Then there was a delay. The conductor's scores had 
 got themselves mixed up. It was dreadful. It was 
 enough to make a woman shriek. 
 
 "I say !" said a voice in Audrey's ear. She turned as 
 if shot. Mr. Cowl's round face was close to hers. "I 
 suppose you saw The New York Herald this morning." 
 
 "No," answered Audrey impatiently. 
 
 The orchestra started the Beethoven violin concerto. 
 But Mr. Cowl kept his course. 
 
 "Didn't you.?" he said. "About the Zacatecas Oil 
 Corporation.? It's under a receivership. It's gone 
 smash. I've had an idea for some time it would. All 
 due to these Mexican revolutions. I thought you might 
 like to know." 
 
 Musa's bow hung firmly over the strings.
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 INTERVAL 
 
 The most sinister feature of entertainments oi> 
 ganised by Xavier was the intervals. Xavier laid 
 stress on intervals ; they gave repose, and in many cases 
 they saved money. All Paris managers are inclined to 
 give to the interval the importance of a star-turn, and 
 Xavier in this respect surpassed his rivals, though he 
 perhaps regarded his cloak-rooms, which were organ- 
 ised to cause the largest possible amount of incon- 
 venience to the largest possible number of people, as 
 his surest financial buttress. Xavier could or would 
 never see the close resemblance of intervals to wet 
 blankets, extinguishers, palls, and hostile critics. The 
 Allegro movement of the Concerto was a real success, 
 and the audience as a whole would have applauded even 
 more if the gallery in particular had not applauded so 
 much. The second or Larghetto movement was also a 
 success, but to a less degree. As for the third and last 
 movement, it put the gallery into an ecstasy while leav- 
 ing the floor in possession of full critical faculties. 
 Musa retired and had to return, and when he returned 
 the floor good-humouredly joined the vociferous gallery 
 in laudations, and he had to return again. Then the 
 interminable interval ! Silence ! Murmurings ! Silence ! 
 Creepings towards exits ! And in many, very many 
 hearts the secret trouble question: "Why are we here? 
 What have we come for.^* What is all this pother about 
 art and genius? Honestly, shall we not be glad and 
 
 381
 
 S82 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 relieved when the solemn old thing is over?" . . . And 
 the desolating, cynical indifference of the conductor and 
 the orchestra ! Often there is a clearer vision of the 
 truth during the intervals of a classical concert than 
 on a deathbed. 
 
 Audrey was extremely depressed in the interval after 
 the Beethoven concerto and before the Lalo. But she 
 was not depressed by the news of the accident to the 
 Zacatecas Oil Corporation in which was the major part 
 of her wealth. The tidings had stunned rather than 
 injured that part of her which was capable of being 
 affected by finance. She had not felt the blow. More- 
 over she was protected by the knowledge that she had 
 thousands of pounds in hand and also the Moze prop- 
 erty intact, and further she was already reconsidering 
 her newly acquired respect for money. No ! What de- 
 pressed her was a doubt as to the genius of Musa. In 
 the long dreadful pause it seemed impossible that he 
 should have genius. The entire concert presented itself 
 as a grotesque farce, of which she as its creator ought 
 to be ashamed. She was ready to kill Xavier or his 
 responsible representative. 
 
 Then she saw the tall and calm Rosamund, with her 
 grey hair and black attire and her subduing self-com- 
 placency, making a way between the rows of stalls to- 
 wards her. 
 
 "I wanted to see you," said Rosamund, after the 
 formal greetings. "Very much." Her voice was as 
 kind and as unrelenting as the grave. 
 
 At this point Miss Ingate ought to have yielded her 
 seat to the terrific Rosamund, but she failed to do so, 
 doubtless by inadvertence. 
 
 "Will 3^ou come into the foyer for a moment.?" Rosa- 
 mund inflexibly suggested. 
 
 "Isn't the interval nearly over?" said Audrey.
 
 INTERVAL 383 
 
 "Oh, no !" 
 
 And as a fact there was not the slightest sign of the 
 interval being nearly over. Audrey obediently rose. 
 But the invitation had been so conspicuously addressed 
 to herself that Miss Ingate, gathering her wits, re- 
 mained in her chair. 
 
 The foyer — decorated in the Cracovian taste — was 
 dotted with cigarette smokers and with those who had 
 fled from the interval. Rosamund did not sit down ; 
 she did not try for seclusion in a corner. She stepped 
 well into the foyer, and then stood still, and absently 
 lighted a cigarette, omitting to offer a cigarette to 
 Audrey. Rosamund's air of a deaconess made the cig- 
 arette extremely remarkable. 
 
 "I wanted to tell you about Jane Foley," began 
 Rosamund quietly. "Have you heard.'"' 
 
 "No! What.?' 
 
 "Of course you haven't. I alone knew. She has run 
 away to England." 
 
 "Run away ! But she'll be caught !" 
 
 "She may be. But that is not all. She has run away 
 to get married. She dared not tell me. She wrote me. 
 She put the letter in the manuscript of the last chapter 
 but one of her book, which I am revising for her. She 
 will almost certainly be caught if she tries to get mar- 
 ried in her own name. Therefore she will get married 
 in a false name. All this, however, is not what I wanted 
 to tell you about." 
 
 "Then you shouldn't have begun to talk about it," 
 said Audrey suddenly. "Did you expect me to let you 
 leave it in the middle ! Jane getting married ! I do 
 think she might have told me. . . . What next, I won- 
 der ! I suppose you've — er — lost her now." 
 
 "Not entirely, I believe," said Rosamund. "Cer- 
 tainly not entirely. But of course I could never trust
 
 384 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 her again. This is the worst blow I have ever had. 
 She says — but why go into that? — Well, she docs say 
 she will work as hard as ever, nearly ; and that her fu- 
 ture husband strongly supports us — and so on." Rosa- 
 mund smiled with complete detachment. 
 
 "And who's he?" Audrey demanded. 
 
 "His name is Aguilar," said Rosamund. "So she 
 
 says." 
 
 "Aguilar?" 
 
 "Yes. I gather — I say I gather — that he belongs 
 to the industrial class. But of course that is precisely 
 the class that Jane springs from. Odd! Is it not? 
 Heredity, I presume." She raised her shoulders. 
 
 Audrey said nothing. She was too shocked to speak, 
 — not pained or outraged, but simply shaken. What 
 in the name of Juno could Jane see in Aguilar? Jane, 
 to whom every man was the hereditary enemy ! Agui- 
 lar, who had no use for either man or woman ! Aguilar, 
 a man without a Christian name, one of those men in 
 connection with whom a Christian name is impossibly 
 ridiculous. How should she, Audrey, address Aguilar 
 in future? Would he have to be asked to tea? These 
 vital questions naturally transcended all others in 
 Audrey's mind. . . . Still (she veered round), it was 
 perhaps after all just the union that might have been 
 expected. 
 
 "And now," said Rosamund at length, "I have a ques- 
 tion to put to you." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I don't want a definite answer here and now." She 
 looked round disdainfully at the foyer. "But I do want 
 to set your mind on the right track at the earliest pos- 
 sible moment — before any accidents occur." She 
 smiled satirically. "You see how frank I am with you.
 
 INTERVAL 385 
 
 I'll be more frank still, and tell you that I came to 
 tills concert to-night specially to see you." 
 
 "Did 3"ou?" Audrey murmured. "Well?'* 
 
 The older woman looked down upon her from a 
 superior height. Her eyes were those of an autocrat. 
 It was quite possible to see in them the born leader 
 who had dominated thousands of women and played 
 a dra^vn game with the British Government itself. But 
 Audrey, at the very moment when she was feeling the 
 overbearing magic of that gaze, happened to remem- 
 ber the scene in Madame Piriac's automobile on the 
 night of her first arrival in Paris, when she herself 
 was asleep and Rosamund, not knowing that she was 
 asleep, had been solemnly addressing her. Miss In- 
 gate's often-repeated account of the scene always made 
 her laugh, and the memory of it now caused her to 
 smile faintly. 
 
 "I want to suggest to you," Rosamund proceeded, 
 "that you begin to work for me." 
 
 "For the suffrage — or for you.'*" 
 
 "It is the same thing," said Rosamund coldly. "I am 
 the suffrage. Without me the cause would not have 
 existed to-day." 
 
 "Well," said Audrey, "of course I will. I have done 
 a bit alread}', you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Rosamund admitted. "You did very 
 well at the Blue City. That's why I'm approaching 
 you. That's why I've chosen you." 
 
 "Chosen me for what.''" 
 
 "You know that a new great campaign will soon be- 
 gin. It is all arranged. It will necessitate my return- 
 ing to England and challenging the police. You know 
 also that Jane Foley was to have been m}^ lieutenant-in- 
 chief — for the active part of the operation. You will
 
 386 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 admit that I can no longer count on her completely. 
 Will you take her place?" 
 
 "I'll help," said Audrey. "I'll do what I can. I 
 daresay I shan't have much money, because one of those 
 'accidents' you mention has happened to me already." 
 
 "That need not trouble you," replied Rosamund, im- 
 perturbable. "I have always been able to get all the 
 money that was needed." 
 
 "Well, I'll help all I can." 
 
 "That's not what I ask," said Rosamund inflexibly. 
 "Will you take Jane Foley's place.? Will you give 
 yourself utterly?" 
 
 Audrey answered with sudden vehemence: 
 
 "No, I won't. You didn't want a definite answer, 
 but there it is." 
 
 "But surely you believe in the cause?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's the greatest of all causes." 
 
 "I'm rather inclined to think it is." 
 
 "Why not give yourself, then? You are free. I 
 have given nn^self, my child." 
 
 "Yes," said Audrey, who resented the appellation of 
 "child." "But you see it's your hobby." 
 
 "My hobby, Mrs. Moncreiff"!' exclaimed Rosamund. 
 
 "Certainly, your hobby," Audrey persisted. 
 
 "I have sacrificed everything to it," said Rosamund. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Audrey. "I don't think ^^ou've 
 sacrificed anything to it. You just enjoy bossing other 
 people above everything, and it gives you every chance 
 to boss. And you enjoy plots too, and look at the 
 chances you get for that ! Mind you, I like 3'ou for it. 
 I think you're splendid. Only / don't want to be a 
 monomaniac, and I won't be." Her convictions seemed 
 to have become suddenly clear and absolutely decided. 
 
 "Do you mean to infer that I am a monomaniac.''"
 
 INTERVAL SST 
 
 a?kcd Rosamurid, raising her eyebrows — but only a 
 little. 
 
 "Well," said Audrey, "as you mentioned frankness — 
 what else would you call yourself but a monomaniac? 
 You only live for one thin^. — don't tou, now?'' 
 
 "It is the greatest thing." 
 
 "I don't say it isn't," Audrey admitted. "But I've 
 been thinking a good deal about all this, and at last I've 
 come to the conclusion that one tiling isn't enough for 
 me, not nearly enough. And I'm not going to be pecu- 
 liar at any price. Neither a fanatic nor n monomaniac 
 nor anything like that.'' 
 
 "You are in love," asserted Rosamund. 
 
 "And what if I am.' If you ask me, I think a girl 
 who isn't in love ought to be somewhat ashamed of her- 
 self, or at least sorry for herself. And I am sorry for 
 myself, because I am not in love. I wish I was. Why 
 shouldn't I be? It must be lonely to be in love. If I 
 was in love I shouldn't be only in love. You tliink you 
 understand what girls are nowadays, but you don't. I 
 didn't mvself until iust latelv. But I'm Ix-^inning to. 
 Girls were supposed to be only interested in one thing 
 — in your time. Monomaniacs, that's what they had 
 to be. You changed all that, or vou're trying to 
 change it, but you only mean women to be monomaniacs 
 about something else. It isn't good enough. I want 
 everything, and I'm croing to get it — or have a good 
 try for it. I'll never be a martyr if I can help it. And 
 I believe I can help it. I believe I've got just enough 
 commonsense to save me from being a martyr — either 
 to a husKand or a house or family — or a cause. I want 
 to have a husband and a house and a family, and a 
 cause too. That'll be iust about everything, won't it? 
 And if you imagine I can't look after all of them at 
 once, all I can sav is I don't agree with you. Because
 
 388 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 I've got an idea I can. Supposing I had all these 
 things, I fancy I could have a tifF with my husband and 
 make it up, play with my children, alter a dress, change 
 the furniture, tackle the servants, and go out to a 
 meeting and perhaps have a difficulty with the police — 
 all in one day. Only if I did get into trouble with the 
 police I should pay the fine — you see. The pohce aren't 
 going to have me altogether. Nobody is. Nobody, man 
 or woman, is going to be able to boast that he's got me 
 altogether. You think you're independent. But you 
 aren't. We girls will show you what independence is." 
 
 "You're a rather surprising young creature," ob- 
 served Rosamund with a casual air, unmoved. "You're 
 quite excited." 
 
 "Yes. I surprise myself. But these things do come 
 in bursts. I've noticed that before. They weren't clear 
 when you began to talk. They're clear now." 
 
 "Let me tell you this," said Rosamund. "A cause 
 must have martyrs." 
 
 "I don't see it," Audrey protested. "I should have 
 thought commonsense would be lots more useful than 
 martyrs. And monomaniacs never do have common- 
 sense." 
 
 "You're very young." 
 
 "Is that meant for an insult, or is it just a state- 
 ment?" Audrey laughed pleasantly. 
 
 And Rosamund laughed too. 
 
 "It's just a statement," said she. 
 
 "Well, here's another statement," said Audrey. 
 "You're very old. That's where I have the advantage 
 of you. Still, tell me what I can do in your new cam- 
 paign, and I'll do it if I can. But there isn't going to 
 be any 'utterly' — that's all." 
 
 "I think the interval is over," said Rosamund with 
 finality. "Perhaps we'd better adjourn."
 
 INTERVAL 389 
 
 The foyer had nearly emptied. The distant sound 
 of music could be heard. 
 
 As she was re-entering the hall, Audrey met Mr. 
 Cowl, who was coming out. 
 
 "I have decided I can't stand any more," Mr. Cowl 
 remarked in a loud whisper. "I hope you didn't mind 
 me telling you about the Zacatecas. As I said, I thought 
 you might be interested. Good-bye. So pleasant to 
 have met you again, dear lady." His face had the same 
 enigmatic smile which had made him so formidable at 
 Moze. 
 
 Musa had already begun to play the Spanish Sym- 
 phony of Lalo, without which no genius is permitted 
 to make his formal debut on the violin in France.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 entr'acte 
 
 After the Spanish Symphony not only the conduc- 
 tor but the entire orchestra followed Musa from the 
 platform, and Audrey understood that the previous 
 interval had not really been an interval and that the 
 first genuine interval was about to beg-in. The audience 
 seemed to understand this too, for practically the whole 
 of it stood up and moved towards the doors. Audrey 
 would have stayed in her seat, but Miss Ingate ex- 
 pressed a desire to go out and "see the fun" in the 
 foyer, and moreover she asserted that the Foas from 
 their box had been signalling to her and Audrey an 
 intention to meet them in the foyer. Miss Ingate was 
 in excellent spirits. She said it beat her how Musa's 
 fingers could get through so many notes in so short a 
 time, and also that it made her feel tired even to watch 
 the fingers. She was convinced that nobody had ever 
 handled the violin so marvellously before. As for suc- 
 cess, Mausa had been recalled, and the applause from 
 the gallery, fired by its religious belief, was obstinate 
 and extremely vociferous. Audrey, however, was aware 
 of terrible sick qualms, for she knew that Mausa was not 
 so far dominating his public. JVIuch of the applause 
 had obviously the worst quality that applause can have, 
 — it was good-natured. Yet she could not accept fail- 
 ure for Musa. Failure would be too monstrous an in- 
 justice, and therefore it could not happen. 
 
 The emptiness of the Foas' box indicated that Miss 
 
 390
 
 ENTR'ACTE 891 
 
 Ingate might be correct in her interpretation of sig- 
 nals, and Audrey allowed herself to be led away from 
 the now forlorn auditorium. As they filed along the 
 gangways she had to listen to the indifferent remarks 
 of utterly unprejudiced and uninterested persons about 
 the performance of genius, and further she had to learn 
 that a fair proportion of them were departing with no 
 intention to return. In the thronged foyer they saw 
 Mr. Gilman, alone, before he saw them. He was carry- 
 ing a box of chocolates — doubtless one of the little 
 things that Mr. Price had had instructions to provide 
 for the evening. Mr. Gilman perhaps would not have 
 caught sight of them had it not been for the stridency 
 of Miss Ingate's voice, which caused him to turn round. 
 
 Audrey experienced once again the sensation — which 
 latterly was apt to recur in her — of having too many 
 matters on her mind simultaneously; in a phrase, the 
 sensation of the exceeding complexity of existence. 
 And she resented it. The interview with Rosamund 
 was quite enough for one night. It had been a triumph 
 for her ; she had surprised herself in that interview ; 
 it had left her with a conviction of freedom ; it had up- 
 lifted her. She ought to have been in a state of ex- 
 altation after that intervicAv, and she was. Only, while 
 in a state of exaltation, she was still in the old state 
 of depression, — about the tendency of the concert, of 
 her concert, and about the rumoured disappearance of 
 her fortune. Also she was preoccupied by the very 
 strange affair of Jane Foley and Aguilar, 
 
 And now — a further intricacy of mood — came a 
 whole new set of emotions due to the mere spectacle of 
 Mr. Oilman's august back ! She was intimidated by 
 Mr. Oilman's back. She knew horribly that in the af- 
 ternoon she had treated Mr. Gilman as Mr. Gilman 
 ought never to have been treated. And, quite apart
 
 392 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 from intimidation, she had another feeling, a feeling 
 which was ghastly and of which she was ashamed. . . . 
 Assuming the disappearance of her fortune, would Mr. 
 Gilman's attitude towards her be thereby changed? 
 . . . She admitted that young girls ought not to have 
 such suspicions against respectable and mature men 
 of established position in the world. Nevertheless she 
 could not blow the suspicion away. 
 
 But the instant Mr. Gilman's eye met hers the sus- 
 picion vanished, and not the suspicion only, but all her 
 intimidation. The miracle was produced by something 
 in the gaze of Mr. Oilman as it rested on her, something 
 wistful — not more definable than that, something which 
 she had noticed in Mr. Gilman's gaze on other occa- 
 sions. It perfectly restored her. It gave her the posi- 
 tive assurance of a fact which marvellously enheartcns 
 young girls of about Audrey's years, — to wit, that they 
 have a mysterious power surpassing the power of age, 
 knowledge, wisdom, or wealth, that they influence and 
 decide the course of history, and are the sole true mis- 
 tresses of the world. Whence the mysterious power 
 sprang she did not exactly know, but she surmised — 
 rightly — that it was connected with her youth, with a 
 dimple, with the incredibly soft down on her cheek, 
 with the arch softness of her glance, with a gesture of 
 the hand, with a turn of the shoulder, with a pleat of 
 the skirt. . . . Anyhow she possessed it, and to possess 
 it was to wield it. It transformed her into a dehcious 
 tyrant, but a tyrant; it inspired her with exquisite 
 cruelty, but cruelty. Her thoughts might have been 
 summed up in eight words : 
 
 "Pooh! He has suffered. Well, he must suffer.'* 
 Ah ! But she meant to be very kind to him. He was 
 so reliable, so adorable, and so dependent. She had
 
 ENTR'ACTE 393 
 
 genuine aifection for him. And he was at once a rock 
 and a cushion. 
 
 "Isn't it going splendidly — splendidly, Mr. Gilman?" 
 exclaimed Miss Ingate in her enthusiasm. 
 
 "Apparently," said Mr. Gilman, with comfort in 
 his voice. 
 
 At that moment the musical critic with large dark 
 eastern eyes whom Audrey had met at the Foas' strolled 
 nonchalantly by, and, perceiving Miss Ingate, described 
 a huge and perfect curve in the air with his glossy silk 
 hat, which had been tipped at the back of his head. 
 Mr. Gilman had come close to Audrey. 
 
 "The Foas started down with me," said Mr. Gil- 
 man mildly. "But they always meet such crowds of 
 acquaintances at these affairs that they seldom get 
 anywhere. Hortense would not leave the box. She 
 never will." 
 
 "Oh! I'm so glad I've seen you," Audrey began ex- 
 citedly, but with simplicity and compelling sweetness. 
 "You've no idea how sorry I am about this afternoon! 
 I'm frightfully sorry, really! But I was so upset. I 
 didn't know what to do. You know how anxious every- 
 body was about Musa for to-night. He's the pet of the 
 Quarter and of course I belong to the Quarter. At 
 least — I did. I thought he might be ill, or something. 
 However, it was all right in the end. I was looking 
 forward tremendously to that drive. Are you going to 
 forgive me.P" 
 
 "Please, please!" he eagerly entreated, with a faint 
 blush. "Of course I quite understood. There's noth- 
 ing whatever to forgive." 
 
 "Oh! but there is," she insisted. "Only you're so 
 good-natured." 
 
 She was being magnanimous. She was pretending 
 that she had no mysterious power. But her motive was
 
 394 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 quite pure. If he was good-natured, so was she. She 
 honestly wanted to recompense him, and to recompense 
 him richly. And she did. Her demeanour was en- 
 chanting in its ingenuous flattery. She felt happy de- 
 spite all her anxieties, for he was living up to her ideal 
 of him. She felt happy, and her resolve to make him 
 happy to the very hmit of his dreams was intense. She 
 had a vision of her future existence stretching out in 
 front of her, and there was not a shadow on it. She 
 thought he was going to offer her the box of chocolates, 
 but he did not. 
 
 "I rather wanted to ask your advice," she said. 
 
 "I wish you would," he replied. 
 
 Just then the Foas arrived, and with them Dauphin, 
 the great and fashionable painter and the original dis- 
 coverer of Musa. And as they all began to speak at 
 once Audrey heard the Oriental musical critic say 
 slowly to an enquiring Miss Ingate : 
 
 "It is not a concert talent that he has." 
 
 "You hear ! You hear !" exclaimed Monsieur Foa to 
 Monsieur Dauphin and Madame Foa, with an impressed 
 air. "You hear what Miquette says. He has not a 
 concert talent. He has everything that you like, but 
 not a concert talent." 
 
 Foa seemed to be exhibiting the majestic Oriental, 
 nicknamed Miquette, as the final arbiter, whose word 
 settled problems like a sword, and Miquette seemed to 
 be trying to bear the high role with negligent modesty. 
 
 "But, yes, he has ! But, yes, he has !" Dauphin pro- 
 tested, sweeping all Miquettes politely away. And then 
 there was an urbane riot of greetings, salutes, bowings, 
 smilings, cooings and compliments. 
 
 Dauphin was magnificent, playing the part of the 
 opulent painter a la mode with the most finished skill, 
 the most splendid richness of detail. It was notorious
 
 ENTR'ACTE 395 
 
 that in the evenings he wore the finest silk shirts in 
 Paris, and his waistcoat was designed to give scope to 
 these shirts. He might have come — he probably had 
 come — straight from the bower of archduchesses ; but 
 he produced in Audrey the illusion that archduchesses 
 were a trifle compared to herself. He had not seen her 
 for a long time. Gazing at her, he breathed relief; 
 all his features indicated the sudden, unexpected as- 
 suaging of eternal and intense desires. He might have 
 been travelling through the desert for many days and 
 she might have been the oasis — the pool of living water 
 and the palm. 
 
 "Now — like that ! Just like that !" he said, holding 
 her hand and as it were hypnotising her in the pose in 
 which she happened to be. He looked hard at her. "It 
 is unique. Madame, where did you find that dress.'"' 
 
 "Callot," answered Audrey submissively. 
 
 "I thought so. Well, Madame, I can wait no more. 
 I will wait no more. It is Dauphin who implores you 
 to come to his studio. To come — it is your duty. Ma- 
 dame Foa, you will bring her. I count on you abso- 
 lutely to bring her. Even if it is only to be a sketch — ■ 
 the merest hint. But I must do it." 
 
 "Oh, yes, madame," said Madame Foa with all the 
 Italian charm. "Dauphin must paint you. The con- 
 trary is unthinkable. My husband and I have often 
 said so." 
 
 "To-morrow .f"' Dauphin suggested. 
 
 "Ah! To-morrow, my little Dauphin, I cannot," 
 said Madame Foa. 
 
 "Nor I," said Audrey. 
 
 "The day^ after to-morrow, then. I will send my 
 auto. What address .? Half-past eleven. That goes.'' 
 In any case, I insist. Be kind! Be kind!" 
 
 Audrey blushed. Half the foyer was staring at the
 
 396 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 group. She was flattered. She saw herself remark- 
 able. She thought she would look more particularly, 
 with perfect detachment, at the mirror that night, in 
 order to decide whether her appearance was as striking, 
 as original, as distinguished, as Dauphin's attitude im- 
 plied. There must surely be something in it. 
 
 "About that advice — may I call to-morrow?" It 
 was Mr. Gilraan's voice at her elbow. 
 
 "Advice.'"' She had forgotten her announced in- 
 tention of asking his advice. (The subject was to be 
 Zacatecas). "Oh, yes. How nice of you! Please do 
 call. Come for tea." She was delightful to him, but at 
 the same time there was in her tone a little of the con- 
 descending casualness proper to the tone of a girl 
 openly admired by the confidant and painter of prin- 
 cesses and archduchesses, the man who treated all plain 
 women and women past the prime with a desolating in- 
 difference. 
 
 She thought: 
 
 "I am a rotten little snob." 
 
 Mr. Gilman gave thanksgivings and departed, ex- 
 plaining that he must return to Madame Piriac. 
 
 Foa and Dauphin and the Oriental resumed the argu- 
 ment about Musa's talent and the concert. Miquette 
 would say nothing as to the success of the concert. 
 Foa asserted that the concert was not and would not 
 be a success. Dauphin pooh-poohed and insisted ve- 
 hemently that the success was unmistakable and in- 
 creasing. Moreover, he criticised the hall, the choice 
 of programme, the orchestra, the conductor. "I dis- 
 covered Musa," said he. "I have always said that he 
 is a great concert player, and that he is destined for 
 a great world-success, and to-night I am more sure 
 of it than ever." Whereupon Madame Foa said with 
 much sympathy that she hoped it was so, and Foa
 
 ENTR'ACTE 397 
 
 said : "You create illusions for yourself, on purpose." 
 Dauphin bore him down with wavy gestures and warm 
 cries of "No ! No ! No !" And he appealed to Au- 
 drey as a woman incapable of illusions. And Audrey 
 agreed with Dauphin. And while she was agreeing 
 she kept saying to herself: "Why do I pretend to 
 agree with him.'* He is not sincere. He knows he 
 is not sincere. We all know — except perhaps Winnie 
 Ingate. The concert is a failure. If it were not a 
 failure, Madame Foa would not be so sympathetic. 
 She is more subtle even than Madame Piriac. I shall 
 never be subtle like that. I wish I could be. I wish I 
 was at Moze. I am too Essex for all this. And Winnie 
 here is too comic for words." 
 
 An aged and repellent Jew came into sight. He 
 raised Madame Foa's hand to his odious lips and 
 kissed it, and Audrey wondered how Madame Foa 
 could tolerate the formality. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Xavier.?" 
 
 Xavier shrugged his round shoulders. 
 
 "Do not say," said he, in a hoarse voice to the com- 
 pany, "do not say that I have not done my best on 
 this occasion." He lifted his eyes heavenward, and 
 as he did so his passing glance embraced Audrey, and 
 she violently hated him. 
 
 "Winnie," said she, "I think we ought to be get- 
 ting back to our seats." 
 
 "But," cried Madame Foa, "we are going round 
 with Dauphin to the artists' room. You do not come 
 with us, Madame MoncreifF,?" 
 
 "In your place . . ." muttered Xavier discourag- 
 ingly, with a look at Dauphin, and another shrug of 
 the shoulders. "I have been . . ." 
 
 "Ah !" said Dauphin, in a strange new tone. And
 
 898 .THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 then very brightly to Audrey : "Now, as to Saturday, 
 
 dear lady " 
 
 Xavier engaged in private converse with Foa, and 
 his demeanour to Foa was extremely deferential, 
 whereas he almost Ignored the Oriental critic. And 
 Audrey puzzled her head once again to discover why 
 the Foas should exert such influence upon the fate of 
 music in Paris. The enigma was only one among 
 many.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 END OF THE CONCERT 
 
 The first item after the true interval was the Cha- 
 conne of Bach, which Musa had played upon a memor- 
 able occasion in Frinton. He stood upon the platform 
 utterly alone, against a background of empty chairs, 
 double-basses, and drums. He seemed to be un- 
 friended and forlorn. It appeared to Audrey that he 
 was playing with despair. She wished, as she looked 
 from Musa to the deserted places in the body of the 
 hall, that the piece was over, and that the entire con- 
 cert was over. How could any one enjoy such an arid 
 maze of sounds? The whole theory of classical com- 
 position and its vogue was hollow and ridiculous. 
 People did not like the classics ; they could not and 
 they never would. Now a waltz . . . after a jolly 
 dinner and wine ! . . . But the Chaconne ! But Bach ! 
 But culture ! The audience was visibly and audibly 
 restless. For about two hundred years the attempt 
 to force this Chaconne upon the public had been con- 
 tinuous, and it was still boring them. Of course it 
 was ! The thing was unnatural. 
 
 And she herself was a fool ; she was a ninny. And 
 the alleged power of money was an immense fraud. 
 She had thought to perform miracles by means of a 
 banking-account. For a moment she had imagined 
 that the miracles had come to pass. But they had 
 not come to pass. The public was too old, too tired, 
 and too wary. It could not thus be tricked into 
 
 399
 
 400 JHE LION'S SHARE 
 
 making a reputation. The forces that made reputa- 
 tions were far less amenable than she had fancied. 
 The world was too clever and too experienced for her 
 ingenuous self. Geniuses were not lying about and 
 waiting to be picked up. Musa was not a genius. 
 She had been a simpleton, and the sacred Quarter 
 had been a simpleton. She was rather angry with 
 Musa for not being a genius. And the confidence 
 which he had displayed a few hours earlier was just 
 grotesque conceit ! And men and women who were 
 supposed to be friendly human hearts were not so in 
 truth. They were merely indifferent and callous spec- 
 tators. The Foas, for example, were chattering in their 
 box, apparently obuvious of the tragedy that was 
 enacting under their eyes. But then, it was perhaps 
 not a tragedy ; it was perhaps a farce. 
 
 And what would these self-absorbed spectators of 
 existence say and do, if and when it was known that 
 she was no longer a young woman of enormous wealth.'* 
 Would Dauphin have sought to compel her to enter 
 his studio had he been aware that her fortune had 
 gone up in smoke? She was not in a real world. She 
 was in a world of shams. And she was a sham in the 
 world of shams. She wanted to be back again in the 
 honest realities of Moze, where in the churchyard she 
 could see the tombs of her great-great-grandfathers. 
 Only one extraneous interest drew her thoughts away 
 from Moze. That interest was Mr. Oilman. Mr. 
 Oilman was her conquest and her slave. She adored 
 him because he was so wistful and so reliable and so 
 adoring. Mr. Oilman sat intent and straight upright 
 in Madame Piriac's box and behaved just as though 
 Bach himself was present. He understood nothing 
 of Bach, but he could be trusted to behave with 
 benevolence.
 
 END OF THE CONCERT 401 
 
 The music suddenly ceased. The Chaconne was fin- 
 ished. The gallery of enthusiasts still applauded with 
 vociferation, with mystic faith, with sublime obstinacy. 
 It was carrying on a sort of religious war against the 
 base apathy of the rest of the audience. It was de- 
 termined to force its belief down the throats of the 
 unintelligent mob. It had made up its mind that until 
 it had had its way the world should stand still. No 
 encore had yet been obtained, and the gallery was set 
 on an encore. The clapping fainted, expired, and 
 then broke into new life, only to expire again and re- 
 commence. A few irritated persons hissed. The gal- 
 lery responded with vigour. Musa, having retired, re- 
 appeared, very white, and bowed. The applause was 
 feverish and unconvincing. Musa vanished. But the 
 gallery had thick soles and hard hands and stout 
 sticks, even serviceable umbrellas. It could not be 
 appeased by bows alone. And after about three min- 
 utes of tedious manoeuvring, Musa had at last to yield 
 an encore that in fact nobody wanted. He played a 
 foolish pyrotechnical affair of De Beriot, which re- 
 sembled nothing so much as a joke at a funeral. After 
 that the fate of the concert could not be disputed even 
 by the gallery. At the finish of the evening there was, 
 in the terrible idiom of the theatre, "not a hand." 
 
 Whether Musa had played well or ill, Audrey had 
 not the least idea. Nor did that point seem to mat- 
 ter. Naught but the attitude of the public seemed to 
 matter. This was strange, because for a year Audrey 
 had been learning steadily in the Quarter that the 
 attitude of the public had no importance whatever. 
 She suffered from the delusion that the public was 
 staring at her and saying to her : "You, you silly little 
 thing, are responsible for this fiasco. We condescended 
 to come — and this is what you have offered us. Go
 
 402 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 home, and let your hair down and shorten your skirts, 
 for you are no better than a schoolgirl, after all." She 
 was really self-conscious. She despised Musa, or rather 
 she threw to him a little condescending pity. And yet 
 at the same time she was furious against that group 
 in the foyer for being so easily dissuaded from going 
 to see Musa in the artists' room. . . . Rats deserting 
 a sinking ship ! . . . People, even the nicest, would 
 drop a failure like a match that was burning out. . . . 
 Yes, and they would drop her. . . . No, they would 
 not, because of Mr. Gilman. Mr. Gilman was calling 
 to see her to-morrow. He was the rock and the cush- 
 ion. She would send Miss Ingate out for the after- 
 noon. As the audience hurried eagerly forth she spoke 
 sharply to Miss Ingate. She was indeed very rude 
 to Miss Ingate. She was exasperated, and Miss In- 
 gate happened to be handy. 
 
 In the foyer not a trace of the Foa clan nor of 
 Madame Piriac and her husband, nor of Mr. Gilman! 
 But Tommy and Nick were there, putting on their 
 cloaks, and with them, but not helping them, was Mr. 
 Zicgler. The blond Mr. Ziegler greeted Audrey as 
 though the occasion of their previous meeting had been 
 a triumph for him. His self-satisfaction, if ever it had 
 been damaged, was repaired to perfection. The girls 
 were silent ; Miss Ingate was silent ; but Mr. Zicgler 
 was not silent. 
 
 "He played better than I did anticipate," said Mr. 
 Ziegler, lighting a cigarette, after he had nonchalantly 
 acknowledged the presentation to him of Miss Ingate. 
 "But of what use is this French public.'^ None. Even 
 had he succeeded here, it would have meant nothing. 
 Nothing. In music Paris does not exist. There are 
 six towns in Germany where success means vorldt- 
 reputation. Not that he would succeed in Germany.
 
 END OF THE CONCERT 403 
 
 He has not studied In Gennany. And outside Ger- 
 many there are no schools. However, we have the 
 intention to impose our culture upon all European 
 nations, including France. In one year our army will 
 be here — in Paris. I should wait for that, but prob- 
 ably I shall be called up. In any case, I shall be 
 present." 
 
 "But whatever do you mean.'"' cried Miss Ingate. 
 
 "What do I mean.'' I mean our army will be here. 
 All know it in Germany. They know it in Paris ! But 
 what can they do.'' How can they stop us.'' . . . 
 Decadent! . . ." He laughed easily. 
 
 "Oh, my chocolates!" exclaimed Miss Thompkins. 
 "I've left them in the hall!" 
 
 "No, here they are," said Nick, handing the box. 
 
 To Audrey it seemed to be the identical box that 
 Mr. Gilman had been carrying. But of course it 
 might not be. Thousands of chocolate boxes resemble 
 each other exactly. 
 
 Carefully ignoring Mr. Ziegler, Audrey remarked 
 to Tommy with a light-heartedness which she did not 
 feel: 
 
 "Well, what did you think of Jane this afternoon.'"' 
 
 "Jane.?" 
 
 "Jane Foley. Nick was taking you to see her, 
 wasn't she.'"' 
 
 "Oh, yes !" said Tommy with a smile. "But I didn't 
 go. I went for a motor drive with Mr. Gilman." 
 
 There was a short pause. At length Tonrniy said: 
 
 "So he's got the goods on you at last !" 
 
 "Who?" Audrey sharply questioned. 
 
 "Dauphin. I knew he would. Remember my words. 
 That portrait will cost you forty thousand francs, 
 not counting the frame." 
 
 This was the end of the concert.
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 
 
 The next afternoon Audrey sat nervous and ex- 
 pectant, but highly finished, in her drawing-room at 
 the Hotel du Danube. Miss Ingate had gone out, 
 pretending to be quite unaware that she had been 
 sent out. The more detailed part of Audrey's toilette 
 had been accomplished subsequent to Miss Ingate's de- 
 parture, for Audrey had been at pains to inform Miss 
 Ingate that she, Audrey, was even less interested than 
 usual in her appearance that afternoon. They were 
 close and mutually reliable friends; but every friend- 
 ship has its reservations. Elise also was out; indeed 
 Miss Ingate had taken her. 
 
 Audrey had the weight of all the world on her, and 
 so long as she was alone she permitted herself to look 
 as though she had. She had to be wise, not only for 
 Audrey Moze, but for others. She had to be wise for 
 Musa, whose failure, though the newspapers all spoke 
 (at about twenty francs a line) of his overwhelming 
 success, was admittedly lamentable ; and she hated 
 Musa ; she confessed that she had been terribly mis- 
 taken in Musa, both as an artist and as a man ; still, he 
 was on her mind. She had to be wise about her share in 
 the new campaign of Rosamund, which, while not on her 
 mind, was on her conscience. She had to be wise 
 about the presumable loss of her fortune ; she had 
 telegraphed to Mr. Foulger early that morning for 
 information, and an answer was now due. Finally 
 
 404
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 405 
 
 she had to be wise for Mr. Gllman, whose happiness 
 depended on a tone of her voice, on a single mono- 
 syllable breathed through those rich lips. She looked 
 forward with interest to being wise for Mr. Oilman. 
 She felt capable of that. The other necessary wis- 
 doms troubled her brow. She seemed to be more full 
 of responsibility and sagacity than any human being 
 could have been expected to be. She was, however, 
 very calm. Her calmness was prodigious. 
 
 Then the bell rang, and she could hear one of the 
 hotel attendants open the outer door with his key. 
 Instantly her calmness, of which she had been so proud, 
 was dashed to pieces and she had scarcely begun in a 
 hurry to pick the pieces up and put them together 
 again when the attendant entered the drawing-room. 
 She was afraid, but she thought she was happy. 
 
 Only it was not Mr. Gilman the attendant an- 
 nounced. The man said : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Nickall." 
 
 Audrey said to herself that she must get Nick very 
 quickly away. She was in no humour to talk even to 
 Nick, and, moreover, she did not want Nick to know 
 that Mr. Gilman was calling upon her. 
 
 Miss Nickall was innocent and sweet. Good-nature 
 radiated from her soft, tired features, and was some- 
 how also entangled in her fluffy grey hair. She kissed 
 Audrey with affection. 
 
 "I've just come to say good-bye, you dear!'" 
 she said, sitting down and putting her check parasol 
 across her knees. "How lovely you look !" 
 
 "Good-bye?" Audrey questioned. "Do I.?" 
 
 "I have to cross for England to-night. I've had my 
 orders. Rosamund came this morning. What about 
 yours ?" 
 
 "Oh!" said Audrey. "I don't take orders. But I
 
 406 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 expect I shall join in, one of these days, when I've had 
 everything explained to me properly. You see, you 
 and I haven't got the same tastes, Nick. You aren't 
 happy without a martyrdom. I am." 
 
 Nick smiled gravely and uncertainly. ^ 
 
 "It's very serious this time," said she. "Hasn't 
 Rosamund spoken to you yet.^"' 
 
 "She's spoken to me. And I've spoken to her. It 
 was deuce, I should say. Or perhaps my 'vantage. 
 Anyhow, I'm not moving just yet." 
 
 "Well, then," said Nick, "if you're staying in Paris, 
 I hope you'll keep an eye on Musa. He needs it. 
 Tommy's going away. At least I fancy she is. We 
 both went to see him this morning." 
 
 "Both of you!" 
 
 "Well, you see, we've always looked after him. He 
 was in a terrible state about last night. That's really 
 one reason why I called. Not that I'd have gone 
 without kissing you " 
 
 She stopped. There was another ring at the bell. 
 The attendant came in with great rapidity. 
 
 "I'm lost!" thought Audrey, disgusted and per- 
 turbed. "Her being here will spoil everything." 
 
 But the attendant handed her a card, and the card 
 bore the name of Musa. Audrey flushed. Almost in- 
 stinctively, without thinking, she passed the card to 
 Nick. 
 
 "My land!" exclaimed Nick. "If he sees me here 
 he'll think I've come on purpose to talk about him 
 and pity him, and he'll be just perfectly furious. Can 
 I get out any other way.?" She glanced interroga- 
 tively at the half-open door of the bedroom. 
 
 "But I don't want to see him, either!" Audrey pro- 
 tested.
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 407 
 
 *'0h ! You must ! Hell listen to sense from you, 
 perhaps. Can I go this way?" 
 
 Lnp'elled to act in spite of herself, Audrey took 
 Nick into the bedroom, and as soon as Musa had been 
 introduced into the drawing-room she embraced Nick 
 in silence and escorted her on tip-toe through Miss 
 Ingate's bedroom to the vestibule and waved an adieu. 
 Then she retraced her steps and made a grand entry 
 into the drawing-room from her own bedroom. She 
 meant to dispose of Musa immediately. A meeting 
 between him and Mr. Oilman on her hearthrug might 
 involve the most horrible complications. 
 
 The young man and the young woman shook hands. 
 But it was the hand-shaking of bruisers when they 
 enter the ring, and before the blood starts to flow. 
 
 "Won't you please sit down.''" said Audrey. He 
 was obliged now to obey her, as she had been obliged 
 to obey him on the previous afternoon in the Rue 
 Cassette. 
 
 If Audrey looked as though the whole world was on 
 her shoulders, Musa's face seemed to contradict hers 
 and to say that the world, far from being on anybody's 
 shoulders, had come to an end. All the expression 
 of the violinist showed that in his honest conviction a 
 great mundane calamity had occurred, the calamity of 
 course being that his violin-bow had not caused catgut 
 to vibrate in such a way as to affect the ears of a 
 particular set of people in a particular manner. But 
 in addition to this sense of a calamity he was under 
 the influence of another emotion, — angry resentment. 
 However, he sat down, holding firmly his hat, gloves, 
 and stick. 
 
 "I saw my agent this morning," said he, in a grating 
 voice, in French. He was pale. 
 
 "Yes.'*" said Audrey. She suddenly guessed what
 
 408 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 was coming, and she felt a certain alarm, which never- 
 theless was not entirely disagreeable. 
 
 "Why did you pay for that concert, and the future 
 concerts, without telling me, Madame?" 
 
 "Paid for the concerts?" she repeated, rather 
 weakly. 
 
 "Yes, Madame. To do so was to make me ridiculous 
 — not to the world, but to myself. For I believed 
 all the time that I had succeeded in gaining the genuine 
 interest of an agent who was prepared to risk money 
 upon the proper exploitation of my talent. I worked 
 in that belief. In spite of your attitude to me I did 
 work. Your antipathy was bad for me; but I con- 
 quered myself, and I worked. I had confidence in 
 myself. If last night I did not have a triumph, it 
 was not because I did not work, but because I had 
 been upset — and again by you, Madame. Even after 
 the misfortune of last night I still had confidence, for 
 I knew that the reasons of my failure were accidental 
 and temporary. But I now know that I was living 
 in a fool's paradise, which you had kindly created for 
 me. You have money. Apparently you have too much 
 money. And with money you possess the arrogance 
 of wealth. You know that I had accepted assistance 
 from good friends. And you thought in your arro- 
 gance that you might launch me without informing me 
 of your intention. You thought it would amuse you 
 to make a little fairy-tale in real life. It was a negli- 
 gent gesture on the part of a rich and idle woman. 
 It cost you nothing save a few bank-notes, of which 
 you had so many that it bored you to count them. 
 How amusing to make a reputation ! How charitable 
 to help a starving player! But you forgot one thing. 
 You forgot my dignity and my honour. It was noth- 
 ing to you that you exposed these to the danger of the
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 409 
 
 most grave affront. It was nothing to you that I 
 was deceived just as though I had been a child, and 
 that for months I was made, without knowing it, to 
 fuh*!! the role of a conceited jackanapes. When one is 
 led to have confidence in oneself one is tempted to 
 adopt a certain tone and to use certain phrases, which 
 may or may not be justified. I yielded to the temp- 
 tation. I was wrong, but I was also victimised. This 
 morning, with a moment's torture under the imperti- 
 nent tongue of a rascally impresario, I paid for all 
 the spurious confidence which I have felt and for all 
 the proud words I have uttered. I came to-day in 
 order to lay at your feet my thanks for the unique 
 humiliation which I owe to you." 
 
 His mien was undoubtedly splendid. It ought to 
 have cowed and shamed Audrey. But it did not. She 
 absolutely refused to acknowledge, even within her 
 own heart, that she had committed any wrong. On 
 the contrary, she remembered all the secret sympathy 
 which she had lavished on Musa, all her very earnest 
 and single-minded desires for his apotheosis at the 
 hands of the Parisian public ; and his ingratitude posi- 
 tively exasperated her. She was aroused. But she 
 tried to hide the fact that she was roused, speaking in 
 a guarded and sardonic voice. 
 
 "And did this agent of yours — I do not know his 
 name — tell you that I was paying for the concert — I 
 mean the concerts.'"' she demanded with an air of im- 
 passivity. 
 
 "He did not give your name." 
 
 "That's something," Audrey put in, her body trem- 
 bling. "I am much obliged to him." 
 
 "But he clearly indicated that money had been paid 
 — that he had not paid it himself, — that the enterprise 
 was not genuine. He permitted himself to sneer until
 
 410 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 I corrected him. He then withdrew what he had said 
 and told me that I had misunderstood. But he was 
 not convincing. It was too late. And I had not mis- 
 understood. Far from that, I had understood. At 
 once the truth traversed my mind like a flash of light- 
 ning. It was you who had paid." 
 
 "And how did you guess that.^" She laughed care- 
 lessly, though she could not keep her foot from shak- 
 ing on the carpet. 
 
 "I knew because I knew !" cried Musa. "It explained 
 all your conduct, your ways of speaking to me, your 
 attitude of a schoolmistress, everything. How ingen- 
 uous I have been not to perceive it before !" 
 
 "Well," said Audrey firmly. "You are wrong. It 
 is absolutely untrue that I have ever paid a penny, or 
 ever shall, to any agent on your behalf. Do you 
 hear ? Why should I, indeed ! And now what have 
 you to reply.''" 
 
 She was aware of not the slightest remorse for this 
 enormous and unqualified lie. Nay, she held it was not 
 a lie, because Musa deserved to hear it. Strange logic, 
 but her logic ! And she was much uplifted and en- 
 fevered, and grandly careless of all consequences. 
 
 "You are a woman," said Musa, curtly and obsti- 
 JQately. 
 
 "That, at any rate, is true." 
 
 "Therefore I cannot treat you as a man." 
 
 "Please do," she said, rising. 
 
 "No. If you were a man I should call you out." 
 And Musa rose also. "And I should be right. As 
 you are a woman I have told you the truth, and I can 
 do no more. I shall not characterise your denial. I 
 have no taste for recrimination. Besides, in such a 
 game, no man can be the equal of a woman. But 
 I maintain what I have said, and I affirm that I know
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 411 
 
 it to be true, and that there is no excuse for your 
 conduct. And so I respectfully take leave." He 
 moved towards the door and then stopped. "There 
 never had been any excuse for your conduct to me," 
 he added. "It has always been the conduct of a rich 
 and capricious woman who amused herself by patron- 
 ising a poor artist " 
 
 "You may be interested to know," she said fiercely, 
 "that I am no longer rich. Last night I heard that 
 my fortune is gone. If I have amused myself, that 
 may amuse you." 
 
 "It does amuse me," he retorted grimly and more 
 loudly. "I wish that you had never possessed a sou. 
 For then I might have been spared many mournful 
 hours. All would have been different. Yes ! From 
 three days ago when I saw you walking intimately in 
 the Tuileries Gardens with the unspeakable Gilman — 
 right back to last year when you first, from caprice, 
 did your best to make me love you, — did it deliber- 
 ately, so that all the Quarter could see !" 
 
 In a furious temper Audrey rushed past Musa to 
 the door, and stood with her back to it, palpitating. 
 She vaguely recalled a similar movement of hers long 
 ago, and the slightly comic figure of Mr. Foulger flitted 
 through her memory. 
 
 "You shall apologise for that! You shall apologise 
 before you leave this room !" she exploded. Her chin 
 was aloft and her mouth remained open. "I say you 
 shall apologise for that monstrous untruth !" 
 
 He approached her, uttering not a word. She was 
 quite ready to kill him. She had no fear of anything 
 whatever. Not once since his arrival had she given one 
 thought to the imminent advent of Mr. Gilman. 
 
 She said to herself, watching Musa intently : 
 
 "Yes, he shall apologise. It is shameful, what he
 
 412 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 says. It's worse than horrid. I am as strong as he 
 
 is." 
 
 » 
 
 Musa dropped his hat, stick, and gloves. The hat, 
 being English and hard, bounced on the carpet. Then 
 he put his trembling arms around her waist, and his 
 trembling lips came nearer and nearer to hers. 
 
 She thought, very puzzled: 
 
 "What is happening? This is all wrong. I am fu- 
 rious with him! I will never speak to him again! 
 What is he doing? This is all wrong. I must stop it. 
 I'm saying nothing to him about my career, and my 
 independence, and how horrid it is to be the wife of a 
 genius, and all that. ... I must stop it.' 
 
 But she had no voUtion to stop it. 
 
 She thought: 
 
 "Am I fainting?" 
 
 It was upon this scene that Mr. Oilman intruded. 
 Mr. Gilman looked from one to the other. Perhaps 
 the thought in his mind was that if they added their 
 ages together they could not equal his age. Perhaps 
 it was not. He continued to look from one to the 
 other, and this needed some ocular effort, for they 
 were as far apart as two persons in such a situation 
 usually get when they are surprised. Then he caught 
 sight of the hat, stick, and gloves on the floor. 
 
 "I've been expecting you for a long time," said 
 Audrey, with that miraculous bland tranquilhty of 
 which young girls alone have the secret when the con- 
 ventions are imperilled. "I was just going to order 
 tea." 
 
 Mr. Gilman hesitated and then rephed: 
 
 "How kind of you ! But please don't order tea for
 
 STRANGE RESULT OF A QUARREL 413 
 
 me. The — er — fact is, I have been unexpectedly called 
 away, and I only called to explain that — er — I could 
 not call." After all, he was a man of some expe- 
 rience. 
 
 She let him go. His demeanour to Musa, like Musa's 
 to him, was a marvel of high courtesy. 
 
 "Musa," said Audrey, with an intimidated, defiant 
 proud smile, when the door had shut on Mr. Oilman, 
 "I am still frightfully angry with you. If we stay 
 here I shall suffocate. Let us go out for a walk. Be- 
 sides, other people might call." 
 
 Simultaneously there was another ring. It was a 
 cable. She read: 
 
 "Sold Zacatecas at an average of six and a quarter 
 dollars three weeks ago. Wrote you at length to 
 Wimereux. Writing again as to new investments. 
 
 "FOULGEU." 
 
 "This comes of having no fixed address," she said, 
 throwing the blue cablegram carelessly down in front 
 of Musa. "I'm not quite ruined, after all. But I 
 might have known — with Mr. Foulger." Then she ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "I wish " he began. 
 
 "No, you don't," she stopped him. "So you needn't 
 start on that line. You are brilHant at figures. At 
 least I long since suspected you were. How much is 
 180,000 times six and a quarter."^" 
 
 Notwithstanding his brilliance, it took two pencils, 
 two heads, and one piece of paper to solve the prob- 
 lem. They were not quite certain, but the answer 
 seemed to be £225,000 in English money. 
 
 "We cannot starve," said Audrey, and then paused. 
 . . . "Musa, are we friends.'^ We shall quarrel hor-
 
 414 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 ribly. Do you know, I never knew that proposals of 
 marriage were made like that!" 
 
 "I have not told you one thing," said Musa. "I 
 am going to play in Germany, instead of further con- 
 certs in Paris. It is arranged." 
 
 "Not in Germany," she pleaded, thinking of Ziegler. 
 
 "Yes, in Germany," said Musa masterfully. *'I 
 have a reputation to make. It is the agent who has 
 suggested it." 
 
 "But the concerts in London?" 
 
 "You are English. I wish not to wound you." 
 
 When Audrey stood up again, she had to look at 
 the floor in order to make sure that it was there. Once 
 she had tasted absinthe. She had had to take the same 
 precaution then. 
 
 "Stop! I entreat thee!" said Musa suddenly, just 
 as, all arrayed in her finery, she was opening the door 
 for the walk. 
 
 "What is it.?" 
 
 He kissed her, and with his lips almost on hers he 
 murmured : 
 
 "Thou shalt not go out without avowing. And if 
 thou art angry — well, I adore thy anger. The con- 
 certs were . . . thy enterprise.? I guessed well?" 
 
 "You see," she replied hke a shot, "you weren't sure, 
 although you pretended you were." 
 
 In the Rue de Rivoli, and in the resplendent Champs 
 Elysees they passed column after column of enter- 
 tainment posters. But the name of Musa had been 
 mysteriously removed from aU of them.
 
 CHAPTER XL VI 
 
 AN EPILOGUE 
 
 Audrey ■was walking along Piccadilly when she over- 
 took Miss Ingate, who had been arrested by a shop- 
 window, the window of one of the shops recently in- 
 cluded in the vast edifice of the Hotel Majestic. 
 
 Miss Ingate gave a little squeal of surprise. The 
 two kissed very heartily in the street, which was full 
 of spring and of the posters of evening papers bear- 
 ing melodramatic tidings of the latest nocturnal de- 
 velopment of the terrible suiFragette campaign. 
 
 "You said eleven, Audrey. It isn't eleven yet." 
 
 "Well, I'm behind time. I meant to be all spruced 
 up and receive you in state at the hotel. But the 
 boat was three hours late at Harwich. I jumped into 
 a cab at Liverpool Street, but I got out at Piccadilly 
 Circus because the streets looked so fine and I felt I 
 really must walk a bit." 
 
 "And where's your husband.'"' 
 
 "He's at Liverpool Street trying to look after the 
 luggage. He lost some of it at Hamburg. He likes 
 looking after luggage, so I just left him at it." 
 
 Miss Ingate's lower lip dropped at the corners. 
 
 "You've had a tiff." 
 
 "Winnie, we haven't." 
 
 "Did you go to all his concerts?" 
 
 "All. I heard all his practising, and I sat in the 
 stalls at all his concerts. Quite contrary to my prin- 
 ciples, of course. But, Winnie, it's very queer, I 
 
 415
 
 416 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 wanted to do it. So naturally I did it. We've never 
 been apart — until now." 
 
 "And it's not exaggerated, what you've written me 
 about his success?" 
 
 "Not a bit. I've been most careful not to exagger- 
 ate. In fact I've tried to be gloomy. No use, how- 
 ever! It was a triumph. . . . And how's all this busi- 
 ness?" Audrey demanded, in a new key, indicating an 
 orange-tinted newspaper bill that was being flaunted 
 in front of her. 
 
 "Oh! I believe it's dreadful. Of course you know 
 Rosamund's in prison. But they'll have to let her out 
 soon. Jane Foley — she still calls herself Foley — 
 hasn't been caught. And that's funny. I doubled my 
 subscription. We had to, you see. But that's all 
 I've done. They don't have processions and things now, 
 and barrel organs are quite out of fashion. What with 
 that, and my rheumatism! ... I used to think I 
 should live to vote myself. I feel I shan't now. So 
 I've gone back into water-colours. They're very sooth- 
 ing, if you let the paper dry after each wash and don't 
 take them seriously. . . . Now, I'm a very common- 
 sense woman, Audrey, as you must have noticed, and 
 I'm not subject to fancies. Will you just look at the 
 girl on the left hand in this window here, and tell me 
 whether I'm dreaming or not?" 
 
 Miss Ingate indicated the shop window which had 
 arrested her. The establishment was that of a hair- 
 specialist, and the window was mainly occupied by two 
 girls who sat in armchairs with their backs to the 
 glass, and all their magnificent hair spread out at 
 length over the backs of the chairs for the inspection 
 of the public; the implication being that the magnifi- 
 cent hair was due to the specific of the hair-specialist. 
 Passers-by continually stopped to gaze at the spec-
 
 AN EPILOGUE 417 
 
 tacle, but they never stopped long, because the spec- 
 tacle was monotonous. 
 
 "Well, what about her?" said Audrey, staring. 
 
 "Isn't it Lady Southminster?" 
 
 "Good heavens !" Audrey's mind went back to the 
 Channel packet and the rain-squall and the scenes on 
 the Paris train. "So it is ! Whatever can have hap- 
 pened to her.? Let's go in." 
 
 And in they went, Audrey leading, and demanding 
 at once a bottle of the specific ; Audrey had scarcely 
 spoken when the left-hand girl in the window, who of 
 course from her vantage had a full view of the shop, 
 screamed lightly and jumped down from the window. 
 
 "Don't give me away !" she whispered appcalingly in 
 Audrey's ear. The next moment, not heeding the ex- 
 citement of the shop-manager, she had drawn Audrey 
 and Miss Ingate tlirough another door which led into 
 the entrance-hall of the Majestic Hotel. The shop was 
 thus contrived to catch two publics at once. 
 
 "If they knew I was Lady Southminster in there," 
 said Lady Southminster in a feverish murmur, — she 
 seemed not averse to the sensation caused by her hair 
 in the twilight of the hotel — "I expect I should lose 
 my place, and I don't want to lose it. He^YL be coming 
 by presently, and he'll see me, and it'll be a lesson to 
 him. We're always together. Race-meetings, dances, 
 golf, restaurants, bridge. Twenty-four hours every 
 day. He won't lose sight of me. He's that fond of 
 me, you know. I couldn't stand it. I'd as lief be in 
 prison, — only I'm that fond of him, you know. But I 
 was so homesick, and I felt if I didn't have a change I 
 should burst. This is Constantinopoulos's old shop, 
 you know, where I used to make cigarettes in the win- 
 dow. He's dead, Constantinopoulos is. I don't know 
 what he^d have said to hair-restorers. I asked for the
 
 418 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 place, and T showed 'em my hair, and I got It. And 
 me sitting there — it's quite like old times. Only before, 
 you know, I used to have my face to the street. I don't 
 know which I like best. But anyhow you can see my 
 profile from the side-window. And he will. He always 
 looks at that sort of thing. He'll be furious. But it 
 will do him no end of good. Well, good-bye. But 
 come back in and buy a bottle, or I shall be let in for 
 a shindy. In fact you might buy two bottles." 
 
 "So that'? love !" said Audrey, when the transaction 
 was over and they were in the entrance-hall again. 
 
 "No," said Miss Ingate. "That's marriage. And 
 don't you forget it. . . . Hallo, Tommy !" 
 
 "You'd better not let Mr. Gilman hear me called 
 Tommy in this hotel," laughed Miss Thompkins, who 
 was attired with an unusual richness, as she advanced 
 towards Miss Ingate and Audrey. "And what are you 
 doing here?" she questioned Audrey. 
 
 "I'm staying here," said Audrey. *'But I've only 
 just arrived. I'm advance agent for my husband. 
 How are you.'' And what are you doing here.f* I 
 thought you hated London." 
 
 "I came the day before yesterday," Tommy replied. 
 "And I'm very fit. You see, Mr. Gilman preferred us 
 to be married in London. And I'd no objection. So 
 here I am. The wedding's to-morrow. You aren't 
 very startled, are you? Had you heard?" 
 
 "Well," said Audrey, "not what you'd call 'heard.' 
 But I'd a sort of a kind of a!" 
 
 "You come right over here, young woman." 
 
 "But I want to get my number." 
 
 "You come right over here right now," Tommy in- 
 sisted. And in another corner of the entrance-hall she 
 spoke thus, and there was both seriousness and fun 
 in her voice : "Don't you run away with the idea that
 
 AN EPILOGUE 419* 
 
 I'm taking 5'our leavings, young woman. Because I'm 
 not. We all knew you'd lost your head about Musa, 
 and it was quite right of you. But you never had a 
 chance with Ernest, though you thought you had, after 
 I'd met him. Admit I'm much better suited for him 
 than you'd have been. I'd only one difficulty, and that 
 was the nice boy Price, who wanted to drown himself 
 for my beautiful freckled face. That's all. Now you 
 can go and get your number." 
 
 The incident might not have ended there had not 
 Madame Piriac appeared in the entrance-hall out of 
 the interior of the hotel. 
 
 "He exacted my coming," said Madame Piriac pri- 
 vately to Audrey. "You know how he is strange. He 
 asks for a quiet wedding, but at the same time it must 
 be all that is most correct. There are things, he says, 
 which demand a woman. ... I know four times noth- 
 ing of the English etiquette. I have abandoned my 
 husband. And here I am. Voila! Listen. She has 
 great skill with him, cette Tommy. Nevertheless I have 
 the intention to counsel her about her complexion. 
 Impossible to keep any man with a complexion like 
 hers !" 
 
 They saw Mr. Gilman himself enter the hotel. He 
 was very nervous and very important. As soon as 
 he caught sight of Miss Thompkins he said to the 
 doorkeeper : 
 
 "Tell my chauffeur to wait." 
 
 He was punctiliously attentive to Miss Thompkins, 
 and held her hand for two seconds after he had prac- 
 tically finished with it. 
 
 "Are you ready, dear.?" he said. "You'll be sorry 
 to hear that my liver is all wrong again. I knew it 
 was because I slept so heavily."
 
 420 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 These words were distinctly heard by Audrey her- 
 self. 
 
 "I think I'll slip upstairs now," she murmured to 
 Madame Piriac. And vanished, before Mr. Oilman 
 had observed her presence. 
 
 She thought: 
 
 "How he has aged!" 
 
 Scarcely ten minutes later, when Audrey was up- 
 stairs in her sitting-room, waiting idly for the luggage 
 and her husband to arrive, and thinking upon the 
 case of Lady Southminster, the telephone-bell rang 
 out startlingly. 
 
 "Mr. Shinner to see you." 
 
 "Mr. Shinner.'' Oh! Mr. Shinner. Send him up, 
 please." 
 
 This Mr. Shinner was the concert-agent with con- 
 nections in Paris whom Audrey had first consulted in 
 the enterprise of launching Musa upon the French 
 pubhc. He was a large, dark man, black moustached 
 and bearded, with heavy limbs and features and an 
 opaque, pimpled skin. In spite of these characteristics, 
 he entered the room soft-footed as a fairy, ingratiating 
 as a dog aware of his own iniquity, reassuring as ap- 
 plause. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Shinner. But how did you know we 
 were here.? As a matter of fact we aren't here. My 
 husband has not arrived yet." 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Shinner, "I happened to hear 
 that you had telegraphed for rooms, and as I was in 
 the neighbourhood I thought I would venture to call." 
 
 "But who told you we had telegraphed for rooms.''" 
 
 "The manager is a good friend of mine, and as you 
 
 are now famous Ah ! I have heard all about the 
 
 German tour. I mean I have read about it. I sub- 
 scribe to the German musical papers. One must, in
 
 AN EPILOGUE 421 
 
 my profession. Also I have had direct news from my 
 correspondents in Germany. It was a triumph there, 
 was it not?" 
 
 "Yes," said Audrey. "After Diisseldorf. My hus- 
 band did not make much money " 
 
 "That will not trouble you," Mr. Shinner smiled 
 easily. 
 
 "But somebody did — the agents did." 
 
 "Perhaps not so much as you think. Madam, if I 
 may say so. Perhaps not so much as you think. And 
 we must all live — unfortunately. Has your husband 
 made any arrangements yet for London or for a 
 provincial tour.? I have reason to think that the sea- 
 son will be particularly brilliant. And I can now offer 
 advantages " 
 
 "But, Mr. Shinner, when I last saw you, and it isn't 
 so very long ago, you told me that my husband was 
 not a concert-player, which was exactly what I had 
 heard in Paris." 
 
 "I didn't go quite so far as that, surely, did I.?" 
 Mr. Shinner softly insinuated. He might have been 
 pouring honey from his mouth. "Surely I didn't say 
 quite that.f^ And perhaps I had been too much influ- 
 enced by Paris." 
 
 "Yes, you said he wasn't a concert-player and never 
 would be " 
 
 "Don't rub it in, Madam," said Mr. Shinner merrily. 
 "Peccavi." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Nothing, nothing. Madam," he disclaimed. 
 
 "And you said there were far too many violinists on 
 the market, and that it was useless for a French player 
 to offer himself to the London musical public. And 
 I don't know what you didn't say."
 
 422 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 "But I didn't know then that your husband would 
 have such a success in Germany." 
 
 "What difference does that make?" 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Shinner, "it makes every differ- 
 ence." 
 
 "But England and Germany hate each other. At 
 least they despise each other. And what's more, nearly 
 everybody in Germany was talking about going to 
 war this summer. I was told they are all ready to 
 invade England after they have taken Paris and Calais. 
 We heard it everywhere." 
 
 "I don't know anything about any war," said Mr. 
 Shinner with tranquillity. "But I do know that the 
 London musical public depends absolutely on Germany. 
 The only first-class instrumentalist that England has 
 ever produced had no success here until he went to 
 Germany and Germanised his name and himself and 
 announced that he despised England. Then he came 
 back, and he has caused a furore ever since. So far 
 as regards London, a success in Karlsruhe, Wiesbaden, 
 Leipzig, Diisseldorf, and so on, is worth far more than 
 a success in the Queen's Hall. Indeed — can you get a 
 success in the Queen's Hall without a success in these 
 places first.'' I doubt it. Your husband now has Lon- 
 don at his feet. Not Paris, though he may capture 
 Paris after he has captured London. But London cer- 
 tainly. He cannot find a better agent than myself. 
 All artists like me, because I understand. You see, my 
 mother was harpist to the late Queen." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "Your husband is assuredly a genius, madam !" Mr. 
 Shinner stood up in his enthusiasm, and banged his left 
 fist with his right palm. 
 
 "Yes, I know that," said Audrey. "But you are 
 such an expensive luxury."
 
 AN EPILOGUE 423 
 
 Mr. Shinner pushed away the accusation with both 
 hands. "Madam, madam, I shall take all the risks. 
 I should not dream, now, of asking for a cheque on 
 account. On the contrary, I should guarantee a 
 percentage of the gross receipts. Perhaps I am un- 
 wise to take risks — I daresay I am — but I could not 
 bear to see your husband in the hands of another 
 agent. We professional men have our feelings." 
 
 "Don't cry, Mr. Shinner," said Audrey impulsively. 
 It was not a proper remark to make, but the sudden 
 impetuous entrance of Musa himself, carrying his vio- 
 lin-case, eased the situation. 
 
 "There is a man which is asking for you outside in 
 the corridor," said Musa to his wife. "It is the gar- 
 dener, Aguilar, I think. I have brought all the lug- 
 gage, not excluding that which was lost at Hamburg." 
 He had a glorious air, and was probably more proud 
 of his still improving English and of his ability as a 
 courier than of his triumphs on the fiddle. "Ah !" Mr. 
 Shinner was bowing before him. 
 
 "This is Mr. Shinner, the agent, my love," said 
 Audrey. "I'll leave you to talk to him. He sees 
 money in you." 
 
 In the passage the authentic Aguilar stood with 
 Miss Ingate. 
 
 "Here's Mr. Aguilar," said Miss Ingate. "I'm just 
 going into No. 37, Madame Piriac's room. Don't you 
 think Mr. Aguilar looks vehy odd in London.''" 
 
 "Good morning, Aguilar. You in town on busi- 
 ness ?" 
 
 Aguilar touched his forehead. It is possible that 
 he looked very odd in London, but he was wearing a 
 most respectable new suit of clothes, and might well 
 have passed for a land-agent. 
 
 " 'Mornin, ma'am. I had to come up because I
 
 424. THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 couldn't get delivery of those wall-papers you chose. 
 Otherwise all the repairs and alterations are going on 
 as well as could be expected." 
 
 "And how is your wife, Aguilar?" 
 
 "She's nicely, thank ye, ma'am. I pointed out to 
 the foreman that it would be a mistake to make the 
 dining-room door open the other way as the architect 
 suggested. But he would do it. However, I've told 
 you, ma'am. It'll only have to be altered back. Per- 
 haps I ought to tell you that I took the liberty of 
 taking a fortnight's holiday, ma'am. It's the only 
 holiday I ever did take, except the annual day off 
 for the Colchester Rose Show, which is perhaps more a 
 matter of business with a head-gardener than a holi- 
 day, as ye might say. My wife wanted me in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "She's not caught yet." 
 
 "No'm. And I don't think as she will be, not with 
 me about. I never did allow myself to be bossed by 
 police, and I always been too much for 'em. And as 
 I'm on the matter, ma'am, I should like to give you 
 notice as soon as it's convenient. I wouldn't leave 
 on any account till that foreman's off the place ; he's 
 no better than a fool. But as soon afterwards as 
 you like." 
 
 "Certainly, Aguilar. I was quite expecting it. 
 Where are you going to live?" 
 
 "Well, ma'am, I've got hold of a little poultry run 
 business in the north of London. It'll be handy for 
 
 Holloway in case And Jane asked me to give 
 
 you this letter, ma'am. I see her this morning." 
 
 Audrey read the note. Very short, it was signed 
 "Jane" and "Nick," and dated from a house in Fitz- 
 roy Street. It caused acute excitement in Audrey. 
 
 "I shall come at once," said she.
 
 AN EPILOGUE 425 
 
 Getting rid of Aguilar, she knocked at the door of 
 No. 37. 
 
 "Read that," she ordered Miss Ingate and Madame 
 Piriac, giving them the note jointly. 
 
 "And are you going?" said Miss Ingate, nervous and 
 impressed. 
 
 "Of course," Audrey answered. "Don't they ask 
 me to go at once? I meant to write to my cousins at 
 Woodbridge and my uncles in the colonies, and tell 
 them all that I was settling down at last. And I meant 
 to look at those new flats in Park Lane with Musa. 
 But I shall have to leave all that for the present. 
 Also m}'^ lunch." 
 
 "But, darling," put in Madame Piriac, who had been 
 standing before the dressing-table trying on a hat. 
 "But, darling, it is very serious, this matter. What 
 about your husband?" 
 
 "He'll keep," said Audrey. "He's had his turn. I 
 must have mine now. I haven't had a day off from 
 being a wife for ever so long. And it's a little enervat- 
 ing, you know. It spoils you for the fresh air." 
 
 "I imagined to myself that you two were happy in an 
 ideal fashion," murmured Madame Piriac. 
 
 "So we are !" said Audrey. "Though a certain cool- 
 ness did arise over the luggage this morning. But I 
 don't want to be ideally happy all the time. And I 
 won't be. I want — I want all the sensations there are ; 
 and I want to be everything. And I can be. Musa 
 understands." 
 
 "If he does," said Miss Ingate, "he'll be the first hus- 
 band that ever did." Her lips were sardonic. 
 
 "Well, of course," said Audrey nonchalantly, "he is. 
 Didn't you know that? . . . And didn't you tell me 
 not to forget Lady Southminster?" 
 
 "Did I?" said Miss Ingate.
 
 426 THE LION'S SHARE 
 
 Audrey heard voices In the corridor. Musa was 
 parting from a subservient Shinner. Also the luggage 
 was bumping along the carpet. She called her hus- 
 band into No. 37 and kissed him rather violently in 
 front of Madame Pir;ac and Miss Ingate, and showed 
 him the note. Then she whispered to him, smiling. 
 
 "What's that you're whispering.?" Miss Ingate 
 archly demanded. 
 
 "Nothing. I was only asking him to come and help 
 me to open my big trunk. I want something out of it. 
 Au revoir, you two." 
 
 "What do you think of It all, Madame Piriac?" Miss 
 Ingate enquired when the pair were alone. 
 
 "'All the sensations there are!' 'Everything!'" 
 Madame Piriac repeated Audrey's phrases. "One is 
 forced to conclude that she has an appetite for life." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Ingate, "she wants the lion's share 
 of it, that's what she wants. No mistake. But of 
 course she's young." 
 
 "I was never young like that." 
 
 "Neither was I! Neither was I!" Miss Ingate as- 
 severated. "But something vchy, vehy strange has 
 come over the world, if you ask me."
 
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