"PATRICIA BRENT SPINSTER" 
 
 ma 
 1
 
 

 
 THE RAIN-GIRL
 
 THE 
 
 RAIN-GIRL 
 
 A ROMANCE OF TODAY 
 
 BY 
 THE 
 
 AUTHOR 
 OF 
 
 "PATRICIA BRENT, 
 SPINSTER" 
 
 NEW ^ST YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 You who know will understand, 
 You who see on either hand 
 Tragedies that seem to say, 
 "Light o f love," and "Lack-a-day." 
 
 Spring but tarries for an hour, 
 Summer sheds her golden shower, 
 Then autumn with her amber horn, 
 Gathers all ere winter's born. 
 
 You who know will understand, 
 You who see on either hand 
 Tragedies that seem to say, 
 "Light o* love," and "Lack-a-day." 
 
 2136893
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THE ROAD TO NOWHERE n 
 
 II. "THE Two DRAGONS " AND THE RAIN-GIRL 26 
 
 III. LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR .... 46 
 
 IV. THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL .... 63 
 V. THE SEARCH BEGINS 74 
 
 VI. LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES ... 85 
 
 VII. ADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND . . 99 
 
 VIII. THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED in 
 
 IX. THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE .... 122 
 
 X. LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE .... 134 
 
 XI. THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL . . 148 
 
 XII. THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES . , . . 165 
 
 XIII. A QUESTION OF ANKLES 183 
 
 XIV. THE DANGER LINE 195 
 
 XV. LONDON AND LORD DREWITT . . . . 213 
 
 XVI. THE NINE DAYS ENDED 223 
 
 XVII. DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 240 
 
 XVIII. THE DELUGE 252 
 
 XIX. THE MORNING AFTER 265 
 
 XX. LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 278 
 
 XXI. LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR .... 294 
 
 vii
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 
 
 NATURE discourages eccentricity!" 
 The ridiculous words rang in Richard 
 Beresford's ears as he stalked resolutely 
 along the rain-soaked high-road. They seemed to 
 keep time with the crunch of his boots upon the wet 
 gravel. The wind picked them up and, with a spat- 
 ter of rain, flung them full in his face. The pack 
 on his back caught the last word and thumped it into 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "Nature discourages eccentricity!" 
 
 Where he had read the absurd phrase he could 
 not remember, probably in some insignificant maga- 
 zine article upon popular science. That, however, 
 was no excuse for remembering it, and upon this of 
 all days. It had not even the virtue of being epi- 
 grammatical; it was just a dull, stupid catchpenny 
 phrase of some silly ass desirous of catching the 
 editorial eye. 
 
 As he plodded on through the rain, he strove to 
 
 ii
 
 12 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 confute and annihilate the wretched thing, to crush 
 it by the heavy artillery of reason. Nature herself 
 was eccentric, he told himself. Had she not once 
 at least sent snow on Derby Day? Did she not 
 ruin with frost her own crops? 
 
 "Na - ture - dis cou - ra - ges - ec - cen - tri - ci - 
 tyl" crunched his boots. 
 
 "Ec-cen-tri-ci-ty," pounded his pack. 
 
 "Tri-ci-ty," shrieked the wind gleefully. 
 
 Confound it! He would think of other things; 
 of the life before him, of. the good pals who had 
 "gone west," of books and pictures, of love and to- 
 bacco, of romance and wandering, of all that made 
 life worth while. It was absurd to be hypnotised 
 by a phrase. 
 
 No; the moment his thoughts were left to them- 
 selves, they returned precipitately to the little Grub 
 Street absurdity. It clung to him like a pursuing 
 fury, this nonsensical, illogical and peculiarly irritat- 
 ing phrase. 
 
 "Nature discourages eccentricity!" 
 
 He strove to recall all the eccentricities of Na- 
 ture of which he had ever heard. Confute the ac- 
 cursed thing he would at all costs. 
 
 It was by way of fat women and five legged sheep 
 that he eventually stumbled across his own family. 
 In spite of the rain and of his own detestably un- 
 comfortable condition, he laughed aloud. Every 
 relative he had was eccentric; yet heaven knew 
 they had not lacked encouragement! 
 
 From the other side of the hedge a miserable-
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 13 
 
 looking white horse gazed at him wonderingly. 
 Truly these humans were strange beings to find mat- 
 ter for laughter on such a day. 
 
 Yes, his relatives were eccentric enough to think 
 him mad. There was Aunt Caroline, for instance, 
 who rather prided herself upon being different from 
 other people; yet she had married a peer; was ex- 
 tremely wealthy, and as exclusive as a colony of 
 Agapemones. No one could say that she had been 
 discouraged. 
 
 The thought of Caroline, Lady Drewitt, brought 
 Beresford back to his present situation, and the 
 cause of his struggling along a country road in the 
 face of a south-westerly wind, that threw the rain 
 against his face in vicious little slaps, on the most 
 pitifully unspring-like first of May he ever remem- 
 bered. Again, the day brought him back to his 
 starting point: "Nature discourages eccentricity." 
 In short, Lady Drewitt, the weather and the phrase 
 all seemed so mixed up and confused as to defy en- 
 tire disentanglement. 
 
 The weather could be dismissed in a few words. 
 It was atrocious, depressing, English. Ahead 
 stretched the rain-soddened high-road, flanked on 
 either side by glistening hedges, from which the 
 water fell in solemn and reluctant drops. Heavy 
 clouds swung their moody way across the sky, just 
 clearing the tree-tops. Groups of miserable cat- 
 tle huddled together under hedges, or beneath trees 
 that gave no shelter from the pitiless rain. Here 
 and there some despairing beast lay down in the
 
 14 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 open, as if refusing to continue the self-decepdon. 
 The tree trunks glistened like beavers; for the tain 
 beat relentlessly through their thin foliage, in 
 short, the world was wet to the skin, and Ricnard 
 Beresford with the world. 
 
 His thoughts drifted back to the little family 
 dinner-party at Drewitt House, and the bomb-shell 
 he had launched into its midst. It was his aunt's 
 enquiry as to when he proposed returning to the 
 Foreign Office that had been the cause of all the 
 trouble. 
 
 His simple statement that he had done with the 
 Foreign Office and all its ways, and intended to go 
 for a long walking-tour, had been received with con- 
 sternation. He smiled at the recollection of the 
 scene; Lady Drewitt's anger, his cousin, Lord 
 Drewitt's lifting of his eyebrows, the snap in Ed- 
 ward Seymour's ferret-like little eyes, Mrs. Ed- 
 ward's look of frightened interrogation directed at 
 Lady Drewitt, and her subsequent endeavour to mir- 
 ror her aunt's disapproval. It was all so comical, 
 so characteristic. 
 
 He had found it impossible to explain what had 
 led up to his decision. He could not tell Lady 
 Drewitt and the Seymours that the trenches had 
 revolutionised his Tdeas, that a sort of intellectual 
 Bolshevism had taken possession of him, that he 
 now took a more detached and impersonal view of 
 life, that things which had mattered before were not 
 the things which mattered now. They would not 
 have understood.
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 15 
 
 H could not explain that "out there" everything 
 had taken on a new value and new standards had 
 been set up, that in a flash the clock had been put 
 back centuries; food and life alone had mattered. 
 A few yards away Death had lain in wait to flick 
 them out with a disdainful finger, and every man, 
 some consciously, others instinctively, was asking 
 himself the great riddle Why? 
 
 Instead of endeavouring to explain all this, 
 Beresford had contented himself by saying that the 
 War had made a difference, had somehow changed 
 him, made him restless. He had been purposely 
 vague, remembering Lady Drewitt's habit of clutch- 
 ing at a phrase as a peg for her scorn and ridicule. 
 He had been conscious of making out a very poor 
 case for himself, and mentally he cursed his cousin, 
 Lord Drewitt, for his silence. He at least must 
 have understood, he had been through it all. 
 
 Lady Drewitt listened with obvious impatience. 
 At last she had broken out with: 
 
 "Richard, you're a fool." The words had been 
 rapped out with conviction rather than acrimony. 
 
 "Logically I suppose I am, Aunt Caroline," he 
 had replied, as he signalled to Drewitt to circulate 
 the port in his direction. 
 
 "What are you going to live on?" Lady Drewitt 
 demanded. "You've no money of your own." 
 
 "Perhaps he proposes to borrow from you, Aunt," 
 Lord Drewitt had said, as he lighted another ciga- 
 rette. 
 
 Lady Drewitt ignored the remark.
 
 16 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "But, Richard, I don't understand." Mrs. Ed- 
 ward Seymour had puckered up her pretty, washed- 
 out face. "Where are you going to, and what shall 
 you do?" 
 
 "He wants to become a vagabond," snapped Lady 
 Drewitt, "tramping from town to town, like those 
 dreadful men we saw last week when motoring to 
 Peterborough." 
 
 "I see;" but there was nothing in Mrs. Edward's 
 tone suggestive of enlightenment. 
 
 "It's the war," announced Edward Seymour, a 
 peevish-looking little man with no chin and a fore- 
 head that reached almost to the back of his neck, 
 who by virtue of a post at the Ministry of Muni- 
 tions had escaped the comb of conscription. 
 
 Lord Drewitt screwed his glass into his eye and 
 gazed at Seymour with interest. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Edward," snapped Lady 
 Drewitt; and Mrs. Edward Seymour looked across 
 at her husband, disapproval in her eye. It was hid- 
 den from none that the Seymours were "after the 
 old bird's money," as Jimmy Pentland put it. It 
 was he who had christened them "the Vultures," a 
 name that had stuck. 
 
 "What do you propose to do when you have spent 
 all your money?" Lady Drewitt had next demanded. 
 
 "In all probability," said Lord Drewitt, "he will 
 get run in and come to us to bail him out. Per- 
 sonally I hate police-courts. I often wonder why 
 they instruct magistrates in law at the expense of 
 hygiene."
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 17 
 
 Lady Drewitt had looked across the table with 
 a startled expression in her eyes. It had suddenly 
 dawned upon her that unpleasant consequences to 
 herself might ensue from this rash determination 
 on the part of her nephew to seek his future happi- 
 ness amidst by-ways and hedges. 
 
 "It seems to me " began Edward Seymour, 
 
 in a thin, protesting voice. 
 
 "Never mind what it seems to you," said Lady 
 Drewitt, whereat Edward Seymour had collapsed, 
 screwing up his little features into an expression of 
 pain. Mrs. Edward had caught him full in the 
 centre of the left shin with the sharply pointed toe 
 of her shoe. 
 
 At Drewitt House Mrs. Edward's feet were never 
 still when her husband was within range. Lord 
 Drewitt had once suggested that he should wear 
 shin-guards, Mrs. Edward's methods of wireless 
 telegraphy being notorious. Sometimes she missed 
 her spouse, as other guests knew to their cost. 
 Once she had landed full on the tibia of a gouty 
 colonial bishop, whose language in a native dialect 
 had earned for him the respect of every man pres- 
 ent, when later translated with adornments by one 
 of the company. 
 
 "If Edward had spent days and nights in the 
 trenches," Lord Drewitt had said, as, with great 
 intentness, he peeled a walnut, "he would under- 
 stand why Richard shrinks from the Foreign Of- 
 fice." 
 
 "It would be impossible," Beresford said, "to set-
 
 18 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 tie down again to the monotony of a life of ten till 
 four after after the last four years." 
 
 "Unless, of course, you happen to be a foun- 
 tain," Lord Drewitt had interpolated, without look- 
 ing up from his walnut. 
 
 "I said it was the war," broke in Edward Sey- 
 mour, looking triumphantly across at his wife, em- 
 boldened by the knowledge that his legs were 
 tucked safely away beneath his chair. 
 
 "And what do you propose to do?" Lady Drewitt 
 had demanded, with the air of one who knew she 
 had propounded a conundrum to which there is no 
 answer. 
 
 "Oh," said Beresford airily, "I shall just walk into 
 the sun. You see, Aunt Caroline," he said, bend- 
 ing forward, "I've only got one life and " 
 
 "And how many do you suppose I have?" Lady 
 Drewitt had demanded scornfully, snapping her jaws 
 in a peculiarly unpleasant way she had. 
 
 "I repeat, Aunt Caroline," he had proceeded im- 
 perturbably, "that I have only one life, and rather 
 than go back to the P.O. I prefer to " 
 
 "Seek nature in her impregnable fastnesses," sug- 
 gested Lord Drewitt, looking across at his cousin 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Impregnable fiddlesticks," Lady Drewitt had 
 cried derisively, "he will get his feet wet and die of 
 bronchitis or pneumonia." 
 
 "And we shall have to go down to the inquest," 
 said Lord Drewitt, "and lunch execrably at some
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 19 
 
 local inn. No, Richard, you mustn't do it. I can- 
 not risk our aunt's digestion." 
 
 Lady Drewitt always discouraged the idea that 
 life contained either sentiment or ideals. To be in- 
 tangible in conversation with her was impossible. 
 She admitted of no distinction between imagination 
 and lying. To her all extremes were foolish, opti- 
 mists and pessimists being equally culpable. She 
 pooh-poohed anything and everything that was not 
 directly or indirectly connected with Burke (once 
 she would have admitted "L'Almanach de Gotha"). 
 Burke to her girlish eyes had always been the open 
 sesame to happiness. 
 
 As for the Seymours, they were merely Lady 
 Drewitt's echoes. Lord Drewitt had once said they 
 reminded him of St. Paul's definition of love. 
 
 As Beresford smoked his own cigarettes and 
 drank Lady Drewitt's excellent port, he was con- 
 scious that there were a hundred and one reasons 
 that he might have advanced to any one but his aunt. 
 It would have been foolish to tell her that within 
 him had been awakened a spirit of romance and ad- 
 venture, that the wanderlust was upon him. 
 
 She would merely have said that he must see Sir 
 Edmund Tobbitt, her pet physician, and have for- 
 bidden him to use German words in her presence. 
 
 "And how do you propose to live whilst you are 
 pursuing your ridiculous Nature, exposing yourself 
 to all sorts of weather?" Lady Drewitt had next de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Well, I've got nearly two hundred pounds,"
 
 20 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Beresford had replied, "and by the time I've sold 
 my books and things I shall have fully another hun- 
 dred." 
 
 "You're going to sell everything," gasped Mrs. 
 Edward Seymour. 
 
 "Yes, all but the clothes I wear and an extra suit 
 I shall carry with me," Beresford had smilingly 
 retorted, enjoying the look of consternation upon his 
 cousin's face. "When I leave London there will 
 not remain in it a shilling's worth of my property." 
 
 "Richard, you're a fool." Lady Drewitt seemed 
 to find comfort in the phrase. "Your poor dear 
 
 mother was a fool too. She " Lady Drewitt 
 
 broke off suddenly and gazed searchlngly at her 
 nephew. 
 
 "When did this ridiculous idea first take pos- 
 session of you?" she had demanded, with the air 
 of a counsel for the prosecution about to make a 
 great point. 
 
 "I've been a vagabond all my life," he had con- 
 fessed with a smile. "I've never been really re- 
 spectable, you know." 
 
 Lady Drewitt' s jaws had met with a snap. Lord 
 Drewitt gazed at her with interest. Neither he 
 nor Beresford had ever permitted themselves to be 
 overawed by their aunt. They were the only two 
 relatives she possessed who were not ill at ease in 
 her presence. 
 
 "You're Irish," she continued relentlessly, ad- 
 dressing Beresford in a voice that savoured of ac- 
 cusation.
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 21 
 
 "Half Irish," Beresford had corrected. 
 
 "I remember now," there was a marked sol- 
 emnity in her voice, "a week before you were born, 
 your poor dear mother was greatly frightened by 
 a tramp who had managed to get into the garden." 
 
 "Then," Lord Drewitt had said, "Richard must 
 not be blamed. Like Napoleon, he is clearly a man 
 of destiny." 
 
 "But," said Edward Seymour, screwing up his 
 face as was his wont when asking a question, "I 
 don't see why being in the trenches should make 
 Richard want to become a tramp." 
 
 "You wouldn't, my dear Teddy," Lord Drewitt 
 had said softly. "You see it's an Ai question and 
 you are a 3 man." 
 
 Mrs. Edward had flashed a vindictive look at 
 Lord Drewitt, then with a swift change of expres- 
 sion she turned to Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "Perhaps now that Richard knows how how it 
 would pain you, Aunt Caroline, he won't " 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Cecily," snapped Lady Drewitt; 
 whereat Edward Seymour had looked across at his 
 wife with a leer of triumph. 
 
 That night as they had walked away from Drewitt 
 House, Beresford had explained more fully to Lord 
 Drewitt what had led up to his decision to cut adrift 
 from the old life. 
 
 "My dear Richard," he had said with a sigh of 
 regret, "I wish I had the Aunt's courage and your 
 
 convictions." 
 
 Beresford smiled at the thought of that evening.
 
 22 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 He paused to light his pipe. He looked about him, 
 hoping to find somewhere a break in the clouds giv- 
 ing promise of fine weather for the morrow. No ; 
 Nature's frown showed no sign of lifting. It was 
 as if she had decided never to attempt the drying 
 up of this drenched and dripping landscape. 
 
 He turned once more and faced the wind and 
 rain. His thoughts returned to his family. He 
 had always been something of a problem to them. 
 As a standard by which to measure failure, he had 
 been not without his uses. He had passed through 
 Winchester and Oxford without attracting to him- 
 self particular attention, enviable or otherwise. He 
 had missed his cricket "blue" through that miracle 
 of misfortune, a glut of talent, and he had taken a 
 moderately good degree. He had come down from 
 Oxford and the clouds, loving sport, ~rt, litera- 
 ture, and above all beauty. 
 
 Mrs. Edward Seymour had once remarked plain- 
 tively to Lady Drewitt that it seemed so odd that 
 a man who had nearly got his cricket "blue" should 
 be fond of roses and wall-papers, poetry and sky- 
 larks. "It seemed," she ventured to add, "not 
 quite nice." .Whereat Lady Drewitt had besought 
 her not to be a fool ; but to remember that the Bat- 
 tle of Waterloo was won on the playing-fields of 
 Eton. Mrs. Edward Seymour had gone away 
 sorely puzzled as to her Aunt's exact meaning; but 
 not daring to enquire. 
 
 Coming down from Oxford, Beresford had been 
 shot unprotesting into the Foreign Office, which he
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 23 
 
 had accepted as part of the enigma of life until that 
 fateful August 4th, 1914, when he had enlisted. 
 
 That was four and a half years ago, and now, 
 having thoroughly earned the disapproval of his 
 aunt, he had turned his face to the open road, a 
 vagabond; but a free man. The blue sky would 
 be above him; he had pictured it all, the white flecks 
 of cloud swimming across the sun day by day, and 
 the winking of the stars by night. There would be 
 the apple and the plum-blossom, the pear and the 
 cherry. There would be the birds, the lowing of 
 cattle and the bleating of sheep. Then there would 
 be the voices of the haymakers, the throb of the 
 mowing-machines and the rumble of the heavily 
 laden wains, as they grumbled their way to the rick- 
 yard. The night sounds, the sudden whirr of a 
 frightened pheasant, the hoot of some marauding 
 owl, the twitter of a dreaming thrush; he had real- 
 ised them all, expected them all everything but 
 the rain. 
 
 He had foreseen rain, it is true, the storm, the 
 flood even; but they had always presented them- 
 selves to his mind's eye with himself safely quar- 
 tered in some comfortable old inn. 
 
 "Nature discourages eccentricity." 
 
 Nature was discouraging him by flooding the earth 
 on the first day of his adventure. 
 
 "I wonder what Aunt Caroline would say if she 
 saw me now?" he muttered. 
 
 He laughed aloud at the thought. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped, not only laughing, but
 
 24 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 walking, and stood staring in astonishment at a gate 
 that lay a few yards back from the roadside. 
 
 In an instant Lady Drewitt, Nature, eccentricity 
 and the weather were banished from his thoughts. 
 Nothing that his imagination was capable of sug- 
 gesting could have caused him more astonishment 
 than what he saw perched upon this gate giving ac- 
 cess to a wayside meadow. Had it been a griffin, 
 a unicorn, or the Seven-Headed Beast of the Apoc- 
 alypse, he would have accepted it without question 
 as the natural phenomenon of an abnormal day. 
 
 It was not a griffin, a unicorn, or the Beast of 
 the Apocalypse that he saw; but a girl perched jaun- 
 tily upon the top bar of the roadside gate, medita- 
 tively smoking a cigarette. She seemed indifferent 
 to the rain, indifferent to the wretchedness of her 
 surroundings, indifferent to Beresford's presence, 
 indifferent to everything she was merely a spec- 
 tator. 
 
 For some seconds he regarded her in astonish- 
 ment. The trim, grey, tailor-made costume, knap- 
 sack, tweed hat with waterproof covering he men- 
 tally registered them all; but what struck him most 
 was the girl's face. Nondescript but charming, was 
 his later verdict; but now his whole attention was 
 arrested by her eyes. Large and grey, with whites 
 that were almost blue, and heavy dark lashes, they 
 gazed at him gravely, wonderingly; but quite with- 
 out any suggestion of curiosity. 
 
 For nearly a minute he stood staring at her in 
 astonishment. Then suddenly realising the rude-
 
 THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 25 
 
 ness of his attitude, he slowly and reluctantly turned 
 to the wind and continued his way. 
 
 "A rain-girl," he muttered. "I wonder if she 
 knows that Nature discourages eccentricity?"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" AND THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 DINNER will be ready in ten minutes, sir." 
 The waiter led the way to a small table 
 on the right-hand side of the fireplace, in 
 which burned a large fire surmounted by a log that 
 crackled and spat a cheerful welcome. 
 
 "Empty!" remarked Beresford as he looked 
 round the dining-room. 
 
 "It's the weather, sir," explained the waiter in 
 an apologetic tone, as he gave a push to the log with 
 his boot; then, after a swift glance round to satisfy 
 himself that everything was as it should be, he with- 
 drew. 
 
 Beresford shivered. The day's wetting had 
 chilled him. What a day it had been. "The Two 
 Dragons" was a godsend. 
 
 As he warmed himself before the fire, he men- 
 tally reviewed the events of the day, and came to 
 the conclusion that there had been only one event, 
 the girl on the gate. 
 
 For the past two hours her eyes had entirely 
 eclipsed that absurd little phrase that had so ob- 
 sessed his mind earlier in the day. It had been a 
 strange day, he mused, a day of greyness : grey sky, 
 
 26
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 27 
 
 grey sheets of rain, a grey prospect before him, and 
 then that girl's grey eyes. They had seemed to 
 change everything. They were like grey fire, seem- 
 ing to blot out the other greys, as the dawn makes 
 the stars to pale. 
 
 It was to him a new experience to find a girl 
 monopolising his thoughts. The habit of a life- 
 time had been to place women somewhere between 
 dances and croquet. He had flirted with them in a 
 superficial way, they had amused him; but they had 
 never bulked largely in his life. Tommy Knowles 
 of "the House" had once said that there was little 
 hope for a country composed of men such as Beres- 
 ford, who placed runs before kisses, and saw more 
 in a dropped goal than a glad eye. 
 
 He seemed to have had so little time for girls. 
 There had been games to play, books to read, pic- 
 tures to see, and such a host of other interests that 
 women had been rather crowded out. Somehow 
 they never seemed to strike an interesting note in 
 conversation. It was invariably about the plays 
 they had seen, the band that was playing, the quality 
 of the floor upon which they were dancing, common 
 friends, or else gush about George Bernard Shaw, 
 or Maeterlinck. 
 
 He fell to wondering what Aunt Caroline or the 
 Edward Seymours would have thought of her. 
 They regarded him as mad because he preferred the 
 open road to the Foreign Office ; but if they were to 
 see a girl sitting on a gate in the rain, smoking a 
 cigarette with apparent enjoyment, they would in.
 
 28 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 all probability question, not only her reason, but her 
 sense of delicacy. 
 
 The Rain-Girl (as Beresford mentally called her) 
 obviously possessed character; but why was she 
 tramping alone upon an English high-road, particu- 
 larly when the heavens were drenching the earth 
 with cold and cheerless rain? It was a queer thing 
 for a girl to do, queer beyond analysis or compre- 
 hension. What would she have done had he spoken 
 to her? In all probability have snubbed him; yet 
 surely two strangers might pass the time of day upon 
 the highway, even though they were of opposite 
 sexes. 
 
 It had been an absurd sort of day, Beresford de- 
 cided, and the sooner it were blotted from his mem- 
 ory the better; still he would like to see her again. 
 Then he fell to speculating as to which direction she 
 had taken. 
 
 Would dinner never be ready? Again he shiv- 
 ered, in spite of the heat of the fire. He would be 
 all right, he told himself, as soon as he had eaten 
 something. That waiter was a liar. More than 
 a quarter of an hour had elapsed since he had prom- 
 ised dinner in ten minutes. He rang the bell. A 
 few seconds later the door opened. 
 
 "Will dinner be long?" he enquired from where 
 he stood facing the fire. 
 
 "They tell me it is ready now." 
 
 He span round with automatic suddenness, and 
 found himself gazing into the same grey eyes that,
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 29 
 
 for the last two hours, seemed to have occupied his 
 thoughts to the exclusion of all else. 
 
 "The Rain-Girl!" The words seemed to come 
 involuntarily. Then he added in confusion, "I 
 er beg your pardon. I I thought it was I had 
 
 just rung, I " Then he lapsed into silence and 
 
 stood staring. 
 
 "I quite understand," she said, with a smile of 
 perfect self-possession, as she approached the fire. 
 
 Yes; it certainly was the Rain-Girl; but how 
 changed. Her dusky hair, which grew low down 
 on her forehead and temples, was daintily dressed, 
 and she looked very slim and shapely in a simple 
 gown of some nondescript colour between a brown 
 and a grey, which clung in simple folds about her. 
 As she stood holding out her hands to the warmth 
 of the fire, he recovered from his surprise. Obvi- 
 ously the curious happenings of the day were not 
 yet ended. 
 
 Deciding that it was embarrassing for two peo- 
 ple to stand at the same fire without speaking, 
 Beresford retired to his table just as the waiter en- 
 tered with the soup. Seeing the Rain-Girl, the 
 waiter hurried across to the table on the other side 
 of the fireplace and withdrew the chair invitingly. 
 She seated herself with a smile of acknowledgment. 
 
 She was evidently not inclined to be sociable, 
 Beresford decided. Surely two people dining alone 
 in the same inn might exchange a few common- 
 places; but she seemed determined to discourage any 
 attempt towards friendliness. All through the
 
 30 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 soup Beresford chafed at British insular prejudice. 
 What good had the war done if it had not broken 
 down this foolish barrier? Here were two people 
 alone in an inn-parlour, yet they were doomed to 
 dine at separate tables. He was piqued, too, at the 
 girl's obvious indifference to his presence, a fact of 
 which he had assured himself by surreptitious 
 glances in her direction. 
 
 As the meal progressed, he became more and 
 more incensed at her supremely unreasonable at- 
 titude. What right had she to consign him to a dull 
 and tedious dinner? Surely the day had been a 
 miserable enough affair without this totally unnec- 
 essary insistence of mid-Victorian prejudice and the 
 segregation of the sexes. It was absurd, provin- 
 cial, suburban, parochial, in fact it was most 
 damnably irritating, he decided. 
 
 What would she do when the meal was over? 
 Draw up to the fire, go to the smoking-room, or 
 clear off to bed? Could he not do something to 
 precipitate a crisis? But what? If he were a 
 woman he might faint; but he could not call to mind 
 ever having read of a hero of romance who fainted, 
 even for the purpose of making the heroine's ac- 
 quaintance. He might choke, be seized with a con- 
 vulsion, develop signs of insanity. What would she 
 do then, this self-possessed young woman? Ring 
 for the waiter most likely. 
 
 Gradually there became engendered in his mind 
 a dull resentment at her attitude of splendid isola- 
 tion. She evidently preferred solitude, enjoyed it
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 31 
 
 in fact. He would indulge her by going to the 
 smoking-room as soon as he had finished. In spite 
 of this decision, he continued to watch her covertly, 
 noticing how little she ate. He himself was eating 
 practically nothing; he had no appetite. Had they 
 both caught a chill? What was the waiter think- 
 ing as he took away plates containing food little 
 more than tasted? It was like a Charles Dana 
 Gibson picture, but for the absence of the little cupid 
 with an arrow fitted to his bow. 
 
 It was ridiculous. 
 
 Beresford pushed back his chair with some os-i 
 tentation and walked towards the door. She had 
 spoiled the soup, rendered insipid the fish and made 
 detestably unpalatable the joint in short she had 
 spoiled everything. He would take coffee in the 
 smoking-room, there was a large fire there and it 
 was strange how thoroughly chilled he was. Yes, 
 he would clear out, perhaps she would breakfast 
 early in the morning and take her departure before 
 he was down. At the door he turned slightly to get 
 a glimpse of her table. No, she had not even 
 looked up. 
 
 He closed the door and, walking across to the 
 smoking-room, threw himself into a comfortable 
 chair by the roaring fire, rang for coffee and pro- 
 ceeded to light his pipe and smoke the Rain-Girl 
 out of his thoughts. 
 
 Presently the waiter entered with the coffee, as 
 Beresford judged by the click of crockery. The 
 man placed a table in front of the fire on Beres-
 
 32 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 ford's left ; then, putting upon it the tray, he quietly 
 withdrew. 
 
 Yes, coffee would be good on a night like this, 
 Beresford decided as he turned to the tray, where, 
 to his surprise, he found two cups. 
 
 "What the " then he suddenly realised that 
 
 his late companion at dinner, who was not a com- 
 panion at all, was probably also taking coffee in the 
 smoking-room. Here was a fine point of etiquette, 
 he decided. There was nothing for it but to wait. 
 He was curious to see if this linking together of their 
 coffees would cause her to unbend. Fate was tak- 
 ing a hand in the affair. 
 
 It was obviously impossible to pour out his own 
 coffee and leave her the remainder. Should he ring 
 for the waiter? No, the coffee should act as mas- 
 ter of the ceremonies and bridge the gulf between 
 them. Placing the coffee-pot and the milk-jug on 
 the hearth, he waited, substituting a cigarette for 
 his briar, lest its rich, juicy note might prove un- 
 musical to feminine ears. For ten minutes he 
 waited. Had the waiter merely made a mistake in 
 bringing two cups instead of one? Possibly at this 
 very moment she was enjoying her coffee in the din- 
 ing-room. After all perhaps there was only 
 enough for one. Leaning forward, he picked up 
 the coffee-pot, lifted the lid and peered in. It was 
 full. 
 
 As he raised his eyes from the contemplation 
 of the contents of the coffee-pot, it was to meet those 
 of the Rain-Girl gazing quizzically down at him.
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 33 
 
 He started back, nearly dropping the coffee-pot, and 
 managed to scramble to his feet, coffee-pot in hand, 
 conscious that he had flushed as if caught in some 
 illicit act. This girl certainly had a curious habit 
 of appearing at odd and dramatic moments. 
 
 "I was looking to see if it was coffee for one or 
 coffee for two," he explained. 
 
 She looked at him gravely, obviously a little puz- 
 zled; then, catching sight of the two cups upon the 
 tray, she smiled. 
 
 "How stupid of him," she said, "and you've 
 waited?" Her eyebrows were lifted in interroga- 
 tion. 
 
 "I was just investigating," said Beresford, feel- 
 ing more at ease now that he was able to explain. 
 "It was a sort of game. If there was enough only 
 for one, I would ignore the second cup; if for two, 
 I would wait." 
 
 She smiled again and sank into the chair on the 
 opposite side of the fire, holding out her hands to the 
 blaze. 
 
 Beresford stood looking down at her, the coffee- 
 pot still in his hand. 
 
 She seemed entirely to have forgotten his pres- 
 ence. She certainly was a most amazing creature, 
 he decided; but that was no reason why he should 
 be done out of his coffee. 
 
 "Do you take it black or with milk?" he enquired 
 in a matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she cried, looking at him with a 
 start, "I I "
 
 -34 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 He smiled down at her and proceeded to fill the 
 cups. "Did you say black?" 
 
 "Please." 
 
 Lifting the tray and turning round he found her 
 eyes fixed upon him. With a smile of thanks she 
 took a cup and dropped into it two lumps of sugar. 
 She was still regarding him with serious eyes. 
 
 "Didn't you pass me on the road this afternoon?" 
 she asked as he resumed his seat. 
 
 "With reluctance, yes." 
 
 "With reluctance?" she repeated. 
 
 "I wanted to know why you were sitting on a 
 gate on such a day, apparently enjoying it and, 
 frankly, I've been wondering about it ever since. 
 May I smoke?" he concluded. 
 
 She smiled her permission as, opening a bag that 
 hung from her wrist, she drew out a cigarette-case. 
 "But why shouldn't any one want to sit on a gate in 
 the rain?" she queried as he held a match to her ciga- 
 rette. 
 
 "I don't know," he confessed, "except that no 
 one seems to enjoy the rain just for the rain's sake." 
 
 "That's true," she said dreamily. "I love the 
 rain, and I'm sorry for it." 
 
 "Sorry for it?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "so few people find pleasure 
 in the rain. I've never heard any one speak well 
 of it in this country. Farmers do sometimes, 
 but " she paused. 
 
 "There's generally either too much or too lit- 
 tle," he suggested.
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 35 
 
 She nodded brightly. "In some countries the 
 rain is looked upon almost as a god." 
 
 "I suppose it's a matter of whether it gives you 
 vegetables or rheumatism," he said as he lighted a 
 second cigarette. 
 
 She looked up quickly; then, with a little gurgling 
 laugh, she nodded. 
 
 "In any case I like to sit and listen to it," she 
 said, "and I love tramping in the rain." 
 
 Beresford regarded her curiously. What a 
 queer sort of girl and what eyes, they were won- 
 derful. Behind their limpid and serious greyness 
 there lurked a something that puzzled him. They 
 held wonderful possibilities. 
 
 "Personally I think less of the rain than of my 
 own comfort," he confessed. 
 
 "Auntie always says that I'm a little mad," she 
 said with the air of one desiring to be just. "Some- 
 times she omits the 'little.' ' 
 
 "That's rather like my Aunt Caroline," he said, 
 "she holds the same view about me. She calls me 
 a fool. It amounts to the same thing. Directness 
 is her strong point." 
 
 "I suppose we all appear a little mad to our 
 friends," said the Rain-Girl with a smile. 
 
 "Aunt Caroline's not a friend, she's a relative," 
 he hastened to explain. 
 
 The girl smiled as she gazed at the spiral of 
 smoke rising from her cigarette. 
 
 "I'm always a little sorry for outraged rela- 
 tives," she said.
 
 36 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I'm not," with decision. "Because they've got 
 no tails to wag themselves, they object to our wag- 
 ging ours." 
 
 "But hasn't the last four years changed all that?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "You can walk down Piccadilly during the Sea- 
 son in a cap and a soft collar," conceded Beresford, 
 "but that scarcely implies emancipation." 
 
 "I don't agree with you," she said smilingly. 
 
 "But a change en masse doesn't imply the growth 
 of individuality," he persisted. "If all the potatoes 
 in the world suddenly took it into their heads to be- 
 come red, or all the cabbages blue, we should merely 
 remark the change and promptly become accus- 
 tomed to it." 
 
 "I see what you mean," she said, and he noticed 
 a slight twitching at the corners of her mouth. 
 "You mean that I'm a red potato, or a blue cab- 
 bage." 
 
 He laughed. This girl was singularly easy to 
 talk to. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm something of a red potato my- 
 self," he confessed. "It's only a few days ago that 
 my aunt told me so. She expressed it differently; 
 but no doubt that was what she meant." 
 
 "Oh; but I have to bleach again in a few days," 
 she said. "Within a week I have to meet auntie 
 in London, and then I shall become afraid of the 
 rain because of my frocks and hats." She made a 
 moue of disgust; then, catching Beresford's eye, she 
 laughed.
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 37 
 
 "Do you live in London?" he asked, grasping at 
 this chance of finding out something about her. 
 
 "We're going there for the Season," she said, "to 
 a hotel of all places." 
 
 "May I ask which?" inquired Beresford, seiz- 
 ing this opportunity with avidity. "I know most of 
 them," he added lamely. 
 
 "The Ritz-Carlton." She shuddered. 
 
 "I've always heard it quite well-spoken of," he 
 said with mock seriousness. 
 
 "Ugh !" she grimaced. "I so dislike all that; but 
 auntie insists." 
 
 "She is conventional?" he suggested. 
 
 "As conventional as the suburbs. I'm supposed 
 to be with friends in Yorkshire now," she added with 
 the smile of a mischievous child. "If she coulcl 
 see me here, she would take to her bed with an at- 
 tack of nerves. Poor auntie ! Sometimes I am 
 quite sorry for her," and again the little gurgling 
 laugh belied her words. 
 
 "I'm afraid you have convicted yourself," he said. 
 "If you had the courage of your convictions, you 
 would go tramping and let the world know it." 
 
 "No," she said; "it isn't that; but during the last 
 four or five years I've given auntie such a series of 
 shocks, that she really must have time to recover. 
 First I went as a V.A.D., then I drove a Red Cross 
 car in France and well, now I must give way to 
 her a little and become a hypocrite." 
 
 "No doubt that is where you got your ideas re- 
 adjusted."
 
 38 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Readjusted?" she repeated, looking at him in- 
 terrogatingly. 
 
 "In France," he said. "We all had time to think 
 out there." 
 
 She nodded understandingly. 
 
 "I suppose it was being pitchforked clean out of 
 our environment," continued Beresford, "and mak- 
 ing hay with class distinctions. I went out from 
 the Foreign Office. For some weeks I was a pri- 
 vate; it was a revelation." 
 
 "Yes," she said dreamily, "I suppose we all felt 
 it." 
 
 "You see out there the navvy for the first time in 
 his life asked himself why he was a navvy." 
 
 "And the man from the Foreign Office why he 
 was a man from the Foreign Office," she suggested. 
 
 "Yes," he smiled, "and I doubt if either was 
 successful in framing a satisfactory answer. 
 Everything was one vast note of interrogation. A 
 new riddle had been propounded to us." 
 
 "And you came back looking for an CEdipus." 
 
 "Yes," he assented. "I on the open road, others 
 in the workshop and office. The politician knows 
 nothing about reconstruction, because he can view 
 it only from the material standpoint." 
 
 She nodded her head brightly in agreement. "No 
 one seems to understand. Everything's so mixed 
 up." 
 
 "I suppose it's because until the war no one ever 
 had a chance of finding out anything about any but 
 Jiis own class. Over there the labourer found the
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 39 
 
 lord a sport, and the lord found the labourer a man 
 just like himself. Oh, it's going to be what a little 
 cockney in my section would have called 'an 'ades 
 of a beano.' ' 
 
 Beresford shovelled some more coal on the fire. 
 He seemed unable to get the chill out of his limbs. 
 
 "And you," she asked, "are you tramping for 
 long?" 
 
 "For ever I hope." 
 
 "For ever! That's rather a longtime, isn't it?" 
 she questioned. 
 
 Beresford then told her something of his deter- 
 mination to cut adrift from town life and its 
 drudgery, and to see what the open road had to 
 offer. He told her of the protests of his relatives; 
 of the general conviction that he had become men- 
 tally unhinged, probably due to shell-shock. How 
 every one had endeavoured to dissuade him from 
 the folly upon which he was about to embark. He 
 told her that in the disposal of his effects he felt 
 rather like a schoolboy destroying his kit. 
 
 "But your books?" she said. "What did you do 
 with them?" 
 
 "Ah! there you've put your finger on the weak 
 spot," laughed Beresford. "I had meant to give 
 away a few and sell the rest; but somehow I couldn't 
 do it, so I had them done up in cases and stored 
 away. I paid two years' storage in advance." 
 
 She nodded approval and understanding. 
 
 "You will see that I'm really a very weak char- 
 acter after all."
 
 40 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "And you will be walking month after month," 
 she said dreamily, "with no thought of the London 
 Season, or Scotland, or wintering in Egypt. I wish 
 I were you," she added. 
 
 "But surely you could break away if you wished 
 it?" 
 
 "It's not so easy for a girl," she replied, "and 
 and oh, there are so many considerations. 
 No," she added with a sigh of resignation, "I must 
 be content with occasional lapses, and I don't really 
 know that I'm a true vagabond," she said a little re- 
 gretfully, "I always have to carry a comfortable 
 frock with me," glancing down at herself, then 
 looking up at him with a quizzical little smile. 
 "That is in itself a sign of weakness, isn't it?" 
 
 "Only if you persist in labels," he replied. "You 
 are dreadfully conventional." 
 
 "I !" she cried in surprise. 
 
 "Yes; you will insist on classifying every one ac- 
 cording to appearances and accepted ideas." 
 
 "I don't understand," she said with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "Your idea of a vagabond is that of one who 
 washes seldom, changes even seldomer, and spends 
 the evening in hob-nailed boots by the inn fireside." 
 
 "I suppose you are right," she said laughing. 
 "It's very difficult to get away from labels." 
 
 "Do you believe that Nature discourages eccen- 
 tricity?" 
 
 "I I'm afraid I've never thought about it," she 
 said after a short pause. "Why?"
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 41 
 
 "Because that ridiculous phrase has been run- 
 ning in my head all day," he replied, shivering again 
 slightly. "I wonder if the rain came as a rebuke 
 to me for throwing over everything." 
 
 She nodded, signifying that she understood. 
 
 "It's rather queer," he went on, "but I had never 
 thought of possible drawbacks to bucolic freedom." 
 
 "You do now, though," she suggested with a mis- 
 chievous upward glance through her lashes that 
 thrilled him. 
 
 "I seem to believe in nothing else now," he added. 
 "I don't possess your veneration for the rain, I pre- 
 fer skylarks. Besides," he went on, "I like to lie 
 on my back in a field and forget." 
 
 "I know," she said eagerly, "I've often wanted 
 to live in a caravan, then you get everything. The 
 night sounds must be so wonderful." 
 
 "You cannot be a vagabond if you carry your 
 house with you," he objected. 
 
 "Just as much as those who use other people's 
 houses the inns," she retorted. "I suppose it's 
 really impossible to be a vagabond other than at 
 heart." 
 
 "It's impossible unless you can glory in dirt and 
 personal uncleanliness." 
 
 "What a horrible idea. Surely there can be clean 
 vagabonds." 
 
 "What opportunity has a tramp to wash? There 
 are only the streams and the rivers, with the chance 
 of getting run in for disturbing the trout or pollut- 
 ing the water. Besides, without soap you cannot
 
 42 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 wash properly, and I've never heard of a vagabond 
 who carried a cake of soap with him." 
 
 "I do," she laughed, then after a few moments' 
 pause she added, "You reason and analyse too much 
 for the open road. I being a woman accept all, and 
 glory in my inconsistencies." 
 
 "And incidentally get as many baths, hot or cold, 
 as you want." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "No," he continued, "the nomadic habit gets you 
 dubbed a dangerous lunatic. I suppose I'm a dan- 
 gerous lunatic, because I cannot find content in a 
 dinner, a dance, or a crush, with a month's holiday 
 in the summer and, as my cousin would put it, work- 
 ing like a fountain from ten till four." 
 
 "But does it really matter what we do, provided 
 we can justify it to ourselves?" She looked up at 
 him eagerly. 
 
 "Would not the Philistines regard that as a dan- 
 gerous philosophy?" 
 
 "I don't think I should ever want to run away 
 from things," she said dreamily; "that is monastic. 
 It has always seemed to me a much greater achieve- 
 ment to live your own life in the midst of uncon- 
 genial or unsympathetic surroundings." 
 
 "You don't know Aunt Caroline and the For- 
 eign Office," said Beresford grimly. 
 
 "Oh ! but," said the girl, "my auntie's just as con- 
 ventional as can be. You see," she continued seri- 
 ously, "to be an idealist you must be unconscious 
 of being one. Do you understand what I mean?"
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 43 
 
 "You suggest that it may become a pose." 
 "Yes," she said, nodding her head eagerly. 
 "You might sacrifice the ideals to the idealism. It's 
 like religion that teaches you to find God in a 
 church, whereas you should be able to : 
 
 Raise the stone and find me there, 
 Cleave the wood and there am I. 
 
 I so dislike cults and societies," she added inconse- 
 quently. 
 
 "You make me feel as if I were being lectured." 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said hastily. "I didn't 
 mean " 
 
 "Please go on, I think I like it." 
 
 "But we are wandering from vagabondage," she 
 smiled. "Don't you think that Thoreau and Jef- 
 feries were vagabonds?" 
 
 "Frankly I don't," he said with decision. "They 
 were sentimentalists. The nearest to perfect vaga- 
 bonds that I can recall among writers are Walt 
 Whitman and George Borrow. Whitman is al- 
 leged to have had all the characteristics of the vaga- 
 bond. Have not controversies raged about his per- 
 sonal cleanliness? As for Borrow, he could outwit 
 a Jew or a gipsy." 
 
 "And cheat a girl's love for him," she suggested. 
 
 "Love and vagabondage are contradictions." 
 
 "Contradictions I" she cried, opening her eyes 
 wide. "I don't agree with you," she added with 
 decision.
 
 44 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "A vagabond has only one mistress, Nature," said 
 Beresford quietly. 
 
 "Then I'm not a vagabond," she said. 
 
 "The wood and the glade have only one music 
 for the vagabond, the pipes of Pan," he continued. 
 "You would introduce the guitar." 
 
 "I should do nothing of the sort," she cried in- 
 dignantly. "As a matter of fact I used to play the 
 concertina." 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "The concertina," she repeated demurely with 
 downcast eyes. 
 
 Beresford stared at her in astonishment, not quite 
 sure whether or no she were serious. 
 
 "You see," she said, "I couldn't play anything 
 else, and sometimes I wanted to remind myself of 
 of " she broke off. 
 
 "You could have sung?" he suggested. 
 
 "Of course I could," she said quietly, "but you've 
 never heard me sing, and now I must be going to 
 
 bed," she said. "Perhaps " she hesitated for 
 
 a fraction of a second. "Perhaps I shall see you at 
 breakfast." 
 
 "Thanks so much," he said eagerly. "I shall be 
 up early," and in his mind he had come to the de- 
 termination that his way should be her way if she 
 would permit it. 
 
 "Good night," she said as she rose, and with a 
 friendly smile walked towards the door. 
 
 "Good night, au revoir" he said meaningly, as
 
 "THE TWO DRAGONS" 45 
 
 he opened the door and she passed out with a nod 
 and a smile. 
 
 "A concertina I" muttered Beresford, as he re- 
 turned to his chair, "and what eyes." 
 
 He rang the bell, and when the waiter entered, 
 ordered a double brandy. He felt chilled to the 
 bone in spite of the fire. When the waiter returned 
 he drank the brandy neat, shivering again violently. 
 
 "Oh, hang it I" he muttered angrily. "I'll go 
 to bed." 
 
 Surely there never was so fantastic an ending to 
 so fantastic a day. Wooing Pan with a concertina I 
 
 "She's mad," he muttered, "mad as a spinning 
 dervish."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 
 
 IT was ridiculous to endeavour to force a side* 
 of-beef through so small a door; but was it a 
 side-of-beef ? No, it was a bed. Why not 
 take out a feather? Was it really a feather-bed? 
 Why should a feather-bed wear a print-dress, a 
 white apron, cuffs and a cap? Of course it was a 
 woman. Beresford gazed fixedly at the figure in 
 the doorway. Yes, it was unquestionably a woman; 
 but why was she there, looking down critically at 
 him lying in bed? Did she want him to get up? 
 He closed his eyes wearily. His head felt very 
 strange. 
 
 Presently he opened his eyes again. Yes; it cer* 
 tainly was a woman, and she was looking down at 
 him. 
 
 "Who are you? Where am I?" he murmured 
 as he gazed vacantly about the room. "What has 
 happened?" 
 
 "Hush! you mustn't talk," was the response. 
 
 When he looked again there was only a white 
 door with yellow mouldings occupying the space 
 where the woman in the print-dress had stood. She 
 herself had vanished. It was so stupid of her to 
 
 4 6
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 47 
 
 run away when spoken to so like a woman, too, 
 to baulk a natural curiosity. What did it all mean? 
 Why had he thought the woman a side-of-beef, then 
 a feather-bed? What was she there for? Why 
 did he appear to be floating about in space? Why 
 did his whole body feel numbed, yet tingling? 
 
 Suddenly he remembered the previous day's ad- 
 ventures, the Rain-Girl, the dinner, Pan, and the 
 concertina. He must get up at once, or she might 
 be gone. He must see her again. He struggled 
 into a sitting posture, then fell back suddenly. He 
 had no strength. What did it all mean? 
 
 The door opened and the woman in the print, 
 dress reappeared. 
 
 "Where's the Rain-Girl?" he demanded before 
 she had time to close the door behind her, "and 
 what's the time?" 
 
 "It's eleven o'clock, and you must lie still, or you'll 
 become worse." 
 
 The woman's voice was soft and soothing. For 
 some minutes he pondered deeply over the impen- 
 etrable mystery of her words. "Worse !" Had he 
 been ill? It was absurd; yet why was he so weak? 
 Eleven o'clock! Where has his shaving-water? 
 
 "What is the date?" he suddenly demanded. 
 
 "You must be quiet and not talk," was the reply. 
 
 "I must know the date," he insisted. 
 
 "It's the eighth of May, and you've been ill and 
 must rest. You're very weak." The nurse bent 
 over him and fussed about with the pillows.
 
 48 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "The eighth of May! Where's the Rain-Girl, 
 Pan, the concertina?" he enquired faintly. 
 
 "Hush! I shall get into trouble with the doctor 
 if I allow you to talk," she said. "You must sleep 
 now, and we will talk when you are stronger." 
 
 "Nature discourages eccentricity, did you know 
 that?" he muttered apathetically, as he closed his 
 eyes. 
 
 The nurse regarded him curiously. He did not 
 appear to be delirious; yet what he was saying 
 was Sick-nursing, however, produces its own- 
 philosophy, and she settled herself down to read 
 until the doctor should arrive. 
 
 A lengthy period of silence was broken by Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 "Would you very much mind putting aside your 
 book and answering a few questions?" he asked in 
 a feeble voice. 
 
 With an air of professional resignation, she low- 
 ered the book on her lap. 
 
 "You really mustn't talk. If you do I shall have 
 to go out of the room. Now you don't want me to 
 get into trouble, do you?" Her tone was that one 
 would adopt to a child. 
 
 Beresford lay still, trying to think; but his brain 
 refused his will. The nurse had returned to her 
 book and read steadily on, deliberately disregarding 
 the two or three tentative efforts her patient made 
 to attract her attention. His voice was very faint, 
 and she pretended not to hear. The doctor had 
 said he was not to talk, and she was too good a
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 49 
 
 nurse to allow imagination to modify her instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 When the doctor arrived an hour later, he found 
 his patient restless and irritable. Seeing this at a 
 glance, he sat down by the bedside, placed a cool, 
 strong hand upon his head, and began to talk. The 
 effect was instantaneous. Beresford lay quiet, and 
 the drawn lines of irritation upon his face relaxed. 
 
 "Had rather a bad time. Pneumonia brought 
 on, or hastened, by that wetting you got. Delirious 
 when they found you the next morning. Then we 
 had to fight for you, and here after seven days 
 you've come around. That was what you wanted to 
 know, eh?" 
 
 Beresford smiled his thanks. 
 
 "And the Rain-Girl?" he questioned, "the girl 
 who was here and played the concertina. Has she 
 gone?" 
 
 The doctor smiled. 
 
 "I know, I saw her. Grey eyes and a manner 
 half-demure, half-impertinent, wholly maddening. 
 Yes, I met her on the road." 
 
 Beresford smiled appreciatively at the doctor's 
 description. 
 
 "You're the best man's doctor I ever met," he 
 said. "Do women like you?" 
 
 The doctor threw back his head and laughed 
 loudly, causing the nurse, who had just left the room, 
 to wonder if he were mad. 
 
 "I'm supposed to be a woman's doctor," he re- 
 plied.
 
 50 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Then you are in for a big success," said Beres- 
 ford faintly. "Who are you?" 
 
 "Look here, you must let me talk. I'm James 
 Tallis, practising at Print as a first step to Wimpole 
 or Harley Streets. The girl went away, so don't 
 worry about her. Such eyes ought to be gouged out 
 by Act of Parliament. They were intolerable. Now 
 I'm off. Don't fidget, don't worry, don't ask the 
 nurse questions, and I'll try and tell you everything 
 in time. I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll have 
 a longer talk. 'Bye." 
 
 Beresford stretched out his hand, which Tallis 
 took, at the same time feeling his pulse. 
 
 "Don't give me drugs, just talk when you can," 
 he said weakly. "Of course you're only a dream- 
 doctor. If not you're mad." With that he lay 
 back, tired with the effort of talking, and the doctor 
 with another laugh left the room, whispered a few 
 words to the nurse in the corridor, and whisked out 
 of the hotel. 
 
 Was there ever such a crazy, topsy-turvy world? 
 Beresford's mind was a chaos of absurdities. He 
 had flown from the commonplace, and landed in 
 a veritable Gehenna of interest. Within thirty hours 
 of setting out, a modern Don Quixote, plus a tem- 
 perament, he had encountered more incidents, 
 pleasant and unpleasant, than most men have any 
 right to expect in a decade. It was absurd, ridicu- 
 lous, insane to overload a man's stomach with 
 adventure in this way. It was like giving beef-steak 
 pudding to some poor devil with gastritis. Perhaps
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 61 
 
 after all he would be forced to return to London in 
 search of quiet. The country was evidently packed 
 with adventures too monstrously anti-climatic for 
 him. And he fell asleep as a protest against the 
 obvious mismanagement of his affairs by fate. 
 
 On the morrow the doctor came again, chatted 
 for a quarter of an hour, then, like a breeze on a 
 hot summer's day, departed. The nurse was nega- 
 tive: she was uncongenial, uncompanionable, un- 
 everything. 
 
 On the second day the proprietor came to see the 
 patient. He was a little man with a round figure 
 and a round smile. He entered the room as if it 
 had been a death-chamber, approached the bed on 
 tip-toe, and smiled nervously. As a landlord he was 
 all that could be desired. He would meet his guests 
 at the door and welcome them as a good host should. 
 He would enquire after their comfort, and in the 
 mornings ask if they had slept well. He would 
 gossip with them cheerfully if they showed them- 
 selves inclined for talk, and he personally superin- 
 tended the kitchen, having once been a chef. In 
 short, he strove to combine all that was most attrac- 
 tive in modern comfort with the best traditions of 
 the old coaching days. 
 
 In a sick-room, however, the landlord of "The 
 Two Dragons" was out of place. Rich in tact and 
 amiability, he was bankrupt in all else. He spoke in 
 a hushed whisper, sat on the extreme edge of his 
 chair, and coughed nervously from time to time, 
 raising the tips of his fingers to his lips. He was
 
 52 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 smiling, he was bland; but Beresford was thankful 
 when he rose to go, promising to come in on the 
 morrow. 
 
 The Rain-Girl continued to monopolise Beres- 
 ford's thoughts. What had become of her? Where 
 was she now? Should he ever see her again? To 
 all these questions there was no answer, at least no 
 answer that satisfied him. 
 
 During those dreary days of convalescence he 
 chafed under the "dire compulsion of infertile days." 
 Outside were the trees, the birds, the sunlight, with 
 an occasional sudden rush of rain, followed by the 
 maddening scent of moist earth. He fumed and 
 fretted at the restraint put upon him, not only by 
 the doctor; but by his own physical weakness. He 
 longed for the open road once more. 
 
 The monotony of it all, of being a hotel-invalid; 
 it was intolerable. The events of the day, what 
 were they? Breakfast, the arrival of the morning 
 paper, a visit of ceremony from the landlord, lunch, 
 the doctor and tea and, finally, dinner. Sometimes 
 the doctor would spend an hour with him in the 
 evening. 
 
 The nurse was an infliction. In herself she was 
 sufficient to discourage any one from falling ill. She 
 had neither conversation nor ideas, she whistled as 
 she moved about the room, or else she talked inces- 
 santly, now that her patient was convalescent. 
 Sometimes she appeared to talk and whistle at the 
 same time, so swift were the alternations. 
 
 The landlord a man rich in that which made a
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 53 
 
 good landlord but in nothing else exhausted his 
 ideas within the space of five minutes. With great 
 regularity he entered the sick-room each morning 
 at eleven, at eleven-five he would take his departure, 
 more genial, more amiable, and more obviously 
 good-hearted than ever. The doctor was the most 
 welcome visitor of all; but he was a busy man. 
 
 "If the microbes of this neighbourhood were only 
 sociable," he would say, "I might spend more time 
 with you. As it is they're wanderers to a germ, and 
 get as far as possible from each other before de- 
 scending upon my patients. The result is that I am 
 kept rushing from place to place with phial and 
 lancet, sedative and purge, all because of the nomadic 
 habits of these precious bacilli." 
 
 These unprofessional visits from the doctor 
 Beresford looked forward to as intellectual oases 
 in the desert of his own thoughts. He had endeav- 
 oured to emulate Xavier Le Maistre; but he had to 
 confess to himself that Voyages Autour de ma 
 Chambre were impossible to him, so there remained 
 only the doctor. 
 
 One evening towards the end of the month they 
 sat charting beside the bedroom fire, Beresford 
 wrapped in a heavy dressing-gown borrowed from 
 the landlord. They had been talking of the war 
 and the social upheaval that was following it. 
 
 "It was all so strange coming back here," said 
 Beresford, "a lot of the fellows remarked upon it. 
 Somehow or other we didn't seem to belong we 
 didn't seem to fit in, you know. When I came back
 
 54 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 on leave I noticed it particularly. I would go to a 
 restaurant, hear the talk and laughter, listen to the 
 music; yet twenty-four hours previously I oh! it 
 was all wrong, and is wrong, and will continue to be 
 wrong," he broke off irritably. 
 
 "I know," said Tallis quietly. 
 
 "You were out there?" queried Beresford. 
 
 "For more than a couple of years, one part of 
 the time at an advanced dressing-station." 
 
 "So you know," said Beresford with interest. 
 
 Tallis nodded, puffing methodically at his pipe. 
 
 "The strange thing is that some knew what was 
 the matter with them, others were just like animals 
 who were ill and couldn't understand it. You've 
 seen a dog look up at you as if enquiring why it 
 can't enjoy things as it used to?" 
 
 Tallis nodded again. 
 
 "Well, that's what some of the men reminded me 
 of," continued Beresford, "especially those who had 
 come back from leave. God 1" he exclaimed, "it was 
 an unequal distribution of the world's responsibil- 
 ities." 
 
 For some time they smoked in silence. Presently 
 the doctor bent towards the grate and knocked the 
 ashes out of his pipe. 
 
 "Talking of responsibilities," he said casually, 
 "reminds me of my own. What's the next move 
 after convalescence?" 
 
 "The next move?" 
 
 "You'd better try Folkestone."
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 55 
 
 "Folkestone!" cried Beresford, "I'll be damned 
 if I do. I'd sooner go to to " 
 
 "Well, it'll probably be a choice between the two. 
 I'd try Folkestone first, however, if I were you," 
 he added drily. "It'll brace you up." 
 
 "But it's going back again " He paused and 
 
 regarded the doctor comically. "You see," he con- 
 tinued, "I've cut adrift from all that sort of thing. 
 I escaped from London, and now you want to send 
 me to a seaside-town abomination of abomina- 
 tions. I won't go. I'll see the whole idiotic Faculty 
 damned first. I've been free, and I won't go back 
 to the collar. I know you think I'm a fool," he 
 concluded moodily. 
 
 "No, merely an idealist," said Tallis, puffing im- 
 perturbably at his pipe. 
 
 "Where's the difference?" growled Beresford, 
 petulantly. 
 
 "There is none," was the quiet reply. "What'll 
 happen when your money's exhausted?" was the 
 next question. Beresford had already told Tallis 
 of what had led up to his adventure. "I take it that 
 your means, like other things, have their limitations. 
 What'll you do when the money's gone?" 
 
 "Oh, anything, everything^ If fate sends me 
 pneumonia on the first day of my adventure, on the 
 last she'll probably send me " 
 
 "A great desire for life," interrupted the doctor 
 calmly. 
 
 Beresford sat up suddenly. "Good Lord I" he 
 burst out. "How horrible! What a fiendish idea."
 
 56 TH3 RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Nature has an odd way of paying off old scores. 
 She's a mistress of irony." 
 
 "And you appear to be a master of a peculiarly 
 devilish kind of abominable suggestion," said Beres- 
 ford irritably. "I thought you a dream-doctor at 
 first you're a nightmare-doctor I Do you think 
 that Nature is a coquette, who appears to discourage 
 a man in order to strengthen his ardour?" 
 
 After some hesitation the doctor replied: 
 
 "No: she's logical and even-tempered. There's 
 nothing wayward about her : she represents abstract 
 justice. Treat her well and she'll treat you well; 
 abuse her and she's implacable. My professional 
 experience tells me that if she ever deviates from the 
 strict path of justice, it's on the side of clemency." 
 
 "Damn your professional experience," snapped 
 Beresford, then he laughed. 
 
 "But what are you going to do?" persisted Tallis, 
 
 "You're as bad as Aunt Caroline. She always 
 wants to plan a destiny as if it were a dinner." 
 
 "But that does not answer my question." 
 
 "It doesn't," agreed Beresford, "because there's 
 jio answer. When the time comes I shall decide." 
 
 They smoked on in silence, and Tallis did not 
 again refer to the subject. The conversation, how- 
 ever, remained in Beresford's mind for several days. 
 The conspiracy against him seemed widespread. 
 Why had there always been this curious strain in 
 him, a sort of unrest, an undefined expectancy? Was 
 he in reality mad? Was he, indeed, pursuing a 
 shadow? In any case he would prove it for himself.
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 57 
 
 He was not to be deterred by this ridiculous, level- 
 headed sawbones with his sententious babble about 
 Nature, justice and clemency. It was true he had 
 been unlucky enough to get pneumonia. Other men 
 had done the same without the circumstance being 
 contorted into an absurd theory that the whole 
 forces of the universe were being directed against 
 them. 
 
 Then there was the Rain-Girl. Why had he been 
 so detestably unlucky as to fall ill on the night of 
 meeting her? She was a unique creature, and those 
 eyesl She had charm too, there was something 
 Pagan about her, and her wonderful gurgling laugh; 
 but she had said he was all wrong, and she certainly 
 had nothing in common with Aunt Caroline. 
 
 Each day his determination to see the girl grew 
 stronger. She had cast a spell over him. She had 
 fascinated him. She cared for the things that he 
 cared for. He must see her again. He would see 
 her again but how? At this juncture he generally 
 lay back in his chair, or bed, and gave up the prob- 
 lem until he were stronger and better able to grapple 
 with it. 
 
 Once there had come over him an unreasoning 
 anger at her heartlessness. Knowing that a fellow- 
 guest at the hotel was ill, even if only with a chill, 
 a strictly humanitarian woman would have been 
 touched by pity; but were women humanitarian? 
 Had she heard he was ill? In a novel she would 
 have stayed, nursed him back to health, and he 
 would have married her.
 
 58 TH^ RAIN-GIRL 
 
 This line of reasoning invariably ended in his 
 laughing at his own folly in expecting an acquaint- 
 ance to act as if she were an intimate friend, and 
 wanting real life to approach the romantic standard 
 of the novelist. That had been the trouble all along. 
 He had asked too much of life. 
 
 She was so wonderful, that Rain-Girl. She was a 
 tramp; yet carried with her a soft, feminine frock 
 and had once played the concertina with which to 
 woo the great god Pan ! How astonished Olympus 
 must have been at the sight. Why did he want to 
 see her again? Why did life seem somehow to 
 revolve round her? Why, above all, oh! why, a 
 thousand times why, did her face keep presenting 
 itself to his waking vision ? In dreams she was par- 
 amount, that was understandable, but 
 
 "When a man has a few hundred pounds between 
 himself and the Great Adventure, it's better for him 
 not to think about a girl." 
 
 "On the contrary, my dear fellow, it's just the 
 moment when he should begin to think seriously 
 about her." 
 
 Beresford had unconsciously uttered his thoughts 
 aloud, as he stood at the window, watching the sun 
 through the pine-wood opposite, and Tallis entering 
 unheard, had answered him. 
 
 "Now it's you who are the idealist," smiled 
 Beresford. 
 
 "If a doctor has an eye for anything but a 
 microbe, he'll recognise that love is a great healer.
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 59 
 
 Don't look for health in a phial or a retort; but in 
 an affinity." 
 
 "Drewitt says that an affinity is like a hair-shirt; 
 it enables you to realise the soul through the medium 
 of the senses." 
 
 "That's a very poor epigram. Some day you'll 
 discover it for yourself." Tallis drew his pipe from 
 his pocket and proceeded to fill it from Beresford's 
 pouch that lay on the table. 
 
 "I suppose," remarked Beresford presently, "that 
 there's nothing, no law, convention or unrepealed 
 statute in the Defense of the Realm Act by which 
 you can insist on my going to Folkestone." 
 
 Tallis shook his head and proceeded to light his 
 pipe. 
 
 "Then I shall go to London," announced Beres- 
 ford with decision. 
 
 Tallis puffed vigorously at his pipe ; but made no 
 comment. 
 
 "I said I shall go to London," repeated Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 "You did." 
 
 "Then why the devil can't you say something 
 about it?" 
 
 "There's nothing to be said," was the smiling 
 retort. "May I ask why you have come to this 
 decision?" 
 
 "I'm sick of the country. It's it's so infernally 
 monotonous," he added somewhat lamely. 
 
 Tallis nodded his head comprehendingly. 
 
 "Why on earth can't you say something?" snapped
 
 60 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Beresford. "You know you think I'm an ass, why 
 on earth can't you tell me so?" 
 
 "You might let me know your address when you 
 get settled," said Tallis, ignoring his patient's petu- 
 lance. "I'd like to keep in touch with you." 
 
 "I shall stay at the Ritz-Carlton," announced 
 Beresford, covertly watching Tallis to see the effect 
 of the announcement upon him. 
 
 "The Ritz-Carlton," repeated Tallis, without any 
 show of surprise. "I believe they do you rather well 
 there," he remarked quietly. "I suppose she's going 
 to stay there." 
 
 "She! Who?" Beresford started up and looked 
 across at Tallis in astonishment. 
 
 "The girl with the eyes." 
 
 Beresford laughed. "It's no good trying to keep 
 anything from you," he cried. "She's going to stay 
 there, and I must see her again. What has hap- 
 pened I don't know; but she seems to have changed 
 the whole universe for me. How it's all going to 
 end, God only knows," he added gloomily. "All I 
 know is that I must see her again. The thing is 
 when can I start?" 
 
 For a few minutes Tallis smoked in silence, obvi- 
 ously thinking deeply, at last he spoke. 
 
 "I think perhaps you're right, Beresford. It will 
 have to be London. It would be no use your going 
 to Folkestone in the flesh, if you were in London in 
 the spirit. I think a week or ten days might see you 
 fit to travel, provided you take care."
 
 LOST DAYS AND THE DOCTOR 61 
 
 "Oh! I shall be ready before then, now that 
 whistling-jackass has gone." 
 
 "The whistling-jackass?" queried the doctor 
 quickly. 
 
 "The nurse. How you can expect any one to get 
 well with that girl about the place, I can't conceive. 
 She did nothing but whistle and talk." 
 
 "Did she?" It was obvious that Tallis was mak- 
 ing a mental note of the nurse's weakness. "Yes," 
 Jie continued, "in ten days, or a fortnight at the out- 
 side, you'll be fit to travel, provided you take care." 
 
 "And what exactly does taking care imply? Does 
 it mean a hot-water bottle and a chest-protector, 
 goloshes and Jaeger underwear?" demanded Beres- 
 ford irritably. 
 
 "You will be weak and easily fatigued. Don't 
 overtire or over-excite yourself, be careful of your 
 diet, keep off spirits and take a good red wine, and 
 generally go slow for a little time," said Tallis pro- 
 fessionally. 
 
 "But I won't go to Folkestone." There was the 
 note of a rebellious child in Beresford's voice. 
 
 "So I understand," said Tallis. "By the way, I 
 shall be running up to town in July, and I'll look 
 you up." 
 
 "I wish you would," said Beresford heartily. "I 
 don't want to lose sight of you either. You're such 
 a comic sort of devil, although why you should con- 
 ceive the diabolical idea of dragging me back resist- 
 ing to this world I can't conceive. You're just as bad
 
 62 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 as that colonial Tommy, who risked his own life, and 
 jolly nearly lost it too, merely that I might be 
 involved in the further trouble and expense of 
 living."
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 O-MORROW," remarked Beresford, as he 
 lay back in a hammock-chair upon the 
 inn lawn, "I set out for the haunts of 
 
 Tallis, who had called in after dinner for a smoke, 
 did not reply immediately; but for fully a minute 
 sat pulling meditatively at his pipe. 
 
 "Any criticisms?" enquired Beresford with a 
 smile. 
 
 "That depends on how you propose to go," was 
 the reply. 
 
 "Oh, slow, say ten miles a day." 
 
 "That's helpful," said Tallis drily. 
 
 "Helpful? What the deuce do you mean?" 
 
 "I shall know where to have the ambulance. " 
 
 For a moment Beresford did not reply, then he 
 laughed. 
 
 "You certainly are the most extraordinary fellow 
 I ever met," he said. "So you think I can't walk 
 ten miles?" 
 
 "You'll collapse before you reach the third mile," 
 Tallis replied, with the air of a man making a simple 
 statement of fact/ 
 
 63
 
 64 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "What!" cried Beresford, sitting up straight in 
 his surprise. "Am I as bad as that?" 
 i "You're just weak and want building up," was 
 the reply. 
 
 For some time the two men continued to smoke 
 in silence. 
 
 "I suppose the war cheapens human life," said 
 Beresford irrelevantly. 
 
 ' Tallis looked across at him; but made no com- 
 ment. 
 
 "I noticed out there," continued Beresford, "that 
 men new to the game seemed so different from those 
 who had been at it a year or two." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "They seemed more vital. They were interested, 
 curious. They asked all sorts of what seemed to 
 us old hands stupid questions." He paused, and 
 Tallis nodded his head comprehendingly. 
 
 "Then they would gradually become absorbed in 
 the atmosphere of fatalism that seemed to grip us 
 all. It was very strange," he added, half to himself. 
 
 "What about the cheapening of life?" 
 
 "It's a bit difficult to express," said Beresford 
 slowly, "but somehow or other I seem to feel that 
 the old idea of the sacredness of human life has gone 
 for ever as far as I am concerned." Again he paused 
 and for some seconds smoked in silence, .then he 
 continued whimsically, "Take an exaggerated case. 
 Before the war if a man had " 
 
 "Stolen from you the girl with the eyes, shall we 
 say," suggested Tallis gravely.
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 65 
 
 "Well, that'll do," he laughed, "I should probably 
 have wanted to knock him down; now I should kill 
 him. Why?" 
 
 "Merely a psychological readjustment of your 
 ideas of crime and punishment," said Tallis. 
 
 "No, that's not it," said Beresford musingly. "It 
 goes deeper than that. Before the war, killing was 
 an unthinkable crime, now it's little more than kick- 
 ing a man downstairs. In other words this genera- 
 tion has pricked the bubble of the sacredness of 
 human life." 
 
 "I suppose that's it," said Tallis, as if reluctant 
 to admit it. "But " 
 
 "That doesn't settle my little hash, you mean?" 
 Beresford interrupted. 
 
 "Your little hash will settle itself, my son," replied 
 Tallis with a smile, "unless you're a bit more rea- 
 sonable," he added. 
 
 "I was coming to that. I seem to have lost the 
 will to live. It's odd," Beresford continued 
 musingly, "but when things worry or irritate me, 
 I seem instinctively to fall back on the " 
 
 "Hari-kari idea?" suggested Tallis. 
 
 "That's it," he nodded. "The way out. Why 
 is it?" 
 
 "Liver." 
 
 "Oh, rot I If it's liver, why didn't I notice it 
 before the war?" 
 
 "Nerves and liver do make cowards of us all," 
 said Tallis sententiously. "Anyhow, don't hurry 
 off from here."
 
 66 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Very well, I'll put off the start until Monday. 
 Let's see, that'll be June 9th." 
 
 Tallis nodded approval. 
 
 "You and my host and the nurse and the whole 
 blessed boiling of you have assumed a pretty serious 
 responsibility," continued Beresford. "You've 
 dragged me back resisting into this world of vain 
 endeavour, and I'm not sure that you haven't done 
 an extremely injudicious thing; but that's your affair, 
 not mine." 
 
 "What about the girl?" enquired Tallis. 
 
 "I ought to be annoyed with you," continued 
 Beresford, ignoring the question, "as a man who 
 has been forced to eat a meal he didn't want and 
 is then asked to pay for it. You've literally hauled 
 me back to earth by the heels; but as I say, that's 
 your affair, not mine." 
 
 "Well," said Tallis as he rose and pocketed his 
 pipe, "life always was a funny sort of muddle; but 
 Kaiser Bill has added to its difficulties. I'm not at 
 all sure that we doctors don't do more harm in 
 saving people than in " 
 
 "Killing them," suggested Beresford. 
 
 "Letting them die as they deserve," concluded 
 Tallis quietly. "So long," and he strolled across the 
 lawn into "The Two Dragons," leaving his patient 
 to his thoughts. 
 
 Beresford found himself looking forward to the 
 day of his emancipation with all the eagerness of a 
 schoolboy anticipating the summer holidays. The 
 past few weeks had resulted in an entire readjust-
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 67 
 
 ment of his ideas. The open road no longer seemed 
 to attract him. Hitherto it had appeared the only 
 thing that mattered; now into all his plans and pro- 
 jects the Rain-Girl seemed to precipitate herself. 
 
 Try as he might, he found it impossible to develop 
 a scheme for the future from which she was ex- 
 cluded. A few weeks previously his one idea in life 
 had been to get away from the London that jarred 
 so upon his nerves. He could not breathe in its 
 heavy, smoky atmosphere, he had told himself, and 
 he had longed for the quiet of the countryside, where 
 he could think and, mentally, put his house in order. 
 Now everything was changed. Why? It seemed 
 to have become a world of "Whys." 
 
 Convalescence to him could not mean the going 
 away to some quiet spot where his health might be 
 completely restored. It meant a definite and active 
 campaign in search of this girl; yet he had seen her 
 only twice. It was all so strange, so bewildering. 
 Time after time he asked himself what she had 
 thought of his conduct in not keeping the implied 
 appointment for breakfast. Had she decided that 
 he had forgotten, or overslept himself? He had 
 learned that it was nearly eleven on that unfortunate 
 second of May before his condition was discovered 
 by the chambermaid. 
 
 Of course it did not matter to the Rain-Girl, he 
 told himself. By now, in all probability, she had 
 forgotten his very existence; but for himself, well, 
 find her he would, even if he had to search London 
 as the girl in history had done for her lover. He
 
 68 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 could not remember who it was; thinking fatigued 
 him excessively these days. Upon one thing he con- 
 gratulated himself, he possessed a clue in the name 
 of the hotel at which she was to stay. 
 
 When at last the day of his emancipation came, 
 Beresford found himself as excited as a child upon 
 the morning of a school-treat. Soon after dawn 
 he was gazing out of the window to assure himself 
 that the weather was not about to play him another 
 scurvy trick, such as it had done on the first day of 
 his adventure. With a sigh of content he saw that 
 the sky over the pinewoods opposite was blue-grey 
 and cloudless. He returned to bed thinking, not of 
 the weather, but of the Rain-Girl. 
 
 Soon after breakfast Tallis called to bid him 
 good-bye. 
 
 "Now, young fellow," he said, "no tricks. Re- 
 member you are weak, and won't be able to stand 
 much fatigue. If you set out to walk ten miles a 
 day, or anything like it, your little worries and 
 problems will settle themselves; but don't do it. 
 I'm frightfully busy, and inquests are the devil." 
 
 "You've got a cheerful way of putting things," 
 said Beresford drily. 
 
 "I've discovered that it's no use putting things to 
 you in the normal way," replied Tallis with a smile. 
 "To say that you are pig-headed is unfair to the 
 porker. Remember," he added, warningly, "three 
 miles at the outside to-day; I doubt if you'll want 
 to do more than two." 
 
 "Oh, rot I" cried Beresford. "Look here, I'll give
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 69 
 
 you two pounds for every half-mile I do under three, 
 and you give me one pound for every mile I do 
 
 over." 
 
 "No," said Tallis, shaking his head, "that would 
 be compounding a suicide. Your will might carry 
 you on for four miles; but you'd finish the journey 
 on a gate." 
 
 "You're as gloomy as a panel-doctor during an 
 epidemic," laughed Beresford. "That's the worst 
 of you medicos, you do everything by rule of thumb. 
 You say certain things have happened and conse- 
 quently certain other things must grow out of them 
 as a natural sequence. You make no allowance for 
 the personal equation." 
 
 "I've made a great deal of allowance for your 
 personal equation, my son," replied Tallis grimly, 
 "otherwise I should long ago have certified you 
 
 insane." 
 
 "Why, I'm a perfect epic of sanity compared with 
 you," protested Beresford. "Look how you used 
 to scandalise the nurse by the way you talked to me 
 when, according to all the rules of the game, I ought 
 to have been left quiet." 
 
 "And which soothed you the most," enquired 
 Tallis quietly, "being left alone to your thoughts, 
 or told what you wanted to know?" 
 
 "Oh, it answered all right, of course." 
 
 Tallis shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It's too bad," laughed Beresford, "here have 
 you dragged me back to life again, and now I'm 
 bullying you. It's been ripping having you about.
 
 70 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 God knows what I should have done if you hadn't 
 been here," he added as he rose and stretched him- 
 self. 
 
 "Well, don't break down again," said Tallis, "and 
 above all things go slow. Let me hear how you 
 get on and if you find her." 
 
 "Right-o," he gripped the doctor's hand, "and 
 now, like Dick Whittington, I'm off to discover 
 London town." 
 
 He shook hands with the proprietor, and thanked 
 him for all he had done and, with the good wishes 
 of the whole staff, turned his head northwards in 
 the direction of London, conscious that before him 
 lay an even greater adventure than the one he had 
 sought on that unforgettable first of May. 
 
 It seemed as if Nature, conscious of having failed 
 him once, was now endeavouring to make amends 
 for her lapse. Birds were fluting and calling from 
 every branch and hedge, as if it were the first day 
 of Spring. The trees, vivid in the morning sunlight, 
 swayed and rustled gently in the breeze; the air, 
 soft as a maiden's kiss, was heavily perfumed. It 
 was a day for love and lingering. 
 
 As he walked slowly along the high-road drinking 
 in the beauty of the morning, Beresford recalled 
 with a smile Tallis' warning. Ten miles would be a 
 trifle on a day such as this, he decided. Still he 
 would take no undue risks and walk slowly, loiter 
 in fact. 
 
 He had lost thirty-eight days. It was now June 
 9th. It was strange how a man's ideas could change.
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 71 
 
 A month ago there had been nothing he desired 
 beyond the open road; now his face was turned 
 London-wards. Why? Again that inevitable 
 "Why." 
 
 The country-side was evidently no place for a man 
 who would seek quiet and a day's delight. It 
 seemed capable of providing a veritable orgy of 
 incident. George Borrow was right after all. 
 
 After half an hour's sauntering, he was glad to 
 rest on a wayside stone-heap. There was plenty of 
 time, he told himself, and no need to hurry. Again, 
 it was pleasant sitting by the road-side, listening to 
 the birds and watching the life of the hedges. He 
 had become conscious of a strange lassitude, and a 
 still stranger inclination on the part of his legs to 
 double up beneath him. His head, too, seemed to 
 be behaving quite unreasonably. There were curious 
 buzzings in his ears, and every now and then a 
 momentary giddiness assailed him. What if Tallis 
 should prove right after all, that he really was 
 totally unfit for more than a mile or two? 
 
 As if to disprove such a suggestion he rose and 
 continued his way, telling himself that as he became 
 more accustomed to the exercise, these little mani- 
 festations of reluctance on the part of his legs and 
 head would disappear. 
 
 At the end of three hours he had covered about 
 two miles. The rests had been more frequent, and 
 the distances covered between them shorter. It now 
 became too obvious for argument or doubt that he 
 was in no fit state for the high-road. In a way he
 
 72 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 was not sorry, although it was undignified to have 
 to confess himself beaten. Still London was calling 
 as she had never called to him before, not even in 
 those nightmare-days in flooded trenches during 
 1914. After all perhaps it would be wiser to take 
 train and run no risks. Tallis had been very definite 
 about the unwisdom of over-exertion. 
 
 The sight of an approaching cart decided him. 
 As it drew almost level Beresford hailed the driver, 
 a little, weather-beaten old man with ragged whis- 
 kers and kindly blue eyes, asking if he would give 
 him a lift. 
 
 The man pulled up and invited him to jump in, 
 explaining that he was bound for Leatherhead. 
 
 As he climbed into the cart, Beresford was con- 
 scious that it meant surrender; but he was quite 
 content. 
 
 Thus it happened that at half-past three on the 
 afternoon of the day he had set out from "The Two 
 Dragons," Beresford found himself at Waterloo 
 Station, with no luggage other than his rucksack and 
 a walking-stick, wondering where he should spend 
 the night. He had taken the precaution of booking 
 a room at the Ritz-Carlton ; but he was not due 
 there until the following Monday. In any case he 
 could not very well turn up without luggage and in 
 his present kit. 
 
 Having sent a telegram to Tallis telling him of 
 the accuracy of his lugubrious prophesies, Beresford 
 hailed a taxi and drove to the Dickens Hotel in 
 Bloomsbury, where he was successful in obtaining a
 
 THE CALL OF THE RAIN-GIRL 73 
 
 room, owing to the sudden departure of a guest 
 called away to the death-bedside of a relative. 
 
 That night he slept the sleep of the physically 
 exhausted. 
 
 The morrow and the remainder of the week he 
 devoted to shopping. He found that an hour in the 
 morning, with another hour in the afternoon, after 
 he had been fortified by lunch, was as much as he 
 could stand. His tailor was frankly pleased to see 
 him, and tactfully dissimulated the surprise he felt. 
 In the matter of expedition he achieved the impos- 
 sible. By the end of the week Beresford found him- 
 self completely equipped with all that was necessary 
 to enable him to proceed upon his great search. 
 
 On the Monday morning when he drove from the 
 Dickens Hotel to the Ritz-Carlton, he was conscious 
 of two things, a thrill of anticipation and the blatant 
 newness of his luggage.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 
 
 AS he stood hesitating at the entrance to the 
 dining-room of the Ritz-Carlton, there 
 flashed across Beresford's mind the memory 
 of the rain-soddened assembly-trench packed with 
 men in whose hearts there was a great curiosity, and 
 in whose eyes there was something of fear. All were 
 striving to disguise from each other their real feel- 
 ings, and were determined to go over the top as if 
 accustomed to it from childhood. 
 
 Beresford recalled his own sensations, the feeling 
 of emptiness at the pit of his stomach, the rather 
 unreasonable behaviour of his knees, and an almost 
 childish desire to strike matches in order to light a 
 cigarette that was already burning cheerfully. Elim- 
 inating the cigarette episode, he experienced all the 
 other sensations during the momentary pause on the 
 threshold of the dining-room of the Ritz-Carlton. 
 Then he took the plunge and entered. The maitre 
 d'hotel conducted him to his table and, with a feeling 
 of genuine relief and thankfulness, Beresford sank 
 into the chair held back for him, and proceeded to 
 study the menu as if his life depended upon it. 
 
 74
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 75 
 
 Now that he was actually on the eve of what he 
 had looked forward to for the last six weeks, he felt 
 an unaccountable nervousness and hesitation. For 
 some reason he could not understand, he kept his 
 eyes straight in front of him instead of singling out 
 the Rain-Girl from the other guests. She was there, 
 he knew, because she had told him that her stay 
 would last the Season. What was he to say to her? 
 Would she recognize him and, if so, would she 
 acknowledge him? 
 
 He was so absorbed in his own thoughts as to be 
 unconscious of the arrival of the hors d'cewvres. A 
 discreet cough on the part of the waiter, bending 
 solicitously towards him, brought back his wander- 
 ing attention to the business of the moment. 
 
 As he helped himself he swiftly envisaged the 
 guests on his left. She was not there. For some 
 minutes his gaze did not wander from that part of 
 the room. Now that he was on the eve of finding 
 her, he seemed almost afraid to do so. He wanted 
 to retain as long as possible the delicious feeling of 
 suspense. It was only by a supreme effort of will 
 that he controlled himself sufficiently to scrutinise 
 his fellow-guests, first quickly, then slowly and with 
 method. 
 
 By the time he was half through the fish, it was 
 becoming increasingly clear to him that the Rain- 
 Girl was not in the dining-room. In spite of the 
 growing conviction that she was not there, he now 
 became almost feverish in his anxiety to discover 
 her beneath some disguising hat.
 
 76 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 When at length he was satisfied that not even the 
 most fantastical effort of the modiste was capable 
 of concealing the head of the Rain-Girl, Beresford 
 was conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, 
 almost of despair. What if she had gone away? 
 She might be ill, or possibly her aunt was ill and 
 they had been forced to go abroad. What a fool he 
 had been to build so confidently on that one hint, the 
 name of the hotel at which she was to stay. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes fell on the untasted glass of 
 burgundy before him and, remembering Tallis' ad- 
 vice, he drank it at a draught. 
 
 Of course she was lunching somewhere with 
 friends. He would in all probability see her at 
 dinner. People could not be expected to take all their 
 meals in their hotels, as if they were staying en pen- 
 sion at Margate or Southend. Really he was becom- 
 ing a little suburban, not to say provincial, in his 
 ideas. 
 
 As the meal progressed the cloud of depression 
 lightened, and by the time that he had finished the 
 second glass of burgundy, he had explained to his 
 entire satisfaction the absence of the Rain-Girl from 
 lunch. 
 
 After the meal, he took a short walk around Bond 
 Street, Regent Street and Piccadilly. He then spent 
 half an hour in the Park, placing himself behind a 
 tree lest he should be recognised by some of his 
 acquaintance, who would carry the news of his return 
 to his family. What a splendid thing it must be 
 not to have a family. Then he walked slowly up
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 77 
 
 i 
 
 Piccadilly, determined to take tea at the Ritz-Carl- 
 ton, in fact he had already decided never to be 
 absent from any meal. 
 
 In the lounge he went through the same process 
 as at lunch, striving to penetrate the creations and 
 camouflages of Paquin and Louise. 
 
 No, she was not there. He would wait until 
 dinner-time when, unmodified by millinery, Nature 
 might more easily be studied. 
 
 After tea he strolled once more down to the Park, 
 loitering about by the Stanhope Gate until nearly 
 seven o'clock. As he drove back to the hotel, he 
 was conscious of a great weariness both physical and 
 mental. 
 
 Dressing leisurely, it was half-past eight before he 
 entered the dining-room, feeling in a modified form 
 the same thrill he had experienced at lunch-time. On 
 this occasion he immediately proceeded to investi- 
 gate his fellow guests; but although he scanned the 
 women at every table in the room, there was no one 
 he could even for a moment mistake for the Rain- 
 Girl. 
 
 This time burgundy, although the same as he had 
 drunk at lunch, failed to dissipate the cloud of de- 
 pression that descended upon him. Something had 
 obviously happened. She was not staying at the 
 Ritz-Carlton. In all probability he would never see 
 her again. No doubt the aunt, of whom she had 
 spoken, had developed nerves. Damn aunts! What 
 possible use were aunts in the economy of things? 
 There was his own Aunt Caroline, for instance. She
 
 78 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 had been about as useful to him as a mastodon har- 
 nessed to a brougham. Possibly she had gone for 
 another tramp, the Rain-Girl, not Aunt Caroline. 
 
 Possibly he sat up suddenly at the thought. 
 
 She might be ill. He had got pneumonia, perhaps 
 she had got it on the following day. Perhaps the 
 symptoms took longer to manifest themselves in 
 women than in men. How was he to find out? First, 
 how was he to find out whether she were in the 
 hotel or not? He could not very well go to the 
 manager, or one of the clerks, give a description of 
 her, and ask if she were staying there. They would 
 in all probability look upon him with suspicion as 
 an undesirable. It was all very tantalising and tor- 
 menting. 
 
 As the meal progressed, Beresford began to find 
 a hundred reasons why the Rain-Girl had not been 
 present at lunch, tea or dinner. She might be spend- 
 ing the day on the river, or motoring. Possibly she 
 had been away for the week-end, and had not re- 
 turned in time to come down to dinner. After all 
 breakfast would prove whether or no she were in 
 the hotel. People did not generally go out to break- 
 fast, unless they happened to be friends of the Prime 
 Minister. He would wait until breakfast. 
 
 Yes, that burgundy was undoubtedly a good, 
 sound wine, the second half-bottle seemed to be 
 even better than the first. 
 
 That night Beresford slept soundly. In his 
 dreams he covered what appeared to him to be the 
 whole range of sub-conscious absurdity. Everything
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 79 
 
 he saw or encountered seemed to turn into the Rain- 
 Girl, or from the Rain-Girl into something else. 
 The camel from "Chu Chin Chow," which he had 
 encountered in the streets, suddenly dissolved into 
 the Rain-Girl. The next thing he knew was that 
 he was endeavouring to ride the camel through the 
 revolving doors of the Ritz-Carlton, with the hall- 
 porter striving to bar the way, and a policeman try- 
 ing to pull it out by the tail. Then in the Park it 
 was the Rain-Girl who came up and asked for his 
 penny and, instead of a ticket, she gave him a cup 
 of coffee. Again, he was riding on an omnibus when 
 he saw the Rain-Girl in a taxi beside him. Drop- 
 ping over the side of the 'bus, he threw his arms 
 round her, only to find that it was his Aunt Caroline, 
 who was telling him not to be a fool. 
 
 Beresford awakened with a dazed feeling, con- 
 scious that something had happened, something 
 disappointing; but unable to determine just what it 
 was. Suddenly he remembered the incidents of the 
 previous day, and his failure to find the Rain-Girl. 
 Once more he was conscious of an acute feeling of 
 depression; but after his bath, and as he proceeded 
 to dress, the clouds again seemed to lift, and he 
 became hopeful. 
 
 At breakfast, however, another disappointment 
 awaited him. There was no sign of the Rain-Girl. 
 He lingered over his meal as long as possible in the 
 hope that she were breakfasting late. He became 
 conscious even that the waiters were regarding him a
 
 80 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 little curiously. It was not usual for the guests to 
 remain at the breakfast-table for two hours. 
 
 When at length Beresford rose, it was with the 
 firm conviction that the Rain-Girl was not staying 
 a.t the Ritz-Carlton. In spite of this he loitered 
 about the hotel until noon, when he took another 
 stroll up Piccadilly and along Bond Street, and 
 through the most frequented thoroughfares of the, 
 West-End. 
 
 Perhaps she was away for a long week-end, he 
 told himself, and would be back to lunch. She might 
 even be confined to her room with a chill. At this 
 thought he smiled. The warm, mellow sunshine 
 seemed to negative all possibility of any one con- 
 tracting a chill. 
 
 As he wandered through the streets thinking of all 
 the things that could possibly have prevented her 
 from being at three consecutive meals, he found 
 himself becoming more hopeful, and looking for- 
 ward to lunch-time as presenting another chance 
 of a possible meeting. 
 
 Suddenly a thought struck him, so forcibly in fact 
 as to bring him to a standstill. Had she and her 
 aunt a private suite of rooms in which their meals 
 were served? That was it. Therein lay the explana- 
 tion of why he had not seen her. She was just 
 the type of girl who would dislike a hotel dining- 
 room, he told himself, in fact she had implied as 
 much when speaking of the London Season. Had 
 she not said how much she disliked it, and how she
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 81 
 
 yearned for the quiet of the country? What a fool 
 he had been not to think of it before. 
 
 He returned to the hotel with a feeling of exhil- 
 aration. A new optimism had taken possession of 
 him. He was no longer entirely dependent upon the 
 dining-room, in fact that was least likely to bring 
 about a meeting with the Rain-Girl. At the same 
 time its possibilities must not be under-estimated. 
 No doubt occasionally she would lunch or dine there 
 for the sake of variety, possibly when entertaining 
 friends, to whose preferences she would naturally 
 defer. Yes, he must continue his search. It would 
 not do to be discouraged during the first twenty-four 
 hours. She was spending the Season in London; 
 about this she had been quite definite. She was also 
 going to stay at the Ritz-Carlton; here again she had 
 left no room for doubt. 
 
 The chances of anything having intervened to 
 prevent this arrangement being carried out were 
 comparatively remote, certainly not sufficiently tan- 
 gible to discourage him in the prosecution of his 
 search. He would leave nothing to chance, he would 
 go to all the public social functions he could, walk 
 in the Park, stroll about the streets. He would go 
 to Westminster Abbey on Sunday a good idea that; 
 she was just the sort of girl who would love the 
 Abbey, attend first nights, in short do the very things 
 from which a few weeks ago he had precipitately 
 fled. The one thing he would not do was to renew 
 old friendships. If he did his time would no longer
 
 82 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 be his own, and he was determined to devote every 
 minute of the day to his search. 
 
 The days he continued to spend in aimless wan- 
 dering along Piccadilly, Pall Mall, the Haymarket, 
 and the Park, looking into every face he met, now 
 quickening his pace to overtake some likely girl, now 
 slowing down to allow another to pass. He felt 
 sure that the police had him under observation. It 
 must, he decided, appear all so obvious. 
 
 Several times he jumped into a taxi and instructed 
 the driver to follow some other taxi or car. The 
 first time he did this he was conscious of a feeling of 
 embarrassment; but the man's sang-froid convinced 
 Beresford that there was nothing unusual in the pro- 
 cedure. Once he found himself at Richmond before 
 discovering that his quarry was not the Rain-Girl. 
 On another occasion he stopped the man when half- 
 way to Beckenham. It was a curious thing, he 
 decided, that every girl in a car or taxi who bore a 
 sufficiently striking resemblance to the Rain-Girl to 
 mislead him, seemed to be bound for a far-distant 
 destination. 
 
 On one occasion, as he was standing at the corner 
 of Bond Street, preparatory to crossing, a taxi darted 
 out into the stream of Piccadilly traffic. He caught 
 a momentary glimpse of the occupant, which sent 
 his heart racing. Tumbling into an empty taxi he 
 gave the man his instructions. The next moment his 
 vehicle had come to a standstill with a grinding of 
 tyres. The other taxi had stopped ten yards down
 
 THE SEARCH BEGINS 83 
 
 Piccadilly, and the girl was paying the driver. It 
 was not the Rain-Girl. 
 
 For his own satisfaction Beresford measured the 
 distance of that drive, which had cost him half a 
 crown. It consisted of exactly thirty-eight paces, 
 thirty-one and four-fifth yards. This, he decided, 
 must be the shortest drive on record. 
 
 It was fatiguing work, both mentally and physi- 
 cally, this eternal and uncertain pursuit, and he was 
 always glad to get back to the Ritz-Carlton for 
 lunch, tea or dinner. Every time he entered the 
 dining-room, it was with a slight thrill of anticipa- 
 tion. Some day he would perhaps see her sitting 
 there, and know that the search was ended. 
 
 His hopes would wane with the day, and when 
 night came and dinner was over, he would tell him- 
 self what a fool he was, how hopeless was the quest 
 upon which he, like some modern knight-errant, had 
 set out; yet each morning found him eager and 
 determined to pursue what he had now come almost 
 to regard as his destiny. 
 
 Not only was there his search for the Rain-Girl; 
 but he had always to be on the look out to avoid 
 possible friends and acquaintance. Once he had 
 caught sight of Lady Drewitt in her carriage, on 
 another occasion he had avoided Lord Peter Bowen 
 only by dashing precipitately into an A.B.C. shop. 
 How he escaped he could never be quite sure. He 
 had a vague idea that he pretended to have mis- 
 taken the place for an office of the boy-messengers, 
 or boy scouts, he could not remember which; but
 
 84 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 judging from the look on the faces of two young 
 women behind the counter, he rather thought it 
 must have been the boy scouts. 
 
 It was during the evening of the day of this last 
 adventure that he asked himself whether or no he 
 were altogether wise in neglecting his acquaintance. 
 Possibly the Rain-Girl knew some one he knew. 
 Why not put a bold face on things and let people 
 know that he was back in town? Tell them frankly 
 that the country was too episodic for a man unpro- 
 vided with a long line of bucolic ancestors. They 
 would laugh, the men would indulge in superficial 
 jokes at his expense, and the women would look at 
 him a little pityingly, as they always looked at 
 Edward Seymour. Why any one should want to 
 pity Edward Seymour seemed difficult to understand. 
 Those who merited pity were the poor unfortunates 
 who had to live or associate with him. 
 
 Yes, in future he would look out for old friends 
 rather than avoid them. He would run round and 
 see his cousin, Lord Drewitt. The one thing he 
 would not do, however, was to call upon Aunt Caro- 
 line. That would be like firing at a water-spout, a 
 deliberate invitation to trouble.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 
 
 ON the afternoon of the following day Beres- 
 ford found himself setting out upon a 
 subsidiary quest, the discovery of the friends 
 and acquaintance that hitherto it had been his one 
 object to avoid. Whatever his own state of mind, 
 the day at least was perfect. June had spread her 
 gayest gossamer over Piccadilly. The sun shone 
 as if in a moment of geographical forgetfulness. 
 Pretty women and well-tailored men streamed to 
 and from the Park, whilst the roadway was a des- 
 perate congestion of traffic, controlled by patient 
 optimists. Here and there an ampty sleeve, or a 
 pair of crutches, acted as a reminder of the war, 
 which otherwise seemed countless centuries away. 
 
 It was like a day from a society novel, where 
 it never rains when the heroine wears her best frock. 
 It was an unreal, artificial, fantastical, and hitherto 
 unprecedented day. From Bond Street to Knights- 
 bridge, not an umbrella or a mackintosh was to be 
 seen, nevertheless it was June in London. 
 
 Beresford sauntered idly down Piccadilly in the 
 direction of Hyde Park Corner, enjoying the 
 warmth and admiring all that was to be admired. 
 
 85
 
 86 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Into the tin pannikin of the old blind man outside 
 Devonshire House he dropped a shilling. It was 
 clearly a day for silver largesse, for light and love 
 and lingering. He smiled at the thought of the 
 absurdity of his own position. Something like one 
 hundred and twenty pounds stood between him and 
 absolute destitution. What would the passers-by 
 think if they knew, Lady Tanagra Elton, for 
 instance, who had just driven by? What would she 
 say? What would ? 
 
 "Hullo, Drew!" he broke off his speculations sud- 
 denly, as a tall, fair-haired man was about to pass 
 him. 
 
 Fixing his monocle in his right eye, Lord Drewitt 
 gazed at his cousin with expressionless face. 
 
 "My dear Richard," he drawled, "I invariably 
 cut the family skeleton during the Season. Ghosts 
 I never acknowledge, even in August, when my social 
 standard is at its lowest ebb." 
 
 Beresford laughed, linked his arm in that of his 
 cousin and turned him westward. 
 
 "Anyhow, you've got to take me into the club 
 and give me a barley-water," he said. 
 
 Although different in temperament and character 
 in about as many ways as two men can differ, Beres- 
 ford and his cousin had always been on the best of 
 terms. Lord Drewitt's pose of frank cynicism, soft- 
 ened by a certain dry humour, was to Beresford 
 always amusing. 
 
 "To give a man a title and two thousand a year 
 on which to keep it out of the mud," Lord Drewitt
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 87 
 
 would say, "is a little joke that only the Almighty 
 and the Aunt are capable of appreciating." 
 
 In spite of his expensive tastes and insufficient 
 income, Lord Drewitt had repeatedly refused press- 
 ing invitations to join the Boards of quite reputable 
 companies. On one occasion, when a very obtuse 
 financier had doubled his original offer of five 
 hundred a year for "the most inconspicuous tax upon 
 your lordship's time," Lord Drewitt had lazily 
 asked him if he had ever played in a Varsity match 
 at Lord's. The puzzled city man confessed that he 
 had not. 
 
 "Well, I have," was the reply, "and you learn a 
 devil of a lot of cricket in the process, more than 
 you can ever forget in the city." 
 
 Lord Drewitt had greatly offended his aunt, Lady 
 Drewitt, when on one occasion she had suggested 
 that he might go into the city, by saying, "My dear 
 aunt, it has been said that it takes three generations 
 to make a gentleman. I am the third Baron 
 Drewitt." 
 
 For fully a minute the two men walked westward 
 without speaking. It was Drewitt who at length 
 broke the silence. 
 
 "I understood, Richard, that you had forsaken 
 the haunts of men in favour of sitting under hedges 
 and haystacks." 
 
 "I had to give it up," said Beresford with a self- 
 conscious laugh. "I found the country is for the 
 temperamentally robust."
 
 88 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Drewitt turned and looked at him, but made no 
 comment. 
 
 "There's too much incident, too much excitement, 
 too many adventures for a man accustomed to the 
 quiet of town life," continued Beresford. "If you 
 really want to be alone you must be in London." 
 
 "I believe that has been said before," remarked 
 Drewitt drily, as they climbed the steps of the Diplo- 
 matic Club and passed into the smoking room. 
 
 With a sigh Drewitt threw himself into a chair. 
 
 "Where are you staying?" he enquired. 
 
 "At the Ritz-Carlton." 
 
 Drewitt merely raised his eyebrows and, beck- 
 oning a waiter, ordered whiskies-and-sodas. 
 
 "What's she like?" With great deliberation he 
 proceeded to light a cigarette. Presently he raised 
 his eyes and looked enquiringly at Beresford over 
 the flame. 
 
 "You impute everything to a wrong motive " 
 
 began Beresford. 
 
 "A woman is not a motive, my dear Richard," 
 interrupted Drewitt; "she's an imaginative extrava- 
 gance of Nature, like a mushroom, or the aurora 
 borealis." 
 
 "You expect," continued Beresford, ignoring the 
 interruption, "that every man is capable of making 
 an ass of himself about some woman and, naturally, 
 you are never surprised when he does." 
 
 "The surprise generally comes when I meet the 
 woman," was the dry retort. "What does the Aunt 
 say?"
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 89 
 
 "I haven't seen her yet," Beresford confessed. 
 
 "There are only two sorts of men in the world, 
 Richard," said Drewitt after a short silence. "Those 
 who make asses of themselves and those " 
 
 "How is she," interrupted Beresford. 
 
 "Who, the Aunt?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "At the present moment she is much occupied 
 with a project by which I shall become the legal pro- 
 tector of a lady's freckled and rather shapeless 
 charms and, incidentally, the guardian of her estate, 
 amounting to I forget how many million dollars." 
 
 "Noblesse oblige," laughed Beresford. 
 
 "Noblesse be damned," murmured Drewitt 
 evenly. "The situation is not without its embarrass- 
 ments," he added. 
 
 "But surely you can decline," said Beresford. 
 "You have your two thousand a year." 
 
 "Two thousand a year is just sufficient to embar- 
 rass a man who otherwise might have carved out a 
 career for himself, in accordance with the best tradi- 
 tions of the novel. With nothing at all I should 
 have got into the illustrated papers as a romantic 
 figure in London Society; but with two thousand a 
 
 year " he shrugged his shoulders and, with great 
 
 deliberation, extinguished his cigarette in the ash- 
 tray beside him. 
 
 "There is always hope, Drew, 'Unto him who 
 hath shall be given.' ' 
 
 "Precisely," replied Drewitt, "unto him that hath 
 two thousand a year shall be given Aunt Caroline
 
 90 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 for all time. She has, however, a peculiarly discrim- 
 inating nature. She recognises the inadequacy of 
 two thousand a year to keep up the title of the 
 barony of Drewitt." 
 
 "Some day she'll give you a little out of her own 
 fifty thousand a year," suggested Beresford. 
 
 "My dear Richard," Drewitt drawled, "there is 
 an obvious bourgeois trait in you. The Aunt is a 
 woman of originality and imagination. She does 
 much better than that. She collects and hurls at me 
 all the heiresses for continents round. Such figures, 
 such faces, such limbs, exist nowhere outside the 
 imagination of a German caricaturist. Sometimes 
 they have attached to them mammas, sometimes 
 papas, which merely adds to the horror of the situ- 
 ation. I suppose," he continued resignedly, "it is 
 due to the rise in democracy that the accent and 
 waist-measurement of wealth should be as obvious 
 as the Chiltern Hills." 
 
 "But surely there are some heiresses with attrac- 
 tions, Drew," suggested Richard. 
 
 Drewitt shook his head in profound dejection. 
 
 "None, my dear Richard, none. Even if there 
 were, there would always be the relatives. Why 
 is it," he demanded plaintively, "that we are 
 endowed with relatives?" 
 
 "That's where birds and animals have the best 
 of it," said Beresford, watching an impudent-looking 
 sparrow on the window-ledge. "They don't even 
 know their relatives." 
 
 "That, too, would have its disadvantages," said
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 91 
 
 Drewitt gloomily; "if we didn't know them, we 
 might adopt them as friends, and only find out our 
 mistake when it was too late." 
 
 "But why trouble about marrying?" asked Beres- 
 ford. "You can rub along fairly well on two thou- 
 sand a year." 
 
 "Rub along," retorted Drewitt in a voice that 
 contained something of feeling, "I can rub along: 
 but I have to marry and produce little Drewitts for 
 the sake of the title. I can't go round with a barrel- 
 piano, I should be bound to catch cold; besides, I 
 have no sense of rhythm." 
 
 Beresford laughed at the expression of unutter- 
 able gloom upon his cousin's face. 
 
 "To throw a man upon the tender mercies of the 
 world as the third peer of a line is a shameful and 
 humiliating act." 
 
 Drewitt gazed reflectively at the cigarette he had 
 just selected from his case. Striking a match, he 
 lighted it with great deliberation. 
 
 "All titles," he continued, "like the evening 
 papers, should begin at the fourth issue, and then 
 there might be a sort of final night edition, after 
 which the line would become extinct." 
 
 "But how " began Beresford. 
 
 Drewitt motioned him to silence. 
 
 "There would be some virtue in being the seventh 
 Baron Drewitt," he explained. "A seventh baron 
 might have traditions, a family ghost, a picture 
 gallery of acquired ancestors. These are the things 
 which make a Family. No family should be admitted
 
 92 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 to Burke without a ghost, one that walks in clanking 
 chains, although why ghosts should choose these un- 
 musical accompaniments I've never been able to 
 discover. Then there should be a thoroughly dis- 
 reputable ancestor, or ancestress, generally called 
 Sir Rupert, or Lady Marjorie, and finally a motto 
 that shall foretell the happening of something when 
 something else takes place." 
 
 He sipped his whiskey-and-soda with an air of 
 deep depression. 
 
 "The Drewitts have no ghost, nothing more dis- 
 reputable than myself, and the nearest thing to a 
 family motto that we can lay claim to is the trade 
 mark of the far-famed Drewitt Ales, a ship on a 
 sea of beer above the thrilling legend: 
 
 " 'I see it foam 
 Where'er I roam.' 
 
 Richard," he said, leaning forward and speaking 
 earnestly, "that is what keeps me back. I've just 
 realised it. It's that damned motto. 
 
 "The Aunt's latest scheme," he continued after a 
 pause, "is concerned with one Lola Craven, reputed 
 to have well over a million inherited from an uncle 
 who undermined the constitution of the British 
 Empire by producing New Zealand mutton, which 
 found its way over here in a frozen state. I tasted 
 the stuff once, I actually swallowed the first mouth- 
 ful," he added. 
 
 "What is she like?" asked Beresford.
 
 LORD DREWITTS PERPLEXITIES 93 
 
 "Probably like the mutton," answered Drewitt; 
 "they descend upon me with such rapidity that I 
 cannot get the taste of one out of my mouth before 
 another is produced. Ida Hopkins was the last, 
 she of the freckles. Her shapelessness, my dear 
 Richard, was really most indelicate. She bulged 
 wherever she should have receded, and receded 
 everywhere she should have bulged." 
 
 "And what did Aunt Caroline say?" enquired 
 Beresford. 
 
 "Oh, she said quite a lot about saving the title, 
 and the woman who was content with her place by 
 the fireside. I pointed out some of Ida's physical 
 imperfections, and suggested a photographer's dark- 
 room in preference to the fireside; but the Aunt said 
 that if I wished to be indelicate, I had better go; 
 so I went, and Ida has taken her gross inequalities 
 to another market. It's all very tame and tedious," 
 he added. 
 
 "What's Lola Craven like?" asked Beresford. 
 
 "I haven't the most remote idea. She has one 
 advantage, however, she's an orphan, with only an 
 aunt attachment." 
 
 "Lola Craven is also a much better name than 
 Ida Hopkins." 
 
 "When you marry," said Drewitt, "you don't live 
 with a visiting-card, you have to live with a woman. 
 That's what makes marriage so infernally uncom- 
 fortable. But tell me about yourself." 
 
 Beresford outlined the adventures that had be- 
 fallen him, making no mention, however, of the
 
 94 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Rain-Girl. When he had finished Drewitt regarded 
 him with interest. 
 
 "There is one thing I have always liked about 
 you, Richard, you're an ass; but you don't seem 
 to mind other people knowing it. Most of the asses 
 I have met endeavour to camouflage their asinine 
 qualities with lions' skins. Is it indiscreet to enquire 
 what you propose to do?" 
 
 "I shall carry on to the extent of my finances," 
 said Beresford with a smile. 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Oh! I may enter for the Ida Hopkins stakes." 
 
 "You might, but I'm afraid it's no good. Ida's 
 out for plunder, she will sell her charms only for a 
 title, and you have nothing more attractive than a 
 D.S.O. and the reputation of being mentally a little 
 unequally balanced, at least that is what the Aunt 
 would tell her. In any case I wouldn't recommend 
 Ida." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Even if you could accommodate your ideas to 
 her figure and its defiance of the law of feminine 
 proportion, you would find her freckles a source of 
 constant worry. They are like a dewildering bed- 
 room wall-paper to an invalid. You have to try and 
 count them, and of course you lose your place and 
 start again. When I first met her they so fascin- 
 ated me that I could do nothing but stare at her, and 
 she blushed. Heavens ! that blush. It was the most 
 awful thing I have ever encountered. I felt that it 
 must inevitably be followed by a violent perspiration.
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 95 
 
 I fled. No, Richard; give up all thought of Ida. 
 Why, even now I live in daily terror lest some man 
 I know may marry her and ask me to be best man. 
 Now I must be going. I'm due at the Bolsovers' at 
 four o'clock, and it's already half-past five." 
 
 Both men rose and walked towards the door. 
 
 "By the way, is it absolutely necessary that you 
 should stay at the Ritz-Carlton?" 
 
 "Absolutely," with decision. 
 
 "Ah, well! you're an interesting sort of ass, 
 Richard, I will say that for you. I'll see that you 
 meet Lola. Sometimes these heiresses like a fool 
 without a title just as much as one with, and it 
 would please the Aunt to keep her in the family. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Drewitt hailed a taxi and drove off, Beresford 
 turning westward. He had refused his cousin's 
 invitation to lunch on the morrow, determined to be 
 free of all engagements. He turned gloomily into 
 the Park, crossed the road and sat down upon a 
 vacant chair. In a novel the Rain-Girl would drive 
 by in a car or carriage, bow to him half shyly and 
 with a blush. He would start up and she would 
 order the chauffeur or coachman to stop. He would 
 be introduced to the aunt, invited to lunch and 
 
 "Oh, damn!" 
 
 Beresford stabbed viciously at the gravel with his 
 stick, and glared savagely at an inoffensive little 
 man with grey mutton-chop whiskers, who looked 
 amazed that any one could be profane on so per- 
 fect a day.
 
 96 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir; but 'er Ladyship would like 
 to speak to you." 
 
 The voice seemed to come suddenly from no- 
 where. Beresford turned to find Rogers, Lady 
 Drewitt's first footman, at his elbow. He looked 
 beyond Rogers and saw Lady Drewitt herself seated 
 in her carriage, examining him attentively through 
 her lorgnettes. With her was Mrs. Edward Sey- 
 mour. 
 
 Beresford walked slowly and reluctantly towards 
 the carriage. What cursed luck, he told himself, 
 to run up against Aunt Caroline so early in his ad- 
 venture. 
 
 Caroline, Lady Drewitt, was the widow of the 
 second Baron Drewitt of Tonscombe, who had died 
 at the age of fifty, leaving to his lady an enormous 
 fortune and to his nephew, Philip, the title with two 
 thousand a year. The first Baron had gone "up- 
 stairs" by virtue of the famous Drewitt Ales, and 
 a profound belief in the soundness of Tory princi- 
 ples and legislative inspiration. 
 
 Lady Drewitt took it as her mission in life to 
 see that "the family" behaved itself. Whenever a 
 Drewitt or a Challice Lady Drewitt was a Chal- 
 lice before her marriage got into difficulties the 
 first thought was, what would Lady Drewitt think? 
 but this was as nothing to the morbid speculation 
 as to what she would probably say. She had a 
 worldly brain and a biting tongue. She never strove 
 to smooth troubled waters; but by making them in- 
 tolerably rough frequently achieved the same end.
 
 LORD DREWITT'S PERPLEXITIES 97 
 
 As Beresford approached, Lady Drewitt con- 
 tinued to stare at him with uncompromising intent- 1 
 ness through her lorgnettes. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, Richard?" she de- 
 manded in level tones as he reached the side of the 
 carriage. 
 
 "That's just what has been puzzling me," said 
 Beresford, smiling across at his cousin Cecily. "I 
 think the weather people call it the approach of an 
 anti-cyclone. For June in London it's really " 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Richard. Why are you in Lon- 
 don?" 
 
 "My dear Aunt, it's June and I am a Challice. 
 We Challices all gravitate towards the metropolis 
 
 in June just as the cuckoo gravitates What is 
 
 it the cuckoo gravitates towards, Cecily?" he en- 
 quired, turning suddenly to Mrs. Edward. 
 
 "You said that you were going to sell all your 
 your " 
 
 "Duds," suggested Beresford helpfully, as Lady 
 Drewitt hesitated. "I did." He enjoyed Mrs. 
 Edward's scandalised look. 
 
 "Then how is it ?" again she hesitated. 
 
 "I bought more. My tailor seemed quite 
 pleased," he added as an afterthought. 
 
 "But why are you in town, Richard?" burst out 
 Mrs. Edward, unable longer to restrain herself. 
 Her tone seemed to imply that Beresford's being 
 in London was an offence against good taste. 
 
 "The bucolic life was too much for me, Cecily. 
 You would be astounded at the bewildering manner
 
 98 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 in which adventures descend upon the would-be vaga- 
 bond and recluse." 
 
 "Where are you staying?" demanded Lady Drew- 
 itt, with the air of one not to be trifled with. 
 
 "At the Ritz-Carlton." 
 
 "The Ritz-Carlton!" Lady Drewitt's lorgnettes 
 fell from her nerveless hand and her jaw dropped. 
 
 "A little bourgeois perhaps," admitted Beresford, 
 "but it's really quite respectable." 
 
 "You will come and dine with me to-night, Rich- 
 ard." There was grim determination in Lady 
 Drewitt's tone. 
 
 "I'm afraid I cannot, Aunt Caroline, I " 
 
 "Then lunch to-morrow." 
 
 "As a matter of fact I am engaged for all meals 
 for the next six weeks." Beresford had determined 
 not to risk missing the Rain-Girl by either lunching 
 or dining away from the Ritz-Carlton. 
 
 Lady Drewitt continued to stare. 
 
 *'If I may run in to tea one afternoon," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "To-morrow, then, at four." Lady Drewitt's 
 jaws closed with a snap. 
 
 With a smile and a bow Beresford lifted his hat 
 and strolled away, feeling that there were com- 
 pensations in a life that permitted a man to refuse 
 two invitations from a wealthy relative. 
 
 Lady Drewitt drove home, and beside her sat 
 Mrs. Edward, who had just remembered with a sigh 
 of misgiving that she and her husband were dining 
 that night with their "dear Aunt Caroline."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND 
 
 AS Payne threw open the door on the follow- 
 ing afternoon, Beresford thought he de- 
 tected a look of sympathy upon his features, 
 and he mentally decided that the first-footman had 
 narrated in the servants'-hall the conversation in the 
 Park of the previous afternoon. 
 
 "Well, Payne, how's the rheumatism?" he en- 
 quired. 
 
 "It's been a little better lately, sir; I've taken to 
 drinking water." 
 
 "Good heavens! with nothing in it?" 
 
 Payne shook his head and smiled sadly. 
 
 "We shall hear of your starting a temperance 
 hotel next," said Beresford, as Payne led the way 
 to the morning-room. 
 
 "God forbid, sir," he said fervently; then, throw- 
 ing open the door, he announced Beresford. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, Richard?" de- 
 manded Lady Drewitt, before Payne had time to 
 close the door behind him. 
 
 "The meaning of what, Aunt Caroline?" asked 
 Beresford, as he seated himself. 
 
 "You know perfectly well what I mean," said 
 
 99
 
 100 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Lady Drewitt grimly. "Why are you in town?" 
 
 "I've had pneumonia, and the doctor ordered me 
 to Folkestone, so " 
 
 "Then why didn't you go there?" demanded Lady 
 Drewitt uncompromisingly. 
 
 Beresford racked his- brains for some reason he 
 could give as to why he had not gone direct to Folke- 
 stone. 
 
 "You see," he began hesitatingly, then with in- 
 spiration, "I had to come to town to get some 
 clothes." He' looked down at his well-groomed per- 
 son. 
 
 "You don't want clothes at Folkestone in June," 
 snapped Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "Men do, Aunt Caroline," said Beresford; "it's 
 only the seaside-girl who does without." 
 
 "Don't be indelicate." Then after a pause she 
 continued, "You come and tell me you are about to 
 become a tramp, and the next I hear is that you are 
 living at the Ritz-Carlton. I want to know what it 
 means." 
 
 "To be frank, Aunt Caroline, it means that the 
 country-side was too exciting for me. It requires 
 a constitution of bronze and a temperament of re- 
 inforced concrete." 
 
 "When you see your way to talk sense, Richard, 
 I shall possibly be able to understand you." Lady 
 Drewitt folded her hands in her ample black silk 
 lap and waited. 
 
 "I doubt it," said Beresford pleasantly. "As a 
 matter of fact I entirely fail to understand myself."
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAXS HER MIND 101 
 
 "You are my sister's only son." 
 
 He recognised the grim note of duty in his aunt's 
 voice. As he did not reply she continued: 
 
 "And it is my duty to " 
 
 "Couldn't we leave duty out of the question," he 
 suggested, "at least for the present?" 
 
 "I demand an explanation, Richard," continued 
 Lady Drewitt inexorably. 
 
 "There's very little to tell," said he. "I started 
 out on my adventure, and at the end of the first day 
 I got pneumonia. That meant five weeks spent at 
 'The Two Dragons,' with a sort of musical-comedy 
 doctor and an insane nurse. Incidentally it cost me 
 well over fifty pounds. I then decided that the 
 country was too exciting for me, so I came back to 
 town for a rest." 
 
 "But why are you staying at the Ritz-Carlton?" 
 
 "It does as well as any other place," was the re- 
 sponse, "although I must confess that in poaching 
 eggs they are not inspired, but then I never liked 
 eggs ; still, their bisque a I'ecrevisse leaves little room 
 for criticism." 
 
 "What does it cost you there?" 
 
 "I really haven't been into the financial aspect of 
 the affair," said Beresford. "I should say roughly 
 from twenty-five to thirty pounds a week. It's 
 really quite moderate as things are." 
 
 Lady Drewitt gasped; but recovered herself in- 
 stantly. 
 
 "And you have about two hundred pounds left," 
 she said, making a swift mental calculation.
 
 102 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "One hundred and twenty-five pounds three-and- 
 sixpence-halfpenny, to be strictly accurate," re- 
 sponded Beresford. "I take stock of my finances 
 every morning. I should add, in justice to myself, 
 that I owe not any man." 
 
 "So that at about the end of four weeks you will 
 be " 
 
 "Impoverished, but as the Season will be over 
 and " 
 
 "What do you propose to do?" demanded Lady 
 Drewitt. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said candidly, "I don't 
 propose to do anything in particular. I'm just 
 drifting." 
 
 "How are you going to live?" Lady Drewitt was 
 not to be denied. 
 
 "I hadn't thought of it." 
 
 Lady Drewitt was clearly nonplussed. 
 
 "You can't live without money," she announced 
 presently. 
 
 "Need we dot all the Ts' and cross all the 't's'?" 
 he enquired smilingly. "I might try a barrel-piano 
 with a ticket on it announcing that I am a cousin 
 of Lord Drewitt and nephew of Lady Drewitt." 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Richard," was the uncompro- 
 mising response. "Do you expect me " she 
 
 paused. 
 
 "On the contrary," he said quietly, "I have never 
 expected anything of you, Aunt Caroline. That is 
 why we have always been such excellent friends."
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND 103 
 
 For a moment Lady Drewitt eyed Beresford se- 
 verely. 
 
 "I shall have to consult Drewitt and your cousin, 
 Edward Seymour," she announced. 
 
 "I beg of you not to," he said. "Poor Drewitt 
 is fully occupied in dodging the heiresses you hurl 
 at his head, and as for Edward, I never could place 
 any reliance in the opinion of a man with extrava- 
 gant tastes and no chin. Besides, he is an echo of 
 his wife, who is a reflection of you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "They neither of them have a will of their own," 
 said Beresford, "and always reflect your opinions." 
 
 "I shall consult Drewitt," announced Lady 
 Drewitt. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's of no use. I consulted him my- 
 self yesterday afternoon." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 "He suggested that I might take a sort of re- 
 versionary interest in the heiresses that were pro- 
 duced for his approval. He thought I might begin 
 on Miss Ida Hopkins; but he was frankly pessimis- 
 tic. He doubted if I could refrain from trying to 
 count her freckles." 
 
 "Don't be flippant, Richard." Lady Drewitt was 
 annoyed. "You have your career to consider. You 
 are young." 
 
 "But I was a failure at Whitehall," he added. 
 
 "If you don't like the Foreign Office," persisted 
 Lady Drewitt, "why don't you do something else?"
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "There is so little open to a man with all the limi- 
 tations of a university education." 
 
 "I'm afraid you're lazy." Lady Drewitt's tone 
 implied no doubt whatever. 
 
 "No," said Beresford evenly, "I don't think I can 
 be accused of being lazy; it's merely that I don't 
 want to do anything. I'm tired of all this praise 
 lavished on industry. I shall be just as happy in 
 the next world as those inventive geniuses who 
 first conceived screw-tops for bottles, or the sock- 
 suspender. I " 
 
 "You are talking nonsense." 
 
 "I'm afraid I am," was the smiling retort. 
 
 "You have already thrown up an excellent ap- 
 pointment for no reason whatever." 
 
 "On the contrary, Aunt Caroline, I threw it up 
 for a very excellent reason. I wanted to develop 
 my soul." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks." 
 
 Beresford shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I confess I had reckoned without pneumonia," 
 he added. 
 
 "I told you that you would catch cold, or some- 
 thing of the sort," said Lady Drewitt with unction. 
 
 "You did, Aunt Caroline; I give you every credit 
 for pre-vision." 
 
 "And now you come back to London, spend your 
 money buying new clothes and in expensive living, 
 and at the end of a month you'll be a beggar." 
 
 "Impoverished was the word, aunt. One can be 
 impoverished without begging."
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND 105 
 
 "But how are you to live?" 
 
 "I didn't say I was going to live. I might pos- 
 sibly die artistically of starvation." 
 
 "Why don't you go to the colonies?" demanded 
 Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "I have never been enthusiastic about the colo- 
 nies," he replied. "I dislike Australian wines, 
 Canadian cheese, New Zealand mutton, and in 
 France it was a South African who saved my life. 
 Then to add insult to injury the authorities gave him 
 the D.C.M. No, Aunt Caroline, the colonies no 
 more exist for me than they do for the Kaiser." 
 
 "Then what are you going to do?" persisted 
 Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "Frankly I haven't the foggiest idea," he admit- 
 ted, as Payne entered, followed by Rogers with the 
 tea-tray, which he proceeded to place beside Lady 
 Drewitt. For a few moments there was silence, 
 during which Payne and Rogers withdrew. "No 
 sugar, please," said Beresford, as Lady Drewitt 
 poised a lump over his cup. 
 
 "If you would go to the colonies, Richard, I might 
 be prepared to " 
 
 "Give me your blessing, exactly, Aunt Caroline," 
 interrupted Beresford suavely. "I have, however, 
 made it a rule ever since we have been acquainted 
 to value your good opinion more than your largesse." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You are too shrewd not to appreciate that wealth 
 has strange and devious influences. It causes to 
 flow the milk of human kindness, it makes one's con-
 
 106 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 temporaries strangely tolerant, it permits the pos- 
 sessor to say things that would otherwise not be tol- 
 erated. In short, it does quite a lot of things. No, 
 I have never expected your wealth, nor do I want 
 it. Your advice, like greatness, is thrust upon me ; 
 but I prefer to meet you on equal terms." 
 
 For a moment there was a strange look in Lady 
 Drewitt's eyes, as she stared fixedly at her nephew. 
 
 "You're a fool, Richard," she said with decision. 
 "You always were a fool; but " 
 
 "I am at least an honest fool. I must have an- 
 other one of those cream cakes," he added. "You 
 see a man with only four weeks of social life can 
 eat anything. He hasn't to think of his waist-meas- 
 urement." 
 
 Lady Drewitt regarded him with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "I shall have to see Drewitt about you," she an- 
 nounced. 
 
 "He is too fully occupied with his own concerns. 
 When we discussed the reversionary interest in his 
 heiresses, he asked me what I had to give in return, 
 and I had to confess that all I possessed was a tem- 
 perament. No woman wants a husband with a 
 temperament, at least, she's not prepared to pay 
 for it." 
 
 "I shall speak to your cousin Edward Seymour," 
 announced Lady Drewitt with decision. 
 
 "I assure you it will be of no use, Aunt Caroline. 
 With that long fair moustache of his, Edward al- 
 ways reminds me of a dissipated and diminutive
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND 107 
 
 Viking. There are, however, always Drew's heir- 
 esses," he said as he rose. "If you will put in a 
 good word for me, say that I'm tame, with no par- 
 ticularly bad habits, don't like cards, seldom take 
 cold, and am as domesticated as a foundling cat, I 
 feel I have a chance." He held out his hand, and 
 Lady Drewitt extended hers with reluctance. 
 
 "Richard, you're a fool," she announced with al- 
 most vindictive decision. He smiled, bowed and 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 "Payne," he remarked as the butler opened the 
 door for him, "there are worse things in life than 
 rheumatism;" and he went down the steps leaving 
 Payne to digest the remark. 
 
 As Beresford walked along Curzon Street he saw 
 the Edward Seymours approaching; their mission 
 was too obvious to require explanation. They were 
 calling on Lady Drewitt to hear the result of the 
 interview with her prodigal nephew. 
 
 "Well," sneered Edward Seymour in the tone he 
 invariably adopted to Beresford, "have you enjoyed 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Immensely, thank you, Edward," was the smil- 
 ing reply. "It always does me good to hear Aunt 
 Caroline talk of you." 
 
 "Talk of me." There was eagerness and anxi- 
 ety in Edward Seymour's voice, as he looked sharply 
 at Beresford, and then apprehensively in the di- 
 rection of his wife. 
 
 "What did dear Aunt Caroline say about Ed- 
 ward?" enquired Mrs. Edward sweetly.
 
 108 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I'm afraid " began Beresford, then paused. 
 
 "I'm afraid I couldn't repeat it before you, Cecily." 
 
 Mrs. Edward looked at him sharply. Into Ed- 
 ward Seymour's eyes had crept a look of vindictive 
 malice. 
 
 "It's only his lies," he said to his wife. "He's 
 jealous of me." 
 
 Beresford looked him up and down appraisingly. 
 The little man squirmed under the smiling scorn 
 he saw in his cousin's eyes. 
 
 "Yes," said Beresford, "I think that must be the 
 explanation. Good-bye," and lifting his hat he 
 passed on, feeling refreshed as a result of the en- 
 counter. 
 
 With something like trepidation Edward Seymour 
 followed his wife into Lady Drewitt's morning- 
 room. It was always an ordeal for him to meet his 
 aunt. She never hesitated to express her supreme 
 contempt for the husband of her favourite niece. 
 
 "Dear Aunt Caroline," gushed Mrs. Edward. 
 "We've just seen Richard. I'm afraid he has been 
 worrying you." 
 
 "Sit down, Cecily," she commanded; and Mrs. 
 Edward subsided into a chair. "Don't fidget, Ed- 
 ward," she snapped, turning irritably to her nephew. 
 
 Edward Seymour started back from the album 
 he was fingering, as if some one had run a hat-pin 
 into him. 
 
 "Make him sit down and be quiet, Cecily," said 
 Lady Drewitt complainingly. At a look from his 
 wife Edward Seymour wilted into a chair.
 
 LADY DREWITT SPEAKS HER MIND 109 
 
 "What did Richard say to you?" demanded Lady 
 Drewitt. 
 
 "He didn't say anything, Aunt Caroline," began 
 Mrs. Edward tactfully, "but " 
 
 "He was very rude to me," interrupted Edward 
 Seymour peevishly. 
 
 "What did he say?" demanded Lady Drewitt, 
 fixing her uncomfortable nephew with her eye. 
 
 "It was his manner," Mrs. Edward hastened to 
 say. "His manner is always very very rude to 
 poor Edward." 
 
 Lady Drewitt gave expression to a noise sugges- 
 tive of a horse clearing its nostrils of fodder-dust. 
 
 "He's mad," muttered Lady Drewitt half to her- 
 self; "but he's got the real Challice independence." 
 
 "I'm afraid he worries you a lot, dear Aunt 
 Caroline," said Mrs. Edward, alarmed lest out of 
 the kindness of her heart Lady Drewitt should take 
 a too generous view of Beresford's shortcomings. 
 
 "He doesn't worry me nearly so much as Edward 
 does fidgeting," snapped Lady Drewitt, fixing Ed- 
 ward Seymour with her eye. "Why on earth do 
 you bring him with you, Cecily?" 
 
 Mrs. Edward threw a warning glance at her hus- 
 band, then catching her aunt's eye she smiled at him 
 indulgently, much as if he had been a favourite dog 
 whose removal from the room was under discus- 
 sion. 
 
 For half an hour Mrs. Edward strove to extract 
 from Lady Drewitt what had taken place during 
 her interview with Beresford; but without result.
 
 110 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Lady Drewitt was not without shrewdness. Cecily 
 Seymour was useful to her as a target for her arrows 
 of scorn; but she possessed no illusions as to the na- 
 ture of her niece and nephew's devotion. The un- 
 compromising independence of Beresford, although 
 it angered her, at the same time commanded her re- 
 spect. She was a woman, and the strong mascu- 
 line personality of Beresford appealed to her in 
 spite of herself. She demanded subservience; yet 
 scorned those who gave it. She strove to break 
 spirits, all the time instinctively admrring those that 
 refused to be broken. 
 
 As the Edward Seymours took their leave Lady 
 Drewitt said 
 
 "Cecily, don't bring Edward again, he fidgets too 
 much." 
 
 On the way home Mrs. Edward made it clear to- 
 her lord that if Aunt Caroline failed in what they 
 hoped she would not fail, it would be entirely due 
 to his constitutional inability to keep still. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said miserably. 
 
 "You're not, you do it on purpose," she retorted 
 in a tone which convinced him that on the other side 
 of their front-door there awaited him tears, and 
 yet more tears.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 
 
 RICHARD, I require moral courage," said 
 Drewitt, lazily, as he crumpled up into a 
 basket-chair, which squeaked protestingly 
 beneath his weight, "and if the funds will run to it, 
 a whisky-and-soda." 
 
 Beresford beckoned to the waiter and gave the or- 
 der. Hoskins had telephoned earlier in the day to 
 say that Drewitt would be calling at the Ritz-Carlton 
 about nine. 
 
 "I'm bound for the Aunt's," continued Drewitt 
 a few minutes later, when, fortified by the whisky- 
 and-soda, he proceeded to light a cigarette. "There 
 we shall meet the latest aspirant to my hand and 
 what might be called 'the trimmings.' ' 
 
 "Lola Craven?" 
 
 "The same. Incidentally you accompany me. It 
 has been said, I believe, that romance brought up 
 the nine-fifteen. We shall in all probability be a 
 few minutes late." 
 
 "But why on earth do you want me? I haven't 
 been invited." 
 
 "It's a dinner-party, Richard, and the Aunt never 
 desires poor relations at dinner-parties. At a crush, 
 
 in
 
 THE HAIN-GIRL 
 
 or a tea, it doesn't matter, they can be pushed on 
 one side, like a dubious oyster; but at dinner they 
 must to some extent establish themselves in the gen- 
 eral eye." 
 
 "But why do you want me to go with you?" per- 
 sisted Beresford. 
 
 "I require moral courage, Richard, and your 
 clothes are newer than mine. Apart from that, for 
 a poor relation you are really quite presentable." 
 
 "Thanks," said Beresford drily. 
 
 "For another thing I want a setting." 
 
 "A setting!" 
 
 "The Aunt is rather obvious in her choice of men. 
 For instance, to-night she will have a wonderful col- 
 lection of undesirables. They will either have no 
 hair on their heads, or hair all over their faces, like 
 retired naval officers celibate, of course. They 
 are bound to be old and dull." 
 
 "But why the " began Beresford. 
 
 "One moment," Drewitt raised a protesting hand. 
 "She desires that I shall have no rival to my charms. 
 That is why I'm taking you. I want to demonstrate 
 to all whom it may concern that I can shine, even in 
 the presence of another presentable man." 
 
 "Aunt Caroline won't like it," said Beresforrl du- 
 biously. 
 
 "As she never likes anything, your presence will 
 not cause any deviation from the normal." 
 
 "But I thought you said it was a dinner," said 
 Beresford. 
 
 "It was and is; but I gave a miss in baulk to the
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 113 
 
 meal. I cannot stand the Aunt's dinners. I told 
 Hoskins to telephone that I had swallowed a fish- 
 bone, or a stud, I've forgotten which. I shall know 
 when I get there." 
 
 "But what the deuce do you want me to do?" 
 asked Beresford, puzzled to account for his cousin's 
 insistence on his presence. 
 
 "Nothing, my dear Richard, just what you are 
 always doing in that inimitable and elegant manner 
 of yours. You will merely act as a foil. The 
 Aunt arranges these things rather badly. She fails 
 to understand that if you like fair men, you like 
 them more by virtue of the presence of a dark man, 
 even if he happens to be an obvious fool." 
 
 "Thanks!" 
 
 "Not at all," was the reply; "you and I probably 
 are the two most obvious fools west of St. 
 Stephen's." 
 
 "I'll go if you wish it, Drew; but I'd rather not. 
 Where Aunt Caroline is concerned I'm rather " 
 
 "A homoeopathist, exactly. I quite sympathise 
 with you. To-night, however, I shall take it as a 
 kindness if you'll weigh-in," and he rose to indicate 
 that the time of departure had come. "I enjoy 
 your conversation, Richard, I enjoy it intensely; but 
 I cannot afford it at nearly a penny a minute. My 
 taxi is waiting," he explained. 
 
 They drove the short distance to Curzon Street 
 in silence. 
 
 By the hum of conversation that greeted them as
 
 114 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 they walked upstairs, Beresford judged that it was 
 a dinner-party of considerable proportions. 
 
 "Lord Drewitt, Mr. Richard Beresford," bawled 
 Payne, as if determined that his voice should beat 
 down the volume of sound that seemed set on es- 
 caping from the room. Lady Drewitt was stand- 
 ing near the door. As they entered she turned and 
 sailed towards them. 
 
 "Are you better?" she demanded with uncom- 
 promising directness. 
 
 "Much, thank you," replied Drewitt, with a smile. 
 "I sent out for another." 
 
 "Sent out for another 1" she looked at him sus- 
 piciously. "Payne said your man telephoned that 
 you had a slight heart-attack." 
 
 "Ah! was that it? I thought I had swallowed a 
 sleeve-link, the symptoms are so similar. By the 
 way," he added, "I made Richard come with me, 
 I'm getting a little concerned about his spending his 
 evenings alone in London." 
 
 Lady Drewitt gave Beresford a look that told 
 him all he had anticipated; then, turning to Drewitt, 
 she said, "I want to introduce you to Mrs. Crisp; 
 Miss Craven is indisposed." 
 
 "It is not for the lamb to protest," he murmured 
 as he followed, leaving Beresford to amuse him- 
 self by a contemplation of his aunt's somewhat 
 clumsy strategy in her selection of guests, most of 
 whom were middle-aged or elderly. 
 
 A moment later he felt a hand upon his arm, and
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 115 
 
 Drewitt was leading him to the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 "Please remember that I brought you as moral, 
 not as military support, Richard," he said. "Moral 
 support is always in the van. You are a civilian 
 now. You have ceased to be a soldier." 
 
 Lady Drewitt was talking to a little white-haired 
 woman of vast volubility and rapid change of expres- 
 sion. She had hard eyes, and a skin that in tint re- 
 minded Beresford of putty. 
 
 Lady Drewitt introduced Drewitt, and added 
 Beresford as if he were an afterthought. She was 
 obviously annoyed by his presence. Mrs. Crisp 
 turned to Drewitt and proceeded to deluge him with 
 short, jerky sentences, her words seeming to jostle 
 each other as they streamed from her lips. Some- 
 times the first letters of two words would become 
 transposed, with rather startling results. 
 
 "So unfortunate, Lord Drewitt. My niece has 
 a severe headache. Quite prostrate. She stripped 
 in the treet in Piccadilly. Such a dangerous place 
 you know. Every one was so nice about it. A 
 clergyman with black spats and such delightful man- 
 ners. Long ones, you know, right up to the knee. 
 He was most sympathetic. I think it's a tooth; but 
 the doctor says it's an over-active brain. I want 
 her to have it out. My dear father always did. 
 He hadn't any when he died. We buried him at 
 Brookwood. Such a dreadful journey. I remem- 
 ber I lost my handkerchief, and I had such a cold. 
 My dear mother followed him in a year." Having
 
 116 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 drenched her hearers with her verbal hose, Mrs. 
 Crisp smiled, then continued, "You must meet her. 
 She goes away to-morrow. I want you to come to 
 breakfast. Mr. Quelch is coming. He's so psy- 
 chic. I love breakfast-parties." The last few jets 
 were directed solely at Drewitt. 
 
 At the mention of the word "breakfast," Beres- 
 ford glanced across at Drewitt, who had probably 
 never been out to breakfast in his life. He usually 
 rose in time for lunch, provided it were a late lunch ; 
 yet without the flicker of an eyelash he was telling 
 Mrs. Crisp that he feared he had a breakfast en- 
 gagement for the morrow. 
 
 "Who with?" demanded Lady Drewitt, suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 In a moment of misguided loyalty Beresford 
 dashed in to the rescue. 
 
 "With me, Aunt Caroline." He wondered why 
 Drewitt flashed at him a reproachful glance. 
 
 "Then you come too," broke in Mrs. Crisp, ac- 
 knowledging Beresford's presence for the first time. 
 "You'll enjoy Mr. Quelch. He's so fond of por- 
 ridge, so am I. We have it every morning. It 
 always reminds me of bag-pipes. Such dreadful 
 things. They play them while you eat it in Scot- 
 land. Or is it haggis? It made me very ill when 
 I was in Edinburgh. Mr. Quelch loves it. Such 
 psychic qualities." Mrs. Crisp trailed off into stac- 
 catoed superlatives relative to the merits and vir- 
 tues of Mr. Quelch, as if he had been a culinary 
 chef d'ceuvre, at the same time leaving in the minds
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 117 
 
 of her hearers the impression that the porridge as 
 well as Mr. Quelch was possessed of psychic quali- 
 ties. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's a breakfast-party," lied Beres- 
 ford glibly. "I have asked some friends to meet 
 my cousin, some Americans," he added, thinking to 
 impress Mrs. Crisp by giving to the engagement an 
 international flavour. 
 
 "So wonderful," burst forth Mrs. Crisp, "they 
 really think they won the war. Everybody seems 
 to have won the war, except of course the Germans. 
 Such nice people. Americans I mean. So psychic. 
 Mr. Wilson, too, I hear he means to be Emperor. 
 Mr. Quelch likes Americans. He says, I forget 
 exactly what it was. It was very clever. They live 
 on such funny things, grape-fruit and ice-water, and 
 divorce costs hardly anything. So nice for the 
 servants. I mean the grape-fruit and ice-water. 
 So you'll explain, Mr. Berry, won't you?" 
 
 Mrs. Crisp turned to Beresford with what she 
 probably meant to be an arch look. "You will, 
 won't you?" To Drewitt she continued, "I'll take 
 no denial. Lola would never forgive me. She 
 would be so disappointed. I hate disappointing her. 
 This morning I promised her soles. They hadn't 
 any. So annoying of them. Do you like soles, 
 Lord Drewitt?" 
 
 "With me it is a matter of spelling." 
 
 "Oh, I see. I can't spell either. Isn't it strange. 
 I always spell lose with two 'o's.' '
 
 118 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I invariably spell camel with one hump," said 
 Drewitt gravely. 
 
 "How amusing. I thought men could always 
 spell. They're so interesting, I think. Camels I 
 mean. I saw one in Romeo and Juliet, or was it 
 The Luck of the Navy?" 
 
 "Chu Chin Chow," suggested Beresford. 
 
 "Ah! was it? So psychic it seemed. I love cam- 
 els. You know they can go for years without water. 
 So remarkable. I should like to keep a camel. I 
 love pets. Have you ever kept anything, Lord 
 Drewitt?" 
 
 "Only a taxi once. I kept it for six hours. I for- 
 got it was there " 
 
 "And the men are so rude," continued Mrs. 
 Crisp. "The other night one said dreadful things. 
 I forget what they were. Most profane he was. 
 You can't stop them. The men I mean, not the 
 taxis. But I'm told they're getting better. There 
 are more of them about. There's bound to be the 
 ping of the swendulum. But you will come to break- 
 fast, won't you?" Mrs. Crisp smiled a porcelain 
 smile, whilst her hard little eyes glanced from one 
 to the other, as if seeking a smouldering ember of 
 hesitancy on which to turn her verbal spray. 
 
 "I'm sure Richard will excuse his cousin," said 
 Lady Drewitt with a smile ; but in a tone that Beres- 
 ford recognised as final. "I will call for Philip 
 myself," she announced. 
 
 "How good of you," cried Mrs. Crisp. "I didn't 
 dare to expect it. Breakfast-parties are so rare.
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 119 
 
 They're wonderful. I always think we are at our 
 best in the morning. They say Mr. George Lloyd 
 governs the country at breakfast. Such an appetite 
 I'm told and what charming manners. So tact- 
 ful with the Labour Members. I always tell Lola 
 they're more important than morals. Manners I 
 mean, not the Labour Members. You'll love Mr. 
 Quelch, Lady Drewitt. He's so gifted. So psy- 
 chic. Don't forget half-past eight. We always 
 breakfast early." 
 
 Beresford looked at Lady Drewitt. She cer- 
 tainly did not inspire confidence in her power to love 
 anything or anybody as she stood there, a grim fig- 
 ure determined to achieve her ends. The thought 
 of Drewitt being at his best at breakfast was amus- 
 ing. 
 
 Beresford found himself wondering what Lola 
 Craven was like. It would be worth a fortune, he 
 decided, to marry a niece of Mrs. Crisp, no matter 
 how great her attractions. He never remembered 
 to have met so strange and bird-like a creature. Her 
 round eyes were entirely devoid of expression, be- 
 yond a glint, and her face moved as if controlled by 
 steel springs. Added to this was her unrestrained 
 flow of words. Whatever she might be, no one 
 could withhold his sympathies from Lola Craven 
 upon the possession of such an aunt. 
 
 For the next half-hour he chatted with acquaint- 
 ances among the guests, confident that Drewitt 
 would get him away as soon as he decently could. 
 From time to time he caught a glimpse of him still
 
 120 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 engaged with Mrs. Crisp, she in conversation, he in 
 calling up all his reserves of good-breeding to simu- 
 late interest. Presently he found himself standing 
 quite close to him. 
 
 "And now," he heard Drewitt say, "I must take 
 Richard home. He is really an invalid, and has to 
 be careful of the night air. You see he set out to 
 get near to Nature; but found her an extremely 
 chilly damsel, and contracted pneumonia." 
 
 "You are quite right, Lord Drewitt," streamed 
 Mrs. Crisp. "I had a brother once who caught cold 
 after bronchitis, although he always wore goloshes. 
 Such splendid things. Americans call them 'rub- 
 bers.' Always reminds me of whist. He was gone 
 in a week. You can never be too careful, Mr. 
 Berry," she added, turning to Beresford. 
 
 "And now, Mrs. Crisp, I really must take him 
 away," and leaving Mrs. Crisp still in full cry, they 
 went in search of Lady Drewitt. 
 
 As they made their adieux, Lady Drewitt once 
 more stated her intention of calling for Drewitt on 
 the morrow at a quarter-past eight. They passed 
 out of the Belle Vue and turned down Piccadilly. 
 For some time they walked in silence. 
 
 "Death with some men is a supreme stroke of 
 diplomacy," murmured Drewitt at length, "with 
 others it is an unsporting act of evasion. I have 
 known cases even when it might have been described 
 as an indulgence; but with Mr. Crisp it was un- 
 questionably an act of self-preservation." 
 
 "If the fair Lola insists on Auntie living with you,
 
 THE HEIRESS INDISPOSED 121 
 
 Drew, I'm afraid you are in for a thin time," said 
 Beresford. "Possibly she could be fitted with si- 
 lencers." 
 
 "I'm wondering," said Drewitt, disregarding the 
 remark, "what I am to say to Hoskins?" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "He's been a good servant," continued Drewitt 
 sadly, "and if " 
 
 "Oh! about to-morrow," Beresford laughed. 
 
 "If I were to tell him suddenly and without proper 
 preparation that I intend to rise to-morrow at seven, 
 it would in all probability prove fatal. I am really 
 greatly concerned as to how to break the news to 
 him." 
 
 "Why not get up without him?" suggested Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 "Get up without Hoskins 1" Drewitt looked at 
 his cousin as if he had suggested attending a levee 
 in a sweater. "Get up without Hoskins!" he re- 
 peated. There was pained reproach in his voice. 
 
 "Well, anyhow, you're in for it." 
 
 "Richard, have you ever seen a man break down?" 
 
 "Out there " began Beresford seriously; 
 
 then, seeing the drift of Drewitt's remark, added, 
 "Don't be an ass, Drew." 
 
 "I see you haven't, then we had better say good- 
 night here;" and Drewitt hailed a passing taxi, 
 whilst Beresford walked slowly back to the Ritz- 
 Carlton.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 
 
 ON the morning following the meeting with 
 Mrs. Crisp, Beresford was strolling down 
 St. James's Street, still engaged upon the 
 everlasting search, and speculating as to what had 
 happened at the breakfast-party arranged on the 
 previous night. 
 
 The idea of Drewitt and his Aunt Caroline going 
 out to breakfast possessed an aspect of novelty and 
 humour that appealed to him. He could see Drew- 
 itt finding in that meal a subject of complaint for 
 months to come. In a way he pitied Hoskins. He 
 could picture Drewittr keeping his man busy for 
 the rest of the day in bringing fresh relays of coffee, 
 and listening to his opinions on the mental capacity 
 of those who allowed their gregarious instincts to 
 triumph at the beginning of the day. Drewitt had 
 always preached the doctrine that there should be 
 no social intercourse before lunch. 
 
 Beresford paused at the bottom of St. James's 
 Street to allow the stream of traffic to pass. Sud- 
 denly his heart started pounding with almost suffo- 
 cating vigour. There in a taxi that was swinging 
 round the curve was the Rain-Girl alone. Beside 
 
 122
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 
 
 the driver was some luggage. She was going away. 
 In a flash he realised that this was his supreme op- 
 portunity. 
 
 With the wild look of a hunted man, he glanced 
 about him. All the taxis were full. He could not 
 hurl from one of them its occupants, and by threats 
 make the driver follow that in which the Rain-Girl 
 was seated. He could not ask some one to allow 
 him to enter their vehicle, and instruct the driver to 
 follow another taxi. They would think him mad. 
 There seemed nothing for it but to follow on foot, 
 to run for it. 
 
 The picture of a man in a top hat and morning- 
 coat tearing down the Mall in pursuit of a taxi was 
 bound to arouse comment, he told himself; yet there 
 seemed nothing else to do. With a wild dash he 
 got between two vehicles, his intention being to cut 
 through St. James's Palace and thus save a corner. 
 No doubt the Rain-Girl was making for Victoria. 
 What irony of fate that he should be in the one 
 spot in London where a taxi was most difficult to 
 obtain 1 
 
 Just as he was about to dive to the right, a taxi 
 came out of the gates by St. James's Palace, bound 
 northwards. It was empty. Dashing across to it 
 he hailed the man. 
 
 "Swing round and drive to Victoria like hell, and 
 I'll give you a sovereign." 
 
 Beresford jumped in as the man swung his vehi- 
 cle round, amidst a perfect deluge of curses from 
 a brother of the wheel, whose off mudguard he
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 missed by a quarter of an inch. Beresford jammed 
 his hat on the back of his head and, leaning out of 
 the window, proceeded to urge the man to his ut- 
 most speed. 
 
 "What about the speed-limit, sir?" demanded the 
 Jehu out of the corner of his mouth. 
 
 "Damn the speed-limit," yelled Beresford, caus- 
 ing the sentry pacing up and down outside St. 
 James's Palace to stop suddenly and stare. 
 
 "Yes, that's all very well," grumbled the man. 
 
 "I'll pay fines and everything," said Beresford, 
 "drive like hell." 
 
 Round the bend the man swung his cab into the 
 middle of the Mall and let her rip. Beresford 
 changed from the offside to the nearside, striving to 
 get a glimpse of the Rain-Girl's taxi. Apparently 
 it had disappeared. Had she gone in the other dk 
 rection? For a moment he hesitated. Should he 
 stop the man and turn back? Yet why should she 
 be coming this way if she were not going to Vic- 
 toria, or at least in that direction. 
 
 He strained his eyes and leaned far out of the 
 window to see the other vehicles as they swung round 
 by the Queen Victoria Memorial. Unconscious that 
 he was attracting to himself the attention, not only 
 of the occupants of the taxis he overtook, but of the 
 passers-by, Beresford continued to watch and to de- 
 spair. She had gone. Disappeared into thin air. 
 iWhat luck, what rotten luck! Probably she had 
 gone away for 
 
 Suddenly he withdrew his head and plumped him-
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 125 
 
 self down on to the seat, and with his stick nearly 
 broke the glass in front of him. The man looked 
 round as if he had been shot. Beresford motioned 
 him to ease up. There a few yards in front of him 
 was the Rain-Girl's taxi, which had been obscured 
 by a large car. 
 
 When the man had slowed down, Beresford put 
 his head out of the window. 
 
 "Follow that taxi with the girl in it," he said. 
 
 "Right-o, sir," said the man with a wink. 
 
 Beresford leaned back, conscious for the first 
 time of the strain of the last few minutes. He felt 
 weak and giddy, and recalled Tallis' injunction to 
 avoid anything in the nature of excitement. Avoid 
 the Rain-Girl! He laughed. At last he was on 
 her track. Where she went he would go. He 
 watched her taxi as one hypnotised. 
 
 As it approached Victoria Station he saw the 
 driver turn and make an enquiry, then he swung out 
 to the left and made for the South-Eastern Station, 
 Beresford's man keeping about twenty yards be- 
 hind. As his taxi drew up, the Rain-Girl was just 
 getting out of hers. Yes, there was no room for 
 doubt, it was she. A porter was hurling her luggage 
 on to a truck and apparently counselling haste. 
 She was late, obviously. 
 
 Immediately she had turned to follow her por- 
 ter, Beresford jumped out and, handing the taxi- 
 man two one-pound notes, followed her, leaving the 
 man inarticulate. 
 
 Yes, there was undoubtedly reason for haste, the
 
 126 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 porter was dashing along, the Rain-Girl keeping up 
 with him. As she went she fumbled in her bag, ob- 
 viously for her ticket. How well she walked, he 
 decided. She passed through the barrier, the guard 
 was looking in her direction shouting. In his hand 
 was a green flag ready to be unfurled. 
 
 Making a dash for the barrier, Beresford 
 shouted something about it being a matter of life or 
 death that he should catch that train. He pushed 
 a note into the ticket-collector's hand, dashed 
 through and had hurled himself into a first-class 
 compartment just as the train began to move. With 
 a feeling of relief he noticed that the compartment 
 was empty. 
 
 As he leaned back panting, more from excitement 
 than loss of breath, he was conscious of a feeling 
 of triumph. His search had not been in vain. 
 Somewhere in that train was the Rain-Girl. He 
 would watch carefully at each station, and where 
 she left the train he would leave it. What luck, 
 what astounding luck! Would she recognise him? 
 What was he to do if 
 
 "Where for, sir?" 
 
 He looked up suddenly. A guard was looking 
 down at him from the door leading into the cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 "Er er " he began, then paused. "I 
 
 haven't got a ticket. I only just caught it as it was. 
 I told the collector I would pay on the train." 
 
 "Yes, sir, where for?" asked the guard, bringing 
 a receipt book out of his satchel.
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 127 
 
 Where for! Where was he for? Where on 
 earth was the train going to? There had been no 
 time to enquire. He could not say that he was 
 going as far as the Rain-Girl went, the man would 
 in all probability have him put out at the next sta- 
 tion as a lunatic. Suddenly he had an inspiration. 
 
 "All the way," he said casually. 
 
 "To Paris, sir?" interrogated the man. 
 
 To Paris! Was she going to Paris? What on 
 earth should he do in Paris with not so much as a 
 tooth-brush ? It was bad enough to be travelling in 
 a continental train in a top hat and a morning- 
 coat' 
 
 "Did you say Paris, sir?" enquired the guard. 
 
 Beresford nodded. If she got out on the way 
 he could do likewise. It was always possible to 
 terminate a journey at an intermediate station. 
 Suppose she were going to stay with friends at a 
 small French town, or at some station between Lon- 
 don and Dover, or Folkestone, whichever way the. 
 train went. Sometimes these trains stopped at odd. 
 stations, he told himself. What on earth should, 
 he do on a country platform in a top hat? 
 
 "Did you get your luggage in the van all right,, 
 sir?" enquired "the guard civilly. 
 
 His luggage? Oh, damn it! Why were people 
 so infernally interested in the affairs of others? 
 Why should it be assumed that because a man was 
 going to Paris he required to carry luggage? All 
 that was necessary could be bought there, surely?
 
 128 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 What on earth was he to tell this man? Then he 
 decided to risk telling the truth. 
 
 "I'm afraid I haven't got any luggage, guard," 
 he said, looking up with a smile and handing the 
 man five one-pound notes. "Keep the change," he 
 said casually* 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the guard, still standing 
 half in the carriage, as if Beresford's remark re- 
 quired some explanation. 
 
 "I saw a friend coming by this train and 
 and " he hesitated. 
 
 "I understand, sir," said the man without the 
 flicker of a smile. "If I can help you, sir," he added 
 significantly, "perhaps you would like to take a walk 
 through the train and see if you can find her." 
 ! "Her!" There was a vast fund of humanity in 
 this guard. Beresford looked at him. 
 
 "If you tell me what she is like, sir, perhaps I can 
 find out where she's going. I've got to examine all 
 the tickets." 
 
 "What a brainy idea," exclaimed Beresford, look- 
 ing up at the man in admiration. "She's dark, and 
 she was wearing a long, browny-grey sort of coat, 
 you know." 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 "And " he hesitated. "What the devil did 
 
 she have on her head?" 
 
 "A hat, sir?" suggested the guard. 
 
 Beresford looked up and laughed. "I'm blessed 
 if I know what you would call it, guard. It was a 
 round thing, browny-grey too, with some yellow on
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 129 
 
 it like a candle-snuffer, you know, the hat I mean." 
 
 Again the man nodded comprehendingly. He 
 was a most unusual guard, Beresford decided. 
 
 "I'll be back in about twenty minutes, sir," said 
 the man, and he disappeared. 
 
 Beresford lighted a cigarette and, putting his hat 
 and stick on the rack, leaned back and smoked con- 
 tentedly. This was indeed a day of happenings. 
 Not only had he found the Rain-Girl; but he had 
 stumbled across an official who clearly ought to have 
 been in the diplomatic service. The Foreign Office 
 was notoriously lacking in diplomatists. Tact was 
 as little likely to be found there as in a nagging wife; 
 yet here was a man, an ordinary guard on the South- 
 Eastern and Chatham Railway, who combined the 
 discretion of a Lord Chesterfield with the tact of a 
 rising politician. It promised to be a wonderful 
 day. 
 
 Presently the guard returned and, with perfect 
 composure of feature, informed Beresford that there 
 were two ladies answering to his description, one 
 was bound for Folkestone, and the man rather 
 thought that this must be the one, and the other for 
 Boulogne. 
 
 "So I had better change your ticket, sir?" he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 This man was indeed a paragon, not only of dis* 
 cretion, but of economy. Beresford handed him 
 the slip. 
 
 "Make it out to the station I get out at," he said, 
 "and keep the difference for yourself."
 
 130 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the guard gratefully. 
 "And now, would you like to see the ladies?" His 
 tone was that of a landlady inquiring if a potential 
 lodger would like to see the rooms. 
 
 "See them!" repeated Beresford dully. Then he 
 added quickly, "of course; yes, guard; but 
 but " 
 
 "I'll point out the compartments, sir. I don't 
 think you need be seen," he remarked, anticipating 
 Beresford's objection. 
 
 "Right!" he said as he rose and followed the 
 guard along the corridor. 
 
 Presently he paused to let Beresford come up with 
 him. "One of them's in the third compartment of 
 the next carriage at the further window," he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 Beresford nodded, conscious that his heart was 
 again pounding like a hammer. 
 
 "It's the Folkestone lady, sir," added the guard. 
 
 Again Beresford nodded and proceeded along 
 the corridor. When he arrived at the third com- 
 partment he was almost too nervous to look in. A 
 glance sufficed to show him that it was, indeed, the 
 Rain-Girl sitting at the further corner, gazing out 
 at the bricks-and-mortar that was now giving place 
 to green fields. 
 
 Beresford nodded to the guard to indicate that 
 the search need not be proceeded with. The man 
 indicated a compartment of the same carriage in 
 which the Rain-Girl sat.
 
 THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE 131 
 
 "Perhaps you'd like to sit here, sir," he said. 
 "I'll fetch your hat and stick." 
 
 Until that moment Beresford was unconscious of 
 having left them behind him; but then there was no 
 need to remember anything with so able a hench- 
 man. 
 
 Once more he threw himself down into a corner-' 
 seat, and, when the guard had carefully, almost rev 
 erently, placed his hat and stick on the rack above 
 him, Beresford found himself faced with the prob- 
 lem of what he was to do on arriving at Folkestone. 
 Obviously the first thing was to secure a vehicle, 
 preferably a taxi, and instruct the driver to follow 
 the Rain-Girl. Once he had discovered where she 
 was going, he could decide upon his course of action. 
 
 At Folkestone he was one of the first to leave the 
 train. He had no difficulty in securing a taxi. His 
 request for the hood to be put up seemed likely to 
 produce trouble, the man was obviously of the opin- 
 ion that his fare was a lunatic; but the promise of 
 double fare mollified the Jehu's grumblings, and 
 achieved Beresford's object. Out of sight he sat 
 and watched. Presently the Rain-Girl emerged, 
 followed by a porter. She, too, chose a taxi, which 
 a minute later drew out, and Beresford instructed 
 his man to follow it. 
 
 At last he felt that he had achieved his object. 
 Nothing short of some unforeseen accident could 
 now intervene. He hoped the tyres of his vehicle 
 were all right, and that the man had an ample sup- 
 ply of petrol. As the taxi turned on to the Leas,
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Beresford decided that the Rain-Girl was going to 
 the Imperial. As a matter of fact there was no- 
 where else for a taxi taking that direction to go. 
 His own driver, taking his instructions literally, drew 
 up within half a yard of the Rain-Girl's vehicle. 
 Beresford cursed him under his breath, and strove 
 to squeeze himself out of sight. The man evidently 
 appreciated the situation, as he showed no surprise 
 at Beresford's not alighting. 
 
 Having opened the door of the Rain-Girl's taxi 
 and handed her out, the hall-porter lifted down her 
 luggage and placed it on the ground beside him. 
 He then came to Beresford's vehicle and was about 
 to open the door when Beresford leaned forward. 
 
 "Can I have a room?" he enquired. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I think so, if you'll enquire at the of- 
 fice." 
 
 "I want you to enquire for me. Perhaps you'll 
 ask the clerk to come and speak to me," and he 
 handed the man a half crown. 
 
 "Certainly, sir," and the man ran up the steps, 
 reappearing a minute later followed by a dark lit- 
 tle man, perfect in dress and deportment. 
 
 Beresford explained his requirements. 
 
 Yes, everything could be arranged to monsieur's 
 entire satisfaction. When would monsieur want 
 the room? That night? Certainly, and would he 
 take dinner? He would. A deposit? It was not 
 necessary. Monsieur insisted? The man shrugged 
 his shoulders to imply that he took the two one- 
 pound notes merely as a concession to monsieur;
 
 THE PURSUIT; TO FOLKESTONE 
 
 as for himself, well "Back to the station? 
 
 Oui, monsieur," and with a word to the driver the 
 taxi swung out from the drive, and Beresford once 
 more had cause to congratulate himself upon his 
 luck. 
 
 Everything seemed to come quite naturally to 
 him now. He would return to London for some 
 suitable clothes, be back in Folkestone that evening, 
 and then .
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 
 
 WHILST Beresford was on the way to 
 Folkestone with such expedition as the 
 South-Eastern and Chatham Railway 
 could muster, Lady Drewitt was driving back to 
 Curzon Street with Lord Drewitt seated beside her. 
 On his face was the look of deep depression of a 
 man who has been torn from his bed some six hours 
 before his normal hour for rising. Arrived at Cur- 
 zon Street, Lady Drewitt marched straight to the 
 morning-room and seated herself in her customary 
 chair, whilst her nephew wearily dropped his un- 
 happy body upon one opposite. 
 
 "Well I" She folded her hands in her lap with 
 an air of grim expectancy. 
 
 "My dear aunt," he said wearily; "it can never 
 be well with a man who has two thousand a year 
 and expensive tastes." 
 
 "If you depended upon yourself, you would have 
 only your expensive tastes without the two thousand 
 a year," was the retort. 
 
 Drewitt glanced at her with interest. 
 
 "You are becoming almost epigrammatical," he 
 said with a lazy smile, the first that had broken 
 through his mask of suffering that morning. 
 
 134
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 135 
 
 "Welll" repeated Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "You drag a man from his early and innocent 
 slumbers long before the streets are fit to receive 
 him, precipitate him into taking an unaccustomed 
 meal, hurl at him an heiress and a man of voracious 
 appetite, dubious linen and psychic proclivities, and 
 then you say, 'Well.' ' Drewitt shuddered. 
 
 "I am quite prepared to wait," announced Lady 
 Drewitt with resignation. 
 
 "So am I, so why precipitate me into breakfast- 
 parties and marriage," protested Drewitt. "Deacon 
 Quelch, what a horrible name!" he murmured. "It 
 sounds like treading on an egg." 
 
 "I want to know what you think of Lola Cra- 
 ven?" Lady Drewitt was not to be diverted from 
 her object. 
 
 "I never think of any women I have not met at 
 least half a dozen times, and most women bore me 
 at the third encounter. May I smoke ?" he enquired 
 plaintively. 
 
 "No, you may not," was the uncompromising 
 reply. 
 
 Drewitt smiled a smile of weary resignation. 
 
 "I want to speak to you seriously," said Lady 
 Drewitt, with a slight indrawing of her lips. 
 
 "My dear aunt, you are always speaking to me 
 seriously," replied Drewitt easily. "You do noth- 
 ing else, and your unvarying theme is marriage. It 
 gets a little monotonous, I confess," he added with 
 a sigh.
 
 136 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I have my duty to consider," announced Lady 
 Drewitt. "You must marry." 
 
 "Marriage, my dear aunt, is like the tint of one's 
 pyjamas, an intensely personal affair. One person's 
 happiness is achieved by spots, another's by a mono- 
 tone, suggestive of dungaree overalls; personally 
 my taste runs to stripes of delicate tints. You, on 
 your part, may prefer " 
 
 "Don't be indelicate, Drewitt. I was talking 
 about Miss Craven, not not night-wear. There is 
 the title " 
 
 "There is, indeed," agreed Drewitt mournfully. 
 "I am never permitted to forget it. If I go to a 
 hotel it means a hundred per cent, on the bill, and 
 if I dine at a restaurant, it means half-a-crown in- 
 stead of a shilling to the man who takes my hat, 
 with at least five shillings to the waiter. No won- 
 der democracy is abroad." 
 
 "You cannot complain of her appearance," an- 
 nounced Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "I never have," was the reply. "Democracy is 
 the only hope of the House of Lords. It " 
 
 "I was referring to Miss Craven," said Lady 
 Drewitt severely. "Are you going to marry her?" 
 
 "Was I expected to propose at breakfast?" he 
 asked innocently. 
 
 "Do you like her?" Lady Drewitt had a habit 
 of ignoring her nephew's flippancy. At first she had 
 endeavoured to combat it; but the discovery that 
 she was invariably discomfited had caused her to 
 change her tactics.
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 137 
 
 "Money inverts the natural order of things. It 
 is the woman who selects, just as with the birds of 
 the air," he sighed dolefully; "besides, Miss Craven, 
 seemed far more interested in Mr. Quelch than in 
 me. You see I am not psychic, merely rheumatic, 
 probably the legacy of the early Drewitts, who glo- 
 ried and drank deep of their own productions." 
 
 "Interested in that man!" Lady Drewitt seemedi 
 to sit a little more upright in her chair. There was 
 surprise in her tone. 
 
 "That was the impression I received." 
 
 For a few minutes Lady Drewitt seemed to pon- 
 der. 
 
 "It's your air of indifference," she announced at 
 length. 
 
 "My dear aunt, can you imagine me making love? 
 Can you see me spreading my handkerchief upon 
 the carpet, going down on one knee, striking an at- 
 titude, and at the same time the left portion of my 
 upper anatomy, and declaring that life holds noth- 
 ing for me if the beloved does not vouchsafe to me 
 the honey of her lips and the balance at her bank?" 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Drewitt." 
 
 "No, it's not that," said Drewitt, "the fault lies 
 elsewhere. I'm afraid I could never seriously con- 
 template marrying Miss Craven for her money," he 
 continued gravely. "She has personality and 
 charm; they always command my respect." 
 
 "Then marry her for her personality and charm," 
 said Lady Drewitt sarcastically. 
 
 "There is of course that," he said rising; "but
 
 138 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 somehow I think that when Lola Craven marries, it 
 will be for love." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks," snapped Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "I quite agree, my dear aunt, the terms are 
 synonymous; but young women are extremely self- 
 willed in these matters. I'm inclined to attribute it 
 to beauty-competitions and insufficient clothing." 
 
 "Then what are you going to do?" demanded 
 Lady Drewitt, rising with a rustle of silk and a ruf- 
 fled temper. 
 
 "I scarcely know," was the reply. "You see, 
 aunt," this with an engaging smile, "you have a ten- 
 dency to be precipitate. I am not Dante, nor is Miss 
 Craven Beatrice," and with this Drewitt took his de- 
 parture, leaving Lady Drewitt puzzled as to his 
 meaning. 
 
 Half an hour later he was seated in his favourite 
 chair, smoking a cigarette. When Lord Drewitt 
 found that the burden of life oppressed him, he in- 
 variably returned to his flat and ordered Hoskins to 
 make coffee. 
 
 "Hoskins," he remarked, as his man placed the 
 coffee before him, "I often wonder why you don't 
 demand half my income." 
 
 "Half your income, my lord!" exclaimed Hoskins, 
 in surprise, looking too cherubic and beneficent to 
 demand anything. He was a round-faced, fresh- 
 coloured, chubby little man, with the expression of 
 a happy boy. 
 
 "Because you know that I should have to give it 
 to you. Without your coffee, Hoskins, I could
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 139 
 
 never continue the unequal struggle with existence." 
 
 "I'm quite satisfied, my lord, thank you," said 
 Hoskins, with customary literalness. 
 
 Lord Drewitt replaced his cup and, turning, sur- 
 veyed his servant with deliberation. 
 
 "With everything, Hoskins?" he enquired in- 
 credulously. 
 
 "Yes, my lord, I think so." 
 
 "How weird," exclaimed Lord Drewitt. "You 
 had better join a trade-union as a corrective. It's 
 not natural. It's infernally unnatural, and it may 
 
 lead to to anything. From wife-murder to 
 . 
 
 "But I'm not married, my lord," said Hoskins 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "I didn't say whose wife," said Lord Drewitt ir- 
 ritably. "God knows there are enough wives 
 about." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Suppose I were to get married," Lord Drewitt 
 helped himself to another cigarette, which he lighted 
 with great deliberation. 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "Don't say 'Yes, my lord' in that colourless sort 
 of voice, man, as if you didn't care." 
 
 "I beg pardon, my lord," said Hoskins contritely. 
 
 "Suppose I were to get married, what would you 
 do?" Lord Drewitt leaned back with the air of a 
 man who has given utterance to the worst that can 
 befall him. 
 
 "If your lordship had no further need for my
 
 140 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 services," he began, "I suppose I should have 
 
 "Need for your services, I should want coffee 
 every fifteen minutes of the day and night. No, by 
 Jove! like the Emperor Charles and his chickens, 
 I'd have it prepared every five minutes. You re- 
 gard marriage far too lightly, Hoskins." 
 
 "I hope not, my lord," this with something ap- 
 proaching feeling in his voice. 
 
 "That's better, that sounds more human. Now, 
 suppose there were a Lady Drewitt in this flat. She 
 would be sure to want you to do her hair or some- 
 thing at the very moment I required you." 
 
 "Do her hair, my lord!" he exclaimed anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, thin ginger hair, it would be, or else mani- 
 cure her spatulated finger nails, or lace her stays, 
 or clean her shoes. You don't seem to understand. 
 There's a terrible destiny brooding over this flat." 
 
 Instinctively Hoskins looked up at the ceiling. 
 
 "You and I rub along very well together, Hos- 
 kins, thanks to your coffee and my equable temper; 
 but a Lady Drewitt would play the very devil with 
 us. Don't you realise that?" 
 
 "Now that you come to mention it, my lord, I'm 
 afraid that it might be might be a little difficult." 
 
 "A little difficult," Lord Drewitt sighed. "It's 
 a deadly menace. Now I want you to do something 
 for me." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "If at any time you hear that I have become en- 
 gaged to be married," Lord Drewitt spoke slowly
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 141 
 
 and impressively, "I want you to poison my coffee." 
 
 "Poison your coffee, my lord!" he cried, startled 
 out of his habitual calm. 
 
 "Not at once," Lord Drewitt hastened to add. 
 "Not immediately you hear the news, because bet- 
 ter councils might subsequently prevail; but say on 
 the wedding-morning, just as you are handing me my 
 lavender trousers. It would be so effective in the 
 newspapers. 'The third Lord Drewitt dies just as 
 he is about to assume his wedding-trousers. 1 'As- 
 sume' would sound better than 'put on.' One puts 
 on ordinary bags, Hoskins; but one 'assumes' wed- 
 ding-garments." 
 
 "But lavender trousers are not not worn now, 
 my lord." 
 
 Lord Drewitt looked up reproachfully. 
 
 "Lavender trousers are always worn. They are 
 Victorian, and appear in every novel and play that 
 ever was written, or ever will be written. Good 
 heavens! how are you to know that it's a man's 
 wedding-day unless he indicates it by his extremities? 
 No really nice girl would feel that she was married 
 without lavender trousers. They are conventional, 
 imperative, de rigueur. Women have protested 
 against various parts of the marriage service; but 
 never against lavender trousers. I'm quite con- 
 vinced that this convention is responsible for the lim- 
 ited number of full-dress Scottish marriages. There 
 is not the same glamour about lavender kilts. .Why, 
 I cannot conceive." 
 
 Lord Drewitt handed his cup to Hoskins.
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "You promise to poison me then," he said, look- 
 ing up appealingly, "you promise on on your hope 
 of an allotment?" 
 
 "I'll think it over, my lord." 
 
 "A broken reed," cried Lord Drewitt, as he sank 
 back in his chair. "Just like the rest, you are a 
 broken reed." He paused to light a cigarette. 
 "Have you ever thought of marriage, Hoskins?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "No, my lord," was the hesitating reply, "that is, 
 not seriously." 
 
 "Ah ! you are the child of your generation. Your 
 tendency is to think lightly of serious things. Do 
 you know the meaning of love, honour and obey?" 
 
 "I er think " 
 
 "Showing conclusively that you don't," continued 
 Lord Drewitt. "A wife loves her freedom; her 
 husband honours her cheques; and she obeys the dic- 
 tates of fashion. Hoskins, I warn you against mar- 
 rying." 
 
 "Thank you, my lord." 
 
 Lord Drewitt looked at him sharply; but his 
 cherubic expression was devoid of any suggestion 
 of guile. 
 
 "There is no necessity for you to marry," Lord 
 Drewitt continued. "There is no title, the world 
 will go round just as well without any little Hos- 
 kinses, and you have enough for your immediate 
 needs." 
 
 "Thanks to you, my lord, I have," he said grate- 
 fully.
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 
 
 "Then avoid women, at least avoid marrying 
 them," he added as an afterthought. 
 
 Hoskins looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with 
 his feet. 
 
 "I recognise the signs, Hoskins. You are keep- 
 ing company with some young female. Now, don't 
 deny it." 
 
 He did not deny it; but his fresh-coloured face 
 took on a deeper hue. 
 
 "I can see," remarked Lord Drewitt with a sigh, 
 "that my coffee is threatened from two different 
 angles: your weakness about women, and Lady 
 Drewitt's determination about the title. Tell me 
 about it, Hoskins. I can bear it," he said wearily. 
 
 "It was only in case in case Well, my 
 
 lord, you have so often talked about getting mar- 
 ried that I thought " 
 
 Drewitt looked at him pityingly. "So that if I 
 do a thing that all the great minds of the world are 
 agreed is damn silly, you must go and do the same 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, my lord, it would make it would make a 
 considerable difference," pleaded Hoskins. 
 
 "It would," agreed Lord Drewitt, "a consider- 
 able difference. Now, leave me. I'm not at home 
 to anybody. No, I shall not require lunch. Say 
 that I am in a mood of Socratic contemplation." 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said the man obediently as he 
 left the room. 
 
 When some hours later Beresford entered, Drew-
 
 144 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 itt was still seated in his chair, idly turning the leaves 
 of a book. 
 
 "Behold, my dear Richard," he said, gazing up 
 lazily, "the two most unfortunate men in London. 
 You faced by poverty, I by marriage. The great 
 Negative and Affirmative of contemporary exist- 
 
 ence." 
 
 Beresford dropped into a chair and helped him- 
 self to a cigarette from the box on the table, which 
 he proceeded to light. 
 
 "I'm just off to Folkestone," he said casually, as 
 he blew out the match and placed it on the ash-tray 
 beside him. 
 
 Drewitt screwed his glass into his eye, and exam- 
 ined his cousin's morning clothes and silk hat with 
 deliberate intentness. 
 
 "Sartorial originality, Richard, is bound to win 
 in the end," he remarked. "I would suggest the 
 addition of dust-coat and race-glasses." 
 
 Beresford laughed. "Oh," he said casually, "of 
 course, I shall run in and change first." 
 
 "It must be delightful to be a creature of im- 
 pulse," said Drewitt; "and how did you find out 
 that she was staying at Folkestone?" 
 
 Beresford stared at him blankly. "Who?" he 
 cried. 
 
 "What is the present state of your finances, Rich- 
 ard?" enquired Drewitt, ignoring the question. 
 
 "Oh, about a hundred pounds." 
 
 Drewitt nodded meditatively. 
 
 "I should propose whilst you still have some
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 145 
 
 worldly goods with which to endow her," he re- 
 marked casually. 
 
 "You are almost as bad as Aunt Caroline," said 
 Beresford. "You're always thinking of the mor- 
 row. For my part I'm going to have a good time 
 
 so long as the funds last, and after that " he 
 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It's always a mistake to live to the extent of our 
 resources," remarked Drewitt casually. 
 
 "I've never regarded you as an economist." 
 
 "That, my dear Richard, is because you always 
 take everything so literally. To you economy 
 means the saving of money." 
 
 "And to you?" 
 
 "It might mean anything, from early morning tea 
 to treasure in heaven." 
 
 "What the deuce are you driving at?" 
 
 "If a man takes everything the world has to 
 offer," continued Drewitt evenly, "he will sooner or 
 later find himself morally bankrupt, with nothing 
 to look forward to as a comfort for his old age. 
 Now I have reserved two things for my euthanasia, 
 early morning tea and marriage." 
 
 "Marriage?" exclaimed Beresford. 
 
 "I was about to add, Richard, when you rudely 
 interrupted me, thus I have before me a comfort 
 and an experience. I have forgone early morning 
 tea all my life, taking coffee instead, which I prefer. 
 I would have done the same with turtle soup, only I 
 thought of it too late; personally I regard turtle 
 soup as much over-rated."
 
 146 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "And marriage?" queried Beresford. 
 
 "Most men marry for a woman to live with, I 
 shall marry for a woman to die with. That re- 
 minds me, this morning I met Lola Craven." 
 
 "I wanted to know how you got on." 
 
 "You come then to gloat over a fellow-creature's 
 misery," said Drewitt reproachfully. 
 
 Beresford laughed, he was in a mood to laugh at 
 anything. 
 
 "To tear a man from his natural environment, 
 Richard, shows both brutality and a sad lack of half- 
 tones. I am at my best when taking coffee from 
 the hand of the admirable Hoskins; but to tear me 
 from my proper setting six hours before what our 
 cousins would call 'the scheduled time,' and plunge 
 me into the unaccustomed experience of breakfast 
 is an outrage, nothing less." 
 
 "Poor old Drew," laughed Beresford. 
 
 "Add to it Mr. Deacon Quelch, and you reach a 
 degree of frightfulness, Richard, that would terrify 
 the most hardened Hun. I wonder why I was given 
 Aunt Caroline?" he mused. 
 
 "What was she like?" enquired Beresford. 
 
 "The same as always, wise and worldly." 
 
 "I mean the girl." 
 
 "Lola Craven," said Drewitt deliberately, "is a 
 girl that no man with any self-respect would ever 
 marry for her money." 
 
 "Is she ?" began Beresford. 
 
 "Freckles, physical inequalities and general 
 lumpiness," continued Drewitt, ignoring the half-
 
 LORD DREWITT ON MARRIAGE 147 
 
 uttered question, "a man may marry because of what 
 is behind them; but not a girl like Lola Craven. 
 You must meet her, Richard, also Mr. Deacon 
 Quelch. He is unique, from the dubiety of his linen 
 to the voracity of his appetite." 
 
 "I must push off," said Beresford, rising. "By 
 the way, don't tell Aunt Caroline my address." 
 
 "Better not give it to me," said Drewltt lazily, 
 extending a hand. "But knowing your ingenuous 
 character as I do, Richard, I assume that it will be 
 the most expensive hotel in the place."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 AS Beresford entered the dining-room of the 
 Imperial at Folkestone, he was conscious 
 that for him the whole world had changed. 
 To-night he would meet the Rain-Girl again. His 
 heart was hammering against his ribs, his throat 
 seemed to contract and his muscles relax. There 
 was a curious buzzing in his ears. Did people feel 
 like that when they were about to faint? What a 
 sensation it would create if he were suddenly to col- 
 lapse. Tallis had warned him against excitement. 
 
 The approach of the maitre d' hot el steadied him 
 a little. Beresford murmured his name and was led 
 to a small table laid for one he had stipulated for 
 a table to himself. With a supreme effort he took 
 himself in hand and looked round the room. Heav- 
 ens! what luck. There she was sitting at the next 
 table, alone. He was thankful that her back was 
 towards him. 
 
 He ordered a cocktail to steady his nerves, con- 
 scious that his hands were trembling with excitement. 
 He noticed that the other diners had almost finished 
 
 148
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 149 
 
 their meal. The train had been late, and he had 
 taken his time to dress. It was nearly nine o'clock. 
 
 He wished the buzzing in his ears would stop, and 
 that his heart would not behave quite so ridiculously. 
 That bout of pneumonia had obviously taken it out 
 of him. Would the cocktail never come? 
 
 With thankfulness he saw the waiter approach- 
 ing. Suddenly the man started to whirl round, 
 three or four tables seemed to join in. Had the 
 lights gone mad, the buzzing in his ears, the 
 
 Beresford opened his eyes wearily and looked 
 about him. "The Rain-Girl," he murmured and, 
 closing them again, he sighed his content. 
 
 "He's delirious, poor fellow," some one mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Shall I have him taken to his room, madam?" 
 enquired the maitre d'hotel. 
 
 "No," said the Rain-Girl decisively. "Let him 
 remain here, and ask the others to go to their 
 places." 
 
 Reluctantly the crowd of diners retreated to the 
 background. Some returned to their tables, others, 
 too curious to be denied, stood watching Beresford's 
 recumbent form as he lay on the dining-room floor, 
 his head pillowed on a hassock, the Rain-Girl kneel- 
 ing beside him. 
 
 Presently he opened his eyes again and smiled 
 up at her. She returned the smile. 
 
 "What have they been doing?" he asked faintly,
 
 T50 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 as he caught sight of the ends of his tie, which had 
 been undone. 
 
 "You fainted," said the girl gently. "Now lie 
 quite still and you'll feel better presently." 
 
 "I remember," he said, "I " 
 
 "You mustn't talk," she said with a business-like 
 air of authority. 
 
 "I shall be all right in a minute," he said. "Tallis 
 said I mustn't get excited. You know, I got pneu- 
 monia that day and and I was ill for a long time. 
 That is why I didn't turn up to breakfast," and his 
 voice trailed off faintly. 
 
 "Will you please stand back there?" he heard the 
 Rain-Girl say to several people who had ap- 
 proached; then as he opened his eyes again she bent 
 down and whispered, "Will you tell me your name? 
 It's it's a little awkward." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it?" he said quizzically. "Beresford, 
 Richard Beresford." 
 
 She nodded. "And now," she said, "I think you 
 might have a little of this brandy," and with that she 
 lifted a glass to his lips. 
 
 He drank and a few seconds later, with a deep 
 sigh, raised himself to a sitting posture. 
 
 "I'm I'm most awfully sorry," he said, looking 
 from the girl to a little group of guests a few yards 
 away. 
 
 "You had better not talk," she said as she beck- 
 oned to two of the waiters. "Lift Mr. Beresford 
 on to his chair," she said; then she added, turning
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 151 
 
 to him, "What a strange meeting. I had no idea 
 you were staying here." 
 
 Several of the other guests now approached. 
 
 "I only arrived to-night," he said, quick to grasp 
 her meaning. "I'm just getting over pneumonia," 
 he added for the benefit of the other guests. 
 "When did you come?" 
 
 He was rapidly regaining control of his faculties. 
 
 "This morning," she replied. 
 
 It was obvious that the little group of guests and 
 waiters were drinking in this short conversation, 
 quite unconscious that it was for their especial 
 benefit. 
 
 "And now," said the girl, "I should advise you 
 to go to bed. I will order something to be sent to 
 your room." 
 
 "But " began Beresford weakly. 
 
 "When the nurse commands obedience is best," 
 s,he smiled. 
 
 With murmured thanks Beresford rose and, as- 
 sisted by the mditre d'hotel, walked slowly from the 
 dining-room out into the vestibule, where several 
 groups of guests were standing discussing the inci- 
 dent. 
 
 That night he spent in wakefulness. For hours 
 he lay tossing restlessly. Hitherto his one object 
 had been the finding of the Rain-Girl. He had been 
 like Japheth in search of a father. Had Japheth 
 ever thought that the success of his undertaking 
 might involve him in embarrassment? What had
 
 152 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 he done with his father when he found him? Did 
 he actually find him? 
 
 In spite of the feeling of exhilaration at the suc- 
 cessful issue of his quest, he was conscious that he 
 had come to a mile-stone, and that there was no 
 sign-post to indicate his future course. Hitherto he 
 had given no thought to the future, had never seemed 
 to be able to see beyond the second meeting with the 
 Rain-Girl. Now he found his mind a seething 
 whirl of questions. Where was it all going to end, 
 and what was he to do when his money was ex- 
 hausted? He reproached himself as an impulsive 
 fool for for oh, everything. What was his ob- 
 ject? The whole thing was nothing short of a mid- 
 summer-madness. What would Tallis say? What 
 would Aunt Caroline think, or say, if she knew? 
 They were not imbued with the same reticence as 
 Drewitt. They would comment, the one laugh- 
 ingly, the other with the caustic worldliness of a 
 Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 Still he had met the Rain-Girl, and she had seemed 
 to pick up the thread where they had left it in the 
 smoking-room of "The Two Dragons." At least 
 he had before him further meetings. There was 
 
 that compensation, unless What if she were to 
 
 leave early in the morning? What if he should be ill 
 again? What a fool he had been not to give instruc- 
 tions as to when he was to be called. Surely she 
 would not go without assuring herself that he was 
 better. 
 
 Then with a strange revulsion of feeling he
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 153 
 
 cursed himself for being such a fool as to faint. He 
 had never fainted before. It was all her fault. 
 
 This girl seemed fated to upset everything he 
 planned. What right had she to come into his life 
 at so psychological a moment as the first day of his 
 freedom? He had given months to the thought of 
 cutting himself adrift from old ties and restraints. 
 Then in a flash she had destroyed everything she 
 and the weather. The open road and the wayside 
 hedge no longer beckoned to him. The thought of 
 hour after idle hour spent lying on his back listening 
 to the lark had now passed like an opium vision. 
 The smell of the earth, the heat of the sun and the 
 lazily drifting clouds, all seemed to belong to some- 
 thing beyond him, something far away. He was 
 yes, he must be light-headed. 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock when eventually he fell 
 asleep and dreamed that he had just arrived at 
 Folkestone and discovered Lord Drewitt and the 
 Rain-Girl paddling. 
 
 The next morning Beresford was awakened by a 
 feeling that some one was looking at him. He 
 opened his eyes to find the chambermaid gazing 
 sympathetically down upon him. 
 
 "Are you feeling better, sir?" she enquired solicit- 
 ously as he opened his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," he replied, then memory flood-
 
 154 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 ing back upon him: "What's the time?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "It's just past eleven, sir." 
 
 "What?" cried Beresford, starting up in bed, 
 only restrained from throwing his legs out by the 
 girl's presence. 
 
 "Just past eleven, sir," repeated the girl, gazing 
 at him with all the tenderness of a woman for an 
 invalid, especially a good-looking man invalid. 
 
 "Good heavens ! Here, clear out, my good girl," 
 he cried. "I must get up." 
 
 "You'll find the bath-room the second door on 
 the right, sir," she said. "I've brought your shaving 
 water," and with that she disappeared. Beresford 
 threw himself out of bed, tore on his bath-robe and, 
 snatching up his sponge and towels, made a dash 
 for the corridor. Never had he bathed with such 
 expedition as on that morning. 
 
 Returning to his own room he found waiting at 
 the door a little dark man in a black frock-coat. 
 
 "I hope you're feeling better this morning, sir," 
 he said, with a smile that radiated tact and under- 
 standing. "I'm the manager." 
 
 "Oh ! I'm all right again now, thank you," said 
 Beresford, with a laugh as he entered the room. 
 "Come in," and the manager followed him. "It's 
 very kind of you to enquire," he continued, "and I 
 feel I owe you an apology for the disturbance I 
 created last night in the dining-room." 
 
 "Not at all, sir," said the manager sympatheti-
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 155 
 
 cally, "we were all very sorry indeed that you should 
 be ill." 
 
 "I shan't do it again," said Beresford confidently. 
 "I had pneumonia some time back, and the doctor 
 told me to take care, and and well, I had rather 
 a strenuous day yesterday." 
 
 "If you would like your meals served in your 
 room " began the manager. 
 
 "No, thanks, I'm all right now," and with that 
 the manager took his bowing departure, leaving 
 Beresford greatly impressed by the courteous meth- 
 ods adopted by the management of the Imperial. 
 
 With swift decisive strokes he shaved, all the 
 time the razor seeming to keep time to the unending 
 question, "Has she gone?" He prayed that he 
 might not cut himself. He preferred to meet her 
 unadorned by sticking-plaster. 
 
 He was engaged in brushing his hair when a 
 knock sounded at the door. 
 
 "Come in," he cried. 
 
 A moment after a waiter entered with a breakfast- 
 tray. Beresford stared at him. 
 
 "I didn't order breakfast in my room," he said. 
 
 The man looked at him surprised. 
 
 "No, sir?" he interrogated. "I was instructed 
 to bring it up." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By Mr. Byles, sir, the maitre d'hotel." 
 
 "I didn't order it," said Beresford. "Anyhow, 
 it's rather a good idea," he added, conscious that he 
 was feeling very hungry; he had eaten nothing since
 
 156 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 the previous morning's breakfast, except a lightly 
 boiled sole that the Rain-Girl had caused to be sent 
 to his room. 
 
 By Jove, that was why he had fainted ! Suddenly 
 he remembered that he had gone the whole day 
 without food. With a nod he dismissed the man 
 and, a moment later, lifted the covers from the two 
 dishes and gazed down at them. In one were boiled 
 fillets of sole and in the other an omelette. 
 
 "It's the Rain-Girl for a dollar," he cried joy- 
 fully and, drawing up a chair, he proceeded to eat 
 with the appetite of a man who has eaten practically 
 nothing for twenty-four hours. 
 
 The food was good, the tea was stimulating, and 
 once more life had become a thing of crimson and 
 of gold. It was strange, he argued, how a good 
 meal changed one's mental outlook, and now 
 what? He paused as he lighted a cigarette. What 
 was he to say when he met her? With a shrug of his 
 shoulders he walked towards the lift. 
 
 "Are you better?" 
 
 Beresford turned swiftly on his heel. It was the 
 Rain-Girl in a white linen frock and a panama hat. 
 He was just crossing the hall wondering where he 
 should begin his search, when she had appeared 
 from apparently nowhere. 
 
 "Thanks to you; I am quite well again." Then 
 with inspiration he added, "I'm as right as rain." 
 
 She smiled. "Did " he hesitated for a moment, 
 
 "did you order my breakfast?" 
 
 She nodded.
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 157 
 
 "I knew it must be you," he said. "Thank you 
 so much for all you have done," then he added 
 hastily, "I'm better; but I don't think I'm quite well 
 enough to dispense with the services of a nurse." 
 
 She flashed him a look from under her lashes, 
 then she laughed, that same gurgling little laugh that 
 had so fascinated him in the smoking-room of "The 
 Two Dragons." 
 
 "Do you think I'm strong enough to be taken for 
 a walk?" he asked, "or had I better have a bath- 
 chair? Of course, I should gain more sympathy in 
 a bath-chair, with you walking beside it," he added 
 whimsically. 
 
 "But I'm not going to walk beside your bath- 
 chair," she said, obviously a little puzzled at his 
 mood. 
 
 "Then I'm afraid it will have to be a walk. 
 Please continue your good work," he added as he 
 saw her hesitate. "I want to explain things to you 
 and and I promise I won't be a nuisance if you 
 will give me half an hour." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of your being a nuisance," she 
 said, "only that " she hesitated. 
 
 "But you do," said Beresford. 
 
 "Do what?" she enquired, looking up at him in 
 surprise. 
 
 "Know me." 
 
 "How clever of you to anticipate my thoughts." 
 
 "That's always a woman's thought when she hesi- 
 tates on the brink of the unconventional."
 
 158 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Well, you may come into the garden and sit 
 down," she said leading the way. 
 
 Beresford followed, conscious that every head in 
 sight, male and female, was turned as she passed. 
 Entering the hotel gardens, she led the way to a 
 seat shaded by a large elm. For several minutes 
 they sat silent. At the other side of the lawn two 
 girls and a man were playing an indolent game of 
 croquet. The tap-tap of the balls seemed to add to 
 the languor of the day. Beresford sighed his con- 
 tent. Of course it was all a dream ; but even from a 
 dream it was possible to extract a passing pleasure. 
 
 "You know I got pneumonia," he said casually, 
 conscious that as a conversational opening it bor- 
 dered on the abrupt. 
 
 "Please tell me," she said, turning towards him. 
 "I'm so sorry." 
 
 He then explained how his stay at "The Two 
 Dragons" had been protracted from a single night 
 into six weeks. He told of Tallis and the landlord, 
 touched on the grim irony of fate and finally 
 added 
 
 "But what worried me most was that you should 
 think I had " then he stopped suddenly, con- 
 scious of his tactlessness in referring to the implied 
 appointment made that evening in the smoking- 
 room. 
 
 "I wondered what had happened," she said, look- 
 ing straight in front of her. "I never thought 
 that you might be ill." 
 
 "Then you must have thought I had forgotten."
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 159 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said regretfully. 
 
 "It does seem rather horrid of me now," she 
 admitted, slightly stressing the word "now," "but 
 I didn't leave 'The Two Dragons' till nearly eleven 
 and " 
 
 "Thank you," said Beresford simply. 
 
 "Why did you give up your tramp?" she enquired 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 "Why did you give up yours?" he countered. 
 
 "I had to go to London." 
 
 "So did I." 
 
 "But I thought you had left London for good," 
 she persisted. 
 
 "So did I." 
 
 "Yet " she paused. 
 
 "I was tramping exactly one day," he said, filling 
 in the blank. 
 
 She nodded; but her eyes continued to interrogate 
 him. 
 
 "Then I had to return to London," he repeated. 
 
 "I had arranged to be in London on May 5th," 
 she volunteered. 
 
 "And I had arranged never to be in London 
 again." He smiled at her obvious bewilderment. 
 
 "But if you had arranged never to be in London 
 again, why ?" 
 
 "Did I return?" he finished the sentence for her. 
 
 Again she nodded. 
 
 "Have you never done anything that you cannot 
 explain to yourself?" he questioned.
 
 160 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm always doing those sort of 
 things," she admitted with a laugh. 
 
 "Well, that's why I came to London, something 
 drew me back again." 
 
 "How strange," she said seriously. 
 
 "Not at all. Some day perhaps I'll tell you what 
 it was." 
 
 He longed to enquire why she was in Folkestone 
 alone, instead he asked 
 
 "How did you find the Ritz-Carlton?" 
 
 "Oh, at the last moment auntie decided that she 
 liked the Belle Vue better, so we went there." 
 
 Beresford felt that he wanted to laugh. The 
 grim humour of the situation appealed to him. 
 Here had he been living expensively at the Ritz- 
 Carlton for the sole purpose of meeting the Rain- 
 Girl, while she had gone to another hotel not a hun- 
 dred yards distant. He had considerably curtailed 
 the period of his adventure by the reckless expendi- 
 ture of his limited resources, and all in vain. Surely 
 Fate was a mistress of irony. 
 
 "It it was a little embarrassing last night," she 
 said hesitatingly. 
 
 "I've never fainted before," he said a little shame- 
 facedly. "I'm so sorry, and you were most awfully 
 kind." 
 
 "You see I've been a nurse, a V.A.D." 
 
 "If you had not been there they would probably 
 have poured the soup tureen over me, or cut off my 
 trousers at the knee, or some such thing as that.
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 161 
 
 People have a tendency to do the most insane things 
 on such occasions." 
 
 "I didn't know what had happened," she said, 
 "until I felt my chair being pulled from under me." 
 
 "Pulled from under you!" 
 
 "Yes, you'd got hold of the leg of my chair, and 
 seemed determined to pull me down on top of you." 
 Then suddenly she laughed. "It was really very 
 funny. One man brought a soda-water syphon, and 
 somebody suggested burning feathers under you? 
 nose, as if everybody carried a bunch of feathers 
 about with them to to " and again she laughed. 
 
 "Don't you think we might have a little walk," he 
 suggested. "Gentle exercise is good for the debili- 
 tated. I'll promise not to faint." 
 
 She turned and looked at him critically. 
 
 "And," he continued, "if I do, I won't bring you 
 to earth with me." 
 
 "Very well," she said rising; "on those conditions 
 I'll agree." 
 
 They turned out on to the Leas and walked slowly 
 in the direction of Sandgate. Beresford inhaled 
 deeply the warm air, fresh with the scent of the sea. 
 Never in his life had he felt so at peace with the 
 world as on this dream-morning; for, of course, it 
 was all a dream. Was the Rain-Girl really walking 
 with him, even in a dream? He turned to assure 
 himself of the fact, and found her looking up at him. 
 Involuntarily he smiled and saw the answering smile 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "I was thinking," she said
 
 162 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "So was I." 
 
 "I was thinking," she continued, ''that you are 
 either the most indifferent or the most incurious man 
 I have ever met." 
 
 "Am I ? Perhaps I am," he added, "indifferent to 
 all except the present, incurious as to everything 
 beyond the range of my vision." 
 
 "The proper thing," she said after a further 
 period of silence, "was to ask why. When a woman 
 accuses a man of not being curious, it always means 
 that she wants to tell him something." 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 She nodded. Her nod seemed to establish an inti- 
 macy between them. 
 
 "Then will you please tell me something?" 
 
 "You make things so so difficult," she said 
 crinkling her brows and looking straight before her. 
 "You don't avail yourself of conversational open- 
 ings." She turned and smiled up at him. 
 
 "Please why am I the most commonplace and 
 ordinary of men?" he enquired. 
 
 "I didn't say that," she laughed. "I said you 
 were either the most indifferent or most incurious 
 of men." 
 
 "Please tell me why?" 
 
 "Well," she replied, "you have never expressed 
 the least curiosity as to who I am." 
 
 "But you're the Rain-Girl." He held his breath, 
 wondering how she would receive the reference to 
 the name he had given her. 
 
 A little gurgling laugh reassured him.
 
 THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL 163 
 
 "But my godfathers and godmothers do not know 
 me as " she hesitated slightly, "as the Rain- 
 Girl." 
 
 "Thanks to the beneficent decrees of Providence^ 
 our godfathers and godmothers never know us as we 
 are." 
 
 She nodded agreement. 
 
 "If you choose that I shall know who you are you 
 will tell me." 
 
 "Then you don't know my name?" She looked 
 up straight into his eyes. 
 
 "Not the G.G. name." 
 
 "The G.G. name?" 
 
 "The godfathers' and godmothers'," he explained. 
 
 Again she laughed, seemingly amused at the con- 
 traction. 
 
 "Well, my name is " she began, then hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Yes," said Beresford. 
 
 "Lola Craven." 
 
 "Lola Craven!" He stopped abruptly and stood 
 looking down at her, the picture of blank astonish- 
 ment. "Good Lord!" he ejaculated. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" she enquired, looking 
 at him in wide-eyed surprise. 
 
 Then he laughed, knowing now beyond all doubt 
 that it was a dream. 
 
 "Shall we sit down?" he said at length. 
 
 They walked a few steps to a seat overlooking 
 the sea and sat down. Surely this was the craziest 
 of crazy worlds, he decided. Here was the Rain-
 
 164 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Girl turning into Lola Craven. An heiress on a 
 gate. What would Drewitt say? Of all the weird, 
 fantastical, incomprehensible 
 
 "I beg your pardon." Suddenly he became con- 
 scious that she was looking at him as if waiting for 
 some explanation. "You see I've heard a lot about 
 you." 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 "Yes. Lady Drewitt is my aunt, and Drew, that 
 is, Lord Drewitt, is my cousin." 
 
 "Ooooooh!" she said slowly, surprised in turn. 
 
 "I wonder if that is why the manager came up 
 to ask how I was," he said half to himself. 
 
 "You wonder if what was why?" she asked, 
 apparently unconscious of any violence to syntax. 
 
 "Well, he certainly wouldn't have been interested 
 in me for my own sake ; but as a fr an acquain- 
 tance," he corrected, "of Miss Craven, he might 
 
 " He stopped suddenly as if conscious of a 
 
 change in his companion. A shadow seemed to 
 pass over her face. 
 
 "I w i s h " 
 
 "Please just go on being the Rain-Girl, will you?" 
 he asked simply. 
 
 She looked up, smiled a little sadly, and then 
 nodded. 
 
 "I think we had better be getting back," she said, 
 and there was something in her tone that caused 
 Beresford to curse wealth, heiresses, convention and 
 all that went to build up the fabric of civilisation 
 and progress.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 
 
 ON returning from their walk on the Leas, 
 Lola had gone straight to her room, and 
 had not entered the dining-room until 
 Beresford was half-way through lunch. The sudden 
 change in her manner had puzzled him; but he was 
 determined that she should have no cause to feel 
 that he was taking advantage of what, after all, was 
 a chance acquaintance. 
 
 His own meal finished, he left the dining-room, 
 and a few minutes later the hotel. That afternoon 
 he spent in strolling about the town, taking the op- 
 portunity of ordering some red roses for Lola. 
 Returning about six he went to his room, feeling 
 unaccountably tired. Lying down he slept until 
 nearly' eight o'clock, and again he was late at dinner. 
 When half-way through his meal Lola had risen and, 
 bowing to him with a friendly little smile, had left 
 the dining-room and he saw her no more that night. 
 He noticed that she was not wearing any flowers. 
 
 Later on in the smoking-room a number of men 
 approached, enquiring if he were better. He was 
 
 165
 
 166 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 a little surprised at this solicitude, and also at the 
 friendliness they manifested. He was not altogether 
 pleased that his mishap should be regarded as a con- 
 versational opening. 
 
 He recalled the manager's solicitude that morn- 
 ing, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his 
 acquaintance with Lola Craven was responsible for 
 his present importance. From various scraps of 
 conversation he overheard, it was obvious that the 
 arrival at Folkestone of the heiress whom the illus- 
 trated papers had combined to make famous, was a 
 social event of the first magnitude and importance. 
 
 He noticed that the other guests would cease their 
 conversation to gaze at her as she passed. Her 
 entry into the dining-room caused a hush in the hum 
 of conversation. Mr. Byles, the maitre d'hotel, 
 would fidget about the entrance until she came down, 
 then lead the way to her table and, for the rest of 
 the meal, hover about in the neighbourhood with an 
 eye so hawk-like in its penetrative intensity, that the 
 waiter in attendance upon her would make mistakes. 
 This was Mr. Byles's opportunity. He would swoop 
 down, annihilate the underling with a glance, purr 
 at him with restrained intensity, make good the dam- 
 age, smile tactfully and withdraw. 
 
 From where he sat, Beresford had watched this 
 little comedy. He also gleaned considerable amuse- 
 ment from the interest of his fellow-guests in Lola 
 Craven; who herself seemed quite oblivious of the 
 sensation her advent had created. The married men 
 regarded her with surreptitious and hopeless admi-
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 167 
 
 ration, disguised by feigned indifference. They had 
 perforce to listen to their wives' views upon girls 
 staying unchaperoned at hotels. 
 
 The single men looked on her with open admira- 
 tion, and eyed each other with covert suspicion. 
 Suddenly there had been kindled in their hearts the 
 flame of romance, the roof that sheltered them also 
 sheltered the famous heiress. Their emotions 
 soared high into space. 
 
 None had ever met an heiress before. In the 
 minds of all there was a dim idea that beauty and 
 wealth were never to be found roaming together. 
 To them the word "heiress" called up visions of 
 plain features and shapeless bodies. Possibly that 
 was why the thought of marrying an heiress had 
 never suggested itself to them. Here, however, was 
 Providence frankly playing into their hands. 
 
 Beresford was struck by the ingenuity displayed 
 by various of the male guests in endeavouring to get 
 to know Lola. Some were gentlemen; but many 
 were merely opportunists. One little man, who 
 looked like "Our Mr. Something-or-other," was par- 
 ticularly assiduous. One day when walking just in 
 front of Lola he deliberately pulled his handker- 
 chief out of his pocket, and with it fluttered a one- 
 pound note. Lola walked over the note as if it had 
 not existed, and the little man, after an awkward 
 pretence of having discovered his loss, had turned 
 and retrieved it. 
 
 On another occasion he had burst unceremo- 
 niously into a telephone-box occupied by Lola, and
 
 168 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 proceeded to apologise as if there were a counter 
 between them ; but Lola continued with her telephone 
 conversation, and again he had to beat a retreat. 
 
 Another man of mature years and over-mature 
 complexion seemed to be in a perpetual state of 
 having lost something, which he suspected was in 
 Lola's neighbourhood. Yet another invariably car- 
 ried his hat in his hand. Beresford suspected that 
 his object was to slip it on a chair just before Lola 
 sat down. After all, when you have sat on a man's 
 hat, it is a little difficult to refuse to receive his 
 apologies ! 
 
 The Thirty-Nine Articles, as Beresford dubbed 
 them after a careful count, resorted to every pos- 
 sible form of device to scrape an acquaintance with 
 the heiress. The one thing they did not do was 
 to take the plunge. There was something in Lola's 
 manner that awed them. There was a reserve and 
 dignity about her bearing that was unmistakable, 
 and instinctively the Thirty-Nine Articles recog- 
 nised it, a circumstance that increased Beresford's 
 unpopularity. 
 
 For a time Beresford lived in an atmosphere of 
 reflected glory and the offer of unlimited hospitality. 
 As soon as he showed his face in any of the common- 
 rooms, men seemed to hurtle through space and 
 demand that he should drink with them. Cigar and 
 cigarette-cases were thrust upon him, men challenged 
 him to billiards, sought his company for strolls, 
 invited him to bridge, suggested the theatre, a bathe 
 or an hour's fishing. He found it all very bewilder-
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 169 
 
 ing. At first he had been at a loss to account for his 
 amazing popularity; but the requests for an intro- 
 duction to Lola soon convinced him that it was not 
 for himself alone that his company was sought. 
 
 On the second day Beresford had seen Lola only 
 for a few minutes as she was passing through the 
 lounge. She had stopped to enquire how he was, 
 and he noticed a marked difference in her manner. 
 It set him wondering if he had seriously offended 
 her, and if so what he had done. 
 
 On the third day he did not see her either at 
 breakfast or lunch, and she was late for dinner. He 
 was conscious of becoming irritable under the strain. 
 He had deliberately snubbed two or three men, 
 whose overtures were both obvious and annoying. 
 He lingered over his dinner, determined to follow 
 her as she left the room. Gradually the dining- 
 room emptied. Lola rose and, instead of walking 
 towards the door, came over to his table. 
 
 "There's no need to ask if you are better," she 
 said with a friendly smile, as he rose hurriedly. 
 
 "I'm not; I'm very much worse." 
 
 "Worse?" She raised her eyebrows in interro- 
 gation. 
 
 "My nurse has neglected me," he said whim- 
 sically, "and I have been grossly rude to three 
 fellow-guests in consequence." 
 
 "Neglected you?" she repeated, "but " she 
 
 paused. 
 
 "I don't want to be a nuisance and take advantage 
 of your kindness," he said seriously, as they walked
 
 170 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 towards the door, "but if you can spare an hour or 
 so occasionally, it will hasten your patient's 
 recovery." 
 
 "I can hardly come and insist on talking to you, 
 can I?" she asked, looking up at him frankly. 
 
 "Will you come in the lounge now?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded and led the way to a quiet corner, 
 where they seated themselves. 
 
 Beresford ordered coffee, then picked up the 
 thread of conversation where it had been interrupted. 
 
 "Yes, you could," he said. 
 
 "Could what?" she enquired. 
 
 "Insist on coming up and talking to me." 
 
 "But " she began. 
 
 "I'm your patient, and you've neglected me hor- 
 ribly." 
 
 "But I don't understand. If you had wanted " 
 
 She broke off, then added, "I have been here all 
 the time." 
 
 "But you have been evading your responsibilities," 
 insisted Beresford smiling. "Suppose I had followed 
 you about like a lost dog, you would probably have 
 regretted your Samaritanism." 
 
 "But isn't there something between the two?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Suppose you tell me how many hours of the day 
 you can tolerate me," he said; "in other words, 
 ration me." 
 
 She smiled. "I thought you were avoiding me," 
 she said quite frankly. 
 
 "/ avoiding you?" He looked at her incredu-
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 171 
 
 lously. There was something in his tone that 
 brought the colour to her cheeks. 
 
 She nodded. "I did really. I should have liked 
 to talk to you. I'm alone here, you see. I suppose 
 you wonder why?" She looked up at him suddenly. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "It's really through you." 
 
 "Through me?" 
 
 "Yes, what you said at Print," she replied 
 brightly. "Don't you remember saying that one 
 should have courage in one's unconventions? Well, 
 things had reached such a point I felt that if I spent 
 another day in London I should have to scream, so 
 I got a doctor I know to prescribe Folkestone for a 
 week. I telegraphed to an old governess to meet me 
 here, and when I arrived there was a telegram from 
 her saying she had rheumatism, and and I decided 
 to stay on. Auntie would be ill if she knew, 
 especially as I refused to bring my maid," she added 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Recalling his one experience of Mrs. Crisp's 
 conversation, Beresford found himself able to sym- 
 pathise with any one whose fate it was to live in 
 perpetual nearness to her. 
 
 "In all probability my reputation is in tatters 
 by now; that is, among the other guests," she said 
 with a smile. 
 
 "And you imply that the responsibility is mine?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "But aren't heiresses a law unto themselves?"
 
 172 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 She glanced across at him quickly, as if seeking 
 some hidden meaning in his words. 
 
 "No one can be a law unto themselves," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 He then proceeded to tell of the embarrassments 
 arising from his acquaintance with her. 
 
 "I could smoke like a chimney, drink like a fish, 
 and live like the proverbial lord," he explained, "and 
 all for nothing. Such is the power of reflected 
 glory." 
 
 She laughed, only half-believing him. 
 
 "But there's another side to the picture," he went 
 on. "It's more difficult to retain than to win popu- 
 larity. I shall have to work for it." 
 ' "Work for it?" she queried, looking up at him 
 with puzzled brows. 
 
 "The proffered smokes will fail and the drinks 
 will cease unless I do what is expected of me, intro- 
 duce to you the whole gang." 
 
 "Mr. Beresfordl" she cried. "What an absolutely 
 horrible idea." 
 
 "You needn't be alarmed," he hastened to assure 
 her. "I have no intention of doing anything so 
 foolish." 
 
 "Foolish!" 
 
 "There are exactly thirty-nine unattached males 
 staying here," he explained. "I've counted them 
 very carefully. They range in age from seventeen 
 to seventy. Assuming the equal rights of man, this 
 would mean that I should speak to you once every
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 173 
 
 fortieth day, whereas I hope to do so forty times 
 each day." 
 
 "You are really almost as absurd as Lord 
 Drewitt," she laughed, colouring a little. 
 
 "You must be kind to me," he continued, "or I 
 shall let loose the whole horde upon you. Within 
 three days I shall be the most unpopular man in 
 Folkestone. Those who have urged me to smoke 
 cigars and cigarettes will wish to stab me. Those 
 who have asked me to drink at their expense will 
 suddenly develop into potential Wainewrights and 
 Neal Creams. I shall never dare to drink with any 
 one for fear of being poisoned." 
 
 "I wonder why men are like that?" she said, with 
 a far-away look in her eyes. 
 
 "I want to make a compact with you," he said. 
 
 For some minutes neither spoke ; she continued to 
 gaze straight in front of her with dreamy intentness. 
 Beresford smoked contentedly. 
 
 "A compact?" she queried presently, turning to 
 him. 
 
 "If you'll come for a walk every morning, I'll 
 promise not to introduce anybody to you." 
 
 For a few moments she appeared to be debating 
 the suggestion, her head a little on one side, a smile 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "Of two evils choose the lesser," he suggested. 
 "I'm only one, they are thirty-nine." 
 
 "Very well," she laughed, "I'll agree; but you 
 must keep them from being annoying." 
 
 "I'll buy a machine-gun, if necessary."
 
 174 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I hate men," said Lola, apparently addressing 
 a sparrow that had perched upon a bush just in 
 front of her. 
 
 Beresford smoked on in silence, feeling that the 
 remark required no comment from him. 
 
 That morning he had waited for her in the hall, 
 and they had set out together for a walk on the 
 Leas, Beresford conscious of murderous looks from 
 others who had also waited. 
 
 "I suppose that was a very rude remark," she 
 said, turning to him with a smile. 
 
 "Not at all. When I think of the Thirty-Nine 
 Articles of Masculine Faith at the Imperial I can 
 quite sympathise with you." 
 
 "What a good thing the number isn't forty." She 
 looked up at him from beneath her lashes. 
 
 "It may be before long," he said imp erturb ably, 
 "but the Fortieth Article is determined to enjoy the 
 present." 
 
 "Why do you say it may be ?" 
 
 "Vide Aunt Caroline," was the retort. "She 
 would be astonished at your being able to tolerate 
 my company for half an hour." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, Drew and I always seem to get on her 
 nerves. We speak a different language, and in 
 reality live in a different world from hers." 
 
 "And yet you are so dissimilar?" 
 
 "We are as different from each other as each
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 175 
 
 individually is different from Aunt Caroline. Drew 
 poses as having eliminated all emotions from his 
 nature." 
 
 "And you?" she interrogated. 
 
 "I have eliminated all but emotions," he said, 
 looking at her with a smile. 
 
 "And yet Lord Drewitt is is " she hesitated. 
 
 "As emotional as a theatrical-star ousted by an 
 understudy," he suggested. 
 
 "But you said he was unemotional." 
 
 "I said he posed as being unemotional." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, it's a bit difficult to explain. For instance, 
 suppose you were upset in a boat. Drew would go 
 in after you, bring you out, and then probably man- 
 age to convey to you that you were not looking your 
 best, and had better go home and have a tidy-up." 
 
 "Then I shall never fall into the water when 
 Lord Drewitt is about," she said gaily. "I should 
 want my rescuer to to " 
 
 "What?" he asked with interest. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I should want him to look down 
 at me anxiously to see if if I were still alive." 
 
 "Yes, with the water dripping from his nose and 
 ears." 
 
 "Mr. Beresford!" she cried reproachfully, "I 
 think that you and Lord Drewitt between you would 
 kill romance." 
 
 "How can a man afford to be romantic? There 
 is poor Drewitt with his title and two thousand a 
 year, as he would tell you quite frankly, and I,
 
 176 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 without a title and with not so much as two pounds a 
 year. No, romance is only for the wealthy." 
 
 "Romance has nothing whatever to do with 
 money," she said gravely. "Romance is merely a 
 love of the beautiful." 
 
 "The emotionally beautiful," he corrected. 
 
 "Yes, the emotionally beautiful," she agreed, 
 fixing her eyes on the red sail of a boat far away 
 in the distance. 
 
 "The poor man cannot afford to be emotional. It 
 would lose for him his friends, his job and his 
 chances in life." 
 
 *'But why doesn't Lord Drewitt do something?" 
 
 "Do something!" he repeated. "What is there 
 for him to do?" 
 
 "Couldn't he work?" she suggested. 
 
 "At what? Peers can't work. He might drive a 
 taxi; but Aunt Caroline would raise Cain." 
 
 She remained silent for some time, then turning 
 to him shook her head, as if unable to make a 
 suggestion. 
 
 "Proper allowance is never made for the rise of 
 democracy. Drew and I are the products of our 
 age. Drew's profession was that of being a peer, 
 whilst I was precipitated into the Foreign Office. 
 Then came the war, and everything got mixed up 
 again, and I " he paused. 
 
 "And you?" repeated Lola, looking up at him. 
 
 "I'm at a loose end." 
 
 "But aren't you going to work?" 
 
 "What can I do.? I could be a clerk at three
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 177 
 
 pounds a week; but that would be worse than the 
 Foreign Office, which at least is quite a decent club. 
 I could live in Peckham and come up each day by 
 a tram, with linen a little more frayed each year, and 
 clothes a little dingier. No, I'm afraid I lack the 
 courage to face such a fate." 
 
 "But what are you going to do?" she persisted; 
 then a moment after added, "I'm sorry, it's horribly 
 rude of me to be so persistent." 
 
 "Not at all," he said, gazing straight in front of 
 him. "I'm going to enjoy what I can enjoy, and 
 and not bother about the deluge, which is inevitable. 
 Louis XIV built palaces on bogs, and was quite 
 happy about it; I shall rear castles on sand, and be 
 still happier." 
 
 "I don't understand." She puckered her brows. 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" he asked, smiling at her mysti- 
 fication. 
 
 "Would you mind? I should awfully like to 
 know." 
 
 "I can go on as I am for two or three weeks 
 more. I'm going to squeeze every drop of pleasure 
 out of these few weeks, and not bother about what 
 happens after." 
 
 "But," she persisted, "what are you going to do 
 then?" 
 
 "You are almost as material as Aunt Caroline," 
 he smiled. "Why cannot you be romantic? I once 
 knew an artist who married a girl when all he 
 possessed in the world was four pounds eighteen 
 shillings and threepence, he was very insistent upon
 
 178 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 the threepence, and a drawerful of pawn-tickets. 
 That was a splendid act of romance." 
 
 "Yes; but romance must be " 
 
 "No it must not," he insisted. "Romance must 
 be just its mad, capricious, inconsequent self." 
 
 "But you must have something in mind. What 
 is to happen after the four or five weeks?" 
 
 "Aunt Caroline suggests the colonies; both Drew 
 and I regard the colonies as an Imperial asset and 
 nothing more. We love them from afar. They 
 produce splendid fellows we've fought with them; 
 but for all that we prefer our own country, just as 
 they prefer theirs." 
 
 "But what have you to live for? There seems 
 " she began. 
 
 "Three or four weeks' good time, a walk a day 
 with you, and the privilege of keeping off the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles," he smiled. 
 
 She looked at him gravely, then shook her head, 
 as if entirely unable to comprehend his attitude. 
 
 "I don't understand you in the least," she said at 
 length, "and I don't think any one else does, either." 
 
 "What makes you say that?" enquired Beresford. 
 
 "I was talking to Lady Tanagra Elton a few days 
 back about Lord Drewitt, and your name came up, 
 and " she paused. 
 
 "And what?" enquired Beresford, knocking the 
 ashes out of his pipe on the heel of his boot. "Do 
 not spare me." 
 
 "Well," said Lola, with a smile, "she said that 
 you were 'a dear boy, but quite mad.' "
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 179 
 
 "God bless her for the first part of her judgment," 
 he laughed; "Tan is one of the jewels of the human 
 
 race." 
 
 "She seemed charming," agreed Lola. 
 
 "I must warn you against her, however," he said 
 with mock-seriousness. 
 
 "Warn me?" 
 
 "She's a born match-maker. She's always marry- 
 ing her friends off and " he paused dramatically. 
 
 "And what?" she enquired. 
 
 "They're always the right pairs. Tata never 
 makes a mistake." 
 
 "I really don't understand you," she said after a 
 long pause, "or what you are going to do when 
 when " she hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, there are many ways of shuffling-off," he 
 smiled. 
 
 "Suppose " she began, then hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, suppose ?" 
 
 "Suppose you meant something to someone else, 
 and that your shuffling-off, as you call it, would pain 
 them, perhaps more than pain them, what then?" 
 
 "If you refer to Aunt Caroline, I can assure you 
 that you are wrong," he said, with a laugh that even 
 to himself sounded unnatural. 
 
 Lola flashed him a reproachful look, but said 
 nothing. For some moments she remained silent, 
 her head turned away. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said contritely; but still she 
 averted her head. 
 
 "Please don't be cross with me," he said, bending
 
 180 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 towards her, conscious of a delicious thrill as his 
 shoulder accidentally touched hers. 
 
 A moment after she turned, and he saw that her 
 eyes were moist. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said again, "I " 
 
 "Isn't it stupid of me," she smiled an April smile; 
 
 "but " she paused, then a moment afterwards 
 
 continued, "you and Lord Drewitt seem to be men 
 that should have a lot in front of you ; yet you both 
 talk you talk so as if nothing mattered, as if life 
 were just like a theatre, and when the curtain 
 dropped that was the end of everything." 
 
 "And isn't it?" questioned Beresford. 
 
 "We don't know, any of us." 
 
 "A man's destiny is determined by his forebears, 
 and he is moulded by his environment," said Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 "Unless he makes his own environment," she 
 suggested. 
 
 "It's easy for you to say that. You have before 
 you the means of satisfying every wish." 
 
 "Have I?" she asked dreamily; then as if coming 
 back to realities, "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Haven't you?" 
 
 "Just change places with me in' your imagina- 
 tion," she said, "and find womanhood represented 
 by the feminine equivalent to the Thirty-Nine 
 Articles." 
 
 "I apologise." 
 
 "And now I think we had better think about 
 lunch," she said with a smile.
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE ARTICLES 181 
 
 They walked back to the hotel without exchanging 
 a word. At the entrance were grouped some of the 
 Thirty-Nine anxious lords of creation. 
 
 When Beresford reached his own table in the 
 dining-room, he found seated at it a little man with 
 a dark moustache, a greasy skin, and a general 
 atmosphere of One-of-Us about him. The man 
 looked up and smiled. Beresford bowed coldly, as 
 he recognised one of his most persistent would-be 
 hosts, a man who had invited him to take anything 
 from a whisky-and-soda to a high dive in his com- 
 pany. 
 
 Beresford sought out Mr. Byles, who smiled with 
 servile tact and rubbed his hands. 
 
 "There's someone sitting at my table, Byles," 
 he said; "I'm going upstairs. I shall be down in 
 five minutes. You will find me a table to myself as 
 I arranged." 
 
 "I'm very sorry, sir," said Byles, "but we're so 
 full up." 
 
 "You will do as I say," said Beresford coldly, 
 "or I shall report the matter to the management. 
 By the way, the seat that Mr. Gordon previously 
 occupied is still vacant," he added over his shoulder 
 as he turned towards the door, conscious of a look 
 of hatred in Byles's eyes. 
 
 When he returned to the dining-room his table 
 was unoccupied, and the man with the dark mous- 
 tache and the moist complexion was darting glances 
 of hatred in his direction. Beresford wondered
 
 182 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 whether or no Byles had returned the handsome tip 
 that was to procure for Mr. Gordon the coveted 
 seat. Evidently it was intended to be a stepping- 
 stone to an introduction to Lola.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 
 
 PLEASE may I come and talk to you while 
 you finish breakfast?" 
 
 Beresford had almost concluded his own 
 meal when Lola entered the room, the ever faithful 
 Mr. Byles in attendance. Later he had stepped 
 across to her table. 
 
 "I started this morning feeling like a boy scout," 
 he continued; "like several boy scouts, I might say," 
 he added, as he dropped into the chair to which she 
 motioned him. 
 
 "A boy scout I" She looked up from a piece of 
 toast she was buttering. 
 
 "I simply yearned to make every one happy. 
 I was most aggressively eupeptic." 
 
 "Is that why you came over to talk to me?" she 
 enquired without looking up from her plate. 
 
 "I'm always doing good deeds for you," he said 
 reproachfully. 
 
 Her eyes questioned him. 
 
 "I keep from you the Thirty-Nine Articles." 
 
 She smiled and nodded. 
 
 "One morning," he continued, "you will look 
 across at my table and see my chair empty." 
 
 183
 
 184 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "How do you know I shall look across?" she 
 challenged, darting him a look from beneath her 
 lashes. 
 
 "You are merely interrupting the story," he said 
 severely. "One morning you will look across at my 
 table and find it empty," he repeated. "Later in the 
 day there will be a great disturbance when my body 
 is found weltering in its own blood. Heroes of 
 romance always welter in their own blood," he 
 added. 
 
 "Heroes of romance I" she repeated with uplifted 
 brows. "Are you one?" 
 
 "I am the hero of my own romance," he retorted; 
 "but you interrupt me. I had just got to where I 
 was weltering in my own blood the victim of the 
 Thirty-Nine Articles." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "And ever afterwards," he proceeded, "I shall 
 share with the Roman sentry, Casabianca and Jack 
 Cornwell their laurels for devotion to duty." 
 
 "I should have preferred to be regarded as a 
 pleasure," she said demurely. 
 
 "It's my, duty to protect my pleasure," he retorted 
 quietly. 
 
 "But you were saying you felt like a boy 
 scout " 
 
 "Like several boy scouts," he corrected. "I felt 
 as Ulysses must have felt when he saw them drag- 
 ging the wooden horse into Troy, or Leonidas at 
 Thermopylae, or Mr. Lloyd George when he heard 
 that Mr. Asquith had been defeated at East Fife;
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 185 
 
 in other words, I felt extremely well and happy. 
 Then I suddenly caught sight of a girl at the table 
 by the window, and it made me " he paused. 
 
 "Was it love at first sight?" she asked quietly. 
 
 "And then," he continued, "I found this fair 
 world was not so fair. Nature had suddenly ad- 
 ministered a cold douche in the shape of a pair of 
 calves that terminated suddenly in shapeless feet." 
 
 "Whatever do you mean?" she cried, laughing. 
 
 "Merely that like Godfrey Elton, I'm very sensi- 
 tive about ankles." 
 
 "But what have this girl's ankles to do with you?" 
 She crinkled up her brows in a way she had when 
 puzzled. 
 
 "They spoiled my breakfast," he complained, 
 "and I'm afraid they're going to spoil the whole 
 day for me." 
 
 "You are funny," she smiled. "I don't understand 
 you in the least. I always thought that Englishmen 
 were unapproachable in the morning; but you are 
 more ridiculous in the morning than during the rest 
 of the day." 
 
 "Imagine the state of mind of a woman conscious 
 that Nature has left her like an unfinished sym- 
 phony," he continued. "She must tremble every 
 time she opens a fashion paper, lest some readjust- 
 ment of the surface of exposure shall betray her." 
 
 "But we are not all Greeks," she suggested. 
 
 "A woman doesn't require to be a Greek to be 
 conscious of Nature's inexplicable oversights in 
 modelling," he retorted.
 
 186 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I decline to discuss anatomy so soon after break- 
 fast," she laughed as. she rose. "I shall be about 
 ten minutes," she threw at him over her shoulder as 
 she walked towards the door. 
 
 Beresford sauntered through the vestibule, and 
 stood smoking on the hotel steps watching the sparkle 
 of the sea. 
 
 Presently Lola joined him and they set out in the 
 direction of Hythe. For some time they walked in 
 silence; Beresford sucking moodily at his pipe. 
 
 u ls anything the matter?" she enquired at length. 
 
 "Everything's the matter," he grumbled. "What 
 right has Nature to produce anything so appalling 
 as that poor girl?" 
 
 "Oh, I see," she said. 
 
 "Thick ankles, no taste in dress, sandy hair, sand- 
 coloured eyelashes, spectacles. Shapeless, hopeless 
 and alone." 
 
 "But " began Lola. 
 
 "If you want a more comprehensive list of fem- 
 inine disabilities," he continued, "you are insatiable. 
 Such people are a challenge to religious belief." 
 There was a note of gloomy indignation in his 
 voice. 
 
 "But perhaps she's happy," suggested Lola. 
 
 "Happy!" cried Beresford. "Would you be 
 happy if you were in her place?" 
 
 She shuddered slightly. 
 
 "What right has Nature to give you all that she 
 has given you, and deny that girl all she has denied 
 her. How can she have a good time?"
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 187 
 
 She looked at him swiftly. He was in deadly 
 earnest. 
 
 "Perhaps she doesn't mind," she suggested ten- 
 tatively. 
 
 "Doesn't mind?" he cried. "What woman 
 doesn't mind being unattractive? Imagine what she 
 must feel when she sees you." 
 
 Again she flashed at him an enquiring look; but 
 there was nothing in his face suggestive of a com- 
 pliment. 
 
 "You have all she lacks," he continued, "and it's 
 all it's all oh, absolutely rotten," he finished up, 
 ejecting the ashes from his pipe by knocking it vigor- 
 ously upon the handle of his stick. Then a moment 
 later catching her eye he laughed. "I suppose I'm 
 on my hobby-horse," he said. 
 
 "But why bully me?" she asked plaintively. 
 
 "Was I bullying you?" he said. "I'm dreadfully 
 sorry; but such things render me capable of bullying 
 the Fates themselves. You see I was just catalogu- 
 ing that poor girl's disabilities when you came into 
 the room, and it made me feel a selfish beast." 
 
 "But how?" she asked. 
 
 "Don't you see I ought to be trying to give her 
 a good time instead of " 
 
 "Giving me a good time," she suggested avoiding 
 his gaze. 
 
 "Letting you give me a good time," he concluded. 
 "Oh ! let's sit down, perhaps I shall get into a better 
 humour if I listen to the larks. Yet it makes me 
 murderous when I think of those old ruffians in
 
 188 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Rome who considered larks' tongues a delicacy." 
 
 "Don't you think you would be better if I left 
 you alone?" she suggested, as he dropped down upon 
 the grass beside her. 
 
 "Good heavens, no!" he cried, looking across at 
 her. "What an awful idea." 
 
 "But you seem so " she hesitated. 
 
 "Well, I'll forget those utilitarian ankles," he 
 smiled. 
 
 "I want to talk to you," she said hesitatingly. 
 "Seriously," she added, as he smiled across at her. 
 "Has it ever struck you that everything ends?" She 
 kept her face averted. 
 
 "It has." He plucked a strong-looking blade of 
 grass and proceeded to use it as a pipe-cleaner. 
 
 For some minutes there was silence. 
 
 "I said it has," he repeated, looking up from his 
 occupation. 
 
 She still kept her eyes fixed upon a little clump of 
 grass with which she was toying. 
 
 "You've been very nice to me," she began in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "I have," with decision. 
 
 She looked up quickly. "Are you laughing at 
 me?" she asked simply. There was in her eyes just 
 a suspicion of reproach. 
 
 To Beresford she seemed to possess the power 
 of expressing her every emotion without the necessity 
 for speech. Her eyes, he decided for the thousandth 
 time, were the most wonderful ever bestowed upon 
 woman.
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 189 
 
 "I was not," he said in reply to her question. 
 
 "But you are not being serious, are you?" There 
 was the simplicity of a child in the look that accom- 
 panied her words. 
 
 "Must I be serious?" he asked, pocketing his pipe 
 and taking out his cigarette-case. 
 
 "Pleeeeeease." 
 
 Again there was silence, during which Beresford 
 lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "I just wanted you to know," she said. 
 
 "That I had been nice to you?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "I don't like men," she began, and then hesitated. 
 
 "As a conversational opening to set me at my 
 ease " he began with a smile. 
 
 "Now you are not being serious," she protested. 
 
 "What I wanted to tell you was " again she 
 
 paused, "that that you have been so different 
 from the others." 
 
 "Shall we take all that for granted?" He smiled 
 across at her a friendly, understanding smile. 
 
 "Oh yes, let's," she cried with a sigh of relief; "I 
 
 have been wanting to tell you only I Of course, 
 
 it seems silly, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Does it?" 
 
 "Now," she continued with a great air of decision, 
 "there's the other thing." 
 
 "Is that serious also?" he asked quizzically. 
 
 She nodded vigorously. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm going to be very rude," she cried
 
 190 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 with a sudden change of manner. The rapid alter- 
 nations of her moods always charmed him. 
 
 "To preserve the balance?" he suggested, "you 
 have my full permission." 
 
 "And you won't be cross?" she queried a little 
 anxiously. 
 
 lf l promise to combine the patience of Job with 
 the restraint of William the Silent." 
 
 "Suppose " she began, then paused. 
 
 "Suppose what?" 
 
 "Suppose you thought I was going to do some- 
 thing very very foolish, what would you do?" 
 
 "Envy the happy man." 
 
 "Oh, please be serious," sjie pleaded with a slight 
 blush, biting her under-lip to hide the smile that his 
 retort had called up. 
 
 "Listen to that lark." Beresford lifted his eyes 
 in an endeavour to discover the bird from which 
 came the flood of song. "Suppose you were to ask 
 him to be serious," he suggested. "I'm too happy 
 to be serious." 
 
 "But you are not " she hesitated. 
 
 "Still, I'll promise." 
 
 "You know you worry me." 
 
 "Worry you?" Suddenly for Beresford the lark 
 ceased its song, and the sunshine lost its joyousness. 
 
 "I mean I'm worried about you." 
 
 "For that re-arrangement of words I thank you." 
 
 "Please," she pleaded. 
 
 "I thought you meant that I was a nuisance. If
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 191 
 
 I am you will tell me, won't you?" The earnestness 
 of his manner was unmistakable. 
 
 "Please don't be foolish," she said reproachfully. 
 "I know it's impertinent of me; but I wish you would 
 tell me about yourself, about " 
 
 "About myself?" he queried. "I've told you all 
 there is to tell." 
 
 "I mean about the future," she persisted. 
 
 "Like the mule, I have no future." 
 
 She turned her head aside, and mechanically began 
 to pluck blades of grass. 
 
 "You see," she began, her head still averted. 
 
 "I'm sorry; but I don't." 
 
 "You're most horribly difficult to talk to," she 
 said, screwing up her eyebrows. 
 
 "But you said -" 
 
 "You promised to be serious, please pleeeease 
 be nice." 
 
 Be nice I Did she know that she was tormenting 
 him, that she was maddening, that she was irresist- 
 ible in that porridge-coloured frock that was the 
 nearest he could get to the actual tint and that 
 floppy sort of hat with orange ribbon, and her grey 
 suede shoes and stockings? What an ankle 1 
 
 "I'll be as serious as my situation," he said, seeing 
 reproach in the eyes she turned to him. "Honest 
 Injun." 
 
 She smiled and nodded at the childish phrase. 
 
 "You were talking the other day " she said, 
 
 then stopped. 
 
 "Why not blurt it out," he suggested.
 
 192 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Well, it hurts me to hear you talk as if nothing 
 matters, as if life " 
 
 " 'Life is a watch and a vision, between a sleep and 
 a sleep ?' " he quoted. 
 
 "Yes; but Swinburne meant it beautifully, not as 
 something to be got rid of. When I was a kiddie," 
 she continued inconsequently, "I used to tear my 
 pinnies when anybody offended me." 
 
 "And you regard me as wanting to tear my 
 pinny," he continued gravely. 
 
 She nodded, with a flicker of a smile. "You're 
 not cross with me?" She looked at him anxiously. 
 
 Why not end it by telling her everything. Instead 
 he heard himself saying: 
 
 "I suppose it was really self-pity that made me 
 sorry for that girl with the ankles." 
 
 "I once read somewhere," she said gravely, look- 
 ing him straight in the eyes, "that we are all of us 
 influenced to some degree by every one we meet. I 
 wish " she stopped. 
 
 "You wish that you could influence me to turn 
 over a new leaf and become a sort of New Year 
 resolution." 
 
 She looked at him reproachfully. 
 
 "It's easy for a woman to preach the gospel of 
 content, particularly when she has all that makes for 
 content. You would probably suggest the colonies, 
 or America, thinking of The Silver King or Andrew 
 Carnegie, or " 
 
 "Please don't, you are hurting me." 
 
 Both the words and the tone were so simple that
 
 A QUESTION OF ANKLES 193 
 
 he stopped abruptly. She turned aside. He could 
 see her lower lip was indrawn. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said contritely, "I'm all jangly 
 to-day. It's that girl's ankles," he added whimsically. 
 "I didn't want to be serious; but you would make 
 me, and now you're angry." 
 
 Her head was still turned from him. What a 
 brute he had been, and how sensitive she was. 
 
 "Lola, please forgive me." 
 
 It was the first time he had used her name. It 
 slipped out unconsciously. He thrilled at the sound. 
 She turned, tears dewing her lower lashes. Then 
 with a sudden movement she sprang up. 
 
 "Now we must be going," she cried with a sudden 
 change of mood; "I do nothing but eat, sleep and 
 sit about. You know," she said turning to him with 
 a smile, "we women have to consider our figures, and 
 you're helping me to ruin mine." 
 
 Beresford followed her, his mind in a whirl at 
 the sudden change in her mood. 
 
 For the rest of the morning she was in the highest 
 of high spirits. She insisted on scrambling down 
 to the water, and soon succeeded in getting both her 
 own and Beresford's feet soaked. 
 
 "Look!" she cried, drawing back her skirts to 
 show the darker line just above her ankles where 
 the water had reached. 
 
 "I'm just as wet, and a lot more uncomfortable," 
 he replied lugubriously, as he looked down at his 
 brown boots discoloured by the sea-water. "I hate 
 walking in wet boots."
 
 194 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 She laughed gaily, then a moment after darted oflf 
 like the wind. 
 
 "Let's run," she cried over her shoulder. 
 
 Beresford started after her, conscious of the 
 absurd figure he must appear stumbling through the 
 shingly sand after this fleet-footed creature. 
 
 Presently she dropped down suddenly, he almost 
 falling over her. 
 
 "That was good," she panted, looking up at him 
 with burning cheeks and sparkling eyes. "I feel 
 like a mad thing this morning. What do you think 
 of me?" she challenged. 
 
 "I think I would rather not say," he said quietly 
 as he sank down beside her, and she turned and for 
 some time sat looking out to sea.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE DANGER LINE 
 
 OF course," said Lola, as she trifled with her 
 teaspoon, "I ought really to have gone 
 back to town as soon as I found that Miss 
 Brock could not come." 
 
 "You unquestionably ought," agreed Beresford, 
 as he indolently tossed crumbs of cake to a couple 
 of sparrows. 
 
 She glanced at him swiftly, then dropped her 
 eyes. 
 
 "That's not what I wanted you to say." 
 
 "I know," he said with a laugh. "Well, why 
 didn't you go back to town?" 
 
 "I suppose because I didn't want to." She gave 
 him a look from under her lashes. 
 
 They were sitting in the garden of an old inn 
 having tea. Lola had expressed a wish for an 
 excursion inland, and Beresford had hired a car. 
 
 It was an old-fashioned spot surrounded by an 
 ivy-covered wall. The back of the house was 
 obscured by a trellis covered with crimson-ramblers. 
 A few fruit trees disputed with currant and rose 
 
 195
 
 196 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 bushes the possession of the garden. It seemed as 
 if Nature had been permitted to go her own way, 
 without either help or hindrance from man. 
 
 In the centre of the garden was a sundial, moss- 
 green from exposure to the weather, the base over- 
 grown with grass and some sort of weed-like creeper, 
 whilst from above the lattice-windowed inn, a 
 chimney reared its long neck and smoked lazily into 
 the blueness of the sky. Birds were twittering and 
 dropping on to the grass, seizing the crumbs of cake 
 that Beresford idly tossed to them, then, as if sud- 
 denly realising their daring, they would speed away 
 to devour their plunder in safety. 
 
 As the days passed, Lola and Beresford had 
 drifted into the habit of spending all their time 
 together. There had been no plan or arrangement; 
 it had just happened. They still sat at different 
 tables in the dining-room. She had not invited him 
 to take meals with her. She was thinking of the 
 proprieties, he decided. He was conscious that they 
 formed the topic of conversation at the Imperial. 
 The Thirty-Nine Articles had frankly thrown him 
 overboard, and either ignored or glared at him. 
 
 During their walks and excursions together, Lola 
 had told him much about herself. How she had lost 
 her mother when a few months old, and her father, 
 who died of a broken heart, three years later. An 
 uncle in New Zealand, whom she had never seen, 
 had assumed responsibility for his brother's child. 
 
 A little more than a year previously he had died, 
 and she had inherited his vast fortune.
 
 THE DANGER LINE 197 
 
 Just as war broke out her guardian had arranged 
 for Mrs. Crisp, her mother's sister, to become her 
 "dragon." Beresford gathered that there was no 
 very great sympathy between Lola and her aunt. 
 
 There was a sadness in her voice when she spoke 
 of her uncle. Apparently he had misogynist tenden- 
 cies, and had refused to see the niece for whom he 
 had provided. He would neither allow her to go 
 to New Zealand, nor would he himself come to 
 England. He was a man who lived entirely for his 
 work. 
 
 In return Beresford told what little there was to 
 tell about himself. How his mother had died when 
 he was born, and his father had been killed in the 
 hunting field a year later. Up to the time of his 
 leaving Oxford, a cousin of his father's had acted 
 as guardian. The fact that neither had known their 
 parents seemed to constitute a bond between them. 
 
 "In my case, you see," Beresford remarked with 
 a smile, when he had concluded his little autobio- 
 graphical sketch, "the fairy uncle was missing." 
 
 As they sat in the inn garden, both were thinking 
 of the approaching end of their holiday. 
 
 <r T must go back to-morrow," she said. "More 
 tea?" 
 
 "May I come, too? and yes, please." 
 
 For a moment she looked at him with crinkled 
 eyebrows, her fingers on the handle of the teapot. 
 Then she laughed and proceeded to fill his cup. 
 
 "You're very literal," she said, as she handed it 
 to him.
 
 198 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Am I ?" he asked, selecting with great delibera- 
 tion a lump of sugar, and holding it poised over the 
 tea until it was slowly discoloured. 
 
 "You would make a very trying V she broke 
 
 off suddenly and dropped her eyes. 
 
 "But you haven't answered my question." He 
 pretended not to notice either her embarrassment 
 or her flushed cheeks. 
 
 "Didn't I?" Her gaze was fixed upon a black cat 
 that was making a great business of stalking a 
 sparrow. 
 
 "You're merely trying to gain tune." 
 
 "Am I?" 
 
 "You know you are." 
 
 "Why should I want to gain time?" Her gaze 
 was still on the black cat which, having raised its 
 bird when fully four yards away, was looking about 
 expectantly like Elijah in the desert for more birds. 
 "Why should I want to gain time?" she repeated as 
 Beresford remained silent. She still avoided his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Possibly to spare my feelings," he replied, 
 watching her closely. 
 
 "Or save my reputation," she retorted. 
 
 "Is it as bad as that?" 
 
 "What, my reputation?" She stole a glance at 
 him; but finding his gaze upon her dropped her eyes 
 instantly. 
 
 "No, the situation." 
 
 Again she was looking at the black cat.
 
 THE DANGER LINE 199 
 
 <c You have compromised me most horribly at the 
 hotel," she said reproachfully. 
 
 With great deliberation Beresford rose and 
 walking over to where the black cat was striving to 
 return to the primitive bird-stalking ways of its 
 progenitors, sent it clambering up the ivy and over 
 the wall by the simple process of making a wild dive 
 towards it. With equal deliberation he returned to 
 his seat and, catching Lola's puzzled gaze, smiled. 
 
 "Why did you do that?" she enquired. 
 
 "I resent all rivals to your attention, be they the 
 Thirty-Nine Articles or one solitary black cat," he 
 replied, offering her a cigarette. 
 
 She shook her head, and he proceeded to light 
 one himself. 
 
 "You are absurd," she laughed a little self- 
 consciously. 
 
 "If your finances were reduced to the equivalent 
 of about two weeks of ease and pleasure," he replied, 
 "you, too, would be inclined to husband your 
 resources." 
 
 "Am I a resource?" she flashed, then seeing him 
 smile and, realising the implication, she began to 
 search nervously in her bag. 
 
 "It's there," he said, pointing to an absurd dab of 
 cambric that lay on the table beside her. 
 
 She loolced up and, meeting his eyes, laughed. 
 
 "I think it will be better not," she said, toying 
 with her handkerchief. 
 
 "To be a resource?" he queried.
 
 200 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Of course not," she laughed. "I was answering 
 your question." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 "How trying you are, and it's so hot," she 
 protested, fanning herself with her handkerchief. 
 "The one about returning to London, of course. 
 Besides," she added with feminine inconsistency, 
 "the doctor ordered you to stay here." 
 
 "Not indefinitely," he objected. 
 
 "But you've only been here a week." 
 
 "This is the ninth day of my wonder." 
 
 "And consequently the last." 
 
 He looked across at her, startled in spite of him- 
 self, as she sat, looking deliciously cool and provok- 
 ingly pretty, in a little toque of brilliant colouring 
 above an oatmeal-coloured frock. 
 
 "Somewhere in the lap of the ages I shall rest 
 the better for the knowledge that once in my life I 
 "had a good time." He smiled at her gravely. 
 
 "Why do you say that?" she asked, looking at him 
 
 with startled eyes. "It sounds so so " she 
 
 broke off, unable to find a simile. 
 
 For fully a minute he continued to smoke without 
 speaking. At length he said, disregarding her 
 question 
 
 "Hasn't it been said that we never know when we 
 are happy?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "I have been happy for the last few days," he 
 continued, "and I have been conscious of it every 
 moment of the time."
 
 THE DANGER LINE 201 
 
 She made no reply; but continued to toy with the 
 lace of her handkerchief. 
 
 "Rain-Girl," he said quietly, "you have been a 
 
 ripping pal, I " he broke off as she looked up. 
 
 There were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," she said in 
 a low voice, none too well under control. 
 
 "Like what?" 
 
 "About about Oh, I'm ridiculous!" making 
 
 a vicious little dab with her handkerchief at a tear 
 that toppled over the brim, and ran down the side 
 of her nose. "You know what I mean," she said 
 accusingly a moment later. 
 
 "Do I?" he asked calmly. 
 
 "Yes, now, don't you? Oh, please, please try and 
 be different." There was eager pleading in her 
 voice. 
 
 "There's the leopard and his spots," he suggested 
 smiling. 
 
 "Please be serious, Mr. Beresford." 
 
 The use of his name seemed to bring him back 
 from the shadowed pathway of his thoughts. 
 
 "I can't be serious if you are formal and call me 
 'Mr. Beresford' in that reproachful way." His eyes 
 challenged, "It makes me feel like the Fortieth 
 Article." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "I would sooner fall back into the nameless void 
 of the last eight days than be 'Mr. Beresford' on the 
 ninth."
 
 202 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Well, will you?" She looked at him, her head 
 slightly on one side. 
 
 "Will I what?" he queried. 
 
 "You really are the most provoking person I ever 
 met," she cried in mock despair. 
 
 "That's exactly what Aunt Caroline says," he 
 remarked easily. "Only she puts it more pithily. 
 She just says, 'Richard, you're a fool.' ' 
 
 "But you are rather trying, you know, aren't 
 you?" She looked at him smilingly, her head still 
 a little on one side, as if desirous of coaxing from 
 him the admission. 
 
 "And if she gets still further exasperated," he 
 continued, "she adds, 'You always were a fool.' 
 My folly has become something of a family tradi- 
 tion. Even Drew frankly confesses that I'm a fooL v 
 although, out of the kindness of his heart, he modL 
 fies it somewhat by adding that he regards me as a 
 pleasant sort of fool." 
 
 "I wish I knew when you were serious." She re- 
 garded him with a comical expression of uncertainty 
 on her face. 
 
 "Never, if I can help it;" then suddenly leaning 
 towards her, he said, "Yes, I'll be serious now. 
 I'm serious when I tell you that I've been happier 
 during the last nine days than in all the rest of my 
 life before. I'm serious when I tell you how I value 
 your comradeship," his voice shook a little. "I'm 
 serious when I tell you that it has meant a lot to 
 me to be taken on trust, as you have taken me. You 
 have been splendid, Rain-Girl, more splendid than
 
 THE DANGER LINE 203 
 
 I thought it possible for any woman to be. You 
 are just wonderful." 
 
 He smiled right into her eyes, and she looked 
 down quickly. 
 
 "I've finished now," he said lightly. "I'm not 
 often " 
 
 "Please don't." The words came from her lips 
 almost in a sob. 
 
 "I'm sorry." He leaned across the table, and 
 for a moment laid his hand on hers. "What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm just silly, that's all," she cried, jumping 
 up. "Why, there's the kitten back," and she 
 pointed with her parasol to where the black cat was 
 once more engaged in the everlasting self-deception 
 that she was a great hunter of birds. 
 
 "Now let's go," she cried gaily, moving towards 
 the gate. 
 
 They drove back to Folkestone in silence, both 
 conscious of disappointment, Beresford with him- 
 self for having even momentarily forsaken his en- 
 trenched position of reserve; Lola with something 
 that she was unable to define. 
 
 "And I'm not to receive an answer to my ques- 
 tion?" he enquired quizzically as he handed her out 
 of the car at the entrance of the Imperial. 
 
 "I'll tell you after dinner," she smiled, "whilst 
 we are walking on the Leas. There will be a glo- 
 rious moon to-night," she added as, with a nod, 
 she left him with the conviction that the afternoon
 
 204 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 would in all probability prove as nothing to the 
 evening. 
 
 As he went up to his room to dress, he decided 
 that he would take no wine at dinner. 
 
 As Beresford entered the dining-room that eve- 
 ning, Mr. Byles was hovering about, obviously wait- 
 ing for Lola to make her appearance, he decided. 
 To his surprise, however, the major-domo ap- 
 proached him smiling and rubbing his hands. 
 
 "I've taken the liberty of using your table this 
 evening, sir, as you are dining with Miss Craven," 
 he said in the mellow, unctuous tone that he had 
 adopted to Beresford since their little passage at 
 arms over Mr. Montagu Gordon, whose Scottish 
 name found so startling a contradiction in his nose. 
 
 Thrilled at the prospect of a tete-a-tete with 
 Lola, Beresford nodded his acquiescence and, with 
 an indifference he was far from feeling, walked over 
 to her table and took the seat opposite that she 
 usually occupied. He was conscious that every eye 
 in the room was upon him, particularly the femi- 
 nine eyes. Why hadn't she fold him that he was 
 to dine with her this evening? Possibly it was a 
 sudden whim. He was elated at the prospect. His 
 previous qualms vanished. Nothing mattered now. 
 There was just this delirious happiness, and then 
 the deluge. What of it? It was wonderful to be 
 alive 1
 
 THE DANGER LINE 205 
 
 His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of 
 Lola approaching, conducted by the inevitable Mr. 
 Byles. She was dressed in a simple black frock 
 with a bunch of red roses at her waist. With a 
 thrill he told himself that they were those he had 
 sent her on the previous day. 
 
 "What do you think of me?" she enquired when 
 Mr. Byles had taken a reluctant departure, having 
 assured himself that everything was as it should be. 
 
 "Is it permitted to say?" asked Beresford. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm in a mad mood to-night," she 
 cried as she unfolded her napkin. 
 
 "And I am the sauce that is served with your 
 madness?" he questioned. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "And you?" she demanded. 
 
 "More sober than usual," he replied with a smile. 
 
 She made a little moue. 
 
 "You see it will preserve the Aristotelean mean," 
 he continued, as he helped himself to hors d'oeirvres. 
 
 "The Aristotelean what?" she questioned, look- 
 ing up from a sardine she was dissecting, with great 
 daintiness, he thought. 
 
 "The 'via media." 
 
 "Would you mind coming down to my intellec- 
 tual level?" she asked demurely. 
 
 Beresford laughed. 
 
 "Well?" she said, "I'm waiting." 
 
 "For?" 
 
 "You to come down from the classical clouds." 
 
 "Shall we say striking the balance," he sug-
 
 206 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 gested, "the middle way between your too much and 
 my too little?" 
 
 "Am I too much?" she queried. 
 
 "For the women, yes, for the men, no. You see 
 there are thirty-nine of them." Then seeing a 
 shadow pass across her face, he hastened to add, "I 
 didn't mean that about the women," he hesitated: 
 "May I say it?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "You look so radiant and happy," he added half 
 to himself, "that " he stopped dead. 
 
 "More wonderful than on a gate?" she chal- 
 lenged. 
 
 "Nothing could be more wonderful than that," 
 he said gravely, declining the wine that Mr. Byles 
 was about to pour into his glass. 
 
 Seeing him refuse she looked across with elevated 
 brows. He removed the inhibition, Mr. Byles de- 
 pressed the neck of the bottle and the wine creamed 
 into the glass. 
 
 "Why?" she queried, nodding at his wine glass. 
 
 "Shall we say to preserve the Aristotelean mean?" 
 he questioned quizzically. 
 
 Again she made that intimate little moue that 
 set his pulses throbbing. 
 
 "I'm in a mad mood to-night," she cried again. 
 
 "You've already taken me into your confidence 
 on that point." 
 
 "Have I?" 
 
 "It's probably due to a sense of sex isolation." 
 He looked at her mischievously over his soup spoon.
 
 THE DANGER LINE 207 
 
 "A sense of ?" 
 
 "Every woman in the room disapproves of you," 
 he said. "In other words, you are in a state of 
 splendid sex isolation, feminine sex that is." 
 
 "I don't mind," she laughed. 
 
 "On the other hand," continued Beresford, "the 
 male sex is with you to a man. That merely ag- 
 gravates the situation." 
 
 For some minutes they ate in silence. 
 
 "If I were at the evening of the ninth day of my 
 only wonder " She paused to see if he under- 
 stood. 
 
 "I think I follow you through the labyrinth," he 
 smiled. 
 
 "I should be more excited," she concluded a lit- 
 tle weakly. 
 
 "More excited than what?" he asked mystified. 
 
 "Than you are." Her eyes challenged him. 
 
 "Unless you immediately withdraw that remark," 
 he said warningly, "I shall insist on your feeling my 
 pulse." 
 
 T< I withdraw," she added hastily. "I'm so glad 
 I'm not a cow," she cried presently, as with a sigh 
 she placed her knife and fork at the "all clear" 
 angle. 
 
 "So am I," he said quietly. 
 
 "So are you!" she repeated with a puzzled ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "Glad that you are not a cow," he explained. 
 
 "Why?" she challenged. 
 
 "Well, you see," he said gravely, "I should only
 
 208 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 be able to rub your nose, and you would soon get 
 tired of that." 
 
 "How absurd you are," she cried. "I certainly 
 should get tired of it. Besides," she added incon- 
 sequently, "you would rub the powder off." 
 
 "But it was the cow's nose." 
 
 "You said my nose." 
 
 "Temporarily leaving the question of whose nose 
 for a later discussion," he said, "may I ask why 
 this expression of satisfaction at the august decrees 
 of Providence." 
 
 "It would be so monotonous," she objected. 
 
 "But I take it that even cows have their mo- 
 ments," he suggested. 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand," she cried with mock 
 impatience. 
 
 "I think I do," he said quietly. "But it has been 
 better said elsewhere, has it not?" 
 
 "Elsewhere?" 
 
 " 'I thank Thee that I am not as other men are,' ' 
 he quoted, and then added, "for 'other men,' how- 
 ever, read 'cows.' ' 
 
 "Oh!" There was consternation in her voice. 
 "Did it sound like that? How dreadful." 
 
 "You have every justification." 
 
 "Please don't." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," he said, recognising the genu- 
 ine entreaty in her voice. "Before coffee comes I 
 want you to drink a toast with me." 
 
 "A toast?" she repeated, her eyes sparkling. 
 "Oh, please tell me what it is."
 
 THE DANGER LINE 209 
 
 "Otherwise you could not drink it." 
 
 "Pleeeeease," she entreated. 
 
 "It is to a certain gate on a Surrey high-road," 
 he said gravely, raising his glass. 
 
 "Oh 1" There was disappointment in her 
 
 voice. Then with a laugh she raised her glass and 
 drank. 
 
 Later, as they were about to rise from the table 
 Beresford said: 
 
 "But I haven't yet thanked you for asking me to 
 dinner." 
 
 "I didn't ask you," she said rising and picking 
 up her handkerchief. "I instructed Byles to put you 
 here." 
 
 He bowed humbly. "May I ask why?" he en- 
 quired. 
 
 "Because it's the ninth day of your wonder, and 
 now I'll go and get my cloak," and she led the way 
 out of the dining-room, Beresford following, ex- 
 hilarated by the sensation her every movement 
 seemed to create among the other guests. 
 
 The moon had not yet risen. There was no 
 wind ; the night was very still. Occasionally a shout 
 or a laugh would stab the oppressive silence, seem- 
 ing to add to its density. Here and there a sudden 
 point of flame showed the whereabouts of some man 
 lighting a cigarette or pipe.
 
 210 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "You haven't yet answered my question about 
 to-morrow," said Beresford. 
 
 She did not reply. After fully three minutes' si- 
 lence he reminded her that he was still waiting. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said with the air of one col- 
 lecting her thoughts. "You see " she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Your reputation," he queried. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "But " he began. 
 
 "And then it's also the tenth day," she said mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "Please let me arrange everything," he said with 
 the air of a boy asking to be allowed to handle a 
 gun. 
 
 "Very well," she sighed. "My reputation be on 
 your head." 
 
 "And I may arrange the time of the train and 
 everything?" 
 
 Again she nodded, then a moment after said: 
 
 "You have me at a disadvantage. I can't argue 
 on such a night. Now let's wait and watch for the 
 moon." They were sitting on their favourite seat 
 facing the sea. "I don't want to talk. Oh, that 
 was terribly rude," she added; "but you understand, 
 don't you?" 
 
 For answer Beresford touched her hand, then 
 withdrew his quickly. 
 
 In silence they sat watching a patch on the hori- 
 zon faintly flushed with yellow. Presently above 
 the cloud of mist there slowly rose a dull globe of
 
 THE DANGER LINE 211 
 
 orange that began laboriously to climb the sky, heavy 
 as if with weeping. 
 
 "It looks as if it were afraid of something that 
 it knows it will see," said 'Lola in an awed voice. 
 
 Beresford felt her arm touch his shoulder. Was 
 it accidental? he asked himself. With a feeling 
 of exaltation he noticed that she did not withdraw. 
 He made a slight movement, severing the contact as 
 if by accident. He waited breathlessly. Yes, her 
 arm had touched his shoulder again. She 
 she 
 
 Something wild and primitive seemed to spring 
 into being within him. Something of the age when 
 men fought for their women and carried them off 
 by brute force. Why did he not carry off this girl? 
 Why was she sitting there beside him if she were 
 not prepared to be carried off? Why did he not 
 clasp her to him and pour incoherent words into her 
 ears, smothering her with kisses, inhaling the sweet 
 perfume of her? Women such as she were won in 
 a riot of physical mastery. She was no mate for 
 the drawing-room wooer. No one would under- 
 stand her as he had understood her. Other men 
 would 
 
 Suddenly there came the thought of the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles and he laughed, a short, odd laugh, 
 which seemed to strike the soft night air like a dis- 
 cord. She started, turning to him with eyes dilated 
 a little. 
 
 "What what is the matter?" she enquired with 
 a quick indrawing of breath.
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I was thinking of the Thirty-Nine Articles," he 
 replied in a voice that he failed to recognise as his 
 own. "Shall we go back?" 
 
 Without a word she rose and they walked towards 
 the Imperial. Was it his imagination, or did her 
 steps really lag? She appeared listless, so differ- 
 ent from what she had been at dinner. It was ab- 
 surd. He was in a mood to attribute all sorts of 
 causes to simple actions. In suggesting that they 
 should return to the hotel he had deliberately 
 stabbed himself, and the pain of it maddened him. 
 Still the Challice pride had triumphed. 
 
 There was no doubt about the listlessness with 
 which Lola climbed the steps to the hotel. At the 
 foot of the stairs she turned, and in a tired voice 
 bade him good-night where was that little inti- 
 mate smile that he had come to regard as his own 
 most cherished possession? 
 
 He went out once more into the night and walked 
 and walked and walked, returning when the birds 
 were twittering their greetings to the dawn.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 LONDON AND LORD DREWITT 
 
 HOW am I going to explain you to auntie?" 
 "By Jove! I hadn't thought of that." 
 Beresford's look of consternation was 
 so obvious that Lola laughed. 
 
 "I might add," she proceeded mischievously, 
 "how am I to explain travelling back to London 
 with you in a reserved compartment? It's 
 
 "I know," he said. "I was thinking of that, only 
 I didn't say it." 
 
 "Didn't say what?" she asked, genuinely puz- 
 zled. 
 
 "What it was like." 
 
 Her face crimsoned and, turning her head aside, 
 she became engrossed in the landscape streaming 
 past the window. 
 
 "You haven't told me what I'm to say to auntie," 
 she said presently, still looking out of the window. 
 
 "Couldn't you say that I saved your life whilst 
 bathing, or plucked you from a burning hotel, or 
 that you ran over me when motoring, or " 
 
 "That I came across you in a lunatic asylum," 
 she suggested scathingly. "If I had been nearly 
 
 213
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 drowned the newspapers would have got hold of it, 
 and the Imperial couldn't have been burned by 
 stealth, and if " 
 
 "Enough," he laughed. "I apologise. Why not 
 tell her the truth?" 
 
 "The truth?" she queried. 
 
 "I grant it's the last thing that one usually thinks 
 of. Say that I fainted in your arms in the dining- 
 room of the Imperial and " 
 
 "Oh, don't be ridiculous," she laughed. "Seri- 
 ously though," she added a moment later. "I thmk 
 it would be the best plan." 
 
 "To say that I fainted in your arms?" he asked 
 innocently. 
 
 "That going to the assistance of a fellow-guest 
 ^rho had fainted," she continued severely, "I found 
 that he was a cousin of Lord Drewitt." 
 
 "And nephew of Lady Drewitt, don't forget 
 that," he said hastily, "or Aunt Caroline would never 
 forgive you." 
 
 "I'll remember," she nodded. 
 
 "And having dragged me back resisting to this 
 world," he continued, "you might add that you 
 neglected me in a land where foster-mothers were 
 not." 
 
 "Whatever are you talking about?" 
 
 "Only of your neglect during the early days of 
 my convalescence." 
 
 "Suppose it got to be known that you and I were 
 travelling up to London in a reserved compart-
 
 LONDON AND LORD DREWITT 215 
 
 ment?" Lola looked at him. "What would peo- 
 ple say?" she demanded reproachfully. 
 
 "The worst without a doubt; but what they would 
 say would be as nothing to what they would think. 
 It's not really reserved, you know," he added, 
 "merely the result of the constitutional venality of 
 railway guards." 
 
 "But you don't consider my reputation." 
 
 "You have allowed me to consider little else for 
 the last nine days," was the calm retort. 
 
 "Well, you must come to lunch to-morrow and 
 explain to auntie, and bring Lord Drewitt. We'll 
 invite Mr. Deacon Quelch. He's auntie's pet me- 
 dium. It's so funny to see Lord Drewitt look at 
 him." She laughed at the recollection. 
 
 "I think Drew mentioned that he had met Mr. 
 Quelch," said Beresford drily, recollecting Drewitt's 
 description. 
 
 "Now you won't forget," she said. "Two 
 o'clock to-morrow, and above all discretion." 
 
 "Do you think I'm likely to forget?" he asked 
 pointedly, "the luncheon, I mean." 
 
 "You might faint again," she suggested de- 
 murely, "or or " 
 
 "Or what?" 
 
 "Or go away," she glanced at him swiftly. 
 
 Somehow her simple remark seemed to bring back 
 to him the full realisation of his position. A week 
 
 or two and he would be faced by He shook 
 
 himself as if to drive away the thought. 
 
 "Why did you do that?" she asked curiously.
 
 216 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Why did I do what?" 
 
 "Shake yourself like like " 
 
 "A little devil had settled on my shoulder and 
 was whispering unpleasant things into my ear," he 
 explained with a smile. 
 
 "You are funny." She looked at him apprais- 
 ingly. "You are funnier than any one I have ever 
 known." 
 
 "Pour s' amuse la reine," he smiled. 
 
 "I wish I understood you," she said, still regard- 
 ing him with gravely intent eyes. 
 
 "And you think I should wear better understood?" 
 he queried. 
 
 "You're not like " 
 
 "The other Thirty-Nine Articles. Grtce a 
 Dieu!" he laughed. 
 
 "I can see it's no use," she said with a sigh. 
 "You won't be serious." 
 
 "I dare not." 
 
 The tone rather than the words caused her to look 
 at him quickly; but he was smiling. 
 
 The train was now rushing into bricks and mor- 
 tar. To Beresford the greyness of the unending 
 lines seemed reflected in his own thoughts. It was 
 getting very near the end the end with a capital 
 "E." Still it had been wonderful, and he was not 
 going to complain. 
 
 Nothing more was said until they drew into Vic- 
 toria Station, and then only the commonplaces about 
 luggage and a taxi. He secured a porter, retrieved 
 Lola's luggage from the avalanche that was de-
 
 LONDON AND LORD DREWITT 217 
 
 scending upon the platform from the guard's van, 
 and finally secured a taxi. 
 
 "Thank you very much indeed for for every- 
 thing," she said with a smile as she held out her 
 hand. 
 
 "You will let me see you sometimes?" he pleaded. 
 
 "But I thought you were going away," she said 
 smiling. 
 
 "Oh, 'the bird of time has still a little way to flut- 
 ter,' " he quoted as the taxi jerked forward. 
 
 "To-morrow then," she cried. 
 
 He lifted his hat and turned to the business of 
 securing his own luggage and another taxi. 
 
 At the Ritz-Carlton he found that the letter he 
 had sent from Folkestone cancelling his room had 
 miscarried, involving a still further drain into his 
 already sadly depleted capital. These gradual in- 
 roads into the limited balance of his days were be- 
 coming disturbing. 
 
 By six o'clock he had discovered and taken a 
 small furnished bachelor flat in St. James's Man- 
 sions, Jermyn Street, had transferred there from the 
 Ritz-Carlton, and was on his way to call upon 
 Drewitt. 
 
 As he was shown in by Hoskins, he found Ed- 
 ward Seymour just about to take his departure. 
 
 "Behold, my dear Teddy," said Drewitt, lazily 
 waving his hand towards Beresford, "the personi- 
 fication of a spirit of romance that no Cervantes 
 could have killed." 
 
 Edward Seymour looked from Beresford to
 
 218 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Drewitt, blinking his eyes like a puzzled owl, then 
 feeling that the surest defence lay in offence, he 
 turned to Beresford. 
 
 "I suppose you've been spending money again," 
 he sneered. 
 
 "No, Edward," said Beresford with a smile, he 
 felt he could afford to smile at everything to-day, 
 "as a matter of fact the taxi-man brought me for 
 nothing." 
 
 "Have you ever read Don Qinxote?" enquired 
 Drewitt of Edward Seymour. 
 
 He shook his sandy little head. He always felt 
 at a disadvantage with Drewitt. 
 
 "That would explain my allusion, Teddy. Now 
 you must run away to Cecily, or she will think you 
 are lost. Give her my love, and tell her I shall dis- 
 pute the will." The smile which accompanied 
 these words robbed them of some of their sting. 
 
 "I'll tell Aunt Caroline that you're back," said 
 Edward Seymour to Beresford as he walked toward* 
 the door. 
 
 Beresford nodded as the door closed behind him. 
 
 "That's just the sort of thing that dear, amiable, 
 sweet-natured little Teddy would do," said Drewitt. 
 "Richard, before you plunge me into the mael- 
 strom of your adventures, I beseech you to ring for 
 Coffee." 
 
 Beresford did so. 
 
 "No, Richard, not a word until I am fortified. 
 Three times this week have I seen the aunt, twice 
 been buttonholed by Sir Redman Bight, the club
 
 LONDON AND LORD DREWITT 219 
 
 bore, in addition to being invited to join the Board 
 of the Auto-Balloon Bus and Tram. Car Syndicate, 
 I think that was its name. It has really been most 
 exhausting. By the way, did you ring twice?" 
 
 Beresford nodded. 
 
 "Thank you for remembering that twice means 
 coffee. You might have rung three times, which 
 means ; but never mind, that is a purely domes- 
 tic matter." 
 
 After a pause Drewitt continued, "London's ex- 
 actly where you left it, Richard, incidentally where 
 Lola Craven left it also. She has not been heard of 
 or seen since that breakfast. Heavens ! that break- 
 fast and and her aunt. Her conversation made 
 me feel like rose-blight subjected to a patent spray- 
 exterminator. I have never encountered anything 
 like it." A look of complete misery overspread 
 Drewitt's features. "I'm positively afraid to en- 
 quire of Hoskins how much I owe for coffee. It 
 must be a prodigious amount. Ah! here it is," as 
 Hoskins entered with a tray and proceeded to fill 
 the two white and gold cups, which he handed to 
 Drewitt and Beresford. 
 
 "What I most admire about you, Richard, is your 
 capacity for the unexpected. You leave London for 
 all the discomforts of the country-side, from damp 
 beds to mosquitoes, your loving family hears noth- 
 ing of you for eight weeks, then suddenly you reap- 
 pear, clothed in a manner that is a direct challenge 
 to Solomon the king, I mean, not the Piccadilly 
 florist. You then proceed to behave in a manner
 
 220 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 that is eccentric, even for you, Richard, who in your- 
 self are a sort of mental jazz-band. Now for your 
 story, I can bear it." 
 
 In a few words Beresford told of the "acciden- 
 tal" meeting with Lola Craven at the Imperial, and 
 that he had accepted an invitation for Drewitt and 
 himself to lunch on the morrow. He refrained 
 from mentioning that Mr. Quelch would be present. 
 
 "Impossible, quite impossible. To-morrow I am 
 lunching with let me see, who is it? I know it's 
 somebody uncomfortable, because I have been look- 
 ing forward to it with dread." 
 
 "To-morrow you are lunching with us, Drew," 
 said Beresford quietly. 
 
 "Since you put it so persuasively," he said drily, 
 "I cannot of course refuse. Perhaps you will ring 
 the bell once, that means that Hoskins' presence is 
 required." 
 
 Beresford did so, and a moment later Hoskins 
 entered. 
 
 "Hoskins," said Drewitt, "I am due to lunch with 
 somebody or other to-morrow. It doesn't matter 
 with whom. Just say that that well, just make 
 my excuses in your usual inimitable manner." 
 
 Hoskins bowed and withdrew. 
 
 "Richard, you are keeping something from me." 
 Drewitt reached for a cigarette and proceeded to 
 light it. 
 
 "And you, with your customary discretion, will 
 not press the matter," said Beresford with a smile. 
 
 "Perhaps you're right. When a man makes a
 
 LONDON AND LORD DREWITT 
 
 peculiarly transparent sort of ass of himself, he is 
 usually too conscious of the fact to require outside 
 comment. By the way, the Aunt has been enquir- 
 ing about you." 
 
 "About me?" queried Beresford. 
 
 "Yes. I think I unduly alarmed her by an indis- 
 creet reference to a possible inquest upon your re- 
 mains. Perhaps one or two ill-advised references 
 to the cheerless and unhygienic qualities of coroners' 
 courts were responsible. What she will say when 
 she learns that you have been cutting the ground 
 from under my feet at Folkestone, I haven't the most 
 remote idea." 
 
 "Don't be an ass." 
 
 "Richard," continued Drewitt, "I have a fore- 
 boding. Like the estimable Cassandra, I feel a 
 perfect tenement-house of foreboding. With your 
 romantic disposition, Lola Craven's fascinating per- 
 sonality and your high sense of honour and integ- 
 rity, we have a situation that Sophocles would have 
 welcomed with tears of artistic joy." 
 
 "You are talking a most awful lot of rot, Drew." 
 Beresford was conscious of a surly note in his voice. 
 
 "How much money have you got?" Drewitt 
 leaned forward slightly, the bantering note had dis- 
 appeared from his voice. 
 
 Beresford looked across at him curiously. 
 
 "I've given up taking stock of my resources." 
 
 For fully a minute there was silence, broken at 
 length by Drewitt.
 
 222 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Richard, there are a few hundreds at the bank 
 unclaimed by my hysterical creditors, if " 
 
 "Thanks, old man," said Beresford quietly as 
 he rose. "I shall be all right," and he gripped with 
 unusual warmth the hand that Drewitt extended to 
 him. 
 
 "You're in the very devil of a mess, Dickie," he 
 said quietly. "I'm always here when you want me." 
 
 Beresford drove back to Jermyn Street to tele- 
 phone to Lola that Drewitt would be able to lunch 
 on the morrow. He felt strangely lonely without 
 her. For the last week he had been constantly in 
 her company, and now suddenly she had been lifted 
 clean out of his life. There was the whole evening 
 to dispose of, and the following morning until lunch- 
 time. He might go to a theatre, it was true; but 
 what object would there be when his thoughts would 
 be elsewhere than with the performers? 
 
 Arrived at Jermyn Street, he got through to the 
 Belle Vue, and held the line for nearly ten minutes 
 whilst they were searching for Lola. Eventually 
 a message came that she was not to be found, and 
 with a vicious jab he replaced the receiver. Three 
 times he rang her up, and three times the message 
 was the same. Finally he sat down to write a note 
 and, having spoiled a number of sheets of note- 
 paper, folded and placed in an envelope something 
 with which he was entirely dissatisfied. It was im- 
 possible to write to the Rain-Girl with all sorts of 
 barriers and restraints intervening.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 
 
 YOU'RE just in time to prevent Hoskins from 
 undermining my taste in dress," said 
 Drewitt, who, garbed in a wonderful silk 
 dressing-gown of an eccentric pattern of black and 
 white, was lolling back in a chair. 
 
 Beresford had arranged to pick him up on hia 
 way to keep the luncheon engagement with Lola. 
 
 Hoskins smiled with a deprecating air that plainly 
 said, "You know his lordship's little way, sir!" 
 
 "He wants me to wear this tie," holding out a 
 black poplin tie with white spots, "with these 
 trousers," indicating the trousers he was wearing, 
 black with thin white perpendicular lines. 
 
 "Well, why not?" enquired Beresford. 
 
 "There are some men," said Drewitt, looking 
 reproachfully at Beresford, "so supremely oblivious 
 of their social obligations as to be capable of wear- 
 ing spotted trousers with a striped tie. You see, 
 Hoskins," he continued, turning to his man, "I'm to 
 meet Mr. Deacon Quelch, who is psychic. Now it's 
 impossible to tell what might be the effect of a sar- 
 torial indiscretion upon a highly psychic mentality. 
 You follow me?" 
 
 223
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Not exactly, my lord." 
 
 "There must be much comfort in a pose," said 
 Beresford. 
 
 Drewitt took a cigarette from the box, lit it, 
 smiling at his cousin over the flame. 
 
 "Realities are uncomfortable bedfellows, Rich- 
 ard," he remarked. "Have you ever studied the 
 night-side of London?" 
 
 "A bit," acknowledged Beresford. 
 
 "Can you imagine what it would be on lemonade 
 and dry ginger-ale?" 
 
 "So your pose is to you what alcohol is to vice?" 
 
 "My finished demeanour as a man of the world," 
 corrected Drewitt, "is to me what drink is to im- 
 morality. It prevents me from getting tired of 
 myself. And now for Mr. Deacon Quelch." He 
 passed out of the room, reappearing a few minutes 
 later ready for calling. 
 
 "Now, Richard, I am, as good old Sir Thomas 
 says, 'ready to be anything in the ecstacy of being 
 ever.' I hope you are always careful in crossing 
 the road," he said, as he took the hat and stick Hos- 
 kins handed to him. 
 
 "Crossing the road, my lord?" 
 
 "I mean that you take no undue risks. Remem- 
 ber, Hoskins, your life is not your own. It is in- 
 extricably linked up with my destiny, the link being 
 your coffee. Now, Richard, I am at your service." 
 
 As they were about to enter the Belle Vue, they 
 were conscious of a strange figure just in front of 
 them.
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 225 
 
 "Mr. Deacon Quelch," murmured Drewitt, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 Beresford nodded, and they entered just behind 
 Mr. Quelch. 
 
 As they waited while their names were taken up, 
 Beresford and Drewitt sat watching the figure of 
 their fellow-guest. He was a curiously furtive-look- 
 ing creature, rather above middle height, with bulgy 
 boots, baggy trousers and a shapeless frock-coat. 
 On his head he wore a top-hat that had worn itself 
 to a frenzy of despair, its glossiness no longer 
 amenable to anything but liquid persuasion. His tie 
 was a voluminous dab of black, and his waistcoat a 
 combination of green and purple, with a broad, 
 black braid border. His cuffs started forward hys- 
 terically from the sleeves of his coat, and had 
 obviously to be kept in place by the wrists being car- 
 ried at a definite angle. He looked hungry and 
 obsequious. Apparently he did not remember 
 Drewitt, as he made no sign of recognition. 
 
 A flurry of skirts and a stream of talk announced 
 the arrival of Mrs. Crisp. Lola followed a few 
 paces behind. 
 
 "Ah ! here you are. All arrived together. Dear 
 Mr. Quelch. How charming of you to come. Lord 
 Drewitt, and Mr. Berry. Lord Drewitt, Mr. 
 Deacon Quelch. You ought to knov/ each other. 
 How stupid of me, you've met." She trailed off 
 into a string of interjections; Drewitt and Beres- 
 ford turned to greet Lola, and the party walked 
 towards the dining-room.
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Lola's frock reminded Beresford of the dense 
 plumes of smoke from the chimney of a newly-stoked 
 furnace. A touch of colour was supplied by a row 
 of orange beads round her neck. Her movements, 
 the carriage of her head, her general bearing 
 were 
 
 "And how is your chest, Mr. Berry?" Mrs. 
 Crisp suddenly turned her jet upon Beresford. 
 "Have you tried camphorated-oil? So good for a 
 cold. I always use it, and liquorice too. Rubbed in 
 night and morning. Oil, I mean, not the liquorice. 
 We've missed her so much, haven't we, Mr. Quelch. 
 Yes, you sit there and you here, Lord Drewitt," 
 indicating the seat next to Lola, "and you next to 
 Lola, Mr. Berry." 
 
 "Why will people make life ugly with camphor, 
 eucalyptus and peppermint?" said Lola to Beresford 
 with a moue of disgust. 
 
 "And flannelette," interpolated Drewitt. "I had 
 a great-aunt who spent half her money and all her 
 time in making flannelette garments for harmless 
 negroes. It's such an impertinence." 
 
 "Are you serious?" asked Lola, turning to him 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "The negroes were," said Drewitt. "I believe 
 those garments produced a revolution." 
 
 "You are laughing at me," she said reproachfully. 
 
 "To place flannelette garments upon limbs that 
 hitherto have been gloriously free is," continued 
 Drewitt, "as bad as " 
 
 "I see," she laughed.
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 227 
 
 Beresford took little part in the conversation. He 
 was accustomed to having Lola to himself, and 
 found it difficult to reconcile himself to sharing her 
 with others. Mrs. Crisp fascinated him. He had 
 never met any one of such undammable loquacity. 
 Words streamed from her lips as water from a hose. 
 A chance word would send her off at a tangent. 
 Sometimes he found it difficult to control his features 
 as, in her haste, she occasionally transposed the 
 initial letters of two words, as, for instance, when 
 complaining of the off-hand manner of one of the 
 porters, instead of describing him as she intended as 
 "nearly rude," she informed Drewitt that he was 
 "really nude." 
 
 "You must come to one of our seances," she cried 
 to Drewitt. "I've never known any one like Mr. 
 Quelch, so psychic." 
 
 Drewitt screwed his monocle into his eye and 
 gazed at Mr. Quelch with grave interest, as if he had 
 been a specimen of some unknown fauna. Mr. 
 Quelch fidgeted under the scrutiny as, by a dexter- 
 ous movement of the backs of his hands, he read- 
 justed his cuffs, which had slipped down. 
 
 "Are you interested in psychical research?" 
 enquired Lola, looking from Beresford to Drewitt. 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Drewitt, "that I'm too pre- 
 occupied with the substance of this world to have 
 time for the shadow of the next." 
 
 "But think, Lord Drewitt," cried Mrs. Crisp, 
 "you can talk to all your friends who have passed 
 over. Only the other night my dear sister came.
 
 228 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 She was drowned. It was such a comfort. So fond 
 of the water. She was quite a famous digh-hiver. 
 So embarrassing, you know. The costume I mean. 
 I should blush all over." 
 
 "I am afraid I could not take the risk," said 
 Drewitt. "One is at such disadvantage with a spirit. 
 Fortunately in this world people have the grace to 
 say behind your back what a spirit would most likely 
 say to your face." 
 
 Mr. Quelch shook his head dolefully, as he laid 
 his black moustache affectionately upon a spoonful 
 of white soup. 
 
 As Lola continued to chat with Drewitt, Beres- 
 ford found his thoughts slipping back to the days 
 at Folkestone. She seemed so different here from 
 the gay, irresponsible girl he had known during the 
 last three or four days of their stay. 
 
 <f Suicide is a harsh name for a disinclination to 
 wear something that we have grown out of," he 
 heard Drewitt say. 
 
 He looked across. Drewitt was toying with a 
 saltspoon, whilst Lola was engaged in crumbling a 
 piece of bread between her fingers. 
 
 "Such a dreadful thing, suicide," burst in Mrs. 
 Crisp. "A man died in my bath at Brighton. At 
 least, the bath I used. Thrut his coat one morning. 
 So thoughtless for others. Some people read in 
 them. So bad for the books, and they are so cross 
 at the libraries if there is a page or two missing." 
 She turned to Mr. Quelch and proceeded to spray 
 him.
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 229 
 
 "But surely you don't think we have a right to 
 take our own lives?" asked Lola, turning to Drewitt. 
 
 "If any one gave you a hat that didn't suit you, 
 would you wear it?" enquired Drewitt. 
 
 "Noooooo," she said hesitatingly. 
 
 "Then why should you continue to wear the 
 mantle of existence when it doesn't fit?" 
 
 "But life is so different," she protested. "It's not 
 ours to dispose of." 
 
 "Suppose Richard put a rhinoceros In your bath- 
 room, would you hesitate to have it removed because 
 it was not yours to dispose of?" Drewitt looked at 
 her with a smile. 
 
 "How absurd," she laughed. 
 
 "That," said Drewitt, "is a feminine confession of 
 defeat." 
 
 "Schopenhauer says that when the sum total of 
 misery exceeds the sum total of happiness suicide is 
 inevitable," said Beresford, who had been listening 
 with interest to Drewitt's exposition on the ethics 
 of suicide. 
 
 "Never quote Schopenhauer to a woman, 
 Richard," said Drewitt. "If she's heard of him 
 she doesn't like him; if she hasn't heard of him she 
 won't know whether he's a Bolshevist or a German 
 helmet." 
 
 "But," said Beresford, turning to Lola, "do you 
 mean that when a man sees all that he most desires 
 in life quite out of his reach, that he must go on 
 making the best of things?"
 
 230 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Certainly," said Lola, with decision. "He 
 should try and win what he wants, work for it." 
 
 "Do you see that little waiter over there?" asked 
 Drewitt, indicating a curious little man with bulging 
 eyes and a receding chin. 
 
 Lola nodded. 
 
 "Suppose he were to fall violently in love with 
 you, Miss Craven," he continued. "Suppose that 
 you became absolutely necessary to him, and inspired 
 his every thought and action. He saw you in every 
 soup-plate, you got mixed up with the fish, flavoured 
 the entree, crept into the roast. Suppose he were 
 prepared to become a Napoleon of waiters for your 
 sake. What " 
 
 "Oh! but that is so absurd," she laughed. 
 
 "But just now you said that a man must try and 
 win what he wants." 
 
 "Oh, but I didn't mean " she paused. 
 
 "When you make a statement," smiled Drewitt, 
 "you must always be prepared to have it carried to 
 its logical conclusion. The waiter is the logical con- 
 clusion of your statement, that all have a right to 
 aspire to any and everything." 
 
 "But we have rather wandered away from sui- 
 cide," suggested Beresford. 
 
 "On the contrary we are now approaching it," 
 continued Drewitt. "The little waiter spends every 
 moment that is not occupied in collecting tips in 
 showing his devotion to you, and endeavouring to 
 obtain the object of his desires, your hand, Miss
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 231 
 
 Craven. Life has ceased to mean anything to him 
 without you. You follow me?" 
 
 "I don't," she confessed. "I feel absolutely 
 giddy." 
 
 "There are only two courses open to the waiter: 
 one is to gain his ends, the other is to fail to gain 
 his ends. If he fails, then you would deny him the 
 soothing alternative of suicide." 
 
 Beresford waited eagerly for her reply; but Mrs. 
 Crisp burst in upon them. 
 
 "I've just remembered," she cried; "it was at 
 Bournemouth, not Brighton. So relaxing. It was 
 the year that girl ran away with a man in a car 
 over a cliff. So romantic." 
 
 "I wonder why you always speak as if nothing 
 mattered," said Lola, looking up at Drewitt, her 
 head slightly on one side, her eyebrows puckered. 
 
 "Do I?" He gave her a friendly little smile that 
 he kept for his particular friends and intimates. 
 "Perhaps it's because I'm devoid of romance." 
 
 "But are you?" she asked seriously. 
 
 "When I read Malory or Froissart I endeavour 
 to picture myself touring the country on a cart-horse 
 with a long pole, like an exaggerated boy scout, 
 engaged in the rescue of forlorn maidens and the 
 destruction of fire-eating dragons. I confess I 
 cannot see myself doing it." 
 
 "But you approach everything from the ridiculous 
 aspect," she said smiling. "Those stories always 
 thrill me." 
 
 "Because you don't see their artificiality," he
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 replied. "You see only the handsome and gallant 
 knight seated on a swift charger, risking his life; 
 but when you remember that knights were sometimes 
 plain, that their horses were heavy, lumbering crea- 
 tures, and that their combats were no more deadly 
 than a football-match or a glove-fight " 
 
 "Please don't," she laughed. "You would strip 
 romance from a honeymoon." 
 
 "To me a honeymoon is as unromantic as a 
 German dinner," continued Drewitt. "It's the 
 stripping of the tinsel from the idol. It is intimacy 
 that ruins marriage, intimacy and carelessness." 
 
 "Carelessness?" she queried. 
 
 "Yes," replied Drewitt, polishing his monocle 
 with great care. "I've heard of men selecting for 
 a honeymoon a place that involved a sea voyage. 
 The risk is criminal." 
 
 "I wish I weren't so stupid," she said in mock 
 despair. "What risk?" 
 
 "The risk of your adored one having a queasy 
 stomach." 
 
 "Oh, please don't," she protested. "What a 
 dreadful expression." 
 
 "As the boat gets further from land, the beloved 
 grows greener and greener, until at last she makes 
 a bolt " 
 
 "Stop ! Oh, please, stop !" cried Lola. 
 
 "I'm sorry if I have undermined your belief in the 
 romantic," said Drewitt, "but there are certain facts 
 in life that must be faced."
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 233 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll never see a woman with a 
 lover's eyes." 
 
 "On the contrary," he replied, "I should see her 
 always with a lover's eyes. In an east wind, I should 
 resent the redness of her nose, in the summer, the 
 flaming patch on the front of her chest, symbolical 
 of the kisses of June. Imagine, Miss Craven, what 
 must be the feelings of a Romeo when he discovers 
 that his Juliet has a bilious attack, or the agony of a 
 Pelleas when he finds that Melisande wears false 
 teeth, or again, think of the emotion of an Abelard 
 on hearing that Heloise has chilblains." 
 
 Lola laughed; but before she had time to speak 
 Mrs. Crisp broke in 
 
 "Such dreadful things, Lord Drewitt. I have 
 them in the winter. Mr. Quelch has them also. 
 Don't you, Mr. Quelch? I've tried everything. 
 They're really most painful. Somebody once told 
 me it was eating too much meat. And it's so difficult 
 to get. I believe vegetarians never have them." 
 
 "Vegetarians never have anything, Mrs. Crisp," 
 said Drewitt, "except babies, shapeless clothing, and 
 garden-cities." 
 
 Mrs. Crisp laughed. Her laugh was a thing of 
 startling suddenness. Half closing her eyes and de- 
 pressing her brows, she gave the impression of one 
 about to burst into tears. Beresford dreaded her 
 amusement; it was so depressing in its expression. 
 
 "Do you believe in romance, Mr. Quelch?" en- 
 quired Lola, looking across at the medium, who had 
 been singularly quiet throughout the meal, devoting
 
 234 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 himself to the more serious occupation of eating. 
 
 Mr. Quelch shook a gloomy head. 
 
 "There is no romance in heaven," said Drewitt. 
 "That is why marriages are made there." 
 
 "Romance as you understand it," said Mr. 
 Quelch, looking at Lola. "No; the great romance is 
 on the Other Side." 
 
 "The shady side," suggested Drewitt; but Mr. 
 Quelch again shook his head with an air of settled 
 gloom, as he proceeded to attack the peche Melba 
 before him. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Lola, "everybody seems to be 
 either gloomy or cynical. There's auntie and Mr. 
 Quelch half in the other world, and Lord Drewitt 
 and Mr. Beresford trying to prick every bubble in 
 this. Poor me," she cried in simulated despair. "I 
 feel like a child who sees its toys being destroyed 
 before its very eyes. You make me feel I shall never 
 have a beautiful idea or feeling again." 
 
 "My dear Miss Craven," said Mr. Quelch, swal- 
 'owing a lump of ice in such haste that his Adam's 
 apple darted about wildly, "my dear Miss Craven." 
 
 Drewitt gazed across at Mr. Quelch, who had 
 once more become engrossed with his peche Melba. 
 
 Beresford pictured Mr. Quelch dashing after 
 Lola on the sands at Folkestone as he had done a 
 few days previously. He smiled. 
 
 "Why are you smiling, Mr. Beresford?" she 
 asked. "Won't you share the joke with us?" 
 
 "Richard is a joke unto himself," said Drewitt, 
 unconsciously coming to the rescue. "He's the only
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 235 
 
 ass in London who is conscious of his ears. Aren't 
 you, Richard?" 
 
 "You speak as if you were really fond of the 
 species," she smiled. 
 
 "I suppose I am," admitted Drewitt. "I always 
 have to stop and rub the muzzle of a donkey when- 
 ever I see one." 
 
 A moment later she turned to Beresford and 
 murmured, 
 
 "I think it must run in the family; don't you 
 remember the other day you wanted to rub my 
 muzzle?" 
 
 "Rub your muzzle I" he repeated, as if not quite 
 sure that he had heard correctly. 
 
 "Yes," she laughed. "When I said I was glad 
 I was not a cow." 
 
 Before Beresford had time to reply they were 
 drawn once more into the general conversation. 
 
 "We'll take coffee in the ginter-warden," cried 
 Mrs. Crisp. "So pleasant. I love music. You must 
 come and talk to me, Mr. Berry. I've seen nothing 
 of you. Now, Mr. Quelch." 
 
 Once in the winter-garden, Mrs. Crisp seemed to 
 forget her desire to converse with Beresford, who 
 sat watching the others talk. Lola made several 
 ineffectual efforts to draw him into the conversation; 
 but Mrs. Crisp continued to ignore him, devoting 
 herself to Drewitt and Mr. Quelch. 
 
 A sudden hush in the talk seemed to remind her of 
 Beresford's presence. She moved over to where he 
 sat.
 
 236 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I've just been scolding Lola," she said, lowering 
 her voice and with an artificial smile; "so indiscreet 
 of her. Most indiscreet. What must they have 
 thought at the hotel. I'm very cross with her. She 
 should have come back at once. Poor Miss Brock. 
 Such a great sufferer. She has it so badly in her 
 legs." 
 
 What it was that Miss Brock had so badly in her 
 legs Beresford was not to know, as Mrs. Crisp 
 broke off to fire a short burst at Mr. Quelch. A 
 moment later she turned once more to Beresford. 
 
 "And I blame you, Mr. Berry." Again Mrs. 
 Crisp turned upon him an automatic smile of immac- 
 ulate dentistry. "You should have sent her home. 
 She's so wrong-stilled. What must the servants have 
 thought? And the papers? Such odious people. 
 Journalists, I mean. I hope she didn't bathe." 
 
 "I'm sure " began Beresford, his head in a 
 
 whirl. 
 
 "So dreadful," she continued without waiting for 
 a reply. "So lacking in refinement. You never 
 know when there's a tan with a melescope. Odious 
 creatures. I'm sure the Queen would disapprove. 
 I'm told they sit there all day. The men with 
 the telescopes, I mean. So sweet and gentle. 
 Such a mother. Fancy bathing with strange men. 
 She ought to have been more careful. Lola, I 
 mean." 
 
 "But," interpolated Beresford, "Miss Craven 
 didn't bathe." 
 
 "I mean staying down there with you. Mr.
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 237 
 
 Quelch was shocked. I hardly liked to tell him. 
 
 He's so sensitive. I remember once " Mrs. 
 
 Crisp was interrupted in her reminiscences by 
 Drewitt rising to go. She turned upon him full of 
 regrets, gush and assurances that she was certain he 
 was psychic. 
 
 As he was shaking hands with Lola, Beresford 
 managed to tell her that he felt a relapse coming on, 
 and asked if she would spare him an hour or two. 
 
 She shook her head, a little sadly, he thought. 
 
 "I'm in disgrace," she pouted, "and I must be 
 nice to auntie to make up for Folkestone." She gave 
 him a mischievous glance. "I've been having such 
 a lecture on the proprieties." 
 
 That was all. No word of when he was to see 
 her. 
 
 "I don't know which I most dislike about Mr. 
 Quelch," said Drewitt, as they passed down fhe 
 steps of the Belle Vue, "his name, his moustache, or 
 his accent. I like cockneys; but not in frock-coats," 
 he added. 
 
 Beresford smiled vaguely; but made no reply. 
 
 "I wonder," continued Drewitt, as they walked 
 down Piccadilly, "why it is that all men with gen- 
 erous moustaches seem to have a passion for thick 
 soup." Then after a pause he added, "Those with 
 dark moustaches apparently prefer white soups, 
 whilst those with light moustaches select the darker 
 fluids. It's interesting." 
 
 But Beresford was not listening. He was think- 
 ing of the void he had just discovered in his life.
 
 238 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Hitherto he had been aware that the end was 
 inevitable; but without actually visualising it. He 
 had frequently thought about the time when every- 
 thing would be well, ended; yet somehow he 
 seemed now to realise for the first time facts as they 
 were. This, then, was the end. Folkestone had been 
 just an episode, a nine days' wonder. She 
 
 "That's the third time you have failed in your 
 social duty, Richard," said Drewitt, reproachfully, 
 as he lifted his hat. "That was Lady Peggy Bris- 
 towe." 
 
 "Damn Lady Peggy Bristowe!" snapped Beres- 
 ford petulantly. 
 
 "Certainly, if you wish it;" and Drewitt relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Drew," said Beresford with a laugh. 
 
 "I was afraid she might not approve of you, 
 Dickie," said Drewitt, in a tone that caused Beres- 
 ford to look at him sharply. 
 
 "She! Who?" 
 
 "The aunt," was the reply. "Aunts are the very 
 devil; camels are love-birds in comparison," he 
 added as he hailed a taxi. "Now I'll leave you. 
 I've promised Bowen to explain to Lady Peter why 
 vegetarianism seems to encourage polygamous 
 instincts among its votaries," and with a wave of his 
 hand Drewitt entered a taxi and drove off. 
 
 Yes, that was it, Beresford mused as he continued 
 down Piccadilly. Mrs. Crisp disapproved of him 
 and he was to be dropped he was being dropped. 
 Had not Lola refused to see him? Had not Mrs.
 
 THE NINE DAYS ENDED 239 
 
 Crisp's attitude been entirely devoid of cordiality? 
 
 Had not ? It was all over. He had been a 
 
 fool to come back to London. He should have 
 turned resolutely to the open road, and have tried 
 to forget her. It was all due to that idiotic some- 
 thing in him that he had never been able quite to 
 analyse nor understand. Anyway, it was too late 
 now. After all, what did it matter? 
 
 He walked on aimlessly, following the path of the 
 least resistance. When at last he looked about, he 
 found himself in unaccustomed surroundings. On 
 asking where he was of a tired little man in a still 
 more weary-looking frock-coat, he was told Pimlico. 
 The man regarded him curiously, as if to be in 
 Pimlico without knowing it were unusual. It seemed 
 to take Beresford quite a long time to disembarrass 
 himself of Pimlico, and to reach a spot near Victoria 
 Station where he found an empty taxi. 
 
 Late into that night he sat, before him a sheet of 
 paper on which were written a few figures. He was 
 face to face with a problem THE problem. 
 There was still a week or two left, however, he 
 decided, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and 
 prepared for bed.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 
 
 FOR hours Beresford had been sitting looking 
 straight in front of him. It was past noon; 
 yet the breakfast-t ings still lay on the table, 
 just as the porter had brought them up three hours 
 before. Twice the man had entered to clear away, 
 only to be sent away by a curt shake of the head. 
 The coffee was cold in the pot, the eggs and bacon 
 lay a sickly-looking mess bound together by a grey 
 film of chilled fat. 
 
 On the corner of the table h y a pile of money, 
 notes, silver and copper. Was it only that morning 
 that he had counted it with eager fingers and tingling 
 pulses? Eleven pounds four shillings and three- 
 pence. 
 
 The figures seemed to have burned themselves 
 into his brain. For hours he had sat watching them. 
 They were everywhere. They stared back at him 
 from the opposite wall, they blinked at him from 
 the ceiling, the clock ticked them into his ears, and 
 they had eaten themselves indelibly into his brain. 
 
 Did sailors feel like that when adrift in an open 
 boat with the water-cask empty? He wondered. 
 Presently his gaze left the opposite wall and lighted 
 
 240
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 241 
 
 on the telephone instrument. For a second the 
 flicker of a smile relieved the shadows. That was 
 the link with Lola. But was there a link with Lola 
 now? 
 
 Eleven pounds four shillings and threepence! 
 
 It meant that the end was very near, was here, 
 in -fact. The shock of the discovery had numbed 
 him. What a fool he had been. It was strange, 
 though, how fate seemed determined to eat into his 
 rapidly vanishing resources. There had been the 
 expense of staying at the Ritz-Carlton, whilst Lola 
 
 was at the Belle Vue. Such rotten luck, then ; 
 
 but why trouble to build up the whole fabric of 
 misfortune? From somewhere at the back of his 
 mind he recalled a favourite phrase of the little 
 cockney in his section, "Any'ow, that'll settle your 
 little 'ash, ole son." That was exactly what was 
 about to happen. His little hash was on the eve of 
 being settled. 
 
 Slowly out of the chaos of his disordered thoughts 
 was being constructed the Great Determination. 
 It was as if an anaesthetic were being administered. 
 That little tube of morphia tablets he had brought 
 back from France seemed to be for ever dancing 
 about in his thoughts. At first he had struggled 
 against it; but gradually he had been overcome, until 
 now he was almost reconciled to the inevitable. The 
 will to live was dropping from him like a garment. 
 Everybody had a right to decide for himself. Had 
 not a coroner said as much publicly, and he was the
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 high-priest of sudden death? Temporary insanity, 
 that was what they called it, temporary 
 
 Again his eye caught sight of the telephone. With 
 a quick movement he caught up the receiver and, 
 without pausing to think, gave the number of the 
 Belle Vue. He would tell Lola everything. She 
 would understand. He would work, yes, work and 
 carry-on. 
 
 A minute later he replaced the receiver upon its 
 rest with a jar. She was still away. She had gone 
 away to avoid him. 
 
 During the previous fortnight he had telephoned 
 time after time always to receive the same reply, 
 that Miss Craven had gone away for a few days, 
 or that Miss Craven had not returned. He had 
 written twice; but again no reply. It had really 
 been a nine days' wonder, he had told himself a 
 dozen times, and this was the end. 
 
 What he had done during that fortnight he did 
 not know. He was conscious of having gone out 
 from time to time for meals; but for the rest, he 
 was afraid of leaving the place, lest in his absence a 
 message should come through from Lola. The 
 porter had come to regard him curiously, so per- 
 sistent had been his enquiries as to whether or no 
 the man had received and forgotten some telephone- 
 message he felt sure she must have sent. 
 
 He had given instructions that letters were to be 
 taken up to him immediately. He seemed to live 
 in a constant state of expectation. The telephone- 
 bell caused him to start violently, the sound of the
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 243 
 
 porter's key in his lock would bring him to his feet 
 with a suddenness that sometimes disconcerted the 
 man. For a fortnight he had been living on the 
 unsubstantial diet of hope. 
 
 There was no doubt about it; Lola was determined 
 to drop him. It was Mrs. Crisp, he told himself, 
 she was responsible. It had been a fortnight of 
 torture, a fortnight that had brought with it the con- 
 viction that for him, Richard Beresford, nothing 
 mattered but the Rain-Girl. 
 
 A ring at the telephone caused him to start 
 violently. He snatched up the receiver. 
 
 "Dr. Tallis ! Yes, show him up." 
 
 A minute later he was shaking Tallis cordially 
 by the hand. 
 
 "What luck," he cried. "I'm awfully glad to 
 see you." 
 
 He was conscious that Tallis was regarding him 
 critically. 
 
 "You're not exactly a credit to me, young fellow," 
 he said as he dropped into a chair with a sigh of 
 content. 
 
 "I slept badly last night," Beresford explained 
 in self-defense. "I've I've been to Folkestone 
 " he broke off suddenly. 
 
 "Folkestone!" 
 
 "Yes, you recommended the place, didn't you?" 
 
 "You found her then?" he said, looking up with 
 interest. 
 
 "Found who?" enquired Beresford, with simu- 
 lated indifference.
 
 244 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Tell me about it," he said quietly, and before he 
 knew what was happening, Beresford found himself 
 telling the story of his encounter with Lola in St. 
 James's Street and what had ensued. 
 
 "And now," he concluded bitterly, "she's dropped 
 
 me, dropped me into the bottomless pit of " He 
 
 look across at Tallis, the picture of hopeless despair. 
 
 "I'm beginning to think you were right," he said. 
 "I ought not to have tried to drag you back." 
 
 Beresford shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "And now, what's the next move?" 
 
 "The deluge," replied Beresford with a short 
 laugh that caused Tallis to look at him narrowly. 
 "I've just been taking stock of my finances. There's 
 exactly eleven pounds four shillings and threepence. 
 I put it off day after day, and it's come as a bit of a 
 shock. Still," he added reminiscently, "there was 
 Folkestone." 
 
 "I'm not sure, young fellow, that I ought not to 
 hand you over to the nearest policeman as a dan- 
 gerous lunatic," said Tallis. "What the devil's 
 going to be the outcome of this business I'm hanged 
 if I know." His tone was not so flippant as his 
 words. 
 
 "The outcome, my dear ^Esculapius, is that for 
 once in my life I have had a rattling good time." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "There's always that little tube of morphia tablets 
 that I brought home from France," he said with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "So that's the present state of the temperamental
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 245 
 
 barometer," said Tallis as he proceeded to stuff 
 tobacco into his pipe-bowl from the jar on the table. 
 
 For some time the two smoked in silence. To 
 Beresford Tallis was always a soothing influence. 
 He seemed to possess the faculty of forgetting the 
 other fellow's existence until spoken to. 
 
 "I'm the very deuce of a mystery to myself," 
 Beresford said presently with a wry smile. "Some- 
 where I suppose there's a kink in me." 
 
 "You're probably passing through the sturm und 
 drang of romance," said Tallis. "It's the Renais- 
 sance strain in you coming out." 
 
 "I wonder," murmured Beresford meditatively; 
 then after a pause he added, "You see, Tallis, no 
 girl ever really meant anything to me before. I 
 seemed always to regard them in a detached sort of 
 
 way, just as Drewitt does. This is I wonder if 
 
 you understand?" 
 
 Tallis nodded as he gazed into the bowl of his 
 pipe. Suddenly it struck Beresford that what made 
 Tallis so easy to talk to was that he always appeared 
 to be absorbed in something else, generally his pipe. 
 It was much easier talking about such things to a 
 man who did not persist in looking at you. 
 
 "I seem always to have been waiting for some- 
 thing to happen." He paused and looked across at 
 Tallis a little apologetically. 
 
 *'The latent spirit of romance." 
 
 Beresford looked at him sharply. 
 
 "Go on," said Tallis, catching his eye, "I'm
 
 246 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I suppose that was it. I could never have got 
 have got to care about any of those I met at after- 
 noon-teas, or dinner-parties, and as for the " 
 
 "Fluff," suggested Tallis, as Beresford hesitated. 
 
 "Well, as for them," he shrugged his shoulders. 
 "But look here, I'm talking the most unwholesome 
 rot." 
 
 "My dear man, you are merely succeeding in 
 being a self-conscious ass," said Tallis casually, as 
 he dug into the bowl of his pipe with his penknife. 
 "As a matter of fact, for the first time since we've 
 been acquainted, you're beginning to talk sense." 
 He paused, folded up his knife and replaced it in 
 his pocket. 
 
 "We medicos find romance in unaccustomed 
 places," he continued a moment later. "It's a seeth- 
 ing spirit of unrest. Every one seems ashamed of 
 it. I've discovered it in the most extraordinary en- 
 vironments. With you it's a case of the Dream- 
 Girl." 
 
 "The Dream-Girl?" repeated Beresford. 
 
 "Every mother's son of us knows her; but she 
 seldom materialises. When she does it's generally 
 as a sort of Lorelei." 
 
 "You're a queer sort of fish for a doctor," said 
 Beresford with a smile. 
 
 "We never admit of the feminine equivalent to 
 the Fairy Prince," continued Tallis, "yet at first we 
 all have a Dream-Girl in our minds, later she's 
 blotted out; but that's not our fault, it's theirs 
 some of them," he added as if as an afterthought.
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 247 
 
 For some time they continued to smoke con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 "It's strange you should have mentioned that," 
 said Beresford, at length. "I've often wondered 
 if " 
 
 "What's in you is in the rest of us, only most of 
 us are not so honest about it. Wasn't it Oscar 
 Wilde who said that we men are all in the gutter; 
 but some of us are looking at the stars. You're 
 looking at the stars, Beresford, that's all." 
 
 "I suppose you're right," said Beresford a little 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "With you it's the spirit of romance," continued 
 Tallis quietly. "If you had lived a few centuries 
 earlier, you would have gone about the country on 
 a horse with a ten-foot pole asking for trouble. You 
 would have been a disciple of Peter the Hermit, and 
 every other uncomfortable person who preached the 
 high-falutin'. The only trouble is that you won't 
 face facts." 
 
 "What facts?" demanded Beresford, almost 
 aggressively. 
 
 "Well, for instance, that you're head-over-heels 
 in love with this girl and you're afraid to tell her 
 so. You expect her to make the running." 
 
 "Don't be an ass." 
 
 Tallis relapsed into silence again. Several times 
 Beresford looked across at him; but he appeared to 
 have forgotten everything but his pipe, at which he 
 pulled contentedly. 
 
 "Do you seriously expect ?" began Beresford,
 
 248 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 when it had become obvious that Tallis was waiting 
 for him to continue the conversation. 
 
 "No, I don't," was the calm retort. 
 
 "Then why " began Beresford. 
 
 "Because I've known you long enough to be con- 
 vinced that you're incapable of doing what to any 
 one else is the most obvious thing in the world." 
 
 "You don't know her." 
 
 "I'm beginning to suspect that you don't either," 
 was the dry retort. 
 
 "She was just good pals with me at Folkestone, 
 because I was a sort of watch-dog," said Beresford 
 reminiscently. "Since then she has dropped me 
 gone away," he added. 
 
 "She's probably become self-conscious owing to 
 auntie having given her a wigging. You can always 
 trust a woman to know how to touch another on 
 the raw. A high-spirited girl suffers a good deal 
 when told that she's made herself cheap. In all 
 probability that's what her aunt managed to con- 
 vey." 
 
 Beresford shook his head gloomily. Tallis 
 merely shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You didn't see the way she looked through all 
 those fellows at the Imperial," he said, as if deter- 
 mined to convince himself of the hopelessness of his 
 position. "It used to wither them, all except that 
 Jew chap with the Scotch name. He was too moist 
 for anything to wither." 
 
 "Well, are you goin^ to ask her to marry you?"
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 249 
 
 "Good Lord, no!" cried Beresford, sitting up as 
 if the idea had startled him. 
 
 "Well, there's a lot to be said for celibacy." 
 
 "Don't be an ass," growled Beresford. "You 
 know I don't mean that." 
 
 "Sometimes it's a little difficult to discover ex- 
 actly what you do mean," said Tallis with a smile. 
 
 "She thinks me different from other men " 
 
 "She always does," drily. 
 
 Beresford walked over to the fireplace and, with 
 unnecessary vigour, proceeded to knock the ashes 
 out of his pipe. 'Returning to his chair he reached 
 for the tobacco-jar. 
 
 "I don't want her to think " he began as he 
 
 proceeded mechanically to fill his pipe, then he 
 stopped. 
 
 "That you're after the money," suggested Tallis. 
 "Couldn't you somehow manage to convey to her 
 that she, and not her millions, is 'the goods'?" 
 
 "No, I can't, and what's more, I won't," snapped 
 Beresford irritably. 
 
 "That ten-foot pole again, young fellow," smiled 
 Tallis. "You're going to sacrifice your only chance 
 of happiness for an abstract code of honour. Well, 
 it's your funeral; but I'm sorry. What's it to be?" 
 
 "There are always the tablets," saici Beresford 
 grimly. 
 
 "Yes, there are always the tablets; but somehow 
 I don't think that would be the way to her heart." 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded Beresford 
 quickly.
 
 250 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I think she's of the strong-man school, the see- 
 it-through-at-any-price, nail-your-colours-to-the-mast 
 order, the little-midshipmite-business, you know. 
 She's the sort of girl that would never hear the name 
 of that splendid chap Gates without a half-thought 
 prayer. There are some like that," he added cas- 
 ually, as he pocketed his pipe and, selecting a ciga- 
 rette from the box, proceeded to light it. 
 
 "You're not going?" asked Beresford, as Tallis 
 rose and stretched himself. 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid I must toddle, my son." 
 
 "Don't go for a minute. You were say- 
 i ng ?" 
 
 "Merely that you are making a mistake," was the 
 smiling reply. "But as yours is a nature peculiarly 
 adapted to the making of mistakes, there's nothing 
 unusual in that. There are three courses open to 
 you and, of course, you choose the wrong one." 
 
 "Three?" interrogated Beresford. 
 
 "Marry the girl, clear out, and the tablets. 
 You'll end by clearing out, although you think now 
 it'll be the tablets." 
 
 Beresford looked at him for a moment, then 
 laughed. 
 
 "Have another whisky-and-soda," he said. 
 
 "No, thanks," said Tallis, "I really must be off." 
 
 "You don't understand," said Beresford, as they 
 walked towards the door. 
 
 "I understand this much, that like all idealists 
 you are obsessed by the thought of material obsta- 
 cles. Well, good-bye, and the best of luck. If I
 
 DR. TALLIS PRESCRIBES 251 
 
 can do anything By the way, there's a pal of 
 
 mine, a ship's doctor. He's sailing quite soon. I'll 
 ring him up. He'll get you a passage as purser or 
 something. Here, I'll write down his name." 
 
 Tallis drew a pencil from his pocket and wrote 
 on the back of one of his own cards: 
 
 "Dr. Henry Seaman, 
 S.S. Allanmore, 
 
 East India Docks." 
 
 "Thanks," said Beresford, taking the card; "but 
 * don't think I'm cut out for a purser." 
 
 "No, don't ring for the lift, I'll walk down. 
 "Bye," and with a wave of his hand Tallis was gone. 
 
 Beresford closed the door and returned to his 
 pipe and chair, and the never-ending riddle, THE 
 FUTURE.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE DELUGE 
 
 WHEN a man is thinking epics it is difficult 
 for him to compose an ordinary letter. 
 Beresford leaned back in his chair frown- 
 ing. For fully an hour he had been engaged upon 
 the unequal struggle. On the table before him lay 
 a number of discarded sheets of note-paper. Some 
 broke off suddenly at the second line, others ran to 
 the end of the first page, whilst one had actually 
 turned the corner and showed two lines written upon 
 the second page. . 
 
 Had ever man such a letter to write in all the 
 world before? Why write at all? Just because 
 he had behaved like an ass, there was no need to 
 make a fuss about it, as if it were a reduction in 
 his golf-handicap ; yet he must tell her, at least 
 
 "Damn!" 
 
 With a great air of decision he seized the pen 
 and, snatching a clean sheet of paper from the rack, 
 wrote : 
 
 "Dear Rain-Girl." 
 
 Then he paused. That was where he always 
 paused. There were innumerable sheets of note- 
 paper on the table that testified to the fact. He 
 
 252
 
 THE DELUGE 253 
 
 bit the end of the pen. He felt like a man with an 
 impediment in his speech, who all his life had been 
 striving to say "good-bye"; but had never been able 
 to get beyond the preliminary "gug-gug." 
 
 He added a comma after "Girl," then he made a 
 slight alteration in the tail of the "R"; finally he 
 got going. 
 
 For five minutes he wrote slowly and laboriously, 
 then picking up the letter he read it deliberately, 
 only to throw it ti wn in disgust. It was difficult to 
 strike the medium between the flippant and the sen- 
 timental. He had a horror of appearing like the 
 heroine of a melodrama bent on secretly leaving 
 home, who for five minutes stands in a draughty 
 doorway bidding good-bye to the furniture. No, 
 there must be no self-pity in anything he wrote to 
 Lola. 
 
 After all, what did it matter how he expressed 
 himself? All that was necessary was to tell her 
 that he was g'ing away, and that in as few words 
 as possible. Once more he selected a sheet of note- 
 paper, this time with an air of grim determination, 
 and proceeded to write slowly and without hesita- 
 tion : 
 
 "It's the end of the holiday, Rain-Girl. In a few 
 hours I am going away ever so far away. Good- 
 bye; even a midsummer madness must end. It has 
 all been rather wonderful. 
 
 "R. B." 
 
 With great deliberation he reached for an en- 
 velope, folded and inserted the note, stuck down
 
 254 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 the flap and addressed it. Then, leaning back in his 
 chair, he sighed his relief. 
 
 For the next half-hour his pen moved rapidly 
 over the paper. Letter after letter was written, 
 read and approved. He was engaged in putting 
 his house in order. 
 
 He found himself regarding everything with a 
 strange air of detachment. It was as if it all con- 
 cerned another rather than himself. Lola had gone 
 out of his life nothing really mattered now. 
 
 It was futile to indulge in vain regrets. There 
 had been a time when he felt that Fate had played 
 him a scurvy trick in bringing Lola into his life at 
 a time when she could mean nothing to him; but 
 that was past. Now he was able to regard every- 
 thing in its just relation to his own destiny. 
 
 It was strange how easily the mind seemed to 
 adjust itself to new conditions. He remembered 
 how in France his first instinct had been one of 
 fear, then had come indifference, a soul-numbing 
 fatalism, finally caution, a sort of gun-shyness that 
 had come with the full realisation of the awfulness 
 of it all. Would the same mental processes mani- 
 fest themselves now? He was certainly in the in- 
 different stage. It would be horrible if, at the last 
 moment, he were to hesitate. No, he must cut his 
 loss and clear out. 
 
 "Dropping down the river on a nine-knot tide." 
 Somewhere he remembered having read the line. 
 He had been struck with it at the time, now it pos- 
 sessed for him a very special significance. At half-
 
 THE DELUGE 255 
 
 past six on the morrow he would be "dropping 
 down the river on a nine-knot tide." 
 
 That morning he had been down to the docks 
 and arranged everything. He had signed-on 
 aboard the Allanmore as assistant-purser outward 
 bound for Sydney. It was all through Tallis. 
 What a splendid fellow he was. Dr. Seaman 
 seemed to expect him and had arranged everything. 
 
 He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. 
 Rising, he picked up his hat and went out into the 
 sunshine. Just why he did it he could not have 
 said. He strolled along Regent Street, smoking a 
 cigarette and enjoying the warmth. Opposite 
 Gerard's he encountered Edward Seymour, gazing 
 about him with the air of a dog that is to be called 
 for. Beresford recognised the symptoms. Ed- 
 ward Seymour was shopping with Mrs. Edward, and 
 had been left outside. 
 
 Seymour nodded in his usual off-hand manner. 
 Beresford decided that he looked more than ever 
 like a sandy ferret. 
 
 "Edward, you ought to meet Mr. Deacon 
 Quelch," he said. It was always amusing to spring 
 irrelevant remarks upon Edward Seymour, who 
 would take a parliamentary candidate's promises se- 
 riously. 
 
 "Who's he?" demanded Seymour, "and why 
 ought I to meet him?" 
 
 "His happiness, like yours, Edward, is linked 
 up with the other world." 
 
 Edward Seymour screwed up his face, with him.
 
 256 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 always an indication that he was puzzled. At that 
 moment they were joined by Mrs. Edward. 
 
 "D'you know Deacon Quelch?" he asked, fol- 
 lowing his unvarying rule of appealing to his wife 
 for guidance. 
 
 Mrs. Edward turned to Beresford, of whom she 
 was always suspicious. 
 
 "I was merely telling Edward of the joys of the 
 hereafter," he explained, "when Aunt Caroline has 
 gone there, that is, and he is left with what she 
 couldn't take with her." 
 
 "Why don't you get something to do, Richard?" 
 Mrs. Edward felt safe in carrying the war into the 
 enemy's country. 
 
 "But isn't the Ministry of Munitions closing 
 down?" he enquired innocently. 
 
 Mrs. Edward flushed. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "I'm going to buy some flowers," said Beresford. 
 He had just been struck with the idea of sending 
 Lola a parting gift. 
 
 "For Miss Craven, I suppose," sneered Edward 
 Seymour. 
 
 Beresford smiled. "Good-bye," he said, and lift- 
 ing his hat he entered the florist's shop. 
 
 The flowers ordered and paid for, Beresford con- 
 tinued his stroll, choosing thoroughfares where he 
 was least likely to encounter friends or acquaintance. 
 Finding himself at Baker Street he decided to spend 
 an hour with the squirrels in Regent's Park. It 
 Was very difficult, he decided, for a man to know
 
 THE DELUGE 257 
 
 how to occupy his last day in England. He felt 
 like an excursionist who has come south to see the 
 final of the football cup, and finds himself landed 
 in London at three a.m., whereas the match is due 
 to start at three-thirty p.m. 
 
 At half-past six he was back at his chambers. 
 For half an hour he glanced over the newspapers he 
 had brought in with him, and then proceeded lei- 
 surely to dress. By a quarter to eight he was ready. 
 Picking up the letters he had writen, his gloves and 
 stick, he walked down the stairs rather than ring 
 for the lift. Giving the porter the letters and half- 
 a-crown, he told him to have them stamped and 
 posted. He then strolled slowly along Jermyn 
 Street in the direction of the Ritz-Carlton, where 
 he had booked a table for dinner. 
 
 Sometimes at the thought of Lola a passion of 
 protest would surge up in him; but he had by now 
 reasoned himself to a state of almost ice-cold logic. 
 That morning he had settled matters once and for 
 all as far as his future was concerned. The Chal- 
 lices were noted for their grim determination. His 
 great-uncle, the Admiral, had been known as "Bull- 
 dog Challice," and in the Peninsular war old Sir 
 Gilbert Challice had fought one of the most remark- 
 able and tenacious rearguard actions in history, an 
 action that had drawn grudging praise from Na- 
 poleon himself. 
 
 Yes; he had made up his mind, and he was going 
 to see things through; at least, the old brigade of
 
 258 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Challices should not have cause to feel ashamed of 
 a mercenary descendant. 
 
 The dinner was excellent, the temperature of the 
 burgundy perfect. The maitre d' hotel, himself, 
 supervised the service, and when at half-past nine 
 Beresford rose from the table, he was conscious of 
 a feeling of artistic content. Yes, he would run 
 into the Empire. It would bring back memories of 
 the old Oxford days, and those illicit excursions to 
 London. 
 
 He was not particularly interested in the perform- 
 ance; such things, as a rule, rather bored him. He 
 waited to the end, even for the pictures. As he 
 passed out and joined the crowd moving slowly 
 westward, he found himself wondering what Aunt 
 Caroline would say, what the Edward Seymours 
 would say to each other and to Aunt Caroline. 
 What would old Drew think? 
 
 He at least would be a little sorry, he 
 
 "All right, sir, I'll move on." 
 
 Beresford had almost fallen over a bundle of rags 
 huddled upon a doorstep. 
 
 "Here, hold out your hand," he cried, struck with 
 a sudden idea. Putting his hand in his pocket he 
 drew out all the loose silver and copper he had and 
 dropped it into the grimed and shaking hand that 
 was extended. Then he passed on, conscious of a 
 splutter of thanks behind him. He was not the 
 only one up against things. 
 
 What would Lola think? Would she be sorry; 
 would she ? He gritted his teeth. Here had
 
 THE DELUGE 259 
 
 been the danger-point all along. Time after time 
 she had presented herself to his thoughts, and he 
 had shut her out. Once let her in, he realised, and 
 that would be the end the wrong end. As he 
 reached the entrance to his chambers, for some rea- 
 son that he was unable to explain, he turned and 
 looked first up and then down Jermyn Street. Yes, 
 he was glad the tablets had not won. 
 
 He pushed open the door. 
 
 "There's a lady to see you, sir." 
 
 The porter had approached unseen. Beresford 
 looked blankly at his expressionless face. For a 
 moment he was dazed. 
 
 "I showed her up, sir. She could not wait down 
 here " 
 
 "Showed her up where?" asked Beresford. Even 
 he was conscious of the strange note in his voice, sug- 
 gestive of surprise and curiosity. 
 
 "In your sitting-room, sir. She's been here 
 nearly two hours." The man moved automatically 
 towards the lift and Beresford followed. "She 
 wouldn't give a name, sir," he added, as the lift 
 stopped with a jerk. 
 
 A lady to see him. Of course, it was either some 
 stupid blunder on the part of the porter, or else it 
 was a dream. Ladies did not call The por- 
 ter crashed open the gate. 
 
 Beresford passed on to the outer door of his flat. 
 A lady in his sitting-room. Wasn't it Drewitt who 
 had said something about a rhinoceros being in
 
 260 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Lola's bathroom? Suddenly he found his pulses 
 beating wildly. 
 
 Lola! Was it With trembling fingers he 
 
 took out his keys and fumbled to get the outer door 
 open. Why was he so awkward, he who a moment 
 ago had been calmness personified? Would the 
 wretched key never find its way in and the door 
 open? Ah! that was it. Closing the door quickly 
 he took three steps, threw open the sitting-room 
 door and there 
 
 It was Lola! 
 
 He stood staring at her, his jaw dropped, uncon- 
 scious that his hat was still on his head. 
 
 She rose from the big chair in which she had been 
 sitting. How pale and slight she looked. He no- 
 ticed that in her right hand was a letter. Yes, she 
 was wearing the same black frock she had worn at 
 Folkestone and yes, red roses, too. He noticed 
 that her cloak was lined with some tint of amber, 
 or was it orange? Then suddenly his faculties re- 
 turned to him with a rush. With a swift movement 
 he threw his hat, stick and gloves on to a chair. 
 
 "Lola!" It was a sob rather than a greeting. 
 
 Suddenly there had come back to him with over- 
 whelming force the realisation of what he had 
 planned to do. He was like a man who has just 
 realised that he has passed through some awful 
 danger. It was the reaction. It was the great 
 will to live, and going away would have been death. 
 Where had he heard that before? Yes, he remem- 
 bered, Tallis had prophesied it.
 
 THE DELUGE 261 
 
 "Lola!" 
 
 At the cry she had merely held out to him a let- 
 ter. Mechanically he took it. It was the one he 
 had written that afternoon and told the porter to 
 post. 
 
 "How " he began. 
 
 "I I came back suddenly." Her voice was al- 
 most a whisper. U I felt that something " 
 
 She was swaying slightly. How deathly pale she 
 was. She was going to faint. 
 
 With a swift movement he clasped her in his arms. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear I" he whispered passion- 
 ately, and the only reply was sobs that seemed to 
 tear and rend her whole body. 
 
 "But why, why did you ?" She looked at 
 
 him, her lower lip quivering. 
 
 "Wasn't it better than becoming the Fortieth Ar- 
 ticle?" he asked quizzically. 
 
 A slight smile flickered across her face. She was 
 lying back in the big leather-covered arm-chair, 
 Beresford kneeling beside her. 
 
 "It was so so unfair," she said. 
 
 "Unfair?" he repeated. 
 
 "Yes, to to your friends; but you won't now?" 
 The look of fear was still in her eyes. 
 
 "Don't let's talk about it, Rain-Girl," he said 
 steadily. 
 
 "But we must talk about it," she persisted. "We 
 must. Promise me?" 
 
 He was silent.
 
 262 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Promise me," she persisted, leaning forward 
 and putting her hand on his shoulder. "Give me 
 your word that you won't?" 
 
 "You don't understand." 
 
 "I do, oh I I do," she cried. "Oh, you must 
 promise, you must. I felt that something was the 
 matter. I that is why I had to come back. You 
 must." 
 
 The first emotional tension somewhat relaxed, 
 Beresford found himself wondering what was to 
 happen. Suddenly he remembered the letter. 
 
 "How did you get my note? I told the man to 
 post it to-night." 
 
 "It was brought round by hand," she said. 
 
 A whirr from the mantelpiece caused him to look 
 round. The clock was about to strike twelve. 
 
 "Lola, look at the time. You mustn't stay here." 
 
 "I shall have no reputation now," she said with 
 a wan smile. 
 
 "I'll take you back to your hotel." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Dearest, you don't understand." He shook her 
 in his eagerness. "You can't stay here, it's twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 "I know," she said quietly. 
 
 "But don't you understand?" he persisted. 
 
 "Ummmm," she nodded her head. 
 
 "Please get up and let me put your cloak on, I'll 
 take you round " 
 
 She shook her head decisively. 
 
 "But " began Beresford, and then paused.
 
 THE DELUGE 263 
 
 "Not until you promise," she said quietly. 
 
 "Promise," he repeated dully. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 For fully a moment he was silent, then in a very 
 quiet, restrained voice he said, "I promise, Lola, to 
 do nothing until I see you again." 
 
 "Honest Injun?" she asked, sitting up. 
 
 "Honest Injun," he repeated, then they both 
 laughed. 
 
 "But I've signed-on as assistant-purser," he said 
 whimsically. 
 
 "Signed-on 1" she repeated with widening eyes. 
 
 "Well, it's really a sort of wangle," he explained. 
 "I shipped as assistant-purser. Tallis arranged it, 
 Lola!" 
 
 "Ohl" 
 
 She drew back from him into the furthest corner 
 of the chair behind her, covering her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 "Lola, what is it; what's the matter?" 
 
 "Please, please go away," she moaned, still 
 shielding her face with her hands. 
 
 "You must tell me," he persisted. "What have 
 I said; what have I done?" 
 
 "I I thought you were " 
 
 Suddenly light dawned upon him. 
 
 "You thought I was going to " he hesitated. 
 
 She nodded, still with her hands before her face. 
 
 "My God! and that is why ?" he began. 
 
 "Oh! what have I done? what have I done?" 
 she moaned.
 
 264 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Listen, Rain-Girl," he said quietly, kneeling be- 
 side her. "That might have been the way out, but 
 for Tallis. I told you about him." 
 
 Gently he drew her hands away; but she still 
 averted her face. 
 
 "Don't you see what I " she began, then sud- 
 denly she drew in her lower lip as if to still its quiv- 
 ering. 
 
 "You must go home now," he said gently, "and 
 I must see you in the morning." 
 
 "But but " she began. 
 
 "Promise you will let me see you in the morning," 
 he said. "You will?" 
 
 "Yes," she whispered faintly. 
 
 Very docilely she permitted him to place her cloak 
 upon her shoulders and then walked to the door, 
 still with averted eyes. 
 
 "Please please try and understand," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 For answer he lifted her hand to his lips and they 
 went out together.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 
 
 LIKE the summer sun, Lord Drewitt retired 
 late ; but as a corrective rose later. He pre- 
 ferred to give the weather an opportunity 
 of definitely establishing itself for the day. In his 
 opinion none but a demagogue could take pride in 
 early-rising in town or city. 
 
 "There are only two reasons why a man should 
 rise early in London," he had once remarked, 
 "breakfast and exercise. I take neither." 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock on the morning fol- 
 lowing Beresford's endeavour to determine his own 
 destiny, that certain movements of the bed-clothes 
 and murmurs from the pillow warned Hoskins that 
 his master was reluctantly preparing to face another 
 day. He became alert and watchful. 
 
 After fully five minutes of muttering and move- 
 ment, Lord Drewitt raised himself upon his elbow 
 and looked about him. 
 
 Hoskins took a step forward. 
 
 "Hoskins, I believe you do it on purpose." He 
 dropped back wearily upon his pillow. 
 
 "Do what, my lord?" enquired Hoskins in a voice 
 so thin as to be almost a falsetto. 
 
 265
 
 266 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Look so infernally cheerful," murmured Lord 
 Drewitt wearily. "Why is it?" 
 
 Hoskins radiated good-nature and happiness, as 
 he raised his hand to smooth his already smooth fair 
 hair, a habit of his. 
 
 "I suppose it's because I have nothing to worry 
 me, my lord," he said, dodging into the bathroom 
 and turning on the water, re-entering the bedroom a 
 moment later. 
 
 "I wonder what you'd be like if you had two thou- 
 sand a year, a title, and all the heiresses in two 
 hemispheres hurled at your head." 
 
 "I should make the best of it, my lord," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 "The best of it! Good heavens, man! how can 
 you make the best of it?" demanded Lord Drewitt, 
 as he sat up and proceeded wearily to stretch his 
 arms behind his head. "How could you make the 
 best of a woman with the face of a horse and a fig- 
 ure like a Rubens Venus ?" 
 
 "I was reading the other day, my lord, that it's 
 all a matter of digestion." 
 
 "Then you shouldn't read those damned cheap 
 magazines. Wait until you are expected to marry 
 an heiress. You will then find out that digestion 
 has nothing whatever to do with it. You're get- 
 ting sententious, Hoskins; you're getting confound- 
 edly sententious. I've noticed it coming on." 
 
 Hoskins eyed his master imperturbably. He was 
 accustomed to these morning monologues. Among
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 267 
 
 his associates he referred to them as "His lordship 
 easing off a bit." 
 
 "Don't you know " demanded Lord Drewitt 
 
 as he slowly and reluctantly swung his legs from 
 beneath the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the 
 bed. "Don't you know that all progress, material 
 and intellectual, arises from discontent?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord, I believe so," said Hoskins, "I'm 
 putting out that new morning-coat and vest for to- 
 day, my lord." 
 
 "Hoskins, you're hopeless." Lord Drewitt rose 
 and proceeded once more to stretch himself. "Here 
 am I discussing higher ethics, and you can't rise to 
 giddier altitudes than morning-coats and vests. 
 You've probably been reading Carlyle." 
 
 Hoskins smiled good-humouredly, and Lord 
 Drewitt disappeared into the bathroom, where for 
 the next quarter of an hour his monologue was ac- 
 companied by splashings and the rushing of water. 
 
 "I remember," he said, reappearing and slipping 
 into the dressing-gown that Hoskins held out for 
 him, "you once said that life held compensations. 
 I know of only one, your coffee," and he seated him- 
 self at the small breakfast tray beside the bed. "It's 
 the only thing that preserves intact the slender thread 
 of my life." 
 
 Hoskins beamed upon his master. 
 
 "I think it was William Blake who said that a 
 man's soul is expressed in his work. Your soul, 
 Hoskins, demonstrates itself in your coffee. I can 
 forgive almost anything, even your damned opti-
 
 268 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 mistic expression of countenance, when I drink your 
 coffee. Here, take them away, I don't like them 
 put on my tray," he indicated the pile of letters that 
 lay beside his coffee cup. 
 
 Hoskins took away the offending letters and placed 
 them upon the dressing-table. 
 
 Lord Drewitt was possessed of a constitutional 
 aversion from opening letters. "My executors 
 have my sympathy," he had once remarked; "they 
 will also have the bulk of my correspondence un- 
 opened." 
 
 "There's a letter from Mr. Beresford, my lord; 
 it's marked 'Immediate.' ' 
 
 "You know I always refrain from opening letters 
 marked 'immediate' or 'important,' ' said Lord 
 Drewitt reproachfully. "It means that they are im- 
 mediate or important only to the writers, and not 
 to the recipients. Your knowledge of the world 
 should have taught you that. You may open it, 
 however, and read it to me." 
 
 Hoskins opened the letter and read: 
 
 ,"DEAR DREW, 
 
 "I'm off soon after dawn to-morrow, and I'm 
 going to the colonies, perhaps further, who knows? 
 You might tell Aunt Caroline. Sorry I hadn't time 
 to bid either of you good-bye. 
 "Here's luck to your nuptials. 
 
 "Ever yours, 
 
 "R. B."
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 269 
 
 "Nuptials! damned offensive term," muttered 
 Lord Drewitt, then a moment afterwards, as if sud- 
 denly realising the purport of the letter he added, 
 "Further than the colonies. What is further than 
 the colonies?" he demanded, turning to Hoskins. 
 
 "There's nothing further than Australia, my 
 lord." 
 
 "Isn't there? That shows you're an atheist. 
 Here, hand me those trousers," and Lord Drewitt 
 proceeded to dress. 
 
 Suddenly his mind had become alert, there was 
 something in the letter that puzzled him, particu- 
 larly taken in conjunction with the general trend of 
 Beresford's recent remarks about the future. 
 
 With unaccustomed celerity he performed his 
 toilet. Hoskins had never known him more quick 
 or decisive in his movements, and marvelled at his 
 unaccustomed silence. As a rule, during the proc- 
 ess of dressing, Lord Drewitt reached the culminat- 
 ing point of his "easing off"; but to-day he was si- 
 lent, his only remark being to tell Hoskins to order 
 the porter to ring-up for a taxi. 
 
 Lord Drewitt's habitual air of boredom had van- 
 ished. In its place was a look of definite purpose, 
 with something suggestive of anxiety. 
 
 When eventually he drove up to St. James's Man- 
 sions, he discovered just in front of him a very small 
 boy with an extremely large parcel swathed in thin 
 brown paper. 
 
 "Mr. Richard Beresford," piped the lad. 
 
 A porter came forward and took it from him.
 
 270 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Here, be careful," said the boy, "they're flow- 
 ers;" but the man did not appear to hear, having 
 suddenly caught sight of Lord Drewitt. 
 
 "Mr. Beresford in?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, my lord. Perhaps you'll step into the lift, 
 my lord, and I'll take you up." 
 
 The porter followed with the parcel. 
 
 "I suppose Mr. Beresford is in?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," said the porter. "He has only 
 just finished breakfast." 
 
 Lord Drewitt was well known to the porter, who 
 had instructions always to show him up without any 
 preliminary announcement. The man therefore 
 opened the outer door of the flat with his key, and 
 announced the visitor, at the same time laying the 
 parcel upon the table, after which he withdrew. 
 
 For a moment the two men gazed at each other, 
 then with a sigh Drewitt sank into a chair opposite 
 his cousin. 
 
 "I have often wondered," he remarked, "how 
 you manage to live without Hoskins." 
 
 Beresford did not reply; but pushed across the 
 cigarettes to Drewitt, who selected one with great 
 care, lighted it, and the two continued to smoke in 
 silence. 
 
 "Lunching anywhere?" enquired Drewitt. 
 
 Beresford shook his head and proceeded to undo 
 the parcel. 
 
 With great care he opened out the sheets and ex- 
 posed a magnificent shower-bouquet of white and 
 clove carnations, tied with broad myrtle-green rib-
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 271 
 
 bon. He had telephoned to the florist's to send 
 them to his chambers instead of to the Belle Vue. 
 
 Drewitt looked across at his cousin as if it were 
 the most natural thing in the world for a man to 
 send himself an elaborate bouquet. Selecting an- 
 other cigarette, he proceeded to light it from the one 
 he had only partially smoked. As he turned to 
 throw the discarded cigarette into the fireplace, the 
 door opened and the porter announced 
 
 "Miss Craven." 
 
 At the sight of Drewitt, Lola started slightly, 
 with a quick indrawing of her breath. 
 
 For a moment she stood looking from one to the 
 other. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the flowers. 
 
 "How delicious," she cried, then turning to 
 Drewitt she enquired mischievously, "Did you bring 
 them, Lord Drewitt?" 
 
 "It is a time-honoured custom between Richard 
 and myself," said Drewitt, "never tc call upon each 
 other unaccompanied by elaborate bouquets of this 
 description. I was just asking him to lunch with 
 me. Will you join us, Miss Craven?'* 
 
 For a moment Lola looked irresolute, then turn- 
 ing to Beresford, said 
 
 "Shall we, Richard?" 
 
 Beresford started at her easy use of his name. 
 
 "You see," she added, as if forcing herself to 
 get the words out, "it will be something of a cele- 
 bration. We we are engaged." She was gazing 
 fixedly at the flowers, her cheeks a-flame. 
 
 "I I " began Beresford, firmly convinced
 
 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 that this was the most ridiculous dream that had 
 ever descended upon him. 
 
 "Then I shall take no refusal," said Drewitt 
 evenly, giving no outward sign of the chaotic state 
 of his brain under these repeated hammer-blows of 
 surprise. "I have to go round and see my tailor, 
 and on the way I'll engage a table at the Ritz-Carl- 
 ton. If I'm a little late, don't wait. You under- 
 stand, Richard? I shall withhold my congratula- 
 tions till then." 
 
 As he turned towards the door Lola looked up. 
 
 "You you are the first we've told," she said a 
 little tremulously. 
 
 With a smile in which there was nothing of cyni- 
 tism he held out his hand. 
 
 "You'll be very happy," he said. Then after a 
 pause added, "when you've educated Richard; but 
 he has excellent taste," allowing his eyes to wander 
 on the table, "in flowers," and with that he left the 
 room. 
 
 For fully a minute the two stood looking at each 
 other. It was Beresford who broke the silence. 
 
 "Lola, what have you done?" 
 
 "I " she looked about her a little wildly. "I 
 
 suppose I I've proposed to you." Then she 
 laughed, a strange, mirthless laugh. 
 
 Beresford stepped across to her and led her to 
 the chair just vacated by Drewitt. "Sit down, Rain- 
 Girl," he said gently; "I don't understand." 
 
 He had once more gained control over himself. 
 
 "You you don't seem at all pleased," she swal-
 
 THE MORNING APTER 278 
 
 lowed in a. way that suggested tears were not far 
 distant 
 
 "Why did you tell Drew that?" he asked. "You 
 know it's not true." 
 
 "It is, it must be, it " She stopped suddenly 
 
 and raised her eyes to his as he stood looking down 
 at her. "Some one saw me leave here last night." 
 
 "Good God!" he cried aghast. 
 
 "And and so I've had to save my reputation 
 at your expense." Her voice was unnatural, hys- 
 terical. 
 
 "Who was it that saw you?" demanded Beres- 
 ford almost roughly. 
 
 "Sir Alfred and Lady Tringe; they were driv- 
 ing past as we were standing waiting for the taxi." 
 
 With a groan Beresford sank back into his chair. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. 
 
 "I didn't want to worry you," she said nervously. 
 
 "Perhaps they didn't see you," he said hopefully. 
 
 "They did," she said with averted eyes. "Their 
 taxi stopped to allow mine to draw up, and I saw 
 Lady Tringe point us out to Sir Alfred. It'll be all 
 over London by dinner-time." She looked at him 
 from under her lashes as he sat, his arms hanging 
 down each side of the chair, the picture of despair. 
 
 "I'm sorry; but but I had to do it. Are you 
 very angry?" she asked tremulously. 
 
 "Angry! I?" he enquired dully. 
 
 He tried in vain to remember all he had told her 
 the previous evening. The knowledge that she had 
 not received his letters, or his telephone messages
 
 274 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 had been responsible. The sudden reaction had un- 
 balanced him. Little had been said of the coinci- 
 dence of two letters failing to reach her. Both had 
 felt instinctively that the responsibility lay with Mrs. 
 Crisp. 
 
 "Please please don't be angry with me," she 
 said, and a moment later she had slipped from her 
 chair and was kneeling beside him. The touch of 
 her seemed to reawaken him from his trance. With 
 a swift movement he caught and crushed her to him. 
 
 "Don't, for God's sake, Lola, don't. You 
 
 Oh, my dear." He bent down and kissed her pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 With a little sound of content she clung to him. 
 Suddenly he became rigid. "Don't you see that it's 
 utterly that it's quite impossible it's " 
 
 "Don't you think you might get to like me in 
 in time," she enquired archly. 
 
 "Lola, don't you understand? I've nothing, lit- 
 erally nothing to offer you. If Drewitt doesn't turn 
 up, I can't even pay for the lunch. I haven't the 
 price of a cab-fare. I had my pocket-book stolen 
 last night. I only discovered it this morning. I'm 
 down, down and out," he concluded with something 
 of a sob in his voice. 
 
 "And yet you could buy me those wonderful 
 flowers," she said. 
 
 She leaned forward and buried her face in the 
 carnations. Beresford watched her. Everything 
 was coming back to him. Slowly the realization was 
 being forced upon him that Fate was really taking
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 275 
 
 a hand in the game. Why should the porter have a 
 friend at the Belle Vue? Why should that friend 
 call in to see him soon after Beresford had handed 
 the man his letters to post? Why should the eyes of 
 the man from the Belle Vue happen to fall upon 
 Lola's letter, and, above all, why had he offered to 
 take it back with him? Again, why had Lola given 
 up her stay in Surrey and motored back to London? 
 
 Then there was He jumped up and began to 
 
 pace the room. 
 
 "Don't you see what I am doing?" She rose and 
 snuggled into the corner of the chair he had just left. 
 
 "What you are doing?" he repeated, stopping in 
 front of her. 
 
 "Yes," she faltered. "I'm I'm throwing myself 
 
 at your head and and " she flashed him a 
 
 tremulous glance, "and you won't help me, not a 
 little bit," she drew in her lower lip, then a moment 
 after, covering her face with her hands, she huddled 
 up in the corner of the chair. 
 
 In an instant Beresford was on his knees beside 
 her. 
 
 "My darling; oh my dear!" he murmured, striv- 
 ing to pull away her hands. "You know, you must 
 know you do understand, don't you? Can't you 
 
 see how impossible it is, how how " he stopped 
 
 miserably. 
 
 "You've you've compromised me and now you 
 humiliate me," she sobbed, her hands still shielding 
 her face. 
 
 "My dear Rain-Girl Lola please don't "
 
 276 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 He paused, incoherent in his anguish. "Oh, please 
 please don't, Rain-Girl." Again he strove to re- 
 move her hands, but without success. She merely 
 turned her head further from him. 
 
 Beresford looked about him wildly, as if seeking 
 for inspiration or assistance. What was he to do? 
 What ? 
 
 Suddenly she removed her hands she was laugh- 
 ing, yes, laughing right into his eyes. 
 
 In his astonishment he sat back on his heels and 
 stared, unconscious of the ludicrous figure he cut. 
 
 "Oh, you do look so funny," she cried hysterically. 
 "Please get up." 
 
 Slowly he rose, his dignity a little hurt, then see- 
 ing two tears trickling down her cheeks, he seated 
 himself on the arm of the chair and drew her to 
 him. 
 
 "My dear," he said gravely, "I'm I'm all 
 oh, everything's so muddled up. I don't know where 
 I am why I am. Sometimes I think I'm mad I 
 suppose I am really." 
 
 She looked up at him, a tired little smile softening 
 the drawn, weary look of her face. 
 
 "I'm so tired, Jerry," she said, "I haven't slept a 
 wink, not a little, teeny one," she added with a 
 momentary flash of playfulness. "Please be nice to 
 me. It's been very hard," she murmured; "so hard 
 to make you like me." She closed her eyes wearily. 
 
 "My darling." 
 
 Beresford crushed her fiercely to him.
 
 THE MORNING AFTER 277 
 
 "My darling," he repeated, and bent and kissed 
 her hair. 
 
 Then in a torrent of words he told her everything. 
 How he had come back to London to find her, how 
 he had gone to the Ritz-Carlton expecting to see her, 
 how he had tramped about the streets on the chance 
 of encountering her, how he had pursued her to> 
 Folkestone and, finally, how he had welcomed the 
 way out that he now shuddered to contemplate. 
 
 "My dear I" she said when he had finished. 
 my dearl"
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 
 
 I THINK my pride was hurt." Lola looked 
 across at Beresford with a faint smile. "You 
 see," she continued, "auntie was very cross 
 with me and she said things about what men think of 
 girls who who " she broke off. 
 
 "But why did you go away without a word?" he 
 asked. "I thought oh! it was hell, just hell." 
 
 "My dear I" Her eyes contracted as she looked 
 at him, and he saw tears in their depths. 
 
 "Don't you think that you might have rung me 
 up the next morning?" she asked gently. 
 
 "After the luncheon?" he queried. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "I did; but you were out." 
 
 "Auntie has gone away. I'm afraid I have been 
 very ungrateful; but I had to to say something 
 
 after those those " She looked across at him 
 
 helplessly. "Auntie vows she will never speak to 
 me again," she added. 
 
 Beresford strove to disguise the relief he felt at 
 the news that Mrs. Crisp was to go out of Lola's 
 life. To change the subject he suggested that they 
 should call on Lady Drewitt that afternoon and tell 
 her their news. 
 
 278
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 279 
 
 "Oh! yes, let's," she cried eagerly, her eyes 
 sparkling. 
 
 "But who's to pay for the lunch?" he asked gloom- 
 ily. "Drew has evidently forgotten us, and I 
 literally haven't a penny. I had five pounds in my 
 pocket-book." 
 
 Her eyes danced with fun. 
 
 "You've got to begin living on me, Jerry," she 
 cried. 
 
 "Don't!" There was something in his voice that 
 caused her mood instantly to change. 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" she cried, "you mustn't feel like 
 that." 
 
 For some moments there was silence, Beresford 
 gazing gloomily at the end of his cigarette, she 
 watching him anxiously. 
 
 "Why do you call me Jerry?" he asked at length, 
 looking up and smiling at her a little wanly, she 
 thought. 
 
 "I've always called you that in my own mind," 
 she said. "Ever since I was sitting on that gate and 
 you laughed." 
 
 "But why?" he persisted. 
 
 "I don't know," she shook her head vigorously. 
 "You'll learn never to ask me why," she added, with 
 a swift upward glance from under her lashes. "I'm 
 the maddest creature that ever was, once I let myself 
 go." Then with a swift change of mood she burst 
 out, "Oh, Jerry, do try and understand me 1 No one 
 ever has, and don't, please don't, ever hurt me." 
 She looked across at him with eager, pleading eyes.
 
 280 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "You see," she added, "I don't understand myself, 
 not the weeniest bit in the world." 
 
 He smiled, still unable to realise the strange jug- 
 glings of fate by which he had become possessed of 
 this wonderful creature. A few hours previously he 
 had almost consigned himself to the Great Adven- 
 ture ; now he was about to embark on what promised 
 to be an even greater adventure. It was all too 
 strange, too mysterious, too bewildering for a man's 
 brain to assimilate in a few short hours. 
 
 "Now," she cried, "go and get your hat." 
 
 "I can get it as I go out, Rain-Girl," he said. 
 
 "Go and get your hat," she repeated, em- 
 phasising each word. 
 
 "But " he began. 
 
 "Jerry I" This in such a comical tone of admo- 
 nition that, laughing in spite of himself, he rose an 
 walked towards the door. 
 
 Swiftly Lola beckoned the waiter, paid the bill, 
 and was at Beresford's side just as the man was 
 handing him his stick. 
 
 Turning, he looked at her and suddenly realised 
 why it was that he had been sent away. 
 
 "Rain-Girl," he whispered, "I think we shall bt 
 very happy when when I get used to it." 
 
 "Am I as bad as that?" she enquired. "It sounds 
 like a new pair of boots." 
 
 "Will you stand me a taxi?" he asked. 
 
 And then she knew she had won. 
 
 In the taxi neither of them spoke. Beresford was 
 still dazed by the rapidity with which events had
 
 LADY DREWTTT'S ALARM 281 
 
 succeeded one another. He was conscious of a 
 desire to get away to some wind-swept moor where 
 he could think things out for himself. A few hours 
 ago Lola had seemed to him as far away as the 
 stars; now owing to one of fate's strangest freaks, 
 she was his. He felt as a navvy might feel on 
 having thrust into his arms the crown jewels of 
 England. What would he do? Probably stand and 
 stare at them in open-mouthed bewilderment. Per- 
 haps He caught Lola's eye upon him. 
 
 "It's no good, Rain-Girl," he said, "I can't realise 
 it." 
 
 "Realise what?" she questioned. 
 
 "It, everything. This is not a real taxi," he con- 
 tinued. "You are not a real Rain-Girl. I am not a 
 real I. I'm just like the navvy." 
 
 "Like the what?" she asked with puckered brows. 
 
 He explained the allusion. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Is that why you suggested Lady Drewitt?" she 
 asked. "I think she'll be good for you, Jerry." 
 
 At that moment the taxi swung in towards the 
 pavement and drew up with a squeak. Beresford 
 got out. 
 
 "Tell him to drive to the Belle Vue," said Lola. 
 
 "But " he began looking at her in surprise. 
 
 "No," she said, shaking her head with decision. 
 "I'm not coming in. Lady Drewitt will bring you 
 back to earth." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, showing the disap- 
 pointment he felt, then conscious that the door of
 
 282 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Lady Drewitt's mansion had been thrown open by 
 the watchful Payne, he gave the taxi-driver the 
 address, lifted his hat, and walked slowly up the 
 steps. 
 
 "Her ladyship at home, Payne?" he enquired in 
 a voice that convinced the butler he was unwell. 
 
 "I'll enquire, sir," said Payne, and he disappeared 
 in the direction of the morning-room. 
 
 A minute later Beresford was apologising to Lady 
 Drewitt for so early a call. 
 
 "Sit down, Richard," she commanded. She was 
 always at her best in the morning-room, Beresford 
 thought, sitting upright in her chair like an Assyrian 
 goddess, an expression on her face as implacable as 
 that of Destiny. "What is it?" she demanded. 
 
 "Personally I think it's a dream," he said as he 
 took the chair on which Lady Drewitt had fixed 
 her eyes. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Richard?" To 
 Lady Drewitt, all deviations from the normal were 
 suggestive of illness. 
 
 Suddenly some spirit of mischief took possession 
 of him. 
 
 "Well, Aunt Caroline," he began hesitatingly, 
 "I'm afraid I've got myself into " 
 
 "What have you been doing?" There was both 
 anxiety and asperity in Lady Drewitt's tone. 
 
 "Well, it's rather serious," he began; "I'm afraid 
 you'll " 
 
 "What have you been doing ?" demanded
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 283 
 
 Lady Drewitt, in a tone suggestive of the great 
 restraint she was exercising over her emotions. 
 
 "I hardly like to tell you," he temporised, seeing 
 in his aunt's eyes fear, fear lest he, Richard Beres- 
 ford, had done anything that would compromise her 
 and the family. 
 
 "Richard, I insist on your telling me what has 
 happened." 
 
 "I'm going to get married," he said. 
 
 "Married!" 
 
 What it was that happened Beresford was never 
 quite able to determine; but Lady Drewitt's figure 
 seemed to undergo some strange convulsion, causing 
 her chair to recede at least two inches and she with 
 it. Never had he seen surprise manifest itself so 
 overwhelmingly. She sat staring at him as if he 
 had suddenly changed into a camelopard or a four- 
 winged griffin. 
 
 "You see," he began apologetically, "I'm twenty- 
 eight and you are always urging Drew to marry." 
 
 "Going to get married !" repeated Lady Drewitt, 
 as if she had not yet properly realised the significance 
 of the words. "Who who are you going to 
 marry?" Again there was the note of fear in her 
 voice. 
 
 "She " he began with simulated hesitation, 
 
 "she's a girl I met on a gate." 
 
 "Met on a what?" almost shouted Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "Oh, a gate," he repeated evenly. "A thing that 
 opens and shuts, you know," he added, as if to admit
 
 284 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 of no possibility of misunderstanding. "It was the 
 day I got pneumonia." 
 
 Through Lady Drewitt's mind there flashed the 
 thought of some designing country girl, who had 
 entrapped her nephew. Probably she had helped 
 to nurse him, had heard who he was and, convinced 
 that his aunt would see he was well provided for, had 
 determined to marry him. 
 
 "Who is she?" With an effort Lady Drewitt re- 
 gained her self-control, "and what was she doing on 
 a stile?" 
 
 "It was a gate," corrected Beresford. "It led 
 from the high-road into a meadow and " 
 
 "What was she doing on a gate ?" 
 Lady Drewitt was not to be denied. 
 
 "She was smoking a cigarette," he explained, "and 
 it was raining. That's what struck me " 
 
 "But what was she doing there at all?" Lady 
 Drewitt drew in her lips until nothing but a thin, 
 grey line was visible. 
 
 "She was tramping," he explained, as if it were 
 the most ordinary thing in the world for a girl to do. 
 
 "A tramp !" cried Lady Drewitt, the full horror 
 of the situation seeming to dawn upon her. "A 
 tramp I" 
 
 "It was rather a coincidence, wasn't it?" he 
 smiled. 
 
 "You're mad, Richard," she cried, "you've al- 
 ways been a fool; but now you're mad." She snapped 
 her jaws with an incisiveness that made him shudder. 
 "It must be put a stop to."
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 285 
 
 "Put a stop to," he repeated vaguely. "What 
 must be put a stop to?" 
 
 "Your marrying a tramp." 
 
 "But I don't want to put a stop to it, and," he 
 added as an afterthought, "you might get to like 
 her." 
 
 "Like her!" Lady Drewitt spoke in italics. 
 
 "Perhaps it's destiny," he ventured with resigna- 
 tion. 
 
 "Fiddlesticks." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "I tell you, Richard, I will not allow this mar- 
 riage." 
 
 "But suppose she were to insist. You see, she's 
 tather fond of me, Aunt Caroline." 
 
 "If she attempts to sue you for breach-of-promise, 
 the case must be compromised." Lady Drewitt 
 spoke as if that settled the matter. 
 
 Beresford smiled at the thought of Lola suing 
 him for breach-of-promise. 
 
 "They couldn't fix the damages high," continued 
 Lady Drewitt, irrevocably pursuing her own line of 
 reasoning. "You've got no money." 
 
 "As a matter of fact I was going to ask you to 
 lend me two shillings for a taxi-fare," he said 
 gravely; "I literally haven't a penny." 
 
 "And yet you propose to marry. Are you mad, 
 Richard? Are you really mad?" She leaned for- 
 ward slightly as if to enable herself to determine 
 with greater certainty whether or not her nephew 
 had entirely lost his reason.
 
 286 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "I'm sorry that you disapprove of my marriage," 
 he said meekly. "I've always tried to please you." 
 
 "You've done nothing of the sort, and you know 
 it." 
 
 "I've always tried to please you," he continued 
 imperturbably; "but I've always failed." 
 
 "You have." She nodded her head grimly. 
 
 "I felt that I ought to tell you. I'm sorry if it 
 annoys " 
 
 "You've done nothing but annoy me ever since 
 you were born," was the angry retort. "You were 
 a most tiresome child. Your poor, dear mother 
 would insist on giving you the most unhealthy toys." 
 
 "Unhealthy toys?" 
 
 "Yes, Noah's Arks and things with paint on them, 
 and you licked off the paint and were always norribly 
 ill afterwards." 
 
 "I suppose that's what's the matter with me now," 
 he murmured. "I've been licking off the paint from 
 the conventional ideas of happiness, and it's made me 
 horribly ill." 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense," commanded Lady Drewitt. 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Marry her, I suppose. I see no way out of it." 
 
 For a full minute Lady Drewitt regarded him 
 suspiciously. 
 
 "So," she said at length, a note of triumph in her 
 voice, "you are already regretting your folly. Was 
 it through this girl that you came to London?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it was." He gazed down at the point 
 of his cane.
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 287 
 
 "Where are you staying now?" 
 
 "To-night I'm afraid it will be Rowton's Lodging 
 House, if I can borrow sixpence from Drew." 
 
 For a moment Lady Drewitt gazed at him irreso- 
 lutely, then reaching across to a table at her side, she 
 turned the key in the drawer and opened it. From 
 inside she took a case containing one-pound notes, 
 selected two and held them out to Beresford. 
 
 "No, Aunt Caroline," he said, shaking his head 
 as he rose, "although it's very good of you. Perhaps 
 when I'm married you might stand godmother " 
 
 "Richard!" There was such poignant horror in 
 her voice that he felt a little ashamed of himself. 
 
 "I'm afraid I must be going now," he said. 
 
 "I want to know where I can find you?" There 
 was a note in her voice that convinced him she was 
 evolving a plan to save him from Lola's clutches. 
 "I shall telephone to Drewitt." 
 
 "He knows." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He made some remark about marriage being the 
 reckless assumption of another man's responsibility." 
 
 "Where shall you be staying?" Lady Drewitt was 
 not to be diverted from her purpose. 
 
 "St. James's Chambers in Jermyn Street will 
 always find me," he replied. 
 
 Lady Drewitt continued to gaze at the door long 
 after it had closed behind her nephew, whom she 
 was convinced was mad. 
 
 "Payne," said Beresford, as the butler came out
 
 288 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 bf the pantry, "how is your rheumatism, and will 
 you lend me sixpence?" 
 
 "Will I lend you sixpence, sir?" repeated Payne, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 "I asked you two questions, Payne. How is your 
 rheumatism, and will you lend me sixpence? You 
 merely repeat the second; that is very feminine." 
 
 The butler regarded him with a startled expres- 
 sion. 
 
 "The rheumatism, sir, is is a little better to-day, 
 
 and " From his trouser-pocket he drew out a 
 
 handful of silver and hesitatingly extended it. 
 
 Selecting sixpence Beresford pocketed it with 
 great deliberation. 
 
 "Now a pencil and a piece of paper," he said, 
 "only be quick, because I'm in a hurry." 
 
 Payne trotted off to the pantry, re-appearing a 
 few minutes later with the required articles. 
 
 Beresford wrote: "I.O.U. the sum of sixpence, 
 Richard Beresford." 
 
 "That," he remarked, handing the paper to Payne, 
 "is as good as a banknote. You can distrain upon 
 my estate, or make your claim against my executors, 
 administrators or assigns. Thank you, Payne." 
 
 Just as Beresford turned to the door that Payne 
 proceeded to open for him, he was conscious of Lady 
 Drewitt coming out of the morning-room. She had 
 obviously heard his last remark. 
 
 At the corner of Curzon Street Beresford hesi- 
 tated. Lola had told him that she would not be back 
 at the Belle Vue until late. He therefore decided
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 289 
 
 to call in at the club in the hope of finding his cousin. 
 On entering the smoking-room he discovered Drewitt 
 in the clutches of Sir Redman Bight, who was ex- 
 plaining to him in great detail why woman could 
 never become a determining factor in political life. 
 
 In his cousin Drewitt saw the straw at which the 
 drowning man is supposed to clutch. With a mut- 
 tered apology to Sir Redman, he crossed to where 
 Beresford stood. 
 
 "Richard," he said, as he reached his side, "if 
 ever you require anything of me, even unto half my 
 possessions, remind me of this moment." 
 
 Beresford led the way to the further corner of thai 
 room. 
 
 "The dental-chair, foot-and-mouth-disease, rabies, 
 and universal suffrage, all have their place in life's 
 chamber of horrors," murmured Drewitt, sinking 
 
 into a chair, "but Sir Redman Bight " he broke 
 
 off. 
 
 "Never mind about Bight," said Beresford. 
 
 "In this club," continued Drewitt, "every man 
 seems to have a theory upon something or other. 
 Only yesterday I was talking to Sir Damville Brack- 
 ett, at least Sir Damville Brackett was talking to me, 
 and as far as I could gather, his view appeared to 
 be that the real cause of the present labour unrest 
 is directly traceable to golf, and the fact that both 
 players do not use the same ball as in footer. He 
 really was quite interesting about it. But of your- 
 self, Richard?" 
 
 Beresford proceeded to outline what had taken
 
 290 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 place. By the time he had finished the waiter had 
 brought the two whiskies-and-sodas Drewitt had 
 ordered. 
 
 "By the way," said Beresford, as he replaced his 
 glass on the table at his side, "why didn't you turn 
 up at lunch?" 
 
 "There are occasions, Richard," drawled Drewitt, 
 ""when you are as obvious as Streatham Common, 
 or a Labour M.P." 
 
 "I see," nodded Beresford, "but I hope you 
 realise that you left Lola to pay for the lunch." 
 
 "As bad as that?" 
 
 "I hadn't a sou on me." 
 
 "It's always a mistake to try and help young 
 lovers," said Drewitt with resignation. 
 
 "I had to borrow sixpence from Payne to get 
 here," said Beresford. "I gave him an I.O.U. for 
 it." 
 
 "My dear Richard." Drewitt leaned forward 
 with interest. "I wish you would tell me how you 
 got here for sixpence. I've never been successful in 
 getting anywhere for sixpence, although I frequently 
 try. Once I tried to get from Piccadilly to Victoria 
 by omnibus, and got to Hampstead for fivepence; 
 but as it cost me four shillings for a taxi to get back, 
 I couldn't really consider that a fair test." 
 
 At that moment a page approached, telling 
 Drewitt that he was wanted on the telephone. 
 
 "Page," he said, looking at the boy reproachfully, 
 "haven't I repeatedly told you that I'm never here?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," piped the boy, looking up into
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 291 
 
 Drewitt's face with a pair of innocent blue eyes, 
 "but the lady told me to come and tell you that she 
 was Lady Drewitt." 
 
 "Page, such ingenuousness is wasted at the Diplo- 
 matic Club, you were meant for the Church," and 
 with a look of reproach at Beresford, he walked 
 towards the door, followed by the grinning page. 
 
 For nearly a quarter of an hour Beresford smoked 
 contentedly, pondering over this new phase in his 
 affairs. When at last Drewitt returned, he sat for 
 fully a minute regarding his cousin. 
 
 "Richard," he said at length, "you have achieve^ 
 what I've been striving after for years." 
 
 Beresford looked at him with raised eyebrows. 
 
 "For the first time in her existence the aunt is 
 experiencing real anguish of soul, and you are the 
 cause. I congratulate you." 
 
 Beresford smiled; but made no comment. 
 
 "Incidentally she informed me that you are about 
 to contract an alliance with a gipsy. I assured her 
 that I would endeavour to dissuade you, as I already 
 possess all the mats, brooms and wicker-chairs that 
 I require, much as I should like to encourage you in 
 your new vocation." 
 
 "What did she say?" enquired Beresford lazily. 
 
 "She said things, Richard, that should not be 
 allowed to pass over even a private-line connecting 
 a woman's club with the Suffragette Headquarters. 
 She stripped life of its adornments, attacked Lloyd 
 George and the Kaiser with marked impartiality. 
 She deplored the rise of democracy and the payment
 
 292 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 of M.P.'s. She reproached Nature for her obsolete 
 methods in providing for the continuance of the race. 
 She held up to the open light of day your iniquitous 
 conduct in proposing to marry a road-girl. She 
 implied that I was responsible for your determina- 
 tion, stating in clear and unambiguous terms that I 
 exercise an evil influence upon you. She suggested 
 that no man could know me without wanting to 
 marry a road-girl, tramp or whatever it was she had 
 in mind." 
 
 Drewitt paused to sip his whisky-and-soda. With 
 a sigh of weariness he continued: 
 
 "She asked me if she were expected to keep you 
 iand your wife to-be, together with any infantile com- 
 plications that might arise out of the union. I 
 assured her that I was not in your confidence to that 
 extent. Then in a voice that caused the wire to throb 
 she asked who was to keep you and your vagabond 
 wife; the expression is hers. Personally, I dis- 
 claimed any such intention, pointing out that it would 
 be neither delicate nor decent for a peer of the realm 
 to keep another man's wife. It was at this juncture 
 that she accused me of coarseness and a lack of that 
 refinement which, as far as I could gather, forms the 
 most attractive bait for unsophisticated heiresses." 
 
 Drewitt paused to light a cigarette and once more 
 sip his whisky-and-soda. 
 
 "At last," he continued, "I had to remind her that 
 this was the Diplomatic Club, where no one ever 
 speaks his mind or conveys facts except in a form 
 disguised beyond all recognition. Finally, she or-
 
 LADY DREWITT'S ALARM 293 
 
 dered me to seek you out and restrain you. Now, 
 Richard, speaking as man to man, and as friends, 
 not to say cousins, how do you think I had better 
 proceed to restrain you?" Fixing his glass more 
 firmly in his right eye, Drewitt leaned back in his 
 chair and surveyed Beresford. 
 
 "I think I'll push off now, Drew," he said, laugh- 
 ing as he rose. "By the way, I'm dining with Lola 
 at the Belle Vue to-night, why not come?" 
 
 "I've been ordered to dine at Curzon Street; but 
 I'll run in on my way back to the club," he replied. 
 "I think I'll come with you now. I can see old Sir 
 Redman has got his eye on me." 
 
 At the door of the club they parted, Drewitt turn- 
 ing west and Beresford walking up Piccadilly in 
 direction of Jermyn Street.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 
 
 1 THINK you have been very cruel, Jerry." 
 Lola looked at Beresford reproachfully, then 
 suddenly turned her head aside, conscious 
 of a twitching at the corners of her mouth. 
 
 They were sitting in the winter-garden of the Belle 
 Vue after dinner, and Beresford had just finished 
 telling her of his call upon Lady Drewitt. 
 
 "Cruel!" he repeated uncomprehendingly. "How 
 cruel?" 
 
 "Don't you see what it would mean to her if 
 ?" she broke off. 
 
 "But she hasn't got to live with you," he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 She lowered her eyes, and a faint blush stole into 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "It was cruel," she said quietly; "it was very cruel 
 
 and and " Again the corners of her mouth 
 
 twitched in spite of her efforts to control them. 
 
 "I know what you were going to say," he cried 
 boyishly. 
 
 "No you don't." 
 
 294
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 295 
 
 "Yes I do. Will you bet?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Five pounds." 
 
 "Right." 
 
 "What was it, then?" asked Lola. 
 
 "That I left Aunt Caroline to liquidate my I.O.U. 
 to Payne." 
 
 She opened her bag and proceeded to count out 
 five one-pound treasury notes. 
 
 "Rain-Girl, don't." 
 
 She looked at him keenly, startled at his tone, 
 and saw the hard, set expression in his eyes. 
 
 "But it was a bet." 
 
 "Please don't," he said earnestly; "at least, not 
 yet. I know it's stupid; but " 
 
 She looked at him with smiling eyes. 
 
 "You see," he went on hurriedly, "Drew sent me 
 round fifty pounds this afternoon." 
 
 "Very well, then, to-morrow I shall go round to 
 Aunt Caroline and apologise for you." 
 
 He looked at her quickly, there was something 
 oddly intimate in the use of the words "Aunt Caro- 
 line." She seemed to be drifting into her new rela- 
 tionship with astonishing ease. He envied her this 
 quality. For himself, he felt that if he were to live 
 for centuries, he could never live down the humilia- 
 tion of marrying a woman with money. 
 
 "Shall we go on the river to-morrow?" he asked 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 "Oh yes, let's," she cried, clapping her hands.
 
 296 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Lola," he remarked severely, "you're behaving 
 like a school-girl." 
 
 "Am I?" she asked, her vivacity dropping from 
 her; then a moment after she added, "I suppose it's 
 because I'm so happy. Oh, I'd forgotten." 
 
 "Forgotten what?" 
 
 "We can't go on the river to-morrow; I shall be 
 calling on Aunt Caroline." 
 
 "Look, here's Drew," cried Beresford, jumping 
 up. He had caught sight of Drewitt being conduct- 
 ed towards them by a page. Having shaken hands 
 with Lola he sank into a chair. 
 
 "Yes, Richard," he said, "you have interpreted 
 me aright coffee. How I wish Hoskins were 
 here." 
 
 Whilst they were waiting for the coffee they 
 chatted upon general topics. When Drewitt had 
 fortified himself with two cups he turned to Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 "Richard," he said, "have you given a full, true 
 and particular account of your interview with the 
 Aunt to-day?" 
 
 Lola's smile answered the question. 
 
 "Then," said Drewitt, turning to Lola, "I must 
 ask you what sum you will require to release Richard 
 from his engagement?" 
 
 "What sum I" She looked at Drewitt in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "I've just returned from dining at Curzon Street," 
 said Drewitt; then turning to his cousin added, 
 "Richard, you owe me an apology for that dinner.
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 297 
 
 It was one of the most uncomfortable I have ever 
 eaten. The atmosphere of crisis seemed to have 
 penetrated even to the kitchen. The sole was over- 
 done and the quail wasn't done at all, and the Aunt's 
 views upon romantic attachments were positively in- 
 decent." 
 
 "Hadn't you better begin at the beginning?" sug- 
 gested Beresford quietly. 
 
 "The Aunt seemed anxious that I should begin 
 before the beginning," he replied, "hence I am here 
 for the purpose of settling with Miss Craven the 
 amount she will accept to release you, Richard, from 
 her clutches." He looked across at Lola. Her 
 cheeks were flushed and her eyes dancing with amuse- 
 ment. "By implication I was given to understand 
 that the responsibility for your faux pas, Richard, 
 rested mainly with me." 
 
 "With you I" repeated Beresford, as he looked 
 up from lighting a cigarette. 
 
 Drewitt inclined his head. "If I had sought to 
 exercise a better influence upon your early and callow 
 youth, the Aunt thinks that this would not have oc- 
 curred." 
 
 "Has it not occurred to her that possibly Richard 
 might might not want to be freed?" asked Lola. 
 
 "Nothing so transcendently romantic would ever 
 strike a member of our family," said Drewitt, shak- 
 ing his head with conviction. "With the Aunt mar- 
 riages are made in heaven, after satisfactory enquir- 
 ies have first been made on earth," he said.
 
 298 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 "Do you think that you have been altogether tact- 
 ful?" asked Lola demurely. 
 
 Drewitt looked at her for a moment reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "I did what I thought would be best for Richard," 
 he said wearily. "I even quoted verse, something 
 about kind hearts being more than coronets, and she 
 stopped me as if it had been Rabelaisian. I was 
 relieved, as a matter of fact, for I never could re- 
 member the next line. I then went on to explain 
 that the two things a man must choose for himself 
 are his trouserings and his wife, they being the 
 things he sees most of, but she was only scandal- 
 ised." 
 
 "And you left her in the belief that that I 
 j 
 
 "Was a female vagabond," said Drewitt, filling 
 in the blank. "Richard had set the ball in motion, 
 it was not for me to interfere with the Aunt's plans." 
 
 "I think you've both behaved abominably," said 
 Lola with conviction, "and I don't wonder that Lady 
 
 Drewitt " She paused as if in search of the 
 
 right expression. 
 
 "Thoroughly disapproves of us," suggested 
 Beresford. 
 
 She nodded her head vigorously. 
 
 "Most of the trouble in this world," said Drewitt, 
 "proceeds from people jumping to conclusions. If 
 a man dances twice with a girl in one evening, her 
 mamma looks him up in Who's Who, or sets on foot 
 enquiries as to his position or stability. But I
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 299 
 
 mustn't dwell upon these trifles," continued Drewitt. 
 "I have to report to the Aunt to-night by telephone 
 the result of my interview with Richard. I'm sup- 
 posed to obtain the lady's address and proceed post 
 haste and forbid the banns." 
 
 "I shall go and see Lady Drewitt to-morrow 
 afternoon," said Lola with decision. "I think you've 
 both treated her horribly, and I'm very cross about 
 it." 
 
 "But, Lola," began Beresford. 
 
 "It's no good," she said, shaking her head but 
 smiling. "I'm very cross." 
 
 That night Drewitt telephoned to his aunt the 
 astounding news that the young person, as she called 
 her nephew's fiancee, would call upon her on the 
 following afternoon. Her first instinct was to refuse 
 to see the girl; but wiser counsels prevailed, and 
 Payne was instructed accordingly. 
 
 "I feel as if the whole world has turned topsy- 
 turvy. Auntie has thrown me over in despair and 
 gone to Yorkshire, Mr. Quelch has already probably 
 filled the niche he had reserved for me in the other 
 world, and " 
 
 "To add to your misfortunes I am going to marry 
 you," said Beresford with a smile. 
 
 Her eyes answered him. 
 
 Beresford had striven to disguise the genuine re- 
 lief he felt at the disappearance from his horizon of
 
 800 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 Mrs. Crisp. What had actually taken place Lola 
 would not tell him; but he was aware that he had 
 been the bone of contention. He was already begin- 
 ning to make discoveries about Lola. She could keep 
 her own counsel. What had happened at her inter- 
 view with Lady Drewitt he could not discover. His 
 most subtle and persistent questions she met either 
 with a smile or an obvious evasion. All he could 
 gather was that the interview had, from Lola's point 
 of view, been eminently satisfactory, and that he, 
 Beresford, had been forgiven. 
 
 "I don't understand you, Lola," he said, digging 
 his stick into the turf at his feet; they were sitting 
 under the trees in the Park opposite the Stanhope 
 Gate. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll find that you have married a 
 very curious person," she said wistfully; then with 
 a sudden change of mood, "You won't mind my 
 being myself, Jerry, will you?" She looked up at 
 him, anxiety in her voice. "I'm an awful baBy 
 really," she continued. "I wonder if you'll like me 
 when you know the real me." 
 
 "Beggars mustn't be choosers," he said lightly. 
 
 For a moment she looked at him gravely. 
 
 "Jerry," she said, "that hurts just a weeny, little 
 bit." 
 
 "My darling, forgive me," he whispered as he 
 bent towards her. "I shall get accustomed to it in 
 time." There was just a suspicion of bitterness in 
 his tone. 
 
 "I've I've got a confession to make," she whis-
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 301 
 
 pered shyly, drawing in her under-lip and refusing 
 to meet his eyes. "I couldn't tell you before; but I 
 think I can now now that there are a lot of people 
 about." She glanced up at him, then dropped her 
 eyes again immediately. 
 
 "It's about that that night at -at your rooms." 
 Her voice trembled a little. 
 
 He nodded. There was a pause. 
 
 "What I told you about Lady Tringe was " 
 
 she hesitated and flashed a look at him from under 
 her lashes, "was a fib," she went on hurriedly. "She 
 wasn't there at all, and nobody saw me. Lookl 
 there's Lord Drewitt," she cried, clutching him 
 excitedly by the coat-sleeve, as the figure of Lord 
 Drewitt appeared crossing the road from the Stan- 
 hope Gate. "Oh! go and fetch him, do." 
 
 With his head in a whirl Beresford did as he was 
 bid, returning a minute later with Drewitt at his 
 side. 
 
 "I have just had the refreshing experience of see- 
 ing the ungodly vanquished, the Philistine smitten, 
 and the biter bit." Drewitt shook hands with Lola, 
 then sank into a chair. 
 
 For nearly a minute there was silence. 
 
 "Please remember," said Lola, "that I'm a wo- 
 man, Lord Drewitt, and curious." 
 
 "As we are to be cousins, Lola, I think " 
 
 Drewitt smiled. 
 
 "I shall call you Drew, then," she said. "We're 
 waiting," she added. 
 
 "I've been to the Aunt to announce the failure of
 
 302 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 my mission," continued Urewitt. "I postponed it 
 until this afternoon, just as I always keep an olive 
 to flavour my coffee. I confess I had been looking 
 forward to the interview. Even Hoskins this morn- 
 ing noted my unwonted cheerfulness and enquired 
 if I were unwell. You must meet Hoskins, Lola, 
 he and Providence between them are responsible for 
 me. Providence for my coming, Hoskins for my 
 being." 
 
 "But " began Lola. 
 
 "Hushl" warned Beresford. "With Drew silence 
 is the only extractor." 
 
 Drewitt looked reproachfully at Beresford. A 
 moment later he continued. 
 
 "I left the Aunt at the parting of the religious 
 ways," he announced. 
 
 "Whatever do you mean?" cried Lola. 
 
 "Hitherto she has always shown herself a good 
 churchwoman, blindly accepting the decrees of 
 Providence, provided they did not interfere with her 
 own plans," he added. "To-day she is asking why I 
 and not her dear Richard inherited the barony of 
 Drewitt and all its beery traditions." 
 
 Lola looked from one to the other, and then 
 laughed. 
 
 "When I arrived the Aunt was explaining to the 
 Vultures I should explain, Lola, that the Vultures 
 are Edward Seymour and Cecily, his wife how she 
 had always felt that Richard would be saved by the 
 Challice independence. Richard will explain these 
 little family details to you later," he smiled. "As
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 303 
 
 for me, I can do little or nothing without Hoskins. 
 
 "Teddy, that is, Edward Seymour," he explained, 
 "was so ill-advised as to suggest that the Aunt had 
 not always regarded Richard with such favour. 
 Then it was that she turned and rent him, slew him 
 with the jawbone No, that would not be alto- 
 gether complimentary to Richard. She told him 
 that if he had half Richard's brains, he would try to 
 do something for himself instead of waiting for her 
 to die. She was almost ^Eschylean in her grandeur. 
 Poor Teddy literally wilted, and Cecily burst into 
 tears; but as Cecily invariably bursts into tears at 
 the least possible provocation, that was not re* 
 markable." 
 
 Again Drewitt paused, then looking at Beresford, 
 he said casually: "By the way, Richard, you are to 
 be raised to my financial status; the Aunt insists on 
 allowing you two thousand a year, conditional on 
 your good behaviour." 
 
 Beresford looked at him in a dazed manner, then 
 he suddenly flushed a deep red and looked across at 
 Lola, who, however, was busily engaged in digging 
 holes in the turf with the point of her sunshade. 
 
 "She regards your marrying Lola as a proof of 
 your subtlety and commercial acumen. She " 
 
 "Please " Lola glanced up at him pleadingly. 
 
 "It's all right, Lola," smiled Beresford. "It makes 
 a bit of difference. I shan't have to come to you 
 for everything." 
 
 "It was the two thousand pounds that laid out the 
 Vultures," continued Drewitt. "They felt just as
 
 304 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 the rest of the family must have felt when all that 
 veal was wasted on the prodigal." 
 
 "I think it very good of Aunt Caroline," said 
 Lola, "and I like her." 
 
 Fixing his glass in his eye Drewitt gazed at her 
 with interest, as if she had made a most remarkable 
 statement. 
 
 "But what about Edward?" queried Beresford. 
 
 "Teddy was sublime." A flicker of a smile passed 
 over Drewitt's countenance at the recollection. "He 
 Was subjected to what I believe is scripturally de- 
 icribed as 'whips of scorpions,' in my opinion an 
 entirely inadequate form of punishment. His little 
 soul was extracted from his body and dangled before 
 his nose. He was held responsible for himself, for 
 Cecily, and by implication for my own shortcomings. 
 He was asked what he had done in the war, and why 
 he hadn't done it. Why he had married, and why he 
 had no children. I pointed out to the Aunt that the 
 morality of the observation was a little loose; but 
 she ignored me. 
 
 "He was told that he was depraved and demor- 
 alising, although poor Teddy would not demoralise 
 a three-inch lizard. He was held responsible for the 
 German vacillation in connection with the Peace 
 Treaty, and for the shortage of high-explosive shells 
 in 1914. In fact, there was nothing evil the Aunt 
 was able to call to mind that was not either directly 
 or indirectly ascribable to what she gave us to under- 
 stand was a world-wide catastrophe the coming of 
 Teddy.
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 305 
 
 "Teddy wilted and visibly shrank beneath her 
 invective, whilst Cecily continued to cry quietly to 
 
 herself. She reminded me very forcibly of Peter 
 it 
 
 "Peter who?" asked Lola. 
 
 Drewitt turned reproachful eyes upon her. 
 "Surely, Lola, you are not a Free Thinker?'* 
 
 Lola laughed and shook her head. 
 
 "She reminded me of Peter. She seemed to want 
 to convey the idea that she had never previously 
 even heard of Teddy; she was disowning him. Then 
 came the supreme moment, pregnant with drama. 
 Suddenly he sprang to his feet, his mouth working 
 uncannily, little points of foam at the corners. I 
 wished that Cecily had brought him on a lead. 
 Looking about him wildly, he planted himself in 
 front of the Aunt, and looking up at her and almost 
 crying, he spluttered 
 
 * 'Damn your money, and you too. Keep it. I 
 don't want it. Take it to hell with you,' and then he 
 disappeared. 
 
 "Personally I think he went through the door; 
 but I cannot say with any degree of certainty, the 
 exit was so dramatic.'* 
 
 Beresford whistled. 
 
 "And what did Aunt Caroline say?" asked Lola. 
 
 "She said nothing," said Drewitt; "but from her 
 looks I gathered that Teddy will have a sporting 
 chance of at least some of her money." 
 
 "You mean ?" said Beresford. 
 
 "I mean that I'm going to engage the services of
 
 306 THE RAIN-GIRL 
 
 an old company-sergeant-major of mine, and rein- 
 force him with a few choice specimens of Billings- 
 gate. It is obvious that the Aunt is susceptible to 
 rhetoric when suitably adorned," he added as an 
 afterthought. 
 
 Drewitt turned to Lola and smiled. For some 
 time the three sat silent. 
 
 "Excuse me a moment, will you, Lola? There's 
 Ballinger, and I want to ask him about that place in 
 Scotland." 
 
 Beresford had jumped up, and with a smile and a 
 blush Lola inclined her head, and he strode off in 
 pursuit of a little fair-haired man with the strut of 
 a turkey. 
 
 "Only once in a blameless life have I ever ven- 
 tured upon unsolicited advice," said Drewitt remi- 
 niscently after a pause. "In a moment of mental 
 abstraction I advised a man who was complaining of 
 loneliness to take a wife. He took me literally, and 
 the husband of fRe lady took half his fortune as 
 damages." 
 
 "Is this a confession, or merely an anecdote?" 
 enquired Lola demurely. 
 
 "Neither," was the reply. "It is autobiography, 
 and history is about to repeat itself." Drewitt 
 paused and looked at Lola with a little friendly smile 
 that he kept for his special friends. "Richard is an 
 ass." 
 
 Lola stiffened slightly. She looked straight across 
 at him ; but Drewitt was examining the knuckles of 
 his left hand.
 
 LORD DREWITT: AMBASSADOR 307 
 
 "But," he continued, "he's rather a lovable sort 
 of ass." 
 
 Lola smiled at him with her eyes. 
 
 "I'm fond of Richard, Lola," continued Drewitt, 
 "and my indiscretion is in advising you to be a little 
 careful about money matters." 
 
 "Money matters 1" she repeated, screwing up her 
 eyebrows with a puzzled expression. 
 
 "Your happiness depends on Richard's capacity 
 to earn money for himself. Make him do some- 
 thing, go into politics, write books, become a paid 
 agitator, anything, in short. At the moment he's as 
 sore as a vanquished heavy-weight. It will help his 
 self-respect. Now I've done," and once more he 
 smiled across at her. 
 
 "Thank you, Drew," she said, "I understand. 
 You " ' 
 
 "Hullo! what are you two up to?" cried Beres- 
 ford, who had approached unseen. 
 
 "My dear Richard, we've just been discussing the 
 length of your ears and the loudness of your bray," 
 said Drewitt quietly. 
 
 THE END
 
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