7
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 . OF CALIF- LIBRARY. LOS AW.KI.W
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HASTINGS TURNER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SIMPLE SOULS" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1920
 
 Copyright, 19*0, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS , 
 
 Published February. 1920 
 Reprinted February, 1920
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 
 2133254
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A ROUND MAN ....... i 
 
 II. BUTTERFLIES n 
 
 III. No MANNERS; No MORALS .... 21 
 
 IV. ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 32 
 
 V. SORCERY i 45 
 
 VI. ON ODDNESS 65 
 
 VII. IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 75 
 
 VIII. SOME LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT . 92 
 
 IX. KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY .... 101 
 
 X. BROWN AND SMITH in 
 
 XI. "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 127 
 
 XII. CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 139 
 
 XIII. THE TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT . 152 
 
 XIV. "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 161 
 
 XV. "THE LITTLE TIN GOD AND A TELEGRAM" 172 
 
 XVI. "THE GRAND TOUR" 185 
 
 XVII. "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" .... 197 
 
 XVIII. "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" .... 216 
 
 XIX. "THE BEGINNINGS" 232 
 
 XX. "THE BIRTH" 241 
 
 XXI. "THE THREE 'LV" ...... 264 
 
 XXII. "MORE BEGINNINGS" 277
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A ROUND MAN" 
 
 THERE is a kind of man who appears to be fashioned 
 in circles. His body is a collection of curves topped 
 by a round and shining head. His soul is as round 
 and polished as his body, with no mad and jagged 
 corners to scarify society's epidermis. Even his life 
 is a circle, for, as a rule, he will die, as his temperate 
 habits deserve, at a ripe old age, on the very thresh- 
 hold of infancy once more. 
 
 So long as there happens nothing to disturb him, 
 such a man will run his course, without much detri- 
 ment to his fellows, and quit the earth finally, if un- 
 honoured and unsung, at least unmoved. And it is 
 possible that to live or to die in a state of indifference 
 is not so great an evil as it sounds. 
 
 Just such a round and shiny man was Henry 
 Cumbers, who rented "Applegarth" at ninety pounds 
 per annum. It is quite superfluous to describe him. 
 The trains that run to Greater London about six 
 o'clock contain his double many times over. He 
 was fifty, and the toecaps of his boots turned up a 
 
 i
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 little from the ground. He believed in God and 
 regular hours. Art, he thought, could be overdone ; 
 the precise point where it broke bounds he con- 
 sidered himself fully qualified to dictate, and had 
 indeed done so in the case of the Joynson girls (four 
 houses up the road) , who had abandoned corsets 
 and taken to Ancient Greece. When Henry's son, 
 Tristram, had expostulated and grown warm in the 
 defence of personality, his father had closed the con- 
 versation by pointing out that, in the first place, he 
 considered himself master in his own house, and in 
 the second that there were people with whom he 
 would allow his family to be seen, whereas there 
 were others with whom he would not. The Joynson 
 girls might be considered amongst the latter. Finis. 
 That was the sort of man Henry Cumbers was. 
 These round men round off everything and leave life 
 arid. 
 
 Mrs. Cumbers was a complaisant echo of her hus- 
 band. When she dies, "yes, dear," will be found 
 written on her heart. At the same time, if anyone 
 is curious enough to examine her brain, which has 
 been dormant now for twenty-five years, they may 
 find "no, dear," written thereon instead. But Mary 
 Cumbers had found it easier to be guided by her 
 heart, and as it was a very sound organ, with an 
 almost illimitable capacity for sympathy, she was 
 doubtless right. 
 
 Tristram was their only child. He was artistic. 
 That is to say, that he felt he ought to love beauty, 
 
 2
 
 A ROUND MAN 
 
 but he did not know what was beautiful. Like every 
 boy who is nineteen and not fond of exercise, his 
 mind was untidy. His brain was lumbered up with 
 other people's mental excretions. At the moment 
 he was doing nothing at home, prior to taking up 
 a profession. His father, whose business in life was 
 to manage an accountancy department in a big en- 
 gineering firm, wished his son to follow him, but 
 Tristram leaned towards something of greater dis- 
 tinction; neither father nor son realised that one's 
 business in life is of far less importance than one's 
 business with life. The latter should always be de- 
 cided before the former. 
 
 Sunday nights at Applegarth were mostly the 
 same. A cold supper, shared as often as not by the 
 vicar of the church where Henry Cumbers was a 
 warden, followed by an hour's desultory talk, gen- 
 erally on parish matters. 
 
 To-night they sat in the garden. Henry sucked 
 at a large pipe; Mary, half-asleep, turned over the 
 pages of a best-seller. Tristram stared moodily at 
 the roses, rapidly becoming colourless as the sun 
 went off duty, and the Rev. John Heslop regarded 
 them all whimsically from under his shaggy grey 
 eyebrows. He was a big man with a big mind, 
 rapidly becoming squeezed dry by the little members 
 of his congregation. As a prince of the Church, 
 three hundred years ago, the Reverend John might 
 have swayed kingdoms; as the parish priest of a 
 
 3
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Garden City he had long since abandoned everything 
 except the effort to retain the original sanity of his 
 creed. Moreover, he had never been in the least 
 anxious to sway kingdoms. 
 
 Yet he was still a stimulating conversationalist. 
 He would let sentences and half-sentences drop from 
 his lips in a curious, jerky way, which, for those that 
 had ears to hear, invariably opened up new angles 
 of thought. Now he was bending his attention to 
 Tristram, who was denying Christ as heartily as 
 most young Christians of our time. 
 
 "The Church," dogmatised the young man, "is 
 dull." 
 
 "Deadly," murmured the clergyman; "but then, 
 so are the Houses of Parliament; it isn't a sane rea- 
 son for destroying theml" 
 
 Henry Cumbers grunted with a kind of dyspeptic 
 indignation. 
 
 "Boy's half-baked," he snapped. "He wants oc- 
 cupation; then he wouldn't think about God." 
 
 It was the Cumbers solution of the world-old 
 quarrel between rationalists and mystics. 
 
 "Better to beat out one's music," said the clergy- 
 man, and rammed some tobacco into his pipe with a 
 yellow finger. The boy shifted uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "I want colour," he said suddenly. 
 
 "Go to San Francisco," answered the Reverend 
 John. Tristram leant forward eagerly. 
 
 "Have you been there?" he asked. The vicar 
 nodded. He liked this boy for all his absurd affecta- 
 
 4
 
 A ROUND MAN 
 
 tions. He was so genuinely eager to inherit the 
 earth. 
 
 "Don't put ideas into the boy's head, Heslop," 
 said Henry. 
 
 "Pooh, Cumbers!" returned the other. "What 
 else are heads for?" 
 
 "You'll disturb his mother," said the father, and 
 they all turned towards Mary. 
 
 She was fast asleep. Her husband leant across 
 and spoke in her ear. 
 
 "Mary, don't go to sleep; you'll catch cold; it's 
 bad for the circulation." 
 
 Mary looked up with a start. 
 
 "Have I been to sleep, dear?" she said. "How 
 very rude of me 1" She shivered a, little. "I think 
 I'll go indoors. Don't move, anyone, please." 
 
 The Reverend John rose clumsily from his chair. 
 He always got up and sat down as though his body 
 was a collection of spare parts. Mr. Cumbers dis- 
 appeared in the direction of the French windows, 
 panting. He was a heavy eater and a slow mover. 
 The Vicar was left a'one with the young iconoclast. 
 Somehow they found themselves walking up and 
 down the little strip of lawn. 
 
 "Of course," said the clergyman, apropos of noth- 
 ing, "God is very mysterious. Some men find it in 
 a woman generally a case of mistaken identity." 
 
 "But that's not religion," urged Tristram. 
 
 "Everything is or nothing is. It depends on 
 
 your point of view " He broke off and watched 
 
 5
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 the sun making a last adieu behind the church 
 steeple. "I wonder if it matters much," he said 
 suddenly. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the boy. 
 
 "I don't insist on the Church," said the Reverend 
 John. "I advise it. It keeps things in sight when 
 men are out of touch with with all that." He 
 waved a long arm over the whole circle of the sky. 
 "People take things so much for granted now. Cities 
 do that escalators and cars and all that sort of 
 thing it's a pity; we talk of little lives." (His 
 mind pictured the figure of Henry Cumbers.) "Well, 
 that's ridiculous. How do we know what's little?" 
 He broke off. "If I had a mitre," he added, in one 
 of his curious jerks, "I shouldn't know why." 
 
 He became aware that he had been talking over 
 the boy's head. He laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Publicly," he said, "I consider it a pity you do 
 not go to church ; privately, I advise you not to worry 
 your head about it. Don't give me away." 
 
 The rather irritating notes of a gramophone cut 
 the conversation off like a snapped wire. Mr. Cum- 
 bers was coming out of the house. His voice was 
 querulous with annoyance. 
 
 "And on a Sunday evening, too!" he was saying. 
 "Really, it is too trying. I wish that box-hedge 
 would grow up. But it won't stop sound. Don't 
 you think it's in gross bad taste, Heslop?" 
 
 "What are they playing?" asked the clergyman. 
 
 6
 
 A ROUND MAN 
 
 "It's a song from the Empire revue," said Tris- 
 tram. " 'Heaven must be full of girls.' ' 
 
 "Oh, is it?" rejoined his father, with a touch of 
 asperity. "I don't go to revues." 
 
 "Of course you don't." said the Reverend John. 
 And, having the artist's touch, left it at that. 
 
 "Gramophones," said Henry, "are vulgar. If 
 you want music, have music. That's what I say." 
 
 "Machinery progress but it may be retro- 
 grade," murmured the clergyman. "Who knows? 
 It's all very curious. The modern schoolboy is more 
 learned than oh, eighty per cent, a hundred and 
 fifty years ago; on his deathbed he's no wiser than 
 Adam. I've given the Sacrament to very clever men. 
 They want it. Why? It isn't fear; they just want 
 it. I must go home." 
 
 He shook his big head vigorously as if dismissing 
 a train of thought. 
 
 "I talk too much," he said, and held out his hand. 
 "Good night, Cumbers! Vestry meeting on Tues- 
 day." 
 
 Outside the gate he stopped and turned. 
 
 "The boy wants scope, Cumbers," he said. "He 
 thinks he's imprisoned behind high walls, with 
 wonderful variety-show going on outside; he ought 
 to live with artists and criminals, and those sort of 
 people; then he'd find out that everybody is the 
 same and come back. Vestry meeting at two- 
 thirty." 
 
 7
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Henry Cumbers walked back along the path just 
 as Tristram appeared from the side of the house. 
 His eye caught a "To Let" board on the other side 
 of the diminutive hedge. 
 
 "Funny Dangerfield's not gone yet," he said. 
 "I'd have thought nice houses like these would have 
 been snapped up at once." 
 
 "Would you?" said Tristram. His father took 
 his arm. 
 
 "You know, my boy," he began, in his most seri- 
 ous vein, -"you mustn't take all that Heslop says au 
 grand, well, without a grain of salt. Mind you, I 
 like the man; though there have been complaints 
 about him in the parish. I know what people mean; 
 he's too too all over the place. Everything he says 
 overlaps everything else. What I call a disturbing 
 man. People don't like being disturbed. He ought 
 to be a bishop; then he couldn't do any harm." He 
 broke off and became a little truculent. "And look 
 here, Tristram," he said, "I don't like this wild sort 
 of conversation on a Sunday night; you're a socialist 
 and an atheist all the week; surely to goodness you 
 can be a Tory and a Christian on Sundays 1" 
 
 "Why Sundays?" asked Tristram. His father 
 became vague. 
 
 "Well, black for funerals and feast-days that 
 was how I was brought up," he said. "Goodness 
 knows I'm not asking anything out of the ordinary. 
 One must stick to the decencies of life; otherwise 
 
 8
 
 A ROUND MAN 
 
 where are one's standards?" It was a favourite 
 word of his. He warmed to it. "I remember my 
 father saying to me when I was a lad and they are 
 words you might well take to heart." 
 
 Tristram stopped suddenly. 
 
 "You know," he said, "there is something very 
 fascinating about a 'To Let' board." 
 
 "What the devil are you talking about?" snapped 
 his father angrily. 
 
 "Makes one feel like Robert Louis Stevenson." 
 The boy spoke as if to himself. "As if anything 
 might happen." 
 
 "I believe you try to be irritating," said Mr. 
 Cumbers. "And you'd better get your hair cut to- 
 morrow; I've never seen such a mess!" 
 
 He walked quickly into the house. He knew it 
 annoyed Tristram to be urged to get his hair cut; the 
 remark had rounded off many an argument. 
 
 As for the boy, with the calm superiority of nine- 
 teen years, he wrote his father down a fool and re- 
 tired to his bedroom. His father's room was next 
 to his own, and he heard Henry's voice a sort of 
 grumbling buzz through the wall. Every now and 
 then he could distinguish a sentence. 
 
 "Must have steadiness," he heard. . . . "No 
 standard . . . must have rules in life . . . regular 
 hours. ... I hate excrescences." 
 
 He paused, and a kind of bleat came through the 
 partition. Tristram could not hear the words, but 
 
 9
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 he knew them. It was Mary Cumbers saying: "Yes, 
 dear," 
 
 "Oh, damn I" said the boy; which was very wrong 
 of him. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 BUTTERFLIES 
 
 LUNCH at the Cavendish grill-room is so expensive 
 that everybody there always knows everybody else. 
 With democracy coming into fashion so fast, it is 
 probable that in a few years its manager will be the 
 only autocrat left in the world. Such is the power 
 of his smile, which creases up his whole face like a 
 peach-stone, that one feels one would rather be re- 
 fused a table by him than be persona grata at every 
 other hotel in London. For this reason, and be- 
 cause there is positively no such lobster salad to be 
 obtained elsewhere, the grill-room is always full. 
 
 At a table against the wall, but well within view 
 of the whole room, sat a couple who were attracting 
 a great deal of attention. This was partly because 
 they were strangers, partly because of the peculiarly 
 arresting beauty of the woman. She was dark, with 
 large eyes which reflected not only every emotion, 
 but almost every intonation she put into her words. 
 Her nationality might have been anything as, in 
 point of fact, it was. She could not have been more 
 than twenty-five years old, yet she had the assurance 
 of a woman ten years older, and gave the impres- 
 
 ii
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 sion that her experience of life probably matched her 
 manner. 
 
 She talked incessantly, hardly stopping even for 
 breath, yet she was never entirely unaware of the 
 interest which she was exciting round about her. 
 She was one of those disconcerting people who are 
 born to have an audience or to be an audience. Of 
 course it was an accident that Iris Iranovna was 
 born at all. These things are generally accidents. 
 Somebody meets someone else at a supper-party 
 somebody pulls out a cork too many somebody sees 
 the world through champagne-coloured spectacles for 
 an hour or two, and that is all. Twenty-five sum- 
 mers later Iris Iranovna is attracting a great deal of 
 attention in the Cavendish Grill; in real life this is 
 neither the problem nor the tragedy that the wise 
 people who write books would have us believe. It 
 just happens, and in nine cases out of ten neither 
 you nor I, who consider A. charming and B. bril- 
 liant and C. lovely, ever hear anything about the ac- 
 cident at all. 
 
 The man who was lunching with Iris was remark- 
 able only for his air of strength. He was not hand- 
 some, but owned a pair of animated blue eyes that 
 were rather attractive. He was big and spoke in a 
 musical if rather slow voice; he always seemed to 
 choose his words with the greatest precision even 
 when delivering himself of quite a trivial remark. 
 Now he regarded his companion with a slight smile 
 
 12
 
 BUTTERFLIES 
 
 as she looked at herself in a little mirror which was 
 attached to a green-and-gold bag. 
 
 "I do love it," she said suddenly. 
 
 "What do you love?" he asked. 
 
 "My face," she returned simply. He laughed. 
 
 "Beauty," he said, "is skin-deep." 
 
 "And an oyster," she retorted, "is swallowed in a 
 second. Yet people love oysters, and I love my face. 
 Why do you throw yesterday's proverbs at me?" 
 
 "Yesterday's bones," he said, "make to-morrow's 
 soup." 
 
 "I dare say," she answered, putting the mirror 
 back into its bag, "but it is very bad manners to eat 
 out of the stock-pot 1" 
 
 He looked at her curiously; even a little sadly. 
 
 "Iris," he said, "you talk an infinite deal of noth- 
 ing." 
 
 "Order me creme de menthe" she answered; "it 
 matches my jade." 
 
 Over the coffee he leant across to her and spoke 
 seriously. 
 
 "I want to know," he said, "when you are going 
 to marry me." 
 
 "Well, Andrea," she replied, "I don't know. You 
 can't possibly take me back to Russia yet. It 
 wouldn't do. Besides, you don't really know me well 
 enough." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "In the first place," he said, "I think you flatter 
 yourself when you imagine your affair with Maurice 
 
 13
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 made so much stir in Petersburg. After all, you did 
 not kill him." 
 
 "I very nearly did," she answered. "Poor 
 Maurice ! Why is it that first husbands are always 
 unsatisfactory? I knew I should stick a knife into 
 him sooner or later. I hope, Andrea, for your sake, 
 that you will never have to live with someone who 
 can refuse you nothing." 
 
 "Maurice was certainly a negative personality," 
 returned her companion; "but, after all, what has 
 actually happened? You lost your temper and very 
 nearly killed your husband there was a scandal and 
 a trial and " He stopped and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "And," she went on, "if it hadn't been for the 
 pulling of strings I'd be in prison." 
 
 "As it is," he said, "you are comfortably divorced; 
 yet you think it necessary to leave Petersburg and 
 come and live down, in a London suburb, a scandal 
 that no longer exists. It isn't like you." 
 
 "Nothing that I do is like me," she said; "it's like 
 a bit of me that's alll" 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 "You're a charming bundle of horrible possibili- 
 ties," he said. "Why you haven't gone to the devil 
 I can't imagine." 
 
 "Nor I," she said. "Perhaps it is because it is so 
 easy; the devil is an attractive man, and he welcomes 
 anyone who flings their arms round his neck but 
 it is much more difficult and much more amusing to 
 
 14
 
 BUTTERFLIES 
 
 stroke his chin, and say : 'No, you shan't kiss me.' ' 
 He puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette. 
 
 "I wonder," he said, "whether there is anyone of 
 your sex who likes to be called a nice woman." 
 
 "Probably not," answered Iris. "You see, it's no 
 longer considered good form to have any convic- 
 tions." 
 
 "I am not sure," said Andrea, "that a time will not 
 come when even modern society will have to have 
 convictions." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Don't be ponderous, Andrea," she said. "Why, 
 you are one of the worst offenders. Have you not 
 a pedigree you could paper a salon with, and are you 
 not proposing to marry a girl who owes her parent- 
 age to an 'amour de hazard'?" 
 
 "I should be pleased to marry you," he said, "for 
 your conversation alone." 
 
 "Thank you, but that's not what a woman likes a 
 man to love in her." 
 
 "What does she like him to love?" 
 
 "If you don't know, you'd better not get mar- 
 ried." 
 
 He took her seriously, as he always did, and his 
 eyes became suddenly troubled. 
 
 "Don't tease me, Iris," he said. "You are going 
 to marry me, aren't you?" 
 
 "I expect so." 
 
 "Then why, in heaven's name, do you want to go 
 and become a suburban nun in England?" 
 
 15
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Well Andrea," she answered, "I want to sort 
 myself a little. I want to live for a bit right away 
 from my my entourage, and try to find out why 
 Maurice and I were a failure." 
 
 He looked up, surprised. 
 
 "Do you mean to say, Iris, that you are actually 
 taking yourself seriously?" 
 
 "Not really," she answered, "but everyone has a 
 natural curiosity as to why things happen to them." 
 
 He signalled to a passing waiter for the bill. 
 
 "So I," he said, "have to return to Russia and 
 wait?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "I expect," she answered wickedly, "that you will 
 console yourself." 
 
 He paid the bill and they rose. In the street he 
 turned to her almost fiercely. 
 
 "Iris," he said, "you cannot live your life through, 
 simply by gratifying one whim after another. This 
 suburbia idea is absurd. Do you think I don't know 
 you? You see yourself an interesting recluse the 
 foreign lady with a past. Bahl it's unworthy of 
 you." 
 
 She smiled at him, not in the least annoyed. 
 
 "It is not often," she said, "that one does any- 
 thing worthy of oneself. Go back through your 
 own life and see." 
 
 She got into a cab and was gone. Andrea Bakaroff 
 remained on the pavement gazing after the disap- 
 pearing cab. It was always the same. As a fencer 
 
 16
 
 BUTTERFLIES 
 
 with words he was outmatched by her at every point. 
 Whether she was grave or gay (and for the life of 
 him, as a rule, he hardly knew which she was), she 
 would always leave him with that unfortunate feeling 
 that not only had he had the worst of the argument, 
 but also that there had been, in reality, nothing 
 worth talking about. She played with life, some- 
 times as a baby with a woolly ball, sometimes as a 
 spider with a fly, but always it was play. When her 
 path led her into sordid places (and she had been 
 in many such) she seemed to have the faculty for 
 skimming lightly over the surface unsoiled, as a 
 butterfly flutters across a manure-heap. For all that, 
 there had been mothers who had looked on with ill- . 
 concealed anxiety at an intimacy between Iris and 
 their daughters. She knew too much, and had too 
 great a faculty for putting "ideas into people's 
 heads." Her passions and her pleasures were 
 mediaeval, and her imagination was wont to become 
 almost Rabelaisian in the right atmosphere. She 
 could be as subtle as any society wit, yet, if the truth 
 were told, she would rather tell a story in the man- 
 ner of Boccaccio, and consider an mrriere pensee 
 waste of time. Clever and beautiful, passionate and 
 determined, she might have been a Borgia had not 
 her sense of humour been too great to allow her to 
 become a serious criminal. Her first husband came 
 upon her under rather peculiar circumstances. He 
 was wandering round Vienna, more or less alone, 
 and like so many men of his type had drifted into 
 
 17 

 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 the temporary acquaintance of several theatrical 
 folk who were not unwilling to spend his money. 
 Strolling into the theatre one day to see one of these, 
 a stage-manager of a particularly repulsive type, he 
 noticed on the stage a small crowd of chorus-girls 
 looking rather scared, while in their midst his friend 
 was raving at a somewhat pathetic figure seated on 
 a packing-case, her head buried in her hands, and her 
 shoulders shaking convulsively. Not liking to inter- 
 fere, he turned up-stage and saw in a moment the 
 cause of his friend's indignation. On the back wall 
 of the theatre, which was white-washed, there stood 
 out a caricature which, unmistakably the stage-man- 
 ager, was at the same time almost horrifying in the 
 contortion of the features and the malignity of the 
 expression. It was a modern reincarnation of one 
 of those devils one sees wielding a prong in early 
 religious paintings. At the same time there was a 
 quality so essentially ludicrous in it (as indeed there 
 is in the devils themselves) that Maurice Iranovitch 
 could not restrain a chuckle of laughter. The little 
 group turned and looked at him, anxious to see what 
 fresh outburst from the stage-manager would greet 
 the appreciation of another male. Maurice caught 
 sight of the bent figure, and was sorry for her. He 
 came down the stage slowly. 
 
 "After all, Kernin," he said, "it is only a joke." 
 "She goes," answered the other, between great 
 spasms of breathing. "She goes; she leaves the 
 theatre this instant." 
 
 18
 
 BUTTERFLIES 
 
 Maurice shrugged his shoulders. After all, it was 
 nothing to do with him. The stage-manager turned 
 away, and he approached the girl. 
 
 "Come," he said, putting his hand on her shoul- 
 der, "it's no use crying about it; you'd better go." 
 
 The girl's shoulders shook again, and she looked 
 up. 
 
 "I can't go," she said. "I'm too weak to move." 
 And then he saw that she was helpless with laughter. 
 
 The rest of the story is commonplace. He was 
 very kind to her and saw a great deal of her, and in 
 the end she married him in an introspective mood, 
 when she was calling herself names for taking so 
 much and giving so little. He never understood her 
 in the least. He did not even pretend to, and would 
 often begin a story at the club of some of her doings 
 with the words: "Mysterious woman, my wife." 
 He never crossed her in anything; he never even 
 argued with her, until at last she described her mar- 
 ried life as a continual sticking of pins into a pin- 
 cushion. As there is nothing so trying for a woman 
 with a violent temper as to have nothing to lose it 
 over, the menage became more and more impossible, 
 until at last, in a fit of ungovernable rage over some- 
 thing quite immaterial, she stuck a knife into him 
 at a dinner party and caused a public scandal. 
 
 "Even then," she complained, "he behaved like a 
 gentleman." Of course the whole thing was very 
 wrong, but, after all, it only goes to show that one 
 cannot grow orchids in a window-box. She was tried 
 
 19
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 and convicted. However, strings were pulled (it 
 was Maurice himself who pulled them), and Iris 
 left Russia a free woman, with stains all over her 
 character. Being rather exhausted by the whole 
 affair, she had determined to remain in England 
 long enough to make up her mind whether she dared 
 expose Andrea (who certainly understood her a 
 great deal better than Maurice, and of whom she 
 was seriously fond) to the difficulties and dangers 
 of becoming her husband. 
 
 It was this cosmopolitan firework who had that 
 day signed a lease for "Dangerfield," which was 
 only separated by an anaemic box-hedge from 
 "Applegarth." 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 TRISTRAM CUMBERS was engaged to be married. It 
 was one of those engagements which have the full 
 approval and even the connivance of the parents, a 
 state of affairs which is always, in a way, a pity. 
 Muriel Hudson wanted to marry Tristram because 
 her maternal instinct demanded something to pro- 
 tect. Tristram wanted to marry Muriel because 
 he had never thought about the matter seriously at 
 all. Anyway, the actual marriage seemed a long 
 way off, and if considered by him at all was re- 
 garded in the light of an inevitable termination to a 
 rather pleasant friendship. In no sense of the word 
 could his heart be said to be in chains. Muriel was 
 a fair, pretty girl, with a mouth that was a little 
 too firm to be quite pleasant, and a wealth of 'what 
 is called "common" sense. As for her clothes, she 
 knew what suited her, but rather spoiled the effect 
 from a certain air she seemed to cultivate of having 
 put on her clothes rather from a sense of duty than 
 pleasure. Tristram never noticed her clothes at all; 
 still worse, she never noticed his lack of attention. 
 These two, as it happened, were standing in the 
 21
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 front garden of Applegarth, when the advance- 
 guard of the cosmopolitan invasion rolled up before 
 the house next door. A large furniture-van, trailing 
 in its wake pieces of sacking and long wisps of straw, 
 drew up in front of Dangerfield, and, as is the habit 
 of furniture-vans, slewed ponderously round until 
 the road was no longer of any importance. Tristram 
 watched these proceedings with a brooding eye. 
 
 "I wonder," he said, "who has taken the house 
 next door; it might be a princess incognito, of 
 course, with some dreadful story behind her; she 
 would have to come disguised disguised as " 
 
 "As a furniture-van," broke in Muriel. "Can 
 you think of a better disguise than that?" 
 
 Tristram was silent, with a secret sense of de- 
 pression. His own idol was Robert Louis Steven- 
 son, and he tried to cultivate the attitude of mind 
 which he imagined to have been the master's. This 
 romanticism was quite foreign to Muriel's nature. 
 She considered "An Inland Voyage" pretty and the 
 misfortunes of the Arethusa mildly amusing; but 
 "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" was merely horrible in 
 her eyes, while "Treasure Island" was a story for 
 schoolboys. 
 
 "It will be," she said, "a very ordinary family; 
 soon they will begin unloading the spare-room furni- 
 ture, and you will see. It will be in white paint." 
 
 "It is horrible," mused Tristram, "to see furni- 
 ture outside a house. The back of a chest of draw- 
 ers always makes me feel as if I was in a desert." 
 
 22
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 "When they get some things out we shall know 
 all about them," said the girl. 
 
 "How?" asked Tristram. 
 
 "Well, the appearance of a rocking-horse, for 
 instance, would give a great deal away," she an- 
 swered. But at that moment the furniture van be- 
 gan to disgorge, and Tristram became far too much 
 interested in its contents to listen to Muriel's descrip- 
 tion of the ordinary family. There was not much, 
 it is true, that he could see, but every now and then 
 a torn wrapping afforded a glimpse of some piece 
 or other, a fleeting vision of carpet or curtain. Quite 
 enough for Tristram to see in them already a whole 
 room, furnished and hung romantically and splendid- 
 ly, as befits a princess. However, though day- 
 dreaming was probably the greatest pleasure of his 
 life, he realised that he was being a little childish, 
 and turned suddenly back to Muriel. 
 
 "Beastly business, moving," he said. "I should 
 hate it." 
 
 "But it is great fun," answered the girl, "arrang- 
 ing all the things." 
 
 "Only if they are new things," he said. 
 
 Mr. Cumbers stepped out on to the lawn. He 
 was in a cheerful mood. 
 
 "Billing and cooing?" he shouted breezily. "I 
 suppose tea doesn't matter when one's engaged." 
 He liked to keep up this kind of banter with his 
 son, although he knew perfectly well that neither 
 Tristram nor Muriel had ever billed or cooed since 
 
 23
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 the day they had become engaged eighteen months 
 ago. Possibly he thought it the correct parental 
 attitude and expected of him. Moreover, it seemed, 
 in some curious way, to stimulate a feeling of pa- 
 ternity towards Tristram to which his son's nature 
 often made it rather difficult for him to cling. 
 
 "We were looking at the furniture-van," said 
 Muriel. 
 
 "Never known a furniture removal yet," said 
 Mr. Cumbers, "that didn't break something. And 
 it's always your best things too. It's never the 
 kitchen china that goes in this world. Why, I re- 
 member when we were moving in here I had a 
 marble clock smashed split right across the top I 
 Solid marble! Must have thrown it under the 
 wheels, I should think. But I got compensation. I 
 don't know how many letters I didn't write ; but they 
 had to pay one pound seventeen and six. Never 
 let people think they can ride rough-shod over you, 
 Tristram. It doesn't go. What about some tea, 
 young people?" 
 
 They followed him obediently into the house. Tea 
 progressed, and Mr. Cumbers started to spread him- 
 self. He began to map out his son's life. He 
 talked of marriage and its responsibilities, of parent- 
 hood and of the bringing-up of children. He him- 
 self was one of those men who, cloistered to a cer- 
 tain extent by Fate, have grown up in complete 
 ignorance of the flesh and the devil, and whose world 
 is limited, luckily enough, to a parish; yet he spoke 
 
 24
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 as Socrates must have addressed the Athenians, and 
 retired to bed with the idea that he possessed the 
 tongues of men and of angels. 
 
 Mrs. Cumbers had quite a good night. 
 
 It was two days later when Iris arrived on the 
 scene. Mr. Cumbers was working in the garden. 
 It had been a hot and sultry day, quite intolerable in 
 the City, and even now, at half-past five, physical 
 exercises were apt to make a man look unattractive. 
 But this working in the garden was part of Henry's 
 belief in regular hours, and he would as soon have 
 forgone his martyrdom as given up his dinner. So 
 there he was, aching in every limb and dragging 
 up protesting weeds from their strongholds. For 
 Iris it was the first evening in her new home, and 
 although Andrea was coming down later, so that an 
 hour or two's entertainment from teasing him was 
 assured, at the moment she was a little dull. She 
 caught sight of Mr. Cumbers, bent double and grunt- 
 ing with exertion, and regarded him for a few 
 moments over the little box-hedge. She imagined 
 he was the gardener, and was sorry for him. 
 
 "You oughtn't," she said suddenly, "to have to 
 work like that at your age I" 
 
 Mr. Cumbers straightened his back excruciatingly. 
 
 Iris was looking very beautiful in a tea gown of 
 chiffon velvet carried out in a number of wonder- 
 fully-blended cool colours which managed, like 
 practically everything she put on, to suggest endless 
 intrigue. 
 
 25
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Mr. Cumbers was not looking beautiful at all. 
 Moreover, he realised suddenly that she was taking 
 him for the gardener. He stared at her for a 
 moment, too astonished to take any action. It was 
 preposterous . . . unheard of ... besides, he 
 never could tolerate bare chests in the daytime . . . 
 Henry suddenly became very angry. He threw down 
 his hoe and walked into the house. 
 
 "Dear me !" thought Iris, quite undisturbed. "He 
 can't be the gardener after all." She was returning 
 to the drawing-room when Tristram came round the 
 corner of the house, and she saw at once that it 
 was his father to whom she had spoken. She smiled 
 at him, and he took off his hat. 
 
 "I am afraid," she said, "that I have been very 
 rude to your father. I thought he was the gar- 
 dener." 
 
 Tristram said nothing. He was not a very ex- 
 perienced conversationalist and he could not do two 
 things wholeheartedly at once. At the moment he 
 was completely occupied with looking at her. 
 
 "Of course," Iris went on, "he needn't really Have 
 been angry. Most gardeners are charming. I sup- 
 pose it comes from living with flowers." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Tristram. 
 
 "But I'm afraid he was . . . very angry; I shall 
 have to come in and make it up." 
 
 "Of course," said Tristram, with a growing sense 
 of disaster. He began to realise exactly how a rabbit 
 feels when it sees a snake. Had she told him to 
 
 26
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 stand on his head and recite the Thirty-Nine Articles 
 (which he had once digested for examination pur- 
 poses) he wou!4 have done so at once. He felt 
 vaguely that he was not making the best of himself; 
 he also felt an intense desire to be brilliant and witty. 
 What he actually did was to blush slowly and pain- 
 fully in an agony of apprehension lest she might 
 guess his condition, which of course she had done 
 from the first moment. 
 
 "May I come in on Sunday evening?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh . . . do!" said Tristram, and knew at once 
 that he had burnt his boats and crossed swords with 
 his father. She smiled to him and disappeared into 
 her room, leaving the boy standing quite helplessly 
 where she had left him. She caught sight of him 
 there, through her French windows, and smiled 
 again. 
 
 "Quelle debacle!" she murmured as she went up 
 to dress for Andrea. 
 
 As for Tristram, he knew at once that she was 
 the loveliest creature he had ever set eyes on, and 
 that she was the last person on earth to appeal to 
 his father. Moreover, he knew she would come on 
 Sunday evening, and his mind seethed with mixed 
 emotions. He was, of course, intensely anxious to 
 see her again, but how her appearance would be 
 greeted. . . . Besides, Heslop would be there he 
 wondered how Heslop would like her, and he won- 
 dered whether he would be able to conceal his own 
 . . . yes, passion . . . passion. He repeated it 
 
 27
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 under his breath several times. Passion is such a 
 dignified word for male weakness. The voice of his 
 father recalled him to earth. 
 
 "What the devil are you doing standing in the 
 middle of my lupin bed?" it said. 
 
 After dinner Iris was sitting in her room, not yet 
 completely furnished, with Andrea, as usual in his 
 role of listener, opposite her. 
 
 "I have already," she said, "made friends with 
 the people next door. Or, at any rate, I have in- 
 sulted them by mistake, which comes to the same 
 thing." 
 
 "I w inder," returned Andrea slowly, "what they 
 will think of you. I should not imagine they are 
 precisely your sort." 
 
 "I have met most sorts of people, Andrea, and 
 never yet had a failure." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I know," he said, "you have been worshipped, 
 and people have been afraid of you but you've 
 never yet been ignored." 
 
 She rose. 
 
 "I never shall be," she answered. 
 
 "No," he returned, "I don't think you will; but it 
 would be very good for you. You would respect me 
 much more if I had the strength of mind to ignore 
 you." 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, "but I should entirely lose 
 any respect for myself." 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 28
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 "You sometimes make me very angry, Iris," he 
 murmured. "You are beautiful and you are clever, 
 but your life has led you into places where nothing 
 is priced at its right value. You are extravagant 
 of youth, and you do not seem to realise that life 
 is not a question of minutes but of years." He broke 
 off and regarded her almost paternally. 
 
 "You have never had a real sorrow," he said. 
 
 "I do not want one," she answered. 
 
 He got up from his chair and turned towards the 
 door. 
 
 "Black is quite as valuable as white," he said. 
 "Both of them separate the myriad colours of life, 
 and give them to us in their real values. You can- 
 not understand the morning till you have lain down 
 with sorrow." 
 
 "In other words," she said, "I am trivial?" 
 
 He thought she was angry, and turned. 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," he said. "I cannot help a 
 damnable sincerity sometimes." 
 
 "And I," she returned, "cannot help a damnable 
 insincerity." 
 
 "Ah," he said, "but you can I That is the worst 
 of it. You would be angry if I accused you of having 
 principles. Yet you have, or you could not be what 
 you are !" He broke off. "May I come down on 
 Monday to say good-bye?" 
 
 "Of course," she answered. "Andrea," she said, 
 as he was turning to the door; "I want to kiss you." 
 
 29
 
 He came back into the room, and she held his Face 
 in her hands. 
 
 "Your lips are very beautiful, Andrea," she mur- 
 mured, "very beautiful. It is because you have a 
 beautiful mind. . . ." He felt all at once weak 
 almost feminine. What strength was between them 
 was all hers. It was a sensation exquisite in its un- 
 manliness. She seemed, with her lips, to draw his 
 very soul out of him, caress it, and put it back. . . . 
 
 "Iris," he said suddenly, "you have never kissed 
 me before." 
 
 "There are very few men whom I have kissed," 
 she said, "though I'm afraid there are many men 
 who have kissed me." 
 
 "My God!" he muttered suddenly. "I did not 
 know . . . it is wonderful-* a kiss like that!" 
 
 He saw her smiling at him from the hearth-rug, 
 and felt that he was showing a lack of control. It 
 was above all things what he hated in others; yet 
 it was quite true that he had been taken off his 
 balance. 
 
 "And I said that you were insincere!" he said 
 slowly. He came back. "I've been in most places, 
 Iris," he said; "I've seen a great deal; I am what 
 they would call a man of the world, but but I 
 never " He broke off. 
 
 "You've never before been kissed," she ventured, 
 and looked at him with a curious smile. He passed 
 his hand across his forehead; somehow he looked 
 ashamed. 
 
 30
 
 NO MANNERS; NO MORALS 
 
 "Kiss me," he whispered. "Kiss me again 1" 
 She half-closed her eyes. 
 
 "Your lips aren't beautiful now, Andrea," she 
 said.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 THERE is nothing more trying than to be told one 
 is bilious when one is suffering from a grand passion. 
 That is where motherly women like Mary Cumbers 
 fail. Tristram had been quite unable to eat any- 
 thing at Sunday night supper, and although this 
 caused some slight alarm to his mother it was really 
 just as well, for anticipation and indigestion are 
 closely allied. The Reverend John, as usual, ate 
 heartily and talked a great deal. Tristram regarded 
 him as yet another complication in what he could 
 only look upon as a coming disaster. His father 
 had not failed to inform him as to his views on the 
 princess next door, and the boy had foolishly felt it 
 out of the question to tell him that they had already 
 met. This, of course, made the position more im- 
 possible than ever. 
 
 Mr. Cumbers was talking about life. As he knew 
 practically nothing about it, it was naturally his 
 favourite topic. 
 
 "I cannot stand," he was saying, "extraordinary 
 people; no one has a right to be extraordinary." 
 
 32
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 "Yet I do not know anybody," said the clergy- 
 man, "who is not extraordinary." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," retorted the other, "that 
 you consider me an extraordinary man?" 
 
 "Perfectly amazing," answered the Reverend 
 John. 
 
 "Well, really, Heslop," protested Mr. Cumbers 
 (secretly a little flattered), "what on earth do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "We are all amazing," murmured the other, "be- 
 cause we live in imaginary worlds. Wasn't it 
 Montaigne who wrote that amusing essay on the 
 power of imagination? Coarse, very . . . but ex- 
 tremely amusing. I wonder if we have become 
 hypersensitive? I do so believe in geniality. Fancy 
 having John Knox in one's parish! But of course 
 we have all become trivial nowadays. Anything 
 serious is a bore. That's a pity. . . . What was I 
 saying? Oh, imagination yes!" He turned to 
 Mrs. Cumbers. "You know," he said, "one oughtn't 
 to eat so many salted almonds may I have some 
 more? You see . . . quite early we make up our 
 conception of the world and then our minds get set, 
 and that's the world we live in it's all a question of 
 environment, of course. . . . I'm sure my idea of 
 England is all wrong." ... He nibbled vaguely at 
 an almond. "It would be awfully good for all of 
 us," he murmured, "if something stupendous were to 
 happen." 
 
 There was a silence as he stopped speaking. This 
 
 33
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 generally happened, for the simple reason that the 
 Reverend John, once started on one of his disjointed 
 trains of thought, rapidly took everyone out of their) 
 depth. 
 
 "Dear me I" he said. "I really talk disgracefully; 
 I ought to have been a Trappist." 
 
 Mr. Cumbers cleared his throat a little pompously. 
 
 "Personally," he said, "I find so many people 
 superfluous." 
 
 "Oh, they are, they are," assented the clergyman. 
 "I always think that's such an excellent reason for 
 believing in God. Because, you see, they can't really 
 be ... nature is never wasteful." 
 
 "And it's so nice," put in Mary Cumbers, "to be 
 able to be charitable." 
 
 They rose, and the Vicar said a grace. 
 
 "It's a bit chilly outside," said Mr. Cumbers. 
 "You don't mind a pipe in the drawing-room, 
 Mary?" 
 
 It was a question of weekly interest to Tristram 
 what would happen if she said "Yes." But she never 
 did, and they always smoked their pipes in the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 "If Tristram wasn't engaged to be married," said 
 the Vicar, "one might suppose he was in love." 
 
 "I wonder what love is," said Tristram moodily. 
 
 "Oh, my dear boy," cried his mother, "don't you 
 love Muriel?" 
 
 "Of course he does," Mr. Cumbers answered. 
 34
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 "As for asking what love is, it's it's what is it, 
 Heslop?" 
 
 "It's what happens when two people of opposite 
 sex take a mistaken view of one another," said the 
 clergyman. 
 
 "Dear, dear!" murmured Mrs. Cumbers. "What 
 a terrible thing to say!" 
 
 "Not at all," said the Reverend John. "Seeing 
 what the world is, I think we should all try to take 
 as mistaken a view of our neighbours as possible." 
 
 The maid came in mysteriously with a card on a 
 tray. Mrs. Cumbers regarded it stupidly and blinked 
 at her husband. 
 
 "Well, well," said he, taking the card. "Who 
 is it?" 
 
 "The lady is outside in the hall," returned the 
 maid. 
 
 "Better show her in." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Mr. Cumbers looked puzzled. "How do you pro- 
 nounce that name, Heslop?" he said, handing the 
 card to the clergyman. 
 
 "Iranovna," returned the other. "Russian, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "Never heard the name in my life," said Mr. 
 Cumbers. "Who on earth can it be? Sunday eve- 
 ning, tool" 
 
 "I think," said Tristram uneasily, "it is the lady 
 next door." 
 
 Any cross-examination was cut short by the 
 
 35
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 entrance of Iris. She came forward at once to Mrs. 
 Cumbers. 
 
 "I'm afraid this is quite the wrong time to call," 
 she said, "but at least I come by invitation; your 
 son asked me." 
 
 "I'm sure we're very pleased " began Mrs. 
 
 Cumbers, with her eye on her husband. 
 
 "My name is Iris Olga Iranovna," said Iris, "but 
 Iranovna is such a mouthful that everyone calls me 
 Iris right from the start." 
 
 Here Mr. Cumbers felt he would like to assert 
 some authority. 
 
 "Very pleased very pleased," he said gruffly. 
 "Allow me to introduce the vicar of our parish 
 the Reverend John Heslop Madame Ira 
 Iran " 
 
 "Madame Iris," she said smoothly. The Rever- 
 end John, seeing his host beginning to assume the 
 appearance of a pouter pigeon, came to the rescue. 
 
 "Charmed," he said. "I always like to meet the 
 
 inhabitants of my parish, even if " he hazarded. 
 
 "Perhaps they are not of my church?" 
 
 "I'm a Roman Catholic," said Iris, as she sat 
 down, "as far as I can remember, but I like Anglican 
 clergymen better than others. Priests make me feel 
 so wicked." 
 
 "After all," he answered, "that is, in part, what 
 we are for." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," she said, "I came in to 
 36
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 apologise to Do you know, I don't know your 
 
 name?" 
 
 "Cumbers," said Henry shortly. 
 
 "To Mr. Cumbers," went on Iris. "I took him 
 for the gardener the other day." 
 
 "Not at all," said Henry. 
 
 "Oh, but I did; of course you didn't mind. But 
 I felt an apology was quite a good excuse for getting 
 to know you all." 
 
 Mr. Cumbers was silent. 
 
 "Do you come from Russia?" hazarded Mrs. 
 Cumbers timidly. 
 
 "My father was a Russian, but I doubt if my 
 mother would know him by sight now. He was 
 one of those here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow fath- 
 ers. I never saw him in my life. And " she 
 
 laughed merrily, "I was divorced by a Russian, too, 
 so I suppose I'm as Russian as anything." 
 
 "Charming people, Russians," murmured the 
 Reverend John, wondering how long it would be be- 
 fore Henry Cumbers exploded. "I knew a most 
 fascinating Russian in San Francisco. A most cul- 
 tured man wonderful manners, too. Unfortunately 
 he poisoned his mother and they had to get rid of 
 him." 
 
 "What did he poison her for?" asked Tristram. 
 
 "Oh, money, of course," said Iris. "I always feel 
 I could respect a man who poisoned his wife because 
 she was ugly." 
 
 "Yes," said the clergyman quite seriously; "it is 
 
 37
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 extraordinary that beauty is always considered a 
 luxury . . . whereas, of course, it's a necessity." 
 
 "Perhaps," rejoined Iris, "it is because it is so 
 expensive." 
 
 "I see no reason at all," said Henry Cumbers, who 
 was in a state of hardly-suppressed fury, "why beauty 
 should be expensive. A simple country girl in a cot- 
 ton frock " 
 
 Iris laughed aloud. 
 
 "A complex West End beauty in a Paris gown 
 will make her feel lonely every time ! Do you mean 
 to tell me that this jade isn't helping my eyes? Of 
 course it is." 
 
 "I daresay I daresay," said Mr. Cumbers, de- 
 termined to be heard; "but some people prefer to 
 live simply, and this family is of their number; I 
 don't wish to discuss jade on a Sunday evening " 
 
 Iris looked at him under her lashes. She realised 
 that he was furiously angry and that he was regard- 
 ing her in the light of an undesirable acquaintance. 
 Life to her was a question of looking for amusement, 
 and to annoy the little bustling man on the hearth- 
 rug seemed to offer a mone enjoyable evening than 
 a book next door. He was very small game, but 
 he would do. 
 
 And, besides, there was the whimsical clergyman, 
 who might prove a more worthy duellist, and . . . 
 the boy. She smiled at Mrs. Cumbers. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "I don't believe your
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 husband has forgiven me for mistaking him for the 
 gardener." 
 
 "I don't like to be unpleasant in my own drawing- 
 room," began Henry Cumbers impressively; but she 
 broke in: 
 
 "That's easy, then," she said. "Don't." She 
 turned to the vicar. "Aren't my manners dreadful?" 
 she said. 
 
 "Fearful," he answered. "But what are manners, 
 after all? Didn't Catherine the Great kick her 
 guests downstairs? Or was it Cleopatra? Still, of 
 course," he added, "there are limits." 
 
 "Tell me," said Iris, looking Henry full in the 
 face, "what's wrong about me that you've taken such 
 a violent dislike to me?" 
 
 Mr. Cumbers tried to hedge at once. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," he began. "No- 
 body wants a scene less than I do. . . ." He was a 
 little bewildered at the turn of events. 
 
 "But then," murmured the Reverend John, 
 "Madame Iranovna is simply spoiling for a scene, 
 and one must always give a lady what she wants." 
 
 Iris recognised in the clergyman a diplomatist of 
 no mean calibre. 
 
 "I'm sure," said Mrs. Cumbers, fluttering like a 
 frightened bird, "that no one wants a scene." 
 
 Tristram strode suddenly to the door. 
 
 'I think Madame Iranovna has been treated per- 
 fectly damnably," he said, and went out. 
 
 Iris followed him with her eyes. 
 39
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Quelle debacle!" she said again. 
 
 "Ah, yes," murmured the clergyman, "but on 
 whose side are the big battalions?" 
 
 Henry Cumbers suddenly began to shout. 
 
 "This is no fault of mine," he said. "I don't un- 
 derstand such manners; I'm glad to be an English- 
 man. As you seem to have taken possession of my 
 drawing-room, madame, I and my wife will leave it 
 until you have gone ; and I shall be glad if you will 
 consider my doors closed to you in future!" 
 
 He followed his son, steering the trembling Mary 
 skilfully through the narrow door. 
 
 "Do you know," said the Reverend John, "that 
 is the first time I ever remember seeing Cumbers 
 completely in the right." 
 
 "Oh, he's absolutely in the right," said Iris. "I 
 suppose you think I'm rather a mystery?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no you've been spoilt, that's all. The 
 world spoils beauty, my dear young lady, as it tries 
 to spoil all good things. You were dull ; you wanted 
 a scene. You thought you would shock a rather 
 humdrum family. Personally, I have misjudged 
 you ; I should have thought you would have done it 
 rather better." 
 
 She looked at him in silence. There was some- 
 thing very irritating yet fascinating about the old 
 gentleman. 
 
 "I have known," she said slowly, "several men of 
 your age who have fallen in love with me. . . ." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 40
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 "Of course," he said. "Old age is not nearly so 
 inhuman as you young people imagine it." 
 
 She picked up her cloak. 
 
 "You know," she said, "you ought to be very 
 angry with me ; I have behaved disgracefully." 
 
 "I quite agree," he answered. "If it is not im- 
 pertinent, why were you divorced?" 
 
 "I stuck a knife into my husband." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Yes, yes; of course, it would be something like 
 that. Dear me, what a passion people have for lik- 
 ing to feel peculiar ! We must be individual. . . . 
 Why? Look at Napoleon. . . . However, that's 
 not the point. Do you want me to explain you away 
 to the Cumbers family?" 
 
 She frowned. 
 
 "Do you know," she said, "I believe you could; 
 that makes me very angry. No. I don't want you 
 to explain me; I'll educate him myself." She went 
 to the door. "That's pretty impertinent of me, isn't 
 it?" she added. 
 
 'Quite charming," said the Reverend John, as he 
 held the door open for her. "I quite agree; one's 
 elders are not always one's betters; it will be a very 
 interesting experiment." 
 
 At the front door she wished him good-night. 
 
 "Good night," he answered. "And, by the way, 
 Tristram, the boy, is engaged to be married. You 
 might get some amusement there, you know." 
 
 Iris was not thinking of the Cumbers family as 
 41
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 she re-entered her home; she was thinking of the 
 clergyman. "Why is it," she said to herself, "that 
 old men always know too much or too little?" 
 
 His smile and his good-natured tolerance of her 
 rather foolish peccadillo had. made her feel much 
 more trivial than any of Andrea's ponderous lectures. 
 She would have liked to triumph over the Reverend 
 John to bully him with her face and figure as she 
 was in the habit of bullying all the men she came 
 across. Arrived in her own room, she stood for 
 some moments, fingering a Sevres cup on the mantel- 
 piece. He had treated her as a child as a naughty 
 child. Unlike most women, Iris hated to be re- 
 minded that she was young. The Sevres cup sud- 
 denly cracked in her hand. Anger always expressed 
 itself physically with her. 
 
 "Damnation!" she said. Then she threw the 
 saucer into the grate after the cup. She regarded 
 her handiwork for some moments; then she smiled. 
 "The old gentleman is quite right," she murmured. 
 "I'm a child but I'm a very successful child," she 
 added quickly. 
 
 Suppression of the truth, according to Mr. 
 Cumbers, was a great deal worse than a lie. He 
 pointed out to his wife that Tristram had deliberately 
 withheld from them both the fact that he had met 
 "the creature" (as Iris now became), and also that 
 he had invited her in. To all intents and purposes, 
 therefore, he had lied in the matter. 
 
 42
 
 ADVOCATUS DIABOLI 
 
 "And why," he asked portentously, "why does a 
 boy lie to his parents about a woman?" 
 
 "I don't know," said the unhappy Mary Cumbers. 
 
 "You know perfectly well, Mary," returned her 
 husband. 
 
 "Of course, Henry, she is beautiful, you 
 know " 
 
 "It is not what I call beauty," retorted Mr. Cum- 
 bers, determined to yield Iris nothing. "But all 
 boys are fools, and when low-neck comes in at the 
 door, common-sense flies out at the windows." 
 
 "But, dear," ventured Mary, "Tristram is en- 
 gaged to Muriel." 
 
 "Bah!" said Mr. Cumbers contemptuously, as the 
 door opened and the Reverend John came in, hold- 
 ing his hat in his hand. 
 
 "Good night, Mrs. Cumbers," said the clergyman. 
 "I must get along back to the Vicarage I always 
 spend too long in this house mustn't give way to it. 
 Good night." 
 
 On the doorstep Mr. Cumbers attempted an 
 apology. 
 
 "Absolutely intolerable," he said; "absolutely in- 
 tolerable. Did you ever see such an impossible 
 woman in your life, Heslop? impossible in every 
 way." 
 
 The Reverend John fixed a dreamy eye on the 
 flickering lamp-post near the garden gate. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "I rather liked her. 
 Faults, of course but they are so splendidly 
 
 43
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 obvious; and which of us can throw stones? Hosts 
 of friends, I expect . . . and that's all doing good, 
 you know radiating. . . . Still, I wonder what 
 she'd be like in a disaster?" He dug his umbrella 
 into the gravel path. "Look at her face . . . and 
 her wits," he said. "If God spoils people, what do 
 you expect the world to do? Yes I rather liked 
 her. Good night." 
 
 Mr. Cumbers' indignation left him speechless. 
 For a moment he watched the old gentleman's figure 
 as it went up the road casting shadows under the 
 gas-lamps that leapt and pirouetted about much like 
 his nimble and kindly mind. 
 
 At last the outraged apostle of regular hours 
 turned to his wife. 
 
 "There," he said, spluttering indignantly, "there ! 
 That's what I always say about Heslop!" 
 
 Upstairs, in the dark, and sitting upon the edge 
 of his bed, Tristram was telling himself that he was 
 the victim of an irretrievable disaster. 
 
 44
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SORCERY 
 
 IN the cold light of day one might have expected the 
 outrageous behaviour of Iris at Applegarth to have 
 appeared to her in its proper light. But, on the con- 
 trary, she woke up more determined than ever to 
 "educate the little man," as she put it to herself, and 
 force him to capitulate to her charms as so many 
 had capitulated before. The somewhat inauspicious 
 opening to her stay in English Suburbia merely made 
 her the more determined to bring its society to her 
 feet. She loved a fight almost as much as she loved 
 a victory, and the fact that it was a fight entirely ot 
 her own making did not in the least affect her em 
 thusiasm for battle. She was fairly sure that Mr. 
 Cumbers would set his own circle of friends against 
 her, and the whole absurd and trifling conflict was 
 now regarded by Iris as a heaven-sent substitute for 
 the tedium of her self-banishment. It appeared 
 simply an amusing way of expiating her bad temper 
 in St. Petersburg. Moreover, she was ridiculously 
 anxious to flaunt a triumph in the face of the Rev- 
 erend John, who had said she was spoilt and whom 
 she suspected of not believing in her capabilities (a 
 
 45
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 suspicion which was far from being the case) . What 
 was annoying was the old gentleman's refusal to put 
 himself in the opposition; there is no fun in forcing a 
 citadel to surrender when its gates have never been 
 closed. From all the foregoing it will be seen that 
 Iris, although the Reverend John had professed to 
 probe her so easily, was in truth a somewhat complex 
 personality. Although she would often let drop 
 phrases of which the wisdom was quite startling, 
 would deal with the problems of her life (such as 
 they were) with a shrewdness and sagacity worthy 
 of weightier affairs, and hold her own and more 
 than her own with all manner of folk who had at 
 least the proverbial right to be called her betters; 
 yet it is always necessary to remember that she had 
 seen but twenty-five summers and was in many ways 
 nothing but a spoilt child. She was ripening in an 
 age where cleverness and wisdom were being gen- 
 erally confounded, when the dinners of Society were 
 made up much like the banquets of Nero, with a 
 view to epigrams, literary blasphemies, or any of 
 the thousand and one fireworks which Fashion de- 
 manded from hour to hour. As a vestal of this 
 temple Iris had found herself admirably suited. She 
 had flitted in triumph from the effete society of one 
 great capital to another, always in demand, always 
 amused or amusing. Being one who could shift the 
 minor disasters of life from her shoulders as easily 
 as a dog shakes the water from his back, she had 
 long since forgotten the sorrows and privations of 
 
 46
 
 SORCERY 
 
 her childhood and had learnt to appraise herself 
 wholeheartedly at the valuation which the world set 
 upon her. Unconsciously, almost, she had come to 
 regard all those with whom she came in contact as 
 playthings, the price of which was merely that she 
 herself should be willing to be a plaything too. This 
 is a habit of mind easily acquired by the ministrations 
 of flattery and applause, and, just as the round and 
 mediocre Mr. Cumbers sailed placidly along the 
 backwaters of his existence, so did the brilliant and 
 exotic Iris flutter equally easily along her own highly- 
 coloured meadows. Both were really depending on 
 the same thing; that is, that the world remained in 
 the same state as, subconsciously, they considered 
 they had a right to expect of it. For his part, Mr. 
 Cumbers regarded the ridiculous affair with his next- 
 door neighbour very seriously indeed. He was in 
 the habit of regarding everything seriously. From, 
 the point of view of a just sense of values this is as 
 hopeless a habit as the lighthearted triviality affected 
 by Iris. To him it appeared monstrous that a woman 
 should invade his house, which he firmly regarded 
 as his castle, and make him feel uncomfortable. He 
 felt there was something lacking in the proper con- 
 duct of affairs where no redress could be obtained 
 for such an abomination. His dignity had been 
 severely affronted; he would therefore degrade it 
 still more by standing upon it, which, of course, was 
 exactly what Iris wanted above everything. If Mr. 
 Cumbers had refused to play, the game would be 
 
 47
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 automatically at an end. Thus she was put in the 
 greatest good humour when he answered her of- 
 fensively cheerful "good morning" by deliberately 
 turning his back and walking into the house. Later 
 in the day he was driven almost beside himself by 
 the sight of Tristram in earnest conversation with 
 her over the box-hedge, an utterly inadequate moral 
 breastwork. This conversation was, of course, ar- 
 ranged by Iris for the benefit of the churchwarden. 
 But the one person who was really suffering was 
 Mrs. Cumbers; not that she had any real fear of a 
 disaster as far as Tristram was concerned; she knew 
 instinctively that he would not appear worth while 
 in the eyes of Iris. Indeed, she would have been 
 a great deal more disturbed, and reasonably so, had 
 it been a daughter whom she had dazzled rather 
 than a son. But as that part of Mr. Cumbers' 
 theory of life which dealt with the position of women 
 considered a wife as a kind of air-cushion to be 
 pounded when one is out of temper, it was Mary 
 Cumbers who sustained, as it were, the backwash 
 of the quarrel. It was on Tuesday that Iris, who 
 took exercise strictly for the sake of her complexion 
 and who was expecting Andrea's farewell visit that 
 afternoon, set out for a walk over the Heath. 
 Hampstead Heath, though always a little thread- 
 bare, like any of the playgrounds of a great city, 
 presents in the early summer a pleasant enough de- 
 ception for those who feel the gnawing need of the 
 countryside. There is one little bit in particular, 
 
 48
 
 SORCERY 
 
 not three hundred yards, as it happens, from, the 
 high road, where bracken and gorse (and later on 
 blackberries) conspire quite successfully to wing the 
 imagination as far as the lanes and silences of South 
 Devon. Here, if only some urban bumble-bee will 
 provide the requisite musical accompaniment, all the 
 peace of the world and the promise of Heaven may 
 be garnered into a little clearing behind the bracken, 
 and in the half-shade of a silver birch you may give 
 yourself up for a short time to the pleasures of the 
 lotus-eater just foretelling things if you are young, 
 and remembering things if you are old. It was 
 here that Iris, exploring, true to her instincts, the by- 
 ways of the Heath rather than its too well-trodden 
 paths, came suddenly upon a heap of black propped 
 against a tree-trunk, all arms and legs, but owning, 
 apparently, no face. It did not take her long, how- 
 ever, to decide that this was not a matter for the 
 police. The clothes were those of a clergyman and 
 the face was accounted for by the fact that it was 
 covered by a wide-brimmed clergyman's soft hat. 
 Something in the sprawling and shapeless figure 
 seemed familiar, and so, with characteristic im- 
 pertinence, she stooped down and took the hat off the 
 face. The Reverend John, for it was he, stirred un- 
 easily and woke up. He stared, in that childlike 
 way in which all people regard things when they are 
 half awake, at the figure of Iris standing over him 
 and holding his hat in her hand. Then he shifted 
 himself cumbrously to a sitting position. 
 
 49
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Conventionally," he said, "I ought to apologise; 
 practically I am going to do nothing of the kind. 
 God made the ground for me to lie on and I'm not 
 in the least sorry for lying on it. I don't say all 
 conventions are bad . . . quite the contrary . . . 
 but I cannot see any reason " 
 
 She laughed and interrupted him. 
 
 "I do not want you to apologise," she said. "I 
 want you to make room for me." 
 
 "The question is," he replied, without moving, 
 "whether I am old enough to be able to afford to be 
 seen sitting in the bracken with you. I am only 
 sixty-seven, and you are a Viery beautiful young 
 woman. On the whole, I think I will get up and 
 walk with you; it looks less intimate." 
 
 He rose clumsily and put on his hat. 
 
 "Do you often do this?" asked Iris. 
 
 "Lie in the bracken?" replied the clergyman. 
 "Why, yes. Whenever I get the opportunity. I al- 
 ways feel there are not any commandments to break 
 in the bracken. Which way are you going? I'm 
 going back to the Vicarage." 
 
 "I'm not going anywhere," said Iris. "I may as 
 well come your way." 
 
 "Not going anywhere !" re-echoed the clergyman. 
 "You may as well come my way! What a text I . . . 
 I often wonder whether I'm going anywhere. How- 
 ever, no one ought to talk shop, ought they?" 
 
 "That," retorted Iris, "is a very foolish conven- 
 50
 
 SORCERY 
 
 tion, as it's the only thing most people can talk 
 about." 
 
 "And what's your shop ?" queried the old gentle- 
 man. 
 
 "Oh, myself, I suppose," she answered. 
 
 "Probably," he murmured, "a subject on which 
 you know nothing. Cumbers, for instance, does not 
 consider himself a peculiar man, simply because the 
 people in his office do not expect him to do peculiar 
 things. . . . Yet nothing would induce him to lie 
 in the bracken. You and I are much less peculiar 
 than he is." 
 
 "You think," said Iris, "that I would lie in the 
 bracken?" 
 
 "Of course you would," said the Reverend John. 
 "So would any healthy-minded person." 
 
 Iris was silent; she had never regarded hers'elf as 
 a healthy-minded person at all, and found herself 
 unaccountably rather insulted. 
 
 "I suppose," she said suddenly, "you rather 
 despise me?" 
 
 "I?" cried the clergyman. "Indeed not; apart 
 from the fact that to despise anyone argues a very 
 unhealthy state of mind, I am bound to respect your 
 accomplishments. The only thing is " 
 
 "Well?" she asked. She found herself quite un- 
 usually interested in his verdict. 
 
 "Well," the old gentleman went on enigmatically, 
 "a thunderstorm brings out the worms, but kills the 
 butterflies." 
 
 51
 
 "But then," she said, "one can avoid thunder* 
 storms by going indoors.'* 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "No good," he murmured. "There is no escape 
 from life ; at least, there is only one." 
 
 "And what is that?" asked Iris. 
 
 "To cultivate the state of mind where one does 
 not want to escape." 
 
 "I wonder," she said slowly, "whether you are as 
 wise as you sound." 
 
 "I am, at any rate," he answered, "a great deal 
 wiser than I have need to be. It is the tendency of 
 the age. We are just like children. Look at all the 
 toys God has put into the nursery for us!" He 
 waved his arm with a characteristic gesture. "And 
 will we play with them in the ordinary way? Dear 
 me, no! We must pull them to pieces to see how 
 they work. Not that I'm against science certainly 
 not. . . . But perhaps if we knew less we might 
 guess more. What do you think?" 
 
 "I don't think I could get through life on guess- 
 work. It would be all very well for you. You live 
 in your study, you see." 
 
 The old man chuckled merrily. 
 
 "Yes," he said ironically, "my inexperience is. 
 amazing. I suppose to the young an old man has al- 
 ways been an old man." 
 
 "You think I've been impertinent?" said Iris. 
 
 He stopped suddenly and took her hand. 
 
 "No, no," he murmured earnestly; "do not 
 52
 
 SORCERY 
 
 imagine that. I am not one of those who demand 
 respect because the blood is running thinner in their 
 veins. Youth should be respected because it can 
 afford to give so much, while we old people can 
 only take. Look upon me as the steel against which 
 to set the flint of your wit. That will do us both 
 good and I confess the debt is still on my side, for 
 you are very pleasant to look upon." 
 
 "Come to tea on Sunday," she answered. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "And if you can possibly make a scandal out of 
 so ancient a Samson, you will. Never mind. My 
 hair is still thick. I snap my fingers at you. I will 
 
 come! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "The vicar of this parish," said Iris to Andrea 
 over the tea, "is the most amusing and the cleverest 
 man I have ever met." 
 
 "How old is he?" asked the other. 
 
 "Sixty-eight," answered Iris. 
 
 "A very admirable age," commented Andrea 
 dryly. "I should hardly think even you could do him 
 much harm." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," rejoined Iris modestly. "Old 
 men are rather a foible of mine." And so indeed 
 they were. If it was a question of causing some- 
 one to make a fool of himself, Iris would rather 
 an old than a young man. The incongruity of such 
 affairs tickled her, and she was not one who took 
 great pleasure in easy conquests. 
 
 53
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "And how," asked Andrea, "did you get on with 
 the people next door?" 
 
 "Not allowed to enter the house again," answered 
 Iris cheerfully. 
 
 The Russian raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "Already!" he said, breaking a tea-cake in two. 
 
 "Immediately," laughed Iris. "But the son is 
 desperately in love with me, and I'm looking for- 
 ward to a great deal of fun with the father." 
 
 "Poor devil!" returned Andrea. 
 
 "But he behaved abominably," she cried. "Al- 
 most as abominably as I did; and he's a man." 
 
 Andrea shrugged his shoulders. Then he rose. 
 
 "It will be amusement for you," he said, "at any 
 rate. Meanwhile, Iris, I want to come to a definite 
 understanding about our marriage." 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "Though I know," he went on, "that it is quite 
 foreign to your nature to make any definite state- 
 ment on the subject, I don't want to go back to 
 Russia without knowing the date of the wedding." 
 
 She still said nothing, and the rather elaborate 
 cloak of words which he was wearing to cover his 
 emotion fell away. 
 
 "Oh, my God, Iris," he said, "don't you know how 
 I love you? You are afraid, because Maurice also 
 told you he loved you. Bah! Maurice! A good- 
 looking animal, but, even as an animal, lukewarm. 
 He couldn't love, it wasn't in him. Tell me, did you 
 ever kiss Maurice as you have kissed me?" 
 
 54
 
 SORCERY 
 
 "No," she said, and turned away to the window. 
 He looked at her silhouette against the sky and won- 
 dered why men must always be tortured in the things 
 they love. Suddenly she turned back. 
 
 "Sit down, Andrea," she said. "I want to talk 
 to you." He seated himself on the sofa and she 
 stood by the mantelpiece. 
 
 "I do love you, Andrea," she began. "I love you 
 very much. I am happiest when you are with me 
 . . . but" she paused "but I am not unhappy 
 when you are away," she went on. "I think that is 
 really the whole thing in a word, but I suppose I 
 must explain. I'm not one of those women who fall 
 in love, go to church and say hereafter my whole 
 being is centred on my husband and my children, all 
 my love is confined to the four walls of my home. I 
 daresay those are the best kind of women, but it's 
 no use pretending to be what you aren't, is it?" 
 
 She moved away and sat on the arm of a chair. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that Maurice imagined I 
 would change after marriage. Why? There is no 
 more reason that the marriage service should make 
 one a different woman than that the Communion 
 should make one a good woman. There are too 
 many things in the world to love, Andrea, for me to 
 give you all mine. Do you understand? I love 
 beauty and colour, I love wit and brains. It is not 
 that I admire them. I love them with the same love 
 that I have for you. Marriage to me means the op- 
 portunity of living with you and enjoying each 
 
 55
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 other's society without the disadvantages of being 
 called immoral. That's all. I'm going to live my 
 own life, Andrea, and I'm not going to attempt to 
 change my nature. I'm a butterfly, and a butterfly 
 I'm going to remain." 
 
 "Ah," murmured the man, "but a butterfly with 
 brains!" 
 
 "All that that means," returned Iris, "is that 
 everybody will say I ought to know better. I daresay 
 I ought ; but tell me this if you marry me, you are 
 giving up nothing. You are not a vicious man and 
 you have no pleasures which you will feel it your 
 duty to tear yourself away from. Is it fair to ask 
 me to change my nature in return?" 
 
 "I am not asking you to," he said. 
 
 "Very well. Listen ! I am pretty and I'm clever 
 and I can make people laugh, and you need never 
 treat me like a lady, which is what spoils most 
 women for most men. On the other hand, I shall 
 grow old and I have a perfect beast of a temper. 
 I ask you to imagine my temper without me to carry 
 it off." 
 
 He was about to speak, but she checked him. 
 
 "No waitl I have any amount of private vices 
 which you know nothing of. I am selfish, and as 
 impulsively cruel as I am impulsively kind. They 
 go together. If I found I hated you in a couple of 
 years, I should not think it moral to go on living 
 with you. If you take me it is up to you to keep 
 me. I don't pretend that that does not sound like 
 
 56
 
 SORCERY 
 
 perfectly hopeless vanity, but I'm simply laying 
 myself bare. I am not going to be married again on 
 a false prospectus. It's the worst form of company- 
 promoting. You wonder why I tell you so much. 
 Well, it's because I love you a great deal, but not 
 enough. If I loved you to the exclusion of every- 
 thing else I should certainly try to possess myself of 
 you by deceiving you into thinking I was prepared 
 to be the most faithful and domestic of wives; I 
 could tell you the names of several girls who are suc- 
 cessfully deceiving their husbands and of course, 
 their children. But I don't want to do that. The 
 husband is perfectly happy, but the girl isn't. Well, 
 that's all there is ; I don't think I've ever talked so 
 much before without being interrupted. What's the 
 verdict?'* 
 
 "I want to know," said Andrea, "the date of the 
 wedding." 
 
 "In that case," she returned, taking his hand, "I 
 may as well tell you that I love you, Andrea, more 
 than I've ever loved anyone in my life." 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 "But remember, Andrea," she cried, "I am more 
 than half a boy!" 
 
 "How?" he asked. 
 
 She tapped her forehead and left him wondering. 
 Later on he left her. 
 
 She had promised to marry him in Russia after 
 six months of what she called "recovering from 
 Maurice." Andrea was much elated as he packed 
 
 57
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 up his trunks that night and made the last prepara- 
 tions for his departure. Moreover, Iris had spoken 
 nothing but the truth when she had told him that 
 she loved him better than anyone she had loved in 
 her life. He satisfied her partly because she knew 
 she was his superior. She loved his strength because 
 she loved to pit her own against it. She loved his 
 brain for its persistent and dogged following of her 
 own. She loved him when he pretended to be upset 
 at finding her reading a work on the vices of Helio- 
 gabalus, or hearing her quote paragraphs from the 
 more lurid moments of Dr. Rabelais. She knew 
 that he really admired the masculinity of her mind, 
 and that it was a matter of perpetual wonder to him 
 that the things men spend their lives (quite unneces- 
 sarily) hiding from their womenkind could be as 
 open between himself and Iris as with any of his 
 male friends. Of course, if men knew what school- 
 girls talk about, cotton-wool chivalry would be at an 
 end. But they don't, or pretend they don't, which 
 comes to the same thing. Thus Andrea and Iris met 
 on common ground, so that he liked a woman who 
 was his equal, and she liked to feel she was his 
 superior; and when he had gone she spent quite a 
 considerable time in a state of sentimental depres- 
 sion, which was a very delightful sensation. Then 
 she curled herself up in a many-coloured hammock 
 which had come from some Czech bazaar, and which 
 she had had slung across the corner of her drawing- 
 room, and started to re-read her Arabian Nights 
 
 58
 
 (unexpurgated edition). But the languorous sens- 
 uality of its pages merely served to throw into higher 
 relief the absence of Andrea. After all, it was good 
 to have him there, to play with him, or let him 
 listen to her; and in the rare moments when she felt 
 feminine enough to want to be held and caressed, 
 to know that he would make as good an active as a 
 passive lover. So now that he was gone, her arms 
 seemed suddenly very empty, and she appeared very 
 much alone in an inhospitable suburb. The moods 
 of a butterfly do not amount to very much, but to the 
 butterfly they are quite real. Iris was beginning 
 to take her loneliness seriously, when her maid 
 entered the room and announced Miss Muriel Hud- 
 son. Now naturally enough, Tristram had, very 
 early in the proceedings, told Iris of his engagement 
 and its humdrum character, and the efforts of the 
 unfortunate boy to speak loyally of Muriel had been 
 a source of vast amusement to the wicked little 
 Russian. 
 
 She turned to the glass to make a few extra prep- 
 arations for the reception of the aggrieved fiancee. 
 As a matter of fact, Muriel's visit was the outcome 
 of a long talk which Mr. Cumbers (who was taking 
 the whole affair very seriously) had seen fit to have 
 with his future daughter-in-law : warning her in gen- 
 eral terms of the wickedness of this world, hinting 
 darkly at the undermining of Tristram's morality, 
 and suggesting, with many shakes of the head, that 
 the sooner they got married the better. Whereupon 
 
 59
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Muriel had gone straight to Tristram, and wormed 
 the whole story out of him in a few minutes. He 
 must ask her, he had said, to release him from his 
 engagement. Yes, it was true. He loved another 
 woman. There was no idea of marriage. He did 
 not suppose he should ever marry now. Marriage 
 was for those lucky everyday individuals who do not 
 love too well. For the wild and sad Bohemians of 
 the world (i.e. Tristram) marriage was nothing, 
 love everything. Let Muriel choose some man who 
 would be worthy of her, and make her a good hus- 
 band. (By which he meant somebody dull enough 
 to remain faithful to his wife.) For him a passion 
 which could never be consummated would colour his 
 waking and sleeping hours to the day of his death. 
 He supposed he had behaved badly to Muriel. For 
 that he was sorry. But it was better to understand 
 each other, was it not? A very fine speech, with a 
 note of infinite sadness and dignity in the last 
 sentence, so much so that, being rather carried away 
 by his own pathos, Tristram actually had kissed her 
 hand and left the room, like the middle-aged 
 raisonneur in the play, who renounces everything in 
 the second act, and is understood, in the third, to be 
 in Nova Scotia doing good. 
 
 Muriel had looked at her hand, laughed, and gone 
 home; but, as she was genuinely fond of Tristram 
 and still clung to the hope that one day he would 
 suddenly turn into a man, she thought over the mat- 
 ter a great deal and decided to call on the en- 
 
 60
 
 SORCERY 
 
 chantress. She wanted to point out to her that 
 though it may have caused Circe a distinct effort to 
 turn Ulysses' companions into swine, it was matter 
 for little congratulation to have turned Tristram 
 Cumbers into an ass. 
 
 When she entered Iris* drawing-room, however, 
 she was so struck with her surroundings that, her 
 thoughts springing at once to her lips (as they always 
 did), she was only able to ejaculate "What a lovely 
 room !" though immediately she had said the words 
 she realised how bad a start they were to the battle 
 she had come to fight. 
 
 "I'm glad you like it," said Iris. "It's rather a 
 chance whether people like it or not. I know a man 
 who says that greens and blues and purples make 
 him feel so wicked that he wants to call a policeman 
 and give himself in charge every time he comes into 
 my room." 
 
 "It is a beautiful room," murmured Muriel. "It 
 makes me feel you have an advantage over me." 
 
 "Certainly," answered the other. "It is always 
 wise to fight on one's own ground. But are we going 
 to fight?" 
 
 "Of course we are," said Muriel. 
 
 Iris nodded. 
 
 "About Tristram," she said. "Oh, very well; if 
 you like." 
 
 "He told you about me?" asked the other. 
 
 "Almost immediately." 
 
 "What did he say about me?" 
 61
 
 Iris laughed softly. 
 
 "He was very, very loyal," she answered in her 
 deep, rich voice. "He loaded you with all the deadly 
 virtues. You were good and noble and ... oh! 
 yes you were unswerving in your devotion to him. 
 He said he was utterly unworthy, and sighed about it 
 a great deal." 
 
 Muriel answered nothing, but let her eyes wander 
 round the room. 
 
 "Tristram," she answered at last, "is not nearly 
 so foolish as you imagine." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" asked Iris. 
 
 "After all," said the girl, "I have known him for 
 hearly ten years." 
 
 Iris shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I daresay he will grow up," she said. 
 
 "I suppose you know," Muriel asked, "that he 
 wants to break off his engagement to me because he 
 has fallen in love with you?" 
 
 "I didn't know it," returned Iris, "but I suppose 
 it was bound to happen." 
 
 "What, that he should fall in love with you?" 
 Iris smiled. 
 
 "What do you think?" she said. She sank down 
 on to the rug at Muriel's feet. She seemed to ar- 
 range herself round her own limbs. Her eyes, catch- 
 ing the last rays of the sun from the garden, looked 
 like two great emeralds in a white setting. Her lips 
 were parted in a slight smile. She was waiting. 
 
 Muriel started and looked down at her, but made 
 62
 
 SORCERY 
 
 no movement. It was as if they had been a piece 
 of statuary: an allegorical study, for those that had 
 eyes to see, of the nearness of intangible things and 
 the power of imagination to work miracles. Any 
 mediaeval, respectable citizen, catching that light in 
 Iris' eyes, would have fled shrieking down the street 
 and roaring lustily for the watch. Whereafter men 
 with long beards and grave eyes would denounce ex 
 cathedra all sorceries and black magics, in the name 
 of Holy Church, and cause to be set up in the mar- 
 ket-place a stake and faggots, round which, however, 
 on the roasting of the sorceress, not all the priests 
 and deacons and acolytes and monks and tapers could 
 prevent the stamping of the horses that have no 
 hooves and the chuckling of the devils that have no 
 mouths. All this (and other matter) in a pair of 
 green eyesl 
 
 But still Muriel did not move ; not even when she 
 felt the other girl's hand resting on her knee. For 
 a brief moment she experienced a feeling of fear, 
 but it went as quickly as it had come, and indeed she 
 could never have said what it was of which she had 
 been afraid. Her lips also parted in a smile and 
 her hand crept down to.find the other's. She realised 
 that something had happened. They were no longer 
 enemies no longer even strangers. She was in an 
 atmosphere she had never before experienced; it 
 was very pleasant. She did not greatly care how it 
 had come about. There it was, and the common 
 sense, for which she was so often praised by her 
 
 63
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 friends and relations, seemed to have been left next 
 door. She found she could do without it. She bent 
 her head nearer to Iris' upturned face. The Russian 
 fingers were gently encircling her hand. She sighed 
 in a great contentment. 
 
 "I suppose so," she murmured; and when she said 
 it she was not thinking about Tristram at all. . . . 
 
 Later on they dined together, and Iris told her 
 strange tales by candlelight which made her eyes 
 more like emeralds than ever. Tristram was not 
 even mentioned. With Iris time did not seem to 
 exist; they sat together on the divan, and when she 
 stopped talking Muriel would say, "Go on" and 
 close her eyes for more. When she left it was one 
 o'clock. 
 
 "You wonderful woman," she said on the door- 
 step. "Kiss me." So they kis~sed, and Muriel 
 thought she had known her seven hundred years. 
 
 Thus it was that Muriel, the staid and highly 
 respectable, arrived back at her mother's house at 
 twelve minutes past one. Her mother, almost pros- 
 trate with anxiety, was sitting up for her. 
 
 "Good gracious, Muriel," she said, "where have 
 you been?" 
 
 "Talking," said the girl, and would not add an- 
 other word. As has been already said, not very 
 long ago Iris would have been burnt as a witch. 
 
 Up in her room the Russian smiled to herself 
 sleepily. She was very tired.
 
 ON ODDNE8S 
 
 ON the following Sunday the Reverend John came 
 to tea. 
 
 "You see," he said, as his great hulk framed itself 
 in the doorway, "I am here." He ran his fingers 
 through his thick hair. "But at the first sight of a 
 pair of scissors," he added> M I shall run to the Vicar- 
 age as hard as I can." 
 
 "Ah," she said suddenly, as he sat down, with the 
 ^rape-coloured curtains forming a background for 
 his Michael Angelo head, "how splendid you would 
 look in a cardinal's robe!" 
 
 "A sense of colour," said the old clergyman, "is a 
 dangerous thing." 
 
 She poured out the tea and fixed him with her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Now what," she said, "do you mean by that?" 
 
 "It's apt to make one discontented," answered the 
 other enigmatically. 
 
 "Do you like my room?" queried Iris. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "So-so," he replied. "It's unwholesome, of 
 course. I knew a woman who had a villa at Fiesole 
 
 65
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 who went in for these sort of colours. She said it 
 expressed her individuality. Of course, there's no 
 more to be said to that sort of thing; in a sense the 
 tub expressed Diogenes' personality." He broke 
 off. "Do you know," he added suddenly, "that in a 
 small circle you have created quite a sensation?" 
 
 "Tristram?" asked Iris. 
 
 "No; Muriel." 
 
 The Russian moved across to the window. Muriel 
 had been to Dangerfield several times since that first 
 jiight. 
 
 "I like Muriel," she said slowly. 
 
 "That is not in the least peculiar," returned the 
 Reverend John. "The odd thing is that Muriel likes 
 you." 
 
 "I made her," said Iris. 
 
 "I know you did," answered the old man. Some- 
 thing in his tone made her turn round. He had got 
 up and was regarding her a little seriously from un- 
 der his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 "I know you did," he repeated slowly. "You 
 know," he went on, "to have all that force at your 
 command and to go on playing with things is rather 
 criminal." 
 
 "Would you advise me to become a nun?" she 
 asked with a smile. 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" he cried, and threw up his 
 hands in mock alarm. 
 
 "Why not?" she pursued. 
 
 "For the sake of the nunnery," answered the 
 66
 
 ON ODDNESS 
 
 clergyman, with a laugh. "But, seriously, you seem 
 to have made an immense impression upon Muriel." 
 
 He sat down and sighed. 
 
 "I am afraid," he said, "that I must preach a 
 little sermon to you." 
 
 "Very well," she answered; "I shall enjoy that." 
 
 "Incorrigible !" he murmured. She passed behind 
 him and, stopping a moment, looked down at the 
 top of his head. 
 
 "You have wonderful hair," she said; "quite won- 
 derful." 
 
 "Delilah I" laughed the old man. "That is not 
 the way my parishioners prepare to listen to my ser- 
 mons." She slipped down beside him, sitting on the 
 rug and looking at him with mock-innocent eyes. 
 
 "Is that beter?" she asked. 
 
 "No," he answered, "it is not. If you were my 
 daughter I think I should send you to bed." 
 
 "I would like," she said softly, "to have been 
 your daughter." There was a moment's silence while 
 he looked down at her and saw that she was genuine ; 
 his hand rested on her head and a troubled look 
 passed across his eyes. 
 
 "You would have made a wonderful father," she 
 said, and suddenly took his hand in hers. 
 
 "I would rather have been a good father," whis- 
 pered the old man, "than the greatest prelate in 
 Christendom. I would rather have a child who 
 would come to me in trouble than preach the finest 
 
 67
 
 'A. PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 sermon in the world. I would have loved oh, I 
 would have dearly loved to bring up someone to 
 
 be dean and merry " He paused, and the old 
 
 hand shook a little. "Ah, the sentimental old fool I" 
 he went on. "That is what you are thinking. 'Why, 
 in three years I shan't be thirty and he'll be seventy. 
 What right has he to dabble in life and other folks' 
 loves who is half-dead already, and for whom love 
 is reduced to a yellowing packet locked up in a tin 
 box I* Well, my dear lady, it was yourself set me 
 off when you honoured me by wishing I had been 
 your father, and if I've been a little more emotional 
 than good manners allow, I'll ask you to remember 
 that I'm an old man." 
 
 He stopped, and for a moment neither spoke. 
 
 "A most embarrassing old gentleman, tool" he 
 laughed suddenly. "Trotting out his musty heart 
 before a stranger eh?" 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of that at all," she said in- 
 dignantly. "I was thinking of the yellow packet in 
 the tin box." 
 
 "Ah," he answered, "I know people don't do that 
 nowadays packets tied up with ribbon I It's an 
 anachronism 1" 
 
 "Love will be an anachronism soon," she said in 
 one of her rare moments of self-disgust. 
 
 The old man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It comes," he said, "from wanting to do every- 
 thing on the cheap live on the cheap, think on the 
 
 68
 
 ON ODDNESS 
 
 cheap, feel on the cheap. One gets afraid of the big 
 things like the lonely man who wouldn't keep a 
 dog in case it died." 
 
 Iris felt a little cheap herself. 
 
 "Is this," she said, "the beginning of your ser- 
 mon?" 
 
 "Ah, no," he said; "I had forgotten my sermon." 
 
 "Oh, Samson," she laughed, "take care of your 
 hair!" 
 
 "Listen," he said, holding up a monitory finger. 
 "I am in the pulpit. English people do not like odd 
 things. You are odd. You have done something 
 odd to Muriel. In the days when people were more 
 healthy minded it would have been called black 
 magic. Now we call it odd. You've looked at her 
 with those great eyes of yours, and she has seen 
 things. . . . What things, I wonder? Bits of ro- 
 mance, I dare say, and queer glimpses of other lives 
 than her own a sort of opium dream. I am quite 
 serious. I think you act as a drug on people. I 
 don't pretend to explain the abnormal powers of 
 human beings, but I do know they exist. If I could 
 get inside Muriel's mind I should know what you 
 had done to her. I do not like sudden conversions. 
 They are bad for people, and Muriel is past the 
 schoolgirl age. It seems a little thing to make such 
 a fuss about, but . . . but Muriel! You see, with 
 her it's odd . . . it's queer. What did you do to 
 her?" he said suddenly, looking her in the eyes.
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 She did not answer his question. 
 
 "Do you think I'm a bad friend for Muriel Hud- 
 son?" she asked. 
 
 "No," he answered, "so long as it is this side 
 idolatry. But it's a curious position, isn't it? Her 
 fiance is in love with you, and if that little affair had 
 gone its proper way it would have been good for 
 everybody. As a matter of fact, it is just wha^ 
 Tristram needs. If you remember, it was I who sug- 
 gested it to you. But now that Muriel suddenly be% 
 comes your devoted friend I Well, good heavens! 
 my dear lady what is poor Tristram to do ? You 
 leave him no part to play at all. To tell the truth, 
 I counted on fascination, but not on witchery!" 
 
 "Well," asked Iris, "what has happened?" 
 
 "Mr. Cumbers is beside himself," said the Rev* 
 erend John. "Muriel is forbidden the house: I told 
 you English people don't like odd things. Worst 
 of all, Muriel doesn't seem to mind a bit. The 
 whole thing is rather inexplicable, you understand. 
 So, of course, it is much more talked about than is 
 good for it. In fact, amongst their friends and ac- 
 quaintances, 'L'affaire Tristram' is rapidly becom- 
 ing an unpleasant scandal." 
 
 "How very amusing!" said Iris. "I had no idea 
 one could stir up such a lot of trouble in such a short 
 time. And all because I mistook Mr. Cumbers for 
 a gardener!" 
 
 "Not at all," replied the clergyman. "All be- 
 
 70
 
 ON ODDNESS 
 
 cause you are a naughty, selfish young woman who 
 doesn't know where to stop." 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. "Now we have got to the ser- 
 
 mon." 
 
 "No," answered the old man; "I will climb down 
 from the pulpit, but I will give you some advice all 
 the same." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Go on playing, go on amusing yourself, go on 
 enjoying the fruits of your great gifts, but don't play 
 too long, and provide yourself with a sheet-anchor. 
 You may have to look a disaster ]n the face one day, 
 and then, my dear lady, neither your face nor your 
 frock nor your wit will avail you; but something 
 that's hiding behind all that, something that I doubt 
 whether even you have ever seen ... I mean 'you.* 
 And if you go on ignoring that lady too long, be- 
 cause you're in love with the other lady who is 
 smiling at me so cynically and so indulgently at this 
 moment, you will find that she has vanished alto- 
 gether from pique, and your best ally will have dis- 
 appeared. That is all the sermon, and I apologise 
 humbly for getting it off my chest while you are my 
 hostess. Gross bad manners. But it's because I like 
 you, and so I hope you will forgive me." 
 
 "Of course I will forgive you," said Iris, who had 
 liked the sermon, though she had no intention of 
 taking its advice. She was at the moment much 
 more interested in her triumph over Muriel and the 
 
 71
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 havoc in the Cumbers* menage. She liked to think 
 of herself moving all these people about like pawns 
 in a game for her own amusement. She had to be a 
 queen, however trivial her kingdom. 
 
 But the ways of fate are as strange as they are 
 just, and though no one would have imagined it (not 
 even the Reverend John, who was a very sound 
 prophet in human affairs) , it was Mr. Cumbers him- 
 self, that round and shiny and uninteresting little 
 gentleman, who was quite unwittingly to tear away 
 the mask that the Russian wore and reveal to Iris 
 that personality whom the Vicar had called "the 
 other lady." Meanwhile, on flutters the butterfly, 
 alighting on a flower here and there, and leaving a 
 trail of blooms behind all bending in homage after 
 her flight. 
 
 A the Reverend John took his departure Iris 
 shook hands with him and smiled. 
 
 "Muriel is coming to supper to-night," she said. 
 The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Cut fcffc* deo permissa potestas?" he said. 
 
 "Thtnk you for the compliment," she answered. 
 
 "What!" cried the clergyman. "You understand 
 Latin?" 
 
 "Not one word," she laughed; "but it couldn't 
 have been anything else but a compliment, could it?" 
 
 He turned and bowed to her. 
 
 "Madam," he said, with the appropriate Johnson 
 manner, "you are an insufferably vain woman." 
 
 "I know," she said. " 'Peccavi; sed sum bona 
 72
 
 ON ODDNESS 
 
 puellaf There! I know some Latin, after all. 
 You'll come and see me again, won't you?" 
 
 "I am not at all sure I will you are causing too 
 much trouble in what I believe is called my flock." 
 
 The old gentleman sat late in the Vicarage that 
 night. "Ah," he said to himself, as he rose at last 
 and knocked the ashes from his pipe, "if she had 
 been my daughter I think I could have put her on the 
 road to a happy life ; but, as it is, she is at the mercy 
 of an accident." 
 
 He actually prayed before he got into bed that 
 that accident should never happen. But he prayed 
 for Tristram Cumbers too, and for Henry Cumber*, 
 and for his parish, and, indeed, for the whole un- 
 deserving world, and he commended them all to his 
 God, and turned out the light. And ten minutes later 
 an old man who had seen many sorrows and known 
 many disappointments and suffered many defeats, 
 through all of which he had brought his soul un- 
 scathed and unalarmed, was sleeping the sleep of a 
 child. 
 
 And so also was Iris Iranovna, a quarter of a mile 
 away, who was selfish and vain, and had stuck a 
 knife into her husband, and was the cause of terrible 
 heartburnings amongst several perfectly innocent 
 people. Whereas, Henry Cumbers, who had done 
 nothing at all, tossed on his mattress in a very fever 
 of rage, so that Mary, his wife, came down to break- 
 fast next morning with red and swollen eyes. And 
 Tristram didn't appear at all, because he had spent 
 
 73
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 most of the night under the stars in the garden, and 
 was not fit to be seen. 
 
 And for all of them the sun rose, grinning as usual, 
 and it was Monday. 
 
 74
 
 How many lacuna there are in our lives I Do you 
 remember what happened to you the first three 
 months of the year before last? You had breakfast 
 and lunch and dinner and went to bed and flew into 
 a great rage at the state of your winter clothes and 
 had colds and correspondence and probably were 
 pleased and despondent no more and no less than 
 usual . All very probable, but you don't remember 
 anything about it. Nothing happened, you say. But 
 at the time you were fearfully busy and never had 
 a moment to spare for anybody. In a story, of course, 
 these periods when people are so busy and nothing 
 happens cannot be told. They are dull. "This fel- 
 low an author!" says Pendleton of the Stock Ex* 
 change, picking up a psychological holocaust. "Why, 
 I'd do as well myself if I had the time and kept a 
 diary. Give me something with meat in it!" For 
 which expression of opinion there is a great deal 
 to be said. 
 
 So then there now occurred several weeks during 
 which nothing happened at all. Tristram continued 
 to make rhymes, and his father persisted in annoy- 
 
 75
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 ing him by telling him to get his hair cut. The Rev- 
 erend John, on those Sunday nights when he shared 
 the Cumbers' board, was made to discuss the position 
 from every point of view. He was at length driven 
 into the rather feeble statement that as marriages 
 were made in heaven the present ridiculous and in- 
 tolerable condition of affairs was probably part of the 
 heavenly process of manufacture. Henry remarked 
 to his wife that the Vicar was getting old. 
 
 Meanwhile the friendship between Iris and 
 Muriel, much to the annoyance and mystification of 
 the latter's mother, became closer and closer. That 
 Iris was ever really interested in Muriel or that 
 Muriel was the type of girl towards whom she would 
 naturally have been drawn I am not prepared to ad- 
 mit. But it certainly flattered her vanity to be able 
 to retain, in the face of the violent opposition which 
 she knew the other experienced in her own home, a 
 friendship which, under the circumstances, was of a 
 highly unnatural nature. She liked also to have 
 someone who sat at her feet and admired her beauty 
 and her stories alike with the frank astonishment of 
 a child. As for Muriel, she had been carried off 
 her feet. Twenty-three years in one house amongst 
 ordinary surroundings and with a life governed by 
 routine had caused her to gobble up the mental 
 caviare provided by Iris with the alacrity of a starv- 
 ing tramp. Not that Muriel was really starved, or 
 that in all probability she would ever have kicked 
 against her humdrum life at all had not fate chosen
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 to throw Iris in her path. If her life had been un- 
 eventful it had at least been happy, and she herself, 
 with excellent common sense, had always been the 
 one to laugh at and discourage the ineffectual heroics 
 of Tristram. But now she was bitter with the disease 
 herself. The richness of the Russian's temperament, 
 her well-told stories of foreign lands, the half East- 
 ern, half European and wholly erotic colours of her 
 rooms and frocks acted on Muriel, as the Reverend 
 John had said, like an insidious drug. Time after 
 time she would find her way to Iris' room and wait 
 till she came in, turning over the pages of strangely 
 enticing books and absorbing the influence of her 
 surroundings. On one occasion Iris had surprised 
 her practising that curiously characteristic grace with 
 which the Russian was wont to drape herself at the 
 feet of her companion. Discovered, Muriel made 
 no attempt to conceal what she was doing, but ac- 
 knowledged frankly that she envied her the ac- 
 complishment. Then Iris would laugh and tell her 
 of the graces and wit of some reigning beauty of her 
 childhood in Vienna and of the stories she had told 
 and those told of her, stories vastly improper I make 
 no doubt, but vastly amusing for all that. And 
 Muriel would sit on the floor, with her head on her 
 companion's knee, half turned so that she could keep 
 her eyes on the Russian's mischievous and beautiful 
 face. And she would be angry when the tea came In 
 and broke the thread of her thoughts. For some 
 time her admiration was hardly "this side idolatry." 
 
 77
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 The Reverend John did not visit the house again, 
 but he met Iris several times in the street and smiled 
 at her and wagged a warning finger in her face. As 
 for Tristram, he suffered torments. In the Cumbers 
 household the whole subject of Iris was taboo, and 
 so the boy, who would have welcomed the most 
 dreadful scene so long as it centred round the figure 
 of his adored one, could find no outlet for his over- 
 charged heart at all. Muriel, he thought gloomily, 
 could never have cared for him. Her conduct settled 
 that. And, of course, he argued that he had never 
 cared for her. For all that he found that he missed 
 her companionship, even though his whole soul were 
 given to his unapproachable princess. The princess 
 herself used to flirt with him every now and then for 
 a minute or two over the box-hedge, more with a 
 view to keeping the situation alive than for any 
 amusement which she extracted from it. To tell the 
 truth, Tristram took himself altogether too seriously 
 to make a very entertaining lover. He covered I 
 don't know how many quires of paper during this 
 period with verses on various subjects: "To Love," 
 "To My Mistress: a Prayer," "To Cruelty Divine," 
 and so on and so forth; and he wrote a letter to 
 Muriel almost as long as an article in a monthly re- 
 view, begging her forgiveness for the way he had 
 treated her, asking her to release him and herself 
 from an engagement which prevented her compass- 
 ing her own happiness (he himself, of course, could 
 never be happy), and winding up by a somewhat
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 pathetic expression of gladness that she was able to 
 be on such intimate terms of friendship with one who 
 would do him honour if she would deign to wipe her 
 shoes upon him. To this letter Muriel replied, 
 "Don't be silly," and did not release him from the 
 engagement, so that the unfortunate lover was left 
 in the same position as before. 
 
 About this time also Iris received a letter from 
 Andrea an earnest, convincing letter that made her 
 quite anxious to see him again. She wrote back to 
 him, telling him how she was amusing herself and 
 how much she loved him and was looking forward 
 to coming out to Russia ; after which she took up the 
 game where she had left it and only thought of him 
 once or twice until the coming of his next letter. So 
 you see, as has been said at the beginning of this 
 chapter, it was one of those periods where everybody 
 is very busy and nothing happens. Now Iris was 
 one of those curiously constituted individuals who 
 cannot live without drama. As a child she had al- 
 ways enjoyed anything in the nature of a "scene." 
 A fight in a back street and High Mass appealed to 
 her alike on their common basis. Her life had to be 
 a series of situations or she was dull. And to be 
 dull was, for Iris, to be miserable. Now, therefore, 
 she set herself devising some mise en scene in which 
 something theatrical might be made to grow out of 
 the present position and in which, needless to say, 
 she herself was to play the leading part. It was with 
 this in view that she broached to Muriel the idea 
 
 79
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 that they should give a party together. Muriel was 
 necessary to the undertaking in order to make sure 
 that the guests would come. The Russian was al- 
 ready too much an object of suspicion for many to 
 risk the sneers of their neighbours by accepting her 
 invitations. But with Muriel it was a different mat- 
 ter. She had lived in the place all her life and made 
 many friends, and the Reverend John, who was very 
 fond of her, would be sure to go to any party at 
 which she was a hostess. And, of course, as every- 
 body is well aware, where the Vicar goes the world 
 goes. 
 
 When Iris made this proposition to Muriel the 
 girl jumped at it. Her life was not so full of incident 
 that the idea of being a hostess at a party did not 
 excite her immensely. And when Iris sketched out 
 to her ideas for the entertainment of the guests, a 
 supper in the garden weirdly lighted, a hidden 
 orchestra far enough away to give an idea of great 
 domains, dancing on the lawn well, is it any wonder 
 that Muriel threw herself at once into the scheme 
 and, indeed, thought of nothing else day or night 
 without the least idea that she was being used as a 
 pawn in the game which was to have its culmination 
 in the social triumph of Iris and the discomfiture of 
 Henry Cumbers? 
 
 About this time Mary Cumbers called upon Mrs. 
 Hudson. They were old friends, and it is perhaps 
 not too much to say that most of Mrs. Cumbers' real 
 life was spent in the companionship of Muriel Hud- 
 
 80
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 son's mother. In the society of her friend Mary was 
 quite a different person from the wife of Henry 
 Cumbers. She displayed here a shrewd common- 
 sense and dry humour which Henry would never 
 have associated for a moment with his life's com- 
 panion. Everybody in the world, it is said, has his 
 use, and many of us are quite in the dark as to our 
 own particular place in the scheme of things. Thus 
 Mrs. Hudson had no idea that she was Mary Cum- 
 bers' safety-valve. 
 
 "Muriel," she said, "is quite unreasonable about 
 this dreadful Russian woman." 
 
 "So," replied Mary, "is Tristram." 
 
 "But that is at least natural," wailed the other. 
 "Muriel ought to hate her.' 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Cumbers. "But there it is: you 
 can't account for things, so you must take them as 
 they are. At least Muriel has her head screwed on 
 the right way round." 
 
 "But," cried Mrs. Hudson in surprise, "aren't you 
 dreadfully worried?" 
 
 "My dear Emily," said the other, "what is the 
 use of being dreadfully worried? Henry is always 
 worried about everything, and what does he gain by 
 it? He always looks hot, that's all. It was a great 
 mistake to let Tristram moon about at home all this 
 time; still, he's got to get his education somehow, 
 and perhaps it's better he should get this part of it 
 under our eyes." 
 
 "But Muriel?" cried Mrs. Hudson. 
 81
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Mrs. Cumbers looked at her watch and rose to go. 
 
 "After all," she said, "we have always thought 
 Muriel a very sensible girl. She knows the woman 
 and we do not. For all we know she may not be a 
 monster at all." 
 
 By which it can be seen that, besides possessing a 
 charitable heart, Mary Cumbers had a very sound 
 faculty for keeping her head in disaster. On her re- 
 turn home Henry had worked himself into a frenzy, 
 having accidentally lighted upon one of Tristram's 
 numerous odes and rondels. 
 
 "Look at this," he shouted, waving the poor little 
 piece of paper. "Would you believe our son capable 
 of stuff like this?" 
 
 Mary read the verses through without a smile. 
 
 "You'll let me put them on the fire, won't you, 
 Henry?" she said. 
 
 "Certainly not," said her husband. "I am going 
 to take them to Tristram and demand an explana- 
 tion." 
 
 "But we know the explanation, don't we?" she said 
 softly. "Don't you think it would be more honour- 
 able to put them on the fire?" 
 
 "Honourable! Honourable!" cried Henry. "Are 
 you teaching me what is honourable when it's per- 
 fectly well known that no woman has a sense of 
 honour?" 
 
 The eyes of Mary Cumbers lit up curiously. 
 "Shall I show him, then, the verses you wrote to me, 
 Henry, twenty-five years ago?" she asked. 
 
 82
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 After which there was a silence, and Henry put 
 the ode on the fire. 
 
 That evening Mary was saying, "Yes, dear," in 
 answer to his rhodomontades as meekly as ever. It 
 was never her habit to remind him of the occasions 
 on which she had had her way. 
 
 When Mr. Cumbers heard of the proposed party, 
 which he did, not very long after these events, for 
 Muriel told her mother, and Mrs. Hudson told 
 Mary, he, of course, took a violent view of the affair. 
 
 "What!" he shouted. "Accept an invitation to 
 that woman's house? What can you be thinking 
 of?" 
 
 "We haven't been asked yet," replied Mary 
 meekly. "But if we are, the position will be ex- 
 tremely awkward if we don't go. Muriel is a joint 
 hostess, you see." 
 
 "If that girl chooses to lose her head," said Henry 
 firmly, "and make friends with an abandoned char- 
 acter, are we all to be mixed up in her folly? Go to 
 that woman? I won't even have the idea mentioned 
 in my house." 
 
 So it was not mentioned, and Mr. Cumbers be- 
 came composed once more. He was one of those 
 men who are generally completely happy so long as 
 things are not mentioned. It is a comfortable but 
 unproductive method of scrambling through life. 
 
 As for Tristram, when in due course the news 
 filtered through to him, he shrugged his shoulders 
 pathetically (he had seen an actor make this gesture 
 
 83
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 of compliance with fate) and murmured, "How 
 could I go? I love her and I am engaged to be mar- 
 ried." But, happening to read Byron as he went to 
 bed that night, I will not swear that for a time at 
 any rate he did not cherish wild schemes of leaping 
 over the box-hedge (though, to be sure, it was most 
 unromantically undergrown), and carrying off his 
 beloved from the very middle of the banquet. At 
 any rate, he did actually get out of bed and go to the 
 window to gaze upon the thin suburban trees, trans- 
 formed into forests by the night, and construct a 
 picture of desperate romance and adventure. But a 
 chilly rain was beating against the panes, and he 
 could see nothing, and Don Juan returned to bed as 
 Tristram Cumbers once more. Sic transit gloria 
 mundi, and thus does the weather make fools of us 
 all. What if it had been raining hard on that night 
 when Romeo went billing and cooing to Juliet under 
 the veranda ? It might have averted a tragedy, for 
 all you know, and she might have married some 
 wealthy old tradesman of Verona and lived happily 
 ever after. But it was a nice warm night and the 
 moon was out, so they both died prematurely in a 
 most distressing manner. These tricks of fate make 
 man feel most infernally small and unimportant. Let 
 us leave off speculating on the subject. 
 
 In due course the Reverend John received an in- 
 vitation to the party, signed by both Muriel and Iris. 
 He laughed so loud that his housekeeper, a worthy 
 
 84
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 old soul with a passion for cemeteries, ran up to see 
 what was the matter. 
 
 "Ah, Mrs. Jallop," he said, "I have just seen a 
 joke." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear it," retorted the old woman 
 severely. "I thought you was ill." In her view a 
 clergyman had no business to see a joke. The only 
 reason why she stayed with the Reverend John was 
 because she regarded herself more as his keeper than 
 his housekeeper. Had it not been for this charitable 
 idea she would have left long ago for a more re- 
 spectable position. To the clergyman the exquisite 
 humour of the tangle appealed immensely. He im- 
 mediately recognised the diplomacy of Iris, and 
 (with such Machiavelian foresight did he credit her) 
 he even wondered whether this was not the ultimate 
 end for which the Russian had been to such pains 
 to make a friend of Muriel. Of course he could 
 plead a prior engagement if he so wished : a clergy- 
 man always has a prior engagement. But, if the 
 truth must be told, apart from any rudeness to 
 Muriel, the Reverend John wanted very much to go 
 to the party. Needless to say, when he accepted the 
 invitation, which he did, in his usual unconventional 
 way, by shouting "Yes" to Muriel over the garden 
 wall, he did not tell her anything of his suspicion that 
 she was being used as the bait with which the Russian 
 wished to catch her fish. But, meeting Iris herself a 
 day or two later, he greeted her with an ironical 
 bow. 
 
 85
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Well," he said, "I am coming to your party." 
 
 "You are not afraid of your neighbours?" she 
 answered, teasing him. 
 
 "I really don't know," replied the old gentleman, 
 "that I am afraid of anything. Apart from that, 
 your pretensions to upsetting my parish are really 
 too ridiculous. I wonder you are not afraid of peo- 
 ple laughing at you." 
 
 "One should never be afraid of that," she said 
 with mock gravity. "I have heard a clergyman 
 preach on the text." 
 
 "Pooh !" retorted the Reverend John, sawing the 
 air with his stick. "It won't do it won't do ! You 
 are too clever and not clever enough ; learn to be wise 
 instead. Learn to look life in the face. It's not an 
 ill-favoured face, really. To see Life whole is to see 
 it gently and compassionately. Henry Cumbers is 
 not altogether a fool, and you are not altogether a 
 genius. The keystone of a bridge is not the only 
 brick that's doing its duty." 
 
 She laughed merrily. 
 
 "Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "What a string 
 of platitudes!" 
 
 "Very well, have it your own way. There was 
 once a man who bought an epigram at the price of 
 his peace of mind, and they called him a genius; and 
 there was another who married a wife and had chil- 
 dren and a farm in the country, and they called him 
 what do you think?" 
 
 86
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 "Oh, 'happy,' I suppose that's the proper 
 philosophical turn to the sentence, isn't it?" 
 
 "No. They didn't call him anything. They for- 
 got he existed at all." 
 
 "Then what's the point of the story?" 
 
 "Nothing. Just that he was there all the time. 
 That's all." 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "Is that all? But of course 
 there are any amount of people like that. Person- 
 ally I would rather be anything than unnoticed." 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 "Your party," he said, "it will be bizarre, I sup- 
 pose . . . odd?" 
 
 She did not answer this question. 
 
 "Do you think," she queried, "that Tristram will 
 come?" 
 
 "Hardly," said the Reverend John. "You can- 
 not expect people to make themselves ridiculous 
 merely in order to give you the best part in a 
 comedietta." 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "I rather see myself . . ." 
 
 That was all that passed between them. Iris was 
 always perfectly frank with the clergyman. She 
 knew, by instinct, that this was the only way to re- 
 tain his friendship, a friendship which, strangely 
 enough, she was already beginning to value. So the 
 word went round that the Vicar was going to the 
 party, and many acceptances began to be left at 
 Dangerfield as a result. Muriel was as happy as 
 she could be. She ignored altogether the comments 
 
 87
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 upon her friendship with Iris, and upon the situation 
 with Tristram. Indeed, so blindly infatuated was 
 she with her new friend that she imagined that all 
 these comments arose from jealousy of the favours 
 shown her by the Russian. Having become a victim 
 of that curiously compelling charm which Iris un- 
 doubtedly possessed, she could not imagine anyone 
 not wanting to be a victim also. Meanwhile, in 
 justice to Muriel, it should be said that she remained 
 fond of and loyal to Tristram in spite of the abnor- 
 mal position in which that young lover found him- 
 self. When she saw him she behaved perfectly 
 naturally towards him, as if they were still engaged 
 (as indeed technically they were), and as if no un- 
 fortunate "passion" had come to spoil the even tenor 
 of the way to marriage. She regarded Tristram's at- 
 tacks, quite sensibly, as a disease of childhood which 
 would run its natural course and subside. Mean- 
 while she could not see, because Tristram was ill, 
 why she should not recognise the good points in the 
 bacillus which was causing his fever. As for the 
 boy, he would have given anything to understand the 
 bond between his inamorata and his fiancee. But 
 he could not, like Clodius, penetrate their mysteries 
 in disguise, and when he had asked Muriel why she 
 was so fond of the one woman she ought to hate, the 
 girl had only laughed and said she was a very in- 
 teresting person even apart from the fact that 
 Tristram was in love with her. So Tristram re- 
 mained in the dark and miserable. What he should 
 
 88
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 have done, of course, was to treat Muriel as suffer- 
 ing from a childish disease as well. But this, natural- 
 ly, never entered his head. 
 
 Meanwhile, the party was a complete and brilliant 
 success. Although by no means an expensive affair, 
 the whimsical mind of the Russian had so devised 
 things that^ everyone felt they were being present at 
 an entertainment of immense opulence and good 
 taste. Iris herself, wonderfully gowned and brilliant- 
 ly talkataive, veritably sat upon a throne. In a very 
 few hours her party had become a salon in embryo. 
 It was generally felt that Cumbers had made a fool 
 of himself. ". . . narrow-minded, you know." "No 
 wonder the boy fell in love with her. What on earth 
 did the man expect!" and so on and so forth. In 
 fact, by the end of the evening the position of Iris 
 was assured. She talked wittily (and sometimes 
 wickedly) to the men, treated the daughters as her 
 peers, and gave a most excellent imitation of girlish 
 and innocent charm before the mothers. Many of 
 the latter went away quite unreasonably dissatisfied 
 with their own children. The cosmopolitan had be- 
 come the fashion. Tristram watched this triumph 
 from^his bedroom window, his mind seething and 
 bubbling like a stockpot on the fire. Like all young 
 lovers, whose passion is not requited, he would rather 
 have seen his mistress in profundis than in excelsis. 
 We like to pity and help on these occasions, not to 
 admire and envy. Throughout the party Iris was 
 alive to the meaning of that little light on an up- 
 
 89
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 stairs floor across the box hedge, and, wicked girl, 
 rejoiced in the piquancy of it. 
 
 The Vicar was one of the last to leave. 
 
 "Well," said Iris, as she took his hand, "have I 
 succeeded?" 
 
 "You have dazzled," said the old gentleman, "a 
 few people whom in your heart you are calling com- 
 monplace. Is that a success? I suppose so. It is all 
 that most successful people have succeeded in doing, 
 after all." 
 
 "Ungrateful man!" she laughed. "I give you a 
 good supper and you preach me a sermon." 
 
 He laughed as another guest came to take his 
 leave. 
 
 "Hallo, Madders," he said. "It's been a delight- 
 ful evening, hasn't it?" 
 
 "Simply splendid," answered the other. "By the 
 way, Madame Iranovna, did you see the trouble 
 that's brewing in the Balkans?" 
 
 "Ohl" she replied. "Assassinations and things? 
 But murder there is merely an expression of opinion. 
 It's their idea of Liberty." 
 
 The man laughed and took his leave. 
 
 "Clever woman, isn't she?" he said to the Rev- 
 erend John as they walked along the road together. 
 
 "Very clever," assented the clergyman; "very 
 clever indeed " 
 
 Their paths diverged at the end of the road, and 
 they said good night. 
 
 "But that affair in where is it? Bosnia Ser- 
 90
 
 IRIS SITS ON A THRONE 
 
 via?" said the old gentleman, as if pursuing a train 
 of thought, "that might lead to to quite a lot of 
 things." He stared up into the sphinx-like summer 
 sky. "It might quite alter our lives," he said almost 
 to himself. 
 
 "How?" queried the other sharply. 
 
 "What about a European war?" said the Rev- 
 erend John. 
 
 "Oh, rubbish ! Heslop," laughed his companion. 
 "Besides, even so ... it wouldn't be anything to 
 do with us " 
 
 "Good night, Madders," said the old gentleman 
 abruptly. 
 
 The other left him, and the clergyman remained 
 for a few moments looking into the sky. 
 
 "One, two three, four five, six, seven," he said 
 to himself . . . "and millions more, and then multi- 
 ply, and then . . ." 
 
 He was counting the stars. "And over the figure 
 of a corpse in Servia," he murmured, "there might 
 
 arise a conflict more terrible than " He shivered 
 
 a little, but did not move. 
 
 "I never did believe in civilisation," he said. Then 
 he walked home. But on his doorstep he stopped 
 again. He looked up at the sky once more inter- 
 minably serene, comforting in its infinity. . . . The 
 contemplation of it seemed to give him satisfaction. 
 
 "Impossible," muttered the Reverend John as he 
 slipped the key into the lock.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SOME LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT 
 
 "CLEVER people," said Mary Cumbers, as she 
 snipped off some roses for the drawing-room, "al- 
 ways make me think that I don't think what I do 
 think . . . when I do think it all the time," she 
 added pathetically, sucking a pricked thumb. 
 
 "Personally," said Mrs. Hudson, "I make a point 
 of never listening to them. Of course, Muriel wor- 
 ships brains." 
 
 Her companion breathed heavily. Mary always 
 did this when she was thinking deeply. 
 
 "It all puzzles me so," she said at last. "As far 
 as the really big things of life are concerned I mean 
 things like sorrow and pain and joy it doesn't 
 really matter whether one is clever or stupid, does 
 it? I think cleverness only matters in unimportant 
 things." 
 
 "It certainly seems ridiculous that Shakespeare 
 might have been run over by a coach," said the other, 
 "or didn't they have coaches then?" she added 
 vaguely. 
 
 Mary gathered her roses together and held them 
 to her face. 
 
 92
 
 LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT 
 
 "The roses," she murmured, "smelt the same to 
 Shakespeare, I suppose." 
 
 Mrs. Hudson sighed. 
 
 "Well," she said, "you and I are in the minority 
 as far as the Russian woman is concerned. She has 
 become quite the fashion." 
 
 Mary smiled at her flowers. 
 
 "It's rather annoying for Tristram," she said at 
 last and suddenly broke off. Tristram was coming 
 out of the house. "Henry will never see," Mary 
 added in a whisper, "that one cannot possibly help 
 falling in love." 
 
 "Good afternoon," said the boy to Mrs. Hudson. 
 "Did Muriel come with you?" 
 
 "She is supposed to be calling for me," replied 
 the other. It was understood that Muriel came to 
 the house now only when Mr. Cumbers was at the 
 office. Henry knew this, but it never crossed his 
 mind that his dignity was hardly enhanced by the 
 arrangement. He did not like the subject of Iris 
 obtruded on his notice. The sight of Muriel re- 
 minded him of it; therefore he took the obvious pre- 
 caution of keeping the girl out of his sight. As for 
 her position with Tristram, he hardly knew what 
 line to take. He imagined the boy would recover 
 from his infatuation, and hoped that Muriel would 
 do the same. Henry was one of those men who are 
 always passionately in love with the status quo. 
 
 When Muriel arrived a little later on she saw 
 93
 
 Tristram in the garden, and came out to him. He 
 regarded her moodily. 
 
 "Muriel," he said, "this cannot go on." 
 
 "Are you still very much in love?" asked the 
 girl. 
 
 "It isn't that only," replied Tristram. "It is such 
 a difficult thing to say to you." He dug the gravel 
 path with his heel. "You see," he went on, "it shows 
 ... it shows I can't really have loved you . . . 
 not as a man ought to love the girl who is going to 
 be his wife." 
 
 Muriel looked across at the Russian's house. 
 
 "Why," she said, "you aren't the only one since 
 the party half the men in the parish are in love with 
 Iris." But she saw that he was serious and troubled, 
 and abandoned her bantering tone. 
 
 "Listen, Tristram," she said. "If you really want 
 to break off the engagement, of course I will let you. 
 But I love you quite as much as I ever did . . . 
 which is a lot. I love you . . . sort of quietly . . . 
 knowing how silly you are sometimes. I think some 
 people are made to love like that, and some people 
 are made to adore and worship and feel ill about it. 
 I think you are mistaking yourself for one of that 
 sort; really you are one of the quiet sort, you 
 know." 
 
 "No," said the boy gloomily. "I'm passionate 
 . . . horribly passionate." He crushed a flower in 
 his hand and laughed nervously. "One wears a 
 mask, you know," he said. 
 
 94
 
 LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT 
 
 "Oh, no," she returned, "one doesn't; one likes to 
 think one does, but one doesn't. Have you ever 
 thought what a fearful strain it would be wearing a 
 mask all one's life ? One wouldn't have time to think 
 about anything else." She put her hand on his arm. 
 "I don't want you to make a mistake, Tristram," she 
 said. "She's not our kind she'll go and just be 
 like a story we've read." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders ; he was puzzled. 
 
 "If you're content " he began, then broke off. 
 
 "Why are you so fond of her?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 Muriel gave an almost imperceptible shiver. 
 
 "Tristram," she said, "I I don't know!" 
 
 He looked at her curiously. 
 
 "She has a beautiful voice," went on the girl 
 dreamily, "and she tells stories . . . and she has 
 wicked eyes . . . that somehow laugh at their own 
 wickedness and turn it into beauty." She seemed 
 to be explaining things to herself, for she went on 
 talking quite heedless of the boy at her side. "She's 
 all slinky when she sits down," she said. "I don't 
 know what it is ... I dream about her . . . she 
 seems to know everything. ... I suppose it's just 
 because she's clever and brilliant . . . and all that. 
 
 But when she looks at you " She broke off. "I'd 
 
 like her to have been a mistress when I was at 
 school," she said. 
 
 Tristram stared at her. He had never known 
 Muriel in this mood before. 
 
 Suddenly she gripped his arm. 
 
 95
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "I'm glad," she said, "that Iris has never kissed 
 you." Then she sighed. "It was a wonderful party," 
 she added suddenly. 
 
 "Everybody's talking about it," answered 
 Tristram; and they both became commonplace. But 
 somehow the little conversation had made the boy 
 feel a little more drawn to Muriel. Quite vaguely, 
 he felt that she was weak and that he ought to be 
 strong. 
 
 Meanwhile, Iris, who never knew the harm or the 
 good that she was doing, and was quite unconscious 
 of the depths which were beginning to stir in the 
 boy and girl whose lives she had so calmly ploughed 
 up with her personality, was reading a letter from 
 Andrea. 
 
 "I am only living," he wrote, "for the day when 
 you join me here. Everybody seems so dull. I think 
 you spoil one for everyday affairs. But I am un- 
 reasonably thankful for being spoilt. Aren't you 
 tired of Suburbia? But I expect by now you have, 
 as usual, made a kingdom for yourself. Come to me 
 as soon as you can. Russian politics are veering to- 
 wards strange things; but, of course, this sort of 
 thing never interests you. There is a great deal of 
 talk about some mess-up in Servia. You've got it 
 in your papers, I expect. Of course, a European 
 war is unthinkable. I really believe civilisation has 
 gone beyond that kind of folly. . . . Only think 1 
 If it happened (sounds like a fairy-tale), I'd have 
 
 96
 
 LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT 
 
 to rejoin my regiment and be a soldier! Good-bye, 
 my darling girl. Don't make me wait too long." 
 
 And on the heels of this letter came the Reverend 
 John, with a grave face and the news that Russia 
 was going to war. 
 
 "My dear young lady," he said, "your country 
 is going to war. I was afraid of it. In England we 
 never believe in the worst; but it is coming. . . ." 
 
 "But," said Iris, "it's nothing to do with Eng- 
 land." 
 
 The old man smiled sadly. "We are a great Em- 
 pire," he said. "Our inheritance is a mighty one 
 . . . and our responsibilities are mighty too. For 
 the British Empire there is practically no war that 
 is not its business. It is the responsibility and the 
 privilege of great possessions and great ideals. I 
 only hope the nossessions have not grown greater 
 than the ideals!" 
 
 She hardly listened to him. The possibility > 
 casually mentioned in Andrea's letter, and which was. 
 now an accomplished fact, still seemed far enough 
 away to appear unreal. But when the old gentle- 
 man had gone, and she was left alone, the realisation 
 of the catastrophe and all that it might mean to her 
 began to steal into her brain as the tide creeps up 
 the sands. She felt no thrill of patriotic emotion. 
 How should she, who owned no fatherland and could 
 remember no home? To her the whole quarrel ap- 
 peared ridiculous and meaningless. Was it possible, 
 she thought, that men could kill each other over such 
 
 97
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 a thing? A dispute in which no single one of them 
 could have the least interest? For some time Iris 
 was genuinely stirred with indignation and alarm. 
 She sat down and wrote a long letter to Andrea, 
 some of which is worth quoting as showing her point 
 of view at this period. 
 
 "But, Andrea," she wrote, "why should you go? 
 What has this kind of trouble to do with you or, 
 through you, with me ? What do we care how many 
 people get murdered in Servia or whose may be the 
 intriguing behind it all? It isn't reasonable. If I 
 don't like the climate of a country, I leave it. It 
 seems to me that is just what has happened here. I 
 do not like to think of you suffering hardships and 
 campaigning. If people want to fight, let those who 
 made the quarrel go and do it, and anybody else who 
 enjoys that sort of thing can join in. Tell me you 
 are coming back to England, as it is no longer pos- 
 sible for me to join you in Russia." 
 
 When she received his reply she bit her lip and 
 thrust the letter quickly away amongst the others. 
 
 "You do not understand," he replied, "and there 
 is no reason why you should. My country's quarrel 
 is naturally my own. But, my darling girl, you 
 now reap the benefit of that hazardous parentage 
 you are so proud of I You have no need to take sides 
 at all. As for me, don't worry. The war won't 
 last long, and I shall be all right. This is the last 
 letter you will get from me from Petersburg, as 
 I'm on the move with my guns directly. I'm not sure,
 
 LETTERS AND A THUNDERBOLT 
 
 my dear little firework, that you wouldn't rather like 
 me in uniform! Keep well, dear and, above all, 
 keep happy. . . ." 
 
 The receipt of this letter, as has been said, caused 
 Iris to bite her lip in anger. So he had swept aside 
 in a sentence the argument which she had thought so 
 sensible. "My country's quarrel is naturally my 
 own," and she wouldn't understand! But she was 
 a dear little firework, who would rather admire his 
 uniform ! If Andrea, poor man, had wanted to anger 
 her, he could scarcely have found a better way of 
 doing so, when she was so fondly imagining that 
 she was looking the disaster full in the face and deal- 
 ing with it as logically and reasonably as any lawyer! 
 So she didn't understand! And, truth to tell, half 
 her rage was with herself, because she knew this to 
 be true, and that in actual fact she didn't understand 
 in the least. 
 
 Thunderbolt fell on thunderbolt, and in a few 
 days it seemed as if the four corners of the world 
 were in arms. Nothing serves so well to show the 
 involuntary brotherhood of man as when men fall 
 out. The hive is astir, and not one of the bees re- 
 mains untouched. On a certain night a cockney 
 crowd turned up pale faces under the lamps of Buck- 
 ingham Palace and roared and cheered until a man 
 appeared upon the balcony in evening dress. The 
 tocsin had sounded the hunt was up. In great cities, 
 in smoky rowns, in sleepy hamlets or where solitary 
 homes brave with their lighted windows the pitiless 
 
 99
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 moors or nestle warmly among the tr/ecs of silent 
 valleys, folk slept that night to wake upon a morning 
 in a new England. An England where, perhaps for 
 the first time, men took thought and blessed the sea 
 where fools shouted lustily and drank damnation 
 to their new-born enemy, while wise men sat, late 
 at night, staring from their windows into the sky, 
 groaning for the future; men who could find no 
 cause for elation in war, yet were in some sort proud 
 that it was falling to them to defend their country's 
 credit. 
 
 And our little suburb woke upon that morning with 
 the others, and stared whitefaced upon its morning 
 papers ; and men were late in going to the City, and 
 total strangers talked to one another in the train 
 and there were signs and portents. So that fat and 
 middle-aged fathers of families looked lovingly at 
 their little front doors, and in their minds' eye saw 
 themselves defending them desperately with the old 
 revolver that had lain by the bedside ever since the 
 burglary up the street in ... what year was it? 
 Good gracious, how time flies I But one does not 
 feel as old as one looks, and the exerciser is still 
 screwed to the bathroom door, and hadn't one al- 
 ways meant to take it up again, anyway? 
 
 100
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY 
 
 HENRY CUMBERS took the coming of war as pomp- 
 ously as he took everything else. He read the paper 
 to his wife, and explained everything to her from the 
 depths of his entire ignorance of the situation. 
 
 Mary gaped stupidly. 
 
 "But, Henry," she said, "everybody fighting! It 
 makes the world look so silly!" 
 
 "Nothing," said her husband, astraddle on the 
 hearthrug, "nothing can make civilisation look silly." 
 
 Like many a better man than himself, the begin- 
 ning of war found him shocked, but not personally 
 shocked. He considered it would be a matter of 
 weeks, at the most months. He had a belief in the 
 British Empire which was every whit as strong as his 
 belief in the Church of England. Only, as it had not 
 had any dogma or ceremony attached to it by an 
 improvident nation, and as each Sunday is allowed 
 to pass without any more definite reference to it than 
 a prayer for the Royal Family, Henry had never dis- 
 covered that the Creed was there all the time. Now, 
 as he put it, with a wave of the arm, "Prussianism be- 
 ing at our very gates," England had become suddenly 
 
 101
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 a larger idea than a network of railway lines. The 
 phraseology would shock Henry a great deal, but it 
 is true nevertheless that from this moment the altar- 
 cloth of his religion became the Union Jack. 
 
 So that Mr. Cumbers, though during the follow- 
 ing weeks he talked an amazing deal of rubbish, won 
 the war in a phrase and lost it in a criticism (as who 
 has not heard Pendleton at the club, and Sir Fred- 
 erick, who retired from the Civil Service in '93, and 
 the man at the chemist's in the High Street, and even 
 must it be said? you and I, ourselves) ; yet, for 
 all that, his obstinate and truculent belief in his own 
 people, his utterly groundless conviction that he and 
 his kind were the salt of the earth, radiated and dis- 
 seminated with the conviction of thousands of his 
 peers, and built that solid wall of idealism which 
 culminated in a nation at arms and an effort of Em- 
 pire which put the Elizabethan adventurers in the 
 shade. 
 
 It is very easy to call a man a fool, it is very pleas- 
 ant to cull a laugh from his foibles and his simplici- 
 ties ; but it is very difficult to measure him in his re- 
 lation to and his influence on his generation. In a 
 great crisis the wise man and the fool join hands, for 
 both are capable of a single aim : it is the clever man 
 who, brilliant and unstable, sometimes becomes lost 
 in the quicksands of doubt and unbelief. If war 
 teaches nothing else, it teaches us to value our 
 mediocrities. 
 
 After the first few weeks of turmoil and confusion, 
 102
 
 KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY 
 
 when people found that the end of the world had 
 not arrived after all and that the affairs of every- 
 day existence seemed to go on more or less normally, 
 they began to take up their personal interests where 
 they had left them. Thus Henry still cut Iris over 
 the box hedge and vetoed the subject of the lady in 
 his house; and Tristram still wrote odes and ac- 
 counted himself the unhappiest of mortals, and, 
 mirabile dictu, he actually discussed his case with 
 Muriel, who sympathised with him quite as often as 
 she laughed at him. 
 
 Iris herself resented bitterly the trick of fate which 
 had made it impossible for her to leave her self- 
 imposed quarantine. She said as much to the Rev. 
 erend John, whose valuable time she was in the habit 
 of borrowing over her garden gate. 
 
 "My dear young lady," the old gentleman replied, 
 "you might just as well complain if the world ceased 
 to revolve and we all flew off into space at a tangent." 
 
 "But this war could have been prevented," she 
 argued. 
 
 The Reverend John shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Civilisation," he said, "is an affair of individuals; 
 in the mass it does not exist." 
 
 But, not possessing the broad philosophy of the 
 clergyman, Iris continued to apply reason to an un- 
 reasonable affair, and, truth to tell, to look upon the 
 whole disaster from a purely personal point of view. 
 Muriel ran in one afternoon in a hurry. It ap- 
 peared that a large amount of knitting was required, 
 
 103
 
 and a club was being formed amongst the ladies of 
 the place. Perhaps Iris would like to join? 
 
 "I can't knit," she said. 
 
 It was the first time Muriel had heard her confess 
 an inability to do anything. 
 
 "But I can embroider," she added, and picked up 
 a piece of gold embroidery on a cushion. "I did 
 this," she said. 
 
 "It is very beautiful," answered Muriel. "It 
 wouldn't take you long to learn to knit." 
 
 But somehow the prospect of sitting at the feet 
 of the local ladies for whom she had such a great 
 contempt did not appeal to the Russian. She must 
 have a star part in life, or none. So an excuse was 
 made to Muriel, and Iris did not become a member 
 of the knitting society. The little incident annoyed 
 her, and she reduced Tristram to a state of emotional 
 jellydom that evening over the hedge in order to 
 restore her self-respect. For the first time since his 
 departure she began to feel the need of Andrea. He 
 never failed to make her feel brilliant and of im- 
 portance. The little world in which she found her- 
 self seemed somehow to have grown closer together, 
 to have become more of a family whose acquaintance- 
 ship she might have, but whose privacy she must 
 respect. 
 
 For all that it must not be imagined that Iris sud- 
 denly found herself isolated. The triumph of the 
 party was too recent to be altogether forgotten, and 
 Iris was still an amusement. The world is like 
 
 104
 
 KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY 
 
 that. The most terrible disasters will happen, but 
 we must have our eggs and bacon and our coffee at 
 breakfast. Kingdoms may reel and fall, but dinner 
 must be on the table at seven-thirty. Hemispheres 
 may fly at each other's throats, but George and 
 Henry must be at the office in the morning; and until 
 our habits are taken from us by force they stick to 
 us as close as the skin upon our bodies. 
 
 It was Mr. Ferdinand Madders who led the quite 
 respectable sized coterie who attended the salon, so 
 to speak, of the Russian. Madders was, curiously 
 enough, the people's warden of the parish, and there- 
 fore, technically, a colleague of Henry Cumbers. But 
 no two men could have been more different in nature. 
 The people's warden was a bachelor of some fifty- 
 seven summers: a thin, angular man with an enor- 
 mous Roman nose of which he was inordinately 
 proud, for the absurd reason that all his family had 
 been disfigured in the same way for two hundred 
 years. It was his pose, not being properly occupied 
 with a wife and children, to cultivate an atmosphere 
 of having once been a very gay dog indeed. Sport- 
 ing papers lay about his house, and he was in the 
 habit of walking abroad with a wisp of straw between 
 his lips. But he had never made a bet in his life, and 
 his banker could a tale unfold of a very meagre and 
 even parsimonious expenditure. In the matter of the 
 war Mr. Madders positively sweated patriotism. He 
 became a member of I don't know how many com- 
 mittees, all of which he attended regularly and where 
 
 105
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 he shouted louder than anyone. Indeed, he talked a 
 great deal of obtaining a commission in the remount 
 department, but as his sole qualification for this con- 
 sisted in the wisp of straw, the affair never arrived 
 at fruition. He liked to pretend he was intimate 
 with the fascinating Russian and to hint that fifty- 
 seven was not a great age, and that once a gay dog 
 always a gay dog. 
 
 And, indeed, though she knew it not, Ferdinand 
 Madders was extremely useful to Iris at this period. 
 Had it not been for him and his foibles, she would 
 have run a very serious risk of experiencing that most 
 horrifying of suburban experiences, the experience 
 of being "dropped." Not that anyone liked her less 
 or admired her less than before, only there were 
 many whose lives had been very full of doing noth- 
 ing who now found that they were really quite use- 
 ful folk, and whose minds had no time for anything 
 so unimportant as a brilliant young woman. But 
 Ferdinand Madders kept alive the interest which Iris 
 had excited at her party, and it was some time before 
 the conviction crept in upon her that she was 
 marooned. Of Muriel, it is true, she saw very little. 
 There was nothing that Muriel liked better than 
 work. She revelled in appointments, committees, and 
 "getting things done by a certain time." Now she 
 found in various directions that she could have her 
 fill of this, and her activities rather swamped her 
 mushroom passion for Iris. She came to tea oc- 
 casionally, and was always glad to see and to talk to 
 
 106
 
 KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY 
 
 the Russian. But the old glamour was going, and 
 her own increased self-respect perhaps made her re- 
 spect for the qualities of Iris rather less. To be- 
 come self-important is to become of no importance 
 whatever, but to become important to other people 
 is to become important to oneself. And that is half- 
 way to being successful, not in the world perhaps, 
 but in the universe, which, after all, is everybody's 
 real sphere of activity. 
 
 The Reverend John, meanwhile, went about 
 amongst his people in a state of Christian optimism 
 from which they derived a great deal of benefit, but 
 secretly, in the evenings at the Vicarage, he used to 
 read Cicero's letters to keep him sane, a consumma- 
 tion which they accomplished very satisfactorily. 
 But despite the manifold duties with which his mani- 
 fold sympathies filled his life, he still found time to 
 consider the case 6f Iris, and to meditate upon the 
 desperate position of a butterfly in a thunderstorm. 
 Thus we find him the sole visitor at afternon. tea 
 at Dangerfield upon a fine day at the end of August, 
 He was heterodox enough to make the list of a 
 clergyman's clients include publicans, sinners and but- 
 terflies, and it was one of his few faults that, because 
 so many mistaken people are regarded as criminals, 
 he was too fond of considering criminals merely as 
 mistaken persons. Not that he regarded Iris either 
 as criminal or mistaken; he saw her simply as a 
 piece of jetsam likely to go to pieces in a particularly 
 violent tempest. As his conception of himself was 
 
 107
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 as a kind of general salvage-hunter, he looked in to 
 tea upon this summer afternoon. Iris, of course, had 
 no notion that she was being district-visited. 
 
 "My dear young lady," said he, "I fear that your 
 baby conflict next door has been a little over- 
 shadowed?" 
 
 "I suppose so," she assented. "After all, one 
 must amuse oneself I Is gaiety only a virtue in peace- 
 time?" 
 
 "I am inclined to think," answered the Reverend 
 John, "that in time of war it becomes one of the 
 cardinal virtues, but it must, of course, only rank 
 as comic relief." 
 
 "Yes," she said, in answer to what she divined to 
 be his thoughts, "I am already beginning to feel de- 
 graded at my own uselessness. Do you know that to 
 be useless is the loneliest thing in the world?" 
 
 He nodded gravely. 
 
 "Can it be," he said, "that you are discovering 
 that other lady I mentioned to you?" 
 
 "Dear me, no," she returned ; "it is only that other 
 people have discovered that she does not exist." 
 
 "Don't let the war make you bitter," he said. 
 "That is what Mars likes to do, and we do not wish 
 the evil gods to win." 
 
 "Philosophy is like a patent medicine," she 
 sneered. "It only works for those that have faith." 
 
 "Silly woman," he returned good-naturedly, "you 
 are trying to be clever in the face of truth." 
 
 She laughed, and the conversation turned in other 
 108
 
 KNITTING AND EMBROIDERY 
 
 directions. She told him of Andrea, from whom 
 she had not heard since the outbreak of war, and 
 found to her disgust that her need of sympathy was 
 not so great as his desire to give it. After he had 
 left she had a feeling of being at bay with the world. 
 Honest, sterling people were finding her out. . . . 
 What had become of the other lady? She looked 
 long into the glass that glass which always afforded 
 her so much satisfaction. ."You aren't real," she 
 said to herself. But there was a horrible suspicion in 
 her mind that she was as real as she was able to 
 be. Thus a butterfly will turn and look upon itself 
 and shudder. She took her introspective attack for 
 a virtue. "At least," she said, "I know my faults." 
 Poor human nature is reduced to many a shift for 
 comfort's sake. 
 
 Yet Iris was singing merrily when she went up to 
 bed, and in the few moments before she dropped off 
 to sleep was drowsily debating whether any amuse- 
 ment was likely to be derived from a seduction of 
 Ferdinand Madders; not, of course, beyond the 
 point where he would be sent away and she would 
 become a regret in his life, but still a seduction. 
 Women love to be regrets. 
 
 For many days she fought a kind of guerilla war- 
 fare with her own self-esteem. She even found her- 
 self with a curious longing to be a sufferer in the 
 tragedy which had swept everybody else into its net; 
 but she had no country and could take no sides, and, 
 save for the hope that no harm would come to 
 
 109
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Andrea, she was entirely unmoved by the events 
 which were absorbing her neighbours. As for 
 Andrea, her anxiety for him was all the less as he 
 had told her in his last letter that he was attached 
 to the staff of his division, a position which she 
 imagined to be quite divorced from the actual fight- 
 ing-line. Thus she was in the unique position of one 
 who could look upon the whole affair as ridiculous 
 without being considered unpatriotic. But this out- 
 look gave her no comfort at all. To be marooned 
 upon the moon may have its ridiculous side, but it is 
 to be marooned nevertheless.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 MR. CUMBERS and his wife were alone after dinner. 
 The little man had read the evening paper to Mary 
 from end to end and had left every minister and 
 general without a shred of reputation. For the 
 moment his eloquence had run dry. He stood on the 
 hearthrug* his fingers in the armholes of his waist- 
 coat, regarding her with a gloomy frown. 
 
 "About Tristram," he said suddenly. Mary's 
 heart suddenly began to thump hard. 
 
 "Yes, dear," she answered. 
 
 "Has he said anything?" 
 
 "Nothing nothing very much," she paused. "He 
 called it legalised murder at lunch," she said un- 
 willingly. 
 
 Henry Cumbers sighed. 
 
 "I wish he had a weak heart, or astigmatism or 
 something!" he said. 
 
 "Oh, Henry!" she protested. 
 
 "Well," spluttered the little man in a pretence of 
 > "y u don't want him to go, do you?" 
 
 "I think his conscience is against it," she said 
 in
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 slowly. Henry Cumbers looked her squarely in the 
 eye. Suddenly she stretched out her arms. 
 
 "Oh!" she said softly, "I don't know what I think. 
 Mayn't a mother be a little bit of a coward?" 
 
 There was a great tenderness in her husband's 
 heavy foolish face as he took one of her hands. 
 
 "You had a bad time when he was born," he said. 
 "I don't remember you making much fuss about 
 that." 
 
 "It was for him," she answered. Henry Cumbers 
 turned away to the window. 
 
 "Well," he said, "this is for him too." 
 
 A silence fell upon them. 
 
 "He is our only one," said Mary at last, arguing 
 with herself. 
 
 "Don't fool about with the subject," snapped 
 Henry. He always covered up distress by pretend- 
 ing to be in a temper. Mary Cumbers was very 
 white when she turned to him. 
 
 "Don't say you want me to ask him to go," she 
 said. "I couldn't bear it then if anything hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "No, no," he returned. "I don't want that." He 
 drummed with his fingers on the panes looking out 
 on to the little front garden. He had the air of a 
 faithful dog, puzzled at some action of his master. 
 A son is often master of his sire. 
 
 "It's not a good year for the roses," he said sud- 
 denly and relapsed into silence. Then he swung 
 round into the room. 
 
 112
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 "It's not that I care what other people say I 
 don't care a bit. I don't want him to go. I wish he 
 had one leg, or a hump anything. I think I'd go 
 mad if he was out there. But he's got to grow up. 
 The war will end one day. It doesn't matter to us. 
 We'll be under the ground. He'll go on living, and 
 every little bit of pleasure he snatches out of life will 
 be poisoned for him." He turned again to the 
 window. "He doesn't understand," he muttered, 
 "he doesn't understand. Look at that fellow there 
 in khaki he's buying my boy's pleasures for him. 
 He may be killed that chap and he'll have bought 
 my boy's life. That's what it will mean for him." 
 He broke off again and began to stuff his pipe with 
 tobacco, leaving edges trailing over the bowl, a habit 
 which had secretly hurt Mary's sense of neatness for 
 many years. She answered nothing. Like most 
 women when talking of the thing nearest their hearts, 
 her mind was far ahead of the conversation, ex- 
 periencing the emotions of disasters which might 
 never happen. It was not the first time they had 
 talked of Tristram's attitude towards the war. At 
 first, when each hardly dared suggest their thoughts 
 to the other, it had been merely a look a kind of 
 mutual understanding but now it had become a 
 definite trouble, an issue that could no longer be 
 shirked. 
 
 Mr. Cumbers changed the subject. 
 
 "I met Madders," he said, "on the way home. 
 What a very unpleasant type of man. All brag
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 what's he done since the war but talk? Now he's 
 talking about a theatrical performance he's going to 
 get up for the Red Cross. I know what that means 
 a beanfeast with Madders as the important fellow. 
 But he doesn't spend a penny himself!" 
 
 He snorted derisively. "If people can't be of use," 
 he added, "it's their business to hold their tongues." 
 
 Then he proceeded to show, with a blotting pad 
 and the fittings of Mary's work-basket, what an utter 
 mess Lord French was making of the situation. 
 
 Now the soul of Tristram was as a Devon river 
 after a storm, turbulent and cloudy. At first he 
 never dreamt for a moment that the war had any- 
 thing to do with him. He looked at it as one might 
 regard an epidemic in a distant country. He be- 
 longed to a local debating society, a club of young 
 men of his own age, violent progressives, of course, 
 whose powers of denunciation were terrific though 
 their constructive ideas were few. They had, for in- 
 stance, debated and condemned utterly the Suffrage 
 of Women, chiefly upon psychological grounds, each 
 having a mental vision of his own particular angel as 
 an M.P. and dismissing the whole matter as ludicrous 
 forthwith. The war had rather upset their line of 
 thought. Those whose reputation for progressive 
 ideas had been conspicuous felt it incumbent upon 
 them to keep it alive by a more or less Olympian dis- 
 dain for the whole affair. At the one meeting they 
 had held since the outbreak the general tone had 
 been one of patronising disapproval of the childish 
 
 114
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 behaviour of emperors and governments. That was 
 very early in the march of events, and Tristram had 
 been pleased with himself for coining a phrase: 
 "Nursery monarchs knocking over each other's 
 bricks." They deplored the undoubted fact that na- 
 tions were ruled, in the main, by old men. Amongst 
 these rhetoricians Tristram's grand passion was 
 known and respected. It is only at the ages of fifteen 
 and fifty that men make fun of one another for be- 
 ing in love. 
 
 It was to a meeting of this little coterie that 
 Tristram had gone on the night of which we have just 
 spoken. The subject of the debate had been "Em- 
 pire: is it a justifiable ideal?" It was held by an al- 
 most unanimous show of hands that the only gentle- 
 manly condition for any state of society was that of 
 a, fourth-class nation. Then a curious thing hap- 
 pened. A certain youth named Gilmour, a member 
 of the society, arrived at the end of the meeting in 
 an officer's uniform. He was, as it happened, the 
 first of their number to appear in khaki. Others had 
 enlisted and disappeared, but here was Gilmour in 
 the flesh. He had never been considered a shining 
 light in the debates, being a somewhat slow-minded 
 youth who liked to absorb life gradually and to 
 whom the mental fireworks of some of his com- 
 panions appeared both fatiguing and unsatisfactory. 
 Now here he was, wearing the insignia of the King's 
 Commission. 
 
 The company felt vaguely that there was some-
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 thing dramatic in his appearance. He was going out 
 there . . . the war appeared as something imper- 
 sonal at that time. What on earth had Gilmour to 
 do with it? Good old Gilmour who was going into 
 a solicitor's office and never could pass exams 1 
 
 They crowded round him curiously. Someone 
 asked what the devil he'd gone and done it for, and 
 Gilmour laughed nervously. 
 
 "Oh, well," he said, "the good old flag, you know, 
 and all that; they were wanting chaps." 
 
 As they were leaving a tall, lank-haired young man 
 named Ferris remarked that Gilmour was "rather 
 crude, you know." Six months later Ferris was 
 blown to pieces looking for a friend's body, but no- 
 body seemed to consider it crude. 
 
 Tristram found himself curiously disturbed as he 
 started home. 
 
 Now the Reverend John had a habit of walking 
 after dinner. He used to discard his clerical clothes, 
 which he called "protective colouring," and, dressed 
 in an old tweed suit which would have disgraced even 
 a country village, he walked, sometimes for miles, 
 through streets or over the Heath, holding conver- 
 sations with his pipe. Thus he found Tristram re- 
 turning from the debating society, and the boy, who 
 was feeling the need of companionship, asked if he 
 might accompany him. 
 
 "Of course," answered the clergyman, and to him- 
 self : "The boy's mind's in a mess wants to talk 
 what should we do without our tongues ?" 
 
 116
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 But they had walked for half an hour before 
 Tristram spoke. 
 
 "Do you care tuppence about the country?" he 
 said suddenly "I mean about England?" 
 
 The Reverend John said nothing for a rnoment y 
 puffing thoughtfully at his pipe. 
 
 "Say on," he answered at last. "There's some 
 more, isn't there?" 
 
 "Only that I don't " There was a kind of 
 
 longing in the boy's voice. He kicked a stone from 
 the path. "I just don't care," he repeated slowly. 
 "It's selfish." 
 
 "We're always discovering ourselves," said the 
 clergyman. "Bits and pieces it took me sixty years 
 to get rid of everything I thought was me and 
 wasn't I mean. Now I know myself and I can die. 
 See what I'm driving at?" 
 
 The boy nodded. 
 
 "I think so," he said; "you mean that's what liv- 
 ing's for to find out if you're worth anything " 
 
 "And to find out," went on the Reverend John, 
 "that nobody is worth anything to themselves 
 that's like a snake eating its tail," he broke off, jerk- 
 ing his thoughts out, as was the nature of the man. 
 "Yes," he said, "I believe in England; but, of course r 
 one oughtn't to if one doesn't know why." 
 
 "Do you know why?" There was an eager note 
 in the question. 
 
 "I think so," answered the old man slowly. "I 
 think so. I think it's because we've triumphed over 
 
 117
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 our mistakes. The Elizabethans of course were 
 buccaneers, but Drake must have been a dear man 
 a dear man !" He rolled the "r" caressingly. "I'd 
 like to have had a pipe with him; of course people 
 lived rather broadly but Rabelais is awfully 
 healthy, you know yes, I think that's the word 
 we're a healthy people. It's a word that's gone out 
 of fashion; people seem to think it's a synonym for 
 stupidity. I'd rather be anything than anaemic 
 thinking of things in circles; you can't get any further. 
 I could prove the grass blue in words. That's what 
 words have become playthings. Look at modern 
 literature ! Of course, after the eighteenth and nine- 
 teenth centuries something unpleasant was bound to 
 happen in the world's intellect, I mean. There were 
 signs of brain storm in our own country, but we've 
 survived it. We are the world's police; we've got 
 the job by accidents, but we've been handling it all 
 right. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Well, I be- 
 lieve the answer is God ! People don't talk like that ; ' 
 it's bad form. And a good thing too! Convictions 
 oughtn't to be talked about. But I believe that's be- 
 hind it all." He was thinking of the armies. "If 
 you told them so they'd turn it up. Englishmen are 
 ashamed of their best notions like children dearrr 
 men !" His mind raced with his words, and as usual, 
 beat them, but the boy caught the drift of the old 
 man's faith. 
 
 "Look here," he blurted out suddenly, "I don't 
 feel that. I don't believe most fellows do. I don't 
 
 118
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 care about England or the Empire. I wish I did. 
 It's like religion and faith, I suppose, and all that 
 sort of thing. Either you've got it or you haven't 
 most people haven't." 
 
 The Reverend John sighed. 
 
 "In this world," he said, "if you don't fight for 
 something you'll find yourself fighting for your peace 
 of mind everyone finds that out." 
 
 The boy said nothing for some minutes, then he 
 spoke as if to himself. 
 
 "And I'm a coward too," he murmured. 
 
 "You are asking yourself questions," said the old 
 man, "without any intention of answering them." 
 
 "You don't believe in doing things blindly fol- 
 lowing the crowd?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the Reverend John a little 
 cryptically, "if the crowd is going your way." 
 
 "But if they are not?" 
 
 The clergyman stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Tristram," he said, "I believe you are a sincere 
 boy, but you are wandering round and round your 
 problem. You do not want to enlist. You think 
 you are a coward and afraid to die. You're quite 
 wrong. You are much more afraid of being awk- 
 ward and uncomfortable; you want me to say it is 
 your duty or it is not your duty. You want 'to use 
 the Church as cold cream to your conscience. My 
 dear boy, half a clergyman's life is spent avoiding 
 that mistake. I will say nothing to you whatever." 
 
 119
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 The boy stood still, looking over the gorsebushes 
 at the line of hills to the north. 
 
 "But," he said slowly, "you think I ought to go." 
 
 "No," answered the other. "I know that only 
 you yourself know whether you ought to go or not. 
 Courage?" he dug his stick into the ground "Few 
 of us are afraid of death ; 'we're afraid of each other's 
 opinions; the fearlessness of the cave man was bred 
 in his loneliness but that's nothing to do with the 
 point; I do wish I could keep to points," he added 
 pathetically. 
 
 Tristram turned to the old man suddenly. 
 
 "Surely," he said, "it is wrong to fight?" 
 He felt his companion's hand rest lightly on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "It is worse," whispered the deep voice, "to lie!" 
 
 And though he said nothing else, the boy under- 
 stood that to lie to oneself is worst of all. 
 
 They came sudenly to the foot of a sandy hillock 
 and stopped. 
 
 Standing on the little mound was a woman, her 
 hands lifted to the sky as if in prayer, but it was an 
 utterly pagan pose. Tristram started suddenly, but 
 it was the Reverend John who recognised her first 
 and put his hand on the boy's arm. 
 
 "Pan," she was saying, "if you are not dead 
 take me out of this silly, serious world take me out 
 and I will be your mistress you and Bacchus." She 
 stopped and dropped her hands. 
 
 "And the worst of it is," said the Reverend John 
 120
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 aloud, "that she knows how nice she looks . . . 
 silhouetted like that!" 
 
 Iris turned round and saw them. 
 
 "Which is Pan," she laughed, "and which is 
 Bacchus?" 
 
 The old man looked up at her with twinkling eyes. 
 
 "Maenad," he said, "we are deities whose powers 
 are greater than any of your earth gods." 
 
 "Your names !" she cried. 
 
 "Brown and Smith," he answered quite seriously, 
 and helped her down. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she said. "Your work-a-day philos- 
 ophies make the world a fearful anticlimax to the 
 Creation." 
 
 "Not at all," replied the Reverend John. "You 
 see, I really believe in Brown and Smith." 
 
 "Such ordinary deities !" she protested, then swung 
 away, laughing to the boy. 
 
 "Tristram," she said, putting her face close to 
 his, "what would you do if I told you I loved you 
 here and now?" She seemed to have forgotten how 
 she had hurt him. 
 
 "He would doubtless," said the old man, "behave 
 very foolishly." 
 
 "Like Brown and Smith !" she triumphed. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Certainly," he answered as they started to walk 
 home together, "but there is one point in the situa- 
 tion which you leave out a very vital point." 
 
 "What is that?" she asked. 
 
 121
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Why, simply," replied the old man, "that other 
 lady I told you about, and her name is Miss Smith. 
 The fact is," he added, "that we all have our pe- 
 culiarities and our beauties and our clevernesses, but 
 when the big things happen in the world we stand 
 to lose or to win just as much as everyone else; in 
 fact, if you want a place in the world you must fight 
 for it sooner or later. We become plain Brown 
 and Smith . . . disappointing but true." And the 
 curious old gentleman chuckled to himself most of the 
 
 way home. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "I am not," remarked Mr. Cumbers a few days' 
 later as he bent over his spade, "an unreasonable 
 
 man." 
 
 "Certainly not, dear," assented his wife, who was 
 helping him quite ineffectually in the garden. Not 
 that she was ever there really for any other purpose 
 than blame. So long as Henry had someone to 
 snap at for the mistakes he made he was perfectly 
 content with himself. It is what is known as the 
 Army system, and works admirably. 
 
 "I repeat," he said, "that I am not an unreason- 
 able man, but why on earth England should offer 
 hospitality to aliens of no nationality at times like 
 these, I cannot imagine." 
 
 "Oh, hush, dear," whispered Mary; "she might 
 hear." 
 
 "Do her good," murmured Henry. "Foreigners 
 
 never realise their inferiority " He broke off. 
 
 122
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 "Madders says," he added suddenly, "that they 
 can hear the guns in France at Dover I don't know 
 whether he can be trusted . . . The guns 1" he mut- 
 tered, leaning on his spade and looking over the road. 
 "It makes you feel you're reading a history King- 
 lake or somebody only now the book matters to 
 you. You can't feel it's real and you never get the 
 relief of feeling it's not real ... do you know what 
 I mean, Mary? No, of course you don't, you never 
 do." This last peevishness because Mary, who had 
 not been attending, was looking at him with puzzled 
 eyes which had other thoughts behind them but which 
 he interpreted as mental inability to follow him. Few 
 married men knew less about women than Henry 
 Cumbers. 
 
 "I do see," said Mary, on the defensive. "I often 
 feel it isn't real myself." 
 
 "Well, if you feel things you ought to say so," 
 grumbled her husband. "What's married life for?. 
 Surely you can unburden yourself to me?" 
 
 A hoarse shout came from the street. 
 
 "What's that," he said quickly, "a paper?" 
 
 Mary ran to the gate. Henry's mind was for ever 
 on the war. He really felt part of it. Unlike most 
 of those who were, for one reason or another, to 
 stay at home while the great issue was fought out, 
 the thing was personal to him. He identified him- 
 self with England and felt towards Germany as a 
 man does when a thief snatches at his watch chain. 
 
 Mary came back with the paper. 
 123
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Another advance," she said. He took the sheet 
 from her and glanced down it. "Oh, Henry," she 
 said, "supposing we don't win?" 
 
 "What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "Not 
 win?" 
 
 "They are so prepared so strong." 
 
 Henry stuck his hands into his pockets and 
 frowned. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "it's it's a machine; ma- 
 chines can't win; a machine can always be broken. 
 It's like a steam-hammer. I saw one up at Hull a 
 vast thing. It caught a fellow and killed him. . . . 
 He lived about an hour and never even moaned. I 
 remember looking at the machine and thinking what 
 an awful thing it would be if it had a soul but ma- 
 chines haven't." 
 
 Mary regarded him curiously. It was only very 
 seldom that Henry let in these sidelights on his pri- 
 vate imagination. 
 
 "But it killed the man," she hazarded. 
 
 "You haven't won," he said sententiously, "be- 
 cause you've knocked the life out of a man's body.'' 
 And then it suddenly struck him that perhaps you 
 had, and he fell to ruminating. 
 
 It was at this moment that Tristram appeared. 
 He walked slowly up the path with his eyes on the 
 ground, for all the world like a small boy about to 
 confess that he has smashed a flower-pot. 
 
 "Father," he said slowly, "I've enlisted. I'm in 
 the East Kents." 
 
 124
 
 BROWN AND SMITH 
 
 Mr. Cumbers straightened himself up. He felt 
 a glow all over his body like the glow of a cold 
 bath; he was immense with pride, but his remark 
 was characteristic. 
 
 "Why on earth," he said, "the East Kents?" 
 
 "It didn't seem to matter," said the boy listlessly. 
 For a moment Henry stared at his son curiously. 
 "Not matter? Surely the Middlesex " Sud- 
 denly he heard a low trembling voice at his side. 
 
 "The guns!" it said. "The guns they hear at 
 Dover." He caught Mary's arm as she stood, her 
 eyes fixed on her boy, her mouth, hardly moving, 
 muttering again and again: "the guns!" 
 
 "Teh!" said Henry, "what a fool I ami" He 
 kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 "Courage! Courage, little woman!" he said. 
 
 "I will," she answered and smiled; her hand, shak- 
 ing a little, found Tristram's. "I'm sorry," she said. 
 "What a foolish old mother you have and I'm so 
 proud of you, my darling!" 
 
 They went into the house. 
 
 After dinner Henry warmed to the situation; but 
 he found Tristram unresponsive. There was none 
 of the obstinate patriotism he himself felt nothing 
 apparently but the sense of an inward force 
 majeure. Henry was a little mystified. 
 
 "Why are you going then?" he said. "You hate 
 it you wouldn't rather be in one regiment than an- 
 other; no esprit de whatever it is! I can't under- 
 
 125
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 stand you." A thought suddenly struck him. "It 
 isn't that woman?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "Good God, no!" answered the boy. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," muttered his father, "the boy's 
 not doing it for nothing." 
 
 They were silent for some minutes. Then 
 Tristram, removing his cigarette rather elaborately 
 from between his lips, spoke. 
 
 "You see," he said, "when the big things happen 
 in the world we all become plain Brown and Smith; 
 if you want a place in the world you must fight for 
 it sooner or later. . . . Seems so, anyway," he 
 added awkwardly. Henry nodded and wondered 
 who had been talking to the boy. 
 
 Upstairs a mother sent prayer after prayer float- 
 ing away to God over a sea of tears. 
 
 126
 
 'NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 SOME evenings later Muriel was leaning over the 
 garden gate talking to Iris. "Tristram has enlisted," 
 she said; "he joins to-morrow." 
 
 "What! That boy a soldier!" The Russian 
 checked a laugh. . . . Courage? After all, ap- 
 parently he had it; he and Andrea, Apollo and well, 
 say Thersites, they both had this thing in common. 
 It was very odd. 
 
 "I knew he'd go," Muriel was saying. "It will 
 be awful." 
 
 "Are you very fond of him?" asked the other. 
 
 "Of course I am. Why should I try to under- 
 stand his infatuation for you if I wasn't? You see, 
 Iris, I've been thinking lately. You've not got every- 
 thing, you know." 
 
 Iris laughed. 
 
 "Of course not," she said. "Whoever imagined 
 I had?" 
 
 "I did," answered the girl simply. "Everything 
 comes down to how much you've got to give in the 
 end. Tristram's found he can give something, so 
 he's gone to give it. ... You've lots of things to 
 
 127
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 give beauty and laughter and things; but I well, 
 I'm not particularly pretty, and I'm too sensible to be 
 really clever, but I bet I could sit opposite Tristram 
 for forty years and he'd never know I'd changed. I 
 shall know how to be an old woman." 
 
 "Shan't I?" asked Iris. 
 
 "Oh, I hope you will," said Muriel seriously, 
 "otherwise you're going to be awfuly unhappy. 
 Sometimes," she added suddenly, "I don't see any 
 difference between ordering butter and writing an 
 epic; don't you feel the war's going to make every- 
 body awfully important? I mean all the people who 
 don't count because they're ordinary." 
 
 Iris nodded. 
 
 "I dare say," she said. But the suggestion an- 
 noyed her for all that. A great many people find 
 the oxygen of their lives in imagining that they are 
 extraordinary. Muriel went away, busy on little 
 things, and Iris took Andrea's latest letter up from 
 her bureau. He studiously avoided mention of the 
 war in which he was engaged. His letter was full of 
 hopes that she was not suffering any inconvenience. 
 It was a letter that made her like him more than 
 ever, but she put it away with a feeling that he was 
 engaged on a business which he never expected her 
 to understand. This assumption of man makes 
 women mad maddest when it is true. Several un- 
 important ornaments got broken before Iris became 
 herself again. It was characteristic of her that, how- 
 ever furious she became, she never smashed anything 
 
 128
 
 "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 that was really beautiful. It would have gone far 
 towards redeeming her character if she had. She 
 remembered suddenly that she had an appointment 
 with the Reverend John. Madders had enlisted her 
 for work on the committee for his matinee. The 
 committee had been a little shocked; a great deal 
 had been said privately about English charities being 
 run by aliens, for needless to say Iris had very quickly 
 taken the lead in everything. Madders had pointed 
 out that her special knowledge of the theatre made 
 her indispensable. Iris had hinted at having been 
 "on the stage," and of course no one imagined her 
 as anything else than a " Stella internazionale." Now 
 she was taking the programme for the Reverend 
 John's approval. It was a subtle testimonial to the 
 old gentleman's personality that everything in his 
 parish came naturally under the patronage of the 
 church. As a churchman the Reverend John was 
 possibly taking money under false pretences, but as 
 a professional friend he was worth more than his. 
 four hundred and fifty pounds a year. Like most 
 great men, he had bad habits. He used to talk to 
 his cat. He was arguing with this animal when Iris 
 was announced, and, as he never cut off a train of 
 thought on anyone's behalf, she stood in the door- 
 way some seconds listening to the end of the 
 dialectic. 
 
 " 'E's often this way," said Mrs. Jallop, in ex- 
 planation as she disappeared. "Cat," the Reverend 
 John was saying, "you deserve a certain amount of 
 
 129
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 clerical confidence; after all, the Egyptians set you 
 very high, and although I cannot agree with their 
 theology though on its political side I believe it was 
 not without its advantages yet I cannot at the same 
 time bring myself to regard you merely as a cat; it 
 appears does it not? that I am an exceedingly 
 foolish old man and ought to be defrocked." The 
 cat turned over dreamily in its comfortable sleep. 
 Perhaps it remembered in a vague sort of way hav- 
 ing heard this sort of thing before, many years ago 
 in Thebes or Alexandria. "A great many big little 
 things are happening on this planet, my dear cat, and 
 I have a quaint idea that you, with those absurd great 
 amber eyes, keep looking at the solar system and 
 laughing at our travails. You're often out at night, 
 aren't you?" He looked up suddenly and saw Iris. 
 
 "Come in! Come in!" he said, quite unabashed. 
 "This is my cat, an excellent conversationalist. He 
 never contradicts, partly because he has no concep- 
 tion of what I am talking about. -That is a great 
 advantage in an argument." 
 
 "I've been thinking," said Iris, "that I must have 
 appeared rather odd to you the other evening saying 
 prayers to Pan." 
 
 The Reverend John's eyes twinkled. 
 
 "I was," he said, "inexpressibly shocked." 
 
 "What is wrong with Pan?" she asked, sinking 
 onto the rug with that peculiar grace which had first 
 won the admiration of Muriel. 
 
 "Nothing whatever as far as he goes," answered 
 130
 
 "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 the clergyman; "but the pose! You really looked 
 too lovely silhouetted like that. Pardon the phrase 
 but you might have been a statue erected to the 
 memory of all the courtesans of the world." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "You have a genius," she murmured, "for saying 
 the things women shouldn't like to hear but do; 
 yet if I really was a courtesan you would not wish to 
 sit here talking to me." 
 
 "What a silly thing to say," observed the old 
 gentleman, "for if you had the soul of a courtesan 
 I shouldn't amuse you in the least. Let me see this 
 programme." 
 
 She handed him the list and he sat back. 
 
 ''Number one,'" he read, "'Song: Miss Fig- 
 gis.' ' He sighed. "A sweet woman, Miss Figgis," 
 he murmured, "a good, kindly soul and a regular 
 churchgoer, but she has two vices : 'A little grey home 
 in the West' and 'When you come home, dear.' 
 Sometimes at concerts I have great difficulty in per- 
 suading myself that these are only venial sins. 'Num- 
 ber two, Humorous duet: Ferdinand Madders, Esq., 
 and Miss Palmer.' ' He looked at Iris over his 
 glasses. "I wonder if that's wise !" he said. 
 
 "I read the song," she put in. "It's about a but- 
 terfly settling on a walking-stick, thinking it's a 
 tree. . . ." 
 
 "I can see Madders as a walking-stick," said the 
 Reverend John, "but I think Miss Palmer will find
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 her part a little beyond her. However, I suppose 
 the thing is meant to be funny, anyway?" 
 
 "Yes," said Iris. "At least, I think so I put it 
 down 'humorous' when I'd read it, but of course it 
 might be sentimental . . . that's a little difficult." 
 
 "I should simply put down : 'Number two, Ferdi- 
 nand Madders and Miss Palmer.' That should start 
 them all roaring. 'Number three, Sketch' " he 
 paused inquiringly. 
 
 "It's one Mrs. Douglas from that house with the 
 check path wrote. It's awful, but she's on the com- 
 mittee and it'll have to be done." Iris sighed heavily 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " 'Number four,' ' went on the clergyman, 
 1 'Recitation: Madame Iranovna.' ' 
 
 "It's in French," she replied. "It's very beauti- 
 ful I've done it many times abroad." 
 
 "I am sure it will be delightful," he said. A mis- 
 chievous twinkle in her eye, for all the world like 
 that of a child who is going to knock down its play- 
 mate's house of cards, did not escape him. 
 
 "Perhaps," he murmured, "it is as well that it is 
 in French." 
 
 Her lips set obstinately. 
 
 "Perhaps it is," she said. 
 
 He sat for some seconds regarding her. The 
 humorous, mobile mouth twitched a little in the cor- 
 ner; the fine old eyes under their big brows danced 
 a little jig at some secret delight. He seemed to her 
 all of a sudden like some Titan schoolmaster sitting 
 
 132
 
 "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 upon an eminence and watching with kindly eyes the 
 peccadilloes of his pupils. Surely, she thought, he 
 understood how cramped she felt in this place how 
 hopelessly narrow and uninteresting all these people 
 appeared to her who had held a rover ticket in the 
 world's promenades since the moment of her birth. 
 A full consciousness of her imprisonment suddenly 
 swept over her. She flushed with one of her sudden 
 fits of anger. 
 
 "Why should I truckle to their ideas of what is 
 correct?" she muttered. "This place doesn't set the 
 world's fashions. Who are these people this Miss 
 Figgis and Mrs. Douglas ? They've never been any- 
 where or done anything. The biggest adventure of 
 their lives is when they go to the altar and swear to 
 do things they haven't the least intention of doing. 
 If people are beautiful they call it vulgar to make the 
 
 most of it they they oh, look at their 
 
 houses I Mirrors on the mantelpieces every one of 
 them like hats. Everybody's house here looks like 
 a wedding present. They don't care, so they think 
 it doesn't matter ! And the furniture ! Oh they 
 they have fumed-oak minds!" Her anger suddenly 
 overcame her. "And this stupid war has pinned me 
 down in this horrible place with flat-looking women 
 and podgy men and tidy children ! Nothing's more 
 frightful than a tidy child they're all tidy tidy 
 minds tidy morals fools! ignorant fools! Oh I 
 hate them all I hate them 1" And she smashed to 
 atoms, on the fender rail, a china ash-tray. 
 
 133
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Now you'd better put yourself in the corner," 
 said the Reverend John, kicking the pieces into the 
 grate. 
 
 She recovered her temper and looked at him 
 quizzically. 
 
 "You have my late husband's failing," she said; 
 "he always behaved like a gentleman. If you really 
 wanted to do me any good you ought to beat me." 
 
 "Oh, no," murmured the old gentleman, "you 
 would love it." He picked up a piece of the broken 
 china. "I'm afraid," he said, "that you are rather 
 proud of your temper." 
 
 "You treat me like a child," she said, and turned 
 her face half way from him. "I suppose," she added, 
 "that you think there is no serious place in the world 
 for a person like me." 
 
 The Reverend John shrugged his shoulders. "My 
 dear lady," he said, "I am not running the universe." 
 
 "Do you know," she returned, "that I think you 
 are I I think you and your kind always run the 
 universe. I suppose outside this place no one's ever 
 heard of you?" 
 
 "Why should they?" 
 
 "But," her brows knitted, "have you never had 
 ambitions to be an archbishop or something?" 
 
 Again the look of pain came into his eyes which 
 she had seen there once before, when she had said 
 she would have liked to have been his daughter. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he answered, "I have had ambitions I 
 But not to be an archbishop." 
 
 134
 
 "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 "Not so much ambitions," she said slowly, "as 1 
 ideals?" 
 
 "You are a very shrewd woman," he acquiesced. 
 
 "And they have all let you down?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he agreed, "all except one." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "That I still have my ideals." He laughed and 
 shook himself characteristically. "We have become 
 very serious all of a sudden," he said; "and do you 
 know the time?" 
 
 "You want me to go?" 
 
 "Not at all I only thought " 
 
 "Time means nothing to me," she said moodily. 
 "That's another testimonial to my uselessness." She 
 sighed. "I used to be so happy before I met all these 
 dull people," she added. The sentence was almost 
 a question. 
 
 "I am beginning to think," said the clergyman, 
 "that you have come to me professionally!" 
 
 "What, to save my soul?" 
 
 "No, no," he chuckled, "women never want their 
 souls saved they simply want to be told there is no 
 necessity for it!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm frank enough," she said. "I love beauty 
 and luxury, and myself, and oh, yes, I like hav- 
 ing happy people round me, and I'm fairly honest and 
 very selfish and jolly glad I'm beautiful. I often 
 wonder whether ugly women mind being ugly," So 
 she rattled on, laying bare her whole self to him 
 for she at least did not deceive herself in this mat- 
 
 135
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 ter, and the old man sat opposite her, blowing smoke 
 rings haphazard out of the bowl of his pipe and 
 deeply interested in her recital. 
 
 "I want," she said at last, going to the window 
 and stretching out her arms, "I want to be first wher- 
 ever I am, I want to be admired adored wor- 
 shipped!" 
 
 "And later on," murmured the old gentleman, 
 "you will want to be loved." 
 
 "Loved?" she echoed, "why, I've always been 
 loved men have loved me since I was in my teens." 
 
 "Exactly," he said enigmatically, "you have hardly 
 been given a chance of being loved." 
 
 She looked at him in silence puzzled. A drone 
 like a bee caught the old man's ear and he half turned 
 his head. 
 
 "Why," she laughed, "I'm engaged to be " 
 
 She broke off the sentence like a thread. "What's 
 that?" she said suddenly. "Did you hear it?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "There it is again," she said quickly. "Oh, look !" 
 
 A beam of light shot up away to the south, whirled 
 madly round the sky for some seconds and vanished. 
 
 The old gentleman was at the window it was a 
 still, calm night, and on the balcony they could hear 
 plainly the buzzing of that bee. Then it stopped, 
 and there was silence. Only for a second, however. 
 The sound came from the street now a whistle 
 piercing seeming to saw the brain in two; a thin 
 
 136
 
 "NIGHT OPERATIONS" 
 
 wail, broken off short, and the indescribable sound 
 of people running. 
 
 And then again, silence. 
 
 "It is," said Iris vaguely, "the not knowing where 
 it is " 
 
 Then the searchlights turned the night piebald. 
 ''You are not afraid?" asked the old man. 
 "I'm not a fool," she answered; "of course I'm 
 afraid!" 
 
 He watched her staring up into the sky, afraid 
 but without a tremble, and nodded to himself 
 thoughtfully. "Running to waste," he murmured. 
 But she didn't hear him. A new sound, seemingly 
 just above their heads, intervened. Someone was 
 throwing peas against a drum. 
 
 'One of our airmen," he said ; "a machine-gun. I 
 
 think those fellows are " He did not finish the 
 
 sentence; a dull roar, telescoping into the clatter of 
 a falling building, shattered it. Almost immediately 
 away on their right a red flame leapt into the sky; 
 it subsided, but a broad glow, hinting unmentionable 
 cruelties, remained. 
 
 "Oh, my God!" muttered Iris. 
 
 "And you, too, claim Him," whispered the Rev- 
 erend John to himself. She did not catch what he 
 said, but she heard him speaking. 
 
 "And you," she said; "aren't you afraid?" 
 
 The old man nearly blushed. 
 
 "I am almost ashamed to say," he replied, "that 
 137
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 I am not. But, then, I am an old man, and 
 
 death " 
 
 Another crash cut into his sentence. 
 
 "Yes?" she said. 
 
 "I sometimes think," he went on enigmatically, 
 "that it is a good thing that the young don't see what 
 a very little thing death is. It would be terrible," 
 he added, "if you were not afraid." 
 
 She shivered a little and laughed, her eyes on the 
 
 red glow. 
 
 "What about the matinee?" she asked. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I leave it to you you are quite 
 capable of deciding whether it's worth while doing 
 the naughty recitation or not." 
 
 "I think it is," she cried defiantly. 
 
 "Then you ought to do it," he replied, and catch- 
 ing his eye she was surprised to see that he was speak- 
 ing seriously. 
 
 And she wondered still more later on when she 
 remembered that at that moment they were both, 
 quite possibly, on the edge of being blown straight 
 out of life. 
 
 138
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 SHE wrote a long letter to Andrea describing the 
 night's experiences, but tore it up when she realised 
 that for him this sort of thing must be a common- 
 place. An explosion such as she had heard on the 
 vicar's balcony might kill him. It was the first time 
 she had seriously entertained this proposition. 
 Andrea might not come back to her. With a kind of 
 fear she began to wonder whether she really cared 
 any more than at the death of a dear friend. A 
 curious twist in her mind made her shut the door 
 to be private with this rather terrible idea. She 
 turned it over all ways. 
 
 Did she love him? And if she only loved him as 
 she had told him, was that giving marriage a chance? 
 Mrs. Cumbers, for instance that sort of thing was 
 really the basis on which a marriage was possible. 
 She felt she had been loving the big Russian in pic- 
 tures, as it were as if she knew him only as a series 
 of photographs in different poses. Her mind, re- 
 calling him, recalled only his handsome face his 
 great presence, his strength. She remembered read- 
 ing m books that lovers recalled mostly, little ways, 
 
 139
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 little tricks of character, little sympathetic gestures. 
 Had Andrea none of these, or had she never looked 
 for them? Was he really only a photograph to her? 
 
 With a sudden gust of irritation she swept these 
 ideas from her mind. It did not matter, she thought, 
 so long as they made each other happy. The old 
 clergyman was to blame for this self-analysis, and, 
 after all, his was a very circumscribed existence; you 
 can't just make a set of rules for life. 
 
 She decided as she played with her hair opposite 
 the mirror that all these disturbing thoughts were 
 the outcome of being away from her element. How 
 Andrea would roar with laughter, for instance, at 
 the bare idea of her being of less importance than 
 Mrs. Cumbers ! And Andrea knew the big world. 
 
 The maid opened the door and announced the ar- 
 rival of Tristram. Iris chuckled and gave orders 
 that he was to be shown up. He came in as a private 
 in an infantry regiment, and took Iris off her guard. 
 She laughed unrestrainedly as she held out her hand. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "you do look funny! And isn't 
 your father pleased now they've cut your hair. It 
 would never have been done otherwise unless he'd 
 sent you to prison." 
 
 Tristram blushed. 
 
 "They have sent me to prison," he muttered. 
 
 She was sorry. 
 
 "Are you an unhappy warrior then?" she asked 
 softly. After all, it did seem a shame to expect this 
 
 140
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 quick-change work of the untidy romanticist. Hs 
 caught all the old witchery of her voice. 
 
 "Oh, Iris," he said, "I I know you don't care 
 for me; sometimes I believe you laugh at me; but" ^ 
 he straightened himself up "I have the right to 
 adore you, and I just wanted to tell you that I'm 
 crossing next week." 
 
 She nodded and, merely to fill in the silence, he 
 went on. 
 
 "I had an idea you might think I'd got more " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "Guts?" she supplied unhesitatingly. 
 
 "There you are," he cried in a sort of despair at 
 her fascination; "no other woman could have said 
 that without making one scrimp." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "It's a good word," she said, "part of what was 
 your Merrie England!" 
 
 "I wish I believed more in the Merrie England 
 idea," he muttered, "that would be a ripping thing 
 to suffer for." He looked up. "And I do suffer," 
 he added; "I seem to suffer hells which other fellows 
 miss; I mean things like putting out all one's kit in 
 front of everyone for the officer to inspect that sort 
 of thing; I feel kind of degraded. And yet," he 
 went on, "there's an 'Honourable' in our platoon, and 
 he doesn't care a damn." 
 
 "Oh," she laughed again, "you're improving; 
 you've said hell and damn in the last ten seconds !" 
 
 "There you are," he protested, "the polish gets 
 141
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 knocked off one's soul." He picked up his hat. "I 
 oughtn't to have come in," he said, "but I suppose 
 I'm awfully weak I felt I couldn't go without see- 
 ing you again." 
 
 She felt childishly pleased and ashamed of being 
 pleased at the same time. Yet it was not like Iris 
 to be ashamed. 
 
 "I hope you'll have the best of luck," she said. 
 
 "That means a cushy wound," he returned gloom- 
 ily, and then hastily corrected his slang. "I mean one 
 that brings you home but isn't serious." 
 
 She went out with him as far as the front door. 
 
 "If you ever do think of me," he said, "you can 
 think of me in a frightful funk being sick!" And 
 with a slight smile he vanished down the path. It 
 happened that Mary Cumbers, that very ordinary- 
 looking mother, was passing at the moment. She 
 -aught Iris's eye and smiled then she turned a beam- 
 ing countenance towards her son, who was crossing 
 next week. 
 
 "I'm not sure," thought Iris to herself, back in the 
 little room with the grape-coloured curtains, "that 
 those two are not braver than Andrea 1" And then 
 she laughed because, of course, this was absurd. 
 
 She went upstairs to make her toilet, fully an hour 
 before the matinee committee meeting. 
 
 Miss Figgis had lent her drawing-room for the 
 occasion. She was forty-eight years old and possessed 
 a local reputation for being always "bright." Her 
 ignorance on all subjects was stupendous and her con- 
 
 142
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 versation puerile all of which, I daresay, she knew 
 well enough herself, and only babbled and giggled in 
 her interminable way because that fearful brightness 
 was expected of her. A very ordinary character, 
 such as are dotted all over the world in little lonely 
 homes in suburbs and cathedral cities; their houses 
 are filled with photographs in silver frames but they 
 have no real friends, and when they die a married 
 sister or a cousin appears from nowhere, in black 
 that has been used before, and sees them into the 
 churchyard in time to catch the last train home. No- 
 body guessed that Miss Figgis sometimes slept at 
 night with a towel rolled up in her arms. In the dark 
 and when you are half asleep it is not difficult to 
 imagine that there is a baby lying there your baby 
 dependent on your arms and the warmth of your 
 body. By some curious rule of contraries that towel 
 helped Miss Figgis a great deal in her next day's 
 brightness. 
 
 There she was, counting cups on a tea-tray in the 
 corner of the drawing-room and making a running 
 fire of conversation over her shoulder. 
 
 A small sour-looking old man stood on the hearth- 
 rug, clenching and unclenching his knobbly fingers in 
 a way that gave one a curious feeling that he would 
 like to have them at somebody's throat. And per- 
 haps this was true. He was a cruel old man, rough, 
 rude, and like so many undersized creatures over- 
 bearing. Sir George Osser was his name, and his 
 grandfather had acquired the baronetcy by honest 
 
 143
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 toil. His father, a lesser man, had not been able 
 to squander the whole of his vast fortune and had 
 left to his son a weak constitution and enough money 
 to ensure an idle existence. 
 
 Ferdinand Madders was astride a chair, demon- 
 strating to Mrs. Douglas the right way to sit a 
 horse; curiously enough, this is far more easily done 
 upon a chair than upon a horse. 
 
 The Reverend John had not arrived. Immediately 
 she entered the room Iris experienced that feeling 
 of wild irritation and the desire to do something out- 
 , rageous which had first animated her when she called 
 on Henry Cumbers. Miss Figgis's bright welcome 
 and a silly joke that she made about Iris being a 
 "pro" only served to make her more determined than 
 ever to scare or shock the company into some sort 
 of vitality. 
 
 "Well," came the thin staccato voice of Sir George, 
 "why can't we do something?" 
 
 "We're waiting for the vicar, Sir George," an- 
 swered Miss Figgis. "Somebody will have to have 
 an odd cup," she giggled, and Iris noticed that the 
 old man's fingers gripped at nothing with an even 
 fiercer intensity. His nerves were evidently all to 
 pieces. 
 
 Mrs. Douglas came forward from the window 
 a tall, thin woman who had, quite by accident, made 
 a reputation for intellectual activity by murmuring 
 at a tea party that there "was something to be said 
 for Atheism." Somebody later had referred to the 
 
 144
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 "clever" Mrs. Douglas, and after that she had got 
 into the habit of shutting herself suddenly into her 
 bedroom for an hour, saying that "something had 
 come to her," and she must not be disturbed because 
 she would be writing. Her husband had been 
 drowned in a South American river, whither he had 
 gone to find out whether a scheme for making certain 
 gaseous mud into briquettes was feasible. After 
 his death Mrs. Douglas took to calling this com- 
 mercial fiasco "the call of the wild," and actually suc- 
 ceeded in building round the deceased speculator an 
 atmosphere of adventure and romance. 
 
 "I was rehearsing yesterday my little play," she 
 began ; "it went very well, considering all things. But 
 Joyce Sadler is rather a stick, you know. She has no 
 atmosphere. It's so essential, don't you think?" 
 
 Miss Figgis turned to Iris. 
 
 "That's your department," she said, "you've been 
 on the stage!" 
 
 "Yes," answered the Russian automatically, "you 
 want atmosphere." 
 
 "I want," went on Mrs. Douglas, "so much more 
 than that girl can give me in the voice I When she 
 says that final line, 'Oh, if I could see my soul I 
 Would I know it? Should I grasp it?', I want her 
 to express all the yearning, the almost hypersensitive 
 longing for self-analysis of a young girl." 
 
 The voice of Sir George Osser broke in. 
 
 "Rubbish!" he said. "Excuse an old man's 
 straight language, but you're talking rubbish ! What 
 
 H5
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 you want to do is to make 'em laugh make 'em cry 
 with laughter. Make 'em ill with it. Hypersensitive 
 fiddlesticks!" His fingers were like eels twisting in 
 the air and his eyes glittered. He knew he had 
 hurt her. 
 
 "It's easy to see, Sir George, that you have no feel- 
 ing for literature !" she said. 
 
 "I daresay," said the old man, "I come of a race 
 of sensible men. Where's Heslop? It's confounded- 
 ly hot in this room, Miss Figgis !" 
 
 That lady apologised and opened the window. Iris 
 found herself wondering why it was that the rude old 
 fellow could dominate these people. She was inter- 
 ested to see how the Reverend John would deal with 
 him. A maid brought in the tea and Miss Figgis 
 presided, rapidly firing off a score or so of thin but 
 lady-like witticisms to cover Mrs. Douglas's ruffled 
 feelings. 
 
 "Tea !" snapped Sir George, "no. I never drink 
 it. With your leave I'll smoke a cigar." 
 
 "Oh, do," Said Miss Figgis, "do." 
 
 He took a large case from his pockets and opened 
 it. 
 
 "I hate cigars," said Iris, speaking to a bronze 
 model of the Marble Arch on the sideboard. "The 
 smell always gives me a headache. It's a disgusting 
 habit, I think." 
 
 Sir George shut the case with a snap, and put it 
 back in his pocket. His spare body seemed to writhe 
 with anger. What he was going to say no one will 
 
 146
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 ever know, for at this moment the vicar was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 What the old baronet actually said was "Late, 
 Heslop," in his very surliest tones. The Reverend 
 John regarded him benignly. 
 
 "Yes," he said, in a caressing voice, "I owe very 
 many apologies to my hostess." 
 
 Iris noticed the faintest possible stress upon the last 
 three words, and looking across at the old baronet 
 she saw that he had noticed it too. None of the 
 world's little contretemps seemed beyond the powers 
 of this old gentleman. He was, she made up her 
 mind, the ideal clergyman. Somehow, she thought, it 
 was a pity that he could not have mattered a great 
 deal more than he did. 
 
 "You ought to have been a diplomat," she whis- 
 pered, as he crossed her on his way to Miss Figgis. 
 
 "No no," he answered, "I have not sufficient in- 
 telligence to be consistently a humbug!" 
 
 She watched him making kindly and quite trivial 
 conversation with his hostess, making her think she 
 was really a "grand dame" mistress of a salon 
 centre of a "circle" anything and everything but 
 what she was an ineffectually good woman. 
 
 The magic of the man was undeniable; Sir George 
 Osser was silent; his fingers whirled less like the locks 
 of Medusa, and more like a nervous human being. 
 Even Ferdinand Madders was behaving like a gentle- 
 man with a plate of fancy biscuits in the corner. 
 
 Tea over, the business of the afternoon started. 
 147
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 k The Reverend John, strictly impartial, sat at the head 
 of the table with the proposed programme in his 
 hand. He ran through the items, each of which was 
 solemnly passed by the committee with all the weight 
 of a cabinet meeting. 
 
 "No. 9," he said gravely, "Miss Bessfield: Amer- 
 ican dance the Slinky Slide." He paused for the 
 usual approbation. Ferdinand Madders was on the 
 point of saying "splendid" (he said this to every 
 proposal) when he caught the eye of Mrs. Douglas, 
 and saw that there were breakers ahead. He pre- 
 tended to study his programme intensely. 
 
 "I hope," said Mrs. Douglas, in a voice like the 
 beginning of a hail storm, "that that item is nowhere 
 icar my little play." 
 
 "I gather from my list," said the Reverend John, 
 "that it is first cousin, twice removed 1" 
 
 "But first cousin, all the same," murmured Iris 
 to herself. Mrs. Douglas crinkled her papers 
 nervously. 
 
 "It savours to me of revue," she said, her lips be- 
 coming a tense wire. 
 
 Sir George Osser gave a hoarse guffaw. 
 
 "Well, thank God!" he said, "there will be some- 
 thing for people to laugh at." 
 
 Mrs. Douglas became more nervous than ever. 
 
 "I I feel," she began, "that a a committee com- 
 posed of that is to say, constituted as " Her 
 
 parliamentary manner deserted her at this point. 
 "What I mean is," she finished in a rush, "that we 
 
 148
 
 CHARITY MATINEE IDOLS 
 
 can't have anything like revue in the entertain- 
 ment." 
 
 "Why not?" asked the Reverend John politely. 
 
 "Well," returned the indignant lady, "it is surely 
 not very dignified!" 
 
 "I agree," he returned, "that revue is not digni- 
 fied; but I doubt whether the happiest moments of 
 human beings are ever dignified." 
 
 "Surely," pursued the lady, who had written "In 
 Quest of Her Soul," "you do not wish the entertain- 
 ment to become vulgar, Mr. Heslop? . . . You do 
 not want a lot of common people laughing at com- 
 mon jokes?" 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 "I want we all want," he said, "a great deal of 
 money for the Red Cross, whose bandages are wrapt 
 round some very low-class people, I believe I" 
 
 "Hear, hear!" said Sir George Osser, beaming 
 with pleasure at the discomfiture of Mrs. Douglas. 
 "It's no use being lady-like in war-time 1" 
 
 "Exactly," answered the Reverend John; "no 
 more use than being war-like in a drawing-room!" 
 
 The old baronet glued his eyes to his paper; his 
 fingers were like rubber strands in a furnace. 
 
 Mrs. Douglas was determined to object to this 
 item of the programme, and something told her she 
 must rise to make her statement. She rose, trembling 
 violently. Iris was dumb with sheer humour of the 
 picture. 
 
 149
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "I beg to propose," said Mrs, Douglas, "that this 
 item be hereby deleted !" 
 
 The vicar's eyes twinkled like live coals, but he 
 made no sign. 
 
 "The motion is put to the committee," he said. 
 "Those in favour will please signify in the usual 
 way." 
 
 Madders, who was going to a tennis party of Mrs. 
 Douglas's the following week, held up his hand; Miss 
 Figgis, who always followed at once the line that 
 her next-door neighbour took, held up hers also. 
 
 "As chairman," said the vicar, "I refuse to vote 
 on the question; the motion is therefore carried!" 
 
 Mrs. Douglas leant back in her chair with the ex- 
 pression which the Iron Duke ought to have worn 
 after Waterloo; Sir George Osser was heard to 
 mutter "damned nonsensical rubbish," after which 
 he took no notice of the proceedings for the rest of 
 the afternoon, an attitude which, as the Reverend 
 John said to Iris afterwards, at least had the merit 
 of showing a definite point of view. 
 
 Things went on after this with a comparative 
 smoothness. To her great disappointment Iris's 
 French recitation was passed without any opposition 
 whatever. This was partly because no one knew the 
 language (although everyone suspected it), and 
 partly because on these occasions, once there has 
 been a disagreement, everything that follows is ac- 
 cepted, whatever its merits. 
 
 Iris and the Vicar walked back together. 
 150
 
 "Mrs. Douglas," she burst out all of a sudden, 
 "makes me sick!" 
 
 "I often feel," answered the Reverend John, "that 
 God has designed some people merely as emetics." 
 
 "And the others?" she queried. 
 
 "The world's food," he answered laconically. "It 
 is our job to be digested. If you are thrown up by 
 the world, you have failed just like a lobster salad, 
 when one has taken no exercise." 
 
 "I don't like being compared to a lobster salad," 
 she protested. 
 
 "You might do worse," he returned. "I used to 
 spend many an inspired half-hour at Scot's when I 
 was young." 
 
 Even to Iris his jest and his earnest were a little 
 too kaleidoscopic. At the parting of their ways she 
 turned to him seriously. 
 
 "I'm going to do that naughty recitation," she 
 said. 
 
 "Certainly I" he replied. "Has it not been passed 
 by our committee?" 
 
 If he smiled when they parted she did not notice 
 it; in fact, the non-existence of that smile cost her 
 half an hour of her usual sleep. A quaint man a 
 very quaint man ! An Idealist a clergyman ! And 
 yet "a fellow of infinite jest !" She smoked a thought- 
 ful cigarette when she got home.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT 
 
 HENRY CUMBERS had had a long and trying day. At 
 a ridiculously early hour he had stood, shivering and 
 soulless, at a London terminus and watched a long 
 train slide away with his son on board. As the last 
 carriage disappeared he felt for the first time how 
 little he was master of his own fate. He had a con- 
 fused remembrance of murmuring inadequate com- 
 fort into Mary's ear a cup of horrible coffee at a 
 "good pull-up" a raging sense of the cruelty of Lon- 
 don in the early morning and a desire to get to th& 
 office as soon as possible. He remembered Mary's 
 last words as he put her into the Tube: "Isn't it 
 funny everything going on just the same?" 
 
 Well, that was a woman's point of view, he sup- 
 posed they were always their own universe. 
 
 There was a big rush on at the office that day and 
 Henry was vaguely thankful for this. Now he was 
 sitting in his little garden turning things over in his 
 mind. It struck him as curious that when he had 
 wanted to say proudly to Jenner, the sub-manager: 
 "My boy crossed to-day," he found it impossible. 
 For some ridiculous reason it seemed a private affair. 
 
 152
 
 TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT 
 
 He struck a match and lit his pipe. 
 "World's a queer place," he said aloud. "I'm 
 bothered if I can get the hang of it." 
 
 Tristram had been the first big thrill in Henry's 
 life. Quite vividly, as if it had been last night, he 
 could remember Mary turning over on her pillow 
 and whispering to him of the coming baby. And all 
 he could say was "By George !" That was a clever 
 remark, he thought to himself when he was feeling 
 that he could burst with pride, when he would not 
 have changed places with a single human being! He 
 remembered its inadequacy with a smile. How dif- 
 ferent his child was going to be from any other! 
 What a genius ! What a giant ! 
 
 Later on, after his eighth birthday, Tristram had 
 become rather a disappointment. He somehow 
 seemed to get like other people's children all in a 
 moment. Rather irritating; and then these last two 
 years when he wouldn't cut his hair and really he'd 
 been awfully queer about the war. 
 Why on earth the East Kents? 
 At this point in his ruminations Mary came out 
 of the house. She sat beside him on the little wooden 
 seat, and for a few moments neither spoke. 
 Then she turned. 
 
 "Henry," she said, "which direction is France 
 from here?" 
 
 "Our house faces north," he began, then fell to 
 muttering and drawing on the back of an envelope. 
 At last he pointed over the corner of the box-hedge. 
 
 153
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "It's somewhere overe there," he said. 
 
 Mary looked in the direction he showed her for 
 some moments without speaking. 
 
 "Henry," she said suddenly, "do you think you 
 could find me something to do some work, I 
 mean?" 
 
 "Work?" 
 
 "Yes it's not so bad for you, dear. You've the 
 office and lots of things you've got to do. I feel 
 I can't sit about here all day thinking about Tris- 
 tram!" 
 
 "No," said Henry slowly, "I see what you mean. 
 We must think about it." He realised that he had 
 fallen into that too frequent compromise of marriage 
 where a man begins to regard his wife as a bad 
 habit which he is too old to get out of. He remem- 
 bered with a start that he really loved Mary, and 
 he took her hand awkwardly. "My poor darling," 
 he said. 
 
 She smiled and drew his arm gently round her 
 waist. 
 
 "This is how we used to sit at Bognor on our 
 honeymoon. Do you remember?" 
 
 "Of course I do," he answered, with a disturbing 
 sense of having progressed since those vulgar days. 
 
 "You wore white flannels and a blue and yellow 
 blazer. I wonder what has become of that blazer?" 
 
 "I don't know," he said. 
 
 "I do," she returned, "it's in my bottom drawer. 
 I don't care what people say about sentiment, Henry. 
 
 154
 
 TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT 
 
 I think it's it's perfectly snobbish to be ashamed of 
 loving people." 
 
 "But why that blazer?" 
 
 "It was so gay and young I thought of giving 
 it to Tristram, but he said the colours jarred on him, 
 so so I just didn't." She looked away again over 
 that corner of the box-hedge beyond which that same 
 boy on whom the colours of the blazer had jarred, 
 was going to see some pictures infinitely less artistic 
 but just as real ! 
 
 "Oh, Henry!" she gasped suddenly, "how can 
 anyone make a war?" 
 
 "No one man could make a war," he returned, 
 "not if he had any imagination." 
 
 "Because," added Mary, "in his mind's eye he'd 
 see the battlefield and the dead and the maimed and 
 the dying!" 
 
 "No," said Henry, with one of his rare bursts of 
 intuition, "because he would see people like us sitting 
 here and just sitting here! It's not the dead or 
 the wounded he'd have nightmares about it's the 
 people who'd have died twenty times, not only for 
 their lives but even for their happiness !" 
 
 "Henry dear," she asked, "do you really feel as 
 much as all that?" 
 
 "Fathers don't talk," he muttered vaguely; "it's 
 not expected of 'em." 
 
 "All the same," she said, "it's different for a 
 mother; of course you can't understand that." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I understand it?" said Henry 
 
 155
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 irritably. "Do you think men don't know that much 
 about their children? The man is at G.H.Q., but it's 
 the wife who goes over the top." It came naturally 
 to him now to talk Army talk. "A married man 
 starts as his wife's friend but when the children 
 come he only ranks as an accomplice !" 
 
 Mary squeezed his hand and rose. 
 
 "Are you coming up soon, dear?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm going to finish my pipe," he returned. She 
 turned back at the end of the garden, and saw the 
 glow of his match. 
 
 "I wonder," she thought to herself, as she climbed 
 the stairs, "why he so often behaves like a fool, when 
 
 really " She lost herself in the problem while she 
 
 undressed. So Pagan was she in essence, that her 
 prayers from that night onward were not said at her 
 bedside as usual, but at the window, facing that cor- 
 ner of the box-hedge which Henry had said was the 
 direction in which France lay. 
 
 Iris was in a merry mood when she returned home 
 that evening. A friend of Andrea, who was attached 
 to the Russian Embassy in London had taken her out 
 to dinner, and she had recaptured for an hour or 
 two a scent of the old life which she loved so well. 
 He had been an amusing young man, full of the latest 
 gossip from the Middle East, and, which was more 
 to the point, instantly enslaved by the devices of Iris. 
 She had also had an amusing letter from Andrea, 
 written, had she only known, under circumstances of 
 the greatest discomfort and danger; and this letter, 
 
 156
 
 TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT 
 
 coupled with her evening's success, had made her 
 forget the misgivings she had lately entertained as 
 to her complete fittedness to conquer the inhabited 
 globe ; it was obvious surely, with two male creatures 
 hanging on her every whim, that there was a big 
 place in the world for such a feminine Buonaparte? 
 At her gate she sniffed the air of the summer night 
 appreciatively. A walk round the garden and a 
 cigarette before going to bed appeared a desirable 
 thing. She lit a cigarette and went through to the 
 little plot of flowers behind the house. Strolling up 
 the side of the low hedge, she caught the fitful glow 
 of Henry's pipe as he sat brooding at the end of his 
 garden. How small his life was, she thought, how 
 little he mattered how little he had seen! The 
 laughter, the lights, the luxurious food and the 
 bubbling wine which she had just left. She supposed 
 this ridiculous little man would condemn it all, as 
 extravagant and unlicensed even wicked ! 
 
 And so I dare say he would, for just as it is human 
 nature to criticise most severely the sins which we 
 do not commit ourselves, so it is equally natural to 
 condemn other people's luxuries. We all have heard 
 Brown, who has lost his two hundred a year at 
 bridge regularly for the last quarter of a century, 
 deprecating, on his committee for the Betterment of 
 the Poor, the thriftlessnes of Mrs. Jones, whose rent 
 was not forthcoming, and who had been proven be- 
 yond a shadow of doubt to have filled the stocking 
 of Jones Junior with penny toys on Christmas Ev,e. 
 
 157
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "The Happy Mean," cries Aristotle, "is the summum 
 bonum of this world," but he omitted to give a satis- 
 factory definition of what this may be, and if he had 
 had to publish his works on the royalty system, I 
 fear he would have been hard put to it for his bread 
 and butter. But Iris was not thinking nearly so 
 philosophically when she leant over the hedge and 
 cried "Hullo, Mr. Cumbers! Not in bed?" in the 
 most impertinent way possible. All that she ex- 
 perienced was an uncontrollable desire for a passage 
 of arms with her neighbour, as a final night-cap be- 
 fore she herself put her head on the pillow and slept 
 the sleep of not perhaps the just but at any rate 
 the unprejudiced. 
 
 Henry jumped, as if someone had stuck a pin into 
 him from behind. Then imagining, quite wrongly, 
 that the darkness had hidden his fright from the Rus- 
 sian, he made a great effort at dignity. 
 
 "I find the night air refreshing after a hard day 
 In the city," he said coldly. 
 
 "I expect it is," assented Iris, and then, with a mis- 
 chievous note of banter, "I hope you are coming to 
 the matinee on the twenty-third?" 
 
 Henry Cumbers felt a sort of flush of distaste 
 through his whole system. He did not pause to think 
 that she could not possibly have known how she had 
 broken in upon one of the few big emotional mo- 
 ments of his life. That little talk with Mary that 
 moment when she drew his arm round her waist 
 the blazer the whole little sentimental scene which 
 
 158
 
 TIME WHICH WAS OUT OF JOINT 
 
 under ordinary circumstances would have irritated 
 the "reserve" which he cultivated so sedulously, had 
 in the light of Tristram's departure for "over there," 
 taken on an atmosphere which was more sacred than 
 anything the churchwarden was wont to experience 
 during his duties in the House of God. Iris had un- 
 wittingly committed sacrilege. 
 
 "I do not often," he said in icy tones, "have time 
 for frivolity." And as he walked down the garden 
 path he felt suddenly that he would tell her the big 
 thing that had happened to him that day. She ought 
 to know how much some people were giving. . . . 
 He turned at the bottom of the garden and spoke 
 over his shoulder in as casual a voice as he could 
 command, "My son, Tristram, crossed to France 
 this morning." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the Russian, "he told me he was 
 going." 
 
 The sudden check in Henry Cumbers' walk was 
 not noticeable; it simply appeared as if he had 
 ignored the remark. For all that, Mary found him a 
 most restless bedfellow, even for one who was not 
 overcomposed for sleep herself. 
 
 Tristram had told that woman ! Perhaps before 
 he had told his own parents! The idea tormented 
 his father. Cumbers was one of those men who are 
 foolish enough to map out their sons' lives so much 
 possible income, so many children, so many recrea- 
 tions a circulating library, four or five theatres in 
 the year, but first, rent, water rate, gas 
 
 159
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 That is a vague expression of the method with 
 which Henry had regarded Tristram's future. It 
 had always left him with a small pecuniary margin at 
 the end of the year, and for many people, after all, 
 this is a whole morality. Muriel had seemed a woman 
 calculated to see that this margin was preserved . . . 
 and so the engagement was permissible. That was 
 the general idea, and Henry Cumbers was always to 
 be the managing director of his son's existence. 
 
 But this plan had been knocked on the head; the 
 war, of course, could not be helped, but this absurd 
 infatuation ! Henry would have expected a son of 
 his to be above such nonsense. Well, at least, he had 
 shown the woman that he did not propose to have 
 anything to do with her. The quarrel was quite 
 definite now. He hoped she was ashamed of herself, 
 but could not convince himself that this was likely. 
 His whole being seemed on edge and he felt that he 
 must vent his wrath on someone, or become 
 apoplectic. 
 
 He woke up Mary, who was sleeping as silently 
 as a baby, and besought her not to snore. 
 
 Mary, who knew perfectly well that she had been 
 doing nothing of the sort, but who had an extremely 
 good idea as to the duties of a wife, assured him 
 that she would not offend again and the mahogany 
 clock on the mantelpiece ticked on ironically. 
 
 1 60
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 IN due course the matinee was given. A terrible 
 sense of importance, quite chilling in its effect, made 
 the members of the committee altogether unap- 
 proachable. They stood about in the gangways and 
 in the promenade of the local hall covering a sensa- 
 tion of terrified responsibility with that patronage of 
 familiar friends which, in committees, passeth the 
 patronage of Empresses. 
 
 The Reverend John occupied a box with Mrs. 
 Douglas and her friends. The authoress of "In 
 Quest of Her Soul" (who was experiencing the most 
 agonising pains over a production that any theatrical 
 person could have told her was bound to be still- 
 born) endeavoured to conceal her condition under 
 a running fire of criticisms of the audience. Looking 
 down into the stalls, a sensation which she very sel- 
 dom experienced, she remarked that the sight of peo- 
 ple in the mass made her despair. 
 
 The Reverend John shook his head. 
 
 "I don't agree with you," he said. "These people 
 could go to a really good show for half the money, 
 and yet they come here for the sake of the Red Cross. 
 
 161
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Personally, I think that it is very good-natured of 
 them!" 
 
 It annoyed Mrs. Douglas to be told that the 
 audience which was to be privileged to witness the 
 first performance of "In Quest of Her Soul" was 
 "good-natured," and she relapsed into a kind of 
 neurotic silence until her play should begin a con- 
 summation which it is very possible the Reverend 
 John had in the back of his mind when he made the 
 remark. 
 
 He looked out of his box upon the ladies and 
 gentlemen, local aristocracy, taking their seats; and, 
 as he looked, he marked and noted in his kindly mind 
 the comely outspread before his eyes. There were 
 Mrs. Wallingford-Jones, whose entire being was 
 wrapped up in her hyphen; Mr. Jugg, who gloried in 
 the noneuphonic quality of his name and used to 
 hold forth whenever possible on its essential Saxon 
 origin with a pride of country which even Henry 
 Cumbers would find hard to beat. That Mr. Jugg's 
 mother had been a Pole and his great-uncle a Span- 
 iard with a dash of Moor, did not disturb this harm- 
 less little idiosyncrasy in the least. It is always amus- 
 ing to watch people coming into a public place. See 
 men and women entering a restaurant, for instance ! 
 They are all acting a part. Men who, in their own 
 drawing-room Putney or Grosvenor Square are 
 able to behave quite naturally (or, at least, as natur- 
 ally as any collection of human beings allows us to 
 behave) here experience a difficulty as to what to 
 
 162
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 do with their hands, and betray either an unusual 
 courtesy towards their wives, or an overdone fa- 
 miliarity with their surroundings. They exhibit all 
 the faults of the amateur actor. Thus the audience is 
 often a great deal more amusing than the play, and 
 a first-night at a fashionable theatre is an absolute 
 education in follies. Women and men preening them- 
 selves like peacocks in the desperate hope that "Lady 
 Vi" of the "Morning Looking-glass" or "Mr. Picca- 
 dilly" of "Bits and Pieces" may notice their clothes 
 or their monocles, and give them fame for a day. 
 Meanwhile "Lady Vi" is at home in her Brixton bed- 
 sitting-room diligently making up for the day after 
 to-morrow the titles she has "met" in Bond Street 
 yesterday (when she spent the day at home with a 
 bad sick-headache). "Mr. Piccadilly," at the mo- 
 ment, is having a glass of champagne with Miss 
 Flossie Silktights in her dressing-room at the Pan- 
 drome where the latest revue has achieved its yooth 
 performance. He will describe the audience at that 
 night's problem play when he gets back to his flat in 
 the Charing Cross Road after a game of billiards at 
 the club. "Why go to the beastly play?" he will say. 
 "I can get a list from the box-office of the people 
 who were there and if they weren't it fills half a 
 column, doesn't it?" And so it does, and gives a 
 great deal of pleasure to those who appear in the 
 honours list, and no small profit to him or her who 
 put them there so all is well. 
 
 And the Reverend John, looking down at the 
 163
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 matinee audience (Aldean McBarry with his theatre 
 walking-stick, the handle being a jade hyena with 
 glass eyes that could not possibly fail to be noticed, 
 and Mrs. Henry Favershore who, on these occasions, 
 stuck a paste diamond under her left eye), and 
 thanked God for human weakness, which is given to 
 us all to counteract human sorrow which is divine. 
 
 So in due course the curtain went up, and for 
 everyone under the upper circle the serious business 
 of the afternoon had ceased. 
 
 The matinee went the way of all such perform- 
 ances. The applause was a great deal too frequent 
 and too hearty to be reckoned sincere, and each per- 
 former finished his or her turn with the conviction 
 that they ought to have dedicated their lives to the 
 stage. 
 
 "In Quest of Her Soul" (thirty-three minutes of 
 sheer hysteria) evoked a tornado of clapping from 
 stalls determined to uphold a reputation for enlight- 
 enment. Mrs. Douglas turned to the Reverend 
 John, her face purple with excitement, and in a voice, 
 into which she tried her very utmost to infuse the 
 contempt of genius for popular acclamation, said: 
 "I think they felt a little of the idea, don't you?" 
 
 With a muttered prayer for forgiveness, the old 
 gentleman answered that he felt sure the house had 
 thoroughly appreciated the playlet. 
 
 Two turns later Iris was to appear. 
 
 She came on in front of black velvet curtains in a 
 simple country frock, which nevertheless somehow 
 
 164
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 jerked Suburbia, breathless and headlong, to the 
 West-End stage. She caught the vicar's eye, and 
 gave him purposely the overdeveloped smile which 
 an actress gives to a fellow-professional whom she 
 sees in a near box. The Reverend John revelled in 
 this naughtiness, but his face expressed nothing what- 
 ever. With his hands folded across his waistcoat, he 
 waited for her performance in the most clerical man- 
 ner of which he was capable. But as the Russian 
 smiled over the floats to the dark cavern beyond, she 
 knew that he had seen and that he was amused. She 
 brought her hands together in the traditional pose 
 of the unsophisticated village maiden, cocked her 
 head a little on one side, gave the slightest possible 
 wriggle of the shoulders, and announced the title of 
 her recitation. 
 
 "Monologue d'une femme mariee." 
 
 Then she smoothed down her little white frock 
 with her right hand, for all the world like Miss Jones 
 of seventeen at her first party, and began: 
 
 "J'ai eu soupe de sa gueule au bout de nuit jours, 
 Sale animal! . . ." 
 
 For some minutes the audience sat with the fixed 
 and glad smile of people who have not the slightest 
 idea of what is being said. Then, one by one, a stray 
 word here, a sound or a syllable there, remembered 
 dimly from high-school days, bred suspicion ; towards 
 the end suspicions became a moral certainty. Lips 
 
 165
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 tightened. One looked at one's neighbour furtively 
 to see if one's surmise as to the trend of the recitation 
 was correct. One judged that it was, and, taking 
 courage, set the face in lines of disapproval, not with- 
 out a hope that someone else (a little late) would 
 mark one's expression and give one credit as a 
 linguist. One remembered having been to Boulogne, 
 and, in the event of discussion afterwards, which was 
 certain, one registered a determination to exaggerate 
 the trip as far as Paris, which had a more cosmopoli- 
 tan ring about it. 
 
 In fact, suspicion growing during the recitation, 
 coupled with the open-mouthed surprise of the half- 
 dozen who really did understand its naughty import, 
 caused the curtain to fall in a silence only broken by 
 a few enthusiasts near the roof, for whom Iris might 
 just as well have been reciting in Chinese, but who 
 thought she was a "damn fine girl," anyway, and, be- 
 ing about the first of this description to appear before 
 them that afternoon, deserved her meed of applause 
 on this count. 
 
 And that was the only applause she obtained, for 
 the Reverend John, to whom she looked with a de- 
 mand in every curve of her body, sat like a clerical 
 sphinx while the curtain fell upon this piece of de- 
 liberate impertinence. 
 
 Mrs. Douglas understood French well enough to 
 have followed the drift of the recitation, and, had 
 Iris deserved to be repaid for her daring, the horror 
 
 166
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 of this lady's eyes would have been ample compensa- 
 tion. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Heslop," she said, "what a scandal- 
 ous thing!" 
 
 "Absolutely scandalous," he agreed, "but it was 
 passed by the committee." 
 
 The full meaning of the position dawned upon her 
 all at once. She herself might be held partially re- 
 sponsible for this terrible thing. She and Miss Figgis 
 and Sir George ! It must be put right at once; there 
 must be an explanation. She muttered something 
 about "seeing the others" and left the box hurriedly. 
 She found members of the committee already in con- 
 clave in the vestibule. Sir George Osser was truculent 
 "should never have thought of allowing my name 
 to appear," he was muttering, while his fingers were 
 more like eels than ever. Miss Figgis, who was trying 
 to get Ferdinand Madders to tell her what the recita- 
 tion was about, realised only that some fearful social 
 faux-pas had been committed, and being, poor lady, 
 the very last person to be able to survive anything of 
 that sort, was on the verge of tears. It was resolved 
 that there must be an explanation. The woman must 
 be "dropped" the affair could not be ignored. The 
 good taste of Miss Figgis, Mrs. Douglas, Ferdinand 
 Madders and Sir George Osser was involved, espe- 
 cially, they were given to understand, Sir George 
 Osser, "whose family name had never," etc., etc. 
 Ferdinand Madders, who had, in the formation of 
 the committee, been Iris's sponsor, was now anxious 
 
 167
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 for this fact to be forgotten and was foremost in his 
 desire that the Russian should be shown what society 
 thought of her breach of good manners. They be- 
 came then and there a committee of ways and means, 
 and before the curtain fell and the Reverend John 
 had made his little speech and announced the sum 
 which was to be handed over to the Red Cross, the 
 fate of Iris was decided. She had done for herself 
 this time, and when she came out of the building and 
 passed a little crowd of acquaintances waiting in the 
 entrance for cabs and 'buses, she found society al- 
 ready busily looking the other way. 
 
 That evening she called on the Reverend John. 
 
 "I came in the dark," she said, with a laugh, "in 
 case I should be. seen coming here and entirely ruin 
 you. Are you going to cut me, too?" 
 
 "I am far too old," said the clergyman, "to cut 
 anyone." 
 
 "I suppose you think it was very wrong of me?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Rather childish," he said, "but, then, I don't ex- 
 pect anything else of you ; you are, after all, only a 
 spoilt child." He looked at her from under his 
 bushy eyebrows. 
 
 "I suppose," she answered, "it's a crime to be 
 young." 
 
 "By no means," he replied, "it is misguided, on 
 the other hand, to grow up. Many people by the 
 time they have gained experience have lost everything 
 else." 
 
 168
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 "You used to talk to me about the other lady," 
 she murmured; "I suppose now you don't think she 
 exists." She paused, but he gave no answer. "Now, 
 if I had been your daughter," she went on, "what 
 would you do?" 
 
 "Send you slumming for a couple of months, I 
 think; it might educate you a little." 
 
 She made a little 1 moite of disgust. 
 
 "Well, I don't care," she said, flinging out her 
 arms. "I suppose I'm all wrong and full of bad 
 taste and things, but I'm not a humbug. I know what 
 I like. I like that recitation and I like setting them 
 all by the ears and I think they are a narrow lot of 
 frumpy fools! What's worse, I'd do it again to- 
 morrow! There's not a man or woman I've met in 
 this wretched little hole that's like me. They never 
 feel bubbly, they never lose their tempers, they they 
 they don't mean anything at all, any of them ! And 
 they all think this is the whole world." She worked 
 herself into a big rage. "I hate them all every one 
 of them !" Her eyes suddenly softened, and a smile 
 lit up her face like the sun peeping out from behind 
 a thunder cloud in April. "Except you," she said, 
 and added whimsically, "and you are sixty-eight!" 
 
 She looked at the big head and saw the twinkle in 
 the old man's eyes which she knew so well. 
 
 "It beats me," she said, "how you can stand it 
 here, a man like you I" 
 
 "But, you see," he explained, "I don't consider 
 169
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 them a what was it? a narrow lot of frumpy 
 fools." 
 
 "You must!" she insisted. "You must see that 
 they're hopeless!" 
 
 But he shook his head obstinately. 
 
 "Well, I don't understand," she said, "I wish I 
 was back in the South Vienna again I'm all wrong 
 here. They just used to adore me there and not 
 not analyse everything. Andrea always laughs at 
 that recitation!" 
 
 "I, too, consider it," said the old gentleman, "a 
 very funny recitation." 
 
 "Then why didn't you laugh?" 
 
 "I did, my dear lady," he returned. "I had just 
 finished laughing when you came in to-night." 
 
 She looked at him in silence for a moment and 
 saw that the words meant more than they said. 
 
 "Oh, hell," she remarked, with a gesture of weari- 
 ness, "I wish to goodness you were my father ! I sup- 
 pose I'm wicked and a little devil, but I'm beginning 
 to feel I want to curl up in somebody's arms !" 
 
 She drew her wrap round her and went to the 
 door. 
 
 "Don't see me out," s"he said, as he followed her, 
 "there's a cold wind to-night." 
 
 But in the hall the old gentleman suddenly turned 
 her round and looked into her eyes, his gnarled, to- 
 bacco-stained hands on her arms. She watched the 
 searching eyes grow softer and softer until suddenly 
 he kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 170
 
 "SHEER IMPERTINENCE" 
 
 "Good night, my daughter," he said, "sleep well," 
 and then as he turned to go upstairs, "It is ecclesias- 
 tical diction," he added with a smile, "on the same 
 terms it is permissible for you to call me 'father' in 
 private." 
 
 Iris was on the mat in the doorway. 
 
 "Thank you," she returned. "Good night 
 daddy!" And she was gone. 
 
 ''Daddy!" repeated the old gentleman to himself 
 as he began to undress. "Daddy !" He caressed the 
 word as he said it. Then he chuckled and addressed 
 himself in the looking-glass. "You are a sentimental 
 old fool," he said, "and your sympathy with naughti- 
 ness is absolutely unpermissible in your position. 
 How I would like to run round and tell Mrs. Douglas 
 that the abandoned woman came round here this eve- 
 ning and I kissed her ! Upon my soul, I believe she 
 would write to the bishop !" 
 
 Then his eyes grew grave again. "But all the 
 same," he added, "the little Russian isn't a very 
 simple problem after all," and he fell to thinking of 
 her future. Ridiculous, childish old man ! Do you 
 dare to deny that the last word you uttered in a 
 drowsy voice as you laid your head on your pillow 
 some twenty minutes later was "Daddy"? 
 
 171
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD AND A TELEGRAM" 
 
 MR. CUMBERS'S remark, when in due course the final 
 ostracism of Iris had arrived (via Ferdinand Mad- 
 ders!) at Applegarth, is worth recording as being, 
 in its way, a very beautiful Example, if I may coin a 
 word, of a "Cumberism." 
 
 He simply turned to Mary and said: 
 
 "There you are ; that's what comes of foreigners!" 
 
 You have leave and licence, anyone who may hap- 
 pen to read this book, to laugh at the above in your 
 enlightenment, and to compare the ridiculous state- 
 ment with what your own views would have been in 
 such a case. But every dog has his day, and every 
 sincere statement, however absurd, has, like a medal, 
 its obverse side; and in Henry Cumbers's quite 
 ludicrous comment upon the situation there lay the 
 germ of his kind of loyalty and patriotism, quite 
 world-shaking in its ultimate workings, however 
 parochial it may appear in this instance. 
 
 He detested Iris, and he detested her type. She 
 stood, as far as he was concerned, for everything 
 that was unreliable, shifting, without standard, un- 
 English. 
 
 172
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 Mr*. Cumbers said "Yes" to his remark, quite 
 automatically. A little later she began to think over 
 her answer, this being the mental process of most 
 women, and found that it was inadequate to the 
 question implied. 
 
 After all, she thought, to be foreign can hardly 
 be one of the deadly sins, and she wondered why 
 Henry thought it was; yet, had Iris in her opinion, 
 done any deadly harm to Tristram, every foreigner 
 in her view would have become outcast and damned. 
 For this is the way of mothers. She forgot the ques- 
 tion after breakfast in the intricacies of interviewing 
 the cook. 
 
 It is a curious thing that the big days in our little 
 personal histories seldom announce themselves with 
 a blare of trumpets. No stupendous miracle of a 
 sunset marks the evening when Edwin is accepted by 
 Angelina no vast disturbance in the forces of na- 
 ture distinguishes the hour when Edwin junior first 
 sees the light of day, and, by the same token, the sun 
 rises, the water in the bath-room is tepid, and the 
 fried egg and bacon at breakfast is overdone in the 
 usual way, just two hours or three minutes, as the 
 case may be, before some disaster happens in our 
 lives which changes our thoughts, our ways, our con- 
 victions which changes us. For we do change when 
 these disruptive events charge into the ordered exist- 
 ence which, in the amazing conceit which is the great 
 sedative of earthly existence, we all plan out for our- 
 selves. The death for instance of a wife, a brother, 
 
 173
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 a friend, if they have really meant to us what the 
 words imply, makes of you and me a different per- 
 sonality to that which laughed and frowned in the 
 same clothes, before the telegram arrived or the let- 
 ter was torn open, half-way through the dozen bills 
 and invitations on the breakfast table. 
 
 Upon my soul, it serves us right I How are we 
 justified in looking upon life, either our own or our 
 loved ones', as our possession; as we look on our 
 bank-balances, the bracket-clock in the drawing-room, 
 the thirty acres we inherited from grandpapa ? We 
 know how we made our money, we know the price we 
 paid for that old bracket-clock, but we have not the 
 least idea who breathed the life into our bodies, or 
 who put the soul behind ourselves ; we know, too, why 
 we wanted that particular clock, but we do not know 
 why we ourselves were wanted, or for how long; and 
 so our coming and our going are really far less to be 
 regretted than if the clock fell off its bracket and 
 smashed, because, after all, we are God's curios, and 
 
 if He But you see the idea, and the digression 
 
 has gone far enough and, for all I know, become an 
 intolerable bore. 
 
 Well, on this particular morning Henry Cumbers, 
 having delivered himself of his whole attitude to- 
 wards the pretty lady who was his next-door neigh- 
 bour; and having eaten, with his customary grumble, 
 his eggs and bacon; and having, moreover, found 
 time over the Daily Telegraph to destroy the reputa- 
 tions of three Generals, a Prime Minister and a King, 
 
 174
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 caught his train to Canon Street, and arrived at the 
 Office with two minutes to spare ; which is the whole 
 duty of a good husband. There had been a letter 
 from Tristram the day before, bearing the still ro- 
 mantic and amazing field-post mark, with the as- 
 surance, annoying and not always true, that some 
 third party called a censor had read and ap- 
 proved of it. It started : 
 
 "My darling Mother and Father " 
 
 Followed half a sheet of directions for the dis- 
 patch of various bodily necessities. Then suddenly: 
 "Everyone in the battalion says there's going to be 
 a show pretty soon." 
 
 Muriel had received a letter too a short letter, 
 a little formal, also advertising a "show" in the im- 
 mediate future. 
 
 Now this was the beginning of the war and the 
 exact meaning of the word "show" was not quite 
 realised. I have an idea that Mr. and Mrs. Cumbers 
 thought that he meant something in the nature of a 
 parade a big parade, perhaps. Brigades . . . ! 
 
 Muriel alone, young and "slangy," glimpsed the 
 possibility of another meaning. But she said noth- 
 ing, knowing that to be alarmed, to "get the wind 
 up," was not English. . . . But she loved him, and 
 the immediate result may be registered by the local 
 doctor adding a guinea, and the local chemist three 
 and sevenpence, to their incomes on account of a 
 bromide mixture to "Miss Hudson to be taken as 
 required." In a file of medicinal prescriptions may 
 
 175
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 often be found a whole epitome of human devotion. 
 Henry Cumbers arrived at the office in a very 
 irritable frame of mind. To start off with there had 
 been a man in the train one of those heartily con- 
 fidential artisans who tap one on the knee and talk. 
 All men are equal, of course, but when the breath of 
 one smells of shag such Christian principles are hard 
 put to it to survive. The particular gentleman who 
 had annoyed Henry that morning had been expand- 
 ing a theory that, if only the young men had not 
 been so foolish as to volunteer, the war would ap- 
 parently have disappeared into thin air. He used 
 phrases'like "the will of the people" and "nonrepre- 
 sentative government," which, as phrases, even 
 Henry recognized as a trifle threadbare. The whole 
 sweating, well-meaning man smelt of "lectures" 
 "self-improvement." Cumbers felt a sensation of 
 extreme irritation. His own policies were extreme 
 Tory; an idosyncrasy of the lower middle class, trace- 
 able to an idea that these are the views of the upper 
 middle class. There is no reason why he should be 
 expected to know that he was talking to the amoeba, 
 if not the halfway house, of an enlightened genera- 
 tion. Our own times are as the mixture in the crucible 
 at the first stage of a chemical experiment the 
 brownish, dirty mixture is being placed over the flame 
 and Mr. Cumbers is not the man to predict that 
 this drab concoction will produce the wonderfully 
 coloured, amazingly potent result which the chemist 
 is hoping for.
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 Anyway, he is irritated and restless at the imperti- 
 nence of a man who tied string round his trousers 
 below the knee not only having an opinion but actual- 
 ly producing it in the presence of one who had worn 
 spats (the same pair!) for seven years ever since, 
 in fact, he had risen from second clerk to first. There 
 is etiquette in everything. 
 
 Thus, being thoroughly disgruntled, he was not 
 altogether sorry that on this particular day he was 
 destined not to sit at the roll-top desk with the black 
 stain in the left hand corner where a former head 
 clerk had put down cigarette stumps (slovenly fel- 
 low!), but was dispatched upon a special and re- 
 sponsible erand to one of the firm's agencies who 
 carried on their little fight for existence in a semi- 
 country town not far up the line from Liverpool 
 Street. These expeditions always pleased Henry. It 
 was quite a pleasurable feeling walking into their 
 small rooms, a representative of "Head office." The 
 sensations of an accredited ambassador are not only 
 experienced at the Court of St. James, nor are they 
 limited to that very wonderful age when one becomes 
 a prefect at one's Public School. In fact these child- 
 ish joys, if only the truth were told (only it never 
 will be, because those on whom the passage of time 
 has thrust the stigma of the brand "grown-up" must 
 never admit that there are moments, and many mo- 
 ments, when they are just seventeen, or just twelve, 
 or four or anything without a "just sense of 
 values," a state of mind, by the way, which will be 
 
 177
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 treated as a disease one day and, I hope, yield to 
 inoculation), these childish joys, I repeat, are secret- 
 ly indulged in not only by the middle-aged, but even 
 the decrepit, and are indeed the chief pleasures of 
 life ! Any well-worn man or woman in the fullness 
 of their years may pooh-pooh this statement if they 
 will, but I shall uphold it for all that, and, if neces- 
 sary, "grave and reverend" though they may be, I 
 will call them liars to their faces and the worst sort 
 of liars at that for they are ashamed of their own 
 human selves. 
 
 That, of course, is but one opinion and is a mat- 
 ter for psychologists, but the fact remains that Henry 
 Cumbers, representative of "Blaywick & Co., En- 
 gineers," stalked into the office of the agency in Mill 
 Street, Cowford, Herts, to settle a question involv- 
 ing one hundred and seventy pounds with an air and 
 a presence that Napoleon might well have envied at 
 Austerlitz. Moreover, the agent, a consumptive who 
 had probably got the job because of the ingratiating 
 and sweet smile which consumptives are apparently 
 given in poor compensation for their tragedy, actually 
 took Henry at the value he set on himself when he 
 entered the little shop, and was immensely impressed, 
 chiefly by the spats and the white slip in the waistcoat, 
 right through the interview. Needless to say, Cum- 
 bers had the time of his life. He snubbed the young 
 man unmercifully whenever he opened his mouth; de- 
 manded to see figures and facts, which he already 
 knew by heart, simply for the pleasure of being able 
 
 178
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 to demand them ; drove the unfortunate youth into a 
 quite unjustified idea that he was an incompetent ser- 
 vant of the company on the verge of being dis- 
 charged, and, in short, did all the things that a little 
 man in a little job can do when he meets another 
 whose job is smaller still. So, for Henry, the minutes 
 slipped by as quickly as they are wont to when one 
 is enjoying oneself, and when the lights in the main 
 street of Cowford were beginning to appear in little 
 jerks, as they do in country towns still a little 
 ashamed of modern conveniences, Mr. Cumbers was 
 still, by devious ways, inquiring and snapping and 
 prolonging the little hour which he was allowed as 
 the Xerxes of accountancy. At six-thirty, when 
 Henry was knitting his brows and muttering "urn" 
 and "ah" over a ledger, the entries in which meant 
 nothing to him whatever, and when the consumptive 
 assistant, standing respectfully behind the little man's 
 shoulder, was quite certain that he could look upon 
 his dismissal as a matter of hours only, a telegram 
 arrived at Applegarth. Mary Cumbers opened it 
 with trembling fingers. Telegrams in her life were 
 not of such frequent occurrence that she could take 
 out the thin piece of paper without a thrill. . . . 
 
 "No answer," she managed to say to the waiting 
 boy and she closed the front door slowly. 
 
 "Regret to tell you your son seriously wounded. 
 5th General Hospital, Dover. Advise you to come 
 immediately." 
 
 179
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 She went into the drawing-room. This thing could 
 not be going to happen. Its incredibility struck her 
 like the blow of a hammer. Why, there was the 
 black satin cushion with the raised pink rose in the 
 corner which Tristram had declared to be in the 
 worst possible taste; there on the white shelf near 
 the fireplace were those four volumes which he had 
 brought back from London one day, and she remem- 
 bered seeing "3/3/0" in pencil on the flyleaf, and un- 
 derneath "Scarce" in a very bad handwriting. Tris- 
 tram had said that one must really have a few good 
 books in the house "the mind starved else"; and 
 as they were by a foreigner (an unpronounceable 
 name which sounded like Bocakkio) she supposed 
 they must be "good." A year later she remembered 
 during a spring-cleaning discovering that the pages 
 were still uncut and realising that Tristram had been 
 guilty of a little intellectual snobbery. The dear, silly 
 boy, she had thought; he was very human for all his 
 Olympian airs. 
 
 And there outside were the roses which Henry 
 fussed over in his absurd way, and the gravel path 
 where she had so often heard Tristram's restless feet 
 scrunching up and down, and there beyond, the little 
 wooden seat and the box-hedge all just the same. 
 
 And in her hand the telegram ! 
 
 She found that she could catch the eight-fifty-three 
 to Charing Cross, the last train. It was ten minutes 
 to seven ; Henry should be back at any minute she 
 would pack a few things for him. But first she went 
 
 180
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 into the kitchen. The "girl," as she was called in 
 the Cumbers menage, was preparing dinner. She 
 was an Irish woman, preternaturally solemn, with 
 large blue eyes which grew as round as pennies if you 
 addressed a remark to her. A good, faithful servant, 
 with one failing. She would sing plaintive and soul- 
 devastating Irish laments as she went about her work. 
 It was her way of showing that her heart was light. 
 
 "We we shall not be in to dinner, Mary," said 
 Mrs. Cumbers. The girl's real name was Maire, 
 but Henry considered this "peculiar," and it had been 
 changed. Her eyes grew very round and her 
 solemnity portentous. 
 
 "Not in ! and when it's after being chicken night, 
 mum, and the bird half-way there?" 
 
 "No. In fact Mr. Cumbers and I have been called 
 away suddenly. We may be away several days." 
 
 And the thought of what might be going to hap- 
 pen during those days must have expressed itself in 
 her eyes. At any rate, with the ready sympathy 
 which is always on the very surface of the Irish 
 temperament, the servant guessed: 
 
 "Ah, sure," she said, "it's never Master Tris- 
 tram?" The question remained unfinished. 
 
 "Dangerously wounded," returned Mrs. Cumbers, 
 not trusting herself to say more. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear!" The girl lost her re- 
 serve and her reverence at once in the rush of feel- 
 ing which came over her. "Sure, my heart's achin' 
 for you, ye poor creature !" She took Mrs. Cumbers's 
 
 181
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 hand, and the touch set free those tears which had 
 been too long coming. 
 
 The mistress cried unreservedly on her maid's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "That's right," said the girl, "it'll ease you, com- 
 ing that way. And, after all, maybe it will be all 
 right, and ye'll have his tobacco all over the covers 
 again for sure ! And it's I will be prayin' to all the 
 saints this night to preserve him the brave boy that 
 he is, and all !" And so she went on in her musical 
 sing-song until Mary Cumbers had wept her fill, and 
 was ready to face the situation once more. Then the 
 servant returned immediately to the respectful 
 "mum," which was her usual method of addressing 
 her employer. And if somebody up in Heaven did 
 not write down six good marks opposite her name 
 in the Book of Deeds, then all I can say is that there 
 is no such thing as justice at all. 
 
 Mrs. Cumbers judged that she had time to go 
 round and tell Muriel, and this she did. 
 
 "I know, dear," she said, "that Tristram hasn't 
 
 hasn't been kind to you, and that perhaps " But 
 
 Muriel interrupted her. 
 
 "Oh, what does that matter?" she answered. And 
 then, precocious girl, instinctively adopting the atti- 
 tude of all women, she added: "He's only a man!" 
 and went upstairs to do her own packing for the 
 journey, while Mary went home again expecting to 
 find that Henry had returned. 
 
 But Henry, as a matter of fact, had been enjoying 
 182
 
 "THE LITTLE TIN GOD" 
 
 himself so much that he had only just left Cowford, 
 and could not possibly be back for an hour and a half. 
 
 In the early days of their married life Mary had 
 almost killed herself with anxiety on occasions when 
 Henry was late for dinner. Later on she realised 
 that her husband extracted an inexplicable pleasure 
 at these irregularities (few and far between as they 
 were) being taken for granted. It appeared that He 
 imagined himself thereby a "card" one whose 
 movements were not to be forecast. . . . And so, 
 of course, she had trained herself to take them for 
 granted. She knew by intuition that her husband was 
 the kind of man who likes to think that his business 
 is so important, so responsible, that it may take him 
 anywhere at any hour, that there was, in fact, no 
 limit of mere time to be put upon the value of the 
 services of Henry Cumbers. 
 
 Thus, as I say, Mary was not alarmed at the non- 
 appearance of her husband, but only upset that she 
 would have to go to Dover without him. Moreover, 
 such is the very real gap which exists between a 
 mother and a father in their understanding of one 
 another that she felt quite sincerely that she herself 
 was the one who was really essential at the side of 
 that bed in the military hospital. Of course Henry 
 was his father; but when children are ill weak 
 dying (thus the mother) a father, after all, has 
 his work, his "affairs." . . . And really and truly 
 think most wives, a husband doesn't mean his chil- 
 
 183
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 dren as seriously or take them as seriously as she 
 does. 
 
 I have an idea that it would be impolitic and un- 
 wise to prove to mothers that they are mistaken on 
 this point, so I am not going to attempt it. Let it 
 be enough that Mary Cumbers, having put a note 
 upon the fumed-oak ledge of the hat-stand for her 
 husband, left for Dover by the eight-fifty-three from 
 Charing Cross, accompanied by Muriel, who was, as 
 usual, of supreme use in getting tickets, corner seats, 
 cabs and, in fact, doing everything that had to 
 be done. 
 
 Henry arrived at Applegarth, rather pleased with 
 himself, at a quarter to nine. 
 
 184
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "THE GRAND TOUR" 
 
 HE put his latch-key, which he still regarded as a 
 kind of insignia, into the lock and stamped into his 
 hall just as loudly and imperially as usual. He put 
 his bowler hat on the stand with that sense of pro- 
 prietorship which was mother's milk to him, jammed 
 his umbrella into its appointed place and saw 
 Mary's note. Through the whole period of their 
 married life he could never remember his wife writ- 
 ing him a note before. Therefore this must be a 
 disaster. Relations? . . . Aunt Anne dead at last 
 of her cancer? . . . Cousin Robert? . . . No, that 
 was gall-stones and Robert was a young man still. 
 The far-off connections who lived at Melbourne? 
 . . . Tristram? 
 
 Tristram! His mental process shows how near, 
 for all his absorption in it, he had really got to the 
 possibilities of war. 
 
 He grabbed at the envelope, crushing it into a 
 shapeless piece of paper, and tore it open suddenly 
 blotchy-white realising, perhaps, for the very first 
 time, what it means to be a father. 
 
 He read the little note and went immediately for 
 185
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 his Bradshaw. That volume seemed even more diffi- 
 cult to control than usual, and when he did turn up 
 the right page it was only to find that he had already 
 missed the last train. Well, he must get to Dover 
 somehow or other. He must hire a car. Whatever 
 the cost might be, and Henry had not the slightest 
 idea of the price of motor hire, that was the only 
 course open to him. Where was the nearest tele- 
 phone? He remembered that there was one next 
 door, at Dangerfield, the house of that vulgar foreign 
 woman I . . . 
 
 Now mark how the spinning wheel, presided over 
 by the sinister sisters, gathers speed and weaves into 
 a wild, unordered pattern the grey thread of Henry 
 Cumbers and the purple that was Iris, linking into 
 the mad tangle a little of the inscrutable colour which 
 must represent the Reverend John. 
 
 Iris was giving a little dinner-party. The Reverend 
 John had received a note which started: 
 
 "DEAR DADDY, Come to dinner if you are not 
 afraid of being unfrocked. . . ." 
 
 And being a man who feared neither Sir George 
 Osser nor Mrs. Douglas, nor indeed, anything ex- 
 cept cowardice in the face of his own convictions, he 
 had replied: 
 
 "Mv DEAR DAUGHTER, I will dine with you 
 with pleasure. The risk is yours, for if I am un- 
 frocked you will be compelled to give me an allow- 
 
 186
 
 "THE GRAND TOUR" 
 
 ance for the rest of my days as conscience money. 
 Your affectionate FATHER. 
 
 "P.S. Get me grape-fruit, if you can; it is a vice 
 of mine." 
 
 There were two other guests the gay young man 
 from the Russian Embassy and a friend of his whom 
 Iris had met and whom she had asked him to bring 
 along. The gay young man was full of trivialities. 
 
 "My new 'bus," he said, "is an absolute top-holer. 
 She'll do seventy-five on the level, won't she, Hugh?" 
 This to his companion, at the moment a little shy. 
 He estimated top-speed at eighty. 
 
 "Anyway," went on the young diplomat, "we got 
 down here from Belgrave Square in twenty-two 
 minutes ; that'll show you I I took some paint off in 
 Orchard Street; a fellow got in the way " 
 
 "This is a cocktail I mix myself," said Iris, as the 
 maid came in with glasses on a tray. "I hope you'll 
 like it ! / don't drink it because it isn't sweet enough 
 for me but men are so perverse about sweet 
 drinks." 
 
 "No," she said, in answer to a question, "I won't 
 give you the recipe. I believe in being desirable ! If 
 I told you I wore a toupee, for instance " 
 
 "I shouldn't believe it!" broke in the young man. 
 
 "Ah," she went on, "but the iron would have 
 entered into your soul nevertheless." 
 
 "Well," remarked the second young man, the edge 
 187
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 of whose shyness was now wearing off, "I must say 
 I call an amusing woman a a relief I" 
 
 "Not much of a compliment to our sex!" retorted 
 the Russian. One of those arguments about a sense 
 of mmiour, which can never achieve an end, threat- 
 ened to develop when the Reverend John came in. 
 
 The diplomatist showed how young he was at his 
 trade by manifesting at once his surprise at the fourth 
 guest being an old clergyman who must be nearly 
 seventy. 
 
 Iris was in her most audacious mood. She saw the 
 young man's expression and laughed. "Mr. Strick- 
 land is surprised to see me entertaining a clergyman," 
 she said to the old man. 
 
 "I don't wonder," returned the Reverend John, 
 "though it's probably not so much my cloth as my 
 white hairs. You are a very rude woman to notice 
 it." 
 
 "She really is rather apt to take one's breath away, 
 isn't she?" said the young man. 
 
 "I shall preach a sermon next week," the old gen- 
 tleman remarked, "on the decay of manners." 
 
 "You must add a rider," said Iris, "on the growth 
 of sincerity. Nobody used to call a spade a spade in 
 the eighteenth century." 
 
 "Oh, didn't they?" retorted the clergyman. "You 
 display your ignorance, madam. Only in those days 
 they only referred to spades when they were in the 
 garden!" 
 
 She turned to the two young men and laughed. 
 188
 
 "He always talks like that," she said, "it gives 
 him time to plan what he is going to say next while 
 you are thinking it out!" 
 
 "That," remarked Mr. Strickland, "is the very 
 essence of diplomacy." 
 
 They went into dinner. 
 
 I think on that summer night Iris was destined 
 to show every colour, every facet of her many-sided 
 self. She was brilliant, amusing and tempestuous in 
 turn, and the conversation never flagged for a mo- 
 ment. The Reverend John, with his half didactic, 
 half jesting little sentences, served admirably to give 
 new turns to worn-out themes and to stimulate argu- 
 ments and theories. Even the shy young man fought 
 his way into the repartee, and laughed as loudly as 
 anyone, and when, over a particularly stubborn en- 
 counter, the subject of which no one could remember 
 five minutes later, the Russian lost her very elusive 
 temper and, after her custom, smashed the nearest 
 thing, which happened to be a salt-spoon, nobody 
 seemed to mind, and such exhibitions appeared the 
 most natural thing in the world. 
 
 The Reverend John was buried in grape-fruit, and 
 the young men were drinking port and cracking nuts, 
 when the maid came in with Henry Cumbers' card. 
 Iris looked at it for a moment in mute astonishment. 
 
 "It appears to be a matter of importance," mur- 
 mured the maid, in a discreetly low tone. 
 
 "I'll come down," she said. Henry Cumbers! 
 What in the world could he want with her? And 
 
 189
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 the piquancy of it! That ridiculous little man down- 
 stairs, and the vicar enjoying grape-fruit up above 
 in this riotous company! 
 
 She excused herself, telling them she would not 
 be gone more than a couple of minutes, and went 
 down into the hall. 
 
 Henry was standing there, his hat in his hand, 
 looking even more ridiculous than usual. His face was 
 flushed, and his hair, disordered, formed a ragged 
 little bush round the bald patch on his head. With 
 that kind of effort at dignity which tries pathetically 
 to protect itself with the longest words possible he 
 "begged for the loan of Madame Iranovna's tele- 
 phone on a matter of the first importance." 
 
 "Of course," said Iris, and led him into the draw- 
 ing-room. He seized the telephone, and she noticed 
 that he had taken off the receiver before he had 
 found the number which he wanted. She went out 
 and shut the door. Along the passage she looked out 
 through the little casement window by which you got 
 a glimpse of the garden. How very unimportant the 
 little man had looked with his red face and untidy 
 hair, how pathetic his dignity! She thought, with a 
 smile which had a tinge of triumph in it, how com- 
 pletely lost Henry Cumbers would be in that con- 
 versation which he had broken into upstairs. Truly 
 an uninspiring little man made up of little preju- 
 dices, little pleasures oh, little everything! 
 
 Her thoughts were snapped off by the reappear- 
 ance of Henry. 
 
 190
 
 "THE GRAND TOUR" 
 
 "I hope you got your number," she said politely. 
 
 "I am afraid," he replied, "that I was unsuccess- 
 ful." His pomposity did not desert him: his hand 
 was steady as he picked up his hat; there was nothing 
 to show that Henry was at his wits' end and in 
 despair. He gave no sign, and so I cannot tell you 
 how it was that Iris knew, all at once, that the mock- 
 ing grin of Tragedy had peeped suddenly over the 
 shoulder of Comedy, whose broad smile was still un- 
 consciously supreme in the room overhead. But 
 know she did, by some weird magic of her own, and 
 lo and behold! in a moment the contemptible little 
 figure of Mr. Cumbers seemed to slide right out of 
 her vision and she saw only an overgrown boy who 
 was doing his very best not to cry because it was be- 
 neath his dignity. 
 
 "Can I help?" she asked. 
 
 "Thank you," began Henry stiffly, "I am 
 
 afraid " And then he stopped. Perhaps he saw 
 
 something in her eyes which he had never seen there 
 before this scandalous, daringly dressed lady. Per- 
 haps it was simply that he felt he must unburden 
 himself of his troubles, a desire common to all men 
 when they are overcharged with disaster. Have you 
 not, with a little shock of surprise, heard the unenter- 
 prising Mr. Jones next door apparently talking to 
 himself in the bath-room? That is because Fate has 
 dealt him a blow, and he would rather talk about it 
 to himself than bear it in silence, which is sometimes 
 
 191
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 golden, but as often made of lead. Anyway, out it 
 all came. 
 
 "I ... I have to get to Dover to-night," he 
 panted. "Missed the last train. I've rung up three 
 garages. No answer at two, and the other has no 
 cars. . . . My boy . . . seriously wounded. I've 
 been sent for !" 
 
 He had the front door half open, and as her mind 
 drank in his words, and her heart, the existence of 
 which he did not suspect, told her the misery in which 
 he must be, she was conscious in the darkness beyond 
 the gate of a long slender outline, below which the 
 electric blue of the young diplomat's "top-holer'* 
 screamed aloud to be noticed, even at night time. 
 
 "Poor little man!" she said, meaning it for her- 
 self; but it was loud enough to reach Henry's ears. 
 He did not resent it, she noticed, though he must 
 have heard it. Poor dignity, all gone! One of 
 those mad tempests arose in her which had so often 
 been her undoing. 
 
 "Are you ready to go now?" she asked, a new 
 tone in her voice. 
 
 "Of course," he grunted, "but " She hardly 
 
 heard him. Her mind was taking in the shy young 
 man's fur-lined British warm lying on the oak chest, 
 the diplomat's motoring cap on a peg. 
 
 "Come on, then!" she cried, and ran down the 
 garden path. The cap sat rakishly on a crushed 
 coiffure; she was struggling into the British warm. 
 
 "Why, look here !" began Henry, whose mind was 
 192
 
 "THE GRAND TOUR" 
 
 starting to go round like a buzz-saw under the 
 impetus of the race of events. But she had started 
 up the engine before he could finish the sentence. 
 
 "Thank God !" he heard her say. "Dynamo light- 
 ing!" 
 
 He stood on the pavement dumb, incapable of ac- 
 tion. He noticed she was holding the door open 
 for him. 
 
 "Wait a minute," he said; "I can't behave like 
 this!" 
 
 "You'll be there in three hours," she answered, 
 and actually bundled him in like a child. He was 
 protesting still as she climbed over him to the driver's 
 seat, but she took no notice. 
 
 "Do you know the road?" she asked. He shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Never mind we shall find it !" Then she actual- 
 ly laughed. "Aren't I mad!" she said. The high- 
 powered car jumped forward under her touch, and 
 Henry suddenly came to himself. "Look here !" he 
 said. "Wait! Stop!" A sudden flood of the re- 
 spectable habits of fifty years came upon him. "We 
 might be seen!" he said. 
 
 Iris may have heard him, but her answer was in- 
 consequent. 
 
 "She'll do seventy-five on the level," she chuckled. 
 They had already put nearly a mile behind them. 
 Henry made a last effort to retain his normal reason- 
 ing powers. 
 
 "Is this your car?" he asked. 
 193
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "No," she replied, as they gathered speed. 
 
 Mr. Cumbers fell back into his seat silent. Events 
 were too much for him. The woman was mad, 
 absolutely insane. They'd probably be arrested 
 she was in evening dress he a churchwarden . . . 
 stolen car . . . exceeding limit . . . his mind be- 
 came one confused scandal. The road seemed to 
 leap away from under them if she went that pace 
 through London, of course they would be killed . . . 
 and he'd be killed if he tried to get out . . . perhaps 
 that would be best. He had to put both hands up 
 to hold on his hat. 
 
 Only one fact of comfort stood out in the bewilder- 
 ing kaleidoscope of this last quarter of an hour of 
 life. 
 
 At any rate they were on the road to Dover. . . . 
 
 The coffee had long been finished at Dangerfield, 
 and the non-appearance of Iris could no longer be 
 ignored. 
 
 "I think," said the Reverend John, "I had better 
 ring the bell and inquire." 
 
 The maid came in and stood in the doorway ex- 
 pressionless. 
 
 "Has anything happened to Madame Iranovna?" 
 asked the old gentleman. 
 
 "I think," answered the maid, "that I heard her 
 go off with the gentleman next door in the blue car." 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Oh . . . thank you!" said the clergyman. For 
 194
 
 "THE GRAND TOUR" 
 
 once even he was at a loss. The maid went out, and 
 the three men looked at one another. 
 
 "She she's gone off in my car!" said the young 
 diplomat. 
 
 The Reverend John suggested that she might have 
 left an explanation downstairs. They proceeded into 
 the hall and looked about for a note. The shy young 
 man shuffled on his feet. 
 
 "I say, you know," he began, "I hate to say any- 
 thing, but my British warm has gone !" 
 
 In a shamefaced way his companion cast an eye on 
 the peg where he had hung his cap. 
 
 "And my cap, by George!" he muttered. They 
 relapsed into an uncomfortable silence. The Rev- 
 erend John was trying to fit every impossible theory 
 he could think of to the situation. None of them, 
 even giving Iris's amazing temperament full scope, 
 would fit. Thus having nothing to say, he held his 
 tongue. The young attache, fingering nervously a 
 small moustache, pulled him out of his reverie. 
 
 "You'll forgive me, sir," the young man was say- 
 ing, "but I know very little of Madame Iranovna; in 
 fact, I have only met her once before. ... I knew 
 her fiance in Petrograd . . . Bakaroff ... at 
 least, he said he was her fiance. . . ." 
 
 "That is quite true," said the clergyman ; "he is." 
 
 "You see what I mean, sir," went on the diplomat, 
 "this is rather queer . . . and . . ." 
 
 The Reverend John cut him short with the most 
 clerically benign of smiles. 
 
 195
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "I quite understand your misgivings, Mr. Strick- 
 land," he said, "and I admit that I cannot give you 
 any explanation at the moment of the enforced loan 
 of your car, and" he turned to the shy young man 
 "your British warm; we will say nothing of the 
 cap." 
 
 He paused and thrust one arm into his shiny black 
 overcoat. 
 
 "But if you want a guarantee of Madame Ira- 
 novna's perfect honesty and absolute truthfulness, I 
 am prepared to give it to you." 
 
 He fumbled in a sagging pocket and produced a 
 card. 
 
 "St. Mark's Vicarage will always find me," he 
 added. 
 
 The two young men proceeded home by under- 
 ground, marvelling; the young diplomat placing the 
 clergyman's card in the safest recess of his pocket- 
 book. He put it to himself that a man of the world 
 takes no chances. 
 
 As for the Reverend John, he walked to the next 
 gate and rang the bell at Applegarth. The Irish 
 maid, expecting no one, had gone to bed, and the 
 old gentleman stood upon the step longer than he 
 should in the night air. But he was far too intrigued 
 to return to the Vicarage, and at last he learnt the 
 solution from a round-eyed girl in curl-papers. 
 
 196
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 WHEN the night is young, when the pageant of sum- 
 mer has not altogether lost its kaleidoscopic appeal, 
 when green is still green but almost blue, that is the 
 really witching hour, and midnight has a reputation 
 which (save once or twice in the year) it does not 
 deserve. Even Henry Cumbers, travelling at thirty 
 miles an hour through such an unromantic neighbour- 
 hood as Blackheath, and, moreover, with the ad- 
 ditional disadvantage of having lost his hat at Lewis- 
 ham (a monumental affair when a churchwarden is 
 in question) felt the touch of magic on his arm and 
 sat back in the car breathless and silent. His mind, 
 stirred though it was into the consistency of a souffle 
 by the last half-hour's events, still centred upon his 
 son. 
 
 He tortured himself wondering whether anything 
 that he had said or done had driven his boy into the 
 army and laid him now at the point of death. He 
 stared straight ahead of him over the windscreen, 
 visualising life without Tristram. Just as, in those 
 days before the arrival of his son, he had dreamt how 
 different, how essential he was to be amongst chil- 
 
 197
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 dren, so now he understood, for the first time after 
 many years, how really essential he was. It was only 
 when, flying along a country road, the car almost 
 touched the seventy-five miles an hour of which the 
 young diplomatist had boasted, that Henry suddenly 
 thought of the strange position in which he found 
 himself. 
 
 Alone at night, on a racing car, with the impossible 
 Russian creature for companion, and she (he cast a 
 hesitating eye on her) dressed in an evening frock, 
 a man's cap and a British warm! His whole status 
 with the established Church seemed to fall from him 
 at the sight. He felt suddenly cold and drew his coat 
 closer about him. Iris saw this action, and with one 
 hand drew a rug from under her feet and passed it 
 to him. It did not enter her head that the blood 
 could become chilly because one is in a Bohemian 
 situation and a churchwarden. Henry accepted the 
 rug, wondering a little at her noticing his action. It 
 was twenty minutes later that the gods played their 
 ace of trumps. 
 
 Mr. Cumbers only noticed that the car was run- 
 ning more slowly, and was a little thankful for this 
 new feeling of security. Iris, on the other hand, 
 had heard the intermittent gasps of the engine and 
 knew that something (she had not the slightest idea 
 what it was) had departed from its usual line of busi- 
 ness. It was by a grassy sidewalk, with a tall tangled 
 hedge behind it, that the car finally stopped with a 
 couple of coughs and a jerk. Her heart in her eve- 
 
 198
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 ning shoes, Iris got out and lifted the flap of the 
 bonnet. A Viennese gentleman, in those distant days 
 when she had been a chorus-girl, had shown her how 
 to drive a car. Two hours after supper had been 
 the extent of her tuition, and, but for the fact that her 
 quick brain had grasped in that time what you 
 pressed with your foot and what you did with your 
 hands, she knew almost as little of an automobile as 
 she did of a gramophone. Yet her temperament as 
 an actress and her impertinence as a woman 
 prompted her to open the bonnet and look at the 
 engine. Moreover, such is the amazing adaptability 
 of her sex, although the grotesque arrangement of 
 plugs, wires and cylinders presented nothing but a 
 jigsaw to her mind, yet on her face appeared to 
 Henry Cumbers the expression of a keen and inter- 
 ested engineer ! She helped this deception by unscrew- 
 ing the nearest thing that appeared movable. Then 
 she walked round to the front of the car and tried to 
 start up the engine. Unfortunately, nothing hap- 
 pened. She had, in her effort to appear an expert, 
 dismembered the carburettor. 
 
 Henry Cumbers said nothing. Iris thought she 
 had better put back the little arrangement of cylinders 
 and rods which she had taken to pieces, but to her 
 horror, when she started to do it she found that she 
 had forgotten how it "went." She "pottered" with 
 it for some sixty seconds with a growing sense of 
 doom. However, she remembered her role of ex- 
 pert. Iris always remembered her role. 
 
 199
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 She turned to her passenger with a reassuring 
 smile. 
 
 "Do you mind," she asked, "winding her up again 
 while I watch the the effect?" She congratulated 
 herself that she had remembered that cars are 
 feminine. Henry got out obediently and did as he 
 was told. 
 
 The result told Iris that she could not hope to keep 
 up her deception much longer. 
 
 She heard Henry's voice out of the darkness. His 
 round and anxious face shone at her in the beam of 
 the head-lights. 
 
 "You don't consider the breakdown serious?" 
 
 She resolved on confession. 
 
 "I I don't know whether it's serious or not," she 
 began; and the rest, as was her nature, came in a 
 rush. "To tell you the truth, I don't know one part 
 of the car from another. I've only driven two or 
 three times before in my life. All I know is that the 
 wheels won't go round !" 
 
 She saw Henry Cumbers staring at her open- 
 mouthed. Remembering some magazine stories of 
 burglars with flash-lamps, she drew comfort from 
 the fact that the glare of the lights hid her from 
 him. Glancing up the grass bank at the side of the 
 road, she saw through the little coppice of young 
 trees which topped it the summer moon. It winked 
 down at them between the leaves with a suggestion 
 of eternal indifference which somehow made her feel 
 more disturbed than ever. It seemed a very narrow 
 
 200
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 road; almost a lane. And there were no telegraph 
 posts. They must have left the main road by mis- 
 take, she thought, and realised that she had been so 
 busy trying to remember what to do with the car 
 that she had had no time for these important de- 
 tails. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that you have been 
 driving all this time without knowing in the least 
 what you were doing?" 
 
 The incredulous voice of Henry broke in upon her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I didn't know why I was doing it," she said, "if 
 that's what you mean. I don't know why it works 
 so ... so I don't know why it won't work." 
 
 Anyone but the churchwarden would have detected 
 something like a sob underneath the last few wards. 
 He mopped a cold sweat off his forehead. 
 
 "We might have been killed," he said slowly. 
 
 "I suppose we might," she returned, "I didn't 
 think about it I was just set on getting to Dover." 
 The smooth and ordered life of Henry Cumbers had 
 never before encountered this kind of temperament 
 that risked its life quite heedlessly for a momentary 
 caprice, and he began to be aware that he was re- 
 garding her with open mouth and probably looking 
 very idiotic. He knew that his face had that capacity. 
 He had caught himself looking idiotic in his shaving- 
 glass when Mary had made some half-sleepy, early- 
 morning remark not in her character as Mrs. Cum- 
 bers (which she sedulously cultivated during the 
 
 201
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 day), and which had left him puzzled and open- 
 mouthed. He felt suddenly that he was in the lime- 
 light, and moved round to the back of the car. 
 
 "Where are we?" he asked, in an effort to be 
 practical. 
 
 The truth had got to come now, and Iris braced 
 herself for it. 
 
 "I don't know," she replied. "We have got off 
 the main road." She realised that she must make 
 a complete confession. "We may be anywhere!" 
 she added breathlessly. 
 
 What a fool she had been I Why wasn't she still 
 upstairs in the little drawing-room at Dangerfield, 
 in her right province, making "brilliant" talk for her 
 guests and keeping up her reputation as a clever, 
 fascinating woman ! And what on earth could they 
 be thinking at the moment? What mad and ridiculous 
 impulse had made her sorry for her absurd little 
 neighbour and put her in this disastrous position? 
 Her mind (a trained athlete beside that of Henry 
 Cumbers) leapt to a thousand dire consequences to 
 which this ridiculous caprice might lead. She saw 
 him dimly at the back of the car . . . hatless . . . 
 absurd ... a figure for laughter, if ever there was 
 one, and found almost for the first time in her life 
 that she could not laugh. She had promised to take 
 him to his son his son who was lying in a hospital 
 perhaps, even then, dying, and she had let him down. 
 In that moment Iris, the irresponsible, who had 
 played with everything (even Andrea) all her life, 
 
 202
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 and remained unscarred, experienced the sudden 
 panic at the heart which comes to those who know 
 that they are part of a situation which is too big for 
 them. She felt helpless, foolish, a child in the posi- 
 tion which she had made for herself; and in her 
 inability to help that forlorn suburban figure which 
 stood at the other end of the car, clinging desperately 
 even now to the remnants of its very respectable ideas 
 about things, her inward self cried quite unmistakably 
 "You are rotten!" And since a wise Deity has made 
 women more genuine than men at least in the fact 
 that when the tears come no ridiculous etiquette 
 forces them away, and to how many diverse and un- 
 expected emotions those same tears are the sign- 
 posts to our sympathies so now the brilliant Rus- 
 sian lady became a simple woman, and startled Mr. 
 Cumbers with the sudden outburst of her crying. 
 
 Now Henry could be unsympathetic and cold in 
 the face of anything but tears. When these came 
 they demoralised him; it is not an unusual trait in the 
 most usual of men. 
 
 At the gasping sorrow choking up in Iris the 
 churchwarden became soft and peurile. He made, 
 naturally, a ridiculous remark. 
 
 "Even the tears of an adventuress," he said pom- 
 pously, "ought to be respected." 
 
 He was approaching her along the side of the 
 car, and she looked up, suddenly indignant. 
 
 "Why do you hate me so?" she asked quickly. 
 203
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 He stopped and stammered woefully, like a man 
 detected in a petty crime. 
 
 "I don't hate you," he said slowly, collecting him- 
 self in the same way as he marshalled the figures in 
 his account books. "I don't hate anyone. It it is 
 very wrong to hate people. Anyway" in a burst 
 of what was his real self "I couldn't hate anyone 
 who is as young as you are." He stopped, looked at 
 her, and suddenly put his foot into it very badly in- 
 deed. 
 
 "I'm sorry for you," he said; "that is all." 
 
 It was, perhaps, the first time in her life that Iris' 
 tongue failed her. This was incredible. That the 
 ridiculous, suburban, narrow little person who paid 
 the rent of Applegarth should be sorry for her ! Why, 
 she herself, from the pinnacle of her cosmopolitan- 
 ism and wide experience of the world, had every now 
 and then found it in her heart to be sorry for him ! 
 She noticed suddenly that his thick, veined hand was 
 on her sleeve. 
 
 "I dare say you acted for the best," he was saying 
 kindly. In fact this note of kindness in his voice re- 
 duced her again to speechlessness like a couple of 
 knock-out blows following close upon one another. 
 
 And there were the car, and the summer moon, and 
 the soft rustle of a baby breeze playing with the 
 saplings on the rim of the bank . . . and the church- 
 warden's hand now closing on her own with a 
 significance unmistakably fatherly! Her mind, 
 whimsical still even at this amazing juncture, went 
 
 204
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 back to a time which now seemed centuries ago when 
 Tristram (moonstruck, too,) had stalked out of his 
 father's drawing-room on her first visit for all the 
 world like the young hero of a four-hundred-night- 
 old melodrama . . . and when she, triumphant, had 
 murmured "quelle debacle" beneath her breath. Here 
 was another, less expected, debacle. 
 
 She pulled her thoughts back to the immediate 
 present. 
 
 "You see," she began slowly, "this isn't my car. 
 If it was, I'd leave it and try to find the main road 
 with you. As it is, I'm afraid I must stick by the 
 wretched thing." She looked round her as she spoke. 
 The moon had disappeared behind a cloud a grass- 
 hopper whirring somewhere near appeared mysteri- 
 ous, even monstrous; a thousand hedge-obbligatos, 
 pleasant enough upon a summer afternoon, now be- 
 came elfish and terrifying. It cost her a great deal 
 to say what she did. 
 
 "Of course," she began bravely, "the Dover road 
 cannot be far off; you must find it, and get somebody 
 to give you a lift. There will be lots of traffic going 
 down, to the coast; you have only to explain." 
 
 She saw his absurdly ordinary face set in lines she 
 knew well. She had seen them first when he had met 
 her in his drawing-room and had noted the cut of 
 her frock. 
 
 "That is absurd," he said. "Naturally, I shall not 
 leave you." 
 
 So that curling of the mouth did not only express 
 205
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 disapproval. She realised that prejudice and a sense 
 of honour may sometimes fly the same colours. She 
 began to feel a little out of her depth. He seemed 
 to wrap himself round with his code of manners like 
 a tortoise. 
 
 "Tell me," she said impulsively, "what is there 
 for you to pity in me?" 
 
 She asked the question half hoping that he would 
 be astonished at such an idea, but the answer came 
 immediately in the slow, irritating tones which she 
 knew so well. 
 
 "Well," said Henry, "the glorious uncertainty of 
 your life would make me miserable, that's all!" She 
 answered nothing. The rather theatrical imagination 
 [which had been given to her flew to the most dramatic 
 figure in the situation. Her thoughts turned towards 
 Tristram, that absurd young man with the romantic 
 outlook, who now . . . yes; exactly . . . ! It 
 must be, she supposed, the same silly suburban face, 
 the same spotty, self-conscious young man that she 
 knew, who now lay (wounded, mark you, in the face 
 of the enemy!) in the military hospital at Dover. 
 
 She remembered what were practically the last 
 words he had said to her: "You can think of me, in 
 a fearful funk . . . being sick!" 
 
 Yet, apparently (whether he had been sick or not) 
 Tristram had remained at his post until he was hit. 
 
 She took a deep breath, recasting in her mind sev- 
 eral conceptions. The ridiculous suburban boy, after 
 all, though there were no decorations on his tunic, 
 
 206
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 happened to possess a great many of the attributes, 
 which have brought capital headlines, exclamation 
 marks, and (as a natural corollary) Fame, to Lieu- 
 tenant X., Private Y., Captain Z., and numerous 
 others who deserved all their medals but none of 
 their notoriety for a reason which every one of these 
 V.C.'s, M.C.'s, D.C.M.'s, etc. etc., will know and 
 understand far better, in all probability, than Pendle- 
 ton at the club (who was born too soon, poor fellow, 
 and had to fight the whole of Armageddon in the 
 Evening News], or Brown in his nice house (with a 
 quarter of an acre of garden) on Putney Hill, who, 
 just inside the age limit, considered well about his 
 wife and two children and found that his "family" 
 was of more importance than the point at issue. One 
 is sorry for Pendleton, but one is almost desolate as 
 regards Brown. So, as has been said, with a great 
 effort of mind Iris set Tristram amongst the heroes. 
 And, whether you believe it or not, the same great 
 effort has been made by countless others during the 
 last four years. For it is not easy to understand, all 
 in a moment, that the boy you knew so well, that 
 young man for instance who fell into the perfectly 
 amazingly stupid imbroglio with the chorus lady and 
 who would persist in an evening waistcoat with jade 
 buttons, is yet made of the same stuff as Achilles 
 and Agamemnon, and lacks only one thing that was 
 theirs . . . and that a Homer! This much is set 
 down lest you despise Iris and rate her a feather- 
 head who cared for none of these things. In those 
 
 207
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 moments by the side of that darkening road it ap- 
 peared to her that her whole mind was being turned 
 upside down. She actually felt that her own pulsing, 
 palpitating personality was less real, in point of fact, 
 than the insignificant, opinionated father who was 
 mopping his forehead with his handkerchief not ten 
 yards away. And some magic of the situation, some 
 hidden appeal in the picture, told her that she was 
 nearer at this moment to "the other lady" which had 
 been the theme of the sermon which the Reverend 
 John had preached in her drawing-room these many 
 weeks ago, than she had ever been. 
 
 "I I'm sorry," she said suddenly, "sorry about 
 everything!" 
 
 He coughed nervously and, if she could believe her 
 ears, he murmured, "Not at all." 
 
 "And," she went on, ploughing up, merciless and 
 
 womanlike, her own heartstrings, "if Tristram " 
 
 she stopped and was surprised to hear a firm voice 
 break in upon her hesitation. 
 
 "If my boy dies," said Henry, "I shall have to 
 make a bit of a fresh start at life . . . I know that!" 
 
 She felt a curious thrill at the words : so much so 
 that she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the banal 
 figure of Henry which was so poor a frame for his 
 soul, and to create for herself some half mediaeval, 
 half mythical knight in armour, throwing down a 
 glove to fate and ready to abide the issue. 
 
 So it was that, at the foot of a grass bank in a 
 Kentish lane, Prettiness and Cleverness surrendered 
 
 208
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 to Character, as indeed they have always to do sooner 
 or later. In the exaggerated self-abasement which 
 seemed to swamp her she experienced suddenly the 
 feelings of one who has pretended he can swim, and 
 finds himself for the first time out of his depth. 
 Vaguely she longed for the presence of the old clergy- 
 man. During her short pilgrimage in the un- 
 familiar surroundings of Dangerfield and Apple- 
 garth he alone had seemed to understand her and to 
 be prepared with a solace or a solution to every 
 storm. Here there was no one but her own dis- 
 credited self and the amazingly unexpected but 
 equally unhelpful strength of Henry Cumbers. 
 
 She gave up the problem and rocked, unreservedly 
 unhappy, backwards and forwards on the foot of the 
 bank. As was her nature, all the whirlpool that was 
 in her head had got to come out. 
 
 "I thought you were a "little man in a little world," 
 she cried, adding as she caught sight of his puzzled 
 moon of a face . . . "and so you are I But it's a 
 far bigger world than mine," she went on quickly, 
 "though I can speak five languages. That was a fine 
 thing you said that about starting again: I don't 
 believe I could have said that! And yet, and yet 
 ..." A puzzled frown showed through her tears. 
 "People love me ... in their way. I suppose I 
 amuse them and so they . . . they give me nice 
 things." She broke off and looked him straight in 
 the eye. "I'm not an adventuress really," she said. 
 "Only a silly woman; you see, nobody gives you a 
 
 209
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 chance if you're pretty. They just tell you yon are the 
 most wonderful thing that ever happened. . . . And 
 you get to believe it in time !" She gave a short laugh 
 and looked behind her through the young trees. "It's 
 funny," she said, "for me to be telling you things 
 like that; I suppose the moon has gone to my head!" 
 
 Henry, she noticed, was running his forefinger un- 
 easily and meaningless round the rim of the left head- 
 light. But Iris went on explaining things more to 
 herself than to her companion. "Your world's bigger 
 than mine, because it's real, because it's got a stand- 
 ard. I I loved you when you said you'd start again. 
 I saw your shoulders get suddenly straight. And I 
 see now why your wife trusts you and believes in 
 you . . ." She was recovering herself, and remem- 
 bered all of a sudden the sonorous voice of Henry, in 
 his little garden, overwhelming Mary, as the Master 
 of his House. She drew her handkerchief across her 
 eyes and sat up. 
 
 "But, you know," she said, "you do bully her!" 
 
 The churchwarden started as if he had been shot. 
 
 "I bully my wife?" he ejaculated with a sort of 
 gasp. 
 
 "Didn't you know it?" she retorted. "Every 
 word she says is an echo of you. I don't mean that 
 you hit her, but I suppose you are always booming 
 at her! There are lots of ways of bullying." She 
 paused for a moment and reflected, looking at his 
 astonished, respectable face. 
 
 "The kind ways are the worst," she added slowly. 
 210
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 Aghast at this accusation, the genuine quality of 
 which he could not question, Henry stared at the 
 moon, his mouth drooping piteously, his whole face 
 a study of a baby fifty-three years old. 
 
 "How ridiculous," he thought, "how absurd that 
 this impossible girl should presume to . . ." And 
 there his thoughts broke off with a snap. The moon 
 gave him no comfort. Of course it was absurd to 
 suppose he bullied his wife Mary had her own. 
 opinions, often . . . how often? Henry became 
 suddenly tongue-tied and wretched. Perhaps, after 
 all ... but how could the disreputable alien from 
 next door be right about anything? He made a great 
 effort, not altogether successful, to sidetrack this dis- 
 turbing idea by becoming extremely practical. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that we must make up our 
 minds to spend the night here?" 
 
 "Gold," she murmured, "lying down with glitter." 
 
 She saw him wince at the conceit. 
 
 "I do not think," he said with a return of his old 
 pomposity, "that the unfortunate position can be mis- 
 understood." 
 
 "Oh!" she returned, "I know that my reputation 
 will be quite safe in your hands." 
 
 She marked, with relief, that Henry saw no pos- 
 sible second meaning in the remark. He was re- 
 moving the rugs from the car; his slow-moving mind 
 had gathered by now the import of her sentence. 
 
 "After all," he said with unexpected wisdom, "gold 
 and glitter have a great deal in common." 
 
 211
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 He arranged the cushions of the car into a rough 
 bed, and arranged the rugs upon the top of it. Iris 
 watched him, and as he pounded the leather cushions 
 and tucked the rugs about them she understood, in 
 part, why a woman had loved him. 
 
 "But what about you?" she asked as he straight- 
 ened himself from his task. 
 
 "I'm all right," he answered. "If I want to sleep 
 I can get into the car." 
 
 She realised from his tone that it was not likely 
 that he would want to sleep. Yet, for herself, the 
 night air had done its kindly office, and even now she 
 could have slept where she stood. In his own pom- 
 pous way he was indicating the bed he had made for 
 her, and after the strain of driving an engine of 
 which she knew nothing, and the turmoil of finding 
 out the worth of her enemy, it appeared at the 
 moment very desirable. Yet she fought against 
 the desire. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "But I'm not sleepy yet." 
 
 "You look to me," said Henry, "very sleepy. 
 And," he went on, "you certainly ought to be, after 
 the great strain you have been through, for which," 
 he added, with a ridiculous half-bow, "I am deeply 
 indebted to you 1" 
 
 His very earnestness defeated her. 
 
 "I I am tired," she said, crossing to the bed that 
 he had built. And as she insinuated herself between 
 the rugs another wave of self-abasement over- 
 whelmed her. But she was really very sleepy, and 
 
 212
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 the words that she wanted to say to him came in the 
 vernacular which, as she imagined, he did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 "I wish to hell," she said, "that I'd been able to 
 get you there, and and I think that ridiculous son of 
 yours is a damned good chap I" 
 
 One can only suppose that the absurd situation 
 and the trees and the moon had conspired together to 
 produce the magic wand, which undoubtedly touched 
 Henry Cumbers on the shoulder at this moment. 
 
 There is, at any rate, no doubt that he straight- 
 ened himself up, squared his shoulders, and said (un- 
 churchwardenly but most sincerely) : 
 
 "Thank God, my son is a bloody fine fellow!" 
 
 And after delivering himself of this frightful 
 heresy he became apparently overwhelmed with shy- 
 ness, and started up the road, swinging his arms like 
 a December cabman, though the night was as mild 
 and comforting as the South of England can make 
 it; and indeed Henry must have made himself very 
 hot indeed in his effort to erase the confusion with 
 which his sudden reversion to nature had covered 
 him. 
 
 So there they were, to all intents and purposes, 
 the only couple in the world, for some hours at least. 
 Some such idea entered Iris's head as she lay, half- 
 asleep, on the bed he had made for her. If it were 
 so, she pondered lazily, if she and Henry Cumbers 
 were really alone on the earth, would they still re- 
 gard each other in the same way? Would they wan- 
 
 213
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 der apart, one choosing the south roads and the other 
 the north, intractable and stubborn, preferring the 
 vast solitude of their own company to the surrender 
 of one jot of their opinions? She supposed not; 
 they would find something in each other, something 
 that kindled sufficient fire to keep warm a comrade- 
 ship. And, after all, she thought, had she not sur- 
 rendered a little even as it was? She had admitted, 
 in the first rush of her remorse, that he was brave 
 and true, and brave and true he was, she told herself, 
 though such big words seemed really to belong to 
 some gentleman in armour not at all like that rounded 
 solemn little figure of which she could catch a 
 glimpse, peeping round the corner of this terrible rug 
 which was already beginning to tickle her chin most 
 abominably. 
 
 Brave and true ! As she looked at the stupid little 
 man she realised that perhaps it required a certain 
 meed of bravery not to be clever and not to be a suc- 
 cess, and that, without doubt, it required a great deal 
 of honesty to be true to one's own little code when 
 one is so unimportant that no body would ever notice 
 whether one was true or not. It was with a feeling 
 very like awe, and with a quite inexplicable lump in 
 the throat, that she saw the little figure fall suddenly 
 upon its knees, the bald head droop on the rounded 
 shoulders, the short characterless hands come to- 
 gether in a gesture of appeal, and knew that Henry 
 Cumbers was praying. 
 
 She could not remember when last she had said a 
 214
 
 "THE QUAINT COMPANIONS" 
 
 prayer possibly she never had but now she looked 
 up into the summer sky winking down at the little 
 earth-bound bundle on the improvised bed, with its 
 million glittering mysteries, telling her what a very 
 little speck she was, and she too felt suddenly, like all 
 small things, the necessity to ask for help. 
 
 It was a quaint prayer she sent sailing away into 
 the night: highly unorthodox, the Reverend John 
 would have called it, with a possible added rider to 
 the effect that it was probably none the less efficient 
 for that. 
 
 "Oh God," she said, "whatever that funny little 
 man is asking you, please see he gets it." 
 
 "That's a rotten prayer," she added to herself, 
 as she took a last sleepy look at her companion. The 
 Kentish moon was high over the trees by this time, 
 and Henry threw a queer humpy shadow upon the 
 white road. He was still praying. Indeed, half an 
 hour later, when Iris was fast asleep, her head un- 
 comfortably tucked under the rug in order to defeat 
 the gnats, Henry was still praying. 
 
 215
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 IT was on the afternoon after these events that Miss 
 Figgis, who, if your memory serves, was the lady 
 who giggled so loudly and knew so well that she had 
 very little to giggle about, called upon the Reverend 
 John. It appeared that she was "upset." The fact 
 that the recitation perpetrated by Iris had been 
 originally, albeit ignorantly, condoned in her little 
 drawing-room seemed to weigh upon her mind con- 
 siderably. The Reverend John, who, as a matter of 
 fact, was thinking, to the exclusion of almost every- 
 thing else, about the inexplicable happenings of the 
 night before, greeted her kindly enough. He had 
 always looked upon her as a human desert unblessed 
 by even one oasis, the plains of which, in consequence, 
 no traveller had ever the courage to essay. Yet he 
 would have been the first to admit that some marital 
 Stanley or Livingstone might well have found in this 
 shrill, hen-necked spinster a streak of gold, rich and 
 enduring. 
 
 "I wanted to have a little talk with you," Miss 
 Figgis started, with some hesitation. 
 
 "Of course," answered the clergyman, "it is my 
 216
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 business to have little talks with people : and natural- 
 ly every now and then even business is a pleasure." 
 
 Miss Figgis, who had just removed her gloves, 
 started to put them on again. 
 
 "It's about that Russian creature," she said nerv- 
 ously. "The recitation, you know ... it was too 
 . . . too dreadful, wasn't it?" 
 
 "I think," he said, "it was probably a great deal 
 more scandalous for those who did not understand it 
 than for those who did." 
 
 But of course she did not comprehend what he 
 meant, and so she forgot immediately that the re- 
 mark had been made at all. The Miss Figgises of 
 the world have this capacity. 
 
 "It was passed in my house," she said, "and I feel 
 a certain stigma attaches to me." 
 
 The old gentleman sighed. Translated into 
 emotion, he thought, how very like the big things and 
 the little things of life became ! Miss Figgis was 
 talking like an ambassador under the shelter of whose 
 embassy some world-shaking faux-pas had been 
 made. 
 
 Moreover, she was every whit as disturbed as the 
 hypothetical ambassador would have been. 
 
 "I should naturally hate my name to be connected 
 with anything of the kind." 
 
 She threw out the remark as if the clergyman by 
 a wave of the hand could prevent such a catastrophe. 
 
 "My dear lady," he replied, "who could ever think 
 217
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 of connecting your name with such an unfortunate 
 affair?" 
 
 He refrained from adding that no one ever had 
 connected the name of Miss Figgis with anything 
 at all. 
 
 "You think I have been hypersensitive in the mat- 
 ter?" she asked, demanding with her watery eyes 
 what comfort he could give. 
 
 "Why, of course," he said. "It must be a weak- 
 ness of yours, Miss Figgis, to imagine that people 
 are blaming you for things over which you have no 
 control. But, upon my soul, we all have our weak- 
 nesses. I, for instance, can never refuse a rogue half 
 a crown . . . that is," he added, "if I happen to 
 have half a crown. It is a very serious form of self- 
 indulgence, and really I have tried to fight against 
 it." 
 
 Miss Figgis drew her gloves off again, realising 
 that she must be putting them on when she rose 
 to go. 
 
 "You really did disapprove of the performance?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Highly," he returned, regarding with quizzical 
 humour the suspicion in her eyes. 
 
 "I heard," she said", "that you were dining with 
 the woman last night." 
 
 "I was," he returned shortly, a new gleam under 
 the bushy eyebrows. 
 
 "Is it ... was it wise?" she asked hurriedly. 
 "We were all, in a sense, involved over that recita- 
 
 218
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 tion, and we ought, don't you think, to make our 
 disapproval obvious to all ?" 
 
 He nodded as if to himself. 
 
 "So it was because you heard I had dined there," 
 he said, "that you wanted to have a little talk with 
 me?" 
 
 She did not answer his question, but looked away, 
 fumbling at her gloves. 
 
 "There are the weaker brethren," she murmured. 
 
 "I have never pretended," he said, "to be anything 
 other than one of the weaker brethren myself." 
 
 "But you must be," she protested. "Are you not 
 a clergyman?" 
 
 "So you would imagine from my cloth," he re- 
 joined lightheartedly; "but I am afraid I have never 
 aimed higher than being a human. We are all of us 
 beings, but so many of us are not human, don't you 
 think?" 
 
 He was on the doorstep with her, and, not having 
 understood a solitary word of what he had said, she 
 looked to his expression for her cue, and seeing the 
 slight smile at the corners of his lips, she giggled in 
 a way she felt sure was convincing. 
 
 But, watching the thin pathetic figure bobbing 
 along the road under its blue sunshade, the old gentle- 
 man grew a little sad and wondered, as he turned 
 back into the vicarage, how on earth such stuff as this 
 was ever to get into touch with the great comrade- 
 ship of the world, with its wonderful strength and its 
 wonderful weakness, its marvellous endeavour and 
 
 219
 
 its splendid hope. . . . All the great throbbing 
 mystery of it that he loved so well and in which he 
 had fought hard to play his part. 
 
 "And yet," he said to himself, when he was once 
 more in his study, scraping the charcoal out of his 
 pipe and sending a rain of black over the hearthrug, 
 "and yet, of course, there must be something in the 
 woman that I have overlooked." 
 
 Then he turned his mind once more, for the 
 hundredth time, to Iris, and tried to fit various 
 theories to her disappearance in a stolen car, with a 
 stolen cap and a stolen British warm. But it was too 
 much, even for the Reverend John. He went into 
 the garden which lay at the back of the vicarage and 
 walked round it pensively. Many a time the old 
 gentleman, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, had 
 descended upon that little patch of soil with seeds 
 and fork and trowel. Yet it had never done any- 
 thing but reflect the diffuse and jerky mind of its 
 owner with a patch of flowers here and a disgraceful 
 wilderness of weeds next door, a welter of colour in 
 one corner, a heap of rubbish in the other. The ways 
 in which the Reverend John's life had been cast were 
 mirrored marvellously accurately, in that garden. 
 Here the big red and yellow and green of enthusiasm, 
 there the weeds and waste of routine and tradition 
 routine which he had never understood, yet to which 
 he knew that he must bow; tradition against which 
 the virility of his mind revolted, yet to which his 
 kindly soul surrendered, just because of those 
 
 220
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 "weaker brethren" in whose lives he had found 
 tradition and routine the very prop and keystone. 
 Now he walked round this temperamental little 
 wilderness wondering what trick Faith had played 
 his Russian "daughter," walked round and round till 
 the muscles of his thighs protested against this vigour 
 after sixty-eight years and began to remind him that 
 in the handicap of life the body cannot always keep 
 up with the mind. His eye lighted upon a bed of 
 thick weeds lying conveniently under the shade of a 
 large holly, and, accustomed as he was to use the soft 
 places of the earth much as Henry Cumbers used his 
 drawing-room sofa (only much more naturally) he 
 sat down under the holly tree, and, lighting his pipe, 
 went over all the circumstances of Iris's disappear- 
 ance once more. 
 
 Now the Reverend John was an old man, and, 
 moreover, it was hot and he had had his lunch. In 
 the weeds under the holly myriads of possible reasons 
 to account for last night's affair drifted into his 
 brain, drifted and were dismissed, came back of their 
 own accord, met others, fraternised, separated, met 
 again, metamorphosed, became a detective story, 
 and then a fairy tale, merged and appeared again, 
 wilder and more impossible than ever. The Reverend 
 John was asleep in the weeds. 
 
 It seemed perfectly natural to Iris on her return 
 after first changing into a very attractive afternoon 
 frock to report herself at the Vicarage. She ar- 
 rived there about five o'clock. Mrs. Jallop, the 
 
 221
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 housekeeper, told her that the Reverend John was 
 in, and asked her to wait in the dining-room. After 
 some ten minutes she returned. 
 
 "All I can say," she remarked in her downright 
 fashion, "is that 'e was under my eye up to a quarter 
 to four. If Vs gone out since then Vs given me the 
 slip, that's all!" 
 
 Iris realised that to smile was to forfeit all con- 
 fidence. 
 
 "Was he alone?" she asked. 
 
 "No," returned the housekeeper, "Miss Figgis 
 was with 'im." 
 
 "Really?" she said. "How long was she here?" 
 
 "Oh, only a very short time say 'arf an hour!" 
 
 Iris decided that half an hour of Miss Figgis was 
 not sufficient to drive the old gentleman into the open 
 country. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, "he is in the garden?" 
 
 Mrs. Jallop stiffened perceptibly. , 
 
 "On Thursdays," she said, " 'e does the notes for 
 'is sermon; and 'e ought to be doing 'em now! But 
 there it is," she went on, with a note of martyrdom 
 in her voice, "I can't deny as Vs given me the slip 
 this time!" 
 
 "I'll go into the garden and look," suggested the 
 Russian. 
 
 The housekeeper nodded and opened the door. 
 Then she fixed Iris with a peculiar glare. 
 
 "Not that I agree with 'is sermons," she said 
 "I'm a dissenter myself, and, in my opinion 'e's far 
 
 222
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 too nice to the wicked, I mean," she added, with a 
 very meaning look towards the visitor. 
 
 "All the same," replied the Russian, "he is rather 
 a splendid man, don't you think?" 
 
 Mrs. Jallop paused in the doorway, a puzzled ex- 
 pression on her face. 
 
 "Yes," she said, " 'e is. And that is exactly what 
 I can't understand !" And, after this rather illuminat- 
 ing remark, she departed for the kitchen, where were 
 a steak and some new potatoes and various other 
 things which she did understand. 
 
 Meanwhile Iris went into the garden. 
 
 When she was half-way round the little path which 
 bounded the Reverend John's landed property she 
 called his name. There was no answer, and she made 
 up her mind that he had left the Vicarage on one of 
 his ridiculous walks. All the same, it was just as 
 quick now to walk right round the little garden as to 
 retrace her steps, and, half-way back to the house, 
 she came upon that recumbent black figure upon 
 which she had stumbled once before in the bracken, 
 imagining then that he was either murdered or 
 drunk. 
 
 Now she sat down beside him under the holly and 
 was surprised that he woke up at once. 
 
 "Well, Daddy?" she said. 
 
 "Well, my dear?" he answered sleepily (imagin- 
 ing I don't know what sentimentalities). But Iris 
 went straight to her point, determined to spare her- 
 self nothing. 
 
 223
 
 "Do you remember," she asked, "when I said that 
 I would educate little Mr. Cumbers?" 
 
 The Reverend John yawned and raised himself 
 upon one elbow. 
 
 "Certainly I do," he answered. 
 
 "Well," she went on, "I was wrong, that's all !" 
 
 He sat up amongst the weeds and became inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "Wrong?" he asked. "How?" 
 
 She leant against the holly tree, regardless of her 
 frock, and looked hard, forgetful of his ridiculous 
 position, into the old man's eyes. 
 
 "I'm not at all sure," she said, "that he has not 
 educated me." 
 
 The clergyman leapt to his feet as if animated by 
 an electric shock. 
 
 "Then it was you two," he cried, "that were to- 
 gether last night? I do hope and pray that each of 
 you discovered the other!" 
 
 She looked away. 
 
 "I think," she said slowly, "that he is rather a fine 
 little chap full of guts, you know the sort of fel- 
 low who would always begin again." She pulled a 
 bunch of weeds from her side and threw them up 
 into the air, then she laughed. "Heaven knows," she 
 said, "what he thinks about me!" 
 
 "Exactly !" He almost shouted the word. "Don't 
 you see that with a chap like that Heaven's the only 
 place that ever will know?" 
 
 224
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 The Reverend John was on his feet by now, 
 gesticulating extravagantly amongst the foliage. 
 
 "Naturally," he said with a laugh, "he wouldn't 
 give it away anywhere else, would he?" 
 
 "Men like Cumbers," said the Reverend John, 
 "are afraid to tell everything that they feel even to 
 God." 
 
 He stood on the gravel path and pointed an ac- 
 cusing finger at her. 
 
 "You cannot escape me now," he said. "How 
 did you manoeuvre such a divine indiscretion?" 
 
 "I didn't manoeuvre it at all," she answered, and 
 told him the whole story of the night in the Kentish 
 lane. 
 
 At the end of the recital the old gentleman plunged 
 again into the weeds beside her like a boy of 
 eighteen. 
 
 "How splendid," he said. "How perfectly splen- 
 did!" 
 
 "Why?" she asked, surprised at his sudden en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "Don't you see," he returned, "that no situation 
 on earth could have given you two a glimpse of one 
 another, except that?" 
 
 "Do you think," asked Iris, "that Mr. Cumbers 
 really saw a bit of me?" 
 
 "Of course he did," said the old gentleman, "as 
 much as he was able ! The human brain is like the 
 lens of a camera: it records only according to its 
 power." 
 
 225
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 He took her hand, and the old eyes under the 
 bushy brows became all of a sudden piercing and 
 insistent. 
 
 "What did yours record?" he asked. 
 
 "A a very splendid little man," she answered 
 hesitatingly, and then added, with a note of defiance, 
 "and one with whom I couldn't get on for five 
 minutes!" 
 
 "Of course you can't get on with him," said the 
 Reverend John, "why should you? It isn't getting 
 on with people that matters; it's being fond of 
 them." 
 
 He got up and paced up and down the path in front 
 of her. 
 
 "How like you," he chuckled, "how very like 
 you!" 
 
 "What was?" asked Iris. 
 
 "To steal a car and a coat and spend the night in 
 a lane all for the sake of a man you cannot get on 
 with!" 
 
 "It was awfully silly of me," she said. "I acted 
 on the impulse of the moment." 
 
 "My dear lady," he protested, "don't, for good- 
 ness' sake, excuse the most splendid thing you have 
 done since I have known you !" 
 
 "And supposing everybody here says it was a 
 scandalous thing to do!" 
 
 "I cannot imagine," answered the old gentleman, 
 "anything of less importance than what people say 
 just as," he added, "nothing is more important 
 
 226
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 than what people do." He was smiling at her, his 
 eyes twinkling, and the infectious sympathy of the 
 man made her stretch out her hand to him. He took 
 it, and she drew him down beside her once more. 
 
 "Daddy," she said, "I am twenty-six, and there 
 are still a great many things that I do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 "I am sixty-eight," he returned gravely, "and 
 there is nothing whatever that I understand." And 
 then, seeing that she was in a communicative mood, 
 "Say on," he added gently. 
 
 She stared into the weeds and, because she was 
 half talking to herself, she brought her thoughts 
 naked out of her brain. 
 
 "He tucked me up in the rugs," she said, "and 
 went away and prayed. He prayed for ages on his 
 knees in the road. He must have taken the skin off 
 his knees, praying like that!" 
 
 "That is an eccentricity of routine," murmured 
 the Reverend John. "People don't pray with their 
 knees. I knew a man,' he added, "who could only 
 pray in his bath. His wife thought it was irrever- 
 ent." 
 
 "Do you?" she asked. 
 
 "I consider," he replied, "that it is a matter for 
 God to decide. But there are many wives who take 
 upon themselves these decisions. Personally, I think 
 it is a mistake. One marries a woman, not a religion. 
 I can quite easily imagine a Plymouth Brother hap- 
 pily mated to a sun-worshipper. That is," he went 
 
 227
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 on, "if they were both wise enough and happy 
 enough to know that there is a divinity both in the 
 dissenter and in the sun." He broke off abruptly. 
 "Getting away from the point as usual," he said. 
 "What were you going to say?" 
 
 "Only," she answered, "that I can't pray at all!" 
 
 "Why does that worry you?" he asked. 
 
 She rose and stretched her arms wide, just the 
 same gesture, he remembered, that he had seen her 
 use that night on the heath, when she was invoking 
 Bacchus and Pan. 
 
 "Because," she said, "I'm not at all sure I don't 
 want to 1" 
 
 He nodded slowly. 
 
 "That is interesting," he said; "it rather bears out 
 a theory of mine." 
 
 "What theory?" she asked. 
 
 "Why," he returned, "that sooner or later almost 
 everyone discover! that they are as interested in God 
 as He is in them." 
 
 "What about criminals?" she threw at him, 
 "murderers?" 
 
 "I said 'sooner or later,' " he returned. "I admit 
 that discovery after death is very late but better 
 late than never, eh?" 
 
 She looked at him keenly, for such simple faith, 
 in one whom she had decided long ago was so very 
 wise, appeared a little astonishing. 
 
 "Nobody ever taught me to pray," she said, and 
 he laughed. 
 
 228
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 "The only thing at which you are an amateur?" 
 he chuckled, and added: "I have always liked 
 amateurs!" 
 
 He shook himself suddenly, like a great, shaggy 
 dog, and got up. 
 
 u These weeds," he said, "are terribly damp. I 
 felt a twinge of rheumatism. You oughtn't to be sit- 
 ting here in that thin dress!" 
 
 She rose also and discovered that her frock was 
 wet. 
 
 "You must change immediately," she said seri- 
 ously. "We have been lying in a perfect bath!" 
 
 She was shivering as they returned towards the 
 house. 
 
 "What became of the car?" he asked. 
 
 "I got a man from a garage to take it back to 
 Mr. Strickland," she said. 
 
 "And Cumbers?" 
 
 "He went on to Dover by train." 
 
 "I hope," said the old man, "that he finds his son 
 better." 
 
 "Oh," she answered, "that that was just what I 
 wanted to pray about!" 
 
 They were on the doorstep, and she became sud- 
 denly embarrassed. 
 
 "I've been fearfully silly," she said; and then, in- 
 consequently: "I wrote a note to Mr. Strickland." 
 
 He was just going in, but at her remark he turned 
 again. 
 
 229
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "I'd very much like to know," he asked, "what 
 you wrote to him?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Really," she said, "I didn't know what to say. 
 I just put 'Dear Mr. Strickland, I wanted a car sud- 
 denly to get to Dover, so I took yours. I think it's 
 all right again.' ' 
 
 The Reverend John roared with laughter. 
 
 "What a perfectly wonderful note," he said. "It 
 will provide that young man with an after-dinner 
 story for the rest of his life 1" 
 
 "He struck me," she returned, "as being very 
 much in need of one. I hope," she added, "that you 
 didn't mind me coming round? I believe you ought 
 to have been composing your sermon?" 
 
 "You have provided it," he answered, "in the mad 
 adventure of last night!" 
 
 "Oh," she said eagerly, "what will be your text?" 
 
 He thought for a moment, then suddenly took her 
 hands in his. 
 
 "Corinthians," he answered, "chapter four, verse 
 ten: 'We are fools, for Christ's sake I' ' 
 
 "Then you think I was a fool?" she asked at the 
 gate. 
 
 "Yes," he returned, "a fool for Christ's sake 
 it is my conception of wisdom." 
 
 Had he been, in very truth, a wise man, he would 
 have changed his wet clothes before going round to 
 
 230
 
 "A TEXT FOR THE VICAR" 
 
 the post office to send a prepaid telegram to the 
 military hospital at Dover. But, in this kind, 
 the Reverend John had always been an absolute 
 idiot. 
 
 231
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 "THE BEGINNINGS" 
 
 THE next morning on her breakfast-table Iris found 
 one solitary letter. The round, clerkly character of 
 the handwriting gave it all the odium of a bill, and 
 she picked it up and threw it down again on the table 
 with all the more petulance because she had been 
 expecting a letter from Andrea for some days and it 
 had not arrived. However, at that period of break- 
 fast which may be called the marmalade stage 
 (though Iris had apassion for black-currant jam 
 and never ate anything else), she opened the letter. 
 Being a thoroughly womanly woman she puzzled 
 over the address, which simply read, "8, Sea View 
 Terrace," and wondered for a long time from whom 
 it could have come without thinking of looking at the 
 signature. At length she did turn to the end of the 
 letter and there found the name "H. Cumbers" just 
 as he had been taught to write it some thirty-five 
 years ago by a schoolmaster who really believed that 
 the Greek "R" was a sin in itself. She turned back 
 to the beginning, interested to read what he had got 
 to say to her. 
 
 232
 
 "THE BEGINNINGS" 
 
 The letter ran as follows: 
 
 "DEAR MADAME IRANOVNA, I feel that I ought 
 to write and thank you for your great kindness in at- 
 tempting to take me to Dover last night. I am 
 especially indebted to you inasmuch as I realise that 
 your goodness was quite uncalled for. They have, I 
 am thankful to say, pronounced my son out of danger 
 this afternoon. He was bayoneted in the thigh, 
 where blood-poisoning set in almost immediately. 
 Unfortunately, he will never walk quite freely again. 
 Under the circumstances, however, one is naturally 
 thankful that it is no worse. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, H. CUMBERS." 
 
 Underneath the little stiff sentences Iris seemed 
 still to see the implacable disapproval which the 
 churchwarden felt towards her and her world. It 
 read, she thought, exactly like a bread-and-butter let- 
 ter after a rather formal week-end. Yet, there it 
 was. He had considered it his duty to write to her 
 and let her know the state of affairs at Dover, and 
 that he himself was grateful to her for her "at- 
 tempt." That he considered her perfectly hare- 
 brained to have made it, she had no doubt, yet, as 
 she held the clerkly note in her hand, she could not 
 help feeling how very like Cumbers this was. An 
 unpleasant duty (doubly so in telling her anything 
 to do with Tristram) inexorably done. Had their 
 positions been reversed Iris could see herself either 
 writing pages and pages of thanks for that same 
 
 233
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "attempt," or else forgetting to write at all. She 
 answered the letter shortly, simply congratulating 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cumbers on Tristram's recovery and 
 not without a smile as she penned the lines wish- 
 ing to be remembered to him. 
 
 It was after lunch that Iris began to feel lonely. 
 The last twenty-four hours had been altogether too 
 serious. She felt the need of relaxation, and started 
 to get it by doing her hair several different ways 11 
 front of her pier-glass. With some women relaxation 
 is practically synonymous with admiration, and Ins 
 soon sat down in the armchair by the side of her 
 wardrobe and wondered what she had done to de- 
 serve such desolation. She needed Andrea at this 
 moment, big, handsome, slow-minded Andrea who 
 could always be tempted into making one of those 
 clumsy compliments of his which she loved so well. 
 And Andrea was miles away fighting in this ridiculous 
 war! As for the Reverend John, she knew that he 
 did admire her and that she amused him and he was, 
 of course, a delightful companion and a most lovable 
 old gentleman, and it was perfectly marvellous the 
 way in which he managed to disguise his samtlmess. 
 Still, after all, he was an old gentleman, and youth, 
 as everybody knows, demands its fellow. So now 
 Iris sat in her chair, dropped cigarette ash on to her 
 carpet and fell into a melancholy. She reviewed h 
 sojourn in Suburbia with a little frown on her fore- 
 head. She remembered her conversation m 1 
 
 234
 
 "THE BEGINNINGS" 
 
 Cavendish grill-room with Andrea (what centuries 
 ago it seemed now!). 
 
 "In Heaven's name," he said, "why do you want 
 to go and become a suburban nun?" 
 
 And she remembered how she had answered him. 
 
 "I want to sort myself a little, I want to live right 
 away from my own entourage and discover why 
 Maurice and I were a failure." 
 
 Well, she told herself now, she had discovered 
 that. Or, was it the Reverend John who, quite un- 
 wittingly, had shown her why that first marriage 
 could never hope to have been a success? At any 
 rate, she knew Maurice had been a dear, a perfect 
 dear, but he went very little deeper than his good na- 
 ture and his good manners. She herself had imagined 
 that she was of this kind; the brilliant butterfly, the 
 froth upon the crest of the wave, content when the 
 wave breaks to be swallowed up with a dying hiss 
 upon the shingle, and never in her short ride upon 
 its surface to have disturbed the ocean one little jot! 
 
 Ah, well, she thought, considering that she had 
 never imagined her existence herself, it could hardly 
 be said to be Maurice's fault that he had failed to 
 discover the "other lady." That (amazing thought!) 
 had been left to the aged vicar of an English suburb. 
 
 She had been wonderfully happy, frothing and 
 bubbling away on the crest of her very splendid 
 wave ; there had been dances at Vienna, the remem- 
 brance of which still brought the light to her eyes, 
 supper parties at Moscow she could recall, hours of 
 
 235
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 sheer abandoned joy in existence. This "other lady" 
 was a much graver proposition, less brilliant, per- 
 haps, and less bubbly. Yet when the wave crashed 
 finally upon the relentless shingle, somehow she felt 
 the other lady could survive; curl back again, per- 
 haps, into the sea of things, fathoms deep this time 
 and directing the swell: no longer riding on some 
 tolerant monster of a billow, crackling and spitting 
 and bubbling to cover its ineffectuality, but down be- 
 low, working, straining fighting! 
 
 And as this last word crept into her mind her 
 thoughts went headlong to Andrea, to Tristram, to 
 all the hundreds of men she had known and who 
 must now be fighting; like players in a pageant they 
 marched through her brain, men with an ideal to 
 which they clung even as far as that final crash 
 upon the shingle men whose souls were wiser than 
 their brains and who saw beyond the seething of the 
 sea to that at which the whole great ocean was point- 
 ing, froth, swell, storm and all; a work, a harmony, 
 a universe which came she recalled a vivid phrase 
 of the Reverend John "within a telephone call of 
 Heaven." 
 
 A smell of burning brought her back to her suburb 
 with a rush. Her cigarette, long since dropped upon 
 the floor, was making havoc with the carpet. She 
 got up and threw it into the fender, and actually 
 laughed at the little black-brown hole in the carpet. 
 For the moment she had become the "other lady," 
 body and soul. But the accident had broken the 
 
 236
 
 "THE BEGINNINGS" 
 
 thread of her thoughts, and not many minutes latep 
 she used some very angry words over that same 
 burn. 
 
 "I'm glad," she said finally, "that I don't often get 
 into a mood like that; bother the old clergyman I" 
 
 Yet, though she called it a mood, she knew well 
 enough that that was not the whole truth, and, since 
 this knowledge worried her so much that she could 
 not keep still, she started out for a walk. The walk 
 and my chapter finish almost simultaneously, 
 dramatically, foolishly, even outrageously. She met 
 Ferdinand Madders, that sporting nonentity who had 
 been the foremost of the Magi (as far as worship 
 was concerned) after the very brilliant garden party. 
 Now, after a much more brilliant recitation, things 
 appeared to be very different. It is true that Mad- 
 ders looked at her looked at her intensely and of- 
 fensively; just because she was beautiful and alive, 
 and because Madders was equally alive but infinitely 
 less beautiful. Then he cut her deliberately, with all 
 the amazing rectitude which only a complete cad can 
 command. He had, however, reckoned without his 
 antagonist. Iris, plumbing the deeps of things, was 
 in no mood to be cut by Ferdinand Madders. Her 
 temper seethed and bubbled up with a rush, and al- 
 most immediately reached the point where some- 
 thing had to be broken. But in the open road there 
 is nothing to break. In two long, unladylike strides 
 she had caught up the people's warden. She seized 
 
 237
 
 that unsuspecting gentleman by the lapel of his coat 
 and swung him round to her. 
 
 "You middle-aged puppy!" she blazed at him, 
 "say 'good afternoon!' ' 
 
 Ferdinand Madders was taken completely by sur- 
 prise, and his teeth chattered idiotically. 
 
 "Up upon m my soul,", he began, but the 
 hurricane of her rage cut him short. 
 
 "Say 'good afternoon!' " she raged. 
 
 Out of the corner of his eye the astonished man 
 caught sight of an acquaintance on the other side of 
 the road. He forced a smile to his face. 
 
 "Good afternoon," he said, and, utterly demoral- 
 ised, sought to escape with that. 
 
 But as he turned away her hand shot out, removed 
 his hat like lightning, and put it in his hand, thus con- 
 verting, with a gesture, a retreat into a rout. The 
 respectable citizen on the opposite path stood aghast. 
 Then a solution occurred to him. He was still look- 
 ing for a cinematograph operator when Iris had 
 turned the corner. As for that lady, she started out 
 on her walk much like an angry sandstorm, whirling 
 along, wishing only for something which she could 
 destroy, vengeful all the more because, in her heart, 
 she knew there was nothing to avenge, raging because 
 she knew that it was the storm in her own soul which 
 was tossing her this way and that, and causing -her 
 to wonder why, when she so loved the froth, she yet 
 could not be happy without the swell. Knowing not 
 in the least what direction she had taken, she stopped 
 
 238
 
 suddenly as people do who unwittingly chance upon 
 a remembered spot. It was that little sandy hillock 
 upon which the old clergyman and the neurotic hero 
 had found her praying to Pan. She seated herself 
 upon its summit, and realised for the first time that 
 it commanded an unique view of the little suburB 
 which had been the crucible of her metamorphosis. 
 There was the church to which, indeed, distance 
 loaned a great deal of enchantment, and where, she 
 thought to herself, that amazing old clergyman spent 
 his "office hours." And there (she traced the route 
 from the vicarage, as nearly as she could) was Mr. 
 Cumbers's house, and next to it her own. And away 
 on the left that building with the gilded super-fretted 
 dome must be the music-hall where the terrible recita- 
 tion had been delivered. There it all was laid out 
 before her, rather like toys seen by a grown-up upon 
 a nursery floor. And, just as toys have meant a 
 great deal more in life than they have ever been 
 given credit for, so those diminutive landmarks 
 thrilled her now. She recalled great ballrooms of 
 Southern Europe, theatres, gambling palaces, 
 cathedrals of Russia and Turkey, architectural 
 miracles which these puny folk had never heard of, 
 much less seen, and wondered how it was that the 
 stunted church and the deliberately differentiated 
 slated roofs moved her so much more than those 
 other wonders had ever dpne. And as she looked 
 over this most ordinary view of a most ordinary part 
 of the world, the whole scene appeared to merge in 
 
 239
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 her mind with the personality of one old man, a per- 
 sonality which has recurred throughout the ages, 
 fitting itself as occasion demanded to empires, 
 palaces, hovels, tin churches, or even suburban 
 homes, yet always leaving its mark behind, the im- 
 press of an accredited ambassador of the court of 
 God. 
 
 240
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 IRIS found herself inexplicably happy. Inexplicable 
 because none of her usual stimulants were at hand. 
 There was no opportunity for her to shine at parties 
 or at-homes. No one was left to sit at her feet and 
 worship; in fact, for almost three weeks Iris was 
 quite alone. And yet she found herself happy. Being 
 Iris, she puzzled over the matter, but she came to no 
 conclusion. 
 
 It was hardly to be expected that one brought up 
 in an atmosphere beside which the childish and often 
 merely philosophical immoralities of the Cafe Royal 
 would have seemed just wild oats, should discover 
 the reason of her curious sense of well-being. How 
 should she guess that in the maelstrom of emotions 
 which went to make up her temperament, order, 
 brought to birth like most of character's children, by 
 a series of fortuitous circumstances, was at last 
 emerging from chaos? 
 
 A harmony was coming to light built of those sweet 
 sounds and hideous discords, the welter and struggle 
 of which had made up the life of Iris. All she knew 
 was that somewhere in herself a new experience was 
 
 241
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 stirring too small as yet to realise its nature, but 
 most certainly stirring. Yet there was one thing 
 more needed before this harmony could be borne and 
 live. 
 
 Ten days later Iris was sitting in her garden, her 
 "Decameron" on her lap, watching, through half- 
 closed eyes, the glint of the sun on the gold fleur- 
 de-lys which splashed across the green panel of her 
 Florentine tea-gown, and imagining with its aid that 
 she herself was a queen in Boccaccio's little company. 
 She was just starting to devise a story of her own, 
 not unworthy to take its place with the others, when 
 she became aware that someone was looking at her. 
 She opened her eyes and saw Tristram. He was 
 standing behind the ridiculous little box-hedge pre- 
 cisely where he had stood and been tormented by her 
 in the days which were already called pre-war and 
 were beginning to seem prehistoric. He was very thin 
 and the smile which had seemed weak and silly be- 
 fore the war seemed somehow to have lost its fool- 
 ishness now that it was framed in the white, drawn 
 face. 
 
 "Sorry," he said. "Have I woken you up?" 
 
 She started at his voice. She would not have 
 recognised it. 
 
 "Oh, no," she answered, "I was not asleep only 
 day-dreaming. I hope you are better." 
 
 "Top-hole," he replied. And she remembered a 
 conversation also prehistoric in which Tristram 
 had contended that the use of slang was not only 
 
 242
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 undignified but argued a deplorable lack of vocabu- 
 lary. 
 
 "May I have a talk with you?" he said. 
 
 "Of course," she replied, and was astonished to 
 see a long leg lift itself over the hedge at the in- 
 vitation. She realised that she was going to talk to 
 a stranger. 
 
 "You don't mind if I sit down?" he asked, "if 1 
 stand for long I get a bit giddy." 
 
 "Do have my chair," she said, "how thoughtless 
 lam!" And she got up. 
 
 "O'f course I shouldn't dream " he began, and 
 
 swayed a little. She put her hands on his shoulders 
 as he dropped into the chair. In the prehistoric days, 
 she remembered, what might not have happened had 
 she put her hands on his shoulders? 
 
 "The grass is as dry as a bone," she said. "I will 
 sit at your feet." 
 
 The boy smiled. 
 
 "It seems all wrong, doesn't it," he murmured, 
 "for you to be sitting at my feet?" 
 
 "You wanted to talk?" asked Iris. 
 
 "Yes," he returned. "I heard about that night 
 with the car. It was awfully sporting. Just the 
 sort of thing I'd have expected of you 1" 
 
 "But I didn't get there," said the Russian. "And 
 that's just the sort of thing I should have expected 
 of myself," she added. 
 
 "Anyway," he went on, "thanks awfully. But that 
 wasn't what I came to talk about." He hesitated and 
 
 243
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 gazed at his boots. "You must have thought me an 
 awful ass," he said suddenly. 
 
 "How do you know?" she asked. 
 
 "The Army!" he answered shortly. "I hated it, 
 Iris, I'm not going to pretend that I discovered a 
 'wonderful sense of comradeship' or 'the sheer joy 
 of physical fitness.' The fellows who write that stuff 
 are jolly thankful to be in a comfortable office to do 
 it. And, anyway, it isn't everyone's ideal of fitness 
 to feel like a farm labourer. I suppose till after the 
 war we shall all have to pretend that the Army is the 
 finest life in the world. But it's all rot; pigging it 
 and doing beastly things one didn't really believe 
 in when one read them in the papers." His eyes 
 wandered away and she saw in them a look which 
 somehow made her think again of his last words to 
 her before he had gone, "You can think of me in a 
 terrible funk . . . being sick." 
 
 "Of course," he went on, "it had to be done. But 
 so have lots of unpleasant things, I suppose." He 
 added, characteristically twisting his subject about, 
 "It's a question of temperament. If you like it, you 
 
 like it; if you don't " He sighed and then smiled. 
 
 "It didn't take them long," he said, "to tell me I was 
 an ass! Quite right. I was. Then I got stuck in 
 the thigh because I tripped on a sandbag and fell on 
 to a Hun's bayonet." He gave a short laugh. "And 
 now," he chuckled, "as far as I can see we're both 
 heroes, that Hun and me!" 
 
 Iris said nothing. She was interested. 
 244
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 "I'm not the stuff heroes are made of," he said 
 at last. "I'm not sure I'm the stuff that anything is 
 made of. Some of the things done out there well, 
 I tell you, Iris, even in my short bit I've seen chaps 
 do things which made me believe in Achilles and all 
 those old guys. But I didn't want to talk to you 
 about the war. First of all, I wanted to apologise." 
 
 "Apologise?" Iris sat up straight and stared at 
 him. "What in the world for?" 
 
 "For making such a fool of myself over you," he 
 answered simply. "I see now what a stupid kind of 
 cad you must have thought me." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said the Russian. "I've had 
 lots of men fall in love with me, you know!" 
 
 "Naturally," he replied, and she marvelled at his 
 ease of manner; "but I'm afraid you were my first 
 my first," he hesitated and then plunged, "you were 
 my first calf-love," he said, "and I'm sure I behaved 
 much too seriously. I must have fed you up most 
 frightfully!" 
 
 Now the purging of Iris had been far less drastic 
 than the medicine which Tristram had been forced 
 to take and, consequently, her cure was slower. She 
 reverted to type immediately. 
 
 "So you are no longer in love with me?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "You could very easily make me fall in love with 
 you again," answered Tristram, "but I should know 
 all the time it was only a game. That's the difference, 
 you see. I didn't know before. I I'm grateful to 
 
 245
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 the Army for telling me what a damned fool I was ; 
 and," he added, "I'm grateful to you for not telling 
 me when I was gassing all that rot to you !" 
 
 Like many men in their dealings with women, he 
 was buying back his folly at far too great an interest. 
 Grateful indeed I Had he been half as nice as he 
 was and twice as old, he would have known how much 
 she had enjoyed "all that rot." 
 
 "I just thought," he said finally, "that I'd like to 
 tell you you needn't be afraid of my making a fool 
 of myself any more." 
 
 "Look here," said the Russian, "you're fooling 
 yourself, Tristram, or else you're fooling me ! Surely 
 you know I enjoyed every minute of it?" 
 
 He looked up and met her eyes. 
 
 "No. I didn't know," he answered simply, and 
 then he laughed. "We are being very frank with 
 one another, aren't we?" 
 
 "I suppose," said Iris, with a slight curl of the lip, 
 "that you think it was very bad form on my part?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "No," he answered. "You see, a boy of my age 
 has no right to be as ignorant as I am." 
 
 There was something wistful in the very truth of 
 this confession, something that touched at once one 
 of those sweet sounds which were always jostling the 
 discords in the girl's nature. She put her hand on 
 his. 
 
 "Don't be morbid," she laughed; "morbidity is 
 246
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 only forgiven in those very old people who have hard 
 work to forget their mistakes." 
 
 She began to think that Tristram's short experi- 
 ence as a soldier had bitten rather deep. 
 
 "But, you know," he was saying, "I really did 
 worship you at the time." 
 
 "I should have been furious," she replied, "if you 
 had not." 
 
 Tristram answered nothing, and it was Muriel's 
 voice that broke the silence. Her remark was 
 characteristic of the girl. 
 
 "Milk and bed, please," she said. 
 
 Tristram sighed and got up. 
 
 "I'm a slave to the milk habit," he laughed, "and 
 bed is growing on me fearfully!" He turned to 
 Muriel. "All right, dear," he said, "I'm coming!" 
 
 He climbed over the box-hedge and Muriel took 
 his arm. Iris watched them cross the little lawn and 
 disappear through the French windows. Not long 
 ago she would have laughed at, even pitied this dis- 
 passionate betrothal. Now she found herself dis- 
 covering that love, like everything else, has more 
 than one genus of its species. "Milk and bed, 
 please," she supposed, could compete quite success- 
 fully with "worship and adoration" in the matter of 
 happy marriages. For all that, Iris was glad Andrea 
 was big and good-looking. Her nature demanded 
 that her husband should be a possible hero of ro- 
 mance ; other women must envy her her chained giant, 
 chained by her hands. She realised how much of the 
 
 247
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 joy of her life had been built on other people's 
 jealousy. She knew she could not do without it. She 
 smiled even now, as she contrasted Andrea's great 
 strength, his attractive eyes, with the puny figure of 
 Tristram Cumbers. Well, they lived in different 
 worlds, and the little workaday boy and girl next 
 door were welcome to their own idea of happiness. 
 She stretched out her arms and, looking at her sur- 
 roundings, smiled. It was no setting for her. Still, 
 after all, it wouldn't be very long before the picture 
 she knew so well, from the pier-glass upstairs, would 
 be in its own frame again. Yet, even as the satisfy- 
 ing thought passed through her mind, she was aware 
 of a feeling of regret, unaccountable and, as it hap- 
 pened, momentary, for she had no time to pursue it 
 before Muriel's voice broke in upon her thoughts 
 once again. 
 
 "He's getting better," she said abruptly, "but it 
 will be a slow job." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Iris. "You must be glad he 
 won't have to go out again 1" 
 
 "I am thankful," she answered. "We are going 
 to be married in the autumn." 
 
 "What a pity," said Iris, "that I shan't be here 
 to be a bridesmaid." 
 
 "You couldn't. You've been married already." 
 
 Iris laughed. 
 
 "What a terrible, practical person you are!" she 
 said. "And yet I remember some evenings we spent 
 
 together " 
 
 248
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 Muriel broke in upon her. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "So do I. They were wonder- 
 ful evenings, Iris. I shan't ever forget them. They'll 
 be like a child's memories of going to a theatre. 
 Magic!" She broke off suddenly and looked away. 
 "I'm glad I've got my work cut out looking after 
 Tristram." She turned back and looked the other 
 full in the eyes. "Tristram's cured," she said, "but 
 I'm not at all sure I am." 
 
 So even the prosaic Muriel had secret desires 
 destined to die slowly with the advancing years! 
 And, thought Iris, Mary Cumbers too, perhaps, had 
 once known them, and that absurd Mrs. Douglas and 
 Miss Figgis, and even Mrs. Jallop at the vicarage ! 
 And who knows? For, after all, a great deal of 
 everybody's life is made up of the things they never 
 say. 
 
 But the ridiculous Iris was glad that Muriel still 
 felt the spell. 
 
 Beyond the drawing-room windows Henry Cum- 
 bers's voice, grumbling low like thunder, made itself 
 heard. 
 
 "What's the use of saying it was hung on the peg 
 if it's not there now? A panama hat doesn't walk 
 about!" 
 
 Then there came the familiar answer, indistin- 
 guishable, a mixture between a bleat and a squeak. 
 Iris caught Muriel's eye and could not help herself. 
 
 "Do you think," she asked, "that Tristram will 
 do that when you've been married some years?" 
 
 249
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "I daresay," said Muriel. "Some men use it as a 
 kind of protective armour to make them think they 
 are of more importance than they are. There are 
 worse vices." 
 
 Now there came another bleat, more prolonged. 
 Mary was evidently explaining something. The 
 audience waited for the thunder-clap to follow. It 
 came in a kind of explosive bark. 
 
 "Ridiculous nonsense!" the voice rumbled and 
 broke off. "No what am I saying? I'm sorry, 
 Mary." It was very gruff now, and Muriel's eyes 
 wore a look of sheer astonishment. "I'm short of 
 temper sorry. I expect the hat's got got behind 
 something!" 
 
 "Well, I never !" said the girl. "Whatever has 
 happened to him?" 
 
 "Ill, I should think," returned Iris. She did not 
 connect this portent with that night on the Dover 
 road, nor did Henry himself, nor indeed anyone ex- 
 cept perhaps that particular department in Fate's fac- 
 tory which turns out the goads which are occasionally 
 applied to the sleepy consciences of middle-aged hus- 
 bands. Mr. Cumbers and his wife appeared in the 
 garden now. Mary had a puzzled air on her face 
 as who should say "Something is wrong somewhere." 
 
 Henry removed his hat stiffly to Iris, then turned 
 to Muriel. 
 
 "I bought Tristram a bed-jacket at Spiers & 
 Pond's this morning," he said. "That thing he had 
 
 250
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 on at breakfast was too dreadful; can't imagine 
 where he got it from." 
 
 Mary gave an almost imperceptible sigh. 
 
 "It was your old blazer, Henry," she said, "don't 
 you remember? I told you it was in my bottom 
 drawer." 
 
 "By George !" murmured the churchwarden. "Yes 
 of course, I remember. Did I really wear that? 
 It looks fearfully loud!" 
 
 Mary smiled. It was a smile half maternal, quite 
 eternal a way that women alone can smile. 
 
 "We liked it," she said simply. 
 
 The little group moved away, a tiny world in itself, 
 knocking out God knows what results from the flint 
 and steel of its personalities. Iris watched them go. 
 She thought of her first meeting with this little uni- 
 verse, Tristram's desperate passion, the party, the 
 Dover road with the moon in some uncanny way act- 
 ing as a searchlight on herself and the churchwarden, 
 and finally and most vividly there remained with her 
 the picture of Henry Cumbers raising his hat to her 
 over the box-hedge not three minutes ago. Some- 
 how that little absurdity seemed to sum up every- 
 thing. Surely he ought either to have kissed her or 
 cut her. "The usual compromise," she sneered to 
 herself. "It's the price of respectability." 
 
 And, she reflected, they really were rather hope- 
 less, these people. It was all very well to be kindly 
 and magnanimous and broad-minded and the rest of 
 it, but the truth was. she argued, that Henry Cum- 
 
 251
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 bers and his wife and Muriel and Tristram did play 
 desperately small parts in the world's theatre. Fancy, 
 for instance, being kindly and magnanimous to 
 Andrea ! The idea was absurd. His very frame was 
 fashioned in a mould that must take the stage where- 
 ever it was, take as much of the stage, that is to say, 
 as she might see fit to allow him. And there was the 
 Reverend John. He, too, was built on the heroic 
 plan, made to play the big scenes with the big actors. 
 Indeed, she confessed to herself that of all the men 
 and women she knew this old gentleman alone might 
 have had the power to elbow her right out of the 
 limelight. And here he was right away at the back 
 of the stage doing the dumb talk among the supers 
 to give animation to the scene I But the words he 
 said, for all the audience never heard them, were a 
 great deal better than the words of the play. Ah, 
 well, she thought, one can be good without being a 
 saint; one can be a work of art without being a mas- 
 terpiece. Everyone to his taste, and, for her, the 
 limelight and the hero's arms. After all, there is no 
 virtue in being dull. 
 
 Her maid, whose pride took the form of demand- 
 ing to be called Jacobs instead of her very pretty 
 Christian name of Rosemary, brought out a letter. 
 She caught a glimpse of the Russian postmark and 
 prepared to enjoy herself. The bluntness of Andrea's 
 love-making when he was forced, poor man, to re- 
 duce it to paper, always pleased her. 
 
 252
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 "Jacobs," she said, "I'll have some of the 
 Chateau Yquem for dinner, and my cornelians." 
 
 The reflection of cornelians in Chateau Yquem is 
 as near as you can come to oriental sensations with- 
 out the real thing, and the arrival of Andrea's let- 
 ters was generally made an excuse for a tiny cele- 
 bration. The maid went back to the house, and Iris 
 sat for some moments, her hands folded over her 
 letter, deliberately enjoying the delights of anticipa- 
 tion. It was good to be loved by this big man. It 
 was especially good to be loved by one who was far 
 away, to know that where you are his mind is focused, 
 that he is annihilating those thousands of miles with 
 his thoughts. To be loved from a distance seemed 
 more a matter for pride than to be loved where you 
 can feed the springs of worship with a thousand fas- 
 cinations. She turned over the envelope. An un- 
 known hand had penned the address. She felt a sud- 
 den rush of disappointment, and, childlike, the tears 
 came to her eyes. Then it wasn't from Andrea after 
 all. She very nearly flew into a rage. The letter 
 had no right not to be from Andrea, after she had 
 taken all the trouble to build up the proper atmos- 
 phere for its perusal. However, she opened it. A 
 piece of foolscap paper was inside, and a pencilled 
 note was scrawled over it. 
 
 "My own darling girl " 
 
 Iris started suddenly. Who on earth Then 
 
 she looked at the signature. It was Andrea. Andrea 
 writing with the crooked letters and wavy lines of a 
 
 253
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 child! As sometimes happens, Iris saw the whole 
 note in a second saw it like a picture without con- 
 sciously reading a line. She felt her heart race sud- 
 denly like an engine, and then stop equally suddenly. 
 She realised that she was very cold, and noticed that 
 the letter was lying on the grass. With a kind of 
 jerk she picked it up and read the ill-formed words 
 slowly and deliberately. 
 
 "My OWN DARLING GIRL, I've been pretty 
 badly hit, and it will be months before I'm about 
 again; and then, dear little butterfly, I shan't be the 
 same man you made that wonderful promise to. I 
 can't write much, so I've asked Sister Nariev to tell 
 you just what has happened to me. I'm writing to 
 release you from your engagement. You always said 
 you were a butterfly, dear heart, and I'm not the 
 right man now for a lovely butterfly like you. You'll 
 understand, I know. Don't torment your head with 
 the novelette ideas about this kind of business. I 
 shall understand too, and, in spite of the proverb, 
 pity has nothing to do with love. I'll always remem- 
 ber how good you were to me, and I shall always 
 love you, dear, and hope you'll go on being happy. 
 Your happiness is one of your greatest charms. 
 
 "ANDREA." 
 
 The postscript, written in the same hand that had 
 addressed the envelope, was in Russian: 
 
 "Captain Andrea Bakaroff," it ran, "has asked me 
 to tell you the extent of his injuries. No one knows 
 
 254
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 exactly what happened, but he was picked up 
 wounded, and it was probably a shell-burst. He was 
 hit chiefly in the face and the left side. By a miracle 
 his sight is preserved, but the left side of the face is 
 paralysed and very much drawn, and will, I fear, al- 
 ways be so. I am sorry to say that his left thigh, 
 having had to be operated upon, is permanently 
 shortened. He will, however, be able to walk with 
 a stick. I feel it my duty to tell you that, should you 
 be seeing Captain Bakaroff again, you ought to be 
 prepared for a shock at the change in his appearance. 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "SONIA NARIEV." 
 
 Iris took a cigarette from her case and lit it very 
 deliberately. She was unhealthily conscious of the 
 fact that she was trying to face the situation calmly. 
 So this ridiculous war, whirling its thousand arms 
 wildly in every direction, had managed to strike her 
 at last. Andrea had been hit, and his face was 
 paralysed Andrea's face was paralysed. There had 
 been a man who played a barrel-organ near the sta- 
 tion whose face was paralysed. He had besought 
 God to bless her because she had given him half a 
 crown. And she had given him half a crown be- 
 cause of his face. And now Andrea's face was like 
 that. Wherever he went people would be sorry for 
 him, ordinary, stupid, unblemished passers-by would 
 pity him Henry Cumbers would pity him. At this 
 moment the thought of Henry Cumbers' pity stirred 
 
 255
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 Iris more than anything else. Her face was white 
 with passion, and the rage in her eyes might have 
 frightened tragedy itself. Suddenly, by some trick 
 of memory, there flashed through her mind a con- 
 versation she had had with the Reverend John, one 
 of the first. "A thunderstorm," he said, "brings out 
 the worms, but it kills the butterflies !" And she had 
 answered: "One can always avoid the storm by go- 
 ing indoors." Henry Cumbers' storm had certainly 
 brought him out; she supposed now that she would 
 have to go indoors. 
 
 How like Andrea his letter was ! No attempt to 
 break the news to her; simply a blunt statement of 
 the fact and the stark Spartan unselfishness of the re- 
 lease. And, moreover, that bald, unromantic com- 
 monsense of his at which she had so often laughed, 
 was right. The noble woman giving her life to the 
 care of her crippled fiance Andrea knew well 
 enough how tlie years swallowed up the glamour of 
 self-sacrifice, and left only the chafing sore of the 
 strong chained to the weak. How many a kindly 
 smile, accompanying the invalid's beef-tea, has hidden 
 a despairing bitterness of spirit that is perilously near 
 hate. 
 
 Yes, madam, that is a harsh saying, and I am fully 
 prepared to believe that the hourly, daily, yearly care 
 of your old Aunt Elizabeth is a "deep and lasting 
 joy" to you, even though she has nothing to leave, 
 and may last for years in her invalid chair. You are 
 quite sincere, I know, and I know, too, that wild 
 
 256
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 horses will not drag from you those dreadful long- 
 ings that creep into your mind every now and then, 
 just before, dog-tired, you fall asleep. And when, at 
 last, Aunt Elizabeth is gathered to her fathers, you 
 will wear black at the grave-side and weep (though 
 the old lady was always a good woman, and it is 
 presumed that she is already in Elysium). More- 
 over, when your return to the house where the ser- 
 vants have removed the chair out of sight, "in case 
 it should upset the mistress" as if it could upset her 
 more than it has been doing these last ten years 1 
 you will drink your tea and murmur "it was better 
 so," this being the conventional Christian epitaph 
 when old people die. And these words are the truest 
 you have said for many a long day, madam. 
 
 Some such thoughts as these were passing through 
 Iris's mind just now, as she realised what Andrea 
 meant when he wrote that pity had nothing to do 
 with love. He was right. He knew her nature; he 
 understood her hunger for beauty and admiration for 
 herself and her belongings. It appeared that Andrea 
 felt and thought more than she had suspected. Pity 
 she had for him pity that sent the tears rolling 
 down her cheeks when she thought of the great frame 
 that in future "would be able to walk with a stick." 
 But love she decided that her idea of love did not 
 embrace this. A poor love no doubt, but who can 
 help the way she is made? People would call her 
 hard that was certain. They would imagine her 
 callous, brutal. Few would understand that she was 
 
 257
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 merely refusing the pretence of giving him what she 
 had not got to give. She might present him with a 
 blank cheque post-dated for years to come, but sooner 
 or later the day must fall due, and she would have 
 lived those years knowing that there was no balance 
 to back it. After all, from her own point of view, 
 she had never been certain thar she loved Andrea 
 not in the marriage sense. He was a dear, and he 
 had been very persistent, that was all. Now she 
 must reconstruct her future, leaving him out of the 
 picture. He would soon learn to do without her. 
 
 Iris had been brought up in a hard school. It had 
 taught her many things of which she might better 
 have lived in ignorance, but, in counterpoise, it had 
 rubbed into her one lesson which nine out of ten 
 would do well to learn. She cared not one jot for 
 what people might say of her actions. If we could 
 all say the same the world would be one degree 
 nearer the millennium. So many people's entire per- 
 sonalities are wasted because of the opinions of their 
 relations, their friends or even their "set." It is a 
 disease that goes far to clog the machinery of prog- 
 ress; its germ is selfishness, its end sterility. I would 
 have every father of twenty years realise that his son 
 or daughter is going to be wiser than he in the course 
 of progress, is built, indeed, by virtue of time itself 
 to carry on the torch farther than he can ever see it. 
 Let him not waste half a young life exacting respect 
 for what he calls experience. Experience is mostly 
 accident and often merely a catalogue of follies. Go 
 
 258
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 into any West End restaurant you like and you will 
 see more childishness than ever you saw in your child. 
 Bow to any judgment but your own, and you are 
 behaving far more foolishly than your little boy who 
 glues his wooden Noah to his yacht and believes in 
 sober truth that Admiral Beatty sails the Round 
 Pond I This much in defence of Iris, for I am well 
 aware that there are very many to whom her im- 
 mediate emotions after reading Andrea's letter will 
 appear unnatural and despicable, if only because 
 such logical behaviour in a woman is wholly unfash- 
 ionable, especially in books. She crossed the lawn and 
 went into the house. Almost as if she were a dis- 
 interested analyst of the catastrophe, she began to 
 visualise her future without Andrea. She supposed 
 she would return to and then she broke off and won- 
 dered what place there was to which she could re- 
 turn. Curious that one who had been everywhere 
 had no place now to which it seemed worth while to 
 go ! This amazing idea came as a shock to Iris. Had 
 she not hugged to herself the conceit that she was a 
 citizen of the world, at home in all four corners of 
 the earth? Home! Exactly; that was just what 
 was missing. And yet she had rather despised the 
 homebirds, telling herself that she was one of life's 
 romantic freebooters, for ever on the wing. She sat 
 down in the big armchair in her bedroom. There 
 was no doubt now that home was very desirable. 
 When had she changed? Merciless, as usual, with 
 her own emotions, but with a tragic sense of loneli- 
 
 259
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 ness, she traced the moment back and back until,' 
 without a shadow of doubt, it was placed on the oc- 
 casion when she had accepted Andrea's proposal of 
 marriage. At the time she had not realised it, but 
 it appeared now that he had certainly become her 
 sheet anchor, her ultimate idea of home. "I told 
 him," she said to herself, "that I did not love him in 
 the wife-way; I was honest with him." The reflection 
 eddied about in her brain and flung itself forward 
 again in a different form, as a little wave sucks out 
 over the shingle and returns reinforced and trans- 
 formed into a giant. Had she been honest with her- 
 self? Certainly the process of cutting Andrea out 
 of the canvas of her future left the picture curiously 
 formless and uninspiring. The possibility that she, 
 Iris the all-sufficing, might really feel the need of 
 some other human being in her life came upon her 
 with a real shock. She had so strenuously cultivated 
 the idea that she had no use for, and, indeed, was 
 incapable of that kind of love which faced even joy- 
 fully anticipated years of the familiarity which is 
 said to breed contempt, that now she regarded the 
 possibility of its existence with a suspicion that most 
 ordinary healthy-minded women might find it diffi- 
 cult to realise. Iris had certainly been a butterfly, 
 feeding her soul upon trivialities, unsuspecting of that 
 soul's existence but she had her virtues, and one of 
 them was honesty. Nothing would have induced her 
 to go to Andrea with a lie in her heart. She read 
 his letter once more and forgot to read the postscript. 
 
 260
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 As her eyes dimmed over the words she involuntarily 
 stretched out her arms as if to gather to herself some 
 wraith that was not there. With a start she noticed 
 her own gesture. "I love him," she said aloud, like 
 a child announcing the answer to a sum. Her whole 
 self seemed to be straining after a truth. When a 
 butterfly is serious it is more serious than any hum- 
 drum individual can realise. This was no matter to 
 be settled by an impulsive gesture. Iris shivered and 
 nerved herself to test this new-born love in a way 
 which, morbid, perhaps, yet with all the grandeur of 
 self-discipline, only she and her kind could have 
 imagined. In carrying it out she experienced all the 
 agony of a surgeon performing a critical operation 
 upon his dearest friend, with perhaps a little of the 
 joy of the mediaeval ascetic. Iris was Iris still. She 
 had always been a clever draughtsman. Now she took 
 a pencil from her bureau and Andrea's photograph 
 from its frame. Then she read the postscript of his 
 letter once more and began the operation upon the 
 left side of the face. She drew the firm mouth up- 
 wards into half an imbecile grin; the left eye, of 
 course, would probably sink, the nostril would be 
 broadened a little, the eyebrow would lie a bit out of 
 the straight. A little shading brought out the 
 wrinkled skin, diabolically twisting the hair off the 
 forehead at the wrong angle. Iris spared nothing in 
 this heroic mutilation. Perhaps the torture of that 
 pencil can scarcely be understood by those lucky 
 lovers whose natures do not demand beauty as a 
 
 261
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 right. It was finished at last. Nothing was left out 
 that the imagination could supply. "And you are 
 lame!" she whispered, holding the picture at arm's 
 length before her eyes. 
 
 "Dear heart dear, dear heart, I love you." 
 
 She pressed the scarred photograph to her lips and 
 covered it with kisses. She no longer doubted ; if the 
 face was the face of Polyphemus and the body that 
 of Thersites the miracle had happened and she 
 loved him. Exactly what she loved she knew not, 
 trusting to the years to tell her. Her body seemed 
 literally to swell with desire. She discovered her 
 arms yearning again, angry at the empty air. 
 
 "Oh, Andrea, my darling!" she cried aloud, "I 
 want you there so much I" 
 
 She looked again at the hideous picture and smiled, 
 as. a mother will smile at her ugly baby. "I almost 
 wish," she murmured, "that you were less handsome 
 than that." 
 
 Then she put the photograph down. Life had be- 
 come a different matter in the last few minutes. She 
 was going to him at once, of course. Nothing else 
 was even thinkable. (Butterflies are very violent 
 once they begin to use their wings with a purpose.) 
 There was, she satisfied herself, no pity here ; only a 
 wonderful savage pri<je. 
 
 "My lover," she said aloud, "you are my home; 
 they have not hurt your arms !" The hunger which 
 possessed her as she took the picture up once more 
 was something new something strangely permanent. 
 
 262
 
 "THE BIRTH" 
 
 A knock on the door found no response. Jacobs, 
 with raised eyebrows, announced dinner. 
 
 Iris started. 
 
 "I shan't be dining to-night," she said. "I'm leav- 
 ing England instead. Get me the telephone number 
 of the Russian Embassy, and begin packing pack- 
 ing everything!" 
 
 She noticed suddenly the maid's astonished face, 
 and then she smiled. After all, how was Jacobs to 
 know that, after many days, the Other Lady was 
 safely born at last? 
 
 263
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S' " 
 
 THERE are certain rules and regulations which gov- 
 ern the affairs of this world a vast deal more inexor- 
 ably than ever did those of the Medes and Persians. 
 One of them is that one cannot make a discovery 
 without a confidant. When Watts, or Stevenson, 
 or whoever it was, drew that amazing inspira- 
 tion from the tea-kettle there is no doubt that, if no 
 one else was at hand, the cat was the first to hear of 
 the new-born idea. It is almost as if the birth is not 
 complete until somebody has been told. The comity 
 of mankind demands it, and the fact is one of a 
 million evidences that go to show that the soul cannot 
 energise alone. Iris had met the "Other Lady" face 
 to face. Naturally, she went straight away to an- 
 nounce the arrival to the Reverend John. After all, 
 in a sense, he occupied the position of the father. On 
 the way to the vicarage she laughed aloud. Which of 
 her acquaintances would believe in this new Iris? 
 Carefree and happy all her life, she had never till 
 this moment realised how satisfying life could be. 
 She allowed herself to wonder whether she would 
 ever have met the Other Lady at all if she had not 
 
 264
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S'" 
 
 met the old clergyman first. The question was not 
 answered before she stood on the Vicarage steps. 
 Mrs. Jallop opened the door and regarded Iris with 
 an expression in which tolerance struggled with pity. 
 "You can't see 'im," she said immediately; " 'e's in 
 bed." 
 
 "In bed?" echoed Iris. "It's only a quarter past 
 nine!" 
 
 "Chill," returned the housekeeper laconically, and 
 added almost lusciously, "may take a dangerous 
 turn." She had a passion for cemeteries, and any 
 prospective tenant of one gained a place of respect 
 in her mind. 
 
 Behind Mrs. Jallop there appeared a new figure in 
 the hall a lady of some sixty years, holding herself 
 so straight as almost to be terrifying, and in the worst 
 state of good preservation. 
 
 "You are a friend of the Vicar's?" she asked in 
 an even, metallic tone that called to mind hundreds 
 of dull dinner-parties and at-homes. 
 
 "Yes," returned Iris, and walked into the house. 
 
 I am his sister," said the other. "John is very 
 careless. Mrs. Jallop wrote, and I considered it mv 
 duty " 
 
 "Surely," said Iris, as she went into the study, 
 "surely he is not dangerously ill?" 
 
 "To my mind," returned the other, "a man with 
 my brother's ideas is always dangerously ill." 
 
 Iris looked up at her sharply, and, with- the quick 
 intuition of the cosmopolitan, catalogued her im- 
 
 265
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 mediately in her mind. She decided that it was hard 
 to suffer fools gladly, but that an aristocratic fool was 
 the most terrible of the species. Unity Heslop had 
 aristocrat advertised in every line of her body; she 
 had bigotry and stupidity announced in every worH 
 she spoke. But at the moment Iris cared for none 
 of these things. 
 
 "He is not going to die?" she asked, aware of a 
 quite startling anxiety for the answer. 
 
 "I hope not," answered Miss Heslop; "but at his 
 age the threat of bronchitis may mean anything." 
 She broke off and set a bronze of Lorenzo the 
 Magnificent mathematically straight upon the mantel- 
 piece. Her every action, thought Iris, seemed a me- 
 chanical result of her nature. 
 
 "You know him well?" asked the lady. 
 "I hope so," answered the Russian, unable to suc- 
 ceed in keeping the hostility out of her voice. 
 The elder woman sighed. 
 
 "What a pity," she said, "that he has so muddled 
 away his life I I always said John had great abilities, 
 and he was a personal friend of the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. He might have made for himself a real 
 place in the world, but his ideas were always wrong, 
 even from a boy." She shook her head sadly. "He 
 really seemed to prefer to miss everything," she 
 added. 
 
 "Of such," murmured Iris, "is the kingdom of 
 
 Heaven." 
 
 266
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S' " 
 
 Naturally she misremembered her context, but the 
 answer gave it to her. 
 
 "John is not a child," said Miss Heslop stiffly. 
 
 "Yes, he is," she retorted, adding ungrammatic- 
 ally, "the better half of them." 
 
 With her message to the old man burning to be 
 heard, she was in no mood to be polite to a woman 
 like Unity Heslop. 
 
 "I suppose," said the elder lady, "that you think 
 that clever?" 
 
 'It must be," was the answer; "it's true." 
 "Well, well," murmured the other in the glassy 
 tone of extreme politeness, "we will not quarrel about 
 it. No doubt John's parishioners are satisfied with 
 little things. After all, the big world is not sauce for 
 everybody, is it?" 
 
 Of course there could be no doubt about Miss 
 Heslpp's breeding, yet for all that Iris could not help 
 noticing how very much like her patronage was to 
 that of Henry Cumbers, who, needless to say, 
 would never have been allowed to figure on her 
 visiting list. Now, although the Other Lady had 
 been discovered, it appeared that she had much in 
 common with the old Iris. She had no intention of 
 allowing anyone to belittle her friend in her presence, 
 and, indeed, the temper of the Other Lady, rising 
 rapidly to fever heat in a manner curiously reminis- 
 cent of old times, was already flying the usual signals 
 in Iris's green eyes. She faced the elder lady across 
 the table. 
 
 267
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "You !" she said derisively, "you to dare to criticise 
 him? I tell you the Reverend John means more in 
 the world than it's possible to express ... all the 
 Reverend Johns! A good man who can laugh like 
 he does is a far more valuable gift to posterity than 
 the Parthenon or the Venus de Milo. Millions of 
 people may benefit by his jest and his earnest you 
 can't tell how many I" She lost her breath in her en- 
 thusiasm, and the elder lady, used to taking ad- 
 vantage of breathing-spaces in the scrambles which 
 are called conversation at afternoon teas, leapt into 
 the breach. 
 
 "I should never deny," she said, "that my brother 
 is a clever man. Unfortunately, he has wasted his 
 talents." 
 
 Iris was becoming really angry, but Miss Heslop, 
 poor soul, had no idea that she was trying to be 
 dignified with a piece of nitroglycerine. 
 
 "What a rotten thing to say!" ejaculated the Rus- 
 sian. "I suppose you'd like to see him in a tin-pot 
 mitre and a palace, trying to be a prince of the 
 church when they lost their usefulness in the Middle 
 Ages!" she laughed merrily. "I don't think he'd en- 
 joy being a figurehead. Oh and how Daddy would 
 hate his mitre!" 
 
 Miss Heslop was a strict high-churchwoman. One 
 of the Heslops had been killed by a Roundhead in 
 the Civil Wars, and this (though, as a matter of fact, 
 it had been the result of a debauch in a village tav- 
 ern) had settled the religious opinions of the Heslops 
 
 268
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S'" 
 
 for good and all. It was deplored that the Reverend 
 John had no family feeling in the matter. Now she 
 was shocked to the very core. She would as soon 
 have desecrated a tomb as have called a mitre "tin- 
 pot." She was so upset that she made herself 
 ridiculous. 
 
 "My family," she said, "belong to the high-church. 
 They do not understand your type of person. I have 
 no doubt you are much to be pitied, but I am not a 
 missionary. I am totally unfitted to contend with 
 the ravings of the heathen." 
 
 As she gave vent to- this portentous and solemn 
 utterance she rang the bell. Iris had never met this 
 kind of fanatic before. She realised vaguely that 
 Miss Heslop's religion was more an heirloom than 
 anything else, that she had almost come to regard 
 God as a family servant. Being Iris, with her 
 emotions absolutely unschooled, she saw only the 
 humour of the situation, and suddenly shrieked with 
 laughter. Miss Heslop probably thought that she 
 was mad. At this moment Mrs. Jallop appeared in 
 the doorway. Iris's laughter had been loud enough 
 to be heard in the kitchen, and the housekeeper's eye- 
 brows expressed almost as much disapproval as did 
 those of the high-churchwoman. The Reverend John, 
 manfully attempting a novel of soul analysis which" 
 his sister had given him and on which he knew she 
 would examine him later, heard it also. Here was 
 relief! He sprang out of bed with a marvellous 
 
 269
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 agility considering the weight of his sixty-eight years, 
 and opened the door. 
 
 "Is that you, my daughter?" he shouted. 
 
 The trio were now in the hall. 
 
 "Goodness me!" said Mrs. Jallop, startled into 
 irreverence, "the old fool's got out of bed!" 
 
 "Jallop I" said Miss Heslop warningly, and turned 
 to the stairs. The Reverend John, leaning now over 
 the banisters, could see his sister's upturned face. 
 
 "I want," he said, "to see Madame Iranovna," 
 and then, warned by her expression, added, "I shall 
 be seriously ill if I don't!" 
 
 Iris had heard every word from his first shout of 
 welcome, but it was always a joy to her to watch the 
 Reverend John dealing with a situation, and she 
 meant to make it last as long as she could. 
 
 "Please do not be idiotic, John," said his sister 
 icily. "You are far too old." 
 
 "Ridiculous, Unity," came the answer. "You 
 know my opinions about old age. I haven v t long 
 enough left to miss being idiotic when I can. I wish 
 to see Madame Iranovna !" 
 
 Iris laughed again. 
 
 "All right, Daddy," she said. "I'm coming!" 
 
 She went up the stairs two at a time, while Miss 
 Heslop drummed her heel impatiently on the floor 
 and Mrs. Jallop's eyebrows were in danger of dis- 
 appearing into her fringe. 
 
 "Mad," said the housekeeper, "that's what 'e is." 
 
 "Eccentric," corrected Miss Heslop, without 
 270
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S' ' 
 
 humour. She was still thinking of the Family. Up- 
 stairs the Reverend John received Iris in his pyjamas. 
 
 "I have a dressing-gown," he explained, "but they 
 decided it was dirty one of those towelling affairs 
 ... a little dust, that's all. Most women are 
 hypersensitive." 
 
 "Please get into bed," said Iris. "If you die, I'll 
 have to explain to your sister, and I should hate 
 that." 
 
 "So should I," he replied, climbing into bed, and 
 added, "but, thank goodness, I should be deadl I 
 would so love to see her face when she put flowers 
 over me every three months 1 I oughtn't to say that, 
 because she's very kind ... in a quite impossible 
 way. I'm very glad to see you, my daughter!" 
 
 "I've got some interesting news for you," she said, 
 and added bluntly, "you were quite right about the 
 Other Lady, Daddy; she's come to life." 
 
 He held out his hands and she took them in hers. 
 He smiled, and after a little pause he said: 
 
 "It's a nice feeling, isn't it?" 
 
 "A wonderful feeling," she answered, "but I'm 
 glad I've still got a terrible temper and a fearful 
 sense of humour. I don't think I could do without 
 theml" 
 
 "It is quite as dangerous," he said, "to lose sight 
 of the trivial side of your nature as the serious, and 
 equally wrong. I don't think anybody sufficiently 
 realises how much sheer folly helps the world to be 
 
 271
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 a better place. What's the Other 'Lady like?" he 
 added abruptly. 
 
 "Her lover has been made ugly and lame in the 
 war," answered Iris. She tried to keep the note of 
 banter in her voice, and she could have sworn her 
 eyes showed no tears. Yet, somehow, as usual, the 
 Reverend John pierced her armour and she found 
 herself a few seconds later lying in his arms, half 
 across the bed, damping his pyjamas with her crying. 
 
 "I I'm sorry, Daddy," she sobbed. "The old 
 me would never have done this." 
 
 "It's the happiest moment of my life," he an- 
 swered. "I feel a real father at last. Please cry for 
 a few moments more !" 
 
 The conceit charmed her tears away. 
 
 "I've come to say good-bye," she said. 
 
 "Naturally," he answered. 
 
 "I wouldn't have gone to him . . . some time 
 ago. But ... I can't explain it ... something 
 happened, and I love him more than ever . . . more 
 than I thought possible. I wonder if you under- 
 stand." 
 
 "I ought to," he murmured. "I've been prophesy- 
 ing it to myself for some time." 
 
 "What? That he would be disfigured?" 
 
 "No. That you would be transfigured." 
 
 "But I'm not," she said. "I was fearfully rude to 
 your sister." 
 
 "Anything else," answered the old man, "would 
 have been unnatural. I hope you will never be that 1" 
 
 272
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S' ' 
 
 "And my temper is still fearful . . . and I still 
 love beauty . . . and I could never get on with Mr. 
 Cumbers 1" 
 
 "It always will be ... you always will, and 
 there's no earthly reason why you should!" smiled 
 the Reverend John, answering her categorically. 
 "And I may as well tell you that when you are gone, 
 my daughter, I shall miss you very much indeed!" 
 
 "I shall always write to you," she answered, "when 
 I don't know what to do next about things . . . and 
 even when I do !" she added. 
 
 "Every one of your letters will make up for the 
 children I have never had." 
 
 "You are wonderful !" she said suddenly. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "That is the right attitude for a child," he an- 
 swered. She looked at him long and tenderly. 
 
 "I wish I could repay you," she said. 
 
 "There is nothing to repay," he replied. 
 
 "But if there was you would have repaid me in full 
 by seeing through my black coat and my dog-collar 
 and giving me your confidence. That cheered me up 
 tremendously!" 
 
 "I hate saying good-bye," murmured Iris, and 
 there came a loud double knock on the door. 
 
 The old man leapt out of bed in an instant. He 
 crossed the room and spoke through the keyhole. 
 
 "Look here, Unity," he shouted, "family or no 
 family, if you interrupt me any more I won't guaran- 
 tee to behave like a clergyman! I wish to be left 
 
 273
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 alone. I'm saying good-bye to my daughter who is 
 going away for a long time." 
 
 Iris heard Miss Heslop's steps going down the 
 stairs. Every tread sounded outraged. Mrs. Jallop, 
 who had been on the landing, had heard the old man's 
 remarks. 
 
 "Daughter!" she repeated aghast, "is it possible 
 
 that 'e " 
 
 Miss Heslop interrupted her sharply. 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Jallop," she snapped. "A 
 daughter of the flesh is different from a daughter of 
 the spirit. Go to the kitchen." 
 
 But the housekeeper was not to be bullied. 
 
 "Dessay," she answered. "The chief difference is 
 that the last kind 'e can chose for 'isself. It's my 
 opinion Mr. 'Eslop might 'ave done better!' She 
 departed to her kitchen more deeply rooted than 
 ever in the Dissenting faith. 
 
 "Look here, Daddy," Iris was saying upstairs, 
 "you treated me to a sermon almost the first time I 
 met you. I wish you'd give me a little one now, just 
 
 before I go?" 
 
 The old man propped himself up on one elbow. 
 
 "Most of the things that humans say," he re- 
 marked, "are only half-truths. I hope you'll look at 
 my sermons from that point of view. It's as near as 
 I can get to things, but I've no way of testing how 
 near that is. Understand?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Well," he said slowly, "whatever you do, be real. 
 274
 
 "THE THREE 'L'S'" 
 
 Never pretend you are something that God didn't 
 make you. Always remember that most things peo- 
 ple say, they don't mean, simply because they've never 
 thought whether they mean them or not. Don't for- 
 get that Folly and a light heart are the gifts of the 
 gods. Why a capacity for nonsense.is not considered 
 a virtue I have never understood. And lastly (just 
 to make it sound like a sermon) , you know the three 
 'RY of education?" 
 
 "Never heard of them?" said Iris. 
 
 "Never mind," returned the Reverend John, "they 
 have never amounted to much. The three 'LY of 
 Life are much more important!" 
 
 "The three 'LY?" she echoed. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "Love, Labour and Laughter. 
 They carry one through most things." 
 
 She knew that his sermon was ended and, crossing 
 suddenly, sat on his bed again. 
 
 "I think, Daddy," she whispered, "that the three 
 'LY are just another name for yourself." 
 
 "Delilah," he breathed into her ear, and, absurd 
 old clergyman that you are, that good-bye tear on 
 your neck made you ridiculously happy ! Personally, 
 I think the world is very ill-arranged, and it is a great 
 waste that no child of yours will worry out the daily 
 problems of the next generation. I rather think that 
 he or she might help things on a bit. However, it is 
 no use crying over spilt milk. 
 
 Iris was gone, and the Reverend John might have 
 lain back in his bed thinking about his daughter for 
 
 275
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 hours and hours, but there came a knock on the door 
 once more, and this time Unity Heslop made certain 
 of getting in before the old man could climb out of 
 bed. 
 
 "There is a woman downstairs," she said, "who 
 is particularly anxious to see you. A Miss Figgis. A 
 matter of conscience, I gathered . . . something to 
 do with a committee. She said you would under- 
 stand. Are you well enough to see her? I must say 
 she appeared to be a worthy woman." 
 
 There was an unmistakable emphasis on the last 
 three words. 
 
 "Of course," said the old gentleman, "I will see 
 Miss Figgis." 
 
 "Had not the bed better be straightened?" asked 
 his sister icily. 
 
 The Reverend John thought of Miss Figgis. 
 
 "Perhaps it had," he said meekly, and Miss Heslop 
 was quite surprised at his acquiescence. But there are 
 many ways of avoiding offence to the weaker breth- 
 ren, and the old man seldom overlooked even the 
 smallest. 
 
 A moment later the face of Miss Figgis appeared 
 in the doorway. She was pulling off and putting on 
 her gloves, and she gave a nervous little giggle as 
 she came in. ... 
 
 And so the good work goes on. 
 
 276
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "MORE BEGINNINGS" 
 
 NOT a hundred miles north-east of Warsaw stands a 
 large garden surrounding a stone house of some pro- 
 portions. Seats and summer-houses are cunningly ar- 
 ranged to form a bulwark against the icy winds. Be- 
 yond the trees a Red Cross flag flutters and falls 
 lifeless beside its pole. The place is deserted. But 
 no. From a little arbour on the left of the garden 
 a man and a girl appear and walk slowly towards 
 the house. They walk slowly because the man limps 
 and leans heavily upon his stick. 
 
 Do you want to hear what they are saying? Very 
 well. 
 
 "Iris," says Andrea, "you grow more beautiful 
 every day." 
 
 "I'm glad," answers Iris. "I like flattery as much 
 as ever." 
 
 "It's all very wonderful," thoughtfully murmurs 
 the man. 
 
 "Yes," she answers. "It is very wonderful to 
 wake up ... and still be the samel" 
 
 "Don't you think," he pleads, "we could stay out 
 a bit longer?" 
 
 277
 
 A PLACE IN THE WORLD 
 
 "Certainly not," she answers firmly. "It is time 
 for your tonic . . . and beside, I have a letter I 
 want to write to England." 
 
 
 
 
 Q'/s 
 
 / I iS 
 
 
 
 
 278
 
 A 000 040 547 2