She flushed under his close scrutiny
 
 THREADS 
 
 BY 
 FRANK STAYTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1921 

 
 Copyright, 1921, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 "OLD ENGLAND" 
 
 OLD England 's just an island, if geography is truthful, 
 But she isn't very sociable, nor affable, nor youthful; 
 And though you 're sometimes furious, and often disapproving, 
 There is something in old England that you simply can't help 
 loving ! 
 
 The men who made her what she is were doubtless human too; 
 They laughed and quarrelled, fought and groused, as you and 
 
 others do; 
 
 But when the foe was at the gate they promptly would prepare 
 To meet that foe and die perhaps as many do "out there"! 
 
 They thought "the Staff was rotten," and they hated red-tape 
 
 rules ; 
 
 They wondered if the Home Front was made up of utter fools; 
 They grumbled at the rations, and they slanged the Government. 
 But they held their line of trenches till their arrows all were 
 
 spent; 
 
 They braved the dangers of the deep in ships of tiny size; 
 They hung aloft in howling gales, and fought their enemies; 
 They played the game as sailors did, and as they do to-day, 
 Though they did n't have much fun and had extremely little 
 pay. 
 
 The men who made old England hadn't time to talk a lot; 
 They gave themselves, took on the job, and little thanks they 
 
 got; 
 
 Later their sons, renouncing sport, would step into their shoes; 
 For when you serve old England you must never pick and 
 
 choose ! 
 
 Through centuries and centuries, firm-planted at the helm, 
 
 A silent grim minority talk could not overwhelm 
 
 Has steered the ship of England through the breakers and the 
 
 shoals 
 While politicians cackled and the public played at bowls. . . . 
 
 2138246
 
 THREADS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Patriots Give me a trusty sword, and bid me fight! 
 
 | [Crowd applauds. 
 The Grouser: Give me a fountain-pen, and leave to write 1 
 
 [Crowd groans. 
 
 The Profiteer (.his finger to his nose) : Here is my chance to bleed 
 my country white! [Crowd chuckles. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 2, Scene I. 
 
 i 
 
 A MAN was seated in the corner of a third-class 
 smoking compartment of the London Express on 
 a morning in the early summer of 1917, gazing 
 through the grimy windows and occasionally 
 catching his breath as though he were interested 
 in the novelty of the scene; though, to the 
 experienced traveler, novelty was lacking. The 
 engine of the London and South-Western Rail- 
 way, with its customary craze for economy in coal, 
 labored heavily up a moderate gradient. 
 
 The orderly appearance of the fields, the well- 
 groomed gardens and hedges, the red roofs and 
 the trim stations, unnoticed by the newspaper- 
 reading majority, appeared to strike the man in 
 the corner with surprise. He lowered the win- 
 dow and, removing his hat, allowed the soft 
 
 3
 
 4 THREADS 
 
 summer wind to play around his closely cropped 
 iron-gray hair. He turned his head to observe 
 his fellow-travelers : they were engrossed by their 
 favorite organs of public opinion. The sight of 
 some feminine farm-workers moving milk-cans on 
 a country station astonished him; but his surprise 
 did not appear to be infectious. He turned back 
 to the panorama of fields and woods and villages, 
 fascinated by the sleepy prettiness of the scene. 
 
 By the summer of 1917 England had accepted 
 the war as a habit. Khaki was everywhere. In 
 this particular train on a Saturday morning there 
 was quite an appreciable amount of khaki on 
 week-end leave, together with a picturesque 
 sprinkling of blue from Weymouth. Though 
 traveling was being discouraged by the powers 
 that be, the train was full. The first-class 
 coaches contained a sprinkling of naval and mili- 
 tary officers, but were chiefly filled by a loud- 
 voiced, expensively dressed, self-satisfied type 
 with money to burn men who were doing well 
 out of the war, who would be sorry when the war 
 was over, who had risen from obscurity to com- 
 mercial prosperity, and, having achieved great- 
 ness, the kind of greatness that makes first-class 
 traveling and expensive hotels and restaurants a 
 habit, intended to hold to what they had se- 
 cured. The war that had brought death and 
 mutilation, poverty and sickness to the men in
 
 THREADS 5 
 
 the trenches had produced undreamed-of pros- 
 perity among those who had stayed at home. 
 
 But the man in the corner was as yet ignorant 
 of the miracle that had occurred in the lives of 
 so many of his fellow-countrymen. He merely 
 gazed at these curious creatures, amazed at their 
 manners and customs and their shrieking pros- 
 perity. Some of them picked their teeth and made 
 strange sucking noises with their mouths; they 
 smoked huge cigars from which they neglected to 
 remove the labels. In the luncheon-car they drank 
 champagne. In a word, they swanked. 
 
 Some of the officers especially the worried- 
 looking elderly second lieutenants contented 
 themselves with a sandwich : money was evidently 
 scarce. Only those on consolidated pay, or the 
 young and unmarried, could afford to lunch in the 
 restaurant-car. The man in the corner listened 
 eagerly to the scraps of talk that fell from the 
 lips of his companions as, their newspapers di- 
 gested and allowed to fall on the floor, they 
 lighted pipes or cigarettes and glanced suspiciously 
 at each other in the approved British fashion. A 
 commercial traveler, with great frankness and an 
 apparent love of hearing his own voice, started 
 the ball rolling by an account of his successes in 
 towns like WeymoutK and Plymouth. "But give 
 me the North !" he exclaimed, picking his teeth 
 with a match. "They '11 buy whatever you offer
 
 6 THREADS 
 
 provided it 's expensive. They 're eating money 
 up there. Gramophones, grand pianos, silk hand- 
 kerchiefs, sports-coats, furs, jewelry anything 
 that costs money and looks as though it did !" 
 
 "Why don't they put it into the War Loan?" 
 asked a little man with his back to the engine. 
 
 "War Loan my eye!" The commercial trav- 
 eler frothed with contempt. "They can't wear 
 War Loan; they can't exhibit it on the parlor 
 table, or furnish the drawing-room with it ! Why 
 do you suppose they want all these things? To 
 use ? Huh ! They would n't use 'em all in 
 twenty years. No ! They want 'em to show their 
 neighbors how rich they are. It 's swank that 's 
 all ! Do you suppose a munition worker wants 
 two pianos so 's he can play one with each hand? 
 Not much I He wants two because the man across 
 the street only has one. I tell you, the war's good 
 for trade. / 'm not grumbling." 
 
 A soldier with a gold stripe on his arm turned 
 quickly from his grim contemplation of the cor- 
 ridor. "You ought to see some o' the villages 
 on the Somme and round Wipers. . . . And 
 then to look at that !" He indicated the peaceful- 
 looking red roofs of Basingstoke. "My Gawd! 
 And you talk of war bein' good for trade !" He 
 turned away with a snort and lighted a cheap 
 cigarette. There was silence in the compartment 
 for a moment.
 
 THREADS 7 
 
 The soldier with the gold stripe was returning 
 to France by the afternoon leave train. The fore- 
 going remark was his only contribution to the 
 general conversation. 
 
 The commercial traveler continued his account 
 of the prosperity of the country, but in a slightly 
 lowered voice. A young and healthy exempted 
 indispensable reading the Daily News whistled 
 self-consciously. The man in the corner looked 
 puzzled as his eyes drank in the beauty of the 
 Elvetham woods. 
 
 He wanted to ask questions, but somehow his 
 lips refused to put his thoughts into words. He 
 felt a curious shyness of his fellow-men. He 
 wanted to get into conversation with the soldier 
 wearing the gold stripe; he had a strong desire 
 to shake him by the hand, and to thank him for 
 {helping to make the present position possible. 
 What would England be if it were n't for the men 
 in the trenches? A shambles, a ruin, a memory. 
 Would the munition workers be able to buy 
 gramophones, the commercial traveler be selling 
 sports-coats? He laughed grimly to himself. It 
 was England all over a nation of individualists, 
 each wrapped up in his own affairs. It always 
 had been, it always should be. 
 
 The train was approaching the outer suburbs. 
 How would London strike a stranger? A 
 stranger. Yes, indeed, he was a stranger! After
 
 8 THREADS 
 
 fifteen years. Fifteen years an eternity. He 
 felt like a man in a dream who almost dreaded the 
 awakening. He rose and made his way along 
 the corridor to the lavatory to wash his hands. 
 He looked at himself in the mirror. 
 
 He saw a young man's face grown old, with 
 lines under the eyes, on the forehead, between 
 the eyebrows; an expression saved from bitter- 
 ness by the blessed twinkle of .humor that fifteen 
 years had failed to kill. 
 
 With its customary absent-mindedness, the 
 London and South-Western Railway had forgot- 
 ten the necessity for a towel, so he was obliged 
 to dry his hands on a handkerchief. It was a 
 new one, obviously purchased in a hurry. He re- 
 turned to his compartment. The soldier with the 
 gold stripe had risen from his seat and was stand- 
 ing in the corridor with his arms on the guiding- 
 rail. His face was almost expressionless. 
 
 The withdrawal of the soldier with the gold 
 stripe had loosened the tongue of the commercial 
 traveler. He was swanking more than ever. 
 "They can't touch us," he was saying. "They 
 know they must n't interfere with trade or they '11 
 be in the cart financially." 
 
 "They try-bunals can be worked," said a 
 farmer. "I 'm on a try-bunal myself. I says to 
 the other farmers : 'You exempt my men and I '11 
 exempt yours!' Give and take ! That 's our
 
 THREADS 9 
 
 policy. I got all my sons exempted." He 
 chuckled. It was a score to him in the great game, 
 the score of the individualist against that queer 
 abstraction called the government otherwise 
 "they." 
 
 The train ran into Vauxhall, and the man in 
 the corner breathed a sigh of relief. His first 
 impression of England in the third year of war 
 was beginning to irritate him. He would be glad 
 to get away from these amazingly self-satisfied 
 egotists. 
 
 The train moved on, halted, moved on a few 
 yards, and finally worried its way into the station. 
 The man in the corner gasped. Could this amaz- 
 ingly spacious erection be Waterloo Station? 
 Had there been an earthquake? What had hap- 
 pened to the London and South-Western Rail- 
 way? Fifteen years before Waterloo Station had 
 been a time-honored joke. A comedian had only 
 to mention Waterloo Station as, later on, he 
 had only to mention the Daily Mail to be re- 
 warded by a huge laugh and possibly a round of 
 applause. Waterloo Station had been a ram- 
 shackle, tumble-down, depressing wilderness of 
 illusive platforms and dazed officials. You 
 arrived there with five minutes to catch your train, 
 and it took you half an hour to discover which 
 platform it departed from.
 
 io THREADS 
 
 He asked a porter what was the reason for the 
 holes in the glass roof. "Shrapnel," replied the 
 porter surlily. "By 'r leave, please," and he 
 moved on with his barrow, avoiding the legs of 
 passengers by a miracle of dexterity. 
 
 His interrogator moved slowly along the 
 thronged platform, with eyes searching the crowd 
 for a familiar face, finally accosting an exquisitely 
 groomed young man who was standing near the 
 exit, smoking a cigarette and dabbing his fore- 
 head with a spotless handkerchief. 
 
 "I think you must be my son!" he said. 
 "You 're so absurdly like your mother."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Messenger: A stranger's here to learn our point of view. 
 Britannicus : Let him come in! ... But wake me not again! 
 
 Tell him our secrets, show him ev'rything. . . . 
 
 Make him an Englishman! . . . But let me sleep! 
 
 Pro P atria, Act i. 
 
 ON the same afternoon a girl was lounging on 
 the window-seat of the living-room of a roomy 
 modern house of the Voysey type that stood on 
 the high ground near the Chalfonts. The room, 
 containing most of the features usually photo- 
 graphed for Country Life ("Lesser Country 
 Houses of England"), had casement windows 
 overlooking a stretch of lawn and a rose garden 
 which was reaching a kind of modified maturity. 
 The general atmosphere suggested comfort, a 
 staff of expensive, well-trained servants, and a 
 comfortable balance in the bank; and the girl 
 who was lounging on the window-seat, making 
 an extremely attractive picture as she dipped into 
 a novel which bored her and a box of chocolates 
 which did n't, suited the atmosphere. Her pretty 
 summer frock had been made by an artist, and 
 she wore it with genius. Though not yet twenty, 
 her manner was assured without being aggressive ; 
 
 ii
 
 12 THREADS 
 
 and she pronounced her vowels as they were 
 meant to be pronounced which rendered her 
 eminently desirable at a time when thousand- 
 guinea automobiles were almost entirely sur- 
 rounded by cockney accents. 
 
 She looked up as the musical note of a seventy- 
 horsepower car announced its coming; and, being 
 a girl, allowed her book to slide on to the floor 
 unheeded as her hand went instinctively to her 
 hair. After a moment or two an ornamental 
 parlor-maid announced "Mr. Jordan, Miss!" and 
 stood aside to allow the visitor to enter; then 
 retired to strong tea and Mr. Charles Garvice 
 in the servants' hall. 
 
 Jefferson Jordan was immaculately dressed for 
 a call in the West End of London ; that, and the 
 fact that he was not more than thirty-five, be- 
 trayed his nationality. He was of the type that, 
 had he been English, could not have remained out 
 of khaki. Tall, rather lanky, with a prominent 
 chin, restless hands, keen gray eyes full of energy, 
 easily elated, still more easily depressed, doggedly 
 determined, anxious to hear all points of view, 
 a trifle awed by Olive's assured manner and 
 opinions, it is scarcely necessary to add that he 
 first saw the light from the interior of a farm- 
 house in the State of Michigan, U.S.A. For 
 he had too much enthusiasm, he was too polite, 
 too eager to listen to other people's views, and
 
 THREADS 13 
 
 was too obviously in awe of the eternal feminine 
 ever to be mistaken for an Englishman. An 
 Englishman is never in awe of a woman; he may 
 hate her, fear her, despise her, adore her, desire 
 her, detest her; but even when hating her, fearing 
 her, despising her, adoring her, desiring her, or 
 detesting her, he invariably insists that his is 
 the superior sex. American men know it, but 
 are chivalrous enough to conceal the fact. Hence 
 the powers of fascination an Englishman pos- 
 sesses for the women of all nations, and the 
 tragedy of the American husband working with- 
 out a vacation to provide his wife and daughters 
 with trips to Europe and an introduction to 
 Madame Paquin. 
 
 Five years' residence in London had taught 
 Jordan to doubt some of his own theories and 
 to be prepared for the cold douche of English 
 prejudice and convention. An American man 
 who can survive five years' residence in London 
 usually becomes more English than the English, 
 except for the fact that occasionally his native 
 humor slips its leash and, like a dog without its 
 collar, has a good time while it can. 
 
 Take the British national type of humor the 
 comedian with the red nose. An Englishman 
 laughs at the red nose; an American laughs at 
 the comedian. 
 
 Jordan removed his right-hand glove before
 
 i 4 THREADS 
 
 shaking hands with Olive. His nails were ex- 
 quisitely manicured, and his hands long and sen- 
 sitive. "It 's bully to see you out of uniform," 
 he said. 
 
 Olive was a V.A.D. A pretty V.A.D., pro- 
 vided her hair is not the wrong shade of auburn, 
 had no objection to the indoor uniform; but there 
 were limits even to a V.A.D. 's sense of patriotism, 
 and the regulation hat and coat was rarely 
 popular. 
 
 "I left the office early, 'phoned for my auto, 
 and flagellated the speed limit to a. perfectly 
 criminal extent," continued Jordan, seating him- 
 self on the window-seat with a sigh of relaxation. 
 "But I 'm here and you 're here, so everything 
 in the garden 's lovely including that bully frock 
 you 're wearing!" 
 
 "Yes, it is rather ducky," replied Olive, glanc- 
 ing at the arrangement of her skirt. Then she 
 looked up at him with a slight frown. "But will 
 you be offended if I say something?" 
 
 "I 'm crazy to hear you say anything," said 
 Jordan. 
 
 Olive hesitated. "People don't wear tophats 
 and frock-coats for week-ends in the country," 
 she asserted. 
 
 Jordan sighed. "It isn't done?" he queried. 
 Olive shook her head determinedly. "Another 
 one on me/' he murmured. "Such a lot of things
 
 THREADS 15 
 
 are n't done over on this side. It would take a 
 pretty bright man most of the day and half the 
 night to get acquainted with all the things that 
 can't be done in England." 
 
 "There 's nothing positive in our code," said 
 Olive; "but there are quite two million negatives." 
 
 "I guess I 'm still in the third standard," sighed 
 Jordan. "Oh, hell!" He apologized humbly for 
 the exclamation. 
 
 "Please don't apologize," said Olive, smiling. 
 "I 'm what you might call a whole-hogger in 
 swears. I don't like polite substitutes. If a man 
 says hell, he probably means hell." 
 
 Jordan looked pensive. "I wonder will I ever 
 learn the two million forms of etiquette a man 
 has to acquire before he can get elected to the 
 kind of club that 's as good as a pass-in check to 
 Buckingham Palace?" 
 
 "If a man is n't born to it he rarely achieves it," 
 said Olive. 
 
 "You're not too optimistic, are you?" replied 
 Jordan. "I don't blame you," he added quickly. 
 "It 's all a question of viewpoint. I had my 
 business training in Noo York; and a man that 
 banks on delivering the goods in Noo York has 
 to get in ahead of the rest with noo schemes 
 for catching the public eye and the public ear. 
 But over here, if a man gets hold of a cute little 
 dodge for advertising a business, you conservative
 
 i6 THREADS 
 
 British accuse him of not being 'good form' ; and 
 it 's just a little discouraging," he concluded, rub- 
 bing his chin meditatively. 
 
 Olive looked at him reproachfully. "It is a 
 trifle upsetting to be faced in the tube with a 
 long poster that says : 'Where does your best boy 
 buy his pants?' ' 
 
 "But the cinch is in the answer: 'Why, at 
 Rattigan's, of course ! , Where else could he buy 
 them?' " replied Jordan triumphantly. 
 
 "It might be taken in two ways," murmured 
 Olive demurely. 
 
 Jordan became a little aggressive. "What do 
 you object to in that advertisement?" he inquired 
 sharply. 
 
 "Only to the tone of it," she replied in her most 
 insular manner a manner that has been respon- 
 sible on more than one occasion for loosening the 
 grasp of "hands across the sea." 
 
 "Doesn't it get there?" said Jordan eagerly 
 and with enthusiasm . "Is n't it crystallized into 
 a few words? Would Rattigan pay me fifty thou- 
 sand dollars a year to be his advertising manager 
 because I was his old college chum? No, sir-eel 
 He pays me because it pays him to pay me. My 
 ideas are worth big money to him though they 
 are bad form, and bourgeois, and everything that 
 the British appear to dislike," he concluded with 
 some heat.
 
 THREADS 17 
 
 Olive glanced at him with an annihilating smile. 
 "Don't get ratty!" she said. "Have a candy?" 
 
 She offered the box. They were too tempting 
 to be resisted especially by a man who had con- 
 scientious objections to smoking when ladies were 
 present. He was so chivalrous in his dealings 
 with women that he was in serious danger of be- 
 coming what the middle classes call a "perfect 
 gentleman." But Olive had few prejudices where 
 men were concerned; there were only two types 
 she cordially detested the man who calls his wife 
 "Little Woman" and the man who calls her 
 "Mother." 
 
 Jordan took a candy. He tasted it, and his 
 eyes brightened. "That 's one of Rattigan's 
 'First and Last,' " he asserted. 
 
 "Rather!" replied Olive; "as ycu would say, 
 they lick creation!" 
 
 "I boomed them," said Jordan with pardon- 
 able pride; "and now they're one of Rattigan's 
 chief lines." 
 
 "I 'm glad you came to-day," remarked Olive; 
 "we 're all a bit nervy and on edge." 
 
 "What 's the trouble ?" Jordan inquired. "Been 
 exceeding the ration?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" replied Olive; "it's something 
 
 serious." 
 
 This was in the days when a polite government 
 was afraid to impose economy in food consump-
 
 1 8 THREADS 
 
 tion on its voters, so spent a great deal of money 
 and wasted a lot of time in begging the public 
 to be good. Naturally, the public failed to take 
 it seriously. Politicians in Rolls-Royce cars 
 preaching economy in petrol, Cabinet Ministers 
 with five thousand a year urging farm-laborers 
 and small clerks with huge families to eat less 
 bread, may not have been an impressive spectacle, 
 but they afforded the necessary comic relief. 
 
 "Have another candy," said Olive. Jordan 
 helped himself. There was evidently no shortage 
 in sugar for making sweets, in spite of the fact 
 that the wealthy classes were quietly and unob- 
 trusively collecting as much as they could lay their 
 hands on. John Osborne Wynn afterward re- 
 ferred to it as "taking thought to add a cubic to 
 their stature" ; but his family failed to follow the 
 analogy. 
 
 "I don't know what is the matter," continued 
 Olive. "I Ve been trying to guess. But I Ve 
 given it up as a bad job." 
 
 "Given up what?" asked Jordan, hesitating 
 between a tnarron glace and an almond caramel. 
 
 "Speculating," replied Olive. "Mother's 
 hideously nervy and inclined to hysteria. Good- 
 ness knows what has upset her. You have n't 
 been quarreling with her, have you? about Seppy 
 or anything?" she added, suddenly looking up at 
 him.
 
 THREADS 19 
 
 When you are in love with a girl of eighteen, 
 it is a little embarrassing to be suspected of being 
 in love with her mother more especially when 
 your innate chivalry forbids your denying the one 
 or asserting the other. Olive and her brothers 
 were so accustomed to their mother's apparent 
 powers of fascination over men that they had 
 accepted the fact that any man who was a regular 
 visitor at the house came to see Amelia and not 
 Olive. It was not that Amelia was more beau- 
 tiful than her daughter, but she had more of that 
 intangible quality known to patrons of the drama 
 as sex-attraction. 
 
 "Why, no!" replied Jordan hesitatingly. 
 "Why should I quarrel with your mother about 
 Colonel Packinder?" 
 
 "I don't know," mused Olive, a tiny smile play- 
 ing about her lips. "But it 's done," she added 
 mischievously. "Seppy 's always more or less in 
 the spotlight, and the others sometimes get an- 
 noyed." 
 
 Jordan unconsciously took another candy. 
 
 Olive continued: "Well, anyway, this morning, 
 quite early just as Arthur was going to the 
 station she called him into her room, and there 
 they remained for nearly an hour. Arthur came 
 out looking very frazzled, and I asked him what 
 was up. All he said was : 'Mother will tell you.' 
 Men are so hopeless when a girl wants to know
 
 20 THREADS 
 
 a thing right away. He disappeared upstairs, 
 and a few minutes later he went off to the station 
 in the car. He has n't returned, and mother has 
 shut herself up in her bedroom, and she did n't 
 even appear at lunch. So you see there must be 
 something up, and I have n't an idea what it is." 
 
 Jordan pondered. He pondered, in the first 
 place, because he was terrified at butting in, and, 
 in the second place, because a caramel (one of 
 Rattigan's "First and Last") had stuck firmly and 
 securely to his teeth, and the problem of removing 
 it required a lot of solving. Eventually nature 
 solved it, and he ventured a remark. 
 
 "Your mother can't be in financial difficulties?" 
 he suggested. 
 
 "Oh, no!" replied Olive. "The uncle who left 
 us all the money we have did n't give her the 
 chance to speculate; he tied it all up in gilt-edged 
 securities. Whatever it is, it is n't money" 
 
 Jordan thought some more. "You belong to 
 the gentler sex," he remarked. "What would 
 worry you?" 
 
 "I might worry over my handicap at golf; or 
 if my dressmaker went bankrupt; or if tight skirts 
 came in just after I had bought my summer 
 frocks," replied Olive pensively; "but it's noth- 
 ing like that mother 's worrying about." 
 
 Jordan coughed delicately. "It it is n't a sad 
 anniversary or anything like that ? dur father,
 
 THREADS 21 
 
 for instance? How long ago is it since he died?" 
 
 "About fifteen years, I think," said Olive, "I 
 don't quite remember." 
 
 "In England?" inquired Jordan. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Olive. 
 
 "Isn't that rather curious?" said Jordan. "I 
 thought English people were far more particular 
 about who they were than about what they were, 
 and that fathers were more important than chil- 
 dren." 
 
 "Mother is n't very communicative," answered 
 Olive. "Even Arthur did n't remember him very 
 well; but Arthur was very delicate as a boy, and 
 I believe he was sent to an aunt in Switzerland 
 when he was about seven and did n't come back 
 until he was over ten." 
 
 Olive frowned. Mysteries were distasteful 
 enough in any case; but mysteries that required 
 explanations to outsiders were hateful. She 
 looked out of the window. "Mother 's in the 
 garden with Jimmy," she observed. "Perhaps 
 she 's going to face the inevitable and tell us all 
 about it." 
 
 Jordan took up his gloves and prepared to de- 
 part. "I 'm going to visit my new home," he 
 remarked, looking at his watch hurriedly. "Your 
 English plumbers would drive a saint to blas- 
 phemy. I 'm going to have a heart-to-heart talk 
 with the foreman. He thinks I 'm crazy, but I
 
 22 THREADS 
 
 know he is and I 'm going to make him sus- 
 pect." 
 
 "You can't go without speaking to mother," 
 said Olive. "Let 's go into the garden." And 
 Jordan, carrying his hat and gloves, followed her. 
 
 Where an Englishman will invariably walk a 
 yard or two ahead of a woman, an American will 
 remain a couple of paces in the rear. An English- 
 man will say "Come on !" where an American says 
 "After you!" 
 
 It is these little distinctions of nationality that 
 help to make life interesting.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Maid: Madam, your husband has returned! 
 Lesbia: He has a genius for anti-climax. 
 
 Pro P atria, Act i. 
 
 AMELIA was the kind of woman who attracted 
 men by showing them her helplessness and their 
 strength; an irritating woman, but lovable, pretty 
 enough to be forgiven her little tyrannies, fem- 
 inine in the Victorian sense, and inclined to 
 sentimentality and tearfulness in order to gain 
 a point. She had a genuine sense of the duty she 
 owed to her children, but was too fond of re- 
 ferring to the fact. She occasionally surprised 
 her children, but rarely surprised herself; she 
 realized that they considered her high-strung and 
 nervous, fond of admiration, and inclined to be 
 a martyr. Few children know their parents other 
 than superficially. 
 
 It never occurred to them that, in spite of her 
 occasionally exasperating ways, she was a woman 
 capable of love, of devotion, of loyalty, and of 
 passion, and that she understood them as they 
 never understood her. That she was in her forty- 
 fifth year few people would believe. Not that 
 age is any criterion in this highly civilized era. 
 
 23
 
 24 THREADS 
 
 No woman need be considered middle-aged until 
 she is sixty; few women are worth talking <-o be- 
 fore they are thirty-five; and if a woman knows 
 what colors suit her she can remain at the height 
 of her attractiveness for an indefinite period. 
 Amelia looked thirty, and had no ambition to be 
 taken for twenty-two. If a woman with a grown- 
 up family can look thirty in real life and not 
 merely in the illustrated papers, she can scarcely 
 be considered a negligible quantity. Moreover, 
 she knew how to dress ; she never made the fatal 
 mistake of throwing her clothes on anyhow in 
 order to be punctual for a meal. She was never 
 punctual for anything. She never took less than 
 an hour to dress. She never hurried for a train : 
 if she missed her train, there were others. She 
 had an instinct for a background, and invariably 
 acquired the one most suitable. She was an ex- 
 cellent hostess, neither intrusive nor neglectful. 
 She was an even more satisfactory guest; that is 
 to say, she never glanced at the prices when din- 
 ing at a restaurant. When asked what she would 
 like, she replied without hesitation. Once she 
 had dined or lunched with a man, he could tell to 
 half a crown what the privilege of entertaining 
 her would cost him. If she was beyond his means, 
 he sighed, and entertained someone less expensive. 
 She herself was not sufficiently fond of being 
 entertained to have the additional bother of won-
 
 THREADS 25 
 
 dering whether her host could afford such extrava- 
 gance. She took it for granted that he could. In 
 fact, she took most things for granted including 
 Colonel Septimus Packinder. 
 
 But on this particular afternoon she was obvi- 
 ously disturbed. She was endeavoring to talk 
 calmly to her fifteen-year-old son, who was at 
 Harrow. James was a nice boy who had acquired 
 most of the Harrow traditions, but his mother's 
 uneasiness was causing him great discomfort. 
 Hang it all! Suppose she gave herself away? 
 What was a fellow to do? Suppose she started 
 blubbering? Various excuses for a sudden ab- 
 sence darted through his brain. 
 
 The sight of his sister Olive coming along the 
 grassy path, followed by Jefferson Jordan, was 
 more than a relief; it was like an answer to a 
 prayer. 
 
 Amelia also welcomed the interruption. It is 
 a very curious thing that, when you have a con- 
 fession to make, you realize that every postpone- 
 ment adds to the difficulties of your task, but that 
 any kind of an interruption is welcome. The per- 
 son who complains of lack of humor in fiction or 
 drama should study life and people. The more 
 you study the world the more ready you are to 
 believe that it was conceived in a spirit of comic 
 irony.
 
 26 THREADS 
 
 "I did n't know you were here, Mr. Jordan," 
 said Amelia as she shook hands. 
 
 There was a slightly embarrassing pause, which 
 Jordan bridged. "Hallo, Jimmy!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Hallo !" replied Jimmy. "I say, I nearly sug- 
 gested to old Threpps he 's my house-master, 
 y' know to put an ad. in the papers : 'Why don't 
 you send your fool kid to Threpps? He 'd knock 
 the stuffing out of him in no time !' I suggested 
 it to several of the fellows, and they said it was 
 as good as a Rattigan ad. in the Baker Street 
 trains." 
 
 Jordan grew didactic. "The time is coming, 
 Jimmy," he replied with some gravity, "when 
 everybody will have to advertise even your poli- 
 ticians." 
 
 "My hat!" exclaimed that Harrovian cynic. 
 "There is n't an advertising dodge politicians 
 don't understand. When they 're fed up with 
 advertising themselves, they advertise their wives 
 and children ; and when that little stunt 's ex- 
 hausted, they advertise their own incapacity." 
 
 Jordan looked pensive. "I guess you 're about 
 right, Jimmy!" he agreed. Then he turned to 
 Amelia. "Excuse me, Mrs. Osborne ! I have an 
 appointment to show someone over my house." 
 
 "Not an interviewer?" exclaimed Olive. 
 
 "Sure," replied Jordan. "He 's bringing a 
 photographer with him : that 's why I 'm all
 
 THREADS 27 
 
 dressed up with somewhere to go. Rattigan will 
 be mightily pleased; he likes his staff to obtain 
 plenty of publicity. I '11 call in to-morrow and 
 take you out in my car, if I may?" he concluded 
 with that upward inflection that no one but a well- 
 educated American can produce with the same 
 subtle delicacy an inflection that is like a grace- 
 note in music. 
 
 Amelia felt the immenence of the sword of con- 
 fession hanging over her head, and sighed. "I 'm 
 afraid I can't go, Mr. Jordan," she said regret- 
 fully. "But perhaps Olive " she suggested. 
 
 Amelia had in conversation that rather attrac- 
 tive trick of omitting to conclude a sentence. It 
 is a kind of appeal to the intelligence of the person 
 addressed a compliment. 
 
 "That 's too bad," said Jordan, his manner a 
 mixture of chivalrous deference to Amelia's 
 ultimatum, disappointment at her refusal, and 
 agreeable surprise at the delightful alternative. 
 A man who can be convincingly agreeable to two 
 women at the same time, and can make one realize 
 how disappointed he is and the other how de- 
 lighted he is with so little effort, should go far 
 in whatever career he decides to adopt. But 
 Jordan was sufficiently simple not to realize how 
 popular he was with women. 
 
 "If Miss Osborne will honor me " he began.
 
 28 THREADS 
 
 "Miss Osborne will consider the matter favor- 
 ably," replied Olive demurely. 
 
 "That's bully!" said Jordan. "Well, I must 
 say au 'voir, Mrs. Osborne." He shook hands 
 with Olive, a tiny twinkle of amusement in his 
 eye. "Be good, Jimmy," he concluded, grasping 
 that young man's limp and unresponsive hand. 
 
 Jimmy, who hated shaking hands unnecessarily, 
 followed him to the drive, saw him start off in 
 the direction of Chorley Wood, not out of polite- 
 ness, but because he wanted to listen to the run- 
 ning of the new car's engines; then he returned to 
 his mother and sister, whistling "The Wedding 
 Glide." 
 
 "I wonder how he manages to wangle his 
 petrol," said Jimmy. 
 
 Olive looked at her mother a little uneasily. 
 "Why can't you go to-morrow, mother?" she in- 
 quired. "Is Seppy coming over?" 
 
 Amelia sighed. The dreaded moment had 
 come. "Children," she said, burying her face in 
 a basket of roses, "I want to have a serious talk 
 with you." 
 
 "Why, mother?" asked Olive. "Has anything 
 happened?" 
 
 "What makes you ask that question?" replied 
 Amelia, still, woman-like, playing for time. 
 
 Olive laughed impatiently. "Well, it 's fairly 
 obvious, is n't it?" she said. "Even Jimmy can't
 
 THREADS 29 
 
 believe you 're just ordinarily normal to-day, can 
 you, Jimmy?" 
 
 James was very matter-of-fact. "I don't know 
 what 'ordinarily normal' is with regard to 
 women," he remarked; "but I jolly well know 
 that the mater 's on the verge of blubbering." 
 
 Amelia looked up at him appealingly. "If you 
 knew everything you wouldn't blame me," she 
 said, making preparations for tears with a dainty 
 but diminutive handkerchief. It was even more 
 difficult than she had anticipated. Children were 
 rather hard nowadays not very responsive. If 
 only she could go to bed and sleep, and leave 
 things to adjust themselves! 
 
 "We don't blame you, my dear," replied Olive 
 calmly; "but we 're perfectly prepared to be told 
 everything. So go ahead!" 
 
 "I 'm trying to," said Amelia, nervously swal- 
 lowing a lump in her throat. 
 
 "If you only realized" she added; then, 
 catching Olive's reproving eye, she pulled herself 
 together and made the plunge. 
 
 "Something very strange has happened," she 
 said "something that will alter the whole scheme 
 of our lives." 
 
 "Great Caesar's ghost!" exclaimed Jimmy, 
 greatly perturbed. "You have n't lost all your 
 tin?" 
 
 "Don't be such a goose, Jimmy," said Olive.
 
 30 THREADS 
 
 "If mother had lost her money she would n't 
 be taking it so calmly!" 
 
 Amelia protested. "Calmly?" she echoed. 
 She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. "Child, 
 you don't understand!" 
 
 To tell people they don't understand is no doubt 
 very effective on the stage, judging by the average 
 playwright's predilection for the phrase, but in 
 real life it is apt to prove an irritant especially 
 to tKe younger generation. The younger genera- 
 tion understands most things; that is to say, it 
 can read the pessimists without missing a meal. 
 
 Amelia recovered herself a little and repeated 
 the unfortunate phrase. 
 
 "No, mother," said Olive soothingly; "but, as 
 I said before, I 'm waiting to be told." 
 
 "Children are not very sympathetic nowadays," 
 Amelia protested, biting her lip. 
 
 "We like to be told the truth," replied Olive 
 with all the directness of the hockey-playing 
 school-girl. "We can't afford to indulge in sen- 
 timentality and other early-Victorian luxuries. 
 That 's why we look such guys in full skirts or 
 some of us do." 
 
 "You may have noticed that I have appeared 
 a little upset," continued Amelia; then, seeing 
 Olive's impatient movement, she added : "I had a 
 letter this morning from my solicitor."
 
 THREADS 31 
 
 "Did he want to marry you?" inquired Jimmy, 
 speaking as a man having authority. 
 
 u Good gracious, no !" replied Amelia, a little 
 puzzled. "Why should he?" 
 
 James frowned. "I know what lawyers are. 
 Should n't be surprised if he has embezzled your 
 money and wants to marry you so that you '11 hush 
 it up," he suggested. 
 
 "Really, Jimmy ! Do you believe in nothing ?" 
 Amelia protested. 
 
 "You should hear what some of the men at 
 Harrow have got to say about lawyers," replied 
 that youthful cynic; "I wonder they dare show 
 their faces some of them, anyway." 
 
 Olive begged her young brother to cease inter- 
 rupting. "Go on, mother," she added, turning to 
 Amelia. "You had a letter from your solicitor?" 
 
 "Giving me some very startling intelligence," 
 continued Amelia unsteadily. 
 
 "Quiet, Jimmy," said Olive, seeing that he was 
 about to interrupt. "Yes, mother! What was 
 it?" 
 
 Amelia took the plunge ; the water looked cold, 
 but it was still colder on the brink. "It was some- 
 thing it had something to do with your father," 
 she said. 
 
 Jimmy whistled reflectively. The conversation 
 was becoming too intimate for him. He fidgeted. 
 
 Olive glared at him. She too was embar-
 
 32 THREADS 
 
 rassed; but curiosity occasionally conquers 
 feminine shrinking. 
 
 "You Ve scarcely ever spoken to us of our 
 father, have you, mother?" she replied encour- 
 agingly. "And we feel it only right that we should 
 know something about him. Won't you tell us, 
 please?" 
 
 "I Ve been trying to," protested Amelia help- 
 lessly; "but you will keep on interrupting." 
 
 "Jimmy won't interrupt again," said Olive. 
 
 Jimmy became indignant. "I like that," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 Olive sighed. 
 
 Amelia continued. "You are neither of you old 
 enough to remember your father. Olive was 
 scarcely three when he he left us; and James was 
 born three months afterward." 
 
 "Girls always try to push in first," said Jimmy 
 reflectively, 
 
 "What did he die of, mother?" asked Olive 
 gently. 
 
 Amelia drew a long breath. "He did n't die," 
 she whispered. 
 
 "Mother!" said Olive, startled out of her calm- 
 ness. 
 
 "He is still living," continued her mother. 
 
 "Great Scotland Yard!" exclaimed Jimmy. 
 "Where is he?"
 
 THREADS 33 
 
 "He is coming home to-day," replied Amelia, 
 "Arthur has gone to meet him." 
 
 Olive and Jimmy looked at each other. 
 
 "After fifteen years," said Amelia, gazing into 
 the distance. 
 
 "But where has he been all this time?" inquired 
 Jimmy, frowning. 
 
 Amelia began to feel flurried. "I wish you 
 children would allow me to tell my story in my 
 own way," she protested weakly. 
 
 "Don't interrupt the mater again, Olive," said 
 Jimmy. 
 
 "It 's a long story," continued Amelia. 
 
 "Then cut it short, mater, and come to the 
 point," replied Jimmy. Man-like, he had a 
 prejudice against agony long drawn out. 
 
 "Yes, mother," agreed Olive; "let's have the 
 facts first and the explanations later." 
 
 Amelia sighed. Her children were so direct, 
 so practical. Her own instincts lay in the direc- 
 tion of camouflaging her facts with excuses, 
 explanations and emotions. The younger genera- 
 tion nowadays laugh at a coup de tfiedtre; it has 
 turned mleodrama, so beloved by our fathers, into 
 farce. What their children's tastes will be it is 
 difficult to forecast! 
 
 "In the first place," said Amelia, "my name > 
 our name is not Osborne. Your father's name 
 is John Osborne Wynn,"
 
 34 THREADS 
 
 "Damn it all," said Jimmy. "It 's almost as 
 bad as Mr. Herman Ikenstein becoming Mc- 
 Pherson or Curzon." 
 
 "When he he went away, I dropped the 
 Wynn and became Mrs. Osborne," continued 
 Amelia. 
 
 "Was there any particular reason, mother?" 
 inquired Olive. 
 
 "Yes," replied Amelia. "Your father's uncle, 
 Richard Osborne, from whom we inherited our 
 money, made a point of it. And there was 
 another reason," she added again, biting her lip. 
 
 "Another reason for changing our name?" 
 asked Olive, puzzled. 
 
 "Yes ; it was for your sake more than for my 
 own," said Amelia. 
 
 Olive reflected. "Fifteen years ago," she mur- 
 mured. "Nineteen hundred and two." 
 
 "I wish I had Olive's head for figures," said 
 Jimmy admiringly. 
 
 "Had father done anything you were ashamed 
 of?" inquired Olive. 
 
 "No," whispered Amelia. 
 
 "Thank goodness!" exclaimed Jimmy. "A 
 man at Harrow can't be too careful who his 
 father was." 
 
 Olive pondered. What was the explanation? 
 Had he expressed political or sociological views 
 a trifle less antiquated than those of the majority?
 
 THREADS 35 
 
 Had he written a problem play? Had he been 
 mixed up in a scandal? Had he done some- 
 thing? 
 
 "His name had come before the public in a 
 very prominent fashion; I wanted the past to be 
 forgotten," said Amelia. 
 
 "Great Scott !" exclaimed Jimmy. "He had n't 
 been mixed up in a divorce case?" 
 
 Amelia protested. 
 
 "Do you mean he had committed some crime?" 
 asked Olive. 
 
 "No!" replied Amelia fiercely. "Children," 
 she pleaded, "I stood by your father, believed 
 in him, encouraged him, and I hope I think I 
 helped him to bear his cruel punishment." She 
 paused for a moment, searching for further 
 words. "I loved him," she added simply. 
 
 The simplicity went home. "That 's all right, 
 mater," said Jimmy a little huskily. 
 
 "We understand," said Olive, squeezing her 
 mother's hand. There was a slight pause during 
 which Jimmy meditated flight and Olive puzzled 
 her brain for the right word in the right place. 
 
 "I have lived on the memory of that love," 
 continued Amelia in a low voice. "I never ex- 
 pected to see him again. Now that I shall see 
 him in less than an hour, I am frightened." 
 
 She shivered a little in spite of the warm after- 
 noon sun.
 
 36 THREADS 
 
 Olive frowned; her perplexity increased. "Do 
 you mean you are frightened of his finding out 
 that Seppy and Mr. Jordan and most of the men 
 who come here are in love with you?" she asked. 
 
 Jimmy pinched her arm. "Shut up !" he whis- 
 pered. "Women have n't any tact." 
 
 Olive rubbed her arm ruefully. Boys were so 
 rough in their methods, and a bare arm with a 
 yellow bruise would scarcely be becoming. 
 
 Amelia shivered. "He will find me differ- 
 ent," she said. "He left me a girl full of love 
 for him, full of longing for him ; he will find me 
 a middle-aged woman." 
 
 "People often take you for my sister at least, 
 men do," said Olive meditatively. 
 
 It was perfectly true. Amelia was the kind of 
 woman time had a habit of overlooking. 
 
 "He has n't seen me for fifteen years; he won't 
 know me," continued Amelia. 
 
 It was Olive's turn to shiver. She knew it was 
 her duty to soothe her mother's fears, but she 
 was too young and too self-conscious to attempt 
 to be convincing. There is one priceless quality 
 in youth: it never pays compliments. 
 
 "What caused this break?" inquired Olive. 
 
 "Your father was accused of killing another 
 man ; he was convicted and sentenced to be " 
 
 "Don't, mother!" interrupted Olive, catching 
 her breath.
 
 THREADS 37 
 
 "The sentence was commuted to penal servi- 
 tude for life," said her mother. 
 
 "Was he guilty?" asked Olive in a whisper. 
 
 "No," replied Amelia. 
 
 "Did you believe him guilty?" 
 
 "No," replied Amelia; "I never believed him 
 guilty. He had such a sweet nature. Besides, he 
 told me it was n't true, and he never lied about 
 anything. His passion for the truth made him a 
 little unpopular." 
 
 "Then why is he coming back?" inquired Olive, 
 puzzled. 
 
 "The Home Office has just found out who com- 
 mitted the crime," said Amelia. "It has taken 
 them fifteen years to find it out !" 
 
 "I Ve always heard that government depart- 
 ments moved slowly," mused Olive. 
 
 "Your father has received the King's pardon. 
 He was released this morning," said Amelia, al- 
 most as though she were repeating a lesson. 
 
 James, with masculine logic, intervened. "If 
 he was n't guilty, why should the King pardon 
 him?" he inquired. 
 
 "I think it 's what they call a legal fiction," 
 said his mother. "I don't exactly know what a 
 legal fiction is, but it 's something that lawyers 
 find very useful at times, and I think this must 
 be one of them." 
 
 James grunted scornfully. "I suppose what
 
 38 THREADS 
 
 he 's really pardoned for his having consumed 
 government rations for fifteen years without be- 
 ing entitled to them," he suggested. 
 
 James was only a school-boy, but he had a won- 
 derful comprehension of the official mind. Even 
 the babes in arms were beginning to distrust the 
 permanent officials in 1917. 
 
 "They've robbed him of fifteen years of life," 
 said Olive thoughtfully, "and instead of apolo- 
 gizing they offer to pardon him! The arrogance 
 the inhumanity of it!" 
 
 "When men become machines they naturally 
 become inhuman," said Amelia. 
 
 "If the army knew how to dig in as safely as 
 the law does, the war would be over," said Jimmy 
 cynically. "The men at Harrow say that law- 
 yers make two laws one for themselves and the 
 other for the public." 
 
 Olive suddenly became conscience-stricken. 
 "Mother," she said, "I 'm sorry if I Ve sometimes 
 been horrid and irritable." She looked at Amelia 
 wonderingly. "How you must have suffered!" 
 she added, a little awed by her mother's expres- 
 sion. 
 
 "I don't suffer now," replied Amelia quietly. 
 "I am only dazed. I wish I could suffer," she ex- 
 claimed, her voice losing its calmness, her nerves 
 quivering. 
 
 For fifteen years she had lived in a dream, and
 
 THREADS 39 
 
 she dreaded the awakening. For fifteen years 
 she had nursed her tragic story, had guarded it 
 from her children, wept over it in secret, and all 
 the time had outwardly lived the life of a woman 
 fond of society and amusement. And now that 
 the story had to be told, the wrappings torn off 
 and the sorrow exposed to the eyes of her chil- 
 dren, she was overcome by a sense of unreality, 
 of loss of identity. A man was coming back > 
 after fifteen years in prison. Her husband. But 
 who was he? A stranger? The man she loved? 
 The man she had loved passionately, to whom 
 she had surrendered herself, with whom she had 
 spent a few years of complete happiness. But 
 now this stranger who was already due at the 
 station who was he? What would he be like? 
 Could they take up the story where they had 
 dropped it? Were they still the same people? 
 Her brain quivered like a moving picture. 
 
 "What the dickens will they say at Harrow?" 
 asked Jimmy suddenly. 
 
 "What does it matter what a lot of little boys 
 think?" replied Olive contemptuously. 
 
 "Well, of all the cheek !" said Jimmy, amazed 
 at such impertinence. 
 
 "How will this affect Arthur and Chloe ?" pon- 
 dered Olive. 
 
 Arthur, the first-born, was in the Foreign 
 Office. It was he who had gone to meet his re-
 
 40 THREADS 
 
 leased father. Chloe was the daughter of Lord 
 and Lady Gratham, who lived near Chenies. 
 Their engagement was approved both at Chenies 
 and at Chalfont. Arthur was a budding diplo- 
 mat and would go far; that is to say, he pos- 
 sessed all the attributes of the pre-war diplomat. 
 But in 1917 England had, as a whole, failed to 
 realize that the world had turned upside-down. 
 
 "Lord Gratham is very conservative; he may 
 object to allowing his daughter to marry the son 
 of a man who has spent fifteen years in prison," 
 said Amelia. 
 
 "For a crime he didn't commit?" interrupted 
 Olive. 
 
 "Lord Gratham is too conservative to reason 
 about anything; he prefers to be guided by prece- 
 dent," said Amelia. 
 
 "I always thought Arthur was a bit of an ass 
 to tie himself up before he had had a good look 
 round," remarked Jimmy. 
 
 Amelia sighed. The Grathams would have to 
 be told. The tragedy of her life would become 
 public property; it would be discussed, deplored, 
 argued about. The foundations of her house 
 were crumbling, and life would have to be faced 
 from a new point of view. 
 
 Olive's thoughts were in a different key. Chloe 
 was much too modern to mind. Chloe prided 
 herself on her well-balanced judgment. She was
 
 THREADS 41 
 
 wonderfully lacking in prejudice the little preju- 
 dices on which the whole system of English 
 society is built. Besides, if Chloe could stand 
 Arthur being a Cuthbert, she could stand any- 
 thing. It was a bitter pill both for Olive and 
 Jimmy that their elder brother lay snugly in a 
 government funk-hole and had no ambition to get 
 into khaki. 
 
 Amelia offered no opinion in the "matter; 
 Arthur was of age, and had a right to his own 
 views. 
 
 Olive turned to her mother. "Of course 
 you Ve written to father and told him all about 
 us, and where we are, and everything," she said. 
 
 "No," replied Amelia. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "The last time I saw him, just before his trial, 
 he made me promise that if the worst happened 
 and they found him guilty, and if then by any 
 chance the sentence was changed to to penal 
 servitude for life, I would, for your sake, treat 
 him as though he were " 
 
 Amelia choked a little and bit her lip hard. 
 
 Olive gave a gasp of admiration. "I think that 
 was rather fine of him," she said. 
 
 "Dashed sporting," echoed Jimmy. 
 
 "But how could you, mother?" asked Olive. 
 
 It was not easy to answer such a question. To 
 Amelia the promise asked of her seemed natural
 
 42 THREADS 
 
 and right; for her husband had always had an. 
 unconventional outlook on life, together with 
 what her own relations considered "curious" 
 ideas. She had adopted his ideas as her own 
 to save argument. But women, though rebels to 
 law, are slaves to custom, and you rarely find a 
 woman who sincerely differs from the majority 
 in her thoughts. If a man is convinced by his 
 own postulates, he cares nothing for other peo- 
 ple's opinions; but women are martyrs to appear- 
 ances. A woman will scrub floors, but she hates 
 to be seen scrubbing them. A woman is never 
 ashamed of her domestic talents, but she hates 
 to feel that the neighbors realize she has no 
 servants. It is not "service" that women despise, 
 it is the badge of servitude. In country villages, 
 a woman never comes in to scrub, she comes to 
 "oblige." Women are casuists in thought, men 
 are casuists in politics. A woman married to a 
 man with views different from the majority suffers 
 horribly. She may be intensely loyal to her hus- 
 band, but in her thoughts she is unable to refrain 
 from an occasional regret that he does not think 
 as the others do. Amelia had grown used to 
 her husband's quarrel with convention; she often 
 said, "I 'm sure you're right, dear; but oh, I do 
 wish our friends would realize how mistaken they 
 were." 
 
 John, an ironist himself, merely chuckled.
 
 THREADS 43 
 
 When the crash came, John said to his wife: 
 "If they hang me, or if they shut me up for life, 
 it amounts to the same thing: in either case, you 
 will never see me again. For the sake of our chil- 
 dren, try to forget me" ; and Amelia accepted this 
 ultimatum as she accepted his views of life. Be- 
 sides, he had always held extraordinary opinions 
 as to the duties of parents to their children. He 
 hated to see youth used as a crutch for age. 
 
 "I was very ill at the time," said Amelia 
 reminiscently ; "it was just before Jimmy was 
 born. I could n't fight his will. I gave in and 
 promised. I have kept my promise, but it has 
 left me numbed as though all my nerves had 
 suffered from a terrible shock, leaving me almost 
 without feeling." 
 
 "Why could n't they find out the truth at the 
 trial?" inquired Olive. 
 
 "He was badly defended; the judge was biased, 
 and you know what a British jury is in the hands 
 of a clever lawyer," replied Amelia. 
 
 "We know what the jolly old country 's like, 
 now it 's run by lawyers," murmured Jimmy.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 First Lord: Your Maj sty, he is mad! He wants to alter things! 
 King: We will have him examined by our court physician. 
 First Lord: His contempt for permanent officials is truly painful. 
 King (graciously): I am always on the side of anything permanent. 
 
 If you wish, I will cut off his head ? 
 
 First Lord: Your Majesty, he laughs at our titles and ordersl 
 King (relieved): Then -we will create him a duke. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 3. 
 
 JOHN OSBORNE WYNN, before the tragic events 
 that led to his fifteen years of exile on the Dor- 
 setshire coast, had been a popular publicist; that 
 is to say, he wrote brilliant comments on the 
 events of the moment for a popular journal. 
 The journal was popular, though the views ex- 
 pressed by Wynn were rarely taken seriously; but 
 his articles were "featured," and people grew 
 accustomed to saying to their friends when any- 
 thing startling occurred: "I wonder what Wynn 
 will say about itl" 
 
 Wynn was in the unfortunate position of being 
 taken seriously when displaying his gift of irony, 
 and of being rewarded with appreciative chuckles 
 when in deadly earnest. Irony has never been 
 very popular in England, and never will be. He 
 anticipated Shaw in upsetting people's precon- 
 ceived opinions. He used a bludgeon to squash 
 
 44
 
 THREADS 45 
 
 political folly and insincerity; Ihe annoyed poli- 
 ticians, but their heads were too hard to receive 
 any serious hurt. On the whole, the government 
 found him rather a nuisance, for he had a very 
 clear and logical brain; and when they had been 
 patting themselves on the back with regard to 
 some ingenious scheme of party politics, or con- 
 cerning the management of the South African 
 War, he invariably annoyed them by pulling the 
 scheme to pieces and proving its absurdity. He 
 made people question things things that had 
 never been questioned before. He was a re- 
 former; and reformers have never been popular 
 in England. Of course, they could not send 
 him to prison for having ideas even in England ; 
 but he was one of the few men who had foreseen 
 the war with Germany, and he was always both- 
 ering the government about it, and it grew angry. 
 He had studied the German spy system, and had 
 discovered some amazing facts; but the police 
 laughed at him, and the Foreign Office snubbed 
 him. 
 
 Wynn had very little faith in anyone in the 
 political world, and had searched in vain for a 
 new star on the political horizon. Naturally, he 
 was not popular with the dying Tories; his barbs 
 were beginning to hurt. And he was equally 
 unpopular with the young hopefuls of the Liberal 
 party, for Wynn hated and distrusted Germany,
 
 46 THREADS 
 
 and the young Liberals were salaaming to every- 
 thing German. 
 
 Wynn had a special reason for hating the Ger- 
 mans. His sister, to whom he was very devoted, 
 was married to a German who illtreated her 
 shamefully and flaunted his unfaithfulness in her 
 face, while taking good care to keep well within 
 the letter of the law. Wynn hated everything 
 tricky and insincere including lawyers; and he 
 had a wholesome horror of their methods. He 
 had threatened to thrash his brother-in-law unless 
 that choice specimen of Teutonic Kultur mended 
 his ways; but his brother-in-law was very popular 
 in society and on the turf, had been cartooned in 
 Faulty Fair, and was a member of several exclu- 
 sive clubs. 
 
 There had been one or two scenes before wit- 
 nesses; and when the Baron Frederic William 
 Karl Augustus von Freidmann was found in his 
 garden at Shooter's Hill, shot through the heart, 
 with a revolver belonging to Wynn within a yard 
 of him, and when the revolver was found to con- 
 tain five unexploded cartridges and one that had 
 been used, the circumstantial evidence against 
 Wynn was almost overwhelming, and he was ar- 
 rested that evening. 
 
 When brought before a magistrate the next 
 morning and asked why he carried a revolver, 
 Wynn stated that it was beacuse his life had been
 
 THREADS 47 
 
 threatened by German spies. The magistrate 
 ridiculed his statement, and committed him for 
 trial. When asked to explain how his revolver 
 happened to be in the Baron's garden, Wynn re- 
 plied that he had lost it the night before, that it 
 had been taken out of his overcoat pocket while he 
 was sitting in a well-known German beer-hall near 
 Piccadilly Circus, watching certain men he sus- 
 pected of being spies. He had been unable to 
 prove an alibi; he had long been suspicious of 
 his brother-in-law's friendly intentions. It had 
 puzzled him at first that a man so fond of society 
 and so popular with his friends should prefer to 
 live in such an out-of-the-way spot as Shooter's 
 Hill. One could see the river, Woolwich Arsenal, 
 the Royal Artillery Barracks. If, in an enemy 
 attack on London, Woolwich Arsenal were frit 
 by a shell 
 
 On the night in question, disguised and un- 
 recognizable, he had followed the men from the 
 Gambrinus; he had lost them at Cannon Street, 
 but had picked up their trail at London Bridge, 
 and had lost it again at Woolwich. He was ar- 
 rested as a loiterer, his disguise discovered, his 
 identity proved, two hours after his brother-in- 
 law was found shot. 
 
 It would take a genius to extricate himself from 
 such a net of circumstantial evidence. 
 
 The Baron's death caused general grief; there
 
 48 THREADS 
 
 were royal messages of condolence. The papers 
 spoke of his qualities as a sportsman. And cer- 
 tain gentlemen in the Wilhelmstrasse chuckled to 
 themselves at one more proof of the incurable 
 stupidity of the English. 
 
 Wynn was tried for murder and sentenced to 
 death. Suddenly, for no conceivable reason, a 
 wave of sentimentality broke over his head. 
 There were letters to the newspapers, public 
 appeals to the Home Secretary, an extraordinary 
 agitation. They had suddenly remembered that 
 Wynn was a public character, and that nothing 
 he did should be taken too seriously. Eventually 
 the Home Office commuted his sentence to penal 
 servitude for life, and the public conscience 
 breathed again. 
 
 London missed his weekly article, but soon 
 forgot him in the excitement of the postponed 
 coronation. 
 
 In the spring of 1917 the police raided a sus- 
 pected house occupied by a naturalized German 
 who had expressed strong pro-British sentiments; 
 it was a surprise raid, giving no time for papers 
 to be destroyed. The house had been a center 
 for German espionage. The man's wife had been 
 active in Red Cross work, and his daughters inti- 
 mate with girls of established social position not 
 unconnected with politics. But in spite of this, 
 papers were found proving that the Baron von
 
 THREADS 49 
 
 Friedmann had been a prominent official in the 
 German secret service, that his murder had been 
 arranged by certain men at the Wilhelmstrasse 
 in order to get rid of Wynn, who had been finding 
 out too much, and to punish von Friedmann, who 
 had behaved indiscreetly in his cups. 
 
 The German Secret Service is rarely senti- 
 mental, and the Baron was given to boasting. 
 He was shot in his own garden, and Wynn's re- 
 volver was stolen for the purpose. Witnesses 
 had been paid to incriminate him, and everything 
 arranged with craft and that peculiar conscien- 
 tiousness so dear to the German mind. Germany 
 had to get rid of Wynn, and of course succeeded 
 in her scheme. But Wynn had foiled her by 
 omitting to be hanged. He had lost fifteen years 
 of his life, and he was returning to his wife and 
 family to begin life all over again. 
 
 The situation was sufficiently ironical to appeal 
 to his humor, and there was a grim twinkle in his 
 eye when he addressed his son Arthur at Water- 
 loo Station with the words: "I think you must be 
 my son ! You 're so like your mother."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 First Sycophant: He is a young man of parts. 
 Reformer: Of parts that have no magnitude. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 2. 
 
 IF it had been a trying day for Amelia, it had also 
 been a trying day for Arthur. He had come 
 down to breakfast at peace with all the world. 
 After all, the world had always been particularly 
 kind to him. Four years at a preparatory school 
 in French Switzerland had been rather decent; 
 he had acquired a knowledge of French and Ger- 
 man that had been of inestimable value to him. 
 In fact, he was a far better French scholar than 
 the Foreign Secretary himself. He was a master 
 of those little intimate phrases of French slang 
 that labeled him a cosmopolitan. He was an 
 adept at winter sports, and was a strict upholder 
 of etiquette on the ice and good form on a luge. 
 'At Harrow he made up for his deficiencies in 
 'English grammar and mathematics by his amaz- 
 ing for an English school-boy knowledge of 
 French. It was true that he never could remem- 
 ber how many r's there were in Mediterranean, 
 or whether you spelt receive with an "ei" or an 
 "ie"; and it was a physical impossibility for him 
 
 50
 
 THREADS 51 
 
 to construct a grammatical sentence. But in writ- 
 ing mandarin English he had no equal. After all, 
 to write mandarin English and to make it mean 
 anything at all is some feat. One sometimes 
 wonders whether there is a special school main- 
 tained by government officials for teaching civil 
 servants to avoid clearness of meaning. 
 
 He had lounged through Cambridge, reading 
 when necessary, and had been carefully steered 
 through his "exams" by a competent coach. He 
 had belonged to a swank set; that is to say, a 
 set of men who prided themselves on being them- 
 selves to the wth degree. They were good form 
 as the phrase is understood by the unimagina- 
 tive youth of ample means and little intelligence; 
 they took a patronizing interest in politics, and 
 read studiously, but without much profit, a num- 
 ber of "precious" books and plays. Enthusiasm 
 was tabu; each cultivated a blase exterior and a 
 self-assured, self-possessed, self-complacent man- 
 ner. They reminded one of modern politicians 
 grown younger in looks, but with the same intel- 
 lectual swank. 
 
 From Cambridge to the Foreign Office was no 
 sea-change; but the Foreign Office developed the 
 ego, added to the knowledge of mandarin 
 English, and developed the gospel of the perma- 
 nent official: "We are it: the public exists for us, 
 not us for the public." This slogan is engraved
 
 52 THREADS 
 
 in indelible ink over the portals of every govern- 
 ment department, and one hears on excellent 
 authority that the Ministry of Pensions, the latest 
 convert, recently sent their office-boy across to 
 the Treasury to borrow some indelible ink and a 
 nice set of transfer letters that would fit the 
 portals of Westminster House. 
 
 When war was declared, much to the astonish- 
 ment of the Foreign Office, there was a general 
 search for the atlas supplied to that department 
 gratis; it was found in the desk of the junior 
 office-boy, who was diligently searching through 
 it in order to discover of what country the town 
 of Ultimatum was the capital. It was a frightful 
 shock to the Foreign Office when it realized how 
 near Germany was to Europe, and special efforts 
 were made on behalf of those Germans who, 
 though resident in England, were anxious to fight 
 against us and who desired sea passage to their 
 own country. The Foreign Office sat up till un- 
 heard-of hours some, it is understood, remained 
 until ten minutes to six, sacrificing a round of golf 
 issuing passports to the German reservists. 
 
 Arthur, strolling across St. James's Park to 
 his club after a hard day's work (he had been able 
 to take only a hurried two hours for luncheon, 
 and a bare hour for tea, and when you think that 
 it was considered bad form to arrive at the F.O. 
 later than 1 1 a.m. you can figure to yourself how
 
 THREADS 53 
 
 fatiguing the life must be!), pondered the situa- 
 tion. A girl in white, with a frightfully fasci- 
 nating Ethel Levy curl, smiled at him ; he stopped 
 and raised his hat. "Allow me," she said, and 
 presented him with a white feather. He placed 
 it in his cigarette-case, lighted another cigarette, 
 and resumed his walk. Near the German Em- 
 bassy, where von Kuhlmann sat autographing 
 photographs for his friends in the Cabinet and 
 the editors of two morning, two evening, and 
 one solemn provincial newspaper, he noticed a girl 
 in blue giving a frightfully fascinating imitation 
 of Gladys Cooper. She noticed him and smiled; 
 he stopped and raised his Jiat. "Allow me," she 
 said, and presented him with a white feather. 
 "Thanks awfully: I've already had mine! Do 
 keep this for someone else," he urged. "Thanks," 
 she replied, "I hope I sha'n't need it"; and she 
 turned her back on him and made tracks in the 
 direction of an actor-manager who happened to 
 be celebrating his sixty-fourth birthday, but who 
 was tremendously flattered at being considered of 
 military age. Placing the white feather next to 
 his heart, he returned to his house in the most 
 exclusive part of Mayfair, and read some plays 
 that is to say, he made his secretary read them, 
 as he had come to the conclusion that a khaki 
 part might suit him very becomingly. 
 
 Arthur wandered up the steps of his club
 
 54 THREADS 
 
 that dreadfully out-of-the-picture erection on the 
 left-hand side of Pall Mall and strolled into the 
 smoking-room. 
 
 "Cheerio, old thing!" cried one of the friends 
 of his youth. "How many have you got? I Ve 
 collected eleven." 
 
 Arthur neither liked being called "old thing" 
 nor being told to cheerio. But he was always 
 courteous. He admired his friend's collection of 
 white feathers, and produced his own. 
 
 A very languid young man with a Cyril Maude 
 drawl lay stretched on a leather Chesterfield.: 
 He was (unpaid) secretary to an under-secretary, 
 and the idea of war was abhorrent to him. It 
 meant such a lot of work. 
 
 "I say, you fellows," he drawled, "there's a 
 perfectly topping girl handin' out white feathers 
 at the corner by the Ritz. You ^all ought to go 
 and get one. I got five before she tumbled to it," 
 he added, chuckling. 
 
 "The question before the house," said a tall 
 white-faced youth with 1820 whiskers, who was 
 sipping absinthe and smoking Russian cigarettes 
 on which his monogram was engraved "the 
 question before the house is: do we er offer 
 ourselves or do we do our duty in that state of 
 life to which it has pleased a grateful government 
 to call us?"
 
 THREADS 55 
 
 The motion was still being talked out when 
 Arthur's car was announced. 
 
 He returned to Chalfont. 
 
 Two and a half years later he was still return- 
 ing to Chalfont; ,his chief considered him indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 On this particular Saturday morning he had 
 come down to breakfast, as previously stated, at 
 peace with all the world. His clothes were the 
 last word in good form, his boots were made for 
 him by an artist; he was engaged to a charming 
 girl; he had no worries. His knowledge of 
 French had served him in good stead; his chief 
 absolutely refused to part with him. Then en- 
 tered Nemesis in the guise of Parsons, the ideal 
 parlor-maid, with a message to the effect that 
 his mother wished to speak to him. 
 
 He finished his breakfast, glanced at the Times, 
 lighted a cigarette ("fifteen bob a hundred; but 
 hardships were impossible to avoid in war-time") , 
 and, going upstairs, knocked at his mother's 
 door. 
 
 An hour later he descended the stairs, entered 
 his waiting car, and dashed off to the station. 
 
 "What's the row?" Olive had called to him, 
 having noticed his abnormal solemnity. 
 
 "Mother will tell you," he had replied. 
 
 It was a bit of a facer. His mother had never 
 spoken of his father, and he had never bothered
 
 56 THREADS 
 
 to press the subject. He had imagined his father 
 to have been one of those amiable nonentities that 
 masquerade as the head of a household, die sud- 
 denly, and leave a properly drawn-up will showing 
 excellent investments in gilt-edged securities for 
 the eldest son eventually to inherit. But to dis- 
 cover that his father was alive, that he was return- 
 ing to join the family party, that he would have 
 to be considered and referred to, that he might 
 be well, how could a fellow know what he would 
 be like? 
 
 Arthur broke out into a cold perspiration. 
 
 His father had spent fifteen years in prison. 
 What did a convict do? He broke stones. 
 Breaking stones must make the hands rough and 
 horny like a laborer's. He would be obliged 
 to sit at the same table with his father; he would 
 watch those hands fascinated by the horror of 
 them. His father might be old-fashioned, with 
 a contempt for the art of the manicurist; he might 
 have lost his manners and have acquired horrid 
 habits like those frightful bounders that had 
 begun to crowd the first-class carriages on the 
 Great Central : war profiteers, contractors, muni- 
 tion manufacturers, commercial travelers. He 
 might, on the other hand, be like a man crushed, 
 a meek and watery-eyed person who was afraid 
 of giving trouble and, because of that, gave 
 double ; a man who started at the hoot of a motor
 
 THREADS 57 
 
 horn and cringed at the sound of a carriage whip. 
 Or he might be a man who liked to talk of how 
 things were done at Portland; he might be 
 familiar or, worse still, sentimental; he might be 
 the kind of man who pawed a fellow about. 
 
 Of course, it was rough on him deuced rough. 
 After all, fifteen years out of a man's life was 
 going some. 
 
 Arthur had studied American slang at the 
 Hippodrome, and, like the officers of the Royal 
 Flying Corps, had adapted some of the most pic- 
 turesque phrases to his own use and incorporated 
 them in his small but select vocabulary. 
 
 There is a snobbish feature about English slang 
 that detracts from its picturesqueness and ob- 
 scures its original meaning. When the army first 
 borrowed and then commandeered slang acquired 
 from American music-hall artists, it did so with 
 enthusiasm, but got it all wrong. American slang 
 is far more subtle than it sounds. 
 
 "Good Lord!" thought Arthur suddenly. "I 
 sha'n't know him when I see him !" 
 
 One might, almost pity him, driving across 
 London in a taxicab, growing more and more 
 perturbed as the jhour of reunion drew nearer. 
 Had Arthur possessed a practical mind, he might 
 have discovered that there is a tube railway from 
 Baker Street to Waterloo, that it is more economi- 
 cal than a taxicab, and does the journey in half
 
 58 THREADS 
 
 the time; but Arthur was a civil servant, and 
 therefore unpractical by training. And, anyhow, 
 why should a fellow ride in those beastly tubes? 
 Taxis were infinitely pleasanter. 
 
 Waterloo was in its customary state of turmoil. 
 There was a hospital train in, and the cot cases 
 were being distributed among the waiting ambu- 
 lances. Arthur watched the dexterity and pre- 
 cision with which this was done. He saw a man 
 he knew an officer, with his arm strapped to his 
 side being helped into a waiting motor-car that 
 was chauffeured by a girl in uniform. The officer 
 waved to him cEeerily. "Poor devil!" he called 
 out. "Have they made you an indispensable? 
 What rotten luck !" And he was driven off, smok- 
 ing a cigarette and whistling a song from a popu- 
 lar revue. He would see that revue in a few days 
 at a matinee ! Good Lord ! What luck to be 
 in Blighty in that jolly little hospital for officers 
 in Queen Anne Street where he knew all the sisters 
 and the nurses, and the matron was a ripper, and 
 the medical officer such a sympathetic cove. And 
 old George with his comic face would open the 
 door and ask him if he 'd mind walking upstairs 
 because the lift was full of tea-trays. And he 
 could ring up a girl who yes, it was good to be 
 back in London. But he wondered how his 
 platoon was getting on. That chap Punce needed 
 a bit of encouragement. And Jarvis Jarvis was
 
 THREADS 59 
 
 all right, but he used to have fits of shivering. 
 And oh, well! he would be back again in a 
 couple of months; and, anyway, he was going to 
 have a good time now he was here. He hoped he 
 would be in Sister Argyll's ward. 
 
 Arthur almost felt envious for a moment; 
 but a cup of China tea and a muffin in the tea- 
 room steadied his nerves. The train from Wey- 
 mouth was almost due. He paid his bill, rose, 
 and descended the stairs. The train was sched- 
 uled for No. 5 platform. He bought a platform 
 ticket, ensconced himself behind a waiting luggage- 
 truck, and, lighting a cigarette, gave his mind up 
 to pondering. 
 
 The train came in, the engine giving its cus- 
 tomary spurt as it made its way alongside the 
 platform. A mass of humanity was disgorged 
 from its interior. Arthur stared hard, became 
 dizzy from staring, made one or two blunders, 
 and suffered intensely during the space of three 
 minutes. 
 
 The man who disturbed him from his medita- 
 tions had a curiously vivid personality. His iron- 
 gray hair was cut very short, and his clothes had 
 obviously been made at least fifteen years ago, 
 and were too large for the wearer. They seemed 
 to cover the ghost of a man's youth as well as 
 what remained of the man himself. He was very 
 self-contained and had a rare but illuminating
 
 60 THREADS 
 
 smile; his manner was quiet, but slightly ironical; 
 his eyes were sympathetic, but you could tell that 
 he wasted no time in self-pity. He was a little 
 dazed, and conveyed the impression of a man re- 
 cently awakened from a long dream. 
 
 "I think you must be my son ! You 're so ab- 
 surdly like your mother," said the stranger, with 
 one of his illuminating smiles. 
 
 Arthur heaved a sigh of relief. After all, 
 tTiough out of date as far as clothes were con- 
 cerned, this chap was quite presentable, and his 
 voice was everything that a voice should be 
 but so rarely is in London. 
 
 "Very glad to see you," said Arthur. "Your 
 train 's a bit late. Have you any luggage?" 
 
 John Osborne Wynn smiled. Arthur looked 
 uncomfortable. What an ass he was making of 
 himself, he thought. What made him ask such a 
 footling question? But it was rather decent of 
 his father not to mind. His father ! Good Lord ! 
 How absurd it seemed ! 
 
 "No; I didn't bring any luggage. I thought 
 I 'd buy some new clothes," said Wynn, his eyes 
 twinkling. "Perhaps you would be kind enough 
 to recommend a tailor?" 
 
 "Rather!" said Arthur. A tailor seemed dis- 
 tinctly necessary; his father's clothes were a 
 thousand years out of date or fifteen years : the 
 same thing.
 
 THREADS 6 1 
 
 "We 'd better find a taxi," said Arthur. 
 
 "I 'm in your hands," said his father. "But 
 would you mind telling me : what is a taxi ?" 
 
 "Good Lord!" said Arthur, and explained. 
 
 It appeared that Wynn had never seen a taxi, 
 or a motor-omnibus. When he retired from the 
 world the motor industry was in its infancy. If 
 a motor-omnibus was a novelty, what would an 
 airplane be? or a Zeppelin? 
 
 "He didn't say much; he just stared into the 
 distance," Arthur told Olive, later on. 
 
 "Into the past, perhaps," said Olive gently. 
 
 As they were crossing Westminster Bridge, 
 Arthur realized that his father was staring at 
 him. Bad form, no doubt; but somehow it failed 
 to make him uncomfortable, it was so impersonal. 
 All the same, it would be just as well to avoid 
 recognition by anyone he knew. Arthur leaned 
 back in the cab. 
 
 Wynn chuckled. "I 'm not a very presentable 
 parent, am I?" he said. 
 
 St. James's Park, with its lake drained dry and 
 its quaintly utilitarian government offices, the 
 bomb protections on Westminster Abbey, and the 
 crowds of khaki-clad pedestrians seemed to fasci- 
 nate Wynn. He just sat and stared, occasionally 
 smiling to himself. His son was not particularly 
 communicative. Ah, well I Boys, like dogs, must 
 be left to make the first advances. Probably
 
 62 THREADS 
 
 Arthur would say something presently, something 
 that would act as the latch-key to open the door 
 that at the moment appeared to stand between 
 them. 
 
 As they flew round the corner into Manchester 
 Square, Arthur looked at his watch. "We shall 
 catch the five-five if we 're lucky," he said. "Will 
 you have a cigarette?" 
 
 But the cigarette tasted rather grassy to Wynn ; 
 it was the first he had smoked for fifteen years, 
 and his palate was not prepared for the privilege. 
 Would his home-coming be anything like his first 
 cigarette? A dream of delight in anticipation 
 a little disappointing in reality? 
 
 He shivered a little. 
 
 "Would you like the window up?" inquired 
 Arthur politely. 
 
 Wynn shook his head. Then his eye caught 
 the exquisite crease in his son's trousers, and his 
 sense of humor came back with a rush. 
 
 "We have n't given ourselves away, have we?" 
 he chuckled,
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Pessimist (shivering): The city is in ashes, the people all fled I 
 Hostess: Never mind! You are just in time for tea! 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 4- 
 
 "Ix 's a bit trying for mother," said Olive, after 
 Amelia had gone to her room to take an aspirin 
 tablet and lie down for a few minutes. 
 
 "It 's a bit tryin' for us all," muttered Jimmy, 
 very depressed. 
 
 Olive looked at him. Boys were so selfish! 
 They looked at everything merely from their own 
 point of view. 
 
 They wandered down the drive to meet the ex- 
 pected car. "Great snakes! There is the car!" 
 cried Jimmy; "and Arthur's alone !" 
 
 "Could he have missed him?" said Olive, with 
 that disdain for grammatical pedantry so char- 
 acteristic of the educated classes. 
 
 "Good Lord!" exclaimed Jimmy. "It's just 
 like Arthur to go and make a mess of everything. 
 I wish the mater had sent me." 
 
 The car came sprinting up the hill and pulled 
 up at the gates. 
 
 "Take her up to the garage, Stevenson," said 
 63
 
 64 THREADS 
 
 Arthur to the chauffeur. "I sha'n't want Jier 
 again." 
 
 Stevenson touched his hat and obeyed orders. 
 He just missed a clump of rhododendrons on the 
 curve, avoided a kitchen-maid by a dexterous bit 
 of steering, and brought the car to a standstill 
 before the garage. The distance from the gates 
 to the garage was two hundred and twenty yards : 
 Stevenson had accomplished it in ten seconds. 
 
 Arthur's face was like a closed book. 
 
 "Well?" inquired Olive, quivering with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "Spit it out, Arthur," drawled Jimmy. "Where 
 whe?" 
 
 "For heaven's sake, give me a chance to 
 breathe! I'm absolutely fagged out," said 
 Arthur, lighting a cigarette with amazing cool- 
 ness. 
 
 "Have you lost him?" asked Olive. 
 
 Arthur blew out the match, deposited it be- 
 hind some bushes, and started to walk toward 
 the house. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "He's 
 walking up the hill; he said he thought I 'd better 
 come on and prepare you all." He blew smoke, 
 through his nose and felt for his holder. "I Ve 
 had the devil's own time," he said. 
 
 "Tell us all about it," insisted Olive. 
 
 "How did you recognize him?" asked Jimmy. 
 
 Arthur flushed. "Hang it all! I looked for
 
 THREADS 65 
 
 an elderly man with cropped hair, but there were 
 quite a number of them. I made one mistake : 
 I went up to an old blighter who looked a bit 
 lost, and said : 'Excuse me ! Aren't you my 
 father?' But he got quite shirty and threatened 
 to give me in charge." 
 
 "I expect he took you for one of the boys,'* 
 said Jimmy. "Probably thought you said 'How 's 
 your father?' And that you were Harry Tate or 
 George Robey or one of those brainy fellows 
 trying to pull his leg." 
 
 "How did you find him eventually?" inquired 
 Olive. 
 
 "I didn't," replied Arthur; "he found me. 
 Came up to me and said: 'I think you must be my 
 son, you're so absurdly like your mother!' . . . 
 Am I like mother?" he inquired, frowning. 
 
 "No," said Olive; "but you're probably like 
 what she was like at your age." 
 
 "What did you do? Have a drink?" inquired 
 Jimmy. "I think you might have stood him a 
 small bottle under the circumstances." 
 
 "Look here, you two," said Arthur, as the trio 
 drew up at the front steps. "What are we going 
 to tell people? What are we going to do about 
 our name?" 
 
 Olive had a faculty for keeping her head in an 
 emergency.
 
 66 THREADS 
 
 "We 'd better not do anything until we hear 
 what they propose to do," she asserted. 
 
 "Yes," agreed Arthur; "but I must tell Chloe 
 something." 
 
 "I wonder what people will say," mused Olive. 
 
 "Unless we 're jolly careful what we say, and 
 unless we all say the same thing, it 's bound to 
 cause talk," said Arthur* 
 
 Jimmy pondered. "A man who has n't been a 
 father for fifteen years can't be expected to know 
 how a father is supposed to behave," he said. 
 "Suppose he does n't realize we can't stand being 
 bossed nowadays?" 
 
 "You 're only thinking of yourselves. Boys are 
 so self-centered," cried Olive. 
 
 "Girls are merely self-conscious," replied the 
 imperturbable Jimmy. 
 
 Arthur had one of those flashes of insight so 
 rare in a civil servant. 
 
 "It must be a bit embarrassing for him" he 
 suggested. 
 
 All three went thoughtfully into the hall, meet- 
 ing their mother descending the stairs. 
 
 "Arthur," she cried, "Where is he ? Has n't he 
 come? Did you miss him? Oh, Arthur!" 
 
 A look of pained exasperation swept over 
 Arthur's face. "Don't worry, mother," he urged 
 in his most soothing tones. "He '11 be here in a 
 minute. He said he would rather walk."
 
 THREADS 67 
 
 "Why did you let him?" complained Amelia. 
 
 Arthur smiled. "He did n't look the kind of 
 father who would take contradiction kindly," he 
 said. 
 
 Amelia shivered. Of course the young people 
 could not be expected to understand what she 
 was suffering. Young people were so hard, so 
 rigid in their ethics, so so unimaginative. Sen- 
 timentality was so abhorrent to them; even 
 sentiment had to be disguised in slang. Where 
 an early- Victorian lover would press his hand 
 to his heart, kneel at his lady's feet, and whisper, 
 "At last, my love, at last!" the 1917 hero of 
 romance would stroll into the room with his hands 
 in his pockets and, lighting a cigarette, exclaim: 
 "Hallo, old thing! Cheerio!" 
 
 The Victorian era was an era of exaggeration 
 and insincerity, and it produced a great deal of 
 Bad art and some appalling hypocrisies. The 
 simplicity of 1917 was looked upon with sus- 
 picion by the survivors of Victorianism. It was 
 the most English thing that Jhad ever happened 
 to England. Those responsible for the Victorian 
 era had endeavored to Germanize England; Ger- 
 man music, German beer, German methods, 
 German culture, German pomposity were press- 
 agented to an alarming extent for the benefit of a 
 people sunk (with a few exceptions) in the slough 
 of commercial prosperity. Amelia had been
 
 68 THREADS 
 
 brought up among people who considered Handel 
 the last word in music and Landseer the supreme 
 painter; she had been inoculated with an aggres- 
 sive sentimentality, and it had taken her a good 
 many years to throw off the poison. Even now 
 she occasionally had a relapse. 
 
 She shivered. "I can't help feeling nervous," 
 she exclaimed. "What will he think of us, I 
 wonder?" 
 
 Arthur, fearing a scene and scenting a nerve- 
 storm preached on the text of "You don't under- 
 stand!" strolled out of the hall and down the 
 drive. 
 
 "It all seems so unreal !" cried Amelia. 
 
 Olive and Jimmy, with a furtive glance at each 
 other, a kind of challenge, each daring the other 
 to desert, threatening terrible consequences did 
 he or she try it on, followed their mother into the 
 living-room. Amelia opened an album of pho- 
 tographs that reposed in a drawer in her desk. 
 "That was taken three months before he " She 
 pointed to a picture. "You would n't recognize 
 me now from that? Would you?" she asked. 
 
 Olive looked critically at the photograph. "I 
 don't know, mother," she said; "I don't think 
 you've changed so much." 
 
 "You know I '.have; you must know it," pro- 
 tested Amelia.
 
 THREADS 69 
 
 "Dash it all!" said Jimmy; "he'll have 
 cha/nged, too." 
 
 Amelia put the album back into the drawer. 
 There was a sudden silence in the room as foot- 
 steps were heard crossing the hall. Then the 
 door opened, and John Osborne Wynn came into 
 the room. 
 
 Amelia gasped. "John!" she cried; "I didn't 
 hear you come." 
 
 They kissed. 
 
 Olive and Jimmy wriggled with embarrassment. 
 How would their parents behave? Would they 
 play the game as the game was understood by 
 the youth of the twentieth century, or would they 
 weep and. make a scene ? They looked at each 
 other in relief. Their father was almost mira- 
 culously detached and calm; his calmness was 
 soothing their mother. Evidently he was intend- 
 ing to take the situation in a sporting spirit. 
 
 Amelia shivered. Would he think she had al- 
 tered much? Of course she had altered. Fif- 
 teen years and such years. Her hair had 
 scarcely any gray in it, and her figure he must 
 notice that her figure was that of a girl. Would 
 he think she had lost her looks? "But you 
 have n't seen Olive and James !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Olive," repeated John, looking round and ap- 
 proving. He approached her and kissed her 
 cheek. "You were only a baby," he said. "I
 
 70 THREADS 
 
 did n't realize how much you would have grown. 
 But James," he added, turning to his younger 
 son with a slightly puzzled look; "I don't remem- 
 ber James." 
 
 "He was born three months after " said 
 Amelia. 
 
 John looked at his younger son, smiled, and 
 offered his hand. James heaved a sigh of relief. 
 How frightful it would have been if his father 
 had wanted to kiss him ! 
 
 "How do you do, my boy?" said John. 
 
 "How d' you do!" replied James; then added 
 with a gulp : "Father." 
 
 "Arthur should n't have left you to walk up 
 alone," said Amelia. 
 
 "I asked him to leave me," replied John. 
 "He 's a nice boy, Amelia; but he makes me feel 
 very old and very young." 
 
 "Oh, John!" cried Amelia; "I can scarcely 
 realize " 
 
 "Neither can I, my dear," said John, smiling. 
 
 "The tragedy of it!" continued Amelia. 
 "Fifteen years taken from our lives " 
 
 John looked at her. "You lost a husband 
 a lover; you find a comparative stranger," he 
 said. "That is what has run through my Ihead, 
 night after night, for fifteen years. 'If we meet 
 again, we should meet almost as strangers/
 
 THREADS 71 
 
 I 'm just a little in a dream," he added, walking 
 to the window and gazing at the rose-garden. 
 
 "So am I, John," said Amelia; "I was just 
 saying so." 
 
 "The door was so closely shut from the outside 
 world. Now I am back in it, and everything ap- 
 pears to be going on as usual. It has been a 
 nightmare with me that you might be in want. 
 But this house spells comfort " 
 
 John broke off suddenly, and grasped the sig- 
 nificance of the furniture and appointments of 
 the room. He looked at Amelia questioningly. 
 The size of the house, the atmosphere of it, the 
 (what would be described by house agents as) 
 park-like grounds all pointed to an assured in- 
 come. He seemed puzzled. 
 
 "Providence has been very helpful, John," ex- 
 plained Amelia. "Uncle Richard was killed in a 
 motor accident." 
 
 John smiled. Uncle Richard's opinion of pro- 
 vidence might have been less flattering. 
 
 "He left us a comfortable income and this 
 house," continued Amelia. "Arthur was able to 
 go to Harrow and to Cambridge, and then into 
 the Foreign Office. That 's why he is n't fight- 
 ing. His chief said he was indispensable." 
 
 "He soon made himself indispensable," said 
 John. 
 
 "Olive was at school in Paris when the war
 
 72 THREADS 
 
 broke out. She did n't get away for nearly three 
 weeks; then Arthur got perimssion to go over 
 and fetch her. She did n't want to come," ex- 
 plained Amelia. 
 
 "Of course I did n't," said Olive. "Paris was 
 much more interesting than London. We ex- 
 pected a siege." 
 
 "Now she is a V.A.D. at such a delightful 
 hospital for officers," continued Amelia. "She 
 has passed all her Red Cross examinations, but 
 she has only to carry in the trays. She 's on 
 leave for a week; the matron thought she was 
 looking a little run down. James is at Harrow. 
 He wants to join the R.F.C. He has already 
 flown a bumpety, or bumped a fly, or whatever 
 the technical term is, and says he could stunt 
 a 'bus with any of them ; but, thank heaven ! he 's 
 too young." 
 
 John looked puzzled. What language was his 
 wife speaking? "It 's all Greek to me," he ad- 
 mitted. "But perhaps someone will interpret 
 later on. But the name," he said. "Did n't peo- 
 ple guess?" 
 
 Here was the first fence Amelia had dreaded. 
 John had always been an impossible man to 
 deceive even in little things. 
 
 "Uncle Richard insisted on our dropping the 
 Wynn and calling ourselves Osborne. I thought 
 you would n't mind," she added hastily, noticing
 
 THREADS 73 
 
 his raised eyebrows, "under the circumstances. It 
 seemed like the hand of providence," she con- 
 cluded piously. 
 
 The hand of providence, when it points in the 
 required direction, is a priceless asset to a woman. 
 
 "I presume providence didn't bank on my re- 
 turn?" suggested John drily. "It's fortunate I 
 had no luggage." 
 
 Amelia looked at him appealingly. "I hope 
 you '11 respect Uncle Richard's wishes, John," 
 she pleaded. "I have had no time to make plans. 
 I only told the children your story today," she 
 added hastily. 
 
 "It almost seems a pity my coming back," said 
 John. "A needless embarrassment." 
 
 "John! That's unkind," protested Amelia. 
 "You must make allowances for us. The sudden- 
 ness? The shock! . . . Would n't you like some 
 tea?" she inquired, suddenly changing to practica- 
 lities. 
 
 John chuckled. "No, my dear, thank you!" he 
 replied. 
 
 "I suppose it 's the twentieth century," said 
 Amelia. "One does n't have emotional moments 
 nowadays; one tries to be normal, though the 
 heavens fall." 
 
 "I appreciate that," replied John gently. 
 
 Someone an American, I think killed senti- 
 ment with a phrase just at the end of the last
 
 74 THREADS 
 
 century. He spoke of a play as possessing great 
 heart interest. The phrase tickled the public; 
 heart-interest obviously meant sentiment, so senti- 
 ment since then has become a theme for laughter. 
 Perhaps the man who first used that phrase failed 
 to realize that he had killed a rather beautiful 
 and tender thing. Sentimentality continued to 
 flourish in cheap fiction and in music-hall songs 
 and drawing-room ballads, when laid on with a 
 trowel; but sentiment, that illusive and rare qual- 
 ity which provided the pass-key to dreams that 
 came true, from that moment had a hard row to 
 hoe, and has become as rare a thing as self- 
 sacrifice without advertisement. 
 
 "Do you remember clinging to me and crying 
 as though your .heart would break when I was 
 taken away?" said John. "I haven't seen you 
 since. You were wise not to come to my trial." 
 
 "I could n't, John," replied Amelia, a tinge of 
 reproach in her voice. "James was born the day 
 you '* 
 
 The habit of leaving her sentences unfinished 
 was sometimes very effective; but it was an en- 
 tirely unconscious search after style on her part. 
 
 "For your sake I was glad when they sentenced 
 me," continued John; "and, for your sake, I was 
 sorry when they changed it to penal servitude for 
 life. It was n't fair to you." 
 
 "I have tried to do my duty to our children,"
 
 THREADS 75 
 
 said Amelia. It was her favorite excuse, her cus- 
 tomary challenge to criticism. 
 
 "I 'm sure you have succeeded," replied John 
 chivalrously. 
 
 "I hope so," said Amelia with emotion, "For 
 that I have sacrificed everything." 
 
 Olive and Jimmy grew hot with embarrass- 
 ment. It was an old song to them. It was the 
 overture or the finale or occasionally the coda 
 to every scene they had been through. Few fami- 
 lies steer clear of those familiar, oft-recurring 
 scenes of reproachful reminiscences, beginning 
 with an unguarded word and ending with a 
 kiss of reconciliation on the part of the parent 
 involved and a sigh of relief and a sincere "Thank 
 the Lord" on the part of the children. 
 
 John, being a man, showed a certain lack of 
 tact. "I don't quite follow you," he said. "Have 
 you had to sacrifice much, my dear?" 
 
 "I have sacrificed my own feelings, my own 
 wishes," replied Amelia, with a faint echo of Vic- 
 torian self-deception. "Had I had only myself 
 to think of, I should have lived a quiet, secluded 
 life, seeing no one, knowing no one ; but, for our 
 children's sake, I had to hide my feelings and be- 
 come sociable." 
 
 "I think it 's a great pity mother did n't tell 
 us the truth; we could have helped her," said 
 Olive.
 
 76 THREADS 
 
 "Yes ; and it would n't have come as such an 
 eye-opener," said Jimmy. 
 
 This shifting of allegiance was too much for 
 Amelia. "I did it for your sake," she protested 
 tearfully. 
 
 John took up the cudgels on her behalf. "I 
 understand, my dear," he said, quietly and sooth- 
 ingly. "You postponed the disclosure, and con- 
 tinued to postpone it until it became impossible 
 to make. It 's our national habit of procrastina- 
 tion, and our gift for believing that something 
 will occur to enable us to muddle through a thing 
 without disaster in spite of our refusal to face 
 facts. It 's very English, and very natural, and 
 intensely perplexing to our foreign friends. And 
 I don't know that it has n't even disconcerted 
 the Germans. We must be an exasperating prob- 
 lem to the logical mind. Tell me, dear," he 
 added a little anxiously; "did you believe me 
 guilty?" 
 
 "No, John ! Never !" said Amelia. 
 
 "I 'm glad," said John. 
 
 "I knew that, even if you had wanted to kill 
 Frederick, you could n't have done so by shooting 
 jhim," continued Amelia. "You were such an ab- 
 normally bad shot." 
 
 John chuckled grimly. "If the learned judge 
 had had your logical mind, my dear, I should 
 have had a fairer trial," he said.
 
 THREADS 77 
 
 His thoughts flew back to the court where he 
 had been tried and sentenced. He could hear the 
 learned judge's clean-clipped words and cultivated 
 intonation as he summed up against the pri- 
 oner, was the general opinion. The judge had 
 made the jury realize that the prisoner was a 
 monomaniac, that he had used his fear of Ger- 
 many as a cloak for carrying out his schemes of 
 personal revenge ; that, instead of leaving the law 
 to deal with what he considered were his sister's 
 wrongs, he had arrogantly taken the matter into 
 his own hands, and then, frightened by what he 
 had done, had tried to evade responsibility by in- 
 venting a ridiculous string of absurdities in con- 
 nection with the foreign policy of a friendly 
 power. 
 
 There had been applause in court from a num- 
 ber of interested spectators of Teutonic aspect, 
 but it had been immediately suppressed by the 
 judge with a threat to clear the court. The 
 learned judge had enjoyed the applause, but he 
 had enjoyed still more threatening to clear the 
 court. Threatening to clear the court, and jokes 
 of a peculiarly humble order of wit, were the 
 specialties of Mr. Justice Winton. He it was 
 who, when asked whether he had ever contributed 
 to Punch, replied that, though he had never been 
 so useful to Punch, Punch had on many occasions.
 
 78 THREADS 
 
 been useful to him. Punch was flattered, but a 
 little nervous. 
 
 "I have lived under the terror of our children 
 discovering the truth and reproaching me," said 
 Amelia; "of our friends discovering it and ostra- 
 cizing us. It has been like a long nightmare; and 
 now " 
 
 "Now we have to begin all over again," mused 
 John. "It is very difficult to realize that these 
 are my children," he added, smiling; "and I'm 
 quite sure it 's equally difficult for them to realize 
 that I am their father." He looked at Olive and 
 then at Jimmy. 
 
 "Is n't it?" he asked. 
 
 Olive contemplated the question, and answered 
 it calmly. 
 
 "When English people don't understand a 
 thing, they think it either funny or shocking. 
 You realize that if you go to the theater," she con- 
 tinued reminiscently. "Having you suddenly in- 
 troduced to me as my father shocked me just a 
 little at first; then it amused me. Then I sud- 
 denly realized what it must have meant to you 
 and to mother; and I nearly cried." She hesi- 
 tated a moment. "One doesn't cry much, you 
 know, nowadays," she explained. "I suppose it 
 was different when mother was a girl?" 
 
 Amelia looked at her daughter. She thought 
 the question was slightly in bad taste.
 
 THREADS 79 
 
 "We were taught to look upon tears as a femi- 
 nine virtue," said John. 
 
 "We gave up crying and took to saying 
 'Damn!'" said Olive calmly. "It means about 
 the same thing, and it 's much more soothing. I 
 don't know how Jimmy feels about it," she ad- 
 ded, turning to the young Harrovian, who was 
 busily occupied sketching model airplanes on the 
 fly-leaf of a volume of Mr. Ezra Pound's "Lus- 
 tra"; "but I'm very glad you've come back, 
 father for our sake as well as for mother's." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," said John, a little 
 touched. "And how does Jimmy feel about it?" 
 he inquired, turning to his younger son. 
 
 Jimmy was embarrassed but amazingly direct, 
 "if you 're decent to us, sir, we '11 be decent to 
 you," he replied. "I think that covers the whole 
 situation," he added, replacing "Lustra" on a 
 small table that it shared with a bowl of roses and 
 a leather-bound volume of "Cranford." Amelia's 
 taste in literature was catholic. 
 
 "I think it does," agreed John. "Thank you, 
 Jimmy; I '11 do my best to be decent to you." 
 
 "Mother," said Olive nervously, "I think 
 there 's one thing father ought to be told." 
 
 Amelia looked up questioningly. 
 
 "About Seppy, you know," said Olive.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Hostess: You are envious of our luxury. 
 Reformer: No; only of your self-complacence. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act i. 
 
 "I CONGRATULATE you, Amelia," said John a 
 little later on, after Olive and Jimmy, having 
 manufactured obvious excuses to absent them- 
 selves, Olive because she realized that her 
 father and mother would ,have much to say to 
 each other, and Jimmy because the situation was 
 becoming a little too intimately embarrassing, 
 had left them alone. "They are charming young 
 people a great improvement on our generation 
 of children." Then a slightly puzzled look came 
 over his face. "But who or what in the world is 
 Seppy?" he inquired. "Not, I trust, a toy York- 
 shire? They were very much in fashion when I 
 retired." 
 
 Amelia became tearful. "Oh, John!" she ex- 
 claimed. "It sounds so dreadful." 
 
 "I love dogs," said John; "but I prefer them 
 big and slapable." 
 
 "He he is n't a dog," said Amelia. 
 80
 
 THREADS 8 1 
 
 "Oh!" murmured John; "I see. What is he? 
 A tame cat?" 
 
 A creative artist can make an admirable hus- 
 band and father; but he is, as a rule, so alarm- 
 ingly quick in the uptake that it becomes a trifle 
 embarrassing. 
 
 "No, John," replied Amelia self-consciously. 
 "He is a colonel. At the War Office. A friend 
 a very great friend who has been kind to me 
 and to the children." 
 
 "And what is it about him that our children 
 think I ought to know?" inquired John, with a 
 smile. 
 
 Amelia hesitated. "He he comes here a good 
 deal," she said. 
 
 The twinkle in John's eyes had always been 
 exasperating to Amelia when she wanted to ex- 
 plain things in her own way. "He knows all about 
 rates and taxes, and how to bud roses, and " 
 She hesitated again. 
 
 "I understand," said John; "he can make him- 
 self generally useful?" 
 
 "One is so lost without a man's advice in 
 some things," said Amelia. 
 
 John chuckled and rubbed his chin reflectively. 
 "Does he know about me?" he inquired. 
 
 "He thinks I 'm a widow," said Amelia, playing 
 with her handkerchief. 
 
 John had a curious little mannerism that he
 
 82 THREADS 
 
 usually indulged in when not quite sure of his 
 subject. He may have caught it from Sir John 
 Hare an actor he greatly admired or it may 
 have been instinctive. It was to rub himself two 
 or three times very quickly behind the right ear 
 with the back of the second finger of his right 
 hand. Amelia remembered the gesture; it seemed 
 to bring the past more intimately into perspec- 
 tive. "Does he hope?" asked John. 
 
 "I have refused him seventeen times," replied 
 Amelia. "I said that nothing could make me 
 forget you" 
 
 "That was a terrible challenge to a man's van- 
 ity," said John. 
 
 "Of course I told him how much I appreciated 
 his loyalty and devotion," continued Amelia. 
 
 <f ln the event of the strenuous life at Port- 
 land proving too much for my constitution, would 
 his loyalty and devotion have been rewarded?" 
 
 "Will you be hurt if I speak quite frankly?" 
 said Amelia very simply. 
 
 "My dear, I shall be hurt if you don't," replied 
 John. 
 
 Amelia had not reached her thirtieth birthday 
 when John had been taken from her, their com- 
 panionship broken up, their lives apparently 
 ruined. She had enjoyed a peculiarly happy 
 married life until then. Everything had gone 
 well with them, the horizon had shown no dark
 
 THREADS 83 
 
 clouds. The only thing that had troubled Ame- 
 lia at all, and that was in itself a very minor 
 trouble, was the fact that John had invariably 
 jheld views and opinions contrary to those of her 
 friends and of her upbringing. When the crash 
 came, she was dazed; she moved about in a 
 dream. Jimmy was born just after the trial. 
 Amelia had at first hoped that she would not 
 recover, then she had realized that she must 
 for the children's sake. She knew she would 
 never see John again, and after a while she real- 
 ized that it was better so. She tried to think of 
 herself as a widow, as one who, having been 
 shown paradise for a moment, now had the vision 
 sharply withdrawn. For the children's sake she 
 knew she must not brood too much, that she must 
 try to look forward without fear. Her heart was 
 buried under the stone gateway at Portland; but 
 she was still a woman, with youth to help her, and 
 people had thought her pretty and attractive. She 
 had always had an unconscious ability to attract 
 men. She liked men; she liked them as friends, 
 she bore with them as suitors; a moderately pla- 
 tonic flirtation was her natural medium for ex- 
 pressing herself. There was no harm in it; and 
 if men took her kindness and responsiveness too 
 seriously, they were to blame, not she. Admira- 
 tion kept a woman young, and she hated the idea 
 of growing old. It was difficult for a woman to
 
 4 THREADS 
 
 be obliged to bring up and educate two boys and 
 a girl without a man to advise and to help her. 
 She was not the kind of woman who could stand 
 alone. She had always been used to leaning on 
 John. His shoulder had always been there, wait- 
 ing to be leaned on. She had found it impossible 
 to make friends with women; women were af- 
 flicted with curiosity, they gossiped; they were un- 
 certain, revengeful when snubbed; they would 
 sacrifice truth and honor for a mouthful of gossip. 
 She did n't trust women, she could n't. Besides, 
 women bored her. If she could not have her hus- 
 band, then she wanted to have a man dropping in 
 regularly, someone she could consult about things 
 she herself did not understand. 
 
 "You don't misunderstand me, John?" she 
 cried a little piteously, after explaining her point 
 of view to her husband. 
 
 "No, my dear," replied John quietly. "And 
 did Seppy fill the bill?" he inquired, a smile twitch- 
 ing at the corner of his mouth. 
 
 Seppy had been very useful, she explained. He 
 had been the first man who had been able to make 
 clear to her the inner meaning of official phrase- 
 ology. Rates and taxes were terrifying things to 
 a woman, and she had hated to bother her law- 
 yers too often. She had always possessed that 
 peculiar kind of economical mind that would 
 rather pay ten pounds to someone who was not
 
 THREADS 85 
 
 entitled to it than a guinea to a solicitor to save 
 her from being mulcted of nearly nine times the 
 amount. Income tax returns were enough to puz- 
 zle even the logical brain of a man. She had 
 grown quite fond of Seppy; he had become to her 
 a kind of animated inquire-within-upon-every- 
 thing. She did n't love him; she could never love 
 anyone again. "It 's just as well, John, is n't it?" 
 she added, smiling "now that you have come 
 home." 
 
 "It has saved some unnecessary complications," 
 said John. 
 
 "He is very keen on the question of making 
 divorce easier for women," continued Amelia. 
 John smiled; he had known one or two Seppies 
 with that idea. "He is quite sincere; he sits on 
 royal commissions and things," said Amelia. 
 
 John chuckled softly. Most of the Seppies he 
 had known had usually been sat upon by the hus- 
 bands of the women who wanted divorce to be 
 made easier. 
 
 "He thinks that if a husband or a wife is 
 sent to prison for life, or even for a longer period 
 than seven years, a divorce should be automatic, 
 for the sake of the children," explained Amelia. 
 
 "And for the sake of the birth-rate ? I know," 
 agreed John. "I had those ideas myself before 
 the question touched me personally. Now," he
 
 86 THREADS 
 
 added rather grimly, "now I see the other side of 
 it." 
 
 "Ours is an unusual case," said Amelia quietly. 
 
 "Suppose you had been able to divorce me 
 automatically and that you had married again," 
 inquired John, "what would have happened?" 
 
 "I don't know, John," replied Amelia. 
 
 "What do our children think of the situation?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "They did n't know you were alive, so they ac- 
 cepted Seppy as a friend of the house," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 Modern children probably accepted a great 
 many things, thought John. Possibly they had 
 a keener sense of humor than the children of his 
 generation, or else they took things more for 
 granted. Perhaps it had become a philosophical 
 age, or an age where people did n't bother as they 
 used to about unnecessary or inevitable trifles. 
 
 "They were very firm with him," said Amelia, 
 "when they noticed he was getting at all senti- 
 mental." 
 
 John's smile was a little grim. "I shall be very 
 firm with him if I notice anything of the kind," 
 he remarked. 
 
 Amelia looked rather perplexed. "I hope you 
 will be nice to him, John," she protested* "He 
 has been very kind to me." 
 
 "My dear," said her husband, "as far as I am
 
 THREADS 87 
 
 concerned, there shall always be a saucer of milk 
 in the corner when he wants it." 
 
 "John! You don't think me heartless," 
 pleaded Amelia a little breathlessly. 
 
 "My dear ! I am not a believer in miracles," 
 he answered gently. 
 
 "We can't expect to take up the old life just 
 exactly where we left it off fifteen years ago," 
 said Amelia nervously. "Can we?" 
 
 "No," said John thoughtfully. "At the mo- 
 ment I feel rather like a privileged visitor." He 
 was absorbing the details of the room, and uncon- 
 sciously contrasting the atmosphere with that of 
 his vacated cell at Portland. 
 
 "That hurts a little," said Amelia, knowing it 
 was true. 
 
 John had suddenly grasped the significance of 
 his home-coming. How could he expect things to 
 be just as they had been? He was a stranger 
 almost. He had lived solitary and on his dearest 
 memories; it was all the life-nourishment he had 
 had to support his hopes and beliefs. Amelia had 
 not been sentenced to a limited horizon; life with 
 her had gone on very much as before. She had 
 not been stripped bare of everything that made 
 life worth while. And now, by a miracle, he had 
 come back to her. But had he come back to her? 
 or was he merely what he had described himself 
 as in an unguarded moment a privileged visi-
 
 88 THREADS 
 
 tor? What right had he to expect anything else? 
 Loneliness of soul inspires constancy; a diversity 
 of interests aids forgetfulness. 
 
 His life had been cut short suddenly at the age 
 of thirty-five; now, at fifty, he was taking it up 
 again at the breaking-off point. For fifteen years 
 he had been as a man dead; he had not really been 
 alive at all, merely a man sleep-walking. During 
 those fifteen years Amelia had lived in the world, 
 of the world, for the world's verdict. It was 
 utterly impossible for a woman under such condi- 
 tions to concentrate entirely on the tragedy of her 
 life. She had had other interests; she had had 
 duties, responsibilities. She had not been com- 
 pelled to endure mental stagnation. He must face 
 facts ; he must have patience. He could not expect 
 passionate love, the welcome of a bride. He must 
 be content with affection; and even affection had 
 to be won. He must begin all over again. He 
 must not expect anything as a right; he would 
 not be content with the kind of affection that is 
 given unconsciously to household companions. He 
 would be a visitor a privileged visitor until all 
 doors were thrown open to him, all mental reser- 
 vations printed in letters he could read. 
 
 He condensed these musings into a few simple 
 words it was necessary to put Amelia at her 
 ease. "Thank you, John," she said in a low voice ; 
 "you were always chivalrous."
 
 THREADS 89 
 
 4 
 
 "I have lived so much in myself, I [have had 
 so little to distract my thoughts, that the fifteen 
 years have made no real hiatus in my life with 
 you," he continued. "I couldn't expect I 
 should n't expect you to have the same feeling. 
 You have, very bravely, very rightly, taken hold 
 of life again, and have had many interests; I have 
 had none outside of you and the children. And 
 now that I come bursting in like a bomb-shell, it 's 
 naturally a little difficult for you. When one is 
 much alone, one dreams of everything coming 
 right; and if a dream by chance comes true it 
 seems as though it were in the natural order of 
 things. You, on the other hand, have switched 
 off to another line, and it 's a long way back to 
 the junction. I have been side-tracked; you have 
 proceeded on your journey. If you can't get 
 back, if the line is too crowded with other inter- 
 ests, other memories, it is not your fault. I have 
 learned to be patient, and to realize the delici- 
 ously ironical humor of the magician we call fate, 
 the controller of destinies," he concluded a trifle 
 grimly. 
 
 Amelia looked at him a little perturbed. "I 
 hope, John, that does n't mean you have given up 
 going to church?" she exclaimed. "I don't think 
 providence would like being laughed at." 
 
 Providence, according to Amelia's mid-Victo- 
 rian creed, spent most of its time listening behind
 
 90 THREADS 
 
 the door, with a big stick in its hand, ready to 
 pounce out and destroy anyone of a rebellious 
 frame of mind. John had never been orthodox. 
 
 Amelia moved to the window; she felt she 
 would like to retire to bed, with some tea and 
 toast and ten grains of aspirin, and to hide her- 
 self from the ironical exhibition that fate, or pro- 
 vidence, was providing for her entertainment. To- 
 morrow she would be ready to face life under 
 these new and, at present, strange conditions. 
 
 She felt that ,her self-control was giving way. 
 Probably she was a coward; but life had been 
 very difficult for her, and she suddenly realized 
 an intense desire to let go temporarily. 
 
 "I wonder if you have such a thing in the house 
 as a bottle of French vermouth," said John sud- 
 denly. "I have n't had a drink for fifteen years." 
 
 Amelia's hospitable instincts were promptly 
 aroused. She was about to ring the bell; then 
 she hesitated and looked at her husband with 
 some perplexity. 
 
 "John!" she exclaimed. "What are we to tell 
 the servants?" 
 
 John smiled. It was another of life's little 
 ironies that he had forgotten. "Need we tell 
 them anything?" he asked. 
 
 Amelia looked at him reproachfully. "I 
 can't possibly go to cook and say: 'My husband 
 has returned unexpectedly!' She thinks I am a
 
 THREADS 9 1 
 
 widow. I can't possibly say to her: 'I am not 
 Mrs. Osborne; I am Mrs. Wynn.' She would 
 give notice on the spot. Servants are so suspici- 
 ous and always imagine the worst," she con- 
 cluded fretfully. 
 
 John pondered. "Is there still a servant prob- 
 lem?" he inquired. 
 
 "There always has been one; there always will 
 be one," said Amelia. 
 
 The average woman, looking back on her do- 
 mestic life, sees a long vista of incompetent, im- 
 pertinent, stupid, greedy, careless obstinate, prej- 
 udiced, here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow females 
 whose virtues were magnified by contrast with the 
 others and whose shortcomings had become a sub- 
 ject for conversation with other unfortunate 
 householders. It is largely the result of the Eng- 
 lish passion for unskilled labor and partly owing 
 to the fact that the demand exceeds the supply. 
 The average servant is a snob and a sycophant; 
 but she is also a human being, and would per- 
 haps appreciate more routine and less muddle pro- 
 vided she could have a few hours a day for rest 
 and recreation. There is more neurasthenia due 
 to the servant problem than the average doctor 
 suspects. 
 
 "There were no discordant notes of domesticity 
 at Portland," said John. "We did our own work, 
 we lived the simple life, and I am bound to admit
 
 92 THREADS 
 
 that very few of us suffered from nervous break- 
 downs." 
 
 "All the best servants are getting positions in 
 hospitals or munition works," said Amelia. "They 
 are dreadfully difficult to keep." 
 
 "I 'm afraid I shall be difficult to disguise if 
 the newspapers get hold of my story," said John. 
 
 Amelia explained that the newspapers were too 
 busily engaged in abusing one another for being 
 either too optimistic or too pessimistic to take 
 much notice of an error of justice committed fif- 
 teen years ago. Besides, there was no party capi- 
 tal to be made out of it. Even the war was dis- 
 cussed from the party point of view. Mr. Asquith 
 had announced that the fall of his government 
 would be a national calamity, but the country had 
 chanced the calamity in a sporting spirit. 
 
 "I think that we had better say that you were 
 shipwrecked on a desert island," said Amelia. 
 She feared providence, but feared her cook even 
 more. 
 
 "I expect the kitchen is humming with theories. 
 If I were you, my dear, I should explain nothing," 
 suggested John. 
 
 Amelia sighed and rang the bell. "You don't 
 know the modern servant," she protested. 
 
 John had realized that his home-coming might 
 possibly produce some slight inconveniences, even 
 a certain amount of embarrassment; but he had
 
 THREADS 93 
 
 failed to anticipate the necessity of his being ex- 
 plained to the servants. But in this wonderful 
 scheme of civiliaztion that we have built up for 
 ourselves, a scheme that makes us dependent upon 
 other people for all the little graces and comforts 
 of life, we no sooner surmount one obstacle than 
 another, equally exasperating, confronts us. The 
 caveman was not compelled to consider the preju- 
 dices of his domestic staff; he roared defiance to 
 the world, and went on his way rejoicing, club- 
 bing into insensibility those who could not or 
 would not agree with him. It is true that he was 
 unable to indulge in gramophones, Persian rugs, 
 afternoon tea, hot and cold running water, and 
 the other necessities of what certain cynics call 
 an effeminate age; that he possessed no changes 
 of raiment, and that he had few opportunities to 
 impress his neighbors by a tactfully suggested 
 display of luxuries. But, on the other hand, he 
 could call his soul his own; he was not compelled 
 to live in terror of what the servants would say, 
 and of whether the second housemaid would ob- 
 ject to Danish butter and be content with eggless 
 bacon for breakfast at a time when eggs were 
 scarce ; he was not dependent upon one person to 
 bring him his early tea, another to shave him and 
 to brush his clothes, another to bring him his let- 
 ters and newspapers, still another to dig his gar- 
 den, and a tribe of others who had to be fed,
 
 94 THREADS 
 
 housed, and paid in order to exhibit him to the 
 world as what is called "a man of means." 
 
 The war showed us not so much the trials and 
 troubles of the poor, for the genuine poor have 
 all the rich people's horror of giving themselves 
 away, but the trials and troubles of the rich; one 
 reads of poor helpless rich people, two in family, 
 advertising for servants, prepared to pay any 
 wages in reason, offering inducements ("Twelve 
 servants kept. Liberal outings") to those who 
 will answer the appeal, absolutely frantic with 
 fear lest their ways of life should be upset, lest 
 they should be compelled to live with only nine 
 servants to brush them and wash them and keep 
 them decent, when they had always lived with ten. 
 Such trials are a tragedy, though self-imposed. 
 Picture "Bachelor, twelve servants kept" having 
 to get up without being called, to fry his own 
 rasher, make his own coffee, polish his own boots, 
 groom his own horses, plant his own potatoes, find 
 his own clean socks, and make his way through 
 the long vista of days unshepherded by his faith- 
 ful retinue. He would be lost, he would fall by 
 the wayside in despair. He has grown so accus- 
 tomed to being looked after by other people that 
 he is totally incompetent to look after himself. 
 And that is the kind of artificial civilization we 
 have striven to produce, and, having produced 
 and brought to a fine art, we are prouder of than
 
 THREADS 95 
 
 anything else. Such an existence is the ideal for 
 which all Anglo-Saxons long, which they hope to 
 achieve, and, having once achieved, will never let 
 go. Music, literature, painting, science the 
 creative arts are only a means to an end; they 
 mean nothing to the average Englishman. The 
 average Englishman likes to swank about Shakes- 
 peare, whose work he seldom reads, but he has 
 a whole-hearted reverence for the Duke of West- 
 minster. 
 
 To the average Englishman, a life of luxurious 
 ease and dependence on a staff of sycophantic 
 servants is the only life that is really worth while. 
 The man who can do anything is not wanted; the 
 man who can do one thing or be one thing, if it 
 is only being rich, and do it or be it whole- 
 heartedly, will win the respect and admiration of 
 the nation. If he makes epigrams, he must go 
 on making epigrams ; if he is a philanthropist, he 
 must continue to give; if he is a specially promi- 
 nent unit of Society with a big "S," he must al- 
 ways dress the part; if he is a politician, he must 
 persevere to uphold the political banner on which 
 is engraved in letters of gold, "We are hard to 
 move." In fact, an Englishman must choose his 
 part (or accept it) and continue to play it for 
 all it is worth; he must not indulge in new read- 
 ings or study to bring out subtle meanings; if 
 the stage directions tell him to sit on a top-hat,
 
 96 THREADS 
 
 ,he must sit on it "good and hard"; if they pro- 
 vide for "tears in his voice," the said tears must 
 be of the extra large size; if they tell him to 
 retire up stage and watch the leading man, he 
 must watch that gentleman for the rest of his 
 life and gain kudos from the press for his admir- 
 able watching manner; if they tell ihim to be 
 funny, he must be very funny indeed. England 
 will forgive a man anything except irreverence 
 for tradition, lack of the sporting instinct, or a 
 change of opinion. 
 
 Such thoughts were crowding through John's 
 brain as he sipped his glass of French vermouth 
 and gazed out of the window. Suddenly he be- 
 came aware of the parlor-maid. "Has your bag 
 come, sir?" she asked. 
 
 John looked up with a delightful expression of 
 concern on his face. "I 'm afraid my bag has 
 gone astray; I shall be obliged to borrow from 
 Mr. Arthur." 
 
 "The oak room, Parsons," said Amelia. "It 
 has a bath-room attached," she added, after Par- 
 sons had closed the door. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear!" replied John a little 
 grimly. "I am sure I shall be very comfortable."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Reformer (bewildered): The noise is deafening. I cannot think. 
 Gilded Youth: We don't want to think; it would ft>e the death of us. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act i. 
 
 JOHN passed a restless night in the luxurious bed 
 belonging to the oak room that had a bath-room 
 attached. He was too comfortable to sleep. 
 After fifteen years of a plank bed, a spring mat- 
 tress was a curious change. You can get accus- 
 tomed to almost anything if you persevere, but 
 your physical parts cry out at having to adjust 
 themselves to new positions. There is a grim 
 streak of humor in life. 
 
 John tried to control his thoughts, but even- 
 tually gave up in despair. His brain was 
 abnormally active, and his memory-cells were dis- 
 charging pictures like a cinematograph. His trial, 
 his journey to Portland, his hideously monoton- 
 ous life there, came back to him in crude pictures. 
 He turned on the electric light at the head of 
 his bed and tried to read, but the words danced 
 before his eyes. He put out the light and drew 
 the curtains, allowing the moonlight to flood the 
 room. He wondered whether Amelia was awake 
 too, and, if so, of what she was thinking. 
 
 97
 
 98 THREADS 
 
 Toward four o'clock he fell asleep and dreamed 
 that he was back in prison. 
 
 When he awoke the country was bathed in 
 sunshine ; it was eight o'clock, and in the distance 
 a church bell was ringing. Parsons entered with 
 a cup of China tea, and took away his clothes to 
 be brushed. After all, life could be extremely 
 comfortable in a house staffed with competent 
 servants. 
 
 A warm bath was a luxury he had not enjoyed 
 for fifteen years; he reveled in it. Then he re- 
 membered that he had no razor. Should he ring? 
 Would it annoy Amelia if he did? Had any 
 member of his family sufficient imagination to 
 realize his toilet deficiencies? Parsons knocked 
 at the door of his bedroom and entered with a 
 fitted suit-case containing razors, brushes, and 
 other articles of comfort. John felt he would 
 like to give Parsons a sovereign, but unfortunately 
 he had no money another troublesome affair 
 that would have to be arranged. 
 
 He shaved, dressed, and went downstairs and 
 out into the garden. A Sabbath stillness was the 
 dominant note. A sudden desire for food drew 
 him to the dining-room. There were copper hot- 
 water dishes on the sideboard; in them a choice 
 selection of breakfast dainties. He helped him- 
 self to bacon and eggs, and Parsons brought in 
 a pot of coffee, a jug of hot milk, and some fresh
 
 THREADS 99 
 
 toast. "Breakfast is a movable feast on Sun- 
 days, sir," she observed, glancing round to see 
 that all was in order. She left the room, return- 
 ing a moment later with the Observer, the 
 Referee, and that curious picture paper contain- 
 ing a column of gossip written by the second foot- 
 man at a well-known house in Park Lane, 
 chronicling the observations made to him by vari- 
 ous prominent people, including the stars of the 
 stage. Its name is very difficult to remember, but 
 the paper itself is widely read by the middle 
 classes, and freely quoted from. 
 
 John finished his breakfast without interrup- 
 tion, and then settled himself in a luxurious arm- 
 chair in the living-room, with the Sunday papers 
 and those that he could find of the previous day's 
 issue. On a small table at his side was a silver 
 box containing cigarettes, together with a match- 
 stand and an ash-tray. He lighted a cigarette, 
 and heaved a sigh of relief; he could faintly 
 taste the tobacco. Outside the birds were singing 
 and the sun was shining; indoors everything was 
 deliciously quiet and peaceful. 
 
 He took up the papers and realized that his 
 country was at war. 
 
 He read steadily through most of them, includ- 
 ing the leading articles. Much of what he read 
 was Greek to him new phrases, new slang, new 
 names continued to intrude. Things were evi-
 
 ioo THREADS 
 
 dently not going too well with the nation. Food 
 was snort (he remembered his breakfast with 
 gratitude), the cost of living was high, ministers 
 were incompetent. America had come in, but it 
 would be some time before she was ready to send 
 an army overseas. One set of papers smilingly 
 proclaimed that all was well; another hinted at 
 startling revelations. He looked at the theatrical 
 advertisements; he failed to recognize most of 
 the names displayed in large type. What had 
 become of Irving and Hare and Wyndham? 
 What were these things they called revues? He 
 looked through the Parliamentary reports. "The 
 Prime Minister Mr. Lloyd-George!" He sat 
 back in his arm-chair, chuckling. 
 
 It was curious to have a sort of black curtain 
 drawn across fifteen years of one's life, but what 
 one saw when the curtain rose was even more 
 amazing. Great men fallen, obscure politicians 
 in office, new slogans, new shibboleths, a coalition 
 government, Ireland still unhappy; the bishops, 
 with cotton-wool in their ears to drown the roar 
 of the guns, academically debating whether the 
 late lamented Charles Stuart should be officially 
 recognized as a saint; tribunals some exempting 
 everyone, others exempting none; a food con- 
 troller, himself a retired tradesman, beating a 
 tomtom in honor of the once despised potato, 
 and issuing orders and instructions that were
 
 THREADS lor 
 
 sufficiently contradictory to suggest Savoy Opera. 
 Which reminded John : why were not Gilbert and 
 Sullivan operas a permanent feature of London 
 entertainments? In Savoy Opera, England had 
 produced something no other nation could touch 
 or improve upon; but Gilbert and Sullivan, like 
 Shakespeare, were evidently neglected by Lon- 
 doners. Perhaps Westminster feared the influ- 
 ence of a rival in topsy-turvy humor. 
 
 "I should like to see 'lolanthe' or The Mika- 
 do,' " sighed John, lighting another cigarette; 
 "and I have n't the slightest desire to solve the 
 mysteries of 'Next, Please' or 'Mind the Step' or 
 'Splish Splosh,' even with an unequaled beauty 
 chorus whatever that may be." 
 
 This was unenterprising. "Splish Splosh" was 
 an attraction to which crowds flocked nightly; 
 it set the fashion in conversational colloquialisms 
 and its catch phrases were universally quoted. 
 The music was not too subtle for the average 
 intelligence, and scarcely ever erred on the side 
 of being inaudible to the gallery. In fact, when 
 the musical director let himself go, it was difficult 
 to hear the roar of the motor omnibus in Picca- 
 dilly Circus, a quarter of a mile from the tem- 
 porary home of "Splish Splosh." A stranger 
 might be inclined to wonder what it was all about; 
 but the audience had no doubts. There were no 
 hidden meanings in "Splish Splosh"; the jokes
 
 102 THREADS 
 
 were admirably underlined, and the comedians 
 were made up to look funny. The beauty chorus 
 maintained that air of being a beauty chorus that 
 constitutes its sole attraction. 
 
 There were moments of hand-clutching senti- 
 mentality. "I have never loved a girl but 
 you," sang the light baritone from the Bowery; 
 and impressionable subalterns, home on leave, 
 breathed soft nothings into the shell-like ears of 
 charming maidens whose names they had forgot- 
 ten, while the maidens, who would have and had 
 had the same soft nothings breathed into their 
 ears many times, by other equally impressionable 
 subalterns home on leave, responded in the usual 
 way. 
 
 A comedian in a comic hat exchanged friendly 
 badinage with a comedian of the depressed order. 
 It was a sporting contest; each was out to get 
 laughs, and the three-hundred-a-week comedian 
 eventually scored over the two-hundred-and-fifty- 
 a-week comedian, much to the joy of the seven- 
 and-sixpence-a-day subaltern and the shilling-a-day 
 Tommy in the gallery. Life on leave was a round 
 of rag-time; ladies in five-hundred-guinea frocks 
 sang (or tried to sing) rag-time comments on 
 war economies; ladies crowned with priceless dis- 
 plays of ospreys sang (in rag-time) dainty ditties 
 that pointed out the virtues of kindness or the 
 pleasures of bird life; the far-famed beauty
 
 THREADS 103 
 
 chorus, in rag-time, displayed their physical at- 
 tractions to an amazingly generous extent; the 
 wit was out (evidently on leave), but a Rabel- 
 aisian facetiousness had taken its place. The 
 orchestra did its best to hide the deficiencies of 
 melody by making a great deal of noise, just as 
 the comedians hid the lack of wit in the dialogue 
 by facial expression and a good deal of sugges- 
 tion. The feverish excitement of the whole amaz- 
 ing entertainment never ceased until the curtain 
 had fallen on the finale. "Splish Splosh" was 
 typical of life in London in the comparatively 
 early days of the war. 
 
 About half-past ten Amelia came downstairs, 
 arrayed for church. She looked extraordinarily 
 young and pretty, and John, in spite of himself, 
 felt his heart miss a beat. 
 
 "Are you coming to church?" she inquired, 
 buttoning her gloves. 
 
 "No, my dear, thank you!" said John. "My 
 church-going has been compulsory for the last 
 fifteen years, and I fancy my soul can stand a 
 day off." 
 
 "I suppose you are right," replied Amelia; 
 "though I should have thought that under the 
 circumstances getting your freedom so unex- 
 pectedly, so miraculously " She looked at him 
 a little reproachfully. 
 
 John laughed. "My dear! because the in-
 
 io 4 THREADS 
 
 scrutable decrees of providence caused me to 
 spend fifteen years of my life in prison for another 
 man's offense, it does n't follow that I am over- 
 whelmed with gratitude when providence decides 
 to end the joke; it doesn't remove my grudge 
 against providence; neither does it give me any 
 abnormal admiration for its methods of justice. 
 I don't feel disposed to go down on my knees 
 in thankfulness because providence as the say- 
 ing goes has discovered its error in time ; though 
 I might perhaps put up a prayer that it may be 
 more careful in future." 
 
 Amelia frowned. "I hope you have n't de- 
 veloped a spirit of irony. No one understands it 
 in England; at any rate, not in our set." 
 
 "I have developed nothing but a capacity for 
 enjoyment of the humor of life. I even saw 
 the humor of the prison system," said John. 
 "My idea of curing a man of criminal instincts 
 would be to surround him with love, belief, and 
 beauty none of which qualities are conspicuous 
 at Portland." 
 
 "I hope you don't think I Ve brought our chil- 
 dren up carelessly?" asked Amelia, who had a 
 genius for switching off from one subject to 
 another without warning. 
 
 John paused to blow some smoke through his 
 nose. "I have conceived a colossal admiration 
 for our children. They are delightful, and their
 
 THREADS 105 
 
 tact is amazing, while their consideration toward 
 me is quite touching. They have almost made me 
 feel at home," he added quietly. 
 
 Amelia was at times a puzzle to herself. She 
 had prayed that John would behave exactly as 
 he had behaved, and now that he had obeyed her 
 unspoken wishes she felt strangely resentful 
 toward him for having done so. He was so 
 quiet, so self-contained, so undemonstrative. Of 
 course it was a tremendous relief; but had he 
 forgotten? Did he no longer love her as he had 
 once loved her, whole-heartedly, passionately, as 
 a man should love his wife ? Amelia did not want 
 to be taken for granted; she wanted to be wooed 
 and won, all over again. At least, she thought 
 she did. She wanted John to take up the old 
 life gradually, tactfully; she did not want him 
 to accept her attitude as final. He could n't love 
 her if he accepted things like that. And she 
 wanted to be loved she wanted it terribly. The 
 more deeply she felt a thing, the less she showed 
 it as a rule. Their companionship had been so 
 perfect in the old days. But now John was be- 
 having as though she were a stranger, as though 
 he were a visitor. It chilled her advances; it 
 muzzled her, preventing her from saying all the 
 things that came to her lips and then retired, 
 snubbed, afraid to materialize. Was John dis- 
 appointed with her? Had she grown old and
 
 106 THREADS 
 
 plain? Was he disappointed with the children? 
 What was he thinking under that mask of gentle 
 irony and courteous deference? Had he been 
 as embarrassed at meeting her again as she had 
 been at meeting him? 
 
 "Did I tell you that Arthur is engaged to be 
 married?" she asked. 
 
 John looked up, his face full of interest. 
 
 "She is the only daughter of Lord and Lady 
 Gratham; they live near Chenies. Chloe is very 
 charming, and they are devoted to each other. 
 It would be a great pity if anything should inter- 
 fere with their engagement." 
 
 "What should interfere with it?" inquired 
 John. 
 
 "Lord and Lady Gratham will have to be told. 
 You see," Amelia hesitated a little "they 
 thought I was a widow." 
 
 "And I shall have to be explained to them 
 as I was to the servants?" 
 
 Amelia put her hand on his arm appealingly. 
 
 "Do you want me to go and call and explain 
 in person?" inquired John, patting her hand 
 soothingly. 
 
 Amelia had discussed the subject that morn- 
 ing with Arthur. Arthur had insisted on seeing 
 the thing through himself, and had already 
 motored over to Chenies. Arthur did not believe 
 in postponing unpleasant necessities.
 
 THREADS 107 
 
 "I'm afraid I shall want a good deal of ex- 
 plaining," said John; "but it's good experience 
 for Arthur if he intends to follow a diplomatic 
 career." 
 
 "I don't think Chloe will mind; she is very 
 modern. And Lady Gratham will be all right 
 as long as there is no fuss. But Lord Gratham 
 is a terrible Tory, and very difficult to convince, 
 once he has made up his mind about anything," 
 said Amelia reflectively. 
 
 It would scarcely be logical, thought John, to 
 blame Arthur because his father had been the 
 victim of a judicial error; but, after all, a member 
 of the Upper House was rarely logical. 
 
 "I suppose Arthur must fight his own battles," 
 sighed Amelia. 
 
 "It will be a very good education for him," 
 said John. 
 
 "He did very well at Cambridge," protested 
 Amelia. 
 
 "A man only begins his education when he 
 leaves the Varsity," said John. "Education con- 
 sists of knowing what to unlearn. I hope Arthur 
 lias n't acquired the academic mind?" 
 
 "What is the academic mind?" inquired 
 Amelia, a little puzzled. 
 
 "The curse of party politics, the result of 
 theories acquired at second hand, too much 
 classical education and too little common sense.
 
 io8 THREADS 
 
 Most young men catch the disease, or they did 
 in my day," added John, smiling reminiscently. 
 "Some grow out of it, others don't. Politicians 
 and the minor clergy, and a certain type of critic 
 and journalist, are the worst offenders barring 
 private secretaries to Cabinet Ministers, who are 
 its prophets." 
 
 There was a slight pause, broken by a chuckle 
 from John. Strangely enough, the same thought 
 had occurred to him in the same words in which 
 it had occurred to Amelia. 
 
 It is a curious psychological coincidence that 
 a husband and wife who are very close to each 
 other in thought should so often be visited by 
 the same idea expressed in almost the same words. 
 
 "I wonder whether you were as embarrassed 
 at meeting me as I was at meeting you?" inquired 
 John. 
 
 "How could I know what the separation and 
 the suffering would have done to you?" replied 
 Amelia thoughtfully. "It might have brutalized 
 you." She shuddered a little. "But it seems to 
 have made you more chivalrous even than you 
 used to be. It was a great gamble, John, your 
 coming home." 
 
 "When I got into the train to come to London, 
 I looked at myself in the mirror, and I saw a 
 stranger," said John. "I was prepared for you 
 to see a stranger, too."
 
 THREADS 109 
 
 She hesitated. "A man must always be some- 
 thing of a stranger after fifteen years. The chil- 
 dren thought me nervous, hysterical, strung-up; 
 I was n't, John ! I was merely afraid." 
 
 John nodded. He understood; he was gifted 
 or cursed with an imaginative insight into 
 other people's minds. He could picture his wife's 
 kaleidoscopic brain when the news that he was 
 coming home first reached her. He had an 
 enormous sympathy for women; he understood 
 their point of view as far as a man can grasp such 
 psychological subtleties. He had been intimate 
 with few of them; he had loved only one his 
 wife and he still loved her. Had she forgotten 
 how they had once loved? Could she fear the 
 man to whom she had so entirely surrendered 
 herself? Was her shrinking the result of a failing 
 memory, of a love long dead, or was it due to 
 a kind of esthetic fastidiousness? Was she dread- 
 ing the intimacies of married life? Or had she 
 ceased to believe in the innate chivalry of the 
 average decently bred man? 
 
 Amelia had not forgotten, but it all seemed 
 like an unreal and beautiful dream. She could 
 not bring herself to believe that their life to- 
 gether had actually happened. She must be 
 honest with him; she owed him that. But she 
 must also be honest with herself, true to herself. 
 Her frankness had always been one of her
 
 no THREADS 
 
 greatest attributes; it was the frankness of a child. 
 John appreciated it deeply. If they were both 
 ^onest with each other, misunderstandings and 
 other matrimonial pitfalls could be avoided or 
 bridged over. 
 
 "You felt that time had mocked our troth?" he 
 asked sympathetically; "and that the hopes and 
 beliefs that had come to us in those wonderful 
 spring days of our life together were nothing but 
 ashes?" 
 
 Amelia nodded. She had clutched at reality, 
 but it had eluded her. One thought had con- 
 tinued to hammer in her brain: who was this 
 man who was coming back to her, the man who 
 called himself her husband? He could n't be the 
 lover for whose memory she had shed so many 
 tears, for that lover had never actually existed, 
 except in her dreams. At least, so it had seemed 
 to her then. Who was he? and how was she 
 to pretend that nothing had changed? 
 
 John had had that same curious loss of identity 
 when walking up from the station, that perplex- 
 ing sense of unreality; but it had passed on meet- 
 ing his wife. 
 
 "When we said good-by I was almost a girl," 
 said Amelia a little bitterly for she clung to 
 youth with the same instinct that makes a half- 
 drowned sailor cling to a spar. "I was young 
 and slim and pretty. You once told me that I had
 
 THREADS in 
 
 the rare gift of looking pretty even when I cried." 
 
 "I did n't exaggerate," murmured John, smil- 
 ing at the recollection her words produced. 
 
 "Look at me now!" she cried, challenging him 
 to tell her the truth. She stood with her back 
 to the window: a woman rarely discards a legiti- 
 mate handicap. 
 
 John looked at her for some seconds. She 
 flushed a little under his close scrutiny, and her 
 heart gave a sudden leap as she realized that he 
 could see only the girl he had seen fifteen years 
 ago, the girl he had seen in his dreams during 
 all those cruel, empty years. If her instinct was 
 right, why did n't he tell her so? She wanted him 
 to tell her. But he was so detached, so courteous, 
 so impersonal. "My mirror does n't lie," she 
 cried defiantly. 
 
 "Neither do my eyes," said John. 
 
 "I hope your eyes will be kind when they open 
 to realities," pleaded Amelia, nervously button- 
 ing the other glove. 
 
 Realities? Yes; they would have to establish 
 a modus vivendi. What should it be ? They must 
 settle down and face the situation. But how? 
 Were they to be husband and wife, or was he 
 still to be a privileged visitor? What was her 
 attitude? How did she feel about all these 
 things? Should they go away together, to renew 
 their acquaintanceship? Could it be a sort of
 
 ii2 THREADS 
 
 Indian-summer honeymoon? He broached the 
 question. 
 
 "I think that wouIH be unwise," she replied, 
 "and a little unfair to our children. You have to 
 make their acquaintance, too !" 
 
 John laughed; he would be kept rather busy. 
 
 "By the way," he exclaimed suddenly, "when 
 am I to have the pleasure of making Seppy's ac- 
 quaintance?" Amelia looked up, frowning a 
 little. "Shall I have to be explained to him as 
 I was to cook?" he added in a voice slightly tinged 
 with irony. 
 
 "I am quite ready to laugh at him myself, 
 John," she protested; "but it irritates me to have 
 other people laughing at him. He has been a 
 very good friend to me. The children think him 
 a little ridiculous, a little exaggerated; but no 
 woman of my age could help feeling a certain 
 admiration for a man who devoted himself so 
 entirely to her interests." 
 
 "My dear!" said John, "/ am prepared to de- 
 vote my entire life to your interests; it is the only 
 privilege I retain. But if Seppy and I are both on 
 the same job it may cause complications." 
 
 "That is exactly what I want to avoid," replied 
 Amelia. "Seppy has earned my friendship; I 
 can't withdraw it suddenly without a reason. It 
 would n't be fair. You can see that, can't you, 
 John?"
 
 THREADS 113 
 
 "Certainly!" he agreed. "If you can argue 
 such a thing from a reasonable point of view?" 
 
 Amelia had never been very deep ; she had been 
 clinging. She had clung to her husband, and 
 had worshiped him; and he had been snatched 
 out of her life, leaving her with nothing to cling 
 to. She had done her duty to their children, but 
 that had filled only part of her life. No reason- 
 able woman thinks of her children to the exclu- 
 sion of every other interest. She was still young 
 still a woman. Some people might think it 
 horrid, but it was not horrid really, it was natural 
 that some women could not be content just to be 
 mothers. They needed to be thought of as women 
 too. "It does n't imply that I 'm not loyal," 
 argued Amelia; "and it does n't imply that I am 
 frivolous." What it did imply was that she was 
 tremendously conscientious. 
 
 Some women are far more conscientious where 
 other people are concerned than they are with 
 regard to themselves and their own affairs. 
 Amelia was a conscientious guardian of her most 
 cherished memories; she kept them locked up in 
 Jier heart, and wore the key where she could feel 
 it night and day. She had been forced to wrap 
 up her memories of her husband, and to put them 
 away in a drawer, sacred to her youth. For the 
 sake of her children, she had tried to forget 
 and to look forward. But she was not the type
 
 ii 4 THREADS 
 
 of woman who could look forward to loneliness 
 unafraid. No man could ever be to her what 
 John had once been; but that did not make it 
 inevitable that she should rule all men for ever 
 out of her life. And now that he had come home, 
 he must either win her all . over again, win her 
 entirely, or they would have to be content with 
 memories and friendship. She was still a 
 woman a woman who had been robbed of fifteen 
 years of her youth and she clung desperately to 
 what remained of the youth that made her still 
 desirable. 
 
 "Is there yet the ghost of the youth you once 
 loved in me? Can you again materialize it?" 
 John asked, echoing her unspoken thoughts. 
 
 "Admiration devotion love can keep a 
 woman young when the years deny her the right," 
 replied Amelia rather wistfully. 
 
 John looked at her keenly. "Is it Seppy's ad- 
 miration and devotion that have kept you young, 
 in spite of tragic memories?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Amelia quietly; "and I am grateful. 
 What woman could help being grateful?" 
 
 "It brings us back to the elemental, does n't 
 it?" asked John, smiling. "Seppy and I will have 
 to take off the gloves." 
 
 Amelia frowned. It was not the subject for 
 a joke. John's theory that one must take life 
 with a laugh or perish mentally had always irri-
 
 THREADS 115 
 
 tated her. John would laugh on the scaffold. 
 She shivered at the thought. How near he had 
 been to proving her point! But no reasonable 
 woman makes fun of her emotions or laughs at 
 the source from which they spring. 
 
 "Are you very shocked at what I've said?" 
 she asked. "Are you very disappointed ? Do you 
 feel as though you have been cheated out of your 
 rights?" 
 
 "My dear!" said John, "a man has no rights 
 that he does n't earn. I have the privilege of 
 being, I hope, a welcome visitor in this house, and 
 if I cannot be content with that, it is up to me to 
 win the larger privileges." 
 
 "Thank you, John!" Amelia took up her 
 prayer-book, slipped half a crown into her left- 
 hand glove, and gave a final readjustment to her 
 hat. "And now I think I had better go to 
 church." 
 
 "Will you pray for a miracle?" inquired John 
 a little grimly. 
 
 "I don't know what I shall pray for; I am con- 
 stitutionally unfitted to decide things for myself," 
 said Amelia, with a sigh. "I think I shall just 
 pray for everything to come right." 
 
 John chuckled: it was the national habit of 
 evading responsibility. Fortunately, Amelia did 
 not notice his amusement. 
 
 "Are n't you going to church?" she inquired as
 
 n6 THREADS 
 
 Olive entered the room apparently dressed for 
 motoring. 
 
 "No, mother. As you wouldn't go motoring 
 with Mr. Jordan, I 'm going instead," replied 
 Olive, assured by her father's presence that argu- 
 ment would be barred. 
 
 "Who is Mr. Jordan?" inquired John, looking 
 up from a perusal of Mr. Garvin's views on the 
 general situation. 
 
 "We met him in Paris," replied Olive, adjust- 
 ing her veil, "just before the war. We were stay- 
 ing at the same hotel, and he was so attentive 
 to mother that she naturally could n't resist ask- 
 ing him to call. He has been calling ever since. 
 He takes her motoring, and to theaters and con- 
 certs when Seppy is off duty." 
 
 "Has he been a good friend, too?" asked John, 
 with a mischievous twinkle. 
 
 "Mr. Jordan has the rare faculty of making a 
 woman feel she is doing him a favor in accepting 
 his hospitality," said Amelia reproachfully. 
 
 John smiled. "I should be far more afraid of 
 the man who made you feel he was doing you 
 a favor in offering it." 
 
 "He has heaps of money, and no one to help 
 him spend it," explained Olive. "He 's very nice 
 to me when mother is busy and I 'm trying to 
 teach him English." 
 
 "American men always make a chaperone feel
 
 THREADS 117 
 
 she is welcome under any circumstances," said 
 Amelia. 
 
 Olive laughed. "A chaperone? I like that, 
 mother! If anyone is the chaperone, it 's me. I 
 never get a chance to be anything else." 
 
 Amelia frowned and changed the subject. 
 
 "Where is Jimmy?" she inquired. "Is he com- 
 ing to church?" 
 
 "He 's in the bath-room, lazy little beast!" said 
 the young Harrovian's sister. "He said you could 
 represent him at church, mother, and he hoped 
 breakfast would n't be late." 
 
 The gentle purring of a thousand-guinea car 
 broke the summer silence. 
 
 "Would you like a drive, father?" asked Olive. 
 
 "No, thank you, my dear! I'm very com- 
 fortable," replied John. 
 
 "I expect you have a lot to say to mother. 
 Oh, I forgot she was going to church ! Never 
 mind! There are heaps of books. And you 
 might have a chat with Jimmy; he badly needs a 
 father's hand at times." 
 
 "Do you mean to lean on?" inquired John. 
 
 "No," replied Olive emphatically; "the other 
 thing."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Reformer: What is the motto on the badge you are all wearing? 
 Merchant: "Business as usual." . . . Excuse me! I have an engage- 
 ment to play golf. [Exit. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act a. 
 
 THE English habit of taking things for granted, 
 together with the national dislike of explaining 
 things, are difficult attributes for a foreigner to 
 grasp. He comes to England, anxious to learn 
 the point of view; but, unless he is prepared to 
 remain for an indefinite period, his education in 
 that respect continues to be neglected. The 
 Englishman's point of view is rarely what it ap- 
 pears to be, and he never explains it to anyone. 
 After many years' residence the guest suddenly 
 recognizes the fact, and it either irritates or 
 charms him. Foreigners wonder why the English 
 invariably hang out their dirty linen for the whole 
 world to gaze upon, and it takes some years to 
 realize that they do it out of pride. This pride 
 in themselves as a nation is so intense that they 
 can afford to make themselves out much worse 
 than they really are; hence the national aptitude 
 for grousing. Strangers criticize the British and 
 their methods, and the British invariably agree 
 
 118
 
 THREADS 119 
 
 with them; but they never alter either their 
 methods or their philosophy. 
 
 In the English country it is taken for granted 
 that everyone knows where everyone else lives; 
 no one would dream of having "Belle Vue" or 
 "Chatsworth" painted on his gates, unless he was 
 a suburbanite who had strayed into the country 
 by accident, after a lifetime spent in catching the 
 eight-fifty train to the City. For in the suburbs 
 no one knows who anyone is, and those who do 
 are not quite certain. They merely guess at one 
 another's incomes. But the suburbs do not rep- 
 resent England; they are a kind of half-way 
 house between the transient and the permanent. 
 The man who takes a pride in the architecture of 
 a suburb, or cares what becomes of it after he 
 himself has ceased to sleep in one of its aggressive 
 villas, may have acquired a dawning sense of 
 patriotism, but it is still in the elementary stage. 
 When a man says to you: "I 'm a Sussex man!" 
 he speaks as one of the salt of the earth, and 
 glories in the fact; but could anyone imagine a 
 sane person glorying in the fact that he was born 
 at Upper Tooting? 
 
 Jordan had been in England for some years, 
 but he still liked to have things explained to him. 
 He was ready to accept the English point of view 
 in reason, but there were moments when the Eagle 
 ruffled its feathers in amazement.
 
 120 THREADS 
 
 "I guess I 'm a little late," he remarked 
 anxiously as Parsons ushered him into the living- 
 room. 
 
 "Not at all," said Olive. "You have n't met my 
 father, have you?" 
 
 Jordan gasped. "Your father? I I didn't 
 know you had a father; that is, I didn't know 
 you had a father living." 
 
 "Neither did we until yesterday," said Olive 
 calmly; "though I think mother ought to have 
 told you." The emphasis on the "you" was a 
 score to her, but a trifle crude. 
 
 Jordan grasped John's hand and shook it 
 warmly. "I am very pleased to make your ac- 
 quaintance, sir!" he said. 
 
 "And I to make yours, Mr. Jordan!" replied 
 John. 
 
 Jordan heaved a sigh of embarrassment. "I 
 had always heard that the English left things to 
 explain themselves," he remarked. 
 
 "Father has been in prison," explained Olive 
 politely. 
 
 Jordan blinked. He thought he had been well 
 steeled against surprises where the English were 
 concerned, but his first line of defense had been 
 very nearly carried. "I beg your pardon?" he 
 ejaculated. 
 
 "They thought he had done something he 
 had n't done ; and now they have found out that
 
 THREADS 121 
 
 someone else did it, they have let him out," said 
 Olive. 
 
 Jordan drew a deep breath. "Excuse me!" he 
 remarked. "When William of Normandy con- 
 quered Great Britain, I guess he rang up the Lord 
 Mayor, London, and said: 'Are you there? Ex- 
 cuse me! I Ve conquered your country; but I 'm 
 always at home for afternoon tea if you 'd care 
 to drop in!' and let it go at that." 
 
 John protested. "William did n't really con- 
 quer England, Mr. Jordan; England eventually 
 conquered him and his successors. The English 
 spirit is unconquerable; you can't argue with it!" 
 
 "I wonder if the other William realizes what 
 {he 's up against," said Jordan. 
 
 "We did n't bother much about the war at 
 Portland," replied John. 
 
 "Some people don't bother much about it out 
 of Portland," reflected Jordan. 
 
 "I expect Germany is jealous of the Albert 
 Memorial and wants to set it up in Berlin," sug- 
 gested John. 
 
 "You don't take your country's peril seriously," 
 Jordan protested. 
 
 "Why worry, Mr. Jordan," replied John 
 genially, "while we have heaven and the Daily 
 Mail to guide us? We have often been in peril 
 before; we have grown accustomed to being in 
 peril. After all, we are in deadly peril every
 
 122 THREADS 
 
 time we indulge in that delicious harlequinade 
 called a general election. War may bring sor- 
 row to the individual, bankruptcy to the patriot, 
 wealth to the profiteer, and security to the indis- 
 pensable ; but it does n't alter us fundamentally. 
 We always take a year or two to think it over, 
 a year or two to prepare for it, a year or two to 
 quarrel about who is to take charge of it, a year 
 or two to fight it out, and a century or so in 
 squaring up accounts. We make the same mis- 
 takes, the same miscalculations, the same resolu- 
 tions for the avoidance of those same mistakes; 
 and then a new craze comes along, a boxing bout 
 or a golf tournament, and we forget all about 
 our preparations for defense and let things slide. 
 The average Englishman, Mr. Jordan, will real- 
 ize Germany's intentions and have Germany's 
 methods brought home to him only when he sees 
 Uhlans in Piccadilly; and even then he will be too 
 busy selling 'presents from London' to the Uhlans 
 to worry very much." 
 
 "Excuse me!" said Jordan stiffly. "Your 
 British soldiers and sailors have proved them- 
 selves miracles. It is an honor, sir, to be allied 
 with you on that account, if on no other." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Jordan." John smiled his 
 acknowledgment of the testimonial. Being an 
 average Englishman, he took such things for 
 granted.
 
 THREADS 123 
 
 "I agree with you that London has reached a 
 point hitherto unknown in its love of luxury 
 and display," continued Jordan. "The war does 
 not appear to have sobered the nation. Every- 
 thing is booming." 
 
 John thought of the commercial traveler's talk 
 on the train. 
 
 "Talking of luxuries, Mr. Jordan, how do you 
 manage to wangle enough petrol to go joy- 
 riding?" inquired Olive. 
 
 "Pardon me!" interrupted John. "What is 
 the meaning of 'wangle' and 'joy-ride' ?" 
 
 "Wangle is an army term: it means getting 
 something you are not entitled to in a perfectly 
 legitimate manner," explained Olive. "And joy- 
 ride is American for using petrol on urgent private 
 affairs." 
 
 John had spoken of the Norman invasion as 
 though it had happened yesterday. The English 
 have long memories, but little imagination; they 
 bow to the past, but ignore the future. John 
 had not realized the American invasion, which 
 was an accomplished fact. It had begun fifteen 
 years ago, at the time of his retirement from 
 active interest in life. 
 
 "Now we talk American so naturally that we 
 don't realize it isn't English," said Olive; "you 
 even read of 'stunts' in leading articles, and our 
 armies march to rag-time."
 
 I2 4 THREADS 
 
 It was perfectly true. America had responded 
 to England's call for help, and had sent her 
 representatives to teach American business 
 methods. Rattigan, that pioneer of the great de- 
 partment store, had gone over to show London 
 how a great shop could be run with efficiency and 
 courtesy; he had welcomed English customers to 
 his establishment, and they were not assailed by 
 importunate hand-washing shopwalkers, neither 
 were they looked upon with suspicion if they wan- 
 dered around looking at the tempting display of 
 things for sale; they were made to feel at home, 
 and invited to look upon Rattigan's as a kind of 
 club where they could meet their friends, write 
 their letters, rest and refresh themselves, and, if 
 the spirit moved them, buy something they needed 
 or thought they did. Even men, shop-haters as a 
 sex, were attracted by Rattigan's. And the at- 
 tendants were so obliging; they never fired con- 
 temptuous looks at the nervous shopper, they 
 helped her to make up her mind, and, if she was 
 incapable of that, they made it up for her. 
 Undoubtedly Rattigan was a genius, for he un- 
 derstood human nature, and allowed it to be 
 understood that dividends were the last things he 
 desired, and that his patron's comfort and satis- 
 faction were his one and immediate object. A few 
 conventional shop assistants managed to obtain 
 employment there, but they were quickly "fired";
 
 THREADS 125 
 
 they failed to represent the atmosphere. And if 
 Rattigan was a genius, Jordan was his prophet. 
 
 America had also taken charge of the British 
 theater. The British theater, which had won its 
 position by producing French adaptations, Ger- 
 man farces, and Austrian comic operas, had fallen 
 into a bad rut. Some foolish and ignorant man- 
 agers had been brave enough to produce plays 
 by English dramatists, not amateur playwrights 
 with an established position in society, but genu- 
 ine, hard-working, modest, self-effacing British 
 dramatists, and, naturally, there had been a 
 national outcry. British plays, like British music 
 and British paintings, were not fashionable. The 
 British habit of self-depreciation had killed the 
 creative arts and ruined the creative artists. And, 
 when the war broke out, managers grew panicky. 
 They anticipated ruin. They revived old plays ? 
 the least representative they could lay their hands 
 on; and, naturally, the public failed to respond. 
 Then one enterprising manager, braving the 
 dangers of the submarine, went to New York 
 and suggested transplanting the English theater 
 to America, a project that failed lamentably, and 
 the American theater to England, a project that 
 proved an immediate success. There was a boom 
 in American plays. Comedies made in America : 
 farces made in America ; revues made in America; 
 comic operas made in America, were advertised
 
 126 THREADS 
 
 from every bill-board. English managers, who 
 hesitated to pay an English dramatist a hundred 
 pounds in advance of royalties, paid thousands for 
 an option on any American play. Dances being 
 tabu, and entertainments in private houses con- 
 sidered bad form, the theater became the sole 
 center of amusement; and England's gallant ally 
 reaped the benefit. Those great American 
 dramatists, Mr. Hermann Ollendorf, Miss 
 Rachel Ikinstein, Mr. Grant Sherman Katzen- 
 jammer, and others of the little coterie that has 
 its finger on the pulse of the Great White Way, 
 would sit in the basement of a Rathskellar be- 
 tween 34th and 42 d streets on Broadway, New 
 York, drinking steins of lager beer and munching 
 JPeinerwurst, counting their royalties with amaze- 
 ment; while neglected British dramatists who 
 were not in the army sat in the smoking-room of 
 the Garrick Club, wondering when native talent 
 would get a look in. 
 
 There are nine hundred and ninety-nine mis- 
 takes a British creative artist can make before he 
 succeeds in producing a masterpiece; but the one 
 irreparable error he commits is that of being born 
 an Englishman. 
 
 "Bedad ! It 's like takin' money from a blind 
 beggar," chuckled Mr. Tim Dooley, the senti- 
 mental but clear-thinking managing director of 
 some thirty-seven "incorporations," as he pock-
 
 THREADS 127 
 
 eted a check for ten thousand dollars premium 
 drawn by the English theatrical manager who de- 
 sired to produce the celebrated farce "Aunty's 
 Undies." 
 
 "It 's very nice of Mr. Jordan to put up with 
 me," said Olive ; "I 'm sure mother is heaps more 
 amusing." 
 
 John looked at Amelia, a little perplexed. 
 "Are you fond of motoring?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes," said Amelia, "very. Why?" 
 
 "I shall buy a car," said John; "I shall learn 
 to drive." He looked at her again. "Does Seppy 
 take you joy-riding?" he inquired, his eyes alight 
 with humor. 
 
 "He did" said Olive, "until the W.O. stepped 
 in with army order number two million and 
 twenty-nine and put a stop to it. Even a staff 
 officer has to obey army orders after they have 
 been translated into English." 
 
 "I shall buy two cars," said John. 
 
 Amelia looked at him. It was difficult to tell 
 when John was in earnest. If you took a joke 
 seriously it was a score to him, but if you took a 
 serious thing as a joke you invariably paid for 
 it before long. 
 
 A man's joke to a woman is like the Irishman's 
 foot rather heavy-handed. 
 
 "My dear Amelia, why should n't I take you 
 motoring?" inquired John, with that peculiar
 
 128 THREADS 
 
 gravity which, in a man, invariably conceals a 
 chuckle. "I 'm hanged if I '11 be content to joy- 
 ride in the chimney-corner, all by myself !" 
 
 u Oh, father! How splendid!" cried Olive. 
 "Now perhaps / shall get a chance." 
 
 Amelia radiated annoyance. "Please don't be 
 silly, John," she said rather reprovingly. "You 
 will make Mr. Jordan feel embarrassed." 
 
 "I should like him to feel embarrassed," re- 
 plied John gravely, his gravity mocked by the 
 twinkle in his eyes. "I shall buy a car to-morrow, 
 and when he next offers to take you motoring, I 
 shall turn him over to Olive and take you my- 
 self." 
 
 "If you 're going to talk nonsense, I think I 
 had better go to church," said Amelia, once again 
 gathering up her impedimenta. 
 
 "I am obliged to you, Mr. Jordan, for all the 
 attention you have shown to my wife," said John; 
 "but in future you will have a rival!" 
 
 Jordan smiled. "I guess I 'm sufficiently a 
 sportsman to know when I 'm beaten," he ad- 
 mitted. "May we give you a lift in the car, Mrs. 
 Osborne?" he added, with that courteous defer- 
 ence that is impossible to imitate. 
 
 "Please don't trouble," said Amelia; "I prefer 
 to walk." 
 
 "Mother does n't mean to monopolize all the 
 men who come here," explained Olive, after her
 
 THREADS 129 
 
 mother had taken her departure ; "she does it un- 
 consciously. She has a very strong will; but only 
 a woman could realize that." 
 
 "Don't you like men?" asked Jordan, a little 
 puzzled. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" replied Olive. "I think they are 
 lots of fun. But they 're not necessary to me. I 
 like going out with a man, but I should be just 
 as happy taking out the dogs." 
 
 After he had watched their departure in the 
 car, John settled down once more to his pile of 
 newspapers; but his thoughts wandered and 
 played around new impressions he was receiving 
 every hour. Jordan was a nice fellow; Americans 
 were nearly always amusing and interesting. 
 After all, the English had an ineradicable habit of 
 looking upon Americans as their own people 
 separated from them politically but not socially* 
 It was a harmless little national vanity, and the 
 really nice American usually took it in the spirit 
 in which it was meant. And Jordan was evidently 
 proud of his British ancestry which proved he 
 was a good fellow. 
 
 John returned to his papers; he enjoyed their 
 attitude toward the war and toward those inter- 
 ests each particular newspaper was supposed to 
 represent. Here was one proving indubitably 
 that the stoppage of racing meant the extinction 
 of blooded stock. Besides, what would happen to
 
 130 THREADS 
 
 all the bookmakers and punters, to the jockeys and 
 stable-boys, and to the thousand and one com- 
 ponents of that heterogeneous crowd known to 
 fame as racing men, if racing were forbidden ? It 
 would be better that the transport service should 
 be held up for want of petrol, soldiers' leave 
 stopped for want of railway accommodation, than 
 to risk extinction of British blooded stock- The 
 one fact that particular newspaper failed to re- 
 mark was: what would happen to the blooded 
 stock if the Germans swarmed over Newmarket 
 Heath and the Hampshire and Wiltshire Downs? 
 
 Another newspaper reminded John of the small 
 boy who kept saying: "You wyte till my father 
 comes 'ome; 'e '11 give you what for!" This one 
 had little to say concerning the war, but quite a 
 lot about Mr. Winston Churchill. After some 
 study, John came to the conclusion that the jour- 
 nal in question did n't like Mr. Churchill very 
 much, and disapproved of his ideas. There was 
 a serious weekly, edited by a well-known publicist; 
 it reminded him of an anemic curate playing baga- 
 telle with some Durban coal-miners. And a 
 popular Sunday paper, featuring another publicist, 
 whose views, for which the educated classes waited 
 anxiously during the week, were set forth rather 
 in the manner of a headmaster addressing the 
 lower school. 
 
 And, best of all, the Morning Megaphone,
 
 THREADS 131 
 
 striking an attitude in the center of the stage and 
 reminding its enraptured audience that "me and 
 'eaven is 'ere !" 
 
 Indeed, it would be a sad thing for the nation 
 if the journalists ceased to take themselves seri- 
 ously. 
 
 And what a luxury it was to sit in a comfort- 
 able chair I He would be perfectly happy doing 
 nothing else. 
 
 What curious people his countrymen were ! 
 The men who did things had n't time to talk about 
 them, and the men who talked about them had n't 
 time to do them. 
 
 The Americans talked about them while they 
 were doing them. 
 
 Just as a politician was a man who made 
 speeches, and a statesman a man who made 
 nations. 
 
 He pulled himself up with a start. The old 
 fascination of having three long columns to fill 
 up with his own ideas and aphorisms phrases 
 that would be quoted and discussed throughout 
 the country had asserted itself. It was the re- 
 sult of reading the views of the newer school 
 of publicists. He would give up reading news- 
 papers. He took up the Referee*
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Let me be acclaimed by the children, and their parents can vote for 
 whom they please! 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 4. 
 
 ABOUT half-past eleven Jimmy, having concluded 
 a satisfactory breakfast consisting of a pound or 
 two of ripe gooseberries, some porridge and 
 cream, kedgeree, bacon and eggs, a slice of cold 
 ham, four cups of coffee, and seven or eight slices 
 of toast and marmalade, strolled carelessly into 
 the living-room, feeling a little more fit to face 
 the troubles and the frazzles of the British Sun- 
 day; but he pulled up short at the sight of his 
 father, who looked like a small piece of humanity 
 entirely surrounded by newspapers. 
 
 "Hallo!" he ejaculated. "Where's the 
 mater?" 
 
 "She has gone to church," replied John, put- 
 ting down the Referee and facing his son. Each, 
 man-like, felt that it was inevitable that they 
 should make each other's acquaintance, and each, 
 man-like, was seized with an instinctive desire to 
 postpone the operation. Suppose either was to 
 give himself away to the other ! 
 
 132
 
 THREADS 133 
 
 Jimmy turned and steered toward the door in 
 a sudden panic. 
 
 "Where are you off to?" asked his father. 
 
 Jimmy was foiled. He looked at the ceiling, 
 the floor, the newspapers, and the sunshine out- 
 side; he shifted from one leg to the other. He 
 cleared his throat. "Oh, I was just going to 
 rot about," he replied. 
 
 "Why not sit down and talk to me?" suggested 
 his father. 
 
 Jimmy sighed. He moved a little farther into 
 the room. Waterloo was won on the playing- 
 fields of Eton; Harrow must not linger in the 
 rear. He seated himself on the arm of a Chester- 
 field; the position was not comfortable, but it 
 was distinctly non-committal. 
 
 "Would n't you like to mouch round and see 
 the dogs?" he asked. 
 
 It was awful having to stick indoors and make 
 conversation with a man he had only just met 
 and who might be inclined to play the heavy 
 father. 
 
 John smiled. "I don't feel a bit inclined for 
 compulsory exercise," he said. 
 
 Jimmy retired into his shell. He felt that ,he 
 had let himself in for it, and he must see it 
 through; but if the tone of the conversation 
 should become too intimate well ! he would make 
 a bolt for it.
 
 134 THREADS 
 
 "Olive gone out?" he inquired, staring gloomily 
 at the window. 
 
 John nodded; he stole an amused glance at the 
 representative of Harrovian training and tradi- 
 tion; then, speaking as one gentleman to another, 
 "Do you smoke?" he asked. 
 
 Jimmy stared. Was he joking? Was he in 
 earnest? Or was he trying to interfere? "Just 
 once in a way. Not supposed to, y' know; bad 
 form and all that," replied Harrow. "Only 
 swabs do it in public." 
 
 John considered the question gravely. "Under 
 the circumstances, do you think I might be per- 
 mitted to offer you one of Arthur's cigarettes?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Thanks," replied Jimmy coolly, taking a 
 cigarette, tapping the end to get rid of loose to- 
 bacco, and lighting it with a match offered by his 
 amazing parent; "Arthur's cigs are usually pretty 
 decent." 
 
 There was an uncomfortable pause. Each was 
 furtively eyeing the other, meditating a line of 
 attack; each removed his cigarette, glanced at 
 the brand, returned it to his lips, and inhaled 
 a comforting volume of smoke. 
 
 "Do you like being at Harrow?" inquired his 
 father casually. 
 
 "It 's all right," replied Jimmy, still retaining 
 his non-committal attitude.
 
 THREADS 135 
 
 "Nice set of fellows?" 
 
 "Awfully decent most of them." 
 
 "What do you go in for?" 
 
 "Cricket." 
 
 "Bowling or batting?" 
 
 "Bowling." Jimmy uncrossed his legs and slid 
 on to the couch. This was a concession. John 
 was evidently taking the right tack. "More 
 chance of getting your flannels." 
 
 "Any specialty?" inquired his father. 
 
 Jimmy flushed a little; he was proud of his 
 specialty, and consequently, as an Englishman, 
 ashamed to speak of it. "Rotten sort of break 
 both ways, and an occasional fast ball without 
 changing the action," he admitted. 
 
 John nodded appreciatively. Cricket was to 
 him more than a game; it was a religion. He was 
 beginning to like his younger son. "What about 
 work?" he inquired invitingly. 
 
 "Oh, the usual rot!" replied his son in an 
 offhand manner. "I 'm going to swot up enough 
 to get to the Varsity." He looked at his father 
 dubiously. "I suppose I'll have to go up?" he 
 queried. 
 
 John exhaled some smoke. "Don't you want 
 to?" he asked. 
 
 Jimmy considered the question. "I 'd like to 
 for the sake of the cricket. Though, bar rotting, 
 y' know, I 'd like to have a shot at the R.F.C."
 
 136 THREADS 
 
 "Is that something new?" John vainly tried 
 to remember what R.F.C. stood for. 
 
 "It was. 'T isn't now; everybody's doing it. 
 I Ve been up a couple of times." Jimmy noticed 
 his father's perplexed expression. "Flying, 
 y'know; the Royal Flying Corps. Aviation. 
 I've piloted a Rumpety round the house; solo, 
 too ! Don't say I said so, or the chap might get 
 told off for letting me do it. He said it was n't 
 half a bad show, and he had his wings up. He 
 said my landing was fairly smooth ; I thought my- 
 self it was fairly decent. It 's some sport much 
 more exciting than Greek." He suddenly stiffened. 
 "Of course, if you don't approve " he said. 
 
 "My dear fellow, don't imagine I want to in- 
 terfere with your ambitions," protested his father. 
 
 "Very decent of you," said Jimmy. "If the war 
 goes on, I ought to get into the Flying Corps in 
 a couple of years." 
 
 "I gather, from the papers I have just been 
 reading, that the big push of 1925 is going to do 
 the trick if we have enough airplanes by then," 
 said John. 
 
 Jimmy smoked, apparently unperturbed. He 
 was awaiting his father's next move. At a public 
 school one was taught to play a waiting game. 
 Even the huge influx of the middle classes into 
 the public schools had not entirely upset traditions. 
 Of course, lots of the men thought a bit too
 
 THREADS 137 
 
 much about money, and one or two of them sucked 
 up to lords and dukes and all that rot; but the 
 majority were pretty decent on the whole. 
 
 u Did it ever occur to you to wonder what it 
 might be like to have a father?" asked John sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "It had occurred to Jimmy once or twice > 
 when his mother had been abnormally unrespon- 
 sive ; somehow, a house did n't seem properly fur- 
 nished without a man in it that is, a man who 
 knew a thing or two about life, and could give 
 a fellow tips about things he did n't happen to 
 understand. Of course, his mother had been 
 awfully decent, but she was a woman, and women 
 did n't exactly catch on to things at any rate, 
 on to certain things. It was a bit awkward, find- 
 ing a father when you were n't looking for him, 
 but 
 
 "I don't see why we should n't get on all right," 
 said Jimmy. 
 
 "I don't see why we shouldn't be pals," sug- 
 gested his father, with a smile. 
 
 Jimmy withdrew a little into his shell. 
 Would n't it be ghastly if his father became emo- 
 tional as parsons often did, especially when 
 preaching a Sunday evening sermon? "That's 
 rather rushing things, isn't it?" he suggested. 
 "Of course, one never knows " 
 
 John chuckled. "My father belonged to the
 
 i 3 8 THREADS 
 
 old school," he said; "he was very autocratic. 
 We had to toe the line and come to attention 
 pretty smartly." 
 
 Jimmy looked dubious. "I don't think we 
 should care about that sort of parent nowadays," 
 he remarked. 
 
 "You educate us better than we educated our 
 parents?" inquired John gravely. 
 
 Jimmy considered the question. "One has to 
 give and take in family life," he asserted. 
 
 John agreed. After all, it was something to 
 have reached a basis for agreement. It was 
 nearly half-time ; each was getting his second wind. 
 
 "You '11 find Arthur pretty useful in some 
 things," suggested Jimmy; "he can tell you where 
 to go to for togs and cigarettes and all that. Of 
 course, he 's rather given himself away by getting 
 engaged. I should n't care to have a girl hanging 
 round when I wanted to do things." 
 
 John frowned. "Why hasn't he joined up?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Jimmy stiffened. "Excuse me ! I fancy that 's 
 his affair," he replied. "All the same, it makes 
 it a bit rotten for me" he added frankly, "when 
 the fellows ask me what regiment my brother 's 
 in. Olive 's all right; but she just goes her own 
 way and does n't interfere much. She made a 
 great hit with the men at Harrow, so there 
 must be something in her. She is n't my style,
 
 THREADS 139 
 
 though," he concluded, looking at his watch and 
 mentally calculating whether the interview could 
 now be tactfully concluded. 
 
 John tumbled to the situation. "Don't hang 
 about to entertain me, if you 're busy," he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Well, if you don't mind, I Ve promised to run 
 over to Hendon; there 's not much wind, so there 
 may be something doing. Plenty of books if you 
 want to read," he added, in the well-bred English- 
 man's "Make yourself at home, but don't bother 
 me" manner. "Books are n't much in my line, so 
 I can't vouch for the quality; but there are always 
 the dogs if you get bored. You 're sure you 
 don't mind my pushing off? I 'm doing a bit of 
 war-work in my spare time fitting parts to new 
 machines. One likes to know how the old 'bus is 
 made, y' know!" 
 
 John rose and held out his hand. "Don't for- 
 get! I 'd like to be friends some day," he said. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right!" replied Jimmy. He 
 shook hands limply. "Very glad if we can be 
 some day. Awfully decent of you to suggest it." 
 
 He glanced at the window. "Oh, hang it all I 
 There 's old Seppy ! I '11 leave you to entertain 
 him, if you don't mind!" And with that he made 
 a frantic attack on the door, and disappeared be- 
 hind its protection. 
 
 John heaved a sigh of relief. The ice had been
 
 I 4 o THREADS 
 
 broken; he was certain that he and his school-boy 
 son would be friends. School-boys were remark- 
 ably like dogs : with patience you could win their 
 loyalty, and with sympathy their affection. His 
 elder son would be a more difficult problem, but 
 his daughter, he felt, was already a little biased 
 in his favor. 
 
 Could he win his wife as easily? John sighed 
 and lighted another cigarette. 
 
 When a man starts out to collect victories, he 
 must follow them up; flag-wagging indulged in 
 too previously had led to the recall of many a 
 Commander-in-chief,;
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Conspirator: He loves your wife. 
 Reformer: He shows good taste. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 3. 
 
 COLONEL SEPTIMUS PACKINDER, D.S.O., was 
 born to be a squire of dames; not the recently 
 created kind, but the type that is helpless without 
 a man to put her into taxis, to anticipate her 
 desires, and to attach himself to her parasol, 
 dropped handkerchiefs and gloves. A bachelor 
 of fifty-seven, well valeted, wearing his years 
 lightly, he was a useful person to have about the 
 house. He had retired shortly after the South 
 African War, and for some years had lived a 
 comfortable and not over-exciting life divided 
 between his club, his friends, and the directorships 
 of a few eminently respectable corporations. He 
 had few equals in the art of proposing a vote of 
 thanks to the chairman; he knew what plays were 
 worth going to see, and what books it was desir- 
 able to read. He had a luxurious little flat in St. 
 James's Street, belonged to several of the best 
 clubs, and generally enjoyed life. He had always 
 been in love with someone usually a married 
 
 141
 
 i 4 2 THREADS 
 
 woman, but in a thoroughly harmless fashion. He 
 had known Amelia for about twelve years, had 
 laid his heart and his spare time at her feet, and 
 had no complaints to make with, regard to her 
 treatment of him. She was young, she was at- 
 tractive, she was comparatively wealthy; on an 
 average he had proposed to her three times in 
 every two years, and her regular refusals had 
 only served to stimulate his ardor. When war 
 broke out he joined the noble army of dug-outs, 
 and renewed his youth at the expense of those 
 men of the new army who crossed his path. They 
 were, most of them, men of intelligence and in- 
 itiative, and Colonel Packinder, known to his 
 friends as "Seppy," distrusted intelligence and 
 snubbed initiative. "King's Regulations" had be- 
 come his Bible, army orders and Army Council 
 instructions limited his horizon. These amateur 
 soldiers with ideas, who laughed at the sacred 
 scroll of red tape, were interfering faddists. Of 
 course, in the early days of the war, until the op- 
 posing armies sat down to watch each other from 
 the interminable line of trenches, a certain amount 
 of latitude had been allowed; but after that red 
 tape awoke from its short doze, and octopus-like 
 drew the whole army gradually into its clutches. 
 An officer who did a thing while the Army Council 
 was deciding whether it was possible for him to 
 do it received a severe reprimand. The new army
 
 THREADS 143 
 
 officer as a rule gave in after a few months, and 
 inhaled red tape systematically, thus hastening his 
 promotion. Others could not be induced to look 
 up to headquarters with sufficient reverence. One 
 officer who was in charge of Indian supplies, when 
 asked by the War Office to explain why he had 
 a surplus of a certain article which, he was in- 
 formed, was known by two different names, one 
 masculine, one feminine, replied that, being un- 
 aware of the sex of the commodities in question, 
 he had inadvertently kept them in the same store, 
 and that the surplus must therefore be due to 
 natural causes. Another young officer, when ap- 
 plying for leave, absently inserted the name of his 
 colonel in the space provided for particulars as 
 to who would answer for him during his absence. 
 It was these little human touches that became a 
 constant source of heart-to-heart discussion in the 
 early days of the war; but they failed to improve 
 the temper of the conservative-minded dug-out. 
 
 Seppy, being connected with a well-known ducal 
 family, naturally received a staff appointment, 
 and was sent overseas in the autumn of 1914. 
 He got no nearer to the fighting line than Rouen, 
 but he enjoyed writing to Amelia letters marked 
 "On Active Service," and when he drew the lucky 
 number that gave him a D.S.O. his triumph was 
 complete. When he returned to England, on the 
 recommendation of the commander-in-chief, he re-
 
 144 THREADS 
 
 ceived an important appointment in the Censor- 
 ship Department, where he had since remained. 
 
 He was a good-humored, fussy, rather old- 
 maidish person, always very pleased with himself 
 and the world in general, inclined to be senti- 
 mental, fond of good-fellowship, and quite at 
 home in any company. He was spoken of as 
 "Seppy" even by men who had never met him; 
 he considered it a slight to be called anything else 
 by those who had. 
 
 He was very much at home at Chalfont; 
 Amelia encouraged him to come often, and the 
 young people accepted him as a child accepts the 
 presence of the gardener, the chauffeur, and other 
 ignorant grown-ups who are constantly saying 
 "Don't!" 
 
 John heard a genial, rather staccato, well-bred 
 voice asking if anyone were at home. "My hated 
 rival," he chuckled. 
 
 Seppy came in through the French windows 
 that led into the garden. "Oh, excuse me !" he 
 cried, on catching sight of John. "Is Mrs. Os- 
 borne in ?" 
 
 "She has gone to church," explained John, ad- 
 miring the cut of Seppy's breeches and wondering 
 whether he should ask for the name of the maker. 
 
 "She must have gone across the fields," said 
 Seppy; "I came by the road. Perhaps she will 
 only stay to matins," he added hopefully, throw-
 
 THREADS 145 
 
 ing himself into an easy chair and loosening his 
 belt. "I shall wait." 
 
 He looked round the room. "Where are the 
 young people?" he inquired. "They shouldn't 
 have left their visitor to amuse himself. I must 
 speak to them about it." 
 
 John chuckled. His visitor was obviously a 
 man thoroughly confident regarding his position 
 in the household. Such confidence would eventu- 
 ally have to be destroyed; but self-destruction 
 would, under the circumstances, be more in keep- 
 ing with the laws of hospitality. He would give 
 Seppy plenty of rope. 
 
 "May I offer you a cigarette?" inquired Seppy. 
 "I keep a box or two down here, as a rule. I am 
 a frequent visitor, and am accustomed to making 
 myself at home." 
 
 "I gathered that," said John. 
 
 Seppy discovered a box of cigarettes hidden 
 underneath the current number of the Bystander 
 and offered one to his companion. They lighted 
 their cigarettes from the same match. Seppy had 
 rarely been in greater peril; but John possessed 
 plenty of self-control, and refrained from yielding 
 to a sudden impulse to fall upon his rival, tooth 
 and nail. 
 
 Seppy, sublimely unconscious of danger, 
 rambled on, making polite conversation. He was 
 an amazingly adequate purveyor of small-talk,
 
 i 4 6 THREADS 
 
 probably from enjoying so regularly the society 
 of the opposite sex. 
 
 From the weather to the war was but a step, 
 and from the war in general to coming eventu- 
 alities in particular a natural development. Be- 
 ing in the censor's department, Seppy was some- 
 what of an authority on the plans of the Army 
 Council. He was an inveterate spreader of 
 rumors, and mentioned the possibility of a second 
 occupation of Gallipoli though he scarcely real- 
 ized the irony of using the word "occupation." 
 A flea on a dog's back, in momentary danger of 
 being scratched off, might almost as truthfully be 
 chronicled as occupying the dog. 
 
 "It must be very wearing to be the recipient 
 of such weighty secrets," said John. "I heard 
 a man on the train say that the General Staff 
 double-locks the doors and stuffs the telephone 
 with cotton-wool, but invariably forgets to burn 
 the contents of the waste-paper basket; which ex- 
 plains the origin of rumors, most of which are 
 based on the charwoman who empties it, and have 
 their refilling-point at the service clubs usually fre- 
 quented by elderly dug-cuts." 
 
 "One has heard that the wives of Cabinet 
 Ministers are occasionally indiscreet," replied 
 Seppy meditatively. 
 
 Seppy was a victim to that most objectionable 
 of all the lesser vices curiosity. He was anxious
 
 THREADS 147 
 
 to place John, to know his position in the world, 
 his status in the household. A remark concern- 
 ing the charm of the house and garden, and a few 
 words in praise of Amelia and her children, led 
 to further efforts. 
 
 "They are old friends of yours, I understand?" 
 suggested Seppy. 
 
 "Quite!" replied John, smiling reminiscently. 
 
 Seppy was too well-bred to allow his curiosity to 
 get the upper hand; but he was a little puzzled 
 and slightly annoyed by John's unresponsiveness. 
 He glanced at his companion's clothes, and was 
 a trifle shocked to notice how old-fashioned and 
 out of date they were. "You Ve been away?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 "That accounts for my not having met you be- 
 fore," continued Seppy, rather pleased with his 
 own powers of deduction. "May I inquire your 
 name?" 
 
 John conceded the point. 
 
 "Glad to meet you, my dear Wynn !" He rose 
 and shook hands. "I am Colonel Packinder," he 
 added. 
 
 John, rather to his own annoyance, could not 
 help liking the gallant colonel; there was some- 
 thing delightfully simple and frank in his manner, 
 and in his ready acceptance of John's presence. 
 There was none of that constitutional distrust of
 
 ;i 4 8 THREADS 
 
 a stranger so frequently apparent even among 
 people who have traveled. If Seppy desired to be 
 something more than a mere friend of the family, 
 such an ambition was natural and even excusable 
 i under the circumstances. 
 
 John always saw the other man's point of view 
 before insisting on his own. Such a gift does 
 not usually lead to advancement or speedy suc- 
 cess, but it makes a man distinctly easier to live 
 with. 
 
 "Did you know the late Mr. Osborne?" in- 
 quired Seppy, after a slight pause in the conversa- 
 tion a conversation that bore more resemblance 
 to a monologue. 
 
 "Not at all," replied John, "Who was he ?" 
 
 Like most men with a keen sense of humor, he 
 was apt to be irritated, even exasperated, by little 
 things; and the idea of Amelia changing her name 
 had stimulated that somewhat inexcusable weak- 
 ness. 
 
 The man who realizes that life is more or less 
 of a grim ironic joke has occasional moments when 
 he wonders why tragedy so often lurks under the 
 skirts of comedy; until he comes to the conclusion 
 that comedy is tragedy without dignity, and 
 tragedy is nothing but comedy taken seriously. 
 
 "She very rarely mentions him," continued 
 Seppy reflectively. "I have sometimes wondered
 
 THREADS 149 
 
 what kind of man he was, and whether Arthur 
 resembles him in any way." 
 
 John looked up. 
 
 "I should not care to be seen in civilian clothes 
 at Arthur's age," said Seppy. 
 
 John, who was suffering from the same kind of 
 prejudice, turned the conversation. "You must 
 have seen a lot of service?" he suggested, after 
 glancing at the row of ribbons on Seppy's breast. 
 
 Seppy had seen the Boer War through at 
 Southampton Docks, and the Sudan Campaign at 
 Cairo. In fact, he could claim to have seen ser- 
 vice in seven campaigns without having heard a 
 shot fired. He was one of those soldiers fated 
 to hold the pen rather than the sword. When 
 placed in an office, surrounded by a few clerks, a 
 pile of buff slips, and a bundle of red tape, he was 
 thoroughly at home. On one occasion he had 
 been known to send a neatly pinned file of trades- 
 men's accounts to his bank in London with the 
 magic words "Passed to you for necessary action, 
 please !" scrawled across it. 
 
 The faint hum of an airplane obtruded itself 
 on the summer stillness. 
 
 "What the devil 's that?" asked John. 
 
 "Only an airplane," replied Seppy, with a 
 puzzled glance at his companion. 
 
 "Where ? I should like to see it 1 I 've never
 
 150 THREADS 
 
 seen one," said John, rising quickly and going to 
 the window. 
 
 This was a facer for Seppy. Surely there could 
 scarcely be a man living who had never seen an 
 airplane ? Where on earth could the fellow have 
 been these last few years? 
 
 He followed John to the window, and out on 
 the terrace. "There it is! Look!" he cried, 
 pointing toward the London haze. 
 
 "What a beautiful sight!" cried John in some 
 excitement, as he watched the bird-like machine 
 that was flying from the northeast toward the 
 southwest at the height of a little below ten thou- 
 sand feet. 
 
 "I fancy that fellow 's a German who is going 
 to drop a bomb or two on London," remarked 
 Seppy casually. "Fritz thinks we spend all our 
 week-ends out of town." 
 
 John was amazed. Colonel Packinder ap- 
 peared to take the matter very coolly. 
 
 The British people as a nation took the matter 
 fairly coolly. The British newspapers had told 
 the Boche frankly their opinion of his antics in 
 the air, but Jerry was always thick-skinned. Even 
 a leading article in the Daily Mail, inspired by 
 Lord Northcliffe himself, had had very little 
 effect. So the British people, having entered a 
 protest in the national organ of opinion, settled 
 down philosophically to its customary routine*
 
 THREADS 151 
 
 Raids by airplanes, bombs dropped by Zeppelins, 
 bombardments on east-coast towns by the German 
 fleet were unsportsmanlike ; but they were merely 
 another proof of Teutonic insensibility to any 
 decent instincts. 
 
 There was a report of a distant explosion. 
 The airplane rose hurriedly and flew away 
 towards the southeast. 
 
 "I thought so," exclaimed Seppy, unperturbed. 
 "It was a Boche. I expect he was trying to hit 
 Queen Charlotte's Hospital. Will you have 
 another cigarette?" 
 
 John turned and faced Seppy, his voice quiver- 
 ing with indignation. "Good Lord, sir 1" he cried. 
 "They are dropping bombs on London! It's 
 an insult I Why do we allow it?" 
 
 "The Boche will always be a bounder," replied 
 Seppy reassuringly. 
 
 "How dare he bound in our sky?" protested 
 John, with some heat. "Do you think they would 
 give me a commission 5f I dyed my hair?" 
 
 "I '11 see what can be done," replied Seppy. 
 "Where have you been and what have you been 
 doing these last few years?" 
 
 John was striding furiously up and down the 
 terrace; he was thoroughly roused at last. 
 "Damn their impertinence ! Dropping bombs on 
 London!" he muttered. "I feel as though some- 
 one had been defiling the tombs of my ancestors !"
 
 152 THREADS 
 
 Then he apologized for ignoring Seppy' s question. 
 "You want to know how I Ve spent the last few 
 years? I've been picking oakum and breaking 
 stones." 
 
 Seppy stiffened perceptibly. "Would you mind 
 being a little more definite?" he inquired. He 
 had become in a moment the Colonel of the 
 orderly-room. 
 
 "I Ve been in prison for the last fifteen years 
 at Portland," said John. He hated explaining 
 things; he preferred merely to state a fact and 
 to leave it to prove itself. He never offered an 
 excuse or asked for one. Like most imaginative 
 men, he had a profound reverence for facts. 
 Facts, like history, were frequently unreliable, but 
 extremely useful as a basis for argument. 
 
 "I don't recommend it as a health resort," con- 
 tinued John with some heat. "But, damn it all ! 
 I want to have a shot at those Germans !" 
 
 "When did you leave Portland?" inquired 
 Seppy, frowning. 
 
 "Yesterday!" John continued his perambula- 
 tion of the terrace, snapping out his remarks like 
 a machine-gun. "They let me out because I had 
 been sent there in error. They Ve apologized 
 that is to say they Ve pardoned me for living at 
 their expense for fifteen years when I had done 
 nothing to deserve it. But, damn it, man! Sup-
 
 THREADS 153 
 
 pose they hit Westminster Abbey? It 's too near 
 the House of Commons to be safe I" 
 
 John did not yet realize that the House of 
 Commons was the last place Brother Boche de- 
 sired to destroy; in the past it had been his 
 greatest friend, and in the future would probably 
 return to its allegiance. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Osborne aware of how you have spent 
 the last fifteen years?" inquired Seppy, on his 
 return to the living-room. 
 
 John was exasperated to rudeness. "Of course 
 she is !" he snapped. "She 's my wife !" 
 
 Seppy stared; then his assurance crumbled like 
 a house of toy bricks. He sat down, and tried 
 to face his companion without flinching. He had 
 to swallow once or twice before he could articu- 
 late distinctly. "Your wife?" he gasped. 
 
 John chuckled, then checked and looked at his 
 rival sympathetically. He suddenly realized that 
 Amelia was supposed to be a widow, and that 
 Seppy was probably suffering from a considerable 
 shock through no fault of his own. If anyone 
 was to blame, it was Amelia ; and yet, how could 
 she be blamed for holding her tongue concerning 
 such a vital matter? 
 
 "But your name is Wynn and hers is Osborne ?" 
 protested Seppy. There was a certain feminine 
 quality in him that refused to accept facts even 
 when they were undeniable: that touch of the
 
 154 THREADS 
 
 illogical, so charming in a young girl, so irritating 
 in an old woman. 
 
 John, against his will, was forced to explain 
 the situation. Seppy was too much of an egotist 
 to realize another man's tragedy. He saw the 
 tangle only from his own point of view, and his 
 mind registered a protest against accepting the 
 situation. He possessed the cardinal virtue of 
 never knowing when he was beaten; it was that 
 curious British quality, possibly due to dogged- 
 ness, perhaps to egotism, that has made the 
 British nation what it is. Seppy was a philosopher 
 where other people's troubles were concerned; but 
 his present blow had temporarily exposed his re- 
 serves of philosophy to the four winds. 
 
 The British are a philosophical people ; that is 
 to say, they accept a thing provided it is repeated 
 often enough for them to get used to it. But 
 nothing is more irritating to British self-com- 
 placence than to find an Englishman behaving or 
 thinking differently from the majority of his kind. 
 John's attitude was beginning to irritate Seppy 
 considerably. 
 
 "If you ever get sent to prison for life," said 
 John, after concluding his recital of the facts that 
 led to his incarceration, "and they let you out un- 
 expectedly, don't come back to your family! It 
 only upsets their plans and causes a lot of em- 
 barrassment."
 
 THREADS 155 
 
 John gazed out of the window, his thoughts 
 playing havoc with his philosophical attitude. He 
 was suffering from one of his moments of ex- 
 asperated rebellion against the stupidity of his 
 fellow-creatures and of circumstances. He was 
 thinking of Amelia, and of his children; and he 
 was feeling curiously alone in the world. 
 
 Seppy, as usual, was thinking of himself. To 
 squire an attractive woman, to be useful to her, 
 and to give her a great deal of time and atten- 
 tion, is frequently a form of self-indulgence in a 
 certain type of man. To give a great deal, and 
 to ask nothing in return, does not always imply 
 unselfishness; it sometimes means that the desire 
 to consecrate a grand passion is entirely outside 
 a certain individual's limitations, that he is con- 
 tent to fetch and carry, to have a cloak to hold, a 
 hand to kiss; and that he has neither capacity nor 
 ambition for any further proof of devotion. It 
 is another form of egotism the dislike of the 
 individual for sinking his own individuality in that 
 of another human being. 
 
 "I must admit that I resent your coming back 
 and upsetting all our plans!" exclaimed Seppy 
 after a long pause. 
 
 John looked at him; he rather admired the 
 man's frankness, though a little shocked by the 
 egotism. 
 
 "It is n't cricket !" added Seppy severely.
 
 156 THREADS 
 
 This was egotism on the grand scale. Seppy 
 had been perfectly contented with things as they 
 were. Amelia had been contented, too at least, 
 so Seppy fondly believed. She was beginning to 
 grow fond of him; her children had accepted him 
 as a kind of permanent institution. But John's 
 unexpected return had altered the whole aspect of 
 things. Ft had upset Seppy terribly, and it must 
 have upset Amelia even more. Their scheme of 
 life would have to be reorganized on a new basis. 
 Seppy's point of view was, in his own opinion, 
 that of any reasonable Englishman who disliked 
 having any of his manners and customs interfered 
 with. That his attitude might be considered to 
 be revoltingly selfish never occurred to him he 
 was so sure of his own importance, so conscious 
 of his own rectitude. They had all grown accus- 
 tomed to the situation; had accepted it, and 
 were prepared to let it go on indefinitely. That 
 John might not care to have it going on indefi- 
 nitely was a matter that did not concern Seppy. 
 How could the fellow expect to take things up 
 exactly as he had left them fifteen years before ? 
 A lot could happen in fifteen years. People 
 altered, ideas altered, affections altered; one 
 looked at life through different glasses. He, for 
 one, would refuse to be turned out of his com- 
 fortable niche in such a charming household. 
 
 John had decided that Seppy would have to go ;
 
 THREADS 157 
 
 but, for Amelia's sake, the departure would have 
 to be very carefully arranged. He had no desire 
 to present Seppy with a martyr's crown. Women 
 had an instinctive sympathy for the under dog; 
 and when the animal in question had been ex- 
 tremely useful and amazingly devoted, its exit 
 must not be accompanied by slow music of the 
 pathetic order; for, however much a woman 
 might admire and respect the strong, firm hand 
 of authority in a husband, the good deeds of the 
 lover might be apt to come up for comparison in 
 future conversations. John's idea of allowing 
 Seppy to destroy himself and his own chances, 
 though possibly a longer process, was infinitely 
 more politic. In dealing with a woman, a man 
 must never forget her sex. Seppy's frankness, 
 whether it arose from honesty or from a total 
 disregard of other people's feelings where his own 
 were concerned, could be trusted to assist John's 
 scheme, if given plenty of opportunity to express 
 itself. Seppy would plead for himself which 
 would annoy Amelia ; John would remain neutral 
 which would stimulate her to force his hand 
 and to make him declare himself. As a nation of 
 individualists, eacn must play his own hand. 
 
 The old religions talked of brotherhood, and 
 exalted the individual. The new religions had 
 been adjusted to pay tribute to the worship of 
 the ega "Stopl Look! Listen! This means
 
 158 THREADS 
 
 you! Is your soul paying good interest? If not, 
 let us attend to it (at half our usual rates, by 
 quoting this advertisement!) and we will guar- 
 antee heaven, or your money will be returned!" 
 was a type of propaganda that had become ex- 
 traordinarily popular. Converts were told that 
 a calmly balanced mind was a necessity; but it 
 was impossible to maintain a calmly balanced 
 mind unless one concentrated entirely on one's 
 own desires. "I have only enough for myself," 
 was a popular cry whether it concerned money, 
 sympathy, or fruit and vegetables for wounded 
 soldiers. Doing good in secret was a rare eccen- 
 tricity; good deeds were reported in the news- 
 papers in large type. Advertisement was the 
 order of the day. Even the War Office had to 
 bow to the popular demand, and to concede the 
 gold stripe for wounds, the chevron for service 
 overseas. The women were wonderful, but their 
 penchant for being photographed as Red Cross 
 nurses, smoothing the brows of wounded soldiers, 
 had become almost a disease. Even a walk in 
 Hyde Park had to be chronicled in the simple 
 touching style of the superannuated Duchess, or 
 her maid, who writes the Social Notes in a popu- 
 lar illustrated morning journal a page known 
 to the army as "Snoblets for Snobs 1" 
 
 People had begun to advertise at the time when 
 John had been forced to retire from social life;
 
 THREADS 159 
 
 now everyone advertised. They were beating the 
 drum as hard as they could whack it. Popular 
 actors on home service in London, music-hall man- 
 agers in staff tabs, music-hall comedians organiz- 
 ing charity performances, bishops and popular 
 novelists visiting the front, politicians advising 
 the nation, war experts forecasting eventualities 
 that failed to materialize types and persons by 
 the thousand sought publicity, and got it. The 
 whole world appeared to be suffering from a 
 disease that might be called "look-at-me-itis." 
 And "over there" men laughed and fought and 
 died; and on the gray North Sea men kept watch 
 and ward, and felt ashamed of their countrymen. 
 And in the munition factories men and women 
 ruined their health, their hands, their faces, 
 slaving to keep up the supply so that the "boys" 
 should not again complain of having no shells. 
 Indeed, the British nation was a crazy mixture of 
 motives, peoples, and ideals; and the systematic 
 Boche, who tried to classify its citizens, wrapped 
 cold towels round his head and sank exasperated 
 into singing hymns of hate a thing that im- 
 mensely tickled the national sense of humor. 
 
 We were a democracy; and the more demo- 
 cratic we grew, the more honors and titles we 
 seemed to demand. John had always considered 
 honors and titles to be a cheap form of lagniappe; 
 their cost was trifling compared with the pleasure
 
 160 THREADS 
 
 given to the recipient. He was as yet unaware 
 of the movement to establish a new order for 
 children under sixteen to encourage the birth- 
 rate. 
 
 John appreciated Seppy's frankness in throw- 
 ing down the gauntlet, and he was wondering 
 whether Amelia would do the same. Had any 
 member of his family altered his or her custom 
 on account of the return of the nominal head of 
 the household? It was his first morning at home. 
 Where was his wife? She had gone to church. 
 Where was his daughter? She had gone motor- 
 ing. His sons were following their usual Sunday 
 avocations just as though their father were not 
 there. If he had asked them to stay, to keep him 
 company, would they have stayed? Would they 
 have been irritated at having their routine upset? 
 Did that imply egotism gone to seed? Had peo- 
 ple grown into the habit of talking about them- 
 selves to the exclusion of every other interest? 
 Would he be forced to join the majority and to 
 talk about himself? For fifteen years he had not 
 had the chance. They had been talking of them- 
 selves, and of nothing else, for fifteen years. If 
 he wished to find out the truth about things, and 
 started asking questions, he would probably be 
 considered a nuisance. People who took life 
 seriously were rarely popular, especially those who 
 had the ability to laugh at themselves. People
 
 THREADS 161 
 
 appeared to do things because they wanted to 
 do them, and most of them were accomplished 
 casuists in justifying their own point of view. 
 
 Was he acquiring rather a distorted panorama 
 of humanity in general? Was he seeing a little 
 too clearly? Would plain facts, without any 
 treacle, prove to be caviar to the general? The 
 public had always loved treacle both in its politics 
 and in its amusements; the newspaper that turned 
 off the treacle tap and substituted quinine usually 
 lost a number of its regular subscribers. The 
 writer who mixed no treacle with his ink usually 
 repented of his experiment. The popular man 
 had always been the man who took life as he 
 found it, and questioned nothing. The critic of 
 life and manners is the ghost at the banquet. 
 
 He had lived for this home-coming, longed for 
 it, dreamed of it through all those deadly, bitter 
 years of loneliness; and now his mind was per- 
 plexed and his ideas were crumbling. Had he 
 already enjoyed the ideal home-coming in his 
 dreams? and was he now getting the real thing? 
 No; if he believed that he would well ! he would 
 kill Seppy, and get sent back to Portland for good. 
 
 He laughed grimly. If he were to kill a staff 
 officer, it would be creating a precedent. He 
 mentioned the idea to Seppy. 
 
 "I would tell them you were making love to
 
 1 62 THREADS 
 
 my wife. Even the privileges of a staff officer 
 have their limitations." 
 
 "I have been making love to your wife for 
 twelve years," replied Seppy. "It has become a 
 habit almost impossible to eradicate." 
 
 "Do you usually stay to lunch on Sundays?" 
 inquired John. 
 
 "Invariably," replied Seppy. 
 
 "Then you must stay to lunch to-day ! I '11 
 fight you fairly for my wife's affections, and I 
 shall expect to see quite a lot of you in the future," 
 announced John, whose sense of irony rarely in- 
 terfered with his sense of hospitality. 
 
 There is nothing so disconcerting as the truth 
 in its naked state so many people wrap it up, 
 or mold it according to their fancies, or use por- 
 tions of it to camouflage their policies. John, by 
 his use of direct methods, completely upset 
 Seppy's preconceived ideas regarding John's pos- 
 sible behavior. Seppy began to lose his nerve. 
 He fidgeted, hesitated in conversation, and finally 
 beat a retreat, excusing himself on the grounds of 
 meeting Amelia and escorting her home from 
 church. 
 
 John laughed; it was one up to him in the great 
 game. He would give them every opportunity, 
 while he himself would remain in the background. 
 He would never play the jealous husband; the 
 part was scarcely in his line. Jealous husbands
 
 THREADS 163 
 
 invariably made fools of themselves. He recalled 
 an anecdote told him by a traveling American on 
 a Channel crossing a long, lean, solemn-faced 
 Westerner with a monotonously droning voice, 
 who never once smiled or stopped chewing his 
 cigar. 
 
 "Talking of jealousy," began his companion 
 '(they had not been talking of jealousy, as it 
 happened, but your consistent story-teller is never 
 at a loss for an opening), "talking of jealousy, 
 did you ever hear of a guy called Tooley Mond? 
 No? Well, I 'm telling you. There was a feller 
 named Stockey, Ezra H. Stockey, of Smithville, 
 Arizona. He struck it rich, sudden-like, and 
 married. The dollars started pouring in, and 
 Mrs. Stockey had ambitions. Ezra had n't re- 
 ceived any education to write home about, but 
 Mrs. Stockey read the society pages of the Sunday 
 supplement and courted a palace on Fifth Avenoo. 
 Well, sir ! Stockey grew so rich he could n't count 
 how much he had, and Mrs. Stockey was a darned 
 pretty woman, and knew it, and wanted other 
 folks to know it. So she hitched up the team and 
 make tracks for N'york. Ezra followed a few 
 months later, and found the madam ensconced 
 in a hundred-dollar-a-day suite at the Waldorf- 
 Astoria, going some in the entertaining line. She 
 and Ezra had never had no words, barring an 
 argument as to whether the first child should be
 
 1 64 THREADS 
 
 called Theodore or William Jennings; but they 
 compromised by calling it Muriel. Muriel had a 
 French bong and a whole suite to herself. Mrs. 
 Ezra was out for booty, and she raked in one or 
 two ginks who 'd hit the hard-up trail and a 
 British Bart. Yes, sir! The sort of guy that 
 added 'Bart' after his name in the register as you 
 or I 'd say John Smith, Keokuk. Anyway, Bart 
 seemed to be some city, for he 'd the run of Fifth 
 Avenoo, and introduced Mrs. Ezra to heaps of 
 his friends. Ezra bought himself a tail coat and 
 a boiled shirt and the kind of hat that says 
 'Cuckoo !' after you Ve sat on it, and went into 
 society. Yes, sir-ee ! He went into society for 
 one night only. Next morning he gave his glad 
 rags to the waiter, and told Mrs. Ezra she could 
 please herself but had better count him out; he 'd 
 stood by the cloak-room all the evening, won- 
 derin' when it would be time to go home, and his 
 collar hurt him mighty bad, and all the guys who 
 left their coats tipped him half a dollar, and he 
 did n't know why, and the genu-wine cloak-room 
 page got mad and wanted to fight him, and the 
 only drink he got was served in a glass the 
 size of a pigeon's egg, and when he asked for a 
 tumblerful the waiter looked as if he were goin' 
 to faint; so Ezra hit the Rathskellar trail nights 
 and Mrs. Ezra enjoyed herself. And everything 
 was lovely. Every morning Ezra asked her was
 
 THREADS 165 
 
 it lots of fun and who was there ? (His visit was 
 timed after she 'd interviewed her secretary, her 
 manicurist, the head waiter, and the French bong. 
 She always spoke French to the bong.) 'Tooley 
 Mond,' said Mrs. Ezra. That's all right,' said 
 Ezra. Go on havin' a good time.' 
 
 "But Ezra began to grow pale and sort o* 
 thinner. He 'd sit in a corner of the smoking- 
 room just starin' at the tellesated pavement you 
 know, all patterns, trippy sort o' patterns and 
 chewin' on his cigar and lokin' savage. Fellers 
 asked him what was wrong? He just looked at 
 'em, and they steered for the bar, watchin' his hip 
 pocket. Mrs. Ezra was puzzled, but she did n't 
 stay home and nurse him. One mornin' she told 
 him she was goin' over to Long Island for a 
 week's-end visit. Ezra hit the cuspidor at five 
 yards, and inquired: 'Will Tooley Mond be 
 there?' 'Of course slava sondere' some dago 
 expression she used. Ezra found out whose house 
 it was, and told her good-by. He looked up the 
 ad-dress in the telephone guide, bought a dandy 
 automatic and plenty cartridges, hired an automo- 
 bile, and took several drinks. He left the Wal- 
 dorf by the 33d Street entrance at 10 p.m., 
 crossed over by the ferry, and beat it over to 
 somewhere in the direction of Oyster Bay. 
 
 "He found the house with a half-mile drive 
 from the gate to the door, gave a bit of lagniappe
 
 1 66 THREADS 
 
 to locate his wife's room, and at 2 a.m., when all 
 was as quiet as a Boston culture club, he shinned 
 up the porch pillars and got on to the upper 
 gallery. He opened the window of his wife's 
 bedroom very quietly, hitched himself inside, 
 closed it, and turned on the lights. She woke up 
 and let out a yell. 'Forget it!' said Ezra. 
 'Where's Tooley Mond?' 'Where's who?' 
 asked Mrs. Ezra. 'Tooley Mond!' replied Ezra, 
 searchin' the room and under the bed, his auto- 
 matic ready to his hand. 'Are you mad?' asked 
 Mrs. Ezra. 'I want to tell you that this same 
 Tooley Mond has got my goat. He makes me 
 tired, and I 'm going to blow his head off ! 
 Wherever you go, he goes I Wherever you are, 
 he is! And you accept his presence as a matter 
 of course. Every time I Ve gone to your room 
 and asked you who was there, did you hand me 
 a list of guests? Why, no! There was just one 
 man there that mattered Tooley Mond. You 
 never gave a thought to no one else. Tooley 
 Mond filled the bill. I was just your husband a 
 darned son-of-a-gun that 'd got rich quick and 
 would n't wear no stick-up collars. Our little 
 Muriel was left to that French bong whose vo- 
 cabulary may be distinguished, but she never says 
 nothing to me but 'Oh, Mossoo!' And now 
 you Ve come here to spend this week's-end, and 
 Tooley Mond's here too, and I 'm goin' to slap
 
 THREADS 167 
 
 his face good and hard and drill holes in his shirt- 
 front, so hand him out pronto !' He gave a glance 
 at Mrs. Ezra, who was having hysted-derricks 
 on the bed. 'I won't hurt you,' he said; 'but 
 Tooley Mond 's as good as buried/ 'Sit down,' 
 said Mrs. Ezra; 'sit down and kiss me, you 
 darned old galoot' or whatever terms of endear- 
 ment a woman uses to her husband. Not bein' 
 married, I can't give 'em exact. 'Listen to me,' 
 she says. 'Jooley, the French bong/ she says, 
 'has been learnin' me French,' she says; 'and 
 when you asked me who was at the party, I said, 
 "Toute le monde" 'I know it,' said Ezra; 'but 
 his party days are over. Tooley Mond had 
 better get busy wtitin' R.I. P. after his name.' 
 'Why, you gol-darned old sheesicks,' said Mrs. 
 Ezra, or words to that effect, 'don't you know 
 what tout le monde means? It's French for 
 everybody. When I said tout le monde would be 
 there, I meant everybody would be there that is, 
 everybody who was anybody.' 'Do you mean 
 there ain't no such guy as Tooley Mond?' asked 
 Ezra, a bit fazed. 'Of course there isn't! Run 
 home, dearie, and learn French,' says Mrs. Ezra ; 
 * I want my beauty sleep.' 
 
 "So Ezra beat it back to N'york at a hundred 
 miles per, and laughed fit to bust. He woke up 
 a waiter and made him dig out a magnum of 
 fizzy stuff. It cured Ezra of jealousy, and it cured
 
 1 68 THREADS 
 
 Mrs. Ezra of speakin' French; but it only shows 
 you how easy it is to suspect a woman of handin' 
 you the mitt, and when I read of a guy gettin' 
 jealous of his wife I always think of Ezra and 
 Tooley Mond."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Reformer: My son! Please yourself! 
 
 Son: It is my religion. 
 
 Reformer: Then ask of me no contribution to the Cause. 
 
 Pfo P atria, Act 1. 
 
 JOHN strolled about the room, examining the 
 books and china. Then his eyes rested on the 
 pianola. He looked at it, a little puzzled; he ex- 
 amined it, still more puzzled; he took up a music 
 roll, tried to read it, could make neither head 
 nor tail of it, so replaced it and rang the bell. 
 Parsons appeared. "Yes, sir?" she inquired. 
 
 "Can you tell me what this thing is?" asked 
 John. 
 
 Parsons explained. "How very fascinating!" 
 said John. "Can you work it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir!" replied Parsons. "Cook and I 
 often has harmonious evenings when the fam- 
 ily 's out. Oh !" she pulled herself up and 
 glanced at John deprecatingly. 
 
 "That 's all right, Parsons I Show me how you 
 do it," said John. 
 
 "But it 's Sunday," protested the parlor-maid. 
 
 "Isn't one supposed to enjoy music on Sun- 
 day?" he inquired. 
 
 169
 
 170 THREADS 
 
 "Madame has no objection, sir," replied Par- 
 sons; "but cook has prejudices." 
 
 "It 's a bad thing to have prejudices. Cook 
 should try to conquer them," said John. "Please 
 sit down and play this," he added, handing her a 
 roll marked "Cavalleria Rusticana." 
 
 "I call it 'Rustic Cavalry.' Does it mean the 
 yeomanry, sir?" inquired Parsons, seating herself 
 at the pianola and adjusting the levers. 
 
 "Not altogether," replied John. "Go ahead !" 
 
 Parsons pedaled conscientiously, and John 
 stood watching her, fascinated. 
 
 Unfortunately, Arthur and Chloe chose that 
 moment to arrive. They entered the room, and 
 stopped aghast at the sight. Chloe gurgled with 
 suppressed laughter, but Arthur was genuinely 
 horrified. Arthur was always afraid of what 
 people would think, having acquired such middle- 
 class prejudices at Harrow and Cambridge. 
 
 Chloe was about twenty, very attractive and 
 pretty, very assured in manner, with a high, clear 
 voice. She rarely hesitated in her speech, and 
 was very direct in what she said. She had made 
 some enemies by her frankness. People, as a 
 rule, listened to her, not on account of what she 
 said but of how she said it, and because her 
 voice was as clear as a bell and had great carry- 
 ing power. She was delightfully lacking in self- 
 consciousness, but she suffered from occasional
 
 THREADS 171 
 
 fits of introspection though, indeed, she pos- 
 sessed the virtue of accepting things as they were 
 to quite a remarkable degree. 
 
 "Father!" protested Arthur in a horrified voice. 
 
 "Hallo, Arthur!" said John, turning to greet 
 him. 
 
 Arthur went over to the pianolo. "Parsons! 
 How dare you? Stop at once!" 
 
 Parsons silenced the instrument and rose re- 
 spectfully. "I beg your pardon, sir! This 
 this gentleman " 
 
 "That will do, Parsons," said Arthur irritably. 
 
 Parsons, unperturbed, left the room. "Really, 
 father! What will cook say?" protested Arthur. 
 
 John laughed. "What will she say? And 
 why should you worry?" he inquired. 
 
 Arthur looked perplexed. "She 's a good cook; 
 they are so rare," he explained. 
 
 "Do you mean good cooks are rare, or good 
 cooks? I prefer the former," said John. "Is 
 this Chloe?" he asked, turning to her with a wel- 
 coming smile. 
 
 "How do you do?" said Chloe, shaking hands. 
 "I think it was awfully sporting having Parsons 
 in to play to you. She has quite a touch." 
 
 "Father! I have told Chloe everything," ex- 
 plained Arthur. 
 
 John turned to her. "Well?" he inquired. 
 
 "He has been as serious as a Cabinet Minister
 
 172 THREADS 
 
 out of a job. I couldn't think what it was he 
 had to confess," said Chloe; "unless it meant that 
 he had a past and had suddenly grown conscien- 
 tious. I think it 's horribly hard lines on you" 
 she added sympathetically. "I hope someone will 
 ask a question about it in the House : it might lead 
 to something." 
 
 John chuckled. Chloe was evidently an 
 optimist. But he liked the modern way of taking 
 everything for granted, it saved a great deal of 
 unnecessary explanation. Chloe hated explana- 
 tions. When a girl possessed parents who in- 
 variably disagreed on every point, on principle, 
 she soon discovered that principles were provoca- 
 tive of unprincipled behavior, and that it was 
 wiser to eliminate them. Arthur had failed to 
 acquire her philosophy; as a budding diplomat, he 
 had cultivated a habit of making phrases that by 
 no possibility could be construed into meaning 
 anything, and on that account would before long 
 reap his reward in the form of an under-secre- 
 taryship. 
 
 "Have you told Lord Gratham?" asked John. 
 
 "I told him you had come home unexpectedly," 
 replied Arthur. 
 
 Lord Gratham was a very unimaginative man ; 
 his distrust of the abnormal amounted to a 
 disease, and his first move had been to order 
 Chloe to break off her engagement. "We are not
 
 THREADS 173 
 
 in the nineteenth century," Chloe had protested 
 which annoyed him still more; for he himself 
 belonged to the nineteenth century and hated to 
 be reminded of the fact that we had grown out 
 of it. 
 
 "How does the matter rest?" inquired John. 
 
 "It doesn't rest," replied Chloe; "it pops up 
 every few minutes, rendering the atmosphere dis- 
 tinctly stormy." 
 
 Lord Gratham had refused to listen to ex- 
 planations ; he always hated details ; he could not 
 help thinking that having a father when you don't 
 expect one was more provocative of scandal than 
 not having a father at all. "He has gone to 
 church to think the matter over," said Chloe. 
 "At least, that 's what he says. He has really 
 gone to get away from mother. You see, mother, 
 when she saw that father was in opposition, natu- 
 rally took my side. She certainly drew his fire 
 a bit, and gave me time to collect some argu- 
 ments." 
 
 "Suppose he persists in his opposition?" sug- 
 gested John. 
 
 "We 're perfectly willing to admit his point of 
 view, but not his right to interfere with ours," 
 replied Chloe. 
 
 John pondered the question. No man was 
 capable of an unbiased judgment after forty. 
 Children appeared to consult their parents as a
 
 174 THREADS 
 
 matter of courtesy, without prejudice to any de- 
 cision they might take ; they had to discover life 
 for themselves. The younger generation had 
 traveled far in the last fifteen years; they had 
 had a long way to go, having been sidetracked 
 for so many thousand years. Really, it was a very 
 interesting world to come back to a deliciously 
 ironical world! How could a man help enjoying 
 these intimate glimpses into the points of view of 
 the people with whom he came in contact ? Every- 
 one semed so thoroughly satisfied with his own 
 ethics. In John's young days they had had 
 DOUBTS with a big D on almost every subject 
 including religion. Now all doubts seemed to 
 'have been solved, and the only really important 
 thing appeared to be to get what you could and 
 to give only what you must. Not that the world 
 was selfish : it was merely self-assured. 
 
 Naturally, young people did not take much 
 stock in the older generation. Why should they? 
 When the war started, it had been the older 
 men who had waved flags and shouted and talked 
 of Christmas in Berlin. (Some of them had spent 
 more than one Christmas, not actually in Berlin, 
 but just outside poor devils!) The younger 
 men went because they had to; they realized that 
 their fathers had made such a muddle of every- 
 thing that the younger men were in honor bound 
 to try and straighten things out. They had had
 
 THREADS 175 
 
 no illusions about it. The older generation had 
 called the youngsters pessimists because they, 
 when asked if the war would be over by Christ- 
 mas, had replied, "Which Christmas?" The 
 younger generation might be very objectionable 
 in some ways, but it could not be fooled as his 
 generation had been fooled by their parents. 
 
 Of course, there were slackers in both parties; 
 his son appeared to be one of them. The older 
 men were patriotic, but not too efficient; they must 
 be inefficient or there would not be so many youth- 
 ful "indispensables." It was a terrible thing for 
 the country that the older men had to go to the 
 trenches for which they were physically un- 
 fitted in order to keep the brains of the nation 
 at home. England's treatment of brains had al- 
 ways been a puzzle to foreigners. It was very 
 noble of Arthur, super-patriotic, in fact, to sacri- 
 fice his own feelings for the sake of his country's 
 future. How he must hate being a civilian when 
 all decent men were in khaki ! But, the older 
 generation having made a mess of things, certain 
 representatives of the younger generation evi- 
 dently considered it their duty to stay at home 
 and put them right. Perhaps they had concluded 
 that, the more elderly men who were killed, the 
 more hope there would be for the future of the 
 world. There was something in that, no doubt I 
 Age was the brake on the wheel of progress. But
 
 176 THREADS 
 
 they would have to scrap the Eton and Oxford 
 tradition if the younger generation's sacrifice was 
 to bear useful fruit. The prize product of Eton 
 and Oxford, that academic curse of the nine- 
 teenth century, rarely grew up. The young man 
 who mattered nowadays usually came from a 
 mean street, and pounded his way to Parliament 
 by doing without all the jolly things he would 
 like to enjoy. And yet, thought John, he was 
 conventional enough to believe that the wisest 
 thing a young man could do for his country would 
 be to fight his country's enemies, and to leave the 
 future on the knees of the gods. After all, 
 England had managed to get along very well for 
 a good many centuries without paying much atten- 
 tion to brains or encouraging intellect. Her wor- 
 ship of money and established position had made 
 her the greatest nation in the world. Why 
 should she change her views? 
 
 "You have n't asked me for my point of view," 
 said John. 
 
 "Yours?" echoed Arthur, greatly puzzled. "I 
 fail to see how it concerns you, sir?" 
 
 "I should like to know why you remain at the 
 Foreign Office instead of getting into khaki?" in- 
 quired John. 
 
 "What on earth has that to do with our en- 
 gagement?" was Arthur's perplexed reply. 
 
 John was unable to withold an exclamation of
 
 THREADS 177 
 
 annoyance. "Don't you feel ashamed?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Arthur has had more white feathers pre- 
 sented to him than any other man at the P.O.," 
 announced Chloe. 
 
 "Isn't there one member of my family fight- 
 ing?" inquired John irritably. It was Arthur's 
 manner more than the subject they were discussing 
 that had got on his father's nerves. 
 
 "Francis and Ronald, my cousins, are both 
 certified as indispensable at the Ministry of 
 Munitions," replied Arthur. 
 
 "Indispensable at five-and-twenty !" com- 
 mented John ironically. 
 
 "Why should n't a man be as indispensable at 
 twenty-five as he is at fifty?" inquired Arthur. 
 
 It was true that at twenty-five a man was learn- 
 ing, and at fifty he was teaching; and that the 
 man who taught had reached his limitations, while 
 the man who was learning had still his to find. 
 Perhaps the younger men were of more impor- 
 tance to the country than their fathers could ever 
 be! 
 
 "I always think it 's such a mistake to argue," 
 said Chloe. "Doing a thing is much more con- 
 vincing than talking about it." 
 
 "I don't intend to argue," replied John. "I am 
 that pathetic figure, the man with advanced views 
 who suddenly finds himself on the side of the
 
 178 THREADS 
 
 reactionaries. I am not going to argue; I am 
 going to dictate." Arthur looked up question- 
 ingly. "If Arthur has a conscientious objection 
 to fighting " 
 
 "I have n't," said Arthur, flushing a little. 
 Realizing that his cheeks were warm, he became 
 irritable. "I merely have a conscientious objec- 
 tion to leaving the Foreign Office." At the men- 
 tion of the Foreign Office his assurance returned. 
 
 "I admit your right to it," replied John 
 amiably. "But, at the same time, you '11 admit 
 my right to my own conscientious objections?" 
 
 Arthur hesitated. It would depend upon what 
 they were. 
 
 "I have a strong conscientious objection to 
 seeing you in a top-hat instead of a service-cap," 
 said John; "and I can't help my conscience object- 
 ing any more than you can." 
 
 "Oh, dear I" sighed Chloe. "I did think you 'd 
 be reasonable !" 
 
 "I can't be reasonable," replied John, "when 
 I hear my son talking academic platitudes and 
 sheltering himself in what the newspapers call 
 a funk-hole. The only argument left for me is 
 to cut off supplies." 
 
 "Father is very argumentative, too," said 
 Chloe. "But he 's quite an old dear in his way. 
 Mother does n't say much, but she 's far more 
 difficult to convince. She indulges in the old-
 
 THREADS 179 
 
 fashioned kind of repartee tears! When she 
 cries, I feel twice her age. But she will do it; 
 it 's a regular tonic for her." 
 
 "My point is that you can't get new ideas from 
 middle-aged men," said Arthur, getting bored by 
 the discussion. 
 
 "A man's opinions are worthless until he has 
 lived long enough to see the other fellow's point 
 of view," replied John. "Get into khaki, and 
 I '11 listen to yours." 
 
 Arthur looked at Chloe. What were they to 
 do? They could not possibly marry on his pay; 
 it was scarcely sufficient for Chloe's dress- 
 expenses. And he would have to go to a cheap 
 tailor; there would be no more Turkish cigarettes, 
 no more taxis. Why, you couldn't lunch at a 
 restaurant under a sovereign not if it was a 
 decent restaurant. Besides, they both hated doing 
 things on the cheap. He had always been en- 
 couraged to anticipate an increased allowance 
 when he married. Without an allowance mar- 
 riage was impossible. 
 
 He considered the question of how he could 
 wrangle an allowance without concealing any of 
 his principles. 
 
 "Are you going to ruin our lives for a 
 scruple?" inquired Chloe reproachfully. 
 
 "It 's a conscientious scruple," replied John.
 
 180 THREADS 
 
 "Your flippancy, sir, is not in particularly good 
 taste," said Arthur stiffly. 
 
 "I shall call on Lord Gratham to-morrow to 
 hear his views," John announced. 
 
 "Father hasn't any views," said Chloe; "he 
 merely has acquired prejudices." 
 
 "At any rate, we can exchange prejudices," re- 
 plied John genially. 
 
 Chloe sighed. She would have liked Arthur 
 to join up; but was a girl justified in persuading 
 a man to be false to his system of ethics? 
 
 "My dear!" said John. "When my wife was 
 your age she did n't know what ethics were. She 
 probably thought they were a disease." 
 
 "Perhaps they are," replied Chloe; "at any 
 rate, when people insist on talking about them." 
 
 "Arthur has all the makings of an academic 
 snob," said John. 
 
 "Yes; but he 's awfully decent," commented 
 Chloe. 
 
 "It 's fastidiousness more than ethics that keeps 
 people decent," remarked John reminiscently. 
 
 "We should get on awfully well if we had 
 enough money to do things properly," argued 
 Chloe. 
 
 John smiled. Love in a cottage was a privilege 
 reserved for the few who had intelligence enough 
 not to be afraid. Cautious, unimaginative people 
 liked to have everything cut and dried, and suf-
 
 THREADS 181 
 
 ficient money assured; it destroyed all romance, 
 but it saved them a lot of bother. 
 
 Arthur had an inspiration. "You wouldn't 
 object so much if one of us joined up?" he asked. 
 
 John loked at him questioningly. "I think I 
 have found a way out of the difficulty," said 
 Arthur.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Reformer: You made a terrible mistake! 
 
 King: I never admit mistakes. I daren't. It would upset the consti- 
 tution. 
 
 Pro P atria, Act i. 
 
 LORD GRATHAM had an authoritative manner 
 except in the presence of his wife. It was a use- 
 ful possession. Most people are inclined to accept 
 people at their own valuation; but a portentous 
 frown, a pair of keen eyes, and an obstinate 
 mouth will give a man an established position 
 among his friends and acquaintances provided 
 he has the gift of silence. Life is a long game 
 of bluff, and the man who can bluff most con- 
 vincingly has the reward of his skill. How many 
 of our friends have any discrimination with re- 
 gard to people or things? Lord Gratham had 
 bluffed his way through a distinguished career on 
 one asset a talent for looking wiser than he 
 really was. When he failed to understand a point, 
 he looked very subtle and said: "Ah I" very 
 meaningly. It was a trick he had acquired quite 
 unconsciously, but it had served its purpose by 
 bringing him fame, rewards, and riches. Now, 
 in the autumn of his days, he was a distinguished 
 
 182
 
 THREADS 183 
 
 ornament of the House of Lords. Accustomed 
 to public speaking, his diction was clear and un- 
 forced; he had dignity, and a dislike of contradic- 
 tion. He was obstinate, prejudiced, uneasy to 
 move; and he possessed a school-boy sense of 
 humor which had earned him a reputation among 
 the minor journalists for being a wit. He had 
 lost his only son in '19 14 at Landrecies. 
 
 Lady Gratham was small, fragile, and even 
 more obstinate than her husband, easy-going when 
 she had her own way, tearful when thwarted. 
 A charming hostess, and a conscientious wife and 
 mother, without any deep feeling, fairly satisfied 
 with the treatment life had given her, but given 
 to grumbling at things in the genuine English 
 fashion, she treated her husband rather like a 
 school-boy, and her daughter as an unknown 
 quantity of which she was a trifle scared. Life 
 had raced a trifle too far ahead of Lady Gratham, 
 and she could neither forgive nor forget the fact. 
 But her rose-garden was celebrated, and her 
 herbaceous borders well cared for. 
 
 "Why, father, I thought you had gone to 
 church," cried Chloe, as Parsons entered sud- 
 denly, announcing Lord and Lady Gratham. 
 
 "Your mother suggested coming here instead," 
 replied her father grimly. "So well, here we 
 are!" 
 
 John was presented.
 
 [1 84 THREADS 
 
 "It always seems to me that it 's wiser to know 
 what you are worrying about," sighed Lady 
 Gratham, selecting by instinct the most suitable 
 chair, and removing her motor-veil. 
 
 "Now that you know me, I hope you won't 
 worry too much," said John. 
 
 The conversation was a little slow at the start; 
 it failed to get into its stride. Arthur was pon- 
 dering the situation; Chloe was wondering how 
 much it cost to make your own clothes and where 
 you learn the art; Lord Gratham was waiting for 
 someone else to take the offensive; and Lady 
 Gratham was unconsciously awaiting an opportu- 
 nity for one of those sudden but brilliant illustra- 
 tions of the art of tactlessness of which she was a 
 past-mistress. John, on the other hand, was won- 
 dering where he had seen Lord Gratham before. 
 The face was familiar the eyes, the frown, the 
 massive solemnity, the comedian's pucker, the aug- 
 mented twinkle, the self-satisfied chuckle of the 
 successful public jester: it was all curiously mem- 
 ory-haunting. 
 
 Lord Gratham looked at John. Damn it I the 
 fellow's face was familiar in some way. He had a 
 good memory for faces, as a rule. He had been 
 one of the perpetrators of that terrible old chest- 
 nut, "I don't know your face, but your manner 
 is familiar!" 
 
 "What 's all this about your son wanting to con-
 
 THREADS 185 
 
 fess something?" he asked testily. "What the 
 devil did he want to confess?" 
 
 Arthur had certainly mumbled something, had 
 wanted to tell him some infernal long rigmarole, 
 Lord knows what it was about! If he had any- 
 thing to say, why did n't he say it to Lady 
 Gratham? She liked hearings things all women 
 did. 
 
 "He wanted to confess that he had a father," 
 replied John amiably. 
 
 "Quite! Quite!" grunted Lord Gratham. 
 "Damn it! I knew he had a father! It 's one of 
 those things no fellow can do without !" he added, 
 chuckling to himself and instinctively glancing 
 round the room to observe if this ban mot had 
 been faithfully reported. "I must admit, how- 
 ever, that it was something of a surprise to hear 
 that you were alive. Not that I blame you for 
 that," he added reassuringly. 
 
 For what John had received he was truly thank- 
 ful. 
 
 "But I had always understood that Mrs. Os- 
 borne was a widow," continued Lord Gratham. 
 Once an idea had penetrated his brain it could not 
 be dislodged by dynamite. 
 
 "She very nearly was," replied John. : "And, by 
 the way, my name is n't Osborne." 
 
 "Why not?" inquired Lord Gratham irritably*
 
 1 86 THREADS 
 
 "Your wife is Mrs. Osborne ; it 's only logical that 
 you should be Mr. Osborne." 
 
 This almost uncanny power of reasoning had 
 made Lord Gratham what he was. 
 
 "I presume, sir, you had some very good reason 
 for changing your name?" Lord Gratham 
 frowned ominously. 
 
 John explained that his wife had changed it 
 in order to enjoy the benefit of a legacy at the 
 donor's request. 
 
 "Lots of people change their names. Damme I 
 I 've done it myself," said Lord Gratham, thaw- 
 ing in true Anglo-Saxon fashion at the mention of 
 a legacy. 
 
 Napoleon had once said that we were a nation 
 of shopkeepers; he might with more truth have 
 called us a nation of bookmakers. Our reputation 
 is more sporting than commercial. 
 
 John looked up, puzzled. "You ?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes," replied Lord Gratham, with a humor- 
 ous twinkle that was one of his specialties. "Be- 
 fore I was elevated to the peerage I was a judge." 
 
 It was John's turn to chuckle. Here was a situa- 
 tion sufficiently ironical to arouse the laughter of 
 Olympus! "You were Mr. Justice Winton?" 
 Lord Gratham nodded. "I knew we had met be- 
 fore," said John. 
 
 Lord Gratham looked at him inquiringly.
 
 THREADS 187 
 
 When, how, and where had they met before ? he 
 wondered. 
 
 "Fifteen years ago under somewhat embar- 
 rassing circumstances," replied John reminiscently. 
 "I remember I disliked you intensely," he added 
 politely. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed the ex-judge, a 
 little startled. "Why?" 
 
 John smiled. "Well, for one thing, you sen- 
 tenced me to be hanged," he said in a tone of mild 
 reproach that was a masterpiece of delicate in- 
 flection. 
 
 Lord Gratham's jaw fell perceptibly. He 
 gasped. 
 
 "He was always doing things like that; he had 
 surprisingly little tact, for a judge," complained 
 Lady Gratham, with a sigh. 
 
 Chloe was staring aghast, Arthur was frown- 
 ing in dismay, Lord Gratham looked as though 
 he were going to have a fit. But Lady Gratham 
 took everything for granted; she knew her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Don't worry 1" said John soothingly. "I 
 was n't hanged ! The popular press intervened. 
 The popular press was n't satisfied with your con- 
 duct of the case, and, to be perfectly frank, neither 
 was I. The popular press said you were biased." 
 
 "I deny thatl" protested Lord Gratham 
 warmly.
 
 ;x88 THREADS 
 
 "I thought you were a little biased myself ; but 
 I was scarcely in a position to give an impartial 
 opinion," continued John. "At any rate, the 
 popular press succeeded in getting my sentence 
 changed to one of penal servitude for life." 
 
 Lord Gratham gasped. In that case, what was 
 the fellow doing here? Had he escaped? And 
 how did he get those clothes ? Had he come back 
 for the purpose of what was it "doing in" the 
 judge who had sentenced him? One had heard 
 of such things. No ; impossible ! He was a gen- 
 tleman. "Damn it, man I What 's your name?" 
 inquired Lord Gratham. John told him. 
 
 Gratham tried to avoid his wife's gaze. He 
 and she had discussed the case ever since his 
 friend the Home Secretary had mentioned the fact 
 that Wynn was to be released. Lady Gratham 
 had reopened the wound in his professional self- 
 esteem on every possible occasion the last few 
 days. Some women were like that. But he denied 
 that his conduct of the case had been biased; he 
 had believed Wynn guilty all the time, and, once 
 he had achieved an original opinion, nothing could 
 disturb it. Of course, justice was not infallible, 
 but it should be; he had done his best to make 
 it so. There might have been mistakes, but he 
 was only human. In court, he had represented 
 the majesty of the law, with all the dislike of 
 criticism natural to an absolute monarch. What
 
 THREADS 189 
 
 chance had twelve good men and true of the lower 
 middle class to formulate an opinion of their own 
 even if they had been capable of such an unu- 
 sual mental effort when the judge, in his impres- 
 sively theatrical wardrobe, was there to overawe 
 them, to bully them, to frown at them, and to tell 
 them what they were to think and what they were 
 to do? The judge had the power to commit peo- 
 ple for contempt of court; but the people had no 
 power to commit the judge for contempt of the 
 constitution. Trial by jury was an ironical farce; 
 a clever counsel and a prejudiced judge could do 
 what they pleased with the average jury. Wynn's 
 trial and conviction had been a case in point. 
 
 The supreme irony lay in the fact that Gratham 
 having admitted his error, a matter of a minute, 
 could claim, in the interests of good form, immu- 
 nity from further censure; and that John, who 
 had had to pay for this judicial error, which it had 
 taken the law fifteen years to discover, must, also 
 in the interests of good form, treat the whole oc- 
 currence as a matter of no consequence. 
 
 Every night for fifteen years John had turned 
 restlessly on his plank bed, wide-eyed, sleepless, 
 thinking of the things he would like to say to the 
 judge who had sentenced him: points that the 
 judge had overlooked, evidence he had refused to 
 accept, objections he had allowed that should have 
 been overruled. The speeches John had com-
 
 1 90 THREADS 
 
 posed, and forgotten, would have blistered Lord 
 Gratham's self-complacence and scorched that 
 gentleman's soul. At any rate, John had thought 
 so at the time. He had longed for an opportunity 
 to confront his judge and to overwhelm him with 
 reproaches, with bitter words and biting phrases, 
 phrases that would linger, words that would sting. 
 Instead of which, here he was calmly hobnobbing 
 with Lord Gratham in his own house, discussing 
 the question of his son's marriage to Lord Grat- 
 ham's 'daughter. 
 
 Arthur turned to his prospective father-in-law. 
 "Naturally, sir, I did n't know that you were the 
 judge who sentenced my father." 
 
 Lord Gratham's face puckered; he looked more 
 like a comedian than ever. Had he been labeled 
 comic, the public would have laughed at him; but 
 they had merely laughed at his jokes on the ad- 
 vice of the press. 
 
 "Hang it, Arthur !" protested Gratham. "How 
 can Chloe marry you under the circumstances?" 
 
 "Exactly!" agreed John. "But I think the ob- 
 jection should come from me. Not that I have 
 any particular objection on account of what hap- 
 pened fifteen years ago," he added courteously. 
 "Of course, if the sentence had been carried out, 
 it might have produced a certain amount of ill 
 feeling; it might even have been used as a cause 
 for quarreling toward the end of the honey-
 
 THREADS i9i 
 
 moon. As it is " He hesitated, feeling for a 
 satisfactory phrase. 
 
 "Confound it, man ! It 's worse," cried the 
 worried ex-judge. 
 
 "You could scarcely expect me to agree with 
 you," replied John, with mild sarcasm. 
 
 Lord Gratham frowned. Wynn was a very no- 
 torious person; that is to say, he would be. The 
 Daily Telegraph would probably indulge in its 
 penchant for shilling subscriptions in order to pre- 
 sent him with a public testimonial for all he had 
 undergone in error. Gratham himself would 
 be severely criticized which would be harmful 
 for the etiquette of the profession; and the law, 
 like its equally well-protected sister, the medical 
 profession, was largely a matter of etiquette. The 
 whole case would be resurrected. Gratham him- 
 self would not come out of it with the eclat so 
 necessary to the dignity of a member of the Upper 
 House. The Daily Mail would probably have an 
 article on elderly judges. He remembered that 
 newspaper's crusade against the appointment of 
 a Foreign Secretary some six months before; it 
 had added the adjective "old" to every mention of 
 the candidate's name. Lord Gratham denied that 
 lie was prejudiced, but, as far as he was con- 
 cerned, the matter must be considered closed. 
 
 "You did n't get sent to Portland," protested 
 John; "you merely went to the House of Lords.
 
 192 THREADS 
 
 They sent me to break stones; they sent you to 
 break the somnolent calm of a picturesque but 
 futile anachronism." 
 
 "I deny that," cried Gratham, with some heat. 
 "The House of Lords is as modern as the other 
 place." 
 
 John smiled. The House of Lords had always 
 reminded him of a cathedral, built for the worship 
 of success. 
 
 "I admit that the first time I wore my coronet 
 and robes I felt an ass," admitted Lord Gratham, 
 with a twinkle. "I suppose every peer does 
 unless he is so constituted that he considers the 
 hereditary principle to be of divine origin. But, 
 looked at from a purely utilitarian point of view, 
 a peer's robes are an excellent specific for keeping 
 out the draught." 
 
 "My objections to the marriage are insuper- 
 able," said John; "but I 'm hanged if I can see any 
 reason for yours." 
 
 Gratham protested. He failed to see on what 
 grounds John based his objection. Gratham's own 
 objection was indubitably logical. His prospective 
 son-in-law's father had been a convict the vic- 
 tim of a judicial error of judgment, certainly; 
 but no amount of innocence could eradicate the 
 marks of the chains. 
 
 "Then what the devil is the use, my dear Grat- 
 ham, of sending poor brutes to prison for ten or
 
 THREADS 193 
 
 fifteen years, and then letting them out if the 
 brand is always to be on their cheeks?" asked 
 John grimly. "You had better hang them for 
 every offense and have done with it." 
 
 Gratham grunted. Theories were all very well 
 until they touched your own household when 
 ethics had to be subordinated to prejudice. Not 
 that he himself was prejudiced he denied being 
 prejudiced; but there were limits to his breadth 
 of mind. 
 
 John, on the other hand, failed to see why Lord 
 Gratham should make him responsible for his 
 son's disappointed hopes and expectations. After 
 all, Arthur was in the Foreign Office, and nothing 
 could disturb the poise of a permanent official in 
 the civil service. 
 
 "It would never cease to be embarrassing," con- 
 tinued Gratham. "Suppose their children were to 
 say to you: 'Grandpa, what did you do in the 
 Great War?' . . . You couldn't very well tell 
 them that you spent the first three years of it in 
 prison, owing to my misdirection of the jury. No, 
 my dear fellow ! It 's the little things that make 
 or mar the comforts of life." 
 
 John smiled. "You may object to your daugh- 
 ter entering my son's family," he said; "but I 
 object still more to my son entering your family." 
 
 Arthur protested. 
 
 "My dear man, you are allowing yourself to be
 
 i 9 4 THREADS 
 
 carried away by prejudice," said Gratham judi- 
 cially. 
 
 "Do you realize that if my son married your 
 daughter, the newspapers would label us as ac- 
 tors in a romantic episode, and that our portraits 
 would appear on page eight with inset of either 
 Portland Prison or the Old Bailey?" inquired 
 John. 
 
 Gratham snorted. He disliked sarcasm in any- 
 one but himself. 
 
 "But my objection to the marriage has a still 
 stronger basis," continued John. "I object to it 
 on the grounds of heredity." 
 
 "I don't follow you," said Lord Gratham stiffly. 
 Heredity was the corner-stone of the British con- 
 stitution, and Gratham was a Tory both by instinct 
 and prejudice. 
 
 "Apart from the fact that no man is fit to be a 
 judge under thirty or over sixty " 
 
 "I deny that," interrupted Lord Gratham. 
 
 John explained. "Under thirty a man has n't 
 acquired a sense of morality; over sixty he has 
 lost it." 
 
 "What about women?" inquired Lord Grat- 
 ham, with a snort. 
 
 "Oh, women never had any," replied John ami- 
 ably. "No really nice women have any morals; 
 they merely have a sense of decency, and they are 
 innately loyal to the prejudices of society as it is
 
 THREADS 195 
 
 constituted. But, to return to my point which is 
 not that a judge of over sixty will hurry through 
 a case for fear of missing an appointment to play 
 golf" 
 
 "I deny that," protested Gratham, mechanic- 
 ally but without conviction. 
 
 "My point is that I, as the presumed criminal, 
 however unpleasant my position was, should cer- 
 tainly have been the star of the occasion. But I 
 was n't," said John reproachfully, his mind work- 
 ing back to that centuries-long day in the stuffy 
 court, all the windows of which were discreetly 
 closed by order of the judge, where he stood 
 grimly watching the Attorney-General who had 
 led for the crown, and the wholly incapable junior 
 counsel who had defended him (he admitted the 
 junior's difficulties in the absence of the K.C. who 
 had been retained for the defense) , trying to score 
 off each other like a pair of star comic actors in a 
 musical comedy. He himself had been merely the 
 author of the play; his fate was a minor incident. 
 But, though barristers will be barristers, the 
 learned judge was not put there to make jokes. 
 
 "You, Lord Gratham," cried John indignantly, 
 "encouraged by a stupid press and a servile set of 
 court officials, took every possible opportunity to 
 raise a laugh. Your jokes jokes that should 
 have been decently interred ages ago were not 
 only out of place, but, considering that a man's life
 
 196 THREADS 
 
 was hanging in the balance, distinctly in bad taste. 
 When anyone else endeavored to be funny, you 
 threatened to clear the court; but at your own 
 silly jokelets you chuckled with the greatest ap- 
 preciation. I was on trial for my life; but you 
 turned my trial into a farce with only one star 
 in it yourself ! And I confess," he concluded, 
 with gentle irony, "I confess I am fearful of the 
 results of heredity peeping out in any offspring 
 that might bless the union of my son to your 
 daughter." 
 
 Chloe, who was glancing at Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine, looked up and frowned, a little perplexed; 
 Arthur squirmed. Lady Gratham concealed a 
 yawn and wondered whether they would be late 
 for lunch. 
 
 Lord Gratham stiffened. He denied that his 
 jokes ever offended good taste. It was true that 
 he had never been compelled to listen to them 
 while wondering what his fate was going to be. 
 But his jokes had always been of the healthy, ob- 
 vious, elemental kind. "I am bringing out a vol- 
 ume of my most priceless jokes," he had confessed 
 to a friend. "Good heavens ! Surely they are all 
 in Punch" replied his friend. They had parted 
 on unfriendly terms. 
 
 Lord Gratham's taste in literature was simple. 
 It embraced books of humor like "Three Men in a 
 Boat" and sentiment of the treacly order that had
 
 THREADS 197 
 
 so appealed to public opinion in "The First Hun- 
 dred Thousand" where kind hearts paid such 
 respect to coronets that the lion lay down with 
 the lamb only one was a little doubtful whether 
 it was the lion or the lamb that wore kilts. Punch, 
 too, invariably gave him pleasure though he 
 never ceased to protest against the mingling of 
 its contents with the advertising matter. Irony he 
 did not understand, subtlety bored him, and he 
 cordially disliked truth in art. Like so many of 
 his class, he left his brains in the cloak-room when 
 visiting the theater, and put them in his spectacle- 
 case when reading a book. He liked a hero to be 
 a hero, and a villain stuffed with machinations. 
 Modern literature did not appeal to him. He 
 considered John Galsworthy's "Country House" 
 prejudiced, and Wells "one of those damned 
 democrats." 
 
 The press had started booming him as a great 
 humorist, and he had been obliged to live up to his 
 reputation; but for the last fifteen years he had 
 joked with difficulty. Having been labeled a wit, 
 the public concluded that even his cough was full 
 of subtle humor. His famous question: "Who is 
 Lloyd-George?" was still quoted as a priceless 
 specimen of a judicial joke. He was the unfor- 
 tunate victim of the British craze for labels.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 King: Yon shall have my crown as compensation. 
 Reformer: I have suffered enough already. 
 
 Pro Patriot Act I. 
 
 WHEN a public character has to be funny on prin- 
 ciple, in order to live up to his reputation, he 
 deserves some pity. A philosopher might ask 
 whether it would not be wiser either to have no 
 principles or to be entirely lacking in reputation. 
 Many people are celebrated for something they 
 do not possess, while their chief assets are studi- 
 ously ignored. Life is supremely ironical at times. 
 
 After all, a judge is little more than a glorified 
 umpire : the white coat becomes the ermine cloak, 
 and the billycock hat is exchanged for the judicial 
 wig. 
 
 It is the gambling fever in Great Britain as a 
 nation that makes trial by jury so thrilling. The 
 accused is a mere cipher, and the judge is there to 
 decide which of the opposing barristers is the 
 cleverest. The inherent love of justice in the Brit- 
 ish people jis an excellent subject for leading 
 articles in the newspapers ; for the journalist, like 
 the politician, can succeed only by flattering his 
 supporters. John Bull can lap up flattery by the 
 
 198
 
 THREADS 199 
 
 gallon; but tell him the truth about himself and 
 he refuses to pay. British justice is very like 
 British sport; the public cheers the winner, but 
 has a sentimental sympathy for a good loser. The 
 public demonstration that had been engineered on 
 John's behalf had not been due to love of justice; 
 it arose from the fact that half the nation had 
 betted the other half that John would be hanged, 
 and each side was trying to hedge a little. 
 
 Lady Gratham looked pensive. "Why is it that 
 when two fathers get together they always look 
 upon the subject from their own point of view and 
 never from that of their children?" she inquired. 
 
 "I deny that," replied her husband promptly. 
 
 "It is perfectly true," she continued placidly. 
 "The children's point of view has not entered 
 your minds. You won't permit this marriage be- 
 cause Mr. Osborne Mr. Wynn " 
 
 "Mr. Wynn, if you don't mind," said John. 
 
 "Because Mr. Wynn bears you a grudge for 
 sentencing him to be hanged, and you bear him a 
 grudge for not having been hanged. So you have 
 determined to make your children unhappy in 
 order to appease your own prejudices." 
 
 "My dear Lady Gratham," said John. "There 
 conies a time even in the happiest marriages 
 when the moral and mental deficiencies of the 
 relations-in-law come up for discussion. Picture 
 to yourself the result of such a discussion under
 
 200 THREADS 
 
 these circumstances ! A woman occasionally ex- 
 aggerates her point in order to prove it, does n't 
 she?" Lady Gratham looked at the pattern of 
 the carpet, then at her husband. She smiled 
 demurely, but otherwise preserved an attitude of 
 strict neutrality. "And a man encourages her to 
 do this," continued John, "in order to squash her 
 by logic. Men are such brutes !" 
 
 Lady Gratham sighed: twenty-five years of 
 married life teaches a woman a certain defensive 
 philosophy. Lord Gratham's difficulty lay in the 
 fact that he could never be quite certain whether 
 his wife would accept a challenge and argue about 
 it, referring incidentally to every remark he had 
 ever made that was pertinent to the subject under 
 discussion and to every action that had contra- 
 dicted his words, or whether she would agree with 
 him and say, "You know best, dear." Only an 
 extremely clever man can tell whether a woman's 
 "You know best, dear!" is a sign of surrender or 
 a subtle form of irony. 
 
 A woman will say: "I bought a hat cheap at a 
 sale only nineteen shillings !" But her husband 
 knows in his innermost soul that the real price 
 paid was nineteen shillings and eleven-pence three 
 farthings. A woman is always elevenpence three 
 farthings under the truth in confession and three 
 hundred per cent over it in accusation. 
 
 "I remember trying a case in nineteen hundred
 
 THREADS 201 
 
 and four," commenced Lord Gratham, "and mak- 
 ing a little joke " 
 
 "Exactly !" interrupted John. "I have been the 
 victim of one of your little jokes, so I know them. 
 But picture to yourself, Lady Gratham, our young 
 people discussing us after the argument had be- 
 come a little heated. Arthur, stung by some subtle 
 dig cleverly administered by .Chloe, retorts: 'Your 
 father robbed mine of fifteen years P And Chloe, 
 her lips pressed tightly together, snaps back 'Well, 
 we have only one man's statement to prove that 
 he didn't deserve it!' " 
 
 Chloe smiled and looked at Arthur medita- 
 tively. 
 
 "Why, even you, my dear," said Gratham, turn- 
 ing to his wife, "since the Home Office informed 
 me of this mistake, whenever I have said I was 
 certain of anything, even you have invariably re- 
 plied: 'We are none of us infallible, are we? Look 
 at poor Mr. Wynn !' " 
 
 "It would be very unkind and very selfish to 
 break their hearts just from prejudice," pro- 
 tested Lady Gratham, preparing for tears. Judg- 
 ing by the size of her handkerchief, her tears 
 would be very little ones; but they had the usual 
 effect. A man can stand up against a woman's 
 anger, righteous or unrighteous, just or unjust; 
 he can be the whipping-post against which she 
 relieves her frazzled nerves; he can allow her to
 
 202 THREADS 
 
 heap on his shoulders the result of a day's shop- 
 ping at the army and navy stores an operation 
 that would disturb the equanimity of a saint; 
 but he cannot face the spectacle of falling tears. 
 
 "Confound it, my dear!" he ejaculated, his 
 brows puckering and his mouth working, "Con- 
 found it I Don't cry I" 
 
 "Look at Chloe, sitting there with her heart 
 slowly breaking," sobbed Lady Gratham. 
 
 If Chloe's heart was slowly breaking, she ad- 
 mirably concealed the fact. I 'm sorry father 
 won't be reasonable," she remarked; "but I 'mnot 
 going to let his prejudices break my heart." 
 
 "You take everything so calmly even your 
 parents," complained Lady Gratham. "We are 
 no longer closed books to our children; we are 
 we are moving pictures." 
 
 "I know I shall never hear the last of this 
 affair," exclaimed Lord Gratham grumpily. 
 
 "There 's a certain amount of justice in that," 
 said John. 
 
 "I deny that," replied Lord Gratham. "I was 
 doing my duty as I thought. You will at least 
 admit my sincerity?" 
 
 John admitted Gratham's sincerity up to a 
 point. But he remembered certain aspects of his 
 trial. The jury must have realized that the judge 
 believed him guilty; every look, every word, 
 every inference increased that certainty. It is so
 
 THREADS 203 
 
 easy to label a fellow-creature in the eyes of the 
 majority. Mrs. Smith, a widow, takes a country 
 cottage; she is pretty, young, demure, detached, 
 and the narrowness and stupidity of her neighbors 
 increase her desire to live her own life. Village 
 title-tattle offends her, village curiosity irritates 
 her, she exasperates callers by refusing to listen 
 to gossip. Some jealous, spiteful cat who has been 
 expeditiously snubbed says to her bosom crony: 
 "Huh! She 's probably an actress or a divorcee! 
 She's so secret about herself!" A day or two 
 later another sweet and charitable member of the 
 same congregation says : "Have you heard ? Is n't 
 it dreadful? That Mrs. Smith is an actress who 
 'has been divorced!" "No?" says her friend* 
 "Then one must not dream of calling!" Finally 
 Mrs. Smith has to leave the village the poison 
 from one irresponsible and mischievous tongue 
 having infected the whole community. In the 
 same way, the judge had played on the suscepti- 
 bilities of the jury like a clever actor, and had 
 succeeded in convincing them of John's guilt; 
 when by right he should have been holding the 
 scales evenly, or, had there been any bias, it should 
 have been in John's favor. But the judge had 
 assumed the prisoner's guilt from the start, and 
 John had been robbed of his liberty. He had 
 been robbed of love, of happiness, of the respect 
 of his fellow-men, of the companionship of his
 
 204 THREADS 
 
 wife and children, of his career, of everything that 
 made life worth while. He had been robbed un- 
 fairly; he had paid another man's debt; and he 
 had come back, like Rip Van Winkle, to find 
 everything changed, his wife almost a stranger 
 to him, the world talking a fresh language, to find 
 himself at fifty the prime of life out of date, 
 out of the race, out of touch, a mere looker-on at 
 the life in which he had once played so active a 
 part. And all because of Lord Gratham's preju- 
 dice, his obstinacy, his refusal to see the other 
 side. And here was Gratham protesting that his 
 intentions had been of the best, that he had acted 
 from sincere convictions, that he had done his 
 duty. 
 
 Once more John's sense of humor came to the 
 rescue, and his surge of wild and almost uncon- 
 trolled fury died down as he realized that, human 
 nature Toeing what it was, life was bound to be 
 more or less a harlequinade. For some the leap- 
 ing through brick walls, for others the buttered 
 slide ; for some the twirling pirouette, for others 
 the string of sausages; for some the pantaloon's 
 gullibility, for others the clown's horse-collar. If 
 there is any foundation for the belief in working 
 out one's karma in a series of lives, a child's first 
 words on opening its eyes on this fantastic world 
 must be the ancient cry of the clown: "Here we 
 are again !"
 
 THREADS 205 
 
 But if there is any justice in the scheme of 
 things, and those of us who believe with the Llama 
 that "Just is the wheel, swerving not a hair- 
 breadth," cannot question it, then a man like John, 
 who had been robbed of fifteen years of his life, 
 must either be paying for past sins or for future 
 joys. The old ideas of heaven and hell were too 
 illogical for reasonable people to credit. That 
 some should be born on velvet and some into 
 misery, by haphazard chance, was a belief that 
 was nothing but an insult to the Creator of man- 
 kind. If God were not logical, then the whole 
 scheme of creation was a fantastic farce. 
 
 John shook himself like a dog, and returned to 
 practical matters. 
 
 "If it were possible to offer you adequate com- 
 pensation," he heard Gratham remarking, "I 
 should do so; but even the government cannot 
 give a man back fifteen years of his life." 
 
 The powers o'f the government had to be cur- 
 tailed in some directions; there were very few 
 things the government could not do, but this was 
 one of them. "They might give you some form of 
 war bonus, or remit your income tax during the 
 time you were in prison," suggested Gratham. "Of 
 course, you might wake up one morning to find 
 your name on the Honors List." 
 
 "We had an Honors List at Portland," replied 
 John, with commendable gravity; "but it consisted
 
 206 THREADS 
 
 solely of good-conduct stripes. I collected quite a 
 lot. Boiled down, there is very little difference 
 between a good-conduct stripe and the average 
 knighthood except that a good-conduct stripe 
 has to be earned and cannot under any circum- 
 stances be wangled. I presume there was some 
 sort of equivalent to a damehood or damedom, or 
 whatever they call it, on the feminine side of the 
 establishment, but I never learned what it was." 
 
 "One must have a certain amount of comic re- 
 lief in war-time," said Chloe demurely. She was 
 thinking of one or two of her friends who coveted 
 the new distinction and hoped to achieve it. They 
 had not, however, reckoned with the British sense 
 of humor which has frequently destroyed the 
 priceless boons of politicians with more certainty 
 and promptitude than a dozen adverse comments 
 in the House of Commons. 
 
 Lord Gratham sighed. This ridiculing of the 
 gravity of titles and decorations was deplorable, 
 but, under the circumstances, perhaps to be under- 
 stood. "I see your point," he admitted. "But 
 you ought to get a pension. I myself get a pen- 
 sion. The Attorney-General who led for the 
 crown became Lord Chancellor for a week or two, 
 and he gets a pension of five thousand a year." 
 
 "The law, my dear Gratham, is a conspiracy of 
 the strong to defend themselves from, the attacks 
 of the weak," said John.
 
 THREADS 207 
 
 He remembered a little sermon preached by a 
 cynical friend with whom he had discussed the 
 question of pensions while at Portland. "If you 
 want a pension you can live on," his friend had 
 asserted, "you must go into politics." 
 
 "I think it might do some of our politicians 
 good to be compelled to live solely on their own 
 thoughts for fifteen years," John had replied. 
 "They might acquire a sense of proportion." 
 
 His friend had laughed cynically. In his opi- 
 nion, nothing would ever give a politician a sense 
 of proportion. 
 
 John had owed his sentence partly to political 
 influence. He could have brought evidence that 
 would have cleared him completely, had he been 
 allowed to do so ; but as this would have involved 
 an apparently friendly power, and as his accusa- 
 tions had sounded to the friends of Germany 
 like the ravings of a sensational novelist, care 
 had been taken to keep such evidence from appear- 
 ing. "How were we to know that Germany was 
 spying on us even then?" had argued the ex-Home 
 Secretary, when discussing the matter with Lord 
 Gratham. 
 
 They could have known, but they had refused 
 to listen; just as, a year or two later, they had 
 refused to listen to a great soldier, preferring the 
 soothing syrup of lawyers and self-advertising 
 politicians with spiritual homes upon the Spree.
 
 208 THREADS 
 
 Had John been allowed to lay bare all the facts, 
 there would have been trouble in that motley camp 
 whose manifestations are picturesquely known to 
 the press as the hidden hand; many well-known 
 people would have been implicated. Germany 
 was a good paymaster. In whichever direction 
 John had turned, he was held up by a stone wall 
 of disbelief, of prejudice, or of money paid for 
 services rendered. Germany cynical, believing in 
 nothing but power and money, had determined to 
 put John out of the way, and, as usual, had suc- 
 ceeded in her endeavors. The National Liberal 
 Club was Germany's mouthpiece a clever move 
 on Germany's part, for the English members of 
 the National Liberal Club those whose names 
 did not end in "stein" or "burg" hated the 
 Northcliffe press more than anything on earth, and 
 the Northcliffe press had realized that war was 
 inevitable, and had warned a stupid and unrespon- 
 sive people, time and again, to be prepared. 
 
 "I am sure that the government will do any- 
 thing for you in reason to avoid censure. I 
 know that for a fact," explained Gratham. "I 
 myself am sitting on several royal commissions, 
 and I can read the political barometer." 
 
 "I don't want a pension," protested John; "and 
 I warn you, Lord Gratham, I will not be created 
 a viscount." 
 
 Lord Gratham pondered. "There is n't any
 
 THREADS 209 
 
 other form of compensation I can think of," he 
 remarked, "except to be buried in Westminster 
 Abbey." 
 
 "Thank you," replied John; "I was buried for 
 fifteen years at Portland." 
 
 Gratham protested irritably. John might at 
 least give him the satisfaction of feeling that he 
 had been instrumental in procuring some form 
 of compensation for the error he had been un- 
 fortunate enough to have committed. 
 
 "My dear Gratham," said John gravely; "your 
 egotism shocks me ! The desire to make repara- 
 tion for an error is one of the worst forms of 
 self-indulgence, and I refuse to entertain it." 
 
 "You don't have to live with my wife," pro- 
 tested Gratham feebly. John had never denied 
 that life was not entirely devoid of compensa- 
 tions. 
 
 "If I don't offer reparation," complained Grat- 
 ham, "I shall never know a moment's peace." 
 
 "It is your duty to make amends," said Lady 
 Gratham, "and the least you can do is to consent 
 to this marriage." 
 
 "I object to the marriage on principle," pro- 
 tested her lord and master. 
 
 "I know you do," she replied. "But if they 
 have made up their minds to get married, they 
 will get married in spite of your principles." 
 
 "My dear Gratham," interrupted John, "I
 
 210 THREADS 
 
 have in my hand something more powerful than 
 principles a check-book." 
 
 If this remark bordered on cynicism, it undoubt- 
 edly hung on the railings of truth. "You can re- 
 fuse your blessing," he added. "A blessing has no 
 market value. / can refuse them an allowance. It 
 is a detestable form of tyranny, I admit, but far 
 more effective than a pyrotechnic display of ethics 
 or a homely appeal to sentiment." 
 
 "Damn it all!" exclaimed Lord Gratham. "I 
 can't see the force of your objections." 
 
 "Arthur and Chloe can," replied John. "Ex- 
 cuse me, Lady Gratham!" He picked a white 
 feather from the boa Lady Gratham had laid 
 on the edge of the sofa, and, going over to where 
 Arthur was sitting reading the Spectator, he pre- 
 sented it to his son with ironical courtesy. "That 
 is all Arthur gets from me until he joins the 
 army," he announced. 
 
 There was a moment's pause during which Ar- 
 thur became the cynosure of all eyes. 
 
 "That makes the thirty-seventh, doesn't it?" 
 asked Chloe calmly. 
 
 "The thirty-eighth," said Arthur conscienti- 
 ously. 
 
 John turned away with an exclamation of dis- 
 gust, and found himself facing Lord Gratham. 
 
 "I 'm sorry, Wynn," exclaimed Gratham. "It 
 must be a disappointment to you."
 
 THREADS 211 
 
 "The bitterest one I have had," said John. 
 
 "Look here! Damn it all!" said Gratham, 
 after his wife had reminded him of the time. 
 "What you said to me about heredity, and all 
 that did you mean it?" 
 
 "I wanted to tell you what I thought of your 
 jokes after you had sentenced me to be hanged," 
 replied John confidentially. "But I was n't al- 
 lowed. It would have been contempt of court. I 
 have been saving it up for fifteen years, and now 
 that I have said it, I feel better." 
 
 "Then, if it was n't for Arthur's obstinacy ?" 
 Lord Gratham hesitated and looked at John ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 "If it was n't for my son's refusal to do his duty, 
 I should welcome the honor of an alliance with 
 your family," said John. 
 
 "That 's very handsome of you, my dear 
 Wynn," admitted Gratham much relieved. "Look 
 here, Arthur!" he remarked, after they had 
 joined the others in the garden; "your father has 
 behaved like a sportsman. Won't you follow 
 suit?" 
 
 "The one thing we pride ourselves upon in the 
 Foreign Office is that we never bow to popular 
 prejudice," said Arthur. 
 
 Lord Gratham was annoyed; he turned to John 
 with great cordiality, however, and did the honors
 
 212 THREADS 
 
 of the county. "I hope we shall see something of 
 you, my dear fellow," he observed. "Do you 
 hunt?" 
 
 "My associates have been more hunted than 
 hunting," said John. 
 
 "I beg your pardon ! Damned thoughtless ques- 
 tion! Do you fish?" 
 
 "Some of us fished for tobacco over the wall; 
 but we caught nothing but a reprimand," replied 
 John. 
 
 "Hang it all! Perhaps you play chess?" He 
 looked at John, then added quickly: "No, no, I 
 should n't have asked you." 
 
 "I have one accomplishment you didn't succeed 
 in killing : the gift of laughter. Life is full of little 
 ironies," said John. 
 
 "Quite ! Quite ! I Ve often thought that my- 
 self," agreed Gratham, slightly overdoing his 
 anxiety to be tactful. 
 
 "Perhaps Arthur will be reasonable when he 
 realizes they can't live on his pay," said Lady 
 Gratham as she said good-by. "One can't afford 
 high principles without an independent income. 
 Please give my love to your wife." 
 
 "And mine," echoed Lord Gratham. "And 
 mine! Charming woman charming! What a 
 surprise your coming back must have been !" 
 
 "My dear Gratham," said John gravely, "it
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Poet: Did my verses please you? 
 
 Lesbia: I 'm sure they were charming; but I was thinking of my hus- 
 band and forgot to listen. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 3. 
 
 SEPPY, a little bewildered and extremely annoyed 
 by circumstances, had walked smartly along the 
 lanes and over the fields toward Chalfont St. 
 Giles. He waited in the porch, turning the situa- 
 tion over and over in his mind. The fellow's 
 home-coming had spoilt everything. It had upset 
 Seppy's position in the house, and Amelia most 
 probably would be almost in a state of collapse. 
 A dreary hymn, dragged out to about twice its 
 intended length by the wailing village choir, inter- 
 rupted his meditations. One or two stragglers 
 pushed open the door furtively and escaped into 
 the brilliant sunshine. Seppy was horror-stricken 
 to discover himself with a cigarette in his hand. 
 It showed to what an extent his nerves were 
 jarred. He quickly threw it away, and assumed 
 an attitude of respectful devotion. 
 
 Amelia came out into the porch, someone hold- 
 ing the door for her. Someone always held the 
 door for Amelia. She had that peculiar gift for 
 
 213
 
 214 THREADS 
 
 conferring favors when she received them. A 
 man who had held open the door for her would 
 go on his way smiling: she could be very gracious 
 when she chose, and she liked people to enjoy 
 doing things for her. 
 
 Seppy was astonished at the picture she made 
 as she stood in the porch, meditatively pulling on 
 her gloves and wondering where she could put 
 her contribution to the offertory. Seeing a box 
 labeled "Communications for the Rector," she 
 dropped in a ten-shilling note. The rector, on 
 discovering it, heaved a sigh and wished that all 
 his communications were of the same nature. 
 
 "My dear Amelia!" cried Seppy, saluting 
 smartly. 
 
 Amelia smiled. How faithful Seppy was! If 
 only he knew when to keep silent and when to 
 talk! Just now she wanted to think, and Seppy 
 would insist on talking; she knew he would insist 
 on talking. There was that look in his face the 
 look of the chronic chatterer on discovering its 
 prey. And it was so cool and pleasant here under 
 the trees; one could think comfortably, could sur- 
 render oneself to a luxurious couch of tumbling 
 thoughts and emotions. If only Seppy had not 
 come to meet her. But he was so kind, so de- 
 voted; he had been such a good friend. John 
 must be made to realize what a good friend he 
 had been. Why, how strange, how miraculous it
 
 THREADS 215 
 
 was that she should be going home to find John 
 there ! She hoped he would not consider Seppy a 
 tactless intruder. It was rather tactless of him to 
 come to-day. But of course, he couldn't .have 
 known or he would n't have come. Seppy was so 
 considerate. 
 
 They passed through a gate and followed a 
 path across some fields. Seppy's staccato tones 
 came faintly to her ears. She suddenly realized 
 that he had been talking ever since they left the 
 church. Seppy was useful at times; he could go 
 on talking for ever without pausing for an answer. 
 Amelia had grown so accustomed to him that she 
 knew almost instinctively when to smile in agree- 
 ment or to shake her head in disapproval with- 
 out in the least knowing what he was talking about. 
 It is a dangerous art for an over-confident woman 
 to practise on the kind of man who is mean 
 enough to realize what she is doing and to take 
 advantage of it authors, and students of psy- 
 chology, for instance. But Seppy was simple- 
 minded, as became a Staff Officer, and he never 
 suspected people of trying to fool him. 
 
 "The greatest shock I ever experienced! I 
 assure you, I feel dazed 1" he was saying, tripping 
 over concealed roots in his anxiety to keep in step 
 with his companion. But in Amelia's mind ran 
 one phrase, repeated and repeated, sometimes 
 wonderingly, sometimes soothingly, sometimes ter-
 
 216 THREADS 
 
 rifyingly, sometimes triumphantly : "He has come 
 home he has come back to life ! And he will 
 one day waken me with a kiss !" 
 
 Seppy meandered on, and Amelia caught echoes 
 of his talk. 
 
 What you must feel ! Poor little woman ! Poor 
 little woman 1" He tried to pat her hand. To be 
 called "poor little woman" and to have her hand 
 patted in sympathy, when her heart was singing 
 paeans of thanksgiving like that beautiful lark up 
 there in the blue ! was a little too much even 
 for Amelia, who forgave much but forgot little. 
 
 "Please, Seppy," said Amelia, shivering a little 
 as he touched her. She did n't want to be touched 
 by Seppy any more. That was strange. She had 
 rather liked his taking her arm and squeezing her 
 hand and even kissing it; but now she didn't 
 want him to touch her. She would hate John to 
 see her pawed about by Seppy. She knew what 
 John would think about it; she meant to be very 
 frank with John and with Seppy. She would 
 like to be frank with everyone, but it was so much 
 easier not to be; it was so much easier to have 
 the reputation of being pleasant to everybody. 
 
 "Ah !" cried Seppy, a little hurt. "I irritate 
 you ! I worry you ! It is my desire to be helpful I 
 Forgive me ! I find it hard to be calm." He blew 
 his nose violently, and stuffed his handkerchief up 
 his sleeve.
 
 THREADS 217 
 
 Amelia wondered what the lark was saying as 
 it sang its wonderful song of joy, poised up there 
 in the limitless blue, a portent of spring, of hope, 
 of life, of fruition. How beautiful was the Eng- 
 lish country, so restful, and yet sad sad by its 
 very beauty. The peace of it! How horrible 
 Portland must have been! She shuddered, and 
 could almost hear the clank of the chains, the 
 tramp of a file of prisoners. 
 
 Seppy's spurs were rattling and he was trying 
 to keep step, talking in his breathless, staccato 
 little bursts. "Every government must commit an 
 occasional injustice," he was saying; "but no wise 
 government ever admits it." 
 
 The loneliness, the hopelessness of those years, 
 mused Amelia. She had kept her promise not to 
 write. Was she wise to have kept it? Had she 
 not betrayed him for the sake of her children? 
 Was it for the sake of her children? Why had 
 she promised? Why had she kept her promise? 
 But he understood; he always understood every- 
 thing even when she failed to understand him. 
 She hated being laughed at, and John had such a 
 queer sense of humor. If John were a soldier, and 
 had been shot, he would have laughed at the bul- 
 let that he had stopped. It was so like John to 
 laugh at Seppy ; but Seppy was such a dear, he was 
 too nice to be made fun of. One could treat 
 Seppy like a faithful retriever, and he would ap-
 
 2i8 THREADS 
 
 predate a careless pat with a dog's loyalty. Of 
 course, John was different; John was always a bit 
 of an unknown quantity even when they had 
 been so much one with each other that the rest of 
 the world had not appeared to exist. What was 
 John doing? Had he resented her going to 
 church? Ought she to have left him the first 
 morning of his return? She had felt so restless; 
 action appeared to be a necessity. What a long 
 way off it seemed ! 
 
 They left the fields and turned into a winding 
 lane. 
 
 "You are thinking, Amelia?" queried Seppy 
 sympathetically. "You are perhaps regretting?" 
 
 "No, Seppy," replied Amelia absently; "I was 
 just letting you talk. I know it soothes you." 
 
 "If one talks enough, one occasionally stum- 
 bles on to a profound truth perhaps a great 
 thought," remarked Seppy. "Great thoughts are 
 helpful in painful situations. Sometimes any kind 
 of remark will temporarily ease the strain. I re- 
 member hearing a story of the ommander-in- 
 chief, when things were going very badly with us 
 at Mons, and he was waiting to hear the result 
 of an order he had given that might or might 
 not relieve the pressure on our left. He stood, 
 surrounded by his staff. You would think they 
 were discussing the possibilities of failure, won- 
 dering what was going to happen. But no, no I
 
 THREADS 219 
 
 Not at all! The commander-in-chief, having is- 
 sued his orders, turned to one of his staff captains 
 and said : 'Do you mind telling me what kind of 
 boot-polish your man uses? I should like to get 
 some!' A human touch! What? It eased the 
 strain ! It brought tragedy down to an every-day 
 level, and they all felt more hopeful. Oh, Ame- 
 lia ! What can I say to calm your whirling brain, 
 to soothe your shattered nerves?" 
 
 "There 's nothing you can do, Seppy," replied 
 Amelia, "except to let me think things out with- 
 out interrupting me unnecessarily." 
 
 Seppy sighed. The word in season, the illu- 
 minative phrase, the helpful suggestion, refused 
 the offices of his usually ready tongue. His brain 
 felt a little dazed. He was suffering keenly in 
 sympathy with her; but he was suffering still more 
 at the thought of what he himself stood to lose. 
 He had little initiative, and had grown accustomed 
 to finding a solution to almost every problem in 
 army orders or King's regulations. It would have 
 simplified the situation had John proved to be a 
 scoundrel, or even a man coarsened or brutalized 
 by the life he had led in prison. But John was 
 unquestionably a gentleman, extremely present- 
 able, and quite a man of the world. Seppy, like so 
 many men who are easy to get on with, had no 
 morals, merely an abnormally active conscience. 
 For twelve years he had placed Amelia on a pedes-
 
 220 THREADS 
 
 tal; he had made himself generally useful to her, 
 and he had enjoyed his polite slavery. He had 
 been very faithful, extraordinarily considerate of 
 her comfort. He was very, very fond of her; in 
 fact, he loved her as far as he was capable of 
 loving anyone other than himself. The problem 
 worried him, the tragedy of it dazed him, the 
 situation was altogether too much for him. What 
 were they to do? He refused to give her up. 
 Why should he give her up? Her friendship, her 
 companionship, meant so much to him. Without 
 her life would be dull gray. He would grow old. 
 No longer would he be able to laugh at the flying 
 years. No; he would refuse to be thrown over. 
 
 "He said he would fight me fairly for your 
 affection," exclaimed Seppy suddenly. 
 
 Amelia looked up, a little startled. Then 
 she smiled and sighed. John was always chiv- 
 alrous. 
 
 "How can he fight me fairly? The handicap 
 is all on his side," continued Seppy. 
 
 "I refuse to be taken for granted by anyone," 
 Amelia protested. "My children take me for 
 granted : that is a penalty a woman pays to nature. 
 But it is her own fault if her husband or her 
 lover takes her for granted." 
 
 She paused for a moment and -faced him, then 
 spoke earnestly, almost passionately. "A woman 
 who respects herself must be won and held
 
 THREADS 221 
 
 every minute of every day. I give nothing, but I 
 respond to everything." 
 
 Seppy looked at her, still more perturbed and 
 puzzled. She was not behaving as he had anti- 
 cipated she would. He found it impossible to 
 understand her attitude. Perhaps she was over- 
 done, worn out; possibly she was a little hysterical, 
 otherwise she would not speak of things concern- 
 ing which a woman was supposed to show con- 
 siderable reticence. 
 
 He tried to soothe her; but Amelia, being a 
 woman, instinctively realized what he was think- 
 ing. 
 
 "I am not in the least hysterical," she told him. 
 "I was never more sure of myself." 
 
 This was true. She was very much amused by 
 his conscientious desire to calm her. She was 
 beginning to be very sorry for Seppy. A psycho- 
 logist would have realized that John's stock was 
 rising rapidly. 
 
 Seppy was trying to keep in step with her, and 
 she found his efforts in this direction a trifle irri- 
 tating. Amelia was a graceful walker, and she 
 rarely soiled her shoes, even in muddy weather. 
 Seppy had grown accustomed to the regulation 
 pace, and he invariably stepped off with the left 
 foot. He found Amelia's graceful but erratic 
 methods supremely difficult to imitate. For him it 
 was one of those days when worries accumulated,
 
 222 THREADS 
 
 and everything appeared to go wrong. Moist 
 beads of perspiration appeared on his brow; his 
 cap blew off ; he dropped his cane ; his Sam Browne 
 worried him; he had used his last match. 
 
 Seppy had always accepted the old English idea 
 that, when a man married a woman, he won her 
 that he could not possibly go on winning her again, 
 every day, Sundays included, or he would have 
 little time to spare for golf. Besides, it was not 
 playing the game. When a woman said "I will !" 
 she surrendered finally. When a man said "I 
 will!" he frequently thought he meant it. In 
 some cases he did. 
 
 Seppy's ideas concerning women always amused 
 Amelia; it was obvious that he had acquired his 
 views of her sex from a perusal of the mid-Victo- 
 rian novels. "You may think a woman surren- 
 ders, Seppy; but she doesn't know herself when 
 she has surrendered finally. I shall never sur- 
 render," she added quickly, almost fiercely, "until 
 I 'm old and gray and toothless, until I look my 
 age, until the pressure of my hand evokes no 
 answering pressure, but only a smile of pity." 
 
 Seppy sighed. It was Sunday, and Amelia had 
 been to church. He would scarcely have thought 
 so, judging by her conversation. The more he 
 saw of women, the less he understood them. He 
 was amazingly ignorant concerning matters of sex 
 there was very little mention of sex in army
 
 THREADS 223 
 
 orders and he had no desire to learn more. He 
 was fastidious, and fundamentally decent; he was 
 a sentimentalist, but had never been anything 
 worse. He had never looked for rewards ; he had 
 been content to fetch and carry. People laughed 
 at him. Fortunately, he was ignorant of the fact. 
 Nature is cruel in setting a seal on men who are 
 constitutionally decent and remain unmarried; but 
 nature never considers the individual, only the 
 race. 
 
 "Amelia," he told her, "you are a thousand 
 women rolled into one !" 
 
 "Every woman is," replied Amelia. "But it 
 takes a clever man to know which woman is having 
 her innings on any particular day." She laughed 
 mischievously. "What am I to-day, Seppy?" 
 
 Seppy was not very subtle, but he possessed a 
 certain amount of tact. "You are, as ever, the 
 woman I adore," he answered, with a fresh at- 
 tempt to get into step with her. 
 
 Amelia smiled. Seppy was like so many men 
 who, when all the women who helped to make up 
 the woman she was, happened to be chattering 
 at the same time, instead of helping one of them 
 to dominate, put it all down to hysteria, and 
 imagined that a compliment, or a kiss, would stop 
 the chatter. She sighed as she caught sight of her 
 house through a gap in the wood, and wondered
 
 224 THREADS 
 
 whether John knew more about women than Seppy 
 did. 
 
 John met them half-way down the drive. "It 
 must have been a short sermon," he said. 
 
 It is frequently something of a problem for a 
 woman to decide which is the most aggravating 
 trait in a man too much self-confidence or too 
 much humility; but a man's arrogance is so often 
 the result of accepted views and proved ethics 
 sent journeying along a straight line of rails, 
 whereas a woman's philosophy owes its existence 
 to things and events that touch her personally, 
 that move in a circle of which she herself is the 
 center. To a woman a man's ethics are narrow 
 in their logical certainty, and cut and dried in 
 their application her own being guided by cir- 
 cumstances. A logical man can be amazingly irri- 
 tating at times. But overdone humility has its 
 disadvantages. A humble man rarely hits back, 
 and refuses to argue. He sighs. And what can 
 be more irritating, or more fundamentally arro- 
 gant, than the sigh of humility? Women may be 
 uncertain, perplexing, changeable, illogical; they 
 may jump to conclusions unreasonably, and dis- 
 like a woman because her skirt hangs down at 
 the back, or a man because of his manner of 
 eating hot buttered toast. But men are ten times 
 more exasperating on account of their pedantic 
 craze for being just and reasonable.
 
 THREADS 225 
 
 John hated the line of conduct he had deter- 
 mined to take; but, having made up his mind to 
 it, he was obliged to see it through. And Amelia's 
 good resolutions her longing to give, give, give, 
 and to go on giving, the woman's privilege and 
 tragedy all the thoughts that had come to her 
 as she listened to the song of the lark, and heard 
 Seppy's babble without heeding it her determina- 
 tion to break down the fifteen-year-old wall that 
 had divided her from John the spontaneity of 
 her surrender was checked by her husband's de- 
 tachment, by his courtesy to herself and his pa- 
 tronage of Seppy. 
 
 Amelia shrank back into herself. The prince 
 had not yet kissed her into wakefulness. 
 
 "I did n't wait for the sermon," she explained. 
 "I could n't attend to the service, so I came out, 
 and found Seppy waiting in the porch." 
 
 "Splendid fellow!" said John. "Some men are 
 born to wait, while others have waiting thrust 
 upon them." He did not realize that he was talk- 
 ing in a style that had gone out of fashion with 
 the nineteenth century. 
 
 "Would you have waited on the chance of my 
 coming out early?" she asked. 
 
 "No, my dear!" replied John. "I should have 
 sent in word that I did n't intend to wait any 
 longer."
 
 226 THREADS 
 
 Seppy was a little shocked. "In church?" he 
 protested. 
 
 "A woman does n't cease to be a woman even 
 in church," said John. 
 
 "Where did you learn that?" inquired Amelia. 
 
 "I have in me the makings of a lot of little en- 
 tertainments," replied John, his eyes twinkling. 
 "I have had quite a busy morning. I have made 
 the acquaintance of my son James, and of your 
 friend here, and I have refused to countenance 
 Arthur's engagement." 
 
 Amelia looked up, astonished. "You have re- 
 fused?" she cried. 
 
 "Lord and Lady Gratham have been here. They 
 sent you their love," explained John. 
 
 "I hope you are not going to upset everything, 
 John," said Amelia, with a sigh. 
 
 "Believe me, I shall do nothing unreasonable," 
 replied John. 
 
 Amelia frowned. "What will people think?" 
 she protested. 
 
 "It really does n't matter what people think," 
 said John. "It 's doing the things they think that 
 matters. I have refused them an allowance." 
 
 "But they can't live on Arthur's pay," exclaimed 
 Amelia. 
 
 "I am quite sure they have no intention of living 
 on Arthur's pay," replied John.
 
 THREADS 227 
 
 Amelia looked up inquiringly. "But if you have 
 refused them an allowance " 
 
 "I don't intend to give it; I was just wondering 
 how they proposed to get it," said John specu- 
 latively. 
 
 "I can't help thinking you are behaving unrea- 
 sonably," protested Seppy. 
 
 John looked at him, a dangerous light in his 
 eyes. "It is n't your pidgin," he said. 
 
 "I am an intimate friend of the family," cried 
 Seppy, turning to Amelia for support. He was 
 genuinely angry with John for behaving like an 
 autocrat at such short notice, and he wanted Ame- 
 lia to realize that she had a friend who would 
 fight for her, in spite of everything. 
 
 Amelia called up her first line of reserves. She 
 took out her handkerchief. "Everything was go- 
 ing so smoothly," she sobbed. 
 
 Steppy trembled with emotion ; he wanted to tell 
 Amelia how much he sympathized with her, how 
 anxious he was to help her. It unmanned him to 
 see a woman in tears. 
 
 John chuckled. He was behaving like a brute, 
 and he knew it; but, while deploring the necessity, 
 he pressed home the attack to its logical conclu- 
 sion. He was out for victory, and he meant to 
 achieve it. The enemy could retire with all the 
 honors of war, but his guns must be spiked and his 
 arms given up.
 
 228 THREADS 
 
 "When a woman cries, it means that she has 
 had to call up her last line of defense, and that 
 victory is in sight," he explained. 
 
 "You are heartless, sir ! Absolutely heartless !" 
 protested Seppy. 
 
 It was impossible for him to remain there any 
 longer; he was too thoroughly upset. He would 
 go back to the War Office and do some work. 
 
 He did very little work at the War Office that 
 afternoon, but consoled himself later on with tea 
 and muffins at his club. He returned to the attack 
 the following day. 
 
 John accompanied his wife to the house. Each 
 was silent, thinking hard, wondering, alert. On 
 reaching the living-room, John threw himself into 
 the chair and took up the Observer. 
 
 "Nothing to report," he read aloud. "There 
 was an unimportant raid on our front-line 
 trenches, but the enemy was forced to retire with 
 some losses." 
 
 Amelia frowned. "What do you mean, John ?" 
 she asked, looking at him steadily. 
 
 "Nothing, my dear," replied John, his tone a 
 masterpiece of innocence. "I was er quoting 
 the official report!" 
 
 Amelia looked at him with grave disapproval, 
 silently gathered up her gloves and prayer-book, 
 and went upstairs to her room. John threw down 
 the paper, made a movement to follow her, then
 
 THREADS 229 
 
 turned to the window and laughed a little de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 "Well, Seppy, my boy I" he murmured. "What 
 about it?"
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Princess: Father! I have listened to this man who is rousing the 
 
 country! He" speaks the truth. 
 King: He will suffer for it. And so will you for listening. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 4. 
 
 ARTHUR did not return to lunch. Obsessed by 
 the brilliant idea that had occurred to him, he 
 went up to town after lunching with Chloe and 
 her parents and indulged in the popular British 
 sport known as wire-pulling, having previously 
 arranged with Chloe to meet him on an early train 
 the following morning. Neither Olive nor Jimmy 
 put in an appearance until dinner-time. John and 
 Amelia lunched together tete-a-tete; they spoke of 
 things of little importance. After lunch Amelia 
 retired to her room to lie down, but she found 
 it impossible to rest. She sat down and wrote to 
 Seppy, telling him that it would be wiser for him 
 not to come down to Chalfont for some time. 
 Then she tore up the letter, having come to the 
 conclusion that it would be easier to allow things 
 to take their course. Instead of trying to govern 
 circumstances, she would allow circumstances to 
 govern her. 
 
 John read the papers, and went carefully
 
 THREADS 231 
 
 through some bound volumes of Punch from the 
 year 1902 up to the present date. He wanted to 
 realize what the world had been thinking, saying, 
 and doing. Incidentally, he thought a great deal 
 about Amelia. Had he exchanged one prison for 
 another? From being the slave of rules and regu- 
 lations, was he to be the slave of convention and 
 pretense ? It was easier to criticize than to create, 
 he thought; easier to judge others than oneself, 
 to invent a standard of living than to live. Would 
 it not be wiser to take the world as one found it, 
 and to accept the views of the majority? Why 
 worry? Reformers had battered their heads 
 against the wall of public opinion and popular 
 prejudice for centuries, with little injury to any 
 but themselves. Why be a reformer? Why not 
 live on the surface, as the others did, and cease 
 to criticize life and one's neighbor's mode of liv- 
 ing? The accepted way was the easier way; Ame- 
 lia had followed it, his children were following it,, 
 their friends likewise. Was he to be the discord 
 in the harmony of their own particular circle? 
 They had achieved 1917 gradually and by a 
 natural process; he had stumbled upon it suddenly, 
 and had paused to draw breath. The man who 
 kicks continually only wears out his boots and must 
 then go bare-foot. Why worry? The majority 
 was always right. Good Lord! He must be 
 growing old if he was meditating bowing to pop-
 
 232 THREADS 
 
 ular prejudice. Agreeing with the majority was 
 the first sign either of age or of intellectual 
 atrophy. One must worry if one were an 
 optimist and placed one's faith in the world's up- 
 ward tendency. The majority was never right. 
 The world was reformed, its thoughts guided, its 
 instincts controlled, by the few the few who 
 think sanely, imaginatively, selflessly. While he 
 had a kick left in him he would never give in. By 
 ideals he lived and with ideals he would die; and 
 to hell with the pessimists who croaked a policy 
 of laissez-faire. 
 
 England had survived her politicians, her 
 profiteers, her pacifists, her academic intellectuals; 
 she had even survived her general officers and 
 senior admirals. The English were crazy; but 
 when once you realized the fact, accepted it, and 
 laughed at it, you got along very well. If only 
 they were not so self-complacent. His own 
 friends the men of breeding and the men of let- 
 ters were awfully decent, on the whole; narrow 
 perhaps, and prejudiced undoubtedly, but funda- 
 mentally decent. He could n't stand the middle 
 classes, but that is scarcely to be wondered at; 
 they had n't sufficient breeding to conceal their 
 selfishness, their rapacity, their self-complacence 
 <and ignorance; they aped their betters, and their 
 intonations were jarring; they were so afraid of 
 giving themselves away that they gave nothing
 
 THREADS 233 
 
 away; they overran the army, the navy, the 
 church, the bar, the House of Lords, and the once 
 exclusive clubs. In fact, they overran England. 
 He had a great admiration, an affection, for the 
 lower classes, though he hated the phrase. They, 
 too, were fundamentally decent. But, unfortu- 
 nately, England was governed by the pretenders 
 the people who were neither "fish, nor fowl, nor 
 good red-herring." 
 
 Perhaps the war would alter things. But had 
 it altered them at all? Nearly all the decent 
 men had been killed; every decent man who was 
 at all fit had joined up in 1914. Those who joined 
 up under the Derby Scheme, or who had later on 
 been conscripted, were almost as bad as those who 
 had not joined up at all. What sort of future 
 would there be for England? Those who had 
 prospered, those who would survive the war and 
 have sufficient money to indulge in the luxury of 
 children, would be the shirkers, the slackers, the 
 profiteers, those who had taken advantage of their 
 country's needs to bleed their country's ex- 
 chequer. The people who mattered were fighting 
 for a pittance; even if they returned, the ma- 
 jority would return crippled in health, in financial 
 circumstances. Their breed would die out. It 
 was a ghastly outlook. One could only prophesy 
 a country run for and by the middle classes. The 
 flower of the youth of a generation were wiped
 
 234 THREADS 
 
 off the slate. What would the children of the 
 "indispensables" be like? He shuddered, and 
 thought of his son. 
 
 He had been right to protest, to take a strong 
 attitude. Amelia was annoyed, hurt; but what 
 else could he do? 
 
 No, the outlook was not hopeful; but, unless 
 the government taxed brains and intelligence out 
 of existence, he would not despair. 
 
 Amelia came down to tea. She was over-tired 
 and over-strained, consequently she chattered 
 about little things. John enjoyed it; he realized 
 that Amelia was dreading a pause in the conver- 
 sation, and wanted to keep off fundamental things 
 for the moment. He told her stones of prison 
 life, of the men he had been herded among, of 
 the routine, the lack of humanity, the dull, drab, 
 dreary ugliness of everything; but he told it with 
 so much humor that Amelia was both interested 
 and amused. But John's manner of telling his 
 story only emphasized the tragedy of it. If a 
 man can joke about hell, thought Amelia, would 
 he find heaven tiresome? 
 
 They strolled about the garden after tea, and 
 Amelia displayed her roses with some pride. 
 John breathed deeply and realized the peace of 
 it all. Twilight came, that magic link between 
 day and night. The country was placidly dozing; 
 it was an eternal chess-board on which everybody
 
 THREADS 235 
 
 made their moves kings, queens, bishops, pawns 
 and then others took their places. But 
 the board remained England remained. Men 
 fought, gambled, schemed, pulled wires, hoarded, 
 grumbled, endured; the centuries slipped by; but 
 England was always England, and always would 
 be. A tiny country, mapped out in miniature 
 squares, exquisite, hideous, lonely, crowded, with 
 little hills that assumed the grandeur of moun- 
 tains, little woods that seemed like forests, 
 streams dignified by the names of rivers, long 
 winding roads with hedges under which nestled a 
 thousand wild flowers, ugly mean streets and 
 hideous jerry-built villas, a country swept by 
 biting east winds and blustering southwest gales, 
 exquisitely clear under a frosty sky, sleepily rest- 
 ful under a summer sun, depressing beyond words 
 under low gray clouds: but always England: 
 There was magic in the word. Half the world 
 spoke of England as home. John laughed: he 
 paid the average Englishman's most glowing 
 tribute to his native land. "It is n't half bad," 
 he said. 
 
 And so to dinner, with open windows for the 
 Daylight-Saving Bill was in operation, and lights 
 were unnecessary; afterward a record or two on 
 the gramophone Jimmy at the wheel; and then 
 to bed. 
 
 Amelia lay awake, thinking of the things she
 
 236 THREADS 
 
 had meant to say to John and had not said; long- 
 ing to break down the barrier the intangible 
 something that still lay between them, yet unwil- 
 ling to acknowledge its presence for fear of 
 hurting him. 
 
 Monday was rather an exciting day, on the 
 whole. John went over to Chenies to see the 
 Grathams, and stayed to lunch. Chloe had gone 
 to town, and Lady Gratham made spasmodic 
 appearances; but Gratham was an entertaining 
 host, and he and John got on very well together. 
 
 The humor of the situation occasionally struck 
 Lord Gratham; which led to his relieving himself 
 by giving vent to chuckles and guffaws for which 
 he apologized. During the afternoon the tele- 
 phone called him, and he returned to his wife, 
 who was presiding over the tea things, with a 
 face puckering like a baby's. 
 
 "What has happened?" she inquired, pausing 
 with the sugar-tongs in the air. 
 
 "I no longer have a daughter," replied her 
 husband grimly. "She has been married by 
 special license to-day to your son," he added, 
 turning to John. 
 
 "Don't be foolish, Archibald!" said Lady 
 Gratham, continuing to pour out tea. "You have 
 a daughter who knows her own mind, and that is 
 more than I did at her age. Sugar, Mr. Wynn?" 
 
 "No, thank you !" replied John. He had con-
 
 THREADS 237 
 
 ceived a higher opinion of his son than he had 
 ever had before. Arthur had done exactly what 
 John himself would have done under the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Lord Gratham had objected to the engage- 
 ment; John had objected to it, too. John's objec- 
 tion was that Arthur had not worn the King's 
 uniform, Lord Gratham's that John had. 
 Though Gratham realized that John was inno- 
 cent, he found it hard to forgive him for being 
 innocent much as he liked John personally. 
 John had made him think; he had made him ques- 
 tion his whole career as a judge. Gratham was a 
 Tory, and disliked questioning anything. John 
 had made him wonder how many other innocent 
 people had been sentenced owing to his lack of 
 imagination and ignorance of psychology; in fact, 
 John was a walking conscience to Gratham, who 
 was terrified of publicity. 
 
 On returning home, John found his household 
 somewhat perturbed by the news that Arthur had 
 conscientiously telephoned to them. John ex- 
 plained its reception by the Grathams. 
 
 Amelia was worried. Her house had been in- 
 vaded by journalists the news of John's release 
 having reached Fleet Street early that morning, 
 and, the news from the front being of the "noth- 
 ing to report" order, it was too good a story to 
 be missed.
 
 238 THREADS 
 
 "There have been twenty-three of them here 
 this afternoon," confessed Amelia plaintively. 
 "I said you had gone away, so they all took 
 photographs of the house, and of Parsons, and 
 of the Jersey cows, and all expressed their regret 
 at missing you all except someone from the 
 Morning Megaphone, who is still in the library. 
 I sent him in some tea. Parsons says he is sitting 
 there smoking your cigarettes and reading a book 
 of Marie Corelli's. I said I would let him know 
 when you came back." 
 
 She handed John a card on which was en- 
 graved: "H. Simms, the Morning Megaphone" 
 
 "Doesn't he want to photograph the cows?" 
 asked John. 
 
 "Oh, he has already done that," replied 
 Amelia. "Parsons told him the story of you and 
 the pianola; he said it was priceless, and gave 
 her half a crown. Parsons has done very well 
 for herself, and her stories improved as the day 
 progressed." 
 
 John chuckled. He liked Amelia's attitude; 
 there was a kind of comic pathos in her voice 
 that was extremely attractive. "Seppy arrived 
 just now," continued Amelia; "so I sent him in 
 to talk to this H. Simms." 
 
 Seppy was rather like a jack-in-the-box, thought 
 John; the snubs of yesterday were the stimulants 
 of to-day. He had arrived, beautifully groomed
 
 THREADS 239 
 
 and smiling, about four o'clock, and had stumbled 
 across Jimmy near the front gates. 
 
 "Hallo, Seppy, old man!" was Jimmy's greet- 
 ing. "Cheerio! Have you seen the mater?" 
 
 Seppy explained that he was looking for her; 
 he had been told that she was somewhere in the 
 garden. 
 
 "I say, then you have n't heard the news?" ex- 
 claimed Jimmy. 
 
 "What news?" asked Seppy anxiously. A 
 thousand conjectures raced through his brain, all 
 of them wrong. 
 
 "About Arthur and Chloe," replied Jimmy, 
 with a cynical chuckle. "Arthur 's managed to 
 wangle a special license out of the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, and he and Chloe have just got 
 spliced. Jolly sporting of them? What? Hope 
 they won't regret it." 
 
 "Good gracious me!" said Seppy, greatly per- 
 turbed. "What does your mother say?" 
 
 "Oh, she always says the same thing," replied 
 Jimmy genially. "You know the sort of thing: 
 'I have tried to do my duty to the children, and 
 this is how I 'm treated.' She always takes that 
 line when anything unusual happens." 
 
 Seppy coughed. "Where is your father?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "Over at the Grathams', trying to get old 
 Gratham to fork up something, I suppose," re-
 
 240 THREADS 
 
 plied Jimmy, with that peculiar frankness for 
 which the younger generation is celebrated. 
 
 "Do you know, Seppy? he's rather decent; 
 knows the proper way to treat a fellow, and all 
 that. I rather like him." 
 
 Seppy pondered over this admission with some 
 seriousness. 
 
 "You know, Seppy, old man," continued Jimmy, 
 gravely contemplating the gallant Colonel, "you 
 know, I can't help thinking it 'd be more sporting 
 of you to declare your innings closed !" 
 
 Seppy fidgeted. This was too much. From a 
 boy to whom he had shown exaggerated indul- 
 gence, tool It was a little thoughtless, a little 
 unfeeling, distinctly ungracious. 
 
 "You Ve had a dashed good run for your 
 money," said Jimmy, with his hands in his 
 pockets, as he dug the newly graveled path with 
 his heel, much to the annoyance of the head gar- 
 dener, who was tying up some rambler roses in 
 the vicinity; "and it 's about time you gave some- 
 one else a show!" 
 
 "My dear fellow, I advise you not to meddle 
 with what does n't concern you !" protested Seppy. 
 
 "It does concern me," replied Jimmy. "It 
 concerns me devilish close. That 's why I 'm 
 advising you to clear out." 
 
 "Would you mind telling your mother that I 
 am here ?" said Seppy rather irritably.
 
 THREADS 241 
 
 "Parsons told her some time ago. She said 
 you were to wait," explained Jimmy, unperturbed. 
 
 This explanation scarcely increased Seppy's 
 self-confidence. He took out his cigarette-case 
 and offered it to his young mentor. 
 
 "No, thanks!" said Jimmy. "The .guv'nor 
 says I '11 never get my flannels if I smoke before 
 I 'm eighteen : bad for the wind and all that." 
 
 "That 's what / always told you," protested 
 Seppy. 
 
 "I know," replied Jimmy; "but you 're different. 
 Naturally, a fellow can't help treating what his 
 guv'nor says with a certain amount of respect." 
 
 "I was under the impression that the modern 
 school-boy respected no one and nothing," said 
 Seppy tartly. 
 
 Jimmy chuckled; he had drawn Seppy beauti- 
 fully. The poor old chap was getting quite 
 wrathy. Besides, it was all rot about a fellow 
 respecting no one. He could n't help respecting 
 anyone who played the game chaps like Haig, 
 and Beatty, and George Hirst, and well, his 
 father had played the game, and a fellow could n't 
 help respecting him. "Of course, I would 'nt let 
 him know it for anything," explained Jimmy. "It 
 might make him stick on side. But we had a bit 
 of a yarn yesterday, and he was so jolly decent 
 that I well, I made up my mind I 'd see him 
 through and back his side."
 
 242 THREADS 
 
 Seppy blew his nose violently and tried to col- 
 lect his scattered self-confidence. But he had one 
 more ordeal to face two, in fact before being 
 sent into the library to entertain H. Simms of the 
 Morning Megaphone. 
 
 He met Olive in the hall. "Hallo, Seppy! 
 Mother will be in directly!" was her greeting. 
 "Run along, Jimmy! I want to talk to Seppy," 
 she added. 
 
 "I Ve just been having a little heart-to-heart 
 talk with him myself," explained Jimmy, grinning. 
 
 "Look here, Seppy!" said Olive, as they made 
 their way into the living-room; "I Ve been think- 
 ing about things." 
 
 "My hat!" cried Jimmy, with assumed aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 Harrow was snubbed properly by Olive, who 
 then turned to Seppy. "We Ve liked having you 
 about the house, and you Ve been jolly useful," 
 she explained; "but well, Seppy! I think you'd 
 better go on leave." 
 
 Seppy was certainly being pounded on all sides ; 
 his position was becoming untenable. He must 
 either make a demonstration or withdraw. "Is 
 that what your mother thinks?" he inquired 
 huffily. 
 
 "It 's what we think, Seppy," replied Olive re- 
 proachfully. Mother is n't capable of managing
 
 THREADS 243 
 
 her own affairs; she was never taught clear think- 
 ing." 
 
 Seppy protested. Really, these young peo- 
 ple 
 
 "My dear Seppy! You know perfectly well 
 that when we say a thing we mean it," said Olive 
 coolly. 
 
 "I refuse to be dictated to by a couple of chil- 
 dren," cried Seppy indignantly. 
 
 Olive smiled. Of course, he was perfectly at 
 liberty to please himself, but it was just as well 
 to let him know how they felt about it. 
 
 "For twelve years," protested Seppy senti- 
 mentally, "I have been almost a father to you." 
 
 "You meant well, Seppy," admitted Olive 
 kindly. "But now that father has come home, 
 we feel he has more right to parental privileges 
 than you have. Another thing, Seppy," she 
 added, smiling deliciously; "we like him. Don't 
 we, Jimmy?" 
 
 Jimmy wriggled with embarrassment. "He 's 
 quite decent," admitted the young Harrovian. 
 Hang it! Why must girls always say the things 
 a fellow only thinks? 
 
 "So we felt we 'd better warn you in case 
 mother tried to persuade you to keep on hanging 
 around," concluded Olive judicially. 
 
 This was the last straw. Seppy was not likely 
 to hang around where he was not wanted. Where
 
 244 THREADS 
 
 was Amelia? Why did she not come and rescue 
 him from this equivocal conversation? 
 
 She came at last, "i 'm sorry to have kept you 
 waiting," she remarked. 
 
 Was she sorry? Seppy wondered. She did 
 not appear to be very much perturbed. "I am 
 accustomed to be kept waiting," he replied, with 
 a flavor of martyrdom in his voice. This was 
 scarcely true; a colonel is rarely kept waiting 
 especially when he wears red tabs. 
 
 "You have heard about the wedding?" in- 
 quired Amelia after Parsons had brought in the 
 tea. 
 
 "I must say, it is the first time I ever heard of 
 an official in the Foreign Office doing anything on 
 impulse," said Seppy. "Do you expect him back 
 to-night?" 
 
 "I wonder if he '11 bring her with him," mut- 
 tered Jimmy reflectively. 
 
 "I know I 'd jolly well see / was n't left behind 
 on my wedding-day," exclaimed Olive. 
 
 Blushing brides are out of date. How can a 
 bride blush when she faces a battery of cameras? 
 Besides, a blush implies self-consciousness. The 
 new generation has its faults, but self-conscious- 
 ness is scarcely one of them. And marriage is no 
 longer a step into the unknown. Six shillings 
 judiciously expended can automatically raise the 
 curtain; and even sevenpence goes a long way.
 
 THREADS 245 
 
 Consequently, one meets many a married couple 
 who are friends as well as lovers. When things 
 can be discussed instead of whispered, progress 
 heaves a sigh of relief, and Mrs. Grundy sends 
 frantic telegrams to her friend and counselor, 
 whose address is rarely mentioned in polite so- 
 ciety.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Reformer: Who is this person? 
 Secretary: He comes as an Ambassador. 
 Reformer: What Autocrat does he represent? 
 Secretary: The mightiest of all Public Opinion. 
 
 Pro Patrio, Act 4. 
 
 SEPPY had come down determined to assert him- 
 self; he wanted his position in the household to 
 be very clearly defined. But it was scarcely an 
 easy task to put his determination into words 
 without hurting Amelia and jeopardizing his own 
 desires. He was even a little uncertain regard- 
 ing those desires. Just how far he was prepared 
 to go was a poblem he had resolutely refused to 
 envisage. He had grown accustomed to his 
 standing in the household, and he disliked change 
 of any kind. In his moments of quiet reflection 
 he thought of himself as a true type of the con- 
 stant lover, unselfish, chivalrous; but would his 
 sense of chivalry be equal to the demands that 
 might be made upon it? His obvious line of ac- 
 tion would be to retire, and to nurse his regrets in 
 silence. But Seppy was too much of an egotist 
 to renounce anything he had set his heart upon, 
 unless forced to do so by circumstances. On the 
 
 246
 
 THREADS 247 
 
 other hand, suppose Amelia discovered that she 
 cared for him more than she did for her husband : 
 what then would be his line of action? Would 
 he be ready to face publicity, the horrors of the 
 divorce court, for Amelia's sake? He loved 
 Amelia; he would go on loving her always. 
 
 "I hope this has not been too much of a shock?" 
 inquired Seppy sympathetically, after Olive and 
 Jimmy had disappeared from the room. 
 
 Amelia smiled. "I think it will be an excellent 
 thing for Arthur," she replied. "He is so accus- 
 tomed to getting his own way." 
 
 "But they can't live on four hundred a year," 
 protested Seppy. 
 
 Amelia smiled. She and John had married on 
 less than that. It had been a struggle, but, look- 
 ing back, those had been the happiest days of 
 her life. They had both believed so in the future ; 
 they had faced life full of hope, full of confidence. 
 When Arthur was born, family friends had pulled 
 long faces and had exclaimed at their lack of 
 wisdom; but John and Amelia were not sufficiently 
 fashionable to have acquired those views that 
 have since become so popular. To them, children 
 were of more importance than smart clothes and 
 a semi-fashionable address. One doubts if they 
 would ever have learned wisdom in that respect. 
 
 But Arthur and Chloe belonged to a different 
 generation; they prided themselves on their com-
 
 248 THREADS 
 
 mon sense, and they cried for self-development 
 in other words, a good time. Amelia was suf- 
 ficiently a woman of the world to refrain from 
 argument. 
 
 Seppy rose and stood with his back to the fire- 
 place. "Amelia," he exclaimed, "I want to dis- 
 cuss a matter that concerns ourselves very closely. 
 I want to know what my position is going to 
 be?" 
 
 Amelia looked at him gravely. He did not 
 realize that he was being tried, judged, and sen- 
 tenced. Amelia was too much of a woman to 
 allow him to guess that he was being tested. 
 
 "What do you want it to be?" she asked. 
 
 Seppy hesitated. He was anxious to explain 
 his ideas, but he found it extremely difficult to 
 make a start. 
 
 "You know that I love you, don't you?" he 
 said. 
 
 Amelia smiled. "How much do you love me?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 Seppy frowned. A man likes to have such 
 things taken for granted; he considers that the 
 words "I love you" should cover all possibilities. 
 
 "Do you love me well enough to be callous of 
 public opinion?" Amelia looked innocent enough 
 as she asked this question. It was difficult to 
 tell whether she was serious or merely making 
 fun of him.
 
 THREADS 249 
 
 "Of public opinion?" cried Seppy scornfully. 
 He was about to express his contempt for public 
 opinion when his native caution suddenly asserted 
 itself. "What exactly do you mean, Amelia?" 
 he added. 
 
 Some sixteen years before he had been asked 
 the same question, and had very unjustly been 
 accused of butterfly proclivities. He denied that 
 he had ever been a butterfly; he possessed a genius 
 for single-minded devotion to one woman at any 
 rate, to one woman at a time. And as long as 
 she remained kind, so long would Seppy remain 
 constant. 
 
 "Would you think the world well lost for me ?" 
 asked Amelia in a voice that was low and provo- 
 cative. 
 
 "Undoubtedly!" cried Seppy, with admirable 
 fervor. 
 
 He meant it, too with certain reservations. 
 Since he held a staff appointment, he would rather 
 not lose it entirely. He would not mind losing 
 the world, as long as the world remained in 
 ignorance of the fact that he had lost it. He had 
 a horror of bad form or of achieving a reputa- 
 tion for what is politely termed "gallantry." He 
 was prepared to sacrifice a great deal on the altar 
 of Amelia's love ; but, owing to the fact that some 
 of his forebears had been born on the wrong 
 or the right side of the Tweed, he was occa-
 
 250 THREADS 
 
 sionally visited by spasms of caution, and desired 
 to know exactly how far and to what he was 
 committing himself. 
 
 Amelia watched him with some amusement and 
 a little chagrin; then she quietly slipped the pin 
 from her bomb and threw it at his head. 
 
 "If I loved you, do you think I could go on 
 living with him and receiving you here as a visi- 
 tor?" she asked. 
 
 It was true that John's home-coming had com- 
 plicated things. Seppy was suffering from an un- 
 usual feeling of embarrassment. He no longer 
 felt at home in the house; his position was a trifle 
 invidious. Seppy had the true egotist's love of 
 talking about himself in the ordinary way, but 
 he was feeling a curious reluctance to indulge in 
 his favorite amusement at the moment. "I have 
 always said, Amelia, that with me it must be all 
 or nothing," he asserted. 
 
 "Which do you want it to be ?" inquired Amelia, 
 with apparent innocence. 
 
 Perhaps it was a little cruel of her to play with 
 him, but what reasonable woman could resist 
 such an opportunity? 
 
 "Need you ask?" protested Seppy, with some 
 warmth. Then he thought unconsciously of his 
 high reputation, his assured position, and his com- 
 fortable mode of living, and a doubt of his own 
 worthiness to live on such romantic heights in-
 
 THREADS 251 
 
 sidiously invaded his well-protected self-esteem. 
 
 Amelia looked at him curiously. "Suppose I 
 had to choose between you and John?" she asked. 
 
 Seppy muttered something about twelve years' 
 devotion, but Amelia interrupted him. 
 
 "My choice would have nothing to do with the 
 past," she said. "If it had, I should choose John. 
 Nothing counts so much with women as the right 
 word at the right moment. You take it for 
 granted that your twelve years' devotion should 
 be rewarded; John takes it for granted that, as I 
 am his wife, I shall go on being his wife." 
 
 She clenched her fists and dug them into the 
 cushions. 
 
 "I don't want a husband in the academic 
 sense," she cried. "I want a lover who will carry 
 me off my feet in spite of my years." 
 
 She turned her head and looked out of the win- 
 dow, a little ashamed of her outburst. 
 
 "It is difficult to think of you with grown-up 
 children," reflected Seppy. 
 
 Amelia smiled. "You have a happy knack for 
 paying pretty compliments," she said. 
 
 Seppy frowned. Amelia was at times a little 
 difficult to follow; she jumped from one subject 
 to another; her thoughts turned somersaults 
 they were one moment exquisite in repose, and 
 the next they were cutting capers with a grin.
 
 252 THREADS 
 
 She was unexpected. Seppy rather prided himself 
 on this discovery. 
 
 "A house is so empty without a man in it," 
 continued Amelia. "There are certain things a 
 woman can never master such as rates and taxes 
 and the choosing of wine and tobacco. I gradu- 
 ally drifted into leaving these things to you. I 
 hated having to do them myself. And I liked 
 having you to escort me when I went to theaters 
 and concerts. A woman alone can never get the 
 best seats," she added, a little ruefully, unaware 
 of the subtilty of her remark. "Even the most 
 modern girl likes to have a man to take her about. 
 It was because I realized you were fond of me 
 that I let you do so much for me. I knew it 
 pleased you; did n't it?" 
 
 She looked up at him with a very attractive 
 smile. When a woman has made up her mind 
 that the time has come for an admirer to cease 
 admiring at close quarters, she does her best to 
 assist distance to lend enchantment to the memory. 
 And in that is she not wise? It is kinder to the 
 man, and kinder to herself. After all, the future 
 is largely built on memories. She would like 
 Seppy to remember his days of devotion to her 
 with kind thoughts, and never with bitterness. 
 She would like him always to think of her as a 
 young and attractive woman. She would like him 
 sometimes to feel a little sad at having lost her,
 
 THREADS 253 
 
 that their friendship had been thoroughly worth 
 while. 
 
 "You have given me all the happiness I have 
 ever enjoyed," said Seppy mournfully. His re- 
 mark was not strictly true, but there are times 
 when good intentions are better than cold facts. 
 
 "And yet, I am a middle-aged woman," sighed 
 Amelia. 
 
 "Not to me," protested Seppy genuinely. 
 
 Seppy had never realized that she was growing 
 older, and that had made her feel young. And, 
 because she felt young, she wanted every minute 
 of what youth was left to her. She wanted to 
 go on being desirable. So many women still be- 
 lieved in hell, and in a God who was always wait- 
 ing to stab at their little vanities. 
 
 "You are very understanding," said Amelia. 
 "If it had n't been for you I should probably have 
 become terribly religious and made myself a nui- 
 sance to the children." 
 
 Seppy looked at her, a trifle shocked. 
 
 "Most women are afraid to think about re- 
 ligion," she added. "That 's why they go to 
 church." 
 
 "That sounds almost blasphemous," protested 
 Seppy. "I go to church, but I never think of 
 questioning what I 'm believing. The whole thing 
 is cut and dried." 
 
 "Don't you understand?" cried Amelia, almost
 
 254 THREADS 
 
 fiercely. "Nothing is cut and dried nothing, 
 nothing!" She went on, her voice low and 
 vibrant, her fingers moving nervously. "If I only 
 knew what John really thought about everything, 
 I should not be so restless. When he went away 
 I was a girl, and he was a young man, full of 
 vitality and high spirits. People might say that 
 the wisest thing would be to accept the situation 
 and to be content with each other's friendship ! 
 But I can't I can't accept it ! You have got ac- 
 customed to seeing me grow a little older each 
 year. He has n't. It must have been a shock 
 to him when he saw me on Saturday. Time is 
 much more cruel to a woman than it is to a man. 
 Oh, yes, it is !" she added, seeing his look of sym- 
 pathetic protest. "It 's a tragic moment when 
 a woman realizes she is no longer wanted." 
 
 Seppy reflected. "Just as a man gets a shock 
 the first time a boy of twenty calls him 'sir,' " he 
 suggested. 
 
 "My dear Seppy, you are always so sympa- 
 thetic!" said Amelia, a little mockery in her voice. 
 "If I were a man," she added scornfully, "I 
 would n't sympathize with women." 
 
 "What would you do?" asked Seppy curiously. 
 
 "I 'd go round with a club," replied Amelia 
 fiercely. 
 
 Later on Seppy had been sent into the library 
 to entertain H. Simms. John and Amelia dis-
 
 THREADS 255 
 
 covered him there, vainly endeavoring to make 
 himself agreeable to a stout woman of forty-five 
 with a blustering and rather patronizing manner 
 what a school for journalists describes in its 
 prospectus as "an assured manner," and under- 
 takes to teach in twelve lessons. ("Mention this 
 advertisement!") 
 
 H. Simms was the sort of woman the average 
 man would run a mile to avoid meeting. She was 
 so abnormally stout, so unnecessarily aggressive, 
 so absurdly like a fat man in petticoats but for 
 the fact that a man's weight is nearer to earth. 
 She had such an unnaturally deep voice that it dis- 
 turbed one's nerves; when she interviewed a man, 
 he would say anything in order to get it over. So 
 many women of that type and age secure positions 
 on daily papers. Perhaps they scare the editors. 
 
 John could imagine her writing some such 
 gossipy paragraph as this: "I met Lord Algy 
 Torkum at the Royal Garden Party on Wednes- 
 day. Everyone one knows was there. 'Jinks' 
 Lord Algy is always 'Jinks' to his intimates told 
 me a rather naughty story which I can't refrain 
 from telling you. It was about a fascinating 
 revue star, who, by the way, tells me that she 
 has " And so forth. 
 
 Her skirt was too long where it should have 
 been short, and too short where it should have 
 been long, perfectly cut, but badly put on. Her
 
 256 THREADS 
 
 coat was tight too tight and her hat hard and 
 hideously unbecoming. Her manner was that of 
 an autocrat. Her class was shown by her devo- 
 tion to buttered toast, strong tea with sugar in 
 it, and the novels of Miss Marie Corelli. She 
 preferred muffins "nice and juicy" with heaps of 
 butter; but one must suffer for the sake of the 
 war. In her spare time she produced columns of 
 "Economical Recipes" containing dozens of eggs 
 and quarts of cream. As a majority of her 
 readers had never seen a quart of cream in one 
 jug, they were immensely flattered at the impli- 
 cation that cream in such quantities was their 
 customary allowance. She was kind to her 
 mother. 
 
 "Excuse me!" inquired H. Simms. "Mr. 
 Wynn?" 
 
 "How do you do?" said John. 
 
 "I represent the Morning Megaphone" said 
 H. Simms. It was an unnecessary remark. On 
 seeing H. Simms one naturally thought of the 
 Morning Megaphone. 
 
 "I did n't know you were a woman," explained 
 Amelia, a little tactlessly, John thought. He 
 himself was n't certain, but he had concealed the 
 fact. 
 
 "I 'm the M. M.'s star reporter," announced 
 H. Simms, taking out a note-book to refresh her 
 memory. She had interviewed many celebrities
 
 THREADS 257 
 
 in her time, and had occasionally mixed them up 
 in her copy. She was celebrated in Fleet Street 
 for having on one occasion given the credit of an 
 epigram of Mr. Horatio Bottomley's to Mr. 
 Bernard Shaw. She had interviewed both gentle- 
 men on the same day, so there was some excuse 
 for this unfortunate slip of the pen. 
 
 "You have met my wife and Colonel Pack- 
 inder?" inquired John politely. 
 
 "I have met Colonel Packinder at the Press 
 Bureau," replied H. Simms grimly. "I used a 
 quotation from Kipling's 'Recessional' 'The cap- 
 tains and the kings depart' in a descriptive 
 article, and Colonel Packinder made me cut out 
 'captains' and 'kings,' lest it should give informa- 
 tion to the enemy." 
 
 "I consider that episode has been grossly ex- 
 aggerated," protested Seppy huffily. 
 
 "It could n't be," replied the lady journalist 
 drily. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Miss Simms?" asked 
 John. 
 
 H. Simms sat down, crossed her legs, and 
 glanced through her notes. "Was there anything 
 you objected to in the prison system?" she in- 
 quired, moistening her pencil absent-mindedly. 
 It was an indelible pencil she afterward won- 
 dered why everybody stared at her in the train. 
 
 John lit a cigarette and offered the box to the
 
 258 THREADS 
 
 interviewer, who took one mechanically. "There 
 is one very great deprivation the prisoners have 
 to suffer," he explained, with an ironical gravity 
 that completely escaped the lady's notice. "They 
 are forbidden to take the Morning Megaphone." 
 He shook his head sadly. "How can their minds 
 expand and their moral tone develop, when they 
 are denied the offices of our most popular news- 
 paper?" 
 
 "That 's a very good point," said H. Simms, 
 impervious to irony. 
 
 John, thus encouraged, continued in the same 
 vein. "Another thing! It is very distressing for 
 a man unaccustomed to early rising to be com- 
 pelled to get up without any early tea, mind you ! 
 in the small hours of the morning, and to be 
 expected to retire before it is dark. It doesn't 
 tend to make him contented with his surround- 
 ings. Why, even the conscientious objectors are 
 permitted to subscribe to their favorite organs of 
 public opinion I" he added, with the kind of in- 
 dignation that finds an outlet in the correspond- 
 ence columns of the daily press. 
 
 H. Simms chronicled the indignation, but failed 
 to observe the twinkle that accompanied it. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Wynn," she remarked, "the Morn- 
 ing Megaphone is prepared to pay you a shilling 
 a word for the sole serial rights of your story
 
 THREADS 259 
 
 to be published in instalments with photo- 
 graphs." 
 
 John smiled. It was extremely kind of the 
 Morning Megaphone. 
 
 "I have the contract here; it only needs your 
 signature," said H. Simms, depositing a document 
 on the table. 
 
 "I have no desire to contribute to the hilarity 
 of the British breakfast-table," protested John. 
 
 H. Simms looked up quickly. "Have you been 
 offered better terms?" she asked. 
 
 John shook his head. "It is n't a question of 
 good terms, but of good taste," he said. 
 
 "Any reasonable man would prefer doubtful 
 taste at a shilling a word to fastidiousness at a 
 guinea a column," argued the journalist. 
 
 "I dislike publicity," John protested. 
 
 "My dear sir! Publicity is what everyone is 
 trying to obtain. We offer it to you at a profit," 
 explained H. Simms. 
 
 "Perhaps, John, for the sake of our chil- 
 dren " suggested Amelia. Like most women, 
 she entertained a certain amount of awe and re- 
 spect for the press. To have seen something in 
 the paper was to have insured its reliability. 
 
 "For the sake of our children," replied John 
 quietly, "I would rather the whole episode were 
 forgotten." 
 
 "Impossible !" cried H. Simms. "It 's too good
 
 26o THREADS 
 
 a story! The press will be black with it to- 
 morrow. A great wrong has been done you, Mr. 
 Wynn, and it 's the business of the press to see 
 that such a thing does n't occur again." 
 
 "I realize that the press is the watch-dog of 
 the nation," murmured John. 
 
 H. Simms became practical. "The Morning 
 Megaphone will give you one and threepence a 
 word and free insurance, not only against hostile 
 aircraft, but against our own anti-aircraft guns," 
 she announced. 
 
 "Hang it all, sir!" cried Seppy, "those are 
 deuced generous terms. You Ve only got to 
 slang the government sufficiently hard, and they '11 
 create a new department and make you its per- 
 manent head. There are still the Ritz and the 
 Carlton and the Piccadilly waiting to be com- 
 mandeered. Personally, I should choose the 
 Ritz." 
 
 One of John's chief disappointments on return- 
 ing to life was to hear that Sir William Gilbert 
 had passed away; but he was delighted to realize 
 that the Gilbertian spirit still flourished, particu- 
 larly in departmental administration. "Is the 
 country run entirely on Gilbertian lines?" he in- 
 quired innocently. 
 
 "The country is run on the lines laid down by 
 my editor," replied H. Simms promptly. 
 
 John contemplated the idea of emigration. He
 
 THREADS 261 
 
 had come back, expecting to creep into a quiet 
 corner, but he found himself welcomed by the 
 brass band of the press to-day's sensation until 
 to-morrow's knocked him from his pedestal. 
 
 "You 're good for three weeks unless peace 
 is declared," announced H. Simms. "And the 
 Morning Megaphone has no intention of allowing 
 peace to be declared until the nation has had 
 most of its habits upset." 
 
 "I 'm sorry you had to wait so long," said 
 John, rising. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right!" replied H. Simms, 
 pocketing her note-book and taking the hint. 
 "But about that story," she added, handing him 
 the document she had thrown on the table. "Here 
 is the agreement for you to sign. We must pre- 
 pare the public for your revelations. We Ve got 
 to start by telling them what we are paying you; 
 that always impresses them. Money talks, Mr. 
 Wynn, louder every day. Even the Morning 
 Megaphone is double its original price and gives 
 half its original reading matter. A celebrity is 
 made by advertisement, and a newspaper by ad- 
 vertisements. Good evening!" 
 
 H. Simms habitually bowed herself out with 
 an attempt at epigram. She had been taught this 
 at the school for journalists. She walked to the 
 station feeling very pleased with herself. She 
 was the kind of woman who drew vitality from
 
 262 THREADS 
 
 the people she came in contact with. What ex- 
 hausted her victims refreshed her. One can tell 
 the true egotist by his or her vampire-like quality. 
 
 "It 's funny she never married," said John, 
 tearing the agreement into spills. 
 
 "Good Lord, Wynn," cried Seppy, "you 're 
 destroying the contract!" 
 
 "What did you expect me to do with it?" asked 
 John.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 An hour, once sped, that ne'er can be recalled, 
 O Love! If that same hour could be prolonged 
 Through all eternity, it would be too short! 
 
 Pro Patrio, Act 4. 
 
 JOHN was one of those men who believed in 
 progress, but not in vulgarity; in publicity, but 
 not in advertisement; in the freedom of the press, 
 but not in pandering to the public appetite for 
 sensation. "You won't get anything if you take 
 that line," Seppy had remarked reproachfully; 
 but John wanted nothing but leave to reconstruct 
 his life without undue interference. It might be 
 much simpler to go with the crowd and to think 
 as they did, for a minority had always been un- 
 popular; but was not popularity the requiem of 
 moral and intellectual development? One had 
 but to read popular authors, to listen to popular 
 politicians and publicists, to realize that one took 
 away nothing but eyewash, bunkum, dope. There 
 were a number of people in the country who went 
 about distributing eyewash in barrels to a credu- 
 lous public, a public who wanted eyewash and 
 were not satisfied until they got it. The hatred 
 
 263
 
 264 THREADS 
 
 of truth was a disease from which the majority 
 were suffering. 
 
 When a man came along who told the truth, the 
 majority immediately conspired to squash him, 
 to silence him, and to warn others who might en- 
 deavor to follow in his footsteps. Novels of 
 sticky sentimentality, with heroes of the "This 
 style 275. 6d." brand vied in popularity with those 
 of the newer school weak imitations of La 
 Comedie Humaine without the genius novels 
 that indulged in intimate revelations of the pas- 
 sions, animal chiefly, of dull and uninteresting 
 members of the lower middle class, novels 
 steeped in "sex interest," that discussed in detail 
 the physical results of propinquity, and reveled in 
 lurid passages of overdone reticence concerning 
 the thoughts, temptations, and desires of semi- 
 decadent young men who meditated, and occa- 
 sionally indulged in, nocturnal excursions to the 
 attics where servant girls of a coming-on disposi- 
 tion were accustomed to take their rest. The 
 public considered this to be realism of a wonderful 
 kind, and the books in question were read largely 
 by childless women and middle-aged maiden 
 ladies. Novelists of intelligence who told the 
 truth without hiding it in a purple handkerchief 
 were considered "shocking" ; but the newer school 
 writers dressed up their offerings, not to shock or 
 to "warn, but to appeal to the public's worst in-
 
 THREADS 265 
 
 stincts. "Suggestion" was the dominant note in 
 the plays presented in those early days of the 
 war, particularly in those amazing medleys of 
 tinkling tunes and inanities called "revues." A 
 straight play had small chance of getting a hear- 
 ing. "We want to be amused," was the cry; 
 and the public had been educated to find amuse- 
 ment only in bad taste and to laugh only at obvi- 
 ous suggestiveness. The press either set or fol- 
 lowed the tone of the nation. A few papers tried 
 to set it, but the majority were content to follow, 
 either to save trouble or in answer to urgent 
 "memos" from the managers of the advertising 
 departments. 
 
 Why were the majority of our great criminals 
 so often exceptionally able men? Because they 
 had brains, and, realizing that brains were of very 
 little use in the majority of professions, they had 
 adopted a career of crime in order to avoid intel- 
 lectual inertia. If a few score of our brilliant 
 criminals, thought John, could change places with 
 an equal number of our abnormally conscientious 
 Cabinet Ministers, the result would be electrify- 
 ing for England. An expert criminal does not 
 whitewash a comrade who has made a mess of his 
 job ; he kicks him out. He realizes that a muddler 
 is a danger to the profession. But a statesman 
 who blundered was sent to the House of Lords,
 
 266 THREADS 
 
 which was the finest reformatory in the world for 
 living down an asinine past. 
 
 John was neither a criminal nor a Cabinet Min- 
 ister, and he had no desire for popularity. He 
 merely wished to be let alone to enjoy himself in 
 the bosom of his exceptionally charming family. 
 But Arthur, his son 
 
 "I have tried to do my duty to our children," 
 Amelia had said. "Arthur is not a coward, but 
 jlhis prospects " 
 
 "Would any man in England have any pros- 
 pects if every man thought of his own?" John 
 had replied. He realized that Arthur must have 
 courage to walk down Whitehall in civilian clothes 
 at his age. 
 
 Arthur had married, against his father's 
 wishes. John was determined that no amount of 
 sentimentality should interfere with his firmness 
 of purpose. 
 
 A little later Jimmy burst into the room. 
 "They are just coming up the drive," he informed 
 Amelia. "Jordan biffed on ahead to warn us. I 
 say, I sha'n't have to kiss the bride, shall I?" 
 
 Jordan followed him into the room, his man- 
 ner a little apologetic. The American genius for 
 speech-making came to his assistance. He wished 
 to express his regret for assisting Arthur to set 
 their wishes at defiance; but as Arthur had done 
 him the honor to ask his assistance, he could not
 
 THREADS 267 
 
 very well have refused. And, at the same time, 
 he had deeply appreciated the privilege of being 
 associated so intimately with such an auspicious 
 event in the history of a family he had learned 
 to love and admire. 
 
 "Hear, hear! And so forth!" exclaimed 
 Jimmy, considerably bored. 
 
 Amelia came to the rescue. "I am glad you 
 were able to help him, Mr. Jordan," she said. 
 
 "It was an honor," repeated Jordan, after ex- 
 plaining the details of the ceremony and how it 
 had happened that he had been called in to take 
 part in it He had taken it all very seriously. 
 After the wedding was an accomplished fact, 
 Arthur had repaid him with a casual "Thanks 
 awf'ly!" and Chloe had shaken his hand warmly 
 and shown her gratitude. Jordan, full of "uplift" 
 on account of a very vital decision he had made, 
 had thrown himself heart and soul into sympathy 
 with the young couple and had omitted to talk 
 of his own affairs or of the decision in question, 
 much as he longed to do so. But American men, 
 in spite of being prolific conversationists, are, as 
 a rule, far better and far more sympathetic lis- 
 teners than the average Englishman can even 
 pretend to be. 
 
 "Sir," said Jordan, solemnly turning to John, 
 "I should like to speak to you as the head of your 
 family!"
 
 268 THREADS 
 
 John looked at Amelia quaintly. "Am I the 
 head of my family?" he asked. 
 
 "I hope so, John," she replied quietly. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Jordan?" said John. 
 
 Jordan was a little embarrassed; he felt rather 
 self-conscious. He had done a very sporting 
 thing, and he felt strangely like an Englishman ; 
 that is to say, rather ashamed of acknowledging 
 it. 
 
 "Mr. Rattigan has given me permission to 
 apply for a commission in the Flying Corps," he 
 announced. "I can't afford the time to go home 
 to train in the United States; that's why I am 
 joining the British army." 
 
 Their reception of the news was all that could 
 be desired. John congratulated him heartily, 
 Amelia looked at him nervously, Jimmy whistled 
 admiringly, and Olive drew a quick breath. Jor- 
 dan went on to explain that Mr. Rattigan had 
 considerable influence with the powers that be, 
 that the question of nationality was to be over- 
 looked, America now being an ally, and that he 
 had been told that the commission would be 
 granted almost immediately, as Jordan's well- 
 known powers of organization and his ability for 
 getting things done had impressed themselves on 
 the mandarins of Whitehall. America was com- 
 ing to the assistance of the old country in more 
 ways than one ; she was sending men, money, and
 
 THREADS 269 
 
 munitions, and she was lending some of her best 
 brains. Perhaps, after the war, the obstinate 
 stupidity of George III and his followers, and 
 the unstatesmanlike folly and cupidity of British 
 rulers during the long tragedy of the early sixties, 
 would be forgotten; perhaps the American dis- 
 like of British stupidity and conservatism, and 
 the British jealousy of American success, would 
 fade into obscurity and the two nations march 
 in step toward the ultimate goal of democratic 
 freedom. It was a thrilling thought. 
 
 "I should like your permission, sir, to pay my 
 addresses to your daughter," said Jordan. 
 
 "To me?" gasped Olive. 
 
 "Surely," replied Jordan, slightly bewildered. 
 
 "But I thought that is, I thought you were 
 that you came here on mother's account," stam- 
 mered Olive. 
 
 Jordan looked at her steadily. "Why, no ! It 
 was you all the time," he said. "It has never been 
 anyone but you." 
 
 Olive, perplexed, turned to her mother. "But 
 I 'm sure mother thought didn't you, mother?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Amelia calmly. "Mr. Jor- 
 dan has been charming, but I always knew 
 why" 
 
 This was not strictly true. Most men of her 
 acquaintance had ben in love with Amelia at some 
 time or another. She Had appreciated their de-
 
 270 THREADS 
 
 votion, enjoyed their companionship, accepted 
 their attentions ; but she had taken it all for what 
 it was worth. A normal woman with a grown- 
 up daughter could scarcely be expected to go out 
 of her way to avoid receiving admiration. 
 
 Olive had taken it all with admirable philos- 
 ophy. If a man preferred her mother's society, 
 why shouldn't he indulge his preference? Olive 
 had her girl friends to fall back upon. That she 
 was a little in love with Jordan she did not at- 
 tempt to deny; that she was on the verge of caring 
 very deeply for him was a fact she had been com- 
 pelled to face; that the odds against his ever 
 caring for her in that way had been fifty to one 
 was a thought constantly in her mind. So, being 
 a healthy-minded girl, she had let things drift 
 and enjoyed herself to the best of her ability. 
 But now that he was going to join up, to risk his 
 life hourly, daily the more she felt a thing, the 
 less she showed it. 
 
 "It is my intention to persuade Miss Olive to 
 marry me at once if I am lucky enough to win 
 her regard," said Jordan. 
 
 "You are so old-fashioned in everything but 
 business!" exclaimed Olive. 
 
 "I hope, sir, that you have no objection?" 
 asked Jordan. 
 
 "My dear fellow," replied John, "if Olive 
 thinks as you do "
 
 THREADS 271 
 
 "Why, of course, father!" protested Olive 
 calmly. "Would any girl refuse to marry a man 
 in the Flying Corps?" 
 
 "I am very sensible of the honor you are doing 
 me in allowing me to enter your family," con- 
 tinued Jordan ceremoniously. 
 
 "My dear Jordan," said John, catching the spirit 
 of the occasion, "we are proud to welcome an ally I" 
 
 "Sir," replied Jordan, squaring his shoulders, 
 "I am proud to be an ally I" 
 
 Seppy, with a desire to be in the picture and 
 an incurable longing to have a finger in every pie, 
 stepped forward and held out his hand. "My 
 dear fellow!" he exclaimed, "we shall be proud 
 to welcome you in the British army; and, as an 
 old soldier, let me be the first to tell you so." 
 
 "Thank you, Colonel," replied Jordan, taking 
 his proffered hand. 
 
 Jimmy summed up the situation rather neatly. 
 "This ought to make Arthur feel a bit sick," he 
 remarked. 
 
 Olive was not going to be robbed of her per- 
 quisites. "Father," she asked, "what was it that 
 Mr. Jordan wanted permission to do?" 
 
 John chuckled. "To pay his addresses to you," 
 he replied gravely. 
 
 "Does that mean you want to propose to me?" 
 inquired Olive, looking at Jordan meaningly. 
 
 "Sure," said Jordan.
 
 272 THREADS 
 
 "Right-ho !" replied Olive, looking at her wrist- 
 watch. "And after that I must go and fish out a 
 photograph of myself for the war brides' page 
 in the Morning Megaphone!" 
 
 "But you have n't accepted him yet," John pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "I should like to see my pictures in all the 
 papers," said Olive. "It 's half the fun of being 
 a war bride." 
 
 "I guess we 'd better hurry along that pro- 
 posal," suggested Jordan impatiently. 
 
 "I say," interpolated Jimmy, "I should like to 
 hear old Jordan proposing. May I come too?" 
 
 Jordan smiled a large, unrationed smile. 
 "Nothing doing, Jimmy," he replied. 
 
 "Oh, come along!" cried Olive, taking her 
 lover's arm. "Your last train goes at eleven." 
 
 Why is it that, when you are supremely happy, 
 there is always a last train to catch, or some form 
 of the sword of Damocles hanging over your 
 head? If you are engaged, one or the other has 
 to go, and the hours fly so quickly, while to- 
 morrow seems an eternity away. If you are 
 married, there are relations to placate, old family 
 friends to pacify, callers to entertain, work to 
 be done; and the world always on the threshold. 
 There are times when one prays for the world 
 to pause, other times when one longs for it to 
 hasten. Is heaven just the state of being happy
 
 THREADS 273 
 
 with those one loves, with no yesterday to deplore, 
 no to-morrow to dread? Or is it a state in which 
 one has no regrets and no fears? 
 
 To Olive and Jordan the evening passed much 
 too quickly, but they made the most of it; yet 
 Olive could not get a picture out of her head 
 Victoria Station, and the leave-train waiting to 
 carry her lover to Folkestone ; and, after that, the 
 dread of the sight of a telegraph messenger; long, 
 lonely days, and still more lonely nights, when 
 fear sat by the window; and passionate rebellion 
 against the political ambitions of kings and min- 
 isters that brought suffering and sorrow to wives 
 and mothers. 
 
 That night there was "nothing to report" on 
 the western front; but men died suddenly, and 
 others were carried back to the casualty clearing 
 stations, shattered, crippled, and the wires flashed 
 the news to those who were waiting, to those 
 who had lived in a kind of dream, dreading the 
 news that might come. 
 
 And the royal megalomaniac held conferences 
 with "the old German god" and issued his instruc- 
 tions for support. 
 
 Olive and Jordan said good-by near the gates. 
 In a wood below a nightingale was singing. How 
 beautiful the world could be! 
 
 Jordan missed his train and had to walk to 
 Rickmansworttu
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Son: If yon would but pay the cost? 
 Reformer: What then? 
 Son: I can retain the post. It suits me. 
 Reformer: It will leave me bankrupt. 
 Son: Too badt 
 
 Pro Patria, Act a. 
 
 ARTHUR and Chloe had enjoyed rather an event- 
 ful day. Arthur had spent the morning occupied 
 in the British sport of wangling, leaving Chloe 
 to make some necessary purchases, having ar- 
 ranged to meet her at the Carlton Grill Room at 
 half-past twelve. He pulled wires, drew some 
 money from the bank, procured his special 
 license, secured a couple of days' leave "on 
 urgent private affairs," and telephoned to Jordan 
 to be at the Carlton Grill Room at twelve-thirty. 
 The three had partaken of an excellent lunch, 
 and had then taken a taxicab to a church where 
 the vicar, an old friend of Arthur's, had duly 
 married them, Jordan acting as best man, and a 
 friend of Chloe's a well-known suffragist who 
 had suffered imprisonment and forcible feeding 
 in 1913, who wept copiously all through the ser- 
 vice arriving in the nick of time to attend the 
 bride. They taxied to the Ritz for tea, Chloe 
 
 274
 
 THREADS 275 
 
 fingering her wedding-ring with some awe, and 
 Arthur had telephoned both to Chenies and to 
 Chalfont. Jordan excused himself and went 
 straight to Chalfont; the suffragist friend of the 
 bride stayed on for another half-hour, longing 
 to find an excuse for her departure, but much 
 too shy to invent one. Finally Arthur had given 
 her an opportunity to remember a mythical en- 
 gagement, and she had made a hurried exit. 
 
 The young couple spent a pleasant hour going 
 over some flats that were to let, the rents of 
 which averaged some four hundred pounds a 
 year. These flats were small and not particu- 
 larly convenient, but they were in the right streets 
 and squares which made up for a good deal. 
 They finally secured the refusal of a charming 
 flat in Knightsbridge, and, after an early dinner 
 at the Piccadilly Grill Room, took a cab to Baker 
 Street, and reached Chalfont about nine o'clock. 
 
 Amelia welcomed them warmly, though a trifle 
 tearfully. John was very polite and rather 
 amused. 
 
 "How do you reconcile this haste with your 
 common-sense logic?" he asked. 
 
 Chloe explained that it was the essence of 
 common sense to do what you wanted first and 
 to argue about it afterward. She insisted, much 
 to his embarrassment, on kissing her youthful
 
 276 THREADS 
 
 brother-in-law. She had quite a delightful sense 
 of humor. 
 
 Jimmy escaped, and for some weeks was a 
 confirmed misogynist. 
 
 "Did you expect me to be overcome by the 
 sentiment proper to the occasion and to present 
 you with a large check?" inquired John. 
 
 Chloe smiled. "Very few people are senti- 
 mental where money is concerned outside the 
 theater," she replied. 
 
 Seppy was full of sentiment, overflowing with 
 little remarks proper to the occasion. "I hope 
 you will allow me to wish you happiness?" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Thanks, old man I" said Arthur, rather bored 
 by the whole atmosphere. 
 
 "Oh, Arthur!" cried Amelia. Her mouth was 
 quivering, and her eyes full of tears. It is rather 
 an event in the life of a mother when she welcomes 
 her son's wife; she has some excuse for being 
 emotional. But the average son is a little unre- 
 sponsive to emotion, and perhaps it is just as 
 well. 
 
 "That's all right, mother!" he protested 
 kindly. "Don't let 's have a scene !" 
 
 "We shall have to go home and explain things 
 to mother," said Chloe; "if we hurry, we shall 
 get there just after father has had his second 
 whisky-and-soda. He 's always more philosophic
 
 THREADS 277 
 
 on two whiskies-and-sodas than he is on a ration 
 breakfast." 
 
 "You might tell Collins to get the car out," 
 suggested Arthur to Jimmy. 
 
 "All right," replied Jimmy. "I say, father! 
 Arc you going to fork out an allowance for 
 them?" he inquired. 
 
 John explained that he would have much pleas- 
 ure in doing so after Arthur had been gazetted. 
 
 "That's one on him!" exclaimed Jimmy, 
 chuckling. "You won't catch old Arthur leaving 
 the P.O. ; he 's too jolly comfortable I" 
 
 It was at this point that Chloe had her re- 
 venge on the discomfited Harrovian, who retired 
 in disorder. 
 
 "You see," Arthur explained, "it would mean 
 teaching another man my job which would up- 
 set the routine." 
 
 "Arthur has thought of a much better plan 
 than that," said Chloe. 
 
 "You said, sir, that you would n't mind if 
 only one member of our family had joined up, and 
 I quite see your point." Arthur took out his 
 cigarette-case, selected a cigarette with some care, 
 tapped it against the arm of his chair, lighted it, 
 and deposited the match on an ash-tray. "I 
 quite see your point," he repeated, blowing smoke 
 through his nose and smiling affably. "I saw my 
 chief and explained the situation, and he explained
 
 278 THREADS 
 
 it to his chief, who explained it to the Foreign 
 Secretary, who passed it on to the Prime Minister, 
 who had a word with the War Office; and the 
 result is " He flicked the ash from his cigarette. 
 "The result is, they have consented to offer you 
 a commission." 
 
 There was complete silence for a moment, 
 broken by a gasp from Amelia. 
 
 "Arthur!" she protested. 
 
 "So, you see, there will be at least one of us in 
 the army," concluded this master of diplomacy 
 with some satisfaction. 
 
 John looked at his son. "My dear Arthur!" 
 he exclaimed : "As a diplomat you will go far. I 
 congratulate you!" 
 
 "Don't you think it was a brilliant idea?" said 
 Chloe. 
 
 "It was worthy of the source from which it 
 came," replied John. 
 
 Amelia was shocked. "Arthur!" she cried 
 again reproachfully. 
 
 "My dear!" said John gently; "we shall only 
 embarrass our son!" 
 
 But in that he was guilty of exaggeration. 
 Arthur did not appear in the least embarrassed. 
 It was a master stroke of policy; it was worthy 
 of the future Under-Secretary for Foreign 
 Affairs.
 
 THREADS 279 
 
 "May I inquire to what regiment I am to be 
 gazetted?" inquired John politely. 
 
 "You are to be an assistant A.P.M. an 
 Assistant Provost Marshal," replied Arthur. 
 "It 's a very important job I" he added, with the 
 air of a dispenser of favors, 
 
 "What are the duties of an A.P.M. ?" asked 
 John. 
 
 "You will have to walk about the West End 
 and see that the old dug-outs in staff jobs get 
 plenty of salutes, and that an officer does n't walk 
 down Piccadilly with his hands in his pockets or 
 wearing fancy socks. Isn't that it, Seppy?" in- 
 quired Arthur. 
 
 "More or less," agreed Seppy, "More or 
 less." 
 
 "But I want to help to win the war," protested 
 John. 
 
 "The observance of strict military etiquette by 
 temporary soldiers is bound to win it in time," 
 replied Arthur. "Of course, if you would rather 
 have a political job, I '11 see what can be done," 
 he added graciously. 
 
 "No, thank you, Arthur!" said his father; "I 'd 
 rather win the war by walking than by talking." 
 
 Though, candidly, he scarcely relished the no- 
 tion of being compelled to teach men from the 
 trenches how to become soldiers, and he disliked 
 the idea of being the fly in the ointment as far
 
 280 THREADS 
 
 as the enjoyment of a man-on-leave in London 
 was concerned. It was rather like being an 
 assistant master at a mixed school. The whole 
 thing was grotesque. It was like Arthur to sug- 
 gest it. But he swallowed his indignation. After 
 all, the notion was distinctly humorous. 
 
 "You '11 accept the commission?" said Arthur. 
 
 "Naturally!" replied his father. 
 
 After all, it would give him a chance to serve 
 his country and at the same time to get back 
 his perspective on things. His country had robbed 
 him of a quarter of his life, but somehow it would 
 be pleasant to repay that act of robbery by ser- 
 vice, however humble. 
 
 "Don't worry, my dear!" he said to Amelia, 
 who was feeling for her handkerchief; "they are 
 not going to put me in the front line." 
 
 "I think it 's splendid of you to want to serve 
 your country after the way you have been 
 treated," said Chloe, biting her lip and looking 
 at Arthur with rather unfriendly eyes. She felt 
 curiously ashamed. 
 
 "I hope I shall prove an efficient substitute for 
 my son," replied John, with gentle irony. 
 
 Arthur coughed, and crushed his cigarette. 
 "With reference to that allowance you were 
 speaking of," he suggested. 
 
 John chuckled. "I shall look upon it as 
 lagniappe for getting me my commission."
 
 THREADS 281 
 
 "Oh, that's all right!" said Arthur coolly. 
 "Glad to do it for you!" 
 
 "I hope they will make me a major," mused his 
 father. "I somehow fancy myself as a major: he 
 is more human than a captain and less ratty than 
 a colonel. He is the link between the dug-out 
 and the digger. You might remember that, 
 Arthur, when you are wangling my promotion." 
 
 "I '11 mention it to my chief," replied Arthur. 
 
 "Do you think there 's any chance of our being 
 happy?" said Chloe to Amelia, as Arthur was 
 cranking up the car that was to bear them to 
 Chenies. Amelia squeezed her hand. It was the 
 only reply she could make. Could any woman 
 be happy with such an egotist as Arthur had 
 proved himself to be? "I suggested Arthur's 
 getting Mr. Wynn that commission as a joke, 
 thinking he would feel a little ashamed," con- 
 tinued Chloe; "and he took it seriously." 
 
 "My dear Chloe !" said John, overhearing her 
 remark. "We are ruled by men who take jokes 
 seriously, and serious things as a joke." 
 
 Chloe pondered the question. If they had chil- 
 dren, how could she ever explain to them why 
 their father would n't fight? 
 
 She kissed Amelia, and seated herself in the 
 car. She was very silent during the drive. "We 
 shall be able to take that flat," remarked Arthur, 
 skilfully avoiding a belated pedestrian. Chloe
 
 282 THREADS 
 
 sighed. A little of the gilt had already been 
 rubbed off the frame. 
 
 On arriving at Chenies, Lady Gratham cried 
 a little and Lord Gratham blustered. They were 
 easily pacified. 
 
 The newly married couple drove up to town and 
 spent the night at the Ritz, where they had taken 
 rooms. 
 
 It is sometimes profitable to be an "indispen- 
 sable." 
 
 They spent the next day in buying furniture 
 for John had sent them a generous check, which 
 arrived during breakfast by special messenger. 
 
 A couple of hundred miles away the barrage 
 had lifted and men were going over the top. The 
 casualty list was heavy, but some ground was 
 gained 
 
 Arthur and Chloe, however, were endeavoring 
 to resist the temptation to furnish the drawing- 
 room in satinwood. 
 
 That night, as they dined at the Ritz, Arthur 
 having glanced at an evening paper, remarked: 
 "I see we 've lost a trench." 
 
 "Have we?" replied Chloe. "You know, 
 Arthur, satinwood is expensive, but it does last!" 
 
 "I know," said Arthur. "Let 's go and see 
 George Robey at the Alhambra!"
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Lesbia: I want him to go. 
 Reformer: Then I will tell him to. 
 
 Lesbia: No; you would be too brutal. I will make him think he has 
 offered to renounce me. He will feel a hero. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act a. 
 
 "AMELIA!" said John, after the bridal couple had 
 been whirled away, "that boy is a prig and a 
 fool!" 
 
 Yes, he knew she had tried to do her duty 
 to their children ; but the only way to treat a boy 
 like that was to apply physical force to that part 
 of his anatomy so carefully provided by nature 
 for the purpose. 
 
 Seppy agreed with him. Seppy's code was old- 
 fashioned in some things. He was an egotist, 
 too; but there were limits beyond which egotism 
 should not go. At any rate, there were occasions 
 on which egotism should be camouflaged. 
 
 "May I ask whether I shall have to salute you 
 when I am an A.P.M.?" inquired John genially. 
 "Because, if so, it would perhaps be wiser to 
 have a little chat before I render myself liable to 
 be shot at dawn for undisciplinary conduct toward 
 my superior officer." 
 
 283
 
 284 THREADS 
 
 Seppy looked at him anxiously. He hoped the 
 fellow was not going to make a scene. A scene 
 would be so out of place in this charming atmos- 
 phere. He fidgeted uncomfortably. It was diffi- 
 cult to understand whether John was in earnest. 
 
 "You and I are both in love with my wife," said 
 John. 
 
 Amelia was startled; she looked up from her 
 place by the tea-tray. She always had a pot of 
 China tea brought in at ten o'clock. The men 
 could indulge in whiskies-and-sodas if they wished 
 to, and they usually did; but for Amelia tea was 
 the only night-cap. It was a gentle stimulant, but 
 a soothing one. The Chancellor of the Ex- 
 chequer, who when in doubt taxed tea, was 
 cordially disliked by the women of England. 
 
 "John," she cried, "you never said you were in 
 love with me I" 
 
 "My dear! I thought it was obvious," he 
 protested. 
 
 Amelia bit her lip. "You mean you took it for 
 granted that I should still care for you?" 
 
 "No," replied John; "I take nothing for 
 granted." 
 
 The man who takes nothing for granted is fre- 
 quently called a cynic; but some men are born 
 with the craze for analysis and the desire to rea- 
 son things out for themselves. Through them 
 and their kind the world progresses. Some men
 
 THREADS 285 
 
 fly to a dictionary for explanations, while others 
 prove them by experience. 
 
 "As I am the host," added John, a little grimly, 
 "I should like our friend to have the first innings." 
 
 "You 're only half serious," protested Amelia 
 indignantly. 
 
 "I am in deadly earnest," said John. "But I 
 understand that he has been such a good friend 
 to you." 
 
 "I have been her devoted friend for twelve 
 years," cried Seppy. "I have no wish to give up 
 the privilege." 
 
 Amelia sighed. "I am very grateful for all you 
 have done for us, Seppy," she murmured. 
 
 John chuckled. "That sounds uncommonly 
 like 'Cease fire !' When a woman expresses her 
 gratitude for all your attention and sympathy, it 
 usually means that she has had enough of it." 
 
 "Does it mean that, Amelia?" inquired Seppy 
 reproachfully. 
 
 Amelia wanted to be kind, but she wanted still 
 more to be definite. The time for letting things 
 slide was over. "Much as I appreciate your com- 
 pany, Seppy, you never made me forget my hus- 
 band," she said 
 
 "Amelia 1" protested Seppy, with a catch in 
 his voice. "I loved you 1" 
 
 If a woman cannot have the man she wants, 
 she frequently drugs herself by accepting the devo-
 
 286 THREADS 
 
 tion of the man who wants her. It may be selfish 
 and a little inconsiderate to the man concerned; 
 but, on the other hand, in this particular in- 
 stance, if Seppy had not devoted himself to 
 Amelia, he might have become entangled with 
 some woman who was not at all desirable. 
 
 "At least, I have done you no harm," she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "I refuse to be cast off like a last year's gown," 
 asserted Seppy, with some emphasis. 
 
 "Last year's gowns are not cast off," said John; 
 "they are made over." 
 
 "To think I have known you all these years 
 without knowing you at all I" groaned Seppy. He 
 fidgeted nervously with the ash-tray and spilt its 
 contents on the floor, then absent-mindedly 
 stamped the ash into the rug. His self-respect, 
 his pride, his vanity all the little aids that gave 
 him his poise were protesting against the blow 
 he had received. "Does a man ever really know 
 what a woman is thinking?" he cried. 
 
 "Does she fool him, or does he fool himself? 
 That is the point," said John, 
 
 Seppy sighed. Women were so rarely direct. 
 They corkscrewed, like a winding staircase, where 
 a man would go up in the lift. Women were 
 not subtle; they were merely secretive. Even as 
 a boy, Seppy had discovered that women were 
 difficult to understand; that was why he found
 
 THREADS 287 
 
 them so attractive. A man never knew where he 
 was with them. They pretended to be enjoying 
 themselves, when in reality they were bored stiff ! 
 They said they didn't want a thing, when they 
 were actually pining for it. They admired glori- 
 ous scenery, and assumed enthusiasm over a Bach 
 string quartette, for instance; and all the time 
 they were wondering whether their hats were at 
 the right angle, and why some other woman wore 
 pink when blue was her color. Their minds rioted 
 through a thousand subjects before a man had 
 had time to digest one. They drank coffee after 
 port, and ate ices at all hours of the day and 
 night. They admired some beastly romantic 
 actor, or a fat tenor, neither of whom had ever 
 been drilled or had any pretensions to smart- 
 ness. They had moods of depression, of contra- 
 diction, of penitence the penitent mood was very 
 attractive or high spirits when conscious of 
 looking their best; but when once you had suc- 
 cumbed to the attraction, you found the society 
 of men very tame and ordinary. 
 
 Seppy sighed again. He remembered his 
 school-days, the subtle stuffy aroma of class- 
 rooms, the academic pedantry of the classical mas- 
 ters, the fevered craze for athletic supremacy; 
 the quaint mixture of the prig, the glutton, and 
 the explorer that was in every boy; the confi- 
 dential talks that usually concluded in horse-play;
 
 288 THREADS 
 
 the refined cruelty of the school-boy in his dealings 
 with a nervous master; all the dull, dreary 
 monotony of public-school life. Sandhurst had 
 been little more than a glorified public school, 
 and the army itself was scarcely any different. 
 Either you possessed the school-boy mind and 
 spirit, and gave all your spare time to hunting, 
 shooting, or polo, or you found yourself un- 
 utterably bored both in mess and out of it. Brains 
 were tabu, cleverness was distrusted. Seppy 
 looked back upon a somewhat empty record, the 
 brightest spots in wEich had been filled by women, 
 He had always been decent to women, and 
 women had usually been decent to him. He had 
 never had a great passion; he had never let him- 
 self go; he had attached himself to a few women 
 at various stages of his career one at a time- 
 He had given all his devotion, and had asked for 
 nothing in return. Men called him "Poor old 
 Seppy!" as though they were saying "Good dog!" 
 And now Amelia was thanking him for past 
 favors while her husband gently and ironically 
 chaffed him. 
 
 Seppy looked very sad and forlorn as he sat 
 reflecting on these things; he looked so like a toy 
 balloon that had been pricked that Amelia felt 
 rather guilty. 
 
 "I *m sorry if you feel that I have n't treated 
 you properly," she murmured.
 
 THREADS 289 
 
 "Oh, please!" protested Seppy. But, in spite 
 of his protest, he was beginning to feel that he 
 had been made a convenience of. One could not 
 deny it. He had placed his heart in Amelia's 
 keeping, and she had used it as a paper-weight 
 to keep her receipts in order, as a taxicab whistle, 
 as an army and navy stores catalogue. 
 
 Some men are rather like an army and navy 
 stores catalogue; they possess a little of every- 
 thing, and everything is labeled. Seppy was one 
 of them. 
 
 "My dear Colonel," said John, a little cruelly, 
 "some men would never be loved at all if it was n't 
 for their usefulness. A knowledge of Bradshaw 
 and the best restaurants is of far more value 
 in a husband than a Grecian profile. Is n't it, 
 Amelia?" he added, turning to his wife. 
 
 "A woman admires a man for his looks; she 
 adores him for his brains," said Amelia. 
 
 "Women are materialists; didn't you know 
 that?" inquired John. 
 
 Seppy had placed women on a pedestal 
 Amelia in particular. He hated being compelled 
 to listen to remarks derogatory to women. He 
 remembered moments when he had seen a won- 
 derful far-away look in Amelia's eyes, as though 
 all the secrets and mysteries of the world had 
 been unfolding themselves to her. He would
 
 290 THREADS 
 
 swear that she had not been thinking of brains 
 then. 
 
 John would have said she was probably work- 
 ing out the details of a new frock. Men can be 
 very irritating at times; their humor does not 
 always strike the psychological moment. 
 
 "When you tell me that women are materialists, 
 I can't help feeling very disappointed, for men, 
 too, are materialists," protested Seppy.. 
 
 "Nonsense," replied John. "Men are idealists, 
 dreamers, unpractical, creatures of impulse, 
 changeable, easily petted, easily soothed, easily 
 roused, swift to anger, slow to forgive, full of 
 contradictions, full of little vices and of big 
 virtues." 
 
 "John is quite right," interrupted Amelia. 
 "The more I study boys, the more I understand 
 men." 
 
 "Your children think you understand very 
 littk," cried Seppy. 
 
 "Children always think their parents a little 
 slow in the uptake," replied John. "Some par- 
 ents encourage the notion. The fact is that no 
 one is as wise as he thinks he is, nor as foolish 
 as he appears." 
 
 "Do I appear foolish to you, Amelia?" in- 
 quired Seppy, a trifle overcome at the idea* 
 
 "Not more than most men do at times," re- 
 plied Amelia.
 
 THREADS 291 
 
 John chuckled. The thrust had pierced Seppy's 
 guard, and his own as well. Women were ex- 
 pert fencers, and rarely used buttoned foils. 
 
 "You mustn't give up dropping into dinner," 
 said Amelia. "I 'm sure John won't mind." 
 
 The scene was not panning out as Seppy had 
 planned it. He was beginning to realize how a 
 leading actor must feel when he has to renounce 
 leading roles and assume those of secondary im- 
 portance, when there would no longer be an 
 "and" before his name, when he would no longer 
 be greeted with a round of applause, when his 
 opinions on questions of the day would no longer 
 be sought by journalists anxious to fill a column. 
 He began to visualize himself standing with his 
 back to the club fireplace and beginning anecdotes 
 with the words "I remember." Such an attitude 
 is a milestone in the life of a man : it means that 
 he can no longer look forward, but must from 
 that time on exist in the past. It would be worse 
 than having a seat offered to him by a young 
 man in a crowded train if a young man of such 
 amazing courtesy had by some error strayed into 
 . London. 
 
 He would not submit not without a struggle. 
 He would apply for a job on active service; not 
 that there was very much chance of his getting 
 one, but it would soothe his self-respect to apply 
 for it. Besides, he would mention the fact that
 
 292 THREADS 
 
 he had applied for it to sundry acquaintances at 
 his various clubs. His friends would call him a 
 sport, and some of the members of the softer sex 
 might label him a hero. He was saluted by all 
 and sundry in Pall Mall and Whitehall; but in 
 his heart he realized that he was nothing but a 
 dug-out. He was drawing consolidated pay, and 
 he wore red tabs; but he had only been brought 
 back to take the place of a younger man who 
 was wanted for service overseas. His step would 
 never be quite so jaunty again; he had outlived 
 his usefulness. Amelia was asking him to dinner 
 because she was sorry for him, not because she 
 desired his company. John did not even fear 
 him as a rival. He had been too modest, too 
 easily satisfied. And now he was getting old; he 
 felt he was getting old. He helped himself to a 
 second whisky-and-soda. He needed bucking up. 
 
 John was beginning to realize that he would 
 grow quite fond of Seppy in time- But he was 
 a man, and consequently an individualist, and 
 therefore distinctly averse to sharing with Seppy 
 either his house or his wife's affection. He 
 handed a box of cigarettes to his visitor with the 
 remark: "These are yours, I believe 1" 
 
 Seppy took the box. "I am not going to give 
 in without a struggle," he protested, his second 
 whisky-and-soda having started on the process of 
 bucking him up.
 
 THREADS 293 
 
 "Quite right!" replied John approvingly. He 
 was anxious that Seppy should go and do his 
 struggling somewhere else. He realized that 
 when a woman is taking a tender farewell she 
 liked to prolong the agony and to talk over every 
 phase of it. John, being a man, preferred to get 
 it over without any unnecessary delay. "I want 
 the position thoroughly understood before you 
 become my superior officer." 
 
 "I think you are a little inconsiderate," said 
 Amelia. 
 
 John realized the truth of her remark, but, 
 having decided on his policy, he was determined 
 to see it through. Seppy had to be sacrificed, so 
 it would be wiser to get it over. Amelia must 
 forget Seppy's little ways of doing things that 
 were an improvement on John's; and the sooner 
 she forgot them, the happier they would both be. 
 If Seppy felt aggrieved, he could take it out on 
 his subalterns. 
 
 "I am the last person to insist on my rights at 
 another man's expense," asserted Seppy. 
 
 "No man of any decent feeling considers 
 another man's rights where his own prejudices 
 are concerned," replied John with mock-gravity. 
 
 Amelia tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. 
 "There will be a place laid for. you at lunch every 
 Sunday," she announced. 
 
 Seppy hesitated. After all, it would be very
 
 294 THREADS 
 
 pleasant to have a haven of rest to come down 
 to after the worries of Whitehall; and if he could 
 not make love to Amelia, he could remember past 
 privileges. He still possessed some of the senti- 
 mentality of the nineteenth century, but at the 
 same time he had acquired a reasonable percentage 
 of the hedonistic tendencies of the twentieth. 
 Personal comforts were not to be despised. There 
 were even compensations in being a bachelor. 
 
 The second whisky-and-soda was doing its 
 work well. John's subsequent remark "There 's 
 life in the old dog yet" was distinctly brutal, but 
 perfectly true. Seppy was a soldier; he admitted 
 a reverse, but never a defeat. 
 
 "He will visualize his blighted hopes in every 
 glass of port he drinks," murmured John, after 
 Seppy had hurried off to catch the last train back 
 to town, "He will see himself as the elderly 
 bachelor of Victorian fiction, nursing a broken 
 heart, and it will buck him up like anything." 
 
 It did.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Credit a woman's deeds but not her words. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 4. 
 
 JOHN reflected on what he had accomplished in 
 the comparatively few hours that had elapsed 
 since he had been released from prison. He had 
 encouraged his daughter to follow the instincts of 
 her own heart, and she was now engaged in say- 
 ing a protracted farewell to her acknowledged 
 lover. He had protested against his elder son's 
 refusal to join the army, and he had been tricked 
 into granting that diplomatic young schemer an 
 allowance. He would have to send Arthur a check 
 in the morning as a proof of his defeat. Politi'cal 
 methods always scored. Jimmy appeared to have 
 accepted him as a decent sort of parent. He was 
 gradually assuming the position of master in his 
 own house. Amelia, his wife, was not to be won 
 so easily. She had taken up a book, and was 
 turning over the pages without realizing their 
 meaning. Of what was she thinking? Was she 
 angry with him for his attitude toward Seppy, 
 for his attitude toward her generally? Had he 
 taken too much for granted? Was she resentful 
 
 295
 
 296 THREADS 
 
 of his interference? His thoughts went back to 
 those early days of married life they had spent 
 together, to the terrible wrench of their parting, 
 to the black curtain that had been drawn across 
 their horizon, to the long, dreary, hopeless years 
 when both his soul and body had been in prison. 
 For a moment the old numbed, dazed feeling 
 came back; but he pulled himself together with an 
 effort He would look forward; they were both 
 still young enough for the future to have some 
 meaning for them. He would win her again. 
 
 His sense of humor had helped him through 
 the hell he had suffered, but it was only a cloak 
 to the raw wound in his soul. His children were 
 splendid; he adored them. Even Arthur had 
 qualities that appealed, though difficult to fathom. 
 But Amelia was the whole world to him, and 
 without her love life would be a very drab and 
 profitless affair. He needed great tact; and tact 
 was scarcely his long suit. He was too direct, 
 too analytical ; he probed too much, took too little 
 for granted and too much. He had too many 
 theories; he looked too much for motives. He 
 must be a very difficult person to live with. This 
 habit of his of looking at things from every point 
 of view a habit that eventually only confirmed 
 his own must irritate and at times exasperate a 
 woman accustomed to accepting things at their 
 face value. He had so dreaded appearing a
 
 THREADS 297 
 
 martyr that he had perhaps overdone the attitude 
 he had chosen. Could Amelia think he was with- 
 out feeling, that he was actually making fun of 
 tragedy? His sense o r irony might be misunder- 
 stood and labeled facetiousness. He hated face- 
 tiousness. Life was ironical, and one must accept 
 the fact. His imagination made him see Amelia's 
 point of view. She had courageously faced the 
 tragedy and had brought up her children with 
 care and tenderness. That was a wonderful feat. 
 She had hidden her grief so that they should be 
 happy; she had tried to live a natural and or- 
 dinary life so that they should remain in ignorance 
 of the tragedy that had darkened hers. She had 
 the woman's genius for giving, the selflessness that 
 can be found even in selfish women. He had been 
 in prison for fifteen years for another man's 
 crime. Had she, too, not been in prison at his 
 bidding? There had always been a warder out- 
 side in the corridor to warn her of the rules and 
 regulations that hampered her, that a break in 
 the rules would lead to publicity and shame for 
 her children. She had kept her youth in spite 
 of everything. Was she to be denied all admira- 
 tion and the comradeship of men? There must 
 have been times when she had longed to rid her- 
 self of all responsibility, to forget, and to snatch 
 a counterfeit happiness. She was responsive ; she 
 had always been amazingly responsive. She must
 
 298 THREADS 
 
 have suffered terribly. The loneliness, the 
 isolation, the knowledge that any any moment her 
 children might stumble on the truth ! Looked at 
 from an unesthetic point of view, had his suffer- 
 ings been any more dreadful than hers? He had 
 had to live a life of routine, of soul-deadening 
 monotony; he had writhed at the realization of 
 wasted life entailed by the prison system. Crim- 
 inals should be treated as sick men mentally 
 and morally unfit; they should be treated psycho- 
 logically. Atmosphere would have helped them. 
 But the atmosphere of a prison was death to any 
 latent germ of hope or of determination to seek 
 higher ideals. Instead of treating that part of 
 the brain that was diseased, the criminal was 
 treated as an automaton. He was no longer a 
 man ; he was a number. The prison uniform alone 
 destroyed what remained of a man's self-respect 
 
 To imagine suffering especially another's 
 suffering was almost worse than actual suffering 
 itself. What must Amelia's thoughts have been? 
 How she must have dreaded the long, nerve- 
 shattering nights when her imagination had had 
 full play? She must have seen him in her mind's 
 eye chained, sullen, losing touch with humanity. 
 The bravery of men was spasmodic, the result of 
 training, of impulse, of fear of being thought a 
 coward, elemental, chivalrous, philosophical; but 
 the bravery of women was fundamental a thing
 
 THREADS 299 
 
 to wonder at, to make a man feel very humble. 
 A woman would scream at a mouse, or run miles 
 to avoid a cow; but she would face the pangs of 
 childbirth without exposing her fears to her hus- 
 band, and a life that at any moment might 
 crumble, as Amelia had done, with a smile on her 
 face, and an acceptance of the small social duties 
 for the sake of her children. Yes ; women were 
 braver than men. No doubt there were women 
 who shirked responsibilities, women who pur- 
 posely went childless, but they were on a par 
 with conscientious objectors and other imitation 
 men; women who denied their sex, its privileges 
 and punishment, and thought only of their own 
 comforts. They were worse than the women of 
 the streets; they were welshers. They refused to 
 pay for what they had taken; they were default- 
 ers, and should be treated as such. And there 
 were men of the same breed. 
 
 Yes, life was very puzzling and very interest- 
 ing. Problems were set to be solved* and he was 
 face to face with an extremely perplexing one. 
 So much depended upon his present attitude. He 
 could win or lose everything by what he did; 
 not so much by what he decided to do, but by 
 what he actually did from instinct, on impulse, 
 naturally. 
 
 He went over to Amelia and sat beside her on
 
 300 THREADS 
 
 the couch. "Amelia," he said, taking her hand, 
 "is n't it time we spoke of ourselves?" 
 
 She avoided him imperceptibly, and shrank a 
 little more into herself. "We have been speaking 
 of ourselves, more or less, all the evening," she 
 protested. 
 
 "Are you angry with me for sending your friend 
 away?" inquired John gently. 
 
 "No; not for that," she replied, her eyes fixed 
 on the rug, her voice low but distinct. 
 
 "For what, then?" asked John, somewhat 
 puzzled. 
 
 Amelia turned to him and withdrew her hand. 
 "I don't know that I can tell you," she answered. 
 
 "Then how am I to understand?" he inquired in 
 some perplexity. 
 
 "You should understand; it 's your inability to 
 understand that that hurts me," she said, 
 
 "My dear," he protested, "don't let's 
 quarrel !" 
 
 He took her hand and squeezed it. 
 
 "That isn't understanding me, John; it's 
 merely petting me." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I pet you?" he asked, letting 
 go her hand and facing her. 
 
 "Why should you ?" She spoke a little bitterly. 
 "Since you came back have you shown any desire 
 to to pet me? Have you shown any feeling
 
 THREADS 301 
 
 o'tE'er than a wish to score off poor Seppy and to 
 assert yourself as my husband?" 
 
 John sighed a perplexed, humorous, protest- 
 ing sigh. "My dear! Aren't you deliberately 
 trying to make trouble between us?" 
 
 Amelia echoed his sigh. Of course, he could n't 
 understand; she had realized that he couldn't. 
 But oh, if he only could ! 
 
 "I suppose a man's hatred of unessentials keeps 
 him from saying more than is absolutely neces- 
 sary," he said. 
 
 "To a woman nothing is unessential," replied 
 Amelia quietly, "The more details she has to 
 play with in her mind, the nearer she can get to 
 the truth." 
 
 "While a man fishes out the truth from a 
 mass of details and freezes on to it," said John. 
 
 "Oh, John!" she cried. "Philosophy comes 
 more easily to a man than it does to a woman, but 
 women have to learn it in a harder school." 
 
 He kissed her hand chivalrously. He knew she 
 had spoken the truth. "My dear ! We have both 
 had to learn philosophy," he said. 
 
 Amelia rose and walked toward the window. 
 "I am too much of a rebel to be a real philoso- 
 pher," she protested. 
 
 A woman frequently seeks her ideals in artificial 
 fiction as a protest against the dryness of reality. 
 She wanted to be understood; she wanted still
 
 302 THREADS 
 
 more to be carried off her feet; she most decidedly 
 did not want to sit on a couch with her husband, 
 exchanging platitudes. She wished he were not 
 so chivalrous. Too much chivalry was as nauseat- 
 ing as too much artificial fiction: it chained the 
 natural man and kept him silent. 
 
 John puzzled over the situation. Was he still 
 to remain merely a privileged visitor? Could 
 nothing break down the barrier that divided 
 them? He spoke of Arthur and Chloe, and a 
 check was written, to be sent in the morning. 
 Amelia agreed to everything he suggested. 
 
 Olive came in from saying good-by to Jordan, 
 a little flushed, but very thrilled. Jordan had 
 been obliged to run to catch his train, she ex- 
 plained; he had said good-by so many times that 
 she feared he would miss it. It was great fun 
 being engaged. She drank some cold tea and 
 looked at her father and mother sympathetically. 
 It was strange to see them together, but rather 
 comforting. Arthur was married, she herself was 
 engaged, Jimmy was at school; it would be nice 
 for them to have each other to talk to and to 
 exchange ideas with. Being engaged made one 
 sympathetic toward everyone. 
 
 "I'm rather tired; I shall go to bed," said 
 Amelia. She went over to John and offered her 
 forehead. He kissed her. She shivered a little 
 and went up to her room.
 
 THREADS 303 
 
 It was a comfortable room, spacious, luxuri- 
 ously furnished, with plenty of light. She un- 
 dressed slowly, and spent some time in brushing 
 her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror. 
 
 She looked very young in her kimono, with her 
 hair down; it was beautiful hair, and she was 
 justly proud of it. She was tall, slim, and ex- 
 tremely pretty. No one would guess her age, 
 seeing her thus. Age was purely a matter of 
 thought. She sat for a long while, her chin rest- 
 ing on her hands, her elbows on the dressing-table, 
 gazing at her reflection critically. 
 
 Presently quite half an hour later she went 
 to the door and opened it. How still everything 
 was! Olive must have gone to bed. The lights 
 were out in the hall. John must have retired, too ; 
 or perhaps he was sitting in the dark thinking. 
 
 She drew her kimono about her and softly de- 
 scended the stairs.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The nightingale's full-throated melody 
 That thrills beneath the magic of the moon. 
 
 Pro Patria, Act 4. 
 
 "YouR mother seems a little upset about some- 
 thing," said John, after Amelia had gone upstairs. 
 
 "Naturally," replied Olive. She looked at her 
 f ather* Were all men so slow in the uptake where 
 women were concerned? Would she herself find 
 it necessary .to be exasperatingly direct in her deal- 
 ings with Jefferson? Perhaps a man's imagina- 
 tion found it difficult to follow his wife's mental 
 processes. Oh, well ! If men could n't see things, 
 they should have them pointed out. 
 
 "Don't you understand what it is, father?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 John frowned. "Do you mean about Seppy?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Good heavens, no!" said Olive, smiling. 
 "Mother did n't really care for Seppy, though he 
 was very useful." She sat on the arm of the 
 Chesterfield. "I mean about you, father I" 
 
 "What about me?" inquired her father, 
 puzzled, but anxious to learn. 
 
 304
 
 THREADS 305 
 
 "Don't you realize what it means to her to have 
 you home?" she replied, answering his question 
 with another. 
 
 John lit a cigarette, "I wish I could realize 
 exactly what it did mean to her," he said. 
 
 The conversation had to become intimate, and 
 Olive had all the younger generation's horror of 
 too much intimacy; she could stand hard facts, 
 and liked to call a spade a spade, but only in an 
 impersonal fashion. "Why, father! Don't you 
 see ?" she cried. "Mother loves you so much that 
 it 's making her rather jumpy!" 
 
 John drew a quick breath. "Do you mean 
 that?" he asked, a little unsteadily. 
 
 "Of course I do," said Olive. "I thought you 
 knew. But you are so polite to her, so gentle, it 
 made me wonder whether you really loved her, or 
 whether you were only pretending to." 
 
 John looked at his daughter, amazement writ- 
 ten in his face. 
 
 n l understand what you have been through, 
 what you must have suffered," said Olive quickly. 
 "I 've been a little worried myself," she added, 
 coloring a little. "I was very fond of Jeff; only 
 I did n't know whether he was fond of me. 
 And, because I did n't know, I Ve been so offhand 
 with him he did n't dare tell me. I suppose I 'm 
 a woman in spite of my education," she re- 
 flected ruefully. "I expect mother is a little like
 
 306 THREADS 
 
 me. She is n't sure ; and she has been afraid to 
 take the lid off the kettle, lest it should boil over, 
 or " She hesitated, and glanced at her father. 
 
 "Or what?" inquired John eagerly. 
 
 "Lest it should be cold," replied Olive in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "Cold?" he echoed, almost in a whisper. 
 "Cold?" Good Lord!" 
 
 "You see, father," continued Olive, determined 
 to see it through, "it was n't as though you had 
 been a soldier who had been killed in action." 
 She shuddered unconsciously. Supposing Jeffer- 
 son 
 
 She pulled herself together and continued 
 bravely. "Then pride in your sacrifice would have 
 helped her to bear the long, cruel, lonely years. 
 But you were alive though dead to her; alive 
 and she could n't see you, could n't hear your 
 voice, could do nothing for you. But love like 
 hers could n't be killed by sorrow; she must have 
 wanted you so. I think she would have died 
 if it had n't been for us. We have been horrid to 
 her sometimes. I suppose most children are 
 rather heartless. When she was quivering with 
 rebellion, and with longing for you, we pretended 
 she was just nervous." 
 
 John suddenly realized how his attitude must 
 have hurt Amelia, how he had seemed to have 
 accepted everything and had made no effort to
 
 THREADS 307 
 
 pull down the mythical wall that had divided 
 them. Amelia must have thought him heartless, 
 coldly courteous, almost a stranger. And it had 
 all been a mask, deliberately assume/i> for fear 
 of letting her learn the truth. How easily mis- 
 understandings arose ! How hard they were to 
 clear up ! And here was his daughter, a girl of 
 eighteen, almost a child, a baby when he had last 
 seen her, pointing out to him the mistakes he had 
 made. "Good Lord I" he cried, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "When you came home so miraculously, so 
 unexpectedly and you treated her so chiv- 
 alrously, almost like a stranger" ("My own 
 phrase," cried John to himself; "it's true, it's 
 true!"), "I think she must have felt as though a 
 hand of ice was clutching her heart and freezing 
 it." 
 
 "What must I seem to her?" cried John, 
 "Fifteen years of darkness and impotence don't 
 add to a man's youth when he is without hope." 
 
 Olive smiled. "You have the gift of laughter, 
 which is denied to most women," she said. "I 
 mean, the ability to laugh at yourself. Laughter 
 destroys bitterness, doesn't it?" 
 
 John's eyes narrowed; he remembered some 
 terrible hours. "There were nights when I fought 
 with the beasts of doubt and despair; nights when 
 I could see no hope, no justice, nothing but pitiless
 
 3 o8 THREADS 
 
 irony; nights when I battered my head against 
 the walls and cursed the God of the Christians." 
 
 Olive looked up wonderingly. "And in the 
 morning you laughed?" she whispered. 
 
 "Yes," said her father, "I laughed," For, as 
 he had watched the first faint glimmer of daylight 
 creep through the bars of his prison, he had seen a 
 vision of cities peopled with little men strutting, 
 serious, important, self-complacent, and of women 
 smiling at their vanity; he had seen the lavish 
 panorama of beauty that nature had provided for 
 their enjoyment. The vision became a cinemato- 
 graph, the pictures constantly changing. The pos- 
 sibilities of the average man were almost limitless, 
 but his actions proved him a little man in a big 
 world. Some men wore ermine robes and coro- 
 nets, and wigs and top-hats, and surrounded them- 
 selves with the treasures of the earth in order 
 to prove their greatness; others spoke at great 
 length in dignified chambers and in public places, 
 but out of their mouths came pebbles that they 
 thought were pearls; some wore swords and spurs 
 and tried to look terrifying; others chains of office 
 in which they tried to look impressive; some 
 smoked big cigars and allowed shriekingly vulgar 
 gold chains to stretch across their swelling stom- 
 achs as they lolled back in thousand-guinea cars; 
 others, spectacled and thin-lipped, added up rows 
 of figures and entered the results in great books,
 
 THREADS 309 
 
 and smiled joyously to see their industry re- 
 warded; some shook their fists at the palaces of 
 the rich; others held their handkerchiefs to their 
 noses when passing the hovels of the poor; some 
 sat on their land, and in consideration of huge pay- 
 ments, allowed some privileged persons to sit on 
 small sections of it for seven or fourteen or 
 twenty-one years, after which all improvements 
 belonged to the landlord; others walked round 
 and round their picture galleries, gazing at their 
 ancestors and dreading contact with the com- 
 mon herd; some spent the nights in tasting the 
 forbidden delights of the underworld, others in 
 prowling the streets for plunder; some built high 
 walls and sat behind them, others built towers 
 of folly and danced on the summits; some climbed 
 snow-covered mountains, crossing terrible crev- 
 asses and glaciers moving with the rapidity of a 
 four-wheeled cab, for the sake of the kudos to be 
 obtained; others hacked and delved through for- 
 ests and jungles, along fevered rivers and misamic 
 swamps, in order to kill some unfortunate beast 
 for the sake of killing it; some, in red coats and 
 ridiculous black caps, rode on horseback, chasing 
 a bored and perplexed fox, and made a hideous 
 noise in the process; others, attired in wonderful 
 coats with large pockets, attended by keepers, 
 surrounded by vacuous villagers who made loud 
 noises to disturb some startled birds, dealt death
 
 310 THREADS 
 
 and mutilation among the feathered kingdom, 
 and entered the result proudly in a book kept for 
 the purpose ; some wrote down on paper the truth 
 as they saw it, others wrote what they hoped their 
 admirers would buy ; some wrote of the men they 
 had met and the things they had seen, others of 
 the intimacies they had enjoyed with various 
 women, not knowing that they were writing them- 
 selves down accursed; some, unable themselves to 
 create, criticized the creations of their fellows, 
 others made music for the world's delight and 
 it remained hidden in a drawer; some took pride 
 in building horrible, staring, ugly villas; others 
 dreamed dreams of f airylike buildings which were 
 not considered practical owing to the cost of con- 
 struction; some thought, others accepted; some 
 laughed, others wept; and, the film exhausted, 
 another day notched to the aggregate score, and 
 the turn of the eternal treadmill to be faced, John 
 had laughed to himself and risen from his plank 
 bed. "I cried for the food of the gods to nourish 
 my understanding, and they brought me skilly!" 
 he exclaimed. "It seemed so typical of life, I 
 couldn't help laughing!" 
 
 "You must n't laugh at mother, dear," said 
 Olive gently. "Women can't bear being laughed 
 at." She kissed his forehead. "Good night, 
 father! I'm glad we have had this talk." She 
 looked at him reflectively. "I suppose being en-
 
 THREADS 311 
 
 gaged has cured me of shyness," She turned as 
 she reached the door. "Please remember that 
 mother has loved you always," she added. 
 "Goodnight!" 
 
 She went out of the room, closing the door. 
 John sat quite still for some minutes; then he 
 switched off the lights, and pulled back the heavy 
 curtains, flooding the room with moonlight. He 
 went back to the couch, and sat in front of the 
 empty fireplace, staring into vacancy. For a long 
 time he sat there, lost in thought. Then the door 
 opened, and Amelia came in. He rose, hearing a 
 movement. She stood quite still, looking at him 
 uncertainly. He drew a deep breath. 
 
 "Amelia !" he cried unsteadily. "You look like 
 a ghost the girl of fifteen years ago my wife I" 
 
 "I came for a book," she explained; "I knew I 
 shouldn't sleep." 
 
 He wheeled a chair round for her, "It 's so 
 late," she protested. 
 
 John smiled. "Do you remember?" he asked, 
 a little unsteadily, "do you remember some of 
 those nights when we were too full of plans for 
 the future to be able to sleep, and we used to lie 
 awake talking and talking and talking? And 
 then, suddenly, I would ask you something, and 
 you did n't answer, and I would find you had 
 fallen asleep on my shoulder breathing quietly 
 as a child. And I, hardly daring to move, would
 
 312 THREADS 
 
 lie there thanking God in my heart for the 
 miracle of your love." 
 
 Amelia trembled. "A woman does n't forget 
 her glimpses of heaven," she whispered. 
 
 "Nor does a man when he has been down into 
 hell," cried John. "They robbed me of my free- 
 dom, and I accepted that; it was unjust, but so is 
 life in human hands. But they robbed me of you 
 and that I could n't accept. I loved you with 
 every fiber of my being with my soul; and they 
 could n't kill my longing for you, my need of 
 you. I came back wondering almost dreading 
 whether I should still be to you what I was, or 
 whether I should be just a memory." 
 
 Amelia looked up. "You were so quiet, so self- 
 contained; I felt you realized that I was growing 
 old, and I fought fought hard and bitterly 
 against the idea of our coming together again 
 just as friends, content only with memories. You 
 treated me almost as a stranger, and I was afraid 
 to show you what was in my heart, lest it should 
 embarrass you-" 
 
 "My dear! My dear!" cried John, taking her 
 hands. 
 
 "I wanted to go to you, and to put my arms 
 round you, and to comfort you," said Amelia, a 
 thrill in her voice that made him choke. "I 
 wanted to make up to you for all the years you 
 fiad been robbed of. But you were so cool, so
 
 THREADS 313 
 
 full of courteous deference. It stabbed me, it 
 hurt me. And I didn't dare!" 
 
 She was quivering all over; he could feel her 
 pulse racing. "We didn't know, we couldn't 
 believe," he murmured, biting his lip hard to 
 control his feelings. He was seeing into the 
 hidden places of her soul, and what he saw almost 
 frightened him. He felt strangely humble, curi- 
 ously triumphant. 
 
 "I often longed to break my promise not to 
 come and see you," she told him; "but, for our 
 children's sake, I kept it." 
 
 "I thought you felt in your heart that It would 
 be happier for us both if the man you had parted 
 from fifteen years before were dead, and only 
 his shadow remained; that it would be wiser for 
 us to go down the long hill together, with hands 
 clasped in understanding, in friendship, guarding 
 the sanctuary of the love we once worshiped," 
 said John quietly. 
 
 Amelia looked up with the frankness of a 
 child, but in her eyes was all the mystery of a 
 woman's devotion. "My love never died; it only 
 slept," she whispered; "it is there for you 
 now just as it always has been if you really 
 want it!" 
 
 "I want nothing else in my life," he cried, and 
 he took her in his arms; their lips met in a long 
 kiss.
 
 314 THREADS 
 
 She clung to him as she had done that terrible 
 day fifteen years ago, as though she could never 
 let him go again. Youth is eternal while love 
 remains. 
 
 After a little while she looked up, listening. 
 "How still it is!" she whispered. Then, with a 
 tiny low gurgle of laughter: "Do you remem- 
 ber," she asked, "how we used to creep round and 
 listen outside the children's rooms before going 
 to bed to hear if they were asleep?" 
 
 John chuckled. "And nurse said we were spoil- 
 ing them!" 
 
 "Sometimes they needed tucking up," she pro- 
 tested. "What are you thinking of ?" she inquired 
 suddenly. 
 
 "The first time I heard the patter of little bare 
 feet on the stairs," he said. 
 
 "What did you do?" she whispered. 
 
 "I held you in my arms very tight lest you 
 should see how it thrilled me." 
 
 Amelia sighed deeply. "They have grown up 
 and we have grown old." 
 
 "You can't grow old when you love," he re- 
 plied, holding her in his arms. 
 
 She moved over to the door, and he followed. 
 A light was burning in the hall. She mounted the 
 stairs, and turned to look at her husband. He 
 smiled.
 
 THREADS 315 
 
 "Let's pretend they are still tiny," she whis- 
 pered, "and that we are still young." 
 
 He switched off the light in the hall, and joined 
 iher. Their hands met as they went slowly up- 
 stairs. In the woods beyond the drive, a nightin- 
 gale was still singing*