;-a'-^i<.,'- ';>\h 
 
 THE BLOWER 
 OF BUBBLES 
 
 ARTHUR BEVERLEY BAXTER
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 The BLOWER of 
 BUBBLES
 
 The BLOWER of 
 BUBBLES 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR BEVERLEY BAXTER 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 1920
 
 / / ] ^ (^ u ^ 
 
 COPTRIGHT, 1920, BY 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 PBIMTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMEBICA
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It was one of Dumas' characters, I believe, 
 who said: "I do not apologize — I explain." The 
 purpose of this brief preface is to explain the 
 many imperfections which of necessity appear in 
 this volume. 
 
 It was at a dance after Armistice, given by 
 American officers in the Palace Hotel, London, 
 that I met a young lady who had landed from 
 New York two days previously. 
 
 "My goodness!" she said, "they don't have any 
 furnaces in their houses here ; and I've been try- 
 ing all day to buy some rubbers, and no one 
 knew what I meant. My goodness! but they're 
 backward over here." 
 
 I looked at her face and recognized the joyful 
 mania of the explorer. She was "discovering" 
 England. 
 
 Before the war, England was "discovered" 
 fairly often — but during the war it became the 
 passion of hundreds of thousands, Americans, 
 Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, New- 
 
 vu
 
 PREFACE 
 
 foundlanders, South Africans — we all brought 
 our particular national viewpoint and centered it 
 on the "tight little Island," nor were we back- 
 ward about telling the English of their faults. 
 Each one of us stated (or implied) that his own 
 country was the special acreage of God, and 
 that the Kaiser ought to be made to live in foggy 
 London as a punishment. 
 
 And for more than four years the Old Country 
 listened patiently as the throngs of adventurers 
 poured in from the world's outskirts. The state- 
 ly homes of England were opened in their stately, 
 hospitable way; Enghsh taxicab drivers in- 
 sulted and robbed us just as cheerfully as they 
 did their own countrymen; English girls proved 
 the best of comrades ; and the EngHshman prop- 
 er continued to be the world's greatest enigma. 
 
 So, in claiming admittance to that vast throng 
 that has already discovered England, I do so 
 with a certain humility but a hope that, when my 
 words are sifted, some little ore of truth may be 
 discovered at the bottom. 
 
 In three of the five stories of this collection, I 
 have usurped the power of the Wizard of Oz, 
 and have looked through three pairs of glasses. 
 In "The Blower of Bubbles" an EngHshman 
 
 • • • 
 
 vni
 
 PREFACE 
 
 subjects his own country to analysis; in "Mr. 
 Craighouse of Xew York, Satirist," the glasses 
 used are American and the medium is a New 
 Yorker; in "The Airy Prince" (the last and fa- 
 vorite child) a girl of sixteen from Picardy is 
 transplanted by aeroplane for one full day in 
 wartime London. 
 
 In the remaining two stories I have endeav- 
 ored to paint something of city life in Canada 
 in the one, and in the other to do scmie little jus- 
 tice to that least understood type — the French 
 Canadian. 
 
 During an interesting but undistinguished ca- 
 reer of nearly four years w^th the Canadian 
 Forces, I realized that, although the army gives 
 one plenty of food for thought, it sometimes fails 
 to supply facilities for assimilation. Par exem- 
 ple: "Mr. Craighouse of New York, Satirist," 
 was started in hospital at Abbeville, France, 
 where my fellow-patients assumed me to be a 
 lovelorn swain, writing a love-letter that never 
 left off. Later, "]\Ir. Craighouse" developed a 
 couple of thousand words in a charming home 
 of Scotland. The last part of the story was fin- 
 ished at a table in the Turkish baths of the Royal 
 Automobile Club, London, where the attendants 
 
 ix
 
 PREFACE 
 
 were good enough to consider me eccentric, but 
 apparently not violent. 
 
 Under the robust companionship of several 
 normal and talkative subalterns, "The Blower 
 of Bubbles" was written in a hut at Seaford 
 Camp during the month of November, 1918. As 
 my stove was a consistent performer, nearly ever}' 
 evening a few choice souls gathered for cocoa and 
 refreshments from home; and if their host per- 
 sisted in writing at his improvised table it did 
 not disturb their good-fellowship in the least, 
 providing the author did not threaten to read his 
 "stuff" aloud. 
 
 It was in that hut in the mud of Seaford that, 
 one November morning, a little before eleven 
 o'clock, we heard the sound of ships' sirens in 
 Newhaven Harbor some miles away; then a 
 distant shouting, that grew in a great crescendo, 
 as it rode across the downs on the throats of thou- 
 sands of soldiers, and passed us in one great pro- 
 longed roar, "The Germans have signed!" 
 
 We missed Armistice Day in London, but I 
 like to think of the thirty Canadian officers, most 
 of them veterans of many battles, gathered in the 
 mess of that bleakest of camps, while one chap at 
 the piano played the national anthems of the
 
 PREFACE 
 
 nations who had fought . . . and in voices that 
 were not too steady we echoed the toast: "To 
 the Allies and America." 
 
 And so "I do not apologize — I explain." 
 In avoiding the "war-story" type, I have fol- 
 lowed my own inclinations, and have taken rather 
 the inconspicuous parts played by ordinary peo- 
 ple who had never dreamed of being actors in the 
 world's greatest drama. To avoid the back- 
 gi'ound of war would be utterly impossible, for 
 war has been a fever in our blood these last four 
 years, and not in one or two generations will our 
 veins be free of it. 
 
 If it seems in these stories that there is a re- 
 current note on the necessity of artistic expression 
 for the Old Country, the reason for it is that we 
 came from the Dominions to a land we all knew, 
 because English literature had made England 
 our Mother-Country in the real sense of the word. 
 It is the hope of many of us that the artists of 
 Britain — whether they be writers, painters, or 
 composers — will yet realize that the Empire looks 
 to them, as well as to the knights of the air, to 
 bridge the seas, and by their art make us feel as 
 great a kinship in peace as we did in war. Dick- 
 ens and Burns were more than writers; they 
 
 xi
 
 PREFACE 
 
 were literature's ambassadors, and played no in- 
 considerable part in empire-building. 
 
 Perhaps, as the study of ordinary people 
 gripped by emotions which left no one ordinary, 
 this volume of stories may be of some little in- 
 terest. They filled many dull hours in the writ- 
 ing. ... It would be a rich reward for the au- 
 thor if he could think that they do away with a 
 few dull hours in the reading. 
 
 Aethue Beveeley Baxtee 
 
 xn
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER ^^°^ 
 
 I. The Blower of Bubbles 1 
 
 II. Petite Simunde 9'^ 
 
 III. The Man who Scoffed 141 
 
 IV. The Airy Prince 191 
 
 V. Mr. Craighouse of New York, Satirist 287
 
 The BLOWER of 
 BUBBLES 
 
 SNOW was falling in Sloane Square, quar- 
 reling with rain as it fell. Lamps were 
 gleaming sulkily in Sloane Square, as though 
 they resented being made to work on such a 
 night, and had more than a notion to down tools 
 and go out of business altogether. Motor-cars 
 were passing through Sloane Square, with glar- 
 ing lights, sliding and skidding like inebriated 
 dragons ; and the clattering hoofs of horses draw- 
 ing vagabond cabs sounded annoyingly loud in 
 the damp-charged air of Sloane Square. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve in Sloane Square, and 
 the match-woman, the vender of newspapers, 
 and the impossible road-sweeper were all exact- 
 ing the largesse of passers-by, who felt that the 
 
 1
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 six-penny generosity of a single night atoned for 
 a year's indifference to their lot. People were 
 wishing each other a merry Christmas in Sloane 
 Square, as they struggled along under ungainly 
 parcels. The muffin-man was doing an enormous 
 trade. 
 
 And I looked from my window and prayed 
 for Aladdin's Lamp or the Magic Carpet, that I 
 might place a thousand miles between myself and 
 Sloane Square. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. 
 
 "Enter the Slave of the Lamp," said I, and 
 the door opened to admit — my landlady, Mrs. 
 Mulvaney. 
 
 "Will you be dining in?" she said. Her Irish 
 accent hardly helped the illusion of the all-potent 
 slave. 
 
 "And why not?" I asked. 
 
 "Ach, nothing, sor. I only thought '* 
 
 "An unwomanly thing to do, Mrs. Mulvaney." 
 
 "You're afther being a strange one, dining 
 alone on Christmas Eve." 
 
 "Then join me, Mrs. Mulvaney." 
 
 I swear she blushed, and I felt more than a 
 little envious of the nature which could convert 
 
 2
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 such a vinegary attempt at condescension into a 
 gallantry. 
 
 "F'what would I be doing, taking dinner wid 
 a child like you?" 
 
 I was twenty-five, but Mrs. Mulvaney looked 
 on all men as equally immature. 
 
 "And have you not got no friends?" she went 
 on, but I stopped her with a gesture. 
 
 "Thank Heaven — no!" I said. "I am one of 
 intellectuality's hermits. An educated man in 
 London is like the bell-cow of the herd — a thing 
 apart." 
 
 "You're a great fool, I'm afther thinking." 
 
 "The foolish always damn the wise," I an- 
 swered, with an attempt at epigrammatic mis- 
 quotation. 
 
 Mrs. Mulvaney heaved a sigh. Its very force- 
 fulness recalled the nautical meaning of the verb. 
 
 "You'd be a sight happier outside," she said. 
 "Holy Mary knows I wouldn't be driving you 
 into the streets, but I'm worried you'd get cross 
 wid yourself at home." 
 
 To get rid of her, I put on my coat and went 
 out. Perhaps she was right; things would have 
 
 3
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 been intolerable at home. Home! Such a 
 travesty of the word! The sickly lamplight of 
 Sloane Square was preferable. 
 
 "Merry Christmas, guv'nor!" said the road- 
 sweeper. 
 
 "Merry fiddlesticks !" I growled, and gave him 
 sixpence. I tried to avoid the vender ot news- 
 papers, but he spotted my fur collar with the 
 instinct of a mendicant, handing me a paper and 
 his blessing. 
 
 " 'Appy Christmas, milord!" said he. 
 
 I paid him a shilling for his diplomacy. 
 
 Thinking to escape the match-woman, I al- 
 tered my course, but with the intuition of her 
 sex she contrived to put herself directly in my 
 path. 
 
 "It's a cauld nicht," she moaned in a rickety, 
 quavering Scottish voice — "a cauld, wintry nicht. 
 Ye'U be haein' a wee box o' matches, aw'm 
 thinkin'!" 
 
 I gave her twopence for them, and she shivered 
 with cold as her skinny fingers clutched the coins. 
 I can think of no excuse for my parsimony ex- 
 cept the fact that I didn't need the wretched 
 box — matches were not yet a luxury of the very 
 exclusive. 
 
 4
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Yes — in all Sloane Square, on that damp and 
 foggy Christmas Eve in the year 1913, I doubt 
 if a more morose, self-satisfied, cynical human 
 being plunged into the mists than I. I was un- 
 happy, and reveled in my very unhappiness. If 
 it had been in my power, I would have sent a 
 cloud of gloom into every home and over every 
 hearth in London. There was something splen- 
 did, something classical, in my melancholy; it 
 was like Hamlet's, but greater than Hamlet's, 
 for he knew the reason of his mood, w^hile mine 
 
 was born of an intangible superiority to my 
 day! 
 
 It is not easy, even now% to wTite of those days. 
 The figure that crosses the screen of memory re- 
 minds me of Chevy Slyme — a debt-paying, re- 
 spectable Chevy Slyme, forsooth! — but just as 
 sulkily swaggering, just as superior, and not 
 quite so human ; for Chevy, at least, inspired the 
 friendship of Mr. Tigg. 
 
 II 
 
 Unconsciously following the bus route, I 
 emerged eventually on Piccadilly, and was
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 jostled and ogled and blessed and cursed with 
 the greatest heartiness. Somewhere near Bond 
 Street I collided heavily with a young man who 
 was trying to negotiate the crowd and at the 
 same time lose nothing of the shop windows' dis- 
 play. 
 
 "A thousand devils!" I muttered, recoiling 
 from the impact. 
 
 "A thousand pardons!" he said, raising his hat. 
 The graceful lilt of his voice was peculiarly 
 reminiscent; his smooth brow and silky fair hair 
 were both familiar and elusive. 
 
 "One moment " He gazed into my face 
 
 with a searching look, keeping his hat poised in 
 the air as if the better to concentrate his thoughts. 
 "Not the Pest?" he said. 
 
 I nodded, and, if the truth be told, felt not a 
 little pleased at the sound of the old nom dfecole 
 earned when I was at Westminster. 
 
 "And how," I said, "is the Blower of Bub- 
 bles?" 
 
 For answer he replaced his hat at a rakish 
 angle and shook my hand with both his for what 
 seemed a full minute, the crowd parting good- 
 naturedly like a wave encircling a rock. 
 
 6
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 *'My dear old Pest," he said, "we shall dine 
 together." 
 
 "I'm sorry, but " 
 
 "There is a perfectly vile restaurant half-a- 
 mile from here, that has the best violinist and the 
 worst cook in London." 
 
 "My dear chap " 
 
 "Of all the luck! Think of my running into 
 you on Christmas Eve!" 
 
 And just then I noticed that we were no 
 longer standing still, but proceeding up a side 
 street, arm-in-arm, while his disengaged hand 
 indicated the passing scene as if it were the most 
 gorgeous bazaar of the Orient. He spoke with 
 extraordinary rapidity, except in uttering certain 
 words, when he would make a slurring pause, as 
 a singer will let a note melt into a pianissimo, 
 then race on again with renewed vigor. It was 
 a fascinating trick of speech, and, added to the 
 subtle inflections of his voice, never failed to 
 startle one into the closest attention. 
 
 I turned to him once with some remark on my 
 lips, and noticed that his eyes were dancing with 
 merriment. 
 
 "What is it. Pest?" he cried. "Out with it!" 
 
 7
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 I smiled gloomily ; but still it was a smile. 
 
 "Why," I said, "aren't the lamps in Sloane 
 Square bright like these?" 
 
 He didn't answer. Probably he knew the 
 truth would have hurt. 
 
 Ill 
 
 What a hole to dine in on Christmas Eve! 
 Such waiters — such guests — such food — such 
 wine! 
 
 I believe the proprietor owned three such es- 
 tablishments, each, in a triumph of irony, called 
 "Arcadia." The very linen of the waiters 
 drooped disconsolately, and the whole place 
 reeked of cabbage and wet umbrellas. My 
 spirits, which had risen momentarily from their 
 classic depths, sank like the sands of an egg- 
 timer. 
 
 "My dear fellow," I said, "you can't mean to 
 dine here?" 
 
 An oily waiter ambled up to us and wrung his 
 hands in a paroxysm of welcome. 
 
 "Your tabil, Meester Norman," he said in 
 
 8
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 some nondescript foreign dialect, "iss ready." 
 
 Good heavens! The Blower of Bubbles had 
 even ordered dinner in advance! With the feel- 
 ings of an unwilling martyr, I followed my 
 friend and his escort past tawdry millinery sales- 
 women, dining in state with their knights-errant 
 of the haberdashery stores; by a table where a 
 woman was gazing admiringly at a man with a 
 face as expressionless as a pumpkin; through a 
 lane of chattering, laughing, rasping denizens of 
 the London that is neither West End nor East 
 End — of people whose clothes, faces, and voices 
 merged into a positive debauch of mediocrity. 
 
 When we were seated and had ordered some- 
 thing from the waiter, I turned to Basil Norman 
 for an explanation. 
 
 "What is it?" I asked. "An affair with a 
 seamstress, or are you just looking for 'copy' ?" 
 
 He laughed and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "Pest," he said, "this is a caprice of mine, a tit- 
 bit for my vanity. You would have chosen the 
 'Trocadero* or the 'Ritz,' with all the tyranny of 
 Olympian and largessed waiters with whom it is 
 impossible to attain the least pretence of equal- 
 ity. I prefer 'Arcadia,' where I am something 
 
 9
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 of a patron saint, and am even consulted by the 
 proprietor." 
 
 "You play to humble audiences." 
 
 "Quietly, Pest — the proprietor might hear 
 you. He is a very Magog for dignity, I assure 
 you, in spite of his asthma." 
 
 "I gather, then, that you are a regular diner 
 here?" 
 
 "Hardly that. But I am a little more con- 
 sistent than most of his patrons. To be candid" 
 — he leaned towards me as if it were a secret of 
 the first magnitude — "it's his cook." 
 
 "His what?" 
 
 "His cook. Really, I'm afraid he's hardly 
 first class." 
 
 "I am certain of it." 
 
 "He would have made an admirable medieval 
 Jesuit, but, as a matter of fact, I wonder Stein- 
 burg " 
 
 "The proprietor?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't know why he keeps him on. 
 He says the fellow has a couple of blind chil- 
 dren, and if he were dismissed under a cloud he 
 would have trouble in securing employment. 
 
 10
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 But that's not business. The fellow's an ass, 
 isn't he?" 
 
 Whereupon his face beamed with delight, and 
 his gray eyes twinkled like diamonds. My com- 
 ment on the matter was stifled by the arrival of 
 hors-d'oeuvre. I had no idea that one tray could 
 hold such a variety of unpalatable things. At 
 the table next to us a woman laughed boister- 
 ously, her shoulders, which were fat and form- 
 less, vibrating like blanc-mange. 
 
 "Ah!" said Basil Norman; "Klotz has ar- 
 rived." 
 
 He indicated a low platform, where a dingy 
 pianist, pimply of countenance and long of hair, 
 was strumming the barbaric discords that always 
 accompany the tuning of stringed instruments. 
 A violinist, with his back towards us, was 
 strangling his instrument into submission; while 
 a cellist, possessed of enormous eyebrows and a 
 superb immobility of pasty-facial expressionless- 
 ness, sat by his cello as though he had been lured 
 there under false pretenses, and had no inten- 
 tion of taking any part in the proceedings — 
 unless forced to do so by a writ of habeas- 
 corpus. A fourth musician, who seemed all 
 
 11
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 shirt and collar, blew fitfully into a flute, as if 
 he realized it was an irrelevant thing, and was 
 trying to rouse it to a sense of responsibility. 
 
 "Which," I asked, "is Klotz?" 
 
 As I spoke the violinist turned about and 
 caught my host's eye. They both bowed — Nor- 
 man cordially; the musician, I thought, with re- 
 straint. The fellow stood out as a man apart 
 from his accomplices; his high forehead and 
 dreamy eyes were those of an artist, though a 
 receding chin robbed his face of strength. He 
 was the type one sees so often — able to touch, 
 but never grasp, the cup of success. 
 
 "Klotz," said Norman, "is superb. He has 
 the touch of the artist about him. His tone is 
 not always good, and sometimes he scratches; 
 but when he is at his best he does big things. 
 So many people can perform at music — just as 
 so many write at words — but Klotz plays with 
 color. His art has all the charm of a day in 
 April. He will caress a phrase according to his 
 mood, like a mother crooning to her child. To 
 know how to hesitate before a note in a melody, 
 as a worshiper hesitates at the entrance to a 
 shrine, is Art, and an Art that cannot be taught. 
 
 12
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 r 
 
 It is so with painters, writers, musicians — they 
 must have that sense of color, that instinct that 
 brings each subtle nuance of expression into 
 being." 
 
 I began to feel bored. 
 
 Suddenly the orchestra became animated and 
 burst into a waltz, one of those ageless, rhyth- 
 mic compositions that might have been the very 
 first or the very last waltz ever written. Sup- 
 ported by wailing strings and the irrelevant 
 flute, the enjoyment of the diners took on fresh 
 impetus. The lady with the shoulders became a 
 vibrating obbligato. The pumpkin-faced man 
 beamed fatuous delight, an electric light behind 
 him giving the odd effect that he was illumi- 
 nated inside like a Hallow-e'en figure. A girl, 
 who might have been pretty if she hadn't 
 rouged, took a puff from her toilet-case and 
 powdered her nose. She felt that the evening 
 was commencing. Over the whole scene my 
 melancholy brooded as a ghostly presence. To 
 me it seemed like the dominant seventh in a 
 chord of surfeiting commonplaceness ; once it 
 was heard, the whole pitch of the evening would 
 alter to another key. 
 
 13
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Fortunately the dominant seventh remained 
 unheard. 
 
 The waltz stopped, and we turned our undi- 
 vided attention to dinner. 
 
 "Klotz," said my host, pouring me a glass of 
 wine, "should have made a mark, but " 
 
 "Damn Klotz!" 
 
 "That has been done, Pest. The Bricklayers' 
 Union, or something equally esthetic, took ex- 
 ception to him for one reason or another, and 
 prevailed upon its sister-cabal to debar him from 
 the big orchestras. To offend your Union, dear 
 boy, is to accomplish the total eclipse of your 
 future. Even genius to-day is subject to regu- 
 lations. Klotz is in a worse position than a 
 clerk with a Board School education trying to 
 secure employment in a London bank." 
 
 "Confound it!" I said, "there must be some 
 spheres reserved for gentlemen." 
 
 His twinkling eyes steadied, and a dreamy 
 look crept into them. "Pest," he murmured, 
 "some day England is going to thank God for 
 the gentlemen — who were educated at Board 
 Schools. Listen! — the cellist is playing Saint- 
 Saens." 
 
 14
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Dinner — or the mess of foodstuffs dignified 
 by the name — was almost finished when Klotz, 
 the viohnist, started one of the rare melodies 
 which Wagner permitted himself — the Song to 
 the Evening Star. 
 
 It was being beautifully played — even I 
 would have admitted that — but I could not ac- 
 count for the troubled look that crept into my 
 companion's face, driving the gayety and the 
 whimsicality from it as a cloud obscures the sun- 
 light. 
 
 "Klotz," he said anxiously, "is in great sor- 
 row." 
 
 "How the deuce," I muttered, with a feeling 
 of creepiness stealing over me, "can you tell 
 that? Do you read it in his face?" 
 
 He shook his head. "Listen!" he said; "can't 
 you hear it? Can't you feel the tears in it?" 
 
 And in spite of myself I remained silent, held 
 irresistibly by the double fascination of the Ger- 
 man's artistry and the sense of mystery engen- 
 dered by Norman. The last sob of the G string 
 quivered to its finish. The crowd applauded 
 perfunctorily, then applied themselves to the 
 
 15
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 more essential things of life — food, wine and 
 noise. 
 
 Rousing myself from the reverie into which I 
 had fallen, I turned to Norman, and found his 
 chair vacated. I started. He had reached the 
 platform, and was talking earnestly to the vio- 
 linist. Half-contemptuous and half-interested, 
 I watched the pantomime as they talked. Nor- 
 man's hands were emphasizing some point, and 
 every gesture was a pleasure to the eye; the 
 musician was protesting, but with steadily abat- 
 ing determination. Then the scene came to a 
 climax, and the German disappeared. 
 
 Holding the violin in his arms, Basil Norman 
 mounted the platform, the fingers of his left 
 hand picking quiet, pizzicato notes from the 
 strings. 
 
 "My friends " His voice traveled like 
 
 sound on the ocean at twilight; the room sub- 
 sided into silence, and diners craned their necks 
 to see him. The woman with the shoulders 
 brought them to a standstill, like an electric fan 
 that had lost its current. 
 
 "My friends" — what a charming voice the fel- 
 low had! — "I do not want to bring a note of 
 
 16
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 sorrow into your happiness. You are here, hke 
 my companion and myself, for enjoyment; but 
 Herr Klotz . . . his wife is very ill; she is 
 perhaps dying; and, my friends, it is very hard 
 that he should play while his wife is dying . . . 
 on Christmas Eve ... in a strange country. 
 You are English, and I know you are kind. I 
 have sent him home, and I promised that I 
 would take his place, as well as I can take the 
 place of such an artist. For you who work so 
 hard, it is not fair to spoil your happiness on 
 this of all nights — but you will forgive me? 
 Good!" 
 
 And his face had a whimsical, tender look. 
 
 A murmur of sympathy rose from the crowd, 
 but died away as he raised the violin in his 
 hands and brought from it a tone that breathed 
 over them like a benediction. It was Gounod's 
 ^"^Ave Maiia" and the pianist's fingers were 
 mothering the keys as they had not done since 
 his ambition evaporated like a cloud on a sum- 
 mer day. 
 
 It was exquisite — haunting. It was a prayer 
 to Mary, but a prayer sung in a field of daisies 
 
 17
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and violets. There was sorrow in it, but it was 
 the grief of a girl over a shattered dream. It 
 was mature artistry, yet was born of sunshine 
 and throbbed with the primrose sweetness of 
 youth. It touched one like the face of a beau- 
 tiful child. 
 
 Still caressing the violin, he repeated the 
 "Ave Maria" whistling a unison. With almost 
 any one else it would have been commonplace; 
 with him it was a sound more pleasing than any 
 flute, and only accentuated his sense of eman- 
 cipation from the thrall of years. He played 
 "Still wie die Nacht/' "Old King Wenceslaus" 
 "Meditation" from Thais, "Intermezzo" of 
 Mascagni; and whatever he did, or however 
 hackneyed the piece, he surrounded it with a 
 joyousness that trembled on the brink of tears. 
 
 I looked at my watch ; it was nearly midnight, 
 and the evening so dreaded was almost at a 
 close. He had put down his violin with a ges- 
 ture of finality, when the prolonged outburst 
 of applause changed his decision, and, with an- 
 other of those rare smiles, he took the instru- 
 ment once more. 
 
 18
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Maxwellton's braes are bonnie 
 
 Where early fa's the dew. 
 And it's there that Annie Laurie 
 
 Gi'ed me her promise true. . . . 
 
 The violin seemed to speak the words; and 
 I'll swear there wasn't a woman in the place 
 who wasn't recalling the sweet innocence of her 
 first love. He had hardly finished, when the 
 man with the face like a pumpkin jumped to 
 his feet, and I rubbed my eyes. 
 
 The fellow had changed. His face had ex- 
 pression. Confound it! there was something 
 rather splendid about his features — a kindliness 
 — a 
 
 "Young feller, m'lad," he was saying, "I 
 knows I speaks for hevery one when I says we 
 ain't 'card music like that there since we was 
 knee-'igh to a grass'opper, and I knows you 
 won't take it hamiss if we was to pass the 'at 
 and " 
 
 I held my breath. What would the Blower 
 of Bubbles say? 
 
 "You're a brick, sir!" His voice was a mel- 
 low contrast to the other's. "My friends, this 
 
 19
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 gentleman has suggested that we pass the hat 
 for our poor friend Klotz." 
 
 "I didn't neither," protested the benefactor. 
 ' 'Leastways ' ' 
 
 But the woman of the shoulders cut him short 
 by placing two shillings beside him. It was 
 tactful of her, a kindly thing to do, and again 
 I was amazed. There was a womanly, motherly 
 look about her as she turned away, and her eyes 
 were radiant like stars in a mist. 
 
 I think I gave ten bob — it must have been a 
 considerable amount, for the girl who would 
 have been pretty if she hadn't rouged looked 
 straight into my eyes and said something that 
 sounded like a blessing. I hope it was; she 
 made me think of a little sister I once had. 
 
 And then we were walking together again in 
 the street, and the crowds were thinner than be- 
 fore. I cannot remember what we talked of, but 
 I know I said to him, "Where did you learn to 
 play like that?" 
 
 And he answered, "My dear old boy, music 
 must be loved, not learned." 
 
 Then we were in Sloane Square, at my flat, 
 and I was thanking him, or he was thanking me 
 
 20
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 — I forget which; and he promised to call at 
 noon next day to take me to Klotz's home. . . . 
 And the lamps in Sloane Square seemed duller 
 than before. 
 
 Selfishness does not die in an hour, but the 
 bachelor who looked from his window that night 
 was a different man from the one who had 
 spoken to Mrs. Mulvaney. He was thinking 
 . . . and much is accomplished in itself when a 
 man is made to think. 
 
 A distant clock struck one. 
 
 IV 
 
 I have never known any one to change so lit- 
 tle with the cycle of years as Basil Norman. 
 When he came to Westminster, at the age of 
 twelve, he had an easy nonchalance, a delightful 
 insouciance, that never left him. He went from 
 form to form, trod the stone-flagged passages 
 as others did; but the youth of seventeen that 
 left Westminster bore the same smiling, de- 
 tached personality as when he entered. The 
 atmosphere of tradition interested but did not 
 drug him; the Elizabethan pancake impressed 
 
 21
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 him less than did a contemporary Edwardian 
 soap-bubble. 
 
 Conscientious form-masters recognized his ex- 
 traordinary abilities, and gave him the benefit 
 of well-worded and impressive homilies on 
 achievement. Sometimes for effect they quoted 
 Latin. Norman would counter with a "Greek 
 remark." He never studied, but more than one 
 scholar owed success to the eleventh-hour coach- 
 ing of Basil Norman. Learning, like every- 
 thing else, came to him as a needle to a magnet. 
 
 With a curious air of detachment he watched 
 the panorama of schoolboy life, noticing with a 
 discerning eye the various strata upon which 
 public-school morality is founded, assigning the 
 relative importance of scholarship and cricket, 
 and nodding knowingly as the process of stan- 
 dardization brought similarity of speech, accent, 
 thought, and vocabulary to all his fellows. 
 
 He was like a Puck who had never been really 
 young, but who refused to become a day older. 
 
 For a few weeks he played cricket, but with- 
 out reverence. During a match he kept up 
 (sotto voce, of course) a running commentary 
 of philosophy which, according to our ethics, 
 
 22
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 was vulgar. I shudder to think what he would 
 have done if Westminster had adopted baseball. 
 
 On one occasion the captain of the eleven 
 took upon himself to point out to Basil Norman 
 the error of his ways. The worthy demigod de- 
 plored Norman's habit of lying on the grass dur- 
 ing practice and inventing couplets on the vari- 
 ous members of the team. The captain also 
 said that, providing he would take the game 
 seriously, there was a future for him as a 
 cricketer. Whereupon Norman, from his re- 
 cumbent position, misquoted most of the "To be, 
 or not to be" soliloquy, unblushingly attributing 
 Hamlet's indecision towards living to his doubts 
 of himself as a cricketer. When he finished he 
 rose to his feet, and our comments were frozen 
 at the sight of his face. 
 
 His cheeks had a ghastly pallor and his eyes 
 were brilliant, but with a fixed, glaring in- 
 tensity. And as we looked his expression 
 changed — the color returned with a glow of 
 warmth to his skin, and his eyes were gray and 
 humorous. Being boys, we forgot about it as 
 quickly as it had happened. 
 
 The next Saturday we played Charterhouse, 
 
 23
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and though the score was heavily against us, 
 Xorman gave the finest exhibition of batting I 
 have seen in pubhc-school cricket, scoring a cen- 
 tury and winning the match for us. He was 
 frail but lithe, and with an air of aplomb batted 
 the offerings of Charterhouse to all points of 
 the compass. At the finish of the game we 
 crowded around him, but he smiled a little 
 wearily, and shook his head. 
 
 "I am finished with cricket," he said. 
 
 Bewilderment, then anathema, broke like a 
 thunder-shower upon the head of Basil Norman. 
 We pleaded; we argued; we threatened; then 
 we used language which possessed the merit of 
 forcefulness and frankness. We called him a 
 swine, a rotter, a skunk, and an absolute cad. 
 Some one ventured the opinion that he was a 
 perfect stink, and we all stood about him like 
 the Klu Klux Klan trying a negro malefactor. 
 
 ^'Gentlemen," he said — and there was a de- 
 lightful touch of irony in the word — "you have 
 come to bury, not to praise, me; yet, unliLe 
 Csesar, I am not ambitious." 
 
 "Swine!" said Smith tertius (or was it quar- 
 tus?). 
 
 24
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "In spite of the witty comment of me learned 
 friend," said Xorman, after the manner of the 
 leading counsel of the day, "I have always held 
 the opinion that life is a thing to be sipped, not 
 drunk. I have played cricket — venij vidi, I 
 scored a century! I would not spoil me appe- 
 tite, milords, by overgorging." 
 
 "Your conduct," said Grubbs, the captain, "is 
 rotten. It shows that you don't give a fig for 
 the honor of the school. If you want to be a 
 pig, you can wear the cap of one." (We all knew 
 what he meant, and admired him frightfully for 
 his venture into the quagmire of metaphor.) 
 "We will send you to Coventry until you come 
 to your senses." 
 
 The culprit bowed airily. 
 
 "You will lose much more by my silence than 
 I by yours," he said — and it takes considerable 
 courage to make such a statement to a tribunal 
 of schoolboys. 
 
 If Norman suffered from our aloofness, he 
 took it with the same nonchalance as he had 
 taken our plaudits. Oddly enough, he had no 
 intimate friends, and all of us, partly out of re- 
 sentment against his pose of onlooker, and more 
 
 25
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 from the love of torture which links the school- 
 boy to the savage, performed our duty of silent 
 punishment with a zeal which deserved a better 
 inspiration. We forgot how he had made 
 friends with the misfits whose square personali- 
 ties were being drawn through the round hole 
 of public-school life. Little chaps he had taken 
 in hand on arrival when they wanted to weep 
 for loneliness turned from him as if he held con- 
 tagion. All the sensitive, shrinking ones about 
 whom he had thrown his cloak of vivacity, and 
 who were now grown bold and self-reliant, let 
 him pass from the Little Dean's Yard to his 
 house and through the ancient passages, a lonely 
 debonair figure that always smiled. . . . And 
 no one spoke to him. I, whom he had named 
 "The Pest," thus turning my naturally perverse 
 sulkiness into a subject of jest and good-humor, 
 took a special delight in watching the man who 
 had been sentenced by his peers to solitude in 
 the midst of a crowd. 
 
 His peers? . . . Was it Smith tertius (or 
 quartus) who used the word "swine"? 
 
 Two weeks had passed, and we were to play 
 Winchester a decisive match on our grounds, 
 
 26
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 which, as land near the cathedral is rather diffi- 
 cult to obtain, are almost a mile from the school. 
 
 The stage was set. Youthful scholars of ten 
 and twelve walked in their gowns, their brows 
 knit with thought, their eyes blinking from over- 
 study. Little chaps struggled under the re- 
 sponsibility of silk toppers, and conversed sol- 
 emnly on the deterioration of the tuck-shop ; and 
 the Olympian creature who was the head-boy of 
 the school lounged outside the scoring-booth as 
 if he were "fed up" with nectar, and would like 
 some brown October ale for a change — a pose 
 much favored by the best people in England. 
 There was an excellent audience of the secon- 
 dary sex, composed of proud mothers and apolo- 
 getic sisters, whose presence was necessitating a 
 sort of Jekyll and Hyde attitude on the part 
 of their schoolboy relatives, who were endeavor- 
 ing to be polite to their "people" and at the 
 same time give the impression to their confreres 
 that the women were mere acquaintances — acci- 
 dental dinner partners, as it were. 
 
 No schoolboy of twelve likes to admit to a 
 mother. 
 
 Surrounding the field there is a high iron 
 
 27
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 fence, through the railings of which, or on top, 
 a motley collection of gamins cheer on their 
 wealthier brethren of the silk hats. Natm-ally 
 no notice is taken of these uninvited guests. It 
 is quite all right for them to shout for West- 
 minster if it gives them any pleasure, but what 
 has a silk hat in common with a red kerchief and 
 a slouch-cap? 
 
 On the day of the match they seemed in 
 larger numbers than usual, and the top of the 
 fence was covered with urchins, who retained 
 their position of vantage as though the law of 
 gravitation were no concern of theirs, keeping 
 up a shrill chorus as Winchester went out for a 
 moderate score. 
 
 With the odds all in our favor we went in 
 to bat, Grubbs, the captain, and I leading off. 
 The first ball was wide, but to feel the play of 
 my muscles I took a perfunctory swing at it 
 with my bat. The effect was extraordinary. 
 . . . The crowd of Cockney youngsters raised 
 a volume of sound as if my bat had been r. baton 
 and they a chorus. 
 
 "Gow it. Pest!" "That's the style. Gloomy!" 
 "Troy t' other 'hend, Bluntnose!" "Gee, he's got 
 
 28
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 odd socks on!" "Nah then, Spiderlegs!" (The 
 blunt nose and the legs I admit to, but the 
 accusation of odd socks was pure malice.) 
 
 The next ball, with no twist at all, bowled 
 me clean, and I walked off the field to the tune 
 of high-pitched shrieks of delight, and with a 
 face that flushed a dark red. My place was 
 taken by Smith tertius (or quartus), whose ap- 
 pearance caused an even greater furore than 
 mine. 
 
 " 'Ooray for Bones!" greeted the lanky youth 
 as he emerged — " 'im as his the loife of the 
 school!" (He was the most morose of boys.) 
 " 'I, Bones, 'oo did you crib from this time, eh?" 
 (A subtle allusion to an ancient offense which 
 had almost earned him expulsion.) 
 
 The first ball came for Smith with an inviting 
 hop. He watched it — went to strike at it — 
 changed his mind — reconsidered his decision, 
 and swung at the air as the ball passed over the 
 bails by an inch, a feat which seemed to gratify 
 our enemies on the fence immensely. 
 
 "Nah then. Bones, non o' that there contor- 
 tionizing!" " 'It the ball. Bones; don't miss it!" 
 
 And he did — a miserable little pop into the 
 
 29
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 air; the chap in the slips didn't have to move a 
 foot to gather it in. 
 
 Mr. Smith then added his proof that Shake- 
 speare was right when he said in this world we 
 have our exits and our entrances. 
 
 The next six batters went out for a score of 
 eleven, bowled clean by the most intimate vol- 
 ume of abusive chaff ever endured by a cricket 
 team. Skeletons were not only being taken 
 from their closets, but paraded brazenly before 
 the eyes of the world. The secret history of 
 Westminster was screamed from the fence-tops. 
 
 It was after the loss of our eighth wicket that 
 Grubbs and I, who had stolen round by the 
 street, stalked and discovered their ringleader. 
 
 "That's him," said the captain hoarsely — the 
 situation was too tense to permit of the niceties 
 of grammar. I followed the line of his accusing 
 finger — and gasped. There was no mistaking 
 those gray twinkling eyes, although they were 
 almost hidden behind a huge bandage, pre- 
 sumably for mumps. He was dressed in a 
 rough coster suit, with a villainous cap on one 
 side of his head and a bandit's red kerchief 
 about his neck. 
 
 30
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "It is him," I said dramatically. 
 
 "I thought so," said Grubbs, and cleared his 
 throat. "Norman," he cried. "Kid — Norman." 
 
 The young rascal, who was sitting on top of a 
 post, more like a Puck than ever, swiveled 
 about and solemnly winked one eye. "Do I un- 
 derstand that the ban of silence is lifted?" he 
 said from behind the mumps bandage. 
 
 Grubbs considered, and then made a tactful 
 and instantaneous decision. (Small wonder 
 that a few j^ears later he was entrusted with a 
 war mission to Washington, of the utmost deli- 
 cacy.) 
 
 "You've had your revenge," he said, "and the 
 joke is on us. Call your mob off, will you?" 
 
 "You're quite sure you wouldn't like us to 
 encourage the remainder for a change?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "So be it, my captain." 
 
 He blew a whistle through his fingers, and in 
 a moment the fence was denuded of mortals like 
 a tree smitten by an autumn gale. The Blower 
 of Bubbles removed his bandage, and presented 
 a stocky youth with three shillings. 
 
 31
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Buy sweets for the crowd," he said, "and 
 mind — play fair." 
 
 "Right you har', guv'nor"; and the mob dis- 
 appeared. And thus ended the riot of the 
 slouch-cap against the silk hat. To-day, if you 
 are passing the field during a match, you will 
 see that the gamins are still there, but they shout 
 only for Westminster. 
 
 We were just turning away, when Basil jNTor- 
 man laid his hand on Grubbs's forearm, as a 
 girl might do, and his eyes had a wistful look. 
 
 "Before I change into more fitting garb," he 
 said airilj^ then paused. . . . My breathing 
 seemed to stop at the sight — his face had gone 
 suddenly white, and his eyes were glazed. 
 
 "Grubbs!" he cried, and his voice sounded 
 hollow. "Don't you understand? . . . Oh, you 
 damned foolj can't you see it's my heart?" 
 
 After Westminster I went to Cambridge, and 
 succeeded in cultivating the Oxford manner, by 
 which all Cambridge men are known. When I 
 emerged from there I offered myself to the 
 
 32
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 highest bidder (a sudden bankruptcy of my 
 father having made an occupation essential). 
 
 A London newspaper was the fortunate win- 
 ner in the mad race for my services, though it 
 would have been difficult for it to lose, as there 
 was but one entry. 
 
 I became a writer of power — not quite so 
 much so as the gentleman to-day who wields 
 his pen as he would a bludgeon, and succeeds in 
 writing a powerful article each week; but still 
 I was a writer of strength. I damned the pres- 
 ent, doubted the future, and deplored the past. 
 I became an honored member of the group of 
 London writers whose entire genius is ex- 
 hausted in criticism. I secured a bowing ac- 
 quaintance with Bernard Shaw, and always 
 spoke of H. G. Wells as Mr. Wells. It was 
 obvious to me that to achieve literary success in 
 England one must abuse England — but espe- 
 cially any one who tried to change her. 
 
 Some of my confreres sided with Bernard 
 Shaw and attacked middle-class morality and 
 patriotism. Mr. Arnold Bennett had a certain 
 following, though we agreed that his Five 
 Towns stories were not really critical, but merely 
 
 33
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 observant. We did not know at the tinie that 
 he had it in him to write The Pretty Lady, 
 which was to be neither. For myself, I was 
 drawn towards Mr. Wells, and hit at every- 
 thing like a blindfolded pugilist. 
 
 We agreed with Granville Barker that Irving 
 had reduced the value of Shakespeare by over- 
 staging; and we endorsed the opinion of a dra- 
 matic critic, known to the public as "Jingle,'* 
 who said that Shakespeare's lines were often 
 worthy of an Oxford undergraduate. 
 
 For pastime we abused Lord Roberts as a 
 monomaniac, and Winston Churchill as a klep- 
 tomaniac with a passion for stealing the thunder 
 of others. We even argued that the Church 
 had lost its grip, and wrote eloquently on the 
 value of doubt. With admirable esprit de corps 
 we refrained from attacking the public-school 
 system, though we realized that one could al- 
 ways get a hearing by so doing. 
 
 And every year those schools were turning 
 out their thousands and the universities their 
 hundreds; every year our number was strength- 
 ened by well-routined brains that took to de- 
 structive criticism like a German to barbarity, 
 
 M
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Somebody was writing our puerile dramas; 
 some one was producing the trash which flooded 
 our book-stalls; some brain was conceiving the 
 tawdry stuff which was educating the millions 
 in the cinemas. . . . But we thanked Heaven 
 that we were not as other men. We were Eng- 
 land's educated class. For the education of 
 England fails to teach one that a country's art 
 and literature are as vital to the nation as speech 
 to the individual. 
 
 I took a flat in Sloane Square and read Rus- 
 sian novels. Whenever I discovered a new 
 Russian author, I quoted him as if I had known 
 him all my life; it used to pain me to find how 
 unrecognized he was by my fellows. I attended 
 the opera only on Russian nights, and I became 
 a devotee of the Russian dancers. I used to 
 quote Russian in my paper, and brought down 
 the curse of a hundred typesetters upon my 
 head. 
 
 I think every writer has his Russian period. 
 
 Once or twice I heard of Basil Norman, 
 though our paths did not cross. Some one 
 claimed that Norman could have been a great 
 
 violinist, if Another told me that Punch 
 
 35
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 liad published a delicate little sonnet of his that 
 had the quality of tears about it. There was 
 
 no question (he said), if An artist I met 
 
 had painted one landscape that defied criticism 
 — even ours — and I spoke of the exquisite color- 
 ing and detail of the foreground. 
 
 "I could not have done that," he said, "but for 
 Basil Norman, who brooded over me like an 
 inspiration. The work is mine, but the concep- 
 tion his. If " 
 
 Yet the world did not know of his existence. 
 He remained a detached personality, treading 
 lightly where sorrow was, singing his song of 
 the sunlight wherever ears had become dulled 
 with discouragement. A fantastic, gentle, 
 twinkling-eyed prince in a kingdom of butter- 
 flies and violets. Try as I would, I could not 
 refrain from contrasting my life of literary vivi- 
 section with his primrose youth that seemed 
 eternal, springing from a genuine joy in living, 
 a youth that was as perfect as a melody of 
 Chopin's. 
 
 "The happiest of Christmases, old Pest!" 
 
 The subject of my thoughts was standing be- 
 
 36
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 fore me, and the bells were clamoring exultantly 
 on the frosty air. 
 
 I gi-ipped his hand, and something in his eyes 
 told me the truth. . . . He had come for me 
 because I was lonely and needed him. 
 
 And the message of the bells took on a new 
 meaning. 
 
 VI 
 
 We walked into the brisk, vibrating sunshine 
 of a glorious Christmas morning. He had 
 taken my arm, and was chatting gayly on every- 
 thing from "cabbages to kings." Sometimes his 
 nostrils dilated, and he would look up as if he 
 were actually drinking in the ozone of the air; 
 and he seemed younger than ever, with a joy- 
 ousness born of sheer intoxication with life. We 
 walked for a mile, and all the time his mood 
 was as happy and stimulating as the sunshine 
 sparkling in the December air. 
 
 Turning down a street, we passed a church 
 from which the worshipers were emerging, and 
 a mother with two sons on the brink of manhood 
 held our attention for a moment. The lads had 
 a gentleness of feature, an unconscious grace 
 
 37
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 that sometimes is the attribute of adolescence, 
 and their mother walked between them, proudly 
 — they were her masterpieces. For some time 
 Norman chatted amiably, but I could see that 
 a pensive shadow was steadily creeping over the 
 brilliancy of his spirits. 
 
 "They tell me," he said in subdued tones, 
 breaking suddenly from the topic in hand, "that 
 both my parents hoped for a girl when I was 
 born. And sometimes I have thought that there 
 is a little of the feminine in my nature. I 
 love the pretty things of life, and there are times 
 when I have an unmistakable sense of intuition." 
 
 I waited silently, but it was some moments be- 
 fore he resumed. 
 
 "Somewhere ahead," he said dreamily, "in 
 months or years to come, I see a vision of a 
 woman in black, coming from church alone, and 
 
 her head is bowed with grief " He passed 
 
 his hand over his brow with a weary, querulous 
 movement, and shadows appeared beneath his 
 eyes. "T\Tiere — where are the two sons? Not 
 dead?" 
 
 He smiled wistfully and replaced his hand in 
 my arm. 
 
 38
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "The picture we saw just now," he said, "is 
 my conception of England — the real England 
 of noble mothers and noble sons. But some- 
 thing tells me that the woman in black is Eng- 
 land too, mourning for her sons who will never 
 — come back." 
 
 With an effort he squared his shoulders and 
 forced a laugh from his lips. 
 
 "Pest!" he cried, "I should be burned as a 
 witch. Heigho! it's a pretty go when one has 
 to turn lugubrious on a Christmas morning. 
 Cheer us up. Pest. Tell me about yourself — 
 w^hom you are in love with, and your dreams 
 for the days to come. Let's blow bubbles — 
 shall we? — and see what fresh beauties we can 
 find in this charming adventure called life!" 
 
 And I laughed with him, exchanging philoso- 
 phies light as air; but the chimes that rang out 
 all about us had still another meaning. There 
 was a warning in the pealing discords that 
 broke on the quiet air; there was a requiem in 
 the notes that lingered like an echo, then mur- 
 mured ominously to silence. 
 
 I shivered as though I had a chill, for some- 
 thing of Norman's spirit had seized me, and I 
 
 39
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 felt that both the warning and the requiem were 
 — for England. 
 
 VII 
 
 At the head of a stairway which one reached 
 by going through a tobacconist's, Herr Klotz 
 greeted us with guttural cordiality. We asked 
 after his wife, and were told that she was a little 
 better, though very weak, and had insisted upon 
 seeing her guests before they left, if they would 
 be so kind as to visit the sickroom. 
 
 On the contents of an enormous hamper sent 
 from "Arcadia" (and, I am certain, paid for by 
 Norman) the German and the two of us lunched 
 with all the bonhomie of bohemians. Basil 
 Norman was in the best of spirits, so much so, 
 in fact, that Klotz was constantly overcome with 
 laughter, and on three occasions was forced to 
 rush away to acquaint his wife "mit der amuz- 
 ing veet of zee altogedderillustrious Herr Nor- 
 man." 
 
 By no means least in importance, Klotz's little 
 son of about four years of age sat in a high chair 
 and chuckled knowingly whenever he deemed 
 the humor had reached a necessary climax. 
 
 40
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Though he was not unlike his father in the 
 shape of his head, his chin did not recede, and 
 one could only assume the mother had supplied 
 the qualities lacking in the father. Never for 
 a moment did the child lose interest in the pro- 
 ceedings; he followed throughout the facial ex- 
 pression and the play of conversation of his 
 elders. His face interested me so intensely that 
 I found myself glancing at him whenever his in- 
 terest in the others gave me a chance; there was 
 so much of promise and heredity about hun. 
 
 "And what," I said, during a momentary lull 
 in the merriment, "is Master Siegfried to be- 
 come?" We had learned his name a moment 
 before. 
 
 "Siegfried," said his father, "tell zee gentle- 
 mens vot you to be already intend." 
 
 The little chap smiled, but without self-con- 
 sciousness. "A conducthtor," he lisped, "like 
 Herr Nikith." 
 
 Klotz crossed his hands upon his ample waist- 
 coat and beamed paternally. 
 
 "Your baton bring," he said, "und der score 
 Tristan." 
 
 With profuse apologies for this display of 
 
 41
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 juvenile precocity, the violinist hurried after the 
 boy, and reentered a moment later with his violin 
 and a music-stand, which he proceeded to set up. 
 
 Siegfried followed close on his heels with the 
 full orchestral score of the last act of Tristan and 
 Isolde, which almost obscured him from sight. 
 Placing it on the stand, he retired in a dignified 
 manner; and Herr Klotz, taking a chair, seated 
 himself at the left of the stand, and proceeded 
 to tune his fiddle to pitch, varying the proceed- 
 ings with imitations of French-horns, vagrant 
 clarionets, and irresponsible trombones in the 
 melange of discord which always precedes the 
 entrance of the conductor. Norman, who had 
 been enjoying the scene to the full, suddenly rose 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Herr Klotz," he said sternly, "I protest." 
 
 The tuning ceased, and the violinist looked 
 anxiously at his guest. "You do not like dis, 
 zumtimes?" he faltered. 
 
 "I object," cried Basil, "to being left out. — 
 Herr Siegfried!" He raised his voice. "Herr 
 Siegfried!" 
 
 The little chap walked solemnly in, a baton in 
 his hand. "Yeth?" he said. 
 
 42
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ''Mein II err, my friend and myself desire to 
 join your orchestra." 
 
 The youthful conductor considered, ruminat- 
 ingly. "You blay goot?" he said. 
 
 "Wonderfully. I was comb-and-tissue-paper- 
 player in the Cascade Steam Laundry Orchestra, 
 and my friend " 
 
 "He ith goot alzo?" 
 
 "Pest, speak for yourself." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. "Far be it from me 
 to brag," I said, rather lamely, "but I was first 
 violinist to His Majesty the King of Diddle- 
 doodledums." 
 
 "Ah, j^es," cried Norman; "and you were dis- 
 missed because of your unfortunate habit of play- 
 ing an octave flat." He leaned over and put his 
 lips to Siegfried's ear. "Let him play the drums," 
 he said in a stage whisper. 
 
 Amidst roars of delight from the older Klotz, 
 the youngster left the room, and returned in a 
 minute's time, carrying an immense tin dishpan 
 and a broken broom-handle, which musical im- 
 pedimenta he entrusted to my tender mercies, 
 and then sedately stalked from the scene once 
 more. With mixed emotions I carried my pan 
 
 43
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and stick over to the extreme right, and placed 
 a chair beneath the spot where the stage-box 
 would be, calmly surveying the assumed audience 
 with that look of waggish melancholy one asso- 
 ciates with gentlemen of the drums. Norman, 
 whom Klotz had armed with the combined in- 
 gredients of his instrument, placed a chair half- 
 way between the conductor's stand and myself, 
 and together we joined Herr Klotz in a two- 
 minutes' orgy of discordant preparation. With 
 a desire to increase the variety of my percussion 
 effects, I conscripted an extra chair into service, 
 placed it back towards me, and prepared to use 
 my cane as an auxiliary drumstick. 
 
 By common consent we achieved a moment's 
 unanimity of silence, which was seized by Herr 
 Siegfried as the auspicious moment for his en- 
 trance. Without the least loss of dignity he 
 clambered onto his chair, as we applauded, per- 
 functorily, by hammering our alleged music- 
 stands with non-existent bows; and, turning to 
 the audience, he bowed with the restraint of 
 genius — a feat of condescension which appeared 
 to delight the throng hugely, for he was con- 
 strained to turn about and acknowledge their 
 
 44
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 plaudits a second time before they would allow 
 him to proceed. 
 
 As drummer I assumed an air of morose bore- 
 dom. 
 
 The noise of the audience having subsided, the 
 conductor opened his score and nodded to his 
 Conccrtmeister, Herr Klotz, who carefully 
 found the required place in the orchestration. 
 
 "Blay der 'Liebestod' music," said he in his 
 most professional manner to us. We nodded 
 knowingly, and found the required part in the 
 last act of our scores, after turning over a vast 
 number of visionary pages. 
 
 "Do we begin at the beginning?" asked Norman. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "and leave off at the end." 
 After which sally I laughed immoderately, and 
 began to understand the instinct which causes a 
 humorist to enjoy his own wit more than any 
 other's. 
 
 A rap on the stand brought my mirth to a 
 close. Both arms were extended in the air — a 
 last look at both sides of the orchestra (there 
 must have been a hundred of us) — the left hand 
 slowly poised to indicate "piano" — the right 
 hand gently raised — and then the strings were 
 
 45
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 brought into action. I had intended, as another 
 excellent jest, to give a tremendous crash on the 
 pan at the start, so as to bring down the leader's 
 wrath, but something in the little chap's attitude 
 stopped me. This was not play to him — it was 
 real; and, to my amazement, it seemed no less 
 vivid to my fellow-burlesquers. Herr Klotz was 
 playing the chromatic development of the open- 
 ing as if it had been Covent Garden and the real 
 Nikisch conducting. The Blower of Bubbles was 
 giving one more proof of his amazing versatility. 
 In some manner he was imitating a cello, and he 
 knew the music. Where he had learned it one 
 could only conjecture — but when did he learn 
 anything ? 
 
 Silently I watched the serio-comic develop- 
 ment. The boy was conducting remarkably, with 
 unerring artistry, sustaining the exact Wagner- 
 ian tempi, and, with little exaggeration, indicat- 
 ing the crescendo and diminuendo which colors 
 all the great master's composition. How much 
 of it he knew or whether he was following his 
 father's violin I could not make out, but his earn- 
 estness fascinated me; and suddenly his eyes 
 turned towards mine. I gripped the broom- 
 
 46
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 handle — but no, it was merely a warning that 
 my time was imminent. I think my breath came 
 short as I waited. Then his eyes sought mine 
 once more, and inclining towards me, his baton 
 called for the drums. It was I he was conduct- 
 ing, and no one else ! And I vibrated the broom- 
 handle against the dish-pan, only to stop in- 
 stantaneously as his baton moved to subtler in- 
 struments. He never failed to warn me with that 
 preliminary glance, and when the magic wand 
 followed I gave him all I had. The little beggar 
 was a hypnotist. 
 
 Towards the climax I could have sworn the 
 whole orchestra was there. Klotz was playing 
 superbly, and Norman was roaming from one in- 
 strument to the other with a remarkable combina- 
 tion of accuracy and imitative versatility. As for 
 me, I supplied dynamic effects that would have 
 satisfied even the great Beethoven, who once 
 asked for guns. 
 
 Then it was over. 
 
 Herr Siegfried bowed twice to the audience, 
 indicated his entire orchestra with an all-embrac- 
 ing wave of the baton, and ended by solemnljl 
 shaking hands with his father, who stood up to 
 
 47
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 accept the honor. After that, with a self-con- 
 scious wriggle, he became the boy once more, and 
 removed his spell from us. With roars of delight 
 we gathered about him, making a circle by join- 
 ing hands, and dancing extempore, we sang a 
 chorus consisting of constant repetitions of 
 "Hilee-hilo! Hilee-hilo!" That may not be the 
 correct spelling, but then we were singing, not 
 writing it — which is one advantage music has 
 over literature. 
 
 Before we went, Herr Klotz took us into the 
 room where his wife lay ill, and by her eyes — for 
 she was too weak to speak — she thanked us for 
 our part in making the day a festival one for their 
 lonely little household. With an instinctive gen- 
 tleness that a woman might have shown, Norman 
 spoke of the things she wanted to hear about: 
 how her husband had been missed at the restaur- 
 ant, of the desire of every one to make a little 
 present to them, of the great future that lay be- 
 fore their son, and of the genius of Herr Klotz 
 that would some day be recognized. With the 
 cheeriest of good-byes, he lightly touched her 
 shoulder with his hand and said he knew she 
 would soon be well again. 
 
 48
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 He lied. In half of what he said he lied. He 
 was blowing bubbles that the woman stricken 
 with fever might see in them some little compen- 
 sation for her life of drudgery. 
 
 With the guttural good wishes of Herr Klotz 
 still in our ears (we had pledged eternal friend- 
 ship in three foaming mugs of beer), we sought 
 the street, to find that dusk was settling over the 
 city. For some moments neither spoke, but feel- 
 ing that perhaps I had descended too abruptly 
 from my pedestal, I cleared my throat and ven- 
 tured on a remark. 
 
 "A decent fellow," I said patronizingly, and 
 felt my dignity reasserting myself; but Norman 
 failed to hear me. He was lost in some memory. 
 Now that I look back, I wonder was it the picture 
 of the sick woman he saw or his vision of the 
 mother with her two sons; or, with his gift of in- 
 tuition, could he see, less than a year ahead, 
 Klotz, in a German soldier's uniform, marching 
 through Belgium with an army of lust and rap- 
 ine, gorged like gluttonous, venomous beasts? 
 
 I wonder.
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 VIII 
 
 It was from an aunt of mine that I first heard 
 of Norman's attachment to Lilias Oxley. 
 
 Whenever I received a letter from my relative, 
 I had first to realize that its mission was to edu- 
 cate, not to entertain. She was a woman of 
 strong ideas, and, as my mother died very early 
 in my life, she seldom lost an opportunity of im- 
 pressing a moral — like the Queen in Alice in 
 Wonderland. In her correspondence, and to a 
 large extent in her conversation, my aunt was 
 given to dashes, underlines, and exclamation- 
 marks. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that 
 she was a single woman. 
 
 I received the letter two months after Christ- 
 mas; it was dated from the Beacon at Hindhead. 
 
 "My dear Nephew, — You will find menthol- 
 ated crystals — carried in a small bottle — a splen- 
 did preventive against the present epidemic of 
 cold in the head ! Sniff a little every night before 
 going to bed. 
 
 'When are you going to marry? For good- 
 
 50 
 
 (11
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ness* sake, marry a dark girl when you do. Our 
 family is growing positively colorless! 
 
 "Your friend, Mr. Norman, is visiting the 
 Oxleys down here. It seems young Oxley is try- 
 ing to write a play with some ideas in it, and Nor- 
 man thinks he can help him ! Who in the world 
 wants to see a play with their ideas ! It's a pity 
 you couldn't teach him to do something useful — 
 Norman, I mean. — Young Oxley is going into 
 the Church ! Why doesn't he go to Canada ! I 
 mean Norman. 
 
 "Do you remember little Lilias Oxley? She 
 had pneumonia last year, though I warned her 
 mother about flannel soaked in goose-oil and tur- 
 pentine I She always looked like a hothouse 
 flower, and now she is simply frail. Of course, 
 she's pretty and has eyes that always makes fools 
 of the men — not that that signifies ! Everybody 
 says she's artistic, but all I ever hear her play is 
 by some newfangled foreigner named Debussy, 
 and it's all discord. She's only nineteen and 
 looks sixteen. 
 
 "Of course, young Norman comes along, and 
 instead of picking out some healthy hu-xom girl, 
 he falls in love with this bit of tinsel china! It's 
 
 51
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 criminal, and should not be allowed. What kind 
 of children will they have, if any ! He calls her 
 his Beatrice — Heaven knows why! 
 
 "They are together constantly. I would write 
 to the Times about it if I thought that Lord 
 Xorthfellow would publish it. We should have a 
 Minister of Eugenics! Surely Winston Church- 
 ill would be better employed at that than trying 
 to build up a huge navy we'll never need ! By the 
 way, I see he's taken to writing novels now! 
 
 "Do talk to young Norman! Tell him your 
 uncle is doing very well with pigs in Canada; 
 and why not induce your friend to go there, and 
 get some common-sense, because every Canadian 
 I meet has a head on his shoulders? It must be 
 the climate! 
 
 "I am going to stay here for a month, and then 
 visit my cousin in Scotland. She has six chil- 
 dren. Whatever induced her to marry a minister? 
 He has no money and no prospects — except more 
 children, I suppose! 
 
 "Does that Mulvaney woman see that your 
 room is kept aired ? When you write you should 
 have the window open and a cap on your head. 
 
 52
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "I hope you will never write books! It is quite 
 a distinction nowadays not to. 
 
 "Where did you go for Christmas? — Your lov- 
 ing aunt, Hannah, 
 
 "Feby. 8/1914." 
 
 The only way I can account for my aunt's love 
 of exclamation-marks was her delight at seeing a 
 sentence round to a good finish. I have known 
 authors to be so overcome with the dramatic 
 significance of their work that they put them in 
 as a sort of public recognition thereof. 
 
 En passant. ... I wonder why my aunt never 
 wrote a serial story for one of the London dailies. 
 
 IX 
 
 War. 
 
 Our world of artificiality lay like a cracked 
 eggshell. As drowning men, we clutched at 
 everything that seemed stable ... to find noth- 
 ing that was not made of perishable stuff. Our 
 pens that had criticized so long mocked us as 
 we gazed at the pages which seemed to reject our 
 thoughts before we gave them life. A few of us 
 
 53
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 turned into special war writers and comforted the 
 nation with statistics. We showed that Germany 
 was beaten — it was a mathematical truth that 
 could be proved. While we demonstrated our 
 immense superiority to the enemy in figures, a 
 little British Army was fighting against odds of 
 six to one. 
 
 And the Fates stood by with poised shears, 
 ready to cut the thread of Britain's destiny. 
 
 It is not pleasant to recall the arraignment of 
 the year 1914. The Boer War had shown our 
 weakness to every nation but ourselves ; our edu- 
 cated men had graduated into the world using 
 their abilities as obstructionists. We had dis- 
 couraged everything that had the very odor of 
 progress. 
 
 Yet — we muddled through. Men still use that 
 word as if it were something creditable instead of 
 hideous. We won, because, behind the Britain 
 that muddled and obstructed, there was the Brit- 
 ain of noble mothers and noble sons. 
 
 And into the first winter our orgy of statistics 
 went on, like an endless Babylonian feast . . . 
 while the British fleet — which we should never 
 need — strained and plunged in the icy gales of 
 
 54
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 the North Sea, grimly, silently, saving the world 
 for Civilization. 
 
 Great days. Fateful days. Terrible days. 
 
 One Friday night early in December I re- 
 ceived a note from Norman, asking me to meet 
 him for dinner at "Arcadia." I had not seen him 
 for six months, but his debonair charm was as 
 potent as ever, and we chatted of the past like 
 friends who had not met for years. As if by 
 mutual consent, we avoided the present until I 
 noticed that the orchestra was different. 
 
 "Where is Klotz?" I asked suddenly. 
 
 "Gone." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To the war. He was a German reservist and 
 got away." 
 
 "And his wife?" 
 
 "She is confined to her bed all the time, but 
 fortunately there is an excellent woman looking 
 after her and young Siegfried. By the way, what 
 a conductor he'll make some day!" 
 
 By the subterfuge I knew who was paying for 
 the woman, though his income was always slen- 
 der. Stimulated by a British-born orchestra that 
 played with a respectability beyond question, we 
 
 55
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 pursued bubbles of conversation for half-an- 
 hour, saying many clever things and arriving at 
 no conclusions ; but both of us knew that, behind 
 the badinage, there was the consciousness of war 
 gripping our brains like a fever. 
 
 "What do you think," I said at last, "of the 
 question of enlisting?" It would have been a 
 mockery to deny the fever any longer. 
 
 "Why should I enlist?" His smile was so dis- 
 arming that I regretted my move at once. 
 
 "Don't misunderstand me," I said hastily. 
 "You are not needed, and you never will be. Be- 
 sides " My voice trailed off into the insin- 
 cere platitudes that always come to the lips when 
 conscience is to be drugged. 
 
 He lit a cigarette. "Pest," he said, "most men 
 are participants in life; a few, like myself, are 
 onlookers. It was my choice when I was a mere 
 youngster — wisely or not, I do not know — but 
 the pose has become reality now. I am a jester 
 at the court of the world, a wordy fellow with a 
 touch of melancholy in his humor, watching and 
 commenting on the real things of life. Before 
 there was a war I blew bubbles, and now I am fit 
 for nothing else. Have a cigarette?" 
 
 56
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 He passed his hand across his brow with the 
 same weariness I had noticed before. 
 
 "To gaze on life," he went on after a pause, 
 "and not to live it, spares one many sorrows. 
 Even love, which comes to most men as an over- 
 whelming passion, stole into my life like a per- 
 fume of Cashmere. When I was twelve years of 
 age and living on the south coast, I used to pass 
 a little dream-girl of seven years or so. The 
 purity of her face stayed with me like a«melody 
 a mother sings to her child. Then she was ill, 
 and for three weeks I never saw her. Finally 
 she came one day in a chair, and her beauty was 
 the most exquisite thing I had ever seen. It 
 made me think that the God who gave us this 
 beautiful world sometimes cherishes a soul as 
 sweet as hers and keeps it in a body that is frail, 
 so that through life He can watch it like a flower, 
 tenderly, lovingly; . . . and when He wants it 
 back again He has but to whisper, and, like a 
 violet bending to a summer breeze, it hears and 
 obeys. ... I have sometimes thought that even 
 tears shed for such a one have in them the quality 
 
 57
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 of dew, and serve to keep the memory green and 
 pleasant. 
 
 "The next day I brought her a rose. Though 
 we had never spoken, she took it, and gave 
 me her face to kiss. ... I lost my mother when 
 I was very young, but this dream-girl's kiss sup- 
 plied that inspiration for the ideal that a child 
 takes from its mother. I could not have been im- 
 pure after that — I could not have been unkind. 
 The next day she was gone, and I never saw her 
 again until I went to Surrey to visit young Ox- 
 ley. She was his sister." 
 
 "And you found?" 
 
 "That the dream-child had become a woman — 
 the charm of Spring had softened to the witchery 
 of Summer." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and relit his ciga- 
 rette, which had gone out. 
 
 "That, my dear Pest, is how love came to me." 
 
 I frowned in an endeavor to pierce his appar- 
 ently superficial dismissal of the subject. 
 
 "Don't you intend to marry her?" I said. 
 
 "Marry her?" He laughed, but there was lit- 
 tle mirth in the sound. "Does a jester marry?" 
 His eyes hardened, and there was a new ring to 
 
 58
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 his voice. "Who am I to take a wife? A poseur, 
 a flaneur, in a world of men, I stand discredited 
 beside the poorest workman whose toil brings in 
 a pittance for his wife and kiddies. England is 
 calling for men — for men, I say." He brought 
 his fist with a crash on the table. "What can I 
 offer her — my parlor accomplishments? My 
 minstrel's mummery that shudders at the sight of 
 a sword? Can I blow bubbles in a world where 
 hearts are breaking?" 
 
 There were tears in his voice, but his eyes were 
 flashing furiously. 
 
 "Hexcuse me." A man had stepped up to us, 
 wearing the armlet of a recruit. His face was 
 oddly familiar, but I could not recall it until a 
 light was switched on just behind him, and I 
 recognized the pumpkin-faced man of Christmas 
 Eve. 
 
 "I just thought of 'ow I'd like for to tell you 
 as I've been took for the Army O.K." 
 
 We shook his hand and wished him the best of 
 luck. 
 
 "Funny thing, sir, as 'ow the 'ole bloomin' 
 time I was planning to sign hup I was a-thinkin' 
 of you and that there fiddle. 'You wouldn't like 
 
 59
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 to meet 'im,' I kind o' sez to myself, 'and you not 
 in the harmy, you wouldn't,' I sez." 
 
 "Instead of which," smiled Norman, all trace 
 of his intensity gone, "I am the one who is the 
 slacker." 
 
 "But didn't I see you in the line the day we was 
 going for to join hup?" 
 
 Norman laughed. "I was probably a hundred 
 miles away," he said. "Pest, have I a double?" 
 
 The recruit scratched his head. "I could 'a 
 sworn hit was you," he said, and launched into a 
 graphic description of drill and the absurdities 
 thereof, a recital which appeared to have no 
 prosDcct of an ending until we were interrupted 
 by the restaurant proprietor, who took Norman 
 to one side for a consultation concerning the 
 medieval cook. 
 
 I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see our 
 friend of the pumpkin face making secret and 
 terrifying signs for me to lend him my ear. 
 
 " 'E's a-'iding something,"hewhisperedhoarse- 
 ly. "I ain't been a chandlery merchant hall my 
 life, wot does most o' 'is business hon tick, with- 
 out hit learning me to remember faces. Hit 
 were 'im. 'E was turned down for a bad 'eart!" 
 
 60
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Whereupon he made a semi-mystic sign with 
 his thumb and forefinger to indicate that the 
 whole affair was a secret between gentlemen. 
 
 That night, in bed, the sensitive, delicate fea- 
 tures of Basil Norman remained in my memory. 
 I had surprised his secret which he would admit 
 to no one ; not to the girl he loved ; not to himself. 
 It was the same spirit that had made him defy 
 the whole of Westminster. We had called him 
 Puck and the Blower of Bubbles, and he himself 
 had said he was lighter than air. . . . But Basil 
 Norman's life had been one endless battle with 
 an indomitable soul that refused to yield to the 
 body. 
 
 I could not sleep well that night. 
 
 I did not meet Basil Norman for nearly four 
 years. I joined the Artists' Rifles early in 1915, 
 fought for eleven months, and was given a com- 
 mission. After a short time in England I went 
 out in all the glory of a Sam Browne and one 
 star, but in a few months I was wounded in the 
 chest, which earned me Blighty and a surfeit of 
 
 61
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Aunt Hannah, who still contended that had we 
 only concentrated on an army instead of a 
 navy 
 
 As I write, it all seems a blurred memory of 
 colorless monotony, mud, fatigue, death, and 
 grim humor. In January, 1918, after a term of 
 duty as musketry instructor, I returned to 
 France, and fought through the horrible spring 
 battles until, with cruel coincidence, I was 
 wounded again in the same place, and once more 
 came to England with a bullet in my chest — a 
 bullet they dared not extract. In September I 
 was discharged. 
 
 One morning in November I sat by the fire in 
 my den at Sloane Square. I had resumed the 
 tenancy of the rooms, and Mrs. Mulvaney looked 
 upon me as being even less mature than before, 
 warning me about goloshes when it was wet, and 
 umbrellas when it wasn't, but appeared likely to 
 be. 
 
 How long I sat there I do not know, but 
 memory began to weave its spell, driving my sur- 
 roundings into a dim obscurity and bringing back 
 incidents of the past with vivid clarity. I gripped 
 my head with both hands, and, for the hundredth 
 
 62
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 time, sought the truth that lay buried in the holo- 
 caust of the nations. . . . My wound hurt again, 
 and a dizziness crept over me like a fog that rises 
 from the sea and enshrouds the land. 
 
 Futile. . . . Futile. . . . 
 
 Had some one spoken? The words sounded 
 distinctly. ... I could have sworn I heard them. 
 
 Was the whole war a dream, or was it real? 
 Once more I was in Sloane Square ; there was my 
 desk with its litter of papers, my pipe-rack, my 
 books. . . . Had I ever left them? Could it be 
 true that I had led m.en against machine-gun fire 
 — and that I had killed? Were those boys who 
 died beside me, smiling like children in their sleep, 
 really dead? Was it all some hideous fantasy of 
 an unhealthy brain — a gigantic charade invented 
 by the greatest buffoon of all time? 
 
 Futile. . . . Futile. . . . Futile. 
 
 I cursed, and pressed my brow with my hands. 
 It was a fight for sanity, as so many men have 
 fought in the solitude of their rooms since the 
 hell of Flanders. 
 
 Like a panorama the events of the war crossed 
 my mind, and yet those that stood out most clear- 
 ly were the unimportant things that came as mere 
 
 63
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 incidents during the unfolding of the world's 
 destiny. The senior chaplain's dog, which was 
 shot by an A.P.JNI. and mourned by a whole divi- 
 sion . . . the new arrival who thought he was a 
 special charge of the Lord's, and who persisted 
 in looking over the top during the day — we buried 
 him next morning . . . the night that the female 
 impersonator from a divisional concert-party 
 lured the colonel into amorous confession . . . 
 the little chap who got no mail at Christmas, and 
 said he hadn't received a letter for two years . . . 
 one after the other these human trivialities 
 coursed through my brain, forcing the vaster is- 
 sues aside. 
 
 From no apparent cause, the strain of reminis- 
 cence turned toward Basil Norman. I had seen 
 him somewhere, but whether in London or in the 
 country my poor tired brain seemed unable to 
 determine. And then, with no regard for rele- 
 vancy, I was with my battalion once more, march- 
 ing with the Australians to hold a strategical 
 point that one of our brigades had saved from the 
 disaster of March. Who was it said that the 
 Australians lacked discipline? Look at them 
 grinning like youngsters at a game, with the odds 
 
 64
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 against any coming out alive! Discipline? Hell! 
 
 We rested at a cross-roads and smoked ; one of 
 our Tommies was singing the refrain of a song 
 that urged the country to call up all his relations, 
 even his father and his mother, but "for Gawd's 
 sake" not to take him. The sublime incongruity 
 of it was so thoroughly British that we laughed 
 and called for a repetition. A few minutes later 
 the Australians passed us, going forward, and 
 there was a reckless air of bravado about them 
 that boded ill for the Hun. 
 
 We waited an hour, two hours — perhaps more. 
 
 By Jove ! Coming around the bend in the road 
 was the brigade that had held the line. Good 
 work, you chaps! Well done! Bravo! That's 
 it, you fellows; give them a cheer! Beneath the 
 mud and the dust and the beards, they were livid 
 with fatigue; the skin beneath their eyes had 
 dropped, and their jaws hung impotently, like 
 those of idiots. There wasn't a sound from their 
 ranks as, too weary to lift them, they dragged 
 their feet through the dust of the road. They had 
 held their position for fifty-six hours, attacked 
 incessantl}' from three sides by overwhelming 
 
 65
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 numbers. Damned good, you fellows; damned 
 good! 
 
 Still buffeted by imagination, my memory of 
 the scene seemed to fade; yet one impression 
 lingered that was both livid and blurred. It was 
 when that brigade, or what was left of it, had al- 
 most passed, and we were tightening up the 
 straps of our kits, that I caught a glimpse of his 
 face, or that of a man who could have passed as 
 his twin. The soldier beside him was limping 
 painfully and leaning on him heavily in an en- 
 deavor to keep up, and beneath the gi'imy pallor 
 of that face I could see the old wistful, whimsical 
 smile. ... I tried to cry out, but something 
 stuck in my throat, and next moment we were 
 falling in. 
 
 It was Basil ISTorman, and the lame soldier be- 
 side him was the man with a face like a pumpkin. 
 Either that or my brain had become the plaything 
 of fancy. 
 
 Again my memory became a blank, and for a 
 few minutes everything seemed obscured. Some 
 one was shouting! It was taken up by another, 
 then by many — the whole air was filled with 
 noise. . . . I heard a woman's voice. Good God! 
 
 66
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Had the Germans broken through ? . . . "Steady, 
 men — get your aim first." . . . The shouting 
 grew in intensity, and I pressed my brow with 
 my hands until the marks stood out like wounds. 
 With a cry as of an animal in pain, I rose to my 
 feet and shook the shadows from my eyes. There 
 was my room — the smoldering fire — my chair 
 . . . but the shouting — it was louder than before. 
 
 Feeling my reason tottering, I crossed to the 
 window and threw it open. People were running, 
 and crying some word as they ran; one woman 
 wept openly, and no one heeded her; a taxi 
 passed crowded to the roof with hatless, gesticu- 
 lating enthusiasts. Was the whole world mad? 
 From every direction came the noise of deep- 
 throated shouting, swelling into a vast Te Deit/m 
 of sound. A soldier with one foot leaned against 
 a lamp-post and rested his muscles from their 
 labor with the crutches. 
 
 "Hello!" I cried. The khaki seemed to restore 
 my grip on things. "I say — hello!" 
 
 He turned round and hobbled over to my win- 
 dow. "Wot's the trouble?" he said. 
 
 "This shouting," I cried; "these people running 
 like rabbits. What does it all mean?" 
 
 67
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Wot! don't you know?" He smacked his lips 
 in appreciation of the surprise he had in store for 
 me. "Why, Fritz 'as took the count, 'e 'as." 
 
 "Then, " Confound it; what made my lips 
 
 quiver so? "Then — it's peace? . . . You mean 
 . . . it's peace?" 
 
 He nodded half-a-dozen times. "The war," he 
 said, feeling the importance of his declaration, "is 
 napoo. Kaiser Bill 'as 'opped the twig, and the 
 hold firm of 'im and Gott is for sale, with the 
 goodwill thrown in, I donH think." 
 
 I leaned out of the window, and we grasped 
 hands. 
 
 Futile. . . . Futile. . . . Futile. 
 
 No — by Heaven, no ! Not while we remember 
 our dead ; not while the spirit of comradeship still 
 lives in the breasts of those who went out there; 
 never, if the Britain of the future is worthy of her 
 knights of the greatest crusade of all, and of the 
 mothers who gave that which had sprung from 
 their very heart-beats. 
 
 ''Out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and 
 at the birth of a child or a star there is painf 
 
 Half -mad with joy, I rushed into the street and 
 urged my hospitality on the mutilated soldier, 
 
 68
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 who came into my den and took a seat by the fire, 
 while I fetched a decanter and cigars that we 
 might make the occasion a jovial one. As I 
 came into the room I noticed that he was examin- 
 ing me curiously. 
 
 "Hexcuse me," he said, "but if I may make so 
 bold — wasn't you 'is pal?" 
 
 "Good heavens!" I cried, a light bursting upon 
 me. "You're the man with a face like a — like 
 a " I suppose I blushed. 
 
 "Don't 'esitate," he grinned. "Many a time 
 over there 'e told me you called me 'Pumpkin- 
 Fice,' and, beggin' your pardon, sir, I likes it a 
 sight better than 'Pest.' " 
 
 "Then — it was Norman I saw in March?" 
 
 "Ay." He sipped his glass meditatively. " 'E 
 lied about 'is 'eart, and was took O.K. late in 
 'fifteen. 'E was a ranker like the rest of us, but 
 'e was a proper gentleman, 'e was — that is, not 
 just like we hunderstands the word in Hengland, 
 but a reed gentleman. 'E never preached and 'e 
 never whined, but them two heyes just kept 
 twinklin', and whenever hany of us was a bit 
 windy, 'e 'd sort of buck us hup by that there 
 smile 'e 'ad. I ain't much on langwidge, not 
 
 69
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 'avin' no eddication to speak of, or I'd hexplain 
 better; but when little Sawyers got 'is from a 
 sniper, and 'e knew 'is ticket was punched for to 
 go West, the sergeant says, 'Fetch the padre,' 
 but Sawyers 'e says, 'No, it's Bubbles I want.' 
 ... I ain't much on religion neither, and I've 
 done a 'cap o' filthy swearin', which I guess is 
 all down agin me in the book ; but wherever Bub- 
 bles is goin' is good enough for me, whether it's 
 brimstin and blazes or hangels playin' 'arps." 
 
 "Tell me" — I dreaded the answer to the ques- 
 tion — "where is he now?" 
 
 " 'E's took a cottage hover in the Hisle o' 
 Wight," he said, clearing his throat and speaking 
 slowly, "and 'e's married to the sweetest creetur 
 I ever saw houtside a book. Blime! after I gets 
 hout o' 'ospital, me not 'avin' any hold woman 
 of my own, 'e finds me hout and sends a letter 
 sayin' to go there for my convalessings, which 
 likewise I did. That's 'is haddress on the top of 
 that there letter." 
 
 I took the paper from his hand, but kept my 
 eyes on his face ; he was keeping something from 
 me. "Tell me the truth about him," I said, and 
 waited. 
 
 70
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 He shifted uneasily in his chair. '"E got a 
 blighty near 'is 'eart," he said, making a supreme 
 eiFort, "and 'e'll never get hup from 'is chair no 
 
 more." 
 
 XI 
 
 The packet for the Isle of Wight threaded 
 its way through the traffic of incoming vessels, 
 and ran by a cruiser that had just come from the 
 bloodless Trafalgar of German shame, where the 
 second navy of the world surrendered without a 
 fight. 
 
 A man next to me grunted. "It's all right for 
 us to crow," he said; "but Germany was beaten, 
 and she did the right thing." 
 
 I looked at him — he was quite sincere. His 
 hair was unduly long, and he carried a manu- 
 script case — probably one of the statistical writ- 
 ers still going strong. 
 
 "In your wildest flights of imagination," I 
 said, "even if the combined fleets of the world 
 were against him, could you picture Beatty lead- 
 ing the British Navy out to surrender?" 
 
 "Supposing he were ordered?" 
 
 As if in answer to his question, our course took 
 
 71
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 US by the hull of the Victory, straining at her 
 moorings in the November wind. 
 
 "In that case," I said, "Beatty would have had 
 two blind eyes." 
 
 Which was the sum total of our conversation 
 until we landed at Ryde, when our paths di- 
 verged, never, I hope, to meet again. Probably, 
 over the week-end, he was polishing up some 
 powerful articles on the absurdity of Reconstruc- 
 tion. 
 
 By the time the train had reached the little 
 station of St. Louis, just beyond Ventnor, the 
 wind had blown away any clouds, and the sun 
 was shining radiantly. As I emerged from my 
 carriage I felt a throb of exhilaration shoot 
 through my veins, but depart as quickly as it had 
 come, when I realized how near was the tragedy 
 which I had soon to witness. I heard my name 
 spoken, and, turning, saw a ruddy-faced, storm- 
 blown fellow of fifty odd years, whose whole bear- 
 ing smacked of nor'-westers and mizzen-tops. 
 When I admitted to my name, he seized my bag 
 without a word, and started down the road with 
 the swaying motion peculiar to mariners. 
 
 We had hardly gone any distance, when he 
 
 72
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 stopped at a gate which proved to be the back 
 entrance to a garden, and following him through 
 it, I was led along a path which was strewn with 
 leaves in all the wealth of autumnal coloring, 
 while through the trees there was the deep blue of 
 the sea, flecked with crests of foam. We had 
 gone about fifty yards when we came upon a cot- 
 tage, in front of which, on a promontory, was a 
 neatly trimmed lawn, guarded by six trees that 
 stood like sentinels. The lower branches had 
 been cut to give a better view, and their appear- 
 ance lent a quaintly tropical look to the place, as 
 if they were palms. In front of the house, fields 
 sloped gradually to the edge of the cliff, which 
 overlooked the sea beneath. 
 
 "My dear old Pest!" 
 
 Against the background of trees I had failed 
 to notice him sitting in an invalid's chair. In 
 three strides I was by his side, his hands in mine 
 . . . but no words came to my faltering lips. 
 For a moment the gray of his ej^es softened to a 
 look of understanding; then the old smile, just 
 as charming as ever, irradiated his face. 
 
 "This is an event," he said, "to be entered in 
 the log. — Sindbad!" 
 
 73
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 The ex-seaman who had acted as my guide 
 pulled at his forelock. 
 
 "Ay, ay, cap'n!" 
 
 "Take this gentleman's things to the guest- 
 room upstairs." 
 
 "The cabin to starboard? Werry good, cap'n." 
 
 Eeavens ! such a voice ! There were fog, gale, 
 piracy, rum, and combat in it. 
 
 "Sindbad," said Norman, in answer to my look, 
 "is one of my indiscretions — like 'Arcadia.' He 
 turned up here one day with such a tale of the 
 sea as would have shamed Robert Louis Steven- 
 son at his best. So far as I can discover, he has 
 been in every naval fight since Aboukir Bay. 
 He's a bit hazy on the Jutland scrap, but hints 
 darkly at the possibility of an invasion by Spain. 
 He is convinced that the Armada is only hiding 
 and waiting its time." 
 
 In spite of myself, I laughed. 
 
 "As he refused to go, I decided to employ him 
 as a man-of-all-work, and, as he appeared to have 
 forgotten his own name, I gave him that of 
 'Sindbad,' which pleased him as much as me. As 
 a result of my engaging him, the lawn you stand 
 on is the quarter-deck which he never fails to 
 
 74
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 salute. As nearly as I can discover, we are sail- 
 ing a perpetual voyage — you see by this view 
 that the illusion is possible — and we're living in 
 the imminent danger and hope of an attack by 
 the Spanish. By the way, old man, would you 
 rather go upstairs and clean up? Are you cold 
 sitting there? Sometimes, being so comfortable 
 myself, I forget all about my guests." 
 
 I protested, sincerely, that I was quite con- 
 tented where I was. 
 
 "Good!" he smiled. "Now tell me all about 
 London. ... I see you were hit twice. From 
 more than a dozen sources I've heard how splen- 
 did you were in France." 
 
 His voice was so bright, with its old, happy 
 mannerism of rapidity of words, with the occa- 
 sional slurring rallentando, and his gaiety so in- 
 fectious, that, under his influence, I felt the 
 clouds about my brain lifting — not only those 
 caused by irief for his helpless condition, but 
 those born of my own black moods which drove 
 sleep from my eyes for nights at a time. I had 
 come determined to be cheerful and to bring en- 
 couragement to the invalid, but already I was 
 drinking in the elixir of his spirit and feeling 
 
 7.5
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 my arteries throb with a kind of ecstasy. His 
 
 charm was more potent than before. 
 
 For a few minutes we chatted about France 
 and the old Westminster boys who had won re- 
 nown. We talked of many things, and laughed 
 to find that we were still boys. 
 
 "By the way," he said, during a momentary 
 lull in the stream of reminiscence, "I must apolo- 
 gize for my wife. She is doing some necessary 
 shopping in Ventnor, but will be back by the next 
 train." 
 
 "I heard you were married," I said, but got no 
 further. Delicacy forbade my asking him how 
 his dream of love had become a reality. He must 
 have read the question in my eyes, however, for 
 he offered me his cigarettes, which, with him, was 
 always a prelude to a change in the tone of con- 
 versation. 
 
 "I did not write to her after I went to France," 
 he said quietly, "because . . . well, I've spoken 
 to you before of my sense of intuition — and I 
 knew that mine would be a heavy price to 
 pay. It was not fair to fasten her with a life 
 none too robust at its best, because of a love- 
 fantasy between two children. When I was hit, 
 
 76
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and they broke the news to me that — that this 
 was to be my luck, the one thing that comforted 
 me was the thought that she was free and would 
 not have to share my captivity. By-the-by, 
 Pest, isn't the sea fascinating? It is never the 
 same for two days together." 
 
 He was still a Puck, lightening his moods 
 whenever they threatened to hurt the listener 
 with their intensity. 
 
 "Pest," he said, after a pause, "she came to me. 
 . . . When everything was dark, and I was grop- 
 ing blindly for some hand that would start me 
 just a — a little on my path, she came — out of the 
 mists. I urged her to leave me. I argued that 
 she was not fair — and for answer she kissed me. 
 . . . Pest, it was a moment of such exquisite hap- 
 piness, a happiness so poignant, that I wish I 
 could have died then. I was never so fit for 
 heaven." , 
 
 The figure of Sindbad appeared from the 
 house, tugged at its forelock, and disappeared 
 into the garden to trim some shrubs. 
 
 "How did you happen to come here?" I asked. 
 
 "I had always looked on the island," he said, 
 smiling, "as the only spot in England where a 
 
 77
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 twentieth-century Robinson Crusoe could find a 
 sanctuarj^ from the world, and, by the courtesy 
 of the gentleman who owned the place, I was able 
 to purchase it at a ridiculously low price. As a 
 matter of fact, he was offered twice the amount 
 quoted to me, but refused because I was a dis- 
 abled Tommy. We came here strangers, but 
 really the kindness of every one is so great that 
 the ordeal is turning into a privilege. You have 
 no idea, Pest, how extraordinarily sympathetic 
 and courteous these people are." 
 
 "I suppose, though," I said softly, "that it is 
 rather — lonely. ' ' 
 
 "Lonely?" he laughed. "Bless your heart, old 
 boy! talk about a French savant and his salon — 
 this place is a positive jMecca for all the distin- 
 guished pilgrims on the island. For instance, 
 there is the editor of the Tribune — a man who 
 thinks editorially and talks colossally. He claims 
 that any one who has read Boswell's Life of 
 Johnson^ Cervantes' Don Quixote, and Car- 
 lyle's French Revolution is educated. He never 
 reads anything else, but keeps on reading these 
 three in an endless cycle. We have perfectly 
 stupendous arguments that never get anyw^here, 
 
 78
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 but utterly exhaust both of us. Then there's the 
 station-master. How many passengers boarded 
 the train here when you were coming off?" 
 
 "Four, I think." 
 
 **Ah, yes; this is Saturday — a busy day. Some 
 trains we don't get any, and others just one or 
 two; but in anticipation of a rush at some future 
 date, he's invented a scheme of getting tickets 
 out of a drawer, stamped and all complete, by 
 merely pressing a button. I assure you it's going 
 to revolutionize the booking systems of the world 
 — we've been working on it for weeks, but so far 
 all we've got is the button. The plans are pro- 
 digious, though. And the Tommies ! Gor blime. 
 Pest! there's a convalescent home just down the 
 road, and it's a queer day that at least two of the 
 beggars don't come up for a 'jaw' about old 
 times. You talk about your officers' messes and 
 brass hats ; why, it's real life in the ranks. I tell 
 you, Pest, I would rather be the man that coined 
 the word 'Cheerio' than the greatest general the 
 world has seen." 
 
 A merchant-ship, still wearing its strange mot- 
 ley of camouflage, sailed past only a couple of 
 miles from shore. 
 
 79
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 **Look!" whispered Norman, and pointed down 
 the garden. 
 
 Sindbad was crouched behind some bushes, 
 surveying the vessel through a dilapidated tele- 
 scope. After a careful scrutiny, he resumed his 
 labors, shaking his head and muttering darkly to 
 himself. 
 
 Norman chuckled hilariously. "He's on the 
 look-out for Spaniards," he said. 
 
 "What a villainous telescope!" 
 
 "Isn't it? He always has it by him, though. 
 I'll swear you can't see half-a-mile with the 
 blessed thing." 
 
 A huge black hound appeared from the direc- 
 tion of the conservatory, and, after the canine 
 manner, expressed his wriggliest delight at the 
 sight of Norman, ending by sitting solemnly be- 
 side the chair and laying one paw on the invalid's 
 knee. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mr. Jones," said Norman. 
 
 The dog thumped the ground four times with 
 his tail, and emitted a yawn like the sound of a 
 train emerging from a tunnel. 
 
 "Mr. Jones," said I, "changes from cordiality 
 to ennui with rather startling rapidity." 
 
 80
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 The hound acknowledged his name by a soli- 
 tary thump, and then groaned with the air of a 
 Stiggins contemplating the wickedness of a 
 Weller. 
 
 "What breed is he?" I asked. 
 
 "Dog — just dog. He is, if I may say so, the 
 battle-ground of his ancestors. Every breed but 
 that of bull can be traced in him, and each has its 
 moment of ascendancy. Mr. Jones possesses a 
 most remarkable hereditary system." 
 
 The subject of our conversation became sud- 
 denly tense. A bird had hopped on to the quar- 
 ter-deck, and was pecking at the ground in a 
 manner that would infuriate any self-respecting 
 dog. 
 
 Gathering up his loins, ]Mr. Jones stalked the 
 intruder to within four yards, and then fell in a 
 heap on the spot — where the bird had been. After 
 surveying the landscape with a puzzled air, as if 
 to indicate to us that foul work was afloat, he 
 walked to the end of the lawn and gazed thought- 
 fully at the sea. Having thoroughly demon- 
 strated his indifference as to whether he ever 
 caught a bird or not, he yawned terrifically, and 
 left the scene for the comfort of the kitchen. 
 
 81
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 XII 
 
 And so, partly with banter, but with many 
 moments that were tense with feeling, we talked 
 while the afternoon wore on. Norman was in the 
 midst of some anecdote of either Sindbad or Mr. 
 Jones, when he paused, and a look of delighted 
 anticipation lit his countenance. 
 
 "That's the whistle," he said. "The train's 
 right on time to-day." He sighed happily, as a 
 lover about to meet his sweetheart after a long 
 absence. 
 
 "Sindbad," he cried, "pipe all hands to tea. 
 Tell Mrs. M'Gillicuddy we'll have it in the music- 
 room." 
 
 Telescope under his arm, the worthy buccaneer 
 — for I am convinced he sailed under Captain 
 Kidd — shuffled into the house, and the noise of 
 the train could be distinctly heard as it emptied 
 its crowd of one or two at the little station. 
 
 "I shall go and open the gate," I said, but he 
 stopped me. 
 
 "He is with her. Pest." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 82
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Wait. ... I have kept a surprise for you." 
 
 A minute later I saw his wife at the end of the 
 path as she waved to him. She came through the 
 leafy garden with a grace of movement that 
 made the scene a dehcate, colorful picture, and 
 even before she had reached us I could see that 
 her beauty was as exquisite, as perfect, as an 
 orchid's. All sacrificed to an invalid. . . . 
 
 With the tenderest of smiles in her ej^es, which 
 were blue as the sky, she advanced towards us 
 and kissed him; and I, who detest things senti- 
 mental as I would the plague, thought it was the 
 loveliest tribute I had ever seen. Before he could 
 speak, she turned and gave me both her hands. 
 
 "I won't apologize," she said, and her voice was 
 as sweet as a brook's, "because I know you both 
 enjoyed your talk of old times the better for my 
 absence." 
 
 "It was a wonderful afternoon," I said, "but it 
 would have been doubly so with you here." 
 
 And then I, the Pest, the cynic, the modernist, 
 stooped and kissed her hand. It seemed the 
 natural thing to do, and she accepted it with the 
 understanding heart that Nature had given her. 
 
 "But, Lilias, where is the lad?" 
 
 83
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Oh," she laughed gaily, "the station-master 
 kept him a moment to show him an entirely new 
 button he had thought of. But here he is now." 
 
 Coming up the path, carrying a couple of par- 
 cels, was a boy of, perhaps, ten years of age. His 
 hair was golden and curly, and his eyes had a 
 dreamy look that contrasted strangely with the 
 strength of his chin. He had the poise and the 
 appearance of a thoughtful, well-bred youth; but 
 there was something, I could not say what, that 
 told me he was not English. 
 
 He touched his cap to me as he came on the 
 lawn and smiled cordially to Basil. 
 
 "Do you remember the gentleman?" asked 
 Norman. 
 
 The boy shook his head and unconsciously 
 moved nearer to the woman, who placed her hand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "You shouldn't forget each other," laughed 
 Norman, "for once he played the drums under 
 your baton." 
 
 A few minutes later we went in for tea, the boy 
 and Mrs. Norman going first. I waited while 
 Sindbad prepared to move the invalid, and then 
 turned to him for an explanation. 
 
 84
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Klotz was killed," said Norman swifthf, "and 
 his wife died a month later, after she heard of 
 his death. We have adopted Siegfried as our 
 ward." 
 
 XIII 
 
 That night a storm came up from the sea, 
 and the house rattled and shook in the clutch of a 
 November gale. The trees that looked like palms 
 swayed and bent before the wind, and the many- 
 colored leaves in the garden fled like refugees be- 
 fore an attack, and covered the ground with their 
 quivering bodies. 
 
 We were gathered in the music-room, the cosy 
 warmth from a fire of logs making pleasant con- 
 trast to the snarling wind outside. The evening 
 had been a memorable one. The woman whose 
 beauty was so delicate had charmed us with her 
 voice, her playing; charmed us without effort or 
 knowing how. 
 
 From a lounge, Norman's vivacity, which al- 
 ways had in it the quality of sympathy, illumin- 
 ated everything that happened. When she sang 
 a little extract of the eighteenth century, "Ber- 
 gere Legere" it was he who knew that it had been 
 
 85
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 a favorite of Marie Antoinette's. When she 
 plaj^ed the love theme which Puccini gives the 
 strings in the first act of Madame Butterfly, it 
 was Norman who, by a dozen deftly chosen 
 words, created the atmosphere of Japan and 
 brought before us the cruel tenderness of Pink- 
 erton's love for Cho Cho San. After Siegfried 
 had played MacDowell's conception of "]Mid- 
 ocean," Norman recalled in a moment the genius 
 of America's greatest composer, the genius that 
 had finally crossed the thin barrier to insanity. 
 From that we talked of the sea, while the wind 
 howled outside, and I spoke of the many moods 
 of blue that colored it in a single day, and, with- 
 out giving the effect of quotation or of mono- 
 logue, he brought his artistry into play with three 
 lines of Keats's sonnet "Blue." 
 
 Whenever any of us spoke, his sensitive rhyth- 
 mic intellectuality seemed to hover about us, ac- 
 knowledging thought where it struggled to the 
 surface, adding some subtle touch of color when 
 our efforts seemed too drab. Under its influence 
 we talked our best, we thought our best, we were 
 our best. 
 
 86
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 At nine o'clock Siegfried rose to go to bed, and 
 advanced to shake hands with me. 
 
 "Well," I said, "and do you still intend to be a 
 conductor?" 
 
 He smiled a little self-consciously. 
 
 "There is much to learn," he said, "and — I do 
 not want to leave my home." 
 
 Norman lit a cigarette — his old mannerism 
 when emotions were taut. 
 
 "Parents," he said, "and quasi-parents like us, 
 march straight towards loneliness. Our greatest 
 concern is to have our children ready to leave us 
 as soon as they hear the call of the world, know- 
 ing that such a moment will be the proudest and 
 the saddest of our lives." 
 
 "Good-night," said Siegfried to me. "Good- 
 night, Uncle Bubbles." He turned wistfully to 
 Mrs. Norman, who smiled and linked her arm in 
 his. 
 
 "Won't you come along?" she said to me. 
 "Siegfried is very proud of his room, and would 
 like you to see it." It was her way of hiding her 
 knowledge that the little chap was frightened by 
 the storm. So we saw him safely in bed, and ad- 
 mired his books, and wished him pleasant dreams. 
 
 87
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 We had just left his room and were about to 
 descend the stairs, when we paused as the sound 
 of rain beating against the house came to our 
 ears. We hurried about for a few moments see- 
 ing that all windows were closed, and were going 
 to rejoin Norman, when I stopped her. 
 
 "Mrs. Norman," I said haltingly, "it is never 
 easy for an Englishman to express the emotion 
 he feels, but may I tell you how touched I am by 
 your devotion to your husband? Without you, 
 his life would be — unbearable." 
 
 She did not smile or protest, but her eyes 
 looked straight into mine. 
 
 "To live day by day," she said slowly, her 
 fingers playing with a necklace that hung about 
 her full white throat, "near a soul like Basil's, to 
 commune with a brain like his ... to feel the 
 inspiration of his nature that is so in tune with 
 the beauty of the world, is a happiness few 
 women can experience. If it were not too cruel, 
 I could feel thankful for his wound that has given 
 him so completely to me." 
 
 I stood by her on the creaking stairs as the 
 rain swept in torrents against the house, and her 
 
 88
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 murmuring tones mingled with the sounds of the 
 storm. 
 
 "Perhaps you cannot understand," she said 
 gently, "but loving Basil as I do, and having him 
 dependent on me, is a selfish happiness that only 
 a woman could really know." 
 
 And out of the night a truth came to me that, 
 though it never, never could be mine, the most 
 precious thing in this world is a woman's heart. 
 
 XIV 
 
 It was eleven o'clock, and Basil Norman and 
 I were alone. The storm had subsided, and, 
 through the sound of the rain, we could hear the 
 waves breaking against the shore. 
 
 "I do not want Siegfried to go to school yet," 
 he was saying; "he is so full of promise and latent 
 genius that I dread the risk of having it all 
 standardized into what we call a public-school 
 man. I am coaching him in languages and the 
 three R's, but more than anything else I want 
 him to form his own conception of the scheme of 
 the universe, so that when he takes his position 
 among the world's musicians — as I am confident 
 
 89
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 he will — he'll have the echo of what he interprets 
 in his own breast. JNIusic is so vast, j^et musicians, 
 as a class, are people of little depth." 
 
 "Has the lad a chance in England with his 
 German name?" 
 
 "Yes. England must realize that genius has 
 no nationality." 
 
 "What was Siegfried like when you took him 
 first?" 
 
 "He was arrogant, sullen, and in his child's 
 brain was the knowledge that his father had 
 fought against us. To make him forget his un- 
 happy past, and partly to satisfy a caprice of my 
 own, I — well, you would say I blew bubbles. 
 We invented a little city of make-believe. From 
 the hill at the back of the house you can look 
 down on all these houses, and at dusk, when the 
 mist rises from the sea and the windows begin to 
 glow with light, it is quaint enough for a study by 
 Rackham. In our little City of Bubbles there 
 dwelt such celebrities as Aladdin, Jack the Giant 
 Killer, Midshipman Easy, Peter Pan, poor 
 Wilde's Happy Prince, and Heaven knows how 
 many more. They were very real to Siegfried 
 and me, and Lilias used to have many a laugh 
 
 90
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 over the troubles of our little family. But I had 
 not counted on Sindbad ; he was filling Siegfried 
 with stories of buried treasure and men forced to 
 walk the plank (all of them absolutely authenti- 
 cated by the narrator), and the lurking Prussian 
 began to appear. He stole down to Ventnor 
 and bought books on the war ... he began to 
 glory in the stand Germany was making. So I 
 was not surprised when, one day, he suggested 
 that we should play soldiers. 
 
 "Pest, you should have been there. Siegfried 
 was Napoleon, and I was HindendorfF, his chief 
 of Staff. Sindbad was given command of a naval 
 brigade, and was also in charge of a large fleet 
 lying in hiding to cope with the Spaniard, should 
 he emerge. In addition to these modest duties, he 
 had to wheel my chair. Lilias came along as a 
 composite representative of all the women's serv- 
 ices. Napoleon's plans were that we should at- 
 tack the City of Bubbles, which was being de- 
 fended by a heavy force on the fringe of the 
 hill. I omitted to mention our flying cavalry in 
 the person of Mr. Jones; but owing to a misun- 
 derstanding of our objective he waged separate 
 war on birds all afternoon, inflicting no casual- 
 
 91
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ties, but covering an immense area of ground. 
 We began the attack about half -a-mile back ; but 
 when Napoleon ordered Sindbad's naval brigade 
 into action, we were unable to find him, until Mr. 
 Jones discovered him behind a rock, scrutinizing 
 a passing merchantman through the inevitable 
 telescope. After some persuasion, we induced 
 Sindbad to attack, but half-way to his objective 
 he remembered that he had left his pipe in the 
 kitchen, to which he repaired, leaving his troops 
 in the air, as we used to say in France, and tak- 
 ing away the mobility which, as Chief of Staff, I 
 needed urgently. There is no question that 
 Sindbad possesses imagination, but it is an un- 
 reliable one. 
 
 "To make the story short, we won by a brilli- 
 ant ruse of Napoleon's, who got word to the 
 enemy that the tuck-shops in Ventnor were being 
 evacuated, which was as effective as his famous 
 "Sauve qui pent" at Waterloo, for they fled igno- 
 miniously, and we captured the city, after in- 
 flicting heavy casualties." 
 
 I looked at him and waited. Behind the non- 
 sense I could see some serious thought was lurk- 
 ing, but what I could not conjecture. 
 
 92
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "The next day," he resumed, "Siegfried was 
 tired, and asked me to tell how Peter Pan frus- 
 trated the pirates. 'Peter is dead,' said I. Sieg- 
 fried suppressed a sob, and asked when he died. 
 'He was killed in our attack,' I said. After a 
 long pause, he mentioned the probability of Mr. 
 Midshipman Easy being at home. 'He is dead,' 
 said I. Again his question, and again my an- 
 swer: 'He was killed in our attack.' He went 
 out; but on going to bed that night he asked if 
 Cinderella was reallj^ very pretty. 'Not now,' I 
 said, 'for she is lying dead.' Does it seem ludi- 
 crous. Pest? That night he cried himself to sleep, 
 and it is not easy to listen to a youngster's sobs 
 when you know that a word from you will do 
 away with them. For two long dreary weeks our 
 City of Bubbles was a City of the Dead. . . . 
 Then I suggested that we play soldiers again 
 and make another attack. After all, Pest, it 
 isn't every Tommy gets a chance of being Chief 
 of Staff. I wish you could have seen his face. 
 It was as though 1 had struck him with a whip, 
 and he left me without a word. That afternoon 
 the Wizard of Oz visited our city and brought 
 them all back to life. That was some months ago, 
 
 93
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and our little dream-world is only a serio-humor- 
 ous memory for Siegfried and me now. But dur- 
 ing that night he cried himself to sleep I think 
 the Prussian in him died." 
 
 For several minutes we listened to the rain. 
 
 "The greatest of the Arts," said Norman, very 
 slowly, "is life. I don't think our writers, our 
 painters, our men who dream in bronze realize 
 that. If they did, it would not be said that the 
 English are the least artistic people in the world; 
 for you and I know that is not true. Scott going 
 to his death in the Antarctic snow was a great 
 artist. The sailor standing to one side when the 
 last boat is filled, and those six Tommies at 
 Grieswald in Germany, holding their ground 
 against a row of bayonets and taking a sentence 
 of two years' imprisonment rather than aid the 
 Hun in making munitions — are they not artists? 
 Where we fail as a race is in our authors, com- 
 posers, painters, who divorce themselves from the 
 real spirit of England and wonder that the 
 products of their brains quicken no pulse and stir 
 no imagination. Our educationists, our leaders 
 in every movement allied with culture, have too 
 often striven to choke the imaginativeness and 
 
 94
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 blind the eyes of our youth to the beauty of life, 
 which is one of its greatest truths. One has but 
 to read the despairing lines written by bereaved 
 mothers for their sons who have fallen, to feel the 
 sorrow of England crj'ing for expression; instead 
 of which, our triumph, our courage, our artistry 
 are mute and inarticulate." 
 
 The rain had ceased, and the wind was moan- 
 ing over the sea as if it had been balked of its 
 prey. 
 
 "Mark my words, Pest," he said dreamily, "as 
 a nation we shall have no self-expression until 
 our artists take for their model the greatest of all 
 Arts— Life." 
 
 His eyes were fixed on the smouldering coals, 
 and over his face there was a mystic veil — a thing 
 not of this world but born of the undying spirit. 
 It was like a mist that settles on a river in the 
 hour between sunset and night. 
 
 "Basil," I cried; and the sound of my o^mi 
 voice startled me. I do not know what w^ords 
 were surging to my lips, for he turned to me and 
 the smile of compassion in his eyes held me silent. 
 
 Something choked in my throat. ... I felt 
 that I wanted to struggle to my feet and stand 
 
 95
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 at the salute. For the face that looked into mine 
 was that of a conqueror. 
 
 A burning ember fell from the grate and lay 
 on the tiled surface of the hearth.
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 THREE hundred miles north of Toronto, the 
 Cobalt mining country surrenders its daily- 
 toll of silver to the world. In that region there 
 is mostly rock. Where woods exist, the trees are 
 gaunt and defiant, as though resentful of the ap- 
 proach of man; in winter they stand like white- 
 shrouded ghosts, and the wind howls dismally 
 through them until in the httle settlements across 
 Lake Timiskaming men draw closer to the fire, 
 and women croon comfort to frightened children, 
 yet half-believe, themselves, the Indian legend 
 that another soul is on its way to the Great Un- 
 known. 
 
 Five miles north of Cobalt the town of Hailey- 
 bury straggles down a hill to the lake, on the 
 other side of which can be seen the blue shores 
 of Pontiac, Quebec, where lies the sleepy little 
 
 97
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 hamlet known as Ville Marie, possessed of its 
 church, its wayside public-house, "Les Voya- 
 geurs," and a few vagabond frame buildings. 
 The ring of the blacksmith's anvil can be heard 
 throughout the day, for there is little else to 
 drown the noise. But when the lumber- jacks 
 come in from the woods, or the river-runners 
 from their convoys of logs, there is always the 
 sound of a noisy chorus from "Les Voyageurs," 
 led (in the times we write of) by Pierre Gener- 
 aud, who knows that singing a constant fortis- 
 simo stimulates thirst in participants and audi- 
 tors alike. On Sunday there is the sound of the 
 organ, and the villagers walk about in ill-fitting 
 garments of respectability : a simple God-fearing 
 community, knowing no world but their own, 
 and finding their joy of life in mere existence. 
 
 It was gathering dusk, one summer evening in 
 the year 1914, when the figure of a young officer 
 wended its way towards "Les Voyageurs." 
 
 He had crossed from Haileybury on the after- 
 noon boat, causing not a little comment by the 
 uniform he wore. All in the mining country knew 
 him as "Dug" Campbell, manager of the Curran 
 Like Mine — they were hardly prepared for the 
 
 98
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 sudden transition from his usual costume of rid- 
 ing-breeches, brown shirt, and lumberman's 
 boots, to the trappings of a British officer. He 
 was a young man of big stature, with broad, 
 restless shoulders that seemed to chafe under 
 the bondage of a tunic, and he had a long, loose- 
 limbed stride oddly at variance with the usual 
 conception of military bearing. His eyes were 
 light blue, his hair an unruly brown that flirted 
 with red — and his name was Campbell. Such 
 men do not wait for the second call when there 
 is war. 
 
 Wherever civilization is forcing her right of 
 way, wherever she is fighting for her existence, 
 the descendants of Scotland wnll be found. When 
 a new railroad struggles over unnamed rivers 
 and through untrodden forests, somewhere 
 ahead there is always a son or a grandson of old 
 Scotia, whose eyes are a humorous blue and 
 w^hose hair has more than a tinge of red. There 
 is no part of the world to w^hich the Scot is a 
 stranger, but he rises to his best in a new country 
 where waterfalls must be harnessed to give 
 power; where great rocks must be blasted from 
 age-old foundations; where rebellious nature in 
 
 99
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 her primeval state must be taught that the world 
 was made for man. 
 
 On that August evening in that most fateful 
 of years, the figure of Captain Douglas Camp- 
 bell, tall and somewhat rugged, like one of the 
 northern trees, might have served as a sculptor's 
 model for the spirit of Scotland confirming and 
 strengthening the purpose of young Canada. 
 
 Rich in tradition as she is, what glory of her 
 past can Scotland have that is greater than 
 this — that, strong in the manhood which seems 
 to spring from the soil of her country, she sent 
 her sons to every corner of the world; and when 
 the shadow of war fell upon her — they came back ! 
 Sons, grandsons, those to whom their Scottish 
 blood was little more than a family legend, they 
 came hack. 
 
 Scotland needs no other monument than those 
 three words. 
 
 II 
 
 Nearing "Les Voyageurs" the young officer 
 paused at a sudden burst of sound that came 
 from the inn. In place of the usual chorus, one 
 voice, a slovenly but powerful one, was bellow- 
 
 100
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 ing forth a ribald song, remarkable only for its 
 noisy coarseness. Reaching the hostelry, Camp- 
 bell hammered at the door, which was opened by 
 mine host himself. 
 
 "Ah!" he gesticulated eloquently, "Monsieur 
 Cam-pell?" (Pierre Generaud, like all French- 
 Canadians, invariably reversed his accents on 
 English words.) "For why you come, eh?" 
 
 "My dear Generaud, must I give reason for 
 visiting the famous 'Les Voj^ageurs' ?" 
 
 "Ah! By gosh, no!" He beamed welcome in 
 every pore — then struck an attitude of despair. 
 "You come, is it not, as an officier, perhaps no 
 —yes?" 
 
 "Correct. I want to speak just for a minute 
 to the men inside." 
 
 "Oh, 7nais nonr The good host's gesture was 
 a masterpiece, even among a race of gesticulators. 
 "Not to-night, monsieur." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "By Gar! Who you theenk is inside now? 
 Listen — she sing!" 
 
 Campbell was too well acquainted with the 
 universal French-Canadian use of the feminine 
 pronoun to express any surprise when "she" 
 
 101
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 proved to be the possessor of the aforesaid rau- 
 cous, bass voice, which had broken into some 
 song anent the passion of a sailor for a Portu- 
 guese young lady of great charm but doubtful 
 modesty. 
 
 "Who is our friend?" asked the officer. 
 
 "What — you know not? She is the terrible 
 Des Kosiers!" 
 
 "Well, I don't like Mr. Des Rosiers's voice." 
 
 "You nevair hear her name, monsieur? Some- 
 time she is called ' Jacque Noir.' Mon Dieu! — she 
 sleep with le diahle." 
 
 The landlord's eyes grew wide with horror ; his 
 shoulders contracted until they touched his ears. 
 
 "Look here, my friend," said Campbell, with a 
 tinge of impatience, "Jacque Noir or Jacque 
 Rouge or Jacque Blanc is not going to keep me 
 out here." 
 
 "But, monsieur, once she heel a man." 
 
 "My dear fellow " 
 
 "One winter, a man has insult Des Rosiers, and 
 — voila! Jacque Noir hum her house — keel her 
 family — murdair her" 
 
 With a laugh, the newly created officer thrust 
 the little man aside and entered the sacred pre- 
 
 102
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 cincts of "Les Voyageurs." A big, dirty, bearded 
 fellow of about thirty years of age was leaning 
 against the counter, waving a mug and bellowing 
 a song. He looked formidable enough, but 
 hardly justified the diabolical qualities attributed 
 to him by Pierre Generaud. In spite of his 
 unshaven face with its bloodshot, inebriated eyes, 
 there was something not unpleasing about the 
 fellow, and when his lips parted they disclosed 
 teeth that were gleaming white. 
 
 A group of villagers sat in open-mouthed 
 admiration beneath the singer, for Des Rosiers's 
 reputation had gathered velocity like a snowball 
 rolling down the side of a hill, gaining in size 
 every time it came into contact with the drifts of 
 rumor, until it had become almost a legend of 
 wickedness. His audience felt a timid pride in 
 the event. It was as if his Satanic INIajesty him- 
 self had condescended to appear from below and 
 sing comic songs for their benefit. 
 
 On the entrance of the officer, the song ceased, 
 and all eyes were turned to the new-comer. 
 
 "Hold" said Des Hosiers, with extraordinary 
 resonance. "You drink by me, eh hien?" 
 
 "No, thanks. I must only staj^ a minute." 
 
 103
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "You no drink?" roared the lumber- jack, whose 
 hospitality was not unlike the forcefulness of the 
 muscular Christian in "Androcles and the Lion." 
 *'You drink, or, by Gar, I brak your neck." 
 
 A hum of admiration rose from the villagers. 
 They bore no possible malice towards the officer, 
 but it was gratifying to find Jacque Noir living 
 up to his reputation. 
 
 "Messieurs'' said Campbell, ignoring the gen- 
 tleman in question, "there is a war. La belle 
 France fights for her life, and Canada must help. 
 She needs you — and you — and you." 
 
 With their meager knowledge of English, he 
 was forced to a simplicity of language that 
 depended almost entirely on the personal appeal 
 for effect. "Come with me to the war. We pay 
 you one dollar ten a day, and your wife and 
 garfons get money too." 
 
 Mr. Des Hosiers laughed, scornfully and sono- 
 rously. "I laugh," he said. "You theenk we go 
 to war, and you English, by Gar, no leave Can- 
 ada, but steal all we leave behind. The French- 
 Canadian — he go; the English-Canadian, non." 
 He roared a vile oath, and laid his hand on Camp- 
 
 104
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 bell's shoulder. "I brak your neck," he said com- 
 fortingly. 
 
 In a moment Campbell's tunic was off and he 
 was facing Jacque Noir. "You are a liar. Des 
 Rosiers," he said. "You are the greatest liar and 
 the worst singer in the province of Quebec." 
 
 The Frenchman tore the red kerchief from his 
 neck and hurled the mug to the floor, where it 
 broke into a hundred pieces. "By gosh, me!" he 
 bellowed in a voice that would have terrified a 
 bull. ''1 keel your 
 
 He advanced in windmill fashion, but his op- 
 ponent, who had been one of the best boxers of 
 his year at Toronto 'Varsity, stopped him with a 
 blow known technically as a "straight left to 
 the jaw." Des Rosiers paused to collect his 
 thoughts. He was wondering whether to kick 
 with one foot or with both, when something hap- 
 pened, and oblivion settled over him like the 
 curtain on the last act of a melodrama. Campbell 
 had stepped forward, and, putting his shoulder 
 behind it, had delivered a blow on the lower part 
 of the jaw with force enough to fell an ox. For 
 Des Rosiers the rest was silence. 
 
 Concluding his recruiting speech to the dazed 
 
 105
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 villagers, Campbell put on his tunic and strode 
 down the street. . . . But the fall of Mr. Peck- 
 sniff in the eyes of Tom Pinch was not more com- 
 plete than the collapse of their idol, Jacque Noir, 
 in the eyes of the inhabitants of Ville Marie. 
 
 Ill 
 
 A sky that was hung with stars looked down 
 upon the shimmering roof-tops of Haileybury. 
 The streets were deserted except in the main 
 thoroughfare, where a group of men were seated 
 in an irregular line, their pipes glowing in the 
 darkness. They had been there since dusk. 
 
 Midnight passed, and the shadowy line was 
 longer as each hour struck. Men with heavy 
 packs ; men with the mud of the northern wilder- 
 ness still on their boots ; men who had walked for 
 sixty miles; men whose beardless chins bespoke 
 the schoolboys of a year before ; men whose faces 
 would have looked coarse and cruel in any light 
 but that of the stars ; one by one or in pairs they 
 came. For each there was a yell of welcome, a 
 ribald jest or two — then silence once more, and 
 the glowing pipes. The first glimmering streaks 
 of dawn showed the queue in all its picturesque 
 
 106
 
 PETITE SIMUXDE 
 
 grotesqueness. The man in front was leaning 
 against a frame store that bore the placard "Re- 
 cruiting Office." 
 
 Some three thousand miles away, a Hohen- 
 zollern Emperor had said that the British Empire 
 would crumble into disintegration at the first 
 sound of war. And through the forests of the 
 north and over weary trails men were staggering 
 on, mile after mile, fearful of one thing only — 
 that they might be too late to answer the call 
 which had com^ from across the Atlantic, speed- 
 ing over forests, cities, prairies, lakes, and moun- 
 tains until echo answered from the shores of the 
 Pacific Coast. 
 
 The early boat from Ville jMarie discharged its 
 half-dozen passengers. A powerfully built 
 French-Canadian strode up the hill and stopped 
 at the crowd of men. With a worried contraction 
 of his heavy eyebrows he surveyed the formidable 
 length of the line. 
 
 "Godam!"saidhe. 
 
 Heedless of the jests and the comments of the 
 mob, he went slowly down the line, carefully 
 scrutinizing each man, until he stopped at a half- 
 breed Indian. For a moment only they argued 
 
 107
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 in French, then he produced a roll of dollar notes 
 in one hand, and brandished the other hand 
 threateningly in the half-breed's face. The com- 
 bined arguments proved too much ; when the en- 
 rollment of recruits took place, number eighteen 
 was Jacque Des Rosier s, sworn to serve His 
 Majesty the King for the duration of the war 
 and six months afterwards — in witness whereof 
 he had drawn an inky cross after his name. 
 
 It would be difficult to give the exact motive 
 for his action. He probably had never heard of 
 Belgium, but — well, take horns and tail from the 
 devil, and what is left? 
 
 Three weeks later the company of amateur 
 soldiers were warned to proceed to the concen- 
 tration camp. Willing, but puzzled by the inflic- 
 tion of army discipline, they had struggled past 
 the first pitfalls of recruitship. For the sake 
 of Captain Douglas Campbell, their "boss," they 
 had suppressed their grumbling and submitted 
 to the rites and ceremonies of military routine, 
 arguing that, inexplicable as it was, it had some 
 connection, however remote, with the ultimate 
 goal of warfare. The afternoon before their de- 
 parture Campbell spoke to them for exactly five 
 
 108
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 minutes. His hair looked redder and his eyes 
 seemed bluer than before. His powerfully built 
 shoulders and the rhythm of his muscles lent a 
 grace to his entire body, despite its ruggedness. 
 "Look here, you fellows," he said, "you signed 
 up to fight — so did I. We will fight, too, but 
 Kitchener can't use us until we're ready. You 
 wonder what all this drill is about. Well, here's 
 my idea about it. There isn't a coward in this 
 crowd; there isn't a man who wouldn't go down 
 a shaft after a pal, even if the chances were a 
 hundred to one against his coming back. But 
 you're not ready for the front. You've got the 
 heart, but your bodies must have training and 
 discipline. Watch me with this cigarette. In 
 flicking the ash I burn my finger; the next time 
 I want to touch the ash, my finger avoids it by a 
 quarter of an inch. I laugh and try again. You 
 all know what I mean. I am not afraid of the 
 cigarette, but my finger is. If you've ever been 
 kicked in the leg by a horse, the next time that 
 horse kicks, which of your legs is drawn back 
 first? In some strange way your body has instincts 
 of its own, and though you might have a heart 
 like a bull, your muscles and nerves — your body 
 
 109
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 — might fail you when you needed them most. 
 As I understand the army system, it is to train 
 you to obey, not only mentally but physically. 
 Eight months from now we may be lying half- 
 dead with the enemy's guns playing hell all 
 around us. We may want to quit, we may be 
 'all in,' but, if the order comes to advance, we'll 
 go forward, because our bodies will be disciplined 
 to obey. 
 
 "Be patient then, men, and just grin when 
 things go wrong. I would gladly have gone with 
 you in the ranks, and there are lots of you chaps 
 better able to lead than I, but a commission was 
 given to me, and I'm out to do my best with the 
 finest company of men in the Canadian Expedi- 
 tionary Force. I'm learning all the time — as you 
 are. You will have bad times, and so shall I; 
 but let's help each other to laugh and make the 
 best of it, for, after all, we're just great big chil- 
 dren playing a mighty big game. . . . And when 
 we reach France we'll show them all that the old 
 Cobalt gang is afraid of nothing in this world or 
 the next." 
 
 They cheered — and the man who shouted loud- 
 est was Jacque Des Rosiers. . . . And some- 
 
 110
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 where in the speech esprit de corps had been 
 born. 
 
 IV 
 
 Four winters passed by. 
 
 France lay in the warmth of a late spring 
 evening, like a stricken deer that has thrown 
 oif its pursuers momentarily, but is bleeding from 
 a hundred wounds. jNIonth after month she had 
 endured the invader, and the cycle of years, 
 instead of freeing her had only deepened her 
 agony. What had she left? The next attack 
 would see Arras and her remaining coalfields 
 gone, the Channel ports captured, and then . . . 
 Paris? . . . Paris? 
 
 Unperturbed, however, by any such thoughts. 
 Petite Simunde — no one thought of her by any 
 other name — was driving four cows home from 
 pasture. The setting sun shed a kindly hue on 
 her gingham garment that was neither a frock 
 nor an apron, yet served as both. Nor w^as the 
 mellowing sunlight unkind to her face, for the 
 racial sallowness of her cheeks, accentuated bv 
 too constant exposure to the elements, was soft- 
 Ill
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ened and shaded into a gentle brown. Her shoes, 
 which were far too large, were in the final stages 
 of disrepair. About the brow her hair was 
 braided with a simplicity that was by no means 
 devoid of charm. Her eyes — but there she was 
 really French. Simunde had never been farther 
 from the village of Le Curois than the neighbor- 
 ing town of Avesnes Le Comte (unless one counts 
 the momentous occasion, a year after her birth, 
 when she was taken to Arras for exhibition before 
 an esteemed and wealthy relative, who was so 
 little impressed that he bequeathed his entire 
 estate, consisting of eight thousand francs, to a 
 manufacturer of tombstones) ; but a French 
 woman does not acquire coquetry — she is born 
 with it. Even in church Simunde would cast such 
 languishing yet mischievous eyes upon the cure 
 himself, that the poor little man, who had never 
 liked Latin at any time, used to stammer and 
 mumble his orisons like an over-conscientious 
 penitent at confessional. 
 
 When her two brothers went to war Simunde, 
 who was then sixteen, assumed their tasks in 
 addition to her own, in all of which she had the 
 able direction of "madame" her mother. Between 
 
 112
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 them they performed a day's work that would 
 have exhausted two husky laborers. As is the 
 custom in most of northern France, their home 
 was not on the farm, but in the village, for one 
 of the first essentials of existence to a Frenchman 
 is companionship. On the outskirts of Le Curois, 
 just on the hill, there was a great chateau, beauti- 
 fully, gloomily aloof ; but in the one street of the 
 village itself, pigs, cows, hens and their offspring 
 wallowed in mud and accumulated filth. 
 
 It is difficult to know which is the more strik- 
 ing: the French peasant's stoicism in the presence 
 of war, or his indifference to dirt. 
 
 On this particular evening in May of 1918 
 Simunde was frankly regretting the absence of 
 men. Not that she had ever been in love or 
 known the rapture of wandering in the moonlight 
 with a man (France is almost the only civilized 
 country remaining that has not relegated chap- 
 erons to the realm of fiction) ; but she wanted to 
 use her eyes on something more susceptible than 
 a cow or a cure. It was spring, and she felt 
 pretty, and when a woman is conscious of her own 
 charm she seldom wishes to prove miserly with it. 
 
 She had just run across the road to convince a 
 
 113
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 COW of its loss of the sense of direction when she 
 heard the neighing of a horse. Glancing behind 
 her, she looked directly into the eyes of a mounted 
 British officer; whereupon that gentleman brought 
 his steed to a standstill. 
 
 ''Bon soir, mademoiselle/' he said. 
 
 ''Bon soir, monsieur" she answered demurely. 
 Her eyes were lowered shyly, and her fingers 
 played over the stick she was carrjdng, like a flute- 
 player caressing his instrument. The officer 
 bowed slightly and tried to recall his French 
 vocabulary, though it must be admitted he was 
 never loquacious in any tongue when conversing 
 with a daughter of Eve. As for her, since it is a 
 woman's role, she waited. Would he speak again 
 or would he pass on, leaving the memory of yet 
 one more meeting with a gentleman of adven- 
 ture — one more roadside drama in which the 
 dialogue consisted only of an exchange of saluta- 
 tions. Most men who have returned from France 
 will recall for years to come how, a few kilo- 
 metres back from Hell, they often caught a 
 glimpse of two dark eyes and a tender smile. 
 Just that and — 
 
 "Bon soir, mademoiselle.'* 
 
 114
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 '^Bon soir, monsieur" 
 
 Commonplace, perhaps, in the telling, but in 
 France it was the commonplace that became 
 romance. 
 
 A smile crept into the officer's eyes, which were 
 blue and kindly, though they had a glint in them 
 — something like metal — a look that a mother 
 always noticed first when her son returned from 
 the line. 
 
 "Ou est le village?" he ventured, 
 
 "Le Curois?" 
 
 ''Qui! Le Curois." 
 
 "Mcds, monsieur" — her eyes widened and her 
 hands indicated the village dwellings — "c'est id 
 Le Curois!" 
 
 He breathed deeply and ventured again. 
 
 "Connaissez-vous un billet pour dice officiers?" 
 He felt rather pleased with the sentence; it was 
 true he had intended to get accommodation for 
 eleven officers, but it was moderately accurate for 
 a foreign tongue. 
 
 For answer Simunde led hini, preceded by the 
 four cows, to her domicile as "Madame," like all 
 French housewives had received billeting instruc- 
 tions in the first year of the war. In conjunction 
 
 115
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 with her neighbors on either side, she speedily 
 arranged accommodation for eleven officers in 
 their cottages, and for the officers' domestiques in 
 the barns. 
 
 One hour later the guests of war, their bat- 
 talion having come out for a rest, were dining 
 comfortablv in the home of Petite Simunde, 
 while a sow, attended by ten small pigs, snorted 
 approvingly outside the door. 
 
 Less than an hour afterwards Private Des 
 Hosiers, acting as temporary batman to Major 
 Douglas Campbell, was sitting on a chair in 
 the farm-yard, in the glittering moonlight, regal- 
 ing Simunde and her mother with grossly exag- 
 gerated stories of the mining country of Cobalt. 
 He told them of his misdeeds, not in humility, 
 but with much braggadocio, and his auditors lis- 
 tened, lost in gesticulatory admiration. Simunde 
 was thrilled from her ill-shod feet to her braided 
 brow. Jacque Des Hosiers was the first really 
 wicked man she had met, and, woman-like, she 
 was fascinated; also he had nice teeth and flash- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 The picture of a young officer on horseback 
 whose brown hair was almost red and whose 
 
 116
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 humorous blue eyes had a ghnt in them like metal, 
 faded as completely from her mind as the mem- 
 ory of the sunset that had thrown its spell upon 
 them. 
 
 Unromantic? . . . Que voulez-vous? C'est la 
 guerre! 
 
 V. 
 
 Two weeks passed, during which period the 
 placid fields about Le Curois resounded to the 
 shouts of Canadian troops rehearsing open war- 
 fare (for rumor had it that the hour was almost 
 at hand when Foch was to release the forces of 
 retribution). For pastime, the troops played 
 baseball and held field-days of many and varied 
 sports. Whatever they did, they shouted lustily 
 and continuously while doing it, for they had 
 mastered one elemental truth — that nothing can 
 be accomplished without intensity. 
 
 Des Rosiers explained baseball to Simunde, 
 who enjoyed the description without allowing it 
 to interfere with her innumerable domestic and 
 agricultural duties. It was quite true that Jacque 
 Noir had never played the game or even mastered 
 
 117
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 its rudiments, but he had the narrator's instinct 
 that rises above mere accuracy of detail. 
 
 Every evening he accompanied Simunde to the 
 pasture-land, and together they guided the 
 patient cows homeward. When darkness set in 
 and Simunde's tasks were finished for the day, 
 he sat with her in the farm-yard and told lurid 
 tales of northern Canada — to all of which 
 "madame," whose tasks were never finished, lent 
 a delighted and adjoining ear. 
 
 He pictured to Simunde the snow — how it 
 filled the rivers till they ran no more ; how it cov- 
 ered the great pine-trees until, as far as eye could 
 see, there was nothing but white ; and he told of 
 the wind that was never still. And she listened, 
 as only a Frenchwoman can listen, with every 
 emotion he called forth registering in her face, as 
 clouds racing across the sun will throw their 
 shadows on the ground. 
 
 Just before the battalion was to return to the 
 line, the second in command. Major Douglas 
 Campbell, was called to Divisional Headquarters 
 for a prolonged conference. As a result Des 
 Hosiers was returned to his company for duty, 
 though he contrived to spend every free hour 
 
 118
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 with the little belle of Le Curois. As the time 
 for parting approached with cruel celerity, he 
 talked less and took to long spells of moody 
 silence. His heart had been melted as completely 
 as the snow in his Northland is thawed by the 
 sun in spring. As for her, the little artifices of 
 gesture and the ceaseless coquetry of the eyes 
 became less noticeable. For the first time in her 
 life she felt the anguish of a woman's tears; 
 Petite Simunde's guileless and innocent heart 
 had been won by Jacque Des Hosiers, the bad 
 man of Northern Quebec. 
 
 In a tempest of passionate ardor, but with 
 becoming deference, he addressed his suit to the 
 mother, who promised consideration that night 
 and her answer on the morrow. 
 
 It was hardly twilight when he wandered back 
 along the main road towards the fields where his 
 battalion was bivouacked. Full of the picture of 
 the little woman who had bewitched him, he 
 failed to notice the approach of an exceedingly 
 smart young staff -officer, ablaze in a glory of red 
 and brass. With unseeing eyes, Des Hosiers 
 looked directly at the young gentleman, but 
 failed to make any sign. The officer, fresh from 
 
 119
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 a staff course in England, stopped him with a 
 sharp conmiand. 
 
 "Just a moment, my man. Don't you know 
 enough to salute?" 
 
 Des Hosiers awoke from his dream, came to 
 attention, and saluted very badly. 
 
 "I no see you, sair," he said. 
 
 "Don't lie to me," snapped Brass Hat (who 
 wasn't a bad chap on the whole) ; "of course you 
 saw me. Damn it, you looked right at me. It's 
 fellows like you who give the corps a bad name." 
 
 He was wrong there. It was the presence of 
 several thousand men like Des Hosiers that had 
 given the Canadian Corps a wonderful name — 
 but let that pass, as Jack Point would have said. 
 
 The element of tragedy seldom enters the lists 
 of life with a fanfare of trumpets. It steals in 
 unobtrusively, like a poor relation. It comes in 
 the garb of the commonplace, or masked in triv- 
 iality or gaiety. One is unaware of its presence 
 until it throws off concealment and points its 
 yellow fingers at the throat of its victims. What 
 dramatist would have read tragedy into the ab- 
 surd tableau presented by a slouchy French- 
 Canadian soldier and a youthful staff -officer? 
 
 120
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 Yet, as inexorable as Fate, it was approaching 
 Jacque Des Hosiers, and only a few yards awaj^ 
 hiding its skeleton's grin behind the mundane 
 countenance of Sergeant Smith, returning to the 
 battalion after a day's work in the orderly room. 
 
 The officer, who had just made a move to re- 
 sume his walk, noticed the sergeant, and called 
 him over. 
 
 "You are from the same battalion as this 
 chap?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Report him to his company commander for 
 failing to salute an officer. Impress upon him 
 that I would not have made this complaint, but 
 your man looked directly at me, and — well, 
 discipline must be maintained, especially out 
 here." 
 
 Whereupon, feeling that he had rendered unto 
 Caesar the things that were Cssar's, the j^outhful 
 captain sauntered on to the chateau, occupied by 
 Divisional Headquarters, and dined with extra 
 zest. And if it be thought that this narrative 
 treats him unkindly, let it be written that, three 
 months later, he was badly wounded while per- 
 forming a very gallant action. He was a profes- 
 
 121
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 sional soldier, somewhat lacking in psychology; 
 that was all. 
 
 A little later Private Des Hosiers was ar- 
 raigned before his company commander, a gentle- 
 man who was neither a soldier nor a psychologist. 
 The heinous crime of passing an officer without 
 acknowledgment was laid to the charge of the 
 battle-worn and love-lorn villain from Quebec. 
 
 "What have you got to say for yourself?" 
 
 Des Hosiers said it. The officer shook his 
 head. 
 
 "It's not good enough," he said. "You French- 
 Canadians seem to think there's one law for your- 
 selves and another for everybody else. You throw 
 all your comrades down by deliberately insulting 
 an officer — a staff-officer, who reports it to the 
 G.O.C., and there you are. We're known as a 
 bad battalion just because of a few slackers like 
 you. Put him on the horse line picket for two 
 nights, and confine him to camp during the day." 
 
 The prisoner started. "Sair," he said, "I can 
 no be here to-morrow night. C'est impossible." 
 
 "Oh, is it emposeeble?" answered the officer, 
 who prided himself on a gift of neat retort. Des 
 Rosiers's eyes protruded to their utmost. 
 
 122
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 "By Gar!" he cried, "and nex' morning we go 
 back to the line encore, yes?" 
 
 "Well? Have you any objections? If so, I 
 am sure the divisional commander would appre- 
 ciate hearing them." 
 
 "Ah, but moiisieur Vofficier" — his hands were 
 stretched forth in an agony of appeal — "Petite 
 Simunde, she wait for me. I promise to come — 
 I no come — it is terrible!" 
 
 The judge in khaki laughed. 
 
 "I am fed up with the stories of you French- 
 Canadians and your village sweethearts — and, 
 confound it, stop waving your hands about!" 
 
 "Standt'attenshun!" bellowed the sergeant- 
 major. 
 
 "Consider yourself lucky to get off so lightly, 
 my man. — That will do, sergeant-major." 
 
 "Escor' a'prisoner — ri tub — qui' mawch. — Lef 
 ri', lef ri', lef ri — Pawty, ha't. — Report to horse 
 line N.C.O. right away. — Escor', dees-mi!" 
 
 Rather late for mess, by reason of holding 
 orderly room at an unusual hour, the company 
 commander sat down to dinner with a glow of 
 virtue in his bosom. He had been a lawyer-poli- 
 tician in a small Ontario town, and it pleased 
 
 123
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 him to find that he had not lost the art of Buz- 
 fuzian browbeating. 
 
 And through it all the Fates had woven a 
 thread of tragedy about the life of Jacque Noir, 
 using in their scheme of things a non-psychologi- 
 cal staff-officer, a non-military and non-psyscho- 
 logical company commander, and a sergeant 
 whose name was Smith. 
 
 "There is humor in all things," said Jack 
 Point. Gilbert would have been equally correct 
 if he had substituted the word "tragedy." 
 
 Before sundown of the next day the prisoner 
 was reported absent, and when the battalion 
 marched away for the line Jacque Des Rosiers 
 was not with it. 
 
 VI 
 
 Four days had passed before the second-in- 
 command rejoined his unit in the trenches. 
 Campbell had been held at Divisional Head- 
 quarters, and now for the first time learned of 
 Des Rosiers's desertion. With a stiffening of 
 the jaw and an ugly contraction of his shoulders, 
 he quickly interrogated tragedy's mummers — 
 a sergeant named Smith and a politician-lawyer 
 
 124
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 company commander. To the former he said 
 nothing ; the man had done his obvious duty. To 
 the company commander he gave a careful hear- 
 ing; then, in short staccato sentences that had an 
 odd resemblance to a machine-gun in action, sub- 
 jected him to brief questioning. 
 
 "What is Des Rosiers's conduct-sheet like?" 
 
 "Pretty bad, sir." 
 
 "What were his crimes?" 
 
 "Oh, the usual things — dirty on C.O.'s inspec- 
 tion, equipment missing, late for parades, and 
 generally slovenly. If he hadn't had such a poor 
 sheet, he v^^ould have been decorated." 
 
 "In other words, his crimes are rest-billet ones. 
 Is that correct?" 
 
 "Well— yes, sir." 
 
 "But in the line he earned a decoration?" 
 
 "Yes— at Vimy, he " 
 
 "Have you known him to lie?" 
 
 "Well, you know what these French-Canadians 
 are like." 
 
 "You understand what I mean. Have you ever 
 known him to lie when put on his honor?" 
 
 "Er— no." 
 
 "When he told you that he had to see this girl, 
 
 125
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 did you find out if he was speaking the truth?" 
 
 "No, sir, I " 
 
 "Did you look for him at this girl's place when 
 you were coming away?" 
 
 "I sent a picket through the village." 
 
 The blue in Campbell's eyes became unpleas- 
 antly light. "I had Des Hosiers in my company 
 at Ypres when the Hun sent over his first gas — 
 you were addressing meetings in Canada at the 
 time — and I know him for a brave chap, as faith- 
 ful as a dog. It's men like you with a sense of 
 vision no better than a mud-puddle that are mak- 
 ing the French-Canadian question another Irish 
 one. They are like children, easily swayed and 
 true as steel to those they trust; but as long as 
 you and your kind make a political cat's-paw out 
 of them, alternately yelling 'Kamerad' and 
 'Traitor,' according to the political exigencies of 
 the moment, so long will Canada be without the 
 sympathy and the enriching of a wonderfully 
 virile race." 
 
 The junior officer's face flushed. "I acted ac- 
 cording to the evidence," he persisted hotly. 
 
 "Damn the evidence!" said Campbell furiously. 
 "Play the man, not the charge-sheet. Does Des 
 
 126
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 Hosiers strike you as a chap who would deliher- 
 ately insult a staff-officer? When he is caught 
 he will he shot. It can't he helped — discipline 
 must be maintained; but I tell you, when, every 
 few days I read in the adjutant-general's orders 
 that Private So-and-So, charged with desertion 
 in the presence of the enemy, was apprehended 
 in a certain village, tried by court-martial, and 
 sentenced to be shot, sentence dulv carried out 
 at 4:15 a. m. on such and such a date — you know 
 the ghastly rhythm of the thing as well as I do — 
 I never read one of these announcements with- 
 out having a bad ten minutes afterwards. I don't 
 question the decision of the court — a deserter 
 must paj'^ the penalty — but, mark my words, 
 behind every one of these offences there is the 
 unseen part played by some officer or N.C.O. who 
 punished at the wrong time or failed to punish 
 at the right. There are far too many machine- 
 made routine-fed chaps in the army, with stars 
 on their cuffs, who don't know that there are 
 times when the grip of a hand on a Tomnjy's 
 shoulder, and a few words as man to man, free 
 of any cursed condescension, are worth all the 
 conduct-sheets in existence." 
 
 127
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "You are making a mountain out of a mole- 
 hill, sir. I consider you are very unfair to me." 
 
 "You do, eh? . . . What about your unfair- 
 ness to Des Hosiers and his little French girl, 
 when he faces a firing-squad in the early morn- 
 
 mg? 
 
 With an angry gesture, Campbell left the dug- 
 out and hurried to Battalion Headquarters. For 
 twenty minutes he and the colonel, a gentleman 
 and a soldier, quietly but firmly discussed the 
 case of desertion. 
 
 "I agree with everything you say, Campbell," 
 said the older man, "and I will strongly recom- 
 mend mercy to the court; but I am conmianding 
 a unit made up of many personalities, and must 
 think of the example to all." 
 
 "Very good, sir. By the way, colonel, I know 
 where Des Rosiers is." 
 
 "You do? Then send word to the A.P.M." 
 
 "Excuse me, sir; may I go and bring him my- 
 self? I ask this as a very great favor." 
 
 The colonel pondered for a moment. "When 
 will you be back?" he said. 
 
 "Before 'Stand to' in the morning." 
 
 "Right— but, Campbell, my boy." 
 
 128
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 "Sir." 
 
 "Whatever you have in mind, remember that 
 your duty and mine is to think of the example 
 to the battalion." 
 
 The blue in Campbell's eyes deepened; then, 
 with an imperious gesture of the head, like that 
 of a horse that hears the sound of galloping hoofs 
 a mile away, he saluted. 
 
 "I shall not forget what you say, sir." 
 
 "Thank you, Douglas." 
 
 With a restless impatience for delay, Campbell 
 left the dug-out and climbed from the trench to 
 open land. Heedless of a machine-gun that spat 
 at him from the enemy lines, he hurried on until 
 he reached the brigade transport lines, where he 
 secured a motor-car. 
 
 "Where to, sir?" asked the driver. 
 
 "Le Curois," said the major; "and drop me 
 just before you come to the village." 
 
 VII 
 
 In the scorching heat of a summer afternoon, 
 Petite Simunde was washing some linen outside 
 
 129
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 her cottage home. The silence, like the heat, was 
 oppressive, and seemed more so by contrast with 
 the noise of the troops who had been there a 
 week before. An apple falling from a tree to the 
 ground ; the restless pounding of a horse's hoof in 
 its stall; the distant hum of an aeroplane; the 
 rumble of guns, faint but ominous — these and the 
 sighs of the little woman at her task, were the 
 only sounds that broke the stillness of the air. 
 
 She heard footsteps, and her heart, more than 
 her eyes, told her that the man she dreaded had 
 come. Her face blanched, and she caught her 
 breath with a spasm of pain. 
 
 "Simunde" — Campbell's voice was gentle but 
 firm — "where is Jacque?" 
 
 She continued her work without looking up. 
 
 "Simunde" — again the quiet monotone — 
 "where is Jacque?" 
 
 She shook her head. "No compree" she fal- 
 tered, falling into the jargon of war. 
 
 "Simunde!" There was an inflection in his 
 voice, an almost imperceptible note of severity, 
 that set her heart throbbing with fear. This was 
 a new person to her, this calm, stern, blue-eyed 
 man who showed no excitement, no anger, only a 
 
 130
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 quiet, kindly severity that gave her no chance for 
 subterfuge. She hated him for his calmness — 
 because he was English — because he was unfair. 
 If he had only shouted or gesticulated — but this 
 brown-haired giant ! To oppose him was like try- 
 ing to stem the incoming tide. 
 
 She looked up suddenly, and her dripping 
 hands were clenched in a fever of supplication. 
 Madly she pleaded for her lover, as a woman will 
 plead only for the man she loves or for her child. 
 Tears ran down her cheeks, and her voice was 
 choked with sobs. 
 
 Patiently he listened, gathering from the 
 anguish more than from her words the story he 
 had already guessed. In a climax of grief, she 
 groped for him with her hands and would have 
 cried on his breast. But he made no move ; only 
 his eyes were very grave and tender. 
 
 "Simunde," he reiterated in English, "where is 
 Jacque?" 
 
 With a shrill cry of rage, she stamped her foot 
 on the ground. This great iceberg of a man was 
 a devil! He had come for her lover. He would 
 take Jacque away to be shot. With an involun- 
 tary instinct of dismay, she glanced at the barn 
 
 131
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 some little distance away; then, fearful that he 
 had read her meaning, she forced a smile with 
 her lips. 
 
 Without a word, he put her gently aside and 
 started for the barn. He had gone ten steps be- 
 fore she moved, when he heard her hurried 
 breathing and her hands were on his arm. 
 
 "Monsieur'' she cried — "monsieur le major — 
 Jacque — Jacque keel you!" She spoke in broken 
 English, remembering one of Des Rosiers's 
 stories of his misdeeds. Releasing her fingers, 
 he reached the barn in a few short paces. Open- 
 ing the door, he cautiouslj'^ entered and tried to 
 accustom himself to the semi-darkness — and saw 
 the barrel of a rifle in the loft slowly aligning 
 itself in his direction. 
 
 "Des Rosiers!" His voice rang out like a 
 pistol-shot. "It is I — your officer!" 
 
 There was no sound for almost a full minute, 
 then the rifle was withdrawn, and the unshaved, 
 disheveled French-Canadian stood before him. 
 
 "Why you come?" he said brokenly. "I can 
 no shoot my officier. Why you come, eh?" 
 
 "Because you will go back with me, Des 
 Rosiers." 
 
 132
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 The deserter's eyes filled with tears. "By Gar!" 
 he said, "it is not, what you say, play fair. I 
 say I shoot who come, and Jacque Des Hosiers, 
 he is no afraid. But you — my boss — mais non! 
 Maybe I go back with you and maybe they shoot 
 me, yes?" 
 
 "You have deserted, and the punishment is — 
 well, you know as well as I. If you come with 
 me now there is a small chance of mercy." 
 
 The man's eyes flashed. "I no ask for mercy," 
 he cried. "I, Jacque Des Hosiers want mercy? 
 Pouf ! I laugh. They tell me I no see Simunde 
 again, when I do nottings wrong. Tres hien — I 
 say sometings about it too. I go, I stay — mem' 
 chose; I am shot. Good! I stay with Simunde." 
 
 Campbell took a step forward, and there was 
 metal in his voice as well as in his eyes. His hand 
 fell on the other's shoulder and gripped it like a 
 vice. "You will come back with me," he said, 
 and again there was a strange similarity to a 
 machine-gun; "not that you may receive mercy, 
 but because you are a coward, and must face 
 your punishment for desertion in the presence of 
 the enemy." 
 
 Des Rosiers's face darkened. 
 
 133
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Now, at this minute," went on Campbell, 
 "the battalion, your battalion and mine, is in the 
 line. Because you were not there, another man 
 is in your place, perhaps at sentry duty. He may 
 be dead by now — and why? Because he did his 
 duty, and took the place of a man who was 
 afraid." 
 
 The French-Canadian's breath was hot with 
 fury. He clenched his fists, and great veins 
 stood out on his forehead. "By gosh, me!" he 
 yelled; "who say Jacque Noir, she is afraid?" 
 
 With apparent calm, but his muscles poised for 
 action, the officer looked squarely at him. "I 
 say you are a coward," he answered. "You were 
 afraid to go to the line with your comrades. You 
 are afraid now to face your punishment." 
 
 He noticed that Jacque was crouching for a 
 spring. With a shrug of his shoulders, he pro- 
 duced a cigarette-case and put a cigarette into 
 his mouth. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 It was the second time he had beaten Des 
 Rosiers. The poor fellow paused, then fell at 
 his feet and exhausted his passion in a sobbing 
 
 134,
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 explanation that would have been ludicrous but 
 for the sincerity of anguish behind it. 
 
 A few minutes later they went together from 
 the barn. Simunde was standing by her door. 
 From the interior of the house the lamentations 
 of "madame" could be heard. With a simplicity 
 that strangely ennobled the rough fellow, Des 
 Hosiers stopped and spoke to Simunde in French, 
 then kissed her on the lips with a reverence 
 that was more moving than the deepest passion. 
 Without a word, he entered the motor-car and 
 stared fixedly ahead at the road which climbed 
 b}^ the chateau. With a half-sob, Simunde turned 
 to the officer. She said nothing, but her tears 
 spoke a language that needed no words. The 
 metal in his eyes melted into a deep compassion- 
 ate blue; and Petite Simunde's troubled little 
 heart thanked God for the great, broad-shoul- 
 dered man with the hair that was almost red. 
 
 VIII 
 
 The two men slept in a deserted hut that night, 
 but an hour before daybreak they were wending 
 
 135
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 their way through the communication-trenches 
 to the front line. It was half-an-hour before 
 "Stand to" when the major and his unkempt com- 
 panion reached the last dark trench where sen- 
 tries were straining their eyes at the blackness 
 of No Man's Land. A junior officer stepped up 
 to the major and reported, quietly, the situation 
 during the night. 
 
 "They've got a machine-gun post," he said at 
 the end, "somewhere over by those three trees. 
 Can you see them, sir? They got five of our chaps 
 last night and two the night before." 
 
 "Humph! They tried for me too, yesterday 
 afternoon. Can't the guns do anything?" 
 
 "They've tried, sir, but the rise in the ground 
 seems to protect them from anything except a 
 direct hit." 
 
 Even in the darkness the young lieutenant 
 could notice the sudden look of decision which 
 flashed into Campbell's eyes. 
 
 "Give me an A form," he said tersely. 
 
 The lieutenant handed him a message-pad on 
 which he wrote a few words. 
 
 "See that the colonel gets this," he said, "and 
 pass word along to the other companies that Pri- 
 
 136
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 vate Des Hosiers and I are going to get that 
 machine-gun post ; so if we come back don't give 
 us too hot a reception from your sentries. — Ser- 
 geant, some bombs. — And let Des Hosiers have 
 that revolver, old chap. My batman will give 
 you one of mine. Right — thanks." 
 
 "But, sir" — the young officer was vastly 
 troubled — "it's not up to you. I'll go, major. 
 Honestly, I want to " 
 
 "Thanks, old man; but this is a bigger job 
 than it looks. Not that you couldn't do it as well 
 or better, but — well, I've set my heart on going, 
 that's all." 
 
 He glanced at Des Hosiers, and noticed that 
 his face was grim and set. 
 
 "But, my officier, it is not fair," began the 
 French-Canadian; "it " 
 
 "Not fair?" There was a rasping sound in the 
 major's voice. 
 
 "For me, 7nais out, but for you, non. Please — 
 I do my bes' — I go alone." 
 
 Without a word, the second-in-command put 
 out his hand and grasped that of the deserter; 
 and Des Hosiers felt that death for the other 
 would be easy. Truly, as Campbell had said, 
 
 137
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 war is a great big game, and men are like 
 children. 
 
 Three minutes later two figures were crawling 
 like panthers towards the German lines. 
 
 IX 
 
 The colonel of the battalion took the message 
 from the runner's hand. It contained seven 
 words ; 
 
 ^^As an eccamplj to the battalion. 
 
 Campbeli..^' 
 
 "What's that noise?" 
 
 "Sounds like Mills bombs," said the adjutant. 
 
 "And revolvers," muttered the colonel, and 
 swore softly to himself with a lip that quivered 
 strangely. 
 
 X 
 
 If ever you go to the Cobalt country, do not 
 fail to take the boat to Ville Marie, on the blue 
 shores of Pontiac. 
 
 There is an excellent hostelry at Ville Marie 
 called "Les Voyageurs," where a little lady, 
 
 138
 
 PETITE SIMUNDE 
 
 known as Petite Simunde, has worked wonders 
 in making it the cosiest, snuggest, neatest little 
 place that ever warmed the heart of a lumber- 
 jack or a mining-prospector. At night her hus- 
 band leads the singing with a mighty voice that 
 shakes the rafters; for did not the former pro- 
 prietor, Pierre Generaud, say that singing 
 encouraged thirst? 
 
 At times, when Madame Des Hosiers is away 
 for a day, Jacque Noir will regale his old friends 
 with tales of his past life, stories that differ with 
 every telling, and seem to indicate that the nar- 
 rator himself is beginning to doubt their accu- 
 racy. At these times, too, he has been known to 
 sing of a sailor who loved a Portuguese maid; 
 but at the first sound of his wife's footsteps out- 
 side Monsieur Pes Hosiers is the model husband, 
 a role, to be frank, which suits him quite well. 
 
 When the snow is very thick on the ground, 
 and the wind howls mournfully over the lake, 
 Jacque Noir talks of France and the weary years 
 of war. He will point with pride to his artificial 
 foot, and then to his decoration, and slowly tell 
 how two men went out into the dark after a 
 machine-gun post. 
 
 139
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 And wlien the guests are gone and the fire is 
 low, when the wind is moaning quietly, while 
 the snow falls thick — thick — thick — they speak 
 to each other of the officer who will never come 
 back; of the one whose hair was brown, almost 
 like red; whose blue eyes were stern, and yet so 
 kind. 
 
 Hand-in-hand they sit close together, and the 
 only sounds are those of the crackling logs and 
 the wind that is never still.
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 DENNIS MONTAGUE of Toronto 
 emerged from his bath, glowing and talka- 
 tive. A luxurious deep-blue dressing-gown was 
 wrapped about his form, its color accentuating 
 the gray-blue of his eyes. His valet stood beside 
 his bed, on which there reposed a set of garments 
 suitable for a gentleman bent on spending an 
 evening out. 
 
 "Ah, Sylvester! That's right. We poor devils 
 must look as well as the abominable fashions will 
 permit. Did you ever wonder why the men of 
 to-day are so commonplace ? It is the clothes they 
 
 wear." 
 
 Mr. Sylvester took the dressing-gown and 
 hung it in the closet. 
 
 "For instance, my dear fellow, to-night I am 
 in a devilishly brilliant mood ; almost any moment 
 
 141
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 now I might say something clever. If I had my 
 way, I should dress in scarlet, like a toreador, 
 and when I spoke, my sentences would have 
 something of the dart about them. . . . Such 
 would be the fusion of temperament and costume. 
 Instead of which — by the way, mix me a cocktail 
 — I am forced to put on this hideous shirt and a 
 swallow-tailed monstrosity that gives one the 
 appearance of a reformed chimney-sweep. A 
 greater man than either of us, Sylvester, said 
 that the world was all a stage. Then why the 
 deuce don't we dress for our parts?" 
 
 " 'Ere's your cocktail, sir." 
 
 "Good — excellent. What's the time?" 
 
 "Gone past seven-thirty, sir." 
 
 "By Jove! I shall be late. I am always late, 
 my dear chap ; it partly accounts for my extraor- 
 dinary popularity. A hostess is so relieved to 
 see me by the time I turn up that for years after- 
 wards she associates my face with pleasant sen- 
 sations. Any mail, Sylvester?" 
 
 His servant crossed to the table, on which 
 there reposed four letters. "These came in this 
 afternoon, sir." 
 
 "Read them to me while I dress." 
 
 142
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 "Read them, Mr. ^Montague?" The valet's 
 face was a study of respectful expostulation. 
 
 "Is the idea so preposterous, my dear fellow? 
 I believe most people write letters with the idea 
 of having them read." 
 
 The decorous Sylvester sighed, and broke the 
 seal of the first letter. "I would beg to remind 
 you," he read, "that your account " 
 
 Montague made a deprecatory gesture. "How 
 polite these trades-people are!" he said. "I shall 
 expect on.^ some day to enclose forget-me-nots. 
 The next letter?" 
 
 Sylvester solemnly opened a diminutive enve- 
 lope. "Mrs. W. De-Ponsy Harris requests the 
 pleasure " 
 
 "Another request! What is it — a tea or a 
 dance?" 
 
 "A dinner, sir." 
 
 "Good! I ghall go. Mrs. Harris is the worst 
 hostess in the city, but she keeps the best cook. 
 Proceed." 
 
 The worthy Sylvester took from the table a 
 delicately scented letter that breathed its delight- 
 ful suggestion of romance to his grateful nostrils, 
 whereupon he promptly blushed a deep, unlovely, 
 
 143
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 tomato-like red. "It starts," said he, " 'My Dear- 
 est Love ' " 
 
 His master glanced at him. "Don't blush," he 
 said. "The grande passion is nothing to be 
 ashamed of." He carefully adjusted his tie. 
 "What is the young lady's name?" 
 
 "Myrtle, sir." 
 
 "Ah, yes; poor little Myrtle! What a pity a 
 woman clings to a romance that is dead. There 
 is something morbid in women that makes them 
 do it. It is like embracing a corpse." 
 
 "Shall I read it, sir?" 
 
 "No, no; don't bother. I know what is in it. 
 On the third page she declares she hates me, and 
 on the fifth she denies it. Myrtle runs so deuc- 
 edly to form." 
 
 A look of relief crossed the rotund countenance 
 of Mr. Sylvester as he took up the last letter. "It's 
 from a society for educating the poor, sir." 
 
 "Tear it up. What we need is a society for 
 educating the rich." Completely dressed, Mon- 
 tague turned round and struck an attitude. "It 
 is my intention some day," he said with mock 
 airiness, "to found a Conservatoire Universelle, 
 where philanthropists will be taught charity, min- 
 
 144
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 isters of the gospel gain humility, musicians learn 
 to feel, and newspaper writers take up the ele- 
 ments of language. Heavens! such scope as I 
 should have! Stick your head out of the window 
 and see if a taxi is waiting." 
 
 Sylvester raised the window and surveyed the 
 street below. "It's there, sir," he said, drawing 
 his head in. 
 
 "Then I shall leave you. Mrs. Le Roy is giving 
 a dinner-party this evening, and she invariably 
 has guests who listen charmingly. Good-night, 
 Sylvester." 
 
 "Good-night, sir." 
 
 When he was gone, William Sylvester 
 scratched his thinly covered head. He then 
 shrugged his shoulders, and followed this action 
 by pouring out a glass of sherry. He took a sip. 
 " 'Eavens!" he said aloud; " 'ow 'e do talk!" 
 
 II 
 
 Montague leaned back in the taxicab and, en- 
 joying that sense of contentment almost invari- 
 ably engendered by a smooth-running vehicle, 
 
 145
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 allowed his mind to browse in the meadows of 
 memory. 
 
 It was a process which gave him considerable 
 pleasure, for he was a man who respected his own 
 accomplishments — though given to satirical com- 
 ment on those of others. Satisfaction with his 
 past had bred in him a contentment with the 
 present. . . . And he never doubted the future; 
 for was not to-morrow merely to-day carried on ? 
 
 There were many reasons tending towards his 
 peace of mind. One: that he was twenty-eight 
 years of age. At such a period in a man's life he 
 meets older men on a footing of equality, and 
 younger men with patronage. Women of all ages 
 admire him, and their husbands ask him to lunch 
 at their clubs. There is no age more gratifying 
 to the vanity. 
 
 The man of twenty-eight is an Ambassador of 
 Youth meeting the Plenipotentiaries of Age as 
 an equal. 
 
 Unfortunately for Dennis Montague, he al- 
 lowed his own excellent opinion of himself to 
 deepen with the admiration of others until it com- 
 pletely outstripped all rivals. At twenty-six he 
 had his first great love affair — with himself. At 
 
 146
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 twenty-eight it had ripened into a sort of rever- 
 ence. Occasionally he flirted with women, but 
 such incidents were mere inconstancies, peccadil- 
 los, which never seriously threatened his own 
 overwhelming affaire d'amour. 
 
 Born in Ottawa, Dennis was the son of an 
 ambitious mother and a high-placed Government 
 official. Educated for the law, he had applied a 
 dexterous intellect to that noble and musty study, 
 and had succeeded in having himself called to the 
 Bar when he was twenty-three. Up to that time 
 he had known no other civilization than that 
 found in the capital of his native land, where a 
 peer of the realm, graciously appointed by the 
 Imperial Government to act as interpreter be- 
 tween the Mother Country and the Dominion of 
 Canada, regularly spends his appointed term at 
 the Government House, thereby stimulating Ot- 
 tawa's social activities to fever-heat. It even 
 produces a philosophy of its own among the cap- 
 ital's tuft-hunters. For, even if tJiis governor- 
 general doesn't ask us to dinner, there's always 
 a chance that the necct one will. 
 
 Montague became a noted figure in Ottawa's 
 younger social set, and, though he expressed con- 
 
 147
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 tempt for all such things, found a certain grati- 
 fication in seeing his name appear constantly in 
 the social columns of the city's press. It was a 
 soothing sensation to read the chronicle of his 
 adolescent activities. . . . Few people can resist 
 a glow of pleasure on seeing in the morning paper 
 that they were where they were the previous 
 evening. 
 
 Even in the remotest rural districts of America 
 the weekly journal records that "Hank Wilson 
 went over to Hiram Johnston's farm at Hen's 
 Creek to see his new barn. Hiram Johnston is 
 one of the most enterprising farmers that we 
 got." 
 
 But — there is something solid about that barn. 
 
 After the legal profession had opened its por- 
 tals to Montague he moved to Toronto, accepting 
 a junior partnership in a firm of some standing. 
 To his amazement, he found that in Toronto the 
 entree into the best circles — and he could not 
 exist in any other — was more difficult than in 
 Ottawa. Though both cities had that reverence 
 for wealth which is universal, Toronto's large 
 population made a sudden and successful debut 
 far from easy. There were so many sets — those 
 
 148
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 who yachted, danced, and golfed; those who 
 danced and golfed ; and those who merely golfed. 
 Montague decided that the last class was too 
 fatiguing. 
 
 Then there were those extraordinary people 
 who practiced the arts in an amiable way. There 
 is probably no city in the world where there 
 exists more comfortable talent than in Toronto. 
 For a time music was the occupation of musicians, 
 but society embraced it, to the benefit of them 
 both, with the result that musical homes abound. 
 
 This worried Montague. The younger set in 
 Ottawa knew no such phenomena. 
 
 Looking farther afield, he next caught a 
 glimpse of the University family, an after- 
 growth of the larger life of Toronto 'Varsity. But 
 he avoided that. His mind was dexterous, but 
 needed lesser minds beside it to give it the sparkle 
 of contrast. 
 
 In desperation he turned to the purely nou- 
 veauw riches, only to find that they had made 
 entangling alliances with all the other fraterni- 
 ties. 
 
 There was only one well untapped — the Cana- 
 dian Militia; but his mind rejected that at once. 
 
 149
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 He had always agreed with Disraeli that soldier- 
 ing was fit only for fools in peace-time and for 
 barbarians in times of war. 
 
 He joined the Royal .Canadian Yacht Club. 
 
 His dimier-parties on the verandas of that 
 beautiful place caused him to be noticed. A 
 friend of his introduced him to one of the society 
 reporters. He invited her to a dinner, and sent 
 her home in a limousine. 
 
 Toronto wavered. He was certainly good- 
 looking, and had not the ''C'est entendu" column 
 of one of the largest dailies recorded that "Mr. 
 Dennis Montague's dinner-parties at the Yacht 
 
 Club have a " followed by several French 
 
 words that were most impressive? 
 
 With the genius of a great general, he saw 
 that the gates were unlocked. Now for some 
 stroke to thrust them open! For two months 
 he cogitated, and then one day it came to him 
 with a flash, as ideas occasionally present them- 
 selves to authors. 
 
 He engaged Mr. Sylvester as a valet. Toronto 
 society surrendered unconditionally. 
 
 It was not so much that Sylvester was a valet, 
 but that he had a nice appreciation of eiFect. 
 
 150
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 Sometimes, when his master was playing tennis 
 on the lawns of the Yacht Club, the unobtrusive 
 servant would be seen patiently waiting outside 
 the wire-screen, with a letter, or a suit-case, or 
 some verbal question concerning domestic econ- 
 omy. Montague appeared annoyed and raised 
 his salary. 
 
 But triumph is satisfying only if it leads to 
 further victories ; and Dennis began to cast about 
 for some role which would distinguish him from 
 his fellows. The death of his father handed on 
 to him a yearly income which made his position 
 secure; but he was not satisfied. It was then 
 that he learned to scoff. 
 
 It was an experiment at first, but an imme- 
 diately successful one. His brain, always keen 
 and linked to a facile vocabulary, became focused 
 on the unlovely task of ridiculing life; and as 
 he was ever careful not to satirize the set with 
 whom he was dining, his popularity became tre- 
 mendous. By a process of catalogue culture he 
 was able to talk on a variety of subjects; his 
 method being that if one heard the waltz from 
 La Bolieme, one was entitled to discuss Puccini. 
 One of Brangwyn's earlier efforts in a friend's 
 
 151
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 house was sufficient basis for him to pose as a 
 judge of etchings. He read part of one book 
 by a myriad of writers, then discarding their 
 w^orks, held forth on the authors themselves. 
 
 With young men of observant and creative 
 minds there are two paths which, early in life's 
 journey, offer puzzling deviation. To follow 
 one (and to youth it seems the less attractive), 
 a man must bend his faculties to the discovering 
 and the interpreting of the beauty of life; the 
 other leads to the annihilation of everything that 
 is genuine and that can be used as a target for 
 cynicism. Montague chose the second path, and 
 spared nothing but himself. 
 
 Even when the war gripped the city, and one 
 by one the little gods of puny social life crashed 
 impotently to destruction, he continued his glit- 
 tering way unperturbed. The war was young, 
 and the 1st Canadian Division was merely hold- 
 ing the line somewhere near a place called Ypres. 
 . . . The market for superficiahty was still 
 brisk. 
 
 The taxi came to a stop outside a lovely home 
 in Chestnut Park, and, paying the driver, Mon- 
 tague mounted the steps and rang the bell. 
 
 152
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 *'I wonder," he mused, "who the deuce I shall 
 have as a dinner partner?" 
 
 Ill 
 
 After his usual apologies for tardiness, Mon- 
 tague led Mrs. Le Roy in to dinner, and like the 
 seasoned campaigner he had hecome, glanced at 
 the guests for conversational adversaries. His 
 host and hostess were noisy and given to plati- 
 tudes ; there was a soft-voiced American from the 
 South who seemed only anxious to be attentive 
 and courteous to the woman next him; on the 
 other side there was a young woman who was 
 so consistently effusive that she was the most 
 invited-out guest in Toronto — but never had a 
 love affair; beside her was a young subaltern in 
 an obviously new uniform. Montague had a 
 vague idea that he had seen that well-groomed 
 uninspired face in some bank. And he was 
 right. Less than six months back the bank man- 
 ager had written to the General Office about this 
 youth — "He's a decent enough fellow, but lack- 
 ing in initiative." 
 
 153
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Just beyond the subaltern Montague saw the 
 finely chiseled features of Vera Dalton, and for 
 some reason unknown to himself his color 
 mounted as their eyes met. He had known her in 
 Ottawa, though she had steadfastly avoided his 
 friends, and later, when her parents had come to 
 Toronto, he had seen her at odd intervals. He 
 liked to think of her as an old friend, though 
 there was something about her that made his flip- 
 pancy difficult in her presence; but beyond their 
 occasional meetings at certain houses, neither one 
 had made any attempt to develop the friend- 
 ship. 
 
 She was fair without being blond, and avoiding 
 the riotous climax of color so tempting to fair 
 women, she dressed in subtle shades, with colors 
 suggested rather than displayed. Her face had a 
 poise and a composure that had nothing in com- 
 mon with placidity ; and she was feminine without 
 being helpless or making a constant sex appeal. 
 She had always interested Montague, and even 
 though their conversations had consisted of 
 neatly worded nothings, her memory had a habit 
 of lingering with him in a way that disturbed his 
 self-admiration. Two things he felt about her 
 
 154
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 — one, that she disliked him; the other, that he 
 held some power over her. 
 
 He removed his eyes from hers, and, glancing 
 for a moment at the remaining guests, who sat 
 like a jury with Mr. Le Roy at the end as fore- 
 man, he drained his glass and leaped into the con- 
 versational ring with a vivacious effrontery that 
 was startling. Naturally of high spirits and eas- 
 ily stimulated by applause, he juggled phrase and 
 quotation, tossed words into the air, and, as 
 though he were a conjurer, watched them link to- 
 gether into ideas. He held his listeners in won- 
 der and challenged them all on subjects ranging 
 from New Thought to the latest scandal. Once 
 the American held him with a witty retort, but 
 ISIontague feinted with an epigram and stabbed 
 him with a paradox. On one occasion the newly 
 created subaltern, stirred by wine and a certain 
 courage derived from his khaki, threw a truism 
 into the arena in the hope that it would trip 
 the talker, but INIontague, catching it on the point 
 of his wit, twirled it about, and hurled it at its 
 source, laughing as the discomfited young of- 
 ficer retired behind the barriers of self-conscious 
 
 silence. 
 
 155
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 His hearers applauded by look and word, and 
 Mrs. Le Roy whispered to her servant to keep 
 JNIontague's glass full. . . . She was delighted. 
 . . . She had never seen him glitter so. 
 
 And Montague noted the applause, emptying 
 his glass again and again ; but it was neither wine 
 nor the incense of flattery that had stirred his 
 pulse to such energy. ... In that glance from 
 Vera's eyes he had read a truth. His power, 
 whatever it was, had mastered her dislike, and he 
 knew that in the evening before him she would 
 bend in his arms as the bow yields to the strength 
 of the archer. 
 
 IV 
 
 After dinner they danced. Mrs. Le Roy was 
 
 not a gifted hostess, but she acted on the prin- 
 ciple that food, wine and music — provided the 
 food and the wine were high-class, and the music 
 was not — would make any evening a success. 
 Few of her guests disagreed with her; their feet 
 and their tongues were light, and they danced 
 and talked without self -consciousness or mental 
 effort. 
 
 Twice Montague had danced with the girl, but 
 
 156
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 it amused him to leave her each time with some 
 mocking pleasantry, the only answer to the 
 smoldering question of her eyes. It was nearly 
 midnight when he led her, almost without asking, 
 into the deserted recess of the Le Roy's conserva- 
 tory, and, beckoning her to a settee, sat down be- 
 side her. With her hands clasped on her lap 
 she gazed fixedly at the shadow}^ garden show- 
 ing outside. 
 
 jNIontague looked at her, and his eyes grew 
 bright as they noted her poise, tempered by fear 
 of him. He leaned over and rested his hand on 
 hers. 
 
 "Please don't," she said quietly, making no 
 effort to withdraw her own. 
 
 "Women always say 'don't,' " he said. "I sup- 
 pose they enjoy a sort of preliminary tete-a-tete 
 with conscience before committing an indiscre- 
 tion." 
 
 "But I mean it, Dennis." 
 "All women mean it, my dear Vera." 
 Her color deepened, and she tried to release 
 her hands from his, but his grip tightened until it 
 hurt. She made no further attempt, and he 
 moved still closer to her. 
 
 157 
 
 V
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Please let me go," she said, keeping her eyes 
 steadily from him. 
 
 "You are inartistic." 
 
 "But I ask you — and you are a gentleman." 
 Something of the dislike that he had always 
 known she felt for him crept into her voice and 
 left a nice tinge of irony. 
 
 "I have a valet and three addresses," he said, 
 "and only pay my tailor once a year. ... In 
 most countries that gives one the standing of a 
 gentleman." 
 
 She bit her lip and glanced quickly at him. 
 His pulses, already stirred by wine and the 
 intrigue of a midnight amour, leaped into a fever 
 at the glimpse of burning eyes and lips that 
 slightly trembled. He placed his hand on her 
 shoulder and drew her face towards his. 
 
 "Why," she said hesitatingly^ — "why do you 
 want to kiss me ?" 
 
 Montague smiled. "The eternal question. 
 Vera. It has trapped more men into proposals 
 than all the wiles of a generation of fond 
 mothers." 
 
 "But you don't love me," she said, her hands 
 
 1.58
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 pressed against the lapels of his jacket in self- 
 defense. 
 
 "On such a night as this," he said, "who could 
 help but love you?" 
 
 "Dennis, please let me go — I mean it — I shall 
 call for help." 
 
 His brow contracted with a sudden frown. 
 "You come here," he said, "at midnight — into a 
 deserted conservatory . . . with me. Then, be- 
 cause I do what you knew from the start I would 
 do, you suddenly decide to play 'Little Miss 
 Prude from the Convent.' " 
 
 "I — I should not have come. I did not want 
 to, Dennis." 
 
 His lips curved into a smile. "Then why did 
 j^ouf 
 
 Her eyes pleaded with him not to prolong the 
 scene, but he was mad with the joy of seeing this 
 sensitive woman, who had so long kept him at a 
 distance, caught in the meshes of his fascination, 
 and he held her in his arms, confident of his 
 power to sway her at his will. 
 
 "I fought against it, Dennis," she said quickly. 
 "But — I had to come. Oh, why force me to say 
 
 159
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 such a thing. Can you not see how unfair you 
 are?" 
 
 She struggled to her feet, but he stood before 
 her, barring the waj^ to the door. 
 
 His breath came faster. This was a charming 
 surrender ! It had gracefulness, novelty, charm. 
 . . . Only, something in her eyes warned him to 
 come no closer. 
 
 "I have admitted, Dennis Montague," she said 
 breathlessly, "that I came here because you fas- 
 cinated me. It's true; you have always fascin- 
 ated me. But I tell you that down in my heart 
 I loathe you, detest you, for the coward that you 
 are." Montague drew back as though fired upon 
 by a masked battery. "In all the years I have 
 known you," she went on furiously, as though 
 fearing that her courage would leave her before 
 the finish, "you have done nothing that was not 
 selfish, mean, and cowardly — above everything 
 else, cowardly. Look at the girls you have 
 
 known " Montague interrupted her with an 
 
 impatient gesture, but she went on : "More than a 
 dozen I could name have given you the depth 
 and the sweetness of their first love, inspired by 
 you, called forth by you. Do you realize what 
 
 160
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 a woman's heart is and what she gives with it? 
 And you — you are too cowardly to face mar- 
 riage, too cowardly to love with your own heart 
 — too selfish to leave women's hearts alone." 
 
 Montague took a cigarette-case from his 
 pocket. "May I smoke?" he said coolly. 
 
 "You are a coward about your profession as 
 well," she hurried on, ignoring his interruption. 
 "Your mother, I know, had great dreams for 
 you. She planned, worked, sacrificed for you. 
 Yet you are too much of a coward seriously to 
 face competition with what you choose to call 
 'the little legal minds of the city.' " 
 
 "And thirdly?" he said, lighting a cigarette. 
 
 "Yes, thirdly," she said desperately, although 
 his easy nonchalance was fast undermining her 
 courage, "you are not in the army. Yet no one 
 could say that Dennis Montague is not fit. I 
 can only presume, like every one else, that you 
 are afraid." 
 
 "And lastly?" He was still calm, although 
 keener eyes than hers would have noticed a dark, 
 ominous flush under his eyes. 
 
 "And, lastly," she said, unconsciously repeat- 
 ing his formula, "you scoff at everything that is 
 
 161
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 good and pure, sneering at religion, and drawing 
 yourself aside from your fellow-creatures as 
 though they were loathsome. Yet I say to you, 
 Dennis, that there is not a man in the slums 
 whose soul isn't far, far richer than yours. It is 
 only a coward, afraid to face the real things, who 
 scoffs at life." 
 
 Weak from the effort she had made, her voice 
 subsided into silence and a cold sweat broke out 
 on her brow and the palms of her hands. 
 
 "Will you smoke. Vera?" 
 
 "No, thanks," she answered faintly. 
 
 "Do. It would soothe you." 
 
 "No, I thank you." She repressed a sudden 
 desire to fly from the conservatory. She had 
 become suddenly afraid of the cool, smiling 
 figure beside her. 
 
 "As far as girls are concerned," he said 
 quietly, replacing the cigarette-case in his pocket, 
 "just as long as they angle for us with every 
 artifice of dress and rouge and coquetry, so long 
 will they catch us and the consequences. As for 
 the law, which my mother planned for me, I re- 
 gret that my father left me the instincts of a 
 
 162
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 gentleman, not of an attorney. I am not boring 
 you?" 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 "As for the army, I don't happen to be inter- 
 ested in the war. I disapprove of the crudeness 
 of our Canadian civilization. I disapprove of 
 England's lack of the artistic. I disapprove of 
 German militarism, Scotch bagpipes, Swiss 
 cheese, Chinese laundries, and American politics. 
 Why should I fight for one when I disapprove of 
 them all? As for my fellow-man, I shun the 
 ordinary man of the streets because he does not 
 think, read, or bathe often enough. I am not 
 hostile to him ; I merely ignore him. I am not a 
 coward at all, my dear Vera; I am merely an 
 artist among artisans." 
 
 He bowed gracefully. "Let us return to the 
 dancing," he said. 
 
 With a frightened, inquiring glance, she took 
 his arm, and without a word they left the con- 
 servatory. At the door of the ballroom they 
 paused, and she laid a timid hand on his arm. 
 It will ever be a mystery to men how women can 
 love and despise the same object. 
 
 "Dennis," she said, "will you try to forget 
 
 163
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 what I have said?" Her courage had gone, fled 
 before his coolness and the fascination he held 
 for her, though she had striven with all her 
 womanhood to free herself from it. 
 
 "I wish to Heaven I could," he said grimly. 
 
 The morning sunshine invaded the rooms of 
 Dennis JMontague with pervading cheeriness. It 
 was nearing the end of April, and a hundred 
 birds sang of the winter wonders of arid Africa, 
 and of the witcheries of the Nile, where Pygmies 
 are at v/ar with the butterflies, and the great god 
 Memnon raises his mighty shout to greet the 
 dawn of day. 
 
 Oblivious to the sunshine and everything but 
 his thoughts, Montague lay in bed, and sought to 
 wrestle with the truth he had heard the night 
 before. It was impossible to dismiss the thing 
 from his mind. His brain throbbed with resent- 
 ment, questioning, searching her words — striving 
 to convince himself that her charge of cowardice 
 was the vituperation of an unrequited love. But 
 it was useless. He could explain her actions, 
 
 164
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 dissect her motives, applaud his own pose, but 
 he could not eliminate the feeling of personal 
 nausea which clung to him, as though he had 
 suddenly sickened of his whole nature. 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted the thread of 
 his thoughts, and his valet entered with a tray 
 of breakfast-things. 
 
 "Good morning, sir." Sylvester carefully re- 
 arranged the tray on a little table beside the bed. 
 "It's a beautiful morning, sir. There's great 
 news too." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Canadians 'ave saved Calais, sir — leastways 
 they've stopped them for the time." 
 
 "They're in action, eh?" 
 
 " 'Orrible, too, sir; the paper says the Ger- 
 mans used poison gas." 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 "Yes, sir — the French Colonials gave way, 
 yelhng that 'ell was let loose, and the Canadians 
 went up and 'eld the line." 
 
 ISIontague put down the cup of coffee un- 
 tasted. "What does it say — about casualties?" 
 
 "Why, sir it looks as if some battalions was 
 
 pretty well wiped out. 'Ere's the paper, sir " 
 
 165
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 <<"i 
 
 *No — ^no. I don't want to see it. Tell me — 
 it says . . . the Canadians held against . . . 
 gas?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Are our Toronto chaps in it?" 
 
 "Very 'eavy, sir. It seems as if the 'Ighland 
 Brigade got it the worst." 
 
 Montague sank back on the pillow, his face 
 grim and pallid. 
 
 "Come along, sir; 'ere's your breakfast." 
 
 His master gazed at the ceiling. "Sylvester," 
 he said listlessly, "for a long time you have min- 
 istered to my body. What can you do for a soul 
 that is starving?" 
 
 The valet beamed reassuringly. A large and 
 varied experience as a servant to young gentle- 
 men had inured him to morning-after repent- 
 ances. 
 
 "That's all right, sir," he said, rubbing his 
 hands geninlly. "A bromo-seltzer will fix you 
 up. 'Ello, sir!" The sound of a military band 
 drew him to the window. "It's one of the new 
 battalions — blooming near a thousand of them. 
 Seems like 'ome, it does, when the Guards used 
 to do London in all their swankin' regimentals." 
 
 166
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 A battalion swung past in steady rhythmical 
 tread to the stirring strains of the Welsh hymn 
 of freedom, "Men of Harlech" — and there was a 
 youthful vigorousness about the men, a sugges- 
 tion of unconquerable manhood. . . . And on 
 every man's face there was written pride and de- 
 termination. For their comrades had been tried 
 at Ypres. . . . They had held the line. . . . And, 
 by the living God, the Hun would pay for that 
 foul gas given to the wind to carry against de- 
 fenseless men. 
 
 The last ranks of the battalion passed, and the 
 music ceased as suddenly as it had come. The 
 birds resumed their chorus, and William Sylves- 
 ter his imperturbable mask of deference. Lan- 
 guidly Montague rose from his bed and lit a 
 cigarette. 
 
 "Our civilization," he said quietly, "need not 
 pride itself on raising those men. Men have al- 
 ways been brave since the beginning of time. 
 The terrible failure of our age is that it has pro- 
 duced men like me — a coward." 
 
 Mr. Sylvester scratched his head. "Lord bless 
 me, sir!" he ventured, "you're not a coward. 
 
 167
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Why, look at the jump you took at last year's 
 horse show." 
 
 Montague turned on him with a vehemence 
 that the valet had never before seen in his mas- 
 ter. "I tell you I am a coward," he said fiercely. 
 "Don't I know that my place is with these men? 
 In that battalion that passed there are married 
 men with families, there are only sons of widows, 
 there are brothers, sweethearts. Who is there to 
 care if I go ? My death would not cause a single 
 tear; and yet I stay — not that I am afraid of 
 bullets or death, but because I know that I 
 should have to sleep beside men who are filthy, 
 unclean, and that I should grow filthy too. I 
 abhor it. I detest it. Yet I stand aside and let 
 others go." 
 
 "You — you are a gentleman, sir." 
 
 "A gentleman!" Montague laughed rasp- 
 ingly. "My own definition last night was 'a 
 man with a valet and three addresses.' What a 
 fool I was! No, I am not a gentleman. I have 
 never been one. The greatest gentleman of all 
 time was a carpenter. That is the truth I have 
 to burn into my soul." 
 
 He sank into a chair, and shadows of fatigue 
 
 168
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 marred his face. "Last night, Sylvester," he 
 said slowly, "I lay awake for hours, and some- 
 times in the awful darkness that surrounds one 
 when sleep refuses to come, things seem clearer 
 and more cruel than in daylight. Last night I 
 saw myself for the first time. ... I do not say 
 I shall change. ... It is too late, I think. . . ." 
 
 An hour later he left his flat, fully dressed, 
 and strolled into the sun-lit streets. A 
 newsboy dashed past, screaming in strident 
 tones, "All night fighting — Canadian Line still 
 holding;" and then, apparently feeling the an- 
 nouncement needed identification, he shrieked, 
 "All about that great big European War." 
 
 Montague heard his name spoken. It was the 
 ex -bank clerk, the young subaltern with the un- 
 inspired face. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said rather shyly, 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Marching orders," said the other. "We leave 
 here to-morrow. By jove, we've got something 
 to fight for now!" 
 
 Montague murmured his best wishes and 
 moved on, but the words that kept nmning 
 through his brain were those of the boy's man- 
 
 169
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ager who had written "A decent enough fellow, 
 but lacking in initiative." 
 
 VI 
 
 His walk, unplanned as it was, drew him 
 towards the center of the city. He mechanically 
 avoided the streets that were crowded, and, like 
 a bit of flotsam on the ocean's surface, was 
 guided and buffeted until, turning down a quiet 
 side-street, he emerged upon the corner of a 
 huge stone building. He glanced up, to realize 
 that it was the Armories and was about to change 
 his course \jhen a recruiting sergeant, noticing 
 his hesitation, stepped up to him. 
 
 "Beg pardon," he said, "but was you lookin* 
 to sign up?" 
 
 "Sign up?" Montague repeated the words 
 automatically. 
 
 "Sure — sign up with the Brindle's Battalion." 
 
 "The Brindle's Battalion?" 
 
 "Come off that parrot stuff," growled Ser- 
 geant Saunders. 
 
 Montague shook himself together. "I beg 
 your pardon," he said stiffly. 
 
 170
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 The sergeant shuffled uneasily. "Say, don't 
 be so dashed pohte," he said, not ill-naturedly. 
 "I'm here to get recruits. We're a tough bunch; 
 we're a rough bunch; but we're men. Our boys 
 ain't strong on polish or eddication, and they're 
 no boozeless, non-smoking crowd; but they're 
 straight, and they're game, and they're men." 
 
 "They're men," repeated Montague, dazed by 
 a dizziness that seemed to wrap himself and the 
 sergeant in an enveloping mist. 
 
 "That's what I said," reiterated Sergeant 
 Saunders, mentally noting that he would make 
 ]Montague drop his sing-song if he ever got the 
 opportunity. "What do you say, old scout?" 
 
 Montague glanced up. "Will you take me?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Will we take you?" A broad, brown hand 
 grasped Montague's arm, and he found himself 
 being led into a room in the Armories, where he 
 discovered that his full name was Dennis Oliver 
 Montague, that he was twenty-eight years of age, 
 that he was an Anglican, and that his Uncle 
 Charles was his next of kin. He further found 
 that he was the property of His Majesty King 
 George the Fifth for the duration of the war 
 
 171
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and six months after. "So 'elp me; and shove 
 'im in to the medico. — Glad you signed up, my 
 lad; you'll never regret it. We've got a man's 
 job for you, and — close that bleeding door, 
 Nokes.— All Tight.— Nea^tr 
 
 With whirlwind rapidity Dennis stripped for 
 the doctor, who pronounced him an excellent 
 example of cannon-fodder; and, still dazed, he 
 put on his clothes and emerged into the open air, 
 a red band about his arm proclaiming to the 
 world that he was now Private D. O. Montague, 
 of the Brindle's Battalion, C.E.F. He gasped, 
 shrugged his shoulders, then went home. 
 
 VII 
 
 Sergeant Skimps surveyed the squad of re- 
 cruits with the eye of a man who had seen re- 
 cruits for twenty years and was impervious to 
 any emotion on the subject. 
 
 "You're soldiers now," he began, his dialect 
 strongly reminiscent of Bow Bells; "you're in 
 the service now, so, kiss me, 'Arry, get your 'air 
 cut, all of yer. We don't go in for Paderooskies 
 in the harmy. Then 'old yer 'eads hup and put 
 
 172
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 yer chests hout has though you was somebody. 
 You ain't, but don't go telHn' no one." (A gentle 
 murmur greeted this sally.) "Halways respeck 
 yer hofficers and non-commissioned hofficers, and 
 don't go slapping the colonel on the bacK and 
 hoffering 'im a cigar. You're in the harmy — • 
 that bloke at the hend, spit out that there to- 
 bacco — g'wan! — a filthy 'abit on parade, and 
 it'll get C.B. for yer. Where do you 'ail from, 
 hany'ow ? — a nice specimen, I don't think — chew- 
 ing when a sawgeant's talking to yer. Now, 
 then, fall in — hanother 'arf-hour's drill." 
 . For five hours that day alternately Sergeant 
 Skimps talked, and his tired squad turned, 
 marched, and wheeled about the gravel parade- 
 ground. Weary to the point of exhaustion, al- 
 ready deaf to the interminable harangue of Ser- 
 geant Skimps, the hour of four-thirty found 
 Montague with his first day in the army finished. 
 He had only one desire — to seek his apartment, 
 to feel the cool shower upon his body, and to 
 lounge in languid repose in his dressing-gown, 
 soothed by the inevitable cigarette. He broke 
 away from the group, but was hailed by a ruddy- 
 
 173
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 faced Little Englander, who had made various 
 overtures to him during the day. 
 
 "Going up?" said the other, his accent pro- 
 claiming his British birth, tempered by ten years 
 of Canadian citizenship. 
 
 "Yes," said Montague; "but I'm in a hurry." 
 
 "Right-o! I'm with you." He swung along 
 beside Montague. "This is the Hfe," he said 
 cheerily. 
 
 "What?" asked Montague. 
 
 "Soldiering — a dollar ten a day, short hours, 
 and no work — what ho!" 
 
 "Do you mean to say you hke it?" asked 
 Montague, wishing his companion reeked a little 
 less of his recent exertions. 
 
 "Why not like it?" said Private Waller. 
 "We're in it, ain't we?" 
 
 "I suppose so," said the other shortly. 
 
 Private Waller rubbed his hands together. 
 "He's a sergeant, ain't he?" 
 
 "Do you mean that strutting bounder who 
 drilled us to-day?" 
 
 "Lordeel don't let him hear you say that.'* 
 The little man went pale at the thought. "Say, 
 
 174.
 
 THE MAX WHO SCOFFED 
 
 if you don't like him, just wait until you see 
 Sergeant-Major 'Awkins." 
 
 A cockney of even ten years' Canadian 
 citizenship loses his h's when excited. Montague 
 began to wince under it, and wished a dozen 
 times that his companion would hold his tongue 
 and give him a chance to think, to separate the 
 varied experiences of the day, and to edit his 
 thoughts. He shrugged his shoulders and ac- 
 knowledged the greeting of ]\Irs. ^lerryweather 
 from a huge motor-car. Waller's eyes bulged. 
 
 "I say, you know some swells, don't you? 
 What was you — a chauffeur?" 
 
 Montague considered. "No; I was a sort of 
 social buffoon." 
 
 Waller considered. "Something in the plumb- 
 ing line?" he ventured. 
 
 "Not exactly," answered Montague, and mut- 
 tered, "Duration of the war — and six months 
 after — with plebs like this!" 
 
 "I'm a carpenter by trade," vouchsafed Pri- 
 vate Waller, and then emitted a shout of delight. 
 "I say," he cried; "blime, if it ain't the missus!" 
 
 In a few moments they reached a little Eng- 
 lishwoman, not much more than a girl, who was 
 
 1/ J
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 aiding a baby-carriage containing a chubby 
 
 little youngster of some two years of age. 
 " 'Ello, Bill!" she said. " 'Ow's the army?" 
 "Great," said her husband ; "but meet my pal, 
 
 Private Montague. — Private Montague, meet 
 
 my old woman." 
 
 "Glad to know any friend of Bill's," said Mrs. 
 
 Waller warmly, 
 
 Montague bowed. *'Thank you," he said 
 
 gravely. "You are giving up a lot in letting your 
 
 husband go to the war." 
 
 "You said I had to, Emily." 
 
 The girl pouted. " 'E would go." 
 
 "But you wanted to go. Bill." 
 
 "Of course; but I said " 
 
 "I know — about the biby; but " 
 
 "There you go again. Didn't you say I 
 
 must?" 
 
 "Oh, well, Mr. Montague" — the little woman 
 
 looked frankly into his gray-blue, unreadable 
 
 eyes — "the biby's a boy, and when he grows up I 
 
 cawn't say to 'im, ' 'Arry, your father was a 
 
 slacker!' Now, can I, Mr. Montague?" 
 
 He made no answer, but a thoughtful look 
 
 crept into the hard, unsmiling eyes. 
 
 176
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 "Come and have a bit of supper, pard?" Pri- 
 vate Waller rubbed his hands together at the 
 prospect. 
 
 "No — no, thanks," said Montague hastily. He 
 was longing for privacy and the solace that 
 comes with solitude. "Some other night, per- 
 haps, when we have our uniforms." 
 
 "Good enough!" cried the cheery little man. 
 "Then we'll do Queen Street together and show 
 the girls — what ho — oh noT" 
 
 JMontague raised his hat. "Good evening," he 
 said. 
 
 "So long," said Private Waller. "See you in 
 the morning." 
 
 When they were alone the husband turned to 
 his young wife with an air of pride. "What do 
 you think of my pal?" he asked, with an air of 
 proprietorship. 
 
 "G'wan," said Emily disdainfully; " 'e ain't 
 your pal." 
 
 "He is, too." 
 
 "'E ain't!" She tossed her head. "Don't I 
 know one when I sees one ; me, the daughter of a 
 footman in Lady Swankbourne's? 'E your pal! 
 'E blooming well ain't — 'e's a gentlemanr 
 
 177
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Far up the street Montague was striding to- 
 wards his home, wondering if any one had seen 
 him with the Wallers, or had heard the garrul- 
 ous httle cockney call him pard. Good heavens! 
 what would his friends say; or, for that matter, 
 how could he face Sylvester if he had been seen 
 by that polite scion of servitude? "But I'll see 
 it through," he muttered savagely, biting his lip, 
 *'if only to prove that the under-dog, like all 
 other dogs, is a thing without a soul!" 
 
 VIII 
 
 It was early in November about eighteen 
 months later that Vera Dalton, returning from 
 her self-imposed task at a Military Convalescent 
 Home, found a letter awaiting her which bore 
 the heading that will cast its unique spell over 
 us and our children for generations to come — 
 "Somewhere in France." 
 
 Sorrow had come into her home, as it had into 
 so many hundreds of others, but it had mellowed, 
 not marred her womanliness. 
 
 Into the vortex of the nations she had seen the 
 young men of Canada flinging themselves with 
 
 178
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 laughinpf voices and sturdy courage. With the 
 other women of the cit^^ she had watched the end- 
 less stream of youth as though, across the seas, 
 some Hamehn Piper were playing an irresistible, 
 compelling melody. . . . And still the cry was 
 for more — more sons, more brothers, more 
 fathers! Month after month the ceaseless 
 crusade went on — month after month new 
 battalions sprang into being, trained a short time, 
 and then made for the sea. . . . Always the sea, 
 waiting with its foaming restlessness to carry its 
 human cargo to the slaughter. 
 
 The sea . . . the sea. . . . 
 
 It became the symbol of sacrifice to her. 
 Across its turbulent expanse, youth was forfeit- 
 ing its life for the blindness of the past. The 
 hungry fire of war was being fed with human 
 hearts. . . . But such is the nature of fire that 
 what lives through it is imperishable. 
 
 A year ago Montague had gone with his 
 battalion — without even a good-bye. She had 
 never heard of him, but the ordeal of the flames 
 had left him stripped of his artificiality as a tree 
 stricken by a sudden frost is robbed in a moment 
 of its foliage. It is not only the best in men that 
 
 179
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 lives through war — vile passions vie with cour- 
 age and great sacrifice. . . . But artificial things 
 succumb and crumple with the scorching heat, 
 and are blown into space by the breath of pas- 
 sions, base or noble — it matters not — they are 
 real. 
 
 With trembling hands she opened the letter. 
 
 "Somewhere in France. 
 
 "My dear Girl, — In a couple of hours we are 
 going over the parapet to reach the German lines 
 or gain oblivion — or worse. All around me the 
 men I have worked with, slept with, fought with, 
 are writing to, or thinking of, some loved one at 
 home. I do not know whether the love you once 
 felt for me has died or not, but it was once strong 
 enough to hurt me as no one had ever done before 
 • — to tear my soul out to where I could see its 
 rottenness with my own eyes. I could not live 
 with myself after that, and as you must have 
 heard, for I believe it was a drawing-room jest 
 for some time, I joined a battalion composed al- 
 most entirely of men from the factories, the 
 workshops, and the streets. 
 
 "It was partly a spirit of bravado made me do 
 
 180
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 it, and partly a desire to wrestle with truth. I 
 cannot say how hard it was at first to endure 
 their company, their incessant, meaningless pro- 
 fanity. I hated every one of them. To salute an 
 officer in the street caused me such humiliation 
 that I thought of desertion a dozen times. From 
 my contempt of my fellow-soldiers to an under- 
 standing of their nobility has been a hard, cruel 
 road to travel ; but I have traveled it, and I think 
 that somewhere on the road there is a cross 
 whereon my pride was crucified. Vera, my 
 prayer is no longer that of the Pharisee, but of 
 the Publican. I was offered a commission ; I was 
 urged to join the signalers or the machine-gun 
 section, because there I should find men more 
 after my own stamp ; but I refused — the memory 
 of your words made me stick with the men I 
 started with. 
 
 "I have found them crude, uneducated, un- 
 ambitious, but true as steel, and asking no bet- 
 ter reward for their heroism than that their 
 'missus and kids' will be looked after at home. 
 I tell you. Vera, that when the war is over we 
 shall have to realize that it is not only the con- 
 sumptive and the imbecile that deserve care and 
 
 181
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 thought. There is a grandeur, a manhood, in 
 the ordinary, unlovely, unkempt man of the 
 streets that our civilization has failed to bring 
 out, but war has done it. So much has war given 
 to us ; so much has peace failed to give. 
 
 "Life has become a riddle to me, still fasci- 
 nating, but fascinatingly puzzling. Perhaps I 
 shall find the answer in No Man's Land. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear girl. Don't think from the 
 tone of my letter that I have forgotten how to 
 smile (this is where real humor is found, for 
 humor was always a twin to tragedy). But I 
 am forgetting how to scoff. I suppose, though, 
 that I haven't changed beyond recognition, for 
 I believe behind my back I am called 'The 
 Duke.' 
 
 "Like my comrades, I have written to a loved 
 one at home. 
 
 "I trust, Vera, that it is au revoir. 
 
 Dennis. 
 
 "D. O. Montague, Pte. No. 67,895, 
 Brindle's Bfittalion, C.E.F." 
 
 182
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 IX 
 
 "Four minutes!" A subaltern, who had 
 reached the Brindle's BattaHon only the night 
 before, stood with his back to the parapet, his 
 wrist turned so that he could study the face of 
 his watch. Half-a-dozen rifles spat at the German 
 trench opposite. The attack was to be a sur- 
 prise, without preliminary artillery fire. 
 
 "Three minutes!" There was a shght catch in 
 the lieutenant's voice as he watched the ominous 
 course of the hand of his watch ticking off the 
 seconds. Dennis Montague turned to look at 
 him, wondering where he had seen him before, 
 and idly conjecturing how he had earned that 
 little splash of color on his breast. 
 
 A signaler looked up from his phone. "O.C. 
 wants to know if everything is ready, sir." 
 
 "Two minutes! Has every man his gas-hel- 
 met, water-bottle, iron ration? Right. Tell the 
 O.C. everything's O.K." 
 
 There was a coarse jest from a grizzled cor- 
 poral; a few laughed nervously. A little chap, 
 who had lied about his age, caught his breath in 
 
 183
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 a sob he could not stifle. The young officer, who 
 was beside him, reached out his hand and patted 
 the lad's shoulder. 
 
 "One minute!" Every man crouched for the 
 spring — there was a 'mumbled prayer — a curse 
 — a laugh. Montague took a deep, quivering 
 breath, and his trembling hand felt for the bayo- 
 net-stud to see that it was firm. 
 
 "Come on, Brindles! Give 'em hell!" The 
 subaltern leaped to the parapet, stood silhouetted 
 a moment against the dull, cloudy sky, and, 
 without a word, fell back into the trench — a 
 corpse. And in that moment Montague remem- 
 bered him. He was the "decent enough fellow" 
 — "lacking in initiative." 
 
 Cursing, shouting, laughing, the men scram- 
 bled over the breastwork, and were met by a tor- 
 rent of machine-gun fire that swept through 
 their ranks with pitiless accuracy. 
 
 "Something's wrong!" yelled Major Watson 
 from the center. "They knew we were coming;" 
 and he whirled around twice and dropped in his 
 tracks. Montague leaped forward with a hoarse, 
 inarticulate shout, when he felt a blow on his arm 
 as though it had been struck by a red-hot iron. 
 
 184
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 He fell, but rose immediately, madly excited, 
 muttering words that meant nothing. The 
 charge had stopped halfway, and all about him 
 his comrades stood irresolute, desperate, unable 
 to advance, determined not to retreat. 
 
 "Come on," shrieked the adjutant, "for God's 
 sake!" And he fell, choking, vomiting blood, 
 with a bullet in his throat. 
 
 Without an officer left, the men looked wildly 
 about, the bullets spitting around them and tak- 
 ing their steady, merciless toll. With a great 
 feeling of ecstasy, Montague staggered to the 
 front. 
 
 "Steady, the Brindles!" he yelled hoarsely. 
 "Shake out the line to the left — cold steel, 
 Brindles! Come on!" 
 
 "Follow the Duke!" roared a dozen voices; 
 and they hurled themselves forward. 
 
 They hacked their way into the trench, but 
 their triumph was short-lived. Things had gone 
 badly on the left, and the signal to retire flashed 
 along the hne. With horrible blaspheming, the 
 Brindles gave up their trench and started back 
 for their own line. When he was half-way across 
 a bullet struck Montague in the shoulder, then 
 
 185
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 another in the thigh, and he sank to the ground 
 unconscious. 
 
 When he awoke the moonhght was streaming 
 over the stricken field. He bit his lip to keep 
 from crying out at the sudden spasm of pain in 
 his shoulder, and then something he saw almost 
 stopped the beating of his heart. A figure was 
 slowly crawling towards him, inch by inch, but 
 steadily, ominously coming nearer with every 
 moment. His left arm was helpless, and he tried 
 to reach for his bayonet by turning over. 
 
 "Pard, are you dead?" 
 
 Never did sounds of sweetest music fall more 
 gratefully on human ears than the words uttered 
 by Private Waller on the night of October 16, 
 1916, on No Man's Land, Somewhere in France. 
 
 "Thank God!" cried Montague, his voice weak 
 and quavering. "Waller — old — boy." 
 
 "Damn!" muttered Private Waller. The Ger- 
 mans, with customary fiendishness, were search- 
 ing the ground with rifle-fire to prevent any at- 
 tempt at rescue. "Are you much hurt, pard?" 
 
 "I'm used up pretty bad," Montague an- 
 swered weakly, and in incorrect English. Things 
 change in No Man's Land. 
 
 186
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 "I'm the third as has come after you," whis- 
 pered Waller; "Sykes and Thompson got theirs." 
 
 "Coming — for me?" Montague's voice trailed 
 off into a querulous sob. 
 
 "Sure — those of us as got back shook hands 
 on it that we'd get the Duke back dead or alive." 
 
 Montague tried to speak, but only two scald- 
 ing tears slowly trickled down his cheeks. He 
 was weak from loss of blood, and he was learn- 
 ing a bitter lesson in the moonlight on the 
 stricken field. 
 
 "I'll hoist you up as easy as I can," whispered 
 Private Waller eagerly, "and I'll sort of crawl; 
 and if they spot us, I'll let you down easy. Come 
 on, pard." 
 
 Fifty yards — that was all — but fifty yards of 
 unspeakable agony. The blood flowed again 
 from Dennis's wounds and matted over Waller's 
 hair. A dozen times he would have fainted, but 
 he grit his teeth, and crawling, grasping, falling. 
 Waller took him to the edge of the trench. And 
 then a bullet caught the little man, and he 
 dropped. 
 
 "Good-bye, pard," he said. 
 
 187
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 So died Private W. Waller, of His Majesty's 
 Canadian Expeditionary Force. 
 
 X 
 
 Almost a year later, a one-armed man was 
 walking along a quiet street in the northern 
 suburbs of a great Canadian city. He paused at 
 a pretty little cottage that nestled in a well-kept 
 garden to speak to a young woman whose black 
 dress was mute testimony to her tragic bereave- 
 ment. 
 
 " 'Ow can I ever thank you, Mr. Montague," 
 she said, "for giving me this cottage and going 
 guardian to little 'Arrj^? And your wife, too, is 
 that kind and beautiful that after she comes — ■ 
 and she is in and out nearly hevery day — I feel 
 as if an angel had been 'ere. Well, if here ain't 
 little 'Arry with his face all dirty!" 
 
 A sturdy urchin stumbled forward, and in 
 some way the one-armed man hoisted him to his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Hello, pard!" said Montague. 
 
 The little chap chuckled and pulled at his hat. 
 
 'I often wonders," said the little mother, "why 
 
 188 
 
 <<i
 
 THE MAN WHO SCOFFED 
 
 you always calls him 'p*rd.' Bill used to call 
 you his pard, but I knew all along you wasn't. 
 You was a gentleman, Mr. Montague." 
 
 "Mrs. Waller," said Montague, and his voice 
 was very low and soft, "I lay one night, wounded 
 and dying, on No Man's Land. Your husband 
 came for me, and he called nae 'pard,' and he 
 died for me. Perhaps you ma-y understand a 
 little of — what it means to me now." 
 
 Tears, bitter tears, the heritage of war. Mrs. 
 Waller wept silently, and jMontague's eyes 
 looked past the garden, past the countryside, and 
 saw neither trees nor houses, but a strip of land 
 guarded by wire entanglements, and two lines 
 of trenches where men lived, and laughed, and 
 
 learned, and died. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A little later the same oae-anaaed man stood at 
 a gate that gave entrance to a splendid lawn. 
 It was his home, and as he stood for a moment 
 drinking in the calm and peace of Nature at sun- 
 down, a girl emerged from the house and came 
 towards him with outstretched hands. 
 
 Wonderfully happy, maimed, but filled with 
 deep content, Dennis oMontague, the man who 
 
 189
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 had scoffed, went forward to meet his wife, the 
 girl who had had the courage to hurt the thing 
 she loved. And the deepening rays of the setting 
 sun spread a golden carpet for them to walk 
 upon.
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 ON a hillock that overlooked a mill-stream in 
 Picardy, a girl of sixteen was lying, face 
 downwards, reading a book. The noise of the 
 water tumbling over the chute was a song to 
 which her ears had grown accustomed, but more 
 than once she looked up as the October win j. rose 
 and fell in a chromatic whine. A dark, thicken- 
 ing cloud crept sullenly towards the earth, throw- 
 ing its shadow on her book. 
 
 She gazed up at it and sighed. 
 
 A black cat, his green eyes glowing suspi- 
 ciously in the fading light, stalked from the mill- 
 house and furtively watched a wanton leaf that 
 was flirting hilariously with the autumn breeze, 
 until, still coquetting, it was caught by the stream 
 and carried to destruction. 
 
 The cat's teeth showed for a moment in a 
 
 191
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 sinister grin. Cautiously measuring each step, 
 he climbed to the top of the hillock, crouched 
 suspiciously as a blade of grass moved in the wind, 
 then scampered boldly up to the girl and settled 
 ostentatiously upon the open pages of the book, 
 for a siesta. 
 
 "Tiens!" The girl started, laughingly caught 
 the offender by the ear, and pulled him to one 
 side. "Louis, you have very bad manners," she 
 said, speaking in French. "You come so, with- 
 out asking permission, and you go to sleep on 
 The Fairy Prince. Wake up, Louis ! To you I 
 am speaking." 
 
 The cat opened his eyes, bent them on her with 
 a reproving look, and slowly closed them once 
 more. 
 
 "Louis! Wake up — listen! I will read to you 
 The Fairy Prince, and if you go to sleep I'll 
 have you gr-r-r-r-ound into black flour. See 
 there now!" 
 
 Louis scratched his ear with a hind paw, rub- 
 bed his nose with a fore one, sneezed, opened his 
 eyes to their widest, and generally indicated that 
 he was thoroughly awake — in fact, was not likely 
 ever to sleep again in this world. His little 
 
 192
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 mistress gathered her shawl more tightly about 
 her shoulders, and, crossing one foot over the 
 other, shifted her position to secure the acme of 
 comfort. 
 
 "Now then, my friend, attention! This is all 
 about a little girl — like me, Louis, only she was 
 pretty. Tell me, Louis, am I pretty, eh? Stop 
 yawning when I ask you a question You sleep 
 almost all day and all night, and when you do 
 wake up — you yawn. Pouf! Such laziness! So 
 — this is the story. This little girl, she lived like 
 me in a house away, ever so far away, from 
 everything, and she was very unhappy. You 
 understand, Louis, she was so lonesome. And 
 every night she would cry herself to sleep — as I 
 
 do sometimes, because — because Wake up, 
 
 you wicked cat!" 
 
 The feline culprit stretched his paws and sat 
 up rigidly, like a slumbering worshiper in 
 church who has been detected in the act, but 
 tries to indicate that he has merely been lost in 
 contemplation of the preacher's theme. The girl 
 frowned at Louis, and, laughing gaily, rubbed 
 her cheek against his head. 
 
 Her laugh had hardly ended when, as her ear 
 
 193
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 caught the note of melancholy in the wind, she 
 looked up, and her face, which had hovered a 
 moment before between a frown and a smile, was 
 shadowed by a musing expression that left her 
 eyes dreamy and her lips drooping in the slight- 
 est and most sensitive of curves. Her dark hair, 
 rippling into curls, fell back from a forehead 
 whose fullness and whiteness added to the spirit- 
 ual innocence of her countenance. Without be- 
 ing faultless, her face had an elusive mobility of 
 expression that altered with each mood as swiftly 
 as the surface of a pool lying exposed to the 
 caprices of an April morning. 
 
 "Is it not a pretty story, Louis?" Of a sudden 
 the filmy dreaminess of her eyes had lifted, and 
 their dark-brown depths sparkled with life. "I 
 am so glad at the convent they made me learn to 
 read. But it is dreadfully difficult, my friend — 
 there are such big words, you see. Well, Louis, 
 this little girl went one day for a walk to the top 
 of a hill — but you shall hear exactly how it is." 
 
 She carefully found the place in the book, and, 
 with a finger following each line in case she 
 should miss any of it, proceeded to read in that 
 ecstatic and unreal style of voice inevitable to 
 
 194
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 young people when uttering other thoughts than 
 their own. 
 
 "*.... Reaching the top of the hill, the most 
 beautiful little girl in the world, whose eyes were 
 brighter than stars, and whose lips were redder 
 than the heart of a rose' (like me, Louis — yes?) 
 *sat down on a fallen tree and started to sing a 
 song which she had learned from a solitary shep- 
 herd near her home.' — It does not say, Louis, 
 but I think, perhaps, the music goes like this: 
 
 " 'M«imaB, ditcs moi ce qu'on sent quand on aime. 
 Est-cc plaisir, est-ce tourment? 
 Je suis tout le jour dans une peine extreme, 
 Et la nuit, je ne sais comment. 
 Si quelqu'un pres, . . . 
 
 " 'And just then she saw a handsome cavalier 
 approaching on foot.' (Is it not exciting, 
 Louis?) 'He was tall and young, and was the 
 bravest soldier in all France. He was so brave 
 and handsome that every one called him "The 
 Fairy Prince" ' — Listen, Louis, to the wind." 
 
 The lowering clouds threw black shadows over 
 the fields ; the hurrying water of the mill-stream 
 turned the color of ink as it made, shudderingly, 
 for the fall of the chute. Through the ominous 
 
 195
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 rise and fall of the October wind came the sound 
 of an aeroplane in the clouds, to be lost a moment 
 later in a boisterous rush of wind that swept the 
 girl's tresses. 
 
 "Come, Louis, under my shawl — so! It is 
 cold, is it not? As soon as we finish this part of 
 the story, we shall go in by the stove and work 
 until bed-time, then . . . Do you ever dream, 
 Louis?" 
 
 The black cat opened one green eye and closed 
 it with the solemnity of an all-understanding 
 wink. 
 
 "I often dream, my cat" — again the wistful- 
 ness lingered about her face — "and always it is 
 of the world that is past the village. ... Is it 
 that I must stay here and never, never, see that 
 world but when I dream ? Voyons — what has all 
 this to do with the Fairy Prince? I continue, 
 Louis: 'As soon as the handsome cavalier saw 
 the loveliest little girl in all the country, he came 
 towards her. . . .' " 
 
 The droning sound grew louder. She looked 
 up and watched the dark billows of clouds hover- 
 ing over the fields, when, suddenly, through the 
 heavy, underhanging mist, an aeroplane ap- 
 
 196
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 peared, descended swiftly towards the earth, 
 straightened out its course, and soared into the 
 clouds again. 
 
 She could hear the whirring of the machine as 
 it circled round and round, like an angry hornet 
 outside its nest that has been entered by an in- 
 vader. The sound of the engine grew increas- 
 ingly loud; again the mists parted as foam from 
 the prow of a ship, and again the aeroplane 
 swooped towards the earth. She could almost 
 make out the features of the helmeted occupant, 
 when, with a deafening roar, the machine 
 checked its downward flight, and rose once more 
 until the clouds took it to their bosom and hid it 
 from sight. 
 
 "Louis!" Her voice shook. "I am frightened. 
 Louis, we will go in and pray to the Virgin, you 
 and I. It may be an Allemand, and, so 'tis said, 
 they eat little girls — and black cats too." 
 
 The whir-r of the engines grew angry with 
 intensity, then fainter as the machine rose to a 
 greater height. Suddenly the droning ceased. 
 The tumbling waters of the chute seemed in- 
 sistently loud, as though jealous of the brawling 
 monster that had dared to challenge its incessant 
 
 197
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 song. The girl had just stooped to resume her 
 book when, above the whining breeze, there was a 
 sound like that of a saw-mill she had once heard 
 in Etrun — but it came from the air — far over by 
 the village road. 
 
 With a catch of her breath, she saw the aero- 
 plane pierce the mists once more, and realized 
 that it was pointing towards her as it descended. 
 Rising to her feet, she pressed her hand against 
 her mouth to keep from screaming, while omin- 
 ously, noiselessly (but for an occasional hum 
 such as wires give on a frosty night), the giant 
 bird sped lower and nearer. 
 
 "Louis!" she cried. "Louis!" 
 
 Weak with terror, she grasped for the cat, to 
 find that that ungallant protector had bolted 
 ingloriously to the mill-house. Unable to move, 
 she watched the monster as it touched the earth, 
 bounded lightly, felt the ground a second time, 
 and staggered unevenly over a rise in the ground. 
 There was a final Wagnerian crescendo of the 
 engines, and the aeroplane stopped, motionless, 
 less than fifty yards from her. 
 
 The aviator climbed from the pilot's seat and 
 looked about with a puzzled air. He was dressed 
 
 198
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 in a leather coat which reached to the top of his 
 riding-boots, and his head was encased in a 
 leather helmet. Raising his goggles, he looked 
 toward the mill-house, and, for the first time, 
 caught sight of the girl. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, then made towards 
 her, taking an extraordinary length of pace for 
 one of his medium build, and raising his knees, 
 as a bather will do when wading through surf. 
 He paused, irresolute, about five yards from 
 her, saluted, unbuckled a strap, and removed his 
 helmet with a carelessness that left his generous 
 supply of light-brown hair standing straight up 
 like the quills of a porcupine. His face was 
 rather long, and, except for his eyes, which 
 twinkled humorously, bore a look of exaggerated 
 solemnit}'-. Constant exposure to the sun had 
 tanned his face a vigorous brown, but his 
 moustache and eyebrows, which were of a size, 
 appeared to have completely faded, and stood 
 out, glow-worm-like, against the background of 
 tan. 
 
 For a full minute they gazed at each other, 
 the girl with parted lips and heightened color, 
 the new-comer's gravity slowly giving way to the 
 
 199
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 good-humored persistence of his light-blue eyes, 
 until with a smile he ran his fingers through his 
 rumpled hair. 
 
 "Phew!" he said. 
 
 With something between a sob and an ex- 
 clamation of delight, she clapped her hands to- 
 gether twice. "Cieir she cried, "but I am so 
 happy!" 
 
 The mill-stream had ceased to shudder and 
 had resumed its song. . . . With an air of 
 furtive preoccupation, Louis emerged from con- 
 cealment and proceeded towards them after the 
 manner of an unpopular Mexican President 
 walking down the main street of an unfriendly 
 city. . . . The darkening shadows blended with 
 the early approach of night. . . . And her heart 
 was beating wildly, joyously. 
 
 Adventure had come to the lonely mill-house 
 in Picardy — and, after all, one is not always 
 sixteen. 
 
 II 
 
 "Will you please tell me where I am?" The 
 young man spoke in French with ease, but more 
 than a trace of an English accent. 
 
 200
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "This is my uncle's mill." 
 
 "Of course. And that road? " 
 
 "But the village road, monsieur — what else?" 
 "And, jNIademoiselle Elusive, what village 
 may it be?" 
 
 " 'Tis where the church is, monsieur ; and every 
 Sunday I go there to mass." 
 
 The pilot produced a pipe and, extracting a 
 pouch, proceeded to fill it with tobacco. 
 
 "I am lost," he said complacently. "My com- 
 pass was shot away, and the clouds are hanging 
 too low for me to follow any landmarks." 
 
 He looked about at the steadily thickening 
 twilight. "How far is it to the village?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Five kilometers — and a little better." 
 "The Devil!" He made a screen from the 
 wind with the flap of his coat, and lighting his 
 pipe, puffed it with evident satisfaction. "I shall 
 have to leave the old 'bus' here. As a matter of 
 fact, she's so nearly 'napoo' that I rather ex- 
 pected to come riding home on one plane, like 
 the old woman with the broom. But, made- 
 moiselle " 
 
 "Monsieur?" 
 
 201
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "I am very tir^d and distinctly hungry, and I 
 know of a mill-house with a cosy fire in the 
 kitchen, where a pretty little fairy that " 
 
 "There is no fairy — only Louis." 
 
 "And who the deuce may he be?" 
 
 "The cat— Z^ voicir 
 
 He surveyed the feline with an air of tolerant 
 gravity. "Do you think Louis may object if I 
 remain for supper?" 
 
 "Ah — but no!" She laughed gaily, but a look 
 of doubt changed the expression of her features 
 in a moment. "But my uncle — he never has any 
 one in the house. For many years I have lived 
 alone with him. Only when the cure comes, per- 
 haps once a month, does any one visit the mill. 
 My uncle is very surly, a perfect bear, and often 
 he gets drunk as well." 
 
 The young man raised his absurdly light eye- 
 brows. "A pleasant relative, mademoiselle. 
 And, pray, what is his grievance against his fel- 
 lowmen?" 
 
 "I know not, monsieur. All week he works 
 alone, except when he takes the flour to sell, but 
 on Sundays he always goes to church and leads 
 the chanting. He was taught Latin by his 
 
 202
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 father, who was a gravedigger in Paris and 
 learned it from the tombstones. So on Sundays 
 my uncle, from his seat in the chancel, performs 
 the chants in such a terrible voice that almost al- 
 ways some children scream with terror, and once 
 Madame La Comtesse fainted." 
 
 The aviator relit his pipe, which had gone out, 
 but did not remove his eyes from hers. 
 
 "Once," went on the girl, plucking a blade of 
 grass and making a knot with it about her finger, 
 "two villagers, Simon Bar it and Armand Car- 
 tier, were requested by the cure, who is very 
 small and weak, to tell my uncle to sing no more. 
 Ah monsieur, it was terrible!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "My uncle he is a very strong man; he threw 
 Simon Barit into the stream, and the other he 
 chased almost to the village." 
 
 "And so, like the mill-stream, he goes on for- 
 ever?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, monsieur, like the war — forever. 
 Listen!" 
 
 A great voice, sonorous as that of the fabled 
 giant calling for his evening meal of an English- 
 man, rent the air. The October wind seemed to 
 
 203
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 quiver to its lowest note, and the water racing 
 over the chute was quieter than it had been for 
 hours. 
 
 "I must go, monsieur. It is his supper he 
 wants." 
 
 "And may I not come too?" 
 
 "Ah — but no! I am frightened." 
 
 "Of me?" 
 
 She raised her wide brown eyes to his, and her 
 eyelashes, which so jealously guarded those 
 guileless depths, parted grudgingly, revealing to 
 him their full beauty. . . . Another roar shat- 
 tered the air, and she laid her hand upon his 
 wrist. "You must not come," she said earnestly. 
 "He would throw you into the stream." 
 
 His melancholy face gave way to a boyish 
 grin. "If he did, mademoiselle, my ghost would 
 haunt him forever. All night it would sing out- 
 side his window — and, in truth, my singing is no 
 less terrible than his." 
 
 There was another roar, followed by a refer- 
 ence to the untimely decease of ten thousand 
 devils. 
 
 Without a word, she reached for her book, and, 
 throwing her shawl over her left shoulder, hurried 
 
 204)
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 away. The aviator watched her girlish figure with 
 its unconscious grace, then, turning about, he 
 strolled to the machine, and, sitting on the side 
 of the fuselage, surveyed its bullet-punctured 
 carcass. 
 
 "Five kilometers and a little better," he 
 soliloquized in English, "and a doubtful prospect 
 of a meal. . . . Contrast that with what the gods 
 offer here — a cosy fire, coffee, eggs and chips, I 
 warrant, and the daintiest of little maids — to say 
 nothing of a musical uncle with an amiable pro- 
 pensity for throwing visitors into the stream. By 
 Jove, it is chilly. . . . Over in dear old England 
 they'll be roasting nuts and telling ghost-stories 
 to-night." 
 
 The fast-thickening shadows deepened into 
 the blackness of an October night ; the wind grew 
 quieter, but there was a bite in the air that made 
 him draw his fur collar about his ears. 
 
 "What excellent French the little lady uses," 
 he went on. "I wonder who her parents were, 
 and why the deuce she has to live with this ogre. 
 And what eyes! Enough to make one invent 
 new songs of Araby just to see them sparkle and 
 soften. . . . One moment sad, another tender — 
 
 205
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and always lovely. Steady, the Air Force — 
 you're becoming sentimental." 
 
 He looked at the battered machine and shook 
 his head; a solitary raindrop lit on his face and 
 slid down its surface like a tear. 
 
 A belated gust of wind smote his face and left 
 it moist. He rose in a determined manner and 
 adjusted his helmet. 
 
 ''Adieu, my Camel!" He took a last survey of 
 the machine. "The kitchen is calling to my 
 appetite; a storm is brewing in the heavens; a 
 pair of dark eyes is urging all the romance with- 
 in me; so — mill-stream or no mill-stream — mon 
 oncle^ I come." 
 
 He squared his shoulders and, with the rather 
 absurd long stride and the odd raising of the 
 knee, made for the cottage door, from under- 
 neath which a faint glow of light was timidly 
 emerging. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In response to his knock there was a roar from 
 within, and the door opened enough to show the 
 young lady in the doorway. 
 
 206
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "Good evening," he said gravely. "I saw the 
 light in here and decided to accept its kindly 
 invitation." 
 
 She glanced over her shoulder ; but the airman, 
 gently putting her to one side, entered and 
 looked serenely about the room, which appeared 
 to be kitchen, dining-room, and parlor in one. 
 Beside the stove he noticed the stooped figure of 
 a man, whose huge black beard straggled over a 
 suit of overalls that had once been dark blue, but 
 had become a dirty white from constant associa- 
 tion with flour. 
 
 "Good evening, monsieur." The airman 
 handed his helmet to the girl and proceeded to 
 unbutton his coat. The miller's blotched eyes 
 rose sulkily to the visitor's face. 
 
 "What do you want here?" His voice was 
 nasal and slovenly, and there was a hoarse growl 
 in the words, as though his throat was parched 
 and rusted. 
 
 "I am doing myself the honor of taking supper 
 with you, monsieur." The airman's face was full 
 of melancholy dignity as he divested himself of 
 his coat. 
 
 The miller's mouth opened, and a rasping, 
 
 207
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 deep snarl resonated disagreeably. "There is 
 the village, five kilometers that way." 
 
 "Ah — but that is five kilometers too far." 
 
 "You cannot stay here" — the miller's voice 
 rose angrily — "there is but food for two." 
 
 The Englishman tapped his pipe against his 
 heel, and blew through it to ensure its being 
 empty. "Then, monsieur," he said, "you must 
 go hungry." 
 
 The Frenchman rose to his feet and brandished 
 both arms above his head. "Go!" he bellowed, 
 and swore an oath that comprised a reference to 
 the sacred name of one dog and the sudden de- 
 mise of the afore-mentioned ten thousand devils 
 who, it appeared, rested heavily on his con- 
 science. 
 
 "Mademoiselle" — the young man turned 
 politely to the girl — "I apologize for this gentle- 
 man. Shall I throw him into the stream, or 
 would a cleansing spoil his particular style of 
 mottled beauty?" 
 
 The miller became eloquent. His language 
 was threatening, blasphemous, and deafening. 
 His whole ungainly body vibrated with a fury 
 which, at certain moments, grew to such a pitch 
 
 208
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 that he would raise his chin upwards until all 
 that could be seen was a forest of beard, the while 
 he emitted an unearthly roar that could have been 
 clearly heard on the village road. The girl, who 
 had been making preparations for supper, 
 glanced timidly at him, but continued her work. 
 The cat, slumbering by the stove, opened his eyes 
 dreamily as if some sweet strain had come to his 
 ears then settled to slumber once more. 
 
 And the whole room resounded and quivered 
 to the hurricane of sound. 
 
 With an air of complete imperturbability, the 
 intruding guest slowly backed towards the table 
 and became engrossed in the task of refilling his 
 pipe, though beneath the glow-worm eyebrows 
 his eyes (which were very clear and blue, as 
 though his excursions into the last free element 
 of nature had blown all the dust and grime 
 away) held the orator in a steady look. 
 
 *'Fill your pipe?" he said cryptically, choosing 
 a moment when his host was swelling up with a 
 breath that promised to burst his ribs. 
 
 The response was startling. 
 
 Exhausting the air from his lungs with the 
 noise of steam escaping from an overcharged 
 
 209
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 boiler, the miller rushed blindly forward, crouch- 
 ing so low that his beard against his discolored 
 clothes suggested an ugly bush against a back- 
 ground of slushy snow. 
 
 With the precision of a guardsman forming 
 fours, the airman took one pace to the rear with 
 his left foot and one to the right with his right 
 foot. This maneuver, successfully completed, 
 placed the table between himself and his assailant, 
 and, tilting it dexterously, he swiftly thrust that 
 article of furniture forward, where it came into 
 violent contact with the irate miller's knees and 
 shins. With an indescribable howl the worthy 
 man fell back in a paroxysm of agony, grasping 
 his knees with both hands, and rocking to and 
 fro like a demented dervish. 
 
 The airman bowed gravely to the girl. "I 
 learned that," he said, "from a gentleman by 
 name of Charlie Chaplin. If you can oblige me 
 with a custard pie I shall hurl it at your uncle 
 and thus complete the Chaplinesque method of 
 discounting violence." 
 
 The young woman's brows puckered. The 
 spectacle of her uncle's discomfiture had not dis- 
 turbed her so much as this new kind of a person 
 
 210
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 who could bow so courteously, whose eyes 
 twinkled humorously, and whose words were full 
 of gravity on the subject of custard pies. She 
 came of a race that coordinated gestures and the 
 play of features with speech ; but this stranger of 
 the air — Sapristi! 
 
 The moaning of the uncle grew less and his 
 figure stopped its rocking; but his red, blotchy 
 eyes looked furtively at the young man, biding 
 their owner's time for a renewal of hostilities. 
 
 With an air of deep dejection the airman 
 gazed at the unlovely spectacle, then, very slow- 
 ly, unfastened his holster and drew a revolver. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, "I offer peace. The al- 
 ternative is — that I fill you full of holes — which 
 would interfere with your singing. I intend to 
 have supper here, because I saw hens outside. 
 If they have given no eggs, we shall eat the hens 
 themselves as a punishment. We are allies, you 
 and I; let us be friends as well. Monsieur" — 
 he struck a Napoleonic attitude — "Vive VEn- 
 tente!" 
 
 The swarthy face of the miller, who had re- 
 tained his posture on the floor throughout, 
 wrinkled hideously into^ grin, which developed 
 
 211
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 into a roaring laugh that set a soHtary vase 
 jinghng. 
 
 With a doubtful air of appreciation, the air- 
 man surveyed him, his head inclining dubiously 
 to one side. "Come, monsieur," he said, after 
 the miller's unpleasant mirth had subsided, "you 
 sit there — at the far end of the table; made- 
 moiselle — when you have given us the supper 
 things — here; and I, at this end. Just to show 
 how completely I trust you, my host, I will keep 
 my revolver beside my plate; and should it be 
 necessary for me to blow your brains out during 
 the meal, it will be with the very keenest regret 
 that I lose a friend for whom I have acquired 
 such an instantaneous and profound affection." 
 
 Thus the young lady with the guileless eyes, 
 the youth who had descended from the clouds, 
 and the stentorian miller with the painful knees, 
 sat down together for their evening repast. 
 
 And the mill-stream, chuckling as it sportively 
 tumbled over the chute, made a pleasant sere- 
 nade.
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 IV 
 
 The airman glanced at his wrist-watch; it was 
 half-past nine. The miller slept by the side of 
 the stove, his chin crushing his beard against his 
 chest. Louis also slept, having curled himself 
 into a black, fury ball, apparently possessed of 
 neither head nor tail. A clock brazenl}" stating 
 the time to be five-thirty, ticked lazily as though 
 finding itself four hours behind the correct hour, 
 there was no chance of its ever catching up, and 
 it only kept going because it was the sporting 
 thing to do. Just over the clock a picture of 
 Marshal Joffre gazed paternally on the quiet 
 scene. 
 
 Seated at the table, which was covered by a 
 geranium-colored cloth, the girl and the airman 
 sat silent, while a shaded lamp lent a crimson 
 glow through which her deep eyes gleamed, like 
 the first stars of a summer evening. 
 
 To her romance had come. 
 
 She was no longer the miller's niece, but the 
 girl who had seen the Fairy Prince. All the 
 sighs, all the questionings, all the longings of her 
 girlhood had culminated this amazing ad- 
 
 213
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 venture of a fair-haired knight who, descending 
 from the clouds, had proceeded to terrorize her 
 uncle who was feared for miles around. It was 
 wonderful. And he was so droll, this young man; 
 and his voice had a little soothing drop in it, at 
 times, that left a fluttering echo in her heart. 
 
 She had left the convent when ten years of 
 age, on the death of her mother. Her father — 
 but then gossip was never kind. He was an offi- 
 cer who had deserted his pretty little wife for 
 another woman — or so rumor had it; and her 
 mother had died, a flower stricken by a frost. 
 The daughter had been taken by a relative, the 
 owner of a lonely mill, and for six years had lived 
 in solitude, her horizon of life limited to the ad- 
 jacent village, her knowledge of women gained 
 from the memory of a sad, yearning face, paler 
 than the pillow on which it rested, and an oc- 
 casional visit to the cure's sister. Of men she 
 knew only her uncle and the few villagers that 
 had not gone to fight for La Belle France. 
 
 From unquestioning childhood she had passed 
 to that stage in a girl's life when the emotions 
 leap past the brain, fretful of the latter 's plod- 
 ding pace. Her mind untutored, unsharpened 
 
 214
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 by contact witli other minds, left her the lan- 
 guage and the reasonings of a child ; but her im- 
 agination, feeding on the strange longings and 
 dreams which permeated her life, pictured its 
 own world where romance held sway over all the 
 creatures that inhabited its realm. 
 
 It is the instinct of a little child to picture un- 
 real things — the unconscious protest of imma- 
 turity against the commonplaceness of life. But 
 with the education of to-day and the labyrinth 
 of artificiality which characterizes modern living,, 
 the imaginativeness of childhood disappears, ex- 
 cept in a few great minds who, retaining it, are 
 hailed by the world as possessors of genius. 
 
 Unhampered (or unhelped, as the case may 
 be) by association with the patchwork pattern 
 of society, the miller's niece had retained her gift 
 of imagination, without which the solitude and 
 the monotony of her days would have been un- 
 endurable; until, blending it with the budding 
 flower of womanhood, she found mystery in the 
 moaning of the Avind. While the sun danced 
 upon the grass her spirit mingled with the sun- 
 light; and when the moon exercised her suze- 
 rainty of the heavens the poetry in her soul 
 
 215
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 thrilled to sweet dreams of lover's wooings 
 (though her unreasoned rapture often ended in 
 unreasoned tears upon the pillow). . . . She 
 found melancholy in the coloring of an autumn 
 leaf, and laughter in the music of the mill-stream. 
 . . . There were smugglers' tales in a northeast 
 gale, and fairy stories in a summer's shower. 
 
 The doctrine of pleasure so feverishly followed 
 by her sisters to-day was unknown to her — as 
 was its insidious reaction which comes to so many 
 women, with the dulling of the perceptions, the 
 blinding of eyes to the colors of life, the deaden- 
 ing of ears to the music of nature, until they 
 cannot hear the subtle melody of happiness itself, 
 so closely allied to the somber beauty of sorrow. 
 
 "Little one" — the aviator's voice was very 
 soft, so that the ticking of the clock sounded 
 clearly above it — "in a few minutes I must go. 
 It is a dark night, and of necessity I must get 
 to the village to-night, and be on my way be- 
 fore dawn." 
 
 Her eyes were hidden by her drooping eye- 
 lashes. "You vnll return — yes?" she asked, 
 without looking up. 
 
 He smiled rather wistfully. " 'When the red- 
 
 216
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 breasted robins are nesting,' " he quoted slowly, 
 " 'I shall come.' " 
 
 The clock ticked wearily on. ... A few drops 
 of rain fell upon the roof. 
 
 "Monsieur" — the crimson in her cheeks deep- 
 ened — "you must not smile; but it is in my book, 
 here." 
 
 She took from the table The Fairy Prince, 
 and handed it to him. He gazed at it with a 
 seriousness he might have shown towards a book 
 of Scottish theology. 
 
 "You know, monsieur" — she appeared deeply 
 concerned in the design of the geranium table- 
 cover — "I never leave the mill-house unless to 
 attend mass, and sometimes — perhaps you would 
 think so, too — it is very lonesome; no brother, 
 no sister, just Louis and my uncle." 
 
 He nodded, and, with an air of abstraction, 
 his brow wrinkled sympathetically, and his fin- 
 gers strummed five-finger exercises on the table. 
 
 "It must be very dull," he said. 
 
 "But no, monsieur" — her eyes looked up in 
 protest — "not dull — just lonesome." 
 
 He sustained an imaginary note with his lit- 
 tle finger, frowned thoughtfully until his eye- 
 
 217
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 f' 
 
 brows almost obscured his eyes, then came down 
 the scale with slow and measured pace. 
 
 "Well, little lady who is never dull, and what 
 has all this to do with The Fairy Prince?" 
 
 "It is because I have no sisters, no friends, 
 that — that I pretend. But you do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 He played some chord with both hands. 
 
 "Very young people and very old ones pre- 
 tend," he said, with dreamy sententiousness ; 
 "pretending is what makes them happy. But the 
 Prince ?" 
 
 She smiled deprecatingly. "When I read, 
 monsieur, I think that the girl — there is al- 
 ways a girl, is there not?" He nodded gravely. 
 "I do not think it is she," she went on, "but my- 
 self; and when the book is finished, and she mar- 
 ries her lover, then I am happy . . . and 
 dream ..." 
 
 " *We are such stuff as dreams are made of,' " 
 he murmured, and trilled with his first and sec- 
 ond fingers. 
 
 "So, monsieur," she continued, glancing shyly 
 at him, "in that book " 
 
 "There is a girl." 
 
 218
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "Yes. And a Fairy Prince who was very 
 handsome." 
 
 "Like me?" 
 
 "It does not say, monsieur." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "But I think so," she said earnestly, "for he 
 was the handsomest man in all France." 
 
 "It said nothing of England?" 
 
 "No, monsieur, only France." 
 
 He nodded with great dignity, and motioned 
 her to proceed. She leaned forward with her 
 elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her 
 interlocked fingers. 
 
 "To-day I was reading it to Louis," she said, 
 "when, just at the moment that they met — vous 
 voila! — you came. Monsieur," she said naively, 
 "are you a fairy prince?" 
 
 He considered, with head characteristically on 
 one side. 
 
 "N-no," he said, "I cannot claim that, 
 but " 
 
 "Ah, yes?" Her face lit up with delighted 
 anticipation. 
 
 "I am a prince of the air." He struck an atti- 
 tude and held it. 
 
 219
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Oh!" Her lips parted in ecstasy and her 
 cheeks, which had been crimson, became scarlet. 
 "You — are really a prince?" 
 
 "Of the air, mademoiselle." He folded his 
 arms and tilted his chair back. His face was still 
 grave, but his voice had a sense of distance in it, 
 and his light eyes widened as though they saw 
 the world his words were picturing. "My king- 
 dom is greater than all the kingdoms of the 
 earth, and when I ride, my steed with wings takes 
 me towards the stars. For sport I play with 
 clouds and race the wind; at night the moon 
 gives me light; and when I travel there are no 
 mountains to climb, no lakes to cross. I go faster 
 than the swiftest horse, and ride from villages 
 to cities, out into the country, and over the sea 
 with a steed that never tires." 
 
 "But, monsieur," she cried, "this is wonder- 
 ful!" 
 
 He looked frankly into her eyes. "It is won- 
 derful," he said. 
 
 For a few minutes neither spoke, and the soft 
 symphony of raindrops played through the quiet- 
 ness of the night. 
 
 "Your Majesty," she said timorously, "are you 
 
 220
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 very brave? You understand," she hurried on as 
 a slight blush darkened the tan of his cheks, "in 
 fairy books the prince always fights a dragon or 
 a wicked giant." 
 
 "Don't uncles count?" 
 
 She made a pretty moue. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, "there 
 was a wicked Emperor — a blustering pppinjay 
 with a madman's vanity — who decreed that all 
 the world should be his slaves, and sent his armies 
 into France and Belgium to enforce his will. 
 My brothers heard of this, and came from coun- 
 tries and dominions thousands of miles awa3\ 
 Across great continents of water they sailed, 
 and, with their brothers from the little Islands of 
 the North Sea, came to France . . ." 
 
 "Your voice is very sad," she said tenderly. 
 Her nature, that knew every mood of a summer 
 breeze, had caught the inflection of his words, 
 understanding by their tone what the vagueness 
 of his words hid from her mind. 
 
 "So many have died," he said, looking away 
 from her. "Almost every day some one rides out 
 into the sunlight to his death, young, brave, and 
 
 221
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 smiling. . . . ISIademoiselle, it is wonderful how 
 they smile." 
 
 Tick — tick — tick. 
 
 For more than a minute neither spoke, then, 
 with a smile that was strangely boyish, he 
 squared his shoulders and ran his fingers through 
 his rumpled hair. 
 
 "Ha!" he laughed; "what fancies get into a 
 scatter-brain like mine when the rain's a-patter- 
 ing on the roof. If you will allow me, little 
 Pippa, I shall smoke." 
 
 'Little Peepa?" she laughed delightedly. 
 'Pippa," he assented, puffing smoke as he 
 lighted the pipe. "I think I shall call you that. 
 You see, according to her biogi'apher, Mr. 
 Bro^'Miing, she worked in the silk-mills all the 
 year, but one day she had to herself, from dawn 
 to midnight, and so as to enjoy it to the full she 
 — well, she pretended, like you." 
 
 "But that is droll," she said eagerly, "for every 
 
 Easter after Sunday, my uncle, who is fatigued 
 
 from so much chanting in the church, always 
 
 goes to Boulogne and becomes drunk for one 
 
 whole day. On IVednesday he returns. These 
 
 six years he has done it always the same ; and on 
 
 099 
 
 ti-
 
 THE AIRY PRINXE 
 
 the Tuesday it is wonderful. I am alone with 
 Louis, and we ask all the people in our books 
 to visit us." 
 
 A sudden gleam of excitement lit his eyes. 
 
 "The Tuesday after Easter?" 
 
 "Always it is so." 
 
 "Pippa," he said — but checked the remainder 
 of his words. He placed the pipe in his mouth 
 and ran five-finger exercises at a terrific speed. 
 
 "Pippa," he said again, then, ceasing his dis- 
 play of virtuosity, leaned back and gazed at her 
 from beneath his ej^ebrows. "Next spring, on 
 the Tuesday after Easter, I will come for you." 
 
 She caught her breath deliriously. 
 
 "Beyond the village road," he went on, speak- 
 ing slowly and distinctly, "I saw a big pasture- 
 field at the top of the hill. Be there as the sun 
 is just above the horizon, and I will come in an 
 aeroplane." 
 
 "And, your Majesty, you will take me to 
 your kingdom?" 
 
 "For one day, Pippa, to the great city of Lon- 
 don — the city that is open to all who possess a 
 golden key. We shall return by the stars at 
 night." 
 
 223
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Then" — her voice shook, and the brilliancy 
 of her eyes was softened by sudden tears, as the 
 rays of an August sun are sometimes tempered 
 by a shower, "then — at last — I am to see the 
 world — boys and girls and palaces and " 
 
 "To say nothing of prunes and potentates." 
 
 "Oh, but, your Majesty, it is too wonderful. 
 I am certain it will not come true." 
 
 He rose and quietly placed his chair against 
 the wall. "Pippa," he said, "there are only two 
 things that could prevent it. One, if there is a 
 storm and — the other " he shook his head im- 
 patiently. 
 
 The girl took down a work-basket, and after 
 searching its contents extracted a tiny trinket. 
 
 "You mean," she said, stepping lightly over to 
 him, "that you might go to join your brothers — 
 those who smiled so bravely?" 
 
 "We never know, Pippa," he answered. 
 
 She reached for the lapel of his coat and 
 pinned the little keepsake on it. " 'Tis a black 
 cat," she said. "I saw it in the village store, so 
 small and funny, like Louis. It is a gift from 
 little Pippa, who will pray to the Virgin every 
 
 224
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 night that her Prince may not be killed — un- 
 less " 
 
 He looked at the little mascot, which dangled 
 above a couple of ribbons. 
 
 "Unless?" he said. 
 
 For a moment there was a flash in her eyes 
 and a sudden crimson flush in her cheeks that 
 startled him. For the first time in her life she 
 felt the instinct of a tigress ; that strange fusion 
 of passion and timidity that comes to women of 
 her kind when it seems they may lose the object 
 of their love. 
 
 "Unless he — forgets." The words were 
 spoken between lips that hardly moved. 
 
 "By the sacred bones of my ancestors," he 
 said, with a sort of sincere grandiloquence, "I 
 promise to come. So that I shall always think 
 of you, my Pippa, I will paint a black cat upon 
 the machine, and woe to the Hun who dares to 
 singe its whiskers!" 
 
 A few minutes later, the heavily coated figure 
 of an aviator was plowing its way through a 
 drizzling rain, along a dark and solitary road. 
 His pace was extraordinarily long for his height, 
 
 225
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 and he appeared to be stepping over a perpetual 
 array of obstacles at least one foot high. 
 
 By a casement window a girl, with hair like 
 the dusk, stood gazing towards the road that was 
 hidden in darkness. Silently and motionless she 
 watched the melancholy drops of rain as they fell 
 upon the glass, until, unconsciously, her lips 
 parted and she sang, very softly, the little song 
 taught to the maiden in the story by the lonely 
 shepherd : 
 
 "Maman, dites moi ce qu'on sent quand on aime. 
 Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?" 
 
 She paused in the improvised melody, and re- 
 peated the words slowly. 
 
 "Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?" 
 
 And then the little mistress of the mill laid her- 
 self upon her bed and wept profusely; but 
 whether it was because she was happy or because 
 she was sorrowful, let those explain who under- 
 stand the psychology of a woman's tears. 
 
 Downstairs, Louis and the miller slept pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 226
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 It was several months later that an airman 
 emerged from his hut into the chilly air of an 
 April night that was lingering grudgingly over 
 its last hour of darkness. There was a sullen 
 rumble of guns borne on a restless breeze that 
 stirred the long grass of the fields and set the 
 leaves in the trees whispering and quivering. 
 The drone could be heard of a lonely aeroplane 
 returning from its night-ride over the enemy 
 lines. . . . Above the distant roll of the artillery, 
 one gun stood out like a pizzicato note on a giant 
 bass violin. 
 
 The airman passed the silent aerodrome, and, 
 with difficulty accustoming himself to the dark- 
 ness, made out the shadow of a machine in the 
 adjoining field. He heard the sigh of cylinders 
 sucking in the petrol as the mechanics warmed 
 the machine, and walked over to it. For a mo- 
 ment he spoke to the men before climbing into 
 the pilot's seat. There followed the incisive 
 monotone of the flier's incantation between him- 
 self and the non-commissioned officer. 
 
 227
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Petrol on: switch off." 
 
 "Petrol on : switch off.'* 
 
 "Contact." 
 
 "Contact." 
 
 The propellers were swung into action, hesi- 
 tated for a moment, then wheezily subsided. 
 
 The incantation was repeated; the propeller 
 blades coughed, and leaped into a deafening roar. 
 The mechanics sprang aside, and the machine, 
 stumbling forward for a few yards, turned into 
 the wind. There was a sudden acceleration of the 
 propeller, a crescendo from the engines, and the 
 machine made swiftly across the field, rising as it 
 attained flying speed, and disappearing into the 
 night. 
 
 A few moments later its light was mixing with 
 the dulling stars, and the drone of its engine 
 could be heard only at the whim of the breeze. 
 
 "I wonder what the Black Cat's up to now," 
 said mechanic No. 1, rubbing his hands together 
 for warmth. "Rum beggar, isn't he?" 
 
 His companion slapped his breast with his 
 arms and blew on his fingers. "Mad as a March 
 hare," he growled; "takes a two-seater out at 
 this time of night." 
 
 228
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "And did you notice the extra outfit?" 
 
 "He's mad," repeated the before-dawn psy- 
 chologist, "mad as a rabbit." 
 
 "But he's a mighty stout boy," interposed the 
 N.C.O., who was torn between his duty of keep- 
 ing disciphne and his love of character study; 
 "and he sure puts the wind up Fritz when he takes 
 oiF with his Black Cat Bristol fighter." 
 
 The blackness of night was beginning to give 
 way to a dull and sullen gray as the solitary pilot 
 made a detour over the lines. In the gloom be- 
 neath he could see a long crescent of orange- 
 colored flashes where the British guns were main- 
 taining their endless pounding of the enemy. 
 Farther east was a large patch of winking, yellow 
 lights, giving to his eye the same effect as flakes 
 of gunpowder dropped upon a heated stove: it 
 was the bursting of the British shells. Beyond 
 that field of death he could see other and larger 
 flashes, and knew the Hun was replying in kind. 
 
 Everywhere the darkness was being penetrated 
 by long, rocket-like lights with a white, starry 
 burst at the end, and, as though to give variety 
 to the scene, a few red and green bursts mingled 
 garishly with them. 
 
 229
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 To the airman, from his refuge of height, it all 
 combined in an uncanny pageant of fireworks — 
 a weird spectacle of death, as though hell had 
 opened and the passions of men were feeding the 
 flames to make a devils' holiday. 
 
 A searchlight woke him from his reverie. A 
 couple of anti-aircraft guns barked at him. With 
 a smile he noticed the rapid approach of morn- 
 ing's light, and, turning to the west, he set his 
 course by the compass and made for the lonely 
 mill-house of Picardy. 
 
 VI 
 
 From a meadow at the top of a hill, a girl 
 watched the horizon of the east as the first 
 glow of daylight heralded the arrival of Aurora's 
 chariot. The hurried walk from the mill-house 
 and the climbing of the hill had set her pulses 
 throbbing with vitality, and as she watched the 
 dull gray give way with the promise of dawn, a 
 wild, unthinking spirit of exaltation seized her. 
 Like the Pippa of Browning's song, she felt her 
 spirit rise with the triumph of nature. 
 
 230
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 Day! 
 
 Faster and more fast. 
 
 O'er night's briin, day boils at last: 
 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
 
 Where spurting and suppressed it lay. 
 
 For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
 
 Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
 
 Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; 
 
 But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 
 
 Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed. 
 
 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
 
 Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. 
 
 But he had not come — her Prince with the 
 solemn face and the laughing eyes. Day after 
 day, through the long winter, she had lived for 
 this hour, thrilling over it, picturing it, dreaming 
 of it — hoth awake and asleep. . . . And he had 
 not come. 
 
 Suppose — supposing 
 
 Her heart leaped painfully. She had heard a 
 sound like the humming of an insect — faint — 
 then more clear. The hum became a drone, and 
 in sheer intoxication she reached her hands to- 
 wards the east as the sun, well above the horizon, 
 
 231
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 illumed the sky with gold-red flames. Blinded 
 by its brilliancy, she turned awaj^ but her ear 
 heard the cessation of the engine as the pilot 
 brought his machine towards the earth. She knew 
 that he must be approaching her ; yet she kept her 
 face averted, on some caprice of sixteen years, 
 until she heard his voice calling, a few yards off. 
 
 He bowed very low as, with lowered eyes, she 
 gave him her hand ; then, indicating a coat on his 
 arm, he leant towards her, with some effort mak- 
 ing his voice heard above the impatient throbbing 
 of the aeroplane's engine. 
 
 "Take off your hat," he cried, noticing with 
 quick approval the pretty costume she wore (for 
 however poor she may be, no French girl is with- 
 out one becoming frock), "and slip your curls 
 into this helmet. It's the largest I could find." 
 
 She did as she was bidden, laughing delight- 
 edly. 
 
 "Now, youngster, climb into this." 
 
 He wrapped her in a fur-lined leather coat, 
 and after buttoning it securely, lingered for a 
 moment over the amusing and dainty picture she 
 presented. Then, picking her up in his arms, he 
 carried her over to the machine and deposited her 
 
 232
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 in the observer's seat, fastening the belt. He was 
 just about to climb into his place in front, when, 
 changing his mind, he leaned over to her and 
 placed both hands on her shoulders. 
 
 "Frightened?" he smiled, speaking so close to 
 her ear that a truant curl brushed against his 
 cheek. 
 
 She shook her head decisively — for a consid- 
 erable period she had been beyond the povvcr of 
 speech. 
 
 He looked into her eyes, which seemed to have 
 borrowed something of the sunlight, and patted 
 her reassuringly on the shoulder. . . . And 
 Mademoiselle Pippa, niece of the absent miller, 
 would have gone straight to the moon with him 
 had it been his wish and in his power. 
 
 She watched him wonderingly as he lifted a 
 heavy sand-bag used as ballast, and dropped it on 
 the ground. The next moment he was in the 
 pilot's seat, there was a crescendo of the engine, 
 a waddling sensation as the aeroplane went for- 
 ward, the sudden development of the crescendo, 
 the burst of speed, and . . . 
 
 The earth was receding! 
 
 She caught her breath, and hid her face in her 
 
 233
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 hands to stifle a cry and keep the sight from her 
 eyes. She had been afraid that she would faint 
 with dizziness, and for a full minute sat, terror- 
 stricken, until, gaining courage, she tremblingly 
 parted two fingers and cast a timorous glance be- 
 low. A cry escaped from her — but it was not one 
 of fear. 
 
 Beneath her, though she was not conscious of 
 height, the countryside spread, a great master- 
 piece of color, the light brown of plowed fields 
 standing out vividly against the green of meadows 
 where sheep (she laughed out at the thought) 
 were huddled in little groups like peanuts ; roads 
 had become paths, and cottages were dwarfed to 
 miniature dwellings for the tiniest dolls. 
 
 But — she felt no height. 
 
 Only, the landscape, refreshed after its long 
 winter repose, kept closing in — closing in, dis- 
 playing new beauties every minute, as though she 
 were in real truth a Fairy Princess summoning 
 villages and rivers and farms into one vast tapes- 
 try of nature. 
 
 And this was France ! As far as the eye could 
 see, it was France, the mother of greatness. For 
 the first time she pictured the w ide, charred plains 
 
 234
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 where the Hun had been, and scalding tears hid 
 everything from her sight. 
 
 Several times her cavalier of the clouds had 
 turned around to see that she was not frightened, 
 and, as often as he did so, she nodded excitedly, 
 and waved both hands after the manner of an 
 orchestral conductor calling for a fortissimo. 
 Once he shut off the engines, and they seemed to 
 lie in the wind, a becalmed ship of the air. 
 
 "All right?" he queried inelegantly. 
 
 She tried to think of some word to summarize 
 her emotions, but, failing utterly, raised her gog- 
 gles and thanked him with her eyes. A woman's 
 methods are not affected bj' altitude. 
 
 It seemed to her that they had flown for an 
 hour, when, in her tapestry of landscape, she 
 found the gradual inclusion of the steeples and 
 the roof-tops of a city, the streets of which gave 
 the impression of having been drawn with a brown 
 crayon with the aid of a ruler. The aeroplane 
 appeared to be turning with the wind, and she 
 grasped the side of the fuselage, when the whole 
 scene was obliterated by a sea of billowy foam 
 that left her cheek wet. She laughed with de- 
 light, and reached out with her hands, as though 
 
 235
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 she would grasp the foam and compress it hke 
 snow in her fingers. She sang and clapped her 
 hands in sheer joyousness. She was alone with 
 her Prince in a world of dreams. The billows of 
 foam grew less dense, became a mist through 
 which light gleamed, and they emerged once 
 more. Beneath them lay the Channel, shimmer- 
 ing in the April sun. The magic wand drew the 
 Strait to her gaze as it had done the fields of 
 France. . . . Suddenly there was no throbbing 
 of the engine, and they seemed to float, motion- 
 less, in space. 
 
 He turned around and pointed to a border of 
 white that lay against the blue of the water. 
 
 ''Enfinr he cried. "England!" 
 
 VII 
 
 There was a knock at the door of "The Plough 
 and Crown," which, in spite of its similarity to the 
 title of a treatise, is the name of an exceedingly 
 cosy little inn less than twenty miles from the 
 outskirts of London. The landlady answered in 
 person, presenting just the stout, apple-cheeked, 
 
 236
 
 THE AIRY PRINXE 
 
 buxom appearance that any one would expect 
 from the ov, ner of so cheery a hostelry. 
 
 "Good-morning to you, sir — and to you, miss," 
 said the estimable woman, as the unlocked door 
 revealed an airman of solemn mien and a blush- 
 ing young lady whose hair had been blown into 
 utter and captivating disorder. 
 
 A very small dog appeared, irritably, from 
 some subterranean passage, and taking in 
 the sight of strangers, proceeded to bark with 
 such energy that, with each effort, he was shunted 
 several inches to the rear, like a gun recoiling 
 after discharge, until from very ill-temper he 
 barked himself completely off the scene and out 
 of this history. 
 
 "Good-morning, madam," said the aviator. 
 "This young lady and myself would like to have 
 breakfast at your house." 
 
 The girl glanced furtively at him. It was the 
 first time she had heard him speak in English. 
 
 "Bless your baby faces!" cried the good 
 woman. "Come in out of the chilly morning; 
 though what you be doing at this hour is beyond 
 the likes o' me to fathomate" (a word which per- 
 
 237
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 formed its function by being thoroughly under- 
 stood). 
 
 She led them into the coffee-room, where he re- 
 moved his coat and hehnet, and threw them, to- 
 gether with the girl's flying-costume, over a chair. 
 A sleepy-eyed and slovenly young woman-of-all- 
 work appeared on the scene, and proceeded to 
 build a wood fire in the grate ; while the landlady, 
 after the manner of her kind, bustled about, 
 shifting chairs, colliding with the fire-making 
 girl, removing glasses from the bar to the table, 
 from the table to the shelf, and back again to the 
 bar again, all the while talking incessantly, or 
 making comfortable noises when words failed her 
 (which was very seldom), and in short, giving 
 that feeling of hospitable activity handed down 
 from the good old days when passengers used to 
 arrive by coach at "The Plough and Crown." 
 
 "Madam," said the flying-man, seizing a mo- 
 ment when a more than usually severe jolt against 
 her assistant had deprived the good woman of 
 breath, "I must telephone the aerodrome at 
 Hounslow to send for my machine, so I shall 
 stroll to the post-office down the road. In the 
 
 238
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 meantime — this young lady speaks no Eng- 
 lish " 
 
 "Bless her heart ! What heathen country " 
 
 " speaks no English," he persisted, "and 
 
 has traveled a long distance in the air " 
 
 "Well, I've often said that " 
 
 " in the air," he repeated, stifling her phi- 
 losophy in its birth, "and I shall be grateful if 
 you will give her any attentions that your kind 
 heart may suggest. She is cold, and I suppose 
 she wants to make herself look pretty." 
 
 "Leave her to me, the sweet innocent. If she 
 were my own daughter, me not having any, 
 but " 
 
 "When I return, may we have breakfast?" 
 
 "A simple breakfast 'twill have to be," said the 
 hostess, emitting the words with a forcefulness re- 
 miniscent of a geyser that has been supporting on 
 its chest a mountain which has obligingly shifted 
 its position. "Things is awful bad, and the Gov- 
 ernment don't trust no one these days. But I'll 
 see what I can get for you two children, for 
 you're an officer gentleman, and my own good 
 man's in the army — London Scottish he is, 
 though he ain't any more Scottish than the Pope 
 
 239
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 of Rome; but he always had a fine figure, had 
 my man — Jacob Wilson is his name, for thirty 
 year owner of "The Plough and Crown," which 
 always is welcome to them as wants a pint o' bit- 
 ter or a bed for the night, and always will be as 
 long as Jacob Wilson or me is to be found in the. 
 taproom when opening-time arrives." 
 
 After this announcement of the past and fu- 
 ture policy of "The Plough and Crown," the 
 worthy woman seized a chair that was innocently 
 gazing out of the window, and placed it directly 
 opposite a highly colored picture of a young lady 
 in pink, talkin^g to a blue young gentleman, 
 while a yellow horse, in proportion a little larger 
 than the horse of Troy, looked soulfully at them 
 over a hedge. 
 
 Having done this, she rested her hands on her 
 hips and sighed like a woman who knows she is 
 overworked, but is resigned to her fate. 
 
 "Excuse me," said the airman politely, then 
 turned to his companion, who had been staring in 
 wide-eyed bewilderment at the activities of Mrs. 
 Jacob Wilson. . . . Frowning heavily at his 
 young passenger, he inserted his pipe into his 
 mouth, and left the inn without another word, 
 
 240
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 sauntering along the roadway, where hedges and 
 meadow-larks and cosy thatched cottages were 
 combining in the merriest of madrigals on the 
 beauty of Old England. 
 
 Upstairs, in "The Plough and Crown," Pip- 
 pa's toilet was being superintended by the es- 
 timable proprietress, whose hospitality, sur- 
 mounting the difficulty of language, poured out 
 in a stream of garrulity. 
 
 She described to her little guest how Mr. Jacob 
 Wilson first appeared in kilts, causing her ( Mrs. 
 Jacob Wilson) to throw her apron over her face 
 and bid her lord and master go upstairs and clothe 
 himself in propriety. She further confessed that 
 he was a poor correspondent (though a man of 
 deep intellect, for he was given to long spasms of 
 silence) ; but every time he wrote from the 
 trenches, which was once a month (though one 
 month he had written twice, but in September — 
 or was it October? — he had not written at all) 
 — at any rate, he always said that he had a cold in 
 his head and would she send his medicine, which 
 he had used for eight-and-twenty years, and 
 which had never failed to cure him. 
 
 After this testimony to ^Ir. Jacob Wilson's 
 
 241
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 recuperative powers, despite his susceptibility to 
 colds, his wife became confidential, and told the 
 girl of the adoration showered on her during her 
 honeymoon by the aforesaid absent gentleman, 
 together with other and romantic details which, 
 being told in the strictest confidence, naturally 
 have no place in these pages. 
 
 And the little girl from the Picardy mill-house 
 listened. She may have understood that some- 
 where in the landlady's bountiful breast a noble 
 heart was beating, that behind her cheerfulness 
 lay the shadow of the trenches, and that any mo- 
 ment "The Plough and Crown" might be robbed 
 of the good man who had marched away with the 
 London Scottish. 
 
 She may have understood less than that — or 
 more. Who knows? 
 
 Half-an-hour later the Airy Prince returned, 
 and they sat down together to a breakfast served 
 to the tune of chortling fowls and the neighing of 
 a nearby horse, while the fire chuckled and 
 crackled in enjoyment of some joke of its own. 
 
 "Well, Pippa," said the Black Cat, seizing a 
 moment when Mrs. Jacob Wilson had absented 
 
 242
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 herself from the room, "and what do you think 
 of the English?" 
 
 The girl of the mill-house pictured the only- 
 two she had met. 
 
 "I think," she said timidly, "that you are — 
 how say you it — great talkers, yes?" 
 
 "Bless my soul!" said he, cutting a loaf of 
 bread with the melancholy of an executioner be- 
 heading an esteemed relative; "aren't we?" 
 
 VIII 
 
 The train for London came round the bend, 
 and drew up, panting, beside the platform. The 
 airman and his little companion glanced into 
 four compartments which were completely filled, 
 and, hearing the admonition of the guard, were 
 forced to enter a first-class carriage containing 
 five occupants, who glared at the intruders v.ith 
 that triumph of rudeness found only on an Eng- 
 lish railroad. 
 
 "Sorry," murmured the airman, and added 
 something unintelligible about the train being 
 full. A fierce-looking gentleman looked up from 
 the Morning Post and lowered the window to its 
 
 243
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 fullest extent. An anemic woman opposite 
 sneezed and fixed a devastating stare on the fierce 
 gentleman. A very young officer of the Guards 
 felt his lip, and stroked that portion of it which 
 was pregnant with promise of mustache, while 
 his mind wandered into the future. Would he 
 cut Lady Dazzrymple's beastly dance, and con- 
 tent himself with only three that evening? Or, 
 dash it all! should he go the whole works? What 
 a bore! ... A young woman with a face of 
 deep intensity read the New Statesman, every 
 now and then looking up from its pages (as a 
 horse drinking at a trough will raise its head be- 
 tween draughts), apparently defying any one to 
 challenge her on anything. 
 
 With his hands lazily in his coat-pockets, an 
 Australian captain leant back in his corner and 
 took in the freshness and winsomeness of the 
 French girl, with an admiring frankness that in- 
 spired sudden doubt in the airman's mind whether 
 it was really desirable to maintain a huge Em- 
 pire. 
 
 For ten minutes, in a funereal silence, the 
 train hurried towards the Metropolis, while the 
 temperature of the compartment, both actually 
 
 244)
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 and temperamentally, dropped to freezing-point. 
 Once, as an unusually pretty meadow met her 
 eye (and where are there such meadows as one 
 sees in England?), Pippa emitted an exclama- 
 tion of delight and clapped her hands. 
 
 A look of horror from the fierce gentleman 
 caromed off the Morning Post to the face of the 
 offender. The anemic woman stopped blowing 
 her nose, and concentrated all her energies on a 
 disdainful sniff. The very young Guardsman 
 brought his eyes out of the future, and stared 
 right through the girl — rotten form, what! The 
 intense young woman frowned and made a men- 
 tal note that she would write an article on "The 
 Girl of To-day" — or, perhaps, a letter to the 
 New States mail would be more effective. One 
 never knew, these degenerate times, if an author 
 was writing from conviction or merely writing 
 for a living. 
 
 The Australian smiled generously, and bur- 
 rowed his hands deeper into his capacious 
 pockets. 
 
 Very timidly the erring daughter of France 
 shifted closer to her protector, and her hand 
 reached appealingly for his, which caused all eyes 
 
 245
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 but the Australian's to disappear like the legs of 
 a troupe of Japanese acrobats from a cross-bar. 
 
 "Your ^lajesty " she said. 
 
 "Hush, Pippa. You must call me just 'mon- 
 sieur. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Well — you see, a prince is very important, 
 and " 
 
 "Then that is why these people are so solemn? 
 They know you are a prince, yes?" 
 
 The airman tapped the bridge of his nose medi- 
 tatively. "N-not exactly," he said. 
 
 "But they are so sad." 
 
 "They are," he agreed; "but my countrjTuen 
 sink to their greatest melancholy when they 
 travel." 
 
 "But why, monsieur?" 
 
 "That," he said, "I cannot tell you. Perhaps 
 traveling on a train reminds them of the brief 
 journej^ of life itself. At any rate, all really well- 
 bred people who travel resent others doing the 
 same thing." 
 
 "What are well-bred people?" 
 
 He gazed at an advertisement for pyjamas. 
 
 "Well-bred people," he said sententiously, 
 
 246
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "are those who base their superiority on such in- 
 tangible tilings that they leave nothing on which 
 one can contest it. Do you understand me?" 
 "Xo," said Pippa frankly; "but I like your 
 
 voice." 
 
 "Thank you, little one. It was one of the first 
 things I learned at Harrow^ — to say something 
 well rather than something worth hearing." 
 
 "I wonder if Louis had his breakfast," said 
 she, at a tangent. 
 
 "I think so," he said, with a man's vagueness 
 towards domestic economy; "but, to finish my 
 definition of well-bred people " 
 
 "Louis will be angry at my leaving him," she 
 said musingly. 
 
 "Pippa, you must listen to me," he said 
 gravely. 
 
 "But may I not talk as well?" 
 
 "Really charming women only listen." 
 
 "Tiens! What a droll country ! Do these peo- 
 ple understand what we say?" 
 
 "I don't think so, youngster. ]Most British- 
 ers look on foreign languages as immoral." 
 
 The fierce gentleman, who had been growing 
 bluer with cold every minute, suddenly en- 
 
 247
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 deavored to suppress a sneeze by smothering his 
 face in a large handkerchief, with the result that 
 he produced a combustive cohesion of sounds, 
 which caused a gurgle of delight from the miller's 
 niece. Violently blowing his nose, the irate one 
 resumed his newspaper, first turning his coat- 
 collar about his ears as the bracing April air 
 blew full against him, and looking as genuinely 
 bad-tempered as his somewhat immobile features 
 would permit. 
 
 "But he is amusing, is he not?" cried the little 
 French girl, then shrank back as the New States- 
 manist fixed her with a look of ineffable and dis- 
 approving intellectuality. "Monsieur, why is it 
 she looks at me so?'* 
 
 The aviator transferred his scrutiny from py- 
 jamas to a picture of Canterbury Cathedral. 
 
 "She is the .New Woman," he said; "and all 
 New Women resent the Old." 
 
 "I am old?— but no!" 
 
 He lowered his eyes from the cathedral to her 
 happy, flushed face. 
 
 "Pippa," he said, "you are as old as Cleo- 
 patra." 
 
 "Cleo-patra. How many years has she?" 
 
 248
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "Oh, about two thousand." 
 
 She pretended to be offended, and ended by 
 looking such a thoroughly engaging little figure, 
 with her dark hair and innocently intriguing 
 eyes, that the airman resumed his study of archi- 
 tecture from sheer self-defense, and the Aus- 
 tralian contemplated the odds against his knock- 
 ing the student of cathedrals on the head, and, 
 a la caveman of old, eloping forcibly w^ith the 
 damsel. 
 
 Chimney-pots! Hundreds of them — thou- 
 sands of them. 
 
 Chimney-pots! Standing like regiments in 
 stiff and orderly array, waiting for a review that 
 never took place. 
 
 Chimney-pots! Short ones, stout ones, crum- 
 bling ones; gray, blue, and indigo ones; pots of 
 no color at all, and just as little character. 
 
 Chimney-pots! Racing by, mile after mile; 
 industrious fellows, some of them, puffing out 
 black smoke as though the mist over London 
 were their private and personal concern. 
 
 Chimney-pots! 
 
 "Waterloo!" yelled a dozen voices, and the be- 
 wildered Pippa heard a stamping of feet, a rat- 
 
 249
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 tling of trucks, the din of two porters in a semi- 
 religious discussion concerning the right of way, 
 the din being aided and abetted by a young gen- 
 tleman possessed of a voice which had recently 
 broken, who howled, alternately in a deep bass 
 and a shrill treble (giving the general effect of 
 a Swiss yodeler running amok), that, in ex- 
 change for coin of the realm, he was willing to 
 barter light refreshment — very light refresh- 
 ment indeed — in the shape of small biscuits or 
 popular magazines. A slim girl porter, far too 
 weak for her task, dragged a trunk from the van 
 for a vigorous indispensable, who stood by with 
 sixpence in his hand. A sailor kissed a rosy- 
 cheeked woman with moist heartiness. ... A 
 taxi-driver, outside the station, took a sudden 
 and violent dislike to a horse-cabby, casting loud 
 aspersions on the latter's respectabilitj^ and 
 hinting at a doubtful pedigree; to which the 
 other replied simultaneously, his remarks being 
 quite unintelligible, but apparently giving him- 
 self the greatest personal satisfaction. Down the 
 road a street-piano burst forth into "The Lost 
 Chord." 
 
 "Pippa," said the airman, opening the door, 
 
 250
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 (( 
 
 we have arrived. The Prince with the Golden 
 Key welcomes you to London." 
 
 ''31 on Dieu/' said that young person, "what a 
 noise ! 
 
 IX 
 
 It was nearing the middle of the afternoon 
 when the airman succeeded, after some difficultj^ 
 in piloting his little companion across Piccadilly 
 Circus to Regent Street. It is something to be 
 noticed in that most cosmopolitan of districts, but 
 more than one turned to watch the solemn officer 
 of the formidable stride and the French girl whose 
 wealth of hair and length of dress (barely re- 
 vealing her ankles) made her seem a vignette 
 from some past century novel. 
 
 It had been, for her, a daj'^ of wonders. 
 
 From her lonely little world, peopled with 
 make-believe inhabitants, she had been trans- 
 ported through the air to the center of reality. 
 London, the "Bagdad of the West," huge, mo- 
 notonous, garish, beautiful — what term is there 
 in language that could not be applied to that 
 great gathering of human souls? — London 
 
 251
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 sprawled before her gaze in a yellow sunlight 
 which played such tricks with its tired buildings 
 that age-old stone looked bright and cheerful, 
 and the very dust seemed like the coating of frost 
 when a thaw succeeds a freezing night. 
 
 Before her eyes the pageant of passions passed 
 in endless array. Poverty and hypocrisy rubbed 
 shoulders with ostentation, greed, and lust. 
 Streets, crowded with a suffocating similarity of 
 stodgy dwelling-places, gave way to parks, fra- 
 grant with the atmosphere of romance. Vice 
 stalked unashamed through the thronged streets, 
 and dull, tired faces, leaving monotony in their 
 trail, passed their next of kin without a glance, 
 those to whom discouragement had come as some 
 incurable disease. Sinister, sensuous eyes looked 
 into hers, and children pure in mind as snowflakes 
 laughed as they walked beside their nurses. 
 
 For the sun was in the heavens — and the same 
 warmth that brings the beauty of a narcissus into 
 being gives life to the noisome, crawling things 
 that feed on decay. 
 
 London's costume drama was at its height; 
 uniformed men and girls paraded in their thou- 
 sands. There were loose-limbed Colonials, 
 
 252
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 slouchily-smart British Tommies, amazingly seri- 
 ous Americans ; bus-girls, land-girls, girls on mo- 
 tor-cycles, and girls driving ambulances ; graceful 
 French officers, swarthy Italians, impassive Jap- 
 anese, and ruddy-faced British sailors seeking a 
 day's diversion from the sentry-go of the sea. 
 
 From the great, throbbing city a babel of 
 voices rose, like the sound from a gigantic mart; 
 hurrying, restless vehicles worried their way 
 through the maze of traffic ; Youth with its care- 
 lessness of years elbowed Age, waiting with 
 weakening tread the call of the Reaper to whom 
 all men's lives are but sands that run their little 
 course. Over the whole city brooded the Past. 
 
 Take all the comedies of the centuries; gather 
 the tragedies of history ; piece them together with 
 the fancies of a madman's brain — and what 
 could they offer in the play of hmnan emotions 
 that would compare with one hour of London's 
 life? 
 
 They had gone a little way down Regent 
 Street when an exclamation of delight escaped 
 from the girl. 
 
 "Tiens!" She caught the airman by the arm. 
 "PapaJofFre!" 
 
 253
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 A one-legged man with outstretched cap was 
 seated on the pavement, and beside him were five 
 colored drawings vaguely suggesting men of the 
 times. 
 
 "But he is wonderful," cried the girl. "See — 
 it is Papa JofFre himself! Monsieur, you will 
 give him a little present?" 
 
 The airman presented the art-exhibitor with 
 half-a-crown, receiving a gin-and-watery blessing 
 in return, as they strolled on their way. 
 
 "She's the fust one," muttered the cripple, pre- 
 paring to close business for the day, "as 'as 
 recognoized that there dial of Juff 's this last four 
 month. It were a rotten drawink and no mistike. 
 Blime! I'll give that cove this 'arf-crown to draw 
 me a picter of this 'ere General Fush as what is 
 getting hisself talked abaht." 
 
 He saw a shadow on the pavement and held 
 out his cap. A Jewish rabbi, with sallow brow 
 and spiritual face, passed without a glance, his 
 flowing robes oddly reminiscent of the Levite 
 in that Past to which the age of London is mere 
 immaturity. 
 
 The wanderers turned into Pall Mall, and, 
 traversing it, reached the Strand, where the meet- 
 
 254
 
 THE AIRY PRINXE 
 
 ing of human currents forms a whirlpool. 
 Threading their way with difficulty, he felt the 
 restraining hand on his arm, as he had done two 
 hundred times that day. The girl had stopped 
 opposite a hollow-eyed old woman offering vio- 
 lets, from her seat on a box, to the thousands 
 who cared as little for her flowers as for her. 
 
 Once more he produced the inevitable coin, 
 and again received a blessing, as trembling, un- 
 lovely fingers clutched it. He was about to turn 
 away, when something almost attractive in the 
 wrinkled face held his attention. The woman 
 had looked searchingly at the girl, then into 
 his eyes, and, touched by sudden Sj'^mpathy, there 
 was a faded echo of comeliness in her features 
 that came and went, like a glow caused by a 
 breath of air on ashes that seemed dead. 
 
 "What is it, mother?" he asked, holding the 
 girl's arm. "Business bad?" 
 
 "Yes — yes," answered the woman in a low, 
 weak voice; "but it's her I'm thinking of. Take 
 care of her, laddie, won't you?" 
 
 The girl, unable to understand them, leaned 
 over and smiled into the wrinkled face. With a 
 little air of embarrassment Pippa picked half-a- 
 
 255
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 dozen violets from her cluster, holding them out 
 to the woman, who took them with strangely 
 twitching features, just as an encircling current 
 of the Strand caught them in its grip and car- 
 ried them away. 
 
 Although they had rested at noon in a quiet 
 hostelry in Oxford Street, after visiting Kensing- 
 ton Gardens where the delightful statue of Peter 
 Pan pleads for belief in fairies, it was obvious that 
 the strain of countless impressions was begin- 
 ning to bring fatigue to his charge. Accordingly 
 the airman paused in the doorway of a theater 
 and drew her away from the traffic's turmoil. 
 
 "It is three-thirty," he said, "and there is a 
 performance inside." 
 
 Her eyes, which still held their tenderness for 
 the woman of the flowers, sparkled happily. 
 
 "That is delightful monsieur. Is it a play as 
 I read in my books?" 
 
 "Alas, Pippa! there are no more plays — only 
 revues." 
 
 "But there is music?" 
 
 "There is an orchestra." 
 
 "It will be droll, monsieur?" 
 
 "I doubt it, little one; but we shall see." 
 
 256
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 Purchasing tickets from a lordly being in a 
 cage, they entered the theater, where a huge 
 audience was rocking with laughter at the three 
 hundred and sixteenth performance of Oh Aunt! 
 Thej^ took their seats just in time to hear the 
 best of a scene between two comedians who, lest 
 the subtlety of their wit be lost, were talking at 
 the top of their lung-power, pulling chairs from 
 underneath one another, colliding frequently, 
 and every now and then, to emphasize some point, 
 kicking each other. 
 
 Several minutes passed, and wonderingly the 
 French girl gazed at the pair, while the melan- 
 choly of her escort's face reached an intensity 
 that threatened tears. 
 
 "Monsieur." 
 
 He inclined his face towards hers. 
 
 "Monsieur — they are ?" She did not com- 
 plete the sentence, but her shoulders conveyed 
 her meaning. 
 
 He smiled sadly. "They are," he said. 
 
 She sighed sympathetically. "Poor gentle- 
 men!" she murmured. 
 
 After that the comedians sang a duet, the 
 words of which dealt with marital infidelity, that 
 
 257
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 screamingly funny subject on which the stage 
 of to-day builds its humorous efforts. Once the 
 verse ended with an innuendo so crude that a 
 gathering of navvies might have resented it. 
 
 There was a laugh and a gasp from the au- 
 dience — then wild applause; the song could not 
 go on for the riot of appreciation. One of the 
 comedians (who had sung it only three hundred 
 and fifteen times) tried to commence the next 
 verse, but was suddenly overcome with laugh- 
 ter himself. The guffaws became a barrage; 
 then, as the other singer turned abruptly about, 
 his shoulders heaving convulsively, the din grew 
 to drum-fire and was deafening. How richly 
 humorous ! It was really too much ! People held 
 their sides and gasped for breath. — "Have you 
 seen Oh Aunt? My dear, it is too killing for 
 words." 
 
 Up in the gallery one man sat with an unsmil- 
 ing face. He was a wounded Tommy who had 
 been blown from a ditch to the top of a barn, and 
 from the barn to another ditch. He had had his 
 fill of slapstick comedy. 
 
 When the song was over there were shrieks 
 of forced, girlish laughter, and nearly forty 
 
 258
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 yowng women in various stages of dishabille 
 rushed on the stage, exhibiting to a critical au- 
 dience the charms and the defects of their forty 
 individual forms. The producer had been both 
 daring and sparing. He was a second-rate bur- 
 lesque manager in New York, but London, that 
 great haven for American mediocrity, recognized 
 his genius, and gave him a chance. He knew the 
 value of a chorus, and how to get the best out of 
 them — oh, he knew! 
 
 "Monsieur." 
 
 The officer turned slowly and looked at the 
 girl beside him. Her face was flushed and her 
 eyes stared at the ground. 
 
 "Yes, little one?" 
 
 "Please — take me away." 
 
 Without questioning her further, he reached 
 for his cap, and amid the wondering glances of 
 the people around, they left the theater. He 
 paused in the foyer and put on his gloves. 
 
 "I am sorry, Pippa," he said gravely. 
 
 Her hand stole soothingly into his arm, and 
 both of them, unknown to each other, experi- 
 enced a feeling that he was the younger of the 
 two. After all, every woman is a potential 
 
 259
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 mother, and men are only boys grown serious; 
 so she comforted him with the touch of her hand, 
 and — perhaps it was the natural contraction in 
 putting on the glove — his arm pressed hers tight 
 to his side. 
 
 And though he was a man, he understood. It 
 is not precept or preaching that teaches it. Mod- 
 esty in a girl is instinctive; and the little lady 
 from the mill-house had kno\^Ti no other teacher 
 than instinct. 
 
 Outside the theater an attendant was chang- 
 ing the performance number of Oh Aunt! from 
 316 to 317. 
 
 X 
 
 Twenty minutes later, in the large tea-rooms 
 of a fashionable hotel just off the Strand, there 
 was a murmur of interest as a flying-officer, 
 quizzically dejected of countenance, entered with 
 a young lady, who glanced shyly about, and 
 whose fingers held his, timidly but confidingly. 
 
 He secured a table, and ordered tea from a 
 pleasant waitress. This accomplished, he said 
 something to his companion, who was sitting bolt- 
 
 260
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 upright, keeping a steady gaze on her hands 
 crossed on her lap. Smihng a httle, she slowly- 
 raised her face and looked into his. A young 
 Canadian subaltern, seated at a table with a 
 woman whose overpowdered, meaningless beauty 
 was only too eloquent, stopped in some remark 
 he was making. Something in the French girl's 
 face had sent his mind, smitten with loneliness, 
 speeding across the Atlantic to a home whence 
 a mother and a sister had sent the finest thing 
 they had across the seas. 
 
 Near them, two girls, fresh of face, tittered 
 and posed, challenging the eyes of every man who 
 entered, with a brazen immodesty strangely at 
 variance with their appearance of decent breed- 
 ing. At a farther table a young woman, with a 
 beauty that was marred by too hard a mouth, sat 
 with her mother and listened to that woman's 
 urging that she should marry a wealthy Jew who 
 had asked for her hand. Was it not her duty to 
 herself and to her mother? Besides, even if that 
 young fellow did come back uncrippled from the 
 trenches — which was unlikely — he would have to 
 begin all over again. Alone, a good-looking ar- 
 tist, discharged from the army with wounds, sat 
 
 261
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 with an insouciant, mocking eye, searching for 
 types and adventure. Around him women of all 
 ages, some of them with men, smoked, while their 
 chatter mixed discordantly with the orchestra 
 playing some negroid ragtime piece, and with the 
 sound of rattling tea-cups. 
 
 "Your Majesty," said the miller's niece, re- 
 lapsing into her former style of address, "there is 
 so much I cannot understand," 
 
 "Such as what, youngster?" 
 
 "These ladies here. Some are so pretty and 
 
 so nice. Others are pretty and " Again she 
 
 shrugged her shoulders as only a French woman 
 can. "I am so young, it is true — but see that 
 lady there." 
 
 "With the young Canadian — ^yes?" 
 
 "Somehow, monsieur, she frightens me. I did 
 not know that women ever looked that way — 
 like Louis when he catches a mouse." 
 
 "The simile is very apt, Pippa." 
 
 "But then" — her brows puckered with a first 
 endeavor to harness language to her psychology 
 — "you can see that nice girl there, so fair and 
 pink." 
 
 262
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 **I prefer them dark," said he seriously; "but 
 what of her?" 
 
 The expounder of philosophy breathed deeply, 
 but stuck to her task. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that the fair girl is nice, 
 but this one is . . ." (shrug) . . . "Then why, 
 monsieur, does the nice one try to look just like 
 the other? — Rcgardez-moi fa — see her now." 
 
 He poured out the tea, which had just arrived. 
 
 "Shall I tell you a story?" he asked. 
 
 She sighed happily. "Tell me a true story," 
 she said with that insistence of the young on 
 making all things believable. 
 
 He sipped his tea and frowned meditatively. 
 
 "Not long ago, my dear, there lived a stupid 
 king." 
 
 "Your father?" 
 
 "In any one but you, Pippa, that. would be 
 pert. No, he was not my father." 
 
 "I wonder if Louis " she began, but he 
 
 checked her with a portentous frown. 
 
 "Once," he began again, "there lived a stupid 
 king named Convention." 
 
 "What a silly name!" 
 
 263
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "Pippa!" he admonished her with a warning 
 finger. 
 
 She tried to look serious, but ended by laugh- 
 ing mischievously. 
 
 "There was a stupid king with a silly name?" 
 she said encouragingly. 
 
 "T.his king," he said, "was very wise in some 
 things, and often kind, but his courtiers were a 
 poor lot — Hypocrisy, Snobbery, Good and Bad 
 Form, and a lot of others. Now the king used to 
 favor the men among his subjects." 
 
 "You mean, he liked men?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "So do I," she said in an outburst of frank- 
 ness. "They are so droll." 
 
 He poured some fresh tea into the cups. 
 
 "This King Convention," he said, after a 
 thoughtful pause, "said that men could do a lot 
 of things that women could not, which made the 
 women very angry. Now the king had a jester 
 named Shaw." 
 
 "What is a jester?" 
 
 "A man who makes jokes that people may 
 laugh." 
 
 "Why do they laugh at jokes?" 
 
 264
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 "Well, in England — especially on the stage — 
 it is from the pleasure of meeting old friends. 
 As a race, we are rather sentimental about our 
 jests, and don't take kindly to new ones." 
 
 She sipped some tea, holding the cup in both 
 hands, but with considerable daintiness. 
 
 "Tell me an English joke," she said. 
 
 He stroked his faded little mustache. 
 
 "The House of Lords," he ventured, after 
 some thought. 
 
 "He! Is that funny?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "I do not laugh. Tell me another." 
 
 He broke a corner off a piece of toast. 
 
 "One of the richest bits of humor in England," 
 he said, "is the idea that children born into 
 wealthy or titled families are superior clay to 
 their fellows." 
 
 Pippa thought tremendously. 
 
 "I think, monsieur, I know why you look so 
 sad. It is because of what you have to laugh at 
 in your country. . . . But please go on and tell 
 me what happened to — how say you it? — the 
 jester." 
 
 "Ah yes. Well, G. B. Shaw " 
 
 265
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "What is this— G.B.?" 
 
 "Those are his names — Gor' BUme Shaw." 
 
 Pippa sighed. It was very difficult to become 
 interested in people of such strange nomencla- 
 ture. 
 
 "What did he, then, this Gor Shaw?" she 
 asked, feeling that the story must end sometime. 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact, he was rather a 
 poor jester, because his only joke was to stand 
 on his head. At first every one laughed; but 
 after a while they thought that it was his natural 
 position, and paid no attention to him. It was 
 really pretty hard on the poor chap, because he 
 was too old to learn any new tricks, and he used 
 to become dizzy from being upside-down so much. 
 Finally he grew furious at the king for not laugh- 
 ing, and urged all the women who did not like 
 Convention to murder him. When the war came 
 along they saw their chance. The men went 
 away, and the real women of England were too 
 busy helping them to bother about anything else. 
 You see, Pippa, in our country we have the noisy, 
 chattering, selfish women who do good by lime- 
 light and find their reward in the illustrated 
 journals. But there are also those, the unrec- 
 
 266
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 ognized and unthanked ones, who share others' 
 griefs, but suffer alone. It is the unseen, un- 
 heard women of Britain who are really wonder- 
 ful." 
 
 The girl said nothing, but her face, so sugges- 
 tive of color in its elusive change of expression, 
 softened to a tender mood that left her eyes 
 very dark and somber, and her lips curved slight- 
 ly into a smile that was full of sympathy. 
 
 The young Canadian subaltern looked direct- 
 ly at her and compressed his lower lip with his 
 teeth. 
 
 "What's the matter, dearie?" croaked the 
 woman beside him; but he returned no answer. 
 
 The two tittering girls stopped their staccato 
 giggling for a moment, then resumed with a 
 steadfastness of purpose that somehow robbed 
 the effect of spontaneity. The young woman 
 with the over-firm mouth took in the tableau of 
 the airman and his little charge, and turned to 
 her mother with some sarcastic comment that was 
 strangely belied by the look of hunger in her eyes. 
 The artist, still with his air of graceful insou- 
 ciance, sat with half-closed eyelids and visualized 
 Pippa as a subject for canvas. "What a Psyche 
 
 267
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 she wo,uld make!" he muttered. The orchestra 
 was just going to play, when the leader, who 
 had been idly gazing at the throng of guests, 
 made a gesture of dissent. 
 
 "We shall not do 'Oh, that Opium Rag,' " he 
 said. "You see that girl there, with the dark 
 curls and the sweet little face? For her let us 
 play Mendelssohn's 'Spring Song.' " 
 
 Quite unaware of their interested audience, 
 the flying-man and his companion continued their 
 excursion into the realm of fables, while un- 
 touched toast and half-emptied cups stood by in 
 neglected array. 
 
 "That is practically all the story," he said. 
 "When the war came on, they murdered poor 
 old Convention." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Slaughtered him," he said gloomily; "though 
 all his bad courtiers escaped. For a long time 
 it was feared that the king's son, Courtesy, and 
 his niece. Charm (who were very much in love 
 with each other), had also been done to death, 
 but there are rumors that they have been seen 
 in remote parts of England. So, Pippa, that 
 
 268
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 is why these young women look and act alike. 
 They are the murderers of Convention." 
 
 "Monsieur, I am frightened." 
 
 He produced his pipe, received a horrified look 
 from a gorgeous waiter, and hurriedly replaced it 
 in his pocket. "The first thing the women did," 
 he went on, "was to place Vulgarity and his 
 Queen, Stupidity, on the throne; but there are 
 signs that their reign will be brief. When the 
 men come back and the quiet women speak, I 
 think we shall see another Revolution that will 
 put Courtesy and Charm in the place of Vul- 
 garity and Stupidity. So, after all, my dear" — 
 he grew quite cheerful at the thought — "poor 
 old Shaw may have done some good in inciting 
 the murder of Convention. Perhaps, uiough the 
 thought would annoy him frightfully, he may 
 yet go down to history as a martyr — the reformer 
 who stood on his head!" 
 
 But she was not listening to him. She was 
 silently enjoying, for the first time, the fragrance 
 of 3Iendelssohn's Melody of Spring, which 
 found immediate response in her nature, so at- 
 tuned to the delicate things of life. It had a 
 somewhat contrary effect on the others, whose 
 
 269
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 conversation, which had begun to lag, took on 
 fresh impetus with the sound of the orchestra. 
 
 "Tell me," she whispered, vastly puzzled, "why 
 do they talk so loud when there is music?" 
 
 He shook his head. "I don't know," he an- 
 swered. "It is said that music soothes the savage 
 breast — it certainly loosens the civilized tongue." 
 
 The charming setting to the happiness of 
 Spring-time, written by a composer who really 
 never grew up, came to an end, and in sheer 
 delight the French girl clapped her hands twice. 
 The leader acknowledged the compliment by 
 bowing. She did not know that it was for her 
 alone he had chosen it. 
 
 The airman examined his watch. "Little 
 one," he said, "I am afraid our day is nearly 
 over. In half-an-hour we must catch a train 
 back to 'The Plough and Crown,' where we shall 
 have dinner and a little rest. At eight o'clock 
 two friends of mine from the aerodrome here 
 will bring the machine — you understand that 
 taking young ladies from France to England has 
 not been officially authorized by the Air Minis- 
 try. As soon as the stars are out we shall start 
 for home." 
 
 270
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 They rose to go. 
 
 She smiled shyly at the orchestra, and once 
 more the leader bowed. With the daintiest of 
 gestures she raised her hand and waved to him; 
 then, feeling for her protector's arm, she started 
 for the door, her eyes timidly glancing about her 
 from beneath sheltering, downcast eyelashes. 
 Without the least embarrassment, the tanned 
 airman with the strangely light moustache and 
 eyebrows walked beside her, experiencing an in- 
 definable sense of possession that proved most 
 agreeable. 
 
 The artist toyed with an unlit cigarette. "With 
 such a model," he muttered, "if I could only 
 indicate that swift rhythm of expression, I should 
 be great." 
 
 The tittering girls kept up their chatter. They 
 had long since learned that nothing stifles thought 
 like meaningless conversation — and they were 
 afraid their thoughts might be unpleasant. 
 
 The young woman with the over-firm mouth 
 drew back as the airman and his companion 
 passed her table, but her ej^es clung to the French 
 girl's face as though its winsomeness and purity 
 held the answer to her troubles. Swift as imag- 
 
 271
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ination itself, her mind leaped to France, pic- 
 turing a young fellow who, if he did come back 
 unmaimed, would have to begin all over again. 
 
 "Mother," she said, with hot resentment in her 
 voice, "I am entitled to my own life. I have 
 seen too many tragedies in material marriages 
 to dread one of love." 
 
 "You are a fool," said the other; and because 
 she was the stronger of the two, she prevailed. 
 
 The woman who looked as Louis did when he 
 caught a mouse turned on the Canadian boy, 
 who had followed Pippa with a far-away, dreamy 
 stare. 
 
 "What's the matter, dearie?" she queried, with 
 the tedious endearment of her class. 
 
 He brought himself from the reveries that had 
 strangely blended the French girl's face with the 
 faces of two other women across the sea; then 
 he looked into his companion's with its leering 
 comeliness. With a quick, decisive movement he 
 rose to his feet, and, feeling for his pocket-book, 
 placed a pound-note on the table. 
 
 "Pay for what we've had," he said, his jaw 
 stiffening, but his voice shaking oddly. 
 
 "What! aren't I going to see you again?" 
 
 272
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 He was going to speak, but changed his mind, 
 and, turning on his heel, strode from the place, 
 his spurs jingling with each step . . . and there 
 was something in his face that made people keep 
 silent as he passed. 
 
 XI 
 
 It lacked two hours of midnight when an aero- 
 plane crossed the Channel. 
 
 With his feet automatically guiding the rud- 
 der and his eyes keeping incessant watch on his 
 compass and the pulsating lights of landing 
 points showing like lighthouses at sea, the Black 
 Cat brought all his conscious mind to bear on 
 the events of the day. 
 
 In the whim of the moment, when the rain 
 was on the roof, he had suggested this adventure 
 to the little girl of the lonely mill-house ; and for 
 one daj' London had been hers. He had carried 
 out his plan. Her countless comments, some 
 childish, some strangely mature, were evidence 
 enough of her enjoyment. Then why, he ques- 
 tioned, was he experiencing a dull feeling of de- 
 pression, as the shadows beneath showed that 
 
 273
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 once more they were over France? To-morrow 
 he would have the zest of battle ; again he would 
 lead his squadron in the greatest sport of the 
 ages. . . . Then why this heaviness of spirit? 
 
 His mind relapsed into a musing mood that got 
 him no further in his introspective analysis ; and 
 his eyes, which had always been a reliable pair, 
 commenced playing odd tricks with him. Though 
 in the daytime he was used to seeing the earth 
 and the horizon, and thus establishing his esti- 
 mate of distance, he was relying that night almost 
 entirely on his sense of equilibrium, glancing only 
 occasionally at the instruments which would tell 
 him if he were not flying level. 
 
 It was the compass that first surprised him. 
 
 He was studying its sensitive needle when he 
 noted with some astonishment that the dial had 
 taken on the addition of two dark and most 
 expressive eyes, which proceeded to surround 
 themselves with the delicate features of a girl's 
 face, possessed of a brow that was sj)iritually 
 white, and dark hair that melted into the black- 
 ness of the night. 
 
 He shook his head and sought a light on the 
 ground, which, after the manner of "Winking 
 
 274
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 Willies," was showing long and short flashes like 
 Morse. To his amazement, the light became a 
 smile, which gradually developed into a most 
 alluring female face. If he had been in posses- 
 sion of his usual sense of the humorous, he would 
 have recalled that Lewis Carroll's cat appeared 
 to Alice in much the same way ; but his mind and 
 body were both in the clouds, a realm where 
 cats and humor are uninvited guests. 
 
 He next tried a star, which underwent the 
 same evolution. Even the moon was not proof 
 against the phenomenon. Once he half-closed his 
 eyes, but that was worse than ever. Everywhere 
 he looked, there was the same face — smiling, 
 pouting, coquetting, sympathizing, commiserat- 
 ing. 
 
 He tried whistling, but it offered no relief. 
 
 Behind him, nearly asleep, Pippa sat with 
 closed eyes. To her the solution was much more 
 simple. All day she had had her Prince by her 
 side, her arm in his, her fingers locked with his. 
 Therefore she was happy; also she was tired. 
 
 Not having any tiresome masculine mental 
 gyrations to perform in discovering a truth that 
 was so easily apparent, she accepted the situa- 
 
 275
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 tion with sentimental nonchalance, and falling 
 asleep, dreamed that the statue of Peter Pan in 
 Kensington Gardens had changed to that of the 
 Airy Prince (who, she thought, was ever so much 
 more handsome ) , and that she was sitting on the 
 grass admiring him, while rabbits played about 
 his feet. She was awakened from this delightful 
 dream by a sensation similar to that of falling off 
 a ladder in one's sleep ; but such is the penalty of 
 those who travel at night by air. 
 
 And, applying the laws of logic to the case, 
 when a young gentleman sees dark eyes and 
 curved lips in a compass, and a young woman 
 dreams that the citizens of London have erected 
 a monument to a young gentleman with a long 
 face and glow-worm eyebrows, it is reasonable 
 to suppose that they have fallen in love with 
 each other. 
 
 But strange things happen in the month of 
 April. 
 
 XII 
 
 She had just fallen asleep for the second time, 
 when the cessation of the engines woke her, and 
 
 276
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 a few moments later thev had descended in a 
 field adjoinino' his aerodrome. 
 
 He jumped from the pilot's seat and lifted her 
 out. "Quick, Pippa," he said. "They'll be here 
 in a few minutes for the machine. I had to land 
 here because that light was my only guide. Do 
 you see that heavy tree over there by the road? 
 Wait by it until I return with a motor-cycle. 
 Hurry, youngster; they're coming." 
 
 She did as he bade her, and took refuge in the 
 shadow of a huge tree, just as men's voices told 
 her the mechanics had come. The rolling of dis- 
 tant guns, like thunder echoing through cavern- 
 ous depths, traveled on the wings of the wind and 
 left her heart fluttering from a sudden contrac- 
 tion of pain. For one day, in the restful meadows 
 of England and in the fascination of the un- 
 manned City of Adventure, she had forgotten 
 France's agony. With the thought came a sud- 
 den bitterness. 
 
 Ten minutes later she heard him coming with 
 a motor-cycle, to which a side-car was attached. 
 She took her seat in the car, and he fastened the 
 rubber cover over her knees. Then, opening the 
 
 277
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 throttle, they sped through the night towards her 
 home. 
 
 It was just twenty minutes to twelve when 
 they reached the mill. Hurrying across the foot- 
 bridge which spanned the chute, she entered the 
 cottage and lit the lamp. 
 
 "Louis!" she cried. "Louis!" 
 
 That patient feline awoke from slumber and 
 stretched in the most blase manner ; but his little 
 mistress, gathering him in her arms, pressed her 
 cheek against his head, asking a dozen questions 
 at once, to which he deigned no reply other than 
 blinking into space and licking his chops, as 
 though the w^ays of women were beyond him, but 
 'twere best to let them have their own way. 
 
 The airman follow^ed her in. . . . The prevar- 
 icating clock continued its dilatory march of time. 
 Marshal Joffre was, if anything, more paternal 
 than before, and the geranium-colored table 
 cover lent its unsubtle glow to the scene. 
 
 "Good-by, Pippa," he said. 
 
 The girl stood motionless, and there was a quick 
 stab in her heart. She had known that this 
 moment would come, but had kept her thoughts 
 from it . . . and now ... he was going. . . . 
 
 278
 
 ■J) 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 Once more she would have only her little world 
 of make-believe. She released the cat from her 
 arms and turned her eyes away. 
 
 "You have been very kind, monsieur," she said. 
 
 He fingered his helmet absent-mindedly. "Did 
 you enjoy it?" he asked aimlessly. 
 
 "It was wonderful," she said quietly, still look- 
 ing into distance; "I have seen so much. This 
 morning I was just a little girl, but now " 
 
 His fingers ceased turning the helmet, and he 
 frowned at it intently. "We do not grow old 
 with years but by moments," he said. "For a, 
 long time one is a child; then there comes an 
 instant of suffering, or of love . . . and one is 
 no longer a child. That is all." 
 
 She slowly sank into a chair by the table, and, 
 folding her hands, appeared engrossed in the 
 table cover. "Your Majesty," she said, "do you 
 remember the poor lady with the violets?" 
 
 "Yes, Pippa." 
 
 "What did she say to you ?" 
 
 He smiled awkwardly. "It — it is rather hard 
 to explain, little one. She told me to — to take 
 care of you." 
 
 "Why did she say that?" she asked without 
 
 279
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 removing her eyes for a moment from the table. 
 
 "Well — perhaps you do not know this — but 
 men are sometimes very unkind to women." 
 
 "I know, monsieur. Simon Barit, he often 
 beats his wife." 
 
 He sat down on a chair opposite her. "There 
 are many more ways of being cruel than that," 
 he said. "Sometimes a kiss, or the gift of a flower, 
 is worse than a blow. Often, Pippa, men play 
 with women's hearts as — well, as Louis does with 
 a spool." 
 
 A shadow fell on her face. "I think I under- 
 stand, monsieur. That poor lady was afraid I 
 should fall in love with you, but that you would 
 not love me." 
 
 "That is partly what she meant." 
 
 Pippa rose and walked to the window. "To- 
 night I think," she said, after a minute's silence, 
 "that women have the most sorrow in life." 
 
 "They do, little one." 
 
 "But also the most joy, monsieur." 
 
 He rested his chin on his hand, but said nett- 
 ing. 
 
 "All to-day," resumed the girl, "when men 
 seemed happiest it was because they were with 
 
 280
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 women. Also when they looked most cruel — 
 you perhaps know what I mean — there were 
 women there too with the faces that frightened 
 me. And all those lovely children playing in the 
 park — always they seemed so merry because 
 their mothers were near them. But also, you re- 
 member the poor soldier in the chair? — no legs 
 and but one arm. His face was so sad until once 
 the lady with him — a nurse, you said — spoke to 
 him and he looked at her and smiled. It was 
 lovely, monsieur. I think I wept a little." 
 
 He made no comment, but his left hand ran 
 slow arpeggios on the table. From the window 
 she could see the water of the chute, all silvery 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 "So to-night, monsieur," she went on, "I am 
 not the same as this morning. Then I thought 
 that we who are women are the happiest; but 
 now I think, in the real world, it is we who give 
 pleasure or unhappiness. Perhaps, monsieur" — 
 she turned around and faced him — "perhaps a 
 woman finds joy only when she gives it to 
 others." 
 
 He looked at her, and his eyebrows were raised 
 in wonder. When he had said we grow old by 
 
 281
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 moments, was it more than just a well-turned 
 phrase? 
 
 She returned to her chair by the table. 
 
 "When Louis and I are alone," she murmured, 
 "I shall not dream the same as before. Then 
 we had only young people, brave and hand- 
 some, but now I shall pretend that there are 
 many old and sad ones, who perhaps will be 
 glad if I am with them. And " 
 
 "Pippa, my dear" — he looked into her eyes 
 that met his without timidity, and there was a 
 pleading note in his voice — "you may be lonely 
 here, but you saw to-day how many discouraged, 
 unhappy people there are — how much sickness 
 and unkindness there is. Keep to your little world 
 here with its Fairy Princes and the music of the 
 wind. It is better, Pippa. . . . Perhaps it is 
 even more real than the other." 
 
 She smiled, patiently, and, for the second time 
 that day, felt a motherly pity for his youth- 
 fulness. 
 
 "Your Majesty," she said, "in my book. The 
 Fairy Prince, the girl sings a song about love, 
 and she asks her mother, 'Est-ce plaisir, est-ce 
 tourment?" I know now that it is both. Ah! I 
 
 282
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 think it is too wonderful to be a woman; for some 
 day, perhaps yes, perhaps no, I shall have my 
 own children and a husband and friends. And 
 sometimes, when my husband, he is much discour- 
 aged if the mill makes no money, though he works 
 so hard, or if my children are perhaps sick and 
 cry — then it is I who smile and say: '3Ies 
 enf ants' — for he, too, will be only a big child — 
 'Mes enf ants, can you see the sunshine? Do you 
 hear the birds? Can you smell these flowers? — 
 So!' Et alors — perhaps they smile too. So I 
 sing a pretty song and say to my husband 'Cour- 
 age, mon ami! Have you not your little wife?' 
 And after that we are all happy. . . . And now, 
 that is why I think it is so wonderful to be a 
 woman." 
 
 The clock hiccoughed, and struck eight. 
 
 The airman looked at his watch. "By Jove, 
 it is midnight!" he said. "Pippa, our day is 
 over " 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes, and her hands groped 
 for his. "But no, monsieur," she cried, "you 
 must not go. It will be so lonely." 
 
 He leaned over and covered her little hands 
 
 283
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 with his large, tanned ones. "It will be lonely 
 for me as well," he said. 
 
 "But you will come back, Your Majesty? Per- 
 haps — next Easter?" 
 
 He gently stroked her hand. "On my honor," 
 he said, "I will come on the Tuesday at dawn. 
 You will be there?" 
 
 He released her hands as she slowly rose and 
 crossed once more to the window. 
 
 "At daybreak," she said very quietly, gazing 
 at the steely brilliance of the running water, "I 
 will watch from the hill. And if you do not 
 come, though I shall weep a little, I shall say, 
 'He is fighting, and could not leave for little 
 Pippa. Next year he will come.' " 
 
 "And supposing, little one, he does not come 
 the next year either?" 
 
 She leaned her arm against the window-pane 
 and rested her cheek on it. "I shall watch again 
 at dawn, monsieur" — the words were spoken 
 very slowly — "and I shall say, 'He is not com- 
 ing. . . . He has gone to be with his brothers 
 who went, out into the sunlight, smiling so 
 
 bravely ' " 
 
 284,
 
 THE AIRY PRINCE 
 
 Her words ended in a half-sob, and she pressed 
 her face with both hands. 
 
 "But every Easter," she said, her voice very 
 soft and trembling, "on the Tuesday I will watch 
 the dawn from the hill, and perhaps, monsieur, 
 you will see me." 
 
 He stood motionless for a moment, slowly 
 reached for her leather coat and helmet, and 
 placed them over his arm. "Good-by, Pippa," 
 he said, and he held out his hands. 
 
 Timidly, and with cheeks that went all white, 
 then crimson, she came towards him and raised 
 her face for him to kiss. For a moment he held 
 her in his arms, which quivered oddly. . . . Then, 
 stooping, he gently kissed her — not on the up- 
 turned, trembling lips, but on the cheek, just 
 beside her mouth. 
 
 Without a word he gently released her from 
 his arms, flung the door open and went out into 
 the night. 
 
 Motionless, with the burning memory of his 
 hot lips upon her cheek, she stood until the sound 
 of his footsteps was lost in the song of the chute. 
 Slowly her hands dropped to her side and she 
 sank into the chair by the table. The cat looked 
 
 285
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 up from the task of licking his paws, and sprang 
 upon her lap. 
 
 "Louis!" she cried, smothering him in an em- 
 brace that threatened to snufF out his nine lives 
 prematurely, while tears from her eyes fell glis- 
 tening on his fur. "Louis!"
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE OF NEW 
 YORK, SATIRIST 
 
 A RAW wind from the sea swept against the 
 mammoth building of the New York 
 Monthly Journal. The editor of that classic pub- 
 lication stretched his arms lazily, then crossed 
 to the rattling window and looked at Broadway, 
 far beneath. A few belated flakes of snow 
 mingled with the dust that eddied about in little 
 whirlpools of wind. Like gnomes, the people 
 hurried on in an endless diverging torrent of 
 humanity, slouch-hats of soldiers adding a 
 strangely Western effect to the usual bizarre 
 scene. 
 
 The telephone rang, and the editor, Mr. E. H. 
 Townsend, left the window to answer it. 
 
 "Yes?" he said. "Mr. Craighouse? Send him 
 right in." 
 
 He took from a drawer a box of notoriously 
 
 287
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 expensive cigars, and laid it on his desk. The 
 reasonings of Dr. Watson himself could hardly 
 have failed to deduce that the visitor was of some 
 importance. 
 
 A moment later a young man, in the uniform 
 of a United States officer, knocked, and, in re- 
 sponse to the invitation, entered the inner temple. 
 Mr. Townsend offered him the arm-chair, and 
 reached for the cigars. 
 
 "You look well in uniform," he said, after * 
 appropriate comments on the April weather had 
 been made by both. 
 
 "Thanks. I received your note this morning 
 asking me to call." 
 
 "Ah yes. By-the-by, you are sailing soon, I 
 believe?" 
 
 "Any time, now; naturally, we don't know to 
 a day." 
 
 "What branch of the Service are you with?" 
 
 "The Engineers." 
 
 The editor thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 "That is odd," he said. "Did you know anything 
 about engineering?" 
 
 "A little." The young man's voice was abrupt, 
 but not unmusical. His brain had always been 
 
 288
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 alert, and army training was making his voice 
 so. "I was a science grad. at Harvard." 
 
 The editor gazed out of the window again. 
 "You are a remarkable combination, Mr. Craig- 
 house," he said. "There is nothing more stifling 
 to the artistic nature than a purely scientific 
 training; in fact, the influence of this journal 
 has always been used against absolutely technical 
 schools. Almost the first requisite of any artist 
 is a keen appreciation of the intangible; science 
 deals only with things that can be proved. I 
 often nurse along a young writer if he is inco- 
 herent because, as frequently happens, his tem- 
 perament is greater than his technique. Scien- 
 tists always marshal their facts well, but they 
 never soar to the heights." 
 
 The editor tapped the window gently, the 
 young officer gazing quizzically at him the while. 
 They w^ere a strangely contrasted pair, the editor 
 in the autumn of life, with the calm voice and 
 bearing of one who has fastened routine to art, 
 and become jaded in the process; the young man 
 keenly alert, with eyes that never lost their rest- 
 lessness, and thin, satirical lips that mocked the 
 high forehead of a philosopher. 
 
 289
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "I am greatly interested in your writing," said 
 the editor, after rather a lengthy pause. 
 
 The officer smiled. "Is that why you rejected 
 my last two manuscripts?" 
 
 "Yes. Neither of them did you credit. Both 
 of them betrayed rather a nasty cynicism in your 
 style." 
 
 "I meant them for satire." 
 
 "Ah! there is a great difference. Cynicism 
 recoils on the cynic; satire is always delightful, 
 and is never offensive. However, I may say, in 
 spite of their faults, if you survive the war you 
 should become one of America's finest writers." 
 
 The young man flushed with pleasure. "Thanks 
 very much, Mr. Townsend." 
 
 "You have temperament and you have lan- 
 guage," went on the editor, "and, though your 
 emotions are artificial and your judgments too 
 impetuous, that is a natural condition of youth — 
 nature has to keep something to recompense us 
 for growing old. But you have big moments, 
 plus some most promising incoherency, as I said 
 before, and when that chaos becomes cosmos, the 
 world will acknowledge you. You have never 
 been to England before, have you?" 
 
 290
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 The officer shook his head, a little puzzled at 
 the abrupt descent from the abstract. 
 
 Mr. Townsend smoked reflectively for a full 
 minute. "England," he said slowly, "is the par- 
 adox of the ages. In America we have the pres- 
 ent and the future; England has the present and 
 the past — principally the past. Inefficiency is 
 often no bar to success there — as a matter of 
 fact, an Englishman dislikes appearing efficient 
 — but remember that the British Navy is the most 
 thorough organization in the world. I have often 
 thought that England's success in colonization 
 was largely due to her utter inability to under- 
 stand the temperament of the people she gov- 
 erned. Look at Canada. There was never an 
 Englishman who really appreciated the restless 
 independence of the Canadian ; yet, when the Old 
 Land goes to war, Canada sends and maintains 
 a mighty fine army corps to help her. Listen, 
 my boy. I want you to go to England with 
 your pores open; receive impressions and make 
 a note of them. I want a series of articles ex- 
 plaining England to America — not as it is being 
 done by those polished gentlemen who visit us 
 from London, but by an American for Ameri- 
 
 291
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 cans. Don't send me a description of the Strand, 
 or Westminster Abbey, or your thoughts on first 
 seeing the Thames. Go deep. I want a series 
 of articles that rise above journalism. I want 
 the psychology of England written up in a light 
 satirical vein by a clever man with red blood in 
 his veins. You will be there for some time, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Very likely, as we are the first of the van- 
 guard." 
 
 A half-hour later the young officer rose to go, 
 with a contract that promised him generous re- 
 muneration, in return for which he had agreed 
 to write ten articles on England. He stood, fac- 
 ing the older man, and smiled slightly. He had 
 removed his cap, and his black hair, struggling 
 into an unruly curl, combined with his dark, 
 brilliant eyes in an appearance of arresting 
 virility. 
 
 "You are very encouraging, Mr. Townsend," 
 he said. "I had no idea that an editor could be 
 so — so nearly human." 
 
 "My son," said the older man, "we are litera- 
 ture's midwives, toiling year in and year out in 
 
 292
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 the hope that some day we shall assist at the 
 
 birth of a masterpiece." 
 
 "But how is it that you don't write yourself?" 
 The editor shrugged his shoulders. "Why does 
 
 a hangman never commit a murder?" he said. 
 
 II 
 
 Three weeks later a great ocean liner, known 
 since the war as H.^I. Transport, Xo. — , drop- 
 ped gracefully down the river towards the open 
 sea. Craighouse, from the hurricane-deck, 
 watched the amazing silhouette of New York, 
 as her mighty buildings stood outlined against 
 the darkening skyline. From the wharf came 
 the strains of "The Star-Spangled Banner," and 
 hundreds of handkerchiefs fluttered in farewell. 
 
 A British cruiser was lying at anchor, and a 
 thousand bluejackets roared three mighty Brit- 
 ish cheers for the new crusaders. A bedlam of 
 shouting from the transport acknowledged the 
 compliment, and one American soldier, whose 
 constant attendance at baseball matches had pro- 
 duced stentorian qualities within him, boomed 
 out the words, "Good old Roast Beef!" 
 
 293
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Every one laughed. Why not? Men always 
 laugh readily when their emotions are playing 
 leapfrog with each other. 
 
 The strains of "The Star-Spangled Banner" 
 sounded fainter; the handkerchiefs were blurred 
 into a fluttering white cloud. A French battle- 
 ship lay a quarter of a mile from them. As they 
 passed it a bugle sounded on board, followed 
 by a salvo of cheers from the crew. Craighouse 
 noticed that the French cheers were a full third 
 higher in pitch than the British. 
 
 Another roar came from the transport, and all 
 eyes were turned towards the stentorian private. 
 He took a deep breath. 
 
 "Good old Froggy!" he bellowed, and two or 
 three soldiers laughed. To America, France is 
 the martyr of the ages, and there is a strange 
 sense of the feminine in the affection which the 
 Old World republic inspires in the New. Truly, 
 the ways of an extempore humorist are unhappy. 
 
 They passed the Battery, and, nearing the 
 open sea, received the blessing of the Statue of 
 Liberty extending her welcome to all that are 
 weary and discouraged. 
 
 Craighouse experienced a thrill of patriotism, 
 
 294
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 and, feeling that he must express it in language, 
 turned to his nearest neighbor, who happened 
 to be a British officer. "That's an inspiring 
 sight," he said. 
 
 "Which?" said the Englishman briefly. 
 
 "The Statue of Liberty," answered Craighouse 
 with the tone of a 4th of July orator. "That is 
 the spirit of America — equality for all, freedom 
 of thought and action, liberty for every one." 
 
 "Oh yes — splendid," commented the English- 
 man politely. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then, in 
 a burst of inexcusable chauvinism, Craighouse 
 said, "You haven't anything like that in Eng- 
 land, have you ?" 
 
 "No," said the English officer casually; "but 
 we had an army in France two weeks after war 
 was declared. I say, do come and have a drink. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Three months later the editor of the New 
 York Monthly Journal received a letter from 
 Craighouse. Adjusting his glasses, he settled 
 comfortably into his chair and read it. 
 
 295 
 
 j»
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "My deae Patron^ — I hope you have not 
 been disappointed at my lack of articles, but, to 
 be candid, I have not struck the proper mental 
 balance yet. 
 
 "England is delightful ; England is absurd. I 
 was on a bus yesterday, and the conductress gave 
 the signal to go ahead by hammering the side 
 with the fare-box. It fascinated me. Inci- 
 dentally, the girls have wonderful complexions 
 over here, but they do not dress as cleverly as 
 ours. I know you will say it is war-time, but 
 nothing is powerful enough to interfere with any- 
 thing so fundamental as a woman's clothes." ("A 
 bit labored, but quite good," muttered the edi- 
 tor.) 
 
 "The country, as you know, is like a garden, 
 with all a garden's charm and limitations. I don't 
 feel yet that I can take a deep breath. There 
 are woods ; but the trees seem to huddle together 
 for want of space, and one always feels that just 
 the other side of the woods there is a town or 
 a village. England is lovely, but I feel the lack 
 of immensity. To me, the whole effect is that 
 the country is complete; there is nothing more 
 to do. Everything that can be built has been 
 
 296
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 built." ("And well built, too," muttered Mr. 
 Townsend.) *'In fact, I don't see what there is 
 over here to employ to the full the brains, the 
 nerves, and the imagination of a full-blooded 
 homo. Again I return to the garden simile. Is 
 the task of maintenance big enough for the splen- 
 did specimens of manhood that England rears? 
 
 "I feel that there is something wrong with the 
 public-school system. Not that it is inefficient, 
 but rather that it is too thorough in its results. 
 Judging superficially, of course, it seems that the 
 public school ignores the fact that every one is 
 born an individual, and proceeds to produce a 
 type. To use a vulgarism, it is a high-class scho- 
 lastic sausage-machine. It takes in variegated 
 ingredients, and turns out uniformity of product. 
 It instructs the youth of the land in the manly 
 virtues of past ages, but appears to ignore the 
 .creative instinct. Public-school men are the 
 Greek chorus of England's national drama ; they 
 seldom provide either the di'amatist or the prin- 
 cipal actors. 
 
 "My biggest disappointment has been the 
 English stage. I know our 'playsmiths' are futile 
 enough, but we would never endure in New York 
 
 297
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 what is put on at many first-class London 
 theaters. At a time when her grandsons from 
 the four corners of the world are paying, in most 
 cases, their first visit to the Old Country, Eng- 
 land offers them the spectacle of a once classic 
 stage given over to inanity and vulgarity. Of 
 course, there are two or three producers who 
 still maintain a commendable standard of art, 
 but in the majority of first-class London theaters 
 one finds a coarseness of innuendo, an utter lack 
 of refinement, and an almost total elimination of 
 humor. In their musical shows the producers 
 still go in for the type of comedian known on 
 Broadway as 'hard-boiled' — the kind that car- 
 ries his own jests in a valise, and whose piece de 
 resistance is the word 'damn,' which seldom fails 
 to con^Tilse the audience. If I may coin a phrase, 
 I would say the aim of some London producers 
 is 'to be vulgar without being funny.'" ("I 
 wonder if that is original," observed the editor.) 
 "I like the restraint of the better English news- 
 papers, and there are still five or six monthly 
 journals that demand a high standard of writing 
 from their contributors. Some of the popular 
 English magazines, however, publish stories that 
 
 298
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 would hardly pass muster as a blushing school- 
 girl's first attempt at authorship. I remember 
 my mother used to say to me, 'Out of nothing, 
 nothing comes.' She had obviously never seen 
 one of these fiction magazines. 
 
 "Judging by the advertisements in these pub- 
 lications and in the society illustrated papers, I 
 would say that manufacturing women's under- 
 wear, or 'undies,' as they are coyly called, is the 
 greatest commercial industry here. The adver- 
 tisements state that an officer can send a lady 
 a complete set of these garments with his regi- 
 mental crest on them. I am still trying to gauge 
 the mental attitude of an officer who would do so. 
 
 "The political situation puzzles me. Lloyd 
 George looks like a mighty big man, but he has 
 to spend most of his time dodging snipers from 
 behind. Nero fiddled while Rome was burning, 
 but a certain section of the House of Commons 
 goes in for absolute symphonies while Britain is 
 locked in the death-grip with Germany. But she's 
 a dear old country, and her people are as brave 
 and cheery as in the days when she was ^Merrie 
 England, and not England of ^lany Sorrows. 
 . "To hear her people talk, you would think that 
 
 299
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 the Canadians and the Australians had done all 
 the fighting, and that the United States was the 
 savior of the world ; but I know there's hardly a 
 home in England or Scotland that hasn't lost a 
 son — and often the last son too. And when the 
 old families send their boys, it's right into the 
 trenches, not back on the lines of communica- 
 tion. 
 
 "There — you can see why I have not written 
 before. Incoherency alone is hardly sufficient. I 
 haven't seriously sorted my impressions as yet. 
 As you would say, the chaos has not yet become 
 cosmos. 
 
 "By-the-by, the British Navy mothered us 
 from the coast of Ireland like an eagle with her 
 young. 
 
 "Every one is most cordial, and invitations are 
 showered on us from every quarter. I'm going 
 to-morrow to visit the Earl of Lummersdale, who 
 seems to want to entertain a real, live American. 
 As I have six days' leave, I'm going to let him. 
 They tell me he comes of a very old family, so 
 look out for an article on the aristocracy. 
 
 "This letter is rambling most aimlessly. I 
 suppose you are bored to tears. Just a minute, 
 
 300
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 till I read over what I have written. . . . Yes — 
 I might add in my comments on the English 
 theater that a chap named Beecham is doing 
 opera in English, and it's pretty nearly the finest 
 opera I have ever heard. Then, of course, ^\irrie 
 produces a play every now and then, just to show 
 that he hasn't lost his genius of tenderness and 
 whimsical charm. 
 
 "Perhaps my visit to the Earl of Lummersdale 
 will crystallize some of my vagrant impressions. 
 Good-by, dear patron. — Faithfully yours, 
 Laavrence Ckaighouse ( Lt. ) , 
 c/o American Officers' Club, London. 
 
 "P. S. — We're working like beavers getting 
 things ready for the American Army which is 
 coming. It looks slow, but when Uncle Sam's 
 men are ready, Fritz is going to enjoy a real 
 avalanche. This, I promise you. 
 
 "L. C." 
 IV 
 
 One morning a south coast train contained a 
 first-class compartment which was shared by 
 Lieutenant Craighouse, U.S.A., and a timor- 
 ously proper gentleman who read the Times for 
 
 301
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 twenty minutes, and then stared at nothing very 
 intently — an art highly developed amongst those 
 who worship at the shrine of good form. 
 
 Craighouse was silent also for over an hour, 
 which was a feat of the first magnitude for him. 
 He was thinking of some official figures shown 
 to him, in confidence, a week past — figures 
 which gave the totals of England's manufacture 
 of munitions and guns, her construction of aero- 
 planes and tanks, her production of all the mi- 
 nutiae of war essentials, in quantities which his 
 brain could hardly grasp. 
 
 Judged by any standard, the achievement was 
 amazing. For a nation at peace it would have 
 been stupendous; but, in addition, this country 
 that amused Americans, this nation of obsolete 
 methods and lack of organization, had held the 
 seas open and frustrated Germany's plans on 
 land. He wondered if he had been a fool — if, 
 after all, the English were not the most efficient 
 race on earth. Just then an advertisement, con- 
 spicuously placed beside the mirror in the com- 
 partment, smote his eye, and he gasped. 
 
 "How many people ride in a carriage like this 
 in one day?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 302
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 The well-bred one cleared his throat and shook 
 his head. They had not been introduced; and, 
 besides, he didn't know. 
 
 "Ten, twenty, forty — say thirty?" said Craig- 
 house. 
 
 "Very probably — oh, yes — rather — quite." 
 The words were decorously languid. 
 
 "Thirty people a day," w^ent on Craighouse 
 rapidly; "say a thousand a month. In a year 
 that would mean, roughly — oh, put it at ten 
 thousand. Am I right?" 
 
 The Englishman shifted uneasily. "Very prob- 
 ably — oh yes — rather — quite." 
 
 "The war has been going on for three years." 
 The American was warming to his subject. 
 "Three years mean that approximately thirty 
 thousand passengers have traveled in this com- 
 partment since the beginning of the war, eh?" 
 
 His companion reached for his cigarettes. 
 "Very probabty," he said. "Oh yes — rath " 
 
 "How many of these carriages are in use?" 
 interrupted Craighouse. "Two hundred, four 
 hundred — say three hundred?" 
 
 "Very probably — oh yes " 
 
 "I may be short or long on that estimate, but 
 
 303
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 putting it at three hundred, this line has had 
 about — well, roughly, nine million first-class pas- 
 sengers. Is that correct?" 
 
 "Very pro " 
 
 "Then, great Scott! look at the advertisement 
 behind you, the most prominent one in the com- 
 partment. This line has had a chance to have a 
 heart-to-heart talk with nine million average, 
 well-to-do passengers. From the standpoint of 
 propaganda, figure out the national importance 
 of that. From the commercial point of view, 
 estimate the value of that space. And yet, after 
 three years of war, it says that the steamship 
 line from Newhaven to Dieppe is the shortest 
 route to Austria, south Germany, and Spain! 
 And it gives a map! Austria, south Germany, 
 
 and Spain! " The American's tirade ended 
 
 in a splutter of indignation. 
 
 The train stopped at a junction station, and 
 both men emerged, the Englishman proffering his 
 cigarettes. 
 
 "Thanks very much," said Craighouse, taking 
 one. "Good-morning." And he disappeared 
 into the crowd. 
 
 The Englishman paused to light his cigarette. 
 
 304
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 "What extraordinary people these Americans 
 are!" he said to himself — which recalls the well- 
 known saying of a Quaker to his wife, "Every 
 one is queer but thee and me; and thou beest a 
 little queer." 
 
 When one passed the lodge which guarded the 
 entrance to the Lummersdale estate, all sense of 
 present-day responsibilities fell away like a 
 cloak. Decades made no impression upon Oak- 
 lands ; centuries very little. The family was sur- 
 rounded by traditions; the past pointed the way 
 to each succeeding generation, as sign-posts di- 
 rect itinerant motor-cars upon their course. A 
 Limmiersdale never was forced to plan his own 
 future, and there is no record of one ever having 
 done so. Whoever bore the proud title felt that 
 his children did not really belong to him ; he was 
 but a pruner, and they were branches to be 
 trimmed to an absolute uniformity. A Lummers- 
 dale must resemble nothing so much as a Lum- 
 mersdale; the associations of Oaklands and a 
 judicious period spent at a public school suc- 
 
 305
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 ceeded admirably in eiFecting the required stand- 
 ardization. 
 
 To this home Lieutenant Craighouse, of the 
 U.S.A. Engineers, brought his ultra-modern and 
 Western Hemispheric personality. Like all men 
 born in a republic, he had instinctive leanings 
 towards Socialism; like most men of artistic 
 tastes, he was distinctly susceptible to luxury. 
 He snorted disapprovingly when the castle-like 
 turrets of Oaklands appeared, but he drank in 
 the green of the lawns and the colors of the 
 flowers like a desert traveler who finds a pool in 
 his path. 
 
 The earl and his lady welcomed him with 
 simple dignity, spoke of the pleasure it aff'orded 
 them to entertain an American officer; and the 
 butler then took charge of him. Craighouse 
 made a facetious remark to that gentleman as 
 they went upstairs, but received no encourage- 
 ment. Within the precincts of his chamber he 
 made another attempt with creditable bonhomie, 
 but Mr. Watkins's reply was not stimulating. 
 
 "Your bath, sir, is next door, and will be 
 ready for you immediately. The family break- 
 fasts at nine; lunch is at one-thirty, tea at five; 
 
 306
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 and dinner is served at eight-fifteen. The gong 
 is sounded, and the family assem])les in the sa- 
 loon."* Whereupon, with an air of deferential 
 superiority, Mr. Watkins cruised from the room 
 with no apparent physical effort whatever. 
 
 Luncheon produced Second Lieutenant Vis- 
 count Oaklands, the twenty-year-old son and 
 heir, who was leaving that afternoon to join the 
 — th Horse Guards in France. He was of good 
 athletic physique, and had a high, clear com- 
 plexion which spoke not only of an out-of-door 
 life, but a clean one as well. He was rather 
 languid, and, in an amiable, impersonal way, 
 appeared somewhat bored. The second son, on 
 three days' leave from Dartmouth, was two years 
 younger, but differed very little from the vis- 
 count in any other respect. 
 
 There was also a daughter. (Craighouse 
 knew instinctively that, if the countess had been 
 enumerating her family, she would have said, "I 
 also have a daughter.") She was apparently 
 twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, pos- 
 sessed of an exquisite skin, eyes which were both 
 blue and deep, and a golden luxury of hair. With 
 all these fundamentals of feminine beauty, her 
 
 307
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 appearance was rather disappointing — a lack of 
 animation in the eyes, a stolidity about the mouth. 
 Craighouse felt, like Pygmalion, that if this statue 
 could only come to life she would be irresistible. 
 
 The conversation at lunch consisted of flatter- 
 ing questions about America's preparations — 
 questions to which Craighouse, who was never an 
 economist in words, did full justice. They all 
 said that it was perfectly splendid of America 
 to come into the war; in fact, they didn't know 
 what Britain would have done without her. 
 
 "I know," blurted Craighouse. "She'd have 
 gone on fighting until every family was drained 
 to the last man; and, by Jove! I believe the 
 women would have carried on then. America 
 is going to make victory possible, thank God! 
 but England never would have been beaten." 
 
 He stopped, surprised at his own vehemence. 
 The Earl of Lummersdale protested that he 
 was too generous. The countess echoed her hus- 
 band's opinion. The sub and naval cadet sons 
 supported their parents' protests languidly. The 
 daughter, in acknowledged order of precedence, 
 ended the chorus by the statement that it was 
 ripping of him to say so. Had they been dis- 
 
 308
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 cussing the commentaries of Csesar they could 
 not have shown less enthusiasm. Craighouse pic- 
 tured a similar situation at home if an English 
 officer had paid a corresponding compliment. He 
 had not learned as yet that carrying emotional 
 moderation to excess is part of the English 
 paradox. 
 
 At four that afternoon a trap drove up to the 
 door, and the kit of Viscount Oaklands appeared 
 followed a moment later by that young gentle- 
 man himself. He kissed his mother, and gave his 
 sister a half-embrace; then he shook hands with 
 his paternal progenitor, and nodded to his 
 younger brother. 
 
 "Good-by, old man," he said, shaking hands 
 with Craighouse. "Look me up if you ever get 
 near the regiment, won't you?" 
 
 For a few minutes every one spoke of the 
 military situation, the delightful fellow-officers 
 he would have, and other things which well-bred 
 people talk of. Amidst all this the trap started, 
 then stopped at a sign from the viscount. 
 
 "I say, dad." 
 
 "Yes, Douglas?" 
 
 "Do tell Edwards to see that the hounds get 
 
 309
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 some exercise this week. — Cheer-o, mater!" And 
 thus the eldest son and heir to Oaklands, which 
 he was never to see again, went to the war. 
 
 VI 
 
 Dazed at the bloodlessness of the scene, feeling 
 his heart torn by the apparent lack of depth in 
 the most primeval of all emotions, the parent 
 love, Craighouse strolled away, to find that the 
 daughter was by his side. 
 
 "You will miss your brother," he said. 
 
 "We shall," she said; "though, as a matter of 
 fact, I haven't seen much of Douglas the last 
 three or four years." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "Oh, he was at Eton, and only home during 
 the holidays. I was always away at those times ; 
 and, of course, he's been training for the last 
 year." 
 
 "He is joining the Horse Guards?" 
 
 "Yes. The eldest son always goes into the 
 army until he succeeds to the title." 
 
 "And the second son?" 
 
 310
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 "The navy." 
 
 A smile lurked in the corners of his mouth. 
 "Supposing the second son proved a bad sailor, 
 what then?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose he 
 would stay on shore, and probably go to the 
 devil." 
 
 He stooped to pick a blade of grass, and 
 munched it meditatively. "And what happens 
 to the girls?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 Her lips, which were like pomegranates^ 
 straightened into a line. "The girls are not of 
 great account," she said, a note of suppressed 
 tension in her voice, which he quite failed to 
 note. "We are educated in a sort of a way, in- 
 troduced to the arts, but not allowed to pursue 
 the acquaintanceship; then we marry — if at all 
 — some one of our set and everybody says, 
 'Didn't she do well to get him?' " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 Again she made a pretty shrug with her 
 shoulders. "Then we move into our new homes, 
 which are much the same as the old ones, and 
 we bring up a family of descendants for our 
 husbands. When the husband dies, the eldest 
 
 311
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 male child takes over the estate, and his wife 
 rules in the mother's place." 
 
 "And she leaves, in her declining years, the 
 home which, naturally, she has grown to love?" 
 
 "Yes. Why not?" 
 
 For several moments neither spoke. Always 
 hasty in its judgments, his brain was fired with 
 a rankling sense of injustice. He thought he 
 saw the explanation of the bloodless good-by 
 to the viscount. The mental inertia of the sons 
 and the emotional placidity of the girl were nat- 
 ural consequences of a hereditary system which 
 dulled personalities and drove initiative into the 
 scrap-heap of tradition. It was monstrous that 
 one's future and entity should be planned like 
 the life of a hot-house plant; it was no longer a 
 puzzle to him that England's real leaders and 
 thinkers sprang from obscurity. He thanked 
 "whatever gods there be" that he was born in a 
 country which had only one tradition — that it 
 once rebelled against the past. 
 
 He turned towards the girl and gazed argu- 
 mentativel}^ into her very deep and very blue 
 eyes; then he gasped, and a far-away look crept 
 into his own dark, restless ones. 
 
 312
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 "Galatea/' he said, "is coming to life." 
 
 Subconsciously she had caught his spirit of 
 resentment, and, being a woman, she thrilled to 
 the sense of rebellion in his nature. With the 
 unlocking of her emotions had come the sparkle 
 in the blue depths of her eyes, and the anima- 
 tion which had lit at once the dormant radiancy 
 of her beauty — and his sudden admiration. In 
 addition — though none was needed — the mellow- 
 ing sun lingered on her hair till it seemed hke 
 strands of gold. 
 
 "You look like a wild rose," he said irrele- 
 vantly, then dashed on into a sea of words. "Are 
 you content with this ? Do you never feel a divine 
 restlessness in your nature, urging you to be the 
 architect of your own fate? Are you satisfied to 
 be a mere link in the chain of generations ? Surely 
 the individualistic instinct is not dead in this 
 country?" 
 
 He paused, rather astonished, but quite pleased 
 with his burst of oratory. 
 
 "What would you have me do?" 
 
 "Anything — everything that expresses your 
 own personality. Be yourself, and get away 
 from type." 
 
 313
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "I have done a little." 
 
 "What? Appeared in a few charity tahleauoff 
 vivants? Posed for your photo in the Sketch as 
 a woman interested in war work?" 
 
 "I am sorry," she said demurely, "that you 
 disapprove of me." 
 
 "Great Scott!" he said, thrusting his hands 
 into his pockets with an air of defiance, "you are 
 one of the most charming women I've ever seen." 
 He drew himself up to his full height. "But be- 
 fore I succumb to the beauty of these surround- 
 ings and the — the — loveliest " 
 
 "Yes? Please don't hesitate." 
 
 "You are mocking me." 
 
 "Not at all, Don Quixote. Only why shy at 
 the windmill?" 
 
 He surveyed her carefully with his head cocked 
 to one side. "I believe you have a sense of 
 humor," he said. 
 
 "The daughter of an earl humorous?" She 
 laughed gaily, and her beauty was exceedingly 
 good to look upon. 
 
 An uncomfortable feeling crept into the mind 
 of Lawrence Craighouse, officer and satirist, that, 
 though armed with the broadsword of masculine 
 
 314
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 self-assurance, he was being beaten by the sti- 
 letto of feminism. His embarrassment, however, 
 was broken by the approach of a servant. 
 
 "Pardon me/' said Lady Dorothy. "It's the 
 mail." 
 
 She took from the salver a letter, which bore 
 the stamp of the Red Cross, and opened it. 
 
 "I am so glad," she said, looking up at him; 
 **I have been accepted for France." 
 
 "As what?" 
 
 "As a V.A.D., my dear knight. I have been 
 one for two years." 
 
 He began to think that his broadsword was 
 decidedly worsted, but he made one final and 
 thoroughly masculine attempt to retain the pos- 
 ture of superiority. 
 
 "I supposed you soothed a great many con- 
 valescent and gallant lieutenants?" he said airily. 
 It was a lamentable attempt, but he felt a sud- 
 den jealously of all wounded subalterns. 
 
 She pirouetted daintily. 
 
 "I was in a Tommies' hospital," she said; "and 
 when I wasn't scrubbing floors I was waiting on 
 the nurses at table — and you have no idea what 
 cats some of them were." 
 
 315
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Whereupon Lawrence Craighouse of New 
 York handed over his sword and surrendered 
 unconditionally. 
 
 VII 
 
 Three days later Craighouse wrote another 
 letter to Mr. Townsend. That gentleman read it 
 with great interest, and noted particularly these 
 passages: "They have a library, but nearly 
 every book I have opened has uncut pages." 
 "The daughter, Lady Dorothy Oaklands by 
 name, is quite good-looking, but mentally and 
 emotionally she is asleep." "The old boy showed 
 me the portraits of his ancestors this morning. 
 I made the mistake of asking what each one did. 
 It appears that they merely were/' "I am try- 
 ing an experiment in feminine psychology — I 
 am acting Pygmalion to Lady Dorothy's Gala- 
 tea." "The earl appears to be veiy rich, but 
 quite respectable." "We had some titled women 
 to lunch to-day. I have at last found out what 
 countesses talk about — how to secure exemption 
 for their gardeners. It has quite done away with 
 the former vice of gossip." "Lady Dorothy 
 
 316
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 plays the piano rather nicely, but with no soul." 
 "Have I mentioned the daughter, Lady Doro- 
 thj^? She is refreshingly beautiful at times." "I 
 do like the speaking voices of English women 
 when they are not putting on side. Lady Doro- 
 thy has a contralto lilt in her voice that is rather 
 pleasing." "Dinner is a tremendous affair. A 
 prune may constitute a course, but nothing re- 
 duces the ritual performed bj' the high priest 
 and his assistant." 
 
 That evening Mr. Townsend looked over the 
 table at his wife. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "what happens when an 
 American young man falls in love with the 
 daughter of an English earl?" 
 
 "Why, both families object, naturally," said 
 the companion of his joys and sorrows. 
 
 VIII 
 
 It was the last evening before his departure, 
 and Lady Dorothy had played for him for an 
 hour; played little melodies from La Bolieme, 
 lesser gems from Cliu Chin Cliow, and twice had 
 explored the delightful memories of Gilbert and 
 
 317
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 Sullivan. Once he sang very softl}^ to her ac- 
 companiment, and when they finished she turned 
 abruptly to him. 
 
 "You have a voice," she said. 
 
 "You play beautifully," he answered. 
 
 "It is easy to play when an artist is listening." 
 
 "Have you found that, too?" 
 
 She turned to the piano and softly fingered 
 the opening strains of Rudolpho's aria in the 
 first act of La Boheme. 
 
 "It is just a matter of personality," he said 
 softly. "One woman chokes a man's artistry; 
 another reveals the heights which are in his soul. 
 I suppose it is the same with men?" 
 
 She played on in silence for a few moments, 
 then murmured, "What happened to the statue 
 when it came to life?" 
 
 "You mean Galatea?" 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 "I don't know," he said pensively. "I have 
 quite forgotten the ending." 
 
 She went on playing, and in the soothing light 
 of the music-room she made a picture that lin- 
 gered for months in his memory. 
 
 318
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 "Some day I will tell you," she said suddenly. 
 "Here are mother and dad." 
 
 That night, while in the act of disrobing, he 
 heard the calm knock of Mr. Watkins at his door. 
 
 "Come in," he said. "I am going at seven to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 Mr. Watkins carefully placed a pitcher of hot 
 water on the stand. 
 
 "Are you married, Watkins?" 
 
 The butler considered deferentially. "No, sir," 
 he said, after mature reflection. 
 
 "You ought to be," said the American. 
 
 The butler carefully drew the window-curtains 
 together. "Are you, sir?" 
 
 "No," said Craighouse with great energy; "but 
 when I do marry it will be with some girl born 
 in the United States of America." 
 
 Mr. Watkins drifted towards the door. "Your 
 bath will be ready at six, and breakfast at six- 
 thirty," he said. 
 
 What Mr. Watkins had taken for persiflage 
 was in reality another American declaration of 
 independence. 
 
 319
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 IX 
 
 It was late in March, 1918, that two American 
 officers sat by the side of a road in France and 
 watched a stream of refugees go by in an endless 
 pageant of misery. Old men crawled along on 
 bleeding, ill-shod feet; women were carrying 
 grotesque bundles and leading absurd ponies that 
 drew household goods on rickety carts ; and there 
 were girls, half-w^omen, who bore infants in their 
 arms, and who looked neither to right nor left, 
 but followed on in mute fatigue and tearless 
 agony. 
 
 Craighouse, who wore the badges of a captain, 
 swore softly to himself. His companion bit his 
 lip. 
 
 "I hear the Germans are smashing through 
 everywhere," said the latter. 
 
 "God! I wonder if we have been too late." 
 
 Several ambulances passed in rapid succession, 
 their bandaged and bleeding occupants lying 
 crowded together. 
 
 A girl, less than eighteen years of age, dropped 
 to the ground opposite to them. In a bound 
 
 320
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 Craighouse was by her side and had hfted her to 
 her feet. For a moment his strong hands gripped 
 her arms tenaciously as though he would trans- 
 mit some of his strength to her. 
 
 Without a word, without a look at him, she 
 freed herself and staggered on, her face livid 
 except where a slight flush showed beneath the 
 black hollows of her eyes. 
 
 Craighouse went back to the other officer, but 
 his face was gray and drawn, while his clenched 
 fists drove the nails into his palms. His com- 
 panion cursed blasphemously. 
 
 The roar of the guns grew louder, like a storm 
 that is driven on the wings of a hurricane. They 
 heard the snorting of engines behind them, and 
 looking quickly, they saw a long line of JLondon 
 omnibuses crowded with English soldiers. They 
 were shouting encouragement to the refugees, 
 and waved gaily as thej^ passed the Americans. 
 
 "Those chaps will be in action in an hour," 
 said Craighouse, and swallowed noticeably. 
 "Simpson," he went on, "do you realize that it's 
 little England who has kept this thing from us 
 for three and a half years? It's England who 
 stood by her word; and now that she's drained 
 
 321
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 of her men and boys, she doesn't reproach Rus- 
 sia for letting her down; she hasn't uttered a 
 word of impatience for our slow arrival — asking 
 nothing for herself, blaming no one. It's little 
 England who is gathering the spear-points into 
 her breast that your children and mine may live 
 like human beings!" 
 
 His companion rose to his feet, and his jaw 
 stiffened ominously. He felt for his revolver- 
 holster and adjusted his haversack. 
 
 "Tell the O.C. I've deserted," he said grimly. 
 *'I'm going up the line to join the first bunch 
 that'll take me. There's some vermin up there 
 that I reckon need exterminating." 
 
 Craighouse muttered something about discip- 
 line. 
 
 "To hell with discipline!" said Lieutenant 
 Simpson, ex -mining engineer of Colorado. "I'm 
 going " 
 
 A corporal had halted before them and saluted. 
 "O.C.'s compliments," he said tersely, "and the 
 company is to go up the line as auxiliary in- 
 fantry. Parade falling in now, sir. We move off 
 in an hour." 
 
 When the officers reached their headquarters 
 
 322
 
 / 
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 they found a scene of bustling activity. Gas- 
 masks were being inspected, ammunition sup- 
 plied, first-aid packages given out where they 
 had been lost, rifles cleaned and inspected, and 
 all the accouterments of war checked and short- 
 ages replaced. 
 
 Craighouse strode up to his section, ignoring 
 the sergeant's salute. "We're going into this 
 scrap," he said quietly, though his voice vibrated 
 oddly, "and I want every mother's son of you 
 to see red. There's a girl out on that road who 
 is dying of fever, and its fear of the Hun that 
 is driving her on, and before night she'll be lying 
 dead by the side of the road. She's somebody's 
 daughter — somebody's sister — and, by Heaven, 
 we'll make the Hun pay for it! What do you 
 say, you Yankee sons o' guns?" 
 
 They cheered him to the echo, and some of 
 them swore, and some of them laughed (but the 
 laugh had a cruel ring in it), and some of them 
 felt the salt tears stinging their eyes — but every 
 one saw red. 
 
 Craighouse slowly walked over to his hut to 
 superintend the packing of his own things. In 
 his heart was a great exaltation and a mad love 
 
 323
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 for the men who looked to him for leadership. In 
 the seclusion of his hut he did what he had not 
 done for years. He knelt for a moment by the 
 side of his kit and prayed that he might quit 
 himself like a man. 
 
 There are moments in war when men's very 
 souls are touched by a nobility, by a compassion, 
 by a reverence that rises above all creeds. Out 
 of the depths they have risen to heights supernal. 
 
 X 
 
 In a private ward at Abbeville an American 
 officer lay in great pain, and tossed restlessly in 
 a delirium of fever. A young woman in the uni- 
 form of a V.A.D. watched by his side, and, 
 sponging his palms and forehead, sought to 
 soothe him with a gentleness and a tenderness 
 that a mother would show to her child. The 
 man was badly wounded in chest and leg, and 
 exposure had brought a fever to torment his 
 sufferings. Once he sat up and glared wildly 
 at her. 
 
 "Did the guns get away?" he cried. "Did they 
 get away?" 
 
 324
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 "Hush!" she said softly. "You must not talk. 
 You are very ill." 
 
 He sank back on the pillows and laughed. 
 "There's a girl lying dead on the road," he said; 
 "but there's a crowd of Huns this morning who 
 are answering the roll-call in hell." 
 
 He was silent for several minutes, then 
 frowned heavily. "Look here," he said sternly, 
 "I wish you would stop driving nails into my 
 knee. Who do you think I am — Hindenburg?" 
 
 He laughed again, then gi'oaned, and great 
 drops of perspiration stood out on his brow. The 
 woman ministered to him with the gentle firm- 
 ness of her sex that rises to its best when face 
 to face with suffering. She smoothed his pillows 
 and shifted his position so that he might not irri- 
 tate his wounds; and, as if soothed by her pres- 
 ence, he sighed weakly and broke into a little 
 negro melody : 
 
 "All dat I got on de whole plantation, 
 All dat I got in de whole creation, 
 In de big roun' worl' or de deep-blue skies, 
 Is dat fat li'l feller wid his mammy's eyes, 
 Li'l feller wid his mammy's eyes." 
 
 325
 
 \ 
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 His voice was very low and soft. Then he 
 suddenly sat up in bed and pointed past her. 
 "Look!" he cried. "The cavalry! The cavalry! 
 By Heaven, how they ride ! Look at that officer ! 
 Great Scott! it's Oaklands! — Good old Oak- 
 lands! — Come on, men — one last fight! — Get 
 those guns away — d' you hear? Get those guns 
 away — now!" 
 
 Weak from the effort he had made, he sank 
 back with a moan; and the woman stroked his 
 brow, and kept back the tears which welled to her 
 eyes. For half-an-hour he did not speak; then 
 he went through the pantomime of lighting a 
 cigarette. 
 
 "The reason I can't marry her," he said ab- 
 ruptly, "is the same reason that East is East and 
 West is West. What can I offer her? She can't 
 dress on two manuscripts a month; and, besides, 
 she knows nothing of building bridges. If I made 
 a great success I might come to her, but — 
 as I am now — no — no." He solemnly shook 
 his head and flicked the ash from the imaginary 
 cigarette. "Can you picture Lady Dorothy in a 
 pretty little cottage outside New York, helping 
 
 326
 
 / 
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 me to write — my constant inspiration — the 
 mother of my children? Can you picture her 
 sharing my discouragements; telling me I can 
 write if the whole world says I cannot; believing 
 in me when I've lost belief in myself? Can you 
 see her motoring into New York with me, and 
 the two of us dining at Rector's to celebrate the 
 acceptance of a play? Would she be happy in 
 such a life? No — no — no; as Euclid says, it 
 'is absurd.' By the way, my dear fellow, you 
 might shift the grand piano, will you? It is 
 resting on my knee." 
 
 His voice trailed into silence, and he sank 
 into a slumber. Twilight was throwing its cloak 
 over the earth when he spoke again. His hand 
 reached out, and she took it in both of hers. 
 
 "I thought I was dying," he murmured. "I 
 think I should have died there — in that ditch — 
 but Dorothy — Dorothy — was beside me. . . . 
 She held my hand when everything went dark — 
 she wept a little. ... It was only a dream, I 
 know; but I lived. She must never know I loved 
 her — because " 
 
 "Lawrence!" The word was low and stifled. 
 
 327
 
 \ 
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 * 'Lawrence" — that was all. Then she leaned 
 over and kissed his lips. 
 Galatea had come to life. 
 
 XI 
 
 The first darkening shadows of an August 
 night crept over the lawns of Oaklands, and set- 
 tled about the turrets of the house like a mist. 
 Inside, in the music-room, a pale American offi- 
 cer was telling some story — a story that kept 
 his listeners silent and made the distant cry of 
 a hawk sound strangely eerie and loud. He had 
 three auditors — an elderly man, who had an un- 
 lit cigarette in his fingers; a woman, with gray 
 locks, who sat, motionless, with folded hands; 
 and a young woman, whose brown hair was like 
 gold, and in whose deep -blue eyes there was a 
 mingled look of pain and love. 
 
 "We knew when dawn broke," went on the 
 American, "that we were outflanked, and we 
 tried to get the guns away; but the Huns saw 
 our move, and came at us with bayonets. We 
 formed a line in front of the guns, Scots and 
 Englishmen, and the few of our fellows who were 
 
 328
 
 f 
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 left, and we did our best to give the gunners 
 a chance, but they were on us too soon. Every- 
 thing looked over, when we heard the cavalry 
 coming. God! how our men shouted as they 
 saw the squadron — that is all there were — bear 
 down on the Germans! Their officer seemed to 
 bear a charmed life, for he thrust and cut like 
 a demon, while his commands rang out above 
 the whole shock and crash of the fight. The 
 Germans fell back, and this officer wheeled about, 
 shouting instructions for the guns and rallying 
 his men. For the first time I saw his face as 
 he rode up to me. It was your boy." 
 
 There was a deathly silence for a moment, 
 unbroken by a sound from his hearers, though 
 a solitary tear fell slowly on the older woman's 
 cheek. 
 
 "We contrived to get the guns started back, 
 and we retreated to a sunken road which gave 
 us protection. It was on the way there that I 
 was shot in the knee, but managed to keep up, 
 when a shell lit between two guns and killed 
 some of the horses. We had to leave them, and 
 went on; but a few minutes later we heard a 
 shout. The Germans were surging about the 
 
 329
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 guns, and the little group of cavalry had turned 
 and charged right into the center of them. I was 
 hit again, and dropped; but Simpson, one of our 
 officers from Colorado, led our men back to their 
 assistance, and they fought till only Simpson 
 and eight others were left. Then he fell dead 
 beside the body of your lad who had led the cav- 
 alry." 
 
 There was a long silence, broken finally by 
 the voice of the older woman. "I am glad that 
 Douglas died bravely," she said, and her voice 
 was low and calm, "and I am proud that he lies 
 in France beside a very gallant American gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 As if by mutual consent, every one rose, and 
 the two women left the room together. 
 
 The old nobleman stood by the fireplace and 
 gazed at the undulating lawns that showed from 
 the windows in the deepening shroud of night. 
 "It was good of you to tell us that," he said; "it 
 will make my wife's sorrow more easy to bear." 
 He walked slowly to a window and passed his 
 hand wearily over his brow. "Sometime," he 
 went on gently, "I must show you his room. We 
 are keeping it just as it was." 
 
 330
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 Craigliouse said nothing, but in his heart was 
 a great understanding. 
 
 The first silver rays of the moon were dancing 
 on the grass, when the earl spoke again. "It is 
 hard for my wife," he said; "but she will be 
 proud to know that she gave everything she had 
 for — for England." 
 
 The American's heart sank. "Everything?" 
 he stammered. "You mean " 
 
 The older man's head was bowed with the 
 simple dignity of his grief. "I have not told 
 her yet," he said, "but I received an Admiralty 
 message to-day that my second son's destroyer 
 has gone down. He is reported 'missing.' ** 
 
 XII 
 
 It was nearly an hour later, when Qraighouse 
 was wandering about the lawns in the glistening 
 moonlight, that he heard the rustle of skirts be- 
 hind him. It was Lady Dorothy, and her ej'es 
 were shining like twin-stars. 
 
 "I thought you would be here," she said. "It 
 is a night that draws one to it." 
 
 331
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 "It is a night for memories," he said quietly. 
 "What bitter-sweet things they have become since 
 we had war!" 
 
 "Yes;" and she sighed. 
 
 For a little time they spoke of the sorrows 
 and the tragedies of their world; they talked of 
 Oaklands, which would pass from her family be- 
 cause there was no heir; they played on the 
 minor chords of life, and in their voices the mel- 
 ancholy elegy for beautiful things that had died 
 found expression in their hushed and murmuring 
 tones. 
 
 But they were young, and in the heart of 
 youth there is always Spring; and the witchery 
 of a moonlight night was calling to it. The 
 minor strains trembled into silence, and the mel- 
 ody of hearts that are young took its place. She 
 had deep -blue eyes that were never meant for 
 tears, and he had a nature that responded to the 
 beauty of life as an ^olian harp to the moods of 
 the wind. 
 
 As men and maids have done for generations, 
 they talked of themselves. (A dangerous topic 
 when the moon is making fairy-rings upon the 
 grass.) They traced their friendship from his 
 
 332
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 first visit, and lightly touched on the wearj'- hours 
 when she watched by his bedside in France. They 
 laughed, they sighed, and once their fingers 
 touched by accident, and he felt a thrill as the 
 hot blood rushed to his cheeks. He experienced 
 a sudden resentment against her wild-rose color- 
 ing, the marble fullness of her throat, and the 
 luxury of silky, brown hair which held a vagrant 
 moonbeam in a lingering caress. It was a pro- 
 test of the brain to the senses against the allure- 
 ment of beauty. 
 
 "We must never meet again," he said severely. 
 
 "You are right," she answered wistfully, and 
 something like a smile lurked mischievouslv in 
 the corners of her mouth. The moon plays 
 havoc with men, but lends great discernment to 
 the daughters of earth. 
 
 Another half-hour passed, full of words that 
 meant so little and silences that meant so much. 
 Then, with a quick contraction of his shoulders 
 and a deepening frown, he turned and faced her 
 squarely. 
 
 "I came to your home," he said, "to gather 
 material for satire. I found it in your parents — 
 in your brothers — in you. In my room are ten 
 
 333
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 completed articles which I am going to send to 
 New York. They are my impressions of the 
 English. They will be published as the psychol- 
 ogy of England studied under the microscope 
 of a satirist." 
 
 "And I form one of your satirical studies?" 
 
 "Yes. I referred to you as Galatea, and to 
 myself as Pygmalion. You supply the feminine 
 interest which is so necessary. I pictured you 
 as a statue amidst stifling conventionality, and 
 I was the artist who tried to bring you to 
 life." 
 
 "With what success?" 
 
 He thrust his hands into his pockets, and his 
 shoulders drooped listlessly. "The artist," he 
 said, "fell in love with her the moment the marble 
 t became human. He was a fool." 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said gently; and for a 
 brief moment — a very brief moment — her hand 
 rested in his. Whereupon the moon was con- 
 strained to disappear behind a cloud to hide her 
 smile. "And what happened to her?" 
 
 "Oh," he said, "being a woman, she decided to 
 torture Pygmalion. She came out on the lawn 
 at night with him, and, by the music of her 
 
 334
 
 / 
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 voice and the charm of her beautv, inflicted an 
 hour's exquisite pain. I am like a man," he said, 
 with an abrupt descent from the impersonal, "who 
 knows that on the morrow he will be stricken 
 with blindness, and is looking for the last time 
 on a sunset." Whereupon Captain Craighouse 
 sighed like the classic furnace, and Lady Doro- 
 thy Oaklands smiled again, though her eyes were 
 glistening with a mysterious dew. "To-morrow 
 morning," he went on, "the sculptor, sometimes 
 known as Don Quixote, is going away to forget 
 about the statue. It is the only thing he can do." 
 
 Her eyes were lowered to the ground. "The 
 woman — Galatea," she murmured — "she just 
 forgets, I suppose?" 
 
 "Women forget easily," he said, and thought 
 he spoke the truth. 
 
 "Listen," she said, and her voice was so soft 
 that he could just make out the half-whispered 
 words; "let me tell you the real story of Pygma- 
 lion and Galatea. When the marble became life, 
 she loved the artist who had created her soul. But 
 he didn't return her love; it had been an experi- 
 ment with him. So the woman in her froze and 
 died, and Galatea became a statue again." 
 
 335
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 He caught her hands in his, and his eyes 
 flashed like brilliants. "Dorothy!" he cried, 
 "you are not jesting? You are not just — 
 cruel?" 
 
 She said nothing; but, oh, what eloquence 
 sometimes lies in a woman's silence! Then did 
 Captain Craighouse of New York say many 
 things which would look absurd in the cold me- 
 dium of print, but which sounded like sweet 
 music to his companion on that moonlight August 
 night. He likened her to a motif that remained 
 in his life as a melody that haunts the memory. 
 He told her he would scale the heights of fame 
 to cast its laurels at her feet. 
 
 "You stupid boy," she laughed caressingly; 
 "as if anything you could ever do would be finer 
 than just this — that you are fighting for your 
 country!" 
 
 In some mysterious way his hands reached her 
 shoulders ; and in an equally inexplicable manner 
 she was suddenly in his arms, and her hot cheek 
 was against his. 
 
 "LawreniCe dear," she murmured, "Galatea 
 only knew one thing about Pygmalion — that he 
 
 336
 
 MR. CRAIGHOUSE, SATIRIST 
 
 had brought her into being, and so she loved him. 
 That was all." 
 
 And the moon, feeling that her evening had 
 been a complete success, disappeared behind a 
 cloud, and stayed there. 
 
 XIII 
 
 A raw wind from the sea swept against the 
 mammoth building of t ..e New York Monthly 
 Journal. The editor of that famous publication 
 crossed to the rattling window and looked at 
 Broadway, far beneath. A few drops of rain 
 mingled M'ith the dust that eddied about in little 
 whirlpools of wind. 
 
 In his hand he held a long letter from Craig- 
 house, and, after a pause, he re-read the ending. 
 
 . . . "And so I crept downstairs in the early 
 morning and built a fire of my articles, in a 
 grate. I am sorry to have failed you ; but, if one 
 would ridicule England, first let him go to the 
 sea and watch the men that go out in ships — and 
 the men that never come back from the sea. If 
 he would scoff at the simple folk of England, 
 first let him stop at a farm I saw, where an old 
 
 337
 
 THE BLOWER OF BUBBLES 
 
 man of seventy is tailing in the fields, that the 
 King's horses and men may be fed; while his 
 four sons sleep in France. If he would laugh at 
 the old families of England, let him come to the 
 old homes where every son went without a mur- 
 mur, and where, too often, the last one fell beside 
 his brothers, because England had called for men. 
 
 "If he would make the mothers of England a 
 study for satire, first he should mock the woman 
 at the foot of the Cross, for her love and their 
 love, her grief and their grief, are one." 
 
 Like gnomes, the people on Broadway hurried 
 on in an endless, diverging torrent of humanity. 
 
 a> 
 
 THE END
 
 
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