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VANITY ! 
 
 trbe Confessions of a Court /IC)o&iste 
 
 BY 
 
 'RITA' 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' PEG THE RAKE,' * THE SINNER,' ' A HUSBAND OF 
 NO IMPORTANCE,' 'a GENDER IN SATIN,' ' AN OLD 
 rogue's tragedy,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 1900 
 
[Al/ Rights rese^^ed] 
 
O 
 CO 
 
 VANITY! 
 
 CD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 ft With grave doubt I regarded it. 
 
 -J 
 
 ^ That was all. My new sign. My new signa- 
 ,V ture, ready to be afifixed to my new premises in 
 V Bond Street. 
 
 ^ It had to be Bond Street, whether I liked the 
 
 ^ rent or could afford it. My inability to discharge 
 
 ^^either obligation was not of much importance, I 
 
 ^ had so many things to consider just then. It was 
 
 s all risk, a pure speculation, but Di Abercroft 
 
 ^ had advised it, and she was one of the successful 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 modistes of London, and dressed all the principal 
 actresses, who called her gowns Worth, and Paquin, 
 and Felix, and thereby delighted and imposed 
 on the guileless British public. 
 
 Dear public ! How very guileless it is in some 
 things, and how easily deceived, and how dearly 
 it loves the gilt on its gingerbread. How it 
 worships millionaires and titles, and the magni- 
 ficent success of Dishonesty ! It was in order to 
 test its gullibility and prove the truth of much 
 that cynics and wise men had said and written on 
 the subject that I had ordered this sign upon 
 which I was now gazing. 
 
 I stood on the bare boards of what was shortly 
 to be my Emporium of Fashion. At present it 
 was only furnished with this sign, and the assertion 
 of Court Modiste was merely a playful jest on 
 my part. I had never made a Court gown, 
 but I meant to. I was therefore only fore- 
 stalling my intentions by announcing them as 
 a fact. 
 
 ' A good beginning is everything,' said Di 
 Abercroft. ' Make a bold plunge, and the splash 
 will attract notice. Once get noticed and youVe 
 all right.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 3 
 
 So I went straight to the heart of the matter 
 and chose my name, in itself an advertisement of 
 purpose. For vanity lies at the root of every 
 female heart to which I appealed. A desire to 
 be beautiful, to be admired, envied, remarked. 
 Oh ! I knew my sex very well, and had served 
 them a long apprenticeship since misfortune and 
 I were ^ first acquaint' I thought of that ac- 
 quaintanceship as I looked round at my empty 
 walls, my vacant shelves and presses. 
 
 I thought of my drudgery as a daily governess, 
 ill paid, imposed upon ; forced to accept starvation 
 pay and put up with sneers and insults. Hiding 
 the instincts of a lady under shabby gowns, wear- 
 ing cleaned gloves, and cheap boots, and home- 
 trimmed hats. 
 
 The room before me became suddenly a picture- 
 gallery of memories, in all of which I moved and 
 suffered, and endured. My youth flashed out 
 stormily — a rebellion against discipline, hardship, 
 poverty. I loved all things beautiful and artistic. 
 Form and colour were a delight. Circumstances 
 forbade my interpreting them as I wished. My 
 eyes might feast, but my heart could only envy. 
 For youth does not love to take its joys 
 
4 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 second-hand ; to look at love, beauty, wealth, 
 success through other eyes while its own grow 
 dim with bitter tears, and the Unattainable 
 is the ever-present mirage in its dreary life- 
 desert. 
 
 I roused myself suddenly from these reflections. 
 I had lived through suffering, and now I was going 
 to avenge it The past was behind me — thank 
 heaven for that ! I was still young — not thirty. 
 I had a face and figure that were eminently 
 serviceable for the purpose in view. I had worked 
 hard at this business, both in shops and privately. 
 I had studied its minutest details under Di Aber- 
 croft's able guidance. I had a genius for 'cut,' 
 and an eye for colour and combination. But my 
 capital was small, and the Semitic friend who had 
 advanced it was not more generously disposed 
 towards me than many of his fellows. However, 
 he had faith in me and in Di's promised assistance. 
 She made thousands a year, and could send me 
 hosts of customers. The fact of my having been 
 with her for three years was in itself an introduc- 
 tion, and as for the rest, audacity must win the 
 day or — 
 
 Well, of course, there was a reverse side to 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 5 
 
 the picture, even as there was a blank side to 
 my sign, but I had pinned my colours to the 
 masthead of vanity, and vanity it should be by 
 which I triumphed ! 
 
 Once more I gazed at my empty showroom. 
 I peopled it with living figures — alive with the 
 rustle of silken skirts, perfumed flounces, gay 
 voices. Lace, and satin, and fur, and all the dainty 
 and useless fripperies of a woman's toilet over- 
 flowed the shelves, and were heaped on the tables 
 and decorated the stands. Colour and beauty 
 shone out of the now dusky twilight. Life and 
 motion stirred briskly in the empty rooms. 
 Orders were pouring in, business was flourish- 
 ing, and I — prime mover, organiser and con- 
 troller of it all — smiled gleefully as I read on 
 all sides and on every face the one word — 
 * Success.' 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted me at this 
 moment. I opened it to admit a tall, graceful 
 woman, about whom the only qualifying adjective 
 of description would be ' distinguished.' 
 
 It was my friend Di Abercroft — the famous Mrs 
 Abercroft, the designer and executioner of some 
 
6 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 of the loveliest and most wonderful costumes ever 
 seen in London drawing-rooms, or on the stage 
 of fashionable theatres. 
 
 ^ I thought I should find you here/ she said. 
 ' But how dark and gloomy. Can't you light 
 up?' 
 
 * The fittings aren't here yet/ I said. ' You 
 know what workmen are. But the board has 
 come. There's light enough to see that. What 
 do you think of it?' 
 
 She surveyed my sign critically. Gold on 
 white — a very good imitation of my own hand- 
 writing. 
 
 ' I never liked the name, you know,' she said. 
 * But you would have it. Still, it really looks very 
 well and may " catch on." People are so odd, and 
 it's certainly novel. One gets tired of those eternal 
 "Marguerites," and "Paulines," and "Juliettes." 
 By the way, two of my travellers will call on you 
 to-morrow. One is from Paris. He is an Irish- 
 man who went over to a firm there some years 
 ago and has worked it into quite a big concern. 
 I mention it because he's the only one of all I 
 employ whom it's safe to trust. His taste is 
 absolutely perfect, but he's the most audacious 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 7 
 
 creature. He absolutely tells you what you are 
 to take, and in the end I have to give in. It's no 
 use to say " no.'' Fortunately he can be depended 
 on, and the things he brings are lovely. If it 
 weren't for that — ' 
 
 She paused and laughed. ' Well, I can't wait,' 
 she went on ; * I've a hundred things to do. When 
 does your furniture come in ? ' 
 
 * To-morrow.' 
 
 ^ Poor thing ! I pity you. What a day you'll 
 have. You won't open for a week, of course ? ' 
 
 * No. I want the showroom to be quite 
 perfect.' 
 
 ' And you'll give that afternoon reception, as I 
 advised ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. I sent out the cards a fortnight 
 ago.' 
 
 ' They've done the decorations very well,' she 
 said, glancing round. ^ Now, be wise, and make 
 friends of the Mammon of Unrighteousness in the 
 shape of little Abrahams. He can do you a lot of 
 good, or harm, as it suits him. They say half of 
 the " smart set " are in his hands.' 
 
 ' I hope he'll pass them unto mine. But tell me, 
 Di, how long credit ? ' 
 
8 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * Half-yearly accounts, and six months' waiting. 
 Charge it on, you know. And — one caution — never 
 be induced to lend money to a customer. They'll 
 try it on. They always do. YouVe no idea how 
 mean great ladies can be. They'll ask for a five- 
 pound note sometimes, and forget all about it, and 
 then fight over a shilling in the bills. However, 
 you'll find all that out for yourself By the way, 
 Fm sending you Lady Farringdon. She wants a 
 Court gown for the first Drawing-room, and some 
 evening dresses. Says I'm too expensive — so I 
 passed her on. Ask her seventy-five pounds for 
 the Court gown. She'll give her own lace and 
 think it's a bargain. Her money's safe. Her 
 husband's an M.P., so he won't have a 
 ^'show up." Your women are all right, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 * I hope so. Miss Jacks was at Lewis & 
 Allenby's, and the bodice hands are well 
 recommended. I shall see to the fitting my- 
 self 
 
 * That's wise. Your "cut" is an inspiration. 
 I should make that a speciality. Jacks is very 
 good ; I know her. Are you taking on Mrs 
 Underwood ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 9 
 
 * Yes. She's such a good supervisor.' 
 
 * Oh ! she's right enough when she's sober. But 
 mind there's not a break out. I wouldn't put up 
 with her at last, good as she was, and Valerie 
 sent her off at a moment's notice.' 
 
 We were at the door now. Her little brougham, 
 perfect in all its appointments, stood under the 
 gaslight, waiting. A small youth, who combined 
 the offices of * tiger' and page, held the door 
 open. 
 
 ^ Can I drop you anywhere ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No, thanks. I'm going to walk and do a little 
 shop-gazing.' 
 
 *Well, good-bye. I wish you well over to- 
 morrow. Let me know when you're straight. I'll 
 send you over some gowns for the showroom. 
 You must have some on view, and you can copy, 
 with "variations," as we say.' 
 
 The door closed. The small liveried attendant 
 sprang up on the box. The brougham dashed off, 
 and I closed the door of my new premises and 
 walked slowly and thoughtfully along in the dim 
 wintry night. 
 
 I had plenty of food for meditation. My new 
 venture, the possibilities of failure, the quickest 
 
lO 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 and most original method of bringing myself 
 into public notice — feminine, of course. 
 
 I gazed at the brilliantly-lit windows, loitering 
 sometimes to admire an effective setting of some 
 material, or the style of some Paris novelty — made 
 in England. The best and most artistic confec- 
 tions are more adaptations of ' across-the-Channel ' 
 fashions than copies. For whether it be treason 
 or not to say it, French taste is more eccentric 
 than perfect, and French style is altogether too 
 outre and pronounced for the true elegante. 
 Myself I like the fashions of Vienna better than 
 those of Paris, but the English modification of 
 both is the best taste of all. 
 
 I let myself in with my key and went upstairs. 
 My little French domestic — a veritable treasure of 
 usefulness, ingenuity and good temper — whom I 
 had picked up at Ostend, a matter of two or three 
 years back, had everything ready for dinner ; and 
 although we were on the eve of flitting, the room 
 and the table looked as cosy and inviting as she 
 generally managed they should look. 
 
 Babette was extraordinarily interested in the 
 new venture. She was to take all housekeeping and 
 catering off my hands, provide meals for the work- 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 girls, superintend the servant I had engaged, and 
 fulfil the duties of maid to myself when I needed 
 her. 
 
 I knew her value and had taken her from the 
 household drudgery of a small private hotel. 
 For this she was absurdly grateful, and twenty 
 pounds a year seemed to her as the wealth of 
 Croesus. Her skill, quickness and ability 
 rendered her of inestimable value to me. Be- 
 sides, she was trustworthy. 
 
 Over a cutlet, a sweet omelette and a half-pint 
 bottle of claret I talked to her of the affairs of 
 the morrow, and the prospects of the opening 
 campaign. She was elated, very voluble, very 
 sympathetic. 
 
 How is it one can be so much more confidential 
 with a French servant than an English one? 
 Perhaps because one suffers no loss of respect by 
 so doing. Their interest is genuine, and they do 
 not presume upon it. Of very few of our English 
 domestics can that be said. 
 
 * Madame is sure to succeed,' she answered hope- 
 fully. * Oh ! it is certain she will. So gracietise, 
 so gentille as she is, and with taste all that is 
 of the most perfect ! ' 
 
12 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' I hope my future customers will think my 
 taste "of the most perfect,"' I said. *And now, 
 Babette, clear away these things. I don't want 
 any dessert, and Tm going to my room to pack 
 up.' 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Who does not shudder at a ^ move ' ? The early 
 
 advent of vans ; the persistent manner in which 
 
 the men bring first everything you don't want 
 
 and nothing that you do ; the hopeless muddle ; 
 
 the impossibility of a seat or a meal during the 
 
 whole day. The arrival of carpets after furniture 
 
 instead of before. The pleasant little joke of 
 
 leaving bedroom articles in the sitting-rooms, and 
 
 taking what should be in the kitchen, to the attics ! 
 
 All this in a modified form befell me, and drove 
 
 me to distraction, while men were fixing blinds 
 
 and curtain poles, and laying down carpets. My 
 
 premises were small and incommodious, but the 
 
 frontage was good. I had, of course, to pay a 
 
 ruinous price for the address. 
 
 The waiting-room was my own sitting-room as 
 13 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 well, and Di had advised me to make it as artistic 
 as possible in order to produce a good impression 
 on visitors. So valuable etchings in artistic 
 frames hung on the pale terra-cotta walls, and 
 tapestry screens broke up a hard square into cosy 
 nooks where low cushioned chairs and dainty 
 tables (destined to be littered with fashion plates 
 and Ladies' Journals) stood in happy dis- 
 order. 
 
 The carpet was an Aubusson square of richly 
 glowing hues, the only dash of bold colour 
 among subdued tints. I was standing surveying 
 the general effect after five hours' labour and 
 misery, when Babette came to me with a 
 card. 
 
 ' Monsieur says he is of Madame Abercroft's 
 recommendation. He is of Paris. It is important 
 he see madame to-day.' 
 
 I glanced at the name. 
 
 MoNS. Alphonse Wildash, 
 Marchand et Cie., 
 Paris. 
 
 This must be the French traveller Di had 
 spoken about. I resolved to see him despite 
 
Vanity ! 1 5 
 
 confusion, and told Babette to bring him up- 
 stairs. 
 
 I had often interviewed travellers while serving 
 my apprenticeship to business. As a class I did 
 not hold them in favour. 
 
 I gave a cursory glance at the intruder and 
 addressed him in French. He was tall, very 
 good-looking, and had the manner and address 
 of a gentleman, so I saw in one quick glance. 
 Also — his hands were empty of the usual 
 travellers' paraphernalia. 
 
 * I am only just moving in, as you see,' I 
 observed. 'You must excuse confusion. What 
 is it you have brought?' 
 
 * Nothing — at present/ he answered in English. 
 I noticed as I met his eyes that they were blue, 
 and had a sort of twinkle, or rather sparkle in 
 them indicative of humour. They gave one 
 rapid glance around. * I heard you were only 
 just establishing yourself, so I came to see what 
 you would be likely to require.' 
 
 He drew a chair up to one of the small tables 
 and offered it to me, and then drew a note-book 
 from his pocket. 
 
 * As a friend of Mrs Abercroft's,' he went on, 
 
i6 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'you will probably model yourself on her. My- 
 self — I should advise you to be quite original. 
 There is nothing more difficult, but also nothing 
 that so succeeds. Now, I thought of sending you 
 some rather exclusive things for your showroom. 
 They won't be seen anywhere else, I promise you, 
 except at our Paris establishment. Trimmings, 
 materials, novelties of various kinds.' 
 
 * I should like to see them first,' I said, not 
 caring for quite such haut en bas proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 * Oh ! you may quite depend on me,' he 
 answered with a smile. 
 
 The smile was so radiant, and the even teeth 
 so white, and the whole expression of the face 
 at once so audacious and good-tempered and 
 yet masterful, that I suddenly recalled Di's 
 words about him and wondered if I had 
 better leave myself in his hands, even as she 
 said. 
 
 * In a venture like this,' he went on, * the golden 
 rule is fearlessness. You must do the best thing 
 in the best way. You must rule your customers, 
 not be ruled by them. Never suffer dictation, 
 or you are lost. Believe me I have studied your 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 17 
 
 sex ever since I was thirteen years of age — studied 
 them from a point of vantage few men possess. 
 See how frank I am/ 
 
 He smiled again, and put away the note-book 
 and took a chair opposite my own. 
 
 ' I congratulate you on your name/ he went on. 
 * It is excellent, excellent ! It will catch on. It 
 means what it says. In three months' time I 
 expect to find you flourishing. In a year you will 
 be famous, or ought to be. Enterprise, courage, 
 force — I read them all in your face. Are you 
 married ? Of course Madame may be only 
 complimentary, as in France, but it is decidedly 
 better.' 
 
 * I scarcely see what that has to do with your 
 business — Mr — Mr — ' 
 
 ' Wildash,' he said, as I glanced at the card 
 
 before me. ' Not Alphonse, or monsieur, or any 
 
 of that nonsense. I have to do that for the firm, 
 
 of course, but I'll be frank with you — I'm really 
 
 an Irishman, by birth, and on my mother's side. 
 
 I inherit a great deal of her spirit, and manner, 
 
 so I'm told. She was rather a — well, a lively lady. 
 
 My father didn't get on very well with her. They 
 
 broke up the home — case of incompatibility of 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 temper, The harp that once," and all that. Tve 
 had a lot of knocking about, but I think it hasn't 
 done me much harm. I entered Marchand & 
 Cie.'s place when I was quite a boy, and Tve worked 
 them up splendidly. I get a good salary now, and 
 I like the business — especially the travelling/ 
 
 ' Do you always entertain customers with 
 your family history ? * I asked drily. 
 
 He flushed a little. * I beg your pardon. I 
 don't know what made me tell you all this — 
 only — ' 
 
 Then I laughed outright. There was something 
 so frank and boyish about him, I couldn't help it. 
 
 ' Never mind. I've a touch of Irish blood 
 myself 
 
 ' 1 thought so. We were sympathetic directly.' 
 ^Oh! indeed?' 
 
 ^Well, I felt it, if you didn't. An Irish 
 friendship always starts with * tracing." See how 
 I told you all about myself.' 
 
 * I hope you don't expect me to be equally 
 communicative ? ' 
 
 *Of course not. Only I should like to know 
 your name — your real name — if you would tell 
 me.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 19 
 
 * You will be concerned only with what my sign 
 conveys/ I answered coldly. * Meanwhile I will 
 place myself in your hands and give you a com- 
 mission. In a week from now I open. Can you 
 send me any of those novelties of which you 
 spoke, by that time ? ' 
 
 ' I return to Paris to-night. I will see to it at 
 once.' 
 
 ' And — payment ? ' 
 
 'Same terms as Mrs Abercroft, if they will 
 suit.' 
 
 * But I haven't an established business like 
 her*s — your firm — ' 
 
 * My firm give me carte blanche to act as I think 
 best.' 
 
 'You believe you can trust me. I might fail 
 — what then?' 
 
 ' You will not fail/ he said, and his smile was 
 positively illuminating. 'A brow, a chin like 
 yours never spelt failure, and your eyes are 
 truth itself 
 
 I rose abruptly, annoyed at the flattery, for I 
 disliked personalities introduced into business 
 matters, and yet — not so ill-pleased that I could 
 resent it on grounds of familiarity. But it was 
 
20 Vanity l 
 
 new to me to have travellers speaking in this 
 fashion. However, this individual was a novelty 
 in that line, so I scarce knew whether to be 
 amused or offended. 
 He took up his hat. 
 
 ' I shall see you at the end of three months/ 
 he said. ' I wish you all success.' 
 
 He held out his hand — another unconventional 
 act on the part of travellers. I gave him mine, and 
 he ran down the stairs with an utter absence of 
 dignity, whistling softly. 
 
 For a week Babette and I, with spasmodic help 
 from the British workman, helped at arranging my 
 new quarters. The result was eminently satis- 
 factory, and on the afternoon of my reception I 
 walked through waiting-room, fitting-room and 
 showroom with well-warranted complacency. 
 
 If not as luxurious as some eminent modistes' 
 emporiums, they were all artistic, dainty and 
 comfortable. The shelves and presses of the 
 showroom held piles of lovely materials for the 
 forthcoming season. Dumb models stood about, 
 robed and garmented in exquisite gowns, and 
 crowned with ckefs-d^ceuvre of millinery. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 21 
 
 Every costume could be turned out perfect in 
 every detail, with the exception of boots. Gowns, 
 mantles, hats, furs, laces, trimmings, all were on 
 view to-day. Sketches and original designs lay 
 about in artistic confusion. Some of the most 
 original had been sent by Mr Wildash, much to 
 my surprise, and the trimmings and embroideries 
 and dentelles forwarded by his firm were simply 
 dreams of beauty and extravagance. Happy 
 woman who could afford them ! 
 
 I was consumed with momentary envy as I 
 gazed. Three gorgeous toilettes from Di Aber- 
 croff s workrooms were en evidence, and I myself 
 was gowned in turquoise blue cloth, edged and 
 trimmed with sable and lace. I had never looked 
 better, nor achieved a better ^ fit' My nervousness 
 abated as I looked at my own advertisement of 
 my capabilities, and while self-satisfaction reigned 
 supreme, the first carriage rolled up, and a stately 
 dame, tall, elegant, amber-haired, a modern Juno, 
 in fact, entered the shop. 
 
 Di Abercroft followed so closely that I learnt 
 she was Lady Farringdon almost before I had 
 recognised a first customer. 
 
 She was a very charming woman, if a little over- 
 
22 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 laden with social minauderies. She wanted a 
 Court gown, and I listened deferentially to her 
 ideas on the subject. 
 
 They were not mine. I studied her face and 
 figure and possibilities, and knew instinctively 
 what would be effective. However, this was not 
 the occasion to assert my opinions, and I con- 
 tented myself with making an appointment 
 instead. Quite a crowd of women flocked in now. 
 They all seemed to know one another. They 
 chirped and gossiped, examined my various 
 confections, tried on hats and bonnets, drank 
 tea, and nibbled cakes and sweetmeats, pro- 
 fessed themselves delighted with everything, 
 asked innumerable questions, and left me with 
 more orders than I well knew how to 
 execute. 
 
 So far my afternoon had been a success. I had 
 heard a good many scandals, seen many wonder- 
 ful faces and figures, learnt something of great 
 ladies^ extravagances and the way debts were paid 
 in society, had been petted or patronised accord- 
 ing to the whim or necessity of those I promised 
 to oblige, and was at last left to my own reflections, 
 tired, yet elated, and ready for a confidential 
 
V anity ! 2 3 
 
 chat with Di Abercroft, who had remained behind 
 for that purpose. 
 
 Di was a perfect encyclopaedia of fashionable 
 knowledge. She never forgot a face, or a scandal. 
 Yet she was too good-natured to rule by such 
 means, and had a suave, gracious manner that 
 made her a universal favourite. She was a tall, 
 graceful blonde, with innocent blue eyes, was 
 always wonderfully costumed, and had so large 
 and rich and important a clientele that she could 
 have spared half and not missed them. 
 
 We withdrew into my own little sanctum 
 when everyone had departed, and Babette 
 brought us black coffee, chartreuse and cigar- 
 ettes. Under their soothing influence Di's 
 worldly soul unburdened itself to me, and I 
 learnt many things that were needful, much 
 that was shocking, and little that tended to give 
 me a very high opinion of my own sex in 
 general. 
 
 * By the way,' I said at last, ' that French 
 traveller did call. At least he's not French 
 but Irish. Somewhat of a character, isn't 
 he?' 
 
 * Indeed, yes.' She laughed and lit a cigarette. 
 
24 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 *A dear boy and so good-looking. Quite a pet 
 of mine. And the most perfect taste. He 
 never makes a mistake. And he has a genius 
 for what I call " faking " — you know — making 
 a thing up to suit a particular requirement. 
 Now, ril let you into a secret. Have you seen 
 "The Meddlesome Girl" at the Piccadilly 
 Theatre ? * 
 
 ' No, not yet' 
 
 * ril take you. I have a box for to-morrow 
 night. You shall see Miss Ellery's gown. 
 Everyone is raving about it. Hand-painted 
 roses, natural as life, thrown in a trail over 
 palest pink satin, low bodice, black baby-ribbon 
 let in — exquisite. Well, my dear, she couldn't 
 possibly afford hand-painted satin, and she 
 wouldn't go into debt, and she is never 
 " obliged " by anyone. She s quite straight' 
 
 ' Details d propos — of what ? ' 
 
 'The roses. What do you think? It was 
 Harry Wildash's suggestion.' 
 
 'To the Irish all things are possible,' I said, 
 laughing, 'and he has a full share of his 
 nation's audacity/ 
 
 ' And ingenuity, you'll grant ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 25 
 
 * And artifice ? ' I questioned, with a remem- 
 brance of Mrs Malaprop. 
 
 ' Perhaps something of all these. Well, Kate, 
 don't whisper it beyond these four walls as you 
 value my reputation. Those roses are cut out 
 of chintz^ and gummed on the satin! 
 
CHAPTER II I 
 
 I WAS still laughing over this disclosure, when 
 Babette appeared on the scene. 
 
 She handed me a card. I took it, and then 
 threw it act'oss to Di. 'You'd better see her,' 
 she advised. 'You'll have to advertise in the 
 paper, but they'll give you an interview, and 
 she'll do some sketches of your gowns. Myself 
 I never bother about these people, but you're 
 in a different line, and you'll want your Court 
 dresses described. Ask her in and we'll see 
 what she says for herself 
 
 I gave the necessary order, and Babette ap- 
 peared again, announcing a gaunt-looking female 
 with straggling wisps of hair, armed with a note- 
 book and spectacles. 
 
 * You have called from the Lady's Illustrated?^ 
 I said sweetly. 
 
 26 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 27 
 
 *Yes; I do the fashions for them. They 
 thought you would like to advertise. Here is 
 our scale of charges. If you wish I'll take some 
 notes of your establishment. A notice in our 
 paper is very beneficial.' 
 
 * I have no objection/ I said. * I am sorry 
 you did not call earlier, I had a sort of open- 
 ing reception. However, if you care to have 
 an account of it I shall be happy to give it 
 you.' 
 
 *You would have to take a hundred copies 
 of the paper if I put in such a notice.' 
 
 I hesitated. * Is that — usual ? ' 
 
 ^ Oh ! yes. Then you would be expected to 
 advertise half a column weekly, and my com- 
 mission is two per cent, on what you expend,' 
 
 *Very well. But you will say nice things of 
 my establishment, won't you?' 
 
 ' Depend upon that. Now, if you will give me 
 a few details I'll work up an article that will 
 please you. A lady, of course ; doing this out of 
 enterprise — they always like that — and with a 
 natural taste for the modiste's art. ... I quite 
 understand. Who were at the reception? Any 
 titles? . . . they love titles. , , . Thank you, 
 
28 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 that will do. Now for the showroom and my 
 sketches/ 
 
 I rose to accompany her. I rather admired the 
 business-like way she went to work. 
 
 She took down a description of the showroom, 
 sketched one or two models, then shut her little 
 book and turned to me. 
 
 ' That tweed,' she observed, pointing to a 
 material on the table, 'would make a useful coat 
 and skirt. I never wear anything fanciful — tweed 
 in winter, linen in summer. When could you fit 
 me?' 
 
 I was somewhat taken aback. * Is that beside 
 your — commission ? * 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, it's usual Madame Cross, Mrs Oliver, 
 all of them do it. It's a good advertisement for 
 you. I'll say it came from here.' 
 
 I could not help thinking that her face and 
 figure would not be likely to advertise any gown 
 we made her, but policy counselled politeness. I 
 therefore merely announced my willingness to fit 
 her gaunt frame the next afternoon, and promised 
 the gown within a week. She nodded approvingly, 
 held out a badly-gloved long hand, and then took 
 her departure. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 29 
 
 I returned to Di and the cigarettes. 
 
 * How funny it all is ! ' I said, ' and how different 
 when one is behind the scenes. Do you furnish 
 the Press with costumes?' 
 
 'Has she been levying blackmail?' laughed 
 Di. * I thought her gown was very shabby. 
 Be sure she's done that on her own account. 
 They all try it on. Well, one can hardly blame 
 them, poor souls ! They get wretchedly paid, have 
 their meals at an A. B. C. shop, and are obliged 
 to watch any chance as keenly as a cat at a 
 mouse-hole. Are bullied by editors, worried by 
 the staff, hated for a success, despised for a 
 failure. All in all, a journalist's life is not a 
 happy one, and there are too many in the field. 
 They're in one another's way — consequently the 
 pay is bad and the competition enormous. We 
 live in an age of women workers, my dear, but 
 the age is none the better for it. The fashion 
 papers only pander to our vanity. The society 
 notes in the daily press are simply vulgar 
 advertisements of notoriety. You'll see the same 
 names appearing day after day. Mrs "Jack" 
 Nobody was seen driving or walking or lunching, 
 and Lady " Tom " Somebody was exquisitely 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 gowned at the Duchess of Lackland's reception. 
 Her Grace herself looked a picture, and wore 
 some fine diamonds. I call it offensive and 
 impertinent; I can't think why people tolerate 
 it. To have one's name, one's face, one's gowns 
 and jewels at the mercy of any penny-a-liner! 
 Well, after all, my dear, there's some satisfaction 
 in being a nobody. We escape personal in- 
 dignities of that sort.' 
 
 ' Those people to-day,' I observed, ' didn't seem 
 worthy of any better fate. They simply were 
 Mrs "Jack" this, and Mrs "Tom" that, in 
 different gowns, but all living the same life, 
 talking of the same things and bent on being 
 seen at the same places.' 
 
 ' Pleasure is not an inventive god. One dinner- 
 party or one ball does not differ very much from 
 another in glory. For my part, I think my stage 
 clientele get much more fun out of life than their 
 sisters of the great world. No one enjoys pleasure 
 or leisure until they know what work is. Society 
 has only caprices.' 
 
 ' Who is Lady Farringdon ? ' I asked presently. 
 
 ' Harmless enough. Her husband is in the 
 House. She is not in the best set, though I 
 
Vanity ! 31 
 
 believe she gets a state concert or a Marl- 
 borough House garden - party now and then. 
 She is inclined to exaggeration. Don't let her 
 have her own way — I mean too much colour, 
 too many jewels, too much red and white, too 
 much bust and too compressed a waist. She 
 horrifies me. You will have two hours* trying 
 on of every gown she orders, and it will take 
 your fitter half an hour to pull in her corsets. 
 She sits down between every tug to get her 
 breath, and then tells you they're quite loose!' 
 
 ' How foolish ! I hate to see a woman's figure 
 like an hour-glass. Why can't they see that 
 proportion is the true art of beauty ? Who 
 admires an exaggerated waist? I'm sure men 
 don't, and no woman could — because she knows 
 what suflTering it entails, and what injury it 
 does.' 
 
 * God knows ! It's one of the things past 
 understanding. But why should we criticise 
 our foolish sex, my child? It is on their 
 follies we flourish and make fortunes ; at least 
 I hope you'll make a fortune. Then you can 
 retire and live your life as seems best — or 
 marry.' 
 
32 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ' I shall not do that. . . . You should know 
 better than to advise it/ 
 
 * Oh ! I forgot that little contretemps. But 
 it's all so long ago . . . and no one knows/ 
 
 * Isn't it sufficient that I know, and have to 
 suffer for it ? ' I asked bitterly. 
 
 * My dear, if I were you I wouldn't suffer. 
 Men aren't worth it, believe me. They have 
 their consolations. Why shouldn't we have 
 ours ? ' 
 
 She rose and took my hands affectionately. 
 We were not very demonstrative as a rule, Di 
 and I. 
 
 ^You'll come to the theatre to-morrow?' she 
 asked. * I'll call for you. Wear a pretty gown. 
 Our box is well placed. Shall I ask Burke 
 Mahoney to join us ? We could have supper 
 at the Savoy, or Cecil, if you like.' 
 
 'Very well,' I said. 'It will be amusing. And 
 as my days are likely to be busy, I may as well 
 enjoy my evenings.' 
 
 * Burke's very good fun, as you know. He's 
 just got on a new paper — The Cynic, Motto^ — 
 praise nothing, sneer at all things. And he's 
 just the very essence of good-humour and jollity.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 33 
 
 ' Perhaps that's why he can write cynicisms 
 and enjoy them. Force of contrast/ 
 
 ^ Even as we enjoy the theatre because we 
 come to it from workrooms and fripperies/ 
 
 'And chintz roses/ I said, laughing. 
 
 * My dear, society is very like my chintz 
 roses. It only requires effects, no matter how 
 startling or bizarre. All its satin passes for 
 hand-painted, if it's only worn by the right 
 person.' 
 
 I thought of that remark after Di had left, 
 and the showroom was closed, and I was re- 
 flecting on the day's experience. 
 
 * Worn by the right person! Yes. That was 
 the secret of social success. To be so far above 
 the crowd that what you wore was correct, how- 
 ever eccentric; what you said was witty, what 
 you did was not to be cavilled at. It must be 
 nice to be one of the elect. To be in the right 
 ' set,' and know all the right people. Never to 
 wear that air of *not being in it' which is 
 impossible of disguise. Never to be in ignorance 
 of the latest mode in handshakes and slang, and 
 
 society shibboleth. And it looked so easy. 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 I had studied the world from many points of 
 view, and, as the * looker-on ' sees most of the 
 game, I had contrived to see a good deal, and 
 learn more. Paris, London, the Riviera, had 
 all played school board to my various educational 
 standards. I was by no means meanly equipped 
 for my battle with life and my own sex. I had 
 little to thank them for, and I owed many a 
 bitter grudge which I was well minded to re- 
 pay if fate gave me the chance. 
 
 But to get that chance I must become a 
 necessity; someone not easy to snub or ignore. 
 I must rule through their worst and lowest 
 passions. I must get to know their secrets, and 
 use them to my own advantage. It would not 
 be easy, perhaps, but it would be worth trying. 
 What I had learnt in Paris, and seen in Monte 
 Carlo, and studied in London might be of in- 
 estimable value. I knew it was a habit of great 
 ladies to * pet ' their dressmakers, in order to have 
 the first chance of novelty, the best attention, 
 and be sure of getting new gowns at a few 
 hours* notice, even in the height of the season. 
 Besides, there were so many other little services 
 we could render. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 35 
 
 I went over the ' pros ' and * cons ' carefully. 
 I laid my plans, and surveyed my scheme of 
 action. A great deal — almost everything — would 
 depend on that first Court gown. It must be 
 my * sprat ' thrown into the great sea where the 
 shoals of mackerel swam and fought and 
 crowded with persistent energy. It must bring 
 me into notice even where all else would be 
 noticeable. The wearer was of secondary im- 
 portance in my estimation, although I knew that 
 art would make her more than presentable. 
 But she must be garbed in such fashion as 
 should win instant attention, and keep it. Here 
 was no question of costliness. It was more of 
 chic, that vague, untranslatable word which 
 means so little, yet so much. 
 
 I racked my brains. I drew designs. I could 
 have cursed the hampering clauses of Court direc- 
 tions — the arbitrary rules of cut and shape and 
 length ; but yet my gown lived and took form 
 and became a thing of exquisite beauty. 
 
 I cannot tell how or why it was that amidst 
 my designs there suddenly flashed before me the 
 laughing eyes of the young Irish traveller. 
 ' I declare I will ask his opinion ! ' I cried 
 
36 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 suddenly. ' I'm sure he has good taste. What 
 he sent me for the showroom was perfect ! ' 
 
 Acting on the thought^ I drew writing materials 
 towards me and dashed off a hurried note to my 
 audacious friend. I described Lady Farringdon 
 exactly — colouring, height, general style and 
 appearance. I begged for his advice, by return 
 of post, at the same time submitting my ideas. 
 
 Then, much relieved in mind, I rang for Babette 
 and supper. 
 
 And so ended my first day as a professional 
 
 modiste^ 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 NOTES FROM MY . DIARY 
 
 Feb, 2nd. — I must jot down certain facts and 
 episodes of my new life if I am to come to a satis- 
 factory understanding with their results. Besides, 
 my memory is not so good as it might be. I have 
 resolved therefore to put down every night what 
 happens during the day. 
 
 I shall begin with this morning and the visit of 
 Lady Farringdon to discuss her dress for the 
 March Drawing-room. 
 
 As I had not yet heard from Wildash I kept 
 her off on generalities, saying that I expected 
 marvels from Paris and would defer our decision 
 until their arrival. 
 
 It was a very cold day, and she sat by the fire, 
 
 in a long, softly-padded chair designed for com- 
 
 37 
 
38 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 fort and beguilement. I began to criticise her 
 cloth gown. 
 
 * Yes, it is an odious thing/ she said. * Til never 
 go to that man again. Since the Duchess of 
 
 Y patronised him, he's so puffed up he doesn't 
 
 care what he gives ordinary customers. And his 
 prices are ruinous. When I complained of this 
 gown he said my figure was out of proportion. 
 Did you ever hear such insolence ? ' 
 
 * Your figure seems perfect/ I said. * Perhaps 
 the waist is a trifle too — too — ' 
 
 * My dear creature ! not too large ? For good- 
 ness sake don't say that ! ' 
 
 * Oh ! no. . . . Just the reverse. I was about 
 to suggest you should not lace quite so tightly.' 
 
 * Tightly ! I assure you my corsets are abso- 
 lutely loosCy and this gown slips about me. . . it's 
 no fit at all. Oh ! don't say I look tight-laced 
 like Mrs Wiltshire. She boasts, you know, that 
 she has the smallest waist of any woman 
 in London. Of course, you know her by 
 sight ? ' 
 
 'Who does not? She makes me feel sick, I 
 always think she's going to break in half 
 
 * I'm so glad you don't admire her. It's really 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 39 
 
 too wonderful to be — nice. They say she sleeps 
 with a steel belt round her.' 
 
 * What does she gain by such penance ? ' 
 
 * Admiration and envy.' 
 
 * Not from any sensible person — of that Tm 
 sure.' 
 
 * My dear Madame Frou-Frou, who cares about 
 being sensible in society ? Unless, of course, they 
 go in for fads like Lady Glasgow, and the 
 Duchess of Siltshire, and her set — Shetland 
 industries and Scotch plaids and factory girls 
 and things of that sort ! They're not in my line, 
 thank goodness ! But to return to business. Can 
 you make me a walking dress in a couple of 
 days ? ' 
 
 * Certainly. Will you choose the material now ? ' 
 
 * I may as well. What a treat it is to find 
 someone with leisure. Now, I wonder if I could 
 trust you to dress me without any bother on my 
 own part ? Fm not quite sure of my own taste. 
 My husband always says I wear too gaudy 
 colours. But Captain Calhoun — a friend of 
 ours, a great judge of dress — says I always look 
 a picture, so I don't know who to believe. What 
 would you say?' 
 
40 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ^ I don't like that scarlet against your hair/ 
 * It is rather audacious — that was the Conduit 
 
 Street people's idea ... to recall the waistcoat, 
 
 you see.' 
 
 ^And that is altogether wrong. I would give 
 you black cloth and sapphire velvet' 
 
 ' It sounds rather nice. And I've lovely sables.' 
 *The very thing. Toque to match, of course.' 
 ^Yes. Will one fitting do?' 
 *I think so.' 
 
 I rang the bell, and ordered Miss Jacks to 
 come down to take measurements. 
 
 'Waist — twenty inches,' she began. 
 
 I stopped. ' That will never do, you know,' I 
 said. 'Take my advice — let out to twenty-two, 
 or three. You won't look any larger, and the fit 
 will benefit ever so much — no strain.' 
 
 She gave a sigh of relief. VWhat a sensible 
 creature you are. How I shall bless you ! But 
 are you sure I won't look clumsy ? ' 
 
 ' On the contrary, you will have elegance and 
 grace as well as comfort. The way I cut my 
 gowns makes your actual waist look quite one 
 inch smaller than it is, but I insist on proportion. 
 With your bust and hips your waist could not 
 
Vanity! 41 
 
 look large. Tm sure you'll be satisfied when 
 you see yourself in the gown.' 
 
 'Well, I'll trust you/ she said. 'But, mind, 
 don't breathe to a soul what the measurement 
 actually is ! Mrs Fancourt and Lady Jocelyn 
 are coming to you, and we are deadly rivals. 
 If you'd make them let out their waists 
 posterity would have much to thank you for ! ' 
 
 I smiled, and promised to do my best. 
 Almost on the promise the two ladies in dis- 
 cussion were announced. 
 
 The three greeted each other as dear friends, 
 and then commenced that shibboleth of names, 
 expressions, hints and scandals which only the 
 initiated may interpret. 
 
 But I was secretly elated. Lady Jocelyn 
 ordered two gowns, and Mrs Fancourt wanted 
 a dinner dress of ruby velvet and sable. She 
 was a handsome brunette with large dark eyes 
 and a bad skin. To atone for Nature's defects 
 she had called in liberal aid from art, but in 
 common with most Englishwomen, she made 
 art an advertisement instead of a suggestion. 
 The red and white were patent to the general gaze, 
 and the curved lashes had been too liberally 
 
42 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 darkened. I wondered her maid could have 
 allowed her to go out so highly decorated. 
 
 I was glad when they took themselves off. 
 
 I at once set about cutting out Lady Farring- 
 don's bodice, and gave full instructions to skirt 
 and sleeve hands as to their respective duties. 
 
 * It must be finished and delivered to-morrow 
 night, mind, without fail. Every piece of work 
 I promise has to be ready when promised. It 
 is my principal rule and on no account to be 
 broken.' 
 
 The staff acquiesced meekly, and I left them 
 to their work. 
 
 More customers in the afternoon. Among 
 them an elderly dowager with a plain, attractive 
 face. She was a very great personage and 
 came to order a Court gown, also for the March 
 Drawing-room. 
 
 ' I have a dispensation, owing to bronchial 
 troubles,' she informed me. ' I want it cut a very 
 narrow square and sleeves to the elbow. It is 
 cruel holding a Drawing-room at this time of 
 year. Even furs and hot bottles don't keep out 
 the cold.' 
 
Vanity ! 43 
 
 * A velvet train, I suppose/ I suggested. ' I 
 have a beautiful shade of pansy. I should 
 suggest lining it with pale yellow, and the 
 petticoat yellow also. Have you your own 
 lace?' 
 
 ' Yes ; my maid will bring it. Of course 
 you'll be very careful ? ' I promised faithfully. 
 
 She moved about, examining things with 
 evident curiosity. 
 
 *What is your real name?' she asked at 
 length. * Of course Frou-Frou is only for 
 business ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I said. *Costello is my name — Mrs 
 Costello.' 
 ' A widow ? ' she inquired. 
 *Yes,' I said briefly. 
 
 Seeing I was not inclined to be communica- 
 tive, she confined herself to instructions and 
 orders, until I was weary. 
 
 I took half an hour's rest before dressing for 
 the theatre. I was wise enough to know that 
 neither cosmetics, paint, nor washes are half as 
 good a remedy for fatigue as Nature's restora- 
 tive. A douche of cold water when I arose 
 made me feel as fresh as ever. 
 
44 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 Di's brougham was at the door at half- past 
 seven, and she ran upstairs to see me and 
 hear the news of the day. 
 
 She opened her eyes when she heard of two 
 Court gowns. She knew my old dowager very well. 
 ' A dear, unsophisticated old thing/ she described 
 her. * Always administering charities and going 
 to missions. But not an idea about dress, and 
 will wear her hair like Mrs Gladstone. I've 
 seen her feathers hanging over her nose and 
 she smiling in serene unconsciousness. She's 
 going to present a daughter or niece, I believe, 
 otherwise she avoids Drawing-rooms. What 
 made her come to you?' 
 
 ' I don't know. She didn't say.' 
 
 * She's an excellent customer and has any 
 amount of influence. ... So you've had a busy 
 day. You look none the worse for it. What 
 it is to be young ! ' 
 
 She sighed and glanced at herself. Di is 
 forty, so she allows. She was wearing black 
 velvet, with a great deal of jet, and one large 
 pink rose nestled in the lace at her breast. 
 She was still a very handsome woman, but her 
 premiere jeunesse was over. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 45 
 
 *You think Til do?' I questioned, glancing at 
 the shell-pink gleams of my lovely satin as 
 it shone through creamy tints of lace and 
 chiffon. 
 
 ^ As if you weren't woman enough and artist 
 enough to know that yourself!' she answered. 
 ' If I weren't fond of you I'd be envious. Tell 
 me, is that ripple in your hair — natural?' 
 
 * Perfectly. When it's undone it all curls.' 
 
 ^ Enviable woman ! Take care of yourself, 
 my dear. Those charms don't last for ever. . . . 
 And now we'd better start. I suppose it will 
 take ten minutes to get to the theatre ? ' 
 
 I gathered up fan and gloves, and she threw 
 my cloak over my shoulders. 
 
 * There are our men,' she informed me as the 
 carriage drew up before the entrance. 
 
 I was conscious of a tall figure and a short 
 one advancing to meet us. There was a hurried 
 introduction. Then we moved off to our box. 
 The curtain was just rising, and all the house 
 was in darkness as we took our seats. I turned 
 my attention to the stage, and was soon absorbed. 
 Not till the curtain fell did I bestow any notice 
 on my companions. 
 
46 Vanity ! 
 
 Then I glanced back and saw Burke Mahoney's 
 blue eyes watching me. So this was the cynic, 
 I thought, and proceeded to test his conversa- 
 tional powers. 
 
 ' What do you think of the piece ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' It is like a hundred others IVe seen. English 
 art is only copy, or adaptation. There's no 
 originality in it/ 
 
 * That is quite a critic's phrase,' I said. ^ The 
 question is. What is originality ? A dramatist 
 can only play on the time-worn strings of love, 
 jealousy, hate, revenge. And Fm sure the 
 audience wouldn't understand anything else — at 
 a theatre.' 
 
 * They're not given the chance. No one takes 
 the trouble of educating them. A play that is 
 execrable from the point of art has been drawing 
 full houses for the last three months simply 
 because the hero dashes on the stage on a real 
 horse ! And when the horse once gave a genuine 
 kick, not set down in his part, how the " gods " 
 howled and yelled with delight.' 
 
 * But that proves my argument. They want 
 only what they can understand. It would be 
 a long and thankless task to train them to new 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 47 
 
 appreciation. Ibsen and the Independent Theatre 
 don't pay/ 
 
 * No. The destruction of art is the public's 
 joy. They always hail the blot on the picture 
 with enthusiasm — I suppose because they can 
 understand that. Popular tunes are a success, 
 but they're not music, and popular plays are not 
 art, and popular books are not literature. The 
 British public is a dull ass who loves to have his 
 ears tickled. In reality they should be flayed 
 with nettles/ 
 
 He said all this in a rich, melodious voice, 
 and his face was as grave as a clergyman's 
 over his sermon. 
 
 I wondered if he really meant it. 
 
 *You write, don't you?' I asked. 
 
 * I do. It's a sorry business — ^journalism ; and 
 what is good in it women are doing their best 
 to destroy. They worry editors, vulgarise inter- 
 views, turn news into a hash of personalities, 
 attempt to criticise what they don't understand, 
 and take miserable pay, and put up with any 
 amount of insults for the honour of airing " I'm 
 on such and such a journal." ' 
 
 * How very hard you are on women.' 
 
48 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * Because I like them in their own place — 
 home, or society, or scenes of amusement. But 
 when it comes to elbowing them in Fleet Street, 
 listening to their wretched type-clicking in every 
 place of business one goes to, crowding with 
 them for " outside " places on 'buses in summer, 
 and fighting for an inside one in winter — faugh ! ' 
 
 ^You are no true son of Erin,' I observed. 
 'They are nothing if not chivalrous.' 
 
 'One can be chivalrous to the right woman,' 
 he answered, and so eloquent a glance swept 
 over my face that I was well assured he had 
 no fault to find with this particular ornament 
 to her sex. 
 
 Then the curtain went up once more and our 
 talk ended for a time. 
 
 The supper was a great success. Burke 
 Mahoney and I became great friends. When 
 he learnt I too claimed Irish descent, he 
 dropped much of his cynicism and became a 
 natural, genial human being. He showed great 
 interest in what he called 'my little venture.' 
 
 I could see, however, that he was less hopeful 
 than Wildash. Perhaps he knew more of Jews 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 49 
 
 and money-lenders, and the disastrous results 
 of high interest on borrowed capital. However, 
 I was in too good spirits to look upon affairs 
 in anything but a hopeful frame of mind, and 
 lobster salad, chicken cutlets and champagne 
 had never seemed so enjoyable. 
 
 Di flirted discreetly with her little man, who 
 seemed to know all the social celebrities by 
 sight and pointed out several ' emancipated ' 
 beauties supping with kindred souls, while their 
 husbands were otherwise engaged. Also various 
 husbands enjoying themselves with companions 
 more noted for amiability than strict propriety. 
 
 It was all very amusing, if not exactly moral. 
 Burke Mahoney declared he was furnished with 
 various spicy Spars' for his society column — 
 where he only mentioned people by initials, and 
 skimmed the thin ice of probable divorce scandals 
 in a manner as ingenious as it was cruel. 
 
 ' I could gibbet them as high as Haman did 
 I please,' he said once. And there was some- 
 thing in his face and voice so hard and pitiless 
 that it set me wondering what private wrong 
 was lending bitterness to the sting of his wit, 
 
 and souring a natural good temper. 
 
 D 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Feb, $tk — A letter from Wildash this 
 morning. 
 
 He entered fully into the subject of ' ultra- 
 chic/ and sent me some designs of his own. 
 One was so exquisite I felt sorry our own lovely 
 and exclusive Princess could not see it. She is 
 an authority on the art of dressing and a 
 notable example of good taste. However, it 
 would be a satisfaction to know that her eyes 
 would rest upon this chef-doeuvre^ and perhaps 
 approve it. 
 
 I made an estimate of the cost of this 
 gown and found it far exceeded my limit. But I 
 was about to stake future reputation and success. 
 
 could not stick at trifles. It should be made 
 and executed, and Lady Farringdon must please 
 herself as to remuneration over and above the 
 
 50 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 51 
 
 Specified price. I worked hard as the time drew 
 near. Every stitch of that gown was under my 
 supervision. 
 
 It was a dream of beauty — a shimmering 
 mass of silver and lace, and the richest pearl- 
 hued satin. The train fell from both shoulders, 
 and was cut open to the waist to show the 
 contour of the figure. I knew my Juno's Titian 
 head and beautiful skin would carry it off 
 magnificently. 
 
 On the appointed day I myself went to dress 
 her. She was somewhat tired and cross, having 
 had to rise at eight in order to have her hair 
 dressed. When I arrived her maid was removing 
 the camelline from her throat and neck previous 
 to polishing the skin with chamois leather. Her 
 face was not yet made up. I had entreated her 
 to leave that to me. 
 
 ^ Fancy having to pickle oneself like this at 
 such a time of day,' she said pettishly. *And 
 who could look anyway decent facing a March 
 wind, and all one's skin going into goose-flesh! 
 And oh ! my dear creature, did you think of 
 the bouquet? It hasn't come yet' 
 
 * I brought it myself on the way,' I answered 
 
 UBftARY 
 
52 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 quietly, as I turned to the dressing-table for 
 the * make-up/ 
 
 The maid, a somewhat supercilious French 
 damsel, watched me critically. 
 
 ' Madame looks too pale for all that white,* 
 she observed. 
 
 ' Not at all,' I answered. ' You must always 
 allow for a natural touch of colour coming up. 
 Heat, excitement, crowd, all will have their efifect 
 If she goes in like a peony she will come out 
 like a poppy. That faint blush-rose is exquisite. 
 And if it deepens it will only be more becoming.' 
 
 *Let me see,' said miladi herself, and studied 
 her face critically in a hand-glass. 
 
 * You are right,' she said gratefully. * I am 
 a perfect work of art, I know, but, at least, it is 
 art. F61icie always overpaints me. I look like 
 a dairy-maid generally. How beautifully you 
 have done it. Now — will it last? Mind there's 
 five weary hours still before me ? ' 
 
 'You needn't be afraid,' I said, and then 
 we turned our attention to other matters. 
 
 Heavens ! What a business that toilet was ! 
 I'm thankful it will never be my fate to attend 
 a Drawing - room. The innumerable details — 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 S3 
 
 from feathers to shoe-buckles. The arranging 
 of dress and train, and jewels, and lace. The 
 weary hours, the inevitable fatigue even before 
 the long, slow drive, and longer waiting, to be 
 succeeded by fight and push and struggle for 
 the barriers. Well — let us hope the game is 
 worth the candle of energies, animosities, and 
 indignities, burnt at the playing of it ! 
 
 My 'work of art' looked wonderfully lovely 
 when finished. Her tall, full figure showed to 
 its best in this semi-regal attire of flowing train 
 and waving plumes. Her skin shone like 
 polished marble under its glittering pendant of 
 pearls and diamonds. A faint flush of excite- 
 ment gave her face quite a natural tint, her 
 large violet-blue eyes sparkled under their care- 
 fully - darkened lashes, and her full scarlet 
 lips gave warmth and colour to the whole 
 countenance. 
 
 She was eminently satisfied with herself, and 
 made me come downstairs to be introduced to 
 her husband. He was a mild, inoffensive person, 
 twenty years older than herself, who was supposed 
 tp be of great service to his ' party.' His title 
 was comparatively new, and his great grief 
 
54 Vanity ! 
 
 was that he had no son on whom it might 
 devolve. 
 
 With him was the * family friend' Lady Far- 
 ringdon had mentioned — Captain Calhoun — a 
 strikingly handsome man with that languid air 
 of boredom which society deems well-bred. 
 Close upon our heels was announced a certain 
 Lady Henley, who was to accompany 'Juno' to 
 the Drawing-room. She made an admirable foil 
 to my work. She was short and stout. Her 
 dress was black velvet and purple satin, and 
 she carried an inartistic mass of purple orchids. 
 
 ' I never saw you look so well ! What a 
 gown ! * she exclaimed half enviously. 
 
 ' It will be hard to beat you, Cissie,' murmured 
 Captain Calhoun, pulling his moustache and 
 surveying her with languidly approving eyes. 
 
 * Who made it ? ' asked Lady Henley, putting 
 up long -handled glasses and staring critically 
 at the toilette. 
 
 * Behold the artiste,' smiled Lady Farringdon, 
 turning to me. ' Madame Frou-Frou zs an 
 artiste,' she went on ; 'a lady who is devoting 
 her talents to the benefit of her fellow-creatures. 
 You must visit her studio — it is really t/iat. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 55 
 
 She has the most exquisite things in London, 
 and, what is better, knows how to employ 
 them/ 
 
 * I shall certainly pay you a visit/ said Lady 
 Henley, with a discontented glance at her own 
 heavy and unbecoming gown. 
 
 'Jones & Allison did me, and they are most 
 dictatorial. One can't say a w^ord — and so 
 horribly dear — not that one minds paying when 
 the result is satisfactory ; but this — ' She took 
 up her heavy train bordered with funereal 
 feathers. * Now, does it suit me, I ask you ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. Too heavy, and too dark,' I 
 said frankly. ^The satin should have been of 
 lighter violet, and the train lined with it' 
 
 ' Ah ! I see you understand. You shall make 
 my next gown if I ever go again. I always 
 declare I won't, till they hold them at a civilised 
 hour, and a decent time of the year. There's a 
 fog creeping up now enough to choke one. Its 
 all very well for Her Majesty, who has only to 
 move from one room to another, but if she had a 
 long, cold drive, and a dreary wait in weather 
 like this, I wonder what she'd think of Drawing- 
 rooms ! ' 
 
56 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'Is it time to be off?' asked Lady Farring- 
 don, with a glance at the clock. 
 
 ' Fm afraid it is/ announced Captain Calhoun, 
 taking up a wrap lined with white fox fur and 
 carefully enshrouding her lovely shoulders. 
 
 'You'll be here to tea? A lot of other pea- 
 cocks are coming in?' she asked him. 
 
 I noticed a glance, a whisper, which let me 
 somewhat 'behind the scenes.' Then he assured 
 her languidly he would try to come if he could 
 get away from some duty or other. 
 
 The two women gathered up their trains, gave 
 an envious glance at the warm comfort of the 
 room they left behind them, and passed through 
 the hall and down the crimson-carpeted steps to 
 the waiting carriage. The door banged, a crowd 
 of butcher-boys and nursemaids gazed enviously 
 after it. Then I turned away from the window 
 and asked if a hansom might be called for me. 
 
 'Won't you have a glass of wine, a sandwich, 
 or something?' asked Sir John, fussily. 'YouVe 
 been here hours, and had no luncheon. Every- 
 thing is topsy-turvy on these Court days.' 
 
 I accepted the wine and a biscuit, for I was 
 really tired and faint, and the old baronet trotted 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 57 
 
 about and opened the sideboard himself, and 
 made himself needlessly fussy over my comfort. 
 Captain Calhoun stood by, watching me out of 
 a pair of sleepy brown eyes. 
 
 * I say, are you really a dressmaker ? ' he asked, 
 dropping into a chair beside me. * You don't look 
 it, you know ; as tip-top as any of 'em. But 
 women do such extraordinary things nowadays.' 
 
 I laughed. 'Yes, Tm in very good company,' 
 I said. * There's a countess and a duchess in the 
 same street, and a " smart " tea-shop kept by a 
 well-known society woman opposite to me. Only 
 I'm afraid philanthropy is less my master than 
 necessity.' 
 
 * Awh ! shouldn't have thought so. Well, any- 
 thing I can do, I will. Know heaps of women, 
 you see, and they'll all flock if one leads the 
 way. But Lady Farringdon is a. first-rate adver- 
 tisement, and you've turned her out in first-rate 
 style, too. I must say that' 
 
 * I'm very pleased you approve,' I said demurely 
 * Naturally one values a man's opinion on such a 
 subject. But I thought you would have liked 
 more colour, more show.' 
 
 * I ? Hate it — hate it, I assure you. She's a 
 
58 Vanity ! 
 
 bit too fond of showy things herself. If you'll 
 tone her down you'll win my lasting gratitude/ 
 I wondered which I was to believe — her 
 declaration that he approved her taste, or 
 his that he was offended by its somewhat daring 
 fantasies. 
 
 I foresaw I was to learn a great deal while I 
 dressed great ladies. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 The March Drawing-room brought me in as much 
 
 work as I could possibly desire. Strange to say, 
 
 two of the leading fashion papers gave a full-page 
 
 illustration of my two gowns, and voted Lady 
 
 Farringdon's the most chic and tasteful worn on 
 
 that occasion. 
 
 She told me the Princess had murmured 
 
 ' exquisite,' as she bent before her gracious 
 
 loveliness, and after that I looked for Fortune and 
 
 Fame with eager hope. If only cheques had 
 
 poured in as lavishly as orders I should have been 
 
 quite contented, but while I had to be constantly 
 
 handing out ready money for weekly wages, for 
 
 materials, or trimmings at big shops, for rent and 
 
 taxes and repairs, and the thousand-and-one 
 
 expenses of my establishment, none came in to 
 
 me, and Abraham's rate of interest was very high. 
 
 (The entries in my diary are somewhat alarm- 
 59 
 
6o Vanity ! 
 
 ing, but Di assures me this is only the usual 
 experience of a first year. I shall be smoothly 
 floated ere another comes round. I will not 
 take these entries in detail. Only use them as 
 I have need.) 
 
 One of them brings me to a somewhat awk- 
 ward occurrence. It happened shortly after that 
 eventful Drawing-room. If I had a late * fitting' 
 or appointment I always ordered tea to be 
 brought up to the room where my customers 
 waited, or were received. 
 
 About five o'clock one dull afternoon, Lady 
 Farringdon arrived. She was accompanied by 
 Captain Calhoun, and they were both shown 
 up into the waiting-room by the page boy. I 
 was in the workroom at the time, and I suppose 
 five or ten minutes must have elapsed before I 
 went downstairs. 
 
 As I entered he was speaking very earnestly. 
 He was standing by the fireplace. She was 
 lying back in her favourite low chair. The room 
 was all dusk and shadowy, lighted only by fire 
 gleams, and fragrant with the scents of hyacinth 
 and narcissi which filled vases and flower bowls 
 in every available nook. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 61 
 
 * Ask her/ the Captain was saying. ^ You may 
 be sure she has her price like the rest of 'em.' 
 
 I approached, and there was an embarrassed 
 silence. I thought they must have been speak- 
 ing of me. But serene unconsciousness was in 
 my expression and accent. 
 
 ' You are all in the dark ! ' I exclaimed, and 
 touched the button of the electric light. Rosy 
 warmth flooded the room immediately, and 
 ' Juno's ' ruddy hair and rich tints shone from 
 out that harmonious background with quite 
 enchanting charm. 
 
 ^ You will have some tea, won't you ? ' I 
 urged. 
 
 ' How well you do things, Mrs Costello,' 
 drawled the Captain. * I was just saying I had 
 never seen such a charming room. No wonder 
 your visitors like dropping in. Lady Farringdon 
 declares she positively lives here ! ' 
 
 I laughed. * Have you come on business 
 to-day?' I inquired. 
 
 *Yes, I want another gown,' she answered. 
 
 I turned towards the tea-table. In my heart 
 I wished she would pay — even something on 
 account for those she had had. But I could 
 
62 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 not imperil my reputation by seeming to want 
 money. I brought her some tea, and Captain 
 Calhoun handed her cakes and wafers of bread 
 and butter, remarking that he never touched 
 anything before dinner except a sherry and 
 bitters, or a cigar. 
 
 In glancing at my diary, I discover here an 
 entry — ' Chartreuse! 
 
 I remember now that that same evening a case 
 of various liqueurs arrived for me, enclosing a 
 card with ' Captain Calhoun's compliments.' 
 
 On subsequent occasions, when ladies were 
 accompanied by friends of the male persuasion, 
 I had liqueurs brought in, as well as tea. 
 
 From 7nj/ diary. 
 
 July 1 8th. — The season is nearly over and I 
 have had my hands full with orders. So far 
 ' Frou-Frou ' has caught on. But, alas ! Frou- 
 Frou's finances are in a deplorable condition. 
 This morning there arrived to me an Ameri- 
 can millionairess. Everything about her spelt 
 'dollars,' and everything he said glorified them. 
 I heard more about oil springs, mines, railway 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 63 
 
 contracts and cattle exporting than I had ever 
 dreamt of in the whole course of my existence. 
 
 She was a big, heavy person with grey hair 
 carefully coiffured^ and a lovely young daughter 
 who had been introduced at the last Drawing- 
 room of the season, owing to the unlimited 
 influence of the aforesaid dollars. She told me 
 so much of her family history, position and 
 ambitions that I was fairly bewildered. 
 
 * Tm not quite happy in my mind,' she observed 
 to me. * IVe a notion I came over a bit too 
 late for the season and got fixed in a wrong set. 
 Our Consul did his best, but Josephine swears 
 that old Lady Fitzdufif, who introduced her, was 
 only a scheming old adventuress, and that every- 
 one " in the know " guesses it was a mere matter 
 of dollars. My ! you should have heard that girl 
 give your British Court away ! I just screamed 
 and so did her father. She asked a real duchess 
 at the Drawing-room why the Queen didn't con- 
 tract with Gunter for ices. She knew he'd do 
 'em for threepence a head, just to get into the 
 Palace, and she spotted ever so many holes in the 
 damask, and gilt off the chairs, and swore half 
 the diamonds were paste. My husband is next 
 
64 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 richest man to Vanderbilt — he is so — and the 
 States knows it. Anyone in Amurrca would tell 
 you that Mark Aurelius B. Peck is just a four- 
 horse concern and no pumpkins ! And at our 
 ball (we live in Grosvenor Square, you know), 
 well, though the Prince couldn't come, his 
 brother did, and some of his relations by marriage, 
 and didn't they open their eyes at the cotillon 
 presents — thirty thousand dollars went in them 
 alone. We can show you folks how to do a 
 thing, you bet ! ' 
 
 * Do you happen to want any gowns ? ' I asked 
 somewhat brusquely. 
 
 * I guess I do. You dress Lady Farringdon, 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 * I have that pleasure/ 
 
 ' I was told so. They say, next to your 
 Princess, she's the best - dressed woman in 
 London. She's certainly stylish. She told me 
 to come to you. I've tried Jay, and Russell 
 & Allen, and Kate Reilly, and Mrs Aber- 
 croft, and now I'm going to see what you can 
 do. You can have cash down if you like, but 
 I must have my say, and as for trimmings, 
 wal, I do like them sumptuous. Now, I want 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 65 
 
 a dinner-gown — white satin ; a reception one 
 — orange and black ; orange suits me real smart 
 — and two for Cowes Regatta, and hats to match. 
 Then, there's my daughter Josephine — ' 
 
 In the pause that followed, I heard the velvet 
 curtains behind me swept back. Someone entered 
 and put me aside with an air of authority. 
 
 ^ Pardon me, madam, did I hear you say you 
 required some dresses?' 
 
 I looked at the intruder with astonishment. 
 It was Wildash. 
 
 * I guess you did, young man,' answered my 
 new customer. ' Say, are you in this business 
 too? You look smart set up enough.' 
 
 ' My appearance has nothing to do with the 
 present question,' he answered haughtily. * I 
 came in to say that this establishment is con- 
 ducted on very different lines to what you 
 imagine. We do not allow our customers to 
 dictate to us what they will or will not have. 
 We cannot imperil our reputation by their 
 bad taste or ignorance. If you wish us to 
 dress you, we will do so, but you must have 
 absolutely no voice in the matter.' 
 
 If Mrs Mark Aurelius B. Peck's astonishment 
 E 
 
66 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 was half as great as my own, it would have 
 been hard to beat. 
 
 ^ I — I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought 
 it was only people like Worth and Felix who 
 had the authority — ' 
 
 ^ Madam, I am a far greater authority than 
 Messieurs Worth or Felix. I am the designer 
 of costumes worn by empresses and queens. 
 I dictate — what these people carry out. I have 
 been too much occupied with my Paris business 
 to attend to this London one as I should wish, 
 but I am about to concentrate my energies on 
 it now.' 
 
 He glanced at me and gave me a significant 
 flash of his audacious blue eyes. I was too 
 amazed to do more than stand listening to the 
 discussion. 
 
 He took out his watch. 
 
 *Ten minutes is all I can spare you, madam. 
 How many gowns do you wish to order?' 
 
 ^ Four,' she faltered, and enumerated them again. 
 
 He took out a note-book and jotted some items 
 hastily down. 
 
 *One reception, one dinner, two for Cowes. 
 Nothing for Goodwood ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 67 
 
 ' No-o, sir/ she stammered, all her bounce and 
 consequence effectually quenched. 
 
 * Thank you. Then will you walk across the 
 room ? * 
 
 She was much too nervous and upset to do 
 this with any sort of ease, and when she turned 
 he shook his head mournfully. 
 
 'Your figure is impossible, but, of course, you 
 know your own defects. I need not describe 
 them. We can only do the best possible. 
 Your waist is ridiculously pinched. You must 
 go to our corsetiere, I will give you her address. 
 Let her measure you for our Patent Irrational 
 Corset. As for the materials, I think you had a 
 preference for white satin. That is out of the 
 question. No, pray don't interrupt' — he held 
 up a peremptory hand — 'my time is valuable. 
 Black satin is what you must wear — black 
 slashed with orange, as you have a preference 
 for that colour. For Cowes navy-blue, and black 
 and white. Dinner — black lace and diamonds. 
 Of course you have diamonds?' 
 
 ' Diamonds ! ' she bridled. ' Wal, now, that's 
 a joke, and my husband a millionaire.' 
 
 * I suppose that means you'd have them as big 
 
68 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 as paving-stones if you could bear the weight, 
 ril call and see what you must wear with this 
 black lace. One touch of colour — no more, 
 if your life depended on it/ 
 He closed the note-book. 
 
 ' Cash is our rule for a first order. Two 
 hundred guineas for the reception gown, seventy- 
 eight for the lace dinner dress, fifty guineas each 
 for the Cowes costumes, including hats and sun- 
 shades. Thank you, madam. Madame Costello 
 will arrange a morning to fit you, but not till 
 af^er your visit to Mademoiselle Juliette, our 
 corse ^lere.^ 
 
 He went to the door and opened it. 
 
 ' Wrothesay,' he called, ' show this lady to 
 her carriage.' 
 
 And with a bow that held the grace of a courtier 
 he ushered the amazed millionairess out of the 
 room. 
 
 As the door closed I sank down in the nearest 
 chair. 
 
 ' What on earth,' I gasped — 
 He broke into sudden laughter. ^ I'm afraid 
 I astonished you — allow me to explain.' 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 He glanced round the room, drew the portieres^ 
 
 then came back and took a chair. 
 
 ^Dear Mrs Costello, I know I ought to 
 
 apologise, but I couldn't stand hearing that 
 
 vulgar person bully you. If you want your 
 
 business to be a supreme success, you must take 
 
 the high hand with your customers — reduce them 
 
 to powder, so to speak. A woman will bully her 
 
 husband, torment her lover, insult her inferiors, 
 
 snub or betray her friends, but she will lick 
 
 the dust off her dressmaker's shoes in order to 
 
 procure an original gown, or be pronounced 
 
 the best-dressed woman of her set. It is 
 
 ignoble, but then, your society dame has no 
 
 fine feelings. The world is her god, and the 
 
 world exacts the lowest form of homage. But 
 
 69 
 
70 Vanity ! 
 
 now to business. ... I have left Marchand 
 et Cie. for good. They refused to raise my 
 salary, and I have simply made their 
 business — made it. Canaille! . . . They will 
 soon find their mistake, so I returned to London 
 in order to' — he looked slightly embarrassed — 
 ' well, you're a woman of the world, Mrs Costello. 
 I came across a very clever little corsetiere in 
 Paris and I thought Fd set her up here, I 
 remembered you at once and resolved to com- 
 bine the two businesses. It will do you no 
 harm, and be of inestimable benefit to her.' 
 
 *You seem to take a great deal for granted, 
 Mr Wildash,' I interrupted. 
 
 ^ Yes,' he agreed smilingly, ^ I do. That is how 
 I get on so well. " Laudace^ et toujours Vaudace " 
 — you know that saying? It has been my 
 motto since I was sixteen years old. I'm only 
 twenty-six now — so I've not done so badly.' 
 
 ' But all this— 
 
 * Exactly. All this doesn't explain why I 
 took upon myself to interfere with your 
 "American claimant." But you'll soon know 
 my reason. I correspond constantly with Mrs 
 Abercroft. Indeed, I furnish her with many 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 71 
 
 of her most original ideas. I heard from her 
 that you were getting on well — but not so 
 well as you ought. Also, that you were 
 troubled about money matters. An idea struck 
 me at once. You want a man at your back ! ' 
 ' A man ? ' I echoed. 
 
 * A man like myself/ he repeated, ' with ex- 
 perience, insight, artistic faculties, and what you 
 lack — supreme impudence. People say money 
 rules the world, Mrs Costello — not a bit of it — 
 impudence — impudence of speech — of manner — 
 of mind. Give me a chance of showing what 
 I mean, and if your business doesn't become the 
 greatest in London, my name isn't Harry 
 Wildash.' 
 
 ' Do you think my customers will stand being 
 spoken to as you spoke to Mrs Peck?' 
 
 * They'll have to stand it if they want our 
 dresses. And they'll kave to want them.' 
 
 ^ But suppose they don't ? ' 
 ' Altogether impossible. I'd stake my reputa- 
 tion on it.' 
 
 But I still argued. It looked too audacious 
 a scheme to enter upon in my present financial 
 crisis. 
 
72 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * Will you give me a trial ? ' he asked per- 
 suasively. * The season's almost over. But 
 they'll be coming to you for sea-side gowns 
 and country house visiting affairs. TU be bound 
 ril set them talking, and when the autumn 
 orders come in, you'll see if I haven't proved 
 my words.' 
 
 His eyes were as persuasive as his tongue. 
 And it is always dangerous for a woman to 
 parley with, temptation. There was a certain 
 amount of temptation in his offer, if only for 
 the amusement to be got out of it and his 
 own bright, audacious companionship. So, after 
 some more talking and hesitating, I finally con- 
 sented. 
 
 He was to attend every day from eleven till 
 six; interview customers and arrange orders. 
 I was to be comparatively passive, save in the 
 matter of cutting and fitting — ' And the parvenus 
 must pay cash down,' he insisted. ' Oh ! I 
 know the objection, and half the smart people 
 can't pay ; but they'll find the money quick 
 enough when it's the thing to have their gowns 
 from you. You shall be to London what Worth 
 was to Paris. Why, queens and princesses and 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 73 
 
 all the great ladies of Europe fairly trembled 
 at his word, and obeyed him like slaves, not 
 because his taste was infallibly good (some 
 of his creations were odious), but because he 
 had the genius of audacity. He cared nothing 
 whom he offended ; no king was more dictatorial. 
 He was the autocrat of Fashion, and Fashion rules 
 Woman, and Woman rules the world.' 
 
 * I thought it was men ? ' 
 
 * We have changed all that/ he said airily. 
 ' Your sex is the salt of the earth. You rule 
 the Court, the Boudoir, the Laws and the Litera- 
 ture, the Art and Religion of the country. But you 
 are also ruled by one god, and that is Fashion. 
 It is a foolish god ; its feet are clay and its 
 head a bladder, but its hands are of steel, and 
 never loosen their grip on its feminine idolaters.' 
 , * You seem to have studied the subject' 
 
 ^ I have studied little else. There are some 
 things women do infinitely better than men, 
 but there are others that men do infinitely 
 better than women — when they take the trouble. 
 And one of these things is the treating of dress 
 as a fine art. Studying colour, form, design, 
 style. I have done it. But I don't understand 
 
74 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 the A B C of dressmaking, and I couldn't cut 
 a gown to save my life.' 
 
 * Do you propose to give me the benefit of 
 your knowledge as a partner in the business, 
 or what?' 
 
 ^ I should naturally expect a fair share of the 
 profits,' he said modestly. 'But I'll make a 
 conditional arrangement — twenty-five per cent, 
 on the first year's takings — thirty the second — if 
 my scheme succeeds, which I'm sure it will. Do 
 you agree ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said. ' It's a risk, but if I go on as 
 I'm going I shall certainly fail.' 
 
 ' Take the risk then,' he said, with that bright 
 smile flashing from eyes and lips. ' I'll be here 
 to-morrow — ten o'clock — I want to arrange this 
 room differently — you don't mind ? ' 
 
 'Oh! dear no,' I said, with a sensation of 
 helplessness. 'You may as well do anything 
 you like while you are here.' 
 
 ' You say that as if you considered the ar- 
 rangement a very temporary one.' 
 
 ' It depends on how the people like being 
 ordered and controlled.' 
 
 'My dear child—' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 75 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 * Oh ! you mustn't mind. That's my Irish 
 way. What was I going to say ? . . . Oh ! They 
 like it, I assure you — women, I mean. They 
 were intended to be ruled although they affirm 
 the contrary. Of course I sha'n't treat them all 
 as I did Mrs Julius Caesar — what was her name? 
 Well, no matter — Americans always have a 
 dozen or so. You can trust me to rule with 
 discretion — but it must be rule — mind that. 
 And now Tve taken up your time long enough 
 — I'll be going.' 
 
 * About those dresses ? ' I asked, rising also. 
 * It's very easy to say blue serge, and black 
 braiding, but are you not going to give me a 
 sketch of the costume ? ' 
 
 'Yes — I'll do a design in rough. You'll catch 
 my meaning, I know. A great tub of a woman 
 like that wants careful dressing. Great Scot! 
 she ought to pay. Think of the trouble of 
 making her look any way presentable. As 
 shapeless as a feather-bed, and a face like a 
 full moon with a sick headache.' 
 
 ' Well for her she can't hear you,' I said, laughing. 
 
 ' Indeed, Mrs Costello, if women heard half of 
 
76 Vanity ! 
 
 what men say about them in clubs and smoking- 
 rooms, they'd have a good lot of conceit knocked 
 out of them. Do they suppose we like to see 
 them half naked at balls, or romping through 
 cotillons, or smoking with us after dinner, or aping 
 our dress, our manners and our slang? They 
 think it smart and chic — but we call it — something 
 very different. The cocotte of society is no less 
 objectionable to any decent man than her sister 
 of the pavement — only she is infinitely more 
 expensive, and has a knack of landing you in the 
 divorce court/ 
 
 After he had left I sat for long brooding over 
 this new scheme. I counted its possibilities and 
 its dangers. I felt sure that if it was to succeed, 
 this audacious young Irishman would be the 
 author of such success. I could not put much 
 heart into the matter. I was not by nature a 
 bully, and shrank from playing the part — even at 
 second hand. But necessity is a hard task- 
 master, and necessity drove me to accept Harry 
 Wildash's proposal. 
 
 He probably knew society better than I did — 
 at least from a French point of view. French 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 77 
 
 women are apt to be confidential to their tailors 
 and modistes, and other appendages. They look 
 upon them as indifferently as they look at their 
 furniture. They are necessities, but necessities 
 brainless and without fine feeling. Having 
 studied in such a school, it remained to be seen 
 whether the lessons would bear fruit if tried in 
 another country, and on other pupils. 
 
 Ten o'clock next morning brought my new 
 partner in professional attire of frock coat, black 
 satin tie, and patent leather boots. Handsome, 
 alert, well groomed, he was a pleasant as well as 
 an inspiring figure in the foreground of my 
 establishment. As early as eleven o'clock Lady 
 Farringdon arrived. She had also come about 
 Cowes dresses. 
 
 I introduced Wildash and explained the 
 situation. He studied her approvingly. 
 
 * There will be some credit in making for you,' 
 he observed. Then — less dictatorially, but with the 
 most perfect confidence — he proceeded to order 
 her dresses for her as he had done with Mrs 
 Peck. She seemed surprised, and cast inquiring 
 glances at me. But I was passive — simply mak- 
 ing notes of what Wildash decided. 
 
78 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 As she was leaving, he suddenly observed, 
 *By-the-bye, madam, permit me to say that, 
 in the interests of my partner and self, all this 
 season's accounts must be settled by end of 
 the month. We are going to conduct the 
 business on a more important and exclusive 
 footing. Naturally, alterations will be attended 
 with considerable expense. I have been looking 
 over the books and find that your account is 
 a very heavy one. Since February you have 
 had various costumes — including a Court gown. 
 The account will be sent you before we under- 
 take your present order.' 
 
 She coloured under her paint and powder. * I 
 know I must owe you an immense sum,' she 
 said to me. 'But it will be all right. Til 
 send you a cheque at once, and ' — she 
 stopped — ' What an exquisite gown ! ' she 
 exclaimed, glancing at one of the stands. *Is 
 it ordered ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, madam. It is for the Princess Olga — 
 daughter of Prince Malakoff. I used to design 
 her gowns in Paris. She will be dressed 
 entirely by our firm in London now.' 
 
 ' The Princess Olga ! ' She looked at him 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 79 
 
 appealingly. ^ Oh ! no wonder it's so lovely. 
 What would you charge to copy it for me ? ' 
 
 * I make it a rule never to copy. I could 
 arrange a modified version of it for ninety-five 
 guineas. But, excuse my saying so, it really 
 would not suit your style. The princess is 
 petite. You are built on grand lines.' 
 
 She smiled graciously. * I think she has the 
 advantage, unless you can design me something 
 as effective and original.' 
 
 * I shall do so with pleasure,' he said, and 
 then bowed and withdrew. 
 
 She turned eagerly to me. * My dear creature, 
 what an extraordinary idea ! I am more than 
 surprised ! But he is charming — do you think 
 it will work?' 
 
 * I hope so,' I answered. ^ It has been rather 
 hard on me to do everything. He is very clever, 
 and his taste simply perfect. By-the-bye,' I 
 went on carelessly, ' I had a visit yesterday from 
 that new American millionairess, Mrs Peck.' 
 
 * Not Mrs Aurelius B. Peck ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 * Yes ; I am to dress her and her daughter.' 
 
 * Then, my dear, you are in luck. Why, she 
 absolutely rolls in money. Her toilet things are 
 
8o 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 all set in gold, and she has an umbrella with 
 her monogram in diamonds on the handle ! And 
 she's getting her dresses from fouP^ 
 
 'Yes; Mr Wildash is to design them. I must 
 tell you of a very pretty compliment she paid 
 you by the way. She said that next to the 
 Princess you were the best-dressed woman in 
 London ! ' 
 
 ' Really ! ' 
 
 Never did blush more becoming rise to the 
 cheek of a girl at some lover's flattery, than the 
 rose that mantled the cheek of this seasoned 
 woman of society. 
 
 That evening a cheque arrived paying her 
 account in full. Oh ! vanity, vanity ! Truly 
 thou art the prime ruler of every feminine 
 heart ! 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Mrs Aurelius B. Peck arrived in due course, 
 having had her figure arranged by Mademoiselle 
 Juliette, the little Parisian corset maker. 
 
 She had done all that was possible, but that 
 is not saying much. The good lady was laced 
 so tightly she could scarcely breathe, her neck 
 was hung with chains and lockets, and her large 
 fat hands were covered with rings. Wherever a 
 jewel could be stuck there glittered pin or brooch 
 of some sort. Gold bangles circled her wrists, 
 and gold buckles shone on her patent leather 
 shoes. I gazed at her with a sense of hopeless- 
 ness while awaiting Wildash's appearance. 
 
 'My daughter was to meet me here,' she 
 observed. ' Ain't she come ? ' 
 
 * No. Perhaps she will look in later. Your 
 
82 Vanity! 
 
 designs are ready, madam, and I will have your 
 measurements taken presently.' 
 
 I sounded the silver gong; and Wildash 
 appeared. 
 
 He frowned as he surveyed the large, ungrace- 
 ful figure before him, and I saw her turn pale 
 as she watched his face. 
 
 For a moment there was absolute silence. 
 Then with a sigh he turned to me. 
 
 ^We must do the best we can,' he said in 
 French. ' When one arrives at that — it is hope- 
 less.' 
 
 I rang for Miss Jacks. At the same moment 
 the door opened, and there came in a small, slim 
 girl with a lovely, mutinous face, and sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 ^ Why, momma ! ' she exclaimed, ' you never 
 do say you're first ? ' 
 
 ' My daughter,' observed Mrs Aurelius, turning 
 to me, and waving her hand introductionally, 
 ' Miss Josephine Marianne B. Peck.' 
 
 * Rather many of me, isn't there?' inquired 
 the young lady. Then her gaze rested on 
 Wildash. 
 
 ' Do say ; was it you who put momma down 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 83 
 
 so surprisingly ? She told us when she got home. 
 Didn't poppa laugh ! We can't do anything with 
 her home, you know. Not that we'd have her 
 different anyway, but it keeps things a bit breezy 
 at times. Still, it's her make, and Providence 
 knows His own business best. But it was funny. 
 Are you going to try your hand on me ? Because 
 I'm dead set on havin' my gowns made here.' 
 Wildash looked at her critically. 
 
 * Goodwood, or Cowes ? ' he asked. 
 
 *0h, my! I guess we ain't good enough for 
 your swells at the races. Though the Duke of 
 Wharfshire did say he'd ask us. P'r'aps he 
 reckoned without his duchess — she is stuck up 
 — looks at me as if I was a scallyragi' 
 
 * You may find here and there a soul above 
 dollars, even amongst the English aristocracy,' 
 observed Wildash, thoughtfully. *Rare, I grant, 
 but still even the worst of us have our redeeming 
 points. Now, will you walk across the room as 
 gracefully as those high heels permit, and I'll 
 see what I can do for you ? ' 
 
 She stared, then laughed and swept him a 
 mocking curtsey. After which she threw herself 
 into a chair, crossed her arms behind her head, 
 
84 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 and swung the aforesaid heels to and fro with 
 an audacious display of open-work stocking, and 
 silk and lace frilling. 
 
 ' Guess rU do so' she said. * Fm not momma/ 
 
 He bowed gravely. 'Good morning/ he said, 
 and crossed to the door. 
 
 She gazed blankly after him. * Well, I never ! 
 Here, Mr ... I don't know your name . . . 
 come back. Is this the way you do business? 
 My stars ! it's amazing funny ! But don't be 
 so short. I'll do what you want, though 
 Worth didn't ask me to walk, I assure you 
 I don't wobble.' 
 
 She drew up her slender figure, and moved 
 slowly from end to end of the room. Wildash 
 said nothing, but simply drew out his note-book, 
 made a few entries, then, with a curt 'good 
 morning,' left us. 
 
 Mother and daughter surveyed each other. 
 Surprise rendered both wordless for a moment, 
 and Miss Jack's entrance with measuring tape 
 and other paraphernalia kept them so while I 
 gave the necessary directions. 
 
 * How many gowns do you need ? ' I asked 
 Miss Peck. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 85 
 
 * ril have two for Cowes/ she said curtly, 
 *and you may fix me up another couple for 
 evening as youVe about it. Blue and silver 
 for one — white the other. A billowy thing with 
 lots of chiffon. What about my waist?' 
 
 ' It is quite right/ I said, turning to her 
 panting parent, whom Mademoiselle Juliette 
 appeared to have used with some cruelty. 
 
 I relieved her, and pointed out that the laces 
 had been wrongly adjusted. When she was more 
 at ease Miss Jacks tried on her pattern, and after 
 making another appointment I dismissed them. 
 
 The morning was full of surprises. At least 
 half-a-dozen new customers came in, all of 
 whom had heard of Wildash, and were anxious 
 to see him. 
 
 It astonished me to note the quickness with 
 which he summed up their various characteristics. 
 With some he was audacious, with others coldly 
 polite, but one and all were treated as I never 
 would have dared to treat any woman, and he 
 still refused them any voice in the selection of 
 their gowns. 
 
 'You need have no fear. It will be quite 
 correct,' he assured them. And then followed 
 
86 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 an avalanche of names and titles that silenced 
 all remonstrance. 
 
 * I never permit my dressmaker to dictate to 
 me/ said one prim-looking dowager who wanted 
 gowns for an autumn house-party. *My taste is 
 considered perfect. Besides, one must know one's 
 own style best, and it is that alone which gives 
 originality to one's toilette.' 
 
 * I grant it, if you are sure you do know your 
 own style,' answered Wildash, coolly. * Judging 
 from your present attire I should say exactly the 
 contrary. You look stiff, angular, uncomfortable. 
 There is no grace — no dignity about you. Why, 
 you positively crackle with whalebone; and that 
 jet corselet gives you the appearance of Boadicea 
 going to fight the Romans.' 
 
 * Sir ! ' exclaimed the insulted dowager, becom- 
 ing purple with rage. 
 
 * I am only giving you my opinion. You are 
 at liberty to go elsewhere if you don't like it. 
 Even Princess Malakoff never presumes to dictate 
 to me. I have just finished that gown there for 
 her. She left the whole matter in my hands.' 
 
 The dowager looked at the fairy-like beauty of 
 the indicated gown, then at the cool, handsome 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 87 
 
 face of the designer. From these her glance 
 travelled to her own reflection in shiny moire and 
 glittering jet. Buckram and whalebone crackled 
 beneath a sigh of resignation. 
 She was vanquished. 
 
 The game thus begun went merrily on. All 
 the gowns ordered were fitted and completed, and, 
 strangest of all,/<^/^ for. Not in a single instance 
 was there a failure. 
 
 Wildash had, as he asserted, a perfect genius for 
 form and colour. Mrs Aurelius and her daughter 
 were enchanted with their Cowes costumes. Cer- 
 tainly the American autocrat looked for once 
 presentable, and the daughter so lovely that the 
 various society papers chronicled her appearance 
 in gushing terms. She wrote me pages on the 
 subject of her success. 
 
 ' I guess Fm making a splash here,' she wrote. 
 * And Fm not sorry now I took your partner's 
 advice. That yachting gown does make some 
 of the girls mad. There's not such buttons in 
 all Cowes. I went on board the Prince's yacht 
 to lunch. Lord Wharfinger took me. And 
 H.R.H. was that gracious ! My stars ! I did feel 
 
88 Vanity! 
 
 proud that day ! The evening gowns are just too 
 perfectly sweet for anything. Til never believe 
 in anyone again but you. Tell that dear man 
 so. Fm his humble slave. Won't you have 
 a time next season ! Everyone's talking about 
 him. They say he's a duke's son — doing this 
 for a lark. I don't care a red cent whose son 
 he is if he'll only keep on designing dresses for 
 me. — Yours gratefully, JOSEY M. Peck.' 
 
 I showed this to Wildash that evening. He 
 had dropped in to share my cutlet and 
 savoury, and discuss plans for the autumn 
 campaign. We were both going for a short 
 holiday. He to Homburg — for ideas — so he 
 said ; and I to recruit, after the fag and toil of 
 the hot summer, at a more primitive and less 
 fashionable resort on the English coast. 
 
 He smiled oddly as he read the letter. 'A 
 duke's son — well, she's a little wide of the mark. 
 But not so very far off. I've a chance of be- 
 coming heir to a baronetcy.' 
 
 I looked up from my plate in astonishment. 
 
 ' Is that true?' 
 
 * Indeed yes. There's a possible Sir Harry 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 89 
 
 Wildash at your service. Two lives — one old — 
 one young and feeble — alone intervene. Not 
 that I covet the prospect. Fm a Bohemian, 
 heart and soul. I hate respectability as much 
 as I hate the ''good Christian family." You 
 know what I mean? The people with a 
 family Bible on a table by the window, and who 
 wouldn't go to a theatre for any consideration, 
 yet bally-rag the servant if she's five minutes 
 late in the morning, or leaves a bread crumb 
 on the carpet. Take a 'bus ride through any 
 London suburb and you'll see them by the 
 score. They're as common as their own red 
 brick villas with the garden plot in front, and 
 the plant and the Bible in the window.' 
 
 * It's a queer world,' I said. 
 
 * Indeed and it is. What's the meaning of it at 
 all ? I often wonder. And yet we're Christians 
 and civilised, and go to church every Sunday 
 (not that I ever do; I prefer a bicycle spin), 
 and look for the millennium and the Day of 
 Judgment. Lord, it's very funny, when you 
 think of it! Now, these women who come here ! 
 Have they souls ? Fancy them taken out of a world 
 where they didn't change their gowns five times 
 
90 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 a day, or gossip over tea and "nips" of cognac 
 in each other's boudoirs. Where there were no 
 scandals, no liaisons^ no intrigues, no Paris, or 
 Monte Carlo, no after-dinner card parties for 
 baccarat, or bridge — no cotillons, no rivalries — . . . 
 Great Scot ! What would they do ? ' 
 
 I leant back in my chair and studied his face 
 with some amusement. 
 
 ' I give it up,' I said. * But the puzzle has 
 actually made you look grave. It seems odd 
 that you should think about such things.' 
 
 * Oh ! Fm not so empty-headed as you fancy.' 
 'You have rather a contempt for women?' 
 
 * Small wonder if I have. Look at the speci- 
 mens we see. And in Paris it was worse. It is 
 a satisfaction to think one can live out of their 
 follies, but that doesn't prevent my despising 
 them.' 
 
 'Yet they treat you very well,' I said. 
 
 His eye fell on the letter I had handed to him. 
 
 * It wouldn't be bad fun,' he remarked, ' to 
 marry that girl.' 
 
 ' Marry ? ' I felt as if I had received a sudden 
 shock. An odd sensation crept over me. Some- 
 how I had never thought of his marrying — of the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 91 
 
 change it would make in our present life — of the 
 inevitable break in this pleasant camaraderie. 
 
 * Yes/ he said. * I don't care for marriage as 
 an institution, but it would be a fine revenge on 
 society if I did win that girl's dollars away from 
 the needy dukes and impoverished aristocrats 
 who are hunting her down.' 
 
 I drank off my glass of claret, still oddly 
 conscious of discomfort and perturbation of 
 spirit. I put it down to the idea of losing a 
 partner so enterprising and desirable. 
 
 He glanced at me as if surprised by my long 
 silence. * You look quite pale,' he said. ^ Don't 
 you like the idea? Of course I'd see you firmly 
 established first. Haven't I done all I promised 
 so far ? ' 
 
 ^ You have, indeed,' I said gratefully. * You've 
 saved me from ruin.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! well, I don't know about that You're 
 a plucky woman. You'd have weathered the 
 storm somehow. Besides, I've really enjoyed it. 
 And this is only the beginning. You'll see what 
 next season will do for us.' 
 
 I smiled. ^ Us ? But if you take a matri- 
 monial partnership?' 
 
92 Vanity ! 
 
 ' I sha'n't do that in a hurry. I was only 
 joking. I believe I prefer this. Besides, we hit 
 it off so well — you and I — don't we? And I've 
 always had an idea of a woman friend — no hum- 
 bug or nonsense, you know — just give and take — 
 chat and laugh and knock about together. I'm 
 perfectly happy, and perhaps the Peck dollars 
 wouldn't make me that. There's a deal to 
 swallow along with them.' 
 
 * She's very pretty,' I observed. 
 
 * Une poupee de modiste. Most American girls 
 are like that. And they carry their gowns too 
 appreciatively. To be well dressed is never to 
 feel one is well dressed. That little supercilious 
 self-satisfied air of Josey Peck's spoils her. It 
 is always calling attention to the real lace on 
 her gown, the real diamonds in her buttons. Her 
 extravagances are in bad taste, and she won't 
 allow one to forget it.' 
 
 I began to laugh. 
 
 ^ I shall never forget,' I said, * the way you 
 spoke to her mother. I was terrified.' 
 
 *That shows how little you know of your sex. 
 But I often laugh at that scene myself What 
 a humbug I am ! ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 93 
 
 He suddenly stretched a hand across the 
 table to me. * Do you believe in me at all ? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 I gave him my own hand, and looked frankly 
 back into the questioning blue eyes. 
 ^Yes— I do.' 
 
 'Thank you, Mrs Costello,* he said softly. 
 ' Some day I'll tell you — ' 
 
 He broke off abruptly, released my hand, and 
 rose from the table. 
 
 I had not the courage to ask what he meant 
 to tell me — some day. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Rest. Change. Peace. 
 
 The splash of waves on shingle, the cool breeze 
 of the salt sea. Red-brown cliffs, blue sky melting 
 into blue waters. How beautiful it all is, and 
 how I enjoy it ! 
 
 I came here three days ago, and I have 
 spent those days in blissful idleness. 
 
 I had left heat and dust behind me. The 
 cry of the lavender-seller was in the streets. 
 Every self-respecting householder had blinds 
 down, or shutters up, and caretakers were 
 having a right good time in deserted man- 
 sions. I had seen six babies and as many 
 matrons at tea in a dining-room in Portman 
 Square, and aristocratic carriages that had 
 graced the Row held many strange freights 
 when the horses were out for * exercise.' 
 
 But for three days I have lounged, bathed 
 
 and slept away the hours in delightful lazi- 
 
 94 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 95 
 
 ness, trying to forget the existence of scissors, 
 the exigencies of *cut' and ^fit/ and pushing 
 out of sight the forthcoming troubles of the 
 winter season. 
 
 The society papers furnish me with news of 
 my fashionable customers. I follow them through 
 the winding mazes of foreign travel and so-called 
 ^ cures.' I see them disporting themselves at 
 Homburg and Marienbad, and Ostend and 
 Trouville, still pursuing their flying fetish, 
 Pleasure. Still unable to enjoy existence with- 
 out the excitement of gambling, dining, flirting, 
 dancing — and rivalry. 
 
 Thank goodness I have still some simple tastes 
 left and can appreciate Nature and peace, even 
 alone, and with but myself and my various 
 books and journals for company. Better com- 
 pany and safer too than our friends at * Bads' 
 or Kursaals. 
 
 I learn that the Queen is taking donkey-drives 
 at Balmoral, and that various Royals are trout 
 or salmon fishing in the neighbourhood. That 
 a sedan chair has been utilised for the cotillon. 
 That rich Americans and ' amazing ' smart 
 women are giving the Prince a gay time of it 
 
96 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 at Homburg during his wife's absence at her 
 girlhood's home. 
 
 I note that heroines of various causes celebres 
 have been whitewashed and reinstated in certain 
 sections of society, and intend to live chiefly 
 abroad. Wise proviso ! And I suffer much 
 indignation and annoyance at the pert person- 
 alities of *Bat' and * Tattle' of so-and-so, who, 
 in common with various ^ Myras ' and * Bellas ' 
 and 'Violantes,' persist in describing people of 
 whom they know nothing, and furnishing an 
 inquisitive public with the information that 
 they looked remarkably smart, and wore some 
 fine diamonds (as if these penny-a-liners knew 
 the real thing from Parisian bijouterie). 
 
 Tired of this rubbish, I at last closed my eyes 
 and leant back, listening drowsily to the plash of 
 the waves and the sound of children's voices in 
 the distance. 
 
 I was wondering whether I should get tired 
 of solitude, tired of this unfashionable little 
 coastguard village where there was neither 
 pier, nor band, nor any amusement, and which 
 only offered health and peace and cheapness 
 to its visitors. I had taken two rooms at the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 97 
 
 little hotel on the cliff. At present I was the 
 only lady visitor and naturally was excessively 
 comfortable. 
 
 As I lay in the dreamy beatitude of perfect 
 rest, I became conscious of voices close at hand — 
 one languid and betraying mental or bodily 
 weakness, the other pleasant, persuasive and 
 full-toned. 
 
 I opened my eyes and, glancing up from 
 the tilted umbrella stretched over my head, 
 saw an elderly woman and a somewhat feeble- 
 looking youth. He was leaning on her arm. 
 His pale face and vacant blue eyes met my 
 gaze and then were turned indifferently aside. 
 His companion, on the contrary, observed me 
 with some attention. They passed on and I 
 gave them but the languid curiosity one bestows 
 on newcomers at a seaside place. 
 
 Then I resumed my meditations until luncheon 
 time. 
 
 When I entered the coffee-room I saw to my 
 
 surprise that the table next my own was 
 
 occupied by these people. The lady had 
 
 removed her large shady hat and I saw a 
 
 worn, anxious face under thick bands of iron- 
 
 G 
 
98 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 grey hair. She was dressed in black. The 
 boy — for he looked nothing else — would have 
 been good-looking but for the pallor of his 
 face, which melted into the pale tints of his 
 hair, and gave him that look of insipidity so 
 often noticeable in very fair men. 
 
 I discovered presently they were mother and 
 son, and from the extreme attention they re- 
 ceived at the hands of the waiter, I began to 
 think they must be people of importance. 
 
 When the waiter presently answered, * Yes, 
 my lady,^ to some remark, I wondered if he 
 was giving her more than a mere courtesy 
 title. I noted the boy scarcely touched any 
 food, but drank claret and water thirstily. She 
 seemed greatly distressed by his lack of appetite. 
 
 He did not speak much, and his voice was 
 low and languid, so were the movements of his 
 hands. He made me think of the young man 
 in The Green Carnation, His attitude was a 
 pose, and small as his audience was, I felt he 
 was acting for our benefit. Once he caught 
 my eye and favoured me with a long, deliber- 
 ate stare. Then he began to talk. His language 
 was stilted and affected, and his would - be 
 
Vanity ! 99 
 
 cleverness wearisome after the first novelty had 
 worn ofif. But his mother listened enraptured. 
 Poor soul ! He was evidently the idol of her heart 
 — a very poor and meagre idol, to my thinking. 
 
 When I had finished my luncheon I retired 
 to my own room. It was too hot to go out. 
 I took a book and ensconced myself in a basket 
 chair in a shady corner of the balcony which 
 overlooked the sea. Presently the whiff of a 
 cigarette informed me I had a neighbour. I 
 glanced up and saw the interesting youth just 
 drawing a chair into the adjoining balcony, prepara- 
 tory to enjoying the afternoon in similar fashion. 
 
 He smiled faintly as I looked at him. * Have 
 you been staying here long ? ' he inquired. 
 
 * Only three days,' I answered. 
 
 * Anything to do?' 
 
 * Nothing, unless you mean to bathe — or row — 
 or fish.' 
 
 He shuddered affectedly. 
 
 ' Bathe — ^kere.' His glance indicated publicity. 
 ' Oh ! no, thanks, not for me. Public bathing 
 is the most indelicate of our many indelicate 
 nineteenth-century achievements.' 
 
 *Do you really think so?' I exclaimed. * Why, 
 
loo Vanity! 
 
 I have a boat every morning and take a header 
 into the deep, and swim back a quarter of a 
 mile or so. It is delicious/ 
 
 He surveyed me with his straw-coloured head 
 a little on one side like a meditative bird. 
 
 ' How strong you must be ! ' he said 
 pathetically. 
 
 'That is more than you are to judge from 
 your looks/ I answered. 
 
 * Yes, Fm considered delicate. The mater 
 does fuss over me so, too. She's brought me 
 here because some old fogey of a doctor told 
 her it possessed the finest air in England. Just 
 as if they don't say that of every place where 
 they've an interest in the property. He's one 
 of the shareholders of this hotel, and has built 
 a bungalow up there.' 
 
 His glance indicated a red brick building I had 
 noticed beyond the sandhills. 
 
 * Oh ! indeed,' I said vaguely. 
 
 ' Yes. And the mater thought it would be so 
 convenient to have him within call. . . . You 
 see my father's dead, and I come into the 
 property next year, and she's tremendously 
 anxious about me.' 
 
Vanity ! i o i 
 
 I grew interested. * Are you very delicate ? ' 
 
 ' So they say.' A curious look came into his 
 eyes, and his white hand languidly flicked the 
 ash of his cigarette. 
 
 * It's a great bore being an only child, and an 
 only son. I'd change places with anyone. I 
 want merely to exist pleasantly. No troubles, 
 no worries. Books, wines, cigarettes, artistic 
 surroundings, and above all — calm. No one 
 understands the beauty of calm nowadays. 
 The philosophers did. But society is a series of 
 fireworks — bang — fizz — splutter. An endless 
 rush, an endless excitement. And they think 
 I'll do the same because I'm born into the set. 
 However, I've my own ideas.' 
 
 * May I ask your name ? ' I inquired gently. 
 
 ' I've a good many. I'm known as Lord 
 Ernie to my friends — my father was the Earl of 
 Wrexborough. Next year I'll be that — if I live.' 
 
 ' Surely there is no reason why you should 
 not?' I observed. 
 
 His face seemed to grow whiter, and a curious 
 dull film gathered over his eyes. He made no 
 answer. He threw aside his cigarette and leant 
 languidly back against his cushioned chair. I 
 
I02 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 watched him with some wonder and some fear. 
 Presently his eyes opened again. He looked 
 furtively round, and then his hand went to the 
 breast pocket of his coat. He seemed to have 
 entirely forgotten my presence. I watched him 
 curiously, fascinated by his look and actions. 
 I saw him draw a small case from the pocket. 
 Then he drew back his cuff and exposed a 
 thin, blue-veined arm. With a swift, sudden 
 movement he applied what looked like a glass 
 needle to the exposed skin, withdrew it and re- 
 placed it in the case. 
 
 I rose hurriedly. * Whatever are you doing ? ' 
 I exclaimed. 
 
 He gave a guilty start. 'Why — who the 
 devil ! I beg pardon — I had forgotten you ! ' 
 
 Then suddenly the film cleared from his eyes. 
 The colour flushed his waxen cheeks, and his 
 face looked alive and alert. The transformation 
 was marvellous. 
 
 He rose and came towards me. Only a rail- 
 ing divided us. *You look a good sort,' he said 
 hurriedly. *Can you keep a secret? Don't say 
 a word to my mother — she doesn't know. But 
 the stuff keeps me alive, I couldn't do with- 
 
Vanity! 103 
 
 out it. If s all right. The doctor knows. Why, 
 how scared you look.' 
 
 ' It's — it's not morphia ? ' I gasped, feeling faint 
 and sick as I thought of his youth, his pro- 
 spects, and present mad folly. 
 
 * God bless you ! No. ... I tell you it's quite 
 safe. Only we don't tell the old lady because 
 it might frighten her. Promise you won't say 
 a word.' 
 
 ' I'll act on my own discretion,' I said coldly. 
 ' I've heard a great deal about these hypodermic 
 injections. I don't like them, and it seems dread- 
 ful to see a boy like you using drugs. Do you 
 suffer? Is there any special reason why you 
 should do this ? ' 
 
 He gave a short, caustic laugh. * Every reason. 
 It doesn't hurt me, and it's a heaven within reach. 
 You're a woman. . . . You couldn't under- 
 stand. . . .' 
 
 * I don't wish to understand,' I said sharply. 
 *But I know those habits — morphia — opium — 
 absinthe drinking — they are the bane of modern 
 day civilisation.' 
 
 ' Everything is pardonable that lends pleasure 
 to life,' he said. * An existence that is purely 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 material — eating — drinking — sleeping — how ab- 
 solutely terrible ! Any boor is our equal. A 
 habit that can lift us into a realm of ideal 
 beauty — can give us dreams that no mere 
 mortal obtains — is worth any sacrifice/ 
 
 I shuddered. To stand here in the golden 
 calm of the afternoon, the blue serenity of sky 
 and sea about us, and hear such young lips pro- 
 claim such heresies. It was awful ! 
 
 ' Even the sacrifice of life ? ' I said at last. 
 
 * Life is only a phase, a passing moment, a 
 breath on a mirror. Even the clergy preach that 
 to us. They are only wise who beautify its 
 moments, and let imagination rule their passions 
 and their hearts.' 
 
 ' Is that something you have learnt ? . . . the 
 cant of a set neither reputable nor useful.' 
 
 ^ Useful ! What a dreadful word ! Meant for 
 clods and money-lenders. My dear lady, you 
 have a great deal to learn — yet.' 
 
 He leant forward and his eyes and voice grew 
 persuasive. *You won't say anything to my 
 mother ? ' he asked again. 
 
 ^ It is none of my business,' I said. ^ But I 
 give no promise.' 
 
Vanity ! 105 
 
 ^ You are too beautiful to be obdurate/ he said. 
 * I shall trust you. Meanwhile, let us be friends. 
 This is a small place. We shall meet- con- 
 stantly. Perhaps I may convert you to my 
 theories of a beautiful existence in a common- 
 place world.^ 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' I ejaculated under my breath, 
 as his cool, slim hand touched mine. 
 
 It seemed, even there amidst the warm sun- 
 shine, as the touch of death. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 With a sudden desire for fresh air, space, freedom, 
 I put on my hat and went out. 
 
 This boy and his history had horrified me. 
 So young, so old ; a slave to an enthralling and 
 dangerous habit. A cynic, yet an epicure. A 
 diseased mind controlling a frail body. There 
 was the essence of tragedy around him. I knew 
 and had heard enough of modern youth, but I had 
 never come face to face with such a specimen. 
 
 The bold sweep of sea and the fresh cool 
 breeze seemed doubly delightful after that un- 
 wholesome atmosphere. The sun was veiled by 
 clouds. There was a promise of rain or storm 
 in the leaden-coloured west, but I paid no heed to 
 it, I was too much occupied with my own thoughts. 
 
 The touch of heavy rain-drops on my face 
 
 warned me that I was far from shelter. I glanced 
 
 at my watch and found it was close on five o'clock. 
 
 Before I reached the hotel the storm burst. 
 io6 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 107 
 
 Peals of thunder resounded ; lightning flashed 
 from end to end of the broad horizon line. 
 The sea grew black save where the curling 
 waves lifted their crests of foam. There was a 
 grandeur and beauty about Nature's wrath that 
 I could not but admire. Everything looked small 
 and puny in comparison, and even when I reached 
 the hotel I stood in the entrance watching the 
 process of the storm instead of going to my own 
 room to change my wet gown. The air was 
 hot and sultry. The dense clouds, barred with 
 orange and crimson, seemed to touch the sea 
 as it rose and swelled beneath, and one sharp 
 rattling peal of thunder shook the sky and was 
 followed by a flash of light so wide and blinding 
 that involuntarily I stepped within. At the same 
 moment a piercing scream rang through the house. 
 
 I started, and rushed up the stairs. In the 
 corridor a group of frightened chamber-maids 
 and waiters crowded together. 
 
 ' What is the matter — who screamed ? ' I asked. 
 
 * It's the young gentleman in there,' said one 
 of the men. * He's been doin' nothing else ever 
 since the storm came on. And the countess, 
 poor lady, is half distracted. She can't stop him.' 
 
io8 Vanity! 
 
 I walked to the door and knocked sharply. I 
 heard stifled groans ; then a voice demanded who 
 was there. 
 
 * Let me come in ; perhaps I can be of use ; ' I 
 answered. 
 
 The door opened, and the white, agitated face 
 of Lady Wrexborough appeared. 
 
 ^ Come in — if you will,* she said eagerly. * My 
 poor boy is quite hysterical. He cannot endure 
 thunder-storms. The electricity affects him.' 
 
 I entered, and closed the door upon the curious 
 group without. 
 
 The young fellow lay on a couch, with a rug 
 thrown over him. The blinds and curtains were 
 drawn as if to keep out the glare of the electric 
 flashes. His frame was convulsed with shudder- 
 ings, and he moaned like one in abject terror. 
 
 I went up and took his hand. 
 
 * Come, come, this is childish ! ' I said. * The 
 lightning can't hurt you, nor the thunder either. 
 The storm is far off" and it will soon be over. 
 What are you frightened about?' 
 
 * Oh ! it's horrible ! ' he moaned. ' It's torture ! 
 Those flashes seem to set my brain on fire, and 
 every nerve is jarring.' 
 
Vanity! 109 
 
 * You are weak and ill/ I said soothingly. ' Try 
 and control yourself. It can't last much longer. 
 Shall I sit here and talk to you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! do. You are so sensible ; mother does 
 nothing but cry.' 
 
 *Well, you must promise you won't scream 
 again/ I said. *YouVe alarmed the whole hotel.' 
 
 Another flash, less vivid than before, set him 
 trembling and shaking, but he made some effort 
 at self-control. 
 
 For half an hour I sat there beside him, holding 
 his hand, now talking soothingly, now scolding, as 
 he alternately gave way to weakness, or attempted 
 to control it. The poor old lady sat by us, moan- 
 ing and coaxing as if he were a baby. I could 
 see he was her idol, and that all her hopes were 
 bound up in him. I scarcely knew which I pitied 
 most. 
 
 As the storm abated and he grew calmer, I 
 asked her if he was always affected in a similar 
 manner. 
 
 * Oh, no ; it is only lately,' she answered. * But 
 his health is sadly impaired. I have tried every 
 sort of remedy and had the best advice, but 
 nothing seems to do him good. I came here 
 
no 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 because I heard the air was so fine. But this 
 storm will do him a great deal of harm. His 
 nerves are so highly strung, and any shock or 
 worry ought to be avoided, so the doctors say.' 
 
 I thought of that secret of his, of the little 
 devilish invention hidden in his coat pocket, and 
 I wondered if it was my duty to tell her what 
 I had discovered. But surely the doctors knew 
 of his practice, and would have informed her 
 had there been any necessity. As I stood 
 weighing the subject in my mind, he suddenly 
 sat up quite calm and composed. 
 
 * I'm all right now,' he said. ^ There's some- 
 thing about you — ' He took my hand and looked 
 at it for a moment. ' It has magnetism. It is 
 the healer's hand,' he said. ^You've done me 
 good. Mother, hadn't you better ring for tea, 
 and ask Mrs — ' 
 
 ' Costello,' I informed him. 
 
 * Mrs Costello to have a cup ? How patient 
 you've been,' he added gratefully. 
 
 I felt sorry and interested, and yet — uncomfort- 
 able. But I stayed on and had tea, and his 
 mother unbent from her frozen dignity of 
 luncheon time, and showed herself very pleasant 
 
Vanity ! 1 1 1 
 
 and entertaining. Still, the harping on one string, 
 and that string 'Ernie,' was rather wearisome, 
 and I rose at last and wished them good-bye. 
 They were to dine in their own sitting-room, 
 and I was not sorry to hear it. I felt I had had 
 quite enough for one day, even of a prospective 
 earl. 
 
 I retired to my own room to change my dress 
 and write up my diary. 
 
 The evening post brought me a long letter 
 from Wildash. His letters were always 
 delightful — long, chatty, amusing, satirical, 
 bringing scenes and people before one without 
 apparent effort, as some writers have a knack 
 of doing. I sat out on the cliffs facing the now 
 tranquil sea, and read it with keen enjoyment. 
 
 He sketched Homburg and its visitors skil- 
 fully for my amusement — touching lightly the 
 scandals of the hour — painting the follies and 
 rivalries of the gay, frivolous crowd, who sipped 
 their water, and chirped their endless gossip 
 under the trees, and were so gracious to their 
 compeers and so insolent to those who 'weren't 
 in it' 
 
112 Vanity ! 
 
 I seemed to see that multitude of royalties, 
 titles, millionaires and beauties who crowded the 
 hotels, and the allees, and watched the tennis 
 matches. 
 
 * The Pecks are here,' he went on. * You 
 should have seen Josey's astonishment when she 
 saw me. Her mother " cut " me ; in a very stupid, 
 blundering way too, (I'll pay her out in her 
 next gown for that), but the girl bowed and 
 gushed, and was quite friendly. They're not in 
 with any of the best people, and it riles the old 
 lady. She sits under the trees and glowers at the 
 crowd, and covers herself with jewellery till she 
 looks like a decorated Christmas tree. But it's all 
 no good. Meanwhile, Miss Peck rides or bikes 
 with me in the early mornings — and if I wished 
 I could make all the running in that quarter. 
 Shall I ? — No. It wouldn't be fair to our bargain 
 — so set your mind at rest. 
 
 * I often wish you were here. I want someone 
 to talk to. You know what I mean. . . . I've 
 got some splendid ideas for our winter campaign. 
 Daring if you like — but chic — adaptations of 
 Vienna. The Austrian women do dress well. 
 No one can touch them — and such figures ! It 
 
Vanity ! 113 
 
 makes Miss Josey mad when I praise other 
 women — so Tm always doing it. TheyVe 
 bought a house in Park Lane, she tells me — or 
 rather a lease of one — and are going to make 
 a real splash next season. Poor things ! — If 
 they only knew what birth and breeding say 
 of American pretentiousness. Why don't they 
 stop in their own country? They'd be much 
 better off, but there's no getting them to believe 
 that, and when one of their heiresses does land 
 into our aristocracy — by Jove ! she out-Herods 
 Herod with her airs and graces ! And yet what 
 a difference in the real thing when you do see 
 it—' 
 
 I had read so far by the light of the full 
 August moon when a shadow fell across the 
 page. I glanced up and saw my young friend 
 of the afternoon. 
 
 ' I hope Fm not interrupting you ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Oh ! no — I've finished my letter. I hope 
 you're feeling better ? ' 
 
 <Yes — thanks. I'm all right again.' 
 
 He pushed his straw hat to the back of his 
 pale gilt head, and gazed dreamily over the 
 water. 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * Do you mind if I smoke ? ' 
 *Not at all— I rather like it/ 
 
 'What a sensible woman you are/ he said, 
 seating himself beside me. * Tve been thinking 
 so all the evening. Would you mind telling 
 me if you're — married ? I mean if youVe a 
 husband/ 
 
 * I have no husband/ I said drily, and 
 conscious of slightly heightened colour. 
 
 * Tm so glad. I thought you had an owner 
 who'd be turning up. You're so very pretty, 
 you know, and look so young to be a widow/ 
 
 I laughed. ' I never heard widowhood de- 
 manded any special age for its privilege of 
 freedom/ 
 
 ' Of course not. But women like you aren't 
 long left to freedom/ 
 
 'You must know a great deal about my sex,' 
 I remarked sarcastically. 
 
 ' No. I don't like them — as a rule. They 
 seriously interfere with the enjoyment of life. 
 They are so exacting and so selfish — and as for 
 girls — oh ! I do hate girls/ 
 
 ' A bad look-out for the future Countess of 
 Wrexborough/ I said. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 ' That's the worst of that beastly title. They'll 
 be worrying me to get married. You're — you're 
 not an actress, are you, Mrs Costello ? ' 
 
 * Certainly not. What made you think so ? ' 
 
 * You've such a style, and dress so well. My 
 mother thought you might be one — down here 
 for quiet, don't you know — studying a new 
 part. She's terribly afraid of actresses — but I 
 like them — when they don't talk too much. I 
 know Julia Neilson and Mrs Pat Campbell 
 very well. They're dear things, but not a 
 patch on you for style.' 
 
 * I'm vastly obliged to you for the compli- 
 ment,' I said, laughing. 
 
 * I really mean it. Then you don't talk shop 
 — all actresses do. Can't help it, I suppose. 
 They've so many rehearsals, and then the life — 
 so limited and self-engrossed.' 
 
 'Yes. It must be rather monotonous. Be- 
 sides, actresses always like everyone else to 
 know wko they are. . . 
 
 * Do you go into society much ? ' he continued 
 after a brief pause. 
 
 *As much as I care to,' I said evasively. 
 
 'I don't. I hate it. I belong to the New 
 
1 1 6 Vanity ! 
 
 Siecle Club. We founded it for the culture and 
 enjoyment of Youth, and the evasion of Social 
 Obligations. No one over twenty is eligible for 
 election.' 
 
 I thought he was old enough and blase enough 
 for fifty, but I merely asked what they did at this 
 juvenile institution. 
 
 He smiled enigmatically. ' Oh ! enjoy life with 
 the least trouble, and the highest regard for its 
 artistic side. No talent is disregarded. Our 
 secretary plays the pan-pipes. It is almost a 
 forgotten art. Yet it takes one back to Arcadia 
 to hear him.' 
 
 ^ A Punch and Judy man would do that for you,' 
 I said bluntly. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear lady ! ' he exclaimed in a shocked 
 voice. ^ How dreadful ! as if there could be any 
 comparison ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps not as regards the players,' I said, 
 laughing. *But the instruments are the same.' 
 
 ' That is the secret of art,' he said. * To glorify 
 what would otherwise be commonplace, to lend 
 lustre and delight to the incomplete.' 
 
 *Your club must be very efficient, then. I 
 suppose you have a great many members ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 117 
 
 ' At present only twelve/ he said with a sigh. 
 * But it is scarcely known yet ; and we want our 
 influence to be gradual. It is not a sordid affair, 
 based on commercial lines, vulgarised by eating 
 and drinking. We subsist cheerfully on simple 
 luxuries. We never dine — in the accepted term. 
 We have occasional banquets — feasts of roses and 
 song — fruits and choice wines — winding up with 
 hookahs and sherbet. We make an idyl, not an 
 orgie, of life.' 
 
 I rose abruptly. 'The dew is falling and you 
 are an invalid. Hadn't you better come in ? ' 
 
 * It is so beautiful here. The repose, the peace. 
 Why did you disturb it?' 
 
 I felt inclined to tell him I had heard enough 
 of his club, and his idyls ; but I only said I was 
 tired, and wished him good-night. 
 
 I thought I had never appreciated the breezy 
 manfulness and bonhomie of Wildash so 
 thoroughly as now. 
 
CHAPTER X I 
 
 A WEEK has passed. 
 
 Taking generalities instead of details, I must 
 candidly call it a week of * Lord Ernie/ From 
 early morn to dewy eve that estimable youth 
 has been my shadow. We drove together, sailed 
 and walked together, and sat out in the moon- 
 light together. His mother had neuralgia the 
 best part of the time ! 
 
 If I were the designing widow of fiction I 
 could have caught my fledgling very easily, 
 made him marry me privately, and woke up 
 Countess of Wrexborough one fine morning. 
 But neither his title nor his broad acres tempted 
 me — allied as they were inseparably to his 
 miserable little personality, and gilt-edged conceit. 
 
 The smallness and vanity of the boy's nature 
 
 were intolerable. I gave him innumerable 
 
 lectures, and *set him down' as often as 
 
 possible, but this treatment only seemed to 
 ii8 
 
Vanity! 119 
 
 make him more attached to me. My superb 
 health, my love of air and exercise, my fear- 
 lessness of storm or weather, on land or on 
 sea, were subjects of incessant marvel to him. 
 
 I had even talked and bullied him out of 
 his wretched habit of drug-injecting, though he 
 suffered terribly from the loss. However, I held 
 to the case, and refused to give it back, and warned 
 his valet that I would inform Lady Wrexborough 
 if he procured his young master any more of 
 the stuff. I found it was cocaine he had been 
 using. One day he let out that at this precious 
 club of his, all the youths used some drug or 
 other. It was a horrible and disgusting practice. 
 Yet these scions of noble houses and heirs to 
 titles and great names, thought nothing of 
 enfeebling their constitutions, and degrading 
 their manhood and future virility by such a 
 loathsome habit. 
 
 Perhaps I have succeeded in making him 
 ashamed of it. He appears so now, but I think 
 he is too weak for any influence to be lasting. 
 When he returns to his old friends he will, no 
 doubt, return to his old evil ways. 
 
I20 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 I told Wildash about this boy. His answer 
 was peculiar. 
 
 * Lord Ernie is well known to a certain set — 
 a set who are ostracised by the self-respecting 
 members of society — a set given up to the 
 worship of Self in every form. They profess 
 artistic tastes (save the mark !), and think it is 
 very wonderful and very original to set all laws 
 of decency and self - government at defiance. 
 Better an out - and - out blackguard, with the 
 strength to sin boldly, than these effete, corrupt, 
 miserable worms who have crept into our fin- 
 de-siecle life, and ruin minds and morals with 
 their poisonous follies ! ' 
 
 I did not say this to Lord Ernie, but I 
 dropped occasional hints that seemed to frighten 
 him, and for a day or two I avoided meeting or 
 speaking to him, unless in his mother's presence. 
 
 To-night I came across him unexpectedly. He 
 was sitting on a rock, in a remote part of the beach, 
 gazing abstractedly into the deep clear pools of sea 
 water left by the receding tide. 
 
 The moon was at its full, and a track of gold 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 121 
 
 lay over the wide stretch of waters. Scarce a 
 breath of air rippled the shining surface. Peace 
 held its own in this world-forgotten nook. 
 
 He looked up and saw me. His face was very 
 white, and his eyes had an odd, wild look in them. 
 
 * Do you know what I was contemplating ? ' 
 he asked me suddenly. * Death. Death in its 
 quiet, pale corruption, its placid senselessness. 
 Death in this great sea-vault with the waves 
 forever rolling overhead, and all the strange, 
 uncanny creatures of the ocean as attendant 
 mourners. He seemed inviting me — that pale 
 King with his bony face and eyeless sockets. I 
 seemed to hear him say — ' 
 
 ' Oh, for goodness sake don't talk such rubbish ! ' 
 I exclaimed angrily. * What have you been 
 doing ? Not at that vile stuff again ? ' 
 
 ' No. On my honour — no,' he said eagerly. 
 * I promised I would tell you, and so I will. I 
 am only melancholy. You have avoided me. 
 I could read indifference in your look, and cold- 
 ness in your eyes. I became a prey to miserable 
 forebodings. Have I offended you in any way ? ' 
 
 ' No,' I said, looking at the wan and miserable 
 young face ; ' not specially. Not more than 
 
122 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 your uselessness and morbidness always do 
 ofifend me/ 
 
 ' Cure me of them ! ' he cried eagerly. * Be 
 my salvation. Already you have helped me so 
 much. . . . You are my life's good angel, I feel 
 sure. I have always looked upon marriage as 
 a terror when it has not seemed an absurdity, 
 but — you have converted me. Will you be 
 my wife and make me all you desire? In your 
 hands I should be as wax. I recognise in you 
 that pure and superior power to which alone 
 I can bow. Say you will use it on my behalf.' 
 
 He had moved from the rock and was standing 
 by my side. The golden light fell on his face 
 and gave it warmth and colour ; his eyes looked 
 at me beseechingly, his weak, mobile lips were 
 trembling. I think he was in earnest, and for a 
 moment or two I allowed myself the triumph of 
 conquest. But was it a triumph after all? . . . 
 
 ' How long you are answering/ he faltered 
 presently. * Is " yes " so hard to say ? ' and he 
 held out his hands. 
 
 That gesture decided me. Like a flash I saw 
 another hand stretched out to me — a laughing face 
 and pleading eyes alive with purpose, and brim- 
 
Vanity ! 123 
 
 ful of humour. This was but the corpse of all 
 true sentiment — a puny weakling for whom I 
 had no feeling save pitying contempt. Yet — to 
 be Countess of Wrexborough? — never more to 
 have to slave and work, and be at the mercy of 
 great ladies' whims and millionaires' purses ! — 
 how tempting was the picture ! 
 
 Then the cold damp hands touched mine, 
 and I drew suddenly away. 
 
 'No,' I said firmly. 'No, Lord Ernie, I will 
 not marry you.' 
 
 He hung his head like a chidden child. ' Is it 
 because of my life ... of what I have confessed ? ' 
 
 ' Partly — and partly because marriage has no 
 attraction for me. Neither your position nor your 
 set would compensate for the attendant drawbacks 
 to both.' 
 
 ' Drawbacks ! ' he repeated, as if bewildered. 
 
 'Yes. I know a great deal of what goes on 
 behind the scenes of society. Your great ladies 
 are not all they seem. Their life — which looks so 
 alluring to those on the fringe of that supposed 
 Paradise — has no attraction for me. If you are 
 born into a position you must put up with it, but if 
 you're adopted into one it will often not put up 
 
1 24 Vanity ! 
 
 with you. I don't like insolence, and no one can 
 be so offensively insolent as your great lady/ 
 ' You would be as good as any of them.' 
 
 * Perhaps, but they would not think so. The 
 set into which a marriage with you would take 
 me, is a set I know particularly well.' 
 
 * But how the deuce — ' 
 
 I smiled. * You have taken me very much on 
 trust. You have never asked who or what I am ? ' 
 
 * Anyone could see you were thoroughbred 
 at a glance. Burke and Debrett couldn't do 
 more for you than you do for yourself.' 
 
 ' A pretty compliment, but still it would not 
 carry much weight even with your — mother — 
 shall we say?' 
 
 * Oh ! hang it all. I'm not bound to ask her.' 
 
 * Still, she could make it very unpleasant 
 for both of us, if she knew you wanted to 
 marry a — dressmaker ! ' 
 
 < A— what?' 
 
 ' A dressmaker ; pure and simple. A lady, I 
 grant you, but my position is only that of a Court 
 modiste of Bond Street. Society will receive 
 a music-hall star, a stage dancer, even a bur- 
 lesque actress when she sports her coronet, and 
 
Vanity ! 125 
 
 trails her wedded lord after her skirts, but it 
 would turn its back on a woman who had made 
 its gowns, and learnt its petits s^cretSy and been 
 in its debt, and received its cheques from 
 many strange sources. That would be a very- 
 different story. There are no hard and fast 
 rules about society. It is a very queer institu- 
 tion ; but it has its own ideas of who may 
 steal the horse, and who may not even glance 
 at the stable door.* 
 
 His face was flushed now, and I could see 
 he was struggling with the varied emotions 
 caused by my confession. 
 
 ' Then you will not — marry me ? ' he blurted 
 out at last. 
 
 * No. And you ought to be very grateful to 
 me for saying so. If I were designing, or self- 
 seeking, I should jump at your offer.' 
 
 * If you only cared,' he muttered. * It seems 
 hard that the only woman who has made me 
 want to marry her, should refuse me.' 
 
 * I cannot understand why you should want 
 to marry me,' I said, moving on at last. He 
 turned and walked beside me. 
 
 *You have been so good to me,' he said. 
 
1 26 Vanity ! 
 
 ' And you are strong and helpful and sensible, 
 ril never find another woman like you/ 
 
 Again I laughed. * Oh, yes, you will, but you 
 must alter your own life first Tm not good 
 at lecturing, but I feel I ought to lecture you. 
 You must throw off all these affectations. You 
 must try and be a credit to your manhood and 
 your race. Your mother is devoted to you. . . . 
 Think what she would suffer did she know what 
 you confessed to me. Think of your youth and 
 health ruined for want of a little moral courage 
 — the courage to break a pernicious habit, and 
 give up a set of false and unworthy companions. 
 What good woman could respect or love you 
 if she knew of your life? Believe me, women 
 love a manly man — one they can look up to and 
 reverence. It rests with yourself to deserve such 
 a woman, and she will complete your life and 
 teach you happiness.' 
 
 * The more you say the more I love — you. I 
 can't even think of any other woman.' 
 
 * Nonsense!' I said cheerfully. *Why, I'm at 
 least ten years older than yourself.' 
 
 'Age matters nothing when one loves.' 
 
 * Perhaps not ; but I don't love you, and I 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 127 
 
 should be always remembering my grey hairs 
 and wrinkles while you were in the prime of life.' 
 *If you understood me — ' 
 
 I 'grew impatient. ' I understand you so well 
 that I should never care to understand you 
 better, Lord Ernie. I think you scarcely 
 recognise how much of the poseur there is 
 about you. Probably you will play at unhappi- 
 ness for a while to please your own morbid 
 fancy, but it is your vanity that is concerned, 
 not your heart, and the wound is not deadly. 
 What you call art is merely a false view of life. 
 You don't look at it straight, with clear, honest 
 vision.' 
 
 He reddened again, and an offended look 
 came into his face. 
 
 * I thought you understood me better,' he 
 said. *But women are all alike, narrow-minded, 
 full of prejudice. . . .' 
 
 * Have you ever given yourself the trouble to 
 understand us?' I asked quietly. 'Your club 
 and its false teachings, the books that have 
 poisoned your mind — what sort of mentors 
 are these?' 
 
 'Yet you are sending me back to them.' 
 
128 Vanity! 
 
 *If you are weak — yes. But I thought — ' 
 
 * If s no use your thinking. Fm like a 
 rudderless ship. I shall drift back as sure as 
 fate, and it will be your fault/ 
 
 *That is the selfish cant a man uses as his 
 strongest weapon. But a woman owes a duty 
 to herself, and self-sacrifice can be a weakness 
 as well as a virtue.' 
 
 He was silent a long time. Then he turned 
 suddenly to me and said, * Will you give me 
 back my case?' 
 
 I looked at him, indignant and ashamed. 
 
 * You put it into the pocket of that gown you 
 are wearing,' he went on. 
 
 My hand went to my pocket. Yes ... it was 
 there. Slowly I drew it out. Then, without a 
 word, I stepped before him, and threw the 
 pernicious thing far out to sea. It fell on the 
 shining golden track the moon had left, then 
 sank, and was lost to sight. 
 
 He followed it with an angry glance; his face 
 deathly white. 
 
 ' ril get another to-morrow,' he said, and turned 
 on his heel and walked away in an opposite 
 direction. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 I SPENT the whole of the next day on the sea. 
 I engaged a boat and took my luncheon with 
 me. I wished to avoid any rencontre with Lord 
 Ernie or his mother. 
 
 I made the man land me at a primitive little 
 hamlet where I had tea at a primitive little inn, 
 sacred to fishermen and artists. At sunset I 
 returned. The light was fading out of the sky. 
 The glowing colours of the west paled, save where 
 they flushed some floating feathers of cloud. The 
 sea was mirror-like and waveless, and the distant 
 headlands were only hazy and indistinct shapes. 
 
 I took off my hat as I landed, and strolled 
 slowly along over the firm white sands. I was 
 lazily fatigued with my long day, and in no 
 hurry to reach the hotel. Indeed, I felt I had 
 had quite enough of Lord Ernie, and that either 
 he or I would have to leave the place. 
 
 The doors stood wide open, and as I entered I 
 
 was conscious of something unusual in the face of 
 I 129 
 
130 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 the porter. He looked at me in a way that roused 
 my curiosity. At the same moment a waiter 
 approached. 
 
 * Excuse me, madam/ he said. * But her lady- 
 ship is in a terrible state. She wishes to see you 
 immediate.' 
 
 * Why, what's happened ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 * His lordship, madam, has been drowned, while 
 bathing ... so it is supposed. He was picked 
 up by a boatman, and his clothes were lying on 
 the beach, and they brought him straight here, 
 and it's been something awful. . . . Her ladyship 
 is nearly out of her mind.' 
 
 * Good Heavens ! drowned — ' I faltered ; and 
 the shock and surprise turned me faint and sick. 
 
 I thought of his words the previous evening. 
 * Do you know what I was contemplating — 
 Death?' .... And it had come to him so 
 suddenly — so soon. 
 
 I asked no more questions, but hurried upstairs 
 to the poor mother. She was indeed like one 
 distraught. Pacing to and fro the room, wring- 
 ing her hands, crying wildly and frantically on 
 the name of her boy (poor worthless idol !). 
 
 My heart ached for her. I tried to soothe her. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 I knew she had been spared both sorrow and 
 shame in the future, but I could not tell her so, 
 
 I wrote letters for her to her men of business ; 
 to relatives who had to be told. I even tried to 
 persuade her to take some food, but all in vain. 
 She only wept and moaned and called on Heaven 
 to take her too, since life had no abiding joy 
 left for her. When she was quite worn out and 
 passive, I administered a sedative left by the 
 doctor, and then the maid and I got her to bed. 
 
 The woman promised to sleep in her room that 
 night, and at last I was able to seek my own. 
 
 There would have to be an inquest. Perhaps 
 I should be called upon to give evidence. I 
 sincerely hoped not. I felt thankful I had not 
 seen him that morning. It seemed dreadful that 
 my holiday should have had such an ending. 
 
 The inquest was held to-day. The verdict of 
 course was ' Death by misadventure.' 
 
 The valet was censured for not accompanying 
 his young master, knowing his delicate condi- 
 tion of health. But as there could be no possible 
 reason for one so blessed with this world's 
 goods taking voluntary leave of them, it was 
 
132 Vanity! 
 
 unanimously agreed that he had been drowned 
 accidentally. 
 
 I alone had my fears and my misgivings. 
 But I kept them to myself. As soon as the 
 inquiry was over I returned to London. 
 
 It was comparatively empty, at least in fashion- 
 able quarters. Bond Street and Regent Street 
 and Piccadilly were quite deserted. The heat 
 had turned to rain, and town looked altogether 
 its dingiest and worst. I had a spell of com- 
 parative quiet while I arranged my autumn 
 campaign and took up a few mourning orders. 
 I also made some alterations in the decorations 
 of my rooms, and prepared Paris novelties accord- 
 ing to the directions of my invaluable partner. 
 
 (He is not coming back till the end of the 
 month, he writes, but I have no immediate need 
 of him just yet.) 
 
 I have just returned from dining with Di 
 Abercroft. She is up to her ears in work and 
 orders. The theatrical season begins in October 
 and she has any amount of new dresses to design 
 for new plays, and actresses are generally as 
 difficult a class to please, as to fit. 
 
Vanity ! 133 
 
 Over our coffee and her cigarette I told her 
 my little adventure and its tragic sequence. I 
 could see she thought me a fool to have missed 
 so good a chance. 
 
 * Why, your fortune was made/ she exclaimed. 
 * And the very fact of his being so young was in 
 your favour. You could have done what you 
 pleased with him. It is a mistake for a woman to 
 marry a man older than herself. He either bullies 
 her, or manages her. When she has the advantage 
 of seniority she can bully or manage him.' 
 
 * But he was such a fool,' I complained. * I 
 really couldn't have done it, Di. Men are bad 
 enough, God knows, but at least I like one with 
 some manliness and strength and character in 
 him. This boy was nothing but a boudoir 
 lap-dog. I believe he powdered his face and 
 wore corsets. He had his nails manicured every 
 morning, and all his linen was laid among sachet 
 bags. He told me so!' 
 
 I gave a little shudder, but she only laughed. 
 
 ' He was simply the type of ultra-civilised 
 modern youths. Women make pets of them, 
 and they are really quite harmless. . . . 
 Sort of toy dogs, warranted not to bite. Talk- 
 
134 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ing of that, will you believe the latest fad of 
 society is buying toys for its pets. Lady 
 Vyvash told me she had bought a doll for 
 her little Schipperke to play with. The sweet 
 thing did not quite appreciate it, for she bit 
 its head off, so Lady Vy was going to get 
 another for the darling, not quite so expensive, 
 a matter of twenty-five shillings or thereabouts/ 
 
 ' It's sickening ! ' I exclaimed. ^ And all the 
 woe and want around.' 
 
 ' They don't realise it. It doesn't come in 
 their way. The police and the County Council 
 take care of that. And dogs are so much more 
 interesting than starving children ! ' 
 
 'What will they do next?' 
 
 * I often wonder. They've run through a good 
 many fads lately. Boudoir telephones, and tea- 
 parties for pet dogs, African niggers, gambling 
 on the Stock Exchange, bridge and baccarat, and 
 a few other little pastimes which shall be nameless.' 
 
 ' I wish they'd take it into their heads to pay 
 their bills,' I observed. * It's hateful having to 
 ask over and over again.' 
 
 'But Wildash is going to establish a ready- 
 money system, I understood you to say.' 
 
Vanity ! 135 
 
 * Only with the parvenus and nouveaux riches. 
 It wouldn't do with everyone — Lady Vandeleur, 
 for instance.' 
 
 *No, indeed. I fancy I see the look on her 
 face if you suggested such a thing. By the way, 
 the little Farringdon scandal is growing. . . . 
 She ought to be careful.' 
 
 * I have not seen or heard of her since I came 
 back,' I said. * I was wondering if she had 
 changed her dressmaker.' 
 
 * We did a couple of gowns for her. She was 
 staying somewhere in the neighbourhood of 
 Balmoral and thought she might be asked there.' 
 
 ' Oh — and was she ? ' 
 
 *The society jackals haven't had any "tips" 
 to that effect. Talking of tips, how did that 
 Peck woman manage to square the society 
 columns ? Her name and her doings at Homburg 
 were in every one of them.' 
 
 ^ I suppose she has learnt the secret,' I 
 answered moodily. * Everyone has his or her 
 price on those papers. You can buy a "par" 
 as easily as you can a penny bun.' 
 
 * Not quite so cheaply though, and not very 
 good value for your money/ 
 
136 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * Do you think the Pecks will catch on ? ' I asked. 
 ^ I believe their mansion in Park Lane is something 
 marvellous. How do Americans get so rich ? ' 
 
 ^ It's an amazing country/ she said thoughtfully. 
 * Small beginnings, shady middles, and flourish- 
 ing ends. But after all it is the end people 
 want. They can forget the intermediate stages.' 
 
 'There's something odiously snobbish in the 
 way people run after money nowadays.' 
 
 ' There is, my dear. And yet, for us, who 
 can peep behind the scenes, even snobbery has 
 its uses. We get our bills paid.' 
 
 She threw aside her cigarette and leant back in 
 her chair. ' Tell me something about Wildash ? ' 
 she said. * I never laughed so much in my life as 
 at your description of him and la mere Peck. 
 Isn't he a demon of audacity? That young 
 man will get on in the world, believe me.' 
 
 ' I think I have told you everything up to date,' 
 I answered. * I suppose he has some more 
 surprises in store, but I must wait his arrival' 
 
 * It certainly,' she said, ' is the boldest and most 
 original idea I ever heard of I would give a 
 great deal to hear him talk to those people.' 
 
 I laughed softly at the remembrance of Mrs 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 137 
 
 Peck's face. ^ You'd never forget it if you did. 
 Pm simply dumb, but they stand it. He has taken 
 their measure very correctly when he says that 
 a woman will submit to anything for the prestige 
 of being the best-dressed woman of her set' 
 
 * I told you his taste was perfect/ she said thought- 
 fully. ^ Daring, but never wrong. With that, and 
 your genius for " cut," you ought to be a success.' 
 
 ' I hope I shall—' 
 
 * Of course people will talk of the menage^ but that 
 won't matter. It's a pity you couldn't marry him.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, marriage would spoil every- 
 thing. Did ever any husband give to his wife 
 what he would to a woman whose claims were im- 
 personal — time, attention, homage, forbearance?' 
 
 * Perhaps you're right. It's certainly an interest- 
 ing experiment. You'll lose all the Grundys and 
 that sort, but if he works up the right set your 
 fortune's made.' 
 
 * I wonder,' I said, ' if that fact will bring any 
 great satisfaction with it?' 
 
 ' It ought to. Plenty of money and no need to 
 work. ... I call it an excellent retiring pension. 
 But we women are always discontented. The 
 moral of the Fisherman's Wife and the Flounder 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 is peculiarly true. Given what we want is to 
 make us immediately want something more.' 
 
 I rose to go. It was eleven o'clock, and I 
 kept early hours when I could. 
 
 'Let me know when Wildash returns/ she 
 said, as she helped me on with my cloak. ' We 
 must have a little dinner somewhere and talk 
 over things. I'm frightfully busy, working over- 
 time for the new piece at the Lyric. But Til spare 
 an evening for that' 
 
 I promised to let her know, and then left. 
 
 As I sit here and recall her words, I find myself 
 repeating that suggestion. ^What a pity you 
 couldn't marry him.' 
 
 * But I can^ I say softly, ' if I wish ... or he 
 proposed it. Only I don't wish. I am very con- 
 tent with things as they are. He is much better 
 as a friend than a husband. All the same — ' 
 
 A blot on the paper ; a thoughtful face looking 
 back at me from the mirror, into which I have 
 been absently gazing ; the striking of an hour by 
 the clock ; these remind me of the passage of time. 
 It is half an hour since I wrote those words. . . . 
 
 What a long way one can travel in half an hour ! 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WiLDASH came back to-day. 
 
 He was heralded by a cartload of fabrics and 
 modes from Paris and Vienna, sketches and 
 designs of the ultrsL-cMc in fashion, and was in 
 wild spirits. 
 
 He and Di and I went to a premiere at the 
 Comedy, and afterwards had a delightful little 
 supper at the Savoy. His description of the 
 Pecks at Homburg was simply delicious. We 
 laughed so immoderately that our table became 
 even more noticeable than that of a very fast 
 little peeress, who was entertaining a music-hall 
 * star ' and a fashionable palmist, and whose parties 
 were always remarkable for noise, if not for 
 wit. 
 
 It was no unusual thing for me to come across 
 
 my customers, or clients, at restaurants and 
 
 supper-rooms, but I was astonished when the 
 
 door opened to admit Lady Farringdon and 
 139 
 
140 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 Captain Calhoun. I saw she recognised me as 
 she threw a search-light glance over the room, but 
 we never knew one another in public, so my eye 
 remained fixed 'on the coast of Greenland,' to 
 quote Wildash*s description. 
 
 I repeat that I was a little — ^just a little — sur- 
 prised to see her here with this man, but then 
 the smart set and the 'Souls' do very singular 
 things, that are quite above the interpretation of 
 ordinary minds, and for which no mere outsider 
 would dare call them to account So I turned 
 my attention to quite the other end of the room, 
 and repaid that debt of the case of liqueurs. 
 
 ' Those people were in Paris the other day,' 
 observed Wildash, presently. ' I know Jim 
 Calhoun. His sister is going to make a very 
 brilliant match. She's coming to you for her 
 trousseau gowns and cloaks. He's got to pay 
 all that because the father's dead, and the mother 
 very badly off. I've arranged it. Long credit, 
 but safe in the end. She'll be Duchess of Bridge- 
 water, and she's only twenty.' 
 
 'And he?' 
 
 'Something near sixty. Quite juvenile — for 
 a duke ; and remarkably well-preserved — vide 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 Morning Post Dear Morning Post ! what should 
 we do without its useful information?' 
 
 * She'll be his third wife/ said Di. 
 
 *Yes. Lefs hope she'll remain so. A last 
 little venture.' 
 
 'What a chance for you/ said Di. 'Unless 
 she goes to someone else after her marriage.' 
 
 ' I think I can answer for that,' said Wildash. 
 ' She has a certain little . . . very little — physical 
 defect. Mrs Costello must discover this, and 
 conceal it. The duchess won't want to change 
 her dressmaker, then.' 
 
 I looked at him. ' How did you — ' 
 
 ' How did I find it out ? Because my eyes 
 are sharper than most people's . . . and I had 
 long noted a partiality for one peculiar style 
 of bodice. I talked one evening to the brother 
 at Bignon's over a bottle or maybe two of cham- 
 pagne. I spoke of her exquisite face (it really 
 is exquisite) and wondered that she inclined to 
 the " muffling " order of shoulder. In vino Veritas, 
 I got a hint of reasons, and saw my friend home 
 to his hotel, while the early bird sought the worm 
 in Lutetia's silent streets.' 
 
 ' How poetic ! ' laughed Di. 
 
142 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'Yes, and how useful That trousseau is going 
 to do great things for us. Fve made up my mind 
 about her presentation dress. There won't be 
 one like it. Youth, real Titian hair and a skin 
 like white rose leaves — there are possibilities 
 for you ! ' 
 
 'But Court dress displays defects instead of 
 concealing them.* 
 
 ' Not as I intend to use it.' 
 
 'You'll be a godsend to the Sexagenarian 
 Loyalties,' laughed Di. ' I should advertise a 
 speciality. Personal defects successfully con- 
 cealed. What a following you'd have.' 
 
 'It's surprising,' he said, 'how few really good 
 figures there are, and how few really beautiful 
 women. Of course hundreds pass as beauties, 
 but then that's because they make up admirably, 
 dress exquisitely, or are chic, or graceful, or 
 audacious ! But they won't bear criticism. You 
 can't judge them by the canons of beauty. The 
 most perfect types are the Austrians, in my 
 opinion.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Di, ' I quite agree with you. 
 There's a natural grace and elegance about 
 the Viennese . . . Englishwomen can't touch it. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 H3 
 
 They're cast in a coarser mould. I always 
 think an Englishwoman looks best with an out- 
 door background. Give her a hat, and a coat 
 and skirt, and she's all right. It's in rooms 
 — at great pageants she suffers by contrast 
 with her foreign neighbours. She is so conscious 
 of her clothes, and if she has jewels she puts 
 them on in a mass. She wants everyone to see 
 what a quantity she possesses, and hangs them 
 all over herself as a squaw hangs beads.' 
 
 * Self ornamentation is only a relic of barbarity,' 
 I said. 
 
 'Not even that; savages have it still. To 
 modern women jewels stand in place of the 
 domestic virtues. She'd certainly never rank them 
 as " far above rubies." ' 
 
 Wildash's eyes looked meditatively in the direc- 
 tion of Lady Farringdon and Captain Calhoun, 
 and Di and I ate quails in aspic, in silence. 
 
 * It will soon be the anniversary of your open- 
 ing, won't it ? ' asked Wildash, suddenly 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered, ' next month.' 
 
 * I have an idea for celebrating it,' he said. 
 * We must talk it over. How many people 
 would your rooms hold?' 
 
144 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ^Not many, Fm afraid — a dozen make a crowd. 
 You're not meditating an " At home," I hope ? ' 
 
 ' I am, but something quite out of the common. 
 A big draw^ 
 
 Di laughed good naturedly. *Your audacity 
 will carry you too far some day,' she said. *A11 
 women aren't as meek as Mrs Peck.' 
 
 * All women are manageable in some way,' he 
 answered. * My irons aren't on one fire only.' 
 
 Later on, after he had put Di into a hansom, 
 he asked if he might come home with me for a 
 chat and cigarette. I agreed, late as it was, and 
 over a chasse of cognac and the perfumes of best 
 Turkish, he unfolded to me his plan. 
 
 It was nothing more or less than to engage 
 some large hall or room and issue invitations 
 for an ' At home.' Refreshments and decorations 
 of the best, and most chic, also a little, very little, 
 music, with specially - engaged and first-class 
 artistes. But the speciality and feature of the 
 proceedings would be a procession of models who 
 were to walk up and down one end of the room 
 on a slightly-raised platform, roped off from the 
 guests. These models were to represent every 
 variety of costume — morning, afternoon and 
 
Vanity! 145 
 
 visiting gowns, Court dress, evening dress, and 
 tea-gown. One of each, and as perfect as could 
 be. 
 
 * But the expense ! ' I gasped. 
 
 ^ Nothing venture — nothing have,' he said. 
 ' ril get most of the gowns on credit from a 
 place I know. But each must have a finishing 
 touch at our hands. And the girls must be hand- 
 some and well-figured, of course. Think of the 
 sensation ! The wedding march will sound, and 
 a bride will walk on, and slowly parade up and 
 down. Patriotic airs and the Court model appears. 
 Sentimental valse and evening gown of lace and 
 chiffon. Nocturne — tea-gown . . . and so on. 
 I think it's a grand idea. How the women will 
 talk ! ' 
 
 ' There's no doubt of tkat^^ I said. * But it's a 
 risk.' 
 
 ^ Naturally. All big splashes mean a risk. But 
 I can finance you through this if you'll agree, and 
 the results for next season will be enormous.' 
 
 So, after a little more talk, I did agree to ven- 
 ture. I had faith in him, and he knew his world, 
 and knew how to deal with it. Before we parted 
 
 he had drawn the designs of the invitation cards 
 
 K 
 
1 46 Vanity ! . 
 
 and programme, and we agreed to send them 
 out as soon as printed. 
 
 The day fixed was the first anniversary of the 
 opening of Frou-Frou's establishment. 
 
 Between those weeks I was kept well em- 
 ployed. 
 
 Captain Calhoun called with his sister the very 
 next day after the Savoy supper. She was, as 
 Wildash had said, lovely. The face and features 
 were perfect; large turquoise blue eyes looked 
 out from an artistic tangle of red-gold hair. Her 
 skin was velvety. She rarely had any colour, but 
 the rose-petal smoothness of her cheeks was 
 independent of anything so commonplace. 
 
 It was not, of course, until her first pattern was 
 being tried on that I discovered the slight defect 
 Wildash had mentioned. I chose to do the fitting 
 myself, and sent the assistant away on some 
 pretext. Then I gently sympathised with the 
 future duchess, and told her that if she would 
 trust herself in my hands, the censorious and 
 argus-eyed mob of a jealous society should be 
 none the wiser. 
 
 I could see she was startled and a little confused 
 by my quick perception. But she was young and 
 
Vanity ! 1 47 
 
 ambitious, and would have agreed to anything at 
 that time. 
 
 * In my establishment/ I told her, * discretion 
 is absolute. Not one whisper of our artistic 
 secrets gets beyond the doors. My staff know 
 how particular I am on this point, and that 
 instant dismissal would follow any infringement 
 of the rules/ 
 
 I thought to myself that Wildash had an apt 
 pupil, but que voulez vous — one must live. 
 
 The future duchess left the selection of her 
 gowns and cloaks to me, so I called in Wildash 
 to interview her. 
 
 He was very merciful. The admiration in 
 his eyes as they rested on her face, turned only 
 to the gentlest commiseration as they swept 
 over her shoulders and somewhat petite figure. 
 
 I saw her blush, but he merely took out note- 
 book and pencil and jotted down a few words. 
 
 * Blush-rose, pale turquoise, French grey, and 
 white,' he said rapidly. ' Also, for bold effect, one 
 gown of flame-coloured peau de soie^ as near as 
 possible the colour of Miss Calhoun's hair. To 
 be trimmed with lace applique.^ 
 
 'And the presentation gown?' I suggested. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said, and half closed his eyes. * Her 
 Grace will have my idea submitted to her when she 
 returns from the lune de mieL She has lace, no 
 doubt, or will have it included among wedding 
 presents.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' answered the girl. ' I am to have 
 some very rare old lace among my trousseau.' 
 
 * An entire train of lace,' he observed. 
 
 She started. 'But I thought Court trains must 
 be of some heavy material — silk, satin, brocade, 
 isn't it?' 
 
 'We are always designing new effects,' he 
 answered courteously. ' For one so dainty and 
 fairy-like as Her Grace of Bridgewater nothing 
 heavy would be suitable. Besides, the weight — ' 
 He paused, and his eyes seemed reminiscent of a 
 defective shoulder. 
 
 A wave of colour mounted to the girl's ex- 
 quisite face. ' It is also the custom,' he went on, 
 * for a bride to wear her wedding-gown at her 
 presentation. The fact of its being the custom 
 is quite sufficient for our firm to avoid it. We 
 pride ourselves on being absolutely original, or, 
 at least, as original as prescribed and arbitrary 
 functions will allow. The ceremony of a Draw- 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 149 
 
 ing-room is long and tedious enough without a 
 woman being burdened with the weight of an 
 enormous train suspended from her shoulders or 
 supported by her hips. You, madam, shall have 
 no such burden. Titania herself could not look 
 more fairy-like, or spirituelle^ than you shall look 
 if you but trust to me.' 
 
 * Willingly,* she said. ^ I will wait then for your 
 designs.' 
 
 * Meanwhile,' he urged, ' don't breathe a word to 
 a living soul of the lace train. Next season there 
 will be scores of them. Believe me, madam, there 
 is but one secret for the true elegante to master. 
 She must be just one day, one hour even, in 
 advance of the fashion. She must set instead of 
 follow. That is simple enough, is it not ? I make 
 a present of it to Her future Grace of Bridgewater.' 
 
 He bowed, closed the note-book, and left the 
 room. 
 
 The girl turned to me, a faint flush still upon 
 her cheek and wonder in her eyes, 
 
 * What an absolutely charming man ! ' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 And I knew Wildash had achieved another 
 victory. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 I SHOULD not be giving a true account of my 
 professional career if I pretended that all my 
 customers were polite, courteous, and solvent. 
 Even my first year's experience did not give 
 these points the favour of a majority. 
 
 An instance of bourgeois courtesy following 
 close upon that interview with Miss Calhoun is 
 worthy of mention. 
 
 I received a visit from two ladies, both un- 
 married, who had come up from some town in 
 the Midlands. I had been introduced to them 
 through the pages of an illustrated fashion 
 journal. One of them required an evening 
 gown which she insisted should be of flaming 
 scarlet satin, trimmed with steel and sequins 
 and lace. It went against the grain to con- 
 template such a gown, but the girl was tall, dark, 
 and finely proportioned, and I yielded. I never 
 summoned Wildash to people of this sort. It 
 was beneath his genius to advise or design for 
 
 them. The dress was completed and sent to the 
 
 150 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 Hotel Metropole where the young lady {sic) and 
 her friend were staying. 
 
 The following day I received a letter to this 
 effect : — 
 
 * Madame Frou-Frou, — I am Miss Normanton 
 Tighe. You will remember I called at your shop 
 with my friend Miss de Vaux Browne who 
 ordered an evening robe. What price will you 
 charge to make me one of sky-blue satin, lined 
 silk, trimmed lace and flowers? A berthe of 
 flowers, and trails down the skirt. I am most 
 particular, as the robe is to be worn at my papa's 
 State Ball at the Town Hall in honour of his 
 Mayoralty and Confederateship on accession to 
 his Title of Knighthood. An early answer will 
 oblige Miss Normanton Tighe.' 
 
 This epistle was too good to keep to myself 
 I showed it to Wildash, who was first indignant 
 and then roared with laughter. Unfortunately 
 though it roused his Irish spirit to retaliation, and 
 he insisted on my writing a note at his dictation 
 to the following effect : — 
 
 ^ Madame Frou-Frou presents her compliments 
 to Miss Normanton Tighe, and regrets she cannot 
 
152 Vanity! 
 
 undertake an order for any Provincial State Ball. 
 She suggests that Miss Normanton Tighe should 
 place her order in the hands of Messieurs Jay, 
 or Peter Robinson, or some firm honoured by 
 Royal patronage/ 
 
 * There ! ' he exclaimed triumphantly. ' If that 
 won't bring her down a peg I know nothing of 
 women. She is sure to go to one of these firms, 
 and they'll give her a reading which will astonish 
 her. I should like to add a postscript recommending 
 her to have a little more education, especially in the 
 art of letter writing. But I suppose Td better not' 
 
 ^ Indeed, no ! ' I exclaimed. ^ Even as it stands 
 the letter will put her into a fine rage. I re- 
 member her that day — stout, red-faced, supercilious, 
 and bursting out of a tailor-made coat of red 
 cloth and brass buttons, topped by a large blue 
 chiffon hat. She was also very careful of her 
 umbrella, and told me the handle was ''real" gold.' 
 
 'We don't want customers like that,' he said. 
 * They're no credit, and assuredly no recom- 
 mendation.' 
 
 ' They've one advantage,' I sighed. ' They pay 
 cash down.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 153 
 
 *WelI, we're not insolvent yet/ he laughed. 
 * And talking of that, you must join the T. P. S. 
 It's a splendid thing. You'll learn whom to 
 trust, and whom to avoid, besides protecting 
 yourself against defaulters. Til arrange that. It's 
 rather difficult to get into. You want first-class 
 references. But we can get those — now. Besides, 
 the big shops give ever so much longer credit if 
 they know you're in the Society. We've a pretty 
 large account at Debenham's, haven't we?' 
 
 ^ Indeed, yes,' I said. ' Enough to make me 
 afraid of Christmas.' 
 
 ' Calhoun's good for some ready money down — 
 I know that. His future brother-in-law is very 
 generous. Fancy that girl with eighty thousand a 
 year. It's monstrous. Not but we can help to 
 relieve her of a fair share of her pin-money. If it's 
 true that one half the world suffers in order that 
 the other half may enjoy — the sufferers are entitled 
 to make what they can of tkeir bargain.' 
 
 He laughed and sauntered off to enjoy a 
 cigarette in his office, while he went over the books 
 and examined into liabilities. I wished I could 
 take things as easily as he did, but I confess 
 debts always made me uncomfortable. 
 
^54 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 Everything was arranged for the ' At home ' 
 Wildash had planned. He had engaged a very- 
 large room in Baker Street, which could easily 
 accommodate a couple of hundred people. It 
 happened to be exceptionally well decorated, and 
 when beautified by flowers and plants, seats and 
 screens, alcoves and electric lights, the effect 
 would be charming. 
 
 There was to be a sort of buffet at one end of 
 the room where some half-dozen girls in black 
 skirts and scarlet page jackets, and powdered wigs, 
 would serve as attendants. This was to introduce 
 the idea of female liveried servants. Tea and 
 coffee, and dainty sandwiches and cakes would be 
 provided. He explained that elaborate refresh- 
 ments would be out of place, and I quite agreed 
 with him. 
 
 Di was in a state of jealous rapture as the day 
 approached. I think she envied me this odd, 
 inventive partner, though she had at first scoffed at 
 him. He had designed my own dress for the occa- 
 sion, and assuredly I had no reason to fear rivalry. 
 It was a masterpiece of simple and effective 
 elegance, besides having the one novel touch of a 
 
Vanity! 155 
 
 forthcoming fashion which would not be given to 
 the world for another fortnight. 
 
 The invitation cards had not required answers, 
 so we were uncertain as to how many guests would 
 honour us. However, on the day itself I became 
 almost alarmed at the numbers who poured in. 
 Carriages stood in double rows all up the street. 
 Splendid footmen in gorgeous liveries kept my 
 page busy in answering their knocks. Through 
 the long room sailed and strutted the peacocks of 
 the fashionable world, and lorgnetted glances 
 expressed approval of my ideas, and, only too 
 often, a modified envy of my own chic appearance. 
 
 The Pecks were there, of course, and Lady 
 Farringdon, and Captain Calhoun's sister. She 
 wore one of our gowns. It was of white cloth. 
 A full snowy boa of ostrich feathers fell to her feet, 
 and a Frou-Frou toque showed one touch of 
 turquoise-blue velvet to match her lovely eyes. 
 
 Whatever the people had expected they certainly 
 were not prepared for the sort of afternoon I gave. 
 A first-rate lady pianist played enchanting frag- 
 ments from works of well-known composers. The 
 tea was always fresh, hot and fragrant. And the 
 caviare biscuits and * soldier sandwiches' were a 
 
156 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 credit to Wither's establishment. Besides this, 
 they all knew each other, and could chatter and 
 gossip and scream to their hearts' content. 
 
 The first note of surprise was struck when the 
 piano commenced a slow and stately measure — 
 the curtains screening the platform drew aside, 
 and there walked up and down in time to the 
 music the first Model. A card of description 
 was affixed to one of the draped-back curtains, 
 and the audience was thus enabled to see what 
 was represented. 
 
 A short interval elapsed between each exhibit 
 — enough to allow of discussion and refreshment. 
 
 The bride was a great success. She walked 
 on, stately and magnificent in glistening satin 
 and lace, her train held by a little page in 
 Vandyke costume, and a tiny bridesmaid whose 
 attire was that of a Puritan maiden. The 
 wedding march announced this living tableau, 
 and the visitors insisted on its repetition. 
 
 Then came the Court gown — a thing of 
 wonder and magnificence, to which Mrs Aurelius 
 B. Peck lost her heart. Silver tissue covered 
 the most exquisite shade of green, the colour of 
 a lily-of-the-valley leaf. A touch of blush-rose 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 157 
 
 pink at the left side of the bodice and train was 
 the only other note of colour. Our model was 
 tall and fair, with a faultless figure, and proudly 
 peacocked up and down the carpeted stage as 
 pleased with herself as the crowd seemed to be 
 with her gown. 
 
 The tea-gown ended the show, and for this 
 Wildash had introduced a recumbent figure, whose 
 graceful limbs, clad in silken tights, might be 
 traced through filmy clouds of chiffon, deepening 
 from the pink of dawn to the rose of sunset, and 
 foamed with lace of the cobweb texture appliqued 
 on to chiffon. Then the curtain fell for the last 
 time, and my hour of triumph arrived. One and 
 all surrounded me with congratulations, com- 
 pliments, and promises of orders. 
 
 Never had they seen anything like it, they 
 declared. I was perfectly sure of that, and sure 
 also that the account of the exhibition would be 
 all over the fashionable world in twenty-four hours. 
 
 ' So original ! . . . So unique, — wonderful,' 
 they cackled. And one or two murmured, *So 
 expensive ' — and wondered how I could go to 
 such lengths. But these were censorious people 
 who owed too large bills to their modistes to 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 dare change them for another, and who had to 
 wear the dresses their tyrants gave them for 
 fear of an exposL 
 
 Josey Peck sidled up to me once. 
 
 * Isn't he here ? ' she whispered. * If s ages 
 since I've seen him, and Tve got something 
 most particular to ask about. Did he tell you 
 about Homburg. We had a perfectly lovely 
 time, and momma never knew. Why didn't 
 he come to-day ? Tm real disappointed, d'you 
 know ? I suppose t'was he thought of all this ? 
 Say ... he is 'cute, ain't he ? ' 
 
 * Of course he wouldn't appear here,' I answered. 
 * The show was only for women.' 
 
 ^ Yes. ... So I see. Pity you didn't ask a 
 few men just to make it lively. Those liveried 
 maids of yours are scrumptious. . . . No mis- 
 take. I'd make momma have ours dressed like 
 that, only the worst of it is she will have men 
 servants. You see out our way we can't get 'em, 
 'cept blacks, and so it's a novelty. She'd sooner 
 have one of those plush and satin and powdered 
 giants than a diamond coronet, would momma. 
 I guess it's partly 'cause she can't keep a coronet 
 on her head. I've seen her practising, but it won't 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 159 
 
 stop nohow, and she does look a store figure in 
 it, I can tell you/ 
 
 She laughed loudly and turned her attention to 
 some of Fuller's dainties on the buffet. 
 
 * Just you tell that dear man I missed him 
 awfully,' she said, turning to me again with her 
 mouth full of fondants. ^ I'll have to call around, 
 I s'pose. I want him to come down to Lady 
 Persiflage's country house and help with some 
 theatricals. I as good as promised him, and he 
 must come. He's the very man. I told Lady 
 Per. all about him. She's dying to know him. 
 She's a little bit — well, lively, but such a good sort. 
 You can do most anything you like down at her 
 place. It's the only one of your country houses I 
 care to go to. But I'm keeping you, I see. Ta- 
 ta !.. . I'll look in to-morrow. Tell Wildash so.' 
 
 It occurred to me that Homburg had something 
 to be answerable for, if this was the state of in- 
 timacy. However, I had to smile and talk * shop,' 
 and flatter and be flattered, and make appoint- 
 ments until my head ached. 
 
 Still, the afternoon had been an enormous 
 success, and in spite of what it had cost I saw 
 our money repaid cent, per cent, before long. 
 
i6o 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'A year ago/ I said to myself to-night, as, 
 tired but exhilarated and hopeful, I sat before my 
 bedroom fire, and cast my thoughts back over 
 the events of the past twelvemonth, 'a year 
 ago since I contemplated my sign, and started 
 this business. What a difference now ! I am 
 sought after — I am the fashion — I am a person of 
 consequence. Duchesses listen to my advice, and 
 the smartest women are those I dress. In a few 
 years I shall have made a fortune, or at least 
 sufficient to retire upon. My credit will soon be good 
 for thousands instead of hundreds — and then — ■ 
 
 I leant back and grew comtemplative over the 
 various uses of money. 
 
 After all, riches didn't seem of much use to rich 
 people. The wealthiest were the slaves of their 
 wealth, ruled by obligations, harassed by laws of 
 investment, hampered by restrictions and forced to 
 live for society and please it, in order to prove that 
 they possessed the means of doing so. The richer 
 you were the more people expected of you. To 
 please them you must spend money on them. A 
 millionaire's home is merely the house that his 
 money advertises. Every detail has L.S.D. at the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 i6i 
 
 back of it. True, if you have taste as well as 
 wealth, you can get much pleasure out of art, and 
 indulge the costliest whims of decorative science. 
 But even then, rooms and pictures and furniture 
 are unstable comforters. 
 
 The best things in life are beyond mere money to 
 buy — love, health, sympathy, friendship, happiness. 
 Imitations of each and all you may purchase, but the 
 real thing — no. There your poorer brother has the 
 advantage. There is nothing to be gained by flatter- 
 ing him. Nature gives him brains and health and 
 good digestion, and perhaps simple tastes. He can 
 prove the worth of friendship, and win the heart he 
 loves and know himself beloved for his own sake 
 alone. Distrust leaves him untroubled, and faith 
 and honesty are not mere words, but proven virtues. 
 
 On the whole the compensations of life are more 
 evenly balanced than we are inclined to believe ! 
 
 I yawned after this dose of philosophic reflections, 
 and closed my diary on a few pencilled entries. 
 
 I went to bed wondering why Josey Peck wanted 
 
 Wildash to go down to Lady Persiflage's country 
 
 house ; wondering more whether he would go, and 
 
 feeling blissfully certain that P'rou-Frou et Cie. 
 
 would be the talk of London on the morrow. 
 
 L 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 For the next week orders simply poured in. 
 
 I hardly knew what to promise or undertake, so 
 great was the demand for Frou-Frou's costumes. 
 
 ' My dear creature/ exclaimed an eager claimant 
 — a juvenile dowager of some sixty summers— I 
 simply must have one of your gowns for the 
 
 Countess of W 's dinner next week. You 
 
 know what an artistic soul she is ! . . . They do 
 say she designs her own dresses. Never leaves 
 it to her modiste. Well, I do want the triumph of 
 showing her someone else can dress as originally 
 as herself. Simply tack it together, never mind 
 the sewing, it can come back for that afterwards. 
 Pin it on me if you like, but a gown of yours it 
 must be. I want it copied from that model I saw 
 yesterday.' 
 
 * Why not have the model itself. I suggested. 
 (It was intended for a woman of twenty-five, or 
 thereabouts.) 
 
 162 
 
Vanity! 163 
 
 ^ Then you can be certain of the gown. I hardly 
 know how to promise a duplicate in such a short 
 time/ 
 
 ^ But would it fit?' she asked dubiously. 'It 
 was worn by rather a — a slight figure, wasn't it ? ' 
 ' It can be easily altered.' 
 ' And the price ? ' 
 
 * Ninety-five guineas. Of course the alterations 
 would not be charged for, if you take the gown.' 
 
 She decided she would take it, and oh ! what a 
 sight she looked in it. But to her own idea she 
 was perfect. Another peculiarity of women is 
 that they take violent fancies to perfectly un- 
 suitable articles of attire, forgetting that the 
 beauty of the thing itself loses all its charms if 
 worn by the wrong person. 
 
 The gown and the wearer must match in style, 
 colouring, and design, or the result is inartistic. 
 
 Had the dowager been one of my regular 
 customers I would not have permitted her to 
 wear this model, but I knew she had only come 
 for a freak, and there was little credit to be gained 
 by dressing her. I was glad, too, to be able to dis- 
 pose of one of the many model gowns necessary 
 for that exhibition of mine. They had cost an 
 
164 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 enormous amount of money, or at least would cost 
 it. As yet they were unpaid for. 
 
 However, that fact sat lightly on my conscience 
 as orders poured in. I had to engage a larger 
 staff, having now four bodice hands, six skirt, 
 and three sleeve workers. I still undertook most 
 of the fitting, though I had an excellent assistant 
 in that line, but I was resolved on keeping up 
 the prestige of the establishment. 
 
 To me ^cut' was a sort of inspiration. I could have 
 promised to fit almost any figure by merely looking 
 at the proportions and then turning to scissors 
 and lining, just as an artist would turn to pencil 
 and cardboard. Practice had added certainty and 
 accuracy to this gift, and 1 began to realise its value. 
 
 * We shall do,' said Wildash, triumphantly, as 
 the dowager's cheque came by return. ^You 
 must sell all those models, Mrs Costello. It'll 
 be a quick profit for us. I have an idea that Lady 
 Persiflage will take one or two. She's coming 
 for the dresses for her private theatricals. Sell 
 her that tea-gown. It's just her style.' 
 
 * She's Josey Peck's friend, is she not ? ' 
 'Yes, and the lively American wants me to 
 
 go down to her country place and assist. Sort 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 of stage manager. I expect it will be great fun. 
 I wish you were coming too.' 
 
 I laughed. ' I have quite enough of these 
 people in my fitting-rooms/ I said. * I assure 
 you, when one has studied a woman's whims 
 and tempers and foibles in the capacity of dress- 
 maker, one doesn't feel inclined to pursue the 
 experiment any further.' 
 
 ^ I suppose they do bother you a lot,' he said 
 commiseratingly. ' Poor little woman — and you're 
 so kind-hearted. I declare sometimes when I 
 think of their airs and graces, I feel inclined to 
 treat them to a lash of my tongue," as they 
 say in Ireland.' 
 
 * Being a dressmaker means a liberal education 
 in patience,' I said, laughing. * I'm getting quite 
 used to humbug. It wouldn't do to treat every- 
 one as you do the Pecks, Harry.' 
 
 He had begged me to drop the ' Mr ' long ago, 
 and I was nothing loth. There are people whom 
 you are irresistibly compelled to call by their 
 Christian names, and others to whom the more 
 formal surname clings through a life-long 
 acquaintanceship. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when this conversa- 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 tion took place. Outside, the fog brooded clammy 
 and dark over everything. Within my room was 
 the cheery glow of fire and rose-shaded light. 
 
 I had just rung for tea, congratulating myself 
 the day's work was over. The hour and the 
 weather were against any callers. 
 
 I gave Wildash some tea, and had just poured 
 out a cup for myself when the door opened and 
 in rustled a very pretty dark woman, tall and 
 elegant, and beautifully dressed. Following her 
 was Josey Peck. 
 
 * Well, I guess you do look comfortable, you two,' 
 said that lively young lady, ' Lady Persiflage has 
 come with me to talk over those theatricals of hers.' 
 
 I rose and bowed. ' May I offer you some 
 tea?' I asked. 
 
 ' I guess we won't mind anything that'll wash 
 the fog out of our throats,' said Josey, as Wildash 
 handed them chairs. 
 
 ^ We're taking you very unceremoniously, Mrs 
 Costello,' said the pretty woman. ' But Miss Peck 
 insisted on bringing me in.' 
 
 She had rather a loud voice, and a quick, restless 
 way of looking about at everything. I noted ap- 
 proval of Wildash in a glance that took him in from 
 
Vanity ! 1 67 
 
 top to toe. His handsome face and perfectly 
 fitting clothes evidently pleased her critical eye. 
 
 * How very charming your rooms are ! I've 
 heard a lot about them, especially since your 
 Model "At home." Sounds like those things 
 they send circulars about for, doesn't it? I'm 
 so sorry I wasn't there. So original, I hear. 
 Everyone's talking of it.' 
 
 ' Your idea, I bet,' observed Josey, looking at 
 Wildash. 
 
 ' Partly,' he said. ' But Mrs Costello had the 
 carrying out of it' 
 
 'Yes. I saw you didn't turn up. I was just 
 mad, I can tell you. No one to make fun of 
 the people. Oh ! and you would have had 
 some opportunities ! Has momma been here 
 lately, Mrs Costello?' 
 
 ' No,' I said. ' Not for a long time.' 
 
 * She ain't none too pleased with us,' said 
 the frank-souled American, indicating Wildash. 
 ' Heard about our biking at Homburg. Read 
 me the riot act, I can tell you. Just as if I 
 cared. But here I'm running on and we must talk 
 business. Now, Lady Per., it's your turn. Get in 
 your oar while you can, or Til be doing it for you.' 
 
i68 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 Lady Persiflage put down her tea-cup, and 
 glanced at my partner. 
 
 * Fm having a house party next month/ she 
 said. ^ And we are going to do one or two little 
 modern plays. None of the old tragedy things — 
 " Lady of Lyons ' and " Still Waters run Deep " — 
 only bright, airy, up-to-date trifles. But I want them 
 superintended by someone whose taste is accurate 
 and original. To do them as no one else has ever 
 done them. . . . Strike a new note, in fact. From 
 what IVe heard of this establishment, and of you, 
 Mr Wildash, I fancy you're the very people to 
 carry out my ideas. Mrs Costello will do the 
 dresses, I hope, and you I shall ask to stage manage 
 for us. Don't say it's not in your line, or rather 
 say it, for I wouldn't have the conventional thing 
 for any consideration. I don't mind telling you 
 I've written one of the pieces myself. It only 
 takes three people to act — three people and a foot- 
 man. It was hearing Miss Peck talk of you that 
 made me feel certain you were the very man to sug- 
 gest, or superintend, and all that. It's so hard,' she 
 went on piteously, ^ to find any sort of originality 
 at all. Now that " At home " with the living models 
 and the music, was original if you like. Immedi- 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 169 
 
 ately I heard of it I said to Miss Peck, " I must 
 try and get him for my theatricals," and here I am.' 
 
 * So I observe,' said Wildash, coolly. ' But, really, 
 theatricals are not at all in my line.' 
 
 'Oh! don't say that. I've counted upon you. 
 I don't want any of those dreadful professional 
 people. They turn us all into sticks, and make 
 us so unnatural — oh, please don't be disobliging. 
 No one ever says " No " to me.' 
 
 * Then an Irishman mustn't be the first,' said 
 Wildash, smiling. ' Only, really, it's not quite clear 
 what you want me to do. I can't paint scenery, 
 you know, and though I do a theatre at least once 
 a week I've never seen a rehearsal, or put anyone 
 through their paces.' 
 
 * That's why it will be so delightfully original,' 
 cried Lady Persiflage, clasping her hands. 
 
 * You must say what sort of dresses, and what 
 sort of room ' — (she glanced round approvingly) 
 ' and make them walk and talk like real people. 
 Not stagey donkeys, who move as if they were 
 under a drill sergeant's eyes, and mouth their 
 words, and smirk and grin, and that sort of thing. 
 I'm intensely dramatic myself, but I want someone 
 to back me up and make the others think as I do. 
 
170 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 They can all act, but the difficulty is to get them 
 not to act. Do you understand ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly. But I should be better able to assist 
 you if you could let me see your play.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it s not that. It's only a little comedietta 
 — three characters, as I told you — ' 
 
 ^ And — a footman.' 
 
 * Yes. Fancy your remembering that. Josey, the 
 manuscript is in the carriage pocket — would you — ' 
 
 ' Could I find it ? ' asked Wildash, rising. 
 
 * So kind of you, but don't trouble. Josey knows 
 just where it is. And now, Mrs Costello, when 
 may I see you about dresses. I want a tea-gown. 
 I play my part in that. A creation of a tea- 
 gown, you understand ? ' 
 
 Harry's glance spoke * model,' and I assured her I 
 had the very thing — so new, so chic — but she must 
 see it. Leaving Wildash therefore to entertain 
 Josey I took her off to the other room, and the box 
 containing our exhibit gown was brought in, and 
 the treasure displayed. 
 
 She bought it on the spot, making me promise 
 that I would not copy it for anyone else. The 
 charge for such exclusiveness was high. 
 
 I had never made a more profitable bargain. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 December 20th. — Busy weeks . . . weeks crammed 
 with orders, obligations, fault-findings, tempers, 
 disputes, all the side-lights that feminine caprice 
 can throw on the all-important duty of attiring 
 itself in fine raiment. 
 
 I am tired and weary of it all, and Wildash is 
 away. He departed last week for Thornhill 
 Manor, Lady Persiflage's country house in Berks, 
 and, from his letters, seems to be having an un- 
 commonly good time of it. I miss him more than 
 I could possibly have imagined. It seems so 
 strange to have no one to consult, or to inter- 
 view travellers (that bete noir of the fashionable 
 modiste), or advise customers. I never knew how 
 many worries and bothers he had lifted off my 
 shoulders till now. I marvel how I ever got on 
 without him ! 
 
 ' Behind the scenes ' of any profession, business, 
 or public employment has always its disen- 
 chanting side. I had the quarrels and jealousies 
 171 
 
172 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 of the workroom as well as the showroom to 
 combat. My chief assistant was, fortunately, 
 possessed of an angelic temper, but she was the 
 exception. Wrangling and back-biting, ^tiffs' 
 and tongue slashing, made things lively for all 
 of us only too often, and when I gave ^ a piece 
 of my mind' to any of the culprits it was no 
 uncommon thing to see them fling down their work 
 and march off, with the information that places as 
 good as mine were to be had for the asking. A 
 contretemps of this sort, in the midst of a large 
 wedding order, was enough to upset anyone's 
 temper, and I am afraid I lost mine oftener than 
 was diplomatic. 
 
 The reverse side of the shield showed itself to 
 me in such fashion that I found myself calculating 
 the shortest available time in which I could furnish 
 myself with a ' retiring ' pension. Anything more 
 trying to nerves, health and temper, than the life 
 of a fashionable dressmaker I cannot imagine, and 
 I could not picture my powers of endurance hold- 
 ing out for many years. 
 
 In the midst of a despondent mood of this 
 description I one day received a letter from Lady 
 Persiflage to this effect : — 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 173 
 
 'Dear Mrs Costello, — We want you to run 
 down for the theatricals on Christmas Eve . . . 
 if only to see we do wear our gowns properly 
 and are a credit to the artiste who composed 
 them. Mr Wildash is simply the life and soul 
 of things here ! And he does make us work. 
 The play is going beautifully, and as for the 
 "original'' things he makes us do, and the way 
 he has arranged the stage . . . well, but you'll see 
 for yourself He says he can't get on without 
 you, so I promised to write. The 3.15 train will 
 bring you down in time for tea on the 24th, and 
 I hope you can stay over Boxing Day, for you 
 won't be required, you know, and a little change 
 will do you good. Mind we shall expect you. — 
 Yours sincerely, LAURA J. Persiflage.' 
 
 The tone of this letter surprised me. It was 
 not often that my customers remembered that 
 a modiste might still be a lady, or had started 
 life in the latter capacity before trying the former. 
 
 From the fact of Lady Persiflage writing to me 
 as to her equal (which little fact I put down to 
 Wildash), I felt sure my birth and history had not 
 wanted for skilful embroidering at my partner's 
 
174 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 hands. I laughed softly as I pictured him in that 
 house, dominating and controlling everyone in 
 that cool, audacious fashion of his. The life and 
 soul of all the fun, and yet keeping his head, 
 and watching his opportunities — for future 
 occasions. 
 
 I accepted the invitation even before I had his 
 letter respecting it, and giving me what he called 
 the * lie of the land.' This consisted of a descrip- 
 tion of the various guests, and sundry little his- 
 toirettes, witty and naughty and risky enough, but 
 sufficient to show I had nothing to fear by com- 
 parison. So Babette the faithful packed my trunk, 
 and I dismissed my quarrelsome assistants with 
 thankfulness, and left her and the page in charge 
 of my establishment. 
 
 It was a cold, wet evening when I arrived at the 
 little country station mentioned by Lady Persi- 
 flage. A carriage was waiting for me, and about 
 half an hour's drive brought me to the house. It 
 was too dark to judge of its external appearance. 
 I was shown into the hall, where a bright wx)od 
 fire burnt in the stately fireplace. I had a vision 
 of old carved oak, and brasses, and embossed 
 shields. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 175 
 
 A crowd of people were there. Women in tea- 
 gowns, or coats and skirts, as if they had just come 
 in from park or covert ; several men stood about 
 with cups in their hands. Among them Wildash. 
 He looked by far the handsomest and most dis- 
 tinguished of them all. Lady Persiflage greeted 
 me very cordially — so did Miss Calhoun, and Josey 
 Peck. The other women were inclined to be 
 supercilious. After one brief regard they turned 
 to their tea-cups and muffins, chattering like 
 sparrows on a house-top. Lady Persiflage gave 
 me some tea and spoke of my journey, and 
 murmured how good it was of me to come 
 down at such short notice. 
 
 I inquired after the rehearsals, and was told 
 they were all perfect in their parts, and only 
 longing to prove to the county how vastly 
 superior the amateur was to the ^ real ^ thing. 
 
 I caught Wildash's eye, and if he did not wink 
 the intention was self-evident. He found me a 
 chair, and brought hot tea-cake, and declared 
 himself unfeignedly glad to see me again. 
 
 ' We had the dress rehearsal last night,' he 
 said. ' I shall be glad when it's all over. Fm 
 getting sick of the business.' 
 
176 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ' Were you as impudent to the amateur actress 
 as you are to my clientele ? * I asked him. 
 
 ^Sometimes. When they tried me too far, or 
 wanted to flirt in the midst of business. Women 
 never seem to believe that there is a time to 
 sink personality, as well as to obtrude it' 
 
 ' And how do you get on with the men ? ' 
 
 ^Well enough. They're mostly out shooting, 
 or hunting. But as I tell a good story, and never 
 shirk cards, they're uncommon civil. At first 
 they were inclined to ignore me as an unknown 
 quantity, but I soon altered that.' 
 
 ' And how goes on r affaire Josey ? ' I asked. 
 
 * It stands where it was as far as I am concerned.' 
 
 *Who is that tall, pretty woman over there, 
 leaning against the fireplace ? ' 
 
 ^ Tres simple^ mais ires bien. That is Mrs 
 Tresyllian. Worth dresses her — good style. 
 Husband — city or something. Stock Exchange, 
 I expect. Rolling in money. She acts the best 
 of the lot' 
 
 ' Better than our hostess ? ' 
 
 ^Yes — only it doesn't do to say so. She is 
 quite capable of the real thing should she ever 
 be driven to it' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 177 
 
 * Is her husband here ? ' 
 
 * No. I wrote you that they were never seen 
 together — at country houses. A country house 
 like this, especially.' 
 
 ^ Why— this?' 
 
 He laughed. ^ It is one favoured by semi- 
 detached couples. Oh ! perfectly innocent and 
 right, but with such convenient arrangements 
 for— unobserved intercourse ! ' 
 
 ' How many scandals have you unearthed 
 here ? ' I inquired, laughing. 
 
 * Too many to tell you in one evening.' 
 
 * Good gracious ! ' 
 
 *You may well start. I seem to have an 
 unfortunate knack of discovering things. And 
 some people are veritable ostriches. Can I get 
 you any more tea?' 
 
 * No, thank you. I will go to my room now, 
 I think.' 
 
 ' Any new gowns ? ' 
 
 * One — I'll sport it to-night in honour of the 
 theatricals.' 
 
 * You're looking a little tired, he said. ' Have 
 you had a bad time of it since I left?' 
 
 * Indeed, yes. The workroom people were so 
 
 M 
 
178 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 troublesome and there was so much to finish 
 before Christmas.' 
 
 Well, a few days' rest will set you up — at least 
 if they'll let you rest here. As a rule they're 
 all on the go from morning till night. No one 
 goes to bed before one, or two.' 
 
 At this moment Josey Peck approached. 
 
 ' I'll take you to your room if you like,' she said. 
 * Lady Persiflage has given you the one next 
 mine.' 
 
 I rose at once, not sorry to get away and have 
 a chance of rest before dressing for dinner. 
 
 * Momma ain't here,' Miss Josey informed me, 
 as I threw off my travelling wraps and looked 
 round the pretty, chintz-covered room. * I got her 
 asked to a duchess's place way down Warwick- 
 shire. I had to come here because I'm acting in 
 Lady Pen's play. Always call her that. Life 
 ain't long enough for such double-barrelled names 
 as she holds on to.' 
 
 ^ It's a new title, but they're an old family,' I 
 observed. 
 
 * Oh ! your old families ! I guess I'm sick of 
 hearing about them. The decent ones are as poor 
 as rats, and the others always mortgaging and 
 
Vanity! 179 
 
 selling things, including themselves. Did you 
 hear Td refused Lord Pelham?' 
 
 ' No ; was it in the Court Circular ? ' 
 
 'That's real smart, but I don't bear you any 
 grudge. I guess I can take my dollars to a better 
 market. Besides, he drinks like a bargee.' 
 
 'Our aristocracy seem singularly adapted for 
 republican favours,' I observed. * Their principles 
 and constitutions are equally weak.' 
 
 ' Wal, I guess your present earls and dukes ain't 
 much like the pictures of their ancestors in the 
 painting galleries. Maybe it's the wigs or the 
 armour made them look important. I wouldn't 
 have minded marryin' one, but there ain't 
 nothing about titled folks now to show they're 
 different to ordinary ones. Indeed, the ordinary 
 look the aristocrats. See Wildash now. He's 
 all right. No need to worry about his descent. 
 Looks blue blood all through. You never see 
 him drunk, and these other men, why, they just 
 soak. You'll see to-night. It's awful. I do 
 hate to see a man in liquor, don't you, Mrs 
 Costello ? ' 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 ' He's a darling man/ she went on, with a sigh 
 
i8o Vanity! 
 
 ' If only he'd get a title I'd jump at him. I've 
 dollars enough, but momma would be just mad if 
 I was plain Mrs. I could have been that in New 
 York.' 
 
 'Tell me/ I said, Mo all you American girls 
 come over to this country with the idea of " catch- 
 ing a title ? " It looks like it' 
 
 ' Wal, I guess we do look around with that view,' 
 she said frankly. 'Seems kind of funny, don't it? 
 But your people began it. They made such an 
 almighty fuss over us Americans, and we could 
 cheek them as we liked, and yet princes and 
 peerages and all that sort simply cottoned to us. 
 We didn't understand it at first. Guess we look 
 upon it as our right now.' 
 
 I leant back in my chair and surveyed the frank 
 young republican with some amusement. 
 
 I knew that the Peck dollars had sprung from a 
 very unsavoury source ; that Josey herself had been 
 nothing particular in her own country, where her 
 family history was only a startling transformation 
 scene. And to see her here, perfectly at home 
 among people of birth and race, and critical as to 
 ducal suitors, was just one of those ' eye openers ' 
 that society seems to delight in. 
 
Vanity ! 1 8 1 
 
 I was silent so long that she concluded I was 
 tired, and after offering the services of her maid, 
 which I declined, she took herself off. 
 
 I threw on a loose wrapper and lay down for 
 half an hour. Rest, and a subsequent douche of 
 cold water and eau-de-Cologne were my unfailing 
 recipes for the nerves and complexion. 
 
 When I went down to dinner I had the satis- 
 faction of meeting many surprised and admiring 
 glances. 
 
 Lady Persiflage was talking and laughing at 
 the top of her voice. ' Let's have a scramble 
 to-night/ she said. * We are rather late as it is, 
 and I can't waste more time in sorting you out. 
 Take who you please, and follow me. Come, 
 Mr Wildash, I choose you.' 
 
 She darted off, laughing and chattering, and 
 there was a general rush and scrimmage in the 
 hasty choice of partners. 
 
 A voice in my ear said suddenly, * Mrs Costello, 
 allow me to take you in.' 
 
 I looked up, surprised, into the face of Captain 
 Calhoun. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 There was a good deal of noise and confusion 
 before the various couples were seated, and at their 
 soup. 
 
 I turned to my neighbour. * Is this a new 
 fashion ? ' I inquired. 
 
 * Oh, it's been in some time, I believe. Rather 
 good fun, don't you think ? One does get a chance 
 of sitting next the person one wants, instead of 
 doing duty by right of precedence. Lady Per. 
 often does it.' 
 
 I declined soup, and looked thoughtfully round 
 the table. The new fashion seemed to have 
 suited them all amazingly, judging from appear- 
 ances. Josey Peck had managed to secure a seat 
 the other side of Wildash, and emulated Lady 
 Per.'s pert chatter so skilfully that he had only 
 to listen to both with equal indifference. I 
 wondered at the absence of Lady Farringdon. 
 
 When certain members of society *hunt in 
 182 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 183 
 
 couples/ one naturally looks for that partnership 
 on such occasions as the present. 
 
 ' How well your sister is looking/ I observed, 
 when my scrutiny had satisfied me. 
 
 * Yes, she keeps up wonderfully, doesn't she ? 
 Time's getting near now.' 
 
 * The duke is not here ? ' I questioned. 
 
 ^ No. Deeds and settlements and things, and a 
 slight touch of gout. He's at the Castle. Wanted 
 us for Christmas, but not this child, thank you. I 
 like to go where I know I'll be amused.' 
 
 ^ It's very lively here, I suppose ? ' 
 
 * Rather, he said with emphasis, * Liberty Hall 
 if you like.' Then, after a pause, he said in a low 
 tone, * You've no idea how glad I was to hear 
 you were coming. I never got the chance of 
 a word with you in town.' 
 
 I stared at him in surprise. Then I laughed. 
 * I was not aware you had any special reason for a 
 word with me. Surely Miss Calhoun — ' 
 
 ' It's not about her, and do drop " shop/' like 
 a dear creature. I never can and never shall 
 associate you with business. Seems sacrilege, you 
 know. There's no woman I've ever admired so 
 much/ 
 
184 Vanity! 
 
 My amazement increased. To it was added a 
 slight indignation. 
 
 ' You flatter me/ I said, with some hauteur. 
 ^ And please remember I am a woman of business, 
 as you call it, and any form of admiration must be 
 strictly professional.' 
 
 He laughed. ^ A pretty woman can never be 
 wholly and entirely a business woman. Her glass 
 won't let her, and men have eyes ! ' 
 
 * I don't deny that. But supposing she doesn't 
 attach any importance to — optical delusions ? ' 
 
 *She wouldn't belie her sex by such an immoral 
 proceeding.' 
 
 * I think. Captain Calhoun, that men don't under- 
 stand my sex so well as they pretend to do. I assure 
 you there are many things more gratifying and 
 more important than the admiration you suggest' 
 
 I was both irritated and astonished at his 
 manner. It conveyed to me something I had no 
 desire to have explained. 
 
 ^ Where is Lady Farringdon ? ' I went on 
 hurriedly. ' I fully expected to find her here.' 
 
 He frowned slightly. ^ She is doing a round of visits 
 also. She is due here first week of the new year.' 
 
 ' And you talk like this pour passer le temps ? ' 
 
Vanity! 185 
 
 •' That's a base insinuation. IVe known you a 
 year, and my admiration dates its birth from our 
 first meeting/ 
 
 ^ Indeed ! That does not speak well for your 
 constancy, Captain Calhoun/ 
 
 * You mustn't believe there's anything in those 
 stories,' he said, a dark flush rising to his brow. 
 ' We're very good friends, and I've known her 
 years and years, but there's nothing else.' 
 
 A scream of laughter from the other side of 
 the table interrupted us. Calhoun frowned. 
 
 'Wildash is a perfect Merry Andrew,' he 
 muttered. ' He plays court jester, morning, noon, 
 and night. Lady Per. spoils him. As for that 
 American girl, she almost throws herself at his 
 head. I don't know what they see in him, unless 
 it's his consummate cheek.' 
 
 ' Isn't that the chief element of modern popularity ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! I forgot, you and he are great pals. 
 Partner or something, isn't he ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. He has simply doubled my income and 
 connection.' 
 
 ' There's a lot to be made out of it, I suppose, 
 if one knows the ropes.' 
 ' A fortune,' I said quietly. 
 
i86 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 He looked enviously at Wildash. 
 
 * He'd give it up, I suppose, if he came into the 
 title. It would be rather infra dig,, wouldn't it ? ' 
 
 * That's a matter of opinion. The Countess of 
 Warwick has her name over a shop. A relative 
 of the Royal family is in the tea trade. Lord 
 Rosslyn is an actor ; the Duchess of Sutherland 
 an authoress ; Countess Russell a music - hall 
 singer; the German Emperor a dramatist and 
 composer — Wildash will be in good company even 
 if he has the misfortune to become a baronet' 
 
 ' It was a queer idea all the same.' 
 
 ' It was an inspiration of genius. It is not what 
 a man does, but what he is that degrades or 
 ennobles him.' 
 
 * You're one of his champions, I see, Mrs Costello.' 
 
 * I certainly consider his life more useful than that 
 of half the men of the present day. Men who are 
 less intellectual than apes, and not half as amusing. 
 Who call it " honour " to gamble away their ancient 
 homes and cheat their tradesmen, and whose sole 
 notion of love is to compromise married women ! ' 
 
 * Great Scot ! What an indictment ! ' 
 
 He refused the sorbet, and turned to look at me. 
 ' Do you really mean all that ? ' he asked. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 * You can't deny its truth/ 
 
 < No — 'pon my soul I can't. But it sounds so — 
 old fashioned and churchy to hear a woman talk 
 like that/ 
 
 ' Does it ? ' I said. ' Well, put it down to my 
 ignorance. I am not " in " society, only a looker-on/ 
 
 * That's why you see most of the games ? ' 
 
 ' Exactly. They are very amusing sometimes ; 
 also they teach a moral lesson/ 
 
 * Moral lesson ? ' he repeated vaguely. 
 
 * Yes — of avoidance. I wouldn't be in one of those 
 games, not for all the Peck dollars, Captain Calhoun.' 
 
 He finished his dinner in silence after that. 
 
 There was a general movement when Lady 
 Persiflage rose. 
 
 Almost everyone was engaged in the theatricals, 
 and all were anxious about the dressing. She 
 seized upon me as her own particular adviser 
 in the matter of * make up,' and I gave my 
 services to her and Mrs Tresyllian, who dressed 
 in the same room. I was lost in admiration 
 of this woman. She was absolutely lovely, and 
 the personification of grace. It was a pleasure to 
 dress her, and decidedly I envied Worth. 
 
1 88 Vanity! 
 
 Lady Persiflage was refreshing her memory, 
 and rattling off speeches and ' cues ' in a most 
 bewildering fashion. 
 
 ' Will it go, Tessie, do you think ? ' she asked 
 her friend anxiously. ^ I shall die of vexation if it 
 doesn't.' 
 
 Mrs Tresyllian opined that it would be all right, 
 as she surveyed her profile with a hand-glass. 
 
 ^ There's a lot of people coming,' continued Lady 
 Persiflage. ^ I told Pops to receive them.' (Pops 
 was the individual who had the honour of being 
 her husband.) * He won't like it, of course, but I 
 couldn't rush my dressing for a lot of county fogies. 
 Men are so abominably selfish, don't you think so, 
 Mrs Costello ? Oh, you're lucky, you're a widow. . . . 
 Isn't that eyebrow a little . . . little. . . .? No, 
 you think not ? Very well — I depend on you. 
 Now, I'll stand under the light, and you go to the 
 other end of the room and tell me how I look.' 
 
 ' Charming,' was my verdict, as I obeyed her 
 wishes. * If you act as well as you look, the piece 
 will be a success,' I added. 
 
 She laughed gaily. ^ Oh ! Wildash is a splendid 
 prompter. Indeed, he's an encyclopaedia of useful 
 knowledge — nothing comes amiss. He knocked 
 
Vanity! 189 
 
 up some Cairo screens, and enamelled some old 
 chairs for the stage into dreams of beauty, and the 
 way he's done the room — isn't it too sweet for 
 anything, Tessie ? ' 
 
 ' He has great inventiveness,' said Mrs Tresyllian; 
 ' it almost amounts to a talent. And a wonderful 
 memory.' 
 
 ^ Yes, he can tell us all our parts without the 
 book. How goes the time, Tessie? We begin 
 at nine-thirty, don't we ? ' 
 
 * It's almost on the stroke. I'm quite ready if 
 you are.' 
 
 They gave a last anxious look at the mirror, 
 gathered their trains, and Mparts,' and swept out 
 of the room. 
 
 I followed them and found a seat with some 
 difficulty. Most of the people had arrived, and 
 [ Pops ' had conscientiously received and seated 
 them. There was no orchestra, but a piano duet 
 gave forth the overture to ' Tannhauser,' and almost 
 on the last chord the curtain divided on either 
 side the stage, and showed the ^ boudoir of Lady 
 St Pierre's town house,' so said the programme. 
 
 It was really a charming little play and wonder- 
 fully well acted. Lady Persiflage was so suited to 
 
190 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 her own part that she had only to be herself. Mrs 
 TresylHan struck a deeper note, and acted with 
 almost professional ability. I am not quite sure 
 that the county quite grasped the plot, or under- 
 stood half the * smart ' things the characters said, 
 but they laughed a good deal and applauded graci- 
 ously, and seemed quite surprised at the shortness 
 of the piece and the magnificence of the gowns. 
 
 I fancy the tea-gown shocked one or two 
 matrons, but then some people's nerves are so 
 sensitive that very little upsets them. For my 
 part I enjoyed the performance immensely. 
 
 There was to be an interval of twenty minutes be- 
 tween the little comedy and the next piece. They 
 had chosen * Lady Windermere's Fan' for the latter. 
 
 I knew no one near me, so, under cover of the 
 talk and laughter, I rose and made my w^ay to 
 the hall, where coffee was being served. Here 
 Wildash joined me — cool and unruffled, and 
 apparently heedless of responsibilities. 
 
 I congratulated him on his qualifications for 
 stage managership. 
 
 * It was hard work, I can tell you,' he answered. 
 *rm going to have a whisky and soda and a 
 cigarette, to keep me up between the parts. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 191 
 
 TheyVe all worrying about their wigs. Clarkson 
 sent the wrong sort, or something. I left them 
 to fight it out. Fve just about had enough of 
 it. Josey was very " cute " in her part, wasn't she ? ' 
 
 ' Excellent/ I agreed. ^ Oh ! here she comes/ 
 
 * Then Vm off/ and he slipped away. 
 
 The little American came in, followed by a 
 crowd of men, with whom she kept up a running 
 fire of conversation. 
 
 She had not removed her ^make up' and 
 wore the same dress. As it was one of my 
 own creations, I was qualified to admire it. 
 
 ^ That will do,' she said to one of her following. 
 ' You can catch up your resolutions at leisure. 
 It's quite plain you know nothing about mj/ 
 part in the play, or you wouldn't have said 
 I was "awfully good," I was bad . . . down- 
 right bad. Adventuress, and all that. Tessie 
 Tresyllian was the good woman. Oh ! Mrs 
 Costello, where's Wildash ? I do want to shake 
 hands with him. He pulled me through just 
 wonderful. . . . Not here? I call that a shame. 
 Well, I'm going to smoke. No coffee, thanks. 
 Keeps me awake, and we've all got to show up 
 at church to-morrow — Lady Per. insists. It's the 
 
192 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 one day in the year she must grace the family 
 pew — house-party, servants and all. Guess Fm 
 goin' for the experience. I haven't spent an 
 English Christmas yet. What do you all do 
 when the bells ring at midnight?' 
 
 ^ Kiss under the mistletoe/ said Captain Calhoun. 
 
 * Guess you don't kiss this child. She draws 
 the line at anything promiscuous.' 
 
 She lit a cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke 
 from her saucy lips. Then perched herself on 
 the edge of a table, and swung her tiny high- 
 heeled shoes to and fro for all beholders to 
 marvel at. 
 
 * She's a true child of her country, isn t 
 she?' murmured Calhoun, drawing closer to me. 
 * Awful fun to draw her out. Level-headed as 
 they make them. Got a coronet in her eye, and 
 won't take anything less. " Haloes," she calls 
 'em. Asked my sister if she was going to wear 
 hers at her wedding. What ideas they have!' 
 
 * How did you like the comedy ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Not half bad. Lady Per.'s clever, ain't she ? 
 Fancy writing and acting that! 
 
 * Marvellous,' I said dryly. ' As surprising as 
 if a butterfly took to making honey,' 
 
Vanity! 193 
 
 * Well, it is. Because she's no need to do 
 it, and writing's precious hard work. At least 
 I find it so. Always shirk letters.' 
 
 I looked at him. Six foot of ornamental bone 
 and muscle, good for shooting, hunting, billiards 
 and baccarat, smokes and drinks, and unequal to the 
 task of composing or writing an ordinary letter. 
 
 ^ I'm an awfully lazy beggar,' he went on con- 
 fidentially. ' I say, Mrs Costello, come out of this 
 crowd. I want to talk to you. You did pitch into 
 me at dinner, but I bear you no ill-will.' 
 
 * That is good of you,' I said, moving away 
 to a seat near the great fireplace. * I'll promise 
 not to do it again if you'll behave yourself 
 
 *That means — ' 
 
 * Not paying me silly compliments.' 
 
 ' I won't,' he said earnestly. ' Somehow, you're 
 different to the others. They expect it. Every 
 observation must have a sugar plum of flattery. 
 One gets into the way of it at last' 
 
 ' I thought even worldly women were wiser 
 than that.' 
 
 * No, they're not. Because they are worldly.' 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. 'A synonym for 
 
 senselessness and exaggeration.' 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * You're very hard on your sex, I fancy, Mrs 
 Costello/ 
 
 'Perhaps IVe opportunities of judging them 
 not given to many. A woman treats her modiste 
 as frankly as she does her looking-glass, and 
 the looking-glass reflects^ you must remember.' 
 
 'By Jove — that's clever!' he said admiringly. 
 * I wonder sometimes you didn't go in for some- 
 thing different from this sort of life, don't you 
 know. Seems you're thrown away on it.' 
 
 ' What would you suggest in its place — as 
 lucrative, of course?' 
 
 ' Well, the stage, or writing. Women make pots 
 of money out of a successful book, I hear.' 
 
 * Exactly. A successful book. But how many 
 women's books are successful ? ' 
 
 He ran over a few names. I laughed. ' I could 
 make the sum they get for a book out of one 
 gown,' I said, ' with less trouble, and less anxiety.' 
 ' No — really. . . . I've heard 'em say — ' 
 ' Oh ! my dear Captain Calhoun, never believe 
 what authors tell you as to the profits of their 
 profession. Go to a publisher if you want to know 
 that' 
 
 'Well — the stage. That pays. And anyone 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 195 
 
 who looks and acts like a lady is pretty sure of 
 parts in up-to-date comedies.' 
 
 ' My friend Mrs Abercroft dresses most of the 
 leading actresses/ I said. * I know quite enough 
 of the stage to make it as undesirable a profession 
 as literature. And why this anxiety on my behalf? 
 I counted the cost well before I took up my present 
 line of business. I have no reason to regret it. 
 There are attendant worries and anxieties — true — 
 but who is without them ? Now we have talked quite 
 enough of myself and my affairs. I see a move- 
 ment to return to the other room. Shall we go ? ' 
 
 He offered me his arm. ' They are to dance 
 afterwards/ he said. * May I have the honour of 
 the cotillon?' 
 
 * It is promised/ I said quietly. 
 
 He looked vexed. ' Tm sorry I'm too late. A 
 waltz, then?' 
 
 I nodded. *Yes. I've no programme, but — ' 
 
 * I'll ask for the first then, and I'll bring you a pro- 
 gramme after this piece is over. You couldn't . . . get 
 out of the cotillon engagement ? ' he questioned. 
 
 * I have no wish to. I'm engaged for it to Mr 
 Wildash.' 
 
 ' Oh ! d n Wildash ! ' he muttered. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 I WENT to my room in the early hours, tired yet 
 elated. Not a woman present had received more 
 attention or admiration than myself, and *who is 
 she ? ' had hovered on many lips. Wildash had 
 been as amusing and delightful as ever, and 
 both Lady Persiflage and Josey Peck were 
 envious of his devotion to me — if it could be 
 called devotion. 
 
 Whatever it looked like to others, to ourselves 
 it was only ^camaraderie! We jested, criticised, 
 gossiped and laughed like two children over the 
 guests and incidents of the evening. I had never 
 enjoyed myself so much — never since I had 
 retired from any prominent position in society — 
 that curious institution component of so many 
 sets and layers that one may ascend or descend 
 without fear of recognition from one part, or 
 interference from another. 
 
 I was too tired to do anything but go to 
 
 bed and sleep, and I was none too well pleased 
 
 at being aroused next morning at ten o'clock, 
 196 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 197 
 
 although my breakfast was brought to me. 
 But Lady Per. had insisted we should all go to 
 church by way of example to the county, and 
 I had faithfully promised to do so. 
 
 It was cold and frosty. The sun was shining 
 brightly, and a ten minutes' walk took us to 
 a pretty, old-fashioned building that was suffer- 
 ing desecration from fashionable ritual. 
 
 The service and vestments were of the most 
 advanced order. The priests as pompous and 
 self-important as their kind. The service mainly 
 composed of choral singing and eliminations from 
 the old-fashioned form of the Church service; the 
 sermon — a reiteration of fallacies and dogmas — 
 delivered with the eloquence of a Board-school 
 prize pupil. 
 
 In London I rarely went to church. It only 
 irritated and amazed me. A modern fashionable 
 preacher would not condescend to explain a 
 doctrine, or give any sort of comfort or aid to 
 a conscientious seeker after truth. He would 
 refer one to 'the Church,' and the Church, in 
 the parlance of a ritualist priest, is about the 
 most comfortless and irreligious institution that 
 modernity has invented. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 However, we did our duty * according to that 
 state of life ' in which we were placed, and abused 
 everything soundly on our return journey. 
 
 Life in a country house is mainly composed 
 of eating, drinking, and flirting. There came a 
 heavy luncheon, after which the men drifted off 
 to smoking, or billiard-room, or went for a walk, 
 and the women retired to sleep off the previous 
 night's fatigue, till five o'clock allowed of an 
 elaborate display of tea-gowns in the hall. 
 
 ' Christmas day is always the dullest and most 
 depressing in the whole year,* exclaimed Lady 
 Per., smothering a yawn. ' It is the essence of 
 fifty Sundays rolled into one.' 
 
 * rd read such a lot about English Christmas- 
 time,' cried Josey Peck's shrill voice. ' I guess it 
 ain't much like story-books. No robins hoppin' 
 about ; or skatin', and mistletoe boughs ! And 
 you all seem kind o' melancholy.' 
 
 *We are reviewing our past misdeeds,' said 
 Wildash. ' It is a duty laid upon us by our 
 consciences, and we perform it once a year — 
 generally at Christmas-time. Our self-examina- 
 tion reaches a climax on the last day of the old 
 year, when we fast in sackcloth and ashes till the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 199 
 
 midnight hour. As the bells begin to ring we rise 
 to new hopes we never realise ; make new vows 
 we never keep ; and take into our purified hands 
 the Book of New Leaves that we never turn over. 
 
 ^ I guess you're funny people/ said Josey, regard- 
 ing him shrewdly. * As for you, Mr Wildash, I 
 never do know if you're poking fun at me, or 
 meanin' what you say. But I kalkerlate you'd 
 best lose no time in turnin' over one of those 
 new leaves yourself.' 
 
 'Why? Surely, Miss Peck, you've no fault to 
 find with my moral structure?' 
 
 *Wal, I can give a pretty good guess at the 
 amount of " morality '* it contains,' she said. 
 * Seems you don't believe much in men or women ; 
 ain't that so ? ' 
 
 ' I believe in them as long as they permit. 
 People cease to interest when we find their — 
 limitations.' 
 
 * How d'you know you've reached the end of 
 the rope } Lots of folk only give you a little piece, 
 and hold the rest back for fear of accidents.' 
 
 * Then lots of folks " seem so fearful of the 
 accident, that they wear out the rope with holding 
 on to it' 
 
200 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ' Don't let us get metaphorical. It's so wearing 
 to the nerves. And that high-and-dry style o' 
 talkin' don't suit me. Bring me another cup of 
 tea and FU tell you the last thing I heard about 
 momma.' 
 
 ' Why do American girls always say " momma " ? ' 
 asked Captain Calhoun, in a low voice, as he bent 
 down for my empty cup. * It sounds so silly.' 
 
 'They're brought up that way, I suppose. 
 Doubtless our stolid " mother " sounds just as 
 strange to their ears.' 
 
 *What would you all care to do this even- 
 ing?' chimed in Lady Per. 'Dance, charades, 
 cards ? We've only ourselves, you know. Unless 
 Mrs Jackey Beauchamp comes. She faithfully 
 promised. But one can never depend on her ! ' 
 
 There was a moment of interest. 
 
 ' Jackey coming. Oh ! how delightful ! ' 
 
 'Yes. She's been staying with the Newlands 
 at the Abbey. She wasn't at church, though. 
 She promised to dine and sleep here to-night.' 
 
 ' She never keeps her word,' murmured Mrs 
 Tresyllian. 
 
 * How did the Newlands get her?' asked Captain 
 Calhoun. ' Not quite her sort, are they ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 20I 
 
 * She rather took them up after they bought the 
 Abbey. Detestable people — but oh ! their money ! ' 
 
 * Usual story nowadays/ drawled the Captain. 
 * We're all selling ourselves for a mess o' pottage.' 
 
 ^They give very good pottage/ laughed Lady 
 Per. *But they're rather "cut" down here. No 
 one liked the Abbey going out of the family, and 
 though the Beauchamps were short of " shekels " 
 they were very popular.' 
 
 * Beastly pity . . . good families ... so poor/ 
 murmured Teddy Fitzgerald, who was a younger 
 son, and in the Guards, and had more debts than he 
 could possibly remember, or ever intended to pay. 
 
 He was far too lazy to utter a consecutive 
 sentence, and merely dropped two or three words 
 at intervals when the labour of conversation was 
 forced upon him. 
 
 ' It is/ agreed Mrs Tresyllian. ' And one hates 
 having these rich surprises sprung on one. I couldn't 
 believe when I heard the Abbey had been sold.' 
 
 * We're all asked to'the New Year Eve ball/ said 
 Lady Persiflage. "Twill be rather fun, and we 
 needn't notice them, you know. They're sure to 
 do the thing well. Anyone want more tea ? ' 
 
 As she asked the question the portieres were 
 
202 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 suddenly swept aside and there entered a woman 
 with a clear-skinned face, very large and brilliant 
 eyes, and an expression and manner that were 
 indescribably impertinent. She was tall and very 
 slight, and round her and about her was that 
 crowning perfection which comes from a thorough 
 knowledge of detail. Her hair, her gown, her 
 gloves, were all of the right stamp of elegance in 
 mode and design. 
 
 As she stood there, the heavy velvet forming a 
 background for her figure, and her eyes, brilliant 
 and audacious, sweeping the crowd of faces, she 
 made a picture of wonderful effect. Yet only a 
 picture. One seemed to recognise the art and the 
 beauty and the effectiveness, and miss out of it any 
 warmth, or heart, or nature. 
 
 Lady Per. sprang to her feet with a cry of delight. 
 ' Why, Jackey ! ' she exclaimed. ' You don't mean 
 it's you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my twe-est,' answered the newcomer, suffer- 
 ing herself to be kissed on both her cool white 
 cheeks. * I couldn't stand the Newsies any longer. 
 It got positively diskie. Yes, really. And how are 
 you all ? Tizzy-wizzy . . . that's right. How do, 
 Teddy ? And is that my Capty ? ' (this to Calhoun, 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 203 
 
 with whom she shook hands at shoulder-angle). 
 * Looking like Patience on a tombstone, I do declare! 
 Give me some tea, Pussy. Pm frozen with cold.' 
 
 She threw off her furs for the nearest man to 
 catch, and sank into a chair by the fire. 
 
 I remained outside the group she favoured with 
 her attention, absolutely fascinated by this reve- 
 lation of le vrai monde of whom I had heard a 
 thousand stories. 
 
 Mrs Jackey Beauchamp was a social star 
 of great magnitude. Not only was she Mn' 
 everything that was worth being in, but she set 
 particular fashions, and had been crowned queen 
 of a set who were ultra ' smart' It was for their 
 benefit and guidance she had invented a code of 
 expressions not to be understood of mere outsiders. 
 She was the most noted and the most quoted of 
 celebrities at home, and the Post and the Court 
 Circular and the World and various smaller lumin- 
 aries of the Press always had her name in their 
 social columns. How she managed to be every- 
 where and do everything ; to ride, golf, skate, 
 dance, drive and dress as she did was one of those 
 marvels fashionable women daily present to the 
 world they rule. But there was no denying she 
 
204 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 was a great power. Her terrible extravagances 
 and her load of debts had never cost her a wrinkle, 
 or an anxious hour. Her set adored her. Her nod 
 and smile were the hall-mark of approbation for 
 which no sacrifice was too great. Even when an 
 irate dressmaker had had the audacity to sue her 
 husband for a bill his wife had ignored, and Mrs 
 Jackey had to appear in a public court to be con- 
 fronted with the extravagant details of her toilettes, 
 her hold on popularity did not suffer. Mr Jack 
 Beauchamp was pronounced a brute and a miser 
 and utterly undeserving of so wonderful a wife. 
 The wonderful wife went to other dressmakers and 
 ran up still more extravagant bills, and left her lord 
 and master to the world's opprobrium, and the solace 
 of other martyred husbands. 
 
 No one had skated over thinner ice, or skipped 
 over more dangerous quicksands than Mrs Jackey. 
 She knew all sorts of people, and *took up' the 
 oddest if they could be of any use to her. 
 
 * How can you know such a sweep?' had asked 
 one of her intimes, a propos of some very objection- 
 able and fabulously rich vulgarian she had asked 
 to dinner. 
 
 * My sweeps clean my chimneys,' she had 
 
Vanity! 205 
 
 answered. And the story went round the clubs 
 and endeared her still more to the ^Smarts' and 
 the * Souls ' and the ultra chic of her world. 
 
 Knowing all these things I naturally was deeply 
 interested in this modern heroine. I wished soon 
 that I owned a social glossary, for the words and 
 expressions falling like hail around me were like 
 an unknown language. When Mrs Jackey spoke 
 of the ^ Man-man ' I was ignorant that she referred 
 to the Prince ; and * diskie/ and * expie,' and 
 * hoy,' and * tellie ' were equally incomprehensible. 
 
 Wildash, who sat beside me, silent perforce, was 
 intensely interested in this newcomer. I fancied 
 he was studying her for future use. Her imper- 
 tinences and audacities rivalled his own. 
 
 The way she ridiculed the people with whom 
 she had been staying seemed to me the worst 
 possible taste, but everyone else in the room 
 screamed with laughter, as if it was an excellent 
 joke to satirise people who had lavished their 
 wealth and time and attention upon your enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 She talked at express speed, never at a loss 
 for a word, and rarely waiting for an answer. 
 As she nick-named everyone she knew, it was 
 
2o6 
 
 difficult to guess whom she meant. I discovered 
 that Lady Per. was * Pussy/ as a play on the word 
 *purr/ but some other abbreviations remained a 
 mystery. 
 
 There was no doubt, however, about her suc- 
 cess, especially with her own sex. That at least 
 marked her of no ordinary cleverness, for few 
 popular women are favourites with their less 
 appreciated sisterhood. 
 
 * Did you see the Abbey ghost, Jackey?' asked 
 Lady Per. in an interval of comparative silence. 
 
 * See it No. I only played it on my own,' 
 she said. * Scared them into fittums, poor dears. 
 Old Newsie' (short for Mr Bartholemew Newlands, 
 the new owner of the Abbey) 'had a mania for 
 poking about corridors and places when he wasn't 
 wanted— looking after the heating pipes, he said — 
 scared of fire he was. Just as if he had ancestral 
 rights, instead of being quite un-progy, not even 
 a "granfy" to be traced, you know. Well, I 
 thought rd scary him a bit. So I covered my 
 face with luminous paint and did myself into a 
 white nightie, and when I knew he'd be coming 
 along, hid behind a curtain and whiffed out his 
 light. Of course he turned, and, heavens above ! 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 207 
 
 the yell he gave would have wakened the dead 
 in the churchyard. He dropped the candle and 
 fled ! I slipped back into my room, and presently 
 joined the crowd of hurry-scurries. Newsie took 
 to bed. Believed he'd had a warning. That was 
 two days ago. No one has seen him since.' 
 
 * Don't play tricks like that here,' said Lady 
 Per. * Remember we have a ghost also. It's four 
 hundred years old, I think. It's a man ghost. 
 An old man who holds a lantern and goes peering 
 about the north corridor. However, no one's 
 sleeping there now, so you needn't be skeery.' 
 
 ' Vote we tell ghost stories after dinner. A prize 
 for the best,' exclaimed Mrs Jackey. ^ I only know 
 one, but it's quite too creepy — makes one go 
 goose-skinny all over. Why does one say " goose " 
 skin ; why not chicky or turkey ? ' 
 
 ' What's the prize to be ? ' asked Teddy 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' And who's to give it ? ' asked Calhoun. 
 
 ^ Oh ! Jackey, of course,' said Lady Per., * and 
 we'll use the cotillon presents. A cigarette case 
 for a man, and a — ' 
 
 * A case of cigarettes for a woman,' chimed in 
 Mrs Jackey Beauchamp. 
 
2o8 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ' Ah ! there's the dressing-bell, Jackey ; let me 
 show you your room/ said Lady Per. 
 
 Mrs Jackey rose languidly. * I always wish you 
 had the Abbey, my twee/ she said. * Much more 
 fitty. To think of Newsie in that lovely old place, 
 and Mrs Newsie, a fat old frump with a soul at- 
 tuned to water gruel, and hot bottles ! So quite 
 too altogether diskie, isn't it?' 
 
 She received her furs from the hands of Teddy 
 Fitzgerald, and left the room with Lady Persiflage. 
 
 Wildash looked at me. * She's seen you, but 
 pretends not,' he said, very low. * Look your best 
 to-night. Biz ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A SHIMMERING, glittering vision swept into the 
 drawing-room as dinner was announced. 
 
 This represented Mrs Jackey Beauchamp in 
 what she termed * a demi-teagie/ Translated, this 
 appeared as a compromise between tea-gown and 
 evening dress. But it was very exquisite and 
 very self-revealing, and pleased my professional 
 eye immensely. 
 
 Somewhat to my surprise, Lady Per. asked Wil- 
 dash to take in the new arrival, and from the 
 opposite side of the table I could see that they 
 were mutually entertaining one another. I was 
 less happily suited, having been told off to the 
 languid Guardsman. I therefore devoted myself 
 to my dinner and — observation. 
 
 It was the proverbial Christmas dinner, attended 
 
 by the proverbial discomfort in the digestive regions. 
 
 Lady Per. had hot punch brought in with the dessert 
 
 as a * corrective,' so she said, and the party waxed 
 
 noisy and frolicsome in proof of its excellence. 
 
 What with cosaques and crackers and punch, it 
 O 209 
 
2IO 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 was quite late before we settled down for the ghost 
 stories. The hall was chosen as being more cosy 
 and free-and-easy than the drawing-room, and the 
 men joined us there with quite remarkable celerity. 
 I put it down to Mrs Jackey Beauchamp's powers 
 of attraction. That wonderful person swept up to 
 me as we were arranging seats and cushions. 
 
 ^ So glad to meet you/ she exclaimed. ' Have 
 heard so much about you in town. That model 
 reception " was on everyone's tongue. How was it 
 you didn't ask me ? Not that I could have come. 
 I was at Monte Carlo. Still, don't forget next 
 time. Pussy showed me the teagie you de- 
 signed — quite too deevie, I thought. You must 
 do me a smoking coat — I'll give you the idea. 
 I intend to make them the rage this season, and 
 I'll send all my " pals " to you. I get my " cossies " 
 in Paris — I suppose you buy there ? Charming — 
 that Irishman — your partner, isn't he ? Fancy his 
 going in for dressmaking. Oh ! I shall certainly 
 pay you a visit — only you must give me long 
 creddy. My husband's an awful screw. Thinks I 
 can dress on twelve hundred ! Ridicky, isn't it ? ' 
 
 * In your position, and with your reputation, it 
 certainly is,' I agreed. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 21 I 
 
 * Of course. Perfectly diskie what we poor 
 wives have to put up with ! Why, " undies 
 alone run me into hundreds. I always match my 
 gowns; couldn't wear one unless all the "neathies" 
 were in keeping. Are you staying here long ? ' 
 
 ' I only came down for the theatricals. I return 
 to-morrow night' 
 
 ' Horrid weather for travelling, and everyone 
 away. Why go? So comfy here. And there'll 
 be no biz worth speaking of. Ah ! Pussy, leave 
 that cushion — Bags L' 
 
 She moved away to a divan near the great open 
 fireplace, and threw herself down against a back- 
 ground of orange and terra-cotta, that was an admir- 
 able foil to her sleek black head and white skin. 
 
 The men by her directions formed a semi-circle 
 round the fire. The lights were lowered, cigars 
 and cigarettes permitted, and the order to com- 
 mence ghost story No. I. was issued by this 
 dominating power. 
 
 It was a very feeble story and very feebly told. 
 Indeed, the first three or four were as inoffensively 
 supernatural as Mr Stead's * Julia.' 
 
 Wildash went one better by giving an Irish Ban- 
 shee story. Then came Mrs Jackey's one which for 
 
212 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 blood-curdling horror was unsurpassable, only it 
 lacked any element of probability,and was evidently 
 a wild exaggeration of traditional materials. 
 
 It was close on the stroke of twelve when it 
 fell to Lady Pen's lot to tell the story of the family 
 ghost, and of all the tales this was listened to 
 with the greatest interest on account of its present 
 and possible associations. 
 
 It appeared from the story that a certain lord 
 of the Manor, some four hundred years back, had 
 a very beautiful daughter of whom he was in- 
 ordinately proud. They were good and staunch 
 Catholics in those days, and to the house came 
 frequently a young and handsome priest of Italian 
 origin. The beautiful daughter was studious, and 
 inclined to emulate the Lady Jane Grey. The 
 priest taught her Latin, and instructed her in such 
 beauties of Italian poesy as had won recognition. 
 She had no mother and her father was unsus- 
 picious. While Francesca and Paolo was being 
 daily enacted, he guessed nothing, and his ignorance 
 might have lasted indefinitely but for an unfortunate 
 circumstance. This was the discovery of a letter 
 slipped between the leaves of a book. 
 
 The letter was from the priestly lover, and re- 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 213 
 
 vealed more than was prudent. The father, aghast 
 and terror-struck, resolved on vengeance. One mid- 
 night he waited in an underground passage by which 
 the young priest usually entered. They met face to 
 face — the guilt of one confronting the accusation 
 of the other. Terror-struck, the priest fell on his 
 knees beseeching mercy. His answer was a dagger- 
 thrust in his heart. As he fell the girl came on the 
 scene, and her wail of agony so maddened her father 
 that he turned on her and stabbed her also. 
 
 His awful vengeance complete, he put the bodies 
 into a sack and dragged them along the passage 
 to a vault or cellar sunk into the foundations and 
 secured by a massive iron trap-door. He threw 
 them in, locked the door, and returned to his 
 own quarters. Next day he took all his gold and 
 valuables and went abroad, and for years was never 
 heard of Then an old, decrepit man, bowed and 
 wrinkled and feeble, came back to end his days at the 
 Manor. He was dying, but he would have no priest 
 to shrive him, no masses said for his soul, and with 
 his secret unconfessed he passed out of the life his 
 sin had cursed. 
 
 ' And,' continued Lady Per., dramatically, 
 *once in every ten years, on the night of the 
 
214 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 anniversary of that crime, it is said he comes 
 back and enacts it again. And woe be to the 
 man or woman who sees that gruesome sight, for 
 it betokens death within the year. Again does that 
 ghostly figure glide down the lonely passage, again 
 does that wail of agony rend the silence, and again 
 does the noise of the faltering footsteps and dragging 
 bodies echo once more over the stones, until all the 
 horror culminates in the clang of that rusty door.' 
 
 We all drew our breaths sharp, and an involun- 
 tary shudder ran through the circle of listeners. 
 
 ^But is it really true? Has anyone seen it? 
 Does it still happen ? ' fell the queries. 
 
 * Yes,' said Lady Per., gravely. ' It still happens, 
 and it /las been seen. We have had a door put at 
 the end of the passage, and the servants are strictly 
 forbidden ever to go there. But one cook I had, 
 who knew nothing of the legend, took it into her head 
 to explore the place while we were away. I don't 
 know how she got the key, or whether she found one 
 to fit the lock, but certainly she went out of her mind 
 with terror. She left the door open and went to bed ; 
 then remembered it and came down to shut it at 
 midnight. It must have been the anniversary. 
 Shrieks reached the servants' quarters, and a frenzied 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 215 
 
 lunatic was found crouched at the entrance to the 
 passage. I was telegraphed for, and the end was the 
 poor thing had to go to an asylum — she died there/ 
 
 ' It's awfully gruesome/ said Mrs Jackey, with an 
 effective shudder that set the jewels and sequins 
 of her gown into glittering turmoil. 
 
 'But when /j- the anniversary? You haven't told us.' 
 
 ' I don't intend to. I'd rather not be responsible 
 for any more lunatics.' 
 
 * But, of course, it isn't true,' said Wildash. 
 ' There's no evidence she saw anything. She might 
 have been an hysterical, nervous woman and — ' 
 
 ' That's just it. She wasn't. The most matter- 
 of-fact, prosaic person. Oh, no ! it was no case 
 of fancying, I'm sure. But that's enough of 
 ghosts. Let's vote the prize and have some 
 baccarat to wind up the evening. We're all in the 
 doldrums, I do declare.' 
 
 ^ The prize is yours, Pussy, in my opinion,' said 
 Mrs Jackey. * Yours — for absolute realism. It had 
 the genuine old moated grange and secret chamber 
 horrors about it. I declare I shall feel quite 
 nervous going to bed.' 
 
 ' Well, it's past midnight, so there's no fear of the 
 ghost to-night,' exclaimed Captain Calhoun. 
 
2l6 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 There was a sigh of relief from several of the 
 women, and even the men turned to the green 
 board with alacrity. 
 
 I did not play, but sat out with Josey Peck and 
 one or two of the house party. At last I slipped 
 away, tired and somewhat bored. 
 
 A bright fire burned in my room. The curtains 
 were drawn, and everything was luxurious and 
 comfortable. A wide, deeply-padded arm-chair 
 stood near the fireplace, and, after exchanging 
 my evening dress for a quilted dressing-gown, I 
 took a book and settled myself down for half an 
 hour's quiet read. Whether it was the effect of 
 the warmth, or the pleasant sense of fatigue and 
 quiet combined, I hardly know, but my eyes closed 
 and I fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 I woke with a start. The candles had burnt 
 very low. The fire was only a mass of dull 
 red embers. I was chilled and uncomfortable, 
 and rose with the intention of going to bed. As I 
 stood before the glass I noted that a certain 
 diamond-hilted dagger I had worn in my hair was 
 no longer there. I searched the chair, the rug, the 
 dressing-table — all the places where it might have 
 fallen. In vain. Nowhere could I find it. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 217 
 
 I remembered I had not removed it when I 
 changed my dress. I valued it very highly, and 
 its loss disturbed me so effectually that I lost all 
 inclination to sleep. I remembered the divan on 
 which I had been seated during the story-telling. 
 Perhaps it had dropped out among the cushions. 
 I considered the probability of finding it in the 
 morning, and wondered whether to risk a servant^s 
 honesty or go down myself now and search. 
 
 It was nearly three o'clock. 
 
 I opened the door and looked out. The house 
 was quiet, the lights were extinguished, all save 
 one or two lamps in dark corridors which were 
 left burning all night. I took up my candle and 
 went softly down the stairs. I knew the exact 
 spot where I had been sitting and, leaving my 
 candlestick on one of the tables, I moved swiftly 
 forward and commenced my search. 
 
 I moved the top cushion and there, fallen between 
 it and the back of the lounge, glittered my dagger. 
 With a cry of delight I seized it. But the cry was 
 strangled at its birth. I heard beyond me in the 
 dining-room a strange muffled noise. It was as if 
 someone was dragging a heavyweight alongthefloor. 
 
 My heart stood still . . . my limbs seemed frozen 
 
2l8 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 with terror. The story of the ghost rushed back to 
 my memory, and I was powerless to move or cry. 
 
 Secpnds, moments passed, and still that frozen 
 horror chained me. All will and energy seemed 
 centred in my power of hearing which, grown 
 abnormally acute, intensified those muffled sounds 
 by force of terror. 
 
 It seemed to me they came nearer. They ap- 
 proached the door which was only screened from the 
 hall by a heavy velvet portiere. On that portiere 
 my eyes rested with an appalling dread of what any 
 moment might reveal. There was silence, then the 
 faint click of a turning handle ; the curtain rustled — 
 moved — divided. Through its folds a face peered. 
 
 A faint scream burst from my lips. A light 
 flashed over me, the light of a lantern. As suddenly 
 it was darkened. In two steps the man who held 
 it was at my side. His hand gripped my arm. 
 
 * If you move or cry, I'll kill you,' he hissed. 
 * But you won't. You know me — don't you ? ' 
 
 I shuddered, and my senses reeled. Know him ! 
 . . , curse and bane of my life. Thief, renegade, 
 criminal ! The man I had last seen in a prisoner's 
 dock sentenced to fifteen years' penal servi- 
 tude. . . . My husband ! 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 NOTES FROM MY DIARY 
 
 Dec, 2'jtk — I feel a hundred years older than 
 when I started for Thornhill Manor. 
 
 I returned this morning to Bond Street. All is 
 well there, but I myself feel a perfect wreck. I 
 have gone through twenty-four hours of inconceiv- 
 able torture. I have become ^ an accessory ' to a 
 burglary, and the burglar is my husband — the man 
 who was the evil genius of my youth, who married 
 me under false pretences, and left me bankrupt in 
 health, wealth and happiness. 
 
 He had broken every moral law and not a few of 
 
 his country's, and at last found himself faced by a 
 
 deserved penalty. I breathed freely when I knew 
 
 I was free from him. The years drifted by. Then 
 
 I heard he had been shot while trying to effect his 
 
 escape. I began life anew, fired by hope and un- 
 
 quenched energies. I had succeeded, as these 
 
 pages show. I was growing contented — almost 
 
 happy. Suddenly I found myself confronted by 
 
 this spectre of my past. The gruesome horrors of 
 219 
 
220 Vanity ! 
 
 his life now linked my own to equal horror. I had 
 had to hear of his escape from prison. To listen to 
 the oaths and curses of a hardened gaol-bird, who 
 feared nought, and cared for no one. . . . To 
 connive at his escape from Thornhill Manor, to 
 become in a measure his accomplice, and, at the 
 very turning point of my own career, to know 
 myself at the mercy of a merciless scoundrel. My 
 chances and hopes of an uncontrolled future 
 seemed to vanish into thin air. The breath of 
 such a scandal on my business would scare every 
 customer away. My position and reputation lay at 
 his mercy now, and he would soon discover the fact. 
 
 Oh ! that night of horror. . . . Shall I ever 
 forget it ! I marvel my hair is not snow-white 
 when I think of what I endured. 
 
 Then to come down in the morning and face 
 the turmoil and confusion of a discovered 
 burglary ! To hear summonses issued for local 
 police, to form one of the gossiping, affrighted, 
 speculating crowd of men and women, who dis- 
 cussed probabilities and theories, and gave idiotic 
 advice, and rushed about to see that their own 
 jewels were safe, and drove poor Lady Per. nearly 
 wild by hysterics and confusion. 
 
 Fortunately, in the general confusion, my own 
 
Vanity! 221 
 
 perturbation escaped notice, but oh ! how thankful 
 I was when I found myself back in London, and 
 able to give vent to my feelings in the privacy of 
 my own dwelling. 
 
 Night, and all is quiet, and Babette has attended 
 to my comforts as only a faithful servant can. 
 Night — and I sit here alone to hold counsel with 
 myself and wonder what I had best do. 
 
 I seem separated by years from that frivolous, 
 fashion-sated crowd of yesterday. I seem separated 
 by more than years from the hopeful enthusiast 
 whom that sign below represented. Poor Frou- 
 Frou! I sigh. How long will her glory last now? 
 
 I think of divorce. But divorce means the 
 exposure of a horrible scandal ; divorce will show 
 up the facts of this burglary and prove that I 
 aided a criminal's escape. Divorce will ruin my 
 business for me, and I have no desire to drop into 
 a second-rate modiste after the brilliant ^ splash * 
 of this last year. 
 
 My head aches. My brain is racked. I see 
 the whole fabric pf my hopes about to fall to 
 the ground. My courage breaks down, and I 
 abandon myself to despair. The tears well up 
 and flow over. 
 
222 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 The door suddenly opens. Babette announces 
 — * Monsieur Wildash/ 
 
 That was two hours ago. I take up my pen 
 once more to complete this entry. 
 
 I lifted a tear-stained face from the page of 
 my recent confessions, and looked at my partner 
 in a sort of hopeless bewilderment. 
 
 * Whatever is the matter?' he asked anxiously. 
 
 * Nothing wrong since you left ? ' 
 
 * Everything is wrong/ I said miserably. . . . 
 
 * Not with the business as yet, but that will come. 
 I — I shall have to give it up.' 
 
 ' Give it up ! ' he echoed. ^ What on earth do 
 you mean?' 
 
 I tried to stay the flow of tears. My plight 
 was so desperate that I had need of wiser counsel 
 than my own. With the courage of despair I 
 told him at last my whole story. 
 
 Silently he listened. Silently, but with a 
 deepening gravity of expression — a hurried breath, 
 as I came to the night of the burglary. 
 
 * My God ! to think of it. . . . You exposed to 
 such peril. . . . Why didn't you call out? Some- 
 one might have heard.' 
 
 *He held a revolver at my head. He swore 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 223 
 
 he'd shoot me if I moved or spoke. I had to 
 bolt the door and windows after him ... to help 
 him hand out things to his accomplice.' 
 
 * There were two, then ? ' 
 ^Yes.' 
 
 ' You poor soul ! What a business ! Still you 
 needn't be so frightened, They can't hurt you 
 without hurting themselves. And as for that 
 brute — Why on earth didn't you get a divorce 
 as soon as he was convicted ? ' 
 
 * I had no money. It is an expensive pro- 
 ceeding, and most of his — escapades — were in 
 Paris or America. They were not easy to prove.' 
 
 He paced the room to and fro; his brow knit, 
 his face pale and anxious. 
 
 ' He can't interfere with you kerey you know,' 
 he said presently. *You can take out a pro- 
 tection order. You can refuse to admit him. 
 The law doesn't allow a renegade husband to 
 claim his wife's money any longer.' 
 
 *But he could make a disturbance . . . create 
 a scandal. He is capable of anything.' 
 
 ' Does he know of this business ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. He found it out — goodness knows how ! ' 
 
 * You could put the police on his track.' 
 
 ' It would seem so horrible to do that. He 
 
224 Vanity ! 
 
 told me something of what his life had been in 
 prison — a life that makes men criminals, and 
 criminals devils, if ever they taste freedom again ! ' 
 
 * I can believe that. I know something of state 
 prisons in France and in Ireland. Well, my 
 dear, something has got to be done. It must. 
 I can't have you bullied and terrified like this. 
 There's too much at stake now. Besides, Fm 
 . . . I'm too fond of you to let your life lie at the 
 mercy of such a brute.' 
 
 I looked up — startled and surprised. His eyes 
 met mine, and by some uncontrollable impulse I 
 rose to my feet. His arms went round me. Very 
 gently he drew me into that strong and tender 
 embrace. My head fell on his shoulder. The 
 strength, the protection, the peace of it all swept 
 over me like a flood. The checked tears streamed 
 from my eyes, and he just let me cry there, as a 
 wearied and overwrought child might have cried 
 in safe and sheltering arms. 
 
 He has gone, and, worn and spent by emotions, 
 I try to collect my scattered energies once more. 
 
 I am confronted by a new difficulty. My love 
 for Harry and his for me. 
 
 Suddenly the truth has flashed on us both. We 
 
Vanity ! 225 
 
 are more than friends. We have drifted uncon- 
 sciously into deeper depths of feeling than we 
 had supposed possible. The shock and surprise 
 once over, a douche of common sense has brought 
 me back to myself Into what new danger and 
 trouble have 1 allowed myself to drift ? I am not 
 free. I cannot marry him. 
 
 There lie the facts in the proverbial nutshell ; 
 and I say them over and over again to the rhythmic 
 throb of aching temples and aching heart. 
 
 My hatred of the man who has wronged me 
 increases the more I think of him. So bitter, so 
 fierce, so desperate do I grow in course of self- 
 communing, that I almost feel it is in me to give 
 him up to justice. A line to a magistrate, a hint of 
 his whereabouts, and the law would again hold him 
 safe and sound. The fact of his escape would add 
 fresh penalties, and entail a yet more severe sentence, 
 and I ... I should be free of this hourly dread. 
 
 But even as I think of possible relief I know it 
 
 isn't in me to gain it by such a mean trick. The 
 
 little he had told me of the horrors of prison 
 
 life — ^the change it had already wrought in what 
 
 had once meant a * gentleman ' — all stood in array 
 
 before me, and sapped both strength and courage 
 
 I saw him as he had been when I first knew him — 
 
 P 
 
226 
 
 Vanity ^ 
 
 handsome, light-hearted, debonair ; reckless, it 
 is true, and with a record, even then, that would 
 not bear close scrutiny, but still, what a contrast 
 to the evil-looking, hunted reprobate who had 
 descended so terribly low in the social scale 
 as to break into houses and steal silver. 
 
 I shuddered and sprang to my feet in a sort of 
 desperation. I was fast in a net. There seemed 
 no way of escape. Harry could not help me, and 
 his love was but an added danger. The thought 
 of it maddened me. I had not realised what he 
 had become till that moment when I rested in his 
 arms, and recognised something of the strength 
 and passion of his feelings by the response of my 
 own. I knew not only how much I loved him, 
 but how jealous I had been of other women, and 
 his too evident attraction for them. And yet I 
 must forego my triumph, and my love both, by 
 reason of this sorry trick of fate. 
 
 To-morrow I must begin work. To-morrow I 
 must interview customers, attend to orders, see to 
 the hundred and one details of my business. To- 
 morrow I must see Harry under these altered cir- 
 cumstances . . . to-morrow, and many succeeding 
 to - morrows will make my path thorny with 
 difficulties. I shall have to battle with the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 227 
 
 weakness of my own heart, the jealousy of others, 
 the unsatisfactory position I hold with regard to 
 the man I loved. Shall I ever find strength for 
 such duties and such dangers ? 
 
 No wonder I feel worn out ! The face that 
 looks back at me from the mirror is a very different 
 one to the radiant vision that smiled farewell on the 
 season's worries, ere departing for Thornhill Manor. 
 
 What a difference a few days can make in life ! 
 
 I have never been happy, really happy, in all the 
 previous days of that life. Not even in the brief 
 delirium of my love dream. And now Fate won't 
 allow me to be it, when I might. It is cruelly hard. 
 No wonder I wax rebellious. Wildash is more to 
 me than anything or anyone in the whole wide 
 world and I cannot marry him. I know what 
 women, less scrupulous, would do. I know what 
 many a society woman, with far less excuse than 
 I have, has done, and will do again. But I love 
 him, and love that cannot hold a man to his 
 highest and best is not the love that keeps him 
 constant. 
 
 So I drag tired limbs and aching heart to bed, 
 and shed such tears as I have never shed before, 
 even when life looked at me with its most hope- 
 less aspect. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 There are certain phases of life that serve to 
 demoralise one — mentally. We grow tired of 
 making a stand against troubles, tired of battling 
 against the forces of Fate. We throw down our 
 arms in the face of the jade Misfortune, and bid 
 her do her worst, and we will do the same. 
 
 In such a mood as this I woke and reviewed the 
 events of the past two days. 
 
 There seemed nothing to hope for, nothing to 
 encourage me in that struggle to 'keep straight' 
 which, in face of many difficulties and temptations, 
 I had hitherto done. I smiled grimly as I thought 
 of my high-bred sisterhood and their escapades; 
 of all the revelations made to and learnt by me in 
 my apprenticeship to Fashion. I pictured Lady 
 Farringdon, or Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, in similar 
 plight, with an undesirable husband and a passion- 
 ate adoring lover, and wondered how they would 
 meet the emergency. 
 
 In a mood of cold, hard doggedness I dressed 
 228 
 
Vanity ! 229 
 
 and had breakfast, and went into the workroom 
 where the usual petty squabbles met and annoyed 
 me. I settled them with a sharpness and temper 
 so unusual that the girls looked astonished. I was 
 far too desperate to care for them or their ' tan- 
 trums' — indeed almost desperate enough to break 
 up the whole establishment, and seek ' fresh fields 
 and pastures new' in safe and humble obscurity. 
 
 Almost. . . . Not quite, I suppose, for when 
 Wildash walked in, bright, cheery, smiling, all my 
 ill-humour vanished. 
 
 * You look pale and worried,' he said. * I 
 suppose you had no sleep, and from mere vexing 
 that dear little head with the " whys and where- 
 fores" of the present situation. You mustn't do 
 it, sweetheart. We are going to have a " booming 
 season." All else must be sacrificed — temporarily. 
 I'll hit upon some way to get rid of your incubus 
 if you'll only trust me. Anything can be done in 
 this world with the sinews of war. Our business is 
 to get those sinews. Here's the order of campaign. 
 I don't fancy that man will molest you. I'll face 
 him with the terrors of the law. He can't bully me. 
 I'll soon let him know that. And you may be sure 
 he'll be in a mortal funk lest he is discovered and 
 
230 Vanity ! 
 
 taken back to prison. He must be made to see that 
 you're not afraid of anything he can do or say. That 
 is of paramount importance. For the rest you must 
 set about getting a divorce — very quietly. It will 
 be expensive, but we can make money hand over 
 hand now. Of course we'll have to be very careful 
 lest our own little secret leaks out, as that would 
 spoil your case. So I must only be seen here at 
 business hours. We'll have to do our utmost to 
 keep the affair out of the papers, but reporters 
 aren't above a touch of " palm-oil," and I know an 
 awfully good chap — a barrister — who I am sure 
 would help us, and take up the case. Come, 
 aren't the clouds clearing off? Let me see you 
 smile . . . that's better. I can't recognise you as 
 the weeping Niobe of last night. I'm not going to 
 let you be worried — so there. You're my property 
 now, and I mean to look after you.' 
 
 What could I say? His gaiety was irresistible. 
 My fears vanished before that radiant sunshine 
 as rain clouds before the sun itself The heavy 
 load of care and anxiety rolled off my shoulders. 
 I smiled back into his eyes and — went boldly forth 
 to meet Mrs Aurelius B. Peck. 
 
Vanity! 231 
 
 That good lady was infinitely more humble than 
 on the occasion of her first visit. She looked 
 nervously around as if to assure herself that Harry 
 was not lurking about, and suggested my making 
 her a couple of new evening gowns, leaving 
 style and colour and material to my judgment. 
 
 These matters settled, I wondered why she 
 still lingered. She seemed to have something 
 on her mind. 
 
 At last it came out. 
 
 *My daughter tells me,' she said, 'that you 
 were at Lady Persiflage's; when you were there, 
 may I — would you — I mean, was Mr Wildash 
 there also? — She never said.' 
 
 I felt myself colour slightly. * Yes ... he was 
 there,' I answered. * He went down to super- 
 intend the theatricals.' 
 
 She looked much disturbed. ' I — I hope — I 
 trust Josephine was careful and — and discreet,' 
 she stammered. *You know, Mrs Costello, 
 people will talk and — she being an heiress and 
 all that — naturally attracts more notice than 
 ordinary young ladies.' 
 
 I laughed. ' Oh ! she was most discreet,' I re- 
 plied. ' Infinitely more so than when at Homburg.' 
 
232 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 / Homburg ? ' She looked bewildered. 
 'Yes . . . those early morning expeditions, 
 biking, or riding. Surely you knew?' 
 
 * Oh ! yes — I heard something of it/ she gasped. 
 ' Lord sakes ! What was the girl thinking of ? . . . 
 and the Prince there and all' 
 
 I thought to myself that H. R. H. was not 
 likely to have bestowed much attention on the 
 Pecks, but I did not say so. 
 
 ' Is there anything more I can do for you ? ' I 
 asked, shutting up my note-book, when I had 
 taken down her instructions. ' You will excuse 
 my saying my time is very much occupied just 
 now.' 
 
 She hesitated . . . looked at me helplessly, 
 and then blurted out her confession. 
 
 * Oh ! Mrs Costello, it isn't as if you weren't 
 a lady and all that, and though you're not a 
 mother, as far as I know, still you will understand 
 my feelin's. I know it's dreadfully old-fashioned 
 and bad form and all that to have any, but still 
 I did so want her to make a grand marriage, and 
 if she gets talked about with your partner, you 
 know, why, it'll just ruin her chances. And she's 
 that pig-headed it's no manner o' use my speakin'.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 233 
 
 There were tears in her eyes. She sank into 
 a chair, her big body palpitating with agitation. 
 
 ^ She only laughs at me/ she went on. * Says 
 she'll have her fling at any cost. Fve begged her 
 to take Lord Soppington. He's just mad about 
 her. But she's no savoy faire^ as they say.' 
 
 * Still, I don't see what I can do,' I interrupted. 
 
 * You could keep Mr Wildash out of her way, 
 couldn't you ? ' she implored. 
 
 * Certainly not. Mr Wildash is no child in 
 leading-strings to be led hither and thither,' I 
 answered haughtily. 
 
 It cost me a pang to think of this rich young 
 American ready to throw herself and her dollars 
 into the arms of the man I loved, and could not 
 marry. 
 
 Mrs Peck looked at me helplessly. 
 
 ^ Then she'll just go on her own way,' she 
 lamented. *And all my hopes and ambitions 
 count for nothing.' 
 
 * If you have no influence over your daughter, 
 you cannot expect a stranger to possess any.' 
 
 * She's mighty fond of you, I know,' lamented the 
 poor woman. ^ Says you're the real lady of the 
 lot. And then, you see, he may be a baronet 
 
234 Vanity ! 
 
 some day/ she went on irrelevantly. * He's such 
 a perfect gentleman too . . . and so good-looking.' 
 
 I began to lose patience. * It may be just 
 possible/ I said, 'that Mr Wildash has no serious 
 thought of your daughter. Certainly, he is no 
 fortune hunter, and his mind is entirely engrossed 
 by this business. His ambitions lie in that line.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she said doubtfully, * if I was only quite 
 sure of that ! You see her father's one of the 
 richest men in Amurica, and he could buy a title 
 here any day, and we'd both set our hearts on 
 seein' Josephine a duchess.' 
 
 ^She seemed to hold the same views when I 
 talked with her down at Thornhill Manor,' I said 
 drily. 
 
 Mrs Peck brightened visibly. 
 
 ' You don't say ! Wal, that's good news. She can't 
 have changed 'em so quick. Perhaps she only goes 
 on to rile me. But now that I've told you my trouble, 
 Mrs Costello, won't you try and see her by herself, 
 when she comes here. If Mr Wildash kept out of 
 the way for a time she might really take Lord 
 Soppington. It's a splendid chance. The old 
 duke can't live much longer, they say. I'd die 
 happy to see a tiarra on her head, and strawberry 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 235 
 
 leaves on her carnage panels, and hear 'er called 
 " Your Grace." ' 
 
 She rose, flushed and eager. I felt sorry for her, 
 and for once forgot her vulgarity and self-import- 
 ance in the new light of her motherly anxiety. 
 
 * If you take my advice/ I said gently, 'you will 
 not urge or worry your daughter on this matter. 
 She has plenty of common sense, and knows the 
 advantages of rank and position as well as you do. 
 Her admiration for Mr Wildash is only a girl's 
 freak. She will soon forget it. . But if you appear 
 to make it important, she may eventually believe 
 it is so. You have plenty of time before the season. 
 Take her to country houses where she may meet 
 Lord Soppington. Let her see women, young and 
 as pretty as herself, playing the role of hostess, in- 
 vested with married importance. She will form 
 her own conclusions. Such surroundings are more 
 influential than a London ballroom. It might 
 occur to her that to appear at the next Drawing- 
 room the fiancee of the future Duke of Messmore, 
 the possessor of the famous Messmore diamonds, 
 is well worth the sacrifice of a fancy. Tm sure it's 
 not more serious — yet.' 
 
 * Wal, I'm very grateful to you,' said the poor 
 
236 Vanity ! 
 
 woman, squeezing my hands in her huge, tightly- 
 gloved palms. ^ Very — and I'll take your advice.' 
 
 * Let me know the result ? ' I said, releasing my 
 aching fingers. * And if you choose to suggest that 
 Valerie, or Kate Reilly, are infinitely better establish- 
 ments for her to patronise, Til not be offended/ 
 
 * Now, I call that real magnanimous of you,' she 
 exclaimed. * All the same, I don't believe she'd 
 go to anyone else for her gowns now. You've hit 
 her style exactly. And her figure don't look the 
 same — it's just elegant ! But there, I'm keeping 
 you, I see. I'll be off. You've taken a load off 
 my mind, I do declare. Good-bye again.' 
 
 She left, and I stood there absently turning 
 over the last fashion plates, but seeing nothing of 
 the beauties or vagaries Dame Mode had inspired. 
 
 There was a curious dull ache in my heart, 
 and with it came a certain feeling of distrust, 
 born of jealousy. It was not unnatural, consider- 
 ing the uncertainty of my position. Besides, I 
 still feared that shadow from my hateful past. It 
 was all very well for Harry to combat it, and pre- 
 tend there was no need for uneasiness, but he did 
 not know the absolute brutality of the man who 
 was still my husband. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 237 
 
 And in his present desperate condition he would 
 not stick at trifles. By what means he had dis- 
 covered me under my assumed name I could not 
 imagine, but once having done so, I knew I should 
 never feel free from intrusion or demand on his 
 part. He hated me, I knew — hated me all the 
 more because I was prosperous and independent. 
 He would not lightly forego some sort of revenge, 
 and to buy his silence would be a costly pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 Before I reached any further stage of foreboding 
 the door opened to admit Lady Farringdon. My 
 first glance at her face showed me she was nervous 
 and agitated. I wondered what had happened. 
 She fidgeted about ; turning over stuffs, and gazing 
 absently at trimmings. I had never seen her in 
 so strange a mood before. 
 
 I grew tired of suggesting at last. ' I really 
 don't think you want a gown at all/ I said bluntly. 
 
 She looked at me, and then closed the fashion 
 book whose leaves she had been turning. ^ I don't,' 
 she said. ' I came here because I . well, Fd 
 better be frank with you, Mrs Costello ... I want 
 you to help me, Fm in a — scrape. I don't know 
 what to do, and I've come to ask you to lend me 
 
238 Vanity ! 
 
 your room this evening. I want to — see a friend 
 — here. You can guess what I mean. I don't know 
 any other place, or whom to trust. IVe reason to 
 suspect Fm watched. I thought of you. ... I 
 know youVe awfully kind-hearted, and Fll pay 
 anything if you'll only do what I want' 
 
 I looked at her in astonishment. * I would do a 
 great deal for you, Lady Farringdon,' I said. * But 
 I do not wish to be mixed up with any scandal. I 
 suppose it is Captain Calhoun you wish to meet 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' What ! even j/ou know ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 * It would be somewhat surprising if I did not. 
 You forget how often I have seen you together.' 
 
 * I assure you,' she said, * there's been nothing 
 wrong in the very least. Only my husband has 
 turned nasty, and forbidden me to ask Frank 
 to the house. It's too ridiculous ! But, of course, I 
 don't want any scandal. And he's going away — 
 abroad somewhere — and I mus^ see him . . . must 
 say good-bye, and I know no one I could trust 
 except j^?^. Oh! don't say no. . . . Think, if you 
 cared very much for anyone . . . and might never 
 see him again — ' 
 
 I thought of Wildash and softened. After all it 
 
Vanity ! • 
 
 239 
 
 couldn't hurt me if she appointed to meet Calhoun 
 here. It would be the last time ; on that I was 
 determined. 
 
 ' I suppose/ I said, * you have considered the risk. 
 Certainly, if you think you are watched, it is a risk.' 
 
 * We shall not arrive, or go away together,' she 
 said. ' I know who is the spy, and I can throw 
 him off the scent. Then you'll do it?' 
 
 * I shall be out between five and six this even- 
 ing,' I said. ' You may call and wait for me — here. 
 If a friend is with you, that is not unusual. Cap- 
 tain Calhoun has called on me once or twice about 
 his sister's trousseau. It will be supposed he is 
 waiting to see me.' 
 
 ' You are an angel ! ' she cried eagerly. 
 I smiled. * Not a good one, I am afraid.' 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Five o'clock found me tete - d - tete with Di 
 Abercroft. 
 
 I had not seen her since my departure for 
 Thornhill Manor, and I longed to tell her all 
 that had happened. She was free to attend to 
 me and my confidences, and gave strict orders she 
 was not to be disturbed for half an hour. 
 
 And how did the theatricals go off? she 
 inquired, handing me tea delicious enough for a 
 duchess's boudoir. Di had the merchandise of 
 many countries at her disposal, so numerous were 
 her friends. 
 
 ' Capitally, but it is not of them I have come to 
 talk to you,' I said. * I am in a dreadful dilemma, 
 my dear ... I don't know what to do.' 
 
 And I told her of the night of the burglary, and 
 the horrors of that discovery. 
 
 She turned pale. She had long known of that 
 
 black shadow on my life. She had sympathised 
 
 with me, and rejoiced at my freedom and advised 
 
 and helped me to independence. 
 
 240 
 
Vanity! 241 
 
 ' Oh ! my poor child ! ' she cried. ' What an 
 awful thing. . . . Whatever will you do?' 
 
 * And that's not all/ I continued. * I have learnt 
 — I mean Harry Wildash is in love with me.' 
 
 ' I expected ^kaitj' she said quietly. * I knew 
 where you were both drifting. You are equally 
 in love with him?' 
 
 ^Yes.' 
 
 She put down her cup and looked steadily at 
 me. I felt myself change colour. 
 
 ^ You are not children — you recognise the 
 danger ? ' 
 
 ' Danger ! ' I echoed. ' I recognise the complica- 
 tions, if that's what you mean. It is rather — hard 
 — to have gone through all that suffering for nothing.' 
 
 * Yes, and you did suffer. How hard life is on 
 women ! ' 
 
 ' Recognising that fact does nor alter, or help it,' 
 I said bitterly. 
 
 ' Tell me what Wildash proposes ? ' 
 
 * A divorce. . . . He thinks it can be managed 
 quietly and kept out of the papers. I don't.' 
 
 * No, and it would nearly ruin you.' 
 
 ' Of course. People wouldn't go to a dressmaker 
 who had a convict husband Besides, he made me 
 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 Vanity I 
 
 help him in that burglary at Thornhill Manor. 
 Fancy if that came out ! ' 
 
 * Good heavens, child ! How could you have 
 been so foolish ! ' 
 
 ' My life was at stake. And I was terrified out 
 of my wits. I didn't realise what I was doing.' 
 
 ' Are you afraid of his blackmailing you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Though Harry makes light of it. But he 
 doesn't know the sort of man he is.' 
 
 * There's another point to consider. In order to 
 get a divorce you must have a clean record. It's 
 all very well to be straight, but you must have 
 seemed so. Now, the fact of taking Wildash into 
 partnership — your constant companionship — even 
 your going down to that country house together, 
 would all tell against you. Then look how many 
 years you have let pass without trying to free 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' But, remember, I heard he had been shot trying 
 to escape. It appears he changed clothes with an- 
 other man. Naturally they looked at the number. 
 I was told Convict 33 was dead. I believed it. 
 There the authorities are to blame — in a manner.' 
 
 ' But didn't you go to the prison . . . verify the 
 report ? ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 243 
 
 * No. I was at Bruges, you know, teaching in 
 that school. I was so thankful to hear of his death, 
 I thought of nothing but my freedom. Then I 
 met Abrahams, and you know he promised to 
 finance this business and you advised it . . . and 
 there I am.' 
 
 * It's a serious state of affairs, Kate.' 
 
 ^ My dear Di, what's the use of telling me what 
 I know? I came to ask for your advice. I am 
 perfectly well aware of my own position.' 
 
 'Don't get cross, darling. I am just puzzling 
 my brains to think of something, and, upon my 
 word, I think you'd better be passive. Let him 
 make the first move. Then you can form your 
 own plan of action. You see he can't hurt you 
 without hurting himself.' 
 
 *That is what Harry says.' 
 
 * Well, as you can't marry Harry, you must 
 either wait for release, or run the risk of divorce- 
 court revelations.' 
 
 * Those hateful courts ! ' I muttered. * It isn't as 
 if they contented themselves with the point at 
 issue ; they peer and pry into every corner of one's 
 life, rake up all the past, scandalise you in every 
 possible way, and then hold the Queen's Proctor 
 
244 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 over your head for six months after you get your 
 decree.' 
 
 * True, my dear. The law is always on the 
 man's side, in everything. No wonder, considering 
 men made it. Of course there's another way open 
 to you.' 
 
 She looked at me keenly, and I read her meaning. 
 
 ' No,' I said coldly. ' I'm not that sort, Di. I 
 should hate him and despise myself.' 
 
 ' Then, my dear Kate, unless you are very sure 
 of yourself and of him, it is unwise to see too much 
 of each other. You'll never be able to limit your- 
 selves to business hours, and confidences. There'll 
 be a scandal, and if you can't marry him — ' 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and poured out 
 some more tea. 
 
 ^ Di,' I said, ^ did you ever love any man ? ' 
 
 'Did I — not? It is that makes me so bitter.' 
 
 ' Was he bad — to you ? ' 
 
 ' He was bad to everyone. He couldn't help it. 
 I left him. But I didn't escape persecution. I 
 tried everything to free myself ... I wanted 
 him to divorce me, and he wouldn't.' 
 
 'But— at last?' 
 
 ' Oh ! he got his head broken in some drunken 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 245 
 
 brawl. Was taken to a hospital — and died. There 
 was no doubt about that ... It was horrible. 
 I had to identify him in the mortuary. Ugh ! . . . 
 I have had my fill of horrors, too, Kate.' 
 
 ' You never told me this before.' 
 
 * Why should I ? Unnecessary confidences only 
 bore one's friends. I tell you now, because we've 
 both suffered at the hands of blackguards. And 
 the suffering has left it's mark. I ... I don't want 
 to appear unsympathetic, Kate, but really, after 
 such an experience of men, I would advise you to 
 follow my own example. Never let a man be 
 of any real importance in your life. Make use 
 of him, but never become his slave. That is what 
 love makes you. I don't care what a man is, good, 
 bad, or indifferent, but once he knows a woman 
 loves him, he is her tyrant and master. He may 
 show it, or conceal it, but his nature makes him 
 that — a nature that is the legacy of his primeval 
 forefathers. Civilisation glosses it over, it cannot 
 stamp it out There has always been a struggle 
 for supremacy between the sexes — there always 
 will be. It is inevitable. Study children and you 
 will see the boy tyrannises over the girl. It is 
 emblematic of what the future will be. She has 
 
246 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 her brief spell of revenge when passion makes 
 him dumb and foolish, and lays him at her feet, 
 but it is brief. If she yields, her sovereignty 
 is lost. She is only to him the exponent of sex 
 once more. He owes it to himself to lord it over 
 her. And according to the best, or the worst, 
 that is in him, does she feel the whip, or acknow- 
 ledge the curb. Oh ! Love is a false thing, Kate 
 — a cruel thing — and self-deceptive ! ' 
 
 * It looks so beautiful,' I sighed. * And I am so 
 tired and so lonely, Di, it seems hard to deny 
 myself one little bit of happiness ... at last' 
 
 * I suppose it does. My panacea for sentiment or 
 loneliness is simply — work. Stamp out romance, 
 don't brood, don't even think, except about your 
 customers and their whims. I find them engross- 
 ing enough, I assure you.' 
 
 She rose. The half-hour was up. The work- 
 room demanded us both. I thought of Lady 
 Farringdon and her lover, and my heart ached 
 with a sort of dull wonder. Why couldn't women 
 keep themselves free from this curse of peace, 
 this mirage of sentiment? 
 
 I almost hated Wildash at that moment, for 
 again I recognised the tyranny of fate, and held 
 
Vanity ! 247 
 
 the knotted strands of complication. Peace of 
 mind, even hope, fled far away. 
 
 I kissed Di and bade her farewell, and went 
 home through the wet and gloomy streets as 
 miserable a woman as they held that night. 
 
 ' Lady and gentleman been waiting for you, 
 madam,* announced the page, as I opened the 
 door with my latch-key. ^ Lady has left — said 
 she'd call to-morrow. Gent's upstairs still.' 
 
 I wondered. However, I walked into my 
 sitting-room and saw Captain Calhoun. He 
 looked moody and disturbed. 
 
 ' How d'ye do, Mrs Costello ? I heard you'd be 
 in at six, so I waited because — ' 
 
 He paused. I looked inquiry, and saw his 
 face flush and a certain embarrassment in his 
 eyes. 
 
 * Because I had something to say to you,' he 
 went on. 
 
 I laughed. ^ It must be very important to 
 occupy your thoughts after the interview that is 
 just over.' 
 
 *0h — that!' his brow darkened. 'Well, of 
 course, Cissie never could keep her business to 
 
248 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 herself. She's told you Vm going away . . . going 
 to South Africa, next week.' 
 
 * Yes/ I said briefly. 
 
 * It's rather sudden, and she . . . we, I mean, 
 have been a bit imprudent. At least, her husband 
 chooses to think so. And she gave herself away 
 — rather — when the news came. Poor Cissie ! 
 However, it's best as it is. I hope the — 
 
 the unpleasantness will blow over. So d d 
 
 absurd of old Sir John to make a row now. But 
 I've advised her to go down to the country and 
 keep quiet awhile, and play up to the old boy's 
 domestic ideas. There's no use having a scandal 
 for nothing.' 
 
 ' Nothing — meaning of course a woman's re- 
 putation. We'll say nothing about her feelings.' 
 
 He looked at me, and bit his long moustache 
 somewhat nervously. ^ Feelings ? My dear Mrs 
 Costello, you surely don't suppose a woman of 
 the world allows them to stand in the way of 
 ... of more important things.' 
 
 ' Not often, I suppose. But when she does, she 
 is more ready to make sacrifices than the man 
 who has placed her in a false position.' 
 
 ^ You surely don't fancy that Lady Farringdon — ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 249 
 
 ' Has any feelings to sacrifice ? That is for 
 you to decide. The world has not been silent, 
 Captain Calhoun. And I have heard a great deal 
 from independent sources that would surprise you, 
 perhaps/ 
 
 <D d scandalmongers 1 * he muttered. 
 
 'That may be. But while people live in 
 society's glass houses they cannot avoid its 
 stones.' 
 
 ' The hard part of it all is,' he began — then broke 
 off, and commenced to pace to and fro. * It will 
 make matters worse if I tell you . . . but there, 
 ril get it off my conscience. I'm pretty sure we'll 
 never meet again, and though you are so heartless 
 and indifferent, still you must have seen that ever 
 since I saw you first . . . that Drawing-room day, 
 you remember ? — well, there's never been any 
 other woman in the world for me. Every feeling 
 worth anything is yours. ... I'd give my life for 
 you ! As regards the . . . the other affair, I just 
 drifted into it as so many men do. You know the 
 world ; you know how these things happen. One 
 lets them go on . . . it's a sort of habit. The 
 woman makes use of you and you go on letting 
 yourself be made use of, until one day — something 
 
250 Vanity! 
 
 •brings you to your senses. It was you brought 
 me to mine/ 
 
 I had seated myself by the fire. I watched him 
 and listened to him with a vague sense of that 
 irony of Fate that of all things in life is the 
 one most sure and hopeless. Cissie Farringdon 
 and I — her modiste and unconscious rival ! 
 Calhoun — and Harry Wildash and Josey Peck ! 
 Why, what a topsy-turvy country dance we were 
 all executing at the behest of this whimsical 
 goddess. I could have laughed aloud, but the 
 misery and earnestness of that face before me 
 sobered my sense of mirth, and the irony of the 
 situation. 
 
 The masculine mind is an odd thing. It dis- 
 likes a display of sentiment, it dislikes being 
 talked about, it dislikes — above all — being laughed 
 at — especially in matters of the affections. Though 
 I had not a particle of sentiment for this man, I 
 yet was conscious that he sincerely meant all he 
 said to me. Vaguely I pitied him, and pitied poor 
 Lady Farringdon more. She had indeed sold her 
 woman's heritage for husks. She had loved him 
 unwisely but faithfully, and that love was to him 
 — nothing. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 * Aren't you ever going to speak ? ' he asked at 
 last, wearied, I suppose, of my long silence. 
 
 I roused myself then. 
 
 * I don't know what you expect me to 
 say, Captain Calhoun,' I answered. ' But what 
 I do say is that your confession does not 
 flatter me in the least. With the morals and 
 vagaries of society I have nothing in common. 
 I am often glad of it. I think it is hateful 
 the way all honour and decency is set at 
 naught. Why can't men leave married women 
 to their lawful possessors, instead of entering upon 
 these compromising — friendships ? They are 
 bound to have a disastrous end. You are weary of 
 your position, I have no doubt, but even if I cared 
 for you — which happily I don't — you would only 
 exchange one bondage for another. I am no more 
 free than Lady Farringdon is, though, unlike her, 
 I was not aware of the fact until a short time ago.' 
 
 'You are not a widow?' he gasped. 
 
 ' No. Even if I were, I should not care for such 
 an easy transfer of affections as you propose.' 
 
 He grew very pale. ' That is a cruel speech,' he 
 said. * I know what women think of apparent 
 inconstancy, but it's not that with me. I never 
 
252 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 loved Cissie . . . and she knows it. I . . . I've 
 explained that to you.' 
 
 * Yes, But the explanation does not speak well 
 for your truth to one or other of us. You must 
 have let her believe you cared. Women — even in 
 these days of easy morality — do not give them- 
 selves away for nothing.' 
 
 He stood before me, silent, tugging at his long 
 moustache and glancing at my face with uneasi- 
 ness and apprehension. 
 
 * I'm sorry,' I went on presently, * that you should 
 have told me this. It would have been best unsaid. 
 I can only hope, however, that affections like 
 your own are elastic enough to embrace even a 
 third, or fourth object. You may possibly find con- 
 solation in — South Africa.' 
 
 I thought I owed him that for the remark I had 
 accidentally heard when he had held that first iete- 
 ct-tete in my rooms with the woman he had now 
 thrown over. 
 
 My price had apparently been compassed by a 
 case of liqueurs. The obligation was repaid. 
 
CHAPTER XXI II 
 
 Harry had left earlier than usual, so when I had 
 dismissed Captain Calhoun I went to my own room, 
 got into a loose tea-gown, and ordered Babette 
 to bring me some black coffee by way of soothing 
 my nerves. 
 
 I was irritable and upset, and full of vague 
 alarm. After a period of comparative peace, un- 
 pleasant events had followed close upon one 
 another with startling rapidity. The tonic of 
 Di's worldly-wise philosophy had not restored me 
 to common sense half so readily as Captain Cal- 
 houn's declaration. It was utterly unexpected, 
 and, in a sense, humiliating, but I felt more 
 sorry for Lady Farringdon than for myself. What 
 she had expected, or gained from that interview 
 I did not know, but the results could scarcely have 
 been gratifying. 
 
 I sat there sipping my coffee, gazing moodily 
 into the bright flames — going over old memories ; 
 speculating on the events of the future. I have 
 had a harder time of it than most of my sex. For 
 
254 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 long I have fought the world single-handed, battl- 
 ing against the treachery of both men and women. 
 It seems hard that just when prosperity holds out 
 more than a promise I should again become the 
 victim of circumstances. Something of old bitter- 
 ness and hardness returns to me. Even Harry 
 suffers by this mood of mine. ' I tell myself 
 nothing can come of our love . . . and almost I 
 persuade myself I don^t want anything to come of 
 it. It is, of course, only a temporary fit of ill- 
 humour, but I grow desperately unhappy, and am 
 not surprised to find the tears rolling down my 
 cheeks. 
 
 What a long evening ! What miserable hours ! 
 I had refused dinner at seven o'clock, I am sorry 
 for it now. It is nearly nine and I am very hungry. 
 I wish I had asked Harry to take me out to supper. 
 I might wire, but if he were out he would not get 
 it in time, 
 
 I have brooded and thought myself into a head- 
 ache. I have written my diary up to date, and 
 read a good many of its past records. There 
 seems nothing left to do except go to bed. I 
 almost think I will. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 255 
 
 A knock and Babette entered. 
 
 * Pardon, madame ; a gentleman to see you. He 
 is below in the salon.' 
 
 ' What name ? * I asked. 
 
 * He do not give me a card. He say it is 
 business of importance connected with the house 
 where madame stayed in the country.' 
 
 My heart seemed to stand still. Then every 
 pulse leaped and throbbed into active life. Thorn- 
 hill Manor . . . the burglary ... all rushed to my 
 mind. . . . Heavens ! if anything had been dis- 
 covered. If I . . . 
 
 I turned away lest Babette should notice my 
 agitation. ^ Bzen — say I will be down in a few 
 moments. Stay — give me that tea-gown . . . the 
 black one. That will do.' 
 
 I threw it on. A glorified creation of crepe de 
 chine and lace and amber ribbons. I was trembl- 
 ing horribly. I knew I was too unnerved for any 
 critical emergency. But suspense would have 
 been even worse. 
 
 I went downstairs and opened the door. There 
 — clothed and in his right mind — stood my evil 
 genius — Jasper Crosse. 
 
256 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 I turned faint and sick. Then, as suddenly as 
 it had fled, my courage returned — the courage of 
 desperation. 
 
 I shut the door, and came forward. 
 
 * Why are you here ? ' I asked calmly. 
 
 The mocking devil of his old effrontery was in 
 his eyes as they met mine. 
 
 'An unusual question for a wife to put to a 
 husband from whom she has been separated so 
 many years,' he answered. * I am here to see you, 
 of course, my dear Kate, and to discuss with you 
 certain little matters that bear upon the present 
 situation.' 
 
 I threw myself into a chair. All that was hard 
 and defiant and desperate in my nature sprang to 
 arms at his tone and manner. I felt a hatred and 
 horror of him that were well-nigh murderous. 
 
 * What matters ? ' I asked brusquely. 
 
 He glanced round. ' They cannot be discussed 
 in a moment, and talking is somewhat dry work. 
 May I suggest your requesting that amiable French 
 domestic of yours to bring me some — well — 
 champagne, let us say. You are evidently in clover 
 here, and I have no doubt your taste in brands 
 of wine and liqueur is as good as it used to be.* 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 257 
 
 * You have forced your presence on me/ I said 
 *with the plea of business. State that business 
 and go. This is my house ; you have no right here 
 any longer. Understand that, once for all, before I 
 summon the law to help me ! ' 
 
 * So that is the position you mean to take. Very 
 well. So much the worse for you.' 
 
 He too drew up a chair ; seated himself with his 
 arms on the back, and fixed his evil, threatening 
 eyes upon me. 
 
 For one moment my heart sank. I wished that 
 Wildash was here — that I had anyone .to help 
 me. But despair lent me strength and I waited to 
 hear the form his threat would take. 
 
 ' You think yourself unassailable, I suppose,' he 
 sneered. ' Living here, keeping up an establish- 
 ment of this sort, where your fine customers pay 
 for the use of your rooms to meet their lovers. . . . 
 Oh! yes. A very immaculate piece of virtue j/ou 
 are ! You and your d d Irish partner ! ' 
 
 I sprang to my feet ; crimson, and shaking with 
 rage and indignation. 
 
 ' How dare you say such things — how dare you ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ril dare say a good deal worse than that, 
 
 and do it too, my pretty vixen. There's many an 
 
 R 
 
258 Vanity! 
 
 old score between us, and, by Jove! Til wipe one off 
 to-night at all events. Don't think you can defy 
 me, or I'll knock you and your pretended business 
 to the four winds ! A word to the police, another 
 to some of the deluded husbands of your fine 
 customers, and where are you, Fd like to know? 
 Besides, there's that little affair at Thornhill. It 
 would look rather queer that the moment you got 
 yourself invited down to a respectable house, a 
 burglary should take place, eh? And if you defend 
 yourself you only prove that you were the accom- 
 plice of your husband ! ' 
 
 ^ What do you want ? . . . What do you mean 
 by these threats ? ' I cried passionately. * In any 
 case if you ruin me you ruin yourself. You'll 
 be taken back to prison. . . . What have you 
 to gain ? ' 
 
 * Do you think I haven't weighed all that, my 
 lady ? . . . There are times in life when vengeance 
 looks sweeter than anything else ! IVe had five 
 years of hell. I got out of it hating every living 
 creature, but hating you the most. For it's to you I 
 owed that arrest. Oh ! you may deny it as you please, 
 but Pierre Justin rounded on you after that affair 
 in Brussels, and I know how you tricked me ! ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 259 
 
 ' That brute ! ' I scoffed contemptuously. * A 
 drunken sot who would sell his soul for a glass 
 of petit bleu^ And you believed him ? ' 
 
 * It suited me to believe him. I knew you 
 hated me, and it was a good way to get rid of me. 
 But it s my turn now. You'll either pay me ten 
 thousand pounds to keep silence, or Til expose 
 you and your business for what it is, and let your 
 bully of an Irishman make the best of it — there ! ' 
 
 How he could know of Wildash . . . and how he 
 could have patched up such a history of suspicion 
 and probability amazed me. I knew his mind 
 was too vile to harbour a single innocent thought 
 of man or woman, but I had not supposed that 
 constructions so monstrous could have been placed 
 on my actions. I remembered Lady Farringdon's 
 words. That she was suspected — watched. Had 
 these facts come to his ears ? If not, how could 
 he, on mere supposition, have concocted such a 
 horrible plot. 
 
 I rose from my chair. ^ What you ask is both 
 preposterous and impossible,' I said coldly. * I 
 couldn't pay a quarter of such a sum, if my life 
 depended on it. If you don't believe me I can 
 show you my bank-book.' 
 
26o 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 He laughed harshly. ' I never supposed you 
 had as much lying to your credit/ he answered. 
 ' But you can easily get it/ 
 
 He drew out a paper and glanced rapidly over 
 its contents. ' You have rich customers and plenty 
 of them. You can — borrow — shall we say ? . . . 
 What about Captain Calhoun, the amiable friend 
 of Lady Farringdon ? what of the duke of 
 Bridgewater ? what of Lord Soppington ? . . . 
 What of various husbands whose wives you have 
 obliged ? . . . Oh ! this is no time for pretences, 
 my lady, and if Fm to swing, by heaven you'll 
 have a taste of the humiliation. You shelved 
 me and changed your name. You set up here 
 on the strength of borrowed money (I don't ask 
 what else — besides interest — you paid to Abra- 
 hams). You Ve appeared discretion itself, but all 
 the time you've lived a double life, and the world 
 shall know it ! ' 
 
 *Very well/ I said doggedly. ^Let the world 
 know it. Do your worst. I'm beyond caring for 
 that now. I know you, and I know I have nothing 
 but persecution and misery to expect at your 
 hands while you live. But not one farthing do 
 I give to help that life, or keep you from the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 261 
 
 fate youVe challenged. If you are desperate, so 
 am I. The memory of those awful days spent 
 with you is enough to crush out any pity, or any 
 feeling for you. I repeat — I defy you. You 
 can do your worst' 
 
 My hand was on the bell. He sprang forward 
 and clutched my arm. 
 
 * Think again,' he said. ^ Think before you 
 drive me out once more. You may have peace, 
 freedom, love, all for that sum I ask you. Fll sign 
 anything, swear anything. Fm going away, out 
 of this cursed country. You'll never see me 
 again. , . . You need have no fear of that. 
 Leave that bell alone ! If you ring, I swear it 
 it will be your death-warrant.' 
 
 He held my arms in a grip so strong and fierce 
 that I was powerless to move. Face to face, eye 
 to eye, so we stood for one moment of defiance 
 and of dread. 
 
 * Will yoti do what I ask ? ' he demanded. 
 My brain felt dizzy. The room seemed to 
 
 swim before me. I closed my eyes, and sudden 
 darkness enveloped me. 
 
 Then, through the mist of reeling senses, I 
 caught a sound — the sound of a footstep, quick 
 
262 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 firm, alert. The door swung open. Before I 
 could cry or move, I saw a figure spring forward. 
 My arms were released. Two strong hands were 
 at the bully's throat, and he was shaken to and fro 
 as a terrier shakes a rat. 
 
 ^ You cur ! Frightening a woman out of her 
 senses ! . . . Kate, there's a policeman outside. 
 Open the window and call him. This blackguard 
 sha'n't escape.' 
 
 I rushed forward. As I reached the window 
 a hoarse shout stayed me. 
 
 *Wait,' it said. 'Remember ThornhilL' 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 I STOPPED. My hand was on the window. I 
 could hear the traffic below — the roll of carriages, 
 the tramp of feet. 
 
 Involuntarily I looked at Wildash. His hands 
 were still on that brute's throat, but he turned and 
 met my glance. 
 
 ' Give the alarm — call the police,' muttered 
 Jasper, hoarsely, ' and I tell the story of how you 
 let me in to Thornhill Manor, and got me out' 
 
 *You brute, you thief! Who do you think 
 would believe you?' shouted Wildash, furiously. 
 
 * A good many people when they know she's my 
 wife,' he answered. 
 
 * He is right,' I said doggedly. ' It's no use, 
 Harry. I'm at his mercy. He came to blackmail 
 me, as I expected. I can't and won't pay for his 
 silence. Let him go. . . . Let him do his worst. 
 I don't care.' 
 
 I dropped into a chair, weak and unnerved by 
 
 that terrible scene. The tears rushed to my eyes, 
 
 and shut out the fierce faces of the two men. I 
 263 
 
264 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 seemed to know that Wildash had relaxed his 
 grip. I could hear the laboured breathing of 
 Jasper Crosse. In that one moment, the whole 
 of my life flashed before me. . . . All I had done, 
 and suffered, and repented of. I felt as if I faced 
 death, for all hope of anything good or helpful 
 had vanished before this man's hateful presence. 
 
 Then again I heard Wildash speaking. ' What 
 will you take,' he said, * to hold your tongue ? To 
 let the law free her, and get out of the country ? ' 
 
 * Ah ! now you're talking sense,' sneered Jasper. 
 
 * That's what I came about to-night. I told her 
 straight that I'd do all this, swear, promise any- 
 thing for ten thousand pounds.' 
 
 ^ And I refused to give a penny ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 * Harry, don't listen to him. He cannot be trusted. 
 To answer his demands now is only to lay myself 
 open to them again and again. I will not do it.' 
 
 Harry released the ruffian, and stood facing him 
 with wrathful eyes. 
 
 ^ Now listen,' he said. ' I'll give you a last chance 
 — one only. I hardly suppose you're anxious to 
 go back to convict life, and it would be a poor 
 satisfaction to put your own head in a noose for 
 sake of revenging yourself on your wife. I offer 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 265 
 
 you five thousand pounds — money down — and 
 that's all you'll ever get from her, or me. For this 
 sum you are to offer no opposition to the divorce 
 for which she will apply. You will sign a paper 
 to that effect as well as a promise that you make 
 no further claim on her.' 
 
 * D d if ril do anything of the sort for such 
 
 a paltry sum/ answered the bully, doggedly. ' Ten 
 thou — not a penny less, or Til smash up her 
 business and her reputation. You'll suffer, too, my 
 fine fellow. Tm not alone in the boat this time.' 
 
 Wildash gave a short, hard laugh. Then he 
 took out a cigarette from his case, lit it deliber- 
 ately, walked over to the door and threw it open. 
 
 ' Go ! ' he said. 
 
 Jasper's face turned ashy grey. His sullen eyes 
 turned from one to the other of us. 
 ' You defy me — then ? ' 
 
 ^ I do . . . go, do your worst. You walk from 
 this house back to your prison. I followed you 
 here to-night. I have a police officer waiting below. 
 I told him I had reason to suspect a man was on 
 the premises for some unlawful purpose. . . . The 
 moment I blow this whistle he will come upstairs. 
 I shall inform him who you are. I — ' 
 
266 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 My eyes had been on Jaspen Suddenly I saw 
 his hand go to his breast pocket. I sprang to 
 my feet. A loud report drowned my scream of 
 warning, and Harry fell across the doorway, his 
 white shirt dyed red with a gush of blood. 
 
 Over his prostrate body Jasper Crosse leaped to 
 freedom. As I threw myself beside Harry he 
 thrust the signal whistle into my hand. ' Blow it 
 for God's sake ! ' he whispered. 
 
 I obeyed. A shrill summons sounded. ... I 
 heard voices, oaths, hurried footsteps. Then 
 silence and darkness overwhelmed me. ... I 
 knew no more. 
 
 When I recovered my senses I was lying on my 
 own bed, and Babette was bathing my forehead, 
 and murmuring expressions of pity and wonder 
 and horror. 
 
 For a moment or two I could remember nothing. 
 My thoughts were confused, my brain dazed and 
 stunned. Then gradually the horrors of that scene 
 came back to me. I sprang up in bed ... a low 
 cry escaped my lips. 
 
 ' Is he — is he dead ? ' I gasped. 
 
 ' No, madame. Restez tranquille. It is affreux 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 267 
 
 — terrible. But not as madame fears. The vilain 
 murderer they have arrested. Le pauvre monsieur 
 he is removed to the hospital of Charing Cross . . . 
 to have mended his wound. . . . And madame, she 
 has the fright, the shock. She must be kept quiet. 
 I have sent for the doctor. He come — vite. It 
 will be soon all well. Madame must rest and not 
 so agitate herself.' 
 
 I sank back on the pillows. The worst had 
 come then. There was no need to dread it any 
 longer. And now that it was irrevocable, that 
 the blow had fallen, a sort of sullen resignation 
 that was almost relief came over me. 
 
 The matter was beyond my interference or con- 
 trol. Jasper had been arrested. He would be 
 taken back to prison. He would be tried for this 
 murderous assault. My story would come out, 
 and . . . Well, I should be ruined financially and 
 socially, I supposed. 
 
 Somehow that did not seem to trouble me now. 
 In a great crisis all lesser troubles sink into insig- 
 nificance. I closed my eyes, and Babette's chatter 
 rippled on like an endless brook. I could only 
 think of Harry. For my sake he was suffering . . . 
 his life was in peril. For my sake he would have 
 
268 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 to face odium and comment should our story get 
 to the public ear. The business that looked so 
 promising after all only depended on that frail 
 bark — 'Vanity.' On the freaks and fancies of 
 women who might profess themselves scandalised 
 at forthcoming revelations. 
 
 It was of Harry I thought now, and all that was 
 in me of womanly tenderness, pity and passion 
 went out to him in that hour. 
 
 If that wound proved fatal ... if he died . . . 
 I felt that for me life would be also ended. 
 
 I heard the clock strike midnight. Only twelve 
 o'clock and I had lived a tragedy — had looked 
 upon despair, and almost death. So few hours 
 and so much had happened. 
 
 I felt I must nerve myself for the coming day. 
 The newspapers would have the story. . . . People 
 would be coming to me full of curiosity. I should 
 have to give evidence. 
 
 I hid my face, praying vaguely for some sort of 
 strength to meet these approaching horrors. I 
 shuddered at the thought of the long hours before 
 me. I prayed Babette to stay. I resolved to ask 
 the doctor for a sleeping-draught when he came. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 269 
 
 It was a dull, foggy morning when I awoke. 
 Babette had Ht the fire, and brought me coffee and 
 rolls and my morning letters. I asked her for the 
 papers. She looked at me entreatingly. 
 
 ' Mais— Madame— 
 
 * Get them at once,' I said sharply. 
 
 My head still felt dazed and bewildered. I 
 turned over the letters hurriedly. There was 
 nothing from the hospital. Babette returned with 
 the papers. I scanned the columns with eager 
 eyes. Yes — there it was ! 
 
 ' Strange Affair in Bond Street' 
 
 The usual penny-a-liner's comments on very 
 scanty facts. Another paper headed it * Supposed 
 Burglary.' Yet another gave out, ' Attempted 
 Murder of the manager of a Fashionable Em- 
 porium.' The affair would be town talk by now. 
 . * I must get up,' I said to Babette. * But I 
 cannot see anyone in the showroom. The appoint- 
 ments I will wire about. Anyone else must be told 
 I am ill. And here ... let Wrothesay go off to the 
 hospital at once for news of Mr Wildash. He is not 
 to come back without some account of how he is.' 
 
 I threw on a dressing-gown and wrote the 
 necessary telegrams and notes. I felt wretchedly 
 
270 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ill and unnerved still. As soon as the last letter was 
 finished I lay down on the couch before the fire. 
 
 Soon enough I knew my troubles would begin. 
 I should have reporters coming. My deposi- 
 tions would be required. I must engage a 
 solicitor. There would be no more peace or rest 
 for me till the whole wretched business had been 
 concluded — and then — Well, something seemed 
 to tell me I should have rest enough at last. 
 
 * Kate . . . won't you see me ? Babette refused, 
 but I felt sure you'd let me in.' 
 
 It was Di Abercroft's voice. I had forgotten 
 her. Forgotten too what a shock the news in 
 those morning papers would be. 
 
 I crossed to the door and admitted her. Her 
 face was pale and anxious, her eyes full of concern. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear,' she cried. ' Is it true ? . . . how 
 horrible ! Do tell me what really happened ? ' 
 
 I told her as briefly as possible of that scene 
 and its results. 
 
 Her horror almost equalled my own. 'At the 
 worst I never imagined anything so dreadful . . . 
 it's worse than you suspected. And poor Harry ! 
 How is he ? The wound wasn't fatal, thank God ! ' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 271 
 
 ^ Fve not heard yet/ I answered. 
 
 There was a moment of dead silence. Then 
 suddenly I began to tremble and broke into help- 
 less sobbing. She did her best to soothe me, but I 
 had lost all self-control. 
 
 She stayed with me all that day, even interview- 
 ing callers and seeing reporters. The doctor had 
 ordered me perfect quiet. I was suffering from 
 shock — temporary derangement of the nervous 
 system. On no account was I to be disturbed. 
 
 I spent that whole day on the sofa, racked by 
 suspense and anxiety. My head throbbed as if 
 it would burst. Even tears brought no relief. 
 Di's presence was a comfort for which I was 
 dumbly grateful. I was too worn out for speech. 
 
 Towards evening the pain grew less violent. I 
 had heard twice from the hospital. Harry was 
 seriously injured, but they were hopeful. The 
 bullet had pierced the shoulder blade. It was to 
 be extracted the following day if his strength 
 allowed of it. 
 
 Shortly after the second message a letter reached 
 me marked Immediate. 
 
 I opened it and saw it was from Mrs Peck. 
 
272 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'My dear Mrs Costello/ she wrote. 'Bow 
 terrible for you, and only fancy, my daughter 
 Josephine insisted on going to the hospital her- 
 self. . , . And she would see Mr Wildash, and 
 oh ! the scandal of it. . . . Fm nearly distracted. 
 She vows she'll visit him there every day, and her 
 poppa and I can't help it. She's just demented. 
 What am I to do? The whole town is ringing 
 with the affair. I met quite a number of your 
 customers at the New Gallery, and they could talk 
 of nothing else. . . . May I see you to-morrow ? 
 It will be the death of me if Josey goes on as 
 she is doing.' 
 
 I laughed bitterly. Then I handed the letter to 
 Di. She read it slowly 
 
 ' More complications, I see. Well, dear, it's not 
 your fault if the girl chooses to get herself talked 
 about. Besides, it will only be considered American 
 eccentricity. Her dollars would cover any caprice.' 
 
 ' I think,' I said slowly, ' it would be better for 
 him if he responded to this devotion. It isn't as if 
 he was a nobody. He is by far her superior in 
 birth, and he may come into that title, and her 
 money will do wonders for the estate. As for the 
 parents' objection — Josey is not likely to mind tkem.^ 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 273 
 
 She looked at me, astonished. 'What are you 
 saying, Kate ? I thought you were madly in love 
 with him — only yesterday/ 
 
 ^Many things have happened since yesterday,' 
 I said. 'Yesterday my affairs were not a public 
 scandal. . . . Yesterday people could not say I 
 was the wife of a forger, a thief, and almost a 
 murderer. Scandals are burrs that cling to a 
 woman's skirts too closely for detachment. In a 
 week's time my skirts will be weighted with burrs. 
 The man who tries to rid me of them will only 
 prick his own fingers and attach them to himself 
 I have looked happiness in the face only to know 
 it is not for me. I shall never drag anyone I love 
 into this network of infamy and disgrace.' 
 
 * You would have the courage to send him from 
 you, after he has risked his life on your behalf?' 
 
 . * Better to send him while I have the courage, 
 . . , while another is at hand to soothe his wounded 
 vanity, than see him repent all his life long.' 
 
 ' Why should he .^^ . . . What makes you think so ? ' 
 
 'There is too much likelihood of it. I could 
 not risk shipwreck a second time.' 
 
 ' I fancy you misjudge Harry. He has faults, 
 
 but not vices. And I am sure he loves you.' 
 
 S 
 
274 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 * He will love me all the more if he never wins 
 me/ I said bitterly. * That is what a man always 
 does. And Josey Peck will be a better wife to 
 him than ever I could be. She has not outlived 
 all softness and sentiment and romance. She has 
 no past of horrors on which to look back.' 
 
 ' Your past is not half as bad as some I could 
 mention/ she said. ' At least, you have not been 
 the sinner.' 
 
 ^ Appearances are against me. There is so 
 much that can be said . . . that I could not 
 combat, or deny.' 
 
 * You seem determined to make the worst of 
 things to-night.' 
 
 * There is no " best " to make of them. I seem 
 to have come to the end of everything — even of 
 caring for what was dearest to me.' 
 
 * You are wearied and overwrought, Kate. 
 Things will get better, believe me. The clouds 
 will clear. Your spirits will rebound. You will 
 not be so willing to throw away happiness then. 
 It doesn't come to us so often that we can afford 
 to play with it.' 
 
 ' There is no question,' I said, * of playing with 
 it. I seem to have been asleep and suddenly 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 275 
 
 awakened. I wondered how I could have been 
 so foolish as to believe I was safe, or going to be 
 happy. I might have known something would 
 happen. That has always been my fate. . . . 
 You see I began badly. I had all a girl's delu- 
 sions, and more than an ordinary girFs ignorance. 
 I thought men were all strong and earnest of 
 purpose, and brave and tender. That they would 
 not hurt a woman. . . . And oh ! Di, I have been 
 hurt again and again — so cruelly.' 
 
 ' I know. We all learn the possibility of such 
 hurts.' 
 
 *Yes, but with some it is only possible, not 
 real. When I thought I was free, it was different. 
 I let myself go. He had that way. . . . You 
 know what I mean, Di — persuasive, caressing, 
 dominating. And we were such good friends. 
 Well, IVe had one happy year — that is something.* 
 
 * One,' she said. ' Poor child ! And life not 
 half lived.' 
 
 * I have lived as much of it as I care for, or 
 desire. I seem to have reached a stage of indif- 
 ference. This — has killed hope and ambition. 
 Everything is changed since last night. I couldn't 
 begin again. I couldn't endure the curiosity of 
 
276 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 those foolish women. They will all learn my 
 history, and add to and improve upon it. Not 
 that that matters very much. They would still 
 come to me if they thought I made better than 
 anyone else. But I don't, Di. And without 
 Harry to back me up all the energy would flag.' 
 
 ' But, dear, it seems to me that you yourself are 
 putting Harry away.' 
 
 ' Because if I do not, I know a time will come 
 when he will want to put himself away. That 
 would . . . would hurt me, Di. Against my better 
 judgment I gave in before. Look at what I have 
 brought upon his head.' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' I have lived a lifetime since last night,' I went 
 on. ' I have been blind and deaf long enough. I can 
 never be it again. Distrust is born in me afresh — 
 I will curse no other life with the misery of my own,' 
 
 I sank back on the cushions. Stone could not 
 have been colder nor iron harder than my heart 
 had grown to all emotions and sentiments. 
 
 My eyes fell on the loose, slovenly writing of 
 Mrs Peck. I took up the letter and read it 
 slowly through. 
 
 ' It must answer itself,' I said. ' I will do nothing.' 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Dl has left me at last. 
 
 Left me to my new mood of hardness. To the 
 fixed despair that has fastened upon my soul. 
 
 ^ Vanity of vanities ! ' I say to myself. * All is 
 vanity.' 
 
 And life looks but vanity and folly to me now 
 in this black hour. I know what lies before me. 
 I know what I have to face. I am aware that the 
 Bond Street scandal will be a sweet morsel for the 
 garbage-pickers of all ranks and grades. I can 
 almost see what the notice boards will display. I 
 can almost read the history as the evening papers 
 will give it. The history of the fashionable dress- 
 maker with a convict husband. The escape of the 
 husband and his discovery of her luxurious sur- 
 roundings. The entrance of the lover . . . the 
 quarrel ; rage — jealousy — and revenge ! Oh ! it 
 will be fine reading for the public, and what can 
 
 I do or say to explain away a false position. To- 
 277 
 
278 Vanity ! 
 
 morrow the inquiry begins. They have taken 
 Wildash's deposition. I have to appear as wit- 
 ness . . . witness against the man who still calls 
 me wife! 
 
 Nothing can help me — nothing can avert the 
 scandal. It is a stone that will gather moss as it 
 rolls, it will reveal all that I have strenuously 
 endeavoured to conceal. I may as well throw 
 up the sponge, and be done with pretence. 
 
 The world will know me, not as I am, but as 
 my life's enemy chooses to say that I am. Vile 
 as he is, his vileness will only throw a darker 
 shadow on myself. To have been one with him 
 speaks eternal condemnation. I see that now — 
 but it is too late to alter anything. 
 
 Fate must do its worst. 
 
 • e • • • • 
 
 Wide awake I lie. ... I cannot sleep. I ask 
 myself whether it would not be better to end 
 suspense and life together. It could be done — so 
 easily. An overdose of chloral . . . the friend who 
 has helped me in many a troubled hour and sleep- 
 less night ; and then no more waking to misery, 
 no more trouble, no more tears. And Harry — he 
 too would be free. Free to make Josey happy. 
 
Vanity ! 279 
 
 To raise her to his ancestral honours, perhaps . . . 
 to live rich, prosperous, well content in his own 
 country and among his own kin. 
 
 I have been only a shadow on his life. He will 
 soon forget me. 
 
 The idea takes overmastering possession of 
 my mind. I rise from bed, and go to the little 
 medicine cupboard above my washstand. There 
 is the bottle. I hold it in my hand a moment, 
 trying to realise the mysterious power that is con- 
 tained in this tiny phial. Strangely enough, as I 
 so stand and look at it, there rushes back to me 
 the memory of that morbid-minded boy whose 
 tragic end had blighted my summer holiday. 
 
 I almost seem to see him. His pallid face, his 
 strange eyes, his languid smile. I close my own 
 eyes and give myself up to the spell of imagina- 
 tion and memory. The sea stretches before me. 
 Again the golden moonlight shines upon its rippl- 
 ing surface. . . . Again the monotonous splash of 
 the waves sounds in my ear. 
 
 Suddenly — something — an icy breath, a chill of 
 terror overpowers my senses. 
 
 A whisper, faint as a sigh, steals to my ear. One 
 word only — ' Dorit — ' 
 
28o 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 That is all. But my eyes sharply unclose, and 
 with a shudder I start, and step back from the 
 seeming presence of an outstretched hand. 
 
 The bottle falls at my feet and is shivered to a 
 thousand fragments. 
 
 I stoop over them in sudden dismay ... at the 
 same moment I hear at the front door the sharp 
 rat-tat of a telegraph messenger. Before Babette 
 knocks I seem to have grown calm and like myself 
 once more. I know I have had a warning ... I 
 feel convinced but for it I should have swallowed 
 that poison. Now — it is beyond my power to 
 do so. 
 
 I take the yellow missive with indifference. A 
 few moments ago I had so nearly done with life 
 that I scarcely realise its importance again. The 
 lamp is growing dim. I take the paper close to it. 
 I read . . . What ? 
 
 ^Jasper Crosse committed suicide by hanging him- 
 self in his cell at eight o'clock to-night! 
 
 I fell into the chair with an hysterical cry. I did 
 not even know Babette was there. 
 
 How does the brain work in moments such as 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 these ? What words can describe the passage of feel- 
 ing from despair to relief From death to life ? . . . 
 
 I lived in memory those lines of Adelaide 
 Proctor's : — 
 
 * In that one moment^s anguish 
 Your thousand years have passed.* 
 
 It seemed indeed a thousand years. A double 
 lifetime. But one cannot speak of such a moment. 
 One dare not, . . . 
 
 Oh ! thank God ! Thank God ! I am free . . . 
 I am safe. 
 
 It is a month since I wrote those words. 
 A month. 
 
 Has the world gone on and have I — alone — stood 
 still, with a blank record of days and weeks around 
 me? 
 
 I ask myself this as I lie in the dreamy peace of 
 convalescence among my heaped-up pillows, beside 
 my bright wood fire. 
 
 I have been very ill, they say. Well, that was to 
 be expected. A woman could not undergo such 
 terrible mental and physical strain as I had under- 
 gone in this past year without a breakdown of some 
 
282 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 sort. Mine came after that moment of relief which 
 was the last record in my diary. 
 
 I was free. Jasper Crosse had ended his evil life 
 in a moment of blind rage against the Fate he 
 had defied. I know no particulars. I asked for 
 none, nor do I intend to do so. 
 
 It is sufficient to know he will not trouble me again. 
 
 Free ! How sweet the word is . . . how full 
 my heart seems of gratitude and peace. I close 
 my eyes. When I open them again the nurse is 
 standing by me with a pile of letters and papers 
 that have accumulated during my illness. 
 
 'You are well enough to read them now/ she 
 says. ' I am going out for an hour. Babette 
 will be within call.' 
 
 I watch her grey skirt and grey veil out of the 
 door. Then I glance at the pile on the little table 
 by my couch. I turn them over. 
 
 One is from Di Abercroft. 1 open that first. It 
 is dated only yesterday. 
 
 * My dear/^ it says. * I hear you are rapidly 
 mending. You will soon be all right. I write to 
 tell you that the business went on the same as ever. 
 I looked after it. And the little duchess's order was 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 283 
 
 duly executed. She was married last week. A 
 few new people dropped in — I saw them for you. 
 The scandal was soon hushed up and they got no 
 word of it from me. Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, the 
 Mrs Jackey Beauchamp, who is a power in the 
 social world, has given you an order. I am not sure 
 about the money, but she is quite the sort of person 
 to make you, and as she took a fancy to one of the 
 models, I executed a variation on it which pleased 
 her fastidious taste immensely. Indeed, it was a 
 stroke of genius for which you ought to be grateful. 
 
 ^ Tender inquiries from poor Wildash. He has 
 had a harder fight for it than was supposed. I saw 
 him last week. He is to leave the hospital to-day. 
 The bullet went dangerously near his right lung. 
 He is a perfect shadow of what he was. The 
 devotion of the little Peck girl has been the talk of 
 society, and the despair of " Poppa and Momma 
 Peck." You see dollars carry weight even with 
 hospital authorities. I believe she visited him 
 every day. He will call on you as soon as you are 
 allowed to see anyone. He couldn't write. He 
 wasn't allowed to use his arm. 
 
 * The business is to go on, so he says — and it 
 really looks most flourishing in spite of the absence 
 
284 Vanity ! 
 
 of the " two heads." Luckily this is a slack time. 
 If it had been the season I don't know what you'd 
 have done. That little "Jacks " is a treasure. Td 
 raise her salary if I were you. She's worth it. 
 She managed the whole workroom. I think IVe 
 told you all that is necessary. Til call round as 
 soon as Fm told you can see me. Cheer up, little 
 woman. Your long lane has reached its turning, 
 I think. — Ever yours, Dl.' 
 
 My eyes filled with grateful tears as I read those 
 lines. She had, indeed, been a friend to me. I 
 felt I could never repay her sufficiently. It is one 
 woman in a thousand who proves her friendship. 
 The other nine hundred and ninety-nine are content 
 with professing it. 
 
 So after all Vanity was holding its own. The 
 Court of Fashion would not close its doors on any- 
 thing that ministered successfully to its necessities. 
 
 The ball was set a-rolling once more. The 
 puppets were ready to dance. I had but to rise 
 and take my place as of old, and pull the strings, 
 and set them going to the tune they loved best. 
 The tune was Novelty, the instrument La Mode. 
 Let wars come, and lives be sacrificed, let hearts 
 
Vanity! 285 
 
 ache or break, or reputations die, let come what 
 may of good or ill, of misery or happiness, women 
 must dress, and Fashion will hold her own as their 
 idol while the world is a power and ruled by the 
 caprice of the Eternal Feminine ! 
 
 The rest of my correspondence was compara- 
 tively unimportant. Bills, orders, circulars from 
 large firms. All the mass of rubbish that accumu- 
 lates as tribute to unnecessary postal deliveries. 
 
 A few cheques gladdened my eyes, and my 
 credit seemed fairly established with certain 
 business houses who asked a renewal of custom 
 on liberal terms. 
 
 Fortune was evidently bent on showing me the 
 smile of favour at last. Soothed and tranquilised, 
 I lay back among my cushions, and took counsel 
 with myself as to the future. 
 
 That future concerned itself especially now with 
 the continuation of my partnership with Harry 
 Wildash. 
 
 I thought of it from a new standpoint, a less 
 selfish one than formerly. In order to bring all 
 particulars of the matter clearly to my mind I 
 took out my diary and read the record of those 
 
286 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 past months. I studied Wildash in the light they 
 showed him. I weighed that fascinating personality 
 of his against my own powers of resistance. I 
 asked myself whether his declaration of love had 
 sprung from anything stronger than pity, sympathy, 
 comradeship ? 
 
 It seemed to me as I read those entries that a 
 marriage with me would have very disastrous re- 
 sults for his future. I had been caught up in a 
 whirlwind of emotion, and amidst the complex 
 elements of jealousy, and fear, and passion, and 
 desire I had lost sight of what wa^best for him. 
 I had thought only of the joy of winning what was 
 dear to myself. 
 
 Subsequent events had brought me face to face 
 with horrors that had made life real, and the 
 situation perilous. 
 
 That restless, feverish time had passed. I felt 
 aged by years and terrors. I looked back on a 
 stage of feeling on which the curtain had dropped. 
 To raise it was only to look on disorder and deso- 
 lation. Chaos lay behind. My tragedy had had a 
 long final act. It was over. 
 
 How clearly I seemed to see things now. How 
 different they looked ! But I saw his face, and 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 287 
 
 heard his voice as he said, ^/ am too fond of you 
 to let your life lie at the mercy of such a brute! 
 
 Fond. But did that mean love? The pre- 
 eminent, all-powerful passion for which alone sacri- 
 fice is necessary and unheeded. Was it not only 
 that he had grown used to me ? We had been good 
 friends — comrades. In a moment of weakness I 
 had shown him too plainly that I cared for him. 
 The result was that brief confession which had 
 hurried us into a drama of consequences as horrible 
 as it was brief 
 
 Now — everything was altered. 
 
 * It must never be,' I told myself. ' He would 
 soon regret ... it stands to reason he must regret.' 
 
 I closed the book and put it away. Perhaps I 
 put away with it something sadder than forfeited 
 hope — for I knew I had looked my last on all 
 that makes a woman's life endurable. The 
 gates of Paradise only open once for mortal 
 eyes. . . . They closed for me ere I had even 
 seen what lay beyond. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 I WOKE from a long sleep. The room was dusk. 
 I saw the grey figure of the nurse dozing in her 
 chair by the fire. The clock on the chimney- 
 piece was softly chiming five. 
 I stirred and sat up. 
 
 ' Wasn't that a knock at the door? ' I asked. 
 
 She moved across the room and opened it I 
 heard a whispered colloquy. My ears were sharp. 
 I recognised the faint nasal twang of Josey Peck's 
 voice. 
 
 'Come in/ I said loudly. 'That's Miss Peck, 
 Pm sure. I should like to see her.' 
 
 She entered — a quiet, subdued figure, dressed 
 all in faint grey and silver fox furs. The per- 
 fume of a huge bunch of violets which she carried 
 filled the room delightfully. She knelt by the 
 couch and took my hands. 
 
 ' You poor dear,' she said. ' I am so glad you're 
 288 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 289 
 
 better. Fve called here heaps of times, but they 
 said no one was allowed to see you.' 
 
 ' That was good of you/ I said gratefully. ' I 
 suppose I have been very ill. One never knows 
 — oneself. It's all hazy and like a bad 
 dream . . . only weakness left,' 
 
 The nurse touched the electric button, and a 
 rosy light shed itself over the dusk of the room. 
 
 I thought how lovely the girl looked with her 
 cheeks flushed by the cool air, and her eyes no 
 longer sparkling and alert but full of a new and 
 tender earnestness. Was it in this guise she had 
 played ministering angel to Wildash? If so — 
 
 I drew myself away, conscious of a pang of 
 jealousy. 
 
 * Won't you sit down ? ' I said. * Nurse will get 
 us some tea.' 
 
 She rose and sank into the low chair the nurse 
 wheeled up to her. She had laid the violets on 
 my lap, 
 
 ' I brought them for you/ she said gently. 
 
 Her face was full of grave concern. 
 
 'Are you looking at my grey hairs?' I said, 
 
 touching the loose locks on my temples. 'You 
 
 see what illness does for one.' 
 
 T 
 
290 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 'Ah! it wasn't only illness. . . . That shock . . . 
 that grief. Oh ! I know. I heard about it from — ' 
 ' Heard — what ? ' I asked. 
 
 'The papers had it, you know, and everyone 
 was talking, and saying how brave you were, and 
 how beautifully you had borne your troubles. . . . 
 Seems he tried to kill you — Mr Wildash told me/ 
 
 She spoke with little of the old Americanisms. 
 The change in her was as surprising in a way as 
 the change my glass had shown me in myself. 
 
 The door closed. The nurse had left to get tea. 
 I took my courage in both hands with a desperate 
 effort. 
 
 ' I too have heard of you,' I said. ' Of how 
 kind and devoted you have been to Mr Wildash. 
 How you have lightened those hours of suffering 
 and weariness. How you turned a deaf ear to 
 gossip, or possible consequence.' 
 
 She flushed rosily. 
 
 ' I just could not help it,' she said simply. ' I 
 was so sorry for him, and you couldn't do anything. 
 Seemed as if there was no one else — but me.' 
 
 ' He must be very grateful to you ? ' 
 
 ' He don't say much — ever,' she said, somewhat 
 consciously. 'Quite altered he is at times. All 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 291 
 
 the fun and life gone out of him. I assure you, 
 Mrs Costello, often and often Fve gone home and 
 had a good cry after Td left him. The change 
 hurt me so.' 
 
 ' Some changes/ I said, * are the result of feeling, 
 as much as of circumstances. Devotion such as 
 yours cannot have failed to touch him. If he 
 returned it — ' 
 
 * That's just it,' she interposed. ^That's what 
 troubles me. He seems as if he longed to speak 
 — and something held him back.' 
 
 A pang shot through my heart. Those words 
 echoed through its empty chambers, haunted now 
 by ghosts of all that might have been. 
 
 Something held him back. 
 
 That something was myself ... his promise. I 
 had not been wrong in my surmise. He had not 
 loved me. * I am too fond of you ' had meant 
 what I feared it meant. No more — no less. 
 
 *Josey,' I said quietly, 'do you really care 
 for Harry Wildash?' 
 
 ' Care ! . . , I just worship him,' she cried. * I 
 don't mind what he is, rich or poor, commoner or 
 titled. I know I'd just be content to lie down at 
 his feet and let him wipe his boots on me if it 
 
292 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 pleased him — so only I had him always beside 
 me/ 
 
 Forcible language this. It gave her away with- 
 out effort or pretence. 
 
 I drew a deep breath and nerved my voice to 
 steadiness. *And if/ I said, 'he should care 
 equally for you — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! but he doesn't, Fm sure of that. Fm 
 nothing to him but a crazy Amurrcan girl, good 
 for jokes and fun and all that. I don't believe he 
 ever dreams how dearly I love him.' 
 
 Her pretty face had grown pale. She was 
 something more then than a * crazy Amurrcan 
 girl' in the passion and strength of the lesson 
 that Love was teaching her. 
 
 ' Of course I know Fm not a lady — like you/ 
 she went on. ^ Poppa was nothing, and he married 
 momma when she was only a factory girl out 
 Dacotah way. And people just laugh at them and 
 make use of their money, and they won't see it. 
 But Fm not going to sell myself for a title . . . 
 and Fve told 'em so — straight. If I can't have the 
 man I care for, well — Fll take no one else.' 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. The firelight 
 glistened on them as they rolled down on the 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 293 
 
 silvery furs that lay loose about her throat. It 
 was a pretty picture, and the reality of her grief 
 lent a touch of irony to its mere prettiness. 
 
 * I think you are right/ I said. * Love is worth 
 all the riches and titles in the world. You will 
 be none the worse for having learnt that, even 
 if—' 
 
 *If it is only on one side?' she asked. ^ There 
 is some good in it, isn't there ? It's not the false 
 thing people pretend — smart people, I mean ? ' 
 
 ' No — not always.' 
 
 ' I have been very unhappy,' she went on. 
 ' And it's not natural to me to be that. You see 
 life's always been made just as nice as ever it 
 could be. I've had everything I wanted, and when 
 I came over to Eu-rope, and had strings and strings 
 of men following me and flattering and wanting 
 to marry me, I thought I was only having a 
 rattlin' good time. I never supposed that the 
 only one man for whom I cared a straw would 
 be so hard to win over.' 
 
 * I think you will win him — in the end,' I said 
 cheerfully. 'But you must have patience. Now 
 here is the tea. You shall pour it out for me. 
 This is the first day I've been allowed to sit up.' 
 
294 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 ' Oh ! ' . . . she cried, with quick regret. ^ Why 
 didn't you say so ? Tve been tiring you chattering 
 about my own foolish troubles, and quite for- 
 getting youVe so weak.' 
 
 ' I am strong enough to hear a great deal 
 more of your chatter,' I said, smiling. 'You 
 are like a breeze from the outer world. I seem 
 to have been shut away from it for years ! ' 
 
 'What a bad time youVe been having,' she 
 said, as she poured out the tea. ' No wonder 
 you're so changed.' 
 
 ' You find me very much changed ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Well,' she said frankly, ' it stands to reason 
 I do. I've always seen you beautifully dressed, 
 bright, smiling, happy-looking. Now — you've 
 lost all your colour, and are as thin as a shadow, 
 and your lovely hair is all silvery in front. 
 Not but what I think you're lovely anyway. 
 And when you're well, I s'pose there won't be 
 any sort of difference, but just at first — ' 
 
 ' It was a bit of a shock ? ' I questioned. 
 
 She laughed. ' Not that so much as a 
 surprise.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' I said tranquilly, * it would be 
 a surprise to anyone who had last seen me as 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 295 
 
 you describe, beautifully dressed, bright, smiling, 
 happy ? ' 
 
 ' I guess it would, until they got used to it.' 
 
 * How old are you, Josey ? ' I asked. 
 ' Nineteen next month.' 
 
 *And I shall be thirty. Does that sound 
 very old ? ' 
 
 * Well, we reckon it old for a woman in 
 Amurrca, but we don't wear as well as your 
 people here. Guess it's our hot rooms and 
 iced drinks and candies that spoil our com- 
 plexions and teeth.' 
 
 I was listening vaguely. My thoughts had 
 drifted to something else — a scheme, a plan to 
 satisfy my own doubts and further her interests. 
 
 She finished her tea, and then went over to 
 the glass and adjusted her hat and furs. 
 
 * It's done me real good this talk with you,' 
 she said. * When may I come again ? ' 
 
 * Come to-morrow,' I answered, ' at the same 
 time.' 
 
 ' You're just real sweet to me. May I . . . 
 would you mind if I — kissed you?' 
 
 The touch of those fresh young lips on my 
 pale cheeks, the sight of the fresh young face 
 
296 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 so strangely winning in its earnestness, these 
 remained with me for long after she had gone. 
 For long after I had sent a message to Harry, 
 and received its answer. 
 
 I begged him to come round this evening at 
 eight o'clock. 
 
 He merely wrote — * Yes/ 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 My reply to the nurse's remonstrance was brief 
 but effective. * If it kills me I must see the 
 friend who is coming to-night.' 
 
 She gave me my tonic-draught, shrugged her 
 shoulders and retired to the dressing-room. 
 
 Left alone, I took up the hand glass for which 
 I had asked, and scanned my altered appearance 
 mercilessly. 
 
 Yes — Josey was right. I had altered terribly. 
 My face was thin and pale, my eyes sunken. 
 Those straying silver threads about my temples 
 were plainly visible. The loose black gown I 
 had selected added to my pallor and my age. 
 I knew I looked old and worn. It would suit 
 my purpose. 
 
 I and Vanity had said good-bye to one another. 
 
 There was no longer any reason for me to care 
 
 if I looked ill or well, pretty or plain. I lay 
 
 back on the white pillows. The violets Josey 
 297 
 
298 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 had brought me were in a bowl on the little table 
 by my side. The electric light in its rosy 
 shades gleamed warmly over the pretty room. 
 I looked at it and thought of all that had 
 happened since I chose its furniture and decora- 
 tions. I had been anxious, miserable, and 
 happy. I had spent hours here racked with 
 dread, and filled with pain . . . and a few with 
 blissful dreams. 
 
 In the mirror opposite I could see myself 
 now, a thin, wasted figure with melancholy eyes. 
 I smiled bitterly. What had I in common with 
 love — with hope? — the foolish fond joys that 
 make up a woman's youth, and keep it youth 
 as love decrees. Neither love nor lover would 
 decree it for me, and the smile faded and my 
 cheeks grew paler as I gazed. For what I 
 saw was that ghost of the dead and beautiful 
 that a woman cherishes and clings to with a 
 passionate fidelity all the years of her 
 life. 
 
 The ghost of my dead self and all the dreams 
 I had dreamt. 
 
 I should never dream again. 
 
Vanity ! 299 
 
 * Kate. . . / It was the voice I had longed 
 to hear. 
 
 He stood over me, and I read in his eyes 
 something of what I had read in Josey's — shock 
 surprise, distress — nothing else. 
 
 I had judged rightly ; but with a smile I 
 faced my doom. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you and to see you so well/ 
 I said. * Won't you sit there ? . . . You are 
 my second visitor to-day.' 
 
 ' I had no idea you had been so ill,' he said, 
 taking the chair I had pointed out. He had 
 forgotten to kiss me. 
 
 ' Oh ! I shall soon be well again,' I answered. 
 'You can hardly be surprised that I collapsed 
 after that ordeal.' 
 
 ' Don't let us speak of it,' he said. ' I hate 
 even to think of that night.' 
 
 ' No, we won't speak of it,' I answered. * I 
 asked you here for a very different purpose. 
 In a few days I shall be well enough to resume 
 work.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't say so — to look at you.' 
 ' Oh ! I am of tougher fibre than you suppose. 
 What I wish to say is something I have been 
 
300 Vanity ! 
 
 thinking of very seriously during the time that 
 has passed.' 
 
 His eyes met mine. What I read in them 
 was a question, and I hastened to answer 
 it. 
 
 ' Our partnership must end. I must carry on 
 the business independently, or dispose of it alto- 
 gether/ 
 
 'But, Kate, this is very strange. I thought 
 that you ... I mean we — ' 
 
 *My dear Harry, we both made a mistake, 
 and I think we have both recognised it- That 
 time is over. Friends we were and are, and I 
 hope always will be ; but — nothing more.* 
 
 It cost me a great deal to say it. The effort 
 made my voice cold and hard enough to deceive 
 him as I meant to deceive him. 
 
 ' Don't be angry with me,' I said. * I think it 
 was a mistake to suppose we would be any the 
 happier for changing our friendship. And I 
 think, Harry, you ought to give up this line of 
 business. You have other prospects. . . . You 
 might regret this — one day. People will only 
 look upon it as a freak of yours. They will soon 
 forget.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 301 
 
 'But why should I give it up? What other 
 prospects " do you mean ? ' 
 
 I looked at him gravely and searchingly. 
 
 * I think you know/ I said. ^ When you marry, 
 Harry, you must marry a woman young and 
 hopeful — and innocent . . . not . . . not me! 
 
 ^ You don't love me, then — or what has changed 
 you so ? ' 
 
 ' I have not changed, Harry. It is only that 
 I have recognised a truth I strove to hide 
 from myself and from you. I am old and tired, 
 and all the zest has gone out of life. It would 
 be a mistake to hold you to an impulsive promise. 
 You may have a very different position in the 
 world one day to that which you own at present. 
 There is hope in your future — there is none in 
 mine.' 
 
 , *What hope do 'you see that you may not 
 share if you will?' 
 
 I smiled faintly. 'The hope of a better love 
 than mine — a girl's honest, unselfish, devoted love. 
 No light gift, Harry. Better men than you might 
 envy its possession.' 
 
 I saw the colour mount to his brow. * I won't 
 pretend to misunderstand you, Kate ; but do me 
 
302 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 the justice to believe I have never been disloyal 
 to you.' 
 
 ^ I am sure of that/ I said earnestly. 
 
 * What have you heard ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' I have seen her. But I knew long ago that 
 she — cared.' 
 
 * She is a thousand times too good for me,' he 
 said. * I don't want her money. I only wish 
 she hadn't any. Everyone will say — ' 
 
 ' Never mind what they say. Follow your own 
 heart's dictates. She is better than her money, 
 and she has proved her devotion in the face of 
 the world.' 
 
 ' It seems odd,' he said, looking searchingly 
 at me — ^that you should urge me to marry any- 
 one else. Why, I came here to-night prepared 
 to—' 
 
 I made a hurried gesture. 'Don't, Harry; all 
 that is over. It couldn't be. Life looks alto- 
 gether different from what it was. I have done 
 with illusions. I only want real, true things.' 
 
 ' Had I nothing that was true ? ' 
 
 'You did not love me, Harry. You would 
 have sacrificed yourself, I know . . . but there is 
 no need for sacrifice. Happiness has come to 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 303 
 
 you. Take it. Don't be too proud, don't argue 
 with me, for I know what I am saying. I know 
 what is best for you — for myself. Truth comes 
 suddenly to one sometimes, like a flash, a search- 
 light. It came so to me. You are young and 
 she is young, and she loves you. . . . And if 
 you don't love her now, you will some day. It 
 can't be a very hard task. And I want to 
 know you are both happy, for I am fond of 
 you — both.' 
 
 *You are putting it very beautifully,' he said. 
 ' I wonder if you mean it. I want no woman's 
 sacrifice, Kate . . . and I never met a woman like 
 you. It is no light matter to forego our pleasant 
 comradeship, our friendly confidences.' 
 
 I smiled up at his earnest face. How rightly 
 I had judged him. He was * fond ' of me — only 
 that. But love — the one love * of man and 
 woman when they love their best' — that had 
 not been his to give, nor mine to gain. 
 
 ' They need not alter,' I said. * We shall always 
 be friends.' 
 
 * It seems like leaving you out in the cold.' 
 ^ Oh, no. A woman who has work and occupa- 
 tion is never lonely.' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 He looked around. ' But, Kate, we have heavy 
 debts. The expenses of this place are enormous. 
 How can you carry it on single-handed ? ' 
 
 ' I must do my best,' I said, with forced cheer- 
 fulness. 'You will have a rich wife, Harry, as 
 well as a loving one — and she will not forget me.' 
 
 ' By Jove, she sha'n't ! nor I either. I don't 
 mind telling you now, Kate, that I do love that 
 little girl — awfully. You can have no idea how 
 different she is from what I first thought her. . . . 
 Why, all the time I lay ill and helpless she'd 
 give up anything — balls, parties, theatres, no 
 matter what — only to sit by my side and read 
 and talk and cheer me. It's hours like those 
 that show the real stuff a girl is made of.' 
 
 He rose suddenly, his head thrown back, his 
 hands clasped behind him. He began to pace the 
 room in the old restless fashion I knew so well. 
 
 ' I'm not a coxcomb, or a fool, God knows,' he 
 went on. *But a man can't help seeing when 
 a girl loves him. And to think that she might 
 pick and choose among the best matches of the 
 day. And she chose to spend her hours by a 
 sick-bed in a public hospital, just to cheer and 
 soothe a poor ne'er-do-weel like myself!' 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 ' Such devotion deserves a return/ I said 
 quietly. *But do not underrate yourself, Harry. 
 You forget your birth is far superior to hers, 
 that you may inherit a title. . . . The question 
 of money has no more to do with your success 
 than if you were a duke's son/ 
 
 He shook his head. ' I was so d d rude to 
 
 her mother/ he said characteristically. 
 
 I laughed for the first time for many, many 
 weeks. *You must hope to be forgiven/ I said. 
 *Josey will be the arbitrator between you.* 
 
 He came and sat down beside me again. 
 
 *What a comforter you are/ he said — a new 
 softness and tenderness in his voice. 
 
 I was silent for a moment, battling with feel- 
 ings that longed to find vent, but which I had 
 rigorously denied outlet. When I had conquered 
 a momentary weakness I asked the question I 
 had determined to ask the whole evening. I 
 asked it carelessly, with an indifference that sought 
 to deceive him as to my real object. 
 
 * Strange, isn't it/ I said, 'how illness alters 
 one ? I seem to have lived through years ... to 
 have grown old and callous . . . different alto- 
 gether.' 
 
 U 
 
3o6 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 I raised one thin hand and pushed the hair 
 up from my forehead. It was not a becoming 
 fashion, and showed lines of anxiety and worry 
 that had not been there a year ago. * Josey hardly 
 knew me/ I went on ruthlessly. ' I suppose you 
 found me altered too ? ' 
 
 ' I was shocked to see you/ he said unsuspect- 
 ingly. 'But of course illness alters everyone. I 
 myself looked an object in the hospital* 
 
 (Yet that had not killed Josey's love, I thought.) 
 
 ' But you mustn't take it to heart,' he went on 
 cheerfully. * You'll soon pull round and be the 
 same pretty, stylish woman you were before — 
 before all this. It was an awful time . . . awful ! ' 
 
 Again he rose ; again commenced that restless 
 pacing. I followed him with my eyes. A thought 
 — odd and inconsequent — came to me at that 
 moment — of a dog I had once seen creeping, 
 worn and sick, to its master's feet. He had 
 kicked it aside, and as it crept slowly away to 
 hide itself, I saw the look in its eyes, not anger, 
 not reproach, only a dumb wonder that its mean- 
 ing had been misunderstood. 
 
 ' Harry,' I said presently, ' I am getting tired. 
 
Vanity ! 
 
 Don*t think me rude if I say you must go. This 
 is the first day I have been allowed to sit up. 
 Tm not very strong yet/ 
 
 ' By Jove ! how selfish I am, I quite forgot.' 
 
 He came to my side. He stooped, and took my 
 hands in his and kissed them. *You look like a 
 broken lily,' he said. 
 
 A little hysterical sob caught my throat. 
 
 ' Oh ! how — romantic,' I said. There had 
 come the old look to his face, there was the 
 old caressing intonation in his voice. He 
 was ' fond ' of me still. 
 
 With a desperate effort I called back my 
 failing self-control. 
 
 'Come again to-morrow,' I said, *at five 
 o'clock.' 
 
 * For any special reason ? ' he inquired. 
 
 I drew my hands away. ... I found myself 
 looking at them vaguely. The single circlet of 
 my wedding ring slipped loosely round that one 
 finger. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said. * She — will be here.' 
 I think he said ' God bless you ! ' I hardly know. 
 The pain at my heart had grown sharp as 
 physical torture. I watched him cross the 
 
3o8 
 
 Vanity ! 
 
 room. He did not look back. Perhaps he 
 did not remember. 
 
 When the door closed, a shudder ran through 
 me. I lay quite still, my head against the pillows. 
 
 * I knew you were overdoing it — I said so.' 
 
 I looked at the grey familiar figure. 
 
 ' You need not scold me any more,* I said. 
 * I shall be very obedient — now.' 
 
 ' When youVe well-nigh killed yourself.' 
 
 ' I take a great deal of killing, nurse.' 
 
 ' Don't be too sure of that.' 
 
 ' And there are worse things,' I said. * Things 
 that hurt — more.' 
 
 She looked at me curiously. Perhaps she 
 thought my mind was wandering again. 
 
 'Worse things,' I repeated to myself. I felt 
 crushed, broken, deadly tired ; yet something in 
 me refused to die. 
 
 'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is 
 vanity.' 
 
 Yet for Vanity I must live and work, and put 
 aside for ever the best and sweetest hopes of a 
 woman's life. 
 
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 the strongest book which has been published by any new writer Mr. 
 
 Swift contrives to keep his book from end to end real, passionate, even intense. 
 
 ... If Mr. Meredith had never written, one would have predicted, with the 
 utmost confidence, a great future for Mr. Benjamin Swift, and even as it is I 
 have hopes.** — Sketch. 
 
 " Certainly a promising first effort.** — IVhiteJtall Review. 
 
 " If * Nancy Noon ' be Mr. Swift's first book, it is a success ol an uncommon 
 kind." — Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 ** ' Nancy Noon ' is one of the most remarkaUe novels oi the year, and th« 
 author, avowedly a beginner, has succeeded in gaining a high position ia the 
 ranks of contemporary writers. .... All his characters are delightful. In the 
 heat of sensational incidents or droll scenes we stumble on observations that 
 set us reflecting, and but for an occasional roughness of style — elliptical, 
 Carlyle mannerisms — the whole is admirably written.'* — WestmdnsUr Gazette. 
 
 "Mr. Swift has the creative touch and a spark of genius." — Jifanchester 
 Guardian. 
 
 "Mr. Swift has held us interested from the first to the last page of his 
 novel.** — World. 
 
 " The writer of * Nancy Noon ' has succeeded in presenting a powerfully 
 written and thoroughly interesting story." — Scotsman, 
 
 " We are bound to admit that the story interested us all through, that it 
 absorbed us towards the end, and that not until the last page had b«en read 
 did we find it possible to lay the book 6o^ii."—D€Uly Chronicle. 
 
 " It is a very strong book, very vividly coloured, very fascinating in its style, 
 very compelling in its claim on the attention, and not at all likely to be soon 
 forgotten.**— iBr«7wA Weekly. 
 
 " A clever book The situations and ensuing complications are dra- 
 matic, and are handled with originality and daring throughout"— Z)a//>' News. 
 
 "Mr. Benjamin Swift has written a vastly entertaining book.** — Academy. 
 
 11. Paternoster Buildings, London, G.G. 
 
T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher, 
 
 WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD 
 I. 
 
 AN OUTCAST OF THE 
 ISLANDS 
 
 Crown 8w„ cloth, 6s« 
 
 " Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (vide first part of notice), 
 ' An Outcast of the Islands ' is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been 
 published this year, as * Almayer's Folly ' was one of the finest that was pub- 
 lished in 1895 . . . Surely this is real romance — the romance that is real. 
 Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living 
 »ealities of Mr. Conrad's invention — of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, 
 the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla — all novel, all 
 authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He 
 imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master ; he knows his individu- 
 alities and their hearts ; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian 
 Novel of his. . . . Greatness is deliberately written ; the present writer has 
 read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some 
 days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands."— «Sa/Mr(fay Review 
 
 II. 
 
 ALMAYER'S FOLLY 
 
 Second Edition. Crown Zvo,y clothy Ss, 
 
 ''This startling, unique, splendid book.*' 
 
 Mr. T. P. O'Connor, M.P. 
 
 " This is a decidely powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh 
 ground in fiction. ... All the leading characters in the book — Almayer, his 
 wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native lover — are well drawn, and 
 the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic natur^ness about it, 
 unspoiled by straining after efifect. There are, too, some admirably graphic 
 passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively 
 described. . , . The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears 
 to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago."— 5/>tfc/a^ 
 
 11, Paternoster Buildings, X^ndon, CG. 
 
 c 
 
T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher, 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE 
 FEN 
 
 J. T. BEALBY 
 
 Second Edition, Crown 8w., cloth^ 6s. 
 
 "It will deserve notice at the hands of such as are interested in the 
 ways and manner of living of a curious race that has ceased to be." 
 
 Daily Chronicle, 
 
 " For a first book * A Daughter of the Fen ' is full of promise." — Academy, 
 "This book deserves to be read for its extremely interesting account of 
 
 life in the Fens and for its splendid character study of Mme. Dykereave." 
 " Deserves high praise." — Scotsman, [Star, 
 " It is an able, interesting .... an exciting book, and is well worth 
 
 reading. And when once taken up it will be difficult to lay it down." 
 
 Westminster Gazette. 
 
 IN A MAN'S MIND 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN REAY WATSON 
 
 Crown SvOf cloth ^ 6s« 
 
 "We regard the book as well worth the effort of reading." — British 
 "The book is clever, very clever." — Dundee Advertiser. [Review. 
 " The power and pathos of the book are undeniable." — Liverpool Post, 
 " It is a book of some promise." — Newsagent, 
 
 "Mr. Watson has hardly a rival among Australian writers, past or 
 present. There is real power in the book — power of insight, power of 
 reflection, power of analysis, power of presentation. . . . 'Tis a very 
 well made book — not a set of independent episodes strung on the 
 thread of a name or two, but closely interwoven to the climax." 
 
 Sydney Bulletin. 
 
 "There is behind it all a power of drawing human nature that in 
 time arrests the attention." — Athenceum, 
 
 II, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C. 
 
 m 
 
T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher, 
 
 LITTLE NOVELS 
 
 Demy 8w., printed in bold type^ paper covers^ 6dL«/ cloth^ Xs« 
 
 1. The World is Round. By Louise Mack. 
 
 2. No Place for Repentance. By Ellen F. Pinsent. 
 
 3. The Problem of Prejudice. By Mrs. Vere Campbelu 
 
 4. Margaret Grey. By H. Barton Baker. 
 
 5. A Painter's Honeymoon. By Mildred Shenstone. 
 
 6. The Bond of Blood. By R. E. Forrest. 
 
 7. A Slight Indiscretion. By Mrs. Edward Cartwright, 
 
 8. A Comedy of Three. By Newton Sanders. 
 
 9. Passports. By I. J. Armstrong. 
 
 10. A Noble Haul. By W. Clark Russell. 
 
 11. On the Gogmagogs. By Alice Dumillo. 
 
 PRESS NOTICES, 
 
 '* Novel sets are many, but Mr. Fisher Unwin has begun a new one that for prettinc$i» 
 type and cheapness will take front rank. . . . These little novels, which are very 
 prettily bound for a shilling, and in paper at sixpence each, will—if we mistake not — 
 equal the * Pseudonyms ' in popularity."— Vanity Fair* 
 
 " Mr. Unwin's newest series of • Little Novels,' printed in strong black type on 
 pleasant paper. . . . promises to be as good, if not better than any of the preceding 
 ones. . . . The first book in the series is an extremely ckver and original story of 
 Australian society." — Guardian. 
 
 "Are readable. . . . They promise well for the success of the series they begin." 
 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " The ' Little Novels ' series starts well with this Australian story (' The World is 
 Round'). . . . Miss Mack's account of Sydney life is vivacious. , . . The two 
 women she describes are brought before us with ability. Much of the dialogue, and 
 certainly a letter from the Bush, deserves praise."*— Glasgow Htrald. 
 
 " If Mr. Fisher Unwin's * Little Novels ' series produces many works of the quintessential 
 power of * No Place for Repentance,' it will outweigh In aU but bulk whole shelves of 
 Mudie's fiction." — Illustrated London News. 
 
 "We do not apologise for telling the story of this little book, 'The Bond of Blood,' 
 and giving long extracts from it. it is worth reading even when one knows all that is 
 coming ; for it is excellently told, with concentrated force, great simplicity, and a vtry 
 remarkable attention to illustrative Spectator. 
 
 " A cheap and excellent series."— 5"/. James's Budgst. 
 
 "Well bound, well printed, and exceptionally low in pnc^" —Glasgow Herald, 
 
 11, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.G. f 
 
T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher, 
 
 The CHILDREN'S LIBRARY 
 
 o • • 
 
 Illustrated. Post %vo.^ pinafore cloth binding^ floral edges ^ 
 2s 6d. each, 
 
 I. The Brown Owl. By Fopd H. 
 HuEFFER. Illustrated by Madox 
 Brown. 
 
 2. The China Cup. By Felix 
 
 VOLKHOVSKY. Illustrated by 
 Malischeff. 
 
 3. Stories from Fairyland. By 
 
 Georges Drosines. Illustrated by 
 Thos. Riley. 
 
 4. The Story of a Puppet. By 
 
 C. CULLODI. Translated from the 
 Italian by M. A, Murray. Illus- 
 trated by C. Mazzanti. 
 
 5. The Little Princess. By Lina 
 
 EcKENSTEiN. Illustrated by Dudley 
 Heath. 
 
 6. Tales from the Mablnogion. 
 
 By Meta Williams. 
 
 7. Irish Fairy Tales. Edited by 
 
 W. B. Yeats. Illustrated by Jack B. 
 Yeats. 
 
 8. An Enchanted Garden. By 
 
 Mrs. MOLESWORTii. Illustrated by 
 J. W. Henessky. 
 
 9. La Belle Nivernaise. By 
 
 Alphonse Daudet. Illustrated by 
 
 MONTEGUT. 
 
 ID. The Feather. By Ford H. 
 
 HuEFFER. Frontispiece by Madox 
 Brown. 
 
 II. Finn and His Companions. By 
 
 Standish O'Grady, Author of 
 "Red Hugh's Captivity," &c. Illus- 
 trated by J. B. Yeats. 
 
 12. Nutcracker and Mouse King 
 
 and other Stories. By E. T. A. 
 Hoffmann. Translated from the 
 German by Ascott R. Hope. 
 
 13. Once upon a Time : Fairy 
 
 Tales. Translated from the Italian 
 by LuiGi Capuana. With Illus- 
 trations by C. Mazzanti. 
 
 14. The Pentamerone ; or, The 
 
 story of Stories. By Giambattista 
 Basile. Translated from the Nea- 
 politan by John Edward Taylor. 
 New Edition, revised and edited by 
 Helen Zimliern. Illustrated by 
 George Cruikshank. 
 
 15. Finnish Legends. Adapted by 
 
 R. Eivind. Illustrated from the 
 Finnish Text. 
 
 16. The Pope's Mule, and other 
 
 Stories. By ALPHONSE DaUDET. 
 Translated by A. D. Beavington- 
 Atkinson and D. Havers. Illus- 
 trated by Ethel K. Martyn. 
 
 17. The Little Glass Man, and 
 
 other Stories. Translated from the 
 German of Wilhelm Hauff. 
 Illustrated by James Pryde. 
 
 18. Robinson Crusoe. By Daniel 
 
 Defoe. 
 
 19. The Magic Oak Tree, and 
 
 other Fairy Stories. ByKNATCHBULL 
 HUGESSEN (Lord Brabourne), 
 Author of "Prince Marigold," 
 " Queer Folk," &c. 
 
 20. Pax and Carlino. By Ernest 
 
 Beckman. 
 
 SOME PRESS NOTICES, 
 " Happy children who are to own books as pretty and portable as this is." 
 " The delightful ' Children's Library.' "—National Observer. ^ ISaiurday Review, 
 "The binding and printing are simply exquisite." — Vanity Fair, 
 " What a dainty little blue book 1 " — Whitehall Review. 
 "Prettily got up."— Times. 
 " Fascinating in appearance." — Athenceum. 
 " Very daintily printed and bound." — Daily Chronicle. 
 " One of the prettiest books ever trusted to a child's hSLtid."-— Queen, 
 •'Altogether agreeable to the eye." — GUbe. 
 " Exquisite and dainty." — British Weekly. 
 "Very dainty and unique." — Review 0/ Reviews. 
 "All the books are delightfully illustrated." — Bookseller. 
 
 " With every advantage that a dainty binding, excellent paper, and admirable printing 
 can bestow."-^ Guardian. 
 
 11, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.G. w