claudia asked the usual question of the nurse who met her in the hall of the flat. it was now three weeks since fay’s accident.

“sir richard said definitely to-day that everything has now been tried,” said the nurse sadly, for both the day and the night nurse had grown fond of their odd little patient. “i think they always knew it was hopeless.... i fear she is growing suspicious. she cried a good deal of last night, and only slept for a couple of hours. nurse calderon said she thought she heard her whisper to herself in the night: ‘oh, god! i can’t! i can’t! let me get better!’ poor little thing! it’s too horrible, and, of course, everything will—will get worse.”

claudia, who had read up the progress of such cases in a medical book she had found in gilbert’s library, gave assent. she knew that the end of such cases is the abject humiliation of human flesh where so many of the functions of the body are paralysed. the account had made her feel sick in the reading, and she shrank from the thought of all that lay before the girl—she was little more—who lay in the bedroom beyond.

claudia opened the bedroom door full of misgivings, her heart very heavy as the thought of fay’s night vigil,[248] so that she was unprepared for the sight that met her gaze. the room always was a bower of flowers, generally coloured ones, for fay said bluntly that white ones reminded her of a funeral; but this afternoon it presented an unusually gay aspect. the apartment was almost gaudy, and at first claudia did not take in why it was so bright. fay was propped up among a nest of pillows, her tiny face, very little changed, hidden under an enormous black hat with three great blue feathers floating over it. the bed was strewn with hats, the chairs were littered with them. pink cardboard boxes of various sizes stood everywhere.

“darling, you’ve come in the nick of time,” called out fay excitedly. “isn’t this a duck of a hat? you see, i must have some new hats. i shall be better soon now, and it’s no good getting up and finding you’ve got nothing to put on your cocoanut. and madame rose has got all her new models for the summer. this is french. you can see that with half an eye, can’t you? i call it shick, don’t you? something like a hat.”

a dark-eyed jewess, who had evidently brought the hats, was standing at the foot of the bed, and broke in with:

“straight from parry, miss morris,” she said glibly, though it was evident that it had been concocted in some cheap london warehouse. “very latest thing. real style there. i thought of you as soon as i saw it. it’s too good for anyone else, i said.”

“ah! did you? give me the hand-glass. i want to see how my dial looks under it. ugh! like an under-done muffin left out in the rain. give us over the rouge and the powder-puff. and the bunch of curls out of the drawer. where’s that eyebrow pencil i had this morning? i rub the blessed stuff off on the pillow. there! that’s better, cocky. now i’ve got a bit of bloom. we’re not forty and in the cupboard yet, thank the lord! it[249] saves a lot of trouble if you’ve got dark eyebrows. yours don’t rub off and get smeary, do they?”

“it’s curious,” smiled claudia, removing one of the hats in order to sit down, “that your eyebrows are so light when your hair is so dark.”

fay gave a whoop that showed her lungs were not affected.

“you dear holy innocent! did you think my hair was really this colour? not much. the hair-dresser does it, and jolly expensive it is. my hair, as a child, was a silly soppy sort of light shade, so i improved on it. i’m much more effective with black hair. makes a bit of a contrast. got the idea out of a story where a man was raving over blue eyes and black hair. first of all, i tried red. but it’s so difficult with hats and all the boys call you ginger.”

she might have been discussing the colour of a parasol, so impersonal and frank was her tone. evidently it never occurred to her that these were what is called in ladies’ papers, “secrets of the toilet-table.”

fay turned to the girl, who was adjusting the trimming on another hat, equally large and covered with roses of a nightmare shade of pink.

“you remember my hair when it was red, don’t you, vera?” she chuckled. “i remember you didn’t know me when i came into the shop, and you was so polite”—she gave claudia a wink—“that i knew you hadn’t spotted me. i’d run up the devil of a bill, and madame rose was giving me the frozen eye just then. i think i shall keep to black now. it does suit me, doesn’t it?”

“admirably,” returned her sister-in-law, controlling a desire to laugh.

“i like your hair,” commented fay; “there are sort of coloury bits in it. i thought at first you must dye it, only jack told me you didn’t, and that it was like that when you were a kid. it’s real pretty. darling, try on this[250] hat. i want to see it on someone else. there’s no doubt it’s stylish. i hate the sort of hats nobody notices. when i pay big money i like to get the goods.”

claudia good-naturedly removed her own smart little toque of white brocade and skunk, and placed the top-heavy confection upon her head.

fay’s face was a study in astonishment and dismay as she looked at the other woman.

“well, i’m blowed! it looks—oh! sort of funny—and”—she shook her head—“vera, are you sure it’s good style? all right, keep your hair on, i didn’t say it wasn’t, only—— crickey bill, does it look like that on me?”

the girl from the shop eyed claudia with no great favour. her small, beady eyes looked sourly and enviously at the perfectly-cut, black velvet gown and elegant skunk and ermine furs. she was cute enough to realize that claudia’s clothes were the “real thing” and spelt not only money—her own wares were absurdly overpriced—but taste. she was accustomed to serving “ladies” in the profession, who familiarly called her “vera, my dear,” and asked, and generally took her advice, as well as swallowed her fulsome flattery.

“take it off,” said fay almost sharply. “i hate it now. it’s too large, it’s too——” then, with a sudden change to wistfulness, she added, “but it’s you that makes it wrong. you’re good style, and i’m not. i’m common, dead common. i don’t wonder you didn’t want me in the family.”

“fay, dear, don’t.” claudia glanced at the sulky vera, who was packing up the hats. apparently fay had never heard of the undesirability of washing dirty linen in public.

“you’re a lady. a blind man could see that. if you hadn’t been so sweet i’d have hated you directly i saw you. i knew what you were at once. of course, jack is a perfect gentleman, but that’s different somehow,[251] except”—vaguely—“i liked him a bit extra for it. he looks different in his clothes to the other men, and yet those men spend a lot of money too. i knew a man once, he owned a couple of halls in the midlands, and he told me he had fifty-two waistcoats, one for every week of the year. i don’t suppose jack’s got as many as that?”

she was adjusting a saucy matinée cap, a dainty affair of pink ribbon and lace.

“i am sure he hasn’t.”

“won’t you take no hat at all?” said the annoyed shop-girl, breaking in rudely. “you might take this one with the pink roses. i’m sure that’s quite enough.”

“no, no, i’ll wait till i can come to the shop. here, my dear, here’s a half a crown for your trouble. i’ll come in—soon.” she looked quickly from the shop-girl to claudia, a desperate question in her blue eyes.

“that’s a much better arrangement,” returned claudia cheerfully. “we’ll go together, shall we?”

“yes, yes,” cried fay eagerly, clapping her hands. “but, i say,” as the door closed behind the girl and her hat-boxes, “will you take me to your hat shop where that came from?”

“with pleasure.”

“what; come here.” fay beckoned her imperiously to her side. “do you mean you are not ashamed of me? i could keep my mouth dead shut, you know. do you mean that you’d let me wear the same sort of hats as you, that you’ll try and make a lady of me?”

claudia could not speak, she gently nodded.

“well,” said fay huskily, her eyes suspiciously moist, “you’re it all right, that’s all i can say. i—you can touch me for anything you want. you’ve only got to ask me. i say, hand me over that leather case from the chest of drawers—yes, that’s the one.”

wonderingly, claudia obeyed, and handed her the case which was a cheap leather imitation.

[252]

fay opened the case with a key from under her pillow and rummaged inside. presently she produced a small box.

“there! i want to show you this. it’s for you. it’s quite straight; you needn’t think i got it in any—any way you wouldn’t like. i bought it off someone who was hard up.” “it” was a diamond and ruby brooch, and quite a tasteful affair in the form of two hearts, transfixed by an arrow.

“oh! but fay, i couldn’t——”

“take it, i say, or i shall think you don’t mean what you said just now. two hearts, d’yer see—you and me! quite romantic, isn’t it? put it on that lacy thing at your throat. yes, it looks nice. no, you’re not going to thank me. just give me a kiss, that’s all.”

for a few moments the lips of the two met, so different in their upbringing and views of life, but strangely brought together by the hand of fate.

“now look at my joolery. never seen it, have you? well, it aint so dusty, if i says it. i’ve always got them to shell out all right. after all,” with a quaint little touch of vanity, “when you top the bill you’re worth it, and i don’t believe in making yourself cheap or making men meaner than they are. not that i exactly like them for what they give you, but it shows they do like you, because a man doesn’t stump up easily.... there, that’s a stunning pendant, isn’t it? it cost two hundred and fifty, because i went and chose it.”

claudia was astounded at the value of the jewellery that reposed in the shabby, unremarkable leather case. she saw that fay loved the things by the way she touched them. some of them were beautiful. but presently fay gave a sigh and, selecting a large diamond pendant which she put round her neck, over her nightdress, she shut up the case. “put the things back,” she said queerly. “i—i——” then, to claudia’s dismay, she began to sob[253] rather pitifully like a frightened child. claudia drew the little head to her breast.

“hush, dear, you mustn’t excite yourself. it’s bad for you. nurse will say it’s my fault, you know.”

“i’m not very old,” sobbed fay, “i’m only twenty-two. some people live to be very old.”

claudia tried to think of a laughing reply, but no words would come. she could only rearrange the matinée cap and put her own cool cheek against the one wet with tears.

“fay, dear, to please me—you said you’d do anything for me—don’t cry so. are you—are you in pain?”

she wiped the tears away gently with her handkerchief, the rouge from the cheeks coming off too.

presently fay grew a little calmer.

“claudia, i want to ask you something because you are honest.” oh! how claudia’s heart sank! she dreaded what the next words would be, but as usual the unexpected came from fay.

“do you think this is a punishment for—for not being good? nurse has got a bible, and i—just for fun—asked her to read me a bit. it frightened me. i’m not what you call bad, am i?”

“no, fay,” said claudia steadily, determined that not all the religion or moral teaching in the world should make her distress the doomed woman. “no, fay, don’t distress yourself. i don’t believe for an instant this is a punishment.” she tried to speak simply, but the task was difficult. her own religion was a very vague one. she believed that if there were a god, as so many christians averred, a god who was all-loving, understanding beyond finite conception, there could never be any question of punishment such as fay suggested. fay’s mind and morals were stunted, undeveloped. since she had come in contact with the queer people who were her fellow “pros,” claudia had come very clearly to recognize that[254] the lives of such artistes, especially those like fay, who had been born practically on the boards of a music-hall, were not subject to the ordinary judgments of society. theirs was a little world of its own, with its obligations, its own ideas of right and wrong. to do another artiste out of a job, to queer her turn, to refuse to put your hand in your pocket for a deserving case, to crib another person’s business or her “fancy boy,” those were unpardonable sins in fay’s world. to have flitted from lover to lover—in her case without any breaking of hearts or ugly recriminations—was only a venial one.

fay gave a huge relieved sigh. “if you say so, i won’t worry about that any more. of course, mind you, i ought to have kept straight. mother told me that when i was a kid. but i don’t know. men always liked me, you see, and i’m fond of them. of course, i know you wouldn’t do the things i’ve done.”

claudia inwardly winced. that very morning she had had an impassioned lover-like letter from frank complaining that she never came for the sittings now. “i know you have been a great deal with your sister-in-law, but sometimes i fear you cannot care for me when you can live without seeing me. to me, you are the whole world.”

“i expect jack and i are pretty poor tripe,” continued fay calmly. then a new thought struck her. “i say, that night i fainted, i thought i heard a nice voice in the hall, a man’s voice. it wasn’t the doctor, because he’s got a down-in-your-boots voice, and it wasn’t none of my pals. was it someone, or did i fancy it?”

“i think it was probably a friend of mine, colin paton. he got the specialist and nurse for you, and often inquires after you.”

“that’s jolly decent of him, because he doesn’t know me from adam.” she looked round her at the many vases crowded with flowers. “but people have been nice[255] to me, haven’t they? it shows i’m liked, doesn’t it?” it was such harmless vanity that claudia smiled. “is your friend a great swell, sir somebody or other?”

“oh, dear, no.” claudia found herself laughing at the idea of anyone calling colin paton “a great swell.” she must remember to tell him, he would enjoy the joke too. then she stiffened a little. no, she would not tell him anything. he left her out of his life. “he’s the simplest and kindest of men, a friend one can always rely on.” her sense of fairness prompted her to say so much.

“he’s old, then?”

“no, about thirty-eight. did my description sound like a greybeard?”

“yes, ‘kind’ sounds so old somehow. of course, he’s gone on you. he must be. would he come and see me, do you think? why,” with a sudden flash of inspiration, “it must be the man polly said was here that night and treated her as if she was a duchess, and thanked her for everything. polly flopped immediate. she’s had a balmy look ever since. oh, yes, i don’t think! is he handsome?”

“no, only nice looking.”

“well, i should like him to have black, flashing eyes—don’t you love black, flashing eyes—and dark curly hair, and long, white hands like the man in the novel, ‘did he love her.’ i’ll just have to listen to his voice.... must you go now? oh, well, i suppose i mustn’t be selfish. jack will be in soon. it’s rough on jack me being like this, isn’t it? only a log for a wife.... he’s better than i expected, because”—with a canny wag of her head—“jack didn’t marry me to have me lying here, like this. men like their women to be pretty lively and ‘on the go,’ especially when they marry someone of my sort. poor old boy! i’m really fond of jack, you know. he’s always treated me decently. i hope i’ll[256] get well or else—— all right, yes, of course, i won’t worry. come again to-morrow. where are you going?”

“to my mother’s. she’s got a musical afternoon, and i must look in. several grand opera stars and a great pianist. it will be very fireworky, i’m sure. good-bye, dear.”

fay kissed her hand gaily as claudia smilingly withdrew.

in the hall she met jack coming in.

“hallo! claud.” he heaved a deep sigh. “i say, this is breaking my heart.”

“don’t think about your heart, think about hers,” said claudia, putting her hand on his shoulder. he looked very dejected and some of the youth had gone out of his face. the contented, well-fed expression was flecked with something closely resembling unhappiness. “she is not likely to live for many years, and let’s try and make the best of it for her, jacky boy.”

“it’s hell hearing her talk about her new songs and going to paris with me.... i shall blurt out the truth one day, sure as fate. it’s lucky i’ve got a stolid sort of look, but it breaks me up inside. i remember talking to you once about thinking too much and rootling about for meanings in life. why should fay have to die like this? she hasn’t harmed anyone!”

claudia shook her head and was silent. many greater minds than poor jack’s had wrestled with that problem, and there had never been, and never would be, any answer. with jack, his belated questioning was rather pathetic. he had never wanted to ask questions, he had been content just to live, and now his happy-go-lucky love for fay had turned into tragedy.

as they stood there they could faintly hear the parrot in the distance still calling, “chuck it! chuck it!” accompanied by a hoarse chuckle that seemed to mock them with some uncanny knowledge. the little hall was tidy[257] now, but it meant that its volatile mistress would never dash through it any more.

“i say, claud,” said jack, taking off his coat, “what’s come over gilbert? i went into court to-day—a fellow i know was interested in an arbitration case, had money invested—and when we got there i found gilbert had been briefed. he started splendidly in that ‘listen to me’ sort of manner, and then he got muddled. he couldn’t remember the name of the firm he was speaking about, and he had to ask his junior. everybody was noticing it. why, he used to have such a ripping memory! what’s wrong with the works?”

claudia was not so alarmed as she well might have been had she known the symptoms of nerve breakdown.

“perhaps he took the case up in a hurry, sometimes he has to do that, you know.”

“no, he didn’t, because the fellow with me told me that he knew he had been secured for the case a long time ago. i heard someone say he was going to pieces.”

“he wants a holiday.... mother will think i am never coming. go in and talk to fay.”

he saw her into her car, and a few minutes later claudia found herself alighting on the red carpet outside her old home. the sounds of a violin played by a master hand reached her as she entered. the rivingtons were just going, mrs. rivington very shrill and chatty, and the general rather tottery and deaf.

“i say,” said mrs. rivington, with a glint of malice in her eye, “is it true your friend frank hamilton is going to marry mrs. jacobs? good thing for him, i should say. she’s just rolling in money, almost indecent, and anyone can see she’s madly in love with him. it’s all very well to talk art,” sneeringly, “but it usually spells money, doesn’t it? artists are just like the rest of us, only they pretend a bit more. he’s always with her, so i suppose the engagement will be announced soon.”

[258]

claudia attributed the remarks to ill-nature on mrs. rivington’s part, for her chief occupation in life was planting arrows as often as she could in the weak spots in her friends’ armour. claudia could afford to smile serenely in reply. did she not know whom frank loved? a woman rather enjoys a clandestine love-affair, and claudia hugged to herself her closer knowledge of frank’s inner life. she knew she was the core of it.

“mr. hamilton’s in there now, talking to the duchess of roxford,” continued mrs. rivington. “ridiculous how artists are run after, isn’t it? i don’t suppose he was anyone in particular. artists never are. some people find that interesting, but i must say, personally, i prefer good breeding. so unmistakable. good-bye. it’s too dreadful about the girlie girl, but i was right, after all, wasn’t i?”

claudia stood quietly in the doorway until the violinist, the great ysaye, had finished playing. there were many well-known people present, great names in the social and artistic firmaments, for circe had always held a little court all her life, and she had cleverly managed to pursue her uneven way without offending any of the powerful social leaders, who, though they always remembered her trespasses against her, generously spoke with more or less indulgence of them. she was hated by a few, like lady currey, but they did not count for very much. circe had never been actively malicious, and she had always been too immersed in her own affairs to find time to be inquisitive about other people’s, hence she had acquired a certain reputation for fair dealing and generosity of character not altogether deserved. now she very seldom entertained, but when she did so, she did it superlatively well, and many artists she had encouraged in their young and aspiring days were glad to do her honour.

the music stopped and she found frank at her side.

“at last! i have been waiting for you all the afternoon.[259] i was afraid you were not coming. claudia, this cannot go on. you are driving me mad. it is deliberate? have you all the time just been playing with me?”

“hush! don’t be so indiscreet.” she smiled, for mrs. rivington’s words returned to her mind. frank hamilton attracted by mrs. jacob’s money-bags! “i’ll talk to you later. you shall get me some tea. i must go over and speak to mother.”

she threaded her way, with handshakes and smiles, to where circe, in a most exquisite frock, sat in a shaded corner, among a lot of scented cushions. she was talking with more animation than usual to a man whose back was towards claudia. with her quick eye for beauty, she noticed that he had a particularly well-shaped head, which was finely set on his shoulders. circe was talking in french to him.

“eh bien, mon cher, claudia est très belle, et elle est—”

circe caught sight of her, and stopped short. had it not been almost impossible, claudia would have thought that her mother looked distinctly embarrassed and taken aback. then the well-known sweet smile drifted over her still beautiful mouth, and the momentary impression vanished.

“claudia, we were just talking of you. you are late, child. let me introduce to you an old friend, mr. mavrocopoulos.”

the man rose and bowed with unusual grace, and claudia saw a very well-preserved man of about fifty-five, with black hair flecked with grey, and remarkably fine dark eyes. she returned his evident look of interest, and again she received a peculiar impression as of something that was vaguely familiar and yet somewhat dreamlike. she was aware that circe was watching them.

“have i not met you before?” inquired claudia. “your face seems familiar to me, somehow.”

[260]

something flashed into his eyes, and his lips smiled as he turned to circe.

“no, claudia, i don’t think you can remember mr. mavrocopoulos. he has not been in england for many years.”

“but i saw you when you were a child of three,” said the man. “i remember you well, very well. i do not pretend that i should have known you as that child, but i remember you well.”

claudia knew his name as that of a famous and very wealthy greek family, and she recalled a rumour that had once linked it with her mother’s. had they found happiness together? were there golden memories between them? she wondered curiously how a man and woman felt in such a case, who, after the lapse of many years, met again. did yesterday seem as to-day? was memory sharp or dulled by time, did they remember the high-water-mark of their passion, or the moment when they had said good-bye? were they glad to meet again? if she and frank met after many years, would they——? then suddenly she heard fay’s voice saying confidently: “i know you wouldn’t do the things i’ve done.” but circe had done them, too, and she had not had the excuse poor fay could bring forward.

there were no signs of regret on her mother’s face. she never spoke as one who finds any bitterness in the dregs of such a past. indeed, she always spoke as one who felt that she had fulfilled her destiny, who has eaten stolen fruit joyously, without a scruple, without a fear. her mother’s contempt was for women who looked longingly over the hedge and were afraid to jump.

with a few more words claudia left the two together.

circe’s slanting eyes, carefully made up, but in the shaded light still siren-like and magnetic, looked for some seconds into the eyes of the man beside her.

[261]

“she is like you, demetrius, and she has always been my favourite,” she murmured.

his only answer was to take her hand in his, and raise it to his lips.

“i return to rome next week, but i take back with me a living picture, the incarnation of a dream.”

claudia was sipping the cup of tea that frank had procured for her, when she bethought herself that she had not yet seen patricia.

“have you seen pat? it is not humanly possible that she has tucked herself in a corner!”

his eyes were hungrily devouring her face, and lingering on her lips, so that she had the pleasant sensation of a secret caress. mrs. jacobs! how ridiculous!

“i saw her disappear half an hour ago in a conspirator-like manner with mr. colin paton, into that room over there.”

he pointed to a closed door, which was the door of the library.

“nonsense. what have they got to conspire about?”

there was a little frown between her brows. colin was her friend.

“why do men and women usually conspire to be alone together?”

without answering, claudia crossed the hall, and abruptly turned the handle of the library-door.

seated close together, talking very earnestly, pat more excited than she had ever seen her, were the two whom frank had seen disappear half an hour before. as a matter of fact, it had only been ten minutes, but frank had always had his doubts of colin’s friendship.

“ ... bushels of apples and immense quantities of ...” pat was saying, when her sister came in. “oh! claudia, you have come. we’d almost given you up.”

in an utterly different style from her own, patricia was looking most attractive that afternoon. she had on a[262] soft white charmeuse gown, which showed the long lines of her figure, and clung around her in a manner calculated to send her admirers crazy. the cool nonchalant look which she usually wore had given place to something more intense, more human. something seemed to have aroused her from her virginal slumber, and is not that brightness in the eyes, that flush on the cheek, generally aroused by a male? claudia took all this in at a glance, and it was not till afterwards that she had time to reflect on the odd subject-matter of their earnest conversation.

“i wondered where you were,” said claudia, rather frigidly. “how do you do, colin? i think mother wants you, pat.” it was a fib, but she had to explain her entrance.

then she turned with a sweet but cold smile to colin paton, who had quietly risen.

“i hear you have written a great book and are going to become famous. congratulations! i must buy a copy as soon as it comes out.... frank, i want some more tea. i’m so thirsty.”

pachmann was playing as they made their way back to the tea-room, his fairy-like fingers lightly caressing the keys into exquisite joyousness.

“i want you to come to the studio to dinner next monday,” said frank eagerly. “you always said you’d like to meet henry bridgeman and his wife if i could arrange it?” claudia was a great admirer of bridgeman’s etchings. “well, they are coming to dinner at the studio on monday. will you come too?”

“of course, i shall be delighted,” returned claudia, not even troubling to think of her engagements. “i shall love it. and”—with a hard laugh—“i’ll come for a sitting to-morrow if you like, before i go to fay.... dear, you mustn’t say such things here. it’s compromising.” a loud chord on the piano, immediately followed[263] by the sound of a man’s voice, made her raise a warning finger. “hush!”

the words came clearly enough to both of them as they stood together.

“ah! fill the cup, what boots it to repeat,

how time is slipping underneath our feet:

better be jocund with the fruitful grape

than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.”

it was liza lehmann’s setting, and the accompaniment thundered and rumbled, and then softened down to a plaintive, appealing melody. it might have been the voice of circe herself, beckoning, alluring, promising....

“ah! love, could you and i with fate conspire

to grasp the sorry scheme of things entire

would we....”

after all, why had she so many scruples? how did she come to be possessed of them? why did she hesitate to grasp her happiness?

she looked up and found colin paton’s eyes fixed upon her, and they wore an expression she did not know.

then she heard frank’s voice murmuring in her ear. “claudia, if you only knew how much i love you. if you would only trust yourself to me. why are you afraid?”

“i don’t know,” she said truthfully, “i don’t know.”

she gave him a particularly tender smile, out of sheer feminine perverseness, impelled by something that rankled and festered within her. colin paton should be made to understand that there was at least one man who was a real friend to her, yes, and might be more.

“turn down an empty glass....”

why not?