LITMIR.BIZ

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and hampered him in such attempts at evasion as would otherwise be natural and congenial.

      It remains a matter for speculation just how the Lady Mary felt for Filmer and just what she thought of him. At thirty-eight one may have gathered much wisdom and still be not altogether wise, and the imagination still functions actively enough in creating glamours and effecting the impossible. He came before her eyes as a very central man, and that always counts, and he had powers, unique powers as it seemed, at any rate in the air. The performance with the model had just a touch of the quality of a potent incantation, and women have ever displayed an unreasonable disposition to imagine that when a man has powers he must necessarily have Power. Given so much, and what was not good in Filmer's manner and appearance became an added merit. He was modest, he hated display, but given an occasion where TRUE qualities are needed, then—then one would see!

      The late Mrs. Bampton thought it wise to convey to Lady Mary her opinion that Filmer, all things considered, was rather a “grub.” “He's certainly not a sort of man I have ever met before,” said the Lady Mary, with a quite unruffled serenity. And Mrs. Bampton, after a swift, imperceptible glance at that serenity, decided that so far as saying anything to Lady Mary went, she had done as much as could be expected of her. But she said a great deal to other people.

      And at last, without any undue haste or unseemliness, the day dawned, the great day, when Banghurst had promised his public—the world in fact—that flying should be finally attained and overcome. Filmer saw it dawn, watched even in the darkness before it dawned, watched its stars fade and the grey and pearly pinks give place at last to the clear blue sky of a sunny, cloudless day. He watched it from the window of his bedroom in the new-built wing of Banghurst's Tudor house. And as the stars were overwhelmed and the shapes and substances of things grew into being out of the amorphous dark, he must have seen more and more distinctly the festive preparations beyond the beech clumps near the green pavilion in the outer park, the three stands for the privileged spectators, the raw, new fencing of the enclosure, the sheds and workshops, the Venetian masts and fluttering flags that Banghurst had considered essential, black and limp in the breezeless dawn, and amidst all these things a great shape covered with tarpauling. A strange and terrible portent for humanity was that shape, a beginning that must surely spread and widen and change and dominate all the affairs of men, but to Filmer it is very doubtful whether it appeared in anything but a narrow and personal light. Several people heard him pacing in the small hours—for the vast place was packed with guests by a proprietor editor who, before all understood compression. And about five o'clock, if not before, Filmer left his room and wandered out of the sleeping house into the park, alive by that time with sunlight and birds and squirrels and the fallow deer. MacAndrew, who was also an early riser, met him near the machine, and they went and had a look at it together.

      It is doubtful if Filmer took any breakfast, in spite of the urgency of Banghurst. So soon as the guests began to be about in some number he seems to have retreated to his room. Thence about ten he went into the shrubbery, very probably because he had seen the Lady Mary Elkinghorn there. She was walking up and down, engaged in conversation with her old school friend, Mrs. Brewis-Craven, and although Filmer had never met the latter lady before, he joined them and walked beside them for some time. There were several silences in spite of the Lady Mary's brilliance. The situation was a difficult one, and Mrs. Brewis-Craven did not master its difficulty. “He struck me,” she said afterwards with a luminous self-contradiction, “as a very unhappy person who had something to say, and wanted before all things to be helped to say it. But how was one to help him when one didn't know what it was?”

      At half-past eleven the enclosures for the public in the outer park were crammed, there was an intermittent stream of equipages along the belt which circles the outer park, and the house party was dotted over the lawn and shrubbery and the corner of the inner park, in a series of brilliantly attired knots, all making for the flying machine. Filmer walked in a group of three with Banghurst, who was supremely and conspicuously happy, and Sir Theodore Hickle, the president of the Aeronautical Society. Mrs. Banghurst was close behind with the Lady Mary Elkinghorn, Georgina Hickle, and the Dean of Stays. Banghurst was large and copious in speech, and such interstices as he left were filled in by Hickle with complimentary remarks to Filmer. And Filmer walked between them saying not a word except by way of unavoidable reply. Behind, Mrs. Banghurst listened to the admirably suitable and shapely conversation of the Dean with that fluttered attention to the ampler clergy ten years of social ascent and ascendency had not cured in her; and the Lady Mary watched, no doubt with an entire confidence in the world's disillusionment, the drooping shoulders of the sort of man she had never met before.

      There was some cheering as the central party came into view of the enclosures, but it was not very unanimous nor invigorating cheering. They were within fifty yards of the apparatus when Filmer took a hasty glance over his shoulder to measure the distance of the ladies behind them, and decided to make the first remark he had initiated since the house had been left. His voice was just a little hoarse, and he cut in on Banghurst in mid-sentence on Progress.

      “I say, Banghurst,” he said, and stopped.

      “Yes,” said Banghurst.

      “I wish—” He moistened his lips. “I'm not feeling well.”

      Banghurst stopped dead. “Eh?” he shouted.

      “A queer feeling.” Filmer made to move on, but Banghurst was immovable. “I don't know. I may be better in a minute. If not—perhaps … MacAndrew—”

      “You're not feeling WELL?” said Banghurst, and stared at his white face.

      “My dear!” he said, as Mrs. Banghurst came up with them, “Filmer says he isn't feeling WELL.”

      “A little queer,” exclaimed Filmer, avoiding the Lady Mary's eyes. “It may pass off—”

      There was a pause.

      It came to Filmer that he was the most isolated person in the world.

      “In any case,” said Banghurst, “the ascent must be made. Perhaps if you were to sit down somewhere for a moment—”

      “It's the crowd, I think,” said Filmer.

      There was a second pause. Banghurst's eye rested in scrutiny on Filmer, and then swept the sample of public in the enclosure.

      “It's unfortunate,” said Sir Theodore Hickle; “but still—I suppose—Your assistants—Of course, if you feel out of condition and disinclined—”

      “I don't think Mr. Filmer would permit THAT for a moment,” said Lady Mary.

      “But if Mr. Filmer's nerve is run—It might even be dangerous for him to attempt—” Hickle coughed.

      “It's just because it's dangerous,” began the Lady Mary, and felt she had made her point of view and Filmer's plain enough.

      Conflicting motives struggled for Filmer.

      “I feel I ought to go up,” he said, regarding the ground. He looked up and met the Lady Mary's eyes. “I want to go up,” he said, and smiled whitely at her. He turned towards Banghurst. “If I could just sit down somewhere for a moment out of the crowd and sun—”

      Banghurst, at least, was beginning to understand the case. “Come into my little room in the green pavilion,” he said. “It's quite cool there.” He took Filmer by the arm.

      Filmer turned his face to the Lady Mary Elkinghorn again. “I shall be all right in five minutes,” he said. “I'm tremendously sorry—”

      The Lady Mary Elkinghorn smiled at him. “I couldn't think—” he said to Hickle, and obeyed the compulsion of Banghurst's pull.

      The rest remained watching the two recede.

      “He is so fragile,” said the Lady Mary.

      “He's certainly a highly nervous type,” said the Dean, whose weakness it was to regard the whole world, except married clergymen with enormous families, as “neurotic.”

      “Of

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