LITMIR.BIZ

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artistic worlds, and at which no vulgarian, however rich and prominent, was ever to be seen.

      Mrs. Mansfield, quite instinctively and naturally, had carried on the family tradition; at first with her husband, Arthur Mansfield, one of the most cultivated and graceful members of their "set," and after his death alone. She was well off, had a love of beauty and comfort, but a horror of display, and knew everyone she cared to know, without having the vaguest idea who was, or was not, included in "the smart set." Having been brought up among lions, she had never hunted a lion in her life, though she had occasionally pulled the ears of one, or stroked its nose. She had been, and was, the intimate friend of many men and women who were "doing things" in the world. But she had never felt within herself the power to create anything original, and was far too intelligent, far too aristocratic in mind, to struggle impotently to be what she was not meant to be, or to fight against her own clearly seen limitations.

      Unlike Mrs. Mansfield in this respect Charmian struggled, and her mother knew it.

      On the following evening, when Charmian and her mother were dining together before going to Max Elliot's, she said rather abruptly:

      "Why didn't Mr. Elliot invite us to dinner to-night, do you think?"

      "Why should he have invited us?"

      "Well, perhaps it wasn't necessary. But surely it would have been quite natural."

      "Probably he wanted to prepare the new note for you."

      "Why should I require preparation?"

      "The new note!"

      "Why should the new note require preparation against me?"

      "I said for you. Possibly we may find out this evening. Besides Delia is in a rest cure as usual. So there is no hostess."

      Delia was Max Elliot's wife, a graceful nonentity who, having never done a stroke of work in her life, was perpetually breaking down, and being obliged to rest expensively under the supervision of fashionable doctors. She was now in Hampstead, enclosed in a pale green chamber, living on milk and a preparation called "Marella," and enjoying injections of salt water. She was also being massaged perpetually by a stout young woman from Sweden, and was deprived of her letters. "No letters!" was a prescription which had made her physician celebrated.

      "Oh, the peace of it!" Mrs. Elliot was faintly murmuring to the athletic masseuse, at the very moment when Charmian said:

      "There very seldom is a hostess. Poor Max Elliot!"

      "He's accustomed to it. And Delia must be doing something. This time she may be cured. Life originally issued from the sea, they say."

      "Near Margate, I suppose. What a mystery existence is!"

      "Are you going to be tiresome to-night?"

      "No, I won't, I won't. But if he plays his Te Deum I know I shall sleep like a tired child."

      "I don't suppose he will."

      "I feel he's going to."

      "Then why were you so anxious to go?"

      "I don't like to be left out of things. No one does."

      "Except the elect. How thoughtful of you to dress in black!"

      "Well, dearest, you are always in white. And I love to throw up my beautiful mother."

      Mrs. Mansfield put an arm gently round her as they left the dining-room.

      "You could make any mother be a sister to you."

      Just before ten their motor glided up to the Elliots' green door in Cadogan Place.

      Max Elliot was the very successful senior partner of an old-established stockbroking firm in the City. This was a fact, so people had to accept it. But acceptance was made difficult by his almost strangely unfinancial appearance and manner. Out of the City he never spoke of the City. He was devoted to the arts, and especially to music, of which he had a really considerable knowledge. All prominent musicians knew him. He was the friend of prime donne, a pillar of the opera, an ardent frequenter of all the important concerts. Where Threadneedle Street came into his life nobody seemed to know. Nevertheless, his numerous clients trusted him completely as a business man. And more than one singer, whose artistic temperament had brought her—or him, as the case might be—to the door of the poorhouse, had reason to bless Max Elliot's shrewd business head and generous industry in friendship. He had a good heart as well as a fine taste, and his power of criticism had not succeeded in killing his capacity for enthusiasm.

      "He's not begun yet!" murmured Charmian to her mother, as the butler led them sedately down a rather long hall, past two or three doors, to the music-room which Elliot had built out at the back of his house.

      "I never heard that he was going to begin at all. We haven't come here for a performance, but to make an acquaintance."

      Charmian twisted her lips, and the butler opened the door and announced them.

      At the end of the room, which was panelled with wood and was high, by a large open fireplace, Max Elliot was sitting with Paul Lane and two other people, a woman and a young man. The woman was large and broad, with brown hair, reckless hazel eyes, and a nose and mouth which suggested a Roman emperor. She looked about thirty-five. In her large ears, which were set very flat against her head, there were long, diamond earrings, and diamonds glittered round her neck. She was laughing when the Mansfields came in, and went on laughing while Max Elliot went to receive them.

      "Mrs. Shiffney has just come," he said. "Paul has been dining."

      "And—the other?" murmured Charmian, with a hushed air of awed expectation which was not free from a hint of mockery.

      Mrs. Mansfield sent her a glance of half-humorous rebuke.

      "Claude Heath," answered Elliot.

      "How wonderful he is."

      "Charmian, don't be tiresome!" observed her mother, as they went toward the fire.

      The two men got up, and Charmian had an impression of height, of a bony slimness that was almost cadaverous, of irregular features, rather high cheek-bones, brown, very short hair, and large, enthusiastic and observant eyes that glanced almost piercingly at her, and quickly looked away.

      Mrs. Shiffney remained in her armchair, moved her shoulders, and said in a rather deep, but not disagreeable voice:

      "Mr. Heath and I are hearing all about 'Marella.' It builds you up if you are a skeleton and pulls you down if you are enormous, as I am. It makes you sleep if you suffer from insomnia, and if you have the sleeping sickness it wakes you up. Dr. Curling has patented it, and feeds his patients on nothing else. Delia is living entirely on it, and is to emerge looking seventeen and a female Sandow. Mr. Heath is longing to try it."

      She had held out a powerful hand to the new arrivals, and now turned toward the composer, who stood waiting to be introduced.

      "Oh, but no, please!" said Heath, speaking quickly and almost anxiously, with a certain naïveté that was attractive, but that did not suggest simplicity, but rather great sensitiveness of mind. "I never take quack medicines or foods. I have no need to. And I think they're all invented to humbug us."

      Max Elliot took him by the arm.

      "I want to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Mrs. Mansfield."

      He paused and added:

      "Mr. Claude Heath—Miss Mansfield."

      Paul Lane began talking to Charmian when the two handshakes—Heath had shaken hands quickly—were over. She looked across the room, and saw her mother in conversation with the composer. And she knew immediately that he had conceived a strong liking for her mother. It seemed to her in that moment as if his liking for her mother might prevent him from liking her, and, she did not know why, she was aware of a faint sensation of hostility toward him. Yet usually the fact that a man admired, or was fond of, Mrs. Mansfield predisposed Charmian in his favor.

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