LITMIR.BIZ

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on account of her rising temperature, she was surprised at Mrs. Vanderpant's concern.

      "Have you a maid?" she asked.

      "No," replied Georgia. "But I know what to take for these attacks. I shall be perfectly well in the morning."

      "All the same, you must not be neglected. I will speak to the floor-housekeeper and tell her that I shall regard any attention she can show you, as paid to me."

      Her chin elevated in conscious pride of position, she turned to Torch, with the air of granting an audience, while the Count accompanied Georgia to the outer door of the suite. When they reached the vestibule, which was screened off from the salon by curtains of faded grass-green velvet, he smiled down at her.

      "My aunt must have guessed that I wanted to speak to you alone," he said.

      She waited for him to continue with a throb of intense eagerness. As she looked around, she knew that the memory of her surroundings would always remain. In after years, she would recall the ivory walls, the marble bust of Leopold I. on a pedestal, and the white sheepskin rug—all dyed a moonlight blue from the glass of a hanging lamp. She noticed, too, an incongruous drain-pipe umbrella-stand, painted with bulrushes—and a steel engraving of a Victorian skating-scene.

      The Count cleared his throat.

      "I want to apologise for Clair," he said. "He did not mean to be rude. You see, with us, money is nothing. He was cross, too, because he thought you were pulling his leg."

      He stopped and looked at her expectantly, awaiting her comment.

      "I am sorry he misunderstood," she told him. "Of course, I was speaking the truth. It saves trouble...He seems very fond of you."

      "Clair?" The Count laughed indulgently. "Yes. He is a rascal, but one can't help liking him."

      "Yes?" Georgia spoke vaguely in her anxiety to learn the future. "Shall I see you tomorrow?"

      He dashed her hope with a regretful smile.

      "I'm sorry, no. You understand. Family We must all be early birds tonight, for my aunt starts tomorrow at an unholy hour. I am expected to accompany her."

      "Then—this is 'Good-bye'?"

      "Oh, I may return. But if that is impossible, you will be a cherished memory. Whenever I see your novels on the stall at a railway station, I shall be able to boast, 'Ah I have met the celebrated Mrs. Yeo—and she is even more charming than her books.'"

      In spite of her temperature, Georgia began to feel cold.

      "I am afraid I made a poor impression on your people," she said.

      "Oh, no, no. How could you? You were modest and frank. Those are qualities which appeal to my aunt."

      Suddenly Georgia was urged to tell him that life-story which she withheld so persistently from the public.

      "It must be wonderful not to think of money," she said. "In my case, it's been the most important thing. My grandfather was a wealthy tea-merchant. He was a self-made man, but he sent his only son to Oxford—and all the rest. Father never earned a penny in his life. He dribbled away most of his fortune on the Stock Exchange. He was hopeless, for he would buy shares on margin. Now, I'm like my grandfather over money. Really, I'm a tough old man with a stubby grey beard and a droopy eyelid."

      The Count joined in her forced laughter while he paid her the tribute of absorbed attention.

      "There was so much worry about money," she continued, "that we were all glad when I married an old family friend. It seemed security. And then, everything happened at once. Edward—my husband—went bankrupt and committed suicide. I was left penniless with my mother and two babies to keep."

      "Your mother, too?"

      "Naturally. She lost her remaining capital in one of Edward's companies. I took a job, at first, and wrote my first novel at night. I'd written all my life. A miracle happened, for it was a best-seller. After that start, I've never looked back...But you can understand why I felt I must safeguard my children. They are dependent on me and I am not immortal."

      "I do indeed. I honour you for it. May I?"

      The Count raised her hand to his lips.

      At that moment, his homage seemed a meaningless gesture. She waited for him to speak before she broke the silence with a final appeal.

      "I hope I've not bored you. I only wanted to explain. You see, your cousin made me feel ashamed—because I'd done nothing and gone nowhere. Now you know why...Goodbye."

      "No, 'Good-night.' We will hope."

      Although she was used to loss, the episode was one of her bitterest disappointments when she went downstairs to her bedroom—unescorted. She had been living up in the clouds with a blond and radiant lover, who brought her the supreme gift of laughter, together with a dream-title of "Countess."

      As she stumbled along the narrow carpeted passages which ran round two sides of the building, she suddenly realised that she was completely exhausted and that her bed was the only thing which really mattered. She could scarcely drag her legs to her room and when she reached it at last, it seemed small and stuffy in contrast with Mrs. Vanderpant's cool and lofty salon.

      She threw off her clothes and after swallowing another draught crossed to the window. Below her was the traffic of the noisy street, with illuminated tramcars bearing advertisements of unfamiliar cigarettes and mineral waters.

      Beyond rose a straggling map of lights which defined the higher parts of the city. Every spot was associated with the Count. Somewhere up there was the Congress Column and the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, guarded by two bronze lions at his feet. As she gazed at the slope she thought of her own village, with the sound of the tide dragging back the pebbles, and the distant line of the sea.

      Although it held those she loved best, she rebelled at the idea of returning to it.

      "Not now—not after this," she murmured.

      Feeling hopeless and miserable she climbed into bed. Very soon her thoughts grew blurred and she forgot everything but the present. Her attacks of temperature were not unpleasant, for she lay in a dry baked heat which reminded her of basking in sun-warmed sand. The open window admitted the noise of the street and a faint light from the illuminations below, but no refreshing current of night air.

      The last thing she saw before she fell asleep was her evening frock, visible as a huddle of black draperies flung over the back of a chair.

      When she opened her eyes again, she was looking at it still; but she was conscious of other changes. A cool breeze blew in upon her from the window, which appeared to have moved closer. The room, too, seemed nearly doubled in size.

      "This is absurd," she thought. "I must still be asleep."

      She stretched out her hand to snap on the light, but the switch was no longer there. She was in the same bed, however, for she could distinguish the pattern of the printed bed-spread—blue poppies on a green ground. In further proof her watch was under her pillow, although the dial was too small for her to see the hands.

      Remembering that there was a view of a church clock from her window, she slid to the polished floor and groped her way towards it, only to be baffled by further transformation. The lighted street and the traffic had sunk into the ground. In its place was a vague darkness, blotched by a suggestion of foliage.

      As she tried vainly to pierce the gloom, she noticed an iron stair spiralling upwards, just beyond the window sill. The sight of it filled her with an overwhelming desire to climb up to the roof. Her favourite dream—sleeping or waking—was of a city of the Future, where buildings rose up in towering tiers and pedestrians walked high above the streets, which looped downwards to the lowest torrent of rushing traffic.

      "If this is a dream," she reasoned, "it's quite safe to get out of the window. But—I feel awake."

      She tried vainly to find some lucid explanation of her inexplicable predicament, but her brain was dark and

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