LITMIR.BIZ

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days of feminine smoking.

      "I assure you!" he protested, and pushed the box towards her. But she would not smoke.

      "It isn't that I mind you," she said, "not at all. But I'm not well. I've got a frightful headache."

      He put on a concerned expression.

      "I thought you looked rather pale," he said awkwardly.

      "Pale!" she repeated the word. "You should have seen me this morning: I have fits of dizziness, you know, too. The doctor says it's nothing but dyspepsia. However, don't let's talk about poor little me and my silly complaints. Perhaps the tea will do me good."

      He protested again, but his experience of intimate civilisation was too brief to allow him to protest with effectiveness. The truth was, he could not say these things naturally. He had to compose them, and then pronounce them, and the result failed in the necessary air of spontaneity. He could not help thinking what marvellous self-control women had. Now, when he had a headache—which happily was seldom—he could think of nothing else and talk of nothing else; the entire universe consisted solely of his headache. And here she was overcome with a headache, and during more than half-an-hour had not even mentioned it!

      She began talking gossip about the Fearnses and the Swetnams, and she mentioned rumours concerning Henry Mynors (who had scruples against dancing) and Anna Tellwright, the daughter of that rich old skinflint Ephraim Tellwright. No mistake; she was on the inside of things in Bursley society! It was just as if she had removed the front walls of every house and examined every room at her leisure, with minute particularity. But of course a teacher of dancing had opportunities. … Denry had to pretend to be nearly as omniscient as she was.

      Then she broke off, without warning, and lay back in her chair.

      "I wonder if you'd mind going into the barn for me?" she murmured.

      She generally referred to her academy as the barn. It had once been a warehouse.

      He jumped up. "Certainly," he said, very eager.

      "I think you'll see a small bottle of eau-de-Cologne on the top of the piano," she said, and shut her eyes.

      He hastened away, full of his mission, and feeling himself to be a terrific cavalier and guardian of weak women. He felt keenly that he must be equal to the situation. Yes, the small bottle of eau-de-Cologne was on the top of the piano. He seized it and bore it to her on the wings of chivalry. He had not been aware that eau-de-Cologne was a remedy for, or a palliative of, headaches.

      She opened her eyes, and with a great effort tried to be bright and better. But it was a failure. She took the stopper out of the bottle and sniffed first at the stopper and then at the bottle; then she spilled a few drops of the liquid on her handkerchief and applied the handkerchief to her temples.

      "It's easier," she said.

      "Sure?" he asked. He did not know what to do with himself—whether to sit down and feign that she was well, or to remain standing in an attitude of respectful and grave anxiety. He thought he ought to depart; yet would it not be ungallant to desert her under the circumstances? She was alone. She had no servant, only an occasional charwoman.

      She nodded with brave, false gaiety. And then she had a relapse.

      "Don't you think you'd better lie down?" he suggested in more masterful accents. And added; "And I'll go. … ? You ought to lie down. It's the only thing." He was now speaking to her like a wise uncle.

      "Oh no!" she said, without conviction. "Besides, you can't go till I've paid you."

      It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Oh! don't bother about that now!" But he restrained himself. There was a notable core of common-sense in Denry. He had been puzzling how he might neatly mention the rent while departing in a hurry so that she might lie down. And now she had solved the difficulty for him.

      She stretched out her arm, and picked up a bunch of keys from a basket on a little table.

      "You might just unlock that desk for me, will you?" she said. And, further, as she went through the keys one by one to select the right key: "Each quarter I've put your precious Mr. Herbert Calvert's rent in a drawer in that desk. … Here's the key." She held up the whole ring by the chosen key, and he accepted it. And she lay back once more in her chair, exhausted by her exertions.

      "You must turn the key sharply in the lock," she said weakly, as he fumbled at the locked part of the desk.

      So he turned the key sharply.

      "You'll see a bag in the little drawer on the right," she murmured.

      The key turned round and round. It had begun by resisting, but now it yielded too easily.

      "It doesn't seem to open," he said, feeling clumsy.

      The key clicked and slid, and the other keys rattled together.

      "Oh yes," she replied. "I opened it quite easily this morning. It is a bit catchy."

      The key kept going round and round.

      "Here! I'll do it," she said wearily.

      "Oh no!" he urged.

      But she rose courageously, and tottered to the desk, and took the bunch from him.

      "I'm afraid you've broken something in the lock," she announced, with gentle resignation, after she had tried to open the desk and failed.

      "Have I?" he mumbled. He knew that he was not shining.

      "Would you mind calling in at Allman's," she said, resuming her chair, "and tell them to send a man down at once to pick the lock? There's nothing else for it. Or perhaps you'd better say first thing to-morrow morning. And then as soon as he's done it I'll call and pay you the money myself. And you might tell your precious Mr. Herbert Calvert that next quarter I shall give notice to leave."

      "Don't you trouble to call, please," said he. "I can easily pop in here."

      She sped him away in an enigmatic tone. He could not be sure whether he had succeeded or failed, in her estimation, as a man of the world and a partaker of delicate teas.

      "Don't forget Allman's!" she enjoined him as he left the room. He was to let himself out.

      III

      He was coming home late that night from the Sports Club, from a delectable evening which had lasted till one o'clock in the morning, when just as he put the large door-key into his mother's cottage he grew aware of peculiar phenomena at the top end of Brougham Street, where it runs into St. Luke's Square. And then in the gas-lit gloom of the warm summer night he perceived a vast and vague rectangular form in the slow movement towards the slope of Brougham Street.

      It was a pantechnicon van.

      But the extraordinary thing was, not that it should be a pantechnicon van, but that if should be moving of its own accord and power. For there were no horses in front of it, and Denry saw that the double shafts had been pushed up perpendicularly, after the manner of carmen when they outspan. The pantechnicon was running away. It had perceived the wrath to come and was fleeing. Its guardians had evidently left it imperfectly scotched or braked, and it had got loose.

      It proceeded down the first bit of Brougham Street with a dignity worthy of its dimensions, and at the same time with apparently a certain sense of the humour of the situation. Then it seemed to be saying to itself: "Pantechnicons will be pantechnicons." Then it took on the absurd gravity of a man who is perfectly sure that he is not drunk. Nevertheless it kept fairly well to the middle of the road, but as though the road were a tight-rope.

      The rumble of it increased as it approached Denry. He withdrew the key from his mother's cottage and put it in his pocket. He was always at his finest in a crisis. And the onrush of the pantechnicon constituted a clear crisis. Lower down the gradient of Brougham Street was more dangerous, and it was within the possibilities that people inhabiting the depths of the street might find themselves pitched out of bed by the sharp corner of a pantechnicon

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