LITMIR.BIZ

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exulted like a captive free from chains. Her only annoyance was his often-expressed desire to see her. Why could he not leave her alone, as she left him? He was perpetually asking when she would return to Court Leys; and she had to invent excuses to prevent his coming to London. She loathed the idea of seeing him again.

      But she put aside these thoughts when Gerald came to fetch her, sometimes for a bicycle ride in Battersea Park, sometimes to spend an hour in one of the museums. It is no wonder that the English are a populous race when one observes how many are the resorts supplied by the munificence of governing bodies for the express purpose of philandering. On a hot day what spot can be more enchanting than the British Museum, cool, silent, and roomy, with harmless statues which tell no tales, and afford matter for conversation to break an awkward pause?

      The parks also are eminently suited for those whose fancy turns to thoughts of Platonic love. Hyde Park is the fitting scene for an idyll in which Corydon wears patent-leather boots and a top-hat, while Phyllis has an exquisite frock which suits her perfectly. The well-kept lawns, the artificial water and the trim paths, give a mock rurality which is infinitely amusing to persons who do not wish to take things too seriously. Here, in the summer mornings, Gerald and Bertha spent much time. It pleased her to listen to his chatter, and to look into his green eyes; he was such a very nice boy, and seemed so much attached to her! Besides, he was only in London for a month, and, quite secure in his departure, she could afford to let him fall a little in love.

      “Are you sorry you’re going away so soon?” she asked.

      “I shall be miserable at leaving you.”

      “It’s nice of you to say so.”

      Bit by bit she extracted from him his discreditable history. Bertha was possessed by a curiosity to know details, which she elicited artfully, making him confess his iniquities that she might pretend to be angry. It gave her a curious thrill, partly of admiration, to think that he was such a depraved young person, and she looked at him with a sort of amused wonder. He was very different from the virtuous Edward. A childlike innocence shone out of his handsome eyes, and yet he had already tasted the wine of many emotions. Bertha felt somewhat envious of the sex which gave opportunity, and the spirit which gave power, to seize life boldly, and wring from it all it had to offer.

      “I ought to refuse to speak to you any more,” she said. “I ought to be ashamed of you.”

      “But you’re not. That’s why you’re such a ripper.”

      How could she be angry with a boy who adored her? His very perversity fascinated her. Here was a man who would never hesitate to go to the devil for a woman, and Bertha was pleased at the compliment to her sex.

      One evening Miss Ley was dining out, and Gerald asked Bertha to come to dinner with him, and then to the opera. She refused, thinking of the expense; but he was so eager, and she really so anxious to go, that finally she consented.

      “Poor boy, he’s going away so soon, I may as well be nice to him.”

      Gerald arrived in high spirits, looking even more boyish than usual.

      “I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”

      “What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all really nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”

      “My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

      They drove off—to a restaurant which Gerald, boylike, had chosen, because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was much amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light: and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome boy in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera, she found he had a box.

      “Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”

      “Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue some of it.”

      “But why on earth did you get a box?”

      “I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”

      “But you promised to get cheap seats.”

      “And I wanted to be alone with you.”

      He was by nature a flatterer; and few women could withstand the cajolery of his green eyes, and of his charming smile.

      “He must be very fond of me,” thought Bertha, as they drove home, and she put her arm in his to express her thanks and her appreciation.

      “It’s very nice of you to have been so good to me. I always thought you were a nice boy.”

      “I’d do more than that for you.”

      He would have given the rest of his five hundred pounds for one kiss. She knew it, and was pleased, but gave him no encouragement, and for once he was bashful. They separated at her doorstep with the quietest handshake.

      “It’s awfully kind of you to have come.”

      He appeared immensely grateful to her. Her conscience pricked her now that he had spent so much money; but she liked him all the more.

       Gerald’s month was nearly over, and Bertha was astonished that he occupied her thoughts so much. She did not know that she was so fond of him.

      “I wish he weren’t going,” she said, and then quickly: “but of course it’s much better that he should!”

      At that moment the boy appeared.

      “This day week you’ll be on the sea, Gerald,” she said. “Then you’ll be sorry for all your iniquities.”

      “No!” he answered, sitting in the position he most affected, at Bertha’s feet.

      “No—which?”

      “I shan’t be sorry,” he replied, with a smile, “and I’m not going away.”

      “What d’you mean?”

      “I’ve altered my plans. The man I’m going to said I could start at the beginning of the month or a fortnight later.”

      “But why?” It was a foolish question, because she knew.

      “I had nothing to stay for. Now I have, that’s all.”

      Bertha looked at him, and caught his shining eyes fixed intently upon her. She became grave.

      “You’re not angry?” he asked, changing his tone. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to leave you.”

      He looked at her so earnestly and tears came to his eyes, Bertha could not help being touched.

      “I’m very glad that you should stay, dear. I didn’t want you to go so soon. We’ve been such good friends.”

      She passed her fingers through his curly hair and over his ears; but he started, and shivered.

      “Don’t do that,” he said, pushing her hand away.

      “Why not?” she cried, laughing. “Are you frightened of me?”

      And caressingly she passed her hand over his ears again.

      “Oh, you don’t know what pain that gives me.”

      He sprang up, and to her astonishment Bertha saw that he was pale and trembling.

      “I feel I shall go mad when you touch me.”

      Suddenly she saw the burning passion in his eyes; it was love that made him tremble. Bertha gave a little cry, and a curious sensation pressed her heart. Then without warning, the boy seized her hands and falling on his knees before her, kissed them repeatedly. His hot breath made Bertha tremble too, and the kisses burnt themselves

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