Poor Relations Page 7

  CHAPTER VII

  John came to the conclusion while he was driving to Earl's Court thatthe distinctive anxiety in losing two children was to be sought for inan acute consciousness of their mobility. He had often enough lost sucharticles as sovereigns, and matchboxes, and income-tax demands; but inthe disappearance of these he had always been consoled by the knowledgethat they were stationary in some place or another at any given moment,and that somebody or another must find them at some time or another,with profit or disappointment to himself. But Bertram and Viola might beanywhere; if at this moment they were somewhere, before the taxi hadturned the next corner they might be somewhere else. The only kind ofloss comparable to this was the loss of a train, in which case also thevictim was dismayed by the thought of its mobility. Moreover, was itlogically possible to find two children, any more than it was possibleto find a lost train? They could be caught like a train by somebodyelse; but except among gipsies, who were practically extinct, the sportof catching children was nowadays unknown. The classic instance of twolost children--and by the way an uncle came into that--was _The Babes inthe Wood_, in which story they were neither caught nor found, thoughcertainly their bodies were found owing to the eccentric behavior ofsome birds in the vicinity. It would be distressing to read in the paperto-morrow of two children's having been found under a drift ofpaper-bags in the bear-pit at the Zoo, hugged to death not by eachother, but by the bears. Or they might have hidden themselves in theReptile House--Bertram had displayed a dreadful curiosity about theeffect of standing upon one of the alligators--and their fate mightremain for ever a matter of conjecture. Yet even supposing that theywere not at this moment regarding with amazed absorption--absorption wastoo ominous a word--with amazed interest the nocturnal gambols of thegreat cats, were they on that account to be considered safe? If it was aquestion of being crunched up, it made little difference whether one wascrunched up by the wheels of an omnibus or by the jaws of a panther. Tobe sure, Bertram was accustomed to go to school by tube every morning,and obviously he must know by this time how to ask the way to any givenspot....

  The driver of the taxi was taking no risks with the traffic, and John'stightly strung nerves were relaxed; he began to perceive that he wasagitating himself foolishly. The wide smoothness of Cromwell Road wasall that was needed to persuade him that the shock had deprived him fora short time of common sense. How absurd he had been! Of course thechildren would be all right; but he should take good care to administerno less sharp a shock to George than he had experienced himself. He didnot approve of George's attitude, and if the temporary loss of Bertramand Viola could rouse him to a sense of his paternal responsibilities,this disturbing climax of a jolly day would not have been led up to invain. No, George's moral, mental, and physical laziness must no longerbe encouraged.

  "I shall make the whole business out to be as bad as possible," hedecided. "Though, now that I have had time to think the situation out, Irealize that there is really not the least likelihood of anything'sserious having happened to them."

  For James even when he was most exasperating John always felt aninvoluntary deference that stood quite apart from the sentimental regardwhich he always tried to owe him as head of the family; for his secondbrother George he had nothing but contempt. James might be wrongheaded;but George was fatheaded. James kept something of their father's fallenday about him; George was a kind of gross caricature of his own self.Every feature in this brother's face reproduced the correspondingfeature in his own with such compelling suggestiveness of a potentiallysimilar degeneration that John could never escape from the reproach ofGeorge's insistent kinship. Many times he had been seized by a strongimpulse to cut George ruthlessly out of his life; but as soon as heperceived that gibbous development of his own aquiline nose, thatreduplication of his own rounded chin, that bull-like thickening of hisown sanguine neck, and that saurian accentuation of the eloquent pouchesbeneath his own eyes, John surrendered to the claims of fraternity andlent George as much as he required at the moment. If Daniel Curtis'sdesire to marry Hilda had always puzzled him, Eleanor's willingness tobe tied for life to George was even more incomprehensible. Still, it waslucky that she had been taken with such a whim, because she was all thatstood between George and absolute dependence upon his family, in otherwords upon his younger brother. Whatever Eleanor's faults, howeveraggressive her personality, John recognized that she was a hard workerand that the incubus of a husband like George (to whom she seemedcuriously and inexplicably devoted) entitled her to a great deal ofindulgence.

  It was strange to look back now to the time when he and George were bothin the city, himself in dog-biscuits and George in wool, and to rememberthat except their father everybody in the family had foretold aprosperous commercial career for George. Beyond his skill at Solo Whistand a combination of luck with judgment in betting through July andAugust on weight for age selling-plates and avoiding the big autumnhandicaps, John could not recall that George had ever shown a glimmer offinancial intelligence. Once or twice when he had visited his brother inthe wool-warehouse he had watched an interview between George and a baleof wool, and he had often chuckled at the reflection that theprotagonists were well matched--there had always been something woollyabout George in mind and body; and when one day he rolled stolidly forthfrom the warehouse for the last time in order to enter into partnershipwith a deluded friend to act as the British agents for a society ofcolonial housewives, John felt that the deluded friend would have beenequally well served by a bale of wool. When George and his deludedfriend had tried the patience of the colonial housewives for a year bynever once succeeding in procuring for them what they required, thepartnership was dissolved, and George processed from undertaking toundertaking till he became the business manager of a theatrical touringcompany. Although as a business manager he reached the nadir of hisincompetence he emerged from the post with Eleanor for wife, whichperhaps gave rise to a family legend that George had never been sosuccessful as when he was a business manager. This legend he neverdispelled by a second exhibition of himself in the part, although heoften spoke regretfully of the long Sundays in the train, playing napfor penny points. After he married Eleanor he was commission-agent for avariety of gentlemanly commodities like whisky and cigars; but he drankand smoked much more than he sold, and when bridge was introduced andpopularized, having decided that it was the best investment for hisshare of Eleanor's salary, he abandoned everything else. Moreover,John's increasing prosperity gave his play a fine stability andconfidence; he used to feel that his wife's current account merelylapped the base of a solid cliff of capital. A bad week at Bridge cameto be known as another financial disappointment; but he used to saycheerfully when he signed the I.O.U. that one must not expect everybodyin the family to be always lucky, and that it was dear old John's turnthis week. John himself sometimes became quite giddy in watching theswift revolutions of the wheel of fortune as spun by George. The effectof sitting up late at cards usually made George wake with a headache,which he called "feeling overworked"; he was at his best in the duskyhours before dinner, in fact just at the time when John was on his wayto explode in his ear the news of the children's disappearance; it wasthen that among the attenuated spinsters of Halma House his grossnessseemed nothing more than a ruddy well-being and that his utterindifference to any kind of responsibility acquired the characteristicsof a ripe geniality.

  Halma House, Earl's Court Square, was a very large boarding-house, solarge that Miss Moxley, the most attenuated spinster who lived in it,once declared that it was more like a residential hotel than aboarding-house, a theory that was eagerly supported by all the otherattenuated spinsters who clung to its overstuffed furniture or likedusty cobwebs floated about its garish saloons. Halma House was indeedtwo houses squeezed or knocked (or whatever other uncomfortable verb canbe found to express the welding) into one. Above the front-door ofnumber 198 were the large gilt letters that composed HALMA: above thefront-door of what was once number 200 the equally large gilt lettersthat mad
e up HOUSE. The division between the front-door steps had beenremoved so as to give an almost Medician grandeur to the entrance, atthe top of which beneath a folded awning a curved garden-seat againstthe disused door of number 20 suggested that it was the resort for theintimate gayety of the boarders at the close of a fine summer day; asMiss Moxley used to vow, it was really quite an oasis, with theplane-trees of the square for contemplation not to mention the noisingof the sparrows and the distant tinkling of milk-cans, quite an oasis indingy old London. But then Miss Moxley had the early symptoms ofexophthalmus, a malady that often accompanies the poetic temperament;Miss Moxley, fluttering out for five minutes' fresh air before dinner ona gentle eve in early June, was capable of idealizing to the semblanceof a careless pastoral group the spectacle of a half-pay major, a portlywidow or two up from the country, and George Touchwood, all brushing thesmuts from their noses while they gossiped together on that seat: thiswas by no means too much for her exophthalmic vision.

  John's arrival at Halma House in raw November was not greeted by suchevidence of communal felicity; on the contrary, when he walked up thesteps, the garden-seat looked most defiantly uninviting; nor did theentrance hall with its writhing gilt furniture symbolize anything moreromantic than the competitive pretentiousness of life in aboarding-house that was almost a residential hotel. A blond waiter whosehair would have been dishevelled but for the uses of perspirationinformed him that Mr. Tooshvood was in his sitting-room, and led him toa door at the end of the hall opposite another door that gave descent tothe dungeons of supply, the inmates of which seemed to spend their timein throwing dishes at one another.

  The possession of this sitting-room was the outstanding advantage thatGeorge always claimed for Halma House, whenever it was suggested that heshould change his quarters: Adam discoursing to his youngest descendantupon the glories of Eden could hardly have outbragged George on thesubject of that sitting-room. John on the other hand disliked it andtook pleasure in pointing out the impossibility of knowing whether itwas a conservatory half transformed into a box-room or a box-room nearlyturned into a conservatory. He used to call it George's amphibiousapartment, with justice indeed, for Bertram and Viola with trueappreciation had once selected it as the appropriate setting in which toreproduce Jules Verne's _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_. Thewallpaper of dark blue flock was smeared with the glistening pattern asof seaweed upon rocks at low tide; the window was of ground-glass tintedto the hue of water in a swimming-bath on Saturday afternoon, and wassurrounded by an elaborate arrangement of cork that masked a number offlower pots filled with unexacting plants; while as if the atmospherewas not already sufficiently aqueous, a stage of disheartenedaspidistras cast a deep-sea twilight upon the recesses of the room, inthe middle of which was a jagged table of particolored marble, and uponthe walls of which were hung cases of stuffed fish. Mrs. Easton, theproprietress of Halma House, only lent the room to George as a favor: itwas not really his own, and while he lay in bed of a morning she usedto quarrel there with all the servants in turn. Moreover, any of theboarders who had bicycles stabled them in this advantageous apartment,the fireplace of which smoked. Nevertheless, George liked it and used toknit there for an hour after lunch, sitting in an armchair that smeltlike the cushions of a third-class smoker and looking with his knittingneedles and opaque eyes like a large lobster preening his antennae in thecorner of a tank.

  When John visited him now, he was reading an evening paper by the lightof a rugged mantle of incandescent gas and calculating how much he wouldhave won if he had backed the second favorite for every steeplechase ofthe day.

  "Hullo, is that you, John?" he inquired with a yawn, and one hand swamvaguely in his brother's direction while the other kept its fingersspread out upon the second favorites like a stranded starfish.

  "Yes, I'm afraid I've got very bad news for you, George."

  George's opaque eyes rolled slowly away from the races and fixed hisbrother's in dull interrogation.

  "Bertram and Viola are lost," John proclaimed.

  "Oh, that's all right," George sighed with relief. "I thought you wereserious for a minute. Crested Grebe at 4 to 1--yes, my theory that youought to back second favorites works out right for the ninth time insuccession. I should have been six pounds up to-day, betting with levelsovereigns. Tut-tut-tut!"

  John felt that his announcement had not made quite the splash it oughtto have made in George's deep and stagnant pool.

  "I don't think you heard what I said," he repeated. "Bertram andViola--_your_ children--are definitely lost."

  "I don't expect they are really," said George, soothingly. "No, no, notreally. The trouble is that not one single bookie will take on thissecond-favorite system. Ha-ha--they daren't, the cowards! Don't youbother about the kids; no, no, they'll be all right. They're probablyhanging on behind a van--they often do that when I'm out with them, butthey always turn up in the end. Yes, I should have made twenty-ninepounds this week."

  "Look here," said John, severely, "I want you clearly to understand thatthis is not a simple question of losing them for a few minutes or so.They have been lost now since the Zoo was closed this afternoon, and Iam not yet convinced that they are not shut up inside for the night."

  "Ah, very likely," said George. "That's just the kind of place theymight get to."

  "The prospect of your children's passing the night in the Zoo leaves youunaffected?" John demanded in the tone of an examining counsel.

  "Oh, they'll have been cleared out by now," said George. "You reallymustn't bother yourself about them, old boy."

  "You have no qualms, George, at the notion of their wandering for hoursupon the outskirts of Regent's Park?"

  "Now don't you worry, John. I'm not going to worry, and I don't want youto worry. Why worry? Depend upon it, you'll find them safe and sound inChurch Row when you get back. By the way, is your taxi waiting?"

  "No, I dismissed it."

  "I was afraid it might be piling up the twopences. Though I dare say apyramid of twopences wouldn't bother you, you old plutocrat. Yes, thesesecond favorites...."

  "Confound the second favorites," John exclaimed. "I want to discuss yourchildren."

  "You wouldn't, if you were their father. They involve me in far too manydiscussions. You see, you're not used to children. I am."

  John's eyes flashed as much as the melancholy illumination permitted;this was the cue for which he had been waiting.

  "Just so, my dear George. You are used to children: I am not. And thatis why I have come to tell you that the police have been instructed toreturn them, when found, to _you_ and not to me."

  George blinked in a puzzled way.

  "To me?" he echoed.

  "Yes, to you. To their father. Hasn't their luggage arrived? I had itsent back here this morning."

  "Ah, yes," George said. "Of course! I was rather late getting up thismorning. I've been overworking a bit lately, and Karl did muttersomething about luggage. Didn't it come in a taxi?"

  John nodded.

  "Yes, I remember now, in a prepaid taxi; but as I couldn't remember thatI was expecting any luggage, I told Karl to send it back where it camefrom."

  "Do you mean to say that you sent their luggage back after I'd taken thetrouble to...."

  "That's all right, old boy. I was feeling too tired to deal with anyproblems this morning. The morning is the only opportunity I get for alittle peace. It never occurred to me whose luggage it was. It mighthave been a mistake; in fact I thought it was a mistake. But in any caseit's very lucky I did send it back, because they'll want it to-night."

  "I'm afraid I can't keep them with me any longer."

  Though irony might be lost on George's cold blood, the plain fact mightwake him up to the actuality of the situation and so it did.

  "Oh, but look here, old boy," he expostulated, "Eleanor won't be homefor another five weeks. She'll be at Cardiff next week."

  "And Bertram and Viola will be at Earl's Court," said John, firmly.

  "But t
he doctor strongly recommended me to rest. I've been very seedywhile you were in America. Stomachic, old boy. Yes, that's the trouble.And then my nerves are not as strong as yours. I've had a lot of worrylately."

  "I'm sorry," John insisted. "But I've been called away on urgentbusiness, and I can't leave the children at Church Row. I'm sorry,George, but as soon as they are found, I must hand them over to you."

  "I shall send them down to the country," George threatened.

  "When they are once more safely in your keeping, you can do what youlike with them."

  "To your place, I mean."

  Normally John would have given a ready assent to such a proposal; butGeorge's attitude had by now aroused his bitter disapproval, and he wasdetermined that Bertram and Viola should be planted upon their fatherwithout option.

  "Ambles is impossible," he said, decidedly. "Besides, Eleanor is anxiousthat Viola shouldn't miss her series of Spanish dances. She attends thedancing-class every Tuesday and Friday. No doubt your landlady will lendyou Karl to escort her."

  "Children are very difficult in a boarding-house," George argued."They're apt to disturb the other guests. In fact, there was a littletrouble only last week over some game--"

  "Robinson Crusoe," John put in.

  "Ah, they told you?"

  "No, no, go on. I'm curious to know exactly what we missed at ChurchRow."

  "Well, they have a habit, which Eleanor most imprudently encourages, ofdressing up on Sundays, and as I've had to make it an understood thingthat _none_ of _my_ clothes are to be used, they are apt to borrow otherpeople's. I must admit that generally people have been very kind aboutlending their clothes; but latterly this dressing up has taken a moreambitious form, and on Sunday week--I think it was--"

  "Yes, it would have been a Sunday," John agreed.

  "On Sunday week they borrowed Miss Moxley's parrot for Robinson Crusoe.You remember poor Miss Moxley, John?"

  "Yes, she lent you five pounds once," said John, sternly.

  "Precisely. Oh yes, she did. Yes, yes, that was why I was so vexed abouther lending her parrot."

  "Why shouldn't she lend her parrot?"

  "No reason at all why she shouldn't lend it; but apparently parrots arevery excitable birds, and this particular one went mad under the strainof the children's performance, bit Major Downman's finger, and escapedby an upper window. Poor Miss Moxley was extremely upset, and the birdhas never been seen since. So you see, as I told you, children are aptto be rather a nuisance to the other guests."

  "None of the guests at Halma House keeps a tame calf?"

  George looked frightened.

  "Oh no, I don't think so. There's certainly never been the least sign ofmooing in the garden. Besides, I'm sure Mrs. Easton would object to acalf. She even objects to dogs, as I had to tell James the other daywhen he came to see me _very_ early about signing some deed or other.But what made you ask about a calf? Do you want one?"

  "No, I don't want one: I hate cows and calves. Bertram and Viola,however, are likely to want one next week."

  "You've been spoiling them, old chap. They'd never dare ask me for acalf. Why, it's preposterous. Yes, you've been spoiling them. Ah, well,you can afford it; that's one thing."

  "Yes, I dare say I have been spoiling them, George; but you'll be ableto correct that when they're once again in your sole charge."

  George looked doubtful.

  "I'm very strict with them," he admitted. "I had to be after they lostthe parrot and burned Mrs. Easton's rug. It was most annoying."

  "Yes, luckily I hadn't got any suitable fur rugs," John chuckled. "Sothey actually burnt Mrs. Easton's?"

  "Yes, and--er--she was so much upset," George went on, "thatshe's--well--the fact is, they _can't_ come back, John, because she'slet their room."

  "How much do you owe her?" John demanded.

  "Oh, very little. I think only from last September. Well, you see,Eleanor was out of an engagement all the summer and had a wretchedsalary at the Parthenon while she was understudying--theseactress-managers are awful harpies--do you know Janet Bond?"

  "Yes, I'm writing a tragedy for her now."

  "Make her pay, old boy, make her pay. That's my advice. And I know thebusiness side of the profession. But to come back to Mrs. Easton--I wasreally very angry with her, but you see, I've got my own room here andit's uncommonly difficult to find a private room in a boarding-house, soI thought we'd stay on here till Eleanor's tour was over. She intends tosave three pounds a week, and if I have a little luck over the sticksthis winter, we shall be quite straight with Mrs. Easton, and then thechildren will be able to come back in the New Year."

  "How much do you owe her?" John demanded for the second time.

  "Oh, I think it's about twenty pounds--it may be a little more."

  John knew how much the little more always was in George's calculations,and rang the bell, which fetched his brother out of the armchair almostin a bound.

  "Old boy, I never ring the bell here," he expostulated. "You see, Inever consider that my private room is included in the attendance."

  George moved nervously in the direction of the door to make his peacewith whoever should answer the unwonted summons; but John firmlyinterposed himself and explained that he had rung for Mrs. Eastonherself.

  "Rung for Mrs. Easton?" George repeated in terrified amazement. "But shemay come!"

  "I hope she will," replied John, becoming more divinely calm everymoment in the presence of his brother's agitation.

  A tangled head flung itself round the door like one of the minorcharacters in a Punch and Judy show.

  "Jew ring?" it asked, hoarsely.

  "Please ask Mrs. Easton to come down to Mr. Touchwood's sitting-room,"said John, seriously.

  The head sniffed and vanished.

  "I wish you could realize, old chap, that in a boarding-house far moretact is required than anywhere else in the world," George muttered inmelancholy apprehension. "An embassy isn't in it with a boarding-house.For instance, if I hadn't got the most marvelous tact, I should neverhave kept this room. However," he added more cheerfully, "I don'tsuppose for a moment that she'll come--unless of course she thinks thatthe chimney is on fire. Dash it, John, I wish you could understand someof the difficulties of my life. That's why I took up knitting. My nervesare all to pieces. If I were a rich man I should go for a longsea-voyage."

  George fell into a silent brooding upon his misfortunes and ill-healthand frustrated ambitions; John examined the stuffed fish upon the walls,which made him think of wet days upon the river and waiting drearily inhotel smoking-rooms for the weather to clear up. Then suddenly Mrs.Easton filled the room. Positive details of this lady's past werelacking, although the gossip of a long line of attenuated spinsters hadevolved a rich apocrypha. It was generally accepted, however, that HalmaHouse was founded partly upon settlements made in her favor long ago bya generous stockbroker and partly upon an insurance-policy taken out byher late husband Dr. Easton, almost on the vigil of his death, the onlysuccessful operation he ever performed. The mixed derivation of herprosperity was significantly set forth in her personal appearance: sheeither wore widow's black and powdered her face with pink talcum or shewore bright satins with plumed hats and let her nose shine: so thatalthough she never looked perfectly respectable, on the other hand shenever looked really fast.

  "Good evening, ma'am," John began at once, assuming an air ofGrandisonian courtesy. "My brother is anxious to settle his account."

  The clouds rolled away from Mrs. Easton's brow; the old Eve glimmeredfor a moment in her fierce eye; if he had been alone with her, Johnwould have thought that she was about to wink at him.

  "I hear my nephew and niece have been taking liberties with your rug,"he went on, but feeling that he might have expressed the last sentencebetter, he hurriedly blotted the check and with a bow handed it to theproprietress. "No doubt," he added, "you will overlook it this time? Iam having a new rug sent to you immediately. What--er--skin do youprefer? Bear? I mean to say, t
he rug."

  He tried to think of any other animal whose personality survived inrugs, but could think of none except a rabbit, and condemning theambiguity of the English language waited in some embarrassment for Mrs.Easton to reply. She was by this time so surely convinced of John'sinterest in her that she opened to him with a trilling flutter ofcomplacency like a turkey's tail.

  "It happened to be a bearskin," she murmured. "But children will bechildren. We oughtn't to forget that we were all children once, Mr.Touchwood."

  "So no doubt," John nervously continued, "you will be glad to see themwhen they come back to-night. Their room...."

  "I shall give orders at once, Mr. Touchwood."

  He wished that she would not harp upon the Mr. Touchwood; he seemed todetect in it a kind of reproachful formality; but he thanked her andhoped nervously she would now leave him to George.

  "Oh dear me, why the girl hasn't lit the fire," Mrs. Easton exclaimed,evidently searching for a gracious action.

  George eying his brother with a glance between admiration anddisquietude told his landlady that he thought the fire smoked a little.

  "I shall have the chimney swept to-morrow," she answered as grandly asif she had conferred a dukedom upon John and an earldom upon George.

  Then with a special smile that was directed not so much toward thesuccessful author as toward the gallant male she tucked away the checkin her bodice, where it looked as forlorn as a skiff upon the tumultuousbillows of the Atlantic, and went off to put on her green satin fordinner.

  "We shall all hope to see you at half-past seven," she paused in thedoorway to assure John.

  "You know, I'll tell you what it is, old chap," said George when theywere alone again. "_You_ ought to have taken up the commission businessand _I_ ought to have written plays. But thanks very much for tiding meover this difficult time."

  "Yes," said John, a little sharply. "Your wife's current account wasn'tflowing quite strongly enough, was it?"

  "Wonderful woman, Mrs. Easton," George declared. "She has a keen eye forbusiness."

  "And for pleasure too, I should imagine," said John, austerely. "But geton your coat, George," he added, "because we must go out and inquire atall the police stations in turn for news of Bertram and Viola. We can'tstop here discussing that woman."

  "I tell you the kids will be all right. You mustn't get fussy, John.It's absurd to go out now," George protested. "In fact I daren't. I mustthink of my health. Dr. Burnham who's staying here for a congress ofmedical men has given me a lot of advice, and as he has refused tocharge me a penny for it, the least I can do is to pay attention to whathe says. Besides, what are we going to do?"

  "Visit all the police stations in London."

  "What shall we gain by doing that? Have you ever been to a policestation? They're most uncomfortable places to hang about in beforedinner."

  "Get on your coat," John repeated.

  George sighed.

  "Well, if you insist, I suppose you have the right to insist; but in myopinion it's a waste of time. And if the kids are in a police station, Ithink it would teach them a dashed good lesson to keep them there forawhile. You don't want to encourage them to lose themselves every day. Iwish _you_ had half a dozen kids."

  John, however, was inflexible; the sight of his brother sitting in thataqueous room and pondering the might-have-beens of the race course hadkindled in his breast the fire of a reformer; George must be taughtthat he could not bring children into the world without being preparedto look after them. He must and should be taught.

  "Why, you'd take more trouble," he declared, "if you'd lost a foxterrier."

  "Of course I should," George agreed. "I should have to."

  John reddened with indignation.

  "Don't be angry, old chap. I didn't mean that I should think more of afox terrier. But, don't you see, a dog is dependent upon its collar,whereas Bertram and Viola can explain where they come from. Is it verycold out?"

  "You'd better wear your heavy coat."

  "That means I shall have to go all the way upstairs," groaned George.

  The two brothers walked along the hall, and John longed to prod Georgewith a heavy, spiked pole.

  "Going out, Touchwood?" inquired an elderly man of military appearance,who was practicing golf putts from one cabbage rose to another on theBrussels carpet.

  "Yes, I'm going out, Major. You know my brother, don't you? You rememberMajor Downman, John?"

  George left his brother with the major and toiled listlessly upstairs.

  "I think I once saw a play of yours, Mr. Touchwood."

  John smiled as mechanically as the major might have returned a salute.

  "_The Fall of Nineveh_, wasn't it?"

  The author bowed an affirmative: it was hardly worth whiledifferentiating between Nineveh and Babylon when he was just going out.

  "Yes," the major persisted. "Wasn't there a good deal of talk about thescantness of some of the ladies' dresses?"

  "There may have been," John said. "We had to save on the dresses what wespent on the hanging gardens."

  "Quite," agreed the major, wisely. "But I'm not a puritan myself."

  John bowed again to show his appreciation of the admission.

  "Oh, no. Rather the reverse, in fact. I play golf every Sunday, and ifit's wet I play bridge."

  John wished that George would be quick with his coat.

  "But I don't go in much for the theater nowadays."

  "Don't you?"

  "No, though I used to when I was a subaltern. By gad, yes! But it wasbetter, I think, in my young days. No offense to you, Mr. Touchwood."

  "Distance does lend enchantment," John assented.

  "Quite, quite. I suppose you don't remember a piece at the old Prince ofWales? What was it called? Upon my soul, I've forgotten. It was acapital piece, though. I remember there was a scene in which theuncle--or it may not have been the uncle--no, I'm wrong. It was at theStrand. Or was it? God bless my soul, I don't know which it was. Youdon't remember the piece? It was either at the Prince of Wales or theStrand, or, by Jove, was it Toole's?"

  Was George never coming? Every moment would bring Major Downman nearerto the heart of his reminiscence, and unless he escaped soon he mighthave to submit to a narrative of the whole plot.

  "Do you know what I'm doing?" the Major began again. "I'm confusing twopieces. That's what I'm doing. But I know an uncle arrived suddenly."

  "Yes, uncles are often rather fidgety," John agreed. "Ah, excuse me,Major. I see my brother coming downstairs. Good-by, Major, good-by. Ishould like to have a chat with you one of these days about themid-Victorian theater."

  "Delighted," the Major said, fervently. "I shall think of that playbefore to-night. Don't you be afraid. Yes, it's on the tip of my tongue.On the very tip. But I'm confusing two theaters. I see where I've gonewrong."

  At that moment there was the sound of a taxi's arrival at Halma House;the bell rang; when George opened the door for John and himself to passout, they were met by Mrs. Worfolk holding Viola and Bertram tightly,one in each hand.

  "I told you they'd turn up," George said, and immediately took off hisovercoat with a sigh of relief. "Well, you've given us a nice hunt," hewent on with an indignant scowl at the children. "Come along to my roomand explain where you've been. Good evening, Mrs. Worfolk."

  In their father's sitting-room Bertram and Viola stood up to take theirtrial.

  "Yes," opened Mrs. Worfolk, on whom lay the burden of narrating themalefactors' behavior. "Yes, I've brought back the infant prodigals, anda nice job I've had to persuade them to come quiet. In fact, I never hadsuch a job since I took my poor sister's Herbert hollering to thehospital with a penny as he'd nearly choked himself with, all throughhim sucking it to get at some sweet stuff which was stuck to the edge.He _didn't_ choke, though, because I patted him all down the street thesame as if I'd been bowling a hoop, and several people looked at me in avery inquisitive way. Not that I ever pay attention to how people looks,except in church. To
begin with, the nerve they've got. Well, I mean tosay, when any one packs up some luggage and sends it off in a taxi,whoever expects to see it come back again almost at once? It camebouncing back, I do declare, as if it had been India rubber. 'Well,' asI said to Maud, 'It just shows how deep they are, and Mr. Touchwood'llhave trouble with them before the day's done. You mark my words.' And,sure enough, just as I'd made up my mind that you wouldn't be in to tea,rat-a-tat-tat on the front door, and up drives my lord and my lady asgrand as you like in a taxi. Of course, it give me a bit of a turn, notseeing you, sir, and I was just going to ask if you'd had an accident orsomething, when my lord starts in to argue with the driver that he'donly got to pay half fare for himself and his sister, the same as hisfather does when they travel by train. Oh, yes; he was going to pay theman himself. Any one would of thought it was the Juke of Wellington, tohear him arguing with that driver. Well, anyway, in the end, of course Ihad to pay the difference out of my housekeeping money, which you'llfind entered in the book. And then, without so much as a blink, my lordstarts in to tell how they'd gone into the Small Rat's House--"

  "Cats," interrupted Viola, solemnly.

  "Well, rats or cats, what does it matter, you naughty girl? It wasn't ofrats or cats you were thinking, but running away from your poor uncle,as you perfeckly well know. Yes, indeed, sir, they went into this smallhouse and dodged you like two pickpockets and then went careering out ofthe Zoo in the opposite direction. The first taxi that came along theycaught hold of and drove back to Church Row. 'But your uncle intendedfor you to go back to your father, Mr. George, in Earl's Court,' Iremarked very severely. 'We know,' they says to me, laughing like twohyenas. 'But we don't want to go back to Earl's Court,' putting in agreat deal of rudeness about Earl's Court, which, not wanting to getthem into worse trouble than what they will get into as it is, I won'trepeat. 'And we won't go back to Earl's Court,' they said, what's more.'We _won't_ go back.' Well, sir, when I've had my orders given me, Iknow where I am, and the policeman at the corner being a friend ofElsa's, he helped; for, believe me or not, they struggled like twoconvicks with Maud and I. Well, to cut a long story short, here theyare, and just about fit to be put to bed on the instant."

  John could not fancy that Eleanor had contrived such an elaboratedisplay of preference for his company, and with every wish to supportMrs. Worfolk by an exhibition of avuncular sternness he could only smileat his nephew and niece. Indeed, it cost him a great effort not to takethem back with him at once to Hampstead. He hardened himself, however,and tried to look shocked.

  "We wanted to stay with you," said Bertram.

  "We wanted to stay with you," echoed Viola.

  "We didn't _want_ to dodge you in the Small Cats' House. But we had to,"said Bertram.

  "Yes, we had to," echoed Viola.

  "Their luggage _'as_ come back with them," interrupted Mrs. Worfolk,grimly.

  "Oh, of course, they must stay here," John agreed. "Oh, unquestionably!I wasn't thinking of anything else."

  He beckoned to Bertram and Viola to follow him out of the room.

  "Look here," he whispered to them in the passage, "be good children andstay quietly at home. We shall meet at Christmas." He pressed asovereign into each hand.

  "Good lummy," Bertram gasped. "I wish I'd had this on the fifth ofNovember. I'd have made old Major Downman much more waxy than he waswhen I tied a squib to his coat."

  "Did you, Bertram, did you? You oughtn't to have done that. Though I canunderstand the temptation. But don't waste this on fireworks."

  "Oh no," said Bertram. "I'm going to buy Miss Moxley a parrot, becausewe lost hers."

  "Are you, Bertram?" John exclaimed with some emotion. "That shows a finespirit, my boy. I'm very pleased with you."

  "Yes," said Bertram, "because then with what you gave V we'll buy amonkey at the same time."

  "Good heavens," cried John, turning pale. "A monkey?"

  "That will be nice, won't it, Uncle John?" Viola asked, tenderly.

  But perhaps it would escape from an upper window like the parrot, Johnthought, before Christmas.

  When the children had been sent upstairs and Mrs. Worfolk had gone backto Hampstead, John told his brother that he should not stop to dinnerafter all.

  "Oh, all right," George said. "But I had something to talk over withyou. Those confounded children put it clean out of my mind. I had astrange letter from Mama this week. It seems that Hugh has got intorather a nasty fix. She doesn't say what it is, and I don't know why shewrote to me of all people. But she's evidently frightened about Hugh andasks me to approach you on his behalf."

  "What on earth has he been doing now?" asked John, gloomily.

  "I should think it was probably money," said George. "Well, I told youI'd had a lot of worry lately, and I _have_ been very worried about thisnews of Hugh. Very worried. I'm afraid it may be serious this time. Butif I were you, old chap, I should refuse to do anything about it. Whyshould he come to you to get him out of a scrape? You've done enough forhim, in my opinion. You mustn't let people take advantage of your goodnature, even if they are relations. I'm sorry my kids have been a bit ofa nuisance, but, after all, they are still only kids, and Hugh isn't.He's old enough to know better. Mama says something about the police,but that may only be Hugh's bluff. I shouldn't worry myself if I wereyou. It's no good for us all to worry."

  "I shall go and see Hugh at once," John decided. "You're not keepinganything from me, George? He's not actually under arrest?"

  "Oh, no, you won't have to visit any more police stations to-night,"George promised. "Hugh is living with his friend, Aubrey Fenton, at 22Carlington Road, West Kensington."

  "I shall go there to-night," John declared.

  He had almost reached the front door when George called him back.

  "I've been trying to work out a riddle," he said, earnestly. "You knowthere's a medicine called Easton's Syrup? Well, I thought ... don't bein such a hurry; you'll muddle me up ... and I shall spoil it...."

  "Try it on Major Downman," John advised, crossly, slamming the door ofHalma House behind him. "Fatuous, that's what George is, utterlyfatuous," he assured himself as he hurried down the steps.