It Began in Vauxhall Gardens

ONE

When Fenella Cardingly received the letter from her old friend Charles Trevenning she lay back in bed gently fanning herself with it and smiling as she did so.

Polly Kendrick, her personal maid and constant adorer, came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly, like a spaniel hoping for a walk or a titbit. Polly's treats were the pieces of gossip Fenella threw to her from time to time. Polly was good-hearted and grateful, but Fenella knew that not even her private affairs were held sacred by Polly. Polly must know everything; she gave faithful service in exchange for her share in her mistress's confidences.

Fenella, mischievous by nature, liked to keep Polly in suspense, so she continued to look round the ostentatiously luxurious bedroom, still smiling, still fanning herself with the letter.

The bed was a large one; Fenella herself was large and she liked her possessions to be in proportion. It was a modern bed; Fenella was modern. The back piece was inlaid with mother of pearl designs. In these could be seen nymphs—large nymphs of the same proportions as Fenella's own—and gods who bore a striking resemblance to some of the famous figures of the day; no shepherds these, but fine handsome gentlemen of dignity and poise. The sheets were of silk—pale blues or pale mauves; the quilt was of the same blue and mauve decorated with gold thread. The bed itself was set upon a dais and the steps which led up to this were carpeted in blue; there were heavy blue curtains which could be drawn, shutting off the steps and dais from the rest of the room. The walls about that alcove in which the bed was placed were covered with tapestry in which nymphs and gods, similar to those on the bed-back, were depicted. Once there had been mirrors where the tapestries now hung, but Fenella had had these taken away some years ago. She had told Polly—to whom she told most things—that when gentlemen came into the sanctum she could delude them into believing that they resembled the figures on the bed-back. They took on greater stature, she had declared, new virility; but the mirrors had lately proved a deterrent and the tapestries were so much more effective. "You go on," said Polly at that, for her devoted affection made up for her lack of respect, "it's your own figure that's made you take the mirrors away, Madam dear." Fenella had laughed and not denied it. She was growing old; but there was still much in life to delight her; her life was as rich and colourful as her establishment.

In the bedroom there were many vases and statues—all presents from admirers—and every object was of high value. The painted ceiling was decorated with nymphs and gods similar to those already in evidence.

To Polly—child of the slums of St. Giles's—the house of Fenella Cardingly was an exotic palace over which Madam reigned as supreme Caliph; but Polly was the Grand Vizier of especial powers; and Fenella's life was not more full of pleasure and excitement than was Polly's.

Polly was small—no more than four feet eleven inches in height; she was so thin that she resembled a child, except that her face betrayed her age; her features were small and wizened, but her close-set darting eyes were so bright that they gave her a look of intelligence while they betrayed her overwhelming inquisitiveness. Beside Fenella, five feet nine inches, with her large bust and hips, dark hair —which Polly declared grew darker every year—large round brown eyes, jewelled and clad in colourful garments of fantastic design, Polly was an excellent foil. Polly Kendrick and Fenella Cardingly lived in their magnificent world, and neither of them could imagine what life would be like without the other.

Fenella's carriage had run over Polly one day; this had happened at the time when Fenella had been disastrously married, and before she had reigned in her own right in the social world she had made her own. In those days Fenella had been the wife of Ralph Cardingly, and it was not until he died that she had found her own personality and had created this world of excitement, extravagance and impudence of which she was the undisputed queen.

To the poor waif of the slums whose daily lot had been starvation and bestiality, Fenella had become goddess-mistress; and to Fenella the loyalty of this poor little woman had become very precious indeed. From the beginning they had played an important part in each other's lives. Polly had been saved from a life of misery; Fenella had been goaded to greater daring in order to shine more brightly in the eyes of her slave.

And what excitement Polly glimpsed through the love affairs of their young ladies! They were hers, she considered, as much as Fenella's. All lived fantastically in Fenella's temple, for Fenella had, with Polly's help, created a fantastic world about them.

Fenella grew rich. She sold lotions for the beautifying of women, and concoctions to restore virility to men. Any member of either sex could trust Fenella. They could come to her temple unseen and leave it, as she said, new men and women. That she had a dressmaking establishment in the upper rooms of her large house was well known. Her young ladies—the six goddesses of grace, as she called them—wore the clothes designed in her workrooms when they mingled with her guests. They were all different types and she was constantly replacing them, for so many of her goddesses left her after a brief stay. Her temple was but a resting place, she was fond of saying.

She rarely went out nowadays, but when she did and she by chance saw a lovely girl in a shop, or even in the street, she would offer to take her in and train her. It was a great opportunity for those girls. To meet Fenella was to meet fortune. These girls who, had they not met Fenella, would have had little but poverty to look forward to, invariably found a protector when they were in Fenella's care and, if they were wise—and Fenella brought up her girls to be wise—they would learn how to protect themselves in readiness for that occasion when the protector no longer protected. There were other young ladies whose fathers paid considerable sums of money that Fenella might teach them poise, grace, and how to charm; and when these young ladies passed out of Fenella's charm school, which they would do by way of the entertainments she gave, they would invariably find the sort of husbands their parents wished for them.

It was typical of Fenella that she entwined the respectable with the not so respectable. She could be a duenna for young ladies of fortune whose parents had not the entry into society; and she could be procuress as regards her poorer beauties. She had her open dress salon and also her discreet trade in those commodities which people wished to buy in secret. In one of the rooms of this establishment was her Bed of Fertility. It cost a great deal of money to occupy the Bed of Fertility for one night. The room in which it was placed was very similar to that in which Fenella sat reading the letter. There were dais and rich curtains; and the tapestry which lined the walls depicted the progress of lovers through many stages. There were beautiful statues and pictures—all of lovers. Some, it was said, would pay the price of a night in that chamber merely to see the pictures. But, said Fenella, the bed was for the married who wished for children and had been disappointed in that respect. To sleep in it meant that almost certainly a child would be conceived. The motive behind Fenella's letting the apartment was a righteous one.

That was how it was in their domain over which she presided. Respectability by itself was dull; eroticism was revolting. But what a combination Fenella had to offer! Eroticism paraded side by side with respectability!

Now, watching her, Polly knew from Fenella's smile that something was about to happen. She waited patiently.

"Well," said Fenella, "why do you sit there?"

"Madam dear has had some news?"

"You will know soon enough."

"Oh ... so it's a new arrival."

"Who said so ?"

"Madam dear, you can't diddle Polly."

"You're an inquisitive old woman."

"Two years younger than yourself, Madam dear. So I wouldn't talk about old women if I was you."

"That's where you're wrong. You were born old; I was born to be eternally young."

"Don't you believe it, Madam dear. You look every bit of forty-five."

"Go away, you insect."

"First tell me what's in the letter?" begged Polly.

"Just to get rid of you then. Pour me some coffee."

"Cream, Madam dear? You're getting fatter, you know."

"I like my fat and I like my cream. Well, Polly, you shall know. We're to have a new young lady."

"Madam dear! When?"

"Soon, I think."

"And who is she?"

"A dear little bastard."

"Ah, one of them: "

"You remember the Cornishman ?"

"Yes, I remember him."

"We owe him a duty, Polly. He came here one day hoping to stay the night. I was in love with someone then—I forget who, but that is not the point ... except that he went away—the Cornishman, I mean—and became involved with a little seamstress. There was a child ... this child."

Polly made delighted clicking noises with her tongue.

"So we're responsible, eh?"

"He is sending her here. Melisande St. Martin. He reminds me that I helped to christen her."

"It's a pretty name."

"She might have been Millie but for me. Heaven knows what she might have been but for me."

"She would never have been born but for you ... according to you."

"I had her sent to a French convent. She is an educated young lady now."

"What are you going to do ... find a nice husband for her ?"

"We'll do our best, Polly. That's why he is sending her to us. She's to come here to learn dressmaking. If she's pretty we'll soon get her married. If she is not ... well then she can work in the sewing-rooms."

"That'll be seven of them. You never had seven before. I don't like sevens. We lived in number seven ... in Seven Dials. There was seventeen people in three attics and seven of 'em died of fever. My mother died having her seventh baby. ..."

"Don't be so superstitious, Polly."

"Why, you're as superstitious as any!"

"Never. There's a reason for everything. Always remember that."

Polly jerked her thumb upwards. "What about the bed then? What reason is there between them sheets, eh?"

"People go to the Bed of Fertility believing they will succeed. That's half the battle, Polly. Believe in getting something, and you're half way to having it. That's what I've done. Go and tell the girls they're to have a new little friend. But first bring me pen and paper and I will write to my dear friend at once, telling him that we are expecting his little Melisande."

Melisande was travelling first-class in the train which carried her across the country eastwards away from Cornwall. She felt bruised and bewildered, and there was growing within her a resentment against those people who had seemed to take her life in their hands and send her whither they wished. Was she to have no say in her own way of living ?

A thought had come to her that when she reached London she might run away, that she might not look for those people who would be meeting her there; she might tear up the paper with the address on it which she carried in her pocket; and she might never let any of them interfere with her again.

Had she been of a different nature she would have gone back to the Convent. She believed that was what Sir Charles had hoped she would do. How pleasant that would have been for him! He could have washed his hands of her—such a neat ending that would have been! She would not give him that satisfaction. Moreover how could she live as the nuns and the Mother Superior did? They had taken a brief look at life and had found it as disturbing and disillusioning as she had; they had decided to devote their lives to the service of God. But she was of a different nature. Life in the quiet Convent was even less attractive to her—she had to admit—than living on the defensive against wicked men.

"But one learns," she said to herself. "One learns to understand these wicked men. One learns how to fight them. Had I been wiser I should have been duped neither by Fermor nor by Leon. Had I been wiser I should have understood why Sir Charles came to the Convent and took me away. I should have known, when he did not acknowledge me as his daughter, that he loved his position and his reputation more than his own child. If I had known these things there would have been no shock, no disillusion.''

The strange fact which had emerged from her unhappy experience was that Fermor, the self-confessed villain, was no more to be despised than the others. These are the men, she decided, the creatures who made convents necessary, for if men were like saints there would be no need for holy women to shut themselves away.

Fermor was a wicked man, a would-be seducer; but she remembered that he had said he would rather be a bad man with a streak of goodness in him than a good man with a streak of badness. Perhaps Fermor's type appealed to her more than the hypocrites, and that was why she still thought of him with regret. Now she would admit that the happiest time at Trevenning had been when she was with him. If there was badness in him, there was also badness in her, for while she had enjoyed his company had she not known that he was betrothed to Caroline?

How right he had been when he had told her that time passed for her as it did for the lovely rose. Time had passed. She would never see him again; and she would admit, now that she was far removed from temptation, that she, not being good like the nuns, wanted to live in that gay world he could have shown her, to share with him that excitement which he had promised.

She could scarcely think clearly even now of the days between her discovery and her departure.

She had been bewildered, and when she was bewildered she was usually hasty. She would not have believed Leon guilty but for her knowledge of men which had come to her through Fermor and Sir Charles. Fermor had always laughed at her simplicity. And had she not seen Sir Charles, squirming when confronted with the truth, losing all nobility in that undignified fight to protect his reputation?

If she herself had done wrong she would hate to admit it perhaps; she would certainly seek to justify herself. But to deny one's own child! She would never be guilty of that.

And Leon ? She could not shut out the memory of his talking with such fire of what he longed to do. And the boy had stood between him and those desires. She could not believe that he had planned to murder Raoul. She believed that he had succumbed to temptation in a weak moment. She could picture it all so clearly; the raging winds, the storm, and the little boy—the spoilt little boy who would insist on going where he wanted to—running along the jetty and being blown over. To plunge in and try to save him would have been to risk Leon's own life; to leave him to drown was to realize all those dreams. So much money was involved. She could not forget his tortured face, his ready belief that people were talking of him ... surely before he could have known they were. Qui s'excuse s'accuse, the nuns used to say; he had excused and accused himself.

A week after the accident he had been seen swimming, by several people on several occasions in a quiet spot.

She was glad that he had gone away and that she had not been compelled to see him again. The note she had written to him was short and to the point.

Dear Leon, —I know now that you can swim. It seems that several people have seen you swimming. I realize that I have been very foolish. I did not understand you. I do now. The temptation was too great for you. You will understand why I do not think we should see each other again.

Melisande.

She had explained everything to Caroline; and she had asked both her and Sir Charles in no circumstances to tell Leon where she was.

She knew then that she was afraid of seeing Leon, afraid that he would somehow appeal to her pity and—as so many people seemed to do—arrange her future for her. There was one thing which was very clear to her. She must escape from Leon. She wanted to escape from Leon more than anything.

Now she must make a clean break with the past.

She thought then how strange her life was. She had lived close to the nuns, knowing them intimately; each day was like another; and then suddenly she had been whisked away to an entirely new life. Now she must go to another new life, a completely fresh set of people. The various sections of other people's lives must surely overlap.

Only yesterday she had said goodbye to Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker and the other servants, Xo Caroline, Fermor and Sir Charles. They had all appeared sad to see her go; and she had a feeling that they were sure—as she was—that they would never meet again.

Sir Charles had called her to his study soon after that sad encounter when she had told him of the servants' gossip. He had been stern, remote, almost as though he disliked her. He told her of the arrangements he had made for her; she was to go to the house of a dressmaker and learn the trade. It would be very useful to her, and Madam Cardingly was a clever woman who would look after her and teach her many things besides.

She asked no questions. She showed no interest. She was wishing she could run away.

He had tried to give her money before her departure and she had haughtily refused it. Now she realized that that had been foolish. She should have taken it—surely he owed her that!—and launched out on her own.

He did prevail upon her to accept a little. "You may need it during the journey, you know."

"I have a little money which I have saved while I have been here."

He had smiled pleadingly. "Do please take this. I should be so glad if you would... ."

And she had softened and accepted.

The train had crept into the station and here she was in London.

She alighted and looked about her. A porter came to her assistance because she had stepped out of a first-class carriage. She saw the notice: "Porters are not allowed to carry for third-class passengers." She shivered. Here was a further reminder of the position of the poor.

"I am being met here," she told the porter.

He touched his cap and, as she was about to pass on, a little woman came hurrying towards her. She resembled a witch, thought Melisande, with her small wizened face and her darting eyes.

"Now you're Miss St. Martin, I'll bet," said the little woman, grinning at her; and her face was transformed into a friendly one by that eager grin.

"Yes."

"Then you're my pigeon. I'm Polly Kendrick come to meet you."

"Polly Kendrick! I have not heard of you."

"No, you're expecting Madam Cardingly. Madam don't go out much. I've come in her place."

"It is a goodness."

"Ah, you're foreign. Madam was telling me. An educated young lady from France. And pretty too. Screaming cats! You're going to make the young ladies look after their beaux!"

"The young ladies!"

"We've got lots of 'em. Here, don't want to stand about, do we? I've got Madam's carriage waiting for us. Here, you," she said to a porter, "bring the lady's baggage. Now, come on. All the way from Cornwall, eh? And travelling alone? Hope no one tried to kidnap you. That would be a lark ... before you got to Madam's, wouldn't it?"

Melisande was smiling; there was something about this woman to make her smile. The eager interest had made Melisande feel that she was wanted.

They got into the carriage and the driver whipped up the horse.

Polly Kendrick did not stop talking. "Now I can see you proper. My word, you're a beauty, you are! Madam's going to like that.

Madam's got a weakness for the pretty ones." Polly nudged her. "So have I. Madam says she likes 'em because they're a reflection of her own youth; they're what she was once. I like them—she says —because they're what I never was. There's Madam for you. Full of that sort of talk. Clever, Madam is. The cleverest I ever struck. None like her. Never was. Never will be. Madam will look after you. Madam 'ull see you're all right. Madam's going to love having you with us ... it's them others as is going to get their pretty noses put out of joint. It makes me laugh. Miss Genevra with her baby blue eyes; Miss Lucie with her curves... . They're going to meet a rival. But that's life for you. Can't have it all your own way, can you? Now, what is your first name?"

"Melisande."

"It's pretty... . Madam christened you. You can trust Madam to find the right name."

"Madam christened me?"

"Oh yes, Madam christened you all right." Polly nudged and bent closer. "This is a secret. Your father came to see Madam, and she had another lover, so he went out and met your mother. She was a little dressmaker and your father met her at Vauxhall where she was being pestered. Well, your father fell in love with her and they had a little love nest. Result: little you."

"I ... I see."

"Didn't you know? Screaming cats and fighting dogs! My tongue runs away with me. Never mind. Keep it dark I told. But I think, don't you, dearie, it's best to know. I've had a good life and it's all on account of keeping my eyes and ears open. Madam says that's all very well, but it's opening my mouth, as well as me ears and eyes, that'll get me into trouble. There's Madam for you."

"And Madam christened me?"

"Why yes, because when you was born and your poor dear mother died, your poor dear father didn't know which way to turn. So Madam named you Melisande and had you sent to a convent in France. There's Madam for you!"

"So Madam has been a sort of foster-mother ..."

"Madam's foster-mother to the world. God bless her. But what am I going to call you, dearie? I know, Melly. That's pretty, ain't it? Little French Melly. Why, dearie, your eyes are green ... real green. None of our young ladies has real green eyes. You'll be the first."

"Please tell me of these people. I have no idea where I'm going. It is a bewilderment. I know that I am to go to Madam Cardingly to learn the dressmaking—though I do not think I shall be very good at the work."

"You ... dressmaking! With them eyes!"

"With these hands, I thought."

"Oh! I'll tell Madam that. Madam will like that. She likes the sharp retort. The gentlemen like them too ... as long as they're not too sharp like. They're as good as other things ... some other things ..." Polly went off into laughter again. "No, I expect Madam will want a pretty girl like you to show off the dresses. That's what her goddesses do. Of course, she wasn't sure what you'd be like. If you'd been like me ..." The thought sent Polly off into more laughter. "Well then, you'd have had to work with your hands all right. But being like you are ... your face is all you'll need."

"I do not understand this."

"Well, seeing we're nearly there, there won't be time to tell you. Madam's waiting to see you. She won't thank me for keeping you from her. She said to take you straight to her when we came in. You're to drink tea with her. Madam's very fashionable. She drinks tea in the afternoons as well as after dinner."

The carriage had drawn up in a quiet Georgian square. As they alighted Melisande looked up at a tall house with six steps leading to the wide porch, on either side of which were pillars decorated with intricate carvings. There were balconies on the first and second floors and on these balconies were flower-boxes at this time full of evergreen plants.

The door was opened by a man in livery.

"One of our new young ladies, Bonson," said Polly with a wink.

Bonson bowed and gave Melisande a warm smile.

"Come on, dearie," said Polly, "Madam don't like to be kept waiting."

On the hall floor was a red carpet which swept up the wide staircase. At the turn of the staircase was a tall window with a window seat facing the next flight. Here there was a statue of a beautiful woman with long curly hair hanging over her shoulders.

"A gentleman said it reminded him of Madam," said Polly. "That's why she keeps it there. He gave it her, of course."

"It's lovely. Is she,as lovely as that?"

"In her time, dearie; none like her. Time passes. That's a sad thought for you beauties. When I think of time passing I can't help laughing. Time can't take much from me. What you never have you never miss, so they say. But you miss it all right; what you can't do is lose it."

They had left the great hall with the hanging candelabra, the mirrors and the fine pieces of furniture, and had mounted the stairs.

"Madam's a one for mirrors," whispered Polly. "Though not so much now as one time. Here we are."

She flung open a door.

"Madam," she cried. "She's here. Our seventh and the loveliest of the lot."

Melisande was aware of splendour, of more thick carpets, of heavy furniture, of statues and huge ornaments, of heavy velvet curtains. There was a perfume in the air; there was a great mirror on one side of the room which made it appear larger than it was. Between the velvet curtains she caught a glimpse of the balcony and beyond it, the green of the square.

Fenella Cardingly was stretched on a chaise longue, her large body covered by a blue silk wrap; this robe was open at the throat to show the beginning of a magnificent bust; a jewelled ornament of diamonds and sapphires held the cloth together. The black hair was elaborately dressed and there was flashing ornament on it. She held out a white hand, sparkling with gems, and said: "Welcome, my dear child! Welcome, little Melisande!"

Polly was pushing Melisande forward as though she were some treasure she had discovered and was eager to show.

"There," said Polly, "do you like her?"

"She's charming," said Fenella. "Kneel down dear, so that I can see you better."

Melisande felt as though she were kneeling to the Queen.

Fenella took her face in her hands and kissed her forehead.

"I hope you'll be happy, my dear."

"You are very kind," said Melisande.

"That's what we intend to be. And it's going to be a pleasure to have you. Polly, go and tell them to bring us some tea. I want to talk to Melisande for a little while."

Polly grimaced and hesitated. "Get along, you insect!" said Fenella.

Polly went out reluctantly.

"I expect she chattered during the ride from the station. Here, my dear, bring a chair and sit close to me so that we can have a chat."

Melisande obeyed.

"Are you surprised to find us as we are?"

"It is a great surprise. I thought it was to be a dressmaker's shop."

Fenella laughed. "So that's what he told you, eh? A dressmaker's shop."

"No, he did not tell me that. He said that I was to be with a dressmaker. I pictured the shop."

"Dresses are made in places other than shops, my dear. We call them salons. Why, you are pretty! You'll pay for dressing. You're going to do very well here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Cardingly."

"I am called Madam Fenella, dear. It is more suitable than Mrs. Cardingly. It is usually Madam for short. You look unhappy! Are you? Charles told me there had been a sad love affair in Cornwall."

Fenella waited. Then Melisande said: "I would rather not speak of it ... if you do not mind."

"Of course you don't want to speak of it. That'll be later. Don't fret about that now. What did your father tell you about us?"

"My father? You mean Sir Charles? He did not admit that he was my father."

Fenella laughed. "That was like him. He was always afraid of criticism. There's reason in it. If you are as bold as I am, you ignore other people's opinions. If not, you bow to them."

"You know that he is my father then?"

"That is precisely the reason why he has sent you to me. He wants me to look after you."

"And you...?"

"My dear, I said I would do anything in my power for Charles, but now I have seen you I would add ... and for you. You are of great interest to me."

"I think I know why."

"Polly?"

"She talked to me."

"Trust Polly! I often threaten that one day I'll have her set on in a dark alley and have her tongue cut out. Don't look shocked, dear. I wouldn't do it really. But her tongue is an embarrassment to her as well as to me. Here we live in our own special little world. It is a happy world, and we are a happy family in it. We're a large family. You will soon meet my other girls. I have my little seamstresses and my goddesses. You'll be one of the goddesses. We mustn't strain those lovely eyes or prick those pretty fingers. Men don't like pricked fingers, dear, though it shows industry. But industry is not what most men are looking for—except of course the industrialists, and we don't receive many of that sort here."

"But if it is dresses I am to show, is it not the ladies who will see them?"

"There'll be ladies and gentlemen to look, dear; and the ladies always like dresses that the gentlemen look at longest—though, of course it is not really the dresses the men are looking at. That is something ladies never seem to understand. You'll do well here, I know."

"Please tell me what my duties are?"

"Chiefly to show the dresses. You shall help in the workroom too ... but that is only if you have an aptitude."

"But shall I be of use ... if I am not good with the needle?"

"Sewing is a poorly paid trade, my dear. Showing dresses needs more skill."

"I am afraid I am not skilled at all."

"Stand up, my dear. Now walk across the room. That's right. Head erect. Genevra will teach you how to walk. You have natural grace and that is a good thing. There'll be a few tricks to learn."

"You mean, Madam, that I may earn my living by walking about!"

Fenella nodded.

"But that seems to me an easy way of earning the living."

"My dear child, often what appears to be the easiest way of earning a living brings in the biggest spoils. Look at me. I spend a good deal of time on this couch, but I earn a living. The best way to gain a living in this world is to let others earn it for you. That is what clever people do. That is what you may learn to do. Who knows!" Fenella laughed and stopped to say: "Here comes the tea."

It was wheeled in by Bonson.

"Will you pour, dear?" said Fenella. "Then we can be quite alone. Cream for me, please."

Melisande's hands were not too steady as she poured and passed the cup to Fenella.

Fenella was watching intently. What grace! What beauty! she thought. And even the dress is charming.

Fenella found young girls enchanting. Planning their future was like planning her own. They made her feel young again. And here was a charming girl, quite the most beautiful of all her beautiful girls, and what an interesting history! The daughter of a rather staid old Cornish gentleman, and the result of brief folly in his youth. It was romantic and amusing—two qualities which appealed to Fenella.

"You are bewildered," she said. "It is all so strange ... and so different from what you expected. Never mind. That's a matter for rejoicing. Did you expect me to be a terrible old woman who would make you sew thousands of stitches every day and stand over you with a stick if you should fail ?"

"I was afraid. You see, I am not good at the sewing. Although I make very good flowers. I made this one on my dress."

"It's effective. That helps the dress. I can see you will be useful in our workrooms too. You are going to be very useful. You will be happy here, I know. I knew it as soon as I saw you. You remind me of what I was at your age. I was bigger, of course; and our colouring is different; but there is something about you. ... I want you to settle in ... cosily. One of the girls will show you round. We entertain often, and now that I have met you I know that you will grace our evening parties. In the showroom you shall try on our dresses and we shall see what suits you. We shall dress you and you shall mingle with our guests. The result will be that many women will want to buy the gown that you are wearing. Worn by you these gowns will look so beautiful that they will not believe the beauty comes from you; they will think it is mainly due to the gown."

"It sounds as though this will not be real work."

"You'll see. You will find our menage a little different from Trevenning, I don't doubt. If there is anything you don't understand, you must come to me. You will share a room with three other girls. I am sorry you can't have a room to yourself. This is a big house but we are a big family. Genevra, Lucie and Clotilde will be your room companions ... for the time being. Lucie will soon be going. She is to marry. Sooner or later they all marry. I can't keep my girls. Do you know anything about politics?"

"No ... or very little."

"Then you must learn more. You must learn about art, poetry and music. There is much conversation in my salon, and it is better for a girl to be intelligent and beautiful. She does better for herself. Genevra is a very beautiful girl, but she knows very little, and she will not or cannot learn ... what I would have her learn; yet she has a natural cunning which she uses instead. She can look after herself."

"Do they know that I am ... the unaccepted daughter of Sir Charles Trevenning?"

"They do not know his name, dear. It is wiser not to tell. You can never be sure into whose ears the information will fall. They'll know you're illegitimate. Clotilde is the illegitimate daughter of a lady of high rank. Her mother asked me to take her ... much as your father did. Lucie is another ... although not so highly placed and the daughter of a gentleman and a village girl. She is to marry with her father's consent. We are delighted with Lucie. My girls find what they want in my establishment, and that is what I want."

"You are very kind, I can see."

"Oh, I have been fortunate. I like to share my good fortune. I teach my girls to be self-reliant. When I was a girl of your age I was married. I had a fortune and what I thought was a fine future. My husband was unfaithful to me and, worse still, he spent all my money."

"I cannot think why any women wish to marry."

"Most wish it, my dear; some because they are fools; others because they are wise. The fools long for a man to protect them; the wise long for a man whom they can govern. Petticoat government, my dear, is what I like to teach my girls; how to rule the world of men. The essence of the power which we wield is our secrecy. The only way to subdue masculine egoism is never to offend masculine vanity by letting it be known that you are in control. It is a simple method when dealing with simpletons. Half the world is made up of rulers; the other half, of slaves. You must decide to which half you are going to belong."

"This is all very strange to me. I have never heard anyone talk like this before."

"You have lived with nuns."

"And they hate men. They shut themselves away from them."

"I don't hate men; I like them. I understand them. In fact I'm very fond of them. But I never let my fondness blind me to their weakness. Consider us and consider them. We let them think we are vain. We are the ones who are continually peeping into mirrors, who are concerned about gowns and ornaments. Poor souls! They call that vanity when they feel they themselves are so perfect that they need little adornment. But you will learn. When you have finished tea I am going to ring for one of the girls to show you your room. They will help you to dress and, unless you feel too tired—or would rather not—you may come to the salon this evening. What clothes have you? Have you a suitable gown for evening wear?"

"I have one for special occasions. My ... Sir Charles bought it for me when we were in Paris."

"Is it as becoming as that one?"

"It is beautiful, but I have had few occasions to wear it."

"Let Genevra see it and she will tell you if it is suitable for the salon. If it is, and you wish to let them bring you down, you may come. But if you would prefer to stay in your room and rest after your journey, please do so. It will be necessary for you to be discreet in the salon. We will say that you are convent-bred, which is true, of course; you have come from the country because your family feel that you should not stay there where there are so few opportunities of meeting people. What do you know of literature ?"

"I have read Pilgrim's Progress and some of Jane Austin's novels while I was in the Convent. When I was in Cornwall I read Sartor Resartus and the Last Days of Pompeii"

Fenella grimaced. "No Byron?"

"No ... no Byron."

"You must be very quiet to-night ... if you come down. After all, you are French. You can pretend you don't understand if conversation gets beyond you. Genevra uses her impudence as a defence against her ignorance. At first you can pretend not to understand the language. To-morrow I shall set you a course of reading. I can see you are intelligent and will quickly learn. You should be able to discuss the works of Tennyson, Peacock, Macaulay, and this new man Dickens. As to politics we're predominantly Whig sympathizers here. Negro emancipation, Income Tax and the Chartists are matters of which, I suppose, you know very little?"

"Very little indeed, I'm afraid."

"Well, at the moment you will become delightfully French if these subjects turn up. I doubt whether many will feel equal to conducting a conversation in French on such subjects. I feel very strongly about the working conditions of women and children in the mines and factories. We have some old Tories who argue fiercely about that. You ask what your duties will be. You must keep up to date with current affairs. My young ladies must not only be beautiful; they must be entertaining. Now, my dear, I can see that I am bewildering you. I am going to ring for one of the girls to show you your room. She will show you the house and tell you all you need to know. Go and pull the bell-rope, will you?"

Melisande obeyed, and the summons was answered by a maid who was asked by Fenella to find either Miss Clotilde, Miss Lucie or Miss Genevra, and send her along.

In a short time there was a knock on the door and there entered one of the most beautiful girls Melisande had ever seen.

She was fair-haired and her eyes were a startling blue; she had a small piquant face and a slightly tiptilted nose; while she was slender there was a hint of the voluptuous in her figure; and there was about her an air of suppressed amusement.

"Ah!" said Fenella. "Genevra!"

"Yes, Madam?" The accent was unexpected; in it was the unmistakable tang of the London streets.

"Genevra, here is Melisande St. Martin who is going to be with us. I want you to look after her ... show her round ... see that she is comfortable."

"Why yes, Madam." She smiled at Melisande.

"Take her along now, Genevra."

Melisande followed Genevra.

Polly came in as soon as Melisande had left.

Fenella smiled ironically. "Well?"

"Talk about a little beauty!" said Polly. "I bet she reminded you of what you were ... like all the charmers do."

"No insolence now!"

"What are your plans for her?"

"He wants me to find the right sort of husband for her—a lawyer would be his choice."

"He don't look all that high, does he?" said Polly sarcastically.

"Don't forget he's a countryman. He's got a keen sense of the fitness of things. She's a girl of obscure birth, and therefore she's suitable only for a professional gentleman—a barrister say. There'll be a nice dowry for her—a great attraction."

"And a nice picking for us, Madam dear?"

"We'll be paid for her board and lodging while she is here, and we'll be given a useful sum when we have delivered the husband."

"It beats me how you do it," said Polly admiringly. "No one but you could. Look at you! Nobody could call you a prude, Madam dear; and yet country gentlemen with nice ideas put their daughters into your charge. Young ladies from convents mix with harlots ... for that Kate and Mary Jane are no less ..."

"Now, Polly, this is where you show your mediocrity. Moderation is always desirable. Put girls in a nunnery and you'll find some of them run away—and amok. Think—but how can you know of such things? But take it from me that in the nunneries there are women dreaming of lovers—and in the past there were orgies, positive orgies—simply because of repression. And in the brothels harlots sigh for the singing of anthems and the absolution of sins. No, no Polly, life is made up of too many ingredients to present a simple concoction. To savour it we must be wise ... we must relish all flavours. Look at me. I have had my lovers ..."

"I'll say you have!" said Polly admiringly.

"I have had my lovers, and because I know men of all kinds in all their moods, I am more suited to look after the daughters of gentlemen than a Mother Superior who knows nothing of the world. We should temper austerity with voluptuousness, virtue with broadmindedness.''

"Now, Madam dear, I am not one of your circle with advanced views. I'm not a gentleman buying a powder to make the ladies love me, nor a lady wanting lotions to knock years off my age. I'm not a sterile old couple wanting a night in your magic bed."

"Be silent, you ugly old woman. What do you know of such things? How could you be a gentleman in search of virility! And let me tell you no amount of lotions would be of any use to you; and what would be the good of knocking years off your age! You were as repulsive at fourteen as you are at forty. As for a night in my magic bed—who in their right senses would want to perpetuate you?"

Polly sat down on the chaise longue, her eyes shining with affection and adoration.

Fenella smiled back at her.

They were completely delighted with the fascinating world which they had created. They were content with each other.

Melisande had been at the house in the square for a week. It was the most extraordinary week of her life; it was just what she needed to help her to forget her experiences in Cornwall. Nothing could have been more different from Trevenning than the house of Fenella Cardingly. It seemed that Fenella had said: "Such and such a thing is normal; therefore my house will do the opposite." That made an exciting if bewildering manage.

The room Melisande shared with the three girls was a large and airy one overlooking the square. It was on the third floor of the tall house; there were two other floors above it, as well as the attics where the servants had their sleeping quarters. In the room were four narrow beds with coloured sheets and counterpanes—greens and mauves. A long mirror was fixed on the wall, and there were others on the dressing tables. The chairs and commode were eighteenth century and elegant; the rugs of mauve and green. The room always smelt of mingling perfumes used by the young ladies who inhabited it.

These young ladies accepted Melisande as one of them. Their numbers, they said, were always being depleted and made up again. Few girls stayed with Madam long. They married or went away for other reasons. The girls laughed when they said 'other reasons.' They were continually laughing at something which was said.

Exciting and amusing things happened to these girls; indeed everything that happened to them seemed to be amusing and exciting. Melisande had never known there were such people. They had no modesty, it seemed. They would walk about the room wearing nothing but a pair of shoes and a necklace, admiring themselves in the long mirror or listening to the comments of the others.

In the Convent when one of them had taken a bath, Melisande remembered, they had been warned not to look at themselves. God and the saints were watching, they had been led to understand; and any sly peep would have been recorded against them. But these girls were frankly curious about themselves and others; and when Melisande told them of the Convent attitude to nudity they were amused and laughed heartily.

"Well," said Genevra, who never minced her words and was not quite a lady, "if old Sir Frances didn't like to look at me, he'd be the first man who didn't."

"Saint Francis," corrected Lucie, who, as the daughter of a wellborn man and a village girl, chose to remember the paternal parent rather than the other.

Genevra retorted: "Saints or Sirs, you can't trust any of them. I reckon those old nuns weren't worth looking at any way."

After those bewildering evenings, when Melisande mingled with Fenella's guests wearing dresses which had been selected for her, the girls would lie in their beds talking of the evening. They talked with a frankness which at first amazed Melisande. They were frank about themselves. Melisande learned that Genevra had known terrible poverty in her early days. Genevra made no secret of her beginnings. Her mother, as a girl, had worked in a factory from the early hours of the morning until late at night; she had been shaken out of her sleep of exhaustion to start work again, beaten as she was dragged along to the factory, for she was ready to fall asleep on her feet; she had stood at her work through long hours, brutally treated by the overseer who had given her two children—Genevra and Genevra's young brother.

One morning, in the attic which had been their home, Genevra had awakened to find her mother still in bed; she had shaken her and been unable to awaken her when she had realized with cold surprise that she was dead. Genevra could not feel sorrow. Her mother had ill-treated her. The overseer, who sometimes visited the attic had begun to notice the extraordinary beauty of Genevra. Genevra had no great horror of incest—nor even any knowledge of it as such—but she was terrified of the overseer. She was conscious of the sudden change of manner in a man from whom hitherto she had received nothing but blows.

She knew that her brother had been sold, when he was three, to a master of chimney sweeps. One thing Genevra would never forget as long as she lived was the piteous crying of her brother as he was taken away. She had seen him once afterwards—that was a year later—deformed, grimed with soot, and burned on his arms and legs. That was her brother—her little brother who to her had seemed so pretty when he was a year old and she was three. • "Something happened to me," said Genevra. "Don't ask me what. I only knew that whatever happened to me, I wasn't going to work in a factory."

But Genevra took her tragedy lightly. Her life was a gay one. Others suffered in this terrible world, yes; but not Genevra; and if Genevra did better than others it was not due to luck, it was due to Genevra and her own unbounded energy and superior powers.

She talked more than the others.

"When we were in the attic a lady used to come sometimes. She'd bring us soup and bread. We used to have to say after her:

'Though I am but poor and mean I will move the rich to love me If I'm modest neat and clean And submit when they reprove me.'

"I never forgot that. I made up my mind I'd make the rich love me. There's a bit of sense in it, but like most things they tell you, you have to make it suit yourself.''

"You moved the rich to love you!" said Clotilde, and they laughed again.

"I'm clean, I'm sure," said Genevra. "Could you call me neat?"

"No," said Lucie. "Gaudy."

"And modest?"

"He whom we're thinking of wouldn't look for modesty. Do you submit when he reproves you?"

"But he reproves me for not submitting."

The 'rich' to whom they referred was a noble lord with a vast estate in the country. He had taken one look at Genevra and had found her enchanting; he had pursued her ever since. Genevra kept the little company informed of the progress of her love affair.

Before she met Fenella her name had been Jenny; but there were too many Jennys, said Fenella; and she christened her Genevra. Jenny had picked Fenella's pocket one day when Fenella had paid a visit to a mercer's shop. There had been Jenny near the entrance of the shop—a very hungry Jenny, pausing to look at the beautiful lady descending from her carriage and wondering whether there was a handkerchief she could quickly steal and take along to a man in the rookeries who would pay for such things. Jenny had been caught, but Fenella had intervened and had her brought to stand before her while she sat in the shop. Jenny, never at a loss for words, had poured the whole story into what her quick wits told her would be a sympathetic ear. Fenella heard of the overseer and his unwholesome advances, the brother crippled by his employers, and Jenny's present hunger.

Fenella had said they were to let her go and that she might present herself at the house in the square. Jenny had done this, had received a bath and delightful clothes to wear. Fenella had then changed her name to Genevra, and to Fenella Genevra gave her love and loyalty. To Fenella she owed all, including her friendship with the noble lord. She had persuaded the rich, in the forms of Fenella and the lord, to love her; and in the first place it had been due to being neither modest, neat nor clean, nor even submitting when reproved, for she had stood glowering at Fenella in the shop, until she realized that Fenella's intentions were kindly.

Lucie's story was different. She had been brought up quietly in the country with a governess. She had been two months with Fenella, and here she had been introduced to an earnest young man who would marry her.

Clotilde's story was different again. Clotilde was the daughter of a lady of high rank and her footman. She had been brought into the lady's house and had spent part of her childhood there. Clotilde was lighthearted; she lacked Lucie's desire to stress her high-born streak, and Genevra's pressing need to set poverty behind her for ever. Clotilde fell in and out of love with speed; there was no restraint in Clotilde. Had she not been partly of noble birth, and had not regular sums of money been paid to Fenella by her mother, she would have joined Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane in their apartment from which only Genevra's special attractions and strength of character had saved her.

The segregation of those three was not complete. At certain times they all mingled freely, but the girls understood that they had come to Fenella in different ways. Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane adored Fenella. She had saved them, as Genevra said, from what was nearer a fate worse than death than some things she had heard so described. She had saved them from drudgery and starvation, from the appalling misery of the days of famine which made up those hungry forties. She had found them—one in a shop, one in a sewing-room, and another in the streets—poor thin scraps of female life; yet in them Fenella had seen that beauty which delighted her. So she had brought them into her house. She fed them; she gave them a little education; and they showed off her dresses. Fenella could not guarantee their marriage; marriage was not for such girls unless they were exceptional. Occasionally they entertained and were entertained by gentlemen, and that was very pleasant for the girls and the gentlemen. Fenella received benefits from such encounters, as did the parties concerned. It was an amicable arrangement and considered by them all far better than the starvation and drudgery which the factories and workshops had to offer. Fenella's girls grew plump and happy. Said Fenella: "Better to sell their virtue than their health. Better to sell what they have to sell to a lover than to an industrialist. They eat, sleep and live comfortably in my house, which is more than they could do by working in a factory."

Genevra belonged to their category, but Genevra had shown herself possessed of especial gifts. Genevra had the attention of a noble lord, and Fenella was amused and delighted to see how a cockney girl of only that little education which she had been able to give her, could score in the battle between the sexes.

For Melisande the days in Fenella's house had been pleasant, the evenings somewhat alarming.

Each day they would rise late after one of the maids had brought them cups of chocolate. They would lie in bed talking of the previous night's entertainment with their usual frankness. Afterwards they would read books which Fenella had chosen for them. Sometimes luncheon would be taken with Fenella, who would talk politics and literature or discuss the previous night's gathering. In the afternoon they would take the air in the Park, riding there in Fenella's carriage or walking about on the gravel paths with Polly as their chaperone. There they often met gentlemen who had attended Fenella's social evenings. When they returned they would go to the dress salon and the dress they should wear that night would be selected for them. Then they would retire to their rooms and be helped to dress by two French maids—servants of Fenella's—who were immediately attracted by Melisande, gave her the best of their attention and delighted to talk French with her.

Melisande was recovering from the shocks she had received during those last days in Cornwall. Her natural high spirits had risen to the surface; she was adaptable and, just as she had quickly become the companion of Caroline, she was fast becoming the charming, vivacious and intelligent young woman Fenella intended she should be.

The nuns would have raised their hands in horror. Melisande herself wondered whether she was like a chameleon which took its colour from its background. Here she was, delighting in clothes, laughing with the girls, enjoying recounting her conquests as they did.

For, of course, they would not let her remain silent. They wheedled certain information from her although she had determined that these things should remain her secret. She had never been discreet at any time. Yet she did not tell them that Sir Charles was her father. She felt compelled to respect his desire for secrecy. But she told of Leon and of Fermor; and she felt that these girls, with what seemed to her their vast knowledge of the world, might help her to understand these two men.

"You must have had a lover," they insisted one morning as they lay in bed sipping their chocolate.

"I thought I was going to be married," she told them. "That was only a little while ago."

Genevra put down her cup of chocolate. "And you didn't tell us! What stopped it? Was he a duke or something?"

Lucie said: "Did his people stop it?"

But Clotilde merely waited patiently to hear.

Melisande then told the story of her meeting with Leon, his desire for freedom, the sudden death of little Raoul and the fortune Leon had consequently inherited.

Lucie cried: "A fortune? And you gave that up! You're not very clever, Melisande."

Genevra said: "You should have waited, Melly. You should have heard what he had to say."

Clotilde, her eyes looking—as they invariably did—as though she were brooding on intimacy with one of her lovers, said: "If you had really loved him, you wouldn't have gone away without seeing him. There was someone else, wasn't there?"

Melisande was silent; but they all began to chant: "Was there? Was there?"

"I don't know."

"But you must know," insisted Clotilde. "Though," she added, "it might be that you only know now ."

And then Melisande told them of Fermor, of the wickedness of him and the charm of him, of the proposition he had made while he was betrothed to Caroline, of the Christmas rose he had slipped under her door with the note written on his wedding night.

"He is a rogue," said Lucie. "You were wise to have nothing to do with him."

"Was he really as handsome as you say?" asked Genevra.

Clotilde answered for Melisande. "Not quite. She saw him with the eyes of love. It makes a difference."

"Tell me," said Melisande, "what should I have done?"

"Waited to ask Leon for his explanation, of course," said Lucie.

"Married him and gone to the plantation in—wherever it was," said Genevra.

"You should not have run away from the one you loved," murmured Clotilde.

And after that they began to talk of Fermor and Leon as they talked of their own lovers.

"But it won't be long," promised Genevra, "before you have others to choose from."

The salon in which Fenella entertained her guests was brilliant that night. The girls—as they so often did—were to join the company after dinner. There they would mingle with the guests, wearing the most spectacular dresses of Fenella's designers. Fenella's beautiful girls ranked with the food and wine as one of the attractions of her evenings.

There was nothing to warn Melisande that this evening was to be any different from others. It was true that she was wearing a wonderful dress—the most beautiful and daring she had yet worn. It had been chosen for her on account of its colour which was emerald green; it was of silk-faille with a pointed bodice, and even her small waist had to be more tightly laced than usual that she might fit it; the skirt was composed of masses of very fine black net through which ran a gold pattern, and this net covered the emerald green silk-faille; the bodice was very low-cut and her back, down to her waist, was bare apart from the flimsiest covering of black and gold net. The dress had been cut to accentuate every curve of the feminine form.

Genevra wore a similar dress in blue which matched her eyes. Lucie was demure in grey and Clotilde seductive in red. Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane would come down later if required.

As they went into the salon most of the guests turned to look at them. Fenella watched them from her throne-like chair. She could not make up her mind which dress she preferred—the green or the blue. It was strange that the green seemed simpler than the blue; or was it that each dress took something from the character of its wearer? Genevra was a girl in a thousand, pondered Fenella. It was just possible that she might marry her lord. But was she clever enough for that? It was a pity that Melisande had to be married to a barrister or someone of that stratum. She must select him soon and let him begin his courtship. Melisande must not know that it was arranged. There was a tilt to her chin which suggested that she might refuse to enter into such a relationship. No, the girl was simple and charming; she was a little bruised at the moment, and that would necessitate a careful approach. Genevra could safely look after herself. The slums of London produced hardier plants than did convents.

A young man was coming towards her. She did not recognize him; and she was certain that he had received no invitation from her to attend. Such intruders hardly ever annoyed her (although sometimes she feigned irritation, for boldness was a characteristic which she greatly admired) especially when they were as good-looking as this young man.

He was well over six feet in height. And what arrogance! What haughtiness! Yet there was a twinkle in the blue eyes. It was an impudent face but the arrogance was offset by the humour she saw in it. She warmed at once to the young man.

She held out her hand to him; he took it and put it to his lips. "Your humble servant !" he said.

She raised her strongly marked eyebrows. "I have not the pleasure, sir, I am very much afraid."

"You do not know me? But I know you. Who could be of London and fail to know its priestess of fashion and beauty?"

"Have done!" she said lightly. "And tell me on whose invitation you came here."

He put on an air of mock penitence. "Am I then unmasked so soon?"

"What have you to say for yourself?"

"What can the uninvited guest say except that he so longed for paradise that he determined to dash through any flaming swords that might attempt to keep him out."

"I can see," she said, "that you are a young man who knows how to make out a good case for himself. What is your name?"

"Holland," he said. "Is it too presumptuous for a man to visit his father's friends? My father has been a frequent visitor to your wonderful house."

"Bruce Holland," she said with a smile.

He bowed. "I am his son ... his only surviving son, Fermor Holland, at your service."

Fenella was beginning to enjoy herself. There was nothing she liked better than audacity, and she thought she was understanding why he was here, and longed to know if her surmise was correct. Her eyes went to a charming figure in a green dress.

"Fermor Holland," she repeated slowly. "Now I believe you recently became a husband."

He bowed to acknowledge that this was so.

"Have you brought your wife with you to-night?"

"Alas, she was unable to accompany me."

"Her good manners doubdess prevented her, since she was not invited."

"Doubtless," he agreed.

"Let me see ... she was the daughter of Sir Charles Trevenning... another of my friends, a dear Cornish squire."

"We are flattered that you are so interested in us, Ma'am."

"Ma'am!" she exclaimed. "That is for the Queen."

"You are a Queen," he said. "All-powerful, all-beautiful, Queen Fenella!"

"What a flatterer you are! You are not going to tell me that you came here to see me!"

"But I am."

"And whom else?"

"Whom else could the eyes perceive when they are dazzled by such surpassing beauty?"

"So you wish to renew your acquaintance with Mademoiselle St. Martin?"

He opened his eyes wide but he was speechless.

"I don't blame you," she went on. "She is charming. But she is not for you, my dear young man. You may stay this evening, but you must not come here again until I have consulted with your father-in-law. Now, go along, and remember ... I did not invite you here. You are here because you have committed the unpardonable sin of the uninvited guest. I do not see you. And you may not stay long. I believe I should forbid you to speak to Mademoiselle St. Martin. But I know that would be useless."

"Then I have your permission to seek her?"

Fenella turned her head away. "I'll be no party to this. You are not here at my invitation. You are a graceless young man. I can see that. Your father was the same. And it is solely on his account that I am not having you turned out. Now, go along and remember ... you must not stay long."

He bowed over her hand.

She watched him go, her eyes sparkling.

She thought: A charming young man! Amusing ... exciting. There are not many like him nowadays ... for men are not what they used to be.

He was standing before Melisande, and she was thankful that she was not alone. She was with a young man who had partnered her during the evening, as well as with Genevra and her lord and Lucie and her barrister.

"You look as if you've seen a ghost, Mademoiselle St. Martin," said Fermor.

"I... I had not expected to see you here," stammered Melisande. "I had no idea you knew Madam Cardingly."

"My father is an old friend of hers."

"Introductions needed," said Genevra in a whisper which could be heard by all.

Melisande tried to steady her emotions. She was excited, joyful and afraid. She knew in that moment why she had not seen Leon and asked for his explanation. It was because she was in love with Fermor.

She made the introductions. Genevra's eyes shone; Lucie lowered her lids over hers.

"I feel as though I know you well," said Genevra. "Melly has talked of you."

"I am doubly enchanted," he said. "It is so gratifying to be talked of."

"But how do you know what we have heard of you?" demanded Genevra.

"It must have been pleasant since you are so delighted to see me."

"It might be curiosity to see if you are as black as you've been painted. Teddy," she said to her lord, "you should prepare to be jealous. I like this Mr. Holland."

Lucie and the barrister, Francis Grey, greeted him politely, and he was warm and friendly towards them as he was to Genevra and Teddy, but he showed a definite coolness towards Melisande's partner.

Melisande said: "And Caroline ... is she here?"

"She could not come."

"What a pity! Perhaps next time?"

"Who knows?"

He could not take his eyes from her. She seemed quite different from the Melisande he had known in Cornwall. She looked older than seventeen; in Cornwall she had looked younger than her age. He believed she would be more vulnerable in this atmosphere of sensuous luxury.

They made a charming group—the three young girls in their gay dresses, the four young men in their evening dress of the latest fashion. Fenella, watching them, saw the tension between Melisande and Fermor and shrugged her shoulders, thinking: Ah well, I shall soon find her an eligible husband.

Melisande's present partner was a pleasant enough young man, but his position was hardly secure. He was a Peelite in the government, and Peel was going to fall over the Corn Laws. Fenella must not delay. The serpent—such a handsome, charming serpent—had entered Eden.

The young Peelite was talking earnest politics now. "Of course Sir Robert was right. Of course he'll come back. I know that his action has split the Party but ..."

"How charming you look," Fermor whispered to Melisande. "What luck ... finding you here!"

"Did Madam Cardingly invite you? She must have known ..."

"No, she did not invite me. I discovered where you were and, as soon as I made the discovery, that was where I had to be. I did not wait to be invited. I came, I saw Madam Fenella, and do you know, I believe my charm has conquered her. Or perhaps it is my obvious devotion. Who was it said, 'All the world loves a lover' ? Shakespeare, I believe. He usually knew what he was talking about. Well, here I am."

She ignored him and answered the man who had been her escort before Fermor had arrived. "I don't think he can come back. The Tories will never allow that."

"A man such as Sir Robert can do the seemingly impossible."

"Where there's a will, there's a way,

So they say ... so they say ..." sang Genevra.

"You combine wisdom with charm," said Fermor, eyeing Genevra with an appreciation which set Teddy's moustache bristling.

"Perhaps," said Genevra, "it is better to be born wise than beautiful. Beauty needs such wise handling if it is to flourish."

"It flourishes in the richest soil," said Teddy, "just as flowers do."

"You see how wise Teddy is!" said Genevra.

The politician was growing peevish. Melisande said: "How will you be affected when Lord Russell takes over?"

"Sir Robert will soon be back in his old position," insisted the young man.

"Mademoiselle St. Martin," said Fermor, "may I take you in to supper?"

"It is not yet supper time."

"Then may I have a few words with you ... alone? I bring important news. It is the sole reason for my being here."

She lifted her eyes to his face and he smiled boldly.

Genevra said: "Come along. We will disperse. Important news should not be allowed to wait. Come along, everyone. We will join you later when the important news has been imparted. I hope it's good news; is it?"

"I think so," said Fermor. "And I thank you for your tact which is almost as great as your wisdom and beauty."

Genevra made a mock curtsey and slipped her arm through that of Teddy who was clearly glad to be moving away from the arrogant man with the startlingly blue eyes. Lucie and Francis went with them; and the earnest politician had no help for it but to do likewise.

"Very clever, was it not?" said Fermor when they were alone.

"It is what I would have expected of you."

"I am glad you have such a high opinion of my cleverness."

"I suppose there is no news?"

"Why should you suppose that?"

"Because I have also learned to have a high sense of your duplicity."

"You have learned to speak English more fluently."

"I have learned a lot of things."

"I can see it. Soon your wisdom will equal that of the charming Genevra. Your beauty and charm already excel hers."

"Please ... I am not young any more."

"Have you grown so old?"

"One grows old Ipy experience ... not by years."

"You've hardened."

"That is good. Do you not think so? I am like a fish who has grown a shell; I am like a hedgehog with his prickles."

"I never saw anyone less like a shellfish or a hedgehog."

"It is a metaphor ... or is it a simile?"

"I can think of more attractive ones to fit you."

"Please, what is it that you have to tell me?"

"That I love you."

"You said you had important news."

"What could be more important than that?"

"To you? Your marriage perhaps."

He flicked his fingers impatiently. "Is there somewhere where we can talk in private?"

"There is nowhere."

"What about the conservatory?"

"It is not for us."

"Why not?"

"You must understand I work here. I show dresses. This dress I wear does not belong to me. I wear it so that it shall be admired and ladies of wealth wish for one like it. I do not entertain my friends in the conservatory."

"Not if they are exalted guests of your employer?"

"I have no instructions regarding you."

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"To work ... to earn my living, of course."

"Work! You call this work. What are all these girls? Don't you know? Do you think I don't know?"

"We show dresses. Some work in the showrooms."

He laughed. "I thought you had grown up."

"Sir Charles sent me here," she said.

"Indeed! That you might follow in your mother's footsteps?"

She flushed hotly and turned away. He caught her arm.

"You must forgive me," he said. "Remember you love me for my frankness ... among other things."

"I lave you! "

"Of course. I'm not a saint. I explained that. I don't offer you marriage; nor do I murder little boys for their fortunes."

"Be silent!" she said in a low voice. "And go away. Don't come here again to torment me."

"Not to torment, but to please you ... to make you happy. Do you really not know what this place is?"

She looked at him in silence.

"What innocence!" he exclaimed. "Is it real or is it feigned?"

"I do not understand what you are talking about. What do you mean ... about this place?"

"It is not a convent where holy nuns congregate, is it? How do the girls spend their time? On their knees asking for grace? Their methods are not those of nuns. You must know that. Oh, I am coarse and crude ... but I know you will forgive me."

"You upset everything. I was happy here. I believe I could have been happy at Trevenning ... but for you."

"You might have married your murderer. Would you have been happy, do you think? Like a sheep in a field ... shut in ... knowing no other world but that bounded by four hedges? And then he might have decided to murder you ... having acquired the taste for murder. But you were not in love with him. If you were, why did you not wait for his return ? Why did you not give him a chance to explain ? Shall I tell you? It is because you do not love him. It is because you know there is only one man for you, and I am that man."

"What a pity there is not only one woman for you—and that woman your wife!"

"That would make life so simple, wouldn't it? But can we expect it to be so simple as that?"

"I believe Caroline does."

"Yes, you have grown up. You get angrier. You have a temper, Melisande, my pretty one. Guard it. Tempers are dangerous things. Do you remember when you leaped from your horse and snatched the branch from the boy who was torturing the madwoman? That was temper ... righteous anger. You nearly had the mob on you then. But you didn't stop to consider. Or perhaps you knew that I was there to protect you. What would have happened if I had not been there to snatch you from the mob? I'll always be there, Melisande, when you need me. With a fiery temper like yours, that blazes into fury, you need a protector. Once more I offer myself."

"The offer is not accepted. It is supper time now. Goodbye."

"I am taking you in to supper."

"I am not here as a guest, you know."

"You should not be here at all. You should let me rescue you from the indignity of your position."

"To place me in a position of greater indignity! I see no indignity in my present position."

"That is because you are so innocent."

"I don't think Madam Cardingly knows what sort of man you are, or she would not allow you to come here."

"It is precisely because she knows the sort of man I am that she welcomes me here. Come, let us go in to supper."

At the supper table buffet they were joined by others, and Melisande was glad of this. The conversation was general. It ranged from politics—always a favourite topic at Fenella's gatherings—to literature. Melisande had quickly learned to be discreet and, if she could not profitably add to the interest of the discussion, she would keep silent. Fenella often said that it was better for a girl to be quiet than foolish.

One of the ladies of the party now admired Melisande's dress and wondered how it would look in claret colour. It was Melisande's duty to discuss the claret-coloured dress the lady might wish to be made for her, to suggest slight alterations to suit a more mature figure than her own. Melisande was a success at her job and nothing delighted her more than to give advice which resulted in a sale. Then she could feel justified in her comfortable existence in this strange household.

The conversation was turned to the Poor. Everybody talked about the Poor nowadays. It was as though they had just discovered the Poor; although Fenella had been aware of them for so long, she had only recently managed to make them a subject of general interest. There were always, in every gathering, those who would cry: "But Christ said, 'The Poor ye have always with you' and that means there must always be poor. Why all this fuss about something which is natural and inevitable?" There were others who quoted The Song of the Shirt and Oliver Twist. These were now discussing The Cry of the Children and the new novel Coni.igsby by that Jew who was, it was said, about to lead the Tory protectionists.

Some of the more frivolous were discussing Fanny Kemble's latest performance; but Melisande remained quiet, not this time because she could not have joined in, but because of Fermor's presence.

He lifted his glass of champagne and drank to their future.

"I do not see what future you and I could have together unless ..." she began.

"Unless you come to your senses?" he finished for her. "My dear, you will. I promise you."

"Unless," she went on, "you reform your ways. Then perhaps I may meet you with Caroline."

"Reform ... reform!" he sang out, "It is all reform. Everybody would reform everything these days. Are they not content with their Corn Laws? Must they start on human beings?"

She said quietly: "You don't think about other people at all, do you? You are the utter egoist. You see only a small world with Fermor Holland in the centre of it."

"Don't be deceived. We are all in the centre of our small worlds— even your learned friends here with their chitter-chatter of art and literature, of politics and reform. 'Listen to me: they are saying. 'Hear what I have to say!' I say that too, and because my song is a different one, that does not prove me to be any more self-centred than the next man."

"I wish you had not come here."

"Be honest. You are delighted that I have come."

She was silent for a while, and because he was smiling she said: "It is startling to see someone reappear from a life which one had thought left behind for ever."

"You always knew I'd come for you, didn't you? It'll always be like that, Melisande. I shall always be with you."

The champagne had made her eyes sparkle. She had drunk more than she was accustomed to. Was she a little tipsy? That was an unpardonable sin in Fenella's eyes. "Drink is a goodly thing," was one of her maxims. "One must drink to be sociable. One must acquire the art of drinking, which is to drink just enough. To drink too little is unfriendly; to drink too much is gross."

As a result of her heightened emotions Melisande was seeing everything with a new clarity. What was she doing here ? What sort of place was this to which her father had sent her ? Was it merely, as he said, to learn dressmaking? It was certainly not to learn dressmaking. It was to wear beautiful clothes, to attract admiration. Why? She caught sight of Daisy now. Daisy was wearing a pink dress, very decollete in which she looked like a full-blown rose. She was making an appointment with a thick-set man. In a little while they would slip away and Daisy would not be seen until next day. "Do you know what sort of place this is?" Fermor had asked.

Why did Fenella keep girls here? What was it all about? Was it the sort of place to which a conscientious father would send his daughter? Was Fenella Cardingly the kind benefactress she had made Melisande believe she was? What were those places called, where girls like Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane lived and worked? What was the label attached to the women who looked after such places, who arranged such meetings? Was this a high-class brothel? Was Madam Fenella a procuress? What was the ultimate purpose of sending a girl here ?

But it was this man who had put evil thoughts into her head. Fenella was good and kind. This was a happy place. Did she believe that, because she wished to believe it, because if she believed otherwise she would not know how to act ?

Nothing could make her alter her opinion of Fenella's kindness. She had come here, bruised and wounded, and Fenella's strange house had comforted her as she had not believed it was possible to be comforted.

Fermor took her glass from her and set it down. She stood up.

"Let us go back to the salon," he said.

He took her arm and gripped it fast. She found as they moved away, that she was glad of the support. They were alone in the corridor.

He said: "It is impossible to talk in that room with so many people about us. Can we not be together alone ... for five minutes?"

"Do you know," she said, and her voice sounded vague and not her own, "why I have been sent here?"

He nodded. "And I want you to leave here. It is not good for you to be here, in this kind of place."

"I do not understand you."

"Is it possible that you don't know?"

He had opened a door and looked inside. Finding Fenella's small sitting-room unoccupied, he drew her in. He shut the door and put his arms about her.

"I can't leave you here," he said passionately.

"If there is anything that is wrong in this place, you have brought it. Until now ..."

"Did I bring the prostitutes, the Bed of Fertility? What is going on in this house now ... at this moment ? What mysteries should we discover if we were to look, I wonder?"

"But you said that Madam Cardingly is a friend of your father's .. . and she is also a friend of Sir Charles."

"My father is of his generation. I'm fond of him. I'm also like him. He would come here but he would not expect my mother or my sisters to do so. Sir Charles has sent you here to acquire a husband, I'll swear. Fenella's is the only market for bastards."

She twisted free. "Good night," she said.

He laughed, and caught her. "Having at last found this solitude, do you think I will lose it? The home I would offer you is respectability itself compared with this place."

"I do not believe you."

"Let us stop quarrelling. Let us enjoy these few moments alone. Oh, Melisande, if I had known how strong was this passion I have for you, I would not have married Caroline."

She retorted angrily: "You say that, now that your marriage has taken place. It is safe to say it now."

"I mean it. I have thought of you constantly. And, you see, you can't hide your feelings from me. We were meant for each other. Don't let us deny it."

"But I will deny it... I will." Her voice shook. To her horror she found that she was crying.

He lifted her and carried her to a sofa. There he sat, holding her in his arms. Now he was gentle, tender; she wished he would not be so, for in such a mood he was irresistible.

They were silent for a while. All her denials, she knew, were of no use. She had betrayed herself. She sensed his triumph. She could only sit still with his arms about her, drying her eyes with his handkerchief.

"It might have been quite different," she said, "if you really mean that you love me enough to marry me."

"I do mean it," he said. "But what's done is done. Let us build with what is left to us."

"And Caroline?"

"Caroline need never know."

She stood up suddenly. "I must go," she said. "I shall be missed."

"What does it matter?"

"I am employed here to show this dress."

"From this moment no one employs you. My love, you are free."

"I feel that I shall never be free."

"We must settle this. Come away with me ... to-night. Tomorrow I will find a house. There we shall be together ... and nothing shall part us."

"You do not understand. I am saying goodbye."

His eyes glinted. "You change quickly. A moment ago you led me to believe ..."

"You led yourself to believe."

She ran out of the room. It was not easy to slip back into the salon unseen. Genevra and Lucie had noticed her entry. Genevra came to her and kept close to her for the rest of the evening. Genevra, the child of St. Giles's, felt protective towards the girl from the Convent.

Fenella drank a cup of chocolate before she slept. Polly brought it and sat on her bed watching her drink it. "You're worried, Madam dear," she said. "Rubbish!" said Fenella.

"Is it that couple in the Bed? They'll never get children. A hundred beds such as ours would be no use to them." Polly giggled. "Fifty guineas a night! One of these days someone will ask for his money back."

"It rarely fails, Polly. You know that very well."

"It will to-night. And what if one of these reformers gets busy on you, ducky? What if they start talking about fraud?"

"Don't be silly, you insect. As if I can't look after all reformers."

"Well, we have been in trouble at times, you know."

"And got out of it. Now, Polly, three of the best men of law in this country are my very close friends. Politicians are my friends. Everybody who has any power is my friend. They would not wish any scandal to upset our little world of delights, would they? If there were a scandal about our Bed, they wouldn't be able to come here, would they? So there will be no scandal. It is not that which worries me.

"Oh, so there is something worrying you?"

"I'd tell you if I could trust you to keep your mouth shut."

"Don't worry. I'll find out for myself. Is it our little French Melly? I thought there was something strange about her after the party was over. She'd been crying too, and Genevra was looking after her as though she was Mary and the other her little lamb."

"A young man came here to-night. He's upset her. He mustn't come here again. He's up to no good."

"What about letting one of the others look after him? Kate's latest hasn't been after her quite so much lately. Every week his longing for our Katey grows weaker. Poor Katey, she's going to need a consolation prize."

"I wish it were possible. He's charming, but I don't think he'll be satisfied with anyone other than the girl on whom he's set his heart." Polly grimaced. "And has Melly set her heart on him?"

"Our Melisande is a good girl, Polly Kendrick; and she knows his wife. Otherwise ... I'm not sure. But I've got to be sure. Polly, we've got a job to do. Her father sent her to me to be married, and I've never yet failed anyone who entrusted his child to me. We've delayed too long over that girl. I'm fond of her. I wanted to keep her with us for a bit. But she's got to be married ... soon. Then this blue-eyed cavalier won't be my affair. I'm afraid of him—he's so charming. Polly, he's formidable!"

They continued to discuss Melisande and the night's uninvited guest. They laughed and talked about the couple in the Bed of Fertility; they went over the chances of Genevra's marrying her lord; and they ended up by mentioning certain young men who would be eager to marry Melisande, for the adequate dowry her father would provide, together with her undoubted charms, would make her an excellent match.

Melisande saw Fermor frequently after that night. He presented himself at the house three or four times a week, and, although Fenella told Polly, every night after such occasions, that she would command him to discontinue his visits, she never did so. She found handsome young men charming, and handsome young men in pursuit of beautiful young women irresistible.

"When we have Lucie married," she told Polly, "our next marriage shall be Melisande's."

"Always providing," put in Polly, "that little French Melly don't elope with her lover beforehand. Even you, Madam dear, might find it hard to marry her off if she was to do that."

"Nonsense!" said Fenella to that, but she was uneasy. She added: "I must do something about the child at once."

She comforted herself that it would be useless to ask Fermor to stay away, for he would find other means of seeing the girl.

She sent for Lucie.

Lucie was a good girl who had never given any trouble. Why was it that Lucie was the one of whom Fenella was the least fond ? She could rely on Lucie; if all girls were like Lucie there would be little to worry about. She was now calmly going into a marriage of convenience, sensibly realizing that, after the ceremony, she would enjoy a status hitherto denied her, wisely not looking too high—as that absurd and adorable Genevra was doing—but taking the sensible way to security.

Dear Lucie! thought Fenella hypocritically.

"Lucie, my dear," she said. "I want to have a little talk with you. It is about Melisande."

"Yes, Madam?"

"She is very like you, I always think. Her position is similar, and it would give me great pleasure if you took her under your wing. I should like to see her as happily settled as you will be. I want you to make a special friend of her, talk to her about your coming wedding. Polly shall take you both to look over your new house. You see, Lucie my dear, girls like Genevra and Clotilde could so easily put wrong ideas into the head of an impressionable girl."

"I will do all you say, Madam."

"Andrew Beddoes is a friend of your future husband's, I believe."

"They know each other because they are in the same profession."

"It would be rather pleasant if the friendship were cultivated. You and your charming Francis, Melisande and Andrew."

"Why yes, of course."

"I should like it all to come about naturally ... romantically."

Lucie smiled. She was grateful to Fenella. Some might cavil at the darker side of the activities which went on in this house, but it was an establishment like no other, Fenella was a woman like no other. She helped girls who found themselves in unfortunate positions; naturally her methods must vary according to the girls. When she was securely married, Lucie would wish to sever all connection with Fenella Cardingly's establishment; until that happy day, she was ready to obey Madam Fenella.

"I shall do my best," said Lucie. "Melisande is quite unlike the other girls. Being convent bred she is very innocent. Marriage with Mr. Beddoes would be good for her."

When she had gone, Fenella said aloud: "Dear Lucie!"

Her conscience was salved. There was no need to worry about that charming young man. Let him come to the house as his father had.

Melisande's future was about to be happily settled.

Polly, the chaperone, escorted the two girls out of the house. She knew that he would be waiting. He was always popping up, she told Madam. Madam only laughed when she was told. He was so charming, she said.

Lucie was saying to Melisande: "I am so glad you are coming with me. The others ... they're not serious. And at times like this it is pleasant to have a friend."

"It is good of you to let me come," said Melisande. "I hope you will be happy, Lucie. Oh, I do hope that."

"Why not? I shall have everything I want. Mr. Grey will rise in his profession. I shall see to that." Lucie's face under the large bonnet was serene. Prim, Genevra called it. Not prim, thought Melisande, but contented. Melisande sighed. Lucie would never act in such a way as to bring disaster to herself.

"Come along, my dears," said Polly. "It's a sharp step to our Lucie's new home, and Madam won't expect us to be too long away. My goodness gracious me, who's this ?"

He came forward bowing. "Three ladies ... out alone! You must allow me to be your escort."

Lucie was shocked; she looked at him coldly. "We are well chaperoned, thank you, Mr. Holland."

"I'm here to look after the young ladies," said Polly. "I'm as good as any gentleman."

"Better!" he said, giving her one of his winning smiles. "I know it; you know it; the young ladies know it. But does the rest of the world know it? My dear Polly, your size belies your valiant heart, and I shall take it upon myself as a duty to accompany you."

Polly clicked her tongue and shook her head. Fermor took Lucie's hand and kissed it. Lucie softened. After all, she thought, what harm can come of it in the street ?

He then took Melisande's hand and kissed it. He kept it in his and said: "A guardian apiece. What could be better than that?"

Lucie could only walk beside Polly.

Melisande said to him as the other two stepped ahead: "You are not wanted. You know that. Have you no pride?"

"On the contrary, my pride swells to enormous proportions when I consider how much I am wanted. Polly dotes on me; so do you. As for the prim little Lucie, I have such belief in my powers that I think I can melt even her stony heart."

"I wish you would not come to the house so often."

"You would be hurt if I did not."

"I should be happier if you did not."

"But you think often of me, you must admit."

"I often think of Caroline. Is she very unhappy?"

"She is well and happy, thank you."

"Unaware of your conduct?"

"She can have nothing to complain of so far. Melisande, let us have done with this bantering. Let us be ourselves, say what is in our minds. I am in love with you ... you with me."

"No!"

"I said, let us tell the truth. Promise me to answer one question truthfully. Will you, or are you afraid to do so?"

"I am not afraid to answer truthfully."

"If I were free to marry you and asked you, would you marry me ?"

She hesitated and he said: "You promised the truth."

"I am trying to tell the truth. I think I should, but I should be very uneasy."

He laughed contentedly. "That is all I wanted to know. The uneasiness would not worry me. We should not be too easy in our minds, should we? We should be anxious ... anxious to preserve that which is so precious to us both. Melisande, for once let us not quarrel. Let us pretend that this is our home which we are going to see ... our marriage which is about to take place. Can you imagine that?"

"Perhaps," she admitted.

Here in the street it was possible to throw caution away. The pleasure of such contemplation surprised her. Here, with him beside her, it was so easy to believe in.

He had slipped his arm through hers. It did not matter. Polly was going on ahead with Lucie. Besides, Polly would only have said: "The daring young man!" and she would have said it indulgently. Like her mistress she had a fondness for daring young men.

He looked down at her; she looked up at him; longing and love was in their eyes. They said nothing. It was wonderful to have such moments as these, thought Melisande; to step right out of the world of reality into the world of the imagination. There was no Caroline in this world; Fermor was himself, yet becomingly different. They were two lovers on their way to visit their new home.

He sang softly so that only she could hear, and the song he sang was wistful and tender, simple and moving:

"O, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'."

If they could have walked on through the streets of London for ever like that, how happy she would have been!

They turned into that street in which stood the charming little house which was to be Lucie's home, and as they did so suddenly the spell was broken.

It was a moment of horror for Melisande. She had turned, sensing that they were being followed, and so she saw the woman who was walking behind them and might have followed them since they left the house in the square. For one moment Melisande's eyes met a pair of bright malevolent ones. Wenna was in London with Caroline, and Wenna had come to spy on her and Fermor.

She shivered and looked quickly away.

"What is it?" said Fermor.

She looked over her shoulder, but Wenna was not to be seen.

"I ... I saw Wenna," she said. "She must have followed you."

"That old horror!"

"She will tell Caroline that she has seen us together."

"What of it? How could I refuse to escort you and your friends?"

"I don't like her. She makes trouble. She hates me."

"She hates me too. She makes no secret of it. She clings to Caroline like a leech and snarls at me like a bulldog."

"I am frightened of her."

"You? Frightened of an old woman ... a servant!"

"After to-day you must not come to see me any more."

"Let 'after to-day' take care of itself."

They stepped into the hall of the little house. It was in process of being prettily furnished, and Lucie went from room to room in delight, calling attention to the carpet which had been delivered and laid in the drawing-room, asking them to admire the ormolu mirror—Madam Fenella's advance wedding present.

But looking into the mirror, Melisande seemed to see Venna's brooding face looking at her threateningly. She felt that Wenna had followed her, watched her, seen this love of hers for Caroline's husband trembling on the edge of surrender.

Then she knew that this must be her last meeting with Fermor.

TWO

So Lucie was married.

Fenella was pleased. Lucie's wealthy parent was pleased. Lucie was settled in life, and this was another triumph for Fenella. More ladies and gentlemen would put their bastard children in her charge, since the stigma attached to those children made it impossible for them to be launched through the usual channels. Fenella was doing such a useful service.

Fenella, the fabulous, the incredible and the mysterious, might be a product of an earlier era when life was lived in a more colourful manner; but the new era had scarcely begun, and Fenella would flourish for many a day as yet to come.

At the wedding the bridegroom's best man was Andrew Beddoes— a serious, quiet young man who selected Melisande for his attentions and stayed by her side during the drinking of toasts.

He was pleasant and courteous and seemed such a contrast to Fermor that she was glad of his company.

He talked of his friendship with the bridegroom, of their profession, of the luck of Francis Grey, who was as happy as a man could be.

Melisande liked him for his warm appreciation of Lucie's bridegroom.

He talked interestingly of his hopes for the future. Francis was going ahead. Mr. Beddoes was certain that he would succeed with Lucie to help him. In such a profession a man needed a wife, and a wife like Lucie could help so much. There was a great deal of entertaining to be done. Lucie was so poised, so elegant and so modest, and yet completely confident.

"You speak as though you are in love with Lucie yourself," said Melisande.

"No," he said gravely, "not with Lucie." He smiled and said how kind Melisande was to listen to him.

"But I am so interested. I hope you will be as lucky as Francis Grey."

"I hope that too," he said.

After the wedding she saw more and more of Andrew Beddoes.

He came often to the house, where Fenella welcomed him with special warmth. She allowed him to walk with Melisande in the Park with the newly married pair as chaperons.

There were times when they visited Lucie and her husband. Then the men would talk of Law, and Lucie would expound on the delights of housekeeping. It was a pleasant household, and it seemed to Melisande that Lucie had grown more attractive since she had married.

Fermor was angry when he saw what was happening.

Fenella did not deny him admittance to her house. She told herself that it would be good for Andrew to meet a little competition. She and Polly watched his sober courtship and the fiery one of Fermor with amusement and delight.

"It's dangerous," Polly said. "You never know what a young man like that will do. It wouldn't surprise me if he abducted Melly. He's quite capable of it."

"I know. I know," said Fenella. "But he'd have to get her consent."

"He might do that."

"But have you noticed she's changed? There was a time when I thought she was ready to fall into such a trap. But not now. Something's happened. She's wary. She may have discovered some of his wicked secrets. Depend upon it, he's got some."

"You think she'll take Andrew?"

"She's fundamentally a good girl, Polly. I ought to know. Don't I know girls? She longs for that bad one, and I believe he would have won, but she knows his wife. I feel sure that he's made some mistake somewhere. He must have made love to Melisande before his marriage. It's all very well to be bad, but badness must have some disguise. He's too blatantly wicked. That's his youth, I expect. He's too arrogant as yet and thinks he can get away with anything. He should have waited until after his marriage. Then he could have come along, very sad and dejected and told her his wife didn't understand him."

"That old tale?"

"All tales are new to those who haven't heard them before. He should have made her sorry for him. Melisande is generous; she's all heart. She'll act first and think afterwards. But in behaving as he did he made her think first. She's thinking now. She's thinking hard. And Lucie's working for Andrew Beddoes. Our dear Lucie has no imagination and, like all the unimaginative, she sees others as a pale shadow of herself. She's happy. She's got her home and lawyer. She's got what she wanted. Therefore she decides that's what Melisande must want."

"But something's happened to change Melly. It was that day I told you about. They walked behind Lucie and me ... like a pair of lovers. Then, as we went into the house, I noticed she was as white as a sheet. She's been different since then."

"It may be that his wife saw them together."

"What! Followed them! Ladies don't do such things, Madam dear."

"Jealous women do; and ladies can turn into jealous women, Poll, my dear. It was something like that, I'll warrant. Well, it will do Master Fermor good to know that he can't have it all his own way. He's like his father. Men used to be like that when I was young. Hard livers, hard drinkers, hard lovers. Times are changing, my insect. We're getting prim. I shouldn't have been able to start a salon like mine in these days. This young Gladstone is not our sort at all, and he's one of the men of the future. I don't like the virtuous, Polly. They pry. They see evil rather than good. No! Men are not like they used to be. But Fermor's a chip off the old block of mankind. He's of our time ... not of the coming age. Times are changing and we're sticking, Polly. We don't belong to the age that's just beginning.

'Wedlock is a hard pinching boot But fornication is an easy shoe.'

"Yes, some years ago that was printed quite casually in one of the papers, and it was not meant to -shock. It was the way we thought in those days. Most people think the same now; they always think the same; but we're entering a new age, Polly. We're becoming a people who wrap ourselves up in decorum and think that if we lay it on thick, what's underneath doesn't exist. But it's there just the same. It's there."

"So he's one of the old lot, is he?" said Polly. "He finds his wife a hard-pinching boot and he thinks our Melly would be an easy shoe. I don't doubt it. I don't doubt it at all. But our little girl took fright, and that's going to send her to Mr. Beddoes. I hope it's right. I only hope it's right."

"He's bewitched you as he has Melisande. That's what men were like in the old days."

"Well, we'll see. But I'd like our little French Melly to be a happy little girl, that I would."

"She will. She'll marry Beddoes and live happy ever after. And we shall have done our duty."

"And earned our money."

"Don't be vulgar, Polly. In time she'll understand that sober marriage and a bank balance are worth all the blue-eyed wooers in the world ... in the long run, of course."

But Polly sighed; and Fenella sighed; they were romantics at heart.

So the meetings between the lawyer and Melisande were encouraged and, a month or so after Lucie's wedding, Andrew Beddoes asked Melisande to marry him.

"I know it seems sudden to you, Miss St. Martin," he said, "but I think it is partly due to seeing the happiness of my friend, Francis Grey. I won't deny that I have given this matter a great deal of thought. I have even discussed it with Grey. He is fond of you, and his wife loves you dearly. We could be near neighbours of theirs and we—he and I—might even consider joining together in a business relationship."

"I ... I see," said Melisande.

She looked at his clear, honest-looking eyes, at his serious face. Fermor had made her expect more passion in a proposal; but this was, of course, a different proposition from that which Fermor had made. She thought of Leon, whose proposal had been of yet another nature. Was she as fond of this lawyer as she had been of L£on ? It was hard to say. Then she had been innocent and inexperienced. She knew now that Leon had aroused her pity and that she had turned to him in order to escape from Fermor. Once again she was seeking escape from Fermor. She did not pity this self-assured young man, but she did admire him. He was always courteous; he did not anger her; he was so energetic in his desire to advance in his profession. How many times had she compared him with Fermor—and always to Fermor's disadvantage! Andrew would be a faithful husband, she was sure; Fermor never. Andrew was determined to make his way in the world. What ambitions had Fermor? Few it seemed, but to seduce her. There had been talk of his going into Parliament. She wondered whether he was too lazy. He already had a large income and one day would inherit more. Fermor seemed to have no ambition but to look about the world, decide on what he wanted, and proceed to take it.

In every way Andrew was admirable; in every way Fermor was disreputable. A wise girl would have had no difficulty in deciding; unfortunately Melisande was not wise.

But she was learning more and more about this establishment in which she found herself. She listened to the chatter of the girls. Lucie had warned her that it was not wise to stay too long with Fenella. If one did sooner or later one might become as Daisy, Kate and Mary Jane. They were such jolly girls—so full of fun and laughter—but what did the future hold for them ? Jane and Hilda, two seamstresses, had been desirable once; they liked to talk to the three jolly girls while they remembered wistfully that that was how they were once. Now they sat sewing for a living, and the privilege of doing so they owed to the benevolence of Fenella Cardingly.

She must get away from this house. She was sure that Sir Charles was ignorant of its nature. She did not believe he would have sent her there had he known. Lucie was right. A girl must not stay too long at Fenella's. She had only yesterday wandered into the room which was set apart from the rest of the house, and in which was the Bed of Fertility. She had smelt the heavy perfumed air, had seen with shocked dismay the statues and pictures. It was an embarrassing experience.

Now this young man was offering her escape—not only from Fermor and the tragedy which any weakness on her part would surely bring to Caroline, but from Fenella and her mysterious establishment.

"Well," said Andrew, "what is your answer, Mademoiselle St. Martin?"

"I ... I don't know. I want time to think of it."

"Of course, of course. I have been rash. I have spoken too soon."

She smiled at him. He would never be rash; he would never speak too soon. From his point of view at least, she knew there would be no doubt. She was not surprised. Young as she was she had been much admired.

"How long would you like to consider this ?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh ... a few days... . Perhaps a week."

"Then you will give me your answer not later than a week from to-day?"

"Yes, but there are things you should know about me."

"Nothing could change my feelings about you."

"You are very good, Mr. Beddoes," she said. "I shall always remember how good."

He kissed her hand and left her; and she decided then that she would be very foolish if she did not accept his offer of marriage.

Fenella sent for her. Fenella was well satisfied. She lay on her chaise longue and held out her hand. Taking Melisande's she patted it. "Dear child, Mr. Beddoes has spoken to me. You know of what."

"I can guess."

"He is a good man, my dear."

"I know he is."

"And you will agree to marry him?"

"I have not yet made up my mind. He has given me a week to decide."

"I hope," said Fenella, picking up the ivory fan which was within her reach, "that you will decide to be wise."

"Sometimes that which appears to be wise turns out unwise."

"Not with a man like Andrew Beddoes, my dear. He knows where he's going. He will be a successful lawyer in a few years' time. Doubtless he will make a fine name for himself. He might get a knighthood. That wouldn't surprise me at all."

"Is it easier to live with people who have titles than those without?"

"Ha! It is an easier matter to live with a successful man than a failure. Don't be deceived by ideas about bread and cheese and kisses. They don't work after the first few weeks, and we want to see you settled for life. I won't deny I hoped you might marry into the peerage. A girl with looks like yours might have done so twenty years ago. But now, my dear, society is changing. The men who could offer you a grander marriage than this one wouldn't offer you marriage at all."

"Is it not a question of affection ?"

"That comes into it. But you are fond of him?"

"I admire him."

"Admiration is as good a basis as love. We seek to turn those we love into the perfect beings of our imagination. Those whom we admire we emulate. Yes, mutual admiration is a very good basis for marriage."

"Madam, I am rather bewildered. Why did my father send me to you? Why did he say I was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker when ..."

"He could not have explained me nor my establishment to you, dear. Nobody could. I hope you have been happy here. Perhaps you have seen certain things which it was not good for you to see. Here each lives her own life. What is good for one may be bad for another. The chief quality we have is tolerance. You can't go far wrong in being tolerant, dear. Then you don't condemn; you don't blame. You say simply: 'That way is not the way I wish to go.' No more than that. Nobody is unhappy here. That is how I weigh the good and the bad. Happiness is good; sorrow is bad. If I give happiness, that is good enough for me."

"I see. And you would be happy if I accepted Mr. Beddoes ?"

"It is the best thing that could happen to you. I should be pleased; your father would be pleased."

"My father!"

"He wishes to see you happily settled, of course."

"Does he ... care then?"

"Care! Of course he cares! He writes regularly asking me of your progress."

"I did not know."

"He cannot write to you. It is not in his nature to do so. He is a man of pride, of fixed conventions. You were the result of an indiscretion which he feels would disgrace him if it were known. You may call him a coward. But be tolerant, Melisande. Always try to look through the eyes of others; that breeds the best things the world has to offer: kindness, tolerance, understanding and love."

Melisande knelt down and kissed Fenella's hand.

"I think," she said "that I will marry Mr. Beddoes."

After that night and the day which followed it, Melisande often thought that if only one had time to prepare for shocks, so much that was tragic might be averted.

The French maid was dressing her, Clotilde and Genevra.

Genevra was chatting with abandon in front of the maid, since the latter certainly could not understand Genevra's English.

Genevra was laced and standing in her petticoats waiting for her dress of silk and lace to be slipped over her head. Clotilde lay back languorously in her chair. Melisande was standing before the mirror while Elise laced her corset. She was laughing as she gripped the back of a chair while Elise pulled tighter and tighter.

"That's enough," said Genevra. "Assez, assez! You'll make the poor girl faint into the arms of Mr. Beddoes. But I'll wager another gentleman would be there first to catch her."

"Is it true," asked Clotilde, "that you will marry this Mr. Beddoes, Melisande?"

"It is not yet decided."

"It is a mistake," said Clotilde. "I see it in your eyes. A great mistake."

"How can you be sure of that?" demanded Genevra. "One man's meat is another's poison. One girl's pleasure another's pain."

"Mademoiselle is ready?" asked Elise.

Melisande said she was, and the ivory velvet gown was slipped over her many petticoats.

"Ah," said Elise, "c'est charmante. Mademoiselle will be the belle of the soirSe."

"Traitress!" cried Genevra. "What of little Genevra!"

"Is charming also," said Elise. "But Mademoiselle Melisande ... ah, parfaitel"

"I have the prettier dress to-night," said Melisande.

"Is it fair?" cried Genevra. "Your prey is trapped. I have yet mine to win. Do you know Teddy's family are trying to force him into marriage with a lady?"

"He'll not be forced," said Melisande. "You'll see to that."

"Poor Teddy!" sighed Genevra.

Clotilde said: "You are in love, Melisande, and it is not with the lawyer."

"I think," said Melisande, "and everyone thinks, it would be a good marriage."

"But a good marriage is not necessarily a happy one."

"Love!" said Elise. "V amour > ma chirie ... it is the best in the world and the ... how do you say ... the droit de naissance of Mademoiselle."

"Love, love, love!" cried Genevra. "Can you live on love? Can you eat love? Does it make a roof over your head?"

"Nothing else matters," said Clotilde.

"Agreed," said Genevra. "you already have the food and the roof. What if you have not?"

"All is well lost for love," said Clotilde.

"All is well lost for a crust of bread if you're starving. You, my dear Clo, have never starved. That's quite clear to me. You have never seen the inside of a factory, have you? I have. I say: 'Give me the food, give me a roof, give me freedom from earning a living, and then ... if there's anything more to be handed out ... give me love.' I say to Melly: 'Marry your lawyer. Play my game.' It's the same, you know, only I'm playing for higher stakes. I'll be 'my lady' one of these days. I started lower but I'm going farther up; but it's the same old ladder we're climbing. Fermor Holland has charm. I don't deny he's a temptation. But don't be foolish, my child. It wouldn't last, and then what would happen? The best would be that you'd be passed on like an old dress. First for the use of the lady, then my lady's maid, then the parlourmaid, then the housemaid ... then the old slut who mops the kitchen floor ... and after that the dust bin. No, dears, I know too much. I've seen too much. Don't let yourself get passed down. Marriage is enduring; love passes. Don't be deceived by the sugar and spice. The lawyer is a sensible man. Would he marry you but for the fact that your father's making it worth his while?"

"My father!" cried Melisande.

"Of course, ducky. You're one of the lucky ones. You're like our Lucie. Her father bought her a nice promising lawyer; your father's doing the same. It's only the poor like myself who have to fend for themselves. That's why I'm fighting for Teddy. Teddy don't want a dowry, so all he's got to want is Genevra. It's hard, but it's been done before, and what others can do so can I."

"A dowry ..." Melisande was repeating.

"I listen. I keep my eyes open."

"Your manners are shocking," said Clotilde. "Nothing will improve them, I fear. Even when you become a peeress you'll be listening at keyholes."

"They say listeners never hear any good of themselves," said Genevra with a grimace. "Who cares? It's as well to know what people say of you—good or bad. And whoever says good of anyone behind their backs? My little habits have helped me along. That's why I know what a kind papa our Melisande has got. You're a lucky girl, Melly dear. He's a very fond papa. Madam told Polly that he's gone thoroughly into the history of your Mr. Beddoes and has satisfied himself that the young man is a suitable husband for his little ewe lamb. On the day you become Mrs. Beddoes a substantial sum will be handed to the lawyer and much good business will be put in his way. I'd say he was getting a double bargain. Dear little Melly and a fortune! I'd say he's coming off slightly better than Lucie's Francis. Why, what's the matter, dear?"

"I did not know this," said Melisande.

Clotilde, Genevra and Elise were watching her. Her face was white and her eyes like blazing green fire. But she was silent for a while.

Clotilde said: "Genevra ... you fool!"

"No," said Melisande then. "No, no! Thank you, Genevra. You are the wise one who listens at doors. Thank you. I see I am the fool, Clotilde, because I believed that he wanted to marry me, I did not know of this dowry. You say I have a fond Papa. I suppose that's true. How much is it worth to marry me! A large sum, you say. Then I am not worth very much by myself, am I. It is not a complimentary, is it ... that such a large sum has to be offered as ... a bride?"

She began to laugh. Genevra was beginning to be alarmed by what she had disclosed. Clotilde was the first to recover herself.

"Melisande," she said, putting her arm about her, "it is a custom, you know. All young ladies of good birth have a dowry. It is merely part of a custom,"

"There is no need to explain these matters to me," said Melisande, her eyes flashing. "I know now. I have been blind-folded. Those who are supposed to love me put bandages on my eyes. Thank you, Genevra, for tearing it away. Oh, how I wish I were as clever as you! How I wish I had lived with you in your garret and seen what men really were, in the beginning. We are different, Genevra. You saw clearly and I have been stupid ... stupid all the time. Now I see. Now I understand. And it is the good men I despise the most. The lawyer who is so anxious to marry me ... for my dowry! He is yet another. Thank you, Genevra. Thank you for explaining what I ought to have known."

"Here," said Genevra, "you'd better calm yourself, ducky."

"You see, dear," said Clotilde, "they only want the best for you. Don't blame them for that. Don't blame him."

"I should have been told. Don't you see ... it is the pretence, that hypocrisy that I cannot endure. They deceive me, all of them, except ..."

"I've been a fool," said Genevra. "I thought you knew this. You must have known about Lucie."

"I am a fool. I know nothing. I am blind ... blind... . And I do not see until the truth is pushed under my nose by kind people like you." She put her arms about Genevra and Clotilde. "Oh, Genevra, Clotilde, you are my friends. You do not pretend to be good. I hate all men and women who pretend to be good, for they are the bad ones. I hate that man now. I never loved him, but I admired him. I respected him. What an idiot!"

Elise said sharply: "Do not, Mademoiselle. I beg ... be calm. You must not laugh so. It is bad."

Genevra put her arms round Melisande and hugged her. "Don't worry, Melly. We'll look after you. I'm sorry I said what I did. I thought you knew ... honest."

"It is for the best perhaps," said Clotilde. "It was wrong, that marriage. I knew it."

"Melly," said Genevra, "you've got the light of battle in your eyes. What are you going to do?"

Melisande looked from one to the other. Clotilde knew. The battle between security and adventure had been won for adventure.

Melisande threw out her arms suddenly. "I am free!" she cried. "Now I will be no one but myself. I will not be sold with a dowry to make up the weight. I feel as though I have been laced too tightly and now I am free. Now I shall do what I wish ... not what others wish for me."

"You look wild," said Genevra uneasily. "Are you sure you want to appear to-night?"

"I have something to do to-night, Genevra. I am in love ... in love with my new life."

The ivory velvet encasing the slim figure was a triumph, thought Fenella; and never had Melisande appeared to be so beautiful. What had happened to her to-night? Her eyes were like flashing emeralds.

She seemed so sure of herself. She had thrown aside that modesty which had been so appealing, and yet she was more attractive without it.

Poor Mr. Beddoes was looking bewildered, as though he scarcely recognized his bride-to-be.

Melisande was saying: "I must have a word with you, Mr. Beddoes; I have something to say to you."

"You have your answer for me?"

"Yes." She smiled at him. She had lost her pity. It was not mere dislike she felt for Mr. Beddoes. To her he represented Hypocrisy, her newly found hate. From now on she would be one of the bold and adventurous. She hated shams. She hated the man who said: 'I love you' when he meant 'I love your dowry and the good business which would be put in my way if I married you.' She loved the bold adventurer who promised love and passion without lies.

"I can see what it is," he said. "Oh, Melisande, we shall be happy."

"If a substantial sum of money and influential clients could make us happy, we should be very happy indeed, should we not?" she flashed.

"Melisande?"

"You look surprised. Why? I know that is what this marriage means to you. What have I ... I myself to do with it? It might have been Genevra, Clotilde, Daisy, Kate ... anybody Madam Cardingly put before you. But it was Melisande St. Martin whom you wished to marry, for her father has provided for her so adequately."

He stammered: "I do not understand. I am very fond of you, Melisande."

"I know you are in love... . How comforting it must be to be in love with a sum of money!"

"You bewilder me."

"I am glad someone else is bewildered. I myself have been bewildered for so long. If you had said to me, 'Let us marry. Your father promises me a sum of money if I will take you off his hands and salve his conscience concerning you' I should have respected you more. But you came to me and talked of love."

"But I do love you, Melisande."

She laughed. "How much would you have loved me if my father had been a poor man unable to make it worth your while to marry me?"

"Surely this is an unnecessary conversation?"

"It is necessary to me. I am enjoying it. It eases my anger; it soothes my wounded pride to be able to talk to you in this way. You have had your hopes of a financially attractive marriage. Pray leave me my little satisfactions. Give me a chance to say that I despise you . .. not for wanting the money my father would provide, but pretending to want me."

"Are you telling me that your answer is no?"

"That must be clear. If it is not, take warning; you will have to be much sharper in your profession, if you are going to succeed without my dowry. But perhaps you will find other offers open to you. Certainly I am telling you that my answer is No."

Fermor, who had been watching, came over and laid his hand on her arm. "Good evening, Mademoiselle St. Martin," he said. "Good evening, Mr. Beddoes. Did I gather that you wished to speak to me, Mademoiselle ?"

She turned her blazing eyes upon him. "That is so."

"I am gratified. Mr. Beddoes will excuse us, I am sure."

They walked away, leaving the bewildered Mr. Beddoes staring after them.

"Such lovers' quarrels should not be conducted in public," he said.

"It was no lovers' quarrel."

"Melisande, what has happened to you to-night?"

"I have grown up. I am beginning to be wise . . as Genevra and Clotilde are wise. I have been foolish. I wonder you didn't lose patience with me long ago."

"I am always losing patience with you. Haven't I wanted you fiercely from the moment I saw you, and haven't you been maddeningly coy?"

"I am myself... now. I am in love with truth."

"And with me too?"

"In love with truth is to admit my love for you. Always before I have been in love with Tightness and what I believed to be good. But now I am in love with truth, and I love you because you are without pretence of goodness."

"I hope you won't be shocked, my darling, when you discover my heart of gold."

"There is so little chance of finding it that I will risk the shock. I am bad too. Oh yes, I am. I have wanted to be with you. I have said: 'Caroline? What of Caroline? She should not have married him knowing that he did not love her.' What do I care for Caroline? I want to leave this house at once."

"We'll go to-night."

"Now?"

"This minute. Now I have made you admit the truth, we'll not wait another hour."

"Where shall we go?"

"There are places. To-morrow we'll find a house, and there we shall live."

"You mean I shall live there. You will only partly live there. You have your home."

"Will you believe me now if I say how much I wish it could have been different? I wish I could live there all the time."

"Yes," she said, "I do believe you. You will tell Caroline?"

"Tell Caroline! Certainly not."

"Why not? To tell her would be truthful."

"It might be, but it would also be the utmost folly."

"What if she were to discover?"

"Then we should have to make her see reason."

"I am still frightened when I think of Caroline. Then I know that I am the same poor thing who has been deceived so many times ... by Leon, by Mr. Beddoes ... and perhaps by you!"

"The view of the world would certainly be that I am deceiving you. But the world has a queer twisted way of describing things sometimes. I would never willingly deceive you in accordance with our understanding of the word deceive. We cannot tell Caroline. It would hurt her unnecessarily. There is no reason why she should know. Can we leave now?"

"Fermor, I'm afraid suddenly. It is Caroline who is making me afraid. She would know."

"She would not know."

"Wenna followed us that day. Caroline will know through her."

"I didn't see Wenna. You imagined it."

"Wenna is here in London with Caroline. You know that. What more natural than that she should follow us ? I can't come with you to-night."

"You shall come. You have promised."

"I will not come. I cannot come to-night. I must think of Caroline to-night."

"You said we had done with all pretence."

"This is no pretence. To-night I am intoxicated."

"You have drunk nothing."

"With freedom," she said. "I must not come while I am in this state."

"So," he said, "you do not mean what you say?"

"I think I mean it. I will not stay in this house after to-night. I am going to be free, and my first free act will be to come to you. I will come to-morrow, I promise; but not to-night."

"Why not? Why not?"

"Perhaps I know I should not. People are looking our way. Madam Cardingly and the girls ... and some of the men ... are watching us. Let us seem natural. I want no one to guess that I am running away to-morrow."

"How I love you!" he said. "Now I shall show you how much."

"Love is the best thing in the world. I know it."

"To-morrow you may change your mind. You must leave this place to-night."

"No. But I will come to-morrow. I swear."

"I will meet you here at two-thirty. That is the time when you take a walk. Slip away before the others. I will be waiting in the square. I will have a place ready for you. Afterwards you can choose what you want. Oh, Melisande ... at last!"

"At last!" she repeated.

"Swear to me now that you'll not change your mind."

"I will meet you in the square to-morrow without fail. I swear."

"How long time takes to pass! It is not yet ten o'clock. Fifteen hours must pass before my dreams are realized! It is tormenting to be near you and not to be alone with you."

"You alarm me sometimes," she said. "You always have. I feel like a child watching a fire ... longing to touch ... knowing she'll be burned, because she has been warned, and yet not knowing what the burning will be like."

"You'll not be hurt," he said. "To some are given the gift of meeting one woman ... one man ... in a lifetime, and that is the one ... the only one. You are that one for me. If I had known it when we first met we would not have missed so much."

"There was always Caroline though, wasn't there? She was there before we met. We should have brought unhappiness to her."

"She would have married someone else."

"I cannot forget her. Sometimes I think I never shall as long as we live."

"You must not think of her. I must not think of her. Think of ourselves and all the happiness we shall have. Should we miss that for the sake of one person who cannot know such happiness in any case?"

"She could if you loved her."

"How could I love anyone but you?"

"Perhaps love grows sated. How do I know? What do I know yet? I am beginning to know. Perhaps I am being wrong. Perhaps I am going to suffer. There was a nun, long ago in the Convent, who loved. I think of her. I always did as a child. She took her vows and had a lover. She suffered terribly. Perhaps I too shall suffer ... even as she did. They walled her up and left her to die in a granite tomb."

"What a morbid thought! Someone ought to have walled up her judges instead of her."

"We have to see everything through others' eyes as well as our own. They thought they were right. She knew she would be punished. Perhaps she willingly accepted punishment. I should want to do that if I had done something which deserved punishment. I should wish to take it in resignation as the nun did. That is why I must think of Caroline to-night."

"If you attempt to draw back to-morrow," he said, "I shall come and take you by force."

"That would be so easy for me, wouldn't it? None could blame me then. All the burden of sin would be yours."

"Sin! What is sin ? Sin, in the eyes of most people is doing what they don't approve of. Darling, have done with talk. You have promised ... to-morrow."

"I will be there to-morrow."

"And you'll not draw back?"

"What would be the use? You have sworn to force me to do as you wish."

He touched her hand lightly, for others, sent by Fenella, were joining them.

They talked; she was very gay; she seemed intoxicated. Many were enchanted with Melisande that night, and six women decided that they must have an ivory velvet gown; it gave such a glow to the skin, such a shine to the eyes.

And the long evening passed.

She was demure next morning, quiet and brooding. Genevra and Clotilde watched her anxiously, but she betrayed nothing.

Fenella sent a message to say that she wished to have a chat with Melisande when the girls returned from their afternoon walk. Fenella would never have that chat, for Melisande by then would have left the house for ever.

She feigned sleepiness while they drank their morning chocolate. "Poor darling!" said Genevra. "Last night wore you out. Never mind, ducky. Got to resign ourselves to what's what, you know."

"Yes," said Melisande, "we have to resign ourselves."

"And have you given dear Beddoes the go-by, or have you decided to take what's offered you?"

"I shall never marry Mr. Beddoes."

Clotilde smiled sagely. "I wish you all the best of luck, my dear," she said.

And they did not worry her after that. She read with them during that long morning and, when they were preparing themselves for a walk in the Park, she slipped downstairs and out of the house.

Clotilde saw her go. She stood at the door watching her meeting with Fermor; and Clotilde smiled knowingly and went back to wait for Genevra and Polly.

Neither Fermor nor Melisande spoke much during that short walk to the furnished house which he had found for her.

She was walking away from one existence to another. This was what she wanted—to be with him, not to banter and quarrel as they had always done before, but to exult in being together. It was true that a shadowy third person walked beside them. Melisande could never forget Caroline ... Caroline in her black mourning dress, with her fair ringlets over her shoulders; there was an intensity about Caroline, something which suggested a capacity for deep feeling— for love, for suffering, for tragedy.

He had taken her hand and gripped it tightly as though he feared she might run away.

"I can't believe it's true," he said, "even now." He turned his face to hers and began to sing quietly but on a note of exultation:

" 'Hark! Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings ...' "

"Don't!" she said. "Please. I am so happy."

And she thought: Or I should be if I could forget Caroline.

"Here we are," he said.

They stood before a small house. She looked at the latticed windows, the dainty white lace curtains, the miniature garden, the iron gate and the path which led to the front door.

He opened the gate and they went through.

"You like it?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Here's the key." He held it before her. "Our key, darling." He put his arm round her and laughed aloud. He did not release her while he opened the door. He drew her into the hall. She noticed how bright and clean everything looked and she wondered how he had found such a place so quickly. There were fresh flowers on the table.

"All ready," he said. "All waiting for you." He stopped for nothing—not even to shut the door—before he lifted her off her feet.

"Fermor ..." she began.

"Put your arms about my neck and tell me you don't want to run away."

She did so. "It would be no good if I tried, would it? You wouldn't let me, would you?"

He was trying to kick the door shut, but it would not close. Indeed it was pushed open, and suddenly they were not alone in that little hall.

Two people had come in and shut the door behind them. Fermor put Melisande on her feet, and she stood still in horrified despair.

It was Wenna who spoke first. Caroline stood in silence.

"There! There! What did I tell 'ee? There they are ... caught in the act, you might say."

Fermor said angrily: "What are you doing here?" And he was addressing Caroline.

Wenna came forward; she looked like a witch in her town clothes, thought Melisande. Her hair escaped in wisps from under her black hat, and her dark clothes made her skin seem browner. There was sweat on her nose and upper lip; her cheeks were fiery red and her black eyes narrow and full of a furious hatred.

"We caught you proper," went on Wenna. "I knew what was going on. I knew what kept you away from home."

"You insolent woman!" said Fermor. "You are dismissed from my service."

"Your service! I was never in it! I serve Miss Caroline, and with her I stay. There, my queen, now you do know what he is, and I reckon if you'm wise you and me I'll go home where we belong to be, away from this place of sin and vice."

"Nothing could please me more," said Fermor coldly.

"Fermor," whispered Caroline, "how could you do this?"

"Caroline, you must see reason."

Wenna burst into loud laughter. Fermor strode to her and grasped her by the shoulder. "Will you be quiet or shall I shake the life out of you?"

"Try if you like!" said Wenna. "Kill me! Then you'll be hanged for murder. It would be worth dying to take you with me."

He threw her from him.

"Take her away, Caroline," he said. "I don't know how you could behave in this way ... following me ... spying on me. I'll not endure it."

"How like you!" said Caroline sadly. "You are caught; you are in the wrong; so you seek to turn the tables and put others in the wrong."

"You think it right then to follow your husband, to bring your insolent servant to abuse me!"

"Oh, Fermor, this has nothing to do with it. You followed her to London. You found out where she was. You ... you are in love with her, are you?"

"Yes."

"And this is to be your home?"

"It is."

"And our home? What of that? What of your life with me?"

"My dear Caroline, you have no one but yourself to blame. It is a wife's duty to look the other way when there is something she should not see."

Melisande could bear no more. She would never forget the suffering she saw on Caroline's face. She cried: "No, no. It is not so, Caroline. It is not so. It was to be ... but I shall go away. You married him, and it is my .place to go away. I did not mean to hurt you like this. I thought you would not know of it."

"You see what a good little girl she is!" sneered Wenna.

"I could never trust you," said Caroline. "I always knew you would make trouble. Everything changed when my father brought you into the house. I was happy before that."

"I will go away," said Melisande. "Caroline, I will go right away. He shall come back to you."

"When you have finished arranging my future," said Fermor in tones of cold fury, "I have something to say."

"What can you say to excuse this?" demanded Caroline.

"I had no intention of excusing it. My relation with Melisande makes no difference to our marriage. What more can you ask than that?"

Caroline laughed bitterly.

"You have lived too long in the country," he said. "You have been brought up in the narrow way of life. You have to be reasonable, my dear. You must understand and then you will see that everything can be happily settled."

Melisande looked at him and saw that the tender lover had disappeared. This was Fermor at his worst. He was hurting Caroline and he did not seem to understand, or was it that he did not care? He was hard and brutal. Perhaps everything seemed so simple to him. He had made a marriage of convenience; his family was pleased; her family was pleased. What more could be expected of him ? Melisande had despised Mr. Beddoes for wishing to make such a marriage. What of Fermor ?

Now she saw him as utterly selfish, capable only of fierce desire, never of the smallest sacrifice. Had she turned shuddering from Mr. Beddoes, a cautious and practical man, to another who was simply a brute?

She was still unawakened then ? She was still unsure. Here on the very edge of surrender she was turning aside.

Caroline swayed slightly and put out her hand to the wall. Wenna cried out: "My pet... my little queen!"

"It's all right," said Caroline, "I'm not going to faint. I won't live ... like this. I'd rather die."

"Don't talk so, my little love," soothed Wenna. " Tis tempting evil."

"So much that is evil has happened," said Caroline. "I would rather be dead than here at this moment in this house of sin."

Fermor said: "At the moment it is merely a house ... as blameless as any other."

"I can't bear it," said Caroline. "You are so cruel... so hard ... so callous ..."

She turned away and ran out of the house.

Wenna said: "A curse on you! A curse on you for your wickedness! May you both suffer as you have made my girl suffer ... and more!"

Then she went out after Caroline, calling: "Wait for me. Wait for Wenna."

Melisande had shrunk against the wall. Fermor, flushed and angry, said: "Not a pleasant beginning."

"I cannot stay," said Melisande. "Not now. I cannot stay. I cannot forget them ... either of them."

He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "You'll not go now."

"Yes, Fermor, I must."

"Because of that cheap bit of melodrama ?"

"Cheap! Melodrama! Couldn't you see that she was heartbroken ? Couldn't you see that she loves you, that you must go back to her and that you and I must never see each other again?"

"That is playing their game, foolish one. That is playing right into their hands. That's what they expect. We'll snap our fingers at them."

"You may. I will not."

"But you will. You came here and you'll stay here. You've left a note for Fenella. Your message will stand. You can't go back. You've left all that. You're here with me now and that's where I intend you shall stay."

He held her against him and she cried out: "No, Fermor. No."

"Yes," he said. "It shall be yes. I'll have no more of your changing your mind."

"How dare you try to force me to stay?"

"You said you wanted to be forced."

"Everything has changed."

"Nothing has changed. You came here and you'll stay here."

"I'll not. I hate you. I think I always hated you. You are more cruel than anyone. You have broken her heart and you don't care. You simply don't care. You laughed at her."

"You fool, Melisande. Did it deceive you then ?"

"I know," she said. "I know. I am going away .. . somewhere ... anywhere ... but not with you."

There was a loud knocking on the front door. Melisande opened it before he could stop her. Wenna stood before her—not the same Wenna who had left them a few minutes ago. This was a broken woman with a haggard face and a terrible fear in her eyes.

She said hoarsely: "There's been an accident."

That was all, and they followed her into the street.

A crowd had gathered. Melisande felt sick. She knew that the figure lying in the road was Caroline, and when she saw the carriage drawn up by the kerbside, and the people about it, she knew what had happened.

"Wenna .. . Wenna ..." she cried, "is she ... badly hurt?"

Wenna turned on her in fury. "She did it on purpose," she said. "I saw her. She went straight under the horse. You did this ... you murderess!"

Melisande did not speak. She felt her limbs trembling. They had reached the edge of the crowd and she heard Wenna say: "This is the lady's husband."

Someone said: "I'm a doctor. We must get her to the nearest hospital."

Even Fermor was shaken now. "How ... how badly hurt ... is she?" he asked.

"As yet I can't say. My carriage is here. We'll go at once. You and the maid come with me."

Fermor turned to Melisande. "Go back to the house," he said, "and wait." Then he followed the doctor.

Melisande stood apart; she could hear the blood drumming in her ears. "Murderess!" it seemed to be saying. "Murderess!"

A woman with a shawl over her head said: "Feeling faint, Miss? It gives you a turn, don't it? The blood and all that. Never could stand the sight of blood, meself."

Melisande wanted to talk to somebody, she felt alone, cut off from all her friends. Fermor was lost to her, Fermor on whom she had been relying.

She said: "Is she badly hurt?"

"Dead as a doornail, they say. It stands to reason ... went right over her. Neck broke, like as not."

"No...nor"

"There, don't you take on. Look! They're getting her into the doctor's carriage. That's her husband, that is. Funny, her running out like that. Quarrel, I reckon it were. Poor fellow! White to the gills, ain't he ? And what a handsome looking gentleman, eh ? Well, she'll be took care of. The likes of her would be. Likes of us has to look after ourselves. And if she's dead it won't be a pauper's funeral for the likes of her."

"Don't say that. She won't die. She can't die."

"She will and she can. Why, Miss, what's the matter with you? Look as if you're the one that's got knocked over. There they go. That's the servant and the doctor. Ah well, that's all over. Another of life's little tragedies, eh?"

A small woman, very neatly dressed, was standing near.

"Such a terrible thing," she said. "I saw it happen. She went straight out in front of the carriage. I can't understand why she didn't see it coming."

"Her husband was there," said the woman with the shawl. "Might be they'd had a quarrel like . .. and she in a fit of passion ..."

"It's a great pity," said the other, "that some of these people haven't more to occupy their minds."

"Like us working folk," said the first woman.

"I'm a lady's maid myself," went on the small woman, "and I know her sort. Spoiled, some of them... ."

They went on to talk of her sort. Melisande moved away. She felt she could bear no more. She watched them aimlessly talking for a few minutes before each went her different way. The crowd was breaking up as there was no more to see, and in a very short time there was only Melisande left. Behind her was the little house. She had never felt so alone, so wretched in the whole of her life.

What now?

She had only one desire at the moment, only one need; and that was to get right away from that house, right away from the old life. She had left that when she had walked out of Fenella's house and she would not go back. She could not go back, now that she knew that the girls were not there to work but to be shown like cattle in a market place—a good bargain with a make-weight dowry. She must never see Fermor again. If Caroline were dead, Wenna was right in saying that, between them, she and Fermor had driven her to her death. If Caroline was alive, she would be between Melisande and Fermor for ever.

She began to walk aimlessly away from the house which was to have been her home with Fermor.

She had brought with her the little money she had. It would help her to live for a short while. She would work ... really work this time at some honest job.

She thought of the lady's maid who had spoken to the woman in the shawl. Perhaps she herself was qualified to become a lady's maid?

On and on she walked, not realizing where she was going until she came to two small houses side by side. They looked neat and cosy and were different from the others in the row; in the window of one of these little houses was a card which bore the words: "Room to Let."

She noticed how clean were the curtains, how bright the brass of the knocker ... as she lifted it.

A woman in a starched apron opened the door.

"You have a room to let," said Melisande.

"Come in, Miss," said the woman.

And Melisande began a new phase of her life.