Paul's Case (Willa Cather)

It was Paul's afternoon to appear before the faculty of the Pittsburgh High School to account for his various misdemeanors. He had been suspended a week ago, and his father had called at the Principal's office and confessed his perplexity about his son. Paul entered the faculty room suave and smiling. His clothes were a trifle outgrown, and the tan velvet on the collar of his open overcoat was frayed and worn; but for all that there was something of the dandy about him, and he wore an opal pin in his neatly knotted black four-in-hand, and a red carnation in his buttonhole. This latter adornment the faculty somehow felt was not properly significant of the contrite spirit befitting a boy under the ban of suspension.

Paul was tall for his age and very thin, with high, cramped shoulders and a narrow chest. His eyes were remarkable for a certain hysterical brilliancy, and he continually used them in a conscious, theatrical sort of way, peculiarly offensive in a boy. The pupils were abnormally large, as though he were addicted to belladonna, but there was a glassy glitter about them which that drug does not produce.

When questioned by the Principal as to why he was there Paul stated, politely enough, that he wanted to come back to school. This was a lie, but Paul was quite accustomed to lying; found it, indeed, indispensable for overcoming friction. His teachers were asked to state their respective charges against him, which they did with such a rancor and aggrievedness as evinced that this was not a usual case. Disorder and impertinence were among the offenses named, yet each of his instructors felt that it was scarcely possible to put into words the real cause of the trouble, which lay in a sort of hysterically defiant manner of the boy's; in the contempt which they all knew he felt for them, and which he seemingly made not the least effort to conceal. Once, when he had been making a synopsis of a paragraph at the blackboard, his English teacher had stepped to his side and attempted to guide his hand. Paul had started back with a shudder and thrust his hands violently behind him. The astonished woman could scarcely have been more hurt and embarrassed had he struck at her. The insult was so involuntary and definitely personal as to be unforgettable. In one way and another he had made all his teachers, men and women alike, conscious of the same feeling of physical aversion. In one class he habitually sat with his hand shading his eyes; in another he always looked out of the window during the recitation; in another he made a running commentary on the lecture, with humorous intention.

His teachers felt this afternoon that his whole attitude was symbolized by his shrug and his flippantly red carnation flower, and they fell upon him without mercy, his English teacher leading the pack. He stood through it smiling, his pale lips parted over his white teeth. (His lips were continually twitching, and be had a habit of raising his eyebrows that was contemptuous and irritating to the last degree.) Older boys than Paul had broken down and shed tears under that baptism of fire, but his set smile did not once desert him, and his only sign of discomfort was the nervous trembling of the fingers that toyed with the buttons of his overcoat, and an occasional jerking of the other hand that held his hat. Paul was always smiling, always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something. This conscious expression, since it was as far as possible from boyish mirthfulness, was usually attributed to insolence or "smartness."

As the inquisition proceeded one of his instructors repeated an impertinent remark of the boy's, and the Principal asked him whether he thought that a courteous speech to have made a woman. Paul shrugged his shoulders slightly and his eyebrows twitched.

"I don't know," he replied. "I didn't mean to be polite or impolite, either. I guess it's a sort of way I have of saying things regardless."

The Principal, who was a sympathetic man, asked him whether he didn't think that a way it would be well to get rid of. Paul grinned and said he guessed so. When he was told that he could go he bowed gracefully and went out. His bow was but a repetition of the scandalous red carnation.

His teachers were in despair, and his drawing master voiced the feeling of them all when he declared there was something about the boy which none of them understood. He added: "I don't really believe that smile of his comes altogether from insolence; there's something sort of haunted about it. The boy is not strong, for one thing. I happen to know that he was born in Colorado, only a few months before his mother died out there of a long illness. There is something wrong about the fellow."

The drawing master had come to realize that, in looking at Paul, one saw only his white teeth and the forced animation of his eyes. One warm afternoon the boy had gone to sleep at his drawing board, and his master had noted with amazement what a white, blue-veined face it was; drawn and wrinkled like an old man's about the eyes, the lips twitching even in his sleep, and stiff with a nervous tension that drew them back from his teeth.

His teachers left the building dissatisfied and unhappy; humiliated to have felt so vindictive toward a mere boy, to have uttered this feeling in cutting terms, and to have set each other on, as it were, in the gruesome game of intemperate reproach. Some of them remembered having seen a miserable street cat set at bay by a ring of tormentors.

As for Paul, he ran down the hill whistling the "Soldiers' Chorus" from Faust, looking wildly behind him now and then to see whether some of his teachers were not there to writhe under his lightheartedness. As it was now late in the afternoon and Paul was on duty that evening as usher at Carnegie Hall, he decided that he would not go home to supper. When he reached the concert hall the doors were not yet open and, as it was chilly outside, he decided to go up into the picture gallery--always deserted at this hour--where there were some of Raffelli's gay studies of Paris streets and an airy blue Venetian scene or two that always exhilarated him. He was delighted to find no one in the gallery but the old guard, who sat in one corner, a newspaper on his knee, a black patch over one eye and the other closed. Paul possessed himself of the place and walked confidently up and down, whistling under his breath. After a while he sat down before a blue Rico and lost himself. When he bethought him to look at his watch, it was after seven o'clock, and he rose with a start and ran downstairs, making a face at Augustus, peering out from the cast room, and an evil gesture at the Venus of Milo as he passed her on the stairway.

When Paul reached the ushers' dressing room half a dozen boys were there already, and he began excitedly to tumble into his uniform. It was one of the few that at all approached fitting, and Paul thought it very becoming- though he knew that the tight, straight coat accentuated his narrow chest, about which he was exceedingly sensitive. He was always considerably excited while be dressed, twanging all over to the tuning of the strings and the preliminary flourishes of the horns in the music room; but tonight he seemed quite beside himself, and he teased and plagued the boys until, telling him that he was crazy, they put him down on the floor and sat on him.

Somewhat calmed by his suppression, Paul dashed out to the front of the house to seat the early comers. He was a model usher; gracious and smiling he ran up and down the aisles; nothing was too much trouble for him; he carried messages and brought programs as though it were his greatest pleasure in life, and all the people in his section thought him a charming boy, feeling that he remembered and admired them. As the house filled, he grew more and more vivacious and animated, and the color came to his cheeks and lips. It was very much as though this were a great reception and Paul were the host. Just as the musicians came out to take their places, his English teacher arrived with checks for the seats which a prominent manufacturer had taken for the season. She betrayed some embarrassment when she handed Paul the tickets, and a hauteur which subsequently made her feel very foolish. Paul was startled for a moment, and had the feeling of wanting to put her out; what business had she here among all these fine people and gay colors? He looked her over and decided that she was not appropriately dressed and must be a fool to sit downstairs in such togs. The tickets had probably been sent her out of kindness, he reflected as he put down a seat for her, and she had about as much right to sit there as he had.

When the symphony began Paul sank into one of the rear seats with a long sigh of relief, and lost himself as he had done before the Rico. It was not that symphonies, as such, meant anything in particular to Paul, but the first sigh of the instruments seemed to free some hilarious and potent spirit within him; something that struggled there like the genie in the bottle found by the Arab fisherman. He felt a sudden zest of life; the lights danced before his eyes and the concert hall blazed into unimaginable splendor. When the soprano soloist came on Paul forgot even the nastiness of his teacher’s being there and gave himself up to the peculiar stimulus such personages always had for him. The soloist chanced to be a German woman, by no means in her first youth, and the mother of many children; but she wore an elaborate gown and a tiara, and above all she had that indefinable air of achievement, that world-shine upon her, which, in Paul's eyes, made her a veritable queen of Romance.

After a concert was over Paul was always irritable and wretched until he got to sleep, and tonight he was even more than usually restless. He had the feeling of not being able to let down, of its being impossible to give up this delicious excitement which was the only thing that could be called living at all. During the last number he withdrew and, after hastily changing his clothes in the dressing room, slipped out to the side door where the soprano’s carriage stood. Here he began pacing rapidly up and down the walk, waiting to see her come out.

Over yonder, the Schenley, in its vacant stretch, loomed big and square through the fine rain, the windows of its twelve stories glowing like those of a lighted cardboard house under a Christmas tree. All the actors and singers of the better class stayed there when they were in the city, and a number of the big manufacturers of the place lived there in the winter. Paul had often hung about the hotel, watching the people go in and out, longing to enter and leave schoolmasters and dull care behind him forever.

At last the singer came out, accompanied by the conductor, who helped her into her carriage and closed the door with a cordial auf wiedersehen which set Paul to wondering whether she were not an old sweetheart of his. Paul followed the carriage over to the hotel, walking so rapidly as not to be far from the entrance when the singer alighted, and disappeared behind the swinging glass doors that were opened by a Negro in a tall hat and a long coat. In the moment that the door was ajar it seemed to Paul that he, too, entered. He seemed to feel himself go after her up the steps, into the warm, lighted building, into an exotic, tropical world of shiny, glistening surfaces and basking ease. He reflected upon the mysterious dishes that were brought into the dining room, the green bottles in buckets of ice, as he had seen them in the supper party pictures of the Sunday World supplement. A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence, and Paul was startled to find that he was still outside in the slush of the gravel driveway; that his boots were letting in the water and his scanty overcoat was clinging wet about him; that the lights in front of the concert hall were out and that the rain was driving in sheets between him and the orange glow of the windows above him. There it was, what he wanted--tangibly before him, like the fairy world of a Christmas pantomime--but mocking spirits stood guard at the doors, and, as the rain beat in his face, Paul wondered whether he were destined always to shiver in the black night outside, looking up at it.

He turned and walked reluctantly toward the car tracks. The end had to come sometime; his father in his nightclothes at the top of the stairs, explanations that did not explain, hastily improvised fictions that were forever tripping him up, his upstairs room and its horrible yellow wallpaper, the creaking bureau with the greasy plush collarbox, and over his painted wooden bed the pictures of George Washington and John Calvin, and the framed motto, "Feed my Lambs," which had been worked in red worsted by his mother.

Half an hour later Paul alighted from his car and went slowly down one of the side streets off the main thoroughfare. It was a highly respectable street, where all the houses were exactly alike, and where businessmen of moderate means begot and reared large families of children, all of whom went to Sabbath school and learned the shorter catechism, and were interested in arithmetic; all of whom were as exactly alike as their homes, and of a piece with the monotony in which they lived. Paul never went up Cordelia Street without a shudder of loathing. His home was next to the house of the Cumberland minister. He approached it tonight with the nerveless sense of defeat, the hopeless feeling of sinking back forever into ugliness and commonness that he had always had when he came home. The moment he turned into Cordelia Street he felt the waters close above his head. After each of these orgies of living he experienced all the physical depression which follows a debauch; the loathing of respectable beds, of common food, of a house penetrated by kitchen odors; a shuddering repulsion for the flavorless, colorless mass of everyday existence; a morbid desire for cool things and soft lights and fresh flowers.

The nearer he approached the house, the more absolutely unequal Paul felt to the sight of it all: his ugly sleeping chamber; the cold bathroom with the grimy zinc tub, the cracked mirror, the dripping spiggots; his father, at the top of the stairs, his hairy legs sticking out from his nightshirt, his feet thrust into carpet slippers. He was so much later than usual that there would certainly be inquiries and reproaches. Paulstopped short before the door. He felt that he could not be accosted by his father tonight; that he could not toss again on that miserable bed. He would not go in. He would tell his father that he had no carfare and it was raining so hard he had gone home with one of the boys and stayed all night.

Meanwhile, he was wet and cold. He went around to the back of the house and tried one of the basement windows, found it open, raised it cautiously, and scrambled down the cellar wall to the floor. There he stood, holding his breath, terrified by the noise he had made, but the floor above him was silent, and there was no creak on the stairs. He found a soapbox, and carried it over to the soft ring of light that streamed from the furnace door, and sat down. He was horribly afraid of rats, so he did not try to sleep, but sat looking distrustfully at the dark, still terrified lest he might have awakened his father. In such reactions, after one of the experiences which made days and nights out of the dreary blanks of the calendar, when his senses were deadened, Paul’s head was always singularly clear. Suppose his father had heard him getting in at the window and had come down and shot him for a burglar? Then, again, suppose his father had come down, pistol in hand, and he had cried out in time to save himself, and his father had been horrified to think how nearly he had killed him? Then, again, suppose a day should come when his father would remember that night, and wish there had been no warning cry to stay his hand? With this last supposition Paul entertained himself until daybreak.

The following Sunday was fine; the sodden November chill was broken by the last flash of autumnal summer. In the morning Paul had to go to church and Sabbath school, as always. On seasonable Sunday afternoons the burghers of Cordelia Street always sat out on their front stoops and talked to their neighbors on the next stoop, or called to those across the street in neighborly fashion. The men usually sat on gay cushions placed upon the steps that led down to the sidewalk, while the women, in their Sunday "waists," sat in rockers on the cramped porches, pretending to be greatly at their ease. The children played in the streets; there were so many of them that the place resembled the recreation grounds of a kindergarten. The men on the steps--all in their shirt sleeves, their vests unbuttoned--sat with their legs well apart, their stomachs comfortably protruding, and talked of the prices of things, or told anecdotes of the sagacity of their various chiefs and overlords. They occasionally looked over the multitude of squabbling children, listened affectionately to their high-pitched, nasal voices, smiling to see their own proclivities reproduced in their offspring, and interspersed their legends of the iron kings with remarks about their sons’ progress at school, their grades in arithmetic, and the amounts they had saved in their toy banks.

On this last Sunday of November Paul sat all the afternoon on the lowest step of his stoop, staring into the street, while his sisters, in their rockers, were talking to the minister’s daughters next door about how many shirtwaists they had made in the last week, and bow many waffles someone had eaten at the last church supper. When the weather was warm, and his father was in a particularly jovial frame of mind, the girls made lemonade, which was always brought out in a red-glass pitcher, ornamented with forget-me-nots in blue enamel. This the girls thought very fine, and the neighbors always joked about the suspicious color of the pitcher.

Today Paul's father sat on the top step, talking to a young man who shifted a restless baby from knee to knee. He happened to be the young man who was daily held up to Paul as a model, and after whom it was his father’s dearest hope that he would pattern. This young man was of a ruddy complexion, with a compressed, red mouth, and faded, nearsighted eyes, over which he wore thick spectacles, with gold bows that curved about his ears. He was clerk to one of the magnates of a great steel corporation, and was looked upon in Cordelia Street as a young man with a future. There was a story that, some five years ago--he was now barely twenty-six--he had been a trifle dissipated, but in order to curb his appetites and save the loss of time and strength that a sowing of wild oats might have entailed, he had taken his chief’s advice, oft reiterated to his employees, and at twenty-one had married the first woman whom he could persuade to share his fortunes. She happened to be an angular schoolmistress, much older than he, who also wore thick glasses, and who had now borne him four children, all nearsighted, like herself.

The young man was relating how his chief, now cruising in the Mediterranean, kept in touch with all the details of the business, arranging his office hours on his yacht just as though he were at home, and "knocking off work enough to keep two stenographers busy." His father told, in turn, the plan his corporation was considering, of putting in an electric railway plant in Cairo. Paul snapped his teeth; he had an awful apprehension that they might spoil it all before he got there. Yet he rather liked to hear these legends of the iron kings that were told and retold on Sundays and holidays; these stories of palaces in Venice, yachts on the Mediterranean, and high play at Monte Carlo appealed to his fancy, and he was interested in the triumphs of these cash boys who had become famous, though he had no mind for the cash-boy stage.

After supper was over and he had helped to dry the dishes, Paul nervously asked his father whether he could go to George’s to get some help in his geometry, and still more nervously asked for carfare. This latter request he had to repeat, as his father, on principle, did not like to hear requests for money, whether much or little. He asked Paul whether he could not go to some boy who lived nearer, and told him that he ought not to leave his schoolwork until Sunday; but he gave him the dime. He was not a poor man, but he had a worthy ambition to come up in the world. His only reason for allowing Paul to usher was that he thought a boy ought to be earning a little.

Paul bounded upstairs, scrubbed the greasy odor of the dishwater from his hands with the ill-smelling soap he hated, and then shook over his fingers a few drops of violet water from the bottle he kept hidden in his drawer. He left the house with his geometry conspicuously under his arm, and the moment he got out of Cordelia Street and boarded a downtown car, he shook off the lethargy of two deadening days and began to live again.

The leading juvenile of the permanent stock company which played at one of the downtown theaters was an acquaintance of Paul’s, and the boy had been invited to drop in at the Sunday-night rehearsals whenever he could. For more than a year Paul had spent every available moment loitering about Charley Edwards’s dressing room. He had won a place among Edwards’s following not only because the young actor, who could not afford to employ a dresser, often found him useful, but because he recognized in Paul something akin to what churchmen term "vocation."

It was at the theater and at Carnegie Hall that Paul really lived; the rest was but a sleep and a forgetting. This was Paul's fairy tale, and it had for him all the allurement of a secret love. The moment he inhaled the gassy, painty, dusty odor behind the scenes, he breathed like a prisoner set free, and felt within him the possibility of doing or saying splendid, brilliant, poetic things. The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the overture from Martha , or jerked at the serenade from Rigoletto, all stupid and ugly things slid from him, and his senses were deliciously, yet delicately fired.

Perhaps it was because, in Paul's world, the natural nearly always wore the guise of ugliness, that a certain element of artificiality seemed to him necessary in beauty. Perhaps it was because his experience of life elsewhere was so full of Sabbath-school picnics, petty economies, wholesome advice as to how to succeed in life, and the inescapable odors of cooking, that he found this existence so alluring, these smartly clad men and women so attractive, that he was so moved by these starry apple orchards that bloomed perennially under the limelight.

It would be difficult to put it strongly enough how convincingly the stage entrance of that theater was for Paul the actual portal of Romance. Certainly none of the company ever suspected it, least of all Charley Edwards. It was very like the old stories that used to float about London of fabulously rich Jews, who had subterranean halls there, with palms, and fountains, and soft lamps and richly appareled women who never saw the disenchanting light of London day. So, in the midst of that smoke-palled city, enamored of figures and grimy toil, Paul had his secret temple, his wishing carpet, his bit of blue-and-white Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine.

Several of Paul's teachers had a theory that his imagination had been perverted by garish fiction, but the truth was that he scarcely ever read at all. The books at home were not such as would either tempt or corrupt a youthful mind, and as for reading the novels that some of his friends urged upon him--well, he got what he wanted much more quickly from music; any sort of music, from an orchestra to a barrel organ. He needed only the spark, the indescribable thrill that made his imagination master of his senses, and he could make plots and pictures enough of his own. It was equally true that he was not stagestruck-not, at any rate, in the usual acceptation of that expression. He had no desire to become an actor, any more than he had to become a musician. He felt no necessity to do any of these things; what he wanted was to see, to be in the atmosphere, float on the wave of it, to be carried out, blue league after blue league, away from everything.

After a night behind the scenes Paul found the schoolroom more than ever repulsive; the bare floors and naked walls; the prosy men who never wore frock coats, or violets in their buttonholes; the women with their dull gowns, shrill voices, and pitiful seriousness about prepositions that govern the dative. He could not bear to have the other pupils think, for a moment, that he took these people seriously; he must convey to them that he considered it all trivial, and was there only by way of a jest, anyway. He had autographed pictures of all the members of the stock company which he showed his classmates, telling them the most incredible stories of his familiarity with these people, of his acquaintance with the soloists who came to Carnegie Hall, his suppers with them and the flowers he sent them. When these stories lost their effect, and his audience grew listless, he became desperate and would bid all the boys good-by, announcing that he was going to travel for a while; going to Naples, to Venice, to Egypt. Then, next Monday, he would slip back, conscious and nervously smiling; his sister was ill, and he should have to defer his voyage until spring.

Matters went steadily worse with Paul at school. In the itch to let his instructors know how heartily he despised them and their homilies, and how thoroughly he was appreciated elsewhere, he mentioned once or twice that he had no time to fool with theorems; adding--with a twitch of the eyebrows and a touch of that nervous bravado which so perplexed them--that he was helping the people down at the stock company; they were old friends of his.

The upshot of the matter was that the Principal went to Paul’s father, and Paul was taken out of school and put to work. The manager at Carnegie Hall was told to get another usher in his stead; the doorkeeper at the theater was warned not to admit him to the house; and Charley Edwards remorsefully promised the boy’s father not to see him again.

The members of the stock company were vastly amused when some of Paul’s stories reached them--especially the women. They were hardworking women, most of them supporting indigent husbands or brothers, and they laughed rather bitterly at having stirred the boy to such fervid and florid inventions. They agreed with the faculty and with his father that Paul’s was a bad case.

The eastbound train was plowing through a January snowstorm; the dull dawn was beginning to show gray when the engine whistled a mile out of Newark. Paul started up from the seat where he had lain curled in uneasy slumber, rubbed the breath-misted window glass with his hand, and peered out. The snow was whirling in curling eddies above the white bottom lands, and the drifts lay already deep in the fields and along the fences, while here and there the long dead grass and dried weed stalks protruded black above it. Lights shone from the scattered houses, and a gang of laborers who stood beside the track waved their lanterns.

Paul had slept very little, and he felt grimy and uncomfortable. He had made the all-night journey in a day coach, partly because he was ashamed, dressed as he was, to go into a Pullman, and partly because he was afraid of being seen there by some Pittsburgh businessman, who might have noticed him in Denny & Carson's office. When the whistle awoke him, he clutched quickly at his breast pocket, glancing about him with an uncertain smile. But the little, clay-bespattered Italians were still sleeping, the slatternly women across the aisle were in open-mouthed oblivion, and even the crumby, crying babies were for the nonce stilled. Paul settled back to struggle with his impatience as best he could.

When he arrived at the Jersey City station he hurried through his breakfast, manifestly ill at ease and keeping a sharp eye about him. After he reached the Twenty-third Street station, he consulted a cabman and had himself driven to a men's-furnishings establishment that was just opening for the day. He spent upward of two hours there, buying with endless reconsidering and great care. His new street suit he put on in the fitting room; the frock coat and dress clothes he had bundled into the cab with his linen. Then he drove to a hatter's and a shoe house. His next errand was at Tiffany's, where he selected his silver and a new scarf pin. He would not wait to have his silver marked, he said. Lastly, he stopped at a trunk shop on Broadway and had his purchases packed into various traveling bags.

It was a little after one o’clock when he drove up to the Waldorf, and after settling with the cabman, went into the office. He registered from Washington; said his mother and father had been abroad, and that he had come down to await the arrival of their steamer. He told his story plausibly and had no trouble, since he volunteered to pay for them in advance, in engaging his rooms; a sleeping room, sitting room, and bath.

Not once, but a hundred times, Paul had planned this entry into New York. He had gone over every detail of it with Charley Edwards, and in his scrapbook at home there were pages of description about New York hotels, cut from the Sunday papers. When he was shown to his sitting room on the eighth floor he saw at a glance that everything was as it should be; there was but one detail in his mental picture that the place did not realize, so he rang for the bellboy and sent him down for flowers. He moved about nervously until the boy returned, putting away his new linen and fingering it delightedly as he did so. When the flowers came he put them hastily into water, and then tumbled into a hot bath. Presently he came out of his white bathroom, resplendent in his new silk underwear, and playing with the tassels of his red robe. The snow was whirling so fiercely outside his windows that he could scarcely see across the street, but within the air was deliciously soft and fragrant. He put the violets and jonquils on the taboret beside the couch, and threw himself down, with a long sigh, covering himself with a Roman blanket. He was thoroughly tired; he had been in such haste, he had stood up to such a strain, covered so much ground in the last twenty-four hours, that he wanted to think how it had all come about. Lulled by the sound of the wind, the warm air, and the cool fragrance of the flowers, he sank into deep, drowsy retrospection.

It had been wonderfully simple; when they had shut him out of the theater and concert hall, when they had taken away his bone, the whole thing was virtually determined. The rest was a mere matter of opportunity. The only thing that at all surprised him was his own courage-for he realized well enough that he had always been tormented by fear, a sort of apprehensive dread that, of late years, as the meshes of the lies he had told closed about him, had been pulling the muscles of his body tighter and tighter. Until now he could not remember the time when he had not been dreading something. Even when he was a little boy it was always there--behind him, or before, or on either side. There had always been the shadowed corner, the dark place into which he dared not look, but from which something seemed always to be watching him--and Paul had done things that were not pretty to watch, he knew.

But now he had a curious sense of relief, as though he had at last thrown down the gauntlet to the thing in the corner.

Yet it was but a day since he had been sulking in the traces; but yesterday afternoon that he had been sent to the bank with Denny & Carson’s deposit, as usual--but this time he was instructed to leave the book to be balanced. There was above two thousand dollars in checks, and nearly a thousand in the bank notes which he had taken from the book and quietly transferred to his pocket. At the bank he had made out a new deposit slip. His nerves had been steady enough to permit of his returning to the office, where he had finished his work and asked for a full day’s holiday tomorrow, Saturday, giving a perfectly reasonable pretext. The bankbook, be knew, would not be returned before Monday or Tuesday, and his father would be out of town for the next week. From the time he slipped the bank notes into his pocket until he boarded the night train for New York, he had not known a moment’s hesitation. It was not the first time Paul had steered through treacherous waters.

How astonishingly easy it had all been; here he was, the thing done; and this time there would be no awakening, no figure at the top of the stairs. He watched the snowflakes whirling by his window until he fell asleep.

When he awoke, it was three o’clock in the afternoon. He bounded up with a start; half of one of his precious days gone already! He spent more than an hour in dressing, watching every stage of his toilet carefully in the mirror. Everything was quite perfect; he was exactly the kind of boy he had always wanted to be.

When he went downstairs Paul took a carriage and drove up Fifth Avenue toward the Park. The snow had somewhat abated; carriages and tradesmen’s wagons were hurrying soundlessly to and fro in the winter twilight; boys in woolen mufflers were shoveling off the doorsteps; the avenue stages made fine spots of color against the white street. Here and there on the corners were stands, with whole flower gardens blooming under glass cases, against the sides of which the snowflakes stuck and melted; violets, roses, carnations, lilies of the valley--somehow vastly more lovely and alluring that they blossomed thus unnaturally in the snow. The Park itself was a wonderful stage winterpiece.

When he returned, the pause of the twilight had ceased and the tune of the streets had changed. The snow was falling faster, lights streamed from the hotels that reared their dozen stories fearlessly up into the storm, defying the raging Atlantic winds. A long, black stream of carriages poured down the avenue, intersected here and there by other streams, tending horizontally. There were a score of cabs about the entrance of his hotel, and his driver had to wait. Boys in livery were running in and out of the awning stretched across the sidewalk, up and down the red velvet carpet laid from the door to the street. Above, about, within it all was the rumble and roar, the hurry and toss of thousands of human beings as hot for pleasure as himself, and on every side of him towered the glaring affirmation of the omnipotence of wealth.

The boy set his teeth and drew his shoulders together in a spasm of realization; the plot of all dramas, the text of all romances, the nerve-stuff of all sensations was whirling about him like the snowflakes. He burnt like a faggot in a tempest.

When Paul went down to dinner the music of the orchestra came floating up the elevator shaft to greet him. His head whirled as he stepped into the thronged corridor, and he sank back into one of the chairs against the wall to get his breath. The lights, the chatter, the perfumes, the bewildering medley of color--he had, for a moment, the feeling of not being able to stand it. But only for a moment; these were his own people, he told himself. He went slowly about the corridors, through the writing rooms, smoking rooms, reception rooms, as though he were exploring the chambers of an enchanted palace, built and peopled for him alone.

When he reached the dining room he sat down at a table near a window. The flowers, the white linen, the many-colored wineglasses, the gay toilettes of the women, the low popping of corks, the undulating repetitions of the Blue Danube from the orchestra, all flooded Paul’s dream with bewildering radiance. When the roseate tinge of his champagne was added--that cold, precious, bubbling stuff that creamed and foamed in his glass--Paul wondered that there were honest men in the world at all. This was what all the world was fighting for, he reflected; this was what all the struggle was about. He doubted the reality of his past. Had he ever known a place called Cordelia Street, a place where fagged-looking businessmen got on the early car; mere rivets in a machine they seemed to Paul,--sickening men, with combings of children’s hair always hanging to their coats, and the smell of cooking in their clothes. Cordelia Street--Ah, that belonged to another time and country; had he not always been thus, had he not sat here night after night, from as far back as he could remember, looking pensively over just such shimmering textures and slowly twirling the stem of a glass like this one between his thumb and middle finger? He rather thought he had.

He was not in the least abashed or lonely. He had no especial desire to meet or to know any of these people; all he demanded was the right to look on and conjecture, to watch the pageant. The mere stage properties were all he contended for. Nor was he lonely later in the evening, in his lodge at the Metropolitan. He was now entirely rid of his nervous misgivings, of his forced aggressiveness, of the imperative desire to show himself different from his surroundings. He felt now that his surroundings explained him. Nobody questioned the purple; he had only to wear it passively. He had only to glance down at his attire to reassure himself that here it would be impossible for anyone to humiliate him.

He found it hard to leave his beautiful sitting room to go to bed that night, and sat long watching the raging storm from his turret window. When he went to sleep it was with the lights turned on in his bedroom; partly because of his old timidity, and partly so that, if he should wake in the night, there would be no wretched moment of doubt, no horrible suspicion of yellow wallpaper, or of Washington and Calvin above his bed.

Sunday morning the city was practically snowbound. Paul breakfasted late, and in the afternoon he fell in with a wild San Francisco boy, a freshman at Yale, who said he had run down for a "little flyer" over Sunday. The young man offered to show Paul the night side of the town, and the two boys went out together after dinner, not returning to the hotel until seven o’clock the next morning. They had started out in the confiding warmth of a champagne friendship, but their parting in the elevator was singularly cool. The freshman pulled himself together to make his train, and Paul went to bed. He awoke at two o’clock in the afternoon, very thirsty and dizzy, and rang for icewater, coffee, and the Pittsburgh papers.

On the part of the hotel management, Paul excited no suspicion. There was this to be said for him, that he wore his spoils with dignity and in no way made himself conspicuous. Even under the glow of his wine he was never boisterous, though he found the stuff like a magician’s wand for wonder-building. His chief greediness lay in his ears and eyes, and his excesses were not offensive ones. His dearest pleasures were the gray winter twilights in his sitting room; his quiet enjoyment of his flowers, his clothes, his wide divan, his cigarette, and his sense of power. He could not remember a time when he had felt so at peace with himself. The mere release from the necessity of petty lying, lying every day and every day, restored his self-respect. He had never lied for pleasure, even at school; but to be noticed and admired, to assert his difference from other Cordelia Street boys; and he felt a good deal more manly, more honest, even, now that he had no need for boastful pretensions, now that he could, as his actor friends used to say, "dress the part." It was characteristic that remorse did not occur to him. His golden days went by without a shadow, and he made each as perfect as he could.

On the eighth day after his arrival in New York he found the whole affair exploited in the Pittsburgh papers, exploited with a wealth of detail which indicated that local news of a sensational nature was at a low ebb. The firm of Denny & Carson announced that the boy’s father had refunded the full amount of the theft and that they had no intention of prosecuting. The Cumberland minister had been interviewed, and expressed his hope of yet reclaiming the motherless lad, and his Sabbath-school teacher declared that she would spare no effort to that end. The rumor had reached Pittsburgh that the boy had been seen in a New York hotel, and his father had gone East to find him and bring him home.

Paul had just come in to dress for dinner; he sank into a chair, weak to the knees, and clasped his head in his hands. It was to be worse than jail, even; the tepid waters of Cordelia Street were to close over him finally and forever. The gray monotony stretched before him in hopeless, unrelieved years; Sabbath school, Young People’s Meeting, the yellow-papered room, the damp dishtowels; it all rushed back upon him with a sickening vividness. He had the old feeling that the orchestra had suddenly stopped, the sinking sensation that the play was over. The sweat broke out on his face, and he sprang to his feet, looked about him with his white, conscious smile, and winked at himself in the mirror, With something of the old childish belief in miracles with which he had so often gone to class, all his lessons unlearned, Paul dressed and dashed whistling down the corridor to the elevator.

He had no sooner entered the dining room and caught the measure of the music than his remembrance was lightened by his old elastic power of claiming the moment, mounting with it, and finding it all-sufficient. The glare and glitter about him, the mere scenic accessories had again, and for the last time, their old potency. He would show himself that he was game, he would finish the thing splendidly. He doubted, more than ever, the existence of Cordelia Street, and for the first time he drank his wine recklessly. Was he not, after all, one of those fortunate beings born to the purple, was he not still himself and in his own place? He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the Pagliacci music and looked about him, telling himself over and over that it had paid.

He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the music and the chill sweetness of his wine, that he might have done it more wisely. He might have caught an outbound steamer and been well out of their clutches before now. But the other side of the world had seemed too far away and too uncertain then; he could not have waited for it; his need had been too sharp. If he had to choose over again, he would do the same thing tomorrow. He looked affectionately about the dining room, now gilded with a soft mist. Ah, it had paid indeed!

Paul was awakened next morning by a painful throbbing in his head and feet. He had thrown himself across the bed without undressing, and had slept with his shoes on. His limbs and hands were lead heavy, and his tongue and throat were parched and burnt. There came upon him one of those fateful attacks of clearheadedness that never occurred except when he was physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose. He lay still, closed his eyes, and let the tide of things wash over him.

His father was in New York; "stopping at some joint or other," he told himself. The memory of successive summers on the front stoop fell upon him like a weight of black water. He had not a hundred dollars left; and he knew now, more than ever, that money was everything, the wall that stood between all he loathed and all he wanted. The thing was winding itself up; he had thought of that on his first glorious day in New York, and had even provided a way to snap the thread. It lay on his dressing table now; he had got it out last night when he came blindly up from dinner, but the shiny metal hurt his eyes, and he disliked the looks of it.

He rose and moved about with a painful effort, succumbing now and again to attacks of nausea. It was the old depression exaggerated; all the world had become Cordelia Street. Yet somehow he was not afraid of anything, was absolutely calm; perhaps because he had looked into the dark corner at last and knew. It was bad enough, what he saw there, but somehow not so bad as his long fear of it had been. He saw everything clearly now. He had a feeling that he had made the best of it, that he had lived the sort of life he was meant to live, and for half an hour he sat staring at the revolver. But he told himself that was not the way, so he went downstairs and took a cab to the ferry.

When Paul arrived in Newark he got off the train and took another cab, directing the driver to follow the Pennsylvania tracks out of the town. The snow lay heavy on the roadways and had drifted deep in the open fields. Only here and there the dead grass or dried weed stalks projected, singularly black, above it. Once well into the country, Paul dismissed the carriage and walked, floundering along the tracks, his mind a medley of irrelevant things. He seemed to hold in his brain an actual picture of everything he had seen that morning. He remembered every feature of both his drivers, of the toothless old woman from whom he had bought the red flowers in his coat, the agent from whom he had got his ticket, and all of his fellow passengers on the ferry. His mind, unable to cope with vital matters near at hand, worked feverishly and deftly at sorting and grouping these images. They made for him a part of the ugliness of the world, of the ache in his head, and the bitter burning on his tongue. He stooped and put a handful of snow into his mouth as he walked, but that, too, seemed hot. When he reached a little hillside, where the tracks ran through a cut some twenty feet below him, he stopped and sat down.

The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold, he noticed, their red glory all over. It occurred to him that all the flowers he had seen in the glass cases that first night must have gone the same way, long before this. It was only one splendid breath they had, in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass; and it was a losing game in the end, it seemed, this revolt against the homilies by which the world is run. Paul took one of the blossoms carefully from his coat and scooped a little hole in the snow, where he covered it up. Then he dozed awhile, from his weak condition, seemingly insensible to the cold.

The sound of an approaching train awoke him, and he started to his feet, remembering only his resolution, and afraid lest he should be too late. He stood watching the approaching locomotive, his teeth chattering, his lips drawn away from them in a frightened smile; once or twice he glanced nervously sidewise, as though he were being watched. When the right moment came, he jumped. As he fell, the folly of his haste occurred to him with merciless clearness, the vastness of what he had left undone. There flashed through his brain, clearer than ever before, the blue of Adriatic water, the yellow of Algerian sands.

He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was being thrown swiftly through the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed. Then, because the picture-making mechanism was crushed, the disturbing visions flashed into black, and Paul dropped back into the immense design of things.

THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCE (W. Somerset Maugham)

SHE was sitting on the veranda -waiting for her husband to come in for luncheon. The Malay boy had drawn the blinds when the morning lost its freshness, but she had partly raised one of them so that she could look at the river. Under the breathless sun of midday it had the -white pallor of death. A native was paddling along in a dug--out so small that it hardly showed above the surface of the water. The colours of the day -were ashy and wan. They -were but the various tones of the heat. (It was like an Eastern melody, in the minor key. which exacerbates the nerves by its -ambiguous monotony; and the ear awaits impatiently a resolution, but waits in vain.) The cicadas sang their grating song -with a frenzied energy; it was as continual and monotonous as the rustling of a brook over the stones; but on a sudden it was drowned by the loud singing of a bird, mellifluous and rich; and for an instant, -with a catch at her heart, she thought of the English blackbird.

Then she heard her husband’s step on the gravel path behind the bungalow, the path that led to the court-house in which he had been working, and she rose from her chair to greet him. He ran up the short flight of steps, for the bungalow was built on piles, and at the door the boy was waiting to take his topee. He came into the room-which served them as a dining-room and parlour, and his eyes lit up with pleasure as he saw her.

’Hulloa, Doris. Hungry?’ Ravenous.’

’It’ll only take me a minute to have a bath and then I’m ready.’

’Be quick,’ she smiled.

He disappeared into his dressing-room and she heard him -whistling cheerily -while, with the carelessness with -which she was always remonstrating, he. tore off his clothes and flung them on the floor. He ’was twenty-nine, but he -was still a school-boy; he would never grow up. That -was -why she had fallen in love with him, perhaps, for no amount of affection could persuade her that he -was good-looking. He was a little round man, with a red face like the fall moon, and blue eyes. He was rather pimply. She had examined him carefully and had been forced to confess to him that he had not a single feature which she could praise. She had told him often that he wasn’t her type at all.

’I never said I -was a beauty,’ he laughed. ’I can’t think -what it is I see in you.’

But of course she knew perfectly well. He -was a gay,jolly little man, -who took nothing very solemnly, and he -was constantly laughing. He made her laugh too. He found life an amusing rather than a serious business, and he had a charming smile. When she -was -with him she felt happy and good tempered. And the deep affection -which she saw in those merry blue eyes of his touched her. It -was very satisfactory to be loved like that. Once, sitting on his knees, during their honeymoon she had taken his face in her hands and said to him:

’You’re an ugly, little fat man, Guy, but you’ve got charm. I can’t help loving you.’

A wave of emotion swept over her and her eyes filled with tears. She saw his face contorted for a moment -with the extremity of his feeling and his voice -was a little shaky when he answered.

’It’s a terrible thing for me to have married a woman -who’s mentally deficient,’ he said.

She chuckled. It -was the characteristic answer -which she would have liked him to make.

It was hard to realize that nine months ago she had never even heard of him. She had met him at a small place by the seaside -where she -was spending a month’s holiday with her mother. Doris was a secretary to a member of parliament, Guy was home on leave. ’They -were staying at the same hotel and he quickly told her all about himself. He -was born in Sembulu, -where his father had served for thirty years under the second Sultan, and on leaving school he had entered the same service. He -was devoted to the country.

’After all England’s a foreign land to me,’ he told her. ’My home’s Sembulu.’

And now it was her home too. He asked her to marry him at the end of the month’s holiday. She had known he was going to, and had decided to refuse him. She was her widowed mother’s only child and she could not go so far away from her, but when the moment came she did not quite know what happened to her, she was carried off her feet by an unexpected emotion, and she accepted him- They had been settled now for four months in the little outstation of which he was in charge. She was very happy-

She told him once that she had quite made up her mind to refuse him.

’Are you sorry you didn’t?’ he asked, with a merry smile in his twinkling blue eyes.

’I should have been a perfect fool if I had. What a bit of luck that fate or chance or whatever it was stepped in and took the matter entirely out of my hands.

Now she heard Guy clatter down the steps to the bath-house. He was a noisy fellow and even with bare feet he could not be quiet. But he uttered an exclamation. He said two or three words in the local dialect and she could not understand. Then she heard someone speaking to him, not aloud, but in a sibilant whisper. Really it was too bad of people to waylay him when he was going to have his bath. He spoke again and though his voice -was low she could hear that he was vexed. The other voice was raised now; it was a. woman’s. Doris supposed. it was someone who had -a complaint to make. It was like a Malay woman to come in that surreptitious way. But she was evidently getting very little from Guy, for she heard him say: Get out. That at all events she understood, and then she heard him bolt the door. There was a sound of the water he was throwing over himself (the bathing arrangements still amused her; the bath-houses were under the bedrooms, on the ground; you had a large tub of water and you sluiced yourself with a little tin pail) and in a couple of minutes he was back. again in the dining-room. His hair was still wet. They sat down to luncheon. ’It’s lucky I’m not a suspicious or a jealous person,’ she laughed- ’I don’t know that I should altogether approve of your having animated conversations with ladies while you’re having your bath.’

His face, usually so cheerful had borne a sullen look when he came in, but now it brightened.

’I wasn’t exactly pleased to see her.’

’So I judged by the tone of your voice. In fact, I thought you were rather short with the young person.’

’Damned cheek, waylaying me like that ’What did she want?’

’Oh, I don’t know. She's a woman from the kampong. She’s had a row with her husband or something.’

’I wonder if it’s the same one who was hanging about this morning.’

He frowned a little.

’Was there someone hanging about?’

’Yes, I went into your dressing-room to see that everything was nice and tidy, and then I -went down to the bath-house. I saw someone ’slink out of the door as I went down the steps and when I looked out I saw a -woman, standing there.’

Did you speak to her?’

I asked her what she wanted and she said something, but I couldn’t understand.’

’I’m not going to have all sorts of stray people prowling about here,’ he said. ’They've got no right to come.’

He smiled, but Doris, with the quick perception of a woman in love, noticed that he smiled only with his lips, not as usual with his eyes also, and wondered -what it was that troubled him. ’What have you been doing this morning?’ he asked.

’Oh, nothing much. I went for a little walk.’ ’Through the kampong?’

’Yes. I saw a man send a chained monkey up 2, tree to pick coconuts, which rather thrilled me.’

’It’s rather a lark, isn’t it?’

’Oh, Guy, there were two little boys watching him -who were much whiter than the others. I wondered if they were half-castes. I spoke to them, but they didn’t know a word of English.’

’There are two or three half-caste children in the kampong,’ he answered.

’Who do they belong to?’

’Their mother is one of the village girls.’ ’Who is their father?’

’Oh, My dear, that’s the sort of question we think it a little dangerous to ask out here.’ He paused. ’A lot of fellows have native wives, and then when they go home or marry they pension them off and send them back to their village.’ -

Doris was silent. The indifference with which he spoke seemed a little callous to her. There was almost a frown on her frank, open, pretty English face when she replied.

But -what about the children?’

’I have no doubt they’re properly provided for. Within his means, a man generally sees that there’s enough money to have them decently educated. They get jobs as clerks ’in a government office, you know; they’re all right.’

She gave him a slightly rueful smile.

’You can’t expect me to think it’s a very good system.’ ’You mustn’t be too hard,’ he smiled back.

’I’m not hard. But I’m thankful you never had a Malay wife. I should have hated it. Just think if those two little brats -were yours.’

The boy changed their plates. There was never much variety in their menu. They started luncheon with river fish, dull and insipid, so that a good deal of tomato ketchup was needed to make it palatable, and then -went on to some kind of stew. Guy poured Worcester Sauce over it.

’The old Sultan didn’t think it was a white woman’s country,’ he said presently- ’He rather encouraged people to - keep house -with native girls. Of course things have changed now. The country’s perfectly quiet and I suppose we know better how to cope with the climate.’

’But, Guy, the eldest of those boys wasn’t more than seven or eight and the other was about five.’

It’s awfully lonely on an outstation. Why, often one doesn’t see another -white man for six months on end. A fellow comes out here when he’s only a boy.’ He gave her that charming smile of his which transfigured his round, plain face-” there are excuses, you know.’

She always found that smile irresistible. It was his best argument. Her eyes grew once more soft and tender.

’I’m sure there are.’ She stretched her hand across the little table and put it on his. ’I’m very lucky to have caught you so young. Honestly, it -would upset me dreadfully if I were told that you had lived like that.’

He took her hand and pressed it. ’Are you happy here, darling? Desperately.’

She looked very cool and fresh in her linen frock. The heat did not distress her. She had no more than the prettiness of youth, though her brown eyes -were fine; but she had a pleasing frankness of expression, and her dark, short Hair was neat and glossy. She gave you the impression of a girl of spirit and you felt sure that the Member of Parliament for whom she worked had in her a very competent secretary.

’I loved the country at once,’ she said- ’Although I’m alone so much I don’t think I’ve ever once felt lonely’

Of course she had read novels about the Malay Archipelago and she had formed an impression of a sombre land -with great ominous rivers and a silent, impenetrable jungle. When the little coasting steamer set them down at the mouth of the river, where a large boat, manned by a dozen Dyaks, -was -waiting to take them to the station, her breath was- taken away by the beauty, friendly rather than awe-inspiring, of the scene. It had a gaiety, like the joyful singing of birds in the trees, -which she had never expected. On each bank of the river -were mangroves and ninpah palms, and behind them the dense green of the forest. In the distance stretched Blue Mountains, range upon range, as far as the eye could see. She had no sense of confinement nor of gloom, but rather of openness and wide spaces where the exultant fancy could wander -with delight. The green glittered in the sunshine and the sky -was blithe and cheerful. The gracious land seemed to offer her a smiling welcome- They rowed on, hugging a bank, and high overhead flew a Pair of doves. A flash of colour, like a living jewel dashed across their path. It was a kingfisher. Two monkeys, with their dangling tails, sat side by side on a branch. On the horizon, over there or, the other side of the broad and turbid. River, beyond the jungle, was a row of little white clouds, the only clouds in the sky, and they looked Like a row of ballet-girls, dressed in white, waiting at the back of the stage alert and merry for the curtain to go up. Her heart was filled with joy; and now , remembering it all, her eyes rested on her husband with a grateful, assured affection.

And what fun it had been to arrange their living-room, It -was very big. On the floor, when she arrived, was torn and dirty matting; on the walls of unpainted wood hung (much too high up) photogravures of Academy pictures, Dyak shields, and parangs. The tables were covered with Dyak cloth in sombre colours, -arid on them stood pieces of Brunei brassware, much in need of cleaning, empty cigarette tins, and bits of Malay silver. There -was a rough wooden shelf with cheap editions of novels and a number of old travel books in battered leather; and another shelf was crowded with empty bottles. It was a bachelor’s room, untidy but stiff-; and though it amused her she found it intolerably pathetic. It was a dreary, comfortless life that Guy had led there, and she threw her arms; round his neck and kissed him.

’You poor darling, she laughed.

She had deft hands and she soon made the room habitable. She arranged this and that and what she could not do with she turned out. Her wedding presents helped. Now the room was friendly and comfortable. In glass vases were lovely orchids and in great bowl huge masses of flowering shrubs. She felt an inordinate pride because it was her house (she had never in her life lived in anything but a poky flat) and she had made it charming for him.

’Are you pleased with me?’ she asked when she had finished. ’Quite,’ he smiled.

The deliberate understatement was much to her mind. How jolly it was that they should understand each other so well!

They were both of them shy of displaying emotion. It was only at rare moments that they used, with one another anything but ironic banter.

They finished luncheon and he threw -himself into a long chair to have a sleep. She went towards her room. She was a little surprised that he drew her to him as she passed and, making her bend down, kissed her lips. They -were not in the habit of exchanging embraces at odd hours of the day.

’A full tummy is making you sentimental, my poor lamb,’ she chaffed him.

’Get out and don’t let me see you again for at least two hours.,

’Don’t snore.’

She left him They had risen at dawn and in five minutes were fast asleep.

Doris was awakened by the sound of her husband splashing in the bath-house. The walls of the bungalow were like a sounding board and not a thing that one of them did escaped the other. She felt too lazy to move, but she heard the boy bring the tea things in, so she jumped up and ran down into her bath-house. The -water, not cold but cool, was deliciously refreshing. When she came into the sitting-room Guy was taking the rackets out of the press, for they played tennis in the short cool of the evening. The night fell-at six.

The tennis-court was two or three hundred yards from the bungalow and after tea, anxious not to lose time, they strolled down to it.

’Oh, look,’ said Doris, ’there’s that girl that I saw this morning.)

Guy turned quickly. His eyes rested for a moment on a native woman, but he could not speak

’What a pretty sarong she’s got’ said Doris. ’I wonder -where it comes from!

They passed her. -She was slight and small, with the large, dark, starry eyes of her race and a mass of raven hair. She did not stir as they went by but stared at them strangely. Doris saw then that she -was not quite so young as she had at first thought. Her features -were a trifle heavy and her skin was dark, but she was very pretty. She held a small child in her arms. Doris smiled a little as she saw it, but no answering smile moved the woman’s lips. Her face remained impassive. She did not look at Guy, she looked only at Doris, and he -walked on as though he did not see her. Doris turned to him.

’Isn’t that baby a duck?” ’I didn’t notice.’

She was puzzled by the look of his face. It was deathly white, and the pimples which not a little distressed her -were more than commonly red.

Did you notice her hands and feet? She might be a duchess.’ ’All natives have good hands and feet,’ he answered, but not jovially as was his wont; it -was as though he forced himself to speak.

But Doris was intrigued. ’Who is she, d’you know?’

’She’s one of the girls in the kampong.’

They had reached the court now. When Guy -went up to the net to see that it was taut he looked back. The girl was still standing -where they had passed her. Their eyes met.

’Shall I serve?’ said Doris, -

’Yes, you’ve got the balls on your side.’

He played very badly. Generally he gave her fifteen and beat her, but today she won easily. And he played silently. Generally he -was a noisy player, shouting all the time, cursing his foolishness when he missed a ball and chaffing her when he placed one out of her reach.

’You’re Off your game, young man,’ she cried. ’Not a bit,’ he said.

He began to slam the balls, trying to beat her, and sent one after the other into the net. She had never seen him- with that set face. Was it possible that he was -a little out of temper because he was not playing -well? The light fell, and they censed to play. The woman whom they had passed stood in exactly the same position as when they came and once more, with expressionless face, she watched them go.

The blinds on the veranda -were raised now, and on the table between their two long chairs -were bottles and soda-water. This was the hour at which they had the first drink of the day and Guy mixed a couple of gin slings. The river stretched widely before them, and on the farther bank the jungle was wrapped in the mystery of the approaching night. A native was silently rowing up-stream, standing at the bow of the boat, -with two oars.

’I played like a fool,’ said Guy, breaking the silence ’I’m feeling a bit under the weather.’

’I’m sorry. You’re not going to have fever, are u?’ ’Oh, no. I shall be all right tomorrow.’

Darkness closed in upon them. The frogs croaked loudly and now and then they heard a few short notes from some singing bird of the night. Fireflies flitted across the veranda and they made the trees that surrounded it look like Christmas trees lit -with tiny candles. They sparkled softly. Doris thought she heard a little sigh. It vaguely disturbed her. Guy was always so full of gaiety.

’What is it, old man?’ she said gently. ’Tell mother.’

’Nothing. Time for another drink,’ he answered breezily.

Next day he was as cheerful as ever and the mail came. The coasting steamer passed the mouth of the river twice a month, once on its way to the coalfields and once on its way back. On the outward journey it brought mail, which Guy sent a boat down to fetch. Its arrival was the excitement of their uneventful lives. For the first day or two they skimmed rapidly all that had come, letters, English papers and papers from Singapore, magazines and books, leaving for the ensuing -weeks a more exact perusal. They snatched the illustrated papers from one another. If Doris had not been so absorbed she might have noticed that there was a change in Guy. She would have found it hard to describe and harder still to explain. There was in his eyes a sort of -watchfulness and in his mouth a slight droop of anxiety.

Then, perhaps a -week later, one morning when she was sitting in the shaded room studying a Malay grammar (for she was industriously learning the language) she heard a commotion in the compound. She heard the house boy’s voice, he was speaking angrily, the voice of another man perhaps it was the water-carrier’s, and then a woman’s, shrill and vituperative. There -was a scuffle. She went to the window and opened the shutters. The water-carrier had hold of a -woman’s arm and was dragging her along, -while the house boy was pushing her from behind -with both hands. Doris recognized her at once as the woman she had seen one morning loitering in the compound and later in the day outside the tennis-court. She was holding a baby against her breast All three were shouting angrily.

’Stop,’ cried Doris. ’What are you doing?’

At the sound of her voice the water-carrier let go suddenly -and the woman, still pushed from behind, fell to the ground.

There was a sudden silence and the house boy looked sullenly into space. The water-carrier hesitated a moment and than slunk away. The woman raised herself slowly to her feet, arranged the baby on her arm, and stood impassive, staring at Doris. The boy, said something to her which Doris could not have heard even if she had understood; the woman by -no change of face showed that his words meant anything to her; but she slowly strolled away. The boy followed her to the gate of the compound. Doris called to him as he walked back, but he pretended not to hear. She was growing angry now and she called more sharply.

’Come here at once,’ she cried.

Suddenly, avoiding her wrathful glance, he came towards the bungalow. He came in. and stood at the door. He looked at her sulkily.

’What were you doing with that woman?’ she asked abruptly. ’Tuan say she no come here.’

’You mustn’t treat a woman like that. I won’t have it. –I shall tell the Tuan exactly what I saw.’

The boy did not answer. He looked away, but she felt that he -was watching her through his long eyelashes. She dismissed him.

’That’ll do.’

Without a -word he turned and went back to the servants’ quarters. She was exasperated and she found it impossible to give her attention once more to the Malay exercises. In a little while the boy came in to lay the cloth for luncheon. On a sudden he’ went to the door.

’What is it?’ she asked. ’Tuan just coming.-’

He went out to take Guy’s hat from him. His quick ears had caught the footsteps before they were audible to her. Guy did not as usual come up the steps immediately; _he paused, and Doris at once surmised that the boy had gone down to meet him in order to tell him of the morning’s incident- She shrugged her shoulders. The boy evidently wanted to get his story . in first. But she was astonished when Guy came in. His face was ashy.

’Guy, what on earth’s the matter?’ He flushed a sudden hot red. ’Nothing. Why?’

She was so taken aback that she let him pass into his room -without a word of -what she had meant to speak of at once. It took him longer than usual to have his bath and change his clothes and luncheon was served -when he came in.

’Guy,’ she said, as they sat down, ’that woman ’we saw the other day was here again this morning.’

’So I’ve heard,’ he answered.

’The boys were treating her brutally. I had to stop them. You must really speak to them about it.’

Though the Malay understood every word she said, he made no sign that he-heard. He handed her the toast.

’She’s been told not to come here. I gave instructions that if she showed herself again she was to be turned out.’

’Were they obliged to be so rough?’

’She refused to go. I don’t think they -were any rougher than they could help.’

’It was horrible to see a woman treated like that. She had a baby in her arms.’

’Hardly a baby. It’s three years old.’ ’How d’you know?’

’I know all about her. She hasn’t the least right to come here pestering everybody.’

’What does she want?’

’She wants to do exactly -what she did. She wants to make a disturbance’

For a little while Doris did not speak. She was surprised at her husband’s tone- He spoke tersely. He spoke as though all this were no concern of hers. She thought him a little unkind. He was nervous and irritable

’I doubt if -we shall be able to play tennis this afternoon,’ he said. ’It looks to me as though -we were going to have a storm.’ The rain was falling -when she awoke and it was impossible to go out. During tea Guy was silent and abstracted. She got her sewing and began to work. Guy sat down to read such of the English papers as he had not yet gone through from cover to cover; but he was restless; he walked up and down the large room and then -went out on the veranda. He looked at the steady rain. What was he thinking of? Doris was vaguely uneasy.

It was not till after dinner that he spoke. During the simple meal he had exerted Himself to be his usual gay self, ’but the exertion -was apparent. The rain had ceased and the night was starry. They sat on the veranda. In order not to attract insects they had put out the lamp in the sitting-room. At their feet, with a mighty, formidable sluggishness, silent, mysterious, and fatal, flowed the river. It had the terrible deliberation and the relentlessness of destiny.

’Doris, I’ve got something to say to you,’ he said suddenly. His voice -was very strange. Was it her fancy that he had difficulty in keeping it quite steady? She felt a Little pang in her heart because he was in distress, and she put her hand gently into his. He drew it a-way.

’It’s rather a long story. I’m afraid it’s not a very nice one and I find it rather difficult to tell. I’m going to ask you not to interrupt me, or to say anything, till I’ve finished.’

In the darkness she could not see his face, but she felt that it was haggard. She did not answer. He spoke in a voice so low that it hardly broke the silence of the night.

’I -was only eighteen when I came out here. I came straight from school. I spent three months in Kuala Solor, and then I was sent to a station up the Sembulu river. Of course there -was a Resident there and his wife. I lived in the court-house, but I used to have my meals with them and spend the evening with them. I had an awfully good time. Then the fellow -who -was here fell ill and had to go home. We were short of men on account of the war and I -was put in charge of this place. Of course I was very young, but I spoke the language like a native, and they remembered my father. I was as pleased as punch to be on my own.’

He -was silent while he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and refilled it. When he lit a match Doris, without looking at him, noticed that his hand was unsteady.

’I’d never been alone before, Of course at home there’d been father and mother and generally an assistant. And then at school naturally there were always fellows about. On the -way out, on the boat, there were people all the time, and at K.S, and the same at my first post. The people there were almost like my own people. I seemed always to live in a crowd. I like people. I’m a noisy blighter. I like to have a good time. All sorts of things make me laugh and you must have somebody to laugh with. But it was different here. Of course it was all right in the day time; I had my work and I could talk to the Dyaks. Although they were head-hunters in those days and now and then I had a bit of trouble with them, they were an awfully decent lot of fellows. I got on very well -with them. Of course I should have liked a white man to gas to,but they were better than nothing, and it was easier for me because they didn’t look upon me quite as a stranger. I liked the work too. It was rather lonely in the evening to sit on the veranda and drink a gin and bitters by myself, but I could read. And the boys were about. My own boy was called Abdul. He’d known my father. When I got tired of reading I could give him a shout and have a bit of a jaw with him.

’It was the nights that did for me. After dinner the boys shut up and went away to sleep in the kampong. I -was -all alone. There wasn’t a sound in the bungalow except now and then the croak of the chik-chak. It used to come out of the silence, suddenly, so that it made me jump. Over in the kampong I heard the sound of a gong or fire-crackers. They were having a good time, they weren’t so far away, but I had to stay where I was. I was tired of reading. I couldn’t have been more of a prisoner if I’d been in jail. Night after night it was the same. I tried drinking three or four whiskies, but it’s poor fan drinking alone, and it didn’t cheer me up; it only made me feel rather rotten next day. I tried going to bed immediately after dinner, but I couldn’t sleep. I used to lie in bed, getting hotter and hotter, and more wide awake, till I didn’t know what to do with myself. By George, those nights were long. D’you know, I got so low, I was so sorry for myself that sometimes - it makes me laugh now when I think of it, but I was only nineteen and a half - sometimes I used to cry.

’Then, one evening, after dinner, Abdul had cleared away, and was just going off, when he gave a little cough. He said, wasn’t I lonely in the house all night by myself? ”Oh, no, that’s all right,” I said. I didn’t want him to know what a damned fool I was, but I expect he knew all right. He stood there without speaking, and I knew he wanted to say something to me. ”That is it?” I said. ”Spit it out.” Then he said that if I’d like to have a girl to come and live with me he knew one who was willing. She was a very good girl and he could recommend her. She’d be no trouble and it would be someone to have about the bungalow. She’d mend my things for me.... I felt awfully low. It had been raining -all day and I hadnt been able to get any exercise. I knew I shouldn’t sleep for hours. It wouldn’t cost me very much money, he said, her people were poor and

They’d be quite satisfied with a small present. Two hundred Straits dollars. ”You look,” he said. ”If you don’t like her you send her away” I asked him where she was. ”She’s here,,” he said. ”I call her.” He went to the door. She’d been waiting on the steps with her mother. They came in and sat down on the floor. I gave them some sweets. She was shy, of course, but cool enough, and -when I said something to her she gave me a smile, She was very young, hardly more than a child, they said she was fifteen. She was awfully pretty, and she had her best clothes on. We began to talk. She didn’t say much, but she laughed a lot when I chaffed her. Abdul said I’d find she had plenty to say for herself when she got to know me. He told her to come and sit by me. She giggled and refused, but her mother told her to come, and I made room for her on the chair. She blushed and laughed, but she came, and then she snuggled up to me. The boy laughed too. ”You see, she’s taken to you already,” he said. ”Do you -want her to stay?” he asked. ”Do you want to?” I said to her. She hid her face, laughing, on my shoulder. She was very soft and small. ”Very well,” I said, ”’let her stay.”’

Guy leaned forward and helped himself to a whisky and soda.

’My I speak now?’Asked Doris.

’Wait a minute, I haven’t finished yet. I wasn’t in love with her, not even at the beginning. I only took her so as to have somebody about the bungalow. I think I should have gone mad if I hadn’t, or else taken to drink. 1 was at the end of my tether. I was too young to be quite alone. I was never in love with anyone but you.’ He hesitated a moment. ’She lived here till I went home last -ear on leave. It’s the woman you’ve seen hanging about.’

’Yes, I guessed that. She had a baby in her arms. Is that your child?’

’Yes. It’s a little girl.’ ’Is it the only one;’

’You saw the two small boys the other day in the kampong. You mentioned them.’

’She has three children then?’ ’Yes.’

’It’s quite a family you’ve got.’

She felt the sudden gesture which her remark forced from him, but he did not speak.

’Didn’t she know that you were married till you suddenly turned up here with a wife?’ asked Doris.

’She knew I was going to be married.’ ’When?’

’I sent her back to the village before I left here. I told her it was all over. I gave her what I’d promised. She always knew it was only a temporary arrangement. I -was fed up with it. I told her I was going to marry a white woman

’But you hadn’t even seen me then.’

’No, I know. But I’d made up my mind to marry when I was home.’ He chuckled in his old manner. ’I ’ don’t mind telling you that I was getting rather despondent about it when I met you. I fel in love with you at first sight and then I knew it was either you or nobody.’

’Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think it would have been only fair to give me a chance of judging for myself? It might have occurred to you that it would be rather a shock to a girl to find out that her husband had lived for ten years with another girl and had three children.’

’I couldn’t expect you to understand. The circumstances out here are peculiar. It’s the regular thing. Five men out of six do it. I thought perhaps it would shock you and I didn’t want to lose you. You see, I -was most awfully in love with you. I am now, darling. There was no reason that you should ever know. I didn’t expect to come back here. One seldom goes back to the same station after home leave. ’When we came here I offered her money if she’d go to some other village. First she said she would and then she changed her mind.’

’Why have you told me now?’ ’

’She’s been making the most awful scenes. I don’t know how she found out that you knew nothing about it. As soon as she did she began to blackmail me. I’ve had to give her an awful lot of money. I gave orders that she -wasn’t to be allowed in the compound. This morning she made that scene just to attract your attention. She wanted to frighten me. It couldn’t go on like that. I thought the only thing was to make a clean breast of it.’

There -was a long silence as he finished. At last he put his hand on hers.

. ’You do understand, Doris, don’t you? I know I’ve been to blame-’

She did not move her hand. He felt it cold beneath his. ’Is she jealous ?’

’I dare say there -were all sorts of perks -when she was living here, an I don’t suppose she much likes not getting them any longer. But she -was never in love with me any more than I was in love with her. Native women never do really care for white men, you know.’

And the children?’

’Oh, the children are all right. I’ve provided for them. As soon as the boys are old enough I shall send them to school at Singapore.’

’Do they mean nothing to you at all?’ He hesitated.

’I -want to be quite frank with you. I should be sorry if anything happened to them. When the first one was expected I thought I’d be much fonder of it than I ever had been of its mother. I suppose I should have been if it had been white. Of course, -when it was a baby it was rather funny and touching, but I had no particular feeling that it was mine- I think that’s what it is; you see, I have no sense of their belonging to me. I’ve reproached myself sometimes, because it seemed rather unnatural, but the honest truth is that they’re no more to me than if they were somebody else’s children. Of course a lot of slush is talked about children by people who haven’t got any.’

Now she had heard everything. He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. She sat motionless.

’Is there anything more you -want to ask me, Doris?’ he said at last.

’No, I’ve got rather a headache. I think I shall go to bed.’ Her voice was as steady as ever. ’I don’t quite know what to say. Of course it’s been all very unexpected. You must give me a Little ttime to think.’

’Are you very angry with me?’

’No. Not at all. Only - only I must be left to myself for a while. Don’t move. I’m going to bed.’

She rose from her long chair and put her hand on his shoulder.

’It’s so very hot tonight. I wish you’d sleep in your dressing-room. Good night.’

She was gone. He heard her lock the door of her bedroom.

She was pale next day and he could see that she had not slept. There was no bitterness in her manner, she talked as usual but without ease; she spoke of this and that as though she were making conversation with a stranger. They had never had a quarrel, but it seemed to Guy that so would she talk if they had had a disagreement and the subsequent reconciliation had left her still wounded. The look in her eyes puzzled him; he seemed to read in them a strange fear. Immediately after dinner she said:

’I’m not feeling very well tonight. I think I shall go straight to bed.’

’Oh, my poor darling, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ’It’s nothing. I shall be all right in a day or two.’ I shall come in and say good night to you later.’

’No, don’t do that. I shall try and get straight off to sleep.’

’Well, then, kiss me before you go.’

He saw that she flushed. For an instant she seemed to hesitate; then, -with averted eyes, she leaned towards him. He took her in his arms and sought her lips, but she turned her face away and he kissed her cheek. She left him quickly and again he heard the key turn softly in the lock of her door. He flung himself heavily on the chair. He tried to read, but his ear was attentive to the smallest sound in his wife’s room. She had said she was going to bed, but he did not hear her move. The silence in there made him unaccountably nervous. Shading the lamp with his hand he saw that there was a glimmer under her door; she had not put out her light. What on earth was she doing? He put down his book. It would not have surprised him if she had been angry and had made him a scene, or if she had cried; he could have coped with that; but her calmness frightened him. And then what was that fear which he had seen so plainly in her eyes? He thought once more over all he had said to her on the previous night. He didn’t know how else he could have put it, After all, the chief point was that he’d done the same as everybody else, and it was all over long before he met her. Of course as things turned out he had been a fool, but anyone-could be wise after the event. He put his hand to his heart. Funny how it hurt him there.

’I suppose that’s the sort of thing people mean -when they say they’re heartbroken,’ he said to himself. ’I -wonder how long it’s going on like this?

Should he knock at the door and tell her he must speak to her? It was better to have it out. He must make her understand. But the silence scared him. Not a sound! Perhaps it -was better to leave her alone. Of course it had been a shock. He must give her as long as she wanted. After all, she knew how devotedly he loved her. Patience, that was the only thing; perhaps she -was fighting it out with herself; he must give her time; he must have patience, Next morning he asked her if she had slept better.

’Yes, much,’ she said.

’Are you very angry with me?’ he asked piteously. She looked at him with candid, open eyes.

’Not a bit.’

’Oh my dear, I’m so glad. I’ve been a brute -and a beast. I know it’s been hateful for you. But do forgive me. I’ve been so miserable.’

’I do forgive you. I don’t even blame you.’

He gave her a little rueful smile, and there was in his eyes the look of a -whipped dog.

’I haven’t much liked sleeping by myself the last two nights.’

She glanced away. Her face grew a trifle paler.

I've had the bed in my room taken away. It took up so much space. I’ve had a little camp bed put there instead.”

My dear, what are you talking about?’ Now she looked at him steadily.

’I’m not going to’ live with you as your wife again.’ ’Never?’

She shook her head. He looked at her in a puzzled -way. He could hardly believe he had heard aright and his heart began to beat painfully.

’But that’s awfully unfair to me, Doris.’

’Don’t you think it -was a little unfair to me to bring me out –here in the circumstances ?’

’But you just said you didn’t blame me.’

That’s quite true, But the other’s different. I can’t do it.’

’But how are we going to live together like that?’ She stared at the floor. She seemed to ponder deeply. ’When you wanted to kiss me on the lips last night I - it almost made me sick.’

’Doris.’ She looked at him suddenly and her eyes were cold and hostile.

’That bed I slept on, is that the bed in which she had her children?’ She saw him flush deeply. ’Oh, it’s horrible. How could you?’ She wrung her hands, and her twisting, tortured fingers looked like little -writhing snakes. But she made a great effort and controlled herself. ’my mind is quite made up. I don’t want to be unkind to you, but there are some things that

you can’t ask me to do. I’ve thought it all over. I’ve been thinking of nothing else since you told me, night and day, till I’m exhausted. ’my first instinct was to get up and go. At once. The steamer will be here in two or three days.’

’Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I love you?’

’Oh, I know you love me. I’m not going to do that. I want to give us both a chance. I have loved you so, Guy.’ Her voice broke, but she did not cry. ’I don’t want to be unreasonable. Heaven knows, I don’t want to be unkind. Guy, will you give me time?’

’I don’t know quite what you mean.’

’I just want you to leave me alone. I’m frightened by the feelings that I have.’

He had been right then; she was afraid. ’What feelings?’

’Please don’t ask me. I don’t -want to say anything to wound you. Perhaps I shall get over them. Heaven knows, I -want to. I’ll try, I promise you. I’ll try. Give me six months. I’ll do everything in the -world for you, but just that one thing.’ She made a little gesture of appeal- ’There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be happy enough together. If you really love me you’ll - you’ll have patience.’

He sighed deeply-

’Very well,’ he said. ’Naturally I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t like. It shall be as you say.’

He sat heavily for a little, as though, on a sudden grown old, it -was an effort -to move; then he got up.

’I’ll be getting along to the office.’ He took his topee and went out.

A month passed. Women conceal their feelings better than men and a stranger visiting them -would never have guessed that Doris was in any way troubled. But in Guy the strain -was obvious; his round, good-natured face was drawn, and in his eyes ’was a hungry, harassed look. He watched Doris. She was gay and she chaffed him as she had been used to do; they played teanis together; they chatted about one thing and another. But it was evident that she -was merely playing a part, and at last, unable to contain himself, he tried to speak again of his connexions with the Malay woman.

’Oh, Guy, there’s no object in going back on all that,’ she answered breezily. ’We’ve said all we had to say about it and I don’t blame you for anything.’

:Why do you punish me then?’

My poor boy, I don’t -want to punish you. It’s not my fault if. .- .- ’ she shrugged her shoulders. ’Human nature is very odd.

,I don’t understand.’ Don’t try.’

The words might have been harsh, but she softened them with a pleasant, friendly smile. Every night when she -went to bed she leaned over Guy and lightly kissed his cheek. Her lips only touched it. It was as though a moth had jus’t brushed his face in its flight.

A second month passed, then a third, and suddenly the six months which had seemed so interminable were over. Guy asked himself whether she remembered. He gave a strained attention now to everything she said, to every look- on her face and to every gesture of her hands. She remained impenetrable. She had asked him to give her six months; well, he had.

The coasting steamer passed the mouth of the river, dropped their mail and -went on its way. Guy busily -wrote the letters which it would pick up on the return journey. Two or three days passed by. It -was a Tuesday and the prahu was to start at dawn on -Thursday to await the steamer. Except at meal time -when Doris exerted herself to make conversation they had not of late talked very much together; and after dinner as usual they took their books and began to read; but when the boy had finished clearing away and was gone for the night Doris put down hers.

’Guy, I have something I -want to say, to you,’ she murmured. His heart gave a sudden thud again his ribs and he felt himself change colour.

’Oh, my dear, don’t look like that, it’s not so very terrible,’ she laughed.

But he thought her voice trembled a little. Well?,

’I want you to do something for me.’

’My darling, I’ll do anything in the world for you.’

He put out his hand to take hers, but she drew it away. ’I want you to let me go home.’

’You?’ he cried, aghast. ’When? Why?’

’I’ve borne it as long as I can. I’m at the end of my tether.’ ’How long do you want to go for? For always?’

’I don’t know. I think so.’ She gathered determination. ’Yes, for always.’

’Oh, my God!

His voice broke and she thought he was going to cry.

’Oh, Guy, don’t blame me. It really is not my fault. I can’t help myself.’

’You asked me for six months. I accepted your terms. You can’t say I’ve made a nuisance of myself.’

’No, no.’

’I’ve tried not to let you see what a rotten time I -was having.’

’I know. I’m very grateful to you. You’ve been awfully kind to me. Listen, Guy, I want to tell you again that I don’t blame you for a single thing you did. After all, you -were only a boy, and you did no more than the others; I know what the loneliness is here. Oh, my dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry for you. I knew all that from the beginning. That’s why I asked you for six months. My common sense tells me that I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. I’m unreasonable; I’m being unfair to you. But, you see, common sense has nothing to do with it; my -whole soul is in revolt. When I see the -woman and her children in the village I just feel my legs shaking. Everything in this house; when I think of that bed I slept in it gives me goose-flesh. . . . You don’t know what I’ve endured.’

’I think I’ve persuaded her to go away. And I’ve applied for a transfer.’

’That -wouldn’t help. She’ll be there always. You belong to them, you don’t belong to me. I think perhaps I could have stood it if there’d only been one child, but three; and the boys are quite big boys. For ten years you lived with her.’And now she came out with -what she had been working up to. She -was desperate. ’It’s a physical thing, I can’t help it, it’s stronger than I am. I think of those thin black arms of hers round you and it fills me with a physical nausea. I think of you holding those little black babies in your arms. Oh, it’s loathsome. The touch Of you is odious to me. Each night, when I’ve kissed you, I’ve I

had to brace myself up to it, I’ve had to clench my hands and force myself to touch your cheek.’ Now she -was clasping and unclasping her fingers in a nervous agony, and her voice was out of control. ’I know- it’s I -who am to blame now. I’m a silly, hysterical woman. I thought I’d get over it. I can’t, and now I never shall. I’ve brought it all on myself; I’m willing to take the consequences; if you say i must stay7 here, I’ll stay, but if I stay I shall die. I beseech you to let me go.’

And now the tears which she had restrained so long over-flowed and she wept broken-heartedly. He had never seen her cry before.

’Of course I don’t want to keep you here against your will, he said hoarsely.

Exhausted, she leaned back in her chair. Her features were all twisted and aWry. It was horribly painful to see the aabandonment of grief on that face which was habitually so placid.

’I’m so- sorry, Guy. I’ve broken your lice, but I’ve broken mine too. And we might have been so happy.’

’When do you want to go? On Tuesday?’ ’Yes.’

She looked at him piteously. He buried his face in his hands. At last he looked up.

’I’m tired out,’ he muttered. ’May go?-’

’Yes.’ For two minutes perhaps they sat there without a word. She started when the chik-chak gave its piercing, hoarse, and strangely human cry. Guy rose and went out on to the veranda. He leaned against the rail and looked at the softly flowing -water. He heard Doris go into her room.

Next morning, up earlier than usual, he went to her door and knocked.

’Yes ?,

’I have to go up-river today. I shan’t be back till late.’ ’All right.’

She understood. He had arranged to be away all day in order not to be about while she was packing. It was heartbreaking work. When she had packed her clothes she looked round the sitting-room at the things that belonged to her. It seemed dreadful to take them. She left every-thing but the photograph of her mother. Guy did not come in till ten o’clock at night.

’I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to dinner,’ he said. ’The head-man at the village I had to go to had a lot of things for me to attend to.’

She saw his eyes wander about the room and notice that her mother’s photograph no longer stood in its place.

’Is everything quite ready? he asked. ’I’ve ordered the boatman to be at the steps at dawn.

’I told the boy to wake me at five,’

’I’d better give you some money.’ He went to his desk and wrote out a cheque, He took some notes from a drawer. ’Here’s some cash to take you as far as Singapore and at Singapore you’ll be able to change the cheque.’

’Thank you.’

’Would you like me to come to the mouth of the river with you?’

’Oh, I think it would be better if we said good-bye here.’

’All right. I think I shall turn in. I’ve had a long day and I’m dead beats’

He did not even touch her hand. He went into his room. In a few minutes she heard him throw himself on his bed. For a little while she sat looking for the last time round that room in which she had been so happy and so miserable. She sighed deeply. She got up and went into her own room. Everything was packed except the one or two things she needed for the night.

it was dark when the boy awakened them. They dressed hurriedly and when they were ready breakfast was waiting for them. Presently they heard the boat row up to the landing-stage below the bungalow, and then the servants carried down her luggage. It was a poor pretence they made of eating. The darkness thinned away and the river was ghostly. It was not yet day, but it was no longer night. In the silence the voices of the natives at the landing-stage were very clear. Guy glanced at his wife’s untouched plate.

’If you’ve finished we might stroll down. I think you ought to be starting.’

She did not answer. She rose from the table. She went into her room to see that nothing had been forgotten and then side by side with him walked down the steps. A little winding path led them to the river. At the landing-stage the native guards in their smart uniform were lined up and they presented arms as Guy and Doris passed. ’The head boatman gave her his hand as she stepped into the boat. She turned and looked at Guy. She wanted desperately to say one last word of comfort, once more to ask for his forgiveness, but she seemed to be struck dumb.

He stretched out his hand.

’Well, good-bye, I hope you’ll have a jolly journey.’ They shook hands.

Guy nodded to the head boatman and the boat pushed off.

The dawn now was creeping along the river mistily, but the night lurked still in the dark trees of the jungle. He stood at the landing-stage till the boat was lost in the shadows of the morning. With a sigh he turned away. He nodded absent-mindedly when the guard once more presented arms. But when he reached the bungalow he called the boy. He went round the room picking out everything that had belonged to Doris.

Pack all these things up,’ he said. ’It’s no good leaving them about’

Then he sat down on the veranda and watched the day advance gradually like a bitter, an unmerited, and an over-whelming sorrow. At last he looked at his watch. It -was time for him to go to the office.

In the afternoon he could not sleep, his head ached miserably, so he took his gun and went for a tramp in the jungle. He shot nothing, but he walked in order to tire himself out. Towards sunset he came back and had two or three drinks, and then it was time to dress for dinner. There wasn’t much use in dressing now; he might just as well be comfortable; he put on a loose native jacket and a sarong. That was what he had been accustomed to wear before Doris came. He was barefoot. He ate his dinner listlessly and the boy cleared away and went. He sat down to read the Tatler. The bungalow was very silent. He could not read and let the paper fall on his knees. He was exhausted. He could not think and his mind was strangely vacant. The chik-chak was noisy that night and its hoarse and sudden cry seemed to mock him. You could hardly believe that this reverberating sound came from so small a throat. Presently he heard a discreet cough.

’Who’s there? ’he cried.

There was a pause. He looked at the door. The chik-chak laughed harshly. A small boy sidled in and stood on the threshold. It was a little half-caste boy in a tattered singlet and a sarong. It was the elder of his two sons.

’What do you want?’ said Guy.

The boy came forward into the room and sat down, tucking his legs away under him.

’Who told you to come here?’

’My mother sent me. She says, do you want anything?’

Guy looked at the boy intently. The boy said nothing more. He sat and waited, his eyes cast down shyly. Then Guy in deep and bitter reflection buried hig face in his hands. What was the use? It was finished. Finished! He surrendered. He sat back in his chair and sighed deeply.

’Tell your mother to pack up her things and yours. She can come back.’

’When?’ asked the boy, impassively.

Hot tears trickled down Guy’s funny, round spotty face. ’Tonight.’