atmosphere was reposeful. Her husband always besought her to do anything on earth she wished in her own home, rather in the same way that one would give an intelligent canary carte blanche about the decoration of what was supposed to be its cage.

Percy Kellynch, the husband—he was spoken of as the husband (people said: “Is that the husband?” or “What’s the husband like?”)—was a rather serious-looking barrister with parliamentary ambitions, two mild hobbies (which took the form of Tschaikowsky at the Queen’s Hall and squash rackets at the Bath Club), a fine forehead, behind which there was less doing than one would suppose, polished manners, an amiable disposition and private means.

For Madeline’s sake, Bertha was interested in Rupert Denison, and determined to understand him. When she reached bedrock in her friends, it was not unusual for her to grow tired of them. But she was gentle and considerate even to the people who left her cold; and when she really cared for anyone, she was loyal, passionate and extraordinarily tenacious.

“A schoolmaster!” repeated Madeline rather dismally. “Well! perhaps there may be just a touch of that in Rupert. When I’m going to see him I do feel rather nervous and a little as if I was going up for an exam.”

“Well, let’s say a holiday tutor,” conceded Bertha. “He is so educational!”

“At any rate, he bothers about what I ought and oughtn’t to know; he pays me some attention!”

“The only modern thing about him is his paying you so little,” said Bertha. “And, Madeline, we mustn’t forget that young men are very difficult to get hold of nowadays—for girls. Everyone complains of it. Formerly they wouldn’t dance, but they’d do everything else. Now, dancing’s the only thing they will do. People are always making bitter remarks to me about it. There’s not the slightest doubt that, except for dancing, young men just now, somehow or other, are scarce, wild and shy. And the funny thing is that they’ll two-step and one-step and double-Boston and Tango the whole evening, but that’s practically all. Oh, they’re most unsatisfactory! Lots of girls have told me so. And as to proposals! Why, they’re the rarest thing! Even when the modern young man is devoted you can’t be sure of serious intentions, except, of course, in the Royal Family, or at the Gaiety.”

“Well, I don’t care! I’m sure I don’t want all these silly dancing young men. They bore me to death. Give me culture! and all that sort of thing. Only—only Rupert! … Very often after he’s refused an invitation, like this of mother’s, he’ll write and ask me to have tea with him at Rumpelmeyer’s, or somewhere; and then he’ll talk and talk the whole time about … oh, any general instructive subject.”

“For instance?”

“Oh … architecture!”

“How inspiriting!”

“But does it all mean anything, Bertha?”

“I almost think it must,” she answered dreamily. “No man could take a girl out to eat ices and talk of the cathedral at Rouen, or discuss Pointed Gothic and Norman arches over tea and bread and butter, without some intentions. It wouldn’t be human.”

“It’s quite true he always seems to take a good deal for granted,” remarked Madeline.

“But not enough.”

“Exactly!”

“Rupert would make a very good husband—if you could stand him,” said Bertha meditatively; “he’s one of those thoroughly well-informed people who never know what is going on.”

“If I could stand him! Why, Bertha! I’d work my fingers to the bone, and lay down my life for him!”

“He doesn’t want your life, and, probably, not bony fingers either, but he’ll want incense swung, all the time, remember; and always in front of him only. He won’t be half as good-natured and indulgent as Percy.”

“Of course, Percy’s very sweet, and kind and clever, and devoted to you,” said Madeline, “but I always feel that it would have been more your ideal to have married your first love, Nigel; and far more romantic, too. He’s so good-looking and amusing, and how delightfully he sings Debussy!”

“Nigel! Oh, nonsense. There’s no one more really prosaic. Debussy, indeed! I met him with his wife the other night at the opera and he introduced us. My dear, she’s got flat red hair, an aigrette, a turned-up nose, a receding chin and long ear-rings; and she’s quite young and very dowdy: the sort of dowdiness that’s rather smart. She loathed me—that is to say, we took a mutual dislike, and a determination never to meet again, so strong that it amounted to a kind of friendship; we tacitly agreed to keep out of each other’s way. I suppose there’s such a thing as a sort of comradeship in aversion,” Bertha added thoughtfully.

“Oh, Bertha, fancy anybody disliking you!”

“It’s only because Nigel had told her, in camera, that he was in love with me once, and that we were almost engaged.”

“Did he say who broke it off?”

“Yes, I should think he told the truth—that he did—but he didn’t mention the real reasons, that he was horribly hard up and saw a chance of marrying an heiress. I daresay, too, that he said no other woman would ever be quite the same to him again, for fear Mrs. Nigel should be too pleased. Nigel is nice and amusing and he’s sometimes very useful. He thinks he treated me badly, and really has got to appreciate me since, and as he knows I’m utterly indifferent to him now, he’s devoted, I mean as a friend—he’ll do anything on earth for me. He has absolutely nothing to do, you see; it’s a kindness to employ him.”

“What do you give him to do?”

“It depends. This time I’ve told him to get hold of Rupert and ask us all three—I mean you, and me and Rupert—to dine and go to some play. It would be so much less ceremonious than asking Rupert here, with Percy.”

“Oh, darling Bertha, you’re an angel! I always said Nigel was charming. What about Mrs. Nigel, and Percy?”

“Don’t worry; that shall be arranged. Their rights shall not be ignored, nor their interests neglected! Percy’s little finger is worth all Nigel. Still, Nigel has his good points; he might help us in this. There are so many things he can do, he’s so fin—and adaptable, and diplomatic. That young brother of his, Charlie, is in love with you, Madeline. Now, he’s a boy who could marry, and who wants to. If you gave him only a look of encouragement he would propose at once. And he has a good deal of Nigel’s charm, though he’s not so clever, but he’s very much steadier. Really, it’s a pity you don’t like him. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Madeline.

“He’s quite a nice boy, too; and I know how much he likes you, from Nigel.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Madeline repeated, shaking her head.

Bertha seemed silently to assent.

“And will dear Nigel ask me all the same to meet Rupert, Bertha?”

“Oh yes; we’ll arrange it to-day. Nigel’s delightfully prompt, and never delays anything.”

“And what will happen to Percy? You scarcely ever go out without him.”

“Oh, I can persuade Percy, for once, that he wants his mother to go with him to the Queen’s Hall. And I’ll make Lady Kellynch think it’s rather a shame of her to take my place; then she’ll enjoy it. We’ll arrange it for next week. I’m expecting her this afternoon.”

“Oh, are you? I’m always rather afraid she doesn’t like me,” said Madeline pensively.