That same afternoon she told her father that she would go to Lady

I live in the hope that you will come down to the old place at Christmas. I won’t offend you more than I can help. At any rate he won’t be there. And if I don’t see you there, where am I to see you? If I were you I would certainly not go to Cheltenham. You are never happy there.
Alice had almost lost the sensation created by the former portion of Kate’s letter by the fun of the latter, before she had quite made that sensation her own. The picture of the Cambridgeshire Eden would have displeased her had she dwelt upon it, and the allusion to the cream and toast would have had the very opposite effect to that which Kate had intended. Perhaps Kate had felt this, and had therefore merged it all in her stories about Mr Cheesacre. “I will go to Cheltenham,” she said to herself. “He has recommended it. I shall never be his wife — but, till we have parted altogether, I will show him that I think well of his advice.” That same afternoon she told her father that she would go to Lady Macleod’s at Cheltenham before the end of the month. She was, in truth, prompted to this by a resolution, of which she was herself hardly conscious, that she would not at this period of her life be in any way guided by her cousin. Having made up her mind about Mr Grey, it was right that she should let her cousin know her purpose; but she would never be driven to confess to herself that Kate had influenced her in the matter. She would go to Cheltenham. Lady Macleod would no doubt vex her by hourly solicitations that the match might be renewed; but, if she knew herself, she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.
She received one letter from Mr Grey before the time came for her departure, and she answered it, telling him of her intention — telling him also that she now felt herself bound to explain to her father her present position. “I tell you this,” she said, “in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My father will know it tomorrow, and on the following morning I shall start for Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me.”
On the following morning she did tell her father, standing by him as he sat at his breakfast. “What!” said he, putting down his teacup and looking up into her face; “What! not marry John Grey!”
“No — there has been no quarrel. By degrees I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife.”
“It’s d — d nonsense,” said Mr Vavasor. Now such an expression as this from him, addressed to his daughter, showed that he was very deeply moved.
“But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can’t you make him happy?”
“And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marry anyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But I do hope, for your sake and for mine — I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin.”
“I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn’t choose to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin’s position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him.”
“There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me.”
“And men speaking well of Mr Grey will not do the other thing. I know very well that women can be obstinate.”
“I suppose not. Well — I can’t say anything more. You are your own mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can’t make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?”
“Very well. I’d sooner it should be you than me; that’s all I can say.” Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he had nothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.
The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr Vavasor was disturbed by it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in Chancery Lane, and could not, therefore, bury his unhappiness in his daily labour — or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So he sat at home till four o’clock, expressing to himself in various phrases his wonder that “any man alive should ever rear a daughter.” And when he got to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageable about his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all propositions of companionship. But later in the evening he regained his composure over a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar. “She’s got her own money,” he said to himself, “and what does it matter? I don’t suppose she’ll marry her cousin. I don’t think she’s fool enough for that. And after all she’ll probably make it up again with John Grey.” And in this way he determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and that he need not as a father take the trouble of any interference.

There was no perishing by water on that occasion

The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate Ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco-pipes. “I hope they’re sober,” said Mrs Walker, with a look of great dismay.
“Sober as judges,” said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr Cheesacre’s hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent.
“Because,” continued Mrs Walker, “I know that they play all manner of tricks when they’re — in liquor. They’d think nothing of taking us out to sea, Mrs Greenow.”
“Oh, I do wish they would,” said Ophelia.
“Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me,” said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs Walker’s intention that that boat should not carry Joe Fairstairs. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield.
“Mamma will be so angry,” said Ophelia, “and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don’t, Mr Fairstairs.” Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both.
Mr Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs Greenow. “I think we’d better go back as we came,” she said, giving her hand to the Captain.
“Oh, certainly,” said Captain Bellfield. “Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs Walker. Come along, my hearty.” It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs Greenow as “his hearty,” but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat’s load. Mrs Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand.
“If you’re going to steer, Captain Bellfield, I beg that you’ll be careful.”
“Careful — and with you on board!” said the Captain. “Don’t you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly?”
“But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together.”
“Together! What a sweet word that is — perish together! If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company.”
“But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful.”
There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr Cheesacre’s boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield’s crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. “There,” said he, as he handed out Mrs Greenow.
“May the heavens forbid it, Mrs Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter — yours I mean and mine — I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that, at some future day, the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger!”
“I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Bellfield. We won’t take you and Mr Cheesacre out of your way — will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day.”They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs Greenow’s house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door; but Mrs Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. “Mr Joe Fairstairs must pass the house,” said she, “and he will see us home. Mr Cheesacre, goodnight. Indeed you shall not — not a step.” There was that in her voice which induced Mr Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured to make further progress in it on the present occasion.
“Well, Kate, what do you think of the day?” the aunt said when she was alone with her niece.
“I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I have not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy.”
“Or old people either — if they don’t do any harm to anybody. I’ll tell you what it is, Kate; people have become so very virtuous, that they’re driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons — and daughters I should think a little flirting the very best thing for them as a safety valve. When people get to be old, there’s a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people and the young people don’t want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don’t see why they should ever give it up — till they’re obliged to give up everything, and go away.” That was Mrs Greenow’s doctrine on the subject of flirtation.

In this employment he remained for another period of five years

It will no doubt be understood that George Vavasor did not roam about in the woods unshorn, or wear leather trapings and sandals, like Robinson Crusoe instead of coats and trousers. His wildness was of another kind. Indeed, I don’t know that he was in truth at all wild, though Lady Macleod had called him so, and Alice had assented to her use of the word.
George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, at the time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two over thirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather’s estate; but that estate was small, and when George first came to London his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promise of life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore been absolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John’s instance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. With this parliamentary land agent he had quarrelled to the knife, but not before he had by his talents made himself so useful that he had before him the prospects of a lucrative partnership in the business. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness — absolute idleness — was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work to pleasure. He would be at Newmarket when he should have been at Whitehall. But it was not usual with him to be in bed when he should be at his desk, and when he was at his desk he did not whittle his ruler, or pick his teeth, or clip his nails. Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London — in spite of his having been found to be in debt on more than one occasion. But his debts had been paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent with a blow between the eyes, and then there was an end of that. He himself was wont to say that he had known very well what he was about, that it had behoved him to knock down the man who was to have been his partner, and that he regretted nothing in the matter. At any rate the deed was looked upon with approving eyes by many men of good standing — or, at any rate, sufficient standing to help George to another position; and within six weeks of the time of his leaving the office at Whitehall, he had become a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt assisted him in his views with the wine merchants.
In this employment he remained for another period of five years, and was supposed by all his friends to be doing very well. And indeed he did not do badly, only that he did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious of making the house to which he belonged the first house in the trade in London, and scared his partners by the boldness and extent of his views. He himself declared that if they would only have gone along with him he would have made them princes in the wine market. But they were men either of more prudence or of less audacity than he, and they declined to walk in his courses. At the end of the five years Vavasor left the house, not having knocked any one down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.
The two last of these five years had certainly been the best period of his life, for he had really worked very hard, like a man, giving up all pleasure that took time from him — and giving up also most pleasures which were dangerous on account of their costliness. He went to no races, played no billiards, and spoke of Cremorne as a childish thing, which he had abandoned now that he was no longer a child. It was during these two years that he had had his love passages with his cousin; and it must be presumed that he had, at any rate, intended at one time to settle himself respectably as a married man. He had, however, behaved very badly to Alice, and the match had been broken off.

But instantly she was annoyed with herself for saying that

    No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out— arefrigerator, a mowing machine, a gentleman in evening dress— childrennever forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, andwhat one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now sheneed not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And thatwas what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even tothink. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive,glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity,to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisibleto others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thusthat she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free forthe strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the rangeof experience seemed limitless. And to everybody there was always thissense of unlimited resources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, the things you knowus by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it isunfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that iswhat you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There were allthe places she had not seen; the Indian plains; she felt herself pushingaside the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome. This core of darknesscould go anywhere, for no one saw it. They could not stop it, shethought, exulting. There was freedom, there was peace, there was, mostwelcome of all, a summoning together, a resting on a platform of stability.
　　Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplishedhere something dexterous with her needles) but as a wedge ofdarkness. Losing personality, one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir; andthere rose to her lips always some exclamation of triumph over life whenthings came together in this peace, this rest, this eternity; and pausingthere she looked out to meet that stroke of the Lighthouse, the longsteady stroke, the last of the three, which was her stroke, for watchingthem in this mood always at this hour one could not help attaching oneself to one thing especially of the things one saw; and this thing, thelong steady stroke, was her stroke. Often she found herself sitting andlooking, sitting and looking, with her work in her hands until she becamethe thing she looked at—that light, for example. And it would liftup on it some little phrase or other which had been lying in her mind likethat—"Children don't forget, children don't forget"—which she wouldrepeat and begin adding to it, It will end, it will end, she said. It willcome, it will come, when suddenly she added, We are in the hands of theLord.
　　But instantly she was annoyed with herself for saying that. Who hadsaid it? Not she; she had been trapped into saying something she did notmean. She looked up over her knitting and met the third stroke and itseemed to her like her own eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as shealone could search into her mind and her heart, purifying out of existencethat lie, any lie. She praised herself in praising the light, withoutvanity, for she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like thatlight. It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimatethings; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they becameone; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational tendernessthus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself. Thererose, and she looked and looked with her needles suspended, therecurled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the lake of one's being, amist, a bride to meet her lover.

A year earlier she would have regarded this as another proof of her power

Undine did not fulfil her threat. The month of May saw her back in the rooms she had declared she would never set foot in, and after her long sojourn among the echoing vistas of Saint Desert the exiguity of her Paris quarters seemed like cosiness.
In the interval many things had happened. Hubert, permitted by his anxious relatives to anticipate the term of the family mourning, had been showily and expensively united to his heiress; the Hotel de Chelles had been piped, heated and illuminated in accordance with the bride's requirements; and the young couple, not content with these utilitarian changes had moved doors, opened windows, torn down partitions, and given over the great trophied and pilastered dining-room to a decorative painter with a new theory of the human anatomy. Undine had silently assisted at this spectacle, and at the sight of the old Marquise's abject acquiescence; she had seen the Duchesse de Dordogne and the Princesse Estradina go past her door to visit Hubert's premier and marvel at the American bath-tubs and the Annamite bric-a-brac; and she had been present, with her husband, at the banquet at which Hubert had revealed to the astonished Faubourg the prehistoric episodes depicted on his dining-room walls. She had accepted all these necessities with the stoicism which the last months had developed in her; for more and more, as the days passed, she felt herself in the grasp of circumstances stronger than any effort she could oppose to them. The very absence of external pressure, of any tactless assertion of authority on her husband's part, intensified the sense of her helplessness. He simply left it to her to infer that, important as she might be to him in certain ways, there were others in which she did not weigh a feather.
Their outward relations had not changed since her outburst on the subject of Hubert's marriage. That incident had left her half-ashamed, half-frightened at her behaviour, and she had tried to atone for it by the indirect arts that were her nearest approach to acknowledging herself in the wrong. Raymond met her advances with a good grace, and they lived through the rest of the winter on terms of apparent understanding. When the spring approached it was he who suggested that, since his mother had consented to Hubert's marrying before the year of mourning was over, there was really no reason why they should not go up to Paris as usual; and she was surprised at the readiness with which he prepared to accompany her.
A year earlier she would have regarded this as another proof of her power; but she now drew her inferences less quickly. Raymond was as "lovely" to her as ever; but more than once, during their months in the country, she had had a startled sense of not giving him all he expected of her. She had admired him, before their marriage, as a model of social distinction; during the honeymoon he had been the most ardent of lovers; and with their settling down at Saint Desert she had prepared to resign herself to the society of a country gentleman absorbed in sport and agriculture. But Raymond, to her surprise, had again developed a disturbing resemblance to his predecessor. During the long winter afternoons, after he had gone over his accounts with the bailiff, or written his business letters, he took to dabbling with a paint-box, or picking out new scores at the piano; after dinner, when they went to the library, he seemed to expect to read aloud to her from the reviews and papers he was always receiving; and when he had discovered her inability to fix her attention he fell into the way of absorbing himself in one of the old brown books with which the room was lined. At first he tried--as Ralph had done--to tell her about what he was reading or what was happening in the world; but her sense of inadequacy made her slip away to other subjects, and little by little their talk died down to monosyllables. Was it possible that, in spite of his books, the evenings seemed as long to Raymond as to her, and that he had suggested going back to Paris because he was bored at Saint Desert? Bored as she was herself, she resented his not finding her company all-sufficient, and was mortified by the discovery that there were regions of his life she could not enter.

He struck away across the Seine

　　At the lawyer's he was told that, as a first step to freedom, hemust secure a domicile in Paris. He had of course known of thisnecessity: he had seen too many friends through the DivorceCourt, in one country or another, not to be fairly familiar withthe procedure. But the fact presented a different aspect assoon as he tried to relate it to himself and Susy: it was asthough Susy's personality were a medium through which eventsstill took on a transfiguring colour. He found the "domicile"that very day: a tawdrily furnished rez-de-chaussee, obviouslydestined to far different uses. And as he sat there, after theconcierge had discreetly withdrawn with the first quarter'spayment in her pocket, and stared about him at the vulgar plushyplace, he burst out laughing at what it was about to figure inthe eyes of the law: a Home, and a Home desecrated by his ownact! The Home in which he and Susy had reared their precariousbliss, and seen it crumble at the brutal touch of hisunfaithfulness and his cruelty--for he had been told that hemust be cruel to her as well as unfaithful! He looked at thewalls hung with sentimental photogravures, at the shiny bronze"nudes," the moth-eaten animal-skins and the bedizened bed-andonce more the unreality, the impossibility, of all that washappening to him entered like a drug into his veins.
　　To rouse himself he stood up, turned the key on the hideousplace, and returned to his lawyer's. He knew that in the harddry atmosphere of the office the act of giving the address ofthe flat would restore some kind of reality to the phantasmaltransaction. And with wonder he watched the lawyer, as a matterof course, pencil the street and the number on one of the papersenclosed in a folder on which his own name was elaboratelyengrossed.
　　As he took leave it occurred to him to ask where Susy wasliving. At least he imagined that it had just occurred to him,and that he was making the enquiry merely as a measure ofprecaution, in order to know what quarter of Paris to avoid; butin reality the question had been on his lips since he had firstentered the office, and lurking in his mind since he had emergedfrom the railway station that morning. The fact of not knowingwhere she lived made the whole of Paris a meaninglessunintelligible place, as useless to him as the face of a hugeclock that has lost its hour hand.
　　The address in Passy surprised him: he had imagined that shewould be somewhere in the neighborhood of the Champs Elysees orthe Place de l'Etoile. But probably either Mrs. Melrose orEllie Vanderlyn had taken a house at Passy. Well--it wassomething of a relief to know that she was so far off. Nobusiness called him to that almost suburban region beyond theTrocadero, and there was much less chance of meeting her than ifshe had been in the centre of Paris.
　　All day he wandered, avoiding the fashionable quarters, thestreets in which private motors glittered five deep, and furredand feathered silhouettes glided from them into tea-rooms,picture-galleries and jewellers' shops. In some such scenesSusy was no doubt figuring: slenderer, finer, vivider, than theother images of clay, but imitating their gestures, chatteringtheir jargon, winding her hand among the same pearls and sables.
　　He struck away across the Seine, along the quays to the Cite,the net-work of old Paris, the great grey vaults of St.
　　Eustache, the swarming streets of the Marais. He gazed atmonuments dawdled before shop-windows, sat in squares and onquays, watching people bargain, argue, philander, quarrel, work-girls stroll past in linked bands, beggars whine on the bridges,derelicts doze in the pale winter sun, mothers in mourninghasten by taking children to school, and street-walkers beattheir weary rounds before the cafes.
　　The day drifted on. Toward evening he began to grow afraid ofhis solitude, and to think of dining at the Nouveau Luxe, orsome other fashionable restaurant where he would be fairly sureto meet acquaintances, and be carried off to a theatre, a boiteor a dancing-hall. Anything, anything now, to get away from themaddening round of his thoughts. He felt the same blank fear ofsolitude as months ago in Genoa .... Even if he were to runacross Susy and Altringham, what of it? Better get the jobover. People had long since ceased to take on tragedy airsabout divorce: dividing couples dined together to the last, andmet afterward in each other's houses, happy in the consciousnessthat their respective remarriages had provided two new centresof entertainment. Yet most of the couples who took their re-matings so philosophically had doubtless had their hour ofenchantment, of belief in the immortality of loving; whereas heand Susy had simply and frankly entered into a business contractfor their mutual advantage. The fact gave the last touch ofincongruity to his agonies and exaltations, and made him appearto himself as grotesque and superannuated as the hero of aromantic novel.

At least if you countthe Chicago flat

  IT rose for them--their honey-moon--over the waters of a lake sofamed as the scene of romantic raptures that they were ratherproud of not having been afraid to choose it as the setting oftheir own.
　　"It required a total lack of humour, or as great a gift for itas ours, to risk the experiment," Susy Lansing opined, as theyhung over the inevitable marble balustrade and watched theirtutelary orb roll its magic carpet across the waters to theirfeet.
　　"Yes--or the loan of Strefford's villa," her husband emended,glancing upward through the branches at a long low patch ofpaleness to which the moonlight was beginning to give the formof a white house-front.
　　"Oh, come when we'd five to choose from. At least if you countthe Chicago flat.""So we had--you wonder!" He laid his hand on hers, and histouch renewed the sense of marvelling exultation which thedeliberate survey of their adventure always roused in her ....
　　It was characteristic that she merely added, in her steadylaughing tone: "Or, not counting the flat--for I hate to brag-just consider the others: Violet Melrose's place at Versailles,your aunt's villa at Monte Carlo--and a moor!"She was conscious of throwing in the moor tentatively, and yetwith a somewhat exaggerated emphasis, as if to make sure that heshouldn't accuse her of slurring it over. But he seemed to haveno desire to do so. "Poor old Fred!" he merely remarked; andshe breathed out carelessly: "Oh, well--"His hand still lay on hers, and for a long interval, while theystood silent in the enveloping loveliness of the night, she wasaware only of the warm current running from palm to palm, as themoonlight below them drew its line of magic from shore to shore.
　　Nick Lansing spoke at last. "Versailles in May would have beenimpossible: all our Paris crowd would have run us down withintwenty-four hours. And Monte Carlo is ruled out because it'sexactly the kind of place everybody expected us to go. So--with all respect to you--it wasn't much of a mental strain todecide on Como."His wife instantly challenged this belittling of her capacity.
　　"It took a good deal of argument to convince you that we couldface the ridicule of Como!""Well, I should have preferred something in a lower key; atleast I thought I should till we got here. Now I see that thisplace is idiotic unless one is perfectly happy; and that thenit's-as good as any other."She sighed out a blissful assent. "And I must say that Streffyhas done things to a turn. Even the cigars--who do you supposegave him those cigars?" She added thoughtfully: "You'll missthem when we have to go.""Oh, I say, don't let's talk to-night about going. Aren't weoutside of time and space ...? Smell that guinea-a-bottle stuffover there: what is it? Stephanotis?""Y-yes .... I suppose so. Or gardenias .... Oh, the fire-flies! Look ... there, against that splash of moonlight on thewater. Apples of silver in a net-work of gold ...." Theyleaned together, one flesh from shoulder to finger-tips, theireyes held by the snared glitter of the ripples.
　　"I could bear," Lansing remarked, "even a nightingale at thismoment ...."A faint gurgle shook the magnolias behind them, and a longliquid whisper answered it from the thicket of laurel abovetheir heads.
　　"It's a little late in the year for them: they're ending justas we begin."Susy laughed. "I hope when our turn comes we shall say good-byeto each other as sweetly."It was in her husband's mind to answer: "They're not sayinggood-bye, but only settling down to family cares." But as thisdid not happen to be in his plan, or in Susy's, he merely echoedher laugh and pressed her closer.

I do not offer you even the substantial security of a gold brick

Van Heerden was not a shareholder, but he was intensely interested in the kind of people who subscribe for shares in Dreamland Gold mines. Mr. White had attended incognito--his shares were held in the name of his lawyer, who was thinking seriously of building an annex to hold the unprofitable scrip.
Mr. White was gratified to discover a kindred soul who believed in this kind of speculation.
It was to the doctor's apartment that he was now walking. That gentleman met him in the entrance and accompanied him to his room. There was a light in the fanlight of Oliva's flat, for she had brought some of her work home to finish, but Mr. Beale's flat was dark.
This the doctor noted before he closed his own door, and switched on the light.
"Well, White, have you made up your mind?" he demanded without preliminary.
"I--ah--have and I--ah--have not," said the cautious adventurer. "Forty thousand is a lot of money--a fortune, one might say--yes, a fortune."
"Have you raised it?"
Mr. White sniffed his objection to this direct examination.
"My broker has very kindly realized the debentures--I am--ah--somewhat indebted to him, and it was necessary to secure his permission and--yes, I have the money at my bank."
He gazed benignly at the other, as one who conferred a favour by the mere bestowal of his confidences.
"First, doctor--forgive me if I am a little cautious; first I say, it is necessary that I should know a little more about your remarkable scheme, for remarkable I am sure it is."
The doctor poured out a whisky and soda and passed the glass to his visitor, who smilingly waved it aside.
"Wine is a mocker," he said, "nothing stronger than cider has ever passed my lips--pray do not be offended."
"And yet I seem to remember that you held shares in the Northern Saloon Trust," said the doctor, with a little curl of his bearded lips.
"That," said Mr. White hastily, "was a purely commercial--ah--affair. In business one must exploit even the--ah--sins and weaknesses of our fellows."
"As to my scheme," said the doctor, changing the subject, "I'm afraid I must ask you to invest in the dark. I can promise you that you will get your capital back a hundred times over. I realize that you have heard that sort of thing before, and that my suggestion has all the appearance of a confidence trick, except that I do not offer you even the substantial security of a gold brick. I may not use your money--I believe that I shall not. On the other hand, I may. If it is to be of any use to me it must be in my hands very soon--to-morrow."
He wandered restlessly about the room as he spoke, and jerked his sentences out now to Mr. White's face, now over his shoulder.
"I will tell you this," he went on, "my scheme within the narrow interpretation of the law is illegal--don't mistake me, there is no danger to those who invest in ignorance. I will bear the full burden of responsibility. You can come in or you can stay out, but if you come in I shall ask you never to mention the name of the enterprise to a living soul."
"The Green Rust Syndicate?" whispered Mr. White fearfully. "What--ah--is Green Rust?"
"I have offered the scheme to my--to a Government. But they are scared of touching it. Scared, by Jove!" He threw up his arms to the ceiling and his voice trembled with passion. "Germany scared! And there was a time when Europe cringed at the clank of the Prussian sword! When the lightest word of Potsdam set ministries trembling in Petrograd and London. You told me the other day you were a pacifist during the war and that you sympathized with Prussia in her humiliation. I am a Prussian, why should I deny it? I glory in the religion of might--I believe it were better that the old civilization were stamped into the mud of oblivion than that Prussian Kultur should be swept away by the licentious French, the mercenary English----"
"British," murmured Mr. White.
"And the dollar-hunting Yankees--but I'm making a fool of myself."

Brother William mentioned just now the Areo

“Venerable Jorge,” he said, “your virtue makes you unjust. Two days before Adelmo died, you, were present at a learned debate right here in the scriptorium. Adelmo took care that his art, indulging in bizarre and fantastic images, was directed nevertheless to the glory of God, as an instrument of the knowledge of celestial things. Brother William mentioned just now the Areo?pagite, who spoke of learning through distortion. And Adelmo that day quoted another lofty authority, the doctor of Aquino, when he said that divine things should be expounded more properly in figures of vile bodies than of noble bodies. First because the human spirit is more easily freed from error; it is obvious, in fact, that certain properties cannot be attributed to divine things, and become uncertain if portrayed by noble corporeal things. In the second place because this humbler depiction is more suited to the knowledge that we have of God on this earth: He shows Himself here more in that which is not than in that which is, and therefore the similitudes of those things furthest from God lead us to a more exact notion of Him, for thus we know that He is above what we say and think. And in the third place because in this way the things of God are better hidden from unworthy persons. In other words, that day we were discussing the question of understanding how the truth can be revealed through surprising expressions, both shrewd and enigmatic. And I reminded him that in the work of the great Aristotle I had found very clear words on this score. …”
“I do not remember,” Jorge interrupted sharply, “I am very old. I do not remember. I may have been excessively severe. Now it is late, I must go.”
“It is strange you should not remember,” Venantius insisted; “it was a very learned and fine discussion, in which Benno and Berengar also took part. The question, in fact, was whether metaphors and puns and riddles, which also seem conceived by poets for sheer pleasure, do not lead us to speculate on things in a new and surprising way, and I said that this is also a virtue demanded of the wise man. ... And Malachi was also there. …”
“If the venerable Jorge does not remember, respect his age and the weariness of his mind ... otherwise always so lively,” one of the monks following the discus?sion said. The sentence was uttered in an agitated tone—at least at the beginning, because the speaker, once realizing that in urging respect for the old man he was actually calling attention to a weakness, had slowed the pace of his own interjection, ending almost in a whisper of apology. It was Berengar of Arundel who had spoken, the assistant librarian. He was a pale-faced young man, and, observing him, I remembered Ubertino’s description of Adelmo: his eyes seemed those of a lascivious woman. Made shy, for everyone was now looking at him, he held the fingers of both hands enlaced like one wishing to suppress an internal tension.
Venantius’s reaction was unusual. He gave Berengar a look that made him lower his eyes. “Very well, Brother,” he said, “if memory is a gift of God, then the ability to forget can also be good, and must be respected. I respect it in the elderly brother to whom I was speaking. But from you I expected a sharper recollection of the things that happened when we were here with a dear friend of yours. …”
I could not say whether Venantius underlined with his tone the word “dear.” The fact is that I sensed an embarrassment among those present. Each looked in a different direction, and no one looked at Berengar, who had blushed violently. Malachi promptly spoke up, with authority: “Come, Brother William,” he said, “I will show you other interesting books.”
The group dispersed. I saw Berengar give Venantius a look charged with animosity, and Venantius return the look, silent and defiant. Seeing that old Jorge was leaving, I was moved by a feeling of respectful reverence, and bowed to kiss his hand. The old man received the kiss, put his hand on my head, and asked who I was. When I told him my name, his face brightened.
“You bear a great and very beautiful name,” he said. “Do you know who Adso of Montier-en-Der was?” he asked. I did not know, I confess. So Jorge added, “He was the author of a great and awful book, the Libellus de Antichristo, in which he foresaw things that were to happen; but he was not sufficiently heeded.”
“The book was written before the millennium,” William said, “and those things did not come to pass. …”
“For those who lack eyes to see,” the blind man said. “The ways of the Antichrist are slow and tortuous. He arrives when we do not expect him: not because the calculation suggested by the apostle was mistaken, but because we have not learned the art.” Then he cried, in a very loud voice, his face turned toward the hall, making the ceiling of the scriptorium re-echo: “He is coming! Do not waste your last days laughing at little monsters with spotted skins and twisted tails! Do not squander the last seven days!”

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow

First, let me speak of his arrival - how I sat at my window, and watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park- gates - for they all came before him, - and how deeply I was disappointed at every arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies. When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us since our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot; and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he one of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one could call him a jolly companion, I'm sure, - and, besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.
At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light phaeton came bowling merrily up the lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and disappeared into the house.
I now submitted to be dressed for dinner - a duty which Rachel had been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled. Shortly after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a little conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the window, conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.
'How will he greet me, I wonder?' said my bounding heart; and, instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue my emotion. But having saluted his host and hostess, and the rest of the company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was glad to see me once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was condemned to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr. Huntingdon.
In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished musician, I think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my drawings than to her music.
So far so good; - but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, 'This is better than all!' - I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror, beheld him complacently gazing at the back of the picture:- it was his own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out! To make matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, 'No - by George, I'll keep it!' placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a delighted chuckle.
Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, 'I must look at both sides now,' he eagerly commenced an examination, which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for, though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several with abortive attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own satisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny, he quietly remarked, - 'I perceive the backs of young ladies' drawings, like the postscripts of their letters, are the most important and interesting part of the concern.'

How about extreme frustration coming to a head

“What I’m hearing is minor league complexity. What’s their motive for turninghomicidal ?”
“How about extreme frustration coming to a head? We’re talking twomiddle-aged people who’ve never achieved much on their own. They make the bigmove to L.A.,delusional like thousands of other wannabes. Their age and looks make it evenchancier but they take a methodical approach: acting lessons. Maybe they wererejected by other coaches and Nora was their last chance. What if she turnedthem away in less-than-diplomatic terms? Charlie Manson didn’t take well tohearing he wasn’t going to be a rock star.”
“This is about revenge on Nora?” he said.
“Revenge on her and the symbols of youth and beauty she surrounded herselfwith.”
“Tori Giacomo got killed before the Gaidelases disappeared.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped the Gaidelases from having contact with her. Ifnot at the PlayHouse, at work. Maybe she served them a lobster dinner andthat’s how they learned about the PlayHouse.”
“They do Tori, then wait nearly two years to do Michaela? That’s a dish goneway cold, Alex.”
“That’s assuming no other students at the PlayHouse have gone missing.”
He sighed.
I said, “The hoax could’ve served as some kind of catalyst. Nora’s name inthe paper. Michaela’s and Dylan’s, too. Not to mention Latigo Canyon.I could be totally off base, but I don’t think the 805 link can be overlooked.And neither can Armando Vasquez’s story.”
He stood, stretched, sat back down, buried his face in his hands for a whileand looked up, bleary-eyed. “Creative, Alex. Fanciful, inventive, impressivelyoutside the goddamn box. The problem it doesn’t solve is Peaty. A definite badguy with access to all of the victims and a rape kit in his van. If theGaidelases were chasing stardom, why would they have anything to do with aloser like him, let alone set him up to be shot? And how the hell would theyknow to prime the pump by phoning Vasquez?”
I thought about that. “It’s possible the Gaidelases met Peaty at thePlayHouse and some bonding took place—outsiders commiserating.”
“That’s a helluva lot going on during a failed audition. Assuming theGaidelases were ever at the PlayHouse.”
“Maybe Nora kept them waiting for a long time then dismissed them unceremoniously.If they did bond with Peaty, they could’ve had opportunity to visit hisapartment and pick up on tension in the building. Or Peaty talked about hisdislike for Vasquez.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty never had visitors.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun goes to sleep by eleven,” I said. “Be interesting to knowif anyone at the apartment recognizes the Gaidelases’ photos.”
He stared at me.
“Peaty, Andy, and Cathy. And let’s toss in Billy Dowd, because we’re feelinggenerous. What, some kind of misfit club?”
“Look at all those schoolyard shootings committed by outsiders.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Before I get sucked into this vortex of fantasy, Ineed to do some boring old police work. As in pinpointing the phone booth andtrying to pull some prints. As in keep searching for any troves Peaty might’vestashed God knows where. As in…let’s not shmooze any more, okay? My head’ssplitting like a luau coconut.”
Yanking his tie loose, he hauled himself up, crossed the tiny office, andthrew back the door. It hit the wall, chunked out a disk of plaster, bounced acouple of times.
My ears were still ringing when he stuck his head in, seconds later. “Wherecan I find one of those amino-acid concoctions that makes you smarter?”
“They don’t work,” I said.
“Thanks for your input.”