"Have some, pop?"
    
    "No."
    
    "Quite right. Got to be careful at your age."
    
    "What do you mean?"
    
    "Getting on, you know. Not so young as you used to be. Come in, pop,
if you're coming in. There's a draft from that door."
    
    Mr. Pett retired, fermenting. He wondered how another man would have
handled this situation. The ridiculous inconsistency of the human
character infuriated him. Why should he be a totally different man on
Riverside Drive from the person he was in Pine Street? Why should he be
able to hold his own in Pine Street with grown men--whiskered,
square-jawed financiers--and yet be unable on Riverside Drive to eject a
fourteen-year-old boy from an easy chair? It seemed to him sometimes that
a curious paralysis of the will came over him out of business hours.
    
    Meanwhile, he had still to find a place where he could read his Sunday
paper.
    
                                    * * *


    Giving young men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doing
best. There were six brilliant youths living in his house and bursting
with his food at that very moment whom he would have been delighted to
start addressing envelopes down-town.

    Notably his wife's nephew, Willie Partridge, whom he looked on as a
specious loafer. He had a stubborn disbelief in the explosive that was to
revolutionise war. He knew, as all the world did, that Willie's late
father had been a great inventor, but he did not accept the fact that
Willie had inherited the dead man's genius. He regarded the experiments on
Partridgite, as it was to be called, with the profoundest scepticism, and
considered that the only thing Willie had ever invented or was likely to
invent was a series of ingenious schemes for living in fatted idleness on
other people's money.

                                    * * *
    
    "Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"
    
    Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.
    
    "This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game you made me
go and see yesterday."
    
    "Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. It is
simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such a
    fuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond of
watching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."
    
    A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look of pain on
Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thing carelessly, with no wish
to wound: but that makes it none the less hard to bear.
    
                                    * * *
    
    Poets have dealt feelingly with the emotions of practically every
variety except one. They have sung of Ruth, of Israel in bondage, of
slaves pining for their native Africa, and of the miner's dream of home.
But the sorrows of the baseball bug, compelled by fate to live three
thousand miles away from the Polo Grounds, have been neglected in song.
Bingley Crocker was such a one, and in Summer his agonies were awful. He
pined away in a country where they said "Well played, sir!" when they mean
"'at-a-boy!"
    
    "Bayliss, do you play cricket?"
    
    "I am a little past the age, sir. In my younger days . . ."
    
    "Do you understand it?"
    
    "Yes, sir. I frequently spend an afternoon at Lord's or the Oval when
there is a good match."
    
    Many who enjoyed a merely casual acquaintance with the butler would
have looked on this as an astonishingly unexpected revelation of humanity
in Bayliss, but Mr. Crocker was not surprised. To him, from the very
beginning, Bayliss had been a man and a brother who was always willing to
suspend his duties in order to answer questions dealing with the thousand
and one problems which the social life of England presented. Mr. Crocker's
mind had adjusted itself with difficulty to the niceties of class
distinction: and, while he had cured himself of his early tendency to
address the butler as "Bill," he never failed to consult him as man to man
in his moments of perplexity.  Bayliss was always eager to be of
assistance. He liked Mr.  Crocker. True, his manner might have struck a
more sensitive man than his employer as a shade too closely resembling
that of an indulgent father towards a son who was not quite right in the
head: but it had genuine affection in it.
    
    Mr. Crocker picked up his paper and folded it back at the sporting
page, pointing with a stubby forefinger.
    
    "Well, what does all this mean? I've kept out of watching cricket
since I landed in England, but yesterday they got the poison needle to
work and took me off to see Surrey play Kent at that place Lord's where
you say you go sometimes."
    
    "I was there yesterday, sir. A very exciting game."
    
    "Exciting? How do you make that out? I sat in the bleachers all
afternoon, waiting for something to break loose. Doesn't anything ever
happen at cricket?"
    
    The butler winced a little, but managed to smile a tolerant smile.
This man, he reflected, was but an American and as such more to be pitied
than censured. He endeavoured to explain.
    
    "It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain."
    
    "Eh?"
    
    "The wicket was sticky, sir."
    
    "Come again."
    
    "I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slow was
that the wicket--I should say the turf--was sticky--that is to say wet.
Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket is sticky, the batsmen
are obliged to exercise a great deal of caution, as the stickiness of the
wicket enables the bowlers to make the ball turn more sharply in either
direction as it strikes the turf than when the wicket is not sticky."
    
    "That's it, is it?"
    
    "Yes, sir."
    
    "Thanks for telling me."
    
    "Not at all, sir."
    
    Mr. Crocker pointed to the paper.
    
    "Well, now, this seems to be the box-score of the game we saw
yesterday. If you can make sense out of that, go to it."
    
    The passage on which his finger rested was headed "Final Score,"  and
ran as follows:
    
                SURREY
    
             First Innings
    
    Hayward, c Wooley, b Carr ....... 67
    Hobbs, run out ................... 0
    Hayes, st Huish, b Fielder ...... 12
    Ducat, b Fielder ................ 33
    Harrison, not out ............... 11
    Sandham, not out ................. 6
    Extras .......................... 10
    
    Total (for four wickets) ....... 139
    
    Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.
    
    "What is it you wish me to explain, sir?"
    
    "Why, the whole thing. What's it all about?"
    
    "It's perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss, and took first
knock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward called Hobbs for a
short run, but the latter was unable to get across and was thrown out by
mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He went out of his ground and was
stumped. Ducat and Hayward made a capital stand considering the stickiness
of the wicket, until Ducat was bowled by a good length off-break and
Hayward caught at second slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham
played out time."
    
    Mr. Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.
    
    "Yes!" he said. "Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I'd like
to have it once again, slowly. Start with these figures.  What does that
sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward's name?"
    
    "He made sixty-seven runs, sir."
    
    "Sixty-seven! In one game?"
    
    "Yes, sir."
    
    "Why, Home-Run Baker couldn't do it!"
    
    "I am not familiar with Mr. Baker, sir."
    
    "I suppose you've never seen a ball-game?"
    
    "Ball-game, sir?"
    
    "A baseball game?"
    
    "Never, sir."
    
    "Then, Bill," said Mr. Crocker, reverting in his emotion to the bad
habit of his early London days, "you haven't lived. See here!"
    
    Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr. Crocker had
managed to preserve during the opening stages of the interview now
definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly and he snorted like a
war-horse. He clutched the butler by the sleeve and drew him closer to the
table, then began to move forks, spoons, cups, and even the contents of
his plate about the cloth with an energy little short of feverish.
    
    "Bayliss!"
    
    "Sir?"
    
    "Watch!" said Mr. Crocker, with the air of an excitable high priest
about to initiate a novice into the Mysteries.
    
    He removed a roll from the basket.
    
    "You see this roll? That's the home plate. This spoon is first base.
Where I'm putting this cup is second. This piece of bacon is third.
There's your diamond for you. Very well, then. These lumps of sugar are
the infielders and the outfielders. Now we're ready. Batter up? He stands
here. Catcher behind him. Umps behind catcher."
    
    "Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?"
    
    "Call him anything you like. It's part of the game. Now here's the
box, where I've put this dab of marmalade, and here's the pitcher, winding
up."
    
    "The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?"
    
    "I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets past me."
    
    "The box, then, is the bowler's wicket?"
    
    "Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher's winding
up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Here it comes, right
in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaks for first.
Outfielder--this lump of sugar--boots it. Bonehead!  Batter touches
second. Third? No! Get back! Can't be done. Play it safe. Stick around the
sack, old pal. Second batter up.  Pitcher getting something on the ball
now besides the cover.  Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter
up. See him rub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He's good! He lets
two alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes around to
second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home for one run.
That's a game! Take it from me, Bill, that's a game!"
    
    Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himself into
his lecture, Mr. Crocker sat down and refreshed himself with cold coffee.
    
    "Quite an interesting game," said Bayliss. "But I find, now that you
have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though I have always
known it under another name. It is played a great deal in this country."
    
    Mr. Crocker started to his feet.
    
    "It is? And I've been five years here without finding it out!  When's
the next game scheduled?"
    
    "It is known in England as Rounders, sir. Children play it with a soft
ball and a racquet, and derive considerable enjoyment from it. I had never
heard of it before as a pastime for adults."
    
    Two shocked eyes stared into the butler's face.
    
    "Children?" The word came in a whisper.
    
    "A racquet?"
    
    "Yes, sir."
    
    "You--you didn't say a soft ball?"
    
    "Yes, sir."
    
    A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr. Crocker. He had lived five
years in England, but not till this moment had he realised to the full how
utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placed him, bound and
helpless, in a country where they called baseball Rounders and played it
with a soft ball.
    
                                    * * *
    
    Mr. Pett cowed in his chair. He was feeling rather like a nervous and
peace-loving patron of a wild western saloon who observes two cowboys
reach for their hip-pockets. Neither his wife nor his sister-in-law paid
any attention to him. The concluding exercises of a duel of the eyes was
in progress between them. After some silent, age-long moments, Mrs.
Crocker laughed a light laugh.
    
    "Most extraordinary!" she murmured.
    
    Mrs. Pett was in no mood for Anglicisms.
    
    "You know perfectly well, Eugenia," she said heatedly, "that James
Crocker is being ruined here. For his sake, if not for mine--"
    
    Mrs. Crocker laughed another light laugh, one of those offensive
rippling things which cause so much annoyance.
    
    "Don't be so ridiculous, Nesta! Ruined! Really! It is quite true that,
a long while ago when he was much younger and not quite used to the ways
of London Society, James was a little wild, but all that sort of thing is
over now. He knows"--she paused, setting herself as it were for the
punch--"he knows that at any moment the government may decide to give his
father a Peerage --"
    
    The blow went home. A quite audible gasp escaped her stricken sister.
    
    "What!"
    
    Mrs. Crocker placed two ringed fingers before her mouth in order not
to hide a languid yawn.
    
    "Yes. Didn't you know? But of course you live so out of the world.  
Oh yes, it is extremely probable that Mr. Crocker's name will appear in
the next Honours List. He is very highly thought of by the Powers. So
naturally James is quite aware that he must behave in a suitable manner.
He is a dear boy! He was handicapped at first by getting into the wrong
set, but now his closest friend is Lord Percy Whipple, the second son of
the Duke of Devizes, who is one of the most eminent men in the kingdom and
a personal friend of the Premier."
    
    Mrs. Pett was in bad shape under this rain of titles, but she rallied
herself to reply in kind.
    
    "Indeed?" she said. "I should like to meet him. I have no doubt he
knows our great friend, Lord Wisbeach."
    
    Mrs. Crocker was a little taken aback. She had not supposed that her
sister had even this small shot in her locker.
    
    "Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" she said.
    
    "Oh yes," replied Mrs. Pett, beginning to feel a little better.  "We
have been seeing him every day. He always says that he looks on my house
as quite a home. He knows so few people in New York.  It has been a great
comfort to him, I think, knowing us."
    
    Mrs. Crocker had had time now to recover her poise.  "Poor dear
Wizzy!" she said languidly.
    
    Mrs. Pett started.
    
    "What!"
    
    "I suppose he is still the same dear, stupid, shiftless fellow?  He
left here with the intention of travelling round the world, and he has
stopped in New York! How like him!"
    
    "Do you know Lord Wisbeach?" demanded Mrs. Pett.
    
    Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.
    
    "Know him? Why, I suppose, after Lord Percy Whipple, he is James' most
intimate friend!"
    
    Mrs. Pett rose. She was dignified even in defeat. She collected Ogden
and Mr. Pett with an eye which even Ogden could see was not to be trifled
with. She uttered no word.
    
    "Must you really go?" said Mrs. Crocker. "It was sweet of you to
bother to come all the way from America like this. So strange to meet any
one from America nowadays. Most extraordinary!"
    
    The cortege left the room in silence. Mrs. Crocker had touched the
bell, but the mourners did not wait for the arrival of Bayliss. They were
in no mood for the formalities of polite Society. They wanted to be
elsewhere, and they wanted to be there quick. The front door had closed
behind them before the butler reached the morning-room.
    
                                    * * *
    
    It seemed strange to Jimmy that the shadowy and inchoate vision of a
combat, a fight, a brawl of some kind persisted in flitting about in the
recesses of his mind, always just far enough away to elude capture. The
absurdity of the thing annoyed him. A man has either indulged in a fight
overnight or he has not indulged in a fight overnight. There can be no
middle course. That he should be uncertain on the point was ridiculous.
Yet, try as he would, he could not be sure. There were moments when he
seemed on the very verge of settling the matter, and then some invisible
person would meanly insert a red-hot corkscrew in the top of his head and
begin to twist it, and this would interfere with calm thought. He was
still in a state of uncertainty when Bayliss returned, bearing healing
liquids on a tray.
    
    "Shall I set it beside you, sir?"
    
    Jimmy opened one eye.
    
    "Indubitably. No mean word, that, Bayliss, for the morning after.  
Try it yourself next time. Bayliss, who let me in this morning?"
    
    "Let you in, sir?"
    
    "Precisely. I was out and now I am in. Obviously I must have passed
the front door somehow. This is logic."
    
    "I fancy you let yourself in, Mr. James, with your key."
    
    "That would seem to indicate that I was in a state of icy sobriety.
Yet, if such is the case, how is it that I can't remember whether I
murdered somebody or not last night? It isn't the sort of thing your sober
man would lightly forget. Have you ever murdered anybody, Bayliss?"
    
    "No, sir."
    
    "Well, if you had, you would remember it next morning?"
    
    "I imagine so, Mr. James."
    
    "Well, it's a funny thing, but I can't get rid of the impression that
at some point in my researches into the night life of London yestreen I
fell upon some person to whom I had never been introduced and committed
mayhem upon his person."
    
    It seemed to Bayliss that the time had come to impart to Mr. James a
piece of news which he had supposed would require no imparting.  He looked
down upon his young master's recumbent form with a grave commiseration. It
was true that he had never been able to tell with any certainty whether
Mr. James intended the statements he made to be taken literally or not,
but on the present occasion he seemed to have spoken seriously and to be
genuinely at a loss to recall an episode over the printed report of which
the entire domestic staff had been gloating ever since the arrival of the
halfpenny morning paper to which they subscribed.
    
    "Do you really mean it, Mr. James?" he enquired cautiously.
    
    "Mean what?"
    
    "You have really forgotten that you were engaged in a fracas last
night at the Six Hundred Club?"
    
    Jimmy sat up with a jerk, staring at this omniscient man. Then the
movement having caused a renewal of the operations of the red-hot
corkscrew, he fell back again with a groan.
    
    "Was I? How on earth did you know? Why should you know all about it
when I can't remember a thing? It was my fault, not yours."
    
    "There is quite a long report of it in to-day's Daily Sun, Mr.  
James."
    
    "A report? In the Sun?"
    
    "Half a column, Mr. James. Would you like me to fetch the paper?  I
have it in my pantry."
    
    "I should say so. Trot a quick beat back with it. This wants looking
into."
    
    Bayliss retired, to return immediately with the paper. Jimmy took it,
gazed at it, and handed it back.
    
    "I overestimated my powers. It can't be done. Have you any important
duties at the moment, Bayliss?"
    
    "No, sir."
    
    "Perhaps you wouldn't mind reading me the bright little excerpt,
then?"
    
    "Certainly, sir."
    
    "It will be good practice for you. I am convinced I am going to be a
confirmed invalid for the rest of my life, and it will be part of your job
to sit at my bedside and read to me. By the way, does the paper say who
the party of the second part was? Who was the citizen with whom I went to
the mat?"
    
    "Lord Percy Whipple, Mr. James."
    
    "Lord who?"
    
    "Lord Percy Whipple."
    
    "Never heard of him. Carry on, Bayliss."
    
                                    * * *
    
    "Why the hesitation, Bayliss? Why the coyness?" enquired Jimmy, lying
with closed eyes. "Begin!"
    
    "I was adjusting my glasses, sir."
    
    "All set now?"
    
    "Yes, sir. Shall I read the headlines first?"
    
    "Read everything."
    
    The butler cleared his throat.
    
    "Good Heavens, Bayliss," moaned Jimmy, starting, "don't gargle.  Have
a heart! Go on!"
    
    Bayliss began to read.
    
            FRACAS IN FASHIONABLE NIGHT-CLUB
    
            SPRIGS OF NOBILITY BRAWL
    
    Jimmy opened his eyes, interested.
    
    "Am I a sprig of nobility?"
    
    "It is what the paper says, sir."
    
    "We live and learn. Carry on."
    
    The butler started to clear his throat, but checked himself.
    
                    SENSATIONAL INTERNATIONAL CONTEST
    
                               BATTLING PERCY
    
                                 (England)
    
                                    v
    
                                CYCLONE JIM
    
                                 (America)
    
                      FULL DESCRIPTION BY OUR EXPERT
    
    Jimmy sat up.
    
    "Bayliss, you're indulging that distorted sense of humour of yours
again. That isn't in the paper?"
    
    "Yes, sir. Very large headlines."
    
    Jimmy groaned.
    
    "Bayliss, I'll give you a piece of advice which may be useful to you
when you grow up. Never go about with newspaper men. It all comes back to
me. Out of pure kindness of heart I took young Bill Blake of the Sun to
supper at the Six Hundred last night. This is my reward. I suppose he
thinks it funny. Newspaper men are a low lot, Bayliss."
    
    "Shall I go on, sir?"
    
    "Most doubtless. Let me hear all."
    
    Bayliss resumed. He was one of those readers who, whether their
subject be a murder case or a funny anecdote, adopt a measured and
sepulchral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy and horror to
whatever they read. At the church which he attended on Sundays, of which
he was one of the most influential and respected members, children would
turn pale and snuggle up to their mothers when Bayliss read the lessons.
Young Mr. Blake's account of the overnight proceedings at the Six Hundred
Club he rendered with a gloomy gusto more marked even than his wont. It
had a topical interest for him which urged him to extend himself.
    
    "At an early hour this morning, when our myriad readers were enjoying
that refreshing and brain-restoring sleep so necessary to the proper
appreciation of the Daily Sun at the breakfast table, one of the most
interesting sporting events of the season was being pulled off at the Six
Hundred Club in Regent Street, where, after three rounds of fast
exchanges, James B. Crocker, the well-known American welter-weight
scrapper, succeeded in stopping Lord Percy Whipple, second son of the Duke
of Devizes, better known as the Pride of Old England. Once again the
superiority of the American over the English style of boxing was
demonstrated. Battling Percy has a kind heart, but Cyclone Jim packs the
punch."
    
    "The immediate cause of the encounter had to do with a disputed table,
which each gladiator claimed to have engaged in advance over the
telephone."
    
    "I begin to remember," said Jimmy meditatively. "A pill with
butter-coloured hair tried to jump my claim. Honeyed words proving
fruitless, I soaked him on the jaw. It may be that I was not wholly
myself. I seem to remember an animated session at the Empire earlier in
the evening, which may have impaired my self-control. Proceed!"
    
    "One word leading to others, which in their turn led to several more,
Cyclone Jim struck Battling Percy on what our rude forefathers were
accustomed to describe as the mazzard, and the gong sounded for"
    
                    "ROUND ONE"
    
    "Both men came up fresh and eager to mix things, though it seems only
too probable that they had already been mixing more things than was good
for them. Battling Percy tried a right swing which got home on a waiter.
Cyclone Jim put in a rapid one-two punch which opened a large gash in the
atmosphere. Both men sparred cautiously, being hampered in their movements
by the fact, which neither had at this stage of the proceedings perceived,
that they were on opposite sides of the disputed table. A clever
Fitzsimmons' shift on the part of the Battler removed this obstacle, and
some brisk work ensued in neutral territory. Percy landed twice without a
return. The Battler's round by a shade."
    
                    "ROUND TWO"
    
    "The Cyclone came out of his corner with a rush, getting home on the
Battler's shirt-front and following it up with a right to the chin. Percy
swung wildly and upset a bottle of champagne on a neighbouring table. A
good rally followed, both men doing impressive in-fighting. The Cyclone
landed three without a return. The Cyclone's round."
    
                    "ROUND THREE"
    
    "Percy came up weak, seeming to be overtrained. The Cyclone waded in,
using both hands effectively. The Battler fell into a clinch, but the
Cyclone broke away and, measuring his distance, picked up a haymaker from
the floor and put it over. Percy down and out."
    
    "Interviewed by our representative after the fight, Cyclone Jim said:
'The issue was never in doubt. I was handicapped at the outset by the fact
that I was under the impression that I was fighting three twin-brothers,
and I missed several opportunities of putting over the winning wallop by
attacking the outside ones.  It was only in the second round that I
decided to concentrate my assault on the one in the middle, when the
affair speedily came to a conclusion. I shall not adopt pugilism as a
profession. The prizes are attractive, but it is too much like work.'"
    
    Bayliss ceased, and silence fell upon the room.
    
    "Is that all?"
    
    "That is all, sir."
    
    "And about enough."
    
    "Very true, sir."
    
                                    * * *
    
    "Your stepmother wants you to be a good fellow and make friends with
this boy. You see, his father is in right with the Premier and has the
biggest kind of a pull when it comes to handing out titles."
    
    "Is that all you want? Leave it to me. Inside of a week I'll be
playing kiss-in-the-ring with him. The whole force of my sunny personality
shall be directed towards making him love me. What's his name?"
    
    "Lord Percy Whipple."
    
    Jimmy's pipe fell with a clatter.
    
    "Dad, pull yourself together! Reflect! You know you don't seriously
mean Lord Percy Whipple."
    
    "Eh?"
    
    Jimmy laid a soothing hand on his father's shoulder.
    
    "Dad, prepare yourself for the big laugh. This is where you throw your
head back and roar with honest mirth. I met Lord Percy Whipple last night
at the Six Hundred Club. Words ensued. I fell upon Percy and beat his
block off! How it started, except that we both wanted the same table, I
couldn't say. 'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous
victory!' If I had known, dad, nothing would have induced me to lay a hand
upon Perce, save in the way of kindness, but, not even knowing who he was,
it would appear from contemporary accounts of the affair that I just
naturally sailed in and expunged the poor, dear boy!"
    
    The stunning nature of this information had much the same effect on
Mr. Crocker as the announcement of his ruin has upon the Good Old Man in
melodrama. He sat clutching the arms of his chair and staring into space,
saying nothing. Dismay was written upon his anguished countenance.
    
    His collapse sobered Jimmy. For the first time he perceived that the
situation had another side than the humorous one which had appealed to
him. He had anticipated that Mr. Crocker, who as a general thing shared
his notions of what was funny and could be relied on to laugh in the right
place, would have been struck, like himself, by the odd and pleasing
coincidence of his having picked on for purposes of assault and battery
the one young man with whom his stepmother wished him to form a firm and
lasting friendship. He perceived now that his father was seriously upset.  
Neither Jimmy nor Mr. Crocker possessed a demonstrative nature, but there
had always existed between them the deepest affection.  Jimmy loved his
father as he loved nobody else in the world, and the thought of having
hurt him was like a physical pain. His laughter died away and he set
himself with a sinking heart to try to undo the effect of his words.
    
    "I'm awfully sorry, dad. I had no idea you would care. I wouldn't have
done a fool thing like that for a million dollars if I'd known. Isn't
there anything I can do? Gee whiz! I'll go right round to Percy now and
apologise. I'll lick his boots. Don't you worry, dad. I'll make it all
right."
    
    The whirl of words roused Mr. Crocker from his thoughts.
    
    "It doesn't matter, Jimmy. Don't worry yourself. It's only a little
unfortunate, because our stepmother says she won't think of our going back
to America till these people here have given me a title. She wants to put
one over on her sister. That's all that's troubling me, the thought that
this affair will set us back, this Lord Percy being in so strong with the
guys who give the titles. I guess it will mean my staying on here for a
while longer, and I'd liked to have seen another ball-game. Jimmy, do you
know they call baseball Rounders in this country, and children play it
with a soft ball!"
    
    Jimmy was striding up and down the little room. Remorse had him in its
grip.
    
    "What a damned fool I am!"
    
    "Never mind, Jimmy. It's unfortunate, but it wasn't your fault.  You
couldn't know."
    
    "It was my fault. Nobody but a fool like me would go about beating
people up. But don't worry, dad. It's going to be all right. I'll fix it.
I'm going right round to this fellow Percy now to make things all right. I
won't come back till I've squared him. Don't you bother yourself about it
any longer, dad. It's going to be all right."
    
                                    * * *
    "You're too late to go in the passenger-list, of course."
    
    Jimmy did not reply. He was gazing rigidly at a girl who had just come
in, a girl with red hair and a friendly smile.
    
    "So you're sailing on the Atlantic, too!" she said, with a glance at
the chart on the counter. "How odd! We have just decided to go back on her
too. There's nothing to keep us here and we're all homesick. Well, you see
I wasn't run over after I left you."
    
    A delicious understanding relieved Jimmy's swimming brain, as thunder
relieves the tense and straining air. The feeling that he was going mad
left him, as the simple solution of his mystery came to him. This girl
must have heard of him in New York--perhaps she knew people whom he knew
and it was on hearsay, not on personal acquaintance, that she based that
dislike of him which she had expressed with such freedom and conviction so
short a while before at the Regent Grill. She did not know who he was!
    
    Into this soothing stream of thought cut the voice of the clerk.
    
    "What name, please?"
    
    Jimmy's mind rocked again. Why were these things happening to him
to-day of all days, when he needed the tenderest treatment, when he had a
headache already?
    
    The clerk was eyeing him expectantly. He had laid down his pencil and
was holding aloft a pen. Jimmy gulped. Every name in the English language
had passed from his mind. And then from out of the dark came inspiration.
    
    "Bayliss," he croaked.
    
    The girl held out her hand.
    
    "Then we can introduce ourselves at last. My name is Ann Chester.  
How do you do, Mr. Bayliss?"
    
    "How do you do, Miss Chester?"
    
    The clerk had finished writing the ticket, and was pressing labels and
a pink paper on him. The paper, he gathered dully, was a form and had to
be filled up. He examined it, and found it to be a searching document.
Some of its questions could be answered off-hand, others required thought.
    
    "Height?" Simple. Five foot eleven.
    
    "Hair?" Simple. Brown.
    
    "Eyes?" Simple again. Blue.
    
    Next, queries of a more offensive kind.
    
    "Are you a polygamist?"
    
    He could answer that. Decidedly no. One wife would be ample--provided
she had red-gold hair, brown-gold eyes, the right kind of mouth, and a
dimple. Whatever doubts there might be in his mind on other points, on
that one he had none whatever.
    
    "Have you ever been in prison?"
    
    Not yet.
    
    And then a very difficult one. "Are you a lunatic?"
    
    Jimmy hesitated. The ink dried on his pen. He was wondering.
    
                                    * * *
    
    "I was a good deal taken aback, Mr. James. Your decision to leave was
so extremely sudden."
    
    "So was Columbus'. You know about him? He saw an egg standing on its
head and whizzed off like a jack-rabbit."
    
                                    * * *
    
    Ann walked on to her compartment. She felt as if she had just read a
whole long novel, one of those chunky younger-English-novelist things. She
knew the whole story as well as if it had been told to her in detail. She
could see the father, the honest steady butler, living his life with but
one aim, to make a gentleman of his beloved only son. Year by year he had
saved. Probably he had sent the son to college. And now, with a father's
blessing and the remains of a father's savings, the boy was setting out
for the New World, where dollar-bills grew on trees and no one asked or
cared who any one else's father might be.
    
    There was a lump in her throat. Bayliss would have been amazed if he
could have known what a figure of pathetic fineness he seemed to her. And
then her thoughts turned to Jimmy, and she was aware of a glow of
kindliness towards him. His father had succeeded in his life's ambition.
He had produced a gentleman! How easily and simply, without a trace of
snobbish shame, the young man had introduced his father. There was the
right stuff in him. He was not ashamed of the humble man who had given him
his chance in life. She found herself liking Jimmy amazingly.
    
    The hands of the clock pointed to three minutes to the hour.  Porters
skimmed to and fro like water-beetles.
    
    "I can't explain," said Jimmy. "It wasn't temporary insanity; it was
necessity."
    
    "Very good, Mr. James. I think you had better be taking your seat
now."
    
    "Quite right, I had. It would spoil the whole thing if they left me
behind. Bayliss, did you ever see such eyes? Such hair! Look after my
father while I am away. Don't let the dukes worry him.  Oh, and,
Bayliss"--Jimmy drew his hand from his pocket--"as one pal to another--"
    
    Bayliss looked at the crackling piece of paper.
    
    "I couldn't, Mr. James, I really couldn't! A five-pound note! I
couldn't!"
    
    "Nonsense! Be a sport!"
    
    "Begging your pardon, Mr. James, I really couldn't. You cannot afford
to throw away your money like this. You cannot have a great deal of it, if
you will excuse me for saying so."
    
    "I won't do anything of the sort. Grab it! Oh, Lord, the train's
starting! Good-bye, Bayliss!"
    
    The engine gave a final shriek of farewell. The train began to slide
along the platform, pursued to the last by optimistic boys offering buns
for sale. It gathered speed. Jimmy, leaning out the window, was amazed at
a spectacle so unusual as practically to amount to a modern miracle--the
spectacled Bayliss running. The butler was not in the pink of condition,
but he was striding out gallantly. He reached the door of Jimmy's
compartment, and raised his hand.
    
    "Begging your pardon, Mr. James," he panted, "for taking the liberty,
but I really couldn't!"
    
    He reached up and thrust something into Jimmy's hand, something crisp
and crackling. Then, his mission performed, fell back and stood waving a
snowy handkerchief. The train plunged into the tunnel.
    
    Jimmy stared at the five-pound note. He was aware, like Ann farther
along the train, of a lump in his throat. He put the note slowly into his
pocket.
    
    The train moved on.
    
                                    * * *
    A wave of tender compassion swept over Jimmy. He understood it all
now. Naturally a girl who had associated all her life with the Rollos,
Clarences, Dwights, and Twombleys would come to despair of the possibility
of falling in love with any one.
    
    "You haven't met the right man," he said. She had, of course, but only
recently: and, anyway, he could point that out later.
    
    "There is no such thing as the right man," said Ann resolutely, "if
you are suggesting that there is a type of man in existence who is capable
of inspiring what is called romantic love. I believe in marriage --"
    
    "Good work!" said Jimmy, well satisfied.
    
    "But not as the result of a sort of delirium. I believe in it as a
sensible partnership between two friends who know each other well and
trust each other. The right way of looking at marriage is to realise,
first of all, that there are no thrills, no romances, and then to pick out
some one who is nice and kind and amusing and full of life and willing to
do things to make you happy."
    
    "Ah!" said Jimmy, straightening his tie, "Well, that's something."
    
    "How do you mean--that's something? Are you shocked at my views?"
    
    "I don't believe they are your views. You've been reading one of these
stern, soured fellows who analyse things."
    
    Ann stamped. The sound was inaudible, but Jimmy noticed the movement.
    
    "Cold?" he said. "Let's walk on."
    
    Ann's sense of humour reasserted itself. It was not often that it
remained dormant for so long. She laughed.
    
    "I know exactly what you are thinking," she said. "You believe that I
am posing, that those aren't my real opinions."
    
    "They can't be. But I don't think you are posing. It's getting on for
dinner-time, and you've got that wan, sinking feeling that makes you look
upon the world and find it a hollow fraud. The bugle will be blowing in a
few minutes, and half an hour after that you will be yourself again."
    
    "I'm myself now. I suppose you can't realise that a pretty girl can
hold such views."
    
    Jimmy took her arm.
    
    "Let me help you," he said. "There's a knothole in the deck.  Watch
your step. Now, listen to me. I'm glad you've brought up this subject--I
mean the subject of your being the prettiest girl in the known world--"
    
    "I never said that."
    
    "Your modesty prevented you. But it's a fact, nevertheless. I'm glad,
I say, because I have been thinking a lot along those lines myself, and I
have been anxious to discuss the point with you.  You have the most
glorious hair I have ever seen!"
    
    "Do you like red hair?"
    
    "Red-gold."
    
    "It is nice of you to put it like that. When I was a child all except
a few of the other children called me Carrots."
    
    "They have undoubtedly come to a bad end by this time. If bears were
sent to attend to the children who criticised Elijah, your little friends
were in line for a troupe of tigers. But there were some of a finer fibre?
There were a few who didn't call you Carrots?"
    
    "One or two. They called me Brick-Top."
    
    "They have probably been electrocuted since. Your eyes are perfectly
wonderful!"
    
    Ann withdrew her arm. An extensive acquaintance of young men told her
that the topic of conversation was now due to be changed.
    
    "You will like America," she said.
    
    "I live in New York."
    
    "I shall stay in New York, then."
    
    Ann was wary, but amused. Proposals of marriage--and Jimmy seemed to
be moving swiftly towards one--were no novelty in her life. In the course
of several seasons at Bar Harbor, Tuxedo, Palm Beach, and in New York
itself, she had spent much of her time foiling and discouraging the ardour
of a series of sentimental youths who had laid their unwelcome hearts at
her feet.
    
    "New York is open for staying in about this time, I believe."
    
    Jimmy was silent. He had done his best to fight a tendency to become
depressed and had striven by means of a light tone to keep himself
resolutely cheerful, but the girl's apparently total indifference to him
was too much for his spirits. One of the young men who had had to pick up
the heart he had flung at Ann's feet and carry it away for repairs had
once confided to an intimate friend, after the sting had to some extent
passed, that the feelings of a man who made love to Ann might be likened
to the emotions which hot chocolate might be supposed to entertain on
contact with vanilla ice-cream. Jimmy, had the comparison been presented
to him, would have endorsed its perfect accuracy. The wind from the sea,
until now keen and bracing, had become merely infernally cold. The song of
the wind in the rigging, erstwhile melodious, had turned into a damned
depressing howling.
    
    "I used to be as sentimental as any one a few years ago," said Ann,
returning to the dropped subject. "Just after I left college, I was quite
maudlin. I dreamed of moons and Junes and loves and doves all the time.
Then something happened which made me see what a little fool I was. It
wasn't pleasant at the time, but it had a very bracing effect. I have been
quite different ever since. It was a man, of course, who did it. His
method was quite simple. He just made fun of me, and Nature did the rest."
    
    Jimmy scowled in the darkness. Murderous thoughts towards the unknown
brute flooded his mind.
    
    "I wish I could meet him!" he growled.
    
    "You aren't likely to," said Ann. "He lives in England. His name is
Crocker. Jimmy Crocker. I spoke about him just now."
    
    Through the howling of the wind cut the sharp notes of a bugle.  Ann
turned to the saloon entrance.
    
    "Dinner!" she said brightly. "How hungry one gets on board ship!"  
She stopped. "Aren't you coming down, Mr. Bayliss?"
    
    "Not just yet," said Jimmy thickly.
    
                                    * * *
    
    At this moment, apparently from some upper region, there burst forth
an uproar so sudden and overwhelming that it might well have been taken
for a premature testing of a large sample of Partridgite; until a moment
later it began to resemble more nearly the shrieks of some partially
destroyed victim of that death-dealing invention. It was a bellow of
anguish, and it poured through the house in a cascade of sound,
advertising to all beneath the roof the twin facts that some person
unknown was suffering and that whoever the sufferer might be he had
excellent lungs.
    
    The effect on the gathering in the drawing-room was immediate and
impressive. Conversation ceased as if it had been turned off with a tap.
Twelve separate and distinct discussions on twelve highly intellectual
topics died instantaneously. It was as if the last trump had sounded.
Futurist painters stared pallidly at vers libre poets, speech smitten from
their lips; and stage performers looked at esoteric Buddhists with a wild
surmise.
    
    The sudden silence had the effect of emphasising the strange noise and
rendering it more distinct, thus enabling it to carry its message to one
at least of the listeners. Mrs. Pett, after a moment of strained attention
in which time seemed to her to stand still, uttered a wailing cry and
leaped for the door.
    
    "Ogden!" she shrilled; and passed up the stairs two at a time,
gathering speed as she went. A boy's best friend is his mother.
    
                                    * * *
    
    "What are you doing?" enquired Ogden.
    
    Jerry passed a gloved fist over his damp brow.
    
    "Punchin' the bag."
    
    He began to remove his gloves, eyeing Ogden the while with a
disapproval which he made no attempt to conceal. An extremist on the
subject of keeping in condition, the spectacle of the bulbous stripling
was a constant offence to him. Ogden, in pursuance of his invariable
custom on the days when Mrs. Pett entertained, had been lurking on the
stairs outside the drawing-room for the past hour, levying toll on the
food-stuffs that passed his way. He wore a congested look, and there was
jam about his mouth.
    
    "Why?" he said, retrieving a morsel of jam from his right cheek with
the tip of his tongue.
    
    "To keep in condition."
    
    "Why do you want to keep in condition?"
    
    Jerry flung the gloves into their locker.
    
    "Fade!" he said wearily. "Fade!"
    
    "Huh?"
    
    "Beat it!"
    
    "Huh?" Much pastry seemed to have clouded the boy's mind.
    
    "Run away."
    
    "Don't want to run away."
    
    The annoyed pugilist sat down and scrutinised his visitor critically.
    
    "You never do anything you don't want to, I guess?"
    
    "No," said Ogden simply. "You've got a funny nose," he added
dispassionately. "What did you do to it to make it like that?"
    
    Mr. Mitchell shifted restlessly on his chair. He was not a vain man,
but he was a little sensitive about that particular item in his make-up.
    
    "Lizzie says it's the funniest nose she ever saw. She says it's
something out of a comic supplement."
    
    A dull flush, such as five minutes with the bag had been unable to
produce, appeared on Jerry Mitchell's peculiar countenance. It was not
that he looked on Lizzie Murphy, herself no Lillian Russell, as an
accepted authority on the subject of facial beauty; but he was aware that
in this instance she spoke not without reason, and he was vexed, moreover,
as many another had been before him, by the note of indulgent patronage in
Ogden's voice. His fingers twitched a little eagerly, and he looked
sullenly at his tactless junior.
    
    "Get out!"
    
    "Huh?"
    
    "Get outa here!"
    
    "Don't want to get out of here," said Ogden with finality. He put his
hand in his trouser-pocket and pulled out a sticky mass which looked as if
it might once have been a cream-puff or a meringue.  He swallowed it
contentedly. "I'd forgotten I had that," he explained. "Mary gave it to me
on the stairs. Mary thinks you've a funny nose, too," he proceeded, as one
relating agreeable gossip.
    
    "Can it! Can it!" exclaimed the exasperated pugilist.
    
    "I'm only telling you what I heard her say."
    
    Mr. Mitchell rose convulsively and took a step towards his persecutor,
breathing noisily through the criticised organ. He was a chivalrous man, a
warm admirer of the sex, but he was conscious of a wish that it was in his
power to give Mary what he would have described as "hers." She was one of
the parlour-maids, a homely woman with a hard eye, and it was part of his
grievance against her that his Maggie, alias Celestine, Mrs. Pett's maid,
had formed an enthusiastic friendship with her. He had no evidence to go
on, but he suspected Mary of using her influence with Celestine to urge
the suit of his leading rival for the latter's hand, Biggs the chauffeur.
He disliked Mary intensely, even on general grounds. Ogden's revelation
added fuel to his aversion. For a moment he toyed with the fascinating
thought of relieving his feelings by spanking the boy, but restrained
himself reluctantly at the thought of the inevitable ruin which would
ensue. He had been an inmate of the house long enough to know, with a
completeness which would have embarrassed that gentleman, what a cipher
Mr. Pett was in the home and how little his championship would avail in
the event of a clash with Mrs.  Pett. And to give Ogden that physical
treatment which should long since have formed the main plank in the
platform of his education would be to invite her wrath as nothing else
could. He checked himself, and reached out for the skipping-rope, hoping
to ease his mind by further exercise.
    
    Ogden, chewing the remains of the cream-puff, eyed him with languid
curiosity.
    
    "What are you doing that for?"
    
    Mr. Mitchell skipped grimly on.
    
    "What are you doing that for? I thought only girls skipped."
    
    Mr. Mitchell paid no heed. Ogden, after a moment's silent
contemplation, returned to his original train of thought.
    
    "I saw an advertisement in a magazine the other day of a sort of
machine for altering the shape of noses. You strap it on when you go to
bed. You ought to get pop to blow you to one."
    
    Jerry Mitchell breathed in a laboured way.
    
    "You want to look nice about the place, don't you? Well, then!  
there's no sense in going around looking like that if you don't have to,
is there? I heard Mary talking about your nose to Biggs and Celestine. She
said she had to laugh every time she saw it."
    
    The skipping-rope faltered in its sweep, caught in the skipper's legs,
and sent him staggering across the room. Ogden threw back his head and
laughed merrily. He liked free entertainments, and this struck him as a
particularly enjoyable one.
    
    There are moments in the life of every man when the impulse attacks
him to sacrifice his future to the alluring gratification of the present.
The strong man resists such impulses. Jerry Mitchell was not a weak man,
but he had been sorely tried. The annoyance of Ogden's presence and
conversation had sapped his self-restraint, as dripping water will wear
away a rock. A short while before, he had fought down the urgent
temptation to massacre this exasperating child, but now, despised love
adding its sting to that of injured vanity, he forgot the consequences.  
Bounding across the room, he seized Ogden in a powerful grip, and the next
instant the latter's education, in the true sense of the word, so long
postponed, had begun; and with it that avalanche of sound which, rolling
down into the drawing-room, hurled Mrs. Pett so violently and with such
abruptness from the society of her guests.
    
    Disposing of the last flight of stairs with the agility of the chamois
which leaps from crag to crag of the snow-topped Alps, Mrs. Pett finished
with a fine burst of speed along the passage on the top floor, and rushed
into the gymnasium just as Jerry's avenging hand was descending for the
eleventh time.
    
                                    * * *
    
    Mr. Pett was looking at him in a meditative way. Jimmy caught his eye.
    
    "You're registering something, uncle Pete, and I don't know what it
is. Why the glance?"
    
    "I was just thinking of something."
    
    "Jimmy," prompted his nephew.
    
    "Eh?"
    
    "Add the word Jimmy to your remarks. It will help me to feel at home
and enable me to overcome my shyness."
    
    Mr. Pett chuckled.
    
    "Shyness! If I had your nerve--!" He broke off with a sigh and looked
at Jimmy affectionately. "What I was thinking was that you're a good boy.
At least, you're not, but you're different from that gang of--of--that
crowd up-town."
    
    "What crowd?"
    
    "Your aunt is literary, you know. She's filled the house with poets
and that sort of thing. It will be a treat having you around. You're
human! I don't see that we're going to make much of you now that you're
here, but I'm darned glad you've come,
    
                                    * * *
    
    A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett's visitor as she looked round
at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lavished his art
unsparingly in this particular room. At this close range she more than
fulfilled the promise of that distant view which Mrs. Pett had had of her
from the window. Her face was not only shrewd and determined: it was
menacing. She had thick eyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering
eyes looked out like dangerous beasts in undergrowth: and the impressive
effect of these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eye
looked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort of roving
commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs.  Pett with a gimlet
stare, examining the ceiling. As to the rest of the appearance of this
remarkable woman, her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had
the coldly forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you
have just missed the train. It bade you keep your distance on pain of
injury. Mrs.  Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a
curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much deadlier
than any male whom she had ever encountered: and came near feeling a
half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dynamic maiden was to be
unleashed. She hardly knew how to open the conversation.
    
    Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always preferred
to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and words flew out as if
shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs.  Pett could observe, she
considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring to speak with them
clenched. This gave an additional touch of menace to her speech.
    
    "Dafternoon," said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backed convulsively
into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody had thrown a
brick at her.
    
    "Good afternoon," she said faintly.
    
    "Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'r me.
Came here squick scould."
    
    "I beg your pardon?"
    
    "Squick scould. Got slow taxi."
    
    "Oh, yes."
    
    Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like a searchlight,
but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion's face.
    
    "Whass trouble?" The right eye rested for a moment on a magnificent
Corot over the mantelpiece, and she sniffed again.  "Not s'prised y'have
trouble. All rich people 've trouble. Noth' t'do with their time 'cept get
'nto trouble."
    
    She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
    
    "You--ah--appear to dislike the rich," said Mrs. Pett, as nearly in
her grand manner as she could contrive.
    
    Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a small
fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat.
    
    "Hate 'em! Sogelist!"
    
    "I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman was beginning
to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.
    
    "Sogelist! No use f'r idle rich. Ev' read B'nard Shaw? Huh? Or Upton
Sinclair? Uh? Read'm. Make y'think a bit. Well, y'haven't told me whasser
trouble."
    
    Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had
caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had had more
than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious, she had never been
confronted with a detective like this. The galling thing was that she was
helpless. After all, one engaged a detective for his or her shrewdness and
efficiency, not for suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at
you through clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money
than one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is
incompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people, subconsciously held
the view that the ruder a person is the more efficient he must be. It is
but rarely that any one is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of
incivility. She crushed down her resentment at her visitor's tone, and
tried to concentrate her mind on the fact that this was a business matter
and that what she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it
easier to do this when looking at the other's face. It was a capable face.
Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble having
ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when her mouth
was in repose it looked more efficient than anything else of its size in
existence.
    
    "I want you," said Mrs. Pett, "to come here and watch some men--"
    
    "Men! Thought so! Wh' there's trouble, always men't bottom'f it!"
    
    "You do not like men?"
    
    "Hate 'em! Suff-gist!" She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett.  Her
left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow.  "You S'porter
of th' Cause?"
    
    Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strong
opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment. Her
whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman. She
returned hurriedly to the main theme.
    
                                    * * *
    
    Jimmy went to the writing-desk and took up a small book.
    
    "Put that down!"
    
    "I just wanted to read you 'Love's Funeral!' It illustrates my point.  
Think of yourself as you are now, and remember that it is I who am
responsible for the improvement. Here we are. 'Love's Funeral.' 'My heart
is dead --' "
    
    Ann snatched the book from his hands and flung it away. It soared up,
clearing the gallery rails, and fell with a thud on the gallery floor. She
stood facing him with sparkling eyes. Then she moved away.
    
    "I beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "I lost my temper."
    
    "It's your hair," said Jimmy soothingly. "You're bound to be
quick-tempered with hair of that glorious red shade. You must marry some
nice, determined fellow, blue-eyed, dark-haired, clean-shaven, about five
foot eleven, with a future in business.  He will keep you in order."
    
    "Mr. Crocker!"
    
    "Gently, of course. Kindly-lovingly. The velvet thingummy rather than
the iron what's-its-name. But nevertheless firmly."
    
    Ann was at the door.
    
    "To a girl with your ardent nature some one with whom you can quarrel
is an absolute necessity of life. You and I are affinities. Ours will be
an ideally happy marriage. You would be miserable if you had to go through
life with a human doormat with 'Welcome' written on him. You want some one
made of sterner stuff. You want, as it were, a sparring-partner, some one
with whom you can quarrel happily with the certain knowledge that he will
not curl up in a ball for you to kick, but will be there with the return
wallop. I may have my faults--" He paused expectantly. Ann remained
silent. "No, no!" he went on. "But I am such a man. Brisk give-and-take is
the foundation of the happy marriage. Do you remember that beautiful line
of Tennyson's--'We fell out, my wife and I'? It always conjures up for me
a vision of wonderful domestic happiness. I seem to see us in our old age,
you on one side of the radiator, I on the other, warming our old limbs and
thinking up snappy stuff to hand to each other--sweethearts still! If I
were to go out of your life now, you would be miserable. You would have
nobody to quarrel with.  You would be in the position of the female jaguar
of the Indian jungle, who, as you doubtless know, expresses her affection
for her mate by biting him shrewdly in the fleshy part of the leg, if she
should snap sideways one day and find nothing there."
    
                                    * * *