



Produced by Les Bowler





WITH EDGED TOOLS


By Henry Seton Merriman


  "Of the same clay he maketh both the vessels that serve for clean
  uses, and likewise also such as serve to the contrary; but what is
  the use of either sort, the potter himself is the judge."



                               TO JAMES PAYN

                         A TOKEN OF SINCERE REGARD



CONTENTS

     I.        TWO GENERATIONS
     II.       OVER THE OLD GROUND
     III.      A FAREWELL
     IV.       A TRAGEDY
     V.        WITH EDGED TOOLS
     VI.       UNDER THE LINE
     VII.      THE SECRET OF THE SIMIACINE
     VIII.     A RECRUIT
     IX.       TO PASS THE TIME
     X.        LOANGO
     XI.       A COMPACT
     XII.      A MEETING
     XIII.     IN BLACK AND WHITE
     XIV.      PANIC-STRICKEN
     XV.       A CONFIDENCE
     XVI.      WAR
     XVII.     UNDERHAND
     XVIII.    A REQUEST
     XIX.      IVORY
     XX.       BROUGHT TO THE SCRATCH
     XXI.      THE FIRST CONSIGNMENT
     XXII.     THE SECOND CONSIGNMENT
     XXIII.    MERCURY
     XXIV.     NEMESIS
     XXV.      TO THE RESCUE
     XXVI.     IN PERIL
     XXVII.    OFF DUTY
     XXVIII.   A SLOW RECOVERY
     XXIX.     A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
     XXX.      OLD BIRDS
     XXXI.     SEED-TIME
     XXXII.    AN ENVOY
     XXXIII.   DARK DEALING
     XXXIV.    AMONG THORNS
     XXXV.     ENGAGED
     XXXVI.    NO COMPROMISE
     XXXVII.   FOUL PLAY
     XXXVIII.  THE ACCURSED CAMP
     XXXIX.    THE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCE
     XL.       SIR JOHNS LAST CARD
     XLI.      A TROIS
     XLII.     A STRONG FRIENDSHIP
     XLIII.    A LONG DEBT
     XLIV.     MADE UP
     XLV.      THE TELEGRAM





CHAPTER I. TWO GENERATIONS



     Why all delights are vain, but that most vain
     Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain.

"My dear--Madam--what you call heart does not come into the question at
all."

Sir John Meredith was sitting slightly behind Lady Cantourne, leaning
towards her with a somewhat stiffened replica of his former grace. But
he was not looking at her--and she knew it.

They were both watching a group at the other side of the great ballroom.

"Sir John Meredith on Heart," said the old lady, with a depth of
significance in her voice.

"And why not?"

"Yes, indeed. Why not?"

Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has not
yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these two;
and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational attitude,
belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in some ways--a
period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an age of slums
wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--mental, literary,
and theological.

Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee. His
back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not his own,
nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own. His face was
eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society smile with the best
of them. There was not a young man in the room of whom he was afraid,
conversationally.

"No, Lady Cantourne," he repeated. "Your charming niece is heartless.
She will get on."

Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and
motherly right arm.

"She will get on," she admitted. "As to the other, it is early to give
an opinion."

"She has had the best of trainings--," he murmured. And Lady Cantourne
turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles.

"For which?" she asked.

"Choisissez!" he answered, with a bow.

One sees a veteran swordsman take up the foil with a tentative turn of
the wrist, lunging at thin air. His zest for the game has gone; but the
skill lingers, and at times he is tempted to show the younger blades a
pass or two. These were veteran fencers with a skill of their own, which
they loved to display at times. The zest was that of remembrance; the
sword-play of words was above the head of a younger generation given to
slang and music-hall airs; and so these two had little bouts for their
own edification, and enjoyed the glitter of it vastly.

Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for he
had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men have.
And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he fumbled with his
fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he
was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two.

The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent
Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers anxious
to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the fashion at
that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of the men
crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing succeeds like
the success that knows how to draw a crowd.

She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that
hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a
fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each
in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her
programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not be
expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle intimation
that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her success.

"She is having an excellent time," said Sir John, weighing on the modern
phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of modern
phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.

"Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little," answered the lady.

"Nor I. It will not last."

"Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds."

"Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going to
last. The full-blown roses do not."

Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between them.
She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time that was no
more. The man seemed to be content that the past had been lived through
and would never renew itself.

"After all," she said, "she is my sister's child. The sympathy may only
be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once. Was I? You
can tell me."

She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew that she
was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell her; and he did
not like it.

"No," he answered readily.

"And what was the difference?"

She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned
demureness.

"Their name is legion, for they are many."

"Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?"

He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile.

"You were better-looking than that," he said, with a glance beneath his
lashless lids. "Moreover, there was more of the grand lady about you.
You behaved better. There was less shaking hands with your partners,
less nodding and becking, and none of that modern forwardness which is
called, I believe, camaraderie."

"Thank you, Sir John," she answered, looking at him frankly with a
pleasant smile. "But it is probable that we had the faults of our age."

He fumbled at his lips, having reasons of his own for disliking too
close a scrutiny of his face.

"That is more than probable," he answered, rather indistinctly.

"Then," she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan, "we
ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation. Tell
me who is that young man with the long stride who is getting himself
introduced now."

"That," answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing every
one--knowing who they were and who they were not--"is young Oscard."

"Son of the eccentric Oscard?"

"Son of the eccentric Oscard."

"And where did he get that brown face?"

"He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part of
some one else's bag at the present moment."

"What do you mean?"

"He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him."

If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by the
same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted. Coupled with
a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a bound above the
pallid habitues of ballroom and pavement. It was, perhaps, only natural
that Millicent Chyne should have noted this man as soon as he crossed
the threshold. He was as remarkable as some free and dignified denizen
of the forest in the midst of domestic animals. She mentally put him
down for a waltz, and before five minutes had elapsed he was bowing
before her while a mutual friend murmured his name. One does not know
how young ladies manage these little affairs, but the fact remains
that they are managed. Moreover, it is a singular thing that the young
persons who succeed in the ballroom rarely succeed on the larger
and rougher floor of life. Your belle of the ball, like your Senior
Wrangler, never seems to do much afterwards--and Afterwards is Life.

The other young men rather fell back before Guy Oscard--scared, perhaps,
by his long stride, and afraid that he might crush their puny toes. This
enabled Miss Chyne to give him the very next dance, of which the music
was commencing.

"I feel rather out of all this," said Oscard, as they moved away
together. "You must excuse uncouthness."

"I see no signs of it," laughed Millicent. "You are behaving very
nicely. You cannot help being larger and stronger than--the others. I
should say it was an advantage and something to be proud of."

"Oh, it is not that," replied Oscard; "it is a feeling of unkemptness
and want of smartness among these men who look so clean and correct.
Shall we dance?"

He looked down at her, with an admiration which almost amounted to awe,
as if afraid of entering the throng with such a dainty and wonderful
charge upon his powers of steering. Millicent Chyne saw the glance and
liked it. It was different from the others, quite devoid of criticism,
rather simple and full of honest admiration. She was so beautiful that
she could hardly be expected to be unaware of the fact. She had merely
to make comparisons, to look in the mirror and see that her hair was
fairer and softer, that her complexion was more delicately perfect, that
her slight, rounded figure was more graceful than any around her. Added
to this, she knew that she had more to say than other girls--a larger
stock of those little frivolous, advice-seeking, aid-demanding nothings
than her compeers seemed to possess.

She knew that in saying them she could look brighter and prettier and
more intelligent than her competitors.

"Yes," she said, "let us dance by all means."

Here also she knew her own proficiency, and in a few seconds she found
that her partner was worthy of her skill.

"Where have you been?" she asked presently. "I am sure you have been
away somewhere, exploring or something."

"I have only been in Africa, shooting."

"Oh, how interesting! You must tell me all about it!"

"I am afraid," replied Guy Oscard, with a somewhat shy laugh, "that that
would NOT be interesting. Besides, I could not tell you now."

"No, but some other time. I suppose you are not going back to Africa
to-morrow, Mr. Oscard?"

"Not quite. And perhaps we may meet somewhere else."

"I hope so," replied Miss Chyne. "Besides, you know my aunt, Lady
Cantourne. I live with her, you know."

"I know her slightly."

"Then take an opportunity of improving the acquaintanceship. She is
sitting under the ragged banner over there."

Millicent Chyne indicated the direction with a nod of the head, and
while he looked she took the opportunity of glancing hastily round the
room. She was seeking some one.

"Yes," said Oscard, "I see her, talking to an old gentleman who looks
like Voltaire. I shall give her a chance of recognising me before the
evening is out. I don't mind being snubbed if--"

He paused and steered neatly through a narrow place.

"If what?" she asked, when they were in swing again.

"If it means seeing you again," he answered bluntly--more bluntly than
she was accustomed to. But she liked it. It was a novelty after the
smaller change of ballroom compliments.

She was watching the door all the while.

Presently the music ceased and they made their way back to the
spot whence he had taken her. She led the way thither by an almost
imperceptible pressure of her fingers on his arm. There were several
men waiting there, and one or two more entering the room and looking
languidly round.

"There comes the favoured one," Lady Cantourne muttered, with a veiled
glance towards her companion.

Sir John's grey eyes followed the direction of her glance.

"My bright boy?" he inquired, with a wealth of sarcasm on the adjective.

"Your bright boy," she replied.

"I hope not," he said curtly.

They were watching a tall fair man in the doorway who seemed to know
everybody, so slow was his progress into the room. The most remarkable
thing about this man was a certain grace of movement. He seemed to be
specially constructed to live in narrow, hampered places. He was
above six feet; but, being of slight build, he moved with a certain
languidness which saved him from that unwieldiness usually associated
with large men in a drawing-room.

Such was Jack Meredith, one of the best known figures in London society.
He had hitherto succeeded in moving through the mazes of that coterie,
as he now moved through this room, without jarring against any one.



CHAPTER II. OVER THE OLD GROUND



     A man who never makes mistakes never makes anything else
either.

Miss Millicent Chyne was vaguely conscious of success--and such a
consciousness is apt to make the best of us a trifle elated. It was
certainly one of the best balls of the season, and Miss Chyne's dress
was, without doubt, one of the most successful articles of its sort
there.

Jack Meredith saw that fact and noted it as soon as he came into the
room. Moreover, it gratified him, and he was pleased to reflect that he
was no mean critic in such matters. There could be no doubt about it,
because he KNEW as well as any woman there. He knew that Millicent Chyne
was dressed in the latest fashion--no furbished-up gown from the hands
of her maid, but a unique creation from Bond Street.

"Well," she asked in a low voice, as she handed him her programme, "are
you pleased with it?"

"Eminently so."

She glanced down at her own dress. It was not the nervous glance of the
debutante, but the practised flash of experienced eyes which see without
appearing to look.

"I am glad," she murmured.

He handed her back the card with the orthodox smile and bow of
gratitude, but there was something more in his eyes.

"Is that what you did it for?" he inquired.

"Of course," with a glance half coquettish, half humble.

She took the card and allowed it to drop pendent from her fan without
looking at it. He had written nothing on it. This was all a form. The
dances that were his had been inscribed on the engagement-card long
before by smaller fingers than his.

She turned to take her attendant partner's arm with a little flaunt--a
little movement of the hips to bring her dress, and possibly herself,
more prominently beneath Jack Meredith's notice. His eyes followed her
with that incomparably pleasant society smile which he had no doubt
inherited from his father. Then he turned and mingled with the
well-dressed throng, bowing where he ought to bow--asking with fervour
for dances in plain but influential quarters where dances were to be
easily obtained.

And all the while his father and Lady Cantourne watched.

"Yes, I THINK," the lady was saying, "that that is the favoured one."

"I fear so."

"I noticed," observed Lady Cantourne, "that he asked for a dance."

"And apparently got one--or more."

"Apparently so, Sir John."

"Moreover--"

Lady Cantourne turned on him with her usual vivacity.

"Moreover?" she repeated.

"He did not need to write it down on the card; it was written there
already."

She closed her fan with a faint smile

"I sometimes wonder," she said, "whether, in our young days, you were so
preternaturally observant as you are now."

"No," he answered, "I was not. I affected scales of the very opaquest
description, like the rest of my kind."

In the meantime this man's son was going about his business with a
leisurely savoir-faire which few could rival. Jack Meredith was the
beau-ideal of the society man in the best acceptation of the word. One
met him wherever the best people congregated, and he invariably seemed
to know what to do and how to do it better than his compeers. If it was
dancing in the season, Jack Meredith danced, and no man rivalled him.
If it was grouse shooting, Jack Meredith held his gun as straight as any
man. All the polite accomplishments in their season seemed to come to
him without effort; but there was in all the same lack of heart--that
utter want of enthusiasm which imparted to his presence a subtle
suggestion of boredom. The truth was that he was over-educated. Sir John
had taught him how to live and move and have his being with so minute
a care, so keen an insight, that existence seemed to be nothing but an
habitual observance of set rules.

Sir John called him sarcastically his "bright boy," his "hopeful
offspring," the "pride of his old age"; but somewhere in his shrivelled
old heart there nestled an unbounded love and admiration for his son.
Jack had assimilated his teaching with a wonderful aptitude. He had as
nearly as possible realised Sir John Meredith's idea of what an
English gentleman should be, and the old aristocrat's standard was
uncompromisingly high. Public school, University, and two years on the
Continent had produced a finished man, educated to the finger-tips,
deeply read, clever, bright, and occasionally witty; but Jack Meredith
was at this time nothing more than a brilliant conglomerate of
possibilities. He had obeyed his father to the letter with a
conscientiousness bred of admiration. He had always felt that his father
knew best. And now he seemed to be waiting--possibly for further orders.
He was suggestive of a perfect piece of mechanism standing idle for want
of work delicate enough to be manipulated by its delicate craft. Sir
John had impressed upon him the desirability of being independent, and
he had promptly cultivated that excellent quality, taking kindly enough
to rooms of his own in a fashionable quarter. But upon the principle of
taking a horse to the water and being unable to make him drink, Sir John
had not hitherto succeeded in making Jack take the initiative. He had
turned out such a finished and polished English gentleman as his soul
delighted in, and now he waited in cynical silence for Jack Meredith to
take his life into his own hands and do something brilliant with it. All
that he had done up to now had been to prove that he could attain to a
greater social popularity than any other man of his age and station; but
this was not exactly the success that Sir John Meredith coveted for his
son. He had tasted of this success himself, and knew its thinness of
flavour--its fleeting value.

Behind his keen old eyes such thoughts as these were passing, while he
watched Jack go up and claim his dance at the hands of Miss Millicent
Chyne. He could almost guess what they said; for Jack was grave and she
smiled demurely. They began dancing at once, and as soon as the floor
became crowded they disappeared.

Jack Meredith was an adept at such matters. He knew a seat at the end
of a long passage where they could sit, the beheld of all beholders
who happened to pass; but no one could possibly overhear their
conversation--no one could surprise them. It was essentially a
strategical position.

"Well," inquired Jack, with a peculiar breathlessness, when they were
seated, "have you thought about it?"

She gave a little nod.

They seemed to be taking up some conversation at a point where it had
been dropped on a previous occasion.

"And?" he inquired suavely. The society polish was very thickly coated
over the man; but his eyes had a hungry look.

By way of reply her gloved hand crept out towards his, which rested on
the chair at his side.

"Jack!" she whispered; and that was all.

It was very prettily done, and quite naturally. He was a judge of such
matters, and appreciated the girlish simplicity of the action.

He took the small gloved hand and pressed it lovingly. The thoroughness
of his social training prevented any further display of affection.

"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.

They were essentially of the nineteenth century--these two. At a
previous dance he had asked her to marry him; she had deferred her
answer, and now she had given it. These little matters are all a
question of taste. We do not kneel nowadays, either physically or
morally. If we are a trifle off hand, it is the women who are to blame.
They should not write in magazines of a doubtful reputation in language
devoid of the benefit of the doubt. They are equal to us. Bien! One
does not kneel to an equal. A better writer than any of us says that men
serve women kneeling, and when they get to their feet they go away. We
are being hauled up to our feet now.

"But--?" began the girl, and went no further.

"But what?"

"There will be difficulties."

"No doubt," he answered, with quiet mockery. "There always are. I will
see to them. Difficulties are not without a certain advantage. They keep
one on the alert."

"Your father," said the girl. "Sir John--he will object."

Jack Meredith reflected for a moment, lazily, with that leisureliness
which gave a sense of repose to his presence.

"Possibly," he admitted gravely.

"He dislikes me," said the girl. "He is one of my failures."

"I did not know you had any. Have you tried? I cannot quite admit the
possibility of failure."

Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with
lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty was new
enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned. She had not
even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who did not fall
in love with her at first sight. It was her first season, one must
remember.

"I have not tried very hard," she said. "But I don't see why I should
not fail."

"That is easily explained."

"Why?"

"No looking-glass about."

She gave a little pout, but she liked it.

The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their social
obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm, and for a
moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her upturned
eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second risked the
"gentleman" and showed the "man." He was suggestive of a forest pool
with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth, but it was yet
unpenetrated.

"Shall we go now," he said, "and say a few words in passing to my
redoubtable father? It might be effective."

"Yes, if you like," she answered promptly. There is no more confident
being on earth than a pretty girl in a successful dress.

They met Sir John at the entrance of the ballroom. He was wandering
about, taking in a vast deal of detail.

"Well, young lady," he said, with an old-world bow, "are you having a
successful evening?"

Millicent laughed. She never knew quite how to take Sir John.

"Yes, I think so, thank you," she answered, with a pretty smile. "I am
enjoying myself very much."

There was just the least suggestion of shyness in her manner, and it is
just possible that this softened the old cynic's heart, for his manner
was kinder and almost fatherly when he spoke again.

"Ah!" he said, "at your time of life you do not want much--plenty of
partners and a few ices. Both easily obtainable."

The last words were turned into a compliment by the courtly inclination
of the head that accompanied them.

The exigencies of the moment forced the young people to go with the
stream.

"Jack," said Sir John, as they passed on, "when you have been deprived
of Miss Chyne's society, come and console yourself with a glass of
sherry."

The dutiful son nodded a semi-indifferent acquiescence and disappeared.

"Wonderful thing, sherry!" observed Sir John Meredith for his own
edification.

He waited there until Jack returned, and then they set off in search
of refreshment. The son seemed to know his whereabouts better than the
father.

"This way," he said, "through the conservatory."

Amidst the palms and tropical ferns Sir John paused. A great deal of
care had been devoted to this conservatory. Half hidden among languorous
scented flowers were a thousand tiny lights, while overhead in the
gloom towered graceful palms and bananas. A fountain murmured pleasantly
amidst a cluster of maidenhairs. The music from the ballroom fell softly
over all.

Sir John Meredith and his son stood in silence, looking around them.
Finally their eyes met.

"Are you in earnest with that girl?" asked Sir John abruptly.

"I am," replied Jack. He was smiling pleasantly.

"And you think there is a chance of her marrying you--unless, of course,
something better turns up?"

"With all due modesty I do."

Sir John's hand was at his mouth. He stood up his full six feet two and
looked hard at his son, whose eyes were level with his own. They were
ideal representatives of their school.

"And what do you propose marrying upon? She, I understand, has about
eight hundred a year. I respect you too much to suspect any foolish
notions of love in a cottage."

Jack Meredith made no reply. He was entirely dependent upon his father.

"Of course," said Sir John, "when I die you will be a baronet, and there
will be enough to live on like a gentleman. You had better tell Miss
Chyne that. She may not know it. Girls are so innocent. But I am not
dead yet, and I shall take especial care to live some time."

"In order to prevent my marriage?" suggested Jack. He was still smiling,
and somehow Sir John felt a little uneasy. He did not understand that
smile.

"Precisely so," he said, rather indistinctly.

"What is your objection?" inquired Jack Meredith, after a little pause.

"I object to the girl."

"Upon what grounds?"

"I should prefer you to marry a woman of heart."

"Heart?" repeated Jack, with a suspicion of hereditary cynicism. "I do
not think heart is of much consequence. Besides, in this case, surely
that is my province! you would not have her wear it on her sleeve?"

"She could not do that: not enough sleeve."

Sir John Meredith had his own views on ladies' dress.

"But," he added, "we will not quarrel. Arrange matters with the young
lady as best you can. I shall never approve of such a match, and without
my approval you cannot well marry."

"I do not admit that."

"Indeed?"

"Your approval means money," explained this dutiful son politely. "I
might manage to make the money for myself."

Sir John moved away.

"You might," he admitted, looking back. "I should be very glad to see
you doing so. It is an excellent thing--money."

And he walked leisurely away.



CHAPTER III. A FAREWELL



                              Since called
     The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown.

Having been taught to take all the chances and changes of life with
a well-bred calmness of demeanour, Jack Meredith turned the teaching
against the instructor. He pursued the course of his social duties
without appearing to devote so much as a thought to the quarrel which
had taken place in the conservatory. His smile was as ready as ever, his
sight as keen where an elderly lady looked hungry, his laughter as near
the surface as society demands. It is probable that Sir John suffered
more, though he betrayed nothing. Youth has the upper hand in these
cases, for life is a larger thing when we are young. As we get on in
years, our eggs, to use a homely simile, have a way of accumulating into
one basket.

At eleven o'clock the next morning Sir John Meredith's valet intimated
to his master that Mr. Meredith was waiting in the breakfast-room. Sir
John was in the midst of his toilet--a complicated affair, which, like
other works of art, would not bear contemplation when incomplete.

"Tell him," said the uncompromising old gentleman, "that I will come
down when I am ready."

He made a more careful toilet than usual, and finally came down in a gay
tweed suit, of which the general effect was distinctly heightened by a
pair of white gaiters. He was upright, trim, and perfectly determined.
Jack noted that his clothes looked a little emptier than usual--that was
all.

"Well," said the father, "I suppose we both made fools of ourselves last
night."

"I have not yet seen you do that," replied the son, laying aside the
morning paper which he had been reading.

Sir John smiled grimly. He hoped that Jack was right.

"Well," he added, "let us call it a difference of opinion."

"Yes."

Something in the monosyllable made the old gentleman's lips twitch
nervously.

"I may mention," he said, with a dangerous suavity, "that I still hold
to my opinion."

Jack Meredith rose, without haste. This, like the interview of the
previous night, was conducted upon strictly high-bred and gentlemanly
lines.

"And I to mine," he said. "That is why I took the liberty of calling at
this early hour. I thought that perhaps we might effect some sort of a
compromise."

"It is very good of you to make the proposal." Sir John kept his fingers
away from his lips by an obvious exercise of self-control. "I am not
partial to compromises: they savour of commerce."

Jack gave a queer, curt nod, and moved towards the door. Sir John
extended his unsteady hand and rang the bell.

"Good-morning," he said.

"Graves," he added, to the servant who stood in the doorway, "when you
have closed the door behind Mr. Meredith, bring up breakfast, if you
please."

On the doorstep Jack Meredith looked at his watch. He had an appointment
with Millicent Chyne at half-past eleven--an hour when Lady Cantourne
might reasonably be expected to be absent at the weekly meeting of a
society which, under the guise and nomenclature of friendship, busied
itself in making servant girls discontented with their situations.

It was only eleven o'clock. Jack turned to the left, out of the quiet
but fashionable street, and a few steps took him to Piccadilly. He went
into the first jeweller's shop he saw, and bought a plain diamond ring.
Then he walked on to keep his appointment with his affianced wife.

Miss Millicent Chyne was waiting for him with that mixture of maidenly
feelings of which the discreet novelist only details a selection. It is
not customary to dwell upon thoughts of vague regret at the approaching
withdrawal of a universal admiration--at the future necessity for
discreet and humdrum behaviour quite devoid of the excitement that lurks
in a double meaning. Let it, therefore, be ours to note the outward
signs of a very natural emotion. Miss Chyne noted them herself with
care, and not without a few deft touches to hair and dress.