"I don't call that sort of thing generosity. A man gives things to a woman he cares for because he has a lively sense of favours to come."

"That's candid. You've given me one or two trifles already. Has that been with a lively sense of favours to come?"

"Perhaps."

"You wretch! Would you care for me a little?"

"I care for you more than a little now, as you are perfectly well aware."

She turned and whispered something in his ear. He smiled, but kept silent. Presently she said aloud:

"It would be rather a joke if we were to marry. Now that the idea's got into my head I can't get it out again. It makes little thrills go all over me--dear little thrills. I hope that if ever you do marry me it will be before I have had to resort to any of women's aids to beauty. I should like you to have me just as I am, while I am really at my best and while I can still bear the most searching investigation. My complexion's my own; I use no powder, rouge, or pencil. I haven't a false tooth in my head or even a stopped one. I've only a weeny pad on the top of my head, which is rendered absolutely necessary by the present style of hairdressing--everything about me's true."

"Outside."

"Sir! I dare say we shouldn't make such a very bad pair. Would you--like to marry me?"

"Given an a.s.sured position, I would marry you."

"Well, then, I'll tell you what we might do. You might marry Stella, and--dispose of her with some nice painless thing like chloral; and I might marry Tom, and--delicately dispose of him. Then we should both of us have an a.s.sured position, and--we could marry."

"There's more in the idea than meets the eye."

She threw the f.a.g-end of her cigarette away from her and laughed.

"You're simply ripping!" she exclaimed.

CHAPTER VIII

BY THE 9.10; THE FIRST PART OF THE JOURNEY

Rodney Elmore returned by the 9.10 to town. He had meant to travel by the Pullman, but as he entered the station the train was drawing clear of the platform. Being informed that another express was starting in ten minutes, he had to be content with that. Beyond doubt the Pullman had been crowded; as he found himself the sole occupant of a first-cla.s.s carriage, he was inclined to think that he had not lost by the exchange. He was in a mood for privacy. Events had followed each other so quickly; he had so many things to consider that he was glad of an opportunity for a little solitary self-communion. He was not pleased, therefore, when, just as the signal had been given to start, someone came rushing along the platform, the door was thrown open by an officious guard, and a pa.s.senger was hoisted into his compartment while the train was already in motion; nor was his pleasure enhanced by the discovery that the intruder was his uncle, Graham Patterson. In such disorder had Mr. Patterson been thrown that it was some seconds before he even realised that he had a companion.

Uncovering, he wiped first his brow, then the lining of his hat. He panted so for breath that his critical nephew said to himself that if he had run a little further, or even a little faster, he might have panted in vain; he had never seen a man in such difficulty with his breathing apparatus. His face was purple, his eyes seemed to be bulging out of their sockets.

The train had pa.s.sed Preston Park station before Mr. Patterson had sufficiently recovered himself to become alive to the fact that he was not alone. But that he still did not recognise his companion his words showed.

"I'm not exactly--of the build--to--run after trains."

The moment he spoke Rodney became aware that Mr. Patterson had been drinking. Not enough, perhaps, to affect his speech--the hyphenated form of the remark he had just made was owing to the trouble he still had to breathe--but sufficient to place him at the point which divides the drunk from the sober. Elmore was still; possibly because he was unwilling to spoil what he felt was the grim humour of the situation.

His silence apparently struck the other as odd. Presently Mr.

Patterson glanced round as if to learn what manner of person this was who offered no comment on his observation. Then he perceived who his companion was.

The discovery seemed to fill him with amazement which approached to stupefaction. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged still farther out of his head, his face a.s.sumed a darker shade of purple; he looked like a man who was on the verge of a fit. His nephew felt that he had never seen him present so unprepossessing a spectacle. His surprise was so great that an appreciable s.p.a.ce of time pa.s.sed before he could find words to give it expression. Then they were of a lurid kind.

"By gad!--it's you! Well, I'm d.a.m.ned!"

"I'm sorry, sir, to hear it."

The retort was so obvious that it had slipped from Rodney's lips almost before he was aware. Its effect on Mr. Patterson was so great that for some moments his nephew was convinced that that apoplectic fit which he had so often seen threatening was hideously close. Mr.

Patterson himself seemed conscious of the risk he ran. He made a perceptible effort to regain self-control--a painful one it evidently was. He put his finger to his collar as if to loosen it; one could see that his hand shook, his lips trembled, beads of sweat stood on his brow. Probably more than a minute had pa.s.sed before he felt himself in a condition to speak again. Still his voice was a little hoa.r.s.e, his utterance not quite clear.

"My lad, if I could have got at you this morning I should have killed you."

"Should you, indeed, sir. Pray why?"

The young man had been observing his senior's plight with a sense, not only of amus.e.m.e.nt, but of positive relish. He was conscious that a spirit of malice had entered into him. He was prepared to return insolence with insolence. This bloated relative of his should this time not find him disposed to cringe.

Still with his finger to his neck, as if he would have liked to loosen his collar, Mr. Patterson went on, yet a little huskily:

"Luckily I didn't get at you, because I'll do worse than kill you, now."

"I thank you for your kind intentions, sir. You have not yet told me what I have done to deserve them."

"You've been getting at that girl of mine again."

"You use unpleasant phrases, sir. I'm afraid you have been drinking."

"You young swine! In spite of what I told you, last night you took her out with you again to dinner."

"Premising that I don't see why you should so resent my showing little courtesies to members of your family, may I ask on what grounds your statement is based?"

"You young word-twister! You've your father's tongue. Do you deny it?"

"That I've my father's tongue?"

"That you took my girl to dinner?"

"It's for you to prove; not for me to disprove."

"A man came to me on the front this morning and said that he saw my daughter dining last night in Jermyn Street with a young man. He described the fellow; from his description I knew that it was you. If I could have got at you then and there I'd have broken my stick across your back! I'd have--I'd have---- Are you going to tell a lie, and say it wasn't you?"

"It was."

"It was?"

"It was. Why not? We had a most agreeable evening, much more agreeable, perhaps, than you have any notion of. Possibly, if you ask Gladys, she herself will tell you so."

"You--you----!"

"Steady--go slow! If you don't take care you'll have a fit--you know you have been drinking."

Possibly because he had given way to such a sudden access of rage, Mr.

Patterson again went through all his former disagreeable physical experiences, while his nephew smiled. He sat inarticulate and gasping, incapable alike of speech or movement. When, after a prolonged interval, the faculty of speech returned, his voice had grown huskier than ever; he spoke slowly, with a pause between each word.

"All right, my lad--laugh, but you won't laugh last. You're not going to put me in the cart, as your swindler of a father did; I'm going to put you there. I warned you what would be the result of your attempting to have any more traffic with my girl, so you've yourself to thank for whatever happens."