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braces of her daughter. She surveyed the house with a pained constrained expression, as though she tried in vain to conceal from herself that it was all slightly improper, and even such objects as the Bokhara hangings failed to extort more than an insincere, “Oh, very nice, dear – very nice.”

In the bedroom, she spoke about Mr. Pope. “He was dreadfully upset,” she said. “His first thought was to come after you both with a pistol. If – if he hadn’t married you – “

“But dear Mummy, of course we meant to marry! We married right away.”

“Yes, dear, of course. But if he hadn’t – “

She paused, and Marjorie, with a momentary flush of indignation in her cheeks, did not urge her to conclude her explanation.

“He’s wounded,” said Mrs. Pope. “Some day perhaps he’ll come round – you were always his favourite daughter.”

“I know,” said Marjorie concisely, with a faint flavour of cynicism in her voice.

“I’m afraid dear, at present – he will do nothing for you.” “I don’t think Rag would like him to,” said Marjorie with

an unreal serenity; “ever.”

“For a time I’m afraid he’ll refuse to see you. He just wants to forget – . Everything.”

“Poor old Dad! I wish he wouldn’t put himself out like this. Still, I won’t bother him, Mummy, if you mean that.”

Then suddenly into Mrs. Pope’s unsystematic, unstable mind, started perhaps by the ring in her daughter’s voice, there came a wave of affectionate feeling. That she had somehow to be hostile and unsympathetic to Marjorie, that she had to pre-

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tend that Trafford was wicked and disgusting, and not be happy in the jolly hope and happiness of this bright little house, cut her with a keen swift pain. She didn’t know clearly why she was taking this coldly hostile attitude, or why she went on doing so, but the sense of that necessity hurt her none the less. She put out her hands upon her daughter’s shoulders and whimpered: “Oh my dear! I do wish things weren’t so difficult – so very difficult.”

The whimper changed by some inner force of its own to honest sobs and tears.

Marjorie passed through a flash of amazement to a sudden understanding of her mother’s case. “Poor dear Mummy,” she said. “Oh! poor dear Mummy. It’s a shame of us!”

She put her arms about her mother and held her for awhile. “It is a shame,” said her mother in a muffled voice, trying to keep hold of this elusive thing that had somehow both wounded her and won her daughter back. But her poor grasp slipped again. “I knew you’d come to see it,” she said, dabbing with her handkerchief at her eyes. “I knew you would.” And then with the habitual loyalty of years resuming its sway: “He’s

always been so good to you.”...

But Mrs. Pope had something more definite to say to Marjorie, and came to it at last with a tactful offhandedness. Marjorie communicated it to Trafford about an hour later on his return from the laboratory. “I say,” she said, “old Daffy’s engaged to Magnet!”

She paused, and added with just the faintest trace of resentment in her voice: “She can have him, as far as I’m concerned.”

“He didn’t wait long,” said Trafford tactlessly.

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“No,” said Marjorie; “he didn’t wait long.... Of course she got

him on the rebound.”...

VI

Mrs. Pope was only a day or so ahead of a cloud of callers. The Carmel girls followed close upon her, tall figures of black fur, with costly-looking muffs and a rich glitter at neck and wrist. Marjorie displayed her house, talking fluently about other things, and watching for effects. The Carmel girls ran their swift dark eyes over her appointments, glanced quickly from side to side of her rooms, saw only too certainly that the house was narrow and small – . But did they see that it was clever? They saw at any rate that she meant it to be clever, and with true Oriental politeness said as much urgently and extravagantly. Then there were the Rambord girls and their mother, an unobservant lot who chattered about the ice at Prince’s; then Constance Graham came with a thoroughbred but very dirty aunt, and then Ottiline Winchelsea with an American minor poet, who wanted a view of mountains from the windows at the back, and said the bathroom ought to be done in pink. Then Lady Solomonson came; an extremely expensive-looking fair lady with an affectation of cynicism, a keen intelligence, acutely apt conversation, and a queer effect of thinking of something else all the time she was talking. She missed nothing....

Hardly anybody failed to appreciate the charm and decision of Marjorie’s use of those Bokhara embroideries.

They would have been cheap at double the price.

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VII

And then our two young people went out to their first din- ner-parties together. They began with Trafford’s rich friend Solomonson, who had played so large and so passive a part in their first meeting. He had behaved with a sort of magnanimous triumph over the marriage. He made it almost his personal affair, as though he had brought it about. “I knew there was a girl in it,” he insisted, “and you told me there wasn’t. O-a-ah! And you kept me in that smell of disinfectant and things – what a chap that doctor was for spilling stuff! – for six blessed days!...”

Marjorie achieved a dress at once simple and good with great facility by not asking the price until it was all over. (There is no half-success with dinner-dresses, either the thing is a success and inestimable, or not worth having at any price at all.) It was blue with a thread of gold, and she had a necklace of blueish moonstones, gold-set, and her hair ceased to be copper and became golden, and her eyes unfathomable blue. She was radiant with health and happiness, no one else there had her clear freshness, and her manner was as restrained and dignified and ready as a proud young wife’s can be. Everyone seemed to like her and respect her and be interested in her, and Trafford kissed her flushed cheek in the hansom as they came home again and crowned her happiness. It had been quite a large party, and really much more splendid and brilliant than anything she had ever seen before. There had been

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one old gentleman with a coloured button and another with a ribbon; there had been a countess with historical pearls, and half-a-dozen other people one might fairly call distinguished. The house was tremendous in its way, spacious, rich, glowing with lights, abounding in vistas and fine remote backgrounds. In the midst of it all she had a sudden thrill at the memory that less than a year ago she had been ignominiously dismissed from the dinner-table by her father for a hiccup....

A few days after Aunt Plessington suddenly asked the Traffords to one of her less important but still interesting gatherings; not one of those that swayed the world perhaps, but one which Marjorie was given to understand achieved important subordinate wagging. Aunt Plessington had not called, she explained in her note, because of the urgent demands the Movement made upon her time; it was her wonderful hard-breathing way never to call on anyone, and it added tremendously to her reputation; none the less it appeared – though here the scrawl became illegible – she meant to shove and steer her dear niece upward at a tremendous pace. They were even asked to come a little early so that she might make Trafford’s acquaintance.

The dress was duly admired, and then Aunt Plessington – assuming the hearthrug and forgetting the little matter of their career – explained quite Napoleonic and wonderful things she was going to do with her Movement, fresh principles, fresh applications, a big committee of all the “names” – they were easy to get if you didn’t bother them to do things – a new and more attractive title, “Payment in Kind” was to give way to “Reality of Reward,” and she herself was going to have her hair bleached bright white (which would set off her eyes and

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colour and the general geniality of appearance due to her projecting teeth), and so greatly increase her “platform efficiency.” Hubert, she said, was toiling away hard at the detail of these new endeavours. He would be down in a few minutes’ time. Marjorie, she said, ought to speak at their meetings. It would help both the Traffords to get on if Marjorie cut a dash at the outset, and there was no such dash to be cut as speaking at Aunt Plessington’s meetings. It was catching on; all next season it was sure to be the thing. So many promising girls allowed themselves to be submerged altogether in marriage for a time, and when they emerged everyone had forgotten the promise of their début. She had an air of rescuing Marjorie from an impending fate by disabusing Trafford from injurious prepossessions....

Presently the guests began to drop in, a vegetarian health specialist, a rising young woman factory inspector, a phrenologist who was being induced to put great talents to better uses under Aunt Plessington’s influence, his dumb, obscure, but inevitable wife, a colonial bishop, a baroness with a taste rather than a capacity for intellectual society, a wealthy jam and pickle manufacturer and his wife, who had subscribed largely to the funds of the Movement and wanted to meet the lady of title, and the editor of the Movement’s organ, Upward and On, a young gentleman of abundant hair and cadaverous silences, whom Aunt Plessington patted on the shoulder and spoke of as “one of our discoveries.” And then Uncle Hubert came down, looking ruffled and overworked, with his ready-made dress-tie – he was one of those men who can never master the art of tying a bow – very much askew. The conversation

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turned chiefly on the Movement; if it strayed Aunt Plessington reached out her voice after it and brought it back in a masterful manner.

Through soup and fish Marjorie occupied herself with the inflexible rigour of the young editor, who had brought her down. When she could give her attention to the general conversation she discovered her husband a little flushed and tackling her aunt with an expression of quiet determination. The phrenologist and the vegetarian health specialist were regarding him with amazement, the jam and pickle manufacturer’s wife was evidently deeply shocked. He was refusing to believe in the value of the Movement, and Aunt Plessington was manifestly losing her temper.

“I don’t see, Mrs. Plessington,” he was saying, “that all this amounts to more than a kind of Glorious District Visiting. That is how I see it. You want to attack people in their homes – before they cry out to you. You want to compel them by this Payment in Kind of yours to do what you want them to do instead of trying to make them want to do it. Now, I think your business is to make them want to do it. You may perhaps increase the amount of milk in babies, and the amount of whitewash in cottages and slums by your methods – I don’t dispute the promise of your statistics – but you’re going to do it at a cost of human self-respect that’s out of all proportion – “

Uncle Hubert’s voice, with that thick utterance that always suggested a mouthful of plums, came booming down the table. “All these arguments,” he said, “have been answered long ago.” “No doubt,” said Trafford with a faint asperity. “But tell me

the answers.”

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“It’s ridiculous,” said Aunt Plessington, “to talk of the selfrespect of the kind of people – oh! the very dregs!”

“It’s just because the plant is delicate that you’ve got to handle it carefully,” said Trafford.

“Here’s Miss Gant,” said Aunt Plessington, “she knows the strata we are discussing. She’ll tell you they have positively no self-respect – none at all.”

“My people,” said Miss Gant, as if in conclusive testimony, “actually conspire with their employers to defeat me.”

“I don’t see the absence of self-respect in that,” said Trafford.

“But all their interests – “ “I’m thinking of their pride.”...

The discussion lasted to the end of dinner and made no headway. As soon as the ladies were in the drawing-room, Aunt Plessington, a little flushed from the conflict, turned on Marjorie and said, “I like your husband. He’s wrong-headed, but he’s young, and he’s certainly spirited. He ought to get on if he wants to. Does he do nothing but his researches?”

“He lectures in the spring term,” said Marjorie.

“Ah!” said Aunt Plessington with a triumphant note, “you must alter all that. You must interest him in wider things. You must bring him out of his shell, and let him see what it is to deal with Affairs. Then he wouldn’t talk such nonsense about our Work.”

Marjory was at a momentary loss for a reply, and in the instant’s respite Aunt Plessington turned to the jam and pickle lady and asked in a bright, encouraging note: “Well! And how’s the Village Club getting on?”...

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She had another lunge at Trafford as he took his leave. “You must come again soon,” she said. “I love a good wrangle, and Hubert and I never want to talk about our Movement to any one but unbelievers. You don’t know the beginnings of it yet. Only I warn you they have a way of getting converted. I warn you.”...

On this occasion there was no kissing in the cab. Trafford was exasperated.

“Of all the intolerable women!” he said, and was silent for a time.

“The astounding part of it is,” he burst out, “that this sort of thing, this Movement and all the rest of it, does really give the quality of English public affairs. It’s like a sample – dredged. The – the cheapness of it! Raised voices, rash assertions, sham investigations, meetings and committees and meetings, that’s the stuff of it, and politicians really have to attend to it, and silly, ineffective, irritating bills really get drafted and messed about with and passed on the strength of it. Public affairs are still in the Dark Ages. Nobody now would think of getting together a scratch committee of rich old women and miscellaneous conspicuous people to design an electric tram, and jabbering and jabbering and jabbering, and if any one objects” – a note of personal bitterness came into his voice – “jabbering faster; but nobody thinks it ridiculous to attempt theorganization of poor people’s affairs in that sort of way. This project of the supersession of Wages by Payment in Kind – oh! it’s childish. If it wasn’t it would be outrageous and indecent. Your uncle and aunt haven’t thought for a moment of any single one of the necessary consequences of these things they say their confounded

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Movement aims at, effects upon the race, upon public spirit, upon people’s habits and motives. They’ve just a queer craving to feel powerful and influential, which they think they can best satisfy by upsetting the lives of no end of harmless poor people – the only people they dare upset – and that’s about as far as they go.... Your aunt’s detestable, Marjorie.”

Marjorie had never seen him so deeply affected by anything but herself. It seemed to her he was needlessly disturbed by a trivial matter. He sulked for a space, and then broke out again.

“That confounded woman talks of my physical science,” he said, “as if research were an amiable weakness, like collecting postage stamps. And it’s changed human conditions more in the last ten years than all the parliamentary wire-pullers and legislators and administrative experts have done in two centuries. And for all that, there’s more clerks in Whitehall than professors of physics in the whole of England.”...

“I suppose it’s the way that sort of thing gets done,” said Marjorie, after an interval.

“That sort of thing doesn’t get done,” snapped Trafford. “All these people burble about with their movements and jobs, and lectures and stuff – and things happen. Like some one getting squashed to death in a crowd. Nobody did it, but anybody in the muddle can claim to have done it – if only they’ve got the cheek of your Aunt Plessington.”

He seemed to have finished.

“Done!” he suddenly broke out again. “Why! people like your Aunt Plessington don’t even know where the handle is. If they ventured to look for it, they’d give the whole show away! Done, indeed!”

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