Kitobni o'qish: «Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)», sahifa 6

"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him.

He did not meet her look.

"I? Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to go away down and idle among those fashionable folk. My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched out yet. And then, again, you remember the article I told you about? – before beginning it I ought really to run down to Scotland, or at least to Yorkshire, and see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in actual operation. They seem to me marvellous institutions," continued this consummate hypocrite (as if the chief thought in his mind at this moment was the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the greatest importance to the country at large; worked at a profit, too, that is the amazing thing! Fancy at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room, reading-room, and conversation-room, and then a bed at night – all for threepence! Belonging to the rate-payers, themselves – under the management of the Corporation – and paying a profit so that you can go on improving and extending. Why, every big town in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal Lodginghouse, or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to be shown how they are worked for the example to be copied everywhere – "

"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with downcast eyes.

"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer cheerfully. "Of course, I ought in duty to go; but it will cost me half what I shall get for the article. However, that is neither here nor there. But if this is to be our last night together for a little while, Maisrie," he went on, to keep up his complacent acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you might give us a little music – won't you? – you haven't had the violin out of its case for a long time."

She was very obedient. She went and got the violin – though she was in no playing or singing mood.

"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.

"Whatever you please."

Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she played the air of a Scotch song – "Annie's Tryst." It is a simple air, and yet pathetic in its way; and indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that the violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with the song might have imagined he could hear the words interpenetrating those vibrant notes —

 
"Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,
Your cheek is wan and white;
What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,
What maks your e'e sae bright?
The snaw is on the ground, Willie,
The frost is cauld and keen,
But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,
That sears my heart within.
 

*****

 
Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,
Oh, will ye tryst me then?
I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,
That wimples down the glen.
I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,
I daurna tryst ye here,
But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,
In the springtime o' the year."
 

"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, fretfully. "Why don't you sing something?"

She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question in her eyes.

"Will you sing the Claire Fontaine, Maisrie?" said he.

She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange song to ask for on a night of farewell; but she did as she was bidden. She went and got the book and placed it open before her on the table: then she drew her bow across the strings.

But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad than it became evident that there was something added to the pure, clear tones of her voice – some quality of an indefinable nature – some alien influence that might at any moment prove too strong for her self-control.

 
Sur la plus haute tranche —
 

this was the point at which she began —

 
Le rossignol chantait;
Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le coeur gai —
 

And so far all was well; but at the refrain

 
Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai
 

her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous. Vincent cursed his folly a hundred times over: why had he asked her to sing the Claire Fontaine? But still she held bravely on:

 
Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le coeur gai;
Tu as le coeur à rire,
Moi je l' ai-t-à pleurer —
 

And here she could go no further for those choking tears in her voice; she stood for a moment all uncertain, trying to master herself; then she laid the violin on the table, and with a broken "Good-night, Vincent – and good-bye!" she turned and left the room, her hands hiding her face, her frame shaken by the violence of her sobbing.

There was an instant of silence.

"Yes, it is time she was taken away," old George Bethune said, with a deep frown on his shaggy eyebrows. "Her nerves are all wrong. Why should she make such a to-do about leaving London for a fortnight?"

But Vincent Harris knew better than that. It was not this unexpected departure that was in Maisrie's mind: it was the words that he had spoken to her, and she to him, earlier in the evening. It was of no fortnight's absence she was thinking, but of a far wider and longer farewell.

CHAPTER V.
THE GNAWING FOX

But he was not disheartened by those ominous words of hers, not even on the following morning, when he found the little thoroughfare so strangely silent and empty, and the two windows over the way become vacant and devoid of charm. He had the high courage and impetuous will of youth; seeing no difficulties or dangers ahead, he refused to believe in any; Maisrie had not denied him her love, therefore she must be his wife; and all the future shone fair. And so he set to work on his Mendover lecture; and made good progress, even if his thoughts went sometimes flying away down to Brighton. As for the lecture itself – well, perhaps certain of its contentions and illustrations would have surprised and even shocked that Communist-capitalist, his father; but the young man was accustomed to think for himself.

Yes, this little street was terribly empty, and those windows indescribably blank. And the room was lonely, work or no work. But as he was standing looking out, cigarette in hand, after his frugal luncheon, a happy inspiration sprung into his head; for here was Hobson, the husband of the landlady across the way, coming along the pavement; and would it not be a comforting thing to have him in to talk about the two lodgers who had just left? Vincent opened the window a bit, and said into the street (there was no need to call) —

"Hobson!"

The man looked up.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you for a moment."

Then Vincent went himself downstairs and opened the door; and here was the shabby-genteel ex-butler, obsequiously waiting, with an excess of imbecile amiability in his weak, prominent, nervous eyes.

"Come in and have a smoke, Hobson," the young man said. "You must be lonely over there now. Makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"Wonderful, sir, wonderful;" and the docile Hobson obediently followed up the stairs, and accepted a big cigar, and was prevailed on to draw in a chair to the fire. Vincent took a seat opposite him, and lit another cigarette – in a quite friendly fashion.

"You've seen a good deal of Mr. Bethune since he came to live in your house?" the young man began, in a sort of tentative and encouraging way. And Hobson responded with instant enthusiasm —

"Ah, yes, indeed, sir, and proud of the same. A great man, sir – oh, a very great man – and how he came to be where he is, sir, well, that beats me, sir. And that haffable, sir! – if he ave somethink on the table, he'll say, 'Hobson, bring two tumblers' – yes, sir – 'Hobson, bring two tumblers' – and I must take a seat, just as kind and condescending as you are, sir. 'Fill your glass, Hobson,' he says, just that haffable like – "

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Vincent, looking guiltily towards his vacant sideboard. "The fact is, I haven't anything of the kind in these rooms; but I can send out. Which would you like, gin or whiskey?"

"Whichever you please," said Hobson, complacently, "being so kind as to think of it, sir."

The necessary fluid was soon procured; and Hobson was liberally helped. And when at length he began to expatiate on the character and the wonderful attainments and abilities of Maisrie's grandfather, there may have been a little exaggeration (for gin tends towards exaggeration) in his speech; but his aim and admiration were genuine enough at the core. He grovelled in the dust before that impressive old man. He spoke in almost a breathless way of his haffability. Why, that a great personage in literature should condescend to read his, Hobson's, poor little verses was extraordinary; but that he should give advice, too, and encouragement, that was overwhelming. And as for the young lady – but here Hobson's language failed him. With tears in his eyes he declared that she was a hangel of sweetness – which did not convey much to Vincent's eager-listening ears. But when he went on to tell about all sorts of little acts of kindness and consideration – when he spoke of her patience with the old gentleman's temper, of her cheerfulness over small disappointments happening to herself, of her gentleness, and sunniness, and invariable good humour – here he was on more intelligible ground; and his delighted and grateful audience was not slow to press on him another cigar, which was not refused. Indeed, what with so much courtesy shown him, and what with the stimulating influence of the gin and water, Hobson grew valiant; and began to broach wild and iconoclastic theories about filthy lucre, and to describe in dark colours the character of any one – presumably his own wife – who could be so base as to take every farthing of her rent, fortnight after fortnight, from a grand and noble old gentleman and a beautiful young lady both of whom seemed to have known better days.

"Do you know how long they are to be away?" Vincent asked.

"Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says perhaps two weeks and perhaps three."

"I see you've put up a notice that the rooms are to be let."

"Yes, sir; but that ain't much use, not for so short a time, sir."

And here another sudden fancy struck the young man.

"But I know how you can get them let," said he.

"How, sir?"

"You can let them to me."

"Law, sir!"

There was a doubtful look about Hobson's big, vacuous eyes: being of a poetic and sensitive nature he did not like jokes, and was suspicious. However, the young gentleman, to judge by his manner, seemed fair and honest and above-board.

"I will take them," said Vincent, "until Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter come back. Not to occupy them myself, you understand; but I don't want any stranger to be going into these rooms, you see – that is all."

"How kind, sir – how thoughtful!" Hobson said, in a pathetic way. "That it is to have good, kind friends!"

"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I might go over and look at them – if you will finish up your tumbler?"

"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping to his feet with alacrity, and hastily draining his glass. "They're all tidied up, sir, against the chance of a lodger. And won't the missus be surprised! – for the women, sir, the women, you see, sir, they likes to haggle and bargain, but with men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it's a word and done!"

Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude with which he had conducted and concluded this negotiation; and it was with an unusual air of authority and importance that he led the way upstairs and showed Vincent into the little parlour, with which he was already abundantly familiar. There were few alterations. The old man's books, Maisrie's music, and similar personal belongings, had disappeared; and a hideous purple vase stood for ornament in the middle of the table. The pallid lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie's chrysanthemums were out there in the little iron balcony.

"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?"

The young man hesitated for a second.

"Oh, very well."

Hobson led the way up to the next landing; and there the first door he came to he flung wide open.

"The young lady's room, sir."

But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation. He hung shamefacedly back.

"Oh, yes, that's all right," said he. "I – I only wished to – to have it kept for her."

And yet he lingered for another second at the door of this chamber – that seemed so sacred – that seemed to shut him out. He could see the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, the neatly folded bed, the rather dingy window.

"Look here, Hobson," said he, "if I were to get a few things to make the room a little more cheerful, I suppose that could be done without letting Miss Bethune know who sent them? The looking-glass there – you know, that is not the right kind of thing at all; there should be a pretty mirror on the dressing-table, with some lace round the top of it – "

Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather timidly looked round.

"That one gas-jet can't be half enough, when Miss Bethune is dressing to go out in the evening," he said, complainingly – perhaps to conceal his incomprehensible diffidence and shyness. "She must have candles – one on each side of the mirror, for example. And that screen across the window, why, it is so common! – it ought to be a piece of pale silk – to let the light through."

He ventured a few inches further, and again looked round.

"What do you call that thing? – the coverlet – the counterpane – isn't it? Well, it shouldn't be white, and cold, and cheerless like that; it should be a deep crimson satin – and there should be pretty things at the head of the bed – loops and bows of ribbon – my goodness, what is Mrs. Hobson about! – a young lady's room shouldn't be like a cell in a prison!"

"Law, sir, I'm very sorry," Hobson said, in a bewildered way: a crimson satin coverlet sounded a grand thing; but it also meant a heap of money.

"But come away out and I will talk to you," Vincent said, just as if they were in a mysteriously sacred shrine, where the discussion of business affairs was a sort of profanation. Or perhaps he resented the intrusion of the amiable but gin-odorous Hobson? At all events, he did not resume the conversation until they were both downstairs again in the parlour.

"You understand, then," he said, and there was no more timidity about his speech now, "I am willing to get a number of things for the room, and to make you and Mrs. Hobson a present of them, on the distinct condition that Miss Bethune is kept in absolute ignorance how they came there. One word to her – and out they come again, every rag and stick. Why, you can easily invent excuses! You can tell them you took the opportunity of their absence to brighten up the place a bit. It is in your own interest to keep the rooms smart: it doesn't imply any favour conferred on your lodgers. Don't you see?"

"Yes, sir. Very kind of you, sir, indeed," said Hobson, who seemed a little confused. "And what did you want me to do?"

"Do? I want you to do nothing: and I want you to say nothing. Don't you understand? I am going to send in a few things to smarten up that room; and they are yours so long as not any one of you hints to Miss Bethune where they came from. Isn't that simple enough?"

But far less simple was his own part in this transaction, as he was speedily to discover. For when he went outside again, and made away towards Regent-street, thinking he would go to a famous shop there, and buy all sorts of pretty things, it gradually dawned on him that he had undertaken a task entirely beyond his knowledge. For example, he could purchase any quantity of crimson satin; but how or where was he going to get it made up into a coverlet, or counterpane, or quilt, or whatever the thing was called? Then supposing he had the mirror and the lace, who was going to put the lace round the top of the mirror? – he could not do that for himself. A little set of ornamental book-shelves he could buy, certainly; but how was he going to ask for the bows of ribbon, or the silk drapery, or whatever it was that ought to adorn the brass rods at the head of the bed? The more he considered the matter the more clearly he saw that he must consult a woman, and the only woman he could consult in confidence was his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, who had now returned to Brighton. And perhaps he strove to conceal from himself what it was that so easily and naturally drew his thoughts to Brighton; perhaps he was hardly himself aware how this secret hunger of the soul was minute by minute and hour by hour increasing in its demands. Maisrie had not been so long away; but already he felt that one brief glimpse of her, no matter at what distance, would be a priceless thing. And then again it would not be breaking any compact. He would not seek to go near her, if there was this understanding that these two were for the present separated the one from the other. She would not even know he was in the town. And surely it would be a new and wonderful experience to look at Maisrie from afar off, as if she were a stranger.

So instead of going to Regent-street, he went to the nearest post-office and telegraphed to Mrs. Ellison, asking if she could take him in for a day or two. Then he walked on home; and by the time he had reached Grosvenor Place, the answer was there awaiting him; he was to go down at once. He put a few things in his bag; jumped into a hansom and drove to Victoria-station; caught the four-thirty train; and eventually arrived at Brunswick Terrace about six. He guessed that his aunt's afternoon visitors would be gone; and he would have ample opportunity of a long talk with her before dinner.

His anticipations proved correct. When he was shown into the big drawing-room – which looked very snug and warm amid its magnificence – he found the tall and bright-eyed young widow in sole possession; and she came forward to welcome him with great complaisance.

"Very sensible of you, Vin. You know I can always make room for you, no matter who is in the house."

"If I had gone to a hotel, aunt, you would have made an awful row; and I don't want to quarrel with you just at present: the fact is, I have come to you for advice and help," said he. "But first – my congratulations! I was hardly surprised when I got your letter; and I am sure no one can wish you more happiness than I do – "

"Oh, be quiet," she said; and she took a seat at a little distance from the fire, by the side of a small table, and put a fan between her eyes and the crimson-shaded lamp. "Congratulations? Well, I suppose there are no fools like old fools. But if grown-up people will play at being children, and amuse themselves by writing things in the sand – did I tell you how it all happened? – they must take the consequences. And I, who used to be so content! Haven't I often told you? Perhaps I boasted too much – "

"Oh, yes, pretend you regret it!" said he. "And you talk of your being so old – you! – why, what girl of all your acquaintance has half your life and spirit, or half your good looks, either – "

"Vincent Harris," said she, and she turned round and faced him, "what do you want?"

He laughed.

"It is a very simple matter, aunt."

And then he began to tell her of the little predicament in which he was placed; and to beseech her help. Would she come and choose the things for him? There were plenty of bric-à-brac shops in Brighton: she would know what was most appropriate: her own house was evidence of her taste. But his ingenuous flattery was of no avail. Mrs. Ellison's face grew more and more serious, until at length she exclaimed —

"Why, Vin, this is the very madness of infatuation! And I had been hoping for far other things. I had imagined from the tone of your last letter that perhaps there might be a change – that your eyes had been opened at last. So this is going on just the same as ever?"

"It is going on, as you call it, aunt; and is likely to go on – so long as I live."

"Then I, for one, wish to have nothing to do with it," she said, sharply. "And this last proposal is really too audacious. What business have you with that girl's room? – what right have you to go into it?"

He was rather taken aback – for a moment.

"Business? – oh, none of course. None whatever – that is to say – oh, yes, I have, though! – I have a perfect right to go into it. The room is not hers. It is mine. I have paid for it. When she comes back it will be hers; and where is the harm of her finding it a little prettier? – that is all."

"I must say, Vin," she continued, in a very reserved fashion, "that the infatuation of a young man may excuse a good deal; but this is a little – a little too much. Do you consider it quite nice – quite becoming? A satin counterpane! I wonder what the girl would think herself – if she has any refinement of feeling – if she has any delicacy – "

His face grew very pale.

"'If she has any refinement of feeling – if she has any delicacy,'" he repeated.

Then he rose.

"It is useless to say anything further, aunt; there is an end this time."

But she had risen too. He tried to pass her – and failed; nay, she went to the door, and stood with her back against it, and faced him.

"No, you shall not go," she said. "Why should there be any dissension? You are my own dear boy; I would do anything for you – except in this one direction – "

"Except in this one direction!" he repeated, scornfully.

"Why cannot we remain friends," she said, with appealing eyes, "good and true friends – and agree to leave this one subject alone?"

"This one subject – that is my life!" he said, vehemently. "What folly you talk! You wish to cut away the very thing I live for; the very thing that is my life; and to continue your friendship with what remains – a senseless stick or stone! And why? Because of your insensate prejudice, your cruel and baseless suspicions. Why do you talk to me as if I were a boy? I have seen twice as much of the world as you have; I have had better opportunities of learning how to judge strangers. But you – you live in a narrow groove – you have your maid to talk to – your acquaintances to call in the afternoon – your friends to dinner – and what besides? That is your world. What do you know of the human beings outside it? Must they all be dishonest – because they have not been heard of by your handful of a set? Must they all be thieves and swindlers – because they are not in the Court Directory? But it is little matter. If this subject is debarred, then all is debarred, as between you and me. You can go your own way, and I mine. I did expect, now that you have your own happiness secured, you might show some little generosity, some little sympathy; but I see it is different; and I will not allow one who is dearer to me than all the world to be treated with such enmity, while I am supposed to stand by and accept it as a natural condition of affairs. I do not; I have had enough; and so here is an end, as between you and me; and I hope you will have more happiness than you seem to wish for other people."

Well, Mrs. Ellison was not used to giving way; but she was very fond of this proud and handsome boy; and she gave just one sob, and tears gathered in her eyes.

"You are not very kind, Vin," she said.

And what marvellous thing was this that instantaneously smote his heart? Why, Maisrie had made use of this very expression on the preceding afternoon! And all of a sudden he seemed to recognise that his adversary here was a woman; she was akin to his beloved – and therefore to be treated gently; Maisrie's voice and eyes seemed to be pleading for her: surely that was enough? He hesitated for a moment: then he said —

"Very well; let it be as you wish. We shall see how we get on, with the one thing that is of more importance to me than anything else shut out from mention. But I must say this to you, aunt: I do not see I am doing anything that the most fastidious person can object to if I put a few pretty things into the room of the girl who is to be my wife."

"How do you know that she is to be your wife, Vin?" she said, rather sadly.

"I know," he made answer.

"My poor boy!" she said; and then she took him by the hand and led him back to the little table at which they had been sitting; and there they had some further conversation about more or less indifferent things, with the one all-important subject carefully avoided. And then it was time for them to go away and dress for dinner.

Lord Musselburgh dined with them that evening, and remained some time after the other guests had gone. To Vincent it seemed a puzzling thing that two betrothed people should make so merry. They appeared so well content with their present estate; they were so assured as to the future; no anxieties; no conflicting hopes and fears; they were in the happiest mood. Next morning, too, Lord Musselburgh again made his appearance; and the three of them went out for a stroll along the promenade. All the world was shining fair and clear; Mrs. Ellison was looking her best, and seemed to know it; her fiancé was in a gay humour. Why, they were almost like the 'lover and his lass' of whom Thomas Morley sang nigh three hundred years ago – those 'pretty country folks' who lived in a perpetual spring-time, with birds singing hey-ding-a-ding-a-ding to them through all the jocund hours. The tall and elegant young widow blushed and laughed like a maid; her eyes were sarcastic, playful, amused, according to her varying mood; the sunlight touched her pretty brown hair. There was, indeed, a sort of audacity of comeliness about her, that set Vincent thinking of a very different kind of beauty – the beauty that seems to be dowered with a divine and angelic sadness. He was walking with these two; but he did not take part in their frolic talk; nor did he pay much attention to the crowd of people, the butterflies of fashion, who had come out into the pleasant sunshine. He seemed to see before him a face that, with all its youth, and its touch of colour, and its grace of outline, was strangely pensive and wistful. And again he asked himself, as many a time he had asked himself, what that expression meant: whether it had been brought there by experience of the many vicissitudes of life, or by loneliness, or whether it was not something more tragic still – the shadow of an impending fate. There was more than that he could not understand: her curious resignation, her hopelessness as to the future, her wish to get away. And what was it she had concealed from him? And why had she declared she could not ever be his wife?

"You are very silent, Vin," his fair neighbour said, turning her merry eyes towards him at last. "Here is Lord Musselburgh declaring that if he were a Jew he would turn dentist, to have it out with the Christians for what they did in the Middle Ages. A horrid revenge, wouldn't it be? – and so mean – under pretence of affording relief. Oh, look at that girl over there – I do believe the ruff is coming back – we shall all be Elizabethans by-and-by."

"But what business had women ever with ruffs?" Lord Musselburgh interposed. "Why, when the dandies and bucks of Henry VIII.'s time began to make themselves splendid by puffing themselves out round the neck, of course it was in imitation of the stag – as the stag becomes when he is supposed to captivate the fancy of the hinds; but you don't find the hinds with any similar adornments. Such things are proper to males: why should women try to look magnificent round the back of the neck? Why should a hen covet a cockscomb? It's all wrong – it's against natural laws."

"Natural laws in a milliner's shop!" she said. "Oh, do look at those two Italian girls; what English peasant-girl could choose colour like that? I should like to speak to them – for a moment."

Lord Musselburgh did not seem inclined to interfere.

"I dare say they may have been long enough in England," said he, "to have picked up a little of the Italian that English ladies speak. You may try them."

But she refrained; for at this moment one of the girls began to play a few bars of Funiculi-funicula evidently as an introduction to the singing of her companion; whereupon Lord Musselburgh proposed that Mrs. Ellison should cross over to look at the windows of one or two jewellers' shops – in which both of them happened to be much interested just at this time.

The morning went by, and Vincent had caught no glimpse of Maisrie Bethune or her grandfather; but indeed he had not expected that; the old man would be busy with his books, and it was not likely that Maisrie would come wandering by herself through this fashionable throng. When at last the three friends got back to Brunswick Terrace, it was close on luncheon-time; though here Mrs. Ellison was much surprised to learn that Lord Musselburgh had engaged Vincent to lunch with him at the Bedford Hotel.

"What's the matter?" said she. "Business or billiards?"

"Neither," her fiancé made answer, "I only wanted to give you a little holiday, for an hour or two."

"Not longer, then," she said. "For I am going out driving at three, and I shall expect you both."

Soon the two young men were seated at a little window-table in the spacious and cheerful coffee-room; and again Vincent was struck by the eminently practical manner in which his companion spoke of his forthcoming marriage. It was going to be, he frankly intimated, a very useful arrangement for both Mrs. Ellison and himself; and their combined fortunes would enable them to do what hitherto had been impossible for either of them. Mrs. Ellison was fond of society; he had always looked forward to the formation of a political salon when once he got married; and now he thought he could afford to have a much bigger house, which would be necessary for that purpose, than his present one in Piccadilly. Then there were speculations as to whether he, Musselburgh, ought to accept office – some subsidiary office, of course, as befitting his years – when his party came into power again: you see, Vin Harris was being consulted now as if he were a friend of the family. But as for Vincent's own affairs – not a word: Lord Musselburgh had received a hint; and he was discretion itself.

And yet if ever in his life the younger of those two friends had need of a confidant, it was that afternoon; for something then happened that seemed to strike at the very roots of his being. When it was about time for them to go along to keep their appointment with Mrs. Ellison, Vincent was standing in the hall of the hotel, waiting for Lord Musselburgh, who had momentarily gone upstairs; and he was idly looking out upon the passing crowd. Idly and absently; there was no one there to interest him; very different it would be (he was saying to himself) towards six or seven o'clock, when perhaps Maisrie and her grandfather would come out for a stroll before going to dine at one of the restaurants. At present he had no sort of concern with all those people who went driving and walking past, in the dull wintry sunshine. It was a pretty show; and that was all.