A Question of Equity

“You will have that copy ready on Monday morning, please, Miss Grant.”

The head of the firm spoke with quiet insistence; without waiting for a reply he took his hat and, hurriedly glancing at a time-table, rang for the elevator.

“ Click, click, click,” sang the typewriter; “folio No. 209,” printed Elza; then the machine caught, and she stopped to adjust it. It was very warm in the office; through the open windows the jangle of street noises below floated up to her; a spiritless hurdy-gurdy tried to make itself heard, there seemed something human in its pathetic effort. Elza wondered dully why it kept on playing, contending against the clash and roar of the city with only its wheezing melody. Nobody wanted to hear it. Then she began again on a fresh sheet of paper, “folio No. 209.”

When she finally left the office that afternoon, there was a tired droop to her shoulders. She had kept Allen waiting some time after he came for her.

“There was extra work to be finished,” she explained. “I shall have to come down Sunday morning.”

He marked the jaded accent, and looked at her anxiously; his eyes followed lovingly as she passed out of the elevator before him. Something struck him as inexpressibly touching in the short brown jacket and wrinkled corduroy skirt; he noticed for the first time how shabby the familiar garments were. To-day they seemed to have assumed all their owner’s weariness, and hung about her figure in sympathetic dejection. She caught his look of distress and tried to smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched instead, and for a moment they stood despondently on the street corner, while the great tide surged by.

“There is n’t anything of our Saturday afternoon left now.” Elza spoke slowly without looking up.

“Oh, time for the Staten Island boat, or we might take the stage up to the Park,” he suggested.

But the stage passed, and there were no places outside, so instead they sat on the upper deck of the ferry and watched the summer twilight fade into night, and the lights pricking through the mist down on the Long Island shore. A soft sea wind blew in their faces. Elza took off her hat, and as she put it down on the seat next, her hand fell on Allen’s coat. She felt a package in the pocket, looked up anxiously: —

“It is n’t! oh, it isn’t?”

He nodded. “Yes, it came back this afternoon. Three publishers have refused it now. I don’t believe I shall send it again.” He laughed rather mirthlessly. “ It is n’t being refused which one minds, of course. I know I could do something really good in time, — if one only had the time. But what is a man’s brain good for at night after balancing books all day in a brass factory!”

“Suppose it never were any different for either of us.” Elza’s voice was even and expressionless.

He pulled himself together, and spoke brightly: “Oh, one day I shall do something that will make a sensation, and all the publishers will be after my work. Fancy, — fancy that we had a thousand dollars, Elza, to-night, right now!”

She looked at him, smiling a little wistfully.

“We could get married,” — he continued gayly.

“I sometimes think we never shall,” said Elza, “and you will just go on with the account books, and write stories that nobody will ever read; and I shall grow old and gray-haired sitting at a typewriter, and you will come Saturday afternoons to take me out, and it will always be too late to go anywhere.”

“Not at all,” answered Allen in an injured tone, “some day we will have a thousand dollars, and we won’t save and be prudent, but you shall have a good time for once; no work for you, just play all day long.”

“ We ’ll go to Europe,” laughed the girl, “to London, Paris; think of the pictures in the National Gallery, the Louvre! ”

“We will make our obeisance to the Mona Liza and speak to Titian’s Lady Laura, won’t we ? And they will welcome us across three centuries because we’ve loved them and waited all our lives to see them. But they will be so jealous when they see you, Elza,”—he bent nearer her, — “they will come down out of their frames and drive you out of the gallery, and then we will go away and dine. And you shall wear white camelias every night, and be dressed like a princess.”

She looked down and pinched the wilted ribbon on her hat, but Allen continued heedlessly: —

“And at night the most interesting people in the world will come to our salon, artists, poets, musicians; they will sigh for a word from you, and they will carry away my signature as a priceless treasure.”

She met his eyes, laughing.

“I assure you they will, Elza, and we will find some poor young people who have n’t money enough to be married; and we will introduce them because they have talent, only no one discovered it.”

“Just like us,” murmured Elza.

“No, not at all; we are already established, remember. I have a secretary, and my fifth novel is all sold out before publication.”

“And when the money is all gone?”

“What an unpleasant thought! But then we should at least be married,” he added quickly, “and nothing could undo that.”

The boat bumped suddenly into the slip, and they went quietly uptown and dined at an inexpensive restaurant within sound of the elevated. Afterwards, when they came out into the street again, Allen stopped at the corner to buy her a bunch of sweet peas. They had gone a half block before he discovered that the boy had given him too much in change. He turned and dashed down the street, and returned a moment later, breathless and satisfied.

“You might have paid my fare home with that,” said Elza, laughing a little. “You are not qualified to acquire riches, ray friend, you simply dream about having them. I wonder if you would refuse a chance of real importance for fear of injustice to some vague personality, for instance, like this boy with the flowers, when some one as near you as I might be benefited ? Your conscience is most absurd.”

“My forefathers were Puritans,” he answered briefly.

“ But you are really an artist, Allen,”— she looked at him proudly,— “yet the Puritan in you keeps you from ever letting go of yourself like some of your brethren, and losing the moral sense. You would n’t find it worth while to make an effect or to take a pleasure at the expense of any one else.”

“Are the genuine effects ever made that way ? Does some one have to suffer for every bit of success and joy that comes in the world?”

“It is just the other side of the stage, don’t you see ?” insisted the girl. “Some one pulls the ropes and the scenery, and makes the nice, merry comedy possible.” “Is some one hurt now because we are happy in being together ?” He drew her hand in his arm, speaking gently.

“Oh, I dare say.”

“ I don’t like to think it,” he responded gravely; and added, “ to live honestly and to hurt no one is about all most of us can try to accomplish.”

After he left Elza on the doorstep of a shabby boarding-house, he turned slowly homeward. The girl’s dejection of the afternoon had entered into his own mood, and now that the necessity of a show of courage was gone, he was too weary to resist the despair in his heart. Her words, “If it never should be any different for either of us,” seemed printed in large type on his mental horizon. What hope was there that it ever would be otherwise! How many like themselves were there here in the city with nothing but their dreams and the optimism of youth and health to stay them in a routine of uncongenial labor! There welled in his heart an unutterable tenderness for the toiling, suffering mass of humanity around him. The thought of the “ Weltschmerz,” his own inability to lessen it, hurt him at times more than his personal disappointment and pain. A painting by a great Spaniard, which he had chanced to see in one of the shops of late, had moved him strangely, and the remembrance of it flashed before him now. Some crippled children were bathing in the sea, aided by a priest; the canvas had seemed to him like a symbol, as though the misery of the whole world were concentrated in those painfully deformed little nude bodies. Infinite commiseration was written in the face of the priest, which looked down, helpless and pitiful, on this heritage of sorrow. He had found the picture almost unbearable at the time, and gladly turned away from it back to the sunshine of the street.

He was still young enough not to have altogether renounced the idea that disagreeable tasks should bring agreeable rewards, and often he rebelled, not so much for himself as for Elza. It was impossible not to imagine what their life spent together might mean; now they met after long business hours almost too weary to take each other’s hands. They would ask so little, oh, so little, of the gods! Why should simple joys be denied her for lack of time to enjoy them ? Why should she spend day after day over a typewriter, printing legal documents for a brute of a man who took an early train out of town every afternoon ? He recalled the stoop of her shoulders as she passed out of the elevator before him, and the few threads of gray in her dark hair. He had never noticed them until to-day. He shook himself fiercely, and went up the avenue with long strides. If he had been anything of a man he ought to have freed her; her love had been the supreme inspiration for work, and what had he accomplished ? Some men worked their way through college, through a profession, into practice and position. His old boyish contempt of those who fail arose and confronted his thirtyeight ye ars of unsuccess. Was there, after all, some flaw in his moral fibre ? The great novel he had dreamed of remained unwritten. Had he hesitated at some crucial cross-road and missed the path to good fortune, or did he lack that invincible courage that wins ? He knew he could succeed with his work some day, and for a moment the consciousness of power uplifted him. It did not matter about this tale which the publishers refused; he could write a better one, — more simple, more human. That motif he had been thinking of for the past month was the motif he would arrive with. He knew the idea was original, he was sure it would succeed. How often he had been sure before! but this time it was different. Oh, but for the opportunity to write the story! It would take deliberate adjustment, delicate workmanship; he could not give that in the hours snatched from sleep after his day in the office; and again arose the old murmur that echoed through all the fairy tales he told to Elza: “Now fancy, — fancy we had a thousand dollars! If I could borrow it,” he thought, “just for a year — for six months; Jove! I see how some poor chaps get in trouble!”

He was still thinking of the story as he stumbled up his stairs that evening, and ran into Gervase on the dark landing.

“ Hello! did n’t see you, come in,” said Allen, unlocking his door.

Gervase stepped inside, glanced about. The meagre furnishings were relieved by the shelf of worn volumes and the Velasquez photograph pinned on the faded wall paper. He stood a moment, quickened with a definite and exquisite pleasure in the suggestion of his friend’s personality which the modest little room always gave him on entering. On leaving he always had the conviction that Allen was an even better fellow than he realized, and wondered why fate never did him a good turn.

“Don’t stand, sit down,” said Allen. “Here is your pipe, just as you left it, full of last week’s ashes. Glad you came tonight; I remember I ’ve something I want to show you. I wandered into an auction on my way uptown the other day; I could n’t help bidding just to see the things go, — and like a fool got saddled with a rug. I paid almost nothing for it, but I could n’t afford it, and did n’t want it anyhow.”

He unrolled it on the back of a chair. “Here it is. Nice texture, don’t you think?”

Gervase turned up the gas and bent over the rug eagerly.

“Where did you get this?” he inquired sharply.

“Why, at that sale,—Mignonette Marble’s effects, — the old gayety singer, you know, — a lot of tawdry stuff, old costumes”—

“ And how much did you pay for ” —

“Is it any good?” interrupted Allen. “ I had a vague notion it might be worth something.”

Gervase sat staring at his companion, his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

“Man, don’t you know? You have a Ghiordes,” he said solemnly.

“Oh, I say! that’s unusual, is n’t it?”

“Worth twelve hundred; a thousand easy; it is hundreds of years old, and is one of the rarest Turkish in existence. Got anything to drink?”

“Are you sure?” stammered Allen.

“Sure! of course. Any one who knows will tell you the same unless they try to swindle you.”

“Swindle me! I hadn’t thought of that.” Allen let his cigarette die out in his hand. “But they could n’t have realized when the rug was sold?”

Gervase shook his head. “No,no; such luck happens once in a lifetime, and I am glad it’s come to you,”—he laid his hand affectionately on his friend’s arm. “Now let me take it. I know some of the dealers, and I will see you get all it is worth.”

Allen’s eyes sparkled.

“We could go away for the summer, Elza and I; and I could write the story, — my story, the best one of all, and we would be free ever after,” — he stretched his arms above his head.

“Of course, of course,” nodded Gervase, “this will give you your chance, and you will do something mighty fine, too.”

“I have an idea for a novel,” cried Allen, bending forward, his thin face flushed, “my head has been full of it for weeks. I see it all so clearly; it will be the best thing done in years. I know I can make my name with it.”

“ When you are once established, it will be easy. All you need is the time to write, and this will give you a summer, or a year, if you manage right,” Gervase turned his attention again to the rug.

“But they say she was found almost starving in a third-class boarding-house.” Allen spoke slowly, the light gradually dying out of his countenance. “ She is old, poor; I used to know her.”

“Who?” demanded Gervase.

“Why, Mignonette Marble. Her effects were sold as a sort of charity by some of the profession. There is a question of equity, don’t you see ? a fine point, but it makes the good luck all wrong.”

“You bought the rug at public sale; it’s yours.”

“I am not altogether sure of that.”

“Now see here,” persisted Gervase,

“you are a sensible fellow, but it is quite possible that your imagination would ruin you in certain situations. I’ll dispose of the rug before you conjure up any more visions of poor old actresses. Elza shall take charge of the funds; she is a responsible young woman.”

Allen turned away, and, raising the window, leaned out into the soft, warm night. Here was the hour come in which to make something of his life. It would be for Elza as well as himself. Why should not he take this chance as most men would ? Then there flashed before him a vision of Mignonette Marble as he had first seen her in variety years before. He remembered now the lithe figure, the slender legs in pink tights, the piquant face with its short upper lip, and her dances, which had for him the charm of youth and abandonment without vulgarity. She had taken possession of his pliable, boyish affections for some time, and he had watched her performances in an intoxication of delight. He had seen her exalted and spiritualized by his own youthful ardor, and on the nights when he made his way to her dressing-room, even at close range his imagination had been sufficient to sustain its idol. He had not thought of her for years, and now he realized that she must have been something between the circus tumbler and the comic opera singer, ordinary, — vulgar, — and with all the cheap allurements of her kind; yet she had possessed something more,—a kind heart,— and he had at least one recollection in the experience to be profoundly grateful to her for. It was her own frankness and honesty which at last revealed to him what she was, and made him see his own folly; without vanity and with a rough, yet almost maternal tenderness, she had finally answered his passionate entreaties to marry him.

“I ain’t your sort, young chap, can’t you see ? You never met up with my kind before, and I’ll be blowed if I take any more of your money or let you follow me round any longer.”

And with a persistent and almost brutal determination she had forced him from her. Her last words lingered in his memory: —

“ Always steer straight, and keep clear of my kind.”

Of course he would have avoided her kind. The one ordeal had been sufficient, and it was but a foolish temptation which he had had in common with other boys. It might have ended disastrously, however, had she been otherwise. She had been generous to him, and saved him from a great indiscretion. Now she was old, poor, cast off to die. But, necessity aside, in moral justice did not this money belong to her rather than to himself or to Elza ? The silence in the room deepened. Allen’s figure grew tense and straight, somewhere a clock, deliberate and measured, told the hour.

“Well?” said Gervase finally.

Allen started, spoke hurriedly, “Don’t say anything yet to Elza; it might all fall through, you know, be some mistake.”

“I’ll take the rug, anyway,” responded Gervase, “and you shall have the money before long.”

“No, no, not to-night. You could n’t do anything before Monday. I ’ll keep it here to look at over Sunday.”

“As you like,” and Gervase went out with a dissatisfied shrug, closing the door rather more sharply than necessary.

“ I will decide in the morning,” thought Allen, as he tossed sleeplessly through that night. But the next day, after a long walk alone, he found himself still rehearsing, point by point, the details of the situation, and no nearer a decision. Try as he would, he could not persuade himself to take this money; yet when he thought of giving it up, that became equally impossible. He struggled to shut out the thought of Elza, but he found her in every view he took of the circumstance. His story, by some trick of his excited nerves, forced itself upon his thought. He saw it from beginning to end, — brave and gay, musically written, carefully constructed. Without mental effort he looked at its pictures and heard its language. Itwasin hismind so vividly that it would write itself when he once had the time. And the time was now. Elza and he could go away together, live in some Devon village through the summer. He could work and be happy. He thought of the English country, the white roads and winding hedges, the primroses and cowslips; he saw Elza in the fields among them, the tired stoop gone from her figure, the lines faded out of her face. Afterwards they could come back, when the book was finished; he felt certain that he could make a success of it financially, which would set him on his feet for the future. He couldfind out then about this Mignonette Marble, and do something generous for her. A few months now, probably, would make no difference to her. She was an old woman, the possibilities of life were past for her, — only just beginning for them. Oh, he needed the money; he wanted it; he could not let it go!

He had reached this point by afternoon, as he sat in the drawing-room of the boarding-house where Elza lived.

“Allen, what is the matter? You have not heard one word I have said.”

“I beg your pardon,” and again he made an unsuccessful attempt to respond to Elza.

“Are n’t you well?”

“Quite; but there was something I wanted to tell you, — no, not now. I have an engagement.”

“We were going out to dine, but of course if you don’t wish to ” —

With the unpleasant sensation that she had found him disappointing and abrupt, he hurried away, and taking a crumpled bit of paper from his waistcoat, read an address in the fading light on the street.

An hour later he stood, far down town, at the top of a cheap apartment house, almost a tenement. The wish was in his heart, unadmitted even to himself, that this visit would prove the vague rumors untrue regarding Mignonette Marble.

“Well, now, to think you heard I was down in luck, and came to see!”

He remembered the voice of Mignonette Marble. It seemed like a hideous echo of a sound he had once vibrated to. She came near him, put her hand familiarly on his arm. He stepped back a little, and looked down at her. The old face appeared more shocking by the traces of brilliant rouge, rubbed off on the cheeks, but still lodging in the deep furrows of the wrinkles. He glanced about the room, and recognized the evidences of extreme poverty and illness: the little oil stove was piled with unwashed dishes; the medicine bottle stood uncorked on the window-sill; a pair of soiled dancingslippers lay in the middle of the floor; and two or three old play-bills with Madame Mignonette Marble’s name in large letters were pinned on the wall.

“Remember you, well, I guess!” She pulled the dingy, tattered kimono over her thin arms. “Come here, and we’ll have a chat.” She took Allen’s hand, and they sat down side by side.

“ You ’re the young chap got so gone on me the year I was doing the high kicking at Murray’s. Here, I’ve got just a drop of cocktail left, — drink to me; here’s to you, — but you weren’t the only one; that manager would have done anything for me, and there were a couple of swells that took a box every night for the season. I tell you I drew! There ain’t one in the profession drawn the swells I have nor had the presents. All gone now, though, — and you the only one ever looked me up. Well, I’ve had my day! It was a good one, too.” She stopped to cough, and then sucked the dregs of the cocktail in Allen’s glass.

“I’ve been sold up,” she went on, “three times. If I had known you were coming, I would have curled my hair, but I don’t have much company nowadays. You see, I’ve been out of a job.”

“I heard,” murmured Allen, with a sickening desire to escape.

“You don’t know of anything in my line? I’ve always kept up my practice. Put on your hat and see me send it off.”

She set his derby on his head, made a hideous and feeble attempt to kick it off, failed, tried again, and fell panting into his arms.

“ I’ve had a cold; don’t let on you saw me like this,” she gasped, “it might hurt me with the managers.”

“I saw some things of yours sold,” began Allen bravely.

“Oh, I say! now did you? I did n’t get anything, though. There was a rug Lord Downs gave me for my room when I was in London; thought I might get twenty-five for it. Did you see it go?”

“Yes,” answered Allen, wincing and edging toward the door.

“You ain’t going! ” She caught hold of him. “There’s a place round the corner; they know me. I play the piano there sometimes. You’re good for a dinner, ain’t you ? just for old times ?”

He went and paid for the dinner, only half hearing her vulgar chatter meanwhile, and seeing through the blurred, smoky atmosphere of the little restaurant the seamed, hard old face opposite, insisting to himself that it was not pathetic, and still going over and over in his mind the question, — Will the next three months matter more to her than to Elza and to me ? What will she do with the money, compared with what I will ? I shall spend it honestly for a good woman, and be able to do my work. — Then he saw the weakness of the hand lifting the wineglass, and looked into the face, which seemed all the older now, because it had struggled so long to appear young. As they came out into the street again she whispered hoarsely: —

“You could n’t lend me, just till I get an engagement ?”

He thrust what money he had into her hands, and tore himself away, breathing quickly.

“I must do something. It’s not at all the thing; it’snot right,” he thought, as he walked home. “I could sell the rug and divide with her; that’s more than most men would do.”

Then he told himself that this was sneaking, temporizing. There was no room for doubt now. Before, he had been uncertain; it was not possible to believe a newspaper story without investigation, but he had investigated. His responsibility was increased. The woman was plainly ill, and in want. She ought to be placed in a home, perhaps he could interest some of the profession in her, — a benefit or some charity could be given. There must be some other way beside using this money, his money; there must be some devious yet honorable passage of escape for him. He must have the time to write this book, for it was of vital importance not only to himself, but to the public. The motif was finer, stronger than anything which had ever before presented itself. Again, almost against his desire, he saw the story as a finished performance. The characters moved, they walked with him, and their voices rang in his ears. He went forward rapidly, unconscious of the hour, the place, the noise and confusion in the streets around, the vague, unpleasant odor of the stifling atmosphere. He was lifted out of himself, beyond himself, into a rare mood of inspiration. His imagination revealed not only the idea, but the form as well; the mechanical work would do itself when he had the time, and the time was now. He would write to Gervase to-night to stop for the rug in the morning. It had been folly not to let him take it on Saturday. He strode on in feverish haste, trying to wear himself out physically, and so dull the acuteness of his mental process. He assured himself repeatedly, but without conviction, that he would be justified if he took this money.

At last, late that night, he sank on a bench amid the thick foliage of the park, and it seemed to him as though he had lost the control of his thoughts, and mechanically they repeated the old arguments, wearing on the same channels of his brain like the ceaseless dropping of water. I shall tell Elza, let her help me, he thought; but he knew in advance the result of thus shifting the responsibility. Yet if others would not hesitate, why should he be more scrupulous ? Then there rose before him from out the dark shadows and the dancing electric lights of the quiet park, an old face, vulgar, coarse, — yet with hollow cheeks and pinched lips. Every page of his book would bear this impression, and the beauty of the style would be poisoned by his own dishonesty. The temptation came once more and gripped him, and he pulled himself together and put it down fiercely, and trampled on it. If he could not do his work honestly and hurt no one, he would never do it at all, but would remain an obscure accountant in a huge corporation. Elza should have no pleasures he could not win for her by his own efforts. If he could not succeed despite the difficulties in his way, he could not with those difficulties removed; and if he were mean and small enough to take advantage of another, how could he cheat himself with the supposition that he could write a book which would be masterful ? It would be but the reflection of his own soul, and doomed to failure. A great work of art never bore the imprint of a petty personality.

He entered his room at last, his face set and determined, and calmly wrote his decision to Gervase. To-morrow he would go to Mignonette Marble, tell her the truth, help her to advertise the rug, and procure its proper price. Why had he agonized over the situation for twenty-four hours ? After all, it was simpler than he had supposed. Once admitted, the right action always was simple, if not easy; and with a sense of great relief he sealed his letter and laid it aside to be mailed.

He had a desire to see this thing which had caused him such annoyance and brought him nothing in return. He rose and opened his closet door, went back, lit another gas jet, looked again. The rug was gone.

Where could it be ? He had intended to lock it in his trunk, but he could not remember having done so. It must be safe somewhere. He had made his decision — thank God! That was enough. It was late, he was wearied to death, and would now sleep.

From a tranquil and dreamless rest he arose Monday morning light of heart and with a feeling of freedom from responsibility. With every moment filled during the particularly busy day which followed, he had no time to inquire, even of himself, concerning the disappearance of the rug, and gladly pushed into the uncertainty of the future further thought concerning it. Executing the mechanical tasks before him became a grateful respite from the conflict which had torn him mentally.

When he left the office late in the afternoon, he hurried to Elza in response to a note which had made him uneasy, for in a few blurred and hastily written lines she had requested his immediate presence. He ran up the steps of the shabby boarding-house and violently pulled the bell. He swept the servant aside with a word, and made his way up to Elza’s little hall room.

“Oh, Allen, Allen! I know all about it. Mr. Gervase has been so kind! He brought me the money this noon at the office so I could give it you myself, so I could tell you instead of any one else.”

“What? I don’t understand,” murmured Allen. “ I asked him not to let you know.”

“Yes, of course, because you thought it might all fall through, he said, and I be disappointed. But it has n’t fallen through; he made a splendid sale, — and we can go to Europe, do all the things we’ve talked of. It is just like the fairy tale, our fairy tale, come true!”

“But the rug! Where did he get it?”

“How slow you are, dear goose! He went three times yesterday and could n’t find you, then finally took it because he met a collector, a friend of his, who was in town just over night, and who made an offer, cash, for it at once.” She reached up and put her hands on Allen’s shoulders. “Just think, we can go away together now, can’t we ? Only we must never forget to be grateful to Mr. Gervase all our lives. He has arranged it.”

“Yes,” said Allen, rather coldly, “he most certainly has arranged it.”

“I don’t think,” she murmured, without looking up, “I could have held out much longer. I hear the typewriter all night long. I am so tired, Allen, so tired; but it does n’t matter now. Let’s take the first steamer, — a slow one.”

He did not speak for a moment, but held the little frail figure firmly. Then, like the breaking of an uncertain dam before a great tide, something in his soul gave way, whether of strength or of weakness he did not analyze, as he answered:

“Yes, dear, yes, the first steamer.”

And while he kissed her in the fading twilight, she did not see how white his lips were.

A week later they stood on the deck of a transatlantic liner steaming slowly down the bay. Allen leaned on the railing opening his mail; a letter from Gervase he had purposely kept until the last. He had not seen his friend nor communicated with him in the past busy days; he read quickly through the pages, his eye falling on the last sentences.

“ ... So sorry not to get down to see you off; remembrances to Mrs. Allen. Use my name at the ‘Black Boy,’ Cobham, and don’t forget ‘The Crab and Lobster,’ Clovelly. Here’s for your further contentment,” and there fell out of the letter a newspaper clipping: “Died in want. Once a popular gayety singer: Mignonette Marble.”

The bit of paper flew out of his hand in the strong wind and fluttered off to sea.

“ What’s that ? ” asked Elza.

“Oh, nothing,” he murmured, turning away. “ I think, if you don’t mind, I will go and fetch my pipe.”