iii

Presently he heard the telephone bell ringing downstairs, and as he was not sure that Claudia was in, and as Mrs. Mayne was almost as ridiculous on the telephone as her husband, who invariably rang off while he went to find somebody less incompetent, Edgar walked out of the room. The bell had ceased ringing; but he proceeded as far as the clothes-cupboard where it was installed, on the chance that the answerer might not be Claudia. It was she, however. As Edgar put his head inside the clothes-cupboard she was saying "Hold on," and she turned as if to leave the cupboard in search of somebody who was wanted.

"Oh, there you are," said Claudia. "I didn't know you were in. It's Mr. Gaythorpe."

Edgar took the receiver from his sister's hand. Old Gaythorpe was one of those rare people who speak as clearly on the telephone as they would speak in a room. Every word he said was audible. Edgar could imagine the old man present. The dry wisdom of his manner was in an extraordinary degree conveyed by the sound of his voice.

"Look here, young man," said Gaythorpe. "I've been kept here by importunate suitors. My train has gone. I want to see you. Can I come to dinner?"

"Of course!" cried Edgar, foolhardy in giving such encouragement without consultation with the kitchen, but relying upon Mayne ingenuity to expand a meal at short notice.

"I'll take what Mrs. Mayne gives me," the voice continued, the voice of an experienced family man. "Right. I'll come along."

Edgar flung up the receiver. He turned to Claudia, who was leaning pensively against the doorpost, waiting to hear the worst.

"He's coming to dinner."

"Gracious!" exclaimed Claudia, blanching. "I must see mother! We've got one guest already—Olivia Stephens."

"Oh, do you know her?" said Edgar, surprised. He was familiar with the name; but he could not at first discover in what connection.

"School with her," called Claudia, hurrying away. "Known her all my life. So have you. Come and talk to her."

It was evidently to be a bright evening. Edgar followed, trying to remember Olivia Stephens, and to recall what he knew of her. There came back to his mind a picture of a girl who came to see Claudia in bygone days, a girl with a long plait of hair and very arched brows and a freckled snub nose; of an older girl with her hair up, who had not very much to say for herself; of a young creature who flaunted a shapeless olive-green frock down the cobbled street of a Cornish fishing village, attended by an amiable fellow in a reddish-brown Norfolk suit, bearing a black-bowled pipe and a cudgel. This picture, which wavered and sharpened in its successive stages, like a series of kinema close-ups, recalled Olivia to his experience. She was the girl who had married an artist—the Norfolk-jacketed young man with the pipe; upon whose behalf Edgar had been persuaded to buy some water-colour drawings which hung in his mother's bedroom. What was it about her?—poor, artist-husband—cheerful—ah, babies! Olivia was the girl who had the two babies! The girl of his ideal! She it was of whom Claudia had given accounts which had filled him with admiring approval. Edgar was triumphant at his own instinct for clues and associations. It came into his head that he had seen vague resemblances to Olivia and the young artist at Monty's September party. Of course! He had not spoken to her, because his memory had been too vague; but now he was clear. The girl he had seen must indeed have been Olivia; and her artistic husband must have been the link with Monty and the æsthetes. They were the young people who were still in love with each other. He could recall their happiness. Even in recollection Edgar was pleased with them.

"Babies," he ejaculated recognisingly to himself. He entered the sitting-room with the anticipation of interest; but with a certain sinking of the heart lest Olivia should be restricted to a single topic.