In these days of cheap books of instruction on every subject under thesun, we most of us know how to behave in the majority of life's littlecrises. We have only ourselves to blame if we are ignorant of what todo before the doctor comes, of how to make a dainty winter coat for babyout of father's last year's under-vest and of the best method of copingwith the cold mutton. But nobody yet has come forward with practicaladvice as to the correct method of behaviour to be adopted whena lift-attendant starts crying. And Sally and her companion, as aconsequence, for a few moments merely stared at each other helplessly.
"Poor darling!" said Sally, finding speech. "Ask him what's the matter."
The young man looked at her doubtfully.
"You know," he said, "I don't enjoy chatting with this blighter. I meanto say, it's a bit of an effort. I don't know why it is, but talkingFrench always makes me feel as if my nose were coming off. Couldn't wejust leave him to have his cry out by himself?"
"The idea!" said Sally. "Have you no heart? Are you one of those fiendsin human shape?"
He turned reluctantly to Jules, and paused to overhaul his vocabulary.
"You ought to be thankful for this chance," said Sally. "It's the onlyreal way of learning French, and you're getting a lesson for nothing.What did he say then?"
"Something about losing something, it seemed to me. I thought I caughtthe word perdu."
"But that means a partridge, doesn't it? I'm sure I've seen it on themenus."
"Would he talk about partridges at a time like this?"
"He might. The French are extraordinary people."
"Well, I'll have another go at him. But he's a difficult chap to chatwith. If you give him the least encouragement, he sort of goes off likea rocket." He addressed another question to the sufferer, and listenedattentively to the voluble reply.
"Oh!" he said with sudden enlightenment. "Your job?" He turned to Sally."I got it that time," he said. "The trouble is, he says, that if we yelland rouse the house, we'll get out all right, but he will lose his job,because this is the second time this sort of thing has happened, andthey warned him last time that once more would mean the push."
"Then we mustn't dream of yelling," said Sally, decidedly. "It meansa pretty long wait, you know. As far as I can gather, there's just achance of somebody else coming in later, in which case he could letus out. But it's doubtful. He rather thinks that everybody has gone toroost."
"Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job.Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll justsit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talkabout. We can tell each other the story of our lives."
Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car tothe ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keyson the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast atthe Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in aheap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably aspossible in her corner.
"You'd better smoke," she said. "It will be something to do."
"Thanks awfully."
"And now," said Sally, "tell me why Scrymgeour fired you."
Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnaladventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion whichhad rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in thehall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him oncemore. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face,and he stammered.
"I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!"
"About Scrymgeour?"
"You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass ofmyself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English."
"Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary.Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but..."
"No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump."
"And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're afair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault."
"Don't rub it in," pleaded the young man. "As a matter of fact, if youwant to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think," heproceeded, a little feverishly, "that you are the most indescribabletopper that ever..."
"You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour," said Sally.
The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object whilesleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.
"Scrymgeour?" he said. "Oh, that would bore you."
"Don't be silly," said Sally reprovingly. "Can't you realize that we'repractically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do tillto-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you,and then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident aboutstarting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine isSally Nicholas. What's yours?"
"Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean."
"I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is it?"
"Kemp."
"And the first name?"
"Well, as a matter of fact," said the young man, "I've always ratherhushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked alow-down trick on me!"
"You can't shock me," said Sally, encouragingly. "My father's name wasEzekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore."
Mr. Kemp brightened. "Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don'tmean that," he broke off apologetically. "Both awfully jolly names, ofcourse..."
"Get on," said Sally.
"Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that Idon't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals," he added in a morecheerful strain, "call me Ginger."
"I don't blame them," said Sally.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested theyoung man diffidently.
"Certainly."
"That's awfully good of you."
"Not at all."
Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturbthe stillness of the night.
"You were going to tell me about yourself?" said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger)Kemp.
"I'm going to tell you all about myself," said Sally, "not because Ithink it will interest you..."
"Oh, it will!"
"Not, I say, because I think it will interest you..."
"It will, really."
Sally looked at him coldly.
"Is this a duet?" she inquired, "or have I the floor?"
"I'm awfully sorry."
"Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you,but because if I do you won't have any excuse for not telling me yourlife-history, and you wouldn't believe how inquisitive I am. Well, inthe first place, I live in America. I'm over here on a holiday. And it'sthe first real holiday I've had in three years--since I left home, infact." Sally paused. "I ran away from home," she said.
"Good egg!" said Ginger Kemp.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean, quite right. I bet you were quite right."
"When I say home," Sally went on, "it was only a sort of imitationhome, you know. One of those just-as-good homes which are never assatisfactory as the real kind. My father and mother both died a goodmany years ago. My brother and I were dumped down on the reluctantdoorstep of an uncle."
"Uncles," said Ginger Kemp, feelingly, "are the devil. I've got an...but I'm interrupting you."
"My uncle was our trustee. He had control of all my brother's moneyand mine till I was twenty-one. My brother was to get his when he wastwenty-five. My poor father trusted him blindly, and what do you thinkhappened?"
"Good Lord! The blighter embezzled the lot?"
"No, not a cent. Wasn't it extraordinary! Have you ever heard of ablindly trusted uncle who was perfectly honest? Well, mine was. But thetrouble was that, while an excellent man to have looking after one'smoney, he wasn't a very lovable character. He was very hard. Hard!He was as h
ard as--well, nearly as hard as this seat. He hated poorFill..."
"Phil?"
"I broke it to you just now that my brother's name was Fillmore."
"Oh, your brother. Oh, ah, yes."
"He was always picking on poor Fill. And I'm bound to say that Fillrather laid himself out as what you might call a pickee. He was alwaysgetting into trouble. One day, about three years ago, he was expelledfrom Harvard, and my uncle vowed he would have nothing more to do withhim. So I said, if Fill left, I would leave. And, as this seemed to bemy uncle's idea of a large evening, no objection was raised, and Filland I departed. We went to New York, and there we've been ever since.About six months' ago Fill passed the twenty-five mark and collected hismoney, and last month I marched past the given point and got mine. So itall ends happily, you see. Now tell me about yourself."
"But, I say, you know, dash it, you've skipped a lot. I mean to say, youmust have had an awful time in New York, didn't you? How on earth didyou get along?"
"Oh, we found work. My brother tried one or two things, and finallybecame an assistant stage-manager with some theatre people. The onlything I could do, having been raised in enervating luxury, was ballroomdancing, so I ball-room danced. I got a job at a place in Broadwaycalled 'The Flower Garden' as what is humorously called an'instructress,' as if anybody could 'instruct' the men who came there.One was lucky if one saved one's life and wasn't quashed to death."
"How perfectly foul!"
"Oh, I don't know. It was rather fun for a while. Still," said Sally,meditatively, "I'm not saying I could have held out much longer: I wasbeginning to give. I suppose I've been trampled underfoot by more fatmen than any other girl of my age in America. I don't know why it was,but every man who came in who was a bit overweight seemed to make for meby instinct. That's why I like to sit on the sands here and watchthese Frenchmen bathing. It's just heavenly to lie back and watch a twohundred and fifty pound man, coming along and feel that he isn't goingto dance with me."
"But, I say! How absolutely rotten it must have been for you!"
"Well, I'll tell you one thing. It's going to make me a verydomesticated wife one of these days. You won't find me gadding about ingilded jazz-palaces! For me, a little place in the country somewhere,with my knitting and an Elsie book, and bed at half-past nine! And nowtell me the story of your life. And make it long because I'm perfectlycertain there's going to be no relief-expedition. I'm sure the lastdweller under this roof came in years ago. We shall be here tillmorning."
"I really think we had better shout, you know."
"And lose Jules his job? Never!"
"Well, of course, I'm sorry for poor old Jules' troubles, but I hate tothink of you having to..."
"Now get on with the story," said Sally.
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