DEEP WATERS

  Historians of the social life of the later Roman Empire speak of acertain young man of Ariminum, who would jump into rivers and swim in'em. When his friends said, 'You fish!' he would answer, 'Oh, pish!Fish can't swim like _me_, they've no vim in 'em.'

  Just such another was George Barnert Callender.

  On land, in his land clothes, George was a young man who excited littleremark. He looked very much like other young men. He was much about theordinary height. His carriage suggested the possession of an ordinaryamount of physical strength. Such was George--on shore. But remove hisclothes, drape him in a bathing-suit, and insert him in the water, andinstantly, like the gentleman in _The Tempest_, he 'suffered asea-change into something rich and strange.' Other men puffed, snorted,and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity ofa torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint,anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like founderingderelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionableclub. His breast-stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he didthe crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt thatthat was the only possible method of progression.

  George came to Marvis Bay at about five o'clock one evening in July.Marvis Bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and,while not perhaps in every respect the paradise which the excitablewriter of the local guide-book asserts it to be, on the whole it earnsits reputation. Its sands are smooth and firm, sloping almostimperceptibly into the ocean. There is surf for those who like it, andsmoother water beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are notconfined to jumping up and down on a given jelly-fish. At the northernend of the beach there is a long pier. It was to this that George madehis way on his arrival.

  It was pleasant on the pier. Once you had passed the initial zareba offruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and the lair of theenthusiast whose aim in life it was to sell you picture post-cards, andhad won through to the long walk where the seats were, you werepractically alone with Nature. At this hour of the day the place wasdeserted; George had it to himself. He strolled slowly along. The waterglittered under the sun-rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam asit reached the beach. A cool breeze blew. The whole scenic arrangementswere a great improvement on the stuffy city he had left. Not thatGeorge had come to Marvis Bay with the single aim of finding anantidote to metropolitan stuffiness. There was a more important reason.In three days Marvis Bay was to be the scene of the production of_Fate's Footballs_, a comedy in four acts by G. Barnert Callender.For George, though you would not have suspected it from his exterior,was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlesslyabout, producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue. The company wasdue at Marvis Bay on the following evening for the last spasm ofrehearsals.

  George's mind, as he paced the pier, was divided between the beautiesof Nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs in the ratio ofone-eighth to the former and seven-eighths to the latter. At the momentwhen he had left London, thoroughly disgusted with the entiretheatrical world in general and the company which was rehearsing_Fate's Footballs_ in particular, rehearsals had just reached thatstage of brisk delirium when the author toys with his bottle of poisonand the stage-manager becomes icily polite. _The Footpills_--asArthur Mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted uponcalling it, much to George's disapproval--was his first piece. Neverbefore had he been in one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare,and sometimes spoil, the theatrical broth. Consequently the chaosseemed to him unique. Had he been a more experienced dramatist, he wouldhave said to himself, 'Twas ever thus.' As it was, what he said tohimself--and others--was more forcible.

  He was trying to dismiss the whole thing from his mind--a feat whichhad hitherto proved beyond his powers--when Fate, in an unusuallykindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash by presenting to hisjaundiced gaze what, on consideration, he decided was the mostbeautiful girl he had ever seen. 'When a man's afraid,' shrewdly singsthe bard, 'a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see'. In the presentinstance the sight acted on George like a tonic. He forgot that the ladyto whom an injudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in_Fate's Footballs_ invariably--no doubt from the best motives--omittedto give the cynical _roue_ his cue for the big speech in Act III.His mind no longer dwelt on the fact that Arthur Mifflin, an estimableperson in private life, and one who had been a friend of his atCambridge, preferred to deliver the impassioned lines of the greatrenunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy (and a suffererfrom nasal catarrh at that) speaking a piece at a Sunday-school treat.The recollection of the hideous depression and gloom which the leadingcomedian had radiated in great clouds fled from him like some grislynightmare before the goddess of day. Every cell in his brain wasoccupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimmingin the water below.

  She swam well. His practised eye saw that. Her strong, easy strokescarried her swiftly over the swell of the waves. He stared, transfixed.He was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was tostare; but this was a special occasion. Ordinary rules of conventionaletiquette could not apply to a case like this. He stared. More, hegaped. As the girl passed on into the shadow of the pier he leanedfarther over the rail, and his neck extended in joints like atelescope.

  At this point the girl turned to swim on her back. Her eyes met his.Hers were deep and clear; his, bulging. For what seemed an eternity toGeorge, she continued to look at him. Then, turning over again, sheshot past under the pier.

  George's neck was now at its full stretch. No power of will or musclecould add another yard to it. Realizing this, he leaned farther overthe rail, and farther still. His hat slid from his hand. He grabbed atit, and, over-balancing, fell with a splash into the water.

  Now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelve feet into the ocean withall his clothes on would have incommoded George little. He would hardlyhave noticed it. He would have swum to shore with merely a feeling ofamused self-reproach akin to that of the man who absent-mindedly walksinto a lamp-post in the street. When, therefore, he came to thesurface he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usual boldfashion. At this moment, however, two hands, grasping him beneath thearms, lifted his head still farther from the waves, and a voice in hisear said, 'Keep still; don't struggle. There's no danger.'

  George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cool rapidity of abuzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things aremore difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of anintroduction to the right girl under just the right conditions. When heis looking his best he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, andis swept away after a rapid hand-shake. When there is no crowd he hastoothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. Thousandsof young lives have been saddened in this manner.

  How different was George's case! By this simple accident, he reflected,as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitiousleg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, there had been formed anacquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. Agirl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day witha formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time, in extremeyouth, when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy,golden hair, and drops things. Indeed in his first year at theUniversity he had said--and written--as much to one of the type, theepisode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful,cheque-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynisticson. Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George'stastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead ofdropping them.

  The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and indue season George felt his heels grate on the sand. His preserverloosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began toexpress his gratitude as best he could--it was not easy to find neat,convincing sentences on the spur of the moment--but she cut him short.

>   'Of course, it was nothing. Nothing at all,' she said, brushing thesea-water from her eyes. 'It was just lucky I happened to be there.'

  'It was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. 'It was magnificent.It--'

  He saw that she was smiling.

  'You're very wet,' she said.

  George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suitonce.

  'Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'

  Looking round about him, George perceived that sundry of theinquisitive were swooping down, with speculation in their eyes. It wastime to depart.

  'Have you far to go?'

  'Not far. I'm staying at the Beach View Hotel.'

  'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again.'

  'We shall,' said George confidently.

  'How did you happen to fall in?'

  'I was--er--I was looking at something in the water.'

  'I thought you were,' said the girl, quietly.

  George blushed.

  'I know,' he said, 'it was abominably rude of me to stare like that;but--'

  'You should learn to swim,' interrupted the girl. 'I can't understandwhy every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he'sten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach youin a week.'

  The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. Theconscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, hadno sort of chance from the start.

  'I wish you would,' said George. And with those words he realized thathe had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Tillthat moment explanation would have been difficult, but possible. Now itwas impossible.

  'I will,' said the girl. 'I'll start tomorrow if you like.' She wadedinto the water.

  'We'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said, hastily. 'Here comes acrowd of horrid people. I'm going to swim out again.'

  She hurried into deeper water, while George, turning, made his waythrough a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who gotwithin speaking distance of him, six told him that he was wet. Theother nine asked him if he had fallen.

  * * * * *

  Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company withan aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel.Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleanedfurther information--to wit, that her first name was Mary, that heraunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay but preferredTrouville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would goindoors.

  The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect uponGeorge's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine societyas a rule he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it wasdifferent. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles.The cue-withholding leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funerealcomedian--up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, wasendeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were notso bad as they seemed.

  'It's sure to be all right on the night,' she said.

  How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thoughthe had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark.

  'I suppose it will,' he said, 'but they were very bad when I left.Mifflin, for instance. He seems to think Nature intended him for aNapoleon of Advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming thepiece. Sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying hispart, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show. And thecomedian. His speciality is drawing me aside and asking me to write innew scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came awayand left them to fight it out among themselves.'

  'I'm sure you have no need to worry. A play with such a good story iscertain to succeed.'

  George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of_The Footpills_.

  'Did you like the story?' he said, tenderly.

  'I thought it was fine.'

  'How sympathetic you are!' cooed George, glutinously, edging a littlecloser. 'Do you know--'

  'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl.

  * * * * *

  Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of _Fate's Footpills_,descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meetingthem at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given toArthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make theiracting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would beone of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefrontgleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit ofArthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity.

  His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may bementioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficientlyvolatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so--a factwhich had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities ofhis University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away fromAlma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slenderyouth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness forthe sound of his own voice.

  'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with hiscane.

  'I saw you,' said George, coldly, side-stepping.

  'The whole team,' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trainedto the minute.'

  'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to actyet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?'

  'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect;but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.'

  George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark.

  'Besides,' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show.Lend me your ear--both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: whatpulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that,as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? Wehave that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is thething. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in oftheir own free wills to see a play like _The Footpills_? Not onyour life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will besitting in his own private corner of the beach--'

  'How many corners do you think the beach has?'

  'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", andtelling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. Youknow.'

  'I don't,' said George, coldly.

  'Unless,' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, Imean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all thegood he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay.Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I haveresource. What's that?'

  'I said nothing.'

  'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these peoplelike a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.'

  'What is it?'

  'I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first.Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one ofthose boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intendedme for a Viking.'

  Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boatbelonged, they set forth. Mr Mifflin, having remarked, 'Yo-ho!' in ameditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by hisfailure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the _Ocean Beauty's_proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up,where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was incharge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. Thesun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze hadsprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into areverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voicewhispers to him, 'This is The One!' In George's case the voice had notwhispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one womanin the world for him. From now onwards--The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a
sudden plunge. George woke up.

  'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired.

  'My gentle somnambulist,' said Mr Mifflin, aggrieved, 'I was doingnothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire intowhat you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?'

  'My fault,' said George; 'I was thinking.'

  'If you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said Mr Mifflin,complainingly, 'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearlyupset us.'

  'It shan't happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats--turnover in a second. Whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. There'smore breeze out here than I thought there was.'

  Mr Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.

  'What's the matter?' asked George.

  'Just like a flash,' said Mr Mifflin, complacently. 'It's always theway with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Justsome little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stampsthe man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, ofcourse, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times moreeffective.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I see now,' continued Mr Mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in myoriginal plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train aboutthe bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some,and it suddenly came to me.'

  Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.

  'I said to myself, "George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to doa little thing like that".'

  'Like to do what?'

  'Why, rescue Jane.'

  'What!'

  'She and you,' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together,while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on aleash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercingscream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What hashappened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. BarnertCallender, author of _Fate's Footballs_, which opens at the BeachTheatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her.See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased hermother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They willbe able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Backyou come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strongsituation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to getthe story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see nowthere were one or two flaws in it.'

  'You do, do you?' said George.

  'It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreedto it. A something, I don't know what, which is lacking in your nature,would have made you reject the scheme.'

  'I'm glad that occurred to you.'

  'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed youand it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it. My revisedscheme is a thousand times better in every way.'

  'Don't say you have another.'

  'I have. And,' added Mr Mifflin, with modest pride, 'it is a winner.This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods. In about oneminute from now you will hear me exclaim, in a clear musical voice, thesingle word, "Jump!" That is your cue to leap over the side as quick asyou can move, for at that precise moment this spanking craft is goingto capsize.'

  George spun round in his seat. Mr Mifflin's face was shining withkindly enthusiasm. The shore was at least two hundred yards away, andthat morning he had had his first swimming-lesson.

  'A movement of the tiller will do it. These accidents are commonobjects of the seashore. I may mention that I can swim just enough tokeep myself afloat; so it's up to you. I wouldn't do this for everyone,but, seeing that we were boys together--Are you ready?'

  'Stop!' cried George. 'Don't do it! Listen!'

  'Are you ready?'

  The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a plunge.

  'You lunatic! Listen to me. It--'

  'Jump!' said Mr Mifflin.

  George came to the surface some yards from the overturned boat, and,looking round for Mr Mifflin, discovered that great thinker treadingwater a few feet away.

  'Get to work, George,' he remarked.

  It is not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, butGeorge managed it.

  'For twopence,' he cried, 'I'd leave you to look after yourself.'

  'You can do better than that,' said Mr Mifflin. 'I'll give youthreepence to tow me in. Hurry up. It's cold.'

  In gloomy silence George gripped him by the elbows. Mr Mifflin lookedover his shoulder.

  'We shall have a good house,' he said. 'The stalls are full already,and the dress-circle's filling. Work away, George, you're doing fine.This act is going to be a scream from start to finish.'

  With pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony ofthe journey; but George made no reply. He was doing some rapidthinking. With ordinary luck, he felt bitterly, all would have beenwell. He could have gone on splashing vigorously under his teacher'scare for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonablyproficient swimmer. But now! In an age of miracles he might haveexplained away his present performance; but how was he to--And thenthere came to him an idea--simple, as all great ideas are, butmagnificent.

  He stopped and trod water.

  'Tired?' said Mr Mifflin. 'Well, take a rest,' he added, kindly, 'takea rest. No need to hurry.'

  'Look here,' said George, 'this piece is going to be recast. We'regoing to exchange parts. You're rescuing me. See? Never mind why. Ihaven't time to explain it to you now. Do you understand?'

  'No,' said Mr Mifflin.

  'I'll get behind you and push you; but don't forget, when we get to theshore, that you've done the rescuing.'

  Mr Mifflin pondered.

  'Is this wise?' he said. 'It is a strong part, the rescuer, but I'm notsure the other wouldn't suit my style better. The silent hand-grip, thecatch in the voice. You want a practised actor for that. I don't thinkyou'd be up to it, George.'

  'Never mind about me. That's how it's going to be.'

  Mr Mifflin pondered once more.

  'No,' he said at length, 'it wouldn't do. You mean well, George, but itwould kill the show. We'll go on as before.'

  'Will we?' said George, unpleasantly. 'Would you like to know what I'mgoing to do to you, then? I'm going to hit you very hard under the jaw,and I'm going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you loseconsciousness, and then I'm going to drag you to the beach and tellpeople I had to hit you because you lost your head and struggled.'

  Mr Mifflin pondered for the third time.

  'You are?' he said.

  'I am,' said George.

  'Then,' said Mr Mifflin, cordially, 'say no more. I take your point. Myobjections are removed. But,' he concluded, 'this is the last time Icome bathing with you, George.'

  Mr Mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability tohandle so subtle a part as that of rescuee were more than justified ontheir arrival. A large and interested audience had collected by thetime they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist shouldhave been glad to play; but George, forcing his way through, hurried tothe hotel without attempting to satisfy them. Not a single silenthand-shake did he bestow on his rescuer. There was no catch in his voiceas he made the one remark which he did make--to a man with whiskers whoasked him if the boat had upset. As an exhibition of rapid footworkhis performance was good. In other respects it was poor.

  He had just changed his wet clothes--it seemed to him that he hadbeen doing nothing but change his wet clothes since he had come toMarvis Bay--when Mr Mifflin entered in a bathrobe.

  'They lent me this downstairs,' he explained, 'while they dried myclothes. They would do anything for me. I'm the popular hero. My boy,you made the mistake of your life when you threw up the rescuer part.It has all the fat. I see that now. The rescuer plays the other man offthe stage every time. I've just been interviewed by the fellow on thelocal newspaper. He's correspondent to a couple of London papers. Thecountry will ring with th
is thing. I've told them all the parts I'veever played and my favourite breakfast food. There's a man coming up totake my photograph tomorrow. _Footpills_ stock has gone up with arun. Wait till Monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. Bythe way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if youweren't the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said ofcourse not--that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to itthat you were.'

  'He was quite right.'

  'What!'

  'I was.'

  Mr Mifflin sat down on the bed.

  'This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in.'

  George nodded.

  'And that was you?'

  George nodded.

  Mr Mifflin's eyes opened wide.

  'It's the heat,' he declared, finally. 'That and the worry ofrehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it.It's a what-do-you-call-it--an obsession. You often hear of cases.Fellows who are absolutely sane really, but cracked on one particularsubject. Some of them think they're teapots and things. You've got acraving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do yousuddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? No, it can't be that,because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. Idon't know, though. Maybe you didn't realize that you were swimming?'

  George finished lacing his shoe and looked up.

  'Listen,' he said; 'I'll talk slow, so that you can understand. Supposeyou fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get youto the shore, would you say, "Much obliged, but you needn't have beenso officious. I can swim perfectly well?"'

  Mr Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in hisface. 'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said. 'Tell meall.'

  'This morning'--George's voice grew dreamy--'she gave me aswimming-lesson. She thought it was my first. Don't cackle like that.There's nothing to laugh at.'

  Mr Mifflin contradicted this assertion.

  'There is you,' he said, simply. 'This should be a lesson to you,George. Avoid deceit. In future be simple and straightforward. Take meas your model. You have managed to scrape through this time. Don't riskit again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. Itonly needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They aregoing to take a week drying my clothes.'

  * * * * *

  There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. Georgeattended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation.Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, andin those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved.There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had atlength mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness.Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, wasinfusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, Georgecould not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becomingfunny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his wayback to the hotel.

  In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied.He recognized the occupant.

  'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself besideher.

  'Really?'

  'The whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know theirlines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. Thecomedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleasedabout it.'

  'Really?'

  George felt damped.

  'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said, lamely.

  'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident thisafternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest peoplein the play.'

  'You heard about it?'

  'I have been hearing about nothing else.'

  'Curious it happening so soon after--'

  'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious.'

  There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tellwith women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly asif--

  He changed the subject.

  'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?'

  'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly.'

  George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not beginto express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, hewondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again.

  'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said.

  She turned on him.

  'Mr Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?'

  Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child,George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a barehalf-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotionswere still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feelnow.

  'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand.'

  'Really?'

  'What have I done?'

  'You have forgotten how to swim.'

  A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region ofGeorge's forehead.

  'Forgotten!'

  'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, andtoday I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I sawyou at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you aretaking lessons. Can you explain it?'

  A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line.

  She went on.

  'Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertisedsomehow. But--'

  'You don't think--' croaked George.

  'I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but,of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being aconspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episodeattracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory,wasn't it? I am so glad.'

  There was a massive silence for about a hundred years.

  'I think I'll go for a short stroll,' said George.

  * * * * *

  Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr Mifflin emergedfrom the shadow beyond the veranda.

  'Could you spare me a moment?'

  The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her headcoldly.

  'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into thechair which had held the remains of George.

  The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more thanthat to embarrass Mr Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but notcoldness.

  '_The_ Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheardyour conversation just now.'

  'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.

  'For all I was worth,' said Mr Mifflin. 'These things are very much amatter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I havehad to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversationof other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me.However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that Iheard you--unknowingly, of course--doing a good man a grave injustice.'

  'Mr Callender could have defended himself if he had wished.'

  'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself.'

  'To you?'

  'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George,but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. Georgehas old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He canwrite plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him.So, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, hewas actually opposed to it.'

  'Then why did he pretend you had saved him?' she demanded.

  'George's,' said Mr Mifflin, 'is essentially a chivalrous nature. Atany crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is there withthe goods before you can turn round. His friends frequently wranglewarmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or HappyHooligan. Some say
one, some the other. It seems that yesterday yousaved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain thathe could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "She mustnever know!" and acted accordingly. But let us leave George, andreturn--'

  'Thank you, Mr Mifflin.' There was a break in her laugh. 'I don't thinkthere is any necessity. I think I understand now. It was very clever ofyou.'

  'It was more than cleverness,' said Mr Mifflin, rising. 'It wasgenius.'

  * * * * *

  A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda.

  'Mr Callender!'

  He stopped.

  'I'm very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have beentalking to Mr Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so niceand thoughtful of you. I understand everything.'

  George did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for hisneeds. He shot forward as if some strong hand were behind him with aneedle.

  'Miss Vaughan--Mary--I--'

  'I think I hear aunt calling,' said she.

  * * * * *

  But a benevolent Providence has ordained that aunts cannot call forever; and it is on record that when George entered his box on the twohundredth night of that great London success, _Fate's Footballs_,he did not enter it alone.