"Jerry's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes--we've had a row."

Mrs. Rossiter made no reply. He heard the drawing-room door close. Then he, too, took his coat and hat and went out.

V

The night was cool and sweet with a great silver haze of stars above the sharply outlined roofs and chimneys. The golden mist from the streets met the night air and mingled with it.

Peter walked furiously, without thinking of direction. Some clock struck half-past nine. His temper faded swiftly, leaving him cold, miserable, regretful. There went his damnable temper again, surging up suddenly so hot and fierce that it had control of him almost before he knew that it was there. How like him, too! Now when things were bad enough, when he must bend all his energies to bringing peace back into the house again, he must needs go and quarrel with the best friend he had in the world.

He had never quarrelled with Cards before, never had there been the slightest word between them, and now he had insulted him so that, probably, he would never come into their house again.

And behind his immediate repentance at the quarrel there also bit into his heart the knowledge that there was truth in the accusation that Cardillac had flung at him. He _had_ been morbid, he _had_ been selfish.

Absorbed by his own grief at Stephen's loss he had given no thought to any one else. He had expected Clare to be like himself, had made no allowance for differences of temperament, had.... Poor Peter had never before known an hour of such miserable self-condemnation. Had he known where to find him he would have gone that very instant to beg Cards'

pardon.

Now, in comparison with his own black deeds, Mrs. Rossiter seemed an angel. He should show her in the future that he could mend his ways.

Clare should make no further complaint of him. He found himself in Leicester Square and still wrapt in his own miserable thoughts went into the Empire. He walked up and down the Promenade wondering that so many people could take the world so lightly. Very far away a gentleman in evening dress was singing a song--his mouth could be seen to open and shut, sometimes his arms moved--no sound could be heard.

The Promenade was packed. Up and down ladies in enormous hats walked languidly. They all wore clothes that were gorgeous and a little soiled.

They walked for the most part in couples and appeared to be absorbed in conversation, but every now and again they smiled mechanically, recognised a friend or saw somebody who was likely very shortly to become one.

There was a great deal of noise. There were numbers of men--old gentlemen who were there because they had always been there, young gentlemen who were there because they had never been there before and a few gentlemen who had come to see the Ballet.

The lights blazed, the heat and noise steadily accumulated, corks were popped in the bar behind, promises were broken in the Promenade in front, and soon after eleven, when everything had become so uncomfortable that the very lights in the building protested, the doors were opened and the whole Bubble and Squeak was flung out into the cool and starlit improprieties of Leicester Square.

Peter could not have told you if he had been asked, that he had been there, felt a devouring thirst and entered a building close at hand where there were rows of little round tables and numbers of little round waiters.

Peter sat down at the first table that occurred to him and it was not until he looked round about him that he discovered that a lady in a huge black hat was sitting smiling opposite him. Her cheeks were rouged, her gloves were soiled and her hair looked as though it might fall into a thousand pieces at the slightest provocation, but her eyes were pathetic and tired. They didn't belong to her face.

"Hullo, dear, let's have a drink. Haven't had a drink to-night."

He asked her what she would like and she told him. She studied him carefully for quite a long time.

"Down on your luck, old chum?" she said at last.

"Yes, I am," Peter said, "a bit depressed."

"I know. I'm often that way myself. We all catch it. Come home and have a bit of supper. That'll cheer you up."

"No, thanks," said Peter politely. "I must get back to my own place in a minute."

"Well," said the lady. "Please yourself, and I'll have another drink if you don't very much mind."

It was whilst he was ordering another drink that he came out of his own thoughts and considered her.

"That's right," she said smiling, "have a good look. My name's Rose Bennett. Here's my card. Perhaps you'd like to come and have tea with me one day."

She gave him a very dirty card on which was written "Miss Rose Bennett, 4 Annton Street, Portland Place."

"You're Cornish," he suddenly said, looking at her.

She moved her soiled gloves up and down the little table--"Well, what if I am?" she said defiantly, not looking at him.

"I knew it," said Peter triumphantly, "the way you rolled your r's--"

"Well, chuck it, dear," said Miss Bennett, "and let's talk sense. What's Cornwall got to do with us anyhow?"

"I'm Cornish too," said Peter, "it's got a good deal to do with us. You needn't tell me of course--but what part do you come from?"

Still sullenly she said: "Almost forgotten the name of it, so long ago.

You wouldn't know it anyway, it's such a little place. They called it Portergwarra--"

"I know," cried Peter, "near the Land's End. Of course I know it. There are holes in the rocks that they lift the boats through. There's a post-box on the wall. I've walked there many a time--"

"Well, stow it, old man," Miss Bennett answered decisively. "I'm not thinking of that place any more and I don't suppose they've thought of me since. Why, it's years--"

She broke off and began hurriedly to drink. Peter's eyes sought her eyes--his eyes were miserable and so were hers--but her mouth was hard and laughing.

"It's funny talking of Cornwall," she said at last. "No one's spoken of the place since I came up here. But it's all right, I tell you--quite all right. You take it from me, chucky. I enjoy my life--have a jolly time. There's disadvantages in every profession, and when you've got a bit of a cold as I have now why--"

She stopped. Her eyes sought Peter's. He saw that she was nearly crying.

"Talking of Cornwall and all that," she muttered, "silly rot! I'm tired--I'm going home."

He paid for the drinks and got a hansom.

At that moment as he stood looking over the horse into the dimly-lit obscurities of the Square he thought with a sudden beating of the heart that he recognised Cardillac looking at him from the doorway of a neighbouring restaurant. Then the figure was gone. He had got Cardillac on the brain! Nevertheless the suggestion made him suddenly conscious of poor Miss Bennett's enormous hat, her rouge, her soiled finery that allowed no question as to her position in the world.

Rather hurriedly he asked her to get into the cab.

"Come that far--" she said.

He got in with her and she took off one glove and he held her hand and they didn't speak all the way.

When the hansom stopped at last he got down, helped her out and for a moment longer held her hand.

"We're both pretty unhappy," he said. "Things have been going wrong with me too. But think of Cornwall sometimes and remember there's some one else thinking of it."

"You're a funny kid," she said, looking at him, "sentimental, I _don't_ think!"

But it was her eyes--tired and regretful that said goodbye.

She let herself in and the door closed behind her.