"_He_ couldn't, could he?"

"Oh, Lord, no.... They appreciate him, too, Barbara."

"That isn't the way," she said. "We don't want him appreciated that way.

That rich, gross way."

"No. It isn't nearly subtle enough. Any fool could see that his caracoling was funny. They don't know him as we know him. They don't know what he really is."

"It was an outrage. It's like taking a fine thing and vulgarizing it.

They'd no _business_. And it was cruel, too, to laugh at him like that before his back was turned. When they're going to eat his pears, too."

"The fact is, Barbara, n.o.body _does_ appreciate him as you and I do."

"Horry?"

"No. Not Horry. He goes too far. Horry's indecent. f.a.n.n.y, perhaps, sometimes."

"f.a.n.n.y doesn't see one half of him. She doesn't see his Mrs. Levitt side."

"Have _you_ seen it, Barbara?"

"Of course I have."

"You never told me. It isn't fair to go discovering things on your own and not telling me. We must make a compact. To tell each other the very instant we see a thing. We might keep count and give points to which of us sees most. Mrs. Levitt ought to have been a hundred to your score."

"I'm afraid I can't score with Mrs. Levitt. You saw that, too."

"It'll be a game for G.o.ds, Barbara."

"But, Ralph, there might be things we _couldn't_ tell each other. It mightn't be fair to him."

"Telling each other isn't like telling other people. Hang it all, if we're making a study of him we're making a study. Science is science.

We've no right to suppress anything. At any moment one of us might see something absolutely vital."

"Whatever we do we musn't be unfair to him."

"But he's ours, isn't he? We can't be unfair to him. And we've got to be fair to each other. Think of the frightful advantage you might have over me. You're bound to see more things than I do."

"I might see more, but you'll understand more."

"Well, then, you can't do without me. It's a compact, isn't it, that we don't keep things back?"

As for Mrs. Levitt's handling of their theme they resented it as an abominable profanation.

"Do you think he's in love with her?" Barbara said.

"What _he_ would call being in love and we shouldn't."

"Do you think he's like that--he's always been like that?"

"I think he was probably 'like that' when he was young."

"Before he married f.a.n.n.y?"

"Before he married f.a.n.n.y."

"And after?"

"After, I should imagine he went pretty straight. It was only the way he had when he was young. Now he's middle-aged he's gone back to it, just to prove to himself that he's young still. I take it the poor old thing got scared when he found himself past fifty, and he _had_ to start a proof. It's his egoism all over again. I don't suppose he really cares a rap for Mrs. Levitt."

"You don't think his heart beats faster when he sees her coming?"

"I don't. Horatio's heart beats faster when he sees himself making love to her."

"I see. It's just middle age."

"Just middle age."

"Don't you think, perhaps, f.a.n.n.y does see it?"

"No. Not that. Not that. At least I hope not."

X

1

Mr. Waddington's _Ramblings Through the Cotswolds_ were to be profusely ill.u.s.trated. The question was: photographs or original drawings? And he had decided, after much consideration, on photographs taken by Pyecraft's man. For a book of such capital importance the work of an inferior or obscure ill.u.s.trator was not to be thought of for an instant.

But there were grave disadvantages in employing a distinguished artist.

It would entail not only heavy expenses, but a disastrous rivalry. The ill.u.s.trations, so far from drawing attention to the text and fixing it firmly there, would inevitably distract it. And the artist's celebrated name would have to figure conspicuously, in exact proportion to his celebrity, on the t.i.tle page and in all the reviews and advertis.e.m.e.nts where, properly speaking, Horatio Bysshe Waddington should stand alone.

It was even possible, as f.a.n.n.y very intelligently pointed out, that a sufficiently distinguished ill.u.s.trator might succeed in capturing the enthusiasm of the critics to the utter extinction of the author, who might consider himself lucky if he was mentioned at all.

But f.a.n.n.y had shown rather less intelligence in using this argument to support her suggestion that Barbara Madden should ill.u.s.trate the book.

She had more than once come upon the child, sitting on a camp-stool above Mrs. Levitt's house, making a sketch of the steep street, all cream white and pink and grey, opening out on to the many-coloured fields and the blue eastern air. And she had conceived a preposterous admiration for Barbara Madden's work.

"It'll be an enchanting book if she ill.u.s.trates it, Horatio."

"_If_ she ill.u.s.trates it!"

But when he tried to show f.a.n.n.y the absurdity of the idea--Horatio Bysshe Waddington ill.u.s.trated by Barbara Madden--she laughed in his face and told him he was a conceited old thing. To which he replied, with dignified self-restraint, that he was writing a serious and important book. It would be foolish to pretend that it was not serious and important. He hoped he had no overweening opinion of its merits, but one must preserve some sense of proportion and propriety--some sanity.

"Poor little Barbara!"

"It isn't poor little Barbara's book, my dear."