"Well, that's livin' in sin, that is. Pers'nally, I down't see wot diff'rence it mykes. They be'ave about the syme, married or not. 'E's a bit more lovin', per'aps, than a 'usband, but otherwise it's about the syme!"

The bluntness of Lizzie's speech disconcerted him, and yet the simplicity of it rea.s.sured him. He did not now feel, as he has felt in the morning, that she was a Bad Woman; but he could not completely comprehend her. Girls in Ballyards did not speak as she spoke. One knew that there were Bad Women in the world and that there was much sin in love-making, but one did not speak of it, except in shuddering whispers. Lizzie, however, spoke of it almost as if she were talking of the weather. Evidently, life and habit in England were very different from life and habit in Ballyards.... He went up the stairs to his room, in a mood partly of horror and partly of curiosity. He was shocked to think that he was living in the same house with guilty sinners, but he had an odd desire to see them.

When he had reached the first landing, Lizzie called after him.

"There's a poce-card for you," she said. "From Mr. 'Inde. 'E says 'e'll be 'ome to-morrow, an' 'e asts you to give me 'is love. Saucy 'ound!

'E's a one, 'e is!"

John turned towards her. "It won't be necessary for me to give his love to you, will it?" he said sarcastically. "You seem to have taken it already!"

She was unaware of his sarcasm. "So I 'ave," she said. "I'll tell 'im that when 'e comes back!"

"Do you always read post-cards, Lizzie?" he asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "So does everybody. You 'urry on now, an' I'll 'ave your dinner up before you finish dryin' your fyce!" She contemplated him for a moment. "You got nice 'air," she said, "only it wants brushin'. An' cuttin', too!"

Then she disappeared down the stairs leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"That's a _very_ rum sort of a woman," John murmured to himself as he proceeded to his room.

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

He had gone to bed before the Creams returned from their round of the music-halls, but in the morning, when Lizzie had removed the remnants of his breakfast, John heard a tap on the door of the sitting-room, and on opening it, found a small, wistful-looking man, with a smiling face, standing outside.

"Good-morning," said the stranger, holding his hand out. "I'm Cream from the ground-floor!"

"Oh, yes," John answered, shaking hands with him. "Come in, won't you!"

"Well, I was going to suggest you should come down and be introduced to the wife. She'd like to meet you!" Mr. Cream said, entering the sitting-room as he spoke.

John had a sensation of self-consciousness when he heard the word "wife."

"Settling down comfortably?" Mr. Cream continued.

"Oh, yes, thank you," said John. "I went out all day yesterday and had my first look at London!"

"And what do you think of it? Great place, eh?"

John confessed that he had been disappointed in London, and in a few moments he began to recite a list of the things that had disappointed him.

"Wait 'til you've been here a few months," Mr. Cream interrupted.

"You'll love this town. You'll hate loving it, but you won't be able to help yourself. I've been all over the world, the wife and me, and I've seen some of the loveliest places on earth, but London's got me. You'll be the same. You see!" He glanced about the room, casting his eyes critically at the books. "I hear you're a writer, too?" he said, less as an a.s.sertion than as a question.

"I've written one book," John replied, "but it hasn't been printed. I want to discuss it with Mr. Hinde, but I haven't had a chance to do that yet. He's been away ever since I arrived. He'll be home the day though!"

"So Lizzie told me. Queer bird, Lizzie, isn't she?"

"Very," said John.

"But she's a good soul. I'd trust Lizzie with every ha'penny I have, but I wouldn't trust that old cat of an aunt of hers with a bra.s.s farthing. She's too religious to be honest. That's my opinion of her.

Come on down and see the wife!" He rose from his seat as he spoke. "I suppose you've never tried your hand at a play, have you?" he asked, leading the way to the door.

"No, not yet, but I had a notion of trying," John said, following him.

"I could give you a few tips if you needed advice," Mr. Cream continued, as they descended the stairs. "As a matter of fact, the wife and me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me this morning when I heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piece for us. It would be practice for you!"

"What about Mr. Hinde?" John asked.

"I've tried him time after time, but it's no good asking. He's a journalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. Put him down to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. And he always says he's writing a tragedy about St. Patrick and can't think of anything else!"

John smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, and followed Mr. Cream into the ground floor sitting-room where Mrs. Cream was lying on a sofa.

"This is the wife," Mr. Cream said. "Dolly, this is Mr.... Mr!..."

"MacDermott," John prompted.

"Oh, yes, of course. Mr. MacDermott. Lizzie did tell me, but I can never remember Irish names somehow!"

Mrs. Cream extended a limp hand to John. "You must excuse me for not getting up," she said, "but I'm always very tired in the morning!"

"You see, Mac," Mr. Cream explained, "Dolly is a very intense actress ... I think she's the most intense actress on the stage ... and she gets very worked up in emotional pieces. Don't you, Dolly?"

Dolly nodded her head, and then, as if the effort of doing so had been too great an exertion for her, she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

"Perhaps I'd better go!..." John suggested.

"Oh, no, no! She's always like that. All right in the afternoon. Won't you, Dolly?"

Dolly waved her hand feebly.

"Her acting takes a lot out of her," Mr. Cream said. "Very exhausting all that emotional work. Bound to be ... _bound_ to be! Now, comic work's different. I can be as comic as you like, and all that happens is I'm nicely tired about bedtime, and I sleep like a top. In fact, I might say I sleep like two tops, for the wife's so unnerved, as you might say, by her own acting that it takes her half the night to settle down. Nerves, my boy. That's what it is! Nerves! I tell you, Mac, old chap, if you want to have a good night's rest, go in for comic work, but if you want to lie awake and think, tragedy's your trade. Nerves all on edge. Overwrought. Terrible thing, tragedy! Isn't it, Dolly?"

Mrs. Cream moaned slightly and twisted about on the sofa. "Too much talk!" she murmured.

"All right, my dear, all right. Suppose we just go up to your room again, Mac, and talk until she's quieted down? Eh?"

"Very well," said John who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.

They left the room together, John walking on tiptoe, for he felt that the situation made such a solemnity necessary.

"Temperament is a peculiar thing," Mr. Cream said as they ascended the stairs.

"Evidently," John answered.