But it seems to have dragged on rather longer than these forlorn hopes generally do. What reason do they give for the fall in shares? and the absence of a dividend? What do the reports say?"

"Oh--they're full of excuses." The Bishop's thin, delicate hand went out in a gesture of impatience. "For instance--new machinery--some hitch in the process--a technical difference of opinion between the experts they employ. With always the same golden future dangled before our weary eyes, in Schliff's magnetic and pompous speeches, bolstered up by his tame directors. And the _money_ sunk in it--thousands squandered! With nothing practical to show--to warrant the huge expenditure."

"I suppose by now," McTaggart hazarded, "Schliff's a pretty prosperous man?"

"I couldn't say. To give him his due I should hesitate to cla.s.s the man in any way as unscrupulous. He has a firm belief in himself and in anything that he undertakes. It's temperamental and most misleading; but I think, according to his light, he's honest. I really think so!

That's the perplexing part to me. But he's hypnotized by his own verbosity----" the Bishop paused, pleased with the phrase--"he sees himself a second Napoleon--alas! without his genius for management."

McTaggart allowed himself the luxury of a long-repressed smile.

"The type is perhaps not uncommon. If you like I'll make a few inquiries--quite quietly, of course--and find out what sort of a record he bears in the city. I conclude this isn't his first venture? Herman Schliff ... and the Company?" He made a note upon his cuff. "Oh, it's really no trouble--I'm interested in the affair."

"I wish I were not!" The victim smiled. "But I went on buying after the fall."

Mrs. Cadell's restless eyes met McTaggart's. They both smiled. Then she signalled to the butler to fill up the Bishop's gla.s.s.

"Yes, I insist----" as the prelate protested--"it won't hurt you, it's quite light. And here comes your favourite sweet--ordered expressly for you."

The worn face cleared, and he smiled, touched by the other's kindly thought.

"I'm always spoilt in this house," he said, "and I'm afraid that the shocking result is that I take advantage of it, and come too often to loosen my pack of worries here. What can the Sleeping Beauty think of all this dreary business talk?"

He looked across wistfully at Cydonia's lovely face, with next to it the virile contrast of her dark-haired, handsome friend. Only too well he realized the heavy burden of the years and the narrowing road ahead where he must pa.s.s with lonely feet. Death he feared not. For the Faith he had long preached was indeed his own. Yet the human in him shrank, faced with the decay of power.

Cydonia's soft brown eyes met his with a child's affection. His question cut across her dreams.

"I?" she hesitated, smiling. "Oh! I like to hear of things."

McTaggart, watching her, caught into his memory an elusive dimple, near the fresh young mouth.

Following up the train of thought provoked by this miracle, he heard the doctor's voice once more, with a note of mischief, in his ears.

"Not married, are you, Mr. McTaggart? Well--you'd better take care ...

a fair wife and a dark one..." He was certain, then and there, that his "Scotch heart" lay in Cydonia's hands.

He watched them now, with a languid grace remove the velvety skin of a peach. The faint colour of the fruit was not more fair than her little pink nails.

But swift on the thought came a vision of Fantine--mischievous, provocative, tingling with life; of dark-fringed eyes and full red lips, and honey-coloured fingers that flashed in quick gesture matching each turn of her gay clipped speech.

He thrust aside the picture, half-angrily; conscious of the atmosphere that hung about the Cadells' house, vaguely ecclesiastic and super-refined. The intrusion of Fantine seemed almost profane, the contrast too crude between this sheltered home and the gilded, over-lighted flat. He could see the long rooms with the doors flung wide and the ever-changing brilliant crowd, elbowing each other round the green table with the piled-up stakes and fluttering cards. He could feel once more the strain that hung in the air, the excitement of the l.u.s.t for gain, the grasping hands and greedy eyes...

"A penny for your thoughts?" He gave a guilty start. Cydonia was watching him with childish curiosity.

"Impossible--the price is too high!"

He answered her lightly but his face was grave.

"I believe you've gone back to that velvet cap? You looked so solemn.

It must be that!"

"More likely I was hara.s.sed with this cruel suspense." He leaned a little nearer and lowered his voice.

"You _are_ going to help us? Tell me, don't you want to?--You've no idea how anxious I am that you should take the part."

Then, seeing her hesitate, he added with malice, "Mrs. Bying would jump at it."

"But I'm _not_ Mrs. Bying."

Up went Cydonia's head in pride.

"Thank Heaven, no." He laughed at her voice. "I didn't mind Marie Dilke--she's such a good sort"--he went on meditatively, forgetful of his listener--"but as to kissing Mrs. Bying..."

The moment the word was out he felt, with horror, the folly of his mistake. "Pretend to,--I mean," he corrected hurriedly. "Of course in acting--it's always pretence--and in this instance--I only ... you know----"

He broke off, at a loss for words. He dared not even look at her. The ominous pause prolonged itself. He felt an insane desire to laugh.

"With any other girl"--he thought--"but this girl ... oh! _hang_ it all!" He grabbed at a peach. Viciously he dug his fork into it, searching in his empty brain for some sensible remark. But....

"I think it's going to snow----" was all that came to him after due thought. He said it with the air of a weather expert. "It's so awfully chilly..." And then a faint laugh startled him into a side-long glance.

Cydonia's face was pink and in her smooth cheek the dimple betrayed her battle with mirth.

"Snow?" said the Bishop. "Indeed, I trust not. One hopes at this time of year the winter is getting past. Not that we have much snow at Oxton."

He turned again to Mrs. Cadell.

"A wonderful year for chrysanthemums."

They started to discuss the Temple show.

"Say I'm forgiven?" McTaggart's voice was humble.

But Cydonia had recovered. She sat bolt upright, brown eyes discreetly lowered upon her plate.

"If you don't speak to me soon--" this in tragic tones--"I'll cut my throat with a silver knife. It will be a long business--painful too..." He checked his rising mischief, trying to probe her thought.

But the fact was Cydonia was somewhat at a loss. For the first time she tasted the consciousness of power--sweet, indeed, to the schoolgirl in her opening year of life. She wanted to be dignified and she wanted to laugh. And behind it all lay a curious joy--a touch of excitement and of wonder that hurt ... She wrapped it up in silence, mistrustful of speech.

"I want you to understand," McTaggart was watching her. The little scene had gained a sudden significance. "However I might laugh--or joke, you know, I never could _think_ of you without respect. And if you take this part I'd hate you to feel ... that you weren't quite safe with me. D'you see what I mean." He took a deep breath and plunged in again. "I might flirt with Mrs. Bying--she's fair game, you know--but you----you're different..."

He stammered on the word.

For Cydonia had looked up and in her shy eyes he read a childish grat.i.tude and with it, sweet and deep, the dawn of a woman's comprehension of men.

Something in the absorbed att.i.tude of the pair caught the mother's restless glance.

"Well, Cydonia," she rose as she spoke, for the Bishop had s.n.a.t.c.hed a quick look at the clock--"Have you made up your mind about the Tableaux, dear?"

"I think so, Madre. I think it sounds ... nice."