Macheson nodded.

"We'll go on the bust," Holderness declared. "I've been dying for a spree! We'll have it. Where are you staying?"

"My old rooms," Macheson answered. "I looked in on my way from the station and found them empty."

"Capital! We're close together. Come on! We'll do the West End like two gay young bucks. Five o'clock, isn't it? We'll walk up Regent Street and have an 'aperitif' at Biflore's. Wait till I brush my hat."

Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so much enthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon--or what?

After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend's way.

So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and women gazing into the shops--and at one another! At Biflore's Macheson would have felt out of his element but for Holderness' self-possession.

He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet--lacking something.

Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there--the world's tragedy....

They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular restaurant--one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women--there were none alone here--were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.

"You should have been with me for the last fortnight, d.i.c.k," he remarked, smiling. "The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn't approve of me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper's shelter."

"Didn't approve of you to such an extent?" Holderness remarked. "Was she one of those old country frumps--all starch and prejudice?"

Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable, mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her--it was her atmosphere, this. Was he weaker than his friend--had he, indeed, more to fear? He raised his gla.s.s mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his friend's whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.

"No!" he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed and natural, "the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort.

Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper."

Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.

"Well," he declared, "it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I believe you were right. There's nothing more dangerous than content.

Sort of armour you can't get through.... Come, we mustn't miss the ballet."

They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short.

He was pa.s.sing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning forward as though to call her companion's attention to Macheson's approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.

Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd's curt nod.

"So you are up in town, Letty," he said gravely. "Is your mother with you?"

The girl giggled hysterically.

"Oh, no!" she declared. "Mother can't bear travelling. A lot of us came up this morning at six o'clock on a day excursion, six shillings each."

"And what time does the train go back?" Macheson asked quickly.

"At twelve o'clock," the girl answered, "or as soon afterwards as they can get it off. It was terribly full coming up."

Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.

"I hope you have had a nice day," he said, "and won't be too tired when you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your mother."

He exchanged a civil word with the girl's companion, who was taciturn almost to insolence. Then he pa.s.sed on and joined Holderness, who was waiting near the door.

"An oddly a.s.sorted couple, your friends," he remarked, as they struggled into their coats.

Macheson nodded.

"The girl was my landlady's daughter at Thorpe, and the young man's the son of the agent there," he said.

"Engaged?" Holderness asked.

"I'm--afraid not," Macheson answered. "She's up on an excursion--for the day--goes back at twelve."

"I suppose he's a decent fellow--the agent's son?" Holderness remarked.

"She seems such a child."

"I suppose he is," Macheson repeated. "I don't care for him very much, d.i.c.k; I suppose I'm an evil-minded person, but I hate leaving them."

Holderness looked back into the restaurant.

"You can't interfere," he said. "It's probably a harmless frolic enough.

Come on!"

CHAPTER XVI

THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON

"No stalls left," Holderness declared, turning away from the box office at the Alhambra. "We'll go in the promenade. We can find a chair there if we want to sit down."

Macheson followed him up the stairs and into the heavily carpeted promenade. His memory of the evening, a memory which clung to him for long afterwards, seemed like a phantasmagoria of thrilling music, a stage packed with marvellously dressed women, whose movements were blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus--a blaze of colour not wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more women--many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,--a girl heavily rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things.

Then Holderness lifted his hat.

"My friend and I are tired," he said. "We are going to look for a seat."

She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.

"No superiority, Victor," he said. "These are your fellow-creatures.

Don't look at them as though you'd come down from the clouds."

"It isn't that," Macheson answered, "it's a matter of taste."

"Taste! Rot!" Holderness answered. "The factory girl's hat offends my taste, but I don't shrink away from her."

A girl, in pa.s.sing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he apologized.

"I am really very sorry," he said. "No one with feet like mine ought to sit down in a public place. I hope you haven't torn your dress?"