A Likely Story

by William De Morgan

  CHAPTER VII

  The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not toget mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-PowerStandard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. MissPriscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole andJohn Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in the _Telegraph_upset Madeline. How she failed in her mission,but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady BettyDusters's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs andwent to sleep in an arm-chair, and of a curious experienceshe had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia.Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of TheDust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumniadid not lose her train.

  "_Why_ do you want the carriage, darling?"

  "To call on a lady somewhere near Richmond, orCombe, I think it is."

  "Won't it do to-morrow?"

  "Not so well as to-day."

  "Then I suppose you _must_ have it, darling."

  "Not if you want it, Mumsey!" The speakergot the head of the person she addressed in Chancery,to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as afulcrum.

  Lady Upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said,"Take care, Mad dear; you'll spoil my _ruche_ andput your eyes out." So her daughter released her,and sat at her feet. She had on her tussore insaxe-blue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as prettyas ever, and as sad.

  "_Who_ is it you want to go and see, darling?"said her ladyship.

  "That Mrs. Aiken," said Madeline.

  "Oh," said her mother, "but isn't she rather?" ButMadeline shook her head, with her eyes verywide open, and kept on shaking it all the while asshe replied, "Oh no, she's not rather at all. It wasall her husband." Whereupon her mother said,"Oh--it was her husband, was it?" and put backa loose lock of hair on her daughter's forehead thatwas getting in her eyes.

  This wasn't at Surley Stakes. The family hadcome up to Eaton Place for a week or ten days.And these ladies were sitting in a small jurydrawing-room that did duty on flying visits. The realdrawing-room was all packed up, and must havebeen rather savage when the family came to town,yet left it _in statu quo_. And very savage indeedwith Madeline, who was begging to be allowed tostop in the country and not come to town thisseason at all. Indeed, she would have had her way,had not her father said that come she must, to seethe new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking ofpurchasing, whose owner was willing to lend themfor a few days on trial, but only on condition thatthey should not be taken away from London. Sothe family coachman had accompanied the family,in a certain sense clandestinely. It is needless totell anyone who knows, that of course these ladieswere themselves only theoretically in town, withthose shutters all up.

  Madeline helped to get the lock of hair back,remarking, "It always does," without an antecedent.It was a pity there was no one there--mothersdon't count--to see how pretty her wrist looked,with the blue veins in it, as she did so. Shecontinued talking about that Mrs. Aiken, butsemi-apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wantingto see that Mrs. Aiken.

  Her mother attempted to rationalise and formulateher daughter's position. "I _can't_ understand,dear child," she said. "You only saw this lady thatone time, and only for a few minutes then. Whatmakes you want to see her again? She doesn'tseem to have produced a--a favourable impressionexactly."

  "N-n-not very!" is the reply; the prolongedinitial conveying the speaker's hesitation tocondemn. "But it isn't that."

  "What isn't it, child?"

  "What she's like. It's because I went there with Jack."

  "I see, dear." But it isn't so very clear that herladyship does see. For she adds:--"I quite understand.Of course. Yes!" in a tone which seemsto invite further explanation.

  Her daughter at least puts this interpretation onit. "Don't you see, Mumsey dear?" she says."It's because I recollect me and Jack, and herand her husband, all talking together in that muddleof a Studio, and the lay-figure with its head onbackwards. They seem to come into it somehow." Thefurther particulars are slight, one would say,but they carry conviction, for her mother says, "Iunderstand that, but can you do any good?" as ifthe substratum of a debatable point might beconsidered settled. Madeline goes on, encouraged toconfidence. "I think _perhaps_. Because those Baxeswe met..."

  "Those _whats_?" her ladyship interrupts; adding,however, "Oh. I see--it's a name! Go on."

  "A grim big one and a little rather jolly one.That evening at Lady Presteign's. The grim bigone talked about it to me in a corner, because hersister's too young to know about such things--onlyshe's nearly my age, and I don't see why--and toldme she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrelabout a horrible maidservant, who was quite outof the question. And of course this Miss Baxdoesn't know what _we_ know."

  "My darling Madeline!" A large amused maternalsmile irradiates the speaker. "_Know_! Whata funny child you are!"

  "Well. Mumsey, don't we know, or as good asknow? Do you really think Uncle Christophermade all that up? _I_ don't."

  "It was the action of his brain, my dear, not hisown doing at all! Let me see--what's itcalled?--something ending in _ism_."

  "Hypnotism?"

  "No! Oh dear, I shall remember directly...."

  "Mesmerism?"

  "No, no!--do be quiet and let me think...."

  "Vegetarianism?"

  "You silly girl! I had just got it, and you putit out of my head ... There! ... Stop! ... No! ... Yes--_I've_got it. _Unconscious Cerebration_! Howon earth did I manage to forget that? UnconsciousCerebration, of course!"

  "But it doesn't end in _ism_. It ends in _ation_."

  "Never mind, child! Anyhow, I _have_ recollectedit, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say.Don't let's forget it again." To Lady Upwell thisworld was a theatre, and the name of the piece wasSociety. She was always on the sweetest termswith the Management, and her benevolence to theworn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt.Still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it."Unconscious Cerebration" was useful gag. "But,"said she, returning to the main point, "I don't seewhat you can _do_, child."

  "No more do I, Mumsey dear. But I may beable to do something for all that. I should like totry, anyhow. I'm sure the picture was right.Besides, see what that Miss Bax said. You maysay what you like, but she _is_ Mrs. Aiken's firstcousin, after all!"

  "No doubt she's right, dear! And no doubt thepicture's right." Her ladyship retires with thedignity of one withdrawing herself from mundanematters, Olympuswards. But one can never touchpitch and not be defiled. Some has clung to her,for she adds absently, "I wonder where ThyrzaPresteign picks up all these odd people." In theend she forsakes speculation to say, "Of coursehave the carriage, darling; I don't see that any harmcan come of it. Only don't get mixed up."

  "_I_ won't get mixed up," says Miss Upwellconfidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, forgranting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest.She for the tenth of a second associates the twokisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it.She loves horses very much, and gives them toomuch sugar. If any tongue's tip is ready with adenial of the possibility of such an impression asthis, it only shows that the tongue's owner has nothad a similar experience. The kisses were cashdown for each horse--does that make it clearer?

  Anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly nextday on a frosty road, going south-westwards, assoon as they left the traffic--that road-spoiler--farenough behind. The sun had taken a mean advantageof its being such a glorious day, to get atnice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess.But there were many havens of security still wherewhat was blown snow-dust in the early morningmight still have a little peace and quiet, and waitwith resignation for inevitable thaw.

  Such a one was--or had been--on a low window-sillof the Cheshire Cheese, behind the horse-troughwhich the steaming greys suggested they shouldempty, but were only allowed to sample. _Hadbeen_, because of a boy. A boy is a reason for somany things in this world. This one, a very nicespecimen, coming, well-informed, from a Gothicschool near by, was showing how indifferentchubbiness can be
to chilblains, by manipulating the snowon this window-sill in the manufacture of twosnowballs, of which one was complete. His was aTwo Power Standard, evidently.

  "Ask that little boy where this place is," saysMiss Upwell, from inside furs; because the carriage-lidis set back by request, and the rider is convincedof cold, but won't give in on principle. "He's anative, and ought to know. Ask him, James."

  "Where's Athabasca Villa, young un? ... Don'tbelieve he knows, Miss."

  "Where's Athabasca Villa, little man? ... Don'tyou know? Well--where does Miss Priscilla Bax live?"

  "Oh--I know _she_! Over yarnder." Avigorous illumination speaks to the force of MissPriscilla Bax's identity. "Over yonder" is, however,vague; and you may have eyes like sloes, and crispcurly brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet havevery small powers of indicating complex routespast Daddy's--not otherwise described--and roundto the left, and along to the right, and by FarmerPhipps's barn, and so on. But this is a younggentleman of resource, and he has a suggestionready: "You let I royd up behind, and _I'll_ poyuntout where to drive." The lady accedes to thisproposal, though James is evidently uneasy lest aprecedent should be established. "Let him ridebehind--he won't do any harm--" says Madeline,between whom and this youth a bond of sympathyforges itself unexpectedly. It might have beenmore judicious to deprive him of ammunition.

  For the Two Power Standard, in his case, seemedto involve a Policy of Aggression. His firstsnowball was aimed too low; and though it struck itsobject, the Incumbent of the Parish, that gentlemanonly laughed. The second landed neatly under theback-hair of a stout lady, and probably went downher back behind, as her indignation found voiceproportionate to such a result. Miss Upwell--toher shame be it spoken--pretended not to see orhear; refusing, Gallio-like, to listen--but in thiscase to Gentiles--and saying to James, "Pleasedon't stop, James--go on quick."

  The infant was, however, as good as his undertaking,conducting the carriage intelligently toAthabasca Villa, and taking an unfair advantageof permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact,detached from it with some difficulty. He seemedsurprised and pleased at the receipt of a _douceur_, anddanced.

  "Oh dear!" said poor Madeline to herself, as sheheard him die away, with some friends he met, inthe distance. "How Jack would have liked thatboy!" There was to be no Jack, it seemed, now!

  Mrs. Aiken, at one of the bays that flanked thedoorway of Athabasca Villa, looked out upon thetop and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in achill purple mist, and waited for tea. Tea waitedto be made, like Eve when she was a rib. But witha confidence based on precedent; for Tea was madeevery day at the same time, which Eve wasn't.Besides, Miss Priscilla Bax made tea, and wouldn'tlet anyone else make it. Not that there appears tobe any suggestion in the story of Eve that there wasever any talk of underletting the job.

  Miss Priscilla Bax had a cap out of last century,about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which hadto be kept entirely out of the tea. These ribbonshad no function or practical object, though animaginative mind might have ascribed to them that,being alike on both sides, they helped the sense ofequilibrium necessary to safe conduct of theunmade tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whoselid wouldn't keep up, to a black Rockinghamteapot, which did for when there was no one.

  Only, this time there _was_ someone--some carriageone--and his, her, or its approach causedMrs. Aiken to exclaim, "Good gracious, Aunty, I'mafraid it's people!"

  Miss Priscilla was watching the tap of the urnrun--her phrase, not ours. "How many?" said she.Then dialogue worked out as follows:

  "I think I see who it is."

  "How many?"

  "Only one. I fancy it's that Miss What's-her-name.I wish it wasn't. It's too late to say notat home. She's seen me at the window. Butyou'll have to put in another heaped-up spoonful.Whenever will they stop ringing that bell?"

  At this point presumably the mercenary wasstrangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added,"Yes, it's her. She's talking to a boy. What onearth has brought her here? I shall go."

  "You can't. You've been seen. Don't be afool. Who do you mean by 'her'?"

  "Oh--_you_ know! Miss Upsley Pupsley of Curlysomething. That place in Worcestershire thepicture was to go to. _You_ know! They've a housein Eaton Square."

  "_Then_ we must have the silver teapot, and Ishall have to make fresh tea." The house in EatonSquare settled that. A hurried aside caused theappearance of the silver teapot in all its glory, anda new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle ofwater at par.

  Thereupon Miss Upwell found herself withinreach--academically speaking--of talking with thisMrs. Aiken of that lady's private domesticdissensions. But, oh, the impossibility of it! Madelinefelt it now, too late. Even getting to speak of thesubject at all seemed hopeless. And in anothermoment she became horribly aware that she wasinexplicable--couldn't account for her visit at all.Still, she had too much grit in her to dream of givingin. And then, look at the motive! Besides, shehad in her heart a strong suspicion that she was abeauty, and that that was why people always gaveway to her. Her beauty was of no use, now thatJack was gone. Nothing being of any use to her,now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to afellow-woman in tribulation. If this picture-ghost--soshe said to herself--had told this Mrs. Aikenwhere Jack was, would _she_ not come and tell, onthe chance? Of course she would! Courage!

  The most terrifying obstacle in her path wasAunt Priscilla. If this lady had been theinoffensive tabby Madeline's wish had been father toher thought of, she could have been treated as anegligible factor. But what is to be done whenyour Aunt, living under an impression that in earlylife she mixed in circles, recognises your distinguishedyoung friend as having emerged from a circle. Thisway of putting the case transfers the embarrassmentfrom Miss Upwell to Mrs. Aiken. Probably thatlady felt it, and wished Aunt Priscilla wouldn't goon so. The fact is she was getting curious to knowthe reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance.There _must_ be _some_ reason.

  It lost its opportunity of being divulged at theoutset. The visitor's parade of the utter indefensibilityof her intrusion, and her fib--for a fib it wasin the spirit, however true in the letter--that she"was in the neighbourhood" worked on theimagination, and made the position plausible.Mrs. Aiken dropped all attempts to look amiablysurprised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation,and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollectionof Miss Upwell's visit to the Studio. Of courseshe was delighted to see her, on any terms. Butthe reason of her coming could get no chance of ahearing, when the first flush of conversation hadonce failed to give it an opening. Miss Priscilla'sextraction had to be reckoned with.

  If only that appalling old lady had not been there,or would even have been content to play secondfiddle! But as soon as she heard the name of thevillage of Grewceham in Worcestershire mentionedas the nearest township to Surley Stakes, sheidentified that county as the cradle of her race,saying, "WE came from Sampford Plantagenet, Ibelieve," in a tone suggestive of remote epochs, andconsiderable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishinginto the mists of antiquity. "But my mother'sfamily," she added, "were all Brocks, of SampfordPagnell."

  Madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could gono farther than to believe, as an abstract truth,that there were still Brocks in Sampford Pagnell;speaking of them rather as if they ran away whenseen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns.She could not do any Baxes at Sampford Plantagenet.However, her father would know the nameBax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirredby it like the war-horse in Job at the sound ofbattle. This anticipation was founded solely onhis daughter's desire to fill out the order for Baxes.

  Miss Priscilla always preferred to pour the teaherself, not without a certain Imperial suggestionin the preference. Vespasian would have insistedon pouring out the tea, under like circumstances.

  But the tea, when poured, brought with it noclue to the cause of Miss Upwell's visit. It hadfurnished a certain amount of relief, during itsnegotiation, by postponing discussion of the point,and b
y the claim it made for a chapter to itself.For a short chapter of your life-story begins whenyou get your tea, and ends when you've done yourtea. When Madeline had ceased to be able topretend that this chapter had not ended, hersuspended sense of incomprehensibility cropped upagain, and she grew painfully aware that herhostesses would soon begin waiting visibly forenlightenment, which she was no nearer being ableto give than at first. How could she have guessedit would be so difficult? She was even consciousof gratitude to Miss Priscilla for her persistencyin Atavism, and at heart hoped that the good ladywould not stop just yet.

  No fear of that! The Brocks were not nearlyover, and they had to be disposed of before theBaxes could be taken in hand. Their exponentpicked them up where she had dropped them. "MyMother's family," she resumed, "were well knownduring the Middle Ages. There were Brocks inSampford Pagnell as early as fourteen hundred andfour. They are even said to have been connectedwith John of Gaunt. Unhappily all the familydocuments, including an autograph letter of AlicePiers to Edward the Black Prince, were destroyedin the Great Fire of London." On lines like these,as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a verylong time without the pursuer's hobby breakingdown. It went on long enough in this case forMadeline to wish she could get a chance of utilisingsome courage she had been slowly mustering duringthe chase. This being hardly mature yet, she tookanother cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplyinglittle notes of exclamation and pleased surprisewhenever the manner of the narrator seemed tocall for them.

  "It seems only the other day," Aunt Priscillacontinued, with her eyes half-closed to expressmemory at work upon the past, "that I was takenas a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother,then in her hundredth year. She was a friend ofHorace Walpole. _Her_ mother could remember JohnBunyan."

  "Is it possible!" said Madeline, very shaky aboutdates, but ready with any amount of wonderment.She added idiotically, "Of _course_ my father musthave known _all_ your people, _quite_ well." Whichdid not follow from the apparent premisses.

  Mrs. Aiken muttered in a warning voice, for hervisitor's ear only, "When Aunt gets on hergrandmother she never gets off. You'll see!" She tookadvantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up arunning comment.

  Miss Priscilla then approached a subject whichrequired to be handled with the extremest delicacy."I think, Euphemia," she said, "that after so long atime there can be no objection ... You know whatI am referring to?"

  "Objection?--why should there be? Oh yes, _I_know. Horace Walpole and your great-grandmother.No--none!" To Madeline Mrs. Aiken saidin an undertone, "I told you how it would be." Thatyoung lady affected a lively interest in scandalagainst Queen Elizabeth, which was what sheanticipated.

  "I myself," said Aunt Priscilla, in the leisurelyway of a lecturer who has secured an audience,"have always held to the opinion that there was amarriage, but what the motives may have been forconcealing it can only be conjectured...."

  This was too leisurely for her niece's patience.It provoked a species of _sotto voce_ abstract of herAunt's coming statement thus, "Oh yes--do geton! You cannot otherwise understand how sorigid an observer of moral law as your great-grandfather,however lamentable his religious tenets mayhave been, could have brought himself to marrythe widow. _Do_ get _on_!" Which proved to be thesubstance of the original, as soon as the latter waspublished. But it certainly got over the groundquicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post,arriving almost before the other horse started.

  "This," resumed Aunt Priscilla, after a smallblank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if sodisposed, "was some considerable time before hisaccession to the Earldom. The only clue that hasbeen suggested as a motive for concealment of themarriage was his unaccountable aversion to thetitle, which he could scarcely have indulged if... There's a knock. Do see if it's the Tapleys, anddon't let them go." Mrs. Aiken rose and went out,reciting rapidly another forecast, "He-never-took-his-seat-in-the-House-of-Lords-and-signed-his-letters-'the-Uncle-of-the-late-Earl-of-Orford.' She'llhave done that by the time I'm back," as sheleft the room. Miss Upwell felt a little resentmentat this lady's treatment of her Aunt. After all, isnot man an Atavistic animal? Is notancestor-worship the oldest of religions?

  It _was_ the Tapleys, if Madeline had not heardthe name wrong; who had already had tea with theOutstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation.But she may easily have got both names wrong.She thought she saw a chance of speaking with theniece by herself, and at any rate appointing acounter-visit before she went back to the Stakes, ifshe cut her own short before she became involvedwith the Tapleys, as might happen; and that wouldbe fatal, she felt. So she suddenly perceived thatshe must not keep the greys standing in the cold,and got past the incoming Tapleys, who seemed tobe in mourning for the human race, as far as clotheswent; but not sorry at all, if you came to that.She had failed, and must give up the object of hervisit, and acknowledge defeat. And, oh dear, howlate it was!

  She could, however, get a word or two with theniece before departing, unless that young womanconsigned her to a servant and fled back to herTapleys, who were shouting about how late theywere, as if they had distinguished themselves.However, Mrs. Aiken had evidently no suchintention, but, for some reason, very much thecontrary.

  The reason came out as soon as the door shut theshouters in, leaving her and her visitor in thepassage, with a cap and a white apron hanging ontheir outskirts, ready for prompt action.

  First Mrs. Aiken said, "I am afraid Aunt musthave bored you dreadfully, Miss Upwell. She andher family! Oh dear!"

  Madeline answered rather stiffly: "It was veryinteresting. I enjoyed listening." For she wouldhave been better pleased with this young person ifshe had taken her Aunt's part. Her own motherprosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herselfnever tried to silence her.

  However, her displeasure melted when Mrs. Aiken--havingtold the cap it needn't wait; she wouldcall--coloured and hesitated, and wanted to saysomething.

  "Yes," said Madeline.

  "I was--was so grieved--to see about yourfriend.... Oh dear!--perhaps I oughtn't to talkabout it...."

  Miss Upwell felt she had to be dignified. Afterall she and Jack were _not_ engaged. "You meanCaptain Calverley, Mrs. Aiken," said she. "Weare hoping now--I mean his family are hoping--tohear from him every day. But, of course, theyare--we all are--_very_ anxious."

  Mrs. Aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face,seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting agood-bye shake. Then she said, very hesitatingly,"I--I didn't know--is there a hope? I only seethe _Telegraph_." Then, an instant after, she sawher mistake. She might at least have had the senseto say nothing about the _Telegraph_.

  Madeline felt her colour come and go, and herheart getting restless. "A hope? Oh _dear_,yes!" How bravely she said it! "You know there is noproof whatever of his..." But she could not say"death."

  "Oh no--no proof, of course! ... I should beso glad ... I suppose they only meant..."

  All Madeline's courage was in the voice thatsucceeded in saying, "Dear Mrs. Aiken, do tell mewhat was said. I dare say it was all nonsense. Thenewspapers get all sorts of stories."

  Mrs. Aiken would have given something to beallowed to say no more about it. She stumbled agood deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder.She really couldn't be positive. Quite as likely asnot the paragraph might have referred to someoneelse. She was far from sure, after all, that thename wasn't Silverton. Yes, it certainly was,Major Silverton--that was it!

  "You are only saying that," said Madeline,gently but firmly, "to make my mind easy. It iskind--but--but you had better tell me now.Haven't you got the _Telegraph_? I can buy one, ofcourse, on my way home. But I would much ratherknow now."

  Mrs. Aiken saw no way of keeping it back. "It'sin here--the _Telegraph_" said she. That is, it wasin the parlour opposite to the one they had left.There it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print,was the statement of its correspondent at Something-fonteinor other, that all hopes were now given upof the reappearance of Cap
tain Calverley, who hadbeen missing since the action at Burghersdrift, assome of his accoutrements had been found in theriver below Kroondorp, and it was now looked uponas certain that he was drowned shortly after theaction.

  Madeline knew quite well that she had in herselfan ample store of fortitude if only she could get afair chance to exercise it. But a horrible sort ofague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teethand spoiled her speech. It would go off directly,and she would be able to know practically, as shenow did theoretically, that it was no use payingattention to any newspaper correspondence. Shewould soon get right in the air. If this Mrs. Aikenwould only have the sense to see that what shewanted was to get away and have herself to herselfuntil at least her teeth stopped chattering! Butinstead of that the tiresome young woman mustneeds say, "Oh dear, you look so ill! Shan't I getyou something?" Which was silly, because what onearth could she have got, except brandy, or somesuch horror?

  Madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing tosay that she would be all right directly, but reallysaying, "I shall be reckly." Collapse into aproffered chair enabled her to add, "Leave me alone--it'snothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut.Nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off; and by thetime Mrs. Aiken--who felt that some remedy _must_be exhibited, for the honour of the house--had gotat one through an emissary, she was able to meet ithalf-way. "Oh yes--eau-de-Cologne, please! It'salways delightful!" Whereat Mrs. Aiken felt proudand successful, and Madeline mopped her forehead,feeling better.

  But she must get away now as quick as possible.Her card-castle had collapsed. And, indeed, shefelt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning.So far from being able to produce her ghost, orwhatever it could be called, in extenuation of thisyoung lady's reprobate husband, she had not seenher way to mentioning him at all, even under apretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as alast resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrelwith his wife and their separation. It might havebrought him on the tapis, with a successful result.There was no chance now, even if she had felt at herbest. And here she was, morally crippled by a severeshock! For though, of course, she was not goingto pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severeshock all the same.

  So she gathered herself up to say good-bye, andwith profusest gratitude for the eau-de-Colognedeparted. And Mrs. Aiken, after watching thebrisk start of the greys, and thinking how boredthey must have been, went slowly back into thehouse, to wonder what on earth could have broughtan up-to-date young lady out of the Smart Set tosuch an unpretending mansion as Athabasca Villa.

  She wondered also whether those interminableTapleys were going to talk like that till seveno'clock, and would Aunt P. go and ask them tostay to supper? Very likely! And she would haveto be civil to them all the evening, she supposed.

  Reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner ofthe mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end;to prevent very short people falling over sideways,presumably. What she saw made her say, "What'sthis, Anne?"

  "Which, Ma'am?" said Anne. "Perhaps theMissis knows."

  This thing was inside brown paper, and rectangular.The corners were hard, but the middleclicketted. Probably a _passe-partout_. At least, itcould be nothing else. So if it wasn't a _passe-partout_,it was non-suited, _quoad_ existence. Mrs. Aikenopened the drawing-room door, meeting agust of the Tapleys, both speaking at once. It didn'tmatter. Aunt Priscilla heard all the plainer for anoise. There certainly was one.

  Her niece said, through it, "Have you ordered aphotograph, Aunty?" No, no photograph had beenordered. "Then I shall have to look at it, to seewhat it is," said Mrs. Aiken. The Tapleyssanctioned and encouraged this course, with loudshouts. And it really is a capital step to take whenyou want to find out what a thing is, to look at itand see.

  It was a photograph, and was recognised at onceby Mrs. Aiken as a copy from the Surley Stakespicture. It was a print of the photograph thatMadeline had sent a copy of to Mr. Aiken at theStudio, a long time before. You remember how itstood on the table while he talked with Mr. Hughes?"I see," said Euphemia; "Miss Upwell must haveleft it behind. We must get it back to her." Andshe was proceeding to wrap it up again; not,however, without seeing enough of it to be sure ofits identity.

  But she was reckoning without her guests, whopounced simultaneously on the back of the photograph,crying out, "Stop!--it's written on. Readbehind." Whereupon it was read behind that thisphotograph was for Mrs. Reginald Aiken, AthabascaVilla, Coombe. "I suppose she brought it for me,"said that lady, rather sulkily.

  "Whatever she came for I can't make out," saidthe niece to the Aunt after supper, and indeed afterthe departure of the Tapleys. For Mrs. Aiken'sworst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they hadbeen invited to stay to supper and had done soremorselessly.

  The Aunt could throw no light on this suddenappearance of Miss Upwell. "She has great charmof manner," she said. "She reminds me a little ofthe late Lady Betty Dusters. It is in the turn ofthe chin." But Miss Bax's chin, cited in action toconfirm this turn, was unconvincing.

  Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. "Ithink the girl was going lengths in coming at all,"she said. "After all, what did it amount to?Just that she and this young soldier of hers came tothe Studio to see a picture. And supposing it didhappen on the day when Reginald behaved sodetestably with that horrible girl! Doesn't thatmake it all the other way round?" She wished toexpress that if Miss Upwell had come to know abouther quarrel with her husband, she should have kepther distance the more on that account. But shewas not equal to the effort, and perhapsacknowledged it when she said, "You know what I mean,so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through,like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, MissUpsley Pupsley would have shown better taste tokeep away, to _my_ thinking!"

  "I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia,"said the Aunt meekly.

  "I didn't say I didn't," said the niece.

  "Then I won't speak." Which resolve of MissPriscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance ismade for the fact that familiar domestic chat turnsquite as much on the way it omits, as the wayit uses words. The younger lady's manner wasthat of one in whom exasperation, produced byunrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in checkby rare powers of self-control. That of the elderindicated constitutional toleration of the waywardnessof near relations; who are, as we know, acrotchety class. When one of these, in additionto tapping with her foot and looking flushed andready to cry on small provocation, bites articles of_virtu_, surely a certain amount of forbearance--anirritating practice--is permissible.

  "You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla."And it was a present from your great-uncleJohn Bulstrode, when he came from India."

  Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably,because she knew, as you and I do, that when thoselittle mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use tryingto stick them in again. But she said, "Bother thepaper-knife!" And for a few moments her soulwas content to find expression in foot-tapping andlip-biting; while her Aunt forbore, and took up herknitting.

  Then she got up and paced about the room restlessly.The lamp was going out, or wanted seeingto. She turned it up; but if lamps are going outfor want of oil, turning them up does no good, andonly burns the wick away. They have to beproperly seen to. It was too late to be worthputting fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do,or for that matter, why not do without? Thefirelight was much nicer.

  Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the roomwhile Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire andknitted. It was getting on for bedtime.

  Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter."Aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almostseemed to add, "Do talk to me and be sympathetic.I'm quite reasonable now."

  Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skippingratifications. "Certainly, my dear Euphemia,"she said, with dignity.

  "Do you know how long I've been here?"

  Those who know how inconsequent daily familiaritymakes blood relations who live together, willsee nothing odd in Miss Priscilla's reply: "Mydear niece
, listen to me, and do not interrupt.What was the expression I used when you firstannounced your engagement to Reginald? ... No--Idid not say it was a come-down...."

  "Yes, you did."

  "Afterwards perhaps, but _at first_, Euphemia?Be candid. Did I, or did I not, use the expression,'Artists are all alike?' ... I did? Very well!And I said too--and you cannot deny it--that anywoman who married them did it with her eyes open,and had only herself to thank for it. They are allalike, and Reginald is no exception to the rule." Atthis point Miss Priscilla may have had misgivingsabout sustaining the performance, for sheended abruptly on the dominant, "And then youask me if I know how long you have been here!"

  "Because it's six months, Aunty--over sixmonths! Is it any wonder that I should ask?Besides, when I first came I never _meant_ to stay.I was going back when Reginald wrote that letter.Fancy his daring to say there was no--what wasthat he called it?--you know--'casus belli!' Anodious girl like that! And then to say if Ireally believed it I ought to go into Court and swearto things! How _could_ I, with that Sairah? Ohdear--if it had only been a lady!--or even a decentwoman! Anything one could produce! But--Sairah!"

  This young lady--mind you!--was only tryingto express a very common feeling, which, if youhappen to be a young married woman you willprobably recognize and sympathize with. Supposeyou were obliged to seek legal ratification of yourcase against a faithless spouse, think how muchmore cheerfully you would appear in court if theopposition charmer was a Countess! Think howgrateful you would be if the culprits had madethemselves indictable in terms you could use, andstill know which way to look; if, for instance, theyhad had the decency to reside at fashionable hotelsand pass themselves off as the Spenser Smyths, orthe Poole Browns. These are only suggestions, tohelp your imagination. The present writer knowsno such persons. In fact, he made these namesout of his own head.

  But--Sairah! Just fancy reading in the_Telegraph_ that the petitioner complained of herhusband's misconduct with ... Oh--it would betoo disgusting for words! After all, she, thepetitioner, had a right to be considered a--shedetested the expression, but what on earth wereyou to say?--LADY! What had she done that sheshould be dragged down and degraded like that?

  It had been Miss Priscilla's misfortune--as hasbeen hinted already--to contribute to theprolongation of her niece's residence with her by thelines on which she herself seemed to be seeking tobring it to an end. Nothing irritated this injuredwife more than to be reminded of femininesubordination to man as seen from an hierarchicalstandpoint. So when her Aunt quoted St. Paul--underthe impression that extraordinary man's correspondenceso frequently produces, that she wasquoting His Master--her natural irritation at hisoriental views of the woman question onlyconfirmed her in her obduracy, and left her moredetermined than ever in her resentment against ahusband who had read St. Paul very carelessly ifat all, and who took no interest in churches apartfrom their Music and Architecture.

  Therefore, when Aunt Priscilla responded to herniece's exclamation, which has been waiting so longfor an answer, with her usual homily, it producedits usual result. "I can only urge you, my dearEuphemia, to turn your thoughts to the Words ofOne who is Wiser than ourselves. It is no useyour saying it's only Colossians. Besides, it'sEphesians too. The place where it occurs isabsolutely unimportant. 'Wives, submit yourselvesto your husbands, as it is fit in the Lord.' Thoseare The Words." Miss Priscilla handled hercapitals impressively. The music stopped on amajestic chord, and her rebellious niece was cowedfor the moment. Not to disturb the effect, the oldlady, having lighted her own bedroom candle,kissed her benedictionally, with a sense of doing itin Jacobean English--or should we say Jacobeansilence?--corresponding thereto, and left her,accepting as valid a promise to follow shortly.

  But there was a comfortable armchair still making,before a substantial amount of fire, its mute appeal,"Sit down in me." The fire added, "Do, and I'llroast you for twenty minutes more at least." Itsaid nothing about chilblains, but it must haveknown. Mrs. Aiken acted on its advice, and satlooking at it, and listening to an intermittent volcanoin one of its corners.

  The volcano was flagging, subject to recrudescence--fora certain latitude has to be given to DerbyBrights and Wombwell Main--before Mrs. Aikenreleased her underlip, bitten as a counter-irritant toScripture precepts. Aunt Priscey _was_ trying! But,then, how good she was! Where on earth wouldshe, Euphemia Aiken, have gone to look for ananchorage, if it hadn't been for Aunt Priscey? Shecalmed down slowly, and Colossians died away inthe soothing ripple of the volcano.

  But the fire was hot still, and she wanted a screen.She took the first thing her hand lighted on. Itwas the photograph. It would do. But she hatedthe sight of it when the volcano made a spurt, andset the shadows dancing over the whole room. Sheturned it away from her towards the fire, to see theblank back only, and calm down in the stillness,unexasperated.

  Presently, for some reason, it became irksome tohold it up. But it must be kept between her faceand the fire. She let it fall forward on her face, stillhalf holding it, and listened to the volcano. Shecould sit and think about things, and not go tosleep. Of course she could. It would never do tospoil her night's rest.

  Was it really six whole months since she quarrelledwith Reginald? She recited the months to makeherself believe them actual, and failed. It did notreally matter, though, how long it was. If Reginaldhad been ill, she could have gone back any time,and without any sacrifice of pride. Aunt Prisceywould have found out a text, proving it a Christianduty more than ever. A little seductive dramacrept through her mind, in which Reginald, smittenwith some disorder of a good practicable sort for thepiece--not a dangerous or nasty one, you know!--hadput all his pride in his pocket, and written aletter humbly begging her forgiveness; acknowledginghis weakness, his evil behaviour, and acquittingher of the smallest trace of unreasonable punctilio.It was signed, "Your lonely husband, ReginaldHay," that being a form domestic pleasantry in thepast had sanctioned. Something choked in herthroat over this touching episode of her own creation.

  But it dispersed obsequiously when at a moment'snotice--in her dream, you understand; dreamt as inthe middle of dinner, to establish self-sacrifice as herportion--she started and arrived in time to saveReginald from a sinister nurse, whose eliminationmade an important passage in the drama. Shegot as far as the commencement of a letter to herAunt, describing this achievement. At this pointdrowsiness got the better of her, presumably. Forher imaginary pen became tangible, and her paperwas beautiful, only it was stamped "At Aunt's,"which seemed absurd. And she could only writethe words "My pride," which seemed more so.

  Then she woke, or seemed to wake, with a start,saying aloud, to no one, "This will never do; Ishall spoil my night's rest." But on the very edgeof her waking someone had said, in her dream, ina sort of sharp whisper, "Perhaps it is." And itwas this voice that had waked her. She found ithard to believe that an outside voice had not spokeninto her dream. But no one was there, and had theroom been full of folk, none of them could have readthe words on her dream-paper. And to her half-awakemind it seemed that "Perhaps it is" couldonly apply to what she had succeeded in writing.However, there can be no doubt that, at this moment,she believed herself fully awake.

  Later she had reason to doubt it. Or rather, shebecame convinced of the contrary by the subsequentcourse of events, which need not be anticipated now.During what followed, one would say that she musthave had misgivings that she was dreaming. Butshe seems not to have had many or strong ones;although she may have made use of the expression,"I could hardly believe I was awake," as a merephrase of wonderment--just as you or I have usedit before now. For when next day she describedthis experience to her cousin Volumnia, who hadbeen much in her confidence during these lastmonths, who said to her, "Of course, you _were_ asleep,because that is the only way of accounting for itreasonably," her reply was, "Then we shall have toaccount for it _un_reasonably, because I _was_ awake."

  "Well--go on, and tell," was the reply. Thiscousin V
olumnia, the elder sister of that littlemonkey Jessie, was of course the grim big Miss BaxMiss Upwell had met at Lady Presteign's; and, aswe have seen, she was a very determined person,one who would stand no nonsense. "Start fromwhere the voice woke you, Cousin Euphemia," saidshe. She shut her eyes, and frowned, so as to listenjudicially.

  "I _laid_ the _pho_tograph _on_ the _ta_ble," said Mrs. Aiken,with circumflex accents over every othersyllable, which is how to tell things clearly. ButMiss Volumnia said, "You needn't pounce. I canhear." So she became normal. "I was absolutelycertain there was no one else in the room. Andeverything seemed as usual; not the least like adream. But for all that ... you won't believe me,Volumnia..."

  "Very likely. Go on!"

  "For all that I heard a voice--the same voicethat waked me up...."

  "Of course! You were still asleep. _I_ know.Go on! What did the voice say?"

  "No, I won't go on at all, Volumnia, if you'regoing to be nasty."

  "Oh yes, do go on. I'm greatly interested. Butyou must remember that we hear thousands of thesethings every week at the Psychomorphic. Wehad a very interesting case only the other day.A man heard a dog barking.... However, go on."

  "Very well, only you mustn't interrupt. Whatwas I saying? ... Oh yes--the voice! I heard itquite distinctly, only very small.... Nonsense!--youknow quite well what I mean.... What did itsay? What I _heard_ was, 'Hold me up, and let melook at you.' Now I know, my dear Volumnia, youwill say I am making it improbable on purpose...."

  "Not at all, my dear Euphemia! The case iscommoner than you suppose, even when the subjectis wide awake. Please tell it _exactly_ as you recollectit. Soften nothing." The implication was thatPsychomorphism would know how much to take,and how much to reject.

  "I am telling it exactly as it happened. It said..."

  "What said?"

  "The picture said."

  "The picture! Oh, we hadn't come to that.Now what does that mean? The picture said!"

  "Volumnia!--IF you interrupt I can't tell it atall. Do let me go on my own way."

  "Yes--perhaps that _will_ be better. I cananalyse afterwards."

  "Well--the voice seemed to come from thepicture--the photo, I mean. It said quite unmistakably,but in a tiny voice, 'Pick me up, and letme look at you.'..."

  "You said 'hold' before. Now it's 'pick.'"

  "Really, Cousin Volumnia, I declare I won't goon unless...."

  "All right--all right! I'll be good." A littlepause came here owing to Mrs. Aiken stipulating forguarantees. A _modus vivendi_ was found, and shecontinued,

  "I did as the voice said, and held the picture up,looking at it. I can't imagine how I came to takeit so coolly. But you know, Volumnia, how it iswhen a perfect stranger speaks to you in an omnibus,and evidently takes you for somebody else, howcivil you are? ... Well--of course, I mean a lady!How can you be so absurd? I said to it that I hadnever heard a photograph speak before. The voicereplied, 'That is because you never listen.Mr. Perry hears me because he listens.' I asked whothis was, and the voice replied, 'The little oldgentleman who comes here.' I said, 'No little oldgentleman comes here. Do you know where youare?' And do you know, Volumnia, the voice said,'In the Library at Surley Stakes, over the stoofer.' Whatcould that mean?"

  "Can't imagine. But I'm not to speak, you know.That's the bargain. Go on."

  "Well--I told the woman in the photographwhere she was, and the voice said, 'I suppose youknow,' and then asked if this was the place whereshe saw me before. I said no--that was my husband'sStudio. 'But,' I said, 'you were not made.' Sheseemed not to understand, and persisted thatshe remembered seeing me there."

  "Do excuse my interrupting just this once," saidMiss Volumnia. "I won't do it again. I only wishto point out how clearly this shows thedream-character of the phenomenon. Is it credible that,admitting for the sake of hypothesis an independentintelligence, that intelligence would recollectoccurrences before it came into existence. It seems tome that the picture-woman's claim to identitycarries its own condemnation. How could ideasexisting in the mind of the original picture reappearin the mind of a photograph, however carefully made?"

  "It was the same woman, Volumnia," saidMrs. Aiken, beginning to stand on the rights of herPhenomenon, as people do. "I do think, dear, youare only cavilling and making difficulties."

  "I think my objection holds good. When weconsider the nature of photography..."

  "Why is it more impossible than the originalpicture seeing me and recollecting?"

  "The demand on my power of belief is greater inthe case of a copy, however accurate. And it wouldbecome greater still in the case of a copy of a copy.And so on." This was not original. A paper readat her Society was responsible for most of it."However," she added, "we needn't discuss this now.Go on."

  "Then don't prose. You really are straining atgnats and swallowing camels, Volumnia. Well--wherewas I? ... Oh yes, the Studio! The voicewent on--and now this _does_ show that it didn't comeout of my own head--'I remember the Studio, andI remember a misunderstanding between yourselfand your husband that might easily have led toserious consequences.' Now you know, Volumnia,that could _not_ have come out of my own--my owninner consciousness.... Is that right?--Now_could_ it?"

  Miss Volumnia shook an unbiassed head, on itsguard against rash conclusions. "The same istrue," she said, "of so many dream-impressions.Did you make the photograph acquainted with theactual position of things?"

  Mrs. Aiken seemed to hesitate a moment. "WasI bound to take it into my confidence?" she said."Anyhow it seemed to me at the time most uncalled for."

  "What did you say?"

  "I said--because as it was only a photograph Ithought it didn't matter--I said that fortunatelyno such result had come about. I then pressed itto say more explicitly what it was referring to....What?"

  "Nothing--go on.... Well, I was only going tosay that in my opinion you were playing with edgedtools. The slightest departure from the principleof speaking the Truth is fraught with danger to thespeaker.... Yes--and then?"

  "Well--_did_ it matter? Anyhow, let me get on.I asked what it meant--what misunderstanding itreferred to. And do you know, Volumnia, the voicebegan and gave a _most accurate_ account of MissWhat's-her-name--Pupsley Wupsley's--visit to theStudio, and described that poor young CaptainThingumbob _most accurately_. All I can say is thatit did not make a single mistake...."

  "Of course not!"

  "Why 'of course not'?"

  "Because it was merely your own Memoryunconsciously at work; doing the job on its own, asmy young nephew would say. It may have beenwrong, but would seem to you right."

  "Then why doesn't what followed after I left theStudio seem to me right too?"

  Miss Volumnia said, as from the seat of Judgment,"Let's hear it." Thereupon her friend gave,with conscientious effort to report truly, thephotograph's version of what passed in the Studio betweenher husband and the odious Sairah. It correspondedclosely with that already given in this story.

  As Miss Volumnia's interruptions became frequenttowards the close of this narrative, it may be best tosummarise it, as near as may be, in the words of thephotograph, which had said, or seemed to say: "Idid indeed tremble to think what misconstructionmight be put on half-heard words of this interviewof this young English maiden with your husband.For I could remember well how at the little Castelloin the Apennines Icilia Ciaranfi, a girl of great spirit,finding her new-made husband enacting some suchpleasantry as this--but quite blamelessly--withDonnina Magliabecchi, stabbed both to death thereand then; and her great grief when Donnina's loverBeppe made it clear to her that this was but a foolishjest to which he himself was privy. And thinkingof this painful matter I rejoiced that you, Signora,yourself should have been guided by counsels ofmoderation, at most withdrawing for a term--so Iunderstood--to the house of a relation as to a haven,when no doubt all asperity of feeling would soongive place to forgiveness. I could see that in yourcase, had you yielded to the mistaken impulse ofIc
ilia, no such consolation as she found could havebeen yours. For I understood this--though I wasyoung at the time--that so deeply was Beppetouched by Icilia's remorse for her rash action, andshe so ready to give her love in compensation forwhat he had lost, that each flew as it were to theembrace of the other, and the two of them fledthen and there, and thence Icilia escaped theofficers of Justice. Now this surely would havebeen an impossible resource to yourself and thelover of _la Sera_, who, unless I am mistaken inthinking that those who 'keep company' are lovers inyour land, was the person I heard spoken of as'The Dust.' Which is in our tongue '_LaMondezza_.' But I understood that while he was a man,and in that sense competent for Love, althoughcalled by a name fitter for a woman, yet was hesocially on a level with those whom we others inItaly call _spazzini_, and no fit mate for a Signora ofgentle birth and breeding.

  "So that although I heard afar that the Signoreand yourself came to high words on this subject,and gathered that you had departed in wrath to seekshelter with an aunt, I thought of this dissensionas one that would soon be forgotten, and a matterof the past. The more so that your Signore's ownwords to his friends reassured me; to whom he saidmore than once that you would be the best womanin the world but for a defect I did not understandfrom his description, that when you flew into ablooming rage you could not keep your hair on, butthat it wouldn't last and you would be back in aweek, because you knew he couldn't do withoutyou. He set my mind at rest by treating the ideaof any lasting breach between you as somethingtoo absurd for speech. But I tell you this forcertain, that I saw all that passed between him and_la Sera_, and that if you are keeping your resentmentalive with the thought that he was guilty of anythingbut an ill-judged joke, you are doing grievousinjustice to him as well as yourself. Return to him,Signora, forthwith; and beware henceforward offoolish jealousy and needless quarrels!"

  The foregoing is a much more complete versionof what the photograph seemed to say thanMrs. Aiken's fragmentary report to her cousin. She hadnot Mr. Pelly's extraordinary memory, and,moreover, she had to omit phrases and even sentencesthat were given in Italian. Miss Volumnia Bax,when not interrupting, checked off the narrativewith nods at intervals, each nod seeming to befraught with confirmed foresight of the precedinginstalment. When it ended, she launched at once,without a moment's pause, into a well-consideredjudgment, or rather abstract of a Report of theCase, which her mind was already scheming, toread at the next meeting of the Psychomorphic.This Report, printed recently by the Society,containing all that Miss Volumnia said to her cousinon first hearing the tale, as well as many valuableremarks, commences as follows:

  "Case 54103A. Dream or Pseudodream, reportedby Miss Volumnia Bax. The subject of thisexperience, whom we will call Mrs. A., is reluctantto admit that she was not awake when it happened,however frequently the absurdity of this view ispointed out to her. So strong is this impressionthat if other members of her family had beensubject to hallucination or insanity, or even victimsof alcoholism, we should incline to place this casein some corresponding class. As it is, we havenothing but the word of the narrator to warrantour assigning it a place outside ordinary SomnisticPhenomena."

  This story is not answerable for the technicalphrases of what is, after all, merely a suburbanResearch Society. The Report goes on to give,very fairly, the incident as already narrated, andconcludes thus:

  "It will be observed that nothing that thedreamer put into the mouth of the photographicspeaker was beyond her imaginative powers,subconscious or superconscious. It may be urgedthat the absurdly romantic Italian story implies aknowledge of Italian matters which the dreamerdid not possess, or at least emphatically disclaims.But nothing but the verification of the story canprove that the names, for instance, were not due tosubconscious activity of the dreamer's brain. Onthe other hand--and this shows how closely theinvestigator of Psychic Phenomena has to followtheir intricacies--inquiry has elicited the fact thatMrs. A.'s husband once spent a week in Florence ata Pension in the Piazza Indipendenza and no doubtbecame familiar with the habits of Italians. Whatis more likely than that she should unconsciouslyremember passages of her husband's Italianexperience, as narrated by himself? We are certainlywarranted in assuming this as a working hypothesis,while admitting our obligation to sift ItalianHistory for some confirmation of the dramatic (butnot necessarily improbable) incident of IciliaCiaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi--both, by the way,suspiciously Florentine names! We repeat that,failing further evidence, we are justified in placingthis story in section M103, as a Pseudo-realHyper-mnemonism."

  The Report, of course, said nothing of the adviceits writer had felt warranted in giving Mrs. A., asa corollary to her summary of the views sheafterwards embodied in it. "If you want my opinion,Cousin Euphemia," she said, "it is that the sooneryou make it up with your husband the better! It'squite clear from the dream that you want to do so."

  "How do you make that out?" asked Mrs. Aiken.

  "Clearly! Your subconscious self constitutedthis nonsensical photograph the exponent of itsautomatically cryptic Idea, while you were in astate of Self-Induced Hypnosis...."

  "Does that mean while I was asleep?"

  "By no means. It is a condition brought aboutby fixing the attention. You had, by your ownadmission, been looking at the fire."

  "No--I held up the photograph."

  "Then you had been looking at the photograph."

  "Only the back."

  "It's the same thing. I am distinctly of opinionthat it was Self-Induced Hypnosis. In thiscondition the subconscious self may as it were take thebit in its teeth, and energize whatever bias towardscommon sense the subject may happen to possess. Inyour case the photograph's speech and its grotesquefictions were merely pegs, so to speak, on which tohang an exposition of your own subconsciouscryptic Idea. Does not the fact that you are atthis moment prepared to deny the existence of thisIdea prove the truth of what I say?"

  "I dare say it's very clever and very wise. But Ican't understand a word of it, and you can't expectme to. All I know is, that if it's to be submissionand Colossians and Ephesians and stuff, back toReginald I don't go. And as far as I can see,Science only makes it ten times worse.... So there!"

  "Your attitude of mind, my dear Euphemia,"said Miss Volumnia, "furnishes the strongestconfirmation possible of the truth of my interpretationof the Phenomenon. But I must go or I shall losemy train."

  "How I do hate patronizing people!" saidMrs. Aiken, going back into the drawing-room afterseeing her cousin off.