A Likely Story

by William De Morgan

  CHAPTER VIII

  How Mrs. Euphemia Aiken found Madeline at home, whoconsequently did not go to a Bun-Worry. But she had metMiss Bax. How these ladies each confessed to Bogyism, ofa sort, and Madeline said make it up. How Mr. Aiken tookMr. Tick's advice about Diana, but could not find hisTransparent Oxide of Chromium. Man at his loneliest.No Tea. And what a Juggins he had been! Of Mrs. Gapp'sdipsomania. The Boys. How Mr. Aiken lit thegas, and heard a cab. How he nearly kissed Madeline,who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake,glory be! Was there soap in the house?

  Mrs. Aiken tortured her speculating powers forawhile with endeavours to put this curious event onan intelligible footing, and was before long in aposition to "dismiss it from her mind"; or, if notquite that, to give it a month's notice. It certainlyseemed much less true on the second day after ithappened than on the first; and, at that rate, in atwelvemonth it would never have happened at all.But her passive acceptance of a thing intrinsicallyimpossible and ridiculous--because, of course, weknow, etc., etc.--was destined to undergo a rudeshock. After taking her Aunt's advice about theduration of the usual pause--not to seem to have tooviolent a "_Sehnsucht_" for your card-leavers--thelady paid her visit to Miss Upwell at her parents'stuck-up, pretentious abode in Eaton Square. Wedo not give the number, as to do so would be tobring down a storm of inquiries from investigatorsof phenomena.

  She gave her card to the overfed menial, whoread it--and it was no business of his! He thenput it upside down--_his_ upside down--on a salver,for easy perusal by bloated oligarchs. The voice ofan oligarch rang out from the room he disappearedinto, quite deliciously, and filled the empty house.

  Madeline was delighted to see Mrs. Aiken; had beengoing to a Bun-Worry. _Now_ she should do nothingof the sort; she would much rather have tea athome, and a long talk with Mrs. Aiken. Sheconfirmed this by cancelling her out-of-door costume,possibly to set the visitor at her ease. Anyhow, ithad that effect. In fact, if either showed a traceof uneasiness, it was Madeline. She more thanonce began to say something she did not finish, andonce said "Never mind," to excuse her deficit. Ofcourse Mrs. Aiken had not the slightest idea of whatwas passing in her mind; or rather, imputed it to ahesitation on the threshold of sympathetic speechabout her own domestic unhappiness.

  Now the portion of this conversation that thestory is concerned with came somewhere near themiddle of it, and was as follows:

  "I think you said you had met my cousin,Volumnia Bax?"

  "At Lady Presteign's--yes, of course I did!With a splendid head of auburn hair, anda--strongly characteristic manner. We had a mostamusing talk."

  "She has a red head and freckles, and isinterested in Psych[oe]opathy." An analogue ofhom[oe]opathy, which would have stuck in thegizzard of the Clarendon Press, and even the DailyThis and the Evening That would have looked at adictionary about.

  "Oh," said Miss Upwell dubiously. "_I_ thoughther a fine-looking woman--a--a Lifeguardswoman,don't you know! And her nose carries her _pince-nez_without her having to _pincer_ her _nez_, whichmakes all the difference. She talked about you."

  "Oh, did she? I was going to ask if she did.What did she say about me?"

  "You mustn't be angry with her, you know! Itwas all very nice."

  "Oh yes, of course! It always is very nice.But--a--what _was_ it? You _will_ tell me, won't you?"

  "Certainly--every word! But I may havemistaken what she said, because there wasmusic--Katchakoffsky, I think; and the _cello_ only foundhe'd got the wrong Op., half-way through."

  "I suppose she was telling you all about me andReginald. I wish she would mind her own ... well,I wish she would Psych[oe]opathize and leave_me_ alone."

  "Dear Mrs. Aiken!--you said you wouldn't beangry. And it was only because _I_ mentioned youand talked of that delightful visit--of--of ours tothe Studio.... Oh no, no!--there's no more news.Not a word!" This came in answer to a look.Madeline went on quickly, glad to say no more ofher own grief. "It was not till I myself mentionedyou that she said, 'I suppose you know they'vesplit?'"

  "That was a nice way to put it. Split!"

  "Yes--it looked as if it was sea-anemones, andeach of you had split, making four." Miss Upwellthen gave a very truthful report of what Miss Baxhad told her, neither confounding the persons, nordividing the substance of her narrative.

  When she had finished, Mrs. Aiken began to say,"I suppose----" and underwent a restless pause.Then, as her hostess waited wistfully for more, shewent on, "I suppose she said I ought to go backand be a dutiful wife. I'm quite sick and tired ofthe way people talk."

  "She said"--thus Madeline, a little timidly--"thatshe thought you had acted under a grievousmisapprehension. That was what she said--'Agrievous misapprehension.'"

  "Oh yes!--and I'm to go back and beg pardon._I_ know.... But that reminds me...." Shereined up.

  "Reminds you...?" Madeline paused, for her tostart again.

  "Reminds me that I've never thanked you forthe photograph."

  "I thought you might like it. I can't tell youhow fond I am of the picture, myself. I wanted toget you to be more lenient to the poor girl. It isthe loveliest face!"

  "Oh, I dare say. But anyhow, it was most kindof you to give it me. Let me see!--what _was_ itreminded me of the photograph? Oh, ofcourse,--Volumnia Bax."

  "I was wondering why you said 'reminded.'"

  Now Mrs. Aiken had two or three or four or fivefaults, but secretiveness was not among them. Infact she said of herself that she "always outed witheverything." This time, she outed with, orexternalised--but we much prefer the lady's ownexpression--what proved of some importance inthe evolution of events. "Oh, of course, itwas because of the ... but it was suchnonsense!" So she spoke, and was silent. The catwas still in the bag, but one paw was out, at least.

  Miss Upwell had her own share of inquisitiveness,and a little of someone else's. "Never mind! Dotell _me_," she said, open-eyed and receptive. Theslight accent on "me" was irresistible.

  "It was silliness--sheer silliness!" saidMrs. Aiken. "An absurd dream I had, which madeVolumnia say it was evident I was only beingobstinate about Reginald, because of Science andstuff. And so going back and begging pardonreminded me. That was all."

  "But what had the picture to do with the dream?That's what _I_ want to know," said Madeline.

  "The picture was _in_ the dream," said Mrs. Aiken."But it was such _frightful_ nonsense."

  "Oh, never _mind_ what nonsense it was! Do--dotell me all about it. I can't tell you what anintense interest I take in dreams. I do indeed!"

  "If I do, you won't repeat it to anybody.Now will you? Promise!"

  "Upon my word, I won't. Honour bright!" Thereon,as Mrs. Aiken really wanted to tell, butwas dreadfully afraid of being thought credulous,she told the whole story of the dream, with everyparticular, just as she had told it to Miss VolumniaBax.

  Her hearer contrived to hold in, with a greateffort, until the story reached "Well--that's all!At least, all I can tell you. Wasn't it absurd?" Thenher pent-up impatience found vent. "_Now_listen to _my_ story!" she cried, so loud that herhearer gave a big start, exclaiming, "What--have_you_ got a story? Oh, do tell it! I've told you mine,you know!"

  Then Madeline made no more ado, but told thewhole story of Mr. Pelly's dream, omitting all buta bare sketch of the Italian narrative--just enoughto give local truth.

  "Then," said Mrs. Aiken, when she had finished,"I suppose _you_ mean that I ought to go back andbeg Reginald's pardon, too."

  "I _do_," said Madeline, with overwhelmingemphasis. "_Now_, directly!"

  "But you'll promise not to tell _anyone_ about thedream--my dream," said Mrs. Aiken.

  That same afternoon Mr. Reginald Aiken had beengiving careful consideration to Diana and Actaeon,unfinished; because, you see, he had a few daysbefore him of peace and quiet, and rest from beastlyrestoration and picture-cleaning. One--himself,for instance--couldn't be expected to slave at thatrot for ever. It was too sickening. But of cour
seyou had to consider the dibs. There was no gettingover that.

  However, apart from cash-needs, there wereadvantages about these interruptions. You camewith a fresh eye. Mr. Aiken had got Diana andActaeon back from its retirement into the Studio'spicked light, to do justice to his fresh eye. Twofriends, one of whom we have not before seen in hiscompany, were with him, to confirm or contradictits impressions.

  This friend, a sound judge you could alwaysrely upon, but--mind you!--a much better Criticthan an Artist, was seated before the picture witha short briar-root in his mouth, and his thumbs inthe armholes of a waistcoat with two buttons off.The other, with a calabash straining his facialmuscles, and his hands--thumbs and all--in histrouser-pockets, was a bit of a duffer and a stoopidfeller, but not half a bad chap if you came to that.Mr. Aiken called them respectively Tick and Dobbles.And they called him Crocky.

  So there were five fresh eyes fixed upon thepicture, two in the heads of each of these gentlemen,and the one Mr. Aiken himself had come with.

  Mr. Tick's verdict was being awaited, in consideratesilence. His sense of responsibility for itssoundness was gripping his visage to a scowl; anda steadfast glare at the picture, helped by glasses,spoke volumes about the thoroughness of itssource's qualifications as a Critic.

  Mr. Aiken became a little impatient. "Wonderif you think the same as me, Tick?" said he.

  "Wonder if you think the same as 'im!" said Dobbles.

  But Criticism--of pictorial Art at least--isn't athing to hurry over, and Mr. Tick ignored theseattempts at stimulus. However, he spoke withdecision when the time seemed ripe. Only, he firstthrew an outstretched palm towards the principalfigure, and turned his glare round to his companions,fixing them. And they found time, before judgmentcame, to murmur, respectively, "Wonder if he'llsay my idea!" and "Wonder if he'll say your idear?"

  "Wants puttin' down!" shouted Mr. Tick, leavinghis outstretched fingers between himself and Diana.

  And thereupon the Artist turned to Mr. Dobblesand murmured, "What did I tell you?" AndMr. Dobbles murmured back, "Ah!--what did you tellme?" not as a question, but as a confirmation.

  "What I've been thinking all along!" said Mr. Aiken.Then all three gave confirmatory nods, andsaid that was it, you might rely on it. Diana wastoo forward. Had Actaeon been able to talk, hemight have protested against this. For see what adifference the absence of the opposite characteristicwould have made to Actaeon!

  Conversation then turned on the steps to be takento get this forward Goddess into her place again,Mr. Tick, who appeared to be an authority, dweltalmost passionately on the minuteness of thechange required. "When I talk of puttin' down,"said he, "you mustn't imagine I'm referrin' to any_perceptible_ alteration. You change the tone of thatflesh, and you'll ruin the picture!"

  His hearers chorused their approbation, in suchterms as "Right you are, Tick, my boy!"--"That'sthe way to put it!"--"Bully for you, old cocky-wax!"and so on.

  Mr. Tick seemed pleased, and elaborated hisposition. "Strictly speakin'," said he, "what isneeded is an absolutely imperceptible lowerin' ofthe tone. Don't you run away with the idea thatyou can paint on a bit of work like that, to do itany good. You try it on, and you'll come a cropper." Thiswas agreed to with acclamations, and a runningcommentary of "Caution's the thing!"--"Youstick to Caution!"--and so on. The oratorproceeded, "Now, I never give advice, on principle.But if I was to do so in this case, and you were todo as I told you, you would just take the _smallestpossible_ quantity--the least, _least_, LEAST touch--nomore!--of..." But Mr. Tick had all but curledup over the intensity of his superlatives, and hehad to come uncurled.

  "What of?" said Mr. Aiken. And said Mr. Dobbles,not to be quite out of it, "Ah!--whatof?" Because a good deal turned on that.

  Mr. Tick had a paroxysm of decision. He seizedMr. Aiken's velveteen sleeve, and held him atarm's length. "Look here, Crocky!" said he."Got any Transparent Oxide of Chromium?"

  "Yes--somewhere!"

  "Well, now--just you do as I tell you. Got aclean number twelve sable? ... No?--well, numbereleven, then ... That'll do!--dip it in BenzineCollas and give it a rinse out. See? Then you giveit a rub in your Transparent Oxide, and wipe itclean with a rag. What's left will go all over Diana,and a little to spare..."

  "Won't she look green?" Mr. Aiken seemed reluctant.

  "Rather! But you do as I say, young feller, andask no questions.... 'What are you to do next?'--why,take an absoli-y_oo_tly white bit of old ragand wipe her quite clean from head to foot." Hisaudience suggesting here that no change would bevisible, he added, "That's the idear. Don't youchange the colour on any account. But you'llsee! Diana--she'll have gone back!"

  "There's somethin' in what old Tick says," saidMr. Dobbles, trying to come out of the cold. Henodded mysteriously. Mr. Aiken said he'd thinkabout it.

  Mr. Tick said, "I ain't advisin'. I never advise.But if I was to--there's the advice I should give!" Thenhe and Mr. Dobbles went their ways, leavingMr. Aiken searching for his tube of TransparentOxide of Chromium.

  Now, Mr. Reginald Aiken always knew whereeverything was in his Studio, and could lay his handon it at once. Provided always that you hadn'tmeddled and shifted the things about! And heknew this tube of colour was in his old japannedtin box, with the folding palette with the hingebroke. It might be difficult to get out by now,because he knew a bottle of Siccatif had broken allover it. But he was keen to make Diana go back,and if he went out to get another tube he wouldlose all the daylight.

  So he sat down to think where the dooce that boxhad got put. He lit a cigarette to think with. Onehas to do things methodically, or one soon gets intoconfusion.

  He passed before his mind the epoch-making_bouleversements_ of the past few years; notably theregular good clean-up when he married Euphemiafour years since, and took the second floor as wellas the Studio floor he had occupied as a bachelor.

  He finished that cigarette gloomily. Presently hedecided that what had happened on that occasionhad probably occurred again. History repeatsitself. That box had got shoved back into therecess behind the _cassettone_. He would have upMrs. Gapp, who came in by the day, in the place ofMrs. Parples, who had outstayed her welcome, to helphim to shift that great beastly useless piece oflumber. Mrs. Gapp was, however, easier to call over thestairs to than to have up. The number of times youcalled for Mrs. Gapp was according; it varied withyour own tenacity of purpose and your readinessto believe that she wasn't there. Mr. Aiken seemedeasily convinced that she was at the William theFourth, up the street. That was the substance ofhis reason for not shouting himself hoarse; thatis to say, it worked out thus as soliloquy. He wentback and tried for the japanned tin colour-box,single-handed.

  He had much better have gone out to buy a newtube of this useful colour, as in five minutes he wasone mass of filth. Only getting the things off thetop of that box was enough!--why, you never seeanything to come near the state they was in. Andif he had only rang again, sharp, Mrs. Gapp wouldhave heard the wire; only, of course, no one couldsay the bell wasn't broke, and maintain a reputationfor truthfulness. We are incorporating in our textsome verbal testimony of Mrs. Gapp's, given later.

  But Mrs. Gapp could not have testified--for shewas but a recent char, at the best--to the desolationof her unhappy employer's inner soul when, toolate for the waning light of a London day, he openedwith leverage of a screwdriver the lid of thatjapanned tin-box, and excavated from a bed ofthickened resin which he knew could never bedetached from the human hand, or anything else ittouched, an abject half-tube of colour which he hadto treat with a lucifer-match before he could getits cap off. And then only to find that it had goneleathery, and wouldn't squeeze out.

  If we had to answer an Examination question,"When is Man at his loneliest? Give instances,"we should reply--unless we had been otherwisecoached--"When he is striving, companionless, toget some sort of order into things; working on abasis of Chaos, feeling that he is the first that everburst into a dusty sea, choked with its me
taphoricalequivalent of foam. Instance Mr. Reginald Aiken,at the end of last century, in his Studio atChelsea." Anyhow, if this question had been then asked ofanyone and received this answer, and the Examinershad referred back to Mr. Aiken, before giving adecision, he would certainly have sanctioned full marks.

  But he gave himself unnecessary trouble. Onealways does, in contact with disinterred lumber, inwhich a special brood of spooks lies hid, temptinghim to the belief that this flower-stand only wantsa leg to be of some use, and that that fashionablearmchair only wants a serpentine segment of anarm and new straps under the seat to be quite ahandsome piece of furniture. Yes, and newAmerican leather, of course! Mr. Aiken had notto deal with these particular articles, but theprinciple was the same. He foolishly tamperedwith a sketching umbrella, to see if it would open:it certainly did, under pressure, but it wouldn't keepup nor come down, and could only be set right atthe shop, and a new one would be cheaper in theend. Pending decision, a large black beetle, whohad hoped to end his days undisturbed, fell off theunderside as its owner opened it, and very nearlysucceeded in getting down his back.

  The things that came out of that cavern behindthe _cassettone_!--you never would have thought it!A large can of genuine Amber Varnish that had hadits cork left out, and wouldn't pour; the Skeleton'smissing right scapula, only it wouldn't hold now;and, besides, one never wanted the Skeleton; agreat lump of modelling-wax and apparentlyinfinite tools--no use to Mr. Aiken now, because henever did any modelling, but they might be agodsend to some art-student; folio volumes ofanatomical steel-plates, that the engravers hadhoped would last for ever--a hope the mice mayhave shared, but they had done pretty well already;Mr. Aiken's old ivory foot-rule, which was the onlyaccurate one in the British Empire, and what thedooce had become of it he never could tell; plasterheads without noses, and fingers without hands,and discarded fig-foliage, like a pawnshop in Eden;things, too, for which no assignable purpose appearedon the closest examination--things that must havebeen the lifework of insane artisans, skilful andthorough outside the powers of language to express,but stark mad beyond a doubt. And a Dutchclock that must have been saying it was a quarter-pasttwelve, unrebuked, for four years or so past.

  Mr. Aiken need not have tried to pour out theAmber Varnish; where was the sense of standingwaiting, hoping against hope for liquidation? Heneed not have hunted up a pair of pliers to raisevain hopes in the scapula's breast--or itsequivalent--of a new lease of life. He need not havetried to soften the heart of that wax. Nor haveturned over the plates to see if any were left perfect.Nor need he have reconsidered the Inexplicables, tofind some plausible _raison d'etre_ for them, nor triedto wind up the Dutch clock with sporadic keys,found among marine stores in a nail-box. But hewas excusable for sitting and gloating over his ivoryfoot-rule, his sole prize from a wrestling-match withintolerable filth--or only tolerable by a Londoner.He was weary, and the daylight had vanished. Andeven if he had got a squeeze out of that tube, hecouldn't have used it. It was much too ticklisha job to do in the dark.

  He sat and brooded over his loneliness in thetwilight. How in Heaven's name had this odiousquarrel come about? Nonsense about Sairah!That absurd business _began_ it, of course. Seriousquarrels grow out of the most contemptible nonsense,sometimes. Oh no--there was something behind;some underlying cause. But he sought in vain toimagine one. They had always been such capitalfriends, he and Euphemia! It was true theywrangled a great deal, often enough. But come, Isay! If a man wasn't to be at liberty to wranglewith his own wife, what _were_ we coming to?

  He believed it was all the doing of that blessedold Aunt of hers. If she hadn't had Athabasca Villato run away to,--why, she wouldn't have run awayat all! She would have snapped and grizzled athim for a time, and then made it up. And thenthey would have had an outing, to Folkestone orLittlehampton, and it would all have been jolly.

  Instead of which, here they were, living apartand writing each other letters at intervals--for theykept to correspondence--and, so far as he could see,letters only made matters worse. He knew thatthe moment he took up his pen to write a regularsit-down letter he put his foot in it. He had alwaysdone that from a boy.

  Probably, throughout all the long summer thathad passed since his quarrel with his wife, he hadnot once missed saying, as a morning resolution tobegin the day with, that he wouldn't stand this anylonger. He would go straight away, after breakfast,to Athabasca Villa, and beard Aunt Priscillain her den, his mind seeming satisfied with theresolution in this form. But every day he put itoff, his real underlying objection to going being thathe would have to confess to having made himselfsuch an unmitigated and unconscionable Juggins.His Jugginshood clung to him like that Siccatif tohis fingers. It was too late to mitigate himself now.And six months of discomfort had contrived to slipaway, of which every day was to be the last. Andhere he was still!

  If he had understood self-examination--peopledon't, mostly--he might have detected in himselfa corner of thought of a Juggins-mitigatingcharacter. However angry he felt with his wife, hecould not, would not, admit the possibility that shebelieved real ill of him. His loyalty to her wentfurther than Geraint's to Enid, for he imputed toher acquittal of himself, from sheer ignorance of thesort of thing anybody else's wife might impute toanybody else's husband. Because, you see, he hadat heart such a very exalted view of her character.Perhaps she would not have thanked him for fixingsuch a standard for her to act up to.

  He sat on--on--in the falling darkness; thelittle cheerfulness of his friends' visit had quitevanished. The lumber he had wallowed in hadgrimed his heart as well as his garments. He wouldhave liked Tea--a great stand-by when pain andanguish wring the brow. But when you are tooproud to admit that your brow is being wrung, andyou know it is no use ringing the bell, becauseMrs. Gapp, or her equivalent, is at the William theFourth, why, then you probably collapse and submitto Fate, as Mr. Reginald Aiken did. It didn't muchmatter now if he had no Tea. No ministering Angelwas there to make it.

  He sat, collapsed, dirty and defeated, in theAustrian bent-wood rocking-chair. What was thatirruption of evening newsboys shouting? Repulseof some General, English or Dutch, at some berg ordrift; surrender of some other, Dutch or English, atsome drift or berg. He was even too collapsedto go out and buy a halfpenny paper. He didn'tcare about anything. Besides, it was the sameevery evening. Damn the Boers! Damn Cecil Rhodes!

  The shouters had passed--a _prestissimo_ movementin the Street Symphony--selling rapidly, before hehad changed his mind, and wished he had bought a_Star_. Never mind!--there would be another editionout by the time he went to dinner at Machiavelli's.He sat on meditating in the gloom, and wonderinghow long it would be before it was all jolly again.Of course it _would_ be--but when?

  A sound like a nervous burglar making an attempton a Chubb lock caught his ear and interested him.He appeared to identify it as Mrs. Gapp trying touse a latchkey, but unsuccessfully. He seemedmaliciously amused, but not to have any intentionof helping. Presently the sound abdicated, infavour of a subterranean bell of a furtive andirresolute character. Said Mr. Aiken, then, toSpace, "Mrs. Verity won't hear that, you may betyour Sunday garters," and then went by easystages to the front-door, to see--so further soliloquydeclared--how sober his housekeeper was after solong an absence. A glance at the good womanconvinced him that her register of sobriety would standat zero on any maker's sobriometer.

  She said that a vaguely defined community, calledThe Boys, had been tampering with the lock. Mr. Aiken,from long experience of her class at this stage,was able to infer this from what sounded like"Boysh been 'tlocksh--keylocksh--inchfearunsh." Thispronounced exactly phonetically will be clearto the student of Alcoholism; be so good as to readit absolutely literally.

  "Lock's all right enough!" said Mr. Aiken, afterturning it freely both ways. "Nobody's beeninterfering with it. You're drunk, Mrs. Gapp."

  Mrs. Gapp stood steady, visibly. Now, you can'tstand steady, visibly, without a suspicion of a lurchto show how splendid
ly you are maintaining yourbalance. Without it your immobility might bemere passionless inertia. Mrs. Gapp's eyes seemedas little under her control as her voice, and eachhad a strange, inherent power of convincing theobserver that the other was looking the wrong way.

  "Me?" said Mrs. Gapp.

  "Yes--you!" said Mr. Aiken.

  Mrs. Gapp collected herself, which--if we includein it her burden, consisting of some bundles offirewood and one pound four ounces of beefsteakwrapped in a serial--seemed in some danger ofredistributing itself when collected. She then spoke,with a mien as indignant as if she were Boadiceaseeking counsel of her country's gods, and said,"_Me_ r-r-runk! _Shober!_"--the last word expressingheartfelt conviction. Some remarks that followed,scarcely articulate enough to warranttranscribing, were interpreted by Mr. Aiken to theeffect that he was doing a cruel injustice to awidow-woman who had had fourteen, and had lived a pureand blameless life, and had buried three husbands.Much stress was laid on her own habitual abstentionfrom stimulants, and the example she had strivento set in her own humble circle. Her third hadnever touched anything but water--a curlew's life,as it were--owing to the force of this example.Let persons who accused her of drunkenness lookat home, and first be sure of their own sobriety.Her conscience acquitted her. For her part shethought intoxication a beastly, degrading habit--thatis to say, if Mr. Aiken interpreted rightly somethingthat sounded, phonetically, like "Bishley greyrabbit." At this point one of the wood-bundlesbecame undone, owing to the disgraceful quality ofthe string now in use. Mrs. Gapp was dissuadedwith difficulty from returning to the shop toexchange it, but in the end descended thekitchen-stairs, lamenting commercial dishonesty, andshedding sticks.

  The Artist seemed to regard this as normalcharing, nothing uncommon. He returned to theAustrian bent-wood chair, and sat down to thinkwhether he should light the gas. He began tosuspect himself of going imbecile with disheartenmentand depression. He was at his lowest ebb."I tell you what," said he--it was Space he wasaddressing--"I shall just go straight awayto-morrow after breakfast to Coombe, and tellMrs. Hay that if she doesn't come back I shall let theStudio and go to Japan."

  But Space didn't seem interested. It had threedimensions, and was content.

  He might as well light the gas as not; so he did it,and it sang, and burned blue. Then it stoppedsinging, and became _transigeant_, and you couldturn it down or up. Mr. Aiken turned it down, butnot too much, and listened to a cab coming downthe street. "That's not for here," said he. Hehad no earthly reason for saying this. He was onlymaking conversation; or rather, soliloquy. Buthe was wrong; at least so far as that the cab wasreally stopping, here or next door. And in thequadrupedations, door-slammings, backings,reproofs to the horse, interchange of ideas betweenthe Captain and the passengers of a hansom cab ofspirit, a sound reached Mr. Aiken's ear whicharrested him as he stood, with his finger on thegas-tap. "Hullo!" said he, and listened as a musicalCritic listens to a new performance.

  When towards the end of such a symphony, thefare seeks the exact sum he is named after, andweighs nice differences, some bars may elapsebefore the conductor--or rather the driver, else weget mixed with omnibuses--sanctions a start. Buta reckless spendthrift has generally discharged hisliability, and is knocking at the door or using hislatchkey, before his late driver has done pretendingto consider the justice of his award. It happenedso in this case, for before Mr. Aiken saw anythingto confirm or contradict the need for his closeattention, eight demisemiquavers, a pause, and aconcussion, made a good wind-up to the symphonyaforesaid, and the cab was free to begin the nextmovement on its own account.

  He discarded the gas-tap abruptly, and pouncedupon his velveteen, nearly pulling over the screenhe had hung it on. "That drunken jade must _not_go to the door," he gasped, as he bolted from theroom and down the stairs. He need not have beenuneasy. The jade was singing in the kitchen--eitherthe Grandfather's Clock or the Lost Chord--andwas keeping her accompanist waiting, with anintense feeling of pathos. Mr. Aiken swung downthe stairs, got his collar right in the passage, andnearly embraced the wrong lady on the doorstep,so great was his hurry to get at the right one.

  "Never mind!" said Madeline; and her laughwas like nightingales by the Arno in May. "Don'tapologize, Mr. Aiken. Look here!--I've broughtyou your wife home. Now kiss _her_!"

  "You're not fit to kiss anybody, Reginald; butI suppose there's soap in the house." So saidMrs. Aiken. And then, after qualifying for a liberal useof soap, she added, "What _is_ that hideous noise inthe kitchen?"

  "Oh, that?" said her husband. "_That's_ Mrs. Gapp."