chimpanzee approach more nearly to the
human than the adult chimpanzee does. That
seems to show that whereas our ancestors
were more Simian than we are, the
chimpanzee's were of a higher type than
the present species--in other words, the
chimpanzee is a degenerate. That enterprising
newspaper, the Daily Budget, being
13
hard up for something spicy, immediately
brought itself out with large headlines. " We
are not descended from monkeys, but are
monkeys descended from us^ Eminent
Professor says chimpanzees are decadent
humans." Shortly afterwards, a reporter
called to see Papa, and endeavoured to induce
him to write a series of popular articles on the
theory. I have seldom seen Papa so angry. He
turned the reporter out of the house with
scant ceremony, much to my secret sorrow, as
we were particularly short of money at the
moment. In fact, for a moment I meditated
running after the young man and informing
him that my father had changed his mind and
would send the articles in question. I could
easily have written them myself, and the
probabilities were that Papa would never
have learnt of the transaction, not being a
reader of the Daily Budget. However, I
rejected this course as being too risky, so I
merely put on my best hat and went sadly
down the village to interview our justly irate
grocer.
The reporter from the Daily Budget was the
only young man who ever came to our house.
There were times when I envied Emily, our
little servant, who "walked out" whenever
14
occasion offered with a large sailor to whom
she was affianced. In between times, to "keep
her hand in," as she expressed it, she walked
out with the greengrocer's young man, and
the chemist's assistant. I reflected sadly that I
had no one to "keep my hand in" with. All
Papa's friends were aged Professors—usually
with long beards. It is true that Professor
Peterson once clasped me affectiontely and
said I had a "neat little waist" and then tried
to kiss me. The phrase alone dated him
hopelessly. No self-respecting female has had
a "neat little waist" since I was in my cradle.
I yearned for adventure, for love, for
romance, and I seemed condemned to an
existence of drab utility. The village
possessed a lending library, full of tattered
works of fiction, and I enjoyed perils and
love-making at second hand, and went to
sleep dreaming of stern silent Rhodesians,
and of strong men who always "felled their
opponent with a single blow." There was no
one in the village who even looked as though
they could "fell" an opponent, with a single
blow or with several.
There was the cinema, too, with a weekly
episode of "The Perils of Pamela." Pamela
was a magnificent young woman. Nothing
15
daunted her. She fell out of aeroplanes, adventured in submarines, climbed skyscrapers
and crept about in the Underworld
without turning a hair. She was not really
clever, the Master Criminal of the Underworld
caught her each time, but as he seemed
loath to knock her on the head in a simple
way, and always doomed her to death in a
sewer-gas-chamber or by some new and
marvellous means, the hero was always able
to rescue her at the beginning of the
following week's episode. I used to come out
with my head in a delirious whirl--and then I
would get home and find a notice from the
Gas Company threatening to cut us off if the
outstanding account was not paid!
And yet, though I did not suspect it, every
moment was bringing adventure nearer to
me.
It is possible that there are many people in
the world who have never heard of the
finding of an antique skull at the Broken Hill
Mine in Northern Rhodesia. I came down
one morning to find Papa excited to the point
of apoplexy. He poured out the whole story
to me.
"You understand, Anne? There are
undoubtedly certain resemblances to the Java
16
skull, but superficial--superficial only. No,
here we have what I have always maintained--the
ancestral form of the Neanderthal
race. You grant that the Gibraltar skull is the
most primitive of the Neanderthal skulls
found? Why? The cradle of the race was in
Africa. They passed to Europe----"
"Not marmalade on kippers. Papa," I said
hastily, arresting my parent's absentminded
hand. "Yes, you were saying?"
"They passed to Europe on----"
Here he broke down with a bad fit of
choking, the result of an immoderate
mouthful of kipper-bones.
"But we must start at once," he declared,
as he rose to his feet at the conclusion of the
meal. "There is no time to be lost. We must
be on the spot--there are doubtless
incalculable finds to be found in the
neighbourhood. I shall be interested to note
whether the implements are typical of the
Mousterian period--there will be the remains
of the primitive ox, I should say, but not
those of the woolly rhinoceros. Yes, a little
army will be starting soon. We must get
ahead of them. You will write to Cook's today,
Anne?"
17
"What about money. Papa?" I hinted
delicately.
He turned a reproachful eye upon me.
"Your point of view always depresses me,
my child. We must not be sordid. No, no, in
the cause of science one must not be sordid."
"I feel Cook's might be sordid. Papa."
Papa looked pained.
"My dear Anne, you will pay them in ready
money."
"I haven't got any ready money."
Papa looked thoroughly exasperated.
"My child, I really cannot be bothered
with these vulgar money details. The bank—1
had something from the Manager yesterday,
saying I had twenty-seven pounds."
"That's your overdraft, I fancy."
"Ah, I have it! Write to my publishers."
I acquiesced doubtfully. Papa's books
bringing in more glory than money. I liked
the idea of going to Rhodesia immensely.
"Stern silent men," I murmured to myself in
an ecstasy. Then something in my parent's
appearance struck me as unusual.
"You have odd boots on. Papa," I said.
"Take off the brown one and put on the other
black one. And don't forget your muffler. It's
a very cold day."
18
In a few minutes Papa stalked off, correctly
booted and well mufflered.
He returned late that evening, and, to my
dismay, I saw his muffler and overcoat were
"Dear me, Anne, you are quite right. I took
them off to go into the cavern. One gets so
dirty there."
I nodded feelingly, remembering an
occasion when Papa had returned literally
plastered from head to foot with rich
Pleistocene clay.
Our principal reason for settling in Little
Hampsley had been the neighbourhood of
Hampsley Cavern, a buried cave rich in
deposits of the Aurignacian culture. We had a
tiny museum in the village, and the curator
and Papa spent most of their days messing
about underground and bringing to light
portions of woolly rhinoceros and cave bear.
Papa coughed badly all the evening, and
the following morning I saw he had a
temperature and sent for the doctor.
Poor Papa, he never had a chance. It was
double pneumonia. He died four days later.
19
2
EVERYONE was very kind to me. Dazed
as I was, I appreciated that. I felt no
overwhelming grief. Papa had never
loved me; I knew that well enough. If he had,
I might have loved him in return. No, there
had not been love between us, but we had
belonged together, and I had looked after
him, and had secretly admired his learning
and his uncompromising devotion to science.
And it hurt me that Papa should have died
just when the interest of life was at its height
for him. I should have felt happier if I could
have buried him in a cave, with paintings of
reindeer and flint implements, but the force
of public opinion constrained a neat tomb
(with marble slab) in our hideous local
churchyard. The vicar's consolations, though
well meant, did not console me in the least.
It took some time to dawn upon me that the
thing I had always longed for—freedom—was
at last mine. I was an orphan, and practically
penniless, but free. At the same time I
realized the extraordinary kindness of all
20
these good people. The vicar did his best to
persuade me that his wife was in urgent need
of a companion help. Our tiny local library
suddenly made up its mind to have an
assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called
upon me, and after making various ridiculous
excuses for failing to send in a proper bill, he
hummed and hawed a good deal and
suddenly suggested that I should marry him.
I was very much astonished. The doctor
was nearer forty than thirty and a round,
tubby little man. He was not at all like the
hero of "The Perils of Pamela," and even less
like a stern and silent Rhodesian. I reflected a
minute and then asked him why he wanted to
marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good
deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great
help to a general practitioner. The position
seemed even more unromantic than before,
and yet something in me urged towards its
acceptance. Safety, that was what I was being
offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home.
Thinking it over now, I believe I did the little
man an injustice. He was honestly in love
with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented
him from pressing his suit on those lines.
Anyway, my love of romance rebelled.
"It's extremely kind of you," I said. "But
21
it's impossible. I could never marry a man
unless I loved him madly."
"You don't think——?"
"No, I don't," I said firmly.
He sighed.
"But, my dear child, what do you propose
to do?"
"Have adventures and see the world," I
replied, without the least hesitation.
"Miss Anne, you are very much of a child
still. You don't understand——"
"The practical difficulties? Yes, I do,
doctor. I'm not a sentimental schoolgirl—I'm
a hard-headed mercenary shrew! You'd know
it if you married me!"
"I wish you would reconsider——"
"I can't."
He sighed again.
"I have another proposal to make. An aunt
of mine who lives in Wales is in want of a
young lady to help her. How would that suit
you?"
"No, doctor, I'm going to London. If
things happen anywhere, they happen in
London. I shall keep my eyes open and,
you'll see, something will turn up! You'll
hear of me next in China or Timbuctoo."
My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa's
22
London solicitor. He came down specially
from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist
himself, he was a great admirer of
Papa's works. He was a tall, spare man with a
thin face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as
I entered the room and taking both my hands
in his, patted them affectionately.
"My poor child," he said. "My poor, poor
child."
Without conscious hypocrisy, I found
myself assuming the demeanour of a bereaved
orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was
benignant, kind and fatherly--and without
the least doubt he regarded me as a perfect
fool of a girl left adrift to face an unkind
world. From the first I felt that it was quite
useless to try to convince him of the contrary.
As things turned out, perhaps it was just as
well I didn't.
"My dear child, do you think you can listen
to me whilst I try to make a few things clear
to you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Your father, as you know, was a very great
man. Posterity will appreciate him. But he
was not a good man of business."
I knew that quite as well, if not better than
Mr. Flemming, but I restrained myself from
23
saying so. He continued: "I do not suppose
you understand much of these matters. I will
try to explain as clearly as I can."
He explained at unnecessary length. The
upshot seemed to be that I was left to face life
with the sum of £87 17s 4d. It seemed a
strangely unsatisfying amount. I waited in
some trepidation for what was coming next. I
feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to
have an aunt in Scotland who was in want
of a bright young companion. Apparently,
however, he hadn't.
"The question is," he went on, "the
future. I understand you have no living
relatives?"
"I'm alone in the world," I said, and was
struck anew by my likeness to a film heroine.
"You have friends?"
"Everyone has been very kind to me," I
said gratefully.
"Who would not be kind to one so young
and charming?" said Mr. Flemming
gallantly. "Well, well, my dear, we must see
what can be done." He hesitated a minute,
and then said: "Supposing—how would it be
if you came to us for
a time?"
I jumped at the chance. London! The place
for things to happen.
24
"It's awfully kind of you," I said. "Might I
really? Just while I'm looking round. I must
start out to earn my living, you know?"
"Yes, yes, my dear child. I quite
understand. We will look round for
something--suitable.''
I felt instinctively that Mr. Flemming's
ideas of "something suitable" and mine were
likely to be widely divergent, but it was
certainly not the moment to air my views.
"That is settled then. Why not return with
me today?"
"Oh, thank you, but will Mrs.
Flemming----"
"My wife will be delighted to welcome
you."
I wonder if husbands know as much about
their wives as they think they do. If I had a
husband, I should hate him to bring home
orphans without consulting me first.
"We will send her a wire from the station,"
continued the lawyer.
My few personal belongings were soon
packed. I contemplated my hat sadly before
putting it on. It had orginally been what I call
a "Mary" hat, meaning by that the kind of
hat a housemaid ought to wear on her day
25
out—but doesn't! A limp thing of black straw
with a suitably depressed brim. With the
inspiration of genius, I had kicked it once,
punched it twice, dented in the crown and
affixed to it a thing like a cubist's dream of a
jazz carrot. The result had been distinctly
chic. The carrot I had already removed, of
course, and now I proceeded to undo the rest
of my handiwork. The "Mary" hat resumed
its former status with an additional battered
appearance which made it even more
depressing than formerly. I might as well
look as much like the popular conception of
an orphan as possible. I was just a shade
nervous of Mrs. Flemming's reception, but
hoped my appearance might have a
sufficiently disarming effect.
Mr. Flemming was nervous too. I realized
that as we went up the stairs of the tall
house in a quiet Kensington square. Mrs.
Flemming greeted me pleasantly enough. She
was a stout, placid woman of the "good wife
and mother" type. She took me up to a
spotless chintz-hung bedroom, hoped I had
everything I wanted, informed me that tea
would be ready in about a quarter of an hour,
and left me to my own devices.
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