assure you of things impossible – well, there's a good case for believing your eyes, and the belief is pleasant. Wellgood sore over his two pounds, Isobel dissatisfied with fate but challenging it, sat silent. The young girl's lips curved in sweet memories and triumphant anticipations. The best thing in the world – was it actually to be hers? Almost she knew it, though she would not own to the knowledge yet.
Happy was she in the handkerchief flung by her hero! Happy was Harry Belfield in the ready devotion, the innocent happy surrender, of one girl, and the vexed challenge of another whom he had – whom he had at least meant to ignore; he could never answer for it that he would quite ignore a woman who displayed such a challenge in the lists of sex. But there was a happier being still among those who left Halton that night. It was Andy Hayes, before whom life had opened so, who had enjoyed such a wonderful day-off, who had been told not to undervalue himself, had been reproached with being a day after the fair, had undergone (as it seemed) an initiation into a life of which he had hardly dreamt, yet of which he appeared, in that one summer's day, to have been accepted as a part.
Yes, Andy was on the whole the happiest – happier even than Harry, to whom content, triumph, and challenge were all too habitual; happier even than Vivien, who had still some schooling to endure, still some of love's finicking doubts, some of hope's artificially prudent incredulity, to overcome; beyond doubt happier than Wellgood, who had lost two pounds, or Isobel Vintry, who had challenged and had been told that her challenge should be taken up – some day! Mrs. Belfield was intent on sleeping well, as she always did; Mr. Belfield on not coughing too much – as he generally did. They were not competitors in happiness.
Andy walked home. Halton lay half a mile outside the town; his lodgings were at the far end of High Street. All through the long, broad, familiar street – in old days he had known who lived in well-nigh every house – his road lay. He walked home under the stars. The day had been wonderful; they who had figured in it peopled his brain – delicate dainty Vivien first; with her, brilliant Harry; that puzzling Miss Vintry; Mr. Belfield, who talked so whimsically and had told him not to undervalue himself; Wellgood, grim, hard, merciless, yet somehow with the stamp of a man about him; Mrs. Belfield serenely matching with her house, her Vandykes, her garden, and the situation to which it had pleased Heaven to call her. Soberly now – soberly now – had he ever expected to be a part of all this?
High Street lay dark and quiet. It was eleven o'clock. He passed the old grammar school with a thought of the dear old father – B.A. Oxon, which had something to do with his wonderful day. He passed the Lion, where "the Bird" officiated, and Mr. Foulkes' office, where "Chinks" aspired to become "gentleman, one etc" – so runs the formula that gives a solicitor his status. All dark! Now if by chance Jack Rock were up, and willing to listen to a little honest triumphing! It had been a day to talk about.
Yes, Jack was up; his parlour lights glowed cosily behind red blinds. Yet Andy was not to have a clear field for the recital of his adventures; it was no moment for an exhibition of his honest pride, based on an unimpaired humility. Jack Rock had a party. The table was furnished with beer, whisky, gin, tobacco, and clay pipes. Round it sat old friends – Chinks and the Bird; the Bird's father, Mr. Dove, landlord of the Lion; and Cox, the veterinary surgeon. After the labours of the week they were having a little "fling" on Saturday night – convivially, yet in all reasonable temperance. The elder men – Jack, Mr. Dove, and Cox – greeted Andy with intimate and affectionate cordiality; a certain constraint marked the manner of Chinks and the Bird – they could not forget the afternoon's encounter. His evening coat too, and his shirt-front! Everybody marked them; but they had a notion that he might have caught that habit in London.
Andy's welcome over, Mr. Dove of the Lion took up his tale at the point at which he had left it. Mr. Dove had not Jack Rock's education – he had never been at the grammar school but he was a shrewd sensible old fellow, who prided himself on the respectability of his "house" and felt his responsibilities as a publican without being too fond of the folk who were always dinning them into his ears.
"I says to the girl, 'We don't want no carryings-on at the Lion.' That's what I says, Jack. She says, 'That wasn't nothing, Mr. Dove – only a give and take o' nonsense. The bar between us too! W'ere's the 'arm?' 'I don't like it, Miss Miles,' I says, 'I don't like it, that's all.' 'Oh, very good, Mr. Dove! You're master 'ere, o' course; only, if you won't 'ave that, you won't keep up your takings, that's all!' That's the way she put it, Jack."
"Bit of truth in it, perhaps," Jack opined.
"There's a lot of truth in it," said the Bird solemnly. "Fellers like to show off before a good-looking girl – whether she's behind a bar or whether she ain't."
"If there never 'adn't been barmaids, I wouldn't be the one to begin it," said Mr. Dove. "I knows its difficulties. But there they are – all them nice girls bred to it! What are ye to do with 'em, Jack?"
"A drink doesn't taste any worse for being 'anded – handed – to you by a pretty girl," said Chinks with a knowing chuckle.
"Then you give 'er one – then you stand me one – then you 'ave another yourself – just to say 'Blow the expense!' Oh, the girl knew the way of it – I ain't saying she didn't!" Mr. Dove smoked fast, evidently puzzled in his mind. "And she's a good girl 'erself too, ain't she, Tom?"
Tom blushed – blushed very visibly. Miss Miles was not a subject of indifference to the Bird.
"She's very civil-spoken," he mumbled shamefacedly.
"That she is – and a fine figure of a girl too," added Jack Rock. "Know her, Andy?"
Well, no! Andy did not know her; he felt profoundly apologetic. Miss Miles was evidently a person whom one ought to know, if one would be in the world of Meriton. The world of Meriton? It came home to him that there was more than one.
Mr. Cox was a man who listened – in that respect rather like Andy himself; but, when he did speak, he was in the habit of giving a verdict, therein deviating from Andy's humble way.
"Barmaids oughtn't to a' come into existence," he said. "Being there, they're best left – under supervision." He nodded at old Dove, as though to say, "You won't get any further than that if you talk all night," and put his pipe back into his mouth.
"The doctor's right, I daresay," said old Dove in a tone of relief. It is always something of a comfort to be told that one's problems are insoluble; the obligation of trying to solve them is thereby removed.
Jack accepted this ending to the discussion.
"And what have you been doing with yourself, Andy?" he asked.
Andy found a curious difficulty in answering. Tea and tennis at Nutley, dinner at Halton – it seemed impossible to speak the words without self-consciousness. He felt that Chinks and the Bird had their eyes on him.
"Been at work all the week, Jack. Had a day-off to-day."
Luckily Jack fastened on the first part of his answer. He turned a keen glance on Andy. "Business doin' well?"
"Not particularly," Andy confessed. "It's a bit hard for a new-comer to establish a connection."
"You're right there, Andy," commented old Mr. Dove, serenely happy in the knowledge of an ancient and good connection attaching to the Lion.
"Oh, not particularly well?" Jack nodded with an air of what looked like satisfaction, though it would not be kind to Andy to be satisfied.
"Playing lawn-tennis at Nutley, weren't you?" asked Chinks suddenly.
All faces turned to Andy.
"Yes, I was, Chinks," he said.
"Half
