you not defending the chemist who cremated his fifth wife alive in a retort, or the cashier who hypnotised the head of his firm and made him sign cheques with his eyes shut, or the typhus-germ murderer, or something nice and interesting of that sort? Are you growing lazy in your old age, Mr. Vanbrugh?"
"Awfully!"
"How well you talk. When I have made a beautiful long speech and have beaten my memory black and blue for words I cannot remember, just to be agreeable—you say 'awfully,' and think you are making conversation."
"I am not good at conversation."
"Apparently not. However, you will not have much chance of showing off your weakness this morning."
"Why not?"
"You might say you are sorry! Why not? Because I am not going far."
"How far?"
"That is a rude question. It is like asking me where I am going. But I will be nice and tell you—just to make you feel your inferiority. I am going to see Marion Darche."
"Mrs. Darche lunches about this time."
"Exactly. It is within the bounds of possibility that I may be going to lunch with her."
"Oh, quite!"
Again there was a short pause as the two walked on together. Dolly took rather short, quick steps. Vanbrugh did not change his gait. There are men who naturally fall into the step of persons with whom they are walking. It shows an imitative disposition and one which readily accepts the habits of others. Neither Dolly nor her companion were people of that sort.
"I was thinking of Mrs. Darche," said Dolly at last.
"So was I. Extremes meet."
"They have met in that case, at all events," answered Dolly, growing serious. "It would not be easy to imagine a more perfectly ill-matched couple than Marion and her husband."
"Do you think so?" asked Vanbrugh, who was never inclined to commit himself.
"Think so? I know it! And you ought to know it, too. You are always there. Nobody is more intimate there than you are."
"Yes,—I often see them."
"Yes," said Dolly looking keenly at him, "and I believe you know much more about them than you admit. You might as well tell me."
"I have nothing especial to tell," answered Vanbrugh quietly.
"There is something wrong. Well—if you will not tell me, Harry Brett will, some day. He is not half so secretive as you are."
"That does not mean anything. The word secretive is not to be found in any respectable dictionary, nor in any disreputable one either, so far as I know."
"How horrid you are! But it is quite true. Harry Brett is not in the least like you. He says just what he thinks."
"Does he? Lucky man! That is just what I am always trying to do. And he tells you all about the Darches, does he?"
"Oh no! He has never told me anything. But then, he would."
"That is just the same, you know."
"What makes you think there is anything wrong?" asked Vanbrugh, changing his tone and growing serious in his turn.
"So many things—it is dreadful! What o'clock is it?"
"Ten minutes to one."
"Have you time for another turn before I go in?"
"Of course—all the time. We can walk round Gramercy Park and down Irving Place."
Instinctively both were silent as they passed the door of Marion Darche's house and did not resume their conversation till they were twenty paces further down the street. Then Vanbrugh was the first to speak.
"If it is possible for you and me to talk seriously about anything, Miss Maylands, I should like to speak to you about the Darches."
"I will make a supreme effort and try to be serious. As for you—"
Dolly glanced at Vanbrugh, smiled and shook her head, as though to signify that his case was perfectly hopeless.
"I shall do well enough," he answered, "I am used to gravity. It does not upset my nerves as it does yours."
"You shall not say that gravity upsets my nerves!"
"Shall not? Why not?" inquired Vanbrugh.
Dolly walked more slowly, putting down her feet with a little emphasis, so to say.
"Because I say you shall not. That ought to be enough."
"Considering that you can stand idiot asylums, kindergartens, school children, the rector and the hope of the life to come, and are still alive enough to dance every night, your nerves ought to be good. But I did not mean to be offensive—only a little wholesome glass of truth as an appetiser before Mrs. Darche's luncheon."
"Puns make me positively ill at this hour!"
"I will never do it again—never, never."
"You are not making much progress in talking seriously about the Darches. I believe it was for that purpose that you proposed to drag me round and round this hideous place, amongst the babies and the nurses and the small yellow dogs—there goes one!"
"Yes—as you say—there he goes, doomed to destruction in the pound. Be sorry for him. Show a little sympathy—poor beast! Drowning is not pleasant in this weather."
"Oh you do not really think he will be drowned?"
"No. I think not. If you look, you will see that he is a private dog, so to say, though he is small and yellow. He is also tied to the back of the perambulator—look—the fact is proved by his having got through the railings and almost upset the baby and the nurse by stopping them short. Keep your sympathy for the next dog, and let us talk about the Darches, if you and I can stop chaffing."
"Speak for yourself, Mr. Vanbrugh. You frightened me by telling me the creature was to be drowned."
"Very well. I apologise. Since he is to live, what do you think is the matter with the Darche establishment? Let me put the questions. Is old Simon Darche in his right mind, so as to understand what is going on? Is John Darche acting honestly by the Company—and by other people? Is Mrs. Darche happy?"
Miss Maylands paused at the corner of the park, looked through the railings and smoothed her muff of black Persian sheep with one hand before she made any reply. Russell Vanbrugh watched her face and glanced at the muff from time to time.
"Well?"
"I cannot answer your questions," Dolly answered at last, looking into his eyes. "I do not know the answers to any of them, and yet I have asked them all of myself. As to the first two, you ought to know the truth better than I. You understand those things better than I do. And the last—whether Marion is happy or not—have you any particular
