“has anything happened in this town?” asked audrey of miss ingate.
it was the afternoon of the day following their arrival in london from paris, and it was a fine afternoon. they were walking from the charing cross hotel, where they had slept, to paget gardens.
“anything happened?” repeated miss ingate. “what you mean? i don’t see anything vehy particular on the posters.”
“everybody looks so sad and worried, compared with people in paris.”
“so they do! so they do!” cried miss ingate. “oh, yes! so they do! i wondered what it was seemed so queer. that’s it. well, of course you mustn’t forget we’re in england. i always did say it was a vehy peculiar place.”
“do we look like that?” audrey suggested.
“i expect we do.”
“i’m quite sure that i don’t, winnie, anyway. i’m really very cheerful. i’m surprisingly cheerful.”
it was true. also she both looked and felt more girlish than ever in paris. impossible to divine, watching her in her light clothes, and with her airy step, that she was the relict of a man who had so tragically died of blood-poisoning caused by bad table manners.
“i’ve a good mind to ask a policeman,” said she.
“you’d better not,” miss ingate warned her.
audrey instantly turned into the roadway, treating the creosoted wood as though it had been rose-strewn velvet, and reached a refuge where a policeman was standing. the policeman bent with benevolence and politeness to listen to her tale.
“excuse me,” she said, smiling innocently up at him, “but is anything the matter?”
“what street, miss?” he questioned, bending lower.
“is anything the matter? all the people round here are so gloomy.”
the policeman glanced at her.
“there will be something the matter,” he remarked calmly. “there will be something the matter pretty soon if i have much more of that suffragette sauce. i thought you was one of them the moment i saw you, but i wasn’t sure.”
this was the first time audrey had ever spoken to a policeman, save inspector keeble, at moze, who was a friendly human being. and she had a little pang of fear. the policeman was like a high wall of blue cloth, with a marvellous imitation of a human face at the top, and above the face a cupola.
“thank you,” she murmured reproachfully, and hastened back to miss ingate, who heard the tale with a grinning awe that was, nevertheless, sardonic. they pressed onwards to piccadilly circus, where the only normal and cheerful living creatures were the van horses and the flower-women; and up regent street, through crowds of rapt and mystical women and romantical men who had apparently wandered out of a play by henrik ibsen.
they then took a motor-bus, which was full of the same enigmatic, far-gazing heroines and heroes. when they got off, the conductor pointed dreamily in a certain direction and murmured the words: “paget square.” their desire was paget gardens, and, after finding paget square, paget mansions, paget houses, paget street, paget mews, and upper paget street, they found paget gardens. it was a terrace of huge and fashionable houses fronting on an immense, blank brick wall. the houses were very lofty; so lofty that the architect, presumably afraid of hitting heaven with his patent chimney cowls, had sunk the lowest storey deep into the earth. looking over the high palisades which protected the pavement from the precipice thus made, one could plainly see the lowest storey and all that was therein.
“whoever can she be staying with?” exclaimed miss ingate. “it’s a marchioness at least. there’s no doubt the very best people are now in the movement.”
audrey went first up massive steps, and, choosing with marked presence of mind the right bell, rang it, expecting to see either a butler or a footman.
a young woman, however, answered the ring. she wore a rather shabby serge frock, but no apron, and she did not resemble any kind of servant. her ruddy, heavy, and slightly resentful face fronted the visitors with a steady, challenging stare.
“does miss nickall live here?” asked audrey.
“aye! she does!” came the answer, with a northern accent.
“we’ve come to see how she is.”
“happen ye’d better step inside, then,” said the young woman.
they stepped inside to an enormous and obscure interior; the guardian banged the door, and negligently led them forward.
“it is a large house,” miss ingate ventured, against the silent intimidation of the place.
“one o’ them rich uns,” said the guardian. “she lends it to the cause when she doesn’t want it herself, to show her sympathy. saves her a caretaker—they all know i’m one to look right well after a house.”
having passed two very spacious rooms and a wide staircase, she opened the door of a smaller but still a considerable room.
“here y’are,” she muttered.
this room, like the others, was thoroughly sheeted, and thus presented a misty and spectral appearance. all the chairs, the chandelier, and all the pictures, were masked in close-fitting pale yellow. the curtains were down, the carpet was up, and a dust sheet was spread under the table in the middle of the floor.
“here’s some friends of yours,” said the guardian, throwing her words across the room.
in an easy chair near the fireplace sat miss nickall, her arm in splints and in a sling. she was very thin and very pallid, and her eyes brightly glittered. the customary kind expression of her face was modified, though not impaired, by a look of vague apprehension.
“mind how ye handle her,” the guardian gave warning, when nick yielded herself to be embraced.
“you’re just a bit of my paris come to see me,” said nick, with her american accent. then through her tears: “how’s tommy, and how’s musa, and how’s—how’s my studio? oh! this is miss susan foley, sister of jane foley. jane will be here for tea. susan—miss ingate and mrs. moncreiff.”
susan gave a grim bob.
“is jane foley coming? does she live here?” asked miss ingate, properly impressed by the name of her who was the st. george of suffragism, and perhaps the most efficient of all militants. “audrey, we are in luck!”
when nick had gathered items of information about paris, she burst out:
“i can’t believe i’ve only met you once before. you’re just like old friends.”
“so we are old friends,” said audrey. “your letters to winnie have made us old friends.”
“and when did you come over?”
“last night,” miss ingate replied. “we should have called this morning to see you, but mrs. moncreiff had so much business to do and people to see. i don’t know what it all was. she’s very mysterious.”
as a fact, audrey had had an interview with mr. foulger, who, with laudable obedience, had come up to town from chelmsford in response to a telegram. miss ingate was aware of this, but she was not aware of other and more recondite interviews which audrey had accomplished.
“and how did this happen?” eagerly inquired miss ingate, at last, pointing to the bandaged arm.
nick’s face showed discomfort.
“please don’t let us talk about that,” said nick. “it was a policeman. i don’t think he meant it. i had chained myself to the railings of st. margaret’s church.”
susan foley put in laconically:
“she’s not to be worried. i hope ye’ll stay for tea. we shall have tea at five sharp. janey’ll be in.”
“can’t they sleep here, susan?” nick whimpered.
“of course they can, and welcome,” said susan. “there’s more empty beds in this barracks than they could sleep in if they slept all day and all night.”
“but we’re staying at an hotel. we can’t possibly put you to all this trouble,” audrey protested.
“no trouble. it’s my business. it’s what i’m here for,” said susan foley. “i’d sooner have it than mill work any day o’ the week.”
“you’re just going to be very mean if you don’t stay here,” nick faltered. tears stood in her eyes again. “you don’t know how i feel.” she murmured something about betty burke’s doings,
“we will stay! we will stay!” miss ingate agreed hastily. and, unperceived by nick, she gave audrey a glance in which irony and tenderness were mingled. it was as if she had whispered, “the nerves of this angel have all gone to pieces. we must humour the little sentimental simpleton.”
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