they became engaged.

it was a secret, furtive affair, for lilian desired it. he gave her his signet ring—a present from his father—and she wore it, though not on her engagement finger, in case people should ask questions. she gave humphrey a photograph of herself—in evening-dress—which he carried about in his pocket-book, to take out and look at frequently. he wrote to her every night—even when they had met during the day—long, long letters full of very high-sounding sentiments and praise of her. heavens! the pages he covered with great promises. her letters were not of the same quality: they were rather snappy and business-like, and held in them no romance or sentiment. now and again she called him "dear" in her letters, and sometimes "dearest," but they were for the most part inadequate letters, that made him feel as if he were being cheated out of the full measure of his love-affair.

she told him that she was five years older than he was, and it only puffed him with greater pride, to think that he had conquered her in spite of his youth.

in very truth, it was a conquest! for days and days she had withstood the eager battery of his assault on her heart. "no," she had said gently, "you're a dear boy and i like you ... but let's be friends."

he went through all the phases of anger, sulkiness, despair and gloom, pleading with her daily, until the final exultation came. he used to see her home as far as battersea, whenever his work allowed him freedom. there was a narrow, dark lane through which they[133] walked, so that he could talk in the darkness of his love for her. always, before they parted, she allowed him to kiss her. she kissed him too, and often they stood, with beating hearts, and lips met in one long kiss. he drew her to him, yielding and supple, and told her that she must marry him. she could resist no more, she let her head sink on his shoulder, and his finger caressed her chin and neck, and they stayed thus fettered with the exquisite moments of love.

"i will be so good to you," humphrey murmured.

"yes ... yes ..." she whispered, her last resistance gone. and that was how they became engaged.

but out of the glamour of their love and kisses there emerged the grey talk of practical things. "we don't know anything about each other," she cried.

"i know you.... i feel that i have known you all my life!" he insisted. "don't you feel like that towards me?" he asked, anxiously.

"perhaps i do," she said, and humphrey went into raptures over it. "isn't it wonderful," he said, "to think that only a few weeks ago we were really strangers, and now you have been in my arms—how can we be strangers, lilian, and kiss as we do?"

"have you told your mother yet?" he asked, one day.

"no—not yet," she said.

"oughtn't i to meet her?"

"i suppose so—wait a little longer," she pleaded. "have you told your aunt?"

"you asked me not to. i'd love to take you down to her—she'd like you, i'm certain. it wouldn't matter if she didn't."

they made plans, of course: nothing was settled about the day of their marriage. it was a question whether life was possible for them both on three pounds a week. "i'm sure to get a rise, soon," said humphrey.[134] "i'll go and ask for one, and tell ferrol i'm going to be married. we can live splendidly on four pounds a week. heaps of people live on less."

"i don't know.... it's mother i'm thinking of," she confessed.

"what about mother?" he asked.

"i'm wondering what she'll do without me."

"there are your sisters," he said. "how many are there, let me see"—he ticked them off—"mabel, florence and edith. that's enough for her to go on with."

her face grew wistful. "yes—that's enough," she echoed, her eyes not looking at him. "i ought to have told you, humphrey, long before this, but mother's rather dependent on me and edith. there's harry, of course, but he's still at the technical institute—he'll be able to help some day. florence is still at school—and mabel—mabel's got something the matter with her hip."

"well, what about your father?"

she winced. "father—father doesn't help much. he's—he's an invalid."

humphrey was young, and this was his first love, and the more obstacles there were to overcome, the greater seemed the prize to him. "we could send your mother a little money each week ..." he said. "it won't cost so much when you're not there."

"yes, we could do that. and i could still go on with my work."

"what," he cried, horrified, "you go to the special news agency after we're married?"

"yes, why not?"

"oh, lilian dear, i don't want you to do that. i want you to have a home of your own, just to sit there and arrange it as you like, and do nothing but loll in an arm-chair all day until i come home in the evening, and then we'll loll together."

[135]

she laughed. "you are a funny boy," she said. "i suppose you think a house doesn't want looking after. it's much harder work than typewriting."

"but don't you want a home," he persisted, mournful disappointment in his voice.

"of course i do, dear; i know what you mean—i was only teasing you. but, i do think, for the beginning, i ought to go on with my work. it's so much safer. supposing you get out of work, then i could keep things going for a time."

"i'm hanged if i'm going to live on you," he said indignantly.

they compromised by agreeing to the purchase of a typewriter—lilian was to found a little business of her own that could be done at home. plenty of people wanted typewriting, and she could earn almost a pound a week, she said, that would be enough for mother....

these practical discussions were very bitter to humphrey: they robbed the whole thing of the last vestige of beauty; they depressed him, he knew not why. she did not mean it, but everything she said, that had nothing to do with endearment and love, made him feel hopeless. he was only really happy when they rested as children in one another's arms, talking delightful nonsense between their kisses, and not thinking at all of the plans of their lives that puzzled them so much when they came to talk about them.

it was about this period that wratten came back from his honeymoon, and asked humphrey to come and dine with him at home, always assuming that neither of them would be kept by work. "tommy pride is coming if he can, and i've asked willoughby." it happened that humphrey was the only one of the invited guests from the office who was able to come. the news of a regent street burglary published in the afternoon[136] papers, made willoughby champ his false teeth—a habit of his when he was excited—run his hand through his tangled hair, and depart in mysterious ways. tommy pride was sent to a lecture that began at eight. "just my luck," he said to humphrey, with a wry smile. "the missis will be disappointed."

so wratten and humphrey went out together. "i say," said humphrey, on the way, "don't tell any one, but i'm engaged to be married."

"no—are you?" wratten said. "congratulations. when did that happen?"

"quite recently." out came the photograph.

"you're a lucky fellow. when are you going to get married?"

"i don't know yet—we haven't decided. do you think we can live on three pounds a week?"

"is that all you get, old man—you're worth more: it's a bit of a tight fit." humphrey wondered what wratten's salary was. perhaps wratten guessed his thoughts, for he said: "i don't like telling people what i get—there's a sort of secrecy about it—but, if you don't let it go any further, i'll tell you—i get ten pounds a week."

humphrey felt himself shrink into insignificance before that mighty sum. ten pounds seemed a tremendous salary to earn—no wonder wratten had married. it was too much for one man's needs.

"i say, that's pretty good," he said, admiringly.

"oh! you'll be worth more than that, some day," wratten said. "you're the kind of chap that gets on, i can see.... that's why i shouldn't be in a hurry to marry if i were you," he added; "i've seen lots of fellows stick in the mud by marrying too early. it doesn't give them a chance. marriage helps in some ways, and holds back in others ... a man is not so independent when he marries. he has to think of others besides[137] himself. unless, of course, his wife has a little means of her own."

he has to think of others besides himself!

that point of view had never come to humphrey before. why, he was marrying solely to please himself. marriage seemed to him, then, necessary to the fulfilment of his dreams. lilian was a mere excuse. he told her that he wanted to make her happy, blinding himself to the fact that he wanted to make himself happy. he was going to use her as a motive for his life, that was all. she would urge him on to success, encourage him, look after him, comfort him when he was in need of it—he had never thought of her at all, except as an accessory to his life. of course, if anybody had told humphrey this, at the time, he would have denied it, vehemently; protested his eternal love; sworn that she was always uppermost in his mind; and that it was his most ardent desire to work for her happiness. love not only blinds us to the imperfections of others, but twists the vision we have always held of ourselves.

wratten had taken a flat at hampstead—a little box of a flat—at a ridiculously high rent, but to humphrey, as he came into the sitting-room, it appeared as an ideal home. there was an air of repose and rest about it, the walls papered in a soft green, chintz curtains drawn over the windows, a carpet of a shade of green deeper than the walls, and old furniture about the room.

the artistic nature is always hidden below the practical journalist, and it comes to light in different ways. with some men it shows itself in a love of old books; with others, it bursts out in the form of writing other things than ephemeral newspaper "copy"; and with nearly all, the artist in them shakes itself free from its hiding-place and shines clear and strong in the home. there is no time for art during the day; no need for it, indeed. the[138] standard of what is good is not made by the reporter, but by the paper for which he writes.

and here, in wratten's home, humphrey found the vein of the artist in him, in his perception and appreciation of old furniture. he fondled his pieces. "here's a nice little rocking-chair," he said. "don't see many of these now."

"i like this," said humphrey, touching another old chair.

"ah! yes, that's a beauty," wratten replied. "i picked that up in ipswich frightfully cheap. it's an old dutch back chair of the seventeenth century." he tilted it up and ran his palm over the perfect curve of the cabriole legs, entirely absorbed in the pleasure of touching the chair.

"i didn't know you went in for this sort of thing," humphrey said.

"i've been getting things like this together for years ... they're so restful, these old things. can you imagine anything more peaceful than that book-case?" and he pointed to a beautiful empire book-case, with rows of books showing through the latticed glass and brass rosettes for handles to the drawers that rested on claw feet.

the change in wratten was really remarkable. although he was still serious, and his face in repose was gloomy, he seemed to have lost his brusque manner. marriage had undoubtedly softened him.

mrs wratten came into the room and welcomed humphrey. wratten slipped his arm through his wife's, and she looked up at him and smiled at him.... humphrey saw himself standing thus, in his own home, with lilian close to him, his companion for ever. it all seemed so very desirable. this little home was very compact and peaceful, thousands of miles removed from the restlessness of fleet street....

[139]

while they were talking, a young man and a woman were ushered into the room by the little maid-servant. the likeness between the two was unmistakable—they were obviously brother and sister. the young man was the taller of the two, very slender, with the thin and delicate hands of a woman. humphrey noticed the long fingers tapering to the well-kept nails. the face was the face of an ascetic, thin-lipped and refined. the eyes were peculiarly glowing, and set deeply beneath the overhanging eyebrows; the nose was finely chiselled; the nostrils sensitive and curling, with a faint suspicion of superciliousness. he was introduced to humphrey as kenneth carr, and humphrey knew the name at once. kenneth carr had the reputation of being a brilliant descriptive writer; he was on the staff of the herald, but, besides that, he had written several historical biographies, many novels, and was at work on a play. he belonged to a type which is a little apart from fleet street, with its wear and tear—a shy, scholarly man, who found that historical biographies and novels did not yield sufficient income, and, therefore, the grinding work of everyday journalism was preferable to pot boiling. fleet street was, to him, a stepping-stone. he would have been happier in the editorial chair of a weekly paper, or writing essays for the spectator and the saturday review, but, as it was, he threw in his lot with fleet street, and did his work so well that he stood at the top of the ladder. but fleet street had left its mark on his face—it was pale and thin, and the eyes had a strained, nervous look in them.

"awfully good of you to ask us," he said to mrs wratten. "elizabeth and i don't go out much, she gets so tired from her slumming."

his sister smiled—humphrey saw that the handsome features of kenneth carr became beautiful in his sister's face. the sharp lines about the nose and mouth were softened, her eyes were bluer and larger, her face rounded[140] more fully, and devoid of the hollows which made the face of kenneth so intellectual. the likeness between brother and sister finished with the lips—hers were very red, and were faintly parted, so that one had a glimpse of her teeth, like a string of white pearls. she wore her hair in two loops from a parting in the centre, and she had a habit of carrying her head a little forward, so that the outward curve of her neck was emphasized in its perfect grace.

"what does your brother mean by slumming, miss carr?" humphrey asked as they sat at dinner.

"he calls it slumming," elizabeth carr laughed, "but it isn't exactly that. i'm rather fond of the people who have no chance in life. i want to make a chance for them." she spoke banteringly, but her eyes had a curious way of growing large and earnest as if they were anxious to counteract the lack of seriousness in her voice. "i'm trying to make a thoroughfare through the blind alley," she said. "isn't it dramatic? can't you imagine me with pick and shovel, mr quain."

"what do you mean by the blind alley?" he asked.

she suddenly became grave. "of course, you've never thought of that—have you? it's just a phrase.... some day i'll explain to you fully. it's where the people who have no chance live."

"how do you help them?"

"we don't help them much, at present—we're only beginning. it's a life's work," she said, earnestly, "and it's a work for which a life would be gladly given. you've asked me the question i'm always asking myself—how is it to be done?"

"does your brother help?"

"kenneth—oh, as best he can. it's the apathy that we want to overcome. that's what makes the blind alley." she laughed. "we'll do it some day—i don't know how—but we'll do it."

[141]

kenneth carr's voice drawled across the table. "look out, mr quain, or elizabeth will have you in her toils. i'll bet she's talking slumming to you. you can't be a social reformer and a reporter, you know, nowadays. the two don't hang together."

"kenneth!" his sister said, with pretended indignation.

"look at me! she's making me compile a book about poverty that'll be nothing but statistics—who wants them outside blue books. she's got me in her toils."

the phrase amused humphrey: he thought of lilian, and began comparing her with the woman next to him. of course, they were not alike; the comparison irritated him, why compare people so entirely different. one might know elizabeth carr for years, and yet never know her; lilian was different. she seemed simpler, and yet.... he wondered if lilian had ever heard of the blind alley, or bothered about the people who have no chance.

when the dinner was finished, and they were all settling down to chatter, the telephone bell rang. wratten went to answer it. "it's the office," mrs wratten said, with disappointment in her voice.

wratten came back. "i'm frightfully sorry," he said. "the office wants me ... collard's arrested." he went over to his wife. "i shall be late, dear, don't sit up," he said.

"who's collard?" she asked.

"oh! the company promoter—reg'lar crook—but he might have waited until the morning to be arrested."

"filthy luck!" he grumbled, as he reappeared, shouldering himself into his overcoat. "having to leave all you people like this.... can't be helped."

the maid came in with coffee. wratten gulped a thimbleful, kissed his wife, and went out. the evening[142] seemed to have lost something of its pleasure with his sudden departure. they fell to talking over the ways of work and the calls of the office. it was as if fleet street had suddenly asserted itself, and shown the futility of trying to escape from it even for a few hours.

"poor mr wratten," elizabeth carr sighed, "i do think they're heartless."

"why don't you help us, miss carr?" humphrey said, with a laugh. "we're in the blind alley too."