I

Three days later Mr. Prohack came home late with his daughter in the substituted car.  He had accompanied Sissie to Putney for the final disposition of the affairs of the dance-studio, and had witnessed her blighting politeness to Eliza Brating and Eliza Brating’s blighting politeness to her.  The last kiss between these two young women would have desolated the heart of any man whose faith in human nature was less strong than Mr. Prohack’s.  “I trust that the excellent Eliza is not disfigured for life,” he had observed calmly in the automobile.  “What are you talking about, father?” Sissie had exclaimed, suspicious.  “I was afraid her lips might be scorched.  You feel no pain yourself, my child, I hope?” He made the sound of a kiss.  After this there was no more conversation in the car during the journey.  Arrived home, Sissie said nonchalantly that she was going to bed.

“Burn my lips first,” Mr. Prohack implored.

“Father!” said she, having kissed him.  “You are simply terrible.”

“I am a child,” he replied.  “And you are my grandmother.”

“You wait till I give you your next dancing-lesson,” Sissie retorted, turning and threatening him from the stairs.  “It won’t be as mild as this afternoon’s.”

He smiled, giving an imitation of the sphinx.  He was happy enough as mortals go.  His wife was perhaps a little better.  And he was gradually launching himself into an industrious career of idleness.  Also, he had broken the ice,-the ice, that is to say, of tuition in dancing.  Not a word had been spoken abroad in the house about the first dancing-lesson.  He had had it while Mrs. Prohack was, in theory at least, paying calls; at any rate she had set forth in the car.  Mr. Prohack and Sissie had rolled up the drawing-room carpet and moved the furniture themselves.  Mr. Prohack had unpacked the gramophone in person.  They had locked the drawing-room door.  At the end of the lesson they had relaid the carpet and replaced the furniture and enclosed the gramophone and unlocked the door, and Mr. Prohack had issued from the drawing-room like a criminal.  The thought in his mind had been that he was no end of a dog and of a brave dog at that.  Then he sneered at himself for thinking such a foolish thought.  After all, what was there in learning to dance?  But the sneer was misplaced.  His original notion that he had done something courageous and wonderful was just a notion.

The lesson had favoured the new nascent intimacy with his daughter.  Evidently she was a born teacher as well as a born dancer.  He perceived in two minutes how marvellous her feet were.  She guided him with pressures light as a feather.  She allowed herself to be guided with an intuitive responsiveness that had to be felt to be believed.  Her exhortations were delicious, her reprimands exquisite, her patience was infinite.  Further, she said that he had what she called “natural rhythm,” and would learn easily and satisfactorily.  Best of all, he had been immediately aware of the physical benefit of the exercise.  The household was supposed to know naught of the affair, but the kitchen knew a good deal about it somehow; the kitchen was pleasantly and rather condescendingly excited, and a little censorious, for the reason that nobody in the kitchen had ever before lived in a house the master of which being a parent of adult children took surreptitious lessons in dancing; the thing was unprecedented, and therefore of course intrinsically reprehensible.  Mr. Prohack guessed the attitude of the kitchen, and had met Machin’s respectful glance with a self-conscious eye.

He now bolted the front-door and went upstairs extinguishing the lights after him.  Eve had told her husband and child that she should go to bed early.  He meant to have a frolicsome, teasing chat with her, for the doctor had laid it down that light conversation would assist the cure of traumatic neurasthenia.  She would not be asleep, and even if she were asleep she would be glad to awaken, because she admired his style of gossip when both of them were in the vein for it.  He would describe for her the evening at the studio humorously, in such a fashion as to confirm her in her righteous belief that the misguided Sissie had seen the maternal wisdom and quitted dance-studios for ever.

The lamps were out in the bedroom.  She slept.  He switched on a light, but her bed was empty; it had not been occupied!

“Marian!” he called in a low voice, thinking that she might be in the boudoir.

And if she was in the boudoir she must be reclining in the dark there.  He ascertained that she was not in the boudoir.  Then he visited both the drawing-room and the dining-room.  No Marian anywhere!  He stood a moment in the hall and was in a mind to ring for Machin-he could see from a vague illumination at the entrance to the basement steps that the kitchen was still inhabited-but just then all the servants came upwards on the way to the attics, and at the strange spectacle of their dancing master in the hall they all grew constrained and either coughed or hurried as though they ought not to be caught in the act of retiring to bed.

Mr. Prohack, as it were, threw a lasso over Machin, who was the last of the procession.

“Where is your mistress, Machin?” He tried to be matter-of-fact, but something unusual in his tone apparently started her.

“She’s gone to bed, sir.  She told me to put her hot-water bag in the bed early.”

“Oh!  Thanks!  Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

He could not persuade himself to call an alarm.  He could not even inform Machin that she was mistaken, for to do so would have been equivalent to calling an alarm.  Hesitating and inactive he allowed the black-and-white damsels and the blue cook to disappear.  Nor would he disturb Sissie-yet.  He had first to get used to the singular idea that his wife had vanished from home.  Could this vanishing be one of the effects of traumatic neurasthenia?  He hurried about and searched all the rooms again, looking with absurd carefulness, as if his wife were an insignificant object that might have dropped unperceived under a chair or behind a couch.

Then he telephoned to her sister, enquiring in a voice of studied casualness.  Eve was not at her sister’s.  He had known all the while that she would not be at her sister’s.  Being unable to recall the number, he had had to consult the telephone book.  His instinct now was to fetch Sissie, whose commonsense had of late impressed him more and more; but he repressed the instinct, holding that he ought to be able to manage the affair alone.  He could scarcely say to his daughter:  “Your mother has vanished.  What am I to do?” Moreover, feeling himself to be the guardian of Marian’s reputation for perfect sanity, he desired not to divulge her disappearance, unless obliged to do so.  She might return at any moment.  She must return very soon.  It was inconceivable that anything should have “happened” in the Prohack family....

Almost against his will he looked up “Police Stations” in the telephone-book.  There were scores of police stations.  The nearest seemed to be that of Mayfair.  He demanded the number.  To demand the number of the police station was like jumping into bottomless cold water.  In a detestable dream he gave his name and address and asked if the police had any news of a street accident.  Yes, several.  He described his wife.  He said, reflecting wildly, that she was not very tall and rather plump; dark hair.  Dress?  Dark blue.  Hat and mantle?  He could not say.  Age?  A queer impulse here.  He knew that she hated the mention of her real age, and so he said thirty-nine.  No!  The police had no news of such a person.  But the polite firm voice on the wire said that it would telephone to other stations and would let Mr. Prohack hear immediately if there was anything to communicate.  Wonderful organisation, the London police force!

As he hung up the receiver he realised what had occurred and what he had done.  Marian had mysteriously disappeared and he had informed the police,-he, Arthur Prohack, C.B.  What an awful event!

His mind ran on the consequences of traumatic neurasthenia.  He put on his hat and overcoat and unbolted the front-door as silently as he could-for he still did not want anybody in the house to know the secret-and went out into the street.  What to do?  A ridiculous move!  Did he expect to find her lying in the gutter?  He walked to the end of the dark street and peered into the cross-street, and returned.  He had left the front-door open.  As he re-entered the house he descried in a corner of the hall, a screwed-up telegraph-envelope.  Why had he not noticed it before?  He snatched at it.  It was addressed to “Mrs. Prohack.”

Mr. Prohack’s soul was instantaneously bathed in heavenly solace.  Traumatic neurasthenia had nothing to do with Eve’s disappearance!  His bliss was intensified by the fact that he had said not a word to the servants and had not called Sissie.  And it was somewhat impaired by the other fact that he had been ass enough to tell the police.  He was just puzzling his head to think what misfortune could have called his wife away-not that the prospect of any misfortune much troubled him now that Eve’s vanishing was explained-when through the doorway he saw a taxi drive up.  Eve emerged from the taxi.

II

He might have gone out and paid the fare for her, but he stayed where he was, in the doorway, thinking with beatific relief that after all nothing had “happened” in the family.

“Ah!” he said, in the most ordinary, complacent, quite undisturbed tone, “I was just beginning to wonder where you’d got to.  We’ve been back about five minutes, Sissie and I, and Sissie’s gone to bed.  I really don’t believe she knows you were out.”

Mrs. Prohack came urgently towards him, pushing the door to behind her with a careless loud bang.  The bang might waken the entire household, but Mrs. Prohack did not care.  Mrs. Prohack kissed him without a word.  He possessed in his heart a barometric scale of her kisses, and this was a set-fair kiss, a kiss with a somewhat violent beginning and a reluctant close.  Then she held her cheek for him to kiss.  Both cheek and lips were freshly cold from the night air.  Mr. Prohack was aware of an immense, romantic felicity.  And he immediately became flippant, not aloud, but secretly, to hide himself from himself.

He thought: 

“It’s a positive fact that I’ve been kissing this girl of a woman for a quarter of a century, and she’s fat.”

But beneath his flippancy and beneath his felicity there was a lancinating qualm, which, if he had expressed it he would have expressed thus: 

“If anything did happen to her, it would be the absolute ruin of me.”

The truth was that his felicity frightened him.  Never before had he been seriously concerned for her well-being.  The reaction from grave alarm lighted up the interior of his mysterious soul with a revealing flash of unique intensity.

“What are all these lights burning for?” she murmured.  Lights were indeed burning everywhere.  He had been in a mood to turn on but not to turn off.

“Oh!” he said, “I was just wandering about.”

“I’ll go straight upstairs,” she said, trying to be as matter-of-fact as her Arthur appeared to be.

When he had leisurely set the whole of the ground-floor to rights, he followed her.  She was waiting for him in the boudoir.  She had removed her hat and mantle, and lighted one of the new radiators, and was sitting on the sofa.

“There came a telegram from Charlie,” she began.  “I was crossing the hall just as the boy reached the door.  So I opened the door myself.  It was from Charlie to say that he would be at the Grand Babylon Hotel to-night.”

“Charlie!  The Grand Babylon!...  Not Buckingham Palace.”  Eve ignored his crude jocularity.

“It seems I ought to have received it early in the afternoon.  I was so puzzled I didn’t know what to do-I just put my things on and went off to the hotel at once.  It wasn’t till after I was in the taxi that I remembered I ought to have told the servants where I was going.  That’s why I hurried back.  I wanted to get back before you did.  Charlie suggested telephoning from the hotel, but I wouldn’t let him on any account.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I thought you might be upset and wonder what on earth was going on.”

“What was going on?” Mr. Prohack repeated, gazing at her childlike maternal serious face, whose wistfulness affected him in an extraordinary way.  “What on earth are you insinuating?”

No!  It was inconceivable that this pulsating girl perched on the sofa should be the mother of the mature and independent Charles.

“Charlie’s staying at the Grand Babylon Hotel,” said Eve, as though she were saying that Charlie had forged a cheque or blown up the Cenotaph.

Even the imperturbable man of the world in front of her momentarily blenched at the news.

“More fool him!” observed Mr. Prohack.

“Yes, and he’s got a bedroom and a private sitting-room and a bathroom, and a room for a secretary-”

“Hence a secretary,” Mr. Prohack put in.

“Yes, and a secretary.  And he dictates things to the secretary all the time, and the telephone’s always going,-yes, even at this time of night.  He must be spending enormous sums.  So of course I hurried back to tell you.”

“You did quite right, my pet,” said Mr. Prohack.  “A good wife should share these tit-bits with her husband at the earliest possible moment.”

He was really very like what in his more conventional moments he would have said a woman was like.  If Eve had taken the affair lightly he would without doubt have remonstrated, explaining that such an affair ought by no means to be taken lightly.  But seeing that she took it very seriously, his instinct was to laugh at it, though in fact he was himself extremely perturbed by this piece of news, which confirmed, a hundredfold and in the most startling manner, certain sinister impressions of his own concerning Charlie’s deeds in Glasgow.  And he assumed the gay attitude, not from a desire to reassure his wife, but from mere contrariness.  Positively the strangest husband that ever lived, and entirely different from normal husbands!

Then he saw tears hanging in Eve’s eyes,-tears not of resentment against his lack of sympathy, tears of bewilderment and perplexity.  She simply did not understand his attitude.  And he sat down close by her on the sofa and solaced her with three kisses.  She was singularly attractive in her alternations of sagacity and helplessness.

“But it’s awful,” she whimpered.  “The boy must be throwing money away at the rate of twenty or twenty-five pounds a day.”

“Very probably,” Mr. Prohack agreed.

“Where’s he getting it from?” she demanded.  “He must be getting it from somewhere.”

“I expect he’s made it.  He’s rather clever, you know.”

“But he can’t have made money like that.”

“People do, sometimes.”

“Not honestly,-you know what I mean, Arthur!” This was an earthquaking phrase to come from a mother’s lips.

“And yet,” said Mr. Prohack, “everything Charlie did used to be right for you.”

“But he’s carrying on just like an adventurer!  I’ve read in reports of trials about people carrying on just like that.  A fortnight ago he hadn’t got fifty pounds cash in the world, and now he’s living like a millionaire at the Grand Babylon Hotel!  Arthur, what are you going to do about it?  Couldn’t you go and see him; to-night?”

“Now listen to me,” Mr. Prohack began in a new tone, taking her hands.  “Supposing I did go and see him to-night, what could I say to him?”

“Well, you’re his father.”

“And you’re his mother.  What did you say to him?”

“Oh!  I didn’t say anything.  I only said I should have been very glad if he could have arranged to sleep at home as usual, and he said he was sorry he couldn’t because he was so busy.”

“You didn’t tell him he was carrying on like an adventurer?”

“Arthur!  How could I?”

“But you’d like me to tell him something of the sort.  All that I can say, you could say-and that is, enquire in a friendly way what he has done, is doing, and hopes to do.”

“But-”

“Yes, my innocent creature.  You may well pause.”  He caressed her, and she tried to continue in unhappiness, but could not.  “You pause because there is nothing to say.”

“You’re his father at any rate,” she burst out triumphantly.

“That’s not his fault.  You ought to have thought of all this over twenty years ago, before Charlie was born, before we were married, before you met me.  To become a parent is to accept terrible risks.  I’m Charlie’s father.  What then?  Am I to give him orders as to what he must do and what he mustn’t?  This isn’t China and it isn’t the eighteenth century.  He owes nothing whatever to me, or to you.  If we were starving and he had plenty, he would probably consider it his duty to look after us; but that’s the limit of what he owes us.  Whereas nothing can put an end to our responsibility towards him.  You see, we brought him here.  We thought it would be so nice to have children, and so Charlie arrived.  He didn’t choose his time, and he didn’t choose his character, nor his education, nor his chance.  If he had his choice you may depend he’d have chosen differently.  Do you want me, on the top of all that, to tell him that he must obediently accept something else from us-our code of conduct?  It would be mere cheek, and with all my shortcomings I’m incapable of impudence, especially to the young.  He was our slave for nearly twenty years.  We did what we liked with him; and if Charlie fails now it simply means that we’ve failed.  Besides, how can you be sure that he’s carrying on like an adventurer?  He may be carrying on like a financial genius.  Perhaps we have brought a giant to earth.  We can’t believe it of course, because we haven’t got enough faith in ourselves, but later on we may be compelled to believe it.  Naturally if Charlie crashes after a showy flight, then he won’t be a financial genius,-he’ll only be an adventurer, and there may he some slight trouble in the law courts,-there usually is.  That is where we shall have to come forward and pay for the nice feeling of having children.  And, remember, we shan’t be in a position to upbraid Charlie.  He could silence us with one question, to which we could find no answer:  ’Why did you get married, you two?’ However, my pet, let us hope for the best.  It’s not yet a crime to live at great price at the Grand Babylon Hotel.  Quite possibly your son has not yet committed any crime, whatever.  If he succeeds in making a huge fortune and in keeping it, he will not commit any crime.  Rich men never do.  They can’t.  They never even commit murder.  There is no reason why they should.  Whatever they do, it is no worse than an idiosyncrasy.  Now tell me what our son talked about.”

“Well, he didn’t talk much.  He-he wasn’t expecting me.”

“Did he ask after me?”

“I told him about you.  He asked about the car.”

“He didn’t ask after me, but he asked after the car.  Nothing very original there, is there?  Any son would behave like that.  He must do better than that if he doesn’t mean to end as an adventurer.  I must go and see him, and offer him, very respectfully, some advice.”

“Arthur, I insist that he shall come here.  It is not proper that you should go running after him.”

“Pooh, my dear!  I’m rich enough myself to run after him without being accused of snobbishness or lion-hunting or anything of that kind.”

“Oh!  Arthur!” sobbed Eve.  “Don’t you think you’re been funny quite long enough?” She then openly wept.

The singular Mr. Prohack was apparently not in the least moved by his wife’s tears.  He and she alone in the house were out of bed; there was no chance of their being disturbed.  He did not worry about his adventurous son.  He did not worry about the possibility of Oswald Morfey having a design to convert his daughter into Mrs. Oswald Morfey.  He did not worry about the fate of the speculation in which he had joined Sir Paul Spinner.  Nor did he worry about the malady called traumatic neurasthenia.  As for himself he fancied that he had not for years felt better than he felt at that moment.  He was aware of the most delicious sensation of sharing a perfect nocturnal solitude with his wife.  He drew her towards him until her acquiescent head lay against his waistcoat.  He held her body in his arms, and came deliberately to the conclusion that to be alive was excellent.

Eve’s body was as yielding as that of a young girl.  To Mr. Prohack, who of course was the dupe of an illusion, it had an absolutely enchanting girlishness.  She sobbed and she sobbed, and Mr. Prohack let her sob.  He loosed the grip of his arms a little, so that her face, free of his waistcoat, was turned upwards in the direction of the ceiling; and then he very caressingly wiped her eyes with his own handkerchief.  He gave an elaborate care to the wiping of her eyes.  For some minutes it was a Sisyphean labour, for what he did she immediately undid; but after a time the sobs grew less frequent, and at length they ceased; only her lips trembled at intervals.

Mr. Prohack said ingratiatingly: 

“And whose fault is it if I’m funny?  Answer, you witch.”

“I don’t know,” Eve murmured tremblingly and not quite articulately.

“It’s your fault.  Do you know that you gave me the fright of my life to-night, going out without saying where you were going to?  Do you know that you put me into such a state that I’ve been telephoning to police-stations to find out whether there’d been any street accidents happening to a woman of your description?  I was so upset that I daren’t even go upstairs and call Sissie.”

“You said you’d only been back five minutes when I came,” Eve observed in a somewhat firmer voice.

“I did,” said Mr. Prohack.  “But that was neither more nor less than a downright lie.  You see I was in such a state that I had to pretend, to both you and myself, that things aren’t what they are....  And then, without the slightest warning, you suddenly arrive without a scratch on you.  You aren’t hurt.  You aren’t even dead.  It’s a scandalous shame that a woman should be able, by merely arriving in a taxi, to put a sensible man into such a paroxysm of satisfaction as you put me into a while ago.  It’s not right.  It’s not fair.  Then you try to depress me with bluggy stories of your son’s horrible opulence, and when you discover you can’t depress me you burst into tears and accuse me of being funny.  What did you expect me to be?  Did you expect me to groan because you aren’t lying dead in a mortuary?  If I’m funny, you are at liberty to attribute it to hysteria, the hysteria of joy.  But I wish you to understand that these extreme révulsions of feeling which you impose on me are very dangerous for a plain man who is undergoing a rest-cure.”

Eve raised her arms about Mr. Prohack’s neck, lifted herself up by them, and silently kissed him.  Then she sank back to her former position.

“I’ve been a great trial to you lately, haven’t I?” she breathed.

“Not more so than usual,” he answered.  “You know you always abuse your power.”

“But I have been queer?”

“Well,” judicially, “perhaps you have.  Perhaps five per cent or so above your average of queerness.”

“Didn’t the doctor say what I’d got was traumatic neurasthenia?”

“That or something equally absurd.”

“Well, I haven’t got it any more.  I’m cured.  You’ll see.”

Just then the dining-room clock entered upon its lengthy business of chiming the hour of midnight.  And as it faintly chimed Mr. Prohack, supporting his wife, had a surpassing conviction of the beauty of existence and in particular of his own good fortune-though the matter of his inheritance never once entered his mind.  He gazed down at Eve’s ingenuous features, and saw in them the fastidious fineness which had caused her to recoil so sensitively from her son’s display at the Grand Babylon.  Yes, women had a spiritual beauty to which men could not pretend.

“Arthur,” said she, “I never told you that you’d forgotten to wind up that clock on Sunday night.  It stopped this evening while you were out, and I had to wind it and I only guessed what the time was.”