“Love lent is mortal, lavished, is divine.
Not by its intake is love’s fount supplied,
But by the ceaseless outrush of its tide.”

“And there is little Dickie,” Mabel said; she stood, one hand on the cot, her grey eyes lowered “he has brought such happiness into my life that sometimes I am afraid.”

The baby. Some women were like that, Dick knew. A child could build anew their world for them and make it radiant with a heaven-sent wonder. He had never thought of Mabel as a mother. He had been almost afraid to meet her after two years away her letters had given him no clue to her feelings; but then she rarely wrote of herself and she had never been the sort of person to complain. So he had come down to Sevenoaks rather wondering what he would find, remembering their last talk together the day before her wedding. Mabel had met him at the station and driven him back to the house in their car. She had talked chiefly about himself; was he glad to be back? had he enjoyed the years away? what plans had he made for the future? But her face, her quiet grey eyes had spoken for her. He knew she was happy, only the reason, the foundation of this happiness, had been a mystery to him until this moment.

“Little Dickie,” he repeated, leaning forward to peer at the small atom of humanity who lay fast asleep. “You have called it after me, then?”

Mabel nodded. “Of course; and don’t call him ‘it,’ Dick; he is a boy.”

A sudden intuition came to her, she lifted her eyes to Dick’s. “Tom wanted him called that, too,” she said, speaking a little quickly; “but that is not wonderful, because Tom always wants just exactly what he thinks I do. We will go downstairs now, shall we, Dick? You know Mother insisted upon a dinner-party in your honour this evening, and we are going on to some awful theatre in Sevenoaks afterwards.”

“Good Lord!” groaned Dick; “why did you let her?”

“I thought you wouldn’t be too pleased,” Mabel admitted; “but surely you must remember that it is no use arguing with mother about what she calls amusing us. She took the tickets as a pleasant surprise yesterday when she was in Sevenoaks. As Tom says, ’Let’s be amused with a good grace.’ Dick” she paused on the lowest step to look up at him “you haven’t the slightest idea of how good Tom is; he spoils mother almost as much as father did, and yet he manages her.”

“And you,” said Dick, “are absolutely and entirely happy, Mabel?”

“Absolutely and entirely,” she answered; he could see the truth of her words shining in her eyes.

Mrs. Grant loved dinner-parties and going-on to the theatre. It is to be believed that she imagined that the younger people enjoyed them too, because, for herself, she invariably went to sleep half-way through the most brilliant performance earlier, were the show not quite so good. Dick remembered many unpleasant entertainments in his youth which could be traced to this passion of Mrs. Grant’s. She would drill them into amusement, becoming excessively annoyed with them did they not show immediate appreciation, and pleasure is too fragile a dream for such treatment; it can be very easily destroyed.

Dick and Mabel found her downstairs, giving the final orders as to the setting out of the table to a harassed and sulky-looking maid. Everything had always to be done in Mrs. Grant’s own particular way, even down to the placing of the salt-spoons. She was the bane of the servants’ lives when they were new-comers; if they lived through the persecution they learned how best to avoid her gimlet eyes and could get a certain amount of amusement out of hoodwinking her. Dick contrived to display the correct amount of pleasure at the festivity in prospect for him. He wondered at the back of his mind how glad his mother really was to see him, and strolled away upstairs presently to his own room to unpack and change.

The first had already been accomplished for him by Tom’s valet, and the man apparently proposed to stay and help him change, murmuring something about a hot bath being ready.

“Thanks,” answered Dick, “then I will manage for myself; you need not wait.”

He stood for some time, the man having slipped discreetly away, staring out of the wide-open window. It was still late summer, and the days stayed very hot. Beyond the well-kept lawn at the back of the house the fields stretched away till they reached the fringe of the forest, and above the trees again rose the chalk hills that lay, he knew, just behind Wrotham. He was thinking vaguely of many things as he stood there; first of Mabel and the new happiness shining in her eyes. Mabel and her small son; thank heaven, she had won through to such content, for if anyone deserved to be happy it was Mabel. Then little moments from the past two years strayed into his mind. Hot, sun-blazing ports, with their crowds of noisy, gesticulating natives; the very brazen blue of an Indian sky over an Indian sea; the moonlit night that had made him kiss Mrs. Hayter; he could almost feel for one second the throb of her heart against his. Then, like a flash, as if all his other thoughts had been but a shifting background for this, the principal one, Joan’s face swung up before him. Where had she been going to that night? Who had her companion been? Why had not he had the courage to speak to her, to follow her at least, and find out where she lived? She was in London, anyway; he would have, even at the risk of hurting Mabel’s feelings, to get back to London as soon as possible. It was a huge place, certainly, to look for just one person in, but Fate would bring them together again; he had learned to be a believer in Fate. There was truth, then, behind all the strange stories one heard about Love. A girl’s voice, some face in the crowd, and a man’s heart was all on flame. The waters of common-sense could do nothing to quench that fire. He would search, ridiculous and absurd as it seemed, till he found her and then.... His thoughts broke off abruptly; there was a sound from downstairs which might be the dinner-bell, and he had not even had his bath yet.

The dinner-party, specially arranged by Mrs. Grant for Dick’s benefit, consisted of a Mr. and Mrs. Bevis, who lived in a large new house on the other side of the park, their two daughters, Dr. English, who had taken Dick’s place at Wrotham, and a young man from Sevenoaks itself. “Someone in a bank,” as Mrs. Grant described him.

Dick’s health was drunk and his mother insisted on “Just a little speech, dear boy,” which thoroughly upset his temper for the rest of the evening, so that he found it difficult to be even decently polite to the eldest Miss Bevis, whom he had taken in to dinner. The talk turned, after the speech-making episode, to the theatre they were bound for, Mr. Jarvis asking young Swetenham if he knew anything of the company and what it was like.

“Rather,” the youth answered, “been twice myself this time already. They are real good for travellers. Some jolly pretty girls among them.”

“Musical comedy, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bevis asked. “Dorothy has always so wanted to see The Merry Widow.”

“Well, that is what they are playing to-night,” Swetenham assured her, “and I hear it is Miss Bellairs’ best part. She is good, mind you, in most things, and there is a girl who dances top-hole.”

“I don’t know why we have never heard of it before,” Mrs. Bevis meandered gently on; “it is so clever of you, Mrs. Grant, to have found that there was a theatre in Sevenoaks at all. I am sure we never dreamed of there being one.”

“They use the town hall,” Dr. English put in. “If we can guarantee a large enough audience, I expect they will favour us at Wrotham.”

“Oh, what a splendid idea,” cried the youngest Miss Bevis; “fancy a real live theatrical company in Wrotham.”

“I hope it will stay at ‘fancy,’” grunted Mr. Bevis. “From what I remember of travelling companies, Wrotham is better without them.”

Despite all Swetenham’s praise and the Miss Bevis’ enthusiastic anticipation Dick settled into his seat in the fourth row of the so-called stalls with the firm conviction that he was going to be thoroughly bored.

“The one consolation,” he whispered to Mabel on their way in, “is that mother will not be able to sleep comfortably. I don’t want to appear vicious, but really that is a consolation.”

Mrs. Grant had apparently come to the same conclusion herself, for she was expressing great dissatisfaction in a queenly manner to the timid programme seller.

“Are these the best seats in the house?” they could hear her say. “It is quite absurd to expect anyone to sit in them for a whole evening.”

Mabel had to laugh at Dick’s remark, then she went forward to soothe her troubled parent as much as possible. “It isn’t like a London theatre, mother, and Tom has ordered one of the cars to stay just outside. The minute you get tired he will take you straight home. He says he does not mind, as he has so often seen The Merry Widow before.”

“Oh, well,” Mrs. Grant sighed, and settled her weighty body into one of the creaking, straight-backed wooden chairs of which the stalls were composed. “So long as you young people enjoy yourselves I do not really mind.”

Swetenham had purchased a stack of programmes and was pointing out the stars on the list to the youngest Miss Bevis. The back of the hall was rapidly filling, and one or two other parties strolled into the stalls. The orchestra had already commenced to play the overture rather shakily.

“Music, and bad music at that,” groaned Dick inwardly. He took a despairing glance round him and wondered if it would be possible to go and lose himself after the first act. Then the lights went out abruptly and the curtain went up.

The beginning chorus dragged distinctly; Dick heard Swetenham whispering to his companions that it would be better when the principals came on. In this he proved correct, for the Merry Widow girl could sing, and she could also act. Fanny’s prettiness, her quick, light way of moving, shone out in contrast to her surroundings. High and sweet above the uncertain accompaniment her voice rose triumphant. The back of the house thundered with applause at the end of her song.

“Now wait,” announced Swetenham, “the girl who dances comes on here. She hasn’t any business to, it is not in the play, but old Brown finds it a good draw.”

Mechanically the stage had been cleared, the characters sitting rather stiffly round the ball-room scene while the orchestra was making quite a good effort at “The Merry Widow Waltz.” There was a second’s pause, then down from the steps at the back of the stage came a girl; slim, straight-held, her eyes looking out over the audience as if they saw some vision beyond. It had taken Daddy Brown three very heated lessons to teach Joan this exact entrance. She was to move forward to the centre of the stage as if in a dream, almost sleep-walking, Fanny had suggested, the music was calling her. She was to begin her dance languidly, unwillingly, till note by note the melody crept into her veins and set all her blood tingling. “Now for abandon,” Daddy Brown would exclaim, thumping the top of the piano with his baton. “That is right, my girl, fling yourself into it.” And Joan had learned her lesson well, Daddy Brown and Fanny between them had wakened a talent to life in her which she had not known she possessed. Dance, yes, she could dance. The music seemed to give her wings. If she had seen her own performance she would probably have been a little shocked; she did not in the least realize how vividly she answered the call.

When she had finished she stood, flushed and breathless, listening to the shouted and clapped applause.

“Do it again, miss,” a man’s voice sounded from back in the hall. She tried to find him, to smile at him that was more of Fanny’s teaching. But Daddy Brown allowed no encores, it was only for a minute that she stood there, bowing and smiling, in her ridiculously short, flounced skirt and baby bodice, then the rest of the chorus moved out to take their places, and she vanished into the side wings again.

From the moment of her entry till the last flutter of her skirts as she ran off, Dick sat as if mesmerized, leaning slightly forward, his hands clenched. Every movement of her body had stabbed, as it were, at his heart. He had not heard the call of the music, he could not guess at the spirit that was awake in her, he only saw the abandon of which Daddy Brown was so proud the painted face, the smiles which came and went so gaily at the shouted applause. Common-sense might not kill love, but this! The knowledge that even this could not kill love was what clenched his hands.

At the end of the first act Swetenham leant across and asked if he was coming out for a drink. It may have been that the younger man had noticed Dick’s intense interest in the dancer, or perhaps it was merely because he wished to air a familiarity which struck him as delightfully bold, anyway, as they strolled about outside he put a suggestion to Dick.

“If you can arrange to stay on after the show,” he said, “and would care to, I could take you round and introduce you to those two girls, the one who dances and Miss Bellairs.”

“Miss Bellairs,” Dick repeated stupidly, his mind was grappling with a far bigger problem than young Swetenham could guess at.

“Yes,” the other answered, “I met her last time she was down here, and the other is a great pal of hers.”

He looked sideways at his companion as they went in under the lights; it occurred to him that Grant was either in a bad temper or had a headache, he looked anyway not in the least jovial. Swetenham almost regretted his rash invitation.

“Thank you,” Dick was saying, speaking almost mechanically, “I should like to come very much. It doesn’t in the least matter about getting home.”

Swetenham glanced at him again. “If it comes to that,” he said, “I have a motor-bike I could run you in on.”

The fellow, it suddenly dawned on him, had gone clean off his head about one of the girls. Swetenham could understand and sympathize with him in that.

Dick managed to convey the information that he was staying on to Mabel during the third act. She looked a little astonished; Dick, in the old days, had been so scornful about young men’s stage amusements. Anyway, it did not affect the party very much, for Mrs. Grant and Mr. Jarvis had already gone home, and Mabel was giving Dr. English a lift.

“Shall I send the motor back for you?” she asked, just as they moved away.

Dick shook his head. “Swetenham is going to give me a lift out,” he answered her, and Dr. English chuckled an explanation as they rolled away.

“What it is to be young, eh, Mrs. Jarvis? One can find beauty even in the chorus of a travelling company.”

But was that the explanation? Mabel wondered. Dick’s face had not looked as if he had found anything beautiful in the performance.

Swetenham and Dick made their way round to the side entrance of the town hall which acted as stage door on these occasions, after they had seen the rest of the party off, and Swetenham found someone to take his card up to Miss Bellairs.

“We might take them out to supper at the ‘Grand,’” he suggested, as they waited about for the answer. “I don’t know about the new girl, but Miss Bellairs is always good fun.”

“Yes,” agreed Dick half-heartedly. He was already regretting the impulse which had made him come. What should he do, or how feel or act, when he really met Joan face to face? His throat seemed ridiculously dry, and he was conscious of a hot sense of nervousness all over him which made the atmosphere of the night very oppressive. The boy who had run up with Swetenham’s card came back presently with a message.

“Would the gentlemen come upstairs, Miss Bellairs was just taking off her make-up.”

“Come on,” Swetenham whispered to Dick; “Fanny is a caution, she doesn’t mind a bit what sort of state you see her in.”

The boy led them up the stairs, through a small door and across what was evidently the back of the stage. At the foot of some steps on the further side he came to pause outside a door on which he knocked violently.

“Come in,” Fanny’s voice shrilled from inside; “don’t mind us.”

The boy with a grin threw the door open and indicated with his thumb that Swetenham and Dick might advance. He winked at them as they passed him, a fund of malignant impudence in his eyes. The room inside was small and scattered with a profusion of clothes. Fanny, attired in a long silk dressing wrap, sat on a low chair by the only table, very busy with a grease-pot and a soft rag removing the paint from her face. She turned to smile at Swetenham and held out her hand to Dick when he was introduced with a disarming air of absolute frankness.

“You catch me not looking my best,” she acknowledged; “just take a seat, dears; I’ll be as beautiful as ever in a jiffy.”

Joan Dick’s eyes found her at once was standing in a corner of the room behind the door. She had changed into a blouse and skirt, but the change had evidently only just been completed. The fluffy flounces of her dancing skirt lay on the ground beside her and the make-up was still on her face. At this close range it gave her eyes a curiously beautiful appearance the heavy lashes, the dark-smudged shadows, adding to their size and brilliancy. She did not come forward to greet the two men, but she lifted those strange eyes and returned Dick’s glance with a stare in which defiance and a rather hurt self-consciousness were oddly mixed.

The tumult of anger and regret which had surged up in his heart as he had watched her dance died away as he looked at her; pity, and an intense desire to shield her, took its place. He moved forward impulsively, and Fanny, noticing the movement, turned with a little laugh.

“I had forgotten,” she said; “my manners are perfectly scandalous. Joan, come out of your corner and be introduced. Mr. Swetenham is going to take us to supper at the ‘Grand,’ so he has just confided into my shell-like ear. I can do with a bit of supper, can’t you?”

Joan dragged her eyes away from Dick. The painted lashes lay like stiff threads of black against her cheeks. “I don’t think I will come,” she answered. “I am tired to-night, Fanny, and I shan’t be amusing.”

She turned away and reached up for her hat, which hung on a peg just above her head. “I think I would rather go straight home,” she added.

Fanny sprang to her feet and caught at her companion with impulsive hands, dragging her into the centre of the room.

“Nonsense,” she said, “you want cheering up far more than I do. Here, gentlemen,” she went on, “you perceive a young lady suffering from an attack of the blues. If you will wait two minutes I’ll make her face respectable doesn’t do to shock Sevenoaks and we will all go to supper. Meanwhile let me introduce you Miss Rutherford, known in the company as Sylvia Leicester, the some dancer of the Brown show.”

“If Miss Rutherford does not feel up to supper,” Dick suggested he wanted, if possible, to help the girl out of her difficulty; he realized that she did not want to come “let us make it another night, or perhaps you could all come to lunch with me to-morrow?”

Again Joan had lifted her eyes and was watching him, but now the defiance was uppermost in her mind. His face, to begin with, had worried her; the faint hint of having seen him somewhere before had been perplexing. She always disliked the way Fanny would welcome the most promiscuous acquaintances in their joint dressing-room at all times. She thought now that it must have been contempt which she had read in this man’s eyes, and apart from their attraction for in an indefinite way they had attracted her the idea spurred her to instant rebellion.

“No, let’s go to supper,” she exclaimed; “Fanny is quite right, I do want to be cheered up. Let’s eat, drink, and be merry.”

She turned rather feverishly and started rubbing the make-up off her face with Fanny’s rag. The other girl, meanwhile, slipped behind a curtain which hung across one side of the room and finished her dressing, carrying on an animated conversation with Swetenham all the time.

Dick drew a little closer to Joan. “Why do you come?” he asked. “You know you hate it and us.”

Under the vanishing paint the colour flamed to Joan’s face and died away-again. “Because I want to,” she said; “and as for hating you are wrong there; I don’t hate anything or anyone, except, perhaps, myself.” The last words were so low he hardly heard them.

They strolled across to the Grand Hotel; it was Fanny’s suggestion that they should not bother with a cab. She walked between the two men, a hand on each of them. Joan walked the further side of Swetenham, and Dick had no chance of seeing her even, but he knew that she was very silent, and, he could gather, depressed. At supper, which they had served in a little private room, and over the champagne, she won back to a certain hilarity of spirit. Swetenham was entirely immersed in amusing and being amused by Fanny, and Joan set herself Dick fancied it was deliberately to talk and laugh. It was almost as if she were afraid of any silence that might fall between them. He did not help her very much; he was content to watch her. Absurd as it may seem, he knew himself to be almost happy because she was so near him, because the fancied dream of the last two years had come to sudden reality. The other feelings, the disgust and disappointment which had lain behind their first meeting, were for the time being forgotten. Now and again he met her eyes and felt, from the odd pulse of happiness that leapt in his heart, that his long search was over. So triumphantly does love rise over the obstacles of common sense and worldly knowledge love, which takes no count of time, degrees, or place.

He had her to himself on the way home, for Fanny had elected to go for a spin in Swetenham’s side-car, suggesting that Dick and Joan should go home and wait up for them.

“We shan’t be long,” Swetenham assured Dick, remembering too late his promise to take the other man home, “and it is all right waiting there, they have got a sitting-room.”

So Joan and Dick walked home through the silent streets and all pretence of gaiety fell away from Joan. She walked without speaking, head held very high, moving beside him, her face scarce discernible under the shadow of her hat. It was not to be believed that she was quite conscious of all she meant to this man; but she could not fail to know that he was attracted to her, she could not help feeling the warmth with which his thoughts surrounded her. And how does Love come to a woman? Not on the same quick-rushing wings which carry men’s desires forward. Love creeps in more assiduously to a woman’s thoughts. He brings with him first a sense of shyness, a rather wistful longing to be more worthy of his homage. Unconsciously Joan struggled with this intrusion into her life. The man had nice eyes, but she resented the tumult they roused in her. Why was he not content to find in her just a momentary amusement, why did his eyes wake this vague, uncomfortable feeling of shame in her heart; shame against herself and her surroundings?

At the door of the lodgings she turned to him; for the first time he could see her face, lit up by a neighbouring lamp.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked, her voice hesitated on the words. “I do not want to ask you,” her eyes said as plainly as possible.

“No,” he answered, “I would much rather you did not ask me to.” Then suddenly he smiled at her. “We are going to be friends,” he said. “I have a feeling that I have been looking for you for years; I am not going to let you go, once found.”

He said the words so very earnestly, there was no hint of mockery in them, it could not seem that he was laughing at her. She put her hand into the one he held out.

“Well, friends,” she said; an odd note of hesitation sounded in her voice.