Septimus walked back to his club after his dinner with Zora, blessing his stars for two reasons:  first, because a gracious providence had restored him to favor in his goddess’s sight, and, secondly, because he had escaped without telling her of the sundered lives of Emmy and himself.  By the time he went to bed, however, having pondered for some hours over the interdependent relations between Zora, Sypher, Emmy, and himself, he had entangled his mind into a condition of intricate complication.  He longed to continue to sun himself in the presence of his divinity.  But being a married man (no matter how nominally), too much sunning appeared reprehensible.  He had also arranged for the sunning of Clem Sypher, and was aware of the indelicacy of two going through this delicious process at the same time.  He also dreaded the possible incredulity of Zora when he should urge the ferociousness of his domestic demeanor as the reason for his living apart from his wife.  The consequence was that after a sleepless night he bolted like a rabbit to his burrow at Nunsmere.  At any rate, the mission of the dog’s tail was accomplished.

His bolt took place on Friday.  On Saturday morning he was awakened by Wiggleswick.

The latter’s attire was not that of the perfect valet.  He wore an old, colored shirt open at the throat, a pair of trousers hitched up to his shoulder blades by means of a pair of red braces, and a pair of dilapidated carpet slippers.

“Here’s a letter.”

“Oh, post it,” said Septimus sleepily.

“You haven’t written it.  The missus has written it.  It has a French stamp and the Paris postmark.  You’d better read it.”

He put it on his master’s pillow, and went to the window to admire the view.  Septimus aroused, read the letter.  It was from Emmy.  It ran: 

  “DEAREST SEPTIMUS: 

“I can’t stand this loneliness in Paris any longer.  I can’t, I can’t.  If you were here and I could see you even once a week, I shouldn’t mind.  But to go on day after day indefinitely without a comforting word from you is more than I can bear.  You say the flat is ready.  I am coming over at once with baby and Madame Bolivard, who swears she will never leave me.  How she is going to get on in London without a word of English, I don’t know.  I don’t mind if I meet Zora.  Perhaps it will be better for you that I should.  And I think it will be quite safe for me now.  Don’t hate me and think me horrid and selfish, my dear Septimus, but I do want you.  I do.  I do.  Thanks for the toy train.  Baby enjoys the paint on the carriages so much; but Madame Bolivard says it isn’t good for him.  Dear, if I thought you wouldn’t forgive me for being such a worry, I wouldn’t worry you.

  “Your always grateful
  “EMMY.”

Septimus lit the half-smoked pipe of the night before that lay on the coverlet, and becoming aware of Wiggleswick, disturbed his contemplation of nature by asking him if he had ever been married.

“What?” asked Wiggleswick in the unmodulated tone of the deaf.

“Have you ever been married, Wiggleswick?”

“Heaps of times,” said the old man.

“Dear me,” said Septimus.  “Did you commit bigamy?”

“Bigamy?  No.  I buried ’em all honorable.”

“That,” said Septimus, “was very kind of you.”

“It was out of gratitude.”

“For their goodness?”

“No.  For being delivered from ’em.  I had a lot of experience before I could learn the blessedness of a single life.”

Septimus sighed.  “Yet it must be very nice to have a wife, Wiggleswick.”

“But ain’t yer got one?” bawled the disreputable body-servant.

“Of course, of course,” said Septimus hurriedly.  “I was thinking of the people who hadn’t.”

Wiggleswick approached his master’s bedside, with a mysteriously confidential air.

“Don’t you think we’re all cosy and comfortable here, sir?”

“Yes,” said Septimus dubiously.

“Well, I for one have nothing to complain of.  The vittles is good, and one sleeps warm, and one has one’s beer and ’baccy regular.  What more does a man want?  Not women.  Women’s a regrettable hincident.”

“Aren’t you cold standing there in your shirt sleeves, Wiggleswick?” asked Septimus, in his hesitating way.

Wiggleswick ignored the delicacy of the suggestion.

“Cold?  No.  If I was cold, I’d precious soon make myself warm.  Which I wish to remark, Mr. Dix, that now you’ve parted with the missus pro tem., don’t you think it’s more cosy and comfortable?  I don’t say but if she came here I’d do my best willingly.  I know my duty.  But, sir, a woman, what with her dusting and cleaning, and washing of herself in hot water, and putting flowers in mugs do upset things terrible.  I’ve been married oftener than you.  I know ’em.  Don’t you think we get on better, the two of us, as we are?”

“We get on very nicely,” said Septimus politely, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to do some cleaning and dusting to-day.  I’m awfully sorry to trouble you.  Mrs. Middlemist has returned to England, and may be down this afternoon.”

A look of dismay came over Wiggleswick’s crafty, weather-beaten face.

“Well, I’m jiggered.  I’m just jiggered,” said he.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” murmured Septimus.  “Bring me my shaving-water.”

“Are you going to get up?” asked Wiggleswick in a tone of disgusted incredulity.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be wanting breakfast.”

“Oh, no,” said Septimus, with the wan smile that sometimes flickered over his features, “afternoon tea will do ­with some bacon and eggs and things.”

The old man went out grumbling, and Septimus turned to his letter.  It was very kind of Emmy, he thought, to write to him so affectionately.

He spent the mild, autumn morning on the common consulting the ducks in the pond, and seeking inspiration from the lame donkey, his state of mind being still complicated.  The more he reflected on Emmy’s letter and on Wiggleswick’s views on women the less did he agree with Wiggleswick.  He missed Emmy, who had treated him very tenderly since their talk in the moonlight at Hottetot-sur-Mer; and he missed the boy who, in the later days in Paris, after her return, had conceived an infantile infatuation for him, and would cease crying or go to sleep peacefully if only he could gather a clump of Septimus’s hair in his tiny fingers.  He missed a thousand gossamer trifles ­each one so imperceptible, all added together so significant.  He was not in the least cosy and comfortable with his old villain of a serving-man.

Thus he looked forward, in his twilight way, to Emmy’s coming.  He would live, perhaps, sometimes in Nunsmere and sometimes in London.  Quite lately, on visiting his bankers, in order to make arrangements for the disposal of his income, he was surprised to find how rich he was; and the manager, an astoundingly well-informed person, explained that a commercial concern in which he held many shares had reached such a pitch of prosperity as to treble his dividends.  He went away with the vague notion that commercial companies were models of altruistic generosity.  The main point, however, made clear by the exceptionally intelligent manager, being that he was richer by several hundreds a year, he began to dream of a more resplendent residence for Emmy and the boy than the little flat in Chelsea.  He had observed that there were very nice houses in Berkeley Square.  He wondered how much a year they were, with rates and taxes.  For himself, he could perch in any attic close by.  He resolved to discuss Berkeley Square with Emmy as soon as she arrived.  William Octavius Oldrieve Dix, Member of Parliament, ought to start life in proper surroundings.

Clem Sypher, down for the week-end at Penton Court, burst in upon him during the afternoon.  He came with exciting news.  The high official in the Ordnance Department of the War Office had written to him that morning to the effect that he was so greatly impressed by the new quick-firing gun that he proposed to experiment forthwith, and desired to be put into communication with the inventor.

“That’s very nice,” said Septimus, “but shall I have to go and see him?”

“Of course,” cried Sypher.  “You’ll have to interview boards and gunners and engineers, and superintend experiments.  You’ll be a person of tremendous importance.”

“Oh, dear!” said Septimus, “I couldn’t.  I couldn’t, really.”

He was panic-stricken at the notion.

“You’ll have to,” laughed Sypher.

Septimus clutched at straws.  “I’m afraid I shall be too busy.  Emmy’s coming to London ­and there’s the boy’s education.  You see, he has to go to Cambridge.  Look here,” he added, a brilliant idea occurring to him, “I’m fearfully rich; I don’t want any more money.  I’ll sell you the thing outright for the two hundred pounds you advanced me, and then I shan’t have anything more to do with it.”

“I think before you make any proposals of the kind you ought to consult Mrs. Dix,” said Sypher with a laugh.

“Or Zora.”

“Or Zora,” said Sypher.  “She came down by the same train as I did.  I told her the good news.  She was delighted.”

He did not inform Septimus that, for all her delight, Zora had been somewhat sceptical.  She loved Septimus, she admitted, but his effectuality in any sphere of human endeavor was unimaginable.  Could anything good come out of Nazareth?

About half an hour later the goddess herself arrived, shown in by Wiggleswick, who had been snatching the pipe of the over-driven by the front-gate.  She looked flushed, resolute, indignant, and, on seeing Sypher, she paused for a second on the threshold.  Then she entered.  Sypher took up his hat and stick.

“No, no.  You had better stay.  You may help us.  I suppose you know all about it.”

Septimus’s heart sank.  He knew what “it” meant.

“Yes, Sypher knows.  I told him.”

“But why didn’t you tell me, dear Septimus, instead of letting me hear of it from mother and Cousin Jane?  I don’t think it was loyal to me.”

“I forgot,” said Septimus in desperation.  “You see, I sometimes remember it and sometimes forget it.  I’m not used to getting married.  Wiggleswick has been married several times.  He was giving me a lot of advice this morning.”

“Anyhow, it’s true?” asked Zora, disregarding Wiggleswick.

“Oh, yes!  You see, my ungovernable temper ­”

“Your what?”

It was no use.  On receiving the announcement she looked just as he had expected her to look.  He tried to stammer out his catalogue of infamies, but failed.  She burst out laughing, and Sypher, who knew all and was anxiously wondering how to save the situation, laughed too.

“My poor, dear Septimus,” she said kindly, “I don’t believe a word of it.  The woman who couldn’t get on with you must be a virago.  I don’t care whether she’s my own sister or not, she is treating you abominably.”

“But, indeed she’s not,” pleaded poor Septimus.  “We’re the best of friends.  I really want to live like this.  I do.  I can’t live without Wiggleswick.  See how cosy and comfortable he makes me.”

Zora looked round, and the cosiness and comfort made her gasp.  Cobwebs hung from the old oak beams across the ceiling; a day or two’s ashes defiled the grate; the windows were splashed with mud and rain.  There were no curtains.  Her finger drawn along the green baize table-cloth revealed the dust.  A pair of silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece were stained an iridescent brown.  The mirror was fly-blown.  In the corner of the room a tray held the remains of the last meal, and a plate containing broken food had overflowed onto a neighboring chair.  An odd, uncleaned boot lay, like a frowsy, drunken visitor, on the floor.  The springs of the armchair on which she sat were broken.

“It’s not fit for a pig to live in,” she declared.  “It’s a crime to leave you to that worthless old scoundrel.  I’ll talk to him before I go.  He won’t like it.  And then I’ll write to Emmy.  If that has no effect, I’ll go over to Paris and bring her to her senses.”

She had arrived royally indignant, having had a pitched battle with Cousin Jane, who took Emmy’s side and alluded to Septimus in terms of withering contempt.  Now she was furiously angry.  The two men looked at her with wistful adoration, for when Zora was furious in a good cause she was very beautiful.  And the adoration in each man’s heart was intensified by the consciousness of the pathetic futility of her noble rage.  It was for her own sake that the situation had arisen over which she made such a pother, and she was gloriously unconscious of it.  Sypher could not speak lest he should betray his knowledge of Septimus’s secret, and Septimus could only murmur incoherent ineffectualities concerning the perfection of Emmy, the worthlessness of himself, and the diamond soul that lodged in Wiggleswick’s forbidding body.  Zora would not listen to unreason.  It was Emmy’s duty to save her husband from the dust and ashes of his present cosiness, if she could do nothing else for him; and she, Zora, in her magnificence, was going to see that Emmy’s duty was performed.  Instead of writing she would start the next morning for Paris.  It would be well if Septimus could accompany her.

“Mrs. Dix is coming to London, I believe,” said Sypher.

Zora looked inquiringly at Septimus, who explained dis cursively.  Zora renounced Paris.  She would wait for Emmy.  For the time being the incident was closed.  Septimus, in his hospitality, offered tea.

“I’ll get it for you,” said Zora.  “It will be a good opportunity to speak sweetly to Wiggleswick.”

She swept out of the room; the two men lit cigarettes and smoked for a while in silence.  At last Sypher asked: 

“What made you send her the tail of the little dog?”

Septimus reddened, and ran two of the fingers of the hand holding the cigarette up his hair, and spilled half an inch of ash on his head.

“I broke the dog, you see,” he explained luminously, “I knocked it off the mantelpiece.  I’m always doing it.  When Emmy has a decent house I’ll invent something to keep dogs and things on mantelpieces.”

Sypher said:  “Do you know you’ve done me one of those services which one man rarely does for another.  I’ll never forget it to my dying day.  By bringing her to me you’ve saved my reason.  You’ve made me a different being.  I’m Clem Sypher ­but, by God you’re the Friend of Humanity.”

Septimus looked at him with the terrified expression of a mediaeval wrongdoer, writhing under an ecclesiastical curse.  He made abject apology.

“It was the only thing I could do,” said he.

“Of course it was.  And that’s why you did it.  I never dreamed when you told me to wait until I saw her before going mad or breaking my heart that you meant to send for her.  It has set me in front of a new universe.”

He rose and stretched his large limbs and smiled confidently at the world out of his clear blue eyes.  Two little words of Zora had inspired him with the old self-reliance and sense of predestination to great things.  Out of her own mouth had come the words which, when they had come out of Rattenden’s, had made his heart sink in despair.  She had called him a “big man.”  Like many big men, he was superstitious.  He believed Rattenden’s prophetic utterance concerning Zora.  He was, indeed, set in front of a new universe, and Septimus had done it by means of the tail of a little china dog.

As he was stretching himself, Wiggleswick shambled in, with the fear of Zora written on his wrinkled brow, and removed the tray and the plate of broken victuals.  What had passed between them neither he nor Zora would afterwards relate; but Wiggleswick spent the whole of that night and the following days in unremitting industry, so that the house became spick and span as his own well-remembered prison cells.  There also was a light of triumph in Zora’s eyes when she entered a few moments afterwards with the tea-tray, which caused Sypher to smile and a wicked feeling of content to enter Septimus’s mild bosom.

“I think it was high time I came home,” she remarked, pouring out the tea.

The two men supported the proposition.  The western hemisphere, where she had tarried so long, could get on very well by itself.  In the meantime the old eastern hemisphere had been going to pieces.  They had a gay little meal.  Now that Zora had settled Wiggleswick, arranged her plan of campaign against Emmy, and established very agreeable and subtle relations between Sypher and herself, she could afford to shed all her charm and gaiety and graciousness on her subjects.  She was infinitely glad to be with them again.  Nunsmere had unaccountably expanded; she breathed freely and no longer knocked her head against beams in bedroom ceilings.

She rallied Septimus on his new gun.

“He’s afraid of it,” said Sypher.

“What!  Afraid of its going off?” she laughed.

“Oh, no,” said Septimus.  “I’ve heard lots of them go off.”

“When?” asked Zora.

Septimus reddened, and for once was at a loss for one of the curiously evasive answers in which his timidity took refuge.  He fidgeted in his chair.  Zora repeated her jesting question.  “Was it when they were firing royal salutes in St. James’s Park?”

“No,” said Septimus.

His back being against the fading light she could not perceive the discomfiture on his face.  She longed to elicit some fantastic irrelevance.

“Well, where was it?  Why this mystery?”

“I’ll tell you two,” said Septimus.  “I’ve never told you before.  In fact, I’ve never told any one ­not even Wiggleswick.  I don’t like to think of it.  It hurts.  You may have wondered how I ever got any practical acquaintance with gunnery.  I once held a commission in the Militia Garrison Artillery.  That’s how I came to love guns.”

“By why should that pain you, my dear Septimus?” asked Zora.

“They said I was incompetent,” he murmured, brokenly, “and took away my commission.  The colonel said I was a disgrace to the service.”

Clem Sypher smote the arm of his chair and started up in his wrath.

“By heavens!  I’ll make the blundering idiot eat his words.  I’ll ram them down his throat with the cleaner of the new gun.  I’ll make you the biggest ornament the service ever possessed.  I’ll devote my existence to it!  The Dix gun shall wipe humanity off the face of the earth!”

“I don’t want it to do that,” said Septimus, meekly.

Zora begged his forgiveness very sweetly for her indiscretion, and having comforted him with glowing prophecies of fame and domestic happiness, went home with a full heart.  She loved Sypher for his generous outburst.  She was deeply touched by Septimus’s tragic story, but having a sense of humor she could not repress a smile at the thought of Septimus in uniform, handling a battery of artillery.