'My friend,' he said, half aloud, 'you go into training. You're putty.'
She met him in the spare compartment, where her maid had laid breakfast.
'By Jove!' he said, halting at the doorway, 'I hadn't realised how beautiful you were!'
'The same to you, lad. Sit down. I could eat a horse.'
'I shouldn't,' said the maid quietly. 'The less you eat the better.' She was a small, freckled woman, with light fluffy hair and pale-blue eyes that looked through all veils.
'This is Miss Blaber,' said Miss Henschil. 'He's one of the soul-weary too, Nursey.'
'I know it. But when one has just given it up a full meal doesn't agree. That's why I've only brought you bread and butter.'
She went out quietly, and Conroy reddened.
'We're still children, you see,' said Miss Henschil. 'But I'm well enough to feel some shame of it. D'you take sugar?'
They starved together heroically, and Nurse Blaber was good enough to signify approval when she came to clear away.
'Nursey?' Miss Henschil insinuated, and flushed.
'Do you smoke?' said the nurse coolly to Conroy.
'I haven't in years. Now you mention it, I think I'd like a cigarette--or something.'
'I used to. D'you think it would keep me quiet?' Miss Henschil said.
'Perhaps. Try these.' The nurse handed them her cigarette-case.
'Don't take anything else,' she commanded, and went away with the tea-basket.
'Good!' grunted Conroy, between mouthfuls of tobacco.
'Better than nothing,' said Miss Henschil; but for a while they felt ashamed, yet with the comfort of children punished together.
'Now,' she whispered, 'who were you when you were a man?'
Conroy told her, and in return she gave him her history. It delighted them both to deal once more in worldly concerns--families, names, places, and dates--with a person of understanding.
She came, she said, of Lancashire folk--wealthy cotton-spinners, who still kept the broadened a and slurred aspirate of the old stock. She lived with an old masterful mother in an opulent world north of Lancaster Gate, where people in Society gave parties at a Mecca called the Langham Hotel.
She herself had been launched into Society there, and the flowers at the ball had cost eighty-seven pounds; but, being reckoned peculiar, she had made few friends among her own sex. She had attracted many men, for she was a beauty--the beauty, in fact, of Society, she said.
She spoke utterly without shame or reticence, as a life-prisoner tells his past to a fellow-prisoner; and Conroy nodded across the smoke-rings.
'Do you remember when you got into the carriage?' she asked. '(Oh, I wish I had some knitting!) Did you notice aught, lad?'
Conroy thought back. It was ages since. 'Wasn't there some one outside the door--crying?' he asked.
'He's--he's the little man I was engaged to,' she said. 'But I made him break it off. I told him 'twas no good. But he won't, yo' see.'
'That fellow? Why, he doesn't come up to your shoulder.'
'That's naught to do with it. I think all the world of him. I'm a foolish wench'--her speech wandered as she settled herself cosily, one elbow on the arm-rest. 'We'd been engaged--I couldn't help that--and he worships the ground I tread on. But it's no use. I'm not responsible, you see. His two sisters are against it, though I've the money. They're right, but they think it's the dri-ink,' she drawled. 'They're Methody--the Skinners. You see, their grandfather that started the Patton Mills, he died o' the dri-ink.'
'I see,' said Conroy. The grave face before him under the lifted veil was troubled.
'George Skinner.' She breathed it softly. 'I'd make him a good wife, by God's gra-ace--if I could. But it's no use. I'm not responsible. But he'll not take "No" for an answer. I used to call him "Toots." He's of no consequence, yo' see.'
'That's in Dickens,' said Conroy, quite quickly. 'I haven't thought of Toots for years. He was at Doctor Blimber's.'
'And so--that's my trouble,' she concluded, ever so slightly wringing her hands. 'But I--don't you think--there's hope now?'
'Eh?' said Conroy. 'Oh yes! This is the first time I've turned my corner without help. With your help, I should say.'
'It'll come back, though.'
'Then shall we meet it in the same way? Here's my card. Write me your train, and we'll go together.'
'Yes. We must do that. But between times--when we want--' She looked at her palm, the four fingers working on it. 'It's hard to give 'em up.'
'But think what we have gained already, and let me have the case to keep.'
She shook her head, and threw her cigarette out of the window. 'Not yet.'
'Then let's lend our cases to Nurse, and we'll get through to-day on cigarettes. I'll call her while we feel strong.'
She hesitated, but yielded at last, and Nurse accepted the offerings with a smile.
'You'll be all right,' she said to Miss Henschil. 'But if I were you'--to Conroy--'I'd take strong exercise.'
When they reached their destination Conroy set himself to obey Nurse Blaber. He had no remembrance of that day, except one streak of blue sea to his left, gorse-bushes to his right, and, before him, a coast-guard's track marked with white-washed stones that he counted up to the far thousands. As he returned to the little town he saw Miss Henschil on the beach below the cliffs. She kneeled at Nurse Blaber's feet, weeping and pleading.
Twenty-five days later a telegram came to Conroy's rooms: 'Notice given. Waterloo again. Twenty-fourth.' That same evening he was wakened by the shudder and the sigh that told him his sentence had gone forth. Yet he reflected on his pillow that he had, in spite of lapses, snatched something like three weeks of life, which included several rides on a horse before breakfast--the hour one most craves Najdolene; five consecutive evenings on the river at Hammersmith in a tub where he had well stretched the white arms that passing crews mocked at; a game of rackets at his club; three dinners, one small dance, and one human flirtation with a human woman. More notable still, he had settled his month's accounts, only once confusing petty cash with the days of grace allowed him. Next morning he rode his hired beast in the park victoriously. He saw Miss Henschil on horse-back near Lancaster Gate, talking to a young man at the railings.
She wheeled and cantered toward him.
'By Jove! How well you look!' he cried, without salutation. 'I didn't know you rode.'
'I used to once,' she replied. 'I'm all soft now.'
They swept off together down the ride.
'Your beast pulls,' he said.
'Wa-ant him to. Gi-gives me something to think of. How've you been?' she panted. 'I wish chemists' shops hadn't red lights.'
'Have you slipped out and bought some, then?'
'You don't know Nursey. Eh, but it's good to be on a horse again! This chap cost me two hundred.'
'Then you've been swindled,' said Conroy.
'I know it, but it's no odds. I must go back to Toots and send him away. He's neglecting his work for me.'
She swung her heavy-topped animal on his none too sound hocks. ''Sentence come, lad?'
'Yes. But I'm not minding it so much this time.'
'Waterloo, then--and God help us!' She thundered back to the little frock-coated