Beggar’s Choice

I wondered what on earth Z.10 could be wiring to me about. But the telegram wasn’t from Z.10.

It was from Isobel.

It said, “Must see you. Very urgent indeed. Meet me Olding Crescent Putney eight-thirty to-night without fail. Isobel.”

I stared and stared at the words. First they didn’t seem to mean anything, and then they seemed to mean a great deal too much, and then they went blank and didn’t mean anything at all.

I knew Mrs. Bell was talking, but I didn’t hear a word she said.

Presently I said, “No, there isn’t any answer,” and I went upstairs to my room.

Fay’s door was a little open as I passed, and I had a sort of feeling that she was watching me. I went up two steps at a time. I didn’t feel in the least like talking to Fay.

I shut the door of my room and sat down at my table with the telegram spread out in front of me. The thing just took my breath away.

What did Isobel know about Olding Crescent?

Why did she want to see me urgently-very urgently?

And why eighty-thirty?

It would be quite dark-black dark under those overhanging trees.

Why did Isobel want me to meet her in the dark?

I sat there and tried to think of answers to these questions. What made it difficult was that when I thought about meeting Isobel, Isobel herself just swamped everything else. Trying to think about the other things was like trying to hear street noises outside when an organ is playing-you know the noises are there, but the music just floods over and through them and blots them out.

XXX

The a

Cori

Mrs. Carthew had been painted in extreme youth. The portrait showed a girl of seventeen looking down at her new wedding-ring. A

Cori

After breakfast the ceremonies of the day proceeded. Cori

“There must have been something kind of soothing about being brought up,” said Cori

Mr. Carthew gazed at her suspiciously. It was a fine warm morning. She was wearing a pale gray sleeveless frock. Her arms and neck looked as soft and white as milk; her gray eyes were as clear and i

“You don’t want to go back. Nobody does. You like having your own way-don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” said Cori

“My own way? When you get to my age you don’t expect to get your own way-and it wouldn’t be any good if you did, because you wouldn’t get it, my dear.”

They were in the library. It was not a very studious-looking room. There was, to be sure, an old-fashioned roll-top desk, but the table at which he sat was strewn with picture papers and light novels. The walls gave more room to sporting prints than to bookshelves, and the chairs were less conducive to mental exercise than to sleep. Over the mantelpiece was another, and a later, portrait of Mrs. Carthew. It showed her tightly laced in black satin with a stiff fuzzy fringe under a hair-net. The small, pale features had a meek, obstinate expression. One felt that this was a lady who would say “Yes, John,” and “No, John,” and would then continue with meek pertinacity upon a predetermined way.

“It would have been rather fun to see them together,” thought Cori

Mr. Carthew passed to a water-color sketch of the church in which he had married A

A

It was a narrow, difficult place. If she took the next step forward, she could never go back any more. She had pla