Maid In Waiting

He stared frostily.

“Why should I?”

“But they did, didn’t they?”

“Does that Professor chap say so?”

“I’ve never heard him, but I feel sure he thinks so.”

Again Di

“My brother went on his expedition.”

“Your brother? Ah!” It was just as if he had said to himself out loud: ‘This young woman wants something out of me.’

Di

“If you read Professor Hallorsen’s book,” she said, “I hope you will also read my brother’s diary.”

“I never read anything,” said Lord Saxenden; “haven’t time. But I remember now. Bolivia—he shot a man, didn’t he, and lost the transport?”

“He had to shoot the man to save his own life, and he had to flog two for continual cruelty to the mules; then all but three men deserted, stampeding the mules. He was the only white man there, with a lot of Indian half-castes.”

And to his frosty shrewd eyes she raised her own suddenly, remembering Sir Lawrence’s: ‘Give him the Botticellian eye, Di

“Might I read you a little of his diary?”

“Well, if there’s time.”

“When?”

“To-night? I have to go up after shooting tomorrow.”

“Any time that suits you,” she said, hardily.

“There won’t be a chance before di

“I can stay up till any hour.” She saw him give her a quick, all-over glance.

“We’ll see,” he said, abruptly. And at this minute they were joined by the others.

Escaping the last drive, Di

What passages from the diary should she read? Her mind faltered. She could see Saxenden’s face again when he said: “Your brother? Ah!” Could see the hard direct calculating insensitive character behind it. She remembered Sir Lawrence’s words: “Were there not, my dear?… Most valuable fellows!” She had just been reading the memoirs of a man, who, all through the war, had thought in moves and numbers, and, after one preliminary gasp, had given up thinking of the sufferings behind those movements and those numbers: in his will to win the war, he seemed to have made it his business never to think of its human side, and, she was sure, could never have visualised that side if he HAD thought of it. Valuable fellow! She had heard Hubert talk, with a curling lip, of ‘armchair strategists’—who had enjoyed the war, excited by the interest of combining movements and numbers and of knowing this and that before someone else did, and by the importance they had gained therefrom. Valuable fellows! In another book she had lately read, she remembered a passage about the kind of men who directed what was called progress: sat in Banks, City offices, Governmental departments, combining movements and numbers, not bothered by flesh and blood, except their own; men who started this enterprise and that, drawing them up on sheets of paper, and saying to these and those: ‘Do this, and see you dam’ well do it properly.’ Men, silk-hatted or plus-foured, who guided the machine of tropic enterprise, of mineral getting, of great shops, of railway building, of concessions here and there and everywhere. Valuable fellows! Cheery, healthy, well-fed, indomitable fellows with frosty eyes. Always dining, always in the know, careless of the cost in human feelings and human life. ‘And yet,’ she thought, ‘they really must be valuable, or how should we have rubber or coal, or pearls or railways or the Stock Exchange, or wars and win them!’ She thought of Hallorsen; he at least worked and suffered for his ideas, led his own charges; did not sit at home, knowing things, eating ham, tailoring hares, and ordering the movements of others. She turned into the Manor grounds and paused on the croquet lawn. Aunt Wilmet and Lady Henrietta appeared to be agreeing to differ. They appealed to her:

“Is that right, Di

“No. When the balls touch you just go on playing, but you mustn’t move Lady Henrietta’s ball, Auntie, in hitting your own.”

“I said so,” said Lady Henrietta.

“Of course you said so, Hen. Nice position I’m in. Well, I shall just agree to differ and go on,” and Aunt Wilmet hit her ball through a hoop, moving her opponent’s several inches in so doing.

“Isn’t she an unscrupulous woman?” murmured Lady Henrietta, plaintively, and Di

“You’re like the Iron Duke, Auntie,” she said, “except that you don’t use the word ‘damn’ quite so often.”

“She does,” said Lady Henrietta; “her language is appalling.”

“Go on, Hen!” said Aunt Wilmet in a flattered voice.

Di

When she was dressed she went to Fleur’s room.

Her aunt’s maid was passing a minute mowing-machine over the back of Fleur’s neck, while Michael, in the doorway of his dressing-room, had his fingers on the tips of his white tie.

Fleur turned.

“Hallo, Di

The maid faded out and Michael advanced to have a twist given to the ends of his tie.

“There!” said Fleur; and, looking at Di

“Yes. I’m to read him bits of Hubert’s diary to-night. The question is: Where will be suitable to my youth and—”

“Not i

Michael gri

“I expect I was wondering why you’d pulled them off.”

“You ought to have worn trouserettes and chased butterflies, like the two little Gainsborough girls in the National Gallery.”

“Cease these amenities,” said Fleur; “the gong’s gone. You can have my little sitting-room next door, and, if you knock, Michael can come round with a boot, as if it were rats.”

“Perfect,” said Di

“You never can tell,” said Michael; “he’s a bit of a goat.”

“That’s the room,” said Fleur, as they passed out. “Cabinet particulier. Good luck!…”