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“Yes,” said Di
“And good luck to you, Miss!”
They had just unclasped hands when the saleswoman came back.
“I’m so sorry to have bothered you,” smiled Di
“Do you think so, Madam? It’s a Paris model. I’ll see if I can get Mr. Better to do what he can for YOU—it’s YOUR frock. Miss Pole, find Mr. Better for me, will you?”
The girl, now in the black and white creation, went out.
Di
“Do your ma
“Well, no; in and out of dresses all day, it’s rather a restless occupation.”
“What becomes of them?”
“In one way or another they get married.”
How discreet! And soon after, Mr. Better—a slim man with grey hair and perfect ma
“Beg pardon, did I tread on your foot, Miss?”
As she was smiling her ‘No,’ a policeman reversed his white sleeves, and she crossed. She came to Gower Street, and walked rapidly up its singular desolation. ‘One more ribber, one more ribber to cross,’ and she was in the Meads, that network of mean streets, gutters, and child life. At the Vicarage both her Uncle and Aunt for once were in, and about to lunch. Di
“Old Tasburgh and I got Bentworth to speak to the Home Secretary, and I had this note from ‘the Squire’ last night. ‘All Walter would say was that he should treat the case strictly on its merits without reference to what he called your nephew’s status—what a word! I always said the fellow ought to have stayed Liberal.’”
“I wish he WOULD treat it on its merits!” cried Di
“It’s the reaction from the old times, Di
“I was wondering, Uncle, as I came along. What was the use of you and Hubert and Dad and Uncle Adrian, and tons of others doing their jobs faithfully—apart from bread and butter, I mean?”
“Ask your Aunt,” said Hilary.
“Aunt May, what IS the use?”
“I don’t know, Di
“I knew Aunt May would get out of answering. Now, Uncle?”
“Well, Di
“In his diary Hubert says that consideration for others is really consideration for ourselves. Is that true?”
“Rather a crude way of putting it. I should prefer to say that we’re all so interdependent that in order to look after oneself one’s got to look after others no less.”
“But is one worth looking after?”
“You mean: is life worth while at all?”
“Yes.”
“After five hundred thousand years (Adrian says a million at least) of human life, the population of the world is very considerably larger than it has ever been yet. Well, then! Considering all the miseries and struggles of mankind, would human life, self-conscious as it is, have persisted if it wasn’t worth while to be alive?”
“I suppose not,” mused Di
At this moment a maid came in.
“Mr. Cameron to see you, Sir.”
“Show him in, Lucy. He’ll help you to regain it, Di
Mr. Cameron entered; a short spare man getting on for fifty, with bright Celtic grey eyes, dark grizzled hair, and a slightly hooked nose. One of his hands was bound up, as if he had sprained a thumb.
“Hallo, Cameron,” said Hilary, rising. “In the wars again?”
“Well, Vicar, where I live, the way some of those fellows treat horses is dreadful. I had a fight yesterday. Flogging a willing horse, overloaded, poor old feller—never can stand that.”
“I hope you gave him beans!”
Mr. Cameron’s eyes twinkled.
“Well, I tapped his claret, and sprained my thumb. But I called to tell you, Sir, that I’ve got a job on the Vestry. It’s not much, but it’ll keep me going.”
“Splendid! Look here, Cameron, I’m awfully sorry, but Mrs. Cherrell and I have to go to a Meeting now. Stay and have a cup of coffee and talk to my niece. Tell her about Brazil.”
Mr. Cameron looked at Di
The next hour went quickly and did her good. Mr. Cameron had a fine flow. He gave her practically his life story, from boyhood in Australia, and enlistment at sixteen for the South African war, to his experiences since the Great War. Every kind of insect and germ had lodged in him in his time; he had handled horses, Chinamen, Kaffirs, and Brazilians, broken collar-bone and leg, been gassed and shell-shocked, but there was—he carefully explained—nothing wrong with him now but “a touch of this heart disease.” His face had a kind of i