“Oh, I’ve nothing against Love.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Love is the only thing worth while in the world. In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed, in war he mounts the warrior’s steed. …”
“Yes, doesn’t he. You were going to tell me what George is in trouble about.”
Hamilton Beamish lowered his voice.
“Well, the fact is, on the eve of his wedding an old acquaintance of his has suddenly appeared.”
“Female?”
“Female.”
“I begin to see.”
“George wrote her letters. She still has them.”
“Worse and worse.”
“And if she makes trouble it will stop the wedding. Mrs. Waddington is only waiting for an excuse to forbid it. Already, she has stated in so many words that she is suspicious of George’s morals.”
“How absurd! George is like the driven snow.”
“Exactly. A thoroughly fine-minded man. Why, I remember him once leaving the table at a bachelor dinner because someone told an improper story.”
“How splendid of him! What was the story?”
“I don’t remember. Still, Mrs. Waddington has this opinion of him, so there it is.”
“All this sounds very interesting. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well, George has gone to the station to try to intercept this Miss Stubbs and reason with her.”
“Miss Stubbs?”
“That is her name. By the way, she comes from your home town, East Gilead. Perhaps you know her?”
“I seem to recollect the name. So George has gone to reason with her?”
“Yes. But, of course, she will insist on coming here.”
“That’s bad.”
Hamilton Beamish smiled.
“Not quite so bad as you think,” he said. “You see, I have been giving the matter some little thought, and I may say I have the situation well in hand. I have arranged everything.”
“You have?”
“Everything.”
“You must be terribly clever.”
“Oh, well!” said Hamilton Beamish modestly.
“But, of course, I knew you were, the moment I read your Booklets. Have you a cigarette?”
“I beg your pardon.”
Madame Eulalie selected a cigarette from his case and lit it. Hamilton Beamish, taking the match from her fingers, blew it out and placed it reverently in his left top waistcoat-pocket.
“Go on,” said Madame Eulalie.
“Ah, yes,” said Hamilton Beamish, coming out of his thoughts. “We were speaking about George. It appears that George, before he left East Gilead, had what he calls an understanding, but which seems to me to have differed in no respect from a definite engagement, with a girl named May Stubbs. Unpleasant name!”
“Horrible. Just the sort of name I would want to change.”
“He then came into money, left for New York, and forgot all about her.”
“But she didn’t forget all about him?”
“Apparently not. I picture her as a poor, dowdy little thing—you know what these village girls are—without any likelihood of getting another husband. So she has clung to her one chance. I suppose she thinks that by coming here at this time she will force George to marry her.”
“But you are going to be too clever to let anything like that happen?”
“Precisely.”
“Aren’t you wonderful!”
“It is extremely kind of you to say so,” said Hamilton Beamish, pulling down his waistcoat.
“What have you arranged?”
“Well, the whole difficulty is that at present George is in the position of having broken the engagement. So, when this May Stubbs arrives, I am going to get her to throw him over of her own free-will.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“Quite simply. You see, we may take it for granted that she is a prude. I have, therefore, constructed a little drama, by means of which George will appear an abandoned libertine.”
“George!”
“She will be shocked and revolted and will at once break off all relations with him.”
“I see. Did you think all this out by yourself?”
“Entirely by myself.”
“You’re too clever for one man. You ought to incorporate.”
It seemed to Hamilton Beamish that the moment had arrived to speak out frankly and without subterfuge, to reveal in the neatest phrases at his disposal the love which had been swelling in his heart like some yeasty ferment ever since he had first taken a speck of dust out of this girl’s eye on the doorstep of Number Sixteen, East Seventy-Ninth Street. And he was about to begin doing so, when she looked past him and uttered a pleased laugh.
“Why, Georgie Finch!”
Hamilton Beamish turned, justly exasperated. Every time he endeavoured to speak his love, it seemed that something had to happen to prevent him. Yesterday it had been the loathsome Charley on the telephone, and now it was George Finch. George was standing in the doorway, flushed as if he had been walking quickly. He was staring at the girl in a manner which Hamilton Beamish resented. To express his resentment he coughed sharply.
George paid no attention. He continued to stare.
“And how is Georgie? You have interrupted a most interesting story, George.”
“May!” George Finch placed a finger inside his collar, as if trying to loosen it. “May! I—I’ve just been down to the station to meet you.”
“I came by car.”
“May?” exclaimed Hamilton Beamish, a horrid light breaking upon him.
Madame Eulalie turned to him brightly.
“Yes, I’m the dowdy little thing.”
“But you’re not a dowdy little thing,” said Hamilton Beamish, finding thought difficult but concentrating on the one uncontrovertible fact.
“I was when George knew me.”
“And your name is Madame Eulalie.”
“My professional name. Didn’t we agree that anyone who had a name like May Stubbs would want to change it as quickly as possible?”
“You are really May Stubbs?”
“I am.”
Hamilton Beamish bit his lip. He regarded his friend coldly.
“I congratulate you, George. You are engaged to two of the prettiest girls I have ever seen.”
“How very charming of you, Jimmy!” said Madame Eulalie.
George Finch’s face worked convulsively.
“But, May, honestly. … Have a heart! … You don’t really look on me as engaged to you?”
“Why not?”
“But … but … I thought you had forgotten all about me.”
“What, after all those beautiful letters you wrote!”
“Boy and girl affair,” babbled George.
“Was it, indeed!”
“But, May! …”
Hamilton Beamish had been listening to these exchanges with a rapidly rising temperature. His heart was pounding feverishly in his bosom. There is no one who
