A Servant of the Public. Hope Anthony

she looked at him for a moment, growing grave as she looked. Then she laid her hand on his arm again and looked up in his face with a pleading coaxing smile.

      "Don't," she said.

      There was silence for a moment. Then Lord Bowdon took her hand, kissed it, smiled at her, and asked a prosaic question.

      "Where's my hat?" said he.

      But that prosaic question made it impossible to sail off under cover of an inclination to flirt; it was not at all in that manner; it lacked the colour, the flourish and the show. As he walked away, Bowdon was conscious that whatever happened to the affair, good or evil, whether it went on or stopped, it must be stamped with a certain genuineness. It could not pass at once from his thoughts; he could not suppose that it would be dismissed immediately from hers.

      That he occupied her attention for a little while after he went away happened to be the case, although it was by no means the certain result he imagined. A mind for the moment vacant of new impressions allowed her to wonder, rather idly, why she had said "Don't" so soon; he had done nothing to elicit so direct a prohibition; it had put a stop to a conversation only just becoming interesting, still far from threatening inconvenience. Perhaps she was surprised to find her injunction so effective. She had said the word, she supposed, because she was not much taken with him; or rather because she liked him very definitely in one way, and very definitely not in another, and so had been impelled to deal fairly with him. Besides he had for a moment reminded her of Jack Fenning; that also might have something to do with it. The remembrance of her husband's love-making was not pleasant to her. It recalled the greatest of all the blunders into which her trick of sudden likings had led her, the one apparently irrevocable blunder. It brought back also the memory of old delusions which had made the blunder seem something so very different at the time it was committed. She walked about the room for a few minutes with a doleful look, her lips dragged down and her eyes woeful. It was only five; she did not dine till six. She was supposed to rest this hour; if resting meant thinking of Jack Fenning and Lord Bowdon and of the general harshness of the world, she would have none of it. It occurred to her, almost as an insult, that here was an hour in which she was at leisure and yet nobody seemed to desire her society; such treatment was strange and uncomplimentary.

      A ring at the bell scattered her gloom.

      "That must be somebody amusing!" she cried, clasping her hands in the joyful confidence that fate had taken a turn. "I wonder who it is!"

      The visitor thus favoured by a prejudice of approbation proved to be Ashley Mead. He had come once before, a week ago; three days back Ora had in her own mind accused him of neglect and then charitably congratulated him on indifference. Now she ran to him as though he were the one person in the world she wished to see.

      "How charming of you!" she cried. "I was bored to death. I do like people who come at the right time!"

      Ashley held her hand for a moment in sheer pleasure at the feel of it; they sat down, she again on her sofa, he in a low chair close by.

      "Tea?" she said.

      "Goodness, no. Don't move from where you are, Miss Pinsent. I met Lord Bowdon walking away."

      "I sent him away."

      "What delightful presentiments you have!"

      "Indeed I'd no idea that you'd come. I don't think he wanted to stay, though." She smiled meditatively. Lord Bowdon's prompt acceptance of her "Don't" seemed now to take on a humorous air; his hesitation contrasted so sharply with the confident readiness of her new visitor.

      "I've come on business," said Ashley.

      "Business?" she echoed, with an unpleasant reminiscence of Mr. Sidney Hazlewood and his views as to the nature of an agreement.

      "I want you to help me to organise something."

      "Oh, I couldn't. I hate all that sort of thing. It's not a bazaar, is it?"

      "No. Perhaps we might call it a fête. It's a day in the country, Miss Pinsent."

      "Oh, I know! Children! You mean those children?"

      He leant back in his chair and looked at her before he replied. She seemed a little hurt and regretful, as though his visit were not proving so pleasant as she had expected; a visit should be paid, as virtue should be practised, for its own sake.

      "No," he said. "Not those children. These children."

      She took an instant to grasp the proposal; then her eyes signified her understanding of it; but she did not answer it.

      "Why not?" he urged, leaning forward.

      She broke into a light laugh.

      "There's no reason why not – "

      "Ah, that's right!"

      "Except that I'm not sure I want to," continued Ora. She put her head a little on one side, with a critical air. "I wonder if you'd amuse me for a whole day," she said.

      "You quite mistake my point of view," he replied, smiling. "I never expected to amuse you. I want you to amuse me. I'm quite selfish about it."

      "That's just making use of me," she objected. "I don't think I was created only to amuse you, you know."

      "Perhaps not; but let me have the amusement first. The trouble'll come soon enough."

      "Will it? Then why – "

      "Oh, you understand that well enough really, Miss Pinsent."

      "What would that nice serious girl you're going to marry say if she heard of our outing?"

      "I haven't received the news of my engagement yet."

      "Irene says you're certain to marry her."

      "Well, at any rate she doesn't say I've done it yet, does she?"

      "No," admitted Ora, smiling.

      "And that's the point, isn't it? Will you come on Sunday?"

      Sunday had looked rather grey; there was nothing but a lunch party, to meet a Dean who thought that the stage might be made an engine for good, and therefore wished to be introduced to Miss Pinsent. Oh, and there was a dinner to celebrate somebody's birthday – she had forgotten whose. Yes, Sunday was quite a free day. The sun shone here; it would shine merrily in the country. In short she wanted to go.

      "Oh, well, I don't mind trying to prevent you being bored for just one day," she said, with her eyes merry and mocking.

      "That's very kind of you," observed Ashley in a composed tone. "I'll call for you at eleven and carry you off."

      "Where to?"

      "I shall settle that. It's entirely for my sake we're going, you know, so I shall have my choice."

      "It sounds as if you might enjoy yourself, Mr. Mead."

      "Yes, quite, doesn't it?" he answered, laughing. Ora joined in his laugh; the world was no longer harsh; Lord Bowdon was nothing; there were no more reminiscences of the way Jack Fenning used to talk. There was frolic, there was a touch of adventure, a savour of mischief.

      "It'll be rather fun," she mused softly, clasping her hands on her knee.

      Behind the man's restrained bearing lay a sense of triumph. He had carried out his little campaign well. He did not look ahead, the success of the hour served. No doubt after that Sunday other things would happen again, and might even be of importance; meanwhile except that Sunday there was nothing. Merely that she came was not all – with her was not even very much. But he knew that her heart was eager to come, and that the Sunday was a joy to her also.

      "It's dinner-time," she said, springing up. "Go away, Mr. Mead."

      He was as obedient as Bowdon had been; enough had been done for to-day. But a farewell may be said in many ways.

      "Sunday, then," he said, taking both her hands which she had held out to him in her cordial fashion. Lady Kilnorton said that Ora always seemed to expect to be kissed. "Just manner, of course," she would add, since Ora was her friend.

      "Yes, Sunday – unless I change my mind. I often do."

      "You won't this time." The assertion