Conrad in Quest of His Youth: An Extravagance of Temperament. Merrick Leonard

again.

      "Shall I like it?" inquired the lady trustfully.

      The young woman, listless, but confident, told her that she was "Certain to like that."

      "You're sure?" said the lady. "Oh, very well then—I'll have it. Good day."

      The third subscriber was still more free from the vice of favouritism. She simply stated that she wanted "A nice book to read." The librarian handed a book to her, and she accepted it as unquestioningly as if it had been stamps in a post-office. In not one of the three cases had any author's name been mentioned. There are popular writers, there is a public besieging the libraries for their work, but the literary choice of the Nation is bulk for its twopence and the tale admired by the young woman at the desk.

      "I hope you haven't been bored?" said Nina at last, holding out half-a-dozen volumes to be carried for her.

      "Not in the faintest degree," cried Conrad.

      But he was exceedingly bored on the morrow when Ted returned to dinner with elaborate excuses for bringing his visit to a sudden close. Yes, the host was bored then; he knew so well while he responded: "What a nuisance!" and "Of course it can't be helped," that Ted was not in the least needed in town, only dull in Sweetbay. They were all to have gone together to the "Orchestral Concert," and when the barrister alleged that he felt "too worn out," Conrad was not pressing. Nina went with him alone, and they walked some way before they spoke. She understood that he was hurt; dimly she understood that he had shown a stronger affection on his side than they had shown on theirs.

      "So the experiment is a failure, Con?" she said.

      He sighed. "I'm afraid there's no other word for it. It was rather idiotic of me—I might have known you'd all be hipped."

      "Oh, I don't think it's that," she declared; "as a professional man Ted isn't free." She was ever ready to disparage Regina, but she had a soft spot in her shrewdness for Ted. "Of course," she added after a moment, "his going means that I shall have to go too; I can't stay with you by myself, ridiculous as these things are."

      "No, I thought of that," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're going, Nina. It's no use trying to persuade him, I suppose? If you told him you didn't want to go——"

      Every woman is to be touched by oral sentiment, excepting the sentiment of her lover whom she does not love. That irritates her to brutality. Nina wavered:—

      "I might," she owned. "Perhaps he could arrange."

      "It would be very nice of you," he said; "and really when you get used to Sweetbay, you'll find it has a—a certain charm. Hallo! What's the matter here? Are we too soon?"

      They were opposite the theatre, but the building was dark. His heart sank; he felt that the stars in their courses were fighting against him.

      "It isn't open," said Nina superfluously.

      "We must have come too soon," he urged. "Let's cross over, and see what time it begins."

      For a minute or two they peered at the glum frontage, puzzled, and then they descried—affixed by its flap to a large door—a small envelope. It was an official announcement. On the envelope was written, "No concert this evening."

      They turned away, and moved in reverie towards the sea, which shimmered within sight.

      On the long lamp-blurred stretch of asphalt no one moved. A mile of downcast lodging-houses, veiled in gloom, kept hopeless watch over a blank Parade; in their dim fan-lights the legend of "Apartments" looked the emblem of despair. To the right the black pier slumbered silently; to the left a lugubrious hotel, unpeopled and unlit, imparted to the view the last symbol of disaster. On a sudden, spasmodically—in the wide-spread desolation—the town band burst into the overture to "Zampa." It was the jocularity of hysteria at a funeral. Nina gave a gulp, and clutched his arm.

      "Conrad," she quavered, "let me go home to-morrow, or I shall cry!"

      He did not plead with her; he recognised that there was some justice in her plaint. He promised that she should go by an early train, and his kindness cheered her.

      She came down to breakfast with her hat on.

      She, too, had Punch and a foot-warmer, and again he doubted if they were adequate to exculpate him.

      "Try to bear no malice," he begged on the platform.

      "You'll dine with us as soon as you come back, won't you?" she laughed.

      "Good-bye, old chap," exclaimed Ted. He had risen quite vivacious. "Mind you look me up when you're in town; let me know well ahead, and I'll manage a spare evening."

      "I expect I've left a lot of things behind," said Nina brightly, bending to the window; "you might tell the servants to send them on."

      "Yes, I'll tell them. Are you sure you don't want any more papers?"

      "We're a long time starting, aren't we?" said Ted.

      "You're just off," Conrad answered.

      It was less than a week since he had loitered on the other side, impatient for their arrival. He forced a smile, and stood bareheaded, and turned from the station with a sigh.

      "'Oh near ones, dear ones! you in whose right hands

       Our own rests calm; whose faithful hearts all day

       Wide open wait till back from distant lands

       Thought, the tired traveller, wends his homeward way!

       Helpmates and hearthmates, gladdeners of gone years'——

      Where are you?" said Conrad.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      He felt very lonely. Something of the Christmas spirit descended on him—the true, the unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, after we have directed the last stack of cards, and hurried out aglow with the last parcel, we sit before the bare mantel-piece, discovering that most of our acquaintances have become too advanced to observe the season. We are quite sure it is "advancement," though it looks a little like stinginess. He wondered, as he entered the lane, whether the other child he was remembering would have proved a disappointment too; wondered if the ache in his heart would be intelligible to her, or if he would appear to her absurd. It interested him to wonder. Conjecturing the disposition of the strange woman whose whereabouts he did not know, he endued her with many attributes that he admired, and she moved before his mental vision gradually as a fair and slightly pathetic figure, prepared to be his confidante. He fancied she was unhappy with her husband. At least the sadness of life had touched her enough to tinge her sentiment with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit on rainy days.

      It surprised him that he had made no attempt to trace her; his curiosity was awake. Many things were more unlikely than that she was living in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he was in two minds about ringing the bell and trying to gather information from the present occupants. He would probably have obeyed the impulse, but while he hesitated the householder came out—a middle-aged little man, with a sanguine complexion, and gaiters.

      Conrad accosted him. "Excuse me," he began.

      The gentleman saluted with his crop. "'Morning," he said.

      "I was looking at your bell with the idea of troubling you with an inquiry about a 'missing friend.' May I ask if you happen to know the address of your predecessor here—Dr. Page?"

      "Who?" said the little man briskly.

      "Dr. Page."

      "No. Don't know the name. Took the place of people called—er—Greames. … Agents might tell you—Chipper and Stokes in the High Street. Page? Doctor? N-no." He shook his head. "Sorry."

      "I thank you."

      "Not