The Matador of the Five Towns and Other Stories. Arnold Bennett

made a sensation therein. As for him, he could not help feeling just as though he had eloped with her. He could not help fancying that all the brilliant company in the lounge was murmuring under the strains of the band: "That johnny there has certainly eloped with that splendid creature!"

      "Ed," she asked, fixing her dark eyes upon him, "is anything the matter?"

      They were having tea at a little Moorish table in the huge bay window of the lounge.

      "No," he said. This was the first lie of his career as a husband. But truly he could not bring himself to give her the awful shock of telling her that the Vaillacs were close at hand, that their secret was discovered, and that their peace and security depended entirely upon the discretion of little Mimi and upon their not meeting other Vaillacs.

      "Then it's having that puncture that has upset you," his wife insisted. You see her feelings towards him were so passionate that she could not leave him alone. She was utterly preoccupied by him.

      "No," he said guiltily.

      "I'm afraid you don't very much care for this place," she went on, because she knew now that he was not telling her the truth, and that something, indeed, was the matter.

      "On the contrary," he replied, "I was informed that the finest tea and the most perfect toast in Brighton were to be had in this lounge, and upon my soul I feel as if I could keep on having tea here for ever and ever amen!"

      He was trying to be gay, but not very successfully.

      "I don't mean just here," she said. "I mean all this south coast."

      "Well—" he began judicially.

      "Oh! Ed!" she implored him. "Do say you don't like it!"

      "Why!" he exclaimed. "Don't you?"

      She shook her head. "I much prefer the north," she remarked.

      "Well," he said, "let's go. Say Scarborough."

      "You're joking," she murmured. "You adore this south coast."

      "Never!" he asserted positively.

      "Well, darling," she said, "if you hadn't said first that you didn't care for it, of course I shouldn't have breathed a word—"

      "Let's go to-morrow," he suggested.

      "Yes." Her eyes shone.

      "First train! We should have to leave Rottingdean at six o'clock a.m."

      "How lovely!" she exclaimed. She was enchanted by this idea of a capricious change of programme. It gave such a sense of freedom, of irresponsibility, of romance!

      "More toast, please," he said to the waiter, joyously.

      It cost him no effort to be gay now. He could not have been sad. The world was suddenly transformed into the best of all possible worlds. He was saved! They were saved! Yes, he could trust Mimi. By no chance would they be caught. They would stick in their rooms all the evening, and on the morrow they would be away long before the Vaillacs were up. Papa and "mamma" Vaillac were terrible for late rising. And when he had got his magnificent Olive safe in Scarborough, or wherever their noses might lead them, then he would tell her of the risk they had run.

      They both laughed from mere irrational glee, and Edward Coe nearly forgot to pay the bill. However, he did pay it. They departed from the Royal York. He put his Olive into the returning Rottingdean omnibus, and then hurried to get his repaired bicycle. He had momentarily quaked lest Mimi and company might be in the omnibus. But they were not. They must have left earlier, fortunately, or walked.

IV

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      When he was still about a mile away from Rottingdean, and the hour was dusk, and he was walking up a hill, he caught sight of a girl leaning on a gate that led by a long path to a house near the cliffs. It was Mimi. She gave a cry of recognition. He did not care now—he was at ease now—but really, with that house so close to the road and so close to Rottingdean, he and his Olive had practically begun their honeymoon on the summit of a volcano!

      Mimi was pensive. He felt remorse at having bound her to secrecy. She was so pensive, and so wistful, and her eyes were so loyal, that he felt he owed her a more complete confidence.

      "I'm on my honeymoon, Mimi," he said. It gave him pleasure to tell her.

      "Yes," she said simply, "I saw Auntie Olive go by in the omnibus."

      That was all she said. He was thunderstruck, as much by her calm simplicity as by anything else. Children were astounding creatures.

      "Did Jean see her, or anyone?" he asked.

      Mimi shook her head.

      Then he told her they were leaving the next morning at six.

      "Shall you be in a carriage?" she inquired.

      "Yes."

      "Oh! Do let me come out and see you go past," she pleaded. "Nobody else in our house will be up till hours afterwards! … Do!"

      He was about to say "No," for it would mean revealing the whole affair to his wife at once. But after an instant he said "Yes." He would not refuse that exquisite, appealing gesture. Besides, why keep anything whatever from Olive, even for a day?

      V

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       At dinner he told his wife, and was glad to learn that she also thought highly of Mimi and had confidence in her.

      Mimi lay in bed in the nursery of the hired house on the way to Rottingdean, which, considering that it was not "home," was a fairly comfortable sort of abode. The nursery was immense, though an attic. The white blinds of the two windows were drawn, and a fire burned in the grate, lighting it pleasantly and behaving in a very friendly manner. At the other end of the room, in the deep shadow, was Jean's bed.

      The door opened quietly and someone came into the room and pushed the door to without quite shutting it.

      "Is that you, mamma?" Jean demanded in his shrill voice, from the distance of the bed in the corner. His age was exactly eight.

      "Yes, dear," said the new stepmother.

      The menial Ada had arranged the children for the night, and now the stepmother had come up to kiss them and be kind. She was a conscientious young woman, full of a desire to do right, and she had determined not to be like the traditional stepmother.

      She kissed Jean, who had taken quite a fancy to her, and tickled him agreeably, and tucked him up anew, and then moved silently across the room to Mimi. Mimi could see her face in the twilight of the fire. A handsome, good-natured face; yet very determined, and perhaps a little too full of common sense. It had a responsible, somewhat grave look. After all, these two young children were a responsibility, especially Mimi with her back; and, moreover, Pierre Emile Vaillac had disappointed both her and her step-children by telegraphing that he could not arrive that night. Olive One, the bride of three months, had put on fine raiment for nothing.

      "Well, Mimi," she said in her low, vibrating voice, as she stood over the bed, "I do hope you didn't overtire yourself this afternoon." Then she kissed Mimi.

      "Oh no, mamma!" The little girl smiled.

      "It seems you waited outside the barber's while Jeannot was having his hair cut."

      "Yes, mamma. I didn't like to go in."

      "Ada didn't stay with you all the time?"

      "No, mamma. First of all she took Jeannot in, and then she came out to me, and then she went in again to see how long he would be."

      "I'm