Leonora. Arnold Bennett

going to put my foot down,' he continued with grieved majesty. 'I don't want to, but you force me to it. I'll have no goings-on with Fred Ryley. Understand that. And I'll have no more idling about. You girls—at least you two—are bone-idle. Ethel shall begin to go to the works next Monday. I want a clerk. And you, Milly, must take up the housekeeping. Mother, you'll see to that.'

      Leonora reflected that whereas Ethel showed a marked gift for housekeeping, Milly was instinctively averse to everything merely domestic. But with her acquired fatalism she accepted the ukase.

      'You understand,' said John to his pert youngest.

      'Yes, papa.'

      'No more carrying-on with Fred Ryley—or any one else.'

      'No, papa.'

      'I've got quite enough to worry me without being bothered by you girls.'

      Rose left the table, consciously innocent both of sloth and of light behaviour.

      'What are you going to do now, Rose?' He could not let her off scot-free.

      'Read my chemistry, father.'

      'You'll do no such thing.'

      'I must, if I'm to pass at Christmas,' she said firmly. 'It's my weakest subject.'

      'Christmas or no Christmas,' he replied, 'I'm not going to let you kill yourself. Look at your face! I wonder your mother——'

      'Run into the garden for a while, my dear,' said Leonora softly, and the girl moved to obey.

      'Rose,' he called her back sharply as his exasperation became fidgetty. 'Don't be in such a hurry. Open the window—an inch.'

      Ethel and Millicent disappeared after the manner of young fox-terriers; they did not visibly depart; they were there, one looked away, they were gone. In the bedroom which they shared, the door well locked, they threw oft all restraints, conventions, pretences, and discussed the world, and their own world, with terrible candour. This sacred and untidy apartment, where many of the habits of childhood still lingered, was a retreat, a sanctuary from the law, and the fastness had been ingeniously secured against surprise by the peculiar position of the bedstead in front of the doorway.

      'Father is a donkey!' said Ethel.

      'And ma never says a word!' said Milly.

      'I could simply have smacked him when he brought in mother's birthday,' Ethel continued, savagely.

      'So could I.'

      'Fancy him thinking it's you. What a lark!'

      'Yes. I don't mind,' said Milly.

      'You are a brick, Milly. And I didn't think you were, I didn't really.'

      'What a horrid pig you are, Eth!' Milly protested, and Ethel laughed.

      'Did you give Fred my note all right?' Ethel demanded.

      'Yes,' answered Milly. 'I suppose he's coming up to-night?'

      'I asked him to.'

      'There'll be a frantic row one day. I'm sure there will,' Milly said meditatively, after a pause.

      'Oh! there's bound to be!' Ethel assented, and she added: 'Mother does trust us. Have a choc?'

      Milly said yes, and Ethel drew a box of bonbons from her pocket.

      They seemed to contemplate with a fearful joy the probable exposure of that life of flirtations and chocolate which ran its secret course side by side with the other life of demure propriety acted out for the benefit of the older generation. If these innocent and inexperienced souls had been accused of leading a double life, they would have denied the charge with genuine indignation. Nevertheless, driven by the universal longing, and abetted by parental apathy and parental lack of imagination, they did lead a double life. They chafed bitterly under the code to which they were obliged ostensibly to submit. In their moods of revolt, they honestly believed their parents to be dull and obstinate creatures who had lost the appetite for romance and ecstasy and were determined to mortify this appetite in others. They desired heaps of money and the free, informal companionship of very young men. The latter—at the cost of some intrigue and subterfuge—they contrived to get. But money they could not get. Frequently they said to each other with intense earnestness that they would do anything for money; and they repeated passionately, 'anything.'

      'Just look at that stuck-up thing!' said Milly laughing. They stood together at the window, and Milly pointed her finger at Rose, who was walking conscientiously to and fro across the garden in the gathering dusk.

      Ethel rapped on the pane, and the three sisters exchanged friendly smiles.

      'Rosie will never pass her exam, not if she lives to be a hundred,' said Ethel. 'And can you imagine father making me go to the works? Can you imagine the sense of it?'

      'He won't let you walk up with Fred at nights,' said Milly, 'so you needn't think.'

      'And your housekeeping!' Ethel exclaimed. 'What a treat father will have at meals!'

      'Oh! I can easily get round mother,' said Milly with confidence. 'I can't housekeep, and ma knows that perfectly well.'

      'Well, father will forget all about it in a week or two, that's one comfort,' Ethel concluded the matter. 'Are you going down to Burgesses to see Harry?' she inquired, observing Milly put on her hat.

      'Yes,' said Milly. 'Cissie said she'd come for me if I was late. You'd better stay in and be dutiful.'

      'I shall offer to play duets with mother. Don't you be long. Let's try that chorus for the Operatic before supper.'

      That night, after the girls had kissed them and gone to bed, John and Leonora remained alone together in the drawing-room. The first fire of autumn was burning in the grate, and at the other end of the long room dark curtains were drawn across the French window. Shaded candles lighted the grand piano, at which Leonora was seated, and a single gas jet illuminated the region of the hearth, where John, lounging almost at full length in a vast chair, read the newspaper; otherwise the room was in shadow. John dropped the 'Signal,' which slid to the hearthrug with a rustle, and turned his head so that he could just see the left side of his wife's face and her left hand as it moved over the keys of the piano. She played with gentle monotony, and her playing seemed perfunctory, yet agreeable. John watched the glinting of the four rings on her left hand, and the slow undulations of the drooping lace at her wrist. He moved twice, and she knew he was about to speak.

      'I say, Leonora,' he said in a confidential tone.

      'Yes, my dear,' she responded, complying generously with his appeal for sympathy. She continued to play for a moment, but even more softly; and then, as he kept silence, she revolved on the piano-stool and looked into his face.

      'What is it?' she asked in a caressing voice, intensifying her femininity, forgiving him, excusing him, thinking and making him think what a good fellow he was, despite certain superficial faults.

      'You knew nothing of this Ryley business, did you?' he murmured.

      'Oh, no. Are you sure there's anything in it? I don't think there is for an instant.' And she did not. Even the placing of Milly's hand on Fred Ryley's shoulder in full sight of the street, even this she regarded only as the pretty indiscretion of a child. 'Oh! there's nothing in it,' she repeated.

      'Well, there's got to be nothing in it. You must keep an eye on 'em. I won't have it.'

      She leaned forward, and, resting her elbows on her knees, put her chin in her long hands. Her bangles disappeared amid lace.

      'What's the matter with Fred?' said she. 'He's a relation; and you've said before now that he's a good clerk,'

      'He's a decent enough clerk. But he's not for our girls.'

      'If it's only money——' she began.

      'Money!' John cried. 'He'll have money. Oh! he'll have money right enough. Look here, Nora, I've