The Man Upstairs and Other Stories. P. G. Wodehouse

was occupied. He recognized the occupant.

      'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself beside her.

      'Really?'

      'The whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know their lines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased about it.'

      'Really?'

      George felt damped.

      'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said, lamely.

      'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident this afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people in the play.'

      'You heard about it?'

      'I have been hearing about nothing else.'

      'Curious it happening so soon after—'

      'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious.'

      There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell with women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as if—

      He changed the subject.

      'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?'

      'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly.'

      George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again.

      'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said.

      She turned on him.

      'Mr. Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?'

      Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare half-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotions were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel now.

      'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand.'

      'Really?'

      'What have I done?'

      'You have forgotten how to swim.'

      A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of George's forehead.

      'Forgotten!'

      'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, and today I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I saw you at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you are taking lessons. Can you explain it?'

      A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line.

      She went on.

      'Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertised somehow. But—'

      'You don't think—' croaked George.

      'I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but, of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being a conspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episode attracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory, wasn't it? I am so glad.'

      There was a massive silence for about a hundred years.

      'I think I'll go for a short stroll,' said George.

      Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr. Mifflin emerged from the shadow beyond the veranda.

      'Could you spare me a moment?'

      The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head coldly.

      'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into the chair which had held the remains of George.

      The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than that to embarrass Mr. Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but not coldness.

      'The Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheard your conversation just now.'

      'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.

      'For all I was worth,' said Mr. Mifflin. 'These things are very much a matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have had to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversation of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me. However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that I heard you—unknowingly, of course—doing a good man a grave injustice.'

      'Mr. Callender could have defended himself if he had wished.'

      'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself.'

      'To you?'

      'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George, but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. George has old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He can write plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him. So, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, he was actually opposed to it.'

      'Then why did he pretend you had saved him?' she demanded.

      'George's,' said Mr. Mifflin, 'is essentially a chivalrous nature. At any crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is there with the goods before you can turn round. His friends frequently wrangle warmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or Happy Hooligan. Some say one, some the other. It seems that yesterday you saved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain that he could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "She must never know!" and acted accordingly. But let us leave George, and return—'

      'Thank you, Mr. Mifflin.' There was a break in her laugh. 'I don't think there is any necessity. I think I understand now. It was very clever of you.'

      'It was more than cleverness,' said Mr. Mifflin, rising. 'It was genius.'

      A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda.

      'Mr. Callender!'

      He stopped.

      'I'm very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have been talking to Mr. Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so nice and thoughtful of you. I understand everything.'

      George did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for his needs. He shot forward as if some strong hand were behind him with a needle.

      'Miss Vaughan—Mary—I—'

      'I think I hear aunt calling,' said she.

      But a benevolent Providence has ordained that aunts cannot call for ever; and it is on record that when George entered his box on the two hundredth night of that great London success, Fate's Footballs, he did not enter it alone.

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

       Table of Contents

      IT is possible that, at about the time at which this story opens, you may have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a hair-cut. Many people did; for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy countenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clipped judiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather. And he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair-food.

      It is possible, too, that, being there, you decided that you might as well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time.

      It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the first shock of finding your hands so unexpectedly large and red, you felt disposed to chat with the young lady who looked after that branch of the business. In your genial way you may have permitted