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

idea!' said Maud, tossing her head.

      'On the level,' Mr. Shute assured her.

      Maud laid down her orange-sticks.

      'Don't be silly,' she said. 'There—I've finished.'

      'I've not,' said Mr. Shute. 'Not by a mile. Say!'

      'Well?'

      'What do you do with your evenings?'

      'I go home.'

      'Sure. But when you don't? It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Don't you ever whoop it up?'

      'Whoop it up?'

      'The mad whirl,' explained Mr. Shute. 'Ice-cream soda and buck-wheat cakes, and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park.'

      'I don't know where Luna Park is.'

      'What did they teach you at school? It's out in that direction,' said Mr. Shute, pointing over his shoulder. 'You go straight on about three thousand miles till you hit little old New York; then you turn to the right. Say, don't you ever get a little treat? Why not come along to the White City some old evening? This evening?'

      'Mr. Welsh is taking me to the White City tonight.'

      'And who is Mr. Welsh?'

      'The gentleman who has just gone out.'

      'Is that so? Well, he doesn't look a live one, but maybe it's just because he's had bad news today. You never can tell.' He rose. 'Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again; so keep a stout heart.'

      And, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr. Shute departed, leaving Maud to her thoughts.

      She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr. Shute had lowered with ease the record for gay badinage, hitherto held by the red-faced customer; yet to all appearances there had been no change in Arthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), and she had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr. Shute, an unbiased spectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on her work—She hoped for the best.

      Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur was undeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. His light-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commented upon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he had touched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with her listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself in accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the world.

      Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been—yes, flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation—a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good temper and then forgiven—all this at great length—for having been in a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.

      She trembled.

      'Cold?' said Arthur. 'Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now. Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me something lively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum—'

      'Funny thing—' said Maud, deliberately.

      'What's a funny thing?'

      'The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon—'

      'He was,' agreed Arthur, brightly. 'A very funny thing.'

      Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing—at her own another.

      'I was about to say,' she went on precisely, 'that it was a funny thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should have asked me to come here, to the White City, with him tonight.'

      For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopeful silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst.

      'Oh!' he said, and stopped.

      Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?

      A couple of paces, and he spoke again.

      'I didn't hear him ask you.'

      His voice was disappointingly level.

      'He asked me after you had gone out to lunch.'

      'It's a nuisance,' said Arthur, cheerily, 'when things clash like that. But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here twice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think—'

      'You shouldn't,' said a voice behind him. 'It hurts the head. Well, kid, being shown a good time?'

      The possibility of meeting Mr. Shute had not occurred to Maud. She had assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he would have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did not know Mr. Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silk hat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror.

      Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not seem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in fact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she received invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and listless.

      She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other.

      'Pleased to meet you,' said Mr. Shute.

      'Weather keeps up,' said Arthur.

      And from that point onward Mr. Shute took command.

      It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr. Shute had made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly was it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves, guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maud realized that Arthur had gone.

      She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be somewhat afraid of Mr. Shute. He was showing signs of being about to step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all the difference.

      'Oh! He's gone!' she cried.

      'Sure,' said Mr. Shute. 'He's got a hurry-call from the Uji Village. The chief's cousin wants a hair-cut.'

      'We must find him. We must.'

      'Surest thing you know,' said Mr. Shute. 'Plenty of time.'

      'We must find him.'

      Mr. Shute regarded her with some displeasure.

      'Seems to be ace-high with you, that dub,' he said.

      'I don't understand you.'

      'My observation was,' explained Mr. Shute, coldly, 'that, judging from appearances, that dough-faced lemon was Willie-boy, the first and only love.'

      Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.

      'Mr. Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!' she cried.

      She walked quickly on.

      'Then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes,' said the pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, 'count me in. Directly I saw you—see here, what's the idea of this road-work? We aren't racing—'

      Maud slowed down.

      'That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself, "That's the one you need. The original candy kid. The—"'

      His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed. He cursed