The Lion's Share. Arnold Bennett

so naughtily human as the population in and around Moze.

      If Audrey disdained Miss Ingate, it was only because Miss Ingate was neither young nor fair nor the proprietress of some man, and because people made out that she was peculiar. In some respects Audrey looked upon Miss Ingate as a life-belt, as the speck of light at the end of a tunnel, as the enigmatic smile which glimmers always in the frown of destiny.

      “Well?” cried Miss Ingate in her rather shrill voice, grinning sardonically, with the corners of her lips still lower than usual in anticipatory sarcasm. It was as if she had said: “You cannot surprise me by any narrative of imbecility or turpitude or bathos. All the same, I am dying to hear the latest eccentricity of this village.”

      “Well?” parried Audrey, holding one hand behind her.

      They did not shake hands. People who call at ten o’clock in the morning cannot expect to have their hands shaken. Miss Ingate certainly expected nothing of the sort. She had the freedom of Flank Hall, as of scores of other houses, at all times of day. Servants opened front doors for her with a careless smile, and having shut front doors they left her loose, like a familiar cat, to find what she wanted. They seldom “showed” her into any room, nor did they dream of acting before her the unconvincing comedy of going to “see” whether masters or mistresses were out or in.

      “Where’s your mother?” asked Miss Ingate idly, quite sure that interesting divulgations would come, and quite content to wait for them. She had been out of the village for over a week.

      “Mother’s taking her acetyl salicylic,” Audrey answered, coming to the door of the study.

      This meant merely that Mrs. Moze had a customary attack of the neuralgia for which the district is justly renowned among strangers.

      “Oh!” murmured Miss Ingate callously. Mrs. Moze, though she had lived in the district for twenty-five years, did not belong to it. If she chose to keep on having neuralgia, that was her affair, but in justice to natives and to the district she ought not to make too much of it, and she ought to admit that it might well be due to her weakness after her operation. Miss Ingate considered the climate to be the finest in England; which it was, on the condition that you were proof against neuralgia.

      “Father’s gone to Colchester in the car to see the Bishop,” Audrey coldly added.

      “If I’d known he was going to Colchester I should have asked him for a lift,” said Miss Ingate, with determination.

      “Oh, yes! He’d have taken you!“ said Audrey, reserved. “I suppose you had fine times in London!”

      “Oh! It was vehy exciting! It was vehy exciting!” Miss Ingate agreed loudly.

      “Father wouldn’t let me read about it in the paper,” said Audrey, still reserved. “He never will, you know. But I did!”

      “Oh! But you didn’t read about me playing the barrel organ all the way down Regent Street, because that wasn’t in any of the papers.”

      “You didn’t!“ Audrey protested, with a sudden dark smile.

      “Yes, I did. Yes, I did. Yes, I did. And vehy tiring it was. Vehy tiring indeed. It’s quite an art to turn a barrel organ. If you don’t keep going perfectly even it makes the tune jerky. Oh! I know a bit about barrel organs now. They smashed it all to pieces. Oh yes! All to pieces. I spoke to the police. I said, ‘Aren’t you going to protect these ladies’ property?’ But they didn’t lift a finger.”

      “And weren’t you arrested?”

      “Me!” shrieked Miss Ingate. “Me arrested!” Then more quietly, in an assured tone, “Oh no! I wasn’t arrested. You see, as soon as the row began I just walked away from the organ and became one of the crowd. I’m all for them, but I wasn’t going to be arrested.”

      Miss Ingate’s sparkling eyes seemed to say: “Sylvia Pankhurst can be arrested if she likes, and so can Mrs. Despard and Annie Kenney and Jane Foley, or any of them. But the policeman that is clever enough to catch Miss Ingate of Moze does not exist. And the gumption of Miss Ingate of Moze surpasses the united gumption of all the other feminists in England.”

      “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” repeated Miss Ingate with mingled complacency, glee, passion, and sardonic tolerance of the whole panorama of worldly existence. “The police were awful, shocking. But I was not arrested.”

      “Well, I was—this morning,” said Audrey in a low and poignant voice.

      Miss Ingate was startled out of her mood of the detached ironic spectator.

      “What?” she frowned.

      They heard a servant moving about at the foot of the stairs, and a capped head could be seen through the interstices of the white Chinese balustrade. The study was the only immediate refuge; Miss Ingate advanced right into it, and Audrey pushed the door to.

      “Father’s given me a month’s C.B.”

      Miss Ingate, gazing at the girl’s face, saw in its quiet and yet savage desperation the possibility that after all she might indeed be surprised by the vagaries of human nature in the village. And her glance became sympathetic, even tender, as well as apprehensive.

      “ ‘C.B.’? What do you mean—‘C.B.’?”

      “Don’t you know what C.B. means?” exclaimed Audrey with scornful superiority over the old spinster. “Confined to barracks. Father says I’m not to go beyond the grounds for a month. And to-day’s the second of April!”

      “No!”

      “Yes, he does. He’s given me a week, you know, before. Now it’s a month.”

      Silence fell.

      Miss Ingate looked round at the shabby study, with its guns, cigar-boxes, prints, books neither old nor new, japanned boxes of documents, and general litter scattered over the voluted walnut furniture. Her own house was old-fashioned, and she realised it was old-fashioned; but when she came into Flank Hall, and particularly into Mr. Moze’s study, she felt as if she was stepping backwards into history—and this in spite of the fact that nothing in the place was really ancient, save the ceilings and the woodwork round the windows. It was Mr. Moze’s habit of mind that dominated and transmogrified the whole interior, giving it the quality of a mausoleum. The suffragette procession in which Miss Ingate had musically and discreetly taken part seemed to her as she stood in Mr. Moze’s changeless lair to be a phantasm. Then she looked at the young captive animal and perceived that two centuries may coincide on the same carpet and that time is merely a convention.

      “What you been doing?” she questioned, with delicacy.

      “I took a strange man by the hand,” said Audrey, choosing her words queerly, as she sometimes did, to produce a dramatic effect.

      “This morning?”

      “Yes. Eight o’clock.”

      “What? Is there a strange man in the village?”

      “You don’t mean to say you haven’t seen the yacht!”

      “Yacht?” Miss Ingate showed some excitement.

      “Come and look, Winnie,” said Audrey, who occasionally thought fit to address Miss Ingate in the manner of the elder generation. She drew Miss Ingate to the window.

      Between the brown curtains Mozewater, the broad, shallow estuary of the Moze, was spread out glittering in the sunshine which could not get into the chilly room. The tide was nearly at full, and the estuary looked like a mighty harbour for great ships; but in six hours it would be reduced to a narrow stream winding through mud flats of marvellous ochres, greens, and pinks. In the hazy distance a fitful white flash showed where ocean waves were breaking on a sand-bank. And in the foreground, against a disused Hard that was a couple of hundred yards lower down than the village Hard, a large white yacht was moored, probably the largest yacht that had ever threaded