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Chapter 7 Exercises Solutions

7.1
milliseconds
1000 ms× 60 s× 60 min× 24 h× 365 days = 31,536,000,000
year
9,223,372,036,854,775,807
1970 + = 292,473,178
31,536,000,000

Assuming there is a leap day every 4 years, except at the turn of the
century unless the year is also divisible by 400, there are 365.2425
days in a year.
milliseconds
1000 ms× 60 s× 60 min× 24 h× 365.2425days = 31,556,952,000
year

9,223,372,036,854,775,807
1970 + = 292,278,994
31,556,952,000

7.2 n2

7.3 n log n

7.4 n2

7.5 2n

7.6
cube volume: O(n3)
cube surface area: 6(n*n) = O(n2)
cylinder volume: πn2*n = O(n3)
cylinder surface area: 2*πn2+2πn*n= O(n2)
7.7
 (log10 n )
log10 n log 2 n
log 2 n = =
log10 2 c

 (log e n )
log e n log e n
log10 n = =
log e 10 c

7.8 With the assumption that f  (g ) we can deduce that

(max( f , g )) = ( f ) with this same assumption we can deduce that
( f + g ) = ( f ) and from this we know that (max( f , g ) = ( f + g ) .

7.9 add() roughly performs one operation per bit. If the BigInteger
grows extremely large, the add() method call will not take
constant time. It will be linear time depending on the number of
bits in each number we are adding.

7.10 We can assume that Math.random() takes constant time since it

does not involve r or s. We can also deduce that swap is constant
time. With this an analysis of each operation yields
c + cn + c(n − 1) + c(n − 1)  (n) where n=rs and therefore (rs ) .

7.11 Using the ArrayList change from Exercise 5.8 we have an

ArrayList constructor that take a capacity.
public ArrayStack(int capacity) {
data = (E[])(new Object[capacity]);
size = 0;
}

We also create a GoFishHand constructor to call this:

public GoFishHand(int capacity) {
super(capacity);
}

The maximum number of card possible in a hand is 3 of a kind of

all 13 ranks. There can be one more in our had right before we
meld. This gives us a total of 40 possible cards in our hand. The
 GoFish contructor can be changed to the following:
public GoFish() {
computerScore = 0;
playerScore = 0;
deck = new Deck();
deck.shuffle();
computerHand = new GoFishHand(40);
playerHand = new GoFishHand(40);
for (int i = 0; i < 7; i++) {
playerHand.add(deck.deal());
computerHand.add(deck.deal());
}

This way we guarantee that the stretch() method is never called in

the add() method meaning it is guaranteed to be constant time.

7.12 We know that the first loop runs n times and the next most
inner loop n n + 1 . From there we can count the next most inner
2
 n + 1  n + 2 
loop and deduce that it runs n   times. Finally looking at
 2  3 
the pattern we can quickly guess the last loop runs
 n + 1  n + 2  n + 3 
n    . From this we can see that n is multiplied
 2  3  4 
together 4 times to render sum4d() Θ(n4).

7.13  i 1  = 3.5

6

6i =1

7.14 This assumes  i = ( i ) which is rarely true. In this case

2 2

6
1
 i   = 15.16 and 3.5 = 12.25.
2 2
i =1 6

7.15 All of the operations are Θ(1).

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 “Not only that. I happen to be fond of him.”
Antonia smiled, a sweet slow warmth and kindling of her wonted
frostiness. “Is there that much grace in you, woman?”
“Though you didn’t allow for it in the sketch—yes, there is.”
“I won’t exhibit the sketch, I promise you.”
“Antonia, dear——” Mrs Verity stood, with one hand pushing aside
the dark blue and green portière of the studio. A neat little figure in
a black dress with white collar and cuffs; a precise little spinster, one
would say, from a novel of Jane Austen or Mrs Gaskell. Manners of
superlative delicacy; speech in which each separate syllable was
clearly articulated; a habit of mind which seized on the most trivial
utterance of others, and smoothed it out flat for earnest
consideration. Mrs Verity’s personality was such as to make it quite
credible that Antonia was found in a gooseberry bush.
“Good afternoon, Miss Marcus. Are you quite well? Yes? Really? I
am so pleased. It is delightful to find you here with Antonia. I
wonder if I might ask for a cup of tea? Not if it is at all inconvenient,
Antonia. I can order it in the dining-room, indeed I can. Do you not
think the parks are looking lovely? I wonder if—— But I interrupted
you, Miss Marcus.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Deb, who had only begun an affirmative:
“Yes, aren’t they?” in reference to the parks.
“Oh, but please, please say what you were going to say. It was
unpardonably rude of me to cut you so short.”
“It wasn’t anything worth repeating, Mrs Verity. Do go on with
what you were going to say—‘I wonder if——’”
“No, indeed, that can quite well wait till you say what you were
going to say.”
“But really—I’ve forgotten it,” cried Deb, by now hysterically
incapable of the “Yes, aren’t they?” of her original intention.
“My fault; how could I——”
 “Here’s your tea, mother;” Antonia smiled mischievously down on
the punctilious little lady’s distress.
Deb stretched her limbs lazily, without displaying, however, much
determination to move. She was rather hoping that Antonia would
invite her to stay. But:
“I have to be going out presently, but in an opposite direction, or
I’d ask you to wait for me.”
“Are you supping with Gillian? I thought you told me you expected
her here; Miss Marcus, do you not agree with me that Gillian
Sherwood is quite a remarkable character?”
An almost imperceptible contraction of Antonia’s brows expressed
impatience. “What was the lecture like?” she asked. Deb pondered
on the unknown Gillian, hardly hearing Mrs Verity’s painstaking
description. This was one of the moments when she was convinced
of mystery in the background of Antonia’s life. Why had she never
mentioned a Gillian who had a remarkable character, with whom she
was on terms of supper? Why did she apparently object so strongly
to her mother’s introduction of the name? Why was she on certain
occasions so anxious to rid herself of Deb’s company? Why was she
so vague and elusive as to the manner in which she had spent the
foregoing day, or intended to spend the morrow? Why had she once
said casually “Don’t drop in here without letting me know, Deb.
Always ’phone. I’m out such a lot, it’s hardly worth your while to
chance it....” Antonia herself was always “chancing it” at Montagu
Hall.
A second door in the studio led to a small garden. Beyond the
panes a tall young man suddenly loomed, and rapped three times,
as might a conspirator.
“It’s Cliffe Kennedy,” remarked Mrs Verity, and nodded cheerfully
to him. Immediately, as though at some signal, he opened the door,
strolled in, and immediately burst forth: “I’ve just told a man that his
wife was an abominable female! Yes, an abominable female! and he
didn’t know whether to agree with me or not.—Antonia, one doesn’t
put tea away when a visitor comes. One brings it out.—I think
people ought to know their own minds about that sort of thing, don’t
you, Mrs Verity?”
Mrs Verity, as was her wont, gave the matter her weightiest
consideration of puckered brow and clasped fingers. “It certainly
seems to me of the utmost importance that a man should be aware
of his exact state of harmony or disharmony towards the woman in
whose company he is compelled to pass at least two-thirds of his
normal existence,” she pronounced. “But perhaps he hesitated to
express his opinion to you in the fear that it might by some means
be carried back to his wife?”
“Not the slightest fear of that—she was there, my dear lady,
beside him at the very moment when I said ‘Your wife is an
abominable female’—did I say abominable or loathsome? I forget!
—‘And all your old pals including myself consider you’ve ruined
yourself by marrying her. Throw her off, man, throw her off!’ That
was the time for him to agree and get rid of her. Permanently. No
woman of spirit could stop with a man aware of the opinion of his
pals. But he’s ruined, I tell you. His pluck is broken. He just
sniggered and moved away backwards conciliatingly; and She, the
hag, the doll, the curly hypocrite, murmured: ‘Come along, Bertie!’—
I ask you! ‘Come along, Bertie!’... Antonia, who’s that Florentine
page lying over there among the cushions wondering about the
handsome young man with hair like the village idiot?”
Deb started at this accurate guess at her reflections, and Cliffe
Kennedy grinned at her in excellent fellowship.
Mrs Verity exclaimed: “Forgive me, I have been exceedingly
remiss. I should have introduced you before, indeed I should. How
could I have neglected to do so?”—though it was hard to say at
which point of Mr Kennedy’s speech she could have effected the
introduction.
“This is Antonia’s great friend, Deb Marcus. Miss Marcus, Mr Cliffe
Kennedy. Cliffe, I will think about the problem of your friend and his
wife. I am sure you meant to do good by your intercession. It seems
to me a great pity under the circumstances that they should be
definitely and not merely experimentally married. And now, since we
may not meet again to-day——” She bade good-bye to Deb and
Kennedy, patted her daughter’s shoulder, and slipped unobtrusively
away.
“Well,” flung out Kennedy to Deb, “was I right about the village
idiot?”
She glanced at his golden shock-head, and parried to save herself.
“I see no straws spiking in every direction in your hair.”
“And you can’t make village idiots without straw. Good. Nor can
you break camels’ backs. Nor tell which way the wind is blowing.”
“Nor eat ice-cream sodas.”
“The straw is a useful animal. Awful dearth of village idiots
because Selfridge’s have made a corner in straws for their soda
fountain. Species practically extinct. Sole surviving specimen, C.
Kennedy, Esq., fireman, pageant-maker and pork-butcher. Pageants
and pork while you pause. Preposterous prices! Antonia, you
remember my inspiration for a grand historical pageant of barques
up the Thames in commemoration of the death of Ethelred the
Unready?”
“I remember a few rough suggestions you threw out, of a sort of
Lord Mayor’s show,” laughed Antonia, “presenting every sort of
special occasion on which the English people were notoriously
unready, headed by Ethelred himself, refusing to get up on his
wedding-morning because he had overtired himself the night before,
taking cinema films of a tortoise——”
“And ending with a symbolic presentment of the proverb ‘Always
lock the stable door after the horse has got away; it does no harm
and amuses the horse’—tableau of same, with horse smiling happily
over the adjoining hedge. Would you believe it, Antonia, that when I
approached the Lord Mayor on the subject, and put it to him that
this was the undoubted moment for the Educational Value of such a
moral lesson upon the psychology of the gritty-nosed board-school
child, and would he lend me some of the comic costumes and
coachmen he must have lying about from his own piffling show—
Antonia, he said: ‘Young man, are you aware that this country is at
war?’ and handed me a white feather torn from the hindmost of a
flock of geese who happened to be waddling across the hall. I didn’t
lose my temper, Antonia. I put it into my buttonhole, and said very
calmly, ‘Thank you—that’s the second present I’ve had to-day,’ and
turning back the coat lapel on the other side, I showed him my V.C.
where the King had pinned it. Then all the geese rose on their hind
legs and cheered——”
Deb’s childish peals of laughter broke off his narration. Till the last
episode recounted, she had been in bewilderment trying to sift
fantasy from fact; with such vivid conviction did the speaker present
each succeeding picture: the smiling horse, the mayor bending for
the feather, the proud young V.C. ... but that incident at least might
quite well be true——
“Are you a V.C.?”
He gave her rather a queer look from his candid forget-me-not
blue eyes. And he put down his cup and walked sharply to the
window, and remarked in a very matter-of-fact tone: “No. I’ve been
medically rejected for the Army. You see, I’ve only been given
another year to live, and I suppose they thought it a pity to reduce
the allowance.”
“Never mind, Cliffe,” said Antonia gently—and Deb, the tears
choking in her throat, waited for the message of divine womanly
consolation that was doubtless on its way—“A well-meaning man can
tell an enormous quantity of lies even in one year. Don’t give up.
Look at him well, Deb—he has a wrinkle in his face for every lie his
lips have spoken.”
The man turned round to give the entire benefit of his long face,
webbed and wrinkled by a thousand evidences of inaccurate
statement. Sombrely he looked at Deb:
 “Shall I tell you how I was cured of my habit of lying, in spite of
Antonia? Yes, cured, by God, and by pretty drastic means....” He
bent his chin on to his hands. Deb knew instinctively that on this one
occasion, if never again, out of a fever of imaginative falsehood was
emerging a simple and rather poignant piece of truth——
“Never mind the details,” he broke out abruptly—“just take it that
there was a woman, and she loved me—I never knew how much.
She was responsive to my moods as a field of barley to the wind—
rustling to shadow and waving back to pure light. A field of barley, I
tell you!” he cried fiercely, striking the table with his fist.... “I was
miserably depressed over something or other—again a detail—and
she tried to laugh it off. That irritated me—she wasn’t taking the
tragedy seriously enough. My tragedy! ‘Ring me up to-morrow,
Cliffe, between seven and eight, and let me hear the worst,’ and
again that forced silly little laugh. I replied with an inflexion of
mocking composure—intensely dramatic: ‘Very well, dear. If I
haven’t rung up by five minutes to eight, you’ll know I’ve put a bullet
through my head.’ And left it at that.”
He brooded a moment.
“I rang up at two minutes past eight. And it was she who had put
a bullet through her head.... Couldn’t endure the prospect of life
without me. Oh, no, I hadn’t waited deliberately; I was merely rather
rushed, and I’d forgotten the terms of my farewell the evening
before. And she had waited ... at the other end ... fifty-five minutes
of slow agony....”
“Well, you can understand it cured me of the habit of the effective
lie.”
The girls were both silent. The light was fading from the studio.
Antonia’s voice spoke with a quiver of laughing accusation: “Cliffe,
dear, do I spy another and very recent wrinkle?”
Deb cried in sharp distress, “Oh, Antonia ...” for either the other
had trodden with profane feet on sacred ground, or.... She appealed
to Cliffe. “It was true?”
 “It depends what you mean by true,” he replied with the air of a
man slowly descending to earth by parachute. “I think that
somewhere or other, and for the reason I have told you, a woman
must have sat listening through fifty-five moments for the tinkle of a
telephone bell to release her—or how could I know it all so vividly?
They say the human imagination is incapable of conceiving outside
reality. That the man was not myself?—an accident. Or perhaps it
was indeed myself, and I have forgotten it, and in telling you this as
a mere tale I’m calling truth itself a lie....”
“I must go,” said Deb politely. “Good-bye.”
“I’ll see you home, wherever it is.” Cliffe lounged to his feet.
“No, thanks,” coldly.
“But I want to. You’re angry with me. And I must put myself right
——”
“By another lie?” A flame of indignation in the grey eyes that
accused him of rousing her emotions by false pretences. Deb had
been profoundly moved by the climax of the tale.
Cliffe argued good-humouredly: “For goodness’ sake, why all this
arbitrary distinction between what I invent and what God invents. Of
course I’ll see you home.”
“Deb’s stopping to supper with me,” Antonia struck in. “She’s dying
to ask me all about you, and my account will be just as picturesque
and much more reliable than yours.”
“But, Antonia, I thought you were supping out—with Gillian
somebody?”
“Mother said so. I didn’t. I’m supposed to go to some very dull
people and I’ve decided to ’phone them off.”
“What do you think of our Gillian?” Cliffe asked of Deb.
“I don’t know her.”
“Don’t know her—but she’s always here or at Zoe’s.”
 “Who’s Zoe?”
Kennedy turned excitedly to Antonia: “I say, they must meet,
mustn’t they? I believe she and Gillian would hit it off frightfully well.
And Zoe’s a whole music-hall entertainment in herself, though I
abominate the Spanish Jew of a shoemaker she’s walking out with
now. Let’s phone them to come round here to-night. And Winny too
——”
“This isn’t a branch of the Y.W.C.A., Cliffe,” Antonia tried amusedly
to check his exuberant overflow of conviviality. But Cliffe ran on.
“No—let me see—Zoe shows off best in her own Palais Royale flat
—she needs all the doors and cupboards to be really at her best. I’ll
give a tea-party there next Saturday. Blair Stevenson may be up on
leave, and has asked me to let him meet that singer woman I told
him about, with hair just like mine! You must meet her too, Miss
Marcus—you positively must.”
“You mean La llorraine—oh, I know her well.” Deb was glad to
have found one name familiar among all these pattering new names.
“Good. You’ll come to the tea-party? Antonia will bring you—it’s in
a street rather tricky to find. I’m keen on backing Zoe against La
llorraine for sheer verbal energy. Take the field bar none. For this
evening we’ll just have Gillian and Winifred and Theo. Shall I ’phone
them, Antonia, or will you?”
“You can,” said Antonia. “No—bother! Gillian is away till Tuesday,
and Winny without her sends me to sleep. And Theo Pandos is a
bounder—Deb wouldn’t care about him.”
“That brings the party down to the present three. At least, I
suppose I can stop to supper, Antonia, as you’re not going out after
all? You haven’t invited me yet.”
“Of course you can. Don’t you know that a studio girl always
keeps a stray tin of sardines in the cupboard?”
“And a black and emerald cushion on the divan. Curse it, what I’ve
had to suffer dodging the lure of the generic studio cushion. But
yours is hardly the generic studio, Antonia. You actually use it for the
quaint and unusual purpose of painting pictures in it. The girl of
nowadays rents a studio to picnic in by moonlight, or because it has
such a ducksome musician’s gallery to sleep in, or a parquet floor for
fox-trotting, or an acoustic. Have you a studio, Miss Marcus? Excuse
me not calling you by your Christian name for a few weeks, but the
whimsical Bohemian vagabond, a species whom I abhor, always uses
Christian names within three minutes of introduction.”
“Or else a charming invented name,” Deb supplemented. “I’ll call
you ‘Big-Brother-Man’ and you shall call me ‘All-Alone-Girl.’”
“Or you call me ‘Daddy Longlegs’ and I’ll call you ‘Peg o’ my
Heart.’”
“May I? Oh, may I really? And will you? Will you really?”
“Antonia, I’m rather taken with this new person. Where did you
pick her up?”
“In a boarding-house. Go on appreciating her, while I ’phone up
my hostess for this evening and tell her I have toothache.” Antonia
ran up the two steps to the door which led to the house; and stood
an instant poised on the topmost, surveying Deb and Cliffe with a
provocative smile: “It makes me so happy to think that the two
beings whom I love most on earth may also grow to love each
other....”
She vanished. And Cliffe murmured: “And she doesn’t care a snap
of the fingers for either of us.”
“No. More than anyone else I’ve met, Antonia is absolutely
sufficient unto herself.”
“Yet one can’t leave her alone. She’s always the indifferent centre
of a swarm of nibblers. What’s the attraction, I wonder.”
“Have you ever caressed a crystal or a lump of jade, or an
ornament in soapstone, something with a surface perfectly smooth
and cool—something hard and cut and clear, without fuss or
anything except its own polish and beauty? ... that’s the beauty of
Antonia, and her fascination.”
“An exquisite statuette in green bronze, standing high up on the
mantelpiece. Psyche with the lamp.”
“Artemis. Psyche is too human—too curious.”
“More in your line—eh?”
Deb shook her head. And on pretext of needing to do her hair
afresh for supper, she followed Antonia into the house. She required
to snatch some general information from Antonia about this long,
thin beaky-nosed Cliffe Kennedy, with the sunny, forget-me-not blue
eyes, and outrageously nimble tongue, before she presented him
with the confidences for which he was angling. As she emerged from
the garden passage into the hall, she heard Antonia speaking in that
peculiarly distinct voice one reserves for the telephone: “No, I want
Gillian—Oh, isn’t she?—Well, listen, Winny—Say I simply must go out
to-night. I muddled the days—I expect her to-morrow night
instead....”
Deb walked slowly through the hall and up the stairs. She was
puzzled....
Antonia had not seen her. A moment later she came into the
bedroom.
“Oh, was Cliffe too much for you?”
“You said you would tell me about him.”
“Certainly,” said Antonia obligingly, sitting on the edge of the bed
and clasping her hands round her knees. “He’s a rich subject—Cliffe
Kennedy, aged twenty-nine—only son of a perfectly sweet old
mother. He’s a completely harmless-uncle type, from the sex point of
view; and also the most dangerous and mischievous person that
ever walked this earth, because he attracts all confidences and
secrets, and then betrays them lavishly as the freakish impulse takes
him.”
 “But forewarned——”
“Is not forearmed—with Cliffe. He has a magnetic and fatal lure,
that draws and draws you.... You seek comfort each time by an
instinctive self-assurance that just this once and only this once Cliffe
is to be trusted; and when he is relating one of his best impromptus,
your instinct equally assures you that just this once and only this
once Cliffe is telling the truth. Yes, you needn’t flush quite so hotly,
Deb; which one was it you believed? The episode which cured him of
lying? Why, he lies by mechanism. He keeps a sort of stock-pot, into
which he throws the bare bones of every dramatic incident which
takes his fancy, and fishes it up again meated with personal
application. He’s everybody’s best friend and everybody’s worst
enemy in succession, and gyrates from one extreme to the other so
quickly that you may be unburdening your inmost heart to him
under an entirely false impression that you are still on the friendly
category. There’s the gong, Deb. Any more questions, before the
Court rises?”
“Why isn’t your best boy in khaki?” laughed Deb.
“He has been medically rejected. That bit of information happened
to be correct. It’s those dotted fragments of truth which make the
whole so perilous. It can’t be altogether discarded.”
“And has he really only a year to live? Oh, Antonia——”
“Bless your tears of sympathy, little girl. Cliffe will probably be a
hale old man of eighty. Come along....”

Mrs Verity detained Deb after supper on some pretext, while Cliffe
and Antonia returned to the studio. In any normal mother, this piece
of manœuvring could easily be interpreted as a wish to further a
favourable “match” for Antonia; and Mrs Verity’s intentions were
similar and yet startlingly dissimilar; she was benignly hopeful that a
free union with that charming Mr Kennedy would be that step in the
wrong direction, which she so earnestly desired for Antonia’s good.
“Antonia is the sweetest of companions, and also deserves my
supreme respect as an artist,” she told Deb. “But sometimes, Miss
Marcus, and oh, I trust indeed that I may be mistaken, sometimes
she strikes me as being just a trifle narrow-minded. She seems too
content to accept those illogical conventions which have been
fetishes since countless years. It would grieve me inexpressibly if
Antonia should miss some of the Fullness of life. Do you not agree
with me, Miss Marcus, and pray, if you do not agree, do not hesitate
to contradict me—do not hesitate to call me unreasonable, but do
you not think”—mittened hands fervently clasped in her lap—“that it
is Antonia’s duty to the Age to be a little more abandoned in her
conduct?”
If one could judge by Kennedy’s conversation during the rest of
the evening, Antonia’s friends at least were certainly not to be
complained of in that respect. Cliffe slaughtered their presumable
confidences with as little ruth as a butcher slaughters lambs, and
then disported himself merrily among the mangled heaps. A certain
Theo Pandos, after completely maiming the glorious genius of Gillian
Sherwood, was flirting shamefully with “Winifred,” who, it seemed,
was found in dire need by Gillian on her doorstep, and taken in and
clothed and fed. “And I tell you, Antonia, and this is Gospel truth,
that sticky, white-slug girl has done the doorstep trick before.... Blair
Stevenson knows a man who swears for a fact he met her at Tom
Maryon’s, the dramatist, three years ago, under the very same
conditions. He made Blair take his oath never to breathe one word
about it, for fear of making mischief. One doorstep?—she’s lain on
twenty-seven doorsteps.”
From “Winifred,” Cliffe went on to “Zoe” and “Blair,” and was
equally startling in his revelations. There was nothing of vindictive or
paltry gossip in Cliffe’s stupendous onslaughts upon the truth. He
committed mortality on lines that waxed from merely generous to
colossal, breath-taking. He flung about reputations and caught them,
as deftly as a juggler his plates; or dropped them with magnificent
disregard of the smash. Treachery was here conducted on as opulent
a scale of grandeur as falsehood. Coincidence was blown out to a
lusty, full-bellied creature triumphant over those meagre, lean-
throated sisters of accuracy and consistency. No human being could
have survived one day of life under such a stress of superlative
achievement, such haphazard of occurrence, such complicated
interplay of motives, actions, and reactions.
Antonia did not interrupt Mr Cliffe Kennedy’s entertainment. It was
a very fine one-man performance, and lasted until eleven o’clock.
Then he relapsed into moody depression, and said he would go mad
unless he could be solitary ... but would kindly see Deb home first, if
she promised not to talk.
And he hovered a moment on tip-toe, taller even than nature had
made him, looking down at Antonia with a wry smile; where she lay
dreamily back in her chair, with hands clasped behind the beautiful,
delicate shape of her head. Then he bent, and took that head
between his long, thin, brown fingers, as though she were a holy
saint, and reverently touched her forehead with his lips, and put her
from him, and swung out of the studio.
Deb understood that it was a kiss of renunciation. And that his
passion for Antonia was very real and very hopeless....
Did Antonia know of it?

Antonia telephoned early the next morning to make amused

enquiry how much of her inmost soul Deb had been lured to commit
to Kennedy’s precarious keeping during the homeward walk.
Deb faltered an evasive reply, ashamed to confess that she had
inexplicably delivered up to this persuasive highwayman of secrets
the complete comedy and tragedy of the Chorus.
“Did he say anything about me?” Antonia questioned her further.
 Again Deb faltered an evasive reply ... whilst in her ears rang a
guilty echo of Cliffe’s peroration to the bizarre history of Charlotte
Verity’s bold infatuation for a now defunct Arctic explorer who was
Cliffe’s own father (“twenty-nine years ago. And all this time neither
she nor I have dared to tell Antonia that she’s my own half-sister
and a child of love.”...)
“No, nothing, Antonia.”
“What did he talk about, then? Well—whom did he talk about?”
“His m-mother.”
“Deb, I can positively hear you squirming. Own up. Why are you
shielding him?”
“I’m not,” protested Deb unhappily.
Antonia let her off. “What are you doing to-day?”
“I think I’ll go to Hampstead and ask myself to tea with the
Rothenburgs—the Redburys, I mean. Nell was the kiddy I introduced
to you last week; you liked her, didn’t you?”
“Yes—I’ve just rung her up to invite her to the show of etchings at
the Leicester Galleries.”
“Never mind. I can see her another time.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not a bit. Any message for La llorraine? I’ll pay them a visit this
afternoon, instead of the Redburys.”
“Will you? Then I shall probably come on there after the show—if
you don’t object.”
“Why should I object? I’m very happy in your company.”
“I accept your act of homage,” serenely.
“’Tisn’t anything of the sort,” Deb repudiated the suggestion with
extreme indignation.
 “Very well, dear. Ask your Aunt Stella if she’ll lunch with me to-
morrow.”
“Me too?”
“The perfect hostess never mixes her generations.”
“That’s an excuse not to give me lunch.”
“You may come to supper the day after, if you bring your brother,
as you once promised.”
“And my grandfather?”
“The old Hun? Certainly. I prefer him to the oh-so-English Mr Otto
Redbury, anyway.”
“Does the oh-so-English Herr Otto Rothenburg go and sit in the
bathroom and sulk when you are there? because it honours you too
highly if he appears, and you might get conceited about it.”
“On the contrary, he entertains me with his most irreproachable
Jingo sentiments—rather loudly, in case a policeman is posted
outside the door.”
“An old lady has been posted outside this door for a good twenty
minutes, waiting to wash her hands. Shall I let her in?”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“The ’phone and the wash-basin live together at Montague Hall.
Good-bye, Antonia—do you like me?”
“Moderately. Good-bye, child.”
 CHAPTER II
I

The Redburys were at Saturday dinner. Their numbers indicated a

party, but in reality no one but the intimate family was present. Mr
and Mrs Redbury, their sons Hardy and David; Hardy’s wife Beatrice,
and her brother Sampson Phillips; the two daughters of the house,
Hedda and Nell; and Miss Swinley, the strictly English governess.
Four members were missing from the company: Con, the eldest
Redbury, since several months at the Front; Wilhelmina, the infant
child of Hardy and Beatrice, who had annoyed her grandfather and
been banished to the nursery; Hedda’s husband, Gustav Fürth,
interned in England for being a German; and Max, the boy who
came between Hardy and David, interned in Germany for being an
Englishman.
The international situation round the table was one of extremest
delicacy. Otto Rothenburg had settled in England for business
purposes, and was naturalized directly after his marriage with
Trudchen Wagner. But he made no secret of his dislike of the
English, and his contempt of the semi-English; and had always
petulantly insisted that his household should be conducted on sound
and hearty Teuton principles, of which the main points were a diet of
rich sufficiency for the elders, and no nonsense and no
discrimination for the tribe of children. Though the quantity of these
—six alive and two dead—indicated that he did not confine his
German ideas wholly to the table. Each of the six played a chosen
musical instrument—chosen by Herr Rothenburg himself, be it
remarked. The two girls had frequently been burdened by plaid
frocks; German was the language spoken as a matter of course at
meals; filial obedience and the good-night kiss were insisted upon;
and there was a frequent coming and going of relatives scattered
over Germany and Austria, with large gay packets of gingerbread
tied up in silver paper; or of polite unknowns bearing letters of
introduction from the Rothenburg relatives abroad; and very eager
to be invited to a meal.
When Hedvig, at eighteen, was wedded to a German, her father
was delighted. Hedvig herself had never been consulted on the
match. When Gerhardt, at twenty-four, had displayed unexpected
initiative and engaged himself to Beatrice Phillips, Rothenburg
fretted and objected and sulked, and locked himself in the
bathroom, and came out again when it was least desirable that he
should do so; and during a full six months rendered the lives of all
about him wholly unbearable. He was finally only reconciled to the
bride’s English birth and parentage by her large settlements. Max,
two years younger than Gerhardt, was, however, immediately
despatched out of danger to his Uncle Karl in Hanover, there to learn
the business and eventually to marry his Uncle Karl’s daughter Klara.
Konrad’s enthusiasm for territorial drill—well, with a stretch of the
imagination, that could be ascribed to his German blood revealing
itself in a wistful passion for the obligatory military service which
could never be his; therefore, Konrad, who of all the brood was his
mother’s darling, was grudgingly permitted to remain in London and
read for the Bar. David, sent to a day-school, was destined later for
Heidelberg University, as a corrective to any ultra-English notions
which St Crispin’s may have put into his head.
And then had occurred this most inconvenient war.
Herr Otto Rothenburg did not wait to be subtle about his change
of front. Immediately he scuttled for cover. He became in name, in
sentiment and in habit what he already was by law—a fine old
English gentleman. His household was revolutionized; he turned livid
at the sound of a single German word spoken; he clung to such
English acquaintances as were his, with a limpet-like fervour of
affection which no coldness could disconcert. He forbade all
communication with relatives abroad; and all mention of them. In
short, Mr Otto Redbury was afraid. To their mother’s utter
bewilderment, Hedvig, Lenchen, Konrad and Gerhardt were
metamorphosed to Hedda, Nell, Con and Hardy. His fever reached its
zenith when Gustav Fürth, an unnaturalized German of military age,
was arrested and interned. And his daughter Hedda, penniless and
unprotected, but in the highest spirits, returned to the parental roof,
with the obvious and natural intention of remaining where she was
for the duration of the war. Once supremely her father’s good girl,
Hedda was not at all popular in this crisis. It was difficult airily to
disavow all enemy connection, with concerned enquiries emanating
from all quarters as to Fürth’s whereabouts and treatment.
Supposing, too, that when she came to the house, Beatrice should
be offended at Hedda’s presence there ... Beatrice, that never-to-be-
sufficiently appreciated link with solid British stock!
Beyond a little astonished realization at finding herself encircled by
alien enemies—her attitude conveyed that she had never noticed
before that the Rothenburgs were German—Beatrice had a nature
too well-bred and womanly—gentle-womanly, David was wont to call
it—to have expressed as yet any sort of resentment. She was very
nice and tactful to Hedda about “poor Gustav.” It was a miracle that
Hardy could have been sensible and far-seeing enough as to have
married so successfully. Mr Redbury propitiated her with a
determination and unction that—again to quote David—“fair gives
one the sicks.” But then Mr Redbury was desperately afraid.
“Bodadoes, Beatty, mein Schatz?” enquired Mrs Redbury, dumpy
and apple-cheeked and very harrassed by her husband’s perpetual
amendment of her accent, and by the awful trinity of Briton’s
representatives present in the dining-room.
And Beatrice blushed faintly and glanced apologetically at her
brother Samson, who looked as wooden as though a toast of the
King had just been proposed. Miss Swinley coughed, a delicate and
pensive cough; something had annoyed Miss Swinley that morning,
and she was ripe for revenge.
“I met a vellow in de Zity dis morning,” said Mr Redbury, glaring at
his wife, “who vould by no means pelieve dat I vos bartly a
voreigner. ‘Vot—you?—go on! all dese years I dake you for a bure-
plooded Priton!’ He roared with laughter ven I told him my selige
father was porn in Amsterdam. He vouldn’t pelieve me. ‘Your vife,’
he said, ‘she speaks wiz a slight aggsent. But you are von of us,
Redbury, old man.’ He vouldn’t pelieve me——” himself roaring with
laughter, but still glaring at Trudchen.
“And when I told him how beautiful you were,” sang Hedda—
David kicked her to shut up. He could not bear it when the old man
made an ass of himself.
“He wouldn’t believe me ...” Hedda chirrupped irrepressibly. The
world bereft of Gustav was so full of radiant possibilities that she
could not refrain from bursting out. For her, at least, the war was not
entirely an evil thing.
Mr Redbury spoke quite correct English, but his accent was not so
irreproachable as to justify the complete good faith of the “vellow in
the Zity.” And that “selige” had slipped in by mistake; and would
prevent him from being quite so privately nasty to his wife about
“mein Schatz” as he had anticipated.
A joint appeared on the table simultaneously with the post. One
letter bearing the “opened by Censor” label, black letters on white
pasted across the slit of the envelope, was handed by the servant to
Mrs Redbury.
“Ach Gott! von der liebsten besten Anna!” as a second letter was
revealed under cover of the first.
Mr Redbury hissed out a venomous “Put it away!” which his wife,
fumbling and tearful over this communication from her beloved elder
sister in Berlin, neither heard nor heeded. Mr Redbury dared not
insist, in front of Rhoda, the parlour-maid—not to mention Beatrice,
Samson Phillips and Miss Swinley. Besides, though his sway might be
peevishly unpleasant, it never exacted the awed obedience yielded
to a true despot. He quivered with horror at the present
predicament, as it dawned upon him that his wife intended to read
aloud the letter from Germany, in little bursts and snatches of joy.
David was encouraging her by eager questions—that boy had no
sense whatever. Mr Redbury began to talk very loud and fast.
 “It makes me broud to see all the ghagi round my table”—he
looked unutterable compliments at Samson Phillips’ captain’s
uniform, then possessively at Hardy, who was short-sighted and had
only been admitted to Home Service; and at David, a public-school
cadet. “If only Con vere here, to gomblete our number; did I tell
you, Captain Villips, zat my eldest boy has been mentioned in
disbatches for botting four Huns wiz his own rifle?”
“Glad to hear Con has a sense of property!” muttered David.
“Ei, die Arme!” cried Mrs Redbury, weeping. “Franz has been shot.
You remember little Franz, Otto? Ach verzeihen Sie—forgive me,
Captain Villips. Such a dear little boy, my sister’s youngest. He
stayed with us for a whole year, and learnt his lessons wiz Nell.”
Vindictively Mr Redbury carved all the gristle for Hedda, who had a
German husband. It was a vent to his feelings. He showed a nice
discrimination in reserving the juiciest bits for Beatrice; Miss Swinley,
he judged correctly, was past all such caressing treatment; one
could safely anticipate her month’s notice the very next morning. Not
that she was really necessary any longer to superintend Nell’s
studies. Nell was seventeen, and in the ordinary course of events,
would have been “out” next year. But Miss Swinley would spread a
report that her principles would not permit her to remain in a
household so pronouncedly pro-German.... To Mr Redbury’s
jaundiced fancy, the tread of the policeman sounded nearer. And he
was never far away—that mythical policeman.
“Oh, Mother, is there anything about Max?” asked Nell, her dark
liquid eyes wistful with anxiety for her favourite brother.
Mrs Redbury fluttered the thin foreign pages, crossed with pointed
scribble. “But yes—Max is well as can be hoped, and his Uncle Karl
makes enquiries that he is gomfortable. That good Karl! And—ach,
unglaublich!—his own nephew, Otto Salinger, is in a gonfinement
camp over here, and Karl asks if we, in return, vill find him out and
be nice to him? But yes, indeed; perhaps ze poor young man vould
like some of my Dampfnudeln; he vill surely be homesick. Otto, do
you hear?”
Miss Swinley repeated her pensive cough. And Mr Redbury,
wrathfully ignoring the question of his unfortunate namesake,
addressed himself again to Captain Phillips.
“Ven do you think we shall knock them out definitely?” His loud
tones drowning Trudchen’s agitated twitter. “I have had a tip to lay
in yards and yards and yards of punting.”
Samson Phillips’ handsome, heavy features expressed
bewilderment.
“Punting?”
“Rather overdone the bunting to-day, haven’t you, father?” David
suggested impertinently. It was flag-day for one of the minor Balkan
states, and Mr Redbury wore his expensive trophies duplicated and
tripled, with the air of a General bespattered with honourable
medals.
Mr Redbury told an anecdote of the titled lady who had decorated
him. And then Beatrice asked:
“Do you really think we shall win the war so soon? It’s almost too
good to be true, isn’t it?” her pleasant, well-bred English voice was a
relief after so much duologue from her parents-in-law. “But I don’t
think it’s very nice of the Germans to use liquid fire, do you?”
Hardy beamed at her fondly through his glasses. “Not very nice of
them, no. Not drawing-room manners, is it, darling?” He was a man
of quaint appearance, a startlingly fair replica of Nell and David, who
had the dark melancholy eyes, aquiline cast of feature, and sensitive
lips that stamped them true Hebrew. But Hardy, with his light eyes,
light hair, light skin, and enormous nose, gave somewhat the
impression of a Jew who had been well bleached. Hedda’s colouring
lay between the two extremes. Con enjoyed the good looks of the
family; blue eyes always afire with mirth; tall, athletic figure;
incarnate good-nature and high spirits, he was adored by his men,
and well-liked by his superior officers. As for his mother—not Max
nor Hardy nor David, nor Hedda nor Nell, could in sum equal her
love for this miracle of an eldest-born, now in the trenches.
“Are you laughing at me?” Beatrice remained quite serene. “Yes,
please; I will have some cream.”
“Die Anna writes zat zere is only a wee-little milk for each child in
Berlin; not enough to keep zem alive, she say.”
“Let zem die!” cried Mr Redbury, with a ferocity that was really
foreign to his nature—only he was afraid. “All the better. Let zem all
die. Zey only grow up to be Cherman soldiers fighting against
humanity.”
Nell flashed out: “Oh, father, how can you?—little soft babies——”
and suddenly plunged back into silence, marvelling at her own
temerity.
David as usual supported her in rebellion. “Not all German babies
grow up to be German soldiers. Some grow up to be English
soldiers” ... his ironic downward glance at his own uniform
emphasized the remark.
“If Con were here, young ’un, he’d lick you for that,” and Hardy
sent a message of strong disapproval over his glasses at his cadet
brother.
“Con’s different. However keen he may be on his regiment and
England and all that, he never talks fatuous drivel about wanting all
the German babies to die.”
“Vatuous trivel ...” shouted Mr Redbury.
“Dear me,” murmured Miss Swinley.
“I’m sure David doesn’t mean to be rude, father,” Beatrice put in
mildly. “We none of us want babies to die, but of course it’s nicer if it
isn’t English babies.”
David laughed. And his father ordered him from the table. Nell
immediately slipped from her seat and joined him at the door.
 “Ach Lenchen!” sobbed Mrs Redbury. “And you haf not touched the
pie on your blate!”
“Gom back!” roared Mr Redbury. For there was always a possibility
that she might find favour in the eyes of Samson Phillips. He had
noticed with pleasure that a secret understanding seemed to exist
between them; frequently they whispered together.... “My son-in-law
a Captain in ze Zappers!”... Another link with safety. One might
almost defy the policeman then.

II

The parlour-maid accosted David at the foot of the stairs. “Young

Mr Marcus is in the schoolroom, sir. He said he would wait for you
there.”
“Oh—thanks, Rhoda.”
“Hullo, Marcus. Not end of the term yet, is it? Scarlet fever again?”
“No. I’ve chucked Winborough.” Richard was lounging on the
shabby fender-seat, drumming with one heel against the side of the
fireplace. He was not looking well; dark marks under his eyes and a
rather drawn expression round the mouth caused David, who was
observant, to scrutinize him with some attention. He was rather
surprised at this visit. On the whole Richard was not wont to seek
out his society with overmuch enthusiasm. Richard’s friends were
mostly sturdy athletes of the Greville Dunne order, who summed up
David as “sloppy” because he played the cello, and hated games.
“Chucked Winborough? That’s pretty casual. What does your
guv’nor say?”
“Said I could do as I liked about it.”
“Good Lord! mine would bellow the house down. He’s just slung
me out of the dining-room over some nonsense about German and
English babies.”
 David threw himself disconsolately in the battered old armchair.
The other boy glanced up with sudden interest.
“What’s your family’s attitude towards the war?”
“We’re all at sixes and sevens. Father’s more English than the
English; and mother sits and worries in alternate layers over Con
and her own people in Germany. Does not mention them, of course.
Hardy is a genuine patriot, I believe, without making much row
about it. Of course being married to Beatrice has influenced him. We
hang the fact of Beatrice out in the front garden like the clean
washing.... Sickening. And all the while there’s Max interned over
there—and Gustave interned over here—also unmentionable ... not
that Hedda minds much. But father.... You should see his face when
visitors enquire after ‘poor Mr Fürth’—and they do it as if they were
treading on egg-shells. The etiquette of internment is as yet very
precarious. One isn’t at all sure if Gustave is to be exalted as a
martyr or mysteriously hushed up as though he were a convict—I
say, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m in for it too, that’s all.”
“Internment? You, Marcus? I—I’m sorry. I’d no idea....”
“All right. You needn’t do the egg-shell trick. I was born in
Germany, and father didn’t have me naturalized, that’s all.”
David was silent a moment, thoughtfully staring at his boots. “Has
he appealed?”
“Yes. No good. The Government has condoned too many cases,
and the Anti-German section are beginning to protest. So they’ve
had to tighten up again. We’ve got a let-off from deportation for
grandfather and Aunt Stella. Can’t expect more, with all these spy
cases about.”
He went on in a very matter-of-fact voice: “I couldn’t stick
Winborough this term. Just knowing.—It’s absurd—I was as keen to
lick the Germans as ever—but how could I join in when the fellows
jawed about Huns and wiping ’em off the face of the earth.... I felt
crimson inside—beastly—as though I were there on false pretences.
And all the chaps of my age were preparing to join up next year ...
last term I was still one of them. They couldn’t understand why.... It
had to come out at last—the Head knew all along, naturally. But we
were playing the Meltonians in their own field, twelve miles away—
and I had to register and get permission, show my photograph—all
that mush. Like a ticket-of-leave man. The fellows were awfully
decent. They didn’t even cut me. Harrison, speaking for the majority,
went so far as to say it was rough luck, and they knew I couldn’t
help it”—Richard’s underlip twisted sardonically. “But they weren’t
quite sure, after that, what ought to be said in front of me ... dead
pauses when I strolled up to one group or another.... I came home
at half-term, last Monday, and I’m not going back.”
“So you’re out of it,” whispered David, still staring as though
fascinated at his boots. “Out of the fighting, and the need of
fighting, and the need to choose ... you lucky beggar. Oh, you lucky
beggar....”
“I realize the fact that I’m out of it, thanks. But I don’t quite follow
your congratulations.”
“It’s that ... I’ve been in Germany, two or three times, once for six
months, and—Oh, Richard, what has happened to the old Germany,
the Germany we knew, to change it so? I simply can’t realize that
they commit atrocities in Belgium and sink hospital ships and
mutilate children, and are bragging and swaggering and blood-
letting all over Europe.... I can only remember the little things—the
silly, comfortable little things.... You follow the stream, and in a
clearing in the heart of the great blue pinewood you come bang on
the sturdy old forest-house, with antlers branching over the wooden
doorway, and the coat-of-arms of some royalty ... perhaps you may
catch a glimpse of him in his green hunting-coat ... tables with check
blue and red cloths, and saucers of wood-strawberries like tiny drops
of blood—do you know the smell and flavour of wood-strawberries?
—and a flaxen peasant child who watches you with enormous
solemn eyes while you eat, and curtseys by clockwork for hours after
you’ve left her.... And all over the country the ridiculous wooden
signposts that say on one arm ‘Zum Biergarten,’ and on the other
‘Zum Aussichtspunkt,’ and never get tired of it—and you never get
tired of it either. Or of leaning out of your window in the early
morning to hear them play the Chorale, slow and pure and stately—
and the ground is a mist of blue bilberries—and the Rhine legends
jostle each other on your excursion, and you send off postcards on
which everybody signs their names—and everyone says good-day—
and everyone is musical.”
“Good God, how awful,” was Richard’s sotto voce comment on this
list of blisses.
David heard, and said rather impatiently: “You’ve been to
Germany, haven’t you? Can’t you understand what I mean?”
Richard ransacked his memory for a single incident or aspect of
Dorzheim which had found tender home in his heart, and discovered
not one.
“All the little things ...” David murmured again, hands clasped
behind his head, and eyes mournfully brooding on the past. “Oh, I
know I’m a sentimental idiot, but I can’t shake it all off to command.
Not at once.”
“If you feel like that, I don’t honestly see why you need join up.
’Tisn’t compulsory.”
“I’ve got to ... there’d be such a fuss with father—and he would
never forgive me. Max can’t, and Hardy’s married.... There’s only
Con and me. Con—well, you know him—he rings British wherever
you sound him.... I’ve seen mother look at him as though wondering
how he could ever have happened to be her son. I don’t want Con
to despise me—he’s always been ripping to us younger ones. And
then—oh, just because there’s a doubt about us all, we can’t afford,
as a family, to have a slacker about. If our name had always been
Redbury”—again that melancholy smile and shrug of the shoulders,
so typically Jewish.
“Have you changed it?”
 “Dear old man, you didn’t commit the horrible error of asking our
parlour-maid for Mr David Rothenburg?”
“Yes, I did. Sorry. I believe Deb warned me, but I forgot. Does it
matter?”
“She may give notice to-morrow ... we live uncomfortably on a
tight-rope nowadays, and some of us haven’t learnt how to walk it
yet. Poor mother, for instance—she’s always side-slipping. Rhoda is
fairly new, and father deludes himself that she doesn’t know our
guilty secret. I say, you remember Miss Swinley?” The mischievous
school-boy was uppermost in David now—“and how proud she was
of being descended from the Hereford Swinleys? Well, now it’s got
round to her how someone said publicly that of course she’s really a
German and everybody knows her real name is Schweinthal!”
Richard threw back his head and filled the room with his guffaws.
“Schweinthal—Swine-valley ... Swinley! Oh, that’s top-hole! She
was always so jolly full of swank and backbone. But all the same,
Redbury, I’m all at sea with these swarms of English county people
that have magically cropped up in our set during the last few weeks.
No offence meant to you, but who the deuce are the Lanes and the
Silvertons and the Mounts and the Gordons and the Meadowes?”
“All old familiar faces really. And I can tell you who the Mounts and
the Meadowes are, anyhow ... they’re each one-half of my cousins,
the Wiesenbergs. The elder and younger branch of the family have
long been at daggers drawn, and they’ve hailed the opportunity to
split into two. And the Mounts know nothing of the Meadowes, nor
shall the Meadowes ever go to meet the Mounts. My other cousin,
whose father changed his name about forty years ago, swears that
he’ll change it back again from Holmes to Hohenheim by way of
protest to all the funk and flurry.”
“Quite a pleasing moment at our boarding-house last week, when
two Scandinavian ladies were introduced to each other and neither
knew the language.”
 “But both broke into floods of delighted German? That’s what
happens these days when Swede meets Swede.”
“Aunt Stella says speaking German nowadays is as good a thrill as
the invention of a new sin, and far superior to secret drinking or
smoking or swearing.... You do it in a dark room, under your breath,
looking over your shoulder.”
“And in public you carefully mispronounce German towns and
Generals, in case it should be suspected that you pronounce them
not wisely but too well. Father’s getting quite a dab at throwing off
his little jokes about the Kayzer. Comic birthplaces are the fashion as
well; two of the Ladenbach girls, when the question crops up, have
been instructed to say they were born in a wagon-lit; and the boy
Julius, on the steps of the Venezuelan Consulate....”
“Looks as if Frau Ladenbach had dropped ’em about rather
carelessly,” chuckled Richard. He was glad he had come this
afternoon. It was years since he had been at all intimate with David
Rothenburg, and the impulse to seek him out had been the result of
a strange weariness of all his other friends who could not be taken
for granted as understanding, without elaborate foreword and
explanation, all these present chaotic conditions of Germans and
semi-Germans....
“Come out,” David suggested. “It’s stuffy in here, and I want to
take a parcel of books round to—to some people quite near.... You
can help me carry ’em.”
In the hall Nell and Samson Phillips were talking in an earnest
whisper. Nell wore heavy golden furs flopping over her thick brown
outdoor coat, and a wide-brimmed golden hat. She was a very
decorative figure in all shades from sallow through ivory to rich
umber; her thick skin, the cream-dusky colour of honeysuckle, could
certainly never flush to any shade of pink; only when she was
moved, her eyes glowed deeper. They glowed now, at the sight of
the two boys descending the staircase.
 “Oh, Richard, where is Deb this afternoon? She said something
about coming here?”
“Did she? I believe she’s gone to that Russian singing woman, La
llorraine. Anyway, you’re going out, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Antonia Verity has invited me to a picture-show. I’m
waiting for her to call for me. But I thought if Deb came ... but it
doesn’t matter——” She glanced swiftly corner-wise at Samson
Phillips, and her look said plainly “I’m sorry.”... Then Mr Redbury
came out of the smoking-room into the hall.
“Vell, yong beople”—he beamed approval on Nell and Phillips—“I
like to see yong beople enchoying zemselves togezzer. How is your
fazer, Marcus? Vun doesn’t see much of him lately.” But he quickly
changed the subject, for Ferdinand Marcus was hardly more English
than Mr Otto Redbury himself, and therefore at present socially
useless as an asset. “Ven are you going to put on ghagi, hein?
You’re ze same age as David, aren’t you?”
“Nearly,” said Richard.
“David vos so keen—ah, vell, we can’t all be as keen.... Vish I vos
a poy, and could choin up. Hey, Phillips, vill you take me as a regruit
in your rechiment? Vere are you two off to, Nell?”
“Pictures, father.”
“To ze bictures? Good. Enchoy yourselves. Look vell after her,
Phillips. She’s my only girl left, you see.”
“Your eldest daughter is living with you for the present, isn’t she,
Mr Redbury?” enquired the hoped-for son-in-law.
The prospectively bereaved father did not look grateful for the
proffered consolation of Hedda. “Run away to ze bictures, yong
beople,” and prepared to re-enter the smoking-room.
“Pictures, father, not the pictures,” Nell, explained, speaking as she
always did, like a shy but rapid cascade, perpetually dammed. “Miss
Verity has invited me—she is fetching me. Not——” She dared not let
him continue in the belief that she was to be escorted by Samson.
“Two girls vun vay and two boys anuzzer, and leave an old fogey
like me to entertain the Gaptain? No, no, that’s a foolish
arranchment. Vait for your friend, Nell, and all go to the bictures
togezzer.”
“Pictures, father. Not the pictures. And I’m not sure if Antonia——”
“All be cholly togezzer,” her father commanded her, peevish at her
second attempt at protest.
“Gom in veneffer you get leave, Phillips. Always velcome. Good-
pye, yong Marcus. I hope to see you in ghaki next time;” and went
into the smoking-room, irascibly slamming the door after him.
“I’m hanged if I’ll be convivial to order,” said David. “’Bye, Nell!” he
nodded carelessly to Phillips. “Come along, Marcus.” On the steps
they passed Antonia Verity on her way to fetch Nell.
“Are you waiting for me, Nell? good child!” She rested her calm
lingering regard on Samson Phillips, who, stolidly planted against the
umbrella-stand, did not budge.
Nell wished she could run away, wished she were dead; anything
to be drastically removed from this awful predicament between two
people who did not know each other, of one of whom she was still
deadly shy, the other commanded by her father to be their escort....
What was she to do? How long could they all stand like this glaring
at one another? The simple expedient of introducing Samson to
Antonia never occurred to Nell, who was very childish for her
seventeen years. She just stood with interlocked fingers, suffering....
“Perhaps if we wait long enough, Captain Phillips will go away.... Is
that how things, dreadful things, come to an end?”

III
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