McClure's Magazine/Volume 56/Number 5/The Porterhouse Steak

by Herman Cyril McNeile

 

Illustration: “That is unjust and unfair, Mr. Carruthers,” said a quiet voice at his elbow. “It is true my father knew. But to state that Dad has made you an offer out of charity is belittling you and belittling us”

 

The Porterhouse Steak

By “Sapper”

Illustrated by Ralph Pallen Coleman

NO one would have noticed him particularly as he walked along Piccadilly. He had on a blue lounge suit: his collar was spotlessly white. And he walked with a curious slow deliberation which betokened the man in no hurry. In the midst of the hurrying, jostling crowd he was just an inconspicuous unit.

Had any one working in one of the offices high above the street taken the trouble to follow this particular unit's movements he would have come to the conclusion that he was one of the band of leisured idlers who have nothing better to do than to stroll along the streets when the spirit moves them and look at the shops. More than likely this hard-working spectator would have envied him, as he returned to his books and ledgers.

For this inconspicuous unit was undoubtedly a most pronounced shop-looker. Every twenty yards or so he would pause and, leaning a little forward on his stick, stare into a window. Tobacconists, hosiers, Cook's office—all came alike to him: his tastes were evidently catholic. But there was one thing which the watcher from his distant point of observation would have been unable to see: a little thing—and yet such a big one. This idle lounger had a strange method of examining the goods so temptingly displayed. His eyes were tight shut.

For ten or perhaps twenty seconds he would stand there while the midday traffic of London rolled unceasingly by: then, opening his eyes again, he would resume his stroll. Gray eyes they were—steady and indomitable, with a wonderful glint of humor behind them. His face was clean-shaven and good to look at, though to a doctor it might have seemed altogether too thin and fine drawn.

He passed the Piccadilly Hotel, and once more became apparently engrossed in a shop window. This time it was a jeweler's, but the man was quite unaware of the fact. All he was aware of was that the roar of the motor buses appeared to be coming from a great way off, and that everything seemed strangely unreal. There was a buzzing in his head, as if wheels were spinning around, and his knees felt weak. With an effort he pulled himself together: he'd never fainted in his life before and it wouldn't do to start now. Somehow or other he had to get as far as King Street, in Covent Garden.

He walked on, his head thrown back and a faint smile around his lips. As usual there was a block at Piccadilly Circus, and he paused for a moment by an open automobile. A girl was driving and by her side sat a man whose back seemed vaguely familiar. And it was just as he got abreast of the man that some one jostled him, and he stumbled and nearly fell. He lurched up against the side of the car, but recovered himself at once with a word of apology, only to see the man lean forward with a positive shout of joy.

“Bill Carruthers, by all that's holy! Bill—you old blighter, how are you? My sister Joyce.”

The man on the pavement took off his hat, and the girl looked at him with a friendly smile.

“I've heard such a lot about you from Tom, Mr. Carruthers, that I feel I know you already.”

But Tom Caldwell was speaking again.

“Lunch, Bill: you must. Look here, we must get on; we're blocking the traffic. Where are you going now?”

“To a place in King Street,” answered the other.

“Hop in the back. We'll take you there. And then—lunch. I insist.”

He opened the door and half forced the other man in, and the next moment the car was gliding toward Leicester Square. And again the sense of unreality came over Bill Carruthers. Subconsciously he realized that the girl drove with the sure touch of an expert, but his brain was foggy and dull at one moment and full of freakish fancies the next. Like fever dreams—only Carruthers had no fever.

“What number, old man?” Tom's voice roused him, and he sat up with a jerk. Of course: he'd come to King Street in Tom Caldwell's car. Really, this would never do: the luxury of wool-gathering would never do for him. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a slip of paper.

“430-D. It's a warehouse of sorts.”

Joyce Caldwell drove slowly along and stopped before the door.

“Hurry up, old man,” said Tom. “And then we'll go off and make an oyster or two wilt.”

Brother and sister watched him cross the pavement and go through the swing doors.

“Dear old Bill. Fancy running into him like that.” Tom lit a cigarette. “The last time I saw him was at the Divisional dinner three years ago.”

“What is he doing now?” asked his sister.

“Heaven knows. Clever chap—probably making a fortune.”

“For a man who is making a fortune,” said the girl quietly, “his clothes are a bit shabby.”

“What infernal rot!” cried her brother indignantly. “His clothes are perfectly all right. What's the matter with them? And anyway—even if they were threadbare—what's that got to do with it? Bill's one of the salt of the earth: apart altogether from the trifling fact that he saved my life.” He looked at the girl with growing wrath. “If you don't want to lunch with us because his clothes aren't all you fancy, he and I will lunch alone.”

She turned her head and looked at him. And it was only when a man saw Joyce Caldwell full face that he could realize her unique and wonderful charm. It lay in her expression rather than in any particular beauty of feature, and as she looked at her brother he understood, not for the first time, the cause of the relays of men who always surrounded her.

Just now that expression reminded him of a mother tolerantly reproving her young and foolish offspring.

“You were always a fool, Tom,” she said calmly. “And lately I have noticed symptoms of your becoming a darn fool.”

Then she leaned forward on the steering wheel, and stared down the street, while her brother made explosive noises in his throat.

“Well, anyway,” he said at length, “will you lunch or will you not?”

“Of course I shall lunch,” she answered. And then she added, with apparent irrelevance, “I think he's got the bravest eyes of any man I've ever met—and the proudest.”

The swing door opened again, and Bill Carruthers came across the pavement.

“Finished, old man?” cried Tom.

“Quite,” said the other, with a grave smile. “The interview was most decisive.”

“Splendid. Then pop in again and we'll tackle this matter of lunch. Where shall we go?”

“The Milan Grill,” said his sister quietly, and let in the clutch.

Tom raised his eyebrows. “I thought you loathed the bally place. The last time you went there you said you'd never seen so many gluttonous human beings in your life.”

She swung the car into the Strand.

“Perhaps they will be better to-day. And by the way, Tom, don't order any cocktails before lunch.”

“Not have a cocktail!” he gasped. “When I've only just met Bill! But—why not?”

“Because they're not at all good for anybody in Lent,” she answered. “Don't ask questions, old man: do what I say. We'll leave the car in Waterloo Place.”

A few minutes later they entered the Milan Grill.

“Go and get a table, Tom,” said the girl. “And hurry up about it. I'm most frightfully hungry. A nice corner one, where we can talk.” She sat down as her brother departed and smiled at Carruthers. “I am so glad to meet you. Tom used almost to bore Dad and me with his panegyrics on a man we didn't know.”

“A dreadful exaggerator is Tom,” answered Carruthers.

“When a man saves another man's life a little exaggeration is allowable.”

“It was nothing,” said Carruthers simply. “Had the positions been reversed, he would have done the same for me.”

He swayed suddenly in his chair and gripped the table in front of him. His eyes were closed and the buzzing in his head grew louder. Then it passed and he glanced quickly at the girl. But she had noticed nothing and he heaved a sigh of relief. To be asked if he was ill or anything like that would be more than he could stand. This utterly adorable girl—dear old Tom—it was out of the question that they should ever know. And though few people pray in the Milan Grill, yet a strange prayer went up at that moment:

“Dear God! Let me eat like a gentleman.”

And the man who prayed was Bill Carruthers.

“I've got a table, old thing,” came Tom's voice. “And I've ordered lunch.”

“What have you ordered?” said his sister.

“A few oysters, a bird, some péches melba and a bottle of bubbly.”

“Well as far as I'm concerned, Tom, go and cancel it,” remarked the girl. “I want a full-size porterhouse steak, with fried potatoes and all sorts of vegetables. And before that, to get on with at once, an omelette. You and Mr. Carruthers can please yourselves. I'm hungry.”

“Hungry!” gasped Tom. “Why, great heavens, my dear woman, you must be up the pole. It takes three men to lift one of their porterhouse steaks.”

“Splendid!” said the girl. “That's just what I feel like. What about you, Mr. Carruthers?”

“Well, really, I feel rather like it myself,” answered Carruthers, forcing a smile.

“Then there you are, Tom,” said his sister. “Two full-size porterhouse steaks and two omelettes. And you can have your oysters and your bird. And let us know as soon as the omelette is ready.”

Slightly dazed, her brother retired again to the grill-room to countermand his original order, leaving the other two outside. Suddenly the girl gave an annoyed exclamation. She was peering into the inner recesses of one of those mysterious feminine bags, and then she looked up at her companion.

“How aggravating!” she cried. “I've left all my change at home. Could you give me some silver for a ten-shilling note?”

A dull red stained Carruthers' cheeks, and he fumbled in his pockets.

“I—er——” he began, but the girl had opened a new compartment, with an air of relief.

“It's all right,” she said. “My mistake. It was here all the time.”

She wasn't looking at him, and the red died slowly down leaving him whiter than ever. What an escape! What a merciful escape!

He made some humorous remark concerning the intricacies of these indispensable abominations, but it seemed to fall flat. At any rate she made no answer, only went on fumbling with her bag.

“You fool!” ran her thoughts. “You stupid fool. Didn't you know already without that? Oh, won't that idiot Tom ever come?”

He did, at last, wearing a slightly aggrieved expression, and his sister rose at once to her feet.

“Come on,” she cried, “I'm simply famishing!”'

“Well, if you eat that steak, you'll have to hire a crane to lift you out of your chair,” said Tom, waxing sarcastic. Events somehow were not turning out quite as he anticipated. No cocktail, no nice lunch, porterhouse steaks——And Joyce—what the dickens was the matter with her? She seemed so quiet, so different suddenly. Before Bill, too, of all people.

He dug a fork into an oyster with an air of peevishness; no accounting for girls. And then suddenly he happened to glance across that table at Bill, and the suspicion of a frown appeared on his face. He banished it instantly—he was loyal to the core was Tom. But Bill's coat sleeve had slipped back a little, revealing his shirt cuff. Well, apart from the fact that the shirt was flannel—after all, fellows did wear gray flannel shirts with single button cuffs presumably, or no one would make the beastly things—apart from that, it struck him that the cuff was not too clean.

He started in heavily on plays. His best friend couldn't call Tom a brilliant conversationalist, but he had one invaluable asset. What he lacked in quality, he made up in quantity. He burbled serenely on, and his audience could listen or not as they pleased. It made not the slightest difference to them or to Tom.

And on this occasion a vague feeling that all was not quite as it should be spurred him on to dizzy heights. He launched into a completely pointless story which had something to do with a girl and a mashie niblick and the pond hole at Worplesdon. In fact, the only merit in the story was that it was interminable. It lasted well into the porterhouse steak. And at the crucial moment, just as the bonne bouche was coming, Joyce interrupted him.

“Tell the waiter to give us some champagne, Tom.”

Tom spluttered out like a motor running short of petrol.

“Good heavens, haven't you had any?”

“Not yet,” said his sister calmly. “But I'd like some now, and so would Mr. Carruthers.”

“My dear old Bill,” cried Tom, “forgive me! I apologize; I abase myself.”

He signed furiously to the waiter, and then looked quickly at Bill. The old boy looked different, somehow; more like his old self. Come to think of it, he hadn't looked too fit before lunch: bit washed out and cheap. Morning after the night before sort of business.

“How's the old porterhouse steak, people? Great heavens, old thing”—he gazed at his sister's plate—“you don't mean to say you've lowered it?”

“Very nearly all,” she answered.

“Judging by your conversational efforts, you must have been pretty busy,” said Tom brightly. “And old Bill's going strong still. Remember those bully stews in France, old man? Gad! How they used to go down. But then one really was hungry.”

Bill smiled slightly.

“Extraordinary condition to have been in, wasn't it, Tom?”

“Good old days in some ways and all that,” said his host profoundly. “But it seems to me I've been doing most of the talking. How's yourself, Bill? Haven't been working too hard, have you? Struck me you weren't looking too frightfully fit, don't you know? Doesn't do to overdo it, old man. Why don't you come down and spend a week-end with us? The governor would love to meet you.”

Into the gray eyes there came a sudden glint of laughter. Courage had come back, and God alone knew that it had been only just in time. What sudden heaven-sent whim had caused that glorious girl to decide on a porterhouse steak was beside the point: perhaps it was true that there was a Power who tried a man thus far and no farther. But he couldn't spend a week-end with them for the very good reason that he'd pawned his evening clothes two months ago.

“It's very good of you, Tom,” he said gravely. “But I'm too busy at the moment. Later on, perhaps.”

“Can't you manage one afternoon away from the office?” asked the girl “It's such a glorious day, and we could run down there in the car. Then back after dinner.”

Bill Carruthers almost laughed. Into his mind there flashed his recent interview with the man in King Street, and that gentleman's last remark:

“Get out my offith, before I kick you out. I've nothing for you.”

Kick him out! The little swine—the miserable little swine. He glanced at the girl, and she was looking at him with a strange grave smile that made his heart miss a beat and then race for two or three. Take a pull, Bill Carruthers; this won't do. Penniless down-and-outers don't count in the social scheme. But she'd never know and Tom would never know—and, oh!—to forget for one day!

“I think I can manage that,” he said quietly. “It's very good of you to suggest it, Miss Caldwell.”

“Then let's go at once!” she cried. “Pay the bill, Tom. Mr. Carruthers and I will be in the car.”

He sat beside her on the way down, with Tom in the back. She didn't speak much, and, leaning back in his corner, he studied her profile. Once, as if realizing his occupation, she turned and looked at him with the same grave little smile on her lips.

“I'm glad you could come, Mr. Carruthers,” she said. “I don't think you can realize how much Tom means to Dad, and but for you——”

She left her sentence unfinished, and once more stared at the road in front. And the man by her side lay back in his seat breathing in the peace of the country in spring. He felt like a swimmer who had been battling in heavy seas and had come at last to calm water. Outside the breakers still seethed and roared; to-morrow he would have to start the weary fight all over again. But to-day was his—just one day of make-believe.

The car swung through two iron gates and up a long drive toward a big house screened by huge trees. Velvety lawns stretched down to a lake on which two stately swans sailed majestically. It was just a bit of old England—untouched, unspoiled. And there are not many left.

There was no house-party, for which fact Bill Carruthers heaved a sigh of relief. And all through the long lazy afternoon—by some kindly dispensation, warm as a day in July—the four of them sat and talked on the terrace overlooking the lake. Make-believe it might be—this courteous charming, grateful old man; Joyce—he called her that in his mind just because it was make-believe; dear old Tom—but how utterly wonderful! And the minutes flew and the shadows lengthened until a sudden chill little breeze warned them that it was still early spring. So they went indoors and Tom took him upstairs to wash.

“Ten minutes, old man,” he said, as he left him. “And the governor is routing out the vintage port.”

He shut the door to find Joyce beckoning to him.

“Come into Dad's study,” she said. “I want to talk to you both.”

A little surprised, he followed her into the room where his father was already standing in front of the fireplace.

“What's the mystery?” he inquired, lighting a cigarette.

“During the war,” said his sister quietly, “you may remember that I drove an ambulance in Serbia. And there was one particular thing I saw a good deal of. That thing was starvation. There's no mistaking it.”

The two men exchanged a surprised glance. What on earth was Joyce driving at?

“To-day, Tom, I saw it again.” She gave a little twisted smile, and turned her back on both of them. “Why do you suppose I told you not to have cocktails? Why do you think I ordered that awful porterhouse steak? Why, just because he was faint for food—starving. I don't believe he's tasted anything for days.”

Tom's honest face slowly turned a deep magenta.

“Rot—bunkum,” he stammered.

“My dear, surely you're mistaken,” said her father mildly.

“I tell you I'm not mistaken,” said the girl, with a little stamp of her foot. “I've seen it too often to be mistaken. I saw it when Tom spoke to him in Piccadilly; I saw it again when he left the car in King Street. Didn't you see the way he walked, Tom? But I wasn't quite sure how bad he was till you were ordering lunch. He nearly fainted outside in the lounge.” She swung around, facing them. “Starving, Dad, starving! Without a copper in his pockets. Don't ask me how I know: I do. And he saved Tom's life. What are we going to do about it?”

“My dear,” said her father helplessly, “I quite agree. What are we going to do about it?”

“Look here, Joyce,” said her brother, “are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” answered the girl.

“But you talked about his leaving the office and all that sort of thing.”

“Because you've only got to look in his eyes for one second to realize that he's as proud as Lucifer. If he thought I'd guessed the condition he was in, he'd never have come for this run.”

“Then it boils down to this: we've got to find him a job, and a good one,” said Tom decisively. “And until we've done that he's got to stop on in this house. Good heavens!” he went on. “I can't believe it. Bill starving! Why didn't he let me know?”

“Just because of that pride of his, of course. Why did he say he couldn't get away for a week-end on account of work? Because he wasn't going to tell us that he had no clothes to wear. And if he thinks we are offering him a job out of charity, he'll throw it back in our faces.”

“Merridew asked me to-day whether I had taken any steps to find a successor for him,” interposed her father.

“By Jove, governor, the very thing!” cried Tom. “Don't you think so, Joyce?”

“Well, there's just one point, my dear boy. Does he know anything at all about land agent's work?”

“Does it matter, Dad?” Joyce slipped her hand through her father's arm. “Does anything matter except that the man who saved Tom's life out in France is penniless and starving? We're both rather fond of Tom, you know.”

The old man smiled.

“I suppose we are. All right. I'll ask him if he'd care to take it on. Even if he doesn't know anything about it, he can learn. And he struck me as being exactly the type of man I'd like to have for the job.”

“He's one of the best,” said Tom simply.

“Do you mind, Dad, if you'd let me lead up to it?” said Joyce. “You can come in, you and Tom, at the last moment. But I think I can do the preliminary part better.”

“My dear, I shall be only too delighted!” cried her father.

“And of course he'll stay here to-night, anyway. As it wasn't arranged, Tom can easily suggest lending him anything he wants. There's the gong. Now, don't forget: not a word, not a hint of what I've told you.”

With a final warning glance at both men, she went out into the hall, as Bill Carruthers came down the stairs.

“Mr. Carruthers,” she said, “would you mind frightfully if we didn't go back to town to-night? I find there are one or two things I must do here, and Tom can fix you up for the night.”

“Of course I can, old boy,” said Tom. “Anything you want.”

Into Bill Carruthers' mind there flashed a picture of his bed that night if they did go back to town—a seat on the Embankment. Truly Fate was being kind to him for this one day, even if it was make-believe.

“I am in your hands, Miss Caldwell,” he said. And then his mouth twitched with an irresistible smile. “I don't think the business will suffer in my absence.”

It was dangerous, he knew, but all through dinner he let his thoughts center on the girl who sat so gracefully facing her father. It comes quickly to a man sometimes, that blinding certainty that he has met the one woman who matters or will ever matter. And it had come to Bill Carruthers that day. What matter the sheer futility of it? Nothing and no one could take from him his dreams.

He hardly heard some remark she made to her father; he was watching a little tendril of hair that had escaped just by her ear. And when she turned to him he had to pull himself together with an effort.

“I beg your pardon,” he murmured. “For the moment I was thinking of other things.”

“I was wondering if you knew of any one, Mr. Carruthers, who could take the place of Mr. Merridew, Dad's estate agent?”

“Merridew is getting on in years,” said her father, “and I've got to find a successor somewhere. Six hundred a year and a house.”

Six hundred a year and a house! The words rang in Carruthers' brain. Six hundred a year and a house!

“Would the work be very difficult?” he heard himself saying.

“Nothing that a moderately intelligent man can't pick up in a year,” said his host. “Of course, he must like an outdoor life and be a gentleman.”

“Pity old Bill can't take it on himself,” said Tom, cracking a nut. “He loves an outdoor life. Honestly, old man, with your tastes I don't know how you stick to the city.”

And now temptation was hammering at him. Why not? A job, a country job, a house. And Joyce. To see her sometimes. To speak to her——

“It is hardly likely that such an idea would appeal to Carruthers,” said the old man, but he looked at his guest a little questioningly. “Of course, if it should I need hardly say that there is no man living I would sooner have in the job than the very gallant gentleman who saved Tom's life.”

He raised his glass with old-fashioned courtesy toward the man who sat so silently staring in front of him. So it wasn't a make-believe day, after all. He wouldn't have to start that awful, weary round again to-morrow. All he had to do was to accept, and put the past out of his mind forever. After al!, he had done nothing to be ashamed of. It hadn't been his fault—these last few months of hell. So why not?

He glanced at the girl, and she was looking at him with a curious intentness. He looked at Tom, and he was lighting a cigarette. He knew the thing was his for the asking; he knew he could do the work. And still he hesitated.

“Accept, you fool!” rang a voice in his brain. “Accept at once and later on you can allude jokingly to the fact that it was a very fortunate offer for you. Don't give yourself away; don't humiliate yourself needlessly.”

Came the answer, quiet and insistent: “You're taking a job under false pretenses. They think you a successful man. Would they have offered you this thing if they knew you'd even pawned your underclothes?”

And suddenly he hesitated no longer. He turned to his host, and when he spoke his voice was steady.

“You have made me a very wonderful offer, Mr. Caldwell—how wonderful it is you can have no idea. Unfortunately, your offer has been made without a full knowledge of the facts. When Tom and Miss Caldwell saw me in Piccadilly this morning I was on my way to answer an advertisement for a job as a night porter. When I got to the place I found that the position had already been filled. To be exact, I was the twenty-fifth unsuccessful applicant. And the man I interviewed removed any lingering hope I had that he desired to look at me any longer. Other employers of labor have been doing the same thing now for five months.

“I'm afraid I was rather at the end of my tether. Until lunch to-day my only food during the last five days has been a bit of bread and the outside rind of an old onion given me on the embankment four nights ago by a drunken woman. That is why I accepted Tom's offer of lunch. But during lunch I let it be understood by him and your daughter that I was doing well in the city. That was a lie, but it never dawned on me that it would have any consequences. Now, of course, things are different. Believing that I was what I said I was, you have tentatively suggested that I should become your estate agent. That has made it necessary for me to tell you the truth. I apologize for not having done so before. But”—for a moment his voice faltered—“I was looking on this as a day of make-believe. It has given me new hope and strength to carry on. There is only one other thing I'd like to say: it was stupidity and not dishonesty that brought me to my present position. I was swindled out of what money I had.”

“You silly old fool! You confounded old fool!” broke in Tom gruffly. “What the dickens do you want to tell us that for, when it's obvious to any one who knew you? I take it hard, Bill. Why didn't you let me know?”

“I don't like charity, Tom,” said the other, smiling. His eyes came around to the girl, but she had left her chair and was standing by the open window staring out into the garden.

And then the old man spoke.

“I take it hard too, dear fellow,” he said. “Have I no rights at all as Tom's father? Because you've had bad luck, what has that got to do with the offer I have made you?”

“But you made it,” stammered Carruthers, “thinking that—thinking that I was—what I said I was.”

“No, he didn't——” began Tom eagerly, and then stopped short. Willingly would he have bitten his tongue out, but it was too late. The mischief was done.

“So you knew,” said Carruthers quietly. He rose to his feet, and the gray lines had settled on his face again. “I see. I ought to have guessed. Charity, for saving Tom's life.”

“That is unjust and unfair, Mr. Carruthers,” said a quiet voice at his elbow. It was Joyce—Joyce with her head thrown back and a wonderful light in her eyes. “It is true that my father knew. I told him. I saw the condition you were in. I've seen starvation too often in Serbia during the war not to recognize it. But to state that Dad has made you this offer out of charity is belittling you and belittling us. You've been to these other men—strangers, asking for work. Had they offered it, would you have said it was charity? They knew the condition you were in. Men like you don't ask for jobs as night porters for preference. And yet when my father offers you a job you turn it continuously down. Presumably you regard it as such a poor one that it's beneath you to accept it.”

From behind him came the sound of a closing door, but he was barely conscious of it.

“Great heavens! Miss Caldwell, you can't think I meant it that way.” He stretched out an imploring hand. “You can't think that I'm such an unspeakable cad as to view your father's wonderful offer like that.”

“I'm really not very interested in what you think,” she said coolly. “All I know is that my father has made a certain suggestion and that you regard it as charity. If that isn't what you think, all I can say is that you've expressed yourself very badly.”

Suddenly something snapped in Bill Carruthers' brain. A continued course of starvation wears the human mechanism out to snapping point, and that point had come to him. He broke down and cried like a child, his face buried in his hands. And with infinite tenderness in her eyes she watched him, even as she had watched other men cry just because they had dropped a knife on the floor or something equally trivial.

Tom's face appeared for a moment at the window, and she signed to him imperatively to go away. Then she waited, being the manner of girl who has learned many things in the book of life. And after a while the shaking shoulders grew still, and he looked up at her.

“So that was why you ordered a porterhouse steak?”

“Of course,” she answered with a smile. “And a jolly good steak it was.”

He stood up facing her.

“I'm not going to apologize for making a fool of myself,” he said quietly. “I would to most people, but not to you. I think you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met. And because you're that, you'll understand what I'm going to say. it's not due to weakness; and, believe me, it's not impertinence. It is a statement of fact, as unalterably true as the fact that we are together in this room. Six hours can sometimes mean as much—aye, more—than six years. In these six hours—nine, to be accurate—since I first met you, I have learned the meaning of the word love. There will never be another woman in my life except you. And that is the real reason why I cannot accept your father's offer, though naturally that is not the reason I shall give him. I shall tell him that I don't know enough of the work to feel justified in accepting. But I want you to know the truth. And above all I want to thank you for doing what no other girl in the world could have done for me to-day—saved me from cracking, when the end was very near.”

She had stood very still as he spoke and her eyes had never wavered from his.

“Then you intend to return to London to-morrow?” she said as he finished.

“If you'll be good enough to take me in the car,” he answered. “I'm afraid my finances do not allow of a train fare.”

“Nor presumably of my doctor's bill.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending.

“My dear man,” she remarked, “if I've got to spend the next few weeks eating porterhouse steaks with you, I shall have to go into a home. In fact, I refuse to do it. So I'll just tell Dad you're sorry you were a fool—and you can start with old Merridew to-morrow.”

And then, for the first time, her voice shook a little.

“You silly old ass, you dear silly old ass. Don't you realize that I was never nearer making a fool of myself in my life than when I saw the look on your face after I asked you for change while we were waiting for lunch.”

She went to the door, leaving him staring after her.

“Dad!” she called. “Bill's going to take on the job—er—for a time.”

“Splendid,” answered her father. “Till he gets something better?”

“I rather think that's the way he looks at it,” she remarked demurely. And then she looked at Bill. “Isn't it?”