Chapter 5

Anna had suddenly stiffened. She regarded the young man coldly. Her tone was icy.

"I am afraid that you are making a mistake," she said. "I was never at any such dinner, and I am quite sure that I do not know you."

"Perhaps you remember me, Miss Pellissier," the second young man interposed. "I had the pleasure of--er--meeting you more than once, I believe."

A spot of colour flared in Anna's cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.

"To the best of my belief," she said, with quiet dignity, "I have never seen either of you before in my life."

For a fraction of a second the two young men hesitated. Then the foremost bowed and passed on.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said. "Pray accept my apologies."

"And mine," murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips.

They took their places at a distant table. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table.

"Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you," she begged. "Those young men startled me at first, because they knew my name. I am quite sure though that they did not mean to be rude."

"Impudent beggars," Sydney growled. "I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow."

"I think," Anna said, "that it was only his manner. Do look at this tragedy in mauve, who has just come in. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. What can she have done to deserve such a fate? Oh!"

They both turned round at Anna's exclamation. A familiar figure was making his way towards them. Sydney sprang up.

"Why, it's David!" he exclaimed. "Hullo!"

Courtlaw, haggard, his deep-set eyes more brilliant than ever, took Anna's hand into his, and breathed a little close drawn sigh of content. He was introduced to Brendon, and a chair was brought by an attentive waiter. He declined supper, but took wine.

"Have you dropped from the skies?" Sydney asked wonderingly. "It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over."

"I had some unexpected business," Courtlaw answered shortly.

"And how did you find us here?"

"I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Mrs. White told me where to find you."

He leaned back in his chair as though wearied. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. He talked very little and rather absently. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. But when they were on their way out he whispered in Anna's ear.

"Please let me drive you home. I want to talk to you, and I must return to-morrow."

Anna hesitated.

"We are Mr. Brendon's guests," she said, "and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney."

Courtlaw turned abruptly to Brendon.

"Mr. Brendon," he said, "may I rob you of your guest just for the drive home? I have only a few hours in England, and Miss Pellissier is an old friend."

"By all means," Brendon answered. "We will follow you in another cab."

They passed out on to the pavement, and the commissionaire called a hansom. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. It was a letter. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. The commissionaire smiled. It was a sovereign easily earned.

The hansom drove off. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw's burning fingers. She glanced into his face. It was enough.

"I have stood it for a month, Anna," he exclaimed. "You will not even answer my letters. I could not keep away any longer."

"Do you think that it was wise of you, or kind to come?" she asked quietly.

"Wise! Kind! What mockery words are! I came because I had to. I cannot live without you, Anna. Come back--you must come back. We can be married to-morrow in Paris. There! You are trying to take your hand away."

"You disappoint me," she said wearily. "You are talking like a boy. What is the use of it? I do not wish to marry you. I do not wish to return to Paris. You are doing your best to break our friendship."

"It is you," he cried, "you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. It is not the woman who speaks there. It is the vapouring school girl. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. You are necessary to me. I shall give you my life, every moment and thought of my life. You must come back. See what you have made of me. I cannot work, I cannot teach. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out."

Anna was silent. She was trembling a little. The man's passion was infectious. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife.

"You are mistaken, David. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. But I do not love you. I do not love any one."

"I don't believe it," he answered hoarsely. "We have come too close together for me to believe it. You care for me a little, I know. I will teach you how to make that little sufficient."

"You came to tell me this?"

"I came for you," he declared fiercely.

The hansom sped through the crowded streets. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her.

"We are not going the right way," she exclaimed.

"You are coming my way," Courtlaw answered. "Anna," he pleaded, "be merciful. You care for me just a little, I know. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. Come back with me to-night. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad."

Anna lifted her hand and pushed open the trap door.

"Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman," she ordered.

The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. He said nothing.

"My friend," she said, "no! Let me tell you this. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. I am a pauper, and as yet I have not discovered how to earn money. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world--there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it. Afterwards, it may be different. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life--a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. I should lose every scrap of independence--even my self-respect. However good you were to me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this intolerable."

"All these things," he muttered bitterly, "this desperate resolve to take your life into your own hands, your unnatural craving for independence, would never trouble you for a moment--if you really cared."

"Then perhaps," she answered, with a new coldness in her tone, "perhaps I really do not care. No, don't interrupt me. I think that I am a little disappointed in you. You appear to be amongst those strong enough in all ordinary matters, but who seem to think it quite natural and proper to give in at once and play the weakling directly--one cares. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one's whole scheme of life. I cannot do it, David. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care--but I cannot do it."

He was strangely silent. He did not even reply to her for several minutes.

"I cannot reason with you," he said at last wearily. "I speak from my heart, and you answer from your brain."

"Believe me that I have answered you wisely," she said, in a gentler tone, "wisely for you too, as well as myself. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. Presently you will see that I am right, and then you shall take your vacation over here, and we will be good comrades again."

He smiled bitterly as he handed her from the cab. He declined to come in.

"Will you tell Sydney that I will see him in the morning," he said. "I am staying at the Savoy. He can come round there."

"You will shake hands with me, please," she begged.

He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his.

"Good-bye," he said earnestly. "Please forgive me. You are right. Quite right."

She was able to go straight to her room without delay, and she at once locked the door with a little sigh of relief. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears.

A sob was strangled in her throat. She struggled fiercely not to give way.

"Oh, I am lonely," she moaned. "I am lonely. If I could but----"

* * * * *

To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. She tore open the envelope and read it.

"MY DEAR GIRL,--

"I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. I'm afraid I'm a terribly clumsy fellow.

"I hope that you are going to allow me to see something of you during your stay in London, for the sake of old times. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London?

"Ever yours, "NIGEL ENNISON.

"P.S. My address is 94, Pall Mall."

Anna read, and her cheeks grew slowly scarlet. She crushed the letter in her hand.

"I wonder," she murmured to herself, "if this is the beginning."

_Chapter X_

THE TRAGEDY OF AN APPETITE

Anna, notwithstanding her quiet clothes, a figure marvellously out of accord with her surroundings, sat before a small marble-topped table at a crowded A.B.C., and munched a roll and butter with hearty appetite.

"If only I could afford another!" she thought regretfully. "I wonder why I am always hungry nowadays. It is so ridiculous."

She lingered over her tea, and glancing around, a sudden reflection on the change in her surroundings from the scene of her last night's supper brought a faint, humorous smile to her lips.

"In two days," she reflected, "Mrs. White will present her bill. I have one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny left. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings--that is with no dinners, and get a situation. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism."

"So far," she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, "my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. What beasts men are! I cannot typewrite, my three stories are still wandering round, two milliners have refused me as a lay figure because business was so bad. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. After all, I fancy that I shall have to apply for a situation as a nursery governess who understands French. Faugh!"

She took up the last morsel of roll, and held it delicately between her long slim fingers. Then her white teeth gleamed, and her excuse for remaining any longer before that little marble table was gone. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards.

She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. One she entered and met with a sharp rebuff, which she appeared to receive unmoved. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.

He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, _debonnair_, good-looking. Directly he saw Anna he accosted her. His manner was deferential, even eager. Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it.

"How fortunate I am, Miss Pellissier! All day I have been hoping that I might run across you. You got my note?"

"I certainly received a note," Anna admitted.

"You were going to answer it?"

"Certainly not!" she said deliberately.

He looked at her with an expression of comical despair.

"What have I done, Miss Pellissier?" he pleaded. "We were good friends in Paris, weren't we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then--without a word to any one you disappeared. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. You seem altogether altered, too. Upon my word--you are Miss Pellissier, aren't you?"

"I certainly am," she admitted.

He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way.

"Of course!" he said. "You have changed somehow--and you certainly are less friendly."

She laughed. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.

"Perhaps," she said, "it is the London climate. It depresses one, you know."

He nodded.

"You look more like your old self when you smile," he remarked. "But, forgive me, you are tired. Won't you come and have some tea with me? There is a new place in Bond Street," he hastened to say, "where everything is very well done, and they give us music, if that is any attraction to you."

She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. He certainly bore inspection. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good.

"I will come--with pleasure," she said, "if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance--not to refer to--Paris--at all."

"I promise," he answered heartily. "Allow me."

He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A.B.C., or that she had a care in the world.

"By-the-bye," he said, presently, "your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn't she? I saw the notice in the papers."

Anna never flinched. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. After all, it was what she had been praying for--and Annabel could not have known her address.

"My sister and I," she said slowly, "have seen very little of each other lately. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me."

Ennison shrugged his shoulders.

"Sort of man who can see no further than his nose," he remarked contemptuously. "Fearful old fogey! I can't imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends."

Anna shook her head.

"No, I am alone," she answered.

"Then we must try and make London endurable for you," he remarked cheerfully. "What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?--and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?"

Anna shook her head.

"Thank you," she said coolly. "Those things are not for me just at present."

He was obviously puzzled. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions.

"Come," he said, "you can't be meaning to bury yourself. There must be something we can do. What do you say to Brighton----"

Anna looked at him quietly--and he never finished his sentence.

"May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?" he inquired deferentially. "Perhaps your engagements are made for you."

"I am staying," she answered coolly, "at a small boarding-house near Russell Square."

He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter.

"At a boarding-house?" he gasped.

She nodded.

"Yes. I am an independent sort of person," she continued, "and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. You don't happen to know of any one, I suppose, who wants a nursery governess, or a clerk--without shorthand--or a tryer-on, or a copyist, or----"

"For Heaven's sake stop, Miss Pellissier," he interrupted. "What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don't you accept an engagement here?"

"An engagement?" she queried.

"On the stage? Yes. You would not have the slightest difficulty."

She laughed softly to herself.

"Do you know," she confessed, "I never thought of that?"

He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.

"I cannot conceive," he said, "how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. The papers are continually wondering what has become of 'Alcide.' Your name alone would fill any music hall in London."

Again that curious smile which puzzled him so much parted her lips for a moment.

"Dear me," she said, "I fancy you exaggerate my fame. I can't imagine Londoners--particularly interested in me."

He shrugged his shoulders. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully.

"I am very much obliged for the tea," she said. "This is a charming place, and I have enjoyed the rest."

"It was a delightful piece of good fortune that I should have met you," he answered. "I hope that whatever your plans may be, you will give me the opportunity of seeing something of you now and then."

"I am afraid," she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, "that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long."

"That is provokingly indefinite," he answered, a little ruefully. "Won't you give me your address?"

She shook her head.

"It is such a very respectable boarding-house," she said. "I feel quite sure that Mrs. White would not approve of callers."

"I have a clue, at any rate," he remarked, smiling. "I must try the Directory."

"I wish you good luck," she answered. "There are a good many Whites in London."

"May I put you in a hansom?" he asked, lifting his stick.

"For Heaven's sake, no," she answered quickly. "Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back."

"I may come a little way, then?" he begged.

"If you think it worth while," she answered doubtfully.

Apparently he thought it very much worth while. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "I have brought you very nearly to my door. Go back at once, please."

He held out his hand obediently.

"I'll go," he said, "but I warn you that I shall find you out."

For a moment she was grave.

"Well," she said. "I may be leaving where I am in a few days, so very likely you will be no better off."

He looked at her intently.

"Miss Pellissier," he said, "I don't understand this change in you. Every word you utter puzzles me. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble. Won't you let me--can't I be of any assistance?"

He was obviously in earnest. His tone was kind and sympathetic.

"You are very good," she said. "Indeed I shall not forget your offer. But just now there is nothing which you or anybody can do. Good-bye."

He was dismissed, and he understood it. Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. She was in excellent spirits, and it was not until she had taken off her hat, and was considering the question of dinner or no dinner, that she remembered that another day had passed, and she was not a whit nearer being able to pay her to-morrow's bill.

_Chapter XI_

THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON

Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Besides, she had admitted her identity. And yet--he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes' whispered love-making! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. He went over her features one by one in his mind. They were the same. He could not doubt it. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier--the soul of a very different order of being.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side.

"Fred," he said, "do you remember taking me to dinner at the 'Ambassador's,' one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us."

"Of course," his friend answered. "_La belle_ 'Alcide,' wasn't it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Jolly nice girl, too."

Ennison nodded.

"I thought I saw her in town to-day," he said. "Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?"

"Very likely indeed," Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. "I heard that she had chucked her show at the French places and gone in for a reform all round. Sister's got married to that bounder Ferringhall."

Ennison took an easy chair.

"What a little brick!" he murmured. "She must have character. It's no half reform either. What do you know about her, Fred? I am interested."

Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not much," he answered, "and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. There were two sisters, you know. Old Jersey and Hampshire family, the Pellissiers, and a capital stock, too, I believe."

"Any one could see that the girls were ladies," Ennison murmured.

"No doubt about that," Meddoes continued. "The father was in the army, and got a half-pay job at St. Heliers. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago--the Lord help her. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. If she's over, he probably knows all about it."

Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger.

"So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?" he remarked.

"No doubt about that, I fancy," Meddoes answered lightly. "He ran some Austrian fellow off. She was quite the rage, in a small way, you know. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. Care for a hundred up?"

Ennison shook his head.

"Can't stop, thanks," he answered. "See you to-night, I suppose?"

He sauntered off.