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TWO WISE MEN
Stories for Children Inspired from the Wit and
Wisdom of Warren Buffett and Charlie Munger

Image Source: Poor Charlie’s Almanack

Vishal Khandelwal S. B. Vallari

[sn] safalniveshak.com
 Foreword
Dear Young Believer,

In July 2016, Bill Gates, the co-founder of Microsoft and

now a philanthropist, wrote a memoir on his 25 years of
friendship with Warren Buffett, the world’s best investor
ever and one of the most-followed businessmen.

Here is how Gates started his memoir –

I don’t remember the exact day I first met most of

my friends, but with Warren Buffett I do. It was 25
years ago today: July 5, 1991.

I think the date stands out in my mind so clearly

because it marked the beginning of a new and
unexpected friendship for Melinda and me—one
that has changed our lives for the better in every
imaginable way.

Warren has helped us do two things that are

impossible to overdo in one lifetime: learn more and
laugh more.

That last note caught my attention. Including the two

lessons that Gates learned from Buffett, there are four most
important lessons I have learned from studying the latter
and his partner Charlie Munger over the past 15+ years.

safalniveshak.com 2
One, the importance of being a lifelong learner. Two, keep
my life simple. Three, closely guard my character and
reputation. Four, not take life too seriously and stay happy
always. These are apart from the hundreds of lessons I
have learned from these two wise men on how to be
sensible with my money.

However, when it comes to passing on these lessons to

children, I always found one thing lacking – stories that
would convey these lessons to children in the language
they understood, or stories that parents and teachers could
use to pass the invaluable lessons from Buffett and
Munger to children in the language they loved.

Thus was born the idea of creating this book that contains
a lot of such stories that would pass on the lessons on life,
career, relationship, money and behaviour from these two
wise men to children.

The stories you would read in this book have been co-
authored by my friend S.B. Vallari and me. Vallari is a
fiction writer based in India. Her current focus is on
writing short stories for children and young adults.

You see, the current state of our lives is largely a direct

result of the stories we tell ourselves, and what we really
believe is possible – not what we say is possible, but what
we believe deep down in our core.

safalniveshak.com 3
If we change the limiting stories we tell ourselves, we will
be able to change our lives for the better. The stories you
read in this book are non-limiting, simply because
underlying them are thoughts from two of the wisest men
in the world living today that have helped them become
so wise.

Of course, you will learn the lessons you most need only
when you are ready for them. So, read these stories, and
re-read them, because they will help you immensely when
you are ready to use the lessons contained in them to make
yourself wiser and happier.

I have benefited a lot from the wit and wisdom of Buffett

and Munger. I am sure you would too.

Here’s to your wisdom.

Love,
Vishal
Safalniveshak.com

safalniveshak.com 4
 The Three Teeth in My Mouth
and Other Stories
Hello! How are you doing today?

I am sitting in my bed and writing this to tell you that I

have begun a book. A book that I have wanted to write for
a long time now. It just so happens that I have begun
writing it on my birthday.

I got some money for my birthday this time. I am so

excited to receive three thousand rupees on my thirteenth
birthday. I have never been given money before for my
birthday. And why I got money instead of presents today
also has a story. I am going to tell you this story before I
begin my book.

It all started when a long time ago, my Papa came home

one day from office. As he took off his shoes and tie and
sat down on the sofa without even talking to us, my mom
looked at me and put her finger to her lips.

“Shhhhhhhh,” Mummy told me softly, “Papa is tired.

Leave him alone today.”

I looked at Papa turning on the TV to his favourite news

channel.

safalniveshak.com 5
“No, he’s not!” I told my mom. “He is going to watch news
now.” I ran and climbed into his lap.

Papa pushed me away a little. “Not now, Keshav,” he said.

“Go and sleep now. It is past your bedtime.”

“I am not feeling sleepy Papa. And you promised you

would tell me about the thing that happened yesterday. I
remember what it’s called, a scam, right Papa?” I asked
him, pulling his shirt.

Papa looked at Mummy. “Instead of bedtime stories, he

wants to know what is a scam! Why did Sameer Rai go to
jail? Why has the Prime Minister declared a war on
corruption? What is black money? Why did an award
winner make fake money?”

My mom smiled. Papa continued, “He still has two or

three teeth left in his mouth that need falling out. How do
I make him understand how to behave and act sensibly?
How do I help him understand the true value and worth
of money?”

I didn't understand what Papa said to Mummy. How were

the remaining three teeth in my mouth that had to fall out
so that I got new ones related to what I was asking him? I
kept quiet. Mummy was saying something to Papa.

Papa was shaking his head. “At least try, Vijay,” Mummy
said.

safalniveshak.com 6
Papa looked at her and flung his hands in the air. “Okay,
done. After all, there’s nothing to lose, is there? Let’s see
how much he understands. It’ll be good for me too.”

He came towards me, lifted me up and said, “Come

Keshav, let me tell you a story before you go to bed.”

He pulled out a big, fat book from the shelf in the drawing
room and we walked to my room.

He waved at Mummy. “Good night, Mummy!” I wished

her. “Come join us when you finish your work.”

“Please enjoy yourselves,” she smiled and replied. “I have

too much work to do.”

“Okay,” Papa said. “Okay,” I said.

Mummy laughed. Papa and I went to my bedroom. This

was the first night in many nights when my father told me
stories. Stories about people – adults stronger, and not so
strong as him, children older and younger than me, poor
adults, rich adults, happy children, sad children, honest
adults, lying children, lying adults, honest children. And
more and more and more.

I have collected these stories so that we could all learn

from them. I certainly learn from them every day.

safalniveshak.com 7
I have collectively titled these stories as “Two Wise Men.”
This is because most of these stories contain lessons from
Warren Buffett and Charlie Munger, whom my Papa calls
the two wisest men in the world from whom he has
learned a lot.

I hope you have as much fun reading them as I had

listening to them from my Papa before going off to sleep
every night.

Cheers,
Keshav Bhatia
Class VIII

safalniveshak.com 8
TWO WISE MEN
Stories for Children Inspired from
the Wit and Wisdom of Warren
Buffett and Charlie Munger

safalniveshak.com 9
 Contents
I. Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond 11
II. A Teacher’s Dilemma 17
III. The New School 22
IV. The Two New Restaurants in Town 26
V. The Dora Doll Birthday Party 33
VI. The Banana Tree 39
VII. The New Video Game 45
VIII. The Earth Revolves Around the Sun 50
IX. My Dad’s Hero 56
X. The Bungalow on the Corner of the Street 65
XI. The Syrup Ice-Cream Man 72

safalniveshak.com 10
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

“Knowing what you don’t know is

more useful than being brilliant.”
~ Charlie Munger

***

Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

Raju, Deepu and Sonia were walking down from school

one day. They all lived in a lane near Red Fort in Delhi.
They were fighting over who got better marks in the
History half-yearly exam.

Sonia was smiling. She had a speaking disability so she

could not speak much. She listened to the other two fight.
She had scored seventy percent in her exams. She showed
her paper to her friends.

“That’s nothing. Even I scored seventy percent. But I have

a ‘very good’ remark with five stars,” Deepu said.

“I got a seventy percent too. But ma’am told me I was the

best student in class,” Raju exclaimed happily.

A young boy was walking behind them. He heard them

talking and quickly overtook them. As he hurried past
them, he dropped a shiny looking stone on the road.

safalniveshak.com 11
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

Raju ran and picked up the stone. “Hey, you dropped

this!” he shouted.

The boy stopped, looked back and saw Raju holding the
stone in his hand, calling him to come back. He walked
back to him. “Oh, thank you! My mother would have
scolded me so much!” he said.

“Not a problem. But what is this?” asked Raju.

The boy looked left and right. He looked all around before
leading Raju to a corner of the road. Deepu and Sonia,
feeling left out, went behind them too.

“Don’t tell anybody. This is a part of the Kohinoor

diamond! You know about it, don’t you?” he asked Raju.

“Kohinoor?” Raju could not contain his excitement. “Yes,

of course! It was a part of the decorations of this very fort
we are standing in front of. The Red Fort! And it was taken
by the Britishers,” he said. Sonia nodded her head
vigorously.

“Not just that. Our government is negotiating with the

British government to get it back,” said Deepu.

“Wow, you guys know it all!” said the boy. “So you know
that a part of it was kept back by the soldiers of the Red

safalniveshak.com 12
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

Fort? They knew it was going to be stolen and broke it into

two and kept the bigger part here,” he said.

Raju cleared his throat, and said, “Of course! I know that!”

Deepu and Sonia nodded their heads.

“You three are very smart,” the boy said. “Tell you what?
You can take this part of the gem and show it to your
parents.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” shouted the boys and Sonia, silently in her
mind.

“Here, take it. But, you must give me something that I can
keep against this diamond,” the boy said. “You see, we are
meeting for the first time.”

“What is your name?” asked Raju.

“Deepak”, said the boy.

“Very well, Deepak. We will give you our mobile phones,”

Raju said. “That’s all we have now.”

“But that won’t be enough in return for such a precious

diamond I’m giving you,” said Deepak.

“But our mobiles are very expensive!” exclaimed Deepu.

safalniveshak.com 13
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

“Oh ok, that is fine,” Deepak said, taking the phones from
Deepu and Raju.

“We will return the Kohinoor in the evening to you,

Deepak,” said Deepu, and they all ran off to Raju’s home
first. Excitedly, they thrust the diamond under Raju’s
father’s nose.

Raju’s father looked up from his work book. “What is

this?” he asked.

“Uncle, Deepak gave it to us to show it to you all!” said

Deepu, not being able to contain his excitement. “It’s a part
of the Kohinoor!”

“Who Deepak? Kohinoor? What Kohinoor?” asked Raju’s

father.

“The Kohinoor Diamond, Papa! This one!” Raju said.

“Where did you get that? Who is this Deepak who gave it
to you? Has he been home before?” asked his father.

“N….n…no, Papa,” Raju stammered, the colour of his face

going pale.

“What have I told you? Where have you heard that there
is a Kohinoor Diamond in India presently?” he asked.
“I…I…I don't remember now,” Raju said.

safalniveshak.com 14
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

“Also, a diamond cannot be broken down unless by

another diamond itself! And that’s very rarely done,”
Raju’s father continued. “It’s the hardest found substance
in nature. It is almost always used to cut other substances.”

Raju, Deepu and Sonia looked at him, stunned. They did

not know what to say. Sonia was the first one to react. She
started crying. Raju’s father looked at her, then Raju.

He hit his head with his palm and sank into his chair. The
three children sat down beside him, both Raju and Deepu
were also in tears by now.

Raju’s father composed himself. “Get up kids! You lost

your phones but you gained something very valuable
today,” he said.

The children looked up. They could not understand.

Hadn’t they just lost their phones to a thief?

“That’s right. We have all gained a valuable lesson from

this theft. Remember, you may know a lot, but you don't
know everything. So, the next time you don’t know
something, think twice before acting,” he advised.

Then he added, gently, “It will be far more useful for you
to admit it to yourself and then act upon something.” He
held their hands as they walked towards the door.

safalniveshak.com 15
 Lost and Found: The Kohinoor Diamond

He left them at the door and went off in search of the stolen
mobiles.

The three children did not move from the door till he was
out of sight.

***

Remember: There are a lot of things we know because

we have learned about them in books or from others. But
there are a lot more things we know nothing about (like,
maybe, that there’s no broken piece of Kohinoor in
India). So, it’s important to know that you do not know
everything. Only when you accept this, you will not act
in haste and keep learning and become better in
everything you do in life.

safalniveshak.com 16
 A Teacher’s Dilemma

“It takes 20 years to build a

reputation and five minutes to
ruin it. If you think about that,
you'll do things differently.”
~ Warren Buffett

***

A Teacher’s Dilemma

Mr. Ramshankar was a Physics teacher in the old part of

Delhi. For more than 20 years, he had taught aspiring boys
and girls who wanted to be engineers the fine nuances of
the subject of Physics.

He loved his subject, and he knew how to talk about it. It

was only a matter of time before parents started
requesting him to take tuitions for their children after
school as well.

Now Mr. Ramshankar was a very upright and honest man.

He was not very comfortable with the idea of teaching
after school and taking the huge amounts of money being
offered to him without keeping the school informed of the
same.

safalniveshak.com 17
 A Teacher’s Dilemma

But he did not know what to do. He could teach extra

hours, but his school management would not understand
why he would want to teach students the same thing again
after school hours and earn more money through it. After
all, if the students needed more lessons, it could be
arranged for in school as well. He also did not know how
to say no to the repeated requests that the parents were
putting before him.

At first, he hesitated and told them to give him some time

to think about it. Then, he just grew quiet when they came
daily to discuss the matter with him. He also suggested the
parents to go to the school management and talk to them
about extra classes. But the parents would not listen. They
thought it would take a lot of time to get their request
considered and executed at school. They wanted a short
cut. So they kept going to his house.

Finally, Mr. Ramshankar couldn’t bear it any longer. He

would just get up and leave the room when a parent came
to his house on the pretext of a having cup of a tea with
him. Parents did not know how to convince him any
longer.

Except Raju’s father, who had a bright idea. When a group

of parents gathered in his house to discuss the matter of
Mr. Ramshankar’s stubborn refusal one evening, he
shared his idea. “Why not offer Mr. Ramshankar a new TV
set?” he said. “He owns a pretty old set that isn’t working

safalniveshak.com 18
 A Teacher’s Dilemma

most of the time. And as far as I know, he loves watching

television news daily.”

“That’s a great idea!” said Deepu’s father. “I’ll go and tell

him we will give him a TV set in return for one month of
tutoring our three children.”

“Yes, yes. You should go. And tell us what he says,” said
Sonia’s mother.

Deepu’s father took off for Mr. Ramshankar’s house

immediately. He arrived on his doorstep and rang the bell.
Mr. Ramshankar opened the door, took one look at him
and began closing it without saying a word.

“Wait…wait, Mr. Ramshankar. I’ve come to make you an

offer you can’t refuse. Please be so gracious as to accept
it,” said Deepu’s father.

“What is it?” asked the old teacher.

“We are going to gift you a high definition TV set. We are

proud of having a teacher like you in our community.
Please accept it and take our children for one month of
tuitions,” he said.

Mr. Ramshankar was glued to the floor upon hearing this.

He could not believe his ears. He had been saving to buy
a new TV set since a long time, and he still did not have

safalniveshak.com 19
 A Teacher’s Dilemma

enough money to get one to enjoy his late-night TV news

and other shows.

Here was an offer he could not resist. Without thinking

much, he accepted it. “Yes…yes, I will. Oh yes! For sure.
A month, you say? Why, of course, yes,” he exclaimed.

Deepu’s father was overjoyed. He sailed off to Raju’s

house and was greeted excitedly by cheers of victory. The
neighbours got curious and came to the house too.

“What is it? Why are you so happy?” asked a neighbour.

Sonia’s mother told him the story. He too, congratulated

Deepu’s father on convincing Mr. Ramshankar. After all,
it was not easy to talk to him about the tuitions.

Amongst the neighbours was a young woman named

Divya. She was an upcoming journalist and new in the
neighbourhood.

Upon hearing her neighbours, she silently slipped out of

the crowd and went and wrote what she heard on her
computer. She made a call to her office and emailed the
story to them much before midnight.

The next day, the local newspaper in its city edition carried
a report titled – “Reluctant Physics Teacher accepts HD TV
set bribe as one month tuition fee.”

safalniveshak.com 20
 A Teacher’s Dilemma

Mr. Ramshankar was marked absent in the teacher’s

attendance register at school that day. That very night, he
left Delhi, never to come back to his native place ever
again.

***

Remember: Your reputation, in simple words, is the way

in which people think of you. So, a dishonest person or
one with bad habits or harsh nature will not have a good
reputation. People will like to forget such a person or
talk about him in contempt. On the other hand, a kind,
honest, and good natured person will have a good
reputation. That is, people will be happy remembering
and talking about him.

Your reputation helps you out in countless ways, mostly

in ways that you never actually see. And so, you must
always maintain a good reputation, because only then
will people trust you and you will be happy in life. It is
very difficult to build a good reputation, but it is very
easy to lose it. One bad, dishonest deed, and you lose any
good reputation you have created for yourself. So be
very careful of how you behave with others, and
otherwise. Always be kind to others, and honest, and
practice good habits.

safalniveshak.com 21
 The New School

“The most important investment

you can make is in yourself.”
~ Warren Buffett

***

The New School

Harini was leaving home to join a boarding school, and

she did not know when she would come back. All she
knew was that she had to perform well at her new school.
Her uncle, her aunt, her mother, her father, her
grandparents, her dog and the cat on the wall stood on the
door of the house and she waved everyone goodbye.

Harini had no qualms about leaving home. All she wanted

was to explore her options to be able to pursue her career
after school. Where she lived currently, her choices were
limited after Class X. So, she asked her parents to send her
to a reputed school with a hostel near her town, and they
agreed after some discussion with other family members.

As she sat in the car, her two-year-old brother came

running to hug her. He was followed by Asha’s son, who
had the habit of running around Harini’s brother all the
time.

safalniveshak.com 22
 The New School

Asha was the domestic help who lived with them. She did
not have a home of her own. Harini did not know why she
did not have a home to go to after finishing her work, but
she was happy to have Asha around.

Harini was ready to leave, when Asha’s son climbed

inside the car as well and refused to get down. Asha came
running and started scolding her son to get out of the car.
He was six years old and was very fond of cars.

Vishwajeet uncle, Harini’s father, tried to coax him into

getting down too. “Son, I will come back after dropping
Harini to the station and take you for a ride. She is getting
late. Hurry now, get down!” he said.

“I want to go to new school with Harini too,” he said.

“Who will teach me how to speak in English at home
now?” he asked, upset that Harini was leaving them.

Harini looked at her father in the car seat next to her.

“Papa, can Jeevan go with us? I can teach him at my new
school in my free time. Can he stay with me in the hostel?”
she asked.

Harini’s father looked at her, with a smile on his face. He

put his arm around her shoulder, and said, “One day,
when you are older, you can come back home and take
him with you. For now, you must invest in yourself so that
you can take his responsibility later.”

safalniveshak.com 23
 The New School

Harini did not understand her father. She was quiet.

So Vishwajeet uncle tried again, “Okay, let me ask you

something. Can you take care of Jeevan all by yourself at
the hostel?”

“No Papa,” Harini replied.

“So, that means you need more help if you want to take
care of him right now, isn’t it?” he asked.

Harini nodded her head.

“When you finish your studies, can you take care of

yourself all alone?” he asked.

“Yes Papa. But I don’t know if I can immediately take care

of myself even after I finish my studies,” she said.

“So you are saying that you are unable to take

responsibility for another person now. You want to, but
you must invest in yourself to make yourself independent.
Then you can teach Jeevan also,” he said.

Harini realized her father was trying to help her first

become independent herself. She hugged him. “I promise
Papa, I will stand on my own feet before I start teaching
Jeevan,” she said.

safalniveshak.com 24
 The New School

“Then I also promise. Mummy and I will teach him

English while you are gone. Once you have learnt it very
well in your new school, you can take over. Is that okay?”
he asked.

“Yes Papa! I’ll learn it so well, I’ll beat you and Mummy at
it. Then I can teach Jeevan, isn’t it?”

Harini’s father hugged her. His brother pulled at Jeevan’s

sleeve, asking him to get down from the car.

“Come back soon, Harini didi,” Jeevan said, after hearing

them speak. He quickly got down to follow the two year
old, who was already running full speed across the garden
towards the jasmine tree. The flowers were in full bloom,
and they were going to shake the bark of the tree till the
flowers fell on them. It was spring time again.

***

Remember: Investing in yourself is the best and

foremost thing you must do. It simply means
continuously spending time to improve your skills and
abilities, and being open to learning from your own and
others’ mistakes. Maybe learn a new language, or a new
music instrument, or how to write and speak well. When
you become a lifelong learner, your life will be happier
and wealthier, perhaps in more ways than one.

safalniveshak.com 25
 The Two New Restaurants in Town

“To get what you want, you have

to deserve what you want. The
world is not yet a crazy enough
place to reward a whole bunch of
undeserving people.”
~ Charlie Munger

***

The Two New Restaurants in Town

It was a winter morning in Lucknow. Mohan and Gopal

had come to this town a year ago. They were originally
from Bikaner. Mohan’s parents were still living in Bikaner,
and he was ready to ask them to move to Lucknow.

Gopal, on the other hand, was not quite settled in his

work. His parents were also in Bikaner, but he was unable
to ask them to shift. As it is, he thought he should do that
only after he heard Mohan speak about it this morning.

Both Mohan and Gopal had set up separate branches of

the same restaurant after coming to Lucknow. They were
cousins and it had been their dream to open a restaurant
together.

safalniveshak.com 26
 The Two New Restaurants in Town

Being ambitious, they had decided to set up two branches

right at the beginning.

Their restaurants were located a few meters apart from

each other on the same road near two busy bus stops,
where they served breakfast like hot poha, idli and dosa,
upma and bread and omelette to early morning travellers
and others.

As they walked together on this winter morning towards

their restaurants, Mohan talked to Gopal about convincing
his parents to move to Lucknow from Bikaner. For a year
now, he had got up every morning at 4.00 am to prepare
the items needed for making the food himself and take
them to the restaurant.

Gopal, on the other hand, did not feel the need to do so.
He had told Mohan he would employ someone to do the
early morning preparations and would join him at 6.00 am
to leave for their restaurants. They both lived together in
the same apartment.

At the restaurant, Gopal had three other people working

for him. Gopal would tell them what to do, and go over to
Mohan’s to watch TV that Mohan had installed for his co-
workers when they took a break.

Gopal would head to his branch only at noon, when at

Mohan’s branch, everyone would finish their work and go

safalniveshak.com 27
 The Two New Restaurants in Town

for a small break. They would then return and prepare

evening snacks for their customers. Mohan had set up this
routine with much difficulty.

He had worked hard and had found people to work with

who were diligent and sincere. He was grateful to have
made a team after many months of investment in people
who were honest, friendly and did their jobs well. He
would try and send people to Gopal’s branch as well, but
nobody stayed at that restaurant for long.

Gopal was not as sincere as Mohan. He was lazy, and

would usually think of leaving work onto others. If they
could not finish it, he would leave it to them to finish it the
next day. Thus, at Gopal’s restaurant, everyone was over-
worked, even though they were making less quantities of
food than at Mohan’s restaurant.

Gopal had trouble finding people to work for him, and he

always had to ask Mohan to help him.

Mohan was a firm, sometimes strict but kind person. He

would ensure that his restaurant prepared all the food
items well before people started arriving early morning.
He spoke to everyone who came to eat there and assured
his snacks were healthy and nutritious, and that they
tasted good.

safalniveshak.com 28
 The Two New Restaurants in Town

He also shared a good relationship with his co-workers

and always discussed everything with them about
running the restaurant. He would not only feed the
animals around his compound, he would also carefully
plan how much to cook every day, so that there was
minimal wastage of food.

All these qualities had helped him achieve his dream of

putting up a restaurant and running it well enough to start
earning profits from it. That he had managed to start
earning well from it in the very first year was by no means
a small feat. But he was worried for his cousin brother.

In contrast, Gopal would sometimes disappear from his

restaurant even in the evenings to entertain himself with
people from the neighbourhood, who he called his ‘new
brothers’. He left it upon his workers to run the place by
themselves. When they would not show up for work, he
would complain to Mohan and get irritated with them.

He would always tell Mohan to not make his workers get

used to him at the restaurant, after all, they had to set up
more places as early as possible. Whatever extra money
Gopal made, he spent on his evening outings with the
people in his colony.

Mohan tried to tell him to spend less on going out, if he

wanted to invest in opening more branches. But Gopal
was sure he could make more money to do so. He would

safalniveshak.com 29
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
surprise when, remarking, “I guess we’re going too fast,” he reduced
his pace to three miles an hour and rather doubtfully offered his
arm.
“I suppose it’s not the proper thing,” was his comment when she
declined it. “Dolly said so, but then she doesn’t know everything;
and you do take arms in to dinner. I’ll remember another time. Look
here, are you set on this temperance business?”
“I think it a noble cause,” said Angela, wearily standing to her
guns.
“Then I’ll take the pledge for a month.”
“You will?”
“I guess I couldn’t stand it any longer,” Bernard explained; “but a
month from now’ll just keep clear of the harvesting. I’d like to do
what you want, as far as is reason. And here we are. I’m awfully
glad to have met you. You’ll remember I’d like to please you, won’t
you?”
Oh yes, Angela said, she would remember; and she kept her
word, for all the night through she reflected alternately on Lal’s
defection and on Bernard Fane’s subjection—a word which she
refused to lengthen into subjugation.
Lal, on his way to the black cottages, walked really fast, but he did
not get back in time to help Dolly with her cans of water; she was
feeding the baby when he came up. Sitting in a low chair with the
child on her knee, holding the bottle, the delicate little toy fingers
clasped round her own, Dolly, intent and serious, was no Madonna
of pity and love, but a business-like young woman performing a
duty. But Lal, who was fond of little children, unconsciously ascribed
to her his own feelings; he saw the divine spirit of motherhood, and
stood quietly watching, too reverent to speak and break the charm.
It was the traitorous sun, suddenly bursting out to throw Lal’s
shadow on the floor, which made Dolly look up. She smiled. She had
forgotten her vexation, and was frankly glad to see him, yet her first
words were a reproach.
 “Why did you come back? Your sister hated it, and there was no
need!”
“I came to help you.”
“It was a pity. Your sister is very fond of you, very proud; you
should not vex her,” Dolly said, laying the child in the cradle. She
rose and came to the door, and stood in the hot sunshine, rich in
colour as a Tintoretto, spiritual as the crowned Madonna of the
angelical painter. She was still thinking of Mrs. Searle, and pity was
Dolly’s loveliest expression.
“I left my sister in the charge of your brother; he was going to see
her home. Now will you accuse me of vexing her? Or are you going
to give me something to do?”
“You may watch the baby while I sweep the room.”
“Thank you; I will sweep the room while you watch the baby.”
“You? You sweep?”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever swept in your life?”
“I have not; but I can try.”
“Oh! very well,” said Dolly, suddenly folding her hands and sitting
down in her low chair. “Do it: there’s the broom behind the door. Do
it: I should love to see you.”
The road outside was far cleaner than the floor of Mrs. Searle’s
kitchen. Lal stood, doubtfully surveying his task and the aged broom.
“It really wants scrubbing,” he said, seriously.
“Sweeping will do, if you sweep properly.”
“‘Will do!’ Miss Fane, I am surprised to hear you use that sloven’s
expression. However, I am afraid sweeping will have to do, as we
have neither sand nor Brooke’s soap.”
Leaving Dolly amazed at his erudition, Lal made a sudden descent
upon the hearth-rug, shook it, rolled it up, and carried it out. He
took out the cradle as well, very gently putting it down in the shade
without waking the child. The chairs he piled on the table; the
curtains he tucked up. Dolly took her place outside with the rest of
the furniture, and stood in the doorway, watching and laughing. Lal
paused, leaning on his broom in the middle of the floor as Maud
Muller might have leaned upon her hay-rake.
Suddenly he made a triumphant pounce upon Mrs. Searle’s brown
teapot, which spent all its days upon the hob. He emptied away the
liquid tea, shook out the leaves on a broken plate, and began to
strew them with fastidious fingers about the floor: the contrast
between him and his task was piquant. Bernard would never have
attempted to sweep at all, Lucian might have tried, but he was not
wise enough for the tea-leaf plan. Dolly’s imagination could see him
happily brooming all the dust out of the open door, and gathering it
up with his fingers when it lodged in the inequalities of the flooring.
This amateur house-maid worked in different style. Neat, deft,
precise, that was Lal; he coaxed the flue out of the corners, he lifted
the fender and swept underneath, he took away cobwebs from the
window and spiders’ nests from the angles of the ceiling, and swept
all his gleanings into a symmetrical pile.
“A dust-pan, now,” he said, looking round enquiringly.
“There’s no such thing. Let me do it now: you’ve proved your
powers.”
“No,” said Lal; “no.” His eye rested on a copy of the local paper; in
a trice he had it folded firmly with sharp edges, and was bending it
into a convenient receptacle for the débris, which he emptied into
the fire. Then he dusted the furniture with his handkerchief and put
everything back in place, twitching the ragged hearth-rug straight to
the eighth of an inch and arranging all the chairs in pairs exactly.
“But it should have been scrubbed,” he wound up, with a sigh of
regret.
“I won’t have it; Mrs. Searle wouldn’t know her own room. Do you
know, I never thought a man could have so—could be—”
 “Could have so much sense,” Lal finished, quaintly.
“Well, I didn’t. Where did you learn how to do it?” said Dolly,
laughing.
“Miss Fane, I have a pair of eyes, and our rooms at home are
swept sometimes.”
“Ah, but you’ve the hands, too.”
“I know it,” Lal said, displaying them with disgust. Dolly looked,
with a wise little nod, and went into the scullery; she brought back a
fresh towel, a piece of yellow soap, and a tin basin full of clean hot
water.
“That is good,” Lal said, plunging in his hands with an air of relief.
Dolly was looking at her own. “I think I’ll wash, too,” she said; and
without more ado stripped back her cuffs and slipped her fingers in
beside Lal’s. The sunlight sparkled in the water and flashed in silver
circles, following the curve of the white metal. Dolly chased the
piece of soap all round the basin, and Lal captured it and gave it to
her; her wrist was soft to the touch as a baby’s. Lal was warmly alive
to the charm of the moment, and would have prolonged it; not so
Dolly. She withdrew her hands with the same indifference as though
Bernard had been her partner. They were obliged to share the same
towel; there were but two in Mrs. Searle’s establishment.
“What a pussy-cat you are!” Dolly laughed, noticing Lal’s fastidious
movements. “Do you manicure your hands?”
“I rather think that is a deadly insult. No, I do not manicure my
hands; I am merely clean.”
“Merely clean! You’re hard on the rest of us.” Dolly was thinking of
Lucian as he had appeared after half an hour of weeding in the
violet-bed. She held out her own hand, soft, rosy, crinkled by the hot
water. “There are stains on my fingers; I can’t get them off without
taking the skin, too; so I leave them on. Am I not clean, please?”
Lal was in danger of losing his head, and kissing the pretty palm
that lay in his, “I don’t see any stains,” he said. Dolly withdrew it,
colouring at his tone. She pulled down her sleeves, and told herself
she was a fool to forget that men are fools.
“Do you always do as your sister tells you?” she asked, abruptly.
“Miss Fane, do you always do as your brother tells you?”
“I? Not often,” Dolly frankly admitted. “I do as I like.”
“You’re more independent than I am: I do what Angela likes,
except on serious and important questions of principle. It saves so
much trouble, you know; I can do no wrong, like the king.”
“What principle was involved in your staying this afternoon?”
Lal was dumb, manifestly embarrassed by this sudden attack.
“Tell me,” Dolly insisted. She was expecting that he would answer
“You,” in which case she meant to snub him and give him up. But he
remained silent.
“Why did you come back, when your sister hated it and you hated
vexing her, as I know very well you did?”
“Because I couldn’t stand seeing a girl carry those heavy cans.”
Dolly had her answer now, and she knew it was the truth. Lal had
coloured over his admission and cast down his eyes; he should have
looked youthful and ingenuous, but he did not. A very expressive
mouth had Lal; the underlip was remarkably firm, pure, decisive;
tenacity and independence controlled its curves. One might expect
to find originality in his theory of life, anachronisms in his creed,
possibly asceticism, certainly unworldliness: in fact, all those queer
ideas whose existence Angela unhappily suspected. So much may be
read in a momentary twist of the lips. Chivalry here in the twentieth
century! Bernard looked on woman as an inferior animal, Lucian as a
comrade, Farquhar as slave or sultana by turns: Dolly’s observations
and reflections were summed up in the involuntary remark:
“Mr. Laurenson, how very odd you are!”
 XIII

THE FIRST DROPS OF THE THUNDER-SHOWER

“O Medjé, who with thy smiling

Hast enchained my heart, once free—”

Gounod, whose sweet and sensuous church music has something of

the quality of good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke, has
written some acceptable love-songs; such at least was Lucian’s
opinion. Aided by the night’s stillness and the seductive influence of
the stream which cradled their boat, Noel Farquhar’s fine dramatic
voice rang up the valley to the hotel, half a mile away. The twangs
and pangs of Lucian’s banjo did not travel so far. Farquhar had a
powerful voice, thoroughly well trained; he did not tremble in
sentimental passion and murder time in the name of liberty, nor yet
did he alternately spue out his words and gobble them down. And
he had fire; he could sing the very heart out of a song. His native
taste in music he usually sacrificed to the general good; he would
sing “The Lost Chord” and “The Holy City” and “Beauty’s Eyes,” and
other favourites, to please young ladies such as Angela Laurenson
and elderly gentlemen who like a little music after dinner. But Lucian
laid a taboo on these; he offered Farquhar the choice between what
he called gamey music (meaning the glorious modern discords which
we all delight to honour in the abstract) and ditties of the Bank
Holiday school, with a chorus in which he expressed his desire to
join. Whereupon Farquhar hurriedly embarked upon “Medjé.”
It was a clear night of summer, still and starry. The stream’s dark
glass was filmed with silver mist which wavered and rose and
receded as if it were the visible vesture of the wind; the smooth
hills, spreading dark wings over the valley, breathed peace. For
sounds they had the tinkle of the orchard runnel and the deep
breaths of cows wrenching the dewy grass; and for scents the night
perfume of the water and of the woods, as well as the sweeter
individual smells of flowers: flaxen meadow-sweet, wild mint blowing
purple among the reeds, and clover in the meadow-grasses.
“A summer night like this is the best imitation of Paradise this side
of the Golden Gates,” said Lucian, leaning down to watch the ripples
parting silver-rimmed beneath the prow.
“I’d not give a cent to get into Paradise.”
“You won’t be asked, sonny.”
“There you’re right, for there’s no such place.”
“Your views on eschatology, my friend, appear demned definite.”
“Definite? Finite, don’t you mean?”
Lucian leaned back and folded his arms restfully; he liked nothing
better than to explore the recesses of Farquhar’s character, which
were commonly open only after dark.
“Haven’t you any intimations of immortality from the recollections
of early childhood?” he asked.
“None,” said Farquhar. “Never had. Seventy years of this world’s
long enough for me. I don’t want an eternity to learn to be good in.
Another point: if I believed what you Christians believe, do you think
I’d live as you live? Not much. Act up to your creed; there’s the
secret of happiness.”
“And what’s your creed, then?”
“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” said Farquhar,
cynically enjoying his own cynicism.
“And suppose the workings of Causation came and put a stopper
on your eating and drinking? If you were brought to grinding
poverty, say, or got infected with leprosy, or didn’t marry Dolly
Fane?”
 “There’s always the ultimate remedy,” said Farquhar, with a shrug.
“Which means, being interpreted?”
“Suicide while of unsound mind: I’d take good care it wasn’t called
accidental death. I wonder, now, if they’d give me Christian burial?”
“Not if I was anywhere around, sonny; you may depend on that.
So you seriously contemplate suicide as a possible end of your life?”
“Probable, not possible: I keep my revolver loaded. I’ve had that
before me ever since I remember.”
“Well, I’ll give you the credit of being consistent; only, don’t you
include me among the Christians, for I’m not one. You can put down
my inconsistencies to that if you like. If I’d owned a creed, I believe
I might have stuck to it—tolerably well.”
“You’re sorry you’ve none?”
“Yes,” said Lucian.
“The Almighty doesn’t seem to know His own business very well.”
“Don’t you blaspheme,” said Lucian. “I can’t say I believe that
there is a God, but I know I don’t believe that there isn’t. When little
boys like you are profane, you make me think of some kids I knew,
who had a midnight supper in the church-yard to show they weren’t
afraid of bogies. And it rained, and one got rheumatic fever; that
was me,” he wound up, cheerfully.
Farquhar laughed, and broke off to ask, “Is that any one calling?”
“Who’d look us up at this time of night, ’cept it was the postman?”
“Are you expecting a letter?”
“I had my weekly budget yesterday, and so did you, sonny; don’t
be jealous.”
“I am jealous; I’m confoundedly jealous.”
“What is it you want, boy?”
“To see your letter.”
 Lucian was fully alive to the fascination of playing with a tiger; he
pulled out Dolly’s grey envelope and played a tune on the back of it.
“Here it is; what do you want to know?”
“I want to know how she addresses you and signs herself, and
what the substance of it’s like, and how many sheets she sends
you.”
“How many does she send you?”
“Curious, too, are you? Exchange, then.”
“Not much. Suppose she called you darling and me only dear?”
“By Heaven, Lucian, I shouldn’t wonder if I murdered you in my
sleep some night!”
“Did you say in your sleep or in mine?” Lucian put in.
“I’d not do it in my senses, for I’ve no wish to be hanged for
murder; but, I tell you, I can’t get the thought of those letters of
yours out of my head. And when the will’s in abeyance the body
sometimes works of itself. You keep your door locked: mind, I’ve
warned you.”
“Upon my solemn honour, old Farquhar, you are a savage!”
exclaimed Lucian.
“Take the thing away, then; keep it out of my sight!”
“I guess you’d read it if you found it lying about?”
“You’re right, I should. I’d have opened the envelope yesterday by
the steam of the kettle, only Dolly’d been at the pains to seal it,
confound her!”
Lucian gave him a queer glance. That cynical confession did not
alienate him; for one thing, he knew that it was necessary to make a
large discount upon Farquhar’s revelations of iniquity, and for
another, had it been true to the last word it could not have changed
his feeling. Strong, quiet, and immovable, that lay welded, into his
life; it almost equalled his love for Dolly; it outweighed his love for
himself. He moved to give his letter to Farquhar, but checked his
hand in mid-air; Dolly’s affectionate words might so easily be
misconstrued by a jealous eye. Instead, he plunged the envelope
over the side, and let it float away.
“There goes temptation,” he said, as the chain of bubbles ended.
“There’ll be others to come, though. There is some one calling.”
It was Charlesworth hailing them from the shore; Farquhar took
up the oars and rowed back. The huge figure of the American
loomed up against the twilit sky, quiet as a rock; he never was
impatient.
“Way up at the hotel I heard you singing, and I made out you
must be down here, sir; higher up the water’s not deep enough to
drown a kitten,” he said, as Farquhar secured the boat. A stake and
a rope were all that was needed, without bars or locks; theft was
unfashionable at Petit-Fays.
“Nothing wrong, is there?” Farquhar asked.
“I’d not go so far as to say that; but I told you we were running
into some dirt, and it’s come up pretty close.”
“Ah! what’s up, then?”
Charlesworth fell in beside him and told his tale. The path was
narrow, the grass dewy, and the American had shown pretty plainly
that he took his orders from one master only. Lucian dropped behind
and meekly held his peace. It appeared that the lad who had been
injured was demanding compensation; Charlesworth, who was ready
to give, had refused to concede; and a venomous little dispute had
sprung up, which was breeding bad blood between him and the
men. Added to this, they were asking higher wages.
“I couldn’t put up with him, and that’s the square truth,”
Charlesworth frankly acknowledged. “If he’d come to me and said, ‘I
was knocked silly, and I’ve lost a couple of weeks; I know I’d no
business to be where I was, and I deserved all I got, but can you do
anything for me?’—then I don’t say but what I might have turned to
and helped him out; that’s talking. But when he swaggers up and
says, ‘Show us the colour of your money and be hanged to you, else
I’ll make you,’ why, then I tell him that he’s at liberty to go to Hades
if he likes, but not a red cent shall he get from me. I don’t know
whether that’s your way of doing business, sir, but I guess it’s mine.”
“My dear fellow, I’d not have you back down, don’t think it! I’ve a
preference myself for fighting things out. When was this?”
Farquhar’s words were exemplary, but his face was less discreet; it
was manifest that he did prefer to fight things out, and
Charlesworth, who laid no claim to the Christian grace of meekness,
hailed a spirit akin.
“This evening, after pay-time. I came right round to you.”
“What’s the next move to be?”
“Well,” said Charlesworth, deliberately: “I guess it’s me they’ve got
a down on now; but when the time comes they won’t stop to sort us
out. They’re pretty sick about your newfangled machinery for one
thing, and then there’s the business about the Britishers: taking one
thing with another, and this compensation racket on the top, you
may bet they’re sure-enough mad. And I’ve no use for a funeral at
present. So before we go any further, sir, I’d ask you to come round
to the works; for there’s a job there I’d like you to see.”
He would not explain any further, and the trio walked on past the
gold-litten windows of the hotel towards the quarry. All was silent
there and dark save for the signal-lamp of the watchman, sparkling
on the brow of the pit among the constellations high in the dark sky,
like a topaz among diamonds. Picking their way among the truck
lines, which converged like so many silver cords from all directions
towards the mouth of the quarry, they came up to the splendid block
of granite marked out by Charlesworth for their first serious essay in
carving. Its rich, even colour and fine-grained texture made it very
valuable. A pillar hewn from it, overrun by curly-tailed dragons and
roses of strange design, was assigned to stand in a temple of the
Flowery Land. Another part was to misrepresent the king in the
market-place of a country town; and they had accepted other orders
as well, for the whole mass weighed some thousands of tons. Upon
the fulfilment of these conditions the future of the quarry depended.
For three weeks past they had been hard at work loosening the
granite from its bed and getting it free from the other blocks which
wedged it in: an operation involving nice calculation and accurate
obedience. Under Charlesworth’s directions, shot-holes three feet
deep and six inches apart were bored along the line of cleavage,
cleaned out, charged with a cartridge, and filled up or tamped with
clay. With each cartridge a length of slow fuse was connected, the
different strands being gathered together in a metal case called the
igniter, so that the cartridges could be fired simultaneously. Some
use electricity to explode the charge, Charlesworth did not. The
operator, generally himself, had to betake himself nimbly out of the
way while the fuse burned on at three feet per minute till it came to
the cartridge and finished its work. Already several small blasts had
taken place, preparatory to the large final explosion which was to
dissever the whole block from its bed.
“I guess that’s what they’ve got their eye on,” said Charlesworth,
coming to a stand in front of the cliff.
Farquhar thrust his hands into his pockets and said nothing.
“Dmitri Dmitriyevitch vows to be avenged of his enemies,”
suggested Lucian at his ear.
“What’s that?—Shut up, De Saumarez, I’m doing a little thinking.
So you think they mean to spoil the stone, eh, Charlesworth?”
“I guess they mean to,” said the American, austerely, “but I guess
I don’t mean them to.”
“Well, yes, I guess the same; but how do you think they’d set
about it?”
“Tamper with the cartridges. Overcharge them, I’d bet: smash the
whole place up, so’s you couldn’t cut a lady’s paper-weight out of
the bits. And if we went up along with it I guess they wouldn’t go
into mourning. That’s the kind of crowd they are: measly little city-
bred slushes who’ll do anything so long as they can keep their own
skins whole.”
“I don’t want to lose my granite, and still less to lose my life,” said
Farquhar. “How do you propose to circumvent them?”
“Well, there’s three of us, sir; I reckon we should be able to keep
things straight. I dare say you know the difference between a one-
pound charge and a two-pound, and I know I do, and so does Mr. de
Saumarez here. What we shall have to do is to watch. There’s a
matter of a couple more blasts to run, besides the last. It’ll mean
testing every charge every time; but that’s how I made out we’d do
it. Or, of course, if you like it better, we could cave in, and give the
little beggar his solatium, and raise the men; that’d quiet them for a
bit, and then I dare say they’d let us get this job through and we
could fight it out after, when we don’t stand to lose so much. I’m not
boss here; it’s for you to choose, sir.”
“What do you say, De Saumarez?”
“What the dickens is the use of me saying anything, when you’ve
already made up your mind like unto the solid earth that cannot be
moved?”
“Well, I think we’ll fight it out, then,” said Farquhar, with a laugh.
“Fight goes,” concluded Charlesworth.
And they went back to the hotel.
 XIV

SMALL BEER

A white cloth, white lilies and scarlet geraniums, red-tiled floor, flax-
blue china: the low sun of evening painted their colours afresh; the
lily petals glistened and sparkled like frosty snow. All the windows
were open, and the soft little wind that stirred the straight muslin
curtains filled the empty room with the scent of unseen pinks. Then
came in Dolly, carrying a squat rounded jug of brown earthenware
smoothly overlaid in silver; the spot of light dancing inside showed
that the jug was full. She set it down by the wooden elbow-chair at
the table’s foot, put straight a sprig of parsley on the dish of cold
meat, glanced at the clock, which said five minutes to seven, and
then sat down, half in sunshine and half in shade, with her hands in
her lap. For no longer than a minute was she idle; a book lay open
on the table, its leaves ruffling and flying over and over, and she
pulled it across and began to read at haphazard, as one visiting an
old friend. For between those covers her old friends dwelt in an
army, and Dolly’s favourite was named Jonis d’Artagnan. Since the
age of seven she had read Dumas in his native tongue. Her brow
was clear, her breath was even, she only moved to turn her page;
tranquillity was Dolly’s dower, bestowed on her by perfect health and
peaceful nerves.
At seven o’clock Bernard came in, and Dolly quitted the oak of
Fontainebleau to make the tea. “Have you washed your hands?” was
her greeting, for Bernard was not as careful about such things as he
might have been. Bernard answered: “Yes.”
“Had a good day?”
“Pretty fair.”
 Standing before the tray, Dolly put a piece of sugar into her cup,
then some milk, then some cream, and, lastly, the clear, auburn,
aromatic tea. Authorities agree that this is the only correct method
of tea-making, but Dolly kept their laws without knowing them.
Bernard tilted up the silver jug and looked inside, and glanced across
at his sister. “Have you got another cup?” he inquired. “I guess I’ll
have tea to-night.”
“Tea, Bernard?”
“Isn’t there enough to go round?”
“Oh! plenty,” said Dolly. “Aren’t you well?”
“I’m off beer for the present; that’s all.”
“It’s quite good; I tasted some when I drew it,” said Dolly, after a
pause.
“Dare say,” said Bernard, regarding the silver jug as though he
thought the beer very good indeed, “but I don’t want it to-day. Are
you going to give me some tea?”
Dolly made a step towards the cupboard, checked herself, and sat
down. “You’d better fetch the cup yourself; it’s the proper thing for
you to wait on me.”
“I don’t see why we should always be on our best behaviour here
at home,” observed Bernard, as, in complying, he knocked over the
sugar basin.
“Because if you don’t practise at home you go wrong when you
are out. You pushed past me on Sunday as we came out of church.”
The charge being true, Bernard felt annoyed. He essayed to drink
his tea, pursed up his lips, and put down the cup in a hurry.
“If you won’t drink the beer, I will; it would be a pity to waste it,”
said Dolly, who was watching him.
“You’d get tipsy if you drank all that.”
 “I was not proposing to drink all that; I could not do it if I tried. I
cannot understand how men can dispose of so much.”
“Girls don’t work like men do.”
“It’s a good thing you are giving it up, then; I’ve noticed that you
were beginning to get stout.”
Bernard continued to look stolid. Out of patience, Dolly launched
at him a sudden question.
“Are you turning teetotaller to please Miss Laurenson?”
“I’m not turning teetotaller. I’m only trying it for a time.”
“But is it to please Miss Laurenson?”
“Well, yes; I guess it is.”
“Not really, Bernard?” asked Dolly, with a change of tone.
“Why not?”
“She isn’t your sort. And you’ve only known her for six weeks.”
“Come to think of it, I wouldn’t say the dude is your sort; but you
seem to like talking to him.”
“Bernard, do you want to marry her?” asked Dolly, after a
pregnant pause.
“I’m going to.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that she may have something to say
about that?”
“I dare say she’ll refuse me, but if she does I can ask her again.”
“And if she refuses you again?”
“Then I’ll go on asking till she accepts.”
“In fact, if you persevere you think she is bound to give in?”
“Girls generally do.”
“Do they? I shouldn’t.”
 “You aren’t like most girls. You’ve been brought up with men.”
“But, Bernard, Miss Laurenson is an heiress; she has eight
hundred a year of her own, and more to come. Mrs. Merton told me
so.”
“Has she? Well, eight hundred a year’ll come in handy; I’m glad to
hear it. If it’s true, that is.”
“And she is very pretty, and she dresses well, and her family is
unexceptionable,” pursued Dolly. “I expect she could marry a peer if
she liked, or at any rate a courtesy title.”
“Yes, but all those titled chaps are pretty rotten,” said Bernard,
cheerfully damning the aristocracy in a lump. “She’d do a sight
better to take me. I’m pretty strong and free from vice, and sound in
wind and limb; and as for family, I guess ours is good enough for
anybody, isn’t it?”
Dolly was reduced to silence, but she was so completely
preoccupied that she poured cream and sugar into Bernard’s cup
and filled it up with beer, producing a mixture which he denounced
in emphatic language and emptied out of the window. Presently she
interrupted his talk about the farm by asking:
“Bernard, are you fond of her?”
“She’s getting a bit long in the tooth, it’s true, but she’s a pretty
creature still. I guess she suits me as well as any,” was the surprising
answer.
“I mean Miss Laurenson.”
“Oh, I thought you were talking about old Empress; I was.”
“Are you fond of her?”
“Yes,” said Bernard, composedly. “I am.”
Dolly shrugged her shoulders. “I hope it will turn out well.”
“Hope so, too,” said Bernard. “She ought to take me simply out of
gratitude. Anything more beastly than tea with this cold beef I never
did taste!”

On the morrow, while Dolly was sweeping her room out, Maggie
came up, gasping, to announce “Miss Lawson”; she had a happy
knack of confounding names. It was, in truth, Angela, driven up by
the pair of donkeys, as Ella Merton said, though only one was in the
shafts. Mrs. Merton herself would not come in, because, she
declared, Jehoshaphat would eat the reins if he were left.
Jehoshaphat had a satanic temper and was more completely
omnivorous than an ostrich; beside devouring reins and boots and
tin-tacks, he had a craving for any human flesh except that of his
mistress, an exception which Ella triumphantly adduced in support of
her self-bestowed name, since, said she, dog doesn’t eat dog.
Therefore Angela was alone in the parlour when Dolly came down;
rather hot, in a faded old dress: Angela, very cool and dainty in
white muslin, now feeling that the advantage of appearance had
fallen to her. Yet, in spite of her dress and her daintiness, she was
still like a delicate sketch by the side of a beautiful painting.
“I’m sorry Mr. Fane isn’t in,” she began, rather stiffly. Angela could
not approve of Dolly, and would not pretend that she did.
“The regret will be all on his side. Won’t you sit down?” quoth
Dolly, very polite.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay, I am keeping Mrs. Merton. May I leave a
message for him?”
“I shall be charmed to deliver it,” Dolly assured her; and Angela
sought consolation by mentally dubbing her accent provincial. Dolly
exasperated her to such an extent that she was ready to imagine a
Kentish twang in Miss Fane’s foreign intonation.
“I believe Mr. Fane is interested in temperance reform”—here Dolly
smiled—“and I thought under the circumstances he might care to
attend the great unsectarian conference which is to be held at
Swanborough next week. I dare say you have heard of it.”
“No; we have severed our connection with the chapel.”
“This meeting is undenominational.”
“Essence of chapel, isn’t that? Or so I have always understood.”
“Perhaps you will tell your brother that it begins at three o’clock,”
Angela trusted herself to say.
“I am sure Bernard will be delighted to go. Of course, he might
speak himself almost as a reformed drunkard.”
“Mr. Fane?”
“You converted him, did you not?”
“I converted him? From what?”
“Oh! from his habit of drinking beer. I am so glad; I have often
told him that he took too much.”
“Really, Miss Fane?” said Angela, in accents of serious concern. “I
had no idea of it! What a shocking thing! I am indeed thankful that I
have been instrumental in helping him to reform.”
Dolly’s lips twitched, but she instantly followed Angela’s lead. “Of
course it was not yet very serious, and he did not often—well—
exceed. But I assure you I am most grateful for all you have done;
you have a wonderful influence over him—truly wonderful!”
“Then I shall hope to see him at Swanborough; and perhaps you
will come, too? You need not feel embarrassed; there will be plenty
of girls of your own age to keep you in countenance,” said Angela,
pleasantly.
“Thank you so much,” said Dolly, as she opened the front door.
She stood on the step to speed the parting guests. When the last
flicker of Angela’s white parasol had vanished, she remarked to
herself: “Certainly Bernard has a better right to trust his own
judgment than any one I know!”
 Both she and Bernard went to Swanborough for the meeting. They
drove; and, after putting up the horse, had the satisfaction of
encountering Miss Laurenson and her brother outside the station.
Bernard went straight to Angela’s side, and Dolly found herself
walking with Mr. Laurenson. Lal was no talker; and as the uncivilized
Dolly had not yet learned to speak when she did not want to, they
walked on in silence.
Swanborough was a town of twenty thousand people, mostly
wicked. Standing on a tidal river, it harboured the vessels of all
nations and the peculiar vices of each; there were, besides, barracks
in the town, which brought their special dangers. High wages and a
high standard of living prevailed: the head of one family would be
calling for green peas in April, while the head of another, discharged
from the same position, perhaps for drunkenness, would send his
children, filthy, barefoot, and famishing, into the street to beg. That
popular vice, drunkenness, flourished like a green bay-tree. A public-
house blossomed at every street’s corner, and its devotees lounged
in its shade with their hands in their holey pockets. Passing one such
palace as a youth pushed open the door, Dolly had a view of the
crowded bar, and breathed in a puff of hot vapour wherein the
scents of tobacco and gin and old clothes contended for the mastery.
“There are too many of those places!” she exclaimed, averting her
offended face.
“There are,” Lal answered her, rather bitterly.
“I cannot see why the licenses are renewed.”
“Can you not? Every English government lives by this traffic; do
you expect pious sons to commit parricide?”
“You feel very strongly about it,” said Dolly, wondering.
“I see the results of the present system.”
“Then do you believe in Prohibition or in Local Option?”
“I? I believe in putting the whole trade under public control, in
reducing the number of licenses, and in giving the publicans a fixed
salary independent of the number of men they turn into drunkards.”
“But those are not Miss Laurenson’s views, surely?” asked Dolly,
somewhat taken aback. Lal was already repenting of his candour.
“It’s one of the questions of principle on which we differ,” he said,
in his soft, lazy voice. “Don’t betray me, Miss Fane; it will be time for
me to reveal my heresies when Prohibition comes down out of the
clouds. Angela herself is not where her theories are; she does plenty
of practical hard work.”
“Mr. Laurenson, what practical hard work do you do?”
“I?”
“You. I know you do something.”
“Who told you anything about me?”
“No one. I gathered it from the way you speak.”
“Oh, I see.” Lal was unmistakably relieved.
“I wish you would tell me how you set about it.”
“I’d rather not discuss the question.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Dolly. Twice, now, had he shut up like an
oyster and pinched her fingers; and she was half angry, until she
recognised that he meant no rudeness. To this conclusion was she
brought by the study of his face. Lal, when he spoke of himself, had
a trick of drooping his eyelids, so that, as the lashes were long, his
eyes were hidden completely; he was foolish enough to be modest.
The compression of his sensitive lips notified Dolly of another
extenuating circumstance: namely, that he was uncomfortable to the
point of frenzy. In escaping her inquiries he was ready to leap clear
over the bars of politeness; surely, then, since he so valorously
defended their privacy, his convictions must be very dear to him. As
she was musing thus, the drooped lids were raised with
disconcerting abruptness, and Lal’s beautiful dark-grey eyes looked
down appealingly.
 “I did not mean to be rude. I would rather be rude to any one
than you,” he said.
Dolly’s breathing quickened; a warm spring rose in her heart. “I
had no business to ask you; but I thought perhaps I might do
something myself,” she said.
“It is only that I—” Here Lal stopped. “I don’t think—” he began
again; and finally clothed his thought in a general law, altogether
eliminating the painful personal pronoun I. “An amateur’s private
opinion is never very interesting.”
“And you would rather not talk about your private opinions.”
“I’m not very good at it,” Lal admitted. “In fact, I generally make a
fool of myself when I try—as on the present occasion.” The victim of
aphasia had put off his apology until they were close to the hall, and
further conversation was stopped by their arrival at the door.
“You’re coming in?” said Dolly, as he paused.
He shook his head.
“Don’t you approve of this?”
“I’m afraid I don’t like religion when it’s vulgar,” said Lal. He raised
his hat and walked off down the street, and Dolly and her friends
went in.
No cause needs salvation from its friends as does this of
temperance. Intolerance, exaggeration, bad logic, bad taste, and
bad grammar have all supported and do support it still, estranging
men who would be content to work with the reformers if they took
their stand on the noble charter given them by St. Paul: “If meat
make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world
standeth.” At Swanborough there were two evangelists, whose
names appeared on the programme as Rev. Dr. Brown and Rev. S.
Jones, for your true temperance evangelist eschews the adjective
the as rigidly as temperance in his speeches. The one spoke on
“Gospel Dynamics”; the other proved the Bible a total-abstinence
book and, incidentally, himself no orator. Angela found it hard to feel
pleased; she looked at Bernard, and saw him yawning undisguisedly,
and then at Dolly, who sat with hands folded, inattentive but
composed.
And Dolly was composed, though she was conscious of a strange
exaltation which rosed her cheek and set her heart throbbing and
pulses beating in time with it in every finger. A well-spring of soft
warmth suffused her frame; she shut her eyes and saw visions, she
who was no dreamer—visions in which one figure alone was
constant. She owned the truth. “I love him,” she told herself. Shame
she did not feel; she believed that Lal loved her back, and even if he
did not there was no humiliation, since her gift was voluntary, since
she was proud of her love. He won her by being better than herself.
Dolly was a little pagan; her love was wild as a bird; but in it ran a
puritan strain which claimed an answering purity in the man she
loved. Irreproachable though he was, Noel Farquhar could not give
her that, nor yet could Lucian, though he was nearer to her ideal.
But in Dolly’s room at home she had an engraving of Watts’s fine
picture of Sir Galahad; and the artist might have drawn his young
knight’s face from Lal as he looked on a Sunday morning in church,
when he sat in his corner behind a pillar which hid him from sight,
as he thought. Had he known that Dolly had a clear though narrow
view of his profile against the black marble of a mural tablet, it
would have made him retrospectively very unhappy.
Love left Dolly the same girl as before, save that it illumined a side
of her nature which had been hidden, as the sunlight, creeping
across from the first faint rim of the crescent, slowly enlightens the
disk of the moon. True, she now felt quite charitable towards
Angela; but Angela was Lal’s sister. She was also more lenient to the
ungrammatical orators on the platform; for the excellent reason that
she did not listen to them. These were accidents of circumstance.
But when a stout lady in front ecstatically planted the hind-leg of her
chair upon Dolly’s instep and sat heavily down, the ennobling power
of love did not hold her back from feeling annoyed.
 When they came out Dolly listened to a discussion of the meeting,
and herself added her word with moderate indifference. They walked
together to the station, but Dolly, whose mood was dreamy, soft,
and languorous, dissociated herself from the others and walked
alone. As she passed the Sailors’ Arms, which seemed a popular
hostelry, the door again stood open, and again Dolly glanced in, and
again saw the crowded bar; but this time Sir Galahad was leaning
across the counter conversing with the bar-maid.
 XV

COLLOQUIES WITH AN OUTSIDER

Dolly did her best to get Bernard away from the station before Lal
came up; but as she had only that morning been preaching the
duties of man to unprotected females, and as Bernard’s desires went
wholly along with his duty, she could not detach him from Angela.
She went away herself, on the pretext of ordering the dog-cart, met
Lal in the station yard, looked full in his face, and refused to know
him.
Angela was waiting impatiently; Lal had promised to meet her at
six o’clock, their train went at six-fifteen, and it was now five
minutes past. Lal was always exact in keeping his engagements.
Angela felt uneasy, and was cross. Bernard stayed with her till ten
minutes after the hour, and then hurried off to consult his sister.
Dolly was quite ready to drive back alone; perhaps because the
route through Hungrygut Bottom was in her mind as the best way
home, and to it Bernard might have demurred on the horse’s
account, for it was steep and stony, the roads having been recently
repaired. She had an idea that Lal might be waiting in the high-road
to see her pass. Bernard, having her consent, hurried back; he was
just in time to install Angela in a first-class carriage, with himself as
guardian for their half-hour’s journey. Then Angela, discovering that
she was shut up alone with Bernard Fane, began to wish herself
idiotic, dead, buried, anywhere out of the world, and plunged into a
fresh discussion of temperance.

Lal had stood like a statue till Dolly was out of sight, and then
tried to follow her. He had not seen which road she took, and his
wanderings led him far from the station. At last he bethought him
that the horse must be stabled somewhere, and began to inquire;
and half an hour later tracked her down at the Railway Hotel. While
he was still questioning the waiter, a man passed through the hall
and would have gone out had not Lal interrupted himself and sprang
forward, crying out, “Meryon!”
The gambler turned round, colouring with pleasure. “I didn’t know
you were home!” he said. “I heard you’d got no end of stars and
orders, but I didn’t know you were home! I’m so awfully glad.”
“I’m staying with the Mertons; what are you doing?”
“I’m here for the night. Come to my room, will you? There’s heaps
I want to know.”
Lal, who had just heard that Dolly had departed full half an hour
ago, abandoned his quest for the nonce, and went. Meryon and he
had been friends for years, though the guardian angel knew it not;
she would have feared the effect of pitch on Lal’s innocence if she
had. They met rarely; in the intervals their friendship hibernated,
coming out unspoiled when times of refreshing arrived. Meryon
wrote never, Lal rarely, and when he did his stiff little letters were
mere catalogues of events. But friendship, like the python, can live
for years unfed.
Meryon’s room was full of untidy properties tidily arranged. A
discreditable old Collard & Collard was its only luxury. He had been
playing patience, and the cards were scattered about the table; Lal
sat down on a bedroom chair, leaning his elbow on the wash-stand
and his chin on his hand, and watched Meryon gather them up.
“You haven’t given up playing, then?” he said.
“No, I never shall now—the cards have got their grip on me.
You’re looking sick, Lal,” said the elder man, earnestly; “what’s the
matter?”
“I got hurt, you know.”
 “Oh yes, I heard about that in the papers. You came back in a
regular blaze of glory; I was awfully proud of knowing you. Is your
sister all right?”
“Angela? Perfectly—about to marry, I fancy.”
“Is the man a good sort?”
“Oh, very. I think she will be happy.”
“Been doing any more of your own work?”
“At intervals. When the chance comes.”
Meryon jerked the bottom of the pack down on the table, and
pressed and patted it straight between his palms. “Try a game of
écarté?” he suggested.
Lal shook his head.
“I’ll play without stakes, for once.”
“No. I never play.”
“I don’t see why not. Even father used to play whist in the
evenings, he and mother and two of the canons, awfully decent old
chaps; and I used to stand behind mother and give her tips. Father
was no end of a good player. I don’t see why you won’t, Lal. It’s
wonderful how it takes you out of yourself.”
Lal shook his head again. “I never have played and never shall.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Perhaps.”
Meryon looked at him earnestly. “You’re very queer, Lal,” he said.
“I believe you’ve got heaps of things in you that no one ever
suspects. I believe you’re a born gambler—I hope you won’t mind
my saying so. But there’s no harm; you aren’t like me, you’d never
give way to it.”
“If I once began I should never stop,” Lal took him up, swiftly.
“You’re right; I’m not like you, Meryon. I haven’t your pluck. I had to
give up motoring because I could not keep my head while I was
driving. I’m as weak as water.”
“But you never do the things, you only want to and don’t let
yourself. I call that being strong, not weak. That’s just what I like.
You’re so excitable, you have to keep tight hold of yourself for fear
you should go to the bad, and yet you never do anything you
shouldn’t.”
Lal only shrugged his shoulders. Meryon, who was still standing,
dropped the cards and put his hand on Lal’s arm. “What is the
matter?” he said, tenderly. “What’s worrying you, old fellow?”
Lal did not answer, because he was incapable of explaining. It was
necessary for his interlocutor to drag the truth out of him by
questions. Dolly had found out this; but whereas Lal’s desire had
been to escape from her, he was anxious to make confession to
Meryon.
“I say, old fellow, is it a girl?” questioned the gambler.
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, it’s serious; it would be with you. Won’t she
have you?”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Have you had a quarrel?”
“I have just met her, and she cut me dead. Heaven knows why; I
don’t.”
Meryon, by a string of questions, contrived to elicit the story of
Lal’s courtship. The cause of Dolly’s coldness puzzled him, as it had
puzzled Lal, but after several abortive inquiries he hit at last on the
right track.
“I don’t see what could have happened while the meeting was
going on to make her change so. What were you doing all the time?”
“Business.”
 “What, your own sort of business?”
Lal nodded.
“Whereabouts?”
“Oh, in the town.”
“Tell me where, old fellow—that is, if you don’t mind me
meddling.”
“At the Sailors’ Arms; you know the place.”
“It’s a hell of a hole,” said Meryon, soberly. “Did you go in?”
“For a few minutes.”
“I say, it’s on the way from the Corn Exchange to the station. I
say, do you think she could have seen you?”
Lal was silent. Remembering that Dolly had noticed the place
before, he thought it possible.
“It’s all very well to say girls don’t mind that sort of thing—like a
man to sow his wild oats, and all that; but they do mind, the nicest
of them. And she’d think you must be such an awful humbug, too.
You know, old fellow, the thing for you to do is to go and ask her,
and tell her right away.”
“I could not possibly do it, and I would not for the world if I
could,” said Lal, with great decision.
“Why not?”
Lal shrugged his shoulders.
“I expect you mean you’re too shy, and don’t like talking about
that sort of thing to a girl. Is that it?”
“I dare say.”
“Old fellow, can’t you get over that?”
“I cannot,” said Lal, impatiently. “What, tell Miss Fane that I—that
the girl—Besides, she doesn’t care a straw for me. I shall ask her if
she’ll have me, and then go. Angela, at least, will be heartily glad.”
“Is her name Fane? Not Dolly Fane, by any chance?”
“Yes, it is. Do you know her?”
“I took her in to dinner once at the Mertons,” said Meryon. After a
pause he went on: “Do you know, Lal, there’s two other men after
her. De Saumarez, who I’ve told you about, is one, and Farquhar, the
M.P.”
“Of course she likes one of them,” said Lal, after another pause. “I
hope it isn’t Farquhar. I dislike that fellow.”
“I thought he was all that’s virtuous. You never caught him out in
any tricks, did you?”
“Not I! But I’d rather she married a gentleman.”
“I always thought he was an awful swell,” said Meryon, meekly.
Lal coloured and laughed, and glanced up through his eyelashes.
“I am a conceited, dogmatic prig; how can you possibly tolerate me,
Meryon?” he said. “I’ve talked about myself long enough; now let’s
hear what you’ve been doing.”
They talked on for an hour or more, and then Meryon persuaded
Lal to play to him, listening the while in quiet, uncritical enjoyment,
and caressing the black kitten asleep on his knee. Meryon always
stipulated for a piano in his room when his resources could be
stretched to cover such a luxury. He was very fond of strumming out
airs from the overtures and selections which he heard from bands at
casinos; he had an ear for melody, but had never learned music. Lal,
on the contrary, was a practised pianist; he played correctly, an
achievement rare in these days; his execution was sure and delicate,
his touch very clear, bright, and firm. He was very careful to hide this
talent of his in a napkin. Meryon had come to hear of it by accident.
Lal sat down and very quietly played through first a sonata by
Mozart, then a courante of Bach’s. His taste was for the orderly, old-
fashioned music; he hated Wagner, and thought even Mendelssohn
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