The Pretenders (Stock)

by Ralph Stock

THE PRETENDERS

By RALPH STOCK

FELISI squatted on the beach of Luana, the centre of a group of chattering female relatives, watching the men launch the big canoe with many cries and much unnecessary puffing and straining.

They were showing off in front of their women-folk, a weakness not uncommon in other places than the beach of Luana, as Felisi knew; and, while the female relatives clucked their admiration, her own wise eyes took in the scene with no other emotion than pleasurable excitement at the prospect of leaving the taro patch and the fish-trap for the mysterious lures of the outside world that she had glimpsed while selling imitation pink coral on the wharf at Levuka.

Felisi was going away. She was dressed in her most modest blue wrapper, and beside her on the sand reposed her simple but effective trunk, a kerosene tin cut neatly in half and lashed together with sinnet.

The whole family was going away; it was an upheaval, a cataclysm, and the cause of it all was ambition, nothing less. Amongst other fatal maladies that the ubiquitous white man in his wisdom had seen fit to inflict on the inhabitants of "The Islands of the Blest," this thing ambition had seized on Felisi's family like a plague. Money had come to Luana—copper and silver and gold—and it was discovered that these unlovely discs of metal were not without their uses. For instance, in sufficient quantities they could be exchanged for articles that it was beyond the power of Luana to produce. Had not Felisi brought back from her historic pilgrimage to Levuka a sewing-machine from Americania, and a mouth-organ?

And now it was a boat. Nothing would satisfy Felisi's father but a boat that he had seen in Levuka. Apparently it could do anything but talk, and he was not altogether certain it was not capable of that. It would carry five times as much produce to market as the big canoe, and in half the time. It—— But Felisi had forgotten the category of its virtues. The fact remained that it was necessary to collect sufficient gold discs to buy the boat—fifty in all—and, as usual, the women-folk were called upon to do the collecting. Felisi's mother was going to be scullery maid in a boarding-house where she happened to know the cook, her aunt was to lend local colour to a native curio-dealer's shop on the parade, and various female cousins were going to help in a Samoan laundry. Even a male cousin had condescended to become a wharf porter for a month or two. The remainder of the male element was going to be busily engaged in "keeping the home fires burning," or its equivalent, and the result of their combined efforts was to be—the boat.

It had occurred to one of Felisi's aunts—a woman with far too much to say, as her husband had often remarked—to ask why it was necessary to carry five times as much produce to market in half the time, and the answer accorded her by Felisi's father was unusually tolerant—

"To make still more gold discs, of course."

She then actually had the temerity to inquire why it was necessary to make more gold discs, when for countless generations they had succeeded in living quite comfortably without any discs at all. But this was too much. Felisi's father had snorted violently and changed the subject.

And Felisi, silent, wise-eyed? As well as a sewing-machine from Americania and a mouth-organ, she had brought back from Levuka an unrivalled knowledge of the white man and his tongue. Everyone prophesied a great future for Felisi of Luana.

Meanwhile, and nob so very far away, a certain Mrs. Caton leant over a certain breakfast table on the Rena River and said: "Jack!"

It was the second time she had addressed her husband without being noticed, but she was used to it.

"Wake up, old boy," she added, without resentment. "I have something really startling to say."

Mr. Caton—an old-young man, with sparse sandy hair and a preoccupied air—lifted his red-ochre face from a plate of toast and honey, and blinked. Also he smiled, the kindliest possible smile.

"I beg your pardon, my dear. Say on."

"I don't like house-boys," announced Mrs. Caton.

"You don't like house-boys," repeated her husband dazedly. Then, after wiping his mouth and drawing his coffee-cup a trifle nearer: "What do you intend to do about it?"

"They're all right for waiting, and that sort of thing," continued Mrs. Caton, "but as personal servants they're—ugh!—too creepy, crawly. They remind me of a snake. Besides, I want some sort of female companionship in the house, something in the nature of a lady's-maid."

"Something in the nature of a lady's-maid," murmured Mr. Caton. If his wife had said she wanted a rhinoceros and two antimacassars in the house, he would have repeated the suggestion in exactly the same way. Mrs. Caton knew this husband of hers, and she still loved him, which is, of course, part of the miracle.

"My dear Jack," she cried, "do please try and show some interest, just for a minute, in something besides the Corona Gatoni! I know it's going to be the most wonderful thing that ever happened, but I'm afraid you've got me at present."

For answer, Mr. Caton rose, leaving a slice of thickly-buttered toast to be inundated by the slowly-encroaching honey on his plate, and, deliberately placing his chair beside his wife's, sat down. Her hand—white as the table-cloth—was resting beside the sugar basin, and her husband's strong brown one closed over it.

"Joan," he said gently, "please don't say things like that. They hurt, and you know they're not true."

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Caton laughed softly, "but you take such a lot of rousing, Jack. I have to start like a penny dreadful, 'The duchess lay on the divan, stabbed to the heart,' or something like that, before you take any interest."

"My dear child, I am interested," protested Mr. Caton earnestly, "and here I am to prove it. Let me see, what was it you wanted?"

His wife's laughter rang out, and she withdrew her hand and placed it on his.

"You funny old thing! I said I didn't like a house-boy as a personal servant, and I want something in the nature of a lady's-maid—something feminine about the house, you know."

"Ah, to be sure!" Mr. Caton thought deeply. "How about Mrs. Herbert? She might——"

"My dear, I said a lady's-maid. Mrs. Herbert would like to hear you say that."

"Then it will have to be a native of some sort. How about an Indian woman?"

"Too much like a house-boy. No, I think I should like an Islander—a country girl, for preference. I don't like those town-bred natives—they're sly."

"But she won't be able to speak English."

Mrs. Caton toyed with the sugar-tongs. "No, there is that." Then she looked up. "Never mind," she added brightly, "I'll teach her; it will be something to do."

Mr. Caton leant forward in his chair. He was aware, and not for the first time, that his wife was not looking as she had looked during the early days on the Rena River, a short three years ago. It troubled him vaguely.

"Joan," he said, his kind grey eyes searching her pale face, "you're not looking well."

Mrs. Caton rose slowly and went over to the verandah doorway, looking out on the vivid green banks of the Rena River.

"No?" she queried lightly.

"No," repeated her husband. "How about a run home?"

Mrs. Caton turned with an eager light in her eyes.

"Let's see, how long is it——"

"Three years," she supplied.

"Three years!" Her husband looked positively alarmed. "Good gracious, I had no idea!"

"Hadn't you?" said Mrs. Caton.

"Not the faintest. You must go, Joan—that's all there is to it—you must go. And you know how you'll enjoy it."

The light had faded from Mrs. Caton's eyes. She leant listlessly against the door-jamb.

"How about you, Jack?" she suggested lightly.

"I?" Her husband laughed his deep-toned laugh. "Oh, I'm as strong as a horse, and there's still something that must be done."

"Still something?"

"Yes, I'll tell you all about it some time, if it doesn't bore you. but I must stay a bit longer—everything hangs on it—then we'll go home for good."

Mrs. Caton had turned again to the river, to hide her longing.

"Roll on the day," she said briskly.

"You're not unhappy here, Joan?"

She came over and put one white hand on her husband's shoulder.

"Unhappy!" she repeated, and laughed. It was a splendid laugh—a laugh for an actress to be proud of.

"You know what they said, Joan."

"Yes, I know what they said. And they were wrong. Hasn't three years proved it?"

Her husband pushed back his chair and got up. lie took her two hands in his and kissed her.

"And you'll go?" he pleaded, holding her from him.

"No," answered Mrs. Caton, "I don't want to go—yet."

"It's foolish of you," he told her, and turned towards the door.

"I shall have my 'lady's-maid' to play with," laughed Mrs. Caton.

"I'll see about it this afternoon, when I go to town," her husband called back to her from the verandah.

He stepped out into the blinding sunlight and passed up the pathway towards the bush-house. Mrs. Caton noticed a piece of bass hanging out of his duck jacket pocket. He was going to "tinker with the orchids." She sighed and turned back into the living-room.

And that was why, three days later, Felisi of Luana came to the bungalow on the banks of the Rena River.

"Something in the nature of a lady's-maid" appeared in a neat blue wrapper, and accompanied by a kerosene tin trunk lashed with sinnet. Mrs. Caton fell in love with her on the instant, and though Felisi's regard for Missus Catoni was less emotional, it was none the less sincere. She thought this white woman the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, with her coral-white skin, dark eyes, and hair of an indescribable colour. As a matter of fact, it was auburn, and it was Felisi's chief delight to comb it morning and evening. She found her duties extraordinarily light. Missus Catoni treated her as a companion rather than a servant, and Felisi was earning five shillings a week—two large silver discs towards the fifty gold ones needed for the wonderful boat.

"Felisi," said her mistress one evening, during the hair-combing rites, "do you know you have beautiful hair, and still more beautiful eyes, perfect teeth, and an almost perfect figure?"

"Yes," Felisi answered, with refreshing candour.

Missus Catoni laughed.

"Then that's all right," she said. "I thought perhaps you didn't." She looked into the reflection of Felisi's soft, brown eyes in the glass. "I believe you know a good deal more than you pretend," she added thoughtfully.

"Me know some," admitted Felisi modestly.

"And do you have to pretend much, Felisi?"

"Sometime."

"Why?" Missus Catoni was never tired of plumbing the depths—or as near the depths as she could get—of this quaint child-woman. It was like fishing in deep water—one never knew what strange thing would be brought to light. But, like all white folk, she had not the faintest idea that in the process she herself was being plumbed, and to greater depths.

The indescribable hair was finished, and Felisi squatted on the matting of the floor to await further instructions. But Missus Catoni was in a communicative mood.

"Why?" she repeated with quiet insistence.

Felisi shrugged her shoulders, a trick she had learnt from watching a French lady on the wharf at Levuka, and one she had found effective.

"Pretend, him all right," she pronounced sagely. "Pretend him pink coral, no white coral, plenty more money. Pretend me very, very poor, an' tired, an' know nothing, plenty heap more money."

Each one of these distressful symptoms was illustrated in tone and gesture with the instinctive faithfulness of a meke (native dance) dancer. Missus Catoni was deeply interested.

"Yes, we all have to pretend sometimes, don't we?" she mused. "Most of us are actors. We have to be. Some are better at it than others, but most of us act."

"Act," repeated Felisi, with faithful intonation. It was a new word. She was learning many new words on the Rena River.

"Yes, pretend. I used to pretend a lot at one time, Felisi. It was my living." Missus Catoni lit one of her toy cigarettes and leant back in the chair. She was altogether beautiful, Felisi thought, with her white hands clasped behind her head, the folds of a softly-tinted kimono falling about her, and the toy cigarette moving up and down between her lips as she talked. She was like white coral draped with tinted weed, deep down in a rock pool.

"I've pretended such a lot," she went on presently, more to herself than the girl squatting at her feet, "that I'm positively frightened when I have to do something real."

She turned in her chair and seemed to see Felisi for the first time.

"Do you know," she said slowly, with a reminiscent light in her dark eyes, "I once had to pretend to be somebody else every evening for two whole years. It was a wonderful run, Felisi, and all because I pretended so well."

Missus Catoni smiled, as though at some pleasant memory, while Felisi remained silent and still. She knew how to listen. And presently the other went on—

"Every evening it was the same. All sorts of carriages drove up to a very big house that was covered with coloured lights, and people went inside—hundreds of them. They had to sit for a little time listening to music or talking—most of them talked—in front of a big curtain. Then the curtain went up, and there was I on the stage, dressed up like somebody else. All the time they had been coming into the house and sitting listening to the music I had been in a little room downstairs, putting on clothes, and painting myself to look like somebody else, and now, there I was."

It was as though the footlights shone again on Missus Catoni. There was a light in her eyes that Felisi had never seen before.

"All alone?" prompted the audience.

"No, there were others there, all pretending. We pretended that we were afraid, and that we were brave, that we were poor and rich, that we hated, and we loved, and we pretended so well that the people sitting in front laughed with us and cried with us, and sometimes forgot that they were sitting in a big house covered with lights, and that we were only pretending. There would be quite a long silence after the curtain came down, and then the big house would ring with the clapping of hands, and we knew that we had pretended well."

Missus Catoni leant back in the chair and sent thin ribbons of smoke to hover on the still air above her head. She was looking through and beyond the ribbons of smoke.

"It is the most wonderful thing in the world, Felisi," she said slowly, and added a moment later, "except one."

"An' him?" Felisi inquired.

Missus Catoni looked down at her and smiled.

"You don't miss much, do you, child?" she said in a changed voice. "I can't tell you about 'him' so easily, and, besides, you'll know all about him one day, I expect."

But Felisi was not appeased. Something was troubling her, as Missus Catoni saw by her puckered forehead, and at last it found utterance.

"Why you no go on plenty more big house, plenty more pretend?"

"I met Mr. Caton," said his wife, a whimsical smile hovering about her mouth and eyes as she looked down on Felisi.

"An' Missi Catoni, him no like pretend?"

Missus Catoni laughed outright.

"If you're not the quaintest thing, Felisi!" she said. "And you've hit the nail right on the very head. 'Missi Catoni, him no like pretend'!" She laughed again. "You see," she explained, "people who can't pretend themselves, and don't understand it, are often very nice—the nicest sort of people sometimes, I think—but they don't like others who can pretend—especially their wives—to do it for a living. It—— Oh, dear, oh, dear, what am I talking to you about, Felisi? That will do now; you may go."

Felisi went, but still with a puckered brow. At the door she turned back.

"You no scotty^[1]?" she said, with drooping head.

Missus Catoni was lying on the bed. "Good gracious, no, child! Whatever makes you think that? It's only that I find myself telling you things that I don't always tell myself. It's your eyes, I think."

Felisi sank abruptly on to the matting of the floor.

"Me pretend!" she announced eagerly, and commenced to sway and gesture and drone the meke(native dance) of the two wood-pigeons, while Missus Catoni watched and applauded from the bed.

They had much in common, these two.

A few days later Missus Catoni opened a letter at the breakfast table, and when she had read, the colour surged to her face. She waited until it had subsided, then spoke in her usual subdued tone of voice.

"Jack, Tony Redgrave is in Suva."

Missi Catoni looked up and blinked as usual.

"Tony Redgrave?" he repeated dully.

"Yes, you remember—he was leading man with me at the Olympic."

Missi Catoni winced, then smiled his kindly smile.

"Really?" he said. "What on earth is he doing in this part of the world?"

"He's just finished his Australian tour, and stopped off at Suva on his way to San Francisco."

"Jove!" exclaimed Missi Catoni, with the first show of enthusiasm Felisi had seen him display. "That'll brighten things up for you a bit, Joan. I'll fetch him out this afternoon."

"To stay?"

Missus Catoni was playing with the sugar-tongs.

"That's as you like, dear. How long is he stopping over for?"

"Until the next boat—about two weeks."

"Then he must stop here," said Missi Catoni with finality.

A room was prepared at once. A new mosquito bar was hung, and the most beautiful sheets spread on the bed. Missus Catoni flitted about the place like a white butterfly, giving a touch here and there. A what-not with ten shelves was placed in a corner, and Felisi longed to ask what it was for, until Missus Catoni told her without asking.

"He is very fond of nice boots," she told Felisi; "you will see the most wonderful boots in the world presently."

"Missi Redgravie, him big fellah?" Felisi inquired, and Missus Catoni went off into peals of laughter.

"Oh, I must tell him that!" she cried. "Felisi, you're a gem! Yes, Missi Redgravie is a big fellah in his own way."

And that was all Felisi heard about him until he appeared—or, rather, made his entry—at three o'clock that afternoon. He was tall and slim, and wore the most beautiful white flannel suit and white felt hat Felisi had ever seen, even on the wharf at Levuka. His hair shone like a calm sea at night. There was a knife-like crease down his trousers, which terminated in the wonderful boots. These were long and square-toed, and the rich brown colour of the sitting-room table.

Felisi saw him coming down the path from the launch, followed by Missi Catoni's ungainly figure and a couple of house-boys carrying suit-cases that were the same colour as the boots. She saw him between the window curtains of Missus Catoni's bedroom, and when she turned from the enchanting vision, her mistress was standing at the dressing-table, with the little top left-hand drawer open, and her hand hovering over it. In that drawer Felisi had once seen a pot of red stuff, and wondered what it was for, as Missus Catoni had never used it. Was the mystery to be solved? Evidently not, for she laughed—a little nervous laugh—and shut the drawer with a snap.

A moment later she was on the verandah.

"Joan," said a well-modulated voice, "this is most awfully good of you!"

After that the voices mingled, and Felisi busied herself with other matters.

They had tea on the verandah—a very pleasant tea, by the sounds that floated in through the open windows. Even Missi Catoni laughed as Felisi had never heard him laugh, and the well-modulated voice droned on. Between the laughs came scraps of conversation that fascinated Felisi. It was like a puzzle that needed fitting together.

"You may as well know your nom de Rena River Tony; it's Redgravie, nothing less—you see, their own words all end with a vowel. I am Missus Catoni, so you mustn't mind … The quaintest thing: I'll show you her later on."

"I hope you won't spoil her, Joan"—this from Missi Catoni.

"Spoil her, my dear! She knows more than you or I or Tony here will ever learn. Sometimes her wisdom almost frightens me."

A little later Missi Catoni went away. Felisi conjured a mental picture of his ungainly figure going up the path to the bush-house, with a piece of bass hanging out of one pocket.

"Keen as ever," said the well-modulated voice.

"Oh, yes," Missus Catoni laughed softly. "There's going to be a Corona Catoni before long."

"And you? I hope you don't mind my saying it, Joan, but you're looking most awfully ill."

"Sorry I don't suit."

"No, but, honestly, how long is it?"

"Three years."

"Three years—here?"

"Yes. We're going home for good soon."

"But—well, the sooner the better. Do you know, I hardly recognised you this afternoon; it was the shock of my life."

"You've had so many shocks, haven't you, Tony? You hid your emotions very well."

"But you on at the Olympic and you here—good Heavens!"

"You needn't be tragic, Tony; I assure you there's no need. Besides, you hardly ever saw me out of my make-up."

"It was a great time." The well-modulated voice became reminiscent. "There's never been anything like it since."

"How did Nina Trueman turn out?"

A cane chair scraped on the floor.

"Frost! Hard and nipping. Fell to pieces … petered out after you left."

"And I can't help feeling glad, even here. Isn't it horrid?"

"Not a bit. Oh, lor, Joan!"

"Tell me about yourself. How did you find Australia?"

"Top-hole. Big houses everywhere, but they're mighty hard to please. I rather like it; it means, when you have got them, you've done something. Nothing will induce them to book in advance, though. Empty house one minute, and crammed to the ceiling the next. It's rather wearing … 'Richard Wentworth' fetched 'em, though, and Fred Walton in 'The Permit' … Never worked so hard in my life."

"This will rest you … Boy, whisky and sparklet."

"Yes, this will rest me, if nothing would. By the way, Caton doesn't approve, does he?"

"Not for me. Otherwise he simply takes no interest, that's all."

"Funny," mused the well-modulated voice.

"Oh, I don't know. Why should he?"

"Well——"

"We do rather insist on it—I mean our profession—don't we?"

"Ha, ha! So you're going over?"

"Not a bit. I love it as much as ever; it's part of me."

"The bigger part?"

"No, not the bigger part. I'm sorry. Let's go for a stroll. You haven't seen the orchids."

"Orchids!" The well-modulated voice grew fainter as it moved down the verandah steps and out on to the pathway. "Tell me a few, for Heaven's sake—the Corello Mysterioso or Glorioso, or something. I must appear intelligent."

Missus Catoni laughed.

"There's no need whatever——"

Then their voices passed out of range, and Felisi was left to fit her puzzle together.

For the next week she had little to do. Missus Catoni spent nearly all her time with Missi Redgravie. Occasionally Felisi used to go into the guest's bedroom and stand enthralled before the what-not of boots. There were ten pairs of them, each perfect in its own way.

One evening—Missus Catoni had been playing the piano under the subdued pink light of the standard lamp, and Missi Redgravie was standing in the open doorway, looking out on the moonlit river—he turned and looked at her for a long time with a frown on his forehead. Suddenly an eager light came into his eyes, and he strode into the middle of the room.

"Drawing-room scene—second act," he said. "I come down O.P." He strolled towards the piano, and a pleading note came into his well-modulated voice. "Won't you sing, Di?"

And although Missus Catoni's name was not "Di," she looked up as she played, and said very softly: "For you, or the others?"

"For me."

She sang, but in the middle of it Missi Redgravie held up his hand. The music ceased, and they stood side by side, a look of terrible fear on their faces, and their eyes turned towards the door. So great was their fear that Felisi, who had been squatting on the verandah, sewing, looked about her into the moonlit night to see who was there.

"He's coming!" said Missi Redgravie, in an awestruck voice.

"Who—Paul?" whispered Missus Catoni. Her hand was on his sleeve.

"No, Desmond. I can hear him limping—limping!"

"You're dreaming!" She had clutched his arm now, and her face was piteously upturned to his. Felisi longed to go and comfort her. "You must be dreaming! He——"

"No, I am not dreaming." Missi Redgravie pronounced this in a firm voice. He seemed to have pulled himself together for a supreme effort. He looked brave, wonderfully brave. "I shall go and meet him."

"No, no!" Missus Catoni held him fast. "You cannot go, Tom!"

Now, Felisi knew that Missi Redgravie's name was not Tom, and for her the spell was broken. They were pretending, even as Missus Catoni had said. But what pretending! This, then, was what they did in the big house covered with lights. As a matter of fact, Felisi was seeing what the world would have given a fortune to see—Joan Trevor acting.

And they went on to the very end, to where the man called Tom took her in his arms. Then Missus Catoni flung away from him with a happy little laugh and subsided on to the sofa.

"Isn't it extraordinary how it all comes back?" she said, in a changed voice.

"Comes back!" Missi Redgravie stood looking down on her. "It's never left you," he said gravely.

"But every word, like that. I never fluffed once. It must be all neatly tied up and put away in the corner of one's brain. It must be part of one. Oh, it's queer!" She passed her hand over her eyes with a weary little gesture.

"Yes," said the man, "the bigger part."

She smiled wistfully, and shook her head slowly but firmly.

It was on just such an evening as this, with the tropical moonlight flooding the Rena River, that they pretended again.

Missi Catoni had gone on an orchid hunting expedition into the interior the day before, and Felisi was squatting on the verandah mats, sewing. They were just as they had been—Missus Catoni playing the piano, and Missi Redgravie looking out at the moonlit river. The stage was set. Felisi longed for them to pretend, and they did, but it was all much more subdued than it had been before, and somehow it made it all the more natural.

Presently Missi Redgravie crossed the room and stood beside Missus Catoni as she played. They talked so quietly that Felisi could not hear them for a time. Then the music trailed away and left a voice, a well-modulated voice, talking quite clearly.

".… This can't go on, Joan!" They called each other by their proper names this time.

"It's my life, Tony," Missus Catoni answered him quietly.

"But you can't tell me that it is going on."

She turned on the piano-stool and looked at him, and kept looking.

"It's the life I chose," she said.

"It's death," he told her; "you're dying on your feet, Joan. This is no country for a white woman. You know it. He knows it," he added bitterly. "Why, people don't bring their dogs here, for fear of losing them! I—I can't stand by and see it!"

"You needn't. I made my choice. I don't regret it."

"You can't tell me that you're happy—here?"

"I can."

"You're making yourself say that. You don't believe it. Of all the ingrained, blind selfishness——"

"Hush!"

"No, I mean it."

"I know you mean it, but you don't understand."

"Understand! The pity of it—the waste of it! Oh, Joan, Joan!" His hands had seized hers. She sat quite still, looking at him with her dark eyes. It was wonderful.

"And you left in the middle of it all! There's the other half—the better half—waiting for you, if you will only come back."

Missus Catoni's hands were suddenly snatched from his, and she stood up. Her breath was coming fast. The man stood before her.

"It can all be arranged. This is madness—pure madness! No one would ask it of you!"

She stared at him as though fascinated.

"You—don't—understand," she said, like one in a trance; "you could never—understand."

"There's only one thing I understand," he answered.

They stood quite still for a moment; then Missus Catoni, who faced the verandah door, gave a low cry. Missi Catoni stood on the threshold, looking in, but he saw nothing. A native boy led him by the hand. They had come so quietly that Felisi, engrossed in the pretending, had not heard them. The native boy led him forward into the room, and his disengaged hand swept the air until it met the back of a chair, and he sank into it.

"Joan!" he called, "Joan!" and laughed his deep laugh.

Missus Catoni crossed the room and sank on her knees, looking up into his face.

"Jack," she said, in a strange voice, "Jack, what has happened? Tell me!"

Again he laughed, and his hand caressed her hair.

"Bit of moon-blindness, my dear," he said, in his slow, cheerful voice. "Don't yon worry. I shall be all right in a few days—a week at most. Often happens here, you know, but only to fools. I slept last night in the bush, without cover, and it must have worked round until it fell on me. In the shade when I fell asleep. Those confounded boys never woke me, and—and here I am. Most extraordinary sensation. … Just hand me a cigar, will you? … Thanks, my dear. Where's Redgrave?"

Missi Redgravie came round in front of the chair,

"Here I am," he said.

"Ah, good! Here's a pretty pickle, Redgrave. Nice sort of host, eh? Leaves his guest for two days and comes back blind! Ha, ha!"

"Whisky and sparklet?" suggested Missi Redgravie.

"Ah, thanks. But I've got it, Joan!" He leant forward, and his sightless eyes gleamed. "I've got it."

"The Corona Catoni?" Missus Catoni's face lit up on the instant.

"Nothing less, my dear. And it's—it's—— But I won't bore you about that. What will interest you most is that we're going home. Yes, I've been thinking things over while—while I've been like this, and this is an infernal country; there's no doubt about it. How you've stood it, I don't know. Do you, Redgrave?"

"No," said Missi Redgravie.

"Besides, there's the Corona Catoni." Missi Catoni's tongue lingered over the words as though he loved them. "So we're going home—for good. Hope you'll come and see us, Redgrave."

"Thanks," said Missi Redgravie, "I should be charmed."

"And now I've got to get to bed somehow." Missus Catoni led him towards his bedroom door. "Steady, old girl—that's better! Good night, Redgrave! Hope you'll excuse me."

"Certainly! Good night!" said Missi Redgravie.

He left that evening.

There would be no more pretending. Felisi was sorry. It had been so wonderful that it was almost impossible to tell where the pretending ended and the reality began.

Felisi often puckers her brow over it.

1. Native parlance for angry.