The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  RUTH IN EXILE

  The clock struck five--briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden gotup from her desk and, having put on her hat, emerged into the outeroffice where M. Gandinot received visitors. M. Gandinot, the ugliestman in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local _mont-de-piete_,and Ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sort of secretary-clerk.Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting,detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and enteringdetails of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, forRoville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of_petits chevaux_, and just round the corner is Monte Carlo. Verybrisk was the business done by M. Gandinot, the pawnbroker, and veryfrequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongueof M. Gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity Ruth's employerhad a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy whichpresented themselves before his official eyes.

  He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him,was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depression which,nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiarquality of M. Gandinot's extraordinary countenance was that it inducedmirth--not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. Itpossessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the Billiken,due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through theirregular features; for M. Gandinot, despite his calling, believed inhis fellow-man.

  'You are going, mademoiselle?'

  As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she alwaysleft at this hour, a purist might have considered the questionsuperfluous; but M. Gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity ofpractising his English.

  'You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?'

  'I think I won't today, M. Gandinot. I want to get out into the air. Ihave rather a headache. Will you tell my father I have gone to thePromenade?'

  M. Gandinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression hadnot escaped his notice. He was sorry for her. And not without cause,for Fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth.

  It would have amazed Mr Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if,on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit ofobserving that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody hadhinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought hadnever entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible,erratic persons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and whoare about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as aUpas tree.

  In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never doneanything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when hehad done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of along-suffering brother-in-law. But though blood, as he was wont toremark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, abrother-in-law's affection has its limits. A day came when Mr Wardenobserved with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to thetouch. And a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. MrWarden was to leave England, and to stay away from England, to behaveas if England no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficientallowance would be made to him. If he declined to do this, not anotherpenny of the speaker's money would he receive. He could choose.

  He chose. He left England, Ruth with him. They settled in Roville, thathaven of the exile who lives upon remittances.

  Ruth's connexion with the _mont-de-piete_ had come about almostautomatically. Very soon after their arrival it became evident that, toa man of Mr Warden's nature, resident a stone's-throw distant from twocasinos, the small allowance was not likely to go very far. Even ifRuth had not wished to work, circumstances could have compelled her. Asit was, she longed for something to occupy her, and, the vacancy at the_mont-de-piete_ occurring, she had snatched at it. There was acertain fitness in her working there. Business transactions with thatuseful institution had always been conducted by her, it being MrWarden's theory that Woman can extract in these crises just that extrafranc or two which is denied to the mere male. Through constantly goinground, running across, stepping over, and popping down to the_mont-de-piete_ she had established almost a legal claim on any postthat might be vacant there.

  And under M. Gandinot's banner she had served ever since.

  * * * * *

  Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, thatapparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The eveningwas fine and warm. The sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, thebright Gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walkedlistlessly, blind to the glitter of it all.

  Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt tospeak of the place, on their return, in a manner that conveys theimpression that it is a Paradise on earth, with gambling facilitiesthrown in. But, then, they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end.Ruth's did not.

  A voice spoke her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever,standing beside her.

  'What an evening, my dear!' said Mr Warden. 'What an evening! Smell thesea!'

  Mr Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirledhis cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walksabroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, bothjaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded hisbearing.

  'I called in at the _mont-de-piete_ but you had gone. Gandinottold me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandinot is! But agood sort. I like him. I had a chat with him.'

  The high spirits were explained. Ruth knew her father. She guessed,correctly, that M. Gandinot, kindest of pawnbrokers, had obliged, inhis unofficial capacity, with a trifling loan.

  'Gandinot ought to go on the stage,' went on Mr Warden, pursuing histheme. 'With that face he would make his fortune. You can't helplaughing when you see it. One of these days--'

  He broke off. Stirring things had begun to occur in the neighbourhoodof his ankles, where Bill, the fox-terrier, had encountered anacquaintance, and, to the accompaniment of a loud, gargling noise, wasendeavouring to bite his head off. The acquaintance, a gentleman ofuncertain breed, equally willing, was chewing Bill's paw with the gustoof a gourmet. An Irish terrier, with no personal bias towards eitherside, was dancing round and attacking each in turn as he cameuppermost. And two poodles leaped madly in and out of the melee,barking encouragement.

  It takes a better man than Mr Warden to break up a gathering of thiskind. The old gentleman was bewildered. He added his voice to thebabel, and twice smote Bill grievously with his cane with blowsintended for the acquaintance, but beyond that he effected nothing. Itseemed probable that the engagement would last till the combatants hadconsumed each other, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, when theresuddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in grey.

  The world is divided into those who can stop dog-fights and those whocannot. The young man in grey belonged to the former class. Within aminute from his entrance on the scene the poodles and the Irish terrierhad vanished; the dog of doubtful breed was moving off up the hill,yelping, with the dispatch of one who remembers an importantappointment, and Bill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the centre ofthe Promenade, licking honourable wounds.

  Mr Warden was disposed to effervesce with gratitude. The scene hadshaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his ankles upfor lost.

  'Don't mention it,' said the young man. 'I enjoy arbitrating in theselittle disputes. Dogs seem to like me and trust my judgement. Iconsider myself as a sort of honorary dog.'

  'Well, I am bound to say, Mr--?'

  'Vince--George Vince.'

  'My name is Warden. My daughter.'

  Ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetratingbrown eyes looking eagerly into hers in a manner which she thoroughlyresented. She was not used to the other sex meeting her gaze andholding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. She made up her mindin that instant that this was a young ma
n who required suppression.

  'I've seen you several times out here since I arrived, Miss Warden,'said Mr Vince. 'Four in all,' he added, precisely.

  'Really?' said Ruth.

  She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finishedwith him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.

  As they approached the casino restlessness crept into Mr Warden'smanner. At the door he stopped and looked at Ruth.

  'I think, my dear--' he said.

  'Going to have a dash at the _petits chevaux?_' inquired Mr Vince.'I was there just now. I have an infallible system.'

  Mr Warden started like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet.

  'Only it's infallible the wrong way,' went on the young man. 'Well, Iwish you luck. I'll see Miss Warden home.'

  'Please don't trouble,' said Ruth, in the haughty manner which hadfrequently withered unfortunate fellow-exiles in their tracks.

  It had no such effect on Mr Vince.

  'I shall like it,' he said.

  Ruth set her teeth. She would see whether he would like it.

  They left Mr Warden, who shot in at the casino door like a homingrabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till Ruth, suddenlybecoming aware that her companion's eyes were fixed on her face, turnedher head, to meet a gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration.She flushed. She was accustomed to being looked at admiringly, butabout this particular look there was a subtle quality thatdistinguished it from the ordinary--something proprietorial.

  Mr Vince appeared to be a young man who wasted no time on conventionalconversation-openings.

  'Do you believe in affinities, Miss Warden?' he said,

  'No,' said Ruth.

  'You will before we've done,' said Mr Vince, confidently. 'Why did youtry to snub me just now?'

  'Did I?'

  'You mustn't again. It hurts me. I'm a sensitive man. Diffident. Shy.Miss Warden, will you marry me?'

  Ruth had determined that nothing should shake her from her icydetachment, but this did. She stopped with a gasp, and stared at him.

  Mr Vince reassured her.

  'I don't expect you to say "Yes". That was just a beginning--the shotfired across the bows by way of warning. In you, Miss Warden, I havefound my affinity. Have you ever considered this matter of affinities?Affinities are the--the--Wait a moment.'

  He paused, reflecting.

  'I--' began Ruth.

  ''Sh!' said the young man, holding up his hand.

  Ruth's eyes flashed. She was not used to having ''Sh!' said to her byyoung men, and she resented it.

  'I've got it,' he declared, with relief. 'I knew I should, but thesegood things take time. Affinities are the zero on the roulette-board oflife. Just as we select a number on which to stake our money, so do weselect a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry. And justas zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come alongand upset all our pre-conceived notions of the type of girl we shouldlike to marry.'

  'I--' began Ruth again.

  'The analogy is in the rough at present. I haven't had time to condenseand polish it. But you see the idea. Take my case, for instance. When Isaw you a couple of days ago I knew in an instant that you were myaffinity. But for years I had been looking for a woman almost yourexact opposite. You are dark. Three days ago I couldn't have imaginedmyself marrying anyone who was not fair. Your eyes are grey. Three daysago my preference for blue eyes was a by-word. You have a shockingtemper. Three days ago--'

  'Mr Vince!'

  'There!' said that philosopher, complacently. 'You stamped. The gentle,blue-eyed blonde whom I was looking for three days ago would havedrooped timidly. Three days ago my passion for timid droopers amountedto an obsession.'

  Ruth did not reply. It was useless to bandy words with one who gavesuch clear evidence of being something out of the common run ofword-bandiers. No verbal attack could crush this extraordinary youngman. She walked on, all silence and stony profile, uncomfortablyconscious that her companion was in no way abashed by the former andwas regarding the latter with that frank admiration which had madeitself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination.Mr Vince, meanwhile, chatted cheerfully, and pointed out objects ofinterest by the wayside.

  At the door Ruth permitted herself a word of farewell.

  'Good-bye,' she said.

  'Till tomorrow evening,' said Mr Vince. 'I shall be coming to dinner.'

  Mr Warden ambled home, very happy and contented, two hours later, withhalf a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being due to thefact that the minimum stake permitted by the Roville casino is justdouble that sum. He was sorry not to have won, but his mind was toofull of rosy dreams to permit of remorse. It was the estimable oldgentleman's dearest wish that his daughter should marry some rich,open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder ofhis days, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to hernotice any such that came his way. There was no question of coercingRuth. He was too tender-hearted for that. Besides he couldn't. Ruth wasnot the sort of girl who is readily coerced. He contented himself withgiving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. Roville is asociable place, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at thecasino and to bring them home, when made, for a cigar. Up to thepresent, he was bound to admit, his efforts had not been particularlysuccessful. Ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. She did notshow her best side to these visitors. There was no encouragement in hermanner. She was apt to frighten the unfortunate exhibits. But of thisyoung man Vince he had brighter hopes. He was rich. That was proved bythe very handsome way in which he had behaved in the matter of a smallloan when, looking in at the casino after parting from Ruth, he hadfound Mr Warden in sore straits for want of a little capital to back abrand-new system which he had conceived through closely observing therun of the play. He was also obviously attracted by Ruth. And, as hewas remarkably presentable--indeed, quite an unusually good-lookingyoung man--there seemed no reason why Ruth should not be equallyattracted by him. The world looked good to Mr Warden as he fell asleepthat night.

  Ruth did not fall asleep so easily. The episode had disturbed her. Anew element had entered her life, and one that gave promise ofproducing strange by-products.

  When, on the following evening, Ruth returned from the stroll on thePromenade which she always took after leaving the _mont-de-piete_,with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feelingwas not diminished by the sight of Mr Vince, very much at his ease,standing against the mantelpiece of the tiny parlour.

  'How do you do?' he said. 'By an extraordinary coincidence I happenedto be hanging about outside this house just now, when your father camealong and invited me in to dinner. Have you ever thought much aboutcoincidences, Miss Warden? To my mind, they may be described as thezero on the roulette-board of life.'

  He regarded her fondly.

  'For a shy man, conscious that the girl he loves is inspecting himclosely and making up her mind about him,' he proceeded, 'theseunexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. You must not form yourjudgement of me too hastily. You see me now, nervous, embarrassed,tongue-tied. But I am not always like this. Beneath this crust ofdiffidence there is sterling stuff, Miss Warden. People who know mehave spoken of me as a little ray of sun--But here is your father.'

  Mr Warden was more than usually disappointed with Ruth during dinner.It was the same old story. So far from making herself pleasant to thisattractive stranger, she seemed positively to dislike him. She wasbarely civil to him. With a sigh Mr Warden told himself that he did notunderstand Ruth, and the rosy dreams he had formed began to fade.

  Ruth's ideas on the subject of Mr Vince as the days went by werechaotic. Though she told herself that she thoroughly objected to him,he had nevertheless begun to have an undeniable attraction for her. Inwhat this attraction consisted she could not say. When she tried toanalyse it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the fact thathe was the only element in her life that
made for excitement. Since hisadvent the days had certainly passed more swiftly for her. The deadlevel of monotony had been broken. There was a certain fascination inexerting herself to suppress him, which increased daily as each attemptfailed.

  Mr Vince put this feeling into words for her. He had a maddening habitof discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of animpartial lecturer.

  'I am making headway,' he observed. 'The fact that we cannot meetwithout your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on myspiritual solar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning atlast to understand that we are affinities. To persons of spirit likeourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firmfoundation of almost incessant quarrelling. The most beautiful line inEnglish poetry, to my mind, is, "We fell out, my wife and I." You wouldbe wretched with a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. Theposition of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If Iwent out of your life now I should leave an aching void. You wouldstill have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody toexercise it on. You would pine away. From now on matters should, Ithink, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shallendeavour to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them.'

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it her. It was apencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruthcould appreciate that--and she was a prejudiced observer, for thesketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to herfull height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and theartist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuatingeverything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normalexpression of scorn and discontent.

  'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr Vince,' she said, handing itback.

  'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it.'

  'I have not the slightest wish to keep it.'

  'You haven't?'

  'It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you toshow it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude.'

  'A little more,' said Mr Vince, 'and I shall begin to think you don'tlike it. Are you fond of chocolates?'

  Ruth did not answer.

  'I am sending you some tomorrow.'

  'I shall return them.'

  'Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!' soliloquized MrVince. 'Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men wouldonly stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors.'

  On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of themin a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched inRuth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effortthat she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender. Shewent off to her work at the _mont-de-piete_ with a glow ofsatisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in tryingcircumstances.

  And at the _mont-de-piete_ there occurred a surprising incident.

  Surprising incidents, as Mr Vince would have said, are the zero on theroulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected,confusing the mind and altering pre-conceived opinions. And this was avery surprising incident indeed.

  Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind aground-glass screen, unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of theestablishment were mere disembodied voices--wheedling voices, patheticvoices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices thatwhined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various otherways endeavoured to instil into M. Gandinot more spacious and princelyviews on the subject of advancing money on property pledged. She wassitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on theblotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the dooropened, and the polite, 'Bonjour, monsieur,' of M. Gandinot announcedthe arrival of another unfortunate.

  And then, shaking her like an electric shock, came a voice that sheknew--the pleasant voice of Mr Vince.

  The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen wereoften protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth sointerminable, so hideously sordid, as this one.

  Round and round its miserable centre--a silver cigarette-case--thedreary argument circled. The young man pleaded; M. Gandinot, adamant inhis official role, was immovable.

  Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burningears, and the voices ceased to trouble her.

  And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding thatflashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why shehad closed her ears.

  Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. Ithad reduced Mr Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's it hadreared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ranriot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps itwas her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthyhusband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathy to theidea of playing beggar-maid to any man's King Cophetua. The state ofmind is intelligible. The Cophetua legend never has been told from thebeggar-maid's point of view, and there must have been moments when, ifa woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescendingattitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he hadtaken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted.

  This, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against George Vince.She had assumed that he was rich. He had conveyed the impression ofbeing rich. And she had been on the defensive against him accordingly.Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had beenbroken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguisedthe man she loved.

  A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Gandinot was standing by her side.Terms, apparently had been agreed upon and the interview concluded, forin his hand was a silver cigarette-case.

  'Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I call toyou, the more you did not answer. It is necessary to enter this loan.'

  He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done,M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.

  'It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he wouldnot take no for an answer, that young man, recently departed. Afellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, "What does thisyoung man, so well-dressed, in a _mont-de-piete_?" But I knowbetter, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English--I heard it inParis in a cafe, and inquired its meaning--when you say of a man that heswanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed--rich,you would say. No, no. The _mont-de-piete_ permits no secrets. Toswank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the_mont-de-piete_. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was hehere, that young man. Yet here he is once more today. He spends hismoney quickly, alas! that poor young swanker.'

  When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in thesitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, butwith some uneasiness--for the old gentleman had nerved himself to adelicate task. He had made up his mind tonight to speak seriously toRuth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr Vince. Themore he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this wasthe human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these wearyyears. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on theforehead, and began to speak.

  It had long been Mr Warden's opinion that, if his daughter had a fault,it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenientfrankness. She had not that tact which he would have liked a daughterof his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. Shewas at times painfully blunt.

  This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interruptedhim with a question.

  'What makes you think Mr Vince is rich, father?' she asked.

  Mr Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr Vince's opulence had notentered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact thathe was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it,and that he knew that Ru
th knew, had nothing to do with the case. Thequestion was not in order, and it embarrassed him.

  'I--why--I don't--I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubtthat he has ample--'

  'He is quite poor.'

  Mr Warden's jaw fell slightly.

  'Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd!' he cried. 'Why, only thisevening--'

  He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.

  'Father, you've been borrowing money from him!'

  Mr Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, buthe altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he hadevery quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in thismatter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far tospoiling for him the triumph of success.

  'And he has to pawn things to live!' Her voice trembled. 'He was at the_mont-de-piete_ today. And yesterday too. I heard him. He wasarguing with M. Gandinot--haggling--'

  Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was tooraw and vivid.

  Mr Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, butchief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a veryfortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware,also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful youngman who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have beendisastrous results.

  The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr Vince.

  He entered the room briskly.

  'Good evening!' he said. 'I have brought you some more chocolates, MissWarden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What's the matter?'

  He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across theroom, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr Warden, was holding Ruth inhis arms. She clung to him.

  Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr Vince had happened to stumble, wasthe first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr Warden joined in, andthere was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr Warden,searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort ofpassionate yelp.

  Mr Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved itreassuringly at him.

  'It's all right,' he said.

  'All right! All _right_!'

  'Affinities,' explained Mr Vince over his shoulder. 'Two hearts thatbeat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don'tyou worry; you're all right.'

  'I refuse!' shouted Mr Warden. 'I absolutely refuse.'

  Mr Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand,inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.

  'You refuse?' he said. 'Why, I thought you liked me.'

  Mr Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to hisnature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.

  'My personal likes and dislikes,' he said, 'have nothing to do with thematter, Mr Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter toconsider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.'

  'Quite right,' said Mr Vince, approvingly. 'Don't have anything to dowith the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police.'

  Mr Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth'soccupation. But necessity compelled.

  'Mr Vince, my daughter is employed at the _mont-de-piete,_ and wasa witness to all that took place this afternoon.'

  Mr Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full ofconcern.

  'You don't mean to say you have been slaving away in that stuffy--GreatScott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again.'

  He stooped and kissed her.

  'Perhaps you had better let me explain,' he said. 'Explanations, Ialways think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They'realways somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard ofVince's Stores, Mr Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, myfather is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys,but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when Ilast saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if Icouldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of theBilliken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used tobrain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came hereto recuperate, and the very first morning I got an inspiration. You mayhave noticed that the manager of the _mont-de-piete_ here isn'tstrong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and thething flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It'sUncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man who Makes You Smile.'

  He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately.

  'I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that Idiscovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't goup to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, theHump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in theway of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in.That's the whole story. Do I pass?'

  Mr Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital,and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr Vince'shand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did what wascertainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face,as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit ofPisgah.

  It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark.

  'I want you to promise me something,' she said. 'Promise that youwon't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so muchmoney, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot's feelings, and he has beenvery kind to me.'

  'That settles it,' said Mr Vince. 'It's hard on the children of GreatBritain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them.'

  Ruth looked at him, almost with awe.

  'You really won't go on with it? In spite of all the money you wouldmake? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what itcosts you?'

  He nodded sadly.

  'You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my marriedlife. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forwardto years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage withoutit? I'm afraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you,' said MrVince, regretfully.