reasons. Oh, you can't imagine such a state. Worse than the Spanish
Inquisition. And I stood it for three years. _How_ I stood it, I
don't know--"
"Now don't you see her?"
"Never! I never let her know where I am! But I _support_ her, of
cauce."
"And your daughter?"
"Oh, she's the dearest child in the world. I saw her at a friend's
when I came back from America. Dearest little thing in the world.
But of _cauce_ suspicious of me. Treats me as if she didn't _know_
me--"
"What a pity!"
"Oh--unbearable!" He spread his plump, manicured hands, on one
finger of which was a green intaglio ring.
"How old is your daughter?"
"Fourteen."
"What is her name?"
"Gemma. She was born in Rome, where I was managing for Miss Maud
Callum, the _danseuse_."
Curious the intimacy Mr. May established with Alvina at once. But
it was all purely verbal, descriptive. He made no physical advances.
On the contrary, he was like a dove-grey, disconsolate bird pecking
the crumbs of Alvina's sympathy, and cocking his eye all the time to
watch that she did not advance one step towards him. If he had seen
the least sign of coming-on-ness in her, he would have fluttered off
in a great dither. Nothing _horrified_ him more than a woman who was
coming-on towards him. It horrified him, it exasperated him, it made
him hate the whole tribe of women: horrific two-legged cats without
whiskers. If he had been a bird, his innate horror of a cat would
have been such. He liked the _angel_, and particularly the
angel-mother in woman. Oh!--that he worshipped. But coming-on-ness!
So he never wanted to be seen out-of-doors with Alvina; if he met
her in the street he bowed and passed on: bowed very deep and
reverential, indeed, but passed on, with his little back a little
more strutty and assertive than ever. Decidedly he turned his back
on her in public.
But Miss Pinnegar, a regular old, grey, dangerous she-puss, eyed him
from the corner of her pale eye, as he turned tail.
"So unmanly!" she murmured. "In his dress, in his way, in
everything--so unmanly."
"If I was you, Alvina," she said, "I shouldn't see so much of Mr.
May, in the drawing-room. People will talk."
"I should almost feel flattered," laughed Alvina.
"What do you mean?" snapped Miss Pinnegar.
None the less, Mr. May was dependable in matters of business. He was
up at half-past five in the morning, and by seven was well on his
way. He sailed like a stiff little ship before a steady breeze,
hither and thither, out of Woodhouse and back again, and across from
side to side. Sharp and snappy, he was, on the spot. He trussed
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