E. Nesbit

“ He kissed her lips, her forehead, undid the clasp of her arms about his neck and kissed her hands.
“Dear—dear, dear one,” he said, “this is our magic palace. We aren’t man and woman: you’re an enchanted princess, and I’m your slave.”
“You’re my prince,” she said, and drew up his hands to lie under her chin.
Templar took some credit to himself for being able to say, in quite a natural and hearty manner:
“Princess, your prince is at death’s-door. He has had nothing to eat since breakfast.” ”

“ Very slowly and gently, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the whole of the inside of the motor began to sink through the floor.
It was an ingenious arrangement, as Templar perceived later. Once in the garage, the pressure of a spring released the catch of a trap-door, which fell down at the side of what appeared to be a motor pit. Then the floor of this pit rose to meet the underside of the brougham. Another lever controlled and removed two steel rods which supported the carriage in place, and a third lever, worked from within the brougham, started the little lift on its way. ”

“ You know the pretty moan of pity for your sufferings—remorse for her neglected hostess duties—resolution to ease your pangs instantly, at whatever cost to herself or the world, with which the woman who loves you receives your announcement that you are hungry? ”

“ The telephone men don’t notice the shapes of roofs, I suppose; and he has all the repairs done by workmen from his place in the country—brings them up by motor and takes them back every night—the gardener, too—and the woman who does our housework. ”

“ He half owns the Theatre—and all sorts of companies and things. He calls himself a house-agent. . . but I know the King has sent for him—for some secret reason or other, and he had to start for Germany last night. He’s a wonderful person—and kind! The world’s full of people he’s been kind to. That deaf and dumb woman, he saved her life in a fire—his own self.”
“And your chauffeur—how did you square him?”
“Oh, he was one of the village boys I used to know at home, and he went into a motor works, and when Uncle Moses had invented the lift and motor scheme, I thought of him. He made the motor. ”

“ When will they come in?”
“It’s all right,” she said soothingly; “they’re at The Wood House. Uncle Moses sends his motor down with us sometimes after the performance. At first I thought I’d give up The Wood House altogether—and then I couldn’t bear to, after all. But I haven’t cared to go since. . . . But it’s good for them, and I insist on their going.”
“When will they get back?”
“Oh—in two or three days.”
“Do you mean,” he said slowly, “that there’s no one else in this house but you. . . but us? That there won’t be?” ”

“ Both experienced the need to assure themselves that the solid earth still went round in the orthodox way, the need which comes to us all after great crises of life—which makes us shrink at first from vital explanations and enlightenments and talk about the weather or the Government—anything trivial rather than about that which has thrilled our souls to the very centres of life. ”

“ The Hydraulic Power people must be interested in that lift.”
“It isn’t the Hydraulic: It’s the American elevator. There’s a tank on the roof of the house the garage is under, and.——”
“I see.”
“In the wicked Lord Pentland’s time there was just a trap door under the stable and a ladder down. They kept straw there to hide the trap door. It has been such fun. And I always feel so safe here. You see, Uncle Moses is next door—I’ve only got to press that button if anything went wrong—he’d be here in half a minute.” ”

“ All the windows open into the garden in the middle.
“I don’t understand in the least,” he said.
“It is difficult: I’ll draw it for you, if you’ve got a bit of paper and a pencil.”
She reached for the papier-mâché blotting-book and, his chin on her shoulder as he looked on, drew on a letter from his pocket something like this:
“I see—but surely people must know of this place—the men who mend the roofs and put up telephone wires. . . ?” ”

“ They stood together outside the motor brougham.
“Stand well back,” she said, and something moved in the darkness. It was the inside of the brougham returning to its natural place in the garage above. They heard it come into position with a soft click.
“Now,” she said, “it’s all safe, and we can turn on the light. Let me.” ”

“ They read it together, their hands still locked on the sofa between them.
“I must be rather horrid,” she said, leaning across to rub her cheek against his shoulder, “because when I read it I couldn’t feel a bit sorry for him. I do now. Perhaps he really was fond of me.”
“I daresay he was,” said Templar grimly,; rose, and put the letter on the table. Then he sat down again in his corner. Sandra had already returned to hers.
“I suppose it’s almost as bad as murder to wish that somebody was dead. Do you know I’ve prayed he might die. That night I went home and prayed. . . and now he’s dead.. . . ”