I. A. R. Wylie

“ It's no use smiling like that, Martha. People always smile when they don't know what they're talking about. I don't believe you know yourself what it means.”
“Oh, yes, I do. Mr. Bingham explained—”
“Well, tell Mr. Bingham from me that he'd much better be saving up for a new overcoat instead of buying nasty sticky little books—”
“I did tell him, Mother, but he said he knew how I loved that—that sort of thing. One ought to improve one's mind, and Browning is so improving. He makes me feel beautiful—”
“Well, as long as you feel it, I suppose it doesn't matter what you look like. ”

“ A woman never forgets her complexion even in a shipwreck.” She frowned. “And now, Peter, perhaps you'll explain how you came to fall in love.”
“Susan! How dare you! Do you think—” He stopped, biting his lips. Mrs. Middleton put the scented handkerchief to the tip of her nose. The color had come back to her cheeks, and her eyes danced.
“My good Peter, when a man suggests that he is in trouble and the trouble turns out to be a woman, what is one to suppose?” ”

“ He laid his hand gently on hers.
“Why, Miss Jones, you aren't unhappy too?”
A tear trickled down the sharp and slightly reddened nose.
“Oh, Mr. Middleton, don't bother about me. I'm only a silly girl. I can't think why I'm so stupid. It was the photograph and—and the thought of how sad you must be which upset me. That's all.”
“There's something else. If I could help—”
“You're awfully good, Mr. Middleton. It's just like you to bother about others. It's only—only Mr. Bingham. He worries me so. ”

“ Blushing became her, lending her tired, anemic face a fleeting youthfulness which Middleton unfortunately missed. He appeared anyhow to be an unobservant person who accepted cold mutton and subsequent résumés in the form of shepherd's pie with an unalterable resignation. The fact caused Mrs. Jones' economic-maternal heart alternate satisfaction and alarm.
“You don't take enough interest in what you eat, Mr. Middleton,” she said, helping him to boiled potato. “When a man doesn't complain about his food, he's ill. You're ill.” ”

“ Martha Jones had her hand on the gate. Her eyes were bright with tears.
“I want to thank you for the book,” she said softly. “It was very beautiful.”
“Life is very beautiful,” said the little man with the cough and the coat of sporting cut.
NOW, the worst of miraculous transformations like the one recently described is that they have a nasty trick of twisting themselves back into their original form—especially on provocation. The provocation in this instance was a stranger with a hand-bag. ”

“ Doctors don't seem to think, do they? Thirty-five bob a week isn't to be sneezed at, and then of course there's a chance of a rise if one sticks to it.” He patted a parcel of books under his arm. “Extra work!” he said proudly. “I'm doing it on my own. One day the chief may notice and make it forty. One never knows one's luck.”
And then he coughed and apologized, and then coughed again. Martha Jones studied him with troubled eyes.
“You oughtn't to do it,” she said, “all that work, I mean. You're not strong, Mr. Bingham.” ”

“ As the stranger followed her up. the path, she glanced back at him and—yes, he looked sadder, paler.
“If you would give me your name,” she said gently, “I'll tell mother.”
“My name?” he said. “Oh—Peter Middleton.”
“Then will you come in, Mr. Middleton?”
She stood aside for him to pass. Some one waved frantically from the gate, but she took no notice, and a minute later the door banged.
Mr. Percy Bingham drifted away into the fog like a small, pathetic shadow.
“MARK my words,” said Mrs. Jones portentously, “there's more in that young man than meets the eye. ”

“ Jones interrupted with a stately gesture.
“Hush, Martha. You have no pride, my dear. Dr. Murphy must be paid. No doubt we shall let our spare room—”
“We never shall—not as long as we advertise in The Morning Post and don't put a notice in the window. I don't believe anybody who reads The Morning Post ever wants to live in Ranleigh Crescent.” ”

“ Middleton; and at the bottom it's that she wants. But she's got such a wonderful poetic mind, and I can't keep pace with it, though I've tried desperately. I used to read Browning all through my lunch-hour, but it didn't help much. One's bound to be commonplace on thirty-five a week.”
Peter Middleton laid his hand on the quivering shoulder.
“Look here, Mr. Bingham,” he said solemnly. “As usual, I've made a mess of things but I'm going to try and put them straight. If—if I succeed and Miss Martha gets to see that you're worth twice my sort, will you call quits?” ”

“ It was all wrong. Real hardship doesn't beg. It lives in semidetached villas with grand-sounding names and lace curtains in the windows. It is respectable, and respectability sucks the life out of it.”
Mrs. Middleton took up her pen.
“Peter, you're the biggest hustler in the charity line I've met to-day, and I've met a good many. You touch even my case-hardened heart. Now for the items: The clerk with the cough first, please. What's his address?”
“Percy Bingham, Oaklands, Ranleigh Crescent, clerk at Hawkins and Hawkins.” ”

“ She spoke nervously, and she ignored Mr. Bingham. She was sure he had hurt the stranger's feelings with his air of superiority. And after all, what right had he to be superior—a little clerk with thirty-five shillings a week? ”

“ Jones' behalf—'” Mr. Jones coughed. “A most extraordinary but gentlemanly offer. Really, this has been a day of wonders!”
“It must have been a sea-serpent, after all,” Mrs. Jones murmured.
“Life is very beautiful,” said Mr. Bingham.
He felt under the table, and a small hand with a very wet pocket handkerchief clasped his.
This Peter did not see, but it is almost certain that he divined it.
“The Road to Fortune,” another delightful episode in “The Adventures of Mrs. Middleton's Husband,” will appear in the next—the October—issue of The Green Book Magazine. ”

“ He calculated rapidly. Twenty-five shillings for his board, left five shillings for his fares, lunches and laundry, and ten shillings for a nice little supper after the theater. The latter item seemed out of proportion. Well, he was going to bring a few hours' sunshine into a drab life, and for once in a way the laundry would have to suffer retrenchments.
“A clean handkerchief every other day, Peter.” he muttered in solemn abjuration. “I can't allow you more, and it's no use shuddering. It's the first sacrifice you've brought anyone, so look cheerful. ”

“ She accepted mechanically, her hands tightly clasped before her, and her downcast eyes fell on the photograph. “Oh,” she said softly, and then in deeper awe-struck bewilderment: “Oh, may I—might I look?” ”

“ It's better I should tell you the truth.”
“Don't tell me I'm not your ideal again.”
“Browning says—”
“Damn Browning.”
“Mr. Bingham!”
He gasped at his own crime.
“Mrs. Jones,—Miss Martha,—I—I apologize. I can't think how it came out—never said it before. On my honor, I am not a violent man. But at the present moment I am feeling very desperate. I feel—”
What he felt was drowned. in the snort and rattle of a motorcar outside. The family glanced at each other. A motorcar in Ranleigh Crescent! A live ostrich would have scarcely created more sensation. ”