Have you ever thought about—and, when I say thought about, I mean really carefully considered the question of—the coolness, the cheek, or, if you prefer it, the gall with which Woman, as a sex, fairly bursts? I have, by Jove! But then I’ve had it thrust on my notice, by George, in a way I should imagine has happened to pretty few fellows. And the limit was reached by that business of the Yeardsley “Venus.”

To make you understand the full what-d’you-call-it of the situation, I shall have to explain just how matters stood between Mrs. Yeardsley and myself.

When I first knew her she was Elizabeth Shoolbred. Old Worcestershire family; pots of money; pretty as a picture. Her brother Bill was at Oxford with me.

I loved Elizabeth Shoolbred. I loved her, don’t you know. And there was a time, for about a week, when we were engaged to be married. But just as I was beginning to take a serious view of life and study furniture catalogues and feel pretty solemn when the restaurant orchestra played “The Wedding Glide,” I’m hanged if she didn’t break it off, and a month later she was married to a fellow of the name of Yeardsley—Clarence Yeardsley, an artist.

What with golf, and billiards, and a bit of racing, and fellows at the club rallying round and kind of taking me out of myself, as it were, I got over it, and came to look on the affair as a closed page in the book of my life, if you know what I mean. It didn’t seem likely to me that we should meet again, as she and Clarence had settled down in the country somewhere and never came to London, and I’m bound to own that, by the time I got her letter, the wound had pretty well healed, and I was to a certain extent sitting up and taking nourishment. In fact, to be absolutely honest, I was jolly thankful the thing had ended as it had done.

This letter I’m telling you about arrived one morning out of a blue sky, as it were. It ran like this:

“MY DEAR OLD REGGIE,—What ages it seems since I saw anything of you. How are you? We have settled down here in the most perfect old house, with a lovely garden, in the middle of delightful country. Couldn’t you run down here for a few days? Clarence and I would be so glad to see you. Bill is here, and is most anxious to meet you again. He was speaking of you only this morning. Do come. Wire your train, and I will send the car to meet you.

—Yours most sincerely,

ELIZABETH YEARDSLEY.

“P.S.—We can give you new milk and fresh eggs. Think of that!

“P.P.S.—Bill says our billiard-table is one of the best he has ever played on.

“P.P.S.S.—We are only half a mile from a golf course. Bill says it is better than St. Andrews.

“P.P.S.S.S.—You must come!”

Well, a fellow comes down to breakfast one morning, with a bit of a head on, and finds a letter like that from a girl who might quite easily have blighted his life! It rattled me rather, I must confess.

However, that bit about the golf settled me. I knew Bill knew what he was talking about, and, if he said the course was so topping, it must be something special. So I went.

Old Bill met me at the station with the car. I hadn’t come across him for some months, and I was glad to see him again. And he apparently was glad to see me.

“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said, as we drove off. “I was just about at my last grip.”

“What’s the trouble, old scout?” I asked.

“If I had the artistic what’s-its-name,” he went on, “if the mere mention of pictures didn’t give me the pip, I dare say it wouldn’t be so bad. As it is, it’s rotten!”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like when one gives her her head?”

I remembered then—it hadn’t come back to me before—that most of my time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries. During the period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill. Somehow it had never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after marrying an artist. I should have thought that by this time the mere sight of a picture would have fed her up. Not so, however, according to old Bill.

“They talk pictures at every meal,” he said. “I tell you, it makes a chap feel out of it. How long are you down for?”

“A few days.”

“Take my tip, and let me send you a wire from London. I go there to-morrow. I promised to play against the Scottish. The idea was that I was to come back after the match. But you couldn’t get me back with a lasso.”

I tried to point out the silver lining.

“But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there’s a most corking links near here.”

He turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.

“You don’t mean honestly she said that?”

“She said you said it was better than St. Andrews.”

“So I did. Was that all she said I said?”

“Well, wasn’t it enough?”

“She didn’t happen to mention that I added the words, ‘I don’t think’?”

“No, she forgot to tell me that.”

“It’s the worst course in Great Britain.”

I felt rather stunned, don’t you know. Whether it’s a bad habit to have got into or not, I can’t say, but I simply can’t do without my daily allowance of golf when I’m not in London.

I took another whirl at the silver lining.

“We’ll have to take it out in billiards,” I said. “I’m glad the table’s good.”

“It depends what you call good. It’s half-size, and there’s a seven-inch cut just out of baulk where Clarence’s cue slipped. Elizabeth has mended it with pink silk. Very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn’t improve the thing as a billiard-table.”

“But she said you said——”

“Must have been pulling your leg.”

We turned in at the drive gates of a good-sized house standing well back from the road. It looked black and sinister in the dusk, and I couldn’t help feeling, you know, like one of those Johnnies you read about in stories who are lured to lonely houses for rummy purposes and hear a shriek just as they get there. Elizabeth knew me well enough to know that a specially good golf course was a safe draw to me. And she had deliberately played on her knowledge. What was the game? That was what I wanted to know. And then a sudden thought struck me which brought me out in a cold perspiration. She had some girl down here and was going to have a stab at marrying me off. I’ve often heard that young married women are all over that sort of thing. Certainly she had said there was nobody at the house but Clarence and herself and Bill and Clarence’s father, but a woman who could take the name of St. Andrews in vain as she had done wouldn’t be likely to stick at a trifle.

“Bill, old scout,” I said, “there aren’t any frightful girls or any rot of that sort stopping here, are there?”

“Wish there were,” he said. “No such luck.”

As we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman’s figure appeared.

“Have you got him, Bill?” she said, which in my present frame of mind struck me as a jolly creepy way of putting it. The sort of thing Lady Macbeth might have said to Macbeth, don’t you know.

“Do you mean me?” I said.

She came down into the light. It was Elizabeth, looking just the same as in the old days.

“Is that you, Reggie? I’m so glad you were able to come. I was afraid you might have forgotten all about it. You know what you are. Come along in and have some tea.”

Have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards married and then been introduced to her husband? If so you’ll understand how I felt when Clarence burst on me. You know the feeling. First of all, when you hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, “I wonder what he’s like.” Then you meet him, and think, “There must be some mistake. She can’t have preferred this to me!” That’s what I thought, when I set eyes on Clarence.

He was a little thin, nervous-looking chappie of about thirty-five. His hair was getting grey at the temples and straggly on top. He wore pince-nez, and he had a drooping moustache. I’m no Bombardier Wells myself, but in front of Clarence I felt quite a nut. And Elizabeth, mind you, is one of those tall, splendid girls who look like princesses. Honestly, I believe women do it out of pure cussedness.

“How do you do, Mr. Pepper? Hark! Can you hear a mewing cat?” said Clarence. All in one breath, don’t you know.

“Eh?” I said.

“A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!”

While we were listening the door opened, and a white-haired old gentleman came in. He was built on the same lines as Clarence, but was an earlier model. I took him correctly, to be Mr. Yeardsley, senior. Elizabeth introduced us.

“Father,” said Clarence, “did you meet a mewing cat outside? I feel positive I heard a cat mewing.”

“No,” said the father, shaking his head; “no mewing cat.”

“I can’t bear mewing cats,” said Clarence. “A mewing cat gets on my nerves!”

“A mewing cat is so trying,” said Elizabeth.

“I dislike mewing cats,” said old Mr. Yeardsley.

That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to pictures.

We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner. At least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the “Monna Lisa,” and then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as I was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a valuable painting pinched by burglars the night before. It was the first time I had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with any effect, and I meant to make the most of it. The paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and fetched it.

“Here it is,” I said. “A Romney belonging to Sir Bellamy Palmer——”

They all shouted “What!” exactly at the same time, like a chorus. Elizabeth grabbed the paper.

“Let me look! Yes. ‘Late last night burglars entered the residence of Sir Bellamy Palmer, Dryden Park, Midford, Hants——'”

“Why, that’s near here,” I said. “I passed through Midford——”

“Dryden Park is only two miles from this house,” said Elizabeth. I noticed her eyes were sparkling.

“Only two miles!” she said. “It might have been us! It might have been the ‘Venus’!”

Old Mr. Yeardsley bounded in his chair.

“The ‘Venus’!” he cried.

They all seemed wonderfully excited. My little contribution to the evening’s chat had made quite a hit.

Why I didn’t notice it before I don’t know, but it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me after dinner that I had my first look at the Yeardsley “Venus.” When she led me up to it, and switched on the light, it seemed impossible that I could have sat right through dinner without noticing it. But then, at meals, my attention is pretty well riveted on the foodstuffs. Anyway, it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me that I was aware of its existence.

She and I were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. Old Yeardsley was writing letters in the morning-room, while Bill and Clarence were rollicking on the half-size billiard table with the pink silk tapestry effects. All, in fact, was joy, jollity, and song, so to speak, when Elizabeth, who had been sitting wrapped in thought for a bit, bent towards me and said, “Reggie.”

And the moment she said it I knew something was going to happen. You know that pre-what-d’you-call-it you get sometimes? Well, I got it then.

“What-o?” I said nervously.

“Reggie,” she said, “I want to ask a great favour of you.”

“Yes?”

She stooped down and put a log on the fire, and went on, with her back to me:

“Do you remember, Reggie, once saying you would do anything in the world for me?”

There! That’s what I meant when I said that about the cheek of Woman as a sex. What I mean is, after what had happened, you’d have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that sort of thing, what?

Mind you, I had said I would do anything in the world for her. I admit that. But it was a distinctly pre-Clarence remark. He hadn’t appeared on the scene then, and it stands to reason that a fellow who may have been a perfect knight-errant to a girl when he was engaged to her, doesn’t feel nearly so keen on spreading himself in that direction when she has given him the miss-in-baulk, and gone and married a man who reason and instinct both tell him is a decided blighter.

I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Oh, yes.”

“There’s something you can do for me now, which will make me everlastingly grateful.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know, Reggie,” she said suddenly, “that only a few months ago Clarence was very fond of cats?”

“Eh! Well, he still seems—er—interested in them, what?”

“Now they get on his nerves. Everything gets on his nerves.”

“Some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over the——”

“No, that wouldn’t help him. He doesn’t need to take anything. He wants to get rid of something.”

“I don’t quite follow. Get rid of something?”

“The ‘Venus,'” said Elizabeth.

She looked up and caught my bulging eye.

“You saw the ‘Venus,'” she said.

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, come into the dining-room.”

We went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights.

“There,” she said.

On the wall close to the door—that may have been why I hadn’t noticed it before; I had sat with my back to it—was a large oil-painting. It was what you’d call a classical picture, I suppose. What I mean is—well, you know what I mean. All I can say is that it’s funny I hadn’t noticed it.

“Is that the ‘Venus’?” I said.

She nodded.

“How would you like to have to look at that every time you sat down to a meal?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think it would affect me much. I’d worry through all right.”

She jerked her head impatiently.

“But you’re not an artist,” she said. “Clarence is.”

And then I began to see daylight. What exactly was the trouble I didn’t understand, but it was evidently something to do with the good old Artistic Temperament, and I could believe anything about that. It explains everything. It’s like the Unwritten Law, don’t you know, which you plead in America if you’ve done anything they want to send you to chokey for and you don’t want to go. What I mean is, if you’re absolutely off your rocker, but don’t find it convenient to be scooped into the luny-bin, you simply explain that, when you said you were a teapot, it was just your Artistic Temperament, and they apologize and go away. So I stood by to hear just how the A.T. had affected Clarence, the Cat’s Friend, ready for anything.

And, believe me, it had hit Clarence badly.