What on earth can be the reason, I
wonder!" "Captain Vandeleur's such an awfully bad waltzer, you know," Harry
answered unconcernedly. "I dare say she was glad enough to make some
excuse or other to get away from him. The room's so very hot and
stifling." "Oh, you think so," and Dora Ferrand gave a quiet little smile, as one
who sees clearly below the surface. "I dare say. And she's not sorry
either to find some good reason for another ten minutes' chat with Hugh,
I fancy." But Harry, in his innocence, never noticed her plain insinuation. "He's
as blind as a bat," Dora Ferrand thought to herself, half
contemptuously. "Just like poor dear Wetherby! Poor dear Wetherby never
suspects anything! And that girl Louie doesn't half appreciate Harry
either. Just like me, I suppose, with that poor dear stupid old
stockbroker. Stockbroker, indeed! What in the name of all that's
sensible could ever have induced me to go and marry a blind old stick of
a wealthy stockbroker? If Harry and I had only our lives to live
again--but there, what's the use of bothering one's head about it? We've
only got one life apiece, and that we generally begin by making a mull
of." II. Three days later Harry Pallant went down as usual to his rooms in the
Temple, and set to work upon his daily labour. The first envelope he
opened of the batch upon his table was from the editor of the _Young
People's Monitor_. It contained the week's correspondence. Harry
Pallant glanced over the contents hastily, and singled out a few
enclosures from the big budget with languid curiosity. Of course everybody knows the _Young People's Monitor_. It is one of the
most successful among the penny weeklies, and in addition to its
sensational stories and moral essays, it gives advice gratis to all and
sundry in its correspondence columns upon every conceivable subject that
our common peccant or ignorant humanity can possibly inquire about. Now,
Harry Pallant happened to be the particular person employed by the
editor of this omniscient journal to supply the answers to the weekly
shoals of anxious interrogators _de omni scibili_. His legal learning
came in handy for the purpose, and being a practised London journalist
as well, his knowledge of life stood him in good stead at this strange
piece of literary craftsmanship. But the whole affair was "in strict
confidence," as the _Monitor_ announced. It was a point of honour
between himself and the editor that the secret of the correspondence
column should be jealously guarded from all and several; so Harry
Pallant, accustomed, lawyer-like, to keeping secrets, had never
mentioned his connection with the _Monitor_ in this matter even to
Louie. It came as part of his week's work at his chambers in the Temple,
and it was duly finished and sent off to press, without note or comment,
on the same day, in true business-like barrister fashion. The first letter that Harry opened and listlessly glanced through with
his experienced eye was one of the staple _Monitor_ kind--Stella or
Euphemia had quarrelled, in a moment of pique, with her lover, and was
now dying of anxiety to regain his affections. Harry scribbled a few
words of kindly chaff and sound advice in reply upon a blank sheet of
virgin foolscap, and tossed the torn fragments of letter number one into
the capacious mouth of his waste-paper basket. The second letter requested the editor's candid opinion upon a short
set of amateur verses therewith enclosed. Harry's candid opinion,
muttered to himself beneath his moustache, was too unparliamentary for
insertion in full; but he toned its verbal expression down a little in
his written copy, and passed on hastily to the others in order. "Camilla" would like to know, in strict confidence (thrice underlined),
what is the editor's opinion of her style of handwriting. "A Draper's
Assistant" is desirous to learn how the words "heterogeneous" and
"Beethoven" are usually pronounced in the best society. "Senex," having
had a slight difference as to the buttered toast with his present
landlady (in whose house he has lodged for forty years), would be glad
of any advice as to how, at his age, he is to do without her. "H. J. K."
has just read with much surprise a worthless pamphlet, proving that the
inhabitants of the northern divisions of Staffordshire and Warwickshire
are the lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and cannot imagine how this reckless
assertion can be scripturally reconciled with the plain statements of
the prophet Habakkuk, which show that the descendants of Manasseh are
really to be looked for in the county of Sligo. And so forth, though
every variety of male feebleness and feminine futility, in answer to all
which Harry turned off his hasty rejoinder with the dexterous ease
acquired of long practice and familiar experience. At last he came in due course to a small white envelope, of better paper
and style than the others, marked "17" in red pencil on the back in the
formal hand of the systematic editor. He turned it over with mechanical
carelessness. To his immense amusement and no little surprise, he saw at
once, by the writing of the address, that the note came from his own
Louie! What could Louie have to ask of advice or information from the anonymous
editor of the _Young People's Monitor_? He stood for a moment, with a quiet smile playing about his lips,
thinking to himself that he had often wondered whether he should ever
get a letter thus incognito from any person among his private
acquaintances. And now he had got one from Louie herself. How very
funny! How truly ridiculous! And how odd too that she shouldn't even
have told him beforehand she was going to write for counsel or
assistance to the _Young People's Monitor_! And then a strange doubt flashed idly for a moment across his mind--a
doubt that he felt immediately ashamed of. What possible subject could
there be on which Louie could want advice and aid from an editor, a
stranger, an unknown and anonymous impersonal entity, rather than from
him, Harry, her own husband, her natural guide, assistant, and
counsellor? It was odd, very odd--nay, even disquieting. Harry hardly
knew what to make of the unexpected episode. But next moment he had dismissed his doubts, though he stood still
toying with the unopened envelope. He was half afraid to look inside it. Louie had only written, he felt sure, about some feminine trifle or
other, some foolish point of petty etiquette--how to fold napkins
mitre-fashion, or whether "P.P.O." cards should be turned down at the
upper right or the lower left-hand corner--some absurd detail about
which she would have laughed outright at his personal opinion, but would
defer at once to the dignity of print, and the expressed verdict of the
_Young People's Monitor_.