Contents:

Page No 1

Page No 2

Page No 3

Page No 4

James Pethel........................................................................................................................................................1

I WAS shocked this morning when I saw in my newspaper a paragraph announcing his sudden death. I do not

say that the shock was very disagreeable. One reads a newspaper for the sake of news. Had I never met James

Pethel, belike I should never have heard of him: and my knowledge of his death, coincident with my

knowledge that he had existed, would have meant nothing at all to me. If you learn suddenly that one of your

friends is dead, you are wholly distressed. If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have recently

seen, you are disconcerted, pricked is your sense of mortality; but you do find great solace in telling other

people that you met "the poor fellow" only the other day, and that he was "so full of life and spirits," and that

you remember he saidwhatever you may remember of his sayings. If the death is that of a mere

acquaintance whom you have not seen for years, you are touched so lightly as to find solace enough in even

such faded reminiscence as is yours to offer. Seven years have passed since the day when last I saw James

I had formed the habit of spending August in Dieppe. The place was then less overrun by trippers than it is

now. Some pleasant English people shared it with some pleasant French people. We used rather to resent the

raceweekthe third week of the monthas an intrusion on our privacy. We sneered as we read in the Paris

edition of "The New York Herald" the names of the intruders, though by some of these we were secretly

impressed. We disliked the nightly crush in the baccaratroom of the casino, and the croupiers' obvious

excitement at the high play. I made a point of avoiding that room during that week, for the special reason that

the sight of serious, habitual gamblers has always filled me with a depression bordering on disgust. Most of

the men, by some subtle stress of their ruling passion, have grown so monstrously fat, and most of the women

so harrowingly thin. The rest of the women seem to be marked out for apoplexy, and the rest of the men to be

wasting away. One feels that anything thrown at them would be either embedded or shattered, and looks

vainly among them for one person furnished with a normal amount of flesh. Monsters they are, all of them, to

the eye, though I believe that many of them have excellent moral qualities in private life; but just as in an

American town one goes sooner or latergoes against one's finer judgment, but somehow goesinto the

dimemuseum, so year by year, in Dieppe's raceweek, there would be always one evening when I drifted

into the baccaratroom. It was on such an evening that I first saw the man whose memory I here celebrate.

My gaze was held by him for the very reason that he would have passed unnoticed elsewhere. He was

conspicuous not in virtue of the mere fact that he was taking the bank at the principal table, but because there

He alone, among his fellowplayers, looked as if he were not to die before the year was out. Of him alone I

said to myself that he was destined to die normally at a ripe old age. Next day, certainly, I would not have

made this prediction, would not have "given" him the seven years that were still in store for him, nor the

comparatively normal death that has been his. But now, as I stood opposite to him, behind the croupier, I was

refreshed by my sense of his wholesome durability. Everything about him, except the amount of money he

had been winning, seemed moderate. Just as he was neither fat nor thin, so had his face neither that extreme

pallor nor that extreme redness which belongs to the faces of seasoned gamblers: it was just a clear pink. And

his eyes had neither the unnatural brightness nor the unnatural dullness of the eyes about him: they were

ordinarily clear eyes, of an ordinary gray. His very age was moderate: a putative thirtysix, not more. ("Not

less," I would have said in those days.) He assumed no air of nonchalance. He did not deal out the cards as

though they bored him, but he had no look of grim concentration. I noticed that the removal of his cigar from

his mouth made never the least difference to his face, for he kept his lips pursed out as steadily as ever when

he was not smoking. And this constant pursing of his lips seemed to denote just a pensive interest.

His bank was nearly done now; there were only a few cards left. Opposite to him was a welter of

partycolored counters that the croupier had not yet had time to sort out and add to the rouleaux already

made; there were also a fair accumulation of notes and several little stacks of goldin all, not less than

fivehundred pounds, certainly. Happy banker! How easily had he won in a few minutes more than I, with

utmost pains, could win in many months! I wished I were he. His lucre seemed to insult me personally. I

disliked him, and yet I hoped he would not take another bank. I hoped he would have the good sense to

pocket his winnings and go home. Deliberately to risk the loss of all those riches would intensify the insult to

"Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres." There was some brisk bidding while the croupier tore open and

shuffled two new packs. But it was as I feared: the gentleman whom I resented kept his place.

"Messieurs, la banque est faite. Quinzemille francs a la banque. Messieurs, les cartes passent. Messieurs, les

Turning to go, I encountered a friend, one of the raceweekers, but in a sense a friend.

I asked what there was so wonderful about "old Jimmy Pethel" that every one should be supposed to know

I do not think my friend was versed in the pretty theory that good luck is the subconscious wisdom of them

who in previous incarnations have been consciously wise. He was a member of the stock exchange, and I

smiled as at a certain quaintness in his remark. I asked in what ways besides luck the "great character" was

manifested. Oh, well, Pethel had made a huge "scoop" on the stock exchange when he was only

twentythree, and very soon had doubled that and doubled it again; then retired. He wasn't more than

thirtyfive now, And then? Oh, well, he was a regular allround sportsman; had gone after big game all over

the world and had a good many narrow shaves. Great steeplechaser, too. Rather settled down now. Lived in

Leicestershire mostly. Had a big place there. Hunted five times a week. Still did an occasional flutter, though.

Cleared eightythousand in Mexicans last February. Wife had been a barmaid at Cambridge; married her

when he was nineteen. Thing seemed to have turned out quite well. Altogether, a great character.

Possibly, thought I. But my cursory friend, accustomed to quick transactions and to things accepted "on the

nod," had not proved his case to my slower, more literary intelligence. It was to him, though, that I owed,

some minutes later, a chance of testing his opinion. At the cry of "Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres," we

looked round and saw that the subject of our talk was preparing to rise from his place. "Now one can punt,"

said Grierson (this was my friend's name), and turned to the bureau at which counters are for sale. "If old

Jimmy Pethel punts," he added, "I shall just follow his luck." But this lodestar was not to be. While my

friend was buying his counters, and I was wondering whether I, too, could buy some, Pethel himself came up

to the bureau. With his lips no longer pursed, he had lost his air of gravity, and looked younger. Behind him

was an attendant bearing a big wooden bowlthat plain, but romantic, bowl supplied by the establishment to

a banker whose gains are too great to be pocketed. He and Grierson greeted each other. He said he had

arrived in Dieppe this afternoon, was here for a day or two. We were introduced. He spoke to me with

empressement, saying he was a "very great admirer" of my work. I no longer disliked him. Grierson, armed

with counters, had now darted away to secure a place that had just been vacated. Pethel, with a wave of his

I glanced down at the splendid mess of counters and gold and notes that were now becoming, under the swift

fingers of the little man at the bureau, an orderly array. I did not say aloud that it pleased me to be, and to be

seen, talking on terms of equality to a man who had won so much. I did not say how wonderful it seemed to

me that he, whom I had watched just now with awe and with aversion, had all the while been a great admirer

of my work. I did but say, again indulgently, that I supposed baccarat to be as good a way of wasting time as

"Ah, but you despise us all the same." He added that he always envied men who had resources within

themselves. I laughed lightly, to imply that it WAS very pleasant to have such resources, but that I didn't

want to boast. And, indeed, I had never felt humbler, flimsier, than when the little man at the bureau, naming

a fabulous sum, asked its owner whether he would take the main part in notes of mille francs, cinqmille,

dixmillequoi? Had it been mine, I should have asked to have it all in fivefranc pieces. Pethel took it in

the most compendious form, and crumpled it into his pocket. I asked if he were going to play any more

"Oh, later on," he said. "I want to get a little sea air into my lungs now." He asked, with a sort of breezy

diffidence, if I would go with him. I was glad to do so. It flashed across my mind that yonder on the terrace

he might suddenly blurt out: "I say, look here, don't think me awfully impertinent, but this money's no earthly

use to me. I do wish you'd accept it as a very small return for all the pleasure your work has given me, and

There, PLEASE! Not another word!"all with such candor, delicacy, and genuine zeal that I should be

unable to refuse. But I must not raise false hopes in my reader. Nothing of the sort happened. Nothing of that

We were not long on the terrace. It was not a night on which you could stroll and talk; there was a wind

against which you had to stagger, holding your hat on tightly, and shouting such remarks as might occur to

you. Against that wind acquaintance could make no headway. Yet I see now that despite that wind, or, rather,

because of it, I ought already to have known Pethel a little better than I did when we presently sat down

together inside the cafe of the casino. There had been a point in our walk, or our stagger, when we paused to

lean over the parapet, looking down at the black and driven sea. And Pethel had shouted that it would be

great fun to be out in a sailingboat tonight, and that at one time he had been very fond of sailing.

As we took our seats in the cafe, he looked about him with boyish interest and pleasure; then squaring his

arms on the little table, he asked me what I would drink. I protested that I was the host, a position which he,

with the quick courtesy of the very rich, yielded to me at once. I feared he would ask for champagne, and was

"Apollinaris, St. Galmier, or what?" I asked. He preferred plain water. I ventured to warn him that such water

was never "safe" in these places. He said he had often heard that, but would risk it. I remonstrated, but he was

firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pour Monsieur un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde."

Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one was any one in particular, and suggested

I assured him that I had often heard of him. At this he was unaffectedly pleased.

"But," I added, "it's always more interesting to hear a man talked about by himself." And indeed, since he had

NOT handed his winnings over to me, I did hope he would at any rate give me some glimpses into that "great

character" of his. Full though his life had been, he seemed but like a rather clever schoolboy out on a holiday.

"That beer looks good," he admitted when the waiter came back. I asked him to change his mind, but he

shook his head, raised to his lips the tumbler of water that had been placed before him, and meditatively

drank a deep draft. "I never," he then said, "touch alcohol of any sort." He looked solemn; but all men do look

solemn when they speak of their own habits, whether positive or negative, and no matter how trivial; and so,

though I had really no warrant for not supposing him a reclaimed drunkard, I dared ask him for what reason

"When I say I NEVER touch alcohol," he said hastily, in a tone as of selfdefense, "I mean that I don't touch

it often, or, at any ratewell, I never touch it when I'm gambling, you know. Itit takes the edge off."

His tone did make me suspicious. For a moment I wondered whether he had married the barmaid rather for

what she symbolized than for what in herself she was. But no, surely not; he had been only nineteen years

old. Nor in any way had he now, this steady, brisk, cleareyed fellow, the aspect of one who had since fallen.

"Rather. Of course that sort of excitement seems awfully stupid to YOU; butno use denying itI do like a

bit of a flutter, just occasionally, you know. And one has to be in trim for it. Suppose a man sat down

deaddrunk to a game of chance, what fun would it be for him? None. And it's only a question of degree.

Soothe yourself ever so little with alcohol, and you don't get QUITE the full sensation of gambling. You do

lose just a little something of the proper tremors before a coup, the proper throes during a coup, the proper

thrill of joy or anguish after a coup. You're bound to, you know," he added, purposely making this bathos

"And tonight," I asked, remembering his prosaically pensive demeanor in taking the bank, "were you feeling

"Oh, one gets a bit deadened after an hour or so. One needs to be freshened up. So long as I don't bore

"I rather wonder you smoke," I murmured, after giving him a light. "Nicotine's a sort of drug. Doesn't it

"By Jove!" he ejaculated, "I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. 'Pon my word, I must think that

I wondered whether he were secretly laughing at me. Here was a man to whomso I conceived, with an

effort of the imaginationthe loss or gain of a few hundred pounds could hardly matter. I told him I had

spoken in jest. "To give up tobacco might," I said, "intensify the pleasant agonies of a gambler staking his

little all. But in your casewell, I don't see where the pleasant agonies come in."

"All depends on what you call rich. Besides, I'm not the sort of fellow who's content with three per cent. A

couple of months agoI tell you this in confidenceI risked virtually all I had in an Argentine deal."

"No; as a matter of fact, I made rather a good thing out of it. I did rather well last February, too. But there's

no knowing the future. A few errors of judgment, a war here, a revolution there, a big strike somewhere else,

and" He blew a jet of smoke from his lips, and then looked at me as at one whom he could trust to feel for

"Meanwhile," I suggested, "and all the more because you aren't merely a rich man, but also an active taker of

"There you rather have me," he laughed. "I've often wondered at that myself. I suppose," he puzzled it out, "I

do a good lot of makebelieve. While I'm playing a game like this game tonight, I IMAGINE the stakes are

"Stupid phrase," I admitted. "But"there was yet one point I would put to him"if you have extraordinary

"No, strictly, I suppose, there isn't. But if in point of fact you always do win, thenwell, surely, perfect luck

I waved my hands and said, "Oh, you have the reputation, you know, for extraordinary luck."

"That isn't the same thing as always winning. Besides, I HAVEN'T extraordinary luck, never HAVE had.

Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "if I thought I had any more chance of winning than of losing, I'dI'd"

"Oh, baccarat be blowed! I wasn't thinking of baccarat. I was thinking ofoh, lots of things; baccarat

"What things?" He pushed back his chair. "Look here," he said with a laugh, "don't pretend I haven't been

boring your head off with all this talk about myself. You've been too patient. I'm off. Shall I see you

tomorrow? Perhaps you'd lunch with us tomorrow? It would be a great pleasure for my wife. We're at the

I said I should be most happy, and called the waiter; at sight of whom my friend said he had talked himself

thirsty, and asked for another glass of water. He mentioned that he had brought his car over with him: his

little daughter (by the news of whose existence I felt idiotically surprised) was very keen on motoring, and

they were all three starting the day after tomorrow on a little tour through France. Afterward they were

going on to Switzerland "for some climbing." Did I care about motoring? If so, we might go for a spin after

luncheon, to Rouen or somewhere. He drank his glass of water, and, linking a friendly arm in mine, passed

out with me into the corridor. He asked what I was writing now, and said that he looked to me to "do

something big one of these days," and that he was sure I had it in me. This remark, though of course I

pretended to be pleased by it, irritated me very much. It was destined, as you shall see, to irritate me very

Yet I was glad he had asked me to luncheonglad because I liked him and glad because I dislike mysteries.

Though you may think me very dense for not having thoroughly understood Pethel in the course of my first

meeting with him, the fact is that I was only aware, and that dimly, of something more in him than he had

cared to revealsome veil behind which perhaps lurked his right to the title so airily bestowed on him by

Grierson. I assured myself, as I walked home, that if veil there was, I should tomorrow find an eyelet. But

one's intuition when it is off duty seems always a much more powerful engine than it does on active service;

and next day, at sight of Pethel awaiting me outside his hotel, I became less confident. His, thought I, was a

face which, for all its animation, would tell nothingnothing, at any rate, that mattered. It expressed well

enough that he was pleased to see me; but for the rest I was reminded that it had a sort of frank inscrutability.

Besides, it was at all points so very usual a facea face that couldn't (so I then thought), even if it had leave

to, betray connection with a "great character." It was a strong face, certainly; but so are yours and mine.

And very fresh it looked, though, as he confessed, Pethel had sat up in "that beastly baccaratroom" till five

A.M. I asked, had he lost? Yes, he had lost steadily for four hours (proudly he laid stress on this), but in the

endwell, he had won it all back "and a bit more." "By the way," he murmured as we were about to enter

the hall, "don't ever happen to mention to my wife what I told you about that Argentine deal. She's always

rather nervous aboutinvestments. I don't tell her about them. She's rather a nervous woman altogether, I'm

This did not square with my preconception of her. Slave that I am to traditional imagery, I had figured her as

"flaunting," as goldenhaired, as haughty to most men, but with a provocative smile across the shoulder for

some. Nor, indeed, did her husband's words save me the suspicion that my eyes deceived me when anon I

was presented to a very pale, small lady whose hair was rather white than gray. And the "little daughter!"

This prodigy's hair was as yet "down," but looked as if it might be up at any moment: she was nearly as tall as

her father, whom she very much resembled in face and figure and heartiness of handshake. Only after a

"I must warn you, she's in a great rage this morning," said her father. "Do try to soothe her." She blushed,

laughed, and bade her father not be so silly. I asked her the cause of her great rage. She said:

"He only means I was disappointed. And he was just as disappointed as I was. WEREN'T you, now, Father?"

"They," as I presently learned, were the authorities of the bathingestablishment. Pethel had promised his

daughter he would take her for a swim; but on their arrival at the bathingcabins they were ruthlessly told

that bathing was defendu a cause du mauvais temps. This embargo was our theme as we sat down to

luncheon. Miss Peggy was of opinion that the French were cowards. I pleaded for them that even in English

wateringplaces bathing was forbidden when the sea was VERY rough. She did not admit that the sea was

very rough today. Besides, she appealed to me, where was the fun of swimming in absolutely calm water? I

"Yes, but, darling Mother, you can't swim. Father and I are both splendid swimmers."

To gloss over the mother's disability, I looked brightly at Pethel, as though in ardent recognition of his

prowess among waves. With a movement of his head he indicated his daughterindicated that there was no

one like her in the whole world. I beamed agreement. Indeed, I did think her rather nice. If one liked the

father (and I liked Pethel all the more in that capacity), one couldn't help liking the daughter, the two were so

absurdly alike. Whenever he was looking at her (and it was seldom that he looked away from her), the effect,

if you cared to be fantastic, was that of a very vain man before a mirror. It might have occurred to me that, if

there was any mystery in him, I could solve it through her. But, in point of fact, I had forgotten all about that

possible mystery. The amateur detective was lost in the sympathetic observer of a father's love. That Pethel

did love his daughter I have never doubted. One passion is not less true because another predominates. No

one who ever saw that father with that daughter could doubt that he loved her intensely. And this intensity

Mrs. Pethel's love, though less explicit, was not less evidently profound. But the maternal instinct is less

attractive to an onlooker, because he takes it more for granted than the paternal. What endeared poor Mrs.

Pethel to me waswell, the inevitability of the epithet I give her. She seemed, poor thing, so essentially out

of it; and by "it" is meant the glowing mutual affinity of husband and child. Not that she didn't, in her little

way, assert herself during the meal. But she did so, I thought, with the knowledge that she didn't count, and

never would count. I wondered how it was that she had, in that Cambridge barroom long ago, counted for

Pethel to the extent of matrimony. But from any such room she seemed so utterly remote that she might well

be in all respects now an utterly changed woman. She did preeminently look as if much had by some means

been taken out of her, with no compensatory process of putting in. Pethel looked so very young for his age,

whereas she would have had to be really old to look young for hers. I pitied her as one might a governess

with two charges who were hopelessly out of hand. But a governess, I reflected, can always give notice. Love

As the three of them were to start next day on their tour through France, and as the four of us were to make a

tour to Rouen this afternoon, the talk was much about motoring, a theme which Miss Peggy's enthusiasm

made almost tolerable. I said to Mrs. Pethel, with more goodwill than truth, that I supposed she was "very

"But, darling Mother, you aren't. I believe you hate it. You're ALWAYS asking father to go slower. And what

"No, indeed," said her mother in a tone of which Pethel laughingly said it would put me off coming out with

them this afternoon. I said, with an expert air to reassure Mrs. Pethel, that it wasn't fast driving, but only bad

I felt that they were always either telling Mrs. Pethel something or, as in the matter of that intended bath, not

telling her something. It seemed to me possible that Peggy advised her father about his "investments." I

wondered whether they had yet told Mrs. Pethel of their intention to go on to Switzerland for some climbing.

Of his secretiveness for his wife's sake I had a touching little instance after luncheon. We had adjourned to

have coffee in front of the hotel. The car was already in attendance, and Peggy had darted off to make her

daily inspection of it. Pethel had given me a cigar, and his wife presently noticed that he himself was not

smoking. He explained to her that he thought he had smoked too much lately, and that he was going to

"knock it off" for a while. I would not have smiled if he had met my eye, but his avoidance of it made me

quite sure that he really had been "thinking over" what I had said last night about nicotine and its possibly

Mrs. Pethel saw the smile that I could not repress. I explained that I was wishing _I_ could knock off tobacco,

and envying her husband's strength of character. She smiled, too, but wanly, with her eyes on him.

Again he laughed, but he flushed. I saw that Mrs. Pethel also had faintly flushed, and I became horribly aware

of following suit. In the sudden glow and silence created by Mrs. Pethel's paradox, I was grateful to the

daughter for bouncing back among us, and asking how soon we should be ready to start.

Pethel looked at his wife, who looked at me and rather strangely asked if I was sure I wanted to go with them.

I protested that of course I did. Pethel asked her if SHE really wanted to come.

"You see, dear, there was the run yesterday from Calais. And tomorrow you'll be on the road again, and all

"Yes," said Peggy; "I'm SURE you'd much rather stay at home, darling Mother, and have a good rest."

"Shall we go and put on our things, Peggy?" replied Mrs. Pethel, rising from her chair. She asked her husband

"No, dear," said her mother. "I am sure Mr. Beerbohms would like to be on the front seat."

"You'd like to be with mother, wouldn't you?" the girl appealed. I replied with all possible emphasis that I

should like to be with Mrs. Pethel. But presently, when the mother and daughter reappeared in the guise of

motorists, it became clear that my aspiration had been set aside. "I am to be with mother," said Peggy.

I was inwardly glad that Mrs. Pethel could, after all, assert herself to some purpose. Had I thought she

disliked me, I should have been hurt; but I was sure her desire that I should not sit with her was due merely to

a belief that, in case of accident, a person on the front seat was less safe than a person behind. And of course I

did not expect her to prefer my life to her daughter's. Poor lady! My heart was with her. As the car glided

along the seafront and then under the Norman archway, through the town, and past the environs, I wished

that her husband inspired in her as much confidence as he did in me. For me the sight of his clear, firm profile

(he did not wear motorgoggles) was an assurance in itself. From time to time (for I, too, was ungoggled) I

looked round to nod and smile cheerfully at his wife. She always returned the nod, but left the smile to be

Pethel, like the good driver he was, did not talk; just drove. But as we came out on to the Rouen road he did

say that in France he always rather missed the British policetraps. "Not," he added, "that I've ever fallen into

one. But the chance that a policeman MAY at any moment dart out, and land you in a bit of a scrape does

rather add to the excitement, don't you think?" Though I answered in the tone of one to whom the chance of a

policetrap is the very salt of life, I did not inwardly like the spirit of his remark. However, I dismissed it

from my mind. The sun was shining, and the wind had dropped: it was an ideal day for motoring, and the

Norman landscape had never looked lovelier to me in its width of sober and silvery grace.

I presently felt that this landscape was not, after all, doing itself full justice. Was it not rushing rather too

quickly past? "James!" said a shrill, faint voice from behind, and gradually"Oh, darling Mother, really!"

protested another voicethe landscape slackened pace. But after a while, little by little, the landscape lost

patience, forgot its good manners, and flew faster and faster than before. The road rushed furiously beneath

us, like a river in spate. Avenues of poplars flashed past us, every tree of them on each side hissing and

swishing angrily in the draft we made. Motors going Rouenward seemed to be past as quickly as motors that

bore down on us. Hardly had I espied in the landscape ahead a chateau or other object of interest before I was

craning my neck round for a final glimpse of it as it faded on the backward horizon. An endless uphill road

was breasted and crested in a twinkling and transformed into a decline near the end of which our car leaped

straight across to the opposite ascent, and"James!" again, and again by degrees the laws of nature were

reestablished, but again by degrees revoked. I did not doubt that speed in itself was no danger; but, when the

road was about to make a sharp curve, why shouldn't Pethel, just as a matter of form, slow down slightly, and

sound a note or two of the hooter? Suppose another car werewell, that was all right: the road was clear; but

at the next turning, when our car neither slackened nor hooted and WAS for an instant full on the wrong side

of the road, I had within me a contraction which (at thought of what must have been if) lasted though all

was well. Loath to betray fear, I hadn't turned my face to Pethel. Eyes front! And how about that wagon

ahead, huge haywagon plodding with its back to us, seeming to occupy whole road? Surely Pethel would

slacken, hoot. No. Imagine a needle threaded with one swift gesture from afar. Even so was it that we shot,

between wagon and road'sedge, through; whereon, confronting us within a few yardsinches now, but we

swervedwas a cart that incredibly we grazed not as we rushed on, on. Now indeed I had turned my eyes on

Pethel's profile; and my eyes saw there that which stilled, with a greater emotion, all fear and wonder in me.

I think that for the first instant, oddly, what I felt was merely satisfaction, not hatred; for I all but asked him

whether, by not smoking today, he had got a keener edge to his thrills. I understood him, and for an instant

this sufficed me. Those pursedout lips, so queerly different from the compressed lips of the normal motorist,

and seeming, as elsewhere last night, to denote no more than pensive interest, had told me suddenly all that I

needed to know about Pethel. Here, as there,and, oh, ever so much better here than there!he could

gratify the passion that was in him. No need of any "makebelieve" here. I remembered the queer look he had

given when I asked if his gambling were always "a lifeanddeath affair." Here was the real thing, the

authentic game, for the highest stakes. And here was I, a little extra stake tossed on to the board. He had

vowed I had it in me to do "something big." Perhaps, though, there had been a touch of makebelieve about

that. I am afraid it was not before my thought about myself that my moral sense began to operate and my

hatred of Pethel set in. Put it to my credit that I did see myself as a mere detail in his villainy. You deprecate

the word "villainy"? Understand all, forgive all? No doubt. But between the acts of understanding and

forgiving an interval may sometimes be condoned. Condone it in this instance. Even at the time I gave Pethel

due credit for risking his own life, for having doubtless risked itit and none otheragain and again in the

course of his adventurous (and abstemious) life by field and flood. I was even rather touched by memory of

his insistence last night on another glass of that water which just MIGHT give him typhoid; rather touched by

memory of his unsaying that he "never" touched alcoholhe who, in point of fact, had to be ALWAYS

gambling on something or other. I gave him due credit, too, for his devotion to his daughter. But his use of

that devotion, his cold use of it to secure for himself the utmost thrill of hazard, did seem utterly abominable

And it was even more for the mother than for the daughter that I was incensed. That daughter did not know

him, did but innocently share his damnable love of chances; but that wife had for years known him at least as

well as I knew him now. Here again I gave him credit for wishing, though he didn't love her, to spare her

what he could. That he didn't love her I presumed from his indubitable willingness not to stake her in this

afternoon's game. That he never had loved herhad taken her in his precocious youth simply as a gigantic

chance against him, was likely enough. So much the more credit to him for such consideration as he showed

her, though this was little enough. He could wish to save her from being a lookeron at his game, but he

couldhe couldn't notgo on playing. Assuredly she was right in deeming him at once the strongest and

the weakest of men. "Rather a nervous woman!" I remembered an engraving that had hung in my room at

Oxford, and in scores of other rooms there: a presentment by Sir Marcus (then Mr.) Stone of a very pretty

young person in a Gainsborough hat, seated beneath an ancestral elm, looking as though she were about to

cry, and entitled "A Gambler's Wife." Mrs. Pethel was not like that. Of her there were no engravings for

undergraduate hearts to melt at. But there was one man, certainly, whose compassion was very much at her

I know not how many hair'sbreadth escapes we may have had while these thoughts passed through my

brain. I had closed my eyes. So preoccupied was I that but for the constant rush of air against my face I

might, for aught I knew, have been sitting ensconced in an armchair at home. After a while I was aware that

this rush had abated; I opened my eyes to the old familiar streets of Rouen. We were to have tea at the Hotel

d'Angleterre. What was to be my line of action? Should I take Pethel aside and say: "Swear to me, on your

word of honor as a gentleman, that you will never again touch the drivinggear, or whatever you call it, of a

motorcar. Otherwise, I shall expose you to the world. Meanwhile, we shall return to Dieppe by train"? He

might flush (for I knew him capable of flushing) as he asked me to explain. And after? He would laugh in my

face. He would advise me not to go motoring any more. He might even warn me not to go back to Dieppe in

one of those dangerous railwaytrains. He might even urge me to wait until a nice Bath chair had been sent

I heard a voice (mine, alas!) saying brightly, "Well, here we are!" I helped the ladies to descend. Tea was

ordered. Pethel refused that stimulant and had a glass of water. I had a liqueur brandy. It was evident to me

that tea meant much to Mrs. Pethel. She looked stronger after her second cup, and younger after her third.

Still, it was my duty to help her if I could. While I talked and laughed, I did not forget that. But what on earth

was I to do? I am no hero. I hate to be ridiculous. I am inveterately averse to any sort of fuss. Besides, how

was I to be sure that my own personal dread of the return journey hadn't something to do with my intention of

tackling Pethel? I rather thought it had. What this woman would dare daily because she was a mother could

not I dare once? I reminded myself of this man's reputation for invariable luck. I reminded myself that he was

What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? But I answered your question a few lines back. Enough that my

"Seen Jimmy Pethel?" he asked. "He was asking for you. Wants to see you particularly. He's in the

baccaratroom, punting, winning hand over fist, OF course. Said he'd seldom met a man he liked more than

One is always glad to be liked, and I pleaded guilty to a moment's gratification at the announcement that

Pethel liked me. But I did not go and seek him in the baccaratroom. A great character assuredly he was, but

of a kind with which (I say it at the risk of seeming priggish) I prefer not to associate.

Why he had particularly wanted to see me was made clear in a note sent by him to my room early next

morning. He wondered if I could be induced to join them in their little tour. He hoped I wouldn't think it great

cheek, his asking me. He thought it might rather amuse me to come. It would be a very great pleasure to his

wife. He hoped I wouldn't say no. Would I send a line by bearer? They would be starting at three o'clock. He

It was not too late to tackle him even now. Should I go round to his hotel? I hesitated andwell, I told you at

the outset that my last meeting with him was on the morrow of my first. I forget what I wrote to him, but am

sure that the excuse I made for myself was a good and graceful one, and that I sent my kindest regards to

Mrs. Pethel. She had not (I am sure of that, too) authorized her husband to say she would like me to come

with them. Else would not the thought of her, the pity of her, have haunted me, as it did for a very long time.

I do not know whether she is still alive. No mention is made of her in the obituary notice which awoke these

memories in me. This notice I will, however, transcribe, because it is, for all its crudeness of phraseology,

rather interesting both as an echo and as an amplification. Its title is "Death of Wealthy Aviator," and its text

Widespread regret will be felt in Leicestershire at the tragic death of Mr. James Pethel, who had long

resided there and was very popular as an allround sportsman. In recent years he had been much interested in

aviation, and had had a private aerodrome erected on his property. Yesterday afternoon he fell down dead

quite suddenly as he was returning to his house, apparently in his usual health and spirits, after descending

from a short flight which despite a strong wind he had made on a new type of aeroplane, and on which he was

accompanied by his married daughter and her infant son. It is not expected that an inquest will be necessary,

as his physician, Dr. Saunders, has certified death to be due to heartdisease, from which, it appears, the

deceased gentleman had been suffering for many years. Dr. Saunders adds that he had repeatedly warned

Thusfor I presume that his ailment had its origin in his habitsJames Pethel did not, despite that merely

pensive look of his, live his life with impunity. And by reason of that life he died. As for the manner of his

death, enough that he did die. Let not our hearts be vexed that his great luck was with him to the end.