Septimus | Page 8

heart beat gladly. But chaste women, like
children, know instinctively the man they can trust.
"Shall we?"
"Drive?"
"Yes--unless--" a thought suddenly striking her--"unless you want to go
back to your friends."
"Good Lord!" said he, aghast, as if she were accusing him of criminal
associations. "I have no friends."
"Then come."
She entered the carriage. He followed meekly and sat beside her.
Where should they drive? The cabman suggested the coast road to
Mentone. She agreed. On the point of starting she observed that her
companion was bare-headed.
"You've forgotten your hat."
She spoke to him as she would have done to a child.
"Why bother about hats?"

"You'll catch your death of cold. Go and get it at once."
He obeyed with a docility which sent a little tingle of exaltation
through Mrs. Middlemist. A woman may have an inordinate antipathy
to men, but she loves them to do her bidding. Zora was a woman; she
was also young.
He returned. The cabman whipped up his strong pair of horses, and
they started through the town towards Mentone.
Zora lay back on the cushions and drank in the sensuous loveliness of
the night--the warm, scented air, the velvet and diamond sky, the
fragrant orange groves--the dim, mysterious olive trees, the looming
hills, the wine-colored, silken sea, with its faint edging of lace on the
dusky sweep of the bay. The spirit of the South overspread her with its
wings and took her amorously in its arms.
After a long, long silence she sighed, remembering her companion.
"Thank you for not talking," she said softly.
"Don't," he replied. "I had nothing to say. I never talk. I've scarcely
talked for a year."
She laughed idly.
"Why?"
"No one to talk to. Except my man," he added conscientiously. "His
name is Wiggleswick."
"I hope he looks after you well," said Zora, with a touch of maternal
instinct.
"He wants training. That's what I am always telling him. But he can't
hear. He's seventy and stone-deaf. But he's interesting. He tells me
about jails and things."
"Jails?"

"Yes. He spent most of his time in prison. He was a professional
burglar--but then he got on in years. Besides, the younger generation
was knocking at the door."
"I thought that was the last thing a burglar would do," said Zora.
"They generally use jemmies," he said gravely. "Wiggleswick has
given me his collection. They're very useful."
"What for?" she asked.
"To kill moths with," he replied dreamily.
"But what made you take a superannuated burglar for a valet?"
"I don't know. Perhaps it was Wiggleswick himself. He came up to me
one day as I was sitting in Kensington Gardens, and somehow followed
me home."
"But, good gracious," cried Zora--forgetful for the moment of stars and
sea--"aren't you afraid that he will rob you?"
"No. I asked him, and he explained. You see, it would be out of his line.
A forger only forges, a pickpocket only snatches chains and purses, and
a burglar only burgles. Now, he couldn't burgle the place in which he
was living himself, so I am safe."
Zora gave him sage counsel.
"I'd get rid of him if I were you."
"If I were you, I would--but I can't," he replied. "If I told him to go he
wouldn't. I go instead sometimes. That's why I'm here."
"If you go on talking like that, you'll make my brain reel," said Zora
laughing. "Do tell me something about yourself. What is your name?"
"Septimus Dix. I've got another name--Ajax--Septimus Ajax Dix--but I
never use it."

"That's a pity," said Zora. "Ajax is a lovely name."
He dissented in his vague fashion. "Ajax suggests somebody who
defies lightning and fools about with a spear. It's a silly name. A
maiden aunt persuaded my mother to give it to me. I think she mixed it
up with Achilles. She admired the statue in Hyde Park. She got run
over by a milkcart."
"When was that?" she inquired, more out of politeness than interest in
the career of Mr. Dix's maiden aunt.
"A minute before she died."
"Oh," said Zora, taken aback by the emotionless manner in which he
mentioned the tragedy. Then, by way of continuing the conversation:--
"Why are you called Septimus?"
"I'm the seventh son. All the others died young. I never could make out
why I didn't."
"Perhaps," said Zora with a laugh, "you were thinking of something
else at the time and lost the opportunity."
"It must have been that," said he. "I lose opportunities just as I always
lose trains."
"How do you manage to get anywhere?"
"I wait for the next train. That's easy. But there's never another
opportunity."
He drew a cigarette from his case, put it in his mouth, and fumbled in
his pockets for