The Lions Share | Page 3

down Regent Street, because that wasn't in any of the papers."
"You _didn't!_" Audrey protested, with a sudden dark smile.
"Yes, I did. Yes, I did. Yes, I did. And vehy tiring it was. Vehy tiring
indeed. It's quite an art to turn a barrel organ. If you don't keep going
perfectly even it makes the tune jerky. Oh! I know a bit about barrel
organs now. They smashed it all to pieces. Oh yes! All to pieces. I
spoke to the police. I said, 'Aren't you going to protect these ladies'
property?' But they didn't lift a finger."
"And weren't you arrested?"
"Me!" shrieked Miss Ingate. "Me arrested!" Then more quietly, in an
assured tone, "Oh no! I wasn't arrested. You see, as soon as the row
began I just walked away from the organ and became one of the crowd.

I'm all for them, but I wasn't going to be arrested."
Miss Ingate's sparkling eyes seemed to say: "Sylvia Pankhurst can be
arrested if she likes, and so can Mrs. Despard and Annie Kenney and
Jane Foley, or any of them. But the policeman that is clever enough to
catch Miss Ingate of Moze does not exist. And the gumption of Miss
Ingate of Moze surpasses the united gumption of all the other feminists
in England."
"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" repeated Miss Ingate with mingled
complacency, glee, passion, and sardonic tolerance of the whole
panorama of worldly existence. "The police were awful, shocking. But
I was not arrested."
"Well, I was--this morning," said Audrey in a low and poignant voice.
Miss Ingate was startled out of her mood of the detached ironic
spectator.
"What?" she frowned.
They heard a servant moving about at the foot of the stairs, and a
capped head could be seen through the interstices of the white Chinese
balustrade. The study was the only immediate refuge; Miss Ingate
advanced right into it, and Audrey pushed the door to.
"Father's given me a month's C.B."
Miss Ingate, gazing at the girl's face, saw in its quiet and yet savage
desperation the possibility that after all she might indeed be surprised
by the vagaries of human nature in the village. And her glance became
sympathetic, even tender, as well as apprehensive.
"'C.B.'? What do you mean--'C.B.'?"
"Don't you know what C.B. means?" exclaimed Audrey with scornful
superiority over the old spinster. "Confined to barracks. Father says I'm
not to go beyond the grounds for a month. And to-day's the second of

April!"
"No!"
"Yes, he does. He's given me a week, you know, before. Now it's a
month."
Silence fell.
Miss Ingate looked round at the shabby study, with its guns,
cigar-boxes, prints, books neither old nor new, japanned boxes of
documents, and general litter scattered over the voluted walnut
furniture. Her own house was old-fashioned, and she realised it was
old-fashioned; but when she came into Flank Hall, and particularly into
Mr. Moze's study, she felt as if she was stepping backwards into
history--and this in spite of the fact that nothing in the place was really
ancient, save the ceilings and the woodwork round the windows. It was
Mr. Moze's habit of mind that dominated and transmogrified the whole
interior, giving it the quality of a mausoleum. The suffragette
procession in which Miss Ingate had musically and discreetly taken
part seemed to her as she stood in Mr. Moze's changeless lair to be a
phantasm. Then she looked at the young captive animal and perceived
that two centuries may coincide on the same carpet and that time is
merely a convention.
"What you been doing?" she questioned, with delicacy.
"I took a strange man by the hand," said Audrey, choosing her words
queerly, as she sometimes did, to produce a dramatic effect.
"This morning?"
"Yes. Eight o'clock."
"What? Is there a strange man in the village?"
"You don't mean to say you haven't seen the yacht!"
"Yacht?" Miss Ingate showed some excitement.

"Come and look, Winnie," said Audrey, who occasionally thought fit to
address Miss Ingate in the manner of the elder generation. She drew
Miss Ingate to the window.
Between the brown curtains Mozewater, the broad, shallow estuary of
the Moze, was spread out glittering in the sunshine which could not get
into the chilly room. The tide was nearly at full, and the estuary looked
like a mighty harbour for great ships; but in six hours it would be
reduced to a narrow stream winding through mud flats of marvellous
ochres, greens, and pinks. In the hazy distance a fitful white flash
showed where ocean waves were breaking on a sand-bank. And in the
foreground, against a disused Hard that was a couple of hundred yards
lower down than the village Hard, a large white yacht was moored,
probably the largest yacht that