The Profiteers | Page 6

here. Roger,
you and Mr. White are disgraceful, sitting and drinking whiskies and
sodas and enjoying yourselves, when you ought to have been walking
round the gardens being properly bored."
"I came to enjoy myself and I have done so," Kendrick assured her. "To
add to my satisfaction, I have met my biggest client--at least he is my
biggest client when he feels like doing things."
"Do you feel like doing things now, Mr. Wingate?" Sarah ventured.
Maurice White held out his hands in horror.
"My dear young lady," he exclaimed, "such questions are absolutely
impossible! When a man comes on to a market, he comes on secretly.
There are plenty of people who would give you a handsome cheque to
hear Mr. Wingate's answer to that question."
"Any one may hand over the cheque, then," Wingate interposed
smilingly, "because my answer to Miss Baldwin is prompt and truthful.

I do not know."
"Of course," Lady Amesbury complained, "if you are going to
introduce a commercial element into my party--well, why don't you and
Maurice, Roger, go and dance about opposite one another, and tear up
bits of paper, and pretend to be selling one another things?--Hooray, I
can see some people beginning to move! I'll go and speed them off the
premises."
She hurried away. Sarah drew a sigh of relief.
"Somehow or other," she confessed, "I always feel a sense of
tranquility when my aunt has just departed."
Josephine rose to her feet.
"I think I shall go," she decided, "while the stock of taxicabs remains
unexhausted."
"If you will allow me," Wingate said, "I will find you one."
Their farewells were a little casual. They were all, in a way, intimates.
Only Kendrick touched Wingate on the shoulder.
"Shall I see you in the City to-morrow?" he asked.
"About eleven o'clock," Wingate suggested, "if that is not too early.
There are a few things I want to talk to you about."
"Where shall I send my card?" Sarah called out after him.
"The Milan Hotel," he replied, "with terms, please."
She made a little grimace.
"Terms!" she repeated scornfully. "An American generally pays what
he is asked."
"On the contrary," Wingate retorted, "he pays for what he gets."

"Your address?" Wingate asked, as he handed Josephine into a taxicab.
"Dredlinton House, Grosvenor Square," she answered. "You mustn't let
me take you out of your way, though."
"Will you humour me?" he asked. "There is something I want to say to
you, and I don't want to say it here. May we drive to Albert Gate and
walk in the Park a little way? I can find you another taxi the other side."
"I should like that very much," she answered.
They spoke scarcely at all during their brief drive, or during the first
part of their walk in the Park. Then he pointed to two chairs under a
tree.
"May we sit here?" he begged, leading the way.
She followed, and they sat side by side. He took off his hat and laid it
on the ground.
"So one of the dreams of my life has been realised," he said quietly. "I
have met Sister Josephine again."
She was for a moment transformed. A delicate pink flush stole through
the pallor of her cheeks, her tired eyes were lit with pleasure. She
smiled at him.
"I was wondering," she murmured. "You really hadn't forgotten, then?"
"I remember," he told her, "as though it were yesterday, the first time I
ever saw you. I was brought into Étaples. It wasn't much of a wound
but it was painful. I remember seeing you in that white stone hall, in
your cool Sister's dress. After the dust and horror of battle there seemed
to be nothing in that wonderful hospital of yours but sunlight and white
walls and soft voices. I watched your face as you listened to the details
about my case--and I forgot the pain. In the morning you came to see
how I was, and most mornings afterwards."
"I am glad that you remember," she murmured.

"I have forgotten nothing," he went on. "I think that those ten days of
convalescence out in the gardens of your villa and down by the sea
were the most wonderful days I ever spent."
"I love to hear you say so," she confessed.
"Out there," he continued, "the whole show was hideous from
beginning to end, a ghastly, terrible drama, played out amongst all the
accompaniments which make hell out of earth. And yet the thing
gripped. The tragedy of Ypres came and I escaped from the hospital."
"You were not fit to go. They all said that."
"I couldn't help it," he answered. "The guns were there, calling, and one
forgot. I've been back to England three times since then, and each