The Simpkins Plot | Page 2

minutes before. He was now anxious to
abase himself before the lady at the bookstall.
"I sincerely beg your pardon," he said. "I should not have dreamed for a
moment of intruding myself on you if I had known. I ought to have
recognised you. I can't understand--"
The lady laid down the book she held in her hand, and turned her back
on Sir Gilbert. She crossed the platform, and entered a carriage without
looking back. Sir Gilbert stood stiff and awkward beside the bookstall.
"It's a most extraordinary likeness," he muttered. "I can't understand
why I didn't notice it before. I can't have ever really looked at her."
Then, avoiding the carriage which the lady had entered, he walked
further along the platform. He was much less self-assertive in his
progress. He threaded his way instead of elbowing it through the crowd.
The most fragile peeress might have jostled him, and he would not
have resented it.
"Uncle Gilbert! Is that you? I was afraid you were going to be late."

The judge turned quickly. A lady, another lady, leaned out of the
window of a first-class compartment and greeted him. He stared at her.
The likeness was less striking now when he looked at his niece's full
face; but it was there, quite unmistakable; a sufficient excuse for the
blunder he had made.
"Ah, Milly," he said; "you really are Milly, aren't you? I've just had a
most extraordinary encounter with your double. It's a most remarkable
coincidence; quite the thing for one of your novels. By the way, how's
the new one getting on?"
"Which one? I'm just correcting a set of proofs, and I'm deep in the plot
of another. That's what's taking me over to Ireland. I thought I'd told
you."
"Yes, yes; local colour you said in your letter. Studying the wild
Hibernian on his native soil; but really, Milly, when you've heard my
story you won't want to go to Ireland for wild improbabilities. But I
can't tell you now. There isn't time. We'll meet in
Bally-what-do-you-call-it next week."
"And you'll stay with me, Uncle Gilbert, won't you? The house I've
taken appears to be a perfect barrack. According to the agent, there are
any amount of spare bedrooms."
"No," said the judge; "I've taken rooms at the hotel. The fact is, Milly,
when I'm fishing I like to rough it a bit. Besides, I should only be in
your way. You'll be working tremendously hard."
Neither excuse expressed Sir Gilbert's real reason for refusing his
niece's invitation. He did not like roughing it, and he did not think it the
least likely that his presence in the house would interfere with her work.
On the contrary, her work was likely to interfere with his comfort. He
was fond of his niece, but he disliked her habit of reading passages
from her MSS. aloud in the evenings. She was very much absorbed in
her novel-writing, and took her work with a seriousness which struck
the judge as ridiculous.

"I'll dine with you occasionally," he said, "but I shall put up at the hotel.
By the way, Milly, am I your tenant or are you mine? I left all the
arrangements in your hands."
"I took the house and the fishing," she said. "The agent man wouldn't
let one without the other; but you have to pay most of the rent. The
salmon are the really valuable part of the property, it appears."
"All right," said Sir Gilbert; "so long as the fishing is good I won't
quarrel with you over my share of the rent. The house would only have
been a nuisance to me. I should have had to bring over servants, and
that would have worried your aunt. Ah! Your time's up, I see.
Good-bye, Milly, good-bye. Take care of yourself, and don't get mixed
up with shady people in your search for originality. I'll start this day
week as soon as ever I get your aunt settled down at Bournemouth."
Millicent King, Sir Gilbert Hawkesby's niece, was a young woman of
some little importance in the world. The patrons of the circulating
libraries knew her as Ena Dunkeld, and shook their heads over her. The
gentlemen who add to the meagre salaries they earn in Government
offices by writing reviews knew her under both her names, for no
literary secrets are hid from them. They praised her novels publicly,
and in private yawned over her morality. Many people, her aunt Lady
Hawkesby among them, very strongly disapproved of her novels.
Certain problems, so these ladies maintained, ought to be discussed
only in scientific books, labelled "poison" for the safety of the public,
and ought never to be discussed at all by young women. Millicent King,
rendered obstinate by these criticisms, plunged