The Yellow Streak | Page 6

below the normal register which he employed
abovestairs, "the cook has had her attention drawn to it. There are
tea-cakes, sir!"
With a certain dramatic effect--for Bude was a trifle theatrical in
everything he did--he whipped the cover off a dish and displayed a
smoking pile of deliciously browned scones.
"Bude," said Trevert, "when I'm a Field Marshal, I'll see you get the
O.B.E. for this!"
The butler smiled a nicely regulated three-by-one smile, a little
deprecatory as was his wont. Then, like a tank taking a corner, he
wheeled majestically and turned to cross the lounge. To reach the green
baize door leading to the servants' quarters he had to cross the outer
hall from which led corridors on the right and left. That on the right led

to the billiard-room; that on the left to the big drawing-room with the
library beyond.
As Bude reached the great screen of tooled Spanish leather which
separated a corner of the lounge from the outer hall, Robin Greve came
hastily through the glass door of the corridor leading from the
billiard-room. The butler with a pleasant smile drew back a little to
allow the young man to pass, thinking he was going into the lounge for
tea.
"Tea is ..." he began, but abruptly ended the sentence on catching sight
of the young man's face. For Robin, habitually so self-possessed,
looked positively haggard. His face was set and there was a weary look
in his eyes. The young man appeared so utterly different from his
wonted self that Bude fairly stared at him.
But Robin, without paying the least attention either to the butler or to
the sound of voices in the lounge, strode across the outer hall and
disappeared through the glass door of the corridor leading to the great
drawing-room and the library.
Bude stood an instant gazing after him in perplexity, then moved across
the hall to the servants' quarters.
In the meantime in the lounge the little doctor snapped the case of his
watch and opined that he wanted his tea.
"Where on earth has everybody got to? What's become of Lady
Margaret? I haven't seen her since lunch...."
That lady answered his question by appearing in person.
Lady Margaret was tall and hard and glittering. Like so many
Englishwomen of good family, she was so saturated with the traditions
of her class that her manner was almost indistinguishable from that of a
man. Well-mannered, broadminded, wholly cynical, and absolutely
fearless, she went through life exactly as though she were following a
path carefully taped out for her by a suitably instructed Providence.

Somewhere beneath the mask of smiling indifference she presented so
bravely to a difficult world, she had a heart, but so carefully did she
hide it that Horace had only discovered it on a certain grey November
morning when he had started out for the first time on active service. For
ever afterwards a certain weighing-machine at Waterloo Station, by
which he had had a startling vision of his mother standing with heaving
bosom and tear-stained face, possessed in his mind the attributes of
some secret and sacred shrine.
But now she was cool and well-gowned and self-contained as ever.
"What a perfectly dreadful day!" she exclaimed in her pleasant,
well-bred voice. "Horace, you must positively go and see Henry
What's-his-name in the Foreign Office and get me a passport for
Cannes. The weather in England in the winter is incredibly
exaggerated!"
"At least," said the doctor, rubbing his back as he warmed himself at
the fire, "we have fuel in England. Give me England, climate and all,
but don't take away my fire. The sun doesn't shine on the Riviera at
night, you know!"
Lady Margaret busied herself at the tea-table with its fine Queen Anne
silver and dainty yellow cups. It was the custom at Harkings to serve
tea in the winter without other illumination than the light of the great
log-fire that spat and leaped in the open hearth. Beyond the semi-circle
of ruddy light the great lounge was all in darkness, and beyond that
again was the absolute stillness of the English country on a winter's
evening.
And so with a gentle clatter of teacups and the accompaniment of
pleasantly modulated voices they sat and chatted--Lady Margaret, who
was always surprising in what she said, the doctor who was incredibly
opinionated, and young Trevert, who like all of the younger generation
was daringly flippant. He was airing his views on what he called
"Boche music" when he broke off and cried:
"Hullo, here's Mary! Mary, you owe me half a crown. Bude has come

up to scratch and there are tea-cakes after ... but, I say, what on earth's
the matter?"
The girl had come into the room and was standing in the