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NET Wireless Programming 1st Edition Mark Ridgeway
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Mark Ridgeway
ISBN(s): 9780782129755, 0782129757
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 13.80 MB
Year: 2002
Language: english
.NET Wireless
Programming

Mark Ridgeway

SYBEX®
.NET Wireless
Programming
This page intentionally left blank
.NET Wireless
Programming
Mark Ridgeway

San Francisco • London

Associate Publisher: Richard Mills
Acquisitions and Developmental Editor: Denise Santoro Lincoln
Editors: Brianne Hope Agatep, Susan Berge, Jim Gabbert, Joseph Webb
Production Editor: Leslie E.H. Light
Technical Editors: Robert (Bob) Laberge and Srdjan Vujosevic
Graphic Illustrator: Tony Jonick
Electronic Publishing Specialist: Judy Fung
Proofreaders: Laurie O’Connell, Yariv Rabinovitch
Indexer: Jack Lewis
Cover Designer: Carol Gorska/Gorska Design
Cover Photographer: Tony Stone

Copyright © 2002 SYBEX Inc., 1151 Marina Village Parkway, Alameda, CA 94501. World rights reserved. The author(s) created reusable
code in this publication expressly for reuse by readers. Sybex grants readers limited permission to reuse the code found in this publication or
its accompanying website so long as author is attributed in any application containing the reusable code and the code itself is never distri-
buted, posted online by electronic transmission, sold, or commercially exploited as a stand-alone product. Aside from this specific exception
concerning reusable code, no part of this publication may be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or reproduced in any way, including
but not limited to photocopy, photograph, magnetic, or other record, without the prior agreement and written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Card Number: 2001096242

ISBN: 0-7821-2975-7

SYBEX and the SYBEX logo are either registered trademarks or trademarks of SYBEX Inc. in the United States and/or other countries.

Openwave, the Openwave logo, and UP.SDK are trademarks of Openwave Systems Inc. All rights reserved.

Netscape Communications, the Netscape Communications logo, Netscape, and Netscape Navigator are trademarks of Netscape Commu-
nications Corporation.

Netscape Communications Corporation has not authorized, sponsored, endorsed, or approved this publication and is not responsible for its
content. Netscape and the Netscape Communications Corporate Logos are trademarks and trade names of Netscape Communications
Corporation. All other product names and/or logos are trademarks of their respective owners.

Internet screen shot(s) using Microsoft Internet Explorer 6 reprinted by permission from Microsoft Corporation.

TRADEMARKS: SYBEX has attempted throughout this book to distinguish proprietary trademarks from descriptive terms by following
the capitalization style used by the manufacturer.

The author and publisher have made their best efforts to prepare this book, and the content is based upon final release software whenever
possible. Portions of the manuscript may be based upon pre-release versions supplied by software manufacturer(s). The author and the pub-
lisher make no representation or warranties of any kind with regard to the completeness or accuracy of the contents herein and accept no
liability of any kind including but not limited to performance, merchantability, fitness for any particular purpose, or any losses or damages
of any kind caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly from this book.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the two most important people in my life:
my wife, Marian, and our son, Tyler.
Acknowledgements

any people have contributed to this book along the way. To the good people at Sybex,
M thank you for your ideas, support, and guidance. In particular, thank you to Denise
Santoro Lincoln, who originally suggested the book and got the whole project off the
ground. Thank you also to Leslie Light and Brianne Agatep, who have guided the project
through to completion, gently repaired my many grammatical mistakes, and helped entire
paragraphs make sense. I must also thank Joe Webb, Jim Gabbert, and Susan Berge from
Sybex for doing some of the editorial work on various chapters.
I would also like to thank the various people who have lent their technical expertise in sug-
gesting things I have overlooked, picking up any errors, and making sure that what I have
written about will actually work. In particular: Bob LaBerge, Srdjan Vujosevic, and Michael
Bruce—I would be in trouble without you!
I must also thank the many people at Microsoft who helped out with advice, suggestions,
and technical support at various points along the way. And a big thank you to the various
members of the mobile/wireless developers community—a rapidly growing brood who are
always willing to help each other out with ideas, suggestions, and specialized knowledge.
Finally, I must thank my family for their love, tolerance, and support. I wouldn’t have gotten
there without you.
 Contents at a Glance

Introduction xix

Part I Microsoft .NET: The Overview

Chapter 1: What Is .NET? 3

Chapter 2: Microsoft’s End-to-End Mobile Strategy 13

Part II Mobile Wireless Technologies

Chapter 3: Wireless Overview 27

Chapter 4: An Example of Mobile Technology: WAP and WML 45

Chapter 5: Designing for the Mobile Web 81

Part III Introducing .NET Mobile

Chapter 6: Getting Started with the Mobile Internet Toolkit 97

Chapter 7: The Runtime Controls 123

Chapter 8: A Deeper Look at the Mobile Internet Toolkit and VB .NET 157

Part IV Using the Mobile Internet Toolkit

Chapter 9: Data Access with the Mobile Internet Toolkit, Part 1(List Controls) 189

Chapter 10: Data Access with the Mobile Internet Toolkit, Part 2 219

Chapter 11: Using Styles and Templates in the Mobile Internet Toolkit 267

Chapter 12: Creating Custom Controls 287

Chapter 13: Customizing the Device Adapters 303

Chapter 14: Using XML Web Services to Build Distributed Applications 309

Chapter 15: Building Performance Applications 329

Part V Building Applications with the Mobile Internet Toolkit
Chapter 16: Sample Mobile Website: My Computer Shop 339

Chapter 17: The HomeLoanCalculator 371

Chapter 18: MyTipple: A Wine Lover’s Portal 399

Chapter 19: Morris’s Wholesale Fruit & Vege: A Mobile Intranet 437

Chapter 20: MyNewContacts: MyContacts Revisited 479

Chapter 21: RockPaperScissors: An Online Game 515

Appendices
Appendix A: Class Listing for the Mobile Internet Toolkit 533

Appendix B: WML Language Reference 539

Appendix C: Internet References 547

Index 551
 Contents

Introduction xix

Part I Microsoft .NET: The Overview 1

Chapter 1 What Is .NET? 3

The .NET Framework 6
Visual Studio .NET 6
SOAP 8
The Mobile Internet Toolkit 9
Summary 11

Chapter 2 Microsoft’s End-to-End Mobile Strategy 13

Understanding Microsoft’s Mobile Strategy 14
Components of Microsoft’s Mobile Strategy 16
Stinger Mobile Phone 17
Microsoft Mobile Explorer 18
Microsoft Mobile Information 2001 Server 19
Pocket PC 20
Handheld PC 21
Windows-Embedded Operating Systems 21
My Internet 23
Summary 24

Part II Mobile Wireless Technologies 25

Chapter 3 Wireless Overview 27

The Mobile Internet 28
The “G” Factors! 30
Current Services 31
x Contents

WAP (Wireless Application Protocol) 31

i-Mode 34
HDML 37
SMS 39
Bluetooth 41
Summary 43

Chapter 4 An Example of Mobile Technology: WAP and WML 45

Getting Started: Tools of the Trade 47
Setting Up: MIME Types and Servers 49
PWS 50
Setting MIME Types in PWS 52
Testing PWS 53
Internet Information Server 5.0 (IIS) 53
Setting Up IIS 55
Setting MIME Types in IIS 55
What Is WML? 56
Simple WML 60
Working with Images in WAP 64
Serving Dynamic WML Using ASP 65
Simple ASP 66
Using Advanced WAP 75
Push Technology 75
User Identification 76
Location-Based Services 76
WML Script 77
Overcoming Some Implementation Issues 77
Redirects 77
Protocol and Device Detection 78
Summary 80

Chapter 5 Designing for the Mobile Web 81

Appropriate Content for Mobile Sites 82
Twelve Tips for Application Design 85
Example Application: The Megapolis Civic Entertainment Guide 86
Technical Aspects to Consider 89
 Contents xi

Mobile and Web: Can They Coexist? 91

Summary 93

Part III Introducing .NET Mobile 95

Chapter 6 Getting Started with the Mobile Internet Toolkit 97

Checking System Requirements 98
Introducing the Microsoft Mobile Internet Toolkit 99
Obtaining the Toolkit 99
Toolkit Contents 100
Toolkit Overview 100
The Microsoft Mobile Explorer Content Toolkit 102
Obtaining the Toolkit 103
Using the Toolkit with Visual Studio .NET 103
Supported Devices 105
Getting Started 106
The Toolbox 108
The Mobile Web Form Designer 108
The Properties Window 110
Testing the Application with the Emulators 111
Building a Simple Two-Card Deck 113
Using Code Behind 118
Summary 121

Chapter 7 The Runtime Controls 123

Introducing the Control Categories 125
Container Controls 127
The Form Control 127
The Panel Control 128
Standard Controls 129
The AdRotator Control 129
The Calendar Control 132
The Command Control 132
The Image Control 133
The Label Control 135
The Link Control 135
xii Contents

The PhoneCall Control 135

The TextBox Control 136
The TextView Control 137
List Controls 138
The List Control 139
The ObjectList Control 139
The SelectionList Control 139
Validation Controls 139
The CompareValidator Control 140
The CustomValidator Control 143
The RangeValidator Control 145
The RegularExpressionValidator Control 147
The RequiredFieldValidator Control 147
The ValidationSummary Control 148
Special Controls 150
The DeviceSpecific Control 150
The StyleSheet Control 153
Summary 154

Chapter 8 A Deeper Look at the Mobile Internet Toolkit and VB .NET 157
Components of a .NET Mobile Project 159
Exploring Extensibility 162
What’s New in Visual Basic .NET 162
How Does My Code Compile Under .NET? 166
Can I Port My Existing Code Over to .NET? 167
Differences between ASP.NET and .NET Mobile Web Forms 168
Looking at the Web.config, Global.asax, and AssemblyInfo.vb Files 169
The Web.config File 170
The Global.asax/asax.vb Files 173
The AssemblyInfo.vb File 174
<Assembly: AssemblyVersion(“1.0.*”)> Debugging Our Projects 175
Dynamic Debugging 175
Application-Level Tracing 177
Custom Error Pages 178
Handling Cookies and State Management 179
Cookies 180
 Contents xiii

Hidden Variables 181

State Management 181
Managing Device Cache and Redirects 182
Managing Device Cache 182
Managing Redirects 183
Working with Pagination 183
Ensuring Security with the Mobile Internet Toolkit 185
Summary 187

Part IV Using the Mobile Internet Toolkit 187

Chapter 9 Data Access with the Mobile Internet Toolkit, Part 1 (List Controls) 189
Data Binding and the Mobile Internet Toolkit 190
What’s New in ADO.NET? 191
Using the List Control 191
Creating a Static List Using the Items Property 192
Connecting the List Control to a Database 193
Connecting the List Control to an Array 201
Using the ObjectList Control 204
Connecting the ObjectList Control to a Database 204
Setting Up Custom Fields 208
Using the SelectionList Control 210
Paginating a List 214
Summary 216

Chapter 10 Data Access with the Mobile Internet Toolkit, Part 2 219
Setting Up MyContacts 220
The Database 220
Building the Project 221
Accessing Data from DataSets 222
Using a DataView Object to Access Data from a DataSet 229
Customizing the Displayed Text in a List Control 232
Using the DataReader to Access Data 234
Summary of Data Access 236
Modifying Data 236
xiv Contents

Adding a Record via a DataSet 237

Setting Up MyContacts 237
Code for Inserting a New Record 239
Adding a Record Directly 242
Deleting a Record via a DataSet 246
Setting Up MyContacts for Record Deletion 246
Setting Up the Delete Command 248
Deleting a Record Directly 249
Setting Up MyContactsDR for Deleting a Record 249
Updating a Record via a DataSet 251
Updating a Record Directly 252
Full Code Listing for MyContacts 252
Full Code Listing for MyContactsDR 259
Summary 264

Chapter 11 Using Styles and Templates in the Mobile Internet Toolkit 267
Using Styles with the MIT Revisited 268
Creating an External Style Sheet 269
Using Template Sets in Style Sheets 272
Using MobileCapabilities 276
Adding Device Filters 285
Summary 286

Chapter 12 Creating Custom Controls 287

Customizing Controls 288
Creating User Controls 288
Using Inheritance to Create a Custom Control 292
Creating a Composite Control 295
Using Device-Specific Controls That Behave Differently
for Different Devices 301
Building Your Own Original Control 301
Summary 301

Chapter 13 Customizing the Device Adapters 303

Locating the Adapters 304
Compiling the Adapters 305
 Contents xv

Deploying the Modified Adapters in a Project 306

Modifying Web.config 307
Summary 308

Chapter 14 Using XML Web Services to Build Distributed Applications 309

Creating a Simple XML Web Service 310
Building the Database 311
Building the XML Web Service 311
Consuming an XML Web Service 316
Web-Service Directories 318
Using the Add Web Reference Dialog 320
The Discovery Files 322
The SOAP Toolkit 327
Summary 328

Chapter 15 Building Performance Applications 329

Caching Output 330
Caching Portions of a Mobile Web Page 331
Session Management 331
Session Variables 332
Application Variables 332
Disabling Session State 332
Using ViewState 333
Additional Performance Hints 333
Page.IsPostback 333
Exception Handling 334
Data Connections 334
Disable Debug Mode 334
Code Behind vs. HTML View 335
Summary 335

Part V Building Applications with the Mobile Internet Toolkit 337

Chapter 16 Sample Mobile Website: My Computer Shop 339

Using a Naming Convention 340
Rationale 340
xvi Contents

Planning the Application 341

Proposed Deck and Card Layout 341
The Database 342
The User Control 343
Creating a WBMP Image 343
Building the User Control 344
Mobile Web Page 1 345
Mobile Web Page 2 347
Mobile Web Page 3 360
Finishing Touches 361
Running the Application 361
Some Considerations 366
Full ASPX Code 366
Summary 370

Chapter 17 The HomeLoanCalculator 371

Rationale 372
Planning the Application 372
WebServiceHomeLoanCalc 372
HomeLoanCalculator 373
The XML Web Service: WebServiceHomeLoanCalc 374
The Mobile Web Page 378
The Code Behind 384
Finishing Touches 391
Running the Application 391
Full ASPX Code Listing 394
Summary 397

Chapter 18 MyTipple: A Wine Lover’s Portal 399

Rationale 401
Planning the Application 402
Creating the Database 404
Setting Up the Images 408
Writing the User Control 409
Setting Up the AdRotator 410
Setting Up the Mobile Web Page 412
 Contents xvii

Writing the Code Behind 419

Finishing Touches 429
Running the Application 429
Further Enhancements 433
Full ASPX Listing 433
Summary 435

Chapter 19 Morris’s Wholesale Fruit & Vege: A Mobile Intranet 437

Rationale 438
Planning the Application 439
Building the Database 440
Creating the Mobile Web Page 443
Writing the Code Behind 456
Finishing Touches 466
Expanding and Enhancing the Application 466
Running the Application 467
Full ASPX Code Listing 471
Summary 477

Chapter 20 MyNewContacts: MyContacts Revisited 479

Rationale 480
Planning the Application 480
Building the Database 481
Creating the Login Page 487
Creating the Mobile Web Page 492
Writing the Code Behind 501
Finishing Touches 507
Expanding and Enhancing the Application 508
Running the Application 508
Full ASPX Code Listing for MobileWebForm1 510
Summary 513

Chapter 21 RockPaperScissors: An Online Game 515

Rationale 516
Planning the Application 516
Creating the Images 517
xviii Contents

Creating the Mobile Web Page 518

Writing the Code Behind 522
Finishing Touches 526
Running the Application 527
Full ASPX Code Listing 530
Summary 531
Conclusion 532

Appendices 533

Appendix A Class Listing for the Mobile Internet Toolkit 533

Appendix B WML Language Reference 539

Appendix C Internet References 547

Index 551
Introduction

he lights in the crowded theatre had dimmed and the spotlight was focused on the
T Microsoft evangelists doing their thing on the stage. I had settled a little into my seat
amongst the audience and closed my eyes, waiting for the third coffee of the day to kick in.
All of a sudden, I heard the guy in a suit next to me straighten up in his seat and mutter,
“Amazing!” It was his first introduction to the power of mobile, wireless technologies, and
he instantly reminded me (who had been playing with the technology for the past 18 months)
of just how serendipitous that experience can be.
Imagine all your data, all your applications, and all your work available simultaneously
from a cell phone, a laptop, and a desktop computer. Imagine that your cell phone can be
used as a pocket or handheld PC. Access your organization’s Intranet and obtain information
from the Internet anytime, any place.
The Microsoft evangelists demonstrated an e-commerce system where they placed an
order over the Internet and then used a wireless Pocket PC to process the order at the ware-
house level. A confirmation of the order was sent to the client’s cell phone by the system.
The system just seemed to make so much sense that the guy in the suit muttered to him-
self, “Why aren’t we doing this now?” Around the whole theatre, this sense of excitement
rose as the rest of the demonstration unfolded. Never mind how all of this was supposed to
work—most of these people were playing at the management level and when they get excited
by an idea they expect to be able to point to others and say, “Make it happen.”
But Microsoft did not leave us hanging; they then introduced the next generation technol-
ogy that could help build a total end-to-end solution. Microsoft is by no means the first to
offer powerful tools for developing mobile, wireless applications. However, their .NET tech-
nologies offer possibilities for cross-platform solutions that extend the notion of computing
far beyond where we are today.
With this simple demonstration, Microsoft had succeeded in inspiring another generation
of management with a vision of the long-term, strategic possibilities for their IT budgets.
And for those of us who love to play at the cutting edge of technology, we thrive on new
ideas and exploring new possibilities, and we are more than happy to be the ones that are told
to “make it happen.”
If you haven’t been here before, welcome to the world of wireless and mobile connectivity.
This book that you hold in your hands now is about how to create interactive and dynamic
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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"I don't know what you mean now," he said, "about not wanting me
to help you, but you did say that the other day and you must take
the consequences. I don't want to help you in any way, of course,
that you don't want to be helped, but I am sure there is something I
can do for you. And in any case I'm going on coming to see you until
I'm stopped by physical force—even then I'm going on coming."
"I'll tell you this," she said suddenly. "I don't want you to come
because mother wants you to, and every one whom mother wants
me to like is horrid. Why does she want you to come?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Henry, surprised. "She can't know
anything about me at all."
"She does. She's found out in these two days. She said yesterday
afternoon she wondered you hadn't come, and then this morning
again."
Henry said: "Won't you take me as I am? Your mother doesn't know
me. I want to be your friend. I've wanted to from the first moment I
saw you in Piccadilly Circus."
"In Piccadilly Circus?"
"Yes. That's where I first saw you the other afternoon and I followed
you here."
That seemed to her of no importance. "Friend?" she said frowning
and staring in front of her. "I don't like that word. Two or three have
wanted to be friends. I won't have friends. I won't have anybody. I'd
rather be alone."
"I can't hurt you," said Henry very simply. "Why every one laughs at
me, even my sister who's very fond of me. They won't laugh, one
day, of course, but you see how it is. There's always ink on my nose,
or I tumble down when I want to do something important. You'd
have thought the army would have changed that, but it didn't."
She smiled then. "No, you don't look as though you'd hurt anybody.
But I don't want to trust people. It only means you're disappointed
again."
"You can't be disappointed in me," Henry said earnestly. "Because
I'm just what you see. Please let me come and see you. I want it
more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
They both heard then steps on the stair. They stopped and listened.
The room was at once ominous, alarmed.
Henry felt danger approaching, as though he could see beyond the
door with his eyes and found on the stair some dark shape,
undefined and threatening. The steps came nearer and ceased. Two
were there listening on the other side of the door as two were
listening within the room.
He felt the girl's fear and that suddenly stiffened his own courage. It
was almost ludicrous then when the door opened and revealed the
stout Mrs. Tenssen, clothed now in light orange and with her an old
man.
Henry saw at once that however eagerly she had hitherto expected
him she was not easy at his presence just now. His further glance at
the old man showed him at once an enemy for life. In any case he
did not like old men. The War had carried him with the rest upon the
swing of that popular cry "Every one over seventy to the lethal
chamber."
Moreover, he personally knew no old men, which made the cry much
simpler. This old man was not over seventy, he might indeed be still
under sixty, but his small peak of a white beard, his immaculate
clothing and his elegantly pointed patent leather shoes were
sufficient for Henry. Immaculate old men! How dared they wear
anything but sackcloth and ashes?
Mrs. Tenssen, whose orange garments shone with ill-temper, shook
hands with Henry as though she expected him instantly to say:
"Well, I must be going now," but he found himself with an admirable
pugnacity and defiant resolve.
"I called as I said I would," he observed pleasantly. "And I came in
by the door and not by the window," he added, laughing.
She murmured something, but did not attempt to introduce him to
her companion.
He meanwhile had advanced with rather mincing steps to the girl,
was bowing over her hand and then to Henry's infinite disgust was
kissing it. Then Henry forgot all else in his adoration of the girl. He
will never forget, to the end of whatever life that may be granted
him, the picture that she made at that moment, standing in the
garish, overlighted room, like a queen in her aloofness from them
all, from everything that life could offer if that room, that old man,
that woman were truly typical of its gifts. "It wasn't only," Henry said
afterwards to Peter, "that she was beautiful. Millie's beautiful—more
beautiful I suppose than Christina. But Millie is flesh and blood. You
can believe that she has toothache. But it was like a spell, a
witchery. The beastly old man himself felt it. As though he had tried
to step on to sacred ground and was thrown back on to common
earth again. By gad, Peter, you don't know how stupid he suddenly
looked—and how beastly! She's remote, a vision—not perhaps for
any one to touch—ever . . .!"
"That," said Peter, "is because you're in love with her—and Millie's
your sister."
"No, there's more than that. It may be partly because she's a
foreigner—but you'd feel the same if you saw her. Her remoteness,
as though the farther towards her you moved the farther away she'd
be. Always in the distance and knowing that you can come no
nearer. And yet if she knew that really she wouldn't be so frightened
as she is. . . ."
"It's all because you're so young, Henry," Peter ended up.
But young or no Henry just then wasn't very happy. The old man
with his shrill voice and his ironic, almost cynical determination to be
pleased with everything that any one did or said (it came, maybe,
from a colossal and patronizing arrogance)—reminded Henry of the
old "nicky-nacky" Senator in Otway's Venice Preserved which he had
once seen performed by some amateur society. He remained entirely
unclouded by Mrs. Tenssen's obvious boredom and ill-temper, moods
so blatantly displayed that Henry in spite of himself was crushed.
The girl showed no signs of any further interest in the company.
Mrs. Tenssen sat at the table, picking her teeth with a toothpick and
saying, "Indeed!" or "Well I never!" in an abstracted fashion when
the old man's pauses seemed to demand something. Her bold eyes
moved restlessly round the room, pausing upon things as though
she hated them and sometimes upon Henry who was standing,
indeterminately, first on one foot and then on another. Something
the old man said seemed suddenly to rouse her:
"Well, that's not fair, Mr. Leishman—it's not indeed. That's as good as
saying that you think I'm mean—it is indeed. Oh, yes, it is. You can
accuse me of many things—I'm not perfect—but meanness! Well you
ask my friends. You ask my friend Mrs. Armstrong who's known me
as long as any one has—almost from the cradle you might say.
Mean! You ask her. Why, only the other day, the day Mr. Prothero
was here and that young nephew of his, she said, 'Of all the
generous souls on this earth, for real generosity and no half-and-half
about it, you give me Katie Tenssen.' Of course, she's a friend as you
might say and partial perhaps—but still that's what she said and
——"
The old man had been trying again and again to interrupt this flood.
At last, because Mrs. Tenssen was forced to take a breath, he broke
in:
"No. No. Indeed not. Dear, dear, what a mistake! The last thing I
was suggesting."
"Well, I hope so, I'm sure." The outburst over, Mrs. Tenssen relapsed
into teeth-picking again.
Henry saw that there was nothing more to be got from the situation
just then.
"I must be going," he said. "Important engagement."
Mrs. Tenssen shook him by the hand. She regarded him with a wider
amiability now that he was departing.
"Come and see us again," she said. "Any afternoon almost."
By the door he turned, and suddenly the girl, from the far end of the
room, smiled. It was a smile of friendship, of reassurance and, best
of all, of intimacy.
Under the splendour of it he felt the blood rush to his head, his eyes
were dimmed, he stumbled down the stairs, the happiest creature in
London.

The smile accompanied him for the rest of that day, through the
night, and into the Duncombe library next morning. That morning
was not an easy one for Henry. He arrived with the stern
determination to work his very hardest and before the luncheon bell
sounded to reduce at least some of the letters to discipline and
sobriety. Extraordinary the personal life that those letters seemed to
possess! You would suppose that they did not wish to be made into
a book, or at any rate, if that had to be, that they did not wish the
compiler of the work to be Henry. They slipped from under his
fingers, hid themselves, deprived him of dates just when he most
urgently needed them, gave him Christian names when he must
have surnames, and were sometimes so old and faded and yellow
that it was impossible to make anything out of them at all.
Sir Charles had as yet shown no sign. Of what he was thinking it was
impossible to guess. He had not yet given Henry any private letters
to write, and the first experiment on the typewriter was still to be
made. One day soon he would spring, and with his long nose
hanging over the little tattered, disordered piles on Henry's table
would peer and finger and examine: Henry knew that that moment
was approaching and that he must have something ready, but this
morning he could not concentrate. The plunge into life had been too
sudden. The girl was with him in the room, standing just a little way
from him smiling at him. . . .
And behind her again there were Millie and the Platts, and Peter and
the three Graces, and the Romantic Novel and even Mr. King—and
behind these again all London with its banging, clattering, booming
excitement, the omnibuses running, the flags flying, the Bolshevists
with their plots, and the shops with their jewels and flowers, the
actors and actresses rehearsing in the theatres, the messenger boys
running with messages, the policemen standing with hands
outstretched, the newspapers announcing the births and the deaths
and the marriages, D'Annunzio in Fiume, the Poles in Warsaw
fighting for their lives, the Americans in New York drinking secretly in
little back bedrooms and the sun rising and setting all over the place
at an incredible speed.
It was of no use to say that Henry had nothing to do with any of
these things. He might have something to do with any one of them
at any moment. Stop for an instant to see whether the ground is
going to open in Piccadilly Circus and you are lost!—or found!—at
any rate, you are taken, neck and crop, and flung into life whether
you wish it or no. And Henry did wish it! He loved this nearness and
closeness, this sense of being both one of the audience and the
actors at one and the same time! Meanwhile the letters, with their
gentle slightly scornful evocation of another world, only a little
behind this one, and in its own opinion at any rate, infinitely superior
to it, were waiting for his concentration.
Then the Duncombe family itself was beginning to absorb him, with
its own dramatic possibilities. At luncheon that day he was made
forcibly aware of that drama.
Lady Bell-Hall had from the first stirred his eager sympathies. He
was so very sorry for the poor little woman. He did so eagerly wish
that he could persuade her to be a little less frightened at the
changes that were going on around her. After all, if Duncombe Hall
had to be sold and if she were forced to live in a little flat and have
only one servant, did it matter so terribly? Even though Soviets were
set up in London and strange men with red handkerchiefs and long
black beards did sit at Westminster there would still be many
delightful things left to enjoy! Her health was good, her appetite
quite admirable and the Young Women's Christian Association and
Society for the Comfort of Domestic Servants and the League of Pity
for Aged Widowers (some among many of Lady Bell-Hall's interests)
would in all probability survive many Revolutions or, at least, even
though they changed their names, would turn into something
equally useful and desirous of help. He longed to say some of these
things to her.
His opportunity suddenly and rather uncomfortably arrived.
Lady Bell-Hall in appearance resembled a pretty little pig—that is,
she had the features of a pig, a very young pig before time has
enveloped it in fat. And so soft and pink were her cheeks, so round
her little arms, of so delicate a white her little nose, so beseechingly
grey her eyes that you realised very forcibly how charming and
attractive sucklings might easily be. She sat at the end of the round
mahogany table in the long dark dining-room, talked to her
unresponsive brother and sometimes to Henry in a soft gentle voice
with a little plaint in it, infinitely touching and pathetic, hoping
against hope for the best.
To-day there came to the luncheon an old friend of the family, whose
name Henry had once or twice heard, a Mr. Light-Johnson.
Mr. Light-Johnson was a long, thin, cadaverous-looking man with
black sleek hair and a voice like a murmuring brook. He paid no
attention to Henry and very little to Duncombe, but he sat next to
Lady Bell-Hall and leaned towards her and stared into her face with
large wondering eyes that seemed always to be brimming with
unshed tears.
There are pessimists and pessimists, and it seems to be one of the
assured rules of life that however the world may turn, whatever
unexpected joys may flash upon the horizon, however many terrible
disasters may be averted from mankind, pessimists will remain
pessimists to the end. And such a pessimist as this Henry had never
before seen.
He had an irritating, tantalizing habit of lifting a spoonful of soup to
his lips and then putting it down again because of his interest in
what he was saying.
"What I feared last Wednesday," he said, "has already come true."
"Oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "What is that?"
"The Red Flag is flying in East Croydon. The Workers' Industrial
Union have commandeered the Y.M.C.A reading-room and have
issued a manifesto to the Croydon Parish Council."
"Dear, dear! Dear, dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall.
"It is a melancholy satisfaction," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "to think
how right one was last Wednesday. I hardly expected that my words
would be justified so quickly."
"And do you think," said Lady Bell-Hall, "that the movement—taking
Y.M.C.A. reading-rooms I mean—will spread quickly over London?"
"Dear Lady," said Mr. Light-Johnson, "I can't disguise from you that I
fear the worst. It would be foolish to do any other. I have a cousin,
Major Merriward—you've heard me speak of him—whose wife is a
niece of one of Winston Churchill's secretaries. He told me last night
at the Club that Churchill's levity!—well, it's scandalous—Nero
fiddling while Rome burns isn't in it at all! I must tell you frankly that
I expect complete Bolshevist rule in London within the next three
months."
"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Lady Bell-Hall. "Do have a little of that
turbot, Mr. Johnson. You're eating nothing. I'm only too afraid you're
right. The banks will close and we shall all starve."
"For the upper classes," said Mr. Johnson, "the consequences will be
truly terrible. In Petrograd to-day Dukes and Duchesses are acting
as scavengers in the streets. What else can we expect? I heard from
a man in the Club yesterday, whose son was in the Archangel forces
that it is Lenin's intention to move to London and to make it the
centre of his world rule. I leave it to you to imagine, Lady Bell-Hall,
how safe any of us will be when we are in the power of Chinese and
Mongols."
"Chinese!" cried Lady Bell-Hall. "Chinese!"
"Undoubtedly. They will police London or what is left of it, because
there will of course be severe fighting first, and nowadays, with
aerial warfare what it is, a few days' conflict will reduce London to a
heap of ruins."
"And what about the country?" asked Lady Bell-Hall. "I'm sure the
villagers at Duncombe are very friendly. And so they ought to be
considering the way that Charles has always treated them."
"It's from the peasantry that I fear the worst," said Mr. Light-
Johnson. "After all it has always been so. Think of La Vendée, think
of the Russian peasantry in this last Revolution. No, there is small
comfort there, I'm afraid."
Throughout this little conversation Duncombe had kept silent. Now
he broke in with a little ironic chuckle; this was the first time that
Henry had heard him laugh.
"Just think, Margaret," he said, "of Spiders. Spiders is our gardener,
Light-Johnson, a stout cheery fellow. He will probably be local
executioner."
Light-Johnson turned and looked at his host with reproachful eyes.
"Many a true word before now has been spoken in jest, Duncombe,"
he said. "You will at any rate not deny that this coming winter is
going to be an appalling one—what with strikes, unemployment and
the price of food for ever going up—all this with the most
incompetent Government that any country has ever had in the
world's history. I don't think that even you, Duncombe, can call the
outlook very cheerful."
"Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," said
Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-Johnson. Perhaps
this is the end of the world. Who knows? And what does it matter if
it is?"
"Really, Charles!" Lady Bell-Hall was eating her cutlet with great
rapidity, as though she expected a naked Chinaman to jump in
through the window at any moment and snatch it from her. "But
seriously, Mr. Light-Johnson, do you see no hope anywhere?"
"Frankly none at all. I don't think any one could call me a pessimist.
I simply look at things as they are—the true duty of every man."
"And what do you think one ought to do?"
"For myself," said Light-Johnson, helping himself to another cutlet, "I
shall spend the coming winter on the Riviera—Mentone, I think. The
Income Tax is so scandalous that I shall probably live in the south of
France during the next year or two."
"And so shoulder your responsibilities like a true British citizen," said
Duncombe. "I'm sure you're right. You're lucky to be able to get
away so easily."
Light-Johnson's sallow cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "Of course, if I
felt that I could do any good I would remain," he said. "I'm not the
sort of man to desert a sinking ship, I hope. Sinking it is, I fear. The
great days of England are over. We must not be sentimentalists nor
stick our heads, ostrich-wise, in the sand. We must face facts."
It was here that Henry made his great interruption, an interruption
that was, had he only known it, to change the whole of his future
career. He had realized thoroughly at first that it was his place to be
seen and not heard. Young secretaries were not expected to talk
unless they were definitely needed to make a party "go." But as
Light-Johnson had continued his own indignation had grown. His
eyes, again and again, in spite of himself, sought Lady Bell-Hall's
face. He simply could not bear to see the little lady tortured—for
tortured she evidently was. Her little features were all puckered with
distress. Her eyes had the wide staring expression of a child seeing a
witch for the first time. Every word that Light-Johnson uttered
seemed to stab her like a knife. To Henry this was awful.
"They are not facts. They are not facts!" he cried. "After every war
there are years when people are confused. Of course there are. It
can't be otherwise. We shall never have Bolshevism here. Russian
conditions are different from everywhere else. They are all ignorant
in Russia. Millions of ignorant peasants. While prices are high of
course people are discontented and say they're going to do dreadful
things. When everybody's working again prices will go down and
then you see how much any one thinks about Russia! England isn't
going to the dogs, and it never will!"
The effect of this outburst was astonishing. Light-Johnson turned
round and stared at Henry as though he were a small Pom that had
hitherto reposed peacefully under the table but had suddenly woken
up and bitten his leg. He smiled, his first smile of the day.
"Quite so," he said indulgently. "Of course. One can't expect every
one to have the same views on these matters."
But Lady Bell-Hall was astonishing. To Henry's amazement she was
angry, indignant. She stared at him as though he had offered a
deadly insult. Why, she wanted to be made miserable! She liked Mr.
Johnson's pessimism! She wished to be tortured! She preferred it!
She hugged her wound and begged for another turn on the wheel!
"Really, Mr. Trenchard," she said, "I don't think you can know very
much about it. As Mr. Light-Johnson says, we should face facts." She
ended her sentence with a hint of indulgence as though she would
say: "He's very, very young. We must excuse him on the score of his
youth."
The rest of the meal was most uncomfortable. Light-Johnson would
speak no more. Henry was miserable and indignant. He had made a
fool of himself, but he was glad that he had spoken! Lady Bell-Hall
would hate him always now and would prejudice her brother against
him—but he was glad that he had spoken! Nevertheless his cheese
choked him, and in embarrassed despair he took a pear that he did
not want, and because no one else had fruit ate it in an
overwhelming silence.
Then in the library he had his reward. Light-Johnson had departed.
"I shan't want you this afternoon, Trenchard," Duncombe said. Then
he added: "You spoke up well. That man's an ass."
"I shouldn't," he stammered, "have said anything. I don't know
enough. I only——"
"Nonsense. You know more than Light-Johnson. Speak up whenever
you have a mind to. It does my sister good."
And this was the beginning of an alliance between the two.
 CHAPTER II
MILLIE AND PETER
And here are some extracts from a diary that Millicent kept at this
time.
April 14.—Just a week since I started with the Platts and I feel as
though I'd been there all my life. And yet I haven't got the thing
going at all. I'm in nearly the same mess as I was the first morning.
I'm not proud of myself, but at the same time it isn't my fault. Look
at the Interruptions alone! (I've put a capital because really they are
at the heart of all my trouble.) Victoria herself doesn't begin to know
what letting any one alone is. I seem at present to have an
irresistible fascination for her. She sits and stares at me until I feel as
though I were some strange animal expected to change into
something stranger.
And she doesn't know what silence means. She says: "I mustn't
interrupt your work, my Millie" (I do wish she wouldn't call me "my
Millie"), and then begins at once to chatter. All the same one can't
help being fond of her—at least at present. I expect I shall get very
impatient soon and then I'll be rude and then there'll be a scene and
then I shall leave. But she really is so helpless and so full of alarms
and terrors. Never again will I envy any one with money! I expect
before the War she was quite a happy woman with a small
allowance from her father, living in Streatham and giving little tea-
parties. Now what with Income Tax, servants, motor-cars, begging
friends, begging enemies, New Art and her sisters she doesn't know
where to turn. Of course Clarice and Ellen are her principal worries.
I've really no patience with Clarice. I hate her silly fat face, pink
blanc-mange with its silly fluffy yellow hair. I hate the way she
dresses, always too young for her years and always with bits stuck
on to her clothes as though she picked pieces of velvet and lace up
from the floor and pinned them on just anywhere.
I hate her silly laugh and her vanity and the way that she will recite
a poem about a horse (I think it is called something like "Lascar") on
the smallest opportunity. I suppose I can't bear seeing any one
make a fool of herself or himself and all the people who come to the
Platts' house laugh at her. All the same, she's the happiest of the
three women; that's because she's more truly conceited than the
others. It's funny to see how she prides herself on having learned
how to manage Victoria. She's especially sweet to her when she
wants anything and you can see it coming on hours beforehand.
Victoria is a fool in many things but she isn't such a fool as all that. I
call Clarice the Ostrich.
Ellen is quite another matter. By far the most interesting of them. I
think she would do something remarkable if she'd only break away
from the family and get outside it. Part of her unhappiness comes,
I'm sure, from her not being able to make up her mind to do this.
She despises herself. And she despises everybody else too. Men
especially, she detests men, although she dresses rather like them.
Victoria and Clarice are both afraid of her because of the bitter
things she says. She glares at the people who come to lunch and tea
as though she would like to call fire down and burn them all. It's
amusing to see one of the new artists (I beg their pardon—New
Artists) trying to approach her, attempting flattery and then falling
back aware that he has made one enemy in the house at any rate.
The funny thing is that she rather likes me, and that is all the
stranger because I understand from Brooker, the little doctor, that
she always disliked the secretaries. And I haven't been especially
sweet to her. Just my ordinary which Mary says is less than civility. .
..
April 16.—Ephraim Block and his friend Adam P. Quinzey (that isn't
his real name but it's something like that) to luncheon. I couldn't
help asking him whether he didn't think the "Eve" rather too large.
And didn't he despise me for asking! He told me that when he gets a
commission for sculpting in an open space, the tree that goes with
the "Eve" will be large enough to shelter all the school children of
Europe.
Although he's absurd I can't help being sorry for him. He is so
terribly hungry and eats Victoria's food as though he were never
going to see another meal again. Ellen tells me that he's got a
woman who lives with him by whom he's had about eight children.
Poor little things! And I think Victoria's beginning to get tired of him.
She's irritated because he wants her to pay for the tree and the
serpent as well as Eve herself. He says it isn't his fault that Victoria's
house isn't large enough and she says that he hasn't even begun the
Tree yet and when he's finished it it will be time enough to talk.
Then there are the Balaclavas (the nearest I can get to their names).
She's a Russian dancer, very thin and tall and covered with chains
and beads, and he's very fat with a dead white face and long black
hair. They talk the strangest broken English and are very depressed
about life in general—as well they may be, poor things. He thinks
Pavlowa and Karsavina simply aren't in it with her as artists and I
daresay they're not, but one never has a chance of judging because
she never gets an engagement anywhere. So meanwhile they eat
Victoria's food and try to borrow money off any one in the house
who happens to be handy. You can't help liking them, they're so
helpless. Of course I know that Block and the Balaclavas and
Clarice's friends are all tenth-rate as artists. I've seen enough of
Henry's world to see that. They are simply plundering Victoria as
Brooker says, but I'm rather glad all the same that for a time at any
rate they've found a place with food in it.
I shan't be glad soon. I'm beginning to realize in myself a growing
quite insane desire to get this house straight—insane because I don't
even see how to begin. And Victoria's very difficult! She loves Power
and if you suggest anything and she thinks you're getting too
authoritative she at once vetoes it whatever it may be. On the other
hand she's truly warm-hearted and kind. If I can keep my temper
and stay on perhaps I shall manage it. . . .
April 17.—I've had thorough "glooms" to-day. I'm writing this in bed
whither I went as early as nine o'clock, Mary being out at a party
and the sitting-room looking grizzly. I feel better already. But a visit
to mother always sends me into the depths. It is terrible to me to
see her lying there like a dead woman, staring in front of her, unable
to speak, unable to move. Extraordinary woman that she is! Even
now she won't see Katherine although Katherine tries again and
again.
And I think that she hates me too. That nurse (whom I can't abide)
has tremendous power over her. I detest the house now. It's so
gloomy and still and corpse-like. When you think of all the people it
used to have in it—so many that nobody would believe it when we
told them. What fun we used to have at Christmas time and on
birthdays, and down at Garth too. Philip finished all that—not that he
meant to, poor dear.
After seeing mother I had tea with father down in the study. He's
jolly when I'm there, but honestly, I think he forgets my very
existence when I'm not. He never asked a single question about
Henry. Just goes from his study to his club and back again. He says
that his book Haslitt and His Contemporaries is coming out in the
Autumn. I wonder who cares?
It makes me very lonely if one thinks about it. Of course there's dear
Henry—and after him Katherine and Mary. But Henry's got this
young woman he picked up in Piccadilly Circus and Katherine's got
her babies and Mary her medicine. And I've got the Platts I suppose.
...
All the same sometimes it isn't much fun being a modern girl. I
daresay liberty and going about like a man's a fine thing, but
sometimes I'd like to have some one pet me and make a fuss over
me and care whether I'm alive or not.
On the impulse of this mood, I've asked Peter Westcott to come and
have tea with me. He seems lonely too and was really nice at
Henry's the other day. Now I shall go to sleep and dream about
Victoria's correspondence.
April 18.—A young man to luncheon to-day very different from the
others. Humphrey Baxter by name; none of the aesthete about him!
Clean, straight-back, decently dressed, cheerful young man. Item,
dark with large brown eyes. At first it puzzled me as to how he got
into this crowd at all, then I discovered that he's rehearsing in a play
that Clarice is getting up, The Importance of Being Earnest. He plays
Bunbury or has something to do with a man called Bunbury—anyway
they all call him Bunny. He's vastly amused by the aesthetes and
laughs at them all the time, the odd thing is that they don't mind. He
also knows exactly how to treat Victoria, taking her troubles
seriously, although his eyes twinkle, and being really very courteous
to her.
The only one of the family who hates him is Ellen. She can't abide
him and told him so to-day, when he challenged her. He asked her
why she hated him. She said, "You're useless, vain and empty-
headed." He said, "Vain and empty-headed I may be, but useless no.
I oil the wheels." She said hers didn't need oiling and he said that if
ever they did need it she was to send for him. This little sparring
match was very light-hearted on his side, deadly earnest on hers.
The only other person who isn't sure of him is Brooker—I don't know
why.
Of course I like him—Bunny I mean. What it is to have some one
gay and sensible in this household. He likes me too. Ellen says he
goes after every girl he sees.
I don't care if he does. I can look after myself. She's a queer one.
She's always looking at me as though she wanted to speak to me.
And yesterday a strange thing happened. I was going upstairs and
she was going down. We met at the corner and she suddenly bent
forward and kissed me on the cheek. Then she ran on upstairs as
though the police were after her. I don't very much like being kissed
by other women I must confess; however, if it gives her pleasure,
poor thing, I'm glad. She's so unhappy and so cross with herself and
every one else.
April 20.—Bunny comes every day now. He says he wants to tell me
about his life—a very interesting one he says. He complains that he
never finds me alone. I tell him I have my work to do.
April 21.—Bunny wants me to act in Clarice's play. I said I wouldn't
for a million pounds. Clarice is furious with me and says I'm flirting
with him.
April 22.—Bunny and I are going to a matinee of Chu Chin Chow. He
says he's been forty-four times and I haven't been once. He likes to
talk to me about his mother. He wants me to meet her.
April 24.—Clarice won't speak to me. I don't care. Why shouldn't I
have a little fun? And Bunny is a good sort. He certainly isn't very
clever, but he says his strong line is motor-cars, about which I know
nothing. After all, if some one's clever in one thing that's enough.
I'm not clever in anything. . . .
April 25.—Sunday, I went over to luncheon to see whether I could
do anything for Victoria and had an extraordinary conversation with
Ellen. She insisted on my going up to her bedroom with her after
luncheon. A miserable looking room, with one large photograph over
the bed of a girl, rather pretty. Mary Pickford prettiness—and nothing
else at all.
She began at once, a tremendous tirade, striding about the room,
her hands behind her back. Words poured forth like bath-water out
of a pipe. She said that I hated her and that every one hated her.
That she had always been hated and she didn't care, but liked it.
That she hoped that more people would hate her; that it was an
honour to be hated by most people. But that she didn't want me to
hate her and that she couldn't think why I did. Unless of course I'd
listened to what other people said of her—that I'd probably done
that as every one did it. But she had hoped that I was wiser. And
kinder. And more generous. . . . Here she paused for breath and I
was able to get in a word saying that I didn't hate her, that nobody
had said anything against her, that in fact I liked her—— Oh no, I
didn't. Ellen burst in. No, no, I didn't. Any one could see that. I was
the only person she'd ever wanted to like her and she wasn't allowed
to have even that. I assured her that I did like her and considered
her my friend and that we'd always be friends. Upon that she burst
into tears, looking too strange, sitting in an old rocking-chair and
rocking herself up and down. I can't bear to see any one cry; it
doesn't stir my pity as it ought to do. It only makes me irritated. So I
just sat on her bed and waited. At last she stopped and sniffing a
good deal, got up and came over. She sat down on the bed and
suddenly put her arms round me and stroked my hair. I can't bear to
have my hair stroked by anybody—or at least by almost anybody.
However, I sat there and let her do it, because she seemed so
terribly unhappy.
I suppose she felt I wasn't very responsive because suddenly she
got up very coldly and with great haughtiness as though she were a
queen dismissing an audience. "Well, now you'd better go. I've made
a sufficient fool of myself for one day." So I got up too and laughed
because it seemed the easiest thing and said that I was her friend
and always would be and would help her anyway I could but that I
wasn't very sentimental and couldn't help it if I wasn't. And she said
still very haughtily that I didn't understand her but that that wasn't
very strange because after all no one else did, and would I go
because she had a headache and wanted to lie down. So I went.
Wasn't I glad after this to find Bunny downstairs. He suggested a
walk and as Victoria was sleeping on the Sunday beef upstairs I
agreed and we went along all through the Park and up to the Marble
Arch, and the sun was so bright that it made the sheep look blue
and the buds were waxy and there were lots of dogs and
housemaids being happy with soldiers and babies in prams and all
the atheists and Bolsheviks as cheery as anything on their tubs.
Bunny really is a darling. He sees all the funny things, just as I do; I
don't believe a word that Ellen says about him. He assures me that
he's only loved one girl in his life and that he gave her up because
she said that she wouldn't have babies. He was quite right I think.
He says that he's just falling in love again with some one else now.
Of course he may mean me and he certainly looked as though he
did. I don't care. I want to be happy and people to like me and
every one to love everybody. Why shouldn't they? Not
uncomfortably, making scenes like Ellen, but just happily with a
sense of humour and not expecting miracles. I said this to Bunny
and he agreed.
We had tea in a café in Oxford Street. He wanted to take me to a
Cinema after that but I wouldn't. I went home and read Lord Jim
until Mary came in. That's the book Henry used to be crazy about. I
think Bunny is rather like Jim although, of course, Bunny isn't a
coward. . . .

Now Millie was seized with a strange and unaccountable happiness—

unaccountable to her because she did not try to account for it.
Simply, everything was lovely—the weather, the shops, the people in
the streets, Mary, Henry, the Platts (although Clarice pouted at her
and Ellen was sulky). Everything was lovely. She danced, she sang,
she laughed. Nothing and nobody could offend her. . . .
In the middle of this happiness Peter Westcott came to tea. She had
asked him because she was sorry for him and because she felt that
she had not been quite fair to him in the past. Nevertheless as she
waited for him in her little sitting-room there was a little patronage
and contempt for him still in her heart. She had always thought of
him as old and gloomy and solemn. He seemed to her to be that to-
day as he came in, stayed awkwardly for a moment by the door and
then came forward with heavy rather lumbering steps towards her.
But his hand was warm and strong—a clean good grip that she liked.
He sat down, making her wicker chair creak—then there was an
untidy pause. She gave him his tea and something to eat and talked
about the weather.
At another time, it might be, the ice would never have been broken
and he would have gone away, leaving them no closer than they had
been before. But to-day her happiness was too much for her; she
could not see him without wanting to make him laugh.
"Have you seen Henry?" she asked. It was so difficult to speak much
about Henry without smiling.
"Not for a week," he answered, "he's very busy with his Baronet and
his strange young woman." Then he smiled. He looked straight
across at her, into her eyes.
"Why did you ask me to come to tea?"
"Why?"
"Yes, because you don't like me. You think me a tiresome middle-
aged bore and a bad influence for Henry." His eyes drew her own.
Suddenly she liked his face, his clear honest gaze, his strong mouth
and something there that spoke unmistakably of loyalty and
courage.
"Well, I didn't like you," she said after a moment's pause. "That's
quite true. I liked you for the first time at Henry's the other day. You
see I've had no chance of knowing you, have I? And I decided that
we ought to know one another—because of Henry."
"Do you really want to know me better?" he asked.
"Yes, I really want to," she answered.
"Well, then, I must tell you something—something about myself. I
never speak about the past to anybody. Of what importance can it
be to anybody but myself? But if we are going to be friends you
ought to know something of it—and I'm going to tell you."
She saw that he had, before he came, made up his mind as to
exactly the things that he would tell her, that without realizing it he
intended it as an honour that he should want to tell her. Then, too,
her feminine curiosity stirred in her. Henry had told her a little, a
very little, about him; she knew that he had had a bad time, that he
was married, but that his wife had been seen by no one for many
years, that he had written some books now forgotten, that he had
done well in the War—and that was all.
"Tell me everything you like," she said. "I'm proud that you should
want to."
"I was born," Peter began, "in a little town called Treliss on the
borders of Cornwall and Glebeshire in '84. I had a very rotten
childhood. I won't bore you with all that, but my mother was
frightened into her grave by my father who hated me and everybody
else. He sent me to a bad school, and at last I ran away up to
London. I had one friend, a Treliss fisherman, who was the best
human being I've ever known, and he came up to London with me.
Things went from bad to worse the first years, but looking back on it
I can only see everything that happened in the most ridiculously
romantic light—absurd things that I'd like to tell you more about in
detail some time. They were so absurd; you simply wouldn't believe
me if I told you. I was mixed up for instance with melodramatic
theatrical anarchists who tried to blow up poor old Victoria when she
was out riding. Looking back now I can't be sure that those things
ever really happened at all.
"I never seem to meet such people now or to see such things. Was it
only my youth perhaps that made me fancy it all like that? You and
Henry, may be, are imagining things in just that way now. Stephen,
for instance, my fisherman friend. I've never met any one like him
since—so good, so simple, so direct, so childlike. I knew magnificent
men in the War as direct and simple as Stephen, but they didn't
affect me in the way he did—that may have been my youth again.
"Whatever it was we went lower and lower. We couldn't get any
work and we were just about starving, when I got ill, so ill that I
should have died if the luck hadn't suddenly turned, an old school
friend of mine appeared and carried me off to his home. Yes, luck
turned with a vengeance then. I had written a story and it was
published and it had a little success. One thinks you know that that
little success is a very big one the first time it comes—that every one
is talking about one and reading one when really it is a few thousand
people at the most.
"Anyway that first success put me on my feet. It was during those
years after the Boer War when I think literary success was easier to
get than it is now—more attention was paid to writing because the
world was quieter and had leisure to think about the arts and money
to pay for them. I don't mean that genius, real genius, wouldn't find
it just as easy now as then to come along and establish itself, but I
wasn't a genius, of course, nor anything like one. Well, I had friends
and a home and work and everything should have been well, but I
always felt that something was working against me, some bad
influence, some ill omen—I've felt it all my life, I feel it now, I shall
feel it till I die. Lucky, healthy people can laugh at those things, but
when you feel them you don't laugh. You know better. Then I
married—the daughter of people who lived near by in Chelsea; I was
terribly in love; although I felt there was something working against
us, yet I couldn't see how now it could touch us. I was sure that she
loved me—I knew that I loved her. She was such a child that I
thought that I could guide her and form her and make her what I
wanted. From the first there was something wrong; I can see that
now looking back. She had been spoilt because she was an only
child and had a stupid silly mother, and she was afraid of everything
—of being ill, of being hurt, of being poor. She was conventional too,
and only liked the people from the class she knew, people who did
all the same things, spoke the same way, ate the same way, dressed
the same way. I remember that some of my Glebeshire friends came
to see me one day and frightened her out of her life. Poor Clare! I
should understand her now I think, but I don't know. One has things
put into one and things left out of one before one's born and you
can't alter them, you can only restrain them, keep them in check. I
had something fundamentally wild in me, she something tame in
her. If we had both been older and wiser we might have
compromised as all married people have to, I suppose, but we were
both so young that we expected perfection, nay, we demanded it.
Perfection! Lord, what youth! . . . Then a baby was born, a boy—I
let myself go over that boy!" . . . Peter paused. . . . "I can't talk
much about that even now. He died. Then everything went wrong.
Clare said she'd never have another child. And she was tired of me
and frightened of me too. I can see now that she had much justice
there. I must have been a dull dog after the boy died, and when I'm
dull I am dull. I get so easily convinced that I'm meant to fail, that
I've no right in the world at all. Clare wanted fun and gaiety.
"We hadn't the means for it anyway. I was writing badly. I couldn't
keep my work clear of my troubles; I couldn't get right at it as one
must if one's going to get it on to paper with any conviction. My
books failed one after another and with justice.
"People spoke of me as a failure, and that Clare couldn't endure. She
hadn't ever cared very much for my writing, only for the success that
it brought. Well, you can see the likely end of it all. She ran off to
Paris with my best friend, a man who'd been at school with me,
whom I'd worshipped."
"Oh," Millie said, "I'm sorry."
"I only got what I deserved. Another man would have managed
Clare all right—made a success out of the whole thing. There's
something in me—a kind of blindness or obstinacy or pride—that
sends people away from me. You know it yourself. You recognized it
in me from the first. Henry didn't, simply because he's so ingenuous
and so warm-hearted. He forgets himself entirely; you and I think of
ourselves a good deal. I went back to Treliss. I had a friend there, a
woman, who showed me a little how things were. I wanted to give
everything up and just booze my time away and sink into a
worthless loafer as my father had done. She prevented me, and I
had, too, a strange revelation one night out on the hills beyond
Treliss when I saw things clearly for an hour or two.
"I determined to come back and fight it out. I could show pluck even
though I couldn't show anything else. Now I can see that there was
something false in that as there was in so many of the crises of my
life, because I was thinking only of myself set up against all the
world and the devil and all the furies, making a fine figure while the
armies of God stood by admiring and whispering one to another,
'He's a fine fighter—there's something in that fellow.'
"It was in just that mood that I came back to London. I went over to
Paris and searched for Clare, couldn't hear anything of her, then
came back and buried myself.
"I was full of this idea of courage, my back to the wall and fighting
the universe. So I just shut myself up, got a little journalism—
sporting journalism it was, football matches and boxing and cricket—
and grouched along. The other men on the sporting paper thought
me too conceited for words and left me alone. I drank a bit too, the
worst kind of drinking, alone in one's room.
"Then the War came, thank God. I won't bother you with that, but it
kept me occupied until the Armistice, then suddenly I was flung back
again with all my old troubles thick upon me once more. I remember
one day I had been seeing a rich successful novelist. He talked to
me about his successes until I was sick. Then in the evening I went
and saw the other end of the business, the young unpopular
geniuses who are going to change the world. Both seemed to me
equally futile, and once again I was tempted to end it all and just let
myself go when I suddenly, standing there in Piccadilly Circus, saw
myself just as I had years before at Treliss and my pretentiousness
and lack of humour and proportion. And I saw how small we were,
and what children, and how short life was, and then and there I
swore I'd never take myself so seriously again as to talk about 'going
to the dogs,' or 'fighting fate,' or 'being a success,' or 'destiny being
against me.' I cheered up a lot after that. That was my second
turning-point. You and Henry have made the third."
"Me and Henry?" said Millie, regardless of grammar.
"That's why I've burdened you with this lengthy discourse. I haven't
spoken of myself for years to a soul. But I want your friendship. I
want it terribly and I'll tell you why.
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