Now it so happened that at the time of the restoration of monogamy by royal decree Sir Jon was absent on a mission for the King which had to do with the purchase of coal from a certain contiguous province. Meanwhile the news spread throughout the Kingdom. And Mistress Marthe and Mistress Clotilde met quite by chance in the long stone hallway which connected their apartments. "I was coming to help you pack your things," said Marthe sweetly. "I was coming to help you pack your things," said Clotilde sweetly. Clotilde looked at Marthe with a scorn that lashed. "It's my turn now," cried Marthe with unexpected warmth. "She's queened it over me all these years; always sweet in that highty-tighty way of hers. You'd think the cat brought me in instead of Sir Jon! Keeping her figure! Keeping her complexion! Old as she is! Hinting I shouldn't wear short skirts. As if one woman's legs aren't as good as another's!" "Don't get het up," said Clotilde. "Probably you'd have been fat anyway. Funny, some wives never learn anything. Look at yourself. Duty and babies, all your life. Well, what did it get you? It got you,' "Fathead," said Clotilde, "have said Clotilde succinctly, "me!" you no mirror?" "You'll see what it got me when Sir Jon comes home next week," Marthe told her indignantly. "I'll be watching," promised Clotilde blithely. "Better let me help you pack," she called back from the long stone hallway. Marthe straightened with a new dignity. "I know I'm fat. I know I'm plain. But I know men. Always like little boys; playthings-pretty faces, silly doings. But men have sense, too, about the army and property and some one to leave it to. It's children that count." "Not with me," said Clotilde furnishing-for her sons of that flippantly. "You'll wish they had! I've given Sir Jon four sons-good strong men. I've given him heirs. It's his duty to keep me—the mother of his children. Sir Jon is just; you'll see." "Applesauce!" Clotilde powdered her nose. "Who but a fat woman would want a husband from a sense of duty? It's the soft stuff gets 'em. Sir Jon is in love with me." "There's justice," said Marthe fiercely. "Justice! If you had given Sir Jon twenty sons you wouldn't stand any more show than her majesty with the silver bean." Clotilde referred to the Lady Isobel. And in her room Mistress Marthe smiled grimly and planned the re part of the castle which had belonged to Lady Isobel. And in her room Clotilde laughed and planned-for herself the refurnishing of that part of the castle which belonged to Lady Isobel. And neither gave much thought to Lady Isobel herself, prostrate upon her couch, her face hidden in the silken coverlet. One week later Sir Jon came thoughtfully to his castle. And presently the majordomo knocked at Mistress Marthe's door and bade her attend Sir Jon in the great flagged hall. Now when Marthe would have sat beside him on the soft warm cushions, Sir Jon rose and stood before her. And in his face was a great distaste for the thing he had to do. "Marthe," said Sir Jon, "have I ever spoken to you of love?" "No, Sir Jon, you never have," said Marthe, startled. "When you came here we had a certain understanding. I did not offer you love. I could not. But I offered you my name, my home and kindly treatment all your life. In return, you were, if possible, to give me sons for the army." There was an edge to Sir Jon's voice at the mention of the army. Had he not purchased for Loveana the coal at a price far below the cost of sending the army to seize it? "I gave you sons," said Marthe. "Four as fine sons as a man could wish." "True. They are fine sons. But the King has made it necessary for me to break my promise to you-in part. I can no longer offer you my home, but I have made ample provision for your comfort elsewhere." "You can't mean that!" cried Marthe sharply. "I'm the only one of your wives who has done her duty by you. I gave you children. Be just, Sir Jon." "I am trying to be just, Marthe. Please remember we are confronted with a condition, not a theory. True, you gave me sons. You still have your sons, remember." Marthe did not reply. Sir Jon went on: "Some women are born to be mothers. They are wives only incidentally. You are that kind, Marthe. Your sons have been your life. They will always be your life. And they love you." Sir Jon smiled whimsically. "Think of all the fine grandchildren you are going to have, Marthe." "That's all very well," said Marthe. "Of course my sons love me. I suffered for them. I-I lost my figure." Marthe still clung to the illusion she had once possessed one. "It isn't fair!" "Life is seldom fair, Marthe. Please believe that I am trying to be as just as circumstances permit me to be." Marthe rose sullenly. "Well, don't blame me if she dances and diets you to death in a year, that's all!" "Oh!" said Sir Jon, surprised. Then he smiled. "In that event you will still have your four sons, Marthe." Returning to her rooms, Marthe was careful to go a roundabout way, fearing that Clotilde would be watching to pounce upon her in triumph. Presently the majordomo knocked at Mistress Clotilde's door and bade her attend Sir Jon in the great flagged hall. And when Clotilde would have thrown her arms about his neck, Sir Jon gently put them away, and in his face was a great distaste for the thing he had to do. "Clotilde," said Sir Jon, kindly, "I want to ask you to forgive me.' "What for, old dear?" asked Clotilde, surprised. "For marrying you.' "At the time I thought-I didlove you, Clotilde. A man may believe himself to be sincere, and yet be mistaken. I did not mean to wrong you your youth-as I know now I will be wronging you if I ask you to stay on with me. For I no longer love you." "Don't bother your bald head about that," said Clotilde. "I'm not very strong for this love stuff, anyway." "I'm sorry to hear you say that," Sir Jon told her. "Young Arthur joined me on my ride home. He gave me to understand you returned his love." Now indeed was Clotilde surprised. She looked at Sir Jon with wide troubled eyes. How much did he know? In her plans for the future it had seemed an excellent arrangement to keep Sir Jon as her husband, his castle her home and young Arthur her lover. "Arthur is a good boy," said Sir you the time is coming when women Jon. "He loves you." won't cry over men. We are learning "He's dirt poor," muttered Clo- you aren't worth it." tilde. "True," commented Sir Jon. "But think how divinely he dances." Clotilde tossed her golden head. "You think you're cute. I'd like to know what we would live on?" "I'm glad to hear you ask that, Clotilde. It shows you really have a serious side to your nature. No doubt you will make Arthur an excellent wife. I shall make provision for you, of course-enough to set Arthur up in business for himself. You should be able to be able to manage admirably.” "Come again," said Clotilde. "A three-room flat and a patent dishwasher." "Don't be mercenary, my dear. Arthur believes you love him." "Love! Let me tell you something. Either a woman is mercenary or she is a fool. So long as a wife laps up this all-for-love stuff she's just a tabby, and the first blue-eyed kitten that comes along gets her "No doubt you are right," said Sir Jon wearily. "Perhaps sometime you may learn that love has little to do with worth." "Anyway, you get the worst of it," Clotilde told him. "Duty! Think of having to live with that piece of cheese the rest of your life. As for me," announced Mistress Clotilde as she departed, "I'll jolly well look after myself.' Returning to her rooms, Clotilde was careful to go a roundabout way, fearing that Marthe would be watching to pounce upon her in triumph. Sir Jon sat long before the cold fireplace. He was weary and inexplicably sad. One short year ago he had felt amply justified in taking Clotilde into his life. He had desired her. He had the sanction of the law. Strange he should have then failed to realize that the selfish desires of men have often solidified into laws freighted with injustice to woman. It had been made easy for him to justify his conduct. That he was finding it extremely difficult to maintain that justification in view of Clotilde's dismissal could only mean a tacit acknowledgment of error. If only Lady Isobel did not reproach him! Suddenly Sir Jon realized that though he had hurt her cruelly she had never reproached him. "Isobel will understand," thought Sir Jon, and found much comfort in the thought. "Hang it," he muttered to himself, "Isobel is the only one of 'em who ever did understand me." Yet he hesitated. He sat so long before the cold hearth that presently the majordomo came to him. "Dinner is served, Sir Jon," he said. "Lady Isobel is awaiting you." In the vaulted room with its high mullioned windows the end of the long refectory table was set for two. Sir Jon bowed low before Lady Isobel and kissed her tenderly and led her to the table. And no sooner were they seated than the great doors opened and the majordomo entered, bearing aloft a huge silver platter on which was the head of a wild boar, crisp and odorous. And he was followed by a retinue of lesser retainers, each bearing a steaming savory dish. And as they marched around the long table they decorously chanted the quite indecorous Song to Hy menæus. And Lady Isobel smiled and blushed and looked altogether adorable. The black curly tress gleamed like a strand of burnished midnight against the silver halo of her hair. "The rascals!" cried Sir Jon, greatly pleased. And with great gusto he fell to carving the head of the wild boar. But as he carved he grew thoughtful. "Wherever did they get a boar's head?" he asked, knowing that wild boars had been long extinct in the Kingdom of Loveana. "I ordered it," said Lady Isobel quite casually, "from Budapest, last Thursday week." "Oh!" Sir Jon again fell to carving. But as he carved he grew thoughtful. For King Borel's mandate abolishing polygamy had been issued on Thursday week. Sir Jon looked at Lady Isobel, who smiled at him serenely. "I'll be hanged if I understand women," muttered Lady Isobel's husband. T TWILIGHT AMONG THE AUTHORS One of Them Makes a Soul-Cleansing Confession I. A. R. WYLIE HERE is something rotten in the state of Fiction, and that I was so clearly not born to set it right does not console me. As a novelist I am about to make a confession. And a confession to be of any value must be sincere. To begin with therefore, I will confess that I am tired of novels. I am tired of novelists. I am tired of myself. And I suspect that a great many people are tired of the whole tribe of us. It is true that, personally I have had ample opportunity to become tired. I have lived with myself for forty years and of those forty, more than twenty have been spent earning a more or less honest but certainly increasingly satisfactory living at writing fiction. A certain fatigue might be considered natural. On the other hand there are compensating elements. For one thing, though I still do not write as well as I did when I was eleven, I know that I write better than I did when I was nineteen. Not, thank God, that I have learned anything. That curse of middle age has been spared me. In other words I have kept myself free, I hope, from what is horribly called technique and all the other impedimenta with which so-called schools of fiction endeavor to encumber the budding genius. All that has happened is all that can happen to any writer. I have grown up a little. I have had spiritual adventures which have widened my vision and heightened my sense of pity and terror and humor. And as a result I am now conscious not only of a greater freedom of expression but of a wider choice of material and a deepening sincerity which to the writer is only another word for vitality. It is odd, therefore, that I find it increasingly difficult to write and that I discard with sharpening fastidiousness material that a few years ago I would have seized upon with avidity. It is not idleness. It is not that I am tired of writing. No genius could be more hag-ridden by the conviction that unless he expresses what is in him something vital will be lost to the universe-a comic obsession with which all writers of every caliber will sympathize. It is rather that I have become uneasy in the mold in which I have been castI suspect it. I feel like a plumber going about a well-built, sanitarylooking mansion and sniffing the air for a vague treacherous smell of leakage. I know that for all the fine appearances, there is something wrong somewhere. This would not be important but |