Deep Waters by P. G. Wodehouse
HISTORIANS of the social life of the later Roman Empire speak of a
certain young man of Ariminum, who would jump into rivers and swim in
'em. When his friends said, 'You fish!' he would answer, 'Oh, pish!
Fish can't swim like me, they've no vim in 'em.'
Just such another was George Barnert Callender.
On land, in his land clothes, George was a young man who excited little
remark. He looked very much like other young men. He was much about the
ordinary height. His carriage suggested the possession of an ordinary
amount of physical strength. Such was George—on shore. But remove his
clothes, drape him in a bathing-suit, and insert him in the water, and
instantly, like the gentleman in The Tempest, he 'suffered a
sea-change into something rich and strange.' Other men puffed, snorted,
and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of
a torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint,
anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like foundering
derelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionable
club. His breast-stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he did
the crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt that
that was the only possible method of progression.
George came to Marvis Bay at about five o'clock one evening in July.
Marvis Bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and,
while not perhaps in every respect the paradise which the excitable
writer of the local guide-book asserts it to be, on the whole it earns
its reputation. Its sands are smooth and firm, sloping almost
imperceptibly into the ocean. There is surf for those who like it, and
smoother water beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are not
confined to jumping up and down on a given jelly-fish. At the northern
end of the beach there is a long pier. It was to this that George made
his way on his arrival.
It was pleasant on the pier. Once you had passed the initial zareba of
fruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and the lair of the
enthusiast whose aim in life it was to sell you picture post-cards, and
had won through to the long walk where the seats were, you were
practically alone with Nature. At this hour of the day the place was
deserted; George had it to himself. He strolled slowly along. The water
glittered under the sun-rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam as
it reached the beach. A cool breeze blew. The whole scenic arrangements
were a great improvement on the stuffy city he had left. Not that
George had come to Marvis Bay with the single aim of finding an
antidote to metropolitan stuffiness. There was a more important reason.
In three days Marvis Bay was to be the scene of the production of
Fate's Footballs, a comedy in four acts by G. Barnert Callender.
For George, though you would not have suspected it from his exterior,
was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlessly
about, producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue. The company was
due at Marvis Bay on the following evening for the last spasm of
George's mind, as he paced the pier, was divided between the beauties
of Nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs in the ratio of
one-eighth to the former and seven-eighths to the latter. At the moment
when he had left London, thoroughly disgusted with the entire
theatrical world in general and the company which was rehearsing
Fate's Footballs in particular, rehearsals had just reached that
stage of brisk delirium when the author toys with his bottle of poison
and the stage-manager becomes icily polite. The Footpills—as
Arthur Mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted upon
calling it, much to George's disapproval—was his first piece. Never
before had he been in one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare,
and sometimes spoil, the theatrical broth. Consequently the chaos
seemed to him unique. Had he been a more experienced dramatist, he would
have said to himself, 'Twas ever thus.' As it was, what he said to
himself—and others—was more forcible.
He was trying to dismiss the whole thing from his mind—a feat which
had hitherto proved beyond his powers—when Fate, in an unusually
kindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash by presenting to his
jaundiced gaze what, on consideration, he decided was the most
beautiful girl he had ever seen. 'When a man's afraid,' shrewdly sings
the bard, 'a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see'. In the present
instance the sight acted on George like a tonic. He forgot that the lady
to whom an injudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in
Fate's Footballs invariably—no doubt from the best motives—omitted
to give the cynical roue his cue for the big speech in Act III.
His mind no longer dwelt on the fact that Arthur Mifflin, an estimable
person in private life, and one who had been a friend of his at
Cambridge, preferred to deliver the impassioned lines of the great
renunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy (and a sufferer
from nasal catarrh at that) speaking a piece at a Sunday-school treat.
The recollection of the hideous depression and gloom which the leading
comedian had radiated in great clouds fled from him like some grisly
nightmare before the goddess of day. Every cell in his brain was
occupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimming
in the water below.
She swam well. His practised eye saw that. Her strong, easy strokes
carried her swiftly over the swell of the waves. He stared, transfixed.
He was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was to
stare; but this was a special occasion. Ordinary rules of conventional
etiquette could not apply to a case like this. He stared. More, he
gaped. As the girl passed on into the shadow of the pier he leaned
farther over the rail, and his neck extended in joints like a
At this point the girl turned to swim on her back. Her eyes met his.
Hers were deep and clear; his, bulging. For what seemed an eternity to
George, she continued to look at him. Then, turning over again, she
shot past under the pier.
George's neck was now at its full stretch. No power of will or muscle
could add another yard to it. Realizing this, he leaned farther over
the rail, and farther still. His hat slid from his hand. He grabbed at
it, and, over-balancing, fell with a splash into the water.
Now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelve feet into the ocean with
all his clothes on would have incommoded George little. He would hardly
have noticed it. He would have swum to shore with merely a feeling of
amused self-reproach akin to that of the man who absent-mindedly walks
into a lamp-post in the street. When, therefore, he came to the
surface he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usual bold
fashion. At this moment, however, two hands, grasping him beneath the
arms, lifted his head still farther from the waves, and a voice in his
ear said, 'Keep still; don't struggle. There's no danger.'
George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cool rapidity of a
buzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things are
more difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of an
introduction to the right girl under just the right conditions. When he
is looking his best he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, and
is swept away after a rapid hand-shake. When there is no crowd he has
toothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. Thousands
of young lives have been saddened in this manner.
How different was George's case! By this simple accident, he reflected,
as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitious
leg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, there had been formed an
acquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. A
girl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day with
a formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time, in extreme
youth, when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy,
golden hair, and drops things. Indeed in his first year at the
University he had said—and written—as much to one of the type, the
episode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful,
cheque-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynistic
son. Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George's
tastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead of
The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and in
due season George felt his heels grate on the sand. His preserver
loosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began to
express his gratitude as best he could—it was not easy to find neat,
convincing sentences on the spur of the moment—but she cut him short.
'Of course, it was nothing. Nothing at all,' she said, brushing the
sea-water from her eyes. 'It was just lucky I happened to be there.'
'It was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. 'It was magnificent.
He saw that she was smiling.
'You're very wet,' she said.
George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suit
'Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'
Looking round about him, George perceived that sundry of the
inquisitive were swooping down, with speculation in their eyes. It was
time to depart.
'Have you far to go?'
'Not far. I'm staying at the Beach View Hotel.'
'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again.'
'We shall,' said George confidently.
'How did you happen to fall in?'
'I was—er—I was looking at something in the water.'
'I thought you were,' said the girl, quietly.
'I know,' he said, 'it was abominably rude of me to stare like that;
'You should learn to swim,' interrupted the girl. 'I can't understand
why every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he's
ten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach you
in a week.'
The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. The
conscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, had
no sort of chance from the start.
'I wish you would,' said George. And with those words he realized that
he had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Till
that moment explanation would have been difficult, but possible. Now it
'I will,' said the girl. 'I'll start tomorrow if you like.' She waded
into the water.
'We'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said, hastily. 'Here comes a
crowd of horrid people. I'm going to swim out again.'
She hurried into deeper water, while George, turning, made his way
through a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who got
within speaking distance of him, six told him that he was wet. The
other nine asked him if he had fallen.
Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company with
an aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel.
Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleaned
further information—to wit, that her first name was Mary, that her
aunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay but preferred
Trouville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would go
The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect upon
George's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine society
as a rule he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it was
different. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles.
The cue-withholding leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funereal
comedian—up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, was
endeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were not
so bad as they seemed.
'It's sure to be all right on the night,' she said.
How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thought
he had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark.
'I suppose it will,' he said, 'but they were very bad when I left.
Mifflin, for instance. He seems to think Nature intended him for a
Napoleon of Advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming the
piece. Sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying his
part, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show. And the
comedian. His speciality is drawing me aside and asking me to write in
new scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came away
and left them to fight it out among themselves.'
'I'm sure you have no need to worry. A play with such a good story is
certain to succeed.'
George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of
'Did you like the story?' he said, tenderly.
'I thought it was fine.'
'How sympathetic you are!' cooed George, glutinously, edging a little
closer. 'Do you know—'
'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl.
Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of Fate's Footpills,
descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meeting
them at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to
Arthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make their
acting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would be
one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefront
gleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit of
Arthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity.
His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may be
mentioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficiently
volatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so—a fact
which had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities of
his University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away from
Alma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slender
youth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for
the sound of his own voice.
'Well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with his
'I saw you,' said George, coldly, side-stepping.
'The whole team,' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trained
to the minute.'
'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to act
yet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?'
'The rehearsals,' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect;
but you wait. It'll be all right on the night.'
George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark.
'Besides,' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show.
Lend me your ear—both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: what
pulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that,
as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? We
have that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is the
thing. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in of
their own free wills to see a play like The Footpills? Not on
your life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will be
sitting in his own private corner of the beach—'
'How many corners do you think the beach has?'
'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", and
telling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. You
'I don't,' said George, coldly.
'Unless,' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, I
mean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all the
good he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay.
Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I have
resource. What's that?'
'I said nothing.'
'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these people
like a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train.'
'What is it?'
'I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first.
Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one of
those boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intended
me for a Viking.'
Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boat
belonged, they set forth. Mr Mifflin, having remarked, 'Yo-ho!' in a
meditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his
failure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the Ocean Beauty's
proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up,
where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was in
charge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. The
sun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze had
sprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into a
reverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voice
whispers to him, 'This is The One!' In George's case the voice had not
whispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one woman
in the world for him. From now onwards—The Ocean Beauty gave a
sudden plunge. George woke up.
'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired.
'My gentle somnambulist,' said Mr Mifflin, aggrieved, 'I was doing
nothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire into
what you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?'
'My fault,' said George; 'I was thinking.'
'If you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said Mr Mifflin,
complainingly, 'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearly
'It shan't happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats—turn
over in a second. Whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. There's
more breeze out here than I thought there was.'
Mr Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.
'What's the matter?' asked George.
'Just like a flash,' said Mr Mifflin, complacently. 'It's always the
way with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Just
some little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stamps
the man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, of
course, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times more
'What are you talking about?'
'I see now,' continued Mr Mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in my
original plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train about
the bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some,
and it suddenly came to me.'
Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.
'I said to myself, "George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to do
a little thing like that".'
'Like to do what?'
'Why, rescue Jane.'
'She and you,' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together,
while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on a
leash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercing
scream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What has
happened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. Barnert
Callender, author of Fate's Footballs, which opens at the Beach
Theatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her.
See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased her
mother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They will
be able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Back
you come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strong
situation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to get
the story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see now
there were one or two flaws in it.'
'You do, do you?' said George.
'It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreed
to it. A something, I don't know what, which is lacking in your nature,
would have made you reject the scheme.'
'I'm glad that occurred to you.'
'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed you
and it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it. My revised
scheme is a thousand times better in every way.'
'Don't say you have another.'
'I have. And,' added Mr Mifflin, with modest pride, 'it is a winner.
This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods. In about one
minute from now you will hear me exclaim, in a clear musical voice, the
single word, "Jump!" That is your cue to leap over the side as quick as
you can move, for at that precise moment this spanking craft is going
George spun round in his seat. Mr Mifflin's face was shining with
kindly enthusiasm. The shore was at least two hundred yards away, and
that morning he had had his first swimming-lesson.
'A movement of the tiller will do it. These accidents are common
objects of the seashore. I may mention that I can swim just enough to
keep myself afloat; so it's up to you. I wouldn't do this for everyone,
but, seeing that we were boys together—Are you ready?'
'Stop!' cried George. 'Don't do it! Listen!'
'Are you ready?'
The Ocean Beauty gave a plunge.
'You lunatic! Listen to me. It—'
'Jump!' said Mr Mifflin.
George came to the surface some yards from the overturned boat, and,
looking round for Mr Mifflin, discovered that great thinker treading
water a few feet away.
'Get to work, George,' he remarked.
It is not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, but
George managed it.
'For twopence,' he cried, 'I'd leave you to look after yourself.'
'You can do better than that,' said Mr Mifflin. 'I'll give you
threepence to tow me in. Hurry up. It's cold.'
In gloomy silence George gripped him by the elbows. Mr Mifflin looked
over his shoulder.
'We shall have a good house,' he said. 'The stalls are full already,
and the dress-circle's filling. Work away, George, you're doing fine.
This act is going to be a scream from start to finish.'
With pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony of
the journey; but George made no reply. He was doing some rapid
thinking. With ordinary luck, he felt bitterly, all would have been
well. He could have gone on splashing vigorously under his teacher's
care for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonably
proficient swimmer. But now! In an age of miracles he might have
explained away his present performance; but how was he to—And then
there came to him an idea—simple, as all great ideas are, but
He stopped and trod water.
'Tired?' said Mr Mifflin. 'Well, take a rest,' he added, kindly, 'take
a rest. No need to hurry.'
'Look here,' said George, 'this piece is going to be recast. We're
going to exchange parts. You're rescuing me. See? Never mind why. I
haven't time to explain it to you now. Do you understand?'
'No,' said Mr Mifflin.
'I'll get behind you and push you; but don't forget, when we get to the
shore, that you've done the rescuing.'
Mr Mifflin pondered.
'Is this wise?' he said. 'It is a strong part, the rescuer, but I'm not
sure the other wouldn't suit my style better. The silent hand-grip, the
catch in the voice. You want a practised actor for that. I don't think
you'd be up to it, George.'
'Never mind about me. That's how it's going to be.'
Mr Mifflin pondered once more.
'No,' he said at length, 'it wouldn't do. You mean well, George, but it
would kill the show. We'll go on as before.'
'Will we?' said George, unpleasantly. 'Would you like to know what I'm
going to do to you, then? I'm going to hit you very hard under the jaw,
and I'm going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you lose
consciousness, and then I'm going to drag you to the beach and tell
people I had to hit you because you lost your head and struggled.'
Mr Mifflin pondered for the third time.
'You are?' he said.
'I am,' said George.
'Then,' said Mr Mifflin, cordially, 'say no more. I take your point. My
objections are removed. But,' he concluded, 'this is the last time I
come bathing with you, George.'
Mr Mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability to
handle so subtle a part as that of rescuee were more than justified on
their arrival. A large and interested audience had collected by the
time they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist should
have been glad to play; but George, forcing his way through, hurried to
the hotel without attempting to satisfy them. Not a single silent
hand-shake did he bestow on his rescuer. There was no catch in his voice
as he made the one remark which he did make—to a man with whiskers who
asked him if the boat had upset. As an exhibition of rapid footwork
his performance was good. In other respects it was poor.
He had just changed his wet clothes—it seemed to him that he had
been doing nothing but change his wet clothes since he had come to
Marvis Bay—when Mr Mifflin entered in a bathrobe.
'They lent me this downstairs,' he explained, 'while they dried my
clothes. They would do anything for me. I'm the popular hero. My boy,
you made the mistake of your life when you threw up the rescuer part.
It has all the fat. I see that now. The rescuer plays the other man off
the stage every time. I've just been interviewed by the fellow on the
local newspaper. He's correspondent to a couple of London papers. The
country will ring with this thing. I've told them all the parts I've
ever played and my favourite breakfast food. There's a man coming up to
take my photograph tomorrow. Footpills stock has gone up with a
run. Wait till Monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. By
the way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if you
weren't the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said of
course not—that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to it
that you were.'
'He was quite right.'
Mr Mifflin sat down on the bed.
'This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in.'
'And that was you?'
Mr Mifflin's eyes opened wide.
'It's the heat,' he declared, finally. 'That and the worry of
rehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it.
It's a what-do-you-call-it—an obsession. You often hear of cases.
Fellows who are absolutely sane really, but cracked on one particular
subject. Some of them think they're teapots and things. You've got a
craving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do you
suddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? No, it can't be that,
because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. I
don't know, though. Maybe you didn't realize that you were swimming?'
George finished lacing his shoe and looked up.
'Listen,' he said; 'I'll talk slow, so that you can understand. Suppose
you fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get you
to the shore, would you say, "Much obliged, but you needn't have been
so officious. I can swim perfectly well?"'
Mr Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in his
face. 'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said. 'Tell me
'This morning'—George's voice grew dreamy—'she gave me a
swimming-lesson. She thought it was my first. Don't cackle like that.
There's nothing to laugh at.'
Mr Mifflin contradicted this assertion.
'There is you,' he said, simply. 'This should be a lesson to you,
George. Avoid deceit. In future be simple and straightforward. Take me
as your model. You have managed to scrape through this time. Don't risk
it again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. It
only needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They are
going to take a week drying my clothes.'
There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. George
attended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation.
Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and
in those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved.
There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had at
length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness.
Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was
infusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, George
could not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becoming
funny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his way
back to the hotel.
In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied.
He recognized the occupant.
'I've just come back from a rehearsal,' he said, seating himself beside
'The whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know their
lines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. The
comedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleased
George felt damped.
'I thought you might be pleased, too,' he said, lamely.
'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident this
afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest people
in the play.'
'You heard about it?'
'I have been hearing about nothing else.'
'Curious it happening so soon after—'
'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious.'
There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tell
with women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as
He changed the subject.
'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?'
'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly.'
George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not begin
to express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, he
wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again.
'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said.
She turned on him.
'Mr Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?'
Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child,
George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare
half-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotions
were still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feel
'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand.'
'What have I done?'
'You have forgotten how to swim.'
A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region of
'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, and
today I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I saw
you at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you are
taking lessons. Can you explain it?'
A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line.
She went on.
'Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertised
'You don't think—' croaked George.
'I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but,
of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being a
conspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episode
attracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory,
wasn't it? I am so glad.'
There was a massive silence for about a hundred years.
'I think I'll go for a short stroll,' said George.
Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr Mifflin emerged
from the shadow beyond the veranda.
'Could you spare me a moment?'
The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her head
'My name is Mifflin,' said the other, dropping comfortably into the
chair which had held the remains of George.
The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than
that to embarrass Mr Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but not
'The Mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheard
your conversation just now.'
'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.
'For all I was worth,' said Mr Mifflin. 'These things are very much a
matter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I have
had to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversation
of other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me.
However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that I
heard you—unknowingly, of course—doing a good man a grave injustice.'
'Mr Callender could have defended himself if he had wished.'
'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself.'
'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George,
but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. George
has old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He can
write plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him.
So, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, he
was actually opposed to it.'
'Then why did he pretend you had saved him?' she demanded.
'George's,' said Mr Mifflin, 'is essentially a chivalrous nature. At
any crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is there with
the goods before you can turn round. His friends frequently wrangle
warmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or Happy
Hooligan. Some say one, some the other. It seems that yesterday you
saved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain that
he could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "She must
never know!" and acted accordingly. But let us leave George, and
'Thank you, Mr Mifflin.' There was a break in her laugh. 'I don't think
there is any necessity. I think I understand now. It was very clever of
'It was more than cleverness,' said Mr Mifflin, rising. 'It was
A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda.
'I'm very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have been
talking to Mr Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so nice
and thoughtful of you. I understand everything.'
George did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for his
needs. He shot forward as if some strong hand were behind him with a
'I think I hear aunt calling,' said she.
But a benevolent Providence has ordained that aunts cannot call for
ever; and it is on record that when George entered his box on the two
hundredth night of that great London success, Fate's Footballs,
he did not enter it alone.