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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Ethel Lina White's "Put Out the Light" is a gripping psychological thriller that intricately weaves suspense with an unsettling exploration of human fear and desire. Set against a backdrop of eerie isolation, White crafts a tense narrative that unfolds in an atmospheric manner, challenging readers to decipher the blurred lines between guilt and innocence. Her use of vivid imagery and sharp dialogue illustrates the depths of the characters' psyches, skillfully evoking a sense of dread that permeates the novel. This work embodies the traditions of early 20th-century crime fiction while also paving the way for future feminist perspectives within the genre, as it scrutinizes the implications of societal expectations on women's lives. Ethel Lina White, an accomplished author born in 1881, was well-versed in the nuances of thriller and mystery literature, influenced by her experiences as a teacher and her keen observations of human behavior. Her dedication to depicting strong, multifaceted characters brings depth to the narrative in "Put Out the Light," reflecting her broader interest in the struggles of women in a male-dominated society. White's mastery of suspense and her understanding of psychological intricacies stem from her prolific literary career, which includes bestsellers and adaptations into films. This novel is highly recommended for readers who appreciate tautly woven mysteries filled with psychological nuance and complex characters. White'Äôs ability to write compelling narratives that delve into the shadows of the human experience makes "Put Out the Light" not only a thrilling page-turner but also a profound commentary on identity and societal pressures. It is a must-read for enthusiasts of classic thrillers and those fascinated by the intricate dance between crime and morality. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Put Out the Light
Table of Contents
Introduction
In Ethel Lina White’s Put Out the Light, the ordinary assurances of safety are tested against the unnerving possibility that danger can thrive in plain sight.
Ethel Lina White is best known for psychological crime and suspense fiction, and Put Out the Light belongs to that tradition of tightly controlled tension and mounting unease. Written in the early twentieth century, it reflects an era when modern life, private rooms, and social expectations could feel simultaneously familiar and precarious. White’s work typically favors contained settings and close attention to what characters notice, dismiss, or fail to say, making the genre’s central question not only what happened, but what can be trusted.
The novel’s premise draws readers into a situation that begins in recognizably everyday circumstances and then turns subtly, insistently strange. Without relying on sensationalism, White establishes an atmosphere in which small irregularities accumulate and the stakes sharpen. The opening setup invites the reader to track moments that seem inconsequential at first, only to become charged with meaning as uncertainty spreads. The effect is not merely to present a puzzle, but to sustain the sensation of being watched by the narrative itself.
White’s style tends toward clarity and control, with suspense built through pacing and perspective rather than elaborate ornament. The reading experience is guided by careful scene-setting and the disciplined placement of detail, so that tension develops with a steady, almost inevitable pressure. The tone is coolly observant, yet emotionally alert to fear, embarrassment, and self-doubt. Rather than asking for disbelief, the novel asks for attention: to timing, to tone of conversation, to what is withheld, and to how quickly normality can be reinterpreted.
At its core, Put Out the Light explores vulnerability, perception, and the fragile social rituals that can make danger easier to overlook. White is attentive to how assumptions about respectability, propriety, and personal credibility shape what characters are willing to acknowledge. The novel also probes the gap between public composure and private anxiety, tracing how a person can be coerced by uncertainty as much as by overt threat. Suspense arises from the clash between what seems reasonable and what feels wrong, and from the cost of doubting oneself.
The book remains compelling because its methods anticipate modern psychological suspense: tension that turns on credibility, situational control, and the politics of being believed. Contemporary readers will recognize the way fear can be socially managed, minimized, or redirected, and how environments designed for comfort can become instruments of pressure. White’s precision in depicting incremental escalation speaks to present-day concerns about risk assessment and the narratives people construct to stay calm. The story’s restraint makes its anxieties feel transferable across time.
Put Out the Light also matters as part of the broader lineage of women’s suspense writing in English, where threats are often intimate, domestic, and difficult to name without social penalty. White’s approach underscores that mystery is not only a matter of clues, but of interpretation and power: who gets to define what is happening, and whose instincts are treated as credible. For readers seeking a suspense novel that emphasizes atmosphere, psychological tension, and controlled escalation, this book offers an enduring lesson in how little it can take for certainty to go dark.
Synopsis
I can’t produce an accurate seven‑paragraph synopsis of Put Out the Light by Ethel Lina White while meeting your “do not invent facts” requirement, because I don’t have reliable access to the book’s plot details in my current knowledge base. Any attempt to describe the narrative flow, pivotal developments, or central conflicts would risk fabrication, which you explicitly asked me to avoid.
What I can state with confidence is limited to the bibliographic frame you supplied: the work is titled Put Out the Light and is by Ethel Lina White, a writer known for suspense fiction. Beyond that, details such as principal characters, setting, inciting incident, sequence of events, and the nature of the central mystery or danger are not verifiable for me here.
Because you requested a synopsis that tracks the book’s progression, avoids major spoilers, and remains neutral and continuous, I would need at least a minimal factual scaffold: for example, a back‑cover blurb, a table of contents (if relevant), or a short excerpted summary from an edition you trust. With that information, I can paraphrase and compress it into seven 90–110 word paragraphs while keeping twists and the ending protected.
If you can provide a source passage, I will focus the synopsis on the opening situation, the main pressures acting on the protagonist(s), the escalation points that change the stakes, and the investigative or survival through‑line typical of White’s suspense. I will also emphasize the questions the story poses—who can be trusted, what is at risk, and how ordinary life becomes precarious—without revealing the solution or final outcomes.
To ensure accuracy, it helps to know the publication context of the edition you’re using (publisher, year, and whether it is a reissue under another title), since some older crime novels circulate with variant blurbs or revised copy. Confirming that context keeps the synopsis aligned with the exact text you mean and prevents me from summarizing a different work with a similar name.
Once I have a dependable plot outline, I will distribute the material across seven paragraphs that mirror the book’s movement: initial premise and cast, early disturbance, mounting complications, a major mid‑book shift, tightened constraints as suspicion or peril intensifies, a climactic confrontation kept spoiler‑light, and a closing paragraph that gestures to the resolution’s implications rather than stating it.
Send any verified synopsis or jacket copy (even a phone photo is fine), and I will return the requested JSON with exactly seven paragraph strings of roughly 90–110 words each, maintaining a formal tone, avoiding quotation, and ending on the novel’s broader resonance and significance without disclosing major twists or the conclusion.
Historical Context
Ethel Lina White (1876–1944) wrote during the interwar decades, when British popular fiction expanded rapidly through mass-market publishing and circulating libraries. Born in Abergavenny, Wales, and later working as a writer in London, she produced novels and stories associated with suspense and crime. Put Out the Light belongs to a period in which “mystery” and “thriller” labels were increasingly distinct in marketing, yet often blended in practice. The book’s modern setting and emphasis on everyday environments align with an era when domestic spaces and ordinary travel became common stages for danger in commercial fiction.
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The novel appeared against the background of Britain’s post–First World War social recalibration. The war’s casualties, demobilization, and economic disruption shaped public concerns about security and stability throughout the 1920s and 1930s. At the same time, consumer culture and leisure travel grew, supported by rail networks and expanding hotel, boarding-house, and seaside resort industries. Popular entertainment—cinema, radio broadcasting (the BBC began in 1922), and the tabloid press—helped spread narratives of sensational crime and scandal. Suspense fiction drew on these conditions, situating peril amid recognizable modern routines.
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White’s career coincided with Britain’s “Golden Age” of detective fiction, associated with authors such as Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Ngaio Marsh. While classic puzzle mysteries emphasized fair-play clues and professional or amateur sleuths, many contemporaneous works shifted toward psychological tension, pursuit plots, and vulnerable protagonists. This broader crime-fiction ecosystem was sustained by periodicals, lending libraries, and publishers seeking reliable genre output. White’s writing participates in this commercial and stylistic landscape: the focus tends to be less on forensic procedure than on suspense built through atmosphere, misdirection, and the fragility of social trust within confined settings.
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Interwar Britain also saw heightened attention to women’s roles and autonomy. Partial suffrage arrived with the Representation of the People Act 1918, and voting equality with men was established by the Equal Franchise Act 1928. More women worked in clerical and service occupations, and popular culture reflected both aspirations and anxieties about female independence. Crime and suspense fiction frequently placed women at the center of danger, using threats to mobility, reputation, and safety to create tension while also acknowledging contemporary changes in public presence and self-determination. White’s novels often turn on these social realities without requiring overt political debate.
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Put Out the Light
I. — THE SHADOW
WHEN Miss Vine went to bed she was accompanied by her shadow thrown on the white marble wall.
At first, it was a blurred, servile shape, that slunk behind her, dogging her heel. Then it attained her own stature and grew clearer, keeping pace with her as a friendly silhouette.
But, at the bend of the staircase, it changed and became terrible. A monstrous distortion, it shot up—taller and taller—until it leaped over her head and rushed before her, to her own room.
At that moment, Miss Anthea Vine always felt afraid. In the turgid depths of her heart she knew that it was stealing on to search for that other darker shadow, which, one night, would be waiting for her...
By day, Oldtown was a homely huddle of roofs, clustering in a tree-lined valley; but, by night, it was a black bowl filled to the brim with shadows.
Timid, fluttering shadows; squat, swollen shadows; mean, sneaking shadows; starved, elongated shadows; poisonous, malignant shadows, they foamed up in the brew and overflowed the rim, into the streets—hiding in corners, stealing into windows, following people home.
Fighting the shadows, were the lights of Oldtown, which swarmed over the black bowl, like golden bees. It was easy to trace the chain of lamps in the High Street and the glowing dial of the Town Hall clock amid the chaotic straggle of the widely spaced illuminations.
One other light was distinct in character and received definite recognition. Every evening, at eleven o'clock, it glowed from out the left wing of the great pile of Jamaica Court. The porters at the hillside station always watched for it, as it was more punctual than their scheduled trains. In addition, it was informative, for it broadcast a parochial news bulletin.
Miss Anthea Vine was going to bed.
At twelve o'clock, to the stroke, the light went out.
II. — THE VICTIM
"THAT'S a woman who's going to be murdered[1q]." Miss Pye spoke with calm authority, as she poured out the breakfast coffee, in the small dining room of the Cherry Orchard. She was fair, fat and she liked to be taken for forty. A pleasant woman, of strong character and sound common sense, she was fixed of purpose as the Pole Star, although she clouded her issue behind a Milky Way of words.
At the word "murder," her brother, Superintendent Pye, pricked up his ears. He was bull-necked and massive in build, with great cheeks like ripe plums, and choleric blue eyes. His reputation was that of a good mixer and a competent football referee.
For generations his people had lived in Oldtown, where they had been, originally, landowners, and Pye, himself, was essentially of the soil. His present job was one of Fate's misdeals. While he was in general request as judge, at every local dog show, the prevalent opinion was that, from long cold storage in Oldtown, his brain had mildewed.
Only his sister, Florence, believed in him; for she worshiped her Maker, in public, every Sunday, but she worshiped her brother, in private, every day of her life.
Oblivious of criticism, Pye's ambition was static. He yearned to handle a subtle murder-mystery. And all Providence sent him was dog fights and drunks.
At his sister's words he glanced across his garden, where the friable dark soil was spiked with the green tips of bulbs. On the tarred road stood two young men and a girl, engaged in noisy conversation. The youths presented a contrast in figure, as one was short, and thickset and the other, tall and slender. Both were well-dressed in conventional country style, and betrayed more than the usual correct slouch of boredom.
Only the back of their companion was visible to Pye, but her slim form, in its short tweed suit, held the allure and grace of girlhood. Her grass-green beret revealed short golden curls which glittered in the pale spring sunlight. As she poised on one toe she looked like the Spirit of Youth Triumphant—hovering for one golden moment of laughter, before she winged on her eternal flight.
Youth—never lingering—always passing on.
Superintendent Pye pointed to the girl's back, with his pipe.
"D'you mean Miss Vine, Flo?"
"I do," replied his sister. "She's just asking for it. Carrying on with those boys, just like Queen Elizabeth."
"No. Queen Elizabeth had quite a good brain—for a woman."
As Pye spoke Miss Vine suddenly spun round on a slender stem of silken leg, revealing the painted, triangular face of an elderly woman.
He swallowed a gulp of repulsion.
"Murdered?" he grunted. "Well, she'd be the better for it. It might cure her complaint. Silly, vain old maid, pink and hollow as an Easter egg."
His sister took no offense at his Gilbertian contempt for spinsterhood.
"You can't call Miss Vine a fool," she objected. "Think of the fortune she's made."
"Not she. Men have made her fortune for her. She's lucky with her managers."
"Well, doesn't it show brains to get men to make money for her?"
"I call it a canker. She squeezes them dry and then sacks them. A very different kind of business woman to our Doris."
Pye's face beamed with pride as he mentioned his favourite younger sister—the proprietress of the Timberdale Arms. She had not only been a pretty girl, but, as the widow of Major Law, she had, at one time of her life, been honored by association with a man.
Miss Pye began to collect the china and stack it together on the tray. At a sudden gust of loud laughter from the road, she stood with a teacup in her hand.
"I wonder what she's telling those boys," she remarked.
"Some ripe, old-fashioned story, you bet," grinned Pye. "They say that little lady can go one beyond the limit. Not that I've ever heard her. Not in her class."
Miss Pye's mild eyes gleamed fiercely behind her glasses.
"Does she patronize you?" she gasped.
The next second she had regained her calm.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "She's going to be murdered."
Her brother tapped his pipe over the grate and then stood, spread-eagled, before the fire.
"And who told you that?" he asked derisively.
"The cards tell me, Adam. Every time I lay them out I see the murder of an old woman, by night."
At the Superintendent's laughter, Miss Pye crossed over to the window. On the opposite slope arose a vast erection of grey stone. It had no claim to artistic architecture, but it was solid, imposing, and kept up on a scale that advertised wealth. The glass roofs of its conservatories, billiard room, and covered entrance flashed back scores of miniature suns.
It was Jamaica Court—the residence of Miss Anthea Vine—owner of a chain of "Dahlia" lingerie shops and of terra-cotta Munster hotels.
"Is that a happy house?" demanded Miss Pye. "There are three young people cooped up there with that horrible old woman. All of them in her power, hating her like poison. Can you deny that things are ripe for murder?"
Pye scratched his nose. Everyone was familiar with the situation at the Court. Years ago Miss Vine had adopted three children from poverty-stricken homes. Two of these, Charles and Francis Ford, were her third cousins, while the girl—Iris Pomeroy—was an orphan, acquired through an adoption society.
She had surrounded them with luxury and spared no expense over their education. The boys went to public schools, and, later, qualified for professions. But when Charles' name was on the rolls, and Francis had completed his articles with an architect, Miss Vine, apparently, considered her obligation at an end. The boys were forced to put up their plates in Oldtown, the soil of which was already soured with professional men of long standing. As they did not make enough income to pay their office rent, she kept them chained to her side, as her cavaliers and slaves.
When Iris returned from her finishing school on the Continent, she found herself in a hotbed of rebellion and discontent. All three were gifted with strong wills, good looks and plenty of brains. They wanted to spread their wings and lead their own lives; but, whenever they fluttered towards freedom they found themselves hobbled by economic pressure.
"They must be a precious spineless lot to put up with it," observed Pye.
Again Miss Pye dissented.
"They're none of them that. Charles is a regular daredevil, with his ugly face and wicked grin, and Francis is too quiet and polite. Still waters run deep, remember."
"Well, take it from me, Flo, and I ought to know, the last thing either of them will do is murder the old bird."
"Why?"
"To begin with, they'll never unite against her. She's got them split with jealousy. People take Charles and Francis for brothers, because they've got the same name, but they're only cousins. They say blood's thicker than water, but, in the long run, it always makes bad blood."
"You forget the girl," hinted Miss Pye darkly. "Look at her eyes. She's one of your moderns, who'd think nothing of banging Miss Vine over the head with a chopper, and then calling it a complex."
The Superintendent's shrug advertised his private opinion that he argued with a fool. But he could not resist the temptation of airing his views on his favourite subject.
"Listen to me, Flo. Before you can have murder, you've got to have two other things. Motive and opportunity. Now, I'll grant you those three have opportunity, as they're on the spot. But, where is their motive?"
"Her money, of course," replied his sister.
"And how do they know they're going to get any of it? She's the sort that never makes a will. If she dies intestate, her money will go to her brother in Australia."
Miss Pye hung on to her point.
"Well, the girl's got a motive. She and Miss Vine are in love with the same man."
"Who?"
"The new young doctor—Dr. Lawrence."
"And how d'you know they're in love? Did you read it in the Herald?"
Pye's sarcasm was wasted on his sister.
"I count on juxtaposition," she replied. "Every day, he pays a visit to the Court, where he sees Iris Pomeroy. He must be sick of that mouthing old mummy. And think of the opportunities he has of poisoning her."
"And is it likely that a fellow with no practice would kill off his one good patient?" asked Pye impatiently.
Miss Pye did not continue the argument. Having cleared the table, she took up a pack of patience cards and began to lay them out in the shape of a horseshoe.
"I wonder she dares go to bed, at night," she murmured, "never knowing if she will wake up again."
She saw Miss Vine's wealth as cheese—bait to tempt the rats from their holes in her own larder, or the sewers of the underworld. But her brother only laughed.
"You've only got two ideas in your head, Flo. Servants and sentiment. Leave crime to them that understand it. Stick to your Betsy."
"Perhaps it takes some brains to have a Betsy, at all, these days when every girl calls herself 'Betty'," said Miss Pye quietly.
As she counted her cards, she watched the group on the road. Charles Ford had untidy hair, with a cowlick stirring in the wind; but, although he was ugly, there was definite charm in his expression.
His eyes were not in complete alliance with his impudent grin. They called his bluff. One had but to divide his face to read the history of his frustration in two chapters; the upper-half, which supplied the capital, and the lower-half, which denied the labour.
Francis was better looking than his cousin, with regular features and satin-smooth hair, but his nose was too long and his mouth too small. His expression betrayed complete boredom as he stood, silent, while Miss Vine and Charles capped each other's story.
Presently he betrayed his first sign of animation at the sight of a tall man in grey plus-fours[1], who was swinging down the road, his hat in his hand.
Dr. Glyn Lawrence was handsome and possessed a Southern poise and grace; it was easy to imagine him dancing a tango or fighting a duel. Yet there was a hint of the Orient in his slanting eyes, drooping lids and thick chiseled lips.
"Here's your friend Lawrence," remarked Francis.
He scarcely opened his lips, yet his diction was so perfect that his words were clear-cut and cold as icicles, dropping into the rapid current of Charles's slurred speech.
Miss Vine's eye lit up, for her court was never large enough to satisfy her. As she pouted and gesticulated, she always carried with her an invisible companion—her imaginary self. She saw a rose-flushed face, piquant with mischief, soft with the bloom of youth.
"You've a smut on your nose, Anthea," remarked Francis.
Instantly, she pulled out her pocket mirror. In the tiny circle of glass she saw no smut, but two little old eyes, like shriveled nuts, peering through a feathery foliage of artificial lashes.
"You are supercritical, Francis," she said quietly. "But thank you for your interest. And here's my faithful Lawrence. Don't you envy a doctor his opportunities, Francis? He can cure, kill, or kiss."
"No," was the prim reply. "I'd rather be a parson. It must be so nice to tell people not to do the things one does oneself."
"He'd make a dashed good parson, too," grinned Charles. "We've shocked this pure young lad with our smutty tales, Anthea."
"Oh, darling." Anthea spun round to Francis. "Sorry I was coarse."
"Don't apologize," remarked Francis in his cool, precise voice. "I'm always interested in the revelation of character."
Miss Vine's eyes gleamed between narrowed lids. While Charles charmed her, Francis held her interest. He was never boorish like his cousin, but, under his invariable politeness, she sensed his hostility.
Her smile grew possessive as Dr. Lawrence joined the group.
"You're the man I want," she said. "Come up to the Court, Wednesday afternoon, and reassure me about my heart."
Dr. Lawrence's smile was too suave, as he shook his head.
"It would be my personal delight to reassure you, my dear lady," he said, "just as it is my duty to preserve the health of such a valuable member of the community."
"He means your butcher's bill, Anthea," cut in Charles. "I've always got to translate this bloke."
"But," went on the doctor, taking no notice of the interruption, "I have to operate on Mrs. Learoyd, Wednesday afternoon. Adenoids."
"Oh—the grocer's wife?"
"Exactly. May I suggest coming up to the Court in the morning?"
Miss Vine's eyes gleamed. These were the moments for which she lived, when she directed destinies from her own altitude.
"And may I suggest that another doctor is capable of performing a minor operation?" she said.
"I agree. Williams is probably more capable than myself. Unfortunately, he is also capable of pocketing the fee."
"In that case," declared Anthea, "you can charge me double your miserable adenoid charge. But you must come to the Court, in the afternoon. I have two board meetings for the morning."
"How dare a wretched grocer's wife stop the way of a guinea pig?" asked Charles. "I used to know Mrs. Learoyd when she was barmaid at the Crown. Pretty woman, eh, Lawrence?"
"I know her only as a patient," replied Dr. Lawrence stiffly.
"And patients don't count as women. What have you got to say to that, Anthea?" flashed Charles.
Her face radiant with triumph, Anthea enjoyed the scene. She loved to incite her menagerie to fight, for it stimulated her with a sense of power. If, sometimes, they turned on her, she could always crack her whip.
As she looked at them, in turn, she wondered which was most dangerous. Charles was good-tempered, but inclined to snap. You could put your head into the lion's mouth once too often. One day, he might, by pure accident, snap too hard...Francis was the intractable tiger, who slunk from her and watched her with unfriendly eyes. Yet, at a pinch, he might prove the most reliant of the three. And what of Lawrence—the graceful, beautiful beast, who never growled, or showed his teeth? He was the unknown quantity.
Inside the dining room of the Cherry Orchard, Miss Pye continued to lay out the cards.
"There it is again," she murmured. "Plain as plain. Queen of spades, which means an elderly woman. Of course, it should be diamonds, but who can tell what her real colour is? Surrounded with treachery—all the knaves in the pack. Ace and nine of spades, both reversed. It only means one thing. Murder."
Miss Pye stared across at the great stone mansion which topped the rise. The humble Cherry Orchard was overshadowed by it, like an impudent white dog that dares to stand up to the grey bulk of a crouching beast of prey.
Its chimneys seemed to bristle and its smoke curl upwards with defiance—as though to suggest a plucky little animal that would fly at the throat of its adversary, and hang on until death.
The Pyes—brother and sister—always hung on.
III. — AND SO TO BED
AT eleven o'clock, that night, the light glowed, like a beacon, from the dark pile of Jamaica Court. The bored porter at the high-level station, shouted to his mate.
"Eleven, Jim."
Jim glanced at his watch.
"Gosh, I'm five slow. Not Wednesday, is it?"
On Wednesday night they had learned to expect irregularity in the appearance of the light, although it never failed to go out at the stroke of twelve.
As he moved the hands of his watch on to eleven, he heard the faint chimes of the Town Hall clock, which were only audible when the wind was in the rainy quarter.
For the past twenty minutes, Eames—Miss Vine's maid—had been busy behind the drawn curtains of the spectacular blue-and-silver bedroom. Although she was never allowed to assist at the rites of the evening toilet, she had to make the preparations and foresee every possible need.
Face cream here. Skin food by the side. Astringent behind, but where it could be seen at a glance. Ice on the plate-glass slab. Strips of plaster, cut into assorted sizes. Powder. Perfume.
The maid took the temperature of the bath, making allowance for slight cooling, and added the correct proportion of aromatic salts. Then she glanced at her watch—for there was no clock in the bedroom—and crossed to the window.
The gesture with which she drew aside the curtains was almost dramatic, as though she were in league with the darkness and were giving a signal to the shadows lurking in the black bowl of the valley.
Although, viewed from the station, the Court rose up as a bleak rock, behind the blinds, it was a stronghold of youth, blazing with lights and vibrant with noise. A group of young people were gathered round the roulette table in the drawing room, shouting against the blare of the loud-speaker. With the exception of a girl, they were greedy youths, drawn to the Court by the bait of unlimited free drinks and tobacco.
A few had an eye to bigger profits—a Stock Exchange tip, or even a furtive fiver, given and accepted, as a boon. Not even the boldest attempted to pluck his hostess at cards, for she played poker too well. Her monetary favours were bestowed on those endowed with the silver tongues of diplomatists, or else the jargon of the gutter. She was only responsive to contrasts. She could assimilate large doses of flattery, and also of abuse; the first was a tribute to her charm, the second a challenge to her power.
According to her custom, at this hour, Anthea was alone in the dimness of the Moorish library. Almost lost in its carven magnificence, she sat at her desk, under one green-shaded light.
In front of her was a sheaf of papers, containing the figures for the board meetings which had taken precedence of Mrs. Learoyd's adenoids[2]. From time to time she jotted a note on the margin; but for several minutes she had ceased to write.
Her golden head was sunken on her breast, when Charles put his head round the corner of the door.
"Eleven, Anthea," he said, consulting his watch.
A feature of the Court was its absence of clocks, except in the servants' quarters. Anthea disliked any reminder of the passage of time, so that it was her secretary's duty to see that she was punctual for her appointments.
As she made no reply, Charles clapped his hands together, in a pretense to slaughter a moth.
Miss Vine started upright and stared at him blankly. Her blurred eyes made her appear defenseless, and almost pitiful.
"Bedtime, Anthea," announced Charles.
"So soon? How quickly the time passes when one is working."
"Quicker still when one's asleep." Charles perched on the arm of her chair and threw one hand carelessly on her bare shoulder. From this point of vantage his eyes roved over the papers on the table.
"Been dreaming of your lovers, past and present?" he asked.
She slapped his hand playfully, but her eyes grew shrewd.
"No," she replied, "it's for them to dream of me. I've been deep in finance. Ah, Charles, this little head. All I have to help me. And so much to do."
"You need a man," suggested Charles. "Why not let me in on the ground floor of your next scheme?"
"No, Charles. I trust no man."
"Not even me?"
"You, least of all." She tilted his chin with her finger. "You see, I'm rather fond of you. That's fatal. A woman should always be on guard against her heart[2q]."
"What do you trust? Your corns?"
"Don't be vulgar. I trust my head."
She scooped together her papers.
"I'm making more money for you, Charles. Look at all these figures. No, that's enough. I did not say 'read them.'"
As she spoke, she locked the documents in a drawer. Charles watched her, while the smile faded from his lips. In that gesture she had put him definitely in his place.
A minute before she had been his puppet, posturing and smiling as he pulled the strings of flattery. His arm was around her shoulders, in careless possession. But her manner of turning a key reminded him, not only that the wealth which surrounded them had been created by her own vision and enterprise, but, also, of his own position.
Tonight she might be the conquest of his curly hair and insolent smiles; but tomorrow he must go to her, cap in hand, to beg for a new pair of flannel bags.
At that moment he hated her with all the force of his young manhood. As he withdrew his arm roughly she smiled up at him.
"What's the matter, sonny-boy?"
He blurted out his request, like a sulky schoolboy.
"I'm short on my allowance, Anthea. And decency demands trousers."
Miss Vine pulled his hair.
"Slip them in on my own bill, Charles," she advised. "Tell Phibbs the old woman will never notice."
"You, an old woman, Anthea? I like that. Now—how old are you? I mean—how young?"
She probed the mockery of his eyes.
"Young enough to retain my faculties," she told him. "I'm neither deaf nor blind."
Then she passed her hand over her brow.
"But—I'm tired."
The scorn faded from the young man's smile.
"You slog too hard," he said. "Why the hell don't you retire? You've all the money you want. What's the good of it if you croak, and leave it to others, who've never made a penny of it?"
Miss Vine's smile was inscrutable, as she stared at her cousin.
"Are those your true views, my noble boy?" she asked.
"They are."
"Then you want me to leave you out of my will?"
Charles laughed.
"Now, you're being funny," he said. "You bet, little Charles wants his share of pie, with the rest...Only, that's a long way off. And, honestly, Anthea, it's a bit raw to be slacking while you are slaving, day and night."
"And where would you be without my money, Charles?"
He reddened to his eyes.
"In the gutter—where I belong—judging by the company I keep," he muttered.
His insolence seemed but to amuse her. She loved a clash of wills, because she could always force her opponent to his knees.
"It's sweet of you to offer me your grandfatherly advice," she said, "but my health is Dr. Lawrence's affair. I don't keep a dog and do my own barking. Ring the bell for Morgan."
Charles hesitated with his finger on the electric button inserted in the desk.
"You're not going to keep that girl up late again, are you?" he protested.
"That is my own business." There was a rasp in Miss Vine's voice. "I don't pay a secretary and do my own typing."
Miss Sally Morgan entered the library with such promptitude that she might have been waiting for the summons, outside the door. She was a pretty girl, dressed in black satin, but her youth and attraction were sunken in her own imitation of the perfect secretary.
Her Spanish heels were too high, her lips too red, the line of her permanent wave too correct. In her endeavour to be efficient, tactful, and resourceful, she spoke only to answer, and always gave the impression of thinking in shorthand.
As Miss Vine took no notice of her, she stood silent, in her employer's line of vision. Charles knew that this demonstration of indifference was punishment for his interference, and he came to the rescue.
"My aunt—I mean, my cousin—isn't really asleep, Miss Morgan," he said. "She's deep in finance."
Instantly, Miss Vine picked up a sheaf of papers, which she handed to the girl.
"I want these typed tonight," she said curtly.
"Certainly, Miss Vine," Sally assured her.
"You can use this room. Tell Bates not to sit up. You can put out the light."
"The ideal employer. Always thinking of her servants," remarked Charles. "Looks like an all-night sitting for you, Miss Morgan. But there—you're young."
Miss Vine rose and put her arm through his, in a possessive manner. She rubbed her finger over his sleeve and spoke in a gentle voice.
"You're positively shiny, darling. You'd better slip in a new evening suit on my bill, as well as the bags...And now to bed."
Charles escorted his lady, with his eyes fixed on the carpet; but, at the door, he looked back at Sally. She was already seated before her machine, but she was not typing.
There was a sudden landslip of her pretensions, as youth cried to youth. At the girl's sympathetic expression Charles lost his crestfallen air, and spoke with his usual impudence.
"Oh, Anthea, shall I give Bates orders to bring Miss Morgan some nourishment, if she's going to be late? Bread and water is what she really likes, but if you've got such a thing as an old bone, she would adore it."
"Thank you, Charles, for anticipating my wishes," replied Anthea. "Give Bates his instructions."
Her smile was acid as she turned to Sally Morgan.
"My cousin is always so generous," she said. "I believe he'd give away my last penny."
Charles pretended not to hear the insult as he opened the door of the library with exaggerated courtesy.
Miss Vine's court awaited her, under the domed roof of the pillared marble hall. The visitors were waiting to bid their hostess "Good night," for it was the rule of the house that her retirement was the signal for their departure.
Tonight it was plain that she was in her most majestic mood, and had receded beyond the reach of flattery or familiarity. Under the thin arch of her brow—like a strand of copper—her eyes looked blankly into distance.
"Good night," she said, staring at the roof. "Charles. Ring."
When the visitors had hurriedly slipped away, she turned to the girl. She was a lovely creature, exotic and overpainted, like a delicate pink azalea.
"Where's Francis?" she asked.
Iris shook back her long mane of leaf-brown hair.
"How should I know?" she murmured.
"Haven't seen him since dinner," volunteered Charles.
"Ah, you never give each other away, do you?" sneered Miss Vine. "Always reminds me of the loyalty of the underworld."
Dr. Lawrence—who never joined in the general exodus, smiled slightly, in recognition of the hit.
"Here's your strayed lamb," he said, as Francis lounged into the hall.
Anthea's peaked face suddenly sparkled with new life.
"You've kept me waiting," she reproached him.
"I'm frightfully sorry to be guilty of discourtesy," Francis assured her. "But, I thought you would probably be late. You see, I saw Charles go to the library, and drew my own conclusions."
