XVI. A MATTER OF SALES
XVII. THE TEMPTER

PART III

HELENA BRETT'S CAREER

XVIII. ZOE
XIX. BUSINESS
XX. PLEASURE
XXI. EXPOSURE
XXII. THE IRON IN THE SOUL
XXIII. SECRET NUMBER TWO
XXIV. BATTLE ROYAL
XXV. THE BROKEN TRIANGLE
XXVI. TACT
XXVII. THE TWO WAYS
XXVIII. WOMAN PROPOSES
XXIX. HELENA BRETT'S CAREER

PART I

HOW IT HAPPENED

HELENA BRETT'S CAREER

CHAPTER I

ADVICE

"Of course," said Kenneth Boyd, with the abrupt conviction of one whose
argument is off the point at issue, "it's absolutely obvious. You
ought to marry."

The man who ought to marry was no more pleased to hear it than most of
his kind. He scowled angrily: then smiled, as though contempt were a
more fit reply. He was tall, broad, firm-looking, with smooth dark
hair still low upon his forehead, and certainly looked in no need of
drastic remedies.

He knocked his pipe out on the grate before he answered, but when the
words came, they burst forth like an explosion.

"You married men," he cried, turning the attack, "are just like
parrots. You can only say one thing. You're worse than parrots:
you're gramophones--or parrots with a gramophone inside. You're always
saying one thing, 'Marry!' and you say it jolly long. I honestly
believe you've got a Trades Union, unless it's merely nasty feeling!
That probably is it. You hate to see others as happy as you used to
be!"

Whereat, comforted, he stretched his long legs and lay back on the deep
chair in a better humour.

"No," said the other gently. "We hate to see them miserable and know
they'll never realise man's one chance of happiness till it's too late."

He spoke in very earnest tones and looked almost anxiously across at
his friend, now quite happy again with the flushed sensation of having
achieved something at any rate not too far from an epigram. A peaceful
smile played round the big mouth which alone betrayed weakness in his
pale, clear-cut face.

How young he was in some ways, Kenneth Boyd reflected--in
self-complacency, for one! And yet, in others, how much too settled
and fixed for his years. Here he was, a ten-year resident of these
rooms--comfortable enough, yes--looked after by a sister; turning out
his yearly novel, no worse but no better than the one before; an old
bachelor at thirty-five, and yet too young to speak of marriage as
anything except a rather tasteless joke!

He watched h