oy or the remains of
an ideal toy; I had not expected any kind of obvious brilliancy, nor a
subtle charm that would haunt my memory for evermore. On the other
hand, I had not expected the banal, the perfectly commonplace. And I
think that Miss Annie Brett was the most banal person that it has
pleased Fate to send into my life. I knew that instantly. She was a
condemnation of Simon Fuge. SHE, one of the 'wonderful creatures who
had played so large a part' in the career of Simon Fuge! Sapristi!
Still, she WAS one of the wonderful creatures, etc. She HAD floated
o'er the bosom of the lake with a great artist. She HAD received his
homage. She HAD stirred his feelings. She HAD shared with him the magic
of the night. I might decry her as I would; she had known how to cast a
spell over him--she and the other one! Something there in her which had
captured him and, seemingly, held him captive.

'Good-EVENING, Mr Brindley,' she expanded. 'You're quite a stranger.'
And she embraced me also in the largeness of her welcome.

'It just happens,' said Mr Brindley, 'that I was here last night. But
you weren't.'

'Were you now!' she exclaimed, as though learning a novel fact of the
most passionate interest. The truth is, I had to leave the bar to Miss
Slaney last night. Mrs Moorcroft was ill--and the baby only six weeks
old, you know--and I wouldn't leave her. No, I wouldn't.'

It was plain that in Miss Annie Brett's opinion there was only one
really capable intelligence in the Tiger. This glimpse of her
capability, this out-leaping of the latent maternal in her, completely
destroyed for the moment my vision of her afloat on the bosom of the
lake.

'I see,' said Mr Brindley kindly. Then he turned to me with
characteristic abruptness. 'Well, give it a name, Mr Loring.'

Such is my simplicity that I did not immediately comprehend his
meaning. For a fraction of a second I thought of the baby. Then I
perceived that he was merely employing one of the sacred phrases,
sanctified by centuries of usage, of the private bar. I had already
drunk mercurey, green Chartreuse, and coffee. I had a violent desire
not to drink anything more. I knew my deplorable tomorrows. Still, I
would have drunk hot milk, cold water, soda water, or tea. Why should I
not have had what I did not object to having? Herein lies another
mystery of the private bar. One could surely order tea or milk or soda
water from a woman who left everything to tend a mother with a