The Good Angel

The Good Angel

Any man under thirty years of age who tells you he is not afraid of an
English butler lies. He may not show his fear. Outwardly he may be
brave--aggressive even, perhaps to the extent of calling the great man
'Here!' or 'Hi!' But, in his heart, when he meets that, cold, blue,
introspective eye, he quakes.

The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths', had on Martin
Rossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in a
cathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs
was, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs was a Menial--and an
overfed Menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless.

When the Keiths had invited him to their country home he had been
delighted. They were among his oldest friends. He liked Mr Keith. He
liked Mrs Keith. He loved Elsa Keith, and had done so from boyhood.

But things had gone wrong. As he leaned out of his bedroom window at
the end of the first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, he was
more than half inclined to make some excuse and get right out of the
place next day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken all the heart out
of him.

Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven his thoughts towards flight.
Keggs was merely a passive evil, like toothache or a rainy day. What
had begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectly
pestilential young man of the name of Barstowe.

The house-party at the Keiths had originally been, from Martin's
view-point, almost ideal. The rest of the men were of the speechless,
moustache-tugging breed. They had come to shoot, and they shot. When
they were not shooting they congregated in the billiard-room and
devoted their powerful intellects exclusively to snooker-pool, leaving
Martin free to talk undisturbed to Elsa. He had been doing this for
five days with great contentment when Aubrey Barstowe arrived. Mrs
Keith had developed of late leanings towards culture. In her town house
a charge of small-shot, fired in any direction on a Thursday
afternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or a
painter. Aubrey Barstowe, author of _The Soul's Eclipse_ and other
poems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuating
manners, he had appealed to Mrs Keith from the start; and unfortunately
the virus had extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny Thursday
afternoon had been poisoned for Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsa
together on a distant settee, matching temperaments. The rest is too
painful. It was a rout. The poet did not shoot, so that when Martin
returned of an evening his rival was about five hours of soul-to-soul
talk up and only two to play. And those two, the after-dinner hours,
which had once been the hours for which Martin had lived, were pure
torture.

So engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he had
that he was not alone in the room was a genteel cough. Behind him,
holding a small can, was Keggs.

'Your 'ot water, sir,' said the butler, austerely but not unkindly.

Keggs was a man--one must use that word, though it seems grossly
inadequate--of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy half-way
up, and bald at the apex. His manner was restrained and dignified, his
voice soft and grave.

But it was his eye that quelled Martin. That cold, blue,
dukes-have-treated-me-as-an-elder-brother eye.

He fixed it upon him now, as he added, placing the can on the floor.
'It is Frederick's duty, but tonight I hundertook it.'

Martin had no answer. He was dazed. Keggs had spoken with the proud
humility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes.

'Might I have a word with you, sir?'

'Ye-e-ss, yes,' stammered Martin. 'Won't you take a--I mean, yes,
certainly.'

'It is perhaps a liberty,' began Keggs. He paused, and raked Martin
with the eye that had rested on dining dukes.

'Not at all,' said Martin, hurriedly.

'I should like,' went on Keggs, bowing, 'to speak to you on a somewhat
intimate subject--Miss Elsa.'

Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly.

'You are going the wrong way to work, if you will allow me to say so,
sir.'

Martin's jaw dropped another inch.

'Wha-a--'

'Women, sir,' proceeded Keggs, 'young ladies--are peculiar. I have had,
if I may say so, certain hopportunities of observing their ways. Miss
Elsa reminds me in some respects of Lady Angelica Fendall, whom I had
the honour of knowing when I was butler to her father, Lord Stockleigh.
Her ladyship was hinclined to be romantic. She was fond of poetry, like
Miss Elsa. She would sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr Knox
reading Tennyson, which was no part of his duties, he being employed by
his lordship to teach Lord Bertie Latin and Greek and what not. You may
have noticed, sir, that young ladies is often took by Tennyson,
hespecially in the summertime. Mr Barstowe was reading Tennyson to Miss
Elsa in the 'all when I passed through just now. _The Princess_,
if I am not mistaken.'

'I don't know what the thing was,' groaned Martin. 'She seemed to be
enjoying it.'

'Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to _The Princess_. Young Mr
Knox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship come
upon them. Most rashly his lordship made a public hexpose and packed Mr
Knox off next day. It was not my place to volunteer advice, but I could
have told him what would happen. Two days later her ladyship slips away
to London early in the morning, and they're married at a
registry-office. That is why I say that you are going the wrong way to
work with Miss Elsa, sir. With certain types of 'igh spirited young lady
hopposition is useless. Now, when Mr Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsa
on the occasion to which I 'ave alluded, you were sitting by, trying to
engage her attention. It's not the way, sir. You should leave them
alone together. Let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him,
that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is very much
like the whisky 'abit. You can't cure a man what has got that by
hopposition. Now, if you will permit me to offer a word of advice, sir,
I say, let Miss Elsa 'ave all the poetry she wants.'

Martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of this
address, and that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser man who had
entered his room and begun to discuss his private affairs would have
had reason to retire with some speed; but that Keggs should descend
from his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was a
different thing altogether.

'I'm very much obliged--' he was stammering, when the butler raised a
deprecatory hand.

'My interest in the matter,' he said, smoothly, 'is not entirely
haltruistic. For some years back, in fact, since Miss Elsa came out, we
have had a matrimonial sweepstake in the servants' hall at each
house-party. The names of the gentlemen in the party are placed in a hat
and drawn in due course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged to any member
of the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name. Should no
engagement occur, the money remains in my charge until the following
year, when it is added to the new pool. Hitherto I have 'ad the
misfortune to draw nothing but married gentlemen, but on this occasion
I have secured you, sir. And I may tell you, sir,' he added, with
stately courtesy, 'that, in the opinion of the servants' hall, your
chances are 'ighly fancied,--very 'ighly. The pool has now reached
considerable proportions, and, 'aving had certain losses on the Turf
very recent, I am extremely anxious to win it. So I thought, if I might
take the liberty, sir, I would place my knowledge of the sex at your
disposal. You will find it sound in every respect. That is all. Thank
you, sir.'

Martin's feelings had undergone a complete revulsion. In the last few
minutes the butler had shed his wings and grown horns, cloven feet, and
a forked tail. His rage deprived him of words. He could only gurgle.

'Don't thank me, sir,' said the butler, indulgently. 'I ask no thanks.
We are working together for a common hobject, and any little 'elp I can
provide is given freely.'

'You old scoundrel!' shouted Martin, his wrath prevailing even against
that blue eye. 'You have the insolence to come to me and--'

He stopped. The thought of these hounds, these demons, coolly gossiping
and speculating below stairs about Elsa, making her the subject of
little sporting flutters to relieve the monotony of country life,
choked him.

'I shall tell Mr Keith,' he said.

The butler shook his bald head gravely.

'I shouldn't, sir. It is a 'ighly fantastic story, and I don't think he
would believe it.'

'Then I'll--Oh, get out!'

Keggs bowed deferentially.

'If you wish it, sir,' he said, 'I will withdraw. If I may make the
suggestion, sir, I think you should commence to dress. Dinner will be
served in a few minutes. Thank you, sir.'

He passed softly out of the room.

* * * * *

It was more as a demonstration of defiance against Keggs than because
he really hoped that anything would come of it that Martin approached
Elsa next morning after breakfast. Elsa was strolling on the terrace in
front of the house with the bard, but Martin broke in on the conference
with the dogged determination of a steam-drill.

'Coming out with the guns today, Elsa?' he said.

She raised her eyes. There was an absent look in them.

'The guns?' she said. 'Oh, no; I hate watching men shoot.'

'You used to like it.'

'I used to like dolls,' she said, impatiently.

Mr Barstowe gave tongue. He was a slim, tall, sickeningly beautiful
young man, with large, dark eyes, full of expression.

'We develop,' he said. 'The years go by, and we develop. Our souls
expand--timidly at first, like little, half-fledged birds stealing out
from the--'

'I don't know that I'm so set on shooting today, myself,' said Martin.
'Will you come round the links?'

'I am going out in the motor with Mr Barstowe,' said Elsa.

'The motor!' cried Mr Barstowe. 'Ah, Rossiter, that is the very poetry
of motion. I never ride in a motor-car without those words of
Shakespeare's ringing in my mind: "I'll put a girdle round about the
earth in forty minutes."'

'I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing if I were you,' said
Martin. 'The police are pretty down on road-hogging in these parts.'

'Mr Barstowe was speaking figuratively,' said Elsa, with disdain.

'Was he?' grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him every
day more like a sulky schoolboy. 'I'm afraid I haven't got a poetic
soul.'

'I'm afraid you haven't,' said Elsa.

There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouring
tree.

'"The moan of doves in immemorial elms,"' quoted Mr Barstowe, softly.

'Only it happens to be a crow in a beech,' said Martin, as the bird
flew out.

Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. Martin turned on his heel and
walked away.

'It's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong way,' said a voice. 'I was
hobserving you from a window, sir. It's Lady Angelica over again.
Hopposition is useless, believe me, sir.'

Martin faced round, flushed and wrathful. The butler went on unmoved:
'Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car today, sir.'

'I know that.'

'Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so to
Roberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I 'eard Miss Elsa was going out
with Mr Barstowe. I said, "Roberts, these cars is tricky; break down
when you're twenty miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you.
Roberts," I said, slipping him a sovereign, "'ow awful it would be if
the car should break down twenty miles from hanywhere today!"'

Martin stared.

'You bribed Roberts to--'

'Sir! I gave Roberts the sovereign because I am sorry for him. He is a
poor man, and has a wife and family to support.'

'Very well,' said Martin, sternly; 'I shall go and warn Miss Keith.'

'Warn her, sir!'

'I shall tell her that you have bribed Roberts to make the car break
down so that--'

Keggs shook his head.

'I fear she would hardly credit the statement, sir. She might even
think that you was trying to keep her from going for your own pussonal
ends.'

'I believe you are the devil,' said Martin.

'I 'ope you will come to look on me, sir,' said Keggs, unctuously, 'as
your good hangel.'

Martin shot abominably that day, and, coming home in the evening gloomy
and savage, went straight to his room, and did not reappear till
dinner-time. Elsa had been taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers.
Martin found himself seated on her other side. It was so pleasant to be
near her, and to feel that the bard was away at the other end of the
table, that for the moment his spirits revived.

'Well, how did you like the ride?' he asked, with a smile. 'Did you put
that girdle round the world?'

She looked at him--once. The next moment he had an uninterrupted view
of her shoulder, and heard the sound of her voice as she prattled gaily
to the man on her other side.

His heart gave a sudden bound. He understood now. The demon butler had
had his wicked way. Good heavens! She had thought he was taunting her!
He must explain at once. He--

'Hock or sherry, sir?'

He looked up into Kegg's expressionless eyes. The butler was wearing
his on-duty mask. There was no sign of triumph in his face.

'Oh, sherry. I mean hock. No, sherry. Neither.'

This was awful. He must put this right.

'Elsa,' he said.

She was engrossed in her conversation with her neighbour.

From down the table in a sudden lull in the talk came the voice of Mr
Barstowe. He seemed to be in the middle of a narrative.

'Fortunately,' he was saying, 'I had with me a volume of Shelley, and
one of my own little efforts. I had read Miss Keith the whole of the
latter and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that it
was once more possible--'

'Elsa,' said the wretched man, 'I had no idea--you don't think--'

She turned to him.

'I beg your pardon?' she said, very sweetly.

'I swear I didn't know--I mean, I'd forgotten--I mean--'

She wrinkled her forehead.

'I'm really afraid I don't understand.'

'I mean, about the car breaking down.'

'The car? Oh, yes. Yes, it broke down. We were delayed quite a little
while. Mr Barstowe read me some of his poems. It was perfectly lovely.
I was quite sorry when Roberts told us we could go on again. But do you
really mean to tell me, Mr Lambert, that you--'

And once more the world became all shoulder.

When the men trailed into the presence of the ladies for that brief
seance on which etiquette insisted before permitting the stampede to
the billiard-room, Elsa was not to be seen.

'Elsa?' said Mrs Keith in answer to Martin's question. 'She has gone to
bed. The poor child has a headache. I am afraid she had a tiring day.'

There was an early start for the guns next morning, and as Elsa did not
appear at breakfast Martin had to leave without seeing her. His
shooting was even worse than it had been on the previous day.

It was not until late in the evening that the party returned to the
house. Martin, on the way to his room, met Mrs Keith on the stairs. She
appeared somewhat agitated.

'Oh, Martin,' she said. 'I'm so glad you're back. Have you seen
anything of Elsa?'

'Elsa?'

'Wasn't she with the guns?'

'With the guns' said Martin, puzzled. 'No.'

'I have seen nothing of her all day. I'm getting worried. I can't think
what can have happened to her. Are you sure she wasn't with the guns?'

'Absolutely certain. Didn't she come in to lunch?'

'No. Tom,' she said, as Mr Keith came up, 'I'm so worried about Elsa. I
haven't seen her all day. I thought she must be out with the guns.'

Mr Keith was a man who had built up a large fortune mainly by
consistently refusing to allow anything to agitate him. He carried this
policy into private life.

'Wasn't she in at lunch?' he asked, placidly.

'I tell you I haven't seen her all day. She breakfasted in her room--'

'Late?'

'Yes. She was tired, poor girl.'

'If she breakfasted late,' said Mr Keith, 'she wouldn't need any lunch.
She's gone for a stroll somewhere.'

'Would you put back dinner, do you think?' inquired Mrs Keith,
anxiously.

'I am not good at riddles,' said Mr Keith, comfortably, 'but I can
answer that one. I would not put back dinner. I would not put back
dinner for the King.'

Elsa did not come back for dinner. Nor was hers the only vacant place.
Mr Barstowe had also vanished. Even Mr Keith's calm was momentarily
ruffled by this discovery. The poet was not a favourite of his--it was
only reluctantly that he had consented to his being invited at all; and
the presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappear
simultaneously they are likely to be spending the time in each other's
society, he was annoyed. Elsa was not the girl to make a fool of
herself, of course, but--He was unwontedly silent at dinner.

Mrs Keith's anxiety displayed itself differently. She was frankly
worried, and mentioned it. By the time the fish had been reached
conversation at the table had fixed itself definitely on the one
topic.

'It isn't the car this time, at any rate,' said Mr Keith. 'It hasn't
been out today.'

'I can't understand it,' said Mrs Keith for the twentieth time. And
that was the farthest point reached in the investigation of the
mystery.

By the time dinner was over a spirit of unrest was abroad. The company
sat about in uneasy groups. Snooker-pool was, if not forgotten, at any
rate shelved. Somebody suggested search-parties, and one or two of the
moustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness.

Martin was standing in the porch with Mr Keith when Keggs approached.
As his eyes lit on him, Martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying of
the vague suspicion which had been forming in his mind. And yet that
suspicion seemed so wild. How could Keggs, with the worst intentions,
have had anything to do with this? He could not forcibly have abducted
the missing pair and kept them under lock and key. He could not have
stunned them and left them in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at him
standing there in his attitude of deferential dignity, with the light
from the open door shining on his bald head, Martin felt perfectly
certain that he had in some mysterious fashion engineered the whole
thing.

'Might I have a word, sir, if you are at leisure?'

'Well, Keggs?'

'Miss Elsa, sir.'

'Yes?'

Kegg's voice took on a sympathetic softness.

'It was not my place, sir, to make any remark while in the dining-room,
but I could not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. I gathered from
remarks that was passed that you was somewhat hat a loss to account for
Miss Elsa's non-appearance, sir.'

Mr Keith laughed shortly.

'You gathered that, eh?'

Keggs bowed.

'I think, sir, that possibly I may be hable to throw light on the
matter.'

'What!' cried Mr Keith. 'Great Scott, man! then why didn't you say so
at the time? Where is she?'

'It was not my place, sir, to henter into the conversation of the
dinner-table,' said the butler, with a touch of reproof. 'If I might
speak now, sir?'

Mr Keith clutched at his forehead.

'Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where my
daughter is? Get on, man, get on!'

'I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss Elsa and Mr Barstowe may be
on the hisland in the lake, sir.' About half a mile from the house was
a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and a
little less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely
wooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when
there was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the past
week, with shooting to fill up the days, it had been neglected.

'On the island?' said Mr Keith. 'What put that idea into your head?'

'I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this morning, sir. I frequently
row of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain me in the
'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for the 'ealth. I walk briskly
to the boat-'ouse, and--'

'Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out the
athletic reminiscences and come to the point.'

'As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see a
boat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly Miss
Elsa and Mr Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr Barstowe
would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic.'

'But you say you saw the boat there this morning?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's kept
them all this while?'

'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe,
if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons,
and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied.
Or'--his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on
Martin's--'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus.'

'Untied it on purpose?' said Mr Keith. 'What on earth for?'

Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing his
limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of human
actions.

'I thought it right, sir, to let you know,' he said.

'Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on that
island by that long-haired--Here, come along, Martin.'

He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a moment
gazing fixedly at the butler.

'I 'ope, sir,' said Keggs, cordially, 'that my hinformation will prove
of genuine hassistance.'

'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' said Martin slowly.

'I think I 'ear Mr Keith calling you, sir.'

'I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and--'

'There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was.'

Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What could
you do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with Westminster
Abbey.

'I should 'urry, sir,' suggested Keggs, respectfully. 'I think Mr Keith
must have met with some haccident.'

His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his host
seated on the ground in evident pain.

'Twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained, briefly. 'Give me an arm
back to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the
lake and see if what Keggs said is true.'

Martin did as he was requested--so far, that is to say, as the first
half of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he took
it upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr Keith to his
room, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of
a group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa's
feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but it
might, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her to
connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martin
had once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He had
been on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with his
sufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa's
frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.

The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the
porch.

It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he
was lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the
sound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:

'It's all right. We've found them.'

Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.

* * * * *

Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and a
day had passed since she had taken to her bed.

'How are you feeling today, dear?'

'Has he gone, mother?'

'Who?'

'Mr Barstowe?'

'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his
publisher in London.'

'Then I can get up,' said Elsa, thankfully.

'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an
accident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away.'

'It was, it was, it _was_!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillow
malignantly. 'I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read me
his horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believe
that's the only way he can get people to listen to it.'

'But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musical
voice.'

'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. 'Mother, it was
like a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics.
It was _awful_! If he had been even the least bit upset himself I
think I could have borne up. But he _enjoyed_ it! He _revelled_
in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's
_Epipsychidion_, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on and
read and read till my head began to split. Mother'--her voice sank to
a whisper--'I hit him!'

'Elsa!'

'I did!' she went on, defiantly. 'I hit him as hard as I could, and
he--he'--she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter--'he tripped
over a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't
think it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. And
it stopped him talking.'

'But, Elsa, _dear_! Why?'

'The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky
looked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said so
to him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see the
resemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no,
because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And that
was when I hit him.'

'Elsa!'

'Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll get
up. It looks lovely out.'

Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs Keith had assured
him that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired,
but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could
reach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard
his name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees near
the terrace.

'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said.

'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were.'

'How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?'

'May I?'

Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.

'You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big and
outdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel so
lazy.'

Martin took the magazine.

'What shall I read? Here's a poem by--'

Elsa shuddered.

'Oh, please, no,' she cried. 'I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what I
should love--the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I started
it, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere.'

'Is this it--Langley and Fielding's sardines?'

'That's it.'

Martin began to read.

'"Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, most
delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'Langley and Fielding's,
please!' You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smoked
sardines, packed in the purest olive oil."'

Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasure
curving her mouth.

'Go on,' she said, dreamily.

'"Nothing nicer."' resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence as
the theme began to develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probably
your grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price
fivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!"'

'Isn't it _lovely_?' she murmured.

Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes.

'Don't stop reading,' she said. 'I never heard anything so soothing.'

'Elsa!'

He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing.

'Elsa, I--'

'Mr Keith,' said a quiet voice, 'desired me to say--'

Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon them
stood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.

'Mr Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa would
come and sit with him for a while.'

'I'll come at once,' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock.

The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching him
as he moved across the terrace.

'What a saintly old man Keggs looks,' said Elsa. 'Don't you think so?
He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he
shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?'

'I wonder!' said Martin.

'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he
came up?'

-THE END-
P G Wodehouse's short story: The Good Angel

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