Eliphalet removed his coat and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past twelve. The waiting was trying his nerves. There should be strict punctuality in an affair of honour. He began pacing up and down, slowly at first, but later with a savage intensity of movement; when the quarter past chimed, he tossed his head angrily. “Can’t make out what’s become of May. He was almost dressed when we left the theatre.” “Perhaps——” began Manning, then stopped as the noise of approaching wheels and hoofs cut crisply into the silence. Eliphalet heard it—drew a sharp breath, and squared his shoulders in the direction of the sound. The excitement among the spectators leapt to fever-pitch as they heard the vehicle come to a standstill. There immediately followed the patter of running feet and the smart crackle of breaking twigs. “He’s coming!” All eyes turned towards the path as Blanche Cannon burst into view. Without a second’s hesitation she flung herself into Eliphalet Cardomay’s arms, gasping and crying: “Oh, my hero, my darling hero! He was a coward—he wouldn’t meet you—he’s run away.” And in the exquisite relief of the moment Eliphalet folded her to his breast in a sobbing ecstasy. Then the company, who had remained silent for longer than their natures allowed, broke cover and surrounded the happy pair with a chorus of hand-shaking, back-slapping congratulations. When the enthusiasm subsided, which was not until three a.m. that morning, for everyone crowded to Eliphalet’s room to do him continued honour, he was rather dismayed to find that he and Blanche were destined, by pressure of opinion, to be made man and wife before the month was out. * * * * * Surmise, therefore, O wise and prophetic reader, the disastrous results, not alone confined to Art, that so often arise from humouring the popular prejudice in favour of a Happy Ending. CHAPTER III THE CURE THAT WORKED WONDERS Of all conventions a happy ending is the most perilous. It intrigues people into the most improbable situations. It fawns upon the unthinking and offends the thoughtful. Happiness should arise from natural causes, and never be induced for the purposes of convenience or climax. Eliphalet Cardomay’s early life was saturated with plots which, passing through a morass of many tribulations, invariably ended with lovers embracing. It was as much the inevitable outcome of this saturation that led him to commit the fatal error of making Blanche Cannon his wife as it was to slacken his waistcoat after a repast and sink, with drooping eyelids, into a chair beneath an open window. The first was the accepted happy ending to a love episode, and the second the plethoric happy ending to a meal; and in neither case did the results justify the action. His marriage ended sordidly in a cheap divorce; and his siesta, the one on that particular afternoon, in a cold.