Who Pays the Piper? Read Free Page A

And now you’re angry with me—Susan——”
    Susan put out a hand and touched her.
    â€œI’m not really. But you mustn’t say things about Bill.”
    They went down the steps together and across the last terrace. As they began to skirt the tennis courts, Lydia said in something just above a whisper,
    â€œIt was seeing you at King’s Bourne again, and—and—the pearls. I wanted you to have them.”
    Susan was so secure that she could let a laugh come into her voice.
    â€œIt’s no good, Lyddy.”
    â€œYou might ——” Lydia was breathless with her own daring.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s the good of saying no? He’s in love with you—he’d give you anything in the world. He only had those pearls out because he wanted to see them on you.” She broke into sudden laughter. “And I ran off with them! You bet he hated me quite a lot for that. But you can’t say he hasn’t got good manners. I piled it on on purpose just to see how he’d react, and he bore up nobly. Oh, Susan, think of lifting about half an eyelash and having King’s Bourne, and a millionaire, and those divine pearls all put down at your feet just waiting for you to pick them up.”
    â€œI should find them too heavy. And I’d much rather not think about it, if you don’t mind. And, Lyddy, if you don’t want to make me angry, you’ll stop. Up to now I’ve laughed, but I’m not going to go on laughing.”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t like to make you really angry, darling. You know, the only time I did you nearly scared me dead. I believe if you were really roused you might do something rather frightful.”
    They passed the tennis courts and took the orchard path.
    â€œYou do talk a lot of nonsense, Lyddy,” said Susan.

CHAPTER III
    Lydia came in and prattled to Mrs. O’Hara about Freddy, about the climate of China and how dreadful the war was, about Lucas Dale and the drawing-room curtains at King’s Bourne, and about the pearls.
    â€œRows and rows and rows of them—pink ones, and black ones, and white ones—enough to undermine any woman. Wouldn’t it be too marvellous if he put them into a lucky bag and let us all have a dip?”
    â€œI had quite a nice little string when I was a girl,” said Mrs. O’Hara in her plaintive voice.
    She lay propped up with cushions on the comfortable deep sofa which she had brought from her own room at King’s Bourne. When Lucas Dale bought the whole place as it stood he had begged Mrs. O’Hara to take with her to the Little House whatever she needed in the way of furniture. She had protested gracefully and then interpreted her needs with the utmost liberality. The room was full, and overfull. The sofa was too large for it. There were too many chairs, too many knick-knacks, and far too much china. It was obvious that the furnishings of a much larger room or rooms had been crammed into the small space. The walls were crowded too. A dark portrait over the mantelpiece was jostled by sketches which grandmamma had brought from Venice. A reproduction in red of Titian’s Assumption hung side by side with The Soul’s Awakening in sepia. On another wall an enlargement of her own wedding group was surrounded by some really lovely Chinese paintings of butterflies, birds and flowers.
    Mrs. O’Hara herself resembled a faded watercolour. Her hair had not turned grey. It had become dull like her skin, her lips, her eyes. She was not at all unhappy, because she loved Cathy and Susan, and derived a great deal of pleasure from the precarious condition of her health. Her drops, her tonics, her pills, her little bottle of tablets, the sympathetic visits of Dr. Matthews who had been an early admirer—all these stood between her and the actual drabness of her life. She played with them as a girl plays with her dolls. She had seen herself as the