DOING CLARENCE A BIT OF GOOD
Have you ever thought about--and, when I say thought about, I mean
really carefully considered the question of--the coolness, the cheek,
or, if you prefer it, the gall with which Woman, as a sex, fairly
bursts? _I_ have, by Jove! But then I've had it thrust on my
notice, by George, in a way I should imagine has happened to pretty
few fellows. And the limit was reached by that business of the
To make you understand the full what-d'you-call-it of the situation, I
shall have to explain just how matters stood between Mrs. Yeardsley and
When I first knew her she was Elizabeth Shoolbred. Old Worcestershire
family; pots of money; pretty as a picture. Her brother Bill was at
Oxford with me.
I loved Elizabeth Shoolbred. I loved her, don't you know. And there was
a time, for about a week, when we were engaged to be married. But just
as I was beginning to take a serious view of life and study furniture
catalogues and feel pretty solemn when the restaurant orchestra played
"The Wedding Glide," I'm hanged if she didn't break it off, and a month
later she was married to a fellow of the name of Yeardsley--Clarence
Yeardsley, an artist.
What with golf, and billiards, and a bit of racing, and fellows at the
club rallying round and kind of taking me out of myself, as it were, I
got over it, and came to look on the affair as a closed page in the
book of my life, if you know what I mean. It didn't seem likely to me
that we should meet again, as she and Clarence had settled down in the
country somewhere and never came to London, and I'm bound to own that,
by the time I got her letter, the wound had pretty well healed, and I
was to a certain extent sitting up and taking nourishment. In fact, to
be absolutely honest, I was jolly thankful the thing had ended as it
This letter I'm telling you about arrived one morning out of a blue
sky, as it were. It ran like this:
"MY DEAR OLD REGGIE,--What ages it seems since I saw anything of
you. How are you? We have settled down here in the most perfect old
house, with a lovely garden, in the middle of delightful country.
Couldn't you run down here for a few days? Clarence and I would be
so glad to see you. Bill is here, and is most anxious to meet you
again. He was speaking of you only this morning. _Do_ come.
Wire your train, and I will send the car to meet you.
--Yours most sincerely,
"P.S.--We can give you new milk and fresh eggs. Think of that!
"P.P.S.--Bill says our billiard-table is one of the best he has
ever played on.
"P.P.S.S.--We are only half a mile from a golf course. Bill says
it is better than St. Andrews.
"P.P.S.S.S.--You _must_ come!"
Well, a fellow comes down to breakfast one morning, with a bit of a
head on, and finds a letter like that from a girl who might quite
easily have blighted his life! It rattled me rather, I must confess.
However, that bit about the golf settled me. I knew Bill knew what he
was talking about, and, if he said the course was so topping, it must
be something special. So I went.
Old Bill met me at the station with the car. I hadn't come across him
for some months, and I was glad to see him again. And he apparently was
glad to see me.
"Thank goodness you've come," he said, as we drove off. "I was just
about at my last grip."
"What's the trouble, old scout?" I asked.
"If I had the artistic what's-its-name," he went on, "if the mere
mention of pictures didn't give me the pip, I dare say it wouldn't be
so bad. As it is, it's rotten!"
"Pictures. Nothing else is mentioned in this household. Clarence is an
artist. So is his father. And you know yourself what Elizabeth is like
when one gives her her head?"
I remembered then--it hadn't come back to me before--that most of my
time with Elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries. During the
period when I had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, I had
had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though
pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old Bill. Somehow it had
never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after
marrying an artist. I should have thought that by this time the mere
sight of a picture would have fed her up. Not so, however, according to
"They talk pictures at every meal," he said. "I tell you, it makes a
chap feel out of it. How long are you down for?"
"A few days."
"Take my tip, and let me send you a wire from London. I go there
to-morrow. I promised to play against the Scottish. The idea was
that I was to come back after the match. But you couldn't get me
back with a lasso."
I tried to point out the silver lining.
"But, Bill, old scout, your sister says there's a most corking links
He turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.
"You don't mean honestly she said that?"
"She said you said it was better than St. Andrews."
"So I did. Was that all she said I said?"
"Well, wasn't it enough?"
"She didn't happen to mention that I added the words, 'I don't think'?"
"No, she forgot to tell me that."
"It's the worst course in Great Britain."
I felt rather stunned, don't you know. Whether it's a bad habit to have
got into or not, I can't say, but I simply can't do without my daily
allowance of golf when I'm not in London.
I took another whirl at the silver lining.
"We'll have to take it out in billiards," I said. "I'm glad the table's
"It depends what you call good. It's half-size, and there's a seven-inch
cut just out of baulk where Clarence's cue slipped. Elizabeth has mended
it with pink silk. Very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn't improve
the thing as a billiard-table."
"But she said you said----"
"Must have been pulling your leg."
We turned in at the drive gates of a good-sized house standing well
back from the road. It looked black and sinister in the dusk, and I
couldn't help feeling, you know, like one of those Johnnies you read
about in stories who are lured to lonely houses for rummy purposes and
hear a shriek just as they get there. Elizabeth knew me well enough to
know that a specially good golf course was a safe draw to me. And she
had deliberately played on her knowledge. What was the game? That was
what I wanted to know. And then a sudden thought struck me which brought
me out in a cold perspiration. She had some girl down here and was going
to have a stab at marrying me off. I've often heard that young married
women are all over that sort of thing. Certainly she had said there was
nobody at the house but Clarence and herself and Bill and Clarence's
father, but a woman who could take the name of St. Andrews in vain as
she had done wouldn't be likely to stick at a trifle.
"Bill, old scout," I said, "there aren't any frightful girls or any rot
of that sort stopping here, are there?"
"Wish there were," he said. "No such luck."
As we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman's figure
"Have you got him, Bill?" she said, which in my present frame of mind
struck me as a jolly creepy way of putting it. The sort of thing Lady
Macbeth might have said to Macbeth, don't you know.
"Do you mean me?" I said.
She came down into the light. It was Elizabeth, looking just the same
as in the old days.
"Is that you, Reggie? I'm so glad you were able to come. I was afraid
you might have forgotten all about it. You know what you are. Come
along in and have some tea."
* * * * *
Have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards married and
then been introduced to her husband? If so you'll understand how I felt
when Clarence burst on me. You know the feeling. First of all, when you
hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, "I wonder what he's like."
Then you meet him, and think, "There must be some mistake. She can't have
preferred _this_ to me!" That's what I thought, when I set eyes on
He was a little thin, nervous-looking chappie of about thirty-five. His
hair was getting grey at the temples and straggly on top. He wore
pince-nez, and he had a drooping moustache. I'm no Bombardier Wells
myself, but in front of Clarence I felt quite a nut. And Elizabeth,
mind you, is one of those tall, splendid girls who look like princesses.
Honestly, I believe women do it out of pure cussedness.
"How do you do, Mr. Pepper? Hark! Can you hear a mewing cat?" said
Clarence. All in one breath, don't you know.
"Eh?" I said.
"A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!"
While we were listening the door opened, and a white-haired old
gentleman came in. He was built on the same lines as Clarence, but was
an earlier model. I took him correctly, to be Mr. Yeardsley, senior.
Elizabeth introduced us.
"Father," said Clarence, "did you meet a mewing cat outside? I feel
positive I heard a cat mewing."
"No," said the father, shaking his head; "no mewing cat."
"I can't bear mewing cats," said Clarence. "A mewing cat gets on my
"A mewing cat is so trying," said Elizabeth.
"_I_ dislike mewing cats," said old Mr. Yeardsley.
That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think
they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to
We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner. At
least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of
picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the "Monna Lisa," and
then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as I
was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a
valuable painting pinched by burglars the night before. It was the
first time I had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with
any effect, and I meant to make the most of it. The paper was in the
pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and fetched it.
"Here it is," I said. "A Romney belonging to Sir Bellamy Palmer----"
They all shouted "What!" exactly at the same time, like a chorus.
Elizabeth grabbed the paper.
"Let me look! Yes. 'Late last night burglars entered the residence of
Sir Bellamy Palmer, Dryden Park, Midford, Hants----'"
"Why, that's near here," I said. "I passed through Midford----"
"Dryden Park is only two miles from this house," said Elizabeth. I
noticed her eyes were sparkling.
"Only two miles!" she said. "It might have been us! It might have been
Old Mr. Yeardsley bounded in his chair.
"The 'Venus'!" he cried.
They all seemed wonderfully excited. My little contribution to the
evening's chat had made quite a hit.
Why I didn't notice it before I don't know, but it was not till Elizabeth
showed it to me after dinner that I had my first look at the Yeardsley
"Venus." When she led me up to it, and switched on the light, it seemed
impossible that I could have sat right through dinner without noticing
it. But then, at meals, my attention is pretty well riveted on the
foodstuffs. Anyway, it was not till Elizabeth showed it to me that I
was aware of its existence.
She and I were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. Old Yeardsley
was writing letters in the morning-room, while Bill and Clarence were
rollicking on the half-size billiard table with the pink silk tapestry
effects. All, in fact, was joy, jollity, and song, so to speak, when
Elizabeth, who had been sitting wrapped in thought for a bit, bent
towards me and said, "Reggie."
And the moment she said it I knew something was going to happen. You
know that pre-what-d'you-call-it you get sometimes? Well, I got it
"What-o?" I said nervously.
"Reggie," she said, "I want to ask a great favour of you."
She stooped down and put a log on the fire, and went on, with her back
"Do you remember, Reggie, once saying you would do anything in the
world for me?"
There! That's what I meant when I said that about the cheek of Woman as
a sex. What I mean is, after what had happened, you'd have thought she
would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that
sort of thing, what?
Mind you, I _had_ said I would do anything in the world for her.
I admit that. But it was a distinctly pre-Clarence remark. He hadn't
appeared on the scene then, and it stands to reason that a fellow who
may have been a perfect knight-errant to a girl when he was engaged to
her, doesn't feel nearly so keen on spreading himself in that direction
when she has given him the miss-in-baulk, and gone and married a man
who reason and instinct both tell him is a decided blighter.
I couldn't think of anything to say but "Oh, yes."
"There's something you can do for me now, which will make me
"Yes," I said.
"Do you know, Reggie," she said suddenly, "that only a few months ago
Clarence was very fond of cats?"
"Eh! Well, he still seems--er--_interested_ in them, what?"
"Now they get on his nerves. Everything gets on his nerves."
"Some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over the----"
"No, that wouldn't help him. He doesn't need to take anything. He wants
to get rid of something."
"I don't quite fellow. Get rid of something?"
"The 'Venus,'" said Elizabeth.
She looked up and caught my bulging eye.
"You saw the 'Venus,'" she said.
"Not that I remember."
"Well, come into the dining-room."
We went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights.
"There," she said.
On the wall close to the door--that may have been why I hadn't noticed
it before; I had sat with my back to it--was a large oil-painting. It
was what you'd call a classical picture, I suppose. What I mean is--well,
you know what I mean. All I can say is that it's funny I _hadn't_
"Is that the 'Venus'?" I said.
"How would you like to have to look at that every time you sat down to
"Well, I don't know. I don't think it would affect me much. I'd worry
through all right."
She jerked her head impatiently.
"But you're not an artist," she said. "Clarence is."
And then I began to see daylight. What exactly was the trouble I didn't
understand, but it was evidently something to do with the good old
Artistic Temperament, and I could believe anything about that. It
explains everything. It's like the Unwritten Law, don't you know,
which you plead in America if you've done anything they want to send
you to chokey for and you don't want to go. What I mean is, if you're
absolutely off your rocker, but don't find it convenient to be scooped
into the luny-bin, you simply explain that, when you said you were a
teapot, it was just your Artistic Temperament, and they apologize and
go away. So I stood by to hear just how the A.T. had affected Clarence,
the Cat's Friend, ready for anything.
And, believe me, it had hit Clarence badly.
It was this way. It seemed that old Yeardsley was an amateur artist and
that this "Venus" was his masterpiece. He said so, and he ought to have
known. Well, when Clarence married, he had given it to him, as a wedding
present, and had hung it where it stood with his own hands. All right so
far, what? But mark the sequel. Temperamental Clarence, being a
professional artist and consequently some streets ahead of the dad at
the game, saw flaws in the "Venus." He couldn't stand it at any price.
He didn't like the drawing. He didn't like the expression of the face.
He didn't like the colouring. In fact, it made him feel quite ill to
look at it. Yet, being devoted to his father and wanting to do anything
rather than give him pain, he had not been able to bring himself to
store the thing in the cellar, and the strain of confronting the
picture three times a day had begun to tell on him to such an extent
that Elizabeth felt something had to be done.
"Now you see," she said.
"In a way," I said. "But don't you think it's making rather heavy
weather over a trifle?"
"Oh, can't you understand? Look!" Her voice dropped as if she was in
church, and she switched on another light. It shone on the picture next
to old Yeardsley's. "There!" she said. "Clarence painted that!"
She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to swoon,
or yell, or something. I took a steady look at Clarence's effort. It
was another Classical picture. It seemed to me very much like the other
Some sort of art criticism was evidently expected of me, so I made a
dash at it.
"Er--'Venus'?" I said.
Mark you, Sherlock Holmes would have made the same mistake. On the
evidence, I mean.
"No. 'Jocund Spring,'" she snapped. She switched off the light. "I see
you don't understand even now. You never had any taste about pictures.
When we used to go to the galleries together, you would far rather have
been at your club."
This was so absolutely true, that I had no remark to make. She came up
to me, and put her hand on my arm.
"I'm sorry, Reggie. I didn't mean to be cross. Only I do want to make you
understand that Clarence is _suffering_. Suppose--suppose--well, let
us take the case of a great musician. Suppose a great musician had to sit
and listen to a cheap vulgar tune--the same tune--day after day, day after
day, wouldn't you expect his nerves to break! Well, it's just like that
with Clarence. Now you see?"
"But what? Surely I've put it plainly enough?"
"Yes. But what I mean is, where do I come in? What do you want me to
"I want you to steal the 'Venus.'"
I looked at her.
"You want me to----?"
"Steal it. Reggie!" Her eyes were shining with excitement. "Don't you
see? It's Providence. When I asked you to come here, I had just got the
idea. I knew I could rely on you. And then by a miracle this robbery of
the Romney takes place at a house not two miles away. It removes the
last chance of the poor old man suspecting anything and having his
feelings hurt. Why, it's the most wonderful compliment to him. Think!
One night thieves steal a splendid Romney; the next the same gang take
his 'Venus.' It will be the proudest moment of his life. Do it to-night,
Reggie. I'll give you a sharp knife. You simply cut the canvas out of
the frame, and it's done."
"But one moment," I said. "I'd be delighted to be of any use to you,
but in a purely family affair like this, wouldn't it be better--in
fact, how about tackling old Bill on the subject?"
"I have asked Bill already. Yesterday. He refused."
"But if I'm caught?"
"You can't be. All you have to do is to take the picture, open one of
the windows, leave it open, and go back to your room."
It sounded simple enough.
"And as to the picture itself--when I've got it?"
"Burn it. I'll see that you have a good fire in your room."
She looked at me. She always did have the most wonderful eyes.
"Reggie," she said; nothing more. Just "Reggie."
She looked at me.
"Well, after all, if you see what I mean--The days that are no more,
don't you know. Auld Lang Syne, and all that sort of thing. You follow
"All right," I said. "I'll do it."
I don't know if you happen to be one of those Johnnies who are steeped
in crime, and so forth, and think nothing of pinching diamond necklaces.
If you're not, you'll understand that I felt a lot less keen on the job
I'd taken on when I sat in my room, waiting to get busy, than I had done
when I promised to tackle it in the dining-room. On paper it all seemed
easy enough, but I couldn't help feeling there was a catch somewhere,
and I've never known time pass slower. The kick-off was scheduled for
one o'clock in the morning, when the household might be expected to be
pretty sound asleep, but at a quarter to I couldn't stand it any longer.
I lit the lantern I had taken from Bill's bicycle, took a grip of my
knife, and slunk downstairs.
The first thing I did on getting to the dining-room was to open the
window. I had half a mind to smash it, so as to give an extra bit of
local colour to the affair, but decided not to on account of the noise.
I had put my lantern on the table, and was just reaching out for it,
when something happened. What it was for the moment I couldn't have
said. It might have been an explosion of some sort or an earthquake.
Some solid object caught me a frightful whack on the chin. Sparks and
things occurred inside my head and the next thing I remember is feeling
something wet and cold splash into my face, and hearing a voice that
sounded like old Bill's say, "Feeling better now?"
I sat up. The lights were on, and I was on the floor, with old Bill
kneeling beside me with a soda siphon.
"What happened?" I said.
"I'm awfully sorry, old man," he said. "I hadn't a notion it was you. I
came in here, and saw a lantern on the table, and the window open and a
chap with a knife in his hand, so I didn't stop to make inquiries. I
just let go at his jaw for all I was worth. What on earth do you think
you're doing? Were you walking in your sleep?"
"It was Elizabeth," I said. "Why, you know all about it. She said she
had told you."
"You don't mean----"
"The picture. You refused to take it on, so she asked me."
"Reggie, old man," he said. "I'll never believe what they say about
repentance again. It's a fool's trick and upsets everything. If I
hadn't repented, and thought it was rather rough on Elizabeth not to
do a little thing like that for her, and come down here to do it after
all, you wouldn't have stopped that sleep-producer with your chin. I'm
"Me, too," I said, giving my head another shake to make certain it was
"Are you feeling better now?"
"Better than I was. But that's not saying much."
"Would you like some more soda-water? No? Well, how about getting this
job finished and going to bed? And let's be quick about it too. You made
a noise like a ton of bricks when you went down just now, and it's on
the cards some of the servants may have heard. Toss you who carves."
"Tails it is," he said, uncovering the coin. "Up you get. I'll hold the
light. Don't spike yourself on that sword of yours."
It was as easy a job as Elizabeth had said. Just four quick cuts, and
the thing came out of its frame like an oyster. I rolled it up. Old
Bill had put the lantern on the floor and was at the sideboard,
collecting whisky, soda, and glasses.
"We've got a long evening before us," he said. "You can't burn a picture
of that size in one chunk. You'd set the chimney on fire. Let's do the
thing comfortably. Clarence can't grudge us the stuff. We've done him
a bit of good this trip. To-morrow'll be the maddest, merriest day of
Clarence's glad New Year. On we go."
We went up to my room, and sat smoking and yarning away and sipping our
drinks, and every now and then cutting a slice off the picture and
shoving it in the fire till it was all gone. And what with the cosiness
of it and the cheerful blaze, and the comfortable feeling of doing good
by stealth, I don't know when I've had a jollier time since the days
when we used to brew in my study at school.
We had just put the last slice on when Bill sat up suddenly, and
gripped my arm.
"I heard something," he said.
I listened, and, by Jove, I heard something, too. My room was just over
the dining-room, and the sound came up to us quite distinctly. Stealthy
footsteps, by George! And then a chair falling over.
"There's somebody in the dining-room," I whispered.
There's a certain type of chap who takes a pleasure in positively
chivvying trouble. Old Bill's like that. If I had been alone, it would
have taken me about three seconds to persuade myself that I hadn't
really heard anything after all. I'm a peaceful sort of cove, and
believe in living and letting live, and so forth. To old Bill, however,
a visit from burglars was pure jam. He was out of his chair in one
"Come on," he said. "Bring the poker."
I brought the tongs as well. I felt like it. Old Bill collared the
knife. We crept downstairs.
"We'll fling the door open and make a rush," said Bill.
"Supposing they shoot, old scout?"
"Burglars never shoot," said Bill.
Which was comforting provided the burglars knew it.
Old Bill took a grip of the handle, turned it quickly, and in he went.
And then we pulled up sharp, staring.
The room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the
near end. Standing on a chair in front of Clarence's "Jocund Spring,"
holding a candle in one hand and reaching up with a knife in the other,
was old Mr. Yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a grey dressing-gown. He
had made a final cut just as we rushed in. Turning at the sound, he
stopped, and he and the chair and the candle and the picture came down
in a heap together. The candle went out.
"What on earth?" said Bill.
I felt the same. I picked up the candle and lit it, and then a most
fearful thing happened. The old man picked himself up, and suddenly
collapsed into a chair and began to cry like a child. Of course, I
could see it was only the Artistic Temperament, but still, believe me,
it was devilish unpleasant. I looked at old Bill. Old Bill looked at
me. We shut the door quick, and after that we didn't know what to do. I
saw Bill look at the sideboard, and I knew what he was looking for. But
we had taken the siphon upstairs, and his ideas of first-aid stopped
short at squirting soda-water. We just waited, and presently old
Yeardsley switched off, sat up, and began talking with a rush.
"Clarence, my boy, I was tempted. It was that burglary at Dryden Park.
It tempted me. It made it all so simple. I knew you would put it down
to the same gang, Clarence, my boy. I----"
It seemed to dawn upon him at this point that Clarence was not among
"Clarence?" he said hesitatingly.
"He's in bed," I said.
"In bed! Then he doesn't know? Even now--Young men, I throw myself
on your mercy. Don't be hard on me. Listen." He grabbed at Bill, who
sidestepped. "I can explain everything--everything."
He gave a gulp.
"You are not artists, you two young men, but I will try to make you
understand, make you realise what this picture means to me. I was two
years painting it. It is my child. I watched it grow. I loved it. It
was part of my life. Nothing would have induced me to sell it. And then
Clarence married, and in a mad moment I gave my treasure to him. You
cannot understand, you two young men, what agonies I suffered. The
thing was done. It was irrevocable. I saw how Clarence valued the
picture. I knew that I could never bring myself to ask him for it back.
And yet I was lost without it. What could I do? Till this evening I
could see no hope. Then came this story of the theft of the Romney from
a house quite close to this, and I saw my way. Clarence would never
suspect. He would put the robbery down to the same band of criminals
who stole the Romney. Once the idea had come, I could not drive it out.
I fought against it, but to no avail. At last I yielded, and crept down
here to carry out my plan. You found me." He grabbed again, at me this
time, and got me by the arm. He had a grip like a lobster. "Young man,"
he said, "you would not betray me? You would not tell Clarence?"
I was feeling most frightfully sorry for the poor old chap by this
time, don't you know, but I thought it would be kindest to give it him
straight instead of breaking it by degrees.
"I won't say a word to Clarence, Mr. Yeardsley," I said. "I quite
understand your feelings. The Artistic Temperament, and all that sort
of thing. I mean--what? _I_ know. But I'm afraid--Well, look!"
I went to the door and switched on the electric light, and there,
staring him in the face, were the two empty frames. He stood goggling
at them in silence. Then he gave a sort of wheezy grunt.
"The gang! The burglars! They _have_ been here, and they have
taken Clarence's picture!" He paused. "It might have been mine! My
Venus!" he whispered It was getting most fearfully painful, you know,
but he had to know the truth.
"I'm awfully sorry, you know," I said. "But it _was_."
He started, poor old chap.
"Eh? What do you mean?"
"They _did_ take your Venus."
"But I have it here."
I shook my head.
"That's Clarence's 'Jocund Spring,'" I said.
He jumped at it and straightened it out.
"What! What are you talking about? Do you think I don't know my own
picture--my child--my Venus. See! My own signature in the corner. Can
you read, boy? Look: 'Matthew Yeardsley.' This is _my_ picture!"
And--well, by Jove, it _was_, don't you know!
* * * * *
Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we settled
down to take a steady look at the position of affairs. Bill said it was
my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and I said it was Bill's
fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that I couldn't be expected
to see what I was getting hold of, and then there was a pretty massive
silence for a bit.
"Reggie," said Bill at last, "how exactly do you feel about facing
Clarence and Elizabeth at breakfast?"
"Old scout," I said. "I was thinking much the same myself."
"Reggie," said Bill, "I happen to know there's a milk-train leaving
Midford at three-fifteen. It isn't what you'd call a flier. It gets to
London at about half-past nine. Well--er--in the circumstances, how