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diff --git a/78329-0.txt b/78329-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c468a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/78329-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18656 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78329 *** + + + _Angel + Pavement_ + + BY + J. B. PRIESTLEY + + + HARPER & BROTHERS + New York _and_ London + 1930 + + + _Angel Pavement + Copyright, 1930, by J. B. Priestley + Printed in the U. S. A. + Fourth Printing_ + + + _To + C. S. EVANS_ + + _because he is not only a good friend and a fine publisher, + but also because he is a London man and will know + what I am getting at in this London novel._ + + + + + [Contents] + + + _Prologue_ + + I. THEY ARRIVE--12 + + II. MR. SMEETH IS REASSURED--51 + + III. THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME--87 + + IV. TURGIS SEES HER--128 + + V. MISS MATFIELD WONDERS--169 + + VI. MR. SMEETH GETS HIS RISE--219 + + VII. ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS--264 + + VIII. MISS MATFIELD’S NEW YEAR--313 + + IX. MR. SMEETH IS WORRIED--356 + + X. THE LAST ARABIAN NIGHT--402 + + XI. THEY GO HOME--444 + + _Epilogue_ + + + + +_Prologue_ + + +She came gliding along London’s broadest street, and then halted, +swaying gently. She was a steamship of some 3,500 tons, flying the flag +of one of the new Baltic states. The Tower Bridge cleared itself of +midgets and toy vehicles and raised its two arms, and then she passed +underneath, accompanied by cheerfully impudent tugs, and after some +manœuvring and hooting and shouting, finally came to rest alongside +Hay’s Wharf. The fine autumn afternoon was losing its bright gold and +turning into smoke and distant fading flame, so that it seemed for +a moment as if all London bridges were burning down. Then the flare +of the day died out, leaving behind a quiet light, untroubled as yet +by the dusk. On the wharf, men in caps lent a hand with ropes and a +gangway, contrived to spit ironically, as if they knew what all this +fuss was worth, and then retired to group themselves in the background, +like a shabby and faintly derisive chorus; and men in bowler hats +arrived from nowhere, carrying dispatch cases, notebooks, bundles of +papers, to exchange mysterious jokes with the ship’s officers above; +and two men in blue helmets, large and solid men, took their stand in +the very middle of the scene and appeared to tell the ship, with a +glance or two, that she could stay where she was for the time being +because nothing against her was known so far to the police. The ship, +for her part, began to think about discharging her mixed cargo. + +This cargo was so mixed that it included the man who now emerged from +the saloon, came yawning on to the deck, and looked down upon Hay’s +Wharf. This solitary passenger was a man of medium height but of a +massive build, square and bulky about the shoulders, and thick-chested. +He might have been forty-five; he might have been nearly fifty; it was +difficult to tell his exact age. His face was somewhat unusual, if +only because it began by being almost bald at the top, then threw out +two very bushy eyebrows, and finally achieved a tremendous moustache, +drooping a little by reason of its very length and thickness; a +moustache in a thousand, with something rhetorical, even theatrical, +about it. He wore, carelessly, a suit of excellent grey cloth but of +a foreign cut and none too well-fitting. This passenger had come with +the ship from the Baltic state that owned her, but there was something +about his appearance, in spite of his clothes, his moustache, that +suggested he was really a native of this island. But that is perhaps +all it did suggest. He was one of those men who are difficult to place. +The sight of him did not call up any particular background, and you +could not easily imagine him either at work or at home. He had come +from the Baltic to the Thames, but it might just as well have been from +any place to any other place. As he stood there, straddling at ease, a +thick figure of a man but not slow and heavy, with his gleaming bald +front and giant moustache, looking down at the wharf quite incuriously, +he seemed a man who was neither coming home nor leaving it, and yet not +a simple traveller, and this gave him a faint piratical air. + +“Lon-don, eh?” cried a voice at his elbow. It came from the second +mate, a small natty youngster not unlike a pale and well-brushed +monkey. “Vairy nice, eh?” + +“All right.” + +“You com’ ’ere, Misdair Colsbee? You stay ’ere?” The second mate liked +to air his English and had not had much opportunity of doing so during +the voyage. + +“Yes, I stay here,” replied Mr. Golspie, for that was the name the +second officer was trying to pronounce. “That is,” he boomed, as an +afterthought, “if there’s anything doing.” + +“You leef ’ere, in Lon-don?” pursued the other, who had missed the +force of the last remark. + +“No, I don’t. I don’t live anywhere. That’s me.” And Mr. Golspie said +this with a kind of grim relish, as if to suggest that he might pop +up anywhere, and that when he did, something or somebody had better +look out. He might have been one of the quieter buccaneers sailing into +harbour. + +Then, nodding amiably, he stepped forward, looked up and down the +wharf again, and returned to the saloon, where he took a cigar from +the box the captain had bought at the entrance to the Kiel Canal, and +helped himself to a drink from one of the many bottles that overflowed +from the sideboard to the table. It had been a convivial voyage. Mr. +Golspie and the captain were old acquaintances who had been able to +do one another various good turns. The captain had promised to make +Mr. Golspie very comfortable, and one way of making Mr. Golspie very +comfortable was to lay in and then promptly bring out a sound stock +of whisky, cognac, vodka, and other liquors. There had been nothing +one-sided about this arrangement, for the captain had been able to +keep pace with his guest, even though his progress had not had the +same steady dignity. The captain, who had once served in the Russian +Imperial Navy and had only resigned from it by escaping in his shirt +and trousers over the side one night, was apt to turn fantastic in +his drink. On two nights out of the three, during the voyage, he had +insisted upon declaiming a long speech from Goethe’s _Faust_ in four +different languages, to show that he was a man of culture. And on the +night before they had entered the Thames Estuary, the previous night, +in fact, he had gone further than that, for he had laughed a great +deal, sung four songs that Mr. Golspie could not understand at all, +told a long story apparently in Russian, cried a little, and shaken +Mr. Golspie’s hand so hard and so often that as he thought about it +all now, over his cigar in the saloon that seemed so strangely still, +Mr. Golspie could almost feel the ache again in his hand. Mr. Golspie +himself did not perform any of these antics; he merely mellowed as the +evening waned and the bottles were emptied; and he was mellowing now, +early though it was, for he and the captain had sat a long time over +lunch. Apparently, however, Mr. Golspie did not consider that he was +sufficiently mellow, for he now helped himself to another drink. + +The men in bowler hats were by this time on board. Some of them were +interviewing the captain. Others were interested in Mr. Golspie, for +they had to decide whether he was fit to land in the island of his +birth. His relations with these officials were quite amiable, but they +did not prevent him from expressing his views. + +“Regulations! Of course they’re regulations!” he boomed through the +great moustache, mellow but pugnacious. “But that doesn’t mean they’re +not a lot o’ damned nonsense. There’s more palaver getting into England +now than there was getting into Russia and Turkey before the blasted +war. And we used to laugh at ’em. Backward countries we used to call +’em. Passports!” Here he laughed, then tapped the young man on the +lapel of his blue serge coat. “Never kept a rogue out yet, never. Only +wants a bit of cleverness. All they do is to make trouble for honest +men--fellows like me, wanting to do a bit of good to trade. Isn’t that +right? You bet it is.” + +He then saw the customs officers, who dipped a hand here and there in +his two steamer trunks and three battered suitcases. + +“I expect you’d like to get away,” said one of them, beginning to chalk +up his approval of the luggage. + +Mr. Golspie watched him with idle benevolence, looking quite unlike a +man who has two hundred and fifty cigars cunningly stowed away in a +steamer trunk. “Not this time. No hurry, for once. I’m staying aboard +to pick a bit of dinner with the skipper here.” He waved a hand, +presumably to indicate the city that lay all round them. “It can wait.” + +“What can?” And the young man gave a final flourish of chalk. + +“London can,” replied Mr. Golspie. “All of it.” + +The young man laughed, not because he thought this last remark very +witty, but because this passenger suddenly reminded him of a comedian +he had once seen at the Finsbury Park Empire. “Well, I dare say it can. +It’s been waiting a long time.” + +Left to himself, with his cigars all safe, Mr. Golspie ruminated for a +minute or two, then climbed to the upper deck, perhaps to decide what +it was that had been waiting so long. + +He found himself staring at the immense panorama of the Pool. Dusk was +falling; the river rippled darkly; and the fleet of barges across the +way was almost shapeless. There was, however, enough daylight lingering +on the north bank, where the black piles and the whitewashed wharf +edge above them still stood out sharply, to give shape and character +to the waterfront. Over on the right, the grey stones of the Tower +were faintly luminous, as if they had contrived to store away a little +of their centuries of sunlight. The white pillars of the Custom House +were as plain as peeled wands. Nearer still, two church spires thrust +themselves above the blur of stone and smoke and vague flickering +lights: one was as blanched and graceful as if it had been made of +twisted paper, a salute to Heaven from the City; the other was abrupt +and dark, a despairing appeal, the finger of a hand flung out to the +sky. Mr. Golspie, after a brief glance, ignored the pair of them. They +in their turn, however, were dominated by the severely rectangular +building to the left, boldly fronting the river and looking over +London Bridge with a hundred eyes, a grim Assyrian bulk of stone. It +challenged Mr. Golspie’s memory, so that he regarded it intently. It +was there when he was last in London, but was new then. Adelaide House, +that was it. But he still continued to look at it, and with respect, +for the challenge remained, though not to the memory. Both the blind +eyes and the lighted eyes of its innumerable windows seemed to answer +his stare and to tell him that he did not amount to very much, not here +in London. Then his gaze swept over the bridge to what could be seen +beyond. The Cold Storage place, and then, cavernous, immense, the great +black arch of Cannon Street Station, and high above, far beyond, not in +the city but in the sky and still softly shining in the darkening air, +a ball and a cross. It was the very top of St. Paul’s, seen above the +roof of Cannon Street Station. Mr. Golspie recognised it with pleasure, +and even half sung, half hummed, the line of a song that came back to +him, something about “St. Paul’s with its grand old Dome.” Good luck to +St. Paul’s! It did not challenge him: it was simply there, keeping an +eye on everything but interfering with nobody. And somehow this glimpse +of St. Paul’s suddenly made him realise that this was the genuine old +monster, London. He felt the whole mass of it, spouting and fuming and +roaring away. He realised something else too, namely, the fact that +he was still wearing his old brown slippers, the ones that Hortensia +had given him. He had arrived, had crept right into the very heart of +London, wearing his old brown slippers. He had slipped two hundred +and fifty cigars past their noses, and had not even changed into his +shoes. James Golspie was surveying London in his slippers, and London +was not knowing, not caring--just yet. These thoughts gave him enormous +pleasure, bringing with them a fine feeling of cunning and strength: he +could have shaken hands with himself; if there had been a mirror handy +he would probably have exchanged a wink with his reflection. + +He walked round the deck. Lights were flickering on along the wharf, +immediately giving the unlit entrances a sombre air of mystery. A few +men down there were heaving and shouting, but there was little to see. +Mr. Golspie continued his walk, then stopped to look across and over +London Bridge at the near waterfront, the south bank. Such lighting +as there was on this side was very gay. High up on the first building +past the bridge, coloured lights revolved about an illuminated bottle, +to the glory of Booth’s Gin, and further along, a stabbing gleam of +crimson finally spelt itself into Sandeman’s Port. Mr. Golspie regarded +both these writings on the wall with admiration and sympathy. The sight +of London Bridge itself too, pleased him now, for all the buses had +turned on their lights and were streaming across like a flood of molten +gold. They brought another stream of pleasant images into Mr. Golspie’s +mind, a bright if broken pageant of convivial London: double whiskies +in crimson-shaded bars; smoking hot steaks and chops and a white cloth +on a little corner table; the glitter and velvet of the music-halls; +knowing gossip, the fine reek of Havanas, round a club fender and fat +leather chairs; pretty girls, a bit stiff perhaps (though not as stiff +as they used to be) but very pretty and not so deep as the foreign +ones, coming out of shops and offices, with evenings to spend and not +much else: he saw it all and he liked the look of it. There was a size, +a richness, about London. You could find anything or anybody you wanted +in it, and you could also hide in it. He had been a fool to stay away +so long. But, anyhow, here he was. He took a long and wide and exultant +look at the place. + +Dinner that night was very good indeed, the best the boat had given +him. Mr. Golspie and the captain shared it with the chief engineer, who +came beaming and shining from the depths, and the first mate, usually +a very wooden fellow, for ever brooding over some mysterious domestic +tragedy in Riga, but now for once gigantically social and cheerful. The +steward, the one with the cropped head and gold tooth, lavished his all +upon them. Bottles that had not been emptied before were emptied now, +together with some that were produced for the first time. The talk, so +far as Mr. Golspie had any part in it, was conducted in a fantastic +mixture of English, German, and the ship’s own Baltic language, a +mixture it would be impossible to reproduce here, but it went very +well, smashing its way through the entanglements of irregular verbs +and doubtful substantives, for nothing removes the curse of Babel like +food, drink, and good-fellowship. All four grew expansive, bellowed +confidences, roared through the fog of cigar smoke, threw back their +heads to laugh, and were gods for an hour. + +“Very soon we shall meet again,” said the captain to Mr. Golspie, +clinking glasses for the third time. “Is that not so, my friend?” + +“Leave it to me, my boy,” replied Mr. Golspie, very flushed, with tiny +beads of perspiration on that massive bald front of his. + +“You come back when you have finished your business here in London?” + +“As to that, I can’t say. If I can, I will.” + +“That is good,” said the captain. Then he looked very deep, and put a +finger as big as a pork sausage to his forehead. “And now you will tell +us what this business is, eh? In secret. We will not tell.” + +The chief engineer tugged at the ends of his moustache, which was +nearly as large as Mr. Golspie’s, and tried to look even deeper than +the captain, like the repository of innumerable commercial secrets. + +“I say this,” cried the huge first mate, who was in no condition now +to wait until his opinion had been asked. “I say this. It is good +business. It is for the good of our country. I drink to you,” he +shouted, and promptly did so, with the result that he immediately +remembered that disastrous affair at Riga, and sat silent, with the +tears in his eyes, for the next twenty minutes. + +“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Golspie, taking out his cigar and +looking at it very knowingly, as if it was a fellow conspirator. +“There’s no need to make a mystery of it. D’you remember Mikorsky? Wait +a minute. Not the little fellow with the office in Danzig, but the big +fellow with the beard, in the timber trade. That’s the one. Remember +him?” + +The captain did, and was evidently so pleased by this effort of memory +that he appeared to conduct several bars of one of the stormier +symphonies. The mate remembered, too, but only nodded, his tearful +blue eyes being still fixed on that tragic interior in Riga. The chief +engineer did not remember Mikorsky, and, in what seemed nothing less +than mental anguish, repeated the name in twenty different tones, +beginning very high and ending in a despairing bass. + +“I’ve done one or two little jobs for him,” Mr. Golspie continued, +“during the time I had a bit of a pull. We’d a night or two together, +too. I met him one day, not a month ago, and he said he was just +going down into the country, to see his cousin, and I ought to go +with him. So I did. I’d nothing better to do. Hot as hell it was down +there, too, and I was bitten to death. This cousin of Mikorsky’s was +in the furniture end of the timber trade, and he’d invented a new +process, machine, treatment, everything, for turning out veneers +and inlays. And labour costs next to nothing down there. I asked +where all this stuff was going. Well, they’d got orders from Germany +and Czecho-Slovakia and Austria and a chance of something in Paris. +‘What’s it going to cost in London?’ I said, showing ’em one of their +lines, and they told me. It sounded all right to me, but I didn’t say +anything. Not then. I went away and made a few enquiries. I found out +what they were paying for this sort of stuff in Bethnal Green and +Hoxton and those parts, in London, you know, where the furniture’s +made----” + +“Bednal Green, yes,” said the chief engineer proudly. “My uncle Stefan +was there, yes, old Stefan in Bednal Green. Socialist,” he added, as a +melancholy afterthought. + +“He was, was he?” Mr. Golspie boomed, with a certain brutal heartiness +characteristic of him. “Well, good luck to him! I’ll get on with the +tale. They were paying half as much again for the same sort o’ stuff, +veneers and inlays, not a bit better, here in London. Couldn’t get it +where it was produced so cheap, y’see? Didn’t look about ’em. They’re +getting slow here. There’s something in this for me, I said to myself, +and off I went down there again, to see this other Mikorsky, the +cousin. I wanted to know how much of this stuff I could have every +month, various lines, and the prices. They told me, and guaranteed +it. We had a few drinks on it, and I walk out, with a contract in my +pocket, so much of this, that, and the other, at so much, whenever I +liked to take it up, and me the sole agent for Great Britain.” + +“Very good business,” said the captain, with a grave judicial air, in +spite of his rather goggly eyes. “And now, you sell it all, eh? You +make big profit?” + +“What I do is to find somebody who’s in the way of selling it, somebody +who’s in this line o’ business, and then go in with ’em.” Mr. Golspie +refreshed himself noisily. “And if I haven’t laid my hand on somebody +by this time the day after to-morrow, my name’s not Jimmy Golspie.” + +“Make plenty of money, be rich, eh?” + +“No, it’s too honest. But I’ll pick a bit up, to be going on with.” + +“Ah no, no!” cried the captain, reaching over and patting Mr. Golspie +on the shoulder. “You make plenty, here in London. Ho-ho, yes! Plenty! +Money here in London--oh!--” And he held out his hands as if he +expected the Bank of England to be emptied into them. + +“Not so much as you think,” said Mr. Golspie, shaking his head very +slowly. “Oh no, not at all. They may have it, but it’s all tied up. +It’s not--er--shir--circulating. I tell you, they’re slow here, they’re +slow.” + +“You think they sleep?” + +“That’s right. Half asleep, most of ’em.” + +“Ho-ho,” roared the captain. “And you will put them awake?” + +“One or two, p’rhaps, I might be able to shake up a bit. If not, I’m on +the move again. And I’ll have to be on the move now, boys. I told that +steward’s mate--the fellow that plays the concertina--to go and get me +a taxi and take my traps ashore. It ought to be there, at the corner, +any minute now. All right then. Just a last one for luck.” + +They were having this last one, with some formality, when the man +returned to say that the taxi was waiting. Mr. Golspie led the way to +the deck, and then stopped near the gangway to say good-bye. + +“Now for it,” he cried, more for his own benefit than for his +listeners’. “Straight back into the old rabbit warren. God, what a +place! Millions and millions, and most of ’em don’t know they’re born +yet! Eyes and tails, that’s all they are, diving in and out of their +little holes. The good old rabbit warren. Look at it! Ah, well, it’s no +good looking at it here because you can’t see it. But I’ve been looking +at it. What a place! Well, Chief--well, Captain--this is where I go.” + +“And the beautiful daughter, the little Lena?” the captain inquired. +“Is she here, waiting for you?” + +“Not yet. She’s still in Paris, with her aunt, but she’ll be coming +over as soon as I’ve settled down. Golspie and Daughter, that’ll be +the style of the firm then, and we’ll see what London makes of it. +And--my God--if I don’t waken some of ’em up, she will, the artful +little devil! But she’ll have to behave here. Yes, she’ll have to +behave. Well, Captain, keep her afloat, and remember me to all the +girls and boys at the other end, and let’s meet again next time you’re +over. Drop me a line to the office here. I’ll tell ’em where to find +me. Where the devil’s the lad? Oh, he’s there, is he? Has he taken +everything ashore? Right you are! So long!” + +After a final wave of the hand, Mr. Golspie, a very massive figure now +in his huge ulster, made a slow, steady, and very dignified progress +down the gangway. When he found himself treading at last the stones of +London, he turned his head and nodded, then strode off more briskly +to the corner of Battle Bridge Lane, where the taxi was waiting. Two +minutes later, he had gone hooting into the lights and shadows of the +city, which sent whirling past the windows a crazy frieze, glimmering, +glittering, darkening, of shops, taverns, theatre doors, hoardings, +church porches, crimson and gold segments of buses, little lighted +interiors of saloon cars, railings and doorsteps and lace curtains, +mounds and chocolate, thousands of cigarette packets, beer and buns +and aspirin and wreaths and coffins, and faces, faces, more and more +faces, strange, meaningless and without end. But the lights that came +flashing in found a tiny answering gleam in Mr. Golspie’s eyes; and +when they had gone, in the double darkness of the cab and the shadow +of that great moustache, he grinned. London neither knew nor cared; +nevertheless, there it was: Mr. James Golspie had arrived. + + + + +_Chapter One_: THEY ARRIVE + + +I + +Many people who think they know the City well have been compelled to +admit that they do not know Angel Pavement. You could go wandering half +a dozen times between Bunhill Fields and London Wall, or across from +Barbican to Broad Street Station, and yet miss Angel Pavement. Some of +the street maps of the district omit it altogether; taxi-drivers often +do not even pretend to know it; policemen are frequently not sure; +and only postmen who are caught within half a dozen streets of it are +triumphantly positive. This all suggests that Angel Pavement is of no +great importance. Everybody knows Finsbury Pavement, which is not very +far away, because Finsbury Pavement is a street of considerable length +and breadth, full of shops, warehouses, and offices, to say nothing of +buses and trams, for it is a real thoroughfare. Angel Pavement is not a +real thoroughfare, and its length and breadth are inconsiderable. You +might bombard the postal districts of E. C. 1 and E. C. 2 with letters +for years, and yet never have to address anything to Angel Pavement. +The little street is old, and has its fair share of sooty stone and +greasy walls, crumbling brick and rotting woodwork, but somehow it +has never found itself on the stage of history. Kings, princes, +great bishops, have never troubled it; murders it may have seen, but +they have all belonged to private life; and no literary masterpiece +has ever been written under one of its roofs. The guide-books, the +volumes on London’s byways, have not a word to say about it, and those +motor-coaches, complete with guide, that roam about the City in the +early evening never go near it. The guide himself, who knows all about +Henry the Eighth and Wren and Dickens and is so highly educated that +he can still talk with an Oxford accent at the very top of his voice, +could probably tell you nothing about Angel Pavement. + +It is a typical City side-street, except that it is shorter, narrower, +and dingier than most. At one time it was probably a real thoroughfare, +but now only pedestrians can escape at the western end, and they do +this by descending the six steps at the corner. For anything larger and +less nimble than a pedestrian, Angel Pavement is a _cul de sac_, for +all that end, apart from the steps, is blocked up by _Chase & Cohen: +Carnival Novelties_, and not even by the front of Chase & Cohen but +by their sooty, mouldering, dusty-windowed back. Chase & Cohen do not +believe it is worth while offering Angel Pavement any of their carnival +novelties--many of which are given away, with a thirty shilling dinner +and dance, in the West End every gala night--and so they turn the other +way, not letting Angel Pavement have so much as a glimpse of a pierrot +hat or a false nose. Perhaps this is as well, for if the pavementeers +could see pierrot hats and false noses every day, there is no telling +what might happen. + +What you do see there, however, is something quite different. Turning +into Angel Pavement from that crazy jumble and jangle of buses, +lorries, drays, private cars, and desperate bicycles, the main road, +you see on the right, first a nondescript blackened building that is +really the side of a shop and a number of offices; then _The Pavement +Dining Rooms: R. Ditton, Propr._, with R. Ditton’s usual window display +of three cocoanut buns, two oranges, four bottles of cherry cider +picturesquely grouped, and if not the boiled ham, the meat-and-potato +pie; then a squashed little house or bundle of single offices that is +hopelessly to let; and then the bar of the _White Horse_, where you +have the choice of any number of mellowed whiskies or fine sparkling +ales, to be consumed on or off the premises, and if on, then either +publicly or privately. You are now halfway down the street, and could +easily throw a stone through one of Chase & Cohen’s windows, which +is precisely what somebody, maddened perhaps by the thought of the +Carnival Novelties, has already done. On the other side, the southern +side, the left-hand side when you turn in from the outer world, you +begin, rather splendidly, with _Dunbury & Co.: Incandescent Gas +Fittings_, and two windows almost bright with sample fittings. Then you +arrive at _T. Benenden: Tobacconist_, whose window is filled with dummy +packets of cigarettes and tobacco that have long ceased even to pretend +they have anything better than air in them; though there are also, as +witnesses to T. Benenden’s enterprise, one or two little bowls of dry +and dusty stuff that mutter, in faded letters, “Our Own Mixture, Cool +Sweet Smoking, Why not Try it?” To reach T. Benenden’s little counter, +you go through the street doorway and then turn through another door on +the left. The stairs in front of you--and very dark and dirty they are, +too--belong to _C. Warstein: Tailors’ Trimmings_. Next to T. Benenden +and C. Warstein is a door, a large, stout, old door from which most +of the paint has flaked and shredded away. This door has no name on +it, and nobody, not even T. Benenden, has seen it open or knows what +there is behind it. There it is, a door, and it does nothing but gather +dust and cobwebs and occasionally drop another flake of dried paint +on the worn step below. Perhaps it leads into another world. Perhaps +it will open, one morning, to admit an angel, who, after looking up +and down the little street for a moment, will suddenly blow the last +trumpet. Perhaps that is the real reason why the street is called Angel +Pavement. What is certain, however, is that this door has no concern +with the building next to it and above it, the real neighbour of T. +Benenden and C. Warstein and known to the postal authorities as No. 8, +Angel Pavement. + +No. 8, once a four-storey dwelling-house where some merchant-alderman +lived snugly on his East India dividends, is now a little hive of +commerce. For the last few years, it has contrived to keep an old lady +and a companion (unpaid) in reasonable comfort at The Palms Private +Hotel, Torquay, and, in addition, to furnish the old lady’s youngest +niece with an allowance of two pounds a week in order that she might +continue to share a studio just off the Fulham Road and attempt to +design scenery for plays that are always about to be produced at the +Everyman Theatre, Hampstead. It has also indirectly paid the golf-club +subscription and caddie fees of the junior partner of Fulton, Gregg +& Fulton, the solicitors, who are responsible for the letting and +the rents. As for the tenants themselves, their names may be found +on each side of the squat doorway. The ground floor is occupied by +the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co., Ltd._, the first floor by _Twigg & +Dersingham_, and the upper floors by the _Universal Hosiery Co._, the +_London and Counties Supply Stores_, and, at the very top, keeping its +eye on everybody, the _National Mercantile Enquiry Agency_, which seems +to be content with the possession of a front attic. + +This does not mean that we have now finished with No. 8, Angel +Pavement. It is for the sake of No. 8 that we have come to Angel +Pavement at all, but not for the whole of No. 8, but only for the first +floor. No doubt a number of tales, perhaps huge violent epics, could be +started, jumped into life, merely by opening the door of the _Kwik-Work +Razor Blade Co., Ltd._, or by trudging up the stairs to the _Universal +Hosiery Co._ and the _London and Counties Supply Stores_, or by +looking up at the grimy skylight, and giving a shout to the _National +Mercantile Enquiry Agency_, but we must keep to the less mysterious but +more respectable first floor--and _Twigg & Dersingham_. + + +II + +On this particular morning in autumn, Mrs. Cross was rather later +than usual. That did not matter very much because it was not +one of the floor-washing mornings, but just one of the ordinary +dust-round-and-sweep-up-a-bit mornings. But somebody, one of the +interfering sort, had left a note for her in the general office, that +is, the room just behind the frosted glass partitions and the sort of +ticket office window with _Enquiries_ on it, and this note said: _Mrs. +Cross. What about turning this room out for a change? Thank you!!_ + +“An’ thank _you_!” said Mrs. Cross, quite aloud and with grim irony, as +she tore up this note and popped it in the top of the stove. To show +that she was not the kind of woman to be dictated to in this fashion, +she immediately went and gave the other room, Mr. Dersingham’s private +office, a thoroughly good sweeping and dusting. Having done that, she +waddled straight across the general office to the other room, which, +with its long counter and cupboards and drawers and samples of wood +and litter, was the one she liked least, being always in a terrible +mess. On her way, she completely ignored the general office, did not +even give it a look, just as if it were full of people in the habit +of leaving notes. Her back told it very plainly that she would clean +up the office in her own way. Once in the other room, the nasty one, +she felt so pleased about this rebuff that she set to work with a +will, and for the next ten minutes was enveloped in a cloud of dust. +By the time she had finished, there may have been very few articles +in the room that were free from dust, but nearly all of them had at +least exchanged their old dust for another variety that came perhaps +from quite a distant corner. Then she thrust back a wisp of grey hair +from her swollen face, on which time and trouble had first sketched +a few lines and then deepened them by puffing out the surrounding +flesh; she dragged her swollen feet across to the discarded leather +office chair in the corner; she flopped into the chair and put her +swollen hands--for though she said with some truth that she worked her +fingers to the bone, hot water and soap and wet scrubbing brushes had +piled sodden, nerveless flesh on those bones--in her lap, and rested. +Immediately she plunged into a fierce reverie, in which the figure +of Mr. Cross, who suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, the two rooms +between the City Road and the black Regent’s Canal that were her home, +Mrs. Tomlinson, the woman she was going to clean for later in the +morning, and the image of a pound of stewing steak, all played their +parts. Then she returned to the general office. + +This time, she noticed its existence, and what she saw suddenly gave +her a little fright. She had been a bit too hasty (her old fault) about +that note. It really did want a good tidying. She had neglected it a +bit lately, because for the last three mornings she had been late, all +because she was not getting her proper sleep, and all because Mrs. +Williams and her husband on the next floor had got a loud speaker, one +of them little horns, and it was not only a loud speaker but also a +late speaker, and in fact would speak your head off. And if she didn’t +get on with this office a bit, the one that left that note would be +complaining to Mr. Dersingham, and then that might mean another job +gone, all due to hastiness. She had better be putting her hastiness +behind a brush and duster. And, as if to give her a final push, a clock +somewhere outside sounded the half-hour. Half-past eight!--well, now +she would have to bustle round. + +She was still bustling round--though, to be accurate, she was only +engaged in passing a languid, duster-holding hand over the tin cover +of the typewriter--when Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham’s next employee +arrived, and their day really began. The frosted glass door that opened +from the little space in which enquirers were kept waiting for a few +minutes, now swung back to admit into the general office the body of +a boy about fifteen, whose eyes were focussed upon a paper, folded +into a very small compass, that he held about four inches away from +them. This was the office boy or very junior clerk, Stanley Poole, who +had just come all the way from Hackney, which remained with him as a +combined flavour of cocoa and bread dipped in bacon fat that still +haunted his palate. His body, which was small and thin but sufficiently +tough, and was crowned by a snub nose, some freckles, greyish-greenish +eyes, and some unbrushed sandy hair, had been in the service of Twigg +& Dersingham for the last twenty minutes, when it had boarded a tram +and a bus and had walked down several streets. Now it had arrived in +the office. But his mind had not yet begun the day’s work. Even now, +when the very threshold had been passed, it was still in the wilds of +Mexico, enjoying the heroic and exhilarating companionship of Jack +Dashwood and Dick Robinson, the Boy Aviators, the terror of all +Mexican bandits. + +“So you’ve come,” said Mrs. Cross, putting back that wisp of hair +again. “It’s about time I was ’opping it if you’ve come.” + +Stanley looked up and nodded. With a sigh, he withdrew from the world +of the Boy Aviators and the Mexican bandits. He tried to fold his paper +into a still smaller compass, before cramming it into his pocket. + +“Read, read, read!” cried Mrs. Cross derisively. “Some of yer’s always +at it. What they find to put in all the time beats me. What’s that yer +reading now? Murders, I’ll bet.” + +“’Tisn’t,” replied Stanley, balancing himself on one leg for no +particular reason that we can discover. “It’s a boys’ paper.” He made +this announcement with a kind of sullen reluctance, not because he was +really a sullen lad, but simply because he had discovered that when +his elders asked these questions, they were usually not in search of +information, but were trying to get at him. + +“Penny bloods, them things is.” + +“’Tisn’t,” said Stanley, balancing himself on the other leg now. “This +is tuppence. I buy it ev’ry week, have done ever since it come out. +_Boy’s Companion_, it’s called. It’s got the best tales in,” he added, +in a sudden burst of confidence. “All about boys who fly in airplanes +an’ go to Mexico an’ Russia an’ all over an’ have advenshers!” + +“Advenshers! They’d be better off at ’ome--with their advenshers! +You’ll be wantin’ to go an’ ’ave advenshers yerself next--and then what +will yer poor mother say?” + +But this only goaded Stanley into making new and even more dangerous +admissions. “I’m going to try and be a detective,” he mumbled. + +“Well now, did y’ever!” cried Mrs. Cross, at once shocked and +delighted. “A detective! I never ’eard of such a thing! What d’yer come +’ere for if yer want to be a detective. There’s no detectin’ ’ere. Go +on with yer! ’Ere, yer not big enough, and yer never will be either, +’cos yer’d ’ave to be a pleeceman first before they’d let yer be a +detective, and they’d never ’ave yer as a pleeceman.” + +“You can be detective without being a bobby first,” replied Stanley +scornfully. He had gone into this question, and was not to be put off +by a mere outsider like Mrs. Cross. “’Sides, you can be a private +detective an’ find jewels an’ shadder people. That’s what I’d like to +do--shadder people.” + +“What’s that? Follerin’ ’em about, is it? Oh, that’s nasty work, that +is. Shadderin’! I’d shadder yer if I caught yer at it, my words I +would.” And Mrs. Cross took up her brush and dust-pan and gave them a +fierce little shake, almost as if she had just caught _them_ at it. +“Now you just get on with yer work like a good boy, and don’t you go +tellin’ anybody else yer want to be shadderin’ else yer’ll be gettin’ +yerself into trouble. Yer can’t expect people to ’ave any patience with +shadderers. If Mr. Dersingham knew what was goin’ on in that ’ead of +yours, ’e’d tell yer to go straight ’ome and ’ave nothing more to do +with yer, and yer’d find yerself shadderin’ for another job, and that’s +all the shadderin’ _you’d_ get.” + +Stanley turned away, and then pulled a face, not so much at Mrs. Cross +as at the whole narrow school of thought represented at this moment by +Mrs. Cross. He went to the letter-box and brought back the morning’s +post, which he placed on the nearest high desk. There he remembered +something, and looked with a grin at Mrs. Cross, who was now having a +final bustle round. + +“Did you see that note left for you?” he inquired. + +Mrs. Cross suspended operations at once. “Yes, I did see it, and if yer +want to know where it is, I can tell yer, ’cos it’s in that stove.” She +struck an attitude that suggested a counsel for the prosecution of the +high-handed type. “And oo, might I ask, left that there note? Oo wrote +it? Just you tell me that, that’s all?” + +“Miss Matfield wrote it.” + +“An’ I thought as much. Soon as I set eyes on it, I knew. Miss Matfield +wrote it! Miss Matfield!” Her irony was now so terrible that she shook +all over with it, and her head seemed in danger of falling off. “And +’ow long, might I ask, ’as Miss Matfield been in this office, doin’ ’er +typewriting? ’Ow long? Two munce. All right--three munce. An’ ’ow long +’ave I been cleaning for Twiggs and Dersingham’s, coming ’ere ev’ry +morning, week in an’ week out, to clean this office? Yer don’t know. +No, yer don’t know, and yer Miss Matfield doesn’t know. Well, I’ll tell +yer. I’ve been cleaning for Twiggs and Dersingham’s for seven years, +I ’ave. It wasn’t this Mr. Dersingham that started me, it was ’is +uncle, old Mr. Dersingham, ’im oo’s dead now--an’ a nice old gentleman +’e was, too, nicer than this one an’ a better ’ead on ’im to my way +of thinking--and when this Mr. Dersingham took on, ’e sent for me and +said, ‘You keep on cleaning, Mrs. Cross, and I’ll pay yer whatever my +uncle did,’ that’s what ’e said to me in that very room there, and I +said, ‘Much obliged, sir, and the very best attention as always,’ and +’e said, ‘I’m sure it will, Mrs. Cross.’ Typewriters! Coming and going +so fast I can’t be bothered learning their names. If there’s been +one ’ere since I started, there’s been eight or ten or a dozen. Miss +Matfield! Now when she comes in, just give ’er a message from me,” she +cried, thoroughly reckless by this time. “Just say to ’er: ‘Mrs. Cross +’as seen the note left and only asks oo is cleaning this office, Miss +Matfield or ’er, and if ’er, then them oo’s been doing it for seven +years, week in and week out, knows their own business better than them +oo’s only been typewriting ’ere for three munce, and so Mrs. Cross’ll +thank ’er to keep ’er notes to ’erself in future till they’re asked +for.’ Just you tell ’er that, boy. And I’ll say good-morning.” + +With that, Mrs. Cross unfastened her apron and gathered up her things +with great dignity, gave Stanley a final shake of the head, and waddled +out, closing the outer door behind her, a moment later, with a decisive +bang. + +Left to himself, Stanley, with the contemptuous air of a man who is +meant for better things, began his morning’s work. After taking off +the two typewriter covers, dumping a few books on the high desks, and +filling up all the ink-pots and putting out clean sheets of blotting +paper (which duty was a little fad of Mr. Smeeth’s), he remembered +that he was a creature with a soul. So, grasping a short round ruler +in such a way that it remotely resembled a revolver, he crouched +behind Mr. Smeeth’s high stool for a few tense moments, then sprang +out, pointing his gun at the place where the great criminal’s bottom +waistcoat button would have been, and said hoarsely: “Put ’em up, +Diamond Jack. No, you don’t! Not a move!” He gave a warning flourish +of the gun, then said casually, over his shoulder, to one of his +assistants or a few police sergeants or somebody like that, “Take him +away.” And that was the end of Diamond Jack, and yet another triumph +for S. Poole, the young detective whose exploits were rivalling even +those of the Boy Aviators. And having thus refreshed himself, Stanley +replaced the round ruler and condescended to perform one or two more of +those monotonous and trifling actions that Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham +demanded of him at this hour of the morning. These left him ample time +for thought, and he began to wonder if he would be able to get out +during the morning. Once outside the office--even though he was only +going to the post office or the railway goods department or some firm +not four streets away--he could enjoy himself, for the affairs of Twigg +& Dersingham faded to a grey thread of routine; he plunged at once into +the drama of London’s underworld; and as he hopped and dodged about the +crowded streets, like a sandy-haired sparrow, he was able to do some +marvellous shadowing. There also loomed already, early as it was, a +problem that would become more and more disturbing as the long morning +wore on and he became hungrier and hungrier. This was the problem of +where to go and what to buy for lunch, for which his mother allowed +him a shilling every day. He always ate his breakfast so quickly that +his stomach forgot about it almost at once and left him hollow inside +by ten o’clock and absolutely aching by twelve. He often wondered what +would happen to him if, instead of being the first to go to lunch, at +half past twelve, he was the last, and had to wait until about half +past one. There are innumerable ways of spending a shilling on lunch, +from the downright solid way of blowing the lot on sausage or fried +liver and mashed potatoes, say at the _Pavement Dining Rooms_, to the +immediately delightful but rather unsatisfying method of spreading it +out, buying a jam tart here, a banana there, and some milk chocolate +somewhere else; and Stanley knew them all. + +He was trifling with the thought of trying the nearest Lyons again, +and was actually searching his memory to discover the exact price of +a portion of Lancashire Hot-pot in that establishment, when he was +interrupted by the arrival of a colleague. This was Turgis, the clerk, +who might be described as Stanley’s senior or Mr. Smeeth’s junior. He +was in his early twenties, a thinnish, awkward young man, with a rather +long neck, poor shoulders, and large, clumsy hands and feet. You would +not say he was ugly, but on the other hand you would probably admit, +after reflection, that it would have been better for him if he had been +actually uglier. As it was, he was just unprepossessing. You would not +have noticed him in a crowd--and a great deal of his time was spent in +a crowd--but if your attention had been called to him, you would have +given him one glance and then decided that that was enough. He was +obviously neither sick nor starved, yet something about his appearance, +a total lack of colour and bloom, a slight pastiness and spottiness, +the faint grey film that seemed to cover and subdue him, suggested +that all the food he ate was wrong, all the rooms he sat in, beds he +slept in, and clothes he wore, were wrong, and that he lived in a world +without sun and clean rain and wandering sweet air. His features were +not good nor yet too bad. He had rather full brown eyes that might have +been called pretty if they had been set in a girl’s face; a fairly +large nose that should have been masterful but somehow was not; a +small, still babyish mouth, usually open, and revealing several big and +irregular teeth; and a drooping rather than retreating chin. His blue +serge suit bulged and bagged and sagged and shone, and had obviously +done all these things five days after it had left the multiple cheap +tailors’ shop, in the window of which a companion suit, clothing the +wax model of a light-weight champion, still maliciously challenged +Turgis with its smooth surface and sharp creases every time he sneaked +past it. His soft collar was crumpled, his tie a little frayed, and +there was a pulpy look about his shoes. Any sensible woman could have +compelled him to improve his appearance almost beyond recognition +within a week, and it was quite clear that no sensible woman took any +interest in him. + +“Morning, Stanley,” he said, not very cheerfully. + +“Hello,” said Stanley, in the toneless voice of one who expects nothing. + +Turgis went over to his own high desk, pulled a blotting-pad out of the +drawer, put a book or two on his desk, examined a note he had left on +his pad, reminding him to “ring Whishaws first thing,” and then spent a +melancholy five minutes at the telephone. + +“Will I have to call there this morning?” Stanley asked hopefully, when +Turgis had rung off. + +“No, they’re sending somebody. Good job, too! We don’t want you off +half the morning. You’ll stop in and do a bit of work, my son, for a +change. Do you good.” + +“What work?” demanded Stanley, with scorn. + +“By jingo, I like that!” cried Turgis. “There’s plenty to do, if you’ll +only look for it instead of dodging it. You ask Smeethy, he’ll find you +some. Haven’t you got enough? You can do some of mine, if you like. +I’ve got more than I want.” + +Stanley changed the subject. “I say,” he began, grinning, “you ought +to have heard old Ma Cross on about that note. She let herself go all +right, didn’t she just! Oo, you ought to have heard her.” + +“What did she say?” Turgis inquired. But he did it very languidly, just +to show that what amused small fry like Stanley might not amuse him. + +At that moment, however, they heard the outer door opening, and the +next moment the cause of all the trouble, Miss Matfield herself, walked +in. She flung down a library book, her large handbag, and a pair of +gloves on her table, then marched over to her hook and removed her +coat and hat, while the other two waited in silence. They were both +rather frightened of Miss Matfield. Even Mr. Smeeth and Mr. Dersingham +himself were rather frightened of Miss Matfield. + +“_Good_ morning,” she cried, looking from one to the other of them, +and, as usual, putting a disturbingly ironical inflection into her +tones. “Are we all very well this morning? Well, I’m not,” and here, +her voice changed. “O Lord! I thought I’d never get here. That bus +journey gets fouler every morning, slower and slower and fouler and +fouler.” She sat down opposite her machine, but took no notice of it. + +“You ought to try the Tube,” Turgis suggested, not very boldly or +hopefully. He had made this suggestion before. Everything had been said +before, and they all knew it. + +“Oh, I can’t bear the Tube.” Once more she seemed to annihilate the +whole vast organisation. + +It was now Stanley’s turn. “Oo, I like it. I think it’s exciting. I +wish they had ’em where we live.” + +Miss Matfield was now busy rummaging in her handbag, and all she said +was “Curse!” rather like a villain in an old-fashioned melodrama. It +is only these strictly modern young ladies, who live their own life by +pounding a typewriter all day and then retiring to tiny bed-sitting +rooms in clubs, these beings who are supposed to be the inheritors +of the earth, who can afford to talk like villains in old-fashioned +melodramas. Miss Matfield, after a final and unsuccessful rummage, +said “Curse!” again, then closed the bag with a sharp snap, seized +her gloves, and marched them over to her coat. The other two said +nothing, but looked at her. What they saw was a girl of twenty-seven +or twenty-eight, or even twenty-nine, with dark bobbed hair, decided +eyebrows, a smouldering eye, a jutting nose, a mouth that was a +discontented crimson curve, and a firm round chin that was ready to +double itself at any moment. She was not pretty, but she might have +been handsome if somebody had kept telling her she was pretty. She +was a trifle taller and bigger-boned than the average girl of her +class and type, with a good neck and good shoulders, but her figure as +a whole--and it was plain to the view in her belted orange-coloured +jumper, her short dark skirt, and artfully silky stockings--was +perhaps too top-heavy, too masterful in the bust for the flattened +calves below, to please everybody. (Including that distant and wistful +connoisseur, Turgis, who by making an effort at times was able to see +her as a female figure and not as a personality.) For the rest, her +face, her voice, her manner, all pointed to the conclusion that Lilian +Matfield nursed some huge, some overwhelming grievance against life, +but though she gave tongue to a thousand little grievances every day, +she never mentioned the monster. But there it was, raging away, when +she was complaining or being bitter about everything; and there it was, +raging away more furiously than ever, when she was being bright and +jolly, which was not often, and hardly at all during business hours. + +“The char must have got my note,” she announced on her return to her +table, “but I must say she doesn’t seem to have done much about it. +Look at that. This is the foulest office I’ve ever worked in. She never +makes any attempt to clean it properly. All she’s done now is to walk +round with a duster. And we’ve got to spend all day in the beastly +place, all filthy, just because she won’t take the least trouble. Well, +I’m going to make a row about it.” + +“She got it all right,” cried Stanley, delighted to be important and +to make a little trouble for somebody. “You ought to have heard her. +Didn’t she go on!” And, in order to show exactly how she did go on, +he opened his mouth and his eyes still wider. But then he stopped. +The outer door had been opened, and feet were being wiped. That meant +that Mr. Smeeth had arrived, and Mr. Smeeth liked to find Stanley busy +during these first few minutes. So Stanley broke off, and dashed at a +bit of work he had saved for this moment. + +“_Good_ morning, everybody,” said Mr. Smeeth, putting down his hat and +his folded newspaper, and then rubbing his hands. “It’s getting a bit +nippy in the mornings now, isn’t it? Real autumn weather.” + + +III + +You could tell at once, by the way in which Mr. Smeeth entered the +office that his attitude towards Twigg & Dersingham was quite different +from that of his young colleagues. They came because they had to come; +even if they rushed in, there was still a faint air of reluctance about +them; and there was something in their demeanour that suggested they +knew quite well that they were shedding a part of themselves, and that +the most valuable part, leaving it behind, somewhere near the street +door, where it would wait for them to pick it up again when the day’s +work was done. In short, Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham had merely hired +their services. But Mr. Smeeth obviously thought of himself as a real +factor of the entity known as Twigg & Dersingham: he was their Mr. +Smeeth. When he entered the office, he did not dwindle, he grew; he +was more himself than he was in the street outside. Thus, he had a +gratitude, a zest, an eagerness, that could not be found in the others, +resenting as they did at heart the temporary loss of their larger and +brighter selves. They merely came to earn their money, more or less. +Mr. Smeeth came to work. + +His appearance was deceptive. He looked what he ought to have been, +in the opinion of a few thousand hasty and foolish observers of this +life, and what he was not--a grey drudge. They could easily see him as +a drab ageing fellow for ever toiling away at figures of no importance, +as a creature of the little foggy City street, of crusted ink-pots and +dusty ledgers and day books, as a typical troglodyte of this dingy and +absurd civilisation. Angel Pavement and its kind, too hot and airless +in summer, too raw in winter, too wet in spring, and too smoky and +foggy in autumn, assisted by long hours of artificial light, by hasty +breakfasts and illusory lunches, by walks in boots made of sodden +cardboard and rides in germ-haunted buses, by fuss all day and worry at +night, had blanched the whole man, had thinned his hair and turned it +grey, wrinkled his forehead and the space at each side of his short +grey moustache, put eyeglasses at one end of his nose and slightly +sharpened and reddened the other end, and given him a prominent Adam’s +apple, drooping shoulders and a narrow chest, pains in his joints, a +perpetual slight cough, and a hay-fevered look at least one week out of +every ten. Nevertheless, he was not a grey drudge. He did not toil on +hopelessly. On the contrary, his days at the office were filled with +important and exciting events, all the more important and exciting +because they were there in the light, for just beyond them, all round +them, was the darkness in which lurked the one great fear, the fear +that he might take part no longer in these events, that he might lose +his job. Once he stopped being Twigg & Dersingham’s cashier, what +was he? He avoided the question by day, but sometimes at night, when +he could not sleep, it came to him with all its force and dreadfully +illuminated the darkness with little pictures of shabby and broken men, +trudging round from office to office, haunting the Labour Exchanges and +the newspaper rooms of Free Libraries, and gradually sinking into the +workhouse and the gutter. + +This fear only threw into brighter relief his present position. He had +spent years making neat little columns of figures, entering up ledgers +and then balancing them, but this was not drudgery to him. He was a +man of figures. He could handle them with astonishing dexterity and +certainty. In their small but perfected world, he moved with complete +confidence and enjoyed himself. If you only took time and trouble +enough, the figures would always work out and balance up, unlike life, +which you could not possibly manipulate so that it would work out and +balance up. Moreover, he loved the importance, the dignity, of his +position. Thirty-five years had passed since he was an office boy, like +Stanley, but a trifle smaller and younger; he was a boy from a poor +home; and in those days a clerkship in the City still meant something, +cashiers and chief clerks still wore silk hats, and to occupy a safe +stool and receive your hundred and fifty a year was to have arrived. +Mr. Smeeth was now a cashier himself and he was still enjoying his +arrival. Somewhere at the back of his mind, that little office boy +still lived, to mark the wonder of it. Going round to the bank, where +he was known and respected and told it was a fine day or a wet day, +was part of the routine of his work, but even now it was something +more than that, something to be tasted by the mind and relished. The +“Good-morning, Mr. Smeeth,” of the bank cashiers at the counter still +gave him a secret little thrill. And, unless the day had gone very +badly indeed, he never concluded it, locking the ledger, the cash +book, and the japanned box for petty cash, away in the safe and then +filling and lighting his pipe, with out being warmed by a feeling +that he, Herbert Norman Smeeth, once a mere urchin, then office boy +and junior clerk to Willoughby, Tyce & Bragg, then a clerk with the +Imperial Trading Co., then for two War years a lance-corporal in the +orderly room of the depot of the Middlesex Regiment, and now Twigg & +Dersingham’s cashier for the last ten years, had triumphantly arrived. +It was, when you came to think of it--as he had once boldly ventured +to point out to a friendly fellow boarder at Channel View, Eastbourne +(they had stayed up rather late, after their wives had gone upstairs, +to split a bottle of beer and exchange confidences)--quite a romance, +in its way. And the fear that grew in the dark and came closer to the +edge of it to whisper to him, that fear did not make it any less of a +romance. + +Mr. Smeeth now unlocked the safe, took out his books and the petty +cashbox, looked over the correspondence and attended to that part +meant for him, made a note that Brown & Gorstein, and North-Western +and Trades Furnishing Co., and Nickman & Sons had not fulfilled their +promises and sent cheques, dealt with the two small cheques that some +other people had sent, gave Miss Matfield three letters to type, asked +Turgis to telephone to Briggs Brothers and the London and North-Eastern +Railway, delighted Stanley by giving him a message to take out, and, +in short, plunged into the day’s work and set Twigg & Dersingham in +motion, even though Twigg had been quiet and unstirring for years in +Streatham Cemetery, and the present Mr. Dersingham was only in motion +yet on the District Railway, on his way to the office. + +Stanley disappeared, as usual, like a shell from a gun, before Mr. +Smeeth could possibly change his mind; Miss Matfield contemptuously +rattled off her letters (the little _ping_ of the typewriter bell +sounding like a repeated ironical exclamation); Turgis talked down +the telephone rather gloomily; and Mr. Smeeth made the neatest little +figures, sometimes in pencil, sometimes in ink, and opened more and +more books on his high desk. And for ten minutes or so, no word was +spoken that had not immediate reference to the affairs of the office. + +They were interrupted by the entrance of yet another employee of the +firm. This was Goath, the senior traveller, whose job it was to visit +all the cabinet-makers in London and the home counties and to persuade +them to buy the veneers and inlays of Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham. He +entered in the usual fashion, came trailing in, with one large flat +foot feeling reluctantly for the new bit of ground and the other large +flat foot equally reluctantly taking leave of the old bit of ground. +He was smoking the usual cigarette, which left a faint and fading +spurt of smoke vanishing happily into nothing behind him. He wore the +same shapeless old overcoat, bagging monstrously at the pockets, and +he wore it in the same way, that is, almost hanging off his drooping +shoulders. The familiar dusty bowler hat was tilted, not cheerfully but +depressingly, back from his furrowed and pimply forehead. He did what +he always did. He turned upon the activities of the office a dull and +knowing eye, an eye like a wet morning in February, just as damp and +grey and hopeless, and at once these activities seemed to dwindle, to +shrink from it. Mr. Dersingham had often said to Mr. Smeeth, and Mr. +Smeeth had often said to Mr. Dersingham, that what Goath didn’t know +about selling inlays and veneers and the like was not worth knowing. +But when you looked at him standing there, it seemed as if what he did +know was also not worth knowing: it had had such a bad effect upon him. +Everything about Goath was the same as usual except his appearance at +this hour, on this day, for Goath only called at the office, his base +of operations, on certain days and this was not one of them. + +“Busy are’n’cher,” said Goath. It was not an inquiry. It was not a +greeting. It was a kind of gloomy sneer. + +Mr. Smeeth laid down his pen. “Hello, what are you doing here?” + +“Told to come,” replied Goath. “Mr. Dersingham told me to come in this +morning--wanted to see me.” + +“Oh, did he?” It was obvious from Mr. Smeeth’s tone that he did not +like the look of this, quite apart from not liking the look of Mr. +Goath, for which he can hardly be blamed. + +“He did. Why he did, I don’t know,” Goath continued drearily, “so don’t +ask me because I can’t tell you. He simply said, ‘Come here first thing +in the morning the day after to-morrow’--that’s this morning now--and +I’ve come. And I’ve got here too early, into the bargain.” + +“Mr. Dersingham didn’t tell me anything about it,” said Mr. Smeeth, +with the air of a man who liked to be told something about it. + +Goath gave a ferocious pull at the last half inch of his cigarette and +made a horrible hissing noise. “He wanted to make it a surprise--a +pleasant little surprise for you all--that’s it.” And as he said this +he tried to make Miss Matfield, who had just got up from her machine, +accept a friendly leer, but all that it encountered was a stare like a +high wall with broken glass along the top. + +Mr. Smeeth ran a finger backwards and forwards along his lower lip, a +trick of his in a reflective moment. Now that he had looked at it a +little longer, he plainly liked it still less. But then, after a short +pause, he brightened up. “Perhaps he’s got some new stuff to show you? +Perhaps he wants to ask you something about it?” + +“Haven’t heard of anything new. I’d have heard. It always gets round; +everything gets round: ‘No good showing us that,’ they say. ‘Show us +some of this new stuff. That’s what we want,’ they tell you. That’s +what they say, soon enough. And they don’t know what they want, +not half their time, they don’t. There’s fellers making furniture +now--_and_ making money out of it--who don’t know a good bit of wood +from a bit of oilcloth. How they get away with it,” Goath concluded +mournfully, “beats me.” + +“That’s right, Goath,” said Mr. Smeeth. “It beats me, too. It’s cheek +that does it, really, that’s my opinion--cheek, and a bit of luck. But +honestly now, how are things going? You’ve been on the North London +round this time, haven’t you? How’s it going? Better than last time, +eh?” + +“No,” the other replied, with all the satisfaction of the confirmed +pessimist. “Worse.” He took off his bowler hat and for once examined it +with the distaste it deserved. “Much worse.” + +Mr. Smeeth’s face fell at once, and he made a tut-tut-tutting noise. +“That’s bad.” + +“Bloody bad, I call it, if Ethel here’ll excuse me.” + +Miss Matfield turned on him at once. “My name is Matfield,” she told +him. “If you want to say ‘bloody’ you can, for all I care, but I’m not +‘Ethel here’ or Ethel anywhere else, and I don’t intend to be.” + +“I’m crushed,” said Goath, putting on a faint and entirely repulsive +air of vocal dandyism, “quite crushed.” But, being in his fifties, +indeed, having apparently been in them almost longer than anybody else +has ever been, and a hardened offender, he was not crushed. + +“That’s all right, Miss Matfield,” Mr. Smeeth told her, uncomfortably. +And he gave Goath a warning little frown. + +“Well, as I was saying,” Goath continued, “things are rotten. I’ve been +in the trade thirty years, and I’ve never known ’em worse. If the price +is right, then the stuff’s wrong. And if the stuff’s right, the price’s +wrong. And it’s mostly the price. They want it cheap now, want it +given away, no mistake about it, though the money they’re getting for +the finished article is more than ever. You look at what furniture’s +fetching now, retail, and then go and hear some of ’em talk--make you +sick. It would--make you sick.” + +“I believe you,” Mr. Smeeth assured him earnestly. Then he hesitated. +“But--after all--somebody must be selling veneers, even if the inlays +have gone out a bit. I mean, they’ve got to buy it from somebody, +haven’t they?” + +“Well, whether they have or they haven’t, all I can say is, they’re +not buying it from _me_. And I’ve been going to some of ’em for twenty +years. Yes, I have, young feller,” he added, for some unaccountable +reason catching the eye of Turgis and talking to him quite sternly, +“for twenty years. I was calling on some of them houses--Moses & Stott, +f’r’instance--when you was a baby or nothing at all.” + +“It’s a long time, isn’t it, Mr. Goath?” replied Turgis, proud to be +noticed by such terrific seniority and rather proud, too, to think that +though he might not be anybody of much importance even now, at least he +was more than a baby or nothing at all. + +“You’re right, young feller,” said Mr. Goath with heavy patronage, “it +_is_ a long time. Hello! Is this him?” + +But the person who had just opened the outer door and was now standing +at the other side of the frosted glass partition was obviously not Mr. +Dersingham, so Turgis, in the absence of Stanley, went out to discover +the caller’s business. + +“Good-morning,” said a brisk but ingratiating voice. “Any typewriter +supplies? Ribbons, carbons, wax stencil sheets, brushes, rubbers?” + +“Not this morning, thank you,” said Turgis. + +“Rubbers, brushes, stencil sheets, best quality papers, carbons? +Ribbons?” + +“No, not this morning.” + +“Well,” said the voice, a little less brisk and ingratiating now, “if +you should want any typewriter supplies any time, here’s my card. +Good-morning.” + +“It’s surprising the number of those chaps we get round,” said Mr. +Smeeth, rather sadly, “all trying to sell the same bits of things. If +you bought anything, what would it amount to? A shilling or two, that’s +all. It beats me how they make anything out of it. Smart, well-dressed +chaps too, some of them. I don’t know how they do it, I really don’t.” + +“You’d think that chap was making thousands a year,” said Turgis, +speaking in an aggrieved tone, as if somehow his own shabbiness came +into the question. “He’s always all dressed up, spats and everything. +He comes round here about once a fortnight and we’ve never bought +anything from him yet.” + +“He’s ’oping, that’s what he’s doing, just ’oping, like me,” Mr. Goath +remarked grimly. “Only it doesn’t run to spats with me. I’d better try +’em, then I might get a big order or two. ‘Here’s old Goath with spats +on,’ they’d be saying up Bethnal Green way. ‘We’ll have to give him an +order now.’ P’r’aps they would. And then again, p’r’aps they wouldn’t. +Ah well--” and he yawned hugely and kept his eyes closed even after +the yawn was done--“I dunno, I dunno, I dunno.” He sent this rumbling +away into the mournful distance. “Fact is, some of these mornings my +inside’s all wrong, dead rotten. Doctor says it’s liver--that’s all +because I take a drop of whisky--but I say it’s ’eart. And whether it’s +’eart or liver, I’m going to sit down.” + +The room sank into a kind of mild sadness, rather like that of the +atmosphere outside, where rich autumn had been bleached and deadened +into a mere smokiness and gathering grey twilight, in which the +occasional smell of a sodden dead leaf came like a remembrance of +another world, as startling as a spent arrow from some battle still +raging in the sun. + +The faces of the three men--Mr. Smeeth’s grey oval, Goath’s purpled +pulp, Turgis’s tarnished youth--sank with the room, were half frozen +into immobility, and seemed for a moment or two to be vacant, staring +into nothing. Miss Matfield, who had risen from her table, saw it all +for one queer second tangled with a whole jumble of deathly images: +they were all under a spell, powerless to stir while the sky rained +soot, dust poured from every crevice, and cobwebs wound about them. She +wanted to scream. Instead, quite without thinking, she swept off her +table a little brass box crammed with paper fasteners, and the clatter +it made restored her to her normal senses. + +“Sorry!” she cried harshly, stooping. + +“And I should think so,” said Goath. + +“That should be Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth, cocking an ear +towards the approaching footsteps. + +Mr. Dersingham put his head inside the general office. “Good morning, +everybody,” he cried. “You’re here then, Goath. Are the letters in my +room, Turgis? All right then, I’ll just have a peep at them, and then I +want to see you, Goath, and you too, Smeeth. I’ll give you a shout when +I’m ready. Stanley about?... All right--doesn’t matter if he isn’t. +Send him in when he comes. I’ve forgotten to buy some cigarettes. I +may want you in about five minutes, Miss Matfield. And if a man called +Bronse rings up for me, don’t put him through. Tell him I’m out. +Oh--and I say--Smeeth, just make out a what-you-call-it, will you--a +statement of outstanding accounts--you know, just rough and ready? I +shall want that. Anything come this morning? It doesn’t matter, though; +you can tell me later.” + +“And if I know anything,” Mr. Goath mumbled, when the head of +Mr. Dersingham had been withdrawn, “that won’t take you long, +Smeeth--telling how much you’ve got in this morning.” + +“It won’t,” said Mr. Smeeth cheerlessly. + + +IV + +Seated at his table, looking through the morning’s letters, as he +was now, Howard Bromport Dersingham might have been accepted as a +typical specimen of the smart younger City man. At a first glance, he +seemed the brother of all those smart younger City men who figure in +advertisements, wearing unique collars, ties, suits, examining the +infallible watch, or looking at a vision of less successful men who +have never taken the particular correspondence course. He looked much +too good for Angel Pavement, where business is merely business and a +rather haphazard and dusty affair at that. He would not have seemed out +of place in one of those skyscrapers filled with terrifically efficient +and successful operatives and administratives, in those regions where +business is not at all a haphazard and dusty affair and takes on a +solemn air, even a mystical tinge, as if it really explained the +universe. It appeared absurd that such a fellow and all his concerns +should be sandwiched between the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co._ and the +_London and Counties Supply Stores_. + +Another glance or two, however, would reveal the fact that he was only +a rough, weakly unfinished sketch of the type. The hard-boiled eye, +the chiselled nose, the severely controlled mouth, the masterful chin, +all these were missing, and in their place were ordinary masculine +English features, neither very good nor very bad, very strong nor +very weak. Mr. Dersingham was a year or two under forty, tallish, +fairly well-built but beginning to sag a little; his hair, which was +now rapidly taking leave of him, was light brown, and his eyes light +blue, and they neither sparkled nor pierced but just regarded the +world blandly and amiably; he had retained one of those short pruned +moustaches that crept under the noses of so many subalterns during +the War; and he looked clean, healthy and kind, but a trifle flabby +and none too intelligent. It was only after the War, during which he +had assisted, with rapidly diminishing enthusiasm, one of the new +battalions of the Royal Fusiliers, that he had joined his uncle at +Twigg & Dersingham’s. Before the War he had tried various things with +no particular success, though he liked to suggest that the War had +almost ruined his prospects. (In strict fact, it had improved them, +for his uncle would never have taken him into the business, and left +it to him when he died, if he had not taken pity on him as a returned +hero.) It had been the intention of his parents to send Howard Bromport +to Oxford or Cambridge, but they had lost money suddenly and Howard +Bromport, no scholar, had failed to obtain a scholarship, so he had +been compelled to stroll into business. In spirit, however, he went on +to the university, and thus he became one of those men who are haunted +by a lost Oxford or Cambridge career. These are not the scholars or the +brilliant athletes who have been denied their chance of distinction, +but simply the fellows who have been robbed of an opportunity of +acquiring more striped ties, college blazers, and tobacco jars +decorated with college coats-of-arms, in short, the fervent freshmen +who never had the freshman nonsense knocked out of them. They it is +who turn into the essential public school “old boys.” Dersingham was a +tremendous “old boy.” He never missed a reunion, never failed to renew +his stock of school ties. The public school spirit worked for ever in +him. He was always ready to do the decent thing--and this was not hard, +for he was really a decent, kindly soul, stupid though he might be--not +for your sake, not for his own, but “for the sake of the old school.” +Strictly speaking, that school, Worrell (one of the second-class public +schools, fatally second-class but terrifically public school) is not +very old, but it has turned out so many fellows like Dersingham that it +has acquired, by verbal association, the antiquity of Eton. Perhaps the +shortest definition of Dersingham--and he himself would have asked for +no other--was that he was an old Worrelian. + +He did not play games very well and was not even a good judge of them, +but he liked nothing better than solemn long discussions about them, in +which minor pedantries could be thrashed out to the bitter end. Still, +he played golf nearly every week-end, a little lawn tennis, and when +the Charlatans had to turn out a third side at cricket, he sometimes +turned out with them, as a possible slow bowler. (For four weeks +every year he dropped the old Worrelian and wore the Charlatan tie.) +He smoked considerable quantities of _Sahib Straight Cut Virginia_ +cigarettes, drank steadily but not too much for reasonable health +and decency, delighted in detective and adventure stories, humorous +anecdotes, jigging easy tunes, musical comedies, and good loud talk in +which everybody agreed with everybody else except about things that +could not matter very much to anybody, disliked literature, art and +music, cranks and fanatics of every kind, most foreigners, anything +or anybody really mean or cruel (when he could see the meanness and +cruelty), and all the opinions that newspaper editors asked him to +dislike. He had one or two real friends, a host of acquaintances, and +a wife and two children whom he did not understand but of whom he was +genuinely fond. + +And now, after glancing through the letters, most of which were merely +offers to sell him something he did not want, he sat on, stroking his +ruddy cheek, looking puzzled and feeling puzzled. After a few minutes +of this, he took a sheet of paper and carefully made some notes upon +it. He did this all the more carefully because he felt that somehow by +writing down what was already in his head, he was really grappling hard +with the problem. Having frowned at these notes for another minute or +so, he shook himself, set his face in hard business-like lines, reached +out for a cigarette and then remembered that there were none, and rang +the bell. + +Miss Matfield appeared, or rather a notebook and pencil appeared, with +a shadow of Miss Matfield in charge of them. + +“I’m sorry, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Dersingham, with true old +Worrelian courtesy. “I’d forgotten I’d told you to come in. I think I’d +better see Mr. Smeeth and Mr. Goath first, and you can take down some +letters afterwards. Will you ask them to come in--and then--er--just +carry on with something, eh?” + +“Very well,” said Miss Matfield. + +“Good!” said Mr. Dersingham. He never felt sure how he ought to handle +Miss Matfield, quite apart from the fact that she seemed to him a +rather formidable sort of girl. Her father, he knew, was a doctor, +only a doctor in the country now, miles from anywhere, but he had once +played scrum half with the Alsations. Ordering about the daughter of a +scrum half of the Alsations, just as if she was some ordinary little +tuppenny-ha’penny typist, was a ticklish business. And that was why Mr. +Dersingham added “Good!”: it meant that he knew all about the surgery +and the Alsations. + +“You fellows had better sit down,” he said to Smeeth and Goath. “We +may be some time over this. That’s right. Now wait a minute. Let me +see, Goath, you’re making--what? Two hundred, plus commission, that’s +it, isn’t it? And you, Smeeth, what are you getting now? Three-fifteen, +isn’t it?” + +Mr. Smeeth, troubled, admitted that it was. He had seen what was coming +all along, had seen it for days and days and horrible nights. + +“And what am I making?” Mr. Dersingham gave a short and embarrassed +laugh. “Well, you can imagine for yourself, Goath, and you know well +enough, Smeeth. Just lately I’ve been making nothing, not a bean. Just +paying expenses, that’s all.” + +“Er,” Mr. Goath began with a pessimistic rumble. + +“Just a minute. Don’t think I’m beginning like this because I think +you fellows are not earning all you make. I know you are. There’s no +question about that. But we’ve got to go into it all, haven’t we?--got +to see where we stand. I’ll tell you in strict confidence that if it +hadn’t been for my wife having a little money of her own, I couldn’t +have carried on as long as I have done. You’ve only to look at the +figures to see that for yourselves.” + +Here he stopped long enough to give Mr. Goath a chance of describing +the state of the cabinet-making and wholesale furnishing trades. As +we have heard him already, we do not want to hear him again. It is +sufficient to say that his theme was that if the price was right, the +stuff wasn’t, and if the stuff was right, the price wasn’t, and that +this theme was elaborated by many variations in the minor key. And +something in the nature of a second subject, repeated continually in +the bass, was added by the statement that the speaker had been thirty +years in the trade. To all of which Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Smeeth +listened with gloomy attention. + +“Well,” said Mr. Dersingham, looking at his miserable little notes, +“we’ll have to go into all that later on. We’re getting the wood from +all the same people we dealt with in my uncle’s time--and in some cases +we’re getting it on better terms than he did, isn’t that so, Smeeth?” + +“Ah, but there’s more competition now, a lot more,” said Goath +dejectedly. “More and more competition, that’s the way it is. Some of +these people in the trade must be cutting it as fine as that”--and he +waggled a very dirty thumb-nail--“to get orders. Nearly giving it away. +Pay when you like, too. Foreigners,” he added darkly, “that’s what +we’re up against now, foreigners, coming over here to unload the stuff +like mad. I met one coming out of Nickman’s only yesterday morning, +coming out as I was going in, and looking as pleased with himself as +if he’d just backed a dozen winners. German he was. Speaking English +as good as you and me, and dressed all up to the nines, but German all +over him. And he had backed the winners all right, you bet he had. +Got a pocket full of orders, he had. What’s the good of having a war, +I say, if it only means Germans coming over here and pinching trade +right under our noses. Cor!--makes me sick--thirty years in the trade +and tramping round week in and week out, and nothing doin’ two-thirds +o’ the time, not a thing, and foreigners coming here with fur coats +on--fur coats! Taking the bread right out of your mouth, that’s all +they’re doing.” + +“Quite so, Goath,” cried Mr. Dersingham. “I don’t say I’m not with +you there. But we can buy from Germany, just the same, and have been +doing for some time, but it’s beginning to look as if we can’t compete. +That’s what I was going to talk about, to begin with. We shall have to +try and do some cutting, too. It’s our only chance. And the only way +to do that--I think you fellows will agree, especially you, Smeeth--is +to reduce expenses. The--er--what’s-its-name--er--overhead charges +are too big.” Having found this word “overhead,” so suggestive of big +business, of keen men piling up fortunes in forty-two storey buildings, +Mr. Dersingham clutched at it thankfully: it was a floating plank on +the wide ocean of puzzle and muddle into which he had suddenly been +plunged. “That’s it. The first thing, the very first thing, we’ve got +to do is to reduce the overheads in this business.” + +Mr. Smeeth tried to look very brisk and business-like, but he seemed +greyer than ever and there was a mournful droop in his voice. “Well, +we can try, sir. But it won’t be easy. We’re spending as little as we +can, here in the office.” + +“Dash it all, Smeeth, I know that.” Mr. Dersingham rubbed his cheek +irritably. “But we shall have to spend less. I don’t want to do it--I +want to do the decent thing by everybody here--but you see how it is, +don’t you? Must cut something down. Now look here, to begin with, +there’s Turgis. What’s he getting? A hundred and seventy-five, isn’t +he? And Miss Matfield? We started her at three pounds a week, didn’t +we?” + +“That’s right, Mr. Dersingham. It was less than she’d been getting +before, but she said she’d start at that with us, and then we’d see +about giving her a rise when she’d settled down with us. She’s a very +capable girl, very capable, and very intelligent, too, much better than +the last we had; no comparison at all.” + +“And Turgis? What about him?” + +“I can’t really grumble, sir,” replied Mr. Smeeth. “He does his best. +He’s a bit careless sometimes, I’ll admit, and he’s not to be trusted +far with figures yet--you remember the terrible mess he made of the +books when I was on my holidays this year?--but as these boys go +nowadays, he’s as good as the next. He doesn’t take the interest in his +work and in the firm that I did when I was his age, but then they don’t +these days, and that’s all you can say about it. Miss Matfield’s just +the same, for that matter. She does her work all right, but she’s not +_interested_, doesn’t think of herself, you might say, as one of the +firm, but just comes in the morning, does what she’s told to do, and +then goes in the evening.” + +“Thinking about young men, that’s what they are, all these +typewriters,” said Goath. “Young men and dancing and going to the +pickshers, that’s what’s running in their ’eads, and you can’t expect +anything else of ’em, not in _my_ opinion. Cheeky with it, they are, +too.” + +“Well, I’m sorry, Smeeth, I really am, but I don’t see anything else +for it. One of them will have to go, either Turgis or Miss Matfield. We +can’t spare you, Smeeth----” + +“Thank you, sir.” And as he said it--quite simply and not with any +touch of irony--Mr. Smeeth looked still greyer. Indeed, he shook a +little. + +“No question of it at all,” Mr. Dersingham continued heartily, +“absolutely none. But we’ll have to get rid of one of these two and +divide the work between us. I’ll do something. I’ll begin to type my +own letters. I’ll have a good shot at it anyhow. It’s a question now +whether you’d rather keep Turgis and let him do some of the letters +or keep Miss Matfield and divide his work between the two of you. +Stanley might do a bit more, too, if he’s got any sense. In any case, +we must have a boy, so there’s no question of getting rid of him. Now +what d’you think, Smeeth? Turgis or Miss Matfield? Nothing much in it, +I know, but you ought to decide. You’ll have most of the extra work +yourself, I expect, when it gets down to brass tacks, though, mind you, +I’m going to do a lot more myself, if I’ve time, in the office.” + +Mr. Smeeth did not feel quite so bad as he had felt a minute ago, but +he felt bad enough. He tried to give all his attention to the immediate +problem, which was serious enough for him, for he knew very well that +it was he who would have to do most of the extra work, but, try as he +would, his mind wandered darkly. He could not pretend to himself now +that such pitiful economies as these could stop the rot. He had seen +it coming for months. The firm, his position, his very living, they +were all crumbling away together. The next thing would be that he would +have to accept a cut in his salary. And the next thing after that would +be finding himself outside, in Angel Pavement, with a hat on his head +and no salary, no office, nothing. He hesitated, stammering something, +rather painfully. + +“I didn’t want to spring it on you,” said Mr. Dersingham, “and I +suppose you’d really like a day or two to think it over.” + +“Wouldn’t think a minute if I was you,” said Mr. Goath. “Get rid of the +girl, right away, without ’esitation. They never should have started +girls in the City. The place has never been right since. Powderin’ +noses! Cups o’ tea! You don’t know where y’are.” + +“I would like to think it over, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth told him +slowly. “I don’t want to get rid of the wrong one.” + +“I’d like to get it settled to-day while we’re at it, but you think +it over between now and five o’clock, and then we’ll have another +talk about it. All right then.” And Mr. Dersingham examined his notes +again, and then looked very severe. “The next thing is this question of +what-d’you-call-it--these rotters who won’t pay up. You’ve made out a +statement, have you?” + +But there was a knock at the door, and Stanley sidled in, a card in his +hand. “Somebody wants to see you, sir.” + +“I’m busy. Who is it? Shut the door.” He examined the card. “Never +heard of this chap. Look at this, Goath. Anybody you know? What does he +want?” + +“Wanted to speak to you, sir,” replied Stanley, looking very mysterious +and important, with a hint of the “shadderer” in his manner. “Very +important. That’s what he said.” + +“I’ll bet he did,” said Mr. Dersingham, with a grin at the other two. +“Probably wants to sell me some ridiculous office gadget. If he did, +though, he’d probably have something about it on his card. This is +a private card. Golspie, Golspie? No, I don’t know him. Look here, +Stanley, just tell him I’m having a discussion--no, a thingumty--a +conference, just now, but if it’s something really important, not +trying to sell me typewriters and files and muck, I’ll see him soon. He +can either call again or he can wait there. Tell him that.” + +Mr. Golspie decided to wait. + + +V + +He was still waiting there, sitting in the little chair beside the door +and behind the partition, ten minutes later. Sometimes, Stanley and +Turgis and Miss Matfield heard him stir and clear his throat. They also +caught the fragrance of the excellent cigar he was smoking. Its fumes +seemed to turn the office into a dull little box and their duties into +the most mechanical and trivial tasks. There was something rich and +adventurous about that drifting luxuriant smoke. It unsettled them. + +“Who is he?” Turgis whispered. “What’s he like?” + +Stanley crept nearer and curved a hand round his mouth. “He’s biggish +and broad and got a big moustache,” he whispered in reply. “D’you know +what I bet he is?” + +“No, I give it up.” + +“Inspector from Scotland Yard.” + +“You’ve got ’em on the brain, you little chump,” said Turgis. “Course +he isn’t.” + +“Well, I’ll betcher. He looks just like one. You go and have a look at +him.” + +But Turgis was saved from the necessity, for the visitor suddenly +marched into the office itself. + +“Where’s that boy?” he demanded. “Oh, look here, just go in again and +tell Mr. What’s-it----” + +“Mr. Dersingham, sir,” said Stanley brightly, proud to serve Scotland +Yard or anybody who suggested it. + +“Mr. Dersingham. Tell him I can’t wait much longer--I’m not used to +hanging about like this--and that if I go, _I go_, for good and all, +and then he’ll be sorry. D’you get that? All right then, trot off and +speak out. Wait a minute, though. He doesn’t know what I want, doesn’t +know who I am, so I’d better show him I’m not going to waste his time.” +He took something out of the small despatch case he was carrying, +and the others recognised it at once as a sample book of veneers and +inlays, a few square inches of each specimen wood, thin as cardboard, +being fastened to each stout page. “Now give him this, tell him to look +it over, and say that’s what I’ve come to talk about. D’you understand?” + +Having thus despatched the boy, Mr. Golspie stood there at ease, his +feet wide apart, his big chest thrown out, coolly enjoying his cigar. +It was one of the strictest rules of the place that casual callers were +not allowed beyond the partition, and Turgis ought to have ordered him +out of the office at once. But somehow Turgis felt that this was not a +man to be ordered out of the office by him. + +“Not much of a place this, I must say,” Mr. Golspie observed, looking +about him, then addressing Turgis. “But they keep you pretty busy, eh?” + +“Well, they do and they don’t,” Turgis mumbled. “I mean to say, +sometimes we’re busy and sometimes we’re not. It all depends, you see.” + +“I don’t see, but I’ll take your word for it. Must be a dark hole, +this, a bit later on, when you get the fogs. Too dark for my taste. +Not enough air either. I like plenty of air, though God knows it’s not +worth having when you get it, in this neighbourhood. What do they call +this street? Angel Pavement, isn’t it? That’s a dam’ queer name for a +street, though I’ve known queerer names in my time. How did it get it, +d’you know?” + +Turgis admitted that he didn’t. + +“Didn’t suppose you would,” the stranger told him. “Perhaps this young +lady knows. They know everything nowadays.” + +Miss Matfield looked up. “No, I don’t know,” she replied, with a hint +of distaste in her tone. Then she bent her eyes to her work again. “And +I don’t care.” + +“No, you don’t care,” said Mr. Golspie, bluff, hearty, and completely +unabashed. “I don’t suppose you care tuppence about the whole concern. +Why should you, anyhow? I wouldn’t, if I were a good-lookin’ girl, not +tuppence.” + +Miss Matfield looked up again, this time wearily, wrinkling various +parts of her face. Then she brought to bear upon this intruder the +full force of her contemptuous gaze, which would instantly have routed +Turgis, Mr. Smeeth, or Mr. Dersingham, and a great many other people of +her acquaintance. On this objectionable man it had no effect at all. +He stared hard at her, and then smiled, or rather grinned broadly. +Defeated by such complete insensitiveness, Miss Matfield made a gesture +of annoyance, and then went on with her work, without looking up again. + +“Now what the devil’s that boy doing in there!” Mr. Golspie boomed to +Turgis. “You’d better go and see if they’ve killed him. You needn’t, +though. He’s coming.” + +He came, followed by Mr. Smeeth, who said: “I’m sorry you’ve been kept +waiting. Mr. Dersingham can see you now.” + +They waited until they heard the door close behind him before any of +them spoke again. + +“What does he want, Mr. Smeeth?” asked Turgis. + +“I don’t know what he wants exactly, Turgis,” Mr. Smeeth replied. “I +take it he wants to sell us some stuff. He sent some good samples +in; really first-class Mr. Dersingham and Goath said it was. I don’t +pretend to know much about it. But I expect the price will put it out +of the question.” + +“He’s a funny sort of chap, isn’t he?” + +“A loathsome brute!” cried Miss Matfield from her machine. “Imagine +working for a man like that! Ghastly!” + +Mr. Smeeth regarded her thoughtfully, and then, after telling Stanley +to get on with his work and if he hadn’t any work to go and find some, +he turned to regard Turgis equally thoughtfully. One of them had to +go. Should he put it to them now? Miss Matfield would probably not +care very much--it was hard to imagine her caring, though she had +been anxious enough to get the job--whereas Turgis, who had an oldish +poverty-stricken father somewhere up in the Midlands, lived in lodgings +here in London, and was lucky if he had five pounds in all the world, +would be very hard hit and would not easily find another job. It would +have to be Miss Matfield. Yet Miss Matfield, who had a good education +behind her, was the more promising worker of the two, and would take +over some of Turgis’s work and be glad to do it. Well, well, this +wanted a bit more thinking about, and, in the meantime, there were a +hundred and one little things to be done. + +The three in Mr. Dersingham’s room remained there for the next half +hour, giving no sign of their existence beyond an occasional rumble of +voices. At the end of that time, the door opened, louder voices and +a fresh reek of cigars invaded the general office, and Mr. Dersingham +called out: “I say, Smeeth, we’re all going out. Shan’t be back before +lunch. I’ll give you a ring if I’m going to be any later.” And then +they were gone, leaving Mr. Smeeth and Turgis staring at one another. +The various lunch hours, beginning with Stanley’s (he went to the +_Pavement Dining Rooms_ and had sausage and mash, after all), came and +went, the afternoon wore on, and still there was no message from Mr. +Dersingham or Goath. The crescendo of the last hour of the day, when +Stanley turned berserk with the copying press and Turgis snarled at the +telephone and then yelled into it, had begun when the message actually +did arrive. + +“Hello! Is that you, ol’ man--I mean, Smeeth? Dersingham speakin’.” +Even through the telephone, a strangeness, a certain richness, could be +remarked in Mr. Dersingham’s voice. He seemed quite excited. + +“Smeeth speaking, Mr. Dersingham.” + +“Good, very good. Well, look here, Smeeth, I shan’t be back this +afternoon. Nothing important, is there? You just carry on then--and +then--er--you know, finish off, sign anything that wants signing, then +finish off, lock up, go home.” + +“That’ll be all right, Mr. Dersingham. There’s nothing very important. +But what about that business we talked about this morning? Yes, Turgis +and Miss Matfield?” + +“All done with,” and the telephone seemed to chuckle. “No need to +bother about that, not the slightest. Turgis stays. Miss Matfield +stays. D’you know, Smeeth, that that girl’s father played scrum half +with the Alsations? He did--same fella, Matfield. No, she stays. Both +stay.” + +“I’m very glad, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who really was glad, though +perhaps he was mostly puzzled. There seemed to be no sense in all this. + +“Explain ev’rything in the morning, Smeeth,” continued the voice of Mr. +Dersingham. “Only person who goes is Goath.” + +“What! I didn’t catch that, sir.” + +“Goath, Goath. We’ve done with him. Goath’s finished with. Don’t want +to see him again. If he comes for his money, pay him at once, d’you +understand, Smeeth, at once, up to end of month. Then tell him--to +clear--right out, right out.” + +“But--but what’s happened, Mr. Dersingham? I don’t understand.” + +“Explain ev’rything in the morning. But you understand about Goath, eh? +Pay the blighter off if he comes, finish with him. You understand that, +eh? Righto. Carry on then, ol’ man.” + +Bewildered, Mr. Smeeth laid down the receiver and walked over to his +desk. He had hardly time to collect his thoughts and to begin to wonder +whether he ought to say something to the others, when the door flew +open, almost like a vertical trap-door, to shoot into the middle of +the office, where it suddenly stopped dead, the figure of a man. It +was Goath. His ancient overcoat was still hanging from his shoulders +as if it hardly belonged to him, but, on the other hand, his bowler +hat, instead of being at the back of his head, was now tilted forward, +giving him an unusual and almost sinister look. His face was purpler +than ever; his eyes were glaring; and his mouth was opening and +shutting, as if he were an indignant fish. To say of Goath that he had +been drinking was to say nothing, for he was obviously always drinking, +but this time he had plainly had more than usual or had been mixing his +liquors. And his appearance, his manner, everything about him, was so +extraordinary that everybody in the office stopped work at once to look +at him. + +“Smeeth,” the apparition cried in a thick, hoarse voice, “you pay me +my money, d’y’ear. Sala’y to end of mun’ an’ commission to yesserday. +I’ve finished wi’ Twigg an’ Dersi’am, finished, finished--com-pletely.” +Here he produced a magnificent cutting gesture that nearly upset his +balance. “I’ve finished wi’ them. They finished wi’ me. All over.” + +“Mr. Dersingham’s just told me, Goath,” said Mr. Smeeth, looking at him +in astonishment. “And I’ll give you your money if you really want it +now----” + +“Mus’ ’ave it. Finished--com-pletely, com-pletely.” + +“But what’s happened?” + +“I’ll tell you what’s ’appened,” replied Goath with tremendous +solemnity, lowering his head so far that it looked as if his hat would +fall off. “Go--Golspie, tha’s wha’s ’appened--Gol-sss-pie.” + +“Who’s that? Do you mean----” + +“Feller came s’mornin’.” + +“But what about him?” + +Goath now threw back his head and looked defiant. “Mister Wha’sit +bloody Gol-spie,” he announced with great deliberation, “tha’s the +feller. An’ he’s a--devil. I tol’ him, I tol’ him ‘Thirry years--thirry +_years_--in the trade, tha’s me.’ An’ wha’ did he say to tha’? Wha’ did +he bloody well say?” + +“Here, old man, steady, steady,” Mr. Smeeth cautioned him. + +“Don’t mind me,” said Miss Matfield coolly. “Go on, Mr. Goath. What did +he say? Tell us all about it.” + +“Never mind wha’ he said,” cried Goath aggressively, glaring round +at them all. “Does’n’ ma’er wha’ _’e_ said. Who is ’e? Where’s ’e +come from? With ’is drinks an’ cigars! All ri’--very nice--drinks an’ +cigars--but anybody can buy drinks an’ cigars, an’ _do_ buy drinks an’ +cigars _and_ big lunches. It’s wha’ _I_ say--thirry years, don’ forge’ +tha’, thirry years--wha’ _I_ say tha’ ma’ers. An’ I say--wha’s the +game?--where’s’e get this stuff from?--who tol’ ’im to come here?” + +“Yes, but what’s this chap doing?” Mr. Smeeth asked. “That’s what I +want to know.” + +“Bullyin’ an’ twistin’, tha’s wha’ ’e’s doin’,” replied Goath promptly, +taking off his hat. “An’ he’s got Mr. Dersi’am like tha’, jus’ like +tha’.” And, to the intense delight of Stanley, one hand fell heavily on +the hat. “It’s jus’ like wha’s it--y’know--wha’s it, wha’s it?” And to +show what he did mean, Goath glared harder than ever and then wiggled +his fingers in front of his eyes, directing them at Miss Matfield, who +let out a sudden peal of laughter. + +“Hypnotism,” suggested Turgis. + +“Tha’s ri’, boy, tha’s ri’. Hyp-no-tism. Jus’ like tha’. But not me,” +he continued, speaking very slowly and more distinctly now, “not me. +I tell ’em what I think. Begins tellin’ me I oughter to do this an’ +oughter do that, an’ I won’t ’ave it. I know the trade an’ I speak my +mind. An’ another thing. If I don’t like a feller, I don’t like ’im, +and that finishes it. That feller comes ’ere, very well, I don’t, I +finish.” + +“Is he coming here?” demanded Mr. Smeeth. + +“You’ll see, you’ll see, Smeeth. I say no more. Finish. You just let me +’ave my money.” + +“All right, Goath,” said Mr. Smeeth, who had been jotting down some +figures for the last minute or two. “I won’t keep you a minute. Then +you’d better get straight home, old man----” + +“Have no ’ome,” Goath announced. “Lodgings.” He lurched up to the desk, +which was high enough for him to rest his elbows on the edge of it. +“That’s the way, Smeeth, a nice lil cheque. I tell you, Smeeth, ol’ +man, you’ve always been decent to me, an’ now I’m sorry for you.” + +“Well, I’m sorry too, Goath, and I must say I don’t understand +what’s happening at all. Mr. Dersingham rang up and told me you were +leaving. Are you sure it’s not all a mistake? I mean, you chaps seem +to have--er--had rather a lot to-day, you know, and in the morning you +might all feel different about it.” + +With an effort Goath stood erect, and then held out his hand to Mr. +Smeeth. “No, no, I’ve finished. Shake hands, ol’ man. See you again +sometime. Meet some day--still in the trade, y’know, can’t change after +thirty years--have to stick to the trade. Goo’-bye, all.” And Goath, +after removing the dent from his hat with one fierce jab, crammed it on +the back of his head and, with a final wave of the hand, departed. + +“Well, this beats me,” Mr. Smeeth confessed. “I can’t make head or tail +of it, I really can’t.” + +“It looks as if that other chap is taking his place, don’t you think?” +said Turgis. “Though I must say he didn’t look as if he wanted that +sort of job. I mean, he looked too smart and bossy.” + +“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Mr. Smeeth told him. + +“Thank the Lord, we’ve seen the last of Mr. Goath, anyhow!” cried Miss +Matfield fervently. “I loathed the sight of him, he always looked so +dirty and dilapidated. I’m sure he was a rotten man to have going round +calling on people.” + +“But what if the other chap comes?” said Turgis, grinning. “You didn’t +like the look of him, did you?” + +“I should think not! I never thought of that.” She groaned as she stuck +another sheet of paper into the typewriter. “What a life!” + +“That’s right, let’s get finished. Turgis, Stanley, come on, get a move +on,” said Mr. Smeeth sharply. And down below, in Angel Pavement, now +a deep narrow pool of darkness sharply spangled with electric lights, +you could hear a little host of other people finishing for the night, a +final clatter of typewriters, a banging of doors, the hooting of homing +cars, the sound of footsteps hurrying up the street towards liberty. + + + + +_Chapter Two_: MR. SMEETH IS REASSURED + + +I + +Mr. Smeeth, still puzzling and pondering over the sullen departure of +Goath and the arrival of this mysterious Mr. Golspie, put his books +away for the night, and, as his habit was, pulled out his pipe and +tobacco pouch. The others had gone, and the office was in darkness +except for the solitary light above his desk. His pouch, one of those +oilskin affairs, was nearly empty, and he had to take out the last +crumbs in order to get a decent pipeful. He had just lit up, blown +out the first few delicious clouds, and switched off his light, when +the telephone rang sharply, urgently, in the gloom. As he groped back +to the receiver, he felt almost frightened. What was coming now? He +found himself wishing he had gone earlier, just a little earlier, but +nevertheless he had not the strength of mind to ignore the telephone’s +peremptory challenge. + +“Hello?” he began. + +A huge voice cut him short, came roaring out of the dark. “Look ’ere, +Charlie, what abart makin’ it fifty? Carm on, yer gotter do it, ol’ +son, yer can’t get away from it----” + +“Wait a moment,” Mr. Smeeth told him. “This is Twigg and Dersingham. +Who do you----” + +“I know, _I know_,” the voice continued, smashing its way across London +and entirely ignoring Mr. Smeeth’s protest. “I know wotcher goin’ to +say, but it’ll ’ave to be fifty this time. I been talkin’ ter Tommy +Rawson s’afternoon, an’ ’e says yer’ll be lucky if yer get it at that. +‘Tell Charlie from me,’ ’e says, ‘’e won’t touch it under fifty an’ +’e’ll be lucky if ’e gets it at that.’ Tommy’s own words them. An’ I +agree, _I agree_. Nar then, what d’yer say, Charlie?” + +“You’ve got the wrong number,” cried Mr. Smeeth. + +“What’s that? I want Mr. ’Iggins.” + +“There’s no Mr. Higgins here. This is Twigg and Dersingham.” + +“Wrong number again,” said the voice, disgusted. “Ring off--for gord’s +sake.” + +Mr. Smeeth, relieved, rang off with pleasure, and departed, chuckling a +little. Who was Charlie, and what was it he had to pay fifty for, and +why did Tommy Rawson think he’d be lucky if he got it? “Might easily +be crooks,” he concluded, with a little romantic thrill, worthy of +Stanley himself, and then smiled at himself. More likely to be fellows +buying second-hand cars, loads of scrap iron, or something like that. +At the bottom of the stairs, he ran into the tall fellow with the +broad-brimmed hat, who was just coming out of his _Kwik-Work Razor +Blade_ place. + +The tall man nodded. “Turning colder.” + +“Just a bit,” replied Mr. Smeeth heartily. These little encounters and +recognitions pleased him, making him feel that he was somebody. “Not so +bad, though, for the time of year.” + +“That’s right. Business good?” + +“So-so. Not so good as it might be.” And then Mr. Smeeth let the tall +man stride away down Angel Pavement, for he remembered that he was out +of tobacco and so turned into the neighbouring shop, the one occupied +by T. Benenden. + +Mr. Smeeth was one of T. Benenden’s regular customers, a patron +(perhaps the only one) of T. Benenden’s Own Mixture (_Cool Sweet +Smoking_). “No,” he liked to tell some fellow pipe-smoker, “I don’t +fancy your ounce-packet stuff. I like my tobacco freshly mixed, y’know, +and so I always get it from a little shop near the office. It’s the +chap’s own mixture and so it’s always fresh. Oh, fine stuff!--you try +a pipeful--and very reasonable. Been getting it for years now. And the +chap I get it from is a bit of a character in his way.” Saying this +made Mr. Smeeth feel that he was a connoisseur of both tobacco and +human nature, and it gave an added flavour to his pipe, which could do +with it after being charged with nothing but T. Benenden’s own mixture. +It was hardly possible that he was right about the tobacco being +“freshly mixed,” for though mixed--and well mixed--it may have been, +it could not come from T. Benenden’s little shop, with its hundreds of +dusty dummy packets, its row of battered tin canisters, its dilapidated +weight scales, its dirty counter, its solitary wheezing gas mantle, its +cobwebs and dark corners, and still be fresh. On the other hand, he was +certainly right when he described T. Benenden himself as a bit of a +character in his way. + +T. Benenden’s way was that of the philosophical financier turned +shopkeeper. He was an oldish man who wore thick glasses (which only +magnified eyes that protruded far enough without their help), a +straggling pepper-and-salt beard, one of those old-fashioned single +high collars and a starched front, and no tie. When Mr. Smeeth first +visited the shop, years ago, he was at once startled and amused by +this absence of tie, jumping to the conclusion that the man had +forgotten his tie. Now, he would have been far more startled to see +Benenden _with_ a tie. He had often been tempted to ask the chap why +he wore these formal collars and fronts and yet no tie, but somehow +he had never dared. Benenden himself, though he was ready to talk on +many subjects, never mentioned ties. Either he deliberately ignored +them or he had never noticed the part these things were now playing +in the world, simply did not understand about ties. What he did like +to talk about, perhaps because his shop was in the City, was finance, +a sort of Arabian Nights finance. He sat there behind his counter, +steadily smoking his stock away, and peered at old copies of financial +periodicals or the City news of ordinary papers, and out of this +reading, and the bits of gossip he heard, and the grandiose muddle of +his own mind, he concocted the most astonishing talk. It was difficult +to buy an ounce of tobacco from him without his making you feel that +the pair of you had just missed a fortune. + +As soon as he recognised Mr. Smeeth, T. Benenden very deliberately +pulled down his scales and then placed on the counter the particular +dirty old canister set apart for his own mixture. “The usual, I +suppose, Mr. Smeeth?” he said, picking up the pouch and then smoothing +it out on the counter. “I saw your chief this morning, the young +fellow--Mr. Dersingham. Came in for some _Sahibs_. Got somebody with +him too, new to me, well set up gentleman, with a good cigar in his +mouth, a very good cigar. You’ll know who I mean?” + +“He called this morning at the office,” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“Well, I didn’t say anything,” Benenden continued, very seriously as +he weighed out the tobacco. “It’s not my business to say anything. +I _don’t_ say anything. But I keep my eyes open. And I said to +myself, the minute they went out, ‘This looks to me as if Twigg and +Dersingham’s are moving on a bit. This has the look of a merging job, +or a syndicate job, or a trust job. And,’ I said, ‘if Mr. Smeeth does +happen to come in for the usual, I’ll put it straight to him. It’s no +concern of mine, but he’ll tell _me_. I’ll test my judgment,’ I said.” + +“Sorry, Mr. Benenden,” said Mr. Smeeth, smiling at him, “but I’ve +nothing to tell you. I don’t rightly know what’s happening, but you can +depend on it, it’s nothing in that line.” + +“Then,” cried Benenden, quite passionately, rolling up the pouch and +then slapping it down on the counter, “you’re wrong. I don’t mean you, +Mr. Smeeth, I mean the firm. That’s the way things are going all the +time now, Mr. Smeeth, big combinations--merging away till you don’t +know where you are--and sweeping the deck, until--dear me--there isn’t +a picking, not a crumb, left. You see what I mean? Now there’s a bit +here in one of the papers--I was just reading it when you came in--and +I don’t suppose you’ve seen it. Just a minute and I’ll find it. Now +here it is. Suppose, Mr. Smeeth, just suppose,” and here T. Benenden +leaned across the counter and his eyes seemed colossal, “I’d come to +you a fortnight since, a week since, and said to you, ‘What about +picking up a bit on South Coast Laundries?’--what would you have said?” + +“I’d have said it takes me all my time to pay my own laundry bill,” Mr. +Smeeth replied, much amused by this retort of his. + +T. Benenden made a slight gesture of contempt to show that this was +mere trifling. Then he looked very solemn, very impressive. “You’d have +said, ‘I can’t be bothered with South Coast Laundries. I’m not touching +’em--don’t want ’em--take your South Coast Laundries away. And you’d +have been right--as far as you could see, _then_. But what happens, +what happens? Read your paper. It’s there, under my very ’and. Along +comes a big merger--a bit of syndicate and trust work--and up they +go, right up to the top--bang! Now--you see--you can’t touch ’em. And +there’s a feller here--you can see it in the paper--who’s been clearing +anything out of it--a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand--a clean +sweep, made for life. And he’s not the only one, not a bit of it! And +we sit here, pretending to laugh at South Coast Laundries or whatever +it might be, and what are we doing? We’re missing it, that’s what we’re +doing, we’re missing it.” Here, a dramatic pause. + +“And if your Mr. Dersingham isn’t careful,” Benenden concluded, still +impressive even if a trifle vague now, “_he’s_ going to miss it. He +wants to keep his eyes open. There’s one or two bits in this paper I’d +like to show him. Let’s see, what was it you gave me? Half a crown, +wasn’t it? That’s right then--one and six change. And good-night to +_you_, Mr. Smeeth.” And T. Benenden, after stooping down to the tiny +gas-jet to relight his pipe, retired to his corner to ruminate. + +Mr. Smeeth made his way to Moorgate, where, as usual, he bought an +evening paper and then climbed to the upper deck of a tram. There, +when he was not being bumped by the conductor, jostled by outgoing +and incoming passengers, thrown back or hurled forward by the tram +itself, an irritable and only half tamed brute, he stared at the +jogging print and tried to acquaint himself with the latest and most +important news of the day. An excitable column and a half told him +that a young musical comedy actress, whom he had never seen and had +no particular desire to see, had got engaged, that it had been quite +a romance, that she was very very happy and not sure yet whether she +would leave the stage or not. Mr. Smeeth, not caring whether she left +the stage or dropped dead on it, turned to another column. This +discussed the problem of careers for married women, a problem that +had been left absolutely untouched since the morning papers came out, +ten hours before. It did not interest Mr. Smeeth, so he tried another +column. This reported an action for divorce, in which it appeared +that the petitioning wife had only been allowed a hundred and fifty +pounds a year on which to dress herself. The judge had said that this +seemed to him--a mere bachelor (laughter)--an adequate allowance, but +the paper had collected the opinions of well-known society hostesses, +who all said it was not adequate. Mr. Smeeth, who found he could not +share the editor’s passionate interest in this topic, now tried another +page, which promptly informed him that evening gowns would certainly +be longer this winter, and then went on to tell him, to the tune of +three solid columns, that the modern business girl (with her latch-key) +had quite a different attitude towards marriage and therefore must +not be confused with her grandmother (Victorian, with no latch-key). +Mr. Smeeth, feeling sure that he had read all this before, passed on, +and arrived at the sports page, where the prospects of certain women +golfers were discussed at considerable length. Never having set eyes on +any of these Amazons and not being interested in golf, Mr. Smeeth next +tried the gossip columns. The tram was swaying now and the print fairly +dancing, so that it was at the cost of some eye-strain and a slight +headache that he learned from these paragraphs that Lord Winthrop’s +brother, who was over six feet, intended to spend the winter in the +West Indies, that the youngest son of Lady Nether Stowey could not only +be seen very frequently at the Blue Pigeon Restaurant but was also +renowned for the way in which he painted fans, that the member for the +Tewborough Division, who must not be mistaken for Sir Adrian Putter, +now in Egypt, had perhaps the best collection of teapots of any man in +the House, and that he must not imagine, as so many people did, that +Chingley Manor, where the fire had just occurred, was the Chingley +Manor mentioned by Disraeli, for it was not, and the paragraphist, who +seemed to go about a great deal, knew them both well. Indeed, he and +his editor seemed to know all about everybody and everything, except +Mr. Smeeth and all the other staring men on the tram, and the people +they knew, and all their concerns and all the things in which they were +interested. Nevertheless, Mr. Smeeth reflected, as he carefully folded +the paper, there were a lot of things in it that his wife would like to +read. They seemed to have stopped writing penny papers for men. + +Mr. Smeeth occupied a six-roomed house (with bath) in a street full +of six-roomed houses (with baths), in that part of Stoke Newington +that lies between the High Street and Clissold Park--to be precise, at +the postal address: 17, Chaucer Road, N. 16. Why the late Victorian +speculative builder had fastened on Chaucer is a mystery, unless he +had come to the conclusion that the Canterbury Pilgrims, who have +never vanished from this island, might come to rest in the twentieth +century behind his brick walls. But there it was, Chaucer Road, and +Mr. Smeeth had once tried his hand at Chaucer, but what with one thing +and another, the queer spelling and all that, had not made much of +him. All that he remembered now was that Chaucer had called birds +“Smally foulies,” and to this day, when he was in a waggish mood, +Mr. Smeeth liked to bring in “smally foulies,” only to be countered +with “You and your ‘smelly foulies!’” from a delighted Mrs. Smeeth. +Towards 17, Chaucer Road, Mr. Smeeth now stepped out, swinging his +folded newspaper, through the alternating lamplight and gloom, the +crisping air, of the autumn evening. Dinner, with a cup of tea to +follow, awaited him, for during the week, Mr. Smeeth, like a wise man, +preferred to dine when work was done for the day. + + +II + +“Cut some off for George,” said Mrs. Smeeth, “and I’ll keep it warm for +him. He’s going to be late again. You’re a bit late yourself to-night, +Dad.” + +“I know. We’ve had a funny day to-day,” replied Mr. Smeeth, but for the +time being he did not pursue the subject. He was busy carving, and +though it was only cold mutton he was carving, he liked to give it all +of his attention. + +“Now then, Edna,” cried Mrs. Smeeth to her daughter, “don’t sit there +dreaming. Pass the potatoes and the greens--careful, they’re hot. And +the mint sauce. Oh, I forgot it. Run and get it, that’s a good girl. +All right, don’t bother yourself. I can be there and back before you’ve +got your wits together.” + +Mr. Smeeth looked up from his carving and eyed Edna severely. “Why +didn’t you go and get it when your mother told you. Letting her do +everything.” + +His daughter pulled down her mouth and wriggled a little. “I’d have +gone,” she said, in a whining tone. “Didn’t give me time, that’s all.” + +Mr. Smeeth grunted impatiently. Edna annoyed him these days. He had +been very fond of her when she was a child--and, for that matter, +he was still fond of her--but now she had arrived at what seemed to +him a very silly awkward age. She had a way of acting, of looking, +of talking, all acquired fairly recently, that irritated him. An +outsider might have come to the conclusion that Edna looked like a +slightly soiled and cheapened elf. She was between seventeen and +eighteen, a smallish girl, thin about the neck and shoulders but +with sturdy legs. She had a broad snub nose, a little round mouth +that was nearly always open, and greyish-greenish-blueish eyes set +rather wide apart; and scores of faces exactly like hers, pert, +pretty-ish and under-nourished, may be seen within a stone’s-throw +of any picture theatre any evening in any large town. She had left +school as soon as she could, and had wandered in and out of various +jobs, the latest and steadiest of them being one as assistant in a +big draper’s Finsbury Park way. At home now, being neither child nor +an adult, neither dependent nor independent, she was at her worst; +languid and complaining, shrill and resentful, or sullen and tearful; +she would not eat properly; she did not want to help her mother, to +do a bit of washing-up, to tidy her room; and it was only when one +of her silly little friends called, when she was going out, that she +suddenly sprang into a vivid personal life of her own, became eager +and vivacious. This contrast, as sharp as a sword, sometimes angered, +sometimes saddened her father, who could not imagine how his home, for +which he saw himself for ever planning and working, appeared in the +eyes of fretful, secretive and ambitious adolescence. These changes +in Edna annoyed and worried him far more than they did Mrs. Smeeth, +who only took offence when she had a solid grievance, and turned a +tolerant, sagely feminine eye on what she called Edna’s “airs and +graces.” + +There was a bustle and clatter, and Mrs. Smeeth returned to dump upon +the table a little jug without a handle. “I’m getting properly mixed +up in my old age,” she announced, breathlessly. “First I thought it +was there, in front of the bottom shelf. Then when I went, I thought +I couldn’t have made any, because it wasn’t there. And then--lo and +behold--it was there all the time, right at the back of the second +shelf. Oh, you’ve given me too much, Dad. Take some back. I’m not a bit +hungry somehow to-night, haven’t been all day. You know how you get +sometimes, can’t fancy anything. Here, Edna, you want more than that. +Well, I dare say you don’t, but you’re going to have it, miss. None +of this silly starving yourself, a girl your age! Because your mother +doesn’t feel hungry for once in her life, it doesn’t mean you’re just +going to sit there, pecking worse than a little sparrow.” And here she +stopped, to take breath, to snatch Edna’s plate and put some more meat +on it, to sit down, to do half a dozen other things, all in a flash. + +According to all the literary formulas, the wife of Mr. Smeeth should +have been a grey and withered suburban drudge, a creature who had long +forgotten to care for anything but a few household tasks, the welfare +of her children, and the opinion of one or two chapel-going neighbours, +a mere husk of womanhood, in whom Mr. Smeeth could not recognise the +girl he had once courted. But Nature, caring nothing for literary +formulas, had gone to work in another fashion with Mrs. Smeeth. There +was nothing grey and withered about her. She was only in her early +forties, and did not look a day older than her age, by any standards. +She was a good deal plumper than the girl Mr. Smeeth had married, +twenty-two years before, but she was no worse for that. She still had +a great quantity of untidy brown hair, a bright blue eye, rosy cheeks, +and a ripe moist lip. She came of robust country stock, and perhaps +that is why she had been able to conjure any amount of bad food into +healthy and jolly womanhood. By temperament, however, she was a real +child of London, a daughter of Cockaigne. She adored oysters, fish and +chips, an occasional bottle of stout or glass of port, cheerful gossip, +hospitality, noise, jokes, sales, outings, comic songs, entertainments +of any kind, in fact, the whole rattling and roaring, laughing and +crying world of food and drink and bargaining and adventure and +concupiscence. She liked to spend as much money as she could, but apart +from that, would have been quite happy if the Smeeths had dropped to a +lower social level. She never shared any of her husband’s worries, and +was indeed rather impatient of them, sometimes openly contemptuous, but +she had no contempt, beyond that experienced by all deeply feminine +natures for the male, for the man himself. He had been her sweetheart, +he was her husband; he had given her innumerable pleasures, had looked +after her, had been patient with her, had always been fond of her; +and she loved him and was proud of what seemed to her his cleverness. +She knew enough about life to realise that Smeeth was a really good +husband and that this was something to be thankful for. (North London +does not form any part of that small hot-house world in which a good +husband or wife is regarded as a bore, perhaps as an obstacle in the +path of the partner’s self-development.) Chastity for its own sake made +no appeal to her, and she recognised with inward pleasure (though not +with any outward sign) the glances that flirtatious and challenging +males, in buses and shops and tea-rooms, threw in her direction. If +Mr. Smeeth had started any little games--as she frankly confessed--she +would not have moaned and repined, but would have promptly “shown him” +what she could do in that line. As it was, he did not require showing. +He grumbled sometimes at her extravagance, her thoughtlessness, her +rather slap-dash housekeeping, but in spite of all that, in spite +too, of the fact that for two-and-twenty years they had been cooped up +together in tiny houses, she still seemed to him an adorable person, +at once incredible and delightful in the large, wilful, intriguing, +mysterious mass of her femininity, the Woman among the almost +indistinguishable crowd of mere women. + +“And if this pudding tastes like nothing on earth,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, +rushing it on to the table, “don’t blame me, blame Mrs. Newark at +number twenty-three. She came charging in, like a fire brigade, just as +I was in the middle of mixing it, and shrieked at me--you know what a +voice she has?--she said, ‘What d’you think, Mrs. Smeeth!’ And I said, +‘I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Newark. What is it this time?’ I slipped +that in just to remind her it wasn’t the first time she’d nearly +frightened the life out of me, breaking the news about nothing. ‘Well,’ +she said--just a minute, mind your hand, Dad, that’s hot. Pass the +custard, Edna. Dad wants it. That’s right.” And Mrs. Smeeth sat down, +flushed and panting. + +“Bit on the heavy side, p’raps,” said Mr. Smeeth, who had now tasted +his pudding, “but I’ve had worse from you, Mother, much worse.” Another +spoonful. “Not so bad at all.” + +“No, it isn’t, is it?” his wife replied. “But if it isn’t, it ought +to be. I thought Mrs. Screaming Twenty-three had done it in properly. +‘Well,’ she said, and nearly bursting she was, ‘do you know, Mrs. +Smeeth, I’ve had a letter from Albert, and he’s been in hospital in +Rangoon, and now he’s all right, and the letter came not ten minutes +since.’ ‘You don’t say!’ I said. ‘Where’s he been in hospital?’ And +she said, ‘Rangoo-oon’--just like that. Reminded me of that Harry Tate +sketch, you remember, Dad? Rangoo-oon! I nearly laughed in her face. +And talk about sketches! If you want a sketch you couldn’t beat this +Albert she’s making so much fuss about. ’Member him, Edna?--teeth +sticking out a yard, and all cross-eyed. They saw something in +Rangoo-oon when they saw Albert.” + +“Oo, he was sorful!” cried Edna, shuddering in a refined way. + +“Still, we can’t all be oil-paintings,” Mrs. Smeeth remarked +philosophically. Then she looked mischievous. “And we can’t all look +like Mr. Ronald Mawlborough either.” + +“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Mr. Smeeth inquired. + +“There you are, you see, Dad, you’re not up in these things. You’re +behind the times. Matter of fact, you have seen him, ’cos I remember +the two of us seeing him together, in that picture at the Empire.” + +“Oh, one of those movie chaps, is he?” Mr. Smeeth was obviously more +interested in pudding than in movie chaps. + +“I should think he is. Isn’t he, Edna?” + +“Oh, do shut up, Mother,” cried Edna, crimson now and wriggling. + +“What’s this about?” + +“He’s the latest, isn’t he, Edna?” said Mrs. Smeeth wickedly. “And +I must say he’s a good-looking young fellow--curly hair, dark eyes, +and all that. Free with his photographs too. Yours sincerely, Ronald +Mawlborough, that’s him. Nothing stand-offish about him when he +addresses his sweet young admirers----” + +“Mother!” Edna screamed, nothing now but two imploring eyes in a +scarlet face. + +“That’s what comes of not doing your bedroom out, miss,” her mother +retorted. “I go up to her bedroom, Dad, and what do I find? Mr. Ronald +Mawlborough, hers sincerely, on a big photo. You can nearly count his +eyelashes. That’s the latest now. Not content with cutting ’em out +of these movie papers, they send to Hollywood for them. Darling Mr. +Ronald, they write, I shall die if you don’t send me your photo, signed +in your own sweet handwriting. Yours truly, Edna Smeeth, seventeen +Chaucer Road, Stoke Newington, England.” + +Mr. Smeeth looked severe. “Well, I must say, Edna, I call that a silly +game.” + +“I only did it for fun,” she muttered, “just to see what would happen, +that’s all. Some of our girls have got dozens----” + +“Pity they’ve got nothing better to do,” was her father’s comment. + +“Oh, well, they might be doing worse,” said Mrs. Smeeth, rising from +the table. “It won’t do them any good, but it won’t do them any harm +either. We’ve all been a bit silly in our time. I’m sure I was when I +was a girl. Girls _are_ a bit silly, if you ask me, and it’s a good job +for the men they are. But that doesn’t mean they can’t help to clear a +table. Come on, Edna, get these things away while I make the tea.” + +“Oh, all ri-ight,” Edna sighed wearily, and rose in slow-motion time. +Ten minutes later, after gulping down her tea, she rushed out of the +room, leaving her parents sitting at ease, Mrs. Smeeth over her second +cup of tea, Mr. Smeeth over his pipe. + +The room was small and contained far too much furniture and too many +knick-knacks. Nearly everything in it was shoddy and ugly, manufactured +hastily, in the mass, to catch a badly-informed eye, to be bought and +exhibited for a brief season by the purchaser, and then to be in the +way and finally rot out of the way. Nevertheless, the total effect +of the room was not displeasing, because it had a cosy, homelike +atmosphere, which Mr. Smeeth, whose imagination, heightened by fear, +perhaps told him that outside beyond the firelight and the snug walls +were stalking poverty, disgrace, shame, disease, and death, enjoyed +even more than Mrs. Smeeth. It was probably this feeling, and not so +much the strain of the day’s work, that made him a man difficult to +rouse and get out of the house in the evening, as his wife, who was all +for going out somewhere, or, failing that, inviting somebody in, knew +to her cost. + +“You’re an old home-bird, you are,” she said, with a sort of +affectionate contempt, as she saw him settling deeper now into his +chair. “Well, what’s been bothering you to-day? You started to tell me +and then didn’t.” + +“I got a real fright this morning, I don’t mind telling you, Edie,” he +began. “Not that I hadn’t seen it coming the way things were going on,” +he added, with a gloomy pride. + +“Now then, don’t start on,” she warned him, shaking a teaspoon. “You +see too much coming. Always looking into the middle of next week and +noticing how black it’s getting. Talk about depressions in Iceland! +They ought to give you the job, and then there’d be plenty. However, go +on, my dear. Mustn’t interrupt.” + +“Well, somebody’s got to look, haven’t they?” he replied. “And if Mr. +Dersingham had looked a bit harder, we’d all be better off.” + +“Do you mean to say you won’t get that rise at Christmas he was talking +about?” + +“Rise at Christmas! I thought this morning I was in for a rise outside. +I tell you, Edie, when he started, my heart went into my boots.” And +he plunged into an account of the scene in Mr. Dersingham’s room that +morning and then discussed the mysterious events that followed it, +all of which Mrs. Smeeth punctuated with nods and ejaculations, such +as “Did he really?”, “Well, I never!”, and “Silly old geezer!” She +gave him more of her attention than she usually did, because she could +see that he was seriously concerned, but at the same time she did not +really bother her own head about it, as he knew very well. To her it +was all rather unreal, and he was convinced that the idea that he +might lose his job, be thrown into the street with only the gloomiest +prospect of getting anything half as good, never really entered her +head. And this indifference, this childlike confidence in his ability +to produce the usual six or seven pounds every week, did nothing to +restore his own self-confidence, at least not at such moments as these, +but only made him feel that he had to think for two, and in the end +left him lonely with his fear. + +“All I’m hoping now,” he went on, earnestly, “is that this chap who +called has got something up his sleeve. It’s so funny Goath going like +that. Looks to me as if this chap, Golspie, thought Goath wasn’t any +good--and I’ve thought so once or twice myself lately--and worked it +so that Mr. Dersingham got rid of him. Perhaps he’s going to take his +place. I must say, it’s a funny business. In all my experience----” + +“Don’t you worry, it’ll be all right,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. “We’re going +to be lucky, we are. I don’t care if Mr. Dersingham goes mental, +we’re going to be lucky. Soon too! I don’t think I told you, but Mrs. +Dalby’s sister--the one with the fringe and the jet ear-rings, who +reads the cards--told me my fortune the other afternoon, and she said +luck was coming, money and good luck, and all through a stranger, a +middling-coloured man in a strange bed. Is this man you’re talking +about middling-coloured?” + +“Don’t ask me, I never noticed what colour he was. He hadn’t any +colour. He’d got a big moustache, if that’s any use to you. But what +puzzles me is this, why did Mr. Dersingham----” + +“Don’t you worry yourself, Dad, why Mr. Dersingham did anything,” his +wife interrupted. “Think he’s spending his time worrying about you? Not +him! And don’t you bother your old head about him, either. Let’s have +a bit o’ music. It’ll cheer us up.” She bounced over to the corner in +which George, who had a head for these things, had fixed up that tangle +of wires which still passes by the name of “wireless,” a loud speaker +apparatus. “What starts it? I can never remember,” she said, with one +hand hovering over the various knobs. “Is it this thing you pull out?” + +It must have been, for she pulled it, and immediately a loud, +patronising voice filled the room. “Let us turn to anothuh aspect of +this problam,” it shouted. “As we have already seen--ah--a company +cannot barrow unless it is aixpressly authorised--that is, authorised +by its memorandum of association--ah--to do so. Let us see what this +invalves. Suppose a companay has been formed for the purpose--we will +say--ah--of discounting cammercial bills----” + +“Oh, help!” cried Mrs. Smeeth, and promptly turned the voice out of +the room. “A lot of cheering up you’ll do!” she told the loud speaker +severely. “Look in the paper and see when the singing and playing comes +on.” + +There was a glimpse of Edna, all dressed up, very white about the nose, +very red about the lips. + +“Where you’re going, Edna?” her mother shrieked. + +“Out.” + +“Who with?” + +“Minnie Watson.” + +“Well, don’t be late then, you and your Minnie Watson.” A bang of the +front door was Edna’s only reply. “It’s Minnie Watson ev’ry night now,” +said Mrs. Smeeth. “Next month it’ll be all somebody else. I said to +her last night, ‘Where’s Annie Frost now you used to be so friendly +with?’” + +“Is that Frost’s girl?” inquired Mr. Smeeth. “The chap who keeps the +_Hand and Glove_?” + +“That’s right, Jimmy Frost. So when I said that to her, the little +madam turns up her nose at once and says, ‘Catch me going with Annie +Frost!’ Just like that. And it doesn’t seem a minute since they were as +thick as thieves. I could have died laughing. Just the same, I was, at +her age.” + +“You won’t make me believe that,” said Mr. Smeeth sturdily. “You’d more +sense. Seems to me these young girls now haven’t a scrap of sense. The +bit they leave school with is knocked out of them by pictures nowadays. +They think about pictures--movies and talkies--from morning till night. +They’re getting jazzed off their little heads.” + +“That sounds like Georgie,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, starting up. “I’ll go +and get his dinner out of the oven. Come on, boy, hurry up if you want +any dinner to-night. It’s nearly cinders now.” + +Left to himself, Mr. Smeeth slowly knocked out his pipe in the +coal-scuttle and then stared into the fire, brooding. He was always +catching himself grumbling about the children now, and he did not want +to be a grumbling father. He had enjoyed them when they were young, +but now, although there were times when he felt a touch of pride, he +no longer understood them. George especially, the elder of the two, +and once a very bright promising boy, was both a disappointment and a +mystery. George had had opportunities that he himself had never had. +But George had shown an inclination from the first, to go his own way, +which seemed to Mr. Smeeth a very poor way. He had no desire to stick +to anything, to serve somebody faithfully, to work himself steadily +up to a good safe position. He simply tried one thing after another, +selling wireless sets, helping some pal in a garage (he was in a garage +now, and it was his fourth or fifth), and though he always contrived +to earn something and appeared to work hard enough, he was not, in his +father’s opinion, getting anywhere. He was only twenty, of course, and +there was time, but Mr. Smeeth, who knew very well that George would +continue to go his own way without any reference to him, did not see +any possibility of improvement. The point was, that to George, there +was nothing wrong, and his father was well aware of the fact that he +could not make him see there was anything wrong. That was the trouble +with both his children. There was obviously nothing bad about either +of them; they compared very favourably with other people’s boys and +girls; and he would have been quick to defend them; but nevertheless, +they were growing up to be men and women he could not understand, just +as if they were foreigners. And it was all very perplexing and vaguely +saddening. + +The truth was, of course, that Mr. Smeeth’s children _were_ +foreigners, not simply because they belonged to a younger generation +but because they belonged to a younger generation that existed in a +different world. Mr. Smeeth was perplexed because he applied to them +standards they did not recognise. They were the product of a changing +civilisation, creatures of the post-war world. They had grown up to the +sound of the Ford car rattling down the street, and that Ford car had +gone rattling away, to the communal rubbish heap, with a whole load +of ideas that seemed still of supreme importance to Mr. Smeeth. They +were the children of the Woolworth stores and the moving pictures. +Their world was at once larger and shallower than that of their +parents. They were less English, more cosmopolitan. Mr. Smeeth could +not understand George and Edna, but a host of youths and girls in New +York, Paris and Berlin would have understood them at a glance. Edna’s +appearance, her grimaces and gestures, were temporarily based on those +of an Americanised Polish Jewess, who, from her mint in Hollywood, had +stamped them on these young girls all over the world. George’s knowing +eye for a machine, his cigarette and drooping eyelid, his sleek hair, +his ties and shoes and suits, the smallest details of his motor-cycling +and dancing, his staccato impersonal talk, his huge indifferences, +could be matched almost exactly round every corner in any American +city or European capital. + +Mrs. Smeeth returned with the food, and a minute or two later, George +descended from his bedroom, shining, sleek, brushed. He was better +looking, better built, tougher in body, than his father had ever been, +and he owed far more to his mother, though there was about her a +certain generosity of the blood, a suggestion of ruddy mounting sap, +that was absent in him: he was drier, more compressed and blanched; and +though he was a good-looking youth, who moved easily, quickly, he had +hardly any more of the bloom of twenty than had the moving pictures of +Mr. Ronald Mawlborough and his kind. In short, he looked too old for +an English boy of that age. It was as if the Americanised world he had +grown up to discover about him, had contrived to introduce into North +London the drying and ageing American climate. + +“You’re late to-night, George,” said his father. + +“Been busy,” he replied, dispatching his dinner quickly, quietly, +efficiently, but with no signs of taking any pleasure in his food. +After a few minutes’ silence, he continued: “Feller came in with an old +_Lumbden_, twelve horse. Could have had it for fifteen quid. Nothing +much wrong with it. Wanted new plugs and mag. and brakes re-lining and +something doing to the differential, and just cleanin’ up a bit. All +right then. Take you anywhere. Thought once of sellin’ the ol’ bike and +having a shot at this _Lumbden_.” + +“I wish you would, Georgie,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. “You could take us all +out then. See us going out in style, eh, Dad? Besides, I hate that +stinking rattling ol’ bike of yours. Nasty dangerous things they are +too. Get rid of it, Georgie, before it gets rid of you.” + +“That’s all right,” said George, “but the ol’ bike goes--travels like +a bird. This _Lumbden_ couldn’t look at her. No, me for the little ol’ +bike, till I can put my hand on something in the super-sports style. +And don’t worry, I shan’t do that in a hurry--costs too much. Doesn’t +matter, though--Barrett’s buying this _Lumbden_. We’ll do her up a bit, +paint her up, and sell her. There won’t be any hurry either, so when +we’ve put a few works in her, if you want a ride, pass the word on, and +we’ll have a run in her.” + +“We’ll go down to Brighton and see your aunt Flo,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, +her eyes brightening at the thought of an outing. “Now don’t forget, +Georgie boy. That’s a promise to your old mother. Don’t go spending all +your time taking the girls out in it. Give your mother a chance. She +can enjoy a ride as well as the next.” + +“Righto,” said George briskly. He rose from the table. + +“Here, you want some pudding.” + +“Not to-night. Off pudding to-night. Couldn’t look it in the face. +’Sides, I haven’t time.” + +“Time!” cried his mother. “You’re never in. Where you going?” + +“Out.” + +“Out where?” + +“Just knocking about with some of the fellers.” + +Mr. Smeeth looked at him, rather gravely. He felt it was his turn to +speak now. “Just a minute,” he said sharply. “What does ‘knocking +about’ mean exactly, may I ask?” + +At this, George looked a shade less confident, a trifle younger, as he +stood there tapping his cigarette. “I dunno. Might do one thing, might +do another. Might have a game of billiards at the Institute, or look +in at the pictures, or go down to the second house at Finsbury Park. +Depends what everybody wants to do. No harm in that, Dad.” He lit his +cigarette. + +“Course there isn’t,” said Mrs. Smeeth. “Your father never said there +was.” + +“No, I didn’t,” said Mr. Smeeth slowly. “That’s all right, George. Only +don’t take all night about it, that’s all. Oh!--there’s just another +thing.” He hesitated a moment. “Somebody told me he’d seen you once or +twice with that flash bookie chap--what’s his name?--y’know--Shandon. +Well, you keep away from that chap, George. I don’t interfere--and you +know I don’t--but that chap’s a wrong ’un, and I don’t want to see a +boy of mine in his company.” + +“Shandon’s no friend of mine,” said George, flushing. “I don’t knock +about with him. He comes into the garage sometimes, that’s all. He’s a +friend of Barrett’s.” + +“Well, if half of what I hear’s true,” Mr. Smeeth remarked, “he’s a +friend to nobody, that chap. And you just keep out of his way, George, +see?” + +“First I’ve heard of this,” said Mrs. Smeeth, looking severely at her +son. + +“All ri’, Dad,” George muttered, nodding. “So long, Ma.” And he was off. + +Mrs. Smeeth promptly rushed the remaining dirty plates into the +kitchen, and then returned, five minutes later, to find her husband +looking at a battered copy of a detective story that had somehow +found its way into the room. You could not say he was reading it. So +far, he was merely glancing suspiciously at it. Mrs. Smeeth took up +the evening paper, pecked at it here and there, then pottered about +a minute or two, then turned on the wireless, which only let loose +another patronising gentleman, switched it off, brought two socks and +some darning wool from the top of the little bookcase, examined them +with distaste, looked across at her husband, then said: “I can’t settle +down to anything to-night, somehow. How d’you feel about a little walk +round? We might look in at Fred’s for an hour. What d’you say? Oh no, +I thought not--won’t stir, the old stick-in-the-mud. One of these days +I’ll be finding a nice young man to take me to the pictures. Well, if +you won’t stir, I will. I think I’ll just slip round to Mrs. Dalby’s +for an hour. She asked me if I would.” + +“You do,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’m all right here.” + +He lit his pipe again, made up the fire, and tried to settle down with +the detective story, which at once hustled him into the library of the +old Manor House, where the baronet’s body was waiting to be discovered. +But he did not make much headway with it. Goath and Mr. Dersingham and +this Golspie kept appearing in that library. Angel Pavement was just +outside the old Manor House. So he put the book away and tried the +wireless. This time the patronising gentlemen had all gone home, and +in their place was a rich and adventurous flood of sound. It was not +unfamiliar to Mr. Smeeth, and, after a pleasant tussle with his memory, +he recognised it as something by Mendelssohn, an overture it was, a +sea piece, either Whats-It’s Cave or Hebrides or something. Unlike his +wife and children and most of his friends, Mr. Smeeth had a genuine, if +unambitious, passion for music, and this was the kind of music he knew +and liked best. He sank into his chair, and the sharp lines on his face +softened as the music came swirling out of the little cone and there +arrived with it the old mysterious enchantment of the ear. A phantom +sea rolled about his chair: the room was filled with foam and salt air, +the green glitter of the waves, the white flash and the crying of great +sea birds. And Mr. Smeeth, a magically drowned man, worried no longer, +and for a brief space was happy. + + +III + +The next day Mr. Smeeth struggled out of sleep to find himself faced +with one of those dark spouting mornings which burst over unhappy +London like gigantic bombs filled with dirty water. At the first sign +of the approach of one of these outrages, all clocks ought to be put +back three hours, so that everybody might stay in bed until their +fury is spent. There is no end to their malice. They sweep, lash, and +machine-gun the streets with rain; they send up fountains of mud from +every passing wheel; they contrive that fires shall not burn and water +boil, that tea shall be lukewarm, bacon fat congealed, and warranted +fresh eggs change in their very cups to mere eggs and dubious; they +make the husband turn on the wife, the father on the child, and thus +help to ruin all family life; and they lavishly sow all the ills that +townsmen know, colds, indigestion, rheumatism, influenza, bronchitis, +pneumonia, and are indeed the industrious hirelings of Death. + +“Got your umbrella?” said Mrs. Smeeth. She had been out of bed over an +hour, but somehow looked as if her real self was still there, as if +this was a mysteriously wrapped wraith of herself she had projected +downstairs. “Goo’-bye, then. You’ll have to run for it, Dad.” + +Dad did not run for it, but he managed to trot down Chaucer Road and +then along the neighbouring street, but after that he had a pain +over his heart and was reduced to a sort of quick shamble. Before +he reached the High Street and his tram, the bottom of his trousers +were unpleasantly heavy, his boots (one of Mrs. Smeeth’s bargains and +made of cardboard) gave out a squelching sound, and the newspaper he +carried was being rapidly reconverted into its original pulp. The tram, +its windows steaming and streaming, was more crowded than usual, of +course, and carried its maximum cargo of wet clothes, the wearers of +which were simply so many irritable ghosts. After enormous difficulty, +Mr. Smeeth succeeded in filling and lighting his morning pipe of T. +Benenden’s Own, and then--so stubborn is the spirit of man--succeeded +in unfolding and examining his pulpy newspaper. Before he had reached +the end of City Road, he had learned that the cost of a public school +education was too high, that the night clubs on Broadway were not +doing the business they had done, that a man in Birmingham had cut his +wife’s throat, that students in Cairo were again on strike, that an +old woman in Hammersmith had died of starvation, that a policeman in +Suffolk had found six pound notes in the prisoner’s left sock, and that +bubonic plague is conveyed to human beings by fleas from infected rats. +And Angel Pavement, when he arrived there, looked as if it had been +plucked, grey and dripping, from the bottom of an old cistern. + +It was an unpleasant morning at the office. To begin with, the +situation was more puzzling than ever. Once more, Mr. Dersingham did +not appear, but telephoned about half past ten to say that he would +not be there until late afternoon and would Mr. Smeeth “just carry +on.” Goath did not reappear, and Mr. Smeeth felt sure now that he had +vanished for ever. Then Miss Matfield was haughtier than usual, and +very cross. Young Turgis, who had contrived to get wetter than anybody +else on his way up to the office, went slouching about with a long +pale face, and every now and then startled and intimidated everybody by +sneezing explosively. Stanley, at odds with the weather, the world, and +his present destiny, hung about and got in people’s way, and when told +to get on with his work, pointed out, not very respectfully, that he +hadn’t any work, and Mr. Smeeth did not find it easy to supply him with +any. Several inquiries by telephone could not be properly answered, +always an unsatisfactory state of affairs. Mr. Smeeth had sufficient +routine work to carry him through the morning, but he felt queerly +insecure, not at all happy with his books, his neat little figures, his +pencil, rubber, blue ink and red ink, now that he no longer knew what +was happening to the firm. It was like trying to post a ledger swinging +above a dark gulf. + +Lunch time found him at his usual teashop, sitting at a wet +marble-topped table and waiting for his poached egg on toast and cup +of coffee. The wet morning had perished outside, where there was even +a faint gleam of sunshine, but it had found a haven in this teashop, +which seemed to be four hours behind the weather in the street, for it +was all damp and steaming. Mr. Smeeth was jammed into a corner with +another regular patron, a man with a glass eye, bright blue and with +such a fixed glare about it that the thing frightened you. Mr. Smeeth +was sitting on the same side as the glass eye, and as the owner of it, +who was busy eating two portions of baked beans on toast and drinking a +glass of cold milk, never turned his head as he talked, the effect was +disconcerting and rather horrible. + +“Firm we’ve been doing business with,” said the man, disposing of a few +beans that had quitted their toast, “has come a nasty cropper--a ve-ery +nasty cropper. Claridge and Molton--d’you know ’em? Oh, very nasty.” + +“Is that so?” said Mr. Smeeth politely, looking from his poached egg at +the glaring blue eye and then looking away again. “Don’t think I know +the firm.” + +“No, well, you mightn’t,” the eye continued, as if it had its doubts +about that, though. “But they’ve been a well-known house in the +wholesale umbrella trade for donkeys’ years, specially for ribs, +handles, and tips. I remember the time when they carried a line of ribs +nobody else could touch--same with the tips. If you’d come to us ten +years ago, or five years ago, or even three years ago, and said, ‘We +can offer you a line in ribs and tips that’ll make Claridge and Molton +look silly,’ if you’d said that, we’d have laughed at you.” + +“No doubt,” said Mr. Smeeth, quite seriously. + +“And up to eighteen months ago, I’d have told you that Claridge and +Molton was one of the soundest concerns in the business. And look at +’em now. Properly in Queer Street. Absolutely down the river.” + +Mr. Smeeth manfully faced the blue glare. “How d’you account for it?” +he inquired, not out of mere politeness but because he really wanted to +know. + +“This milk doesn’t taste right this morning,” his neighbour remarked +mournfully. “They’ve had it near something. I’m giving it a miss. What +was that?” And here the eye turned balefully. “Oh, about Claridge +and Molton. Well, young Molton’s the one that’s upset their little +apple-cart. He took charge about a couple of years ago, then began +staying away all day--likes his whisky, y’know--drew heavily on the +firm--sacked their oldest man, old Johnny Fowler, for something and +nothing. Probably tight at the time--young Molton, I mean, not Johnny +Fowler--he never took a drop. And there you are! You can’t do it, +y’know, you can’t do it. Can you?” + +“No,” said Mr. Smeeth sadly, “you can’t.” + +“Course you can’t,” the eye concluded. “Not nowadays. It’s all too +keen, too much competition. You’ve got to watch yourself all the time. +Isn’t that so? Eh, miss, miss! My check, miss. And, I say, what about +this milk?” + +Mr. Smeeth finished his coffee, mechanically filled and lit his pipe, +then pushed his way out of the place. He felt miserable. For all he +knew to the contrary, Mr. Dersingham might be following the example of +this young Molton. Hadn’t Mr. Dersingham just started staying away +from the office all day? Hadn’t he just sacked _their_ oldest man, +Goath? As he moved slowly along, sometimes staring into the windows +of shops that meant nothing to him, Mr. Smeeth found himself going +over all the possible ways in which a firm might come a nasty cropper, +arrive at Queer Street, go down the river, and they seemed so numerous, +so inevitable, that he saw himself joining the wretched army of the +hangers-on, the dispossessed, at any moment. And, at the corner of +Chiswell Street, he gave a man twopence for a box of matches. + +When he let himself quietly into the office, he heard loud voices, and +thought for a moment that something exciting was happening. But then he +caught the words. + +“I shaddered him all down Victoria Park Road,” Stanley was saying +triumphantly, “and he never knew.” + +“Well, why should he?” Turgis demanded, contemptuously. “He didn’t know +you were following him, you little chump.” + +“I know he didn’t,” cried Stanley. “That’s it. That’s where shadderin’ +comes in----” + +“Well, shadowing can come out,” Mr. Smeeth announced. “And if you don’t +get on with some work, my boy, you’ll be finding yourself shadowing +down those steps. Come on, Turgis, you ought to know a bit better. +Standing there talking a lot of nonsense!” + +“I was telling him it was nonsense,” said Turgis, rather sullenly. +“He’s got this shadowing on the brain. He goes following some chap for +miles, and then because this chap doesn’t take any notice of him--he +doesn’t know he’s there, of course, and doesn’t care, anyhow--he thinks +he’s a little Sexton Blake.” + +“No, I don’t,” said Stanley, wrinkling up his freckled face until it +achieved a look of intense disgust. + +“The best thing you can do, Stanley,” said Mr. Smeeth, sitting down at +his desk, “is to drop these silly tricks. They’ll get you into trouble +one of these days. Why don’t you do something sensible in your spare +time? Get a hobby. Do a bit of fretwork or collect foreign stamps or +butterflies or something like that.” + +“Huh! Nobody does them things now. Out of date,” Stanley muttered. + +“Well, work’s not out of date, not here, anyhow,” Mr. Smeeth retorted, +in time-old schoolmaster fashion. “So just get on with a bit.” + +Miss Matfield arrived, quarter of an hour late, as usual. “Don’t talk +to me, anybody,” she commanded. “I’m furious. Of all the foul lunches +I’ve ever had in this city, to-day’s was the foulest. It makes me +sick to think about it. Look here, is Mr. Dersingham ever coming here +again? It’s absurd--I’ve got umpteen things for him to sign. Can you do +anything with them, Mr. Smeeth?” + +“I’ll have a look at them, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Smeeth wearily. The +afternoon dragged on. + + +IV + +At five o’clock, Mr. Dersingham arrived, bursting in like a large +pink bomb. He was breathless, perspiring, and all smiles. “Afternoon, +ev’rybody,” he gasped. “Is there a late spot of tea goin’? Doesn’t +matter if there isn’t. I say, Miss Matfield, just drop ev’rything, +will you, and bring your notebook to my room. I want to dictate some +letters and a circular. Stanley, you get ready to copy the circular. +And, Turgis, you ring up Brown and Gorstein and say I want to speak to +Mr. Gorstein. And Smeeth, I shall want you when I’m through with these +letters, about a quarter of an hour’s time, and will you bring that +statement of the outstanding accounts right up to date and let me know +all about Gorstein’s and Nickman’s payments this last year? Good man!” + +Mr. Dersingham liked to signalise his arrival in this fashion--it +looked as if he was starting the day for everybody, and it still looked +like that even if he did it at five o’clock--but now there was a +difference. His voice had a triumphant ring, in spite of the fact that +he was short of breath. There was about his whole manner a Napoleonic +abruptness and self-confidence. He presented the spectacle--rare +enough too--of an Old Worrelian in big business. At one bound the +temperature of the office rose about ten degrees, and Mr. Smeeth, as +he investigated the firm’s somewhat melancholy relations with Brown +& Gorstein and Nickman & Sons, was visited once more by quite wildly +optimistic fancies. Undoubtedly, something had happened. + +When at last he was called into Mr. Dersingham’s room, he soon learned +what it was that had happened. It was, as he had suspected more than +once, this Mr. Golspie. + +“And the position is this, Smeeth,” Mr. Dersingham continued. “He’s +got the sole agency for all this new Baltic stuff. They won’t sell it +to anybody here but Golspie. It’s good wood, all of it, quite up to +standard, and he can get it at prices, thirty, forty and fifty per +cent. lower than we’ve been paying. I don’t mind telling you that when +he first explained what he was after, I wasn’t keen at all, not a bit +keen. It sounded fishy to me.” + +“Does seem a bit queer he should come along like that, doesn’t it, sir?” + +“It does, Smeeth, and that’s what I thought. But we’ve been going +round with some of his samples at prices we could sell the stuff at on +his figures, and they’ve been absolutely leaping at them. We can cut +everybody out, absolutely clean cut. We can do more business, Smeeth, +with this new stuff in a fortnight than the firm’s ever done, even in +its best days, in a month. And you know what business we’ve been doing +lately? Awful! A ghastly show! By the way, Smeeth, Goath was partly +to blame for that. Oh yes, he was. Thirty years in the trade and all +that--but the fact is, they were all tired of seeing his depressing old +mug, and he’d given up trying. Golspie soon showed me that, though I +must say I’d had my suspicions for some time.” + +“So had I, sir.” + +“Exactly! Goath had to be booted out, and as it was he booted himself +out. He’ll be feeling very sorry for himself soon. Now then, this is +what’s happening. Golspie came along here to see me quite by chance. +He’d got this contract, but he wanted some firm already in the trade to +join up with. All this is--er--in--y’know--between ourselves, Smeeth.” + +“I understand, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, flattered and delighted. + +“Golspie--Mr. Golspie--doesn’t want a partnership, can’t be bothered +with it. He’s coming in here as a sort of general manager, working on a +jolly good commission. You’ll have to know all about that, of course, +because of the books. It’s a hefty commission all right, but then he’s +bringing all the business really, and he’ll be responsible for getting +the wood over and all that side of it. And the two of us will be +working together, running things here. I’ll go out a good deal myself +for the next few months, and we’ll have to get some fellow--somebody +young and keen--to take Goath’s place.” + +“You won’t be cutting down the office staff then?” said Mr. Smeeth, +greatly relieved. + +“Cutting it down! We’ll have to jolly well increase it, and quickly +too. That far sample room will have to be cleared out and tidied up +this week, we shall want that. You’d better get another typist to help +Miss Matfield--a young girl will do--as soon as possible. This next +week or two, Smeeth,” and here Mr. Dersingham sprang up and clenched +his fists, just as if he had never seen a decent public school, “we’ve +got to drive it hard, go all out, and I’m depending on you for the +office side of it. You people have got to stand behind me in this. It’s +a great chance for all of us, and, of course, a tremendous stroke of +luck, Golspie’s coming here. He’s going all out himself on this--he’s +that sort of chap, very keen and all that--and we’ve got to keep pace.” + +“You can count on me doing my best, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth assured +him fervently. “There’s one or two things I’d like to know about, of +course. F’r’instance, what’s his arrangement with these foreign people +of his about payments?” + +“He’s going to talk to you about that, Smeeth. We’ve only just touched +on that, so far.” + +“And another thing, sir,” Mr. Smeeth continued, more hesitantly now. +“You know how we stand at the bank just now. If we’re branching out, +we’ve got to have something behind us there.” + +“I’ve been looking into that this afternoon,” said Mr. Dersingham. “We +can’t do anything more with the bank at present, but I think I can +borrow a bit to see us through. We’ve got to have something to jolly +well play with, this next month or so, particularly as Mr. Golspie +talks about wanting some of his commission in advance, so to speak.” + +Mr. Smeeth looked grave, then coughed. “Do you think that would be +wise, Mr. Dersingham? I mean--er--after all, you’ve no guarantee----” + +“You mean--the whole thing may be just a swindle. Come on, isn’t that +it?” cried the other, grinning. “Well of course I thought of that. I +thought of God knows how many swindles yesterday morning, because, as +I said, the whole thing seemed fishy to me, and, between ourselves, I +thought Golspie himself a terrible outsider at first. But I’ve gone +into all that. He doesn’t draw his commission until the stuff has +been delivered to our people, of course, but he wants his money then, +without waiting until the account’s finally settled. Though, by the +way, Smeeth, we’re not going to give these fellows so much rope in +future. With this new stuff on our hands, we can afford to tighten it +up a bit, don’t you think?” + +“That’s so, Mr. Dersingham. I’d like to see one or two of these +accounts closed altogether. They’re more bother than they’re worth,” +Mr. Smeeth hesitated. “I’m not quite clear yet about this Mr. Golspie, +sir. Is he going to be in charge of the office?” + +“In a way, yes,” the other replied, with the air of a man who had given +this question a great deal of thought. “You can take it, he is. Though +of course it’s still my show----” + +“Of course, Mr. Dersingham.” + +“Suppose, by any chance, you disagree violently with anything he +suggests, you’ll come to me,” said Mr. Dersingham, looking at that +moment like a large pink conspirator. “But you needn’t tell that to the +other people out there.” + +“I see what you mean, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who felt that he would see +in time. + +“Mr. Golspie has a good deal to learn, of course,” Mr. Dersingham +continued, airily. “He doesn’t know the trade, and he doesn’t know the +City. But--he seems to have knocked up and down all over the place +in his time, and he’s got ideas, y’know, and colossal push. Rum sort +of chap, I must say.” Then he became business-like again. “Now look +here, Smeeth, I want to push off as soon as I can because I want that +money--or some of it--into the bank by to-morrow afternoon. Ask Miss +Matfield to hurry up with those letters so that I can sign ’em. And +just see those circulars get away to-night, will you?” + +“I will, Mr. Dersingham.” And Mr. Smeeth turned away, but stopped +before he reached the door. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, +I’m very pleased things are looking up like this. I was beginning to +feel worried, very worried, sir.” + +“Thanks, Smeeth! Good man!” You could not mistake the Old Worrelian +now. “Things will be humming here soon, you’ll see. Colossal luck, of +course, his turning up like this! Oh, by the way, he’s probably coming +in soon.” + +Mr. Golspie did come in, but only after Mr. Dersingham had gone and +for about half an hour or so, during which he merely asked Mr. Smeeth +a few questions. He came again the next morning, and Mr. Smeeth had +to join him and Mr. Dersingham in a little conference. Mr. Golspie +then returned about half past four, dictated some letters, nosed about +the office, examined the far room, and did some telephoning at Mr. +Dersingham’s table, Mr. Dersingham himself being out visiting Nickman +and Sons. The others had gone, and Mr. Smeeth was putting away his +books for the night, when Mr. Golspie came out of the private office +and began asking more questions, chiefly about accounts. The two of +them stayed there another twenty-five minutes, at the end of which Mr. +Golspie suggested they should round off the proceedings by having a +drink. + +When they were at the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Smeeth remembered that +he was nearly out of tobacco (he smoked two and a half ounces of T. +Benenden’s Own Mixture every week) and said he would slip in for some. +Mr. Golspie followed him in, and T. Benenden was so surprised to see +this massive and large-moustached stranger again, in company with Mr. +Smeeth this time, too, that he weighed out the tobacco and put it in +the pouch without saying a word. + +“You got any good cigars, _good_ cigars?” Mr. Golspie demanded in his +resonant bass, at the same time staring hard, even harder than the +tobacconist had stared at him. + +“Certainly, I have,” replied T. Benenden with dignity. And he produced +two or three boxes. + +Mr. Golspie chose two cigars, cut them, then popped one into his own +mouth, stuck the other into Mr. Smeeth’s, and lit the pair of then, +without a word. Then, after blowing a stream of smoke at Benenden, he +said: “How much?” + +“Three shillings, for the two.” + +Mr. Golspie slapped down two half-crowns on the counter. This was the +tobacconist’s opportunity. + +“What about this big Cement slump, gentlemen?” he began. “Where’s that +going to land us----?” + +“It’s not going to land me anywhere,” said Mr. Golspie. “Where’s it +going to land you?” + +T. Benenden looked rather pained, and still nursed the two shillings +change in his hand. “Well, what I mean is this. That’s a big combine, +isn’t it? A year ago, they were bang at the top, like nearly all +the big combines. All right. But what’s happening now? A slump. And +why----?” + +“I don’t know, and I’ll bet you don’t know,” said Mr. Golspie heartily. +Then he gave a short bellow of a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he +roared, “I’ve been puzzling my head for the last five minutes wondering +what was wrong with you.” + +“Me?” T. Benenden was startled. + +“Yes, you. Didn’t you notice I was staring at you?” He turned to Mr. +Smeeth. “Couldn’t make it out. I knew there was something wrong. You +see it, don’t you?” He now returned to Benenden, at whom he pointed +a thick brutal finger. “Why, man, you’ve forgotten to put your tie +on. Have a look at yourself. I _knew_ there was something. Is that my +change? That’s correct--two shillings.” + +Mr. Smeeth followed him out of the shop, gasping. He had been visiting +Benenden’s shop two or three times a week, year after year, and never +once had he dared mention the word “tie.” And now this chap comes along +with his “You’ve forgotten to put your tie on.” Mr. Smeeth began to +chuckle softly. + +Mr. Golspie piloted him across the road and into the private bar of the +_White Horse_. + +“Give it a name,” said Mr. Golspie. + +“Thanks, Mr. Golspie. Oh--er--just a glass of bitter,” said Mr. Smeeth +modestly, from behind his large cigar. + +“Don’t have a glass of bitter. Too cold a night like this and after a +hard day’s work, too. Have a whisky. That’s right. Two double whiskies +and some soda.” + +It was quiet and cosy in the _White Horse_. Mr. Smeeth had not been in +for a long time, and he was enjoying this. The fire winked cheerfully +over the grate; the rows of liqueur bottles glimmered and glittered; +the glasses shone softly; there was a pleasant hum of talk; the cigars +plunged them at once into an atmosphere of rich, fragrant, luxurious +conviviality; the whisky tasted good, and washed away that foggy, +smoky, railway tunnel flavour of Angel Pavement; and Mr. Golspie, still +mysterious and masterful but genial now too, was obviously anxious they +should be on friendly terms. + +“You’ve got a fellow working in the Midlands and the North, haven’t +you?” Mr. Golspie inquired, after they had both taken a pull at their +whiskies. “What’s he like?” + +“Dobson? He’s a decent young chap, and he’s got a good connection up +there. He’s not sold much lately, but it’s not been for the want of +trying.” + +“We ought to be hearing from him soon, then,” said Mr. Golspie. “If +he can’t sell these new veneers, he’d better be walking. They sell +themselves. We’ve orders pouring in, just pouring. But, mind you, +Smeeth, we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to pile up the orders +now--make hay while the sun shines. We want another man for London and +district, soon as we can get one. And one that’s alive, too, not like +that dreary old devil I booted out the first day. You might as well +send the dustbin round looking for orders. There ought to be three of +us, me, Dersingham, and this other man, whoever he is, doing London and +neighbourhood these next few months. Rush ’em. That’s the way, isn’t +it?” + +Mr. Smeeth, taking out his cigar and trying to look keen and +aggressive, said it was. + +“I’ll tell you what I believe in,” Mr. Golspie continued, not troubling +to lower his voice, or rather to moderate it, for it was low enough. “I +believe in working like hell and in playing like hell. If you’re going +to work, for God’s sake--work. And if you’re going to enjoy yourself, +well, for the love of Mike, enjoy yourself, get on with it.” + +At this point, Mr. Smeeth started back, for suddenly a head, a large +head wearing a very dirty cap, but only about the height of his +shoulder, stuck itself between him and Mr. Golspie. “That’s all very +well, gents,” it said, with an impudent whine, “but what if yer can’t +get work, ’ow yer goin’ ter enjoy yerself then, eh? Wotcher goin’ ter +do then, eh?” + +“There’s one thing you can do,” said Mr. Golspie promptly. + +“Wha’s that?” + +“You can mind your own bloody business,” said Mr. Golspie, pushing +his face out in a most intimidating and disagreeable fashion. The +intruder shrank back at once. “Here y’are,” Mr. Golspie said in a +milder, contemptuous tone, “here’s threepence. Go away and buy yourself +something.” + +“Thank yer, mister.” And the head vanished. + +“This city’s got more and more rats like that in it every time I come +back to it.” + +“There isn’t the work, you know,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “I don’t +say they all want it, but there isn’t the work. I’ll tell you candidly, +Mr. Golspie, it frightens me sometimes to see all the chaps looking for +work. If we’ve to take on a few new people, and we advertise for them, +you’ll see what I mean. Crowds and crowds--ready to work for next to +nothing. It’s a heart-breaking job interviewing them.” + +“I dare say,” Mr. Golspie replied, in the tone of a man whose heart is +not easily broken. “But I know this. A man who’s ready to work for next +to nothing is no good to me. I wouldn’t have him as a gift. And that +reminds me, Smeeth. What’s this firm paying you?” + +Mr. Smeeth hesitated a moment, then told him. + +“And do you think that’s enough?” + +Mr. Smeeth hesitated again. “Well, if business was good, I was going to +ask for a rise this Christmas, but as you know, it’s not been good.” + +“No, but it’s going to be good, don’t make any mistake about that,” +cried Mr. Golspie. “It’s going to be a dam’ sight better than Twigg and +Dersingham have ever seen it before. Who the devil was Twigg? Never +mind about him, though. I’m going to tell you straight out, I don’t +think you’re getting enough. I know a good man when I see one, and when +people stand by me--you know what I do?--that’s right--I stand by them. +And I’m going to stand by you.” + +“Very good of you, Mr. Golspie,” muttered the embarrassed Smeeth. + +“The minute these orders that are coming now are turned into solid +business--and, mind you, it means more work and responsibility for you +all along the line--the minute they do, you’re going to get a rise, a +good rise, a hundred or two a year right off, or I’m not Jimmy Golspie. +And we shake hands on that.” + +Mr. Smeeth, overwhelmed, found himself shaking hands on it. + +“And now,” Mr. Golspie added masterfully, “we’ll just sign and seal +that by having a little quick one.” + +“All right. But--er--it’s my turn.” + +“Not a bit of it. Not to-night. You haven’t a turn to-night. Wait till +the big rise comes. Two singles, please. Married man, aren’t you, +Smeeth?” + +“I am. Wife and two children, boy just out of his teens and girl nearly +eighteen.” + +“All I’ve got’s a girl. I’m expecting her over soon. Does this girl of +yours take much notice of you?” + +“Not much. Seems to me they don’t, nowadays.” + +“You’re right there. That girl of mine doesn’t--the wilful, artful +little devil. She’s been spoilt all her life, and always will be. +Too good-lookin’, that’s her trouble. Doesn’t take after her father, +y’know,” and here Mr. Golspie disturbed the whole bar with a sudden +deep guffaw. “Well, here’s the best! This is a dam’ rum business, +y’know, Smeeth, when you come to think of it. I’ve had a finger in +all sorts of trades, all over the place, and this is a bit more +respectable than some of ’em. But when you think of it--it’s a dam’ rum +trade--selling thin bits of wood to glue on to other bits of wood, eh?” + +“I’ve often thought that,” said Mr. Smeeth eagerly, the philosopher +waking in him too. “I’ve often thought--well, I dunno--but this trade’s +like a good deal of the rest of life. Veneers? Well, Mr. Golspie, just +think of them. They’re only there to make a piece of furniture look as +if it was made of better wood than it is made of, a sort of fake. But +everybody knows about it. There’s no deception. And I’ve often thought +a lot of life’s like that, particularly when I’ve gone into company. +You know, everybody setting up to be mahogany and walnut through and +through----” + +“And the lot of ’em veneered to hell,” cried Mr. Golspie jovially. +“Never mind, let’s see if we can’t slap all our stuff on to their +rotten chairs and wardrobes and sideboards, and make money and enjoy +ourselves. That’s the game.” + +With that, they swung out into the little night of Angel Pavement, +where the diapason of Mr. Golspie could be heard thundering out again +that it was the game. With rich Havana still in his nostrils, the +golden liquor of the glens wandering round his inside like an enchanted +Gulf Stream, and Mr. Golspie’s promises singing their madrigals in his +head, Mr. Smeeth felt for once that it really might be all a game. + +Waiting for his tram that night, he bought two evening papers instead +of one, and read neither of them. + + + + +_Chapter Three_: THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME + + +I + +By the middle of the following week, there were several changes at +Twigg & Dersingham’s. The greatest change was in the atmosphere of +the place. Even if you had merely opened the outer door, remaining +on that side of the frosted glass partition, you would have felt the +difference at once. No doubt the typewriters rattled and _pinged_, the +telephone bell rang, voices came through, all in a new and bustling, +optimistic fashion. The very chair you were invited to sit on, when +you waited behind that partition, had been dusted. Mrs. Cross had not +found herself immune from this new influence: she had given the general +office a thorough cleaning. There was no question now of anybody not +having enough work to do. Stanley still went out, indeed he went out +more than ever, but he was compelled to speed up his “shaddering” +methods and was only able to follow men who were in a tremendous hurry. +Mr. Smeeth among his little figures was as busy and happy as a monk +at his manuscript. Turgis, whose duty it was to see that goods were +duly forwarded to and from Twigg & Dersingham’s, became both hoarse +and haughty down the telephone to all manner of forwarding agents, and +spoke to railway goods clerks as if they were strange and unwelcome +dogs. Miss Matfield rattled off her letters with slightly less contempt +and disgust, rather as if they were no longer the effusions of complete +lunatics but were now merely the work of village idiots. And she +had acquired an assistant. The staff of Twigg & Dersingham had been +enlarged at the beginning of this week by the appointment of a second +typist. Miss Poppy Sellers had arrived. + +The girls who earn their keep by going to offices and working +typewriters may be divided into three classes. There are those who, +like Miss Matfield, are the daughters of professional gentlemen and +so condescend to the office and the typewriter, who work beneath them +just as girls once married beneath them. There are those who take it +all simply and calmly, because they are in the office tradition, as +Mr. Smeeth’s daughter would have been. Then there are those who rise +to the office and the typewriter, who may not make any more money than +their sisters and cousins who work in factories and cheap shops--they +may easily make considerably less money--but nevertheless are able to +cut superior and ladylike figures in their respective family circles +because they have succeeded in becoming typists. Poppy belonged to +this third class. Her father worked on the Underground, and he and his +family of four occupied half a house not far from Eel Brook Common, +Fulham, that south-western wilderness of vanishing mortar and bricks +that are coming down in the world. This was not Poppy’s first job, +for she was twenty and had been steadily improving herself in the +commercial world since she was fifteen, but it was easily her most +important one. She had been chosen out of a large number of applicants, +had been started at two pounds and ten shillings a week, and had been +told confidentially by Mr. Smeeth, who seemed to her a terrifying +figure, that she had good prospects if she would only learn and work +hard. This Poppy fully intended to do, for--as her testimonials were +compelled to admit--she was a very industrious and conscientious girl. +She was not sufficiently plain to escape entirely the attentions of the +youths who hung about the entrance to the Red Hall Cinema in Walham +Green (and Poppy frequently visited the Red Hall with her friend, Dora +Black, for she liked entertainment), but nobody yet had said that she +was pretty. She was small and slight, had dark hair and brown eyes, +and she aimed, rather timidly, at a Japanese or Javanese or general +Oriental effect, wearing a fringe and all that, but only succeeded +in looking vaguely dingy and untidy. Whenever she despairingly made +a special effort, plying hard the lipstick, being lavish with the +Oriental-effect face-powder, and raising and keeping her eyebrows so +high that it hurt, people asked her if she wasn’t feeling very well. +This failure to achieve the exotic beauty that was--as both she and +Dora Black believed--“her type,” tended to keep poor Poppy slightly +depressed and out of love with herself. During her first few days at +Twigg & Dersingham’s she was like a mouse. She was overawed by the +newness and importance of everything, and she saw that it would be +impossible for her to make a friend of the large, superior, infinitely +knowledgeable, tremendously condescending Miss Matfield. But, like a +mouse, she kept her eyes open, missing nothing, with her busy little +Cockney mind fastening on every crumb of information and gossip. After +three days, Miss Dora Black of Basuto Road, Fulham, knew more, though +at second-hand, about the office staff at Twigg & Dersingham than Mr. +Dersingham himself had learned in three years. + +One of Miss Poppy Sellers’ first tasks had been to copy out replies to +the letters answering Twigg & Dersingham’s advertisement in the _Times_ +and the _Daily Telegraph_. This was for another man, to take Goath’s +place, though he would have to spend much of his time further afield. +He had to be as unlike Goath as possible in character, but not unlike +him in experience. In short, he had to be “young, keen, energetic,” +and “with some connection in furnishing trade and knowledge of veneers +and inlays.” And the change brought about by Mr. Golspie was such that +Twigg & Dersingham were able to declare that for the right man there +was “a good opening.” + +It has been said that the modern English do not like work. It cannot +be said that they do not look for it and ask for it. The day after +this advertisement appeared, the postal heavens opened and a hurricane +of letters fell upon Twigg & Dersingham. Into Angel Pavement all +that day there poured a bewildering stream of replies. It seemed as +if street after street, whole suburbs, had been waiting for this +particular opening. There were, it appeared, dozens of men with vast +connections in the furnishing trade and the most thorough, the most +intimate knowledge of veneers and inlays, and most of these men, though +they had apparently refused scores of offers recently, were only too +willing to assist Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham. Then there were men who +had not perhaps exactly a connection, but had been for years, so to +speak, on the fringe of the furnishing trade, men who had sold pianos, +who had given removing estimates, who had done a little valuing, +who knew something about upholstering. Then there were older men, +ex-officers many of them, who knew about all kinds of things and were +ready to enclose the most astonishing testimonials, who admitted that +the furnishing trade and veneers and inlays were all new to them but +who felt that they could soon learn all there was to know, and in the +meantime were anxious to show how they could command men and to display +their unusual ability to organize. And, last of all, there were the +public school men, fellows who knew nothing about veneers and inlays +and did not even pretend to care about them, but pointed out that they +could drive cars, manage an estate, organise anything or anybody, and +were willing to go out East, being evidently under the impression that +Twigg & Dersingham had probably a couple of tea plantations as well +as a business in veneers and inlays. These correspondents expressed +themselves in every imaginable sort of handwriting and on every +conceivable kind of notepaper, from superior parchment to dirty little +pink bits that had been saved up in a box on the mantelpiece, but in +one particular they were all alike: they were all keen, all energetic. + +“This tells you something about the old country, doesn’t it?” said Mr. +Golspie, who always talked as if he came from some newer one. He and +Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Smeeth had been going through the pile. + +“It’s only the slump,” said Mr. Dersingham, who was feeling optimistic +these days. “It’s not so bad as it was, is it, Smeeth?” + +“I suppose it isn’t, really, Mr. Dersingham.” But Mr. Smeeth sounded +rather doubtful. These letters had given him another glimpse of the +dark gulf. It was a sight that left him feeling shaky. + +Mr. Golspie grunted. “Far as I can see from this lot, you can have the +pick of England’s talent for four or five quid a week. There isn’t a +dam’ thing these fellows can’t do--except find work. Well, I’ve got +about four likely ones here. What have you chaps got?” + +After a good deal more trouble and talk, they finally narrowed the +possible applications down to ten, and these ten were asked to appear +at the office in the early afternoon, two days later. They all came +at once, and so had to wait their turn on the landing outside, while +Stanley, enjoying himself hugely, dashed in and out to summon them. +Mr. Smeeth, going round to the bank, had to make his way through this +little crowd, and at the first moment, when he stepped outside the +office and the two or three of them nearest the door made way for him +with almost ostentatious smartness, he felt triumphant, proud, a solid +and successful man among a lot of failures. But the very next moment, +this feeling disappeared. They were all very well brushed, in their +best clothes, and were already looking keen and energetic, especially +those nearest the door, who looked the keenest and most energetic, +their faces having already taken on the expression most likely to +impress the mysterious powers within the office. A few of them were +young and had an easy confident look, that of men merely seeking a +change of job. Others were older, less confident, tense or wistful. Mr. +Smeeth bumped into one, the last in the group, who was standing at the +corner near the top of the stairs. + +“I beg your pardon,” the man cried, eagerly, anxiously. He was indeed +an anxious man, about Mr. Smeeth’s age and not unlike him, greyish, +lined, brittle; a man with a wife and family and vanishing possessions; +a man who time after time had found himself the last in the group, +waiting at the corner, with the hope inspired by the letter, the letter +that came thunderingly, triumphantly, that morning, like an act of +deliverance, now dying in him. + +“My fault,” Mr. Smeeth assured him, stopping, and offering the smile +of a polite culprit. But when their eyes met fairly, this smile +trembled, then fled, leaving Mr. Smeeth himself grave, anxious. He +suddenly felt for this man a swelling sympathy, a deep stir of pity, +that he had not known for many a month. They might have been brothers; +and, indeed, brothers they were for a second or so, peering at one +another in some darkened house of tragedy. + +“Good luck!” Mr. Smeeth heard himself saying. + +“Thanks,” and there came the ghost of a smile. + +Mr. Smeeth never saw him again. He had no luck. The successful +applicant was very different, much younger, a tall fellow with a +remarkably small head, an inquisitive pink nose, and a very wide mouth +that opened to show about twice the ordinary number of teeth. His name +was Sandycroft, and he knew the trade, for though he had never sold +veneers and inlays, he had bought them, having been at one time with +Briggs Brothers. This set him apart from all the other applicants. +Moreover, he appeared to be all keenness and energy, and threw the most +passionate emphasis into the slightest remark he made. + +“Mr. Twigg,” he cried, addressing Mr. Golspie, “and Mr. Dersingham, you +can rely on me. I know the trade. I know the people. I know the ropes, +if you don’t mind me saying so.” + +“All right,” said Mr. Golspie with his usual genial brutality. “But +don’t go knowing too many ropes. Eh, Dersingham?” + +“Oh, quite!” replied Mr. Dersingham, who did not quite follow this, but +looked knowing all the same. + +“I understand, sir. I know what you mean. I couldn’t do it, sir. It’s +not in my character. Honesty isn’t everything, but I believe it’s the +first thing. And I’m straight. I believe in being straight, sir.” + +“Good!” said Mr. Golspie heartily, for he, too, believed in Sandycroft +and his like being straight. + +“And if it’s possible, gentlemen,” Sandycroft continued, looking from +one to the other of them, “I’d like to stay on now and just pick up the +threads, so that I can start right away on the road to-morrow morning. +I’m keen to get going, desperately keen. You know what it is, sir. +After only a week or two doing nothing much, a man like me feels rusty. +I want to get on with it. My wife laughs at me. ‘Have a rest,’ she +says. But no, I’m not like that. I must be getting on with something.” + +“Good man,” said Mr. Dersingham approvingly. + +“Well, I think we’ll have to be getting on with something, too,” said +Mr. Golspie. “He’d better come round here in the morning and learn what +there is to know about it then, before we send him out.” + +“I think he had,” replied Mr. Dersingham. “Look here, you’d better go +home now--break the news to your wife and that sort of thing, eh?--and +then be down about nine or so in the morning. If we’re not here then, +you have a talk to Smeeth--that’s the cashier, out there--and he’ll be +able to tell you something.” + +“Very good, sir,” and you would have thought the speaker was about +to salute smartly before retiring. He did not, however, but threw a +keen and energetic glance at Mr. Golspie (whom he had recognised at +once as the dominant partner), then a keen and energetic glance at Mr. +Dersingham, picked up his hat (and in such a manner as to suggest that +he could do some wonderful things even with that, if he wished to), +brought his hat in front of the second button of his overcoat, gave +three brisk nods, then wheeled about and made an exit like a torpedo +from its tube. + +Actually, what Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Golspie did get on with was an +invitation to dinner, delivered by Mr. Dersingham and accepted by Mr. +Golspie. It had come to that. There were things about Golspie that did +not please Mr. Dersingham, for he was dogmatic, rough, domineering, +and was apt to jeer and sneer in a way that left Mr. Dersingham’s mind +bruised and resentful. A few terms at Worrell would obviously have made +a great difference to Golspie, who now, in his middle age, showed only +too plainly both by word and deed that he was not a gentleman. From +that there was no escape: Golspie was not a gentleman. But Dersingham +did not think of him as an Englishman who is not a gentleman, a bit +of a bounder, an outsider (and there can be no doubt that Golspie +at times did talk and act like a bounder, a complete outsider); he +contrived to think of him as a kind of foreigner who had acquired an +extraordinary command of the English language. This was not difficult, +because Golspie did seem to have spent most of his time outside England +and to have no roots in this country. And the fact remained that he had +presented the firm of Twigg & Dersingham with a new and glorious lease +of life, as if he were a god, a commercial god with a baldish head and +a large moustache. So the Dersinghams had talked it over and decided +that he must be asked to dinner, properly asked to dinner and not +merely invited to take pot-luck some Sunday. And this meant something, +for though your Old Worrelian who has to hack out his living in the +City will smoke a cigar and drink a whisky or share a couple of club +chops, if necessary, with any fairly decent sort of fellow he meets in +the way of business, he draws the line--his own words--at inviting most +of these fellows into his home, to meet his wife and possibly another +Old Worrelian or two. Thus it says something for Mr. Golspie’s standing +that, in spite of certain pronounced defects, he received such an +invitation, which, by the way, he accepted calmly enough, with no show +of surprise or gratitude. + +“There’ll be some other people I think you’d like to know,” said Mr. +Dersingham, “but we won’t make it too formal. Just a black tie, y’know, +black tie.” He said this as people always say it, that is, as if a +white tie weighed a ton and they are letting you down lightly. + +“What do you mean? Wear a dinner jacket?” + +“That’s the idea,” said Mr. Dersingham, telling himself that really +Golspie was extraordinarily out of touch. “And--er--eightish then, next +Tuesday, eh?” + +“Right you are,” replied Mr. Golspie. “Very pleased.” + + +II + +The Dersinghams occupied a lower maisonette in that region, eminently +respectable but a trifle dreary, between Gloucester Road and Earl’s +Court Road: 34A, Barkfield Gardens, S.W. 5. Nearly all the people who +live in that part of London have the privilege, as the estate agents +point out in all their advertisements, of “overlooking gardens,” which +means that their windows stare down at iron railings, sooty privet +and laurel hedges, and lawns and flower-beds that look as if they +are only too willing to give up the unequal struggle. Some of these +gardens are better than others, but Barkfield Gardens is not one of +them. It is one of the smallest and dreariest of the squares, and is +rapidly losing caste, its houses slipping through the maisonette and +large flat era too quickly and already coming within sight of the +small flats, the nursing homes, the boarding houses, the girls’ clubs. +The Dersinghams did not like Barkfield Gardens. They did not like +their maisonette, all the rooms of which seemed higher than they were +long or broad and were singularly cheerless. Mr. Dersingham never did +anything about it, because he was waiting--as he always said--until +he knew where he stood financially. (From which you might gather that +he knew where he stood philosophically or socially or politically or +artistically.) Now and again, however, Mrs. Dersingham would read all +the advertisement columns devoted to desirable residences, rush round +to some agents, and even inspect a few houses, but as she had never +really decided what it was she wanted, and her husband never succeeded +in knowing where he stood financially, they remained at 34A, in the +rooms that made them seem like insects at the bottom of a test-tube, +grumbling, while a stream of cooks and housemaids, endlessly diverted +from four local registries, flowed through the dark basement, leaving +as sediment innumerable memories of glum looks, impertinent answers, +lying references, missing silk stockings, broken crockery and ruined +meals. For some women this state of affairs, making comfort and +tranquillity impossible, would have had its compensations, for it would +have provided unlimited material for talk, but Mrs. Dersingham prided +herself on not being the sort of woman who spends her time discussing +the shortcomings of her servants. Most of her friends prided themselves +on this fact too, and they told one another what they could have said +had they been that sort of women, and then gave examples. “I know, but +listen to this, my dear,” they all cried at once. + +At seven-forty-five on the evening of the dinner party to which Mr. +Golspie had been invited, Mr. Dersingham was busy being his own butler, +attending to the wines. He poured some claret into one decanter, some +Sauterne into another, and some port into a third, then poured a little +gin and a great deal of French and Italian vermouth into a cocktail +shaker, and carried the shaker and some glasses into the drawing-room. +Having done this, he remembered the cigarettes and filled the silver +cigarette box, a wedding present bearing the Worrell colours in enamel, +with _Sahibs_ and some Turkish that his wife always said she preferred +to any other, no matter what they happened to be. Then he presented +himself with a cocktail, looked at the fire, which was blazing +cheerfully, looked at the chairs, which were long, low, fat, and +brown, glanced round the room, which seemed to him a very handsome and +friendly place now that the two shaded lights took away the attention +from the great bleak expanse of wall above, sipped the cocktail, tried +to hum a tune, and began to feel a certain warm glow, a feeling proper +to a host. + +Mrs. Dersingham, who was in the bedroom, trying to powder the space +between her shoulder blades, was less fortunate. She felt anxious. +Cook had been rather cross all day and might spoil everything, and +even when she tried, she was apt to make the soup greasy and forget +the salt in the vegetables. And Agnes, the new maid, had pretended to +understand all about serving, but she was so stupid that she might +easily go sticking vegetable dishes under people’s noses anyhow, and +there was bound to be some awful confusion when it came to clearing the +table for dessert. You could laugh it off, of course, but you got so +tired of laughing it off. It was a pity this sort of thing couldn’t be +done properly or laughed off altogether. How terribly tiresome it was! +And then, too, all the time you were so worried and anxious about the +food and the serving, you were expected to be keeping the conversation +going, terribly bright and hostessy. + +“I wish,” said a silly girl at the back of Mrs. Dersingham’s mind, a +girl who had always been there but who did not say much except when +she was rather tired or cross--“I wish I was a terribly successful +actress who lived in a marvellous little flat and had a terribly +devoted maid and a dresser and a huge car and nothing much to eat +before the performance and then went on and was absolutely marvellous +and everybody applauded and then I put on a wonderful Russia sable coat +and diamonds and went out to supper and everybody stared. No, I don’t. +I wish I was a terribly successful woman writer with a villa somewhere +on the Riviera with orange trees and mimosa and things and lunch in +the sunshine and marvellous distinguished people coming to call. No, I +don’t. I wish I was terribly rich with a housekeeper and about fifteen +servants and a marvellous maid of my own and umpteen Paris model gowns +every season and a house in Town and a place in the country and a very +attractive dark young man, very aristocratic and a racing motorist or +yachtsman or something like that, terribly in love with me but just +devoted and respectful all the time and coming and looking so miserable +and me saying ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you can see how it is. I can +never love anybody but Howard, but we can still be friends, can’t we?’” + +This silly girl still went rambling idiotically on while there returned +into the rest of Mrs. Dersingham’s mind various queries and worries +about the sauce for the fish and the crême caramel not setting properly +and Agnes spilling things. And all the time she was powdering her back +or neck, trying on the crystal beads and then the amber, rubbing her +cheeks with a tiny reddened pad, and staring at her reflection in the +Jacobean mirror that she had bought at Brighton and that turned out +to be a poor mirror and not Jacobean at all. The one consolation was +that you always knew that you actually looked better than you did in +that stupid mirror. Remembering this for the thousandth time, Mrs. +Dersingham switched off the light, stood outside the night nursery a +moment to discover if the children were quiet, then joined her husband +in the drawing-room. + +“Oh, thank goodness, nobody’s here yet,” she said, pulling a cushion +or two about, then warming her hands. “It’s such a ghastly rush. It’s +wonderful to have a few minutes’ peace and quietness.” She was already +talking as if company were present. + +“Rather,” said Mr. Dersingham, loyally. + +She stood in front of him now. “I suppose I look a thorough mess,” she +continued with a relapse into her natural manner. + +“Not a bit. Jolly fine,” Mr. Dersingham mumbled, feeling awkward as +usual. He always had a suspicion that he ought to have said something +first: “My word, you’re looking jolly fine to-night,” something of that +sort. But somehow he never did. + +“Don’t be _too_ complimentary, will you, darling? Well, I must say I +_feel_ a thorough mess to-night. What I’d _really_ like is early bed +and a book. This rush and seeing people all the time is so terrible.” +Once more, she was beginning to put on her company manner. + +Mrs. Dersingham did not look a thorough mess, but neither did she +look as attractive as she hoped she did. She looked like hundreds of +other English wives in their earlier thirties, that is, fair, tired, +bright, and sagging. She had pleasant blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and +a slightly discontented mouth. Her life, apart from the secret saga of +the kitchen and nursery, where creatures with the most astoundingly +good references were for ever turning out to be lazy, impudent, and +thieving, was really rather dull, for she had no strong interests and +very few friends in London. But this she would not admit, not even to +her husband, except on rare occasions when she lost her temper, broke +down, and the truth came blazing through. She pretended that her life +was one exciting and multi-coloured whirl of people and social events. +She did not actually tell lies, but she created an atmosphere in which +every little occurrence was instantly distorted and magnified, like +objects dropped into a glass tank full of water. A tea on Monday and +a dinner party on Friday were transformed into a week’s feasting, a +rushing here, there, and everywhere, not enjoyed but endured. If she +met a person two or three times, then she had met whole crowds of him +or her, day and night. Two matinées (with an old school friend or her +mother up from Worcester) coming within one week reduced her to the +condition of a dramatic critic at the end of a heavy autumn season. +Even when she admitted that she had not attended a certain function, +met a person, seen a play, read a book, she contrived to give these +confessions a positive instead of a negative flavour, and so strong a +positive flavour that somehow she seemed to be in close contact with +the function, person, play, or book. She did this partly by throwing +the emphasis on the auxiliary verb: “No, I _haven’t_ seen her,” or: +“No, I _haven’t_ seen it,” which suggested to the listener that Mrs. +Dersingham had attended a series of important committee meetings, had +thrashed it out, and had decided with the rest that there should be +nothing done about these people, these plays, these books, just yet. +Thus, by this and other methods, she created an atmosphere in which a +few outings and encounters were transformed into a rich and strenuous +social life, which, so strong are our dreams, frequently left her +genuinely fatigued. All this puzzled that simple man, her husband, +but he never said anything now. The last time he had asked, after +the company had gone, why she had complained so much about having to +rush about, when he, for his part, could not see she had done much +rushing about, she had turned on him quite fiercely and said that if it +depended on him she would be sitting moping in the flat, never seeing +anybody or anything, from one week’s end to another, and that the less +he said the better; an answer that left him completely bewildered. + +The Dersinghams, standing together now on their bearskin rug, heard +the first guest arrive. It must be either Golspie or the Trapes. It +could not be the Pearsons, who, living in the maisonette above, always +waited until they heard some one else arrive below, before they made +their appearance. And Golspie it was, looking strangely unfamiliar to +Mr. Dersingham in a rather voluminous dinner jacket and a very narrow +black tie. He had hardly been introduced to Mrs. Dersingham before the +Pearsons, who were just as anxious not to be late as they were not to +be first, came in, breathless and smiling. + +“A-ha, good evening!” cried Mr. Pearson, as if he had found them out. + +“And how are _you_, my dear?” cried Mrs. Pearson to her hostess, in +such a tone of voice that nobody would have imagined that they had met +less than four hours ago. + +The Pearsons were a middle-aged, childless couple, who had recently +retired from Singapore. Mr. Pearson was a tallish man, with a long thin +neck on which was perched a pear-shaped head. His cheeks were absurdly +plump, a sharp contrast to all the rest of him, so that he always +appeared to have just blown them out. He was both nervous and amiable, +and consequently he laughed a great deal at nothing in particular, +and the sound he made when he laughed can only be set down as +_Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee_. Mrs. Pearson, who was altogether plump, had her +face framed in a number of mysterious dark curls, and looked vaguely +like one of the musical comedy actresses of the picture postcard era, +one who had perhaps retired, after queening it in _The Catch of the +Season_, to keep a jolly boarding-house. They were a lonely, friendly +pair, who obviously did not know what on earth to do to pass the time, +so that this was for them an occasion of some importance, to be looked +forward to, to be referred to, to be enjoyed to the last syllable of +small talk. + +They were now all shouting at one another, after the fashion of hosts +and guests in Barkfield Gardens and elsewhere. + +“Found your way here all right then?” Mr. Dersingham bellowed to Mr. +Golspie. + +“Came in a taxi,” Mr. Golspie boomed over his cocktail. + +“That’s the best way if you’re going to a strange house in London, +isn’t it?” Mr. Pearson shouted. “We always do it when we can afford it. +Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“And how’s the little darling to-night?” Mrs. Pearson inquired at the +top of her voice, affectionately maternal as usual. + +“Oh, we took the infant’s temperature, and it was normal. He’s all +right,” Mrs. Dersingham screamed in reply, elaborately unmaternal as +usual. + +“I’m so glad, _so_ glad.” And as she said it, Mrs. Pearson looked all +beaming and moist. “I was so afraid there might be something really +wrong with the dear kiddy. I was telling Walter that you thought it +might be a chill. I’m _so_ glad it wasn’t, my dear. You can’t be too +careful with them, can you?” + +“This Russian business looks pretty queer, doesn’t it?” Mr. Dersingham +shouted. + +“Very queer. What do you make of it?” Mr. Pearson shouted in reply. He +made nothing of it himself yet, because the evening paper had not told +him what to make of it and he had heard nobody’s opinion yet. On any +question that had its origin west of Suez, Mr. Pearson liked to agree +with his company. When it was east of Suez, he sometimes took a line of +his own, and when Singapore itself was actually involved, he had been +known to contradict people. + +“Well, I’ll tell you, Dersingham,” said Mr. Golspie who as usual knew +his own mind. “It’s all a lot of tripe, bosh, bunkum. I know those +yarns. Fellows up in Riga trying to earn their money, they send out +that stuff.” + +“That’s terribly interesting, Mr. Golspie,” Mrs. Dersingham shrieked at +him, suddenly looking like a woman of the world who had wanted to get +to the bottom of this business for some time. “Of course, you’ve been +up there, haven’t you?” + +“Round about.” And Mr. Golspie gave her a grin, at once sardonic +and friendly. It seemed to tell her that she was all right, not a +bad-looking girl, but she mustn’t try to draw him, for that wasn’t her +line at all, not at all. + +“It makes a difference when you’ve been there, doesn’t it?” cried Mr. +Pearson. “You know the facts. Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“And where do you live _now_, Mr. Golspie?” Mrs. Pearson inquired, +rather archly and with her head on one side. + +“Just got a furnished flat in Maida Vale,” replied Mr. Golspie. + +“Now I don’t think I know that part,” Mrs. Pearson said, girlishly +reflective. + +“There’s a lot of London we still don’t know. Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“You’re not missing much if you don’t know Maida Vale, from what I’ve +seen of it,” Mr. Golspie boomed away. “Where I live seems to be full of +Jews and music-hall turns. Old music-hall turns, not the good-lookin’ +young uns.” + +“Tee-tee-tee,” Mr. Pearson put it, rather doubtfully. + +“Oh, you men!” cried Mrs. Pearson, who had not lived at Singapore for +nothing: she knew her cues. + +“Tee-tee.” Triumphant this time. + +Miss Verever was announced, and very resentfully, for already Agnes had +had enough of the evening and she had not liked the way this particular +guest had walked in and looked at her. + +There is something to be said for Agnes. Miss Verever was one of those +people who, at a first meeting, demand to be disliked. She was Mrs. +Dersingham’s mother’s cousin, a tall, cadaverous virgin of forty-five +or so, who displayed, especially in evening clothes, an uncomfortable +amount of sharp gleaming bone, just as if the upper part of her was a +relief map done in ivory. In order that she might not be overlooked +in company and also to protect herself, she had developed and brought +very near to perfection a curiously disturbing manner, which conveyed +a boundless suggestion of the malicious, the mocking, the sarcastic, +the sardonic, the ironical. What she actually said was harmless enough, +but her tone of voice, her expression, her smile, her glance, all +these suggested that her words had some devilish inner meaning. In +scores of smaller hotels and _pensions_ overlooking the Mediterranean, +merely by asking what time the post went or inquiring if it had rained +during the night, she had made men wonder if they had not shaved +properly and women ask themselves if something had gone wrong with +their complexions, and compelled members of both sexes to consider +if they had just said something very silly. After that, she had only +to perform the smallest decent action for people to say that she had +a surprisingly kind heart as well as a terrifyingly clever satirical +head. This was all very well if people had booked rooms under the same +roof for the next three months, but on chance acquaintances, wondering +indignantly what on earth she had against _them_, this peculiar manner +of hers had an unfortunate effect. + +She now advanced, kissed her hostess, shook hands with her host, and +then, pursing her lips and screwing up the rest of her features, said: +“I hope you’ve not been waiting for _me_. I’m sure you have, haven’t +you?” And strange as it may seem, this remark and this simple question +immediately made the whole dinner party appear preposterous. + +“No, we haven’t really,” Mr. Dersingham told her, at the same time +asking himself why in the name of thunder they had ever thought of +inviting her. “Somebody still to come. The Trapes.” + +“Oh, I’m glad I’m not the last, then,” said Miss Verever, with a bitter +little smile, which she kept on her face while she was being introduced +to the other guests. + +A minute later, the Trapes arrived to complete the party. Late guests +may be divided into two classes, the repentant, who arrive, perspiring +and profusely apologetic, to babble about fogs and ancient taxis +and stupid drivers, and the unrepentant, who stalk in haughtily and +look somewhat aggrieved when they see all the other guests, their +eyebrows registering their disapproval of people who do not know what +time their own parties begin. The Trapes were admirable specimens of +the unrepentant class. They were both tall, cold, thin, and rather +featureless. Trape himself was an Old Worrelian and a contemporary of +Dersingham’s. He was a partner in a firm of estate agents, but called +himself Major Trape because he had held that rank at the end of the +war and had become so soldierly training the vast mob of boys who were +conscripted then that he could not bring himself to say good-bye to +his outworn courtesy title. He was indeed so curt, so military, so +imperial, that it was impossible to imagine him letting and selling +houses in the ordinary way, and the mind’s eye saw him mopping up, with +a small raiding party, all flats and bijou residences, and sallying out +with an expeditionary force to plant the Union Jack on finely timbered, +residential and sporting estates. His wife was a somewhat colourless +woman, very English in type, who always looked as if she was always +faintly surprised and disgusted by life. Perhaps she was, and perhaps +that was why she always talked with a certain ventriloquial effect, +producing a voice with hardly any movement of her small iced features. + +Leaving them all to shout at one another, Mrs. Dersingham now slipped +out of the room, for it was imperative that dinner should be announced +as soon as possible. She returned three minutes later, trying not +unsuccessfully to look as if she had not a care in the world, a sort +of _Arabian Nights_ hostess, and then, after the smallest interval, +Agnes popped her head into the room, thereby forgetting one of her most +urgent instructions, and said, without any enthusiasm at all: “Please, +m’, dinner’s served.” + +Mrs. Dersingham smiled heroically at her guests, who, with the +exception of Mr. Golspie, looked at one another and at the door as if +they were hearing about this dinner business for the first time and +were mildly interested and amused. Mr. Golspie, for his part, looked +like a man who wanted his dinner, and actually took a step or two +towards the door. Then began that general stepping forward and stepping +backward and smiling and hand-waving which take place at this moment in +all those unhappy sections of society that have lost formality and yet +have not reached informality. There they were, smiling and dithering +round the door. + +“Now then, Mrs. Pearson,” cried Mr. Golspie in his loudest and most +brutal tones. “In you go.” And, without more ado, this impatient guest +put a hand behind Mrs. Pearson’s elbow, and Mrs. Pearson found herself +through the door, the leader of the exodus. They crowded into the small +dining-room, where the soup was already steaming under the four shaded +electric lights. + +“Now let me see,” Mrs. Dersingham began, as usual, feeling that these +guests were not people now but six enormous bodies of which she, the +wretched criminal, had to dispose. “Now let me see. Will you sit there, +Mrs. Trape. And Mrs. Pearson, there.” And then, having disposed of the +bodies, she had time to notice that the soup looked horribly greasy. + + +III + +The soup was bad, and Miss Verever left most of hers and contrived to +be looking down at it very curiously every time Mrs. Dersingham glanced +across the table at her. As there were eight of them, Mrs. Dersingham +was not sitting at the end of the table, opposite her husband. Mr. +Golspie was there, and very much at his ease, putting away a very +ungentlemanly quantity of bread under that great moustache of his. +On Mr. Golspie’s right were Mrs. Dersingham, Major Trape, and Mrs. +Pearson, and on the other side were Miss Verever, Mr. Pearson, and Mrs. +Trape. + +“And how,” said Miss Verever to Mrs. Dersingham, “did you enjoy your +Norfolk holiday this summer? You never told me that, and I’ve been +dying to know.” The smile that accompanied this statement announced +that Miss Verever could not imagine a more idiotic or boring topic, +that you would be insufferably dull if you answered her question and +terribly rude if you didn’t. + +“Not bad,” Mrs. Dersingham shouted desperately. “In fact, quite good, +on the whole. Rather cold, you know.” + +“Really, you found it cold?” And you would have sworn that the speaker +meant to suggest that the cold had obviously been manufactured for you +and that it served you right. + +At the other end of the table, Major Trape and his host were talking +about football, across Mrs. Pearson, who nodded and smiled and shook +her mysterious curls all the time, to show that she was not really +being left out. + +“Do you ever watch rugger, Golspie?” Mr. Dersingham demanded down the +table. + +“What, Rugby? Haven’t seen a match for years,” replied Mr. Golspie. +“Prefer the other kind when I do watch one.” + +Major Trape raised his eyebrows. “What, you a soccah man? Not this +professional stuff? Don’t tell me you like that.” + +“What’s the matter with it?” + +“Oh, come now! I mean, you can’t possibly--I mean, it’s a dirty +business, selling fellahs for money and so on, very unsporting.” + +“I must say I agree, Trape,” said Mr. Dersingham. “Dashed unsporting +business, I call it.” + +“Oh, certainly,” Major Trape continued, “must be amatahs--love of the +game. Play the game for its own sake, I say, and not as all these +fellahs do--for monay. Can’t possibly be a sportsman and play for +monay. Oh, dirty business, eh, Dersingham?” + +“I’m with you there.” + +A sound came from Mrs. Trape’s face and it seemed to declare that she +was with him too. + +“Well, I’m not with you,” said Mr. Golspie bluntly. He did not care +tuppence about it, one way or the other, but there was something in +Trape’s manner that demanded contradiction, and Mr. Golspie was not the +man to ignore such a challenge. “If a poor man can play a game well, +why shouldn’t he allow that game to keep him? What’s the answer to +that? A man’s as much right to play cricket and football for a living +as he has to clean windows or sell tripe----” + +“Tripe indeed! How can you, Mr. Golspie?” cried Mrs. Pearson, girlishly +shaking her curls at him. + +“My wife hates tripe,” said Mr. Pearson. “Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“I disagree,” said Major Trape, stiffer than ever now. “Those things +are business, quite diff’rent. Games ought to be played for their own +sake. That’s the proper English way. Love of the game. Clean sport. +Don’t mind if the other fellahs win. Sport and business, two diff’rent +things.” + +“Not if sport _is_ your business,” Mr. Golspie returned, looking darkly +mischievous. “We can’t all be rich amachures. Let the chaps have their +six or seven pounds a week. They earn it. If one lot of chaps can earn +their living by telling us to be good every Sunday--that is, if you go +to listen to ’em: I don’t--why shouldn’t another lot be paid to knock +a ball about every Saturday, without all this talk of dirty business? +It beats me. Unless it’s snobbery. Lot o’ snobbery still about in this +country. It pops up all the time.” + +“What _is_ this argument all about?” Miss Verever inquired. And, +perhaps feeling that Mr. Golspie needed a rebuke, she put on her most +peculiar look and brought out her most disturbing tone of voice, +finally throwing in a smile that was a tried veteran, an Old Guard. + +But Mr. Golspie returned her gaze quite calmly, and even conveyed a +piece of fish, and far too large a piece, to his mouth before replying. +“We’re arguing about football and cricket. I don’t suppose you’re +interested. I’m not much, myself. I like billiards. That’s one thing +about coming back to this country, you can always get a good game of +billiards. Proper tables, y’know.” + +“I used to be very fond of a game of billiards, snooker too,” said +Mr. Pearson, nodding his head so that his fat cheeks shook like beef +jellies, “when I was out in Singapore. There were some splendid players +at the club there, splendid players, make breaks of forty and fifty. +But I wasn’t one of them. Tee-tee-tee----” + +“We went to see Susie Dean and Jerry Jerningham the other night,” said +Major Trape, turning to Mrs. Dersingham. “Good show. Very clevah, very +clevah. You been to any shows lately, Mrs. Dersingham?” + +“That’s true,” Mrs. Pearson informed her host and anybody else who +cared to listen. “When we were out in Singapore, my husband was always +going over to the club for billiards. And now he hardly ever plays. +I don’t think he’s had a game this year. Have you, Walter? I’m just +saying I don’t think you’ve had a game this year.” + +“And so what with one thing and another,” Mrs. Dersingham told Major +Trape, “I’ve simply not been able to see half the plays I’ve wanted to +see. Something has to go, hasn’t it? We were out at the Trevors’--I +think you know them, don’t you?--the shipbuilding people, you know, +only of course these Trevors are out of that--they’re terribly in with +all that young smart set, Mrs. Dellingham, young Mostyn-Price, Lady +Muriel Pagworth, and the famous Ditchways. Well, what with that, +and then going to Mrs. Westbury’s musical tea-fight--Dossevitch and +Rougeot _ought_ to have been there and were only prevented from coming +at the last minute, but Imogen Farley was there and played divinely. +Oh, and then on top of all that, I went to see that new thing at His +Majesty’s--what’s it called?--oh, yes--_The Other Man_. And so I +haven’t had a single moment for any other show.” + +“No, by Jove, you haven’t, have you?” said Major Trape, with whom this +miracle of the social loaves and fishes worked every time. “You’re +worse than Dorothy, and I tell her she overdoes it. Mustn’t overdo it, +you know.” + +Mrs. Dersingham, wondering how long Agnes was going to be bringing up +the cutlets, shrugged her shoulders, and did it exactly as she had +seen Irene Prince do it in _Smart Women_ at the Ambassadors. “It _is_ +stupid, I know,” she confessed charmingly, “and I’m always saying I’ll +cut most of it out--but--well, you know what happens.” + +Miss Verever, wearing her most peculiar smile, leaned forward, caught +the eye of her hostess, and said, “But what _does_ happen, my dear?” + +Mrs. Dersingham was able to escape, however, by plunging at once into +the talk at the other end of the table, as if she had not heard Miss +Verever’s inquiry. “Oh, have you been reading that?” she cried across +the table to Mrs. Trape, who did not look as if she had spoken for +weeks, but nevertheless had actually just conjured out several remarks. +“No, I _haven’t_ read it, and I don’t mean to.” But did Agnes mean to +bring the cutlets? + +The talk at Mr. Dersingham’s end, as we have guessed, had suddenly +turned literary. Mrs. Trape had just read a certain book. It was, +she added, apparently throwing her voice into the claret decanter, a +very clever book. Mr. Dersingham had not read this book, and did not +hesitate to say that it did not sound his kind of book, for after a +jolly good hard day in the office he found such books too heavy going +and preferred a detective story. Mrs. Pearson was actually reading a +book, had been reading it that very afternoon, had nearly finished it +and was enjoying it immensely. + +“And I’m sure it’s a story _you’d_ like, Mr. Dersingham,” she cried, +“even though there aren’t any detectives in it. I could hardly put it +down. It’s all about a girl going to one of those Pacific Islands, one +of those lovely coral and lagoon places, you know, and she goes there +to stay with an uncle because she’s lost all her money and when she +gets there she finds that he’s drinking terribly, and so she goes to +another man--but I mustn’t spoil it for you. Do read it, Mrs. Trape.” + +The claret decanter murmured that it would love to read it, and asked +what the name of the book was, so that it might put it down on its +library list. + +“I’ll tell you the title in a moment,” and Mrs. Pearson, bringing her +curls to rest, bit her lip reflectively. “Now how stupid of me! Do you +know, I can’t remember. It’s a very striking title, too, and that’s +what made me take it when the girl at the library showed it to me. Now +isn’t that silly of me?” + +“I can never remember the titles either,” Mr. Dersingham assured her +heartily. “What was the name of the chap who wrote it? Was it a man or +a woman?” + +“I _think_ it was a man’s name, in fact I’m nearly sure it was. It was +quite a common name, too. Something like Wilson. No, it wasn’t, it was +Wilkinson. Walter, do you remember the name of the author of that book +I’m reading? Wasn’t it Wilkinson?” + +“You’re thinking of the man that came to mend the wireless set,” Mr. +Pearson replied, shooting his long neck at her. “That was Wilkinson. +You know the people, Dersingham--the electricians in Earl’s Court Road?” + +“Oh, so it was. How silly of me!” + +“Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +Mrs. Pearson smiled vaguely but amiably, then said: “So you see I can’t +tell you _now_, but I’ll tell Mrs. Dersingham in the morning and then +she can tell you.” + +A sudden silence fell on the table at that moment, perhaps because +there was a sort of scratching sound at the door, which opened, but +only about an inch or two. That silence was shattered by the most +appalling crash of breaking crockery, followed by a short sharp +wail. Then silence again for one sinking moment. The cutlets and the +vegetables had arrived at last, and a brown stain, creeping beneath the +door, told where they were. + +“My God!” cried Mr. Golspie to Miss Verever, as Mrs. Dersingham dashed +to the door, “there goes our dinner.” + +“Indeed!” + +“You bet your life!” Mr. Golspie, earnest and unabashed, assured her. + +Miss Verever and Major Trape exchanged glances, which removed Mr. +Golspie once and for all from decent society and handed him over to the +social worker and the anthropologist. + +Meanwhile, Mrs. Dersingham had disappeared through the doorway, and +Mr. Dersingham was trying to follow her example but could not do so +because, what with cutlets, vegetables, gravy, broken dishes and +plates, a weeping Agnes, and a panic-stricken Mrs. Dersingham, there +was no space for him. So he stood there, holding the door open, with +his body inside the dining-room and his head outside. + +“Oh, do shut the door, Howard,” the guests heard Mrs. Dersingham cry. + +“All right,” the invisible head replied hesitatingly. “But I say--can’t +I--er--do anything? I mean, do you want me to come out or--er--well, +what do you want me to do?” + +“Oh, go-in-and-shut-the-door.” And there was no doubt that in another +moment Mrs. Dersingham would have screamed, for this was the voice of a +woman in an extremity. + +Mr. Dersingham closed the door and returned to his chair. He looked at +Major Trape, and Major Trape looked at him, and no doubt they were both +remembering the good old school, Worrelians together. + +“Sorry, but--er--” and here Mr. Dersingham looked round apologetically +at his guests--“I’m afraid there’s been some sort of accident outside.” + +Immediately, Mrs. Trape, Mrs. Pearson, Major Trape, and Mr. Pearson +began talking all at once, not talking about this accident but about +accidents in general, with special reference to very queer accidents +that had happened to them. Miss Verever merely looked peculiarly at +everybody, while Mr. Golspie finished his claret with a certain remote +gloom, as if he were a man taking quinine on the summit of a mountain. + +Then the door, which had not been properly fastened, swung open +again, to admit a mixed knocking and gobbling and guggling noise that +suggested that Agnes was now lying on the floor, in hysterics, and +drumming her feet. Then came a new voice, very hoarse and resentful, +and this voice declared that it was all a crying shame, even if the +girl was clumsy with her hands, and that one pair of hands was one +pair of hands and could not be expected to be any more, and that while +notices were being given right and left, _her_ notice could be taken, +there and then. In short, the cook had arrived on the scene. + +Mr. Dersingham arose miserably, but whether to shut the door again or +to make an entrance into the drama outside we shall never know, for +Mrs. Pearson, fired with neighbourly solicitude, sprang up, crying, +“Poor Mrs. Dersingham! I’m sure I ought to do something,” and was +outside, with the door closed behind her, before Mr. Dersingham knew +what was happening. + +And Mrs. Pearson, once outside, did not simply intrude, did not gape +and hang about and get in the way, but took charge of the situation, +for though Mrs. Pearson may have been a foolish table-talker, may have +worn mysterious curls and been old-fashioned and monstrously girlish +and affectionate, she was a housewife of experience, who had weathered +the most fantastic tropical domestic storms in Singapore. + +“I _knew_ you wouldn’t mind my coming out,” she cried, “and I felt I +must help, because after all we are neighbours, aren’t we? and that +makes a difference.” + +“It’s too absurd,” Mrs. Dersingham wailed. “This wretched girl’s +smashed everything and ruined the dinner, and now she’s going off into +a fit or something out of sheer temper. And it’s all her own fault. I +engaged her sister to come and help her to-night, and then when her +sister couldn’t come, at the last minute of course, she wouldn’t let me +get anybody else, she said she could do it herself.” + +Mrs. Pearson was looking at Agnes, who was still guggling and drumming +on the floor. “Only stupid hysterics. Get up at once, you silly, silly +girl. Do you hear? You’re in the way. We’ll pour cold water over her. +That will soon bring her round, you’ll see.” + +The cook, who was standing in the hall, a few yards away, and had been +looking on with the air of a complacent prophetess, now began to lose +some of her rigidity. The mournful triumph died out of her face. She +had no respect for Mrs. Dersingham, but for some strange reason she +had almost a veneration for Mrs. Pearson, who was possibly a far more +ladylike and commanding figure in her eyes. + +“That’s so,” the cook hoarsely declared now. “A jug of water’s what +she wants. Accidents will happen and one pair of hands can’t be two or +three pairs of hands, eight for dinner being out of all reason with +them steps and no service lift, but there’s no call to be lying there +all night, Agnes, having your hysterics and carrying on silly when +there’s all this mess to be cleared, let alone anything else.” + +This treacherous withdrawal of a stout ally, combined with the talk of +cold water, soon brought the hysterics to mere choking and sniffing, +and in a minute or two Agnes was bending over the ruins. “I’ll clear +these away,” she announced between sniffs and chokes, “but I won’t +bring anything else and serve it, I won’t. I couldn’t if I tried, I +couldn’t. I haven’t a nerve in me body, not after what’s happened, I +haven’t.” + +“But I shall have to give them _something_,” Mrs. Dersingham was +saying. Clearly she no longer included Mrs. Pearson among the guests. +Mrs. Pearson had ceased to be one of “them.” + +“Of course you will, my dear,” cried Mrs. Pearson, her eyes gleaming +with a happy excitement. “Not that _we’d_ mind, of course. It’s the +men, isn’t it? You know what the men are? Now then, what about eggs?” + +“Eggs,” the cook repeated hoarsely and gloomily. “There’s two eggs, an’ +two eggs only, in that kitchen. Just the two eggs, and them’s for the +morning.” + +“Listen, my dear.” And Mrs. Pearson clutched at her neighbour +affectionately and imploringly. “_Do_ leave it to me and I promise you +I won’t be ten minutes. I won’t, really. Now not a word! Don’t bother +about _anything_. Just you leave it to me.” She hurried towards the +outer door, pulled herself up before she reached it, and cried over her +shoulder, “But warm some plates, that’s all.” + +During the subsequent interval, Mrs. Dersingham had not the heart to +return to the dining-room, though she did just look in, put her face +round the door and smile apologetically at everybody and say that it +was _too_ absurd and annoying and that the two of them, she and Mrs. +Pearson, would be back in a few minutes. She spent the rest of the +time superintending the salvage work outside the dining-room door +and helping cook to find enough fresh plates to warm. She felt hot, +dishevelled and miserable. She could have cried. Indeed, that was why +she did not slip upstairs to her bedroom to look at herself and powder +her nose, for once there, really alone with herself, she was sure she +would have cried. Oh, it was all too hateful for words! + +“There!” And Mrs. Pearson stood before her, breathless, flushed, and +happy, and whipped off the lid of a silver dish. + +“Oh!” cried Mrs. Dersingham in the very reek of the omelette, a fine +large specimen. “You angel! It’s absolutely perfect.” + +“I remembered we had some eggs, and then I remembered we had a bottle +of mushrooms tucked away somewhere, and so I rushed upstairs and made +this mushroom omelette. It ought to be nice. I used to be good with +omelettes.” + +“It’s marvellous. And I don’t know how to begin to thank you, my dear.” +And Mrs. Dersingham meant it. From that moment, Mrs. Pearson ceased to +be a merely foolish if kindly neighbour and became a friend, worthy of +the most secret confidences. In the steam of the omelette, rich as the +smoke of burnt offerings, this friendship began, and Mrs. Dersingham +never tasted a mushroom afterwards without being reminded of it. + +“Don’t think of it, my dear,” said Mrs. Pearson happily, for her own +life, after months of the dull routine of time-killing, had suddenly +become crimson, rich and glorious. “Now have you got the plates ready? +You must have this served at once, mustn’t you? Where’s that silly +girl? Gone to bed? All right, then, make the cook serve the rest of the +dinner. She must have everything ready by this time. Call her, my dear. +Tell her to bring up the plates.” And they returned at last to the +dining-room, two sisters out of burning Troy. + +Alas, all was not well in there. Something had happened during the +interval of waiting. It was not the women, who were all sympathetic +smiles and solicitude: Mrs. Trape even dropped the ventriloquial +effect, actually disturbed the lower part of her face, in order to +explain that she knew, no one better, what it was these days, when +anything might be expected of that class; and Miss Verever, though +retaining automatically some peculiarities of tone and grimace, +contrived to say something reassuring. No, it was not the women; it was +the men. Mr. Golspie looked like a man who had already said some brutal +things and was fully prepared to say some more; Major Trape looked +very stiff and uncompromising, as if he had just sentenced a couple of +surveyors to be shot; Mr. Pearson gave the impression that he had been +faintly tee-teeing on both sides of a quarrel and was rather tired of +it; and Mr. Dersingham looked uneasy, anxious, exasperated. There was +no mistaking the atmosphere, in which distant thunder still rolled. +The stupid men had had to wait for the more substantial part of dinner; +they had felt empty, then they had felt cross; and so they had argued, +shouted, quarrelled, not all of them perhaps, but certainly Mr. Golspie +and Major Trape. Probably at any moment, they would begin arguing, +shouting, quarrelling again. Mrs. Dersingham, very tired now and with a +hundred little nerves screaming to be taken out of all this and put to +bed, would have liked to bang their silly heads together. + +Cook came in, breathing heavily and disapprovingly, and gave them their +omelette. There was not a single movement she made during the whole +time she was in the room that did not announce, quite plainly, that she +was the cook, that the kitchen was her place, that she did not pretend +to be able to wait at table and that if they did not like it they could +lump it. Her heavy breathing went further, pointing out that when she +did condescend to wait at table, she expected to find a better company +than this seated round it. Even Mrs. Pearson had apparently lost +favour, for she had her plate shoved contemptuously in front of her, +like the rest. Real ladies, that plate said, don’t rush away and cook +omelettes for other people’s dinner tables. “P’raps you’ll ring when +you want the next,” the cook wheezed, and then slowly, scornfully, took +her departure. + +“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Dersingham,” said Major Trape, +“this omelette’s awf’ly good, awf’ly good. And there’s nothing I like +better than a jolly good omelette.” + +A voice from Mrs. Trape’s direction said that it agreed with him. + +“They’re right there,” said Mr. Golspie to Mrs. Dersingham, as if +the Trapes were not often right. “It’s as good an omelette as I’ve +had for months and months, and that’s saying something, because I’ve +been in places where they can make omelettes. They can’t make ’em +here in England.” And he said this in such a way as to suggest that +it was really a challenge to Trape, who was nothing if not patriotic. +Obviously, he and Trape had been quarrelling. + +Major Trape stiffened, then smiled laboriously at his hostess. “Mr. +Golspie seems to think we can’t make anything in England. That’s where +he and I diffah. Isn’t it, Dersingham?” + +“Well, yes, in a way, I suppose,” Mr. Dersingham mumbled unhappily. He +felt divided between Worrell and Angel Pavement, between his old and +respected school friend, Trape, with whom he instinctively agreed, and +the forceful man who was now saving Twigg & Dersingham and making it +prosperous, his guest for the first time, too; and it was a wretched +situation. He muttered now that there was a lot to be said on both +sides. + +“There may be,” said Major Trape. “But I don’t like to hear a man +continually runnin’ down his own country. Tastes diffah, I suppose. But +I feel--well, it isn’t done, that’s all.” + +“Time it was done then,” said Mr. Golspie aggressively. “Most of +the people I meet here these days seem to be living in a fool’s +paradise----” + +“Now, Mr. Golspie,” cried his hostess with desperate vivacity, “you’re +not to call us all fools. Is he, Mrs. Trape? We won’t have it.” Then, +saving the situation at all cost, she turned to Miss Verever. “My dear, +I forgot to tell you, I’ve had the absurdest letter from Alice. When I +read it, I simply howled.” + +“No, did you?” said Miss Verever. + +“A-ha!” cried Mr. Dersingham, doing his best. “What’s the latest from +Alice? We must all hear about this.” + +They were all listening now, all at peace for the moment. + +“Oh, it was too ridiculous,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, despairingly +racking her brains to remember something amusing in that letter, or, +failing that, something amusing in any letter she had ever had from +anybody. “You know what Alice is--at least, you do, my dear, and so +do you. I suppose it isn’t really funny unless you know her. You see, +the minute I read a letter of hers, of course I can see her in my mind +and hear her voice and all that sort of thing, and unless you can do +that, well I dare say it isn’t so funny, after all. But, you see, +Alice--she’s my youngest sister, I must explain, and they live down in +Devon--oh, miles from anywhere. Will you ring, please, darling? Well, +Alice has a dog, the absu-u-urdest creature----” + +She struggled through with it somehow, and fortunately cook made +such a noise clearing and then serving the sweet that most of the +anecdote, presumably the funniest part, was lost in the clatter. +The cook had been so noisy, so incredibly heavy in her breathing, +and so obviously disapproving, when she was serving the sweet, +that Mrs. Dersingham dare not have her up again to clear the table +for dessert, so as the fruit-plates and the finger-bowls, the port +decanter and glasses, were all on the sideboard, she made a joke of +it--showing the last gleam of vivacity she felt she would be able to +show for months--and she and Dersingham, assisted by Mr. Pearson, who +said--tee-tee-tee-tee-tee--that he was used to clearing a table, having +been well brought up, did what they could to make the dinner look as +if it were coming to a civilised end. Mrs. Dersingham felt that Mr. +Golspie, plainly a porty sort of man, and Major Trape might not want to +argue so unpleasantly once they had some port inside them. This was the +longest and most ghastly dinner she ever remembered. It was not really +very late, but it seemed like two in the morning. As she tried to peel +a very soft pear, she felt she wanted to throw it at the opposite wall +and then scream at the top of her voice. + +It was then they heard a ring at the outer door. Perhaps the postman, +rather late and with something special to deliver. A minute or so +later, there came another and longer ring. + +“The only time we were there it rained for a whole week,” said Major +Trape, concluding his account of the watering places, “and so I said, +‘Nevah again.’ Can’t imagine how these towns get their reputation. +These weathah reports they give out----” + +Another ring, very determined this time. + +“I’m sorry, but do go and see who that is at the door, my dear,” Mrs. +Dersingham cried, apologetically. “I’ve just remembered. Agnes has +gone to bed, and cook probably can’t hear or won’t hear. I don’t +suppose it’s anybody but the late post.” + +Mr. Dersingham was absent several minutes, and somehow during that +time nobody appeared to want to talk. Mrs. Dersingham did not press +the fruit upon her guests. The moment the last piece was eaten, she +intended to rise from the table, and then--oh, thank Heaven!--the worst +was over. The men could stay on drinking port and quarrel like cats +and dogs if they liked. She would be out of it, among nice, silly, +comfortable women in the drawing-room, and so it would all be over. +And then, just as she was nearly succeeding in consoling herself, her +husband reappeared, and he was not alone. The idiot had brought a +complete stranger into the dining-room with him, a girl. + +She was a very pretty girl, quite young, and on his face was that +fatuous smile which husbands always seem to wear in the company of +young and very pretty girls. All wives recognize and detest that +fatuous smile. It is bad at any time, but when it accompanies a girl +who is a complete stranger into the dining-room at the conclusion +of a disastrous dinner, and brings her into the presence of a wife +who has not felt even decently presentable for hours and hours and +who has been ready to scream for the last forty-five minutes, then +it is a catastrophe and a mortal injury. And so Mrs. Dersingham gave +Mr. Dersingham one look that sent that fatuous smile trembling into +oblivion. And then, half rising from her chair, Mrs. Dersingham looked +at the stranger, and decided at once that she had never before seen a +girl she disliked so much at sight as this one. + +“I’m afraid--er--I don’t----” she began. + +But the girl was not even looking at her. She was busy having her left +cheek brushed by the large moustache of Mr. Golspie, who had flung an +arm round her shoulders. + +“Well, hang me, Lena girl,” Mr. Golspie was roaring, “if I hadn’t +forgotten all about you.” + +“You would,” said the girl coolly. “You’re a rotten father. I’ve told +you that before. Now introduce me.” + + +IV + +“Now this is my fault,” Mr. Golspie boomed at the Dersinghams, turning +from one to the other, “my fault entirely. I ought to have told you. I +meant to, but I forgot. This girl of mine wrote to say she was coming +from Paris to-day, but of course she didn’t say how and when and what +and where, just left it all vague, y’know, as usual, all up in the air. +When it got to be half past seven and she hadn’t turned up, I began to +wonder. What was I to do?” And as he asked this he stared fiercely at +Mr. Pearson, who happened to catch his eye. + +“Quite so, Mr. Golspie,” Mr. Pearson, startled, jerked out. + +“Well, I’ll tell you what I did do. I left a message with the caretaker +of the flats, so that if she did come she’d know where I was----” + +“All right, my dear,” his daughter interrupted, “you needn’t go on and +on. Nobody wants to hear all about it. I got the message. I wasn’t +going to spend hours all alone in that poisonous flat. So I took a taxi +and came here. And that’s that.” And having thus dismissed the subject, +Miss Golspie, who seemed an astonishingly cool and composed young lady, +smiled at Mrs. Dersingham, who did not return the smile. Miss Golspie +then produced a small mirror from her handbag and carefully examined +her features in it. + +And even Mrs. Dersingham would have been compelled to admit that they +were very charming features. Lena Golspie still remained, after closer +inspection, a very pretty girl. She had reddish-gold hair, large +brown eyes, an impudent little nose, and a luscious mouth. She looked +rather smaller than she actually was. Her neck, shoulders, and arms +were slenderly, even too delicately, fashioned, but she had strong, +well-shaped legs; and was indeed the complete attractive young female +animal. Only in a certain slant of the eye and some movements of the +mouth did she resemble her father, though a very acute listener might +have found some likeness in their voices. Their accent, however, +was quite different, for Mr. Golspie spoke with a breadth of vowel +sound and roughness of consonants that suggested the toned-down +Lowlander or North-country Englishman, whereas his daughter’s English +did not properly belong to any part of England but seemed to be that +international English, of a kind that a clever foreigner might pick +up in the Anglo-Saxon colony in Paris and that is sometimes spoken by +both English and Americans on the stage, a language without roots and +background, a language for “the talkies.” Indeed, in Lena’s company you +might have felt you were taking part in a “talkie.” + +“And I intended to tell you when I first came in,” Mr. Golspie +continued, determined to have his say. “Just to warn you that this +daughter o’ mine--who doesn’t behave herself as nicely as she looks, I +can tell you--might be landing herself on you.” + +“Quite all right, of course,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I mean--delighted!” + +“Good! No harm done, then.” And Mr. Golspie sat down, grinned at his +daughter, noticed the decanter in front of him, and promptly helped +himself to another glass of port. + +“But I must say,” cried Lena, who had now concluded the examination of +her own features and was busy examining everybody else’s, “I thought +you’d have finished dinner hours ago. Did you begin late or have you +been wolfing an awful lot?” + +“I think we’d better all go straight into the drawing-room,” said Mrs. +Dersingham hurriedly, “unless you men feel you _must_ stay and drink +some more port.” + +“Not a bit,” said Mr. Golspie heartily. “I’m ready, for one.” And to +show that he was, he drained his glass in one sharp gulp. + +“Only too delighted, Mrs. Dersingham,” said Major Trape, bowing and +looking very severe, as if indirectly to rebuke the uncouth Golspie. + +“Good work!” said Mr. Dersingham, who obviously felt that something +was still wrong somewhere and was trying in vain to appear hearty +and enthusiastic. He opened the door. “Much better if we all barge in +together now.” + +“Come along, Miss Golspie,” and the patient little smile that Mrs. +Dersingham contrived to produce was itself a studied insult. “We don’t +mind a _bit_ your not being dressed. It doesn’t matter at all, I assure +you.” + +Miss Golspie turned wondering large brown eyes upon her. “Oh, did you +want me to change? I would have done if I’d known--specially as I’ve +brought over one or two marvellous new dresses--but it didn’t seem +worth it. Sorry and all that!” + +“Not in the least,” replied Mrs. Dersingham, pale with weariness and +vexation. Cheerfully--oh, so cheerfully!--she could have murdered this +girl. + +They trooped rather silently into the drawing-room, which did not seem +particularly pleased to see them. It had been neglected itself for some +time--so that the fire was low and ashy--and now it did not seem to +welcome visitors. Cook arrived with coffee, and put down the tray with +the air of a camel exhibiting the last straw. She did not attempt to +serve it. She put it down on the rickety little table and immediately +made that table seem ten times more rickety. There was no cup for Miss +Golspie, who of course said at once that she would have some coffee, +and so Mr. Dersingham, with what seemed to his wife a great deal of +unnecessary fuss and silliness, insisted that he should go without. +And then, having taken the tiniest sip of coffee, this Golspie girl +ostentatiously put the cup on one side, and, on being asked by Mr. +Pearson, who had also turned silly and officious, if she would have +some more, replied that she did not really want any coffee. + +“I’ll tell you what, though,” she declared, in a loud clear voice, “I’d +adore a cocktail, if there are any going.” + +“Oh, would you, Miss Golspie?” Mr. Dersingham began. “Well, I dare say +I could rake up----” But he was not allowed to continue. + +“I’m afraid there aren’t any cocktails going,” said Mrs. Dersingham, +in a voice that was if anything louder and clearer, and as frosted as +the best Martini. + +And the insensitive Mr. Golspie did not improve the situation by +chiming in with “I should think not. Don’t you take any notice of her, +Mrs. Dersingham. I’ll give her cocktails!” + +“When you get her home, eh?” Mr. Pearson cried, with rash +facetiousness. “Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +It was easily his least successful “Tee-tee” of the evening. Mrs. +Pearson looked surprised at him. Mr. Golspie gave him a glance that +told him quite plainly to mind his own business and not try to be +funny. Lena herself shot a furious glance at both her father and +Mr. Pearson, but did not cast a single look in Mrs. Dersingham’s +direction--a very ominous sign. As for Mrs. Dersingham, she could not +decide which was the more awful, Mr. Golspie or his terrible daughter. +She tried to start a conversation with Mrs. Pearson, who was now all +embarrassed smiles, and Mrs. Trape, whose face had been completely +frost-bound for the last ten minutes. + +Miss Verever, every feature in battle order, now bore down on Lena, +opening the engagement with a long-range smile of the most sinister +peculiarity. “Do I understand, Miss Golspie,” she said, with the most +mysterious grimace and the most baffling inflections, “that you’ve just +come from Paris? Have you been living there?” + +“Hello, hello!” cried Lena’s startled expression. “What have I done to +you?” But all she actually said in reply was, “Yes, I’ve just come from +there, and I’ve been living there.” + +“Oh, you _have_ been living there?” + +“Yes, for the last eighteen months. With an uncle. You see, he lives +there, and I’ve been living with him.” + +“Oh, your _uncle_ lives there?” + +“Yes, he’s lived there nearly all his life. He is half French, anyhow. +And my aunt’s completely French.” + +“Then is your father--Mr. Golspie--half French?” asked Miss Verever, in +one of her strangest whispers. + +“No, not at all,” said Lena, with a little impatient shake of her head. +“You see, this uncle’s my mother’s brother, not my father’s.” + +“Oh, your _mother’s_.” And now Miss Verever produced her most famous +glance of inquiry, awfully enigmatical in its final meaning and yet +immediately challenging. She followed it up with a new smile, crooked, +terrible. “Well, then, of course, your mother must be half French, I +suppose, just like your uncle?” + +“Yes, she was.” And then Lena’s little nose wrinkled, partly in +bewilderment, partly in distaste. Then she looked straight at Miss +Verever, who was bending over her and searching her with an unwinking +gaze. “But what about it? I mean, there’s nothing particularly funny +about that, is there? Lots of people are half French, aren’t they?” + +“Yes, I suppose so.” Miss Verever was taken aback. + +“Well, then, what are you looking at me like that for?” cried Lena, +at once registering a direct hit. “I mean, you look as if there +was something terribly weird about it all. There really isn’t, you +know. It’s all quite simple.” The shell crashed through and exploded +somewhere near the magazine. + +Miss Verever was jerked upright by her surprise. Then she turned +glacial. “I beg your pardon.” + +“Oh, I don’t mind, but----” + +Miss Verever did not wait to hear, but turned away at once and joined +the other three women. Lena, after staring after her for a moment, gave +a tiny wriggle and then broke into a duet of Old Worrelian talk between +Mr. Dersingham and Major Trape, who were merely chivalrous at first but +very soon began to wear that fatuous smile. And towards the three of +them an icy current began to flow from the group of women. Too tired, +too cross, even to pretend to be a good brisk hostess, Mrs. Dersingham +let the whole thing slide, and merely prayed for the end. It was not +long in coming. + +“Shall I?” Miss Golspie was heard to cry to the two men. + +They nodded and smiled, a little doubtfully perhaps, but still they +nodded and smiled, men under a spell. + +“All right, then, I will. Just to cheer us all up. We’re getting +terribly dismal.” And Miss Golspie, with a final and coquettish nod and +smile of her own at the other two nodders and smilers, marched across +the room, puffing away at one of her host’s _Sahibs_. Then she sat down +at the baby grand. + +“That’s the way, Lena,” her father shouted approvingly. He had been +talking in a corner to Mr. Pearson. “Let’s have a tune. Do us good.” + +Before anybody else could say a word, Lena had begun playing. She +played some dance tunes, very sketchily, but with great speed and +noise. The first two or three minutes were bad, but the next two or +three minutes were much worse, for then her left hand, guessing wildly, +began hitting any note roughly in the neighbourhood of the right one, +and the very fire irons joined in the din. After ten minutes, she +reached a grand _fortissimo_. Mrs. Dersingham could bear it no longer. + +“Oh, do _stop_ that noise!” she shrieked, rushing forward, white and +trembling with fury. + +Lena stopped at once. They were all fixed, rooted, in a vast sudden +silence. + +Mrs. Dersingham bit her lip, recovered herself. “I’m sorry,” she +said, coldly and curtly, “but I really must ask you to stop playing. +I’ve--got a bad headache.” + +“I see,” replied Lena, getting up from the piano. “Sorry.” She walked +forward a step or two, then looked at Mrs. Dersingham. “Have you had it +all the evening or has it just come on now?” And this was not a polite +inquiry, but a challenge. The tone of voice made that obvious. + +“Does that matter?” And Mrs. Dersingham turned away. + +Into the silence that fell now there came the voice, quavering a +little, of Mrs. Pearson. “Now I really think it’s time we were going,” +it began. But nobody took any notice of it. + +For Lena burst into a torrent of speech. “No, it doesn’t matter, of +course. But I just asked because I thought you might have started that +headache since I came, because you’ve just been as rotten as you could +be, and I didn’t ask to come--I’ve been travelling half the day and +I’m as tired as you are--and I wouldn’t have come at all if my father +hadn’t told me to, and I thought you were friends of his, but from the +minute I came in, you’ve not said a decent word to me or given me a +decent look----” + +“Hoy!” roared her father, seizing her by the arm and shaking her a +little. “What the blazes is all this? What’s the matter with you, girl? +That’s not the way to behave----” + +“No, and that’s not the way to behave either,” cried Lena, shaking +herself free. “What have I done? I didn’t want to push myself into her +beastly house.” And then she grabbed her father’s arm and burst into +tears. “I’m going,” she sobbed. “Take me home.” + +Mr. Golspie put an arm round her and she continued her sobbing on +his shoulder. “Sorry about this,” he said, over her head. “My fault, +I expect. I oughtn’t to have told her to come. The kid’s a bit +nervy--tired, y’know.” + +“Yes, of course--travelling and all that,” said Mr. Dersingham, feeling +that some reply was expected. + +This was Mrs. Dersingham’s chance, but she did not take it. She might +have accepted the apology if her husband had not been so ready to +accept it and make an excuse for the girl. But now she turned her back +on Mr. Golspie and his terrible daughter, and said to Mrs. Pearson: +“Must you _really_ go? It’s quite early, you know. Oh, Mrs. Trape, +_you’re_ not going, are you? Why?” And it was well done, bravely done, +but it was a mistake, perhaps the biggest mistake she ever made. + +Mr. Golspie’s face changed its expression, all the good-humour dying +out of it at once. “All right,” he said shortly. “Come on, Lena, +shake yourself up a bit. We’re going now. Good-night, all. See you +in the morning, Dersingham. Good-night.” And immediately he marched +himself and his daughter out of the room, and, a minute later, before +Dersingham had followed him up, out of the house. + +Half an hour later, the Dersinghams were alone, and Mrs. Dersingham was +curled up in the largest chair, crying. “I don’t care, I don’t care,” +she sobbed. “They were _awful_, both of them. The man was nearly as +bad as his terrible daughter. They were ghastly, and I hope to Heaven +I never see either of them again. Or any of those people, except Mrs. +Pearson. Oh, what a horrible, ghastly evening!” + +“I know, I know, my dear,” said her husband, hovering about vaguely and +trying to be consoling. “Everything went wrong. I know.” + +“No, you don’t, you can’t possibly know how awful it was for me. No, +don’t touch me, leave me _alone_. I just want to go miles and miles +away, and never see anybody for months. Don’t ever let me see those +vile Golspies again. And I don’t care what I said or did. It couldn’t +be too bad for them. Next time, if you want to invite anybody from +Angel Pavement, invite the clerks and the typists, anybody before those +awful Golspies.” + +“There, there,” said Mr. Dersingham, “there, there, there.” And when +dialogue is reduced to this, it is time we quitted the scene. + +Lena, in the taxi that carried them away from Barkfield Gardens, had +stopped crying and was now fiercely resentful, like the spoilt child +she was. “Well, they _were_ rotten snobs. And it wasn’t _my_ fault that +half her beastly dinner had been dropped outside the door; I didn’t +even know until you told me; and it was probably a good job for you, +it _was_ dropped, for I’ll bet it was the most awful muck. But there +wasn’t one of those old cats who gave me a decent look or spoke a +decent word to me. You ought to have seen that long thin bony one when +I asked her what she was looking so funny about! And you needn’t think +it was only _me_ they didn’t like, either. They didn’t like you, I +could see that. They weren’t real friends, any of them.” + +“Who said they were, young woman?” her father demanded. “Don’t make +such a palaver about it. I know all about ’em. The best of the lot +was that chap with the long neck and the wobbly cheeks--Pearson, the +chap from Singapore--and he was only half-baked. If Dersingham’s wife +doesn’t think we’re good enough for them, let her go on thinking so. +I’ll bet she thinks I’m good enough to keep on putting some ginger +in that half dead concern of theirs. After what I’ve seen of the +Dersingham end of Twigg and Dersingham, all I can say is that Twigg, +whoever he was, must have been a dam’ smart chap to have got the firm +going at all.” + +“You don’t mean to say you’re making money for those blighters?” cried +Lena, winding an arm round his. + +“The people I’m going to make money for,” replied Mr. Golspie grimly, +at the same time squeezing the arm, “are these people, these two here. +Just you keep quiet and leave it to me, Miss Golspie.” + + + + +_Chapter Four_: TURGIS SEES HER + + +I + +Turgis was not lazy and while he was in the office he preferred +doing something to doing nothing, but he did not share Mr. Smeeth’s +enthusiasm for office work and never regarded himself as one of the +firm. It was all very well for Twigg & Dersingham to be suddenly busy +again, indeed much busier than they had ever been before, but Turgis +did not see the fun of going hard at it all day and every day and +frequently having to stay an hour later. No doubt somebody was doing +well out of it, but he, Turgis, was getting nothing out of it but a +great deal more work. He grumbled about this to Mr. Smeeth. It was +Saturday morning; he had just received his fortnight’s pay, six pound +notes, one ten-shilling note, and two florins; and it was a time for +such confidences. + +“All right, all right,” said Mr. Smeeth, with the manner of a person +who knew a great deal. “That’s your point of view, isn’t it?” + +Turgis, a little diffidently now, for he had a considerable respect for +Mr. Smeeth if no particular liking for him, replied that it was. + +“Now let me tell you something, my boy,” Mr. Smeeth continued gravely. +“Just a week or two ago--I’ll tell you exactly what day it was; it +was the day Mr. Golspie first called here--Mr. Dersingham was talking +things over with me, in that room there. I’m telling you this in +confidence, mind. And Mr. Dersingham said the office expenses were too +big and somebody would have to go. And it looked as if that somebody +would be you.” + +“Me!” Turgis’s mouth, always open a little, was now wide open, for his +jaw suddenly dropped. + +“You, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth, with the satisfied air of a man who has +produced the desired effect. “It was touch and go whether I told you +that very day. I’m glad I didn’t because you might have got a fright +for nothing. Now it’s all right, of course. We’re busy, and we need +everybody. But when you want to start grumbling about a bit of extra +work, my boy, just you remember that. You might have been looking for +work now, and I’ll bet you wouldn’t have liked that, would you?” + +“No, I wouldn’t, Mr. Smeeth,” replied Turgis, humbly enough. + +“And I don’t blame you.” Feeling fairly confident, for once, about his +own job, Mr. Smeeth had a great desire to enlarge upon this topic, +which had for him a terrible fascination. “Jobs aren’t easy to get, are +they?” + +“Not if you haven’t influence and you’re not in the know, Mr. Smeeth,” +said Turgis, who was a great believer in the mysterious power of +influence and being in the know, and realised only too well that there +were few people in London who had less influence or were further from +the know than himself. “That’s the trouble. I seen it myself. You can’t +get a look in. I’d a packet--my words, I’d a packet--before I got taken +on here. Trailin’ round, queueing up, round again--oh, dear! You know +what it’s like.” + +“No, I don’t,” Mr. Smeeth returned, sharply. + +“Beg your pardon, Mr. Smeeth. Of course, you don’t. I do, though. +Oo, it’s sorful,” cried Turgis earnestly. “’S’not getting any better +either. Well I’m glad you told me, Mr. Smeeth. I’d better keep my mouth +shut a bit, hadn’t I? It is all right now, isn’t it?” + +“Quite all right. You do your best for us,” Mr. Smeeth added +sententiously, “and we’ll do our best for you.” + +Turgis came nearer, and lowered his voice when he spoke. “D’you think, +Mr. Smeeth, there’ll be any chance of a rise, now I’m getting all this +extra work? Ought to be, oughtn’t there? I mean, I’m not getting a lot +really, am I?” + +“You leave it alone a bit, Turgis, and just do your best, and then I’ll +see what I can do for you.” + +“I wish you would, Mr. Smeeth. You see, it’s not as if I’d got anybody +helping me with my work, ’cos this new typist doesn’t really help me +out much, does she? And if you could--just--you know--say something +to Mr. Golspie or Mr. Dersingham, because, you know, Mr. Smeeth, I am +doing my best, and you mustn’t think I want to grumble, ’cos I don’t.” + +The new typist had been a great disappointment to Turgis, not because +she was of no assistance to him in his work but because she was not the +attractive young creature his heated fancy had conjured up to fill the +post. Miss Poppy Sellers, with her unfortunate Oriental effect which +merely resulted in dinginess and untidiness, did not seem to him at all +pretty. At the end of the first morning, though he was flattered by +her awe of him, he had dismissed her as a very poor bit of girl stuff. +When he had heard that the firm was advertising for another typist, +a younger girl to help Miss Matfield, he had had instant visions of +working side by side with one of those really pretty ones he often +noticed making their way about the City. There were one or two good +ones in Angel Pavement itself: quite a pretty piece downstairs with +the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co._; another not so dusty who went up the +stairs next door to _C. Warstein: Tailors’ Trimmings_; and a real +beauty--one to make your mouth water, a peach--at _Dunbury & Co.: +Incandescent Gas Fittings_, at the end of the street. And there were +two or three worth looking at, the flashy young Jewessy type, at _Chase +& Cohen’s Carnival Novelties_ place at the end. Any one of these girls, +walking into Twigg & Dersingham’s, would have lit up the place for him, +and the day’s routine would have become an adventure. But they must +go and choose this dreary-looking kid with the fringe. It was just +his luck. Two girls working in the same office, and neither of them +any good. Miss Matfield was all right in her way, of course, but then +she was too big, too old, and far too “posh” and bossy for him, even +if she had ever showed any sign--and, so far, she hadn’t--of being +really interested in his existence. This other one, Polly Sellers, was +interested enough, quite ready to be friends, but then, well--look at +her. + +The maddening thing about it--and it really was maddening to +Turgis--was that all these other ripe and adorable girls (he thought +of them as “fine bits”) were all over the place, walking in and out of +offices, sitting in corners of teashops, elbowing him sometimes (and +he was always there to be elbowed) in buses and tube trains, so that +you might have thought they worked for everybody in the City but Twigg +& Dersingham. And it was no better, perhaps it was worse, when he was +roaming about for pleasure and not simply going to and from the office. +Everywhere he saw them, never missed seeing them. His mind was for ever +busy with their images, for ever troubled by them. No matter where he +went, he was tantalised, the path underneath his feet a narrow dusty +track of wilderness but all hung about with rich forbidden clusters of +feminine fruit, shrinking, withering, vanishing, at a touch. + +Turgis was by temperament a lover. His thoughts never left the other +sex long; happiness had for him a feminine shape; the real world was +illuminated by the bright glances of girls; and at any moment, one of +them might reveal to him an enchanted life they could share together. +It would be easy to see him as a lonely lad seeking sympathy in that +crowd in which he was lost. It would be just as easy to see him as a +figure of furtive lusts, whose mind descended and there lived eagerly +in an underworld of tiny mean contacts, seemingly accidental pressures +of the arm and the foot. Yet behind both these figures was the lover. +And this, in spite of his shabbiness and unprepossessing looks, the +shiny baggy suit, and the frayed tie, the open mouth, that slight +pastiness and spottiness, that faint grey film which seemed to cover +and subdue his physical self. He was no dapper lady-killer. But then +if Turgis, even with his scanty means, did not try very hard to make +himself superficially attractive to the sex that despises crumpled +clothes, matted hair, pasty cheeks, youth that has lost all vividness +and glow, it was because he believed that the cry from within, urgent, +never ceasing, must receive an answer. He knew that he had little to +offer on the surface, was nothing to look at, nobody in particular, but +he felt that inside he was different, he was wonderful, and that sooner +or later a girl, a beautiful and passionate girl, caring nothing for +the outside show, would recognise this difference, this wonder, within, +would cry, “Oh, it’s you,” and love would immediately follow. Then life +would really begin. So far it had not begun; in the tangle, blather, +jumble of mere existence, of eating, sleeping, working, journeying and +staring, it had only made a number of false starts. In other words, +Turgis had had his little adventures but was not yet in love, or +rather--for he was perpetually in love--had not yet found the single +outlet for all this flood, the one girl. + +After returning to his own desk, Turgis thought about these other +girls who might so easily have come to work by his side instead of +continuing with the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade_ or _Dunbury & Co._, and +then, dismissing them reluctantly, he began to tidy up his desk and +finish off the week’s work. It was after twelve and the week-end was +in sight. He leaned forward on his high stool, and breathed hard over +communications from the London and North Eastern Railway and the City +Transport Company. There was a girl at the City Transport--he had never +seen her but she often answered the telephone--who sounded nice, lovely +voice she had, and once or twice he had made her laugh. If he had been +in the office by himself, he would have talked to her properly, perhaps +suggested an appointment--on the pictures they called it a “date” but +Turgis thought of it as a “point”--but he was never alone, and even if +there was only that silly kid, Stanley, there, it would spoil it. But +it was fine to hear her laugh down the telephone. Silvery, that was +it--silvery laughter--her silvery laughter--just like in a book. + +He was interrupted by a touch on his arm, and he looked round to find +the new typist at his elbow, looking up at him with her biggish brown +eyes. She had a lot of powder on one side of her nose, and none at all, +just shiny skin, on the other side. No good. + +“Please,” said Miss Sellers in her chirpy little Cockney voice, +“please, have you written to the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping?” + +“No, I haven’t,” he replied. + +She merely stared. + +“I haven’t written to the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping,” he continued +severely, “because I’ve never heard of the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping. +Don’t know them--see?” + +“Oo, I’m sorry,” though she did not sound very sorry. “Have I said +something wrong? I can’t remember all these names yet. Give me a +chance. You know who I mean, don’t you? It is Anglo-something, isn’t +it?” + +“If it’s the Anglo-Baltic Shipping Co. you’re talking about,” said +Turgis with dignity, “then I have written to them. Wrote yesterday, +’s’matter of fact. But to the Anglo-Baltic, mind you. There’s no +what’s-it about it.” + +The girl looked at him for a moment. “Oo!” she cried softly, +“squashed!” And then she promptly walked away. + +Turgis glanced after her with distaste. “Getting cheeky now,” he told +himself. “That’s the latest--getting cheeky. And just because she can’t +make up to me. All right, Miss Dirty Fringe, you’ll have to be told off +soon, you will. Try it again, that’s all, just try it again.” And he +was filled with a righteous indignation, pointing out to himself that +these girls didn’t know their place in an office, wouldn’t get on with +their work properly, and were always trying their little tricks on men +who wanted to do their job with no nonsense about it. + +There was a familiar scurrying, as of some small animal of the +undergrowth that had got itself shod with leather and iron tips; the +door burst open; Stanley had returned. + +“Come on, boy, come on,” said Mr. Smeeth, looking over his eyeglasses. +“Get those letters copied, sharp as you can. Don’t want us to be here +all day, waiting for you, do you?” + +“I want to get the one-five from London Bridge, if I can, Mr. Smeeth,” +said Miss Matfield. “I’m spending the week-end in the country, thank +God.” + +“You’ll get it all right, Miss Matfield,” Mr. Smeeth told her. “Plenty +of time. Now then, Stanley--bustle about. Sharp’s the world, my boy.” + +“Oo, Miss Matfield,” Miss Sellers began, staring at her, “d’you reely +like the country this weather? I don’t know how you can bear it. I +couldn’t, not now, when it’s winter. It’s not as if it was summer, is +it?” + +“Like it best in winter, if it’s not raining too hard. Jolly good! +Nothing like so filthy as London is in winter.” + +“Well, I’m sure it would give me the ’ump,” Miss Sellers declared. +“But I do like it in summer. It’s lovely in summer, I think.” You +could almost see her looking at the buttercups and daisies. “I like +the seaside best, though. Don’t you, Miss Matfield? It’s lovely at the +seaside in summer, I think. I’ve never been in winter. It’s nice in +summer even when it rains at the seaside, isn’t it?” + +Miss Matfield replied, shortly but amiably, that it was, and then began +clearing up her papers. + +“Here,” cried Stanley, in the middle of his copying, “I seen a smash +right in Moorgate.” He looked round triumphantly. + +“I’ll bet you didn’t,” said Turgis. + +“I did, and I bet you I did. Anyhow, if I didn’t see it, I was there +just after, when the bobby was taking names. Oh, what a crowd! I got +right to the front. Car and a lorry it was. The lorry was all right, +but you oughter seen the car. Oh, no, it wasn’t a mess--oh, no!” + +“And how many hours did you stand there, eh?” Mr. Smeeth inquired. +“That’s what takes your time, my boy--doing your bit of nosy-parkering.” + +“I had to go that way and I couldn’t get past, Mr. Smeeth,” Stanley +cried indignantly. “So I had to see what was up, couldn’t help it. I +thought the bobby might take my name as a witness, but he didn’t. I +wish he had done,” he added wistfully. “I’d like to be a witness.” + +“If you don’t finish those letters in ten minutes,” said Mr. Smeeth, +wagging a finger at him, “you’ll be in the dock, and never mind being a +witness. How are you getting on, Turgis?” + +“Nearly finished, Mr. Smeeth,” Turgis replied. “I’ll just give the City +Transport a ring to see if they’ve heard anything about that lot we +sent to Norwich.” And he promptly went to the telephone. + +There was no silvery laughter this time from the City Transport +Company. The voice that answered him was not only a masculine voice but +also an irritated, badgered, weary, despairing voice, that of a man +who was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he would be spending all +Saturday afternoon answering idiotic inquiries. “Yes, I know, I know,” +it barked. “You rang me up before about it. Well, we’re doing our best. +We’ve got the matter in hand. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve told our Norwich +people. I’ll let you know on Monday. The first thing, the very first +thing, on Monday, I’ll let you know.” It was pleading now. “Can’t do +more than that, can I?” And now it was tired of pleading. “All right, +all ri-ight, we’re doing what we ca-a-an. Ring you on Mo-o-onday.” + +“They’ve got through to Norwich about it, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis, +“but they say it’ll have to stand over till Monday.” + +“That’s all right then, Turgis. Give them a ring on Monday.” + +There was now a feeling throughout the office that all manner of things +would have to stand over until Monday. This feeling was not confined to +Twigg & Dersingham, but could have been discovered operating upstairs +at the _Universal Hosiery Co._ and the _London and Counties Supply +Stores_, and downstairs at the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co._, and at +_Chase & Cohen: Carnival Novelties_ on the one side and at _Dunbury & +Co.: Incandescent Gas Fittings_ on the other side, in fact, all up and +down Angel Pavement, and far beyond Angel Pavement, in all the banks +and offices and showrooms and warehouses of the City. Very soon the +City itself would be standing over until Monday: the crowds of brokers +and cashiers and clerks and typists and hawkers would have vanished +from its pavements, the bars would be forlorn, the teashops nearly +empty or closed; its trams and buses, no longer clamouring for a few +more yards of space, would come gliding easily through misty blue +vacancies like ships going down London River; and the whole place, +populated only by caretakers and policemen among the living, would sink +slowly into quietness; the very bank-rate would be forgotten; and it +would be left to drown itself in reverie, with a drift of smoke and +light fog across its old stones like the return of an army of ghosts. +Until--with a clatter, a clang, a sudden raw awakening--Monday. + +Papers were swept into drawers, letters were stamped in rows, blotters +were shut, turned over, put away, ledgers and petty cash boxes were +locked up, typewriters were covered, noses were powdered, cigarettes +and pipes were lit, doors were banged, and stairs were noisy with hasty +feet. The week was done. Out they came in their thousands into Angel +Pavement, London Wall, Moorgate Street, Cornhill and Cheapside. They +were so thick along Finsbury Pavement that the Moorgate Tube Station +seemed like a monster sucking them down into its hot rank inside. Among +these vanishing mites was one with a large but not masterful nose, full +brown eyes, a slightly open mouth, and a drooping chin. This was Turgis +going home. + +He had to stand all the way, and though there were at least five +nice-looking girls in the same compartment--and one was very close to +him, and two of the others he had noticed several times before--not one +of them showed the slightest interest in him. + + +II + +When Turgis returned again to the earth’s surface, he plunged at +once into the noise and litter of High Street, Camden Town, and then +turned up the Kentish Town Road, for he lodged in Nathaniel Street, +which lies in that conglomeration of short streets between the Kentish +Town Road and York Road. He was rather later than usual, for this +new Golspie business was having its effect even on Saturday morning, +and so he walked quickly for once. He was ready for dinner and he +knew that dinner would be ready for him. On Saturdays and Sundays, +his landlady provided dinner as well as breakfast, and, indeed, was +not averse to laying out a bit of tea, too, if that should be called +for, Turgis having been with her now for eighteen months and having +proved himself to be--by Nathaniel Street standards, which are based +on a bitter knowledge of this world--a good quiet lodger, sober, and +punctual in his payments. During the week, he had, officially, nothing +but breakfast in the house, and had to shift for himself for his other +meals, which followed a descending scale of luxury every fortnight, +beginning with the alternate week-ends when he was paid. Thus, every +other Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Turgis was well fed, and every other +Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, he was comparatively half starved. At a +pinch, however, his landlady would always give him a little supper. +They were all friendly together. They had to be, for they all used +the same back room for meals. The bed-sitting-room that Turgis had +at the top of the house, so small that the iron bedstead, the yellow +washstand, the three deal drawers, the lopsided and groaning basket +chair, and the little old gas-fire, a genuine antique among gas-fires, +made it seem uncomfortably crowded with furniture and fittings, was +no place in which to feed. It did not like being sat in, resented the +sight of a cup of tea and a biscuit, and the presence of one good +plateful of roast beef, potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and gravy, would +have completely finished it. + +Number 9, like all the other houses in Nathaniel Street, was small +and dark, and its gloomy little hall was haunted by a mixed smell of +cabbage, camphor, and old newspapers. Turgis never noticed this smell, +but on the very rare occasions when he visited some other and less +odorous house, then he noticed the absence of it, his nose declaring at +once that it had found itself in an unfamiliar atmosphere. Now he hung +up his hat and coat and marched straight into the back room. There he +discovered his landlady, who, having finished dinner, was enjoying a +cup of tea by the fire. She was not enjoying this cup of tea, however, +in an easy leisurely fashion; she was sitting, almost tense, on the +very edge of the chair; and she had something of the air of a cavalry +general between two phases of a battle. + +Mrs. Pelumpton had every right to such an air. She was a short and +very broad woman, with a mop of untidy grey hair and a withered apple +face, and it was easy to see that all her adult life had been one long +struggle, and that unless she suffered a paralytic stroke or was driven +out of her wits, she would die fighting. In her presence, progress +seemed the most absurd myth. If Mrs. Pelumpton could have been turned +into the wife of a marauding viking or one of the women following +Attila’s horde, she would have felt she had been given a well-earned +rest and would have been astonished at, perhaps horrified by, the +sudden colour and gaiety of life. + +As soon as she saw Turgis she put down her cup and, as it were, jumped +into the saddle again. She placed on the table two covered plates, her +lodger’s dinner, meat and vegetables under one cover, pudding under the +other. + +“I’m a bit late to-day, Mrs. Pelumpton,” said Turgis, settling down. + +“Well, I said to myself you might have been or you might not, according +to whether that clock’s gone and got fast again, and it might well have +done that, the way he’s been playing about with it.” + +“About quarter of an hour fast, I make it--might be twenty minutes.” + +“And that,” said Mrs. Pelumpton very decisively, “is what comes of +messing about with it. ‘Leave it alone,’ I told him. ‘Clocks isn’t in +your line.’ Not that quarter of an hour’s going to hurt anybody in this +house--except Edgar, and he’s got his own watch with proper railway +time on it.” Edgar, her son, who also lived in the house, worked on the +railway down at King’s Cross. Turgis rarely saw him. + +“That’s a nice bit o’ meat you’re having there, Mr. Turgis, isn’t it?” +Mrs. Pelumpton continued, after taking a noisy sip of tea and then +staring over the cup at him. “Chilled, that is. You’d have thought that +was English if I hadn’t told you, wouldn’t you?” + +“Yes, I would, Mrs. Pelumpton.” + +“Well, I won’t deceive you. It isn’t. It’s chilled. And it all depends +on the picking. Take what they offer, and you don’t know where you are. +You’ve got to look about a bit and pick it yourself. They know me now.” +And here Mrs. Pelumpton produced a short triumphant laugh. “They know +me all right. ‘Pick where you like, Ma,’ he always says to me. ‘Oh, +I’ll watch it,’ I tells him. ‘I’ll watch it.’ And I do.” + +“That’s the style. It’s a very nice dinner, Mrs. Pelumpton.” + +A certain shuffling noise indicated that the master of the house, +the messer-about with clocks, Mr. Pelumpton, was now approaching. +Mr. Pelumpton moved very slowly, partly because he suffered from +rheumatism, and partly because he was a man of great dignity. To look +at him, at his slack and dingy figure, at his watery eyes, bottle nose, +ragged and drooping grey moustache, to mark his leisurely air, was to +imagine at once that Mr. Pelumpton was one of those men who do not work +themselves but merely see that their wives and children work for them. +But this was not the truth. Mr. Pelumpton did work, as his talk would +quickly inform you. He was a dealer. He had no shop of his own, but he +had some vague connection with a shop, where an astonishing variety of +second, third, or fourth hand goods were sold, owned by a friend of +his. He passed his time in a dusty underworld in which battered chests +of drawers and broken gramophones changed hands and the deals were +in shillings and the commission in pence. He interviewed parties who +had for sale a cracked toilet set or an old bicycle or five mildewed +volumes of _The Stately Homes of England_. He could sometimes be found +in the humblest auction rooms, ready to bid up to half a crown for +the odds and ends. Every Friday he became a _bona-fide_ merchant by +making an appearance in Caledonian Market, where, on that grey and +windy height, he stood beside a small but very varied stock, consisting +perhaps of a Banjo Tutor, two chipped pink vases, a silk underskirt, +a large photograph of General Buller, five dirty tennis balls, a +zither with most of the strings missing, and the _Letters of Charles +Kingsley_. Dealing thus in things that were only one remove from the +dustbin, Mr. Pelumpton did not contrive to make much money, and indeed +he had been dependent for some time on Mrs. Pelumpton and Edgar; but, +on the other hand, you could not say he did not work. He was in the +second-hand trade, in the buying and selling line, a legitimate dealer, +and took himself and his mysterious business with enormous seriousness. +If he was not doing very well, that was because trade was so bad. Mr. +Pelumpton had all the deliberation and dignity of an antique merchant +prince. He smoked a foul little pipe, liked a glass of beer, was a +great reader of newspapers, and always talked in a very solemn and +confidential manner. Like many dealers and Caledonian Market men, who +have drooping moustaches, very few teeth, and a confidential manner, he +softened all the sibilants, putting an “h” behind every “s.” There is +no doubt that a dealer who can only say “Yes” is not in such a strong +position as the dealer who can draw it out into a mysterious “Yersh.” +Mr. Pelumpton was essentially a “Yersh” man. + +He now advanced very slowly into the room, carefully seated himself by +the fire, took out his evil little pipe, looked at Turgis in a watery +fashion, nodded solemnly, put back his pipe, and waited for somebody to +ask him something. + +“Well, did you catch him in?” his wife inquired. Mr. Pelumpton was +always having to slip round the corner to catch somebody in, even if he +had only just finished his own dinner. + +“Out till five,” replied Mr. Pelumpton. “And a shaushy ansher for me +trouble.” + +“Who’s bin giving you a saucy answer?” + +“Hish mishish,” said Mr. Pelumpton, “if it ish hish mishish. ‘Can’t +expect to find ’im in on Shaturday arfternoon,’ she shaysh to me. +‘You’ll excuse me, mishish,’ I told her, ‘but in my bishnish, you’ve +got to work Shaturday arfternoon shame ash any other arfternoon. +Yersh,’ I told her, ‘an’ Shunday arfternoon too, if you’re not +careful.’ Jusht telling her politely, shee? All right, what doesh she +shay to that? She shaysh, ‘Well, we’re diff’rent ’ere, shee?’ and then +shlamsh the door in me faysh.” + +“The cheeky monkey!” cried Mrs. Pelumpton indignantly. “I’d slam it in +_her_ face if I’d anything to do with her. It’s downright ignorance, +that’s what it is. There’s people round here has no more idea ’ow to +behave than a--a--a parrot.” + +“Ar, well,” Mr. Pelumpton continued, philosophically, “we’ve got a lot +to put with in our bishnish. And you can take that from me, Mishter +Turgish. But if the shtuff’sh there, we don’t mind. All in the day’sh +work, shee?” + +“After something good, Mr. Pelumpton?” Turgis inquired. + +“That’sh right. A lovely piesh he’sh got to shell--a shideboard--oh, +a lovely piesh, it ish--only wantsh a bit of polishing and it’sh good +enough for anybody, that piesh ish, fit for a palash. I can’t ’andle it +myshelf, not ash trade ish now, but I know who can. It’sh a commission +job.” + +“That’s the idea,” said Turgis, with vague approval. He was a youth who +liked to agree with his company, not because he felt kindly disposed +towards other people, but simply because it was less trouble to agree +and applaud. He really thought Mr. Pelumpton a ridiculous old bore. + +“Now that’s one thing I’ve always wanted,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton. “A +sideboard, a proper nice sideboard, cupboards and all, and room for +everything. Mahogany, I’d like.” + +“Ah, that’sh what a lot o’ people would like. They’re fetching good +money them thingsh are. Show me a good shideboard, a sholid piesh--not +sho much of your shtuff about it, Mishter Turgish----” + +“What’s his stuff, for Heaven’s sake?” Mrs. Pelumpton demanded. “He +hasn’t got any stuff, have you, Mr. Turgis? What you talking about, +Dad?” + +Mr. Pelumpton took out his pipe for this, and looked very reproachfully +at his wife. “What am I talking about? I’m talking about what I know, +that’sh what I’m talking about. ’Ow many pieshesh of furnisher have +been through my handsh? Thoushandsh. All right then. Don’t I know the +trade? Ho, no! Ho, no! I don’t know the trade.” Then he pointed his +pipe at Turgis, who was very busy with his treacle pudding, and then +said very slowly, very solemnly: “Veneersh. You know what them are. +Well, that’sh hish shtuff. Am I right, Mishter Turgish?” + +“That’s right,” said Turgis. “That’s what we sell at our place, Mrs. +Pelumpton. Veneers for furniture, and inlays, and all that. ’S’matter +of fact, I don’t have anything to do with ’em personally, ’cos it isn’t +my particular job, but that’s what we sell all right.” + +“Well, I never did!” Mrs. Pelumpton was filled with honest wonder at +a world in which so many different things were bought and sold. “And +I never knew that. Thought you was in an office, down in the City, +y’know--a clurk.” + +“Sho he ish,” her husband assured her, “but that’sh what hish firm +shellsh. He told me long shinsh, didn’t you, Mishter Turgish. Well, ash +I wash shaying, show me a good shideboard, a sholid piesh, and I’ll get +you what you like for it--in reashon, in reashon, y’know. Trade may be +bad. Trade _ish_ bad. But for shome thingsh you ’ave a shteady demand, +that’sh what you ’ave--a shteady demand. Where we’re feeling it in our +bishnish ish in the shmall thingsh----” + +Mr. Pelumpton was now settling down to a good long monologue, but he +reckoned without his audience, both of whom knew these monologues too +well. His wife, seeing that Turgis had finished, pounced upon his used +plates and bore them off, with a bustle and clatter that brought a +frown to her husband’s face. He now tried to buttonhole Turgis, who was +lighting a cigarette. “Now you take me, Mishter Turgish,” he began. + +But Turgis refused to take him; he had taken him too often before; and +now he promptly escaped upstairs, to his own room. It is difficult for +a room to be both stuffy and cold, but this room contrived it somehow, +and offered you the choice, if you chose to interfere with it, of being +still stuffier or still colder. Turgis, who preferred stuffiness to +cold, lit the gas-fire, that tiny antique, which so deeply resented +being called into service again that it exploded with an indignant +bang and then wheezily complained every other second. After the last +breath of raw November had been driven out of the room, Turgis took off +his collar and his shoes and stretched himself out on the bed. First, +he read all the advertisements in his newspaper, which specialised +on Saturdays in the mail-order business. There was a whole page of +these advertisements, offering everything from Orientally perfumed +cigarettes to electric belts for rheumatism, and Turgis carefully read +them all. In public he pretended to be very knowing and cynical about +advertisements, but in private he was still their willing victim, and +nearly every shilling he spent, whether on clothes, drink, tobacco, +or amusement, was conjured out of his pocket by the richest and most +artful advertising managers. Perhaps that is why his suits bagged so +soon, his shoes soaked up the rain, his cigarettes shredded and split, +and his amusements failed to amuse. + +When he had done with the newspaper, he took from the mantelpiece +(and he could do this without getting up from the bed) the latest +issue of a twopenny periodical that was devoted to the films, though +more especially to the film actors with the longest eyelashes and the +actresses with the largest eyes. He spent the next half-hour staring +at the photographs in this paper and reading its scrappy paragraphs, +not with any particular enthusiasm. Turgis was not really a film +enthusiast. He knew nothing about camera angles and “cutting” and all +the intricacies of crowd work, and never in his life had he seriously +compared one film with another. He could laugh at the comic men with +the rest, but he did not fully appreciate the clowning on the screen, +simply because he had not a very strong sense of humour. No, what drew +him to the films was the fact that he and they had a common enthusiasm, +they had both a passionate interest in sex. In those dim sensuous +palaces, filled with throbbing music and shifting coloured lights, +Turgis the lover entered his dream kingdom. You could say that the +money he paid at their doors was silver tribute to Aphrodite, to whose +worship the Phœnicians of the Californian coast have built more temples +than ever the old Phœnicians of Cyprus did; and for a few moments, +as he sat in the steep darkened galleries, Turgis would be shaken and +then intoxicated by the golden presence of the goddess as she flashed +through with her train, Eros and the Hours and the Graces, though of +all that retinue only two remained with him, to see him home, Pothos +and Himeros, shapes of longing and yearning. + +The paper slipped from his fingers. His eyes closed; his jaw dropped +a little; and his head turned on the pillow, so that the light of +the gas-fire, now coming to life in the dwindling daylight, for the +window was no brighter than a slate, played faintly but rosily on his +features, the pleasant width of the brow, the nose that had missed +masterfulness, the round chin that fell away, and as his breathing grew +more regular and he slipped into unconsciousness, that light brought +something at once grotesque and sad, the red gleam and deep shadow of +some Gothic tragedy, into the little room. And for an hour or so Turgis +slept, while Saturday went rattling and roaring on, gathering momentum, +through the dark little abysses of brick and smoke outside, the streets +of London. + + +III + +The Turgis who came out of 9, Nathaniel Street, later that Saturday +afternoon, was quite different from the youth we have already met. He +was washed, brushed, conscientiously shaved, and he moved briskly. This +was for him the best time of all the week. Saturday sang in his heart. +If the Great Something ever happened, it would happen on Saturday. +The trams, buses, shops, bars, theatres, and picture palaces, they +all gleamed and glittered through the rich murk to-day for him. Even +now, Adventure--in high heels and silk stockings--might be moving his +way. He was making for the West End, for on Saturdays, especially the +alternate Saturdays when he received his pay, he despised Camden Town +and Islington and Finsbury Park, those little centres that broke the +desert of North London with oases of flashing lights and places of +entertainment. These were good enough in their way, but if you had a +few shillings to spend, the West was a great deal better, offering you +the real thing in giant teashops and picture theatres. For this was +his usual Saturday night programme, if he had the money: first, tea +at one of the big teashops, which were always crowded with girls and +always offered a chance of a pick-up; then a visit to one of the great +West End cinemas, in which, once inside, he could spin out the whole +evening, perhaps on the edge of adventure all the time. And this was +his programme for this night, too, though, of course, he was always +ready to modify it if anything happened in the teashop, if he found the +right sort of girl there and she wanted to do something else. + +At the very time he was setting out, hundreds and hundreds of girls, +girls with little powdered snub noses, wet crimson mouths, shrill +voices, and gleaming calves, were also setting out--nearly all of them, +unfortunately, in pairs--to carry out the very same programme. Turgis +knew this, or perhaps only a hunter’s instinct led him to where the +game were thickest; but he did not visualise them, luckily for him, +for the tantalising image would have driven him nearly to madness. But +there they were, tripping down innumerable dark steps, chirping and +laughing together in buses and trams without end, and making for the +same small area, the very same buildings, perhaps to jostle him as +they passed. It would have been easier for Turgis, as he knew only too +well, if he too had had a companion, to match all these pairs of girls, +but he had only a few acquaintances, no friends, and, in any event, he +preferred to hunt in solitude, to thread his way through the brilliant +jungle alone with his hunger and his dream. + +A bus took him to the West End, where, among the crazy coloured +fountains of illumination, shattering the blue dusk with green and +crimson fire, he found the café of his choice, a teashop that had gone +mad and turned Babylonian, a white palace with ten thousand lights. It +towered above the older buildings like a citadel, which indeed it was, +the outpost of a new age, perhaps a new civilisation, perhaps a new +barbarism; and behind the thin marble front were concrete and steel, +just as behind the careless profusion of luxury were millions of pence, +balanced to the last halfpenny. Somewhere in the background, hidden +away, behind the ten thousand lights and acres of white napery and +bewildering glittering rows of teapots, behind the thousand waitresses +and cashbox girls and black-coated floor managers and temperamental +long-haired violinists, behind the mounds of shimmering bonbons and +multi-coloured Viennese pastries, the cauldrons of stewed steak, the +vanloads of harlequin ices, were a few men who went to work juggling +with fractions of a farthing, who knew how many units of electricity +it took to finish a steak-and-kidney pudding and how many minutes and +seconds a waitress (five feet four in height and in average health) +would need to carry a tray of given weight from the kitchen lift to the +table in the far corner. In short, there was a warm, sensuous, vulgar +life flowering in the upper stories, and cold science working in the +basement. Such was the gigantic teashop into which Turgis marched, in +search not of mere refreshment but of all the enchantment of unfamiliar +luxury. Perhaps he knew in his heart that men have conquered half the +known world, looted whole kingdoms, and never arrived at such luxury. +The place was built for him. + +It was built for a great many other people too, and, as usual, they +were all there. It steamed with humanity. The marble entrance hall, +piled dizzily with bonbons and cakes, was as crowded and bustling as +a railway station. The gloom and grime of the streets, the raw air, +all November, were at once left behind, forgotten: the atmosphere +inside was golden, tropical, belonging to some high midsummer of +confectionery. Disdaining the lifts, Turgis, once more excited by the +sight, sound, and smell of it all, climbed the wide staircase until +he reached his favourite floor, where an orchestra, led by a young +Jewish violinist with wandering lustrous eyes and a passion for tremolo +effects, acted as a magnet to a thousand girls. The door was swung open +for him by a page; there burst, like a sugary bomb, the clatter of +cups, the shrill chatter of white-and-vermilion girls, and, cleaving +the golden, scented air, the sensuous clamour of the strings; and, as +he stood hesitating a moment, half dazed, there came, bowing, a sleek +grave man, older than he was and far more distinguished than he could +ever hope to be, who murmured deferentially: “For one, sir? This way, +please.” Shyly, yet proudly, Turgis followed him. + +That was the snag really, though. This place was so crowded that +you had to take the seat they offered you; there was no picking and +choosing your company at the table. And, as usual, Turgis was not +lucky. The vacant seat he was shown, and which he dare not refuse, +was at a table already occupied by three people, and not one of +them remotely resembled a nice-looking girl. There were two stout +middle-aged women, voluble, perspiring, and happy over cream buns, +and a middle-aged man, who no doubt had been of no great size even +before this expedition started, but was now very small and huddled, +and gave the impression that if the party stayed there much longer, +he would shrink to nothing but spectacles, a nose, a collar, and a +pair of boots. For the first few minutes, Turgis was so disappointed +that he was quite angry with these people, hated them. And of course +it was impossible to get hold of a waitress. After five minutes or so +of glaring and waiting, he began to wish he had gone somewhere else. +There was a pretty girl at the next table, but she was obviously with +her young man, and so fond of him that every now and then she clutched +his arm and held it tight, just as if the young man might be thinking +of running away. At another table, not far away, were three girls +together, two of whom looked very interesting, with saucy eyes and wide +smiling mouths, but they were too busy whispering and giggling to take +any notice of him. So Turgis suddenly stopped being a bright youth, +shooting amorous glances, and became a stern youth who wanted some tea, +who had gone there for no other purpose than to obtain some tea, who +was surprised and indignant because no tea was forthcoming. + +“And mindjew,” cried one of the middle-aged women to the other, “I +don’t bear malice ’cos it isn’t in my nature, as you’ll be the first to +agree, my dear. But when she let fly with that, I thought to meself, +‘All right, my lady, now this time you’ve gone a bit _too_ far. It’s my +turn.’ But mindjew, even then I didn’t say what I _could_ have said. +Not one word about Gravesend crossed my lips to her, though it was +there on the tip of my tongue.” + +Turgis looked at her with disgust. Silly old geezer! + +At last the waitress came. She was a girl with a nose so long and so +thickly powdered that a great deal of it looked as if it did not belong +to her, and she was tired, exasperated, and ready at any moment to be +snappy. She took the order--and it was for plaice and chips, tea, bread +and butter, and cakes: the great tea of the whole fortnight--without +any enthusiasm, but she returned in time to prevent Turgis from losing +any more temper. For the next twenty minutes, happily engaged in +grappling with this feast, he forgot all about girls, and when the +food was done and he was lingering over his third cup of tea and a +cigarette, though no possible girls came within sight, he felt dreamily +content. His mind swayed vaguely to the tune the orchestra was playing. +Adventure would come; and for the moment he was at ease, lingering on +its threshold. + +From this tropical plateau of tea and cakes, he descended into the +street, where the harsh night air suddenly smote him. The pavements +were all eyes and thick jostling bodies; at every corner, the newspaper +sellers cried out their football editions in wailing voices of the +doomed; cars went grinding and snarling and roaring past; and the +illuminated signs glittered and rocketed beneath the forgotten faded +stars. He arrived at his second destination, the Sovereign Picture +Theatre, which towered at the corner like a vast spangled wedding-cake +in stone. It might have been a twin of that great teashop he had just +left; and indeed it was; another frontier outpost of the new age. +Two Jews, born in Poland but now American citizens, had talked over +cigars and coffee on the loggia of a crazy Spanish-Italian-American +villa, within sight of the Pacific, and out of that talk (a very +quiet talk, for one of the two men was in considerable pain and knew +that he was dying inch by inch) there had sprouted this monster, +together with other monsters that had suddenly appeared in New York, +Paris, and Berlin. Across ten thousand miles, those two men had seen +the one-and-sixpence in Turgis’s pocket, and, with a swift gesture, +resolving itself magically into steel and concrete and carpets and +velvet-covered seats and pay-boxes, had set it in motion and diverted +it to themselves. + +He waited now to pay his one-and-sixpence, standing in the queue at +the balcony entrance. It was only a little after six and the Saturday +night rush had hardly begun, but soon there were at least a hundred +of them standing there. Near Turgis, on either side, the sexes were +neatly paired off. There were one or two middle-aged women but no +unaccompanied girl in sight in the whole queue. The evening was not +beginning too well. + +When at last they were admitted, they first walked through an enormous +entrance hall, richly tricked out in chocolate and gold, illuminated +by a huge central candelabra, a vast bunch of russet gold globes. +Footmen in chocolate and gold waved them towards the two great marble +balustrades, the wide staircases lit with more russet gold globes, the +prodigiously thick and opulent chocolate carpets, into which their feet +sank as if they were the feet of archdukes and duchesses. Up they went, +passing a chocolate and gold platoon or two and a portrait gallery of +film stars, whose eyelashes seemed to stand out from the walls like +stout black wires, until they reached a door that led them to the dim +summit of the balcony, which fell dizzily away in a scree of little +heads. It was an interval between pictures. Several searchlights were +focussed on an organ keyboard that looked like a tiny gilded box, far +below, and the organ itself was shaking out cascades of treacly sound, +so that the whole place trembled with sugary ecstasies. But while they +waited in the gangway, the lights faded out, the gilded box dimmed and +sank, the curtains parted to reveal the screen again, and an enormous +voice, as inhuman as that of a genie, announced that it would bring the +world’s news not only to their eyes but to their ears. + +“One? This way, sir,” and the attendant went down, flashing his light. +This was always an exciting moment for Turgis. He might find himself +next to some wonderful girl, as lonely as he was, who would talk to +him, squeeze his hand, let him take her home, and kiss him in the +darkness of some mysterious suburb. The great adventure might begin at +the end of that pointing pencil of light. On the other hand, he might +find himself miserably wedged in between two fat middle-aged people. It +was all a gamble, with the odds heavily against the wonderful girl, as +he knew too well. But still, there was always a chance, and he never +walked down these dark steps behind the electric torch without feeling +a mounting excitement. + +The light pointed along a row, and he followed it, pushing past a dozen +indignant knees. The last pair was very stubborn, and he negotiated +them without enthusiasm. He had no luck. Here, on one side of him was +the owner of the knees, an enormous woman, bulging over her seat, and +on the other was a man with a beard and a noisy pipe. And it was too +late to change his place now. Once again the miracle had not happened. +Gloomily he turned his attention to the news film, and not one single +inch or roar of it entertained him. It was followed by a comedy, all +about a lot of silly kids, and he sat there, steadily hating it. He +also hated the enormous woman, who laughed so much that great lumps of +her hit him on the shoulder. He decided, miserably, that he ought not +to have come to the Sovereign. Next time he would give the Sovereign a +miss. Stiff with fat women and men with stinking pipes, that’s what it +was--oh, cripes!--awful hole! And another Saturday night going, gone! + +Then came the film of the evening, the star feature, and Turgis soon +began to take an interest in it and found himself lifted out of his +gloom. It was a talkie called “The Glad-Rag Way,” and it was all about +a beautiful girl (and she was beautiful, for she was Lulu Castellar, +one of his favourites) who went to New York to dance in cabarets and +for a time forgot all about her sweetheart, a poor young inventor who +lived in the most dismal lodgings, like Turgis, but, unlike Turgis, +also contrived to have his hair exquisitely waved at regular intervals. +This beautiful girl behaved in the most foolish way. She accepted +presents from rich men with ugly leering mouths; she went out to supper +with them and got tipsy, as well she might, for the whole atmosphere +consisted sometimes of champagne bubbles; she attended parties, very +late at night, in their flats, and though the rooms in these flats +were three hundred feet long and two hundred feet broad, the parties +themselves were undoubtedly intimate affairs, at which a girl was able +to express herself by dancing on the table and throwing off some of +her clothes. Everything this girl wore, every movement she made, only +called the attention of these leering fellows to some part of her +ravishing figure; and even when she herself had stopped making eyes and +smiling at them and undulating round them, with a champagne glass in +her hand, her charming legs still insisted on claiming their notice. +It was obvious that at any moment these rich cads would make their +old mistake, they would assume that she was not a virtuous girl and +would act accordingly, to her astonishment and indignation and shame +at being so misunderstood, so treated. Meanwhile, the young inventor +had received a letter (and you heard him tear it open) asking him to +come to New York to meet three heavy men who had just been barking at +one another about him in the previous scene. It was, as he himself +admitted, his “beeg chaince.” + +His train was still roaring across the screen when Turgis, whose +interest had been thoroughly roused, heard a voice say “’Scuse me” and +saw a dim feminine shape that was obviously trying to get past. + +“’S’quite all right,” he said affably, withdrawing his knees to let her +pass. + +She dropped into the seat on his left, taking the place of the man with +the foul pipe, who must have crept out, towards the other gangway, +without Turgis noticing him. This girl who had just arrived was still +only a dim shape, but he felt sure she was young and pretty. + +“’Scuse me,” she whispered again, “but is this the big picture?” + +“Yes, it is,” he replied eagerly. + +“Has it been on long?” + +“No, not so long. It isn’t half through yet, I’m sure,” he told her, +trying to talk as if he were a confidential old friend. “I’ll bet the +best’s coming on.” + +“Well, I hope you’re right,” she said, settling herself in the rather +narrow seat and then giving her attention to the screen. + +A faint sweet whiff of scent had come his way. His senses did not wait +for any more evidence; they reported at once to his imagination, which +immediately dowered the vague dark figure beside him with all sweetness +and prettiness, not unlike that of Lulu Castellar, who was at the +moment absent from the screen, the young inventor, having arrived in +New York, being barked at by the three heavy men. Turgis took in all +that the film had to offer him, but now he was no longer lost in it; +he was living intensely in the tiny darkened space between him and the +girl. Instinctively, he edged a little her way. Their elbows touched +on the arm of the seat, and even that trifling contact sent a thrill +through him. A little later, his left leg encountered something at +once firm and soft, another leg, a beautifully rounded feminine leg, +and the two remained in contact. This, like the other, may have been +casual, but to Turgis the effect was electric. And then it chanced +that his hand, hanging loose by his side, touched another hand, which +was not withdrawn when it was touched again, this time deliberately. +The two hands now met fairly; they grasped one another, squeezed; +their fingers were intertwined; they sent and received messages in the +dark. Turgis could now regard the graceful antics of Lulu Castellar +with a benevolent detachment. The dream life of the screen was nothing +compared with the pulsating real life of those contacts in the warm +gloom, those little pressures and squeezes that were signals from that +other enchanted world. He did not try to talk to her again. That would +come later. He said nothing, hardly looked her way, afraid lest he +should break the spell. + +When the film ended and a kind of soft russet dawn broke as the screen +disappeared behind the curtains, they moved away from one another, and +he did not even catch a glimpse of her face. A great many people went +out, and a great many others came in, but they were not disturbed. +Then the curtains moved again; a soft russet twilight came, only to +fade into darkness; and the programme artfully continued. But would +this other and far more exciting programme continue? His heart bounded +in the new darkness. He leaned towards her again; she did not evade +him; and hand clasped hand again, stickily perhaps now but still +exquisitely, thrillingly. Turgis had not been so happy for months. + +It was not until the young inventor’s train to New York was again +roaring across the screen, after the programme had gone round its full +circle, that the girl loosened her hand and began to put on her gloves. +Turgis had been waiting for this moment for some time. When she rose, +he rose too; and she followed him past the indignant knees and up the +stairs. It was when they reached the exit steps, descending into the +real world, that he turned and spoke to her. And he knew instinctively +that they were not now the two people who had been holding hands for so +long in the darkness inside; those two intimates were ghosts now; these +two on the steps, in the light, were strangers and would have to begin +over again. When he spoke he acted upon this instinctive or intuitive +knowledge. + +“How did you like the picture then?” he asked, casually. + +“I didn’t think it was so very good,” she replied, just as casually. +“I don’t like that Lulu Castellar. Pulls herself about a bit too much, +she does, if you ask me. Might as well have Saint Vitus’ dance and have +done with it. Do you like her?” + +“Oh--I dunno--she’s all right,” he muttered. He was recovering from a +horrible shock. This girl was not pretty at all, not even reasonably +good-looking. She was years older than he was, and she was hideous. +He had just caught sight of her face properly for the first time. Her +nose was all twisted and she had a bit of a squint. She was thirty if +she was a day. Oh, hell--what a wash-out! She was still talking, but +he could not bother listening to what she was saying. Sheer vexation +made his eyes smart. He kept pace with her down the steps, mumbling an +occasional “Yes” and “No,” but somewhere inside him was a hot little +angry man who screamed and cursed at everything. + +“Well,” she said, when they reached the bottom door, “I’ve got my +sister to meet, so I’ll say good-night to you.” + +“Good-night,” said Turgis miserably. + +Saturday night was roaring away outside, but for him the heart had gone +out of it. He walked on mechanically, so sorry for himself, so angry +with everything, that he could have cried. His head ached from being +in that rotten balcony so long. There were queer aches in his body +too. Where could he go now? Nowhere worth going to. If you had plenty +of money, evening dress and all that, you could go to restaurants and +night clubs and dance with beautiful girls with fine bare arms. But he +wasn’t in that seam. He’d no evening dress; no money; and anyhow he +couldn’t dance. He couldn’t do anything. No, perhaps he couldn’t, but +he was as good as most of those fat rotten blighters who had the money, +who just went chucking it away while he had to count every penny. Look +at that lot in the big car, with their fur coats and diamonds and white +shirt fronts, probably going somewhere to dance and get boozed up and +God knows what before they’d finished! Swine! He was as good as them +any day. And better--he did do some work. What did they do? It was +enough to make any chap turn Bolshie. He didn’t like the other chap who +lodged at Mrs. Pelumpton’s very much; Park was a dreary, unfriendly +sort of devil, and a Sheeny at that; but he didn’t blame Park for +turning Bolshie. For two pins, he’d turn Bolshie, too. Yes, but what +was the good of that? + +All this time he had been walking on and on, through a Saturday night +with the bottom dropped out of it, and now had left the spangled West +End behind him. He stopped at a coffee stall, where several fools +were arguing about nothing as usual, and had two buns and a cup of +coffee--poor stuff it was too, too sweet and nearly cold. As he turned +his back to the counter, he saw a girl, a really nice kid with a red +hat and big dark eyes, smiling in his direction, and he smiled back at +her hopefully, but then he saw her eyes move slightly and the smile +instantly vanish. She had not been looking at him before, when she +smiled; she had been looking at the chap standing next to him, who was +ordering two coffees. And what a chap to be out with, to be smiling at! +If that’s what she wanted, she could have him. One vast sneer, Turgis +moved away, and boarded the first bus he found that would take him to +Camden Town, back to Nathaniel Street with the ruins of his evening. + +“’Ad a good time, boy?” said Mr. Pelumpton, now mellow with beer, +as Turgis looked into the back room. “That’sh the way. Yersh. Enjoy +yershelf while you’re young, I shay, and while you _can_ enjoy +yershelf. I did when I wash your age an’ don’t ferget it, boy.” Here +Mr. Pelumpton chuckled and then coughed. “I ’ad a good time and nobody +could shtop me ’aving one.” + +“What’s this about you and your good times?” said his wife, popping out +from nowhere. + +“I’m jusht telling our friend ’ere that I don’t blame him for enjoying +himshelf while he’sh young, ’cosh I did the shame thing when I wash +young.” + +“Ar, you was a wicked devil you was,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, with +reluctant admiration. + +“Oh dear, oh dear!” Mr. Pelumpton chuckled. “Lishen to that. Ar well, +boy, I don’t blame yer. Good old Shaturday night. I’ve ’ad ’em. I know.” + +“I’ll bet you never had, you silly old fathead,” Turgis muttered under +his breath. + +“Only jusht remember thish, boy. Don’d overdo it, that’sh all. Don’d +overdo it. You’re only young wunsh. Enjoy yershelf, if yer like, but +don’d overdo it.” + +Turgis looked at him in disgust. “Good-night all,” he said, mournfully, +and climbed the chilling stairs to his room. + +So much for Saturday. + + +IV + +Sunday was fine, that is, there was no rain, sleet, or snow falling. +There was also very little sunlight falling, and the streets of Camden +Town and Kentish Town were like echoing slatey tunnels. Turgis saw +them when he went out to buy a paper and a packet of cigarettes, and +as usual he disliked the look of them. They were not very cheerful on +a weekday, but they were a pantomime and a bean feast then compared +with what they were on Sunday. It was on Sunday that Turgis felt his +loneliness most keenly. + +It must be admitted, though, that on this particular Sunday morning +he had received and refused two invitations. The first was from Mr. +Pelumpton, who had decided that he must pay a visit to Petticoat +Lane--“jusht to shee ’ow the shtuff’s goin’,” he said, with an +impressive professional air. He had suggested, with some condescension, +that Turgis might like to go with him. Turgis had promptly declined. +He had been to Petticoat Lane before, and he saw quite enough of old +Pelumpton in Nathaniel Street and had no desire to go to Whitechapel +with him, merely to provide him with a listener and some free beer. + +The other invitation came from his fellow lodger, Park, the Bolshie. +Park, a neat dark Jewy sort of chap, quiet and civil enough but with +something machine-like and vaguely menacing about him, just as if he +was not quite human, worked in the printing trade and apparently had +to go at all hours, so that Turgis hardly ever saw him. Moreover, +he was a tremendous communist worker, for ever attending meetings +and conferences and addressing envelopes to distant comrades and +circulating what seemed to Turgis, who had inspected it, some terribly +dreary literature. The two young men did not like each other very much, +but Park always saw in Turgis, who had the depressed look of a faintly +class-conscious proletarian, a possible convert. Hence the invitation, +which this time was for some communist affair, a meeting or two and +coffee and cake for the comrades, somewhere out at Stratford or West +Ham. Turgis turned it down, though not ungraciously, for though he did +not care much for Park, he had a vague kind of respect for him. But he +did not see himself with the comrades. Perhaps the real reason was that +he could not imagine any girls, real nice girls, not glaring female +comrades, in the picture. He did not tell Park so, did not even admit +it to himself; and when Park, with the drab innocence of his kind, +accused him of being a timid slave of the bourgeois classes, a would-be +bourgeois himself, he had no defence but a grin and a jeering noise. + +The paper kept him amused until dinner time. After dinner he went for a +walk, which chiefly consisted of penny bus rides. They finally landed +him, as they had landed a few thousand other people, at the Marble Arch +corner of Hyde Park, where the Sunday orators congregate. Turgis often +visited this forum and listened to the orators. He had no intellectual +curiosity and never really attended to the arguments, such as they +were, but he had a sort of genial contempt for the speakers that was +a warming, comforting feeling. He felt that they were a great deal +sillier than he was, and that was pleasant. Moreover, any leisurely +crowd always had an attraction for him, because there was always a +chance that there might be, somewhere in the middle of it, bored and +lonely, a wonderful girl who would suddenly smile back at him. + +He drifted from speaker to speaker with the crowd, which was largely +composed of youths like himself, all feeling pleasantly superior, with +a sprinkling of aggressive dialecticians and religious and political +fanatics. There was a fantastic old man in a greenish frock coat who +banged a large chart and talked in a high sing-song that left five +words out of six quite unintelligible. His subject--of all things--was +shorthand. Turgis stared at him for a minute or two, concluded that he +was mad, and moved on. The next meeting, a large one, was political, +and the only words Turgis caught--“What about Russia, where your +socialism, my friends, has been put into practice?”--drove him away at +once. Then there was a tiny group of people round a harmonium, played +by a young man with bulging eyes and a straggling beard. They were +drearily singing a hymn, and nobody was taking any notice of them. +Next to them, one of those involved discussions, typical of the place, +was in heated progress, and the audience, in its own ironical fashion, +was enjoying it. All that Turgis, at the back, could hear was the +speaker himself, a young man with spectacles and long yellow hair who +had something to do with the Catholic Church, who kept crying: “One +mewment, my friend, just one mewment! Kindly allow me to speak. Yes, +yes, but one mewment! You have asked me if I would considah such a +person insane. Now, one mewment!” Turgis lingered for some time at this +meeting. There were one or two nice girls in the crowd, but not one of +them was by herself. It was no good. He would have to find a pal. + +The speaker on the right was being heckled by a woman who looked rather +like Mrs. Pelumpton. He was an elderly man, dressed in an old-fashioned +black suit, and he was shaking a Bible almost in her face. “Well, what +do Ah do?” he cried, his eyes gleaming. “Ah turn once mo-ore to the +graa-aate Boo-ook. Yes, Ah’ve a Bahble text for tha-at.” Turgis did not +learn what the text was, for there came a tremendous bellow from this +man’s neighbour, a dirty little fellow with a broad flat nose and an +india rubber mouth, who looked like a nasty compromise between Hoxton +and Manchuria. “What is thee yighest idee-al of thee yole universe, my +friends?” he was screaming, in a lather of oratory. “I’ll tell you. +Thee yighest idee-al of thee yole universe is Man--Man.” And he thumped +himself on the chest. Turgis did not like the look of him at all. +He also did not like the look of the Salvation Army lasses who were +conducting the service on the other side. They were all so pimply. They +looked as if they were always eating things that disagreed with them. + +Next to the Army was a bony, shabby chap, a Bolshie, possibly one +of Park’s pals. Turgis had heard him before, and only stayed long +enough to make sure that he was on the same tack. He was. “Noo where +did communism firrst appearr, ma frien’s?” he was asking. “Noat in +Russia--oh no! Noat in England--oh no! Noat in Frrance--oh no! Bu’ in +Grreece, ma frien’s, in ancient Grreece, where a mon called Playto +wrote a buik called _The Repuiblic_. Yes, Ah know that this mon should +rightly be called Plarto, but if Ah said Plarto, Ah know everybody +would be staring at it an’ wondering who this Plarto was, so Ah call +him Playto. An’ he was the firrst communist.” It was like listening +to a Scots comedian who had gone sour. Turgis moved on, passing with +the merest glance a very tiny group that everybody had ignored. There +were three of them, two bearded and bare-headed men and a faded woman, +and they were standing close together, apparently praying. Nobody was +taking any notice of them, except a battered and boosy old actor (he +recited a sort of story that introduced the names of all the successful +plays running at the time, and Turgis knew him of old) who was waiting +to claim the pitch. Why did these people come here? Who were they? What +did they do at home? Once more, Turgis concluded they were all mad, +but this time the thought did not give him any pleasant feeling of +superiority. It depressed him. Suppose he was suddenly taken that way! + +But there were roars of laughter coming from the crowd on the right, +and above it Turgis recognised another familiar figure, an atheist +chap, and quite a turn too. He was a fat young man, with a glittering +squint and a nose so resolutely turned up that it could be described +as a snout; and he had a very self-confident perky manner and a shrill +voice. Turgis edged himself into the audience. “Now, where was Oi? +Losing me plice, wasn’t Oi?” he cried humorously. “Ow, Oi know. Fish on +Froiday, thet was it. Whoi dew the Catholics eat fish on Froiday? They +down’t know. They down’t--strite! Yew arsk ’em an’ see. They down’t +know. But Oi know.” Here the crowd roared its approval. “It’s in nonner +of the old goddess, Froiyer, goddess of plenty. Froiyer--Froiday--see? +Thet’s whoi they eat fish on Froiday. It is--strite.” The crowd roared +again. “Then there’s the Trinity. What’s thet? Yew arsk ’em. They +down’t know. They’re not allowed to talk about it. Whoi? Tew sycred. +Thet’s what they’ll tell you--tew sycred. Secret and sycred--come from +the sime root--mean the sime thing. They do--strite!” His audience did +not care very much if secret and sacred did come from the same root, +but it thoroughly approved of the piggy young man. And Turgis shared +the general delight. + +By the time he had returned down the line of speakers to the place +where the old shorthand enthusiast had been (his pitch had been taken +by a Christadelphian evangelist, a burly red-faced fellow who looked +like a bookie), it was nearly dark and he found himself thinking about +tea. He left the park, and walked along Oxford Street. Every teashop +he came to was crammed. People were eating and drinking almost in one +another’s laps. And already there were queues for the pictures. “If +they’ve got homes to go to,” Turgis told himself, “why don’t they go +to ’em.” He was sick of them. They were no good to him, these jumbles +of faces. Finally, in somewhat low spirits, he found a place just off +Oxford Street, one of those humble teashops with tall urns or geysers +on the counter, a slatternly girl in attendance, a taxi-driver or two +sitting at the first table and three Italians sitting at the back. He +had a poor tea and it cost him fourpence-halfpenny more than he thought +it would. When he went out again, it was drizzling, and miserably cold +and damp. The queues for the pictures were enormous. All the cheaper +seats were probably filled for the night. + +He crossed Oxford Street and, without thinking where he was going, +cut into the streets to the north of it. In one of these, a number of +people, mostly women, were hurrying up some lighted steps. A notice +informed him that the Higher Thought Alliance, London Circle, was +meeting in that hall, to hear a lecture by Mr. Frank Dadds of Los +Angeles, and that admission was free and that all would be heartily +welcome. He lingered on the steps, where he was sheltered from the +thickening drizzle, and wondered whether to go in or not. Now and +again, on Sundays, he looked in at various services and meetings +(though he had never tried the Higher Thought Alliance before, and had +never heard of it), partly for want of something better to do, and +partly because he always hoped he might strike up an acquaintance with +a girl there, perhaps share the same hymn-book or programme. As he +was hesitating, a large middle-aged woman in a fur coat, who had been +fussing about in the entrance, noticed him and said: “Do come inside. +Everybody is welcome.” So he shook the raindrops from his overcoat, +clutched at his hat, and, shyly, awkwardly, with his mouth wide open, +he entered the hall. There, of course, before he had time to look round +and see if there were any vacant seats near any nice-looking girls, +an officious little man insisted on showing him to a seat. There were +only about four men in the hall, but about two or three hundred women, +mostly middle-aged and very dull. His own uncomfortable cane chair was +between two of the dullest. On the platform, two women with short grey +hair and a strained, gulping sort of expression, played the violin and +the piano, and went on playing for the next ten minutes. Turgis began +to feel sorry he had come, even though the place was warm and dry and +the affair would not cost him anything. + +Then the middle-aged woman in the fur coat, who had spoken to him +outside, mounted the platform, and announced that they would begin +with a hymn. It was not an ordinary sort of hymn--even Turgis could +see that--and unfortunately nobody seemed to know the tune. Even the +violinist had some difficulty in arriving at it. When the hymn finally +trailed away into silence, they all remained standing, and then the +woman in the fur coat said: “We affirm health, which is man’s divine +inheritance. Man’s body is his holy temple,” and everybody else, except +Turgis, looked down at slips of paper and repeated it after her: “We +affirm health, which is man’s divine inheritance. Man’s body is his +holy temple.” Several of the people near Turgis had some trouble in +affirming this, because they were interrupted by fits of coughing, but +they did their best. After that, they affirmed all sorts of things, +divine love and power and truth and a general sort of oneness in the +universe. Then they sat down, and nothing happened for a minute or two, +during which time the universe had an opportunity of taking stock of +their attitude towards it. Turgis was bewildered and not too happy, for +the chair was very uncomfortable and his feet were cold. + +He did not listen to what the woman in the fur coat said when she began +talking again. She seemed to be reading a poem by a friend of hers, and +then leaving a thought with them all. Turgis heard this remark because +she repeated it several times and looked straight at him, the last +time she said it. “And I’ll just leave that great thought with you,” +she cried, and stared hard at Turgis, who felt embarrassed. The next +moment, the two women with short grey hair were playing the violin and +piano like mad, and the fussy little man and two others were rushing +round with collection boxes. Two hundred and fifty women dived into +handbags and then sat bolt upright, trying to look as if they did not +know that their right hands were all clutching sixpences. Turgis left +his pocket alone, and when the collection box came his way, he gave it +a mysterious shake and then passed it on very quickly. + +“A few minutes’ silent meditation,” the woman in the fur coat +announced, composing her face meditatively. All the other women +composed their faces meditatively too, and then looked down at their +shoes. Turgis looked down at his, and noticed that one of them was +splitting at the side. He wanted to waggle his toes to warm his feet, +but if he began waggling, the shoe might split still more. They were +rotten shoes. Everything he ever bought always turned out to be rotten. +He was always being taken in. What he ought to buy was a pair of good +thick Army boots; there were still some about in those ex-government +stores shops; and they were cheap and they would last. But there again, +what was a girl going to think of him if she found him clumping about +in boots like a navvy’s? What girl, though? “Where d’you get your +girls from?” he asked himself, with a sneer. There was a rustle and a +shuffle: the silent meditation was over. + +“And I’m sure Mr. Frank Dadds needs no introduction from me,” the woman +in the fur coat was saying. “We are delighted to have him here with us +again. We remember the inspiring talks he gave us last time, and we +realise that we have a treat in store.” And there was an appreciative +murmur. + +Mr. Frank Dadds of Los Angeles suddenly shot up as the woman in the +fur coat sat down. He was a tallish, fattish, fairish American in a +light brown suit and a pink tie. He clasped his hands, then rubbed +them together. He smiled at them all. He was obviously at home in the +universe, and filled with divine love and power and truth and a general +sort of oneness. Even Turgis was impressed by him, and all the women +sat up and gazed at him with adoration. Then Mr. Frank Dadds burst into +speech. + +“My friends,” he began, without any hesitation, “the title of my +lecture this evening is Understanding and Yew. Let me commence +by talking about Yew, jast Yew. Perhaps yew don’t think much of +yourselves. Life doesn’t seem to yew to offer very much. There are +people--and there may be some of them here with us to-night--who jast +haven’t got livingness. They think that life is always jast the same +old thing. They can even talk of killing time. Killing time!--when +every noo moment of time is diamonded with the greatest passibilities +of lahv and trewth and bewdy. Once we have got livingness--once we have +got understainding--once we are in toon with the in-fy-nyte--then there +is a power within us, yes, within every one of us, that can cree-ate +the world anoo. Our external selves can easily be fladdered. It is easy +to make too much of what we’ve done. But it is com-pletely im-passible +for any words--no matter if the greatest poets utter those words--to +fladder what we have within us, our po-tentialities in baddy, mind, +and spirrut. We’ve got to get rid of what some people like to call +our in-feriority camplexes. We’ve got to realise that power within +us. That doesn’t mean--as some people seem to think--that we should +develap sooperiority camplexes. And why? Bee-cause, as Noo Thought +shows us, there is a Oneness in the Universe and we are all united in +that Oneness. It isn’t jast the potes who sing lahv songs. The whole +Universe sings a lahv song. The whole Universe _is_ a lahv song. If it +isn’t, the very atoms of which we are composed would disintegrate. I +tell you, my friends, there is radiant health, there is power, there +is wanderful bewdy, there is lahv, all without stint, without measure, +eternal, awaiting all of us, and if we only open our eyes, find the +way, develap understainding, get in toon, get livingness, there is not +only a heaven above but a heaven here upon earth ...” + +For some twenty-five minutes more, the voice went sounding on, offering +them radiant health, power, truth, beauty, and love, without ever once +faltering. Turgis could not understand it all, but he listened in a +happy dream, forgetting that his chair was uncomfortable and his feet +were cold. He realised that he had only to do something or other, get +this livingness and oneness and understanding, just turn a corner, and +everything would be different, everything would be marvellous. Vaguely +he saw himself trim and sleek, with evening clothes, a huge overcoat, +white trousers for summer, money in his pocket, money in the bank, an +office of his own perhaps, a flat with shaded lights and big chairs +and a gramophone and a wireless set, even a car, and by his side, +worshipping him, the loveliest and kindest of girls. It was wonderful. + +“Come again, young man,” said the fussy little man, at the door. +“Always glad to see you here.” + +“Thank you very much,” said Turgis earnestly, still glowing. + +And then, somehow, outside in the wet streets, among the black figures +hurrying home, it all went. Angrily he tried to recapture the glow and +the dream, but they would not return. Inside the steaming bus, swaying +with the strap he held, he found there was nothing left. He did not +know how to get understanding or livingness or oneness or any of those +things, could not even imagine what they were. Neither radiant health +nor power, truth nor beauty, was coming his way. As for love, well, +he had better chuck thinking about it. There was a girl standing next +to him, not a bad sort of girl, but every time the bus went swaying +round a corner, he bumped into her, not hurting her but just gently +bumping into her. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, but the third time it +happened, she drew back and looked daggers at him--silly little idiot! +Oh, yes, the universe was a love song all right! + +Park was having a cup of tea and a bite of bread-and-butter with Mrs. +Pelumpton in the back room when he got back, and he joined them, +telling them where he had been and what he had heard. + +“Dope, my friend, that’s all you’ve had,” said Park contemptuously, +“nothing but dope! Comes from America, doesn’t it? Yes, and why? +Because the masses there have got to be doped, that’s why. You come +with me next time and you’ll hear something that’ll open your eyes a +bit; no dope, but the real thing. What’s the matter with you, Turgis, +is that you don’t see how your leg’s being pulled, you’re not properly +class-conscious yet.” + +Turgis disliked this contemptuous tone. “Are you +what-is-it--class-conscious, Park?” he asked. + +“Yes, I am.” + +“Well, you can have it,” Turgis retorted, in a voice that told Park +pretty plainly that he was a dreary devil. + +“All right then, my friend, all right. I will have it. And you keep on +with the dope.” + +“I don’t want any dope. Don’t believe in it.” + +“Well, what do you want, then?” demanded Park, who thought he saw in +this a chance of a fine long argument. + +“I dunno,” said Turgis, finishing his tea. “Yes, I do, though. I want +to go to bed.” + +“That’s right,” said Mrs. Pelumpton approvingly. “Bed. You couldn’t +go to a better place. I’m sure I’m ready for mine. We’re all in now, +except Edgar, and I’m not waiting for him.” + +And then all that was left of Sunday was a walk upstairs. + + +V + +Then, the very next day, on Monday of all days, it happened. It +happened in the afternoon. Somebody came in, and, as Stanley was out, +Turgis dashed to the other side of the frosted glass partition to see +who it was. There, like a being from another world, stood a girl all in +bright green, a girl with large brown eyes, the most impudent little +nose, and a smiling scarlet mouth, the prettiest girl he had ever seen. + +“Good afternoon. Is my father here, please?” She had a queer, +fascinating voice. + +“Your father?” + +“Yes. Mr. Golspie. This is the place, isn’t it? He told me to call for +him here.” + +“Oh, yes, he is, Miss--Miss Golspie,” cried Turgis eagerly, his eyes +devouring her all the time. “He’s in that room there. But I think +there’s somebody with him. Shall I tell him you’re here?” + +“You needn’t yet if he’s busy with somebody,” said the glorious +creature, smiling at him. “I can wait.” + +“I can tell him now, if you like.” He was trembling with eagerness to +help, to serve. + +“No, it doesn’t matter. I know he hates being interrupted. I’ll wait +for him. I don’t suppose he’ll be long, will he?” + +“I’m sure he won’t,” he told her fervently. “Will you wait here or in +the office? It’s warmer in the office.” + +“This will do,” and she made a movement towards the chair. + +“Excuse me, Miss Golspie.” He brought it stumbling out somehow, and at +the same time he dusted the seat of the chair with his handkerchief. +“It--it--might be dirty, y’know.” + +She looked him full in the eyes, deliciously, drowning him in +sweetness, and then smiled. “Thank you. I’d hate to spoil my new coat. +Everything looks a bit grimy here, doesn’t it? It’s such a frightfully +dark place, too, isn’t it?” + +He supposed it was, and tried to imagine her walking up Angel Pavement +outside. He still lingered. “Is there anything else,” he began vaguely, +hovering, adoring her. + +“Quite happy, thanks.” + +There was no excuse possible to stay a moment longer. Reluctantly he +returned to his desk, with his heart swelling with excitement. The +others looked at him inquiringly, but he pretended to be busy with +something. He did not even want to explain about a girl like that. +He wanted to keep the very thought of her being there to himself. +Meanwhile, he was determined to listen hard. The moment that he heard +Mr. Golspie’s visitor going, he would rush out, tell Mr. Golspie she +was there, and thus see her again. + +But he was not able to manage it. Mr. Golspie must have shown his +visitor out, for immediately after the door was opened, Turgis heard +Mr. Golspie’s voice booming behind the partition. “Hello, Lena girl!” +he heard him say. “Forgotten about you coming. Won’t keep you a minute.” + +Mr. Golspie then came into the office. “I’ve got to go out,” he told +Mr. Smeeth, “and I shan’t be coming back to-day. Be in about eleven +in the morning though, if anybody wants me. Mr. Dersingham’ll be back +to-morrow afternoon, if anybody wants him. And I say, what’s your +name--Turgis----” + +“Yes, sir,” replied Turgis smartly. + +“Get hold of the Anglo-Baltic--Mr. Borstein, nobody else, mind, Mr. +Borstein--and tell him from me that if we’ve any more delays like that +with the stuff, there’s going to be heap big trouble. They said they +wouldn’t let us down, and they’re letting us down like hell. And you +can tell him that from me.” + +“Yes, sir, I will. Did you say Mr. Borstein?” And Turgis stared at +Miss Lena Golspie’s father, at his massive bald front, at his great +moustache, at his big square shoulders. Mr. Golspie had never seemed an +ordinary man, but now he had for Turgis the power and fascination of a +demi-god. Already his very name spelt sweetness and wonder. + +“That’s the chap,” Mr. Golspie grunted. “Afternoon, everybody.” And he +departed. + +“That was Mr. Golspie’s daughter then who came to the door, was it?” +said Mr. Smeeth. + +“His daughter, eh?” Miss Matfield raised her eyebrows, then looked at +Turgis, and said casually: “What was she like? Pretty?” + +“Yes,” Turgis mumbled, “she was.” And he would say no more. He was not +going to talk about her. He preferred to think about her. Lena Golspie. + +Then, with something like amorous urgency, he went to the telephone, +rang up the Anglo-Baltic, and sternly demanded Mr. Borstein. He would +tell Mr. Borstein something! He would show him whether he could let +them down like hell! Lena Golspie. Lena Golspie. Lena, Lena, Lena. +“Hello, is that Mr. Borstein? This is Twigg and Dersingham. Yes, Twigg +and Dersingham. Mr. Golspie asked me to ring you up--Mr. Gols-pie, Mr. +Gol-spie ...” Lena’s father. Lena, Lena, Lena. + + + + +_Chapter Five_: MISS MATFIELD WONDERS + + +I + +Mr. Golspie took the typewritten sheets from Miss Matfield and then +spread them out on her table. “All six letters alike, eh? That’s the +style, Miss Matfield. Hello, is this exactly what I said?” + +“As a matter of fact, it isn’t.” And Miss Matfield raised her eyes and +gave him a steady level glance. + +“As a matter of fact, it isn’t, eh? Then what is it, as a matter of +fact? Just a little improvement, eh?” + +Miss Matfield coloured slightly. “Well, if you want to know, Mr. +Golspie, all I’ve done is to change _was_ into _were_ twice, simply for +the sake of making it more grammatical. That’s all.” + +“Half a minute, half a minute,” Mr. Golspie boomed at her. “Not more +grammatical. Just grammatical. You made it grammatical when before it +wasn’t grammatical. Either it’s grammatical or it isn’t, d’you see? And +now I’m being more grammatical, eh?” He guffawed, suddenly, dreadfully. + +“I don’t pretend to be particularly marvellous about grammar,” she +replied, trying to be severe, “but I do happen to know when to use +_was_ and when to use _were_. It’s one of the few things they taught +me. And so I thought you wouldn’t object if I changed them.” + +“Much obliged.” He regarded her amiably. “By the way, what is it you do +pretend to be particularly marvellous at?” + +“Does that matter?” This in her best haughty manner. Everybody in the +office knew it and respected it. + +But Mr. Golspie only gave her a friendly leer. “Of course it matters,” +he declared heartily. “Now I like to know these things. Take me. I +used to play a good game at billiards, and I can still play poker with +the best, bridge, too. Oh, and I can crack walnuts between my finger +and thumb--fact!” He held up a very large thick hairy finger and thumb +that matched it. “And that’s not all either. Still--we are a bit busy, +aren’t we?” + +“I am.” Miss Matfield looked at her typewriter. + +“And so,” he continued cheerfully, “for the time being, we’ll say it +doesn’t matter. I’ll take these nice grammatical letters away with me. +You’ve addressed the envelopes, have you? Right.” He turned his broad +back on her, gave Mr. Smeeth a wink, whistled softly, and departed for +the private office. + +Miss Matfield drew her full lower lip between her teeth and frowned at +her typewriter. As usual, she was left with a vague sense of defeat. It +was, of course, the man’s insensitiveness--and she saw again that large +thick hairy finger--that made him so difficult to snub. Nobody else in +the office had dared to talk to her as he did, not after she had spent +her first hour in the building. It was a nuisance, not being able to +put him in his place, as Mr. Dersingham, Mr. Smeeth, and the others +had been put in _their_ places. It was annoying to think that the very +next time he spoke to her he would probably talk in the same strain, +not altogether an unfriendly strain, but disrespectful, jeering, +humiliating in a fashion. She could not really stand up to it, but +found herself wanting to lower her eyes, turn her head away, and almost +retreat in maidenly blushes--oh, gosh! Lilian Matfield feeling like +that! How her friends would howl if they knew! Yet she didn’t really +dislike him, not now. + +A little later, when they were clearing up for the night, she was +presented with this problem of Mr. Golspie again by some artless +questions from the little Sellers girl, who still treated Miss Matfield +with great deference and thus was still in favour. + +“He’s funny, isn’t he?” said Miss Sellers, referring to Mr. Golspie. + +“A bit weird.” + +“I wish you’d tell me, Miss Matfield,” Miss Sellers continued, +earnestly and deferentially, “d’you reelly _like_ him?” + +Miss Matfield raised her thick black brows and produced a long _mmm_ +sound that went up and then down again. Having gone through this little +performance, she said, “Do you?” + +“Well,” said Miss Sellers, wrinkling her little nose in an agony of +mental effort, “I do an’ I don’t--if you see what I mean.” + +Miss Matfield knew exactly what she meant, but did not say so. She +merely gave the other girl an encouraging glance. + +“Sometimes I think he’s nice,” Miss Sellers went on, staring at +nothing, “an’ sometimes I don’t like him a bit. Not that he ever says +anything or does anything, y’know--course I don’t see as much of him as +you do, Miss Matfield--but sometimes I catch a crool look----” + +“A what?” + +Miss Sellers’ voice had dropped to a whisper. “A crool look,” she +repeated, her eyes enormous. “An’ a reel nasty tone of voice he’s +got too, sometimes. And then I think ‘Well, I don’t like you, and I +wouldn’t like to cross your path, that I wouldn’t.’ And then the next +time, he’s as nice as anything. But I don’t like him as much as I +like Mr. Dersingham. Do you, Miss Matfield? Mr. Dersingham’s a reel +gentleman, isn’t he? I like him best.” + +“I don’t.” This came in a hoarse whisper. It was from Stanley, who, +free from his letter-copying for a minute, had quietly joined them. + +“Now who asked you your opinion?” Miss Sellers demanded. “You go away.” + +“I like Mr. Golspie best,” said Stanley, contriving to introduce an +enthusiastic note into his hoarse whisper. “An’ I’ll tell you why. He’s +what they call a man’s man. I’ll bet he’s had advenshers.” + +“You an’ your advenshers!” Miss Sellers was very contemptuous. “What +d’you know about it?” + +“I’ve heard things, I have,” said Stanley, very slowly and impressively. + +“What have you heard?” + +“Shan’t tell you.” + +“No, because you’ve got nothing to tell. You run away and get your work +done, little boy.” + +“I’m as big as you are.” + +“Cheeky! Here, you want to go an’ shadder a few manners the next time +you go shaddering,” Miss Sellers jeered, singling out, with feminine +swiftness and accuracy, the weak joint in the other’s armour. + +“Huh! Shan’t learn ’em from you.” + +“Oh, be quiet, the pair of you,” cried Miss Matfield, and began +tidying her table. Nothing more was said about Mr. Golspie, but on +her way home Miss Matfield could not help thinking about him. She +always had a book with her for the journey on the 13 bus to and from +the office, but the jogging and the crowding and the changing lights +did not make reading easy, especially on the return journey to West +Hampstead, and frequently she spent more time with her own thoughts +than she did with those of her author. On this particular evening Mr. +Golspie claimed her attention, almost to the exclusion of anybody or +anything else. She could not make up her mind about him, had no label +or pigeonhole ready for him, and this annoyed her, for she liked to +know exactly what she felt and thought about people; to be able to +dismiss them in a phrase. The fact that Mr. Golspie spoke to her every +day, if only for a few minutes, gave her work to do, was sufficient +to make her anxious to determine her attitude towards him. Men, with +their thick skins and yawning indifference, might be able to work with +people for years and not know or care anything about them as persons, +but this drab stuff about “governors” and “colleagues” could find no +place to stay in Miss Matfield’s mind. In the talk among the girls +at the Club, all the men who dictated letters to them became immense +characters, comic, grotesquely villainous, or heroic and adorable. +Their femininity, frozen for a few hours every day at the keyboard of +their machines, thawed and gushed out in these perfervid personalities. +Behind their lowered eyes, their demure expressions, as they sat with +their notebooks on hard little office chairs, these comic and romantic +legends buzzed and sang, to be released later in the dining-room, the +lounge, the tiny bedrooms, of the Club. Thus, something had to be done +about Mr. Golspie, who would have appeared to most of the girls, as +Miss Matfield knew only too well, a gigantic find, a mine of glittering +material. So far he had merely passed as “weird,” but that would not +do. It had not sufficed in Miss Matfield’s private thoughts since the +first two days. + +She knew exactly what she thought about the others at the office. Mr. +Dersingham she neither liked nor disliked; she merely tolerated him, +with a sort of easy contempt; he was “sloppy and a bit feeble,” and a +familiar type, with nothing at all weird about _him_. Smeeth seemed +to her a vaguely pathetic creature who lived a grey life in some grey +suburb; the pleasure he got from what seemed to her his drudgery +sometimes irritated her, but at other times it roused something like +pity; and when she was not despising him, she liked him. Turgis she +despised and occasionally resented. She resented his shabbiness and +dinginess, his unhealthy skin and open mouth, his whole forlorn air, +simply because these things, which were always there in the office, +beside her, hurt her own pride by indicating the indignity of her +situation. Occasionally, perhaps after a week-end in the country, when +the thought of going back to Angel Pavement almost--as she said--made +her feel sick, there flashed through her mind an image of Turgis. There +had been moments when she had felt sorry for him, but they were very +rare. Stanley and the funny little Cockney girl she tolerated and even +liked, so long as they behaved themselves, and they might have been a +couple of amusing little animals, a pair of spaniels perhaps, inferior +and somewhat neglected. All these people were securely in their places. +But not Mr. Golspie, the mysterious, large, jocular, brutal man, who +always contrived--and for the life of her she could not discover +how he did it--to get the best of her in any talk between them, who +irritated one half of her, the sensible half, by making the other half +feel fluttered and foolish, all girlish--ugh! How she had loathed him +at first! Well, she still loathed him, or at least she disliked him, +despised him, because he was nothing but a middle-aged bullying lout. +He had a ridiculous moustache. He reeked of cigars and whisky, bar +parlours. He was at once comic and awful. + +As the bus rattled and roared up the long straight slope of Finchley +Road on its way to Swiss Cottage, she told herself several times that +Golspie was comic and awful and found something comforting in this +conclusion. It was not, however, much of a conclusion; it only remained +one for a few minutes, for Mr. Golspie, even in memory, even as an +image, a faintly illuminated leer in the dark of her mind (like the +Cheshire Cat in _Alice_), refused to stay in his place and wear his +label. He escaped, and mocked her. It was all too stupid, and when she +got up to leave the bus she determined to leave Mr. Golspie behind her, +too. She found another girl from the Club waiting for the bus to stop, +and when it did stop, they smiled at one another and walked up from the +Finchley Road together. Mr. Golspie faded away. + +“Do you come all the way from the City in that bus, Matfield?” the +other girl inquired languidly. She was a very languid girl, rather +affected, and her name was Morrison. + +“The whole way.” + +“How revolting!” + +“It is. Absolutely foul! Where do you get it, Morrison? You don’t work +in the City, do you?” + +“No, Bayswater,” Miss Morrison sighed. “I get it just in Orchard +Street. I have to take another bus first along Bayswater Road. Unless +I walk, and I loathe walking, specially on these beastly dark nights. +Even then, it seems an awfully long way.” + +“Nothing to the way I have to come,” said Miss Matfield, sternly. When +there was any grumbling about, and there usually was some about, she +liked to have her share. “Sometimes it takes hours and hours.” + +“I know. I took a job in the City once and I only stuck it a week.” +Miss Morrison groaned in the darkness at the thought of it. “I nearly +died. Honestly, Matfield, if I’d to go to the City every day and come +back here, I’d die, I’d absolutely pass out, I would really. I don’t +know how you stick it. But then you’re so energetic, aren’t you?” + +Miss Matfield at once denied this terrible charge, and told herself +that the Morrison girl was pretty awful. “I’m worn out now,” she +continued. “Only I’d rather have the City because I can’t bear those +private secretary jobs. Yours is one of them, isn’t it?” + +“Yes,” with another sigh. “And pretty ghastly. The woman I’m working +for now means well, but she’s an idiot, she really is, Matfield, a +full-sized idiot. No man in any office could ever be such an idiot. +She’s just dotty.” + +“Well, here we are at our beautiful home,” said Miss Matfield, looking +up at the Club entrance. + +“I know. Isn’t it revolting?” + +“Absolutely vile,” she replied mechanically, as they walked in. “I +don’t suppose there are any letters for me. No, of course not. There +wouldn’t be.” + +“Mine’s a bill,” Miss Morrison groaned. “Are you always getting bills? +I never seem to get anything else. Just millions of foul bills.” + +“Foul! Cheerio.” + +“Oh--er--cheerio.” + + +II + +The Burpenfield Club, called after Lady Burpenfield, who had given five +thousand pounds to the original fund; was one of the residential clubs +or hostels provided for girls who came from good middle-class homes in +the country but were compelled, by economic conditions still artfully +adjusted to suit the male, to live in London as cheaply as possible. +Two fairly large houses had been thrown together and their upper floors +converted into a host of tiny bedrooms, and there was accommodation for +about sixty girls. For twenty-five to thirty shillings a week the Club +gave them a bedroom, breakfast and dinner throughout the week, and +all meals on Saturday and Sunday. It was light and well ventilated and +very clean, offered an astonishing amount of really hot water, and had +a large lounge, a drawing-room (No Smoking), a small reading-room and +library (Quiet Please), and a garden stocked with the hardiest annuals. +The food was not brilliant--and no doubt it returned to the table too +often in the shape of fish-cakes, rissoles, and shepherd’s pie--but it +was reasonably wholesome and could be eaten with safety if not with +positive pleasure. The staff was very efficient and was controlled, +as everybody and everything else in the Club was controlled, by the +secretary, Miss Tattersby, daughter of the late Dean of Welborough, and +perhaps the most respectable woman in all Europe. The rules were not +too strict. There were no compulsory religious services. Male visitors +could not be entertained in bedrooms, but could be brought to dinner +and were allowed in the lounge, where they occasionally might be seen, +sitting in abject misery. Intoxicants were not supplied by the Club but +could be introduced, in reasonable quantities, into the dining-room +when guests were present. Smoking was permitted, except in the dining +and drawing-rooms. There were a good many regulations about beds and +baths and washing and so forth, but they were not oppressive. In the +evenings, throughout the winter months, fires, quite large cheerful +fires, brightened all the public rooms. The lighting was good. The beds +and chairs were fairly comfortable. Dramatic entertainments and dances +were given two or three times a year. All this for less than it would +cost to live in some dingy and dismal boarding-house or the pokiest of +poky flats. + +What more could a girl want? Parents and friends of the family who +visited the Burpenfield found themselves compelled to ask this +question. The answer was that there was only one thing that most girls +at the Burpenfield did want, and that was to get away. It was very +odd. You were congratulated on getting into the Burpenfield when you +first went there, and you were congratulated even more heartily when +you finally left it. During the time you were there, you grumbled, +having completely lost sight of the solid advantages of the place. The +girls who stayed there year after year until at last they were girls +no longer but women growing grey, did stop grumbling and even pointed +out to another these solid advantages, but their faces always wore a +resigned look. + +There was, to begin with, that institution atmosphere, which was +rather depressing. The sight of those long tiled corridors did not +cheer you when you returned, tired, rather cross, head-achy, from +work in the evening. The food was monotonous and the dining-room too +noisy. Then, if you were not going out, you had to choose between your +little box of a bedroom, the lounge (usually dominated by a clique of +young insufferable rowdies), or the silent and inhuman drawing-room. +Moreover, Miss Tattersby, known as “Tatters,” was terrifying. Very +early, Miss Tattersby had arrived at the sound conclusion that a brisk +rough sarcasm was her best weapon, and she made full use of it. You +felt the weight and force of it even in the notices she was so fond of +pinning up: “Need residents who have First Dinner take up _so_ much +time ...”; “Some residents seem to have forgotten that the Staff has +other duties besides ...”; “Is it necessary _again_ to remind residents +that washing stockings in the bathrooms ...”; that is how they went. +But this, after all, was only a pale reflection of her method in direct +talk, and some girls, finding themselves involved in an intricate +affair concerning a pair of stockings or something of that kind, +preferred to conduct their side of the case by correspondence, in the +shape of little notes to Miss Tattersby hastily left in her office +when she was known to be out. Many a girl, after a little brush with +“Tatters,” who was immensely tall and bony and staring, and looked like +a soured Victorian celebrity, had faced the most infuriated director +at her office with a mere shrug. The confident Burpenfield manner in +commercial life, of which we have seen something in Miss Matfield in +Angel Pavement, was probably the result of various encounters with Miss +Tattersby. + +But what Miss Matfield, who was cursing the place all over again as +she left Miss Morrison and went upstairs to her room, disliked most +about the Burpenfield was the presence of all the other members, whose +life she had to share. There were too many of them, and their mode of +life was like an awful parody of her own. The thought that her own +existence would seem to an outsider just like theirs infuriated or +saddened her, for she felt that really she was quite different from +these others, much superior, a more vital, splendid being. Those whose +situation was not at all like her own only annoyed her still more. +There were the young girls, all rosy and confident, many of whom were +either engaged (to the most hopelessly idiotic young man) or merely +filling in a few months of larking about, trying one absurd thing after +another, while their doting fathers forwarded generous monthly cheques. +Then there were the women older than herself, downright spinsters in +their thirties and early forties, who had grown grey and withered at +the typewriter and the telephone, who knitted, droned on interminably +about dull holidays they had had, took to fancy religions, quietly went +mad, whose lives narrowed down to a point at which washing stockings +became the supreme interest. Some of them were frankly depressing. You +met them drooping about the corridors, kettle in hand, and they seemed +to think about nothing but hot water. Others were mechanically and +terribly brisk and bright, all nervy jauntiness, laborious slang, and +secret orgies of aspirin, and these creatures--poor old things--were +if anything more depressing, the very limit. Sometimes, when she was +tired and nothing much was happening, Miss Matfield saw in one of these +women an awful glimpse of her own future, and then she rushed into her +bedroom and made the most fantastic and desperate plans, not one of +which she ever attempted to carry out. Meanwhile, time was slipping +away and nothing was happening. Soon she would be thirty. Thirty! +People could say what they liked--but life was foul. + +There was still half an hour before dinner, and, after tidying herself, +she sat on her bed trying to repair a ladder in a second-best pair of +stockings. She was interrupted by a knock at the door and the entrance +of an extraordinary figure. It had a greeny-brown face and was dressed +in what appeared to be Oriental costume, and the general effect was +that of a seasick Arab chieftain. + +“Help!” cried Miss Matfield, but only to her visitor. “What is it? Who +are you? It can’t be you, Caddie.” + +The green face never moved a muscle, but a careful voice came from it, +and the voice, though muffled and lacking its usual variety of tones, +was undoubtedly that of her neighbour, Miss Isabel Cadnam, otherwise +“Caddie.” She had put a mud pack on her face and had wrapped her head +in a towel. + +“And you haven’t to smile or anything,” she announced cautiously, “or +it’ll crack. But I’ve come to ask you a favour. Are you in to-night? +I mean you’re not dressing or anything grand? Well, can I borrow your +shawl, the reddy-black one? You promised to lend it to me, if I wanted +it terribly some night.” + +Miss Matfield nodded. + +“Well, this is the night. A great do. My dear, Ivor’s got tickets for a +new cabaret, dance and supper place, opening night to-night, and we’re +going. Marvellous!” The face did not move, but the eyes rolled and +flashed their appreciation. + +“All right, you can have the shawl, Caddie,” said Miss Matfield, lazily +rising to stretch out a hand for it. That is all you have to do to find +anything in a Burpenfield bedroom. “It sounds marvellous. But I thought +you’d had a row with Ivor, parted for ever for the umpteenth time and +all that. Why, it’s only last Friday you spent hours and hours telling +me about it.” + +“We made it up this morning,” the green mask replied, rolling its eyes. +“Started over the telephone, too, my dear. Ivor tried to explain and +then I tried to explain and then about forty people in the office went +off the deep end, so I said I’d meet him for lunch. We met. And there +you are. And now we’re going on the razzle.” + +“Lucky you!” + +“I will say that for Ivor. He can be terribly, terribly stupid, +almost stupider than anybody I know, except those foul brutes at the +office--honestly, my dear, they _are_ the limit--but the minute we’ve +made it up, he always has tickets for something amusing. Free list, you +know.” + +“I believe he waits until he has the tickets, then rings you up that +morning and makes it up,” said Miss Matfield. “I wouldn’t put it past +him.” + +“What a perfectly loathsome idea, Mattie! What a foul mind you have! +Still, he might do that. Rather sweet of him, really, when you think +about it. Well, I shall have to fly. I’ve got to get this stuff off. +I’ve been wearing it for hours and I feel I shall never be able +to smile again. Thanks for the shawl, and, my dear, I’ll take the +greatest, the very greatest care of it, and you shall have it back in +the morning.” + +“Have a good time,” said Miss Matfield, with no particular enthusiasm. +“Give my love to Ivor.” + +When her visitor had gone, she gave a little impatient shake, sat down +again, but threw the stocking on one side. Caddie was really rather +a silly creature, but nevertheless she contrived to have quite an +amusing, even exciting time. Ivor, a goggly-eyed young man who was +with a firm of publicity people, was even sillier than she was, and +Miss Matfield admitted to herself at once that she could not possibly +endure a single hour of his company, but he pleased Caddie, took her +out, quarrelled with her, made it up, took her out more luxuriously, +created a continual excitement. It was possible to envy Caddie’s state +of mind while despising her taste. Miss Matfield’s ripe mouth, which +hardly needed lipstick, took on a discontented curve. It was a pity +that silly young men did not amuse her, for there were plenty of Ivors +about, whereas there were very few real grown-up men about, men who +could make her feel she was still a mere girl. She was beginning to +like, definitely to prefer, middle-aged men--and admitted as much to +her intimates--but the trouble was that the really nice attractive +ones were nearly always terribly domesticated, up to the neck in wives +and families, and had hardly more than an occasional faint gleam of +interest to spare for a Miss Matfield. The middle-aged men who were +interested were always the awful ones, with swollen faces and little +boiled eyes, dreary rotters. Mr. Golspie? No, he wasn’t as bad as that, +wasn’t quite that type. But quite impossible, of course. Quite absurd. + +The gong went clanging below, and as it sounded, a head popped into the +room. “You’re in, aren’t you, Mattie?” it said. “Come on, then. I’ve +got some _News_. Very exciting.” + +This head, which was decorated with a thick shock of fair hair, horn +spectacles, a freckled and turned-up nose, and a wide and amusing +mouth, belonged to Evelyn Ansdell, who had had a room close to Miss +Matfield’s for the last two years, and who was one of the very few +friends she had made at the Burpenfield. She was a slap-dash, untidy, +scatter-brained sort of girl, younger than Miss Matfield, and though +she had all manner of minor faults, she had the two outstanding virtues +of being good-hearted and extremely entertaining. + +The two girls went down to the dining-room together and were fortunate +enough to get a little table to themselves. There, amid the chatter and +clatter that went with the mutton stew and the prunes and custard, Miss +Ansdell broke the news, in a series of shrieks and gasps. + +“I’m nearly dead,” she began, impressively. “No, really nearly dead. +I’ve been ringing up parents like mad for the last hour and a half. +Don’t I sound hoarse? Honestly, I’ve been screaming and screaming down +the telephone.” + +There was nothing novel about this. Miss Matfield knew all about +Evelyn’s parents. They were a queer pair, and had been separated for +the last four or five years. Mrs. Ansdell roamed about the country, +sometimes trying her hand at odd things, while Major Ansdell, no longer +in the army but now the representative of some mysterious imperial +organisation, roamed about the whole world, completely disappearing for +months on end. Now and then, each of them descended upon London and +the Burpenfield, and by some odd chance it frequently happened that +their London visits coincided, and then Evelyn had to work desperately +hard to make sure that they did not arrive at the Club together. +Evelyn herself, who had once been sent flying between them like an +amused shuttlecock, did not take sides, except perhaps in certain +minor differences, but preserved an amiable detachment, not unlike +that of a good old referee. Everything was complicated by the fact +that all three of them were rather eccentric. All this was strange to +Miss Matfield, whose parents adored one another in their dull elderly +fashion and were, anyhow, far too sensible and too busy for such alarms +and excursions; but the actual novelty of it had passed. So she merely +prepared herself to listen to yet another instalment of the Ansdell +family row saga. + +“It all began with a letter from mother,” Miss Ansdell continued, +excitedly. “It came this afternoon. My dear, the maddest letter. But +the point is, mother’s going to run a shop, selling antiques. I forget +the name of the place, but anyhow she’s actually got the shop and it’s +a marvellous place, all oak beams and bow windows and all that, and +rich motorists stopping every minute. That’s not so crazy as it sounds, +because mother does really know about antiques and old embroideries and +things like that, and could make anybody buy anything if she wanted to. +And she wants me to go and live with her, and help her in the shop.” + +“Oh, Lord!” Miss Matfield groaned. “But you’re not going, are you? +She’s wanted you to go before, hasn’t she?” + +“Yes, but this is rather different. Quite different, in fact. It really +would be rather fun helping her in a shop. I’d much rather do that, +swindling the rich motorists, than go on with this secretary rot. You +know how I loathe typing and shorthand. And this time she wants me +very badly--her own little darling girl by her side sort of thing--you +should have seen her letter. So I rang her up--trunk call, my dear, and +I’m absolutely broke--to know all about it, and honestly it does sound +rather marvellous. Lovely shop, nice old town, lots of nice people, +and a car--you have to have a car in this antique business. I must +say--even though I know what mother is--I must say it sounds rather +marvellous.” + +“It does,” Miss Matfield admitted, grudgingly. + +“But wait a minute, wait a minute, Mattie, my dear. That isn’t all +the excitement. Oh, no! Before I rang off, mother gave me a message +to father about some money. He’s in town, you know. So I rang him up +and then, after I’d given him the message, I told him what mother had +suggested. Well, you should have heard him. I thought every minute I +should hear him going up in sheets of flame. Then he was very quiet, +and I knew he was going to be pathetic. He can do it even better than +mother. If he really gets going, I’d agree to anything--while he’s +there. And he said he had a plan he’d had in his mind for months, been +thinking about nothing else, and that he’d have mentioned it before +only he thought I was so happy here at the Burpenfield. He’s going away +again very soon on this Empire rot, and he wants me to go with him as +his secretary. He’s going to America--Montreal and Toronto and those +places--and then on to Australia, and I’d go everywhere with him. What +do you think about that? He said he’d been thinking about it for ages, +but I believe he’d invented the job five minutes before, just to do +mother in the eye. And now they both want an answer at once. Isn’t it +crazy?” + +“Completely mad.” But why did nothing like that ever happen to her? +“What are you going to do?” + +“My dear, I’m going to take _one_ of them. Wouldn’t you? But which, I +don’t know. What do you think?” + +“Let’s get our coffee,” said Miss Matfield. “Then we can talk about it +afterwards.” + +This was a blow. Whether Ansdell went off to Canada and Australia or +joined her mother at the antique shop, she was lost to the Burpenfield. +Another decent and amusing one gone! Something exciting happening to +somebody else, as usual! And Miss Matfield was so busy feeling sorry +for herself that if her advice had really been demanded over the +coffee, she would not have found it easy to give it. Miss Ansdell, +however, like many people who ask to be advised, apparently only wanted +a listener, for she never stopped talking herself and when she put a +question, promptly answered it without giving her friend time to frame +a reply. + +When they came up from the dining-room, they saw a tall figure standing +just inside the entrance hall. “I believe it is,” Miss Ansdell gasped. +“Yes, it is. It’s father. Oh, help!” + +And Major Ansdell it was. Miss Matfield had met him, just for a few +minutes, two or three times before. He was still a handsome, soldierly +looking man, though quite elderly, and was immensely courteous in the +Roger de Coverley style to all Evelyn’s friends. But there was in +him an extraordinary theatrical strain. Quite frequently he behaved +as if he were the hero of some old-fashioned melodrama; and was very +emotional, very rhetorical, and absurd. He was quite capable of talking +just as men talk in bad stories in popular magazines, and Miss Matfield +had sometimes wondered whether it was because he had read a great many +bad stories or because the stories were nearer the truth than one +thought and were worked up, on the fringes of Empire, out of men like +Major Ansdell. + +Miss Matfield hung back and saw the Ansdells greet one another and then +go upstairs, obviously to Evelyn’s room. There was no talking to Major +Ansdell in a public room; he was far too fond of a scene and was not at +all shy. Miss Matfield went into the lounge, to smoke a cigarette, and +spent an envious ten minutes glancing through one of those illustrated +weeklies that seem to be produced simply to glorify that small section +of society which works only to keep itself amused. It showed her +photographs of these demigods and goddesses racing and hunting in the +cold places, bathing and lounging in the warm places, and eating and +drinking and swaggering in places of every temperature. By the time +she had finished her cigarette, Miss Matfield quite understood the +temptation to start a revolution, and told herself that these papers +simply asked for one. Then she too went upstairs to her room. + +She had not been there more than a few minutes when Evelyn Ansdell +burst in, crying: “My dear, mother’s on the phone. Do go in and talk +to father until I come back. If you don’t, he’ll come down and do +something absurd. I’ll be as quick as I can.” And off she went. + +Evelyn’s bedroom seemed almost entirely filled by her father, who +welcomed his daughter’s friend--and Miss Matfield felt herself +thrust into the part of daughter’s friend at once--with his usual +grave and elaborate courtesy. He was, she felt, enjoying himself, +and was probably the only man who ever had enjoyed himself visiting +the Burpenfield. He addressed her as “Miss Mattie,” having heard +Evelyn refer to her as “Mattie,” and Miss Matfield did not feel like +correcting him. This only made everything more absurd. It was like +taking part in a charade. + +“I think you know why I’m here, Miss Mattie,” he began, in deep +vibrating tones. “I want to persuade this little girl of mine to go +overseas with me, to help me with the great work I am doing and to be +by my side.” + +She nodded and made a vague affirmatory noise. It was all she could do, +but then he did not want anything more. + +“A father has his feelings, Miss Mattie. We don’t hear much about them. +He keeps them to himself. He hides them, buries them,” he continued, +with fine emotional effect, clearly enjoying himself. “An Englishman +doesn’t like to make a display of these things. It’s part of the +tradition--the great tradition--of our race. If we suffer, Miss Mattie, +we like to suffer in silence. Isn’t that so? The Britisher--now, just a +moment. I know what you’re going to say.” + +“Do you?” + +“I do. You’re going to say that you don’t like that word ‘Britisher.’” + +“I don’t like it much, I must say,” Miss Matfield confessed. + +“I knew you didn’t. I didn’t at one time. I detested the term. I +wouldn’t have it at all. But my work, my travels up and down the Empire +have taught me better. We must have something that describes not an +Englishman, not a Scotsman, or a Canadian or an Australian, but simply +a subject of the great Empire itself, and the only word for that is +‘Britisher.’ Don’t resent it, Miss Mattie. It stands for a great +ideal. And I say that the Britisher doesn’t wear his heart on his +sleeve. But he feels deeply. He may have his work to do, taking him +away from his home into the loneliest places, and be glad and proud to +do it.” Here the Major made a fine gesture and came within an ace of +wrecking his daughter’s toilet stand. So he sat down on the edge of +the bed, where he looked enormous and rather like the White Knight in +_Through the Looking Glass_. + +“You’re my little girl’s friend, aren’t you, Miss Mattie?” he asked. +Miss Matfield said she was, and added that she would be very sorry to +lose her. + +“I understand that, I understand that,” and he reached over and patted +her lightly on the shoulder. “She’s a very lovable child, isn’t she? +And you can understand a father’s feelings. I have my work to do, Miss +Mattie, and I have many acquaintances, friends if you like, in all +parts of the world, but fundamentally, at heart, I’m a lonely man--yes, +a lonely man. Evelyn’s my only child, and I want her companionship, I +want her by my side, unless of course I should be called upon to visit +places where one’s womenfolk couldn’t be taken. If it were a question +of our tropical possessions, that would be different, quite different. +I don’t like to see a white woman, especially a young girl, in such +places. They’re for men, for us rough fellows who like to clean up some +backward part of the globe. If you’ve any influence with her--and I’m +sure you have, and a very good influence too, a steadying influence +naturally, being older----” + +“Thank you, Major Ansdell,” said Miss Matfield drily. “You make me +sound about fifty. It’s not very complimentary of you.” + +“A thousand apologies, my dear Miss Mattie,” cried the Major gallantly. +“I know very well you’re under thirty, a mere girl, and a very charming +one, I assure you. But Evelyn’s a mere _child_, you see, isn’t she?” + +Miss Matfield said nothing, but thought that some of the child’s antics +and talk might possibly astonish him. + +“But what I was about to say is this. I want you to use your influence +with my little girl to persuade her to come with her old father and +join her life with mine. There’s some ridiculous talk,” he continued +hurriedly and more naturally, “of her joining her mother in some +wild-cat scheme for selling old furniture and broken crockery and silly +knick-knacks down in the country somewhere. You know the sort of place. +Ye oldy antique shoppy! Faked warming pans! Rubbish! Even if she won’t +come with me, I’d fifty times rather see the child staying here and +doing her typewriting than embarking on such a gim-crack, nonsensical +scheme. Trying to sell faked warming pans to a lot of cads and old +women!” + +At this moment the door flew open and Evelyn joined them, breathless. +The little room was completely full now, and Miss Matfield wanted to +escape, to let them talk it out together, but she could not manage it +unless she pushed Evelyn out of the way. + +“I’ve been talking to mother,” Evelyn began. + +The Major jumped up. “Don’t tell me she’s still trying to persuade you +to bury yourself among her fenders and warming pans and go smirking +behind a counter. It’s the most preposterous idea I ever heard of. It +won’t even pay. All good money thrown away.” + +“Oh, I don’t know about that, father,” Evelyn protested. “Mother really +does know a lot about antiques. I know that. I wouldn’t be surprised if +she didn’t make quite a lot out of it.” + +Neither of them took any notice of Miss Matfield, but nevertheless she +could not very well leave the room until she had a good opportunity to +push past Evelyn. + +“Your mother may or may not know a good deal about antiques,” said the +Major very impressively, “though I seem to remember her being taken +in every day or so by some piece of faked-up rubbish. But she knows +nothing whatever about human nature and has no head for business. And +if you’re going to keep a shop, my child, you have to know something +about human nature and business. Now I could keep a shop and make a +success out of it, if I wanted to, because I understand people and know +how to organise. Your mother knows no more about organisation than a--a +prize rabbit.” + +“Well, listen to me, father, and never mind about that. I’ve been +talking it over with mother, and I’ll tell you what I’ve decided to +do. I’m coming with you on this trip--and, by the way, you’ll have to +give me some money for clothes, I haven’t a thing--and then afterwards, +if I don’t like it, I shall try mother’s scheme, if the shop’s still in +existence.” + +“It won’t be. But that doesn’t matter. This is good news, Evelyn. Just +the two of us, side by side----” + +It looked as if a magnificent parental embrace were arriving. Miss +Matfield, murmuring something about letters, slipped out. The Ansdells +were absurd, all three of them, but she could not help envying Evelyn. +Major Ansdell might be ridiculous, but if he had asked _her_ to go +roaming round the Empire with him, she would have accepted like a shot. +As it was, she stayed on in Angel Pavement and at the Burpenfield, and +would soon have lost an amusing Club neighbour too, almost the only one +left with whom she could be friendly and confidential. Foul. + +The late post had arrived and there were two letters for her. One was +from her mother and was merely the regular hasty bulletin. Dad was +working too hard as usual, looking after everybody for miles around +except himself, and not looking at all well. The Wesleys’ little girl +was down with pneumonia. Those new people, the Milfords, the elderly +people who had taken Rogerson’s old house, had a son and his wife home +from India, quite nice. There was no chance of her getting up to town +this next month but Dad said he might have to come up and would let her +know in good time. And when did Lilian think she could manage another +week-end at home? Oh--and Mary Fernhill, the quite plain one who went +out to South Africa last year and came back so suddenly, well, she +was engaged. There was nothing very exciting in all that. Just the +usual stuff. Poor mother, poor dad! He did work too hard, and he was +beginning to have a terribly pinched look. That was the trouble about +being a doctor, you never bothered, went on until you dropped. That was +pretty foul too. There didn’t seem to be much good luck going in life, +and what there was completely escaped the Matfield family. + +The other letter was more interesting, and she kept it until she +reached her own room again. It was dated from the Chestervern +Agricultural College: + + _Dear Lilian,_ + + _I have to be in London to-morrow (the 16th) and am wondering if + you would care to spend the evening with me, have dinner and then + go somewhere. It would be a great treat for me. I’m sorry the + notice is so short, but couldn’t help that. Will you let me know at + once--c/o Holborn Palace Hotel--and tell me what time to call for + you if you are free._ + + _Yours sincerely, + Norman Birtley._ + +So Norman Birtley hadn’t forgotten her existence. She sent a dashing +note to him at his rather ghastly Holborn Palace Hotel, telling him she +was free and could be called for at the Burpenfield at seven o’clock. +And after slipping out to post it, she felt slightly better. + +Ansdell looked in, having disposed of her father, not without first +making him promise her a new outfit. “And we sail in a fortnight, my +dear,” she crowed. “And to-morrow I give those beastly people the sack, +after which I hand out the same to Tatters _in person too_. Yes, I am. +That will probably close the dear old Burp to me for ever, and not a +bad thing too. Except I shall be very sorry to leave you, Mattie. I +will really. After all, we’ve had some great conferences in these queer +little dens, haven’t we? I’ll have to tell father he must have two +secretaries, and then we’ll both go out, slip away and marry big brown +men from the West and the great open spaces. What do you say?” + +“I’d love it,” said Miss Matfield, forcing a smile. “I’m terribly sorry +you’re going. They’ll put some awful creature into your room, either +one of the old hot water brigade or some devastatingly bright young +person from the lounge set. I suppose it’s nearly time I joined the hot +water school, the kettle fillers----” + +“Don’t be absurd. You’re one of the very few people here who are really +alive--and look it. Let’s change the subject. I believe it’s depressing +you. Had any letters?” + +“One from mother, very dull, and one from a man I’ve known off and on +for years. He’s coming up to town to-morrow and wants me to spend the +evening with him, seeing the sights.” + +“A-ha! Is he a big brown man? Do you like him?” + +“He’s not bad,” Miss Matfield replied, indifferently. “A bit feeble. +He’s from my part of the world and used to hang about a lot at one +time, but we haven’t seen much of one another for ages.” + +“I scent a roam-a-ance,” cried Miss Ansdell. “His sweetheart when a +boy. And you have cared all these yee-ars and I never knew----” + +“Don’t be an ape. You’re making me feel sick.” + +“But seriously, Mattie. Is he going to ask you to marry him, after the +coffee has been served in a shaded corner?” + +Miss Matfield smiled, but thought this over. “He might, you know,” +she admitted, staring into nothing, her eyes growing sombre. “And if +I thought I was doomed to stay in this place much longer, spending my +evenings washing stockings and pattering round with kettles, I’d marry +him next week. But I haven’t the least desire to marry him. He’s quite +decent, but--oh--he’s just rather feeble. Most young men seem rather +feeble, these days. I suppose most of the other sort were killed in the +war. I hate feeble men, don’t you? I mean, I like a man to have plenty +of character, a solid lump of it, and I don’t even care if it isn’t a +terribly good character so long as there’s plenty of it. There’s a man +in my office----” + +“You don’t mean Mr. Dirty--Dersy--what’s it?” Miss Ansdell asked. + +“No. He’s rather sloppy too. Not a bit amusing. But there’s a man who’s +just come lately, Golspie----” + +“I know. But you said he was awful.” + +“So he is,” Miss Matfield admitted hastily. “I told you about him, +didn’t I? I don’t say I like him. He’s rather a brute, and looks it, +or at any rate looks weird. But he has got some character, and could do +something without asking everybody’s permission. That’s all I meant. Of +course, from every other point of view, even poor Norman Birtley, who +really isn’t so bad, is worth fifty of him. Imagine going out to dinner +with Golspie!” And she laughed aloud at the thought. + +They talked of other things, yawned, stared, talked again, more idly, +yawned again, and then went to bed. + + +III + +Miss Matfield awoke next morning with a vague feeling that something +pleasant and rather exciting was about to happen. Norman Birtley. +So that was it. She could think of nothing else, and was rather +disappointed, slightly cross with herself, when it all dwindled to +Norman. That showed the sort of existence she led, these days. There +had been a time when Norman Birtley was only a joke. When he became +serious she had brushed him aside. After that, when he turned into the +attentive admirer, popping up at odd intervals and popping down again +wistfully, it is true she had liked him better. But now, the very +thought of an evening with him could bring her out of sleep in a vague +sense of excitement. It was absurd. It was pathetic. No, it was simply +revolting. + +Before she reached the office, she had completely reversed this +judgment. There was nothing revolting about it. Perfectly right and +natural. Norman Birtley was quite decent; he liked her, admired her, +perhaps was in love with her; and she had every right to look forward +to an evening with him, to an evening out with anybody (except girls +from the Club, sharing Pit seats and sandwiches), for that matter. +The 13 bus, grinding away through the slight fog, agreed with this +conclusion, hinted that she was too proud, and seemed to say that for +its part it took all it could get, like the stout-hearted Cockney +it was. There was some fog too in the City, and it was a raw yellow +morning for Angel Pavement. Everybody in the office yawned a good deal +and was rather irritable for the first two hours. It was that sort of +morning. The rest of the day was more comfortable, but dull and slow, +lumbering towards five-thirty like a stupefied elephant. Miss Matfield +had not much to do. Mr. Golspie was out all day, and it was he who +usually kept her busy. Mr. Dersingham, who found himself getting pink +and flustered when Miss Matfield coolly stared at him and waited, with +a kind of ironic resignation, for his next halting sentence, preferred +to dictate his letters, whenever possible, to little Poppy Sellers, in +whose eyes, as he rightly suspected, he was a large fine gentleman. +The only amusing thing that happened in the afternoon was that poor +Mr. Smeeth, returning importantly and fussily from the bank, tried to +tell them a funny story he had heard there and completely failed to +bring out the point. He was rather pathetic, Mr. Smeeth. After that +there were huge blank spaces, during which yellow wisps of fog seemed +to creep into one’s mind. But she was able to get away early and have a +really good Burpenfield bath, tons of hot water, before changing. + +She was quite ready when the message came that Mr. Birtley was waiting +below. In the corridor she ran into Kersey, one of the depressing old +inhabitants who, as usual, was trailing along with a kettle. She meant +well--poor old thing--but she had a horrid trick of saying things that +depressed you at once. + +“Hello, Matfield,” she droned damply. “Going out, are you? That’s the +way. You have to enjoy yourself sometimes, haven’t you? That’s right, +dee-ar.” + +This was Kersey’s usual speech if she saw that you were dressed to +go out. She had another speech ready for you if she saw you were not +dressed. “Not going out to-night, eh, Matfield? No, I thought not. +Well, you can’t expect to go out every night, can you, dee-ar?” And you +left her drooping there, with her kettle, but not before she had set +your spirits drooping too, whether you were staying in or going out. It +was as if the horrible future addressed a few remarks to you. + +Norman Birtley was waiting in the lounge, looking very tall, very +awkward, very uncomfortable. Round the fire was the usual set, two +or three of the bright young ones with Ingleton-Dodd lounging in the +middle of them. Ingleton-Dodd was a large woman, about forty, with a +curious white face, her hair plastered back, severe mannish clothes, +and a bass voice. She seemed to have more money than anybody else in +the Club, and owned quite a good little car, about which she talked +a great deal. She was talking about it, or about some car, when Miss +Matfield walked in. + +“Oh, the man was a complete fool,” she was saying, in that deep bass +voice of hers. “I told him to have a look at the mag. ‘Put the mag +right,’ I told him, ‘and the whole thing will be right. Clean those +points a bit, to start with.’ By this time, he’d taken the mag out and +was staring at it like a stuck pig.” + +“Marvellous!” cried one of the bright children. They all thought +Ingleton-Dodd “the very last word.” + +“‘Oh, give it to me,’ I said, and snatched it out of his hand. Then I +sent for the manager. ‘Look here,’ I said to him, ‘does anybody in this +place know how to time a mag?’ You should have seen his face.” + +Awful creature! _She_ ought to have seen Norman Birtley’s face. +He was looking at Ingleton-Dodd with fascinated repulsion written +clearly on his simple and expressive features. He greeted Miss +Matfield confusedly, dropping his hat when he shook hands. His hands +were hot and damp, and there was a glint of perspiration on his pink +forehead. He had not changed at all, except that he now wore rimless +eyeglasses and his sandy moustache was a trifle more in evidence. He +was only a year or so older than Miss Matfield and, as he was far less +sophisticated than she was, not at all at home in London, which he only +visited at long intervals, she felt the older of the two. + +“How are you, Lilian?” he inquired, smiling nervously. “You’re looking +very well.” + +“Am I? I don’t feel it. I’m feeling pretty foul.” + +“You’re not, are you?” He looked at her anxiously. “What’s wrong? You +haven’t got anything the matter with you, have you? Are you seeing a +doctor?” + +This obvious concern ought to have pleased her, for it was very +flattering. But these questions, demanding as they did a definite +answer, a disease or two, only irritated her. It was understood at +the Burpenfield that you were nearly always pretty foul, with nothing +exactly wrong with you perhaps, but nevertheless in a fairly permanent +state of being worn out, nerve-racked, tottering on the brink of +something ghastly. Miss Matfield had forgotten that this simple visitor +from the country knew nothing of this convention. + +“Oh, I’m all right really, I suppose,” she replied, dismissing the +subject. “Shall we go now? Where do you propose to take me, Norman? +Have you any plans?” She moved to the door. + +“Well, I didn’t know exactly what to do. I suppose I ought to have +asked you first, but there wasn’t time. There seems to be a rather good +show on at the Colladium this week, so I got two seats for that, second +house. Do you like music halls?” + +“Not bad. It all depends.” + +“A fellow I was talking to at the hotel said it was a very good show, +so I thought that would be all right. But if you don’t want to go, I +suppose I can get rid of the tickets, can’t I?” + +“No, that will be all right. I’d like to go,” she told him. They were +walking down the hill now, towards Finchley Road. + +“Good. And about dinner,” he continued, struggling laboriously with +his duties as host. “I thought we might go to a place in Soho. Old +Warwick--he’s our principal at the Chestervern Agricultural, and he’s +been here a good deal--told me there was a good little place, one of +those French or Italian places, you know, a bit bohemian but very good +cooking--I’ve got the name and address in my book and I’ll find it in a +minute. Anyhow, I thought, if you didn’t mind, we might go there.” + +“All right,” she replied, not very enthusiastically. Some of those +little Soho places were rather foul, and old Warwick of the Chestervern +Agricultural might not be a very good judge. “Let’s go there, and you +can dig out the name and address on the way. We’ll hurry and catch a +bus.” + +“Oh, will a bus be all right?” he cried, obviously relieved. “I thought +perhaps we might have to take a taxi.” + +“No, a bus will do,” she told him. A taxi, though, would have done a +great deal better. She loved riding in taxis. Perhaps--who knows?--if +Mr. Birtley had insisted upon their having a taxi, the whole evening +might have been different. + +Once again she went jogging down the long hill, past the sudden sparkle +of Swiss Cottage, the genteel gloom of St. John’s Wood, and a Baker +Street that was now like a series of captivating peepshows. They did +not talk much inside the bus, which was full and uncommonly noisy, +but he shouted a few questions about the Club and Ingleton-Dodd (whom +he regarded with horror) and the office and her father and mother, +and she screamed fairly adequate if brief replies. Her spirits rose +when they actually arrived in Soho, for though she had some mournful +memories of its _table d’hôte_ and had been in London long enough to +be sceptical about its romantic bohemianism, she could not resist the +place itself, the glimpses of foreign interiors, the windows filled +with outlandish foodstuffs, chianti flasks, and bundles of long +cheroots, the happy foolish little decorations, the strange speech, the +dark faces, the girls leaning out of the first-floor windows. It was +quite a long time since she had last walked along Old Compton Street. +It made her sigh for an adventure. Meanwhile, that very evening took +on a faint colouring of adventure while they were still searching for +old Warwick’s restaurant, though, with all the good will in the world, +she could not transform Norman Birtley, fresh from the Chestervern +Agricultural College, into a romantic and adventurous companion. + +At last, they found old Warwick’s restaurant. It might have been French +or Italian or even Spanish or Hungarian; there was no telling; but it +was determinedly foreign in a de-nationalised fashion, rather as if +the League of Nations had invented it. No sooner was Norman’s hand on +the door than a very fierce-looking, moustachioed, square-jawed Latin +flung it open very quickly and with a great flourish, so that they were +almost sucked in. The place was very small, rather warm, and smelt of +oil. The lights were shaded with coloured crinkly paper. There were +only four other people there, two oldish tired girls masticating rather +hopelessly in the far corner, and a queer middle-aged couple sitting +almost in the window. The fierce Latin swept them across to a tiny +table, thrust menus into their hands, rubbed his hands, changed all the +cutlery round and then put it all back again, rubbed his hands once +more and then suddenly lost all interest in them, as if his business +was simply to drag people in and then, having got them seated, to +create a momentary illusion of brisk service before they had time to +change their minds. + +“You can have the whole dinner for three and sixpence,” said Norman, +looking up from his menu. “Wonderful how they do it in these places, +isn’t it? I mean to say, what would you get in an English restaurant +for that? Nothing worth eating, I’ll bet. But these foreigners can do +it. Of course, it’s their job. They know how to cook. Shall we have the +dinner?” + +Miss Matfield thought that they might, and looked about her, not very +hopefully, while Norman gave the order to a waitress, a very tall fat +girl with a chalky face and no features, who had just appeared. The +queer middle-aged couple looked queerer still now, for the man appeared +to be dyed and the woman enamelled and it was incredible that they +should ever eat food at all. You felt they ought to feed on wood and +paint. + +Having given the order, Mr. Birtley was now looking about him too, +and when he had finished doing this and had obviously noted the more +picturesque details for the benefit of the other members of the staff +of the Chestervern Agricultural College, he beamed at her through his +rimless eyeglasses. “Nothing I enjoy better than studying these queer +types,” he whispered. “A place like this is a treat to me, if only for +that reason. Old Warwick told me I’d enjoy that part of it. He’s had +some very funny experiences in his time. I must try to remember some +of the yarns he’s told me, once or twice when I’ve been sitting up with +him over a pipe at the Chestervern.” + +While Miss Matfield was asking idly what sort of man Mr. Warwick was +and Norman was telling her, the waitress had brought them the two +halves of a grapefruit, the juice of which had apparently been used +some time before. They had not finished with old Warwick, who seemed to +Miss Matfield a silly old man, when the waitress returned to give them +some mysterious thick soup, which looked like gum but had a rather less +pronounced flavour. + +Miss Matfield tried three spoonfuls and then looked with horror at her +plate. Something was there, something small, dark, squashed. There were +legs. She pushed the plate away. + +“What’s the matter, Lilian? Don’t you like the soup?” + +She pointed with her spoon at the alien body. + +Mr. Birtley leaned across and peered at it through his glasses. “No, +by George, it isn’t, is it? Is it really? Oh, I say, that’s not good +enough, is it? That’s the worst of these foreigners. Do you think I +ought to tell them about it?” + +“If you don’t, I will,” said Miss Matfield indignantly. “Absolutely +revolting!” + +But there was nobody to tell. Even the fierce Latin had disappeared. It +seemed as if when soup was served, the whole staff hid in the kitchen. +Miss Matfield was sure now that her first instinctive disapproval had +been right, as usual. This was a foul little place. Unfortunately, she +was really hungry, having had a very small lunch. + +The next member of the staff they did see obviously could not be blamed +for the soup, for he was the wine waiter, an ancient gloomy foreigner. +He padded across to Mr. Birtley, who was trying not very successfully +to explain a very funny thing that had happened last term at the +College, held out a wine list decorated with dirty thumb marks, and +waited apathetically. + +“A-ha!” cried Mr. Birtley jovially. “Let’s have something to drink, +shall we? Do you think we could manage a whole bottle? I think we +could. Yes, let’s have a whole bottle. Now then, what is there? Will +you have red or white wine, Lilian? It’s all the same to me.” + +“I’d like red, I think,” she replied. “Burgundy perhaps.” It was more +sustaining. After all, with bread and butter and some burgundy, it +might be possible to stun one’s appetite. She had no hopes of the +dinner. + +“Burgundy it is,” cried Mr. Birtley, with the air of a reckless +musketeer. “All right, then. A bottle of Number Eleven. Beaune.” + +“You geef me moanay,” murmured the ancient foreigner. + +“Righto. Money. There you are.” And then he gave Miss Matfield a wink +and smiled at her. She smiled back, softening towards him a little, for +he was so obviously enjoying himself and thinking it all so wonderful. +Poor Norman! + +“You ought to come and see us at the College next time you’re home, +Lilian,” he said. “You’d like it. We’ve got one or two amusing fellows +on the staff, and the students aren’t a bad crowd. We have little +dances sometimes, and tennis in the summer. It’s growing too. In a +year or two, if I can scrape up some money, I may get a partnership. +Not bad, eh? The fact is,” and he lowered his voice, as if to keep +these confidences away from the waitress, who had just deposited some +microscopic pieces of fish in front of them and was still standing +near, as if to see if they would have the audacity to eat them, “the +fact is, I can get on better with old Warwick than any of the other +fellows. He’s taken rather a fancy to me, thinks I’ve got more drive +than the others. And as a matter of fact,” he added, looking earnestly +at her, “I have. And I wish you’d come and look me up down there.” + +She said she would, if she could manage it, and then explained, while +the ancient foreigner poured out the wine, how difficult it was to +do all one wanted to do, what with one thing and another, and then, +fortified by the burgundy and determined to drive old Warwick out of +the conversation for a time, she went on to tell him more about the +office and the Club. He listened attentively, though with just the +faintest suggestion of patronage. Obviously he thought a good deal +more of himself these days, now that he had made such a hit with his +old Warwick of the Chestervern Agricultural. But then all men were +alike in that: they all thought they were marvellous. However, she +could tell from the way he looked at her that he still thought she was +marvellous too, which was very pleasant. She could feel herself getting +steadily better looking and more attractive. + +This could not be said about the dinner. The chicken was not +marvellous, was not even pleasant. Like many other places in Soho, +this restaurant evidently had a contract that compelled it to accept +only those parts of a chicken that could not be called breast, wing, +or leg. It specialised in chicken skin. The salad could be eaten, but +its green stuff seemed to have been grown in some London back garden +behind a sooty privet hedge. The sweet was composed of a very small +ice, the paper in which it had been delivered from the van at the back +door, and some coloured water that might have been part of the ice two +hours before. That was the dinner, a miserable affair. Even Norman +seemed to have a suspicion that it had not been very good, but he did +not apologise for it, perhaps out of loyalty to old Warwick. Miss +Matfield, in despair, had had two full glasses of the burgundy, a raw +and potent concoction, which had produced at once a rather muzzy effect +in her mind so that everything seemed a little larger and noisier than +usual. Once, just before the coffee, she had found herself wanting to +giggle at the thought of Norman taking his sandy moustache back to +Chestervern and old Warwick. The coffee, black and bitter, stopped all +that nonsense. They smoked a cigarette together over it, and Norman, +with tiny beads of perspiration on his ruddy forehead and his glasses +slightly misty, talked about old times and smiled sentimentally across +the cruet at her. + +It was time to be gone. The Latin suddenly decided to notice their +existence again, brought the bill, accepted money, proffered change, +swept away the tip, and then apparently threw them both into the +street, where the air seemed at once remarkably pure and unusually +cold. They arrived at the Colladium just at the right moment, a few +minutes after the doors had been opened for the second house. The +place was, as usual, besieged by a mob of pleasure seekers who all +looked like demons in the red glare of the lights at the entrance. +Norman led the way, a little uncertainly, and they went swarming down +thick-carpeted corridors. + +“Didn’t that man say ‘Round to the left and up the stairs’?” Miss +Matfield asked. She had a slight headache now. Those peculiar red +lights outside the Colladium look exactly like a headache, and perhaps +they had inspired the burgundy. “I’m sure he did, you know.” + +“I didn’t hear him,” replied Norman, not too amiably. He was somewhat +fussed. “Talking to somebody else, p’raps.” + +Feeling a little dubious, she followed him down the gangway on the +ground floor of the auditorium, which looked as if it were recovering +from a fire, there was so much smoke about. There were programme girls +showing people to their seats, but you had to wait your turn and +Norman, anxious to secure his two beautiful seats, would not wait his +turn. He marched on, glancing at his tickets and the lettered rows of +stalls, then finally found the row he wanted, and they pushed past a +few people, sought and found the right numbers, and sank into their +seats. + +“This is all right, isn’t it?” said Norman, after breathing a sigh of +relief. “Jolly good seats, eh?” He looked round triumphantly. More +lights were being turned on; the orchestra was beginning to tune up +again; and the place was filling rapidly. Miss Matfield’s headache +retreated, dwindled to an occasional twinge. + +“What about a programme?” said Norman, and began to make vague, fussy, +ineffectual signs. + +Then two large determined men, coarse-looking fellows with heavy +jowls and cigars stuck in the corners of their insensitive mouths, +came pushing down the row. They stopped when they came to Mr. Birtley +and Miss Matfield. “Here, I say,” the first one called back to the +programme girl, after looking at his ticket, “is this the right row?” +Apparently it was, for now he turned his attention to Norman. + +“I think you’re sitting in the wrong seats, my friend,” he said, not +unpleasantly. + +“I don’t think so,” replied Norman, rather sharply. He brought out his +own tickets and gave them a reassuring glance. + +“Well, I do,” said the other. He had a loud voice, the kind of voice +that attracts attention. “Row F, fourteen and fifteen. Isn’t that +right? Well, those are my seats, bought and paid for. Ask the girl. She +sent us here.” + +“I don’t see that,” said Norman stiffly. “Mine are Row F, fourteen and +fifteen. And we were here first. They must have made a mistake at the +box office.” + +Miss Matfield had risen from her seat. People were looking round at +them. If there was anything she hated, it was this stupid sort of scene. + +The second large determined man, who had nothing like the amount of +room to stand in his bulk demanded and deserved, now made a number +of impatient noises. These noises goaded his friend into more direct +action. + +“Here, come on,” he said roughly, “let’s have a look at your tickets. +Here are mine. Now let’s have a look at yours.” He almost snatched them +out of Norman’s hand. The instant he saw them, he cried triumphantly: +“There y’are. Balcony Stalls, _Bal-cony_ Stalls. These aren’t Balcony +Stalls. Cor!--you’re in the wrong part of the theatre, boy, in the +wrong part of the theatre.” + +“Wouldjer believe it!” cried the second man contemptuously. + +“Cor! Up there you want to be, right up there, boy.” + +“Sorry. I didn’t know.” Poor Norman was very flustered now. Miss +Matfield might have been sorry for him, but she wasn’t. She was +furious. Even after they had left the seats and were pushing their way +back to the gangway, the two brutes were still talking about it and +laughing and making contemptuous noises. Then as she arrived, scarlet, +in the gangway, she ran into a little party of three that was waiting +to be shown to its place. The first was a tall man with a bristling +moustache, obviously a foreigner; the second was a youngish girl, very +smart and pretty; and the third, who was still interviewing the girl +with the chocolates was--yes, no other--Mr. Golspie, rather flushed, +very jovial. There was some congestion in this part of the gangway; +they had to stop; and he looked up and saw her. + +“Evening, Miss Matfield,” he said, grinning at her in his usual +fashion. “So this is where we come, is it?” + +She stammered something. + +“Had a good day at the office? You’ll see me there to-morrow. Half a +minute, Lena. Well, Miss Matfield, see you enjoy yourself. Here, take +one of these.” + +She found one of the boxes of chocolates in her hand. Before she could +do anything or even say anything, he had given her another of his vast +grins and had turned away. As she followed Norman up the gangway, most +of the lights were lowered and the overture blared out. Their seats +were in the first tier and by the time they found them, the curtain had +risen and the stage was occupied by three very grave young men who were +busy throwing one another about. + +“That was a bit of a mix-up, wasn’t it?” said Norman, when they had +settled themselves. “But it wasn’t really my fault. They should give +their seats proper names. I’ve never heard of stalls being up here.” + +“Well, you might have asked. I told you what that man said.” + +“By George, so you did. Sorry! But, I say, who was that rum looking +chap you were talking to down there?” + +“He’s a man who’s just joined the firm I’m working with. I do his +letters.” + +“Didn’t he give you that box of chocolates?” + +“Yes, he did. As a matter of fact, he just shoved it into my hand.” + +“Funny thing to do,” Norman continued, half resentfully. “What did he +want to do that for?” + +“I don’t know. You’d better ask him.” She stared at the three young +men, who were now climbing on to piles of chairs and tables in order to +throw one another a greater distance. + +“I must say I didn’t like the look of him very much.” + +“That’s sad, isn’t it, Norman?” replied Miss Matfield. “Hadn’t you +better call at the office to-morrow morning and tell him so? What had I +better do? Get another job?” + +“You don’t mean to tell me you like that chap?” + +“I don’t know whether I do or not,” she told him, with perfect truth. +But her voice betrayed irritation. “It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’ll +admit, though,” she added, more amiably, “that he does look a bit +weird. But he’s rather amusing. Have one of his chocolates, seeing that +they’re here, and don’t talk so much.” + +The subject was dropped and when they talked again, as they did at odd +moments throughout the performance, Mr. Golspie was not mentioned. +The show itself was neither better nor worse than the others she had +seen there. She liked the white-faced clown with the squeaky voice who +nearly fell into the orchestra pit, and the two men who got involved +in the most passionate argument all about nothing, and the Spanish +dancers, and the wildly ridiculous schoolmaster. On the other hand, she +did not like the American cross-talking and dancing pair, or the two +girls who sang at the piano or the various acrobats and trick cyclists. +Norman, who soon recovered from the ticket scene and settled down to +enjoy himself, to like as much as he could of the show and to patronise +the rest, was rather more human than he had been during the misery +of dinner. Old Warwick was banished at last, and the dull shade of +Chestervern never fell on the talk. + +When they came out of the Colladium into the astonishing sanity of the +night, and Norman not only suggested a taxi but actually found one, +she felt she was beginning to feel friendly towards him again. And if +he had said, “You know, Lilian, I _am_ rather feeble and a bit of an +ass, and I know you’re marvellous and far above my style, but I’ve been +in love with you a jolly long time and still am, honestly I am, worse +than ever in fact, so will you marry me? I’m not doing anything very +wonderful, I know, and you might easily find it dull at first down at +Chestervern, but we’d have some fun and things would get better all +the time”; if he had said something like that, in the proper tone of +voice--rather wistful--and with a dumbly devoted look in his eyes, she +felt there was no telling what she might reply. She could just see +herself marrying him. + +But he made no such speech, and was clearly not in that dumbly devoted +mood at all. All the way home, he was vaguely sentimental--what fun +they’d had in the old tennis club days and what good pals they’d +been!--and was timidly amorous, like some faint-hearted Don Juan taking +one home after a dance. Unluckily, Miss Matfield was not sentimental, +at least not on conventional or Christmas card lines, and she heartily +despised and disliked the timidly amorous male, who could not let +one alone but had not passion enough, or courage, to make him risk a +sound snubbing. He would slip an arm round her waist and she would +tell him to take it away because it was uncomfortable, as indeed it +was. And then he would say, “Ah, Lilian, you’re not very kind to me,” +in a ridiculous mooing voice, like a farm hand trying to ape the +artful philanderer. It was all terribly irritating. When at last, as +the taxi began grinding up the last hilly half mile, she was so tired +of this that she actually asked him questions about his prospects at +Chestervern, dropping into the part of the cool interested woman friend +with a sound business head, he turned rather sulky and answered her in +a poor half-hearted fashion. + +“I suppose I can get a bus back?” he said as they stood at the entrance +to the Burpenfield and the taxi departed. + +“Oh, yes, of course. Just at the bottom there, on the Finchley Road. +They run until after twelve, and they’re much quicker at this time of +night, too. You’re going back to-morrow, aren’t you?” + +“Yes, on the 10.20. I suppose I’d better be getting along now. Rather +cold standing here, isn’t it?” + +“Well, Norman,” she said, trying to look bright and friendly and not +ungrateful, “it’s been nice seeing you again. And thanks awfully for +the dinner and everything. I adored that clown with the chairs, didn’t +you? Good-bye.” + +He shook hands. “Good-bye. I’m glad you liked it,” he muttered. +“Good-bye.” + +She stood in the entrance a minute or two after he had gone, fumbling +for her key, and suddenly from that great ocean of deep depression +which she always felt was not far away, rose in the dark a great +breaker and swept her away. She could have cried. It was not Norman +Birtley--he was a feeble fool who was rapidly getting worse--but the +endless cheating of life itself that frightened her and stifled her. +She was Lilian Matfield, Lilian Matfield, the same that had gone +playing and laughing and singing and looking forward to everything +only a few years ago, no different now except a little older and more +sensible, and yet she felt, obscurely, darkly, that somehow she was +being conjured into somebody miserably different, somebody stiff and +faded and dull. + +Another girl came up. Miss Matfield steadied herself, found her key, +and walked in. Isabel Cadnam was just coming out of the lounge, and +they met. + +“Hello, Matfield. Been on the razzle? Look here, I hope you didn’t want +that shawl I borrowed. I didn’t get in last night until the crack of +dawn, and then I was in such a hurry this morning, I forgot about it.” + +“No, it didn’t matter, thanks, Caddie. I’m going up. I’m tired.” + +“So am I. Had a good night. That show that Ivor took me to last +night was rather a wash-out, I must say. The most ghastly people, +and millions of them. And Ivor wanted to join in with some of the +ghastliest, and I didn’t, of course, and that started it all over +again. Another row, my dear. Isn’t it foul?” + +Miss Matfield said dispiritedly that it was. + +“What did you do to-night, Matfield? Anything thrilling?” + +“Not very. Rather dull, in fact. I’ve got a headache. I think I’ve +eaten too many chocolates. I’ll try some aspirin.” + +“Nothing like it,” said Miss Cadnam. “Look here, I’ll fetch your shawl +and bring it round, and then, if you have any to spare, I’ll borrow +a couple of aspirins. If I don’t take _something_, I’ll never get a +wink of sleep all night. It’s always the same after I’ve had a row with +Ivor. I begin _arguing_ with him the minute I get to bed, and then I go +on and on all night until I think my head’s going to burst. Isn’t it +foul?” + +“Completely,” said Miss Matfield, opening her door. “All right, then. +Hurry up with the shawl and I’ll get you the aspirin.” She closed the +door behind her. + + +IV + +It was rather queer seeing Mr. Golspie again, in the grey light of +Angel Pavement, after that strange meeting at the Colladium. It was +rather like seeing someone you had just met in a vivid dream. She did +some letters for him the next morning, and when he had finished them, +he dropped his impersonal stare and tone of voice, grinned at her, and +said: “Enjoy the show last night?” + +“Not very much,” she told him. “Did you?” + +“No, I didn’t,” he boomed. “Dead as mutton. Not a patch on the old +halls. They call it Variety now, but that’s about all the variety you +get. All the same, isn’t it? I keep trying it, but it’s poor stuff. +That girl of mine likes to go. She enjoys it all right. Did you see her +last night? She was there with me.” + +“I wondered if it was your daughter. She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she?” + +“Think so?” He was pleased at this. “Well, she’s pretty enough, and +knows it, the little monkey. Was that the young man, the one I saw you +with?” + +He really had some ghastly expressions. The young man! “Good Lord, +no!” she cried. “He was just an old friend who comes from my part of +the world. Shall I bring these letters in to sign as soon as I’ve done +them?” + +“I’d like them as soon as possible, Miss Matfield. I want to be off +before lunch. I’ve got several members of the Chosen Race to see this +afternoon.” + +That was all. The awful “young man” question was, of course, in his +favourite vein, but apart from that, he was much quieter and pleasanter +than usual in this little talk. For once he had dropped the jeering and +leering style that made her feel so uncomfortable. He was friendlier. +And she had never thanked him for the chocolates. She would have to do +that when she went back with the letters. + +“Oh, Mr. Golspie,” she cried, when he had finished signing the letters, +“I forgot to thank you for the lovely box of chocolates. I don’t know +why you gave them to me--so suddenly, like that----” + +“Just to celebrate the little meeting, that’s all,” he replied, +waving a hand. “‘Here’s our Miss Matfield,’ I thought, ‘looking a bit +uncomfortable because her young man’s landed in the wrong seats.’” + +“Oh, did you notice that? It was a stupid business.” + +“Bit of a box-up, certainly,” he said, grinning at her. “Yes, I saw you +all right. You looked very annoyed, too. Anyhow, I thought something +ought to be done about it.” + +“Well, it was very nice of you,” she said, though she was not +altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. + +“Ah, but I’m a very nice man,” he assured her, looking very solemn for +a moment. Then he produced a short disconcerting guffaw, and waved +his hand again. She turned away. “And another thing,” he called out. +She stopped. “You never catch me getting into the wrong seats, you +try me sometime, Miss Matfield, you just try me. You’d be surprised.” +He chuckled a little as she went out. This time she felt hot and +uncomfortable again, and felt ready to dislike him just as much as she +had done when he first came. It was odd how uncomfortable he could make +her feel. After all, she had worked for unpleasant men before to-day. +But this was rather different. + +Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham were now busy making what Mr. Dersingham, +who was beginning to wear a look of great self-importance, called a +“big drive.” He and Mr. Golspie and the two travellers were visiting +as many firms as they could, showing the new stuff that Mr. Golspie +had introduced and piling up the orders. Apparently, it was important +that as many orders as possible should be obtained during this little +period, for some reason that was not made plain to the office staff, +and perhaps was not plain to anybody but Mr. Golspie. It meant a great +deal of work for everybody. Miss Matfield was kept at her machine +nearly all day making out lists, invoices, and advices. It was not +difficult work but it was rather close work and very dreary, and it +left her fagged and feeling quite unfit to plan some amusement for +herself. There were plenty of mildly amusing things that could be done +with a little planning, but she was too tired to bother, like so many +of the girls at the Club. Going anywhere, even if it was only attending +a concert or doing a theatre, always meant so much fuss and arranging +that she let it all slide, not excepting the week-end. If somebody had +come along with a cut and dried plan for doing something entertaining, +that would have been quite different, indeed heavenly; but nobody did. +She spent a good deal of her time at the Club listening to Evelyn +Ansdell, who was in the thick of her preparations for the Empire tour +with the Major and talked at great length about every single thing +she had to buy. Evelyn was quite amusing about it, of course, but it +was distinctly depressing to think that very soon she would be gone, +probably for ever. On the Sunday they both went round to have tea with +Major Ansdell who was quite absurd and provided them with an enormous +sticky tea--bless him!--but it was really all rather sad. And on +Monday and Tuesday there was quite a frantic bustle at the office. Mr. +Smeeth turned himself into a faintly apologetic slave-driver, and Mr. +Dersingham ran in and out like a large pink fox terrier. + +The next morning they learned the reason for all this fuss. Mr. Smeeth, +after visiting the private office, came back looking rather important, +and said, “Mr. Golspie’s leaving us to-day.” + +Every one of them looked surprised, and three of them, Miss Matfield, +Turgis, and Stanley, looked either startled or disappointed. + +“He’s not going for good, is he, Mr. Smeeth?” asked Turgis, before +anyone else could speak. + +He had spoken for Miss Matfield, who felt, she did not know why, the +most acute anxiety. For some strange reason, which had certainly +nothing to do with business, for at heart she did not care a rap +whether Twigg & Dersingham sold all the veneers and inlays in England +or drifted into bankruptcy, she hated the thought of Mr. Golspie +leaving them. At one stroke it flattened the whole life of Angel +Pavement. + +“He’s not going for good, I’m glad to say,” Mr. Smeeth replied, +enjoying their suspense. “He’s only going back for a short visit, on +our business, to the place he came from, up there in the Baltic. I +don’t know how long he’ll be away. He doesn’t know exactly himself +yet. But he’s sailing this afternoon, going the whole way by boat on +the Anglo-Baltic. And,” here Mr. Smeeth glanced out of the window at +the raw damp morning, “I don’t envy him. It’ll be a cold job crossing +the North Sea, this weather. I remember I once had a sail on a boat at +Yarmouth one Easter, not very far out, y’know, but--my word!--it was +perishing. I was glad to get back. Well, what’s it going to be like +right in the middle, this time of year. I wouldn’t be paid, wouldn’t be +paid, to do it.” + +“I’ll bet he doesn’t care,” said Stanley boastfully. Mr. Golspie was +still one of Stanley’s heroes--though nobody could discover why, +except that he looked rather like a detective--and Stanley had no half +measures in the heroic. “I’ll bet he likes it. I would. I wish he’d +take me with him. I wouldn’t go. Oh no, oh no! Wouldn’t I just!” + +“You get on with your work, Stanley,” said Mr. Smeeth mechanically. “We +all know what you’d do and what you wouldn’t do. Well, he’s sailing +this afternoon, all the way to the Baltic Sea, and, as I say, I don’t +envy him.” And Mr. Smeeth returned, well content, to his cosy desk and +his neat little rows of figures. + +Half an hour afterwards, Mr. Golspie, wearing an enormous ulster, +looked in on them. “You won’t see me for a week or two,” he announced +cheerfully. “Keep it going. Shoulders to the wheel! Full steam ahead, +as people say--though why they say it, God only knows, because nobody +in a ship ever said it--doesn’t mean anything. Make ’em all pay up, +Smeeth. Keep your eye on that cut rate with the Anglo-Baltic, Turgis. +Just remember me in your prayers, you girls, if you do pray. Do you +pray, Miss Matfield? Never mind, tell me another time. And, Stanley----” + +“Yes, sir,” said Stanley, springing to attention. + +“Run down and get me a taxi, sharp as you can. Good-bye, everybody.” + +When they had all said good-bye, too, and he had gone and they had +heard the outer door slam behind him, in the sudden quiet that +followed, the whole office had appeared to shrink and darken a little. +Miss Matfield, aware of this, resented it, and, compressing her lips, +threw herself into what work she had on hand with a sort of grey +determination, never looking up and only speaking when compelled +to answer a question. By lunch time she felt so discontented that, +instead of spending the usual ninepence or so at the little teashop +not far away, she went further afield, to a superior place just off +Cannon Street, and had cutlet and peas, apple tart and cream, and a +cup of coffee, paying her half-crown manfully. After that she was +more cheerful and more honest. She had been depressed because though +all kinds of things seemed to be happening to other people, nothing +was happening to her. It was hard luck losing Evelyn Ansdell. It was +hard luck losing Mr. Golspie, if only for a week or two. She could not +say yet whether she really liked the man, but at least he made Angel +Pavement more amusing. It would be terribly flat now without him. +Everything, it seemed, was sinking into dullness. Well, she must make +an effort and think of something amusing to do. When she returned to +the office, quarter of an hour late, as usual, she was cheerful and +comparatively friendly with everybody. + +Perhaps the little gods who look after these minor affairs decided that +she must be encouraged, for at once they found something amusing for +her to do. Shortly after three, Mr. Smeeth took a telephone message and +then called Miss Matfield to him. + +“That was Mr. Golspie, Miss Matfield,” he began, in his pleasantly +fussy and important way. “He says they’re sailing later than he +thought, about five or so, and he wants you to go down to the ship +and take down a few important letters he’s just remembered about. +And you’ve also got to take that sample book--it’s in the private +office--he forgot it. I haven’t got Mr. Dersingham’s permission for you +to go, and I can’t get it, because he’s out, but of course it’s all +right. I accept all responsibility. You don’t mind going, do you?” + +“I’d love it,” cried Miss Matfield. “But where exactly do I go?” Mr. +Smeeth adjusted his eyeglasses and then examined the slip of paper +he had been carrying. “You go to Hay’s Wharf, that’s on the south +side of the river between London Bridge and the Tower Bridge, you go +over London Bridge and turn straight to the left to get there. And +the ship’s the _L-e-m-m-a-l-a, Lemmala_. Can you remember that, Miss +Matfield? And he says, ‘Take a taxi,’ so I’d better give you half a +crown out of the petty cash for that--I’ll have to put it down as +travelling expenses. Now you get your notebook and pencil and your +things on, and I’ll get that sample book out of the private office for +you. It’ll be a little jaunt for you, something out of the common, +won’t it? Stanley’d give his ears to go, wouldn’t you, Stanley? Oh, +he’s not there. Where is that lad?” + +Yes, it was a little jaunt for her. It was great fun. First, Moorgate +Street, the Bank, then King William Street, went rattling past the +taxi window; then came London Bridge, with leaden gleams of the river +far below on either side; then a slow progress along a narrow street +on the other side, a turn to the left up a street still narrower, a +mere passage, at the end of which the taxi had to stop altogether. +She dodged up another dark lane, asked a pleasant large policeman if +she was going the right way, and finally found herself at the water’s +edge, where men were busy loading and running about with papers and +shouting to one another. There, about fifty yards further down, was the +_Lemmala_, a steamship with one tall thin funnel, not very large and +rather dingy but nevertheless a fine romantic sight. A flag she had +never seen before drooped from its little mast. As she drew nearer, +she heard some of the men shouting down from the deck, and they were +speaking in a language she had never heard before, a tremendously +foreign language. Up to that moment, business had been for her an +affair of clerks and desks and telephones and stupid letters that +always began and ended in the same dull way, but now, in a flash, she +suddenly realised that it was all very romantic. It was as if Mr. +Dersingham had stalked into the office in Elizabethan costume. The +wood they sold in Angel Pavement came in boats like this, indeed in +this very ship, and at the other end, where the veneers began, there +was quite a different sort of life going on, huge forests, thick snow +and frosts all winter, wolves on the prowl, bearded men wearing high +boots, women in strange bright shawls, scenes out of the Russian +Ballet. Miss Matfield, like most members of the English middle classes, +was incurably romantic at heart, and now she was genuinely thrilled, +and could hardly have been more astonished and delighted if a few +nightingales had suddenly burst into song in one of the dark archways. +London was really marvellous, and the wonder of it rushed up in her +mind and burst there like a rocket, scattering a multi-coloured host +of vague but rich associations, a glittering jumble of history and +nonsense and poetry, Dick Whittington and galleons, Muscovy and Cathay, +East Indiamen, the doldrums far away, and the Pool of London, lapping +here only a stone’s throw from the shops and offices and buses. + +She had arrived now at the foot of a gangway that came down steeply +from the rusty side of the _Lemmala_. She looked up, hesitating. +Somebody was calling. It was Mr. Golspie above, and he was waving her +up. When she reached the head of the gangway he was there, waiting for +her. + +“We’ve a couple of hours at least before she moves,” he explained, +piloting her along the deck, then up a short flight of stairs to the +deck above, “but I shan’t keep you so long, y’know. Awkward if she +moved off and you were still aboard, eh? Have to take a trip then, eh?” + +“I don’t know that I’d mind very much,” she told him, looking about her +on the upper deck. “It would be rather amusing.” + +“Oh, you wouldn’t have a bad time at all, so long as you weren’t +seasick. These fellows here would make a great fuss of you, I can tell +you.” + +“Well, that would be rather a nice change.” + +“Would it now?” He grinned. “Well, we won’t kidnap you this time. +We’ll go in here.” And he led the way into a little saloon, quite neat +and cheerful. On the table, which was covered with a hideously bright +cloth, were some cigars, a mysterious tall bottle of a shape she had +never seen before, and several small glasses. Some newspapers and +illustrated papers, printed in fantastic characters, were scattered +about, and these helped more than anything else, unless it was the tall +bottle, to make it all seem very foreign. Yet through the windows at +each side she could see the roofs and spires, the familiar smoky mass, +of London. + +“Ah, I’d better look after that sample book,” said Mr. Golspie. “Now +then, you sit down there, Miss Matfield, with your notebook.” + +She sat down and tried to pull the chair nearer to the table, but of +course it would not move, or at least would only swing round. She +was forgetting that she was on board a ship. It was all very odd and +delightful. + +The letters were not difficult and were all more or less alike, and in +half an hour they had done. Once or twice, while they were at work, +various faces, foreign faces, had peeped in at them, had nodded, +smiled, and then disappeared. The only other interruptions were +occasional shouts and hootings outside. + +“I think that’s all,” said Mr. Golspie, lighting a cigar and pouring +himself out a drink from the tall bottle. “But just you read through +what you’ve done while I try to think if there’s anything else. There’s +plenty of time. D’you smoke? That’s right. Well, have a cigarette. +Here, have one of these.” And he threw over a very fancy cardboard box, +from which she took a long cigarette that was half stiff paper, like a +Russian. It was a fine romantic cigarette and she enjoyed it. + +“Can’t think of anything else,” said Mr. Golspie, puffing out a cloud +of smoke. “Just run through that lot quickly, will you?” She did, and +there was only one change to be made. “I’ll sign some sheets now for +you,” he continued, “and then you can take ’em back with you to the +office. I brought plenty of the firm’s stationery with me. Always do, +wherever I am. That’s the worst of being on your own. Have to buy your +own stationery. It’s a thing I hate doing. Funny, isn’t it? I’d spend +money like water on all sorts of silly rubbish and never turn a hair, +but I hate spending money on paper. Expect you’re the same, aren’t you, +about something?” + +“Pencils,” replied Miss Matfield promptly. “I loathe and detest having +to buy pencils. If I can’t borrow or steal one, and actually have to go +to a shop and pay money for one of the wretched things, I simply hate +it.” + +“Ah, we’re all a queer lot, even the best-looking of us,” Mr. Golspie +ruminated while he signed the blank sheets. “We’re all both crooks and +old washerwomen rolled into one, though I expect you’ll tell me that +_you_ aren’t, eh?” + +“No, I shan’t. I know exactly what you mean.” + +If they were on the very edge of a pleasant sympathetic talk, as it +appeared at that moment, then Mr. Golspie only yanked them miles away +at one swoop with his next remark. “Well, if you do,” he said, “you +know more than I do. And that’s a nuisance.” He looked up, having +finished with the sheets. “Here, you’re shivering.” + +“Am I? I didn’t know I was. But I am rather cold now,” she admitted. +She was still wearing her thick coat, but the little saloon was not +warmed and there was a nipping air along the river. + +“You’ve finished here now,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her, “but +if you’ll take my tip you won’t go like that, you’ll have a drink of +something to warm you up first. Might get a cold before you could say +‘knife.’” + +This was Mr. Golspie in a new and unsuspected vein. She could have +laughed in his face. + +“If the steward’s about,” he continued, “I could get some tea for you. +These people aren’t great on tea but they can make it all right. Or +coffee, if you’d rather have that. It just depends if he’s handy.” He +got up, passing the signed sheets to her. + +“Oh, don’t bother, Mr. Golspie. They’re probably all frightfully busy +now, and I’d rather not, thanks. I can get some tea on my way back to +the office.” + +“Well, you must have something. You can’t leave the ship shivering like +that. Have some of this stuff,” and he pointed to the tall bottle. +“It’ll warm you up. I’m going to have some. You join me.” He poured out +two small glasses of the colourless liquor. + +“Shall I? What is it?” + +“Vodka. It’s the favourite tipple in these ships.” + +Vodka! She picked up the glass and put her nose to it. She had never +tasted vodka before, never remembered ever having seen it before, +but of course it was richly associated with her memories of romantic +fiction of various kinds, and was tremendously thrilling, the final +completing thrill of the afternoon’s adventure. At once she could hear +herself bringing the vodka into her account of the adventure at the +Club. “And then, my dear,” it would run, “I was given some vodka. There +I was, in the cabin, swilling vodka like mad. Marvellous!” + +“Come along, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at her over his +raised glass. “Down it goes. Happy days!” And he emptied his glass with +one turn of the wrist. + +“All right,” she cried, raising hers. “What do I say? Cheerio?” Boldly +she drained her glass, too, in one gulp. For a second or so nothing +happened but a curious aniseedy taste as the liquor slipped over her +palate, but then, suddenly, it was as if an incendiary bomb had burst +in her throat and sent white fire racing down every channel of her +body. She gasped, laughed, coughed, all at once. + +“That’s the way, Miss Matfield. You put it down in great style. Try +another. I’m going to have one. Just another for good luck.” He filled +the glasses again. + +She floated easily now on a warm tide. It was very pleasant. She +took the glass, hesitated, then looked up at him. “I’m not going to +be tight, am I? If you make me drunk I shan’t be able to type your +letters, you know.” + +“Don’t you worry about that,” he told her, grinning amiably and then +patting her shoulder. “You couldn’t be soused on two glasses of this +stuff, and you’ll be as sober as a judge by the time you get back to +Angel Pavement. It’ll just make you feel warm and comfortable, and keep +the cold out. Now then. Here she goes.” + +“Happy days!” cried Miss Matfield, smiling at him, and once more there +came the aniseedy taste, the incendiary bomb, the racing white fire, +and the final warm tide. + +“Now I like you, Miss Matfield,” he told her, with a full stare of +approval. “That was done in real style, like a good sport. You’ve got +some character, not like most of these pink little ninnies of girls you +see here. I noticed that right at the start. I said to myself, ‘That +girl’s not only got looks, but she’s got character, too.’ I wish you +were coming with us.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Well, it’s a real compliment. Though I don’t know that you’d like it. +It’ll be perishingly cold, and by to-morrow she’ll be rolling like the +devil all the way across the North Sea, and she’ll start rolling again +when we get into the Baltic. I know her of old. How d’you feel now?” + +“Marvellous!” And she did. She rose and gathered her things together. +“Not too sober, though.” + +When they went out on to the upper deck, she stopped and looked down +the river. Daylight had dwindled to a faint silver above and an +occasional cold gleam on the water, and at any other time she would +probably have been depressed or half frightened by the leaden swell +of the river itself, the uncertain lights beyond, and the melancholy +hooting, but now it all seemed wonderfully mysterious and romantic. For +a minute or so, she lost herself in it. She was quite happy and yet she +felt close to tears. It was probably the vodka. + +“Sort of hypnotises you, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie gruffly, at her +elbow. + +“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly. At that moment, she decided +that she liked Mr. Golspie and that he was an unusual and fascinating +man. She also felt that she herself was fascinating, really rather +wonderful. Then she gave a quick shiver. + +“Hello, you’re not starting again?” he said, humorous but concerned +too, and he took hold of her arm and drew her closer to his side. They +stayed like that for a few moments. She did not mind being there. All +that she felt was a sudden sense of warmth and safety. + +She stepped aside, and announced that she must go. He made no effort to +detain her, said nothing, but simply led the way back to the lower deck +and the gangway. There he stopped and held out his hand. + +“Very pleased to have met you, Miss Matfield,” he said, taking her hand +and, for once, smiling rather than grinning. + +“I hope you have a good trip, Mr. Golspie,” she told him hurriedly, +“and it isn’t too cold and the crossing isn’t too bad.” Then, without +knowing why, she added: “And don’t forget to come back.” + +He gave a sudden deep laugh. “Not I. You’ll be seeing me again soon. +I’ll be back in Angel Pavement before you can turn round.” And he gave +her hand a huge squeeze, then released it. + +She turned round once and waved, though it was almost impossible to +see if he was still there, then hurried down the narrow lane, which +brought her gradually back into the ordinary world. By the time she +crossed London Bridge again and looked through the bus window, there +was hardly anything to be seen of that other world, only a glimmer of +lights. By the time she was back at her table, holding her notebook up +to the nearest shaded electric light, that other world was infinitely +remote and might never have existed outside a daydream in the November +dusk. Yet there, on the very paper she slipped behind the typewriter +roller, was the sign that it was there, the sprawling _J. Golspie_ of +the signature. And it was queer now to think that he would be coming +back, returning from his tall bottle and rolling ship and the snow and +forests of the Baltic place, to walk through that swing door there, +not a yard from Smeeth’s elbow. It was queer and it was also rather +exciting, which was more than could be said of the 13 bus and the +lounge at the Burpenfield and her room there and the aspirin and the +hot water. She sent the typewriter carriage flying along. It gave a +sharp _ping_. + + + + +_Chapter Six_: MR. SMEETH GETS HIS RISE + + +I + +Mr. Smeeth was happier than he had been for some time. The shadow +of dismissal, unemployment, degradation, ruin, had gone, except in +occasional dreams, when, after a bit of fried liver or toasted cheese +had refused to be digested, he had found himself out of a job for ever +and walking down vague dark streets with nothing on but his vest and +pants. It had vanished from his waking hours. The firm had not only +staved off bankruptcy, but it was doing a brisk trade--you might almost +call it a roaring trade--in these new Baltic veneers and inlays. This +meant that Mr. Smeeth had more and more columns of neat little figures +to enter and then add up, and that no matter how hard he worked during +the day he had to put in an extra half hour or so with the ledger and +day books in the evening. He did not mind that, though sometimes when +it was nearer seven than six and the electric light above his desk had +been burning half the day and any real air there might have been in +Angel Pavement during the morning had been used over and over again, +well, he did find himself with a bit of a headache. Once or twice too +he had that nasty little ticking sensation somewhere in his inside, but +it never went on long, so he never said anything about it to anybody. +If he had mentioned it to his wife, she would have dosed him with +half a dozen different patent medicines and would have rushed out for +half a dozen more. She did not care for doctors, but she loved patent +medicines and would try one after another, not as an attempt to cure +some definite ailment, for she could not claim to have one, but simply +in the hope that there would be some mysterious magic in the bottle. +Mrs. Smeeth called at the chemist’s in the same spirit in which she +called on her fortune-telling friends. Mr. Smeeth was sceptical about +both, though not so sceptical as he imagined himself to be. + +Occasional little pains, however, were nothing compared with the +relief of seeing the firm busy again. There had been times when he had +almost hated going to the bank, for he felt that even the cashiers +were telling one another that Twigg & Dersingham were looking pretty +rocky, but now it was a pleasure again. “Just going round to the bank, +Turgis,” he would say, trying not to sound too important. (Not that it +mattered with Turgis, who really thought Mr. Smeeth _was_ important. +But once or twice, when he had said something like this, he had caught +a certain look, a kind of gleam, in Miss Matfield’s eye. With that +young madam you never knew.) Then he would button up his old brown +overcoat, which had lasted very well but would have to be replaced as +soon as he got a rise, put on his hat, fill his pipe as he went down +the steps, stop and light it outside the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade_ place, +and then march cosily with it down the chilled and smoky length of +Angel Pavement. Everywhere there would be a bustle and a jostling, with +the roadway a bedlam of hooting and clanging and grinding gears, but +he had his place in it all, his work to do, his position to occupy, +and so he did not mind but turned on it a friendly eye and indulgent +ear. The bank, secure in its marble and mahogany, would shut out the +raw day and the raw sounds, and he would quietly, comfortably wait his +turn, sending an occasional jet of fragrant _T. Benenden_ towards the +ornamental grill. “Morning, Mr. Smeeth,” they would say. “A bit nippy, +this morning. How are things with you?” And then, if there was time for +it, one of them might have a little story to tell, about one of those +queer things that happen in the City. Then back again in the office, +at his desk, and very cosy it was after the streets. The very sight of +the blue ink, the red ink, the pencils and pens, the rubber, the paper +fasteners, the pad and rubber stamps, all the paraphernalia of his +desk, all there in their places, at his service, gave him a feeling of +deep satisfaction. He felt dimly too that this was a satisfaction that +none of the others there, Turgis, the girls, young Stanley, would ever +know, simply because they never came to work in the right spirit. His +own two children were just the same. They were all alike now. Earn a +bit, grab it, rush out and spend it, that was their lives. + +“And it beats me, Mr. Dersingham,” he said to that gentleman, one +morning, “who is going to be responsible in this lot, when the time +comes. And the time must come, mustn’t it? I mean, they can’t be young +and careless all their lives.” + +“Don’t you worry, Smeeth. They’ll all settle down,” replied Mr. +Dersingham, who felt that he stood between these two different +generations, and also felt that anyhow he knew a lot more about +everything than Smeeth. “I can remember the time, and not so long +ago, when I felt just the same,” he continued, evidently under the +impression that he was now a tremendously responsible person. “When the +time comes, we take the responsibility all right. That’s the English +way, you know, Smeeth.” + +“I hope that is so, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth doubtfully, “but +this new lot does seem different, I must say. I know from my own two. +Anything for tuppence, that’s their style, and let next week look after +itself. It frightens me to hear them talk, though I say their mother’s +always been a bit like that and they may have got it from her.” + +Both George and Edna, however, unsatisfactory as their general outlook +might be, seemed to be going on all right just then, and this too was +a great source of pleasure to Mr. Smeeth, who saw them--and had seen +them ever since they were babies--surrounded by snares and pitfalls +without number. He had to worry for two, for their mother never seemed +to worry about them or anything else, for all her fortune tellings and +bottles from the chemist’s, and to listen to her, you might think life +was a fairy tale. To Mr. Smeeth--though he did not say so--life was a +journey, unarmed and without guide or compass, through a jungle where +poisonous snakes were lurking and man-eating tigers might spring out +of every thicket. Only when he saw a little clear space in front of him +could he be easy in mind. His was a naturally apprehensive nature, and +in a religious age he would never have overlooked the least comforting +observance. But he did not live in a religious age, and he had no faith +of his own. In his universe, the gods had been banished but not the +devils. He saw clearly enough all the signs and marks of evil in the +world, having a mind that could foreshadow every stroke of malice out +of the dark, and so was surrounded by demons that he was powerless +either to placate or to vanquish. If, desiring as he did to be honest, +decent, kind, good and happy, his courage failed, he could call upon +nobody, nothing--but the police. Thus he lived, this man who went so +cosily from his little house to his little office, more apprehensively, +more dangerously, than one of Edward the Third’s bowmen. He touched +wood, and desperately hoped for the best. Just now, it seemed to be +arriving. He was happier than he had been for some time. + + +II + +The morning after Mr. Golspie’s departure, two things happened to Mr. +Smeeth. The first seemed of little importance at the time, though +afterwards he remembered it only too well. George rang up from his +garage, with a message from his mother. “She’s here now, only she +doesn’t fancy herself at the phone,” said George. “So I’ve got to give +you the message. This is it. Do you remember hearing her talk about +her cousin, Fred Mitty? Well, he’s here in London with his wife. She’s +just had a letter from them, and they want her to go round and see them +to-night, somewhere Islington way. She didn’t think you’d want to go.” + +“No, I don’t want to go,” Mr. Smeeth told him. “But that’s all right.” + +“Yes, I know it is,” said George, “but the point is this. She’s going +there to tea, and she’ll be gone some time before you get home. What +she wants to know is this, has she to leave something for you, she +says, or will you have your tea out somewhere and amuse yourself for +once----” + +“Now then, George,” his father cried down the telephone sharply, +“that’s enough of that.” + +“I’m only telling you what she says,” George’s voice explained. “Keep +cool, Dad. Nothing to do with me. You can either have your tea out and +amuse yourself----” + +“I don’t want to amuse myself. As I’ve told some of you before,” he +added rather grimly, “I like a quiet life.” + +“All right then, she can leave something for you. You’ll only have to +warm it up yourself. I shan’t be in and Edna won’t be either.” + +“Here, all right,” said Mr. Smeeth, who was not fond of warming things +up for himself. “I’ll stop out for once. Tell your mother that’s all +right. And tell her I hope she enjoys herself with Mr. Mitty.” + +He had heard his wife talk about her cousin, Fred Mitty--she was rather +given to talking about her relations--but he had never met him. Mitty +had been living in one of the big provincial towns, Birmingham or +Manchester, for the last few years. He could have stopped there, for +all Mr. Smeeth cared. However, his wife would enjoy herself. She liked +nothing better than going out for the evening and having a good old +gas with somebody fairly lively, and Mr. Smeeth remembered now that +Fred Mitty--what a name!--was supposed to be very lively, one of the +dashing members of his wife’s family, the chief comedian at all the +weddings, and all the funerals, too, for that matter. So long as Mrs. +Smeeth’s lot could all get together and eat and drink and gas and kiss +one another, they didn’t much care whether they were marrying them +or burying them. The Smeeths, what was left of them, were different. +When they met, it meant business. Four of them had not spoken to one +another for ten years, all because of two cottage houses in Highbury. +His wife’s lot would have sold the pair and eaten and drunk away the +proceeds in less than a week. + +“But it wouldn’t do for us all to be alike, would it, young lady?” he +cried, almost gaily, to Miss Poppy Sellers, who came up to him at that +moment with some invoices she had just typed. + +“That’s what my dad’s always saying, Mr. Smeeth,” she replied in her +own queer fashion, half perky half shy. “And my mother always says, +‘Well, you might try a bit anyway.’” + +“And what does she mean by that?” asked Mr. Smeeth, amused. + +Miss Sellers shook her dark little head. “I might be able to give a +guess, and then again I mightn’t. I’ve done all these, Mr. Smeeth. Are +they all right?” + +“Well, now, let’s have a look,” he said, adjusting his eyeglasses. “I +might be able to tell you--and then again I mightn’t.” + +She laughed. She was a nice little thing, even though Turgis had kept +on grumbling about her. But he had not grumbled so much lately. He had +not done anything much lately, except get on with his work--he had done +that all right--and then sit mooning. The only time he looked lively +and brisk and up-to-the-minute was when Mr. Golspie came in and asked +him to do something. A queer lad, Turgis. But he was beginning to +smarten himself up a bit, that was something; he had taken to brushing +his hair and his clothes and changing his collars a little more often; +and about time too. Mr. Smeeth shot a glance at him over his glasses, +then read through the invoices. + +“Please, Mr. Smeeth,” said Stanley, returning from the private office, +“Mr. Dersingham wants to see you.” + +And this was the second thing that happened that morning, this little +interview with Mr. Dersingham. + +“What I feel, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, after a few preliminaries, +“is that you’ve been doing your bit for the firm, and the firm now +ought to do its bit for you. You’ve had a good deal of extra work +lately, haven’t you, just as we all have?” + +“I have, Mr. Dersingham. It’s been a very busy time for me--and I’m +glad to say so, sir.” + +“For me too, I can tell you. I’ve been putting my back into it these +last few weeks. Jolly heavy going, if you ask me. Particularly this +last week, with the big drive--and it’s not over yet, not by a long +chalk it isn’t. However, what I wanted to say is this, you’ve stood by +the firm, done your best and all that, and now I propose to give you a +rise.” He paused, and looked at his employee. + +“Thank you very much, sir,” cried Mr. Smeeth, flushing. “I didn’t want +to say anything just yet, knowing how things have been, but Mr. Golspie +did say something, just after he came----” + +“Well, of course, this isn’t Golspie’s show at all. I mean to say, he +has his work here and, to a certain extent, he’s in charge, but whether +you get a rise or not or anybody else gets a rise or not has nothing to +do with him. It’s my affair entirely.” + +“Quite so, Mr. Dersingham. I quite understand that,” said Mr. Smeeth +apologetically, though he was already silently thanking Mr. Golspie for +this. + +“Though it’s--er--only fair to tell you that Mr. Golspie did mention it +to me. But, as a matter of fact, I’d practically made up my mind then. +He mentioned you, and he also mentioned Miss Matfield. He seemed to +think she had been doing some very good work.” + +“Miss Matfield’s been working very well, sir. And she certainly isn’t +getting as much as she might. We promised her a rise, if possible, +after the first six months, when she was taken on.” + +“Well, I thought from now on we’d give her three ten instead of three +pounds. Perhaps you’ll tell her, Smeeth. Do it quietly. I don’t think I +can give Turgis any more yet.” + +“He’s improving, Mr. Dersingham.” + +“He’ll have to wait, though. As for you, Smeeth, I thought we’d make it +three seventy-five for you.” + +This was a fine rise, well over a pound a week. “Thank you very much, +Mr. Dersingham. I’m sure I’ll do my best----” + +But Mr. Dersingham, large, pink, benevolent, cut him short with a +friendly wave of the hand. “That’s all right, Smeeth. I hope it won’t +be the last, either. You’ll rise with the firm, and at the present +rate there’s no telling where we shall land. Mr. Golspie has suggested +several side-lines, quite profitable, handled properly, and I propose +to look into our end of it while he’s away. Oh--by the way--I think +those increases, both yours and Miss Matfield’s, had better begin this +fortnight, eh?” + +At odd intervals throughout the day, Mr. Smeeth thought about this +extra money and delightedly considered what might be done with it. He +was, of course, all in favour of saving it. They lived comfortably as +they were but they saved little or nothing, and now at last they had +a chance of really putting something away. Insurance? That ought to +be looked into, for they had all kinds of schemes. National Savings? +A good safe investment. They might buy a house through one of the +Building Societies. He saw himself looking into all these things, +smoking his pipe over them and then making notes and putting down a few +rows of neat little figures. It almost made his mouth water. + +It was not until late afternoon, when they were finishing off, that he +began to tackle the major problem, for, like most people, he preferred +to examine the little problems, the pleasant, cheerful little fellows, +first. Plump in the middle of this major problem was Mrs. Smeeth. If +she was told about this extra money, she would want to spend it. That +was her nature; she was a born spender. She was not a grabber and she +was not a grumbler; if the money was not there, she made no complaint, +and could make a little go a long way with the best of them, if there +was no help for it. Tell her there was more money coming into the +house, and she would never rest until it had been all frittered away, +on clothes and ornaments and meals in cafés and visits to the theatre +and the pictures and trips to the seaside and chocolate and bottles of +port wine. Insurance and National Savings and Building Societies!--he +could hear her telling him what she thought about _them_, and what she +thought about him too for suggesting such a miserable way of spending +their money. (She never understood the idea of saving, except when it +merely meant putting a few shillings in a vase until Saturday. Giving +money to an insurance company or a bank seemed to her simply spending +it and getting nothing in return.) She would make him appear a mean +ageing sort of chap, almost an old miser, cutting a contemptible figure +in her eyes, and would refer to other men of her acquaintance, big, +open-handed, dashing fellows. That would be so hateful that, finally, +he would give in, and then what would they have for the future, for +the rainy day? Empty bottles and chocolate boxes and old programmes +and souvenirs of Clacton. It wasn’t good enough. He saw one way out, +of course, and that was not to tell her at all, to say nothing about +his rise until he had made a good start with his savings; but he hated +the thought of doing that. It meant lying to her, not once but perhaps +scores of times. It would be all for the best, but he had an idea that +he would feel mean all the time. Some chaps seemed to think of their +wives as people you always felt mean with, and to hear them talk you +would think they had married their worst enemies, but though he and +Edie were often pulling different ways, that wasn’t their style at all. +So what was he to do? + +His mind was still busy with this problem when he left the office for +the night and called in T. Benenden’s, round the corner. As he watched +Benenden take down the familiar canister, he wondered if Benenden was +married. He had exchanged remarks with him all these years and never +found that out. Surely Benenden couldn’t be married. A man who never +wore a tie couldn’t possibly have a wife, unless of course he left home +with a tie and then took it off in the shop. + +“You a married man, Mr. Benenden?” he inquired casually. + +T. Benenden stopped his weighing at once. “Now that’s a queer +question,” he said, staring. + +“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said Mr. Smeeth, rather embarrassed. “No +business of mine at all.” + +“Not at all, not at all,” said T. Benenden, still staring. “No offence +taken, I assure you. What I really meant was it’s a queer question for +me to answer. You say to me ‘Are you a married man, Mr. Benenden?’ +Well, the only answer I can give to that is, I _am_--and then again I’m +_not_. What do you make of that?” + +Before Mr. Smeeth had time to make anything of it, a youth rushed in, +flung some coppers on the counter, and cried “Packet o’ gaspers. Ten.” + +Mr. Benenden contemptuously threw down a packet of cigarettes, +contemptuously swept the coppers away, and watched the youth rush out +again with even greater contempt. + +“You saw that, you ’eard it?” he said scornfully. “‘Packet o’ gaspers. +_Packet o’ gaspers._’ Rushes in, rushes out, never stops to say +_please_ or _thank you_, never stops to think. Just--packet o’ gaspers. +Can’t even say _of_. A packet _of_ gaspers. Now that,” he continued +gravely, his eyes fixed on Mr. Smeeth’s apparently without once +winking, “is the ruin of the tobacco trade to-day. I don’t mean there’s +no money in it. There _is_ money in it. That’s where the big forchewns +’ave been made--packets o’ gaspers. If you and me had had the sense +to realise, when the War started, that this packet-o’-gasper business +was bound to come, _bound_ to come--men smoking ’em, women smoking +’em, boys and girls smoking ’em--we could have made out forchewns, as +easy as that. You watch for the big dividends in our trade--where are +they? It isn’t tobacco that’s behind ’em--it’s packets o’ gaspers. Same +with the shops. Quick turnover, in and out, throw ’em down, pick ’em +up, outchew go. Easy money. All right. But I say it’s the ruin of the +tobacconist to-day. And why? It takes the ’eart out of the business. +Some of ’em have started putting rows of automatic machines outside +at closing time. You’ve seen ’em. Well, I say they might as well keep +’em all day and have done with it. Packet o’ gaspers. Ten. There’s +your sixpence. Twenty. There’s your shilling. Am I a man or am I an +automatic machine?” + +“Quite so,” said Mr. Smeeth, nodding his head. + +“I’m a man, and what’s more, I’m a man with expert knowledge, I am. +You come to me, and you say, ‘I want such and such a smoke, a bit of +Virginia, a bit of Lati-kee-ya’--or you mightn’t say that because you +mightn’t know so much about it--but anyhow you’ve got your idea of what +you want and you come to me and I fix you up, just as I’ve fixed _you_ +up with this mixture of mine. There’s some pleasure in that. But this +packet o’ gasper business. I might as well stand in the door there, and +every time you put sixpence in my mouth, a packet of ten drops out of +my waistcoat.” + +“You’d look well, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Smeeth watched him filling the +pouch, and could not help thinking that T. Benenden’s Own looked +dustier than usual. + +“Getting a bit down with that,” T. Benenden admitted, rolling up the +pouch, “though if you ask me, I’d tell you to give me the bottom of the +tin every time. That’s not ordinary dust, y’know. That’s good short +stuff, best Oriental. It’s rich, that, and the Prince of Wales wouldn’t +want anything better than that in his pipe--and I believe he smokes +one.” + +“I believe he does,” said Mr. Smeeth, handing over his money. “But what +was that you were saying about being married?” + +“Ar, yes,” said T. Benenden, preparing to consume some of his own +stock. “Well, my answer to that question of yours was, ‘I _am_ and I’m +_not_.’ And how do you puzzle that out?” he asked with the air of a man +who had produced a rare riddle. “Bit of a facer that, eh?” + +“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say--offhand--that you say you _are_ married +because you’re still legally married and have a wife living, but at the +same time you say you’re not married because you’re not living the life +of a married man. In fact, you’re separated from your wife. How’s that +Mr. Benenden?” + +The other’s face fell at being robbed so quickly of the chance of +explaining himself. “That was a bit of smart thinking on your part, +Mr. Smeeth,” he said, brightening up. “There aren’t many men about +here who could have got on to it like that. And you’re right. I’ve +been separated for nearly ten years. She goes her way, and I go mine. +We were only married three years, and that was quite enough for me, a +regular cat-and-dog life that was. If she wanted to go out, I wanted +to stay in, and if she wanted to stay in, I wanted to go out. Well, +that’s all right, isn’t it? If she wants to go out, let her go out. If +she wants to stay in, let her stay in. What’s the matter with that? +Ar, but that’s a man’s point of view. This is where the unfairness of +the sex comes in. I was ready to let her go out or stay in, just as she +pleased. But what about her? Had she the same fair-minded attitude, +the same broad principles?” Mr. Benenden here removed his pipe to make +room for a short bitter laugh. “When she wanted to go out, I’d to go +out too, and when she wanted to stay in, I’d to stay in as well. That +was her idear. Dog in the manger, she was, all the time, and specially +on Saturdays and Sundays, just when you wanted a bit of give and take. +We didn’t get on. Why some men like to tell you they get on well with +women’s a mystery to me. I never did get on with ’em, and I don’t care +who knows it.” + +“That’s the spirit,” said Mr. Smeeth, for no particular reason except +that he felt Benenden ought to be encouraged. + +“Yes, well, as I say, we’d three years of it, and she left me three +times and I left her twice during them three years. Interfering +relations always ‘brought us together’--as they called it--but it +was a miserable business. One of us was always packing up. I never +knew whether I was going home to find a bit of supper or a note to +say she’d gone to her sister’s at Saffron Walden. So the last time, I +left a note saying she’d better stay for good at Saffron Walden and I +went into lodgings down Camberwell way for a week and didn’t go back +for over a week. When I did go back, she’d just gone again to Saffron +Walden--she’d been back, you see, and waited a few days--and she stayed +there.” + +“And don’t you ever see her now?” + +“Let me see,” said T. Benenden, tickling his beard with the stem of +his pipe. “Last time I ran across her by accident, a year or two ago, +or it might be three years ago. I was walking round the Confectionery +and Grocery Exhibition at the Agricultural Hall, and I suddenly saw her +and her sister--they’re in that line--and another woman all eating free +samples of custard or jelly or potted meat or something, which is what +I might have known they _would_ be doing. I gave them one look and then +went the other way.” + +“Didn’t you stop at all?” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“If I’d gone up to them there,” said Mr. Benenden earnestly, “what +would have happened? A lot of argument. ‘You did this--Oh, did +I?--Well, you did that.’ What she wouldn’t have said, her sister’ud +said for her. Her sister had a tongue a yard long, noted for it up in +Saffron Walden. I know that because a man from there came into this +very shop one morning. Well, you can’t have that sort of argument at +a free custard and jelly stall, can you? I had a picture postcard +from her last year, from Cromer--all show-off, y’know. No, I’m better +without them. Let’s see, Mr. Smeeth, I think you’re married, aren’t +you? I seem to recollect you’re a family man.” + +“That’s right,” said Mr. Smeeth, feeling very much at that moment the +affectionate father and husband. “And I like it.” + +“Oh, it suits some people,” said Mr. Benenden judicially. “They have +the knack or an inclination that way. I’m not laying down any rules +about it. But it never suited _me_. I like a quiet life of my own, to +do _what_ I like _when_ I like, and have time to think things over. +Good-night.” + +As Mr. Smeeth walked away, he came to the conclusion that he had solved +the mystery of the absent tie. Benenden did not wear a tie just to +show his independence. Mr. Smeeth, however, did not envy him, although +the question of Mrs. Smeeth and the extra money had yet to be settled. +He was glad that he was not going home for once and would not have to +meet his wife until late that night. He dismissed the problem and asked +himself instead how he should spend the evening. The first thing to do +was to have a meal and as he had once or twice had a respectable sort +of high tea in a place in Holborn, he decided to go there again, so +turned down Aldermanbury and Milk Street, caught a bus in Cheapside +and, ten minutes later, was seated snugly at a little table in the +teashop. + +He could not help feeling richer than he had done that morning. +Now he was practically a four-hundred-a-year man instead of a +three-hundred-a-year man. He felt that he was entitled to celebrate +this promotion in his own quiet way. So he began by ordering a good +solid high tea, and then searched his paper to discover what was +happening that night in the world of entertainment. There was a +symphony concert at the Queen’s Hall. He would go there. He had never +been to the Queen’s Hall, had always thought of the concerts there as +being a bit above his head. Symphony concerts at the Queen’s Hall--it +did sound rather heavy, rather alarming too, but he would try it. +After all, though he didn’t pretend to know much about it, he did +like music, indeed liked nothing better than music, and there would +sure to be something he could enjoy, and the Queen’s Hall, expensive +and highbrow as it sounded, couldn’t kill him. So far, he had got his +music from gramophone records and the wireless, bands in the park or +at the seaside, popular concerts in North London or occasionally at +the Kingsway Hall and the Central Hall, and nights in the gallery in +the old days to hear the Carl Rosa Company do _Carmen_ and _Rigoletto_ +and that one about the pierrots, _Pag-lee-atchy_ he supposed they +called it. Well, this would be a new move, this symphony concert in the +Queen’s Hall, a bit of an adventure. He ate his tea deliberately, as +usual, but with a little inner glow of excitement. + +He arrived at the Queen’s Hall in what he imagined to be very good +time, but was surprised to find, after paying what seemed to him a +stiffish price, that there was only just room for him in the gallery. +Another ten minutes and he would have been too late, a thought that +gave him a good deal of pleasure as he climbed the steps, among all the +eager, chattering symphony concert-goers. + + +III + +His seat was not very comfortable, high up too, but he liked the look +of the place, with its bluey-green walls and gilded organ-pipes and +lights shining through holes in the roof like fierce sunlight, its rows +of little chairs and music stands, all ready for business. It was fine. +He did not buy a programme--they were asking a shilling each for them, +and a man must draw a line somewhere--but spent his time looking at +the other people and listening to snatches of their talk. They were +a queer mixture, quite different from anybody you were likely to see +either in Stoke Newington or Angel Pavement; a good many foreigners +(the kind with brown baggy stains under their eyes), Jewy people, a few +wild-looking young fellows with dark khaki shirts and longish hair, a +sprinkling of quiet middle-aged men like himself, and any number of +pleasant young girls and refined ladies; and he studied them all with +interest. On one side of him were several dark foreigners in a little +party, a brown wrinkled oldish woman who never stopped talking Spanish +or Italian or Greek or some such language, a thin young man who was +carefully reading the programme, which seemed to be full of music +itself, and, on the far side, two yellow girls. On the other side, his +neighbour was a large man whose wiry grey hair stood straight up above +a broad red face, obviously an Englishman but a chap rather out of the +common, a bit cranky perhaps and fierce in his opinions. + +This man, moving restlessly in the cramped space, bumped against Mr. +Smeeth and muttered an apology. + +“Not much room, is there?” said Mr. Smeeth amiably. + +“Never is here, sir,” the man replied fiercely. + +“Is that so,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I don’t often come here.” He felt it +would not do to admit that this was the very first time. + +“Always crowded at these concerts, full up, packed out, not an inch of +spare room anywhere. And always the same. What the devil do they mean +when they say they can’t make these concerts pay? Whose fault is it?” +he demanded fiercely, just as if Mr. Smeeth were partly responsible. +“We pay what they ask us to pay. We fill the place, don’t we? What do +they want? Do they want people to hang down from the roof or sit on the +organ pipes? They should build a bigger hall or stop talking nonsense.” + +Mr. Smeeth agreed, feeling glad there was no necessity for him to do +anything else. + +“Say that to some people,” continued the fierce man, who needed +no encouragement, “and they say, ‘Well, what about the Albert +Hall? That’s big enough, isn’t it?’ The Albert Hall! The place is +ridiculous. I was silly enough to go and hear Kreisler there, a few +weeks ago. Monstrous! They might as well have used a race course and +sent him up to play in a captive balloon. If it had been a gramophone +in the next house but one, it couldn’t have been worse. Here you do get +the music, I will say that. But it’s damnably cramped up here.” + +The orchestral players were now swarming in like black beetles, and +Mr. Smeeth amused himself trying to decide what all the various +instruments were. Violins, ’cellos, double-basses, flutes, clarinets, +bassoons, trumpets or cornets, trombones, he knew them, but he was +not sure about some of the others--were those curly brass things the +horns?--and it was hard to see them at all from where he was. When they +had all settled down, he solemnly counted them, and there were nearly +a hundred. Something like a band, that! This was going to be good, he +told himself. At that moment, everybody began clapping. The conductor, +a tall foreign-looking chap with a shock of grey hair that stood out +all round his head, had arrived at his little railed-in platform, and +was giving the audience a series of short jerky bows. He gave two +little taps. All the players brought their instruments up and looked at +him. He slowly raised his arms, then brought them down sharply and the +concert began. + +First, all the violins made a shivery sort of noise that you could feel +travelling up and down your spine. Some of the clarinets and bassoons +squeaked and gibbered a little, and the brass instruments made a few +unpleasant remarks. Then all the violins went rushing up and up, and +when they got to the top, the stout man at the back hit a gong, the two +men near him attacked their drums, and the next moment every man jack +of them, all the hundred, went at it for all they were worth, and the +conductor was so energetic that it looked as if his cuffs were about +to fly up to the organ. The noise was terrible, shattering: hundreds +of tin buckets were being kicked down flights of stone steps; walls +of houses were falling in; ships were going down; ten thousand people +were screaming with toothache; steam hammers were breaking loose; +whole warehouses of oilcloth were being stormed and the oilcloth all +torn into shreds; and there were railway accidents innumerable. Then +suddenly the noise stopped; one of the clarinets, all by itself, went +slithering and gurgling; the violins began their shivery sound again +and at last shivered away into silence. The conductor dropped his arms +to his side. Nearly everybody clapped. + +Neither Mr. Smeeth nor his neighbour joined in the applause. Indeed, +the fierce man snorted a good deal, obviously to show his disapproval. + +“I didn’t care for that much, did you?” said Mr. Smeeth, who felt he +could risk it after those snorts. + +“That? Muck. Absolute muck,” the fierce man bellowed into Mr. Smeeth’s +left ear. “If they’ll swallow that they’ll swallow anything, any mortal +thing. Downright sheer muck. Listen to ’em.” And as the applause +continued, the fierce man, in despair, buried his huge head in his +hands and groaned. + +The next item seemed to Mr. Smeeth to be a member of the same +unpleasant family as the first, only instead of being the rowdy one, it +was the thin sneering one. He had never heard a piece of music before +that gave such an impression of thinness, boniness, scragginess, and +scratchiness. It was like having thin wires pushed into your ears. You +felt as if you were trying to chew ice-cream. The violins hated the +sight of you and of one another; the reedy instruments were reedier +than they had ever been before but expressed nothing but a general +loathing; the brass only came in to blow strange hollow sounds; and +the stout man and his friends at the top hit things that had all gone +flat, dead, as if their drums were burst. Very tall thin people sat +about drinking quinine and sneering at one another, and in the middle +of them, on the cold floor, was an idiot child than ran its finger-nail +up and down a slate. One last scratch from the slate, and the horror +was over. Once more, the conductor, after wiping his brow, was +acknowledging the applause. + +This time, Mr. Smeeth did not hesitate. “And I don’t like that either,” +he said to his neighbour. + +“You don’t?” The fierce man was almost staggered. “You don’t like it? +You surprise me, sir, you do indeed. If you don’t like that, what in +the name of thunder _are_ you going to like--in modern music. Come, +come, you’ve got to give the moderns a chance. You can’t refuse them a +hearing altogether, can you?” + +Mr. Smeeth admitted that you couldn’t, but said it in such a way as to +suggest that he was doing his best to keep them quiet. + +“Very well, then,” the fierce man continued, “you’ve got to confess +that you’ve just listened to one of the two or three things written +during these last ten years or so that is going to _live_. Come now, +you must admit that.” + +“Well, I dare say,” said Mr. Smeeth, knitting his brows. + +Here the fierce man began tapping him on the arm. “Form? Well, of +course, the thing hasn’t got it, and it’s no good pretending it has, +and that’s where you and I”--Mr. Smeeth was given a heavier tap, almost +a bang, to emphasise this--“find ourselves being cheated. But we’re +asking for something that isn’t there. But the tone values, the pure +orchestral colouring--superb! Damn it, it’s got poetry in it. Romantic, +of course. Romantic as you like--ultra-romantic. All these fellows now +are beginning to tell us they’re classical, but they’re all romantic +really, the whole boiling of ’em, and Berlioz is their man only they +don’t know it, or won’t admit it. What do _you_ say?” + +Mr. Smeeth observed very cautiously that he had no doubt there was +a lot to be said for that point of view. When the interval came and +he went out to smoke a pipe, he took care to keep moving so that the +fierce man, who appeared to be on the prowl, did not find him. + +The concert was much better after the interval. It began with a +longish thing in which a piano played about one half, and most of the +orchestra, for some of them never touched their instruments, played +the other half. A little dark chap played the piano and there could +be no doubt about it, he _could_ play the piano. Terrum, ter-_rum_, +terrum, terrum, trum, trum, trrrrr, the orchestra would go, and the +little chap would lean back, looking idly at the conductor. But the +second the orchestra stopped he would hurl himself at the piano and +crash out his own Terrum, ter-_rum_, terrum, terrum, trum trum trrr. +Sometimes the violins would play very softly and sadly, and the piano +would join in, scattering silver showers of notes or perhaps wandering +up and down a ladder of quiet chords, and then Mr. Smeeth would feel +himself very quiet and happy and sad all at the same time. In the end, +they had a pell-mell race, and the piano shouted to the orchestra and +then went scampering away, and the orchestra thundered at the piano and +went charging after it, and they went up hill and down dale, shouting +and thundering, scampering and charging, until one big bang, during +which the little chap seemed to be almost sitting on the piano and the +conductor appeared to be holding the whole orchestra up in his two +arms, brought it to an end. This time Mr. Smeeth clapped furiously, +and so did the fierce man, and so did everybody else, even the violin +players in the orchestra; and the little chap, now purple in the face, +ran in and out a dozen times, bowing all the way. But he would not play +again, no matter how long and loud they clapped, and Mr. Smeeth, for +his part, could not blame him. The little chap had done his share. My +word, there was talent for you! + +“Our old friend now,” said the fierce man, turning abruptly. + +“Where?” cried Mr. Smeeth, startled. + +“On the programme,” the other replied. “It’s the Brahms Number One +next.” + +“Is it really,” said Mr. Smith. “That ought to be good.” He had heard +of Brahms, knew him as the chap who had written some Hungarian dances. +But, unless he was mistaken, these dances were only a bit of fun for +Brahms, who was one of your very heavy classical men. The Number One +part of it he did not understand, and did not like to ask about it, +but as the elderly foreign woman on his right happened to be examining +the programme, he had a peep at it and had just time to discover that +it was a symphony, Brahms’ First Symphony in fact, they were about +to hear. It would probably be clean above his head, but it could not +possibly be so horrible to listen to as that modern stuff in the first +half of the programme. + +It was some time before he made much out of it. The Brahms of this +symphony seemed a very gloomy, ponderous, rumbling sort of chap, who +might now and then show a flash of temper or go in a corner and feel +sorry for himself, but for the most part simply went on gloomily +rumbling and grumbling. There were moments, however, when there came +a sudden gush of melody, something infinitely tender swelling out of +the strings or a ripple of laughter from the flutes and clarinets or +a fine flare up by the whole orchestra, and for these moments Mr. +Smeeth waited, puzzled but excited, like a man catching glimpses of +some delectable strange valley through the swirling mists of a mountain +side. As the symphony went on, he began to get the hang of it more and +more, and these moments returned more frequently, until at last, in the +final section, the great moment arrived and justified everything, the +whole symphony concert. + +It began, this last part, with some muffled and doleful sounds from the +brass instruments. He had heard some of those grim snatches of tune +earlier on in the symphony, and now when they were repeated in this +fashion they had a very queer effect on him, almost frightened him. +It was as if all the workhouses and hospitals and cemeteries of North +London had been flashed past his eyes. Those brass instruments didn’t +think Smeeth had much of a chance. All the violins were sorry about +it; they protested, they shook, they wept; but the horns and trumpets +and trombones came back and blew them away. Then the whole orchestra +became tumultuous, and one voice after another raised itself above the +menacing din, cried in anger, cried in sorrow, and was lost again. +There were queer little intervals, during one of which only the strings +played, and they twanged and plucked instead of using their bows, and +the twanging and plucking, quite soft and slow at first, got louder and +faster until it seemed as if there was danger everywhere. Then, just +when it seemed as if something was going to burst, the twanging and +plucking was over, and great mournful sounds came reeling out again, +like doomed giants. After that the whole thing seemed to be slithering +into hopelessness, as if Brahms had got stuck in a bog and the light +was going. But then the great moment arrived. Brahms jumped clean out +of his bog, set his foot on the hard road, and swept the orchestra and +the fierce man and the three foreigners and Mr. Smeeth and the whole +Queen’s Hall along with him, in a noble stride. This was a great tune. +Ta _tum_ ta ta _tum_ tum, ta _tum_ ta-ta _tum_ ta _tum_. He could have +shouted at the splendour of it. The strings in a rich deep unison +sweeping on, and you were ten feet high and had a thousand glorious +years to live. But in a minute or two it had gone, this glory of sound, +and there was muddle and gloom, a sudden sweetness of violins, then +harsh voices from the brass. Mr. Smeeth had given it up, when back it +came again, swelling his heart until it nearly choked him, and then +it was lost once more and everything began to be put in its place and +settled, abruptly, fiercely, as if old Brahms had made up his mind +to stand no nonsense from anybody or anything under the sun. There, +there, there there, _There_. It was done. They were all clapping and +clapping and the conductor was mopping his forehead and bowing and then +signalling to the band to stand up, and old Brahms had slipped away, +into the blue. + +There was a cold drizzle of rain outside in Langham Place, where the +big cars of the rich were nosing one another like shiny monsters, and +it was a long and dreary way to Chaucer Road, Stoke Newington, but +odd bits of the magic kept floating back into his mind, and he felt +more excited and happy than he had done when he had heard about the +rise that morning. Undoubtedly a lot of this symphony concert stuff +was either right above his head or just simply didn’t mean anything to +anybody. But what was good _was_ good. Ta _tum_ ta ta--now how did that +go? All the way from the High Street to Chaucer Road, as he hurried +down the darkening streets and tried to make his overcoat collar reach +the back of his hat, he was also trying to capture that tune. He could +feel it still beating and glowing somewhere inside him. + +His wife and Edna were in. He heard their voices as he shut the front +door. George was probably still out. “Hello, there. Only me,” he +shouted. “George in yet?” They told him that George was in bed (George +was always out very late or in bed quite early. A puzzling lad), so he +carefully locked and bolted the front door. + +“Well, here’s the wanderer,” cried Mrs. Smeeth gaily. She had still got +her hat and coat on, and was refreshing herself with a piece of cake +and half a tumbler of stout. “And where did you get to, Dad?” + +“Went to a concert,” he replied, a trifle self-consciously. He drew +nearer the fire and began taking off his boots. + +“Get your dad his slippers, Edna, that’s a good girl,” said her mother. +“And where was this concert then?” + +“Queen’s Hall.” + +“Oo! classy, aren’t we?” cried Mrs. Smeeth. “Did you like it?” + +“I’ll bet he didn’t,” said Edna, an aggressive low-brow. + +“How do you know he didn’t, miss. Some people like a bit of good music, +even if you don’t. We’re not all jazz-mad. There’s nobody round here +who enjoys good music, classical pieces, better than your father. Isn’t +that so, Dad? Nobody knows that better than I do, the times I’ve had to +listen to it as well, and a little bit goes a long way with me. Now you +get off to bed, Edna, now, else you won’t be getting up in the morning +and then you’ll be in a bit more trouble at the shop.” + +“What’s this?” asked Mr. Smeeth, looking at his wife and then at his +daughter. “Has she been getting into any trouble?” + +“It wasn’t my fault at all, and you needn’t have mentioned it, Mother,” +Edna began, but she was cut short by her mother. + +“I didn’t say it was, but it will be if you don’t pop off upstairs.” +She waited then until Edna had disappeared. “Tells me she’s had some +bother with the buyer or floor manager, all something and nothing, but +she thinks one or two of them there are getting their knife into her, +and I’ve just been telling her to keep quiet a bit and not give any +back answers until it’s blown over. Well,” she continued, settling back +in her chair, after disposing of the stout, “I think George told you I +was going to see Fred Mitty and his wife.” + +“He did,” said Mr. Smeeth. “And how’s Cousin Fred? What’s brought him +here?” + +“I can’t quite make out what it is. Something to do with advertising +and something to do with picture theatres and all that. He didn’t +explain it properly. But he’s looking well, and so is his wife, and +the daughter. Quite grown up, she is, about Edna’s age but bigger than +Edna. But laugh!” Her face lit up. “Laugh! I thought I’d have died. I +wish you’d been there, Dad. Oh, dear, dear, dear! Fred was always a +lively card, never knew him when he wasn’t, but he gets funnier as he +gets older, and he set us off to-night and I thought we’d never have +stopped. He started taking off a man he knew in Birmingham--I believe +he worked for him--and it seems this man talks on one side of his +mouth, can’t help it, you see, and Fred started----” + +“I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll have all this to-morrow, Edie,” said +Mr. Smeeth, standing up. “I feel like going to bed. I’m tired.” + +“Oh, all right, Mister Methodical,” cried Mrs. Smeeth good-humouredly. +“Fat lot of good it is saving a joke for you, isn’t it? Never mind, +you’ll see for yourself on Saturday. I’ll ask Fred to do it again. +They’re all coming up on Saturday night.” + +“Oh, they are, are they,” said Mr. Smeeth with an entire lack of +enthusiasm. + +“Oh, I know what you’d like to say,” she told him, as they moved to the +door. “But I had to ask them back, hadn’t I? Besides, we’ve got to have +a bit of life sometime.” + +That was true enough. He didn’t want to spoil her fun. He hadn’t told +her about the rise yet, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to tell +her. Somebody had to do the worrying and saving at 17, Chaucer Road. +Tum _tum_ tum tum--no, he couldn’t get it. He turned out the light and +followed his wife upstairs. + + +IV + +All the following day, he told himself that he would not say a word +to Mrs. Smeeth about the extra money until he had made arrangements +to save most of it. Once he had committed himself, it would be +safe--though not pleasant--to tell her. In the meantime, if she asked +him why he wasn’t getting the rise he had been promised, he would have +to put her off with some tale or other. That wouldn’t be very pleasant +either and not at all simple. To look at Mrs. Smeeth, with her free and +easy style, you would think she was easy to lie to, but she wasn’t--or +so it seemed to Mr. Smeeth. Whenever he tried he found himself, at his +age too, still blushing and stammering. But there it was; that was the +plan. And he spent some of his lunch time, all that could be spared +from the usual poached egg and cup of coffee, “looking into” one or two +things, insurance and National Savings chiefly, and when he returned +to the office and made a few notes and calculations in his neat little +script, he felt vaguely rich and rather important for once in his life. + +The only person in the office who noticed any change in him was +Stanley. Stanley’s interest in the affairs of Twigg and Dersingham, +never strong at any time, had almost entirely lapsed now that Mr. +Golspie was away, and that afternoon he found Mr. Smeeth unbearably +tyrannical. He had to comfort himself by imagining a certain dramatic +scene in the future, in which Mr. Smeeth, now the victim of a desperate +gang, called in despair on the great detective, S. Poole, only to +discover, after bowing humbly, that he was face to face with Stanley, +the boy he had once bullied and despised. “Yes, Smeeth,” said S. Poole, +lighting another cigar, “you little imagined then who it was copying +your letters and filling your inkwells. But we will let bygones be +bygones. Come, I will rid you of these pests.” And the great S. Poole, +after slipping a revolver into the pocket of his fur coat, strode out, +followed by an amazed and trembling Smeeth. “Courage, man, courage,” +said S. Poole, as he climbed into the driving seat of his powerful +roadster. “I can never thank you enough, Mr. Poole----” + +“And just get on with your work, Stanley,” said the same voice. But +oh!--the difference in intonation. “I told you those letters have +to catch the country post. Be ready to slip out with them. Got the +envelopes there?” + +On his tram, going home, Mr. Smeeth turned the pages of his evening +paper, looking for those appeals to “The Saving Man” and “The Small +Investor.” One of the advertisements asked him, not for the first time, +what he was going to do in the Evening of Life, and though he still had +no answer ready, for once he could look at it without feeling himself +shrinking somewhere. Already he carried a good insurance for a man in +his position; he had a bit, for emergencies, in the Post Office Savings +Bank; and now he would have over a pound a week to put away. Now if he +did that for ten years, fifteen years, perhaps increased it if the firm +went on doing so well and gave him another rise, why, then, surely--and +he lost himself in pleasant speculations. + +He arrived home to find Edna sitting over the fire, hugging herself in +misery, and red and swollen about the eyes. + +“Hello, hello,” he cried. “What’s the matter here?” + +“Lost my job,” Edna mumbled into the fire. + +“Yes, she’s a fine one, isn’t she?” And Mrs. Smeeth bounced into the +room with a saucepan in her hand. “I told her to be careful, last +night, the way they were getting their knife into her, and in she +comes, half an hour ago, and tells me they’ve had a regular dust-up and +the long and short of it all is, my lady’s sacked.” + +“It wasn’t my fault,” said Edna, who had obviously said this a great +many times before. + +“Just you go upstairs and tidy yourself up,” cried her mother. “Dinner +will be ready in a minute and the face you’ve got now isn’t fit to be +seen at a table. It would put us off our food. And don’t start telling +me you don’t want any dinner, just because you’ve got sacked. Get along +upstairs and don’t keep us waiting all night when you do get up.” + +“What’s all this about?” Mr. Smeeth asked, with the quiet despair of +a man who has known something like it happen before, and not a few +times before. He put on that look familiar to all wives, who are left +wondering why men should imagine that domestic life, unlike any other +kind of life, ought really to be entirely lacking in disturbing events. + +“Look at me with this saucepan in my hand,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, laughing +at herself. “Just you sit down and keep calm, and I’ll have dinner on +the table in a minute, though what it’ll be like, Lord only knows, the +way I’ve been badgered and rushed.” + +Left to himself, Mr. Smeeth came to the conclusion once again that his +wife was to be envied. She made a great fuss, far more noise than he +ever did, but she didn’t really dislike these disturbances and strokes +of bad luck. Any sort of happening, even an apparent misfortune, braced +her up and left her really enjoying it. What she didn’t like was a +quiet life, the same thing day after day. + +She came in now like a savoury whirlwind. “Draw up, Dad. We won’t wait +for Edna. She’ll be down in a minute. Help yourself to that stew and +take plenty of it because the meat’s nearly all bone. Dig down and +you’ll get the barley, and that’ll do your old inside good.” + +“What’s this about Edna, then?” + +“Far as I can see, you can’t really blame her, though she’s probably +been acting a bit too independent. Edna _is_ independent, though better +that, in the long run, than too much the other way. But she’s only a +child, when all’s said and done, and I know she liked the work and +wanted to stop on there. For two pins, I’d slip down to Finsbury Park +to-morrow and give that floor manager or whoever he is a piece of my +mind. All favouritism really, that’s what it boils down to, and of +course Edna hadn’t been there long and ought to have kept quiet--though +a girl’s a right to speak up for herself, and I’d be the last to say +she hasn’t--but they begin picking on her and she stands up for herself +and lets out one or two things she oughtn’t to and the next thing is, +she’s told to go.” + +This was not a very clear account of how a girl came to be suddenly +dismissed from an important firm of retail drapers, but it seemed to +satisfy Mr. Smeeth, who did not ask for any details. The truth is, he +had gone through this scene before, and he knew now that it was not +worth trying to discover exactly what had happened. Edna returned, +looking her usual self except that she wore a slightly tragic air. + +“When do you finish then, Edna?” her father asked. + +“This week. And the sooner the better. I wouldn’t go to-morrow if I +hadn’t to get my week’s money. Lot of pigs, they are. I knew one or two +girls--Ivy Armitage, for one--who’s been there and they told me what it +was like, but of course I wouldn’t believe ’em but it didn’t take me +long to see they weren’t talking so silly as I thought.” + +“And what’s the next move, then?” demanded Mr. Smeeth rather wearily. + +“Don’t you worry, Dad. I’m not going to stick about home long. I’ll +find something.” + +“What she’d like to do is to go to Madame Rivoli’s in the High Street,” +Mrs. Smeeth explained, “and learn the business properly.” + +“What business? I’ll trouble you for the greens, Edna.” + +“Millinery. You know Madame Rivoli’s in the High Street, the place +where I got that very nice purple hat of mine that fell into the water +at Hastings that time? Mrs. Talbot keeps it now. You know, her husband +died of eating oysters about four years ago, and nobody round here +would touch ’em for months--well, that’s Mrs. Talbot, a little woman, +looks a bit Frenchified--smart, y’know, Dad, but overdoes it a bit. I +pointed her out to you one day, and you said if you’d legs as thin as +that you’d take the trouble to hide ’em and I thought she heard you.” + +“And then you talk about _me_ talking,” cried Edna. “That’s a nice +way to talk, isn’t it? And about Mrs. Talbot, too. You couldn’t want +anybody nicer than Mrs. Talbot.” + +“All we want is for you to mind your own business,” said Mrs. Smeeth, +forgetting that this really was Edna’s business. “But if you want +something to do, you can be fetching that pudding in and making +yourself useful, while I finish this. And be careful getting it out. +Use the cloth.” + +“And where does Madame Rivoli come in?” asked Mr. Smeeth. + +“She doesn’t come in. It’s just a _name_, y’see, Dad. Miss Murgatroyd +had it before Mrs. Talbot. It catches people, makes them think all the +hats are Paris models. For all that, it’s the best little hat shop +we’ve got about here. If you know of a better one in Stoke Newington, +I’d like to know where it is, I would really. Only thing that keeps +_me_ away from that shop is the prices they ask--oh, wicked, they +are--you might as well go to the West End and have done with it. But +Mrs. Talbot does a fine business--I don’t think it’s altogether her +shop, I think she just manages it, and somebody told me two Jews really +owned it. Now then, Edna,” and Mrs. Smeeth sprang to her feet and took +the pudding from her daughter, “just nip back for the plates and then +we’re all right. There we are. It’ll taste better than it looks. This +pudding always does. Plenty for you, Dad?” + +“Just middling, Mother,” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“Well, if that isn’t enough, you can always come again, can’t you? What +about you, Edna? Don’t want any, I suppose? Well, you’re going to have +some. You eat that and see if it doesn’t make you feel better.” + +“I’ve tasted worse,” said Mr. Smeeth judicially. “Bit heavy, though, +isn’t it?” + +“Oo, Mother, you can’t have mixed it properly,” cried the fastidious +Edna. “It’s like lead. It is really. I’ll have a bit more of the apple, +please. I can’t eat the crust.” + +“Now if you’d been me and I’d been _my_ mother,” said Mrs. Smeeth with +an attempt at severity, “you’d have been made to eat what was on your +plate and not gone picking and choosing like that. But it’s not come +out as well as it might, I must say.” + +“Well, to get back to what we were talking about,” said Mr. Smeeth, +laying down his spoon and shaking his head at an offer of more pudding. +“Where does this Mrs. Talbot or Madame Rivoli or whoever it is come in? +What’s she got to do with us? I’ve forgotten how it all started. You go +on and on and what with purple hats and oysters and legs and Jews, I +don’t know where I am. Now then, start again, if we _must_ have it.” + +“Oh, you tell him, Edna, while I go and make the tea. And for goodness’ +sake be careful you don’t mention purple hats and oysters or else your +father will be leaving home. Old silly!” And Mrs. Smeeth, as deft as a +juggler, swept herself and half a dozen plates and a few dishes out of +the room. + +“It’s like this, Dad,” Edna began. “My friend, Minnie Watson, knows +this Mrs. Talbot who’s managing Madame Rivoli’s because her mother has +known her a long time and Minnie Watson introduced me to Mrs. Talbot +and we got on talking and Minnie Watson told her afterwards I wanted to +go in for the millinery if I could----” + +“Ah, we’re coming to it at last, are we?” + +“Well, the point is, Mrs. Talbot told Minnie Watson that she liked the +look of me and that if I wanted to go as an apprentice, I could do, and +they’d teach me the business. Only I’d have to go for six months first +without getting any money at all, and then they’d pay me something +after that--not much at the start, but afterwards I could earn a lot, +because you can if you’re a proper milliner and know the business.” + +“That’s the idea now, you see, Dad,” said Mrs. Smeeth, coming in with +the tea. “Learning the millinery. I don’t say it’s a bad idea, because +it’s not, and, if you ask me, I should say Edna had as good a chance of +making something out of it as any girl I know, because she’s good with +her fingers--when she cares to use ’em and that’s not often in the +house--and she likes altering hats, which is more than I ever did.” + +“Everybody says I’m clever at it,” said Edna, looking rather defiant. + +“I don’t know what you mean by ‘everybody,’ but if you mean your Minnie +Watsons and such like, I don’t think whatever they say amounts to much. +They’d tell you anything for tuppence. But still, Dad, it’s not a bad +idea--but, as I told her, this apprenticeship business is coming a bit +hard on us because it’s working for nothing and now that she’s been +earning money, she’s used to having it to spend, and we’ve got to keep +her looking decent and she’ll still want to be spending something and +she’ll be bringing nothing in for a long time. You say I haven’t a head +for business, Dad--and I dare say I haven’t and I don’t know that I +want to have--but I saw that as soon as she mentioned it and asked her +what she thought we were going to get out of it.” + +“Dad can’t talk,” cried Edna, looking across at him triumphantly, “’cos +he wanted me to be a teacher and if I’d started to be a teacher, I’d +have been going to college now, and then he’d have had to be paying for +me, never mind me not earning anything.” + +“Yes, but you didn’t want to be a teacher, did you?” said Mrs. Smeeth, +as if that somehow settled the matter. + +“Besides, my girl,” Mr. Smeeth began, rather pompously. + +“Take your tea, Dad.” It was a curious thing, but whenever Mr. Smeeth +had some really dignified statement to make, Mrs. Smeeth invariably +broke in to hand him a cup or a plate or to ask him to put some coal on +the fire or to see if there was somebody at the front door. + +“Go on, Dad, what were you saying?” said Mrs. Smeeth, observing that he +was frowning a little at his cup. + +“I was going to say that teaching’s one thing and millinery’s another +thing. If you’d have decided to be a teacher, Edna, I was ready to +make a sacrifice to see that you became one. Teaching’s a profession. +Safe, too. Once you become a teacher, you’re safe for the rest of your +life----” + +“Awful old maids they look too, some of the old ones. Lord help us, +what a life!” Mrs. Smeeth shuddered, shook her head, then smiled at her +husband, encouraging him to continue with his little speech. + +“But this millinery business is quite a different thing. There may be +money in it and there may not--I don’t know. What I do know is, it’s +in a different class altogether, not the same standing at all. I’d do +for one what I wouldn’t do for the other. So don’t throw that teaching +affair in my face because it’s outside the argument altogether.” + +“Oh, all right.” Edna wriggled her shoulders. “Don’t go on and on about +it. If I can’t go, I suppose I can’t, that’s all.” She pushed her cup +away and rose from the table. Then she stopped and looked at them, and +Mr. Smeeth saw, to his dismay, that her eyes were filling with tears. +Like that, she looked hardly a day older than she had done when he +still played childish games with her. “But I did want to go. It’s the +only thing I’ve really wanted to do since I left school. And if I went, +I might be earning quite a lot in a year or two and some day I might +be able to have a shop of my own. If George had wanted to do something +like this, you wouldn’t have said no to him--oh----” + +She was making for the door, but her father’s shout stopped her. + +“Here, wait a minute,” he called out. Then, when she halted, he threw a +quick glance at her streaming little face, looked across at her mother +and then down at the table-cloth, and said: “Well, I suppose you’d +better have a try at it then, Edna.” + +“Oo, can I?” She was all delighted eagerness now, and darted across to +him. “I can, can’t I?” + +Awkward, a trifle shamefaced, Mr. Smeeth made a movement as if to put +his arm round her, but apparently thought better of it and merely +patted her nearest shoulder-blade. “That’s all right,” he muttered. +“That’s all right.” + +“Can I go round and see her now?” said Edna, her eyes shining and her +feet dancing with impatience. Then she flew out of the room. + +“Well, Dad,” said Mrs. Smeeth. “I won’t say I’m sorry you’ve decided +that way, because I’m not. I believe it’s what she’s wanted some time. +She doesn’t know whether she’s on her head or her heels now. Ah!--” and +she gave a tremendous sigh--“I like to see them happy. After all, we’ve +only got to live once----” + +“How do you know?” demanded her husband. + +“Well, I don’t know, if it comes to that, Mister Clever,” she retorted +good-humouredly. “All the same, I’ve a very good idea. But what I +wanted to say is this, Dad. I wasn’t going to give her permission to +start this business. And don’t say I persuaded you, because I didn’t. +You did it yourself. You know what it means. She’ll be earning next to +nothing for a year or two, and though she’ll have to pull herself in a +bit now she’s not earning anything, she can’t be kept on nothing. So +don’t you turn round on me and tell me I don’t know that twelve pennies +make a shilling or something of that sort. It’s your own doing, this +time. I made up my mind I wouldn’t say a word. And if you think you can +do it all right, well and good; I’m glad.” + +“Of course I can do it,” he told her, rather indignantly. Then out it +came. “Matter of fact, I’ve got that rise.” + +“You’ve not?” + +“Yes, I have.” + +“How much?” + +“I’ve been put up to three seventy-five, that’s more than a pound a +week more than I’ve been getting.” And as he said it, Mr. Smeeth asked +himself if he wasn’t behaving like a complete fool. + +Mrs. Smeeth descended on him impetuously and gave him a resounding +kiss. “I knew there was something coming,” she cried jubilantly. “I +told you about Mrs. Dalby’s sister, didn’t I? She told me again that +money and good luck were coming through a stranger, a middling-coloured +man in a strange bed. And that was this Mr. Golspie of yours, I’ll bet. +Nearly four hundred a year, isn’t it, now? That’s something like. My +cousin, Fred Mitty, was boasting the other night about what he could +make sometimes, and now this will be something to tell him to-morrow +night. And fancy you just sitting there as if nothing had happened and +never saying a word! I never knew anybody so close, you old oyster +you! But that shows what they think of you, doesn’t it? And you always +worrying about your job and talking as if you were going to be out in +the street next minute!” She ran on and on, happy and excited, while he +filled his pipe and tried to appear very cool and collected. Actually +he was being pulled two ways. One half of him was gratified, no, more +than gratified, delighted by her pleasure and her pride in him, and the +other half was dubious and demanded to know if he realised what he had +done. + +“Now look here, Dad,” said Mrs. Smeeth, “we must celebrate the great +occasion somehow to-night. It’s no good luck coming to the house if +we’re not going to take any notice of it. Let’s go out somewhere. Let’s +enjoy ourselves.” + +“I thought we were going to do that to-morrow,” he told her drily, +“when Fred Mitty and company arrive.” + +“But that’s different. I mean, just ourselves, just you and me. Let’s +go and see a good picture or down to the second house at Finsbury Park +or something like that, and sit in the best seats, and you buy yourself +a cigar and buy me some chocolates for once, and let’s do it properly. +Come on, boy. What do you say?” + +The Saving Man and the Small Investor in Mr. Smeeth went down before +the affectionate husband and the proud male. When she looked at him +like that, it would be a sin and a shame to refuse her. “All right, +Edie. You decide where you want to go, and we’ll go.” + +“I’ll just put George’s dinner out and put the dirty things under the +tap,” she announced breathlessly, flushed and bright-eyed, a girl +again, “and while I’m doing that, you look at the paper and see where +you’d like to go. Give me those two cups. No, I can manage. You just +sit there and have a quiet smoke.” + +He could hear her singing, in her own cheerful vague fashion, above +the faint clatter of crockery in the kitchen, while he had his quiet +smoke. He did not look at the paper to see where he would like to go. +She could decide that, and she would soon enough when she had washed +up. For a week or two, she would be feeling rich and would be bringing +out all sorts of plans. If by the end of this night she had not thought +of twenty different ways of getting rid of a good deal more than an +extra pound or so a week, he would be surprised. She had a weakness +for hire purchase schemes, to begin with, and he detested them, both +as a man of business and a careful householder. Well, after the first +excitement had gone he would have to put his foot down; no more of +these fairy tale views of life; somebody had to do the thinking. Now +his thoughts took on a sombre colouring. He had never envied the rich +their luxurious pleasures; he was a simple chap, and their way of life +seemed to him ridiculous; he did not want a great deal for himself; but +what he did want--and for this he was prepared to envy anybody--was +security, to know that decency and self-respect were his to the end of +his days. To be safe in his job while he was fit for it, and after that +to have a little place of his own, with a garden (he had never done any +real gardening, but he always found it easy to imagine himself doing +it very well and enjoying it) and a bit of music whenever he wanted +it--that was not asking much, and yet, for all the firm’s increased +turnover and its rises, he could not help thinking it was really like +asking for the moon. + +“’Lo, Dad,” cried George, entering briskly. “How’s things?” + +“Pretty good, boy. How’s the car trade?” + +“Not so dusty. You don’t know anybody who’d like to lend me sixty quid, +do you, Dad?” + +“I don’t,” replied Mr. Smeeth very decidedly. + +“Pity,” said George, who showed no signs of disappointment. “If I could +put my hand on sixty quid this minute, I could make money. A cert. +Sounds like horse racing, doesn’t it, but it isn’t----” + +“And I should hope not,” said his father, looking at him severely. + +“Second-hand car deal. Money for nothing. Ah, well--you wait a bit.” + +“Well, you be careful, with your money for nothing.” + +“Leave it to me, Dad,” said George coolly. + +Mr. Smeeth looked wonderingly at him. It seemed only yesterday when +he was filling his stocking and putting the Meccano set by the boy’s +bedside. And now--leave it to him, sixty quid, a cert! Mr. Smeeth took +his pipe out, stared at it, and then whistled softly. + + +V + +“Come along, Dad,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, pouring out the Rich Ruby Port +for the ladies. “Buck up. Join in the fun.” She had herself a rich ruby +look, for what with eating and drinking and shouting and laughing and +singing, her face was crimson and almost steaming. + +Unfortunately, Mr. Mitty overheard her. “That’s right,” he roared, +drowning every other voice in the room. “Come on, Pa. Take your turn. +No shirking. Take your turn, Pa. Show us a conjuring trick.” + +“Oh, shut up, Fred,” Mrs. Mitty screamed, pretending to chide him, +as usual, and really drawing attention to his astonishing drollery. +“You’ve gone far enough.” + +Mr. Smeeth could not do any conjuring, but if he had been given +unlimited powers, he knew one trick he would have liked to perform that +instant, a trick that involved the immediate disappearance of Mr. Fred +Mitty. It was Saturday night, the little party was in full swing, and +they were all in the front room, all, that is except the Mitty girl and +Edna, who had gone out together for an hour or so, probably round to +the pictures. In addition to the Mitty pair, there were Dalby and Mrs. +Dalby (whose sister told fortunes with cards). Mr. Smeeth had seen the +room when it had had more people in it, but he had never known it when +it had seemed so full. He had always thought of Dalby, who lived at 11, +Chaucer Road, was a bandy-legged insurance agent, and fancied himself +as a wag and a great hand at parties, as a noisy chap, but compared +with Fred Mitty he was quiet and decent and merely another Smeeth. It +had not taken Mr. Smeeth ten minutes to discover that he disliked Mitty +intensely, and every thing that Mitty had done and said since (and for +the last hour or so he had insisted on calling Mr. Smeeth “Pa”) had +only increased that dislike, which did not stop short at Fred, but +extended to Mrs. Mitty and the girl, Dot. He had never known three +people he had disliked more. + +Mrs. Smeeth’s cousin was a fellow in his early forties who had probably +not been bad-looking once in a cheap flashy style. He had curly fair +hair, very small, light-coloured greedy eyes, a broken nose, and a +large loose mouth that went all out to one side when he talked. He +reminded Mr. Smeeth at once of those cheap auctioneer chaps who take +an empty shop for a week or two and pretend they are giving everything +away. Mr. Mitty’s complexion seemed to be permanently rich and ruby, +and it had evidently cost somebody a good deal in its time, though--as +Mr. Smeeth assured himself, vindictively--not necessarily Mr. Mitty +himself, who clearly brought out visiting with him a colossal thirst +and appetite. He was a funny man, a determined wag, and the noisiest +Mr. Smeeth had ever known. He shouted all the time, just like one of +those cheap auctioneers. His jokes gave you a pain in the stomach +and his voice a headache. Moreover, he seemed to Mr. Smeeth quite +obviously a silly boaster, a liar, and a man not to be trusted a yard. +Such men frequently ally themselves to quiet little women, but Fred +Mitty--fortunately for some quiet little woman--had found a female of +his own kind. Mrs. Mitty, who had a long blue nose and hair that was +bright auburn at the ends and grey-brown near the roots, was as brassy +as her husband. Her scream accompanied his roar. If she said anything +playful to you, she hit your nearest rib with her bony elbow; and if +you said anything playful to her, she slapped you on the arm. Here she +differed from Fred, who banged you on the back and poked you in the +ribs, unless you were a woman and not too old, and then he hugged you +or invited you to sit on his knee. Dot, the solitary offspring of this +brassy pair, was about Edna’s age and was all legs and golden curls and +a hard blue stare. She talked of becoming a film actress. Mr. Smeeth, +who did not know much about Hollywood, but nevertheless had a horror +of the place, told her quite sincerely that he hoped she would get +there, and added, with perfect truth, that she reminded him of those +Broadway girls on the pictures. Edna of course--the silly child--had +been fascinated at once by Dot; and as for Mrs. Smeeth, who really +had no more sense about people at times than a baby, she seemed to be +infatuated with all three of them. + +“Will you have a little port wine, Mrs. Dalby?” said Mr. Smeeth, who +felt that he must do something. + +“Just the tiniest, weeniest sip, Mr. Smeeth,” she replied. And when he +had brought her the Rich Ruby she continued, “Lively to-night, aren’t +we?” + +“Very,” he told her. + +She gave him a quick look. “Well, it’s nice to see people enjoying +themselves. But you look a bit tired to-night, Mr. Smeeth.” + +“Oh, I don’t know. Do I? Feel all right, y’know, Mrs. Dalby.” Did he +feel all right? What about that little tick-tick of pain somewhere +inside him? “I’ve been working hard just lately. We’ve been busy, for +once.” + +“You’re inside all the time, aren’t you?” said Mrs. Dalby seriously +and sympathetically. “And that’s what tells on you. Tom works very +hard--though you wouldn’t think so, to hear him talk--but he’s out most +of the time, on his round, you know, and so it’s not so bad for him, +unless we get a spell of nasty damp weather and then he begins to feel +it in the chest. He’s had chest trouble before.” + +“Has he really?” said Mr. Smeeth. This was not a very cheerful +conversation, but nevertheless it pleased him. Mrs. Dalby was a nice, +quiet, ladylike sort of woman, and talking to her in this company was +like having a few words with a sane person in a madhouse. + +“That’s right, Fred,” Mrs. Smeeth shouted. “Do help yourself.” + +“Trust me!” roared Fred, who was pouring himself out some whisky. Yes, +there was a bottle of whisky, as well as some beer and the Rich Ruby. +So far as Mr. Smeeth could see, half the week’s housekeeping money must +have been spent on this racket. + +“Yes, trust _’im_,” screamed Mrs. Fred, putting down her empty glass. +“If you don’t take that bottle away from him, he’ll have it all before +you know where you are.” + +“Ah like ma droap o’ Scoatch, d’ye ken,” Fred bellowed in a very hoarse +voice and in what he imagined to be a Scots accent. “Wha’ day ye say, +Meesees Macphairson? Hoch aye!” + +“Oh, stop it, Fred,” cried his wife. + +“Good as a turn, you are, Fred,” said Mrs. Smeeth admiringly. + +“Reminds me of the chap from Aberdeen,” Dalby began. But it was no use. +It was not his evening. + +“There was a Scottie I knew in Brum,” Fred shouted. + +Mrs. Fred let out a piercing shriek. “Oh, yes, tell ’em about him.” + +Fred did, but Mr. Smeeth, by a tremendous effort, contrived not to +listen, although Fred’s voice more than filled the room. Indeed, there +was so much of it that it was possible not to take it in properly. +Mr. Smeeth thought about other things, and paid no attention until he +suddenly discovered that he was being addressed. + +“Yes, do let’s have that,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, her face very red and her +eyes moist with laughter. “Y’know, that one you did the other night for +me--that man in Birmingham. Laugh! I thought I’d have died. Dad, you +remember me telling you? Do listen to this.” + +“That’s right, Pa,” roared Fred, with mock severity. “A little of your +attention, please, while I endeavour to give you a slight impersonation +of--Mis-ter Snook-um of Brum.” + +“That wasn’t his real name, you know,” Mrs. Fred screamed, turning on +Mr. Smeeth so that he got the full force of it. “That was the name +these chaps gave him. Do it properly, Fred, this time. Dress up for it.” + +“Shall I? What about it?” + +“Yes, go on, do. Like you did that time at Mr. Slingsby’s. I’ll tell +you all about that night in a minute,” Mrs. Fred added, with the air +of one about to confer a great favour. “That _was_ a night. But go on, +Fred.” + +“All right,” replied Fred, noisily finishing his whisky. “I will--by +special request.” + +“Looks as though we’re going to have a performance,” said Dalby, not +very pleasantly. There had been rather too much of Fred for his taste. + +“That’s right,” Fred shouted at him, not too pleasantly either. “Any +objections?” + +“Hurry up, Fred,” cried Mrs. Smeeth beaming at him. “We’re all waiting.” + +“Allow me one minute in which to change my costume,” Fred replied, “and +I will oblige.” And out he went, and the others were moved about to +allow a clear space near the door, and Mrs. Dalby and Mrs. Mitty were +pressed to take a little more of the Rich Ruby or to have a sandwich or +a piece of cake, and Mrs. Dalby had a sandwich and Mrs. Mitty, whose +long nose was a much deeper shade of blue than it had originally been, +accepted another glass of the Rich Ruby. + +“I ought to tell you that this chap he’s going to take off,” Mrs. Fred +explained to them, “was a chap Fred had some business dealings with in +Birmingham. He owned one of the picture theatres there. He wasn’t a bad +sort of chap really, but he was an absolute comic--didn’t mean to be, +y’know, didn’t know he was funny--but he _was_, and Fred and the other +fellows used to make game of him. To start with, he always talked, you +see, with his mouth on one side----” + +“Well, so does Fred,” said Mr. Smeeth, bluntly and boldly. + +“Now, Dad,” cried Mrs. Smeeth, “how can you say that!” + +“That’s right, Mrs. Smeeth,” said Dalby. “He does talk with his mouth +on one side. I noticed it myself. Just a habit, you know. Easy to get +into. Probably you never notice it now,” he remarked considerately to +Mrs. Fred. “You’ve got used to it.” + +“Oh, that’s quite different,” she said stiffly. But she did not +continue with her explanation. “Wait till he comes in. You’ll see what +I mean.” + +What Mr. Smeeth did see when Fred came in was that Fred was wearing +his best overcoat and hat. He must have chosen these things because +they were obviously too small for him and so added to the comic effect. +The coat was strained across his shoulders, and the hat, a good grey +soft felt, which Mr. Smeeth only wore at the week-end and for special +occasions, had been jammed on his head and punched in at the top in a +horrible manner. Mr. Smeeth was so annoyed he could hardly sit still. + +“Good evening, you people,” said Fred, speaking in a queer voice and +throwing his mouth round to the other side. “I’m Mister Snookums of +Brum, and I’d loike you to understand that I’m the propreeotor of the +Luxydrome Peecture Palaice, situated in one of our main thoroughfares +of the city and built ree-gardless of expense. Hem!” Here Fred coughed +in a silly way, with a quick movement of one hand to his mouth, a +movement that nearly split the seams of the overcoat. His wife and +Mrs. Smeeth shrieked with laughter; Dalby and his wife smiled; and Mr. +Smeeth merely looked glum. This went on for several minutes, at the end +of which, Fred, in a frantic attempt to capture the whole audience, was +shouting at the top of his voice, nearly bursting the overcoat, and +punching the hat out of any recognisable shape. At last, Mr. Smeeth +could stand it no longer. + +“Just a minute,” he said, advancing upon Fred. “I’m sorry to interrupt, +if you’ve not finished. But, y’know, that’s my hat, my _best_ hat--when +you’ve done with it.” And he held out his hand for it. + +“All right, old sport,” said Fred, giving it to him and resuming his +normal appearance. “No damage done. And ber-lieve me, people,” he +added, mopping his brow, “that’s nearly like work. Yes, I think I will, +Cousin Edie.” And he made for the whisky. + +Edna and Dot returned now from the pictures. It was Dot’s turn to +entertain the company. “Oo, I say,” she cried, like a suddenly +galvanised doll, “oo, I say, you oughter see Ducie Dellwood in this +picture we’ve just seen. A college girl, what they call over there a +co-ed.” + +“I thought she was sorful,” said Edna. “Didn’t you, Dot?” + +“I didn’t like her much. This was her. Watch me, everybody. Just +watch me a minute. This was her.” And Dot, after screaming everybody +into attention, began jazzing about and rolling her eyes and flinging +herself into a chair and then jumping out of it again. “That song’s +in this picture, mother,” she gasped. “You know--what is it?--_It’s +Necking or Nothing Now_--and Ducie Dellwood sings it--like this.” She +stood facing them with her legs apart and knees bent, crooked her +elbows, spread out her fingers, then swayed as she sang, or tried to +sing in a little nasal voice, what she remembered of the song. Mr. +Smeeth, after noticing that Edna was regarding this performance with +open admiration, told himself that in spite of the fact that he was a +quiet and good-tempered man, he would dearly like to get up and give +this Dot girl a good box on the ears and then pack her off to bed. + +“Well, I really think we’d better be getting along now,” said Mrs. +Dalby. + +“Yes, time to be off,” said her husband. + +“No, don’t go yet, Mrs. Dalby,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. + +“The night is yet young,” roared Fred. “I thought you London people +kept it up till all hours. Why, up in Brum, when a few of us got +together, some of the bo-hoys and some of the ger-hirls, we used to be +settling down to it now, I give you my word.” + +“And how much longer does he think he’s going to stay here?” Mr. Smeeth +asked himself bitterly, as the irrepressible Fred went roaring on. Mrs. +Dalby was firm about going and edged towards the door, smiling at her +hostess; Dalby followed her and when they did finally go, Mr. Smeeth, +glad to escape even for a minute or two, saw them to the door. The +night was beautifully dark and quiet, delighted in its entire lack of +Mitties. + +“Lively card, all right,” said Dalby, as they halted a moment. + +“A bit too lively for me,” said Mr. Smeeth in a low, confidential tone. +“A little of him goes a long way, it seems to me. Mrs. Smeeth’s cousin, +y’know,” he added, disclaiming all responsibility. + +“Well, to be quite truthful, Mr. Smeeth,” Mrs. Dalby declared, “I +must say I thought the way they allowed that girl to carry on was +ridiculous. My words, if she’d been a girl of mine----!” + +“Or mine,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly. + +“Still, we’ve had a very enjoyable evening, haven’t we, Tom?” said Mrs. +Dalby, who had plainly had nothing of the kind but was a polite woman. + +After they had said good night, Mr. Smeeth remained at the door for +a few minutes, enjoying the quiet and the cool fresh air. When he +returned to the others he made straight for the fire and raked it +together with the poker, but did not put any more coal on it. Then +he yawned once or twice, and did not try very hard to pretend he was +not yawning. Ten minutes later, he told Edna to get upstairs to bed, +pointing out very firmly that on any other night she would have been +there some time. There were signs then, after Edna had reluctantly and +with much wriggling of shoulders taken her departure, that the Mitty +family was about to go, but unfortunately George made his appearance +and that kept them another half-hour, towards the end of which Mr. +Smeeth merely stared at them in despair. When they did go Mrs. Smeeth +and George saw them to the door, and Mr. Smeeth stayed where he was. + +Somehow the room looked as if fifty people had been eating and drinking +and smoking in it for days. There were two sandwiches and a flattened +cigarette end on the carpet; somebody had spilled some port on the +little table; there was the glass that Fred had broken; there were the +forlorn bottles, the dirty glasses, the remnants of food, the cigarette +ash, the smoke rapidly going stale: the whole room, the pride of the +house and as nice a parlour as you would find in the length of Chaucer +Road, looked tipsy, bedraggled, and forlorn, and as its disgusted +owner wearily moved about, throwing bits of stuff into the fire and +straightening things, he felt as if the Mitty crew had left their sign +and mark on it for ever. He threw open the windows and was just in time +to hear from outside the last good nights. + +His wife came in. “George has gone to bed,” she announced. “I was +telling him he seemed quite struck with young Dot.” + +Mr. Smeeth grunted. + +She followed her usual practice on these occasions, sitting down by the +fire with a last sandwich, prepared for a cosy little gossip about the +evening. “I’m not going to touch a thing to-night. It’ll have to wait +until the morning. Well, well, I must say I’ve enjoyed myself to-night; +whether other people have or not.” For a moment her face was alight +with reminiscent mirth, that pleasant afterglow of jolly evenings, but +it died out as she looked at her husband. “But I must say, too, Dad, I +never saw you in such a mood. I expect you thought I wasn’t noticing +you, but I was. Couldn’t help it. Quite grumpy you were, half the time, +and downright rude, if you ask me, once or twice. Fred’s wife noticed +it, too.” + +Mr. Smeeth mumbled something to the effect that he did not much care +what Fred’s wife noticed. + +“Perhaps you’re tired. Are you, boy?” she said, her manner changing. “I +thought once or twice you looked tired, and Mrs. Dalby told me _she_ +thought you were looking a bit tired to-night.” + +“I expect I am,” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“Ah, well, that’s different, isn’t it, when you’re tired and you don’t +feel in the humour for it? Never mind; next time I expect you’ll be +ready to join in the fun. They’ve asked us all down for one night next +week--they’ll let us know which night--to meet some people they know +who used to be in Birmingham, too.” + +“Well, I hope you told them I wasn’t going.” + +“Of course I didn’t, Dad. The very idea!” + +“Well, I’m not going.” + +“Why, what for?” + +“Because I’m _not_. If you want to know,” Mr. Smeeth added, his voice +trembling, “I’ve had quite enough of ’em here to-night, without going +to look for some more.” + +His wife looked at him indignantly and sat up straight. “That’s a nice +way to talk, isn’t it? What harm have they done you? It’s not Fred’s +fault--or his wife’s fault--if you didn’t enjoy yourself to-night.” + +“It is. If it’s not their fault, whose fault is it?” Mr. Smeeth +retorted. “I can’t stand him--and I can’t stand his wife--and I can’t +stand that jazzing girl of theirs either. And the less Edna, or George, +for that matter, sees of that little----” + +“Now just you be careful what you’re saying,” cried Mrs. Smeeth. +“You’ll be saying something in a minute you’ll be sorry for afterwards. +Now, Dad, you’re tired to-night, and I expect they were a bit too noisy +for you. Fred does get noisy when he gets going, I’ll admit. But you’ll +feel different about it in the morning. Let’s go to bed.” + +“All right. I’m ready. But understand this, Edie. I’m not going down +to Fred Mitty’s this next week or any other week. If you want to go, +I can’t stop you, and if you want to ask them here again, I suppose I +can’t stop you--though if he starts coming here regularly, drinking the +amount of whisky he drank to-night, I’m going to have something to say. +But he doesn’t see _me_ again for a long time, I can tell you that.” + +“The way you talk!” said Mrs. Smeeth on her way to the door. “But I’m +not going to argue with you to-night. I’m tired myself and I’m sure +you’re so tired you don’t know what you _are_ saying. I’ll leave you to +lock up, Dad.” + +No doubt he _was_ tired. He was still trembling a little as he went +round, turning off the lights and seeing that both outside doors were +locked and bolted; but his mind was made up on the Mitty question. +There is a certain pleasure in making up your mind, putting your +foot down, taking a firm stand, especially if, like Mr. Smeeth, you +do it very rarely, not being a wilful or autocratic man; and as he +walked along the dark little hall and climbed the stairs, Mr. Smeeth +experienced that pleasure, and the hand that he placed on the banisters +was that of a strong determined man, the natural head of a house. Yet +even before he had reached the bedroom door there was mixed with that +pleasure, absorbing it gradually, an uneasiness, a faint foreboding, a +sense of worse things to come. + + + + +_Chapter Seven_: ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS + + +I + +“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, staring at Turgis and pulling hard at his +little pipe, which replied with a sickening gurgle--“yersh, that’sh +what you want, boy, shome short of ’obby, to parsh the time--shee?” + +“That’s right,” cried little Mrs. Pelumpton, sitting down but only on +the edge of the chair to show that this was a mere breathing-space in +the long battle with beds and stairs and dirty plates and potatoes and +legs of mutton. “You oughter get out of yourself more, Mr. Turgis--if +you catch my meaning. That’s what you’re telling him, isn’t it?” + +“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, who was busy now poking at his pipe with a +very large hairpin. + +“Oh--I dunno,” said Turgis, vaguely and mournfully. + +“Look at Edgar,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued. “What with +’arriering--y’know, a lot of ’em all running together, miles and miles, +and not as much on as you might go in the water with if you was at the +seaside--though he ’asn’t done much of that lately----” + +“Don’t blame him,” Turgis muttered, shuddering. The last thing on earth +he wanted was to be a harrier, who not only ran and ran until he nearly +dropped but also contrived to look silly. Ugh! + +“What with that and now these racing dog dirt tracks----” + +“Hear that,” Mr. Pelumpton broke in, pointing a derisive pipe-stem, +“d’hear that, Mishter Turgish? Dog dirt tracksh! That’sh a good one. +You’ve got it wrong, Mother. Nobody’d pay to shee a dog dirt tracksh; +you can shee them any time, outshide in the shtreet. Plenty of ’em +round ’er. That makesh me laugh, that doesh.” And to show that it did, +he cackled a little. + +“It wouldn’t take much to make you laugh. But you know what I mean?” +and she turned to Turgis. + +“Greyhound racing.” + +“That’s right,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly. “He goes to see ’em +once or twice a week--never misses--and though it costs money----” + +“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton. “Think it doesh. It’sh a betting +bishnish--shame ash ’orsh racing, a betting bishnish.” + +“Oh, is it?” Mrs. Pelumpton was thoughtful. “Well, that’s not as good +as it might be, is it? I don’t want Edgar starting with them betting +tricks--two to one each way and all that. Never any good came of +_that_, in _my_ opinion.” + +“A mug’s game,” said Turgis, with the air of a rather gloomy man of the +world. + +“I thought they just went to see the dogs run about, just a bit of +fun,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued, dubiously. Then she brightened. “But I +can trust Edgar to behave and not do anything silly.” + +“Yersh, yersh. Matter of a bob or two, that’sh all. The boy’sh all +right. Mindjew, for _my_ part, I never cared for thish betting game, +neither ’orshesh or anything elsh. Wouldn’t touch it. Fellersh +’ave shaid to me, ‘You put all you’ve got on sho-an’-sho--it’sh a +shert,’--but I’ve told ’em, ‘No.’ Matter of prinshiple, shee? I don’t +want the bookiesh’ money and they’re not going to ’ave my money. What +I’ve made,” Mr. Pelumpton added, apparently under the impression +that he had made whole fortunes in his time, “I’ve honeshtly earned. +There’sh quite enough gambling in the dealing bishnish for me, quite +enough.” + +“Well, I’d rather see Edgar going up there, even if it means he’s +putting his shillings on now and then,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, getting +up, “than see him going round the pubs. That’s an expensive ’obby, if +you like. And you can’t say you’ve never had a try at that, Dad. If +you ever had any principles against the publicans ’aving your money, +all I can say is they never took you very far. What you’ve honestly +earned you’ve mostly honestly spent, too.” And Mrs. Pelumpton waddled +into the kitchen. + +“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, completely ignoring his wife’s speech and +now fixing Turgis with his watery stare, “quite enough gambling in the +dealing bishnish for me. Now here’sh an inshtansh.” + +“Oh, blow you and your instances!” Turgis cried to himself. + +“Chesht o’ drawersh going up in Holloway and I’m requeshted to ’ave a +look at it. Very pretty piesh, very pretty piesh. Worth money, that +piesh. I’m tellin’ you now what I thought, at the time. I went back +and shaw Mishter Peek an’ tellsh him that piesh’sh worth a ten pound +note if it’sh worth a penny. ‘Go back,’ he shaysh, ‘and go right up to +sheven if nesheshary.’ I go back and thish piesh’sh gone. Old Craggy +up the road there had bought it--’ad to pay sheven too--an’ I could +have kicked myshelf. Well, that’sh what?--oh, eight munsh, ten munsh, a +year ago. All right. I’m looking round in old Craggy’sh the other day +and what do I shee--the very shame piesh. I shaysh to ’im ‘I know that +piesh’ and I told him ’ow and why I did know it. Then I shaysh to him, +‘What you wanting now for that piesh?’ An’ what do you think he shaid?” + +“Fifty pounds,” said Turgis promptly. He had heard this type of story +many, many times from Mr. Pelumpton. + +“Now that’sh jusht where you’re wrong, boy,” cried Mr. Pelumpton, +delighted. “Jusht where you’re wrong. Not fifty poundsh but _five_ +poundsh, two lesh than he’d given for it. Couldn’t get rid of +it--shee?--and had pulled it down and down--and I give you my word, I +believe I could have ’ad that piesh from him for _four_--he was sho +shick of sheeing it about the shop. And I’d have bought it for sheven, +sho would Mishter Peek, sho would you, sho would anybody. It jusht +showsh you. The dealing bishnish ish a gamble.” + +“If you ask me,” said Turgis, all gloomy and profound, “it’s all a +gamble.” + +“Well, don’t loosh ’eart, boy, don’t loosh ’eart. Take a ninterest in +thingsh like I do. Shtart a nobby----” + +“What’s your hobby?” asked Turgis, not too graciously. And he +immediately gave himself the answer silently, “Finding free beer, you +old soak, that’s your hobby.” + +“My work ish my ’obby now,” replied Mr. Pelumpton very solemnly. “In +my time I’ve ’ad all manner of ’obbiesh, from pigeonsh to joining the +volunteersh, but now my work ish my ’obby. It’sh not only my work but +my play, ash you might shay. And if you’re going to make anything at +all out of dealing, if you’re going to be a _real_ dealer, that’sh the +only way to do it--make it a full time job, wherever you are, be on the +look-out, keep your eyesh open, your earsh open, turn thingsh over in +your mind. If you’d a bit more money, d’you know what I’d shay to you?” + +Turgis could think of several things that Mr. Pelumpton would say to +him, the very minute he had some more money, but he was certain that +not one of them was in Mr. Pelumpton’s thoughts at the moment. So he +merely shook his head. + +“What I’d shay to you ish--shtart collecting. In a shmall way, y’know, +to begin with. Doeshn’t matter what you collect. And I’d put you on to +thingsh. That’sh where you’d be lucky ’cosh you’d ’ave the benefit of +my experiensh and knowledge of the trade.” + +Turgis did not think he would care very much for collecting, and Mrs. +Pelumpton, returning at that moment, wiping her hands on an apron, said +that she didn’t think of collecting either. “Just wasting your money +and littering the place up, that would be,” she added. “So don’t you go +and put ideas into his head, Dad. I’d sooner see you taking an interest +in these politics, same as Mr. Park.” + +“You know what he ish, Mishter Park?” said her husband. “He’sh a +Bolshie, that’sh what he ish.” + +“Well, it keeps him quiet enough,” Mrs. Pelumpton retorted. “And sober, +too. Never makes any noise or trouble. Nobody will make me believe he’s +a real Bolshie, a nice quiet young chap like that. And he’s never been +to Russia, never once set eyes on it. He told me so himself.” + +“That doeshn’t matter,” said Mr. Pelumpton. + +“What does matter then?” asked Mrs. Pelumpton triumphantly. + +No doubt her husband could have told her, but he did not choose to; he +merely made a contemptuous noise, and then took up the evening paper. +Turgis decided to go to bed. It was not late, but there was nothing to +do. He was tired of talking to the Pelumptons, though he felt vaguely +grateful to them, or at least to Mrs. Pelumpton, for taking an interest +in him. What they actually said did not mean much to him--for he did +not want any of their silly hobbies and had not the slightest desire to +be like either Edgar or Park--but it was pleasant to feel that somebody +was interested in him. His father took no interest in him, hadn’t done +for years, and he had no other near relations. They didn’t care much +about him at the office. Even Poppy-with-the-fringe had kept away from +him lately, and the others simply took him for granted. He had no +friends. He was just a chap in the crowd. Nearly all his time away from +the office was spent in a crowd somewhere, getting back to his lodgings +in the packed Tube, returning to the thronged streets afterwards, +perhaps eating in some crowded place, then waiting in a queue to get +in a picture theatre, making one of a huge audience, wandering along +the lamp-lit pavements, and he was for ever surrounded by strange, +indifferent or hostile faces, looking into millions of eyes that never +lit up with any gleam of recognition, and spending hour after hour in +the very thick of packed humanity without exchanging a single word with +anybody. His existence was noticed only when he bought something, when +he turned himself into a customer. + +And yet, of course, this was not entirely true. There were innumerable +people in London who were not only ready to make the acquaintance of +Turgis, but were actually longing for him. There were Park’s comrades, +the communists, who would be only too glad to obtain another recruit; +possibly the Socialists; and certainly the Anti-Socialists, who would +have been delighted to show him how to mount a soap-box. There were +clergymen of all denominations and sects on the prowl for him, willing +to lead him in prayer, to instruct him in the Scriptures, to teach him +anthems, to show him lantern slides of the Norfolk Broads, to smoke +a manly pipe at him, to play a game of chess, draughts, dominoes, +bagatelle, or billiards with him, to give him a right hook and then +a straight left with the gloves on, according to their varied tastes +and dispositions. There were men who were not clergymen, but had the +habits and outlook of clergymen, leaders of ethical societies and the +like, who would be pleased to talk to him about their own particular +universes, lend him a few books, and welcome him twice a week at their +philosophical-literary-musical services. No doubt there were criminals +who could have made good use of a youth with such a guileless air. +There were thousands of other young men in lodgings and offices, +young men who were not very clever or strong or handsome or brave or +artful, young men who were for ever packing themselves into tubes and +buses, eating hastily in corners of crowded teashops, and then using +the music-halls, picture theatres, saloon bars, and lighted streets +as their drawing-rooms, studies, and clubs, who would soon have been +overjoyed, once the mumbling preliminaries were passed, to spend their +evenings with Turgis. + +But then he did not really want any of these people, did not want +company for company’s sake. What he really wanted was Love, Romance, a +Wonderful Girl of His Own. And these had lately all been assuming the +same shape in his mind, that of Miss Lena Golspie. He had never spoken +to her, had never seen her except once, at a distance, since that day +she appeared at the office, but he had thought a great deal about +her. To say that he had fallen in love with her at sight would be to +exaggerate. If an attractive girl--and she need not have been anything +like so pretty as Miss Golspie--had turned up and had been kind to him, +no doubt he would soon have forgotten all about Lena. But no such girl +turned up; indeed no girl of any kind appeared. If Lena Golspie was +not the prettiest girl he had ever seen (and he could not remember a +prettier, not even if he included the beautiful shadow people, Lulu +Castellar and the other film stars), she was certainly the prettiest +girl he had ever spoken to, and the fact that she had actually made her +appearance at the office door in Angel Pavement somehow brought her +definitely into his own world. That she was not really a creature of +that world only made her more fascinating, mysterious, romantic, like +the beautiful heroine of a love story of the films. She was a lovely +bird of passage. He imagined her against a background of strange places +and fantastic luxuries. It was as if Lulu Castellar had stepped out of +the screen, taken on colour and solid shape, and had actually spoken +to him, smiled at him. And yet, there it was, her father worked in the +very same business, in the very same office, with him. No wonder he +could not get the girl out of his head, which for a long time now had +been haunted by a vague but infinitely desirable feminine shape. It was +vague no longer; it had definite form and features; it had a name. + +It had also an address, and Turgis, his wits suddenly sharpened, +had contrived to learn it at the office. The Golspies lived at 4a, +Carrington Villas, Maida Vale, W. 9. He had seen the very house, or +rather the upper half of the house, in which they lived. He had, in +fact, seen it several times, and had actually been watching when lights +were being turned on and off there. Before this, Maida Vale had been +for him a mere name, but now he was rapidly becoming familiar with the +district, and it had for him a most curious fascination. He had never +really decided what he would do if he was lucky enough to run into +Miss Golspie. She had been friendly that day she came to the office, +though condescending to him, of course, as she had every right to do; +but on the strength of that, he did not see how he could very well +stop her, perhaps in one of the darkest parts of Carrington Villas, +and say: “Do you remember me. I’m Turgis and I’m the clerk at Twigg +and Dersingham’s. And how are you, Miss Golspie?” And if he wasn’t +to do that, what was he to do? He did not know, and so left it to +the inspiration of the moment. That moment never arrived. He was not +very surprised or disappointed. He went across to Maida Vale several +nights, not so much because he felt he had a good chance of meeting her +there or even of seeing her, but because on these particular evenings +every other part of London seemed terribly dreary, and Maida Vale drew +him across these desolated spaces like a magnet. He only went when +it was fine, and then he took a turn or two up and down Carrington +Villas, sometimes stopping near the house to see if anything was +happening there (it was a detached house with two pillars before the +door and three steps leading up to it, and there was a broken statue +in the dingy bit of garden in front), perhaps walked along the street +at the top a little way, towards the main road, then did the same at +the bottom, had a last saunter along Carrington Villas, perhaps ended +up with a glass of bitter at the high-class little pub just round the +corner at the top, and went home. The first few evenings he had spent +like that he had enjoyed; there was to him something enchantingly +mysterious and romantic in the winter-evening gloom of this Maida Vale; +as he moved about the quiet streets, a shadow among shadows, he became +aware of an intense secret inner life of his own; but the pleasure +rapidly decreased. Too often the upper half of the house was all dark, +and then of course the whole neighbourhood lost its charm, which was +transferred to some other, unknown, part of the city, where she was +spending the evening. Probably in the West End, that brilliant jungle, +where you might meet anybody, the last person in the world you expected +to meet, and where you might miss for ever the one person you wanted +to meet. It was in the West End he caught sight of her. He had been to +a picture theatre and it was late, and he saw her with her father and +another man. Mr. Golspie was shouting for a taxi, and in another moment +he had got one and they were gone. But he saw her distinctly, and it +was strange seeing her, for though he had thought so much about her, +she had almost stopped being real. + +He was beginning to mope now, for he was tired of going over to Maida +Vale, and yet could not settle down to spend his evenings in the old +way, and that was why the Pelumptons, seeing him hanging about and +looking vaguely miserable, had begun to give him advice about hobbies. +They did not understand, he told himself gloomily, that he wasn’t +simply another Edgar or Park. But he admitted once again that it was +decent of them to take an interest in him, even if they missed the +great fact about him--namely, that he was entirely different from Edgar +or Park or anybody else they knew. The innermost self of Turgis was +always being surprised and hurt by the general ignorance of this simple +fact. Having reached his little room, he now did what he had done +many hundreds of times before: he examined his face carefully in the +tiny cracked mirror to see if there were any signs of this difference +written there; and once again he came to the conclusion that there +were, only you had to look closely and sympathetically at him, not just +give a hard stare and then march off, to notice them. + +For once, the little gas-fire did not explode when the match came near +and then wheezily complain. It gave only a soft pop and then merely +murmured. Its master knew that that meant that the meter demanded +another shilling, and as he had not got a shilling and was too lazy to +return to the back room for possible change, he let it murmur and sink, +until its flames were like tiny blue flowers. Then he did something he +had not done hundreds of times before. He began brushing his clothes. +Mr. Smeeth had already noticed, as we saw, that Turgis had smartened +himself up. We are now behind the scenes of this smartening. It had +occurred to Turgis that his next meeting with Lena Golspie, if there +ever was one, might easily take place in the office, like the first +meeting, and then he realised at once that he would have to take some +trouble with his appearance during the day. He went to the length of +spending one-and-three-pence on a clothes brush of his own. A day or +two later, he went to the further length of buying a few collars, very +smart soft collars with long points on them, and was quite surprised +at the difference they made. Then he had taken to folding his trousers +and putting them under the mattress, and had even taken his better +pair downstairs once and ironed them. Now, after brushing the coat +and waistcoat and doing a little scratching here and there with his +penknife, he took these trousers from under the mattress and thoroughly +examined them. + +He sat down on the edge of his bed, the trousers over his arm, staring +at the large hole in the old rug. But he was not looking at the hole, +but through it, into Angel Pavement, into the office. Mr. Golspie +had just gone away, and now Turgis suddenly realised that that fact +was tremendously important. It might mean that there was no chance +whatever of Lena coming near the office, now that her father was not +there. On the other hand, it might mean just the opposite, that there +was a very good chance of her visiting the office, just because her +father _was_ away. She might want something; she might be in trouble; +and Mr. Golspie might easily have told her to come to the office. And +now he remembered hearing _something_, something that Mr. Golspie, at +the outer door, had shouted to Mr. Dersingham sitting in the private +office, a something that had to do with Lena and “you people here,” +as Mr. Golspie had called them. Turgis knew definitely that Lena was +being left behind. Well then, she might call at the office any day. +There was quite a chance, anyhow. So there and then, he decided that +for the next twelve days or so, while Mr. Golspie was away, he would +shave carefully every morning, put on his better suit and wear a clean +collar, and have his hair cut at lunch time on the following day. +Having thus made up his mind, he felt quite excited, and, as people +do, if they have drifted for a long time and then suddenly come to a +decision and adopted a programme, he found himself visited obscurely by +a conviction that something was bound to happen, just as if by drawing +a firm straight line he could compel circumstance to come and toe it. + +The gas-fire retired from service with a very sad little pop. He moved +and the bed immediately gave a groan. (Everything in the room creaked +and groaned and constantly complained. It was tired of people, that +little room.) Very carefully he raised the mattress and replaced +the trousers underneath. Then, with something like an air of sheer +dandyism, he put out an absolutely clean collar for the morning. He +went to the little dormer window and stared through the few inches +of open space at the dark and the faint glimmer of the town. Here he +was, high up above Camden Town, in his own little room. There she was, +Lena Golspie, perhaps in _her_ little room in Maida Vale, perhaps just +above those two pillars he had seen, peering through the open gate, +perhaps looking down on that broken statue in the front garden. It made +his eyes water, staring there like that, but still he remained. His +lips moved. “Listen, Lena,” he began; but then stopped. “Listen, Miss +Golspie, Miss Lena Golspie. Listen. Do come to the office, do come to +the office. And make it something I can do. Turgis, you know, the one +you saw that day. Do come to the office.” + +As soon as he stepped back into the little room, it told him, in its +various creaky voices, not to be a damned fool. + +“Oh!--you!” he said to it, aloud, and then made haste to undress and +get the light out. + + +II + +Turgis kept his word to himself. Every day he appeared at the office +all shaved and brushed and as spruce as it was possible for him to be. +The others congratulated him and chaffed him and invented the most +elaborate reasons for the change. Sandycroft, the tall traveller with +the small head, the inquisitive nose, and the extraordinary number of +teeth, paid one of his flying visits to headquarters and pretended, +possibly at the instigation of Mr. Smeeth, not to know Turgis. + +“I say, Smeeth,” Sandycroft barked--and he really did bark; it was +like having an enormous terrier about the place when Sandycroft +arrived--“what’s become of that other chap--you know, what’s his +name--that chap who used to wear the dark brown collars----?” + +“Now who was that, Sandycroft?” said Smeeth, frowning and putting his +head on one side. Smeeth was as conscientious and painstaking a wag as +he was a cashier. It was not often that he joined in a joke, but when +he did he was almost alarmingly thorough. + +“You _know_ the chap I mean, Smeeth,” replied Sandycroft, sniffing +with that queer little nose of his. “Never had his hair cut--wore a +beard--looked like a Spring Poet in the autumn. Sat at the desk over +there,” he continued, lowering his voice, “where that smart young +feller is. Oh, what _was_ his name?” + +Here Stanley gurgled and spluttered, not perhaps because he thought +this was very brilliant humour, but because he thought comic relief +in any form should be encouraged. Miss Poppy Sellers was giggling +a little, too, and Miss Matfield smiled at them, not without +condescension. + +“Oh, don’t be so funny,” Turgis mumbled, giving Stanley a ferocious +scowl. + +“That’s queer, Smeeth. The same voice--the very same voice.” + +“I believe you’re right, Sandycroft. I believe you’re right,” said Mr. +Smeeth, with the air of a dutiful cross-talk comedian. + +“Sure I am,” the other barked. Then he stepped forward, with a large +polite smile on his face, displaying at least a hundred teeth. “Not Mr. +Turgis? Surely it can’t be Mr. Turgis?” + +“No,” said Turgis, who was not very good at this sort of thing, “it’s +Charlie Chaplin.” + +“Well, Mr. Charlie Chaplin Turgis,” said Sandycroft, “I must +congratulate you, I really must. All in favour, show in the usual +way. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.” And he turned away, +grinning. + +“Ah, well,” said Mr. Smeeth, settling down to his books again, rather +as if he had just come to the end of some great gusty epic of humour, +“a bit of fun won’t do any of us any harm now and again. Here, +Stanley, slip round to Nickman and Sons with this and say it’s for Mr. +Broadhurst--for Mr. Broadhurst, mind. And hurry up, don’t take all +morning about it. Don’t go shadowing somebody all round London.” + +A week had passed, and though news of Mr. Golspie himself had trickled +through into the general office, Turgis had heard nothing about Lena. +It seemed as if he was making a fool of himself--and being laughed +at by the others for his pains--and he was beginning to feel very +disheartened. On two evenings, he had returned to Maida Vale and had +hung about the neighbourhood of 4a, Carrington Villas, but had been +rewarded by nothing more than a glimpse of a shadow on a curtain. He +had been tempted then to walk boldly up to 4a and offer some wild +excuse for trying to see Miss Golspie. But he could think of nothing +that did not sound insane, and, realising that this crazy step might +spoil everything and get him into trouble at the office, he dismissed +the notion. The other evenings went very heavily. He had begun to tell +himself that he was silly to bother his head about the girl at all, but +it was one thing to tell himself that and quite another thing to stop +bothering. + +Stanley returned, and was sent out again. Mr. Smeeth departed for the +bank. Turgis and the two girls worked away quietly; there was not a lot +to do that morning. Then Poppy Sellers came over to Turgis with some +advice notes she had just typed. + +“Are these all right?” she asked. + +He looked them over. “Yes, they’re all right. You’ve got into it now, +haven’t you?” he added, deciding to give her a good word for once. She +wasn’t a bad kid, really. “Wish I could type as neat as that. I used to +have to do it sometimes, before you came, but I used to make a nasty +mess of it, I did.” + +Her sallow little face brightened at once at such praise. But her +manner was as perky as ever. “My word! we are coming on, aren’t we! +What have I done to deserve this? But I say,” and here she became more +confidential in tone, “you didn’t mind what they said--y’know when they +were trying to pull your leg. I had to laugh, and I thought you looked +a bit mad.” + +“If it amuses ’em, I don’t care,” replied Turgis loftily. “Bit silly, I +call it, all the same. I don’t go round making personal remarks about +other people. Matter of fact, I don’t mind what old Smeethy says, ’cos +he’s a decent sort and anyhow it isn’t often _he_ breaks loose. But +I don’t like that chap Sandycroft. He’s a cocky devil, he is. And, +anyhow, he’s only just come here--what does he want to be trying to be +funny for?” + +“That’s right,” said Poppy, nodding her head. “I don’t think much of +him, either. Not my style at all, he isn’t. Too many teeth, if you +ask me. And I don’t like them noses that turn up the way his does. +If he worked here all the time, he’d have that nose and teeth into +everything. I know that sort.” + +“So do I. We’d a school teacher the very image of him when I was a kid, +and he used to try it on with us--oh, what a hope!” + +“Mind you,” Poppy continued, looking at him a little uncertainly, “you +do look diff’rent--smarter, y’know.” + +“Well, that’s nobody else’s business but mine,” Turgis declared. +“What’s it got to do with anybody else?” + +“Oo, all right, don’t jump at me. I only meant--well, you look a lot +nicer now. In fact, I think you look very nice.” + +Turgis did not know what reply to make to this, so he merely grunted. + +“You don’t mind me saying so, I hope?” + +“No, ’s’all right,” he replied awkwardly. + +“I say, listen. Are you going anywhere to-night?” She stopped for a +moment, but then, before he had time to answer, went on with a rush. +“’Cos if you aren’t--well, it’s like this, my friend--her father’s +a policeman--and she got two tickets given for the Police Minstrels +to-night and now she can’t go ’cos she’s in bed with the flu and I’ve +got the tickets and I wondered if you’d like to come with me.” And she +drew a deep breath. + +“Well, thanks very much,” he stammered, “but--I don’t know--you see----” + +“Have you fixed up already to go somewhere?” + +“Well, I have--_really_----” + +“Oh, sorry.” Her face fell. She was silent for a moment, then looked +up--rather cheekily, he thought--and said, “Going out with your girl, +p’raps?” + +This annoyed him, just as if she had jabbed at some sore place. “Well, +that’s my business, isn’t it?” + +“Oo, sorry, sorry, sorry! Squashed again. I’d better shut up.” And she +marched away, a compact little figure, and began typing with great +vigour and noise. Miss Matfield threw a curious glance at her. + +Turgis wondered if he had been foolish to pretend that he wasn’t free +to go to that entertainment. It would be a lot better than doing +nothing. He supposed it was too late to change his mind, particularly +now that she had walked off in a huff. He would wish, when the evening +did come and he had nothing to do but mope about, that he had accepted +her offer. She really hadn’t a bad face when you took a good look at +it. Yes, perhaps he’d been silly not to accept. + +But when the evening did come and he suddenly remembered how he had +refused this other engagement, how glad he was! It seemed like fate. +And afterwards, when he suddenly remembered yet again how he had +refused this other engagement, how sorry he was! And still it seemed +like fate. + +He and Miss Matfield came back from lunch at the same time that +afternoon (Miss Matfield had gone out first, but then she always +took quarter of an hour longer than anybody else), running into one +another in Angel Pavement, near T. Benenden’s. “You know, Turgis,” +she announced, in that clear hard voice of hers which always rather +frightened him, “I do think you’re beastly rude to little Miss Sellers.” + +“Why, what have I done to her?” he demanded. + +“I saw this morning you’d hurt her feelings again,” Miss Matfield +continued. “And why you should, I can’t imagine. She’s quite a nice +child, really, underneath that silly perky manner of hers, and I think +she’s rather lonely, and you could be quite good friends. You see, she +happens to think you’re rather marvellous.” + +“And you don’t, Miss Matfield,” said Turgis, bold for once with her. +“Go on, you might as well put that in properly. I could hear it in your +tone of voice.” + +“I certainly don’t think you’re at all marvellous,” she said coolly. +“Why should I? What I do think is that you’re being very rude to +somebody who is prepared to like you a good deal. And when people +really like you,” she added severely, “you ought to be specially nice +to them and not rude. Now don’t say anything to her about what I’ve +just said or I shall be really annoyed.” + +“All right,” said Turgis sulkily, wondering why he couldn’t say +something sharp to her, for her cool cheek. “But I don’t see what +I’ve done to her. She takes offence too quickly, that’s it. And whose +fault’s that? And for that matter, who’s ever considered _my_ feelings +in the office?” + +“You’re different,” she said airily, “or if you’re not, you ought to +be. You’re a man.” + +Turgis, pleased by this statement that he was a man, but still +labouring under a grievance, could do nothing but mumble and mutter, +and Miss Matfield, taking no further notice of him, led the way +upstairs. The next time he saw Miss Sellers, Turgis looked curiously +at her. So she thought he was “rather marvellous,” did she? He found +himself returning to this, and to her, several times during the +afternoon. + +But then something happened, something so important that it promptly +blew away all thought of Miss Sellers or anybody or anything in that +office. Mr. Dersingham, who had only been there long enough in the +morning to go through the first post, returned about four to examine +the later posts, and he had not been in ten minutes before he sent for +Mr. Smeeth. After a short interval, during which one of them telephoned +to somebody from the private office, Mr. Smeeth came out, looking +fussy, as he always did when he had something special to do. + +“Let’s see,” he said, looking round the office, “does anybody here live +Maida Vale way?” + +What was this? Turgis’s heart jumped and knocked. + +“Well, I live in Hampstead and that’s roughly the same way,” Miss +Matfield began, dubiously. + +“What is it, Mr. Smeeth?” cried Turgis eagerly. “I know Maida Vale very +well.” + +“Thought you lived Camden Town way?” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“Yes, I do, but--er--I know somebody in Maida Vale, often go there. Is +it anything I can do, Mr. Smeeth?” + +“Yes, I think you’d better have the job, Turgis,” said the unconscious +Mr. Smeeth, little knowing what effect his words were having. “You see, +Mr. Golspie’s got a daughter living with him--well, you know that, +because she came here one day, didn’t she?” + +Oh, my gosh!--didn’t she! + +“She hasn’t got a bank account,” Mr. Smeeth continued, “and apparently +the girl’s got through all the money her father left her--these girls, +my word, they think we’re made of money!--wait till you’re a father, +Turgis, and then you’ll know--and he’s arranged with us to let her +have some from his account here. She wants it at once, to-day, and +we’ve just telephoned to see if she’ll be in, and she will--trust +her!--they’ll always be in if they get something for it--so somebody +had better take it up to her, Mr. Dersingham says. I’d make the young +madam wait if I’d anything to do with it,” he went on, maddeningly, +“because this is only encouraging extravagance, upon my word it is--but +Mr. Dersingham says she’d better have it now.” + +“Well, I’ll take it, Mr. Smeeth.” Oh, wouldn’t he just! + +“All right, then. You’d better clear off that work you’ve got on hand, +Turgis, and then when you go, you needn’t come back. If you leave here +about five, you’ll get there about half-past five, and that’ll leave +her ample time to put in a full evening spending it. I’ve got the +address here all ready.” + +Got the address! If old Smeethy only knew! Turgis could have banged his +desk and sent all his advice notes and bills of lading and railway and +shipping accounts flying about the office. He did contrive to clear +up a few odd jobs, but he did not do as much work as he pretended to +do, for it was impossible to keep his mind crawling there, among the +papers, and to prevent it from taking a wild leap now and then. At a +few minutes to five, he cleared his desk ruthlessly, so that it looked +as if the last crumb of work had been gobbled up. “I’m ready now, Mr. +Smeeth,” he announced. + +“Right you are,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’m putting twelve pounds, twelve +pound notes, into this envelope, and it has the name and address on, +you see--Miss Golspie, 4a Carrington Villas, Maida Vale. I’ll seal +that. Now here’s a form of receipt I’ve made out, and you must get her +to sign that, so that there’s no possible mistake. You understand that?” + +Turgis assured him fervently that he did. He was delighted at the +receipt idea. Once or twice he had thought what a dismal ending it +would be if he merely handed over the money at the door--“Is that +the money? Thank you. Good afternoon.” But signing a receipt was a +different matter; it could not be done properly at the door; you should +read a receipt carefully before you sign it; you might want to have it +explained; you must ask the messenger in, and then of course he might +have a chance to talk. The receipt made it a piece of real business. +Good old Smeethy! It was just like him to insist on a proper receipt. + +“And you needn’t come back, of course,” said Mr. Smeeth. “Just pop off +home. I’ll just tell Mr. Dersingham I’ve fixed it all up.” + +“What’s all this about?” Miss Matfield asked, as he was taking his +overcoat from its peg. + +He explained shortly. + +“Where do they live?” + +“In Maida Vale. 4a, Carrington Villas,” he told her. + +“I say, listen,” cried Miss Sellers, sweeping away her grievance. “If +you get a chance of going in, go in, and then tell us what it’s like +to-morrow. I’d like to know what sort of place Mr. Golspie lives in. +Wouldn’t you, Miss Matfield?” + +Miss Matfield, to Turgis’s surprise, for he expected her to be +disdainful of such idle curiosity, admitted at once that she would. +“I’m rather sorry I didn’t ask for the job,” she added. “It would be +amusing to see what the daughter’s like. I have just seen her, but +that’s all. And I can’t imagine what sort of place Mr. Golspie lives +in, though it’s probably some furnished maisonette they’re camping in. +Maida Vale’s stiff with them.” + +“Well, I can’t fancy that Mr. Golspie having a ’ome at all,” Miss +Sellers put in. “Seems a ’omeless sort of man to me.” + +“I’ll say ‘Good afternoon,’” cried Turgis loudly and cheerfully, and +off he went, the money and the receipt form snugly tucked away in the +inside pocket of his coat, the best coat he had and all brushed and +as natty as you like. Now for Maida Vale, and no hanging about this +time, but straight as a shot from a gun through the front gate of 4, +Carrington Villas. He hurried out, running down the stairs, in fear of +Mr. Dersingham or Mr. Smeeth or Miss Golspie or the gods suffering a +change of mind at the last minute and dragging him back to his desk. + + +III + +There was just light enough, and time enough, for him to notice that +the broken statue, really a plaster thing, was that of a little boy +playing with two large fishes, and that the two pillars were peeling +badly. There were two bells, one for 4, the other for 4a. He was +careful to press the 4a one. He pressed it several times and altogether +waited nearly five minutes, but nobody came. It looked as if she was +out, after all. In despair, he tried the bell for 4. Instantly a light +was switched on in the hall, and the door--there was only one door for +both flats--flung open. + +“Is it you here again, young man,” cried an enormous woman in an apron, +standing there. “Because if it is, I’ve to give you the mistress’s word +that she’s paying out no more money for the machine because the girl +that could work it has left and it’s no use to us at all the way we are +now, and not another penny will she pay out for it, so take it itself +and leave us in peace.” + +“I don’t know anything about your machine,” Turgis told her. + +“Aren’t you the same young man? Well, you’re the very image of him.” + +“I want to see Miss Golspie.” + +“The young lady above, isn’t it? Then ring the other bell, with the _a_ +on it, and she’ll hear it soon enough.” + +“But I’ve been ringing it,” he explained. “I’ve rung it about six +times.” + +“For the love of God!” cried the enormous woman, coming out and looking +at the bell-push, as if that might explain something. “Haven’t they +got that bell of theirs ringing yet? Every time it’s us, it’s really +them. Come inside, young man, come inside, or if we stand here talking +another minute the mistress’ll be raising Cain the way she’ll say she’s +destroyed with the draught. Does she know you’re coming at all?” + +“Yes, she does,” replied Turgis, following her into the hall. “I’ve +been sent to see her on business. It’s very important. I hope she’s in.” + +“Ah, she’s in, too, because I heard the mistress say she was going to +see her. At the top of the stairs you’ll see a bit of a door--it may be +open and it may be shut--and if you knock on it, you’ll make her hear. +The servant they have is out to-day because I met her here myself this +afternoon, all dressed up and telling me she’s to meet her young man, a +sailor in the Royal Navy. Up the stairs then, it is, and a hard knock +on the door.” + +Just beyond the head of the stairs, there _was_ a door, and it was +open a little, so that he could plainly hear the sound of a gramophone +playing jazz. He knocked hard. The gramophone stopped abruptly. + +It was Miss Lena herself who came to the door. She was dressed in a +shimmering greenish-blue, and she was prettier than ever. At the sight +of her standing there, solid and real again at last, his heart bumped +and his mouth went suddenly dry. + +“I’ve come from Twigg and Dersingham’s, Miss Golspie,” he announced, +stammering a little. + +Her face lit up at once. “Oh, have you brought that money?” she cried, +in that same queer fascinating voice he remembered so well. “How much +is it? Come in, though. This way.” + +The room was very exciting. It was a big room, but in spite of its +size it was full of things. Turgis had never seen, except on the +pictures, so many cushions; there seemed to be dozens of them, huge +bright cushions, piled up on a big deep sofa sort of thing, stuffed +into armchairs, and even scattered about the floor. And then there were +gramophone records and books and magazines all over the place, and +bottles and tins of biscuits and fancy boxes heaped together on little +tables, and then enough glasses and fruit and cigarettes and ash-trays +for a whist drive or a social; and all in this one rich bewildering +room. It was lit with two big, crimson and yellow, shaded lamps, and +it was very cosy and warm; almost too warm, even though it was a cold +afternoon, for an excited young man who had hurried there from the bus. + +“It’s twelve pounds,” he explained, “and I have a receipt here that you +have to sign.” + +“Good! I could do with it, I don’t mind telling you. I adore having +money. Don’t you? It’s beastly when you suddenly find you haven’t got +any, and can’t go anywhere or buy anything. Oh, I remember you. You’re +the one I spoke to that day when I called at the office, aren’t you? Do +you remember me?” + +Turgis assured her fervently that he did. He was still standing, +awkwardly, with his hat in his hand and his overcoat hanging loose from +his shoulders, and he felt rather hot and uncomfortable. + +“You seem jolly sure about it,” she said lightly. “How did you remember +so well?” + +“You won’t be annoyed with me if I tell you, will you, Miss Golspie?” +he said humbly. + +She stared at him. “Why, what is it?” + +“Well, I remembered you,” he replied, gasping a little, “because I +thought you were the prettiest girl I’d ever spoken to in all my life.” + +“You didn’t, did you? Are you serious?” She shrieked with laughter. +“What a marvellous thing to say! Is that why _you_ brought the money?” + +“Yes, it is,” he said earnestly. + +“It isn’t. You were just sent here. I believe you’re pulling my leg.” + +“No, I’m not, Miss Golspie. The minute I knew some one had to come +here,” he continued with sudden recklessness, “I specially asked to be +sent--just to see you again.” The hand that was still in his overcoat +pocket tried to make a sweeping gesture, with the result that his +overcoat brushed the top of one of the little tables and emptied a box +of cigarettes on to the floor. + +“Look what you’ve done now,” cried Miss Golspie, greatly entertained. + +“Oh, I’m sorry,” muttered Turgis, confused and sweating now with sheer +awkwardness and shyness. “I’ll pick them up.” + +“Wait a minute. Take your overcoat off and put your hat down, and then +you’ll feel much better. That’s right. Dump them down there--anywhere. +Now you can pick the cigarettes up and you can also give me one of +them. Take one yourself.” Unsteadily he lit her cigarette, picked up +the others, and then lit his own. “Now what about the money?” she +continued. “What do I have to do to get it?” + +“Only sign this receipt,” he explained. “You ought to count it first to +see if it’s all right.” + +When they had concluded this little transaction, she said suddenly, +“Have you had any tea?” + +“No, I haven’t,” said Turgis promptly. + +“Well, I haven’t, either. I was too lazy to make it. The maid’s out +to-day. Let’s have some. Shall we? Most of it’s ready on a tray, but I +just couldn’t bother boiling some water and making the tea. You come +and help and then you shall have some.” He followed her into the little +kitchen, where he filled a kettle and watched it come to the boil while +she chattered in a drifting haze of cigarette smoke and languidly +produced another cup and saucer and some things to eat. Then, when +everything was ready, he carried the tray into the other room and set +it down on a low table in front of the fire. Lena reclined, like a +lovely lazy animal, on a pile of cushions, while Turgis, at the other +side of the low table, sat in a low, fat armchair. It was a wonderful +tea. The tea itself was good, for there were little sandwiches and all +kinds of rich creamy chocolate cakes and biscuits, all piled up anyhow, +like everything in this careless and sumptuous place. And then, far +more important than sandwiches and cake, there was Lena herself, so +real, so close, so magically illuminated there in the firelight and +shaded lamplight. She asked him all manner of questions, beginning with +“What’s your name?” + +“Turgis,” he told her shyly. + +“What’s your first name?” + +“Harold,” he mumbled. It was years since anybody (anybody, that is, +who didn’t merely want him to fill up a form) had asked him what his +Christian name was. He brought it out with desperate embarrassment, but +when it came out, he felt better. + +“I don’t like Harold much. Do you? Mine’s Lena.” + +“Yes, I know it is.” + +“It seems to me you know everything about me,” she cried, laughing. +“You’ll be telling me next how old I am and where I was born and all +the rest of it. Who do you think you are--a detective?” + +This was a good opportunity to be bright and entertaining, so he told +her all about Stanley at the office and how Stanley wanted to be a +detective and went about “shaddering” people. After which, Lena, who +seemed to enjoy Stanley, asked him about the other people at the office. + +“You don’t like it there, do you?” she said, wrinkling her nose in +distaste. “I’d die if I had to work every day in a place like that. So +dark and dismal, isn’t it? And they call that street Angel Pavement! +What a name for it! I nearly passed straight out when my father told +me. If ever I have to work for my living, I’d rather work in a shop +than in an office like that. I wouldn’t mind being a mannequin. Or go +on the stage. That would be best of all. I want to go on the stage. I +nearly went on when I was in Paris. And a man wanted me to go in for +film work--he said he’d get me a part right away. Do you think I’d be +any good for the films?” + +“Yes, I’m sure you would,” said Turgis earnestly, all solemn adoration. +“You’d be wonderful on the pictures--like Lulu Castellar or one of +those stars--only better. I’d go anywhere to see you.” + +If he had thought about it for days, he could not have produced a +speech more calculated to please her than this, because it chimed with +her own innermost aspirations and beliefs. And his solemn adoration, a +change from the usual obvious gallantry, was very pleasant. She smiled +at him, slowly, with a kind of sweet deliberation, and he sat looking +at her, silent, intoxicated. + +The silence was broken by a sharp _rat-tat-tat_. “Oh, damn!” cried +Lena. “Who’s that?” and went out to see. She returned, raising her +eyebrows comically at Turgis, followed by a very strange figure. It was +an old woman who looked like a dressed up and painted witch. She had an +enormous nose, hollow cheeks, deeply sunken eyes, but, nevertheless, +her face had the pink and white colouring of youth. This was because +it was thickly painted, and when it caught the light, it shone, just +as if it was enamelled and varnished. She was wearing, above a purple +dress, a gigantic yellow shawl with a pattern of scarlet flowers on it, +and she glittered with brooches, necklaces and rings. Never in his life +before had Turgis been in the same room with anybody as fantastic as +this old woman, and suddenly he felt frightened. For a second or so, he +even forgot about Lena, and simply wished he was not there, wished he +was somewhere familiar, sensible and safe. It was a queer moment, and +he remembered it long afterwards. + +Lena introduced him, in an off-hand, slap-dash fashion, so that he +never caught the name of this extraordinary visitor. All he knew was +that it was something foreign; and he guessed that she was the woman +who lived downstairs, the mistress mentioned by the fat Irish cook, or +whatever she was who had admitted him into the house. + +“No, no, no, my dee-air,” cried the old woman in a cracked foreign +voice, “I’ll not stay at oll, onlee one seengle minute. I haf asked +my nephew and hees vife and hees friend from de Legation to com’ to me +to-night because I am again in vairy great troble. Yes, yes, yes, yes, +yes--in vairy, vairy great troble again. Dere ees no end of eet.” At +this point she sat down, shot out a claw-like hand and took a cake, and +promptly gobbled it up. Turgis stared at her, fascinated. + +“What’s the matter?” asked Lena, trying to sound concerned, but +obviously ready to giggle at any moment. + +“Aw!” cried the old woman, repeating this “Aw” a great many times and +wagging her head as she did so. “My daughtair again, _of_ course--need +you ask? Always de same--onlee a deef’rent troble.” She swooped down +upon a cigarette, and popped it in her mouth and lit it with uncommon +dexterity. After blowing a cloud of smoke in Lena’s direction, she +resumed: “I haf com’, my dee-air, for two t’ings. First, here are de +plomss I said to you I would geef you. No, no, no, no. Dey are noding, +noding, noding at oll. Steel, dey are vairy, vairy nice plomss.” +Apparently these plums were in the little box she now handed to Lena. +“Next, I ask your fadair, Meestair Colspie--does he say ven he com’ +back ’ere?” + +“He didn’t say exactly,” said Lena. “I don’t think he quite knows yet. +But it ought to be some time next week. Perhaps you know, do you?” And +she looked at Turgis. + +“That’s all I’ve heard, Miss Golspie,” replied Turgis, very conscious +of the fact that the old woman was staring at him. “We expect him back +some time next week.” + +“No, no, no, no. I should like to ask your fadair about dees troble for +my daughtair--dat ees oll--and eenoff! Aw yes!--eenoff. My nephew’s +friend from de Legation, he may do somet’ing. Eef not, I ask your +fadair next veek.” She threw her cigarette into the fireplace, and +got up from her chair surprisingly quickly. “Aw, my dee-air, dat ees +a nice, a vairy nice dress you ’ave on now. Aw yes, eet ees.” She ran +a be-ringed claw over some of it. Then she looked at Turgis, who +immediately wished she wouldn’t. “Eesn’t eet a nice dress, eh? You +t’eenk so?” + +The embarrassed Turgis said it was. + +“She ees vairy preety, Mees Colspie? Aw, yes--loffly, you t’eenk, eh?” + +“Yes, I think she is,” replied Turgis, after clearing his throat. + +“You are in loff wit’ her, eh?” + +These foreigners! What a question to put to a chap? What had it got +to do with her, the nosy old hag? He made some sort of noise in his +throat, and it was enough to stop her staring at him and to set her +moving towards the door, chuckling just as if she was a witch. “The +young man ees afraid of me. He ees in loff. Geef ’im a plom, dee-air.” + +When Lena came back, after closing the outer door behind the old woman, +a new feeling, of friendly ease and lightness, immediately descended +upon them both. They were young together. They laughed at the old +woman, whom Lena imitated with some skill. + +“She’s our landlady,” she explained. “Not a bad old thing, +really--she’s always giving me things--but quite cracked, of course. +And the daughter she talks about, the one who’s in ‘troble’--she’s some +sort of a countess--seems to be completely dippy. Everybody who ever +comes downstairs is a bit mad, and they’re the only people I’ve spoken +to these last few days, so you can tell the sort of time I’ve had. It’s +just my damnable luck!--when my father’s away and I could do what I +liked--three friends, all three, take it into _their_ heads to go away, +too, this week. I could have screamed, I’ve been so bored.” She lounged +over to the window and looked out. “Looks very thick now. Another fog +coming, I suppose. That’s the worst of London, all these foul fogs. +What shall we do now? You haven’t to go home or anything, have you?” + +Turgis, looking his devotion, said at once that he hadn’t to go home or +anywhere. + +“Let’s go to the movies. We can go to the place near here. It’s not +bad. Just wait; I shan’t be long. Or, look here, you could take these +tea things back into the kitchen.” + +He had taken them all in and had seriously begun to think of washing +them long before Miss Golspie appeared again. What he did, when she +did appear, was to wash himself in a bathroom that had more towels and +bottles and jars and tins in it than all the other half-dozen bathrooms +he had ever seen put together. And now they were ready for the pictures. + +It was not far, but they had to grope their way through a mist that +was rapidly turning into a thick fog, and once or twice Lena put her +hand on his arm, and they were cosy together in the blank woolly night, +and it was all rather wonderful. It was better still when they were +sitting, close, cosier than ever, in the scented and deep rose-shaded +dimness of the balcony in the picture theatre. (Turgis had paid for +these best seats, and was left with exactly three-and-threepence to +take him through the rest of the week.) They were both enthusiastic +and knowing patrons of the films, so that they had a good deal to talk +about, and frequently as they whispered, her head came close to his +and her hair even brushed his cheek. It was tremendously exciting. The +chief picture, a talkie--it was _Her Dearest Enemy_, with Mary Meriden +and Hunter York--was good stuff, but it was nothing compared to merely +sitting in that balcony with Lena Golspie, who, incidentally, was much +prettier than Mary Meriden. She herself thought she was just as pretty, +but Turgis was sure that she was much prettier, and told her so several +times. On this occasion he abandoned his usual tactics. He did not +even try to hold her hand. He was content to sit there, to whisper, to +be so near to this fragrant dim loveliness, with his hunger, which he +had taken into so many picture theatres, momentarily appeased. A dream +had come true. He reminded himself of this, time after time, if only +because the dream, which had been haunting him so long, was still more +real than this sudden actuality. He longed to make everything stand +still, knowing only too well that it was all flowing away from him. +Every photograph that leaped on to the screen and then leaped away +again was nibbling at the evening. Very soon the programme would be +completing its circle, and she would be wanting to go, and it would +be all over. Turgis felt all this, even if he did not find phrases to +express it, so that he was not completely and perfectly happy. He was, +as we have seen, a born lover, and a romantic, and what he wanted at +heart was not ordinary human happiness, but a golden immortality, a +balcony seat high above Time and Change. + +“You can come back and have some supper, if you like,” said Miss +Golspie casually, when they descended into the gloom of Maida Vale +again. “You can help me to make it. I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” + +He _was_ hungry, and if she didn’t mind, he would like to help her with +supper. He could have shouted for joy at the thought that he had not to +leave her yet, that the evening was being thus magically extended. All +the way back, they talked about pictures and film actors and actresses +they liked and disliked, and as there was not really much difference in +their points of view, for they both went to the films in search of an +amorous dream life and the mere difference of sex only added spice to +the discussion, they got on very well indeed. After the fog, the room +at 4a seemed richer and cosier than ever, and as Turgis helped to put +odds and ends of food, mostly out of tins, on the little table in front +of the fire, he felt as if he had wandered into a glorious film. + +“Can you mix a cocktail?” asked Lena. + +“No,” he replied. Cocktails were not a part of real life at all to him, +and in a sudden burst of candour he added: “Matter of fact, I’ve never +tasted one in my life.” + +“Don’t be silly,” she screamed at him. “You’re trying to be funny. You +_must_ have had.” + +“I haven’t really,” he assured her. “I’ve had beer and whisky and port +wine and sherry and all that, but I’ve never had a cocktail.” + +“All right, my good little boy,” said Lena gaily, “you’re going to have +one now--one of the special Golspie Smashers.” + +He watched her take bottle after bottle from the sideboard and then +shake a tall silver flask, just as he had seen people do on the stage +and in films. “Now just you taste that, Mr. Angel Pavement,” she +commanded, giving him a little glass. It had a queer flavour, rather +sweet at first, then slightly bitter, and ending with a sort of golden +glow, which seemed to travel all over him. + +“Like it?” and she put her own glass down. + +“It’s fine.” + +“Have another then. We’ll just have one more and then we’ll eat.” After +the second one, he felt larger and more important and even happier +than he had done before. He insisted upon showing her a trick with +three pennies. He knew three tricks, one with the pennies and the +other two with cards. The other two could wait; it would not do to +show her everything at once. She thought the trick with pennies very +smart, and they postponed eating until he had shown her how to do it +and she had practised it several times. They were better friends than +ever when they sat down to eat the sardines and the two salads in +the cardboard jars and the sliced veal loaf and the fruit salad and +chocolate cake. Lena ate very quickly and left things and started again +on them and pushed them aside and altogether dined in a delightfully +fussy extravagant fashion that was quite new to Turgis, who was used to +seeing people walk through a meal at a good round pace. + +When she had finished eating, Lena lit a cigarette and then darted to +the large gramophone in the corner. Having wound it up, she could not +find the record she wanted (there seemed to be records all up and down +the room), and he had to help her, when she had told him half the name +and tried to whistle a bit of it at him. At last they found it, and the +gramophone came gloriously to life, filling the room with the lilt and +throb of this fashionable tune. + +“Can you dance?” she asked him, gliding and twirling to the music. + +“Not much,” he mumbled, ashamed of himself. + +“Well, let’s see. Shove that rug back, there. That’s enough. Now then.” +And she came up to him. “Not that way. Like this. That’s it. Go on, you +can hold me tighter than that.” + +He could, and he did. If they had been standing still, it would have +been a rapturous moment, but though he was delightedly conscious of the +body against one arm and of the hand that gripped his, he had to try +and dance, and he was very awkward. + +“You’re ghastly,” she told him, with lips that were not four +inches from his, “but you’ll improve. I’ve known worse. You’ve +got some idea of the rhythm, and some men never even get that. +Now--left--right--left--that’s better. Only you’re so stiff--put some +pep into it. Oh, hell!--the gramophone’s stopped. Shove another dance +record on and we’ll try again.” + +They tried several times, with an interval during which they had +another cocktail each, and Turgis improved considerably, and towards +the end was holding her as she wanted to be held, close to him, and had +time to enjoy the situation. When they stopped, his arm left her waist +reluctantly and she did not seem to resent it. She told him all about +the dances she had been to in Paris, and then, having come to the end +of them, suddenly yawned. He glanced at the clock. + +“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose I’d better be going now.” + +“All right,” she replied, yawning again. “I suppose you had. I’m tired +all at once--must be this rotten heavy weather.” + +“What about all this stuff?” He pointed to the little table. + +“Oh, they don’t matter. The maid will clear them in the morning. She’ll +be in soon--unless her sailor boy’s persuaded her to stay out all +night. And that would be nice for _me_, wouldn’t it?--here all night by +myself. No, she’ll be in soon. I thought I heard her then.” + +Very slowly, reluctantly, Turgis put on his coat, carefully buttoning +it and lingering over every button. While he did this, he stared at +her, wondering how he could possibly say what was in his mind. + +She, too, had been thoughtful. “Look here,” she cried at last. “Have +you been to the Colladium this week? Well, I haven’t either, and I want +to go, and I hate going by myself. If I can get two seats for the first +house to-morrow night, will you come with me? I might go down and get +them to-morrow afternoon if I feel like it. I want to spend some of +that twelve pounds, anyhow.” + +Would he go? Oh, my gosh! + +“All right then,” she continued, walking towards the door with him. +“Listen. I’ll telephone to you at the office some time in the afternoon +if it’s all right. I’ll tell you where to meet me and all that then.” + +They were standing at the door now, and he was still holding her hand, +as if he were about to shake it, but was at the moment too busy trying +to stammer out a few adequate phrases. Nor was he merely holding the +hand, for, involuntarily, he was pulling it too, so that there was less +and less space between them as his little speech floundered on. This +made Lena impatient. + +“I don’t know what on earth you’re trying to say,” she told him, “so +don’t bother. And you might as well go now before the girl does get +back. And I’ll telephone to-morrow. Oh, don’t dither so much, silly. +There!” And with that she leaned against him, putting a hand on each +shoulder, kissed him swiftly on the mouth, drew back, laughed, and then +shut the door on him. + +Turgis stared at the door, drew a long breath, and then wandered down +the stairs and through the hall below like a man drifting drunkenly out +of some Arabian Night. He walked up to Kilburn, where he caught a 31 +bus that took him most of the way home. The fog was not very thick, but +it was wretchedly cold damp stuff that made people shiver and cough and +wipe their eyes and blow their noses and look miserable. But Turgis did +not care. As he sat gazing at nothing in the bus or marched along the +blackened pavements, he was warmed by the fire inside him and cheered +by a host of coloured fancies that were rocketing in his mind. + + +IV + +When he awoke next morning, he knew at once that he was in possession +of an exquisite secret and was quite different from the Turgis who had +rubbed his eyes so often in that little room. He was the chap who had +been kissed by Miss Lena Golspie the night before. He was also the chap +she was going to telephone to this very day and take to the Colladium +this very night. He jumped out of bed and then jumped into the part of +this new and splendid chap. The fact that he still looked like the old +Turgis, to whom nothing wonderful had ever happened, only made it all +the more amusing. + +“Another raw morning, my word,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, as she handed +him his breakfast. “Them’s best off this morning who has to stay in. +Edgar’s been gone these two hours, and a nasty cold job it must be in +that station this morning.” + +“Yes, it must, Mrs. Pelumpton,” said Turgis heartily. “I’m sorry for +Edgar.” And so he was. Edgar would never be kissed by a girl like Lena +Golspie, not if he lived to be a thousand. Poor dreary devil! + +Old Pelumpton shuffled in, unwashed, blue about the nose, and wearing +a greasy muffler. Turgis had seen him like that many times before, +but this morning he resented the appearance of this dirty apparition. +If Lena Golspie knew that he had to eat his breakfast looking at that +nasty old mess, who might have just crawled out of the dustbin, she +would probably never speak to him again. + +“No letter, I shee,” said Mr. Pelumpton, going to the fire and warming +his hands. “That meansh he doeshn’t want me to go and shee the shtuff +thish morning. I’ll go round jusht before dinner and catch ’im in then. +That’sh the idear.” + +“Yes, that is the idea,” said his wife sharply, as she bustled about. +“Wait till the pubs is open and then catch him in. I know that idea. +It’s a good idea, that is. If it wasn’t for that idea, I don’t know +why the pubs ’ud ever open at dinner time, ’cos they wouldn’t have any +custom.” + +“You hear that,” Mr. Pelumpton said to Turgis, who was putting away +his breakfast as fast as he could. “Deary me, they’ve got pubsh on the +brain, the women ’ave. If a man shtops in a bit, they want to know when +he’sh going to do a bit o’ work, an’ if he goesh out, then it’sh the +pubsh.” + +“And you don’t go in the pubs, do you, Mr. Pelumpton?” said Turgis, +with a very marked ironical inflection. + +“Oh no! He ’ates them, he does,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton. “You couldn’t +get him to go near one.” + +“What shome o’ you people don’t realishe,” retorted Mr. Pelumpton with +dignity, “ish that the pub may be nesheshary in bishnish. And until +you’ve been in bishnish--a bishnish like mine, I mean--it’sh shomething +you don’t undershtand. The amount of bishnish transhacted in pubsh, my +wordsh----” + +“’Morning, Mrs. Pelumpton,” cried Turgis, wiping his mouth and dashing +out. What a life the Pelumptons had! It seemed incredible that anybody +could find so dingy an existence worth living. Hurrying down to the +Camden Town Tube Station, cramming himself into the lift, waiting for a +City train, swaying near the doors among a mass of elbows, newspapers +and parcels all the way to Moorgate, he hugged his grand secret. When +he arrived at the office, he swelled exultantly, for this was where Mr. +Golspie gave his orders, and they all knew Mr. Golspie and they had +heard about his daughter, but they did not know what Turgis knew. It +was a delightful feeling. He wanted to laugh out loud every time one of +the others spoke to him or even looked at him. Ah, little did they know! + +“You got that receipt all right, did you, Turgis?” said Mr. Smeeth. + +It was extraordinary. He had forgotten all about the money and the +receipt. But he had the receipt in his pocket, nevertheless, and when +he handed it over he found himself swelling again inside, nearly +bursting with secret knowledge and happiness. + +“Did you go inside?” said Mr. Smeeth casually. + +“Yes,” replied Turgis. Did he go inside! + +“Oo, did you?” cried Poppy Sellers, who missed nothing. “Tell us what +it was like? What did you say to his daughter? Is she nice? Tell us all +about it--go on.” + +Not a bad kid, really, though that fringe effect was a distinct mess. +And she thought him--what was it?--rather marvellous. (And so _she_ +ought. Why, if Lena Golspie--oh, well, I-mean-to-say!) Poor kid--a bit +pathetic, when you came to consider it. And she had wanted him to go +with her to the Police Minstrels last night! And he had half thought of +going! Dear, dear, dear! + +“Well, Miss Sellers, if you really want to know,” he said, “I’ll tell +you.” + +“My words, aren’t we getting grand!” cried Poppy. “Go on. Very good of +your lordship, I’m sure.” + +“They live in the top half of a detached house,” said Turgis, “and the +room I went into was a large room, bigger than this office here, and it +had all sorts of things in it, and shaded lights and a big gramophone +and dozens of cushions all over the room----” + +“Did it look like a furnished flat?” asked Miss Matfield. + +“I suppose so. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about furnished +flats.” + +“Well, what about his daughter?” Miss Sellers enquired. “What’s she +like?” + +“I’ve seen her--for a minute,” said Miss Matfield. “She’s rather +pretty, isn’t she?” + +“Yes, she is,” replied Turgis, keeping a hold on himself. He was +bubbling inside. + +“Yes, but what’s she _like_?” Miss Sellers persisted, staring at him. +And when he made no reply, but turned away and pretended to be suddenly +busy with some work, she gave him a curious look before she herself +turned away too. He never saw it, and if he had seen it, he would not +have been interested. + +Fortunately, both for him and for Twigg & Dersingham, he was not +very busy that afternoon. Otherwise, he might have muddled every +consignment of veneers and inlays, and so confused the whole trade +that it might not have recovered for a fortnight. The disadvantage of +pinning your whole afternoon on a possible telephone call in an office +is that the telephone is ringing every few minutes and you are for ever +on the jump. Up to three-thirty, Turgis was comparatively calm; from +three-thirty to four, he was on the tiptoe of expectation; from four +to four-fifteen he was desperate; from four-fifteen to four-thirty +he was swaying on the brink of a vast abyss of misery, only to be +plucked back by every ring of the bell and then hurled forward again +by each unwelcome voice (“And if you ask me,” said the girl at Brown & +Gorstein’s, after making one of these calls, “I think it’s time Twigg +and Dersinghams just veneered a few manners on. The way they snap your +head off!”); and, at four-thirty-five he was sitting staring at a desk +in hell, all hope gone, and at four-forty-five he was breathing heavily +down a telephone receiver in heaven. Yes, she had got the tickets +and would he meet her just inside the entrance to the Colladium at +twenty-five past six. + +Even now, there was no peace for him. The instant he had put down the +receiver he had realized that it would not be easy for him to be at +the Colladium at twenty-five past six. Sometimes they did not finish +until nearly that time, and indeed, on really busy nights, it was often +considerably later. He had to get from Angel Pavement to the Colladium, +and if possible he had to have some tea. + +“What time do you think we’ll be finishing to-night, Mr. Smeeth?” he +enquired respectfully. + +Mr. Smeeth looked up from his neat little wonderland of figures. “Oh, I +dunno, Turgis. Just after six, I suppose. Why, have you got something +special on?” + +“I’ve got to be up in the West End at twenty-five past six,” said +Turgis. (“And if you knew who I’m going to meet, Smeethy, old man, +you’d have a fit.”) Then he thought for a moment. “Would you mind if I +sent Stanley out for some tea for me, Mr. Smeeth?” + +“Well, as long as you do it now, before he’s busy copying the letters, +it’ll be all right.” + +So Stanley was dispatched to the Pavement Dining Rooms for one pot of +tea, one buttered teacake, and a bun--total eightpence. “And do I keep +the change?” asked Stanley, who had been given a shilling. + +“I should think you don’t, my lad!” cried Turgis, whose finances were +now in a desperate state. The pictures last night had left him with +three and threepence; the bus going home had cost him twopence; lunch +had been ninepence (it cost him nothing travelling to the office +because he had a pass on the Underground); and now, after paying out +this eightpence, he would be left with one and eight. On that one +and eight, he would have to travel to the Colladium and get home +afterwards, and then exist all the next day, Friday. And he had only +two cigarettes left. If Lena wanted anything in the Colladium--and he +could imagine her asking for chocolates and cigarettes and ices--he was +in a hole. + +He got away at five minutes past six, after having a very thorough +wash-and-brush-up in the little office lavatory, hurled himself into +the flood of west-bound travellers, and arrived, breathless and +triumphant, under the red glare of the Colladium entrance exactly on +time. He had ten minutes in which to cool off before Miss Golspie +appeared, wearing a handsome coat with a huge fur collar and cuffs and +looking so rich and beautiful that he was almost too shy to talk to +her. Their seats were down at the front--Turgis had never sat in such +seats before--and it would all have been perfect if it had not been +for two little incidents. The first occurred when Lena, during the +second turn, a silent juggling affair, announced that she would like +some chocolates. “Can you get hold of that girl there,” she said. “She +always has some nice boxes.” + +Nice boxes! “How much are they?” he asked her, miserably. + +“Well, you are a mean pig! How much are they? I like that, and after +I’ve paid for the seats, too!” + +“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but--you see--I’ve only got one and +sixpence.” He had paid tuppence on the bus, getting there. + +“One and six!” Lena laughed. It was not an unfriendly laugh, but it was +not a very sympathetic one either. “That’s worse than I was, before you +brought that money, yesterday. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t know +that I do want any chocolates. But would you spend your wonderful one +and six if I asked you to?” + +“Yes, I would. Of course I would. If I’d,” he added, as the curtains +swept down on the smiling jugglers, “if I’d hundreds and hundreds of +pounds, I’d spend them all if you asked me to. I would, honestly.” + +“Oh, it’s easy to say that,” said Lena, not displeased, however, at his +fervent tone. She gave him a brilliant glance, and no doubt remarked +that his face was flushed and his eyes were at once hot and moist, as +if he stared through a steam of embarrassed adoration. + +Unfortunately, not all her brilliant glances were reserved for him, and +that fact formed the basis of the second disturbing incident. There +was a young man, a rather tall handsome chap with wavy hair, who was +sitting with a girl in the row in front of them and a little to their +right. Turgis had noticed that this fellow was turning round a good +deal whenever the lights went up and that every time he did so his +glance always came to rest finally on Lena. After this had happened +several times he noticed that she was returning this glance. At last, +during the interval, he caught her smiling, yes, actually smiling, at +the chap. Instantly, he felt miserable, then angry, then miserable +again. + +He could stand it no longer. “Do you know that chap there?” he asked, +trying to appear light and easy. + +“Which one? What are you talking about?” + +“Well, you keep smiling at him--I mean, that one there, the chap who’s +just had a permanent wave, by the look of him.” + +“Oh, the one who keeps looking round. He seems to think he knows me, +doesn’t he? He’s rather attractive, as a matter of fact.” + +“Well, I suppose as long as you think so, it’s all right, isn’t +it?” said Turgis bitterly. He could feel a pain, a real pain, as +bad as toothache, somewhere inside him. “He doesn’t attract me,” he +mumbled. “If you ask me, he looks a rotten twister--bit of a crook +or something.” But in his heart he knew that the chap was taller and +stronger and better-looking and better-dressed and altogether more +important than he was, and he could have killed him for it. + +“He doesn’t at all,” said Lena. Then she laughed and made a face at +him. “You’re jealous, that’s all. And you oughtn’t to be jealous, it +isn’t nice. I’ll smile at him again now. I think he’s lovely.” + +When she said that and looked so determinedly in that fellow’s +direction, Turgis was filled with a desire to take hold of her there +and then, dig his nails into her soft flesh, and hurt her until she +screamed. He was suddenly shaken with the force of this desire, which +was like nothing he had known before. But at that moment this little +game of glancing and smiling came to an end, and the person who put a +stop to it was the girl with the other man. She turned round too--and +good luck to her, thought Turgis--then frowned and said something to +her companion, and after that there was no more turning round and Lena +divided her attention between the stage and Turgis, who was left in a +queer state of mind and body. + +“You can come and have some supper again, if you like,” said Lena, when +it was all over. “The maid wanted to go out again, so I said she could, +and if you’d like to come and help me again, you can.” + +“I should think I would like to,” he cried enthusiastically. “And I’m +sorry if I was silly--y’know, in there.” + +“Jealous boy,” she said, smiling. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Oh, +it’s cold out here, isn’t it. Let’s get a taxi. Oh, never mind about +your precious one and six--I’ll pay. I want to get home quick, out of +the cold. Come on. Stop that one, there.” + +Turgis had only been in a taxi once before in all his life. As he +sat close to Lena in the dark leathery interior and saw the familiar +crowded streets go reeling past the window, this effortless journeying +seemed magical. They were in Maida Vale in no time. It made life seem +at once wonderfully rich and simple. When they entered the house, +they heard a tremendous babble of talk coming from the lower flat. It +sounded as if that fantastic old foreign woman had summoned all her +relations and friends and all their friends and relations to discuss +her “troble.” In the room above, there appeared to be even more +cushions, gramophone records, boxes and bottles than there were the day +before. Once more, Lena mixed some cocktails, and Turgis encountered +the queer flavour, sweet at first, then slightly bitter, and ending +with a sudden glow. Once more, he had a second and bigger one, and +found everything enlarged, including himself. Once more, they sat down +to supper at the little table in front of the fire, though this time +there was more luxurious food and it all seemed to come out of little +cardboard containers. They were very friendly over the cocktails and +the food, and Lena, dressed in bright green, a colour that seemed to +throw her red-gold hair and light brown eyes, her scarlet mouth and +white neck, into brilliant relief, was lovelier than ever. It was +wonderful. + +“Do you know Mrs. Dersingham?” she asked him. + +He shook his head. “She came to the office once, and I just saw her, +that’s all.” + +“She’s not as pretty as I am, is she? Or do you think she is?” + +“Pretty as you!” Turgis gave a gasp, and meant it. “Why, there’s no +comparison. She’s just ordinary--and you’re lovely. Yes, you are, +really.” + +“You don’t mean it. You’re just teasing me.” + +“I’m not,” he said, solemnly. Teasing her indeed! A fat chance he would +ever have of teasing _her_. “I’ve never known any girl as pretty as +you--never seen one--in all my life before--and I never shall, never, +never.” + +She rewarded him with a smile. Then she frowned. “I don’t like Mrs. +Dersingham. I met her once. I loathe her. She’s a snob and a rotten +cat.” + +“Is she?” Turgis didn’t care what Mrs. Dersingham was. + +“Yes, she is. I hate her. My father doesn’t like her either. He doesn’t +like Mr. Dersingham much either. He thinks he’s a fool.” + +“I don’t think he’s a bad chap though,” said Turgis thoughtfully. “I’ve +never really had much to do with him. But I don’t believe he’s much +good at business. I know the business was in a rotten state just before +your father came. Good job for us he did come. I don’t pretend to know +much about it, but I do know that. Mr. Golspie’s clever, isn’t he?” + +She nodded. “He’s always making a lot of money, but he usually spends +it all or loses it in some mad scheme. He hates staying in one place +long, and if it wasn’t for that, he could have made a lot more money +and been really rich. But he doesn’t care about that. When he wrote to +tell me he was coming to London, he said I’d have to come, too, because +he was going to stay a long time and make a proper home for us, but now +he’s here, he says he doesn’t like London, and he’s going away again +soon.” + +“Is he?” Turgis stared at her. “What--how do you mean ‘soon’?” + +“Oh, quite soon,” she replied carelessly. Then she remembered +something. “Look here, I may be wrong, though. And you mustn’t say +anything to anybody, will you? Promise you won’t.” + +“All right, I won’t. But if he went,” Turgis continued, regarding her +earnestly, “would you go too?” + +“Oh, that’s it, is it?” + +“Yes, it is. You wouldn’t be going, would you?” + +“I might--pass me a cigarette, will you?--and then again, I might not. +It all depends. But, look here, if my father knew I’d been saying +anything, he’d be furious, and though he usually lets me have my own +way, when he’s really furious, he’s hellish, I can tell you.” + +“I’ll bet he is,” said Turgis, who had never had any doubts about that. +“I wouldn’t like to see him in a temper.” + +“What a dreary depressing conversation!” she cried, getting up. “Let’s +have another drink. Have you ever been tight? I expect you have. +I got tight once or twice in Paris, with some Americans. We were +drinking champagne and liqueurs all night. I fell on the floor once and +rolled under a table and went to sleep for hours and hours. Shove the +gramophone on, with something decent on. Then come and have this drink +and I’ll see if you can dance yet.” + +They did not dance long, however, for Lena announced that she was too +tired and that he was too clumsy. She turned off one of the two shaded +lights and went and stood by the fire. He joined her there, standing +quite close, trembling a little. He put his arm round her tentatively +and when she did not move away, he tightened it. She half turned so +that she was lightly pressing against him, and then she lifted her +glamorous face, looked at him with huge mysterious eyes, raised her +lips to within an inch or two of his, and whispered, “Wouldn’t you like +to kiss me?” + +“Yes,” and he made a quick movement. + +But she was quicker still, and in a second had broken away from him and +was laughing. “Well, you can’t then--unless you say you adore me and +are madly in love with me and that I’m the most wonderful person you’ve +ever met and that you’ll do anything in the world I ask. Now then.” + +“But you are. Oh, you are,” he stammered, all his heart trying to +break through. “I’ve thought that ever since I saw you that day in the +office. I’ve never thought about anything else. I used to come and +stand outside this house, hoping to see you again, just to look at you.” + +“You didn’t.” There was a faint suggestion of giggling in her voice. +“You didn’t.” + +“Yes, I did. Lots of nights. I did, really. Oh, Lena----” + +“Oh, funny boy!” she cried, mocking him. “Well, you can kiss me--if you +can catch me.” + +And she dodged behind enormous armchairs and round the various tables +and he went almost blindly after her, until at last she darted across +to the big deep sofa thing, and there sank down among the cushions. +“No, no,” she cried, laughing and breathless, as he came up, “you +didn’t catch me.” + +But now he bent over her, clasped her fiercely in his arms, and kissed +her hard. When he drew back, she began laughing and protesting again, +but in another minute her arms were about his neck and her body was +crushed against his and they were kissing again. After a few minutes of +this, she pushed him away and sat up, but she gave him her hand and he +knelt there, holding it, with great roaring tides sounding in his ears. + +“And now you’ve got to behave yourself,” she said, strangely calm. + +“Yes,” he said humbly, looking up at her. If she had spoken kindly to +him then he would have cried. + +She smiled at him, and then, leaning forward, rubbed his cheek gently +with her other hand. She brought her face nearer his, so that her +mouth flamed again in his misty sight, but as he raised his head, +she retreated, until at last he sprang up and clasped her to him as +fiercely as before, and they were kissing again. For an hour she kept +him swaying and lunging and beating about in this wild dark tide, and +sometimes he was only gripping her hand and pressing it to his cheek +and at other times she was completely in his arms for a few moments, +answering his drive of passion with sudden bright flares of her own. +And then, strangely calm again, she told him he must go. + +Dazed and aching, he leaned against the back of a chair and stared at +her with hot pricking eyes. + +She looked at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, humming a +little dance tune. Then she turned round, met his stare with a slight +frown, and pointed out again that he really must go. + +He wanted to say all manner of wonderful things to her, but could not +find words for them. He tried to put them into the look he gave her. +“Can I see you to-morrow?” he said at last. + +“Mmmm?” She pretended to look very thoughtful. “Well, perhaps. What do +you want to do?” + +“I don’t mind what it is so long as I’m with you,” he assured her, +trying to smile, but finding his face all stiff, so stiff that a +smile would crack it. “What would you like to do? Can’t I take you +somewhere?” + +“Yes. I’ll tell you what. I’d like to see that Ronald Mawlborough +talkie, that new one, you know--where is it? at the Sovereign. Isn’t +that it--the Sovereign? I believe it’s terribly crowded, so you’d have +to book seats.” + +“I’ll do that if you’ll only come,” said Turgis stoutly. + +“All right. We’ll go there, then. And you get the seats, don’t forget.” + +“I shan’t forget. What time?” + +“Let me see. Oh, I’ll meet you just outside at quarter to eight. I +believe that’s just before the Ronald Mawlborough picture starts, +because I looked it up in the paper, this morning.” + +“Quarter to eight. All right then. And--I say--Lena----” + +But she pointed to his hat and coat, and when he had got them on +she took his arm and led him to the door. “You can tell me all that +to-morrow. But just tell me this. Am I nice?” + +“Oh, Lena--you’re the most marvellous girl--oh, I don’t know what to +say----” + +“Don’t you, dar-ling?” she replied, laughing at him. She came very +close, held up her mouth, drew it back suddenly, laughed again, but +finally allowed herself to be kissed. + +Turgis was still dazed, still aching, still hot and pricking about the +eyes, as he went out into the street and turned to have a last look at +the enchanted window above; and desire burned and raged in him as it +had never done when he had vainly searched the long lighted streets for +an answering smile, had stared at red mouths, soft chins, rounded arms +and legs in tube trains and buses and teashops, had felt those exciting +little pressures in the darkness of the picture theatres, had returned +to his little room, tired in body but with a heated imagination, as +he had done so many times, to see its dim corners conjure themselves +tantalisingly into the shapes of lovely beckoning girls. The flame of +this desire was fed from the heart. He was now in love, terribly in +love. The miracle had happened; the one girl had arrived; and with +this single magical stroke, life was completed. He merely existed no +longer; but now he lived, and, a lover at last, was at last himself. +Love had only to be kind to him, and there was nothing he would not +do in return; he was ready to lie, to beg, to steal, to slave day and +night, to rise to astounding heights of courage; all these trifles, so +long as he could still love and be loved. + +The conductor of the 31 bus, noticing the young man with the rather +large nose, the open mouth and irregular teeth, the drooping chin, +whose full brown eyes shone as they stared into vacancy, whose face had +a queer glowing pallor, might easily have concluded that there was a +chap who was sickening for something. But Turgis was alight with love. +He sat there in a dream ecstasy of devotion, in which remembered kisses +glittered like stars. + + +V + +“Please, Mr. Smeeth,” he said, next morning, “could you let me have a +pound to-day?” + +Mr. Smeeth rubbed his chin irritably. “Well, you know, Turgis, I +don’t like doing this,” he said, fussily. “It’s not so much the thing +itself----” + +“It’s only till to-morrow morning,” Turgis pointed out, for the next +day, Saturday, was the fortnightly pay day. + +“Yes, I know that, and it’s a small thing in itself, but it’s a bad +system. Once you start doing that sort of thing, you don’t know where +you’re going to end. When I was with the Imperial Trading Company, +before the war, they’d a very easy-going cashier there, an old chap +called Hornsea, and we used to be paid every month. The result was, +some of the fellows, particularly one or two of the lively sparks, were +subbing all the time and old Hornsea would let them have it out of the +petty cash. What happened in the long run? He got let down, badly let +down. Now I don’t mean to say you’re going to let me down----” + +“You know I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Smeeth.” + +“Well, you couldn’t, not even if you tried,” said Mr. Smeeth with +great emphasis. “It wouldn’t work here at all. I’m not old Hornsea. +But, believe me, my boy, it’s a bad system. Can’t you last out until +to-morrow morning? I could lend you a bob or two myself, for that +matter.” + +“No, thank you, Mr. Smeeth. I’d rather have the pound on account, +if you don’t mind. It’s something special I have on to-night.” And +he added to himself that old Smeethy would be just about dumb with +surprise if he knew too. + +“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose you’d better have it. But it’s a +special case, mind. And don’t forget you’ll have a pound less to-morrow +morning.” He carefully made out a slip, _Sub. H. Turgis_--£1 0s. 0d., +placed it in the petty cashbox, and then handed over the pound note. + +“Thank you very much, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis, quietly, humbly. +That was the first thing done. The next was to book the seats at the +Sovereign. He could have telephoned and then paid for them in the +evening, but this did not occur to him, for he did not belong to the +seat-booking classes, and even if it had occurred to him, he would +have rejected it as being too precarious. To make certain of getting +good seats, he curtailed his lunch to a mere gobble and gulp, then +hurried off to the West End and the Sovereign, which was already open. +Indeed, for the last hour or so, the Sovereign had been doing excellent +business, chiefly with young wives who had come in from distant suburbs +to buy three and a half yards of curtain material and, having saved +ninepence, felt they were entitled to a glimpse or two of Ronald +Mawlborough. Early as it was, there were several people in front of +Turgis at the advance booking office, but he was able to get two fairly +good seats at four and sixpence each. Nine bob for the pictures! This +was easily his record, and it certainly seemed a lot of money, nearly +as much as he earned in a whole day. Nevertheless he paid it gladly. +With the tickets in his pocket, to say nothing of eleven shillings to +meet emergencies, he had nothing to do now but quietly exist until +quarter to eight, and then--Lena. + +It was not worth while going back to his lodgings after he had finished +at the office, so he went to a teashop not very far from the Sovereign +and there spun out his meal as long as he decently could. Even then, +however, it was only half-past seven when he arrived at the Sovereign; +but he did not mind that, for it would be pleasant just standing there, +watching the crowd, and knowing that every minute brought Lena nearer +to him. There was a queue waiting for the cheaper seats. Turgis had +stood in that queue many a time. Now he looked at it with a mingling +of pity and scorn. It seemed to belong to some ancient and desiccated +past. In the entrance hall, under the russet globes, the footmen and +pageboys in chocolate and gold were handing the people on to one +another and sending them, in two jerky dark streams, up the two great +marble staircases. For the first ten minutes, Turgis merely lounged +about, but after that, when he knew that Lena might arrive any moment, +he carefully planted himself in the centre, in sight of all the doors +in front, so that there was no chance of missing her. Hundreds of girls +passed in with their young men, but not one of them as pretty as Lena. +A few days ago he would have envied a good many of those fellows, but +now he could afford to pity them. They didn’t know what a girl was. +“Wait till you see Lena,” he told them, under his breath, as they +passed, unconscious, smiling. + +At five minutes to eight, he pointed out to himself that Lena had been +ten minutes late the night before at the Colladium. Girls always kept +a chap waiting. They were famous for it. At eight o’clock he began +to be anxious. He wondered if he was waiting in the wrong place, and +he hastily searched the whole breadth of the entrance. At quarter +past eight, his eyes began to smart. Time, which had passed so slowly +at first, was now rushing away. The Ronald Mawlborough picture had +started long ago. A lump, compact of sheer misery, rose in his throat +and then wobbled up and down there, trying to choke him. Half-a-dozen +times he stepped forward eagerly, only to retire again, under the +stare of strange girls who thought they were about to be accosted, and +to pretend to himself that it was still worth while staying there a +little longer. The last half-hour was nothing but a dismal farce, for +he knew that she could not be coming now, yet somehow his feet refused +to move more than a yard or two away. It was nine o’clock when he +finally left the place, with two useless tickets in his pocket. One of +them he could have used, but he never thought for a moment of doing so. +It was Lena he wanted to see, not Ronald Mawlborough. + +He thought of a hundred excuses for her. She might have been taken ill +quite suddenly, for girls often were, he believed. Something might have +happened at the house. Her father might have come back unexpectedly. +What he could not believe was that there was any mistake about the +meeting itself, for she had suggested both the time and the place. +Still struggling with his disappointment, he hurried along, through +the stupid idiotic crowds, and caught the first bus that would take +him to Maida Vale. More excited every minute, he turned at last into +Carrington Villas, and almost ran to get a sight of 4a. There was no +light coming from the sitting-room. She was not there. Nevertheless, he +came to the conclusion that somebody was in, for after waiting a few +minutes, he thought he saw a light go on in one of the other windows. +Once he had made up his mind, he did not hesitate at all, but marched +straight up to the door and rang the bell. He remembered then that it +was probably out of order. Still, he rang again. + +“Yes,” said a voice, as the door opened a few inches, “what is it?” + +“Is Miss Golspie in, please?” + +The girl, obviously the maid who had been out the two previous nights, +now opened the door properly and came forward to have a look at him. +“Oo no, she isn’t.” + +“Do you know where she’s gone?” + +“Oo no, I don’t.” + +“Oh--I see,” said Turgis miserably. “I was hoping to see her to-night.” + +“Well,” said the girl confidentially, “I think she went out with a +friend, because she got all dressed up just after seven and she told +me she wouldn’t be back till very late, and then about half-past seven +a young gentleman called for her in a motor-car. And that’s all I can +tell you. Would you like to leave a message?” + +No, no message. He walked slowly down the garden, out of the gate, +across the road. He had to stop at the corner, because he was biting +his handkerchief, which he had screwed into a ball. Then, when at last +he was quiet and had put his handkerchief away, he walked on and on +through a blank misery of a night. + +Mr. Pelumpton was sitting up alone, just finishing his last pipe and a +mouthful of beer, when Turgis burst into the back room. + +“Can you lend me some ink, please?” he asked. + +“Yersh, I think sho. I got a drop shomewhere. But you’re not going to +shtart writing lettersh thish time o’ night, boy, are yer? If I wash +like you, clerking all day in a norfish, writing lettersh about thish, +that, an’ the other, never shtopping, why, deary me!--you wouldn’t +catch me wanting to write lettersh thish time o’ night, my wordsh you +wouldn’t----” + +“Oh, for God’s sake,” Turgis screamed at him, “let me have the ink if +you’ve got any and stop yapping.” + +“’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere! Thatsh a way to talk now, ishn’t it!” +Mr. Pelumpton, offended and on his dignity, produced the ink-bottle +and put it down on the table and then promptly turned his back on it. +“There’sh shuch a thing,” he continued, still with his back turned, +“ash mannersh an’ ashkin’ for a thing in a proper way. And you can’t +’ave everything you want the minute you want it, not in thish world you +can’t, and it’sh no good you or any other man----” + +But Turgis had banged the door behind him and was on his way upstairs. +He sat in his little room, a pen in his hand, a writing pad on his +knee, but at the end of half-an-hour there were only a few stiff +sentences down on the paper, although a torrent of phrases, angry, +reproachful, bitter, appealing, had gone raging through his head. When, +in despair, he crumpled the paper and flung down his pen and then +wandered wretchedly to the window, the night out there was filled with +tall handsome young men with wavy hair and evening clothes, all with +Lena in their arms. They were laughing at him. She was laughing at him. +He left the window, and told himself that perhaps she wasn’t, though, +perhaps she was sorry now. He wished he had waited in Carrington Villas +until she had returned, no matter how late that might have been. He +smoothed out the writing pad and tried to decide whether he should +write something short and forceful or long and appealing. Oh, but what +was the use of writing! He would see her, speak to her, tell her what +he thought while looking her straight in the eyes. He would show her +she wasn’t dealing with a kid now, but with a Man. + +He undressed, and, as usual emptied his pockets. Two tickets, four and +six each, for the Sovereign Picture Theatre. And it was she who had +suggested it, and she had never even bothered letting him know she +wasn’t coming, but had just gone out with somebody else, had dressed +up, got into a car, and laughed at him or forgotten his existence. He +turned out the light, got into bed, and found himself in a hot salty +darkness, his eyes filling with tears. + + + + +_Chapter Eight_: MISS MATFIELD’S NEW YEAR + + +I + +A day or two before Mr. Golspie returned, Miss Matfield, sitting with +cold feet and a novel she disliked in the 13 bus, realised with a +shock that it was nearly Christmas. The shops she passed every day in +the bus along Regent Street and Oxford Street had been celebrating +Christmas for some time; and it was weeks since they had first broken +out into their annual crimson rash of holly berries, robins, and Father +Christmasses. The shops, followed by the illustrated papers, began it +so early, with their full chorus of advertising managers and window +dressers, shouting “Christmas Is Here,” at a time when it obviously +wasn’t, that when it did actually come creeping up, you had forgotten +about it. Miss Matfield told herself this, and then remembered that +every year her mother used to cry, “What, nearly Christmas already! I +never thought it was so near. It’s taken me completely by surprise, +this year.” Yes, every year she used to say that, and year after +year, Miss Matfield would tease her about it. And now, Miss Matfield +told herself, she had begun to say it, just as if she was on the +point of becoming forgetful and absurd and middle-aged. Oh--foul! +She stared out of the window. Those two miles of _Xmas Gifts_ and +lavish electric lighting and artificial holly leaves and cotton wool +snow were still rolling past. The festive season--help! It was all an +elaborate stunt to persuade everybody to spend money buying useless +things for everybody else. She tried her novel again: _The months +passed, and still Jeffrey made no sign. He had not forgiven her. In +despair, Jenifer accepted an invitation to join the Mainwarings in +Madeira, returned to a gay but feverish fortnight in Chelsea (where +John Anderson sought her out everywhere and never left her side), and +then appeared, still smiling, still audacious, but with a vaguely +haunted look, at Cap d’Antibes. It was there she heard that Jeffrey had +been seen at Miami--“And with Gloria Judge, my dear.”_ And that was +quite enough of that. Who cared what happened to Jenifer and Jeffrey, +the pair of ninnies? And why were all these novels always filled with +people who spent all their time travelling about to mere resorts and +spas, and deciding whom to live with next? Nobody ever did any work in +them. + +She returned to the subject of Christmas. It was, on the whole, she +decided, revolting. You gave people a lot of silly things, diaries and +calendars and rot, or useful things that were not right, gloves of the +wrong size and stockings of the wrong shade (and she would have to be +thinking out her presents now, and she was terribly hard up); and they +in their turn gave you silly things and the useful things that were not +right. You ate masses of food you didn’t want (and even Dr. Matfield, +who had ideas about diet, said it didn’t matter at Christmas), and then +you sat about, pretending to be jolly, but really stodged, sleepy, +headachy, and in urgent need of bicarbonate of soda. If you stayed at +home, you yawned, tried to convince your mother that you hadn’t a rich +secret life you were hiding from her, and drearily sampled the family +supply of literature. If you went out, you had to pretend you were +having a marvellous time because you were wearing hats from crackers +and playing pencil and paper games (“Let me see, a river beginning +with ‘V’?”). And what was so terribly depressing and revolting about +it all was that it was possible to imagine a really good Christmas, +the adult equivalent of the enchanting Christmasses of childhood, the +sort of Christmas that people always thought they were going to have +and never did have. As the bus stopped by the dark desolation of Lord’s +cricket-ground, swallowed two women who were all parcels, comic hats, +and fuss (a sure sign this that Christmas was near, for you never saw +these parcels-and-comic-hat women any other time), and then rolled +on, Miss Matfield took out from its secret recess that dream of a +Christmas. She was in an old house in the country somewhere, with +firelight and candlelight reflected in the polished wood surfaces; by +her side, adoring her, was a vague figure, a husband, tall, strong, not +handsome perhaps but distinguished; two or three children, vague too, +nothing but laughter and a gleam of curls; friends arriving, delightful +people--“Hello,” they cried. “What a marvellous place you’ve got here! +I _say_, Lilian!”; some smiling servants; logs on the fires, snow +falling outside, old silver shining on the mahogany dining table, and +“Darling, you look wonderful in that thing,” said the masculine shadow +in his deep thrilling voice. “Oh, you _fool_, stop it,” Miss Matfield +cried to herself. She had only brought out that nonsensical stuff to +annoy herself. She liked reminding herself how silly she could be. It +braced her. + +She would go home, as usual, for Christmas, and on the way there +she would look forward to it and imagine that _this_ time it was +going to be rather nice, and once she was there she would wonder +how she could have thought it would be anything but depressing. All +as usual. Still, it would be a change, a break in what had lately +been the very dull round of the office and the Burpenfield. Never +had the round been duller. The Burpenfield was getting worse; Evelyn +Ansdell--lucky child!--had gone off with her absurd father; and +nobody amusing had arrived. She had not met a single interesting +new person for ages. Then, life in Angel Pavement had merely been +so much typewriter-pounding since the one amusing person there, Mr. +Golspie, had been away. Mr. Golspie, she admitted to herself, with +unusual candour, _was_ amusing, easily the most amusing person on +the horizon--bless him!--and she would be glad when he came back. It +would be fun, if only one had the cheek and courage to do it, to bring +Mr. Golspie into the Club, to introduce him to Tatters, to say “Miss +Tattersby, this is the _only_ amusing man I know just now.” But--O +Lord!--she must keep off Tatters. In the Club, they talked about +Tatters day and night. + +She had further proof of this, if she had wanted it, when she reached +the Club, for on the landing outside her room she met the depressing +Miss Kersey. “Is that you, Matfield?” Kersey wailed, all damp and +droopy as usual. “Don’t, _don’t_, go near Tatters to-night, whatever +you do. I went in to ask her about sub-letting my room and she simply +snapped my head off, didn’t give me an earthly chance to tell her when +I wanted to sub-let or anything. She just _flew_ at me, Matfield, as if +I’d been caught stealing or something. Isn’t Tatters really _awful_? +And yet the last time I went in, she was as nice as anything and even +asked me about my sister, the one who’s gone to Burma. I won’t go near +her now for months,” she added, really enjoying the fact that Miss +Tattersby could be so ferocious, so unpredictable in manner. “I’ll +send her notes as some of the others always do. Don’t you go near her +to-night.” + +Miss Matfield said she had no intention of doing so, and then hurried +into her room, where she came to the conclusion, as she tidied herself +for dinner, that it was really Tatters who made the Burpenfield +endurable for people like Kersey, for she gave their lives a colouring +of danger and drama, poor old things. At dinner, she had to share a +table with Isabel Cadnam, the languid Morrison, and a recent arrival +who had taken Evelyn Ansdell’s old room, and annoyed Miss Matfield just +because she was not Evelyn Ansdell. But, apart from that, this new girl +was an irritating creature. Her name was Snaresbrook; she had untidy +dark hair, huge staring eyes (heavily made up), and white, flabby, +sagging cheeks; and she was soulful, gushing and psychic. So far she +had been a great success because she went round talking to people about +themselves very sympathetically, offering to tell their fortunes, and +going in tremendously for this heart-to-heart business. Miss Matfield, +a tougher subject than most, refused to be taken in. When she sat down +the other three were already there, and were talking about work. + +“I’ll bet you’ll agree, Mattie,” said Miss Cadnam. + +“What’s that?” inquired Miss Matfield. + +“I was just saying that it’s part of the cussedness of everything that +nearly every girl here has the wrong job, I mean, if you like _one_ +kind of thing, then it’s ten to one you have to work in a place where +it’s all another kind of thing. I’ve just discovered that Snaresbrook +here works for a film renting show, and she loathes it----” + +“I wouldn’t say that,” Miss Snaresbrook put in softly in her soulful +contralto, “because I don’t loathe anybody. I don’t think one ought +to----” + +“I do,” said Miss Morrison. “I loathe nearly everybody. I think the +world’s full of people who are absolutely foul.” + +“No, I don’t loathe these film people. But I do feel they’re not my own +kind. I don’t feel really sympathetic towards them, and I feel there is +work of a better kind waiting for me.” And Miss Snaresbrook turned her +huge staring eyes, like the headlights of a car, round the table. + +“That’s just what I’m saying,” cried the excitable Caddie. “Now I’d +adore to work at a film place; just my style. And here I am, assistant +secretary to the League of the Divine Lotus, and I’m sure you’d adore +that, wouldn’t you, Snaresbrook? Whereas, if you don’t mind my saying +so, I think these Divine Lotus people are all too sloppy to live, +and the minute they begin to talk now, they get on my nerves. If I +stay there much longer I’ll go potty too and break out into robes and +mystic stars and Wisdom from the East. If anybody mentions the East +now, I want to scream. A lot of fat film men smoking cigars would be a +marvellous change. And to go to trade shows if you want to--marvellous!” + +“You two ought to swop jobs,” said Miss Matfield. “Then you’d both be +satisfied. What about that, Caddie?” + +“That’s just where the cussedness comes in. They’d never have the right +ones. It’s the same with nearly everybody here. If you’re heavily West +End, you’re landed with a job at a wholesale cheap milliner’s somewhere +in the City----” + +“Revolting!” murmured Miss Morrison. + +“And if you’re a wild Socialist or something, like that Colenberg girl, +you find yourself secretary to Lady Thomson-Greggs in Berkeley Square +and grumble like anything because the place is stiff with footmen. I +told Ivor about that, the other night, and he said I ought to write an +article about it for the papers.” + +“Why don’t you?” said Miss Snaresbrook. “I’m sure you could write. You +have the gift of expression. I don’t think I’ve looked at your hand +yet, have I? I’m sure it’s written in your hand.” + +Miss Matfield looked across the table in time to catch a disgusted +glance from Morrison, whose grey eyes had also the gift of expression +and announced quite clearly that Snaresbrook was revolting. “Well, I +don’t think much of my job,” said Miss Matfield, “but I don’t know +that I particularly want anybody else’s here. The fact is, they’re all +pretty rotten, and that’s the real trouble. We don’t any of us get +a chance to do anything really important. They’re all silly little +mechanical jobs. If we were men, we’d be doing something decent now. +What chance has a girl? The rot they talk about women working! The men +jolly well see where all the decent jobs go to. And you know it.” + +“True, Miss Matfield,” said Miss Snaresbrook, turning on all the +sympathetic stops. “I feel it’s particularly unjust in your case. A +girl with a strong character like you is entitled to an important, +responsible post. We have a long way to go yet. Men are still trying to +hold women back, to keep them in inferior places. And their attitude! +The things some of those film men have said to me!” She sighed, then +switched on the headlights. + +“Yes, I’ll bet they’re a tough crowd,” said Caddie cheerfully, “but +that ought to make it amusing. Men are easy enough to handle. It’s +women who are so awful. There are some frightful old cats among those +Lotus creatures. They come swarming and drooping all over you, and all +the time they’re poking their long noses into your affairs and making +up the most fiendish lies. Give me men. I wish there were some in this +club.” + +“Miss Cadnam, you don’t really,” said Miss Snaresbrook reproachfully. + +“Yes, she does, and so do I,” said Miss Morrison, roused for once from +her languid disgust, “and so will you when you’ve been here as long as +we have. I’m not so terribly keen on men--most of them are pretty foul, +so far as I can see--but a few here would be a pleasant change. The +ones we do get as visitors are usually fairly hopeless, but even then I +like to see them down here, trying to pretend they don’t mind the foul +food. There are too many girls here. Ugh! Too much feminine slush and +slop. Too much powder and lipstick and cold cream. Too many stockings +and silk jumpers. Too many hot-water bottles and bedroom slippers. Too +much messiness and brightness and depressingness and sympathy. Every +time I hear some man clumping about here, and see him sit down, all +solid and thick, I’m delighted--I don’t care how terrible he is. Too +many women about. Revolting!” + +“Whoops!” cried Caddie. “Go on, my dear. Don’t stop now.” + +“Talk about girls living their own independent lives!” Miss Morrison +continued, pink and defiant. “It’s a marvel to me that after living +here a year or two and being faced with the prospect of living here for +donkey’s years like some of the poor old things----” + +“Oh, don’t!” Miss Matfield groaned. + +“I say that it’s a marvel to me we don’t just marry anybody, anybody at +all, or, failing that, run away with somebody. A place like this simply +encourages wild matrimony and risky adventures. And if there isn’t more +of it, I’ll tell you why. It’s not just because we’re all such ni-ice, +ni-ice girls, so ni-icely brought up, but because there aren’t many +chances going about.” + +“Oh, aren’t there, Morrison?” said Caddie. “Speak for yourself.” + +“I’m not speaking for myself or for anybody in particular----” + +“You’re certainly not speaking for _me_, Miss Morrison,” said Miss +Snaresbrook, with large, sweet, forgiving smile. “I like the society +of men, but I like the society of other girls too. Whoever they are, +I find they interest me, and we have something to say to one another, +very often some little secret to share, some confession to make. Of +course, I admit those little clairvoyant gifts of mine have helped me a +great deal, and have brought me friends, dear friends, among girls who +probably imagined at first that they and I hadn’t much in common. And +I’m sure I intend to enjoy _my-self_ at the Burpenfield.” And, smiling +sympathetically at them all, she rose and left the table. + +“And I hope it keeps fine for you,” muttered Miss Morrison to her +retreating back. “You know, of the many ghastly specimens who have +turned up here this year, I think that one the worst.” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Cadnam. “She’s not so bad, really----” + +“That’s because she’s going to read Caddie’s palm to find her gift of +expression,” Miss Matfield explained. + +“Of course it is,” said Miss Morrison. “You’re feeble, Caddie. I saw +you swallowing the bait, as if you’d just been born. Vile!” + +“Have you people realised that it’s nearly Christmas?” said Miss +Matfield as they moved upstairs, where they could smoke. + +“My dear Mattie,” cried Miss Cadnam, “you don’t mean to say you’ve only +just found that out! I’ve bought all my presents and sent half of them +off. If I don’t send some of my people very early presents, they never +remember to send me anything.” + +“Christmas, yes,” said Miss Morrison, with languid distaste. “Isn’t +it foul? I haven’t bought a thing yet, haven’t even made out a list. +Anyhow, I haven’t any money. I loathe Christmas, even though one does +have a holiday. What good is it? Are you going home, Matfield?” + +“Yes. I always do.” + +“So am I. It’s pretty ghastly. It wasn’t so bad before my brother went +out to the Sudan. We used to have rather an amusing time.” + +“But you’ve another brother, haven’t you, Morrison? I thought I saw him +here once.” + +“Yes, Anthony. He’s at Cambridge, researching. By the way,” Miss +Morrison continued, “he wants to come along early next week and bring +his researching friend Jiggs or Hoggs or something and take me and any +lady friend o’ mine out for what passes for a gay evening up in the +Cambridge research labs. If either of you is dying to come, you can, +but I don’t advise it. I’m trying to get out of it.” + +“I thought you were bursting to go round with a few men, Morrison.” + +“No, it’s not as bad as all that. I’ve tried this before. Anthony, my +brother, is pretty glum and dumb--quite different from Tom, the Sudan +one--and his researching friend, Higgs or Joggs, is the limit. He’s +frightfully tall and awkward, with very short hair, a very long nose, +and spectacles, and when you try to make conversation with him, he +thinks you’re asking scientific questions. If he doesn’t know exactly, +he just says ‘I don’t know’; but if he does know, he explains all about +it, gives you a short lecture, and then completely shuts up. It’s like +being back at school, only worse. He’s a horror. Anthony, of course, +adores him, and thinks he’s conferring an immense favour on you by +bringing this monster. He said to me, ‘One day you’ll be proud to think +you’ve talked to Jiggs’--or Hoggs. And so I told him I wasn’t ambitious +and I’d risk having missed the great Higgs. No, on second thoughts, you +can’t come. I’m definitely going to put him off. Talking about Joggs +has brought it all back too clearly.” + +“Hello!” cried Miss Cadnam, looking at her watch. “I must fly.” + +“Ivor?” + +“Ivor--thank God! We’re supposed to be in the middle of another row, +but I know he’ll be there.” + +“What a ridiculous pair!” said Miss Matfield, smiling, as she watched +Caddie leave the lounge. + +“Who? Caddie and her Ivor? Oh, quite mad, of course, from what I’ve +heard about them. Still,” said Miss Morrison carefully, “it does pass +the time for her, doesn’t it?” + +“Oh, it does a lot more than that. Caddie lives a wonderfully dramatic +life. She probably would, anyhow, if there wasn’t Ivor to quarrel with +and then make it up with. She and Evelyn Ansdell were the only two +people here I’ve ever envied, because they both contrived to have an +exciting life all the time, even if they _were_ absurd. I think I shall +have to find a nice little Ivor.” And Miss Matfield gave a short laugh. + +“You don’t lead a double life or anything of that kind, do you, +Matfield?” Miss Morrison inquired, almost wistfully. + +“Heavens, no! What do you mean?” + +“Let’s have another cigarette, shall we? Make a night of it. I only +meant--well, it’s a compliment, really----” + +“It doesn’t sound like one.” + +“Well, I meant that you looked as if you had a more interesting sort of +life going on _somewhere_. You go down to your office in the City--it +is in the City, isn’t it?--yes, I remember your telling me it was--and +you come back here and don’t seem to do anything much, but at the same +time you look quite alive, as if something’s happening somewhere.” + +“It isn’t.” Miss Matfield laughed, then lit her cigarette. “I wish it +was. All perfectly dull, respectable, ordinary. A typical Burpenfield +existence.” + +“Oh, foul! Well, I’m disappointed in you, I really am, Matfield. I’ve +been suspecting some time that you were a dark horse. Tell me, what +sort of men are there in that office of yours. Did I ever tell you I +was in the City once? I nearly died. I don’t believe it was a typical +City place at all, though I was only there a week. There were four men +there, two young ones with adenoids and whiny voices, who always called +me ‘Miss,’ and two older ones with red faces and waxed moustaches who +either shouted at me at the top of their voices or came over slimy +and breathed down my neck and put their hot hands on my shoulder. +Revolting! Don’t tell me they’re all like that. What are your lot like?” + +They were in a quiet corner of the lounge, which was not so full as +usual, indeed almost empty, and Miss Matfield found herself drifting +into a fairly detailed description of the people in Angel Pavement, +concluding at some length with the newest arrival there, Mr. Golspie. +She ended with an account of her visit to the _Lemmala_, the foreign +sailors, the cabin, the vodka, all the strange romantic accessories. +She described it well, and Miss Morrison, who appeared to have dropped +her usual attitude of languid disdain towards this life, listened +eagerly. + +“But, my dear Matfield,” she cried when it was done, “I think that was +a most amusing adventure. I like the sound of that man, even if he is +middle-aged and what not. Now, if I met people like that when I went +to work, I wouldn’t grumble. No such luck, not in Anglo-Catholic and +ladies’ bridge circles in Bayswater--nothing but old tabbies. I think I +shall have to try the City again, after all. I didn’t know there were +such entertaining, mysterious, brigandish sort of men down there.” + +“That’s exactly what Mr. Golspie is--brigandish.” + +“Quite right, too. I’m all for it. You ought to lure him in here, so +that I can meet him. But tell him to shave off that large moustache +first.” + +“Why should I? It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to kiss him,” +Miss Matfield added quickly, without thinking what she was saying. + +“No, I suppose you’re not,” said Miss Morrison meditatively. “By the +way, has he suggested you should?” + +“No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I believe you’re suffering +from a complex, Morrison. Why should he?” + +“Oh, I don’t know. He sounds vaguely like it to me. I don’t mean he +sounded like those awful creatures with waxed moustaches that I worked +for--not a bit. Quite a different type. But still---- However, I’ll +say no more. Did you say he was away, this mystery man? When is he +coming back? Quite soon? All right, Matfield, you must tell me more +about this, you really must. I’m interested for once in my young but +embittered life. You must tell me more.” + +“There won’t be anything to tell,” said Miss Matfield casually. “I +think I’ll write home, think about Christmas presents, have a bath, +and go to bed early. Good-night, Morrison.” No, of course, there +wouldn’t be anything to tell. And if there was, it was no business of +Morrison’s. (But Morrison was not a bad sort, much better than she used +to appear to be.) But then, there wouldn’t be. Absurd. + + +II + +“Just read that over, please, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Dersingham, and +then listened self-consciously. “Does that sound all right to you?” +he inquired, when she had done. “I want to send them--y’know--a jolly +stiff letter. They’ve asked for it, by George!” + +“I think it sounds rather feeble,” replied Miss Matfield. She had no +respect for Mr. Dersingham; he was too vague, pink, and flabby; he was +like too many men she had met at home, the sort who cry “Shooting!” +when somebody makes a good stroke at tennis; he did not really exist, +in her eyes, as an individual at all; there were hundreds, thousands +of him. She knew that though he might be her employer he was really +frightened of her. Impossible for her to have any respect for him. +Quite a decent fellow, of course, but then the place is stiff with +dull, decent fellows; a few fascinating crooks would be a change. + +“Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss Matfield,” he said. “Seems to me to +touch ’em up a bit. What’s wrong with it exactly?” + +“I should change it--there”--she pointed--“and there, don’t you think +so?” What was it like being Mrs. Dersingham, she wondered, and came +to the conclusion that it must be rather fussing half the day, boring +the other half, but on the whole pleasanter than being Lilian Matfield +at the Burpenfield. But that was leaving out Dersingham himself. She +couldn’t marry him. Help! She stared at his nose, which was quite a +healthy, sound nose, slightly bulbous, a shiny pink deepening to a +fishy red at the blunted tip; there was really nothing wrong with +it; nevertheless, it annoyed her; it was a silly nose. What was Mrs. +Dersingham’s real opinion now, of that nose? Did she think it was +marvellous? Was she indifferent to it? Had she been irritated by it so +long that she was ready to scream at the very thought of that nose? + +Happily unconscious of what was buzzing about in the dark head so close +to his, Mr. Dersingham frowned down upon the letter he was answering, +an evasive, slinking, slimy letter from the mysterious fellow who +ran the Alexander Imperial Furnishing Company. “He’s a dirty dog, +y’know, Miss Matfield,” he mused. “This is the fourth letter he’s sent +explaining why he can’t pay, and every time it’s a different excuse. By +the way, remind me to send Sandycroft a note, telling him not to call +there any more. All right, I’ll write something shorter and stronger. +‘Unless our account is settled within the next fourteen days, we shall +be obliged to take--what is it?--proceedings.’ Something like that, eh? +Right you are, then. Cancel that one. We’ll start again.” + +That did not take long. The note to Sandycroft could be left to Miss +Matfield. She was given several letters that Mr. Smeeth could attend +to, and then there was nothing left. “I’m expecting Mr. Golspie back +this morning,” said Mr. Dersingham. “He’ll probably have some letters +for you. He rang me up last night, at home, to say he’d just arrived +and would be down this morning. Just take this lot, will you? Half a +minute, though, I must have another look at that North-Western and +Trades Furnishing letter. Hang on a minute.” + +Miss Matfield, hanging on, found she was quite excited by the prospect +of seeing Mr. Golspie again so soon, though they had been expecting +him to return any time these last few days. It was not quite three +weeks since she had stood by his side on the deck of that steamer in +the Thames, but, nevertheless, Mr. Golspie, strictly as a person, a +face, a body, a voice, had become curiously dim and unreal, though as +a figure in outline and as a mass of character he had been constantly +in her thoughts, where he had appeared, especially during the last few +days, hardly as a real person she knew, but rather as a particularly +vivid and memorable character in a play she had seen or a novel she +had recently read. It was queer and exciting to think that he would +actually walk into the office at any moment. + +“I think I’d better have a talk to Mr. Smeeth about that letter,” said +Mr. Dersingham, putting it on one side. “You might tell him, Miss +Matfield----” But now two doors were flung open and banged to in rapid +succession. Mr. Golspie had arrived. + +“Hello, Dersingham,” he boomed, clapping and rubbing his hands. “Hello, +Miss Matfield. Brrrrr--but it’s devilish cold here. I can feel it +creeping up and down my bones. Funny thing, but it’s colder here than +it ever is in places that pretend to be really cold, twenty below and +all the rest of it. Damp, I suppose. Ten years of this would do me in. +Well, how’s everything? Making money?” + +“All right, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Dersingham. + +Miss Matfield could not decide whether she had exaggerated the size +of Mr. Golspie’s moustache or whether he had had it trimmed. The fact +remained that it seemed considerably smaller. Another fact remained, +and that was that she felt disappointed. She walked out of the room +feeling absurdly disappointed. It was quite unreasonable, but there it +was. + +This feeling persisted throughout the day. Mr. Golspie came into the +general office and shouted genial greetings at everybody. Afterwards, +when Mr. Dersingham had gone, he dictated a few letters to her, but he +said little or nothing, and neither that day nor any of the days before +Christmas did he once refer to her visit to the _Lemmala_. There was no +particular reason why he should, but still it was disappointing, and he +was disappointing, and everything was disappointing. + +Those last few days before Christmas were so awful that she found +herself looking forward more and more eagerly to the holiday at home, +to that train which would take her away, on Christmas Eve, from the +vast glittering muddle of London. Mr. Golspie, who was apparently going +to spend Christmas in Paris with his daughter, and Mr. Dersingham, +whose spirits rose at the approach of all holidays, were in a good +temper, but everybody else in the office seemed unusually gloomy. Mr. +Smeeth was not exactly gloomy, but he was worried and fussy, as if +something was troubling his grey and shrinking little mind. Turgis, +who was not very cheerful at any time, was simply terrible; he went +slouching about the place, sat at his desk staring out of the window +at the black roofs, made a mess of his work, and almost snarled his +replies to any civil question. Several times she had to speak to him +quite sharply, the lout. The little Sellers girl, perhaps because +Turgis was either so aloof or so rude, was not her usual perky self, +and even Stanley, though ready to give Christmas or any other holiday +the warmest welcome, had suffered so much lately from the moods of +Mr. Smeeth and Turgis, who accused him unjustly of dawdling over +every errand, that he was now turning into quite a sulky boy. And +although Miss Matfield, who considered herself merely a visitor to +Angel Pavement, _in_ it but not _of_ it, had always preserved her +independence, she had to sit in the same room all day with these +others, to work with them, and could not help being influenced by the +prevailing outlook and their various attitudes. It was depressing. + +Outside the office it was as bad, if not worse. She had her presents +to buy, which meant frantic rushes to the shops during lunchtime or +the short space left to her in the evening before they closed. They +were packed out with people, and, of course, you could never find +the things you wanted, and if you went late, the assistants, who had +not drawn a proper breath for several hours, hated the sight of you +and would not help. At last the army of advertising managers, copy +writers, commercial artists, colour printers, window dressers, bill +posters, which had been screaming “Buy, buy. Christmas is coming. Buy, +buy, buy” for weeks and weeks, was charging to victory. London was +looting itself. Those damp dark afternoons seemed to rain people down +into the shopping streets; whole suburbs burst upon Oxford Street, +Holborn, Regent Street; the shops themselves were full, the pavements +were jammed, and the vehicles on the crowded road could hold no +more. Never before had Miss Matfield seen so many boxes of figs and +dates, obscenely naked fowls, cheeses, puddings in basins, beribboned +cakes, and crackers, so much morocco and limp leather and suede and +pig-skin, so many calendars, diaries, engagement books, bridge-scorers, +fountain-pens, pencils, patent lighters, cigarette-holders, +dressing-cases, slippers, handbags, manicure sets, powder-bowls, and +“latest novelties.” There were several brigades of Santa Clauses, +tons and tons of imitation holly, and enough cotton-wool piled in the +windows and dabbed on the glass to keep the hospitals supplied for the +next ten years. Between those festive windows and a line of hawkers, +street musicians, beggars, there passed a million women dragging after +them a million children, who, after a brief space in some enchanted +wonderland were dazed, tired, peevish, wanting nothing but a rest and +another bun. From a million bags, bags of every conceivable shape and +colour, money, wads of clean pound notes straight from the bank, dirty +notes from the vase on the mantelpiece, half-crowns and florins from +the tin box in the bedroom, money that had come showering down out +of the blue, money that had been stolen, money that had been earned, +begged, hoarded up, was being pushed over counters and under little +glass windows and then conjured into parcels, parcels, parcels, with +whole acres of brown paper and miles of string called into service +every few minutes. Hundreds of these parcels, especially the huge +three-cornered ones, seemed to find their way into every bus that Miss +Matfield, after waiting and running forward and returning and waiting +again, contrived to board. She felt like a shivering and bruised ant. +Never had she hated London so much. She wanted to scream at it. When +she got back to the Club, the only thing she wished to do was to have +a long hot soak in the bath, and of course it was precisely the thing +that everybody else wanted to do too, so she would find herself hanging +about, still waiting, after waiting to leave the office, waiting to +get a bus, waiting to be served in the shop, waiting at the cash desk, +waiting for her parcel, waiting for another bus; and then Kersey would +come up and say: “Going out to-night, Matfield? No? Well, you can’t +expect to go out every night, can you, dee-ar?” Hell! + +Mr. Golspie left for Paris--lucky man--on the morning of Christmas +Eve; Mr. Dersingham wished them all a merry Christmas and departed +early; Mr. Smeeth gave them all an extra week’s money, brightened up +a little, and hoped they would have a very good time. Miss Matfield, +after working miracles, arrived at Paddington, a Paddington that +suggested that some invading army had already reached the Bank and that +shells were falling into Hyde Park and that the seat of government had +already been transferred to Bristol, and she was just in time to get +three-quarters of a seat and no leg space in the 5.46. The lights of +Westbourne Park and Kensal Green, such as they were, blinked at her +and then were gone. Thank God she was done with this nightmare of a +London for a few days! Perhaps Christmas at home this time would be +amusing. At any rate, it would be reasonable and quiet, and her father +and mother would be glad to see her, and she would be glad to see them. +As the train gathered speed, shrugging off the outer western suburbs, +she thought of her parents with affection, and for a little time felt +nearer the child she had once been, the child who had thought her +father and mother so wonderful and had found Christmas the most radiant +and magical season than she had done for many a month. She closed her +eyes; her mouth gradually lost its discontented curve; her whole face +softened. Angel Pavement would hardly have recognized her. + + +III + +“Hello, Matfield! What sort of a Christmas did _you_ have?” + +“Oh, the usual thing, you know--rather feeble.” + +“Do anything special?” + +“No, just stodged and sat about and yawned. Stayed in bed every morning +for breakfast and never got up till nearly lunch time. That was about +the best thing that happened. What about you?” + +“Oh, awful!” replied the other girl, Miss Preston, who worked at the +Levantine Bank, but based her claim to attention at the Club on the +fact that her brother, under another name, was a well-known actor. He +had visited the Club twice, and each time Preston’s reputation had +soared. “The minute I got home I started the vilest cold, and then +Archie--my brother, you know, the actor--had promised to come for +Christmas, but wired at the last second that he couldn’t.” + +“Hard luck!” cried Miss Matfield, but not with much conviction. You had +to give out so much sympathy at the Burpenfield that you were apt to +become very mechanical, and if something really terrible and tragic had +happened there, if, for example, half a dozen girls had gone down with +ptomaine poisoning, the other girls would probably have been struck +dumb, having over-worked so long all the possible expressions of pity +and horror. + +Now they were all discussing their holidays. The youngish ones, who had +probably enjoyed themselves thoroughly, were mostly going about crying +“Vile! Absolutely ghastly, my dear!” The oldish ones, the lonely hot +water bottle enthusiasts, who had probably had nothing but a mocking +shadow of a Christmas, were busy pretending, with a strained creaking +brightness, that they had had a wonderful time. The members in between +these two groups, such as Miss Matfield, gave fairly truthful accounts. +The entrance hall, the lounge, the stairs and the corridors above, all +buzzed with these descriptions. The Burpenfield Club was returning to +its normal life. With admirable forethought, Miss Tattersby had pinned +up half a dozen new notices all written in her most exclamatory and +sardonic style, and already these notices, especially a very bitter and +tyrannical one about washing stockings and handkerchiefs, were feeding +the mounting flames of talk. “My dear, but _have_ you seen Tatters’ +latest?” they cried, along the landings and in and out of their little +bedrooms. + +Miss Matfield went up to her little room, found a space on the wall +for two framed Medici prints she had brought back from home, cleared +out of her tiny bookshelf several books she had borrowed and forgotten +to return, and put in their place some books she had contrived to +borrow during the holidays. There were two travel books and three +novels or romances, and all three stories had for their settings such +places as Borneo and the South Seas. This was not a mere coincidence. +Miss Matfield liked her fiction to be full of jungles, coral reefs, +plantations, lagoons, hibiscus flowers, the scent of vanilla, +schooners on the wide Pacific, tropical nights. So long as the young +man was first shown to her dressed in white and lounging on a verandah, +while a noiseless brown figure brought him something long and cool to +drink, she was ready to follow his love story to the end. If the story +had no love in it but had the right exotic setting, she would read it, +but she preferred a fairly strong love interest. She had not bad taste, +and if the story was written for her by Joseph Conrad, so much the +better; but she was ready to endure if not to delight in authors of a +very different cut from Conrad if they would only give her the jungles +and lagoons and coral reefs and mysterious brown faces. The worst story +about Malaysia was preferable to the best story about Marylebone. +She did all her reading on the bus to and from the office, in some +teashop at lunch time, and in bed, and as her one desire was to escape +from any further consideration of buses, teashops, and girls’ club +bedrooms, these stories of the other end of the world, strange, savage, +beautiful, might have been specially created for her; indeed, many of +them were. She never admitted that she had a passion for these exotic +and adventurous tales. She did homage to them negatively by looking +through other and very different novels, novels about London and +Worcestershire, and then sneering heavily at them. A long acquaintance +with these heroes in bungalows and schooners and bars run by Chinese +had gradually shaped and coloured her attitude towards men, though +here again she admitted nothing and only paid these distant creatures +a negative tribute, by criticizing adversely the fellows who were +quite different and much nearer home. The idea of a man that warmed +her secret heart was that of the strong, adventurous, roving male with +a background of alien scenes, of little ships and fantastic drinking +haunts. If she married him, she might want to domesticate him in that +beautiful old country house in which she had spent so many imaginary +Christmasses, but he would have to be that kind of man first, and not +born in captivity. + +It was not possible to change her room very much--though she always +tried after being away--because it was far too small; it was like +trying to re-arrange three or four toys in a boot-box; but now, as +before, she did what she could. She had come back determined, as she +told herself, to fight against the Burpenfield atmosphere. No more +drooping and whining, no more waiting for something to turn up while +you knew all the time it wouldn’t, no more wistful hanging about on +the roadside of life! She would lead a real life of her own, full, +adventurous, gay. This was not the first time--alas!--she had come back +to the Club with such a resolution and had promptly tried to change her +room about as an early outward sign of it; but now it was different; +she was older, more experienced, and this time she meant it. Moreover, +she had now a total of five pounds a week instead of four pounds ten, +for they had given her a ten-shilling rise at the office, and though +she had told her father, he had only congratulated her (with that tired +smile and that faint irony which frequently accompany long experience +of a general medical practice, that constant round of births and +deaths), and had not proposed cutting down his allowance of six pounds +a month. Any girl at the Burpenfield would have instantly appreciated +the profound distinction between five pounds a week and four pounds ten +shillings, for whereas on four pounds ten you have still to be careful, +on five pounds you can really begin to splash about a bit. + +“Well, if you ask me, Mattie,” said Miss Cadnam, who had looked in +and had been promptly told about this new mood, “you’re absolutely +_rolling_. I only get four, you know, including what I get from home, +when they don’t forget, and I know if I suddenly got an extra pound, +I’d simply break out in all directions. Do you know, Ivor only gets +six pounds a week, that’s all. Don’t say anything, of course. He’d be +furious if he knew I’d told anybody--men are awfully silly about things +like that, aren’t they?--terribly secretive--but honestly that’s all he +gets, and he seems to have an awful lot to spend.” + +Miss Matfield shut a drawer with a bang, turned to face her visitor, +and looked very determined. “I always think this time that’s coming +now--the next two months or so--the foulest part of the whole year. +Awful weather, cold and slush and everything, and Easter and spring a +long time away, and nothing happening very much, and it’s just the time +when, if you let yourself go, you get depressed beyond words.” + +“I absolutely agree,” said Miss Cadnam earnestly. + +“Well, I’ve made up my mind this time I’m not going to have it. If +things don’t happen, I’ll _make_ them happen. If anybody asks me to go +anywhere or do anything that’s at all decent, I shall accept. I shall +go to theatres and concerts more, and if there’s any dancing about, I’m +having it. By the way, mother’s given me what seems to me _rather_ a +nice dress. I’ll show it to you. The only thing I’m not certain about +is the length at the front. What do you think?” + +There was a short interlude, during which the dress was held up, pulled +down, examined, and finally approved. + +“Anyhow, that’s _my_ programme, Caddie,” said Miss Matfield, after the +dress had been put away again. “I’ve come to the conclusion that one +gives in too much--I don’t mean that you do, my dear, because you’re +one of the very few people here who definitely don’t--it’s something in +the Burpenfield atmosphere that does it, sort of saps your initiative +and makes you frightened--and if you let yourself drift here, it’s +fatal. I’m not going to have it. And that’s to-day’s great thought and +resolution, Caddie.” + +“Good! I always come back feeling like that. You know, feeling I must +start all over again _somehow_, whether it’s leading a gay life or +leading a quiet life or what it is.” + +There was a tap on the door, which opened to admit the head of Miss +Morrison. “Hello, Matfield. Hello, Cadnam. Is this terribly private? +Sure?” She came in. “This is to announce that I’ve changed my room and +am now your neighbour, four doors down on the other side.” + +“That’s Spilsby’s room,” said Miss Matfield. + +“It was, but is Spilsby’s no longer. Spilsby is not coming back. +She’s going to New Zealand or Australia, I forget which, and it’s +just the place for her, whichever it is. I’ve discovered Spilsby’s +secret vice--reading those American magazines that you can buy cheap at +Woolworth’s and other places, you know the kind--Western Yarns with a +Punch.” + +“I know,” cried Miss Cadnam. “But not Spilsby?” + +“Spilsby. She’d bought hundreds of them. I’ve just had them turfed out. +You couldn’t move for them. All Westerns or the big wild North-West +or the red-blooded Yukon, all bunches of gripping yarns with a punch. +Spilsby was a red-blooded Western addict--Revolting! Are you sure you +wouldn’t like some, Matfield, before they’re all gone? You look a bit +fierce to-night.” + +“She is,” said Miss Cadnam. “Aren’t you, Mattie? She’s just been +telling me that she’s come back full of grand resolutions.” + +“Ugh!” Miss Morrison looked disgusted. “Don’t tell me you’ve made up +your mind to spend all your evenings learning Italian and German or +something like that.” + +“You’re quite wrong.” + +“Quite.” + +“Thank the Lord for that,” said Miss Morrison. “It would have been +completely foul. Besides, you’re not young enough and not old enough, +if you see what I mean, for that sort of thing. When I was a few years +younger, I used to come back full of good intentions and ambition and +tell myself I was going to learn commercial Spanish or qualify as an +accountant or something equally crazy. You feel like that after the +holidays. But what’s this new attitude?” + +It was explained to her, and she listened with a dubious smile on her +smooth pale face. “Ah, my children,” she said, “I like to hear you +talk. I, too, have felt like that in my time. It won’t work.” + +“In your time! Why, Morrison, I’m two years older than you at least,” +cried Miss Matfield. + +“And I’m nearly as old as you, Morrison,” said Miss Cadnam. “I’m +getting terribly old.” + +“It isn’t just the years, little ones. It’s the experience. You make +me feel old with your charming youthful illusions. However, I’m all +for you leading a dashing worldly life, Matfield. I’m all in favour +of you going to the devil, for that matter. How do you do it, by the +way? I used to hear an awful lot of vague talk about the temptations +of a poor girl’s life in London. Where do they come in? Nobody ever +tempts me. The only temptations I have are to steal some of my worthy +employeress’s terribly expensive bath salts when I’m allowed to enter +her bathroom to wash my hands, and--there must be something else--yes, +not to give the bus conductor my penny when he doesn’t ask for it. What +chance have I then to be really virtuous or to be wicked either? I +admit, Matfield, that you’re different. You go down to the great City, +to begin with, and meet mysterious men on romantic ships----” + +“When was this?” cried Miss Cadnam. “Did you, Mattie, or is she making +it up?” + +“Quiet, child! You will understand in time. And then again, my dear +Matfield, you have a _look_. I don’t say you look terribly marvellous, +my dear----” + +“I don’t pretend to,” Miss Matfield told her. + +“But there’s a _something_--a hint, you might say, of dark, wild +forces. I don’t suppose you have any, really, but there’s a _look_. +That’s where you completely beat me. I haven’t that look at all, +whereas if people only knew what I was _really_ like---- Well, never +mind. But you have it, though if I were you--particularly now, when +you’ve made up your mind to be a One--I should do my hair rather +differently. You ought to have it out at the side more. I’ll show you +what I mean. You watch, Cadnam, and see if you don’t agree.” + +“Ye-es, I think you’re probably right,” said Miss Matfield finally. + +“By the way,” said Miss Morrison, “there’s a dance here on New Year’s +Eve. And as nobody has asked me anywhere else, I think I’ll go, and +I might be able to persuade a couple of men I know vaguely to look +in. They’re not very bright lads, but they’re energetic and harmless +and better than nothing. What about you, Matfield? A dance at the +Burpenfield is perhaps hardly a proper start on the downward path--but +still, you never know.” + +“Oh yes, I’ll be there,” said Miss Matfield. But she wasn’t. + + +IV + +Many a time afterwards Miss Matfield wondered if Mr. Golspie +deliberately engineered that staying late on New Year’s Eve. She +never asked him and never made up her own mind about it. At the time, +it seemed accidental enough. He had looked in at the office during +the morning, had gone out quite soon and had not returned until six +o’clock, when they were all busy clearing off the last odds and ends of +work. Mr. Dersingham had already gone. Mr. Golspie arrived, shouted for +her, and went into the private office. + +“Sorry, Miss Matfield,” he began, “but I’ll have to ask you to do a bit +of work for me at once.” + +“What, now?” + +“Yes, now. Don’t look at me like that, Miss Matfield--spoiling your +handsome features. It can’t be helped, and an extra hour for once isn’t +going to hurt you, is it?” + +“I suppose not, Mr. Golspie. It’s only--well, it’s New Year’s Eve, +isn’t it?” + +“So it is. I’d clean forgotten. Old Year’s Night, we always used to +call it. Still, there’ll be plenty of it left when we’ve finished.” + +“Yes, that’s all right--only, I’d arranged to go to a dance to-night.” + +“O-ho, the gay life, eh?” he boomed, grinning at her. “Now I remember, +my daughter’s going to one to-night. One of these balloon, confetti, +and false noses affairs, eh? Champagne at midnight, eh?” + +“No such luck. It’s only a dance at the girls’ club where I live, a +very modest affair.” + +“Oh, a dance at a girls’ club, eh? That’s nothing. You’re as well off +here with me as at a dance at a girls’ club. What time does it start?” + +“About nine, I suppose.” + +“I shan’t keep you here until nine, unless you want me to. Now you go +back and finish what you were doing, and you can tell the rest of ’em +they can go when they like, as far as I’m concerned. Then come back +here, bring your notebook, and we’ll get down to it. I’ve some letters +I must get off to-night. Somebody’s got to earn some money for this +firm, y’know.” + +When she returned to the private office, Mr. Golspie, meditating over a +cigar and occasionally jotting down some figures, motioned her towards +a chair and did not speak for several minutes. She heard the outer door +bang behind the other people, going home, heard other doors banging and +noisy footsteps on the stairs, and then everything suddenly sank into +silence. + +“Now then,” said Mr. Golspie, “let’s make a start. You can take the +whole lot down at once, if you like, or you can take two or three, go +and type ’em, then come back for more, just as you please. All I care +about is that they go to-night.” + +She took down several letters, then went to type them out while he +looked at his figures and thought about the rest of them. It was very +strange to be at work in the deserted general office, to go back to +the private office and find Mr. Golspie there, almost lost in his +cigar smoke, to return again to her machine under the solitary light. +As the quarters of an hour slipped by, so many little noises from +outside disappeared into the silence that at last she did not seem to +be working in a place she knew at all. The instant the familiar and +now cheerful clatter and _ping_ of her typewriter stopped, everything +turned ghostly, until she found herself again in the private office, +which was not at all ghostly. There was nothing spectral about Mr. +Golspie. + +“But what about copying them?” she cried, when they were all done, all +signed, and ready for their envelopes. + +“They can stay uncopied,” replied Mr. Golspie. + +“But, you know, we always copy all letters.” + +“Well, this time we don’t. It isn’t worth the bother. I know what I’ve +said to these people, and they’re my letters, not Dersingham’s. Help +me to put them into their envelopes and bring some stamps, then we’ve +done. That’s the way. A good job of work, that, Miss Matfield. I’m much +obliged. Most girls would have kicked up a fuss and then done the work +dam’ badly just to show their independence. What time is it? Would you +believe it?--nearly eight! I thought I was hungry.” + +Miss Matfield had given a little cry of dismay. + +“Hello, what’s the matter with you?” + +“I’d no idea it was so late, though I feel terribly hungry, too. Dinner +will be over at the Club when I get back there now, though I suppose I +shall be in time to get something.” + +“You’re hungry, too, are you? What did you have for lunch?” + +“I never had much lunch, you see,” said Miss Matfield. “I had an egg +and a roll and butter and a cup of coffee.” + +“And then you had a cup of tea and a biscuit, and now it’s nearly eight +and you feel hungry and you think if you run all the way back to your +Club they’ll give you a bite of something there--that’s it, isn’t it? +Well, that’s no good at all. That’s the way you girls do yourselves in. +You don’t feed. It’s all wrong. If you don’t have at least one thumping +big meal a day in this town at this time o’ the year, you might as well +send for the doctor at once and have done with it. Now, Miss Matfield,” +and he rose and put a hand on her shoulder, “you’re not one of those +half-starved wizened little monkeys of creatures that pass for girls +nowadays; you’re a fine upstanding girl, a real woman; and you can’t +play those tricks with yourself. Now listen--you’re coming to feed with +me. We’ve both been working; we’re both hungry; and we’re going to feed +together.” + +“Oh, are we?” It was all she could find to reply at the moment. + +“If you want me to make a favour of it, I’ll do it,” he continued. +“Here I am--on the last night of the year, too--going to have dinner +all by myself, and here are you, as hungry as I am, and we’ve been +working together, and you won’t join me to cheer me up a bit. How’s +that?” + +She laughed. “All right, I will. Thank you. Only I can’t go anywhere +very marvellous, looking like this, you know.” + +“You could go anywhere looking like that, believe me,” he assured her. +“But I suppose you mean you’re not all dressed up. That doesn’t matter. +We’re not going where they’re slinging the confetti at one another, +we’re going where the food is. You go and get ready while I stamp these +letters.” + +It was a clear cold night. Angel Pavement looked strangely dark and +deserted, a little black gulf with a faint spangle of stars above it. + +“Do you know why I came to your place?” said Mr. Golspie, as they +walked along. “I looked up the names of the firms in this line of +business, and Twigg and Dersingham took my fancy not because of _their_ +name, but because of the address. Angel Pavement did it. I was so +tickled by that name, I said to myself, ‘I must have a look at that +lot, first of all.’ And if I hadn’t said that, I shouldn’t have been +here, and you wouldn’t have been trotting along here with me, would +you?” + +“Didn’t you know anything about this business before?” she asked. + +“Not a thing. But I’ve picked up a good many different sorts of +business in my time, and I haven’t finished yet, not by a long chalk. +But I don’t call this veneer trade a proper business. It’s a side-line. +There’s no size to it. You might as well be selling sets o’ chessmen or +rocking-horses. No size to it, no chance of real growth, you see? It’s +all right for Dersingham--it’s about his mark--but then he’s not really +in business. He’s only got one leg in it instead of being up to the +neck in it. He thinks he’s a gentleman amusing himself. Too many of his +sort in the City here. That’s how the Jews get on, and the Americans. +None of that nonsense about _them_.” + +The main road, into which they had turned now, still showed a few +lighted windows, behind which the last orders of the year were being +booked and the last entries made in the ledgers, and there were still +a few belated clerks and typists hurrying away on each side; but +compared with its usual appearance, the hooting muddle of the day +and early evening, its appearance now was that of a lighted stone +wilderness. A tram came grinding down, looking as if it expected +nothing. A bus slipped through, curiously swift and noiseless. They +walked down to the end of the road, past the narrow openings of little +streets and alleys already sunk into midnight and the mouths of wider +streets that were illuminated emptiness. At the bottom they turned to +the right. A taxi came jogging along at that moment, and Mr. Golspie at +once claimed it, shouted “Bundle’s” to the driver, and then sat very +close to Miss Matfield. + +“Thought we’d go to Bundle’s,” he said, “if it’s all the same to you. +D’you know it?” + +“I’ve heard of it, of course,” she told him, “but I’ve never been +there. It’s more a restaurant for men, isn’t it?” + +“More men than women there certainly, but women do go. And if they’d +more sense, they’d go oftener. Bundle’s is the place if you’re really +hungry and you want a good solid feed. It’s English, too, and I like it +for that--good old-fashioned tack. I don’t suppose there’ll be a lot of +people there now--lunch is the crowded time at Bundle’s--and there’s no +need to dress up to go there.” + +“Thank Heaven for that!” cried Miss Matfield. + +“Mind you, Bundle’s isn’t a cheap place, by any means,” Mr. Golspie +continued, apparently anxious to suggest that he was not skimping his +hospitality. “Don’t get that idea into your head. It’s plain, but it +works out as expensive as most places, even though the other places +are giving you ten courses and a band and rattles and confetti and God +knows what else. There’s nothing like that at Bundle’s, but there’s +real food and some good drink.” + +“Well, Mr. Golspie, I’ll be quite candid, and confess that I could do +with both at this very moment. Even,” she added mischievously, “if they +will cost you a lot of money.” + +“I didn’t say that, Miss Matfield,” he said, pinching her arm. “All I +said was that Bundle’s isn’t cheap. As for costing me a lot of money, I +don’t honestly think you could do if you tried, not at Bundle’s. You’d +be sick before you could eat that amount, and drunk long before you +could drink it. I took a feller there, just before Christmas, and he +_did_ cost me money. He found they had some Waterloo brandy there, and +fancied a few goes of that after lunch.” + +“Well, suppose I do, too,” said Miss Matfield, as St. Paul’s went +jogging past the window on her side of the cab. “What about that?” + +“I’ll promise you one, though, if you ask me, it’s a waste of beautiful +stuff, because I’m sure you can’t appreciate it. But you won’t get any +more out of me. If you did, you’d turn round afterwards and tell me I +made you drunk. No, no.” + +“Don’t be absurd. I was only joking. I don’t like brandy, as a matter +of fact; the taste of it always reminds me of being ill. I loathe +whisky, too. I like wine, though, you’ll perhaps be glad to know. You +will also be glad to know that I can drink quite a lot of it--if it’s +good--without feeling tight.” + +“All right. Now I know. The sooner he gets there now, the better it +will be. I’m getting hungrier and hungrier.” + +“So am I. If I’d gone back to the Club, I’d never have been able to +find enough to satisfy my appetite to-night. The food’s not really too +bad there, but it isn’t quite real--if you know what I mean. It’s like +the food you get in cheap hotels.” + +“I know,” said Mr. Golspie grimly. “You can’t tell me anything about +cheap hotels and bad grub. And when you say it’s not real, you mean it +all tastes alike and never quite leaves you satisfied. Nothing like +that about Mr. Bundle. And here he is.” + +Mr. Bundle, whoever he was, had remembered one simple fact when he +first established his tradition of catering, and that was that Man +is one of the larger _carnivora_. You went to Bundle’s to eat meat. +The kitchen turned out acceptable soups, vegetables, puddings, tarts, +savouries, and the like, but all these were as nothing compared with +the meat. The place was a vegetarian’s nightmare. It seemed to be +perpetually celebrating the victory of some medieval baron. Whole +beeves and droves must have been slaughtered daily in its name. If +you asked for roast beef at Bundle’s, they took you at your word, and +promptly wheeled up to you the red dripping half of a roasted ox, and +after the waiter had implored you to examine it and had asked you a +few solemn questions about fat and lean, under-done and over-done, he +cut you off a pound or two here, a pound or two there. A request for +mutton was not treated perhaps with the same high seriousness, but +even that meant that legs and shoulders came trundling up from all +directions, and you found yourself facing a few assorted pounds of it +on your plate. The waiters themselves had a roasted jointy look, though +most of them were lean and under-done, whereas most of the guests were +obviously fat and over-done and suffering from gigantic blood pressures +that took another leap upward every time they went out of these doors. +It was the meatiest place Miss Matfield had ever seen, and she had a +suspicion that if she had not been feeling really hungry, it might have +made her feel rather sick. As it was, she welcomed the look of it and +smell of it, and enjoyed, too, its very definite masculine atmosphere. + +Mutton was wheeled at Miss Matfield and beef was wheeled at Mr. +Golspie, and, while acolytes brought vegetables, the high priests +gravely pointed to fat and lean and under-done and over-done, and then +sliced away with their exquisite long narrow knives. Mr. Golspie, after +consulting briefly with her, ordered a good rich burgundy. Then, after +Mr. Golspie, a true Bundle’s man, had polished off his gigantic helping +of beef, and Miss Matfield had eaten about a third of her mutton, he +had a savoury and she had some apple tart and cream. + +“We’ll finish the wine before we have coffee,” said Mr. Golspie, +pointing the bottle at her glass, which she had emptied. “It’s a good +burgundy this.” + +“Only about half a glass, please. It’s lovely rich sunshiny stuff, but +I daren’t drink much more. I feel as if I’d had about fifteen of my +Club dinners rolled into one. I don’t believe I shall ever be hungry +again.” + +“You look well on it,” said Mr. Golspie, who perhaps looked a shade too +well on it himself. “You’ve a fine colour, Miss Matfield, and your eyes +are sparkling, and altogether you look full of fight and fun, too good +for Angel Pavement, I can tell you.” + +“Oh, but I am,” she cried humorously. She suddenly felt that life was +rich and gay. + +“Of course you are. I said that to myself the first time I set eyes on +you. There’s a girl with some spirit and sense, I thought--she’s alive, +not like these other poor devils. ‘She don’t belong,’ I said to myself. +That’s why I kept my eye on you. Did you notice me keeping my eye on +you?” + +“Mmmm, ye-es,” looking at him and hoping that her eyes were still +sparkling. “Sometimes I thought you seemed quite human.” + +“Human!” he roared, so that a waiter jumped forward. “I’m human enough, +I can tell you. I’m a dam’ sight too human.” + +“If you’re in the City, you can’t be _too_ human, Mr. Golspie. Not +for me. I’ve spent months there sometimes and never spoken to anyone +who seemed to me really human. Awful creatures. Then people like Mr. +Smeeth, all grey and withered and not bad really, but just--pathetic.” + +“No, Smeeth’s not a bad feller. But he’s not pathetic. He doesn’t make +me weep, anyhow. All he wants is to be safe, that’s what’s the matter +with him. Anything to be safe--that’s his line. Pay him a pound or two +a week, give him some little cash-books to play with, tell him he’s +safe, and he’s as happy as a king. But he’s better than that dreary +youngster you have in there--what’s his name?--Turgis.” + +“Oh, he’s hopeless, I agree.” + +“Not your style, eh?” + +“What, Turgis! Help!” + +“He’s a typical specimen of what they’re breeding here now--no sense, +no guts, no anything. I can’t even remember the look of the lad, +although I see him nearly every day. That shows you what impression +_he_ makes. He might be a shadow flickering about the place.” + +“I know. And yet that funny little Cockney girl, Poppy Sellers, thinks +he’s marvellous. I’ve watched her worshipping him at a distance. Isn’t +it strange--I mean, the way everybody amounts to something different to +everybody else?” + +“Well, a lad like that’ull never mean anything to me, never amount to +anything to anybody, I should think, no more than a bit of straw or +paper blowing about the streets,” said Mr. Golspie. + +The waiter who had jumped forward was still waiting expectantly a few +yards away. Mr. Golspie called him. “You’ll have some coffee, won’t +you? And I’m going to have some brandy, not the Waterloo, though. +Will you have a liqueur? Have one of the sweet ones. What about a +Benedictine or a Kümmel? What do you say? Here, look at the list.” + +She examined it. What fascinating names they had, these liqueurs! “I +don’t know. Shall I? All right then, I’ll have a Green Chartreuse.” + +Mr. Golspie lit a cigar and then, over the coffee and liqueurs, +answered some questions she asked about his recent trip abroad, and +went rambling on about his experiences in those Baltic countries and +in other places still more mysterious and romantic to her. As she +listened, feeling very gay and confident inside, his blunt staccato +talk seemed to open a series of little windows upon a magical world +she had always known to be somewhere about, although she had never +walked in it herself, and his own figure took colour from the blue and +golden lights flashing through these little windows. He talked in the +way she had always felt a man should talk. He was so tremendously and +refreshingly un-Burpenfieldish. And he was interested in her; he was +not merely filling in an idle hour; she attracted him, had attracted +him, she felt now, for some time; and--oh!--it was all amusing and +exciting. + +“It’s quarter to ten,” Mr. Golspie suddenly announced. “What about that +dance of yours?” + +“O Lord!--I don’t know. It’s hardly worth it now. What a nuisance!” + +“Like dancing, eh?” + +“Adore it.” + +“All right. You listen to me. I remember now I had an invitation from +one or two of those Anglo-Baltic chaps; they weren’t giving the show, +but a friend of theirs was, and a lot of people I know were going to be +there. Dancing, too. We’ll go there, and then you won’t be able to say +I’ve done you out of your Old Year’s Night celebration. What d’you say? +Good! I’ve got the telephone number down in my notebook, and now I’ll +just ring up to make sure. Shan’t be a minute.” + +He returned, smiling, with the news that the party had just begun. +“Yes, I know what you’re trying to say now,” he continued. “What about +clothes, eh? Well, any clothes are right for this affair. They’re not +a dressy lot. If you went without clothes, they wouldn’t care. We’ll +have to stop on the way to buy something--a bottle or two and something +to eat--to take with us. It’s not necessary, but it’ll be appreciated. +These people will be a change for you--not the sort you meet in a +girls’ club at all--and it’ll amuse you, if you’re the girl I take you +to be.” + +There wasn’t even time to ask him then what exactly was the girl he +took her to be. + + +V + +They went in a taxi and the place was somewhere Notting Hill way, +but that was as near as she ever came to-knowing where it was. She +could have asked, of course, but she preferred to be without exact +information; it was more amusing. The road in which they finally +stopped looked one of those dingy, shabby-genteel streets, but she +could not be sure even about that. They walked up a garden path, but +instead of going up the steps to the house itself, they turned to the +right, by the side of the house, until they came to a lighted door and +a great deal of noise. Apparently the party was being held in one of +those large detached studios. + +She found herself shaking hands with a very small woman with frizzy +black hair, tiny black eyes that seemed to jump and snap, a long +humorous nose, and an outrageous purple dress. After that she shook +hands with a very tall fair man who looked like a retired Siegfried. +These were obviously the host and hostess, and they were both +foreigners, but she never caught their names. Clearly it was the sort +of party at which names were of little importance. The studio was +filled with people; most of whom had a foreign look. None of the men +wore evening dress, and among the women, she was glad to see, there +was an astonishing variety of clothes, so that she was not at all +conspicuous. Mr. Golspie recognised a good many acquaintances, and she +was introduced to some of them, mostly youngish men of a nondescript +foreign appearance who drew themselves up sharply, looked grave for +a moment, then suddenly smiled and widened their eyes, as if to say: +“I am being introduced to a lady, by my friend Mr. Golspie. This is +serious, important. Ah, but how charming, how beautiful a lady!” It +was a pleasure being introduced to men with such a manner. One of +them, the youngest, a nice, smiling boy with bright hazel eyes, called +Something-insky, insisted upon her smoking a long cigarette, and +brought her a mysterious, greeny-yellow drink. Mr. Golspie, who had +found a whisky and soda, grinned at her, and exchanged knowing remarks +in a mixed language with various men, who patted him on the shoulder +and slapped him on the back and were patted and slapped in return. + +The little hostess, her eyes snapping furiously, came rushing through +and screamed in an unknown tongue at two young men in a corner, a small +crooked Jew, almost a hunchback, and a thin red-haired young man, very +serious behind enormous spectacles. When she finished screaming at +them and had held out both her arms in an imploring gesture, these two +bowed gravely, and then the Jew sat down at the grand piano and the +red-haired spectacled one seated himself behind some drums. They began +playing--and very well they played, too--and in a moment the centre of +the room was cleared for dancing. + +“You veel danz, eh? Pleass?” said Something-insky. + +He was a good dancer, and though he was not quite tall enough for +her, they got on very well together. As he piloted her in and out, +for nearly everybody was dancing and the floor was crowded, he talked +the whole time. “I study here ee-conom-eegs,” he told her, “at +Lon-don School of Ee-conom-eegs,” and he was very serious about his +economics, but it was difficult to understand much of what he said +about them. Very soon he passed to more intimate matters. “Yes, I +like Eng-lish girls vairy moch. Oh, but I am vairy saad, vairy, vairy +saad now,” he told her, his hazel eyes dancing with pleasure. “I leef +in High-gate and in High-gate I have a girl, an Eng-lish girl, vairy +beautiful--Flora. She leefs, too, in High-gate, Flora, and she has +blue eyess and golden hair. For two veeks, you see, we have a quarrel. +Oh yes, it is vairy seely, but it is vairy saad, too. One night I +go to movees. I ask Flora to go too, but no--she cannot go. So I +go-by-myself. I am standing outside and I see a girl I know, a girl +from High-gate. Vairy nice girl--but--aw, she is noding to me. But I +am pol-ite, I say to her, ‘Good-evening, mees. You go to movees too?’ +I am by-myself. I take her weet me into movees. Noding, noding at all. +But after, she tell Flora--at High-gate--‘Oh, I go weet your foreign +friend to movees.’ Flora comes to me and we have a beeg quarrel.” He +squeezed Miss Matfield’s hand as if he felt that at this point he must +have sympathy or die. “Yes, a beeg quarrel. For two veeks, I do not see +Flora at all. I am vairy saad now.” + +Miss Matfield said it was rather sad, but told herself that in its +mixture of Highgate and foreign-ness it was really quite absurd and +wonderlandish, and somehow it gave the key to the whole evening. Nobody +in this studio, except herself and Mr. Golspie (and she was not sure +about him), was quite real. Something-insky and his friends were very +charming, but it was rather a relief when Mr. Golspie marched up, very +solid and dominating, and said, “Well, what about a dance with me?” + +“Of course,” she told him. “I thought perhaps you didn’t dance. You’ve +not been dancing, have you?” + +“No. I thought I’d wait for you, Miss Matfield. You’re the partner I +want. I can dance all right, but, mind you, I don’t pretend to be good +at it, not like some of these lads. Have another drink before we start, +eh?” + +“If I have another drink to-night, I shall probably be quite drunk. I +feel hazy now.” + +“No harm in feeling hazier. I’ll look after you, don’t you worry.” + +But she shook her head. The music started again, the little Jew wagging +his black locks over the piano and his companion solemnly nodding above +his drums, and Mr. Golspie grasped her masterfully. He was obviously +not a very good dancer, but even if he had been, there would not have +been much chance for him to show what he could do in that crowded +space, for now there seemed to be twice as many people on the floor. + +“How d’you like this show?” he asked, grinning at her. + +“I do like it. It’s amusing.” + +“I’m glad you think so.” + +“You sound as if you don’t care for it very much.” + +“It’s not bad,” he told her. “But too much of a crowd for my liking. +Just the pair of us somewhere would please me better.” + +Afterwards there was an interval, during which everybody ate and drank +and smoked and talked all at once, and a girl who appeared to be a +secretary at some legation came up with Something-insky and another, +older man, and the girl who was a secretary was very giddy and gay and +apparently rather tight, though not unpleasantly so, and then a little +foreign girl with a hideous fur-trimmed jacket joined them, and the six +of them made a little group in one corner, where they ate and drank and +smoked and talked as hard as anybody. Then the little hostess screamed +again, and this time the tall host produced a number of astonishing +syllables in a rasping tenor and then put on a colossal smile, and at +once everybody sat down somewhere and most of the lights were turned +out. Only the corner where the Jew still sat at the piano was fully +illuminated. Then there appeared in front of the piano a smallish +plump man with an enormous bald head and a yellow fat face, who stood +there, smiling vaguely at them while they applauded, like another but +alien Humpty-Dumpty. The Jew played a few sonorous and melancholy +chords. Humpty-Dumpty put his hand to his mouth, as if to press a +button, for when he lowered his hand, his face was quite different; +the smile had been wiped off; his eyebrows had descended at least an +inch and a half; and his eyes stared tragically out of deep hollows. +Miss Matfield noticed all these details. It was queer, but though +things in general were curiously hazy, she had only to concentrate her +attention upon anything and every detail of it, like Humpty-Dumpty’s +lips and eyebrows, stood out in clear relief. This made everything +seem tremendously amusing, and she was very happy. Humpty-Dumpty began +singing now in a great rich bass voice, which immediately plunged Miss +Matfield, who delighted in rich bass voices, into a dreamy ecstasy. He +sang one song after another, sometimes sinking into the profoundest +melancholy and the bitterness of death, and at other times breaking +into high spirits that were as strange and wild as a revolution. With +her eyes fixed on that great yellow moon of a face from which these +entrancing sounds came, Miss Matfield allowed her mind to be carried +floating away on these changing currents of music, and her body to +rest against the stalwart arm and shoulder of Mr. Golspie. She was +sorry when it came to an end, and Humpty-Dumpty, after bowing, smiling, +frowning, shaking his head in an amazingly rapid succession, walked +away to eat a whole plateful of sandwiches, wash them down with lager +beer, and talk to five people at once with his mouth full. + +There was just time for another dance and then it was twelve o’clock. +Everybody was silent for a moment. At the end of that moment, they all +behaved like men and women who had been reprieved in the very shadow +of the gallows, which is perhaps how they saw themselves. Never before +had Miss Matfield seen such a raising and clinking of glasses, so much +back-slapping, hand-shaking, embracing, and kissing. Something-insky +kissed the little girl in the fur-trimmed jacket and the secretary +girl from the legation, and then kissed Miss Matfield’s hand fifteen +times while the girl in the fur-trimmed coat, who had suddenly burst +into tears, kissed her on the cheek. Mr. Golspie shook her by the hand, +then gave her a big hug. It was at this moment that the only unpleasant +event of the evening occurred. Once or twice before, Miss Matfield +had had to escape from a tall bleary-eyed man, one of the very few +Englishmen there, who was rather drunk and had been bent on dancing +with her. Now he suddenly lurched into the middle of their little +group, murmuring something about a happy New Year, and tried to embrace +her. Mr. Golspie, however, stepped forward smartly and with one shove +of his heavy shoulder sent the man reeling back. + +“I think I’d better go now,” she said to Mr. Golspie. “I’m terribly +late as it is.” + +“All right. I’ll come with you.” Taking no notice of the unpleasant +fellow, who was mumbling threats just behind them, he took her by +the arm, marched her through the crowd to shake hands with the host +and hostess, and then led her towards the door. There they separated +to look for their things. When Miss Matfield returned to the little +entrance hall of the studio, the unpleasant man was there. Fortunately, +Mr. Golspie appeared, too. + +“Now wha’s the idea, eh?” said the unpleasant one, thickly and +truculently to Mr. Golspie, trying to put a hand on his shoulder. + +“The idea is--you go home to bed,” replied Mr. Golspie, giving him one +contemptuous glance. + +“Home to bed!” the other sneered. “T-t-t-t-t-talk like a dam’ fool. +Bed!” Then he recollected himself. “All I wanner do is to wish thish +young lady a Hap-py New Year.” And he made a clutch at her. + +This time Mr. Golspie instantly pinned both the man’s arms to his +side with so powerful a grasp that the man cried out. “Talk like a +dam’ fool, do I?” said Mr. Golspie, pushing his face forward. “If you +don’t make yourself scarce, you’ll start the worst new year you ever +remembered. See?” And he shook the man. “See?” And with that, he sent +the man flying back, took three or four steps forward to see if any +more persuasion was needed, and when he saw it was not--for the man +had obviously had quite enough of Mr. Golspie--he returned to Miss +Matfield’s side. “I’ve rung up for a taxi,” he said calmly. “There’s +a telephone in there where I had my hat and coat. It’ll be here in a +minute. We’ll wait just outside and get a breath of fresh air.” + +Miss Matfield, who had been half frightened, half elated by the little +scene, and now, what with the wine and the dancing and the music and +the embracing and the general excitement of the long evening, was in +a fantastic condition, tired and excited and timid and audacious and +thrilled all at once, followed her brutal or heroic friend out of the +studio and into the shadow of the neighbouring house. Just before the +shadow ended, he stopped. “We can wait here as well as anywhere,” he +said. + +She did not tell him that it would be still more sensible to wait at +the front gate. She stopped, and said nothing. + +“Well, that wasn’t bad,” he said, “though I’d had enough of it when you +said you had to go. They’ll keep it up till the milk comes. I shouldn’t +have gone, though, if you hadn’t said you’d come with me. If you want +to know my opinion, we’ve had a good Old Year’s Night. We’ve got to see +more of each other.” + +“Oh, have we?” She was in no condition to be femininely cool and +mocking, but she did her best. + +“Yes, of course we have,” he replied coolly. “You’re the sort of girl I +like, and I don’t often find one.” + +“Thank you for the compliment,” she said, and was instantly annoyed +with herself for sounding so feeble. + +“Well, Miss Matfield--oh, damn it, I can’t keep calling you Miss +Matfield, not out of the office, anyhow. What’s your other name?” + +“Lilian,” she replied, in a tiny voice. + +“That’s good--Lilian. Well, Lilian, now that we’re out of that monkey +house in there, with everybody snatching and pecking at each other, I +can wish you a proper Happy New Year.” And, saying no more, he swept +her to him, kissed her several times, and held her close, so close that +she could hardly breathe. + +She could not have described it as being either pleasant or unpleasant. +It was not an experience that could fall into such easy categories. +It could not be tasted, examined, reported on, like most of Miss +Matfield’s experiences. If it belonged anywhere, it belonged to the +fire, flood and earthquake department. Her quickening blood faced and +replied to this huge masculine onslaught, but the rest of her was +simply dazed and shaken. + +“There’s our taxi,” he said, breathing hard, but otherwise cool enough. +“What’s the address?” + +Inside the taxi, she suddenly felt very tired and quite disinclined +to talk. She drooped, leaned against him, and could only repeat to +herself that it was all quite absurd, though all the time she knew +very well that whatever else it might be, it was not absurd. Mr. +Golspie was quiet too, though in that little enclosed space he seemed +now a gigantically vital creature, a being essentially different from +herself, a huge throbbing engine of a man. + +“Getting near your place?” he inquired, as the taxi began to mount the +hill. + +“Yes, it’s only about half-way up this hill.” + +“We’ll have some more nights out together, shall we? Not all like this, +y’know. Just the two of us, roaming round a bit, going to a show or +two, and so on. What d’you say?” + +“Yes, I’d like to. In fact--I’d love it.” She glanced out of the +window, then rapped on it. “We’re just outside now. Please, don’t come +out. No, no more. All right then--there! Good-bye--and--and thank you +for my nice big dinner.” + +The dance was over at the Club and most of the lights were out, but a +few girls were still drifting about the hall and chattering softly on +their way upstairs. + +“Hello, Matfield!” somebody cried. “Happy New Year!” + +Would it be? It had begun strangely enough. Now that she was back in +the familiar and despised Burpenfield atmosphere, the night’s antics +ought to have appeared in retrospect gayer and more delightfully +adventurous than ever, with Mr. Golspie directing them like a droll and +massive fairy prince; but oddly enough, they cut no such figure and +she found herself wanting to avoid the thought of them. As she slowly +climbed the darkening stairs she shivered a little. She was tired, +rather cold, and her head ached. There floated into her mind, as if +borne there by white virginal sails, the comforting thought of aspirin +and her hot water bottle. + + +VI + +When he asked her, two days later, to spend another evening with him, +she gladly accepted, although she had told herself several times +before that she would refuse; and after that they spent a good deal +of time together. They would have dinner somewhere, and then amuse +themselves by visiting some show of his choice. They saw the new +Jerry Jerningham musical comedy and a crook play; they went twice to +the Colladium; they tried a Talkie or two; and one exciting night +he took her to a big boxing match. She never really learned a great +deal about him; he would talk about odd experiences he had had by +the hour, but he remained mysterious; she never discovered what his +plans were, and at times she suspected that he did not intend to stay +in England much longer, but this suspicion was only based on casual +vague remarks; she never went near his flat, never met his daughter, +and never heard a single word from him about his dead wife, if indeed +she was dead; and yet she felt she knew him as she had never known a +man before. Sometimes he was simply friendly or uncle-ish, dismissing +her with a pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of the arm; sometimes he +turned cynically and grossly amorous, and when he tried to paw her and +she repulsed him, he jeered at her and said things that were all the +more brutal because there was in them a hard core of truth, and then +she saw him as a gross middle-aged toper, loathed him, and despised +herself for having anything to do with him; but then, at other times, +after a happy exciting evening, he would reach out to her in sudden +passion and her own mood would flare up to match with his, and in +some little patch of darkness or in the taxi going home, they would +kiss and clutch and strain to one another, without a single word of +love passing between them, and she would be left shaken and gasping, +unable to decide whether she was a woman who was falling in love with +this strange unlikely man or a crazy little fool who had just had too +much excitement and wine, who ought to go and have a good hot bath and +learn sense and decency. And that was all, so far, though even she +guessed it could not go on like that. Meanwhile, between these curious +expeditions, she chatted and grumbled as usual at the Club, wrote home +in the old strain once a week, and quietly worked away at the office, +where nobody knew what was happening to her. + +Then, one night, as he took her back to the Club, he said, quite +casually: “I see they’re having a nice fine spell on the South Coast. +What about a trip down there next week-end, Lilian? Might get hold of a +car.” + +“Oh yes,” she cried at once, without thinking, for week-ends out of +London were her dream, even in January. “Let’s do that.” + +“Is it a bargain?” he said quickly, triumphantly. + +And then she realised what it meant. “No, no. I’m sorry. I spoke +without thinking.” + +“Ah, she spoke without thinking, did she? You do far too much thinking. +Girls shouldn’t think too much, not good-looking ones, anyhow. When I +first met you, you’d done nothing but think for a long time, and you +weren’t looking too cheerful on it.” + +She made no reply. She was annoyed, partly because she was compelled +to recognise the truth behind this little jeer. When he talked about +her in his casual, rather brutal fashion, he had a strange knack of +fastening upon some unpleasant truth. He seemed to take aim quite +wildly, but somewhere in her mind, a bell rang nearly every time. + +He changed his tone now. “Oh, come on. Nobody’s going to hurt you. +Let’s enjoy ourselves while we’re here.” + +“No, thank you,” she said quietly, though she found it far more +difficult to resist this kind of appeal. + +He pressed her. + +“No, I won’t. Sometime, perhaps. But not now. No, I mean it.” + +“Well, I’m disappointed in you. Still, I’ll try again. Otherwise, +y’know, you might regret saying that, some day. Oh, you can laugh----” + +“I might well laugh. I think men are the limit. You just want your +own way, no matter what it costs--to me, and you’re quite hurt and +disappointed because you can’t have it, and anybody would think to hear +you that you’d been spending weeks thinking it all out purely for my +benefit.” + +“That’s right,” said Mr. Golspie cheerfully, and she knew, though she +could not see him properly, that he was grinning. “Just what I have +been doing. That’s why I’m disappointed.” + +“And that’s why I’m laughing,” she retorted, though she did not feel +like laughing now. “At your impudent selfishness. Marvellous!” + +“And I tell you, young woman, you might regret it one day. I’m going to +ask you again. You think it over.” + +“I won’t.” + +But she did think it over, and unfortunately she began that very +night, so that it was hours and hours before she got to sleep. Her +angry taut body refused to relax; her head was a huge hot ring round +which her thoughts went galloping dustily; and as she turned in the +uneasy darkness she heard the late taxis and cars go hooting far away, +melancholy hateful sounds in the deep night, like flying rumours of +disaster. + + + + +_Chapter Nine_: MR. SMEETH IS WORRIED + + +I + +“Where you going to?” asked Mr. Smeeth, turning round in his chair to +look at his wife, who had suddenly made her appearance in the doorway, +wearing her hat and coat. She was still flushed with temper. It was +surprising how young and smart she looked. Still, she could not go on +like that, no matter how young and smart she looked. + +“Out,” she replied, with that special look and special voice she had +for him when they had quarrelled. Oh dear! + +“Yes, I know that,” he pointed out, “but where you going to?” + +Up she blazed then, with her colour flaming and her fine blue eyes +flashing at him: “Just _out_, and that’s enough for you. Begrudge +every penny you give me, keep me as short as you possibly can, tell +me I mustn’t buy this and mustn’t buy that, go peeping and spying +about and then lose your silly temper because you’ve seen something +you don’t like to see--though--goodness me!--there can’t be a woman in +this street who hasn’t a few bills like that in the house, and most of +them a lot more and instalments, too, to pay and their husbands not +bringing in anything like what you are----” Here Mrs. Smeeth stopped, +not because this fine rhetorical sentence had got out of control (it +had, but she was capable of finishing it somehow), but simply because +she wanted to draw a deep breath. “And then you want to know where I’m +going! I suppose you’d like me to give an account of that as well, +wouldn’t you? Yes, of course. Oh, of course!” Her head wagged as she +brought out these vast sneers. “That would be very nice for you, +wouldn’t it? I’ll come and ask if I can spend a penny or tuppence. Then +I’ll ask if I can walk down the road----” + +“Oh, don’t be so silly, Edie,” cried Mr. Smeeth, who hated this sort of +wild ridiculous talk and could not see what good it did. Even after all +these years, he was still innocent enough to imagine that his wife was +trying to argue and failing absurdly, and he did not realise that she +was merely exploding into speech. + +“Don’t be so silly!” she repeated indignantly, at the same time coming +forward into the room. “I’d like to ask anybody who’s the silly +one here. They’d soon tell you. And I’d rather be silly than mean. +Yes--_mean_. If you’re not careful, Herbert Smeeth, you’ll soon be too +mean to live. Pinching and scraping as if you didn’t know where the +next penny was coming from! And the more money you’re getting, the +worse you are. It’s growing on you, this meanness. My words, I’d like +you to be married to some women, that’s all. They’d teach you something +about spending.” + +“No, they wouldn’t,” he said crossly, “’cos I wouldn’t have it, +wouldn’t have it for a single minute. I’d soon put a stop to _their_ +little games. As for being mean, you know as well as I do, Edie, I’m +not mean, and never have been. There’s nothing you’ve ever really +wanted, or the children either, you haven’t had. But somebody’s got to +be careful, that’s all. We’re not made of money. When I got this rise, +I hoped we’d begin to save properly. Anybody’d think to hear you talk +they’d given me the Bank of England instead of another pound a week. +Have a bit of sense, Edie. If we’re going to spend every penny we have +now and get into debt, where are we going to be if anything happens to +us? Just tell me that.” + +“And what is going to happen to us? Bless me, the way you talk! A +proper old Jonah you’re turning into! You give me the pip, Dad, +honestly you do. Anybody’d think to hear _you_ talk that we’ll have to +sell up any day. You can’t enjoy yourself a minute for thinking about +what might happen to you the year after next or sometime. We’ve only +got to live once and we’ve only got to die once, and for heaven’s sake +let’s enjoy ourselves while we can, I say.” + +“Yes, and when we can’t--what then? I’ve heard this kind of talk +before, and I know where it lands people. And anyhow, I can enjoy +myself as well as the next, only I can do it sensibly and I don’t need +to spend every penny we get and go and ask any Fred Mittys to help me +to do it.” + +“That’s right. Bring him in. I’ve been waiting for that, I’ve just been +waiting for that. I wondered how long you’d be able to keep Fred Mitty +out of this. That’s you all over. You got your knife into him the first +time he came here, and after that of course he had to be blamed for +everything. Go on. Don’t mind me. Why don’t you say I give him all my +housekeeping money, and have done with it. Go on.” + +“Well, I’ll say this,” said Mr. Smeeth, his temper rising. “That bill +from Sorley’s there’s been all this bother about wouldn’t have been +that size and would have been paid before now, if you hadn’t taken it +into your head to ask Mitty and his wife and their guzzling pals up +here those two nights round Christmas. It’s bad enough them coming here +at all--most men wouldn’t have it for a minute, not if they couldn’t +stand the sight of ’em and never stayed in the house when they were +there, like me--but it’s fifty times worse when you go and run yourself +into debt to do it, just so they can all swill it down at my expense. +It’s not good enough, and you know it isn’t.” + +“Oh, isn’t it? Well, next time Christmas comes round, I’ll tell Fred +and everybody else to keep away, and we’ll all go into the workhouse, +and then you’ll be satisfied. If you wasn’t getting too mean to live, +you’d have thought nothing about it. You talk as if I owed Sorley’s +about fifty pounds. Three pounds fifteen, that’s all it is, and you +make all this bother.” + +“Well, it’s three pound fifteen more than you can pay, it seems,” he +retorted. + +“Who says it is? I haven’t even asked you to pay it yet. Keep your +money. I can pay it all right in time. Sorley’s can wait, for all I +care.” + +“Well, they can’t for all I care. I believe in paying cash down and no +debts running on, always have done, and you know it. And I’ll have that +to pay, just because you’ve decided to open a free pub for Mitty and +his fine little lot. That’s what it amounts to.” + +“That’s right, start again now. You can argue with yourself for an +hour or two, and see how you like it. I’m going out. And if you +want to know, I’ll tell you where I’m going. I’m going,” she added +deliberately, “down to Fred Mitty’s.” + +He was furious, but he knew that he could not prevent her from going. +He looked at her, and he had to twist round in his chair, for she had +retreated towards the door: “Well, see you come back sober,” he said. + +“What’s that?” + +But he did not repeat it. He wished it unsaid. The instant after it +had slipped out, he wanted to call it back. And, for all her “What’s +that?” she had heard him all right; she was staring at him now, with +some of her high colour gone and her mouth curiously drawn down; her +whole attitude was different from what it had been during their noisy +argument; she was really hurt, this time; he had gone too far, miles +and miles too far. + +“Yes, I heard you, though,” she said quietly, “and it’s the nastiest +thing, by a long, long way, that you’ve said to me in twenty years. Did +you ever know me come back in any other way but sober?” + +“No, no,” he muttered. “I’m sorry ... bit of a joke.” He couldn’t look +her in the face. + +“Bit of a joke! I wish it was. But it wasn’t. You meant it, Herbert +Smeeth. You meant to be as nasty as you could be. There’s only another +thing worse you could say to your wife, and you’d better hurry up and +get that said.” + +“I tell you, I’m sorry.” He got up from his chair now, and looked at +her, mumbling something about “going too far.” + +“Yes, and I’m sorry too,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t think you’d got +a nasty thing like that in your head to say. Oh, I know it slipped out, +and now you wish it hadn’t. But it oughtn’t to have been there to slip +out. That’s what hurts me.” + +“Well, after all, you’ve as good as called me a miser--or at any rate, +a mean devil--half a dozen times to-night,” he told her, but not with +much confidence. + +“Oh!--that’s different--and you know it is.” + +“I don’t see that. Still, if you think so, all I can say, Edie, is--I’m +sorry.” + +But before he had finished, she had gone, slamming the door +contemptuously behind her. A few seconds later, she was outside the +house. Mr. Smeeth returned wretchedly to his chair by the fire. There +was nothing he disliked more than a quarrel with his wife, and this +looked like being a particularly bad one. That remark of his would, he +knew, take some living down. If she had been a woman who never took a +drink at all, there would have been nothing in that remark; but she +liked a drink or two, especially in company, and was liable at times +to get flushed and excited, as she well knew herself; and if he had +thought for months, he could not have said a thing that would have +hurt her more. He was still sorry that he had said it, though there +was one part of him that could not help enjoying the fact that the +shot had told so well. “That got home on her all right, didn’t it?” it +chuckled, even while the rest of him, the part that loved Mrs. Smeeth +and was her willing slave, grieved and repented. Mr. Smeeth did not +often swear, but now he called Fred Mitty, under his breath, every foul +name at his command. That earlier argument would not have taken such +a bad turn if it had not been for Mitty. They had had these little +squabbles about money before, like most couples, he imagined, one of +whom is nearly always a spender and the other a saver. This had been +a bit more serious than most of their squabbles, if only because the +extra money had made her all the more eager to spend and had made him +all the more anxious to begin saving. But Mitty and his wife even came +into this part of the quarrel, for the whole thing began when he came +across that bill from Sorley’s for three pounds fifteen, which she had +not paid and couldn’t pay, and Sorley’s off licence and Mr. and Mrs. +Swilling Mitty and their bright pals had been responsible for that +bill. He had not seen what they had had because on both occasions, +being duly warned, he had taken himself off, once to hear “The +Messiah,” and the other time to play whist with Saunders, and had taken +care each time, being a peaceable man, to arrive back home as late as +possible, when Mitty and Co. were no longer there. He didn’t believe +for a moment that his wife was so tremendously fond of the Mitty lot +as all that, but just because he had grumbled at first and been a bit +heavy-handed about them, she had kept it up, out of devilment and to +show her independence. She was like that, if you took the wrong line +with her, and he had admitted to himself for a week or two now that, if +it was peace and quietness he wanted and not a tussle to decide who was +master, he had certainly taken the wrong line. + +After brooding over it all for about quarter of an hour, he felt so +uncomfortable that if his wife had gone anywhere else but the Mitty’s, +he would have gone after her, to call for her and then to try and make +it up on the way home. But he had his pride, and it refused to allow +him to call for her at the Mitty’s. He tried to dismiss the whole +wretched business. He lit his pipe and picked up the evening paper. +There was nothing in it he wanted to read and had not read before. He +tried the wireless, and the first station plunged him into the middle +of a talk on modern sculpture by a young gentleman who was apparently +very tired. Finding no satisfaction in him, Mr. Smeeth went over to the +other station, which was running a sort of pierrot show. The pierrots +themselves seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely and so did +their audience, who laughed and clapped unceasingly, but Mr. Smeeth +merely felt rather out of it and thought the jokes not good enough, +for all that laughing, and the songs not worth all that applause. +“Overdoing it,” he muttered darkly at the loud speaker, which replied +by bombarding him with more tinny laughter and applause. But he was +the master; he had only to make a little movement and the pierrots +and their cackling friends were banished at once, simply hurled into +silence; and now he made this little movement, and the loud speaker was +at once emptied of sound, nothing more than a bit of a horn. He had +a book from the Public Library somewhere about, and now, in despair, +he found it and began reading. It was _My Singing Years_ by the great +soprano, Madame Regina Sarisbury, whom he had once heard in an oratorio +years ago, and the young woman at the Library had told him it was +a most interesting book, on the word of her sister, who was taking +singing lessons and had two or three professional engagements. But so +far it had not appealed to him very much. As a matter of fact, he was a +reluctant and unenterprising reader, one of those people who hold their +books almost at arm’s-length and examine them in a very guarded manner, +as if at any moment a sentence might explode with a loud report; and +he had probably returned more books half-read than any other member of +the local Public Library. Nevertheless, he liked to have a Library book +about, and to be discovered reading it. + +He was discovered now. Edna came in, pulling off her close-fitting +little hat, and fussy and breathless, as usual. In a few minutes, she +would swing completely round, becoming slack, indifferent, languid, as +if the house bored her. Mr. Smeeth knew this, and it irritated him, +though he was very fond of the girl. + +“Where’s mother?” + +“Your mother’s out.” + +“Where’s she gone to? She said she wasn’t going out to-night!” + +“The question is, not where she’s gone to, but where you’ve been too,” +he said, rather severely, looking at her over the top of his eyeglasses. + +Edna did not stop to examine the logic of this, or if she did, she did +not comment upon it, being still young enough to recognize the right of +parents to talk in this fashion. “Been to the pictures--first house,” +she replied. + +“What again! I’m surprised you don’t go and live there. You’ve been +once this week, haven’t you? Yes, I thought so. And I suppose you’ll be +wanting to go on Saturday. That’ll be three times in one week--three +times. Paid ninepence too, I suppose. And who gave you the money to go +to-night?” + +“Mother did.” And Edna looked slightly confused. Her father, noticing +this, jumped at once to the wrong conclusion, namely, that Edna had +been told to say nothing about this extra visit to the pictures to him +and had suddenly realized what she had done. The truth was, however, +that Edna was confused, not because she had spent another ninepence, +but because the money was still in her possession, for she had gone to +the pictures as the guest of one Harry Gibson, Minnie Watson’s friend’s +friend, who, in his turn, was supposed, by his parents in their +turn, to have been attending an evening class in accountancy on this +particular night. + +Mr. Smeeth nodded grimly and tightened his lips. “There’ll have to be +something said about this, Edna. When I agreed to let you go and learn +this millinery business, I didn’t agree to let you go to the pictures +every night in the week, too.” + +“I don’t go every night, and you know very well I don’t, Dad. Some +weeks I only go once.” + +“It’s a funny thing I never seem to notice those weeks,” said Mr. +Smeeth with fine irony. It would have been still finer irony if he +had stopped to consider that it really was not funny at all but quite +natural. “But apart from the waste of money, I don’t like all this +picture-going. Doing you no good at all. Doing you harm. I don’t object +to a girl having her amusement,” he continued, dropping into that +noble, broad-minded tone of voice that all parents, schoolmasters, +clergymen, and other public moralists have at their command. “I go +to the pictures now and again myself. But going to the pictures now +and again’s one thing, and _living_ for pictures is another thing +altogether. Teaches you nothing but silliness. Get false ideas into +your head. Why don’t you settle down with a book?” He held out his own +book. “Do a bit of quiet reading. Amuse yourself and learn something +about the world at the same time. Take this book I’m reading, +f’r’instance--_My Singing Years_ by Madame Regina Sarisbury--this is a +book that tells you something worth knowing, all about the--er--musical +career.” + +“I read a book last week,” Edna announced. + +“Yes, and been to the pictures three times since then,” said her +father, who was determined to have his grievance. “Too much going out +and amusing yourself altogether, my girl. Why, you’re worse than George +was at your age. It’s my belief you girls are worse than the boys +nowadays, more set on having amusement, pictures and dances and what +not. I walked from the tram to-night with Mr. Gibson, who lives in the +corner house at the bottom of the next street, and he was telling me +that his son--I forget his name, but he’s about your age, perhaps a +year or so older----” + +“Do you mean Harry Gibson?” asked Edna. + +“Is it Harry? Yes, I think it is. Well, Mr. Gibson was telling me that +this boy of his is attending three evening classes a week--accountancy, +book-keeping, and something else--three evening classes. That boy means +to get on and be somebody in the world. He’s not wasting all his time, +he’s using it to some purpose. I’m not saying that you ought to go to +evening classes----” + +Here he broke off because he noticed that a mysterious smile that had +been hovering for the last minute now seemed to have definitely settled +on Edna’s face. This smile made him angry, or rather gave him an +excuse for exploding the anger that had been waiting inside him. “And +for goodness’ sake, Edna, take that silly grin off your face when I’m +trying to talk sense to you,” he shouted, making her jump. “You’re not +at the pictures now. You’re nothing but a great silly baby.” + +“What have I done now?” she began indignantly. + +“Any more of that impudence from you,” Mr. Smeeth shouted at her, +glaring. But there was no more of that impudence, which suddenly melted +to tears. Edna, not a strong character at any time and now completely +taken aback by her father’s sudden rage, hastily left the room, +whimpering. + +Mr. Smeeth spent the next few minutes telling himself all the things +that were wrong with his daughter and that justified any man getting +angry with her now and then. He worked hard, but he did not succeed +in convincing himself. He put away _My Singing Years_ and turned the +wireless on again. At half-past ten, George came in, got a grunt or two +from his father (who was, in truth, afraid of talking), retired to the +kitchen in search of food and then went to bed. At eleven Mrs. Smeeth +returned. + +“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked. Sometimes he had a little +snack just before going to bed. + +He shook his head. + +“Can I get you something?” she enquired politely. + +He knew now that he was in for a serious quarrel. Mrs. Smeeth easily +lost her temper and squabbled, but she recovered it with equal +swiftness and ease. If she had marched in and called him a few names +and looked as if she was about to throw something at him, he would have +known that the whole thing could have been settled before they went to +sleep. But when Mrs. Smeeth was quietly polite to him, it meant that +for once she had really hardened her heart. She would now turn herself +into a very efficient housewife. Nothing would be allowed to go wrong; +every meal would be on the table at the proper time and every dish done +to a turn; he would not be given the slightest chance to grumble. But +as a wife, a real wife, she would cease to exist. Not a smile, not a +friendly glance, would come his way; and they would be estranged for +days, perhaps weeks. + +“No, thanks. I don’t want anything. Don’t feel like it.” Which was true +enough, but he hoped it would suggest that he was not very well. She +remained quite stony, however. + +“Both the children in?” she asked. + +“Look here, Edie,” he began desperately, “don’t be silly.” + +“I’m not silly. I’m going to bed now.” And off she went. + +He was in for it now, days of it, perhaps weeks of it; and in order to +get out of it, not only would he have to apologize at great length, +but he would probably have to buy something as well, in short to spend +more money. Yet the root of the whole trouble was that too much money +was being spent already. He wished he had never set eyes on Sorley’s +miserable bill. He wished he had gone out and paid it without a word. +He wished--“Oh, damn and blast!” he cried, and in his sudden spasm of +fury he screwed up his face so hard and shook his head so violently +that his eyeglasses fell off and he spent several minutes groping about +the black wool rug before he could find them. Oh--a miserable evening! + + +II + +Between Thursday evening, when hostilities began, and Saturday morning, +Mr. Smeeth had tried unsuccessfully once or twice to make his peace +and to replace this strange polite woman by his real wife. On Saturday +morning he determined to do no more; she could have her sulk, if she +wanted it; he would simply make the best of his position as a sort of +super-lodger. He trotted down Chaucer Road, on his way to the tram, +hardening his heart. The morning, which already had a companionable +Saturday look about it, smiled upon him, if only faintly. For a day +in late January, it was beginning well; no fog, snow or rain; but a +slight sparkle and nip of frost and the early ghost of a sun somewhere +above. Mr. Smeeth was very fond of Saturday; he liked the morning in +the office (he always had a pipe at about half-past eleven, unless he +was very busy), and he liked the afternoon out of the office. It was +difficult for him to forget that his wife had quarrelled with him, but +he hardened his heart and did his best to forget. Unfortunately--as he +knew only too well, for he had said it often enough--it never rains but +it pours. This treacherous Saturday was destined to give him a series +of shocks, of varying degrees of severity. + +The first, and slightest, of these shocks arrived when he walked over +to his desk, rubbing his hands as usual and exchanging a remark or +two with everybody. His inkwells had not been filled up, and no fresh +blotting-paper had been put on his desk. + +“Hello!” he cried, looking round. “Where’s Stanley?” + +“Hasn’t turned up,” replied Turgis. + +“Well, well, well, well,” said Mr. Smeeth fussily. “Does anybody know +what’s happened to him? Is he ill or something?” + +Nobody knew. Miss Sellers thought he had probably caught a cold, +because she was sure she had heard him sneeze several times while he +was copying the letters the night before. Turgis said with gloomy +satisfaction that he had probably been knocked down and run over while +trying to shadow somebody on his way to the office. + +“I don’t suppose for a minute he has,” said Mr. Smeeth sharply. “But +you needn’t seem so pleased about it, Turgis. Not a nice way of saying +a thing like that at all. I don’t like to hear anybody talking like +that in this office. Don’t know what has come over you lately, Turgis.” +And it was true. He hadn’t liked the way Turgis had looked and talked +for some time now. + +The mystery of Stanley was cleared up when Mr. Dersingham, very much +the Saturday man in plus fours, arrived to go through the letters, +for among these was one from Stanley’s father, apparently a man of +few words, who announced that Stanley was needed badly by his uncle, +just returned to the ironmongering in Homerton, where the boy would +be nearer home and have a better chance of getting on than in Angel +Pavement--and sorry no better notice given but half fortnight’s wages +due could be kept but please send Insurance Card all filled in--_Yrs +truly, Thos. Poole._ + +“That means getting another boy,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I’m sorry about +that one, too. He was a lazy little devil like all of ’em, but he +looked rather bright, didn’t he?” + +“Wasn’t a bad boy at all, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth, +meditatively. “I’m sorry he’s left us, too. We might get a lot worse. +He fancied himself as a budding detective, Stanley did--we used to pull +his leg about shadowing people and all that.” + +“Did he? A detective, eh? And I never knew that. He’d got that from +reading about ’em, you know. I’m fond of a good detective yarn myself. +But I never wanted to be one when I was a boy. They weren’t quite +so much the thing then, were they? I remember I wanted to be an +explorer--you know, expeditions across the desert and all that sort of +thing. All the exploring I’ve done lately, Smeeth, has been looking +for some of those mouldy Jew cabinet-making places in back streets in +North London. Ah--well!” And for a moment the large pink face of Mr. +Dersingham looked clouded, as if he had suddenly discovered that life +was quite different from what he imagined it would be when he was in +the Fourth at Worrell. + +“We live and learn, sir, don’t we?” said Mr. Smeeth vaguely. + +“Do we? I dunno. People always say we do, don’t they? But I dunno. I +doubt it sometimes, I do, Smeeth, honestly,” the other replied, first +glancing at Mr. Smeeth and then looking out of the window, through +which nothing could be seen but a ramshackle roof and a few chimney +pots beyond. A queer melancholy, quite unlike the proper spirit of any +office on Saturday morning, invaded the room, and for a minute the pair +of them were lost in it. + +“Well, well,” cried Mr. Dersingham with a sudden briskness, “you’ll +have to see about getting another boy. I’m sorry about that, though. +That boy might have been a useful chap later on. He’s missed a good +opening. If that other fellow, Turgis, had gone, I don’t think I’d have +minded very much. How’s he getting on, that fellow? I don’t see much +of him, but I must say I don’t like the look of him these days. He +slouches about, looking like nothing on earth. What’s the matter with +him?” + +“I don’t know, Mr. Dersingham. I’ve noticed it, too. There’s been +something wrong with him lately. He does his work, but only after a +fashion, and it’s not a fashion I like, I must say. Something on his +mind, I should say.” + +“And a thoroughly nasty mind too, by the look of him! Well, look here, +Smeeth, you’d better take him on one side and have a good talk to him. +Tell him I’m not satisfied with him and you’re not satisfied with him, +and that if he doesn’t buck up pretty soon, he’ll have to clear out. +Tell him he’s a fool to himself, too, with the business growing as it +is and all sorts of chances coming along for smart fellows. You know +the kind of thing to say. Threaten him with the sack, if you like; +I don’t mind. I shouldn’t care if I saw the last of the fellow this +morning. I never did think much of him. Got a Bolshie look about him. +All right, then, Smeeth--see about that, and about getting another boy. +And I shall be off in about half an hour or so, and Mr. Golspie won’t +be in, this morning. So just--er--carry on, will you.” + +Mr. Smeeth was really sorry that Stanley had gone, and not merely +because it meant getting another boy and showing him what to do. He +realized now that he had liked Stanley and would miss that freckled +snub nose of his, that sandy bullet head, and all the ridiculous +detective talk. But that was not all. Nobody knew better than Mr. +Smeeth that office boys come and go, are here to-day and gone +to-morrow, but nevertheless this sudden departure of Stanley troubled +him, if only because he disliked change of any kind and found himself +visited by a vague mistrust, a flicker or two of apprehension, whenever +it occurred. Stanley had become part of the office for him, and now +Stanley had gone. It was not important, but still, he did not like it. + +“If we finish in good time this morning,” he said to Turgis, after +he had told them all about Stanley and had handed over the copying +and posting of the letters to little Poppy Sellers, “I want to have a +little talk with you, Turgis. You’re not in a great hurry to get away, +are you?” + +Turgis wasn’t. Indeed, the outside world appeared to have lost as much +favour with him as the office had. + +It was an easy morning. At twelve, Miss Matfield had nothing more to +do, and was allowed to go, looking rather more pleased with herself and +the world than she usually did. Turgis lounged up and gave Miss Sellers +a hand with the copying, for which he received several grateful glances +from the brown eyes beneath the fringe. Mr. Smeeth, sending out a +fragrant drift of Benenden’s Own Mixture, fussed about and locked up, +then gave the letters to Poppy and packed her off. + +“Now then,” he said to Turgis, as soon as they were alone. + +“Yes, Mr. Smeeth?” replied Turgis mournfully. + +Mr. Smeeth looked at him, and perhaps saw him clearly for the first +time for weeks. There were dark rings under his eyes, and the eyes +themselves had a queer reddish look, as if their owner was not getting +enough sleep. He never had much colour, but now he was very pale, and +the bony ridge of his rather large nose shone as it caught the light, +as if the skin had been drawn back from it at each side. The lad didn’t +look at all well. Mr. Smeeth, who knew that Turgis lived in lodgings +and was a lonely sort of chap, felt sorry for him. + +“Here, Turgis,” he said, “there’s plenty of time. We’ll go out and talk +there. Can you drink a glass of beer?” + +Turgis, pleased and flattered by this invitation, said that he could. + +“Well, we’ll go across the road and have a glass of beer there. Do us +no harm. Everything’s locked up, I think, isn’t it? All right, then. +We’ll go.” And so they went down the stairs, Mr. Smeeth kept up a +cheerful clatter of talk: “I’ll just pop round the corner to Benenden’s +to get some tobacco first. Always get my tobacco there, have done for +years. His own mixture, y’know--mixes it himself. Better than this +ounce packet stuff. You get it fresh. You don’t smoke a pipe, do you? +Cigarettes, eh? You ought to try a pipe. Cheaper and a better smoke and +better for your health, too. I’ve tried to get my boy George to start a +pipe, but he won’t drop his cigarettes. Gaspers all the time. Too much +trouble just to fill and light a pipe, that’s it. I wonder how these +_Kwik-Work_ people are going on? Always seem to be busy enough, but I +never knew anybody that used their blades. I stick to the old-fashioned +razor. I’ve used the same two for twenty years. I call it a silly waste +of money buying these safety razor blades. No wonder they give the +razors away nowadays. They know once you’ve got the razor you’ll have +to keep on buying their blades. That’s the catch, you see. Well, just +wait a minute. I’ll call on my old friend, Mr. Benenden.” + +But he didn’t, because his old friend Mr. Benenden was not there. +Behind the counter was a plump young woman with bright ginger hair, +and if Cleopatra herself in full regalia had been standing there, Mr. +Smeeth could not have stared at her in greater astonishment. + +“Yes?” said the plump young woman. + +To explain what he wanted in T. Benenden’s, when year after year he +had merely had to put his pouch on the counter, was in itself so novel +an action that Mr. Smeeth found himself at a loss to perform it. +“But--where’s Mr. Benenden?” + +The young woman smiled. “You a regular customer here?” she asked. + +“I should think I am,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’ve been coming in here, week +in and week out, for Mr. Benenden’s Own Mixture for years. It made me +jump to see anybody else here. What’s happened? He’s not given it up, +has he?” + +“No, he’s not given it up,” she explained. “He’s in hospital. He got +knocked down by a car last night in Cheapside, and they took him to St. +Bartholomew’s.” + +“Well, you surprise me! I’m sorry to hear that. Is he bad?” + +“We don’t know yet. He didn’t seem so bad last night, because he got a +message through to my mother and she went to see him and he gave her +the key here and asked if I’d look after the shop for him, because he +knew I wasn’t doing anything and I’d worked once in a tobacconist’s +before--well, tobacconist’s and sweets’, it was, not like this, +y’know--so it didn’t sound as if it was bad, with him being able to +talk and arrange things like that, but the doctor told my mother it was +worse than it looked, for all that, and it might be a nasty long job, +and she’s going again to-day. I’m his niece, you see.” + +“Poor old chap! I _am_ sorry about this,” said Mr. Smeeth, who was +indeed genuinely distressed. “You must let me know how he goes on.” He +had to point out to her the tin canister that held T. Benenden’s Own +Mixture and had even to tell her the price of it. When he rejoined +Turgis outside, he could talk of nothing else for the next five +minutes. This one morning, not content with removing Stanley from +Angel Pavement for ever, had gone and swept Benenden out of sight, put +a plump young woman with ginger hair behind that counter, and turned +Benenden into a mysterious suffering figure in a hospital. Benenden +and Angel Pavement had been inseparable in his mind for years, and now +the thought of Benenden not being there, no longer waiting, tie-less, +behind his dusty counter, gave the whole place a queer look. Turgis +had been in the shop many a time for cigarettes, but, being one of +the “packet o’ gaspers” customers, he could not really claim to be +acquainted with Benenden. By the time Mr. Smeeth had finished talking +to him about the tobacconist, the pair of them were in the private bar +of the _White Horse_ across the road and had two glasses of bitter +placed in front of them. + +Mr. Smeeth had not been in this bar since that night, two or three +months before, when Mr. Golspie took him in, gave him a double whisky +and a cigar, and talked about the business. It was still as cosy as +ever, but this time it was not so quiet. It was entirely dominated by +a large man with an enormous red face, who roared and spluttered and +coughed and wheezed very loudly at his two companions, men of ordinary +size, who could only make ordinary noises back at him. All conversation +in the bar was provided with a thundering accompaniment by this large +man. There was no escaping him. + +“You see, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth, “I thought I’d better have a little +talk to you, because, for one thing, I’ve been noticing a few little +things myself, and for another thing, Mr. Dersingham’s been saying +something to me about you. If you remember, I said something when we +had a little talk a month or two ago.” + +“I remember that, Mr. Smeeth. When you said they’d been thinking of +giving me the push.” + +“That’s right. Well, Mr. Dersingham talked to me about you this +morning--rather in the same strain, Turgis, and I said I’d have a talk +to you.” + +“But what have I done wrong?” cried Turgis bitterly. “Why’s he always +picking on me? I do my work all right, don’t I? You’ve never said +anything about it to me, Mr. Smeeth. Seems to me they want to get rid +of me whether I’ve done anything wrong or not----” + +“Outch-ch-ch-ch,” went the large man. “Wait a minute, Charlie, wait a +minute, let me tell it. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. ’Ere, this +is it. Simmy come up to me, that morning, and I’m standing as I might +be ’ere, see--and old Simmy---- Just a minute, Charlie, let me tell +it----” + +“This is the point, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “And, mind you, +I’m talking in a friendly way. Nobody’s got anything against you at +all. Put that out of your head. But as Mr. Dersingham says--you’ve got +to buck up. Just lately, you’ve not been taking your work in the right +spirit at all. I know you’re not a lazy chap and I know you can do your +work all right, but if I hadn’t known it, I don’t mind telling you, I +might have come to a wrong conclusion just lately. Now, we all have +our troubles. I’ve plenty of my own, I can tell you,” he continued, +with the air of a modest hero, “though you mightn’t think it. That’s +because I’ve learned not to bring ’em to the office with me. I’m old +enough and experienced enough not to let my troubles interfere with my +work. You’re not, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. My opinion is, +Turgis--you’ve not been feeling up to the mark lately.” + +“That is so, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis. “You’re right there. I haven’t.” + +“Didn’t he, Charlie?” roared the large man, drowning everybody. “He +did. It’s as true as I’m standing ’ere. Next time you see Simmy, you +say to ’im ‘What price Lady Flatiron at Newbury?’--that’s all. Just say +that. Laugh! O Gord! Outch-ch-ch-ch-ch.” The enormous face was purple +now. + +“It’s no business of mine, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth in his ear, “and +I’m only asking in a friendly spirit. But it’s my opinion you’ve got +yourself into trouble somehow. If it isn’t that, you’d better go round +and see a doctor. Perhaps you’re just not feeling well.” + +“I’m not feeling so well, Mr. Smeeth, but it isn’t that, really. It’s +just--oh, I dunno--well, you see, Mr. Smeeth, it’s a girl. That’s +what’s been bothering me just lately.” + +“Oh, that’s it, is it? Ought you to be marrying her or something of +that sort? No? Nothing like that, eh? Oh, well, had a bit of a quarrel, +eh?” + +“Yes, in a way,” replied Turgis, guardedly, looking very uncomfortable. + +“Oh, well, don’t you let that bother you,” cried Mr. Smeeth, +astonished to discover that this was nothing but a lovers’ tiff. “I +know what it is, of course. You’re talking to an old married man now, +my boy. I’ve got a son nearly as old as you. It doesn’t matter how +you’ve quarrelled, you don’t want to take it as hard as that. Bless +me!--you’ll be making yourself ill over it.” + +“That’s what I think sometimes,” said Turgis bitterly. + +“Ridiculous! It’ll soon blow over. And if it doesn’t, why, go and find +another girl who isn’t so quarrelsome. I can tell you this, if she’s +quarrelsome now, she’ll be past living with, if you’re not careful, +later on. You’re too sensitive about it, Turgis--that’s your trouble.” + +Turgis produced a smile that was abject misery itself, the tortured +ghost of a grin. + +“No, no, not at all,” the large man shouted. “We’ve ten minutes yet. +Plenty of time for another. What is it? Same again? Three double +Scotches, miss. I ’aven’t told you yet what ’appened the other night, +’ave I? I mean, with Jack Pearce and old Joe, down at Staines--oh +dear!--splooch-ooch-ooch-ooch-ooch!” + +“He seems to be enjoying himself all right,” said Turgis. “I don’t +know how some of these chaps do it--spending money all day, no work, +knocking about all the time, and not giving a damn for anybody. How do +they do it, Mr. Smeeth?” + +“Don’t ask me,” replied Mr. Smeeth, a trifle irritably, as if he too +had felt a sudden spasm of envy at the thought of this rich careless +life, but would not admit it to himself. “Racing chaps, I suppose. Easy +come and easy go--that’s their motto. All right while it lasts--but how +long does it last?” + +“How long does anything last?” Turgis muttered. + +“Now that’s silly talk from a young fellow like you,” said Mr. Smeeth. +“It’s that sort of talk that lets you down with everybody. Now listen +to me. I believe if you’ll only smarten yourself up a bit, don’t be so +gloomy, look as if you didn’t hate the sight of everybody----” + +“I don’t, Mr. Smeeth, honestly I don’t.” + +“--and settle down to your work properly, there’s a good steady job +waiting for you with Twigg and Dersingham. As Mr. Dersingham said, only +this morning, what with all this new business, the firm’ll be growing +and expanding, and that’ll be just the opportunity for a young fellow +like yourself.” + +Turgis swallowed desperately. “I’m not so sure about that,” he declared. + +“What d’you mean?” cried Mr. Smeeth, staring at him. + +“I don’t think it’s all so rosy as all that. I’ve been thinking it +over. All this new business--and as far as I can see, it’s about all +the business we’re doing--came with Mr. Golspie.” He brought out this +name with a sudden jerk. + +“Well, what if it did? You’re not telling me anything now, Turgis. I +know that as well as you do--and better.” + +“If he goes, what happens then, Mr. Smeeth?” + +“If he goes? That would depend. A lot might happen, or nothing might +happen. But, anyhow, Mr. Golspie’s not going.” + +“I think he is--soon, too.” + +Mr. Smeeth stared at him. Turgis was obviously quite serious. “Where +did you get that idea from?” + +“I think he is.” + +“What’s the good of talking like that! You think he is! Why should +he now? What’s the object? He’s making plenty of money out of the +business, as I know better than you do. He’s making a surprising +amount, for a trade like this--I don’t mind telling you. He’d been a +fool if he did go, unless, of course--well----” And Mr. Smeeth thought +of several possibilities, but kept them to himself. “No, that’s silly +talk, Turgis. What put that into your head?” + +“It isn’t silly, Mr. Smeeth,” cried Turgis, goaded into saying more +than he had ever intended to say. “I _know_ he’s going. At least, I +know he’s not staying with the firm long. I know he doesn’t think much +of Mr. Dersingham either. I know that, too.” + +“But where have you got all this from?” Mr. Smeeth was more angry than +alarmed. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. How did you learn it? +You’re not trying to be funny, are you?” + +“Well,” roared the large man. “Get a move on, eh? You coming to eat +with me, Charlie? That’s right. See you Monday, Tom, eh? Course I’ll +be there. You betcher life, boy! Wouldn’t miss it. Am I what? Oh--you +wicked feller, Tom, you wicked feller! So long, boy. Morning, miss. +Morning, Sam.” And the silence he left behind him was almost startling. + +In this silence, Mr. Smeeth and Turgis looked at one another. Then +Turgis turned his eyes elsewhere, but Mr. Smeeth continued looking at +him. + +“I don’t make head or tail of this, Turgis.” + +Turgis frowned, shut his mouth tight for once, and moved uneasily. +Finally, he said: “I--heard something, Mr. Smeeth, that’s all. I can’t +tell where I heard it or anything. I’m sorry I spoke now.” + +Mr. Smeeth saw that Turgis was terribly in earnest. There could be no +doubt about that. “Do you mean to say you won’t tell me where you heard +it, how you heard it, or anything?” + +“I’m sorry, Mr. Smeeth. I oughtn’t to have said anything. I can’t tell +you any more, honestly I can’t. Don’t mention it to anybody, please, +Mr. Smeeth. If you do, you might get me into trouble, though I haven’t +done anything really wrong, I haven’t, honestly. Only I did hear that +about Mr. Golspie.” + +“When was that? You can tell me so much, anyhow.” + +“Not long before Christmas, a week or two.” + +“Mr. Golspie was away then, was he?” + +“Yes,” Turgis admitted sullenly. “It was while he was away.” + +“Then somebody told you while Mr. Golspie was away,” said Mr. Smeeth +sharply, not taking his eyes off the unhappy Turgis for a second. He +thought quickly. “It must have been his daughter, that time when you +took the money to her. You got talking and then she told you. Is that +it?” + +Turgis said nothing, but he had no need to, for his face replied for +him. “Well, what did she say exactly?” Mr. Smeeth continued, far more +concerned now that he knew Mr. Golspie’s daughter was the informant. +“Come on, Turgis, you might as well tell me now. What did she say?” + +“I don’t remember any more,” Turgis mumbled miserably. “That was all. +It was nothing. I oughtn’t to have said anything. Mr. Smeeth, please +don’t you say anything, please don’t, will you? Promise.” + +“All right. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it. I know what these +girls are. They’ll say anything. Well----” + +“Yes, I must be getting on now,” said Turgis. “And thank you for +telling me--you know about what Mr. Dersingham said. I’ll do my best, +Mr. Smeeth. I’m a bit worried just now, that’s all.” + +As his tram climbed the swarming City Road, Mr. Smeeth considered +this Golspie gossip. It made him feel uneasy, although he was still +ready to dismiss it as girls’ nonsense. It seemed unlikely that Mr. +Golspie would leave them, but then it seemed unlikely that Stanley +would be spirited away by an uncle in Homerton and that Benenden would +be lying in Bart’s Hospital. There was no connection between these +events, as Mr. Smeeth knew very well, but the sudden disappearance of +Stanley and Benenden had left him with a feeling of insecurity. They +made him realise the fact that things simply happened and that he had +no control over them, no more than he would have if the tram suddenly +left the lines and charged the nearest shop. In the dark hollows of +his mind, apprehension stirred again. He decided to talk all this over +with his wife, who, perhaps because she was so unreasonable, had got +something that he had never had, a large confidence in life. With all +her faults, there was nobody like Edie for him at these times, when he +felt a bit down in the mouth. Then he remembered that they were still +not on proper speaking terms, and that, in her present state of mind, +he could no more talk to her about what he felt than he could talk to +the strange woman sitting in front of him in the tram. “We just would +be quarrelling now, wouldn’t we!” he cried to himself, with that gloomy +satisfaction, that faint sweetness which comes with the last bitter +drop, known only to the pessimist. Life could do many dreadful things +to Herbert Norman Smeeth, but it couldn’t take him in. He was one of +those people who are always there first, who are standing at the grave +before the doctor has even begun shaking his head. + + +III + +This treacherous Saturday, however, was still capable of giving him +another shock, from an unexpected quarter. Mrs. Smeeth was out when he +arrived home, and he had a solitary dinner, with Edna flitting about +and trying to keep out of his way. After dinner, he smoked his pipe and +pottered about for half an hour or so, and then, as the afternoon sent +some gleams of pale sunlight creeping, like a returned convalescent, +into Chaucer Road, he went out for a walk. Fate, which had for once an +easy task, directed him to Clissold Park, where his shock was awaiting +him. + +The fifty green acres of Clissold Park are surrounded by miles and +miles of slates and bricks, chimney-pots and paving stones, and so, in +the middle of it, placed there perhaps as a sign that the round green +world of mountains, forests and oceans still exists somewhere, or at +least once had an existence, there are a number of animals and bright +birds. If you are a Stoke Newington ratepayer, you have only to turn +a corner or two to catch the soft shining glances of deer, to meditate +upon the spectacle of birds so fantastically fashioned and coloured +that it is impossible to believe that both they and North London are +equally real, that one or the other is not a crazy dream. You stand +there, a litter of peanut shells and paper bags all round you, with +a Stoke Newington dinner inside you struggling with your digestive +juices, and you suddenly hear a scream from the jungle and a green and +scarlet wing from the Orinoco is flashed at you. + +There are links, however, between these two worlds. One of them was +standing beside Mr. Smeeth, and wore a short grey beard and a dusty +bowler. “Yus,” he remarked, looking at the gorgeous birds, then at +Mr. Smeeth, then at the birds again, and doing it masterfully, as if +to keep both the birds and Mr. Smeeth there, “yus, I been where them +things comes from. Common as sparrers there, yer might say. Bigger than +these, too--yus, and brighter colours on ’em. Yus, I been where them +birds comes from.” + +“Is that so?” said Mr. Smeeth. “And when was this? Not lately, I’ll +bet.” + +“And you’d win, mister. Forty years ago, that was, in good old Queen +Victoria’s time. Ah, yer little devils!” he cried, addressing the birds +now. “What d’yer think o’ that, eh? Forty years ago. I left the sea +thirty-five years ago, mister, but I’d stopped going to them places +five years before I left the sea for good an’ all. Yus, the last five +years I was on the North Atlantic run, and you don’t see any o’ them +little dazzlers up there--fog and icebergs is what you see up there, +mister. But I’ve seen the time when I’ve brought them things ’ome, +proper old sailor style. Yus, I have. If yer don’t believe me, ask the +pleece; they know everything there is to know, isn’t that so, Sergeant?” + +Mr. Smeeth discovered that an acquaintance of his, a Stoke Newington +man and a very good hand at a whist drive, Sergeant Gailey of the local +division, had strolled up. “Now then, Mr. Lee, telling lies again! +Dear, dear, dear! Oh, it’s you, Mr. Smeeth, is it? You’re the victim, +this time.” + +“That’ll do, Sergeant,” retorted Mr. Lee amiably, “yer only giving away +your ignorance. Yer’ve seen nothing yet, and I don’t think yer ever +will now. Good afternoon.” And off he toddled. + +“You know him, don’t you, Mr. Smeeth?” said Sergeant Gailey. “Oh, he’s +a rum old devil. Keeps a second-hand shop--furniture and curios and all +that stuff--down by the Green. His daughter runs it now, but it’s his +shop, and he’s better off than you’d think, that old devil is. Won’t +part with nothing, you know, but his reminiscences and good advice. +He’s a character.” + +“When he started, I thought he was going to try and cadge a bob,” said +Mr. Smeeth, moving away slowly with the sergeant. + +“He’d have it all right if you offered it him, though he could buy you +and me up, Mr. Smeeth, a good many times. But how are you getting on, +these days? Here, what’s the name of that boy of yours?” + +“You mean George?” + +“That’s right. George Smeeth, Chaucer Road--eh? I saw the name a day or +two ago, and thought it must be that boy of yours. We’re having him up +at the North London next week, Tuesday, I think.” + +“At the North London!” Mr. Smeeth stopped, and gaped at him. “Do you +mean the police court?” + +“That’s right. Case comes on on Tuesday, I think. What, didn’t you +know?” + +“No, of course, I didn’t know,” cried Mr. Smeeth in horrified +amazement. “Do you mean--my boy George?” + +“Here, steady, steady, Mr. Smeeth! We’re not charging him. He’s only up +as a witness.” + +Mr. Smeeth breathed again, but he was still puzzled and worried, and +the sergeant, noticing this, began to explain. + +“I don’t know why he’s not told you. It’s one of these car stealing +jobs. We’re always getting ’em now. What with cars running over people +and then skipping off, and cars in these smash-and-grab outfits, and +cars being lost and pinched--coo!--we get a proper packet of cars! I +don’t know what the Force did in the old horse traffic days. ’Owever, +this is one of the car stealing jobs and by a bit o’ luck _and_ +judgment, we traced this particular car to that garage where your lad’s +been working lately. Chap o’ the name of Barrett runs it, and between +you and me, we’ve had an eye on him for some time. Well, he bought this +car--a good car, nearly new; I don’t remember the make, but it was a +_good_ car, worth money--for fifteen quid. He doesn’t deny it. Now +we’re taking the line that he bought that car knowing it to be stolen, +not the property o’ the chap that offered it to him. It’s our belief +he’s done this before, and a good many times, too. As I say, we’ve had +an eye on him. If he’s not a wrong ’un, I give it up. Whether we’ll get +him this time or not, I don’t know. I wasn’t on the case myself. But +that fifteen quid’ll take a bit of explaining. They’ll be saying they +get cars given ’em soon.” + +“But where does George come in?” said Mr. Smeeth, who did not care what +happened in the car-stealing world, but cared a great deal about his +son. + +“Oh, that’s nothing. He worked there, see, and was there when the car +went into the garage, and so on. We’ve nothing against him, of course. +He’ll only be asked to say what he saw.” + +“Thank goodness for that! You gave me a fright, I can tell you, +Sergeant. I don’t mean by that, mind you, that I thought for a minute +my boy’d be mixed up in anything dishonest. I don’t see as much of him +as I ought these days, and he just goes his own way, but I know the +boy’s as straight as you like.” + +“I’ll bet he is,” said Sergeant Gailey with a certain forced +heartiness, which he immediately dropped for a more serious, cautionary +tone. “But, all the same, Mr. Smeeth, he ought to have told you, you +know. And another thing. You get him away from that garage and that +chap Barrett. He’s in bad company there. Doesn’t matter if Barrett +walks out of that court next Tuesday with the case against him in bits; +never mind about that; you get your boy out of it and away from that +chap. If we can’t prove it this time, we’ll prove it next time, and +there always is a next time with those cocky birds. I wouldn’t let a +boy of mine put his nose in a dump like that.” + +“Don’t you worry about that, Sergeant,” cried Mr. Smeeth, his voice +trembling with excitement. “George doesn’t stay there another day. I +should think not! And I’m very much obliged to you for telling me, +Sergeant, very much obliged.” + +“That’s all right, Mr. Smeeth. Thought you ought to know. Which way you +going now?” + +“Straight home. That’s my way now,” replied Mr. Smeeth, and he went as +fast as he could go to Chaucer Road. He was still rather alarmed and +astonished, for police court affairs were remote from his experience +and he had a horror of them, but he was chiefly indignant, indignant at +the thought that this business, which took George to court and might +take his employer to gaol, should have been kept from him. Did his wife +know all about it, and had she deliberately hidden it out of his sight? +He could hear her saying to George, “Now don’t you say a word to your +father about this. You know what he is.” Yes, something like that. If +she really had done that, then they _would_ have a quarrel. This was +serious. My word, what a life! You never knew what was happening. + +He arrived home to find his wife still absent and Edna and her friend, +Minnie Watson, screaming with laughter in the dining-room. “Just a +minute, Edna, I want you,” he said sternly. She followed him into the +other room. + +“Where’s George?” + +“I don’t know, Dad. Working, I suppose, down at the garage. What’s the +matter?” + +“Did you know anything about this police court business?” + +Edna stared at him, her chocolate-stained mouth open. “What police +court business? What are you talking about, Dad? Has it something to do +with George?” + +“Never mind about that. You don’t know anything about it, eh?” It +certainly didn’t look as if she did, but Mr. Smeeth told himself +wearily that you could never tell, not with children like these, such +a strange secretive lot. “All right, it doesn’t matter. Where is this +garage? You can tell me that, I suppose?” + +She gave him precise directions, and ten minutes later he was there, +confronting a queer George in greasy overalls, who was doing something +incomprehensible to the inside of a car. He was probably astonished to +see his father, but he only raised his eyebrows and grinned. George had +ceased for some time to show any signs of surprise. + +Telling himself that this was his son, who had been a child only +yesterday, Mr. Smeeth looked sternly at him, and summoning all the +forces of parental authority, he said curtly: “Just clean yourself up +and get your hat and coat on, George.” + +“What d’you mean, Dad? What’s up? Anything wrong at home?” + +“No, there isn’t, but just do what I tell you.” + +“Well, I don’t understand.” + +“Oh, come outside if you’re going to argue about it,” said Mr. Smeeth +impatiently, and led the way out into the street. “It’s the police +court business. I’ve just heard all about it.” + +“Oh--I see,” said George slowly. + +“I’m glad you do see. I’d like to have seen a bit earlier,” said +his father bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have to have a police +sergeant telling me what’s happening to my own son!” + +“Well, you needn’t go at me, Dad. I’ve done nothing, and they’ll tell +you I haven’t.” + +“I know all about that. And you’re not going to do anything either. +That’s why I came round. You’re finishing here now, George. I was +warned not to let you stop on--though I didn’t need any warning. I’m +not going to have you mixed up with this sort of business. So you can +just tell them you’re finishing now, this minute.” + +“Oh, I can’t do that, Dad. We’re busy.” + +“I don’t care how busy you are, George. You’ve got to stop.” + +“Oh, all right--if you feel like that about it. But look here, Dad, I +must finish that job I’m doing now.” + +“How long will that take you?” + +“Ten minutes. Quarter of an hour. Shouldn’t be longer.” + +“All right,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly, “I’ll wait.” And he waited twenty +minutes; but at the end of that time George came out, washed and +brushed and without his overalls. + +“I might have lost the week’s money, walking out like that,” he told +his father, “but they paid up--like good sports.” + +“Who are ‘they’?” + +“There’s another chap running this besides Barrett, a chap called +McGrath--proper motor mechanic, he is.” + +“And is he a wrong ’un, too?” + +“Not more than most. McGrath’s all right.” + +“Tell me this, George,” said Mr. Smeeth, halting and looking very +earnestly at his son, “did your mother know anything about this police +court business?” + +“Course she didn’t, Dad. I wasn’t going to tell _her_.” + +“I see,” said Mr. Smeeth, relieved to find there had been no general +conspiracy. “But why didn’t you tell _me_, boy? I can’t understand you +keeping a thing like this to yourself.” + +They were walking on again now. “Oh, I didn’t want to bother you about +it,” replied George coolly. “I knew there’d be a lot of gassing and +fussing if I did. And there was nothing to get excited about. I hadn’t +done anything. They weren’t running _me_ in, were they?” + +It was incredible. Mr. Smeeth gave it up. Here was this boy of his, +who had been playing with clockwork trains on the floor only the day +before yesterday, so to speak, and now he could talk in this strain, +as cool as you please, as if he were Sergeant Gailey or somebody! Mr. +Smeeth waited a minute or two, then said very quietly: “About that car, +George--did you know it was stolen?” + +George grinned; no wincing, shrinking, anything of that kind; just a +plain grin. “I didn’t _know_, but I had a few ideas of my own about it. +And about one or two others, too.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that you’d a good idea of what was going on +there and you didn’t do anything about it?” Mr. Smeeth was shocked and +astounded. + +“What could I do about it, Dad? If I’d been dragged into it, that would +have been different. But they didn’t try. And you needn’t worry--I +wouldn’t have had it. Buying cars that have been pinched like that is +a mug’s game, if you ask me. Barrett’s a fool, though he’s not a bad +sort, really, and he’s treated me all right. Doesn’t know anything +about cars though, not like McGrath does. I believe he _had_ to take +over some of those cars. I saw one or two fellows who called to see +him, and I didn’t like the look of them at all--real toughs, they were. +But mind you, Dad, I don’t _know_ anything about those cars, don’t +forget that.” + +The boy talked about buying stolen cars as if it was simply a little +weakness on Barrett’s part, a silly hobby. He didn’t seem to be in +the least shocked or frightened. Mr. Smeeth could not make it out at +all. It was just as if he had brought up a boy who had suddenly turned +into an Indian. The boy was all right, really; he had left the garage +without making a fuss; but, nevertheless, his point of view appeared +to be whole worlds away from anything his father could understand. “I +must say I don’t like to hear you talking like that, George,” he said. +“Seems to me you don’t understand the seriousness of this business. +It’s criminal, this is, work for the police, and you talk about it as +if it was a tea-party or something. Talk like that, and you don’t know +where you’ll land yourself.” + +“That’s all right, Dad,” said George tolerantly. “Don’t you worry. I +can look after myself.” + +“Well, you’re going to do it outside that place now,” Mr. Smeeth told +him. + +“Oh, I meant to leave there soon, anyhow,” George remarked airily. + +“I should think so! And the next job you find for yourself, I hope, +will be in a concern that the police aren’t interested in. You’d better +tell me something about it, first. Easy to get yourself a bad name, +y’know, boy, even if you don’t do anything wrong yourself.” + +George, who seemed to live in a world in which bad names didn’t count, +a world his father didn’t know, made no reply, but merely whistled +softly as he walked along. When they arrived home, tea was waiting for +them, with Mrs. Smeeth sitting behind the teapot. She was surprised to +see George walk in with his father. Mr. Smeeth gave her a look that +said “Quarrel or no quarrel, you’ve got to recognize that this is +serious,” and cut short her inquiries by remarking, “We’ll have a talk +about this afterwards, Mother.” + +As soon as the two children were out of the room, he told her what had +happened, and she gave him all her attention, realizing at once that +this affair transcended any quarrel. + +“You did right, Dad,” she told him, when he had finished. + +“I hope you realize,” he added, not without bitterness, “that this +means the boy may be out of a job for some time, and that means both of +them earning nothing. It’s all right, of course, but still--we’ll have +to be careful.” + +“George’ll soon get something. He always does,” she said confidently. +“I shouldn’t wonder if he hasn’t got a better job in his eye now. You +were right to do what you did, but you leave him alone now and don’t +worry. He’ll find something.” + +This seemed a good opportunity to tell what had happened during the +earlier part of this eventful day, with special reference to the +disturbing rumour about Mr. Golspie. But she wouldn’t listen. She +turned herself again into a woman who had quarrelled with him, merely +listened to a few words with a distant politeness, excused herself and +then gathered up the tea things in a very grand, dignified manner, +rather like a duchess visiting a poor cottager. Mr. Smeeth was left +to smoke his pipe, alone, a solitary little figure in a huge, dark, +mysterious world of cracking walls and slithering foundations, with +echoes and rumours of catastrophe in every wind. + + +IV + +On Tuesday morning, Mr. Golspie and Mr. Dersingham spent more than an +hour talking together in the private office, and Mr. Smeeth, whose +chief duty during that time was to examine a number of replies to Twigg +& Dersingham’s advertisement for an office boy, found it difficult to +concentrate his attention upon these rather monotonous letters, all in +round handwriting that began well, but always wobbled towards the end. +He was curious to know what was happening in the private office. Now +and again he had heard voices raised, and once the door had opened, so +that Mr. Golspie’s booming tones had come flying out into the general +office, but the next minute the door had been closed again. Just after +half-past eleven, the bell in the private office rang dramatically. +Miss Sellers, now the junior, answered it, and came back to say: “Mr. +Smeeth, Mr. Dersingham wants to see you.” + +The private office was filled with cigar and cigarette smoke, and Mr. +Golspie, who stood in front of the fire, his legs wide apart, clearly +dominating the scene. Mr. Dersingham, sitting at his table, was rather +rumpled and flushed and obviously not at ease. + +“A-ha!” Mr. Golspie cried, “here’s Smeeth. He’s the man. He’ll tidy +us up a bit. You know, Smeeth, if I’d been as tidy as you, as good at +putting down little figures every day, never forgetting ’em, adding ’em +up, I’d have been a rich man now.” + +“Well, I’m not a rich man, Mr. Golspie,” said Mr. Smeeth, smiling +nervously. + +“No, but I didn’t say--if I could do that and nothing else, d’you +follow me? What I meant was, if I could do what you do, _plus_ what I +can already do. I’d be a very rich man now, and you wouldn’t find me in +a dustbin, eh? Now if you want to make money, Dersingham, _really_ make +money, pile up a big fortune, you’ve only to be like me and like Smeeth +here both together, two in one. Quite simple.” + +Mr. Dersingham nodded vaguely. He was not interested in this talk and +did not like the sound of it, for Mr. Golspie’s voice had dropped into +a jeering tone. He caught Mr. Smeeth’s eye, and then began: “Look here, +Smeeth, Mr. Golspie and I have come to a new arrangement. I’ll just +explain it----” + +“Oh, I’ll explain it,” Mr. Golspie broke in roughly. “It’s simple +enough. Up to now, I’ve been drawing commission on all this Baltic +stuff as soon as it’s delivered to your customers, haven’t I? That’s +right. Well, that’s too slow for me. I don’t want to have to wait for +my money like that. Some of these new orders are spread over months.” + +“Yes, and don’t forget how long we’ll have to wait for our money, +Golspie,” said Mr. Dersingham, “or rather, I’ll have to wait for mine.” + +“Quite so, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who knew how long it took to get +accounts settled better than they did. + +“That’s up to you,” Mr. Golspie replied, in his hearty brutal way. “I +don’t want to point out again that if it hadn’t been for me there’d +have been no orders and no money to come in, whether it comes in this +year or next.” + +“Yes, yes, that’s all right, Golspie. I agree. You needn’t harp on it, +needn’t rub it in.” + +“Rub it in!” Golspie laughed. “You’re talking now as if you were sore +somewhere. There’s nothing to rub in but a lot of good new business. +Anyhow, Smeeth, this is the point. I can’t wait now for all this big +lot of orders to be delivered. I want my commission on the orders as +they stand. They’ve gone through; the stuff’s on the other side all +right, as you know; and your people are here all right; so I want my +cut now. I’m not as good as you at figures, but that’s what I make it, +right up to date.” He handed over a slip of paper. “That’s a rough +total, of course.” + +It may have been a rough total, but what leaped to Mr. Smeeth’s eye was +the fact that it was a surprisingly large total. + +“Pretty big, eh? Bigger than you thought, eh? That shows you the +business that’s come into this office just lately.” + +“It does, Mr. Golspie,” said Smeeth, glancing down at the figure again. + +“Yes, that’s true.” Mr. Dersingham’s face cleared at the thought. +“Jolly good. Of course, it’s--what-is-it?--phenomenal--a sudden rush, +y’know, because they’ve been booking this stuff of yours ahead as fast +as they can.” + +“Don’t blame ’em,” said Mr. Golspie, looking at his cigar. + +“You want me to check this, I suppose?” said Mr. Smeeth, glancing from +one to the other. + +Mr. Golspie yawned. “That’s it. When can you have it done, with the +figures right bang up to date, Smeeth? By to-morrow morning, eh? All +right. And you’ll see how you can arrange the payment, Dersingham, eh? +Yes, yes, I know how it is--you told me--but if you can split it into +three, say, and let me have the first cheque this week and the other +two as soon as you can, that’ll do me. I’ll leave you to work it out. +I’ll be looking in this afternoon.” + +They said nothing until they heard the outer door close behind him and +his footsteps die away on the landing. They seemed to be in a much +larger room now. Mr. Dersingham himself was much larger. “Get a chair, +Smeeth,” he said, and lit another cigarette. They looked at one another +through the sudden spurt of smoke from it. + +Mr. Dersingham gave a short laugh. “Friend Golspie’s putting the screw +on this morning. My God! Smeeth--I’ll tell you candidly--and this is +very much between ourselves, you understand--that chap’s getting on +my nerves. He’s such a damned outsider, he really is. He’s brought +all this business here, it’s true, but--my God!--he doesn’t let you +forget it either. If we hadn’t been in such a rotten bad way before he +came, well--I don’t know--I think I’d have told him to take his stuff +somewhere else. Don’t repeat a word of this, Smeeth, for the love +of Mike! But that’s just how I feel, and I must let steam off for a +minute. He gets worse. Talk about rough riding or whatever they call +it! He’s the complete bouncing bounder. Business may be business, but +give me a gentleman to deal with in it, every time. Friend of mine, +Major Trape--we were at Worrell together--met the chap at my house, +just after he came and I asked him to dinner, the first _and_ the last +time, and Trape summed him up after half an hour, and several times +since he’s said to me that he wouldn’t have a chap like that working +with him, sharing the same office, not if he brought a quarter of a +million pounds’ worth of business in his pocket. He’s getting worse, +too. Ouf!” + +“Well, Mr. Dersingham, you’ve got to meet all kinds in business, +haven’t you?” said Mr. Smeeth, astonished at this outburst. + +“Looks like it,” replied Mr. Dersingham bitterly. He remained silent +for a minute, and his face gradually cleared. “Still, there’s no doubt +we’re doing the business. Golspie’s total--and I don’t suppose it’s far +out, even though it is rough--surprised me, and of course he’s drawn +a fair amount of commission, on the actual deliveries here, already, +hasn’t he?” + +“I suppose this new arrangement’s all right,” said Mr. Smeeth dubiously. + +“If you mean it’s a damned nuisance, I agree with you, Smeeth. It’s +that all right. Look what we’ve got to pay him, and he wants it all +these next two or three weeks--says he’s a lot of old debts to meet, +though God knows where they are. That’s what I want to talk to you +about. We’ll have to go into this pretty carefully. I don’t know how +much you expect to get in these next two weeks, but I imagine we’ll +have to ask the bank to help us out. That’ll be all right, of course, +because I can explain to Townley there how we stand.” + +Mr. Smeeth nodded. “Well, I suppose it’s all right, sir,” he said once +more, still dubiously. + +“What do you mean, Smeeth?” Mr. Dersingham was impatient. + +“Well,” he hesitated, “I don’t quite know. I’m just wondering if it’s +all right.” + +“Oh, don’t keep saying that,” cried Dersingham angrily. “Of course +it’s all right. I’m not a fool. It’s a nuisance, and I wouldn’t do it +if I could help it, but it’s all right. Plenty of fellows who work on +commission have this arrangement and get their money as soon as the +order goes through.” + +“I suppose they do, Mr. Dersingham. But you’re thinking of ordinary +travellers, aren’t you, sir, chaps who just get a very small +commission, not like this?” + +“No, I’m not. I’m thinking of other fellows who--er--work in a big +way,” said Mr. Dersingham rather vaguely. + +“Suppose Mr. Golspie leaves us? I can’t help thinking about that, you +know, sir.” + +“Why should he? My hat!--he’s doing well, isn’t he? He’s making more +out of this firm than I am, just now. No, I know what you’re thinking, +Smeeth, and I know what you’re going to say. You mean, there’s nothing +to prevent him walking over to some other firm in our business, if they +made it worth his while. Or another thing. He might sell out the whole +agency--he’s got a tight grip on that, y’know, Smeeth; I know that for +a fact--for this Baltic stuff to somebody else, and then clear out.” + +“That’s right, sir. I thought of both those things.” + +“And so did I, Smeeth. Don’t you worry about that. I don’t blame +you for being cautious--does you credit, and I know you’re a good +safe chap--but you mustn’t think I was born yesterday, you know. I +don’t pretend to be one of these born City men, the real old cunning +sharks--that’s not my style at all, Smeeth, and if I could afford it, +I’d be out of business to-morrow and be in some snug little country +place--but I’ve had some experience and I’m no fool, y’know. Oh no!” +he cried confidently to Mr. Smeeth and perhaps to the listening gods. +“I’ve thought about that for some time, and this morning, when he +brought up this commission idea and wanted to clear our account at one +swoop, for that’s what it amounts to--though he’s earned it fairly, +y’know, we must admit that--I tackled him on those points.” + +“Oh, I’m glad about that, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth, greatly +relieved. + +“Yes, and he agreed to meet me half-way. I agree to pay this commission +over to him as soon as possible, and he’ll sign an agreement, promising +not to take the agency elsewhere and to see that we keep the agency +on here if he decides to clear out. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? +You can’t get away from that. In fact, we stand to gain by this new +arrangement, don’t we? We’re only paying out, a little in advance, +what’s due to him, and on the other hand, we make the business safe +for ourselves. If Golspie goes after he’s signed this agreement--and +I’m going over to my solicitors this afternoon to have it drafted out; +we’ll do it properly--then he leaves us with the new business in our +hands, and all I can say is, the sooner he goes the better. And I’ll +tell you another thing, Smeeth. When he’s signed this agreement, he’s +going to drop some of his little blighterish tricks, that nasty jeering +tone of his, because I’m not going to put up with it any longer. I +shan’t need to, after this. By George!” and Mr. Dersingham’s voice had +a triumphant ring now and he tried to look like a very crafty man of +affairs. “I’d never thought of that, not properly. It didn’t occur to +me that, after this, if he doesn’t like it, he can lump it, if you see +what I mean. He’ll have to change his tune, thank God!” + +“Yes, I see, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth slowly. “It’s funny he +didn’t think of that, too, isn’t it?” + +“Oh, he wants his money in his pocket. That’s what he’s thinking about. +And then he probably imagines I like that nice cheerful manner of his, +and like to be told every day or so that if it hadn’t been for him the +firm wouldn’t be paying its way. I tell you, these loud bounders never +think what’s going on in other people’s minds.” + +“I shouldn’t think Mr. Golspie cared very much, certainly,” said Mr. +Smeeth thoughtfully. “But I don’t know that I quite see him in that +light, though you know him better than I do, I’ll admit that, Mr. +Dersingham. But--I don’t know----” + +“If you don’t mind my saying so, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, grinning +at him, “there are times when you’re just a bit of an old washerwoman, +and I’m not sure this isn’t one of them. No, no, don’t mind that--I +know you’re a good chap, and I can honestly say I wouldn’t like to run +this show without you. Now, look here, will you work out that total +properly, as soon as you can, and let me know what we’re likely to get +in these next two weeks, what we’ve got in hand, and so on, and then +we’ll settle the whole thing. Right you are.” + +The latter part of this speech was all so friendly that Mr. Smeeth +could not take offence at the “bit of an old washerwoman.” He left +the room feeling that he ought to be convinced, and almost ashamed of +himself because he could not share Mr. Dersingham’s sudden burst of +confidence. The fact remained, though, that he still felt dubious. +There was something in Mr. Dersingham’s tone of voice that made him +wince. He did not like this easy dismissal of Mr. Golspie; there was +a catch in it somewhere; and he felt that Mr. Dersingham was taking +the wrong line with Mr. Golspie. What was it that Turgis had said, +reporting the daughter? He wondered if he ought to have mentioned that, +but then quickly dismissed the possibility. Mr. Dersingham knew what he +was doing. He talked as if he did. Indeed, he talked too much as if he +did. Mr. Smeeth, with his apprehensive mind, always felt a slight alarm +when anybody was triumphantly confident. You had to be careful. + +He settled down at his desk, with the various books in front of him, +to work out the exact figures. For the next hour he was lost in them, +quite happy, at home in this familiar little world of unchanging +numerals and balancing columns, this world in which you had only to +have patience enough and everything worked out beautifully, perfectly. + + +V + +“And how’s Mr. Benenden?” Mr. Smeeth asked. He had called in the shop +as he returned from lunch on Wednesday, and had found the plump niece +still behind the counter there. + +She remembered him, and at once smiled at the prospect of a little +chat and then looked sad because the subject would be her stricken +uncle. After that, she compromised neatly between the two. “He’s not +as well as he might be, thank you,” she replied. “Now they’ve got him +in there and had a good look at him, they’ve found a lot of things +wrong with him. He never would go to a doctor himself, didn’t believe +in them, he said--you know--silly. No, it isn’t just with him being +knocked down like that, though that was bad enough, but they examined +him, you see, and now they say he’s not in a good way at all. They may +have to operate.” + +“That’s bad, isn’t it? What’s wrong exactly?” + +“Now I couldn’t tell you. You know what they are in these hospitals. If +they know themselves, they don’t let on. I went to see him on Sunday, +and I told him about the shop and who’d been in and all that. You’re +not Mr. Bromfield, are you?” + +“No. My name’s Smeeth.” + +“Mr. Smeeth. Yes, that’s right. He mentioned you as well.” + +“Did he now?” Mr. Smeeth felt all the gratification of a person who has +been singled out, no matter by whom. “Asked if I’d been in, I suppose, +eh? Well, I wish you’d tell him how sorry I am to hear he’s laid up. +Tell him I say that Angel Pavement doesn’t seem the same place without +him. And I hope he’s stirring again soon.” + +“Yes, I will.” The plump young woman hesitated a moment. “I’ll tell +you what, Mr. Smeeth, if you just happened to have a spare half-hour +this afternoon, perhaps you might like to go and see him. It’s visiting +day up there to-day, you know. Three to four. My mother’s going about +half-past three, but if you could have a look at him, just to give him +a word or two and pass the time of day, sometime before then, just +after three, he’d be ever so pleased. But perhaps you’re busy.” + +“I don’t know.” Mr. Smeeth thought it over, then looked at his watch. +“I think I will, you know. It wouldn’t take me long to slip round to +Bart’s. Where shall I find him?” + +She gave him elaborate directions. He remembered then that he had +wanted to have a word with Brown & Gorstein, whose place was just off +Old Street. He could go round to Bart’s first, and then up to Brown & +Gorstein’s. It did not look like being a very busy afternoon, and he +had still three-quarters of an hour in which to clear up a few odds and +ends of jobs in the office before he went. + +At three o’clock he came out into Little Britain, beneath the +innumerable blue-curtained windows of Bart’s new building. As he +crossed the road, something huge in the sky, to the left, caught his +eye and made him stop and look that way when he reached the other +pavement. It was the dome of St. Paul’s, and never before had he +seen it look so massive and majestic; it was almost frightening. He +had never seen the dome from that distance and that particular angle +before, and it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. He +might have been in a strange city. For once his sense of wonder was +quickened, and after that, throughout the afternoon, until he returned +to the office, it never slept. The wide space between the main entrance +to the hospital and Smithfield Market was filled with carts coming +from the market, a very decided smell of meat, and a narrowing stream +of people, mostly women carrying paper bags and little bunches of +flowers, who were pouring into the hospital entrance. It was all very +strange to him, for he had not been near a hospital for years and had +never visited one of this size before. It was like walking into a +fantastic little town, a strange city within the city. He went through +an archway and found himself in a great courtyard or quadrangle with a +fountain in it. Here there was all the bustle of a market-place, but +not of any market-place he had ever seen before. Doctors in white coats +and bare-headed students ran in and out of the many doorways; nurses +fluttered snowily across the quadrangle; and now and then he caught a +glimpse of a patient, strapped and rigid on a stretcher, being wheeled +away to God knows where. One passed him close, and he saw a face cut +out of yellow bone and staring unfathomable eyes. It was terrifying. +The whole place, this little town of white uniforms and mysterious +silent traffic within the roaring city, terrified him. He could have +sworn that the little pain somewhere inside began tick-ticking again; +and for a moment or two it seemed to him astonishing that he should +still be one of the uneasy invaders swarming in here, one of the +workers, eaters, drinkers, smokers, pleasure lovers, movers about, from +outside. Any day now, he felt, he would be on one of those stretchers. + +Somehow it had never occurred to him that he would see Benenden +actually in bed. He had vaguely imagined a hospital and had imagined +Benenden in it, but he had really thought of him as being still behind +a counter, the familiar half-length figure, beginning about the second +button of the waistcoat and then going on to the old-fashioned high +collar and stiff front (with no tie), the straggling sandy-grey beard +and the thick glasses. In all the time he had known him, Mr. Smeeth had +never once seen Benenden away from his counter; and for all he knew +to the contrary, Benenden might have had no legs at all. Now, as he +approached the white-enamelled iron bed, he saw less of Benenden than +ever, but what he did see gave him a shock. It was not that Benenden +looked very ill (for that matter, he had never looked very well), but +simply that he looked quite different. Mr. Smeeth wanted to laugh. +That head of Benenden’s above the sheet looked idiotic. It was as if +Benenden had taken to wild joking. + +“Hello, Mr. Benenden. Your niece in the shop suggested I might call and +see you. How are you feeling now?” + +The enormous eyes behind the glasses had slowly swivelled round, and +now there was a slow faint creasing of the face that did duty for a +smile. “Very pleased to see you, Mr. Smeeth. Very good of you to call.” +This came in tiny high explosions of sound, as if Benenden’s ordinary +tones had been raised an octave or two and only allowed to emerge in +separate little puffs. + +Mr. Smeeth could see that he really was ill. Every movement of the face +and his speech were so slow, as if they had to be thought out first. +And though he had been away from his shop such a little time, he gave +the impression that he had been away for years and years, had gone +round and round the world, had even changed his nationality. He did +not belong any more to the workers and bustlers and movers about. He +was now a citizen of this inner city. + +“Not a bit,” said Mr. Smeeth, wanting to be cheerful and hearty, but +not outrageously so, “not a bit. I’m only too glad. I’ve missed you at +the shop. Quite a shock to hear what had happened to you. How are you +feeling then?” + +“Not good, Mr. Smeeth. No, not good. Baddish.” + +“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Benenden. I suppose that accident of yours +was a shock to the system, eh?” + +“That was nothing, that wasn’t,” replied Benenden, speaking in a slow, +oracular fashion. “They say there’s all sorts o’ things wrong with me. +Heart bad. Kidneys bad. Inside all wrong. They don’t tell me much. When +they do, they think they’re teaching me something.” The eyes behind +the thick glasses seemed to gleam with pride. “They’re not teaching me +anything. I could have told ’em that, Mr. Smeeth. I could have told ’em +that--yes, and a bit more--a long time since. I’ve known all about it +for years, years and years.” + +“You don’t say so!” Mr. Smeeth looked concerned. + +“Yes, I’ve known it for years. They can’t tell me anything about that +heart of mine. It’s rotten. There’s many and many a man--and I’ve +known some of ’em--who’s dropped in the street with a heart not so +bad as mine. Been missing the beat for years, missing it all over the +place. Same with the kidneys. They’re rotten, too. But, mind you, Mr. +Smeeth, it’s not all the kidneys. There’s the liver to be taken into +consideration. They’re overlooking that, so far they are, but I’m just +waiting for ’em to come round to my opinion. I’m not saying anything. +I’m just letting ’em find out a few things for themselves. One of +these days, that young doctor’s going to notice my liver and then he’s +going to have another surprise. And that isn’t all, either.” Here the +astonishing image, after a little effort, produced something like a +chuckle. T. Benenden was exiled from his shop and his financial columns +and his chats with customers, but now he had discovered in his ailments +and dubious organs a new and absorbing interest, and, stretched out +there, he saw himself as a romantic and exciting figure. Within sight +of death, he was beginning life all over again. + +Mr. Smeeth caught a fleeting glimpse of this fact, but he was in no +mood to appreciate it. The spectacle of Benenden, suddenly transformed +from a familiar Angel Pavement character, and comic at that, to this +infirm shadow of himself, filled him with dismay and foreboding. Try +as he might, he could not help believing that he would never see T. +Benenden behind that counter again. As he listened--for Benenden did +most of the talking, slowly boasting of the severity and complication +of his ailments--Mr. Smeeth told himself that never again would the +tobacconist bring out the canister of Benenden’s Own Mixture for him. + +Yet there was no real evidence for this. “How is he?” he asked the +nurse who had first shown him the bed. + +“Who? Seventy-five? Oh, getting along all right,” she replied briskly. +“We’re operating at the end of this week or early next week. He’ll be +all right.” + +She sounded confident enough, but Mr. Smeeth did not know whether +to believe her or not. As he left the hospital, a clammy air of +dissolution and mortality clung to him. Barbican and Golden Lane, +through which he passed on his way to Old Street and Brown & +Gorstein’s, spoke to him only of decay. It was a curious afternoon, +belonging to one of those days that are in the very dead heart of +winter. The air was chilled and leaden. The sky above the City was a +low ceiling of tarnished brass. All the usual noises were there, and +the trams and carts that went along Old Street made as much din as +ever, yet it seemed as if every sound was besieged by a tremendous +thick silence. Cold as it was, it was not an afternoon that made a +man want to move sharply, to hurry about his business; there was +something about it, something slowed down and muffled in the heavy +air, the brooding yellowish sky, the stone buildings that seemed to be +retreating into their native rock again, that impelled a man to linger +and stare and lose himself in shadowy thought. + +Mr. Smeeth found himself doing this, after he had left Brown & +Gorstein’s, and had turned down Bunhill Row on his way back to the +office. He halted opposite that large building boldly labelled _The +Star Works_, and wondered what was made there and whether it had +anything starry about it. Then he turned round, idly, and stared +through the iron railings at the old graves there. He had been this +way before, many a time, in fact, but he never remembered noticing +before that the earth of the burying-ground was high above the street. +The railings were fastened into a wall between two or three feet +high, and the ground of the cemetery was as high as the top of this +little wall. There was something very mournful about the sooty soil, +through which only a few miserable blades of grass found their way. +It was very untidy. There were bits of paper there, broken twigs, +rope ends, squashed cigarettes, dried orange peel, and a battered +tin that apparently had once contained Palm Chocolate Nougat. This +dingy litter at the foot of the grave-stones made him feel sad. It +was as if the paper and cigarette ends and the empty tin, there in +the old cemetery, only marked in their shabby fashion the passing of +a later life, as if the twentieth century was burying itself in there +too, and not even doing it decently. He moved a step or two, then +stopped near the open space, where there is a public path across the +burying-ground. He stared at the mouldering headstones. Many of them +were curiously bright, as if their stone were faintly luminous in the +gathering darkness, but it was hard to decipher their lettering. One of +them, which attracted his attention because it was not upright in the +ground but leaned over at a very decided angle, he found he could read: +_In Memory of Mr. John Willm. Hill, who died May 26th, 1790, in the +eighteenth year of his age._ That had been a poor look-out for somebody. + +“’Aving a look at the good old graves, mister?” said a voice. It +belonged to an elderly and shabby idler, one of those dreamy and +dilapidated men who seem to haunt all such places in London, and +who will offer to guide you, if you are obviously a stranger and +well-to-do, but are quite prepared to pour out information for nothing +to a fellow-citizen. + +“Yes, just having a look,” said Mr. Smeeth. + +“Ar, there’s some pretty work ’ere, if yer know where to look for it, +mister. I know the Fields well, I do. Some big men’s buried ’ere. An’ +I’ll tell yer one of ’em. Daniel Defow’s buried in ’ere, boy, and I +could take yer straight to the plice. Yers, the grite Daniel Defow.” + +“Is that so? Now, let me see, who was he exactly?” + +“Oo was ’e? Daniel Defow! Yer know Rawbinson Crusoe, doncher? Rawbinson +Crusoe on the island and Man Friday an’ all that? Thet’s ’im. Defow--’e +wrote that. Cor!--think ’e did! Known all over the world, that piece, +all over the wide world. Well, ’e’s in ’ere, Daniel Defow, and I +could take yer straight to the plice. Yers, that’s right. Monument, +too--ee-rected by the boys and girls of England to Daniel Defow ’cos ’e +wrote Rawbinson Crusoe--in ’ere. I tell yer, boy, there’s some big men +in there--what’s left of ’em.” + +Mr. Smeeth nodded and continued to stare idly through the railings of +Bunhill Fields, where the old Nonconformists are buried in mouldering +eighteenth century elegance, to which they had at least conformed in +death if not in life; and where, among the divines and elders, not only +Defoe, but also Bunyan and Blake, the two God-haunted men, lie in the +sooty earth, while their dreams and ecstasies still light the world. +As Mr. Smeeth stared, something floated down, touched the crumbled +corner of the nearest headstone, and perished there. A moment later, +on the curved top of the little wall beside him was a fading white +crystal. He looked up and saw against the brassy sky a number of moving +dark spots. He looked down and saw the white flakes floating towards +the black pavement. In all his life, he had never been so surprised +by the appearance of snow, and for one absurd moment he found himself +wondering who had made it and who was responsible for tumbling it into +the City. He hurried away now, and as he went the snow came faster +and shook down larger and larger flakes upon the town. Before he had +reached Angel Pavement, not only had it whitened every cranny, but +it had stolen away, behind its soft curtains, half the noises of the +City, which only roared and hooted now through the white magic as if +in an uneasy dream. It was so thick that Mr. Smeeth was no longer +one of ten thousand hurrying little figures, but a man alone with the +whirling flakes. The snow was storming the City and all London. In +Twigg & Dersingham’s, they had turned on the lights, but they could +still see a queer dim scurrying through the windows. Mrs. Smeeth, in +her little dining-room up at Stoke Newlington, watched it with delight +and remembered her childhood, when they had cried, “Snow, snow faster, +White alabaster.” Mrs. Dersingham, who had been shopping in Kensington +High Street, had to shelter from it in a doorway, and was wondering +if it had caught the children. The Pearsons, secure in their warm +maisonette in Barkfield Gardens, stood at the window for quarter of an +hour, calling one another’s attention to the size of the flakes, for +there had never been anything like this in Singapore. Miss Verever, +who had missed her usual visit to the Italian Riviera, wrote another +angry little note to her solicitor, because it was he who had insisted +upon her staying in London. Lena Golspie, in Maida Vale, watched it +for a minute or two, then switched on one of the big shaded lights and +curled among the cushions, with a magazine, voluptuously, like a sleek +blonde cat. Mr. Pelumpton was just prevented in time from making a bid +of twelve and six for a marble clock (out of order), and stayed at +home, in Mrs. Pelumpton’s way. Benenden, having dozed off, never knew +it was there. For an hour it was unceasing, and all the open spaces on +the hills, from Hampstead Heath on one side to Wimbledon Common on the +other, were thickly carpeted, and everything in the city, except the +busier roadways and the gutters, was magically muffled and whitened +and plumed with winter, just as if it had been some old town in a +fairy-tale. + + + + +_Chapter Ten_: THE LAST ARABIAN NIGHT + + +I + +The outward changes in Turgis, already noticed by Miss Matfield and +Mr. Smeeth, were only tiny scattered hints and clues, and by no means +in proportion to the changes within, for during these last seven +weeks, ever since that night when Lena Golspie had failed to keep her +appointment with him, his life had been like a bad dream. There are +some dreams, trembling on the edge of nightmare, in which the dreamer +goes rushing frantically through dismal reeling phantasmagoria of +familiar scenes and places trying to find a lost somebody or something. +This had been Turgis’s real life. He had got up as usual, bolted his +breakfast and exchanged a word or two with the Pelumptons, hurried +down to the Tube, climbed into the City, sent and received advice +notes, telephoned to this firm and that, fed variously in teashops +and dining-rooms, looked at newspapers, even gone to the pictures, +all as usual; but these customary activities had merely been a dream +within a dream, a shadowy routine of existence. His real life had been +this pursuit of Lena, and so far it had had all the urgency and dark +bewilderment of a bad dream. + +He had been able to call again at the flat before her father had +returned, but she had only spent half an hour with him and had been +vague and shifty in her excuses. He had flung away his resentment, +had made the most abject apologies, and at last had made her promise +to meet him again. She had kept him waiting twenty minutes on this +occasion, and when she did come, she only turned the evening into a +misery. She had been cold, had criticized his appearance, his manners, +and had made him jealous. When he had tried to kiss her, she had +laughed at him and evaded him. Then her father had returned, Christmas +came, and the two of them had gone to Paris, leaving Turgis to imagine, +with a vividness and force that brought a curious mingling of pain and +pleasure, a host of scenes in which Lena went smiling in the arms of +rich and handsome Frenchmen and Americans. But at least he could not +see her, and so he was free for a few days to make what he could of +life by himself. He made nothing of it. He could not forget her for a +single minute. London was a jumble of silly meaningless faces. Before +he had met her he had spent most of his leisure looking for adventures +with girls and hardly ever finding them, but now, of course, they were +offered at every turn, thrust on him, and they had no interest at +all. He tried once--a girl outside one of the smaller picture houses +had smiled at him and he had taken her in--but it was merely dull and +savourless, like trying to eat sawdust. After that, he never bothered, +living entirely in his thought of Lena and in the memory of those two +first rapturous nights. He could not believe--how should he?--that +those two nights did not mean as much, or nearly as much, to her as +they meant to him, and so he was ready, was eager, to see in everything +she had done since merely so many mysterious feminine moods, a queenly +wilfulness and waywardness that would gradually be consumed in the +mounting fires of passion. He knew that this was what happened with +these wonderful creatures: he had seen it happen many a time on the +pictures. + +At first, he had realized, with wonder and humility, that it was all +miraculous, that he was nobody in particular, with nothing very much to +offer. But she herself had changed that. She had kissed him into being +somebody, and now he had a great deal to offer--his love, his life. +Very soon, being a born lover and romantic, it seemed to him that no +girl could want more than that. Living over and over again as he did +that hour or so of passionate embraces and kisses, he could look back +on what appeared to him a long intimacy with her, far removed from +any casual encounter (for he knew all about them, and this was quite +different), so that he felt he had a claim, a right, and that when +she avoided him or in any way challenged that claim, she was trying +to escape from the very condition of life itself. Thus, if it was not +wilfulness and waywardness, then it was something abominably wicked +stirring in her to be regarded as a bigoted and militant priest would +regard a heresy. None of this, of course, moved on the surface of his +mind, but it coiled and uncoiled below that surface and obscurely +determined what did eventually move there or what at last came bursting +through, exploding beyond thought, into action. + +When the Golspies came back, after Christmas, it took two imploring +letters and a final telephone call (he rang up from the nearest call +box to the office during a time when Mr. Golspie was safely away from +the flat) to induce her to agree to another meeting, and even then, +after all the crescendo of excitement, she never turned up. He was left +in a hot and salted misery of shame and resentment, but he could no +more turn his mind away from her than he could walk about with his eyes +closed. And now all London and every familiar way of life were like the +flickering background of a film, a film in which he pursued and she +evaded him. He could think of nothing, nobody, but Lena. + +The sleep that would not come to him at night hovered perilously near +him during the morning at the office, when, heavy, drowsy, brooding, he +would lean forward, chin in hand, one elbow on the desk, and leave his +work untouched until his attention was called to it. He spoke little, +and hardly let his dull gaze rest for a moment on one of the others +there. They told one another that he seemed stupid, and stupid he was +too, in everything that did not concern Lena. In what did concern her, +he developed a wonderful acuteness and foresight. Thus, for example, +any telephone call from the private office could be overheard at the +receiver in the general office, if the little switchboard was rightly +manipulated; and it often happened that the Golspies talked over the +telephone to one another, usually with reference to what one or other +of them proposed doing during the evening; and Turgis became expert at +catching these talks while pretending to be at the receiver waiting +for some number to be given him. He was able, too, to work on the +least hint that might be dropped in Mr. Golspie’s casual talk. Then he +would wait hours, even on cold, sleety nights, in the neighbourhood of +4a, Carrington Villas; sometimes in time to see her come out, perhaps +with a young man, perhaps with her father and one of his friends, and +then to stalk her down the road to the bus or the taxi rank; sometimes +late enough to see her returning home, to hear her laughter suddenly +break the silence. Twice, he had watched her, with an escort, go into +a large expensive restaurant, where he could not possibly follow her. +Once he had been able to get to the same theatre, and had sat in the +corner of the gallery, looking down at her in the stalls. He had often +jeered at young Stanley and his “shaddering,” but now, inspired by his +jealous misery, he suddenly turned himself into a master shadower. Icy +winds pierced and smote him; his feet ached in the slush; his hands +grew numb and his eyes watered; he caught colds that ought to have sent +him to bed, but he never heeded them and somehow they disappeared; and +all this discomfort hardly troubled him at the time, for he carried a +fire inside him, a burning excitement. It was only afterwards, when +he trailed back to Nathaniel Street, sat in his little room pulling +off his wet boots, turned and tossed and coughed in his bed hour after +hour, dragged himself out in the leaden mornings, that he suffered in +the body. + +His mind, however, lived as it had never lived before, knowing +exquisite agonies, finding pleasure and pain inextricably confused in +these hours of waiting and shadowing. Sometimes when he was returning +to his lodgings, cold, tired out, hopeless, or rose to meet another +heavy blank morning, he would tell himself that he had done with it +all, and then he might creep through a day or two trying to live a life +of his own, but everything would seem then so dull, so savourless, that +he hurried back to Carrington Villas, to the waiting and dodging and +hurrying round corners. He discovered, too, that when he knew where +Lena was, what she was actually doing, his jealous feelings were less +strong and sharply barbed than when he did not know where she was and +whom she was with: it was bad to realise that for the next two or three +hours she would be dancing with that tall fellow who sometimes brought +a car, but it was much worse to be miles away from her and to know +nothing. When he was pursuing her, though only in this strange, shadowy +fashion, Lena and he alone were real, the only real human beings in a +city that had been turned, with all its winter magnificence of lighted +lamps and shop windows, golden buses, glittering night signs, and +shining wet pavements, into an illuminated jungle. When he tried to put +her out of his mind, however, there was nothing in the whole city that +would let him forget. It had been tantalising, maddening enough before +he had met Lena, when he had gone wandering about the streets in an +amorous hunger, but now it was a hundred times worse. Everything he saw +spoke to him of women and love. The shops he passed were brilliant with +hats and clothes that Lena might wear; they showed him her stockings +and underclothes; they were piled high with her entrancing little +shoes; they invited him to look at her powder-bowls, her lipstick, her +scent bottles; there was nothing she wore, nothing she touched, they +did not thrust under their blazing electric lights. The theatres and +picture houses shouted to him their knowledge of girls and love. The +hoardings were covered with illustrations, nine feet high, of happy +romances. The very newspapers, under cover of a pretended interest in +Palm Beach or feminine athletics, gave him day by day photographs of +nearly naked girls with figures like Lena’s. And in and out of the +buses, tube trains, theatres, dance-halls, restaurants, teashops, +public-houses, taxis, villas, flats, went boys and their sweethearts, +girls and their lovers, men and their wives, smiling at one another, +laughing together, holding arms, clasping hands, kissing. Slinking +through this Venusberg, like a shabby young wolf, he could not forget. +It never gave him a chance. He had never given himself a chance. He +had nothing to put in the way, no ambition, no interests, no friends; +so far he had asked for little, merely food, shelter, and trifling +amusement, except love. In his heart of hearts, he did not want to +forget. + +That first phase of unusual smartness, brushed hair, clean collars, +creased trousers, had passed; he could not bother with that any more; +if Lena wanted him to be smart again, well and good, she could tell +him so, but meanwhile, he was his old shabby self, indeed shabbier +than ever. Mr. Dersingham, Mr. Smeeth, Miss Matfield were beginning to +give him some queer glances at the office. Well, they could look; so +long as he kept the job at all (and that was certainly important), it +did not matter to him; he was careless of all that. He was careless of +most things these days. His finances, always difficult, had now drifted +into a very bad state, and he owed Mrs. Pelumpton a pound or two, and +even then he had to cut his ordinary expenses down to the lowest level, +which meant that he had to feed cheaply and scantily. That did not +matter either, for only now and then did he feel really hungry. Mr. +Pelumpton, the old fool, had told him several times he ought to see a +doctor, and even Mrs. Pelumpton was beginning to ask him if he hadn’t +a pain anywhere, he looked “that bad,” she said. He told her that he +hadn’t a pain, though this was not true, for very often now he had a +sort of pain, not easy to describe, but roughly amounting to a tender +hollowness, in his head. He tried one or two things at the chemist’s, +just to make him sleep, for the nights following these vigils were the +worst, when he turned and tossed and his eyes burned and the hollow +place in his head enlarged itself; but these things did not do him +much good, and what sleep he got, he paid for in the morning, when he +felt heavy and shivery, so that the scantiest wash and shave was a +hard drudgery. His work in the office was that too, though after Mr. +Smeeth had taken him into the “White Horse,” he tried to appear a bit +more energetic, for he knew very well that if he lost his job, he was +in a hopeless situation. All these things, however, were only on the +dream-like fringe of life. What was there in the centre, though this +was like a dream too, a very different dream, dark, urgent, and with +a terrible beauty, was his pursuit of Lena, the outward Lena who was +behaving so strangely to him, whom she had welcomed and kissed and held +so close. Even yet he believed that she was merely teasing him, holding +him off for a little space, and that soon all would be well. + +At last, after seeing her several times in one week, at a distance +and never once alone, he made a desperate throw and spoke to her. It +was a queer night, unlike any other he had seen during the time he +had haunted Maida Vale, for during the afternoon, a Wednesday, there +had been a sudden heavy fall of snow, so sudden, so heavy, that for +once it had remained as snow and had not changed immediately into a +black slush. The roofs and gardens and privet hedges in Carrington +Villas were still white with it; even the gates and railings here and +there were snow lined; and the night was at once curiously light and +muffled. He did not pay any close attention to these details, did not +consciously observe the brilliance of the stars, the unusually solid +velvety black of the houses, the white-blanketed spaces, the sudden +crystal glitter now and again, the crunch of the trodden snow as the +night crispened; but nevertheless they stole into his consciousness and +worked obscurely there. He thought of his boyhood, which he had not +left behind him long, though usually it seemed a hundred years away, a +faded muddle. Now it returned to him vividly, evoked by the unfamiliar +sight of the snow. He had not had a very happy boyhood, but in this +hour, when it came back purged of its shame and distresses, it seemed +magical and the thought of it warmed and melted him, so that something +suspicious, something grudging, something in his mind that matched +a certain furtive look he had, shook itself free and then vanished. +It left him feeling confident, eager, a young man in a world full of +friends. + +Then he saw her coming up the street, the tall fellow by her side. +He was not sure at first, but then he heard her voice. He hurried +forward to meet them before they could turn in the entrance to 4a, and +he contrived it so easily that he was able to slow up and then come +face to face with them before they had reached the gate. He stopped, +raised his hat, and cried: “Good evening.” He did not know whether to +add “Miss Golspie” or “Lena,” had no time to decide, but felt that +something must be added, so ended with a mumble that might have been +anything. His heart knocked painfully. She looked lovelier than ever in +the mysterious snowy half-light. + +The tall young man stopped at once, raising his hat, too, and smiling. + +“Oh!” Lena’s soft little cry was charged with meaning; there was +dismay, irritation, disgust in it. She hesitated a moment, threw him a +quick frowning glance, then said, coldly: “Oh--good evening,” and at +once moved away, leaving the tall young man staring after her for a +second or two. Then he gave Turgis a nod and hurried away. + +Turgis saw them turn in at the gate. He heard the young man’s short +gruff laugh and then an exclamation of some sort followed by a little +trill from Lena. The door closed behind them, and it might have been +banged to in his face. For several minutes he never moved. Then he +slowly walked past the house, and, looking up, saw the light in the +window above, in that room where she had given him supper and danced +with him and kissed him. For a moment he thought wildly of marching +up there, striding in and demanding to know this and that; but he +knew there was no sense in that, for not only was the tall young man +there, but also Mr. Golspie himself might be there. He crossed the +road, turned to look at the lighted window again, stared at it until +at last it was nothing but a vague crimson blur, then walked away, his +shoulders humped in misery. + +“Yersh,” said Mr. Pelumpton, as he shuffled into the conjugal bedroom, +three-quarters of an hour later, “e’sh jusht come in, proper blue look +on ’im, too. No, I didn’t arshk ’im where ’e’d been. I like ter get +a shivil arnsher when I arshksh a man a shivil queshen, I do. ‘Leave +you alone, boy,’ I shaysh to myshelf. ‘You go your way an’ I go mine. +Yersh.’ What you shay, Mother?” + +“I say it’s a pity, too,” replied Mrs. Pelumpton, above the bedclothes. +“Worries me, it does, to see a quiet young feller goin’ the wrong +way like that. ’E’s got a nasty broodin’ look. And if you want _my_ +opinion, ’e’s got ’imself into trouble with some girl--one of these +flappers, as they call ’em. My words, I’d give ’em flapper if I’d +anything to do with ’em!” + +“Oh, I dare shay, I dare shay,” said Mr. Pelumpton, with philosophic +melancholy. “If it’sh bother yer want, that’sh where to find it, +that’sh my ecshperiensh. Oo, I got a narshty pain in my back to-night. +It’sh the cold, yer know.” + + +II + +“Is that Mr. Levy?” Turgis cried down the telephone. “Yes, this is +Twigg and Dersingham’s. It’s about the next delivery--you know, you +were asking. Well, I’m sorry, but we can’t manage it for Tuesday. No, +they say they can’t do it. I’ve been on to them. But they’ll manage it +for Thursday--yes, the whole lot. Yes, Thursday certain, Mr. Levy--you +can depend on that. Yes, I’ll advise you. All right.” + +He put down the receiver and returned to his desk. He was shaking a +little. There had been something queer about his voice when he had +been speaking to Levy. As he left the telephone, he had noticed both +Miss Matfield and little Poppy Sellers glancing curiously at him. Let +them look, silly fools, and then mind their own business! He had come +to a sudden decision, and the very thought of it made him shake with +excitement, though that was not very difficult, because he was not +feeling at all well. That great hollow inside his head was filled now +with jagging hot wires; his bones ached vaguely; his hands shook a +little as he wrote; and his face kept twitching, as if it disliked the +feel of his heavy burning eyes. Yet he had not the least desire to go +to bed or to see a doctor; he did not feel ill in the ordinary way at +all; it was only nerves, he concluded, just imagination. He had only to +sleep better and eat more and all would be well. + +His decision was to see Lena and have it out with her that very night, +if by chance he could find her in the flat. He knew that her father +would not be there, because when he had gone to the telephone to ring +up Levy, Mr. Golspie had put a call through from the private office, +and it had been to book a table for two at a restaurant. On this the +cunning shadower in Turgis pounced at once. Mr. Golspie sometimes took +his daughter out for the evening, but Turgis was certain that he would +not trouble to book a table for her. He had not sounded like a man who +was spending the evening with his daughter. If Lena was out, then she +was out, and Turgis would have to wait, but he knew she did not go out +every night and this was a chance not to be missed. At eight o’clock +or just after, when Mr. Golspie was well out of the way, sitting down +in his West End restaurant, he would go to the flat and, if Lena was +there, he would see her and talk to her in that room of theirs again. +He would see her, whatever happened. _Whatever happens, whatever +happens_--a voice inside him said it over and over again as the +Friday afternoon, fussy and irritable because of its week-end rush of +things-that-must-be-settled-at-once, dragged on, with the last dripping +traces of snow fading outside the window. + +“Finished that copying, Miss Sellers?” said Mr. Smeeth, as he began to +put away his books. “That’s the way. We’ll have that new boy here on +Monday, and then you’ll have it easier, eh? You cleared up, Turgis? Did +you have a word with Ockley and Sons--y’know, I mentioned it to you +this morning?” + +“Yes, I did, Mr. Smeeth. It’s all right.” + +“You’re through, then, eh?” + +“All I can do to-night, Mr. Smeeth. One or two things I’ve had to leave +till to-morrow morning--couldn’t help it.” + +“Quite so,” said Mr. Smeeth, taking out his pipe and pouch. “Well, I +don’t think there’ll be much fear of you not turning up here to-morrow +morning. What do you say? Pay day, eh, Turgis? That’s one of the days +we _don’t_ like to miss.” + +Turgis smiled faintly. “No, I’ll be sure not to miss that, Mr. Smeeth. +You can count on me for that.” + +“It’s as well we can count on somebody for something these days,” Mr. +Smeeth remarked jocularly, “Well, you can get away now, Turgis--you, +too, Miss Matfield, of course--and I’ll see you in the morning.” + +“That’s right,” said Turgis. But as he was taking down his hat and +coat, he said to himself, for no particular reason: “How does he know +he’ll see me in the morning? He doesn’t want to be so jolly sure +about it.” Then as he was putting his overcoat on, he looked across +at Smeeth, who was now lighting his pipe, and said to himself: “Old +Smeethy there, with his eyeglasses and his pipe and his nice clean +collar every day and his nice home with his wife and kids and his walk +round to the bank and his seven or eight quid a week, he’s all right +and he deserves it, for all his fussing about, ’cos he’s not a bad old +stick. But he’s a bit of a dreary devil for all that, and he thinks +everything’s settled the way it is with him, and he knows no more +really about what’s going on than an old charwoman. Still, if I got on +a bit and Lena married me and we’d a nice little home the same as his, +I’d like to ask him in sometimes with his wife and we’d have a smoke +and a drink.” + +And Mr. Smeeth, looking up from his pipe and catching Turgis’s eye, +said to himself: “That lad’s looking bad, my words he is, worse than +ever to-day. He ought to knock off for a day or two, even if we are +short-handed. Doesn’t look after himself, that’s the trouble. And +nobody to look after him--in lodgings. Bit miserable that. But then +he’s no responsibilities, no worries, only himself to provide for, and +he could have a good life--go to concerts and all that--if he only set +about it properly. Probably doesn’t know how to look after himself. I +ought to ask him up to tea or supper one of these week-ends--be a nice +change for him--bit of home life. Yes, I’ll do that when we’re a bit +more settled and Edie’s in a good temper.” + +Thus, with these thoughts buzzing in their heads, they looked at one +another, almost staring as people stare at a familiar word that has +suddenly grown strange. Then, with a sober nod across the office, they +turned away, Turgis to the door and Smeeth to his desk. + + +III + +It was fine that night, and in the slight stir of wind there was a +faint warmth that hurried the black slush into the gutters. Once out of +the main road, where the bright lamps and the passing cars and buses +were crazily mirrored in the wet stone, Turgis turned into a Maida Vale +that was quite unlike the one he had seen two nights before, when the +snow lay thick on the ground. Now it was close, dark, and dripping. +Carrington Villas was one great gloomy _drip-drip_ and it smelt +slightly of wet grass. Turgis, shivering a little, not with cold, but +from excitement, never gave these things a thought, but nevertheless +he noticed them. He noticed everything that night. The least thing, a +shadow moving on a curtain, a boy’s whistle far down the road, stood +out clearly, rammed itself home. At No. 2 somebody was playing the +piano, and he recognised the very piece; he had heard it many a time at +the pictures. + +He stood outside the gate. There was a light up there. She was in, that +was certain. Some one might be with her, but he would have to risk +that. He did not care very much now if there was somebody there, for he +could go up and say something. He waited a moment. + +Then, as he waited, he was suddenly visited by an impulse to go away, +to drop it all then and there and never to think about the girl again. +He felt for a second as if he had only to turn on his heel and walk +straight forwards until he reached the top of the street, just the top +of the street, that was all, and he was free and a different kind of +fellow, stronger and happier. It was almost as if a voice whispered +sharply in his ear: “Come on. Have done with it. Come away, _now_.” +There was a cold emptiness somewhere in his stomach. He wasn’t well. He +could easily have cried. If that light up there had suddenly vanished +from the window, he could have turned away without regret. The faint +crimson glow remained, however, and he could not leave it now for a +safe but empty world. + +Once again, he passed the broken statue of the little boy playing with +two large fishes, climbed the steps between the two peeling pillars, +and carefully rang the bell marked _4a_. When nobody seemed to hear it, +he remembered what had happened before, and tried the other bell. The +door was opened by the enormous woman in the apron. + +“Do you know if Miss Golspie’s in, please?” + +“Oh, I’m wearing me feet out for them people!” cried the woman. “Up and +down, and every time our own bell rings, it’s for them. Miss Golspie, +is it? I believe she’s in too, though it’s no business of mine whether +she’s in or out or gone to the devil, young man. Would she be expecting +you coming at all?” + +“No, she isn’t. Do you know if she’s by herself--I mean, is there +anybody else there?” + +“I’ll see, I’ll see. I’ll give her a shout. Just come inside and close +the door gently behind you, so there’s no draught in the place, and +then I’ll give her a shout.” And the woman went down the hall, climbed +a few stairs, and gave a shout that soon opened the door above. “Miss +Golspie, there’s a young man here, known to you--I’ve seen him before +meself--he wants to know if you’re alone up there and can he come up to +see you.” + +“Yes, I’m all on my lonesome to-night,” Turgis heard Lena cry. “Tell +him to come up, please, and I won’t be a minute.” She sounded as if she +was pleased. It was wonderful to hear her like that. + +“You’ve to go up and then when you get there, she says she won’t keep +you a minute, meaning you’ll wait while she tidies herself and makes +herself pretty.” + +“Thanks very much,” said Turgis fervently, and up he went. The door +was open and he walked forward, straight into the big sitting-room, +which he had revisited so many times in his imagination these last few +weeks that it was quite strange to see waiting quietly there for him, +the very same room, with the very same piles of bright cushions, the +same deep sofa thing, the same gramophone records, books, magazines, +bottles, fancy boxes, fruit, and glasses all over the place, the same +two big shaded lamps. He shook to see it there, solid, real. He did +not sit down, but stood in the middle of the room, holding his hat, +glancing quickly, nervously, at this thing and that. + +“Hel-_lo_!” cried Lena gaily in the doorway. Then the sound was cut +short. He turned to face her. + +“Oh!” she cried, staring at him. “It’s you.” And her face fell, her +voice dropped. + +He tried to say something. + +“Do you want to see my father about something?” she demanded. + +“No, I don’t. I want to see you--Lena.” + +“What do you want to see me about?” + +“Oh!--you know, Lena. Everything.” + +She came forward a little now. “I don’t know. My father will be coming +back soon--any minute.” + +“He won’t,” he told her sullenly. + +“How do you know he won’t? You don’t know anything about it!” + +“I do. I know where he is, and I know he won’t be back for some time.” + +“Yes, you _would_! That’s why you’re here. You’ve been spying and +following me about, haven’t you? Making me look a fool! _You_ look a +fool too, let me tell you that, a nasty fool.” + +“Well, what if I have? I wanted to see you.” + +“Well, I didn’t want to see you,” she cried, furious now. “And you +ought to have known I didn’t. You can’t take a hint. I told you as +plainly as I could I didn’t want to see you any more.” + +“Lena, why don’t you?” + +“Because I _don’t_, and that’s why. If I don’t want to see you, why +don’t you go away and stop away? I don’t want you hanging about me and +coming slinking in here, looking like nothing on earth. Just because I +felt sorry for you once and hadn’t anything much to do and was nice to +you, do you think I’ve got to spend all my time trailing round to the +pictures with you?” + +“But, Lena, listen----” + +“I tell you I won’t listen. I don’t want to hear. If you only _saw_ +yourself! Go away. I won’t listen. I didn’t want to be rude to you, +but you’re so _stupid_ and you just make me look silly too.” + +“Lena, please, please, just listen a minute----” + +“Oh, go away, can’t you! Fool!” + +“You’ll have to listen,” he screamed. He sprang forward, dropping his +hat, and seized both her wrists and held them tight. As she struggled +to break loose, he poured it all out in a wild unbroken rush of short +phrases, the whole story of his first distant adoration, his desire and +his passion, all the ecstasies and miseries of his love. As he came +to the end, his grasp suddenly slackened and she was able to free her +wrists. She had not listened to him. She was in a fury. + +“You damned rotten rotten----” she gasped, fighting for breath. Then +she flared up into a shriek: “Keep your filthy hands off me,” and she +flung her own hands into his face, pushing him away. + +Things were snapping inside him now like taut fiddle-strings. “All +right, I’ll kiss you for that,” he cried, and caught hold of her before +she could get away. He was not a muscular youth, but he was strong +enough now. He pressed her body to his and forced a few brief kisses +upon her before she had a chance to do anything but push and wriggle. +The feel of her body, the soft cheek burning beneath his lips, the +scent of her hair, touched a spring inside him; all tenderness for her +vanished; his blood leaped and sent a murderous cataract roaring in his +ears. He still held her, but hardly noticed her hands on his face. + +She gave a violent twist, partly freeing herself. “You dirty, filthy +pig!” she cried. “Let me go. I hate you. If you touch me again, I’ll +scream and scream until somebody comes.” + +He looked at her and there came, like a flash of lightning, the +conviction that she was hateful, and something broke, and a great +blinding tide of anger swept over him. Her scream was cut short, for +his hands were round her soft white throat, pressing and pressing it as +he shook her savagely. Her head wobbled like a silly mechanical doll’s. +Her mouth was open and her eyes were bulging, and so she wasn’t even +nice to look at any more, but just silly and ugly, so silly and ugly +that his hands, which had an independent life of their own now and +were strong and masterful, pressed harder than ever. A horrible rusty +noise came from that open mouth. She suddenly went limp, and, as his +hands released their grip, her eyes closed and she slipped backwards, +striking her head against the corner of the divan as she fell and then +rolling over on to the floor, a huddle of clothes and white flesh. She +made no movement at all, not a twitch, not a tremor. He crept forward, +his eyes fixed on what could be seen of her face, purply-white and +still. The whole figure was completely motionless. He waited a minute, +raising his eyes in a slow strained fashion until they took in nothing +but the shape and colour of a fancy box of cigarettes on the little +table by the divan. There was a gay picture of a Turkish woman on the +box. He had had some cigarettes from that box; they were very good; +they were foreign cigarettes; Turkish, of course, but not sold in +England; foreign words just above the picture of the Turkish woman, +foreign words. Very slowly his eyes left the box and returned to the +figure on the floor. Lena. Not a movement. No, that wasn’t Lena any +more; that was a body. You couldn’t lie there like that unless you were +dead. Lena was dead. + +He stopped thinking then; no more thoughts came, not one. He picked up +his hat and shambled quickly out of the room, out of the flat, leaving +the door wide open behind him. When he reached the hall below, somebody +came out from somewhere, perhaps spoke to him, but he took no notice. +He left the house. It was better outside, in the dark. + + +IV + +Down the straight length of Maida Vale, past the detached villas, past +the great blocks of flats that were like illuminated fortresses, he +moved at a steady pace, never lingering, just as if he were a young +man who knew exactly where he was going and knew exactly how long it +would take him to get there. But he wasn’t going anywhere; he was only +moving on, simply leaving that room with the bright cushions and the +fancy boxes and the quiet huddle of clothes and limbs by the end of the +deep sofa. He wasn’t quite real. He was a young man walking in a film. +Somebody spoke to him once. It was a big man in a cap and mackintosh, +and he planted himself squarely in front of the dazed Turgis and said, +almost angrily: “Here, I say, how do I find Nugent Terrace?” And +when Turgis muttered that he didn’t know, that he was a stranger in +that district, the big man said that he was a stranger too and that +everybody he asked was a stranger, that they were all bloody strangers. +When Turgis was walking on again, he kept repeating that--“all bloody +strangers.” He noticed things as he went along, though they weren’t +very real, only like the things you see in the background of a film. +Maida Vale turned itself into Edgware Road, and immediately became +bright and crowded, a gleaming medley of shop windows, pubs, picture +theatre entrances, hawkers’ barrows, and pale faces. There was a shop +where you could get sixpenny packets of gaspers for fivepence. A woman +was shouting at a pub door; she was drunk. A lot of people were waiting +to see the pictures, and a fellow with a banjo was singing to them. Two +Chinamen came out of a sweet shop: _All These Chocolates Our Own Make_. +That fried fish smelt bad. Two men starting a row, and a woman trying +to pull one of them away. A good raincoat for 25/6. Funny what a lot of +these imitation bunches of bananas there were, and didn’t look a bit +like the real ones either. That chap standing in the shop doorway was +just like Smeeth, might be his double. It streamed on and on, like a +coloured film, a film with heavy bumping bodies and real eyes in it. +Marble Arch, and some people waiting for buses. + +Now, quite suddenly, he felt sick and terribly tired. There was nothing +left of his body but some tiny aching old bones, but his head was +enormous and there was more screeching and grinding and dull roaring +in the great hollow inside it than there was among the cars in the +road. He tried to think. Had he really gone there and done that? He +had gone to that room so many times in his imagination, had so many +scenes there, so many vivid encounters with Lena, that perhaps this +last visit wasn’t real either. Had he done that? His fingers, closing +round ghostly flesh, sent a sharp message to say he had done it. +Yes, he had. Then there was no changing it at all. It was there. As +if curtains had suddenly parted and been drawn up, he saw the room +again; he was back in it; a Turkish woman on a box of cigarettes, and +then--on the floor, not a movement. Something inside him, a little +wild thing, trapped, mad, sent up a scream. Something else muttered +over and over again that it was an accident, only an accident, a pure +accident, just an accident, all accidental, simply an accident; and +then it said that he wasn’t well, not at all well, ill in fact, nerves +and all that, yes nerves, quite ill, not healthy, not well. The tears +came into his eyes as he thought how true this was, for lots of people +had said that he wasn’t well and he knew he wasn’t well. Then a bus +came up and everybody got on it, so he got on it too, and sat inside. +The man next to him had a big swelling at the back of his neck, and for +a moment Turgis was sorry for him, but after that he forgot all about +him, forgot about all the other people in the bus, forgot all about +Oxford Street and Regent Street that rolled past like a gleaming and +glittering frieze. He did not notice where the bus was going; he did +not care; he sank into a sick stupor. + +“’Ere, come along,” said the conductor. “Fares, please.” + +Mechanically, vacantly, Turgis handed him twopence and received his +ticket. + +Nobody else bothered about him at all. They glanced in his direction +and then looked indifferently away. Yet in a week or two perhaps they +might all of them be talking about him. But then he would not be Turgis +any more, Mrs. Pelumpton’s lodger and the railway and shipping clerk +at Twigg & Dersingham’s; he would be the Maida Vale Flat Murderer; +and as that he could set huge machines in motion, send men running +here and there, men with notebooks, men with cameras; news editors +would mention him at conferences; sub-editors would rack their brains +for good headlines for him; reporters would describe his little room +in Nathaniel Street and interview Mrs. Pelumpton; columns on his +“ill-fated romance” would be commissioned for the Sunday papers; good +money would be paid for the smallest snapshot of him; every detail of +his past would be sent roaring through the printing machines; men who +had known him would boast of it; special contributors would comment on +his story and his fate for twenty guineas a thousand words; scholarly +criminologists would make a note of his case for future reference; +novelists and dramatists would see if he could be worked up into +anything good; millions would talk about him, would denounce him, +would cry for his execution, would sign petitions, or perhaps pray for +his soul; if he were set free, ten thousand women would be ready to +marry him, and any halting sentences he could produce about himself +would be handsomely paid for and conjured into The Story of My Life, +announced on innumerable placards and hoardings: he would be somebody +at last--the Maida Vale Flat Murderer. As yet, however, he was only a +shabby, hollow-eyed youth with a vacant look, huddled in a seat that +slowly moved round Piccadilly Circus, where, against the night sky, +commerce was clowning it royally in a multi-coloured fantasy of lights. +Nobody bothered about him yet; they were, as the big man had said, all +strangers. + +At the corner of the Strand and Wellington Street the bus turned and +then stopped, and there he left it and began walking eastward. He +had no destination, no plan; his mind issued no commands to his body +to move, this way or that; his legs simply went on; while his mind +was half in a dream and, for the rest, a vague jangle of conflicting +voices. It was quieter now, less crowded, for he was going along Fleet +Street, where later, perhaps, the machines would pound him into brisk +news just as the other machines had pulped the tall trees into paper +for such news. They were waiting, just round the corner, down the dark +alleys, these machines, ready to pounce on some unhappy morsel of +humanity. But as yet he was still only Turgis, Mrs. Pelumpton’s, Twigg +& Dersingham’s, and now he drifted on, up Ludgate Hill, turning his +face towards the old grey ghost of St. Paul’s, then curving in its +shadow round Church Yard, up Old Change, down Cheapside, along Milk +Street and Aldermanbury. It was better here in the City; not so much +glare and noise, not so many people; it was huge, dark, and wettish, +like a big cellar, a cave. It made his head feel better; and at last he +could think a bit, though it was like trying to think in a nightmare. +His legs were taking him somewhere now. There was no sense in it, +but then there was no sense in anything. Oh, what had he done, what +had he done? A street lamp, set queerly at the side of a great blank +wall, threw its uncertain light on to a short curving flight of stone +steps. While he questioned himself, his feet sought these steps and +trod them with an ease that suggested familiarity. His hand touched +the stout little iron post at the top, as it had done many and many a +time before, for the blank wall belonged to _Chase & Cohen: Carnival +Novelties_, and these were the steps that prevented Angel Pavement from +being a _cul de sac_. + +Two little yellow lights flickered at him, like a dubious pair of eyes, +from somewhere down the little street. He walked towards them, quite +slowly now, as if at last his mind was attempting to control his legs. +The lights were those of a car. They were the feeble headlights of a +taxi. And above this taxi, there was one lighted window, on the first +floor, and on the first floor of No. 8. Somebody was in the office, +Twigg & Dersingham’s, at this time, ten o’clock. He had to tell himself +so very slowly and clearly, and he did it while he was standing in +front of the waiting taxi. + +He put his head round the corner, to look in the driver’s seat. “I +say,” he began, with difficulty as if his voice was rusty, “I say----” + +“Hel-lo, hel-lo!” the driver suddenly shouted, so that Turgis jumped +back. “What the hel-lo! You give me a start, mate. I must ha’ dropped +off.” + +“I say,” said Turgis, returning to look at him earnestly, “did you +bring somebody here? In there, I mean.” + +“I did,” replied the driver. “And I’m waiting for the party to come +out.” + +“Who was it? I mean, what was he like?” + +The driver pushed forward a wrinkled red face. “Now I should +say--that’s my business. Who d’you think you are, young feller? +Scotland Yard or what?” + +“No, but you see, I happened to be passing, you see,” he hesitated +a moment, “and, well, I work up there--where the light is--in that +office, and I wondered who it was.” + +“Your place--like?” + +“Yes.” Turgis gulped. He felt sick; he was trembling; he couldn’t talk +like this long. “My place, where I work.” + +“I see. Well, matter of fact, there’s two of ’em in there, and I +brought ’em here from a restaurant in Greek Street. There’s a young +lady and a stiffish gent--big moustache. That’s who’s in there, mate. +Now are you satisfied?” + +“Yes--thanks.” + +“’Ere,” said the driver, after a pause, pushing his face over the edge +of his door and staring at Turgis, “’ere, half a minute, boy, what’s +the matter? You’re not crying, are you? Got the jim-jams, boy, or what?” + +But Turgis had disappeared into the dark doorway. + + +V + +The office door was slightly open, so that a thin pencil of light +pointed across the landing. Turgis waited a minute, staring at it from +the shadow. He passed a hand roughly over his wet face. Then, summoning +all the courage left him in the world, he blundered in, almost flinging +himself into the private office beyond. + +“Now who the hell are you?” roared Mr. Golspie, jumping up from his +chair at the table. Somebody gave a scream. It was Miss Matfield, in +the corner. + +“Lena,” said Turgis, choking over the name. + +“Well, I’ll be damned! If it isn’t What’s-his-name--Turgis.” Mr. +Golspie glared at him, and advanced ferociously. “And what the devil +do you want charging in here like this, eh? What’s the game, eh?” + +“Lena. Lena.” + +“Do you mean my daughter, Lena? What are you talking about? What about +her? What the blazes has she got to do with you?” + +“I think--I’ve killed her.” + +“_Killed_ her?” + +“Yes.” And Turgis stumbled to a chair and began sobbing. + +“My God! he’s mad, he’s clean mad,” cried Mr. Golspie to Miss Matfield, +who had risen from her chair and was looking from Turgis to Mr. Golspie +in startled bewilderment. “Here, you, stop that blubbering, and try to +talk sense. What do you know about my daughter, Lena? You’ve never even +set eyes on her.” + +“I have,” cried Turgis, almost indignantly. “I was with her to-night, +in your flat. I’ve been there before. I took some money there +first----” He hesitated. + +“That’s right, he did take some money there,” said Miss Matfield +quickly. “Oh!--I believe it’s true.” + +Mr. Golspie pounced on him at once, clapping a heavy hand on his +shoulder. “Come on, then. What happened? Get it out, quick.” + +Turgis blurted out a few sentences, broken and confused, but they were +quite enough. + +“My God, if she is, I’ll kill _you_. Come on, get up, you--you bloody +little rat, you--we’re going straight into that taxi and we’re going to +see, and you’re coming with us.” + +“But can’t you telephone?” cried Miss Matfield, wildly. + +“Yes, of course--no, I can’t. I knew I’d have thought of it. The rotten +telephone’s out of order--been out of order for two days. Come on, +let’s get away. You turn the lights out, Lilian; I’m going to look +after this fellow. Hurry up, for God’s sake.” + +It was a long long journey. For the first five minutes or so, nothing +was said, but after that Mr. Golspie, out of sheer impatience, began +to ask questions, and piece by wretched piece, he dragged the whole +miserable story out of Turgis, who sat facing him, on one of the +little seats, trembling, afraid every minute that Mr. Golspie was going +to hurl himself across the tiny space at him. His misery was so great, +now that his brain was clearer, that he felt that he would not mind +being killed, but nevertheless Mr. Golspie’s huge violence, repressed +but apparently ready to burst out any moment, terrified him. Miss +Matfield hardly spoke a word the whole time, and when she did it was in +a very soft shaky voice. But she stared at Turgis, and when the lights +flashed in he saw that her face was pale. It never occurred to him to +wonder what she was doing there so late with Mr. Golspie. + +“It just shows you, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie to Miss Matfield. “If +I hadn’t suddenly thought during dinner I ought to slip back there for +quarter of an hour, to tot those figures up to show that chap in the +morning, we’d never have seen this fellow. What were you doing there +anyhow? I don’t know if it’s much good asking you, because you seem to +me wrong in your damned head--but what were you doing there?” + +“I don’t know,” Turgis muttered. “I just went there. I didn’t know +where I was going. I suppose when I got to the City, well, I just went +to Angel Pavement--sort of force of habit.” + +“Another ten minutes and we shouldn’t have been there, and then I +shouldn’t have got back home till twelve. What time is it now? Quarter +past ten, eh? What time did you leave my place?” + +“I don’t know really. I’m all mixed up----” + +“My God!--you are,” said Mr. Golspie bitterly. “And you’re going to be +a worse mix up soon, let me tell you.” + +“I think--it couldn’t have been much after eight--I don’t know, +though--might have been half-past eight.” + +“Nearly two hours--och!” Mr. Golspie groaned. “Here, this fellow’s got +to drive faster than this, or we’ll be all the damned night getting +there.” + +It was horrible stumbling back up that garden path again, going through +the hall and climbing the stairs once more. It was worse inside the +flat. “You go in there and wait, you,” said Mr. Golspie, and gave +him a mighty shove that landed him in the middle of the sitting-room, +which seemed to him now, of all the places he had ever known, the most +horrible, the most closely packed with misery, and the very sight of +its cushions and fancy boxes made him feel sick. Nevertheless, he had +not been there more than a minute before he knew somehow that Lena was +not dead. Then, after a few more minutes, voices came through the open +door behind him, and he turned and crept nearer to it. + +“No, no, no!” cried a voice, and he recognised it at once as that of +the foreign, witch-like old woman who lived downstairs, “she would not +’ave a doctair. I loosen her dress and geef her cognac and do dees +teeng and odair teengs, and ven I say, ‘You ’ave a vairy great shock, +my dee-air, ve call a doctair,’ she say: ‘No, no, no. No doctair.’ Vell +den, eet does not mattair. But I say, ‘You go to bed. Aw, yes, you go +to bed, at vonce, my dee-air.’ And she deed not vant to go to bed, but +I make her go.” + +“Little monkey!” Mr. Golspie rumbled. “Good job you thought something +was up, though, and came in. I’m much obliged. Very grateful. Just take +Miss Matfield here in to her, will you, and I’ll be back in a minute or +two.” + +“Is she all right?” cried Turgis, as Mr. Golspie came into the room. + +“I don’t know about that,” he replied grimly, “but she’s a damned sight +better than she was when you left her lying here, you crazy little +skunk. Come here.” + +“Oh!--thank God!” + +“Come here. You can do your thanking afterwards.” And he grabbed Turgis +by the lapel of his coat and yanked him nearer. “Just listen to me. +There are one or two things I could do to you. To start with, I could +give you such a damned good hiding you’d never want to look at a girl, +never mind put your hands on her, for the next six months. See?” And he +shook Turgis with a sort of menacing playfulness, like a terrier with a +rat. “And while I’m about it, here’s a bit of good advice for you. Keep +away from ’em. You’re not a lady-killer, y’know--though, by God, you +nearly were to-night--and if you take a good look at yourself, you’ll +see why. Drop it. You’re no good at it. And another thing I could do to +you, mister half-starved caveman, is to hand you over to the police. I +could do that all right, couldn’t I?” he demanded, looking sternly at +his wretched prisoner, who, hearing that tone and meeting that look, +had every excuse for not realising that this was the last thing Mr. +Golspie had any idea of doing. + +“Yes, you could, Mr. Golspie,” he replied miserably. He saw himself +marched off, locked in a cell. + +“Well, I’m not going to, not yet, anyhow. But, listen--if I ever set +eyes on you again, I will. If you come within a mile of this place----” + +“Oh, I won’t, I won’t.” And Turgis certainly meant it. + +“And you don’t go back to that office, understand? You don’t go near it +again. Keep right away from it. Keep away from me altogether, see?” + +“Yes, yes, yes,” Turgis gasped, for now Mr. Golspie had stopped shaking +him, but was pulling him backwards through the sitting-room doorway, +almost lifting him bodily with that huge powerful grasp on his coat +shoulder. + +“I don’t ever want to see you again, unless it’s in the dock or the +madhouse,” said Mr. Golspie, throwing open the door of the flat with +one hand while with the other he gave a violent twist and brought +Turgis round in front of him. “The very sight of you turns my stomach, +see? You understand? You’re not going back to that office, and you’re +not coming within a mile of this flat, and you’re going to keep out of +my sight and you’re going to keep your nasty mouth shut, too. You’ve +been lucky to-night, my God you have! But if ever I see you again, +you won’t be lucky. So get out and bloody well stay out. There!” And +Mr. Golspie, spinning him round, released his coat collar, put a hand +in the small of his back, and with a short run and a tremendous heave +sent him sprawling down the stairs. He pitched forward badly, banged +his nose so hard that it bled, and was bruised, but managed to pick +himself up at the bottom and go blindly along the hall to the front +door. + +He waited a minute outside, leaning dizzily against one of the pillars. +The cool darkness rocked round him. In the garden, just by the broken +statue of the boy and the two fishes, he was violently sick. + + +VI + +Nearly all Nathaniel Street was in darkness when he returned there +that night. At No. 5 they were still up, and he could hear them +singing; a rum lot at No. 5. Across the street there was a light or +two and a gramophone going somewhere. But that was all. No. 9 was in +complete darkness; obviously they had all gone to bed, Edgar too, for +when Edgar was out, Mrs. Pelumpton always left a light in the hall +for him, a courtesy she did not extend to her two lodgers, Park and +Turgis. If they were so late, they had to grope. Very, quietly, slowly +and painfully, for he had walked all the way from Maida Vale, partly +because he wanted to arrive late and so avoid any questions, and was +tired out, aching all over, Turgis crawled upstairs to his room at the +top. There he lit the tiny gas mantle, and then sat down on his bed, +resting his head in his hands. + +All his face felt stiff. Laboriously, he removed his soaking shoes, +and was not surprised to find that his socks were wet. He put a match +to the little gas-fire, which exploded with a startling bang in that +stillness. He did not take his socks off, but held out in turn the +sole of each foot towards the gas-fire and watched it steam. He had no +slippers; he was always meaning to buy some, but never did. He stared +at his reflection, holding the cracked little mirror in the wooden +frame near the gaslight. There was a bruise on the ridge of his rather +prominent nose; dried blood caked about the nostrils; a long smear down +one cheek and just above one eyebrow. The eyes, red-rimmed, stared +back at him in despair. In all his life he had never hated himself as +much as he did then. The cracked face in the black wooden frame began +to twitch a little, and he banished it. The water he had used before +going out was still in the basin, and now he soaped his hands in it and +rubbed them over his face, until his eyes smarted. When he had finished +wiping his face, he looked at it again in the mirror, and found that +the smears and dried blood had gone, but that the bruise was more +marked than before. He did not look long. His face, pale and silly, +disgusted him. Going through his pockets, he discovered a crumpled +cigarette and had the first smoke for several hours. He remembered the +last one, when he was on his way to Maida Vale, not five hours ago. Not +five hours ago! A hundred years ago. + +The haze had completely vanished from his mind, leaving a dreadful +clarity. He saw himself quite clearly, and loathed what he saw. He +knew now that Lena was simply a little flirt, who had happened to be +bored, her friends being away, when he first called at the flat with +the money, and had amused herself with him for a few hours because she +had nothing better to do and, for the time being, his obvious worship +entertained her. Then the minute somebody better came along, she had +dropped him at once, and had afterwards been so annoyed that she had +disliked the very sight of him. Now it seemed all quite clear, and +it was unbelievable that he could not see it like that before, that +he could have gone on dreaming away and hanging about to see her and +deluding himself. He did not even hate her now. She simply did not +interest him. + +What did interest him, however, was the figure he cut himself, and that +was what he saw with such terrible clearness. As he sat drooping on +the bed, pulling away mechanically at the last inch of the cigarette, +he put himself through a pitiless cross-examination. How could he ever +have thought that he could make a girl like Lena fall in love with +him, a girl who was pretty, who could meet all kinds of fellows, who +had lived in places like Paris, who had a father with money? The very +thought of Mr. Golspie crushed the last grains of self-respect in him. +What had he, Harold Turgis, been fancying himself for? What was he? +What could he do? What had he got? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Only a +silly face, with a big useless nose and a trembling mouth and eyes +that began to water almost if anybody looked hard at them. He threw the +stump of his cigarette at the dirty saucer in front of the gas-fire, +missed it, and had to go down painfully on his knees and retrieve the +glowing end. + +He returned to the bed and curled up on it, his eyes fixed on some +photographs, cut out of a film weekly, pinned up on the opposite +wall; but he did not see the photographs, for he was staring through +them, through the wall, into the future, a vague darkness, in which +he, a small lonely figure, moved obscurely. His job was gone. He had +finished with Twigg & Dersingham and Angel Pavement. Perhaps they +might have given him a rise soon; he might have had Smeeth’s job and +seven or eight pounds a week before long, a proper home and carpets +and armchairs and a big wireless set of his own; and now it might be +a long time before he got a job as good as the one he had just lost. +What could he do? A bit of typing and clerking, that was all, and +anybody could do that; even girls could do it; some of them, really +educated ones like Miss Matfield (yes, and what had she been doing +with Mr. Golspie?), just as well as he could. And when he had queued +up and looked at advertisements and written letters and trailed round +and waited and got a job at last, what then? What would he get out +of it? Nothing. He saw the world before him with no happiness in it, +only foolish work and weariness, and unnamed fears, a place of jagged +stones, shadows, dim menacing giants. + +Having got so far, he could go no further. A little voice, like that +of some tiny erect indignant figure in a great gloomy assembly, spoke +up now, protesting. It was not right. It was not fair. There had been +a time when it had looked as if everything was going to be quite +different. Something had gone wrong. Where, how had it gone wrong? +He could be happy; he could be as happy as anybody, if only he had +a chance to be; and why hadn’t he a chance to be? Here!--if he’d a +chance, he could be a lot happier than Park or Smeeth or even Mr. +Dersingham--yes, he could! Then why shouldn’t he be? What was wrong? +What _was_ it, what _was_ it? The little voice asked these questions, +but no answer came. No answer. It was as if the erect figure suddenly +collapsed and the gloomy assembly remained untroubled, unstirring. + +It was no good. Every bit of him, from the damp soles of his feet to +his tangled hair (which seemed to have a separate and equally miserable +existence of its own, this night), agreed that it was no good. He stood +up. He looked about him, as if searching the little room in despair +for something to touch, to hold, to cling to, now that the night was +pouring in, through the decayed woodwork of the window frame, through +the cracked mortar and the foul old stone, its malevolent influences, +its beckoning and gibbering ghosts. The calm, the clarity, were gone; +the dream fumes rose and drifted again; but when he moved, he still +moved slowly, as if led here and there by uncertain spectral hands. He +fastened the window tight, and stuffed paper in its various crevices. +The door fitted badly, and he had to stuff more paper, indeed all +the paper he had, between the door and the frame, and then in the +keyhole. He turned off the gas from the tiny mantle, leaving the room +uncertainly illuminated by the gas-fire. For a moment he considered the +dying glow of the mantle. Could he use that gas? If he had a tube he +could, but he hadn’t a tube; and if he turned it on full, it gave out +so little gas that it would be painfully, horribly slow doing anything +to him. No, the gas-fire was the thing. He had only to turn it out now, +wait a minute or two until the burners had cooled, then put a hand +to that tap again, lie on his bed and hear the gas hissing out for a +minute or two, fall asleep and all would be over. + +He sat on the floor, in front of the fire, leaning his elbow against +the side of his bed. Staring at the three twisted glowing pillars of +the fire, he contemplated with sombre satisfaction his approaching +end. It would be painless, that he knew, for he had once talked to a +man in the Pavement Dining Rooms, and this man had a brother who was a +policeman, and this policeman had had a lot of experience with people +who had done it with gas and he gave it as his opinion that they all +passed quietly away in their sleep without a bit of pain and fuss +and worry: it was far easier getting out of the world altogether than +taking a train to the City at Camden Town Tube Station. They would +find him in the morning, peacefully asleep. There would be an inquest +and it would get into the papers. Some of them, Mr. Golspie and Lena, +perhaps, would have to give evidence. Mrs. Pelumpton, too. Had the +deceased been strange in his actions lately, had he something on his +mind? A promising young fellow--would anybody say that? Tragic End, +Young Clerk’s Fatal Romance. Who would be really sorry? Nobody. No, no, +one or two, perhaps a lot of people; you never knew. Poppy Sellers, for +instance; Miss Matfield had said that little Poppy, poor kid, was keen +on him; so that she ought to be sorry, very sorry; perhaps it would be +the great sorrow of her life--“He meant everything to me, that boy. I +worshipped him”--he could hear these, and other heart-broken phrases +from the pictures, coming from a rather vague Poppy Sellers, very pale +and dressed in black. It made him feel sorry himself, and it was the +pleasantest feeling he had had for hours, quite warm and luxuriant. + +“A very sad case, gentlemen,” said the coroner, mournfully. “Here you +have a young man full of promise----” Turgis interrupted him, for +somehow Turgis was there too: “It’s all right saying that _now_,” he +cried to them all, triumphant in his bitterness, “but why didn’t you +do something about it before? It’s too late now, and you know it is. +Too late, too late! Let this,” he continued sternly, “be a warning to +you.” But that was silly. He would be dead and gone. Perhaps he ought +to leave a letter; they usually left letters; but he hated writing +letters, and he knew there was no ink in the room. No, of course, he +hadn’t any ink! He’d nothing! He might as well finish it off now, and +show them all, the rotten swine! + +As he arrived at this savage conclusion, he noticed for the first time +that the three little glowing pillars of the gas-fire were dwindling. +They shrank rapidly until they were nothing but quivering blue blobs +that shot up once and popped, shot up again and popped, then popped out +altogether. No more gas. He hadn’t a shilling, he had only eightpence. +He couldn’t even commit suicide, couldn’t afford it. + +After a short silence, an unusual sound, a most strange sound, a +fantastic and incredible sound, came from the side of the bed and +travelled round the dark little room. It came from Turgis, and he may +have been crying, he may have been laughing, or doing both at once. He +was certainly not committing suicide. + +He made a great deal of noise now. Putting out a hand, quite +instinctively, to the tap of the gas-fire, he touched something hot in +the darkness there, gave a sharp cry, and banged his hand on the floor. +Then he stumbled to the window to pull out the paper, and somehow the +window stuck and he pushed so hard that when it did open, the rotten +old woodwork of the frame partly gave way, and as it suddenly flew +open and the night air rushed in, there was a loud crack. The door was +noisier still. He was determined to get all the paper away, but it was +not easy and he was impatient, and he began pulling away at the knob of +the door until at last the door suddenly swung in and he sat down with +a bump, the knob still in his hand. It was then that he heard sounds +from below, and saw through the open door a light travelling jerkily +upwards. The next minute he was looking at the extraordinary figure of +Mr. Pelumpton, who was standing outside in his nightshirt, holding a +candle. + +“Now let’sh ’ave reashon, let’sh ’ave reashon,” said Mr. Pelumpton +reproachfully. “Bangin’ and knocking the housh about like that! The +mishish thought shomebody was breakin’ in. ’Ave a bit o’ shensh, boy, +jusht ’ave a bit o’ shensh! Can’t go on like that, thish time o’ night. +It’sh all very well going out an’ ’aving a pint or two an’ coming in +late--done it myshelf in me time--but that’sh no reashon for carrying +on like that, ish it? Blesh me shoul!--like a nearthquake, jusht like a +nearthquake. Now jusht get yourshelf to bed quietly, boy, and let other +people shleep even if you can’t.” + +“I’m sorry,” Turgis told him. “It was an accident. I’m all right. I’m +not drunk or anything.” + +“Well, you might be in the ratsh, properly in the ratsh, green +sherpentsh all round you, the way yer going on,” said Mr. Pelumpton +severely, as he withdrew. + +In ten minutes, Turgis was fast asleep. + + +VII + +“Well, we’ll have to see,” said Mrs. Pelumpton dubiously. “That’s what +we’ll have to do, we’ll have to see.” + +Turgis had been trying to explain, without any reference to the real +facts, why he hadn’t gone to the office that Saturday morning, why he +wasn’t going there again, and why he couldn’t immediately pay Mrs. +Pelumpton what he owed her. He had not come down to breakfast until +late, and both Pelumptons were convinced that he had been uproariously +drunk on the previous night, when he had made all that noise. + +“I’m sure they’ll let me have this fortnight’s money all right, Mrs. +Pelumpton,” he told her. “And then I’ll settle up at once, before I do +anything else.” + +Mrs. Pelumpton stopped bustling about for a minute, stood and looked at +him, making herself as compact as possible, so that she seemed exactly +square from the front; and suddenly said in a startlingly deep voice: +“Will you promise me one thing?” + +Turgis said he would. He was ready to promise anything to her. + +“Well, it’s this. Promise me to keep right off the drink this next week +or two.” + +“I promise,” he replied promptly. Two glasses of bitter a week were +usually enough for him at any time. The Pelumptons were positive, +however, that he had been drinking heavily for weeks. Mr. Pelumpton, a +beer man himself, said that whisky made you look and behave like that, +if you could only get enough of it. + +“In or out of work, that ’abit’s bad,” Mrs. Pelumpton continued. “But +far, far worse it is, out of work. Keep off it for a bit. Don’t touch a +drop. I’m not one of these prohibiters and temperancers--though I did +sign the pledge when I was a girl, but then I wouldn’t ’ave touched +a drop then anyhow, didn’t like the taste of it--but I do say that a +young feller like yourself who’s going to ’ave to look for a job is +better without a single drop, if only for the sake of not being smelt.” + +“I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Pelumpton,” said Turgis, who was hoping +that this good advice meant that she was willing to let him stay on +while he was looking for another job. + +“I know I am. And what’s just ’appened--’cos you can talk about +business until you’re blue in the face, but you won’t make me believe +you haven’t got into trouble with your little goings-on lately and +that’s why they’ve given you the sack--but I say, what’s just ’appened +ought to be a lesson. You can’t afford it and you ’aven’t got the ’ead +for it, so you’ve just got to let the booze alone. Pa can’t afford it, +but I will say ’e’s got the ’ead for it. You ’aven’t. That’s why it’s a +lesson. Promise me that, and I’ll let you run on a bit, paying me what +you can, while you’re out of a job. We’ve got to live and let live in +these times, and I will say that up to lately you’ve been as quiet and +reg’lar paying a young chap as I’ve ever let to. And just you keep on +Pa’s right side too, for ’e won’t like it, being in business himself +you might say and a bit of a stickler, but I’ve got a softer nature +and I’m not for turning a young chap out just ’cos he’s got his bit of +trouble and can’t pay all he’s agreed to pay----” + +“Thanks very much, Mrs. Pelumpton,” said Turgis warmly. + +“--For a few weeks anyhow,” she added cautiously. + +Turgis thanked her again, but with considerable less warmth this time. +It might be more than any few weeks before he saw another three pounds +a week or anything like it, and the way Mrs. Pelumpton talked before +she said that, he had imagined she was ready to let him stay on for +months. Still, a few weeks were something. He had dreaded telling her +that he had lost his job, had not even got this fortnight’s money, +and would have to keep her waiting. He felt a bit better now that he +had told her, but nevertheless he was still feeling pretty miserable. +He wondered what was happening in the office, whether Mr. Golspie +had explained to Mr. Dersingham what had occurred last night, whether +they would send his money on to him, whether they would give him a +reference. He had exactly eightpence now and he wanted a cigarette +badly this morning. It was no use, he would have to have a smoke. So +he went down the road for a packet of ten gaspers, and then decided to +go and look at some advertisements of jobs and perhaps have a peep at +the Labour Exchange. It was one of those uncomfortable streaky days, a +minute or two of sunshine, then clouds and a bitter east wind. It was +miserable walking about in it with just twopence in your pocket, no +job, a terrifying Mr. Golspie (with possible police) somewhere about, +and no hope in any direction. When he saw the Labour Exchange, he was +sorry he had gone that way, for the very look of it made him feel still +more wretched. He hated Labour Exchanges. + +It was late when he had dinner, and when it was over and Mrs. Pelumpton +was washing and tidying up in that despairing fury at which she always +arrived on Saturday, Mr. Pelumpton returned from the pub down the +road, immensely oracular, and insisted on talking to Turgis for the +next hour. This time Turgis was compelled to stay there and listen, +for already he was beginning to feel that he was there on sufferance. +Moreover, with only twopence in his pocket, and an east wind blowing +outside, he was better off there than he would be anywhere else. +Something must have told Mr. Pelumpton this, for he never took his dim +boiled eyes off Turgis, and droned on and on, sometimes touching on +the dusty mysteries of “dealing,” sometimes offering ridiculous good +advice. It was awful. Turgis sat there, steadily hating the old bore. +“That’s right, Mr. Pelumpton,” he would say, with dreary politeness, +adding to himself: “You silly old devil, you ought to give those +whiskers of yours a good wash and brush up.” But there was not much +satisfaction in that. + +At about half-past three, Mr. Pelumpton’s steady flow was suddenly +checked. Somebody was at the front door. Mrs. Pelumpton immediately +made a dramatic appearance from nowhere, crying, “You go and see, Pa. +It might be Maggie,” and then waited, tense, with lifted brows and open +mouth, while Pa shuffled out of the room and along the hall. + +“Yersh, that’sh right,” they heard him say. “Come inshide. Jusht a +minute.” And then he came shuffling back, so maddeningly deliberate +that his wife’s eyes began rolling round with sheer impatience. “Is it +Mrs. Foster?” she cried. + +“No, it ishn’t Mishish Foshter,” he replied, with dignity. He looked at +Turgis. “It’sh a young lady from your offish who’sh been shent to shee +you.” + +“Take her in the front,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, before Turgis could get +out of the room. + +It was little Poppy Sellers, and Turgis took her into the front; which +only made it all the more queer, for he hardly ever went into that +room. It was used only on the most special occasions, and for about +three hundred and sixty days of the year it remained a shrouded and +mysterious chamber. It housed, behind faded lace curtains, some of Mr. +Pelumpton’s best bargains in “pieshesh,” a piano with a pleated silk +front, two armchairs that were very shiny and plushy, half a bearskin +rug, several books in one glass case, dozens of butterflies in another +case, two real oil paintings of waterfalls, and a fine collection of +shells, glass paper-weights, wool mats, marble ash-trays, and souvenirs +of all the South-Eastern seaside resorts. Above the mantelpiece, and +flanked by two tall mirrors that had storks painted on them, Mrs. +Pelumpton’s father, so immensely enlarged in sepia that at a first +glance he seemed to be a generous view of the Alps, stared down in +mild astonishment. The air inside this room was quite different from +that of the rest of the house; it did not smell of food at all; it was +unlived-in, chilly, with hints of wool and varnish in it. There was a +large paper fan in the fireplace, and immediately the two human beings +entered the room, a host of indignant specks ran down the folds of this +fan, making a queer little flicker of movement and sound in that dim +quiet place. + +“I’ve brought your money,” said Poppy, bringing an envelope out of her +scarlet handbag. She was very smart, this afternoon, in a black and +white check coat, a hat nearly the same colour as her handbag, a yellow +scarf with red dots in it, and dark silky stockings and shiny black +shoes. Not the Japanese style this time--more French. She looked well +in that front parlour, sitting in one of the plushy armchairs. “Yes, +this is it,” she continued, handing it over. “I think you’ll find that +all right. Mr. Smeeth said somebody had better take it, and I said I +would, ’cos I have a cousin that lives up here, in Bartholomew Road, +and I sometimes come up here, so I said I didn’t mind bringing it, ’cos +I know the district, even if I do live a long way off, and I hadn’t +anything special to do to-day.” She rattled this off very quickly, as +if it were a set piece she had rehearsed a good many times on the way. + +“Thanks very much,” said Turgis. Recent events had left him with an +imagination that was capable of leaping into life very suddenly. It +leaped now. Here was Poppy Sellers bringing his money to him just as +he had taken the money to Lena Golspie. She had been ready with a good +excuse just as he had. This thought did not immediately pluck him out +of his despondency, but it certainly made him feel several inches +taller at once. Besides, the kid had made herself look so neat and +smart, quite pretty in fact. + +“Aren’t you well?” she asked him, looking at him very earnestly. + +“I’m not too bright,” he admitted. “Matter of fact, I’ve been a bit off +colour for some time. Nothing much, y’know. Nerves, really, that’s what +it is. I’m one of those highly strung people I am.” + +“You look pale, and you’ve got a mark on your nose, haven’t you?” She +examined his face in that special detached way that all women seem to +have at times, looking at your face as if it was not part of you, but +something you were showing them, like a picture or a piece of china. +Then she nodded wisely at it. “I believe something’s been up. Here, +listen,” she continued eagerly, “something’s happened, hasn’t it? I +mean, you’re not coming back, are you?” + +Turgis admitted sadly that he was not. + +“I’ve been puzzling and puzzling my head about it,” she told him, a +mounting excitement in her face and voice. “When you didn’t come this +morning, Mr. Smeeth said you must be ill, and he wasn’t surprised. +And I thought so, too. And Miss Matfield didn’t say anything, and I +thought she looked a bit queer, as if she knew something. She does, +too, I’m sure, though I don’t know what. She doesn’t tell me much--bit +stand-offish, you know, though she’s nice, she really is--but she knows +a lot, and something’s been going on with her some time, if you ask me. +But, anyhow, Mr. Golspie came in, later on, and he was talking to Mr. +Dersingham, and then they sent for Mr. Smeeth, and after a bit, Mr. +Smeeth came back and said later on, y’know, just trying to be ordinary +like, as if nothing special had happened, that you weren’t coming back. +I knew all the time there was something funny about it. And I didn’t +see how they’d told you, ’cos you didn’t know last night, did you? +Course it’s not my business, I know,” she added, with a wistful note, +“but I couldn’t help wondering. And I’m sorry, too.” + +“You’re sorry I’m not coming back?” + +“Yes, I am,” she declared, tightening her lips, nodding, then looking +him full in the face. “I don’t care what anybody says--I am.” + +“I’m sorry, too. Can’t be helped, I suppose. I’ve been in trouble.” His +voice trembled slightly as a wave of self-pity swept over him. + +She kept her eyes fixed on his, and they were dark and round. “Did +you--do something?” + +He nodded. Already, even in this nod, there was a certain gloomy +romantic suggestion. + +“Course you needn’t tell me if you don’t want,” she said hastily, “but +p’r’aps you’d like to, ’cos I’m not trying to poke my nose in--it’s +not that--but I’d reelly, reelly, like to know--’cos--well, it doesn’t +seem a bit fair, turning you off like that, and I said so this morning. +You’ve always done your work all right, and you knew a lot about it, +didn’t you? I’m sure you’ve helped me a lot, and I don’t care who knows +it. And I said so straight out. I spoke up for you. They can say what +they like about me, but I do stick up for my friends and anybody I +like.” Then she lowered her voice. “You didn’t take something, did you?” + +“D’you mean--pinch some money?” + +“Yes,” she replied, looking down at her brilliant handbag. + +“I should think I didn’t. Nothing like that. It wasn’t anything to do +with Twigg and Dersingham’s at all. It was something--quite different.” + +“I see.” She ran a finger up and down the bag. Nothing was said for a +minute. As the room, chill and shuttered, waited for somebody to speak, +there stole into it all the Saturday afternoon noises of Nathaniel +Street, but all faint, muffled. Mrs. Pelumpton’s father stared down at +them with mild astonishment. Turgis, sitting up in the other armchair, +tapped a foot, and a few more specks stirred in the paper fan. This +front room made him feel miserable, hopeless. He looked at the girl, +and though she was so quiet now, she seemed delightfully vivid, warm, +alive, human. He did not tell himself that, but he felt it. + +“Well, I suppose,” she began, grasping her bag properly and making a +movement of her body. + +“Listen, I’ll tell you what happened,” he said quickly. + +“You needn’t if you don’t want, y’know.” + +He did want. He told her almost the whole story, as he saw it then, and +he did not see it then quite as he had seen it when he had returned +in abject misery to his room the previous night. It took on a certain +romantic colouring, and, as the history of a poor, virtuous, infatuated +young man and a rich, wicked syren, it was not unlike a good many +films that both the narrator and his hearer had seen and admired. She +listened enthralled, exclaiming now and then, her eyes round with +wonder. + +Her first question, when he had done, was about Lena. What was she +like, and did he still think she was as pretty as all that? This was +not an easy question to answer, for he had to convey the impression +that Lena was immensely seductive and at the same time to suggest that +she had no further attraction for him. But he contrived to answer it, +a trifle awkwardly, perhaps, but he satisfied Poppy. + +“Course you never ought to have done that,” she cried, thinking of his +terrible assault upon the jeering “vamp.” The glance she gave him, +however, had more wonder and awe in it than disgust. It made him feel +that he was not a man to be trifled with. “That was awful, that was. +You didn’t reelly know what you were doing at the time, did you?” + +“That’s it. I didn’t. Nerves, y’know. Highly strung. A sort of madness, +it was. Can’t imagine now how I did it, ’cos I’ve never been that sort +of chap, though, mind you, I’ve always had a temper if I got properly +roused. Still, I don’t know how I came to do it, I don’t, really I +don’t. Must have been properly mad at the time. Seems strange now, I +can tell you, ’cos I don’t feel anything about it now, nothing at all.” + +“Well, I don’t say you ought to have done it, ’cos you oughtn’t, +and it’s turned out lucky the way it has.” She had a moment of real +distress, imagining how it might have turned out. Then she went on to +consider other aspects of the matter. “But I must say she very near +deserved it, whatever happened, going on the way she did.” She had +throughout shown the greatest indignation with Lena. “Horrible, I call +it. Some girls haven’t any real feelings at all. Girl I know--she lives +near us, and she’s one of these manicurists--she’s just the same. +Treats boys and talks about them, too, in the most awful way. If they +only heard what she said about them, they’d never look at her again. +She’s asking for trouble too, and she’ll get it before long, and it’ll +serve her right--I haven’t a bit of sympathy for her. I wouldn’t behave +to a boy like that, I don’t care who he was, not if I’d never liked him +at all and he was always follering me round and all that. And look at +the way she went and encouraged you at first, making herself as cheap +as anything--that ought to have told you, but of course boys can never +see that.” + +“I can see it now,” said Turgis, with the air of a man purged and +purified by great suffering, a pale romantic figure. + +“Boys haven’t a bit of sense like that,” she cried indignantly. “And +you were just as silly as the rest, in that business. Mind you, I can +see there’s a good excuse for you, ’cos a girl like that, with her +father so well off and able to have all the clothes she wants and make +herself look nice all the time--course you think it’s all natural, +her looking like that, but it’s having the money and nothing else to +do that does it--well, there is some excuse, and I admit it. Fancy +you going on with Mr. Golspie’s daughter like that! And I never knew! +Doesn’t it just show you?” + +Undoubtedly it did. They continued a little longer, dramatically and +not unpleasantly, in this strain, and then Miss Sellers asked what +time it was, and Turgis, instead of telling her the time, said: “Just +a minute. Don’t go. I want to give my landlady some of this money, and +I’d rather not keep her waiting for it. I’ll be back in half a minute.” + +Mrs. Pelumpton, who was making tea, was very pleased to see the money. + +“This young lady works in the same office, you see,” Turgis explained, +“and they sent her up with it. We’ve been having a good talk about all +the business and all that.” + +“Quite so,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, affably but with dignity, as if the +very presence of a strange member of her own sex in the house, even +though not in the same room, made her put on a special manner, affable, +dignified, ladylike. “Perhaps the young lady would like a cup of tea, +with yourself--that is, if she cares to take us as she finds us?” + +“Thanks very much, Mrs. Pelumpton,” cried Turgis. “I’ll go and ask her.” + +Miss Sellers was easily persuaded to abandon a projected visit to +her cousin in Bartholomew Road, and stayed to tea, during which +she and Mrs. Pelumpton discovered, after a great deal of elaborate +cross-questioning, that Miss Sellers and her sister had actually +stayed for a week in a boarding-house at Clacton that had been kept, +three years before they went there, by Mrs. Pelumpton’s sister, whom +therefore, they had only missed meeting by two years and ten months. +Delighted to discover once more they were living in a world so small, +so cosy, Miss Sellers and Mrs. Pelumpton were very pleased with one +another. After tea, when the Pelumptons were out of the way, Turgis, +though still the same young man, without prospects, without hope, +actually went to the length of indulging in that mysterious badinage +which is the signal of sexual attraction and interest among the young +inarticulate creatures of this country. “What d’you mean?” they cried +to one another. “Oh, I don’t mean what _you_ mean!” + +Then, at the end of half an hour or so of this, “Well, I _half_ +promised to see a girl friend to-night.” + +“Oh, well, don’t bother,” he told her. “She can do without you, can’t +she, just for to-night?” + +“Just for to-night, eh? Well, can’t you do without me too, Mister +Cheeky?” + +“No, I can’t. I want somebody to cheer me up.” + +“Oh, that’s it, is it? Thanks for the compliment. Anybody will do, eh?” + +“No, I didn’t say that. You know I didn’t.” + +“Well, you meant it.” + +“No, I didn’t. Reelly, I didn’t. Come on. What d’you say?” + +“All right then,” she said, turning her perky little head on one side +and smiling. Then she looked serious. “Listen, though. If we do go, +I must pay for myself. Yes, I must. I believe in that,” she added +earnestly, as if she had thought about it for years and had not just +invented this rule for herself, knowing only too well that he would be +hard up in the near future and that every extra shilling would make a +great difference. “I’ll come if you’ll let me pay for myself. There +now!” + +As they walked down Nathaniel Street, they decided that it must be one +of the big West End picture theatres, but could not settle which it +should be, and argued pleasantly about it, and she pretended to care +more about it than she actually did and he pretended to care less; +she was the eager, excited, imploring female, and he was the large, +knowing, tolerant, protective male. Out in the smoky blue and gold of +the lighted streets, they were more at ease than they had been in the +house. Already they may have felt that they were going further together +now than the way to the remotest picture theatre could take them. +Perhaps this was the best day’s work in one or other of their lives; +perhaps the worst. Saturday night: the children of the pavements and +chimney-pots came pouring out, seeking adventure, entertainment, profit +or forgetfulness in the vast impersonal thunder and glare of the city; +and soon these two were lost in the crowd. + + + + +_Chapter Eleven_: THEY GO HOME + + +I + +It was coming to a close like any other Friday afternoon. They were +short-handed, for though the new boy, Gregory Thorpe from Hatcham, +S.E., a lad with a singularly long face and spectacles, far more +conscientious than Stanley but not so engaging, had been with them +since Monday, Turgis had been absent since Monday too, and his place +had not yet been filled. Fortunately, they had not been very busy this +last day or two; the rush of a few weeks before appeared to be over +now; Mr. Golspie had not been near the office since Tuesday, and had +not sent in any new orders; and the next Anglo-Baltic boat was not due +in until the following Monday; so that things were easier. Even without +Turgis, they were getting through the work at the usual pace. Mr. +Smeeth, glancing round over the top of his desk, thought they ought to +have finished in another half-hour or three-quarters. He would get away +about six, have his tea in comfort, with plenty of time to spare before +the concert began. He was going to hear that symphony by Brahms, the +same symphony he had heard before, the one that suddenly and gloriously +broke into Ta _tum_ ta ta _tum_ tum. Another orchestra was playing +it this time. It was lucky that the advertisement of the concert had +caught his eye: Brahms’ Symphony No. 1. He had been looking forward +all the week to hearing that symphony again, especially to that moment +when the great melody would come sweeping out of the strings again. +He had tried to remember it for weeks and weeks, and then suddenly it +had returned to him--Ta _tum_ ta ta _tum_ tum. Brahms might be as +classical and highbrow as they said he was (and Mr. Smeeth had been +making a few inquiries), but the fact remained that the thought of his +first symphony, that dark but splendid adventure, now warmed the heart +of Herbert Norman Smeeth. Ta _tum_ ta ta _tum_ tum--but no, he must get +on with his work, finish off and see that the others were finishing off +too. + +“Miss Matfield, have you anything for Mr. Dersingham to sign? Have you, +Miss Sellers? Take them in now if you have.” + +Mr. Dersingham was in the private office. He had been there most of +the day. This was unusual, and rather queer because Mr. Dersingham did +not appear to be very busy. He seemed to be waiting for something or +somebody. Several times during the afternoon, when the outer door had +opened, Mr. Smeeth had heard Mr. Dersingham come out of the private +office, as if he could not bear to wait an extra half minute or so. He +seemed to be jumpy, too, about telephone calls. Very unusual, rather +queer, not like Mr. Dersingham. Mr. Smeeth came to the conclusion that +it must be some private business, and therefore no affair of his. + +“Now where’s that letter from Poppett and Sons?” he demanded. “It +was on this desk an hour ago, I’ll swear. It’s a letter about their +account, and I told one of you this morning we’d have to answer it +to-day. It was you, wasn’t it, Miss Sellers? Well, have you taken their +letter away, then? Just see if you have. Yes, there you are--that’s it. +Bring it here and I’ll answer it now. Poppett and Sons, Poppett and +Sons,” Mr. Smeeth repeated idly as he re-read their letter. “Ye-es. +Are you ready? No, half a minute, though--my mistake. I’ll have to +check that figure. Fi-ifty-fo-our pounds, thi-irte-een shillings--yes, +yes, that’s all right. Now then----” and here Mr. Smeeth adjusted his +eyeglasses and cleared his throat, giving a faintly pompous little +cough. Even now, the thought that he, Herbert Norman Smeeth, was +sitting there, a cashier, dictating letters to this firm and that, gave +him a thrill. “--er--We are in receipt of your--er--communication--put +the date in there, Miss Sellers--respecting our statement of account +dated so-and-so--and beg to point out that this account was quite in +order. You asked us to send down the goods by special road delivery +and agreed that the extra carriage, paid by us, should be added to our +account--no, just a minute--extra carriage, which had to be paid by us +in the first place, should be charged to you, and this we accordingly +did. We refer you to your letter--I have a note of that letter--ah! +here it is--to your letter of the 4th of December last----” + +Mr. Smeeth rounded off his letter and Miss Sellers hurried it away to +her machine. Miss Matfield, who appeared to be in a great hurry, pulled +a sheet of paper out of her typewriter with one fine sweep of the hand, +and then furiously tidied a little pile of typewritten sheets. The new +boy, Gregory, laboriously worked away at his letter copying, with the +air of a man engaged in not very hopeful bacterial research. It was +wearing away like any other Friday afternoon. There was nothing to +suggest that it might blow up any minute, unless the unusual activities +of Mr. Dersingham, who appeared to be moving uneasily now in the +private office, were considered to be fantastically significant. + +“Who was that?” Mr. Smeeth asked, after several doors had banged and +Gregory had returned from behind the frosted glass partition. + +“I think it was a telegraph boy, sir,” replied Gregory sadly. + +“How d’you mean--you _think_ it was?” + +“Mr. Dersingham was there, sir. He got there first, and he was holding +the door open and taking something, so I couldn’t see who it was +properly. I only saw an arm, and it looked like a telegraph boy. You +see what I mean about the door, sir? It comes back, inside, when it +opens, and Mr. Dersingham was holding it with one hand, and so the door +was in the way, you see----” + +“Yes, yes, yes, I see. No need to make such a song about it, boy.” +There was a sad earnestness about this new boy that had been rather +impressive at first, but now it only irritated Mr. Smeeth. He liked a +boy to be conscientious with his work, but this one was too dolefully +dutiful. You could not even relieve your feelings by telling him +sharply to get on with his work, because he never stopped doing +something, toiling away like a spectacled young sheep. Mr. Smeeth +wished now he had chosen a brighter boy, even if the lad would have +larked about a bit. + +“Smeeth. Smeeth.” + +“Yes, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth called back, frowning a little. He +did not like to be summoned in this fashion, by a shout from the door +of the private office; it was not dignified. He hurried in, however, +for Mr. Dersingham sounded as if he had something important he wanted +to say. + +“Shut the door, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, who did not look so pink +and cheerful as usual. “Oh, look here--have they nearly finished out +there?” + +“Just clearing up, sir.” + +“All right, then,” said Mr. Dersingham wearily. “Have I signed +everything? Tell ’em to let me have everything that must go off +to-night, will you? I want ’em to clear out, and leave us alone. Do +that now. Just get them to finish up as quick as possible.” + +Wondering, rather apprehensive now, Mr. Smeeth bustled to and fro +with letters to be signed, hurried on Miss Sellers and the boy, and +in ten minutes had everything signed, copied, sealed up, and stamped. +“Yes, yes,” he told them, “that’ll be all. You can go now. That’s +right. Good-night, Miss Matfield. What’s that? Yes, I remember. Mr. +Dersingham said you could have to-morrow morning off, didn’t he? Off +for the week-end, eh? Lucky to be some people, Miss Matfield. Yes, yes, +quite all right. Good-night. Good-night, Miss Sellers. And--what’s +your name--Gregory, don’t forget you’ve got three registereds there; +bring me the receipts in the morning. No, that’ll do. Good-night, +good-night.” He returned to the private office. “All finished now, Mr. +Dersingham. Yes, all gone.” + +“All right, Smeeth. Bring the order book in, then the other books. +Bring the order book in first.” + +It looked as if he was going to have a little stock-taking and general +survey of the business, a very wise thing to do too, now and again. +Mr. Smeeth hoped that he would not be kept long, but otherwise he was +quite pleased and proud, for there was nothing he liked better than +these confidential talks about the business, and he was glad to see +that Mr. Dersingham was taking himself seriously now as the head of a +very flourishing little concern. + +“Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Dersingham?” he said, when he had brought +in all the books. + +Mr. Dersingham gave a short laugh, and it was a very unpleasant sound. +It startled Mr. Smeeth. + +“Everything’s wrong, Smeeth, every damned thing, unless you can see a +way out. Sit down, man, sit down. We’re going to be hours and hours on +this job.” + +Mr. Smeeth sat down, staring at him. + +“Golspie’s cleared out,” Mr. Dersingham continued, “and he’s done us +in, absolutely done us in. Oh, the rotten swine! God, I was a fool to +trust that chap a yard! I ought to have known, I ought to have known. +And now he’s gone. I rushed up to that flat of his in Maida Vale at +lunch time, hoping to catch him in and have it out with him, but he’d +gone--at least, the maid said he had, and it was only a furnished place +he’d taken, and she’d been taken over with it, so I suppose she wasn’t +lying about it. He’s going abroad, if he isn’t already gone. Clearing +out properly, the rotten crook! This isn’t the only dirty game he’s +been playing here, if you ask me. I always thought he had a few more +irons in the fire besides his work here. He never spent more than half +his time with our business. But he’s had plenty of time to do us down.” +He was out of his chair now, kicking a ball of crumpled paper about the +room. + +“But what’s happened, Mr. Dersingham? I thought you knew he might leave +us. You told me so a week or two ago, and you said you were getting him +to sign an agreement, when he drew all that forward commission, so that +you would have the agency.” + +“Oh, we’ve got the agency all right,” cried Mr. Dersingham, with great +bitterness. “No mistake about that. Only it’s not worth having now, +that’s all. Mikorsky’s have raised all their prices. They say it’s +owing to the increased cost of their new process and to some labour +troubles and to some new government tax--oh, they’ve got all kinds of +reasons, and they may be true and they may not, but the fact remains +they’ve raised all their prices. They’re all up fifty and sixty and +even seventy per cent.” + +“As much as that? Good Lord, Mr. Dersingham, that’s a ridiculous +advance. It makes them as dear as the most expensive of the old firms +we were dealing with before, doesn’t it? I see, now.” + +“No, you don’t see, you don’t see at all yet,” Mr. Dersingham yelled at +him. “It’s a lot worse than that. Look at that telegram. Just look at +it.” + +“I don’t understand this, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, after carefully +reading the telegram. “Why did they send it?” + +“They sent it because I’d wired to them asking if what Golspie had +written to me was true. I thought he might have been bluffing, just out +of devilish spite. But he wasn’t. They’re all in league together, of +course, if you want my opinion, just a lot of rotten foreign swindlers +with this chap Golspie the worst of the lot.” + +“I’m sorry, Mr. Dersingham. I can see it’s a bad business. But I don’t +quite get the hang of it yet. They can’t have raised their prices +already.” + +“My God!--that’s just what they have done, and that filthy telegram +confirms it.” Mr. Dersingham banged it so hard with his fist that he +hurt his hand. Then he became quieter and sat down again. “I’m getting +too excited. Sorry I yelled like that, Smeeth, though it’s enough to +make any man shout his head off. I’ll explain. I got a letter from +Golspie this morning, saying that he was clearing out. Here, you can +read it for yourself.” + +Mr. Smeeth read it through twice. It pretended to be an ordinary +business letter, but there was a good deal of unpleasant irony in it. +One phrase, which practically said that Mr. Dersingham had tried to +sneak the agency for himself and had not succeeded, made Mr. Smeeth +look up and ask a question. “Did you really write to those people and +try to get the agency yourself, sir?” he asked. + +Mr. Dersingham nodded. + +Mr. Smeeth hesitated a moment. “I don’t think you ought to have done +that, sir,” he said finally, respectful but reproachful. + +“That’s my business, Smeeth.” + +Mr. Smeeth looked down and remained silent. Neither of them spoke for a +minute or two, and the room was strangely quiet. + +“Oh well,” cried Mr. Dersingham, struggling with his embarrassment, +“perhaps I oughtn’t to. As it’s turned out, it was a bad move. But I +wasn’t really trying anything underhand, y’know, Smeeth. It wasn’t as +if I was trying to take a fellow’s living away from him, working behind +his back. I know it might look a bit like that, to anybody who didn’t +know the circumstances, but it wasn’t. This chap Golspie was obviously +one of these here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow fellows--didn’t make any +secret of it, boasted of it--and I never liked the look of him and I +didn’t know what tricks he might be up to. He came here, made use of +our connection with the trade and our organisation and everything and +drew a heavy commission, as you know, and all the time he walked about +the place as if he owned it. As I told you before, I couldn’t stand +the chap--a terrible bounder. I tried to be as friendly as possible +at first, but it wouldn’t work. And my wife took a strong dislike to +him--she only met him once, but you know what women are, and she saw +what he was in five minutes--and she was always telling me to have +nothing more to do with him, to get rid of him. So I just wrote a +confidential letter to Mikorsky’s, saying it would pay them to have the +agency properly in the hands of a wholesale firm here like ours, and +that the--er--present arrangement wasn’t really satisfactory to them or +to us either, and that they ought to consider it. All in confidence, +mind. That was just before he went over there, and of course they told +him all about it. I didn’t know they were friends of his. I thought +they had an ordinary business agreement, and I considered I was +entitled to suggest another business agreement, leaving Golspie out.” + +“Yes, I see that,” said Mr. Smeeth, still a little doubtful. “And I +suppose they told him then, and that’s what put his back up?” + +“Oh, they did that, but I think he’d been ready to play any dirty +little trick right from the first. He isn’t a gentleman--never looked +like one--and he isn’t even an ordinary decent business man. He’s +just an adventurer, trying his hand at anything for tuppence. No +wonder he never stopped anywhere long--too crooked! But you see what +he says there, that he encloses a little document that had--what is +it?--escaped his memory. Well, there’s the little document, there--that +statement of Mikorsky’s, dated when he was there, raising all the +prices. There’s the full list of ’em--up fifty to seventy per cent.” + +“But--but,” Mr. Smeeth stammered, as he looked at this list, “we can’t +be expected to pay these prices. We’ve already bought heavily on the +old prices.” + +“Have we? Golspie did the buying, and I can’t find any acknowledgment +from them.” + +“Well, can’t we cancel the last orders then, Mr. Dersingham? I never +heard of such a thing. It’s not reasonable. Here their prices have +been up for weeks and weeks, and we’ve been thinking we were buying at +the old rates. They can’t force us to take the stuff at these prices, +surely.” + +“I don’t know. That side of it doesn’t matter, anyhow. The point is, +Smeeth--don’t you see?--whether we’ve bought the stuff or not, we’ve +_sold it_.” + +Mr. Smeeth did see; he saw with fatal clearness; and his dismay must +have been written on his face. + +“Yes,” Mr. Dersingham continued, “we’ve sold it, stacks and stacks of +it, thousands of square feet, big orders, Smeeth, big orders, all those +orders we paid Golspie that commission on. You might well look like +that. I’ve been feeling like that all day, even though I still hoped +there might be a mistake--before that telegram came.” + +“But, Mr. Dersingham--it’s--it’s ruination, sheer ruination.” + +“And it’s damnably, damnably unfair, Smeeth. We’ve simply been +swindled. Listen, d’you think there’s any chance of us getting all +those orders cancelled here?” + +Mr. Smeeth thought for a minute, then slowly shook his head. “We’ve +undertaken to deliver the stuff, Mr. Dersingham, and there’s no getting +out of that. I mean to say, if our customers say ‘We want it,’ then +they’ll have to have it and they can compel us to let them have it at +the price we sold it, or compel us to go out of business. No argument +about that at all, sir.” + +“What I’m wondering is this, Smeeth. It’s not our fault this has +happened. I mean to say, it’s not the ordinary case of selling the +stuff before you’ve bought it, hoping for a fall in prices, and then +getting nipped because the price goes up when you have to deliver +the stuff. It’s nothing like that, you see. We’ve been let down by +sheer rotten trickery. Not our fault at all. Now I’m wondering if our +customers would agree to cancel the orders if I explained the situation +to them, told them straight out that Golspie was a wrong ’un and we’ve +been let down. It’s worth trying, isn’t it? Where’s that order book? I +want to see who are about the biggest buyers of these last lots that I +can get hold of at once. What about Brown and Gorstein? They’re not far +away.” + +“And they’ve bought as much as anybody,” said Mr. Smeeth. “We’ve a lot +to deliver to them. You might get hold of Mr. Gorstein.” + +“I’ll ring up and see if he’s there.” And while he waited, receiver in +hand, he added: “Jot down what Brown and Gorstein have bought, will +you, Smeeth?” By the time Mr. Smeeth had done this, Mr. Dersingham had +learned that Gorstein was still there and was willing to see him at +once. “I’ll go over at once,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I’ll just tell my +wife first not to expect me back in a hurry. I believe we were going +out to play bridge with somebody. My hat!--I feel as much like playing +bridge to-night as I do like--like--spinning tops.” + +When the other had finished his telephoning, Mr. Smeeth had the +order book and some paper in front of him. “While you’re there, Mr. +Dersingham, I’ll try and work out the whole thing on the new prices.” + +“I was going to tell you to do that,” said Mr. Dersingham, as he took +down his hat and coat. “Get it all worked out while I’m up at Brown and +Gorstein’s. God!--we’re in a mess. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” + +Left to himself, Mr. Smeeth did not think. He refused to think. He +applied himself sternly to the task before him, and for the next +quarter of an hour never looked up from his books and his calculations. +He was not Herbert Norman Smeeth, but simply the master of the neat +little figures, and he added and subtracted and multiplied them without +letting his mind wander away from their austere but calculable world, +in which he had spent so many pleasant hours. He had plenty to do. All +the orders of the last few weeks, back to the early part of December, +in fact, had to be estimated on the basis of these new prices, and he +had to add the usual costs and then the commission already paid to +Golspie. He did it with his usual neatness, accuracy, thoroughness, +producing a statement that could be understood at a glance. At the end +of quarter of an hour, the telephone rang and disturbed him, but it was +not a call for them. Mechanically, then, he filled his pipe, and spent +a minute or two listening idly to the various sounds that came from the +steps outside, from Angel Pavement, from the City beyond, a sort of +vague symphony, and the only one, it seemed, that he would hear that +night. He put his pipe in his mouth unlit, and bent over his figures +again. Time slipped away as the totals mounted up on the statement, +and soon half an hour had gone. He turned now to other books, to the +general financial side of the matter, estimating what they had in hand +and what was due to them. + +Mr. Dersingham came bursting in, large and active, but a figure of +misery. “It’s no use, Smeeth. We’re absolutely done.” + +“What did Mr. Gorstein say?” + +“I told them as much as I could, and they laughed at me, they did, +honestly they did, they just laughed at me. Pretended not to, +pretended to be very sympathetic and all that, but I knew. That fellow +Gorstein’s another rotter, if you ask me. Very sorry and all that, hard +luck on us, but of course they’d bought what we’d offered them, and +they’d undertaken to supply _their_ customers and made contracts on +what they’d bought from us, and we’d have to deliver, and no nonsense +about it. And they practically told me that everybody else in the trade +would say the same thing, but only be a bit more damned insolent about +it. No, I see that now, plainly enough. There’s no getting out of it.” + +“But, Mr. Dersingham, it’s a terrible position we’re in, it really is.” + +“Good God! man, you’ve no need to tell me that. It’s the foulest mess I +ever dreamed of, and all because of that dirty crook. Honestly, Smeeth, +I don’t pretend to be a bruiser or anything of that sort, but if I saw +that chap now, I’d go for him. I’d either knock him down or he’d have +to knock me down. Have you been working it all out? What does it look +like?” + +Mr. Smeeth now considered his totals and the full implication of them +for the first time. He handed the papers across the table. + +Mr. Dersingham, running a finger across his teeth and allowing his jaw +to drop, stared at them for several minutes without saying a word. Then +he queried one or two figures, and Mr. Smeeth worked them out again, +for his benefit. The order book was referred to several times. But +there was no escaping from those totals. + +“I’ve just been working out how we stand, too, Mr. Dersingham. I +thought you’d want to know now. This is the position, counting +everything in.” + +They went over that now, spending about half an hour in what was mostly +futile discussion, as Mr. Smeeth, sick at heart, knew only too well. + +“It’s no good, Smeeth,” the other said finally, “there’s no getting +away from it. It was a tight squeeze paying that swine all that +commission in advance, and now we’ve got to sell every square foot of +stuff at a loss, on all those orders.” + +“It’s a terrible loss. The business as it is will never stand it, Mr. +Dersingham.” + +“I know that. And what’s left of the business, even supposing I could +borrow enough to see me through this mess? Where should we be? Only +back where we were before we began handling this stuff, before Golspie +came, doing just about enough trade to pay expenses, and on top of +that I’d be up to the neck in debt. I couldn’t carry on a month. I’ve +borrowed as much as I can, and even if I could borrow any more, I +wouldn’t--it’s only throwing money away. Honestly, Smeeth, how can I go +on?” + +Mr. Smeeth looked through the papers again, though there was no real +meaning in the glances he gave them. He was trying to think of a way +out, but it was impossible to find one. + +“What are you going to do, then, Mr. Dersingham?” he asked, miserably. + +“Nothing. Finish. What else can I do? I’ll buy what I can of this +lot, deliver it, and then finish. And if they bankrupt the firm, they +bankrupt it, and there’s the end of it. If they don’t, I close down and +clear out, anyhow, and that’s the end of it, too. I don’t suppose it’s +the first time a dam’ fool’s been robbed clean out of a business, is +it?” + +“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Dersingham.” And Mr. Smeeth didn’t. He +was staring at the opposite wall in utter dejection. + +“What’s the good of saying anything? But what makes me sick is the way +that rotter Golspie has cleared out----” + +“I thought at the time it was a bit fishy, sir, when he wanted all that +commission in advance.” + +“Well, if you thought so, why the devil didn’t you say so at the time. +No good saying so now.” + +“I did say something at the time, Mr. Dersingham, I did really.” + +“Well, I must say I don’t remember you saying anything. Anyhow, it’s +too late now. You know, Smeeth, that fellow’s robbed me just as much +as if he’d broken into my flat--it’s worse, when you think of it. And +there isn’t even a charge against him. All he’s done is to collect +some commission and keep a letter back. You can’t go to the police +about that. The swine! That’s what maddens me. What’s the time? Quarter +past eight? Come on, let’s get out of this.” They walked down the +stairs and out of the building together. + +Across the way, the only sign of life came from the bar of the “White +Horse.” “I don’t know about you, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, +stopping, “but I want a drink. It’s a long time since I wanted one so +badly. You could do with a spot, couldn’t you? Of course you could. +Let’s have one, while we can still pay for it.” + +The private bar was completely deserted, except for a long, grey cat +that stretched itself arrogantly in front of the little fire. The +barmaid came round the corner, swept away several glasses, polished a +foot or two of counter, said, “Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom,” to the cat, +then smiled at the gentlemen in the way a lady ought to smile, and, +“Good evening. Nicer now, iserntit?” + +“Two double whiskies, please, and two small sodas,” said Mr. Dersingham. + +“Two doubles,” murmured the barmaid. + +Mr. Smeeth could not help being reminded of the time when Mr. Golspie +had brought him in here and had insisted on his having a double whisky. +That was the night when Mr. Golspie had told him that he ought to have +a rise. Everything was going too wonderful that night. + +“Here’s luck, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, raising his glass, “and I’m +sorry for your sake it’s turned out like this, though you’re not losing +what I’m losing, not by a long chalk. But here’s luck--here’s to your +next job, and I hope it’s a better one than Twigg and Dersingham ever +gave you.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth shyly. “And here’s luck to +you too, sir----” + +“You’d think that cat, to look at it,” said the barmaid, “was a good +mouser if ever a cat was. Wouldn’t you now? Well, it isn’t. No good at +all. Won’t touch a mouse. Will you, Tom? No, you won’t, you lazy old +rascal. Don’t earn your keep at all, you don’t. Come here, Tom. Tom, +Tom, Tom.” + +“I’m going to try for a job out East as soon as I’ve straightened +things up,” said Mr. Dersingham confidentially. “No more City for me. +I never did care for it. Not really my style at all, y’know, Smeeth. +I always wanted to go out East. You get a gentleman’s life out there. +A man I know--he’s just retired and he’s a neighbour of mine--told me +some time ago he could get me a good job out there any time. I shall +have a shot at it.” + +Mr. Smeeth nodded and looked gloomy. There was no job out East for +him, and these remarks of Mr. Dersingham’s suddenly opened out a vast, +dreary prospect. At the moment, he preferred not to think about the +future. + +“Look at him, the silly old thing,” said the barmaid, who had the long +cat in her arms now. “Aren’t you a silly old thing, Tom? He’s got nice +markings though, hasn’t he? Reg’lar, aren’t they? Go on then, go down +then, if you want to, Tom. There! Boo! Boo! Just watch him. He can open +the door by himself. Artful as anything, I can tell you.” + +Mr. Dersingham gulped down the rest of his whisky and soda. “Rotten +luck. The worst possible. Where I made the mistake though, Smeeth, +was not trusting to what’s-it--instinct, intuition, you know. About +Golspie, I mean. I was trying to be the smart City bounder, with an eye +for a tricky bit of business and nothing else--y’know, like that awful +fellow, Gorstein, and all the rest of ’em. Not my style at all, really. +I didn’t like the chap and I ought to have known he’d do me down. Never +mind, he’ll come to a sticky finish before he’s done. And so will that +daughter of his. You never met her, did you, Smeeth? Very good looking, +in the film and chorus girl style, but a terrible little minx. You +ought to hear my wife on Miss Golspie! She came to my place once--but +never again, never again. That was a queer business, y’know, Smeeth, +about Turgis and that girl, when Golspie came and said Turgis would +have to be sacked because he’d been up to some mysterious games with +the daughter. I never really understood what it was all about--though +I’d like to bet that Golspie’s daughter was up to her tricks there--she +looked that sort.” + +“I never understood that business,” said Mr. Smeeth mournfully. “I +wasn’t properly told about it.” + +“Neither was I, for that matter. But I didn’t bother much, because I +never thought that chap Turgis was much good, anyhow, and was rather +glad to get rid of him. Thinking it over now, though, I feel a bit +sorry for the poor devil. Have you heard anything about him, Smeeth?” + +“Miss Sellers has seen him once or twice, I believe. I fancy she’s a +bit sweet on him. He’s not got another job yet, of course, and it’s not +likely he will for some time.” He breathed hard, like a man who wants +to sigh but has forgotten how to do it, looked down at the remainder of +his drink, and slowly finished it. + +“Well, I’d better be getting along,” said Mr. Dersingham. “That drink’s +made me feel hungry. I’ll stop at the club and see if I can get a bite. +I might see a fellow there who could give me one or two tips about this +miserable business. Then I’ll go home, and that’s the part I’m not +looking forward to, I can tell you. Are you going home now?” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Smeeth slowly, buttoning his overcoat. “I’m going home.” + + +II + +As her bus turned into that hive of buses in front of Victoria station, +Miss Matfield shivered a little. She was nervous; she was excited; +and her mind was facing two different ways. She spent the next few +minutes getting from the bus to the station, which was very crowded +and week-endy, and then to the place where she had arranged to meet +Mr. Golspie, which was on the departure side, between the bookstall +and that large clock with four faces. Mr. Golspie was not to be seen. +This did not surprise her, for she was rather early. She was somewhat +relieved to find that he was not there. It left her with a welcome +breathing space. She was by no means single-minded about this adventure. + +It had been planned, if a few hasty and last-minute questions and +answers can be called planning, three days before, on Tuesday night, +which was the last time she had seen him. He had not been to the +office since and she had had no message from him, but that did not +worry her. She had a strong suspicion that he was going away very +soon, but she did not know when he would be going and she did not +believe that he knew. Last Tuesday, just before they parted, he had +asked her once again to go away for the week-end with him, anywhere +she pleased, and this time, moved obscurely by many different feelings +and forces, something genuinely eager and passionate in the man’s +voice, a sudden desire to clutch at experience, to throw herself upon +life, a contempt for her qualms and misgivings and timidities, she +had agreed to go. An hotel on the Sussex coast she had once seen was +to be their destination, and the time and meeting place were hastily +settled. Several times since, she had been tempted to write to him or +ring him up, to say that she had changed her mind. Her pride, however, +would not let her do this. She had said she would go, and now she +would carry it through. She had wanted adventure, and though she would +not have admitted it, there was always a man in this adventure, and +now that it offered itself and she had accepted it, she could not run +away. Yet there was a creature in her, and not merely a brain phantom, +but a creature that had some of her rich blood flowing through it, +that very blood which this coarse, middle-aged man could so inspire +that it dazzled and inflamed her, a shrinking and fastidious creature +that cried to run away, to run away and hide. It protested against +the shabbiness and furtiveness of this adventure, and pounced upon +the sinister lack of fairness in it. It loathed the cheap imitation +wedding ring that was now tucked away in her bag, a ring that was part +of the adventure, and that had seemed rather a joke when it first had +been mentioned last Tuesday. She had heard about those rings before, +and they had always seemed rather a joke, perky, glittering little +stage properties in amusing escapades, and it was not difficult for her +to force herself to see that ring in her bag in the same theatrical +light; but, nevertheless, the protest was not silenced and the loathing +remained. If Golspie had asked her to marry him, no matter if he had +told her that they would have to settle in the most outlandish place, +she would have agreed; but he had not asked her to marry him. Yet he +wanted her, not idly either, and, when all was said and done, that was +a heartening and exciting fact; and after this, he might want her still +more, the last traces of self-sufficiency in him (and he had appeared +unusually self-sufficient at first, and that had made him all the more +attractive) might vanish, and then--well, everything might be different. + +If you delight in movement and change, the appeal of a large railway +station is irresistible; you are still in the dark cocoon of the city, +but one end is splintering already and you can see the blue beyond; +the rumbles and shrieks and snortings are only part of the tuning up; +and even the smoky smell has the savour of adventure. There had been +moments during the last two days when this week-end, this arrival +at Victoria, had loomed in Miss Matfield’s mind like some unusually +desperate appointment at the dentist’s, and at the thought of it +something coldly writhed inside her. Now that she was here, however, +she was less introspective and her spirits gradually rose. It was +almost better that something extremely unpleasant should happen than +that nothing at all should happen; and it was very unlikely that +anything extremely unpleasant _would_ happen. She responded to the +lively and adventurous bustle of the station. As she strolled over to +the bookstall, carrying her small suitcase, she felt tall, healthy, +strong, a fine woman of the world. One or two middle-aged men had +smiled in her direction and several young men had looked earnestly at +her, all of which meant that she was looking her best. The bookstall +offered her an almost unlimited choice of reading matter, light +periodicals, heavy periodicals, books that were “amazing successes,” +books that were “very outspoken,” books that were simply “great +bargains.” She did not accept any of them, but the knowledge that they +were there somehow gave her pleasure. It was impossible to resist a +holiday feeling. The sight of all the fussy and bewildered people, +of whom there were an unusually large number, the people who went +rushing up to any man in a railway uniform, who looked in despair at +the notice-boards, who mopped their brows and snapped at one another, +who blankly surveyed great mounds of luggage, who flitted like uneasy +ghosts from one platform entrance to another, only brought her a +pleasing sense of her own superiority. They were nothing to do with +her; she was not behaving like that; and so she looked on, amused, +contemptuous, failing to see in this spectacle of the harassed and +inexperienced travellers any symbol of this life of ours. + +There were two trains, and they had hoped to catch the earlier one. It +was now only a few minutes from the time of starting. She returned to +her former place, nearer the clock, and looked about her anxiously. +He would get the tickets, of course, before he came on to the main +platform, so that there was still plenty of time for them to catch the +train if he appeared at all. There seemed to be more and more people +about, though round her there was a small clear space. It was just +possible that he might have missed her. Only two minutes now. She +hurried over to the entrance to No. 17 platform and looked over the +barrier down the waiting train. Then she returned, even more hastily, +to her place near the clock. From there she heard the train go out. + +It was annoying. They would have more than three-quarters of an hour +to wait now. It was her turn to keep him waiting. Very deliberately, +she made her way to the tearoom, which was not very full though it +looked vaguely as if it had just been wrecked by a revolutionary mob, +and she spent ten minutes over a cup of tea and a cigarette. She +would have liked to have stayed longer, but it is almost impossible +to linger successfully with only a sheet of glass between you and a +host of trains and passengers. She tried to loiter on her way back to +the four-faced clock and the bookstall, but an inner restlessness +prevented her, and she arrived there as if her train might start any +moment. He was not there. Now she began making little circular tours +with the clock as their centre. After quarter of an hour of these, she +returned to the meeting place and remained there, her suitcase at her +feet, erect, motionless, sullen. She was there, and he must find her. +People came and went, bought papers and books, looked at the clock, +looked at the departure board, glanced at her; porters wheeled their +loaded barrows and trucks at this side of her and that; the trains +snorted and puffed and sent red gleams to the glass roof; but now she +paid no attention at all. She was tired of Victoria, tired of waiting. +This time, when the later train was nearly due to start, she stayed +where she was and made no attempt to discover if he was already on the +platform. When the train had gone, she stood quite still for a minute +or two longer, then walked away. + +She had to wait again before she could get a telephone call put through +to his flat. The telephone boxes were in brisk demand. She knew his +telephone number and knew, too, that the instrument at his flat, which +had been out of order the week before, was all right now. But she would +not have been surprised to find that there was no reply to her call, +for she was sure at least that he would not be there. Something had +gone wrong; and even now he was probably trying to get to Victoria. +There was a reply, however, and it obviously came from a maid. + +“Is Mr. Golspie there, please?” + +“No, he’s not. He’s gone. So has Miss Golspie. They’ve both gone,” said +the voice. + +“Gone? Do you mean--he’s out?” + +“No, gone. Gone for good.” + +“But--I don’t understand. Are you sure? I had an appointment with him +to-night.” + +“All I know is--he’s gone, Miss Golspie too. They’ve gone to South +Africa or South America or one of them places. In a boat, I _do_ know. +I helped ’em to pack, and a job it was too, and a nice mess they’ve +left this place in, I can tell you. I’m cleaning it up now, after ’em, +’cos they only took it furnished and I stayed on with the place. There +was a gentleman came when I was having my dinner,” the voice continued, +as if it was rather pleased to have a little chat with somebody, “and +he wanted Mr. Golspie badly, but I couldn’t tell him anything except +they’d gone, went this morning, luggage and everything, and you never +saw such a pile.” + +“Did Mr. Golspie leave any message--for anybody?” + +“No, he just went----” + +“All right, thank you,” said Miss Matfield, interrupting and then +ringing off. + +He had gone, left the country, without even telling her he was going, +without even telling her he could not keep this appointment at the +station. He had simply tossed the week-end away, and her with it, as +if it had been a crumpled bit of paper. If he had not forgotten all +about it, then he had not cared enough to see her for the last time or +even to send a message. And this was the man--oh, the humiliation of +it all! She left the station, burning with shame and resentment. An +hour earlier she might have felt relieved if Mr. Golspie had come and +told her that it would be impossible for them to go away this week-end. +But she had waited there, suitcase in hand, that filthy little ring +in her bag, had waited there, and all the time he was miles away, not +caring if she spent the rest of her life standing in Victoria station. +Never before had she felt such bitter contempt for herself. She could +have cried and cried, not because he had gone and she would probably +never set eyes on him again, but because his sudden indifference, at +this time of all times, left her feeling pitiably small and silly. +The misery of it was like the onslaught of some unexpected, terrible +disease. Her mangled pride bled and ached inside her, so that she felt +faint. + +That was why she did not return, as a sudden impulse commanded her to +do, to the station and take the first train anywhere, to get away for +the week-end at any cost from London and the Club. She could not do it; +all energy and initiative were drained away; she was too tired. She +found a No. 2 bus, climbed on top, and then watched, with smarting +eyes that refused to see anything properly, the glitter and blue murk +of half London go lumbering past, Hyde Park Corner, Park Lane, Oxford +Street, Baker Street, Finchley Road, all a meaningless jumble of light +and dark, offering nothing to Lilian Matfield, no more than if it had +been some Chinese river flickering past on a cinema screen. + +Once in the Club, she hurried upstairs, as if she had stolen the +suitcase she carried. Hastily, mechanically, she washed, tidied her +hair, changed her dress, powdered her face, and then went down to the +dining-room. She did not really want food, but something impelled her +to throw herself back into the routine of the Club. But she was careful +to find one of those nondescript tables for latecomers, at which +there was little talk, and what talk there was merely the occasional +impersonal remarks of acquaintances. She ate little, and the sight and +smell of the food, the look of everybody there, the high chatter and +clatter of the room, made her feel sick. Nevertheless, she stayed on, +and had her coffee with the rest. When she got back to her room, she +began examining all her clothes and grimly set aside some stockings to +be mended. Then she remembered something. + +“_Can_ I come in?” said Miss Morrison. “Hello, Matfield, what on earth +are you doing? Something desperate, by the look of you.” + +“Hello, Morrison. I was only throwing something away,” she replied, +closing the window. Somewhere out there was a cheap imitation of a +wedding ring. + +Miss Morrison, who was wearing bedroom slippers, contrived to shuffle +elegantly--for she never quite lost her slim elegance--into the room, +and hoisted herself on to the bottom of the bed, resting her back +against the wall. “Oh, by the way,” she cried, “you oughtn’t to be +here. Weren’t you going away for the week-end?” + +“I was,” said Miss Matfield shortly, hanging a dress up, “but I changed +my mind.” + +“Good!” And that was all Miss Morrison had to say about that. It was +one of her virtues, as Miss Matfield had begun to notice, that she +did not ask questions when they were obviously unwelcome, made no +attempt, except in fun, to nose things out of you. Most girls at the +Burpenfield, if you were on room-visiting terms with them, did not +allow you to have any private life of your own. “I ought to have gone +out to-night,” Miss Morrison continued, in her usual languid manner, +“but I can’t bother to. I feel foul. I never remember feeling more +completely foul, except when I’ve had ’flu or something like that. I’d +go and see a doctor only I can’t afford to, and then again I disapprove +of the way we females run after doctors and worship them. Cadnam’s just +been raving to me about some doctor she’s just been to. ‘He’s fifty, +of course, and heavily married,’ she said, ‘but the most marvellously +attractive man, my dear.’ She went raving on and on. I think it’s +revolting the way these young females adore their doctors and dentists. +I refuse to join in, don’t you? After that it’ll be vicars and curates +and dear, dear doggies--vile! But, as I said before, I feel thoroughly +ill. It’s partly the idiocy of my respected employer, who really is the +silliest woman there ever was--she gets sillier--and then again it’s +partly the time of year. Don’t you honestly think this is the very, +very foulest time of all the year? It’s such a long way from anything +or anywhere interesting, isn’t it? Just fiendishly dull. I don’t blame +all those illustrated paper people--Lady Chagworth, Colonel Mush, and +Friend--for going away and slacking about on the Riviera or in Madeira, +or wherever it is they do go. I say ‘good luck to them!’--don’t you? +Though I must say it oughtn’t to be the same people who go every year +and the same people who stay at home, like us, and push into buses on +wet nights. They ought to change round a bit. Your turn this year. Our +turn next year. That sort of thing.” + +“I should think so,” said Miss Matfield, somewhat indifferently. She +was still busy putting clothes away. “I call it beastly unfair. I think +I’ll turn Bolshie.” + +“I’ve often thought of turning _something_,” said Miss Morrison +meditatively. “Have you got a cigarette, by the way?” + +“Some over there somewhere. Can you reach over and get them? I’ll have +one, too.” + +Having found the cigarettes, Miss Morrison handed one over, +accompanying it with a curious glance. “I went to that Chehov play, +last night. I didn’t tell you, did I? My dear, don’t go. I wept and +wept--yes, honestly I did. It was just like the Burpenfield with the +lid off, really it was--awful! When I got back last night, I said to +myself, ‘I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.’” + +“I think that’s stupid, Morrison,” said Miss Matfield, sitting in the +only chair. + +“What’s stupid?” + +“All that--about not bearing it and about the Club being the Chehov +play. It’s not a bit like it.” + +“How do you know, my dear? You haven’t seen the play.” + +“I’ve read it.” + +“I don’t suppose it’s the same, just reading it. I admit it’s not +like this at all on the surface, but honestly it’s got the same +what-is-it--atmosphere.” + +“It hasn’t a bit, I tell you,” said Miss Matfield earnestly. “And I +really think it’s stupid talking like that about this place. It’s +ridiculous--all silly exaggeration. When you talk like that, Morrison, +you annoy me----” + +“Since when, my dear?” + +“Well, I’ve made up my mind that it’s simply absurd, besides being +terribly depressing, going about talking like that about the life we +lead here. It makes it seem fifty times worse than it is. And, anyhow, +it’s not bad really. It’s our own fault if it is. Yes it is.” + +“My dear, you can’t mean it.” + +“Yes, I do mean it.” + +Having said this, Miss Matfield put down her cigarette, looked at the +floor for a minute, then quite suddenly and unaccountably burst into +tears. + +“Sorry!” she cried, five minutes later, when it was all over. “I’m not +going mad, though I dare say it seemed like it. I think--I’ve been +feeling rotten too, all strung up, you know.” + +“My dear,” said Miss Morrison, who had been very tactful, “if I hadn’t +wept buckets last night at that play, I don’t know what I’d be doing +to-night.” + +“Listen,” cried Miss Matfield, jumping to her feet and smiling damply. +“I’ve made up my mind now. Yes, I have. It’s serious. Listen. I’m going +to work properly, and I’m going to get a better job and make more +money.” + +“You’re not going to leave your present job, are you?” + +“The Lord forbid! If I did, the scheme wouldn’t work at all. No, but +I’m going to tell them there isn’t anything in the office, or connected +with it, I won’t and can’t do, if they’ll only give me a chance. I’m +going to be _really_ in business, not just sort of hanging on there. +I’ve got a jolly good chance because my firm’s very busy now and we’re +short-handed, and the man who really sold all the veneers and inlays +has just left us----” + +“Not the man you told me about, the fascinating one?” + +“Yes,” Miss Matfield continued hurriedly. “He’s gone, and that means +there’ll be an awful lot to do and they’ll have to get new people. +Well, I’m going down to Angel Pavement in the morning--and I needn’t +go if I don’t want, because I got the morning off when I thought I was +going away for the week-end----” + +“Wait a minute. Do you mean to say that you’ve actually got the morning +off and yet you’re going all the same? You do? My dear, it sounds +desperate.” + +“Yes, I am. And I’m going to Mr. Dersingham, and I shall tell him that +I believe I could do anything that any man could do--and I don’t care +if it’s going round to the weirdest Jewy East End furniture places +selling veneers--and that he ought to give me a chance. I believe he +will too, particularly now, when business is so good and he’s so short +of people. He could easily get another girl to do my typing, and that +sort of thing, and I’d go and do some real work and then ask for more +money. Very soon, I might have a real job, with a decent salary and +proper responsibility and everything.” + +“Quite crazy! Though I believe you could do it, if they’d give you a +chance.” + +“They’ll have to give me a chance, and I’m sure I could do it.” + +She kept returning to the subject for the next hour, and then, when +Miss Morrison had gone, she made up her mind all over again, and +saw Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham growing more and more prosperous and +herself, a real member of the firm, growing more and more prosperous +with it. She arrived at Angel Pavement in a neat little car, and +stepped out of it a cool, capable business woman, dressed with a +certain austerity, but still attractive. Before she finally got to +sleep, she had furnished not only her tiny flat in town, but also her +little week-end cottage, which was the delighted admiration of her +mother and other occasional guests. “Lilian, you _are_ lucky,” they +cried; but she told them it was all the result of sheer hard work. This +was the last dream of the day, and it was very pleasant. The dreams +that followed in the night, the dreams that came without being asked, +were curiously different, all dark and troubled, like the dreams of a +child who has been hurried away to a strange place. + + +III + +Mrs. Dersingham, Miss Verever and Mr. and Mrs. Pearson were +playing bridge upstairs at 34, Barkfield Gardens, in the Pearsons’ +drawing-room. Mr. Dersingham should have been there, but he had +telephoned to say that urgent business kept him at the office, so +Miss Verever, who was usually abroad at this time of the year but had +stayed in London because she was quarrelling with her solicitors, had +taken his place. She was always ready to take anybody’s place at any +dining or bridge tables, though she never gave the least sign that she +was enjoying herself. The card table was in the middle of the room, +and there was only just space enough for it and its four players, in +spite of the fact that this was a large room, larger than any of the +Dersinghams’ downstairs. The trouble was that the Pearsons had so +many things. They had furnished the room first with good solid late +Victorian furniture, and then they had poured into it the glittering +East, all the loot of Singapore. If the Federated Malay States +had been destroyed by an earthquake and a great tidal wave, their +life could have been re-constructed out of that room, which put any +missionary exhibition to shame. Everybody looked out of place in it, +and nobody more out of place than the Pearsons themselves. + +They were now playing their third rubber of auction. Mrs. Dersingham +had Mr. Pearson for her partner, and they were not badly paired, for +she was rather a bold, slap-dash player, while he was very dull, +cautious, obvious, though he always tried to give the impression of +immense cunning. Nobody believed in this cunning of his except his +wife, who would shake her mysterious dark curls at him and girlishly +protest against his sinister subtlety. “Isn’t he dreadful?” she would +cry, after Mr. Pearson, with much stroking of his chin and narrowing of +his eyes, had succeeded in some commonplace _finesse_. Mrs. Pearson, +though she had been sitting at bridge tables for years, was one of +those cheerfully bad players who continually ask for and receive +advice, but have not the slightest intention of improving their play. +Probably she only saw the cards as so many vague pieces of pasteboard, +and what was real to her was simply the social scene, the faces round +the green cloth and the pleasant chatter between games. If somebody +had suggested playing _Snap_ with the cards or telling fortunes with +them, she would have been delighted, but as people seemed to prefer +bridge, whether in Singapore or in London, she gladly made one at the +table. And if all Barkfield Gardens had been combed, it would have been +impossible to find a worse partner for Miss Verever, who played a good, +keen, close, give-no-quarter game, and loathed all idle chatterers at +the table, all idiots who would _not_ get trumps out, all the fools who +clung to their wretched aces, all the witless monsters who said, “Have +you seen her lately? I haven’t seen her for weeks and weeks. Let me +see, _what_ are trumps?” Mrs. Pearson combined smilingly every fault in +bridge-playing known to Miss Verever, and Miss Verever’s glances and +tone of voice, queer and disturbing at any time, were now more queer +and disturbing than ever, so that Mrs. Dersingham felt quite frightened +and wished she had never asked her to take Howard’s place. On Mrs. +Pearson herself, however, these very peculiar glances, these biting +accents seemed to have no effect. + +“Well,” said Mr. Pearson, picking up his pencil, “that’s three down, +doubled--three hundred to us. Simple honours to you, eighteen. Didn’t +do badly that time, eh partner? Must make something while we can. +Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“Isn’t he dreadful?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “And you’re nearly as bad, my +dear, you’re encouraging him. You see what it is, playing against my +husband, Miss Verever. He’s a dreadful man. Never mind, we’ll do better +next time, won’t we?” + +“But was it necessary to go Three Spades?” Miss Verever enquired +bitterly. + +“Well, wasn’t it? Oh, do tell me if it wasn’t. When you’d gone One, +you see, and I had some spades, I thought we might win the rubber if +we played the spades. If you think I did anything wrong, Miss Verever, +don’t be afraid of telling me, because I know you’re ever so much +better than I am. Should I have played that king first?” + +Miss Verever drew a deep breath, but Mrs. Dersingham was too quick for +her. “Oh, don’t let’s have post-mortems,” she cried. “Whose deal is it? +Mine, isn’t it?” + +“I suppose Mr. Dersingham will come up when he gets back, won’t he?” +said Mrs. Pearson, who never failed to snatch at any little opportunity +for a chat. “He’s late, isn’t he? It must be so tiring for him, poor +man. We know what it is, don’t we?” + +“We do,” replied her husband. “At least I do, my dear. +Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“He used to work terribly late sometimes out in Singapore,” Mrs. +Pearson explained. “Night after night, sometimes in the hot season, +too.” + +“Couldn’t grumble though,” said Mr. Pearson. “It meant that business +was good.” + +“Yes, of course, that’s what I feel,” said Mrs. Dersingham, pausing in +her dealing. “I suppose they’ve had a sudden rush or something.” + +“That’s splendid, isn’t it?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “I do like to hear of +anybody I know doing so well. So many people don’t now, do they?” + +“It’s made a great difference to Howard, being so busy,” said Mrs. +Dersingham, still with the cards motionless in her hand. “He really +likes being in the City now. He was getting very depressed about it +some time ago. Now let me see----” + +“The next card should be mine,” said Miss Verever coldly. + +“Oh, should it? That’s all right, then.” And she continued dealing. + +“Well, I didn’t want to say anything at the time, my dear,” Mrs. +Pearson began, but she was cut short. Mrs. Dersingham looked up to see +Miss Verever, on her right, giving her a terrible glance, and so she +hastily declared “Pass.” + +“But I thought he seemed rather depressed about it, too,” Mrs. Pearson +continued. “About six months ago, wasn’t it?” + +“_One Heart_,” said Miss Verever, quietly, but with a fearful +intonation. “_One Heart._” + +“Oh dear, have you started bidding already? How quick you are with your +cards!” Mrs. Pearson began sorting hers in a frantic fashion. “Did you +say One Heart? You did, didn’t you? Well, after last time, I shall +say--nothing.” + +“But it’s not your turn to say anything,” Mr. Pearson pointed out. “In +this game, your husband for once gets a chance to speak. And I say--One +No Trumps. Yes, this is where your husband’s allowed to speak, my dear. +Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +They were a game all in this rubber, so Miss Verever struggled up to +Three Hearts, but her opponents went Three No Trumps, got them, won the +rubber, and put her down eight hundred points. + +“Is there time for another rubber?” said Mrs. Pearson, who was always +quite willing to go on playing, perhaps because she never really +started. + +“I hardly think there is,” said Miss Verever, with one of her peculiar +smiles. + +“No, let’s stop now,” cried Mrs. Dersingham. + +“Somebody owes me four and ninepence,” Mr. Pearson pointed out. + +“Listen to him! Isn’t he really a dreadful man when he plays this +game? I believe I’ve lost four and nine--or is it five and nine?” +Mrs. Pearson shook her curls at the score. “But I refuse to pay _you_ +anything, so there!” + +“Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“Well, I suppose I must pay _my_ debts,” said Miss Verever, looking +at her score as if it was composed of something filthy, then glancing +round without removing all the last expression from her face. “I pay +you, I think, my dear. I’m afraid--yes, I’m afraid--I shall have to ask +you for change.” + +“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Dersingham hastily. “I haven’t got any +change.” + +“Please remind me then, the next time.” Miss Verever said this as if +they would soon be meeting in some torture chamber. + +Somebody had arrived. It must be--it was--Mr. Dersingham. He came +forward, blinking a little. His wife did not like the look of him. He +was flushed and rather untidy. + +Mrs. Pearson rushed at him. “Come along, you poor, poor man! Sit down +here. Make yourself comfortable. You’ve been working all this time +while we’ve been enjoying ourselves. Walter, give poor Mr. Dersingham a +drink this minute. I’m sure you’d like one, wouldn’t you?” + +Mr. Dersingham said that he would, and the next minute he was taking +a good swig of a large whisky and soda. When he put the glass down, +he caught his wife’s eye, and for a moment he just stared at her. She +liked the look of him now less than ever. To begin with, this was by +no means the first large whisky he had had that night. She saw that +at once. But that was not all. There was something wrong. She glanced +round and saw Miss Verever staring at him, and decided immediately that +the sooner Miss Verever left them the better. She did not mind much +about the Pearsons, who were kind and homely people, but she did not +want Maud Verever to see or hear anything. She was about to suggest +that they must go, when Mr. Pearson spoke. + +“Had a long day, Dersingham, eh?” said Mr. Pearson, his cheeks wobbling +sympathetically. “We were just talking about it. I know what it is. +I’ve had these rushes, you know, working half the night--in the hot +season too, not a breath of air. Takes it out of you, I’ll tell you. +Still, it’s good for business, isn’t it? Better than the other way +round, eh? Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +“I think I really ought to be going now,” said Miss Verever, with one +of her dreadful smiles. + +“Enjoyed yourself?” said Mr. Dersingham. + +She started back. “Oh--of course,” she replied, keeping her eyes fixed +on him. + +“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I like to hear of anybody enjoying +themselves, and specially you, Miss Verever.” + +There was something very extraordinary about this, but Miss Verever +did not care to stop and investigate it. She began saying Good-night. +Mrs. Dersingham said that they must go too, but Mr. Dersingham refused +to stir, so Miss Verever left by herself, though Mrs. Dersingham +accompanied her down the stairs. + +“Howard doesn’t seem to be very well to-night, does he?” said Miss +Verever, when they reached the hall below, in the Dersingham half of +the building. + +“He’s tired, that’s all. I don’t think he’s very well. He’s been +working tremendously hard. It’s terribly tiring working late like this +down in the City.” + +“I suppose it is.” And it would be impossible to cram a larger amount +of dubiety into four words than Miss Verever did into those four. + +“Of course it is,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, a trifle impatiently. “You +just try it and see.” + +“Why, have you tried it, my dear? If you have, it’s news to me. +However, I hope Howard’s better soon. He shouldn’t tire himself out +like that. It must be very bad for him. Don’t you think so? Well, it +was very nice of you to ask me to make the four up and play with Mrs. +Pearson. Good-bye, my dear.” + +Mrs. Dersingham hurried back to the Pearsons, slightly alarmed and +considerably annoyed. It looked as if Howard had not been kept late at +the office at all, but had sneaked off to his club, where he had had +more drinks than were good for him. There was always just a little, a +little, danger of that with Howard. She found him sitting with his legs +stretched out straight in front of him, listening to the Pearsons, who +were still talking about Singapore. + +“Taking it all round, y’know, the good with the bad,” Mr. Pearson +concluded, “it’s not such a bad life out there, though it’s not so good +as it was. It isn’t anywhere in the East. Still, even so, I believe +if I’d my time over again, I’d go out there again, I really believe I +would.” + +“Good!” said Mr. Dersingham, with a kind of dreary solemnity. “All +right then, Pearson, what about that job out there you promised to get +me?” + +“Any time, any time! Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee. When would you like it? +Tee-tee-tee.” Mr. Pearson evidently regarded this as a great joke. + +“You can start getting it for me now, old man.” + +Mrs. Pearson joined in the joke. “You’d better be getting your clothes +ready, my dear,” she told Mrs. Dersingham, who smiled, though not very +brightly. She did not see anything very funny in all this, and her +husband was behaving very stupidly. It was time she got him away. + +“I’m serious, y’know,” he declared now, with the same dreary solemnity. +“I’m not joking. You get me that job out there as soon as you can. I’m +serious.” + +“That’s right. So are we. When would you like it then? +Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.” + +Mr. Dersingham drained his glass, then examined what was left in it, +the last golden drops, with a thoroughness that suggested he was +conducting a chemical experiment. + +“We _really_ must go, yes, really we must,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, with +a forced brightness; and in less than two minutes she had said all +there was to say and had hustled her husband and herself out of the +room. There was no fire in the drawing-room below, but there was the +whitening ruin of one in the dining-room, and immediately he stumped in +there in a heavy sort of way and sat down. She walked in after him, but +did not sit down. + +“I’m going to bed,” she announced coldly. + +“Just a minute,” he said in a muffled voice. + +“I prefer to go to bed. I’m tired, even if you’re not.” And she turned +away. + +“No, don’t go,” he cried, quite sharply now, with hardly anything of +that thickness in his voice that had been there before. “You mustn’t, +Pongo. I’ve got something to tell you.” + +She closed the door and came back. “Pongo” was his old specially +silly delightful name for her, and even now, when she was annoyed +with him, when he was a large, pink, sagging creature, whose every +stupidity she knew by heart, when he was sitting there, flushed and +thick with whisky, not at all the sort of man she ever imagined she was +marrying, a hundred times less attentive and considerate and clever +and courageous, even now, the sound of that “Pongo” gave her a little +thrill. She was annoyed with herself for feeling it. If he imagined he +was going to be forgiven at once, simply because he had called her by +that name, he was sadly mistaken. + +She took up a position on the other side of the hearth, and stood +looking down on him. “I should think you have something to say! Have +you been to the club?” + +He nodded and waved an impatient hand. “That was nothing,” he muttered. + +“No, but if you _must_ pretend you have to work late and then you go on +to the club and fuddle yourself with drinks, you might at least have +the sense to keep out of the way, instead of barging in like that and +behaving so stupidly. No, Howard, I’m really disgusted. You know I’m +not silly about drinking, as some women are. But there’s a limit. I +believe you’re drinking a jolly sight too much these days, a lot more +than is good for you. Yes, I mean it. Anybody could see what was the +matter with you to-night, up there.” + +“Oh, could they?” He gave a little laugh. + +“Yes, of course they could.” + +“Well, believe me, my dear, they _couldn’t_. Not one of ’em. Not you, +even. No, not you.” + +“Oh, don’t be silly, Howard.” + +“I’m not being silly. I wish to God I was. You know when I asked +Pearson about that job? I suppose you thought I was being funny then, +didn’t you?” + +“I didn’t think you were being particularly funny,” she told him, +“though you obviously thought you were. If you want to know what I +thought, it was that you were just being rather stupid.” + +“Well, I wasn’t, Pongo,” he said quietly. “I was quite serious. +No, listen. We’re absolutely done--I mean the firm, Twigg and +Dersingham--completely finished.” + +“Howard, you don’t mean it?” + +“Yes, I do. That’s what kept me to-night. I had a drink or two just +because I felt played out, and I suppose I did show it--sorry about +that--but I’ve had a hell of a day. Golspie’s cleared out and left +us----” + +“But you told me the other day that even if Golspie did go, it wouldn’t +matter and you’d arranged everything so that you could do without him.” + +“I know, but the rotten swine did me down----” + +“But how? I don’t understand. Howard, you don’t really mean it’s as +serious as all that? The firm can go on, can’t it?” + +He shook his head, and kept his face turned away. He looked like a +great foolish baby. She swept down on him. “Tell me what’s happened. +Why didn’t you tell me at once? I’m sorry I was cross with you. I +didn’t know it was anything serious--naturally. Now tell me.” + +He told her the whole wretched story. + +“But do you mean to say that brute has gone and you can’t do anything, +anything at all? But it’s ridiculous. Can’t you tell the police? Why, +it’s just as bad as burglary or swindling. It _is_ swindling. But I +knew, I _knew_ all the time that something would happen because of that +man. He hated us after that night he came here and I lost my temper +with that vile little minx of a daughter. I felt all the time he did. I +told you to get rid of him, didn’t I? Oh, Howard, you have been stupid. +Yes, you have. I’ll never believe in you again as a business man. You +used to tell me I didn’t understand about these things, but I’m sure I +understand about people--and that’s the main thing--better than you. +But what’s going to happen now?” + +“I don’t know,” he mumbled miserably, and he explained as best he could +the position they were in. As she listened, she suddenly saw the four +walls enclosing them, the table and chairs and sideboard, everything in +sight, no longer as solid objects, fixed, rooted in a secure existence, +but as things brittle as glass, unstable and wavering as water. Nor +did her imagination stop there. It explored the whole maisonette, +the drawing-room, the kitchen below, the nursery and bedrooms, and +discovered nothing substantial there, except the two children asleep +upstairs and a few personal possessions that had long ceased to be +mere things. She realised now, with a shock of dismay, that something +absurd and fantastic could happen in Angel Pavement, far away, that +could change all this. Their life here in Barkfield Gardens, not their +personal life, but everything else, all the cleaning and cooking and +shopping and visiting, was a mere candle-flame--one puff of wind, +a wind that came from nowhere, and it was gone. She understood how +millions of people live. It was a moment of revelation. + +“What are we going to do?” she asked. + +“I don’t know yet,” he replied wearily. “Give me time. I haven’t had a +chance to think yet. Hang it all, this has all been dropped on me like +a ton of bricks. God!--I’m tired.” + +He sounded helpless, looked helpless. Her mind began working +furiously now, and the effect, after months and months of stagnation, +of pretending and dreaming and vague discontent, was curiously +exhilarating. “Do you think Mr. Pearson could get you a job out East?” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“But why? You haven’t asked him properly. He doesn’t know you want +one--if you really do want one, and I’m not sure about that.” + +“I know he doesn’t, my dear. But I’m sure when he does he’ll change +his tune. I felt that when he was talking to-night. It’s all right,” +he added bitterly, as if he had suddenly discovered what the world was +like and what men were made of, “while it’s still a joke. The minute +he finds I’m serious, he’ll pull a long face. I don’t mean he’s not a +decent chap and all that. But he thinks he’s talking to a prosperous +business man who doesn’t really want a job. That’s the difference.” + +“I must have some tea,” she announced. “It’s no good; we must talk it +over; if I went to bed I shouldn’t sleep a wink--and if we’re going +to stay up, I must have some tea. I’ll go down and make some. No, I +can do it by myself. You stay here, and, Howard, do, do try and think +of something. Try and find out how much money we’ll have left--and +everything.” + +When she returned with the tea, he was still sitting in the same +huddled fashion. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” she began, almost gaily. +But seeing him there, a large melancholy heap of man, she put down the +tray, came across, pushed him back in his chair, and stood looking down +at him, her hands still on his shoulders. + +“Do you love me?” she asked. + +He found this question as difficult as ever, but this time there was +none of that masculine impatience or grinning intolerance. “As a matter +of fact, I do,” he told her in a shamefaced mumble, “but I don’t feel +this is the time to say so.” + +“Of course it is. Why not?” + +“Well, I’ve let you down. I’ve let you down badly. I’ve been a fool. +I’ll admit I have. But I never liked the business, you know that, don’t +you? If it hadn’t been for the cursed War, I’d never have gone into +it. Not my style at all. I always hated it really--Angel Pavement and +all those damned furniture places and sniffling East End Jews, and +the whole thing. I’ve tried my best, but it’s always gone against the +grain. I’m not excusing myself, mind, though honestly I think anybody +might have been let down the same way by that artful devil. Smeeth--and +he’s been in business all his life--never had a suspicion. He was more +surprised than I was. And a fellow I talked to at the Club said he’d +never heard of such a thing, said I couldn’t be blamed at all. But +there it is. What bothers me is that there’s some of your money gone, +too. I’m sorry, Pongo. I seem to have made a mess of it.” + +“I have some money left, though.” + +“Not much,” he told her gloomily. “About twelve hundred, perhaps. No, +not quite that.” + +“Well, that’s something, isn’t it? It’s quite a lot, really. And after +all you’ve had very good business experience now. Then--you remember +what Uncle Phil said? Just a minute; I’ll pour out the tea. Yes, you +must have some.” She did not sound at all depressed. + +She was not depressed. In a few weeks, she might be miserable--she knew +that too; she seemed to know everything to-night--but now, at this +moment, she might have just had good news instead of very bad. Unlike +her husband, who appeared to be only half the man he usually was, a +listless lump, she felt twice her customary self. The footlights had +blazed out, the curtain had shot up, and she had responded at once to +the call of the drama. But there was more in it than that. She was no +longer playing and pretending in the background. The situation, leaving +him crushed, challenged her, and there was something exhilarating in +accepting the challenge. Everything was suddenly real and exciting. +Plans by the score, some of them born of old idle day-dreams, were +stirring in her mind, and now while he listened, sometimes shaking his +head, sometimes looking at her hopefully, they came tumbling out. “Of +course, we’ll give this place up as soon as we can--we ought to get a +decent premium too--look what we’ve spent on the decoration--and then +I’m sure mother would take the children for a few months....” + + +IV + +Yes, Mr. Smeeth was going home. It never occurred to him to go and hear +what was left of the concert. He had done with Brahms & Co. for a long +time, perhaps for ever. As he waited for his tram, he remembered that +tune again--Ta _tum_ ta ta _tum_ tum--and now it seemed like something +that was going on a long, long way off, like a birthday party in +Australia. He said good-bye to that tune. As the tram went lumbering +and groaning up the City Road, he said good-bye to many things. + +He was feeling rather queer. He had missed his usual evening meal and +was empty; that double whisky had had its effect; there was undoubtedly +a pain somewhere in his side; and then of course there was the shock +of the bad news. He had for years moved gingerly, apprehensively, +through a world in which the worst might happen at any moment. The +worst had happened. He could have said to himself, with satisfaction, +“What did I tell you?” Perhaps there ought not to have been any shock. +But it was not so simple as that. He had never expected to be hurled +out of his job in this fashion. He had always seen danger coming from +many quarters, but nevertheless this blow had arrived from quite an +unexpected quarter. The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. +His anger was not directed against Mr. Dersingham, not even against +Golspie, but against the whole world, the very nature of things. + +You go on for years and years building up a position for yourself until +at last you have a place of your own, a little world of your own, in +which the figures do what you tell them to do, the books reveal their +secrets, the fellows at the bank say “Good morning, Mr. Smeeth,” and +everything is snug and sensible. Then a chap turns up from nowhere, +looks at a trade directory and happens to choose your firm, wanders in +to Angel Pavement, and then, in less than six months’ time, without +your having any hand or say in it, he blows you clean out of it all, +without even knowing or caring a thing about it. You are quietly +finishing off for the day, and then suddenly--bang! What was the +good of trams going up and down the City Road and conductors taking +fares and nobody smoking inside or spitting on top under penalty of a +fine? What was the good of having a City Road at all and lighting it +with street lamps and opening shops and sending policemen to walk up +and down it; what was the good of paying rates and taxes and shaving +yourself and seeing that you had a clean collar and going round to +doctors and dentists and reading the newspapers and voting, if this is +what could happen any minute? My God!--what was the good of it all? + +This blanched middle-aged man, sitting in a corner of the moving tram, +an unlighted pipe trembling beneath his grey moustache, the wrinkles +on his face deeper than ever, peered through his glasses now at the +familiar panorama of the North London roads and saw not a glimmer of +it. His gaze was really fixed on the crazy structure of things, and +of that he could make neither head nor tail. He was shaking a little, +not with fear, but with indignation. For years there had been a great +shadow haunting and terrifying him, for he had seen all the little +lighted things of his life menaced by it. Now the lights had gone, +blown out; he sat in the shadow itself; the tram was crawling through +it; the Stoke Newington Road was in it; and all his fear had been used +up before by that shadow, when he had been a man who had something +precious to lose. Now he had lost it. In a week or two, he would have +to start again, and at a time when even the boys were lining up in +their hundreds for a chance of a mere beginning at ten shillings a +week. It wasn’t good enough. That was the phrase he used, the first +that sprang into his mind, and he repeated it over and over again +with tremendous emphasis. “Not good enough,” he said as he left the +tram. “Not good enough,” as he made his way to Chaucer Road, “not good +enough.” + +It was only too evident, he told himself grimly, that they were not +expecting him back so soon at 17, Chaucer Road. Everything seemed to +be in full swing there. You might have thought somebody had just been +left a fortune. He heard a great noise coming from the front room, and +he saw a light in the dining-room. He chose the dining-room, and found +George there, tinkering about with the wireless set. + +“Who’s in there?” asked Mr. Smeeth. + +“The Mitty crowd,” said George, with a tiny grin. “I came in here out +of the way. I’ve had enough of that lot. Mitty owes me a quid, too. +He’s no good.” He looked curiously at his father. “Anything up, Dad?” + +“You got anything to do yet, George?” + +“Not yet. I thought I was on to something to-day, but it was no go. I’m +going round to see a chap to-morrow morning, big garage up at Stamford +Hill. Why? Anything wrong?” + +“Yes. I look like being out of a job within the next fortnight, and you +know what that means.” + +It was not the tragedy to George that it was to his father, not merely +because George was much younger, but also because his whole outlook +was different, for he lived in a newer world in which jobs came and +went and nobody troubled to spend years consolidating a position. +Nevertheless, the youth had sufficient imagination to realise what this +meant to his father. “I’m sorry about that, Dad--by gosh, I am! Rotten +luck, isn’t it? How’d it happen? They’d never sack you, would they? Has +the firm gone broke?” + +“That’s it. Try and get something as soon as you can, George. You know +how we’ll be fixed.” + +“Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll get something soon, something good, too. Edna’s +not earning anything now, either, is she? She’d better make another +start, too, hadn’t she?” + +“I’ll attend to that. We’ll all have to make another start now, if +you ask me,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly. They looked at one another, with +approval on both sides, in silence for a moment. They could hear sounds +of merriment from the other room. “Seem to be enjoying themselves in +there,” said Mr. Smeeth, his temper rising. + +George came nearer. “Dad, boot ’em out. I would if it was my house. I +told mother so, too----” + +“Taking something on yourself, boy, aren’t you, these days?” + +“Well, I did. I can’t stand that lot. That’s why I came in here.” + +Mr. Smeeth nodded. “That’s just what I’m going to do, George. I want +some peace and quietness to-night, and I’m going to have it.” He walked +out, and his son followed him. + +The front room was just as it had been the first time the Mitty family +visited them. There were only five people in it, Mitty and his wife +and daughter, Mrs. Smeeth and Edna, but it seemed quite crowded and +as thick, hot, and smelly, as if people had been eating, drinking +and smoking in it for weeks. It made Mr. Smeeth feel very angry and +disgusted. + +Mrs. Smeeth stared at him, and looked uneasy. “Hello, Dad,” she cried. +“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” + +“So it seems.” + +“Didn’t you go to the concert?” + +Fred Mitty, very flushed, was about to help himself from a bottle that +stood, with other bottles, glasses, and some cake and biscuits, on a +little table in the centre of the room. He was leaning forward, but +straightened himself when he saw Mr. Smeeth standing there. “Thought +you was having some classical music to-night, Pa,” he roared. “Gave it +a miss, eh?” + +Mr. Smeeth advanced into the room, breathing hard. He looked at Mitty. +“I’ve been working hard,” he said pointedly, “and I want some peace and +quietness now. So I’ll say Good-night.” + +“What d’you mean, Dad?” cried Mrs. Smeeth. + +But the irrepressible Fred could not resist this. “Well, night-night, +Pa,” he yelled, “if you’re going to bed. Don’t let me keep you.” He +looked round with a grin, asking for applause, and got it from the two +girls, who giggled. Then he made a move towards the bottle again. + +“I’m not going to bed, just yet,” said Mr. Smeeth, his voice trembling. +“But you’re going home. That’s what I meant.” + +“Here, half a minute, Dad.” Mrs. Smeeth’s voice rose in indignation. +“What a way to talk!” + +“I should think so indeed,” cried Mrs. Mitty, sitting up sharply. + +“For the more we are too-gether,” Fred sang, as his hand closed round +the whisky bottle, “the merrier we will bee-yer.” + +The fuse had been burning briskly for some time, and now its travelling +spark reached the explosive. Mr. Smeeth blew up. “Get out!” he screamed +at Mitty. “Get out of here! Go on! Get out!” + +“That’s the stuff,” shouted George from the doorway. + +But that scream was not enough for such an explosion of wrath. Two +seconds later, Mr. Smeeth had flung down the little table and sent +whisky and port and dirty glasses and cake and biscuits and oranges +flying about the room. All was roaring chaos, with Fred Mitty shouting, +the two wives screaming, Dot Mitty shrieking with laughter, Edna +bursting into tears, George charging forward, and Mr. Smeeth standing +in the middle, bellowing and stamping among the ruins. All the others +jumped up and there was a pushing and jostling and Mr. Smeeth lost his +eyeglasses and had no hope of finding them in the scrimmage. Nothing +could be plainly heard in the din, and now, for Mr. Smeeth, robbed +of his glasses, nothing could be plainly seen. His wife seemed to be +shaking his arm and shrieking at him; Mrs. Mitty seemed to have hurled +herself at Fred, to prevent further violence; and George appeared to +be taking a hand in all the proceedings. But in another minute, he was +alone in the room, and all the others seemed to be talking at the top +of their voices outside. Feeling shaky, he made a step or two towards +a chair, and trod on some glass. His own eyeglasses were still on +the floor somewhere, and no doubt somebody had trodden on them. He +collapsed into the chair, and in a dazed fashion removed a strange +soggy substance from his left bootsole. It was what had once been a +very generous slice of sandwich cake. Then a piece of broken glass, a +jagged fragment of tumbler, cut his hand. He felt ill. It would not +have been very difficult for him to have been sick on the spot. The +sound of the voices outside did not abate for several minutes, but he +stayed where he was. They could argue it out between them, could say +and do what they liked; he didn’t care. + +The door had been left open, and he heard the Mitty family go, and +then he heard George say something to Mrs. Smeeth and Edna. The three +of them went into the dining-room and closed the door behind them, but +the sound of their voices, raised in heated discussion, came to him in +his armchair. He had groped about a little with the hand that was not +cut, but all he had found were two biscuits and these he had eaten in +that mechanical fashion in which biscuits are nearly always eaten. The +voices were lower now and suggested that their owners were no longer +merely shouting at one another, but were really talking. More minutes +passed, and then he heard Edna go upstairs to bed. Then, after a short +interval, during which he listened intently, shakily, to every sound, +his wife came into the room. She did not burst in, as he had expected +her to do; she came in quietly and shut the door after her. But this +did not necessarily mean that there would not be a storm, and he braced +himself to meet it. + +There was no storm, however. Mrs. Smeeth’s first fury had passed, +though she was still very agitated. “If it hadn’t been for George, I +was going to say something to you, Herbert, you wouldn’t forget for a +long, long time. But he says you’re very upset about your work.” + +“I am,” said Mr. Smeeth in a very low voice. + +“He says you’re going to lose your job. Is that right?” + +“That’s right, Edie. It’s all up with Twigg and Dersingham. In a week +or two I’ll be finding myself without a job.” + +“You’re sure this time, Dad? I mean--it’s not one of your false alarms, +is it?” + +“I wish it was. No, there’s no false alarm about it this time.” + +“Mind you,” cried Mrs. Smeeth hastily, shakily, “that’s no reason why +you should have gone and behaved like this. My word, if anybody’d told +me you’d have gone and done a thing like that--you of all men--my +word, I’d have told _them_ something! Smashing the place up, too! Look +at this room! Look at yourself! But I suppose if you were upset, you +weren’t responsible. Here, Dad, are you sure, really sure, about your +job? You’re not--you’re not trying to frighten me again, are you?” + +“No, of course I’m not.” + +“I can’t believe it. Here, what happened?” + +He tried to tell her what had happened, and at least succeeded in +convincing her that he was entirely serious. “And if you think I’m +going to get another job as good as that, or a job worth having at all, +in a hurry, you’re mistaken, Edie. I know what it is, with office jobs; +and it’ll have to be an office job because that’s what I’ve always +done. I’m nearly fifty, and I look it. I dare say I look older----” + +“That you don’t, Dad.” + +“Well, that’s your opinion, but you won’t be employing me. I know what +it is.” And there came back to him suddenly, poignantly, the memory of +that tiny scene outside the office door, several months ago, when he +had said to that anxious man, the last in the line of applicants, “Good +luck!” and had received the ghost of a smile. “There are four of us +here. George is out of work, though he might get something soon. He’s a +good lad, really. There’s Edna. She’s earning nothing now.” + +“She will be before this time next week,” said Mrs. Smeeth quickly. +“I’ll see to that.” + +“She might be, and then again, she might not. And in a week or two I’ll +be among the unemployed. And we’ve got about forty odd pounds saved up, +that’s what we’ve got, all told, unless you count this furniture.” + +“I can work,” cried Mrs. Smeeth fiercely. “You needn’t think there’ll +be me to keep in idleness. I’ll get something. I’ll go out charring +first.” + +“But I don’t want you to go out charring,” Mr. Smeeth told her, almost +shouting. “I didn’t marry you and I haven’t worked all this time, never +missing a minute if I could help it, and we didn’t save and plan to +get this home together, so you could go out charring. My God, it’s not +good enough. When I think of the way I’ve worked and planned and gone +without things to get us a decent position----!” His voice dropped. + +“We’ll manage somehow.” And having said this, Mrs. Smeeth, the gay and +confident partner, suddenly and astonishingly burst into tears. + +“Manage? We’ll have to manage,” Mr. Smeeth had begun, grimly. Then he +changed his tone. “Here, Edie. That’s all right, that’s all right. Now +then, now then. I’m sorry I lost my temper too----” + +“It was my fault,” she sobbed. “Yes, it is. I deserved it. I know I’ve +spent too much money. Yes, I have.” + +“Oh, never mind. You weren’t to know the firm was going broke like +that. I didn’t know myself. Never more surprised in my life. Here, +Edie. Now then, now then.” He was standing beside her now. + +“Oh dear,” she gasped, a few minutes later, trying to wipe her eyes. +She was both laughing and crying now. “Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear!” + +He looked at her solemnly. + +“Oh dear, dear, you do look a sight, Dad. I don’t know who looks the +worst, you or this room. I never saw such a sketch, though I expect I’m +bad enough, goodness knows!” + +“I’ve dropped my eyeglasses, that’s all that’s wrong with me,” Mr. +Smeeth announced, not without dignity. + +“I can see that, Dad, I can see that,” she told him, dabbing at her +face. “Here, I’ll look for them. You sit down. But, mind you, if +they’re broken, don’t blame me. It wasn’t me that started throwing +things about to-night, was it? Here they are.” + +“Broken?” + +“Yes, somebody made no mistake when they trod on them. You’ll have to +wear your old ones for a day or two, that’s all. I’ll go and get them +for you, and then you can help me to clear this mess up.” + +“All right, Edie.” Mr. Smeeth hesitated. “Is there anything to eat in +the house? I’m getting hungry now.” + +“Didn’t you have anything? Haven’t you had anything at all to-night? +You silly man, why didn’t you say so? I’ll go and get you something +now. You go and get your glasses, you know where they are--in the +drawer upstairs. If you can’t see them, you can feel for them. Yes, in +the top drawer. And I’ll get you something to eat while you’re finding +them. Oh dear, what a life! Still, it’s the only one we’ve got, I +suppose, so we’d better make what we can out of it.” + +She bustled out and Mr. Smeeth followed her. He was very shortsighted, +almost helpless without his glasses, and after he had stumbled upstairs +to their bedroom he spent some time groping about for the old pair. +Annoyed by the dim shapelessness of everything, he told himself that +he ought to have been wearing his glasses before he started on such a +search. Then he saw the irony of it and was quite entertained for a +few moments, during which he felt for the first time for a long while +a curiously reassuring detachment from things, and when he found the +old glasses and put them on, he seemed, for one brief interval, to be +staring at another and smaller world, and it was a world that could +play all manner of tricks with Herbert Norman Smeeth but could never +capture, swallow, and digest the whole of him. The newly-born ironist +then returned downstairs, to eat his supper. + + + + +_Epilogue_ + + +Mr. Golspie, pottering about in his cabin, would not have known she +was moving off if he had not suddenly seen a blue funnel go wandering +across the open porthole. He could feel no motion, but then she was not +moving under her own steam, but was being taken out of the docks by +tugs. Mr. Golspie put his head into the next cabin, where his daughter +was still fussing about with her things. “We’re off,” he said, grinning +at her. Lena showed no sign of excitement. You might have thought she +had been travelling to the River Plate all her life. + +“Coming out?” said her father. + +“Not yet. Are we really going? There doesn’t seem to be any excitement.” + +“There isn’t. If that’s what you want, we ought to have gone on a +liner, and then you’d have had palaver enough--kissing and crying and +cheering and God knows what. These boats do it quietly.” + +“Well, I’m disappointed. But I’ll come out when there’s something to +see and I’ve put these things away. I’m rather tired of staring at +these silly docks, though. Tell me when anything happens.” + +He nodded, grinned again at her, then withdrew, and went out on to the +main deck, where several of the other passengers were standing. There +were only a dozen passengers all told, for this was primarily a cargo +boat. One of these fellow travellers caught Mr. Golspie’s eye, nodded, +and then came nearer. They had exchanged a few remarks already, each +having recognised in the other an old hand and a kindred spirit. They +knew even now that the moment the steward was at liberty to dispense +his liquors, they would be having a drink together, the first of +many, many drinks. This other man, Sugden, was a tallish fellow with +a long bony face and a vast shaven upper lip, a Lancashire man who +travelled for some chemical firm. He had one of those hard, flat, +Lancashire voices that give every statement they make a lugubrious and +disillusioned air. + +“Moving,” that voice announced now, to Mr. Golspie. + +“Moving,” said Mr. Golspie. + +They stood together, two solid middle-aged men, and together they +watched the long line of masts and funnels in the Royal Albert Dock go +sliding away. They were still in London, and no great distance from the +buses and trams, the teashops and the pubs, yet all that London seemed +to have disappeared long ago. Here was another city with streets and +squares of dark water, a city of wharves and sheds, masts and funnels +and cranes, barges, tugs, and lighters. Wherever you looked there +appeared to be nothing but these things, though in the far distance a +haze of smoke, hanging above the multitudinous chimney-pots of Poplar +and Bow, suggested that the other London, the brick and paving-stone +London, was still there. It was not a bad morning for the time of +year. Now and then the sunlight struggled through and set the water +glittering or brought out ghostly rainbow hues on the darker oilier +patches. + +“This is where they bring all the meat,” said Sugden. “This, and +Liverpool. If you blocked this place up for a week or two, a lot o’ +people would find themselves without their Sunday dinners. Not me, +though. Give me English meat, when I can get it. And when I’m at home, +I insist on having it. Get enough o’ the other sort when I’m away.” + +“You’ve been on these boats before, haven’t you?” + +“I have. I’ve been on this very ship twice before. They know me here. +You ask ’em.” + +“Food all right?” + +“Suits me,” replied Sugden. “Should suit you, too. Good quality and +plenty of it. Nothing fancy, y’know--not like these liners, with their +chefs and what not--but plenty o’ good solid stuff. That’s what I like.” + +Apparently it was what Mr. Golspie liked too. He produced a cigar +case, and the two men lit up and through a fragrant dribble of smoke +regarded the moving docks with half-closed eyes and a vague air of +patronage. + +“This port of London’s a bit of an eye-opener to me,” Mr. Golspie +remarked. + +“Ever been all round it? Tremendous--oh tremendous! There’s the West +India Docks further up here, and then the Surrey Commercial on the +other side. You never saw such a place. It’s a hard day’s work looking +round the Surrey Commercial. Chap tried to show me once, but I gave it +up. And then you’ve got the London Docks further up still. And Tilbury, +of course. If you go out on one of the regular liners and mail boats, +you get on down at Tilbury. I’ve done that once or twice, but this +suits me better. When I’m aboard a ship, I like to travel quietly. I +don’t like all this floating hotel, song-and-dance, fancy-dress ball +business. What d’you say?” + +“Haven’t been on one of those big ships for donkeys’ years,” Mr. +Golspie confessed. “I’ve never been out to South America before, +as a matter of fact. I’ve been to the States, in my time, and I’ve +been to Central America, but not to south. But an old pal of mine’s +out there--Montevideo’s his headquarters--and he’s put up a good +proposition, so I’m going to see what it looks like.” + +“Plenty o’ money there, plenty. Only place where there is now, there +and the States. I shouldn’t like to live there though. Wouldn’t suit +me.” + +“And where do you live when you’re at home?” + +“St. Helens. That’s where my firm is, and that’s where I live. Been +there all my life. D’you know it?” + +“Saw it once from the train,” Mr. Golspie replied. “Bit ugly, isn’t it?” + +Mr. Sugden was not surprised. Obviously he had heard this before. “Yes, +it’s a bit ugly, if you’re not used to it. But I’m a bit ugly myself. +And if it comes to that, you’re no beauty.” And he roared with laughter. + +Mr. Golspie laughed too, companionably. They strolled round the deck, +on which Miss Lena Golspie, in a fur coat and with a scarlet scarf +about her neck, soon made an appearance, to the delight of several of +the younger male passengers and ship’s officers, who had been waiting +for this moment, after hoping, with the despair born of many previous +disappointments, that she was not merely a fleeting vision, one of +those lovely creatures who come aboard for an hour or two and then +depart, leaving the whole ship under a shadow. She joined her father +and was introduced to Mr. Sugden (not an impressionable man), and then +wandered away, to stare with disdainful interest at the other ships +and to gather out of the corners of her brilliant eyes a good deal of +exciting preliminary information about her fellow passengers. The scene +before her--the ship had stopped now in that unaccountable fashion that +ships have--seemed to her very ugly and dull, and it was incredible +that this dirty water and drab messiness should be the beginning of a +voyage to South America, of which her fancy entertained the liveliest +and most exciting pictures, chiefly derived from the films. After that +awful night with the boy from the office, she had been only too glad to +leave London, which seemed to her, on the whole, a stupid place, but +she could hardly believe now that in a fortnight or so she would be +staring at South American young men with black side-whiskers and absurd +hats. She was annoyed with the ship for stopping like this, as if it +had nothing better to do than loiter about these dingy sheds and flat +boats full of barrels, and when one of the officers hung about, looking +as if he wanted to pour out information, she gave him a haughty glance +and walked away. + +Her father and his new acquaintance, having finished their cigars, +leaned over the rail, and decided that they were ready for lunch. +Meanwhile, they talked idly. + +“I don’t blame you,” said Mr. Sugden. “I don’t like London +myself--never did. I had a year there once. Didn’t like it at all. I +couldn’t get on with the Londoners--too much of this haw-haw-haw stuff +and the striped trousers and black coat and white spat business. Didn’t +suit me, I can tell you. They thought they were smart, too.” + +“They’re not--most of ’em,” said Mr. Golspie. “I soon found that out.” + +“So did I,” the other continued in his curiously flat mournful voice, +“and when I did find it out and told ’em as much, they didn’t like it. +No, they didn’t like it.” Mr. Sugden did not go on to explain why they +should have liked it. He merely repeated several times more that they +didn’t like it. But he was yawning rather than talking. + +“Well, I’ve just had about four or five months of it,” said Mr. +Golspie, indifferently, “and that was quite enough for me. They’re half +dead, most of ’em--half dead. No dash. No guts. I want a place where +everybody’s alive, where there’s something doing.” + +“Where were you in London?” + +“What--working? Well, my headquarters were in a funny little street--I +don’t suppose you’ve heard of it--down in the City it is.” + +“I know the City fairly well.” + +“I wonder if you know this place. I’d never heard of it before. Angel +Pavement.” + +“Angel Pavement? No, I never heard of that. You win. Well, I must say +I’m ready for my lunch. I think I’ll slip down and wash my hands. Well, +_well_, well, we-ell.” He sang these, at the same time stifling a yawn. +“Meet any angels there?” + +“What, in Angel Pavement? I can’t say I did.” + +“Not on view, eh?” + +“Not while I was there. I met somebody who nearly turned into one, but +not quite. No, they were all just human, and they hadn’t got too dam’ +much of that. I was sorry for the poor devils--some of ’em.” + +“All I’m sorry for just now is my inside,” said Mr. Sugden, with great +deliberation. “It’s crying out for a piece of steak nicely done and a +few chips. Hello, there go the Customs chaps. We ought to be moving +again soon. And--my word!--it’s time they thought about a bit o’ lunch. +Look at the time. Let’s go down.” + +“Listen. That’s it,” said Mr. Golspie. “Come on. Oh, I’ll get hold of +that daughter of mine.” + +When they returned after lunch, they found that they had left the docks +behind and were now in the river. There was a new chill freshness in +the air and a vague hint of the sea. On one side, the last of Woolwich +was straggling past, with a misty Shooters Hill behind; and on the +other side there were some old piers and a gas works. + +“Better take a last look at London,” said Mr. Golspie to his daughter, +as they walked round the deck. “There it is, see?” + +“There’s nothing to see,” said Lena, looking back at the glistening +streaky water and the haze and shadows beyond. “Not worth looking at.” + +“All gone in smoke, eh? I mean the proper London. As a matter of fact, +we’re not out of London yet. That’s right, isn’t it?” + +“Not quite out of it yet,” replied Mr. Sugden, “but you’ve seen all +there is to see. I think I’ll go down and have my little afternoon +snooze.” + +A string of barges passed them, moving slowly on to the very heart of +the city. A gull dropped, wheeled, flashed, was gone, and with it went +what little sun there was. The gleam faded from the face of the river; +a chill wind stirred; the distant banks, a higgledy-piggledy of little +buildings and green patches, retreated; and even the smoky haze of +London city slipped away from them, thinning out into grey sky. “Well, +the sun’s gone in,” said Mr. Golspie, “so I’ll go in, too.” Somewhere a +steamer hooted twice out of the ghostliness. He gave a last look, then +turned away. “And that’s that.” + + + THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78329 *** |