The action suggested another. Simulate anger, draw some sign from that fellow’s self-control! He turned again, and said pettishly: “What on earth were you about, Mr. Manager, when you allowed these contracts to go through without limit of liability? A man of your experience! What was your motive?”
A slight narrowing of the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. He had relied on the word ‘motive,’ but the fellow passed it by.
“For such high premiums as we have been getting, Mr. Forsyte, a limited liability was not possible. This is a most outrageous development, and I’m afraid it must be considered just bad luck.”
“Unfortunately,” said Soames, “there’s no such thing as luck in properly regulated assurance, as we shall find, or I’m much mistaken. I shouldn’t be surprised if an action lay against the Board for gross negligence!”
That had got the chairman’s goat! – Got his goat? What expressions they used nowadays! Or did it mean the opposite? One never knew! But as for Elderson–he seemed to Soames to be merely counterfeiting a certain flusteration. Futile to attempt to spring anything out of a chap like that. If the thing were true, the fellow must be entirely desperate, prepared for anything and everything. And since from Soames the desperate side of life–the real holes, the impossible positions which demand a gambler’s throw–had always been carefully barred by the habits of a prudent nature, he found it now impossible to imagine Elderson’s state of mind, or his line of conduct if he were guilty. For all he could tell, the chap might be carrying poison about with him; might be sitting on a revolver like a fellow on the film. The whole thing was too unpleasant, too worrying for words. And without saying any more he went away, taking nothing with him but the knowledge that their total liability on this German business, with the mark valueless, was over two hundred thousand pounds. He hastily reviewed the fortunes of his co-directors. Old Fontenoy was always in low water; the chairman a dark horse; Mont was in land, land right down in value, and mortgaged at that; old Cosey Mothergill had nothing but his name and his director’s fees; Meyricke must have a large income, but light come, light go, like most of those big counsel with irons in many fires and the certainty of a judgeship. Not a really substantial man among the lot, except himself! He ploughed his way along, head down. Public companies! Preposterous system! You had to trust somebody, and there you were! It was appalling!
“Balloons, sir–beautiful colours, five feet circumference. Take one, gentleman!”
“Good gad!” said Soames. As if the pricked bubble of German business were not enough!
Chapter II.
VICTORINE
All through December balloons had been slack–hardly any movement about them, even in Christmas week, and from the Bickets Central Australia was as far as ever. The girl Victorine, restored to comparative health, had not regained her position in the blouse department of Messrs. Boney Blayds & Co. They had given her some odd sewing, but not of late, and she had spent much time trying to get work less uncertain. Her trouble was–had always been–her face. It was unusual. People did not know what to make of a girl who looked like that. Why employ one who without qualification of wealth, rank, fashion, or ability (so far as they knew) made them feel ordinary? For–however essential to such as Fleur and Michael–dramatic interest was not primary in the manufacture or sale of blouses, in the fitting-on of shoes, the addressing of envelopes, making-up of funeral wreaths, or the other ambitions of Victorine. Behind those large dark eyes and silent lips, what went on? It worried Boney Blayds & Co., and the more wholesale firms of commerce. The lurid professions–film-super, or mannequin–did not occur to one, of self-deprecating nature, born in Putney.
When Bicket had gone out of a morning with his tray and his balloons not yet blown up, she would stand biting her finger, as though to gnaw her way to some escape from this hand-to-mouth existence which kept her husband thin as a rail, tired as a rook, shabby as a tailless sparrow, and, at the expense of all caste feeling, brought them in no more than just enough to keep them living under a roof. It had long been clear to them both that there was no future in balloons, just a cadging present. And there smouldered in the silent, passive Victorine a fierce resentment. She wanted better things for herself, for him, chiefly for him.
On the morning when the mark was bumping down, she was putting on her velveteen jacket and toque (best remaining items of her wardrobe), having taken a resolve. Bicket never mentioned his old job, and his wife had subtly divined some cause beyond the ordinary for his loss of it. Why not see if she could get him taken back? He had often said: “Mr. Mont’s a gent and a sort o’ socialist; been through the war, too; no high-and-mighty about HIM.” If she could ‘get at’ this phenomenon! With the flush of hope and daring in her sallow cheeks, she took stock of her appearance from the window-glasses of the Strand. Her velveteen of jade-green always pleased one who had an eye for colour, but her black skirt–well, perhaps the wear and tear of it wouldn’t show if she kept behind the counter. Had she brass enough to say that she came about a manuscript? And she rehearsed with silent lips, pinching her accent: “Would you ask Mr. Mont, please, if I could see him; it’s about a manuscript.” Yes! and then would come the question: “What name, please?” “Mrs. Bicket?” Never! “Miss Victorine Collins?” All authoresses had maiden names. Victorine–yes! But Collins! It didn’t sound like. And no one would know what her maiden name had been. Why not choose one? They often chose. And she searched. Something Italian, like–like–Hadn’t their landlady said to them when they came in: “Is your wife Eyetalian?” Ah! Manuelli! That was certainly Italian–the ice-cream man in Little Ditch Street had it! She walked on practising beneath her breath. If only she could get to see this Mr. Mont!
She entered, trembling. All went exactly as foreseen, even to the pinching of her accent, till she stood waiting for them to bring an answer from the speaking tube, concealing her hands in their very old gloves. Had Miss Manuelli an appointment? There was no manuscript.
“No,” said Victorine, “I haven’t sent it yet. I wanted to see him first.” The young man at the counter was looking at her hard. He went again to the tube, then spoke.
“Will you wait a minute, please–Mr. Mont’s lady secretary is coming down.”
Victorine inclined her head towards her sinking heart. A lady secretary! She would never get there now! And there came on her the sudden dread of false pretences. But the thought of Tony standing at his corner, ballooned up to the eyes, as she had spied out more than once, fortified her desperation.
A girl’s voice said: “Miss Manuelli? Mr. Mont’s secretary, perhaps you could give me a message.”
A fresh-faced young woman’s eyes were travelling up and down her. Pinching her accent hard, she said: “Oh! I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”
The travelling gaze stopped at her face. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if he can see you.”
Alone in a small waiting-room, Victorine sat without movement, till she saw a young man’s face poked through the doorway, and heard the words:
“Will you come in?”
She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room,
“Well, Miss–er–Manuelli?”
“Not Manuelli, please–Mrs. Bicket; my husband used to be here.”
“What!” The chap that had snooped ‘Copper Coin!’ Phew! Bicket’s yarn–his wife–pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.
“He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?”
Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?
“He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St. Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you COULD take him back here…”
No! she did not know!
“Very sorry, Mrs. Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are YOU all right again?”
“Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.”
What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!
“Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s pretty good–in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?”
“I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.”
“All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St. Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs. Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.”
“When I was ill, sir.”
“Of course, that makes a difference.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let me write you a note to Mr. Greene. Will you sit down a minute?”
He stole a look at her while she sat waiting. Really, her sallow, large-eyed face, with its dead-black, bobbed, frizzy-ended hair, was extraordinarily interesting–a little too refined and anaemic for the public; but, dash it all! the public couldn’t always have its Reckitt’s blue eyes, corn-coloured hair, and poppy cheeks. “She’s not a peach,” he wrote, “on the main tree of taste; but so striking in her way that she really might become a type, like Beardsley’s or Dana’s.”
When she had taken the note and gone, he rang for his secretary.
“No, Miss Perren, she didn’t take anything off me. But some type, eh?”
“I thought you’d like to see her. She wasn’t an authoress, was she?”
“Far from it.”
“Well, I hope she got what she wanted.”
Michael grinned. “Partly, Miss Perren–partly. You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t; but I think you’re too soft-hearted.”
Michael ran his fingers through his hair.
“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?”
“Yes, Mr. Mont.”
“Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about ‘Duet’: ‘We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!’ You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? ‘When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing–in short, when spring comes–we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of–of’–er–what, Miss Perren?”
“‘The experience we shall have gained.’ Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?”
“Excellent! ‘Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.’ Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?”
“What is ‘nepotism’?”
“Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.”
“He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr. Mont.”
“And we pay for the distinction. Well, he’s a good old Bart. That’s all before lunch, and mind you have a good one. That girl’s figure wasn’t usual either, was it? She’s thin, but she stands up straight. There’s a question I always want to ask, Miss Perren: Why do modern girls walk in a curve with their heads poked forward? They can’t all be built like that.”
The secretary’s cheeks brightened.
“There IS a reason, Mr. Mont.”
“Good! What is it?”
The secretary’s cheeks continued to brighten. “I don’t really know whether I can–”
“Oh! sorry. I’ll ask my wife. Only she’s quite straight herself.”
“Well, Mr. Mont, it’s this, you see: They aren’t supposed to have anything be–behind, and, of course, they have, and they can’t get the proper effect unless they curve their chests in and poke their heads forward. It’s the fashion-plates and mannequins that do it.”
“I see,” said Michael; “thank you, Miss Perren; awfully good of you. It’s the limit, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I don’t hold with it, myself.”
“No, quite!”
The secretary lowered her eyelids and withdrew.
Michael sat down and drew a face on his blotting-paper. It was not Victorine’s…
Armed with the note to Aubrey Greene, Victorine had her usual lunch, a cup of coffee and a bit of heavy cake, and took the tube towards Chelsea. She had not succeeded, but the gentleman had been friendly and she felt cheered.
At the studio door was a young man inserting a key–very elegant in smoke-grey Harris tweeds, a sliding young man with no hat, beautifully brushed-back bright hair, and a soft voice.
“Model?” he said.
“Yes, sir, please. I have a note for you from Mr. Mont.”
“Michael? Come in.”
Victorine followed him in. It was ‘not half’ sea-green in there; a high room with rafters and a top light, and lots of pictures and drawings on the walls, and as if they had slipped off on to the floor. A picture on an easel of two ladies with their clothes sliding down troubled Victorine. She became conscious of the gentleman’s eyes, sea-green like the walls, sliding up and down her.
“Will you sit for anything?” he asked.
Victorine answered mechanically: “Yes, sir.”
“Do you mind taking your hat off?”
Victorine took off the toque, and shook out her hair.
“Ah!” said the gentleman. “I wonder.”
Victorine wondered what.
“Just sit down on the dais, will you?”
Victorine looked about her, uncertain. A smile seemed to fly up his forehead and over his slippery bright hair.
“This is your first shot, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All the better.” And he pointed to a small platform.
Victorine sat down on it in a black oak chair.
“You look cold.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went to a cupboard and returned with two small glasses of a brown fluid.
“Have a Grand Marnier?”
She noticed that he tossed his off in one gulp, and did the same. It was sweet, strong, very nice, and made her gasp.
“Take a cigarette.”
Victorine took one from a case he handed, and put it between her lips. He lit it. And again a smile slid up away over the top of his head.
“You draw it in,” he said. “Where were you born?”
“In Putney, sir.”
“That’s very interesting. Just sit still a minute. It’s not as bad as having a tooth out, but it takes longer. The great thing is to keep awake.”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a large piece of paper and a bit of dark stuff, and began to draw.
“Tell me,” he said, “Miss–”
“Collins, sir–Victorine Collins.” Some instinct made her give her maiden name. It seemed somehow more professional.
“Are you at large?” He paused, and again the smile slid up over his bright hair: “Or have you any other occupation?”
“Not at present, sir. I’m married, but nothing else.”
For some time after that the gentleman was silent. It was interesting to see him, taking a look, making a stroke on the paper, taking another look. Hundreds of looks, hundreds of strokes. At last he said: “All right! Now we’ll have a rest. Heaven sent you here, Miss Collins. Come and get warm.”
Victorine approached the fire.
“Do you know anything about expressionism?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, it means not troubling about the outside except in so far as it expresses the inside. Does that convey anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Quite! I think you said you’d sit for the–er–altogether?”
Victorine regarded the bright and sliding gentleman. She did not know what he meant, but she felt that he meant something out of the ordinary.
“Altogether what, sir?”
“Nude.”
“Oh!” She cast her eyes down, then raised them to the sliding clothes of the two ladies. “Like that?”
“No, I shouldn’t be treating you cubistically.”
A slow flush was burning out the sallow in her cheeks. She said slowly:
“Does it mean more money?”
“Yes, half as much again–more perhaps. I don’t want you to if you’d rather not. You can think it over and let me know next time.”
She raised her eyes again, and said: “Thank you, sir.”
“Righto! Only please don’t ‘sir’ me.”
Victorine smiled. It was the first time she had achieved this functional disturbance, and it seemed to have a strange effect. He said hurriedly: “By George! When you smile, Miss Collins, I see you impressionistically. If you’ve rested, sit up there again.”
Victorine went back.
The gentleman took a fresh piece of paper.
“Can you think of anything that will keep you smiling?”
She shook her head. That was a fact.
“Nothing comic at all? I suppose you’re not in love with your husband, for instance?”
“Oh! yes.”
“Well, try that.”
Victorine tried that, but she could only see Tony selling his balloons.
“That won’t do,” said the gentleman. “Don’t think of him! Did you ever see ‘L’apres midi d’un Faune’?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea. ‘L’apres midi d’une Dryade.’ About the nude you really needn’t mind. It’s quite impersonal. Think of art, and fifteen bob a day. Shades of Nijinsky, I see the whole thing!”
All the time that he was talking his eyes were sliding off and on to her, and his pencil off and on to the paper. A sort of infection began to ferment within Victorine. Fifteen shillings a day! Blue butterflies!
There was a profound silence. His eyes and hand slid off and on. A faint smile had come on Victorine’s face–she was adding up the money she might earn.
At last his eyes and hand ceased moving, and he stood looking at the paper.
“That’s all for today, Miss Collins. I’ve got to think it out. Will you give me your address?”
Victorine thought rapidly.
“Please, sir, will you write to me at the post office. I don’t want my husband to know that I’m–I’m–”
“Affiliated to art? Well! Name of post office?”
Victorine gave it and resumed her hat.
“An hour and a half, five shillings, thank you. And tomorrow, at half-past two, Miss Collins–not ‘sir.’”
“Yes, s–, thank you.”
Waiting for her ‘bus in the cold January air, the altogether appeared to Victorine improbable. To sit in front of a strange gentleman in her skin! If Tony knew! The slow flush again burned up the sallow in her cheeks. She climbed into the ‘bus. But fifteen shillings! Six days a week–why, it would be four pound ten! In four months she could earn their passage out. Judging by the pictures in there, lots must be doing it. Tony must know nothing, not even that she was sitting for her face. He was all nerves, and that fond of her! He would imagine things; she had heard him say those artists were just like cats. But that gentleman had been very nice, though he did seem as if he were laughing at everything. She wished he had shown her the drawing. Perhaps she would see herself in an exhibition some day. But without–oh! And suddenly she thought: ‘If I ate a bit more, I’d look nice like that, too!’ And as if to escape from the daring of that thought, she stared up into the face opposite. It had two chins, was calm and smooth and pink, with light eyes staring back at her. People had thoughts, but you couldn’t tell what they were! And the smile which Aubrey Greene desired crept out on his model’s face.
Chapter III.
MICHAEL WALKS AND TALKS
The face Michael drew began by being Victorine’s, and ended by being Fleur’s. If physically Fleur stood up straight, was she morally as erect? This was the speculation for which he continually called himself a cad. He saw no change in her movements, and loyally refrained from enquiring into the movements he could not see. But his aroused attention made him more and more aware of a certain cynicism, as if she were continually registering the belief that all values were equal and none of much value.
Wilfrid, though still in London, was neither visible nor spoken of. “Out of sight and hearing, out of mind,” seemed to be the motto. It did not work with Michael–Wilfrid was constantly in his mind. If Wilfrid were not seeing Fleur, how could he bear to stay within such tantalising reach of her? If Fleur did not want Wilfrid to stay, why had she not sent him away? He was finding it difficult, too, to conceal from others the fact that Desert and he were no longer pals. Often the impetus to go and have it out with him surged up and was beaten back. Either there was nothing beyond what he already knew, or there was something–and Wilfrid would say there wasn’t. Michael accepted that without cavil; one did not give a woman away! But he wanted to hear no lies from a War comrade. Between Fleur and himself no word had passed; for words, he felt, would add no knowledge, merely imperil a hold weak enough already. Christmas at the ancestral manor of the Monts had been passed in covert-shooting. Fleur had come and stood with him at the last drive on the second day, holding Ting-a-ling on a lead. The Chinese dog had been extraordinarily excited, climbing the air every time a bird fell, and quite unaffected by the noise of guns. Michael, waiting to miss his birds–he was a poor shot–had watched her eager face emerging from grey fur, her form braced back against Ting-a-ling. Shooting was new to her; and under the stimulus of novelty she was always at her best. He had loved even her “Oh, Michaels!” when he missed. She had been the success of the gathering, which meant seeing almost nothing of her except a sleepy head on a pillow; but, at least, down there he had not suffered from lurking uneasiness.
Putting a last touch to the bobbed hair on the blotting paper, he got up. St. Paul’s, that girl had said. He might stroll up and have a squint at Bicket. Something might occur to him. Tightening the belt of his blue overcoat round his waist, he sallied forth, thin and sprightly, with a little ache in his heart.
Walking east, on that bright, cheerful day, nothing struck him so much as the fact that he was alive, well, and in work. So very many were dead, ill, or out of a job. He entered Covent Garden. Amazing place! A human nature which, decade after decade, could put up with Covent Garden was not in danger of extinction from its many ills. A comforting place–one needn’t take anything too seriously after walking through it. On this square island were the vegetables of the earth and the fruits of the world, bounded on the west by publishing, on the cast by opera, on the north and south by rivers of mankind. Among discharging carts and litter of paper, straw and men out of drawing, Michael walked and sniffed. Smell of its own, Covent Garden, earthy and just not rotten! He had never seen–even in the War–any place that so utterly lacked form. Extraordinarily English! Nobody looked as if they had anything to do with the soil–drivers, hangers-on, packers, and the salesmen inside the covered markets, seemed equally devoid of acquaintanceship with sun, wind, water, earth or air–town types all! And–Golly! – how their faces jutted, sloped, sagged and swelled, in every kind of featural disharmony. What was the English type amongst all this infinite variety of disproportion? There just wasn’t one! He came on the fruits, glowing piles, still and bright–foreigners from the land of the sun–globes all the same size and colour. They made Michael’s mouth water. ‘Something in the sun,’ he thought; ‘there really is.’ Look at Italy, at the Arabs, at Australia–the Australians came from England, and see the type now! Nevertheless–a Cockney for good temper! The more regular a person’s form and features, the more selfish they were! Those grape-fruit looked horribly self-satisfied, compared with the potatoes!
He emerged still thinking about the English. Well! They were now one of the plainest and most distorted races of the world; and yet was there any race to compare with them for good temper and for ‘guts’? And they needed those in their smoky towns, and their climate–remarkable instance of adaptation to environment, the modern English character! ‘I could pick out an Englishman anywhere,’ he thought, ‘and yet, physically, there’s no general type now!’ Astounding people! So ugly in the mass, yet growing such flowers of beauty, and such strange sprigs–like that little Mrs. Bicket; so unimaginative in bulk, yet with such a blooming lot of poets! How would old Danby like it, by the way, when Wilfrid took his next volume to some other firm; or rather what should he–Wilfrid’s particular friend! – say to old Danby? Aha! He knew what he should say:
“Yes, sir, but you should have let that poor blighter off who snooped the ‘Copper Coins.’ Desert hasn’t forgotten your refusal.” One for old Danby and his eternal inthe-rightness! ‘Copper Coin’ had done uncommonly well. Its successor would probably do uncommonly better. The book was a proof of what he–Michael–was always saying: The ‘cockyolly-bird period’ was passing. People wanted life again. Sibley, Walter Nazing, Linda–all those who had nothing to say except that they were superior to such as had–were already measured for their coffins. Not that they would know when they were in them; not blooming likely! They would continue to wave their noses and look down them!
‘I’M fed-up with them,’ thought Michael. ‘If only Fleur would see that looking down your nose is a sure sign of inferiority!’ And, suddenly, it came to him that she probably did. Wilfrid was the only one of the whole lot she had ever been thick with; the others were there because–well, because she was Fleur, and had the latest things about her. When, very soon, they were no longer the latest things, she would drop them. But Wilfrid she would not drop. No, he felt sure that she had not dropped, and would not drop Wilfrid.
He looked up. Ludgate Hill! “Near St. Paul’s–sells balloons?” And there–sure enough–the poor beggar was!
Bicket was deflating with a view to going off his stand for a cup of cocoa. Remembering that he had come on him by accident, Michael stood for a moment preparing the tones of surprise. Pity the poor chap couldn’t blow himself into one of those coloured shapes and float over St. Paul’s to Peter. Mournful little cuss he looked, squeezing out the air! Memory tapped sharply on his mind. Balloon–in the square–November the first–joyful night! Special! Fleur! Perhaps they brought luck. He moved and said in an astounded voice: “YOU, Bicket? Is this your stunt now?”
The large eyes of Bicket regarded him over a puce-coloured sixpennyworth.
“Mr. Mont! Often thought I’d like to see you again, sir.”
“Same here, Bicket. If you’re not doing anything, come and have some lunch.”
Bicket completed the globe’s collapse, and, closing his tray-lid, said: “Reelly, sir?”
“Rather! I was just going into a fish place.”
Bicket detached his tray.
“I’ll leave this with the crossing-sweeper.” He did so, and followed at Michael’s side.
“Any money in it, Bicket?”
“Bare livin’, sir.”
“How about this place? We’ll have oysters.”
A little saliva at the corner of Bicket’s mouth was removed by a pale tongue.
At a small table decorated with white oilcloth and a cruet stand, Michael sat down.
“Two dozen oysters, and all that; then two good soles, and a bottle of Chablis. Hurry up, please.”
When the white-aproned fellow had gone about it, Bicket said simply:
“My Gawd!”
“Yes, it’s a funny world, Bicket.”
“It is, and that’s a fact. This lunch’ll cost you a pound, I shouldn’t wonder. If I take twenty-five bob a week, it’s all I do.”
“You touch it there, Bicket. I eat my conscience every day.”
Bicket shook his head.
“No, sir, if you’ve got money, spend it. I would. Be ‘appy if you can–there yn’t too many that are.”
The white-aproned fellow began blessing them with oysters. He brought them fresh-opened, three at a time. Michael bearded them; Bicket swallowed them whole. Presently above twelve empty shells, he said:
“That’s where the Socialists myke their mistyke, sir. Nothing keeps me going but the sight of other people spendin’ money. It’s what we might all come to with a bit of luck. Reduce the world to a level of a pound a dy–and it won’t even run to that, they sy! It’s not good enough, sir. I’d rather ‘ave less with the ‘ope of more. Take awy the gamble, and life’s a frost. Here’s luck!”
“Almost thou persuadest me to be a capitalist, Bicket.”
A glow had come up in the thin and large-eyed face behind the greenish Chablis glass.
“I wish to Gawd I had my wife here, sir.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
A slight narrowing of the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. He had relied on the word ‘motive,’ but the fellow passed it by.
“For such high premiums as we have been getting, Mr. Forsyte, a limited liability was not possible. This is a most outrageous development, and I’m afraid it must be considered just bad luck.”
“Unfortunately,” said Soames, “there’s no such thing as luck in properly regulated assurance, as we shall find, or I’m much mistaken. I shouldn’t be surprised if an action lay against the Board for gross negligence!”
That had got the chairman’s goat! – Got his goat? What expressions they used nowadays! Or did it mean the opposite? One never knew! But as for Elderson–he seemed to Soames to be merely counterfeiting a certain flusteration. Futile to attempt to spring anything out of a chap like that. If the thing were true, the fellow must be entirely desperate, prepared for anything and everything. And since from Soames the desperate side of life–the real holes, the impossible positions which demand a gambler’s throw–had always been carefully barred by the habits of a prudent nature, he found it now impossible to imagine Elderson’s state of mind, or his line of conduct if he were guilty. For all he could tell, the chap might be carrying poison about with him; might be sitting on a revolver like a fellow on the film. The whole thing was too unpleasant, too worrying for words. And without saying any more he went away, taking nothing with him but the knowledge that their total liability on this German business, with the mark valueless, was over two hundred thousand pounds. He hastily reviewed the fortunes of his co-directors. Old Fontenoy was always in low water; the chairman a dark horse; Mont was in land, land right down in value, and mortgaged at that; old Cosey Mothergill had nothing but his name and his director’s fees; Meyricke must have a large income, but light come, light go, like most of those big counsel with irons in many fires and the certainty of a judgeship. Not a really substantial man among the lot, except himself! He ploughed his way along, head down. Public companies! Preposterous system! You had to trust somebody, and there you were! It was appalling!
“Balloons, sir–beautiful colours, five feet circumference. Take one, gentleman!”
“Good gad!” said Soames. As if the pricked bubble of German business were not enough!
Chapter II.
VICTORINE
All through December balloons had been slack–hardly any movement about them, even in Christmas week, and from the Bickets Central Australia was as far as ever. The girl Victorine, restored to comparative health, had not regained her position in the blouse department of Messrs. Boney Blayds & Co. They had given her some odd sewing, but not of late, and she had spent much time trying to get work less uncertain. Her trouble was–had always been–her face. It was unusual. People did not know what to make of a girl who looked like that. Why employ one who without qualification of wealth, rank, fashion, or ability (so far as they knew) made them feel ordinary? For–however essential to such as Fleur and Michael–dramatic interest was not primary in the manufacture or sale of blouses, in the fitting-on of shoes, the addressing of envelopes, making-up of funeral wreaths, or the other ambitions of Victorine. Behind those large dark eyes and silent lips, what went on? It worried Boney Blayds & Co., and the more wholesale firms of commerce. The lurid professions–film-super, or mannequin–did not occur to one, of self-deprecating nature, born in Putney.
When Bicket had gone out of a morning with his tray and his balloons not yet blown up, she would stand biting her finger, as though to gnaw her way to some escape from this hand-to-mouth existence which kept her husband thin as a rail, tired as a rook, shabby as a tailless sparrow, and, at the expense of all caste feeling, brought them in no more than just enough to keep them living under a roof. It had long been clear to them both that there was no future in balloons, just a cadging present. And there smouldered in the silent, passive Victorine a fierce resentment. She wanted better things for herself, for him, chiefly for him.
On the morning when the mark was bumping down, she was putting on her velveteen jacket and toque (best remaining items of her wardrobe), having taken a resolve. Bicket never mentioned his old job, and his wife had subtly divined some cause beyond the ordinary for his loss of it. Why not see if she could get him taken back? He had often said: “Mr. Mont’s a gent and a sort o’ socialist; been through the war, too; no high-and-mighty about HIM.” If she could ‘get at’ this phenomenon! With the flush of hope and daring in her sallow cheeks, she took stock of her appearance from the window-glasses of the Strand. Her velveteen of jade-green always pleased one who had an eye for colour, but her black skirt–well, perhaps the wear and tear of it wouldn’t show if she kept behind the counter. Had she brass enough to say that she came about a manuscript? And she rehearsed with silent lips, pinching her accent: “Would you ask Mr. Mont, please, if I could see him; it’s about a manuscript.” Yes! and then would come the question: “What name, please?” “Mrs. Bicket?” Never! “Miss Victorine Collins?” All authoresses had maiden names. Victorine–yes! But Collins! It didn’t sound like. And no one would know what her maiden name had been. Why not choose one? They often chose. And she searched. Something Italian, like–like–Hadn’t their landlady said to them when they came in: “Is your wife Eyetalian?” Ah! Manuelli! That was certainly Italian–the ice-cream man in Little Ditch Street had it! She walked on practising beneath her breath. If only she could get to see this Mr. Mont!
She entered, trembling. All went exactly as foreseen, even to the pinching of her accent, till she stood waiting for them to bring an answer from the speaking tube, concealing her hands in their very old gloves. Had Miss Manuelli an appointment? There was no manuscript.
“No,” said Victorine, “I haven’t sent it yet. I wanted to see him first.” The young man at the counter was looking at her hard. He went again to the tube, then spoke.
“Will you wait a minute, please–Mr. Mont’s lady secretary is coming down.”
Victorine inclined her head towards her sinking heart. A lady secretary! She would never get there now! And there came on her the sudden dread of false pretences. But the thought of Tony standing at his corner, ballooned up to the eyes, as she had spied out more than once, fortified her desperation.
A girl’s voice said: “Miss Manuelli? Mr. Mont’s secretary, perhaps you could give me a message.”
A fresh-faced young woman’s eyes were travelling up and down her. Pinching her accent hard, she said: “Oh! I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”
The travelling gaze stopped at her face. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if he can see you.”
Alone in a small waiting-room, Victorine sat without movement, till she saw a young man’s face poked through the doorway, and heard the words:
“Will you come in?”
She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room,
“Well, Miss–er–Manuelli?”
“Not Manuelli, please–Mrs. Bicket; my husband used to be here.”
“What!” The chap that had snooped ‘Copper Coin!’ Phew! Bicket’s yarn–his wife–pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.
“He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?”
Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?
“He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St. Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you COULD take him back here…”
No! she did not know!
“Very sorry, Mrs. Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are YOU all right again?”
“Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.”
What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!
“Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s pretty good–in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?”
“I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.”
“All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St. Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs. Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.”
“When I was ill, sir.”
“Of course, that makes a difference.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let me write you a note to Mr. Greene. Will you sit down a minute?”
He stole a look at her while she sat waiting. Really, her sallow, large-eyed face, with its dead-black, bobbed, frizzy-ended hair, was extraordinarily interesting–a little too refined and anaemic for the public; but, dash it all! the public couldn’t always have its Reckitt’s blue eyes, corn-coloured hair, and poppy cheeks. “She’s not a peach,” he wrote, “on the main tree of taste; but so striking in her way that she really might become a type, like Beardsley’s or Dana’s.”
When she had taken the note and gone, he rang for his secretary.
“No, Miss Perren, she didn’t take anything off me. But some type, eh?”
“I thought you’d like to see her. She wasn’t an authoress, was she?”
“Far from it.”
“Well, I hope she got what she wanted.”
Michael grinned. “Partly, Miss Perren–partly. You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t; but I think you’re too soft-hearted.”
Michael ran his fingers through his hair.
“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?”
“Yes, Mr. Mont.”
“Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about ‘Duet’: ‘We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!’ You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? ‘When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing–in short, when spring comes–we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of–of’–er–what, Miss Perren?”
“‘The experience we shall have gained.’ Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?”
“Excellent! ‘Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.’ Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?”
“What is ‘nepotism’?”
“Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.”
“He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr. Mont.”
“And we pay for the distinction. Well, he’s a good old Bart. That’s all before lunch, and mind you have a good one. That girl’s figure wasn’t usual either, was it? She’s thin, but she stands up straight. There’s a question I always want to ask, Miss Perren: Why do modern girls walk in a curve with their heads poked forward? They can’t all be built like that.”
The secretary’s cheeks brightened.
“There IS a reason, Mr. Mont.”
“Good! What is it?”
The secretary’s cheeks continued to brighten. “I don’t really know whether I can–”
“Oh! sorry. I’ll ask my wife. Only she’s quite straight herself.”
“Well, Mr. Mont, it’s this, you see: They aren’t supposed to have anything be–behind, and, of course, they have, and they can’t get the proper effect unless they curve their chests in and poke their heads forward. It’s the fashion-plates and mannequins that do it.”
“I see,” said Michael; “thank you, Miss Perren; awfully good of you. It’s the limit, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I don’t hold with it, myself.”
“No, quite!”
The secretary lowered her eyelids and withdrew.
Michael sat down and drew a face on his blotting-paper. It was not Victorine’s…
Armed with the note to Aubrey Greene, Victorine had her usual lunch, a cup of coffee and a bit of heavy cake, and took the tube towards Chelsea. She had not succeeded, but the gentleman had been friendly and she felt cheered.
At the studio door was a young man inserting a key–very elegant in smoke-grey Harris tweeds, a sliding young man with no hat, beautifully brushed-back bright hair, and a soft voice.
“Model?” he said.
“Yes, sir, please. I have a note for you from Mr. Mont.”
“Michael? Come in.”
Victorine followed him in. It was ‘not half’ sea-green in there; a high room with rafters and a top light, and lots of pictures and drawings on the walls, and as if they had slipped off on to the floor. A picture on an easel of two ladies with their clothes sliding down troubled Victorine. She became conscious of the gentleman’s eyes, sea-green like the walls, sliding up and down her.
“Will you sit for anything?” he asked.
Victorine answered mechanically: “Yes, sir.”
“Do you mind taking your hat off?”
Victorine took off the toque, and shook out her hair.
“Ah!” said the gentleman. “I wonder.”
Victorine wondered what.
“Just sit down on the dais, will you?”
Victorine looked about her, uncertain. A smile seemed to fly up his forehead and over his slippery bright hair.
“This is your first shot, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All the better.” And he pointed to a small platform.
Victorine sat down on it in a black oak chair.
“You look cold.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went to a cupboard and returned with two small glasses of a brown fluid.
“Have a Grand Marnier?”
She noticed that he tossed his off in one gulp, and did the same. It was sweet, strong, very nice, and made her gasp.
“Take a cigarette.”
Victorine took one from a case he handed, and put it between her lips. He lit it. And again a smile slid up away over the top of his head.
“You draw it in,” he said. “Where were you born?”
“In Putney, sir.”
“That’s very interesting. Just sit still a minute. It’s not as bad as having a tooth out, but it takes longer. The great thing is to keep awake.”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a large piece of paper and a bit of dark stuff, and began to draw.
“Tell me,” he said, “Miss–”
“Collins, sir–Victorine Collins.” Some instinct made her give her maiden name. It seemed somehow more professional.
“Are you at large?” He paused, and again the smile slid up over his bright hair: “Or have you any other occupation?”
“Not at present, sir. I’m married, but nothing else.”
For some time after that the gentleman was silent. It was interesting to see him, taking a look, making a stroke on the paper, taking another look. Hundreds of looks, hundreds of strokes. At last he said: “All right! Now we’ll have a rest. Heaven sent you here, Miss Collins. Come and get warm.”
Victorine approached the fire.
“Do you know anything about expressionism?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, it means not troubling about the outside except in so far as it expresses the inside. Does that convey anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Quite! I think you said you’d sit for the–er–altogether?”
Victorine regarded the bright and sliding gentleman. She did not know what he meant, but she felt that he meant something out of the ordinary.
“Altogether what, sir?”
“Nude.”
“Oh!” She cast her eyes down, then raised them to the sliding clothes of the two ladies. “Like that?”
“No, I shouldn’t be treating you cubistically.”
A slow flush was burning out the sallow in her cheeks. She said slowly:
“Does it mean more money?”
“Yes, half as much again–more perhaps. I don’t want you to if you’d rather not. You can think it over and let me know next time.”
She raised her eyes again, and said: “Thank you, sir.”
“Righto! Only please don’t ‘sir’ me.”
Victorine smiled. It was the first time she had achieved this functional disturbance, and it seemed to have a strange effect. He said hurriedly: “By George! When you smile, Miss Collins, I see you impressionistically. If you’ve rested, sit up there again.”
Victorine went back.
The gentleman took a fresh piece of paper.
“Can you think of anything that will keep you smiling?”
She shook her head. That was a fact.
“Nothing comic at all? I suppose you’re not in love with your husband, for instance?”
“Oh! yes.”
“Well, try that.”
Victorine tried that, but she could only see Tony selling his balloons.
“That won’t do,” said the gentleman. “Don’t think of him! Did you ever see ‘L’apres midi d’un Faune’?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea. ‘L’apres midi d’une Dryade.’ About the nude you really needn’t mind. It’s quite impersonal. Think of art, and fifteen bob a day. Shades of Nijinsky, I see the whole thing!”
All the time that he was talking his eyes were sliding off and on to her, and his pencil off and on to the paper. A sort of infection began to ferment within Victorine. Fifteen shillings a day! Blue butterflies!
There was a profound silence. His eyes and hand slid off and on. A faint smile had come on Victorine’s face–she was adding up the money she might earn.
At last his eyes and hand ceased moving, and he stood looking at the paper.
“That’s all for today, Miss Collins. I’ve got to think it out. Will you give me your address?”
Victorine thought rapidly.
“Please, sir, will you write to me at the post office. I don’t want my husband to know that I’m–I’m–”
“Affiliated to art? Well! Name of post office?”
Victorine gave it and resumed her hat.
“An hour and a half, five shillings, thank you. And tomorrow, at half-past two, Miss Collins–not ‘sir.’”
“Yes, s–, thank you.”
Waiting for her ‘bus in the cold January air, the altogether appeared to Victorine improbable. To sit in front of a strange gentleman in her skin! If Tony knew! The slow flush again burned up the sallow in her cheeks. She climbed into the ‘bus. But fifteen shillings! Six days a week–why, it would be four pound ten! In four months she could earn their passage out. Judging by the pictures in there, lots must be doing it. Tony must know nothing, not even that she was sitting for her face. He was all nerves, and that fond of her! He would imagine things; she had heard him say those artists were just like cats. But that gentleman had been very nice, though he did seem as if he were laughing at everything. She wished he had shown her the drawing. Perhaps she would see herself in an exhibition some day. But without–oh! And suddenly she thought: ‘If I ate a bit more, I’d look nice like that, too!’ And as if to escape from the daring of that thought, she stared up into the face opposite. It had two chins, was calm and smooth and pink, with light eyes staring back at her. People had thoughts, but you couldn’t tell what they were! And the smile which Aubrey Greene desired crept out on his model’s face.
Chapter III.
MICHAEL WALKS AND TALKS
The face Michael drew began by being Victorine’s, and ended by being Fleur’s. If physically Fleur stood up straight, was she morally as erect? This was the speculation for which he continually called himself a cad. He saw no change in her movements, and loyally refrained from enquiring into the movements he could not see. But his aroused attention made him more and more aware of a certain cynicism, as if she were continually registering the belief that all values were equal and none of much value.
Wilfrid, though still in London, was neither visible nor spoken of. “Out of sight and hearing, out of mind,” seemed to be the motto. It did not work with Michael–Wilfrid was constantly in his mind. If Wilfrid were not seeing Fleur, how could he bear to stay within such tantalising reach of her? If Fleur did not want Wilfrid to stay, why had she not sent him away? He was finding it difficult, too, to conceal from others the fact that Desert and he were no longer pals. Often the impetus to go and have it out with him surged up and was beaten back. Either there was nothing beyond what he already knew, or there was something–and Wilfrid would say there wasn’t. Michael accepted that without cavil; one did not give a woman away! But he wanted to hear no lies from a War comrade. Between Fleur and himself no word had passed; for words, he felt, would add no knowledge, merely imperil a hold weak enough already. Christmas at the ancestral manor of the Monts had been passed in covert-shooting. Fleur had come and stood with him at the last drive on the second day, holding Ting-a-ling on a lead. The Chinese dog had been extraordinarily excited, climbing the air every time a bird fell, and quite unaffected by the noise of guns. Michael, waiting to miss his birds–he was a poor shot–had watched her eager face emerging from grey fur, her form braced back against Ting-a-ling. Shooting was new to her; and under the stimulus of novelty she was always at her best. He had loved even her “Oh, Michaels!” when he missed. She had been the success of the gathering, which meant seeing almost nothing of her except a sleepy head on a pillow; but, at least, down there he had not suffered from lurking uneasiness.
Putting a last touch to the bobbed hair on the blotting paper, he got up. St. Paul’s, that girl had said. He might stroll up and have a squint at Bicket. Something might occur to him. Tightening the belt of his blue overcoat round his waist, he sallied forth, thin and sprightly, with a little ache in his heart.
Walking east, on that bright, cheerful day, nothing struck him so much as the fact that he was alive, well, and in work. So very many were dead, ill, or out of a job. He entered Covent Garden. Amazing place! A human nature which, decade after decade, could put up with Covent Garden was not in danger of extinction from its many ills. A comforting place–one needn’t take anything too seriously after walking through it. On this square island were the vegetables of the earth and the fruits of the world, bounded on the west by publishing, on the cast by opera, on the north and south by rivers of mankind. Among discharging carts and litter of paper, straw and men out of drawing, Michael walked and sniffed. Smell of its own, Covent Garden, earthy and just not rotten! He had never seen–even in the War–any place that so utterly lacked form. Extraordinarily English! Nobody looked as if they had anything to do with the soil–drivers, hangers-on, packers, and the salesmen inside the covered markets, seemed equally devoid of acquaintanceship with sun, wind, water, earth or air–town types all! And–Golly! – how their faces jutted, sloped, sagged and swelled, in every kind of featural disharmony. What was the English type amongst all this infinite variety of disproportion? There just wasn’t one! He came on the fruits, glowing piles, still and bright–foreigners from the land of the sun–globes all the same size and colour. They made Michael’s mouth water. ‘Something in the sun,’ he thought; ‘there really is.’ Look at Italy, at the Arabs, at Australia–the Australians came from England, and see the type now! Nevertheless–a Cockney for good temper! The more regular a person’s form and features, the more selfish they were! Those grape-fruit looked horribly self-satisfied, compared with the potatoes!
He emerged still thinking about the English. Well! They were now one of the plainest and most distorted races of the world; and yet was there any race to compare with them for good temper and for ‘guts’? And they needed those in their smoky towns, and their climate–remarkable instance of adaptation to environment, the modern English character! ‘I could pick out an Englishman anywhere,’ he thought, ‘and yet, physically, there’s no general type now!’ Astounding people! So ugly in the mass, yet growing such flowers of beauty, and such strange sprigs–like that little Mrs. Bicket; so unimaginative in bulk, yet with such a blooming lot of poets! How would old Danby like it, by the way, when Wilfrid took his next volume to some other firm; or rather what should he–Wilfrid’s particular friend! – say to old Danby? Aha! He knew what he should say:
“Yes, sir, but you should have let that poor blighter off who snooped the ‘Copper Coins.’ Desert hasn’t forgotten your refusal.” One for old Danby and his eternal inthe-rightness! ‘Copper Coin’ had done uncommonly well. Its successor would probably do uncommonly better. The book was a proof of what he–Michael–was always saying: The ‘cockyolly-bird period’ was passing. People wanted life again. Sibley, Walter Nazing, Linda–all those who had nothing to say except that they were superior to such as had–were already measured for their coffins. Not that they would know when they were in them; not blooming likely! They would continue to wave their noses and look down them!
‘I’M fed-up with them,’ thought Michael. ‘If only Fleur would see that looking down your nose is a sure sign of inferiority!’ And, suddenly, it came to him that she probably did. Wilfrid was the only one of the whole lot she had ever been thick with; the others were there because–well, because she was Fleur, and had the latest things about her. When, very soon, they were no longer the latest things, she would drop them. But Wilfrid she would not drop. No, he felt sure that she had not dropped, and would not drop Wilfrid.
He looked up. Ludgate Hill! “Near St. Paul’s–sells balloons?” And there–sure enough–the poor beggar was!
Bicket was deflating with a view to going off his stand for a cup of cocoa. Remembering that he had come on him by accident, Michael stood for a moment preparing the tones of surprise. Pity the poor chap couldn’t blow himself into one of those coloured shapes and float over St. Paul’s to Peter. Mournful little cuss he looked, squeezing out the air! Memory tapped sharply on his mind. Balloon–in the square–November the first–joyful night! Special! Fleur! Perhaps they brought luck. He moved and said in an astounded voice: “YOU, Bicket? Is this your stunt now?”
The large eyes of Bicket regarded him over a puce-coloured sixpennyworth.
“Mr. Mont! Often thought I’d like to see you again, sir.”
“Same here, Bicket. If you’re not doing anything, come and have some lunch.”
Bicket completed the globe’s collapse, and, closing his tray-lid, said: “Reelly, sir?”
“Rather! I was just going into a fish place.”
Bicket detached his tray.
“I’ll leave this with the crossing-sweeper.” He did so, and followed at Michael’s side.
“Any money in it, Bicket?”
“Bare livin’, sir.”
“How about this place? We’ll have oysters.”
A little saliva at the corner of Bicket’s mouth was removed by a pale tongue.
At a small table decorated with white oilcloth and a cruet stand, Michael sat down.
“Two dozen oysters, and all that; then two good soles, and a bottle of Chablis. Hurry up, please.”
When the white-aproned fellow had gone about it, Bicket said simply:
“My Gawd!”
“Yes, it’s a funny world, Bicket.”
“It is, and that’s a fact. This lunch’ll cost you a pound, I shouldn’t wonder. If I take twenty-five bob a week, it’s all I do.”
“You touch it there, Bicket. I eat my conscience every day.”
Bicket shook his head.
“No, sir, if you’ve got money, spend it. I would. Be ‘appy if you can–there yn’t too many that are.”
The white-aproned fellow began blessing them with oysters. He brought them fresh-opened, three at a time. Michael bearded them; Bicket swallowed them whole. Presently above twelve empty shells, he said:
“That’s where the Socialists myke their mistyke, sir. Nothing keeps me going but the sight of other people spendin’ money. It’s what we might all come to with a bit of luck. Reduce the world to a level of a pound a dy–and it won’t even run to that, they sy! It’s not good enough, sir. I’d rather ‘ave less with the ‘ope of more. Take awy the gamble, and life’s a frost. Here’s luck!”
“Almost thou persuadest me to be a capitalist, Bicket.”
A glow had come up in the thin and large-eyed face behind the greenish Chablis glass.
“I wish to Gawd I had my wife here, sir.
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