From the evening paper, and from communion on ‘buses with those interested in the national pastime, she had acquired the necessary information about racing. She even talked of it with Tony, who had street-corner knowledge. Already she had prepared chapter and verse of two imaginary coups; a sovereign made out of stitching imaginary blouses, invested on the winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and the result on the dead-heater for the Jubilee at nice odds; this with a third winner, still to be selected, would bring her imaginary winnings up to the needed sixty pounds odd she would so soon have saved now out of ‘the altogether.’ This tale she would pitch to Tony in a week or two, reeling off by heart the wonderful luck she had kept from him until she had the whole of the money. She would slip her forehead against his eyes if he looked at her too hard, and kiss his lips till his head was no longer clear. And in the morning they would wake up and take their passages. Such was the plan of Victorine, with five ten-pound and four one-pound notes in her stocking, attached to the pink silk stays.
‘Afternoon of a Dryad’ had long been finished, and was on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery, with other works of Aubrey Greene. Victorine had paid a shilling to see it; had stood some furtive minutes gazing at that white body glimmering from among grass and spikey flowers, at the face, turned as if saying: “I know a secret!”
“Bit of a genius, Aubrey Greene–that face is jolly good!” Scared, and hiding the face, Victorine had slipped away.
From the very day when she had stood shivering outside the studio of Aubrey Greene she had been in full work. He had painted her three times–always nice, always polite, quite the gentleman! And he had given her introductions. Some had painted her in clothes, some half-draped, some in that ‘altogether,’ which no longer troubled her, with the money swelling her stocking and Tony without suspicion. Not every one had been ‘nice’; advances had been made to her, but she had nipped them in the bud. It would have meant the money quicker, but–Tony! In a fortnight now she could snap her fingers at it all. And often on the way home she stood by that plate-glass window, before the fruits, and the corn, and the blue butterflies…
In the packed railway carriage they sat side by side, Bicket, with tray on knee, debating where he had best stand.
“I fyvour the mokes,” he said at last, “up by the pond. People’ll have more money than when they get down among the swings and cocoanuts; and you can go and sit in a chair by the pond, like the seaside–I don’t want you with me not till I’ve sold out.”
Victorine pressed his arm.
Along the top and over on to the heath to north and south the holiday swarms surged, in perfect humour, carrying paper bags. Round the pond children, with thin, grey-white, spindly legs, were paddling and shrilly chattering, too content to smile. Elderly couples crawled slowly by, with jutting stomachs, and faces discoloured by the unaccustomed climb. Girls and young men were few, for they were dispersed already on the heath, in search of a madder merriment. On benches, in chairs of green canvas or painted wood, hundreds were sitting, contemplating their feet, as if imagining the waves of the sea. Now and again three donkeys would start, urged from behind, and slowly tittup their burdens along the pond’s margin. Hawkers cried goods. Fat dark women told fortunes. Policemen stood cynically near them. A man talked and talked and took his hat round.
Tony Bicket unslung his tray. His cockney voice, wheedling and a little husky, offered his coloured airs without intermission. This was something like! It was brisk! And now and again he gazed through the throng away across the pond, to where Victorine would be seated in a canvas chair, looking different from every one–he knew.
“Fine balloons–fine balloons! Six for a bob! Big one, Madam? Only sixpence. See the size! Buy, buy! Tyke one for the little boy!”
No ‘aldermen’ up here, but plenty in the mood to spend their money on a bit of brightness!
At five minutes before noon he snapped his tray to–not a bally balloon left! With six Bank Holidays a week he would make his fortune! Tray under arm, he began to tour the pond. The kiddies were all right, but–good Lord–how thin and pale! If he and Vic had a kid–but not they–not till they got out there! A fat brown kid, chysin’ blue butterflies, and the sun oozin’ out of him! Rounding the end of the pond, he walked slowly along the chairs. Lying back, elegant, with legs crossed, in brown stockings showing to the knees, and neat brown shoes with the flaps over–My! she looked a treat–in a world of her own, like that! Something caught Bicket by the throat. Gosh! He wanted things for her!
“Well, Vic! Penny!”
“I was thinkin’ of Australia.”
“Ah! It’s a gaudy long wait. Never mind–I’ve sold the bally lot. Which shall we do, go down among the trees, or get to the swings, at once?”
“The swings,” said Victorine.
The Vale of Health was in rhapsodic mood. The crowd flowed here in a slow, speechless stream, to the cries of the booth-keepers, and the owners of swings and cocoanuts. “Roll–bowl–or pitch! Now for the milky ones! Penny a shy!… Who’s for the swings?… Ices… Ices… Fine bananas!”
On the giant merry-go-round under its vast umbrella the thirty chain-hung seats were filled with girls and men. Round to the music–slowly–faster–whirling out to the full extent of the chain, bodies bent back, legs stuck forward, laughter and speech dying, faces solemn, a little lost, hands gripping the chains hard. Faster, faster; slowing, slowing to a standstill, and the music silent.
“My word!” murmured Victorine. “Come on, Tony!”
They entered the enclosure and took their seats. Victorine, on the outside, locked her feet, instinctively, one over the other, and tightening her clasp on the chains, curved her body to the motion. Her lips parted:
“Lor, Tony!”
Faster, faster–every nerve and sense given to that motion! O-o-h! It WAS a feeling–flying round like that above the world! Faster–faster! Slower–slow, and the descent to earth.
“Tony–it’s ‘eaven!”
“Queer feelin’ in yer inside, when you’re swung right out!”
“I’d like it level with the top. Let’s go once more!”
“Right-o!”
Twice more they went–half his profit on balloons! But who cared? He liked to see her face. After that, six shies at the milky ones without a hit, an ice apiece: then arm-inarm to find a place to eat their lunch. That was the time Bicket enjoyed most, after the ginger-beer and sandwiches; smoking his fag, with his head on her lap, and the sky blue. A long time like that; till at last she stirred.
“Let’s go and see the dancin’!”
In the grass enclosure ringed by the running path, some two dozen couples were jigging to a band.
Victorine pulled at his arm. “I WOULD love a turn!”
“Well, let’s ‘ave a go,” said Bicket. “This one-legged bloke’ll ‘old my tray.”
They entered the ring.
“Hold me tighter, Tony!”
Bicket obeyed. Nothing he liked better; and slowly their feet moved–to this side and that. They made little way, revolving, keeping time, oblivious of appearances.
“You dance all right, Tony.”
“YOU dance a treat!” gasped Bicket.
In the intervals, panting, they watched over the one-legged man; then to it again, till the band ceased for good.
“My word!” said Victorine. “They dance on board ship, Tony!”
Bicket squeezed her waist.
“I’ll do the trick yet, if I ‘ave to rob the Bank. There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you, Vic.”
But Victorine smiled. She had done the trick already.
The crowd with parti-coloured faces, tired, good-humoured, frowsily scented, strolled over a battlefield thick-strewn with paper bags, banana peel, and newspapers.
“Let’s ‘ave our tea, and one more swing,” said Bicket; “then we’ll get over on the other side among the trees.”
Away over on the far side were many couples. The sun went very slowly down. Those two sat under a bush and watched it go. A faint breeze swung and rustled the birch leaves. There was little human sound out here. All seemed to have come for silence, to be waiting for darkness in the hush. Now and then some stealthy spy would pass and scrutinise.
“Foxes!” said Bicket. “Gawd! I’d like to rub their noses in it!”
Victorine sighed, pressing closer to him.
Some one was playing on a banjo now; a voice singing. It grew dusk, but a moon was somewhere rising, for little shadows stole out along the ground.
They spoke in whispers. It seemed wrong to raise the voice, as though the grove were under a spell. Even their whisperings were scarce. Dew fell, but they paid no heed to it. With hands locked, and cheeks together, they sat very still. Bicket had a thought. This was poetry–this was! Darkness now, with a sort of faint and silvery glow, a sound of drunken singing on the Spaniard’s Road, the whirr of belated cars returning from the north–and suddenly an owl hooted.
“My!” murmured Victorine, shivering: “An owl! Fancy! I used to hear one at Norbiton. I ‘ope it’s not bad luck!”
Bicket rose and stretched himself,
“Come on!” he said: “we’ve ‘ad a dy. Don’t you go catchin’ cold!”
Arm-inarm, slowly, through the darkness of the birch-grove, they made their way upwards–glad of the lamps, and the street, and the crowded station, as though they had taken an overdose of solitude.
Huddled in their carriage on the Tube, Bicket idly turned the pages of a derelict paper. But Victorine sat thinking of so much, that it was as if she thought of nothing. The swings and the grove in the darkness, and the money in her stocking. She wondered Tony hadn’t noticed when it crackled–there wasn’t a safe place to keep it in! What was he looking at, with his eyes so fixed? She peered, and read: “‘Afternoon of a Dryad.’ The striking picture by Aubrey Greene, on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery.”
Her heart stopped beating.
“Cripes!” said Bicket. “Ain’t that like you?”
“Like me? No!”
Bicket held the paper closer. “It IS. It’s like you all over. I’ll cut that out. I’d like to see that picture.”
The colour came up in her cheeks, released from a heart beating too fast now.
“‘Tisn’t decent,” she said.
“Dunno about that; but it’s awful like you. It’s even got your smile.”
Folding the paper, he began to tear the sheet. Victorine’s little finger pressed the notes beneath her stocking.
“Funny,” she said, slowly, “to think there’s people in the world so like each other.”
“I never thought there could be one like you. Charin’ Cross; we gotta change.”
Hurrying along the rat-runs of the Tube, she slipped her hand into his pocket, and soon some scraps of torn paper fluttered down behind her following him in the crush. If only he didn’t remember where the picture was!
Awake in the night, she thought:
‘I don’t care; I’m going to get the rest of the money–that’s all about it.’
But her heart moved queerly within her, like that of one whose feet have trodden suddenly the quaking edge of a bog.
Chapter II.
OFFICE WORK
Michael sat correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits’–the book left by Wilfrid behind him.
“Can you see Butterfield, sir?”
“I can.”
In Michael the word Butterfield excited an uneasy pride. The young man fulfilled with increasing success the function for which he had been engaged, on trial, four months ago. The head traveller had even called him “a find.” Next to ‘Copper Coin’ he was the finest feather in Michael’s cap. The Trade were not buying, yet Butterfield was selling books, or so it was reported; he appeared to have a natural gift of inspiring confidence where it was not justified. Danby and Winter had even entrusted to him the private marketing of that vellum-bound ‘Limited’ of ‘A Duet,’ by which they were hoping to recoup their losses on the ordinary edition. He was now engaged in working through a list of names considered likely to patronise the little masterpiece. This method of private approach had been suggested by himself.
“You see, sir,” he had said to Michael: “I know a bit about Coue. Well, you can’t work that on the Trade–they’ve got no capacity for faith. What can you expect? Every day they buy all sorts of stuff, always basing themselves on past sales. You can’t find one in twenty that’ll back the future. But with private gentlemen, and especially private ladies, you can leave a thought with them like Coue does–put it into them again and again that day by day in every way the author’s gettin’ better and better; and ten to one when you go round next, it’s got into their subconscious, especially if you take ’em just after lunch or dinner, when they’re a bit drowsy. Let me take my own time, sir, and I’ll put that edition over for you.”
“Well, Michael had answered, “if you can inspire confidence in the future of my governor, Butterfield, you’ll deserve more than your ten per cent.”
“I can do it, sir; it’s just a question of faith.”
“But you haven’t any, have you?”
“Well, not, so to speak, in the author–but I’ve got faith that I can give THEM faith in him; that’s the real point.”
“I see–the three-card stunt; inspire the faith you haven’t got, that the card is there, and they’ll take it. Well, the disillusion is not immediate–you’ll probably always get out of the room in time. Go ahead, then!”
The young man Butterfield had smiled…
The uneasy part of the pride inspired in Michael now by the name was due to old Forsyte’s continually saying to him that he didn’t know–he couldn’t tell–there was that young man and his story about Elderson, and they got no further…
“Good morning, sir. Can you spare me five minutes?”
“Come in, Butterfield. Bunkered with ‘Duet’?”
“No, sir. I’ve placed forty already. It’s another matter.” Glancing at the shut door, the young man came closer.
“I’m working my list alphabetically. Yesterday I was in the E’s.” His voice dropped. “Mr. Elderson.”
“Phew!” said Michael. “You can give HIM the go-by.”
“As a fact, sir, I haven’t.”
“What! Been over the top?”
“Yes, sir. Last night.”
“Good for you, Butterfield! What happened?”
“I didn’t send my name in, sir–just the firm’s card.”
Michael was conscious of a very human malice in the young man’s voice and face.
“Well?”
“Mr. Elderson, sir, was at his wine. I’d thought it out, and I began as if I’d never seen him before. What struck me was–he took my cue!”
“Didn’t kick you out?”
“Far from it, sir. He said at once: ‘Put my name down for two copies.’”
Michael grinned. “You both had a nerve.”
“No, sir; that’s just it. Mr. Elderson got it between wind and water. He didn’t like it a little bit.”
“I don’t twig,” said Michael.
“My being in this firm’s employ, sir. He knows you’re a partner here, and Mr. Forsyte’s son-inlaw, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
“Well, sir, you see the connection–two directors believing me–not HIM. That’s why I didn’t miss him out. I fancied it’d shake him up. I happened to see his face in the sideboard glass as I went out. HE’S got the wind up all right.”
Michael bit his forefinger, conscious of a twinge of sympathy with Elderson, as for a fly with the first strand of cob-web round his hind leg.
“Thank you, Butterfield,” he said.
When the young man was gone, he sat stabbing his blotting-paper with a paper-knife. What curious ‘class’ sensation was this? Or was it merely fellow-feeling with the hunted, a tremor at the way things found one out? For, surely, this was real evidence, and he would have to pass it on to his father, and ‘Old Forsyte.’ Elderson’s nerve must have gone phut, or he’d have said: “You impudent young scoundrel–get out of here!” That, clearly, was the only right greeting from an innocent, and the only advisable greeting from a guilty man. Well! Nerve did fail sometimes–even the best. Witness the very proof-sheet he had just corrected:
THE COURT MARTIAL
“See ’ere! I’m myde o’ nerves and blood
The syme as you, not meant to be
Froze stiff up to me ribs in mud.
You try it, like I ‘ave, an’ see!
“‘Aye, you snug beauty brass hats, when
You stick what I stuck out that d’y,
An’ keep yer ruddy ‘earts up–then
You’ll learn, maybe, the right to s’y:
“‘Take aht an’ shoot ’im in the snow,
Shoot ’im for cowardice! ‘E who serves
His King and Country’s got to know
There’s no such bloody thing as nerves.’”
Good old Wilfrid!
“Yes, Miss Perren?”
“The letter to Sir James Foggart, Mr. Mont; you told me to remind you. And will you see Miss Manuelli?”
“Miss Manu–Oh! Ah! Yes.”
Bicket’s girl wife, whose face they had used on Storbert’s novel, the model for Aubrey Greene’s–! Michael rose, for the girl was in the room already.
‘I remember that dress!’ he thought: ‘Fleur never liked it.’
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Bicket? How’s Bicket, by the way?”
“Fairly, sir, thank you.”
“Still in balloons?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we all are, Mrs. Bicket.”
“Beg pardon?”
“In the air–don’t you think? But you didn’t come to tell me that?”
“No, sir.”
A slight flush in those sallow cheeks, fingers concerned with the tips of the worn gloves, lips uncertain; but the eyes steady–really an uncommon girl!
“You remember givin’ me a note to Mr. Greene, sir?”
“I do; and I’ve seen the result; it’s topping, Mrs. Bicket.”
“Yes. But it’s got into the papers–my husband saw it there last night; and of course, he doesn’t know about me.”
Phew! For what had he let this girl in?
“I’ve made a lot of money at it, sir–almost enough for our passage to Australia; but now I’m frightened. ‘Isn’t it like you?’ he said to me. I tore the paper up, but suppose he remembers the name of the Gallery and goes to see the picture! That’s even much more like me! He might go on to Mr. Greene. So would you mind, sir, speaking to Mr. Greene, and beggin’ him to say it was some one else, in case Tony did go?”
“Not a bit,” said Michael. “But do you think Bicket would mind so very much, considering what it’s done for you? It can be quite a respectable profession.”
Victorine’s hands moved up to her breast.
“Yes,” she said, simply. “I have been quite respectable. And I only did it because we do so want to get away, and I couldn’t bear seein’ him standin’ in the gutter there sellin’ those balloons in the fogs. But I’m ever so scared, sir, now.”
Michael stared.
“My God!” he said; “money’s an evil thing!”
Victorine smiled faintly. “The want of it is, I know.”
“How much more do you need, Mrs. Bicket?”
“Only another ten pound, about, sir.”
“I can let you have that.”
“Oh! thank you; but it’s not that–I can easy earn it–I’ve got used to it; a few more days don’t matter.”
“But how are you going to account for having the money?”
“Say I won it bettin’.”
“THIN!” said Michael. “Look here! Say you came to me and I advanced it. If Bicket repays it from Australia, I can always put it to your credit again at a bank out there. I’ve got you into a hole, in a way, and I’d like to get you out of it.”
“Oh! no, sir; you did me a service. I don’t want to put you about, telling falsehoods for me.”
“It won’t worry me a bit, Mrs. Bicket. I can lie to the umteenth when there’s no harm in it. The great thing for you is to get away sharp. Are there many other pictures of you?”
“Oh! yes, a lot–not that you’d recognise them, I think, they’re so square and funny.”
“Ah! well–Aubrey Greene has got you to the life!”
“Yes; it’s like me all over, Tony says.”
“Quite. Well, I’ll speak to Aubrey, I shall be seeing him at lunch. Here’s the ten pounds! That’s agreed, then? You came to me today–see? Say you had a brain wave. I quite understand the whole thing. You’d do a lot for him; and he’d do a lot for you. It’s all right–don’t cry!”
Victorine swallowed violently. Her hand in the worn glove returned his squeeze.
“I’d tell him to-night, if I were you,” said Michael, “and I’ll get ready.”
When she had gone he thought: ‘Hope Bicket won’t think I received value for that sixty pounds!’ And, pressing his bell, he resumed the stabbing of his blotting-paper.
“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“Now let’s get on with it, Miss Perren.”
“‘DEAR SIR JAMES FOGGART, – We have given the utmost consideration to your very interesting–er–production. While we are of opinion that the views so well expressed on the present condition of Britain in relation to the rest of the world are of great value to all–er–thinking persons, we do not feel that there are enough–er–thinking persons to make it possible to publish the book, except at a loss. The–er–thesis that Britain should now look for salvation through adjustment of markets, population, supply and demand, within the Empire, put with such exceedingly plain speech, will, we are afraid, get the goat of all the political parties; nor do we feel that your plan of emigrating boys and girls in large quantities before they are spoiled by British town life, can do otherwise than irritate a working-class which knows nothing of conditions outside its own country, and is notably averse to giving its children a chance in any other.’”
“Am I to put that, Mr. Mont?”
“Yes; but tone it in a bit. Er–”
“‘Finally, your view that the land should be used to grow food is so very unusual in these days, that we feel your book would have a hostile Press except from the Old Guard and the Die-hard, and a few folk with vision.’”
“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“‘In a period of veering–er–transitions’–keep that, Miss Perren–‘and the airy unreality of hopes that have long gone up the spout’–almost keep that–‘any scheme that looks forward and defers harvest for twenty years, must be extraordinarily unpopular. For all these reasons you will see how necessary it is for you to–er–seek another publisher. In short, we are not taking any.
“‘With–er–’ what you like–‘dear Sir James Foggart,
“‘We are your obedient servants,
‘“DANBY AND WINTER.’”
“When you’ve translated that, Miss Perren, bring it in, and I’ll sign it.”
“Yes. Only, Mr. Mont–I thought you were a Socialist. This almost seems–forgive my asking?”
“Miss Perren, it’s struck me lately that labels are ‘off.’ How can a man be anything at a time when everything’s in the air? Look at the Liberals. They can’t see the situation whole because of Free Trade; nor can the Labour Party because of their Capital levy; nor can the Tories because of Protection; they’re all hag-ridden by catchwords! Old Sir James Foggart’s jolly well right, but nobody’s going to listen to him. His book will be waste paper if anybody ever publishes it. The world’s unreal just now, Miss Perren; and of all countries we’re the most unreal.”
“Why, Mr. Mont?”
“Why? Because with the most stickfast of all the national temperaments, we’re holding on to what’s gone more bust for us than for any other country. Anyway, Mr. Danby shouldn’t have left the letter to me, if he didn’t mean me to enjoy myself. Oh! and while we’re about it–I’ve got to refuse Harold Master’s new book. It’s a mistake, but they won’t have it.”
“Why not, Mr. Mont? ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ was such a success!”
“Well, in this new thing Master’s got hold of an idea which absolutely forces him to say something. Winter says those who hailed ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ as such a work of art, are certain to be down on this for that; and Mr. Danby calls the book an outrage on human nature. So there’s nothing for it. Let’s have a shot:
“‘MY DEAR MASTER, – In the exhilaration of your subject it has obviously not occurred to you that you’ve bust up the show. In ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ you were absolutely in tune with half the orchestra, and that–er–the noisiest half. You were charmingly archaic, and securely cold-blooded. But now, what have you gone and done? Taken the last Marquesan islander for your hero and put him down in London town! The thing’s a searching satire, a real criticism of life. I’m sure you didn’t mean to be contemporary, or want to burrow into reality; but your subject has run off with you. Cold acid and cold blood are very different things, you know, to say nothing of your having had to drop the archaic. Personally, of course, I think this new thing miles better than ‘The Sobbing Turtle,’ which was a nice little affair, but nothing to make a song about. But I’m not the public, and I’m not the critics. The young and thin will be aggrieved by your lack of modernity, they’ll say you’re moralising; the old and fat will call you bitter and destructive; and the ordinary public will take your Marquesan seriously, and resent your making him superior to themselves. The prospects, you see, are not gaudy. How d’you think we’re going to ‘get away’ with such a book? Well, we’re not! Such is the fiat of the firm. I don’t agree with it. I’d publish it tomorrow; but needs must when Danby and Winter drive. So, with every personal regret, I return what is really a masterpiece.
“‘Always yours,
“‘MICHAEL MONT.’”
“D’you know, Miss Perren, I don’t think you need translate that?”
“I’m afraid it would be difficult.”
“Right-o, then; but do the other, please. I’m going to take my wife out to see a picture; back by four. Oh! and if a little chap called Bicket, that we used to have here, calls any time and asks to see me, he’s to come up; but I want warning first. Will you let them know downstairs?”
“Yes, Mr. Mont. Oh! didn’t–wasn’t that Miss Manuelli the model for the wrapper on Mr. Storbert’s novel?”
“She was, Miss Perren; alone I found her.”
“She’s very interesting-looking, isn’t she?”
“She’s unique, I’m afraid.”
“She needn’t mind that, I should think.”
“That depends,” said Michael; and stabbed his blotting-paper.
Chapter III.
‘AFTERNOON OF A DRYAD’
Fleur was still gracefully concealing most of what Michael called ‘the eleventh baronet,’ now due in about two months’ time. She seemed to be adapting herself, in mind and body, to the quiet and persistent collection of the heir. Michael knew that, from the first, following the instructions of her mother, she had been influencing his sex, repeating to herself, every evening before falling asleep, and every morning on waking the words: “Day by day, in every way, he is getting more and more male,” to infect the subconscious which, everybody now said, controlled the course of events; and that she was abstaining from the words: “I WILL have a boy,” for this, setting up a reaction, everybody said, was liable to produce a girl. Michael noted that she turned more and more to her mother, as if the French, or more naturalistic, side of her, had taken charge of a process which had to do with the body. She was frequently at Mapledurham, going down in Soames’ car, and her mother was frequently in South Square. Annette’s handsome presence, with its tendency to black lace was always pleasing to Michael, who had never forgotten her espousal of his suit in days when it was a forlorn hope. Though he still felt only on the threshold of Fleur’s heart, and was preparing to play second fiddle to ‘the eleventh baronet,’ he was infinitely easier in mind since Wilfrid had been gone. And he watched, with a sort of amused adoration, the way in which she focussed her collecting powers on an object that had no epoch, a process that did not date.
Personally conducted by Aubrey Greene, the expedition to view his show at the Dumetrius Gallery left South Square after an early lunch.
“Your Dryad came to me this morning, Aubrey,” said Michael in the cab. “She wanted me to ask you to put up a barrage if by any chance her husband blows round to accuse you of painting his wife. It seems he’s seen a reproduction of the picture.”
“Umm!” murmured the painter: “Shall I, Fleur?”
“Of course you must, Aubrey!”
Aubrey Greene’s smile slid from her to Michael.
“Well, what’s his name?”
“Bicket.”
Aubrey Greene fixed his eyes on space, and murmured slowly:
“An angry young husband called Bicket
Said: ‘Turn yourself round and I’ll kick it;
You have painted my wife
In the nude to the life,
Do you think, Mr. Greene, it was cricket?’”
“Oh! Aubrey!”
“Chuck it!” said Michael, “I’m serious. She’s a most plucky little creature. She’s made the money they wanted, and remained respectable.”
“So far as I’m concerned, certainly.”
“Well, I should think so.”
“Why, Fleur?”
“You’re not a vamp, Aubrey!”
“As a matter of fact, she excited my aesthetic sense.”
“Much that’d save her from some aesthetes!
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
‘Afternoon of a Dryad’ had long been finished, and was on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery, with other works of Aubrey Greene. Victorine had paid a shilling to see it; had stood some furtive minutes gazing at that white body glimmering from among grass and spikey flowers, at the face, turned as if saying: “I know a secret!”
“Bit of a genius, Aubrey Greene–that face is jolly good!” Scared, and hiding the face, Victorine had slipped away.
From the very day when she had stood shivering outside the studio of Aubrey Greene she had been in full work. He had painted her three times–always nice, always polite, quite the gentleman! And he had given her introductions. Some had painted her in clothes, some half-draped, some in that ‘altogether,’ which no longer troubled her, with the money swelling her stocking and Tony without suspicion. Not every one had been ‘nice’; advances had been made to her, but she had nipped them in the bud. It would have meant the money quicker, but–Tony! In a fortnight now she could snap her fingers at it all. And often on the way home she stood by that plate-glass window, before the fruits, and the corn, and the blue butterflies…
In the packed railway carriage they sat side by side, Bicket, with tray on knee, debating where he had best stand.
“I fyvour the mokes,” he said at last, “up by the pond. People’ll have more money than when they get down among the swings and cocoanuts; and you can go and sit in a chair by the pond, like the seaside–I don’t want you with me not till I’ve sold out.”
Victorine pressed his arm.
Along the top and over on to the heath to north and south the holiday swarms surged, in perfect humour, carrying paper bags. Round the pond children, with thin, grey-white, spindly legs, were paddling and shrilly chattering, too content to smile. Elderly couples crawled slowly by, with jutting stomachs, and faces discoloured by the unaccustomed climb. Girls and young men were few, for they were dispersed already on the heath, in search of a madder merriment. On benches, in chairs of green canvas or painted wood, hundreds were sitting, contemplating their feet, as if imagining the waves of the sea. Now and again three donkeys would start, urged from behind, and slowly tittup their burdens along the pond’s margin. Hawkers cried goods. Fat dark women told fortunes. Policemen stood cynically near them. A man talked and talked and took his hat round.
Tony Bicket unslung his tray. His cockney voice, wheedling and a little husky, offered his coloured airs without intermission. This was something like! It was brisk! And now and again he gazed through the throng away across the pond, to where Victorine would be seated in a canvas chair, looking different from every one–he knew.
“Fine balloons–fine balloons! Six for a bob! Big one, Madam? Only sixpence. See the size! Buy, buy! Tyke one for the little boy!”
No ‘aldermen’ up here, but plenty in the mood to spend their money on a bit of brightness!
At five minutes before noon he snapped his tray to–not a bally balloon left! With six Bank Holidays a week he would make his fortune! Tray under arm, he began to tour the pond. The kiddies were all right, but–good Lord–how thin and pale! If he and Vic had a kid–but not they–not till they got out there! A fat brown kid, chysin’ blue butterflies, and the sun oozin’ out of him! Rounding the end of the pond, he walked slowly along the chairs. Lying back, elegant, with legs crossed, in brown stockings showing to the knees, and neat brown shoes with the flaps over–My! she looked a treat–in a world of her own, like that! Something caught Bicket by the throat. Gosh! He wanted things for her!
“Well, Vic! Penny!”
“I was thinkin’ of Australia.”
“Ah! It’s a gaudy long wait. Never mind–I’ve sold the bally lot. Which shall we do, go down among the trees, or get to the swings, at once?”
“The swings,” said Victorine.
The Vale of Health was in rhapsodic mood. The crowd flowed here in a slow, speechless stream, to the cries of the booth-keepers, and the owners of swings and cocoanuts. “Roll–bowl–or pitch! Now for the milky ones! Penny a shy!… Who’s for the swings?… Ices… Ices… Fine bananas!”
On the giant merry-go-round under its vast umbrella the thirty chain-hung seats were filled with girls and men. Round to the music–slowly–faster–whirling out to the full extent of the chain, bodies bent back, legs stuck forward, laughter and speech dying, faces solemn, a little lost, hands gripping the chains hard. Faster, faster; slowing, slowing to a standstill, and the music silent.
“My word!” murmured Victorine. “Come on, Tony!”
They entered the enclosure and took their seats. Victorine, on the outside, locked her feet, instinctively, one over the other, and tightening her clasp on the chains, curved her body to the motion. Her lips parted:
“Lor, Tony!”
Faster, faster–every nerve and sense given to that motion! O-o-h! It WAS a feeling–flying round like that above the world! Faster–faster! Slower–slow, and the descent to earth.
“Tony–it’s ‘eaven!”
“Queer feelin’ in yer inside, when you’re swung right out!”
“I’d like it level with the top. Let’s go once more!”
“Right-o!”
Twice more they went–half his profit on balloons! But who cared? He liked to see her face. After that, six shies at the milky ones without a hit, an ice apiece: then arm-inarm to find a place to eat their lunch. That was the time Bicket enjoyed most, after the ginger-beer and sandwiches; smoking his fag, with his head on her lap, and the sky blue. A long time like that; till at last she stirred.
“Let’s go and see the dancin’!”
In the grass enclosure ringed by the running path, some two dozen couples were jigging to a band.
Victorine pulled at his arm. “I WOULD love a turn!”
“Well, let’s ‘ave a go,” said Bicket. “This one-legged bloke’ll ‘old my tray.”
They entered the ring.
“Hold me tighter, Tony!”
Bicket obeyed. Nothing he liked better; and slowly their feet moved–to this side and that. They made little way, revolving, keeping time, oblivious of appearances.
“You dance all right, Tony.”
“YOU dance a treat!” gasped Bicket.
In the intervals, panting, they watched over the one-legged man; then to it again, till the band ceased for good.
“My word!” said Victorine. “They dance on board ship, Tony!”
Bicket squeezed her waist.
“I’ll do the trick yet, if I ‘ave to rob the Bank. There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you, Vic.”
But Victorine smiled. She had done the trick already.
The crowd with parti-coloured faces, tired, good-humoured, frowsily scented, strolled over a battlefield thick-strewn with paper bags, banana peel, and newspapers.
“Let’s ‘ave our tea, and one more swing,” said Bicket; “then we’ll get over on the other side among the trees.”
Away over on the far side were many couples. The sun went very slowly down. Those two sat under a bush and watched it go. A faint breeze swung and rustled the birch leaves. There was little human sound out here. All seemed to have come for silence, to be waiting for darkness in the hush. Now and then some stealthy spy would pass and scrutinise.
“Foxes!” said Bicket. “Gawd! I’d like to rub their noses in it!”
Victorine sighed, pressing closer to him.
Some one was playing on a banjo now; a voice singing. It grew dusk, but a moon was somewhere rising, for little shadows stole out along the ground.
They spoke in whispers. It seemed wrong to raise the voice, as though the grove were under a spell. Even their whisperings were scarce. Dew fell, but they paid no heed to it. With hands locked, and cheeks together, they sat very still. Bicket had a thought. This was poetry–this was! Darkness now, with a sort of faint and silvery glow, a sound of drunken singing on the Spaniard’s Road, the whirr of belated cars returning from the north–and suddenly an owl hooted.
“My!” murmured Victorine, shivering: “An owl! Fancy! I used to hear one at Norbiton. I ‘ope it’s not bad luck!”
Bicket rose and stretched himself,
“Come on!” he said: “we’ve ‘ad a dy. Don’t you go catchin’ cold!”
Arm-inarm, slowly, through the darkness of the birch-grove, they made their way upwards–glad of the lamps, and the street, and the crowded station, as though they had taken an overdose of solitude.
Huddled in their carriage on the Tube, Bicket idly turned the pages of a derelict paper. But Victorine sat thinking of so much, that it was as if she thought of nothing. The swings and the grove in the darkness, and the money in her stocking. She wondered Tony hadn’t noticed when it crackled–there wasn’t a safe place to keep it in! What was he looking at, with his eyes so fixed? She peered, and read: “‘Afternoon of a Dryad.’ The striking picture by Aubrey Greene, on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery.”
Her heart stopped beating.
“Cripes!” said Bicket. “Ain’t that like you?”
“Like me? No!”
Bicket held the paper closer. “It IS. It’s like you all over. I’ll cut that out. I’d like to see that picture.”
The colour came up in her cheeks, released from a heart beating too fast now.
“‘Tisn’t decent,” she said.
“Dunno about that; but it’s awful like you. It’s even got your smile.”
Folding the paper, he began to tear the sheet. Victorine’s little finger pressed the notes beneath her stocking.
“Funny,” she said, slowly, “to think there’s people in the world so like each other.”
“I never thought there could be one like you. Charin’ Cross; we gotta change.”
Hurrying along the rat-runs of the Tube, she slipped her hand into his pocket, and soon some scraps of torn paper fluttered down behind her following him in the crush. If only he didn’t remember where the picture was!
Awake in the night, she thought:
‘I don’t care; I’m going to get the rest of the money–that’s all about it.’
But her heart moved queerly within her, like that of one whose feet have trodden suddenly the quaking edge of a bog.
Chapter II.
OFFICE WORK
Michael sat correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits’–the book left by Wilfrid behind him.
“Can you see Butterfield, sir?”
“I can.”
In Michael the word Butterfield excited an uneasy pride. The young man fulfilled with increasing success the function for which he had been engaged, on trial, four months ago. The head traveller had even called him “a find.” Next to ‘Copper Coin’ he was the finest feather in Michael’s cap. The Trade were not buying, yet Butterfield was selling books, or so it was reported; he appeared to have a natural gift of inspiring confidence where it was not justified. Danby and Winter had even entrusted to him the private marketing of that vellum-bound ‘Limited’ of ‘A Duet,’ by which they were hoping to recoup their losses on the ordinary edition. He was now engaged in working through a list of names considered likely to patronise the little masterpiece. This method of private approach had been suggested by himself.
“You see, sir,” he had said to Michael: “I know a bit about Coue. Well, you can’t work that on the Trade–they’ve got no capacity for faith. What can you expect? Every day they buy all sorts of stuff, always basing themselves on past sales. You can’t find one in twenty that’ll back the future. But with private gentlemen, and especially private ladies, you can leave a thought with them like Coue does–put it into them again and again that day by day in every way the author’s gettin’ better and better; and ten to one when you go round next, it’s got into their subconscious, especially if you take ’em just after lunch or dinner, when they’re a bit drowsy. Let me take my own time, sir, and I’ll put that edition over for you.”
“Well, Michael had answered, “if you can inspire confidence in the future of my governor, Butterfield, you’ll deserve more than your ten per cent.”
“I can do it, sir; it’s just a question of faith.”
“But you haven’t any, have you?”
“Well, not, so to speak, in the author–but I’ve got faith that I can give THEM faith in him; that’s the real point.”
“I see–the three-card stunt; inspire the faith you haven’t got, that the card is there, and they’ll take it. Well, the disillusion is not immediate–you’ll probably always get out of the room in time. Go ahead, then!”
The young man Butterfield had smiled…
The uneasy part of the pride inspired in Michael now by the name was due to old Forsyte’s continually saying to him that he didn’t know–he couldn’t tell–there was that young man and his story about Elderson, and they got no further…
“Good morning, sir. Can you spare me five minutes?”
“Come in, Butterfield. Bunkered with ‘Duet’?”
“No, sir. I’ve placed forty already. It’s another matter.” Glancing at the shut door, the young man came closer.
“I’m working my list alphabetically. Yesterday I was in the E’s.” His voice dropped. “Mr. Elderson.”
“Phew!” said Michael. “You can give HIM the go-by.”
“As a fact, sir, I haven’t.”
“What! Been over the top?”
“Yes, sir. Last night.”
“Good for you, Butterfield! What happened?”
“I didn’t send my name in, sir–just the firm’s card.”
Michael was conscious of a very human malice in the young man’s voice and face.
“Well?”
“Mr. Elderson, sir, was at his wine. I’d thought it out, and I began as if I’d never seen him before. What struck me was–he took my cue!”
“Didn’t kick you out?”
“Far from it, sir. He said at once: ‘Put my name down for two copies.’”
Michael grinned. “You both had a nerve.”
“No, sir; that’s just it. Mr. Elderson got it between wind and water. He didn’t like it a little bit.”
“I don’t twig,” said Michael.
“My being in this firm’s employ, sir. He knows you’re a partner here, and Mr. Forsyte’s son-inlaw, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
“Well, sir, you see the connection–two directors believing me–not HIM. That’s why I didn’t miss him out. I fancied it’d shake him up. I happened to see his face in the sideboard glass as I went out. HE’S got the wind up all right.”
Michael bit his forefinger, conscious of a twinge of sympathy with Elderson, as for a fly with the first strand of cob-web round his hind leg.
“Thank you, Butterfield,” he said.
When the young man was gone, he sat stabbing his blotting-paper with a paper-knife. What curious ‘class’ sensation was this? Or was it merely fellow-feeling with the hunted, a tremor at the way things found one out? For, surely, this was real evidence, and he would have to pass it on to his father, and ‘Old Forsyte.’ Elderson’s nerve must have gone phut, or he’d have said: “You impudent young scoundrel–get out of here!” That, clearly, was the only right greeting from an innocent, and the only advisable greeting from a guilty man. Well! Nerve did fail sometimes–even the best. Witness the very proof-sheet he had just corrected:
THE COURT MARTIAL
“See ’ere! I’m myde o’ nerves and blood
The syme as you, not meant to be
Froze stiff up to me ribs in mud.
You try it, like I ‘ave, an’ see!
“‘Aye, you snug beauty brass hats, when
You stick what I stuck out that d’y,
An’ keep yer ruddy ‘earts up–then
You’ll learn, maybe, the right to s’y:
“‘Take aht an’ shoot ’im in the snow,
Shoot ’im for cowardice! ‘E who serves
His King and Country’s got to know
There’s no such bloody thing as nerves.’”
Good old Wilfrid!
“Yes, Miss Perren?”
“The letter to Sir James Foggart, Mr. Mont; you told me to remind you. And will you see Miss Manuelli?”
“Miss Manu–Oh! Ah! Yes.”
Bicket’s girl wife, whose face they had used on Storbert’s novel, the model for Aubrey Greene’s–! Michael rose, for the girl was in the room already.
‘I remember that dress!’ he thought: ‘Fleur never liked it.’
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Bicket? How’s Bicket, by the way?”
“Fairly, sir, thank you.”
“Still in balloons?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we all are, Mrs. Bicket.”
“Beg pardon?”
“In the air–don’t you think? But you didn’t come to tell me that?”
“No, sir.”
A slight flush in those sallow cheeks, fingers concerned with the tips of the worn gloves, lips uncertain; but the eyes steady–really an uncommon girl!
“You remember givin’ me a note to Mr. Greene, sir?”
“I do; and I’ve seen the result; it’s topping, Mrs. Bicket.”
“Yes. But it’s got into the papers–my husband saw it there last night; and of course, he doesn’t know about me.”
Phew! For what had he let this girl in?
“I’ve made a lot of money at it, sir–almost enough for our passage to Australia; but now I’m frightened. ‘Isn’t it like you?’ he said to me. I tore the paper up, but suppose he remembers the name of the Gallery and goes to see the picture! That’s even much more like me! He might go on to Mr. Greene. So would you mind, sir, speaking to Mr. Greene, and beggin’ him to say it was some one else, in case Tony did go?”
“Not a bit,” said Michael. “But do you think Bicket would mind so very much, considering what it’s done for you? It can be quite a respectable profession.”
Victorine’s hands moved up to her breast.
“Yes,” she said, simply. “I have been quite respectable. And I only did it because we do so want to get away, and I couldn’t bear seein’ him standin’ in the gutter there sellin’ those balloons in the fogs. But I’m ever so scared, sir, now.”
Michael stared.
“My God!” he said; “money’s an evil thing!”
Victorine smiled faintly. “The want of it is, I know.”
“How much more do you need, Mrs. Bicket?”
“Only another ten pound, about, sir.”
“I can let you have that.”
“Oh! thank you; but it’s not that–I can easy earn it–I’ve got used to it; a few more days don’t matter.”
“But how are you going to account for having the money?”
“Say I won it bettin’.”
“THIN!” said Michael. “Look here! Say you came to me and I advanced it. If Bicket repays it from Australia, I can always put it to your credit again at a bank out there. I’ve got you into a hole, in a way, and I’d like to get you out of it.”
“Oh! no, sir; you did me a service. I don’t want to put you about, telling falsehoods for me.”
“It won’t worry me a bit, Mrs. Bicket. I can lie to the umteenth when there’s no harm in it. The great thing for you is to get away sharp. Are there many other pictures of you?”
“Oh! yes, a lot–not that you’d recognise them, I think, they’re so square and funny.”
“Ah! well–Aubrey Greene has got you to the life!”
“Yes; it’s like me all over, Tony says.”
“Quite. Well, I’ll speak to Aubrey, I shall be seeing him at lunch. Here’s the ten pounds! That’s agreed, then? You came to me today–see? Say you had a brain wave. I quite understand the whole thing. You’d do a lot for him; and he’d do a lot for you. It’s all right–don’t cry!”
Victorine swallowed violently. Her hand in the worn glove returned his squeeze.
“I’d tell him to-night, if I were you,” said Michael, “and I’ll get ready.”
When she had gone he thought: ‘Hope Bicket won’t think I received value for that sixty pounds!’ And, pressing his bell, he resumed the stabbing of his blotting-paper.
“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“Now let’s get on with it, Miss Perren.”
“‘DEAR SIR JAMES FOGGART, – We have given the utmost consideration to your very interesting–er–production. While we are of opinion that the views so well expressed on the present condition of Britain in relation to the rest of the world are of great value to all–er–thinking persons, we do not feel that there are enough–er–thinking persons to make it possible to publish the book, except at a loss. The–er–thesis that Britain should now look for salvation through adjustment of markets, population, supply and demand, within the Empire, put with such exceedingly plain speech, will, we are afraid, get the goat of all the political parties; nor do we feel that your plan of emigrating boys and girls in large quantities before they are spoiled by British town life, can do otherwise than irritate a working-class which knows nothing of conditions outside its own country, and is notably averse to giving its children a chance in any other.’”
“Am I to put that, Mr. Mont?”
“Yes; but tone it in a bit. Er–”
“‘Finally, your view that the land should be used to grow food is so very unusual in these days, that we feel your book would have a hostile Press except from the Old Guard and the Die-hard, and a few folk with vision.’”
“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“‘In a period of veering–er–transitions’–keep that, Miss Perren–‘and the airy unreality of hopes that have long gone up the spout’–almost keep that–‘any scheme that looks forward and defers harvest for twenty years, must be extraordinarily unpopular. For all these reasons you will see how necessary it is for you to–er–seek another publisher. In short, we are not taking any.
“‘With–er–’ what you like–‘dear Sir James Foggart,
“‘We are your obedient servants,
‘“DANBY AND WINTER.’”
“When you’ve translated that, Miss Perren, bring it in, and I’ll sign it.”
“Yes. Only, Mr. Mont–I thought you were a Socialist. This almost seems–forgive my asking?”
“Miss Perren, it’s struck me lately that labels are ‘off.’ How can a man be anything at a time when everything’s in the air? Look at the Liberals. They can’t see the situation whole because of Free Trade; nor can the Labour Party because of their Capital levy; nor can the Tories because of Protection; they’re all hag-ridden by catchwords! Old Sir James Foggart’s jolly well right, but nobody’s going to listen to him. His book will be waste paper if anybody ever publishes it. The world’s unreal just now, Miss Perren; and of all countries we’re the most unreal.”
“Why, Mr. Mont?”
“Why? Because with the most stickfast of all the national temperaments, we’re holding on to what’s gone more bust for us than for any other country. Anyway, Mr. Danby shouldn’t have left the letter to me, if he didn’t mean me to enjoy myself. Oh! and while we’re about it–I’ve got to refuse Harold Master’s new book. It’s a mistake, but they won’t have it.”
“Why not, Mr. Mont? ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ was such a success!”
“Well, in this new thing Master’s got hold of an idea which absolutely forces him to say something. Winter says those who hailed ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ as such a work of art, are certain to be down on this for that; and Mr. Danby calls the book an outrage on human nature. So there’s nothing for it. Let’s have a shot:
“‘MY DEAR MASTER, – In the exhilaration of your subject it has obviously not occurred to you that you’ve bust up the show. In ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ you were absolutely in tune with half the orchestra, and that–er–the noisiest half. You were charmingly archaic, and securely cold-blooded. But now, what have you gone and done? Taken the last Marquesan islander for your hero and put him down in London town! The thing’s a searching satire, a real criticism of life. I’m sure you didn’t mean to be contemporary, or want to burrow into reality; but your subject has run off with you. Cold acid and cold blood are very different things, you know, to say nothing of your having had to drop the archaic. Personally, of course, I think this new thing miles better than ‘The Sobbing Turtle,’ which was a nice little affair, but nothing to make a song about. But I’m not the public, and I’m not the critics. The young and thin will be aggrieved by your lack of modernity, they’ll say you’re moralising; the old and fat will call you bitter and destructive; and the ordinary public will take your Marquesan seriously, and resent your making him superior to themselves. The prospects, you see, are not gaudy. How d’you think we’re going to ‘get away’ with such a book? Well, we’re not! Such is the fiat of the firm. I don’t agree with it. I’d publish it tomorrow; but needs must when Danby and Winter drive. So, with every personal regret, I return what is really a masterpiece.
“‘Always yours,
“‘MICHAEL MONT.’”
“D’you know, Miss Perren, I don’t think you need translate that?”
“I’m afraid it would be difficult.”
“Right-o, then; but do the other, please. I’m going to take my wife out to see a picture; back by four. Oh! and if a little chap called Bicket, that we used to have here, calls any time and asks to see me, he’s to come up; but I want warning first. Will you let them know downstairs?”
“Yes, Mr. Mont. Oh! didn’t–wasn’t that Miss Manuelli the model for the wrapper on Mr. Storbert’s novel?”
“She was, Miss Perren; alone I found her.”
“She’s very interesting-looking, isn’t she?”
“She’s unique, I’m afraid.”
“She needn’t mind that, I should think.”
“That depends,” said Michael; and stabbed his blotting-paper.
Chapter III.
‘AFTERNOON OF A DRYAD’
Fleur was still gracefully concealing most of what Michael called ‘the eleventh baronet,’ now due in about two months’ time. She seemed to be adapting herself, in mind and body, to the quiet and persistent collection of the heir. Michael knew that, from the first, following the instructions of her mother, she had been influencing his sex, repeating to herself, every evening before falling asleep, and every morning on waking the words: “Day by day, in every way, he is getting more and more male,” to infect the subconscious which, everybody now said, controlled the course of events; and that she was abstaining from the words: “I WILL have a boy,” for this, setting up a reaction, everybody said, was liable to produce a girl. Michael noted that she turned more and more to her mother, as if the French, or more naturalistic, side of her, had taken charge of a process which had to do with the body. She was frequently at Mapledurham, going down in Soames’ car, and her mother was frequently in South Square. Annette’s handsome presence, with its tendency to black lace was always pleasing to Michael, who had never forgotten her espousal of his suit in days when it was a forlorn hope. Though he still felt only on the threshold of Fleur’s heart, and was preparing to play second fiddle to ‘the eleventh baronet,’ he was infinitely easier in mind since Wilfrid had been gone. And he watched, with a sort of amused adoration, the way in which she focussed her collecting powers on an object that had no epoch, a process that did not date.
Personally conducted by Aubrey Greene, the expedition to view his show at the Dumetrius Gallery left South Square after an early lunch.
“Your Dryad came to me this morning, Aubrey,” said Michael in the cab. “She wanted me to ask you to put up a barrage if by any chance her husband blows round to accuse you of painting his wife. It seems he’s seen a reproduction of the picture.”
“Umm!” murmured the painter: “Shall I, Fleur?”
“Of course you must, Aubrey!”
Aubrey Greene’s smile slid from her to Michael.
“Well, what’s his name?”
“Bicket.”
Aubrey Greene fixed his eyes on space, and murmured slowly:
“An angry young husband called Bicket
Said: ‘Turn yourself round and I’ll kick it;
You have painted my wife
In the nude to the life,
Do you think, Mr. Greene, it was cricket?’”
“Oh! Aubrey!”
“Chuck it!” said Michael, “I’m serious. She’s a most plucky little creature. She’s made the money they wanted, and remained respectable.”
“So far as I’m concerned, certainly.”
“Well, I should think so.”
“Why, Fleur?”
“You’re not a vamp, Aubrey!”
“As a matter of fact, she excited my aesthetic sense.”
“Much that’d save her from some aesthetes!
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