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. I told you about her and the pneumonia. She’s all right agyne now, only thin. She’s the prize I drew. I don’t want a world where you can’t draw prizes. If it were all bloomin’ conscientious an’ accordin’ to merit, I’d never have got her. See?”

‘Me, too,’ thought Michael, mentally drawing that face again.

“We’ve all got our dreams; mine’s blue butterflies—Central Austrylia. The Socialists won’t ‘elp me to get there. Their ideas of ‘eaven don’t run beyond Europe.”

“Cripes!” said Michael. “Melted butter, Bicket?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Silence was not broken for some time, but the soles were.

“What made you think of balloons, Bicket?”

“You don’t ‘ave to advertise, they do it for you.”

“Saw too much of advertising with us, eh?”

“Well, sir, I did use to read the wrappers. Astonished me, I will sy—the number of gryte books.”

Michael ran his hands through his hair.

“Wrappers! The same young woman being kissed by the same young man with the same clean-cut jaw. But what can you do, Bicket? They WILL HAVE IT. I tried to make a break only this morning—I shall see what comes of it. “‘And I hope YOU won’t!’ he thought: ‘Fancy coming on Fleur outside a novel!’

“I did notice a tendency just before I left,” said Bicket, “to ‘ave cliffs or landskips and two sort of dolls sittin’ on the sand or in the grass lookin’ as if they didn’t know what to do with each other.”

“Yes,” murmured Michael, “we tried that. It was supposed not to be vulgar. But we soon exhausted the public’s capacity. What’ll you have now—cheese?”

“Thank you, sir; I’ve had too much already, but I won’t say ‘No.’”

“Two Stiltons,” said Michael.

“How’s Mr. Desert, sir?”

Michael reddened.

“Oh! He’s all right.”

Bicket had reddened also.

“I wish—I wish you’d let him know that it was quite a—an accident my pitchin’ on his book. I’ve always regretted it.”

“It’s usually an accident, I think,” said Michael slowly, “when we snoop other people’s goods. We never WANT to.”

Bicket looked up.

“No, sir, I don’t agree. ‘Alf mankind’s predytory—only, I’m not that sort, meself.”

In Michael loyalty tried to stammer “Nor is he.” He handed his cigarette case to Bicket.

“Thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

His eyes were swimming, and Michael thought: ‘Dash it! This is sentimental. Kiss me good-bye and go!’ He beckoned up the white-aproned fellow.

“Give us your address, Bicket. If integuments are any good to you, I might have some spare slops.”

Bicket backed the bill with his address and said, hesitating: “I suppose, sir, Mrs. Mont wouldn’t ‘ave anything to spare. My wife’s about my height.”

“I expect she would. We’ll send them along.” He saw the ‘little snipe’s’ lips quivering, and reached for his overcoat. “If anything blows in, I’ll remember you. Goodbye, Bicket, and good luck.”

Going east, because Bicket was going west, he repeated to himself the maxim: “Pity is tripe—pity is tripe!” Then getting on a ‘bus, he was borne back past St. Paul’s. Cautiously ‘taking a lunar’—as old Forsyte put it—he SAW Bicket inflating a balloon; little was visible of his face or figure behind that rosy circumference. Nearing Blake Street, he developed an invincible repugnance to work, and was carried on to Trafalgar Square. Bicket had stirred him up. The world was sometimes almost unbearably jolly. Bicket, Wilfrid, and the Ruhr!” Feeling is tosh! Pity is tripe!” He descended from his ‘bus, and passed the lions towards Pall Mall. Should he go into ‘Snooks’ and ask for Bart? No use—he would not find Fleur there. That was what he really wanted—to see Fleur in the daytime. But—where? She was everywhere to be found, and that was nowhere.

She was restless. Was that his fault? If he had been Wilfrid—would she be restless? ‘Yes,’ he thought stoutly, ‘Wilfrid’s restless, too.’ They were all restless—all the people he knew. At least all the young ones—in life and in letters. Look at their novels! Hardly one in twenty had any repose, any of that quality which made one turn back to a book as a corner of refuge. They dashed and sputtered and skidded and rushed by like motor cycles—violent, oh! and clever. How tired he was of cleverness! Sometimes he would take a manuscript home to Fleur for her opinion. He remembered her saying once: “This is exactly like life, Michael, it just rushes—it doesn’t dwell on anything long enough to mean anything anywhere. Of course the author didn’t mean it for satire, but if you publish it, I advise you to put: ‘This awful satire on modern life’ outside the cover.” And they had. At least, they had put: “This wonderful satire on modern life.” Fleur WAS like that! She could see the hurry, but, like the author of the wonderful satire, she didn’t know that she herself veered and hurried, or—did she know? Was she conscious of kicking at life, like a flame at air?

He had reached Piccadilly, and suddenly he remembered that he had not called on her aunt for ages. That was a possible draw. He bent his steps towards Green Street.

“Mrs. Dartie at home?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael moved his nostrils. Fleur used—but he could catch no scent, except incense. Winifred burnt joss-sticks when she remembered what a distinguished atmosphere they produced.