“Well,” he said, over their cocoa and margarined bread: “I must see Mr. Mont, that’s certain.” And suddenly he added: “Vic?” looking straight into her face.

She answered his look—straight, yes, straight. Oh! he was a proper swine!…

When he had left the house Victorine stood quite still, with hands pressed against her chest. She had slept less than he. Still as a mouse, she had turned and turned the thought: ‘Did I take him in? Did I?’ And if not—what? She took out the notes which had bought—or sold?—their happiness, and counted them once more. And the sense of injustice burned within her. Had she wanted to stand like that before men? Hadn’t she been properly through it about that? Why, she could have had the sixty pounds three months ago from that sculptor, who was wild about her; or—so he said! But she had stuck it; yes, she had. Tony had nothing against her really—even if he knew it all. She had done it for him—Well! mostly—for him selling those balloons day after day in all weathers! But for her, they would still be stuck, and another winter coming, and unemployment—so they said in the paper—to be worse and worse! Stuck in the fogs and the cold, again! Ugh! Her chest was still funny sometimes; and he always hoarse. And this poky little room, and the bed so small that she couldn’t stir without waking him. Why should Tony doubt her? For he did—she had felt it, heard it in his “Vic?” Would Mr. Mont convince him? Tony was sharp! Her head drooped. The unfairness of it all! Some had everything to their hand, like that pretty wife of Mr. Mont’s! And if one tried to find a way and get out to a new chance—then—then—this! She flung her hair back. Tony MUST believe—he should! If he wouldn’t, let him look out. She had done nothing to be ashamed of! No, indeed! And with the longing to go in front and lead her happiness along, she got out her old tin trunk, and began with careful method to put things into it.

Michael still sat, correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits.’ Save ‘Jericho,’ there had been no address to send them to. The East was wide, and Wilfrid had made no sign. Did Fleur ever think of Wilfrid now? He had the impression that she did not. And Wilfrid—well, probably he was forgetting her already. Even passion required a little sustenance.

“A Mr. Forsyte to see you, sir.”

Apparition in bookland!

“Ah—Show him in.”

Soames entered with an air of suspicion.

“This your place?” he said. “I’ve looked in to tell you that I’ve bought that picture of young Greene’s. Have you anywhere to hang it?”

“I should think we had,” said Michael. “Jolly good, sir, isn’t it?”

“Well,” muttered Soames, “for these days, yes. He’ll make a name.”

“He’s an intense admirer of that White Monkey you gave us.”

“Ah! I’ve been looking into the Chinese. If I go on buying—” Soames paused.

“They ARE a bit of an antidote, aren’t they, sir? That ‘Earthly Paradise!’ And those geese—they don’t seem to mind your counting their feathers, do they?”

Soames made no reply; he was evidently thinking: ‘How on earth I missed those things when they first came on the market!’ Then, raising his umbrella, and pointing it as if at the book trade, he asked:

“Young Butterfield—how’s he doing?”

“Ah! I was going to let you know, sir. He came in yesterday and told me that he saw Elderson two days ago. He went to sell him a copy of my father’s ‘Limited’; Elderson said nothing and bought two.”

“The deuce he did!”

“Butterfield got the impression that his visit put the wind up him. Elderson knows, of course, that I’m in this firm, and your son-inlaw.”

Soames frowned. “I’m not sure,” he said, “that sleeping dogs—! Well, I’m on my way there now.”

“Mention the book, sir, and see how Elderson takes it. Would you like one yourself? You’re on the list. E, F—Butterfield should be reaching you today. It’ll save you a refusal. Here it is—nice get-up. One guinea.”

“‘A Duet,’” read Soames. “What’s it about? Musical?”

“Not precisely. A sort of cat-calling between the ghosts of the G. O. M. and Dizzy!”

“I’m not a reader,” said Soames. He pulled out a note. “Why didn’t you make it a pound? Here’s the shilling.”

“Thanks awfully, sir; I’m sure my father’ll be frightfully bucked to think you’ve got one.”

“Will he?” said Soames, with a faint smile. “D’you ever do any WORK here?”

“Well, we try to turn a doubtful penny.”

“What d’you make at it?”

“Personally, about five hundred a year.”

“That all?”

“Yes, but I doubt if I’m worth more than three.”

“H’m! I thought you’d got over your Socialism.”

“I fancy I have, sir. It didn’t seem to go with my position.”

“No,” said Soames. “Fleur seems well.”

“Yes, she’s splendid. She does the Coue stunt, you know.”

Soames stared. “That’s her mother,” he said; “I can’t tell. Good-bye! Oh! I want to know; what’s the meaning of that expression ‘got his goat?’”

“‘Got his goat?’ Oh, raised his dander, if you know what that means, it was before my time.”

“I see,” said Soames; “I had it right, then. Well!” He turned. His back was very neat and real. It vanished through the doorway, and with it seemed to go the sense of definition.

Michael took up the proofs, and read two poems. Bitter as quinine! The unrest in them—the yearning behind the words! Nothing Chinese there! After all, the ancients—like Old Forsyte, and his father in a very different way—had an anchor down. ‘What is it?’ thought Michael. ‘What’s wrong with us? We’re quick, and clever, cocksure, and dissatisfied. If only something would enthuse us, or get OUR goats! We’ve chucked religion, tradition, property, pity; and in their place we put—what? Beauty? Gosh! See Walter Nazing, and the Cafe C’rillon! And yet—we must be after something! Better world? Doesn’t look like it. Future life? Suppose I ought to “look into” spiritualism, as Old Forsyte would say. But—half in this world, half in that—deuced odd if spirits are less restive than we are!’

To what—to what, then, was it all moving? ‘Dash it!’ thought Michael, getting up, ‘I’ll try dictating an advertisement!’

“Will you come in, please, Miss Perren? For the new Desert volume—Trade Journals: ‘Danby and Winter will shortly issue ‘Counterfeits,’ by the author of ‘Copper Coin,’ the outstanding success of the last publishing season. I wonder how many publishers have claimed that, Miss Perren, for how many books this year? ‘These poems show all the brilliancy of mood, and more than the technical accomplishment of the young author’s first volume.’ How’s that?”

“Brilliancy of mood, Mr. Mont? Do you think?”

“No. But what am I to say? ‘All the pangs and pessimism?’”

“Oh, no! But possibly: ‘All the brilliancy of diction, the strangeness and variety of mood.’”

“Good. But it’ll cost more. Say: ‘All the brilliant strangeness’; that’ll ring their bells in once. We’re nuts on ‘the strange,’ but we’re not getting it—the outre, yes, but not the strange.”

“Surely Mr. Desert gets—”

“Yes, sometimes; but hardly any one else. To be strange, you’ve got to have guts, if you’ll excuse the phrase, Miss Perren.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mont. That young man Bicket is waiting to see you.”

“He is, is he?” said Michael, taking out a cigarette. “Give me time to tighten my belt, Miss Perren, and ask him up.”

‘The lie benevolent,’ he thought; ‘now for it!’

The entrance of Bicket into a room where his last appearance had been so painful, was accomplished with a certain stolidity. Michael stood, back to the hearth, smoking; Bicket, back to a pile of modern novels, with the words “This great new novel” on it. Michael nodded.

“Hallo, Bicket!”

Bicket nodded.

“Hope you’re keeping well, sir?”

“Frightfully well, thank you.” And there was silence.