In the gloom of these reflections he had come to Westminster. He might as well call in at South Square and see if Fleur had telephoned her arrival at the sea! In the hall eight hats of differing shape and colour lay on the coat-sarcophagus. What the deuce was going on? A sound of voices came from the dining-room, then the peculiar drone of somebody making a speech. Some meeting or other of Michael’s, and the measles only just out of the house!

“What’s going on here?” he said to Coaker.

“Something to do with the slums, sir. I believe; they’re converting of them, I heard Mr. Mont say.”

“Don’t put my hat with those,” said Soames; “have you had any message from your mistress?”

“Yes, sir. They had a good journey. The little dog was sick, I believe. He will have his own way.”

“Well,” said Soames, “I’ll go up and wait in the study.”

On getting there, he noticed a water-colour drawing on the bureau: a tree with large dark green leaves and globular golden fruit, against a silvery sort of background—peculiar thing, amateurish, but somehow arresting. Underneath, he recognized his daughter’s handwriting:

“The Golden Apple: F.M. 1926.”

Really he had no idea that she could use water-colour as well as that! She was a clever little thing! And he put the drawing up on end where he could see it better! Apple? Passion-fruit, he would have said, of an exaggerated size. Thoroughly uneatable—they had a glow like lanterns. Forbidden fruit! Eve might have given them to Adam. Was this thing symbolic? Did it fancifully reveal her thoughts? And in front of it he fell into sombre mood, which was broken by the opening of the door. Michael had entered.

“Hallo, sir!”

“Hallo!” replied Soames: “What’s this thing?”

In an Age governed almost exclusively by Committees, Michael knew fairly well what Committees were governed by. A Committee must not meet too soon after food, for then the Committeemen would sleep; nor too soon before food, because then the Committeemen would be excitable. The Committeemen should be allowed to say what they liked, without direction, until each was tired of hearing the others say it. But there must be some one present, preferably the Chairman, who said little, thought more, and could be relied on to be awake when that moment was reached, whereupon a middle policy voiced by him to exhausted receivers, would probably be adopted.

Having secured his bishop, and Sir Godfrey Bedwin, who specialised in chests, and failed with his Uncle Lionel Charwell, who had scented the work destined for Lady Alison his wife, Michael convened the first meeting for three o’clock in South Square on the day of Fleur’s departure for the sea. Hilary was present, and a young woman, to take them down. Surprise came early. They all attended, and fell into conversation around the Spanish table. It was plain to Michael that the bishop and Sir Timothy Fanfield had expectations of the Chair; and he kicked his father under the table, fearing that one of them might propose the other in the hope of the other proposing the one. Sir Lawrence then murmured:

“My dear, that’s my shin.”

“I know,” muttered Michael; “shall we get on with it?”

Dropping his eyeglass, Sir Lawrence said:

“Exactly! Gentlemen, I propose that the Squire takes the Chair. Will you second that, Marquess?”

The Marquess nodded.

The blow was well received, and the Squire proceeded to the head of the table. He began as follows:—

“I won’t beat about the bush. You all know as much about it as I do, which is precious little. The whole thing is the idea of Mr. Hilary Charwell here, so I’ll ask him to explain it to us. The slums are C3 breeders, and verminous into the bargain, and anything we can do to abate this nuisance, I, for one, should be happy to do. Will you give tongue, Mr. Charwell?”

Hilary dropped at once into a warm, witty and thorough exposition of his views, dwelling particularly on the human character of a problem “hitherto,” he said, “almost exclusively confined to Borough Councils, Bigotry and Blue Books.” That he had made an impression was instantly demonstrated by the buzz of voices. The Squire, who was sitting with his head up and his heels down, his knees apart and his elbows close to his sides, muttered:

“Let it rip! Can we smoke, Mont?” And, refusing the cigars and cigarettes proffered by Michael, he filled a pipe, and smoked in silence for several minutes.

“Then we’re all agreed,” he said, suddenly, “that what we want to do is to form this Fund.”

No one having as yet expressed any such opinion, this was the more readily assented to.

“In that case, we’d better get down to it and draw up our appeal.” And, pointing his pipe at Sir Lawrence, he added:

“You’ve got the gift of the gab with a pen, Mont; suppose you and the bishop and Charwell here go into another room and knock us out a draft. Pitch it strong, but no waterworks.”

When the designated three had withdrawn, conversation broke out again. Michael could hear the Squire and Sir Godfrey Bedwin talking of distemper, and the Marquess discussing with Mr. Montross the electrification of the latter’s kitchen. Sir Timothy Fanfield was staring at the Goya. He was a tall, lean man of about seventy, with a thin, hooked nose, brown face, and large white moustaches, who had been in the Household Cavalry and come out of it.

A little afraid of his verdict on the Goya, Michael said hastily:

“Well, Sir Timothy, the coal strike doesn’t end.”

“No; they ought to be shot. I’m all for the working man; but I’d shoot his leaders tomorrow.”

“What about the mine-owners?” queried Michael.

“I’d shoot their leaders, too. We shall never have industrial peace till we shoot somebody. Fact is, we didn’t shoot half enough people during the war. Conshies and Communists and Profiteers—I’d have had ’em all against a wall.”

“I’m very glad you came on our Committee, sir,” Michael murmured; “we want someone with strong views.”

“Ah!” said Sir Timothy, and pointing his chin towards the end of the table, he lowered his voice. “Between ourselves—bit too moderate, the Squire. You want to take these scoundrels by the throat. I knew a chap that owned half a slum and had the face to ask me to subscribe to a Missionary Fund in China. I told the fellow he ought to be shot. Impudent beggar—he didn’t like it.”

“No?” said Michael; and at this moment the young woman pulled his sleeve. Was she to take anything down?

Not at present—Michael thought.

Sir Timothy was again staring at the Goya.

“Family portrait?” he said.

“No,” said Michael; it’s a Goya.”

“Deuce it is! Goy is Jewish for Christian. Female Christian—what?”

“No, sir. Name of the Spanish painter.”

“No idea there were any except Murillo and Velasquez—never see anything like THEM now-a-days. These modern painters, you know, ought to be tortured. I say,” and again he lowered his voice, “bishop!—what!—they’re always running some hare of their own—Anti–Birth-Control, or Missions of sorts. We want to cut this C3 population off at the root. Stop ’em having babies by hook or crook; and then shoot a slum landlord or two—deal with both ends. But they’ll jib at it, you’ll see. D’you know anything about ants?”

“Only that they’re busy,” said Michael.

“I’ve made a study of ’em. Come down to my place in Hampshire, and I’ll show you my slides—most interestin’ insects in the world.” He lowered his voice again:

“Who’s that talkin’ to the old Marquess? What! The rubber man? Jew, isn’t he? What axe is HE grinding? The composition of this Committee’s wrong, Mr. Mont. Old Shropshire’s a charmin’ old man, but—” Sir Timothy touched his forehead—“mad as a March hare about electricity. You’ve got a doctor, too. They’re too mealy-mouthed. What you want is a Committee that’ll go for those scoundrels. Tea? Never drink it. Chap who invented tea ought to have been strung up.”