Chapter Eleven: THEY GO HOME

I

It was coming to a close like any other Friday afternoon. They were short-handed, for though the new boy, Gregory Thorpe from Hatcham, S.E., a lad with a singularly long face and spectacles, far more conscientious than Stanley but not so engaging, had been with them since Monday, Turgis had been absent since Monday too, and his place had not yet been filled. Fortunately, they had not been very busy this last day or two; the rush of a few weeks before appeared to be over now; Mr. Golspie had not been near the office since Tuesday, and had not sent in any new orders; and the next Anglo-Baltic boat was not due in until the following Monday; so that things were easier. Even without Turgis, they were getting through the work at the usual pace. Mr. Smeeth, glancing round over the top of his desk, thought they ought to have finished in another half-hour or three-quarters. He would get away about six, have his tea in comfort, with plenty of time to spare before the concert began. He was going to hear that symphony by Brahms, the same symphony he had heard before, the one that suddenly and gloriously broke into Ta tum ta ta tum tum. Another orchestra was playing it this time. It was lucky that the advertisement of the concert had caught his eye: Brahms’ Symphony No. 1. He had been looking forward all the week to hearing that symphony again, especially to that moment when the great melody would come sweeping out of the strings again. He had tried to remember it for weeks and weeks, and then suddenly it had returned to him—Ta tum ta ta tum tum. Brahms might be as classical and highbrow as they said he was (and Mr. Smeeth had been making a few inquiries), but the fact remained that the thought of his first symphony, that dark but splendid adventure, now warmed the heart of Herbert Norman Smeeth. Ta tum ta ta tum tum—but no, he must get on with his work, finish off and see that the others were finishing off too.

“Miss Matfield, have you anything for Mr. Dersingham to sign? Have you, Miss Sellers? Take them in now if you have.”

Mr. Dersingham was in the private office. He had been there most of the day. This was unusual, and rather queer because Mr. Dersingham did not appear to be very busy. He seemed to be waiting for something or somebody. Several times during the afternoon, when the outer door had opened, Mr. Smeeth had heard Mr. Dersingham come out of the private office, as if he could not bear to wait an extra half minute or so. He seemed to be jumpy, too, about telephone calls. Very unusual, rather queer, not like Mr. Dersingham. Mr. Smeeth came to the conclusion that it must be some private business, and therefore no affair of his.

“Now where’s that letter from Poppett and Sons?” he demanded. “It was on this desk an hour ago, I’ll swear. It’s a letter about their account, and I told one of you this morning we’d have to answer it to-day. It was you, wasn’t it, Miss Sellers? Well, have you taken their letter away, then? Just see if you have. Yes, there you are—that’s it. Bring it here and I’ll answer it now. Poppett and Sons, Poppett and Sons,” Mr. Smeeth repeated idly as he re-read their letter. “Ye-es. Are you ready? No, half a minute, though—my mistake. I’ll have to check that figure. Fi-ifty-fo-our pounds, thi-irte-een shillings—yes, yes, that’s all right. Now then⁠——” and here Mr. Smeeth adjusted his eyeglasses and cleared his throat, giving a faintly pompous little cough. Even now, the thought that he, Herbert Norman Smeeth, was sitting there, a cashier, dictating letters to this firm and that, gave him a thrill. “—er—We are in receipt of your—er—communication—put the date in there, Miss Sellers—respecting our statement of account dated so-and-so—and beg to point out that this account was quite in order. You asked us to send down the goods by special road delivery and agreed that the extra carriage, paid by us, should be added to our account—no, just a minute—extra carriage, which had to be paid by us in the first place, should be charged to you, and this we accordingly did. We refer you to your letter—I have a note of that letter—ah! here it is—to your letter of the 4th of December last⁠——”

Mr. Smeeth rounded off his letter and Miss Sellers hurried it away to her machine. Miss Matfield, who appeared to be in a great hurry, pulled a sheet of paper out of her typewriter with one fine sweep of the hand, and then furiously tidied a little pile of typewritten sheets. The new boy, Gregory, laboriously worked away at his letter copying, with the air of a man engaged in not very hopeful bacterial research. It was wearing away like any other Friday afternoon. There was nothing to suggest that it might blow up any minute, unless the unusual activities of Mr. Dersingham, who appeared to be moving uneasily now in the private office, were considered to be fantastically significant.

“Who was that?” Mr. Smeeth asked, after several doors had banged and Gregory had returned from behind the frosted glass partition.

“I think it was a telegraph boy, sir,” replied Gregory sadly.

“How d’you mean—you think it was?”

“Mr. Dersingham was there, sir. He got there first, and he was holding the door open and taking something, so I couldn’t see who it was properly. I only saw an arm, and it looked like a telegraph boy. You see what I mean about the door, sir? It comes back, inside, when it opens, and Mr. Dersingham was holding it with one hand, and so the door was in the way, you see⁠——”

“Yes, yes, yes, I see. No need to make such a song about it, boy.” There was a sad earnestness about this new boy that had been rather impressive at first, but now it only irritated Mr. Smeeth. He liked a boy to be conscientious with his work, but this one was too dolefully dutiful. You could not even relieve your feelings by telling him sharply to get on with his work, because he never stopped doing something, toiling away like a spectacled young sheep. Mr. Smeeth wished now he had chosen a brighter boy, even if the lad would have larked about a bit.

“Smeeth. Smeeth.”

“Yes, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth called back, frowning a little. He did not like to be summoned in this fashion, by a shout from the door of the private office; it was not dignified. He hurried in, however, for Mr. Dersingham sounded as if he had something important he wanted to say.

“Shut the door, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, who did not look so pink and cheerful as usual. “Oh, look here—have they nearly finished out there?”

“Just clearing up, sir.”

“All right, then,” said Mr. Dersingham wearily. “Have I signed everything? Tell ’em to let me have everything that must go off to-night, will you? I want ’em to clear out, and leave us alone. Do that now. Just get them to finish up as quick as possible.”

Wondering, rather apprehensive now, Mr. Smeeth bustled to and fro with letters to be signed, hurried on Miss Sellers and the boy, and in ten minutes had everything signed, copied, sealed up, and stamped. “Yes, yes,” he told them, “that’ll be all. You can go now. That’s right. Good-night, Miss Matfield. What’s that? Yes, I remember. Mr. Dersingham said you could have to-morrow morning off, didn’t he? Off for the week-end, eh? Lucky to be some people, Miss Matfield. Yes, yes, quite all right. Good-night. Good-night, Miss Sellers. And—what’s your name—Gregory, don’t forget you’ve got three registereds there; bring me the receipts in the morning. No, that’ll do. Good-night, good-night.” He returned to the private office. “All finished now, Mr. Dersingham. Yes, all gone.”

“All right, Smeeth. Bring the order book in, then the other books. Bring the order book in first.”

It looked as if he was going to have a little stock-taking and general survey of the business, a very wise thing to do too, now and again. Mr. Smeeth hoped that he would not be kept long, but otherwise he was quite pleased and proud, for there was nothing he liked better than these confidential talks about the business, and he was glad to see that Mr. Dersingham was taking himself seriously now as the head of a very flourishing little concern.

“Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Dersingham?” he said, when he had brought in all the books.

Mr. Dersingham gave a short laugh, and it was a very unpleasant sound. It startled Mr. Smeeth.

“Everything’s wrong, Smeeth, every damned thing, unless you can see a way out. Sit down, man, sit down. We’re going to be hours and hours on this job.”

Mr. Smeeth sat down, staring at him.

“Golspie’s cleared out,” Mr. Dersingham continued, “and he’s done us in, absolutely done us in. Oh, the rotten swine! God, I was a fool to trust that chap a yard! I ought to have known, I ought to have known. And now he’s gone. I rushed up to that flat of his in Maida Vale at lunch time, hoping to catch him in and have it out with him, but he’d gone—at least, the maid said he had, and it was only a furnished place he’d taken, and she’d been taken over with it, so I suppose she wasn’t lying about it. He’s going abroad, if he isn’t already gone. Clearing out properly, the rotten crook! This isn’t the only dirty game he’s been playing here, if you ask me. I always thought he had a few more irons in the fire besides his work here. He never spent more than half his time with our business. But he’s had plenty of time to do us down.” He was out of his chair now, kicking a ball of crumpled paper about the room.

“But what’s happened, Mr. Dersingham? I thought you knew he might leave us. You told me so a week or two ago, and you said you were getting him to sign an agreement, when he drew all that forward commission, so that you would have the agency.”

“Oh, we’ve got the agency all right,” cried Mr. Dersingham, with great bitterness. “No mistake about that. Only it’s not worth having now, that’s all. Mikorsky’s have raised all their prices. They say it’s owing to the increased cost of their new process and to some labour troubles and to some new government tax—oh, they’ve got all kinds of reasons, and they may be true and they may not, but the fact remains they’ve raised all their prices. They’re all up fifty and sixty and even seventy per cent.”

“As much as that? Good Lord, Mr. Dersingham, that’s a ridiculous advance. It makes them as dear as the most expensive of the old firms we were dealing with before, doesn’t it? I see, now.”

“No, you don’t see, you don’t see at all yet,” Mr. Dersingham yelled at him. “It’s a lot worse than that. Look at that telegram. Just look at it.”

“I don’t understand this, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, after carefully reading the telegram. “Why did they send it?”

“They sent it because I’d wired to them asking if what Golspie had written to me was true. I thought he might have been bluffing, just out of devilish spite. But he wasn’t. They’re all in league together, of course, if you want my opinion, just a lot of rotten foreign swindlers with this chap Golspie the worst of the lot.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dersingham. I can see it’s a bad business. But I don’t quite get the hang of it yet. They can’t have raised their prices already.”

“My God!—that’s just what they have done, and that filthy telegram confirms it.” Mr. Dersingham banged it so hard with his fist that he hurt his hand. Then he became quieter and sat down again. “I’m getting too excited. Sorry I yelled like that, Smeeth, though it’s enough to make any man shout his head off. I’ll explain. I got a letter from Golspie this morning, saying that he was clearing out. Here, you can read it for yourself.”

Mr. Smeeth read it through twice. It pretended to be an ordinary business letter, but there was a good deal of unpleasant irony in it. One phrase, which practically said that Mr. Dersingham had tried to sneak the agency for himself and had not succeeded, made Mr. Smeeth look up and ask a question. “Did you really write to those people and try to get the agency yourself, sir?” he asked.

Mr. Dersingham nodded.

Mr. Smeeth hesitated a moment. “I don’t think you ought to have done that, sir,” he said finally, respectful but reproachful.

“That’s my business, Smeeth.”

Mr. Smeeth looked down and remained silent. Neither of them spoke for a minute or two, and the room was strangely quiet.

“Oh well,” cried Mr. Dersingham, struggling with his embarrassment, “perhaps I oughtn’t to. As it’s turned out, it was a bad move. But I wasn’t really trying anything underhand, y’know, Smeeth. It wasn’t as if I was trying to take a fellow’s living away from him, working behind his back. I know it might look a bit like that, to anybody who didn’t know the circumstances, but it wasn’t. This chap Golspie was obviously one of these here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow fellows—didn’t make any secret of it, boasted of it—and I never liked the look of him and I didn’t know what tricks he might be up to. He came here, made use of our connection with the trade and our organisation and everything and drew a heavy commission, as you know, and all the time he walked about the place as if he owned it. As I told you before, I couldn’t stand the chap—a terrible bounder. I tried to be as friendly as possible at first, but it wouldn’t work. And my wife took a strong dislike to him—she only met him once, but you know what women are, and she saw what he was in five minutes—and she was always telling me to have nothing more to do with him, to get rid of him. So I just wrote a confidential letter to Mikorsky’s, saying it would pay them to have the agency properly in the hands of a wholesale firm here like ours, and that the—er—present arrangement wasn’t really satisfactory to them or to us either, and that they ought to consider it. All in confidence, mind. That was just before he went over there, and of course they told him all about it. I didn’t know they were friends of his. I thought they had an ordinary business agreement, and I considered I was entitled to suggest another business agreement, leaving Golspie out.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Mr. Smeeth, still a little doubtful. “And I suppose they told him then, and that’s what put his back up?”

“Oh, they did that, but I think he’d been ready to play any dirty little trick right from the first. He isn’t a gentleman—never looked like one—and he isn’t even an ordinary decent business man. He’s just an adventurer, trying his hand at anything for tuppence. No wonder he never stopped anywhere long—too crooked! But you see what he says there, that he encloses a little document that had—what is it?—escaped his memory. Well, there’s the little document, there—that statement of Mikorsky’s, dated when he was there, raising all the prices. There’s the full list of ’em—up fifty to seventy per cent.”

“But—but,” Mr. Smeeth stammered, as he looked at this list, “we can’t be expected to pay these prices. We’ve already bought heavily on the old prices.”

“Have we? Golspie did the buying, and I can’t find any acknowledgment from them.”

“Well, can’t we cancel the last orders then, Mr. Dersingham? I never heard of such a thing. It’s not reasonable. Here their prices have been up for weeks and weeks, and we’ve been thinking we were buying at the old rates. They can’t force us to take the stuff at these prices, surely.”

“I don’t know. That side of it doesn’t matter, anyhow. The point is, Smeeth—don’t you see?—whether we’ve bought the stuff or not, we’ve sold it.”

Mr. Smeeth did see; he saw with fatal clearness; and his dismay must have been written on his face.

“Yes,” Mr. Dersingham continued, “we’ve sold it, stacks and stacks of it, thousands of square feet, big orders, Smeeth, big orders, all those orders we paid Golspie that commission on. You might well look like that. I’ve been feeling like that all day, even though I still hoped there might be a mistake—before that telegram came.”

“But, Mr. Dersingham—it’s—it’s ruination, sheer ruination.”

“And it’s damnably, damnably unfair, Smeeth. We’ve simply been swindled. Listen, d’you think there’s any chance of us getting all those orders cancelled here?”

Mr. Smeeth thought for a minute, then slowly shook his head. “We’ve undertaken to deliver the stuff, Mr. Dersingham, and there’s no getting out of that. I mean to say, if our customers say ‘We want it,’ then they’ll have to have it and they can compel us to let them have it at the price we sold it, or compel us to go out of business. No argument about that at all, sir.”

“What I’m wondering is this, Smeeth. It’s not our fault this has happened. I mean to say, it’s not the ordinary case of selling the stuff before you’ve bought it, hoping for a fall in prices, and then getting nipped because the price goes up when you have to deliver the stuff. It’s nothing like that, you see. We’ve been let down by sheer rotten trickery. Not our fault at all. Now I’m wondering if our customers would agree to cancel the orders if I explained the situation to them, told them straight out that Golspie was a wrong ’un and we’ve been let down. It’s worth trying, isn’t it? Where’s that order book? I want to see who are about the biggest buyers of these last lots that I can get hold of at once. What about Brown and Gorstein? They’re not far away.”

“And they’ve bought as much as anybody,” said Mr. Smeeth. “We’ve a lot to deliver to them. You might get hold of Mr. Gorstein.”

“I’ll ring up and see if he’s there.” And while he waited, receiver in hand, he added: “Jot down what Brown and Gorstein have bought, will you, Smeeth?” By the time Mr. Smeeth had done this, Mr. Dersingham had learned that Gorstein was still there and was willing to see him at once. “I’ll go over at once,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I’ll just tell my wife first not to expect me back in a hurry. I believe we were going out to play bridge with somebody. My hat!—I feel as much like playing bridge to-night as I do like—like—spinning tops.”

When the other had finished his telephoning, Mr. Smeeth had the order book and some paper in front of him. “While you’re there, Mr. Dersingham, I’ll try and work out the whole thing on the new prices.”

“I was going to tell you to do that,” said Mr. Dersingham, as he took down his hat and coat. “Get it all worked out while I’m up at Brown and Gorstein’s. God!—we’re in a mess. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Left to himself, Mr. Smeeth did not think. He refused to think. He applied himself sternly to the task before him, and for the next quarter of an hour never looked up from his books and his calculations. He was not Herbert Norman Smeeth, but simply the master of the neat little figures, and he added and subtracted and multiplied them without letting his mind wander away from their austere but calculable world, in which he had spent so many pleasant hours. He had plenty to do. All the orders of the last few weeks, back to the early part of December, in fact, had to be estimated on the basis of these new prices, and he had to add the usual costs and then the commission already paid to Golspie. He did it with his usual neatness, accuracy, thoroughness, producing a statement that could be understood at a glance. At the end of quarter of an hour, the telephone rang and disturbed him, but it was not a call for them. Mechanically, then, he filled his pipe, and spent a minute or two listening idly to the various sounds that came from the steps outside, from Angel Pavement, from the City beyond, a sort of vague symphony, and the only one, it seemed, that he would hear that night. He put his pipe in his mouth unlit, and bent over his figures again. Time slipped away as the totals mounted up on the statement, and soon half an hour had gone. He turned now to other books, to the general financial side of the matter, estimating what they had in hand and what was due to them.

Mr. Dersingham came bursting in, large and active, but a figure of misery. “It’s no use, Smeeth. We’re absolutely done.”

“What did Mr. Gorstein say?”

“I told them as much as I could, and they laughed at me, they did, honestly they did, they just laughed at me. Pretended not to, pretended to be very sympathetic and all that, but I knew. That fellow Gorstein’s another rotter, if you ask me. Very sorry and all that, hard luck on us, but of course they’d bought what we’d offered them, and they’d undertaken to supply their customers and made contracts on what they’d bought from us, and we’d have to deliver, and no nonsense about it. And they practically told me that everybody else in the trade would say the same thing, but only be a bit more damned insolent about it. No, I see that now, plainly enough. There’s no getting out of it.”

“But, Mr. Dersingham, it’s a terrible position we’re in, it really is.”

“Good God! man, you’ve no need to tell me that. It’s the foulest mess I ever dreamed of, and all because of that dirty crook. Honestly, Smeeth, I don’t pretend to be a bruiser or anything of that sort, but if I saw that chap now, I’d go for him. I’d either knock him down or he’d have to knock me down. Have you been working it all out? What does it look like?”

Mr. Smeeth now considered his totals and the full implication of them for the first time. He handed the papers across the table.

Mr. Dersingham, running a finger across his teeth and allowing his jaw to drop, stared at them for several minutes without saying a word. Then he queried one or two figures, and Mr. Smeeth worked them out again, for his benefit. The order book was referred to several times. But there was no escaping from those totals.

“I’ve just been working out how we stand, too, Mr. Dersingham. I thought you’d want to know now. This is the position, counting everything in.”

They went over that now, spending about half an hour in what was mostly futile discussion, as Mr. Smeeth, sick at heart, knew only too well.

“It’s no good, Smeeth,” the other said finally, “there’s no getting away from it. It was a tight squeeze paying that swine all that commission in advance, and now we’ve got to sell every square foot of stuff at a loss, on all those orders.”

“It’s a terrible loss. The business as it is will never stand it, Mr. Dersingham.”

“I know that. And what’s left of the business, even supposing I could borrow enough to see me through this mess? Where should we be? Only back where we were before we began handling this stuff, before Golspie came, doing just about enough trade to pay expenses, and on top of that I’d be up to the neck in debt. I couldn’t carry on a month. I’ve borrowed as much as I can, and even if I could borrow any more, I wouldn’t—it’s only throwing money away. Honestly, Smeeth, how can I go on?”

Mr. Smeeth looked through the papers again, though there was no real meaning in the glances he gave them. He was trying to think of a way out, but it was impossible to find one.

“What are you going to do, then, Mr. Dersingham?” he asked, miserably.

“Nothing. Finish. What else can I do? I’ll buy what I can of this lot, deliver it, and then finish. And if they bankrupt the firm, they bankrupt it, and there’s the end of it. If they don’t, I close down and clear out, anyhow, and that’s the end of it, too. I don’t suppose it’s the first time a dam’ fool’s been robbed clean out of a business, is it?”

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Dersingham.” And Mr. Smeeth didn’t. He was staring at the opposite wall in utter dejection.

“What’s the good of saying anything? But what makes me sick is the way that rotter Golspie has cleared out⁠——”

“I thought at the time it was a bit fishy, sir, when he wanted all that commission in advance.”

“Well, if you thought so, why the devil didn’t you say so at the time. No good saying so now.”

“I did say something at the time, Mr. Dersingham, I did really.”

“Well, I must say I don’t remember you saying anything. Anyhow, it’s too late now. You know, Smeeth, that fellow’s robbed me just as much as if he’d broken into my flat—it’s worse, when you think of it. And there isn’t even a charge against him. All he’s done is to collect some commission and keep a letter back. You can’t go to the police about that. The swine! That’s what maddens me. What’s the time? Quarter past eight? Come on, let’s get out of this.” They walked down the stairs and out of the building together.

Across the way, the only sign of life came from the bar of the “White Horse.” “I don’t know about you, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, stopping, “but I want a drink. It’s a long time since I wanted one so badly. You could do with a spot, couldn’t you? Of course you could. Let’s have one, while we can still pay for it.”

The private bar was completely deserted, except for a long, grey cat that stretched itself arrogantly in front of the little fire. The barmaid came round the corner, swept away several glasses, polished a foot or two of counter, said, “Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom,” to the cat, then smiled at the gentlemen in the way a lady ought to smile, and, “Good evening. Nicer now, iserntit?”

“Two double whiskies, please, and two small sodas,” said Mr. Dersingham.

“Two doubles,” murmured the barmaid.

Mr. Smeeth could not help being reminded of the time when Mr. Golspie had brought him in here and had insisted on his having a double whisky. That was the night when Mr. Golspie had told him that he ought to have a rise. Everything was going too wonderful that night.

“Here’s luck, Smeeth,” said Mr. Dersingham, raising his glass, “and I’m sorry for your sake it’s turned out like this, though you’re not losing what I’m losing, not by a long chalk. But here’s luck—here’s to your next job, and I hope it’s a better one than Twigg and Dersingham ever gave you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dersingham,” said Mr. Smeeth shyly. “And here’s luck to you too, sir⁠——”

“You’d think that cat, to look at it,” said the barmaid, “was a good mouser if ever a cat was. Wouldn’t you now? Well, it isn’t. No good at all. Won’t touch a mouse. Will you, Tom? No, you won’t, you lazy old rascal. Don’t earn your keep at all, you don’t. Come here, Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom.”

“I’m going to try for a job out East as soon as I’ve straightened things up,” said Mr. Dersingham confidentially. “No more City for me. I never did care for it. Not really my style at all, y’know, Smeeth. I always wanted to go out East. You get a gentleman’s life out there. A man I know—he’s just retired and he’s a neighbour of mine—told me some time ago he could get me a good job out there any time. I shall have a shot at it.”

Mr. Smeeth nodded and looked gloomy. There was no job out East for him, and these remarks of Mr. Dersingham’s suddenly opened out a vast, dreary prospect. At the moment, he preferred not to think about the future.

“Look at him, the silly old thing,” said the barmaid, who had the long cat in her arms now. “Aren’t you a silly old thing, Tom? He’s got nice markings though, hasn’t he? Reg’lar, aren’t they? Go on then, go down then, if you want to, Tom. There! Boo! Boo! Just watch him. He can open the door by himself. Artful as anything, I can tell you.”

Mr. Dersingham gulped down the rest of his whisky and soda. “Rotten luck. The worst possible. Where I made the mistake though, Smeeth, was not trusting to what’s-it—instinct, intuition, you know. About Golspie, I mean. I was trying to be the smart City bounder, with an eye for a tricky bit of business and nothing else—y’know, like that awful fellow, Gorstein, and all the rest of ’em. Not my style at all, really. I didn’t like the chap and I ought to have known he’d do me down. Never mind, he’ll come to a sticky finish before he’s done. And so will that daughter of his. You never met her, did you, Smeeth? Very good looking, in the film and chorus girl style, but a terrible little minx. You ought to hear my wife on Miss Golspie! She came to my place once—but never again, never again. That was a queer business, y’know, Smeeth, about Turgis and that girl, when Golspie came and said Turgis would have to be sacked because he’d been up to some mysterious games with the daughter. I never really understood what it was all about—though I’d like to bet that Golspie’s daughter was up to her tricks there—she looked that sort.”

“I never understood that business,” said Mr. Smeeth mournfully. “I wasn’t properly told about it.”

“Neither was I, for that matter. But I didn’t bother much, because I never thought that chap Turgis was much good, anyhow, and was rather glad to get rid of him. Thinking it over now, though, I feel a bit sorry for the poor devil. Have you heard anything about him, Smeeth?”

“Miss Sellers has seen him once or twice, I believe. I fancy she’s a bit sweet on him. He’s not got another job yet, of course, and it’s not likely he will for some time.” He breathed hard, like a man who wants to sigh but has forgotten how to do it, looked down at the remainder of his drink, and slowly finished it.

“Well, I’d better be getting along,” said Mr. Dersingham. “That drink’s made me feel hungry. I’ll stop at the club and see if I can get a bite. I might see a fellow there who could give me one or two tips about this miserable business. Then I’ll go home, and that’s the part I’m not looking forward to, I can tell you. Are you going home now?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Smeeth slowly, buttoning his overcoat. “I’m going home.”

II

As her bus turned into that hive of buses in front of Victoria station, Miss Matfield shivered a little. She was nervous; she was excited; and her mind was facing two different ways. She spent the next few minutes getting from the bus to the station, which was very crowded and week-endy, and then to the place where she had arranged to meet Mr. Golspie, which was on the departure side, between the bookstall and that large clock with four faces. Mr. Golspie was not to be seen. This did not surprise her, for she was rather early. She was somewhat relieved to find that he was not there. It left her with a welcome breathing space. She was by no means single-minded about this adventure.

It had been planned, if a few hasty and last-minute questions and answers can be called planning, three days before, on Tuesday night, which was the last time she had seen him. He had not been to the office since and she had had no message from him, but that did not worry her. She had a strong suspicion that he was going away very soon, but she did not know when he would be going and she did not believe that he knew. Last Tuesday, just before they parted, he had asked her once again to go away for the week-end with him, anywhere she pleased, and this time, moved obscurely by many different feelings and forces, something genuinely eager and passionate in the man’s voice, a sudden desire to clutch at experience, to throw herself upon life, a contempt for her qualms and misgivings and timidities, she had agreed to go. An hotel on the Sussex coast she had once seen was to be their destination, and the time and meeting place were hastily settled. Several times since, she had been tempted to write to him or ring him up, to say that she had changed her mind. Her pride, however, would not let her do this. She had said she would go, and now she would carry it through. She had wanted adventure, and though she would not have admitted it, there was always a man in this adventure, and now that it offered itself and she had accepted it, she could not run away. Yet there was a creature in her, and not merely a brain phantom, but a creature that had some of her rich blood flowing through it, that very blood which this coarse, middle-aged man could so inspire that it dazzled and inflamed her, a shrinking and fastidious creature that cried to run away, to run away and hide. It protested against the shabbiness and furtiveness of this adventure, and pounced upon the sinister lack of fairness in it. It loathed the cheap imitation wedding ring that was now tucked away in her bag, a ring that was part of the adventure, and that had seemed rather a joke when it first had been mentioned last Tuesday. She had heard about those rings before, and they had always seemed rather a joke, perky, glittering little stage properties in amusing escapades, and it was not difficult for her to force herself to see that ring in her bag in the same theatrical light; but, nevertheless, the protest was not silenced and the loathing remained. If Golspie had asked her to marry him, no matter if he had told her that they would have to settle in the most outlandish place, she would have agreed; but he had not asked her to marry him. Yet he wanted her, not idly either, and, when all was said and done, that was a heartening and exciting fact; and after this, he might want her still more, the last traces of self-sufficiency in him (and he had appeared unusually self-sufficient at first, and that had made him all the more attractive) might vanish, and then—well, everything might be different.

If you delight in movement and change, the appeal of a large railway station is irresistible; you are still in the dark cocoon of the city, but one end is splintering already and you can see the blue beyond; the rumbles and shrieks and snortings are only part of the tuning up; and even the smoky smell has the savour of adventure. There had been moments during the last two days when this week-end, this arrival at Victoria, had loomed in Miss Matfield’s mind like some unusually desperate appointment at the dentist’s, and at the thought of it something coldly writhed inside her. Now that she was here, however, she was less introspective and her spirits gradually rose. It was almost better that something extremely unpleasant should happen than that nothing at all should happen; and it was very unlikely that anything extremely unpleasant would happen. She responded to the lively and adventurous bustle of the station. As she strolled over to the bookstall, carrying her small suitcase, she felt tall, healthy, strong, a fine woman of the world. One or two middle-aged men had smiled in her direction and several young men had looked earnestly at her, all of which meant that she was looking her best. The bookstall offered her an almost unlimited choice of reading matter, light periodicals, heavy periodicals, books that were “amazing successes,” books that were “very outspoken,” books that were simply “great bargains.” She did not accept any of them, but the knowledge that they were there somehow gave her pleasure. It was impossible to resist a holiday feeling. The sight of all the fussy and bewildered people, of whom there were an unusually large number, the people who went rushing up to any man in a railway uniform, who looked in despair at the notice-boards, who mopped their brows and snapped at one another, who blankly surveyed great mounds of luggage, who flitted like uneasy ghosts from one platform entrance to another, only brought her a pleasing sense of her own superiority. They were nothing to do with her; she was not behaving like that; and so she looked on, amused, contemptuous, failing to see in this spectacle of the harassed and inexperienced travellers any symbol of this life of ours.

There were two trains, and they had hoped to catch the earlier one. It was now only a few minutes from the time of starting. She returned to her former place, nearer the clock, and looked about her anxiously. He would get the tickets, of course, before he came on to the main platform, so that there was still plenty of time for them to catch the train if he appeared at all. There seemed to be more and more people about, though round her there was a small clear space. It was just possible that he might have missed her. Only two minutes now. She hurried over to the entrance to No. 17 platform and looked over the barrier down the waiting train. Then she returned, even more hastily, to her place near the clock. From there she heard the train go out.

It was annoying. They would have more than three-quarters of an hour to wait now. It was her turn to keep him waiting. Very deliberately, she made her way to the tearoom, which was not very full though it looked vaguely as if it had just been wrecked by a revolutionary mob, and she spent ten minutes over a cup of tea and a cigarette. She would have liked to have stayed longer, but it is almost impossible to linger successfully with only a sheet of glass between you and a host of trains and passengers. She tried to loiter on her way back to the four-faced clock and the bookstall, but an inner restlessness prevented her, and she arrived there as if her train might start any moment. He was not there. Now she began making little circular tours with the clock as their centre. After quarter of an hour of these, she returned to the meeting place and remained there, her suitcase at her feet, erect, motionless, sullen. She was there, and he must find her. People came and went, bought papers and books, looked at the clock, looked at the departure board, glanced at her; porters wheeled their loaded barrows and trucks at this side of her and that; the trains snorted and puffed and sent red gleams to the glass roof; but now she paid no attention at all. She was tired of Victoria, tired of waiting. This time, when the later train was nearly due to start, she stayed where she was and made no attempt to discover if he was already on the platform. When the train had gone, she stood quite still for a minute or two longer, then walked away.

She had to wait again before she could get a telephone call put through to his flat. The telephone boxes were in brisk demand. She knew his telephone number and knew, too, that the instrument at his flat, which had been out of order the week before, was all right now. But she would not have been surprised to find that there was no reply to her call, for she was sure at least that he would not be there. Something had gone wrong; and even now he was probably trying to get to Victoria. There was a reply, however, and it obviously came from a maid.

“Is Mr. Golspie there, please?”

“No, he’s not. He’s gone. So has Miss Golspie. They’ve both gone,” said the voice.

“Gone? Do you mean—he’s out?”

“No, gone. Gone for good.”

“But—I don’t understand. Are you sure? I had an appointment with him to-night.”

“All I know is—he’s gone, Miss Golspie too. They’ve gone to South Africa or South America or one of them places. In a boat, I do know. I helped ’em to pack, and a job it was too, and a nice mess they’ve left this place in, I can tell you. I’m cleaning it up now, after ’em, ’cos they only took it furnished and I stayed on with the place. There was a gentleman came when I was having my dinner,” the voice continued, as if it was rather pleased to have a little chat with somebody, “and he wanted Mr. Golspie badly, but I couldn’t tell him anything except they’d gone, went this morning, luggage and everything, and you never saw such a pile.”

“Did Mr. Golspie leave any message—for anybody?”

“No, he just went⁠——”

“All right, thank you,” said Miss Matfield, interrupting and then ringing off.

He had gone, left the country, without even telling her he was going, without even telling her he could not keep this appointment at the station. He had simply tossed the week-end away, and her with it, as if it had been a crumpled bit of paper. If he had not forgotten all about it, then he had not cared enough to see her for the last time or even to send a message. And this was the man—oh, the humiliation of it all! She left the station, burning with shame and resentment. An hour earlier she might have felt relieved if Mr. Golspie had come and told her that it would be impossible for them to go away this week-end. But she had waited there, suitcase in hand, that filthy little ring in her bag, had waited there, and all the time he was miles away, not caring if she spent the rest of her life standing in Victoria station. Never before had she felt such bitter contempt for herself. She could have cried and cried, not because he had gone and she would probably never set eyes on him again, but because his sudden indifference, at this time of all times, left her feeling pitiably small and silly. The misery of it was like the onslaught of some unexpected, terrible disease. Her mangled pride bled and ached inside her, so that she felt faint.

That was why she did not return, as a sudden impulse commanded her to do, to the station and take the first train anywhere, to get away for the week-end at any cost from London and the Club. She could not do it; all energy and initiative were drained away; she was too tired. She found a No. 2 bus, climbed on top, and then watched, with smarting eyes that refused to see anything properly, the glitter and blue murk of half London go lumbering past, Hyde Park Corner, Park Lane, Oxford Street, Baker Street, Finchley Road, all a meaningless jumble of light and dark, offering nothing to Lilian Matfield, no more than if it had been some Chinese river flickering past on a cinema screen.

Once in the Club, she hurried upstairs, as if she had stolen the suitcase she carried. Hastily, mechanically, she washed, tidied her hair, changed her dress, powdered her face, and then went down to the dining-room. She did not really want food, but something impelled her to throw herself back into the routine of the Club. But she was careful to find one of those nondescript tables for latecomers, at which there was little talk, and what talk there was merely the occasional impersonal remarks of acquaintances. She ate little, and the sight and smell of the food, the look of everybody there, the high chatter and clatter of the room, made her feel sick. Nevertheless, she stayed on, and had her coffee with the rest. When she got back to her room, she began examining all her clothes and grimly set aside some stockings to be mended. Then she remembered something.

“Can I come in?” said Miss Morrison. “Hello, Matfield, what on earth are you doing? Something desperate, by the look of you.”

“Hello, Morrison. I was only throwing something away,” she replied, closing the window. Somewhere out there was a cheap imitation of a wedding ring.

Miss Morrison, who was wearing bedroom slippers, contrived to shuffle elegantly—for she never quite lost her slim elegance—into the room, and hoisted herself on to the bottom of the bed, resting her back against the wall. “Oh, by the way,” she cried, “you oughtn’t to be here. Weren’t you going away for the week-end?”

“I was,” said Miss Matfield shortly, hanging a dress up, “but I changed my mind.”

“Good!” And that was all Miss Morrison had to say about that. It was one of her virtues, as Miss Matfield had begun to notice, that she did not ask questions when they were obviously unwelcome, made no attempt, except in fun, to nose things out of you. Most girls at the Burpenfield, if you were on room-visiting terms with them, did not allow you to have any private life of your own. “I ought to have gone out to-night,” Miss Morrison continued, in her usual languid manner, “but I can’t bother to. I feel foul. I never remember feeling more completely foul, except when I’ve had ’flu or something like that. I’d go and see a doctor only I can’t afford to, and then again I disapprove of the way we females run after doctors and worship them. Cadnam’s just been raving to me about some doctor she’s just been to. ‘He’s fifty, of course, and heavily married,’ she said, ‘but the most marvellously attractive man, my dear.’ She went raving on and on. I think it’s revolting the way these young females adore their doctors and dentists. I refuse to join in, don’t you? After that it’ll be vicars and curates and dear, dear doggies—vile! But, as I said before, I feel thoroughly ill. It’s partly the idiocy of my respected employer, who really is the silliest woman there ever was—she gets sillier—and then again it’s partly the time of year. Don’t you honestly think this is the very, very foulest time of all the year? It’s such a long way from anything or anywhere interesting, isn’t it? Just fiendishly dull. I don’t blame all those illustrated paper people—Lady Chagworth, Colonel Mush, and Friend—for going away and slacking about on the Riviera or in Madeira, or wherever it is they do go. I say ‘good luck to them!’—don’t you? Though I must say it oughtn’t to be the same people who go every year and the same people who stay at home, like us, and push into buses on wet nights. They ought to change round a bit. Your turn this year. Our turn next year. That sort of thing.”

“I should think so,” said Miss Matfield, somewhat indifferently. She was still busy putting clothes away. “I call it beastly unfair. I think I’ll turn Bolshie.”

“I’ve often thought of turning something,” said Miss Morrison meditatively. “Have you got a cigarette, by the way?”

“Some over there somewhere. Can you reach over and get them? I’ll have one, too.”

Having found the cigarettes, Miss Morrison handed one over, accompanying it with a curious glance. “I went to that Chehov play, last night. I didn’t tell you, did I? My dear, don’t go. I wept and wept—yes, honestly I did. It was just like the Burpenfield with the lid off, really it was—awful! When I got back last night, I said to myself, ‘I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.’”

“I think that’s stupid, Morrison,” said Miss Matfield, sitting in the only chair.

“What’s stupid?”

“All that—about not bearing it and about the Club being the Chehov play. It’s not a bit like it.”

“How do you know, my dear? You haven’t seen the play.”

“I’ve read it.”

“I don’t suppose it’s the same, just reading it. I admit it’s not like this at all on the surface, but honestly it’s got the same what-is-it—atmosphere.”

“It hasn’t a bit, I tell you,” said Miss Matfield earnestly. “And I really think it’s stupid talking like that about this place. It’s ridiculous—all silly exaggeration. When you talk like that, Morrison, you annoy me⁠——”

“Since when, my dear?”

“Well, I’ve made up my mind that it’s simply absurd, besides being terribly depressing, going about talking like that about the life we lead here. It makes it seem fifty times worse than it is. And, anyhow, it’s not bad really. It’s our own fault if it is. Yes it is.”

“My dear, you can’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do mean it.”

Having said this, Miss Matfield put down her cigarette, looked at the floor for a minute, then quite suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears.

“Sorry!” she cried, five minutes later, when it was all over. “I’m not going mad, though I dare say it seemed like it. I think—I’ve been feeling rotten too, all strung up, you know.”

“My dear,” said Miss Morrison, who had been very tactful, “if I hadn’t wept buckets last night at that play, I don’t know what I’d be doing to-night.”

“Listen,” cried Miss Matfield, jumping to her feet and smiling damply. “I’ve made up my mind now. Yes, I have. It’s serious. Listen. I’m going to work properly, and I’m going to get a better job and make more money.”

“You’re not going to leave your present job, are you?”

“The Lord forbid! If I did, the scheme wouldn’t work at all. No, but I’m going to tell them there isn’t anything in the office, or connected with it, I won’t and can’t do, if they’ll only give me a chance. I’m going to be really in business, not just sort of hanging on there. I’ve got a jolly good chance because my firm’s very busy now and we’re short-handed, and the man who really sold all the veneers and inlays has just left us⁠——”

“Not the man you told me about, the fascinating one?”

“Yes,” Miss Matfield continued hurriedly. “He’s gone, and that means there’ll be an awful lot to do and they’ll have to get new people. Well, I’m going down to Angel Pavement in the morning—and I needn’t go if I don’t want, because I got the morning off when I thought I was going away for the week-end⁠——”

“Wait a minute. Do you mean to say that you’ve actually got the morning off and yet you’re going all the same? You do? My dear, it sounds desperate.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m going to Mr. Dersingham, and I shall tell him that I believe I could do anything that any man could do—and I don’t care if it’s going round to the weirdest Jewy East End furniture places selling veneers—and that he ought to give me a chance. I believe he will too, particularly now, when business is so good and he’s so short of people. He could easily get another girl to do my typing, and that sort of thing, and I’d go and do some real work and then ask for more money. Very soon, I might have a real job, with a decent salary and proper responsibility and everything.”

“Quite crazy! Though I believe you could do it, if they’d give you a chance.”

“They’ll have to give me a chance, and I’m sure I could do it.”

She kept returning to the subject for the next hour, and then, when Miss Morrison had gone, she made up her mind all over again, and saw Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham growing more and more prosperous and herself, a real member of the firm, growing more and more prosperous with it. She arrived at Angel Pavement in a neat little car, and stepped out of it a cool, capable business woman, dressed with a certain austerity, but still attractive. Before she finally got to sleep, she had furnished not only her tiny flat in town, but also her little week-end cottage, which was the delighted admiration of her mother and other occasional guests. “Lilian, you are lucky,” they cried; but she told them it was all the result of sheer hard work. This was the last dream of the day, and it was very pleasant. The dreams that followed in the night, the dreams that came without being asked, were curiously different, all dark and troubled, like the dreams of a child who has been hurried away to a strange place.

III

Mrs. Dersingham, Miss Verever and Mr. and Mrs. Pearson were playing bridge upstairs at 34, Barkfield Gardens, in the Pearsons’ drawing-room. Mr. Dersingham should have been there, but he had telephoned to say that urgent business kept him at the office, so Miss Verever, who was usually abroad at this time of the year but had stayed in London because she was quarrelling with her solicitors, had taken his place. She was always ready to take anybody’s place at any dining or bridge tables, though she never gave the least sign that she was enjoying herself. The card table was in the middle of the room, and there was only just space enough for it and its four players, in spite of the fact that this was a large room, larger than any of the Dersinghams’ downstairs. The trouble was that the Pearsons had so many things. They had furnished the room first with good solid late Victorian furniture, and then they had poured into it the glittering East, all the loot of Singapore. If the Federated Malay States had been destroyed by an earthquake and a great tidal wave, their life could have been re-constructed out of that room, which put any missionary exhibition to shame. Everybody looked out of place in it, and nobody more out of place than the Pearsons themselves.

They were now playing their third rubber of auction. Mrs. Dersingham had Mr. Pearson for her partner, and they were not badly paired, for she was rather a bold, slap-dash player, while he was very dull, cautious, obvious, though he always tried to give the impression of immense cunning. Nobody believed in this cunning of his except his wife, who would shake her mysterious dark curls at him and girlishly protest against his sinister subtlety. “Isn’t he dreadful?” she would cry, after Mr. Pearson, with much stroking of his chin and narrowing of his eyes, had succeeded in some commonplace finesse. Mrs. Pearson, though she had been sitting at bridge tables for years, was one of those cheerfully bad players who continually ask for and receive advice, but have not the slightest intention of improving their play. Probably she only saw the cards as so many vague pieces of pasteboard, and what was real to her was simply the social scene, the faces round the green cloth and the pleasant chatter between games. If somebody had suggested playing Snap with the cards or telling fortunes with them, she would have been delighted, but as people seemed to prefer bridge, whether in Singapore or in London, she gladly made one at the table. And if all Barkfield Gardens had been combed, it would have been impossible to find a worse partner for Miss Verever, who played a good, keen, close, give-no-quarter game, and loathed all idle chatterers at the table, all idiots who would not get trumps out, all the fools who clung to their wretched aces, all the witless monsters who said, “Have you seen her lately? I haven’t seen her for weeks and weeks. Let me see, what are trumps?” Mrs. Pearson combined smilingly every fault in bridge-playing known to Miss Verever, and Miss Verever’s glances and tone of voice, queer and disturbing at any time, were now more queer and disturbing than ever, so that Mrs. Dersingham felt quite frightened and wished she had never asked her to take Howard’s place. On Mrs. Pearson herself, however, these very peculiar glances, these biting accents seemed to have no effect.

“Well,” said Mr. Pearson, picking up his pencil, “that’s three down, doubled—three hundred to us. Simple honours to you, eighteen. Didn’t do badly that time, eh partner? Must make something while we can. Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

“Isn’t he dreadful?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “And you’re nearly as bad, my dear, you’re encouraging him. You see what it is, playing against my husband, Miss Verever. He’s a dreadful man. Never mind, we’ll do better next time, won’t we?”

“But was it necessary to go Three Spades?” Miss Verever enquired bitterly.

“Well, wasn’t it? Oh, do tell me if it wasn’t. When you’d gone One, you see, and I had some spades, I thought we might win the rubber if we played the spades. If you think I did anything wrong, Miss Verever, don’t be afraid of telling me, because I know you’re ever so much better than I am. Should I have played that king first?”

Miss Verever drew a deep breath, but Mrs. Dersingham was too quick for her. “Oh, don’t let’s have post-mortems,” she cried. “Whose deal is it? Mine, isn’t it?”

“I suppose Mr. Dersingham will come up when he gets back, won’t he?” said Mrs. Pearson, who never failed to snatch at any little opportunity for a chat. “He’s late, isn’t he? It must be so tiring for him, poor man. We know what it is, don’t we?”

“We do,” replied her husband. “At least I do, my dear. Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

“He used to work terribly late sometimes out in Singapore,” Mrs. Pearson explained. “Night after night, sometimes in the hot season, too.”

“Couldn’t grumble though,” said Mr. Pearson. “It meant that business was good.”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I feel,” said Mrs. Dersingham, pausing in her dealing. “I suppose they’ve had a sudden rush or something.”

“That’s splendid, isn’t it?” cried Mrs. Pearson. “I do like to hear of anybody I know doing so well. So many people don’t now, do they?”

“It’s made a great difference to Howard, being so busy,” said Mrs. Dersingham, still with the cards motionless in her hand. “He really likes being in the City now. He was getting very depressed about it some time ago. Now let me see⁠——”

“The next card should be mine,” said Miss Verever coldly.

“Oh, should it? That’s all right, then.” And she continued dealing.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything at the time, my dear,” Mrs. Pearson began, but she was cut short. Mrs. Dersingham looked up to see Miss Verever, on her right, giving her a terrible glance, and so she hastily declared “Pass.”

“But I thought he seemed rather depressed about it, too,” Mrs. Pearson continued. “About six months ago, wasn’t it?”

“One Heart,” said Miss Verever, quietly, but with a fearful intonation. “One Heart.”

“Oh dear, have you started bidding already? How quick you are with your cards!” Mrs. Pearson began sorting hers in a frantic fashion. “Did you say One Heart? You did, didn’t you? Well, after last time, I shall say—nothing.”

“But it’s not your turn to say anything,” Mr. Pearson pointed out. “In this game, your husband for once gets a chance to speak. And I say—One No Trumps. Yes, this is where your husband’s allowed to speak, my dear. Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

They were a game all in this rubber, so Miss Verever struggled up to Three Hearts, but her opponents went Three No Trumps, got them, won the rubber, and put her down eight hundred points.

“Is there time for another rubber?” said Mrs. Pearson, who was always quite willing to go on playing, perhaps because she never really started.

“I hardly think there is,” said Miss Verever, with one of her peculiar smiles.

“No, let’s stop now,” cried Mrs. Dersingham.

“Somebody owes me four and ninepence,” Mr. Pearson pointed out.

“Listen to him! Isn’t he really a dreadful man when he plays this game? I believe I’ve lost four and nine—or is it five and nine?” Mrs. Pearson shook her curls at the score. “But I refuse to pay you anything, so there!”

“Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

“Well, I suppose I must pay my debts,” said Miss Verever, looking at her score as if it was composed of something filthy, then glancing round without removing all the last expression from her face. “I pay you, I think, my dear. I’m afraid—yes, I’m afraid—I shall have to ask you for change.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Dersingham hastily. “I haven’t got any change.”

“Please remind me then, the next time.” Miss Verever said this as if they would soon be meeting in some torture chamber.

Somebody had arrived. It must be—it was—Mr. Dersingham. He came forward, blinking a little. His wife did not like the look of him. He was flushed and rather untidy.

Mrs. Pearson rushed at him. “Come along, you poor, poor man! Sit down here. Make yourself comfortable. You’ve been working all this time while we’ve been enjoying ourselves. Walter, give poor Mr. Dersingham a drink this minute. I’m sure you’d like one, wouldn’t you?”

Mr. Dersingham said that he would, and the next minute he was taking a good swig of a large whisky and soda. When he put the glass down, he caught his wife’s eye, and for a moment he just stared at her. She liked the look of him now less than ever. To begin with, this was by no means the first large whisky he had had that night. She saw that at once. But that was not all. There was something wrong. She glanced round and saw Miss Verever staring at him, and decided immediately that the sooner Miss Verever left them the better. She did not mind much about the Pearsons, who were kind and homely people, but she did not want Maud Verever to see or hear anything. She was about to suggest that they must go, when Mr. Pearson spoke.

“Had a long day, Dersingham, eh?” said Mr. Pearson, his cheeks wobbling sympathetically. “We were just talking about it. I know what it is. I’ve had these rushes, you know, working half the night—in the hot season too, not a breath of air. Takes it out of you, I’ll tell you. Still, it’s good for business, isn’t it? Better than the other way round, eh? Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

“I think I really ought to be going now,” said Miss Verever, with one of her dreadful smiles.

“Enjoyed yourself?” said Mr. Dersingham.

She started back. “Oh—of course,” she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on him.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I like to hear of anybody enjoying themselves, and specially you, Miss Verever.”

There was something very extraordinary about this, but Miss Verever did not care to stop and investigate it. She began saying Good-night. Mrs. Dersingham said that they must go too, but Mr. Dersingham refused to stir, so Miss Verever left by herself, though Mrs. Dersingham accompanied her down the stairs.

“Howard doesn’t seem to be very well to-night, does he?” said Miss Verever, when they reached the hall below, in the Dersingham half of the building.

“He’s tired, that’s all. I don’t think he’s very well. He’s been working tremendously hard. It’s terribly tiring working late like this down in the City.”

“I suppose it is.” And it would be impossible to cram a larger amount of dubiety into four words than Miss Verever did into those four.

“Of course it is,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, a trifle impatiently. “You just try it and see.”

“Why, have you tried it, my dear? If you have, it’s news to me. However, I hope Howard’s better soon. He shouldn’t tire himself out like that. It must be very bad for him. Don’t you think so? Well, it was very nice of you to ask me to make the four up and play with Mrs. Pearson. Good-bye, my dear.”

Mrs. Dersingham hurried back to the Pearsons, slightly alarmed and considerably annoyed. It looked as if Howard had not been kept late at the office at all, but had sneaked off to his club, where he had had more drinks than were good for him. There was always just a little, a little, danger of that with Howard. She found him sitting with his legs stretched out straight in front of him, listening to the Pearsons, who were still talking about Singapore.

“Taking it all round, y’know, the good with the bad,” Mr. Pearson concluded, “it’s not such a bad life out there, though it’s not so good as it was. It isn’t anywhere in the East. Still, even so, I believe if I’d my time over again, I’d go out there again, I really believe I would.”

“Good!” said Mr. Dersingham, with a kind of dreary solemnity. “All right then, Pearson, what about that job out there you promised to get me?”

“Any time, any time! Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee. When would you like it? Tee-tee-tee.” Mr. Pearson evidently regarded this as a great joke.

“You can start getting it for me now, old man.”

Mrs. Pearson joined in the joke. “You’d better be getting your clothes ready, my dear,” she told Mrs. Dersingham, who smiled, though not very brightly. She did not see anything very funny in all this, and her husband was behaving very stupidly. It was time she got him away.

“I’m serious, y’know,” he declared now, with the same dreary solemnity. “I’m not joking. You get me that job out there as soon as you can. I’m serious.”

“That’s right. So are we. When would you like it then? Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

Mr. Dersingham drained his glass, then examined what was left in it, the last golden drops, with a thoroughness that suggested he was conducting a chemical experiment.

“We really must go, yes, really we must,” cried Mrs. Dersingham, with a forced brightness; and in less than two minutes she had said all there was to say and had hustled her husband and herself out of the room. There was no fire in the drawing-room below, but there was the whitening ruin of one in the dining-room, and immediately he stumped in there in a heavy sort of way and sat down. She walked in after him, but did not sit down.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced coldly.

“Just a minute,” he said in a muffled voice.

“I prefer to go to bed. I’m tired, even if you’re not.” And she turned away.

“No, don’t go,” he cried, quite sharply now, with hardly anything of that thickness in his voice that had been there before. “You mustn’t, Pongo. I’ve got something to tell you.”

She closed the door and came back. “Pongo” was his old specially silly delightful name for her, and even now, when she was annoyed with him, when he was a large, pink, sagging creature, whose every stupidity she knew by heart, when he was sitting there, flushed and thick with whisky, not at all the sort of man she ever imagined she was marrying, a hundred times less attentive and considerate and clever and courageous, even now, the sound of that “Pongo” gave her a little thrill. She was annoyed with herself for feeling it. If he imagined he was going to be forgiven at once, simply because he had called her by that name, he was sadly mistaken.

She took up a position on the other side of the hearth, and stood looking down on him. “I should think you have something to say! Have you been to the club?”

He nodded and waved an impatient hand. “That was nothing,” he muttered.

“No, but if you must pretend you have to work late and then you go on to the club and fuddle yourself with drinks, you might at least have the sense to keep out of the way, instead of barging in like that and behaving so stupidly. No, Howard, I’m really disgusted. You know I’m not silly about drinking, as some women are. But there’s a limit. I believe you’re drinking a jolly sight too much these days, a lot more than is good for you. Yes, I mean it. Anybody could see what was the matter with you to-night, up there.”

“Oh, could they?” He gave a little laugh.

“Yes, of course they could.”

“Well, believe me, my dear, they couldn’t. Not one of ’em. Not you, even. No, not you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Howard.”

“I’m not being silly. I wish to God I was. You know when I asked Pearson about that job? I suppose you thought I was being funny then, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think you were being particularly funny,” she told him, “though you obviously thought you were. If you want to know what I thought, it was that you were just being rather stupid.”

“Well, I wasn’t, Pongo,” he said quietly. “I was quite serious. No, listen. We’re absolutely done—I mean the firm, Twigg and Dersingham—completely finished.”

“Howard, you don’t mean it?”

“Yes, I do. That’s what kept me to-night. I had a drink or two just because I felt played out, and I suppose I did show it—sorry about that—but I’ve had a hell of a day. Golspie’s cleared out and left us⁠——”

“But you told me the other day that even if Golspie did go, it wouldn’t matter and you’d arranged everything so that you could do without him.”

“I know, but the rotten swine did me down⁠——”

“But how? I don’t understand. Howard, you don’t really mean it’s as serious as all that? The firm can go on, can’t it?”

He shook his head, and kept his face turned away. He looked like a great foolish baby. She swept down on him. “Tell me what’s happened. Why didn’t you tell me at once? I’m sorry I was cross with you. I didn’t know it was anything serious—naturally. Now tell me.”

He told her the whole wretched story.

“But do you mean to say that brute has gone and you can’t do anything, anything at all? But it’s ridiculous. Can’t you tell the police? Why, it’s just as bad as burglary or swindling. It is swindling. But I knew, I knew all the time that something would happen because of that man. He hated us after that night he came here and I lost my temper with that vile little minx of a daughter. I felt all the time he did. I told you to get rid of him, didn’t I? Oh, Howard, you have been stupid. Yes, you have. I’ll never believe in you again as a business man. You used to tell me I didn’t understand about these things, but I’m sure I understand about people—and that’s the main thing—better than you. But what’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled miserably, and he explained as best he could the position they were in. As she listened, she suddenly saw the four walls enclosing them, the table and chairs and sideboard, everything in sight, no longer as solid objects, fixed, rooted in a secure existence, but as things brittle as glass, unstable and wavering as water. Nor did her imagination stop there. It explored the whole maisonette, the drawing-room, the kitchen below, the nursery and bedrooms, and discovered nothing substantial there, except the two children asleep upstairs and a few personal possessions that had long ceased to be mere things. She realised now, with a shock of dismay, that something absurd and fantastic could happen in Angel Pavement, far away, that could change all this. Their life here in Barkfield Gardens, not their personal life, but everything else, all the cleaning and cooking and shopping and visiting, was a mere candle-flame—one puff of wind, a wind that came from nowhere, and it was gone. She understood how millions of people live. It was a moment of revelation.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied wearily. “Give me time. I haven’t had a chance to think yet. Hang it all, this has all been dropped on me like a ton of bricks. God!—I’m tired.”

He sounded helpless, looked helpless. Her mind began working furiously now, and the effect, after months and months of stagnation, of pretending and dreaming and vague discontent, was curiously exhilarating. “Do you think Mr. Pearson could get you a job out East?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But why? You haven’t asked him properly. He doesn’t know you want one—if you really do want one, and I’m not sure about that.”

“I know he doesn’t, my dear. But I’m sure when he does he’ll change his tune. I felt that when he was talking to-night. It’s all right,” he added bitterly, as if he had suddenly discovered what the world was like and what men were made of, “while it’s still a joke. The minute he finds I’m serious, he’ll pull a long face. I don’t mean he’s not a decent chap and all that. But he thinks he’s talking to a prosperous business man who doesn’t really want a job. That’s the difference.”

“I must have some tea,” she announced. “It’s no good; we must talk it over; if I went to bed I shouldn’t sleep a wink—and if we’re going to stay up, I must have some tea. I’ll go down and make some. No, I can do it by myself. You stay here, and, Howard, do, do try and think of something. Try and find out how much money we’ll have left—and everything.”

When she returned with the tea, he was still sitting in the same huddled fashion. “Listen, I’ve been thinking,” she began, almost gaily. But seeing him there, a large melancholy heap of man, she put down the tray, came across, pushed him back in his chair, and stood looking down at him, her hands still on his shoulders.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He found this question as difficult as ever, but this time there was none of that masculine impatience or grinning intolerance. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he told her in a shamefaced mumble, “but I don’t feel this is the time to say so.”

“Of course it is. Why not?”

“Well, I’ve let you down. I’ve let you down badly. I’ve been a fool. I’ll admit I have. But I never liked the business, you know that, don’t you? If it hadn’t been for the cursed War, I’d never have gone into it. Not my style at all. I always hated it really—Angel Pavement and all those damned furniture places and sniffling East End Jews, and the whole thing. I’ve tried my best, but it’s always gone against the grain. I’m not excusing myself, mind, though honestly I think anybody might have been let down the same way by that artful devil. Smeeth—and he’s been in business all his life—never had a suspicion. He was more surprised than I was. And a fellow I talked to at the Club said he’d never heard of such a thing, said I couldn’t be blamed at all. But there it is. What bothers me is that there’s some of your money gone, too. I’m sorry, Pongo. I seem to have made a mess of it.”

“I have some money left, though.”

“Not much,” he told her gloomily. “About twelve hundred, perhaps. No, not quite that.”

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it? It’s quite a lot, really. And after all you’ve had very good business experience now. Then—you remember what Uncle Phil said? Just a minute; I’ll pour out the tea. Yes, you must have some.” She did not sound at all depressed.

She was not depressed. In a few weeks, she might be miserable—she knew that too; she seemed to know everything to-night—but now, at this moment, she might have just had good news instead of very bad. Unlike her husband, who appeared to be only half the man he usually was, a listless lump, she felt twice her customary self. The footlights had blazed out, the curtain had shot up, and she had responded at once to the call of the drama. But there was more in it than that. She was no longer playing and pretending in the background. The situation, leaving him crushed, challenged her, and there was something exhilarating in accepting the challenge. Everything was suddenly real and exciting. Plans by the score, some of them born of old idle day-dreams, were stirring in her mind, and now while he listened, sometimes shaking his head, sometimes looking at her hopefully, they came tumbling out. “Of course, we’ll give this place up as soon as we can—we ought to get a decent premium too—look what we’ve spent on the decoration—and then I’m sure mother would take the children for a few months....”

IV

Yes, Mr. Smeeth was going home. It never occurred to him to go and hear what was left of the concert. He had done with Brahms & Co. for a long time, perhaps for ever. As he waited for his tram, he remembered that tune again—Ta tum ta ta tum tum—and now it seemed like something that was going on a long, long way off, like a birthday party in Australia. He said good-bye to that tune. As the tram went lumbering and groaning up the City Road, he said good-bye to many things.

He was feeling rather queer. He had missed his usual evening meal and was empty; that double whisky had had its effect; there was undoubtedly a pain somewhere in his side; and then of course there was the shock of the bad news. He had for years moved gingerly, apprehensively, through a world in which the worst might happen at any moment. The worst had happened. He could have said to himself, with satisfaction, “What did I tell you?” Perhaps there ought not to have been any shock. But it was not so simple as that. He had never expected to be hurled out of his job in this fashion. He had always seen danger coming from many quarters, but nevertheless this blow had arrived from quite an unexpected quarter. The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. His anger was not directed against Mr. Dersingham, not even against Golspie, but against the whole world, the very nature of things.

You go on for years and years building up a position for yourself until at last you have a place of your own, a little world of your own, in which the figures do what you tell them to do, the books reveal their secrets, the fellows at the bank say “Good morning, Mr. Smeeth,” and everything is snug and sensible. Then a chap turns up from nowhere, looks at a trade directory and happens to choose your firm, wanders in to Angel Pavement, and then, in less than six months’ time, without your having any hand or say in it, he blows you clean out of it all, without even knowing or caring a thing about it. You are quietly finishing off for the day, and then suddenly—bang! What was the good of trams going up and down the City Road and conductors taking fares and nobody smoking inside or spitting on top under penalty of a fine? What was the good of having a City Road at all and lighting it with street lamps and opening shops and sending policemen to walk up and down it; what was the good of paying rates and taxes and shaving yourself and seeing that you had a clean collar and going round to doctors and dentists and reading the newspapers and voting, if this is what could happen any minute? My God!—what was the good of it all?

This blanched middle-aged man, sitting in a corner of the moving tram, an unlighted pipe trembling beneath his grey moustache, the wrinkles on his face deeper than ever, peered through his glasses now at the familiar panorama of the North London roads and saw not a glimmer of it. His gaze was really fixed on the crazy structure of things, and of that he could make neither head nor tail. He was shaking a little, not with fear, but with indignation. For years there had been a great shadow haunting and terrifying him, for he had seen all the little lighted things of his life menaced by it. Now the lights had gone, blown out; he sat in the shadow itself; the tram was crawling through it; the Stoke Newington Road was in it; and all his fear had been used up before by that shadow, when he had been a man who had something precious to lose. Now he had lost it. In a week or two, he would have to start again, and at a time when even the boys were lining up in their hundreds for a chance of a mere beginning at ten shillings a week. It wasn’t good enough. That was the phrase he used, the first that sprang into his mind, and he repeated it over and over again with tremendous emphasis. “Not good enough,” he said as he left the tram. “Not good enough,” as he made his way to Chaucer Road, “not good enough.”

It was only too evident, he told himself grimly, that they were not expecting him back so soon at 17, Chaucer Road. Everything seemed to be in full swing there. You might have thought somebody had just been left a fortune. He heard a great noise coming from the front room, and he saw a light in the dining-room. He chose the dining-room, and found George there, tinkering about with the wireless set.

“Who’s in there?” asked Mr. Smeeth.

“The Mitty crowd,” said George, with a tiny grin. “I came in here out of the way. I’ve had enough of that lot. Mitty owes me a quid, too. He’s no good.” He looked curiously at his father. “Anything up, Dad?”

“You got anything to do yet, George?”

“Not yet. I thought I was on to something to-day, but it was no go. I’m going round to see a chap to-morrow morning, big garage up at Stamford Hill. Why? Anything wrong?”

“Yes. I look like being out of a job within the next fortnight, and you know what that means.”

It was not the tragedy to George that it was to his father, not merely because George was much younger, but also because his whole outlook was different, for he lived in a newer world in which jobs came and went and nobody troubled to spend years consolidating a position. Nevertheless, the youth had sufficient imagination to realise what this meant to his father. “I’m sorry about that, Dad—by gosh, I am! Rotten luck, isn’t it? How’d it happen? They’d never sack you, would they? Has the firm gone broke?”

“That’s it. Try and get something as soon as you can, George. You know how we’ll be fixed.”

“Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll get something soon, something good, too. Edna’s not earning anything now, either, is she? She’d better make another start, too, hadn’t she?”

“I’ll attend to that. We’ll all have to make another start now, if you ask me,” said Mr. Smeeth grimly. They looked at one another, with approval on both sides, in silence for a moment. They could hear sounds of merriment from the other room. “Seem to be enjoying themselves in there,” said Mr. Smeeth, his temper rising.

George came nearer. “Dad, boot ’em out. I would if it was my house. I told mother so, too⁠——”

“Taking something on yourself, boy, aren’t you, these days?”

“Well, I did. I can’t stand that lot. That’s why I came in here.”

Mr. Smeeth nodded. “That’s just what I’m going to do, George. I want some peace and quietness to-night, and I’m going to have it.” He walked out, and his son followed him.

The front room was just as it had been the first time the Mitty family visited them. There were only five people in it, Mitty and his wife and daughter, Mrs. Smeeth and Edna, but it seemed quite crowded and as thick, hot, and smelly, as if people had been eating, drinking and smoking in it for weeks. It made Mr. Smeeth feel very angry and disgusted.

Mrs. Smeeth stared at him, and looked uneasy. “Hello, Dad,” she cried. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“So it seems.”

“Didn’t you go to the concert?”

Fred Mitty, very flushed, was about to help himself from a bottle that stood, with other bottles, glasses, and some cake and biscuits, on a little table in the centre of the room. He was leaning forward, but straightened himself when he saw Mr. Smeeth standing there. “Thought you was having some classical music to-night, Pa,” he roared. “Gave it a miss, eh?”

Mr. Smeeth advanced into the room, breathing hard. He looked at Mitty. “I’ve been working hard,” he said pointedly, “and I want some peace and quietness now. So I’ll say Good-night.”

“What d’you mean, Dad?” cried Mrs. Smeeth.

But the irrepressible Fred could not resist this. “Well, night-night, Pa,” he yelled, “if you’re going to bed. Don’t let me keep you.” He looked round with a grin, asking for applause, and got it from the two girls, who giggled. Then he made a move towards the bottle again.

“I’m not going to bed, just yet,” said Mr. Smeeth, his voice trembling. “But you’re going home. That’s what I meant.”

“Here, half a minute, Dad.” Mrs. Smeeth’s voice rose in indignation. “What a way to talk!”

“I should think so indeed,” cried Mrs. Mitty, sitting up sharply.

“For the more we are too-gether,” Fred sang, as his hand closed round the whisky bottle, “the merrier we will bee-yer.”

The fuse had been burning briskly for some time, and now its travelling spark reached the explosive. Mr. Smeeth blew up. “Get out!” he screamed at Mitty. “Get out of here! Go on! Get out!”

“That’s the stuff,” shouted George from the doorway.

But that scream was not enough for such an explosion of wrath. Two seconds later, Mr. Smeeth had flung down the little table and sent whisky and port and dirty glasses and cake and biscuits and oranges flying about the room. All was roaring chaos, with Fred Mitty shouting, the two wives screaming, Dot Mitty shrieking with laughter, Edna bursting into tears, George charging forward, and Mr. Smeeth standing in the middle, bellowing and stamping among the ruins. All the others jumped up and there was a pushing and jostling and Mr. Smeeth lost his eyeglasses and had no hope of finding them in the scrimmage. Nothing could be plainly heard in the din, and now, for Mr. Smeeth, robbed of his glasses, nothing could be plainly seen. His wife seemed to be shaking his arm and shrieking at him; Mrs. Mitty seemed to have hurled herself at Fred, to prevent further violence; and George appeared to be taking a hand in all the proceedings. But in another minute, he was alone in the room, and all the others seemed to be talking at the top of their voices outside. Feeling shaky, he made a step or two towards a chair, and trod on some glass. His own eyeglasses were still on the floor somewhere, and no doubt somebody had trodden on them. He collapsed into the chair, and in a dazed fashion removed a strange soggy substance from his left bootsole. It was what had once been a very generous slice of sandwich cake. Then a piece of broken glass, a jagged fragment of tumbler, cut his hand. He felt ill. It would not have been very difficult for him to have been sick on the spot. The sound of the voices outside did not abate for several minutes, but he stayed where he was. They could argue it out between them, could say and do what they liked; he didn’t care.

The door had been left open, and he heard the Mitty family go, and then he heard George say something to Mrs. Smeeth and Edna. The three of them went into the dining-room and closed the door behind them, but the sound of their voices, raised in heated discussion, came to him in his armchair. He had groped about a little with the hand that was not cut, but all he had found were two biscuits and these he had eaten in that mechanical fashion in which biscuits are nearly always eaten. The voices were lower now and suggested that their owners were no longer merely shouting at one another, but were really talking. More minutes passed, and then he heard Edna go upstairs to bed. Then, after a short interval, during which he listened intently, shakily, to every sound, his wife came into the room. She did not burst in, as he had expected her to do; she came in quietly and shut the door after her. But this did not necessarily mean that there would not be a storm, and he braced himself to meet it.

There was no storm, however. Mrs. Smeeth’s first fury had passed, though she was still very agitated. “If it hadn’t been for George, I was going to say something to you, Herbert, you wouldn’t forget for a long, long time. But he says you’re very upset about your work.”

“I am,” said Mr. Smeeth in a very low voice.

“He says you’re going to lose your job. Is that right?”

“That’s right, Edie. It’s all up with Twigg and Dersingham. In a week or two I’ll be finding myself without a job.”

“You’re sure this time, Dad? I mean—it’s not one of your false alarms, is it?”

“I wish it was. No, there’s no false alarm about it this time.”

“Mind you,” cried Mrs. Smeeth hastily, shakily, “that’s no reason why you should have gone and behaved like this. My word, if anybody’d told me you’d have gone and done a thing like that—you of all men—my word, I’d have told them something! Smashing the place up, too! Look at this room! Look at yourself! But I suppose if you were upset, you weren’t responsible. Here, Dad, are you sure, really sure, about your job? You’re not—you’re not trying to frighten me again, are you?”

“No, of course I’m not.”

“I can’t believe it. Here, what happened?”

He tried to tell her what had happened, and at least succeeded in convincing her that he was entirely serious. “And if you think I’m going to get another job as good as that, or a job worth having at all, in a hurry, you’re mistaken, Edie. I know what it is, with office jobs; and it’ll have to be an office job because that’s what I’ve always done. I’m nearly fifty, and I look it. I dare say I look older⁠——”

“That you don’t, Dad.”

“Well, that’s your opinion, but you won’t be employing me. I know what it is.” And there came back to him suddenly, poignantly, the memory of that tiny scene outside the office door, several months ago, when he had said to that anxious man, the last in the line of applicants, “Good luck!” and had received the ghost of a smile. “There are four of us here. George is out of work, though he might get something soon. He’s a good lad, really. There’s Edna. She’s earning nothing now.”

“She will be before this time next week,” said Mrs. Smeeth quickly. “I’ll see to that.”

“She might be, and then again, she might not. And in a week or two I’ll be among the unemployed. And we’ve got about forty odd pounds saved up, that’s what we’ve got, all told, unless you count this furniture.”

“I can work,” cried Mrs. Smeeth fiercely. “You needn’t think there’ll be me to keep in idleness. I’ll get something. I’ll go out charring first.”

“But I don’t want you to go out charring,” Mr. Smeeth told her, almost shouting. “I didn’t marry you and I haven’t worked all this time, never missing a minute if I could help it, and we didn’t save and plan to get this home together, so you could go out charring. My God, it’s not good enough. When I think of the way I’ve worked and planned and gone without things to get us a decent position⁠——!” His voice dropped.

“We’ll manage somehow.” And having said this, Mrs. Smeeth, the gay and confident partner, suddenly and astonishingly burst into tears.

“Manage? We’ll have to manage,” Mr. Smeeth had begun, grimly. Then he changed his tone. “Here, Edie. That’s all right, that’s all right. Now then, now then. I’m sorry I lost my temper too⁠——”

“It was my fault,” she sobbed. “Yes, it is. I deserved it. I know I’ve spent too much money. Yes, I have.”

“Oh, never mind. You weren’t to know the firm was going broke like that. I didn’t know myself. Never more surprised in my life. Here, Edie. Now then, now then.” He was standing beside her now.

“Oh dear,” she gasped, a few minutes later, trying to wipe her eyes. She was both laughing and crying now. “Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear!”

He looked at her solemnly.

“Oh dear, dear, you do look a sight, Dad. I don’t know who looks the worst, you or this room. I never saw such a sketch, though I expect I’m bad enough, goodness knows!”

“I’ve dropped my eyeglasses, that’s all that’s wrong with me,” Mr. Smeeth announced, not without dignity.

“I can see that, Dad, I can see that,” she told him, dabbing at her face. “Here, I’ll look for them. You sit down. But, mind you, if they’re broken, don’t blame me. It wasn’t me that started throwing things about to-night, was it? Here they are.”

“Broken?”

“Yes, somebody made no mistake when they trod on them. You’ll have to wear your old ones for a day or two, that’s all. I’ll go and get them for you, and then you can help me to clear this mess up.”

“All right, Edie.” Mr. Smeeth hesitated. “Is there anything to eat in the house? I’m getting hungry now.”

“Didn’t you have anything? Haven’t you had anything at all to-night? You silly man, why didn’t you say so? I’ll go and get you something now. You go and get your glasses, you know where they are—in the drawer upstairs. If you can’t see them, you can feel for them. Yes, in the top drawer. And I’ll get you something to eat while you’re finding them. Oh dear, what a life! Still, it’s the only one we’ve got, I suppose, so we’d better make what we can out of it.”