See?”
‘Me, too,’ thought Michael, mentally drawing that face again.
“We’ve all got our dreams; mine’s blue butterflies–Central Austrylia. The Socialists won’t ‘elp me to get there. Their ideas of ‘eaven don’t run beyond Europe.”
“Cripes!” said Michael. “Melted butter, Bicket?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Silence was not broken for some time, but the soles were.
“What made you think of balloons, Bicket?”
“You don’t ‘ave to advertise, they do it for you.”
“Saw too much of advertising with us, eh?”
“Well, sir, I did use to read the wrappers. Astonished me, I will sy–the number of gryte books.”
Michael ran his hands through his hair.
“Wrappers! The same young woman being kissed by the same young man with the same clean-cut jaw. But what can you do, Bicket? They WILL HAVE IT. I tried to make a break only this morning–I shall see what comes of it. “‘And I hope YOU won’t!’ he thought: ‘Fancy coming on Fleur outside a novel!’
“I did notice a tendency just before I left,” said Bicket, “to ‘ave cliffs or landskips and two sort of dolls sittin’ on the sand or in the grass lookin’ as if they didn’t know what to do with each other.”
“Yes,” murmured Michael, “we tried that. It was supposed not to be vulgar. But we soon exhausted the public’s capacity. What’ll you have now–cheese?”
“Thank you, sir; I’ve had too much already, but I won’t say ‘No.’”
“Two Stiltons,” said Michael.
“How’s Mr. Desert, sir?”
Michael reddened.
“Oh! He’s all right.”
Bicket had reddened also.
“I wish–I wish you’d let him know that it was quite a–an accident my pitchin’ on his book. I’ve always regretted it.”
“It’s usually an accident, I think,” said Michael slowly, “when we snoop other people’s goods. We never WANT to.”
Bicket looked up.
“No, sir, I don’t agree. ‘Alf mankind’s predytory–only, I’m not that sort, meself.”
In Michael loyalty tried to stammer “Nor is he.” He handed his cigarette case to Bicket.
“Thank you, sir, I’m sure.”
His eyes were swimming, and Michael thought: ‘Dash it! This is sentimental. Kiss me good-bye and go!’ He beckoned up the white-aproned fellow.
“Give us your address, Bicket. If integuments are any good to you, I might have some spare slops.”
Bicket backed the bill with his address and said, hesitating: “I suppose, sir, Mrs. Mont wouldn’t ‘ave anything to spare. My wife’s about my height.”
“I expect she would. We’ll send them along.” He saw the ‘little snipe’s’ lips quivering, and reached for his overcoat. “If anything blows in, I’ll remember you. Goodbye, Bicket, and good luck.”
Going east, because Bicket was going west, he repeated to himself the maxim: “Pity is tripe–pity is tripe!” Then getting on a ‘bus, he was borne back past St. Paul’s. Cautiously ‘taking a lunar’–as old Forsyte put it–he SAW Bicket inflating a balloon; little was visible of his face or figure behind that rosy circumference. Nearing Blake Street, he developed an invincible repugnance to work, and was carried on to Trafalgar Square. Bicket had stirred him up. The world was sometimes almost unbearably jolly. Bicket, Wilfrid, and the Ruhr!” Feeling is tosh! Pity is tripe!” He descended from his ‘bus, and passed the lions towards Pall Mall. Should he go into ‘Snooks’ and ask for Bart? No use–he would not find Fleur there. That was what he really wanted–to see Fleur in the daytime. But–where? She was everywhere to be found, and that was nowhere.
She was restless. Was that his fault? If he had been Wilfrid–would she be restless? ‘Yes,’ he thought stoutly, ‘Wilfrid’s restless, too.’ They were all restless–all the people he knew. At least all the young ones–in life and in letters. Look at their novels! Hardly one in twenty had any repose, any of that quality which made one turn back to a book as a corner of refuge. They dashed and sputtered and skidded and rushed by like motor cycles–violent, oh! and clever. How tired he was of cleverness! Sometimes he would take a manuscript home to Fleur for her opinion. He remembered her saying once: “This is exactly like life, Michael, it just rushes–it doesn’t dwell on anything long enough to mean anything anywhere. Of course the author didn’t mean it for satire, but if you publish it, I advise you to put: ‘This awful satire on modern life’ outside the cover.” And they had. At least, they had put: “This wonderful satire on modern life.” Fleur WAS like that! She could see the hurry, but, like the author of the wonderful satire, she didn’t know that she herself veered and hurried, or–did she know? Was she conscious of kicking at life, like a flame at air?
He had reached Piccadilly, and suddenly he remembered that he had not called on her aunt for ages. That was a possible draw. He bent his steps towards Green Street.
“Mrs. Dartie at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael moved his nostrils. Fleur used–but he could catch no scent, except incense. Winifred burnt joss-sticks when she remembered what a distinguished atmosphere they produced.
“What name?”
“Mr. Mont. My wife’s not here, I suppose?”
“No, sir. Only Mrs. Val Dartie.”
Mrs. Val Dartie! Yes, he remembered, nice woman–but not a substitute for Fleur! Committed, however, he followed the maid.
In the drawing-room Michael found three people, one of them his father-inlaw, who had a grey and brooding aspect, and, from an Empire chair, was staring at blue Australian butterflies’ wings under glass on a round scarlet table. Winifred had jazzed the Empire foundations of her room with a superstructure more suitable to the age. She greeted Michael with fashionable warmth. It was good of him to come when he was so busy with all these young poets. “I thought ‘Copper Coin,’” she said–“what a NICE title! – such an intriguing little book. I do think Mr. Desert is clever! What is he doing now?”
Michael said: “I don’t know,” and dropped on to a settee beside Mrs. Val. Ignorant of the Forsyte family feud, he was unable to appreciate the relief he had brought in with him. Soames said something about the French, got up, and went to the window; Winifred joined him–their voices sounded confidential.
“How is Fleur?” said Michael’s neighbour.
“Thanks, awfully well.”
“Do you like your house?”
“Oh, fearfully. Won’t you come and see it?”
“I don’t know whether Fleur would–?”
“Why not?”
“Oh! Well!”
“She’s frightfully accessible.”
She seemed to be looking at him with more interest than he deserved, to be trying to make something out from his face, and he added:
“You’re a relation–by blood as well as marriage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the skeleton?”
“Oh! nothing. I’ll certainly come. Only–she has so many friends.”
Michael thought: ‘I like this woman!’ “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here this afternoon thinking I might find Fleur. I should like her to know you. With all the jazz there is about, she’d appreciate somebody restful.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve never lived in London?”
“Not since I was six.”
“I wish she could get a rest–pity there isn’t a d-desert handy.” He had stuttered; the word was not pronounced the same–still! He glanced, disconcerted, at the butterflies. “I’ve just been talking to a little Cockney whose S. O. S. is ‘Central Austrylia.’ But what do you say–Have we got souls to save?”
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure–something’s struck me lately.”
“What was that?”
“Well, I notice that any one at all out of proportion, or whose nose is on one side, or whose eyes jut out, or even have a special shining look, always believes in the soul; people who are in proportion, and have no prominent physical features, don’t seem to be really interested.”
Michael’s ears moved.
“By Jove!” he said; “some thought! Fleur’s beautifully proportioned–SHE doesn’t seem to worry. I’m not–and I certainly do. The people in Covent Garden must have lots of soul. You think ‘the soul’s’ the result of loose-gearing in the organism–sort of special consciousness from not working in one piece.”
“Yes, rather like that–what’s called psychic power is, I’m almost sure.”
“I say, is your life safe? According to your theory, though, we’re in a mighty soulful era. I must think over my family. How about yours?”
“The Forsytes! Oh, they’re quite too well-proportioned.”
“I agree, they haven’t any special juts so far as I’ve seen. The French, too, are awfully close-knit. It really is an idea, only, of course, most people see it the other way. They’d say the soul produces the disproportion, makes the eyes shine, bends the nose, and all that; where the soul is small, it’s not trying to get out of the body, whence the barber’s block. I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Well, do come and see us. Good-bye! I don’t think I’ll disturb them in the window. Would you mind saying I had to scoot?” Squeezing a slim, gloved hand, receiving and returning a smiling look, he slid out, thinking: ‘Dash the soul, where’s her body?’
Chapter IV.
FLEUR’S BODY
Fleur’s body, indeed, was at the moment in one of those difficult positions which continually threaten the spirit of compromise. It was in fact in Wilfrid’s arms; sufficiently, at least, to make her say:
“No, Wilfrid–you promised to be good.”
It was a really remarkable tribute to her powers of skating on thin ice that the word ‘good’ should still have significance. For eleven weeks exactly this young man had danced on the edge of fulfilment, and was even now divided from her by two clenched hands pressed firmly against his chest, and the word ‘good’; and this after not having seen her for a fortnight.
When she said it, he let her go, with a sort of violence, and sat down on a piece of junk. Only the sense of damnable iteration prevented him from saying: “It can’t go on, Fleur.” She knew that! And yet it did! This was what perpetually amazed him. How a poor brute could hang on week after week saying to her and to himself: “Now or never!” when it wasn’t either. Subconsciousness, that, until the word ‘now’ had been reached, Fleur would not know her own mind, alone had kept him dancing. His own feelings were so intense that he almost hated her for indecision. And he was unjust. It was not exactly indecision. Fleur wanted the added richness and excitement which Wilfrid’s affection gave to life, but without danger and without loss. How natural! His frightful passionateness was making all the trouble. Neither by her wish, nor through her fault, was he passionate! And yet–it was both nice and proper to inspire passion; and, of course, she had the lurking sense that she was not ‘in the mode’ to cavil at a lover, especially since life owed her one.
Released, she smoothed herself and said: “Talk of something sensible; what have you been writing?”
“This.”
Fleur read. Flushing and biting her lips, she said:
“It’s frightfully bitter.”
“It’s frightfully true. Does HE ever ask you now whether you see me?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you answer if he did?”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders.
Desert said quietly: “Yes, that’s your attitude. It can’t last, Fleur.” He was standing by the window. She put the sheets down on his desk and moved towards him. Poor Wilfrid! Now that he was quiet she was sorry.
He said suddenly: “Stop! Don’t move! HE’S down there in the street.
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‘Me, too,’ thought Michael, mentally drawing that face again.
“We’ve all got our dreams; mine’s blue butterflies–Central Austrylia. The Socialists won’t ‘elp me to get there. Their ideas of ‘eaven don’t run beyond Europe.”
“Cripes!” said Michael. “Melted butter, Bicket?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Silence was not broken for some time, but the soles were.
“What made you think of balloons, Bicket?”
“You don’t ‘ave to advertise, they do it for you.”
“Saw too much of advertising with us, eh?”
“Well, sir, I did use to read the wrappers. Astonished me, I will sy–the number of gryte books.”
Michael ran his hands through his hair.
“Wrappers! The same young woman being kissed by the same young man with the same clean-cut jaw. But what can you do, Bicket? They WILL HAVE IT. I tried to make a break only this morning–I shall see what comes of it. “‘And I hope YOU won’t!’ he thought: ‘Fancy coming on Fleur outside a novel!’
“I did notice a tendency just before I left,” said Bicket, “to ‘ave cliffs or landskips and two sort of dolls sittin’ on the sand or in the grass lookin’ as if they didn’t know what to do with each other.”
“Yes,” murmured Michael, “we tried that. It was supposed not to be vulgar. But we soon exhausted the public’s capacity. What’ll you have now–cheese?”
“Thank you, sir; I’ve had too much already, but I won’t say ‘No.’”
“Two Stiltons,” said Michael.
“How’s Mr. Desert, sir?”
Michael reddened.
“Oh! He’s all right.”
Bicket had reddened also.
“I wish–I wish you’d let him know that it was quite a–an accident my pitchin’ on his book. I’ve always regretted it.”
“It’s usually an accident, I think,” said Michael slowly, “when we snoop other people’s goods. We never WANT to.”
Bicket looked up.
“No, sir, I don’t agree. ‘Alf mankind’s predytory–only, I’m not that sort, meself.”
In Michael loyalty tried to stammer “Nor is he.” He handed his cigarette case to Bicket.
“Thank you, sir, I’m sure.”
His eyes were swimming, and Michael thought: ‘Dash it! This is sentimental. Kiss me good-bye and go!’ He beckoned up the white-aproned fellow.
“Give us your address, Bicket. If integuments are any good to you, I might have some spare slops.”
Bicket backed the bill with his address and said, hesitating: “I suppose, sir, Mrs. Mont wouldn’t ‘ave anything to spare. My wife’s about my height.”
“I expect she would. We’ll send them along.” He saw the ‘little snipe’s’ lips quivering, and reached for his overcoat. “If anything blows in, I’ll remember you. Goodbye, Bicket, and good luck.”
Going east, because Bicket was going west, he repeated to himself the maxim: “Pity is tripe–pity is tripe!” Then getting on a ‘bus, he was borne back past St. Paul’s. Cautiously ‘taking a lunar’–as old Forsyte put it–he SAW Bicket inflating a balloon; little was visible of his face or figure behind that rosy circumference. Nearing Blake Street, he developed an invincible repugnance to work, and was carried on to Trafalgar Square. Bicket had stirred him up. The world was sometimes almost unbearably jolly. Bicket, Wilfrid, and the Ruhr!” Feeling is tosh! Pity is tripe!” He descended from his ‘bus, and passed the lions towards Pall Mall. Should he go into ‘Snooks’ and ask for Bart? No use–he would not find Fleur there. That was what he really wanted–to see Fleur in the daytime. But–where? She was everywhere to be found, and that was nowhere.
She was restless. Was that his fault? If he had been Wilfrid–would she be restless? ‘Yes,’ he thought stoutly, ‘Wilfrid’s restless, too.’ They were all restless–all the people he knew. At least all the young ones–in life and in letters. Look at their novels! Hardly one in twenty had any repose, any of that quality which made one turn back to a book as a corner of refuge. They dashed and sputtered and skidded and rushed by like motor cycles–violent, oh! and clever. How tired he was of cleverness! Sometimes he would take a manuscript home to Fleur for her opinion. He remembered her saying once: “This is exactly like life, Michael, it just rushes–it doesn’t dwell on anything long enough to mean anything anywhere. Of course the author didn’t mean it for satire, but if you publish it, I advise you to put: ‘This awful satire on modern life’ outside the cover.” And they had. At least, they had put: “This wonderful satire on modern life.” Fleur WAS like that! She could see the hurry, but, like the author of the wonderful satire, she didn’t know that she herself veered and hurried, or–did she know? Was she conscious of kicking at life, like a flame at air?
He had reached Piccadilly, and suddenly he remembered that he had not called on her aunt for ages. That was a possible draw. He bent his steps towards Green Street.
“Mrs. Dartie at home?”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael moved his nostrils. Fleur used–but he could catch no scent, except incense. Winifred burnt joss-sticks when she remembered what a distinguished atmosphere they produced.
“What name?”
“Mr. Mont. My wife’s not here, I suppose?”
“No, sir. Only Mrs. Val Dartie.”
Mrs. Val Dartie! Yes, he remembered, nice woman–but not a substitute for Fleur! Committed, however, he followed the maid.
In the drawing-room Michael found three people, one of them his father-inlaw, who had a grey and brooding aspect, and, from an Empire chair, was staring at blue Australian butterflies’ wings under glass on a round scarlet table. Winifred had jazzed the Empire foundations of her room with a superstructure more suitable to the age. She greeted Michael with fashionable warmth. It was good of him to come when he was so busy with all these young poets. “I thought ‘Copper Coin,’” she said–“what a NICE title! – such an intriguing little book. I do think Mr. Desert is clever! What is he doing now?”
Michael said: “I don’t know,” and dropped on to a settee beside Mrs. Val. Ignorant of the Forsyte family feud, he was unable to appreciate the relief he had brought in with him. Soames said something about the French, got up, and went to the window; Winifred joined him–their voices sounded confidential.
“How is Fleur?” said Michael’s neighbour.
“Thanks, awfully well.”
“Do you like your house?”
“Oh, fearfully. Won’t you come and see it?”
“I don’t know whether Fleur would–?”
“Why not?”
“Oh! Well!”
“She’s frightfully accessible.”
She seemed to be looking at him with more interest than he deserved, to be trying to make something out from his face, and he added:
“You’re a relation–by blood as well as marriage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the skeleton?”
“Oh! nothing. I’ll certainly come. Only–she has so many friends.”
Michael thought: ‘I like this woman!’ “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here this afternoon thinking I might find Fleur. I should like her to know you. With all the jazz there is about, she’d appreciate somebody restful.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve never lived in London?”
“Not since I was six.”
“I wish she could get a rest–pity there isn’t a d-desert handy.” He had stuttered; the word was not pronounced the same–still! He glanced, disconcerted, at the butterflies. “I’ve just been talking to a little Cockney whose S. O. S. is ‘Central Austrylia.’ But what do you say–Have we got souls to save?”
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure–something’s struck me lately.”
“What was that?”
“Well, I notice that any one at all out of proportion, or whose nose is on one side, or whose eyes jut out, or even have a special shining look, always believes in the soul; people who are in proportion, and have no prominent physical features, don’t seem to be really interested.”
Michael’s ears moved.
“By Jove!” he said; “some thought! Fleur’s beautifully proportioned–SHE doesn’t seem to worry. I’m not–and I certainly do. The people in Covent Garden must have lots of soul. You think ‘the soul’s’ the result of loose-gearing in the organism–sort of special consciousness from not working in one piece.”
“Yes, rather like that–what’s called psychic power is, I’m almost sure.”
“I say, is your life safe? According to your theory, though, we’re in a mighty soulful era. I must think over my family. How about yours?”
“The Forsytes! Oh, they’re quite too well-proportioned.”
“I agree, they haven’t any special juts so far as I’ve seen. The French, too, are awfully close-knit. It really is an idea, only, of course, most people see it the other way. They’d say the soul produces the disproportion, makes the eyes shine, bends the nose, and all that; where the soul is small, it’s not trying to get out of the body, whence the barber’s block. I’ll think about it. Thanks for the tip. Well, do come and see us. Good-bye! I don’t think I’ll disturb them in the window. Would you mind saying I had to scoot?” Squeezing a slim, gloved hand, receiving and returning a smiling look, he slid out, thinking: ‘Dash the soul, where’s her body?’
Chapter IV.
FLEUR’S BODY
Fleur’s body, indeed, was at the moment in one of those difficult positions which continually threaten the spirit of compromise. It was in fact in Wilfrid’s arms; sufficiently, at least, to make her say:
“No, Wilfrid–you promised to be good.”
It was a really remarkable tribute to her powers of skating on thin ice that the word ‘good’ should still have significance. For eleven weeks exactly this young man had danced on the edge of fulfilment, and was even now divided from her by two clenched hands pressed firmly against his chest, and the word ‘good’; and this after not having seen her for a fortnight.
When she said it, he let her go, with a sort of violence, and sat down on a piece of junk. Only the sense of damnable iteration prevented him from saying: “It can’t go on, Fleur.” She knew that! And yet it did! This was what perpetually amazed him. How a poor brute could hang on week after week saying to her and to himself: “Now or never!” when it wasn’t either. Subconsciousness, that, until the word ‘now’ had been reached, Fleur would not know her own mind, alone had kept him dancing. His own feelings were so intense that he almost hated her for indecision. And he was unjust. It was not exactly indecision. Fleur wanted the added richness and excitement which Wilfrid’s affection gave to life, but without danger and without loss. How natural! His frightful passionateness was making all the trouble. Neither by her wish, nor through her fault, was he passionate! And yet–it was both nice and proper to inspire passion; and, of course, she had the lurking sense that she was not ‘in the mode’ to cavil at a lover, especially since life owed her one.
Released, she smoothed herself and said: “Talk of something sensible; what have you been writing?”
“This.”
Fleur read. Flushing and biting her lips, she said:
“It’s frightfully bitter.”
“It’s frightfully true. Does HE ever ask you now whether you see me?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you answer if he did?”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders.
Desert said quietly: “Yes, that’s your attitude. It can’t last, Fleur.” He was standing by the window. She put the sheets down on his desk and moved towards him. Poor Wilfrid! Now that he was quiet she was sorry.
He said suddenly: “Stop! Don’t move! HE’S down there in the street.
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