“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“Now let’s get on with it, Miss Perren.”
“‘DEAR SIR JAMES FOGGART, – We have given the utmost consideration to your very interesting–er–production. While we are of opinion that the views so well expressed on the present condition of Britain in relation to the rest of the world are of great value to all–er–thinking persons, we do not feel that there are enough–er–thinking persons to make it possible to publish the book, except at a loss. The–er–thesis that Britain should now look for salvation through adjustment of markets, population, supply and demand, within the Empire, put with such exceedingly plain speech, will, we are afraid, get the goat of all the political parties; nor do we feel that your plan of emigrating boys and girls in large quantities before they are spoiled by British town life, can do otherwise than irritate a working-class which knows nothing of conditions outside its own country, and is notably averse to giving its children a chance in any other.’”
“Am I to put that, Mr. Mont?”
“Yes; but tone it in a bit. Er–”
“‘Finally, your view that the land should be used to grow food is so very unusual in these days, that we feel your book would have a hostile Press except from the Old Guard and the Die-hard, and a few folk with vision.’”
“Yes, Mr. Mont?”
“‘In a period of veering–er–transitions’–keep that, Miss Perren–‘and the airy unreality of hopes that have long gone up the spout’–almost keep that–‘any scheme that looks forward and defers harvest for twenty years, must be extraordinarily unpopular. For all these reasons you will see how necessary it is for you to–er–seek another publisher. In short, we are not taking any.
“‘With–er–’ what you like–‘dear Sir James Foggart,
“‘We are your obedient servants,
‘“DANBY AND WINTER.’”
“When you’ve translated that, Miss Perren, bring it in, and I’ll sign it.”
“Yes. Only, Mr. Mont–I thought you were a Socialist. This almost seems–forgive my asking?”
“Miss Perren, it’s struck me lately that labels are ‘off.’ How can a man be anything at a time when everything’s in the air? Look at the Liberals. They can’t see the situation whole because of Free Trade; nor can the Labour Party because of their Capital levy; nor can the Tories because of Protection; they’re all hag-ridden by catchwords! Old Sir James Foggart’s jolly well right, but nobody’s going to listen to him. His book will be waste paper if anybody ever publishes it. The world’s unreal just now, Miss Perren; and of all countries we’re the most unreal.”
“Why, Mr. Mont?”
“Why? Because with the most stickfast of all the national temperaments, we’re holding on to what’s gone more bust for us than for any other country. Anyway, Mr. Danby shouldn’t have left the letter to me, if he didn’t mean me to enjoy myself. Oh! and while we’re about it–I’ve got to refuse Harold Master’s new book. It’s a mistake, but they won’t have it.”
“Why not, Mr. Mont? ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ was such a success!”
“Well, in this new thing Master’s got hold of an idea which absolutely forces him to say something. Winter says those who hailed ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ as such a work of art, are certain to be down on this for that; and Mr. Danby calls the book an outrage on human nature. So there’s nothing for it. Let’s have a shot:
“‘MY DEAR MASTER, – In the exhilaration of your subject it has obviously not occurred to you that you’ve bust up the show. In ‘The Sobbing Turtle’ you were absolutely in tune with half the orchestra, and that–er–the noisiest half. You were charmingly archaic, and securely cold-blooded. But now, what have you gone and done? Taken the last Marquesan islander for your hero and put him down in London town! The thing’s a searching satire, a real criticism of life. I’m sure you didn’t mean to be contemporary, or want to burrow into reality; but your subject has run off with you. Cold acid and cold blood are very different things, you know, to say nothing of your having had to drop the archaic. Personally, of course, I think this new thing miles better than ‘The Sobbing Turtle,’ which was a nice little affair, but nothing to make a song about. But I’m not the public, and I’m not the critics. The young and thin will be aggrieved by your lack of modernity, they’ll say you’re moralising; the old and fat will call you bitter and destructive; and the ordinary public will take your Marquesan seriously, and resent your making him superior to themselves. The prospects, you see, are not gaudy. How d’you think we’re going to ‘get away’ with such a book? Well, we’re not! Such is the fiat of the firm. I don’t agree with it. I’d publish it tomorrow; but needs must when Danby and Winter drive. So, with every personal regret, I return what is really a masterpiece.
“‘Always yours,
“‘MICHAEL MONT.’”
“D’you know, Miss Perren, I don’t think you need translate that?”
“I’m afraid it would be difficult.”
“Right-o, then; but do the other, please. I’m going to take my wife out to see a picture; back by four. Oh! and if a little chap called Bicket, that we used to have here, calls any time and asks to see me, he’s to come up; but I want warning first. Will you let them know downstairs?”
“Yes, Mr. Mont. Oh! didn’t–wasn’t that Miss Manuelli the model for the wrapper on Mr. Storbert’s novel?”
“She was, Miss Perren; alone I found her.”
“She’s very interesting-looking, isn’t she?”
“She’s unique, I’m afraid.”
“She needn’t mind that, I should think.”
“That depends,” said Michael; and stabbed his blotting-paper.
Chapter III.
‘AFTERNOON OF A DRYAD’
Fleur was still gracefully concealing most of what Michael called ‘the eleventh baronet,’ now due in about two months’ time. She seemed to be adapting herself, in mind and body, to the quiet and persistent collection of the heir. Michael knew that, from the first, following the instructions of her mother, she had been influencing his sex, repeating to herself, every evening before falling asleep, and every morning on waking the words: “Day by day, in every way, he is getting more and more male,” to infect the subconscious which, everybody now said, controlled the course of events; and that she was abstaining from the words: “I WILL have a boy,” for this, setting up a reaction, everybody said, was liable to produce a girl. Michael noted that she turned more and more to her mother, as if the French, or more naturalistic, side of her, had taken charge of a process which had to do with the body. She was frequently at Mapledurham, going down in Soames’ car, and her mother was frequently in South Square. Annette’s handsome presence, with its tendency to black lace was always pleasing to Michael, who had never forgotten her espousal of his suit in days when it was a forlorn hope. Though he still felt only on the threshold of Fleur’s heart, and was preparing to play second fiddle to ‘the eleventh baronet,’ he was infinitely easier in mind since Wilfrid had been gone. And he watched, with a sort of amused adoration, the way in which she focussed her collecting powers on an object that had no epoch, a process that did not date.
Personally conducted by Aubrey Greene, the expedition to view his show at the Dumetrius Gallery left South Square after an early lunch.
“Your Dryad came to me this morning, Aubrey,” said Michael in the cab. “She wanted me to ask you to put up a barrage if by any chance her husband blows round to accuse you of painting his wife. It seems he’s seen a reproduction of the picture.”
“Umm!” murmured the painter: “Shall I, Fleur?”
“Of course you must, Aubrey!”
Aubrey Greene’s smile slid from her to Michael.
“Well, what’s his name?”
“Bicket.”
Aubrey Greene fixed his eyes on space, and murmured slowly:
“An angry young husband called Bicket
Said: ‘Turn yourself round and I’ll kick it;
You have painted my wife
In the nude to the life,
Do you think, Mr. Greene, it was cricket?’”
“Oh! Aubrey!”
“Chuck it!” said Michael, “I’m serious. She’s a most plucky little creature. She’s made the money they wanted, and remained respectable.”
“So far as I’m concerned, certainly.”
“Well, I should think so.”
“Why, Fleur?”
“You’re not a vamp, Aubrey!”
“As a matter of fact, she excited my aesthetic sense.”
“Much that’d save her from some aesthetes!” muttered Michael.
“Also, she comes from Putney.”
“There you have a real reason. Then, you WILL put up a barrage if Bicket blows in?”
Aubrey Greene laid his hand on his heart. “And here we are!”
For the convenience of the eleventh baronet Michael had chosen the hour when the proper patrons of Aubrey Greene would still be lunching. A shock-headed young man and three pale-green girls alone wandered among the pictures. The painter led the way at once to his masterpiece; and for some minutes they stood before it in a suitable paralysis. To speak too soon in praise would never do; to speak too late would be equally tactless; to speak too fulsomely would jar; to mutter coldly: “Very nice–very nice indeed!” would blight. To say bluntly: “Well, old man, to tell you the truth, I don’t like it a little bit!” would get his goat.
At last Michael pinched Fleur gently, and she said:
“It really is charming, Aubrey; and awfully like–at least–”
“So far as one can tell. But really, old man, you’ve done it in once. I’m afraid Bicket will think so, anyway.”
“Dash that!” muttered the painter. “How do you find the colour values?”
“Jolly fine;
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