Ursula came into the study, carrying something that had once been a
photograph, but which the ravages of time had long since reduced to a
faded and almost indecipherable problem.
"Dear," she said, "you know this portrait of Clara's boy, the one
in the sailor suit, from my writing-table? I was looking at it just
now----"
I interrupted her (it really was one of my rushed mornings). "I've
been looking at it any time these fifteen years," I observed bitterly,
"watching it become every day more and more fly-blown and like nothing
on earth. What entitles it to special notice at this moment?"
"Nothing--much," said Ursula; but from the tone of her voice
experience taught me that sentiment was only just out of sight. "I was
wondering whether to burn it----"
"Good."
"And then I thought that, as he was married the other day and is quite
likely to have a boy of his own, it would be interesting to compare
this early portrait."
"It would," I assented grimly. Perhaps disappointment had made me
brutal. "There's almost nothing, from the Alps at midnight to
Royalty down a coalmine, with which it would not be equally safe and
appropriate to compare it. Only, as I gather that this involves its
continued existence for a further indefinite period, my one request is
that in the meantime you remove it. Shut it in the safe. Bury it. But
don't leave it about."
"Aren't you being rather excited about nothing?"
"No. This is a matter of principle, and I am speaking for your own
good. Fifteen years ago that photograph, unframed and in the first
flush of youth, was casually deposited on your writing-table. Perhaps
you only meant to put it out of your hand for a moment while you
attended to something else. But you know what the result has been. It
has remained there, gradually establishing a prescriptive right. No
doubt it has been dusted, with the rest of the room, seven times a
week...."
"Six times," said Ursula, smiling, but blushing a little too--I was
glad to observe that.
"... and as often been replaced. Its charm for the observant visitor
has, to put the thing mildly, long since vanished. I doubt if
either of us would so much as see it had it not attained for me the
fascination of an eye-sore. Yet it stays on, simply because no one has
the initiative to take action. To put it concisely, it is a squatter."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I was never more serious in my life. This speckled travesty, this
photographic mummy, is but one example out of many. I do not know
whether other homes resemble ours in the same tendency towards the
mausoleum. But I strongly suspect it."
"What things are there besides this?" broke out Ursula, suddenly
defensive. "Tell me a list of them."
"You forget, sweetheart, that as a professional literary man my time,
especially in the morning, has a certain commercial value, but I will
endeavour to do as you ask. You would of course justly repudiate any
comparison between your own artistic setting and those Victorian
houses wherein the 'drawing-room book' reposed always in the same
sacred corner. Yet in the matter of derelict articles we are
millionaires, we are beset by squatters."
I could see that Ursula was impressed, though she tried to conceal
the fact. "Professional literary men seem to be strangely under the
dominion of one word," she began coldly.
At that moment a bell tinkled.
"Eliza!" cried Ursula; "and I'm not dressed." As she fluttered from
the room I had a distinct impression that she was not sorry for an
excuse to break off the interview.
I re-settled myself at my desk, smiling a little cynically. How
long would the lesson last? Then I happened to glance towards the
mantelpiece, beside which Ursula had been standing. There, hastily
propped against the clock, was that detestable photograph. It still
quivered in the movement of release, as though shaking its shoulders,
settling down palpably for another decade. With an uncontrollable
impulse I leapt up, seized the abomination and, flinging it on the
floor, ground it to powder with my heel.
In one word, the anti-squatting campaign had definitely begun.