IV

“Now this is my fault,” Mr. Golspie boomed at the Dersinghams, turning

from one to the other, “my fault entirely. I ought to have told you. I

meant to, but I forgot. This girl of mine wrote to say she was coming

from Paris to-day, but of course she didn’t say how and when and what

and where, just left it all vague, y’know, as usual, all up in the air.

When it got to be half past seven and she hadn’t turned up, I began to

wonder. What was I to do?” And as he asked this he stared fiercely at

Mr. Pearson, who happened to catch his eye.

“Quite so, Mr. Golspie,” Mr. Pearson, startled, jerked out.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I did do. I left a message with the caretaker

of the flats, so that if she did come she’d know where I was----”

“All right, my dear,” his daughter interrupted, “you needn’t go on and

on. Nobody wants to hear all about it. I got the message. I wasn’t

going to spend hours all alone in that poisonous flat. So I took a taxi

and came here. And that’s that.” And having thus dismissed the subject,

Miss Golspie, who seemed an astonishingly cool and composed young lady,

smiled at Mrs. Dersingham, who did not return the smile. Miss Golspie

then produced a small mirror from her handbag and carefully examined

her features in it.

And even Mrs. Dersingham would have been compelled to admit that they

were very charming features. Lena Golspie still remained, after closer

inspection, a very pretty girl. She had reddish-gold hair, large

brown eyes, an impudent little nose, and a luscious mouth. She looked

rather smaller than she actually was. Her neck, shoulders, and arms

were slenderly, even too delicately, fashioned, but she had strong,

well-shaped legs; and was indeed the complete attractive young female

animal. Only in a certain slant of the eye and some movements of the

mouth did she resemble her father, though a very acute listener might

have found some likeness in their voices. Their accent, however,

was quite different, for Mr. Golspie spoke with a breadth of vowel

sound and roughness of consonants that suggested the toned-down

Lowlander or North-country Englishman, whereas his daughter’s English

did not properly belong to any part of England but seemed to be that

international English, of a kind that a clever foreigner might pick

up in the Anglo-Saxon colony in Paris and that is sometimes spoken by

both English and Americans on the stage, a language without roots and

background, a language for “the talkies.” Indeed, in Lena’s company you

might have felt you were taking part in a “talkie.”

“And I intended to tell you when I first came in,” Mr. Golspie

continued, determined to have his say. “Just to warn you that this

daughter o’ mine--who doesn’t behave herself as nicely as she looks, I

can tell you--might be landing herself on you.”

“Quite all right, of course,” said Mr. Dersingham. “I mean--delighted!”

“Good! No harm done, then.” And Mr. Golspie sat down, grinned at his

daughter, noticed the decanter in front of him, and promptly helped

himself to another glass of port.

“But I must say,” cried Lena, who had now concluded the examination of

her own features and was busy examining everybody else’s, “I thought

you’d have finished dinner hours ago. Did you begin late or have you

been wolfing an awful lot?”

“I think we’d better all go straight into the drawing-room,” said Mrs.

Dersingham hurriedly, “unless you men feel you _must_ stay and drink

some more port.”

“Not a bit,” said Mr. Golspie heartily. “I’m ready, for one.” And to

show that he was, he drained his glass in one sharp gulp.

“Only too delighted, Mrs. Dersingham,” said Major Trape, bowing and

looking very severe, as if indirectly to rebuke the uncouth Golspie.

“Good work!” said Mr. Dersingham, who obviously felt that something

was still wrong somewhere and was trying in vain to appear hearty

and enthusiastic. He opened the door. “Much better if we all barge in

together now.”

“Come along, Miss Golspie,” and the patient little smile that Mrs.

Dersingham contrived to produce was itself a studied insult. “We don’t

mind a _bit_ your not being dressed. It doesn’t matter at all, I assure

you.”

Miss Golspie turned wondering large brown eyes upon her. “Oh, did you

want me to change? I would have done if I’d known--specially as I’ve

brought over one or two marvellous new dresses--but it didn’t seem

worth it. Sorry and all that!”

“Not in the least,” replied Mrs. Dersingham, pale with weariness and

vexation. Cheerfully--oh, so cheerfully!--she could have murdered this

girl.

They trooped rather silently into the drawing-room, which did not seem

particularly pleased to see them. It had been neglected itself for some

time--so that the fire was low and ashy--and now it did not seem to

welcome visitors. Cook arrived with coffee, and put down the tray with

the air of a camel exhibiting the last straw. She did not attempt to

serve it. She put it down on the rickety little table and immediately

made that table seem ten times more rickety. There was no cup for Miss

Golspie, who of course said at once that she would have some coffee,

and so Mr. Dersingham, with what seemed to his wife a great deal of

unnecessary fuss and silliness, insisted that he should go without.

And then, having taken the tiniest sip of coffee, this Golspie girl

ostentatiously put the cup on one side, and, on being asked by Mr.

Pearson, who had also turned silly and officious, if she would have

some more, replied that she did not really want any coffee.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” she declared, in a loud clear voice, “I’d

adore a cocktail, if there are any going.”

“Oh, would you, Miss Golspie?” Mr. Dersingham began. “Well, I dare say

I could rake up----” But he was not allowed to continue.

“I’m afraid there aren’t any cocktails going,” said Mrs. Dersingham,

in a voice that was if anything louder and clearer, and as frosted as

the best Martini.

And the insensitive Mr. Golspie did not improve the situation by

chiming in with “I should think not. Don’t you take any notice of her,

Mrs. Dersingham. I’ll give her cocktails!”

“When you get her home, eh?” Mr. Pearson cried, with rash

facetiousness. “Tee-tee-tee-tee-tee.”

It was easily his least successful “Tee-tee” of the evening. Mrs.

Pearson looked surprised at him. Mr. Golspie gave him a glance that

told him quite plainly to mind his own business and not try to be

funny. Lena herself shot a furious glance at both her father and

Mr. Pearson, but did not cast a single look in Mrs. Dersingham’s

direction--a very ominous sign. As for Mrs. Dersingham, she could not

decide which was the more awful, Mr. Golspie or his terrible daughter.

She tried to start a conversation with Mrs. Pearson, who was now all

embarrassed smiles, and Mrs. Trape, whose face had been completely

frost-bound for the last ten minutes.

Miss Verever, every feature in battle order, now bore down on Lena,

opening the engagement with a long-range smile of the most sinister

peculiarity. “Do I understand, Miss Golspie,” she said, with the most

mysterious grimace and the most baffling inflections, “that you’ve just

come from Paris? Have you been living there?”

“Hello, hello!” cried Lena’s startled expression. “What have I done to

you?” But all she actually said in reply was, “Yes, I’ve just come from

there, and I’ve been living there.”

“Oh, you _have_ been living there?”

“Yes, for the last eighteen months. With an uncle. You see, he lives

there, and I’ve been living with him.”

“Oh, your _uncle_ lives there?”

“Yes, he’s lived there nearly all his life. He is half French, anyhow.

And my aunt’s completely French.”

“Then is your father--Mr. Golspie--half French?” asked Miss Verever, in

one of her strangest whispers.

“No, not at all,” said Lena, with a little impatient shake of her head.

“You see, this uncle’s my mother’s brother, not my father’s.”

“Oh, your _mother’s_.” And now Miss Verever produced her most famous

glance of inquiry, awfully enigmatical in its final meaning and yet

immediately challenging. She followed it up with a new smile, crooked,

terrible. “Well, then, of course, your mother must be half French, I

suppose, just like your uncle?”

“Yes, she was.” And then Lena’s little nose wrinkled, partly in

bewilderment, partly in distaste. Then she looked straight at Miss

Verever, who was bending over her and searching her with an unwinking

gaze. “But what about it? I mean, there’s nothing particularly funny

about that, is there? Lots of people are half French, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Miss Verever was taken aback.

“Well, then, what are you looking at me like that for?” cried Lena,

at once registering a direct hit. “I mean, you look as if there

was something terribly weird about it all. There really isn’t, you

know. It’s all quite simple.” The shell crashed through and exploded

somewhere near the magazine.

Miss Verever was jerked upright by her surprise. Then she turned

glacial. “I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, but----”

Miss Verever did not wait to hear, but turned away at once and joined

the other three women. Lena, after staring after her for a moment, gave

a tiny wriggle and then broke into a duet of Old Worrelian talk between

Mr. Dersingham and Major Trape, who were merely chivalrous at first but

very soon began to wear that fatuous smile. And towards the three of

them an icy current began to flow from the group of women. Too tired,

too cross, even to pretend to be a good brisk hostess, Mrs. Dersingham

let the whole thing slide, and merely prayed for the end. It was not

long in coming.

“Shall I?” Miss Golspie was heard to cry to the two men.

They nodded and smiled, a little doubtfully perhaps, but still they

nodded and smiled, men under a spell.

“All right, then, I will. Just to cheer us all up. We’re getting

terribly dismal.” And Miss Golspie, with a final and coquettish nod and

smile of her own at the other two nodders and smilers, marched across

the room, puffing away at one of her host’s _Sahibs_. Then she sat down

at the baby grand.

“That’s the way, Lena,” her father shouted approvingly. He had been

talking in a corner to Mr. Pearson. “Let’s have a tune. Do us good.”

Before anybody else could say a word, Lena had begun playing. She

played some dance tunes, very sketchily, but with great speed and

noise. The first two or three minutes were bad, but the next two or

three minutes were much worse, for then her left hand, guessing wildly,

began hitting any note roughly in the neighbourhood of the right one,

and the very fire irons joined in the din. After ten minutes, she

reached a grand _fortissimo_. Mrs. Dersingham could bear it no longer.

“Oh, do _stop_ that noise!” she shrieked, rushing forward, white and

trembling with fury.

Lena stopped at once. They were all fixed, rooted, in a vast sudden

silence.

Mrs. Dersingham bit her lip, recovered herself. “I’m sorry,” she

said, coldly and curtly, “but I really must ask you to stop playing.

I’ve--got a bad headache.”

“I see,” replied Lena, getting up from the piano. “Sorry.” She walked

forward a step or two, then looked at Mrs. Dersingham. “Have you had it

all the evening or has it just come on now?” And this was not a polite

inquiry, but a challenge. The tone of voice made that obvious.

“Does that matter?” And Mrs. Dersingham turned away.

Into the silence that fell now there came the voice, quavering a

little, of Mrs. Pearson. “Now I really think it’s time we were going,”

it began. But nobody took any notice of it.

For Lena burst into a torrent of speech. “No, it doesn’t matter, of

course. But I just asked because I thought you might have started that

headache since I came, because you’ve just been as rotten as you could

be, and I didn’t ask to come--I’ve been travelling half the day and

I’m as tired as you are--and I wouldn’t have come at all if my father

hadn’t told me to, and I thought you were friends of his, but from the

minute I came in, you’ve not said a decent word to me or given me a

decent look----”

“Hoy!” roared her father, seizing her by the arm and shaking her a

little. “What the blazes is all this? What’s the matter with you, girl?

That’s not the way to behave----”

“No, and that’s not the way to behave either,” cried Lena, shaking

herself free. “What have I done? I didn’t want to push myself into her

beastly house.” And then she grabbed her father’s arm and burst into

tears. “I’m going,” she sobbed. “Take me home.”

Mr. Golspie put an arm round her and she continued her sobbing on

his shoulder. “Sorry about this,” he said, over her head. “My fault,

I expect. I oughtn’t to have told her to come. The kid’s a bit

nervy--tired, y’know.”

“Yes, of course--travelling and all that,” said Mr. Dersingham, feeling

that some reply was expected.

This was Mrs. Dersingham’s chance, but she did not take it. She might

have accepted the apology if her husband had not been so ready to

accept it and make an excuse for the girl. But now she turned her back

on Mr. Golspie and his terrible daughter, and said to Mrs. Pearson:

“Must you _really_ go? It’s quite early, you know. Oh, Mrs. Trape,

_you’re_ not going, are you? Why?” And it was well done, bravely done,

but it was a mistake, perhaps the biggest mistake she ever made.

Mr. Golspie’s face changed its expression, all the good-humour dying

out of it at once. “All right,” he said shortly. “Come on, Lena,

shake yourself up a bit. We’re going now. Good-night, all. See you

in the morning, Dersingham. Good-night.” And immediately he marched

himself and his daughter out of the room, and, a minute later, before

Dersingham had followed him up, out of the house.

Half an hour later, the Dersinghams were alone, and Mrs. Dersingham was

curled up in the largest chair, crying. “I don’t care, I don’t care,”

she sobbed. “They were _awful_, both of them. The man was nearly as

bad as his terrible daughter. They were ghastly, and I hope to Heaven

I never see either of them again. Or any of those people, except Mrs.

Pearson. Oh, what a horrible, ghastly evening!”

“I know, I know, my dear,” said her husband, hovering about vaguely and

trying to be consoling. “Everything went wrong. I know.”

“No, you don’t, you can’t possibly know how awful it was for me. No,

don’t touch me, leave me _alone_. I just want to go miles and miles

away, and never see anybody for months. Don’t ever let me see those

vile Golspies again. And I don’t care what I said or did. It couldn’t

be too bad for them. Next time, if you want to invite anybody from

Angel Pavement, invite the clerks and the typists, anybody before those

awful Golspies.”

“There, there,” said Mr. Dersingham, “there, there, there.” And when

dialogue is reduced to this, it is time we quitted the scene.

Lena, in the taxi that carried them away from Barkfield Gardens, had

stopped crying and was now fiercely resentful, like the spoilt child

she was. “Well, they _were_ rotten snobs. And it wasn’t _my_ fault that

half her beastly dinner had been dropped outside the door; I didn’t

even know until you told me; and it was probably a good job for you,

it _was_ dropped, for I’ll bet it was the most awful muck. But there

wasn’t one of those old cats who gave me a decent look or spoke a

decent word to me. You ought to have seen that long thin bony one when

I asked her what she was looking so funny about! And you needn’t think

it was only _me_ they didn’t like, either. They didn’t like you, I

could see that. They weren’t real friends, any of them.”

“Who said they were, young woman?” her father demanded. “Don’t make

such a palaver about it. I know all about ’em. The best of the lot

was that chap with the long neck and the wobbly cheeks--Pearson, the

chap from Singapore--and he was only half-baked. If Dersingham’s wife

doesn’t think we’re good enough for them, let her go on thinking so.

I’ll bet she thinks I’m good enough to keep on putting some ginger

in that half dead concern of theirs. After what I’ve seen of the

Dersingham end of Twigg and Dersingham, all I can say is that Twigg,

whoever he was, must have been a dam’ smart chap to have got the firm

going at all.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re making money for those blighters?” cried

Lena, winding an arm round his.

“The people I’m going to make money for,” replied Mr. Golspie grimly,

at the same time squeezing the arm, “are these people, these two here.

Just you keep quiet and leave it to me, Miss Golspie.”

_Chapter Four_: TURGIS SEES HER

I

Turgis was not lazy and while he was in the office he preferred

doing something to doing nothing, but he did not share Mr. Smeeth’s

enthusiasm for office work and never regarded himself as one of the

firm. It was all very well for Twigg & Dersingham to be suddenly busy

again, indeed much busier than they had ever been before, but Turgis

did not see the fun of going hard at it all day and every day and

frequently having to stay an hour later. No doubt somebody was doing

well out of it, but he, Turgis, was getting nothing out of it but a

great deal more work. He grumbled about this to Mr. Smeeth. It was

Saturday morning; he had just received his fortnight’s pay, six pound

notes, one ten-shilling note, and two florins; and it was a time for

such confidences.

“All right, all right,” said Mr. Smeeth, with the manner of a person

who knew a great deal. “That’s your point of view, isn’t it?”

Turgis, a little diffidently now, for he had a considerable respect for

Mr. Smeeth if no particular liking for him, replied that it was.

“Now let me tell you something, my boy,” Mr. Smeeth continued gravely.

“Just a week or two ago--I’ll tell you exactly what day it was; it

was the day Mr. Golspie first called here--Mr. Dersingham was talking

things over with me, in that room there. I’m telling you this in

confidence, mind. And Mr. Dersingham said the office expenses were too

big and somebody would have to go. And it looked as if that somebody

would be you.”

“Me!” Turgis’s mouth, always open a little, was now wide open, for his

jaw suddenly dropped.

“You, Turgis,” said Mr. Smeeth, with the satisfied air of a man who has

produced the desired effect. “It was touch and go whether I told you

that very day. I’m glad I didn’t because you might have got a fright

for nothing. Now it’s all right, of course. We’re busy, and we need

everybody. But when you want to start grumbling about a bit of extra

work, my boy, just you remember that. You might have been looking for

work now, and I’ll bet you wouldn’t have liked that, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Mr. Smeeth,” replied Turgis, humbly enough.

“And I don’t blame you.” Feeling fairly confident, for once, about his

own job, Mr. Smeeth had a great desire to enlarge upon this topic,

which had for him a terrible fascination. “Jobs aren’t easy to get, are

they?”

“Not if you haven’t influence and you’re not in the know, Mr. Smeeth,”

said Turgis, who was a great believer in the mysterious power of

influence and being in the know, and realised only too well that there

were few people in London who had less influence or were further from

the know than himself. “That’s the trouble. I seen it myself. You can’t

get a look in. I’d a packet--my words, I’d a packet--before I got taken

on here. Trailin’ round, queueing up, round again--oh, dear! You know

what it’s like.”

“No, I don’t,” Mr. Smeeth returned, sharply.

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Smeeth. Of course, you don’t. I do, though.

Oo, it’s sorful,” cried Turgis earnestly. “’S’not getting any better

either. Well I’m glad you told me, Mr. Smeeth. I’d better keep my mouth

shut a bit, hadn’t I? It is all right now, isn’t it?”

“Quite all right. You do your best for us,” Mr. Smeeth added

sententiously, “and we’ll do our best for you.”

Turgis came nearer, and lowered his voice when he spoke. “D’you think,

Mr. Smeeth, there’ll be any chance of a rise, now I’m getting all this

extra work? Ought to be, oughtn’t there? I mean, I’m not getting a lot

really, am I?”

“You leave it alone a bit, Turgis, and just do your best, and then I’ll

see what I can do for you.”

“I wish you would, Mr. Smeeth. You see, it’s not as if I’d got anybody

helping me with my work, ’cos this new typist doesn’t really help me

out much, does she? And if you could--just--you know--say something

to Mr. Golspie or Mr. Dersingham, because, you know, Mr. Smeeth, I am

doing my best, and you mustn’t think I want to grumble, ’cos I don’t.”

The new typist had been a great disappointment to Turgis, not because

she was of no assistance to him in his work but because she was not the

attractive young creature his heated fancy had conjured up to fill the

post. Miss Poppy Sellers, with her unfortunate Oriental effect which

merely resulted in dinginess and untidiness, did not seem to him at all

pretty. At the end of the first morning, though he was flattered by

her awe of him, he had dismissed her as a very poor bit of girl stuff.

When he had heard that the firm was advertising for another typist,

a younger girl to help Miss Matfield, he had had instant visions of

working side by side with one of those really pretty ones he often

noticed making their way about the City. There were one or two good

ones in Angel Pavement itself: quite a pretty piece downstairs with

the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co._; another not so dusty who went up the

stairs next door to _C. Warstein: Tailors’ Trimmings_; and a real

beauty--one to make your mouth water, a peach--at _Dunbury & Co.:

Incandescent Gas Fittings_, at the end of the street. And there were

two or three worth looking at, the flashy young Jewessy type, at _Chase

& Cohen’s Carnival Novelties_ place at the end. Any one of these girls,

walking into Twigg & Dersingham’s, would have lit up the place for him,

and the day’s routine would have become an adventure. But they must

go and choose this dreary-looking kid with the fringe. It was just

his luck. Two girls working in the same office, and neither of them

any good. Miss Matfield was all right in her way, of course, but then

she was too big, too old, and far too “posh” and bossy for him, even

if she had ever showed any sign--and, so far, she hadn’t--of being

really interested in his existence. This other one, Polly Sellers, was

interested enough, quite ready to be friends, but then, well--look at

her.

The maddening thing about it--and it really was maddening to

Turgis--was that all these other ripe and adorable girls (he thought

of them as “fine bits”) were all over the place, walking in and out of

offices, sitting in corners of teashops, elbowing him sometimes (and

he was always there to be elbowed) in buses and tube trains, so that

you might have thought they worked for everybody in the City but Twigg

& Dersingham. And it was no better, perhaps it was worse, when he was

roaming about for pleasure and not simply going to and from the office.

Everywhere he saw them, never missed seeing them. His mind was for ever

busy with their images, for ever troubled by them. No matter where he

went, he was tantalised, the path underneath his feet a narrow dusty

track of wilderness but all hung about with rich forbidden clusters of

feminine fruit, shrinking, withering, vanishing, at a touch.

Turgis was by temperament a lover. His thoughts never left the other

sex long; happiness had for him a feminine shape; the real world was

illuminated by the bright glances of girls; and at any moment, one of

them might reveal to him an enchanted life they could share together.

It would be easy to see him as a lonely lad seeking sympathy in that

crowd in which he was lost. It would be just as easy to see him as a

figure of furtive lusts, whose mind descended and there lived eagerly

in an underworld of tiny mean contacts, seemingly accidental pressures

of the arm and the foot. Yet behind both these figures was the lover.

And this, in spite of his shabbiness and unprepossessing looks, the

shiny baggy suit, and the frayed tie, the open mouth, that slight

pastiness and spottiness, that faint grey film which seemed to cover

and subdue his physical self. He was no dapper lady-killer. But then

if Turgis, even with his scanty means, did not try very hard to make

himself superficially attractive to the sex that despises crumpled

clothes, matted hair, pasty cheeks, youth that has lost all vividness

and glow, it was because he believed that the cry from within, urgent,

never ceasing, must receive an answer. He knew that he had little to

offer on the surface, was nothing to look at, nobody in particular, but

he felt that inside he was different, he was wonderful, and that sooner

or later a girl, a beautiful and passionate girl, caring nothing for

the outside show, would recognise this difference, this wonder, within,

would cry, “Oh, it’s you,” and love would immediately follow. Then life

would really begin. So far it had not begun; in the tangle, blather,

jumble of mere existence, of eating, sleeping, working, journeying and

staring, it had only made a number of false starts. In other words,

Turgis had had his little adventures but was not yet in love, or

rather--for he was perpetually in love--had not yet found the single

outlet for all this flood, the one girl.

After returning to his own desk, Turgis thought about these other

girls who might so easily have come to work by his side instead of

continuing with the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade_ or _Dunbury & Co._, and

then, dismissing them reluctantly, he began to tidy up his desk and

finish off the week’s work. It was after twelve and the week-end was

in sight. He leaned forward on his high stool, and breathed hard over

communications from the London and North Eastern Railway and the City

Transport Company. There was a girl at the City Transport--he had never

seen her but she often answered the telephone--who sounded nice, lovely

voice she had, and once or twice he had made her laugh. If he had been

in the office by himself, he would have talked to her properly, perhaps

suggested an appointment--on the pictures they called it a “date” but

Turgis thought of it as a “point”--but he was never alone, and even if

there was only that silly kid, Stanley, there, it would spoil it. But

it was fine to hear her laugh down the telephone. Silvery, that was

it--silvery laughter--her silvery laughter--just like in a book.

He was interrupted by a touch on his arm, and he looked round to find

the new typist at his elbow, looking up at him with her biggish brown

eyes. She had a lot of powder on one side of her nose, and none at all,

just shiny skin, on the other side. No good.

“Please,” said Miss Sellers in her chirpy little Cockney voice,

“please, have you written to the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping?”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied.

She merely stared.

“I haven’t written to the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping,” he continued

severely, “because I’ve never heard of the Anglo-What’s-It Shipping.

Don’t know them--see?”

“Oo, I’m sorry,” though she did not sound very sorry. “Have I said

something wrong? I can’t remember all these names yet. Give me a

chance. You know who I mean, don’t you? It is Anglo-something, isn’t

it?”

“If it’s the Anglo-Baltic Shipping Co. you’re talking about,” said

Turgis with dignity, “then I have written to them. Wrote yesterday,

’s’matter of fact. But to the Anglo-Baltic, mind you. There’s no

what’s-it about it.”

The girl looked at him for a moment. “Oo!” she cried softly,

“squashed!” And then she promptly walked away.

Turgis glanced after her with distaste. “Getting cheeky now,” he told

himself. “That’s the latest--getting cheeky. And just because she can’t

make up to me. All right, Miss Dirty Fringe, you’ll have to be told off

soon, you will. Try it again, that’s all, just try it again.” And he

was filled with a righteous indignation, pointing out to himself that

these girls didn’t know their place in an office, wouldn’t get on with

their work properly, and were always trying their little tricks on men

who wanted to do their job with no nonsense about it.

There was a familiar scurrying, as of some small animal of the

undergrowth that had got itself shod with leather and iron tips; the

door burst open; Stanley had returned.

“Come on, boy, come on,” said Mr. Smeeth, looking over his eyeglasses.

“Get those letters copied, sharp as you can. Don’t want us to be here

all day, waiting for you, do you?”

“I want to get the one-five from London Bridge, if I can, Mr. Smeeth,”

said Miss Matfield. “I’m spending the week-end in the country, thank

God.”

“You’ll get it all right, Miss Matfield,” Mr. Smeeth told her. “Plenty

of time. Now then, Stanley--bustle about. Sharp’s the world, my boy.”

“Oo, Miss Matfield,” Miss Sellers began, staring at her, “d’you reely

like the country this weather? I don’t know how you can bear it. I

couldn’t, not now, when it’s winter. It’s not as if it was summer, is

it?”

“Like it best in winter, if it’s not raining too hard. Jolly good!

Nothing like so filthy as London is in winter.”

“Well, I’m sure it would give me the ’ump,” Miss Sellers declared.

“But I do like it in summer. It’s lovely in summer, I think.” You

could almost see her looking at the buttercups and daisies. “I like

the seaside best, though. Don’t you, Miss Matfield? It’s lovely at the

seaside in summer, I think. I’ve never been in winter. It’s nice in

summer even when it rains at the seaside, isn’t it?”

Miss Matfield replied, shortly but amiably, that it was, and then began

clearing up her papers.

“Here,” cried Stanley, in the middle of his copying, “I seen a smash

right in Moorgate.” He looked round triumphantly.

“I’ll bet you didn’t,” said Turgis.

“I did, and I bet you I did. Anyhow, if I didn’t see it, I was there

just after, when the bobby was taking names. Oh, what a crowd! I got

right to the front. Car and a lorry it was. The lorry was all right,

but you oughter seen the car. Oh, no, it wasn’t a mess--oh, no!”

“And how many hours did you stand there, eh?” Mr. Smeeth inquired.

“That’s what takes your time, my boy--doing your bit of nosy-parkering.”

“I had to go that way and I couldn’t get past, Mr. Smeeth,” Stanley

cried indignantly. “So I had to see what was up, couldn’t help it. I

thought the bobby might take my name as a witness, but he didn’t. I

wish he had done,” he added wistfully. “I’d like to be a witness.”

“If you don’t finish those letters in ten minutes,” said Mr. Smeeth,

wagging a finger at him, “you’ll be in the dock, and never mind being a

witness. How are you getting on, Turgis?”

“Nearly finished, Mr. Smeeth,” Turgis replied. “I’ll just give the City

Transport a ring to see if they’ve heard anything about that lot we

sent to Norwich.” And he promptly went to the telephone.

There was no silvery laughter this time from the City Transport

Company. The voice that answered him was not only a masculine voice but

also an irritated, badgered, weary, despairing voice, that of a man

who was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he would be spending all

Saturday afternoon answering idiotic inquiries. “Yes, I know, I know,”

it barked. “You rang me up before about it. Well, we’re doing our best.

We’ve got the matter in hand. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve told our Norwich

people. I’ll let you know on Monday. The first thing, the very first

thing, on Monday, I’ll let you know.” It was pleading now. “Can’t do

more than that, can I?” And now it was tired of pleading. “All right,

all ri-ight, we’re doing what we ca-a-an. Ring you on Mo-o-onday.”

“They’ve got through to Norwich about it, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis,

“but they say it’ll have to stand over till Monday.”

“That’s all right then, Turgis. Give them a ring on Monday.”

There was now a feeling throughout the office that all manner of things

would have to stand over until Monday. This feeling was not confined to

Twigg & Dersingham, but could have been discovered operating upstairs

at the _Universal Hosiery Co._ and the _London and Counties Supply

Stores_, and downstairs at the _Kwik-Work Razor Blade Co._, and at

_Chase & Cohen: Carnival Novelties_ on the one side and at _Dunbury &

Co.: Incandescent Gas Fittings_ on the other side, in fact, all up and

down Angel Pavement, and far beyond Angel Pavement, in all the banks

and offices and showrooms and warehouses of the City. Very soon the

City itself would be standing over until Monday: the crowds of brokers

and cashiers and clerks and typists and hawkers would have vanished

from its pavements, the bars would be forlorn, the teashops nearly

empty or closed; its trams and buses, no longer clamouring for a few

more yards of space, would come gliding easily through misty blue

vacancies like ships going down London River; and the whole place,

populated only by caretakers and policemen among the living, would sink

slowly into quietness; the very bank-rate would be forgotten; and it

would be left to drown itself in reverie, with a drift of smoke and

light fog across its old stones like the return of an army of ghosts.

Until--with a clatter, a clang, a sudden raw awakening--Monday.

Papers were swept into drawers, letters were stamped in rows, blotters

were shut, turned over, put away, ledgers and petty cash boxes were

locked up, typewriters were covered, noses were powdered, cigarettes

and pipes were lit, doors were banged, and stairs were noisy with hasty

feet. The week was done. Out they came in their thousands into Angel

Pavement, London Wall, Moorgate Street, Cornhill and Cheapside. They

were so thick along Finsbury Pavement that the Moorgate Tube Station

seemed like a monster sucking them down into its hot rank inside. Among

these vanishing mites was one with a large but not masterful nose, full

brown eyes, a slightly open mouth, and a drooping chin. This was Turgis

going home.

He had to stand all the way, and though there were at least five

nice-looking girls in the same compartment--and one was very close to

him, and two of the others he had noticed several times before--not one

of them showed the slightest interest in him.