Turgis kept his word to himself. Every day he appeared at the office
all shaved and brushed and as spruce as it was possible for him to be.
The others congratulated him and chaffed him and invented the most
elaborate reasons for the change. Sandycroft, the tall traveller with
the small head, the inquisitive nose, and the extraordinary number of
teeth, paid one of his flying visits to headquarters and pretended,
possibly at the instigation of Mr. Smeeth, not to know Turgis.
“I say, Smeeth,” Sandycroft barked--and he really did bark; it was
like having an enormous terrier about the place when Sandycroft
arrived--“what’s become of that other chap--you know, what’s his
name--that chap who used to wear the dark brown collars----?”
“Now who was that, Sandycroft?” said Smeeth, frowning and putting his
head on one side. Smeeth was as conscientious and painstaking a wag as
he was a cashier. It was not often that he joined in a joke, but when
he did he was almost alarmingly thorough.
“You _know_ the chap I mean, Smeeth,” replied Sandycroft, sniffing
with that queer little nose of his. “Never had his hair cut--wore a
beard--looked like a Spring Poet in the autumn. Sat at the desk over
there,” he continued, lowering his voice, “where that smart young
feller is. Oh, what _was_ his name?”
Here Stanley gurgled and spluttered, not perhaps because he thought
this was very brilliant humour, but because he thought comic relief
in any form should be encouraged. Miss Poppy Sellers was giggling
a little, too, and Miss Matfield smiled at them, not without
condescension.
“Oh, don’t be so funny,” Turgis mumbled, giving Stanley a ferocious
scowl.
“That’s queer, Smeeth. The same voice--the very same voice.”
“I believe you’re right, Sandycroft. I believe you’re right,” said Mr.
Smeeth, with the air of a dutiful cross-talk comedian.
“Sure I am,” the other barked. Then he stepped forward, with a large
polite smile on his face, displaying at least a hundred teeth. “Not Mr.
Turgis? Surely it can’t be Mr. Turgis?”
“No,” said Turgis, who was not very good at this sort of thing, “it’s
Charlie Chaplin.”
“Well, Mr. Charlie Chaplin Turgis,” said Sandycroft, “I must
congratulate you, I really must. All in favour, show in the usual
way. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.” And he turned away,
grinning.
“Ah, well,” said Mr. Smeeth, settling down to his books again, rather
as if he had just come to the end of some great gusty epic of humour,
“a bit of fun won’t do any of us any harm now and again. Here,
Stanley, slip round to Nickman and Sons with this and say it’s for Mr.
Broadhurst--for Mr. Broadhurst, mind. And hurry up, don’t take all
morning about it. Don’t go shadowing somebody all round London.”
A week had passed, and though news of Mr. Golspie himself had trickled
through into the general office, Turgis had heard nothing about Lena.
It seemed as if he was making a fool of himself--and being laughed
at by the others for his pains--and he was beginning to feel very
disheartened. On two evenings, he had returned to Maida Vale and had
hung about the neighbourhood of 4a, Carrington Villas, but had been
rewarded by nothing more than a glimpse of a shadow on a curtain. He
had been tempted then to walk boldly up to 4a and offer some wild
excuse for trying to see Miss Golspie. But he could think of nothing
that did not sound insane, and, realising that this crazy step might
spoil everything and get him into trouble at the office, he dismissed
the notion. The other evenings went very heavily. He had begun to tell
himself that he was silly to bother his head about the girl at all, but
it was one thing to tell himself that and quite another thing to stop
bothering.
Stanley returned, and was sent out again. Mr. Smeeth departed for the
bank. Turgis and the two girls worked away quietly; there was not a lot
to do that morning. Then Poppy Sellers came over to Turgis with some
advice notes she had just typed.
“Are these all right?” she asked.
He looked them over. “Yes, they’re all right. You’ve got into it now,
haven’t you?” he added, deciding to give her a good word for once. She
wasn’t a bad kid, really. “Wish I could type as neat as that. I used to
have to do it sometimes, before you came, but I used to make a nasty
mess of it, I did.”
Her sallow little face brightened at once at such praise. But her
manner was as perky as ever. “My word! we are coming on, aren’t we!
What have I done to deserve this? But I say,” and here she became more
confidential in tone, “you didn’t mind what they said--y’know when they
were trying to pull your leg. I had to laugh, and I thought you looked
a bit mad.”
“If it amuses ’em, I don’t care,” replied Turgis loftily. “Bit silly, I
call it, all the same. I don’t go round making personal remarks about
other people. Matter of fact, I don’t mind what old Smeethy says, ’cos
he’s a decent sort and anyhow it isn’t often _he_ breaks loose. But
I don’t like that chap Sandycroft. He’s a cocky devil, he is. And,
anyhow, he’s only just come here--what does he want to be trying to be
funny for?”
“That’s right,” said Poppy, nodding her head. “I don’t think much of
him, either. Not my style at all, he isn’t. Too many teeth, if you
ask me. And I don’t like them noses that turn up the way his does.
If he worked here all the time, he’d have that nose and teeth into
everything. I know that sort.”
“So do I. We’d a school teacher the very image of him when I was a kid,
and he used to try it on with us--oh, what a hope!”
“Mind you,” Poppy continued, looking at him a little uncertainly, “you
do look diff’rent--smarter, y’know.”
“Well, that’s nobody else’s business but mine,” Turgis declared.
“What’s it got to do with anybody else?”
“Oo, all right, don’t jump at me. I only meant--well, you look a lot
nicer now. In fact, I think you look very nice.”
Turgis did not know what reply to make to this, so he merely grunted.
“You don’t mind me saying so, I hope?”
“No, ’s’all right,” he replied awkwardly.
“I say, listen. Are you going anywhere to-night?” She stopped for a
moment, but then, before he had time to answer, went on with a rush.
“’Cos if you aren’t--well, it’s like this, my friend--her father’s
a policeman--and she got two tickets given for the Police Minstrels
to-night and now she can’t go ’cos she’s in bed with the flu and I’ve
got the tickets and I wondered if you’d like to come with me.” And she
drew a deep breath.
“Well, thanks very much,” he stammered, “but--I don’t know--you see----”
“Have you fixed up already to go somewhere?”
“Well, I have--_really_----”
“Oh, sorry.” Her face fell. She was silent for a moment, then looked
up--rather cheekily, he thought--and said, “Going out with your girl,
p’raps?”
This annoyed him, just as if she had jabbed at some sore place. “Well,
that’s my business, isn’t it?”
“Oo, sorry, sorry, sorry! Squashed again. I’d better shut up.” And she
marched away, a compact little figure, and began typing with great
vigour and noise. Miss Matfield threw a curious glance at her.
Turgis wondered if he had been foolish to pretend that he wasn’t free
to go to that entertainment. It would be a lot better than doing
nothing. He supposed it was too late to change his mind, particularly
now that she had walked off in a huff. He would wish, when the evening
did come and he had nothing to do but mope about, that he had accepted
her offer. She really hadn’t a bad face when you took a good look at
it. Yes, perhaps he’d been silly not to accept.
But when the evening did come and he suddenly remembered how he had
refused this other engagement, how glad he was! It seemed like fate.
And afterwards, when he suddenly remembered yet again how he had
refused this other engagement, how sorry he was! And still it seemed
like fate.
He and Miss Matfield came back from lunch at the same time that
afternoon (Miss Matfield had gone out first, but then she always
took quarter of an hour longer than anybody else), running into one
another in Angel Pavement, near T. Benenden’s. “You know, Turgis,”
she announced, in that clear hard voice of hers which always rather
frightened him, “I do think you’re beastly rude to little Miss Sellers.”
“Why, what have I done to her?” he demanded.
“I saw this morning you’d hurt her feelings again,” Miss Matfield
continued. “And why you should, I can’t imagine. She’s quite a nice
child, really, underneath that silly perky manner of hers, and I think
she’s rather lonely, and you could be quite good friends. You see, she
happens to think you’re rather marvellous.”
“And you don’t, Miss Matfield,” said Turgis, bold for once with her.
“Go on, you might as well put that in properly. I could hear it in your
tone of voice.”
“I certainly don’t think you’re at all marvellous,” she said coolly.
“Why should I? What I do think is that you’re being very rude to
somebody who is prepared to like you a good deal. And when people
really like you,” she added severely, “you ought to be specially nice
to them and not rude. Now don’t say anything to her about what I’ve
just said or I shall be really annoyed.”
“All right,” said Turgis sulkily, wondering why he couldn’t say
something sharp to her, for her cool cheek. “But I don’t see what
I’ve done to her. She takes offence too quickly, that’s it. And whose
fault’s that? And for that matter, who’s ever considered _my_ feelings
in the office?”
“You’re different,” she said airily, “or if you’re not, you ought to
be. You’re a man.”
Turgis, pleased by this statement that he was a man, but still
labouring under a grievance, could do nothing but mumble and mutter,
and Miss Matfield, taking no further notice of him, led the way
upstairs. The next time he saw Miss Sellers, Turgis looked curiously
at her. So she thought he was “rather marvellous,” did she? He found
himself returning to this, and to her, several times during the
afternoon.
But then something happened, something so important that it promptly
blew away all thought of Miss Sellers or anybody or anything in that
office. Mr. Dersingham, who had only been there long enough in the
morning to go through the first post, returned about four to examine
the later posts, and he had not been in ten minutes before he sent for
Mr. Smeeth. After a short interval, during which one of them telephoned
to somebody from the private office, Mr. Smeeth came out, looking
fussy, as he always did when he had something special to do.
“Let’s see,” he said, looking round the office, “does anybody here live
Maida Vale way?”
What was this? Turgis’s heart jumped and knocked.
“Well, I live in Hampstead and that’s roughly the same way,” Miss
Matfield began, dubiously.
“What is it, Mr. Smeeth?” cried Turgis eagerly. “I know Maida Vale very
well.”
“Thought you lived Camden Town way?” said Mr. Smeeth.
“Yes, I do, but--er--I know somebody in Maida Vale, often go there. Is
it anything I can do, Mr. Smeeth?”
“Yes, I think you’d better have the job, Turgis,” said the unconscious
Mr. Smeeth, little knowing what effect his words were having. “You see,
Mr. Golspie’s got a daughter living with him--well, you know that,
because she came here one day, didn’t she?”
Oh, my gosh!--didn’t she!
“She hasn’t got a bank account,” Mr. Smeeth continued, “and apparently
the girl’s got through all the money her father left her--these girls,
my word, they think we’re made of money!--wait till you’re a father,
Turgis, and then you’ll know--and he’s arranged with us to let her
have some from his account here. She wants it at once, to-day, and
we’ve just telephoned to see if she’ll be in, and she will--trust
her!--they’ll always be in if they get something for it--so somebody
had better take it up to her, Mr. Dersingham says. I’d make the young
madam wait if I’d anything to do with it,” he went on, maddeningly,
“because this is only encouraging extravagance, upon my word it is--but
Mr. Dersingham says she’d better have it now.”
“Well, I’ll take it, Mr. Smeeth.” Oh, wouldn’t he just!
“All right, then. You’d better clear off that work you’ve got on hand,
Turgis, and then when you go, you needn’t come back. If you leave here
about five, you’ll get there about half-past five, and that’ll leave
her ample time to put in a full evening spending it. I’ve got the
address here all ready.”
Got the address! If old Smeethy only knew! Turgis could have banged his
desk and sent all his advice notes and bills of lading and railway and
shipping accounts flying about the office. He did contrive to clear
up a few odd jobs, but he did not do as much work as he pretended to
do, for it was impossible to keep his mind crawling there, among the
papers, and to prevent it from taking a wild leap now and then. At a
few minutes to five, he cleared his desk ruthlessly, so that it looked
as if the last crumb of work had been gobbled up. “I’m ready now, Mr.
Smeeth,” he announced.
“Right you are,” said Mr. Smeeth. “I’m putting twelve pounds, twelve
pound notes, into this envelope, and it has the name and address on,
you see--Miss Golspie, 4a Carrington Villas, Maida Vale. I’ll seal
that. Now here’s a form of receipt I’ve made out, and you must get her
to sign that, so that there’s no possible mistake. You understand that?”
Turgis assured him fervently that he did. He was delighted at the
receipt idea. Once or twice he had thought what a dismal ending it
would be if he merely handed over the money at the door--“Is that
the money? Thank you. Good afternoon.” But signing a receipt was a
different matter; it could not be done properly at the door; you should
read a receipt carefully before you sign it; you might want to have it
explained; you must ask the messenger in, and then of course he might
have a chance to talk. The receipt made it a piece of real business.
Good old Smeethy! It was just like him to insist on a proper receipt.
“And you needn’t come back, of course,” said Mr. Smeeth. “Just pop off
home. I’ll just tell Mr. Dersingham I’ve fixed it all up.”
“What’s all this about?” Miss Matfield asked, as he was taking his
overcoat from its peg.
He explained shortly.
“Where do they live?”
“In Maida Vale. 4a, Carrington Villas,” he told her.
“I say, listen,” cried Miss Sellers, sweeping away her grievance. “If
you get a chance of going in, go in, and then tell us what it’s like
to-morrow. I’d like to know what sort of place Mr. Golspie lives in.
Wouldn’t you, Miss Matfield?”
Miss Matfield, to Turgis’s surprise, for he expected her to be
disdainful of such idle curiosity, admitted at once that she would.
“I’m rather sorry I didn’t ask for the job,” she added. “It would be
amusing to see what the daughter’s like. I have just seen her, but
that’s all. And I can’t imagine what sort of place Mr. Golspie lives
in, though it’s probably some furnished maisonette they’re camping in.
Maida Vale’s stiff with them.”
“Well, I can’t fancy that Mr. Golspie having a ’ome at all,” Miss
Sellers put in. “Seems a ’omeless sort of man to me.”
“I’ll say ‘Good afternoon,’” cried Turgis loudly and cheerfully, and
off he went, the money and the receipt form snugly tucked away in the
inside pocket of his coat, the best coat he had and all brushed and
as natty as you like. Now for Maida Vale, and no hanging about this
time, but straight as a shot from a gun through the front gate of 4,
Carrington Villas. He hurried out, running down the stairs, in fear of
Mr. Dersingham or Mr. Smeeth or Miss Golspie or the gods suffering a
change of mind at the last minute and dragging him back to his desk.