Chapter IV: Part 4

“No doubt,” said Mr. Smeeth, quite seriously.

“And up to eighteen months ago, I’d have told you that Claridge and Molton was one of the soundest concerns in the business. And look at ’em now. Properly in Queer Street. Absolutely down the river.”

Mr. Smeeth manfully faced the blue glare. “How d’you account for it?” he inquired, not out of mere politeness but because he really wanted to know.

“This milk doesn’t taste right this morning,” his neighbour remarked mournfully. “They’ve had it near something. I’m giving it a miss. What was that?” And here the eye turned balefully. “Oh, about Claridge and Molton. Well, young Molton’s the one that’s upset their little apple-cart. He took charge about a couple of years ago, then began staying away all day--likes his whisky, y’know--drew heavily on the firm--sacked their oldest man, old Johnny Fowler, for something and nothing. Probably tight at the time--young Molton, I mean, not Johnny Fowler--he never took a drop. And there you are! You can’t do it, y’know, you can’t do it. Can you?”

“No,” said Mr. Smeeth sadly, “you can’t.”

“Course you can’t,” the eye concluded. “Not nowadays. It’s all too keen, too much competition. You’ve got to watch yourself all the time. Isn’t that so? Eh, miss, miss! My check, miss. And, I say, what about this milk?”

Mr. Smeeth finished his coffee, mechanically filled and lit his pipe, then pushed his way out of the place. He felt miserable. For all he knew to the contrary, Mr. Dersingham might be following the example of this young Molton. Hadn’t Mr. Dersingham just started staying away from the office all day? Hadn’t he just sacked _their_ oldest man, Goath? As he moved slowly along, sometimes staring into the windows of shops that meant nothing to him, Mr. Smeeth found himself going over all the possible ways in which a firm might come a nasty cropper, arrive at Queer Street, go down the river, and they seemed so numerous, so inevitable, that he saw himself joining the wretched army of the hangers-on, the dispossessed, at any moment. And, at the corner of Chiswell Street, he gave a man twopence for a box of matches.

When he let himself quietly into the office, he heard loud voices, and thought for a moment that something exciting was happening. But then he caught the words.

“I shaddered him all down Victoria Park Road,” Stanley was saying triumphantly, “and he never knew.”

“Well, why should he?” Turgis demanded, contemptuously. “He didn’t know you were following him, you little chump.”

“I know he didn’t,” cried Stanley. “That’s it. That’s where shadderin’ comes in----”

“Well, shadowing can come out,” Mr. Smeeth announced. “And if you don’t get on with some work, my boy, you’ll be finding yourself shadowing down those steps. Come on, Turgis, you ought to know a bit better. Standing there talking a lot of nonsense!”

“I was telling him it was nonsense,” said Turgis, rather sullenly. “He’s got this shadowing on the brain. He goes following some chap for miles, and then because this chap doesn’t take any notice of him--he doesn’t know he’s there, of course, and doesn’t care, anyhow--he thinks he’s a little Sexton Blake.”

“No, I don’t,” said Stanley, wrinkling up his freckled face until it achieved a look of intense disgust.

“The best thing you can do, Stanley,” said Mr. Smeeth, sitting down at his desk, “is to drop these silly tricks. They’ll get you into trouble one of these days. Why don’t you do something sensible in your spare time? Get a hobby. Do a bit of fretwork or collect foreign stamps or butterflies or something like that.”

“Huh! Nobody does them things now. Out of date,” Stanley muttered.

“Well, work’s not out of date, not here, anyhow,” Mr. Smeeth retorted, in time-old schoolmaster fashion. “So just get on with a bit.”

Miss Matfield arrived, quarter of an hour late, as usual. “Don’t talk to me, anybody,” she commanded. “I’m furious. Of all the foul lunches I’ve ever had in this city, to-day’s was the foulest. It makes me sick to think about it. Look here, is Mr. Dersingham ever coming here again? It’s absurd--I’ve got umpteen things for him to sign. Can you do anything with them, Mr. Smeeth?”

“I’ll have a look at them, Miss Matfield,” said Mr. Smeeth wearily. The afternoon dragged on.

IV

At five o’clock, Mr. Dersingham arrived, bursting in like a large pink bomb. He was breathless, perspiring, and all smiles. “Afternoon, ev’rybody,” he gasped. “Is there a late spot of tea goin’? Doesn’t matter if there isn’t. I say, Miss Matfield, just drop ev’rything, will you, and bring your notebook to my room. I want to dictate some letters and a circular. Stanley, you get ready to copy the circular. And, Turgis, you ring up Brown and Gorstein and say I want to speak to Mr. Gorstein. And Smeeth, I shall want you when I’m through with these letters, about a quarter of an hour’s time, and will you bring that statement of the outstanding accounts right up to date and let me know all about Gorstein’s and Nickman’s payments this last year? Good man!”

Mr. Dersingham liked to signalise his arrival in this fashion--it looked as if he was starting the day for everybody, and it still looked like that even if he did it at five o’clock--but now there was a difference. His voice had a triumphant ring, in spite of the fact that he was short of breath. There was about his whole manner a Napoleonic abruptness and self-confidence. He presented the spectacle--rare enough too--of an Old Worrelian in big business. At one bound the temperature of the office rose about ten degrees, and Mr. Smeeth, as he investigated the firm’s somewhat melancholy relations with Brown & Gorstein and Nickman & Sons, was visited once more by quite wildly optimistic fancies. Undoubtedly, something had happened.

When at last he was called into Mr. Dersingham’s room, he soon learned what it was that had happened. It was, as he had suspected more than once, this Mr. Golspie.

“And the position is this, Smeeth,” Mr. Dersingham continued. “He’s got the sole agency for all this new Baltic stuff. They won’t sell it to anybody here but Golspie. It’s good wood, all of it, quite up to standard, and he can get it at prices, thirty, forty and fifty per cent. lower than we’ve been paying. I don’t mind telling you that when he first explained what he was after, I wasn’t keen at all, not a bit keen. It sounded fishy to me.”

“Does seem a bit queer he should come along like that, doesn’t it, sir?”

“It does, Smeeth, and that’s what I thought. But we’ve been going round with some of his samples at prices we could sell the stuff at on his figures, and they’ve been absolutely leaping at them. We can cut everybody out, absolutely clean cut. We can do more business, Smeeth, with this new stuff in a fortnight than the firm’s ever done, even in its best days, in a month. And you know what business we’ve been doing lately? Awful! A ghastly show! By the way, Smeeth, Goath was partly to blame for that. Oh yes, he was. Thirty years in the trade and all that--but the fact is, they were all tired of seeing his depressing old mug, and he’d given up trying. Golspie soon showed me that, though I must say I’d had my suspicions for some time.”

“So had I, sir.”

“Exactly! Goath had to be booted out, and as it was he booted himself out. He’ll be feeling very sorry for himself soon. Now then, this is what’s happening. Golspie came along here to see me quite by chance. He’d got this contract, but he wanted some firm already in the trade to join up with. All this is--er--in--y’know--between ourselves, Smeeth.”

“I understand, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, flattered and delighted.

“Golspie--Mr. Golspie--doesn’t want a partnership, can’t be bothered with it. He’s coming in here as a sort of general manager, working on a jolly good commission. You’ll have to know all about that, of course, because of the books. It’s a hefty commission all right, but then he’s bringing all the business really, and he’ll be responsible for getting the wood over and all that side of it. And the two of us will be working together, running things here. I’ll go out a good deal myself for the next few months, and we’ll have to get some fellow--somebody young and keen--to take Goath’s place.”

“You won’t be cutting down the office staff then?” said Mr. Smeeth, greatly relieved.

“Cutting it down! We’ll have to jolly well increase it, and quickly too. That far sample room will have to be cleared out and tidied up this week, we shall want that. You’d better get another typist to help Miss Matfield--a young girl will do--as soon as possible. This next week or two, Smeeth,” and here Mr. Dersingham sprang up and clenched his fists, just as if he had never seen a decent public school, “we’ve got to drive it hard, go all out, and I’m depending on you for the office side of it. You people have got to stand behind me in this. It’s a great chance for all of us, and, of course, a tremendous stroke of luck, Golspie’s coming here. He’s going all out himself on this--he’s that sort of chap, very keen and all that--and we’ve got to keep pace.”

“You can count on me doing my best, Mr. Dersingham,” Mr. Smeeth assured him fervently. “There’s one or two things I’d like to know about, of course. F’r’instance, what’s his arrangement with these foreign people of his about payments?”

“He’s going to talk to you about that, Smeeth. We’ve only just touched on that, so far.”

“And another thing, sir,” Mr. Smeeth continued, more hesitantly now. “You know how we stand at the bank just now. If we’re branching out, we’ve got to have something behind us there.”

“I’ve been looking into that this afternoon,” said Mr. Dersingham. “We can’t do anything more with the bank at present, but I think I can borrow a bit to see us through. We’ve got to have something to jolly well play with, this next month or so, particularly as Mr. Golspie talks about wanting some of his commission in advance, so to speak.”

Mr. Smeeth looked grave, then coughed. “Do you think that would be wise, Mr. Dersingham? I mean--er--after all, you’ve no guarantee----”

“You mean--the whole thing may be just a swindle. Come on, isn’t that it?” cried the other, grinning. “Well of course I thought of that. I thought of God knows how many swindles yesterday morning, because, as I said, the whole thing seemed fishy to me, and, between ourselves, I thought Golspie himself a terrible outsider at first. But I’ve gone into all that. He doesn’t draw his commission until the stuff has been delivered to our people, of course, but he wants his money then, without waiting until the account’s finally settled. Though, by the way, Smeeth, we’re not going to give these fellows so much rope in future. With this new stuff on our hands, we can afford to tighten it up a bit, don’t you think?”

“That’s so, Mr. Dersingham. I’d like to see one or two of these accounts closed altogether. They’re more bother than they’re worth,” Mr. Smeeth hesitated. “I’m not quite clear yet about this Mr. Golspie, sir. Is he going to be in charge of the office?”

“In a way, yes,” the other replied, with the air of a man who had given this question a great deal of thought. “You can take it, he is. Though of course it’s still my show----”

“Of course, Mr. Dersingham.”

“Suppose, by any chance, you disagree violently with anything he suggests, you’ll come to me,” said Mr. Dersingham, looking at that moment like a large pink conspirator. “But you needn’t tell that to the other people out there.”

“I see what you mean, sir,” said Mr. Smeeth, who felt that he would see in time.

“Mr. Golspie has a good deal to learn, of course,” Mr. Dersingham continued, airily. “He doesn’t know the trade, and he doesn’t know the City. But--he seems to have knocked up and down all over the place in his time, and he’s got ideas, y’know, and colossal push. Rum sort of chap, I must say.” Then he became business-like again. “Now look here, Smeeth, I want to push off as soon as I can because I want that money--or some of it--into the bank by to-morrow afternoon. Ask Miss Matfield to hurry up with those letters so that I can sign ’em. And just see those circulars get away to-night, will you?”

“I will, Mr. Dersingham.” And Mr. Smeeth turned away, but stopped before he reached the door. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I’m very pleased things are looking up like this. I was beginning to feel worried, very worried, sir.”

“Thanks, Smeeth! Good man!” You could not mistake the Old Worrelian now. “Things will be humming here soon, you’ll see. Colossal luck, of course, his turning up like this! Oh, by the way, he’s probably coming in soon.”

Mr. Golspie did come in, but only after Mr. Dersingham had gone and for about half an hour or so, during which he merely asked Mr. Smeeth a few questions. He came again the next morning, and Mr. Smeeth had to join him and Mr. Dersingham in a little conference. Mr. Golspie then returned about half past four, dictated some letters, nosed about the office, examined the far room, and did some telephoning at Mr. Dersingham’s table, Mr. Dersingham himself being out visiting Nickman and Sons. The others had gone, and Mr. Smeeth was putting away his books for the night, when Mr. Golspie came out of the private office and began asking more questions, chiefly about accounts. The two of them stayed there another twenty-five minutes, at the end of which Mr. Golspie suggested they should round off the proceedings by having a drink.

When they were at the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Smeeth remembered that he was nearly out of tobacco (he smoked two and a half ounces of T. Benenden’s Own Mixture every week) and said he would slip in for some. Mr. Golspie followed him in, and T. Benenden was so surprised to see this massive and large-moustached stranger again, in company with Mr. Smeeth this time, too, that he weighed out the tobacco and put it in the pouch without saying a word.

“You got any good cigars, _good_ cigars?” Mr. Golspie demanded in his resonant bass, at the same time staring hard, even harder than the tobacconist had stared at him.

“Certainly, I have,” replied T. Benenden with dignity. And he produced two or three boxes.

Mr. Golspie chose two cigars, cut them, then popped one into his own mouth, stuck the other into Mr. Smeeth’s, and lit the pair of then, without a word. Then, after blowing a stream of smoke at Benenden, he said: “How much?”

“Three shillings, for the two.”

Mr. Golspie slapped down two half-crowns on the counter. This was the tobacconist’s opportunity.

“What about this big Cement slump, gentlemen?” he began. “Where’s that going to land us----?”

“It’s not going to land me anywhere,” said Mr. Golspie. “Where’s it going to land you?”

T. Benenden looked rather pained, and still nursed the two shillings change in his hand. “Well, what I mean is this. That’s a big combine, isn’t it? A year ago, they were bang at the top, like nearly all the big combines. All right. But what’s happening now? A slump. And why----?”

“I don’t know, and I’ll bet you don’t know,” said Mr. Golspie heartily. Then he gave a short bellow of a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he roared, “I’ve been puzzling my head for the last five minutes wondering what was wrong with you.”

“Me?” T. Benenden was startled.

“Yes, you. Didn’t you notice I was staring at you?” He turned to Mr. Smeeth. “Couldn’t make it out. I knew there was something wrong. You see it, don’t you?” He now returned to Benenden, at whom he pointed a thick brutal finger. “Why, man, you’ve forgotten to put your tie on. Have a look at yourself. I _knew_ there was something. Is that my change? That’s correct--two shillings.”

Mr. Smeeth followed him out of the shop, gasping. He had been visiting Benenden’s shop two or three times a week, year after year, and never once had he dared mention the word “tie.” And now this chap comes along with his “You’ve forgotten to put your tie on.” Mr. Smeeth began to chuckle softly.

Mr. Golspie piloted him across the road and into the private bar of the _White Horse_.

“Give it a name,” said Mr. Golspie.

“Thanks, Mr. Golspie. Oh--er--just a glass of bitter,” said Mr. Smeeth modestly, from behind his large cigar.

“Don’t have a glass of bitter. Too cold a night like this and after a hard day’s work, too. Have a whisky. That’s right. Two double whiskies and some soda.”

It was quiet and cosy in the _White Horse_. Mr. Smeeth had not been in for a long time, and he was enjoying this. The fire winked cheerfully over the grate; the rows of liqueur bottles glimmered and glittered; the glasses shone softly; there was a pleasant hum of talk; the cigars plunged them at once into an atmosphere of rich, fragrant, luxurious conviviality; the whisky tasted good, and washed away that foggy, smoky, railway tunnel flavour of Angel Pavement; and Mr. Golspie, still mysterious and masterful but genial now too, was obviously anxious they should be on friendly terms.

“You’ve got a fellow working in the Midlands and the North, haven’t you?” Mr. Golspie inquired, after they had both taken a pull at their whiskies. “What’s he like?”

“Dobson? He’s a decent young chap, and he’s got a good connection up there. He’s not sold much lately, but it’s not been for the want of trying.”

“We ought to be hearing from him soon, then,” said Mr. Golspie. “If he can’t sell these new veneers, he’d better be walking. They sell themselves. We’ve orders pouring in, just pouring. But, mind you, Smeeth, we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve got to pile up the orders now--make hay while the sun shines. We want another man for London and district, soon as we can get one. And one that’s alive, too, not like that dreary old devil I booted out the first day. You might as well send the dustbin round looking for orders. There ought to be three of us, me, Dersingham, and this other man, whoever he is, doing London and neighbourhood these next few months. Rush ’em. That’s the way, isn’t it?”

Mr. Smeeth, taking out his cigar and trying to look keen and aggressive, said it was.

“I’ll tell you what I believe in,” Mr. Golspie continued, not troubling to lower his voice, or rather to moderate it, for it was low enough. “I believe in working like hell and in playing like hell. If you’re going to work, for God’s sake--work. And if you’re going to enjoy yourself, well, for the love of Mike, enjoy yourself, get on with it.”

At this point, Mr. Smeeth started back, for suddenly a head, a large head wearing a very dirty cap, but only about the height of his shoulder, stuck itself between him and Mr. Golspie. “That’s all very well, gents,” it said, with an impudent whine, “but what if yer can’t get work, ’ow yer goin’ ter enjoy yerself then, eh? Wotcher goin’ ter do then, eh?”

“There’s one thing you can do,” said Mr. Golspie promptly.

“Wha’s that?”

“You can mind your own bloody business,” said Mr. Golspie, pushing his face out in a most intimidating and disagreeable fashion. The intruder shrank back at once. “Here y’are,” Mr. Golspie said in a milder, contemptuous tone, “here’s threepence. Go away and buy yourself something.”

“Thank yer, mister.” And the head vanished.

“This city’s got more and more rats like that in it every time I come back to it.”

“There isn’t the work, you know,” said Mr. Smeeth earnestly. “I don’t say they all want it, but there isn’t the work. I’ll tell you candidly, Mr. Golspie, it frightens me sometimes to see all the chaps looking for work. If we’ve to take on a few new people, and we advertise for them, you’ll see what I mean. Crowds and crowds--ready to work for next to nothing. It’s a heart-breaking job interviewing them.”

“I dare say,” Mr. Golspie replied, in the tone of a man whose heart is not easily broken. “But I know this. A man who’s ready to work for next to nothing is no good to me. I wouldn’t have him as a gift. And that reminds me, Smeeth. What’s this firm paying you?”

Mr. Smeeth hesitated a moment, then told him.

“And do you think that’s enough?”

Mr. Smeeth hesitated again. “Well, if business was good, I was going to ask for a rise this Christmas, but as you know, it’s not been good.”

“No, but it’s going to be good, don’t make any mistake about that,” cried Mr. Golspie. “It’s going to be a dam’ sight better than Twigg and Dersingham have ever seen it before. Who the devil was Twigg? Never mind about him, though. I’m going to tell you straight out, I don’t think you’re getting enough. I know a good man when I see one, and when people stand by me--you know what I do?--that’s right--I stand by them. And I’m going to stand by you.”

“Very good of you, Mr. Golspie,” muttered the embarrassed Smeeth.

“The minute these orders that are coming now are turned into solid business--and, mind you, it means more work and responsibility for you all along the line--the minute they do, you’re going to get a rise, a good rise, a hundred or two a year right off, or I’m not Jimmy Golspie. And we shake hands on that.”

Mr. Smeeth, overwhelmed, found himself shaking hands on it.

“And now,” Mr. Golspie added masterfully, “we’ll just sign and seal that by having a little quick one.”

“All right. But--er--it’s my turn.”

“Not a bit of it. Not to-night. You haven’t a turn to-night. Wait till the big rise comes. Two singles, please. Married man, aren’t you, Smeeth?”

“I am. Wife and two children, boy just out of his teens and girl nearly eighteen.”

“All I’ve got’s a girl. I’m expecting her over soon. Does this girl of yours take much notice of you?”

“Not much. Seems to me they don’t, nowadays.”

“You’re right there. That girl of mine doesn’t--the wilful, artful little devil. She’s been spoilt all her life, and always will be. Too good-lookin’, that’s her trouble. Doesn’t take after her father, y’know,” and here Mr. Golspie disturbed the whole bar with a sudden deep guffaw. “Well, here’s the best! This is a dam’ rum business, y’know, Smeeth, when you come to think of it. I’ve had a finger in all sorts of trades, all over the place, and this is a bit more respectable than some of ’em. But when you think of it--it’s a dam’ rum trade--selling thin bits of wood to glue on to other bits of wood, eh?”

“I’ve often thought that,” said Mr. Smeeth eagerly, the philosopher waking in him too. “I’ve often thought--well, I dunno--but this trade’s like a good deal of the rest of life. Veneers? Well, Mr. Golspie, just think of them. They’re only there to make a piece of furniture look as if it was made of better wood than it is made of, a sort of fake. But everybody knows about it. There’s no deception. And I’ve often thought a lot of life’s like that, particularly when I’ve gone into company. You know, everybody setting up to be mahogany and walnut through and through----”

“And the lot of ’em veneered to hell,” cried Mr. Golspie jovially. “Never mind, let’s see if we can’t slap all our stuff on to their rotten chairs and wardrobes and sideboards, and make money and enjoy ourselves. That’s the game.”

With that, they swung out into the little night of Angel Pavement, where the diapason of Mr. Golspie could be heard thundering out again that it was the game. With rich Havana still in his nostrils, the golden liquor of the glens wandering round his inside like an enchanted Gulf Stream, and Mr. Golspie’s promises singing their madrigals in his head, Mr. Smeeth felt for once that it really might be all a game.

Waiting for his tram that night, he bought two evening papers instead of one, and read neither of them.

_Chapter Three_: THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME

I

By the middle of the following week, there were several changes at Twigg & Dersingham’s. The greatest change was in the atmosphere of the place. Even if you had merely opened the outer door, remaining on that side of the frosted glass partition, you would have felt the difference at once. No doubt the typewriters rattled and _pinged_, the telephone bell rang, voices came through, all in a new and bustling, optimistic fashion. The very chair you were invited to sit on, when you waited behind that partition, had been dusted. Mrs. Cross had not found herself immune from this new influence: she had given the general office a thorough cleaning. There was no question now of anybody not having enough work to do. Stanley still went out, indeed he went out more than ever, but he was compelled to speed up his “shaddering” methods and was only able to follow men who were in a tremendous hurry. Mr. Smeeth among his little figures was as busy and happy as a monk at his manuscript. Turgis, whose duty it was to see that goods were duly forwarded to and from Twigg & Dersingham’s, became both hoarse and haughty down the telephone to all manner of forwarding agents, and spoke to railway goods clerks as if they were strange and unwelcome dogs. Miss Matfield rattled off her letters with slightly less contempt and disgust, rather as if they were no longer the effusions of complete lunatics but were now merely the work of village idiots. And she had acquired an assistant. The staff of Twigg & Dersingham had been enlarged at the beginning of this week by the appointment of a second typist. Miss Poppy Sellers had arrived.

The girls who earn their keep by going to offices and working typewriters may be divided into three classes. There are those who, like Miss Matfield, are the daughters of professional gentlemen and so condescend to the office and the typewriter, who work beneath them just as girls once married beneath them. There are those who take it all simply and calmly, because they are in the office tradition, as Mr. Smeeth’s daughter would have been. Then there are those who rise to the office and the typewriter, who may not make any more money than their sisters and cousins who work in factories and cheap shops--they may easily make considerably less money--but nevertheless are able to cut superior and ladylike figures in their respective family circles because they have succeeded in becoming typists. Poppy belonged to this third class. Her father worked on the Underground, and he and his family of four occupied half a house not far from Eel Brook Common, Fulham, that south-western wilderness of vanishing mortar and bricks that are coming down in the world. This was not Poppy’s first job, for she was twenty and had been steadily improving herself in the commercial world since she was fifteen, but it was easily her most important one. She had been chosen out of a large number of applicants, had been started at two pounds and ten shillings a week, and had been told confidentially by Mr. Smeeth, who seemed to her a terrifying figure, that she had good prospects if she would only learn and work hard. This Poppy fully intended to do, for--as her testimonials were compelled to admit--she was a very industrious and conscientious girl. She was not sufficiently plain to escape entirely the attentions of the youths who hung about the entrance to the Red Hall Cinema in Walham Green (and Poppy frequently visited the Red Hall with her friend, Dora Black, for she liked entertainment), but nobody yet had said that she was pretty. She was small and slight, had dark hair and brown eyes, and she aimed, rather timidly, at a Japanese or Javanese or general Oriental effect, wearing a fringe and all that, but only succeeded in looking vaguely dingy and untidy. Whenever she despairingly made a special effort, plying hard the lipstick, being lavish with the Oriental-effect face-powder, and raising and keeping her eyebrows so high that it hurt, people asked her if she wasn’t feeling very well. This failure to achieve the exotic beauty that was--as both she and Dora Black believed--“her type,” tended to keep poor Poppy slightly depressed and out of love with herself. During her first few days at Twigg & Dersingham’s she was like a mouse. She was overawed by the newness and importance of everything, and she saw that it would be impossible for her to make a friend of the large, superior, infinitely knowledgeable, tremendously condescending Miss Matfield. But, like a mouse, she kept her eyes open, missing nothing, with her busy little Cockney mind fastening on every crumb of information and gossip. After three days, Miss Dora Black of Basuto Road, Fulham, knew more, though at second-hand, about the office staff at Twigg & Dersingham than Mr. Dersingham himself had learned in three years.

One of Miss Poppy Sellers’ first tasks had been to copy out replies to the letters answering Twigg & Dersingham’s advertisement in the _Times_ and the _Daily Telegraph_. This was for another man, to take Goath’s place, though he would have to spend much of his time further afield. He had to be as unlike Goath as possible in character, but not unlike him in experience. In short, he had to be “young, keen, energetic,” and “with some connection in furnishing trade and knowledge of veneers and inlays.” And the change brought about by Mr. Golspie was such that Twigg & Dersingham were able to declare that for the right man there was “a good opening.”

It has been said that the modern English do not like work. It cannot be said that they do not look for it and ask for it. The day after this advertisement appeared, the postal heavens opened and a hurricane of letters fell upon Twigg & Dersingham. Into Angel Pavement all that day there poured a bewildering stream of replies. It seemed as if street after street, whole suburbs, had been waiting for this particular opening. There were, it appeared, dozens of men with vast connections in the furnishing trade and the most thorough, the most intimate knowledge of veneers and inlays, and most of these men, though they had apparently refused scores of offers recently, were only too willing to assist Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham. Then there were men who had not perhaps exactly a connection, but had been for years, so to speak, on the fringe of the furnishing trade, men who had sold pianos, who had given removing estimates, who had done a little valuing, who knew something about upholstering. Then there were older men, ex-officers many of them, who knew about all kinds of things and were ready to enclose the most astonishing testimonials, who admitted that the furnishing trade and veneers and inlays were all new to them but who felt that they could soon learn all there was to know, and in the meantime were anxious to show how they could command men and to display their unusual ability to organize. And, last of all, there were the public school men, fellows who knew nothing about veneers and inlays and did not even pretend to care about them, but pointed out that they could drive cars, manage an estate, organise anything or anybody, and were willing to go out East, being evidently under the impression that Twigg & Dersingham had probably a couple of tea plantations as well as a business in veneers and inlays. These correspondents expressed themselves in every imaginable sort of handwriting and on every conceivable kind of notepaper, from superior parchment to dirty little pink bits that had been saved up in a box on the mantelpiece, but in one particular they were all alike: they were all keen, all energetic.

“This tells you something about the old country, doesn’t it?” said Mr. Golspie, who always talked as if he came from some newer one. He and Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Smeeth had been going through the pile.

“It’s only the slump,” said Mr. Dersingham, who was feeling optimistic these days. “It’s not so bad as it was, is it, Smeeth?”

“I suppose it isn’t, really, Mr. Dersingham.” But Mr. Smeeth sounded rather doubtful. These letters had given him another glimpse of the dark gulf. It was a sight that left him feeling shaky.

Mr. Golspie grunted. “Far as I can see from this lot, you can have the pick of England’s talent for four or five quid a week. There isn’t a dam’ thing these fellows can’t do--except find work. Well, I’ve got about four likely ones here. What have you chaps got?”

After a good deal more trouble and talk, they finally narrowed the possible applications down to ten, and these ten were asked to appear at the office in the early afternoon, two days later. They all came at once, and so had to wait their turn on the landing outside, while Stanley, enjoying himself hugely, dashed in and out to summon them. Mr. Smeeth, going round to the bank, had to make his way through this little crowd, and at the first moment, when he stepped outside the office and the two or three of them nearest the door made way for him with almost ostentatious smartness, he felt triumphant, proud, a solid and successful man among a lot of failures. But the very next moment, this feeling disappeared. They were all very well brushed, in their best clothes, and were already looking keen and energetic, especially those nearest the door, who looked the keenest and most energetic, their faces having already taken on the expression most likely to impress the mysterious powers within the office. A few of them were young and had an easy confident look, that of men merely seeking a change of job. Others were older, less confident, tense or wistful. Mr. Smeeth bumped into one, the last in the group, who was standing at the corner near the top of the stairs.

“I beg your pardon,” the man cried, eagerly, anxiously. He was indeed an anxious man, about Mr. Smeeth’s age and not unlike him, greyish, lined, brittle; a man with a wife and family and vanishing possessions; a man who time after time had found himself the last in the group, waiting at the corner, with the hope inspired by the letter, the letter that came thunderingly, triumphantly, that morning, like an act of deliverance, now dying in him.

“My fault,” Mr. Smeeth assured him, stopping, and offering the smile of a polite culprit. But when their eyes met fairly, this smile trembled, then fled, leaving Mr. Smeeth himself grave, anxious. He suddenly felt for this man a swelling sympathy, a deep stir of pity, that he had not known for many a month. They might have been brothers; and, indeed, brothers they were for a second or so, peering at one another in some darkened house of tragedy.

“Good luck!” Mr. Smeeth heard himself saying.

“Thanks,” and there came the ghost of a smile.

Mr. Smeeth never saw him again. He had no luck. The successful applicant was very different, much younger, a tall fellow with a remarkably small head, an inquisitive pink nose, and a very wide mouth that opened to show about twice the ordinary number of teeth. His name was Sandycroft, and he knew the trade, for though he had never sold veneers and inlays, he had bought them, having been at one time with Briggs Brothers. This set him apart from all the other applicants. Moreover, he appeared to be all keenness and energy, and threw the most passionate emphasis into the slightest remark he made.

“Mr. Twigg,” he cried, addressing Mr. Golspie, “and Mr. Dersingham, you can rely on me. I know the trade. I know the people. I know the ropes, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“All right,” said Mr. Golspie with his usual genial brutality. “But don’t go knowing too many ropes. Eh, Dersingham?”

“Oh, quite!” replied Mr. Dersingham, who did not quite follow this, but looked knowing all the same.

“I understand, sir. I know what you mean. I couldn’t do it, sir. It’s not in my character. Honesty isn’t everything, but I believe it’s the first thing. And I’m straight. I believe in being straight, sir.”

“Good!” said Mr. Golspie heartily, for he, too, believed in Sandycroft and his like being straight.

“And if it’s possible, gentlemen,” Sandycroft continued, looking from one to the other of them, “I’d like to stay on now and just pick up the threads, so that I can start right away on the road to-morrow morning. I’m keen to get going, desperately keen. You know what it is, sir. After only a week or two doing nothing much, a man like me feels rusty. I want to get on with it. My wife laughs at me. ‘Have a rest,’ she says. But no, I’m not like that. I must be getting on with something.”

“Good man,” said Mr. Dersingham approvingly.

“Well, I think we’ll have to be getting on with something, too,” said Mr. Golspie. “He’d better come round here in the morning and learn what there is to know about it then, before we send him out.”

“I think he had,” replied Mr. Dersingham. “Look here, you’d better go home now--break the news to your wife and that sort of thing, eh?--and then be down about nine or so in the morning. If we’re not here then, you have a talk to Smeeth--that’s the cashier, out there--and he’ll be able to tell you something.”

“Very good, sir,” and you would have thought the speaker was about to salute smartly before retiring. He did not, however, but threw a keen and energetic glance at Mr. Golspie (whom he had recognised at once as the dominant partner), then a keen and energetic glance at Mr. Dersingham, picked up his hat (and in such a manner as to suggest that he could do some wonderful things even with that, if he wished to), brought his hat in front of the second button of his overcoat, gave three brisk nods, then wheeled about and made an exit like a torpedo from its tube.

Actually, what Mr. Dersingham and Mr. Golspie did get on with was an invitation to dinner, delivered by Mr. Dersingham and accepted by Mr. Golspie. It had come to that. There were things about Golspie that did not please Mr. Dersingham, for he was dogmatic, rough, domineering, and was apt to jeer and sneer in a way that left Mr. Dersingham’s mind bruised and resentful. A few terms at Worrell would obviously have made a great difference to Golspie, who now, in his middle age, showed only too plainly both by word and deed that he was not a gentleman. From that there was no escape: Golspie was not a gentleman. But Dersingham did not think of him as an Englishman who is not a gentleman, a bit of a bounder, an outsider (and there can be no doubt that Golspie at times did talk and act like a bounder, a complete outsider); he contrived to think of him as a kind of foreigner who had acquired an extraordinary command of the English language. This was not difficult, because Golspie did seem to have spent most of his time outside England and to have no roots in this country. And the fact remained that he had presented the firm of Twigg & Dersingham with a new and glorious lease of life, as if he were a god, a commercial god with a baldish head and a large moustache. So the Dersinghams had talked it over and decided that he must be asked to dinner, properly asked to dinner and not merely invited to take pot-luck some Sunday. And this meant something, for though your Old Worrelian who has to hack out his living in the City will smoke a cigar and drink a whisky or share a couple of club chops, if necessary, with any fairly decent sort of fellow he meets in the way of business, he draws the line--his own words--at inviting most of these fellows into his home, to meet his wife and possibly another Old Worrelian or two. Thus it says something for Mr. Golspie’s standing that, in spite of certain pronounced defects, he received such an invitation, which, by the way, he accepted calmly enough, with no show of surprise or gratitude.

“There’ll be some other people I think you’d like to know,” said Mr. Dersingham, “but we won’t make it too formal. Just a black tie, y’know, black tie.” He said this as people always say it, that is, as if a white tie weighed a ton and they are letting you down lightly.

“What do you mean? Wear a dinner jacket?”

“That’s the idea,” said Mr. Dersingham, telling himself that really Golspie was extraordinarily out of touch. “And--er--eightish then, next Tuesday, eh?”

“Right you are,” replied Mr. Golspie. “Very pleased.”

II

The Dersinghams occupied a lower maisonette in that region, eminently respectable but a trifle dreary, between Gloucester Road and Earl’s Court Road: 34A, Barkfield Gardens, S.W. 5. Nearly all the people who live in that part of London have the privilege, as the estate agents point out in all their advertisements, of “overlooking gardens,” which means that their windows stare down at iron railings, sooty privet and laurel hedges, and lawns and flower-beds that look as if they are only too willing to give up the unequal struggle. Some of these gardens are better than others, but Barkfield Gardens is not one of them. It is one of the smallest and dreariest of the squares, and is rapidly losing caste, its houses slipping through the maisonette and large flat era too quickly and already coming within sight of the small flats, the nursing homes, the boarding houses, the girls’ clubs. The Dersinghams did not like Barkfield Gardens. They did not like their maisonette, all the rooms of which seemed higher than they were long or broad and were singularly cheerless. Mr. Dersingham never did anything about it, because he was waiting--as he always said--until he knew where he stood financially. (From which you might gather that he knew where he stood philosophically or socially or politically or artistically.) Now and again, however, Mrs. Dersingham would read all the advertisement columns devoted to desirable residences, rush round to some agents, and even inspect a few houses, but as she had never really decided what it was she wanted, and her husband never succeeded in knowing where he stood financially, they remained at 34A, in the rooms that made them seem like insects at the bottom of a test-tube, grumbling, while a stream of cooks and housemaids, endlessly diverted from four local registries, flowed through the dark basement, leaving as sediment innumerable memories of glum looks, impertinent answers, lying references, missing silk stockings, broken crockery and ruined meals. For some women this state of affairs, making comfort and tranquillity impossible, would have had its compensations, for it would have provided unlimited material for talk, but Mrs. Dersingham prided herself on not being the sort of woman who spends her time discussing the shortcomings of her servants. Most of her friends prided themselves on this fact too, and they told one another what they could have said had they been that sort of women, and then gave examples. “I know, but listen to this, my dear,” they all cried at once.

At seven-forty-five on the evening of the dinner party to which Mr. Golspie had been invited, Mr. Dersingham was busy being his own butler, attending to the wines. He poured some claret into one decanter, some Sauterne into another, and some port into a third, then poured a little gin and a great deal of French and Italian vermouth into a cocktail shaker, and carried the shaker and some glasses into the drawing-room. Having done this, he remembered the cigarettes and filled the silver cigarette box, a wedding present bearing the Worrell colours in enamel, with _Sahibs_ and some Turkish that his wife always said she preferred to any other, no matter what they happened to be. Then he presented himself with a cocktail, looked at the fire, which was blazing cheerfully, looked at the chairs, which were long, low, fat, and brown, glanced round the room, which seemed to him a very handsome and friendly place now that the two shaded lights took away the attention from the great bleak expanse of wall above, sipped the cocktail, tried to hum a tune, and began to feel a certain warm glow, a feeling proper to a host.

Mrs. Dersingham, who was in the bedroom, trying to powder the space between her shoulder blades, was less fortunate. She felt anxious. Cook had been rather cross all day and might spoil everything, and even when she tried, she was apt to make the soup greasy and forget the salt in the vegetables. And Agnes, the new maid, had pretended to understand all about serving, but she was so stupid that she might easily go sticking vegetable dishes under people’s noses anyhow, and there was bound to be some awful confusion when it came to clearing the table for dessert. You could laugh it off, of course, but you got so tired of laughing it off. It was a pity this sort of thing couldn’t be done properly or laughed off altogether. How terribly tiresome it was! And then, too, all the time you were so worried and anxious about the food and the serving, you were expected to be keeping the conversation going, terribly bright and hostessy.

“I wish,” said a silly girl at the back of Mrs. Dersingham’s mind, a girl who had always been there but who did not say much except when she was rather tired or cross--“I wish I was a terribly successful actress who lived in a marvellous little flat and had a terribly devoted maid and a dresser and a huge car and nothing much to eat before the performance and then went on and was absolutely marvellous and everybody applauded and then I put on a wonderful Russia sable coat and diamonds and went out to supper and everybody stared. No, I don’t. I wish I was a terribly successful woman writer with a villa somewhere on the Riviera with orange trees and mimosa and things and lunch in the sunshine and marvellous distinguished people coming to call. No, I don’t. I wish I was terribly rich with a housekeeper and about fifteen servants and a marvellous maid of my own and umpteen Paris model gowns every season and a house in Town and a place in the country and a very attractive dark young man, very aristocratic and a racing motorist or yachtsman or something like that, terribly in love with me but just devoted and respectful all the time and coming and looking so miserable and me saying ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but you can see how it is. I can never love anybody but Howard, but we can still be friends, can’t we?’”

This silly girl still went rambling idiotically on while there returned into the rest of Mrs. Dersingham’s mind various queries and worries about the sauce for the fish and the crême caramel not setting properly and Agnes spilling things. And all the time she was powdering her back or neck, trying on the crystal beads and then the amber, rubbing her cheeks with a tiny reddened pad, and staring at her reflection in the Jacobean mirror that she had bought at Brighton and that turned out to be a poor mirror and not Jacobean at all. The one consolation was that you always knew that you actually looked better than you did in that stupid mirror. Remembering this for the thousandth time, Mrs. Dersingham switched off the light, stood outside the night nursery a moment to discover if the children were quiet, then joined her husband in the drawing-room.

“Oh, thank goodness, nobody’s here yet,” she said, pulling a cushion or two about, then warming her hands. “It’s such a ghastly rush. It’s wonderful to have a few minutes’ peace and quietness.” She was already talking as if company were present.

“Rather,” said Mr. Dersingham, loyally.

She stood in front of him now. “I suppose I look a thorough mess,” she continued with a relapse into her natural manner.

“Not a bit. Jolly fine,” Mr. Dersingham mumbled, feeling awkward as usual. He always had a suspicion that he ought to have said something first: “My word, you’re looking jolly fine to-night,” something of that sort. But somehow he never did.

“Don’t be _too_ complimentary, will you, darling? Well, I must say I _feel_ a thorough mess to-night. What I’d _really_ like is early bed and a book. This rush and seeing people all the time is so terrible.” Once more, she was beginning to put on her company manner.

Mrs. Dersingham did not look a thorough mess, but neither did she look as attractive as she hoped she did. She looked like hundreds of other English wives in their earlier thirties, that is, fair, tired, bright, and sagging. She had pleasant blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and a slightly discontented mouth. Her life, apart from the secret saga of the kitchen and nursery, where creatures with the most astoundingly good references were for ever turning out to be lazy, impudent, and thieving, was really rather dull, for she had no strong interests and very few friends in London. But this she would not admit, not even to her husband, except on rare occasions when she lost her temper, broke down, and the truth came blazing through. She pretended that her life was one exciting and multi-coloured whirl of people and social events. She did not actually tell lies, but she created an atmosphere in which every little occurrence was instantly distorted and magnified, like objects dropped into a glass tank full of water. A tea on Monday and a dinner party on Friday were transformed into a week’s feasting, a rushing here, there, and everywhere, not enjoyed but endured. If she met a person two or three times, then she had met whole crowds of him or her, day and night. Two matinées (with an old school friend or her mother up from Worcester) coming within one week reduced her to the condition of a dramatic critic at the end of a heavy autumn season. Even when she admitted that she had not attended a certain function, met a person, seen a play, read a book, she contrived to give these confessions a positive instead of a negative flavour, and so strong a positive flavour that somehow she seemed to be in close contact with the function, person, play, or book. She did this partly by throwing the emphasis on the auxiliary verb: “No, I _haven’t_ seen her,” or: “No, I _haven’t_ seen it,” which suggested to the listener that Mrs. Dersingham had attended a series of important committee meetings, had thrashed it out, and had decided with the rest that there should be nothing done about these people, these plays, these books, just yet. Thus, by this and other methods, she created an atmosphere in which a few outings and encounters were transformed into a rich and strenuous social life, which, so strong are our dreams, frequently left her genuinely fatigued. All this puzzled that simple man, her husband, but he never said anything now. The last time he had asked, after the company had gone, why she had complained so much about having to rush about, when he, for his part, could not see she had done much rushing about, she had turned on him quite fiercely and said that if it depended on him she would be sitting moping in the flat, never seeing anybody or anything, from one week’s end to another, and that the less he said the better; an answer that left him completely bewildered.

The Dersinghams, standing together now on their bearskin rug, heard the first guest arrive. It must be either Golspie or the Trapes. It could not be the Pearsons, who, living in the maisonette above, always waited until they heard some one else arrive below, before they made their appearance. And Golspie it was, looking strangely unfamiliar to Mr. Dersingham in a rather voluminous dinner jacket and a very narrow black tie. He had hardly been introduced to Mrs. Dersingham before the Pearsons, who were just as anxious not to be late as they were not to be first, came in, breathless and smiling.