‘Will you come in?’
She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room.
‘Well, Miss – er – Manuelli?’
‘Not Manuelli, please – Mrs Bicket; my husband used to be here.’
‘What!’ The chap that had snooped Copper Coin! Phew! Bicket’s yarn – his wife – pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.
‘He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?’
Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?
‘He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you could take him back here.…’
No! she did not know!
‘Very sorry, Mrs Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are you all right again?’
‘Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.’
What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!
‘Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It’s pretty good – in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?’
‘I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.’
‘All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.’
‘When I was ill, sir.’
‘Of course, that makes a difference.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, let me write you a note to Mr Greene. Will you sit down a minute?’
He stole a look at her while she sat waiting. Really, her sallow, large-eyed face, with its dead-black, bobbed, frizzy-ended hair, was extraordinarily interesting – a little too refined and anaemic for the public; but, dash it all! the public couldn’t always have its Reckitt’s blue eyes, corn-coloured hair, and poppy cheeks. ‘She’s not a peach,’ he wrote, ‘on the main tree of taste; but so striking in her way that she really might become a type, like Beardsley’s or Dana’s.’
When she had taken the note and gone, he rang for his secretary.
‘No, Miss Perren, she didn’t take anything off me. But some type, eh?’
‘I thought you’d like to see her. She wasn’t an authoress, was she?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Well, I hope she got what she wanted.’
Michael grinned. ‘Partly, Miss Perren – partly. You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure I don’t; but I think you’re too soft-hearted.’
Michael ran his fingers through his hair.
‘Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?’
‘Yes, Mr Mont.’
‘Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about Duet: “We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!” You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? “When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing – in short, when spring comes – we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of – of –” – er – what, Miss Perren?’
‘ “The experience we shall have gained.” Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?’
‘Excellent! “Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.” Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?’
‘What is “nepotism”?’
‘Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.’
‘He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr Mont.’