The large eyes of Bicket regarded him over a puce-coloured sixpennyworth.
‘Mr Mont! Often thought I’d like to see you again, sir.’
‘Same here, Bicket. If you’re not doing anything, come and have some lunch.’
Bicket completed the globe’s collapse, and, closing his tray-lid, said: ‘Reelly, sir?’
‘Rather! I was just going into a fish place.’
Bicket detached his tray.
‘I’ll leave this with the crossing-sweeper.’ He did so, and followed at Michael’s side.
‘Any money in it, Bicket?’
‘Bare livin’, sir.’
‘How about this place? We’ll have oysters.’
A little saliva at the corner of Bicket’s mouth was removed by a pale tongue.
At a small table decorated with a white oilcloth and a cruet stand, Michael sat down.
‘Two dozen oysters, and all that; then two good soles, and a bottle of Chablis. Hurry up, please.’
When the white-aproned fellow had gone about it, Bicket said simply:
‘My Gawd!’
‘Yes, it’s a funny world, Bicket.’
‘It is, and that’s a fact. This lunch’ll cost you a pound, I shouldn’t wonder. If I take twenty-five bob a week, it’s all I do.’
‘You touch it there, Bicket. I eat my conscience every day.’
Bicket shook his head.
‘No, sir, if you’ve got money, spend it. I would. Be ‘appy if you can – there yn’t too many that are.’
The white-aproned fellow began blessing them with oysters. He brought them fresh-opened, three at a time. Michael bearded them; Bicket swallowed them whole. Presently above twelve empty shells, he said:
‘That’s where the Socialists myke their mistyke, sir. Nothing keeps me going but the sight of other people spendin’ money. It’s what we might all come to with a bit of luck. Reduce the world to a level of a pound a dy – and it won’t even run to that, they sy! It’s not good enough, sir. I’d rather ’ave less with the ’ope of more. Take awy the gamble, and life’s a frost. Here’s luck!’
‘Almost thou persuadest me to be a capitalist, Bicket.’
A glow had come up in the thin and large-eyed face behind the greenish Chablis glass.
‘I wish to Gawd I had my wife here, sir. I told you about her and the pneumonia. She’s all right agyne now, only thin. She’s the prize I drew. I don’t want a world where you can’t draw prizes. If it were all bloomin’ conscientious an’ accordin’ to merit, I’d never have got her. See?’
‘Me, too,’ thought Michael, mentally drawing that face again.
‘We’ve all got our dreams; mine’s blue butterflies – Central Austrylia. The Socialists won’t ’elp me to get there. Their ideas of ’eaven don’t run beyond Europe.’
‘Cripes!’ said Michael. ‘Melted butter, Bicket?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Silence was not broken for some time, but the soles were.
‘What made you think of balloons, Bicket?’
‘You don’t ’ave to advertise, they do it for you.’
‘Saw too much of advertising with us, eh?’
‘Well, sir, I did use to read the wrappers. Astonished me, I will sy – the number of gryte books.’
Michael ran his hands through his hair.
‘Wrappers! The same young woman being kissed by the same young man with the same clean-cut jaw. But what can you do, Bicket? They will have it. I tried to make a break only this morning – I shall see what comes of it.’ ‘And I hope you won’t!’ he thought: ‘Fancy coming on Fleur outside a novel!’
‘I did notice a tendency just before I left,’ said Bicket, ‘to ’ave cliffs or landskips and two sort of dolls sittin’ on the sand or in the grass lookin’ as if they didn’t know what to do with each other.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Michael, ‘we tried that. It was supposed not to be vulgar. But we soon exhausted the public’s capacity. What’ll you have now – cheese?’
‘Thank you, sir; I’ve had too much already, but I won’t say “No”.’
‘Two Stiltons,’ said Michael.
‘How’s Mr Desert, sir?’
Michael reddened.
‘Oh! He’s all right.’
Bicket had reddened also.
‘I wish – I wish you’d let him know that it was quite a – an accident my pitchin’ on his book. I’ve always regretted it.’
‘It’s usually an accident, I think,’ said Michael slowly, ‘when we snoop other people’s goods. We never want to.’
Bicket looked up.