‘No, sir, I don’t agree. ‘Alf mankind’s predytory – only, I’m not that sort, meself.’
In Michael loyalty tried to stammer. ‘Nor is he.’ He handed his cigarette-case to Bicket.
‘Thank you, sir, I’m sure.’
His eyes were swimming, and Michael thought: ‘Dash it! This is sentimental. Kiss me good-bye and go!’ He beckoned up the white-aproned fellow.
‘Give us your address, Bicket. If integuments are any good to you, I might have some spare slops.’
Bicket backed the bill with his address and said, hesitating: ‘I suppose, sir, Mrs Mont wouldn’t ’ave anything to spare. My wife’s about my height.’
‘I expect she would. We’ll send them along.’ He saw the ‘little snipe’s’ lips quivering, and reached for his overcoat. ‘If anything blows in, I’ll remember you. Good-bye, Bicket, and good luck.’
Going east, because Bicket was going west, he repeated to himself the maxim: ‘Pity is tripe – pity is tripe!’ Then getting on a bus, he was borne back past St Paul’s. Cautiously ‘taking a lunar’ – as old Forsyte put it – he saw Bicket inflating a balloon; little was visible of his face or figure behind that rosy circumference. Nearing Blake Street, he developed an invincible repugnance to work, and was carried on to Trafalgar Square. Bicket had stirred him up. The world was sometimes almost unbearably jolly. Bicket, Wilfrid, and the Ruhr! ‘Feeling is tosh! Pity is tripe!’ He descended from his bus, and passed the lions towards Pall Mall. Should he go into ‘Snooks’ and ask for Bart? No use – he would not find Fleur there. That was what he really wanted – to see Fleur in the daytime. But – where? She was everywhere to be found, and that was nowhere.
She was restless. Was that his fault? If he had been Wilfrid – would she be restless? ‘Yes,’ he thought stoutly, ‘Wilfrid’s restless, too.’ They were all restless – all the people he knew. At least all the young ones – in life and in letters. Look at their novels! Hardly one in twenty had any repose, any of that quality which made one turn back to a book as a corner of refuge. They dashed and sputtered and skidded and rushed by like motor-cycles – violent, oh! and clever. How tired he was of cleverness! Sometimes he would take a manuscript home to Fleur for her opinion. He remembered her saying once: ‘This is exactly like life, Michael, it just rushes – it doesn’t dwell on anything long enough to mean anything anywhere. Of course the author didn’t mean it for satire, but if you publish it, I advise you to put: “This awful satire on modern life” outside the cover.’ And they had. At least, they had put: ‘This wonderful satire on modern life.’ Fleur was like that! She could see the hurry, but, like the author of the wonderful satire, she didn’t know that she herself veered and hurried, or – did she know? Was she conscious of kicking at life, like a flame at air?
He had reached Piccadilly, and suddenly he remembered that he had not called on her aunt for ages. That was a possible draw. He bent his steps towards Green Street.
‘Mrs Dartie at home?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Michael moved his nostrils. Fleur used – but he could catch no scent, except incense. Winifred burnt joss-sticks when she remembered what a distinguished atmosphere they produced.
‘What name?’
‘Mr Mont. My wife’s not here, I suppose?’
‘No, sir. Only Mrs Val Dartie.’
Mrs Val Dartie! Yes, he remembered, nice woman – but not a substitute for Fleur! Committed, however, he followed the maid.
In the drawing-room Michael found three people, one of them his father-in-law, who had a grey and brooding aspect, and, from an Empire chair, was staring at blue Australian butterflies’ wings under a glass on a round scarlet table. Winifred had jazzed the Empire foundation of her room with a superstructure more suitable to the age. She greeted Michael with fashionable warmth. It was good of him to come when he was so busy with all these young poets. ‘I thought Copper Coin,’ she said – ‘what a nice title! – such an intriguing little book. I do think Mr Desert is clever! What is he doing now?’
Michael said: ‘I don’t know,’ and dropped on to a settee beside Mrs Val. Ignorant of the Forsyte family feud, he was unable to appreciate the relief he had brought in with him. Soames said something about the French, got up, and went to the window; Winifred joined him – their voices sounded confidential.
‘How is Fleur?’ said Michael’s neighbour.
‘Thanks, awfully well.’