‘He does.’
‘Well, sir, you see the connexion – two directors believing me – not him. That’s why I didn’t miss him out. I fancied it’d shake him up. I happened to see his face in the sideboard glass as I went out. He’s got the wind up all right.’
Michael bit his forefinger, conscious of a twinge of sympathy with Elderson, as for a fly with the first strand of cobweb round his hind leg.
‘Thank you, Butterfield,’ he said.
When the young man was gone, he sat stabbing his blotting-paper with a paper-knife. What curious ‘class’ sensation was this? Or was it merely fellow-feeling with the hunted, a tremor at the way things found one out? For, surely, this was real evidence, and he would have to pass it on to his father, and ‘Old Forsyte’. Elderson’s nerve must have gone phut, or he’d have said: ‘You impudent young scoundrel – get out of here!’ That, clearly, was the only right greeting from an innocent, and the only advisable greeting from a guilty man. Well! Nerve did fail sometimes – even the best. Witness the very proof-sheet he had just corrected:
THE COURT MARTIAL
‘See ’ere! I’m myde o’ nerves and blood
The syme as you, not meant to be
Froze stiff up to me ribs in mud.
You try it, like I ’ave, an’ see!
‘Aye, you snug beauty brass hat, when
You stick what I stuck out that d’y,
An’ keep yer ruddy ‘earts up – then
You’ll learn, maybe, the right to s’y:
‘Take aht an’ shoot ‘im in the snow,
Shoot ‘im for cowardice! ’E who serves
His King and Country’s got to know
There’s no such bloody thing as nerves.’
Good old Wilfrid!
‘Yes, Miss Perren?’
‘The letter to Sir James Foggart, Mr Mont; you told me to remind you. And will you see Miss Manuelli?’
‘Miss Manu – Oh! Ah! Yes.’
Bicket’s girl wife, whose face they had used on Storbert’s novel, the model for Aubrey Greene’s – Michael rose, for the girl was in the room already.
‘I remember that dress!’ he thought: ‘Fleur never liked it.’
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Bicket? How’s Bicket, by the way?’
‘Fairly, sir, thank you.’
‘Still in balloons?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we all are, Mrs Bicket.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘In the air – don’t you think? But you didn’t come to tell me that?’
‘No, sir.’
A slight flush in those sallow cheeks, fingers concerned with the tips of the worn gloves, lips uncertain; but the eyes steady – really an uncommon girl!
‘You remember givin’ me a note to Mr Greene, sir?’
‘I do; and I’ve seen the result; it’s topping, Mrs Bicket.’
‘Yes. But it’s got into the papers – my husband saw it there last night; and of course, he doesn’t know about me.’
Phew! For what had he let this girl in?
‘I’ve made a lot of money at it, sir – almost enough for our passage to Australia; but now I’m frightened. “Isn’t it like you?” he said to me. I tore the paper up, but suppose he remembers the name of the Gallery and goes to see the picture! That’s even much more like me! He might go on to Mr Greene. So would you mind, sir, speaking to Mr Greene, and beggin’ him to say it was someone else, in case Tony did go?’
‘Not a bit,’ said Michael. ‘But do you think Bicket would mind so very much, considering what it’s done for you? It can be quite a respectable profession.’
Victorine’s hands moved up to her breast.
‘Yes,’ she said, simply. ‘I have been quite respectable. And I only did it because we do so want to get away, and I couldn’t bear seein’ him standin’ in the gutter there sellin’ those balloons in the fogs. But I’m ever so scared, sir, now.’
Michael stared.
‘My God!’ he said; ‘money’s an evil thing!’
Victorine smiled faintly. ‘The want of it is, I know.’
‘How much more do you need, Mrs Bicket?’
‘Only another ten pound, about, sir.’
‘I can let you have that.’
‘Oh! thank you; but it’s not that – I can easy earn it – I’ve got used to it; a few more days don’t matter.’
‘But how are you going to account for having the money?’
‘Say I won it bettin’.’
‘Thin !’ said Michael. ‘Look here! Say you came to me and I advanced it. If Bicket repays it from Australia, I can always put it to your credit again at a bank out there. I’ve got you into a hole, in a way, and I’d like to get you out of it.’