The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(81)

‘Dash it!’ thought Michael, getting up, ‘I’ll try dictating an advertisement!’

‘Will you come in, please, Miss Perren? For the new Desert volume – Trade Journals: “Danby and Winter will shortly issue Counterfeits, by the author of Copper Coin, the outstanding success of the last publishing season.” I wonder how many publishers have claimed that, Miss Perren, for how many books this year? “These poems show all the brilliancy of mood, and more than the technical accomplishment of the young author’s first volume.” How’s that?’

‘Brilliancy of mood, Mr Mont? Do you think?’

‘No. But what am I to say? “All the pangs and pessimism”?’

‘Oh, no! But possibly: “All the brilliancy of diction. The strangeness and variety of mood.”’

‘Good. But it’ll cost more. Say: “All the brilliant strangeness”; that’ll ring their bells in once. We’re nuts on “the strange”, but we’re not getting it – the outré, yes, but not the strange.’

‘Surely Mr Desert gets –’

‘Yes, sometimes; but hardly anyone else. To be strange, you’ve got to have guts, if you’ll excuse the phrase, Miss Perren.’

‘Certainly, Mr Mont. That young man Bicket is waiting to see you.’

‘He is, is he?’ said Michael, taking out a cigarette. ‘Give me time to tighten my belt, Miss Perren, and ask him up.’

‘The lie benevolent,’ he thought; ‘now for it!’

The entrance of Bicket into a room where his last appearance had been so painful, was accomplished with a certain stolidity. Michael stood, back to the hearth, smoking; Bicket, back to a pile of modern novels, with the words ‘This great new novel’ on it. Michael nodded.

‘Hallo, Bicket!’

Bicket nodded.

‘Hope you’re keeping well, sir?’

‘Frightfully well, thank you.’ And there was silence.

‘Well,’ said Michael at last, ‘I suppose you’ve come about that little advance to your wife. It’s quite all right; no hurry whatever.’

While saying this he had become conscious that the ‘little snipe’ was dreadfully disturbed. His eyes had a most peculiar look, those large, shrimp-like eyes which seemed, as it were, in advance of the rest of him. He hastened on:

‘I believe in Australia myself. I think you’re perfectly right, Bicket, and the sooner you go, the better. She doesn’t look too strong.’

Bicket swallowed.

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘you’ve been a gent to me, and it’s hard to say things.’

‘Then don’t.’

Bicket’s cheeks became suffused with blood: queer effect in that pale, haggard face.

‘It isn’t what you think,’ he said: ‘I’ve come to ask you to tell me the truth.’ Suddenly he whipped from his pocket what Michael perceived to be a crumpled novel-wrapper.

‘I took this from a book on the counter as I came by, downstairs. There! Is that my wife?’ He stretched it out.

Michael beheld with consternation the wrapper of Storbert’s novel. One thing to tell the lie benevolent already determined on – quite another to deny this!

Bicket gave him little time.

‘I see it is, from your fyce,’ he said. ‘What’s it all mean? I want the truth – I must ‘ave it! I’m gettin’ wild over all this. If that’s ‘er fyce there, then that’s ‘er body in the Gallery – Aubrey Greene; it’s the syme nyme. What’s it all mean?’ His face had become almost formidable; his cockney accent very broad. ’What gyme ‘as she been plydin’? You gotta tell me before I go aht of ’ere.’

Michael’s heels came together. He said quietly:

‘Steady, Bicket.’

‘Steady! You’d be steady if your wife – ! All that money! You never advanced it – you never give it ‘er – never! Don’t tell me you did!’

Michael had taken his line. No lies!

‘I lent her ten pounds to make a round sum of it – that’s all; the rest she earned – honourably; and you ought to be proud of her.’

Bicket’s mouth fell open.

‘Proud? And how’s she earned it? Proud! My Gawd!’

Michael said coldly:

‘As a model. I myself gave her the introduction to my friend, Mr Greene, the day you had lunch with me. You’ve heard of models, I suppose?’

Bicket’s hands tore the wrapper, and the pieces fell to the floor. ‘Models!’ he said: ‘Pynters – yes, I’ve ’eard of ’em – Swines!’

‘No more swine than you are, Bicket. Be kind enough not to insult my friend. Pull yourself together, man, and take a cigarette.’