My dear Julia,I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening.What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’ Any old way I’ve written toThe Times,telling them to insert the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will not take place.’Yours,Hubert.
My dear Julia,
I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening.
What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’ Any old way I’ve written toThe Times,telling them to insert the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will not take place.’
Yours,
Hubert.
After one frightful moment, Julia fell upon the telephone.
Two minutes later she was curtly informed that Captain Challenger was out of town.
“It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The flat’s took.”
“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on Saturday.”
“Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school.
George felt for a note.
“Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit me—provided the floors are good.”
“They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.”
George swallowed.
“Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note.
The porter leaned against the wall.
“Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.”
“But I tell you it’s took.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the other fellow somehow.”
The porter looked George up and down.
As if without thinking, George reinforced the note.
“Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.”
“No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly.
“Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘ ’Ow did you get inside?’ ”
George began to hate the porter very much.
“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday afternoon.”
There was a silence.
“Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’ ” said the porter suddenly.
For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed.
“Are you Keptin Chellenger?”
“That’s right,” said George boldly.
The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away.
“Right-oh,” he said shortly.
They passed to the second floor. . . .
“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively.
“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not very light, is it?”
“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply.
George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss.
That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth into the cannon’s mouth. . . .
Presently they came to the bathroom.
This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape detection.
Fulke’s eyes almost left his head.
The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about five hundred rings.
Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance.
“I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were in a cathedral.
“No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms.
Fulke frowned.
Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot.
“Does this go with the flat?” he said.
“Wot?” said the porter, staring.
“This linoleum.”
The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt.
“Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——”
“I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why, if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten pounds.”
“Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.”
There was an unpleasant silence.
At length—
“I—I take it the bath works all right,” said George desperately.
“It don’t leak,” said the porter, “if that’s wot you mean.”
Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember that one day the porter would die.
Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs.
“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?”
“An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.”
George could have broken his neck.
Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’
Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel.
“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened.
The porter started.
“Ooze wot?” he said.
“Somebody closed the front door.”
The porter slipped out of the room and tiptoed towards the hall.
Instantly George fell upon his face. . . .
He had one arm beneath the bath when the porter reappeared.
“Thort as much,” said the latter, “you young cunnin’ brute. An’ now I ’ave got yer—cold. You’re for it, my son. I wouldn’ give much fer your chances. ’Tempt ter commit a felony—that’s wot it is. Stolen ‘order to view’—passin’ yerself orf as Keptin Chellenger—temptin’ ter bribe . . .an’ all fer a little green stone as don’ belong to yer.”
George extricated his arm and rose to his feet.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “When was it found?”
The porter entered the bathroom and approached to Fulke’s a perfectly furious countenance.
“ ‘Fool’?” he breathed. “ ‘Fool’ did joo say?”
George recoiled, and the face proportionately advanced. Its eyes were blazing: its chin protruded out of all reason.
“You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——”
There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it.
As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch.
The porter staggered backwards. Then the porcelain rim caught him under the hocks, and it was all over.
As he fell into the bath, George slid out of the room and, finding a key in the door, turned it gratefully.
A moment later he was streaking up Sloane Street. . . .
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later that Julia, frantic, ran Hubert Challenger to earth.
“Hubert, where have you been?”
“Hurlingham,” said Hubert calmly. “How lovely you look.”
“Not all day?”
“Very nearly. I came up to town this morning, did one or two jobs of work and——”
“At your rooms they said you were in Bucks: at Bucks they said you were in town: I wired to each of your clubs and half the restaurants in London: I——”
“You also warned the barber,” said Hubert. “Only a genius would have thought of that. I’ve come straight along.”
“Can you stop that notice going in?”
“With the acme of ease,” said Hubert. “I haven’t posted the letter.”
“But you said——”
“I said I’d written, dear. I didn’t say I’d posted it.”
Torn between relief and indignation, Julia felt rather faint.
“Hubert,” she said weakly, sinking on to the arm of a chair, “I may tell you you’ve shortened my life. Last night I dined with George Fulke.”
“Naturally,” said Hubert, sitting down. “They all do. As a second string, George’s position is unique. And I’m glad you did. I rather like George.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Julia. “He’s—he’s utterly spoiled.”
“In other words,” said Hubert, “he’s getting wise. Don’t say he’s done it on you.”
“He behaved abominably. I told him to find the ring. D’you know he actually tried to bargain with me?”
“Quite right too,” said Hubert. “Why shouldn’t he have a look in? What was his price?”
“Only me,” said Julia. “If he found the ring I was to marry him.”
Challenger nodded approval.
“It is clear,” he said, “that George is finding himself. What did you say?”
“I said that if he found the ring he could announce our engagement one month after yours and mine had been cancelled.”
Challenger opened his eyes.
“You must like George very much.”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.”
“Then where,” said Hubert, “is the snag?”
Julia hesitated.
“I—I said ‘officially cancelled.’ You know. Put inThe Times. But I never meant it to be done. I—I thought we could just tell people.”
“Oh, what a dirty one,” said Hubert.
“It wasn’t at all,” said Julia indignantly. “Besides, he asked for it. He tried to do me down. . . . And then—then I got your letter.”
“Ah,” said Hubert. “That shortened George’s price.”
“It was two to one on him,” cried Julia. “You’d disappeared: he’d only to find the ring—and that he did, my dear, quite early this morning.” She held up a delicate finger, at once adorning and adorned by a magnificent gem. “A messenger-boy——”
Challenger looked down his nose.
“As a matter of fact, he was scratched at half-past nine. I found the symbol, my lady, and sent it along.”
Julia started to her feet.
“You—found—it?”
“I,” said Hubert, “with my little eye. I found the ring. I happened upon it, as they say, in the course of a job of work.”
“Where?”
Challenger rose to his feet.
“Julia,” he said, “after the barber had cleansed me I was going to call upon you. I was going to beg your pardon and ask you very humbly to have another dart. I don’t want to stimy George, but I’ve taken Sloane Street on a seven years’ lease, and——”
“Hubert, you haven’t!”
“Why not, dear? I took it first thing this morning, and, being so close, I just felt round for the ring. There it was—in the midst of the bathroom. I gave the porter a fiver just for luck, and——”
“But, Hubert, I’ve taken South Street.”
“Julia!”
Miss Willow nodded. Then she put out her hands, and Challenger caught them in his.
“You were perfectly right,” she said. “You always are. South Street is incomparable. And I thought, perhaps, if you didn’t think me too capricious to live with . . . in South Street . . .”
“My blessed darling,” said Hubert, with his cheek against hers. “My beautiful——”
Here the telephone stammered an interruption.
Challenger kissed his lady. Then he lifted his head.
“George,” he said, “for a monkey.”
Miss Willow picked up the receiver.
“Is that you, Julia?” cried Fulke.
“Oh, George,” said Miss Willow, “I am so glad you rang up. I want you to do something for me.”
There was a choking noise.
At length—
“Not—not really?” said Fulke hysterically. “What about the ring?”
“Oh, I’ve got the ring all right. This is instead. Among those ‘orders’ I gave you was one for a flat in Sloane Street. We took it this morning, but now we’ve seen one we like better. Will you go and tell the porter to go on showing the flat? Just mention Hubert’s name, and—— Hullo, hullo! Are you there? Are you there?”
But George had rung off.
And now Julia Challenger has superseded Madrigal Chichele.
TITUS
“Itellyou,” said Titus, “you should have married money.”
“If you like to put it that way,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “there’s nothing to stop you.”
“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand a year’s no earthly use to you.”
“It would be if I had my share.”
Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye.
“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.”
“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously.
“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I put it too high.”
“I suppose you want me to be dressed.”
Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away.
“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly. But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.”
“Are you suggesting——”
“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Cheviot. “I’m pointing out hard facts.”
“I suppose you consider you’re very generous.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m stingy. Seven hundred and ninety quid in less than——”
“It would interest me to know what you consider my share.”
“I don’t know,” said Titus. “I don’t pretend to know. The flat and the car cost about eighteen hundred. I spend about a hundred——”
“We could live much more cheaply,” said Blanche.
“I don’t quite see why we should.”
“Exactly. You choose the style in which we live. If we spent less money on that, we should have more money to spend on other things.”
“Such as clothes,” said Titus. “What a truly solemn thought. Never mind. You chose the flat when I was out of town. And the car.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t be content with anything else.”
“In fact, you sank your wishes to do me pleasure?”
“I did—like a fool,” said Blanche.
“You covered it up very well,” said Cheviot. “When the flat in St. James’s fell through, you cried all night. And that was more expensive.”
“It’s no good talking,” said Blanche. “You don’t understand. In America——”
“I know,” said Titus. “I know. In America you’d have four-fifths of my income, and I should pay for your furs. All I can say is I’m damned glad I’m English.”
“In America men work.”
“Is that your trouble? Well, I’ve worked pretty hard in my time and I’m forty-two. Moreover, I’ve got a game leg. Never mind. What about the car?”
“Well, what about it?” said Blanche defiantly.
“This,” said her husband. “You say that you chose it because you knew that I should not be content with anything else. Do you remember the car I used to have?”
“Did you expect me to go about in that?”
Cheviot sighed.
“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.”
Mrs. Cheviot shuddered.
“Need you be disgusting?” she said.
“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But youhave—youdo—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count. If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car. But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.”
“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche.
“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you said?”
“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’ ” said Mrs. Cheviot.
“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.”
“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.”
“They’d better have ours,” said Titus. “If we cut out the car——”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Blanche. “We must have a car and we must have a decent address. We must be served, and I must be well turned out. If——”
“Exactly,” said Titus. “Now let’s translate that saying. What you really mean is, ‘We must have a Rolls, and I won’t live West of Park Lane. We must have at least five servants, and I’ve got to dress accordin’ an’ a big bit over.’ Well, that’s all glorious, but the brutal answer’s this. Someone once said in his thirst that to get a quart into a pint pot was beyond the power of miserable man. Well, the converse is equally melancholy and equally true. The man who can get a quartout ofa pint pot has never been foaled—or if he has, my dear, his name’s not Titus. And there we are. We’ve three thousand pounds a year—to spend. If you can divide it by ten an’ get six hundred for answer, I’ll climb up the nearest steeple an’ push myself off.” He flung himself into a chair and put his head in his hands. “I’m not certain that wouldn’t be the best move, any way. Then at least you wouldn’t——”
“Ti, Ti, how can you talk like that?” Blanche was down on her knees with her arms round her husband’s neck. “I’m a selfish sweep, Ti, and you’re an angel.”
“Rot!” said her husband, taking her in his arms.
“I am, I am. It’s the truth. You give, and I take—all the time. I take and take and take. What fun do you have? None. Every penny you can spare—more goes on my back. And then when we’re up against it I kick and scream. Ti, I’m ashamed of myself.”
“I can’t bear it,” said Titus brokenly. “Why shouldn’t you have a show?”
“I do—I have. You give me a wonderful show. Everything I’ve wanted I’ve always had. There isn’t a husband like you in all the world. You’ve given up thing after thing—you know you have. You never hunt now, you wear the same old suits, you’ve chucked the Bath and the Bachelors’——”
“Never went inside ’em,” muttered Titus. “What was the good of——”
“You gave them up to save money—for me to blow. And I—I let you do it. I traded upon your love. I let you go hungry whilst I was bolting your share. And then . . .” Blanche covered her face and burst into tears. “I’m a rotten thief,” she sobbed, “a rotten, selfish——”
“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.”
“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.”
“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got, and if it gives me pleasure to——”
“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?”
“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder I’m mad about you.”
Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed, alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his paws in the air. . . .
Presently the telephone-bell began to throb.
Titus left the room to reply to the call.
Once outside the door, he covered his eyes.
“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “ ‘There isn’t a husband like you in all the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s coming again.”
Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death.
Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly winter had set in.
Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all. The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh.
With it all, the man never lost heart.
He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had cared for the light in his eyes.
And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned and rent the woman of the world.
It was the first swallow.
Summer was coming back.
When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier, looked up with shining eyes.
“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve nothing to do.”
Titus Cheviot stared.
“This is reaction,” he said. “You stay where you are, sweetheart, and I’ll get you a drink.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Blanche. “I’m sane as sane. I’ve not been happy, you know—splashing about. That’s really why I splurged. I felt if I went all out perhaps I’d get there. I haven’t, of course. You never do. That way there’s nowhere to get. Then again—without an anchor I’m frightfully weak. I’m not a waster by nature, but put me among the wasters and I’ll waste away. I must have an anchor, Ti—an object in life. When you first knew me I had one. It was—to marry you. Then I lost that anchor . . . last June . . . in Eaton Square. . . . Since then . . . Ti, my dear, I’m going to open a shop.”
“Moses’ boots,” said Titus, sitting down on a chair. “What are you going to purvey?”
“Brains,” said Blanche. “My brains. And yours, if you will. It’ll cost us next to nothing except the rent. And we ought to make that on our heads. If we make no more, it doesn’t matter. I shall have something to do. But we must have a decent pitch.”
“Of course,” said Titus, “of course you’ve got me beat. I thought you sold brains by the pound.”
“Ideas, my darling, ideas.The Cheviots, Decorators.We’ve each got an excellent eye. You can do the halls and libraries, and I’ll do the drawing-rooms. We shall be frightfullychicand outrageously expensive. But we must have a decent pitch.”
Titus put a hand to his head.
“I don’t know about thechic,” he said dazedly, “but I shall be expensive all right. I’m sure of that. Almost costly. By the time they’ve paid me a tenner and then paid somebody else two tenners to rub it all out and do it again——”
“A tenner?” cried Blanche. “Why, you won’t look at a room under fifty guineas.”
“Oh, here’s wickedness! Here’s fraud and everything! Fifty guineas tometo look at a room? Why, it’s almost burglary.”
“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste, that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will. You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew. Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room before ever the paper went up.’ ”
“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms. Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the more important race-meetings.”
“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?”
Her husband looked down his nose.
“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take five hundred a year for——”
Blanche leaped to her feet.
“Not 68, Old Bond Street?”
Titus nodded.
“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income comes from that little old house.”
Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.
“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it instead.”
Had the Cheviots opened a shop because theyhadto make money, they would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being not at all desirous of too extensive aclientèle, they were immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a household word. It had become a synonym for ‘de luxe.’
The window was admirably dressed.
Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library. Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb, covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze, bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink. There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more important, an open book. Who passed might read.
A CHEVIOT ROOMTHAT IS TO SAY,A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TOTHE ADVICE OFCHEVIOT’S(FOUNDED 1930)
A CHEVIOT ROOM
THAT IS TO SAY,
A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO
THE ADVICE OF
CHEVIOT’S
(FOUNDED 1930)
From time to time hangings on the left parted to admit the pink of footmen, who added fuel to the fire and swept and garnished the hearth before retiring. So soon as it was dusk the footman switched on the lamp, which was heavily shaded. Save for the flickering fire, this was the sole illuminant. Not until half-past eight were the window curtains drawn and ‘the Cheviot room’ veiled from curious gaze.
The door of the shop admitted to a stately entrance-hall, paved with black and white marble, panelled with old grey oak, invisibly lit. Four aged chancel stalls, each dight with a crimson cushion, faced a pair of huge oak doors hung in the opposite wall. On the left, a superb triptych of the Flemish School surmounted a carved oak chest; on the right, a tall case clock rose between two panels which suggested the brush of Dürer. Upon the ceiling was stencilled a golden cipher, whose interlaced initials seemed to be T.B.C. In the centre of the hall was a table, and by the table a bench, heavily carved and bearing a cushion covered with crimson brocade.
To such as entered the shop a footman immediately appeared and, conducting them to the table, respectfully drew their attention to an ivory horn-book inlaid with ebony lettering.
UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE.THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS BEEN PAID.NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE MADE.UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS.THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE.SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE WAFERED.
UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE.
THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS BEEN PAID.
NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE MADE.
UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’
THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS.
THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE.
SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE WAFERED.
It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world.
They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of warmth upon every remembrance of their possession.
They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice.
Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour.
They had luck, of course.
That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat was sheer good fortune.
Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what it had cost.
There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s patronage was worth a leader inThe Times.
Be sure she declared it from the housetops.
“A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to me—style. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.”
And so on.
It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve.
When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . .
Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors.
“I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it. ‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.”
“Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——”
“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question.I cannot decorate.”
“Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to do is to look at a room.”
Titus inspired.
“Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or frighten all who beheld its execution.”
“That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.”
“No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——”
“My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him out?”
Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair.
“It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I shall come all unstuck.”
“Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——”
“Supposing it is panelled.”
“Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for the walls to be done in canary.”
“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——”
“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?”
“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.”
“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and there you are. What could be better?”
“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”
“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait till——”
“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my time. Noviva vocesfor me. They can bite the opinion if they like, but——”
“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot.
The lady was perfectly right.
At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six, put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were asked to survey at least three rooms.
Audacity, Carelessness up, always wins.
Business at 68, Old Bond Street, actually increased.
The stalls began to be constantly occupied by patrons who were waiting to occupy the bench. Among them was Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat, who, somewhat disconcerted by the reflection that, if necessary, about five thousand people could prove that the cipher upon her drawing-room ceiling had cost but fifty guineas, hastened to request that her hall and dining-room might be surveyed forthwith.
Firms of decorators who had at first been plainly contemptuous changed their coats forthwith and began to remember ‘Cheviot’s’ in their prayers.
The weather becoming hot, the great fireplace was replaced by an oriel out of whose leaded casements was plainly visible a blue and sunlit sky. Its deep window-seat was laden with cushions of powder-blue. The mountainous chair and its henchmen had gone with the fireplace, to be replaced by a fair ‘gate’ table, which the footman laid for lunch and later for tea. From six o’clock the gleaming paraphernalia of cocktails burdened the board. With the approach of evening the window was not illuminated: only the sky beyond became suffused with the glory of some sinking sun. Even the open book, which declared its legend from the floor, was sacrificed to this effect, which attracted much well-deserved attention and was commended by several newspapers.
Early in September the Cheviots raised their fee to a hundred guineas and declined to go into the country to survey less than five rooms,three of which, said their gracious intimation,may be in one house and two in another not more than ten miles distant.
By the end of the month they were making four thousand a week.
The two worked hard, employing five secretaries.
One controlled their movements, arranging each day what visits should be paid on the next, and having two programmes ready each evening at six o’clock. The same man affixed the wafers and kept the accounts. Of the others two were always in attendance upon Mr. and Mrs. Cheviot, taking down their ‘opinions’ in shorthand and transcribing their notes the next day. In addition to their wages, which were high, two per cent. of the takings was handed to them and the footmen every week. Thus was efficiency encouraged, if not assured.
Each evening, but at no other time, the Cheviots repaired to Old Bond Street to confer, sign their ‘opinions,’ peruse the additions to the register, and deal with any business that awaited them.
It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and looked at her watch.
“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since. And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?”
“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——”
“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?”
“Stop?”
“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.”
“My dear, you’re not serious?”
“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.”
“You can spend to-morrow in bed.”
“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——”
“Sunday last,” said Titus. “Never mind. What about it, my dear? One can’t have everything. I like changing myself, but if I can nobble a hundred by staying foul, I’ll make the sacrifice. Why, for half six thousand a week I’d sleep in my clothes. An’ we don’t have to.”
“But what’s the good of it all if we don’t enjoy it?”
“I hope to,” said Titus. “I hope to enjoy it very much.”
“When?” said his wife.
“When the boom’s over,” said Titus. “This sort of thing can’t last. Don’t you believe it. It’s just on the cards that it might hang on for a year, but——”
“A year?” screamed Blanche. “Well, if it does you needn’t count on me. I’ve lost five months of my life and I’m not going to lose seven more.”
“Lost?” cried Titus. “Oh, the girl’s mad. Twelve hundred a day, an’ she talks about ‘losing’ time.” He covered his eyes. “Give me strength,” he murmured. Then—“You only get one orange,” he said solemnly. “If you like to chuck it away before you’ve sucked it dry, you can do it all right. Nothing’s easier. But if you do you’ll repent it. For one thing, you’re flouting Fortune—throwing her goods in her face.”
“Rot,” said Blanche shortly. “We’ve made enough. We started in to give me something to do—not to make money. Well, I’ve had my whack. I’ve had enough to do to last me the rest of my life. Incidentally, I’ve been paid—very handsomely paid. Well, I’m extremely grateful. I’ve got my pretty cake and I’ve eaten it too. And now I’m for putting my feet up.”
“That’s very specious,” said Titus, “but the answer is this. The ‘incident,’ as you style it, has swallowed the main idea. To be truthful, it swallowed it before we opened the shambles—or, if not before, as soon as the sheep rolled up. When you’re out for a walk and you strike a trail of nuggets, you’re apt to forget that you’re only out for exercise. And quite right too. Why? Because you usually have to dig for nuggets, and then like as not you’re wrong.”
He paused there to steal a glance at his wife.
Blanche was holding off her hand and regarding one of her rings with her head on one side. This was a trick she practised when she was ill at ease.
‘Before we opened the shambles.’
As though by accident, Titus had hit the nail square on the head. Yet it was not by accident, as both of them knew.
There are occupations other than commerce.
But Blanche had chosen commerce, because commerce not only can occupy, but may quite possibly enrich.
The woman of the world believed in apparel—its purchase, setting and display, and cared for little else.
More money meant more clothes.
But the purchase alone of apparel was nothing worth. Clothes were meant to be worn. An occupation which promoted the acquisition of clothes but precluded their display was inconvenient. . . .
So the two sat still in their counting-house—the one regarding the other, and the other regarding her ring.
There was no sign of summer.
There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . .oneswallow. . . .
Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn.
“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.”
“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,” he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.”
Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such gratuitous good-humour.
She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter.
“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy. It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made enough history?”
“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.”
“And leave you here?”
“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady. Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come back thirsting for blood.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Blanche.
“Well, by then the boom may have cracked. Or I may have had enough. One never can tell. But I beg that you’ll do as I say. I’ve only one wife.”
After a little Mrs. Cheviot allowed herself to be persuaded, and, promising to clean up and follow within half an hour, Titus put her into a taxi and sent her home.
Returning to the office, he resumed his seat at the table and opened a drawer of which only he and the principal secretary possessed duplicate keys.
Here lay two files, respectively labelled “Answered” and “Unanswered.”
Cheviot took out the latter.
Somewhat to his relief, it contained but one letter.
The day before it had contained three.
Titus proceeded to read it with a faint frown.