Black! – black! He was not gaining, Wilfrid had the legs of him–to overtake him, he must run! But there rose in Michael a sort of exaltation. His best friend–his wife! There was a limit. One might be too proud to fight that. Let him go his ways! He stood still, watched the swift figure disappear, and slowly, head down under the now cocked hat, turned towards home. He walked quite quietly, and with a sense of finality. No use making a song about it! No fuss, but no retreat! In the few hundred yards before he reached his Square he was chiefly conscious of the tallness of houses, the shortness of men. Such midgets to have made this monstrous pile, lighted it so that it shone in an enormous glittering heap whose glow blurred the colour of the sky! What a vast business this midget activity! Absurd to think that his love for another midget mattered! He turned his key in the lock, took off his cocked hat and went into the drawing-room. Unlighted–empty? No. She and Ting-a-ling were on the floor before the fire! He sat down on the settee, and was abruptly conscious that he was trembling and sweating as if he had smoked a too strong cigar. Fleur had raised herself, cross-legged, and was staring up at him. He waited to get the better of his trembling. Why didn’t she speak? Why was she sitting there, in the dark? ‘She knows’; he thought: ‘we both know this is the end. O God, let me at least be a sport!’ He took a cushion, put it behind him, crossed his legs, and leaned back. His voice surprised him suddenly:
“May I ask you something, Fleur? And will you please answer me quite truly?”
“Yes.”
“It’s this: I know you didn’t love me when you married me. I don’t think you love me now. Do you want me to clear out?”
A long time seemed to pass.
“No.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t.”
Michael got up.
“Will you answer one thing more?”
“Yes.”
“Was Wilfrid here to-night?”
“Yes–no. That is–”
His hands clutched each other; he saw her eyes fix on them, and kept them still.
“Fleur, don’t!”
“I’m not. He came to the window there. I saw his face–that’s all. His face–it–Oh! Michael, don’t be unkind to-night!”
Unkind! Unkind! Michael’s heart swelled at that strange word.
“It’s all right,” he stammered: “So long as you tell me what it is you want.”
Fleur said, without moving:
“I want to be comforted.”
Ah! She knew exactly what to say, how to say it! And going on his knees, he began to comfort her.
Chapter XII.
GOING EAST
He had not been on his knees many minutes before they suffered from reaction. To kneel there comforting Fleur brought him a growing discomfort. He believed her tonight, as he had not believed her for months past. But what was Wilfrid doing? Where wandering? The face at the window–face without voice, without attempt to reach her! Michael ached in that illegitimate organ the heart. Withdrawing his arms, he stood up.
“Would you like me to have a look for him? If it’s all over–he might–I might–”
Fleur, too, stood up. She was calm enough now.
“Yes, I’ll go to bed.” With Ting-a-ling in her arms, she went to the door; her face, between the dog’s chestnut fur and her own, was very pale, very still.
“By the way,” she said, “this is my second no go, Michael; I suppose it means–”
Michael gasped. Currents of emotion, welling, ebbing, swirling, rendered him incapable of speech.
“The night of the balloon,” she said: “Do you mind?”
“Mind? Good God! Mind!”
“That’s all right, then. I don’t. Good-night!”
She was gone. Without reason, Michael thought: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ And he stood, as if congealed, overcome by an uncontrollable sense of solidity. A child coming! It was as though the barque of his being, tossed and drifted, suddenly rode tethered–anchor down. He turned and tore at the curtains. Night of stars! Wonderful world! Jolly–jolly! And–Wilfrid! He flattened his face against the glass. Outside there Wilfrid’s had been flattened. He could see it if he shut his eyes. Not fair! Dog lost–man lost! S. O. S. He went into the hall, and from the mothless marble coffer rived his thickest coat. He took the first taxi that came by.
“Cork Street! Get along!” Needle in bundle of hay! Quarter past eleven by Big Ben! The intense relief of his whole being in that jolting cab seemed to him brutal. Salvation! It WAS–he had a strange certainty of that as though he saw Fleur suddenly ‘close-up’ in a very strong light, concrete beneath her graceful veerings. Family! Continuation! He had been unable to anchor her, for he was not of her! But her child could and would! And, perhaps, he would yet come in with the milk. Why did he love her so–it was not done! Wilfrid and he were donkeys–out of touch, out of tune with the times!
“Here you are, sir–what number?”
“All right! Cool your heels and wait for me! Have a cigarette!”
With one between his own lips which felt so dry, he went down the backwater.
A light in Wilfrid’s rooms! He rang the bell. The door was opened, the face of Wilfrid’s man looked forth.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Desert in?”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert has just started for the East. His ship sails tomorrow.”
“Oh!” said Michael, blankly: “Where from?”
“Plymouth, sir. His train leaves Paddington at midnight. You might catch him yet.”
“It’s very sudden,” said Michael, “he never–”
“No, sir. Mr. Desert is a sudden gentleman.”
“Well, thanks; I’ll try and catch him.”
Back in the cab with the words: “Paddington–flick her along!” he thought: ‘A sudden gentleman!’ Perfect! He remembered the utter suddenness of that little interview beside the bust of Lionel Charwell. Sudden their friendship, sudden its end–sudden even Wilfrid’s poems–offspring of a sudden soul! Staring from window to window in that jolting, rattling cab, Michael suffered from St. Vitus’s dance. Was he a fool? Could he not let well alone? Pity was posh! And yet! With Wilfrid would go a bit of his heart, and in spite of all he would like him to know that. Upper Brook Street, Park Lane! Emptying streets, cold night, stark plane trees painted-up by the lamps against a bluish dark. And Michael thought: ‘We wander! What’s the end–the goal? To do one’s bit, and not worry! But what is my bit? What’s Wilfrid’s? Where will he end up, now?’
The cab rattled down the station slope and drew up under cover. Ten minutes to twelve, and a long heavy train on platform one!
‘What shall I do?’ thought Michael: ‘It’s so darned crude! Must I go down–carriage by carriage?” Couldn’t let you go, old man, without”–blurb!’
Bluejackets! If not drunk–as near as made no matter. Eight minutes still! He began slowly walking along the train. He had not passed four windows before he saw his quarry. Desert was sitting back to the engine in the near corner of an empty first. An unlighted cigarette was in his mouth, his fur collar turned up to his eyes, and his eves fixed on an unopened paper on his hip. He sat without movement; Michael stood looking at him. His heart beat fast. He struck a match, took two steps, and said:
“Light, old boy?”
Desert stared up at him.
“Thanks,” he said, and took the match. By its flare his face was dark, thin, drawn; his eyes dark, deep, tired. Michael leaned in the window. Neither spoke.
“Take your seat, if you’re going, sir.”
“I’m not,” said Michael. His whole inside seemed turning over.
“Where are you going, old man?” he said suddenly.
“Jericho.”
“God, Wilfrid, I’m sorry!”
Desert smiled.
“Cut it out!”
“Yes, I know! Shake hands?”
Desert held out his hand.
Michael squeezed it hard.
A whistle sounded.
Desert rose suddenly and turned to the rack above him. He took a parcel from a bag. “Here,” he said, “these wretched things! Publish them if you like.”
Something clicked in Michael’s throat.
“Thanks, old man! That’s great! Good-bye!”
A sort of beauty came into Desert’s face.
“So long!” he said.
The train moved. Michael withdrew his elbows; quite still, he stared at the motionless figure slowly borne along, away. Carriage after carriage went by him, full of bluejackets leaning out, clamouring, singing, waving handkerchiefs and bottles. Guard’s van now–the tail light–all spread–a crimson blur–setting East–going–going–gone!
And that was all–was it? He thrust the parcel into his coat pocket. Back to Fleur, now! Way of the world–one man’s meat, another’s poison! He passed his hand over his eyes. The dashed things were full of–blurb!

PART III
Chapter I.
BANK HOLIDAY
Whitsuntide Bank Holiday was producing its seasonal invasion of Hampstead Heath, and among the ascending swarm were two who meant to make money in the morning and spend it in the afternoon.
Tony Bicket, with balloons and wife, embarked early on the Hampstead Tube.
“You’ll see,” he said, “I’ll sell the bloomin’ lot by twelve o’clock, and we’ll go on the bust.”
Squeezing his arm, Victorine fingered, through her dress, a slight swelling just above her right knee. It was caused by fifty-four pounds fastened in the top of her stocking. She had little feeling, now, against balloons. They afforded temporary nourishment, till she had the few more pounds needful for their passage-money. Tony still believed he was going to screw salvation out of his blessed balloons: he was ‘that hopeful–Tony,’ though their heads were only just above water on his takings. And she smiled. With her secret she could afford to be indifferent now to the stigma of gutter hawking. She had her story pat. From the evening paper, and from communion on ‘buses with those interested in the national pastime, she had acquired the necessary information about racing. She even talked of it with Tony, who had street-corner knowledge. Already she had prepared chapter and verse of two imaginary coups; a sovereign made out of stitching imaginary blouses, invested on the winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and the result on the dead-heater for the Jubilee at nice odds; this with a third winner, still to be selected, would bring her imaginary winnings up to the needed sixty pounds odd she would so soon have saved now out of ‘the altogether.’ This tale she would pitch to Tony in a week or two, reeling off by heart the wonderful luck she had kept from him until she had the whole of the money. She would slip her forehead against his eyes if he looked at her too hard, and kiss his lips till his head was no longer clear. And in the morning they would wake up and take their passages. Such was the plan of Victorine, with five ten-pound and four one-pound notes in her stocking, attached to the pink silk stays.
‘Afternoon of a Dryad’ had long been finished, and was on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery, with other works of Aubrey Greene. Victorine had paid a shilling to see it; had stood some furtive minutes gazing at that white body glimmering from among grass and spikey flowers, at the face, turned as if saying: “I know a secret!”
“Bit of a genius, Aubrey Greene–that face is jolly good!” Scared, and hiding the face, Victorine had slipped away.
From the very day when she had stood shivering outside the studio of Aubrey Greene she had been in full work. He had painted her three times–always nice, always polite, quite the gentleman! And he had given her introductions. Some had painted her in clothes, some half-draped, some in that ‘altogether,’ which no longer troubled her, with the money swelling her stocking and Tony without suspicion. Not every one had been ‘nice’; advances had been made to her, but she had nipped them in the bud. It would have meant the money quicker, but–Tony! In a fortnight now she could snap her fingers at it all. And often on the way home she stood by that plate-glass window, before the fruits, and the corn, and the blue butterflies…
In the packed railway carriage they sat side by side, Bicket, with tray on knee, debating where he had best stand.
“I fyvour the mokes,” he said at last, “up by the pond. People’ll have more money than when they get down among the swings and cocoanuts; and you can go and sit in a chair by the pond, like the seaside–I don’t want you with me not till I’ve sold out.”
Victorine pressed his arm.
Along the top and over on to the heath to north and south the holiday swarms surged, in perfect humour, carrying paper bags. Round the pond children, with thin, grey-white, spindly legs, were paddling and shrilly chattering, too content to smile. Elderly couples crawled slowly by, with jutting stomachs, and faces discoloured by the unaccustomed climb. Girls and young men were few, for they were dispersed already on the heath, in search of a madder merriment. On benches, in chairs of green canvas or painted wood, hundreds were sitting, contemplating their feet, as if imagining the waves of the sea. Now and again three donkeys would start, urged from behind, and slowly tittup their burdens along the pond’s margin. Hawkers cried goods. Fat dark women told fortunes. Policemen stood cynically near them. A man talked and talked and took his hat round.
Tony Bicket unslung his tray. His cockney voice, wheedling and a little husky, offered his coloured airs without intermission. This was something like! It was brisk! And now and again he gazed through the throng away across the pond, to where Victorine would be seated in a canvas chair, looking different from every one–he knew.
“Fine balloons–fine balloons! Six for a bob! Big one, Madam? Only sixpence. See the size! Buy, buy! Tyke one for the little boy!”
No ‘aldermen’ up here, but plenty in the mood to spend their money on a bit of brightness!
At five minutes before noon he snapped his tray to–not a bally balloon left! With six Bank Holidays a week he would make his fortune! Tray under arm, he began to tour the pond. The kiddies were all right, but–good Lord–how thin and pale! If he and Vic had a kid–but not they–not till they got out there! A fat brown kid, chysin’ blue butterflies, and the sun oozin’ out of him! Rounding the end of the pond, he walked slowly along the chairs. Lying back, elegant, with legs crossed, in brown stockings showing to the knees, and neat brown shoes with the flaps over–My! she looked a treat–in a world of her own, like that! Something caught Bicket by the throat. Gosh! He wanted things for her!
“Well, Vic! Penny!”
“I was thinkin’ of Australia.”
“Ah! It’s a gaudy long wait. Never mind–I’ve sold the bally lot. Which shall we do, go down among the trees, or get to the swings, at once?”
“The swings,” said Victorine.
The Vale of Health was in rhapsodic mood. The crowd flowed here in a slow, speechless stream, to the cries of the booth-keepers, and the owners of swings and cocoanuts. “Roll–bowl–or pitch! Now for the milky ones! Penny a shy!… Who’s for the swings?… Ices… Ices… Fine bananas!”
On the giant merry-go-round under its vast umbrella the thirty chain-hung seats were filled with girls and men. Round to the music–slowly–faster–whirling out to the full extent of the chain, bodies bent back, legs stuck forward, laughter and speech dying, faces solemn, a little lost, hands gripping the chains hard. Faster, faster; slowing, slowing to a standstill, and the music silent.
“My word!” murmured Victorine. “Come on, Tony!”
They entered the enclosure and took their seats. Victorine, on the outside, locked her feet, instinctively, one over the other, and tightening her clasp on the chains, curved her body to the motion. Her lips parted:
“Lor, Tony!”
Faster, faster–every nerve and sense given to that motion! O-o-h! It WAS a feeling–flying round like that above the world! Faster–faster! Slower–slow, and the descent to earth.
“Tony–it’s ‘eaven!”
“Queer feelin’ in yer inside, when you’re swung right out!”
“I’d like it level with the top. Let’s go once more!”
“Right-o!”
Twice more they went–half his profit on balloons! But who cared? He liked to see her face. After that, six shies at the milky ones without a hit, an ice apiece: then arm-inarm to find a place to eat their lunch. That was the time Bicket enjoyed most, after the ginger-beer and sandwiches; smoking his fag, with his head on her lap, and the sky blue. A long time like that; till at last she stirred.
“Let’s go and see the dancin’!”
In the grass enclosure ringed by the running path, some two dozen couples were jigging to a band.
Victorine pulled at his arm. “I WOULD love a turn!”
“Well, let’s ‘ave a go,” said Bicket. “This one-legged bloke’ll ‘old my tray.”
They entered the ring.
“Hold me tighter, Tony!”
Bicket obeyed. Nothing he liked better; and slowly their feet moved–to this side and that. They made little way, revolving, keeping time, oblivious of appearances.
“You dance all right, Tony.”
“YOU dance a treat!” gasped Bicket.
In the intervals, panting, they watched over the one-legged man; then to it again, till the band ceased for good.
“My word!” said Victorine. “They dance on board ship, Tony!”
Bicket squeezed her waist.
“I’ll do the trick yet, if I ‘ave to rob the Bank. There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you, Vic.”
But Victorine smiled. She had done the trick already.
The crowd with parti-coloured faces, tired, good-humoured, frowsily scented, strolled over a battlefield thick-strewn with paper bags, banana peel, and newspapers.
“Let’s ‘ave our tea, and one more swing,” said Bicket; “then we’ll get over on the other side among the trees.”
Away over on the far side were many couples. The sun went very slowly down. Those two sat under a bush and watched it go. A faint breeze swung and rustled the birch leaves. There was little human sound out here. All seemed to have come for silence, to be waiting for darkness in the hush. Now and then some stealthy spy would pass and scrutinise.
“Foxes!” said Bicket. “Gawd! I’d like to rub their noses in it!”
Victorine sighed, pressing closer to him.
Some one was playing on a banjo now; a voice singing. It grew dusk, but a moon was somewhere rising, for little shadows stole out along the ground.
They spoke in whispers. It seemed wrong to raise the voice, as though the grove were under a spell. Even their whisperings were scarce. Dew fell, but they paid no heed to it. With hands locked, and cheeks together, they sat very still. Bicket had a thought. This was poetry–this was! Darkness now, with a sort of faint and silvery glow, a sound of drunken singing on the Spaniard’s Road, the whirr of belated cars returning from the north–and suddenly an owl hooted.
“My!” murmured Victorine, shivering: “An owl! Fancy! I used to hear one at Norbiton. I ‘ope it’s not bad luck!”
Bicket rose and stretched himself,
“Come on!” he said: “we’ve ‘ad a dy. Don’t you go catchin’ cold!”
Arm-inarm, slowly, through the darkness of the birch-grove, they made their way upwards–glad of the lamps, and the street, and the crowded station, as though they had taken an overdose of solitude.
Huddled in their carriage on the Tube, Bicket idly turned the pages of a derelict paper. But Victorine sat thinking of so much, that it was as if she thought of nothing. The swings and the grove in the darkness, and the money in her stocking. She wondered Tony hadn’t noticed when it crackled–there wasn’t a safe place to keep it in! What was he looking at, with his eyes so fixed? She peered, and read: “‘Afternoon of a Dryad.’ The striking picture by Aubrey Greene, on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery.”
Her heart stopped beating.
“Cripes!” said Bicket. “Ain’t that like you?”
“Like me? No!”
Bicket held the paper closer. “It IS. It’s like you all over. I’ll cut that out. I’d like to see that picture.”
The colour came up in her cheeks, released from a heart beating too fast now.
“‘Tisn’t decent,” she said.
“Dunno about that; but it’s awful like you. It’s even got your smile.”
Folding the paper, he began to tear the sheet. Victorine’s little finger pressed the notes beneath her stocking.
“Funny,” she said, slowly, “to think there’s people in the world so like each other.”
“I never thought there could be one like you. Charin’ Cross; we gotta change.”
Hurrying along the rat-runs of the Tube, she slipped her hand into his pocket, and soon some scraps of torn paper fluttered down behind her following him in the crush. If only he didn’t remember where the picture was!
Awake in the night, she thought:
‘I don’t care; I’m going to get the rest of the money–that’s all about it.’
But her heart moved queerly within her, like that of one whose feet have trodden suddenly the quaking edge of a bog.
Chapter II.
OFFICE WORK
Michael sat correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits’–the book left by Wilfrid behind him.
“Can you see Butterfield, sir?”
“I can.”
In Michael the word Butterfield excited an uneasy pride. The young man fulfilled with increasing success the function for which he had been engaged, on trial, four months ago. The head traveller had even called him “a find.” Next to ‘Copper Coin’ he was the finest feather in Michael’s cap. The Trade were not buying, yet Butterfield was selling books, or so it was reported; he appeared to have a natural gift of inspiring confidence where it was not justified. Danby and Winter had even entrusted to him the private marketing of that vellum-bound ‘Limited’ of ‘A Duet,’ by which they were hoping to recoup their losses on the ordinary edition. He was now engaged in working through a list of names considered likely to patronise the little masterpiece. This method of private approach had been suggested by himself.
“You see, sir,” he had said to Michael: “I know a bit about Coue. Well, you can’t work that on the Trade–they’ve got no capacity for faith. What can you expect? Every day they buy all sorts of stuff, always basing themselves on past sales. You can’t find one in twenty that’ll back the future. But with private gentlemen, and especially private ladies, you can leave a thought with them like Coue does–put it into them again and again that day by day in every way the author’s gettin’ better and better; and ten to one when you go round next, it’s got into their subconscious, especially if you take ’em just after lunch or dinner, when they’re a bit drowsy. Let me take my own time, sir, and I’ll put that edition over for you.”
“Well, Michael had answered, “if you can inspire confidence in the future of my governor, Butterfield, you’ll deserve more than your ten per cent.”
“I can do it, sir; it’s just a question of faith.”
“But you haven’t any, have you?”
“Well, not, so to speak, in the author–but I’ve got faith that I can give THEM faith in him; that’s the real point.”
“I see–the three-card stunt; inspire the faith you haven’t got, that the card is there, and they’ll take it. Well, the disillusion is not immediate–you’ll probably always get out of the room in time. Go ahead, then!”
The young man Butterfield had smiled…
The uneasy part of the pride inspired in Michael now by the name was due to old Forsyte’s continually saying to him that he didn’t know–he couldn’t tell–there was that young man and his story about Elderson, and they got no further…
“Good morning, sir. Can you spare me five minutes?”
“Come in, Butterfield. Bunkered with ‘Duet’?”
“No, sir. I’ve placed forty already. It’s another matter.” Glancing at the shut door, the young man came closer.
“I’m working my list alphabetically. Yesterday I was in the E’s.” His voice dropped. “Mr. Elderson.”
“Phew!” said Michael. “You can give HIM the go-by.”
“As a fact, sir, I haven’t.”
“What! Been over the top?”
“Yes, sir. Last night.”
“Good for you, Butterfield! What happened?”
“I didn’t send my name in, sir–just the firm’s card.”
Michael was conscious of a very human malice in the young man’s voice and face.
“Well?”
“Mr. Elderson, sir, was at his wine.
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