The author hopes his book will live,

  But knows its worthlessness, and so he

  Inscribes your name that you may give

  It immortality, my Chloe.

  There were too many amorous authors about. A copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress mollified him. Even if it had been given to her by John Bunyan, it would have been given in a purely Christian spirit. He looked inside, and found that this time it was the illustrator who had forced it, and what he called his homage, on ‘Lovely Chloe’. Claude decided to illustrate the Bible and give two copies to Dear Miss Marr. Claudia eased a foot out of a shoe, but realizing that it would never get back if it didn’t go back at once, squeezed it in again.

  A telephone bell sounded, and Ellen was heard answering it from the bedroom. In a little while the front-door bell rang. Ellen brought in a very large man and made a mumbled introduction, which left Claude and Claudia in no doubt that their name was Lancing, but gave them no further information. The large man said, ‘Old girl not in yet. Well, what about a drink? What’ll you have, Miss——er——’

  ‘Lancing,’ said Claudia. ‘Hadn’t we better——’

  There was a rattle at the door, and Chloe came swiftly in. She wore a flowered cotton and a large hat, and looked incredibly lovely.

  ‘Sorry, everybody. Ellen, take these.’ And then to Claudia, ‘How are you, it is nice to see you. How are you, Claude? Percy, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you can at least give Miss Lancing a drink.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you how it was, old girl,’ said Percy.

  ‘You must tell somebody else, I simply must telephone.’ She gave Claudia a charming smile. ‘Do forgive me.’

  Claudia, who was now able to sit down again, wondered if she wouldn’t have been better in the little black suit, but smiled as cheerfully as her feet would allow.

  ‘You must try my special,’ called out Chloe from the bedroom, and began dialling. ‘That’s it there, Mr Walsh,’ said Ellen, returning from the hall. ‘It only wants the ice.’ She disappeared into the bedroom. Percy put in the ice and told them just how it was. It was a long story, involving reference to an episode in Oxford Street a few days before, when a dam colour-blind feller who looked as though he were just going cooking had the infernal impudence to say that Mr Walsh had run the lights, when everybody knew that the whole Police Force was simply riddled with Bolshevism, and a feller in the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries had told a feller he knew that the Civil Service was absolutely honeycombed with it, the result being that Mr Walsh sat on a damned hard seat for an hour and a half while the sergeant feller was lolling in an armchair doing the Crossword Puzzle in the Police Gazette, and pretending that he was getting through to somebody called George Chater to see how many whiskies Mr Walsh had had. . . . Claudia, who had begun by listening with the intense interest of a promising young actress on the stage—(‘what we call playing-up to the other characters’)—was lulled into unconsciousness, either by the monotony of Percy’s voice or by the continuous accompaniment of rattles from the cocktail-shaker, and woke to what she supposed was a different story, since it involved a boar-hound called Agatha, a dam nice bitch. Claude seemed to be interested in neither story, being seated at the table with his back to Percy, turning the pages of The Pilgrim’s Progress.

  Chloe came in from the bedroom. Claude jumped to his feet, and had the shaker in his hand, while Percy from his armchair was still only sending preliminary ripples of movement through his frame. She sat on the sofa next to Claudia and said ‘Yes, please, Claude,’ and then ‘Thank you, darling. Now then, Percy, I’m ready.’ Claudia sent a wild appeal for help into the ether; Claude, who had put down the shaker, picked it up again and refilled his glass; Percy said, ‘Well, I’ll tell you how it was, old girl,’ and a telephone bell rang. Ellen announced that Mr Kelly was on his way up.

  Wilson Kelly didn’t seem quite so glamorous off the stage; perhaps because he hadn’t got his violin. Claudia had her hand decorously kissed, which she liked, and Chloe had her face emphatically kissed, which Claude didn’t like. Then he and Percy had their hands shaken in a way which, if the Potter Theory were correct, would have seemed almost indecently natural across the footlights. Percy began his story again, but hadn’t got far before it reminded Kelly of something which had happened to him when he was playing Bill Travers at Edinburgh. Nobody knew, nor was ever to know, whether Bill Travers was the name of the play or of the character assumed by Mr Kelly, but at least it was a different story from Percy’s, and Claudia, as a fellow-Thespian, gave it eager attention; until she discovered that the fact that he was playing Bill Travers was only incidental to the main theme, which concerned the traffic lights of Edinburgh and the manners of its policemen. The conversation then became general, which meant that Percy went on with his story from the place where he had left off, with the words, ‘Well, as I was saying, old girl,’ putting his arm round Chloe’s shoulders to keep her within hearing; and Kelly was reminded (by the fact that, as he reminded his hearers, it was a Friday) of an odd experience he had had one Thursday on his recent tour in Australia and the Far East, an experience which would seem the more odd to Claude and Claudia if they knew Bangkok well. Claudia, in agonies with her feet, said that she had never met him, and she didn’t think Claude had, and Claude removed his eyes from Chloe, re-entered the conversation, and said that he had played golf with him once. Kelly said, ‘I am speaking of Bangkok, the capital of Siam,’ and Claudia, very red-faced, said, ‘Oh, Bangkok!’ and Claude added, ‘Sorry, I thought you said Hancock.’ He then joined Chloe and Percy. Chloe put an arm in his, squeezed it, and gave him her famous smile. Percy, who seemed to have come to the end of his story, said loudly, ‘I say, old girl, who is the blighter?’ and Chloe said, equally loudly, ‘I don’t know, he never signs his name,’ and murmured to Claude, ‘That’s what we call tact.’ Percy immediately became tactful, opening his mouth and jerking his head and eyes back over his left shoulder. Chloe whispered, ‘Wilson Kelly,’ and Percy said, ‘Thought I’d seen that nose somewhere,’ and went off to refill his glass.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s that damned Percy.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Percy Walsh. God knows why Ellen let him up. He’s spoilt everything.’

  ‘Well, anyhow, what about our evening?’

  ‘Our what? Oh, yes. How about next Friday, darling?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘I’m going away for the week-end, and I may have to go on the Friday night, but I think I can arrange not to. So would you ring me up on Thursday morning? It’s almost sure to be all right, but I can’t be absolutely certain till then. Will you do that, darling?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Claude, with less enthusiasm than he would have liked to put into it.

  Claudia, seeing a refreshed Percy coming their way; told Kelly that they would have to be going, she didn’t know it was so late. With an immense effort she rose to her feet. ‘Cramp,’ she said brightly to an unnaturally alarmed Kelly. ‘It’s quite all right.’ Chloe came to meet her, saying, ‘Oh, must you really?’ and Claude, seeing the look in his sister’s eyes, let it be known that they had to go out to an early dinner. Chloe took them to the lift.

  ‘It has been nice,’ said Claudia. ‘It was sweet of you to ask us.’ Chloe looked remorsefully at Claude, giving the apology for Percy into his keeping. Out in the street Claudia said quickly, ‘I must have a taxi.’

  ‘Of course,’ said her brother.

  As the taxi left the kerb, she dropped her head on his shoulder, said, ‘Oh, Claude! Oh, Claude!’ and wept.

  ‘Howl away, Brighteyes,’ said Claude, putting an arm round her. ‘Only kick your shoes off first.’

  4

  Claudia felt better after a bath and in her bedroom slippers, but still considered that she had much to forgive. This put Claude on a defensive which was the more dogged for being really half-hearted. He admitted to himself that Chloe was not to blame for the presence of Percy Walsh; that one couldn’t do anything with Percy in a small flat except wish him dead; and that it was Percy who had really spoilt everything. But no, that was just it; not everything. It was not Percy who had chosen next Friday for their evening together; a day which gave her, not only a genuine reason for breaking the date, but, as he saw at once, the perfect excuse if she should wish to break it. Two hours ago he had been, in his more composed way, as eager in anticipation as Claudia. He had seen himself alone with Chloe, perhaps in her bedroom, perhaps going out with her on the excuse of getting cigarettes or a bottle of something; alone, and making sure and unalterable plans, she as eager as he, for their great evening. It had not happened like that. Nothing had happened to give him any reassurance.

  Yes, he might feel some resentment against Chloe. That was his privilege as her lover; but it was not a privilege he was prepared to share with Claudia.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘what does the whole thing come to? Your shoes were too tight. I suppose you don’t blame her for that.’

  ‘If I hadn’t been wearing that dress, I mightn’t have been wearing the shoes, and if you’d let me wear what I wanted to wear, I should have been different from her, which was what you wanted me to be——’

  ‘Oh, God. So now it’s my fault. Anybody’s but yours.’

  ‘Well, why does she know a man like that Walsh man?’

  ‘He wasn’t the only bore there.’

  ‘Naturally Wilson Kelly had to—I mean he—well, I think he was very interesting.’

  ‘I was referring to the Lancings. They weren’t exactly sparkling.’

  ‘How you can expect anybody to sparkle when her feet——’

  ‘There you are. Your shoes were too tight. That’s what I said.’

  ‘If I’d been wearing what I wanted to wear——’

  ‘Then you would have been the life and soul of the party. I’ve often felt like that. If my sock suspender hadn’t come down, I should have been marvellous.’ He got up and put on his hat. ‘I suggest that we now have some dinner. If you’ll tell me where you are going to have yours, I’ll have mine somewhere else. I hate quarrelling in public.’

  ‘I don’t want any dinner.’

  ‘Then you can do that here quite comfortably. And to-morrow, when our feet hurt us less, we can decide whether we want to go on living together. I’m beginning to think that we don’t, but let’s be friendly about it.’ He turned round at the door, and, seeing her so small and woeful, saw her suddenly as the child she had been in all their childish adventures together, and felt an ache of remembrance for those happy days. ‘Cheer up, Bright-eyes,’ he said, ‘you didn’t look too bad. Walsh asked me who that damned pretty girl was, and I suppose he must have meant you.’

  He went out, thinking, ‘And may God forgive me for that one.’

  Claudia, greatly revived, went into her bedroom, put on the flowered cotton and the big hat and looked at herself in the glass; trying to see herself as Mr Walsh must have seen her.

  5

  Left alone for a moment with Chloe, Wilson Kelly was saying it for Percy.

  ‘Charming, charming. The perfect gypsy type. I see her in a striped petticoat with a tambourine. I wonder.’ He wondered, rather noticeably. His new play, which was soon to go into rehearsal, was a modern comedy, but there was no reason why a gypsy girl shouldn’t come to the French windows after dinner with her tambourine. Later he might pay a return visit on the gypsies with his violin; perhaps a new Third Act in the gypsy camp, coming back to the drawing-room later. All sorts of possibilities followed the entry into his mind of that magic word ‘tambourine’.

  ‘Can you take an engagement when you’re at the Academy?’ asked Chloe, apparently following him.

  ‘She would hardly need to go back, would she? The training she would get on the stage—with me—the rough-and-tumble of the real thing—I have rather a way with these young girls, you know.’

  ‘On the stage or off, Wil?’ smiled Chloe.

  If he heard it, he ignored it, and asked, ‘How long has she been at the Academy?’

  ‘Not long. A term or two.’

  ‘I think I’ll get her to come and dine with me one night.’

  ‘Do, darling. She’d love it. That was her brother, you know.’

  ‘Oh? What does he do?’

  ‘Paints. He’s devoted to her.’ She looked at Kelly with her head on one side, and added: ‘He got a blue for boxing.’ She waited until Kelly’s eyes met hers, and then said, ‘Well, I must have my bath. Ellen! Give Mr Kelly Miss Lancing’s telephone number.’

  Chapter Eight

  1

  It was August, and London was empty. To the seven million people still there it may have seemed full enough, as they fought their way into buses, swayed from straps on the Underground, or ate their lunches in crowded tea-shops surrounded by the abhorrent lunches of their neighbours; but to those of them who knew Chloe it was indeed empty, for she was at Biarritz, and even the familiar intimacy of the engaged signal was denied to them. However, one could write to her, though from a woman so accustomed to correspondence by telephone the prospect of a return letter seemed remote.

  Prossers. Thursday.

  My lovely,

  If you had been in London, and hadn’t turned me down for somebody else—I mean, if I hadn’t turned you down for one of the many other, better, nobler, more lovely creatures whom I so rightly prefer—we might have been lunching together. Somehow I always think of Thursday as ‘our’ day, although, from time to time you have made every day of the week an oasis in the illimitable Strand. An oasis, as you probably know, is a place where you drink. For list of the better-known oases see O in Any More Questions. A.M.Q., by the way, is hell. I keep on beginning again, which is my idea of hell, anyway, and it’s a damnable book in any case, being a compendium of utterly useless knowledge. When I was an architect and waiting drearily for clients, I used to read the Encyclopaedia Britannica to keep myself from screaming, and I can tell you quite a bit about Albertus Magnus, Addison’s Disease, and the Alps, all of which may be useful one day. But nothing in this damned book—oh, well, it’s a job of work, and it may make money, and when I’m a millionaire you’re going to marry me. Oh, darling, I wish I were richer or you loved me more, and of the two I would rather that you loved me more.

  ‘My Humby’ made a first appearance here yesterday. We all thought he was Humbert something, but Silvie introduced him proudly as Mr Spencer Humberson, a grave, young man in spectacles with a hobby of (you’ll never guess what) inventing and making wire puzzles; you know the sort of thing—a ring and a key and a triangle inextricably locked, and you fiddle with them for three hours and suddenly they come to pieces in your hand, and you haven’t the vaguest idea how you did it. He had his pockets stuffed with them, damn him, and left a couple behind, and I wasted the whole afternoon until Silvie came back with my tea and did them for me. She knows them all, of course, as a loving author’s wife would know his books—backwards and in her sleep. He spends his working life making cardboard boxes, which seems all wrong, but at any moment he may invent a suspender which doesn’t ladder, and then they will get married. It’s to be called the Silvie, and I shall give you a review copy . . .

  Croxton,

  Nr. Lewes.

  Sunday.

  Thank you for the pattern, darling. I ought to have said this before—and I’m only saying it now because the Twins have asked me to ask you if there is a Cathedral at Biarritz— because if so you won’t forget, will you, there’s a pet. We have some very strange people with us this week-end—I don’t know what they’re doing here and whether they’re Bill’s friends or mine, I think one or two must have mistaken the house, there’s one keeps calling me Lady Adela, most embarrassing—and at dinner last night, another one asked me how far it was to Hunstanton. I told him it was ten miles to Brighton and left him to work it out—I don’t know where he thinks he is—he has a long drooping moustache and the Twins say they found him in a wood, but you know the way they talk. . . .

  27 Harts Studios,

  Fulham Road, S.W. 3.

  My Darling Chloe,

  Even if you won’t come out to dinner with me, or marry me, or do anything reasonable like that, I still adore you. Couldn’t we have lunch together at an A.B.C. when I’m President of the Royal Academy, it would give me something to work for?

  Meanwhile I must tell you the great news. Claudia dined with Wilson Kelly last night, and over the smoked salmon was offered the small part of a gypsy (or, as she would prefer, the part of a small gypsy) in his new play, Kelly’s idea of a gypsy being of something in the Chorus of Carmen with a rose in its teeth, and quite unlike our Hampshire gypsies. He passed the next three courses in an interesting condition, having, so to speak, cancelled all his social engagements, and by the savoury was delivered triumphantly of the name of Zella. The studio is now littered with scraps of paper bearing the strange device, ‘Zella (a gypsy maid)—MISS CLAUDIA LANCING.’ They go on tour at the end of September, which means that, if the play runs for more than a week (as Kelly seems to think it will) she leaves the Academy. This, I gather, serves the Academy right, for giving some end-of-term prize, scholarship or what not to a girl called Dora instead of to herself. It also means that she leaves me, which we had almost decided on, anyhow. So now I am a bachelor, and if you’ve got nothing else to do, will you marry me? . . .

  Whinnies,

  Cromarty, N.B.

  Dear Miss Marr,

  It gave me so much pleasure to meet you the other day, and it is understood, is it not, that you are to come to us for the week beginning September 2nd. That will be delightful. I am enclosing particulars of the route here, as it is cross-country and a little difficult for the new-comer. Looking forward so much to seeing you, I am,