With the passing of Dr Prosser passed the Biblical Library. Two walls of matchboarding re-created it as three rooms, of which the outside ones were now the offices of Barnaby and Mrs Prance, and the middle one was a storeroom of the firm’s publications. This room served as a sound-proof cushion between the two outside rooms, so that the racket of Barnaby’s typewriter and the boisterous voice of Mrs Prance bringing good cheer to a printer or a poetess spent themselves on the no-man’s-land within.

  But to-day a voice from the Library was coming through the matchboarding. Somebody was talking into a telephone. Barnaby, remembering that there had been a suggestion of cataloguing the firm’s books, registered with something of a shock his first realization after all these years that there was a telephone in the store-room. This, then, was one of the girl-clerks from downstairs, or possibly some more experienced outsider with a real librarian’s certificate, resting for a moment from her labours and sharing her leisure with an equally leisured friend.

  ‘Yes?’ the voice was saying, oh, so sweetly. ‘Oh, well! . . . You must come and see . . . Do you?’ A low laugh. ‘Perhaps I will . . . I say perhaps I will.’ An interrogative noise with closed lips . . . a little laugh with closed lips . . . ‘Do you? . . . Well, that’s a good thing . . . Oh, no!’ Another laugh, more mocking this time . . . ‘M’m? . . . Oh, well, of course, if that’s what you meant . . . What? . . . Oh, I see, I misunderstood you.’ A ripple of laughter. ‘What? . . . Oh, no, you must find out . . . Yes, I thought perhaps you would . . . Well, we’ll see. . . . You never know, do you?’ . . .

  A Princess talking down her bedside telephone to her lover, a housemaid talking down her mistress’ telephone to her boy-friend (thought Barnaby) have but the one technique, the one language. They laugh in the same low-pitched provocative way; they make the same encouraging, interrogative, love-stirring indications of speech; with the same artifice they excite and caress and lead on and hold back the too hesitant, too eager male. It is the voice of Everywoman. I’ve never noticed it before, he thought, but now I know that I’ve heard it, or overheard it, a hundred times.

  And with this knowledge came the sudden realization that he had never heard it from Chloe.

  For a moment, wondering why he had never heard that voice from her, he gave himself the lover’s answer that it was because she was different from, and superior to, all other women. Then, seeing that this was no answer, he decided that it was because she was so beautiful, so desirable, that she, alone among women, had no need of these feminine enticements. But this also was no answer, since to every lover the loved one was beautiful and desirable above all other women. Then he thought that he knew the true answer. Chloe was unique in that the pleasures of the chase meant nothing to her; her momentary and only satisfaction was in the kill.

  What did that mean? Was it, as he had sometimes wondered and as often denied, that she was insatiable of conquest, looking ever for scalps to hang on her belt; reluctant to waste time in the killing? No, he would never believe that.

  To the ordinary woman (he thought) the preliminaries to conquest: the beckoning, the flight, the hesitation, the advance, the mock-surrender, the surrender: were her farewell to youth. It was implanted, for some reason, in her subconscious mind that, when she married, she would automatically become a faithful wife, a devoted mother. No more invitations to love, no more withdrawals, no more pretty play in the spring-time. So, since her fixed intention was to get married, perhaps to get married to this very man, his love-making must be prolonged, until every least emotion, every last contrariety of her nature, had been exercised.

  But to Chloe, it seemed, marriage was no desired haven, and she would only say farewell to youth when youth and beauty had left her. What benefit to prolong one man’s pursuit when there were ten others ready to pursue, and she had no need of any of them? Indeed, if, as he had sometimes felt, it was her instinct to avoid all passion and to meet every man on a footing of friendship only, then she had reason for turning her batteries on him at the first encounter, hastening a surrender which was bound to come; so that, hearing her terms, he should not bother her with love again. But this did not mean that she would have any fixed objection to the constancy of her lovers, any sincere regret that she had won them. She was a woman.

  She was a woman. Had she been, ridiculous as it must seem, jealous of Silvie? Not jealous in the common use of the word, but jealous suddenly for her own position in his life. Was her summons of him to her bedside just a feminine assertion of authority; her promise to marry him just a warning that he was hers to dispose of as she wished? ‘You mustn’t think of other people, darling, you must only think of me; and then perhaps I’ll marry you one day.’ Was that what she was saying? Not consciously saying it, but with the subconscious thought in her mind: Always up to now he has given up everything for me. Now for the first time he has given up me for another woman. Silvie was unhappy, she needed comforting; yes, I know, darling, it was sweet of you. But I am unhappy, I want comforting, too. Come to me. Yes, I will marry you, darling; and now that I have said it at last, now you must come to me always whenever I want you, and let nothing stand in the way.

  Barnaby had a natural modesty which made it difficult for him to believe that he was of high importance to anybody else. If he thought that he was of importance to Chloe, it was just because he regarded himself as so unimportant to the rest of the world: no name, no money, no external advantages or unusual attributes: only because she had a particular regard for him could she give him so much of her time.

  He had lunched with her twice since that morning. On the first occasion they had met at the Embassy Bar; and, as soon as they were in a corner together, drinks ordered, she had said brightly:

  ‘How’s my Humby?’

  He didn’t want to talk about Humby. He wanted to say, ‘Do you remember the last time we were together?’

  ‘Grand. How are you, darling?’ (Last time you couldn’t sleep. I held you in my arms until you slept.)

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Rush. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Miss Marr. What do you think of the weather? Or don’t you?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. How’s the book?’

  ‘Finished.’

  ‘How exciting. Are you pleased with it?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘I am glad. Why are we talking like this? Do you know at all?’ There was a coolness in her voice which seemed to say ‘It’s your fault, not mine’.

  ‘I’ve got a vague idea.’ The drinks came, and as he paid for them, he said, ‘I’ll tell you in a moment.’ The barman gone, he raised his glass and murmured, ‘I drink to you with my whole heart, my lovely.’

  She acknowledged this with her eyes, but said nothing. He went on:

  ‘You know, whenever we have been very close together one day, then I expect us to be not so close the next time we meet. Because it has so often happened like that. I know it has. I think that it has been your doing sometimes; and that means that at other times I’ve rather expected it, and been afraid of—of getting close to you, in case I was—I was held off. So at those times I’ve sort of held off myself, and then of course it has been my fault. I think that’s what it is.’

  ‘Whose fault is it to-day?’ said Chloe coldly, so coldly.

  ‘Mine, I suppose, but I feel that whatever I had said would have been wrong.’

  ‘Why do you feel that?’

  ‘Oh, hell, I don’t know. I get depressed about myself at times, and feel that I’m just being a nuisance to you.’

  Chloe relaxed at this and said: ‘I’ll let you know when you’re a nuisance to me, darling.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Just write the word on a piece of packing-paper with a burnt stick, and send it to me in an unstamped envelope. I’ll know who it’s from, and I’ll pay the postage.’

  ‘May I say noosance? It’s easier to spell. I’m not sure about the other.’

  ‘I was coming to that. It’s n-u-i. But make it noosance if it’s easier. I shall answer on another piece of packing-paper “Noosance yourself”, and then we needn’t bother each other again. I may use blood—more dignified.’

  ‘Oh, darling Barnaby,’ cried Chloe, melting to him. ‘I love you, I could never let you go!’

  ‘Oh, darling Chloe. I love you?

  And on those terms they went up to lunch. But nothing was said about marriage.

  It was a fortnight before they lunched again, and this time they went to a little restaurant in Greek Street. He had brought one of Humby’s puzzles with him, and rather wished he hadn’t, for it occupied her attention almost exclusively. Just at the end he interrupted her to say, ‘We are getting married one day, aren’t we?’ wondering how she would answer; and she said, not lifting her eyes,

  ‘Yes, darling, when I’ve done this.’

  Which left things much as they were.

  2

  There was a loud knock at his door and Mrs Willoughby Prance came in, cigarette-holder in mouth.

  ‘Rush, old man,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think anything would ever come between us, but something has.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the store-room. ‘In there.’

  ‘Can you hear her too?’

  ‘Hear her? She’s been revealing her whole love-life for the last hour. Makes what I tell the children about cowslips seem very silly. Who is she?’

  ‘One of the girls from down below?’

  ‘That she’s not. I went in to tell her that I’d only been married twice and could I have the rest in a plain wrapper, and she just motioned me outside. I was so surprised, I went. If I go in again, I shall put her over my knee and smack her bottom, in which case she’ll turn out to be Lady Ermyntrude and engaged to one of the Prosser boys. Be a good fellow, and see what you can do with her. Take her out to lunch, and tell her some of the other facts of life. Work, and how an office is run, and all that. I leave it to you, Rush. Cheerio.’ She went out.

  There was silence from the store-room. Barnaby lit a pipe, and told himself that if the voice began again, he would go in. Not that he had any personal complaint to make: he had only become aware of it in the last few minutes. But if it had been going on all morning, disturbing Prance——

  Could she really have been married twice? Extraordinary. Two men looking round the world of women, and saying, ‘I’ll have that one.’

  The door opened suddenly, and the Voice came in.

  ‘I just wondered,’ it said; ‘are you taking me out to lunch?’

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ said Barnaby. .

  ‘Hallo.’

  They looked each other over. She was young, little more than twenty, with an odd air of assured authority; as if she were still Head Prefect and Tennis Captain, and the big world were her little world, and she had taken her rightful place in it. Not pretty, thought Barnaby at first, but curiously attractive, with high cheek-bones and Chinese-looking eyes in a beautifully held head. He tried to think of a word for her figure and general bearing, and decided that ‘sturdy’ didn’t quite do it justice.

  ‘Come right in. What’s all this about lunch? Are you the girl next door?’

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Barnaby Rush.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m Little Nell.’

  ‘Rush, woman, Rush.’

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t your Father know about Dickens?’

  ‘Not only knew about him, but knew him. You will be surprised, but I hope interested, to hear that I was actually registered as David Copperfield Rush. At the last moment, at my mother’s earnest entreaty, I was christened Barnaby, thus keeping Dickens in the family, but not too obtrusively.’

  ‘Most interesting. I’m Jill Morfrey.’ The Jill Morfrey, she seemed to be saying. ‘Was Dickens your godfather? What did he give you besides a signed copy of Barnaby Budge?’

  ‘Just the signed copy of Barnaby Budge. My other godfather, Chaucer, gave me the Canterbury Tales. How old do you think I am?’

  ‘I have no idea. And I don’t know when Dickens died.’ She leant back against his desk and took out her compact. ‘Who is the person who was in here just now? I saw something for a moment, but it went away again.’

  ‘Look here, Miss Morfrey, who are you, if it comes to that?’

  ‘Do you mean pedigree, or why I’m here?’

  ‘Both. Anything. Nothing. Tell me all that at lunch.’ He looked at his watch and got up. ‘A very good idea of yours.’

  ‘Not mine. Hers. What makes her think that she’s been married twice?’

  ‘I say, did you hear all she said?’ He tried to remember what she had said; and, more importantly, what he had said.

  ‘Well, if you both heard what I said, talking down the telephone in a very low voice to—to——’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  She acknowledged this with the hint of a smile at the corners of those almond eyes, and went on, ‘My uncle— well, naturally, I heard your friend shouting at the top of her voice through a megaphone. How a woman like that dares to talk about—well, let’s have lunch.’

  ‘Right. Her name, by the way, in case we wish to refer to her again, but I don’t see why we should, is Mrs Willoughby Prance.’

  ‘Also a friend of Dickens?’

  ‘She is an esteemed colleague of mine who manages the Juvenile Department of Prosser’s.’

  ‘I shall buy my Book of Bunnies elsewhere in future,’ said Miss Morfrey coldly.

  They lunched, it was almost unavoidable, at the Savoy. Miss Morfrey didn’t drink. Miss Morfrey didn’t smoke.

  ‘You do eat?’ asked Barnaby a little anxiously. ‘We want this thing to be a success.’

  ‘I can eat anything. Order for yourself, and I’ll have whatever you have.’

  ‘Oh! . . . Well, translating rapidly into English, I shall have half a dozen oysters, and fillet of beef with trimmings. All right for you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. When you’re manager of the Savoy, I’ll give you a Thought for the Day.’

  ‘Oh, do. One never knows.’

  ‘Have two bills of fare, one with the prices and one without, and tell your waiters to give the host the pricelist and the guests the other. It’s embarrassing enough choosing between so many different dishes; but when some are 3s. 6d. and some are 15 s. 6d., and one hasn’t yet discovered what one’s host’s income is, it becomes still more embarrassing.’

  Barnaby looked surprised.

  ‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ he said, ‘that every now and then you wonder if the fortunate man who is enjoying the privilege of entertaining you—oh, damn this sentence, it’s getting much too long—anyway, you wonder if he is leaving himself enough to live on for the rest of the month?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Miss Morfrey, it is indeed a privilege to be your host. If nothing else made you unique among women, this would. You’re sure you won’t help me out with a bottle of Chablis? It isn’t “drink” in the most abandoned sense of the word.’

  ‘Oh, I drink wine, of course. Have half a bottle, and I’ll have half a glass. We’ve got to work afterwards.’

  Barnaby gave the order, cleared his throat and said: ‘This is where I do my stuff. Er—when you talk of “work”, are we thinking of the same thing?’

  Miss Morfrey looked at him. Miss Morfrey made it quite clear who was captain of the Tennis Six and who wasn’t.

  ‘Listen, Mr Rush,’ she said kindly. ‘I am not back at school, and I do not have to account for every minute of my time. In any case, as I get a fixed fee for the job I’m doing, it is my own time. Of course, if I had known that Prosser’s was jerry-built, I shouldn’t have used the telephone, and I should probably have breathed much more carefully. I have made a note that I owe Mr Stainer tuppence for the telephone-call.’

  ‘Crushed,’ said Barnaby. ‘Never to look the world in the face again.’

  ‘Sorry, that woman annoyed me.’

  ‘She’s an annoying woman. And if you ask me, I think that we’ve both treated you very rudely. Forget it, forgive it, and now let’s talk about ourselves. Much more interesting.’

  Her father, nobody quite knew why, was a clergyman: the Rev. Quentin Morfrey. He had a parish of a thousand souls in Warwickshire, a stable of half a dozen horses, three daughters and a herd of Jersey cows. His treasure, as therefore his heart, was in the stables. Of the daughters Jill was the youngest and set apart from her sisters. They, so much older than she, lived with the horses, and if ever they came out of a loose-box to put their heads into the schoolroom, it was to ask Miss Trigg if Jill were very busy. ‘We have our Algebra,’ Miss Trigg would say ridiculously, as if it could hold its own against the making of a poultice or the polishing of a bit; and Algebra would bow its head, or be taken at a run. In the afternoons, Jill’s time was her own. She could spend it doing a boy’s work on the farm or bicycling into the village with a message for somebody.

  She liked riding well enough, but the Vicar could only afford to mount two of his daughters, so she made do with the old pony who still mowed the lawn. Mr Morfrey regarded Ptolemy and Titus as investments in the marriage market; if Beryl and Hermione were to marry, their opportunities would come through the exchanges of the hunting-field rather than of the dance floor or the tennis court. From the moment when their mother died he had had to think of these things. Jill could wait. By the time she was grown up she would probably have other assets than a good seat, a long stride, and an inability to talk about anything but horses. There were moments when she almost gave the promise of beauty. The two elder girls resembled Mr Morfrey; a catastrophe for which, a little unfairly, he had always held his wife responsible.

  When Jill was fifteen, Miss Morfrey (Aunt Clara) decided to exercise her privilege as godmother.