He’s a bit romantic, of course.’

‘Oh! Have I made a gaff?’

‘Not a bit; jolly good shot. The vice of our lot is, they say it pretty well, but they’ve nothing to say. They won’t last.’

‘But that’s just why they will last. They won’t date.’

‘Won’t they? My gum!’

‘Wilfrid will last’

‘Ah! Wilfrid has emotions, hates, pities, wants; at least sometimes; when he has, his stuff is jolly good. Otherwise, he just makes a song about nothing – like the rest.’

Fleur tucked in the top of her undergarment.

‘But, Michael, if that’s so, we – I’ve got the wrong lot.’

Michael grinned.

‘My dear child! The lot of the hour is always right; only you’ve got to watch it, and change it quick enough.’

‘But d’you mean to say that Sibley isn’t going to live?’

‘Sib? Lord, no!’

‘But he’s so perfectly sure that almost everybody else is dead or dying. Surely he has critical genius!’

‘If I hadn’t more judgement than Sib, I’d go out of publishing tomorrow.’

‘You – more than Sibley Swan?’

‘Of course, I’ve more judgement than Sib. Why! Sib’s judgement is just his opinion of Sib – common or garden impatience of anyone else. He doesn’t even read them. He’ll read one specimen of every author and say: “Oh! that fellow! He’s dull, or he’s moral, or he’s sentimental, or he dates, or he drivels” – I’ve heard him dozens of times. That’s if they’re alive. Of course, if they’re dead, it’s different. He’s always digging up and canonizing the dead; that’s how he’s got his name. There’s always a Sib in literature. He’s a standing example of how people can get taken at their own valuation. But as to lasting – of course he won’t; he’s never creative, even by mistake.’

Fleur had lost the thread. Yes! It suited her – quite a nice line! Off with it! Must write those three notes before she dressed.

Michael had begun again.

‘Take my tip, Fleur. The really big people don’t talk – and don’t bunch – they paddle their own canoes in what seem backwaters. But it’s the backwaters that make the main stream. By Jove, that’s a mot, or is it a bull; and are bulls mots or mots bulls?’

‘Michael, if you were me, would you tell Frederic Wilmer that he’ll be meeting Hubert Marsland at lunch next week? Would it bring him or would it put him off?’

‘Marsland’s rather an old duck, Wilmer’s rather an old goose – I don’t know.’

‘Oh! do be serious, Michael – you never give me any help in arranging – No! Don’t maul my shoulders please.’

‘Well, darling, I don’t know. I’ve no genius for such things, like you. Marsland paints windmills, cliffs and things – I doubt if he’s heard of the future. He’s almost a Mathew Maris for keeping out of the swim. If you think he’d like to meet a Vertiginist –’

‘I didn’t ask you if he’d like to meet Wilmer; I asked you if Wilmer would like to meet him.’

‘Wilmer will just say: “I like little Mrs Mont, she gives deuced good grub” – and so you do, ducky. A Vertiginist wants nourishing, you know, or it wouldn’t go to his head.’

Fleur’s pen resumed its swift strokes, already become slightly illegible. She murmured:

‘I think Wilfrid would help – you won’t be there; one – two – three. What women?’

‘Four painters – pretty and plump; no intellect,’

Fleur said crossly:

‘I can’t get them plump; they don’t go about now.’ And her pen flowed on:

DEAR WILFRID – Wednesday – lunch; Wilmer, Hubert Marsland, two other women. Do help me live it down.

Yours ever,

FLEUR

‘Michael, your chin is like a bootbrush.’

‘Sorry, old thing; your shoulders shouldn’t be so smooth. Bart gave Wilfrid a tip as we were coming along.’

Fleur stopped writing. ‘Oh!’

‘Reminded him that the state of love was a good stunt for poets.’

‘A propos of what?’

‘Wilfrid was complaining that he couldn’t turn it out now.’

‘Nonsense! His last things are his best.’

‘Well, that’s what I think. Perhaps he’s forestalled the tip.