What they don’t realise is that the foreign visitors will put money into their pockets—”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Runcorn sepulchrally, “that there will be some foreign visitors?”

“Swarms of ’em, don’t you worry. With money to burn. That’s the line for you to take, if you don’t mind me making the suggestion. Visitors from all over the world!”

Mr. Runcorn nodded without enthusiasm and made a note on his blotting-pad: “Viators and peripatetics from other climes”

“I’m relying on you,” added the Mayor, “to lift them out of their apathy. Rouse ’em, Runcorn, rouse ’em!”

“It isn’t apathy alone,” said Mr. Runcorn, picking up a typewritten letter off his desk. “It’s active opposition. Read this.”

The letter began:

“We the undersigned workers wish to protest against the diversion of valuable man-hours and material, at this critical moment in our history …” It went on for nearly three pages and bore twelve signatures, the first of which was “Enid Foulkes.”

“That’s bad,” said the Mayor, shaking his head. “That’s a blow beneath the belt, that is.”

“They’re all employed at the balloon factory,” said Mr. Runcorn.

“I wish nobody any harm,” sighed the Mayor, “but do you know, if I owned the balloon factory, I’d be almost tempted to purge that Enid Foulkes.” He was about to hand back the letter to Mr. Runcorn when he hesitated.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be possibles——”

“Yes?”

“Just this once——”

“Yes?”

He became aware of the eyes of Mr. Runcorn, like those of an immensely old lizard, unblinking and cold.

“To tuck it away,” he stammered.

“Yes?”

“On an inside page.”

There was a long silence during which it seemed as if the shades of five sea-green incorruptibles, Mr. Runcorn’s predecessors in the editorial chair, were gathered behind him where he sat hunched at his desk, as still as a lizard on a rock. The Mayor dropped the letter on the desk.

“This,” said Mr. Runcorn, tapping it, “is a matter of public interest. I think I need say no more.”

An atmosphere of bleak and wintry indignation filled the room. The Mayor got up to go.

“I’m sorry, Runcorn,” he said, “I oughtn’t to have suggested that.”

“No,” said Mr. Runcorn.

“I could bite my tongue off,” said the Mayor. “Please forget it.”

He went out, and even Miss Smith, who had seen Councillors and Town Clerks and on one memorable occasion the Vicar himself dismissed in the same way, felt sorry for him. Mr. Runcorn looked across the room at her and, forgetting for a moment that she was a Beauty Queen, saw her only as a member of the staff who must therefore participate in his sense of outrage.

“The Weekly Intelligencer” he observed, “may not be the Manchester Guardian; but we share certain principles.”

Miss Smith said nothing; for a number of painful experiences had convinced her that people liked her much better when she didn’t talk, and she had developed a kind of defensive mechanism of silence. So she fell to daydreaming again, and, closing her eyes, saw herself in the dress which the Beauty Queen would wear for the Grand Procession. This dress was to be specially designed by a young man called Robin who had been engaged to design all the dresses for the Pageant; and he, protesting that he couldn’t possibly contrive clothes for somebody he didn’t know, had invited her to tea in his studio. Miss Smith had politely declined, while consenting to go a walk with him instead on one of her afternoons off; for the young man, though attractive, had a reputation for unconventional behaviour and she was well aware of the special dangers inherent in artists’ studios. A Beauty Queen could not be too careful; for that matter—a film-star could not be too careful! Fluttering her eyelids slightly, Miss Smith faded out the long taffeta dress with puff sleeves and replaced it with a dark oblong upon which convolutions of light hurled themselves towards her, formed fantastic patterns, and at last resolved themselves into her own name. Starring Virginia Verity? Virtue? Vane?—Oh no, that was liable to misinterpretation—Valley? Vance? Virginia Vance, she decided, was almost perfect; in quaint gothic letters for a Period Picture, in square modern ones for a Tense Drama, in blue, in old gold, in rose, in emerald green for a piece in technicolor, the beautiful name pirouetted before her eyes.

The girl, thought Mr. Runcorn, must surely have fallen asleep; and although he could but disapprove, some ancient courtesy forbade him to wake her. Instead he stared hard at the almost Grecian profile, stared and stared until suddenly inspiration came.