Джон Голсуорси - The White Monkey

She entered, trembling. All went exactly as foreseen, even to the pinching of her accent, till she stood waiting for them to bring an answer from the speaking tube, concealing her hands in their very old gloves. Had Miss Manuelli an appointment? There was no manuscript.

“No,” said Victorine, “I haven’t sent it yet. I wanted to see him first.” The young man at the counter was looking at her hard. He went again to the tube, then spoke.

“Will you wait a minute, please—Mr. Mont’s lady secretary is coming down.”

Victorine inclined her head towards her sinking heart. A lady secretary! She would never get there now! And there came on her the sudden dread of false pretences. But the thought of Tony standing at his corner, ballooned up to the eyes, as she had spied out more than once, fortified her desperation.

A girl’s voice said: “Miss Manuelli? Mr. Mont’s secretary, perhaps you could give me a message.”

A fresh-faced young woman’s eyes were travelling up and down her. Pinching her accent hard, she said: “Oh! I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”

The travelling gaze stopped at her face. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if he can see you.”

Alone in a small waiting-room, Victorine sat without movement, till she saw a young man’s face poked through the doorway, and heard the words:

“Will you come in?”

She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room,

“Well, Miss—er—Manuelli?”

“Not Manuelli, please—Mrs. Bicket; my husband used to be here.”

“What!” The chap that had snooped ‘Copper Coin!’ Phew! Bicket’s yarn—his wife—pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.

“He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?”

Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?

“He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St. Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you COULD take him back here…”

No! she did not know!

“Very sorry, Mrs. Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are YOU all right again?”

“Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.”

What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!

“Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s pretty good—in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?”

“I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.”

“All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St. Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs. Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.”

“When I was ill, sir.”

“Of course, that makes a difference.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let me write you a note to Mr. Greene. Will you sit down a minute?”

He stole a look at her while she sat waiting. Really, her sallow, large-eyed face, with its dead-black, bobbed, frizzy-ended hair, was extraordinarily interesting—a little too refined and anaemic for the public; but, dash it all! the public couldn’t always have its Reckitt’s blue eyes, corn-coloured hair, and poppy cheeks. “She’s not a peach,” he wrote, “on the main tree of taste; but so striking in her way that she really might become a type, like Beardsley’s or Dana’s.”

When she had taken the note and gone, he rang for his secretary.

“No, Miss Perren, she didn’t take anything off me. But some type, eh?”

“I thought you’d like to see her. She wasn’t an authoress, was she?”

“Far from it.”

“Well, I hope she got what she wanted.”

Michael grinned. “Partly, Miss Perren—partly. You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”

“I’m sure I don’t; but I think you’re too soft-hearted.”

Michael ran his fingers through his hair.

“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve done a stroke of business?”

“Yes, Mr. Mont.”

“Then I won’t tell you what it is. When you’ve done pouting, go on with that letter to my father about ‘Duet’: ‘We are sorry to say that in the present state of the trade we should not be justified in reprinting the dialogue between those two old blighters; we have already lost money by it!’ You must translate, of course. Now can we say something to cheer the old boy up? How about this? ‘When the French have recovered their wits, and the birds begin to sing—in short, when spring comes—we hope to reconsider the matter in the light of—of’—er—what, Miss Perren?”

“‘The experience we shall have gained.’ Shall I leave out about the French and the birds?”

“Excellent! ‘Yours faithfully, Danby and Winter.’ Don’t you think it was a scandalous piece of nepotism bringing the book here at all, Miss Perren?”

“What is ‘nepotism’?”

“Taking advantage of your son. He’s never made a sixpence by any of his books.”

“He’s a very distinguished writer, Mr. Mont.”

“And we pay for the distinction. Well, he’s a good old Bart. That’s all before lunch, and mind you have a good one. That girl’s figure wasn’t usual either, was it? She’s thin, but she stands up straight. There’s a question I always want to ask, Miss Perren: Why do modern girls walk in a curve with their heads poked forward? They can’t all be built like that.”

The secretary’s cheeks brightened.

“There IS a reason, Mr. Mont.”

“Good! What is it?”

The secretary’s cheeks continued to brighten. “I don’t really know whether I can—”

“Oh! sorry. I’ll ask my wife. Only she’s quite straight herself.”

“Well, Mr. Mont, it’s this, you see: They aren’t supposed to have anything be—behind, and, of course, they have, and they can’t get the proper effect unless they curve their chests in and poke their heads forward. It’s the fashion-plates and mannequins that do it.”

“I see,” said Michael; “thank you, Miss Perren; awfully good of you. It’s the limit, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I don’t hold with it, myself.”

“No, quite!”

The secretary lowered her eyelids and withdrew.

Michael sat down and drew a face on his blotting-paper. It was not Victorine’s…

Armed with the note to Aubrey Greene, Victorine had her usual lunch, a cup of coffee and a bit of heavy cake, and took the tube towards Chelsea. She had not succeeded, but the gentleman had been friendly and she felt cheered.

At the studio door was a young man inserting a key—very elegant in smoke-grey Harris tweeds, a sliding young man with no hat, beautifully brushed-back bright hair, and a soft voice.

“Model?” he said.

“Yes, sir, please. I have a note for you from Mr. Mont.”

“Michael? Come in.”

Victorine followed him in. It was ‘not half’ sea-green in there; a high room with rafters and a top light, and lots of pictures and drawings on the walls, and as if they had slipped off on to the floor. A picture on an easel of two ladies with their clothes sliding down troubled Victorine. She became conscious of the gentleman’s eyes, sea-green like the walls, sliding up and down her.