CHAPTER II

I

He had never experienced anything like this before, and after the dismal events of the day, the exhilaration he felt was heightened by reaction. The stall in which he sat was luxurious. It was good to see around him so many prosperous, well-groomed men, and smiling, richly clad, or half-clad women. Then the lights, streaming on the gilding, the brass rails, the tall proscenium, and the gaudily panelled ceiling, with its naked nymphs, rosy limbed, floating from pursuing youths on banks of fleecy cumulus,--all tended to awaken the senses. But oh! the music and the ballet! that wild spontaneous rush of thistledown feet and lovely limbs, the glitter, the elaborately evolved design, the swift riot of colour swimming on a sea of soft melody that poured out over the darkened auditorium! From the white beauty of "Lés Sylphides," dreamlike, as a stirring of lilies on a moonlit pool, they had passed to the happy flirtations of "Carnival." John, in ecstasy, forgot the sick misery of his heart, forgot those cold refusals, the reluctant opening of numerous doors, the frigid examination of self-confident men, the waiting, the snubbing, the insolence of office boys and porters; his deep hatred of Fleet Street, his apprehension of fruitless days, all passed away as he peered into these glades of music and loveliness. With the blaze of prodigal splendour in "Scheherezade," the swift change of music from revelry to terror, the hurrying and scurrying of silk-clad women, the stern dignity of the departing Sultan, John's head swam. He almost forgot to look for Wellington and de Courtrai in that rapturous release of the captives and the licentious abandon of the women on their entry. It was with difficulty that he penetrated their disguise, for the effeminate dandies of Mariton Street were half-naked dusky men with muscular torsos who leapt and danced with fierce exultation before their adoring lovers. John could hardly realise that these superb athletes, masters of rhythm and gesture, were the two vulgar youths who, despite his coolness, had shown him nothing but kindness, with such insistence, that he had accepted their pressing invitations to this performance. And his amazement passed to unbounded admiration when de Courtrai died from a stroke of the Sultan's scimitar, in a magnificent somersault that laid his body prone at the feet of his terrified mistress. The curtain fell to a tumult of applause.

The long interval enabled John to explore the promenade at the back. He stood in a corner and watched the parade, and wondered if it was always the same, night after night--what kind of lives these people lived, where their money came from, their nationality, for there were overdressed young Jews with patent-button boots and silver-topped canes, elegant dandies with waisted coats, girlish-looking youths that smirked and simpered, heavy-jowled men with pendulous stomachs and evil gloating eyes under bald, shiny heads. The women too, French, German and Russian, dark, fair, loud-voiced, high-heeled, arrayed in furs, small-footed and mincing, they passed, with quick eyes and mechanical smiles, or sulky stare and--

"Penny for your thoughts, dearie," said a girl in a large white stole, as she laid a kid-gloved hand on John's arm.

He started more in fear than surprise.

"Lord love us--I shan't bite yer!" she laughed. "So shy! and a pretty boy too," she added, giving her fur a twitch while she looked audaciously into his eyes with a frank stare. "How do you keep your complexion, lovey? That ain't Ligett's one and six in cardboard boxes, I know."

John smiled, almost unintentionally. She could only be about eighteen, and despite the hard mouth, she had innocent, kind eyes.

"That's right--you're a regular Adonis with that showcase smile," she exclaimed. Several persons were watching them. John coloured with self-consciousness.

"Gawd! I wish I could do that--an' I did once, dearie, before the dirty work on the cross roads. But I don't mind a Martini before Strumitovski waves his stick again."

What could he do? To say "No" might provoke an outburst. He moved towards the bar, her hand still on his arm. He felt a thousand eyes turn on them, heard a thousand whispers. He was sure the bar-maid smirked satirically when he ordered two Martinis. He had never had a cocktail in his life, and didn't know whether to drink or eat the red cherry in the amber liquid. His companion led the way and he saw she expected another, although he had not swallowed half of the bitter stuff. He ordered two more, and while they talked a warm glow crept over him, and with it a feeling of distance. He seemed to be talking to her down a corridor. There was a loud ringing of a bell above the babel.

"Where are you sitting?" she said, propelling him out. Before he could answer some one called "Dean!" rather excitedly. The voice was familiar, and turning, in the crush at the door, he saw Lindon.

"What on earth are you--?" began Lindon joyously. Then, suddenly he saw the gloved hand on John's arm and swiftly glanced at his companion. Lindon winked expressively. "See you later, Scissors," he called. "I'm at Jules, Jermyn Street," and then disappeared. Utter confusion fell upon John. He strode fiercely along.

"Lord! do you owe him a fiver?" simpered the girl.

"No--certainly not, it's you!" he returned fiercely.

She did not flinch, accustomed perhaps to such remarks. John, although slightly drunk, was aware of his cruelty and felt penitent.

"Don't flare, dearie," she said quietly.

He halted at the corner where he turned for the gangway.

"Good-bye," he said, somewhat ungallantly, to which she responded by detaching her arm.

"Aren't you coming home with me, boysie?" she asked plaintively, her eyes very serious.

"No--thanks, not to-night--I don't--I--" but he could not say it. She divined it, however.

"I know you don't--and I'll not be the first. You shy darling!" she cried impulsively, taking his face between her hands and kissing his mouth. A moment later she had gone, leaving nothing but a faint odour of stale scent. Pale now, John leaned on the wall while the blood surged to his brain, then, with a heart thumping tumultuously, he found his way back to his seat. The rest of the ballet passed unheeded; his mind was tracking that plaintive little face through the dark house.

When the curtain fell on the final divertissement, in accordance with instructions John found his way round to the stage door, in a dark back street, where stood several luxurious motor cars, a small group of young men and women, autograph hunters chiefly, a tout or two, all kept outside the stage door, blazing with light, by a hoarse-voiced man in livery, to whom in turn, each member of the company called "Good night, Billy." At last Wellington and de Courtrai appeared and with them, three young ladies of the ballet, called Fluffy, Pop and Pansy respectively. On the programme they had Russian names, as had his two friends, but their accents betrayed familiarity with Balham. They were pupils in the _corps de ballet_, and for ten minutes--during which they all walked towards Piccadilly Circus, there was an animated discussion of the performance, its errors, and the wickedness of the conductor who had taken the last score through in seven-eight time, causing a collapse of the principals the moment the final curtain had fallen, whereupon he had been summoned to the wings by Lydia Lamanipoff and had his face well slapped for his insolence. Pop declared that it would end that "affair" which had been a subject of current gossip ever since Lydia had thrown over Tamanski for biting her shoulder in the "Bacchanale."

John was swept along in the crowd, his own little group noisily laughing and talking, Pansy hanging on his right arm, while her other fondled a Pekinese dog with an enormous blue bow. They turned in at a restaurant on the corner of a street, descended some marble steps that wound round a lift, and suddenly John, pulled through a couple of swing doors, halted amazed in a marble panelled room, over-lit, with innumerable small tables surrounded by men and women. Wellington made his way down the centre of the room, glancing at himself in the large mirrors on his left and enjoying the sensation their entrance caused. He commandeered a table down at the bottom, near the noisy waitresses' buffet; above the babble of voices rose the discordance of an orchestra on a dais. Its chief function appeared to be that of creating as much noise as possible, including antics at the piano and on a small drum and an organ. Wellington and de Courtrai appeared to be well-known, for several dandified youths, distinguished by spats, cuffs, side-whiskers or monocles, came over to speak to them, and all were very convivial, ending their remarks with, "Won't you introduce me?" Handshaking was a great ceremony, accompanied with "How d'ye do?" to which was allied its inseparable bromide, "Pleased to meet you."

Pop distinguished herself by ordering steak and chips and a bottle of stout; Pansy had a more delicate taste, ordering sardines on toast, which de Courtrai declared was a specialty in this hall of many tables. Bewildered, John ordered the recommended dish, refused a cigarette from a pale gentleman who insisted upon talking across Pansy to him, and was suffocated with the heat and tobacco smoke. The conversation was still of Lydia and her loves, punctuated by long stories of the ladies, and other ladies' furs and "fellahs." John, desperate for a theme of conversation, began by praising the Pekinese, and then narrated his experience with the lady and her three dogs in the park. To his surprise it awakened immediate and deep interest. At the end, the girls giggled and Wellington exclaimed, "Chase me!"

"It's thumbs up," said de Courtrai, wisely.

"What a cheek!" asserted Pansy, rolling her eyes; Pop declaring, "It's a shime to lead awy the young,"--whereupon there was loud laughter.

"Mind what you drink," said Fluffy impressively.

"I should take Welly as chaperon," advised Pansy.

John, getting redder and redder, partly in anger at his own naïve foolishness, partly at their insinuations, declared he was not going at all.

"What!" they all screamed in amazement.

"Wish I'd the chance," commented de Courtrai, adjusting his tie. "I want some one to take a motherly interest in me."

There was another bellow of laughter. All eyes were turned on their table. John wished he could get away. But they sat on until the lights began to go out, and when at last they were in the street again, John discovered, to his dismay, they were not bound for home but for Pop's flat off Jermyn Street. He suggested going home alone.

"Rubbish, the fun's just beginning," cried Fluffy, taking his arm. He was swept along with them. Pop led the way, herded them into a small lift that ran up out of a dark hall in the street. It halted on the fourth floor, where they all emerged.

"Wonder if the Colonel's in," said Pop, turning the key. They all followed and the question was answered in the diminutive hall by the emergence from a brilliantly lit room of the Colonel himself. He was big fat man, with a treble chin and thin lips. His eyes were beady and their sockets were sunken and baggy. On his enormous stomach he displayed a heavy gold chain, and as if to augment the size of the foundations of such an enormous superstructure, he wore white spats. A diamond glittered on his finger, six black hairs trailed across his gleaming head, and his teeth were stopped with gold. Anyone more unlike a colonel, John had never seen. When John, later, asked de Courtrai for his regiment, the wise young man laughed.

"Oh--he's one of the Nuts," answered de Courtrai.

Certainly he was. He kissed the three girls in a fatherly way, poured for them all a whiskey and soda, offered John a cigar, and finally sprang amazingly on to the lid of the baby grand piano, where he dangled his enormous legs. Pop disappeared into an adjoining room. Then it was her home thought John, for she emerged a few minutes later in a kimono, with slippers on and her hair down. She curled up on a cushion by the fireplace, lit a cigarette, and looked up admiringly at the Colonel. He had now dismounted, to permit Fluffy to sing, Wellington accompanying, after which the latter played with a skill and touch that surprised John. When Pop had contributed, "Keep on loving me," to which refrain the Colonel pursed his lips frequently, they called for John to perform. He pleaded excuse, but they would not listen.

"I don't know anything, really," he urged, but they forced him down to the piano.

"What is it?" asked Fluffy as he played the opening bars.

"_O Lovely Night._"

Pop looked at Wellington.

"My--he's rapid, ain't he?" she said, but John did not hear.

There was a strange stillness as he sang. Even Fluffy stared into space, her pretty little face, under the rose shade, pensive. "Makes me all shivery," she whispered, between the verses.

Why did he sing this, John was asking himself. It was quite out of keeping with the atmosphere. He was a fool to court failure like this, but he struggled through. No one spoke when he finished. Finally Pop asked for another cigarette.

"You've got a lovely voice," said the Colonel. "Wish I could sing like that. Could once, when a kid--in a choir," he said with a wry smile, pouring out a whiskey and soda.

"Lor--you in a choir," smirked Fluffy, pushing a thin finger into his pendulous stomach. The Colonel resented this familiarity.

"Yes, my gal, me in a choir--and solo tenor too, don't you forget it!" He gulped down his drink and sighed. Pop put her arms round his neck and kissed his bald head.

"Did 'ums den," she crooned, and they all laughed.

Soon afterwards they left, Pop and the Colonel standing in the doorway until the lift had gone down. Later, walking down Mariton Street, after they had parted from Fluffy and Pansy, de Courtrai discussed the girls.

"Orl right, of course, but, as you know, not ladies."

"Is the Colonel Pop's father?" asked John.

His two companions halted and stared at him.

"My dear child--" began de Courtrai.

"Dean's my name."

De Courtrai gaped.

"Really if you resent our--" Wellington drawled.

"I do resent being made a fool," said John, hotly.

The conversation was strained for the rest of the walk home.

The Viennese clock in the drawing-room struck three as they lighted their candles in the hall.

II

The following morning, in a contemplative hour in bed, John was conscience smitten. He was on the road to ruin, exactly as in the books he had scoffed at. Flashy companions, the stage, the stage door, actresses, fast places of resort, doubtful flats, men of loose morals, and drink--yes, three drinks, two in the bar--the bar!--and one at the Colonel's, and then, as ended all vulgar affairs, a quarrel on the way home. What would Muriel think if she knew? Was this the way he was winning through? He had been in London four days and was on the downward path. Penitent, he sprang out of bed, and to strengthen his will, denied himself even a dash of warm water in his bath. At breakfast de Courtrai and Wellington were missing, for which he was grateful. It was good to talk with the Irish girl, enjoy her bright laughter and the fresh look in her eyes; what a contrast to those bedizened ladies of the ballet. Mrs. Perdie was in her most motherly mood; she came up specially from the kitchen to have a look at Mr. John.

"I wondered if you were coming in, Mr. Dean--I was awake with my lumbago--but there you are. It's a strange young man who can resist the night air of London!"

He felt inclined to resent her comment, but it was so good-natured that he laughed in reply. The real mother emerged half an hour later when she met him alone in the hall, where he came to enquire after his laundry.

"You'll soon lose that lovely colour of yours, Mr. Dean, in this whirlpool, if you deny yourself proper rest. I've seen many a bright young gentleman go dull through coming home with the milk. Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but lor, Mr. Perdie always said I was mother-mad, an' p'raps I am. You'll not wear yourself out chasing the moon down, will you?"

Her good-natured face wore an anxious look.

"An' it's not for me to say really, but them young gentlemen upstairs are not your kind, and I'm sorry if I'm presuming, Mr. Dean," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Not at all--I appreciate your anxiety, Mrs. Perdie," answered John. "I shan't use my latchkey very often, you'll find."

"There, sir, I felt I must say it, seeing you might ha' been my own son, sort of fashion, an' I'm easy now." She disappeared suddenly below.

At ten-thirty that morning, John sat in the office of the _New Review_. He had with him a letter of introduction from Mr. Vernley to Melton Cane, the editor. For one hour he sat in the waiting-room overlooking Covent Garden, while he listened to the whirr of the typewriter in the next room. A door on his right opened into the editor's den, wherein sat the assistant editor reading manuscripts, which he took ceaselessly out of a big tin box. The reader was a tall heavy man, with sandy hair and a fresh complexion. He had chatted pleasantly with John and told him poetry was a drug on the market, and they were choked with it.

"Ever since we discovered Mayfield's narrative epic, we've been inundated with plagiaries of his work. I wade through them until I sink in despair."

"But I haven't brought any poetry," explained John.

The big man gave a sigh of relief.

"You look like a poet--which made me think there was no hope for you--all those who look the part write dreadful rubbish. You saw that schoolgirls-dream come in a few minutes ago?" He alluded to a magnificent, leonine-headed youth with flaming tie and dark cloak whom John had taken for one of the great on earth. "Here's the stuff he's left--without a stamped addressed envelope for return--

_My soul is bitter within me, Long nights have I contemplated The ego that is mine And questioned to what immortality Destined I go--_

I can tell him at once--the waste paper basket."

The offending manuscript joined the pile of the rejected.

"You do write?" asked the assistant editor.

"A little."

"Prose or poetry?"

"Prose."

"Ah! there's some hope, but not much. Are you aware, my dear boy, that only three out of every hundred novels bring their authors royalties, and that only one of those three provides a decent income? Do you know that editors rely on big names, their directors' literary shareholders and occasionally, when they have been out of town too long and must go to press, the literary agent?"

John did not know this. The assistant editor stood up and yawned. "One day I'm going to run a school of authorship. Having been a hack for ten years with the income of a typist, I shall tell the aspirants how to become authors, and get testimonials from all the editors in whose papers I shall advertise my prospectus. Have a cigarette?"

John took one. They smoked in silence for a while. The assistant editor pointed to a portrait on the wall. "That poor devil committed suicide in Brussels last week. He had a net income of £4 per month from this _Review_. Why do people write poetry, why do they write at all? Literature is not a profession, it's a form of vagrancy."

"You've been a vagrant?" said John.

"How did you know?"

"I read your travel books and liked them."

"Oh--well, I'm off for good this time. I'm going to Capri where I shall sleep all day and talk all night. Been to Capri? No? Well, it's a good place to fade away in. Are you going to wait for Cane?"

"Yes."

"He'll come in with a rush and go out with one. He's lunching with the Irish Secretary. He's in such a hurry that he's never sure whether he is in Constantinople, Berlin or Paris. His pet theory just now is the German menace; have you anything on the German menace?"

"No--I've--"

"That's the line at present. Last month we were Malthusian, this, we are standing for strong language in modern verse, next the German menace--we don't know what after that; the menace may run to two numbers. You will notice I am discreet. That is half my charm. It's now twelve, I think you'd better wait half an hour, and then come out to lunch with me."

"Oh thank you, but--"

"No, it's not kind of me, as you think. You keep me from being bored with myself. Presently you shall tell me all the ambitions of your white young soul, all the sinks you are going to flush with your flood of zeal, the heights of fame you will scale, the way you propose to pay for board and lodgings, how you'll persuade the publisher you are the infallible boom he is waiting for. But you shall not read me any of your poetry."

"I don't write poetry. I told you I didn't," began John.

"Almost I am persuaded," said the assistant editor. "But you will; the symptoms are there It is a mental measles you cannot escape." He stacked up the unread manuscripts. "There are poets in that pile who can write like Keats, like Shelley, like Byron, like Wordsworth, and they do it just as well. They've been born too late. What they can't do is to write like themselves. There are over thirty Swinburnes here, and enough suggested immorality to poison the Vatican library. Most of it is written by young ladies."

At this moment Mr. Cane came in. He was a little man, going bald, with scrubby moustache. John was about to retire, but he bade him stay. Rapidly he glanced through half a dozen letters on his desk, dictated social acceptances to his typist and then turned to John.

"Now--what can I do?"

John presented his letter. Cane read it quickly.

"You want work, I see. There's none worth having in the literary world. You're well informed, I'm told. Do you know Elverton Thomas?"

"I've heard of him."

"He wants a secretary who can get points for his speeches. If you like, I'll give you a letter to him at the House of Commons."

"It isn't what I want, thank you," said John.

"We don't always get what we want," snapped Cane. "I can't do anything else for you," he added with an air of ending the matter.

"You can if you will, Mr. Cane, please. You know Mr. Walsh."

"Well?"

"I want to see him."

"Newspaper editors are very busy men."

"They've always time for good business," urged John.

"H'm--how old are you?--you can get what you want, I see."

"Nineteen, with lots of drive in me."

"You want to get on a newspaper?"

"Yes--I'm determined to."

"I'll ring up Walsh. Go to his office at five to-day. He'll be in then."

"Thank you very much."

Cane stood up, buttoned his coat, put on a glove.

"I'm going now," he said to his assistant. "I'll sign those cheques this afternoon. Send back Professor Railing's articles on Shakespeare--there's nothing bar his resurrection could make a noise for him." He strode to the door.

"How's Mr. Vernley?" he asked John.

"Very well, sir, thank you."

"And Muriel?--a bright child that!"

A light leapt in John's eyes. The other man understood at once and gave him the first warm human look.

"Oh--she's very well, sir."

The door closed, he was gone.

"There! what do you think of him?" asked the assistant, somewhat proudly, John thought. "He'll play bridge at the Reform until four, dance at Murray's during tea, and rush back here before dressing for the opera. And those simpletons," with a wave towards the pile of the rejected, "think he spends his time discovering them for the next number. Our next specialty in verse--is a mechanic poet. There have been navy poets, tramp poets, fishermen poets, postmen poets, porter poets, but no one's found a mechanic poet. I have, and strange to say he doesn't write about lathes, cams or beltings. He's gone back to pure Greek. Here's 'Iphigenia in Balham.' Victorian bricks and mortar mixed with ancient Greece. We've prevailed on the Bishop of London to quote it next month. That'll start the _Church News_; an interview in the _Daily Mail_ with the new poet, and we are well into a second edition. Now let's go to lunch. I don't know your name. I'll call you Narcissus--listening to my echoes."

"That's a lucky shot," said John. "That is my nickname. Dean's my name."

"Ha!" said the assistant editor. "You are a reincarnation. I must take you to a lady friend of mine. She will see the aura of a chlamys under your flannel shirt. My name, too, is strange--not what you would think for a moment. Not poetical or suggestive, scarcely practical even--just Smith--you start at the revelation. It is distinguished only by having neither a 'y' nor an 'e'. We belong to the original Smiths--the blacksmiths. Ready?"

Crossing the Strand, John began to wonder if this was the inevitable end of all attempts to do work in London. It was good-natured of this stranger to take him out. He was amused at his torrential witty chatter, but it was not solving the all-pressing problem of getting a living.

After lunch they parted in the Strand, John promising to take Smith the short story which he confessed he had written. It was now a quarter past three. He walked slowly down towards Fleet Street. Would Cane fulfill his promise and arrange his interview with Walsh? He particularly wanted to join the staff of the _Daily Post_. He had read it regularly at school. Three times they had published letters of his, and they had taken two articles.

He found the Square, lying back from Fleet Street, in which the offices of the _Daily Post_ were situated. Through the swing doors he came to an enquiry office, and asked for Mr. Walsh. Had he an appointment? He thought so, through Mr. Cane. The uniformed attendant noted the fact on a slip of paper with John's name. He was then led into a small waiting-room. It was opposite the lift and contained a bare table and four chairs. The walls were hung with portraits of former editors and directors. John waited, standing. His heart was beating with suppressed anxiety; he felt he was on the fringe of things. A long wait, then a page boy asked him to follow. He entered the lift, rose several storeys, walked down a long white-bricked corridor, turned a corner and found himself in an oval hall, with several doors leading out of it. John was asked to wait. Behind one of these doors sat the great man. There was much coming and going of clerks, and possibly reporters. Half an hour dragged by. John stood up and paced the floor. Then three quarters of an hour, and still no summons. Through a glass door he could see a young man writing under a shaded light He tapped the door, and the writer came to him.

"Is Mr. Walsh disengaged yet?"

"I don't know--have you an appointment? What name?"

John told him. The dark young man disappeared through another door. He came back in a few seconds.

"Mr. Walsh is sorry, but he cannot see you."

Dismay covered John's face.

"But I have been kept--"

"He is very busy to-day ."

"Surely he knew that before?"

"Perhaps--but he can't see you."

"Then I shall sit here until he can."

The young man smiled.

"This office never closes," he said.

"But that door opens," retorted John, nodding at a a door.

It was a lucky guess.

"His secretary won't let you in--it is quite useless, really."

"We shall see," said John, now enjoying his obstinacy. A door close by opened, and a small clean-shaven man, of middle age with gold pince-nez, stood by listening to the debate. He suppressed a smile as he looked at the flushed youngster, then came forward.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to see the editor, sir, and if he's a gentleman--he'll see me after waiting for him an hour."

The man peered at him through his eye glasses.

"I'm afraid he's not a gentleman, but you can see him."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

"Come along," he said and showed him into a large room littered with papers and books. He motioned John to a seat.

"Now what do you want?" he asked, standing with his back to the door.

"I want to see Mr. Walsh, please."

"On what business?"

"It's personal--" began John.

"Perhaps so--but he must know. You want to write for the paper I suppose?"

"You've guessed it, sir,--but do let me see him," John pleaded.

"He's engaged with the chief reporter at present--but he will see you soon, if you're patient."

He then left the room by another door.

John looked out of the window, down across the flat top of temporary buildings, and saw the traffic surging along Fleet Street. He was engrossed in the spectacle when his benefactor re-entered and seated himself in the revolving chair before the littered desk.

"The editor will see you now," he said.

John jumped up.

"Oh, thank you sir," he cried, and walked toward the door.

"In here!" said the man, waving a hand for John to resume his seat. "I am Mr. Walsh--though you may have expected a gentleman."

"Oh!" cried John, and collapsed in confusion.

"Mr. Cane tells me you are an enterprising young man. I see you are an obstinate one. They are both qualities required on a newspaper. I'm sorry we've no vacancies. The principle on which a newspaper is staffed is that we always have more men than we can employ--for emergencies and for weeding out. You have no experience?"

"No sir, but I--"

"Don't worry, experience is unnecessary to any but duffers. You look sharp. Leave your address with my secretary. If a vacancy occurs--"

"But it won't sir."

"How do you know?"

"I know that's the way every unsatisfactory interview ends," said John, grimly, more desperate than insolent.

Mr. Walsh got up and crossed to the mantelpiece.

"How old are you?"

"Nearly twenty, sir. You see, I must earn a living, my bit of money won't last long. That has nothing to do with you, but I know you will be glad to have me when it is too late."

The editor smiled.

"You believe in yourself, and you'll succeed. But I can't take you on. I'll attach you, however. You can do a few theatres, and art galleries and perhaps the literary editor can give you a little work."

"Oh, thank you sir."

"And one day we may be able to put you on the reporting staff."

"On what basis am I paid?" asked John.

"For what you do."

"And how much is that?"

"Depends on the chief reporter. It's all I can offer you, it's a chance."

"I'll take it, thank you."

John rose.

"See Mr. Merritt before you go." He held out his hand. "And I wish you luck."

John was dismissed. Outside the door he took a deep breath. He had won the first round. All now depended on Mr. Merritt, who, he learned, was out. John left word to say he would call the following afternoon. His next job was to go into Philip's shop, and buy a map of London. At tea, in a Lyon's shop, he read down a list of amusements. Dramatic critic for the _Daily Post_--he murmured to himself. It sounded splendid. And what a shock for Wellington and de Courtrai! That evening he wrote to Vernley, to Muriel and to Marsh. He also sent a letter to Mrs. Graham and Mr. Steer, saying he was in London, and asking if he might call.