George Gissing
In the Year of Jubilee
CHAPTER 2
His father’s contemptuous wrath had an ill effect upon Horace. Of an amiable disposition, and without independence of character, he might have been guided by a judicious parent through all the perils of his calf-love for Fanny French; thrown upon his own feeble resources, he regarded himself as a victim of the traditional struggle between prosaic age and nobly passionate youth, and resolved at all hazards to follow the heroic course—which meant, first of all, a cold taciturnity towards his father, and, as to his future conduct, a total disregard of the domestic restraints which he had hitherto accepted. In a day or two he sat down and wrote his father a long letter, of small merit as a composition, and otherwise illustrating the profitless nature of the education for which Stephen Lord had hopefully paid. It began with a declaration of rights. He was a man; he could no longer submit to childish trammels. A man must not be put to inconvenience by the necessity of coming home at early hours. A man could not brook cross-examination on the subject of his intimacies, his expenditure, and so forth. Above all, a man was answerable to no one but himself for his relations with the other sex, for the sacred hopes he cherished, for his emotions and aspirations which transcended even a man’s vocabulary.—With much more of like tenor.
To this epistle, delivered by post, Mr. Lord made no answer.
Horace flattered himself that he had gained a victory. There was nothing like ‘firmness,’ and that evening, about nine, he went to De Crespigny Park. As usual, he had to ring the bell two or three times before any one came; the lively notes of a piano sounded from the drawing-room, intimating, no doubt, that Mrs. Peachey had guests. The door at length opened, and he bade the servant let Miss. Fanny know that he was here; he would wait in the dining-room.
It was not yet dark, but objects could only just be distinguished; the gloom supplied Horace with a suggestion at which he laughed to himself. He had laid down his hat and cane, when a voice surprised him.
‘Who’s that?’ asked some one from the back of the room.
‘Oh, are you there, Mr. Peachey?—I’ve come to see Fanny. I didn’t care to go among the people.’
‘All right. We’d better light the gas.’
With annoyance, Horace saw the master of the house come forward, and strike a match. Remains of dinner were still on the table. The two exchanged glances.
‘How is your father?’ Peachey inquired. He had a dull, depressed look, and moved languidly to draw down the blind.
‘Oh, he isn’t quite up to the mark. But it’s nothing serious, I think.’
‘Miss. Lord quite well?—We haven’t seen much of her lately.’
‘I don’t know why, I’m sure.—Nobody can depend upon her very much.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you,’ said the other, with a dreary look about the room. ‘The table ought to have been cleared by now—but that’s nothing new.’
‘Confounded servants,’ muttered Horace.
‘Oh yes, the servants,’ was Peachey’s ironical reply.
As soon as he was left alone, Horace turned out the gas. Then he stood near the door, trembling with amorous anticipation. But minutes went by; his impatience grew intolerable; he stamped, and twisted his fingers together. Then of a sudden the door opened.
‘Why, it’s dark, there’s nobody here.’
Fanny discovered her mistake. She was seized and lifted off her feet.
‘Oh! Do you want to eat me? I’ll hit you as hard as I can, I will! You’re spoiling my dress?’
The last remonstrance was in a note that Horace did not venture to disregard.
‘Strike a light, silly! I know you’ve done something to my dress.’
Horace pleaded abjectly to be forgiven, and that the room might remain shadowed; but Fanny was disturbed in temper.
‘If you don’t light the gas, I’ll go at once.’
‘I haven’t any matches, darling.’
‘Oh, just like you! You never have anything. I thought every man carried matches.’
She broke from him, and ran out. Wretched in the fear that she might not return, Horace waited on the threshold. In the drawing-room some one was singing ‘The Maid of the Mill.’ It came to an end, and there sounded voices, which the tormented listener strove to recognise. For at least ten minutes he waited, and was all but frantic, when the girl made her appearance, coming downstairs.
‘Never do that again,’ she said viciously. ‘I’ve had to unfasten my things, and put them straight. What a nuisance you are!’
He stood cowed before her, limp and tremulous.
‘There, light the gas. Why couldn’t you come into the drawing-room, like other people do?’
‘Who is there?’ asked the young man, when he had obeyed her.
‘Go and see for yourself.’
‘Don’t be angry, Fanny.’ He followed her, like a dog, as she walked round the table to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was only because I’m so fond of you.’
‘Oh, what a silly you are!’ she laughed, seating herself on the arm of an easy-chair. ‘Go ahead! What’s the latest?’
‘Well, for one thing, I’ve had a very clear understanding with the gov’nor about my independence. I showed him that I meant having my own way, and he might bully as much as he liked.’
It was not thus that Horace would naturally have spoken, not thus that he thought of his father. Fanny had subdued him to her own level, poisoned him with the desires excited by her presence. And he knew his baseness; he was not ignorant of the girl’s ignoble nature. Only the fury of a virgin passion enabled him to talk, and sometimes think, as though he were in love with ideal purity.
‘I didn’t think you had the pluck,’ said Fanny, swinging one of her feet as she tittered.
‘That shows you haven’t done me justice.’
‘And you’re going to stay out late at night?’
‘As late as I like,’ Horace answered, crossing his arms.
‘Then where will you take me to-morrow?’
It happened that Horace was in funds just now; he had received his quarter’s salary. Board and lodging were no expense to him; he provided his own clothing, but, with this exception, had to meet no serious claim. So, in reply to Fanny’s characteristic question, he jingled coins.
‘Wherever you like.—“Dorothy,” “Ruddigore—“’
Delighted with his assent, she became more gracious, permitted a modest caress, and presently allowed herself to be drawn on to her lover’s knee. She was passive, unconcerned; no second year graduate of the pavement could have preserved a completer equanimity; it did not appear that her pulse quickened ever so slightly, nor had her eyelid the suspicion of a droop. She hummed ‘Queen of my Heart,’ and grew absent in speculative thought, whilst Horace burned and panted at the proximity of her white flesh.
‘Oh, how I do love you, Fanny!’
She trod playfully on his toe.
‘You haven’t told the old gentleman yet?’
‘I—I’m thinking about it. But, Fanny, suppose he was to—to refuse to do anything for us. Would it make any difference? There are lots of people who marry on a hundred and fifty a year—oh lots!’
The maiden arched her brows, and puckered her lips. Hitherto it had been taken for granted that Mr. Lord would be ready with subsidy; Horace, in a large, vague way, had hinted that assurance long ago. Fanny’s disinclination to plight her troth—she still deemed herself absolutely free—had alone interfered between the young man and a definite project of marriage.
‘What kind of people?’ she asked coldly.
‘Oh—respectable, educated people, like ourselves.’
‘And live in apartments? Thank you; I don’t quite see myself. There isn’t a bit of hurry, dear boy. Wait a bit.’ She began to sing ‘Wait till the clouds roll by.’
‘If you thought as much of me as I do of you—’
Tired of her position, Fanny jumped up and took a spoonful of sweet jelly from a dish on the table.
‘Have some?’
‘Come here again. I’ve something more to tell you. Something very important.’
She could only be prevailed upon to take a seat near him. Horace, beset with doubts as to his prudence, but unable to keep the secret, began to recount the story of his meeting with Mrs. Damerel, whom he had now seen for the second time. Fanny’s curiosity, instantly awakened, grew eager as he proceeded. She questioned with skill and pertinacity, and elicited many more details than Nancy Lord had been able to gather.
‘You’ll promise me not to say a word to any one?’ pleaded Horace.
‘I won’t open my lips. But you’re quite sure she’s as old as you say?’
‘Old enough to be my mother, I assure you.’
The girl’s suspicions were not wholly set at rest, but she made no further display of them.
‘Now just think what an advantage it might be to you, to know her,’ Horace pursued. ‘She’d introduce you at once to fashionable society, really tip-top people. How would you like that?’
‘Not bad,’ was the judicial reply.
‘She must have no end of money, and who knows what she might do for me!’
‘It’s a jolly queer thing,’ mused the maiden.
‘There’s no denying that. We must keep it close, whatever we do.’
‘You haven’t told anybody else?’
‘Not a soul!’ Horace lied stoutly.
They were surprised by the sudden opening of the door; a servant appeared to clear the table. Fanny reprimanded her for neglecting to knock.
‘We may as well go into the drawing-room. There’s nobody particular. Only Mrs. Middlemist, and Mr. Crewe, and—’
In the hall they encountered Crewe himself, who stood there conversing with Beatrice. A few words were exchanged by the two men, and Horace followed his enchantress into the drawing-room, where he found, seated in conversation with Mrs. Peachey, two persons whom he had occasionally met here. One of them, Mrs. Middlemist, was a stout, coarse, high-coloured woman, with fingers much bejewelled. Until a year or two ago she had adorned the private bar of a public-house kept by her husband; retired from this honourable post, she now devoted herself to society and the domestic virtues. The other guest, Mrs. Murch by name, proclaimed herself, at a glance, of less prosperous condition, though no less sumptuously arrayed. Her face had a hungry, spiteful, leering expression; she spoke in a shrill, peevish tone, and wriggled nervously on her chair. In eleven years of married life, Mrs. Murch had borne six children, all of whom died before they were six months old. She lived apart from her husband, who had something to do with the manufacture of an Infants’ Food.
Fanny was requested to sing. She sat down at the piano, rattled a prelude, and gave forth an echo of the music-halls:
‘It’s all up with poor Tommy now. I shall never more be happy, I vow. It’s just a week to-day Since my Sairey went away, And it’s all up with poor Tommy now.’
Mrs. Middlemist, who prided herself upon serious vocal powers, remarked that comic singing should be confined to men.
‘You haven’t a bad voice, my dear, if you would only take pains with it. Now sing us “For Ever and for Ever.”’
This song being the speaker’s peculiar glory, she was of course requested to sing it herself, and, after entreaty, consented. Her eyes turned upward, her fat figure rolling from side to side, her mouth very wide open, Mrs. Middlemist did full justice to the erotic passion of this great lyric:
‘Perchawnce if we ‘ad never met, We ‘ad been spared this mad regret, This hendless striving to forget—For hever—hand—for he-e-e-ver!’
Mrs. Murch let her head droop sentimentally. Horace glanced at Fanny, who, however, seemed absorbed in reflections as unsentimental as could be.
In the meanwhile, on a garden seat under the calm but misty sky, sat Luckworth Crewe and Beatrice French. Crewe smoked a cigar placidly; Beatrice was laying before him the suggestion of her great commercial scheme, already confided to Fanny.
‘How does it strike you?’ she asked at length.
‘Not bad, old chap. There’s something in it, if you’re clever enough to carry it through. And I shouldn’t wonder if you are.’ ‘Will you help to set it going?’
‘Can’t help with money,’ Crewe replied.
‘Very well; will you help in other ways? Practical hints, and so on?’
‘Of course I will. Always ready to encourage merit in the money-making line. What capital are you prepared to put into it?’
‘Not much. The public must supply the capital.’
‘A sound principle,’ Crewe laughed. ‘But I shouldn’t go on the old lines. You didn’t think of starting a limited company? You’d find difficulties. Now what you want to start is a—let us call it the South London Dress Supply Association, or something of that kind. But you won’t get to that all at once. You ought to have premises to begin with.’
‘I’m aware of it.’
‘Can you raise a thousand or so?’
‘Yes, I could—if I chose.’
‘Now, look here. Your notion of the Fashion Club is a deuced good one, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be pretty easily started. Out of every five hundred women, you can reckon on four hundred and ninety-nine being fools; and there isn’t a female fool who wouldn’t read and think about a circular which promised her fashionable dresses for an unfashionable price. That’s a great and sound basis to start on. What I advise is, that you should first of all advertise for a dress-making concern that would admit a partner with a small capital. You’ll have between ten and twelve hundred replies, but don’t be staggered; go through them carefully, and select a shop that’s well situated, and doing a respectable trade. Get hold of these people, and induce them to make changes in their business to suit your idea. Then blaze away with circulars, headed “South London Fashion Club;” send them round the whole district, addressed to women. Every idiot of them will, at all events, come and look at the shop; that can be depended upon; in itself no bad advertisement. Arrange to have a special department—special entrance, if possible—with “The Club” painted up. Yes, by jingo! Have a big room, with comfortable chairs, and the women’s weekly papers lying about, and smart dresses displayed on what-d’ye-call-’ems, like they have in windows. Make the subscription very low at first, and give rattling good value; never mind if you lose by it. Then, when you’ve got hold of a lot of likely people, try them with the share project. By-the-bye, if you lose no time, you can bring in the Jubilee somehow. Yes, start with the “Jubilee Fashion Club.” I wonder nobody’s done it already.’
Beatrice was growing elated.
‘The public has to wait for its benefactors,’ she replied.
‘I’ll tell you what, would you like me to sketch you out a prospectus of the Club?’
‘Yes, you might do that if you like. You won’t expect to be paid?’
‘Hang it! what do you take me for?’
‘Business is business,’ Miss. French remarked coldly.
‘So it is. And friendship is friendship. Got a match?’ He laughed. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t.’
‘I’ll go and get you one if you like.’
‘There’s a good fellow. I’ll think in the meantime.’
Beatrice rose lazily, and was absent for several minutes. When she returned, Crewe re-lit his cigar.
‘Why shouldn’t I start the shop on my own account?’ Beatrice asked.
‘You haven’t capital enough. A little place wouldn’t do.’
‘I think I can get Fanny to join me.’
‘Can you? What will young Lord have to say to that?’
‘Psh! That’s all fooling. It’ll never come to anything. Unless, of course, the old man turned up his toes, and left the boy a tidy sum. But he won’t just yet. I’ve told Fanny that if she’ll raise something on her houses, I’ll guarantee her the same income she has now.’
‘Take my advice,’ said Crewe weightily, ‘and hook on to an established business. Of course, you can change the name if you like; and there’d have to be alterations, and painting up, to give a new look.’
‘It’s risky, dealing with strangers. How if they got hold of my idea, and then refused to take me in?’
‘Well now, look here. After all, I’ll make a bargain with you, old chap. If I can introduce you to the right people, and get you safely started, will you give me all your advertising, on the usual commission?’
‘You mean, give it to Bullock and Freeman?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s a secret just yet, but I’m going to start for myself.’
Beatrice was silent. They exchanged a look in the gloom, and Crewe nodded, in confirmation of his announcement.
‘How much have you got?’ Miss. French inquired carelessly.
‘Not much. Most of the capital is here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Same as with you.’
The young woman glanced at him again, and said in a lower voice:
‘You’d have had more by now, if—’
Crewe waited, puffing his cigar, but she did not finish.
‘Maybe,’ he replied impartially. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Don’t think I’m sorry,’ Beatrice hastened to add. ‘It was an idea, like any other.’
‘Not half a bad idea. But there were obstacles.’
After a pause, Beatrice inquired:
‘Do you still think the same about women with money?’
‘Just the same,’ Crewe replied at once, though with less than his usual directness; the question seemed to make him meditative. ‘Just the same. Every man looks at it in his own way, of course. I’m not the sort of chap to knuckle under to my wife; and there isn’t one woman in a thousand, if she gave her husband a start, could help reminding him of it. It’s the wrong way about. Let women be as independent as they like as long as they’re not married. I never think the worse of them, whatever they do that’s honest. But a wife must play second fiddle, and think her husband a small god almighty—that’s my way of looking at the question.’
Beatrice laughed scornfully.
‘All right. We shall see.—When do you start business?’
‘This side Christmas. End of September, perhaps.’
‘You think to snatch a good deal from B. & F., I daresay?’
Crewe nodded and smiled.
‘Then you’ll look after this affair for me?’ said Beatrice, with a return to the tone of strict business.
‘Without loss of time. You shall be advised of progress. Of course I must debit you with exes.’
‘All right. Mind you charge for all the penny stamps.’
‘Every one—don’t you forget it.’
He stood up, tilted forward on his toes, and stretched himself.
‘I’ll be trotting homewards. It’ll be time for by-by when I get to Kennington.’
CHAPTER 3
Nancy was undisturbed by the promotion of Mary Woodruff. A short time ago it would have offended her; she would have thought her dignity, her social prospects, imperilled. She was now careless on that score, and felt it a relief to cast off the show of domestic authority. Henceforth her position would be like that of Horace. All she now desired was perfect freedom from responsibility,—to be, as it were, a mere lodger in the house, to come and go unquestioned and unrestrained by duties.
Thus, by aid of circumstance, had she put herself into complete accord with the spirit of her time. Abundant privilege; no obligation. A reference of all things to her sovereign will and pleasure. Withal, a defiant rather than a hopeful mood; resentment of the undisguisable fact that her will was sovereign only in a poor little sphere which she would gladly have transcended.
Now-a-days she never went in the direction of Champion Hill, formerly her favourite walk. If Jessica Morgan spoke of her acquaintances there, she turned abruptly to another subject. She thought of the place as an abode of arrogance and snobbery. She recalled with malicious satisfaction her ill-mannered remark to Lionel Tarrant. Let him think of her as he would; at all events he could no longer imagine her overawed by his social prestige. The probability was that she had hurt him in a sensitive spot; it might be hoped that the wound would rankle for a long time.
Her personal demeanour showed a change. So careful hitherto of feminine grace and decorum, she began to affect a mannishness of bearing, a bluntness of speech, such as found favour at De Crespigny Park. In a few weeks she had resumed friendly intercourse with Mrs. Peachey and her sisters, and spent an occasional evening at their house. Her father asked no questions; she rarely saw him except at meals. A stranger must have observed the signs of progressive malady in Mr. Lord’s face, but Nancy was aware of nothing to cause uneasiness; she thought of him as suffering a little from ‘gout;’ elderly people were of course subject to such disorders. On most days he went to business; if he remained at home, Mary attended him assiduously, and he would accept no other ministration.
Nancy was no longer inclined to study, and cared little for reading of any sort. That new book on Evolution, which she had brought from the library just before Jubilee Day, was still lying about; a dozen times she had looked at it with impatience, and reminded herself that it must be returned. Evolution! She already knew all about Darwinism, all she needed to know. If necessary she could talk about it—oh, with an air. But who wanted to talk about such things? After all, only priggish people,—the kind of people who lived at Champion Hill. Or idiots like Samuel Bennett Barmby, who bothered about the future of the world. What was it to her—the future of the world? She wanted to live in the present, to enjoy her youth. An evening like that she had spent in the huge crowd, with a man like Crewe to amuse her with his talk, was worth whole oceans of ‘culture.’
‘Culture’ she already possessed, abundance of it. The heap of books she had read! Last winter she had attended a course of lectures, delivered by ‘a young University gentleman with a tone of bland omniscience, on ‘The History of Hellenic Civilisation;’ her written answers to the little ‘test papers’ had been marked ‘very satisfactory.’ Was it not a proof of culture achieved? Education must not encroach upon the years of maturity. Nature marked the time when a woman should begin to live.
There was poor Jessica. As July drew on, Jessica began to look cadaverous, ghostly. She would assuredly break down long before the time of her examination. What a wretched, what an absurd existence! Her home, too, was so miserable. Mrs. Morgan lay ill, unable to attend to anything; if she could not have a change of air, it must soon be all over with her. But they had no money, no chance of going to the seaside.
It happened at length that Mr. Lord saw Jessica one evening, when she had come to spend an hour in Grove Lane. After her departure, he asked Nancy what was the matter with the girl, and Nancy explained the situation.
‘Well, why not take her with you, when you go away?’
‘I didn’t know that I was going away, father. Nothing has been said of it.’
‘It’s your own business. I leave you to make what plans you like.’
Nancy reflected.
‘You ought to have a change,’ she said considerately. ‘It would do you good. Suppose we all go to Teignmouth? I should think that would suit you.’
‘Why Teignmouth?’
‘I enjoyed it last year. And the lodgings were comfortable. We could have the same, from the first week in August.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I wrote the other day, and asked,’ Nancy replied with a smile.
But Mr. Lord declined to leave home. Mary Woodruff did her best to persuade him, until he angrily imposed silence. In a day or two he said to Nancy:
‘If you wish to go to Teignmouth, take Jessica and her mother. People mustn’t die for want of a five-pound note. Make your arrangements, and let me know what money you’ll need.’
‘It’s very kind of you, father.’
Mr. Lord turned away. His daughter noticed that he walked feebly, and she felt a moment’s compunction.
‘Father—you are not so well to-day.’
Without looking round, he replied that he would be well enough if left alone; and Nancy did not venture to say more.
A few days later, she called in De Crespigny Park after dinnertime. Mrs. Peachey and Fanny were at Brighton; Beatrice had preferred to stay in London, being very busy with her great project. Whilst she talked of it with Nancy, Peachey and Luckworth Crewe came in together. There was sprightly conversation, in which the host, obviously glad of his wife’s absence, took a moderate part. Presently, Miss. Lord and he found themselves gossiping alone; the other two had moved aside, and, as a look informed Nancy, were deep in confidential dialogue.
‘What do you think of that business?’ she asked her companion in an undertone.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if it answers,’ said the young man, speaking as usual, with a soft, amiable voice. ‘Our friend is helping, and he generally knows what he’s about.’
Crewe remained only for half-an-hour; on shaking hands with him, Nancy made known that she was going to the seaside next Monday for a few weeks, and the man of business answered only with ‘I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.’ Soon afterwards, she took leave. At the junction of De Crespigny Park and Grove Lane, some one approached her, and with no great surprise Nancy saw that it was Crewe.
‘Been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘You remember you promised me another walk.’
‘Oh, it’s much too late.’
‘Of course it is. I didn’t mean now. But to-morrow.’
‘Impossible.’ She moved on, in the direction away from her home. ‘I shall be with friends in the evening, the Morgans.’
‘Confound it! I had made up my mind to ask you for last Saturday, but some country people nabbed me for the whole of that day. I took them up the Monument, and up St Paul’s.’
‘I’ve never been up the Monument,’ said Nancy.
‘Never? Come to-morrow afternoon then. You can spare the afternoon. Let’s meet early somewhere. Take a bus to London Bridge. I’ll be at the north end of London Bridge at three o’clock.’
‘All right; I’ll be there,’ Nancy replied off-hand.
‘You really will? Three, sharp. I was never late at an appointment, business or pleasure.’
‘Which do you consider this?’ asked his companion, with a shrewd glance.
‘Now that’s unkind. I came here to-night on business, though. You quite understand that, didn’t you? I shouldn’t like you to make any mistake. Business, pure and simple.’
‘Why, of course,’ replied Nancy, with an ingenuous air. ‘What else could it be?’ And she added, ‘Don’t come any further. Ta-ta!’
Crewe went off into the darkness.
The next afternoon, Nancy alighted at London Bridge a full quarter of an hour late. It had been raining at intervals through the day, and clouds still cast a gloom over the wet streets. Crewe, quite insensible to atmospheric influence, came forward with his wonted brisk step and animated visage. At Miss. Lord’s side he looked rather more plebeian than when walking by himself; his high-hat, not of the newest, utterly misbecame his head, and was always at an unconventional angle, generally tilting back; his clothes, of no fashionable cut, bore the traces of perpetual hurry and multifarious impact. But he carried a perfectly new and expensive umbrella, to which, as soon as he had shaken hands with her, he drew Nancy’s attention.
‘A present this morning, from a friend of mine in the business. I ran into his shop to get shelter. Upon my word, I had no intention; didn’t think anything about it. However, he owed me an acknowledgment; I’ve sent him three customers from our office since I saw him last. By-the-bye, I shall have half a day at the seaside on Monday. There’s a sale of building-plots down at Whitsand. The estate agents run a complimentary special train for people going down to bid, and give a lunch before the auction begins. Not bad business.’
‘Are you going to bid?’ asked Nancy.
‘I’m going to have a look, at all events; and if I see anything that takes my fancy—. Ever been to Whitsand? I’m told it’s a growing place. I should like to get hold of a few advertising stations.—Where is it you are going to on Monday? Teignmouth? I don’t know that part of the country. Wish I could run down, but I shan’t have time. I’ve got my work cut out for August and September. Would you like to come and see the place where I think of opening shop?’
‘Is it far?’
‘No. We’ll walk round when we’ve been up the Monument. You don’t often go about the City, I daresay. Nothing doing, of course, on a Saturday afternoon.’
Nancy made him moderate his pace, which was too quick for her. Part of the pleasure she found in Crewe’s society came from her sense of being so undeniably his superior; she liked to give him a sharp command, and observe his ready obedience. To his talk she listened with a good-natured, condescending smile, occasionally making a remark which implied a more liberal view, a larger intelligence, than his. Thus, as they stood for a moment to look down at the steamboat wharf, and Crewe made some remark about the value of a cargo just being discharged, she said carelessly:
‘I suppose that’s the view you take of everything? You rate everything at market price.’
‘Marketable things, of course. But you know me well enough to understand that I’m not always thinking of the shop. Wait till I’ve made money.—Now then, clumsy!’
A man, leaning over the parapet by Nancy’s side, had pushed against her. Thus addressed he glared at the speaker, but encountered a bellicose look which kept him quiet.
‘I shall live in a big way,’ Crewe continued, as they walked on towards Fish Street Hill. ‘Not for the swagger of it; I don’t care about that, but because I’ve a taste for luxury. I shall have a country house, and keep good horses. And I should like to have a little farm of my own, a model farm; make my own butter and cheese, and know that I ate the real thing. I shall buy pictures. Haven’t I told you I like pictures? Oh yes. I shall go round among the artists, and encourage talent that hasn’t made itself known.’
‘Can you recognise it?’ asked Nancy.
‘Well, I shall learn to. And I shall have my wife’s portrait painted by some first-rate chap, never mind what it costs, and hung in the Academy. That’s a great idea of mine—to see my wife’s portrait in the Academy.’
His companion laughed.
‘Take care, then, that your wife is ornamental.’
‘I’ll take precious good care of that!’ Crewe exclaimed merrily. ‘Do you suppose I should dream of marrying a woman who wasn’t good-looking?’
‘Don’t shout, please. People can hear you.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice sank to humility. ‘That’s a bad habit of mine. But I was going to say—I went to the Academy this year just to look at the portraits of men’s wives. There was nothing particular in that line. Not a woman I should have felt particularly proud of. Tastes differ, of course. Mine has altered a good deal in the last ten years. A man can’t trust himself about women till he’s thirty or near it.’
