modern novelists; both only do it as a pose, because it's Bohemian-but I hear Mr. Blythe.'
Mr. Blythe was wrangling with his confidential typewriter about the correct translation of a passage from the French. At the final word 'bitch' the door swung open and an agitated woman came out.
'Mr. Blythe will see you directly,' she said apprehensively; 'if you will sit here.'
We sat in a little anteroom-dull cursing was heard from within. 'He will probably want me to come out and have a drink,' said Walker, 'and you might humour him. He is apt to be very rude to women when they refuse him and it is necessary for him to have a whiskey very often. He is a queer creature, all the elements of a cultured brain, escaped from scholastic torture of some appalling North Country school; a sort of place with dust all over it, and an asphalt playground and horizontal bars-but here he comes.'
Mr. Blythe opened the door cautiously and poked his head out, he was obviously very short sighted and peered at us.
'Come in,' he said, speaking a broad South Yorkshire, as he recognized Mr. Bird.
'Miss Hunt,' said Walker.
'Oh yes, I've heard of you; shall we go out and 'ave a drink?'
'Just a minute,' said Walker, 'what about my book?'
'Ere's a check.'
Walker pocketed it. 'And about that other little book, the one printed 'sub-rosa'-oh, it's all right, Miss Hunt understands.'
'I'll take you to the place and show you, but just one drink first.'
We drank in a smelly Pub, and then drove with frequent stoppages for 'one more' to Chelsea, where the place was. Mr. Blythe improved on acquaintance. He had a very ready humour, if not always a decent one, but he had the knack of cracking his jokes quickly with no unnecessary verbiage.
He quarrelled with the cabman about his fare, and we entered into his place. It was an odd place, in an off street, near a busy thoroughfare, but quiet itself. Middle-aged women of forbidding aspect stood at the doors of their houses and glowered. I'm afraid little Nemmy's rather up-to-date clothing annoyed them. I heard the word 'whore' distinctly as I left the cab.
We were let in by an extraordinary individual who chuckled continuously and was remarkably dirty and unshaved.
The Guvnor, he explained, would be down in a minnit, and we went in to what I presume would be called the parlour. Mr. Blythe left us and tripping over a bicycle on the way, he wobbled down the passage, cursing dully. The scent of bacon cooking permeated the place.
Presently the Guvnor arrived. He was a fat and portentous person of an age difficult to guess; it might have been twenty-five or forty, and he spoke as he moved, ponderously, humming some cryptic air all the time. He shook hands elaborately and fired a voluptuous glance at me.
He was a man of contrasts, he looked like a dock hand and drank like one (for whiskey brought by the old man servant was immediately presented), but he spoke like a gentleman and I immediately found out that when excited over any subject his intelligence bubbled out, and he talked clearly and well. I rather took to him, to my peril, for in Walker's absence to look at proofs, he made a dash for me and after upsetting an armchair and utterly ruining two whiskies, and soda, in the chase, he was only brought up by the entrance of a tall, stooping man with peroxide hair, who might also have been any age, and was called Percy, and was obviously the worse for drink.
He was introduced and gurgled something, placing his handkerchief to his mouth and removing an upper false set of teeth, which he placed along with his handkerchief in his inside pocket. He sat in an armchair, lit a cigarette, muttered about 'flappers' and at once went to sleep.
Mr. Umps, the Guvnor told me after I had got the table securely between us, was a young man of a certain amount of intelligence, who had a good deal of money well wasted on his education, and who now lived in a continual atmosphere of thinking brilliant things which never had a dog's chance of coming off, wrote indifferent musical comedies for which he seldom got paid and had three separate ideas of heaven: (1) to be always riding in ransom cabs, (2) Flappers, and (3) to be always drunk. At this point the man called Percy woke up, hastily swallowed the Guvnor's drink, changed his side, murmured something and again relapsed into stertorous sleep, flapping his legs vaguely.
Walker Bird appeared at last. He had arranged his little business, he said, and proposed to take me out to dine. We dined well!
After liqueurs a very good looking man crossed the room. He was obviously impressed with me, and Walker presented him and the tiny touch of his hand make me shiver throughout.
The Duke of Oldcaster, Walker had said. And that is the end of Nemesis Hunt for the present. I had never really believed in love at first sight- but that man; his handsome face, his title and his reputed wealth upset me.
I was carried away. Lewis could go to hell. Walker saw it; too. I made an excuse to get rid of him, and was left alone with the young Duke.
The Commissaire had called my cab at the door of the restaurant. I was going, when the Duke suggested his brougham. I gave in; threw everything over the mill and went.
He banged me back on the seat of the brougham, kissed me roughly, and before I knew where I was, he had his hand-well-WELL above my knee.
This is the present finish of Nemesis Hunt, and her Confessions. Some day I may write of my relations with the Duke of Oldcaster and some others.
Gladys places the cover over the typewriter, clicks the lock, and we are finished, but I warn you, look out for more trouble.
