mind my turning you out, I hope, but I was here first, and there are heaps of other benches.”
“No, but wait a minute. I want to hear about this. I might be able—what I mean is—think of something. Tell me all about it.”
There is no doubt that the possession of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds tones down a diffident man’s diffidence. Roland began to feel almost masterful.
“Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“There’s something in that,” said the girl reflectively. “After all, you might know somebody. Well, as you want to know, I have just been discharged from a paper called ‘Squibs.’ I used to edit the Woman’s Page.”
“By Jove, did you write that article on ‘Men Who Speak–-‘?”
The hard manner in which she had wrapped herself as in a garment vanished instantly. Her eyes softened. She even blushed. Just a becoming pink, you know!
“You don’t mean to say you read it? I didn’t think that any one ever really read ‘Squibs.’”
“Read it!” cried Roland, recklessly abandoning truth. “I should jolly well think so. I know it by heart. Do you mean to say that, after an article like that, they actually sacked you? Threw you out as a failure?”
“Oh, they didn’t send me away for incompetence. It was simply because they couldn’t afford to keep me on. Mr. Petheram was very nice about it.”
“Who’s Mr. Petheram?”
“Mr. Petheram’s everything. He calls himself the editor, but he’s really everything except office-boy, and I expect he’ll be that next week. When I started with the paper, there was quite a large staff. But it got whittled down by degrees till there was only Mr. Petheram and myself. It was like the crew of the ‘Nancy Bell.’ They got eaten one by one, till I was the only one left. And now I’ve gone. Mr. Petheram is doing the whole paper now.”
“How is it that he can’t get anything better to do?” Roland said.
“He has done lots of better things. He used to be at Carmelite House, but they thought he was too old.”
Roland felt relieved. He conjured up a picture of a white-haired elder with a fatherly manner.
“Oh, he’s old, is he?”
“Twenty-four.”
There was a brief silence. Something in the girl’s expression stung Roland. She wore a rapt look, as if she were dreaming of the absent Petheram, confound him. He would show her that Petheram was not the only man worth looking rapt about.
He rose.
“Would you mind giving me your address?” he said.
“Why?”
“In order,” said Roland carefully, “that I may offer you your former employment on ‘Squibs.’ I am going to buy it.”
After all, your man of dash and enterprise, your Napoleon, does have his moments. Without looking at her, he perceived that he had bowled her over completely. Something told him that she was staring at him, open-mouthed. Meanwhile, a voice within him was muttering anxiously, “I wonder how much this is going to cost.”
“You’re going to buy ‘Squibs!’”
Her voice had fallen away to an awestruck whisper.
“I am.”
She gulped.
“Well, I think you’re wonderful.”
So did Roland.
“Where will a letter find you?” he asked.
My name is March. Bessie March. I’m living at twenty-seven Guildford Street.”
“Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good morning. I will communicate with you in due course.”
He raised his hat and walked away. He had only gone a few steps, when there was a patter of feet behind him. He turned.
“I—I just wanted to thank you,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Roland. “Not at all.”
He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who was Petheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had put Petheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth. Laughable.
A copy of the current number of ‘Squibs,’ purchased at a book-stall, informed him, after a minute search to find the editorial page, that the offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his exalted state of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.
Fetter Lane is one of those streets in which rooms that have only just escaped being cupboards by a few feet achieve the dignity of offices. There might have been space to swing a cat in the editorial sanctum of ‘Squibs,’ but it would have been a near thing. As for the outer office, in which a vacant-faced lad of fifteen received Roland and instructed him to wait while he took his card in to Mr. Petheram, it was a mere box. Roland was afraid to expand his chest for fear of bruising it.
