(PICTURE ON THE BACK PAGE.)
Jane was entranced by this piece of news and read the paragraph over and over again. She was just about to turn to the back page for the promised picture when her eye was caught by:
THE ‘BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE’ GO TOO FAR
MOCK FUNERAL IN LONDON NECROPOLIS
NOT FUNNY – General Murgatroyd.
It is felt that the Bright Young People have had their day and that their jokes, often in the worst possible taste, should come to an end. Yesterday afternoon a ‘Mock Funeral’ was held in the London Necropolis at Brookwood, where a site had been purchased in the name of Mrs Bogus Bottom to hold the remains of Bogus Bottom, Esq. The funeral cortège, including six carriages full of weeping ‘mourners’, travelled for several miles through the London streets, often causing the traffic to be delayed while it passed, and finally boarded the special Necropolis train. At Brookwood the coffin was reverently conveyed to the graveside and was just going to be lowered carefully into the grave, when the lid opened, and Mr Julius Raynor stepped out of it, dressed as for tennis. The ‘mourners’ then picked up the wreaths, which were numerous and costly, and fled to waiting motor cars.
(PICTURES ON THE BACK PAGE.)
HEARTLESS
The Daily Runner, feeling that the only way to stop these heartless pranks is by means of public opinion, sent an interviewer to the following representative men and women, who have not scrupled to express their disapproval:
Miss Martha Measles (well-known novelist):
‘I have never heard that it is either clever or amusing to jest with Death …’
Sir Holden Crane (sociologist):
‘If these young people would bear more children, they would hardly have the time for such foolishness …’
Bishop of Burford:
‘I think it most shameful, especially as I hear that many people doffed their hats to the cortège as it passed through London …’
Mr Southey Roberts (satirist):
‘Are these people either “Bright” or “Young”? …’
General Murgatroyd:
‘It’s a damned nuisance, and not funny …’
It is understood that the authorities at Brookwood are taking action, and they are very anxious to know the address of Mrs Bogus Bottom.
Jane now turned to the back page and was rewarded by a photograph of Lord Prague in youth; and one of Julius Raynor, a ghastly figure dressed entirely in white, leaping from his coffin.
She then casually glanced at the middle page, where her attention was rooted by a photograph of Albert and a paragraph headed:
AMAZING FEAT OF YOUNG ARTIST
CRITICS ASTOUNDED BY NEW GENIUS PICTURE FOR THE NATION?
Mr Albert Gates (herewith) has astounded the art critics and half social London with his exhibition of amazing pictures (now on view at the Chelsea Galleries). They are composed in many cases round real objects stuck to the canvas, such as, for instance, eye-glasses, buttons, hats, and even surgical limbs; and are of a brilliance and novelty impossible to describe, particularly No. 15., The Absinthe Drinker, which it is rumoured, has been bought for the Nation by Mr Isaac Manuel. Another interesting picture is entitled: Impression of Lady P— and is executed entirely in bits of tweed cut into small squares. This is framed in beige mackintosh.
Mr Gates, who left Oxford four years ago, and has since been studying art in Paris, is a tall, good-looking young man of a modest disposition. When a Daily Runner representative called on him after the private view of his pictures yesterday, he seemed unaware of the sensation his work has caused in art circles. ‘I think it was quite a good party,’ he said, referring to the private view.
Mr Gates recently became engaged to Miss Jane Dacre, the beautiful daughter of Sir Hubert and Lady Dacre of Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire.
Jane, on reading this, became very thoughtful. She was not at all sure that she liked this sudden blaze of fame which had come so unexpectedly upon Albert. The picture which she had framed in her mind of their married life had been imagined without this new factor. She had thought of herself as being all in all to him: his one real friend, sticking to him through thick and thin, encouraging, praising and helping. Much as she admired, or thought she admired, Albert’s work herself, it had never occurred to her that he might have a real success with the critics; she had imagined that such revolutionary ideas would remain unnoticed for years, except by a few of the ultramoderns.
The telephone-bell interrupted her train of thought. She put out her hand rather absentmindedly to take off the receiver, wondering who it could be so early. Albert’s voice, trembling with excitement, said:
‘Have you seen the papers, darling? Yes, they’re all the same. Buggins says he can’t remember any exhibition to have had such notices for years and years. And I’ve just been talking to Isaac Manuel. He’s buying The Absinthe Drinker for the Tate, my dear! and two still-lifes for himself; and he’s commissioned me to fresco some rooms in his new house. What d’you think of that? So it looks as if we shall have to live in London for a bit, after all. Do you mind, darling one? Of course, I said I could do nothing until our honeymoon is over, but we may have to cut it short by a week or two, I dare say. Isn’t it splendid, darling? Aren’t you pleased? I never for a moment thought the English critics had so much sense, did you? Where are you lunching today? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. Well, meet me at the Chelsea, will you, at about one? You’re not feeling ill or anything, are you? Oh, I thought you sounded rather subdued, that’s all. Well, good-bye. I must go round to Manuel’s now.’
As Jane hung up the receiver her eyes were full of tears.
‘I couldn’t feel more jealous,’ she thought miserably, ‘if it were another woman. It’s disgusting of me not to be pleased, but I can’t help it.’
She began working herself up into a state of hysteria
