"I don't understand," said Edna.
"Today," said Henry, with a smile, "I have decided to accept a quite amazing offer for Joyce, I have resigned from the museum, and . . ."
"What are you saying?" cried Edna. "Do you mean for Joyce to go on the films? No!"
"But yes," said Henry. "Precisely that. It will develop her. The system is marvellous. I had it out with Fishbein himself. In person. Psychiatrists, dieticians, everything."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Edna. "Henry, what's come over you?"
"Do you remember that mink coat?" said Henry.
"Is this some new sort of joke?" said Edna. "But it's not. You're serious. You're telling me that I should let Joyce go into pictures so that I can get a mink coat. You? Henry? Good God, we've been married ten years, and . . ."
"Don't be silly," said Henry. "It's not a mink coat. I used that just as a sort of symbol for all sorts of things."
"And a very good symbol," said Edna. "No, thank you." She got up and walked over to the window. "Wait a minute," said she, turning as Henry began to speak. "This still seems a bit unreal, as if it was in a rather bad play or something. But there it is. You've just smashed everything up. Everything. The way we've lived, the things we've valued and yourself, too. I don't know who you are. I don't know who I've been living with."
"This is absurd," said Henry. "I can see it's no good arguing with you at present. When you hear all the facts, you'll change your mind."
"Do you think so?" said Edna grimly.
"Whatever you do," said Henry, "it's settled. I've resigned from the museum. I'm accepting the offer."
"I am Joyce's mother," said Edna.
"And I am her father," said Henry. "And your husband."
"No," said Edna. "Good Lord! How funny this is! You might have produced a mistress, you might have taken to drink. We might have had tears and storms and misery for months and years. And still you would have been my husband. And now you say a few silly words, and you're not. You're just not."
"Keep your voice down," said Henry. "I heard May come in."
May came right in to the dining-room. "Did you catch the mail?" said Henry. "My resignation," he added to Edna.
"You'll have to withdraw it," said Edna.
"You should have read it," said he, smiling.
"Yes, sir," said coloured May, "and that Western Union boy caught me up and give me this here telegram." She handed the wire to Henry.
"Probably from Hollywood," said he, as he opened it. There is a huge difference between the way in which people in different walks of life open their telegrams. Henry dealt with this in the superior manner of one already waistcoated in yellow. The telegram stripped him naked. It was from Hollywood all right:
CANCEL ALL I SAID.
FISHBEIN.
THE CHASER
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the neighbourhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dim landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, rocking chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff-coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely. "I am glad to make your acquaintance."
"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has er quite extraordinary effects?"
"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large I don't deal in laxatives and teething mixtures but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."
"Well, the fact is " began Alan.
"Here, for example," interrupted the old man reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, milk, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."
"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.
"Call it cleaning fluid if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Lives need cleaning. Call it a spot-remover. 'Out, damned spot!' Eh? 'Out, brief candle!'"
"I want nothing of that sort," said Alan.
"Probably it is just as well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less."
"I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.
"Oh, dear, no," said the old man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Alan.
"I look at it like this," said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary."
"So," said Alan, "you really do sell love potions?"
"If I did not sell love potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential."
"And these potions," said Alan. "They are not just just er "
"Oh, no," said the old man. "Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes, they include it. Bountifully. Insistently. Everlastingly."
"Dear me!" said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very interesting!"
"But consider the spiritual side," said the old man.
"I do, indeed," said Alan.
"For indifference," said the old man, "they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She'll want nothing but solitude, and you."
"I can hardly believe it," said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."
"She will not like them any more," said the old man. "She'll be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet."
"She'll actually be jealous?" cried Alan in a rapture. "Of me?"
"Yes, she will want to be everything to you."
"She is, already. Only she doesn't care about it."
"She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You'll be her sole interest in life."
"Wonderful!" cried Alan.
"She'll want to know all you do," said the old man. "All that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She'll want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad."
"That is love!" cried Alan.
"Yes," said the old man. "How carefully she'll look after you! She'll never allow you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she'll be terrified. She'll think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."
"I can hardly imagine Diana like that!" cried Alan.
"You will not have to use your imagination," said the old man. "And by the way, since there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She'll be terribly hurt, of course, but she'll forgive you in the end."
"That will not happen," said Alan fervently.
"Of course not," said the old man. "But, if it does, you need not worry. She'll never divorce you. Oh, no! And, of course, she herself will never give you the least grounds for not divorce, of course but even uneasiness."