“It really is rather an inspiring thought,” murmured John Cove, “that the last words he ever wrote should have been ‘Unless we hear from you by an early post we shall have no option but to institute proceedings’. There’s a touch, there, of the old warrior dying with his lance in couch and his face to the foe.”
After Mr. Craine had sat down the old gentleman with the white beard, who proved indeed to be Mr. Ramussen, awoke and proposed the health of Mr. Oakshott, whereupon Mr. Oakshott retaliated by proposing the health of Mr. Ramussen; whereafter the Bourlasses and the Bridewells and the Burts toasted each other oratorically in a series of ever-decreasing circles. Even the despised Mr. Brown succeeded in putting in a word for Streatham before Mr. Birley, by pushing back his chair and undoing the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat, signified that the ordeal was at an end.
As people got up from the table and the more informal side of the evening began the junior members of the four firms, who up to now had sat in strictly anti-social groups, began to intermingle a little, a certain nice degree of stratification being observed. Partner opened his cigar-case to partner, managing clerk took beer with managing clerk, and secretary exchanged small talk with secretary. Someone started to play the piano and a pale costs clerk from the Streatham office sang a song about a sailor and a mermaid which would certainly have been very entertaining if anyone had been able to hear the words.
Bohun, as a newcomer, was beginning to feel rather out of things when he was buttonholed by a dark-haired, horse-faced woman of about forty-five whom he recognised.
“Miss Cornel, in case you’ve forgotten,” she said.
“You’re Mr. Horniman’s—I mean, you were Mr. Horniman’s secretary,” he said.
“Still am,” said Miss Cornel. Sensing his surprise she explained. “I’ve been handed down. I’ve been devised and bequeathed. I’m young Mr. Horniman’s secretary now.”
“Bob Horniman.”
“Yes. I believe you knew him, didn’t you?”
“I was at school with him,” said Bohun. “I didn’t know him very well. He came ten or twelve terms after me; and we weren’t in the same house, you know.”
“Never having been to a public school myself,” said Miss Cornel, with a dry but not unfriendly smile, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. However, come and meet some of the staff. I won’t waste you on members of the outside firms because you probably won’t see them again until next year’s office party. Here’s Miss Chittering now. She works for Mr. Birley, and Miss Bellbas, who works for Mr. Duxford and also for John Cove, God help her.”
She waved forward a hipless off-blonde and a startlingly vacant-looking brunette, neither of whom seemed to have much to say for themselves.
“And why should Miss Cornel consider it such a penance to have to work for Mr. Cove?” asked Bohun helpfully.
The brunette Miss Bellbas considered the matter seriously for a moment or two and then said: “I expect it’s the things he says.” This seemed to have exhausted the topic, so he turned to the blonde.
“And how long have you been with the firm, Miss Chittering?”
“So long,” said Miss Chittering coyly, “that I never admit to it now, for fear people might start guessing my age.”
She looked at Mr. Bohun as if inviting him to indulge in some daring speculation on the subject, but he refused the gambit and said: “I understand you work for our senior partner, Mr Birley. That must be quite a responsibility.”
“Oh, it is!” said Miss Chittering. “Have you met Mr. Birley yet, Mr. Bohun? That was him who made the first speech tonight.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I heard him. Quite an inspired orator,” he added cautiously.
Miss Chittering accepted this at its face value. “He’s very clever,” she said, “and such an interesting man to work for, isn’t he, Florrie?”
“Frightfully,” said Florrie. “I can never understand a single word he says. But then, I don’t think I was really cut out for the law. Oh, thank you.”
This was to John Cove who had appeared alongside and was contriving, with an expertness which suggested considerable practice, to carry four pink gins.
“You mustn’t believe a word of it,” said John. “I don’t know what we should do without our Miss Bellbas. To watch her spelling ‘cestui que trust’ and ‘puisne Mortgage’ by the light of pure phonetics—”
“Really, Mr. Cove!” said Miss Chittering.
“But never mind, Miss Bellbas. What are brains beside beauty?”
“Well, what are they?” asked Miss Bellbas, who seemed to be a very literal-minded girl.
“Fully to explain that,” said John, “I should have to take you to a secluded corner for a course of private instruction.”
“Really, Mr. Cove,” said Miss Chittering. “You mustn’t talk like that. Mr. Bohun will be thinking you mean what you say. Tell me, why didn’t you recite for us this evening?”
“The committee, I regret to say, censored both my proffered contributions. Well, ladies, we mustn’t be keeping you from your admirers. I see old Mr. Ramussen has one of his ancient but inviting eyes on you already, Miss Bellbas—” He piloted Henry away: “Come and meet Sergeant Cockerill.”
“Who?”
“Sergeant Cockerill, our muniments clerk, desk sergeant, post clerk, chief messenger, housekeeper, librarian, butler and tea-maker in chief. The Admirable Crichton in person.”
Despite his title, Sergeant Cockerill proved to be a most unmilitary-looking person. He was a neat spare man and had something of the look of a Victorian Under-Secretary of State, with his stiff, chin-prop collar, his correct deportment and his intelligent brown eyes.
Bohun found, rather to his relief, that little was expected of him here in the way of conversation and he was entertained for the next fifteen minutes by a discourse on the subject of “futures”. He missed the significance of some of the earlier remarks owing to a mistaken belief that “futures” were commodities dealt with on the Stock Exchange. It was some time before he realised they were things which the sergeant grew in the garden of his house at Winchmore Hill.
As ten o’clock approached there was a tendency amongst the elder members of the party to think about the times of trains and the crowd began to thin out. Bohun drifted with the current, which had set towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor and the cloakrooms.
Immediately ahead of him he noticed Bob Horniman and the red-haired girl. As they reached the foot of the staircase he heard Bob say: “Would you like me to see if I can get you a taxi?”
“Thank you, Mr. Horniman. I can look after myself quite easily.”
Now this was an answer which might have been made in any tone of voice and denoting any shade of feeling ranging from indifference to something fairly rude. The red-haired girl managed to invest it with a degree of venom which surprised Mr. Bohun considerably. He saw Bob Horniman flush, hesitate for a moment, and then dive down the stairs leading to the cloakroom.
The girl stood looking after him. There was a quarter of a smile on her lips but her light blue eyes said nothing but “Danger”.
“It’s far too early to go to bed,” said John Cove. “Come and have a drink.”
“All right,” said Bohun. He wondered whether John had observed the curious little scene; and if so, what he had made of it.
“Who’s the redhead?” he asked.
“That’s Anne Mildmay,” said John. “She works for Tubby Craine. Lecherous little beast. Craine, I mean,” he added. “Come on, I know a place in Shaftesbury Avenue which stays open till midnight.”
Over the bar of the Anchorage (which is “in” Shaftesbury Avenue in approximately the same sense that Boulestins is “in” the Strand) John Cove fixed Bohun with a gloomy stare and said: “Tell me. What brought you into the racket?”