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Miss Verepoint rose. β€œAnd what about me? What about me, that's what I want to know. Where do I get off? If you think I'm going to marry you without your getting a theater and putting up this revue you're jolly well mistaken.”

Roland made a gesture which was intended to convey regret and resignation. He even contrived to sigh.

β€œVery well, then,” said Miss Verepoint, rightly interpreting this behavior as his final pronouncement on the situation. β€œThen everything's jolly well off.”

She swept out of the room, the two authors following in her wake like porpoises behind a liner. Roland went to his bureau, unlocked it and took out a bundle of documents. He let his fingers stray lovingly among the fire insurance policies which energetic Mr. Montague had been at such pains to secure from so many companies.

β€œAnd so,” he said softly to himself, β€œam I.”





THE EPISODE OF THE LIVE WEEKLY

Fourth of a Series of Six Stories [First published in Pictorial Review, August 1916]

It was with a start that Roland Bleke realized that the girl at the other end of the bench was crying. For the last few minutes, as far as his preoccupation allowed him to notice them at all, he had been attributing the subdued sniffs to a summer cold, having just recovered from one himself.

He was embarrassed. He blamed the fate that had led him to this particular bench, but he wished to give himself up to quiet deliberation on the question of what on earth he was to do with two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to which figure his fortune had now risen.

The sniffs continued. Roland's discomfort increased. Chivalry had always been his weakness. In the old days, on a hundred and forty pounds a year, he had had few opportunities of indulging himself in this direction; but now it seemed to him sometimes that the whole world was crying out for assistance.

Should he speak to her? He wanted to; but only a few days ago his eyes had been caught by the placard of a weekly paper bearing the title of 'Squibs,' on which in large letters was the legend β€œMen Who Speak to Girls,” and he had gathered that the accompanying article was a denunciation rather than a eulogy of these individuals. On the other hand, she was obviously in distress.

Another sniff decided him.

β€œI say, you know,” he said.

The girl looked at him. She was small, and at the present moment had that air of the floweret surprized while shrinking, which adds a good thirty-three per cent. to a girl's attractions. Her nose, he noted, was delicately tip-tilted. A certain pallor added to her beauty. Roland's heart executed the opening steps of a buck-and-wing dance.

β€œPardon me,” he went on, β€œbut you appear to be in trouble. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She looked at him againβ€”a keen look which seemed to get into Roland's soul and walk about it with a searchlight. Then, as if satisfied by the inspection, she spoke.

β€œNo, I don't think there is,” she said. β€œUnless you happen to be the proprietor of a weekly paper with a Woman's Page, and need an editress for it.”

β€œI don't understand.”

β€œWell, that's all any one could do for meβ€”give me back my work or give me something else of the same sort.”

β€œOh, have you lost your job?”

β€œI have. So would you mind going away, because I want to go on crying, and I do it better alone. You won't mind my turning you out, I hope, but I was here first, and there are heaps of other benches.”

β€œNo, but wait a minute. I want to hear about this. I might be ableβ€”what I mean isβ€”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.

β€œWhy should I?”

β€œWhy shouldn't you?”

β€œThere's something in that,” said the girl reflectively. β€œAfter 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.”

β€œBy Jove, did you write that article on 'Men Who Speakβ€”β€”'?”

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!

β€œYou don't mean to say you read it? I didn't think that any one ever really read 'Squibs.'”

β€œRead it!” cried Roland, recklessly abandoning truth. β€œI 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?”

β€œOh, 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.”

β€œWho's Mr. Petheram?”

β€œMr. 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.”

β€œHow is it that he can't get anything better to do?” Roland said.

β€œHe 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.

β€œOh, he's old, is he?”

β€œTwenty-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.

β€œWould you mind giving me your address?” he said.

β€œWhy?”

β€œIn order,” said Roland carefully, β€œthat I may offer you your former employment on 'Squibs.' I am going to buy it.”

After all, your man of dash and

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