In justice to the distinguished gathering in Mr. Shobbe’s studio (two “social” journalists were present) it must be said that the babble and the excitement were not wholly due to the champagne. Pre-war London was comparatively sober. Numbers of women did not even drink at all, and cocktails and communal copulation had not then been developed to their present state of intensity. Whether the art of scandal-mongering has suffered by this new social activity is hard to say, but as ever it remains the chief diversion of the British intelligentsia. Serious conversation is, of course, impossible, on account of the paper-pirates who are always hovering about to snatch up an idea. One definite improvement is that the _bon mot_, the _recherché_ pun, the intentional witticism, are definitely discouraged. Indeed one of the brightest of the post-war reputations was created by a young man who had the self-restraint to sit through forty-five literary parties without saying a word. This frightened everybody so much that when this modern lay Trappist departed you heard on all sides: “Brilliant young man.” “Extraordinarily clever.” “I hear he’s writing a book on metaphysics in the Stone Age.” “No, really?” “They say he’s the greatest living authority on pre-Columbian literature.” “How quite too marvellous.” But in those distant pre-war days people strove to chatter themselves into notice through a chaos of witticisms. On this particular evening, however, witticisms were in the background, for an event had occurred to stagger this small cosmos of affectation into sincerity. With the exception of George (who was too young and unknown to matter) and a few women, almost everybody present had been connected with a publishing firm which had suddenly gone bankrupt. On Mr. Shobbe’s recommendation some of his wealthier guarantors had put money into the firm; the painters were “doing” illustrated editions or writing books on the Renaissance artists still popular in those unenlightened days; and the writers had received contracts for an almost unlimited number of works. Money had been lavishly spent and some rather amusing things had been begun. Then suddenly the publisher vanished with the lady typist-secretary and the remainder of the cash. Hence the excited babble. George stood, a little dazed, beside a small group of youngish men and women. A dark, rather sinister-looking young man kept saying: “Le crapule! Ah! le crapule!” George wondered vaguely who was a crapule and why, and half-listened to the conversation. “He was paying me three hundred a year and...” “My last novel did so well that he gave me a five years’ contract and an advance of...” “Yes, and I was getting twenty per cent...” “Yes, but do let me tell you this. Shobbe says that the lawyers told him four thousand pounds of the money came from the diocesan funds of...” “Yes, I know. Shobbe told us.” “Le crapule!” “What’ll the archbishop say?” “Oh, they’ll smother that up.”