“Yes, but look here—do shut up for a minute, Bessie—what I want to know is how do we stand? What about our copyrights? Shobbe told me the legal position is...” “Hang the legal position. What do we get out of it?” “Crapule!” “Nothing, probably. _You_ won’t get much anyhow. He hadn’t even published your book, and I was to get three hundred a year and...” “It isn’t so much the money I mind as having my book off the market when it was going so well—did you see the long article on me in last week’s...” “Crapule!” George glanced almost affectionately at the sinister-looking young man. It struck him that the repeated “crapule” was addressed as much to his present audience as to the unknown perpetrator of these calamities. At that moment Mr. Upjohn came along, and George took him aside. “I say, Frank, what’s all this talk about?” “Dear Bertie has eloped with Olga and the cash.” “Dear Bertie? Oh, you mean—. But the firm will go on, won’t it?” “Go on the streets. You see, there isn’t a cent left. What I mean is, I shall have to find some one else to do my Suprematist book. What I mean to say is, Bertie had a glimmering of intelligence....” “Who’s Olga?” But at that moment a lady with two unmarried daughters and private information about the senile aunt’s fortune plunged sweetly at Mr. Upjohn. “Oh, Mr. Upjohn, how _nice_ to see you again! How _are_ you?” “Mildly surviving.” “You _never_ came to my last at-home. Now, you _must_ come and have dinner next week. Sir George was _so_ much impressed last week by what you said about the new school of painting you have founded—what _is_ the name? I’m so _stupid_ about remembering names.” Mr. Upjohn introduced them: “Lady Carter—George Winterbourne. He’s a painter—of sorts.” Lady Carter took in George at a glance—shabby clothes, old tie carelessly knotted, hair too long, abstracted gaze, poor, too young anyway—and was politely insolent. After a few words, she and Mr. Upjohn walked away. She pretended to be amused by Mr. Upjohn’s conversation. * * * * * George went over to the table and took a sandwich and a glass of champagne. The ceaseless babble of petty talk about petty interests irritated and bored him. He felt isolated and hate-obstinate. So this was Upjohn’s “only intelligent group in London!” If this is “intelligence” then let me be a fool for God’s sake. Better the great octopus ennui outside than these jelly-fish tentacles stinging with conceit, self-interest and malice. * * * * *