LITMIR.BIZ

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thirty. But the next ten years are going to do it. Do you know what I did last Saturday? I got fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of advertising for our people, from a chap that’s never yet put a penny into the hands of an agent. I went down and talked to him like a father. He was the hardest nut I ever had to crack, but in thirty-five minutes I’d got him—like a roach on a hook. And it’ll be to his advantage, mind you. That fifteen hundred ‘ll bring him in more business than he’s had for ten years past. I got him to confess he was going down the hill. “Of course,” I said, “because you don’t know how to advertise, and won’t let anybody else know for you?” In a few minutes he was telling me he’d dropped more than a thousand on a patent that was out of date before it got fairly going. “All right,” said I. “Here’s your new cooking-stove. You’ve dropped a thousand on the other thing; give your advertising to us, and I’ll guarantee you shall come home on the cooking-stove.”’

      ‘Come home on it?’ Nancy inquired, in astonishment.

      ‘Oh, it’s our way of talking,’ said the other, with his hearty laugh. ‘It means to make up one’s loss. And he’ll do it. And when he has, he’ll think no end of me.’

      ‘I daresay.’

      ‘Not long ago, I boxed a chap for his advertising. A fair turn-up with the gloves. Do you suppose I licked him? Not I; though I could have done it with one hand. I just let him knock me out of time, and two minutes after he put all his business into my hands.’

      ‘Oh, you’ll get rich,’ declared Nancy, laughing. ‘No doubt about it.’

      ‘There was a spot down the South Western Railway where we wanted to stick up a board, a great big board, as ugly as they make ‘em. It was in a man’s garden; a certain particular place, where the trains slow, and folks have time to read the advertisement and meditate on it. That chap wouldn’t listen. What! spoil his garden with our da–with our confounded board! not for five hundred a year! Well, I went down, and I talked to him—’

      ‘Like a father,’ put in Nancy.

      ‘Just so, like a father. “Look here,” said I, “my dear sir, you’re impeding the progress of civilisation. How could we have become what we are without the modern science and art of advertising? Till advertising sprang up, the world was barbarous. Do you suppose people kept themselves clean before they were reminded at every corner of the benefits of soap? Do you suppose they were healthy before every wall and hoarding told them what medicine to take for their ailments? Not they indeed! Why, a man like you—an enlightened man, I see it in your face (he was as ugly as Ben’s bull-dog), ought to be proud of helping on the age.” And I made him downright ashamed of himself. He asked me to have a bit of dinner, and we came to terms over the cheese.’

      In this strain did Luckworth Crewe continue to talk across the gloomy solitudes of Soho. And Nancy would on no account have had him cease. She was fascinated by his rough vigour and by his visions of golden prosperity. It seemed to her that they reached very quickly the restaurant he had in view. With keen enjoyment of the novelty, she followed him between tables where people were eating, drinking, smoking, and took a place beside him on a cushioned seat at the end of the room.

      ‘I know you’re tired,’ he said. ‘There’s nearly half-an-hour before you need move.’

      Nancy hesitated in her choice of a refreshment. She wished to have something unusual, something that fitted an occasion so remarkable, yet, as Crewe would of course pay, she did not like to propose anything expensive.

      ‘Now let me choose for you,’ her companion requested. ‘After all that rough work, you want something more than a drop of lemonade. I’m going to order a nice little bottle of champagne out of the ice, and a pretty little sandwich made of whatever you like.’

      ‘Champagne—?’

      It had been in her thoughts, a sparkling audacity. Good; champagne let it be. And she leaned back in defiant satisfaction.

      ‘I didn’t expect much from Jubilee Day,’ observed the man of business, ‘but that only shows how things turn out—always better or worse than you think for. I’m not likely to forget it; it’s the best day I’ve had in my life yet, and I leave you to guess who I owe that to.’

      ‘I think this is good wine,’ remarked Nancy, as if she had not heard him.

      ‘Not bad. You wouldn’t suppose a fellow of my sort would know anything about it. But I do. I’ve drunk plenty of good champagne, and I shall drink better.’

      Nancy ate her sandwich and smiled. The one glass sufficed her; Crewe drank three. Presently, looking at her with his head propped on his hand, he said gravely:

      ‘I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall have together?’

      ‘Who can say?’ she answered in a light tone.

      ‘Some one ought to be able to say.’

      ‘I never make prophecies, and never believe other people’s.’

      ‘Shows your good sense. But I make wishes, and plenty of them.’

      ‘So do I,’ said Nancy.

      ‘Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,’ proposed Crewe, regarding her with eyes that had an uncommon light in them.

      His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a moment.

      They allowed themselves plenty of time to battle their way as far as Westminster Bridge. At one point police and crowd were in brief conflict; the burly guardians of order dealt thwacking blows, right and left, sound fisticuffs, backed with hearty oaths. The night was young; by magisterial providence, hours of steady drinking lay before the hardier jubilants. Thwacks and curses would be no rarity in another hour or two.

      At the foot of Parliament Street, Nancy came face to face with Samuel Barmby, on whose arm hung the wearied Jessica. Without heeding their exclamations, she turned to her protector and bade him a hearty good-night. Crewe accepted his dismissal. He made survey of Barmby, and moved off singing to himself, ‘Do not forget me—do not forget me—’

      Part II: Nature’s Graduate

      CHAPTER 1

      The disorder which Stephen Lord masked as a ‘touch of gout’ had in truth a much more disagreeable name. It was now twelve months since his doctor’s first warning, directed against the savoury meats and ardent beverages which constituted his diet; Stephen resolved upon a change of habits, but the flesh held him in bondage, and medical prophecy was justified by the event. All through Jubilee Day he suffered acutely; for the rest of the week he remained at home, sometimes sitting in the garden, but generally keeping his room, where he lay on a couch.

      A man of method and routine, sedentary, with a strong dislike of unfamiliar surroundings, he could not be persuaded to try change of air. The disease intensified his native stubbornness, made him by turns fretful and furious, disposed him to a sullen solitude. He would accept no tendance but that of Mary Woodruff; to her, as to his children, he kept up the pretence of gout. He was visited only by Samuel Barmby, with whom he discussed details of business, and by Mr. Barmby, senior, his friend of thirty years, the one man to whom he unbosomed himself.

      His effort to follow the regimen medically prescribed to him was even now futile. At the end of a week’s time, imagining himself somewhat better, he resumed his daily walk to Camberwell Road, but remained at the warehouse only till two or three o’clock, then returned and sat alone in his room. On one of the first days of July, when the weather was oppressively hot, he entered the house about noon, and in a few minutes rang his bell. Mary Woodruff came to him. He was sitting on the couch, pale, wet with perspiration, and exhausted.

      ‘I want something to drink,’ he said wearily, without raising his eyes.

      ‘Will you have the lime-water, sir?’

      ‘Yes—what you like.’

      Mary brought it to him, and he drank two large glasses, with no pause.

      ‘Where is Nancy?’

      ‘In town, sir. She said she would be

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