The White Monkey

Fleur said coldly:

“You know very little; I AM fond of Michael.”

Desert gave his little jerky laugh.

“Oh yes; not the sort that counts.”

Fleur looked up.

“It counts quite enough to make one safe.”

“A flower that I can’t pick.”

Fleur nodded.

“Quite sure, Fleur? Quite, quite sure?”

Fleur stared; her eyes softened a little, her eyelids, so excessively white, drooped over them; she nodded. Desert said slowly:

“The moment I believe that, I shall go East.”

“East?”

“Not so stale as going West, but much the same—you don’t come back.”

Fleur thought: ‘The East? I should love to know the East! Pity one can’t manage that, too. Pity!’

“You won’t keep me in your Zoo, my dear. I shan’t hang around and feed on crumbs. You know what I feel—it means a smash of some sort.”

“It hasn’t been my fault, has it?”

“Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.

“Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.”

Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.

“Sorry, Wilfrid.”

“All right, dear. I’ll go.”

“But you’re coming to di

Desert said violently:

“TO-MORROW? Good God—no! What d’you think I’m made of?”

He flung her hand away.

“I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.”

“Well, good-bye; I’d better go.”

The words “And you’d better not come again” trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid—life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid!—nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. To-morrow! Second a

“Can I speak to Lady Alison—Mrs. Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the ‘Snooks’ Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr. Minho. Could you let me know to-night? Thanks—thanks awfully!… Goodbye!”

Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be some one who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes—out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could—they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without begi

Voices! Michael and Bart coming back. Bart had noticed Wilfrid. He WAS a noticing old Bart. She was never very comfortable when he was about—lively and twisting, but with something settled and ancestral in him; a little like Ting-a-ling—something judgmatic, ever telling her that she was fluttering and new. He was anchored, could only move to the length of his old-fashioned cord, but he could drop on to things disconcertingly. Still, he admired her, she felt—oh! yes.

Well! What had he thought of the cartoons? Ought Michael to publish them, and with letterpress or without? Didn’t he think that the cubic called ‘Still Life’—of the Government, too frightfully fu

Stripping off her dress, Fleur held the new frock under her chin.

“May I kiss you?” said a voice, and there was Michael’s image behind her own reflection in the glass.

“My dear boy, there isn’t time! Help me with this.” She slipped the frock over her head. “Do those three top hooks. How do you like it? Oh! and—Michael! Gurdon Minho may be coming to di

“Well, he’s always had something to say. And his cats are good. He’s a bit romantic, of course.”

“Oh! Have I made a gaff?”

“Not a bit; jolly good shot. The vice of our lot is, they say it pretty well, but they’ve nothing to say. They won’t last.”