“You must not say that in the Pilgrim—­we should offend all our friends,” Harding said, and he poured himself out a brandy-and-soda.

Mike laughed, and walking up and down the room, he continued—­

“That it should be so is inexplicable, that it is so is certain; we have not had since Mabel Grey died a courtesan whom a foreign prince, passing London, would visit as a matter of course as he would visit St. Paul’s or Westminster Abbey; and yet London has advanced enormously in all that constitutes wealth and civilization.  In Paris, as in ancient Greece, courtesans are rich, brilliant, and depraved; here in London the women are poor, stupid, and almost virtuous.  Kitty is revolution.  I know for a fact that she has had as much as L1000 from a foreign potentate, and she spends in one day upon her tiger-cat what would keep a poor family in affluence for a week.  Nor can she say half a dozen words without being witty.  What do you think of this?  We were discussing the old question, if it were well for a woman to have a sweetheart.  Kitty said, ’London has given me everything but that.  I can always find a man who will give me five and twenty guineas, but a sweetheart I can’t find.’”

Every pen stopped, and expectation was on every face.  After a pause Mike continued—­

“Kitty said, ’In the first place he must please me, and I am very difficult to please; then I must please him, and sufficiently for him to give up his whole time to me.  And he must not be poor, for although he would not give me money, it would cost him several hundreds a year to invite me to dinner and send me flowers.  And where am I to find this combination of qualities?’ Can’t you hear her saying it, her sweet face like a tea-rose, those innocent blue eyes all laughing with happiness?  The great stockbroker, who has been with her for the last ten years, settled fifty thousand pounds when he first took her up.  She was speaking to me about him the other day, and when I said, ’Why didn’t you leave him when the money was settled?’ she said, ’Oh no, I wouldn’t do a dirty trick like that; I contented myself simply by being unfaithful to him.’”

“This is no doubt very clever, but if you put all you have told us into your article, you’ll certainly have the paper turned off the book-stalls.”

The conversation paused.  Every one finished his brandy-and-soda, and the correction of proofs was continued in silence, interrupted only by an occasional oath or a word of remonstrance from Frank, who begged Drake, a huge-shouldered man, whose hand was never out of the cigarette-box, not to drop the lighted ends on the carpet.  Mike was reading Harding’s article.

“I think we shall have a good number this week,” said Mike.  “But we want a piece of verse.  I wonder if you could get something from John Norton.  What do you think of Norton, Harding?”

“He is one of the most interesting men I know.  His pessimism, his Catholicism, his yearning for ritual, his very genuine hatred of women, it all fascinates me.”