CHAPTER VI

er.” “Ibegyourpardon?” “Veryseriousthingthisdeclineofthebirth-rateinManchester,”repeatedMr.Cunningham,tappingtheSundaypaper,inwhichthecalamityinquestionhadjustbeenannouncedtohim. “Ah,yes,”saidLeonard,whowasnotgoingtoletonthathehadnotboughtaSundaypaper. “IfthiskindofthinggoesonthepopulationofEnglandwillbestationaryin1960.” “Youdon’tsayso.” “Icallitaveryseriousthing,eh?” “Good-evening,Mr.Cunningham.” “Good-evening,Mr.Bast.” ThenLeonardenteredBlockBoftheflats,andturned,notupstairs,butdown,intowhatisknowntohouseagentsasasemi-basement,andtoothermenasacellar.Heopenedthedoor,andcried,“Hullo!”withthepseudogenialityoftheCockney.Therewasnoreply.“Hullo!”herepeated.Thesitting-roomwasempty,thoughtheelectriclighthadbeenleftburning.Alookofreliefcameoverhisface,andheflunghimselfintothearmchair. Thesitting-roomcontained,besidesthearmchair,twootherchairs,apiano,athree-leggedtable,andacosycorner.Ofthewalls,onewasoccupiedbythewindow,theotherbyadrapedmantelshelfbristlingwithCupids.Oppositethewindowwasthedoor,andbesidethedoorabookcase,whileoverthepianothereextendedoneofthemasterpiecesofMaudGoodman.Itwasanamorousandnotunpleasantlittleholewhenthecurtainsweredrawn,andthelightsturnedon,andthegas-stoveunlit.Butitstruckthatshallowmakeshiftnotethatissooftenheardinthedwelling-place.Ithadbeentooeasilygained,andcouldberelinquishedtooeasily. AsLeonardwaskickingoffhisbootshejarredthethree-leggedtable,andaphotographframe,honourablypoiseduponit,slidsideways,felloffintothefireplace,andsmashed.Hesworeinacolourlesssortofway,andpickedthephotographup.ItrepresentedayoungladycalledJacky,andhadbeentakenatthetimewhenyoungladiescalledJackywereoftenphotographedwiththeirmouthsopen.TeethofdazzlingwhitenessextendedalongeitherofJacky’sjaws,andpositivelyweighedherheadsideways,solargeweretheyandsonumerous.Takemywordforit,thatsmilewassimplystunning,anditisonlyyouandIwhowillbefastidious,andcomplainthattruejoybeginsintheeyes,andthattheeyesofJackydidnotaccordwithhersmile,butwereanxiousandhungry. Leonardtriedtopulloutthefragmentsofglass,andcuthisfingersandsworeagain.Adropofbloodfellontheframe,anotherfollowed,spillingoverontotheexposedphotograph.Hesworemorevigorously,anddashedintothekitchen,wherehebathedhishands.Thekitchenwasthesamesizeasthesitting-roombeyonditwasabedroom.Thiscompletedhishome.Hewasrentingtheflatfurnishedofalltheobjectsthatencumbereditnonewerehisownexceptthephotographframe,theCupids,andthebooks. “Damn,damn,damnation!”hemurmured,togetherwithsuchotherwordsashehadlearntfromoldermen.Thenheraisedhishandtohisforeheadandsaid,“Oh,damnitall—”whichmeantsomethingdifferent.Hepulledhimselftogether.Hedrankalittletea,blackandsilent,thatstillsurviveduponanuppershelf.Heswallowedsomedustycrumbsofacake.Thenhewentbacktothesitting-room,settledhimselfanew,andbegantoreadavolumeofRuskin. “SevenmilestothenorthofVenice—” Howperfectlythefamouschapteropens!Howsupremeitscommandofadmonitionandofpoetry!Therichmanisspeakingtousfromhisgondola. “SevenmilestothenorthofVenicethebanksofsandwhichnearerthecityriselittleabovelow-watermarkattainbydegreesahigherlevel,andknitthemselvesatlastintofieldsofsaltmorass,raisedhereandthereintoshapelessmounds,andinterceptedbyn