“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.”

“But that’s just why they will last. They won’t date.”

“Won’t they? My gum!”

“Wilfrid will last.”

“Ah! Wilfrid has emotions, hates, pities, wants; at least, sometimes; when he has, his stuff is jolly good. Otherwise, he just makes a song about nothing—like the rest.”

Fleur tucked in the top of her undergarment.

“But, Michael, if that’s so, we—I’ve got the wrong lot.”

Michael grinned.

“My dear child! The lot of the hour is always right; only you’ve got to watch it, and change it quick enough.”

“But d’you mean to say that Sibley isn’t going to live?”

“Sib? Lord, no!”

“But he’s so perfectly sure that almost everybody else is dead or dying. Surely he has critical genius!”

“If I hadn’t more judgment than Sib, I’d go out of publishing tomorrow.”

“You—more than Sibley Swan?”

“Of course, I’ve more judgment than Sib. Why! Sib’s judgment is just his opinion of Sib—common or garden impatience of any one else. He doesn’t even read them. He’ll read one specimen of every author and say: ‘Oh! that fellow! He’s dull, or he’s moral, or he’s sentimental, or he dates, or he drivels’—I’ve heard him dozens of times. That’s if they’re alive. Of course, if they’re dead, it’s different. He’s always digging up and canonising the dead; that’s how he’s got his name. There’s always a Sib in literature. He’s a standing example of how people can get taken at their own valuation. But as to lasting—of course he won’t; he’s never creative, even by mistake.”

Fleur had lost the thread. Yes! It suited her—quite a nice line! Off with it! Must write those three notes before she dressed.

Michael had begun again.