“Take my tip, Fleur. The really big people don’t talk—and don’t bunch—they paddle their own canoes in what seem backwaters. But it’s the backwaters that make the main stream. By Jove, that’s a mot, or is it a bull; and are bulls mots or mots bulls?”

“Michael, if you were me, would you tell Frederic Wilmer that he’ll be meeting Hubert Marsland at lunch next week? Would it bring him or would it put him off?”

“Marsland’s rather an old duck, Wilmer’s rather an old goose—I don’t know.”

“Oh! do be serious, Michael—you never give me any help in arranging—No! Don’t maul my shoulders please.”

“Well, darling, I DON’T know. I’ve no genius for such things, like you. Marsland paints windmills, cliffs and things—I doubt if he’s heard of the future. He’s almost a Mathew Mans for keeping out of the swim. If you think he’d like to meet a Vertiginist—”

“I didn’t ask you if he’d like to meet Wilmer; I asked you if Wilmer would like to meet him.”

“Wilmer will just say: ‘I like little Mrs. Mont, she gives deuced good grub’—and so you do, ducky. A Vertiginist wants nourishing, you know, or it wouldn’t go to his head.”

Fleur’s pen resumed its swift strokes, already becoming slightly illegible. She murmured:

“I think Wilfrid would help—you won’t be there; one—two—three. What women?”

“For painters—pretty and plump; no intellect.”

Fleur said crossly:

“I can’t get them plump; they don’t go about now.” And her pen flowed on:

“Michael, your chin is like a bootbrush.”

“Sorry, old thing; your shoulders shouldn’t be so smooth. Bart gave Wilfrid a tip as we were coming along.”

Fleur stopped writing. “Oh!”

“Reminded him that the state of love was a good stunt for poets.”

“A propos of what?”

“Wilfrid was complaining that he couldn’t turn it out now.”