She’s left school! She’s looking for a job! She’s got a job—Simcox boss! She’s still got the job! She hasn’t lost it yet! Simcox dies. Simcox is buried! She’s got another—Sturgiss boss! She’s met a man! She’s kissed the man! She’s married the man! She has one child! She has two children! She has three children! She has no more children! She’s lost them all! Careless! Careless!
What jumps! What leaps! What bounds! How annoying! She’s busted right through the book.
One clutches. Tries to stop her. Can’t. It’s no use. She’s a deluge. She’s a maelstrom. She’s an earthquake. She’s an avalanche. She’s several other things, including a boiling pot. What a life! What a life! Gosh!
CHAPTER IV
One starts again. Simcox—funny little man—walks in jerks—talks in jerks—like one’s style. Le style c’est l’homme. There you are! Simcoxical! One writes Simcociously.
Simcox then—or Simcox now—the phrases are interchangeable—man of letters, very well posted, one may say. Busy all day writing letters to himself, skipping out to put them in the pillar-box, skipping home to receive them from the postman. Whimsical idea. Oh, very! One quite chuckles at having conceived it.
Then Simcox dies—cacoëthes scribendi, complicated with writer’s cramp.
CHAPTER V
Simcox gone, Sturgiss arrives. “Come with us!” “No!” Coy Rosalie bluffs. “Head clerk—manager—partner—sole owner—Chairman of Bank of England—Chancellor of Exchequer—anything. Only come with us.”
“Very well, then—manager to start with.”