“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“Well, don’t you see?...” I began hesitatingly; “don’t you see that ... well, now, look at the title!”
“Title’s good enough, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes, good enough ... good enough for Fleetway House. Why not sell it to Northcliffe? But you’ve got no Aunt Maggie’s column, and no Beauty Hints, and no Cupid’s Corner! Oh, Harris!”
He laughed, and invited me out to lunch.
I never discovered what strange circumstances had conspired to make him the possessor of this extraordinary production. No doubt he bought it for nothing, with the intention of rapidly improving it and selling it for something substantial later on. But I believe it died soon after—perhaps urged on to its grave by some verses of mine which were printed close to an advertisement of ladies’ ——.
On our way out of the office we were joined by a very beautiful lady who, it soon transpired, shared my admiration for Harris’s genius. We jumped on to a bus running at full speed and alighted, a couple of minutes later, at Simpson’s.
Harris should write a book on cookery. Perhaps he will. Harris should run a hotel. But he has already done so. Harris should be induced to print all the indiscreet things he says over coffee and liqueurs....
It was a close study of Simpson’s menu that started the cookery discussion. The Beautiful Lady and I were told what was wrong and what was right with the menu. And [40] ]then there began a discourse, profound, full of strange knowledge and recondite wisdom, a discourse that Balzac should have heard, that the de Goncourts would have envied. We listened, amazed. And a waiter, having rushed to our table in the stress of his work, stood anchored, his mouth slightly open, his whole attention riveted on the Master from whom no gastronomic secrets were hid. Truly, Harris was amazing!
After a considerable time his enthusiasm evaporated and we began to eat. And then ensued a long talk, full of indiscretions, of most enjoyable malice. Harris told us many things that, perhaps, it would have been wiser if he had kept to himself. But, in spite of his venom, his real hatred of certain individuals, he never for a moment permits himself to be blinded to the quality of a man’s work.