“And this makes you happy?”
“Are any of us happy?” asked Heywood in a voice of weary sadness; he stopped, suddenly remembering that young Holton was there. It would never do for him to hear these things.
“I talked,” he said casually, “with Murphy about you today. He seemed most enthusiastic.”
“That’s nice. I like working with him.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr Heywood, looking at a spot somewhere over Holton’s head, “perhaps you would be interested in working in the jobs that, ah, come in contact with the public.” He could not say selling: he tried but he could not. He wondered if maybe a long trip to South America would give him a new perspective.
“I think that would be wonderful!” Holton was moved as he should be. An affable young man, thought Mr Heywood who, as a rule, did not like men at all, especially young men who seemed to be able to get all the lonely young women they wanted.
“Perhaps,” murmured Mr Heywood, “something can be arranged in the near future.” He looked at the dark woman beside Holton and he thought her an unusually real person to find in such a place as this. She was probably not real, though: only an illusion with long white hands and silvery nails. He was used to women vanishing.
George Robert Lewis appeared and Mr Heywood experienced a slight spasm of nausea. He found Lewis hard to be with. Mr Heywood would not have said that being a broker was a productive life but if, to be an artist, it was necessary to be like Lewis he had no desire to be an artist.
“How do you do?” said Lewis, bowing very low and smirking at him.
“And how are you?” inquired Mr Heywood politely, beginning to retreat slowly.