“Oh, come, James,” she said, smiling approvingly, “you know you will make a quite too dreadfully clever success. How dare you try to deceive me like that? A struggling journalist, indeed.”
But I knew she liked that “struggling journalist” immensely. She would couple me and my own epithet together before her friends. She would enjoy unconsciously an imperceptible, but exquisite, sensation of patronage by having me at her house. Even if she discussed me with Margaret I was safe. For Margaret would give an altogether different interpretation of the smile with which I described myself as struggling. My smile would be mentally catalogued by her as “brave”; for it must not be forgotten that as suddenly as my name had achieved a little publicity, just so suddenly had it utterly disappeared.
Towards the end of May, it happened that Julian dropped into my rooms about three o’clock, and found me gazing critically at a top-hat.
“I’ve seen you,” he remarked, “rather often in that get-up lately.”
“It is, perhaps, losing its first gloss,” I answered, inspecting my hat closely. I cared not a bit for Julian’s sneers; for the smell of the flesh-pots of Kensington had laid hold of my soul, and I was resolved to make the most of the respite which my system gave me.
“What salon is to have the honour today?” he asked, spreading himself on my sofa.
“I’m going to the Gunton-Cresswells,” I replied.
Julian slowly sat up.
“Ah?” he said conversationally.