“Never.”
“Well, you’ve got to learn to-night.”
He learnt, and found it easy, and good when made.
She lit a cigarette, and dropped into a low chair and told him to take the cane chair opposite, and put on his pipe, if he liked.
It seemed a thousand years since he’d gone looking for a revolver in Holland Street. Yet his tragedy hadn’t been turned into comedy. His problems were the same. His future was hopeless. His book had been refused. Joyce was in Paris with Kenneth Murless. Young Digby had been killed. His mother was dead. Strange that he felt happier, almost cheerful, certainly glad of life again. Loneliness was the worst thing in the world—to him.
He no longer felt lonely. Janet’s comradeship was wonderfully good. It was splendid of her to open the doors of this little sanctuary and let in a shivering soul to its light and warmth.
She spoke of his book for the first time, and denounced the publishers as silly sheep.
“Keep it a year,” she said, “and they’ll all be clamouring for it. ‘We want the Truth about the War!’ they’ll cry. ‘We can’t get enough of it! We hunger for it!’ ”
“Meanwhile what am I to do?” asked Bertram.
“Leave it to Janet Rockingham Welford,” she said. “That girl has planted men in the strangest places, inspired them to noble and saintly deeds, led them to heights of fame and fortune. Don’t worry, for you’ve come to the right lady, the fairy godmother of the down-and-outs.”