“The present condition of Germany . . .,” he began; but, before I could hear what it was, an unknown woman bustled up to our table and began to make notes for an article which informed the world two days later (1) that anybody who was anybody would be found dining at the Turf and Stage, (2) that “Lucile”—as she confided to her “darling Betty”—had seen good-looking Bobbie Pentyre dancing with Lady Clackmannan’s girl, (3) that Lady Barbara Oakleigh—“Babs Neave, as we must still think of her”—had been at the table next to “Lucile’s” and (4) that her husband would certainly stand again for parliament when opportunity offered. In its slangy pertness and familiarity, the style was the woman; and, as accuracy was less important to the Daily Picture than snappy diction or a knowing air of intimacy, it would have been idle to correct her statements or to reprove her manners. No doubt she had a livelihood to earn; and those who create a demand have to bear as heavy a responsibility as those who furnish the supply. When I had recovered from my first exasperation, I felt that the loud-voiced lady was less to blame than “Blob” Wister, who owned the paper for which she wrote, and the two million readers (the circulation of the Daily Picture was certified by an impeccable firm of chartered accountants) who liked to think of Miss Murchison as “Lady Clackmannan’s girl” and of Lord Pentyre as “Bobbie”. Those who had no chance of seeing for themselves whether he was good-looking must have been grateful to “Lucile” for lifting a corner of the curtain from the world of beauty, rank and fashion.
“Another section of the public you propose to educate,” I told O’Rane.
“And you,” he retorted. “You heard what Sam Dainton said about the state of Paris. Everybody hating everybody else.” . . .
I looked round to make sure that we were not being overheard. Lucien de Grammont, I knew, was somewhere in the room; but I fancied that he was avoiding me.
“That’s only these damned French,” I said. “Instead of thanking us for pulling them out of the mire, they think they won the war single-handed and our job is just to foot the bill. Hang it all, Raney, we spent more money and provided more ammunition than any one else; we raised about five million men; we stayed on to clear the Germans out of France when it was all we could do to keep the French in the war at all; and, when our papers were gushing about the splendid unity, the French government was making us pay rent for the trenches our men occupied to defend their miserable country. They’re the meanest hounds on earth. During the war, one couldn’t say these things . . .”
“Does one do much good by saying them now? The Americans bring pretty much the same charge against us. You’ve an organization, George, and you should make it your business to fight the hatred-epidemic.” . . .
He broke off, as the bland Gaspard presented himself at our table with the announcement that a lady was waiting outside. When I read Yolande Manisty’s name, I guessed that Raymond Stornaway was worse; when I met her, I knew—without being told—that he was dead. As I came back to the blaze and blare of the dining-room, I felt that this was my first contact with reality that night. The financiers and wire-pullers and propagandists, the glittering corps de ballet, the punctual scribe who chronicled their movements, all belonged to a world of masquerade. I cannot say what lesson Bertrand had sent me there to learn; the lesson which I carried away was a doubt—the first since 1914—of victory.
I drove O’Rane to his house in Westminster and left him to think over Yolande Manisty’s message. By the terms of her uncle’s will, he had—for better or for worse—inherited unconditionally an estate of more than twenty million pounds.