OFFICE WORK

Michael sat correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits’—the book left by Wilfrid behind him.

“Can you see Butterfield, sir?”

“I can.”

In Michael the word Butterfield excited an uneasy pride. The young man fulfilled with increasing success the function for which he had been engaged, on trial, four months ago. The head traveller had even called him “a find.” Next to ‘Copper Coin’ he was the finest feather in Michael’s cap. The Trade were not buying, yet Butterfield was selling books, or so it was reported; he appeared to have a natural gift of inspiring confidence where it was not justified. Danby and Winter had even entrusted to him the private marketing of that vellum-bound ‘Limited’ of ‘A Duet,’ by which they were hoping to recoup their losses on the ordinary edition. He was now engaged in working through a list of names considered likely to patronise the little masterpiece. This method of private approach had been suggested by himself.

“You see, sir,” he had said to Michael: “I know a bit about Coue. Well, you can’t work that on the Trade—they’ve got no capacity for faith. What can you expect? Every day they buy all sorts of stuff, always basing themselves on past sales. You can’t find one in twenty that’ll back the future. But with private gentlemen, and especially private ladies, you can leave a thought with them like Coue does—put it into them again and again that day by day in every way the author’s gettin’ better and better; and ten to one when you go round next, it’s got into their subconscious, especially if you take ’em just after lunch or dinner, when they’re a bit drowsy. Let me take my own time, sir, and I’ll put that edition over for you.”

“Well, Michael had answered, “if you can inspire confidence in the future of my governor, Butterfield, you’ll deserve more than your ten per cent.”

“I can do it, sir; it’s just a question of faith.”

“But you haven’t any, have you?”

“Well, not, so to speak, in the author—but I’ve got faith that I can give THEM faith in him; that’s the real point.”

“I see—the three-card stunt; inspire the faith you haven’t got, that the card is there, and they’ll take it. Well, the disillusion is not immediate—you’ll probably always get out of the room in time. Go ahead, then!”

The young man Butterfield had smiled…

The uneasy part of the pride inspired in Michael now by the name was due to old Forsyte’s continually saying to him that he didn’t know—he couldn’t tell—there was that young man and his story about Elderson, and they got no further…

“Good morning, sir. Can you spare me five minutes?”

“Come in, Butterfield. Bunkered with ‘Duet’?”

“No, sir. I’ve placed forty already. It’s another matter.” Glancing at the shut door, the young man came closer.

“I’m working my list alphabetically. Yesterday I was in the E’s.” His voice dropped. “Mr. Elderson.”

“Phew!” said Michael. “You can give HIM the go-by.”

“As a fact, sir, I haven’t.”

“What! Been over the top?”

“Yes, sir. Last night.”

“Good for you, Butterfield! What happened?”

“I didn’t send my name in, sir—just the firm’s card.”

Michael was conscious of a very human malice in the young man’s voice and face.

“Well?”

“Mr. Elderson, sir, was at his wine. I’d thought it out, and I began as if I’d never seen him before. What struck me was—he took my cue!”

“Didn’t kick you out?”

“Far from it, sir. He said at once: ‘Put my name down for two copies.’”

Michael grinned. “You both had a nerve.”

“No, sir; that’s just it. Mr. Elderson got it between wind and water. He didn’t like it a little bit.”

“I don’t twig,” said Michael.

“My being in this firm’s employ, sir. He knows you’re a partner here, and Mr. Forsyte’s son-inlaw, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“Well, sir, you see the connection—two directors believing me—not HIM. That’s why I didn’t miss him out. I fancied it’d shake him up. I happened to see his face in the sideboard glass as I went out. HE’S got the wind up all right.”

Michael bit his forefinger, conscious of a twinge of sympathy with Elderson, as for a fly with the first strand of cob-web round his hind leg.

“Thank you, Butterfield,” he said.

When the young man was gone, he sat stabbing his blotting-paper with a paper-knife. What curious ‘class’ sensation was this? Or was it merely fellow-feeling with the hunted, a tremor at the way things found one out? For, surely, this was real evidence, and he would have to pass it on to his father, and ‘Old Forsyte.’ Elderson’s nerve must have gone phut, or he’d have said: “You impudent young scoundrel—get out of here!” That, clearly, was the only right greeting from an innocent, and the only advisable greeting from a guilty man. Well! Nerve did fail sometimes—even the best. Witness the very proof-sheet he had just corrected:

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 656