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Page 7
"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking
to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You
must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be
free...."
"I now call upon myself to speak," I remarked, rising hurriedly. "Janet," I
continued, arriving at her side, "keep perfectly still and do not attempt
to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you
can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like."
(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if
people believed me it would only attract more callers.)
"All right," she continued, unruffling her hair; "but if I do you must
promise to leave off writing stories about me. Will you?"
"But, darling," I objected, "consider the bread-and-jam."
She was silent.
"Well, then," she said at last, "you must only write careful ones that I
can live up to."
"I'll try," I agreed remorsefully; "I'll go and do one now--all about this.
And you can censor it." I left the room jauntily.
Janet's voice, suddenly repentant, followed me.
"No," she called, "that won't do either. Because if it's a true one you
won't sell it."
"But if it isn't," I called back, "and I do, we can put the money in the
Divorce Fund."
* * * * *
THE SORROWS OF A SUPER-PROFITEER.
[Bradford wool-spinners are stated to be unable to escape from the
deluge of wealth that pours upon them or avoid making profits of three
thousand two hundred per cent.]
And so you thought we simply steered
Great motor-cars to champagne dinners
And bought tiaras and were cheered
By hopes of breeding Epsom winners;
Eh, lad, you little knew the weird
Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners.
How hollow are those marble halls,
The place I built and deemed a show-thing,
Its terraces, its waterfalls--
Once more I hear that sound of loathing,
The bell rings and a stranger calls
To speak of underclothing.
They've bashed my offices to wrecks,
They've broke their way beyond the warders,
And now my country seat they vex,
They trample my herbaceous borders;
They chase me up and down with cheques,
They flummox me with orders.
They bolt me to the billiard-room,
Where chaps are playing five-bob snooker;
They see me dodging from the doom,
They heed no threats and no rebuker;
"We've got thee now," they say, "ba goom!"
And pelt me with their lucre.
Vainly I put the prices up
To stem that flowing tide of riches;
The horror haunts me as I sup;
The unknown guest arrives and pitches
His ultimatum in my cup:--
"The people must have breeches."
I shall not see the skylark soar
Nor hear the cuckoo nor the linnet,
When Springtime comes, above the roar
Of folk a-hollering each minute
For yarn at thirty-two times more
Than what I spent to spin it.
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