to you. Nothing at all.’
‘Sorry to hear that. However … I’ve something to say to you. This Apollo. It should have gone to Gressington this week. But now he’s gone away …’
‘We will see that it goes,’ interrupted Martha. ‘You needn’t trouble yourself about that, Mr.… Mr.… er … er …’
‘Archer’s the name. I think you know all about me. My point is this; it’s not going to Gressington. I went up there myself, yesterday afternoon, and had a look at it. It was in the shed all right … and I don’t think it should go.’
‘I fail to see what say you have in the matter,’ exclaimed Martha.
‘I’ve Swann’s authority. He wrote to me. You can read his letter. I think you’ll allow it gives me the right to decide.’
‘I very much doubt it, Mr. Archer. We are Mr. Swann’s most intimate friends, and he has complete confidence in us.’
‘Why do you think it shouldn’t go?’ asked Don.
Martha frowned. He ought not to have asked that, as though Archer’s opinion merited any attention.
‘It’s no good,’ muttered Archer gloomily.
‘That may be a matter of opinion,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think that your disapprobation need prevent it from going to Gressington.’
‘You’d better read his letter to me.’
‘I think, perhaps, that might be as well.’
‘In that case, may I have my coffee?’
Martha signalled to the waitress. Archer produced Conrad’s letter and blandly offered it to Don, from whom Martha immediately snatched it.
‘Oh!’ she cried.
This exclamation was wrung from her by the address at the top of the paper. She flushed angrily. Conrad might be a genius but he was no gentleman. She had maintained him, and his wretched family, for two years. She had bullied several people into buying his work. She had pushed him into entering for the Gressington competition. And what did he do? He stole her notepaper and wrote a treacherous letter upon it, a letter which demolished her right to be called his most intimate friend. Her own notepaper, she kept thinking as she read the letter, and not a word about herself from beginning to end!
Archer sipped his coffee, over which he made a face. A good many people were covertly staring at him. Somebody who had been at the party recognised him. The story crept from table to table: this was the husband.
‘Conrad wasn’t … himself when he wrote this,’ cried Martha, slapping down the letter. ‘I shall take no notice of it.’
‘Do I read it?’ asked Don plaintively.
She pushed it across the table and continued:
‘He would never have written it if he had been in his right mind. Therefore I think it gives you no authority. I shall personally see to it that the Apollo does go to Gressington.’
‘I can’t stop that, of course,’ said Archer. ‘But if he doesn’t turn up to speak for himself I shall do my best to see that it’s never exhibited over his name. I shall go there, if necessary. I know the people there. I know the adjudicators. I shall show them this letter and explain the circumstances.’
‘They’ll say he was mad when he wrote that letter.’
‘They’ll say that, anyway, when they see his Apollo. It’s got me seriously rattled about his state of mind.It’s … it’s … imbecile. That’s all you can say about it. I very nearly took it off and dropped it into the sea.’
‘If you’d done that you could have been prosecuted.’
‘It’s what he’ll do himself when he comes to his senses. It will embarrass them very much at Gressington . They’ll jump at the chance to write it off. I’m sure they’ll have headaches enough, with some of the entries they’ll get.’
‘Mr. Archer! I don’t like to have to say this … but you must realise that you are the very last person in the world who ought to interfere in Conrad’s affairs.’
‘Why? Because he pinched my wife, you mean? You think that impairs my judgment of his work?’
‘I think it invalidates your judgment. If
‘Sorry to hear that. However … I’ve something to say to you. This Apollo. It should have gone to Gressington this week. But now he’s gone away …’
‘We will see that it goes,’ interrupted Martha. ‘You needn’t trouble yourself about that, Mr.… Mr.… er … er …’
‘Archer’s the name. I think you know all about me. My point is this; it’s not going to Gressington. I went up there myself, yesterday afternoon, and had a look at it. It was in the shed all right … and I don’t think it should go.’
‘I fail to see what say you have in the matter,’ exclaimed Martha.
‘I’ve Swann’s authority. He wrote to me. You can read his letter. I think you’ll allow it gives me the right to decide.’
‘I very much doubt it, Mr. Archer. We are Mr. Swann’s most intimate friends, and he has complete confidence in us.’
‘Why do you think it shouldn’t go?’ asked Don.
Martha frowned. He ought not to have asked that, as though Archer’s opinion merited any attention.
‘It’s no good,’ muttered Archer gloomily.
‘That may be a matter of opinion,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think that your disapprobation need prevent it from going to Gressington.’
‘You’d better read his letter to me.’
‘I think, perhaps, that might be as well.’
‘In that case, may I have my coffee?’
Martha signalled to the waitress. Archer produced Conrad’s letter and blandly offered it to Don, from whom Martha immediately snatched it.
‘Oh!’ she cried.
This exclamation was wrung from her by the address at the top of the paper. She flushed angrily. Conrad might be a genius but he was no gentleman. She had maintained him, and his wretched family, for two years. She had bullied several people into buying his work. She had pushed him into entering for the Gressington competition. And what did he do? He stole her notepaper and wrote a treacherous letter upon it, a letter which demolished her right to be called his most intimate friend. Her own notepaper, she kept thinking as she read the letter, and not a word about herself from beginning to end!
Archer sipped his coffee, over which he made a face. A good many people were covertly staring at him. Somebody who had been at the party recognised him. The story crept from table to table: this was the husband.
‘Conrad wasn’t … himself when he wrote this,’ cried Martha, slapping down the letter. ‘I shall take no notice of it.’
‘Do I read it?’ asked Don plaintively.
She pushed it across the table and continued:
‘He would never have written it if he had been in his right mind. Therefore I think it gives you no authority. I shall personally see to it that the Apollo does go to Gressington.’
‘I can’t stop that, of course,’ said Archer. ‘But if he doesn’t turn up to speak for himself I shall do my best to see that it’s never exhibited over his name. I shall go there, if necessary. I know the people there. I know the adjudicators. I shall show them this letter and explain the circumstances.’
‘They’ll say he was mad when he wrote that letter.’
‘They’ll say that, anyway, when they see his Apollo. It’s got me seriously rattled about his state of mind.It’s … it’s … imbecile. That’s all you can say about it. I very nearly took it off and dropped it into the sea.’
‘If you’d done that you could have been prosecuted.’
‘It’s what he’ll do himself when he comes to his senses. It will embarrass them very much at Gressington . They’ll jump at the chance to write it off. I’m sure they’ll have headaches enough, with some of the entries they’ll get.’
‘Mr. Archer! I don’t like to have to say this … but you must realise that you are the very last person in the world who ought to interfere in Conrad’s affairs.’
‘Why? Because he pinched my wife, you mean? You think that impairs my judgment of his work?’
‘I think it invalidates your judgment. If
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