welcome, yet unexpected voice. 'I have not seen you in
some time.' Here in Madame Geneva's establishment, in front of the
bottles stands Miss Phoebe Owler, in a dress of green velvet, as
sharp and as pretty and as verboten as ever. Phoebe Owler –
who, as a girl of fifteen, sorely tested the limits of his
discretion. Indeed, continues to do so to a maddening degree, for she
appears not a day older to him six years later; in truth, his vision
of her will remain when she is a crone of forty. A wave of feeling
breaks over him, that combination of sadness and desire which attends
an unconsummated relation with a young woman; in which the better
part of one's nature prevailed in return for years of yearning and
regret. 'A pleasure to see you as always, Miss Owler. Though I had
hoped to see you at the Comedy by now, taking a fifth curtain–call
before a delirious audience.' 'You would not have seen it anyway. You
were not at the Albert Saloon where I played several parts. Nor were
you at the Theatre Royal 63 WHITE STONE DAY when I played three
matinees as Miss Clayton's understudy.' 'Alas, I was on assignment in
Prussia.' Whitty has never been to Prussia; fact is, he lacked the
price of a theatre ticket. 'Given your success, to what do we owe
your presence at the Pith and Paradox?' 'To my employer. Mr Banks
acquired the establishment and has entrusted its management to me.'
'And has this advancement cured you of your stage–sickness?'
'Of course not. Yet I am sufficiently experienced to know that, in
the long run, it is impossible to make a living in the theatre.' 'And
what of the short run?' 'In the short run, one might as well enter
prostitution directly.' Her eyes flash in that way he likes, indeed,
he pursued the topic purely in the hope of seeing her defy him. For a
moment she has caused him to forget his current catastrophe –
but now it pours back, all of it, and he is in disarray. Fortunately,
his drinking habits remain consistent. 'An extremely large spiced
gin, if you please, Miss Phoebe, with hot water and plenty of sugar
to bring out the flavour.' 'In a spot of trouble are you, Mr Whitty?
When you are in trouble you generally pile on the sugar.' 'Nothing
that won't be over in a week, at which time I hope to be dead.'
Whitty drains the glass in a single swallow. 'Would you care for
another?' 'Yes, please.' 'Is there anything I can do?' For a moment
their eyes remain locked together. Phoebe has a knack for this sort
of teasing. He can barely constrain himself from leaping over the
bar, dropping to his knees and proposing marriage, followed by
emigration to Canada. 'No, Miss Phoebe, I am afraid this is a beast I
must wrestle on my own.' With another gin down the neck and a pinch
of medicinal snuff up the nose, he totters out of the Pith and
Paradox, only to freeze at the door, in a mild panic. He is about to
venture into enemy territory. He is about to be blackmailed –
possibly by the one he intends to visit. What if he were held hostage
– or murdered by the blasted Irish, with the envelope and its
obscene contents in his coat pocket? With that in mind, he returns to
the bar. 'Pardon me, Miss Owler, might I be so bold as to tender a
small request?' 'Your requests are always welcome, Mr Whitty. You
know that.' 64 THE PITH AND PARADOX 'Here is an envelope I wish to
put in your safe–keeping. It contains a letter from my mother,
from her death–bed, a document of great sentimental value. If I
do not return within a fortnight, feel free to burn it. Should I
return for it, I shall pay you 5 shillings.' 'Ten shillings.' 'Six
shillings.' 'Seven shillings,' replies Phoebe. Having done her duty
by the establishment, she accepts the envelope, leans over the bar,
and kisses him softly upon the cheek. Whitty wishes she wouldn't do
that. The arthritic carriage lurches unevenly up Titchfield Street
onto Piccadilly, only to become entrapped by the omnibuses, whose
sheer multiplicity approximates a series of moving walls.
some time.' Here in Madame Geneva's establishment, in front of the
bottles stands Miss Phoebe Owler, in a dress of green velvet, as
sharp and as pretty and as verboten as ever. Phoebe Owler –
who, as a girl of fifteen, sorely tested the limits of his
discretion. Indeed, continues to do so to a maddening degree, for she
appears not a day older to him six years later; in truth, his vision
of her will remain when she is a crone of forty. A wave of feeling
breaks over him, that combination of sadness and desire which attends
an unconsummated relation with a young woman; in which the better
part of one's nature prevailed in return for years of yearning and
regret. 'A pleasure to see you as always, Miss Owler. Though I had
hoped to see you at the Comedy by now, taking a fifth curtain–call
before a delirious audience.' 'You would not have seen it anyway. You
were not at the Albert Saloon where I played several parts. Nor were
you at the Theatre Royal 63 WHITE STONE DAY when I played three
matinees as Miss Clayton's understudy.' 'Alas, I was on assignment in
Prussia.' Whitty has never been to Prussia; fact is, he lacked the
price of a theatre ticket. 'Given your success, to what do we owe
your presence at the Pith and Paradox?' 'To my employer. Mr Banks
acquired the establishment and has entrusted its management to me.'
'And has this advancement cured you of your stage–sickness?'
'Of course not. Yet I am sufficiently experienced to know that, in
the long run, it is impossible to make a living in the theatre.' 'And
what of the short run?' 'In the short run, one might as well enter
prostitution directly.' Her eyes flash in that way he likes, indeed,
he pursued the topic purely in the hope of seeing her defy him. For a
moment she has caused him to forget his current catastrophe –
but now it pours back, all of it, and he is in disarray. Fortunately,
his drinking habits remain consistent. 'An extremely large spiced
gin, if you please, Miss Phoebe, with hot water and plenty of sugar
to bring out the flavour.' 'In a spot of trouble are you, Mr Whitty?
When you are in trouble you generally pile on the sugar.' 'Nothing
that won't be over in a week, at which time I hope to be dead.'
Whitty drains the glass in a single swallow. 'Would you care for
another?' 'Yes, please.' 'Is there anything I can do?' For a moment
their eyes remain locked together. Phoebe has a knack for this sort
of teasing. He can barely constrain himself from leaping over the
bar, dropping to his knees and proposing marriage, followed by
emigration to Canada. 'No, Miss Phoebe, I am afraid this is a beast I
must wrestle on my own.' With another gin down the neck and a pinch
of medicinal snuff up the nose, he totters out of the Pith and
Paradox, only to freeze at the door, in a mild panic. He is about to
venture into enemy territory. He is about to be blackmailed –
possibly by the one he intends to visit. What if he were held hostage
– or murdered by the blasted Irish, with the envelope and its
obscene contents in his coat pocket? With that in mind, he returns to
the bar. 'Pardon me, Miss Owler, might I be so bold as to tender a
small request?' 'Your requests are always welcome, Mr Whitty. You
know that.' 64 THE PITH AND PARADOX 'Here is an envelope I wish to
put in your safe–keeping. It contains a letter from my mother,
from her death–bed, a document of great sentimental value. If I
do not return within a fortnight, feel free to burn it. Should I
return for it, I shall pay you 5 shillings.' 'Ten shillings.' 'Six
shillings.' 'Seven shillings,' replies Phoebe. Having done her duty
by the establishment, she accepts the envelope, leans over the bar,
and kisses him softly upon the cheek. Whitty wishes she wouldn't do
that. The arthritic carriage lurches unevenly up Titchfield Street
onto Piccadilly, only to become entrapped by the omnibuses, whose
sheer multiplicity approximates a series of moving walls.
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