Part 14

“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste, that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will. You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew. Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room before ever the paper went up.’”

“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms. Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the more important race-meetings.”

“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?”

Her husband looked down his nose.

“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take five hundred a year for——”

Blanche leaped to her feet.

“Not 68, Old Bond Street?”

Titus nodded.

“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income comes from that little old house.”

Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.

“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it instead.”

* * * * *

Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they _had_ to make money, they would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being not at all desirous of too extensive a _clientèle_, they were immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a household word. It had become a synonym for ‘_de luxe_.’

The window was admirably dressed.

Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library. Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb, covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze, bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink. There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more important, an open book. Who passed might read.

A CHEVIOT ROOM

THAT IS TO SAY, A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO THE ADVICE OF

CHEVIOT’S (FOUNDED 1930)

From time to time hangings on the left parted to admit the pink of footmen, who added fuel to the fire and swept and garnished the hearth before retiring. So soon as it was dusk the footman switched on the lamp, which was heavily shaded. Save for the flickering fire, this was the sole illuminant. Not until half-past eight were the window curtains drawn and ‘the Cheviot room’ veiled from curious gaze.

The door of the shop admitted to a stately entrance-hall, paved with black and white marble, panelled with old grey oak, invisibly lit. Four aged chancel stalls, each dight with a crimson cushion, faced a pair of huge oak doors hung in the opposite wall. On the left, a superb triptych of the Flemish School surmounted a carved oak chest; on the right, a tall case clock rose between two panels which suggested the brush of Dürer. Upon the ceiling was stencilled a golden cipher, whose interlaced initials seemed to be T.B.C. In the centre of the hall was a table, and by the table a bench, heavily carved and bearing a cushion covered with crimson brocade.

To such as entered the shop a footman immediately appeared and, conducting them to the table, respectfully drew their attention to an ivory horn-book inlaid with ebony lettering.

UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE.

THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS BEEN PAID.

NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE MADE.

UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’

THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS.

THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE.

SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE WAFERED.

It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world.

They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of warmth upon every remembrance of their possession.

They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice.

Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour.

They had luck, of course.

That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat was sheer good fortune.

Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what it had cost.

There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s patronage was worth a leader in _The Times_.

Be sure she declared it from the housetops.

“A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to me—_style_. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.”

And so on.

It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve.

When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . .

Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors.

“I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it. ‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.”

“Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——”

“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question. _I cannot decorate._”

“Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to do is to look at a room.”

Titus inspired.

“Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or frighten all who beheld its execution.”

“That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.”

“No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——”

“My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him out?”

Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair.

“It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I shall come all unstuck.”

“Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——”

“Supposing it is panelled.”

“Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for the walls to be done in canary.”

“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——”

“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?”

“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.”

“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and there you are. What could be better?”

“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”

“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait till——”

“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my time. No _viva voces_ for me. They can bite the opinion if they like, but——”

“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot.

The lady was perfectly right.

At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six, put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were asked to survey at least three rooms.

Audacity, Carelessness up, always wins.

Business at 68, Old Bond Street, actually increased.

The stalls began to be constantly occupied by patrons who were waiting to occupy the bench. Among them was Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat, who, somewhat disconcerted by the reflection that, if necessary, about five thousand people could prove that the cipher upon her drawing-room ceiling had cost but fifty guineas, hastened to request that her hall and dining-room might be surveyed forthwith.

Firms of decorators who had at first been plainly contemptuous changed their coats forthwith and began to remember ‘Cheviot’s’ in their prayers.

The weather becoming hot, the great fireplace was replaced by an oriel out of whose leaded casements was plainly visible a blue and sunlit sky. Its deep window-seat was laden with cushions of powder-blue. The mountainous chair and its henchmen had gone with the fireplace, to be replaced by a fair ‘gate’ table, which the footman laid for lunch and later for tea. From six o’clock the gleaming paraphernalia of cocktails burdened the board. With the approach of evening the window was not illuminated: only the sky beyond became suffused with the glory of some sinking sun. Even the open book, which declared its legend from the floor, was sacrificed to this effect, which attracted much well-deserved attention and was commended by several newspapers.

Early in September the Cheviots raised their fee to a hundred guineas and declined to go into the country to survey less than five rooms, _three of which_, said their gracious intimation, _may be in one house and two in another not more than ten miles distant_.

By the end of the month they were making four thousand a week.

The two worked hard, employing five secretaries.

One controlled their movements, arranging each day what visits should be paid on the next, and having two programmes ready each evening at six o’clock. The same man affixed the wafers and kept the accounts. Of the others two were always in attendance upon Mr. and Mrs. Cheviot, taking down their ‘opinions’ in shorthand and transcribing their notes the next day. In addition to their wages, which were high, two per cent. of the takings was handed to them and the footmen every week. Thus was efficiency encouraged, if not assured.

Each evening, but at no other time, the Cheviots repaired to Old Bond Street to confer, sign their ‘opinions,’ peruse the additions to the register, and deal with any business that awaited them.

It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and looked at her watch.

“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since. And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?”

“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——”

“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?”

“Stop?”

“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.”

“My dear, you’re not serious?”

“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.”

“You can spend to-morrow in bed.”

“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——”

“Sunday last,” said Titus. “Never mind. What about it, my dear? One can’t have everything. I like changing myself, but if I can nobble a hundred by staying foul, I’ll make the sacrifice. Why, for half six thousand a week I’d sleep in my clothes. An’ we don’t have to.”

“But what’s the good of it all if we don’t enjoy it?”

“I hope to,” said Titus. “I hope to enjoy it very much.”

“When?” said his wife.

“When the boom’s over,” said Titus. “This sort of thing can’t last. Don’t you believe it. It’s just on the cards that it might hang on for a year, but——”

“A year?” screamed Blanche. “Well, if it does you needn’t count on me. I’ve lost five months of my life and I’m not going to lose seven more.”

“Lost?” cried Titus. “Oh, the girl’s mad. Twelve hundred a day, an’ she talks about ‘losing’ time.” He covered his eyes. “Give me strength,” he murmured. Then—“You only get one orange,” he said solemnly. “If you like to chuck it away before you’ve sucked it dry, you can do it all right. Nothing’s easier. But if you do you’ll repent it. For one thing, you’re flouting Fortune—throwing her goods in her face.”

“Rot,” said Blanche shortly. “We’ve made enough. We started in to give me something to do—not to make money. Well, I’ve had my whack. I’ve had enough to do to last me the rest of my life. Incidentally, I’ve been paid—very handsomely paid. Well, I’m extremely grateful. I’ve got my pretty cake and I’ve eaten it too. And now I’m for putting my feet up.”

“That’s very specious,” said Titus, “but the answer is this. The ‘incident,’ as you style it, has swallowed the main idea. To be truthful, it swallowed it before we opened the shambles—or, if not before, as soon as the sheep rolled up. When you’re out for a walk and you strike a trail of nuggets, you’re apt to forget that you’re only out for exercise. And quite right too. Why? Because you usually have to dig for nuggets, and then like as not you’re wrong.”

He paused there to steal a glance at his wife.

Blanche was holding off her hand and regarding one of her rings with her head on one side. This was a trick she practised when she was ill at ease.

‘Before we opened the shambles.’

As though by accident, Titus had hit the nail square on the head. Yet it was not by accident, as both of them knew.

There are occupations other than commerce.

But Blanche had chosen commerce, because commerce not only can occupy, but may quite possibly enrich.

The woman of the world believed in apparel—its purchase, setting and display, and cared for little else.

More money meant more clothes.

But the purchase alone of apparel was nothing worth. Clothes were meant to be worn. An occupation which promoted the acquisition of clothes but precluded their display was inconvenient. . . .

So the two sat still in their counting-house—the one regarding the other, and the other regarding her ring.

There was no sign of summer.

There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . . _one_ swallow. . . .

Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn.

“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.”

“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,” he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.”

Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such gratuitous good-humour.

She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter.

“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy. It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made enough history?”

“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.”

“And leave you here?”

“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady. Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come back thirsting for blood.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Blanche.

“Well, by then the boom may have cracked. Or I may have had enough. One never can tell. But I beg that you’ll do as I say. I’ve only one wife.”

After a little Mrs. Cheviot allowed herself to be persuaded, and, promising to clean up and follow within half an hour, Titus put her into a taxi and sent her home.

Returning to the office, he resumed his seat at the table and opened a drawer of which only he and the principal secretary possessed duplicate keys.

Here lay two files, respectively labelled “ANSWERED” and “UNANSWERED.”

Cheviot took out the latter.

Somewhat to his relief, it contained but one letter.

The day before it had contained three.

Titus proceeded to read it with a faint frown.

_Malison Hall,_ _Kent._ _November 14th._ _The Manager of Cheviot’s,_ _68, Old Bond Street, W._ _SIR,_

_Upon returning from abroad yesterday after an absence of some months I was dumbfounded to find that the character of the great hall of this residence had been deliberately and ruthlessly destroyed._

_I am informed that it was upon your advice that this destruction was carried out. I am informed that you recommended that the superb panelling should be torn down, the Grinling Gibbons mantelpiece replaced by a steel platform, which is, of course, already covered with rust, and the heavily timbered ceiling overlaid with plaster and then so treated as to resemble inferior linoleum. I am further informed that when this and other devilry had been executed, you had the audacity to express yourself satisfied with the result, the impudence to stencil the ceiling with the badge of your firm and the face to accept a cheque for three hundred guineas by way of payment for the abominable outrage which you have committed upon this and two other chambers, the present condition of which I prefer not to describe._

_This morning I consulted my solicitors only to learn that, since you were requested to advise and then unaccountably requested to approve your vile handiwork by Mrs. Blatchbourne, your villainous conduct is within the Law, but I find some slight measure of relief in warning you that I shall do my utmost by word and deed to expose what is nothing less than a gang of dangerous charlatans who are inducing a lot of idiots to pay unheard-of prices to have their apartments desecrated and their sense of decency demoralized._

_I am, Sir,_ _Yours, etc._ _JAMES TORRIDGE BLATCHBOURNE._

Titus laid down the letter and looked down his nose.

“Gathering clouds,” he said thoughtfully. “An’ this is as hot a one as we’ve ever had. If Blanche but knew . . .” He drew out a little note-book and blinked over a page. “Seventy thousand to date,” he continued musingly. “I’d like to get to a hundred before the crash, but ninety would do. . . .”

Presently he closed the note-book and took up a pen.

After a little reflection he wrote his reply.

_68, Old Bond Street._ _November 15th._ _SIR,_

_I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of yesterday’s date and to express regret that you do not share my views of quality or style._

_I am, Sir,_ _Your obedient servant,_ _TITUS CHEVIOT._ _J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._

As he blotted the words—

“I’ll bet he doesn’t hand that about,” he muttered.

Then he copied his letter on to the back of Mr. Blatchbourne’s and restored the latter to its drawer.

When he had prepared an envelope and covered his reply he lighted a cigarette and left the shop.

* * * * *

Mrs. Cheviot had had a most gorgeous time.

Never had idleness seemed so full of spice.