Smallbone Deceased

Mr. Craine unconsciously resolved this uncertainty for him by saying: “And I feel we should take this opportunity of welcoming our new partner, our founder’s son, who steps forward now to take his father’s place.” (Applause.)

The dark young man blushed so hotly and took off and wiped his spectacles with such unnecessary gusto that Henry concluded that his guess had been correct. He also reflected that to have a great man for a father was not always an entirely comfortable fate.

“A Richard for an Oliver,” said Mr. Cove, reading his thoughts accurately.

“Pardon?” said the young lady on his right.

“Granted as soon as asked,” said Mr. Cove agreeably.

Then there was that man with the rather sharp face and the unidentifiable, but too obviously old-school tie—he’d seen him somewhere about the office. The girl next to him was a good looker, in a powerful sort of way. She was the possessor of auburn hair and very light blue eyes, elements which may be harmless apart but can be explosive when mixed.

“He died,” said Mr. Craine—apparently he had reverted to the founder of the firm—“as I am sure he would have wished to die—in harness. It scarcely seems a month ago that I walked into his room and found him at his desk, his pen grasped in his hand—”

“It really is rather an inspiring thought,” murmured John Cove, “that the last words he ever wrote should have been ‘Unless we hear from you by an early post we shall have no option but to institute proceedings’. There’s a touch, there, of the old warrior dying with his lance in couch and his face to the foe.”

After Mr. Craine had sat down the old gentleman with the white beard, who proved indeed to be Mr. Ramussen, awoke and proposed the health of Mr. Oakshott, whereupon Mr. Oakshott retaliated by proposing the health of Mr. Ramussen; whereafter the Bourlasses and the Bridewells and the Burts toasted each other oratorically in a series of ever-decreasing circles. Even the despised Mr. Brown succeeded in putting in a word for Streatham before Mr. Birley, by pushing back his chair and undoing the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat, signified that the ordeal was at an end.

As people got up from the table and the more informal side of the evening began the junior members of the four firms, who up to now had sat in strictly anti-social groups, began to intermingle a little, a certain nice degree of stratification being observed. Partner opened his cigar-case to partner, managing clerk took beer with managing clerk, and secretary exchanged small talk with secretary. Someone started to play the piano and a pale costs clerk from the Streatham office sang a song about a sailor and a mermaid which would certainly have been very entertaining if anyone had been able to hear the words.

Bohun, as a newcomer, was beginning to feel rather out of things when he was buttonholed by a dark-haired, horse-faced woman of about forty-five whom he recognised.

“Miss Cornel, in case you’ve forgotten,” she said.

“You’re Mr. Horniman’s—I mean, you were Mr. Horniman’s secretary,” he said.

“Still am,” said Miss Cornel. Sensing his surprise she explained. “I’ve been handed down. I’ve been devised and bequeathed. I’m young Mr. Horniman’s secretary now.”

“Bob Horniman.”

“Yes. I believe you knew him, didn’t you?”

“I was at school with him,” said Bohun. “I didn’t know him very well. He came ten or twelve terms after me; and we weren’t in the same house, you know.”

“Never having been to a public school myself,” said Miss Cornel, with a dry but not unfriendly smile, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. However, come and meet some of the staff. I won’t waste you on members of the outside firms because you probably won’t see them again until next year’s office party. Here’s Miss Chittering now. She works for Mr. Birley, and Miss Bellbas, who works for Mr. Duxford and also for John Cove, God help her.”

She waved forward a hipless off-blonde and a startlingly vacant-looking brunette, neither of whom seemed to have much to say for themselves.

“And why should Miss Cornel consider it such a penance to have to work for Mr. Cove?” asked Bohun helpfully.

The brunette Miss Bellbas considered the matter seriously for a moment or two and then said: “I expect it’s the things he says.” This seemed to have exhausted the topic, so he turned to the blonde.

“And how long have you been with the firm, Miss Chittering?”

“So long,” said Miss Chittering coyly, “that I never admit to it now, for fear people might start guessing my age.”

She looked at Mr. Bohun as if inviting him to indulge in some daring speculation on the subject, but he refused the gambit and said: “I understand you work for our senior partner, Mr Birley. That must be quite a responsibility.”

“Oh, it is!” said Miss Chittering. “Have you met Mr. Birley yet, Mr. Bohun? That was him who made the first speech tonight.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “Yes, I heard him. Quite an inspired orator,” he added cautiously.