Vile Bodies · Chapter 2 (2/2)

“Of course, my dear fellow. They look a bit hard at first, I know, but it’s our usual form. We made a very special case for you, you know. It’s very simple. No royalty on the first two thousand, then a royalty of two and a half percent, rising to five percent, on the tenth thousand. We retain serial, cinema, dramatic, American, Colonial and translation rights, of course. And, of course, an option on your next twelve books on the same terms. It’s a very straightforward arrangement really. Doesn’t leave room for any of the disputes which embitter the relations of author and publisher. Most of our authors are working on a contract like that.⁠ ⁠… Splendid. Now don’t you bother any more about that advance. I understand perfectly, and I’ll square old Rampole somehow, even if it comes out of my director’s fees.”

“Square old Rampole,” repeated Mr. Benfleet thoughtfully as Adam went downstairs. It was fortunate, he reflected, that none of the authors ever came across the senior partner, that benign old gentleman, who once a week drove up to board meetings from the country, whose chief interest in the business was confined to the progress of a little book of his own about beekeeping, which they had published twenty years ago and, though he did not know it, allowed long ago to drop out of print. He often wondered in his uneasy moments what he would find to say when Rampole died.

It was about now that Adam remembered that he was engaged to be married. The name of his young lady was Nina Blount. So he went into a tube station to a telephone-box, which smelt rather nasty, and rang her up.

“Hullo.”

“Hullo.”

“May I speak to Miss Blount, please?”

“I’ll just see if she’s in,” said Miss Blount’s voice. “Who’s speaking, please?” She was always rather snobbish about the fiction of having someone to answer the telephone.

“Mr. Fenwick-Symes.”

“Oh.”

“Adam, you know.⁠ ⁠… How are you, Nina?”

“Well, I’ve got rather a pain just at present.”

“Poor Nina, shall I come round and see you?”

“No, don’t do that, darling, because I’m just going to have a bath. Why don’t we dine together?”

“Well, I asked Agatha Runcible to dinner.”

“Why?”

“She’d just had all her clothes taken off by some sailors.”

“Yes, I know, it’s all in the evening paper tonight.⁠ ⁠… Well, I’ll tell you what. Let’s meet at Archie Schwert’s party. Are you going?”

“I rather said I would.”

“That’s all right, then. Don’t dress up. No one will, except Archie.”

“Oh, I say. Nina, there’s one thing⁠—I don’t think I shall be able to marry you after all.”

“Oh, Adam, you are a bore. Why not?”

“They burnt my book.”

“Beasts. Who did?”

“I’ll tell you about it tonight.”

“Yes, do. Goodbye, darling.”

“Goodbye, my sweet.”

He hung up the receiver and left the telephone-box. People had crowded into the Underground station for shelter from the rain, and were shaking their umbrellas and reading their evening papers. Adam could see the headlines over their shoulders.

Peer’s Daughter’s Dover Ordeal

Serious Allegations by Society Beauty

Hon. A. Runcible Says
“Too Shaming”

“Poor pretty,” said an indignant old woman at his elbow. “Disgraceful, I calls it. And such a good sweet face. I see her picture in the papers only yesterday. Nasty prying minds. That’s what they got. And her poor father and all. Look, Jane, there’s a piece about him, too. ‘Interviewed at the Carlton Club this evening, Lord Chasm,’ that’s her dad, ‘refused to make a definite statement. “The matter shall not be allowed to rest here,” he said.’ And quite right, too, I says. You know I feels about that girl just as though it was me own daughter. Seeing her picture so often and our Sarah having done the back stairs, Tuesdays, at them flats where her aunt used to live⁠—the one as had that ’orrible divorce last year.”

Adam bought a paper. He had just ten shillings left in the world. It was too wet to walk, so he took a very crowded tube train to Dover Street and hurried across in the rain to Shepheard’s Hotel (which, for the purposes of the narrative, may be assumed to stand at the corner of Hay Hill).