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Updated: May 31, 2025
"I couldn't write a book to save my life!..." "No?" said Mr. Boltt, smiling in the way of one who says to himself, "God help you, my poor fellow, God help you!" "I suppose it's all a question of knack," Jimphy continued. "You get into the way of it and you can't stop. Sometimes a tune gets into my head and I have to keep on humming it or whistling it.
The other classes had been quick to understand and to offer themselves, but the working-class.... No! Oo, noo! Boltt had written an article in the Evening Gazette full of gentle reproach to the working-class, but without effect. The working-class had taken no notice. "Democracy, dear ladies," said Boltt, with a downward motion of his fingers. "Democracy!"
"Oh, by the way, Cecily, Quinn says that chap Gilbert Farlow's hanging about Scotland Yard...." "Goodness me, what for?" Cecily demanded in a startled voice. "He hasn't done anything, has he?" "No, of course he hasn't. He's trying to enlist!" "Enlist!" she said. "Yes. Silly ass not to ask for a commission!" said Jimphy. Boltt burbled about the priceless privilege of youth.
"Boltt sells a tremendous number of books, don't you, Boltt? More than Lensley does. And that shows, doesn't it? If a chap can sell as many books as Boltt sells ... well, he must be some good. I've never read any of 'em, of course, but then I'm not a chap that reads much. All the same, a chap I know says Boltt's all right, and he's a chap that knows what he's talking about.
A newspaper, a Labour newspaper, had been rather rude to Boltt. It had put some intimate, he might say, impertinent, questions to Boltt, but Boltt had borne this impertinent inquisition with fortitude. He had not made any answer to it.... "Hilloa, Paddy!" Lady Cecily called across the room to Henry. "Aren't you at the war?" "Well, no, I only got to London...." "Oh, but everybody's going.
My brains go to bits when I'm with her. I'm all emotion and sensation ... just like those asses Lensley and Boltt. Quinny, fancy spending your life turning out the sort of stuff those two men write. They've written about a dozen books each, and I suppose they're good for twenty or thirty more. I'd rather be a scavenger!" They walked along the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge.
"What's that!" she exclaimed. "Lord Jasper is describing the processes of literature to me, Lady Cecily," said Mr. Boltt sarcastically. "I have been greatly interested." The man's conceit irritated Henry and he longed to disconcert him. "Yes," he said. "It all began by my saying something about a review of Boltt's last novel in the Morning Report! ..." Mr. Boltt made motions with his hands.
Lady Cecily had tapped her husband's arm. "Ernest Lensley's just come in," she said. "He's with Boltt. Go and bring them both here. They can't find seats, poor dears!" Ernest Lensley and Boltt were fashionable novelists.
Boltt made a satirical remark on the ridiculously early hours at which restaurants are compelled by law to close in England. In France, he said ... but Lord Jasper did not wait to hear what is done in France. "He won't come now," he said. "He wouldn't have time to eat any supper if he were to come ... and it's getting jolly late, and I'm jolly tired!" He got up from the table as he spoke.
"No, you don't. You were making love to Ninian last night!..." "So that's it, is it?..." "No, it isn't. Ninian doesn't care about you or about any woman. He's not like me, a soft, sloppy fool. You don't love me. If I were to leave you now, you'd find some one to take my place quite easily. Lensley or Boltt!..." "They're too middle-aged, Paddy!" He pushed her away from him.
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