of shining brass buttons and shining little boots and shining hair.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” he said.
“I should like to see the Editor,” Peter explained.
“Your name?” said the Shining One.
Peter had no cards. He blamed himself for the omission and stammered in his reply.
The Boy gave the lady at the typewriter a very knowing look and disappeared. He swiftly returned and said that Mr. Boset could see Mr. Westcott for a few minutes, but for a few minutes only.
Mr. Boset sat resplendent in a room that was coloured a bright green. He was himself stout and red-faced and of a surpassing smartness, his light blue suit was very tight at the waist and very broad over the hips, his white spats gleamed, his pearl pin stared like an eye across the room, his neck bulged in red folds over his collar. Mr. Boset was eating chocolates out of a little cardboard box and his attention was continually held by the telephone that summoned him to its side at frequent intervals. He was however exceedingly pleasant. He begged Peter to take a chair.
“Just a minute, Mr. Westcott, will you? Yes—hullo—yes—This is 6140 Strand. Hullo! Hullo! Oh—is that you, Mrs. Wyman? Good morning—yes, splendid, thank you—never fitter—Very busy yes, of course—what—Lunch Thursday? . . . Oh, but delighted. Just let me look at my book a moment? Yes—quite free—Who? The Erasers and Pigots? Oh! delightful! 1.30, delightful!”
Mr. Boset, settled once more in his chair was as charming as possible. You would suppose that the whole day was at Peter's service. He wanted to know a great many things. Peter's hopes ran high.
“Well—what have you got to show? What have you written?”
Peter had written a novel.
“Published?”
“No.”
“Well . . . got anything else?”
“No—not just at present.”
“Oh well—must have something to show you know—”
