incapabilities of wealth, the writers of the people for the people. They worship money, they hoard money. One and all despise rich people, and are perfectly beastly about the upper-classes. You should ask any publisher about the business capacity of any great author who writes about the Irony of Life. To really intelligent men of the middle-classes, living in sin does not seem nearly so wicked as living in luxurious sin. I only know one successful author who has the decency to get drunk with his easily-earned money. One should keep a sense of proportion about money, and you can only do that by throwing it away. The Jews, for instance——”

“Jews,” she said, “are charming. The rich ones, I mean, and preferably the fat shiny ones. They understand luxury and elegance, and elegance is an enchantment that the skin loves. But nowadays only Jews have an idea of enchantment, only Jews and Americans. Furs, jewels, spacious rooms, trellised terraces, all lovely baubles, silks of China, myrrh, frankincense, and motor-cars. The Jews are disenchanted, but at least they’re brave enough to insist on having all the enchantments of disenchantment. Luxury, ease, splendour, spaciousness. You’ll say they’re florid. Well, they{39} may be, they are, but they’re also the last towers of chivalry. Mr. Chesterton goes running after them shouting about beer and the Pope, but if you’re going to leave chivalry to beer-drinkers and the Pope, God help enchantment. You’ll say that the Americans’ indulgent admiration for their wives almost borders on the gaga, but they fight for it very really, they don’t just talk and indulge. They fight with money, they have the courage of their cheques, they dare tremendous duels, they get up at unearthly hours in the morning to dash towards the rendezvous, and they draw a cheque just as gallantly as any rather caddish cavalier ever drew a sword....”

{39}

“Englishmen,” I said, “respect their women....”

“Maybe,” she said absently.

We were impersonal. Now and then the wicker armchair creaked beneath her, and she looked at it with faint surprise. Now and then a car screamed on Piccadilly, an electric-landau sounded its bells through Shepherd’s Market towards its garage by Camelot House. Now and then her slightly husky voice expired. Then we waited a while. She stared deeply into the eyes of a mask which a Russian artist had once given me in exchange for a poker debt. It lay sideways against a corner of the fender. I waited for her to say something about that, for it was the mask of a Florentine gentleman that was a lecher. I had grown used to 

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