ich no one
would notice if they weren't rubbed in. David gets quite sick with him
sometimes. He says the Pinkerton press never does that sort of thing,
it's got too much tact, and lets well alone.'

'I'll, you mean, don't you, darling?' Jane interpolated.

Clare, who did, but did not know it, only said, 'David's got a tremendous
admiration for it. He says it will _last_.'

'Oh, bother the paternal press,' Jane said. 'Give it a rest, old thing.
It may be new to David, but it's stale to us. It's Arthur's turn to talk
about his father's bank or something.'

But Arthur didn't talk. He only made bread pills, and the girls got on to
the newest dance.

3

Clare went away after dinner. She never stayed long when Gideon was
there. David didn't like Gideon, rightly thinking him a Sheeney.

'Sheeneys are at the bottom of Bolshevism, you know,' he told Clare. 'At
the top too, for that matter. Dreadful fellows; quite dreadful. Why the
dickens do you let Jane marry him?'

Clare shrugged her shoulders.

'Jane does what she likes. Dad and mother have begged and prayed her not
to.... Besides, of course, even if he was all right, it's too _soon_....'

'Too soon? Ah, yes, of course. Poor Hobart, you mean. Quite. Much too
soon.... A dreadful business, that. I don't blame her for trying to put
it behind her, out of sight. But with a _Sheeney_. Well, _chacun a son
gout.'_ For David was tolerant, a live and let live man.

When Clare was gone, Jane said, 'Wake up, old man. You can talk now....
You and Clare are stupid about each other, by the way. You'll have to get
over it some time. You're ill-mannered and she's a silly fool; but
ill-mannered people and silly fools can rub along together, all right, if
they try.'

'I don't mind Clare,' said Gideon, rousing himself. 'I wasn't thinking
about her, to say the truth. I was thinking about something else.... I'm
chucking the _Fact_, Jane.'

'How d'you mean, chucking the _Fact_' Jane lit a cigarette.

'What I say. I've resigned my job on it. I'm sick of it.'

'Oh, sick.... Every one's sick of work, naturally. It's what work is
for.... Well, what are you doing next? Have you been offered a
better job?'

'I've not been offered a job of any sort. And I shouldn't take it if I
were--not at present. I'm sick of journalism.'

Jane took it calmly, lying back among the sofa cushions and smoking.

'I was afraid you were working up to this.... Of course, if you chuck the
_Fact_ you tak