Meanwhile, a voice within him was muttering anxiously, "I
wonder how much this is going to cost."
"You're going to buy 'Squibs!'"
Her voice had fallen away to an awestruck whisper.
"I am."
She gulped.
"Well, I think you're wonderful."
So did Roland.
"Where will a letter find you?" he asked.
"My name is March. Bessie March. I'm living at twenty-seven Guildford
Street."
"Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good morning. I will communicate with you in
due course."
He raised his hat and walked away. He had only gone a few steps, when
there was a patter of feet behind him. He turned.
"I--I just wanted to thank you," she said.
"Not at all," said Roland. "Not at all."
He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who was
Petheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had put
Petheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth.
Laughable.
A copy of the current number of 'Squibs,' purchased at a book-stall,
informed him, after a minute search to find the editorial page, that
the offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his
exalted state of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.
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