The Moon and Sixpence | Page 8

W. Somerset Maugham
the art we practised. When
we had done discussing the merits of the latest book, it was natural to wonder how many
copies had been sold, what advance the author had received, and how much he was likely
to make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher and of that, comparing the
generosity of one with the meanness of another; we would argue whether it was better to
go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who "pushed" a book for all it was
worth. Some advertised badly and some well. Some were modern and some were
old-fashioned. Then we would talk of agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of
editors and the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand, and
whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very romantic. It gave me an
intimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood.

Chapter IV
No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford. She combined a masculine
intelligence with a feminine perversity, and the novels she wrote were original and
disconcerting. It was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife. Miss
Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was more than usually full.
Everyone seemed to be talking, and I, sitting in silence, felt awkward; but I was too shy
to break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs. Miss Waterford
was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment came up to me.
"I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland," she said. "She's raving about your book."
"What does she do?" I asked.
I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a well-known writer I
thought it as well to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her.
Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to her reply.
"She gives luncheon-parties. You've only got to roar a little, and she'll ask you."
Rose Waterford was a cynic. She looked upon life as an opportunity for writing novels
and the public as her raw material. Now and then she invited members of it to her house
if they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained with proper lavishness. She
held their weakness for lions in good-humoured contempt, but played to them her part of
the distinguished woman of letters with decorum.
I was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minutes we talked together. I noticed nothing
about her except that she had a pleasant voice. She had a flat in Westminster, overlooking
the unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same neighbourhood we felt
friendly disposed to one another. The Army and Navy Stores are a bond of union between
all who dwell between the river and St. James's Park. Mrs. Strickland asked me for my
address, and a few days later I received an invitation to luncheon.
My engagements were few, and I was glad to accept. When I arrived, a little late, because
in my fear of being too early I had walked three times round the cathedral, I found the
party already complete. Miss Waterford was there and Mrs. Jay, Richard Twining and
George Road. We were all writers. It was a fine day, early in spring, and we were in a
good humour. We talked about a hundred things. Miss Waterford, torn between the
aestheticism of her early youth, when she used to go to parties in sage green, holding a
daffodil, and the flippancy of her maturer years, which tended to high heels and Paris
frocks, wore a new hat. It put her in high spirits. I had never heard her more malicious
about our common friends. Mrs. Jay, aware that impropriety is the soul of wit, made
observations in tones hardly above a whisper that might well have tinged the snowy

tablecloth with a rosy hue. Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and
George Road, conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which was almost a by-word,
opened his mouth only to put food into it. Mrs. Strickland did not talk much, but she had
a pleasant gift for keeping the conversation general; and when there was a pause she
threw in just the right remark to set it going once more. She was a woman of thirty-seven,
rather tall and plump, without being fat; she was not pretty, but her face was pleasing,
chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes. Her skin was rather sallow. Her dark
hair was elaborately dressed. She was the only woman of the three whose face was free
of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected.
The dining-room
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