P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“Have you a minute to spare?” said Annette.

“Of course. What’s the trouble? Have they sold another edition of the waltz?”

“I have not heard, Mr.-Bates.”

For once she looked to see the cheerful composure of the man upstairs become ruffled; but he received the blow without agitation.

“You know my name?” he said.

“I know a good deal more than your name. You are a Glasgow millionaire.”

“It’s true,” he admitted, “but it’s hereditary. My father was one before me.”

“And you use your money,” said Annette, bitterly, “creating fools’ paradises for your friends, which last, I suppose, until you grow tired of the amusement and destroy them. Doesn’t it ever strike you, Mr. Bates, that it’s a little cruel? Do you think Mr. Sellers will settle down again cheerfully to hack-work when you stop buying his pictures, and he finds out that-that-”

“I shan’t stop,” said the young man. “If a Glasgow millionaire mayn’t buy Sellers’ allegorical pictures, whose allegorical pictures may he buy? Sellers will never find out. He’ll go on painting and I’ll go on buying, and all will be joy and peace.”

“Indeed! And what future have you arranged for me?”

“You?” he said, reflectively. “I want to marry you.”

Annette stiffened from head to foot. He met her blazing eyes with a look of quiet devotion.

“Marry me?”

“I know what you are thinking,” he said. “Your mind is dwelling on the prospect of living in a house decorated throughout with Sellers’ allegorical pictures. But it won’t be. We’ll store them in the attic.”

She began to speak, but he interrupted her.

“Listen!” he said. “Sit down and I will tell you the story of my life. We’ll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merely mentioning that for the greater part of that time I was looking for somebody just like you. A month and nine days ago I found you. You were crossing the Embankment. I was also on the Embankment. In a taxi. I stopped the taxi, got out, and observed you just stepping into the Charing Cross Underground. I sprang-”

“This does not interest me,” said Annette.

“The plot thickens,” he assured her. “We left our hero springing, I think. Just so. Well, you took the West-end train and got off at Sloane Square. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King’s Road, and finally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, ‘Studio to Let.’ I reflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way, I could pose as an artist all right; so I took the studio. Also the name of Alan Beverley. My own is Bill Bates. I had often wondered what it would feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or Cyril Trevelyan. It was simply the spin of the coin which decided me in favour of the former. Once in, the problem was how to get to know you. When I heard you playing I knew it was all right. I had only to keep knocking on the floor long enough-”

“Do-you-mean-to-tell-me”-Annette’s voice trembled-“do you mean to tell me that you knocked that time simply to make me come up?”

“That was it. Rather a scheme, don’t you think? And now, would you mind telling me how you found out that I had been buying your waltz? Those remarks of yours about fools’ paradises were not inspired solely by the affairs of Sellers. But it beats me how you did it. I swore Rozinsky, or whatever his name is, to secrecy.”

“A Mr. Morrison,” said Annette, indifferently, “rang up on the telephone and asked me to tell you that he was greatly worried by the piles of music which were littering the rooms you lent him.”

The young man burst into a roar of laughter.

“Poor old Morrison! I forgot all about him. I lent him my rooms at the Albany. He’s writing a novel, and he can’t work if the slightest thing goes wrong. It just shows-”

“Mr. Bates!”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you didn’t intend to hurt me. I dare say you meant only to be kind. But-but-oh, can’t you see how you have humiliated me? You have treated me like a child, giving me a make-believe success just to-just to keep me quiet, I suppose. You-“