You have a reputation for reasoning to some effect, said Philip. I have very little desire to be eternally damned.
What did you expect, then, said the Devil, when you contemplated suicide?
I see nothing wrong in that, said our hero.
Nor does a puppy that destroys his master's slipper, retorted the Devil. However, he is punished for it.
I can't believe it, said Philip obstinately.
Come with me, then, said the Devil, and took him to a Fun Fair in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road. Here a number of the ugliest wretches on earth were amusing themselves with gambling games; others were peering into stereoscopes which showed scenes of Parisian nightlife. The rest of them were picking pockets, making overtures to certain female habitudes of the place, swearing, and indulging in all manner of filthy conversation.
The Devil looked on all these much as one who has been walking among the poppies and the wild cornflowers of the fields looks upon the cultivated plants in the garden about his backdoor. The commissionaire touched his cap much as gardeners do; the Devil acknowledged the salute and, taking out a latch-key, led Philip to a little door in the wall which, being opened, discovered a small private elevator.
They got in, and descended for several minutes at an incredible speed.
My dear Devil, said Philip, puffing at his cigarette, which was, in fact, doped, and gave him the impression of being a man of affairs, my dear Devil, if we go on at this rate, we shall soon be in Hell itself.
Nothing could have been more true. The lift stopped and they got out. They were in a vast hall which resembled nothing so much as the foyer of some gargantuan theatre or picture palace. There were two or three box offices, in front of which the prices of admission were displayed: Stalls gluttony; Private Boxes lechery; Dress Circle vanity; Gallery sloth; and so forth. There was also a bar, at which one or two uniformed fiends were chatting with the barmaids, among whom our friend was astonished to see the little brunette from Bond Street
Now and then a door opened upon the vast auditorium, and it was apparent that the play or movie in progress was a lively one.
There's a dance lounge through here, said the Devil, to which I particularly wanted to take you.
A door was opened for them. They found themselves in a reasonably large apartment got up in the grotto style, with ferns and imitation rock-work, and a damp and chilly air. A band was playing a travesty of Scarlatti. Several people were dancing rather listlessly. Philip observed that many of them were disgustingly fat
The Devil led him up to a slim and pale girl, murmured a few words, and Philip, seeing nothing else to do, bowed, offered her his arm, and they began to circle the room.
She danced very languidly, and kept her heavy lids drooped low over her eyes. Philip uttered one or two trifling remarks. Do you come here often? he said. She smiled faintly, but did not reply.
He was a little piqued at her remaining so listless (besides, he had smoked one of the Devil's cigarettes). How very cold your hand is! he said, giving it a slight squeeze. It certainly was. He manoeuvred this unresponsive partner into a corner, where he clutched her waist rather more tightly than was necessary for dancing. He felt a chilly moisture penetrate the sleeve of his jacket, and a faint but unmistakable smell of river-mud become perceptible. He looked at her closely, and observed something extremely pearly about her eyes.
I did not catch your name, said Philip.
His partner scarcely moved her colourless lips. Ophelia, she said.
Excuse me, said Philip.
He lost no time in rejoining the Devil.
Now, said that worthy, are you still unable to believe that those who drown themselves are eternally damned?
Philip was forced to admit the point.
You have no idea how bored that poor girl is, said the Devil compassionately. And she has only been here a few hundred years. What is that, in comparison to Eternity?
Very little. Very little, indeed, said Philip.
You see what sort of partners she gets, continued the archfiend. During every dance they reveal to her, and she to them, some little unpleasantness of the sort that so disquieted you.
But why should they be in a dance lounge? asked Philip.
Why not? said the Devil with a shrug. Have another cigarette.
He then proposed that they should adjourn to his office, to talk matters over.
Now, my dear Westwick, said he, when they were comfortably ensconced in armchairs, what shall our little arrangement be? I can, of course, annihilate all that has occurred. In that case you will find yourself back on the parapet, in the very act of jumping, just as you were when I caught you by the ankle. Shortly afterwards you will arrive in the little dance lounge you saw; whether fat or thin depends upon the caprice of the waters.
It is night, said Philip. The river flows at four miles an hour. I should probably get out to sea unobserved. Yes, I should almost certainly be one of the fat ones. They appeared to me remarkably deficient in it or S.A., if those terms are familiar to you.
I have heard of them, said the Devil, with a smile. Have a cigar.
No, thanks, said Philip. What alternative do you suggest?
Here is our standard contract, said the Devil. Do have a cigar. You see unlimited wealth, fifty years, Helen of Troy well, that's obsolete. Say Miss , and he mentioned the name of a delightful film star.
Of course, said Philip, there's this little clause about possession of my soul. Is that essential?
Well, it's the usual thing, said the Devil. Better let it stand. This is where you sign.
Well, I don't know, said Philip. I don't think I'll sign.
What? cried the Devil
Our hero pursed his lips.
I don't want to influence you, my dear Westwick, said the Devil, but have you considered the difference between coming in tomorrow as a drowned suicide, and coming in fifty glorious years hence, mind as a member of the staff? Those were members of the staff you saw talking to the little brunette at the bar. Nice girl!
All the same, said Philip, I don't think I'll sign. Many thanks, though.
All right, said the Devil. Back you go, then!
Philip was aware of a rushing sensation: he seemed to be shooting upwards like a rocket. However, he kept his presence of mind, kept his weight on his heels, and, when he got to the parapet, jumped down, but on the right side.
SPRING FEVER
There was a young sculptor named Eustace whose work was altogether too life-like for the modern taste. Consequently he was often under the necessity of dropping in upon his friends at about seven in the evening, in the hungry hope of being pressed to stay for dinner. I carve the stone, said he to himself, and chisel my meals. When I am rich it will be much the same thing, only the other way round.
He would eagerly snuff up the odours of sputtering roasts and nourishing stews that crept in from the kitchen, and, excited by the savour, he would exult in his incorruptible ideals and furiously inveigh against the abstractionists. But nature and art were combined against the unfortunate Eustace, for the stimulating vapours worked powerfully upon his salivary glands, and the moderns he most hissingly denounced were Brancusi, Lipchitz, and Brzeska.
It was usually the wives who, thus clumsily reminded of Niagara, demanded that Eustace be got rid of without delay. Numerous devices were employed to this end; one of the most humane was to give him a ticket for some show or other and bid him hurry off and get there before it started.