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whether the
possibility wasn’t worth exploring for publication of your own Journal,
Sillers. You haven’t decided on a publisher yet, have you? There’s often
something to be said for new and enterprising young firms.’
    Sillery did not pledge himself
on that point.
    ‘Does this mean you’re going to
live in London, Ada?’
    ‘I suppose so, Sillers. I can’t
very well commute from here. Of course it won’t make any difference to my work
for you. I shall always have time for that. I do think it should be an
interesting job, don’t you?’
    Again Sillery made no
pronouncement on such expectations. His face provisionally suggested that the
future for those entering publishing offices was anything but optimistic. There
could be no doubt the whole matter was intensely displeasing to him. His
annoyance, together with Miss Leintwardine’s now very definitely troubled
manner, confirmed that
in a peculiar way they must have been having some sort
of flirtation, an hypothesis scarcely to be guessed by even the most seasoned
Sillery experts. The girl’s nervousness now confession had been made, well
illustrated that odd contradictory feminine lack of
assurance so typical of the moment when
victory has been won – for there could be little doubt that progression on to
the staff of Quiggin & Craggs represented a kind of victory over Sillery on
her part, escape from his domination. It looked as if she had half dreaded
telling him, half hoped to cause him to suffer. Sillery had been made the
object of a little affectionate feminine sadomasochism. That was the grotesque
presumption. She jumped up.
    ‘I must go now, Sillers. I’ve
got an awful lot of work waiting at home. I thought I’d just bring those wrong
notebooks along as they were worrying me.’
    She laughed, almost as though
near tears. This time Sillery made no effort to detain her.
    ‘Goodnight, Ada.’
    ‘Goodnight, Mr Short.
Goodnight, Mr Jenkins. Goodnight, Sillers.’
    However much put out by her
unexpected arrival, refusal to discuss the Widmerpools, final news that she was
abandoning him, Sillery’s usual resilience, his unyielding capacity for making
the best of things, was now displayed, though he could not conceal relief at
this withdrawal. He grinned at Short and myself after the door closed, shaking
his head whimsically to show he still retained a sense of satisfaction in
knowing such a wench. Short, on the other hand, was anxious to forget about
Miss Leintwardine as soon as possible.
    ‘Tell us something about your
diaries, Sillers. I’m more interested than I can say.’
    Sillery, anyway at that moment, did not want to talk about the diaries. Ada Leintwardine
was still his chosen theme. If she had displeased him, all the more reason to
get full value out of her as an attendant personality of what remained
of the Sillery court.
    ‘Local doctor’s daughter.
Clever girl. Keen on making a career in – what shall we say? – the world of
letters. Writing a novel herself. All that sort of thing. Just the person I was
looking for. Does the work splendidly. Absolutely reliable. We mustn’t have
pre-publication leaks, must we? That would never do. I hope she’s aware of
Howard Craggs’s little failings. Just as bad as ever, even at the age he’s
reached, so I’m told. All sorts of stories. She must know. Everyone knows that.’
    His manner of enunciating the
remark about pre-publication leaks made one suspect Sillery meant the opposite
to what he said. Pre-publication leaks were what he aimed at, Miss Leintwardine
the ideal medium for titbits proffered to stimulate interest. The Diary was to
be Sillery’s last bid for power, imposing his personality on the public, as an
alternative to the real thing. However, he had no wish to talk to Short about
this. If the Journal was of interest, it was likely Sillery would have
published its contents, at least a selection, before now. Even if the interest