‘What a night! What a night!’ he said. ‘My word!’
He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip were the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said this, he changed his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed the importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his place of shop-walker.
Lynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week and adapted the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. Their clientele was peculiar. The most substantial part consisted of women from the smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to discover good dressmakers within their means. Beside these, incongruously, was a large number of music-hall artistes. This was a connection that Mr. Sampson had worked up for himself and took great pride in. They had begun by getting their stage-costumes at Lynn’s, and he had induced many of them to get their other clothes there as well.
‘As good as Paquin and half the price,’ he said.
He had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to customers of this sort, and they said to one another:
‘What’s the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt at Lynn’s that nobody knows don’t come from Paris?’
Mr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o’clock on Sunday with Miss Victoria Virgo—‘she was wearing that powder blue we made her and I lay she didn’t let on it come from us, I ‘ad to tell her meself that if I ‘adn’t designed it with my own ‘ands I’d have said it must come from Paquin’—at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the department next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid much attention to women’s clothes, but in course of time he began, a little amused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. He had an eye for colour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the department, and he had kept from his student days in Paris some knowledge of line. Mr. Sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but with a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people’s suggestions, constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making up new designs; and he had the quickness to see that Philip’s criticisms were valuable. But he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took anyone’s advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with Philip’s suggestion, he always finished up by saying:
‘Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end.’
One day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss Alice Antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see Mr. Sampson. She was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a metallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on friendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. She had a new song and wished Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her.
‘I want something striking,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any old thing you know. I want something different from what anybody else has.’
Mr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get her the very thing she required. He showed her sketches.
‘I know there’s nothing here that would do, but I just want to show you the kind of thing I would suggest.’
‘Oh no, that’s not the sort of thing at all,’ she said, as she glanced at them impatiently. ‘What I want is something that’ll just hit ‘em in the jaw and make their front teeth rattle.’
‘Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia,’ said the buyer, with a bland smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid.
‘I expect I shall ‘ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end.’
‘Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What you can get in Paris you can get here.’
When she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little worried, discussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges.
‘She’s a caution and no mistake,’ said Mrs. Hodges.
‘Alice, where art thou?’ remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had scored a point against her.
His ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss Antonia had expressed herself on that subject in no uncertain terms.
‘Oh, my aunt!’ she said.
And the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that sequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson ‘got out’ one or two ideas, but Mrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. It was she who gave Philip the suggestion:
‘Can you draw, Phil? Why don’t you try your ‘and and see what you can do?’
Philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while Bell, the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his stamps, he made one or two sketches. He remembered some of the costumes he had seen in Paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a combination of violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next morning he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but took it at once to the buyer.
‘It’s unusual,’ he said, ‘there’s no denying that.’
It puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would make up admirably. To save his face he began making suggestions for altering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to Miss Antonia as it was.
‘It’s neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it.’
‘It’s a good deal more nothing than neck,’ said Mr. Sampson, looking at the decolletage. ‘He can draw, can’t he? Fancy ‘im keeping it dark all this time.’
When Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table in such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown into his office. She pounced on it at once.
‘What’s that?’ she said. ‘Why can’t I ‘ave that?’
‘That’s just an idea we got out for you,’ said Mr. Sampson casually. ‘D’you like it?’
‘Do I like it!’ she said. ‘Give me ‘alf a pint with a little drop of gin in it.’
‘Ah, you see, you don’t have to go to Paris. You’ve only got to say what you want and there you are.’
The work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill of satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and Mrs. Hodges took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them to the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it for the first time he was filled with elation. In answer to her questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how he had learnt to draw—fearing that the people he lived with would think he wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say nothing about his past occupations—and she repeated the information to Mr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to treat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do for two of the country customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he began to speak to his clients of a ‘clever young feller, Paris art-student, you know,’ who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced behind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till night. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the ‘stragglers.’ He liked it, because there were few of them and they were all too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what was left over from the buyers’ table. Philip’s rise from shop-walker to designer of costumes had a great effect on the department. He realised that he was an object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached himself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness.
‘Some people ‘ave all the luck,’ he said. ‘You’ll be a buyer yourself one of these days, and we shall all be calling you sir.’
He told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the difficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six shillings a week with which he started. But it was a ticklish matter to ask for a rise. The manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such applicants.
‘Think you’re worth more, do you? How much d’you think you’re worth, eh?’
The assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought he ought to have another two shillings a week.
‘Oh, very well, if you think you’re worth it. You can ‘ave it.’ Then he paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: ‘And you can ‘ave your notice too.’
It was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The manager’s idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and if they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. The result was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to leave. Philip hesitated. He was a little suspicious of the men in his room who told him that the buyer could not do without him. They were decent fellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed funny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages and he were sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had suffered in looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he knew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer: there were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. But he wanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets rotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the basement through the passage that led to the manager’s office, he saw a queue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. There were about a hundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and the same six shillings a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast envious glances at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He dared not risk it.