From their offices the juniors departed or were
torn; the senior clerks carried on desperately until the Girls were
introduced. No man was any longer too old at forty. Octogenarians could
command a salary. The very cinemas were glad to dress up ancient
fellows in uniform and post them on their doorsteps.
Edward could do nothing but paint rather agreeable water-colours, and
that was all. The market for his kind of work was shut. A patriotic
nation was economising in order to get five per cent on the War Loans.
People were not giving inexpensive little water-colours away to one
another as wedding gifts any longer. Only the painters of high
reputation, whose work was regarded as a real investment, could dispose
of their wares.
Starvation stared Edward in the face, not only his own starvation, you
understand, but Miss Crewe's. And Edward was a man of honour.
He hated Miss Crewe intensely, but he had undertaken to provide for
her, and provide for her he must--even if he failed to provide for
himself.
He wrapped some samples of his paintings in brown paper, and began to
seek for a job among the wholesale stationers.
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