The Eye of Love by Margery Sharp

she’d done for days.
    â€œSuppose we get three? ”
    â€œThen we must let your room,” said Dolores, “and you must come in with me.”
    Martha liked this less. The lettering (and the furniture-shifting, as an unusual employment) she’d enjoyed; the prospect of surrendering her privacy she couldn’t. But she was very anxious not to see Dolores relapse, and so raised no objection.
    In fact the point remained academic. No lodger came at all.
    4
    As regarded his own fortunes, on the other hand, Mr Gibson had been over-pessimistic. In Kensington, things were looking up. The shop over the tailoring establishment was discovered to be not such a dead duck after all. In fact, Joyces decided to keep it going.
    â€œFor a year, maybe two, making a little experiment,” explained Mr Joyce. “Why not?”
    Mr Gibson’s response to this reprieve was less welcoming than resentful. His spirit was so thoroughly attuned to self-immolation, he was so ready to throw up the sponge and bury himself in some subordinate post at Bond Street, he even entered into argument. What was the point, demanded Harry Gibson, of a show-room without a clientèle? Admittedly certain old customers used to return year after year for re-modelling, but even this trade had been killed by the depression. “Why not show ’em something new?” suggested Mr Joyce. “Could they buy even lapin?” countered Harry Gibson. “With my label in it, they might,” said old man Joyce.
    Which was of course the point; and as the scheme developed Miss Harris and Miss Molyneux began to back it. They saw the shop in Kensington a branch of Joyces in Bond Street, whereat ladies of more taste than means (but whose cheques didn’t bounce) might befur themselves in guaranteed Bond Street style. “Truly, Mr Gibson, I believe we could make a very nice thing of it,” said Miss Harris. “I’d looked forward, I admit it, to working on skunk, but if musquash means bread-and-butter, I for one shan’t quarrel.” “There’ll be skunk to show, dear,” said Miss Molyneux consolingly. “Mr Joyce promised …”
    Already they quoted Mr Joyce as though they’d worked for him all their lives.
    Harry Gibson saw the scheme’s advantages himself. What the Kensington business lacked was prestige. Any woman with money to buy a fur naturally preferred a Bond Street label in it: the new sample tabs displayed by Miss Harris took care of just this idiosyncrasy. Joyce of Bond Street and Kensington , ran the silken legend—sinking Gibson and Son without trace. “And as Mr Joyce says,” added Miss Harris encouragingly, “the depression can’t last for ever. Think how nice it will be, Mr Gibson, when we’re all going strong again in the old home!”
    She was a good sort. So was Miss Molyneux a good sort. Miss Molyneux had thoroughly looked forward to peacocking about the Joyce salon , but she swallowed her disappointment so as not to spoil things for Mr Gibson. “ I can see where style’s needed,” declared Miss Molyneux nobly, “and it’s here . You’ve been ever so thoughtful of us , Mr Gibson, and I’m sure I’m only glad to repay …”
    Harry Gibson, ungratefully, wished he could simply shoot himself. In addition to all emotional distress he now suffered from a feeling that he’d somehow been diddled. He couldn’t put a finger on it: old Joyce, taking over Gibson’s lock, stock and barrel, had obviously every right to handle his new acquisition as he pleased: but if there was life in the old firm yet, if it wasn’t the dead loss it had been accounted, in the preliminary negotiations—Harry Gibson felt he’d been diddled.
    5
    In Paddington Miss Diver paid half-a-crown to put up a card in the local newsagent’s. Martha again lettered it splendidly: among its flyblown and faded companions—