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herd of copywriters were busy biting the hands that fed them when they should be regretting their own lack of talent or toughness. But he had got beyond all that himself; he was reconciled to advertising, he was prepared to take it as seriously as anything else. The pub got more and more crowded. They ate sandwiches. Wyvern began to talk to a commercial artist named Harvey Nicols, Anderson found himself standing thigh to thigh with Molly O’Rourke, who was telling him about her third husband. People all round them were talking so loudly that he heard only snatches of what she said, mixed with other fragments of conversation.
    “—Left Rayson, Jones and Johnson and went to Palefox, Wiggins and Grass—”
    “—One of these schemes stinks, they said, and it’s not your competitor’s—”
    “—He gave me a black eye.” That was Molly.
    “—A new slogan, he said, so I told him—”
    “—There’s absolutely nothing down that alley—”
    “—So she said, really I’m too Jung to be a Freud—”
    “—Ask for a thousand and he’ll offer eight fifty. Ask for twelve hundred and he’ll offer—”
    “—And we Adler good time together. Like it?”
    “—So I gave him a black eye.” That was Molly again. He had heard it all before. Wearily, he said he must go away and work. Molly went to talk to Wyvern and Harvey Nicols. When Anderson got outside, his head was slightly fuzzy with beer.
     
     
    4
     
    After lunch Anderson interviewed Sir Malcolm’s nephew Greatorex. He was fair-headed, wore a neat brown suit, and was perhaps in his middle or late thirties. Anderson was surprised both by his age, and by the fact that he was not obviously a booby. Greatorex talked about himself readily enough, and with a pleasant absence of bumptiousness or embarrassment. He had travelled a good deal, and had been farmer, shorthand typist, journalist, factory worker, and a dozen other things.
    “And now you want to be an advertising man. Why?”
    “During the war I edited our regimental wall newspaper. That was fun.” For the first time Greatorex showed a trace of embarrassment. “When I came out I took a course in advertising. I thought it would give me some background, but Mr Pile said advertising people don’t think you learn much from courses.”
    Anderson played with an ivory paper knife. “Why advertising? Why not journalism? After all, you’ve got some experience there. By the way, what paper did you work for?”
    Greatorex coughed apologetically. “The Herts and West Essex Reporter. Dull. In advertising you’re dealing with real products. I think that’s a bit more worth while. The army gives you different ideas about things like that.”
    “I wouldn’t know – I wasn’t in it. But you must talk to Mr Wyvern about advertising being worth while.” Greatorex looked puzzled, and Anderson regretted the remark. He explained something about the new account, and the list of names that was required. Greatorex listened with almost pathetic eagerness. When he had left the room Anderson grimaced, said “Idealist,” and forgot him. But he began to think about what Wyvern had said in the pub. Was it true that he was slipping?
    He recorded mentally the mistakes of the day. Bagseed’s first telephone call had been handled well enough, but he should never have made that promise about delivery of the drawings on the second call. For that matter, he should not have forgotten the drawings. Then it had been a tactical error to adopt an even faintly critical tone to VV about the new account in face of his obvious enthusiasm. It had been foolish to make that remark to Greatorex reflecting on the sanctity of advertising. Above all, it had been foolish to ask Jean Lightley about the calendar.
    Was any of this important? Anderson asked himself, and answered No. It was not important, but it was disturbing. A successful advertising executive should possess above all things the kind of mind that enabled him to know when to be