The Lighthearted Quest by Ann Bridge

Julia studied the company with interest. The women’s clothes were very smart, but their hats, oddly, not nearly so good, and their hair and faces either over-done, or not really done at all. Registering such things was a sort of Pavlov reflex with her, but when Paddy introduced their host she concentrated on him. Mr. Bingham was an enormous man, at least six foot three, with iron-grey hair and a huge pale moon of a face, in which a pair of lively grey eyes shone—he flourished a tumbler of whisky-and-soda, rather to Julia’s surprise.
    â€œHonoured, Miss Probyn. A great pleasure. What will you drink?”
    â€œOh, I’d like to follow your example,” said Julia, in her slowest tones. “I’ll come with you,” she said as he moved off towards the buffet.
    â€œNow that’s a sensible girl! Would you ever get it, if you didn’t come with me? And aren’t you wise to choose whisky. Scotch or J. J., by the way?”
    â€œOh J.J., please,” said Julia. She had already decided that her host was an Irish Bingham, and probably in a fairly receptive state, early as it was in the evening; it would be a sound move to opt for Irish whisky, which in fact she loathed. While he was fetching her drink she made a second rapiddecision as to her preliminary approach, and when he returned with her glass acted on it at once.
    â€œMr. Bingham, where is the money here? Who makes it, and from what?”
    He stared at her.
    â€œGood God! Whatever makes
you
ask a thing like that?”
    â€œOh, didn’t Paddy tell you I’m a journalist? And where the money is is rather a primary question about a place, don’t you think? I shan’t quote you, naturally, but that’s the first thing I need to know.”
    â€œOf course you’re quite right,” Mr. Bingham said; as he spoke he moved through an archway, holding up a looped curtain for Julia to pass, and took up a position by a bookcase in the next room. “Well, phosphates apart—you know Morocco produces twenty per cent of the world’s output of phosphates—the big
quick
money is mostly made in this town,” he began.
    â€œFrom?”
    â€œReal estate: land values in this place keep soaring like in Shanghai in old days, or in some American boom town; and petrol-stations, and the smart shops, and a bit of night-life.”
    â€œIs any made outside Casa?”
    â€œOh, yes; Agadir is developing very fast too—and the citrous fruit industry is becoming quite a big thing. And besides dried peas, they’re starting canned peas too, and tinned fish; the French are very go-ahead about all that, and it gives a lot of employment, and brings money into the country.”
    â€œAnything else?” Julia asked.
    â€œWell, no one really knows yet what’s going to happen about the oil industry.”
    â€œOil! You mean petroleum? Do they get
that
here?”
    â€œOh, yes—there’s that big cracker-plant at Petit-Jean. But I fancy,” Mr. Bingham said, leaning towards Julia confidentially, “that the petrol yield may not come up to expectation. Faults in the limestone bedding, they say—don’t really understandall that myself. But I gather Morocco is never likely to become a second Kuwait.”
    â€œThat’s all most useful,” said Julia. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Bingham.”
    â€œDon’t you want to write any of it down?” her host asked, looking at Julia with a sort of two-edged interest.
    â€œOh dear, no. It stays,” said Julia, tapping her big white forehead. Mr. Bingham laughed.
    â€œThat’s the lot, is it? No small handy side-lines?”
    â€œWell, there is one little side-line—no, two.”
    â€œOh, what are they? Readers like side-lines,” said Julia professionally.
    â€œWell, it’s a funny thing, but there’s getting to be quite a trade in Moorish stuff—you know, antiques, leather