Despite George’s good humor, there was an uneasiness about him, in his nervous fidgeting and the slight downturn of his mouth, that made Theo’s task even more difficult. He was about to tell George that what his office was doing wasn’t working: they needed to try something new or face losing more money, or even closure. He’d requested the accounts be sent to his hotel, so he could go over them before he came to the office, and they’d made grim reading. Just like at home, the British publishers faced an unusual dilemma: the conditions of war reducing their supply of paper but the demand for books increasing substantially, for the reading public as well as for the troops and for propaganda to send overseas.

They were in a strange predicament, a conundrum that he had no idea yet how to solve.

George stubbed out his cigarette. “You really didn’t have to come, Theo. The figures aren’t as bad as they look. Things have just slipped a bit, since Rupert left.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask, how is he?”

“He’s all right, as far as we know. It’s hard, though, when you don’t hear from one month to the next.” George looked pensive. “He’s full of bravado, Rupert, but you don’t always know what’s going on inside. Not like the girls; they never hide anything,” he said with a forced laugh. “But he’s constantly in our thoughts. And our other brave chaps.”

“Yes, of course, always.” Theo hoped that George wasn’t taking a subtle swipe at him; it was easy to become paranoid when you weren’t in a uniform.

“The RAF must have been pretty desperate by the time they got to the second round, if they took him with his injury.” George raised his eyebrows. “His knee’s shattered from his rugby days, but if you’re only getting in and out of the cockpit, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway,” he said, livening up again, “this afternoon I want you to sit down with Tommy. He’s taken over most of Rupert’s responsibilities . . . until he comes back.”

Theo knew they needed to replace Rupert but couldn’t afford to—that, if anything, they needed to cut more of the already small staff. Meanwhile, Partridge Press US was housed in a space ten times larger than this, and they would soon need to expand further. Their operation had grown since Walter had married an heiress who’d supported his foray into publishing and then bankrolled the expansion. Pocket Books and its imitators had changed the way Americans read; for a quarter, they could pick up a book from a drugstore, a magazine rack or a gas station. Surely the British book revolution wasn’t far behind with Penguin Books now publishing paperbacks for the Canadian armed forces, in addition to the Forces Book Club in Britain.