After lunch they went into the lounge, which was filled with men, mostly young, who all seemed to know one another by their Christian names. Heath was hailed cordially.
A man sitting on the table stood up, and said theatrically, "Enter the Pilgrim, arch-druid of the loving Mountain—slow music. Well, my fat friend, what wicked scandal do you come fresh from concocting? What lewd pars are even now in the copy box at 162, Strand?"
The Pilgrim grinned. "Gentlemen, let me introduce my latest permanent recruit, Mr. Yardly Gobion. He has just been sent down from Exeter." Gobion was welcomed as a brother, and in half an hour had taken up his favourite position on the hearthrug.
Exerting himself to the utmost, he found he could produce much the same impression as he did in Oxford, and he was a pronounced success in perhaps one of the most critical coteries in London.
They were critics of everything, criticism wasin their veins, they lived on it; they were "the men who had failed in literature and art."
Every now and then a man or two on an evening paper would come in hastily for a drink, and there was a quick interchange of technicalities, a chorus of experts, sharp, clipped, allusive; the latest wire from the Central News, the newest story from the clubs, the smartest headline of the afternoon.
Gobion soon caught the note and was voted an acquisition. Although he was of a somewhat finer grain than most of these men, he recognized the type instantly. Cheap cynicism was the keynote of most of the conversation, and his lighter side revelled in it. Most complex of all men, he could suck pleasure from every shade of feeling. Lord Tennyson's beautiful line: "A glorious devil large in heart and brain," fitted him exactly. With his intellect he might have been a saint, instead of which he was sublime in nothing whatever. With the face of an angel, he loved goodness for its beauty, and sin for its excitement.
Before he left the "copy shop" he had picked up several good stories, and saw his way to atleast half a dozen scandalous paragraphs, which he would send to a provincial paper with which he had some connection.
He went away, being pressed to come regularly, and Mr. Hamilton met him going out, expressing his pleasure at seeing any "friend of Mister Heath's and member of the fourth hestate, 'oping as the pleasure will be repeated." Not being a journalist, the worthy landlord had a high opinion of the press.
Gobion left with Wild, and they strolled down towards Fleet Street.
"Drop in at my place some evening, will you?" he said to his companion.
"Thanks very much. I will, certainly. You must come and look me up when you've time. I am at present sharing a flat with Blanche Huntley, whom you may have heard of. I suppose you don't mind?"
"I, my dear fellow? Rather not; delighted to come. Do you turn off here?"
"Yes, I'm going to the Temple station; good-bye."
Gobion had heard of Miss Huntley. "Howvery nasty some men are in their tastes," he thought; "it's all rather horrid. I'll go to evensong somewhere." Not the better, but the finer side of him woke up, and he felt the necessity of a quieting and poetic influence to counteract the clever sordidness of the afternoon. He took a cab to Pimlico, where he knew churches were plentiful, and after a little search found what he wanted not far from Victoria Station.
The church was only lit by the candles on the high altar and a solitary corona over the stall of the clergyman. Gobion was quite alone. The shadows and gloom of the building were thrown into a deeper gloom, an added mystery, by the radiance above. A young priest, of the earnest Cuddesdon type, walked in all alone, his steps echoing mournfully on the flagged chancel floor. He gave a slight start of pleasure when he saw that there was a congregation, a young man, too!—the poor curate had never before seen such a phenomenon at a weekday evensong.
They said the psalms together, Gobion's sweet voice echoing down the long, dark aisles.
The clergyman felt an instinctive sympathy.He saw that Gobion was feeling to the full the influence of the hour and place, the musical cadence of the verse, and he responded in his turn with a newer sense of the poetry of worship, throwing deep feeling into his voice. It was a keen, æsthetic pleasure to both of them, though the priest felt something more, but it put Gobion on good terms with himself at once. He had roused emotion of a sort, and the rousing seemed to sweep away the contamination of the day.
He bowed low to the distant crucifix on the altar on leaving the building, as a man who had tasted a sweet morsel, with shadowy and pleasant thoughts—the sense of a finer glory.
When a few unconsidered trifles have been thrown out at score, to a middle-aged business man the world is a bundle of shares and bills receivable. To most young men it is a girl or several girls. For some girls it is a young man. For some other people it is a church, a bar, a coterie—for Yardly Gobion it was himself. Realizing this in every nerve, for the next few weeks he devoted himself to making acquaintances and impressions.
He did no writing beyond his weekly contribution toThe Pilgrim, but went abroad and looked around, making himself a niche before he essayed anything further. He managed to get about to one or two rather decent houses, and greatly consolidated his position at the "copyshop." His idea was to keep quiet till Sturtevant came up to town, for he thought that very little could stand against such a combination. Accordingly he had a pleasant time for the next few weeks. His work did not take him more than four hours a day, and now that his circle of acquaintance was so much enlarged there was always plenty of amusement. He could always enjoy the small change of transient emotion by a visit to the church at Pimlico, where in the lonely services he felt (sometimes for nearly an hour) a sorrow at his life and a yearning for goodness.
His mental attitude on these occasions was a strange one, and one only found in people possessing the artistic temperament; for he seemed to stand aloof, and mourn over the grossness of some dear friend; he could detach his mind from his own personality, and feel an awful pity for his own dying soul. Then after these luxurious abandonments, these delightful lapses into religious sentimentality, he would seize on pleasure as a monkey seizes on a nut, finding an added zest in the pursuit of dissipation. Onething in some small degree he noticed, and that was that this alternation of attitude was slightly weakening his powers of taste. The sharpest edge of enjoyment seemed blunted.
One night, about a month after his arrival in town, he dined out in Chelsea with some friends, driving back to his rooms about eleven o'clock, very much in love with himself. On this particular evening he had not tried to be smart or clever. There had been several other ultra-modern young men there; and seeing that the hostess—a charming person—was wearied of their modernity and smart sayings, he affected quite another style, pleasing her by his deferential and chivalrous manner, the simplicity of his conversation. A fresh instance of his power always tickled his vanity, and he drove home down the Strand, his soul big with a hideous egoism.
He paid the driver liberally, for he was generous in all small matters, and opening the door with his latch-key went upstairs. He entered the room, and to his immeasurable surprise found it brilliantly lit with gas and candles. On thetable was a half-empty bottle of champagne and a bedroom tumbler.
In a chair on the right side of the fireplace sat Sturtevant in his shirtsleeves, smoking a cigarette, while on the other side of the fire was a young lady dressed in the van of the fashion, also smoking. Her hat was off, and her hair was metallically golden.
"Where—the—devil—did you spring from?" said Gobion.
"My good friend—not before a lady, please," said Sturtevant with a grin.
The lady waved her cigarette in the air. "Spit it out, old man; don't mind me!" she said.
Gobion looked helplessly from the lady to Sturtevant and back again. These things were beyond him.
"Allow me," said Sturtevant. "Mr. Yardly Gobion, Miss—er—I don't know your name, my dear."
"Me?" said the young lady. "My name don't matter. I'm off; so long, boys."
"Will you explain?" said Gobion. "I am rather bewildered."
"Well, it's in this way. I got up to town about six this evening, and went to the Temple. I found my chambers in an excessively filthy state, with no fire, my laundress not expecting me till to-morrow. I dined at the 'Monico,' and met that damsel in Piccadilly; and, in short, we have been spending the evening under your hospitable roof, aided by a bottle of fizz from the 'Grecian.'"
"I see. Well, if you don't mind, old man, don't bring that sort in. I like them anywhere but in my rooms. Ademoiselle de trottoirshould stay——"
"On thetrottoir—quite so. I won't offend again; only I wanted someone to amuse me, and I expected you'd be late. Now look here; can you put me up for the night? my chambers are in a horrible mess."
"Oh, I should think so; I'll ask the landlady."
At half-past eleven the next morning Gobion got up, after some trouble getting Sturtevant out of bed; and they began a composite meal which the president called "brunch" soon after twelve.
Some letters were waiting. One was a pathetic appeal from an Oxford tailor for "something onaccount." Gobion said "damn" (the Englishman's shortest prayer), and threw it into the fire. Another was a letter from Scott, strong, earnest, and loving. He passed it to Sturtevant, who read it and said, "Man seems to have kept it a little too long in a hot place. Trifle high, don't you think?"
The third ran:—
"My Dear Caradoc,"Marjorie and I are coming up for a fortnight to stay with my mother in Kensington. We hope to see a good deal of you, as you say you have deserted Oxford for a time to take up some literary work in London."Marjorie tells me to say that you must meet our train—the 4.30 at Victoria, but don't put yourself out."Yours affectionately,"Gerald Lovering."
"My Dear Caradoc,
"Marjorie and I are coming up for a fortnight to stay with my mother in Kensington. We hope to see a good deal of you, as you say you have deserted Oxford for a time to take up some literary work in London.
"Marjorie tells me to say that you must meet our train—the 4.30 at Victoria, but don't put yourself out.
"Yours affectionately,
"Gerald Lovering."
"Hallo," said Gobion, "my girl's coming up!"
"Didn't know you had one; has she any money?"
"A little, I think, and her father looks on me as an eligible; he doesn't know I've been sent down, and I don't intend he shall. I have to meet the 4.30 this afternoon."
"Well, I wanted to talk over our plans some time to-day. When will you come to my chambers?"
"This evening, I should think. I must work till four; I've a novel to do forThe Pilgrim, and I've not read a line yet."
"Oh, don't bother about that. 'Smell the paper-knife' instead; let's go to the 'copy shop.'"
"Afraid I can't; I must do it. Look here, I will come round about ten this evening. Don't be drunk."
"Right oh! I'll go back now and get my rooms into some sort of order."
He rolled a cigarette and roamed about the room, looking for his hat. "It's gone to the devil, I think," he said.
"In that case you'll find it again some day. There it is, though—under the sofa. I thought you didn't believe in the devil."
"Satan may be dead, as the hedonists think; but I expect someone still carries on the business."
When he had gone Gobion got to work, andwrote steadily till three, when he went to the "copy shop" to get something to eat. They kept him waiting some little time. Albert, the waiter, who was supposed to be smart in his profession, on this occasion hid his talent (no doubt in a napkin), and Gobion had only a minute to spare when he got to Victoria.
The train curved into the station and pulled up slowly. He made for the door of a first-class carriage where he saw Mr. Lovering getting out. The parson was a little man, all forehead and nose. When Gobion came up he was struggling with a bundle of rugs and umbrellas.
"Ah, dear boy, you have come then. So good of you. Get Marjorie out while I find our luggage."
Then Marjorie came down from the carriage, glowing with health and spirits, her dark eyes flashing when they saw Gobion.
"Dearest," he said. She put her little gloved hand into his, looking up in his face, while his blood ran faster through his veins.
"Caradoc, dear, itisso jolly to see you again; we are going to stay in London for over a fortnight,and you shall take me about everywhere. Oh, here's father."
The little man bustled up. He was one of those dreadful people whom a railway journey excites to a species of frenzy. He ran up and down the platform, dancing round the truck which held his baggage, holding a piece of paper in his hand, muttering, "One black bag—yes; two corded trunks—yes; one hat-box—yes; two boxes of ferns—yes; one bundle of rugs—y—NO! Marjorie!whereare the rugs? Gobion, IknowI had the rugsafterwe got out—a big bundle with a striped red and green one on the outside."
"You're carrying it, aren't you, Mr. Lovering?"
"Dear me! so I am. How very stupid of me! Now if you will get a cab I should be so obliged—a four-wheeler, mind!"
Gobion secured one and came back, standing by Marjorie while the luggage was hoisted on the roof.
"I do hate a silly old four-wheeler!" she said.
"Never mind, dearest, soon we'll go about in a hansom together to your heart's content—jump in! May I call to-morrow, Mr. Lovering?"
"Yes, yes, dear boy—you know the address. Good-bye for the present."
Gobion left the station with a sense ofbien-être. He remembered that he was not due at the Temple till ten, wondering what he should do with himself. Just as he was going out of the gates that rail off the station-yard from the street, a cab dashed up, the occupant evidently in haste to catch a train. Unfortunately, just as it was coming into the yard, the horse swerved and fell, and the man inside was shot out past Gobion, his head striking the curbstone with fearful force. Death was almost instantaneous. Gobion rushed up and lifted him in his arms, but it was of no use. In a short time two policemen came up, and after taking Gobion's name as a witness of the occurrence, placed the body on a stretcher, moving off with it followed by the crowd. The whole affair did not last ten minutes.
Gobion stood by himself staring at the blood on his clothes. He was moving away, when hesaw the card-case of the dead man was lying in the gutter, where it had been jerked when he fell. He picked it up, giving a start of surprise when he saw the nameSir William Railton, a prominent member of the government in power.
All the horror of the scene passed away in a flash. He was a journalist pure and simple now, with an hour's start of any man in London. Hurriedly wiping his clothes, he ran over the road to Tinelli's, an Italian restaurant, and, ordering pens, paper, and a flask of Chianti, wrote furiously a brief account, about a quarter of a column long. He made five copies, and then got into a cab and drove hard to Fleet Street, leaving his card and an account at the news-office of each of the big dailies.
Then came the reaction, and he staggered home, faint with hard work and the horror of what he had seen. He put on another suit, not feeling himself till he had roused his spirits with a copious brandy and soda.
This instinct of the journalist is a curious thing; while it lasts it is a hot fever, brutal almost in itsvehemence. A man possessed by it forgets everything but the fierce joy of his work, and a deep exaltation in the possession of exclusive news; but the reaction is bad for the nerves.
Sturtevant's chambers in the Temple were distinctly comfortable. A large room panelled in white, with doors opening round it into bedrooms. A gay Japanese screen protected a cosy corner by the fire, fitted up with a lounge, an armchair, two little tables, and a standard lamp. It was all more elaborate than his Oxford rooms, because at Oxford he was too well known for his position to depend on externals—while in London they were part of his stock-in-trade. It was a room in which laziness seemed a virtue, with numberless contrivances for comfort. Corners for elbows, shaded reading lamps, the best of tobacco, and a speaking-tube from the fireside to the outer passage of the chambers, so that on hearing a knock, Sturtevant could tell an unwelcome visitor that he was not at home, but was expected back about five, without opening the door.
"Now," he said, when they had settled downcomfortably, "we shall be quite undisturbed all night. We have a good fire, tobacco, and drink of the best; let us seriously map out our little campaign."
"Take the evening papers first then," said Gobion. "Now there is theMoon, an organ devoted to playfully redressing wrongs. We will do an article for it on 'How Barmaids Live.' We can describe the horrors of their lot: a sleeping-room, 12 feet by 12, with six girls in it, and a window that won't open; the insults they are exposed to,et cetera."
"Do you think that will take?"
"Yes, and I'll tell you why. The ordinary beast who reads theMoonloves anything about a barmaid; they are his society."
"Where shall we get our facts?"
"Invent them, of course; there is no need for investigation. We can make it much more interesting without. Put it down: 'Barmaid—Moon.' Now we come to theResounder. We must try quite a different line. It's a newspaper in a strait waistcoat, so to speak, and it's just been subsidized by the anti-gambling people. How would 'TheGambling Evil at the Universities' do? We could easily make some astounding revelations, and your name as president of the Union would have weight with the editor. What else is there?"
"Well, there's theEvening Timesand theWire," said Sturtevant.
"Yes; I think with them we must do short stories. I have three or four MSS. not yet printed which I will revise. All these things shall go in under your name, and I will invent two-stick pars about celebrities, and send three or four to each paper. For instance—
'It is not generally known that the Queen has a great liking for that very plebeian dish, tripe and onions. Indeed, so fond is Her Majesty of this succulent preparation, that a few sheep are always kept in the home paddocks of each of the royal residences to be in readiness if Her Majesty should suddenly express her desire. They are mountain bred, and are brought from the Highlands of Scotland as soon as they can travel without their dams.'
'It is not generally known that the Queen has a great liking for that very plebeian dish, tripe and onions. Indeed, so fond is Her Majesty of this succulent preparation, that a few sheep are always kept in the home paddocks of each of the royal residences to be in readiness if Her Majesty should suddenly express her desire. They are mountain bred, and are brought from the Highlands of Scotland as soon as they can travel without their dams.'
The British public love this kind of thing."
As Gobion suggested an article, one of them put it down on a piece of paper with the name of the journal to which they proposed to send it.
"I have a beautiful idea," said Sturtevant, after a pause.
"Yes?"
"Look here, you know all the High Church goings-on at Oxford, don't you?"
"Yes, but why?"
"There's a paper run in London calledThe Protesting Protestant, which discovers a new popish plot every week. Well, you supply me with enough facts and names to prove that there is widespread conspiracy going on to Romanize the undergraduates. See?"
"Ripping!"
"Yes, but wait a minute, the best part is to come.Thenyou go to the opposition High Church paper with a letter of introduction from Father Gray, and answer my attack and so on for the next few weeks, and divide the swag"; and he leaned back in his chair with a cigarette, with an air of conscious merit.
"This is more than smartness, Sturtevant," said Gobion, wagging his head at the tobacco-jar, "this is genius."
"We must be careful in what we say. It would be unpleasant to be imprisoned for a portion of our unnatural lives."
"Yes, we will hint more than we state. Style is the art of leaving out."
They went on like this for a good part of the night, arranging their plans, inventing new scandal, and making notes of useful lies.
Towards morning they had settled enough for a week's continuous work; only proposing, however, to deal with the less reputable papers, for they both knew well that there was no chance with any respectable sheet.
Just as Gobion was going, Sturtevant said, "What about typing? we can't send them in MSS."
"I think I can manage that," said Gobion; "a man called Wild, the sub-editor ofThe Pilgrim, is living with that girl Blanche Huntley, who was mixed up in the Wrampling case. She used to be a typewriter, and she has a machine still.Moreover she'd be glad to earn a pound or two for pocket money; Wild isn't generous. I wonder, by the way, if any of the things we propose to write are true?"
"Possibly; nature is always committing a breach of promise against the journalist."
They arranged not to begin the work till the Friday morning, as Gobion wished to have a day to spend with Marjorie.
In the morning he called in Kensington, and Mr. Lovering, with a chilly Christian smile, in which perchance lingered some reminiscence of his youth, left the two young people together.
Soon after, Gobion was sitting at Marjorie's side, with his arm round her waist and her head delightfully near his. Melodiously he whispered his joy at seeing her again, holding her little, tender, perfumed hand. He called forth all his powers of pleasing, and paid her delicate compliments, like kisses through a veil, compliments such as girls love, the refinements of adoration arranged neatly in abouquet.
Marjorie was a damsel of many flirtatious loves,though perhaps Gobion was her especial favourite, he was so extremely good-looking; but she was the sort of girl that took nothing but chocolates seriously. As her mother had died when she was quite young, she had been sent to a boarding school, and had caught the note. She had no mind—girls of this sort never have—but she was adorably pretty, which, to most men, is much better.
They both pretended they were very fond of one another, Marjorie because she liked to be kissed and adored, and Gobion because, after bought loves, he found a pleasant freshness. It was not only better and holier, but more piquant. At times, now past, he had persuaded himself that her influence was ennobling and purifying, but the cynicism engendered by evil was burning this feeling out.
He was rapidly getting into the condition when everything loses its savour. Despite his emotional and sympathetic nature, the least glimpse of higher things was going, and though he put the thought from him, he knew in his inmost soul that the time was approaching when life would havenothing more left. Meanwhile it was pleasant to linger in this last gleam of sunshine—to run his fingers through his lady's hair.
He spent the day at the house, meeting old Mrs. Lovering at lunch. She was a lady of the old school, with a black knitted shawl, and the three graces pictured on a cornelian brooch. She disapproved of her granddaughter as too modern, and taking things too much for granted. Indeed, the old lady had a dim idea that Marjorie must be one of the "new" women she had read of in the papers, though if she had ever seen that sexless oddity she would have rescinded her opinion with a gasp of relief.
After a drive in the park, sitting on the front seat of the barouche with Marjorie, and holding her hand under the carriage rug, Gobion went home. The fire had gone out, leaving the room dark and cheerless, in sympathy with his thoughts. But then came a stroll for a few yards in the bright and animated street to the "copy shop," and by the time he got there his spirits had returned.
They were all there, and he soon forgot everything else in the pride ofdominating them and making his presence felt.
Sturtevant, who was known in the place, came in, and they had a jolly riotous time, the estimable Mr. Heath having to be sent home in a cab long before closing time.
Sturtevant drank till he was white and shaking, but kept quite sober, and was as caustic as ever. Wild dramatically related, amid shouts of laughter, how he had first met hisprotègèBlanche Huntley, when he was reporting in the divorce court. It was one of his dearest memories. Altogether it was a most successful evening.
Then came a week of terribly arduous work, from nine in the morning till late at night, varied for Gobion by two or three flying visits to the Loverings. Night after night they wrote with the whiskey bottle between them. MS. after MS. was finished and sent off to be typed; and then when they had produced a number of articles, paragraphs, and stories, possibly unequalled in London for their brilliancy and falsity, they both went to bed in Sturtevant's rooms for a day and a half, utterly speechless and worn out.
When the copy was despatched, for Gobion there was a period of peace and Marjorie. And for three or four days, while Sturtevant sat in his rooms and drank, Gobion sunned himself in a cleaner air, while the "copy shop" was deserted.
There was once a wood-louse, who, being dissatisfied with his position, called himself a Pterygobranchiate. This arrogation of dignity was much resented by his friends. "You belong to the Bourgeoisie," they said to him, "and we cannot call to mind that you have done anything to warrant an assumption of this aristocratic title." "My good fools," said the wood-louse, "you mistake the term 'Bourgeoisie.' The Bourgeoisie are not a class. A Bourgeois is merely a man who has time to sit down, a chair is not a caste." So saying he took another glass of log-juice, and looked his friends steadily in the face. He was an epigrammatic wood-louse.
They returned somewhat abashed, and for atime, though he was not liked, he was asked about a good deal; for as people said, "To have a Pterygobranchiate in one's rooms lends a party such an air of distinction."
Our friend made some mistakes at first, for he could not resist the dishes of dried woodá la Françaiseand the '74 log-juice that were of frequent occurrence at the tables of the great. The result of this was that Nemesis, in the shape of gastric pains, overtook him, and he had to moderate his appetites.
"Indigestion," he said, "is charged by God with the enforcement of morality on the stomach, I will reform my habits." Another reason also contributed to this wise decision, for one day, when going to the kitchen for his boots, he heard the cook (an elderly wood-louse of uncertain temper) say to the boy wood-louse who cleaned the knives and helped in the garden: "Master's that independent and 'e smell so of drink since 'e 's been a Pterygobranchiate, there's no bearin' with 'im." He realized how foolish he must look in the eyes of many good people, so he pitched his new visiting cards into a rabbit-hole, and oncemore returned to middle-class respectability and happiness.
This story has seven morals, only one of which is wanted here, and that is: "Any divergence from habit is generally attended with disastrous results." This was the case with Gobion, who, in an unguarded moment, told Mr. Lovering something approaching the truth, and so gave himself away.
The three or four days at the close of the Loverings' visit were very enjoyable to him, especially after the hard work of the last week; but unfortunately Mr. Lovering could not quite understand what he was doing in London, and after a time bluntly asked him the reason for this change of plans. Thereupon Gobion admitted that he had had a disagreement with his father, and the parson putting two and two together arrived at a guess that was not far short of the truth.
Both of them were humbugs, but with this difference, that while Gobion knew it and made it pay, Mr. Lovering prayed night and morning that he might not find it out. The result was that the clergyman, who, as the father of a mostattractive damsel, naturally desired to sell her to an eligible bidder, took Marjorie home at once, telling her that he had been "greatly deceived" in Gobion, and dictating a polite little note which she sent him.
He got the letter while he was at breakfast, and read it slowly, trying in vain to feel it as a blow. It was of no use, however, for it did not even lessen his hunger for the meal before him.
Then in a flash he realized what this callousness meant. It meant simply this, that the actual moment had arrived when all higher aspirations had deserted him, that he was inevitably and firmly bound to sin, while his mind was allowed to realize the horror of it.
His soul had passed into the twilight.
He knew all this in the space of time that it took to pour out a cup of coffee, but not a muscle of his face moved.
He knew the reaction would be torture when it came—the torture of a man damned before death—but until then there was the hideous joy of absolute unrestraint. There would be no moreeven shadowy scruples, he would frolic in evil over the corpse of a dead conscience.
He rang the bell for some more bacon and a morning paper. While he was reading a "Drama of the Day" article by Clement Scott, the landlady knocked at the door, and said, "Please, sir, a boy messenger has brought this, and is there any answer?" He took the note.
"Dear Mr. Yardly Gobion,—I and Veda are going toThe Liarsto-night, and we want you to escort us. Come to dinner first if you can."Yours, E."
"Dear Mr. Yardly Gobion,—I and Veda are going toThe Liarsto-night, and we want you to escort us. Come to dinner first if you can.
"Yours, E."
He scribbled an acceptance and sent it back by the boy. The invitation came from a Mrs. Ella Picton, the wife of Lionel Picton, the editor of the well-known paperThe Spy. Gobion had been to her house several times, and she had petted and made much of him.
Her husband was a clever, sardonic man, who let his pretty wife do exactly as she liked. He said that marriage resembled vaccination, it might take well or ill, and as for him he put up with the result for quietness. To his great amusement,his wife had almost persuaded herself that she was in love with Gobion. He looked so young and fresh, with such a pretty mouth, and such expressive eyes. She felt a desire to taste all this dawn.
Picton quite understood, and resolved to use Gobion for his own purposes, as it seemed necessary to have him in the house. Accordingly after dinner he asked him a good many questions aboutThe Pilgrimand its editor. His tongue being loosened by champagne, Gobion made fun of Heath, an easy subject of ridicule, and blasphemed againstThe Pilgrim.
"Heath is a sort of literary fat boy, an urchin Rabelais," he said.
"Look here, I'll give you ten guineas for a column inThe Spy, showing up Heath andThe Pilgrim. You needn't give names. Just make it racy, and cut into the old elephant. You'll excuse my talkin' shop in my own house, but I should like to have you onThe Spyvery much."
Gobion was flattered.The Spywas disreputable, but big and important. He agreed to do an article for the next issue, and as the arrangement wasconcluded, the butler came in to say that the ladies were ready to start. Bidding his host good-night, he went up to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Picton and her sister Veda Leuilette were waiting.
They drove to the "Criterion," and the air of the carriage was heavy with the scent of flowers and a subtle odour of white lilac, and thefrou-frouof skirts seemed to accentuate the perfume. They drove up to the theatre, the footman springing down to open the door, and Gobion helped the ladies out. As they went into thefoyerhe noticed Wild and Blanche Huntley going into the stalls. It was very pleasant to take care of two strikingly pretty women, and Gobion was conscious of a wish that some of his Oxford friends, who had imagined that his flight to London practically meant starvation, could see him now.
The house was full of celebrities. There were warm scents in the air, and from their box they could see vaguely as through a mist a parterre of bright colours, the swirl of a fan, the gleaming of white arms, and the occasional sharp scintillation from a diamond ring or bracelet, whilebeyond, the space under the circle was crowded with rows of white faces framed in black.
Mrs. Picton was dressed in pale bluecrêpe-de-chine, looking very lovely, and her violet eyes flashed a dangerous fascination while Gobion and she consulted the programme. Soon after their entrance the band came in, and began to play a lazy, swinging waltz, which seemed to Gobion to harmonize strangely with the apricot light of the theatre. The whole scene struck an unreal and exotic note; he felt a strange deadening of thought, a dreamy sensuousness more physical than mental, and every time Mrs. Picton leant back to make some remark, with a little flash of white teeth framed in wine-red lips, her looks stung his blood.
One of her hands lay on the cushion of the box, white and soft, with rosy filbert nails.
"How Botticelli would have loved to paint your hands," he said, speaking a little thickly.
"A portrait is always so unsatisfactory, don't you think?"
"Perhaps; a looking-glass is a better artist than Herkomer."
"Now you're going to be clever! Look at Mrs.Wrampling in the stalls—fancy showing so soon after the divorce! Isn't she a perfect poem, though?"
"One that has been through several editions."
"She's well made up, but she's put on a little too much colour."
"Oh, she's not as ugly as she's painted."
"Now you are much too nice a boy to be cynical."
"The cynic only sees things as they really are."
She laughed a silvery little laugh. "Who is that ugly man with her?"
"That istheman—Wilfrid Fletcher."
"She must be fonder of his purse than of his person."
"The most thorough-going of all the philosophies."
"Who else is here that you know?"
"Well, that very fat man in the third row is Heath, the editor ofThe Pilgrim. He was at Exeter—my college—years ago."
"I should have imagined that he was a University man."
"Really! Why?"
"He is so evidently an apostle of the Extension movement."
"That's quite good! Heath is a clever man though, despite his size."
"In what way?"
"He manages to grasp the changeful modern spirit of the day exactly."
"I think I was introduced to him once, somewhere or other."
"I believe he does go into society."
"Society condones a good deal."
"It is condonation incarnate."
She looked up at him, and blushed a little. "Perhaps it is as well?"
"For some of us?"
"Si loda l'uomo modesto."
"Don't you think modesty is advisable? One never knows how far to go."
"One should experiment, then; modesty is more original than natural nowadays."
"Originality is only a plagiarism from nature."
She opened her fan, moving it quickly. She was not accustomed to be fenced with like this.
Gobion's senses were coming back to him, the voluptuousness had gone, and after the first intoxication of her presence, he looked again and found she did not interest him in the way she sought. After the first act he offered to get them some ices, sending them by a man, while he went to the buffet.
Heath and Wild were there. "Hullo!" said the former, "who's that pretty woman in your box?"
"Picton's wife."
"Lionel Picton?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't advise you to get mixed up with that lot," he said, making Gobion feel rather guilty as he remembered the article he was going to do forThe Spy. After a minute Wild moved away.
"Such a joke," said Heath, with a grin. "Wild's brought little Blanche Huntley, the typewriter girl, and both Mrs. Wrampling and Will Fletcher are here, and they're saying that Wrampling himself is in the circle! It's a dirty world, my boy, a dirty world."
"I wouldn't quarrel with my bread and butterif I were you," said Gobion; "you and I'd be in rather a hole if it wasn't for these little episodes. Mrs. Grundy always was an indecent old person. Ta-ta, see you after at the 'copy shop'?"
"Yes, my wife's away in Birmingham, so I won't go home till morning."
Gobion went back to the box, where he found Moro de Minter, the new humourist, making himself agreeable. Gobion knew the man slightly, and hated him. People said his real name was Gluckstein, and he was reported to have been a ticket collector at Euston before he had come out as the apostle of the ridiculous. He was holding forth on his latest book, and he asked Gobion what he thought of the new humourists.
"I have only met two sorts," he answered, "the disgustingly facetious and the facetiously disgusting. Both are equally nasty."
Miss Leuilette was rather nettled; she liked Minter.
"And what do you think of the new critics ofThe Pilgrimtype, Mr. Minter?" she asked.
"They squirt venom from the attic into the gutter, and nobody is ever hurt." After whichpassage of arms he left the box, and the curtain went up on the Inn at Shepperford.
After the play Gobion saw the ladies into their carriage, and Mrs. Picton, as she pressed his hand, whispered him to come to tea the next day.
"I shall be quite alone," she said, with a side look.
Then came the "copy shop" and a noisy supper, at which the latest sultry story of a certain judge's wife was repeated and enjoyed.
It struck Gobion more than ever what a drunken, rakish lot these men were, but still he was very little better, only less coarse in his methods, and it didn't matter.
Lucy, the barmaid, was in great form. Someone had given her a copy ofThe Yellow Book, with its strange ornamentation.
"They do get these books up in a rum way now," she said, pointing to the figures blazoned on the cover.
"You shouldn't find fault with that, my dear," he said. "The fig-leaf was the grandmother of petticoats"; and everyone roared.
"Can anyone recommend me a new religion?"said a fat man who did sporting tips forThe Moon.
There was a yell at once. "Flintoff wants a new religion." "Theosophist!" "Absintheur!" "Jew!" "Mahomedan!"
"Theosophist?" said the fat man; "no, I think not. Madame Blavatski was too frankly indecent. Absintheur might perhaps suit if it wasn't for Miss Marie Corelli. Jew is quite out of the question; there are two difficulties, pork and another. Mahomedan! well, that isn't bad. As many wives as you like—the religion of the henroost. Yes, I think I'll be a Mahomedan."
"How about drinks?" said Gobion.
"Oh, damn! Yes, I forgot that, I must stick to Christianity after all." He limped to the table to get a match.
"What's the matter with your leg?" said Heath.
"I hurt it last night going home in the fog."
"You should try Elliman's—horse for choice."
"I did, and I stank so of turpentine I was quite ashamed to lie with myself."
"You're not ashamed to lie here," said some feeble punster.
"No, it's my profession. I'm a sporting prophet."
Gobion suddenly remembered that he had heard nothing about the mass of copy that had been sent out some days before.
"Has Mr. Sturtevant been in to-night?" he asked the barmaid.
"No, I haven't seen him for two or three days," she said.
Gobion went quickly out into the Strand and walked to Sturtevant's rooms. The gas flamed on the dingy staircase, making a hissing noise in the silence, and shining on the white paint of the names above the door—Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, Mr. Thompson Jones, Mr. Gordon.
The "oak" was open, so Gobion went in, pushing aside the swing door at the end of the little passage.
A strong smell of brandy struck him in the face. He walked in, and looked round the screen by the fire, starting back for a moment with a sick horror of what he saw.
The candles were alight before the looking-glass over the mantelpiece. In front of it stood Sturtevant, with his back to Gobion. His thumbs were in the corners of his mouth, and with his first fingers he was pulling down the loose skin under his eyes, making the most ghastly grimaces at his image in the mirror.
Gobion stood still, petrified, and mechanically pressed the spring of his opera hat, which flew out with a loud pop. Sturtevant wheeled round like a shot, shaking with fear. When he saw who was there he gave a great sob of relief and fell into a chair.
"O God, how you startled me!" he said.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" said Gobion; "you look as if you were dying."
The man was not good to look at. His skin was a uniform tint of discoloured ivory, with red wrinkles round the eyes. His lips were dark purple and swollen, his hands shook.
"I'm so glad you've come; I've had a slight touch of D.T., and if you hadn't come in I should have broken out again to-night."
Gobion calmed him as well as he could, andin about an hour got him into something like ordinary condition.
"And now," he said, "how about our copy?"
"By George, I've forgotten all about it; there are probably a lot of letters in the box."
They got them out. The first one they opened was a collection of personal paragraphs sent in by Gobion, "Declined with thanks." The next was a cheque from theResounderfor four guineas, in payment of the "Gambling at Oxford" article. They went on opening one after the other, and at the end found that they had netted twenty-six pounds.
Sturtevant got excited about it, and wanted to have some more brandy, but Gobion managed to get him to bed, and locked the door, putting the key in his pocket. He built up the fire, took Daudet'sSapphofrom a shelf, and passed the night on the sofa alternately reading and dozing.
It took him three or four days to bring Sturtevant round to something like form, most of which he spent in the Temple, occupying himself by writing the attack on Heath forThe Spy.
It was the cleverest piece of work he had done,and when it was finished it was with all the pride of an artist that he read it to Sturtevant, and sent it to Blanche Huntley to be typed.
Meanwhile he became at times horribly bored and low-spirited, and each new attack accentuated the next, for he would rush into the lowest forms of amusement to find oblivion. In the intervals of coarseness he called on Mrs. Picton.
Such society as was open to him soon began to pall, and he spent more and more time at the "copy shop" or with Sturtevant in the Temple.
These two men, who a few years ago were freshmen at Oxford, sat night after night cursing and blaspheming all that most men hold sacred.
They were colossal in their bitterness.
Sturtevant said once, "Life is a disease; as soon as we are born we begin to die. I shall die soon from D.T., and you'll write a realistic study forThe Pilgrim. Perhaps my life was ordained for that end." Which, considering the degree the man had taken, and what his mental abilities were, was about the bitterest thing he could have said.
One night Sturtevant went to bed about two,leaving Gobion in the room not much inclined for sleep. After an inspection of the bookcase, he took down a Swinburne, and turned to "Dolores."
"Come down and redeem us from virtue,
Our Lady of Pain,"
he read in the utter stillness of the night.
Then he put the book down and sat staring into the fire, thinking quietly of the literary merit of the poem, while its passion throbbed through and through him—a strange dual action of mind and sense.
Suddenly he looked up and saw a silver streak in the dull sky, the earliest messenger of dawn pressing its sad face against the window.
"I will go abroad," he said, "and see the day come to London." He went out in the ancient echoing courts through the darkness, till he came to the Embankment, and looked over the river. Far away in the east the sky was faintly streaked with grey, the curtain of the dark seemed shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. He stood quite still, looking towards a great bar of crimson which flashed up from over St. Paul's, showingthe purple dome floating in the mist. The western sky over the archbishop's palace was all aglow with a red reflected light. Dark bars of cloud stretched out half over heaven, turning to brightness as the sun rushed on them. The deepening glow spread wider and wider, on and up, till the silver greys and greens faded into blue, and the glory of the morning in a great arch suffused the Abbey, the Tower, and all the palaces of London. The sparrows began to twitter in the little trees on the Embankment.
"He was one of those earnest people who feel that life ought to have some meaning if they could only find it out," said Sturtevant, "and he came in with my little brochure,The Harmonies of Sin, in his paw. He was a sort of wrinkled romance. 'Sir,' he said, 'may I ask if you are Mordaunt Sturtevant?' 'At your service,' I answered. Then he said, 'I must tell you that I have felt it my duty to come and remonstrate with you about this 'ere dreadful book.' I asked him to sit down, and pushed over the decanter. He waved it away, tapping my book with his umbrella. 'You have unpaved hell to build your book with,' he said. 'Then my book is made up of good intentions,' I answered, but he didn't see it. 'Think of your pore soul,' he said. Itold him I didn't know its address. 'Sir, you have exalted harlotry into a social force.' I told him the harlot was the earthworm of society. He got up and retreated to the door. 'Anymanwould 'ate it,' he said. I asked him quite politely if he considered himself a man. He remarked that hewasa man, 'made in God's image, sir! in God's image!' 'The mould must have leaked,' I said.
"At this he grew angry, pointing his umbrella at me and snorting. 'You 'ave all the vices, and aspire to all the crimes,' he shouted. When he began to shout I'd had about enough, so I kicked him downstairs."
"When did this episode occur?"
"Oh, just before you came in."
"What's the book about, I haven't read it."
"Merely a little psychological analysis of a young girl's misdoings."
"There's a sort of naked indecency about a young girl's soul, so I don't think I'll read it. Pass the whiskey, will you? You've had enough. I suppose you hurt your visitor considerably?"
"Oh, he didn't really come, I only said that for the sake of saying something, and because I thought how amusing such a man would be if he did turn up."
Gobion yawned. Both of them were very dull and miserable.
The afternoon was all blind with rain swirling against the window in sudden gusts. Footsteps echoed on the flags below with a monotonous clank, while, more faintly, London poured into their ears a dreary hum, a suggestion of wet cold streets. It was about four in the afternoon, and Gobion having done some work in the morning was now in the Temple, sitting in front of the fire, without any present interest. Restless and miserable, he tried to think of Scott, of Father Gray, of the people who cared for him, hoping for vague thrillings, little tender luxuries of regret, but it was of no use. A short time ago he could have induced the pleasing grief-bubble easily with a good fire and a little whiskey, and at its bursting, enjoy a music-hall with its lights and laughter; but now something seemed to have snapped. The curtain was down, the gaswas out, the house was cold and empty. He was no longer able to put on a sentimental halo and act at himself as an approving audience.
Sturtevant too was dull and lethargic. He was not emotional like the other, but though a man of less charm, his attainments were greater, he knew more, and now he also was struggling to think—to work.
They were both silent for some time while the darkness closed in, the rain outside pattering with an added weariness and the wind wailing up from the river. At last Sturtevant took up a glass from the table and threw it into the fire with an oath.
"Laugh, you devil!" he said, "shout! be merry! be brilliant!"
"Can't," said Gobion, "I keep my brilliancy for the comparative stranger."
"——and the positivePilgrim, I suppose."
"Exactly. Hallo! there's someone at the door." He shouted, "Yes!" it was one of his little mannerisms never to say, "Come in." The door opened and a girl came round the corner of the screen. It was Blanche Huntley, Wild'smistress, dressed in a long macintosh dripping with rain.
Both men jumped up surprised, Gobion helping her to take off her ulster, while Sturtevant put her umbrella in the stand.
She came to the fireside, a girl not unlike a dainty illustration in a magazine, very neatly got up with a white froth of lace round her neck, and achicblack rosette at her waist. Certainly a pretty girl, with a sweet rather tired mouth, well-marked eyebrows, and dark eyes somewhat full, the lids stained with bistre. Gobion knew her, having met her at Wild's, and rather liked her. She was a girl with ideas, and might have made something of her life if she had not been mixed up in the famous Wrampling Divorce Case, and been forced to leave her type-writing office in the City.
When ruin comes a man begs, a woman sells.
She sat down, Gobion introducing her to Sturtevant, who looked with some interest. "Fashion-plate in distress," was his mental comment. Gobion thought, "Her youth is the golden background which shows up the sadnessof her lot; lucky man Wild though," a very fair index to the individuality of the two men as far as such things go.
"I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, old man, and it's partly my fault," she said.
"What is it, Blanche?"
"Well, we were sitting at lunch to-day—Tom wasn't going to the office—when that old pig, Mr. Heath, came rushing in, half mad, waving a paper in his hand, cursing and swearing till I thought they would hear him in the street. He threw it on the table, and I noticed a column in leaded type marked with blue pencil. 'There,' he said to Tom, 'there's a nice thing to see about one's self! Some damn dirty skunk's been writing this about me andThe Pilgrim.' It was so funny to see him, I never saw anybody in such a bate before; I looked over Tom's shoulder, and, without thinking, said, 'Why, I typed that for Mr. Yardly Gobion.' 'What!' they both yelled. 'Well—I'm—damned! Curse the cad!' Excuse me telling you all this. Well, he went on storming and raving,and said he was going to sack you, and write you a letter you'd remember, and what was more, crab you in every paper in London. I'm horribly sorry, it was all through me."
Sturtevant gave a long whistle.
"Never mind, dear," said Gobion, "it doesn't matter, I don't care; what a rag it must have been!"
"I haven't seen the thing in print yet," said Sturtevant, "I'll go out and get a copy."
When he had gone, Blanche came closer to Gobion. "Poor boy," she said, "I'm afraid you'll find things rather difficult now."
"Never mind, dear, it doesn't matter, I've got past caring for most things. Does Wild know you're here?"
"Tom? oh no, he'd half kill me if he did. He never liked you much, you know, he said you put on such a lot of Oxford side."
"Isn't he kind to you, then?"
"Oh, Lord, no, not now. He was at first, but he's getting tired."
"I should cut the brute."
"What would I do?" she said sadly, "whatwould I do? I've no character or money or anything. I'd have to go to the Empire promenade, I expect."
She stretched out her hands to the blaze wearily.
"Poor little girl," he said, taking one of her hands in his, "poor little girl, it's a nasty, miserable world."
She said nothing for half a minute, and then she burst into an agony of tears, dropping her head on his shoulder.
"Oh, don't, dear, don't!" said Gobion, half crying too; "try to bear up."
"You don't know what it means. You're not an outcast."
"Yes I am, dear, I'm a good deal worse than you. I have a hell, too. Be a brave girl."
She smiled faintly through her tears.
"You are good," she said, "not like the other men."
"I'm simply a blackguard; don't tell me I'm good."
"You don't shrink from me."
"I? Good God! you don't know what I am—sister."
At that word she crouched down in her chair, passionately sobbing.
"God bless you," she said, "God bless you."
"You must leave him, dear, and get your living by your type-writing." He pulled out his pocket-book and made a rapid calculation. "Twenty here and ten at my rooms. Look here," he said, "I'm not hard up now; here's three fivers. It will keep you going for a month or two. Make a new start, little woman."
She took the money and looked him in the face. Some thoughts are prayers.
"Good-bye," she said, "good-bye. If only I'd met you first."
The man bowed his head, and they left the room hand in hand. When they reached the lane she turned, and in the dim light of the flickering lamp she saw that his face was wet.
He took her little ungloved hand, raising it to his lips, still with bowed head, and turning, left her without a word.
When Sturtevant came in an hour afterwardshe found him lying on the floor dead drunk, with a little pool of whiskey dripping from the table on to his hair.
"We must do highly moral articles for those papers which are calculated not to bring a blush to the face of the purest girl (except in the advertisements of waterproof rouge), or you might tryThe Spy. They can hardly refuse your copy now," said Sturtevant, about three weeks after the exposure.
Gobion had found the girl spoke truly. Not a paper in London was open to him. He was barred at the "copy shop," and was living on money borrowed from Scott in a piteous appeal full of lies. He forwarded an article to Picton, but it was sent back by return of post, with a sarcastic little note, saying that Mr. Picton could not find himself sufficiently bold to accept any further contributions. Things were getting rather desperate. Oxford bills were coming in by every post to both of them. They were nearly at their wits' end for money.
At this juncture came a letter from Condamine.
"Oxford Union Society."Dear Gobion,—The game is played almost to an end. Only one more move, and that not till next June, to be taken. Then will be peace at last. My latest has been of its kind a master-stroke, that is, to disappear. Things were getting too hot for me, so I have gone down to read. Everybody was getting suspicious, and eyed me askance. Drage was sent down (another disappearance!) for lying drunk with a friend from Oriel in the fellows' quad, and for reviling the buck priest most blasphemously in that he had awakened him. My tutor waxed very wroth with me. I was troubled with frightful insomnia every afternoon, and often in the morning—often finding it necessary to go to bed at midnight, rise at two a.m. and work till five or so, and again retire. Perhaps this was due to the fact that I had to sleep off certain matters of no importance, and then awake early, which is a way of mine. Drage's last moments in Oxford I soothed by fetching Father Gray at ten p.m. Tommy had all sorts of ideas, Stage, Germany, Colonies, every manner of starvation, so I applied his Reverence as a last remedy, which succeeded. Many things I could tell you of this, but not now. He (the Gray father) has got a rich young cub with him, Lord Frederick Staines Calvert, and they are going to town for a time to-day. The boyis without understanding—very oofy—so if you are stillèpriswith the worthy parson you may be able to make something out of it."Farewell. Thine,"Arthur Condamine."To Caradoc Yardly Gobion."
"Oxford Union Society.
"Dear Gobion,—The game is played almost to an end. Only one more move, and that not till next June, to be taken. Then will be peace at last. My latest has been of its kind a master-stroke, that is, to disappear. Things were getting too hot for me, so I have gone down to read. Everybody was getting suspicious, and eyed me askance. Drage was sent down (another disappearance!) for lying drunk with a friend from Oriel in the fellows' quad, and for reviling the buck priest most blasphemously in that he had awakened him. My tutor waxed very wroth with me. I was troubled with frightful insomnia every afternoon, and often in the morning—often finding it necessary to go to bed at midnight, rise at two a.m. and work till five or so, and again retire. Perhaps this was due to the fact that I had to sleep off certain matters of no importance, and then awake early, which is a way of mine. Drage's last moments in Oxford I soothed by fetching Father Gray at ten p.m. Tommy had all sorts of ideas, Stage, Germany, Colonies, every manner of starvation, so I applied his Reverence as a last remedy, which succeeded. Many things I could tell you of this, but not now. He (the Gray father) has got a rich young cub with him, Lord Frederick Staines Calvert, and they are going to town for a time to-day. The boyis without understanding—very oofy—so if you are stillèpriswith the worthy parson you may be able to make something out of it.
"Farewell. Thine,
"Arthur Condamine.
"To Caradoc Yardly Gobion."
Gobion showed this to Sturtevant. "Do you think there's anything in it?" he said.
"Yes, I certainly do; you must make every effort to get hold of the boy. We must think out a plan; I hope he's an ass. At present he's a problem."
"I'll find him out if I can get hold of him, but I don't quite see how we're going to make any money out of it."
"Do you remember," said Sturtevant slowly, "that dear lady I took to your rooms when I first came up?"
"Little beast! yes."
"I've seen her since then; she lives in Bear Street off Leicester Square, just behind the Alhambra. Now doesn't the diffused white light of your intelligence supply the rest?"
"No, I confess——"
"Listen then. You must tell Father Gray that you are supporting yourself by coaching, and that you are working in the East End. He knows about those defence articles in theChurch Chimes. Somehow or other he must be got to think you're steady and trustworthy. Then you go about with this young lord he's got and get well hold of him: you can be very charming when you like. From what I have heard of his father, Lord Ringwood, he's been brought up strictly. You must, therefore, take him about a little—Empire, Jimmies, that sort of thing; show him life, till he begins to long to go a little further, and to make sheep's-eyes at the painted ladies in the stalls. Meanwhile I shall get hold of the Bear Street girl and promise her a fiver if she'll help us. One night you and Calvert dine out (give fizz and Benedictine after, it's exciting), and when you get back to your rooms you find Marie as "Mrs. Holmes" waiting to see you. Then I send you a telegram, and you apologise and go out, promising to be back in half an hour. Come round to the Temple, where I shall be waiting. We'll arrangewith Marie that she shall have half an hour to make Calvert cuddle her. Then I come in—the outraged husband!—and kick up the devil's own row, swearing I'll get a divorce. In the middle enter Mr. Gobion again. You persuade Marie and me to leave. Then you soothe the ruffled boy, promising to try and arrange the matter. You go out, consult with me, and touch him for a cheque to square matters. I should think we might work a 'thou' almost."
Gobion lay back in his chair, overwhelmed by the brilliancy of the idea. "Won-der-ful! you're a master simply. It ought to be put on the market in one pound shares; and I thought you a mere decadent story writer."
Sturtevant smiled. "Don't say decadent," he said, "it's a misnomer now. The public thinks decadence is the state of being different from Miss Charlotte M. Yonge, while the æsthete——"
"Pleasedon't begin to lecture on the utter."
"Do you object to the utter then?"
"I object to the utterer."
"I am silent. The surly word makes the curst squirm."
"That's worthy of Condamine."
Very soon they both got bored again, when the excitement of the plotting had evanesced. It was a consequence of their diseased mental state, this constant overpoweringennui. Sturtevant went to the piano and began to chant—