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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78723 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                          [Cover Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                       C A K E S   A N D   A L E
+
+
+
+                                   BY
+                         W.  SOMERSET  MAUGHAM
+
+
+
+                             [Illustration]
+
+                      T R I A N G L E   B O O K S
+                                NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+                COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
+
+                         _All rights reserved_
+
+             TRIANGLE BOOKS EDITION PUBLISHED JANUARY 1941
+                         REPRINTED JANUARY 1941
+
+
+
+              TRIANGLE BOOKS, 14 West Forty-ninth Street,
+                            New York, N. Y.
+
+           PRINTED AND BOUND IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
+
+
+
+
+                             CAKES AND ALE
+                 W .   S O M E R S E T   M A U G H A M
+
+
+
+
+                                   I
+
+
+I HAVE noticed that when someone asks for you on the telephone and,
+finding you out, leaves a message begging you to call him up the moment
+you come in, and it’s important, the matter is more often important to
+him than to you. When it comes to making you a present or doing you a
+favour most people are able to hold their impatience within reasonable
+bounds. So when I got back to my lodgings with just enough time to have
+a drink, a cigarette, and to read my paper before dressing for dinner,
+and was told by Miss Fellows, my landlady, that Mr. Alroy Kear wished me
+to ring him up at once, I felt that I could safely ignore his request.
+
+“Is that the writer?” she asked me.
+
+“It is.”
+
+She gave the telephone a friendly glance.
+
+“Shall I get him?”
+
+“No, thank you.”
+
+“What shall I say if he rings again?”
+
+“Ask him to leave a message.”
+
+“Very good, sir.”
+
+She pursed her lips. She took the empty siphon, swept the room with a
+look to see that it was tidy, and went out. Miss Fellows was a great
+novel reader. I was sure that she had read all Roy’s books. Her
+disapproval of my casualness suggested that she had read them with
+admiration. When I got home again, I found a note in her bold, legible
+writing on the sideboard.
+
+    _Mr. Kear rang up twice. Can you lunch with him to-morrow? If
+    not what day will suit you?_
+
+I raised my eyebrows. I had not seen Roy for three months and then only
+for a few minutes at a party; he had been very friendly, he always was,
+and when we separated he had expressed his hearty regret that we met so
+seldom.
+
+“London’s awful,” he said. “One never has time to see any of the people
+one wants to. Let’s lunch together one day next week, shall we?”
+
+“I’d like to,” I replied.
+
+“I’ll look at my book when I get home and ring you up.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+I had not known Roy for twenty years without learning that he always
+kept in the upper left-hand pocket of his waistcoat the little book in
+which he put down his engagements; I was therefore not surprised when I
+heard from him no further. It was impossible for me now to persuade
+myself that this urgent desire of his to dispense hospitality was
+disinterested. As I smoked a pipe before going to bed I turned over in
+my mind the possible reasons for which Roy might want me to lunch with
+him. It might be that an admirer of his had pestered him to introduce me
+to her or that an American editor, in London for a few days, had desired
+Roy to put me in touch with him; but I could not do my old friend the
+injustice of supposing him so barren of devices as not to be able to
+cope with such a situation. Besides, he told me to choose my own day, so
+it could hardly be that he wished me to meet anyone else.
+
+Than Roy no one could show a more genuine cordiality to a fellow
+novelist whose name was on everybody’s lips, but no one could more
+genially turn a cold shoulder on him when idleness, failure, or someone
+else’s success had cast a shade on his notoriety. The writer has his ups
+and downs, and I was but too conscious that at the moment I was not in
+the public eye. It was obvious that I might have found excuses without
+affront to refuse Roy’s invitation, though he was a determined fellow
+and if he was resolved for purposes of his own to see me, I well knew
+that nothing short of a downright “go to hell” would check his
+persistence; but I was beset by curiosity. I had also a considerable
+affection for Roy.
+
+I had watched with admiration his rise in the world of letters. His
+career might well have served as a model for any young man entering upon
+the pursuit of literature. I could think of no one among my
+contemporaries who had achieved so considerable a position on so little
+talent. This, like the wise man’s daily dose of Bemax, might have gone
+into a heaped-up tablespoon. He was perfectly aware of it, and it must
+have seemed to him sometimes little short of a miracle that he had been
+able with it to compose already some thirty books. I cannot but think
+that he saw the white light of revelation when first he read that
+Charles Dickens in an after-dinner speech had stated that genius was an
+infinite capacity for taking pains. He pondered the saying. If that was
+all, he must have told himself, he could be a genius like the rest; and
+when the excited reviewer of a lady’s paper, writing a notice of one of
+his works, used the word (and of late the critics have been doing it
+with agreeable frequency) he must have sighed with the satisfaction of
+one who after long hours of toil has completed a cross-word puzzle. No
+one who for years had observed his indefatigable industry could deny
+that at all events he deserved to be a genius.
+
+Roy started with certain advantages. He was the only son of a civil
+servant who after being Colonial Secretary for many years in Hong-Kong
+ended his career as Governor of Jamaica. When you looked up Alroy Kear
+in the serried pages of _Who’s Who_ you saw _o. s._ of Sir Raymond Kear,
+K. C. M. G., K.C.V.O. _q.v._ and of Emily, _y.d._ of the late Major
+General Percy Camperdown, Indian Army. He was educated at Winchester and
+at New College, Oxford. He was president of the Union and but for an
+unfortunate attack of measles might very well have got his rowing blue.
+His academic career was respectable rather than showy, and he left the
+university without a debt in the world. Roy was even then of a thrifty
+habit, without any inclination to unprofitable expense, and he was a
+good son. He knew that it had been a sacrifice to his parents to give
+him so costly an education. His father, having retired, lived in an
+unpretentious, but not mean, house near Stroud in Gloucestershire, but
+at intervals went to London to attend official dinners connected with
+the colonies he had administered, and on these occasions was in the
+habit of visiting the Athenæum, of which he was a member. It was through
+an old crony at this club that he was able to get his son, when he came
+down from Oxford, appointed private secretary to a politician who, after
+having made a fool of himself as Secretary of State in two Conservative
+administrations, had been rewarded with a peerage. This gave Roy a
+chance to become acquainted at an early age with the great world. He
+made good use of his opportunities. You will never find in his works any
+of the solecisms that disfigure the productions of those who have
+studied the upper circles of society only in the pages of the
+illustrated papers. He knew exactly how dukes spoke to one another, and
+the proper way they should be addressed respectively by a member of
+Parliament, an attorney, a book-maker, and a valet. There is something
+captivating in the jauntiness with which in his early novels he handles
+viceroys, ambassadors, prime ministers, royalties, and great ladies. He
+is friendly without being patronizing and familiar without being
+impertinent. He does not let you forget their rank, but shares with you
+his comfortable feeling that they are of the same flesh as you and I. I
+always think it a pity that, fashion having decided that the doings of
+the aristocracy are no longer a proper subject for serious fiction, Roy,
+always keenly sensitive to the tendency of the age, should in his later
+novels have confined himself to the spiritual conflicts of solicitors,
+chartered accountants, and produce brokers. He does not move in these
+circles with his old assurance.
+
+I knew him first soon after he resigned his secretaryship to devote
+himself exclusively to literature, and he was then a fine, upstanding
+young man, six feet high in his stockinged feet and of an athletic
+build, with broad shoulders and a confident carriage. He was not
+handsome, but in a manly way agreeable to look at, with wide blue frank
+eyes and curly hair of a lightish brown; his nose was rather short and
+broad, his chin square. He looked honest, clean, and healthy. He was
+something of an athlete. No one who has read in his early books the
+descriptions of a run with the hounds, so vivid, and so accurate, can
+doubt that he wrote from personal experience; and until quite lately he
+was willing now and then to desert his desk for a day’s hunting. He
+published his first novel at the period when men of letters, to show
+their virility, drank beer and played cricket, and for some years there
+was seldom a literary eleven in which his name did not figure. This
+particular school, I hardly know why, has lost its bravery, their books
+are neglected, and cricketers though they have remained, they find
+difficulty in placing their articles. Roy ceased playing cricket a good
+many years ago and he has developed a fine taste for claret.
+
+Roy was very modest about his first novel. It was short, neatly written,
+and, as is everything he has produced since, in perfect taste. He sent
+it with a pleasant letter to all the leading writers of the day, and in
+this he told each one how greatly he admired his works, how much he had
+learned from his study of them, and how ardently he aspired to follow,
+albeit at a humble distance, the trail his correspondent had blazed. He
+laid his book at the feet of a great artist as the tribute of a young
+man entering upon the profession of letters to one whom he would always
+look up to as his master. Deprecatingly, fully conscious of his audacity
+in asking so busy a man to waste his time on a neophyte’s puny effort,
+he begged for criticism and guidance. Few of the replies were
+perfunctory. The authors he wrote to, flattered by his praise, answered
+at length. They commended his book; many of them asked him to luncheon.
+They could not fail to be charmed by his frankness and warmed by his
+enthusiasm. He asked for their advice with a humility that was touching
+and promised to act upon it with a sincerity that was impressive. Here,
+they felt, was someone worth taking a little trouble over.
+
+His novel had a considerable success. It made him many friends in
+literary circles and in a very short while you could not go to a tea
+party in Bloomsbury, Campden Hill, or Westminster without finding him
+handing round bread and butter or disembarrassing an elderly lady of an
+empty cup. He was so young, so bluff, so gay, he laughed so merrily at
+other people’s jokes that no one could help liking him. He joined dining
+clubs where in the basement of a hotel in Victoria Street or Holborn men
+of letters, young barristers, and ladies in Liberty silks and strings of
+beads ate a three-and-sixpenny dinner and discussed art and literature.
+It was soon discovered that he had a pretty gift for after-dinner
+speaking. He was so pleasant that his fellow writers, his rivals and
+contemporaries, forgave him even the fact that he was a gentleman. He
+was generous in his praise of their fledgeling works, and when they sent
+him manuscripts to criticize could never find a thing amiss. They
+thought him not only a good sort, but a sound judge.
+
+He wrote a second novel. He took great pains with it and he profited by
+the advice his elders in the craft had given him. It was only just that
+more than one should at his request write a review for a paper with
+whose editor Roy had got into touch and only natural that the review
+should be flattering. His second novel was successful, but not so
+successful as to arouse the umbrageous susceptibilities of his
+competitors. In fact it confirmed them in their suspicions that he would
+never set the Thames on fire. He was a jolly good fellow; no side, or
+anything like that: they were quite content to give a leg up to a man
+who would never climb so high as to be an obstacle to themselves. I know
+some who smile bitterly now when they reflect on the mistake they made.
+
+But when they say that he is swollen-headed they err. Roy has never lost
+the modesty which in his youth was his most engaging trait.
+
+“I know I’m not a great novelist,” he will tell you. “When I compare
+myself with the giants I simply don’t exist. I used to think that one
+day I should write a really great novel, but I’ve long ceased even to
+hope for that. All I want people to say is that I do my best. I do work.
+I never let anything slipshod get past me. I think I can tell a good
+story and I can create characters that ring true. And after all the
+proof of the pudding is in the eating: _The Eye of the Needle_ sold
+thirty-five thousand in England and eighty thousand in America, and for
+the serial rights of my next book I’ve got the biggest terms I’ve ever
+had yet.”
+
+And what, after all, can it be other than modesty that makes him even
+now write to the reviewers of his books, thanking them for their praise,
+and ask them to luncheon? Nay, more: when someone has written a stinging
+criticism and Roy, especially since his reputation became so great, has
+had to put up with some very virulent abuse, he does not, like most of
+us, shrug his shoulders, fling a mental insult at the ruffian who does
+not like our work, and then forget about it; he writes a long letter to
+his critic, telling him that he is very sorry he thought his book bad,
+but his review was so interesting in itself, and if he might venture to
+say so, showed so much critical sense and so much feeling for words,
+that he felt bound to write to him. No one is more anxious to improve
+himself than he and he hopes he is still capable of learning. He does
+not want to be a bore, but if the critic has nothing to do on Wednesday
+or Friday will he come and lunch at the Savoy and tell him why exactly
+he thought his book so bad? No one can order a lunch better than Roy,
+and generally by the time the critic has eaten half a dozen oysters and
+a cut from a saddle of baby lamb, he has eaten his words too. It is only
+poetic justice that when Roy’s next novel comes out the critic should
+see in the new work a very great advance.
+
+One of the difficulties that a man has to cope with as he goes through
+life is what to do about the persons with whom he has once been intimate
+and whose interest for him has in due course subsided. If both parties
+remain in a modest station the break comes about naturally, and no ill
+feeling subsists, but if one of them achieves eminence the position is
+awkward. He makes a multitude of new friends, but the old ones are
+inexorable; he has a thousand claims on his time, but they feel that
+they have the first right to it. Unless he is at their beck and call
+they sigh and with a shrug of the shoulders say:
+
+“Ah, well, I suppose you’re like everyone else. I must expect to be
+dropped now that you’re a success.”
+
+That of course is what he would like to do if he had the courage. For
+the most part he hasn’t. He weakly accepts an invitation to supper on
+Sunday evening. The cold roast beef is frozen and comes from Australia
+and was over-cooked at middle day; and the burgundy—ah, why will they
+call it burgundy? Have they never been to Beaune and stayed at the Hôtel
+de la Poste? Of course it is grand to talk of the good old days when you
+shared a crust of bread in a garret together, but it is a little
+disconcerting when you reflect how near to a garret is the room you are
+sitting in. You feel ill at ease when your friend tells you that his
+books don’t sell and that he can’t place his short stories; the managers
+won’t even read his plays, and when he compares them with some of the
+stuff that’s put on (here he fixes you with an accusing eye) it really
+does seem a bit hard. You are embarrassed and you look away. You
+exaggerate the failures you have had in order that he may realize that
+life has its hardships for you too. You refer to your work in the most
+disparaging way you can and are a trifle taken aback to find that your
+host’s opinion of it is the same as yours. You speak of the fickleness
+of the public so that he may comfort himself by thinking that your
+popularity cannot last. He is a friendly but severe critic.
+
+“I haven’t read your last book,” he says, “but I read the one before.
+I’ve forgotten its name.”
+
+You tell him.
+
+“I was rather disappointed in it. I didn’t think it was quite so good as
+some of the things you’ve done. Of course you know which my favourite
+is.”
+
+And you, having suffered from other hands than his, answer at once with
+the name of the first book you ever wrote; you were twenty then, and it
+was crude and ingenuous, and on every page was written your
+inexperience.
+
+“You’ll never do anything so good as that,” he says heartily, and you
+feel that your whole career has been a long decadence from that one
+happy hit. “I always think you’ve never _quite_ fulfilled the promise
+you showed then.”
+
+The gas fire roasts your feet, but your hands are icy. You look at your
+wrist watch surreptitiously and wonder whether your old friend would
+think it offensive if you took your leave as early as ten. You have told
+your car to wait round the corner so that it should not stand outside
+the door and by its magnificence affront his poverty, but at the door he
+says:
+
+“You’ll find a bus at the bottom of the street. I’ll just walk down with
+you.”
+
+Panic seizes you and you confess that you have a car. He finds it very
+odd that the chauffeur should wait round the corner. You answer that
+this is one of his idiosyncrasies. When you reach it your friend looks
+at it with tolerant superiority. You nervously ask him to dinner with
+you one day. You promise to write to him and you drive away wondering
+whether when he comes he will think you are swanking if you ask him to
+Claridge’s or mean if you suggest Soho.
+
+Roy Kear suffered from none of these tribulations. It sounds a little
+brutal to say that when he had got all he could out of people he dropped
+them; but it would take so long to put the matter more delicately, and
+would need so subtle an adjustment of hints, half-tones, and allusions,
+playful or tender, that such being at bottom the fact, I think it as
+well to leave it at that. Most of us when we do a caddish thing harbour
+resentment against the person we have done it to, but Roy’s heart,
+always in the right place, never permitted him such pettiness. He could
+use a man very shabbily without afterward bearing him the slightest
+ill-will.
+
+“Poor old Smith,” he would say. “He is a dear; I’m so fond of him. Pity
+he’s growing so bitter. I wish one could do something for him. No, I
+haven t seen him for years. It’s no good trying to keep up old
+friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of
+people, and the only thing is to face it.”
+
+But if he ran across Smith at some gathering like the private view of
+the Royal Academy no one could be more cordial. He wrung his hand and
+told him how delighted he was to see him. His face beamed. He shed good
+fellowship as the kindly sun its rays. Smith rejoiced in the glow of
+this wonderful vitality and it was damned decent of Roy to say he’d give
+his eye-teeth to have written a book half as good as Smith’s last. On
+the other hand, if Roy thought Smith had not seen him, he looked the
+other way; but Smith _had_ seen him, and Smith resented being cut. Smith
+was very acid. He said that in the old days Roy had been glad enough to
+share a steak with him in a shabby restaurant and spend a month’s
+holiday in a fisherman’s cottage at St. Ives. Smith said that Roy was a
+time server. He said he was a snob. He said he was a humbug.
+
+Smith was wrong here. The most shining characteristic of Alroy Kear was
+his sincerity. No one can be a humbug for five-and-twenty years.
+Hypocrisy is the most difficult and nerve-racking vice that any man can
+pursue; it needs an unceasing vigilance and a rare detachment of spirit.
+It cannot, like adultery or gluttony, be practised at spare moments; it
+is a whole-time job. It needs also a cynical humour; although Roy
+laughed so much I never thought he had a very quick sense of humour, and
+I am quite sure that he was incapable of cynicism. Though I have
+finished few of his novels, I have begun a good many, and to my mind his
+sincerity is stamped on every one of their multitudinous pages. This is
+clearly the chief ground of his stable popularity. Roy has always
+sincerely believed what everyone else believed at the moment. When he
+wrote novels about the aristocracy he sincerely believed that its
+members were dissipated and immoral, and yet had a certain nobility and
+an innate aptitude for governing the British Empire; when later he wrote
+of the middle classes he sincerely believed that they were the backbone
+of the country. His villains have always been villainous, his heroes
+heroic, and his maidens chaste.
+
+When Roy asked the author of a flattering review to lunch it was because
+he was sincerely grateful to him for his good opinion, and when he asked
+the author of an unflattering one it was because he was sincerely
+concerned to improve himself. When unknown admirers from Texas or
+western Australia came to London it was not only to cultivate his public
+that he took them to the National Gallery, it was because he was
+sincerely anxious to observe their reactions to art. You had only to
+hear him lecture to be convinced of his sincerity.
+
+When he stood on the platform, in evening dress admirably worn, or in a
+loose, much used but perfectly cut, lounge suit if it better fitted the
+occasion, and faced his audience seriously, frankly, but with an
+engaging diffidence you could not but realize that he was giving himself
+up to his task with complete earnestness. Though now and then he
+pretended to be at a loss for a word, it was only to make it more
+effective when he uttered it. His voice was full and manly. He told a
+story well. He was never dull. He was fond of lecturing upon the younger
+writers of England and America, and he explained their merits to his
+audience with an enthusiasm that attested his generosity. Perhaps he
+told almost too much, for when you had heard his lecture you felt that
+you really knew all you wanted to about them and it was quite
+unnecessary to read their books. I suppose that is why when Roy had
+lectured in some provincial town not a single copy of the books of the
+authors he had spoken of was ever asked for, but there was always a run
+on his own. His energy was prodigious. Not only did he make successful
+tours of the United States, but he lectured up and down Great Britain.
+No club was so small, no society for the self-improvement of its members
+so insignificant, that Roy disdained to give it an hour of his time. Now
+and then he revised his lectures and issued them in neat little books.
+Most people who are interested in these things have at least looked
+through the works entitled _Modern Novelists_, _Russian Fiction_, and
+_Some Writers_; and few can deny that they exhibit a real feeling for
+literature and a charming personality.
+
+But this by no means exhausted his activities. He was an active member
+of the organizations that have been founded to further the interests of
+authors or to alleviate their hard lot when sickness or old age has
+brought them to penury. He was always willing to give his help when
+matters of copyright were the subject of legislation and he was never
+unprepared to take his place in those missions to a foreign country
+which are devised to establish amicable relations between writers of
+different nationalities. He could be counted on to reply for literature
+at a public dinner and he was invariably on the reception committee
+formed to give a proper welcome to a literary celebrity from overseas.
+No bazaar lacked an autographed copy of at least one of his books. He
+never refused to grant an interview. He justly said that no one knew
+better than he the hardships of the author’s trade and if he could help
+a struggling journalist to earn a few guineas by having a pleasant chat
+with him he had not the inhumanity to refuse. He generally asked his
+interviewer to luncheon and seldom failed to make a good impression on
+him. The only stipulation he made was that he should see the article
+before it was published. He was never impatient with the persons who
+call up the celebrated on the telephone at inconvenient moments to ask
+them for the information of newspaper readers whether they believe in
+God or what they eat for breakfast. He figured in every symposium and
+the public knew what he thought of prohibition, vegetarianism, jazz,
+garlic, exercise, marriage, politics, and the place of women in the
+home.
+
+His views on marriage were abstract, for he had successfully evaded the
+state which so many artists have found difficult to reconcile with the
+arduous pursuit of their calling. It was generally known that he had for
+some years cherished a hopeless passion for a married woman of rank, and
+though he never spoke of her but with chivalrous admiration, it was
+understood that she had treated him with harshness. The novels of his
+middle period reflected in their unwonted bitterness the strain to which
+he had been put. The anguish of spirit he had passed through then
+enabled him without offense to elude the advances of ladies of little
+reputation, frayed ornaments of a hectic circle, who were willing to
+exchange an uncertain present for the security of marriage with a
+successful novelist. When he saw in their bright eyes the shadow of the
+registry office he told them that the memory of his one great love would
+always prevent him from forming any permanent tie. His quixotry might
+exasperate, but could not affront them. He sighed a little when he
+reflected that he must be for ever denied the joys of domesticity and
+the satisfaction of parenthood, but it was a sacrifice that he was
+prepared to make not only to his ideal, but also to the possible partner
+of his joys. He had noticed that people really do not want to be
+bothered with the wives of authors and painters. The artist who insisted
+on taking his wife wherever he went only made himself a nuisance and
+indeed was in consequence often not asked to places he would have liked
+to go to; and if he left his wife at home, he was on his return exposed
+to recriminations that shattered the repose so essential for him to do
+the best that was in him. Alroy Kear was a bachelor and now at fifty was
+likely to remain one.
+
+He was an example of what an author can do, and to what heights he can
+rise, by industry, common-sense, honesty, and the efficient combination
+of means and ends. He was a good fellow and none but a cross-grained
+carper could grudge him his success. I felt that to fall asleep with his
+image in my mind would insure me a good night. I scribbled a note to
+Miss Fellows, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, put out the light in my
+sitting room, and went to bed.
+
+
+
+
+                                   II
+
+
+WHEN I rang for my letters and the papers next morning a message was
+delivered to me, in answer to my note to Miss Fellows, that Mr. Alroy
+Kear expected me at one-fifteen at his club in St. James’s Street; so a
+little before one I strolled round to my own and had the cocktail, which
+I was pretty sure Roy would not offer me. Then I walked down St. James’s
+Street, looking idly at the shop windows, and since I had still a few
+minutes to spare (I did not want to keep my appointment too punctually)
+I went into Christie’s to see if there was anything I liked the look of.
+The auction had already begun and a group of dark, small men were
+passing round to one another pieces of Victorian silver, while the
+auctioneer, following their gestures with bored eyes, muttered in a
+drone: “Ten shillings offered, eleven, eleven and six” . . . It was a
+fine day, early in June, and the air in King Street was bright. It made
+the pictures on the walls of Christie’s look very dingy. I went out. The
+people in the street walked with a kind of nonchalance, as though the
+ease of the day had entered into their souls and in the midst of their
+affairs they had a sudden and surprised inclination to stop and look at
+the picture of life.
+
+Roy’s club was sedate. In the ante-chamber were only an ancient porter
+and a page; and I had a sudden and melancholy feeling that the members
+were all attending the funeral of the head waiter. The page, when I had
+uttered Roy’s name, led me into an empty passage to leave my hat and
+stick and then into an empty hall hung with life-sized portraits of
+Victorian statesmen. Roy got up from a leather sofa and warmly greeted
+me.
+
+“Shall we go straight up?” he said.
+
+I was right in thinking that he would not offer me a cocktail and I
+commended my prudence. He led me up a noble flight of heavily carpeted
+stairs, and we passed nobody on the way; we entered the strangers’
+dining room, and we were its only occupants. It was a room of some size,
+very clean and white, with an Adam window. We sat down by it and a
+demure waiter handed us the bill of fare. Beef, mutton and lamb, cold
+salmon, apple tart, rhubarb tart, gooseberry tart. As my eye travelled
+down the inevitable list I sighed as I thought of the restaurants round
+the corner where there was French cooking, the clatter of life, and
+pretty painted women in summer frocks.
+
+“I can recommend the veal-and-ham pie,” said Roy.
+
+“All right.”
+
+“I’ll mix the salad myself,” he told the waiter in an off-hand and yet
+commanding way, and then, casting his eye once more on the bill of fare,
+generously: “And what about some asparagus to follow?”
+
+“That would be very nice.”
+
+His manner grew a trifle grander.
+
+“Asparagus for two and tell the chef to choose them himself. Now what
+would you like to drink? What do you say to a bottle of hock? We rather
+fancy our hock here.”
+
+When I had agreed to this he told the waiter to call the wine steward. I
+could not but admire the authoritative and yet perfectly polite manner
+in which he gave his orders. You felt that thus would a well-bred king
+send for one of his field marshals. The wine steward, portly in black,
+with the silver chain of his office round his neck, bustled in with the
+wine list in his hand. Roy nodded to him with curt familiarity.
+
+“Hulloa, Armstrong, we want some of the Liebfraumilch, the ’21.”
+
+“Very good, sir.”
+
+“How’s it holding up? Pretty well? We shan’t be able to get any more of
+it, you know.”
+
+“I’m afraid not, sir.”
+
+“Well, it’s no good meeting trouble halfway, is it, Armstrong?”
+
+Roy smiled at the steward with breezy cordiality. The steward saw from
+his long experience of members that the remark needed an answer.
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+Roy laughed and his eye sought mine. Quite a character, Armstrong.
+
+“Well, chill it, Armstrong; not too much, you know, but just right. I
+want my guest to see that we know what’s what here.” He turned to me.
+“Armstrong’s been with us for eight and forty years.” And when the wine
+steward had left us: “I hope you don’t mind coming here. It’s quiet and
+we can have a good talk. It’s ages since we did. You’re looking very
+fit.”
+
+This drew my attention to Roy’s appearance.
+
+“Not half so fit as you,” I answered.
+
+“The result of an upright, sober, and godly life,” he laughed. “Plenty
+of work. Plenty of exercise. How’s the golf? We must have a game one of
+these days.”
+
+I knew that Roy was scratch and that nothing would please him less than
+to waste a day with so indifferent a player as myself. But I felt I was
+quite safe in accepting so vague an invitation. He looked the picture of
+health. His curly hair was getting very gray, but it suited him and made
+his frank, sunburned face look younger. His eyes, which looked upon the
+world with such a hearty candour, were bright and clear. He was not so
+slim as in his youth and I was not surprised that when the waiter
+offered us rolls he asked for Rye-Vita. His slight corpulence only added
+to his dignity. It gave weight to his observations. Because his
+movements were a little more deliberate than they had been you had a
+comfortable feeling of confidence in him; he filled his chair with so
+much solidity that you had almost the impression that he sat upon a
+monument.
+
+I do not know whether, as I wished, I have indicated by my report of his
+dialogue with the waiter that his conversation was not as a rule
+brilliant or witty, but it was easy and he laughed so much that you
+sometimes had the illusion that what he said was funny. He was never at
+a loss for a remark and he could discourse on the topics of the day with
+an ease that prevented his hearers from experiencing any sense of
+strain.
+
+Many authors from their preoccupation with words have the bad habit of
+choosing those they use in conversation too carefully. They form their
+sentences with unconscious care and say neither more nor less than they
+mean. It makes intercourse with them somewhat formidable to persons in
+the upper ranks of society whose vocabulary is limited by their simple
+spiritual needs, and their company consequently is sought only with
+hesitation. No constraint of this sort was ever felt with Roy. He could
+talk with a dancing guardee in terms that were perfectly comprehensible
+to him and with a racing countess in the language of her stable boys.
+They said of him with enthusiasm and relief that he was not a bit like
+an author. No compliment pleased him better. The wise always use a
+number of ready-made phrases (at the moment I write “nobody’s business”
+is the most common), popular adjectives (like “divine” or “shy-making”),
+verbs that you only know the meaning of if you live in the right set
+(like “dunch”), which give ease and a homely sparkle to small talk and
+avoid the necessity of thought. The Americans, who are the most
+efficient people on the earth, have carried this device to such a height
+of perfection and have invented so wide a range of pithy and hackneyed
+phrases that they can carry on an amusing and animated conversation
+without giving a moment’s reflection to what they are saying and so
+leave their minds free to consider the more important matters of big
+business and fornication. Roy’s repertory was extensive and his scent
+for the word of the minute unerring; it peppered his speech, but aptly,
+and he used it each time with a sort of bright eagerness, as though his
+fertile brain had just minted it.
+
+Now he talked of this and that, of our common friends and the latest
+books, of the opera. He was very breezy. He was always cordial, but
+to-day his cordiality took my breath away. He lamented that we saw one
+another so seldom and told me with the frankness that was one of his
+pleasantest characteristics how much he liked me and what a high opinion
+he had of me. I felt I must not fail to meet this friendliness halfway.
+He asked me about the book I was writing, I asked him about the book he
+was writing. We told one another that neither of us had had the success
+he deserved. We ate the veal-and-ham pie and Roy told me how he mixed a
+salad. We drank the hock and smacked appreciative lips.
+
+And I wondered when he was coming to the point.
+
+I could not bring myself to believe that at the height of the London
+season Alroy Kear would waste an hour on a fellow writer who was not a
+reviewer and had no influence in any quarter whatever in order to talk
+of Matisse, the Russian Ballet and Marcel Proust. Besides, at the back
+of his gaiety I vaguely felt a slight apprehension. Had I not known that
+he was in a prosperous state I should have suspected that he was going
+to borrow a hundred pounds from me. It began to look as though luncheon
+would end without his finding the opportunity to say what he had in
+mind. I knew he was cautious. Perhaps he thought that this meeting, the
+first after so long a separation, had better be employed in establishing
+friendly relations, and was prepared to look upon the pleasant,
+substantial meal merely as ground bait.
+
+“Shall we go and have our coffee in the next room?” he said.
+
+“If you like.”
+
+“I think it’s more comfortable.”
+
+I followed him into another room, much more spacious, with great leather
+armchairs and huge sofas; there were papers and magazines on the tables.
+Two old gentlemen in a corner were talking in undertones. They gave us a
+hostile glance, but this did not deter Roy from offering them a cordial
+greeting.
+
+“Hullo, General,” he cried, nodding breezily.
+
+I stood for a moment at the window, looking at the gaiety of the day,
+and wished I knew more of the historical associations of St. James’s
+Street. I was ashamed that I did not even know the name of the club
+across the way and was afraid to ask Roy lest he should despise me for
+not knowing what every decent person knew. He called me back by asking
+me whether I would have a brandy with my coffee, and when I refused,
+insisted. The club’s brandy was famous. We sat side by side on a sofa by
+the elegant fireplace and lit cigars.
+
+“The last time Edward Driffield ever came to London he lunched with me
+here,” said Roy casually. “I made the old man try our brandy and he was
+delighted with it. I was staying with his widow over last week-end.”
+
+“Were you?”
+
+“She sent you all sorts of messages.”
+
+“That’s very kind of her. I shouldn’t have thought she remembered me.”
+
+“Oh, yes, she does. You lunched there about six years ago, didn’t you?
+She says the old man was so glad to see you.”
+
+“I didn’t think _she_ was.”
+
+“Oh, you’re quite wrong. Of course she had to be very careful. The old
+man was pestered with people who wanted to see him and she had to
+husband his strength. She was always afraid he’d do too much. It’s a
+wonderful thing if you come to think of it that she should have kept him
+alive and in possession of all his faculties to the age of eighty-four.
+I’ve been seeing a good deal of her since he died. She’s awfully lonely.
+After all, she devoted herself to looking after him for twenty-five
+years. Othello’s occupation, you know. I really feel sorry for her.”
+
+“She’s still comparatively young. I dare say she’ll marry again.”
+
+“Oh, no, she couldn’t do that. That would be dreadful.”
+
+There was a slight pause while we sipped our brandy.
+
+“You must be one of the few persons still alive who knew Driffield when
+he was unknown. You saw quite a lot of him at one time, didn’t you?”
+
+“A certain amount. I was almost a small boy and he was a middle-aged
+man. We weren’t boon companions, you know.”
+
+“Perhaps not, but you must know a great deal about him that other people
+don’t.”
+
+“I suppose I do.”
+
+“Have you ever thought of writing your recollections of him?”
+
+“Good heavens, no!”
+
+“Don’t you think you ought to? He was one of the greatest novelists of
+our day. The last of the Victorians. He was an enormous figure. His
+novels have as good a chance of surviving as any that have been written
+in the last hundred years.”
+
+“I wonder. I’ve always thought them rather boring.”
+
+Roy looked at me with eyes twinkling with laughter.
+
+“How like you that is! Anyhow you must admit that you’re in the
+minority. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve read his novels not once or
+twice, but half a dozen times, and every time I read them I think
+they’re finer. Did you read the articles that were written about him at
+his death?”
+
+“Some of them.”
+
+“The consensus of opinion was absolutely amazing. I read every one.”
+
+“If they all said the same thing, wasn’t that rather unnecessary?”
+
+Roy shrugged his massive shoulders good-humouredly, but did not answer
+my question.
+
+“I thought the _Times Lit. Sup._ was splendid. It would have done the
+old man good to read it. I hear that the quarterlies are going to have
+articles in their next numbers.”
+
+“I still think his novels rather boring.”
+
+Roy smiled indulgently.
+
+“Doesn’t it make you slightly uneasy to think that you disagree with
+everyone whose opinion matters?”
+
+“Not particularly. I’ve been writing for thirty-five years now, and you
+can’t think how many geniuses I’ve seen acclaimed, enjoy their hour or
+two of glory, and vanish into obscurity. I wonder what’s happened to
+them. Are they dead, are they shut up in madhouses, are they hidden away
+in offices? I wonder if they furtively lend their books to the doctor
+and the maiden lady in some obscure village. I wonder if they are still
+great men in some Italian pension.”
+
+“Oh, yes, they’re the flash in the pans. I’ve known them.”
+
+“You’ve even lectured about them.”
+
+“One has to. One wants to give them a leg up if one can and one knows
+they won’t amount to anything. Hang it all, one can afford to be
+generous. But after all, Driffield wasn’t anything like that. The
+collected edition of his works is in thirty-seven volumes and the last
+set that came up at Sotheby’s sold for seventy-eight pounds. That speaks
+for itself. His sales have increased steadily every year and last year
+was the best he ever had. You can take my word for that. Mrs. Driffield
+showed me his accounts last time I was down there. Driffield has come to
+stay all right.”
+
+“Who can tell?”
+
+“Well, you think you can,” replied Roy acidly.
+
+I was not put out. I knew I was irritating him and it gave me a pleasant
+sensation.
+
+“I think the instinctive judgments I formed when I was a boy were right.
+They told me Carlyle was a great writer and I was ashamed that I found
+the _French Revolution_ and _Sartor Resartus_ unreadable. Can anyone
+read them now? I thought the opinions of others must be better than mine
+and I persuaded myself that I thought George Meredith magnificent. In my
+heart I found him affected, verbose, and insincere. A good many people
+think so too now. Because they told me that to admire Walter Pater was
+to prove myself a cultured young man, I admired Walter Pater, but
+heavens how Marius bored me!”
+
+“Oh, well, I don’t suppose anyone reads Pater now, and of course
+Meredith has gone all to pot and Carlyle was a pretentious windbag.”
+
+“You don’t know how secure of immortality they all looked thirty years
+ago.”
+
+“And have you never made mistakes?”
+
+“One or two. I didn’t think half as much of Newman as I do now, and I
+thought a great deal more of the tinkling quatrains of Fitzgerald. I
+could not read Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_; now I think it his
+masterpiece.”
+
+“And what did you think much of then that you think much of still?”
+
+“Well, _Tristram Shandy_ and _Amelia_ and _Vanity Fair_. _Madame
+Bovary_, _La Chartreuse de Parme_, and _Anna Karenina_. And Wordsworth
+and Keats and Verlaine.”
+
+“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think that’s particularly
+original.”
+
+“I don’t mind your saying so at all. I don’t think it is. But you asked
+me why I believed in my own judgment, and I was trying to explain to you
+that, whatever I said out of timidity and in deference to the cultured
+opinion of the day, I didn’t really admire certain authors who were then
+thought admirable and the event seems to show that I was right. And what
+I honestly and instinctively liked then has stood the test of time with
+me and with critical opinion in general.”
+
+Roy was silent for a moment. He looked in the bottom of his cup, but
+whether to see if there were any more coffee in it or to find something
+to say, I did not know. I gave the clock on the chimney-piece a glance.
+In a minute it would be fitting for me to take my leave. Perhaps I had
+been wrong and Roy had invited me only that we might idly chat of
+Shakespeare and the musical glasses. I chid myself for the uncharitable
+thoughts I had had of him. I looked at him with concern. If that was his
+only object it must be that he was feeling tired or discouraged. If he
+was disinterested it could only be that for the moment at least the
+world was too much for him. But he caught my look at the clock and
+spoke.
+
+“I don’t see how you can deny that there must be something in a man
+who’s able to carry on for sixty years, writing book after book, and
+who’s able to hold an ever-increasing public. After all, at Ferne Court
+there are shelves filled with the translations of Driffield’s books into
+every language of civilized people. Of course I’m willing to admit that
+a lot he wrote seems a bit old-fashioned nowadays. He flourished in a
+bad period and he was inclined to be long-winded. Most of his plots are
+melodramatic; but there’s one quality you must allow him: beauty.”
+
+“Yes?” I said.
+
+“When all’s said and done, that’s the only thing that counts and
+Driffield never wrote a page that wasn’t instinct with beauty.”
+
+“Yes?” I said.
+
+“I wish you’d been there when we went down to present him with his
+portrait on his eightieth birthday. It really was a memorable occasion.”
+
+“I read about it in the papers.”
+
+“It wasn’t only writers, you know, it was a thoroughly representative
+gathering—science, politics, business, art, the world; I think you’d
+have to go a long way to find gathered together such a collection of
+distinguished people as got out from that train at Blackstable. It was
+awfully moving when the P.M. presented the old man with the Order of
+Merit. He made a charming speech. I don’t mind telling you there were
+tears in a good many eyes that day.”
+
+“Did Driffield cry?”
+
+“No, he was singularly calm. He was like he always was, rather shy, you
+know, and quiet, very well-mannered, grateful, of course, but a little
+dry. Mrs. Driffield didn’t want him to get overtired and when we went
+into lunch he stayed in his study, and she sent him something in on a
+tray. I slipped away while the others were having their coffee. He was
+smoking his pipe and looking at the portrait. I asked him what he
+thought of it. He wouldn’t tell me, he just smiled a little. He asked me
+if I thought he could take his teeth out and I said, No, the deputation
+would be coming in presently to say good-bye to him. Then I asked him if
+he didn’t think it was a wonderful moment. ‘Rum,’ he said, ‘very rum.’
+The fact is, I suppose, he was shattered. He was a messy eater in his
+later days and a messy smoker—he scattered the tobacco all over himself
+when he filled his pipe; Mrs. Driffield didn’t like people to see him
+when he was like that, but of course she didn’t mind me; I tidied him up
+a bit and then they all came in and shook hands with him, and we went
+back to town.”
+
+I got up.
+
+“Well, I really must be going. It’s been awfully nice seeing you.”
+
+“I’m just going along to the private view at the Leicester Galleries. I
+know the people there. I’ll take you in if you like.”
+
+“It’s very kind of you, but they sent me a card. No, I don’t think I’ll
+come.”
+
+We walked down the stairs and I got my hat. When we came out into the
+street and I turned to ward Piccadilly, Roy said:
+
+“I’ll just walk up to the top with you.” He got into step with me. “You
+knew his first wife, didn’t you?”
+
+“Whose?”
+
+“Driffield’s.”
+
+“Oh!” I had forgotten him. “Yes.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Fairly.”
+
+“I suppose she was awful.”
+
+“I don’t recollect that.”
+
+“She must have been dreadfully common. She was a barmaid, wasn’t she?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I wonder why the devil he married her. I’ve always been given to
+understand that she was extremely unfaithful to him.”
+
+“Extremely.”
+
+“Do you remember at all what she was like?”
+
+“Yes, very distinctly,” I smiled. “She was sweet.”
+
+Roy gave a short laugh.
+
+“That’s not the general impression.”
+
+I did not answer. We had reached Piccadilly, and stopping I held out my
+hand to Roy. He shook it, but I fancied without his usual heartiness. I
+had the impression that he was disappointed with our meeting. I could
+not imagine why. Whatever he had wanted of me I had not been able to do,
+for the reason that he had given me no inkling of what it was, and as I
+strolled under the arcade of the Ritz Hotel and along the park railings
+till I came opposite Half Moon Street I wondered if my manner had been
+more than ordinarily forbidding. It was quite evident that Roy had felt
+the moment inopportune to ask me to grant him a favour.
+
+I walked up Half Moon Street. After the gay tumult of Piccadilly it had
+a pleasant silence. It was sedate and respectable. Most of the houses
+let apartments, but this was not advertised by the vulgarity of a card;
+some had a brightly polished brass plate, like a doctor’s, to announce
+the fact and others the word _Apartments_ neatly painted on the
+fanlight. One or two with an added discretion merely gave the name of
+the proprietor, so that if you were ignorant you might have thought it a
+tailor’s or a money lender’s. There was none of the congested traffic of
+Jermyn Street, where also they let rooms, but here and there a smart
+car, unattended, stood outside a door and occasionally at another a taxi
+deposited a middle-aged lady. You had the feeling that the people who
+lodged here were not gay and a trifle disreputable as in Jermyn Street,
+racing men who rose in the morning with headaches and asked for a hair
+of the dog that bit them, but respectable women from the country who
+came up for six weeks for the London season and elderly gentlemen who
+belonged to exclusive clubs. You felt that they came year after year to
+the same house and perhaps had known the proprietor when he was still in
+private service. My own Miss Fellows had been cook in some very good
+places, but you would never have guessed it had you seen her walking
+along to do her shopping in Shepherd’s Market. She was not stout,
+red-faced, and blousy as one expects a cook to be; she was spare and
+very upright, neatly but fashionably dressed, a woman of middle age,
+with determined features; her lips were rouged and she wore an eyeglass.
+She was businesslike, quiet, coolly cynical, and very expensive.
+
+The rooms I occupied were on the ground floor. The parlour was papered
+with an old marbled paper and on the walls were water colours of
+romantic scenes, cavaliers bidding good-bye to their ladies and knights
+of old banqueting in stately halls; there were large ferns in pots, and
+the armchairs were covered with faded leather. There was about the room
+an amusing air of the eighteen eighties, and when I looked out of the
+window I expected to see a private hansom rather than a Chrysler. The
+curtains were of a heavy red rep.
+
+
+
+
+                                  III
+
+
+I HAD a good deal to do that afternoon, but my conversation with Roy and
+the impression of the day before yesterday, the sense of a past that
+still dwelt in the minds of men not yet old, that my room, I could not
+tell why, had given me even more strongly than usual as I entered it,
+inveigled my thoughts to saunter down the road of memory. It was as
+though all the people who had at one time and another inhabited my
+lodging pressed upon me with their old-fashioned ways and odd clothes,
+men with muttonchop whiskers in frock coats and women in bustles and
+flounced skirts. The rumble of London, which I did not know if I
+imagined or heard (my house was at the top of Half Moon Street), and the
+beauty of the sunny June day (_le vierge, le vivace et le bel
+aujourd’hui_), gave my reverie a poignancy which was not quite painful.
+The past I looked at seemed to have lost its reality and I saw it as
+though it were a scene in a play and I a spectator in the back row of a
+dark gallery. But it was all very clear as far as it went. It was not
+misty like life as one leads it when the ceaseless throng of impressions
+seems to rob them of outline, but sharp and definite like a landscape
+painted in oils by a painstaking artist of the middle-Victorian era.
+
+I fancy that life is more amusing now than it was forty years ago and I
+have a notion that people are more amiable. They may have been worthier
+then, possessed of more solid virtue as, I am told, they were possessed
+of more substantial knowledge; I do not know. I know they were more
+cantankerous; they ate too much, many of them drank too much, they took
+too little exercise. Their livers were out of order and their digestions
+often impaired. They were irritable. I do not speak of London of which I
+knew nothing till I was grown up, nor of grand people who hunted and
+shot, but of the countryside and of the modest persons, gentlemen of
+small means, clergymen, retired officers, and such like who made up the
+local society. The dullness of their lives was almost incredible. There
+were no golf links; at a few houses was an ill-kept tennis court, but it
+was only the very young who played; there was a dance once a year in the
+Assembly Rooms; carriage folk went for a drive in the afternoon; the
+others went for a “constitutional!” You may say that they did not miss
+amusements they had never thought of, and that they created excitement
+for themselves from the small entertainment (tea when you were asked to
+bring your music and you sang the songs of Maude Valérie White and
+Tosti) which at infrequent intervals they offered one another; the days
+were very long; they were bored. People who were condemned to spend
+their lives within a mile of one another quarrelled bitterly, and seeing
+each other every day in the town cut one another for twenty years. They
+were vain, pig-headed, and odd. It was a life that perhaps formed queer
+characters; people were not so like one another as now and they acquired
+a small celebrity by their idiosyncrasies, but they were not easy to get
+on with. It may be that we are flippant and careless, but we accept one
+another without the old suspicion; our manners, rough and ready, are
+kindly; we are more prepared to give and take and we are not so crabbed.
+
+I lived with an uncle and aunt on the outskirts of a little Kentish town
+by the sea. It was called Blackstable and my uncle was the vicar. My
+aunt was a German. She came of a very noble but impoverished family, and
+the only portion she brought her husband was a marquetry writing desk,
+made for an ancestor in the Seventeenth Century, and a set of tumblers.
+Of these only a few remained when I entered upon the scene and they were
+used as ornaments in the drawing room. I liked the grand coat-of-arms
+with which they were heavily engraved. There were I don’t know how many
+quarterings, which my aunt used demurely to explain to me, and the
+supporters were fine and the crest emerging from a crown incredibly
+romantic. She was a simple old lady, of a meek and Christian
+disposition, but she had not, though married for more than thirty years
+to a modest parson with very little income beyond his stipend, forgotten
+that she was _hochwohlgeboren_. When a rich banker from London, with a
+name that in these days is famous in financial circles, took a
+neighbouring house for the summer holidays, though my uncle called on
+him (chiefly, I surmise, to get a subscription to the Additional Curates
+Society), she refused to do so because he was in trade. No one thought
+her a snob. It was accepted as perfectly reasonable. The banker had a
+little boy of my own age, and, I forget how, I became acquainted with
+him. I still remember the discussion that ensued when I asked if I might
+bring him to the vicarage; permission was reluctantly given me, but I
+was not allowed to go in return to his house. My aunt said I’d be
+wanting to go to the coal merchant’s next, and my uncle said:
+
+“Evil communications corrupt good manners.”
+
+The banker used to come to church every Sunday morning, and he always
+put half a sovereign in the plate, but if he thought his generosity made
+a good impression he was much mistaken. All Blackstable knew, but only
+thought him purse-proud.
+
+Blackstable consisted of a long winding street that led to the sea, with
+little two-story houses, many of them residential but with a good many
+shops; and from this ran a certain number of short streets, recently
+built, that ended on one side in the country and on the other in the
+marshes. Round about the harbour was a congeries of narrow winding
+alleys. Colliers brought coal from Newcastle to Blackstable and the
+harbour was animated. When I was old enough to be allowed out by myself
+I used to spend hours wandering about there looking at the rough grimy
+men in their jerseys and watching the coal being unloaded.
+
+It was at Blackstable that I first met Edward Driffield. I was fifteen
+and had just come back from school for the summer holidays. The morning
+after I got home I took a towel and bathing drawers and went down to the
+beach. The sky was unclouded and the air hot and bright, but the North
+Sea gave it a pleasant tang so that it was a delight just to live and
+breathe. In winter the natives of Blackstable walked down the empty
+street with a hurried gait, screwing themselves up in order to expose as
+little surface as possible to the bitterness of the east wind, but now
+they dawdled; they stood about in groups in the space between the Duke
+of Kent and the Bear and Key. You heard a hum of their East Anglian
+speech, drawling a little with an accent that may be ugly, but in which
+from old association I still find a leisurely charm. They were
+fresh-complexioned, with blue eyes and high cheek bones, and their hair
+was light. They had a clean, honest, and ingenuous look. I do not think
+they were very intelligent, but they were guileless. They looked
+healthy, and though not tall for the most part were strong and active.
+There was little wheeled traffic in Blackstable in those days and the
+groups that stood about the road chatting seldom had to move for
+anything but the doctor’s dogcart or the baker’s trap.
+
+Passing the bank, I called in to say how-do-you-do to the manager, who
+was my uncle’s churchwarden, and when I came out met my uncle’s curate.
+He stopped and shook hands with me. He was walking with a stranger. He
+did not introduce me to him. He was a smallish man with a beard and he
+was dressed rather loudly in a bright brown knickerbocker suit, the
+breeches very tight, with navy blue stockings, black boots, and a
+billycock hat. Knickerbockers were uncommon then, at least in
+Blackstable, and being young and fresh from school I immediately set the
+fellow down as a cad. But while I chatted with the curate he looked at
+me in a friendly way, with a smile in his pale blue eyes. I felt that
+for two pins he would have joined in the conversation and I assumed a
+haughty demeanour. I was not going to run the risk of being spoken to by
+a chap who wore knickerbockers like a gamekeeper and I resented the
+familiarity of his good-humoured expression. I was myself faultlessly
+dressed in white flannel trousers, a blue blazer with the arms of my
+school on the breast pocket, and a black-and-white straw hat with a very
+wide brim. The curate said that he must be getting on (fortunately, for
+I never knew how to break away from a meeting in the street and would
+endure agonies of shyness while I looked in vain for an opportunity),
+but said that he would be coming up to the vicarage that afternoon and
+would I tell my uncle. The stranger nodded and smiled as we parted, but
+I gave him a stony stare. I supposed he was a summer visitor and in
+Blackstable we did not mix with the summer visitors. We thought London
+people vulgar. We said it was horrid to have all that rag-tag and
+bobtail down from town every year, but of course it was all right for
+the tradespeople. Even they, however, gave a faint sigh of relief when
+September came to an end and Blackstable sank back into its usual peace.
+
+When I went home to dinner, my hair insufficiently dried and clinging
+lankily to my head, I remarked that I had met the curate and he was
+coming up that afternoon.
+
+“Old Mrs. Shepherd died last night,” said my uncle in explanation.
+
+The curate’s name was Galloway; he was a tall thin ungainly man with
+untidy black hair and a small sallow dark face. I suppose he was quite
+young, but to me he seemed middle-aged. He talked very quickly and
+gesticulated a great deal. This made people think him rather queer and
+my uncle would not have kept him but that he was very energetic, and my
+uncle, being extremely lazy, was glad to have someone to take so much
+work off his shoulders. After he had finished the business that had
+brought him to the vicarage Mr. Galloway came in to say how-do-you-do to
+my aunt and she asked him to stay to tea.
+
+“Who was that you were with this morning?” I asked him as he sat down.
+
+“Oh, that was Edward Driffield. I didn’t introduce him. I wasn’t sure if
+your uncle would wish you to know him.”
+
+“I think it would be most undesirable,” said my uncle.
+
+“Why, who is he? He’s not a Blackstable man, is he?”
+
+“He was born in the parish,” said my uncle. “His father was old Miss
+Wolfe’s bailiff at Ferne Court. But they were chapel people.”
+
+“He married a Blackstable girl,” said Mr. Galloway.
+
+“In church, I believe,” said my aunt. “Is it true that she was a barmaid
+at the Railway Arms?”
+
+“She looks as if she might have been something like that,” said Mr.
+Galloway, with a smile.
+
+“Are they going to stay long?”
+
+“Yes, I think so. They’ve taken one of those houses in that street where
+the Congregational chapel is,” said the curate.
+
+At that time in Blackstable, though the new streets doubtless had names,
+nobody knew or used them.
+
+“Is he coming to church?” asked my uncle.
+
+“I haven’t actually talked to him about it yet,” answered Mr. Galloway.
+“He’s quite an educated man, you know.”
+
+“I can hardly believe that,” said my uncle.
+
+“He was at Haversham School, I understand, and he got any number of
+scholarships and prizes. He got a scholarship at Wadham, but he ran away
+to sea instead.”
+
+“I’d heard he was rather a harum-scarum,” said my uncle.
+
+“He doesn’t look much like a sailor,” I remarked.
+
+“Oh, he gave up the sea many years ago. He’s been all sorts of things
+since then.”
+
+“Jack of all trades and master of none,” said my uncle.
+
+“Now, I understand, he’s a writer.”
+
+“That won’t last long,” said my uncle.
+
+I had never known a writer before; I was interested.
+
+“What does he write?” I asked. “Books?”
+
+“I believe so,” said the curate, “and articles. He had a novel published
+last spring. He’s promised to lend it me.”
+
+“I wouldn’t waste my time on rubbish in your place,” said my uncle, who
+never read anything but the _Times_ and the _Guardian_.
+
+“What’s it called?” I asked.
+
+“He told me the title, but I forget it.”
+
+“Anyhow, it’s quite unnecessary that you should know,” said my uncle. “I
+should very much object to your reading trashy novels. During your
+holidays the best thing you can do is to keep out in the open air. And
+you have a holiday task, I presume?”
+
+I had. It was _Ivanhoe_. I had read it when I was ten, and the notion of
+reading it again and writing an essay on it bored me to distraction.
+
+When I consider the greatness that Edward Driffield afterward achieved I
+cannot but smile as I remember the fashion in which he was discussed at
+my uncle’s table. When he died a little while ago and an agitation arose
+among his admirers to have him buried in Westminster Abbey the present
+incumbent at Blackstable, my uncle’s successor twice removed, wrote to
+the _Daily Mail_ pointing out that Driffield was born in the parish and
+not only had passed long years, especially the last twenty-five of his
+life, in the neighbourhood, but had laid there the scene of some of his
+most famous books; it was only becoming then that his bones should rest
+in the churchyard where under the Kentish elms his father and mother
+dwelt in peace. There was relief in Blackstable when, the Dean of
+Westminster having somewhat curtly refused the Abbey, Mrs. Driffield
+sent a dignified letter to the press in which she expressed her
+confidence that she was carrying out the dearest wishes of her dead
+husband in having him buried among the simple people he knew and loved
+so well. Unless the notabilities of Blackstable have very much changed
+since my day I do not believe they very much liked that phrase about
+“simple people,” but, as I afterward learnt, they had never been able to
+“abide” the second Mrs. Driffield.
+
+
+
+
+                                   IV
+
+
+TO MY surprise, two or three days after I lunched with Alroy Kear I
+received a letter from Edward Driffield’s widow. It ran as follows:
+
+    DEAR FRIEND,
+    _I hear that you had a long talk with Roy last week about Edward
+    Driffield and I am so glad to know that you spoke of him so
+    nicely. He often talked to me of you. He had the greatest
+    admiration for your talent and he was so very pleased to see you
+    when you came to lunch with us. I wonder if you have in your
+    possession any letters that he wrote to you and if so whether
+    you would let me have copies of them. I should be very pleased
+    if I could persuade you to come down for two or three days and
+    stay with me. I live very quietly now and have no one here, so
+    please choose your own time. I shall be delighted to see you
+    again and have a talk of old times. I have a particular service
+    I want you to do me and I am sure that for the sake of my dear
+    dead husband you will not refuse._
+
+                                           _Yours ever sincerely_,
+                                                     AMY DRIFFIELD.
+
+I had seen Mrs. Driffield only once and she but mildly interested me; I
+do not like being addressed as “dear friend”; that alone would have been
+enough to make me decline her invitation; and I was exasperated by its
+general character which, however ingenious an excuse I invented, made
+the reason I did not go quite obvious, namely, that I did not want to. I
+had no letters of Driffield’s. I suppose years ago he had written to me
+several times, brief notes, but he was then an obscure scribbler and
+even if I ever kept letters it would never have occurred to me to keep
+his. How was I to know that he was going to be acclaimed as the greatest
+novelist of our day? I hesitated only because Mrs. Driffield said she
+wanted me to do something for her. It would certainly be a nuisance, but
+it would be churlish not to do it if I could, and after all her husband
+was a very distinguished man.
+
+The letter came by the first post and after breakfast I rang up Roy. As
+soon as I mentioned my name I was put through to him by his secretary.
+If I were writing a detective story I should immediately have suspected
+that my call was awaited, and Roy’s virile voice calling hullo would
+have confirmed my suspicion. No one could naturally be quite so cheery
+so early in the morning.
+
+“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.
+
+“Good God, no.” His healthy laugh rippled along the wires. “I’ve been up
+since seven. I’ve been riding in the park. I’m just going to have
+breakfast. Come along and have it with me.”
+
+“I have a great affection for you, Roy,” I answered, “but I don’t think
+you’re the sort of person I’d care to have breakfast with. Besides, I’ve
+already had mine. Look here, I’ve just had a letter from Mrs. Driffield
+asking me to go down and stay.”
+
+“Yes, she told me she was going to ask you. We might go down together.
+She’s got quite a good grass court and she does one very well. I think
+you’d like it.”
+
+“What is it that she wants me to do?”
+
+“Ah, I think she’d like to tell you that herself.”
+
+There was a softness in Roy’s voice such as I imagined he would use if
+he were telling a prospective father that his wife was about to gratify
+his wishes. It cut no ice with me.
+
+“Come off it, Roy,” I said. “I’m too old a bird to be caught with chaff.
+Spit it out.”
+
+There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the telephone. I felt
+that Roy did not like my expression.
+
+“Are you busy this morning?” he asked suddenly. “I’d like to come and
+see you.”
+
+“All right, come on. I shall be in till one.”
+
+“I’ll be round in about an hour.”
+
+I replaced the receiver and relit my pipe. I gave Mrs. Driffield’s
+letter a second glance.
+
+I remembered vividly the luncheon to which she referred. I happened to
+be staying for a long week-end not far from Tercanbury with a certain
+Lady Hodmarsh, the clever and handsome American wife of a sporting
+baronet with no intelligence and charming manners. Perhaps to relieve
+the tedium of domestic life she was in the habit of entertaining persons
+connected with the arts. Her parties were mixed and gay. Members of the
+nobility and gentry mingled with astonishment and an uneasy awe with
+painters, writers, and actors. Lady Hodmarsh neither read the books nor
+looked at the pictures of the people to whom she offered hospitality,
+but she liked their company and enjoyed the feeling it gave her of being
+in the artistic know. When on this occasion the conversation happened to
+dwell for a moment on Edward Driffield, her most celebrated neighbour,
+and I mentioned that I had at one time known him very well she proposed
+that we should go over and lunch with him on Monday when a number of her
+guests were going back to London. I demurred, for I had not seen
+Driffield for five and thirty years and I could not believe that he
+would remember me; and if he did (though this I kept to myself) I could
+not believe that it would be with pleasure. But there was a young peer
+there, a certain Lord Scallion, with literary inclinations so violent
+that, instead of ruling this country as the laws of man and nature have
+decreed, he devoted his energy to the composition of detective novels.
+His curiosity to see Driffield was boundless and the moment Lady
+Hodmarsh made her suggestion he said it would be too divine. The star
+guest of the party was a big young fat duchess and it appeared that her
+admiration for the celebrated writer was so intense that she was
+prepared to cut an engagement in London and not go up till the
+afternoon.
+
+“That would make four of us,” said Lady Hodmarsh. “I don’t think they
+could manage more than that. I’ll wire to Mrs. Driffield at once.”
+
+I could not see myself going to see Driffield in that company and tried
+to throw cold water on the scheme.
+
+“It’ll only bore him to death,” I said. “He’ll hate having a lot of
+strangers barging in on him like this. He’s a very old man.”
+
+“That’s why if they want to see him they’d better see him now. He can’t
+last much longer. Mrs. Driffield says he likes to meet people. They
+never see anybody but the doctor and the parson and it’s a change for
+them. Mrs. Driffield said I could always bring anyone interesting. Of
+course she has to be very careful. He’s pestered by all sorts of people
+who want to see him just out of idle curiosity, and interviewers and
+authors who want him to read their books, and silly hysterical women.
+But Mrs. Driffield is wonderful. She keeps everyone away from him but
+those she thinks he ought to see. I mean, he’d be dead in a week if he
+saw everyone who wants to see him. She has to think of his strength.
+Naturally we’re different.”
+
+Of course I thought I was; but as I looked at them I perceived that the
+duchess and Lord Scallion thought they were too; so it seemed best to
+say no more.
+
+We drove over in a bright yellow Rolls. Ferne Court was three miles from
+Blackstable. It was a stucco house built, I suppose, about 1840, plain
+and unpretentious, but substantial; it was the same back and front, two
+large bows on each side of a flat piece in which was the front door, and
+there were two large bows on the first floor. A plain parapet hid the
+low roof. It stood in about an acre of garden, somewhat overgrown with
+trees, but neatly tended, and from the drawing room window you had a
+pleasant view of woods and green downland. The drawing room was
+furnished so exactly as you felt a drawing room in a country house of
+modest size should be furnished that it was slightly disconcerting.
+Clean bright chintzes covered the comfortable chairs and the large sofa,
+and the curtains were of the same bright clean chintz. On little
+Chippendale tables stood large Oriental bowls filled with pot-pourri. On
+the cream-coloured walls were pleasant water colours by painters well
+known at the beginning of this century. There were great masses of
+flowers charmingly arranged, and on the grand piano in silver frames
+photographs of celebrated actresses, deceased authors, and minor
+royalties.
+
+It was no wonder that the duchess cried out that it was a lovely room.
+It was just the kind of room in which a distinguished writer should
+spend the evening of his days. Mrs. Driffield received us with modest
+assurance. She was a woman of about five and forty, I judged, with a
+small sallow face and neat, sharp features. She had a black cloche hat
+pressed tight down on her head and wore a gray coat and skirt. Her
+figure was slight and she was neither tall nor short, and she looked
+trim, competent, and alert. She might have been the squire’s widowed
+daughter, who ran the parish and had a peculiar gift for organization.
+She introduced us to a clergyman and a lady, who got up as we were shown
+in. They were the Vicar of Blackstable and his wife. Lady Hodmarsh and
+the duchess immediately assumed that cringing affability that persons of
+rank assume with their inferiors in order to show them that they are not
+for a moment aware that there is any difference of station between them.
+
+Then Edward Driffield came in. I had seen portraits of him from time to
+time in the illustrated papers but it was with dismay that I saw him in
+the flesh. He was smaller than I remembered and very thin, his head was
+barely covered with fine silvery hair, he was clean-shaven, and his skin
+was almost transparent. His blue eyes were very pale and the rims of his
+eyelids red. He looked an old, old man, hanging on to mortality by a
+thread; he wore very white false teeth and they made his smile seem
+forced and stiff. I had never seen him but bearded and his lips were
+thin and pallid. He was dressed in a new, well-cut suit of blue serge
+and his low collar, two or three sizes too large for him, showed a
+wrinkled, scraggy neck. He wore a neat black tie with a pearl in it. He
+looked a little like a dean in mufti on his summer holiday in
+Switzerland.
+
+Mrs. Driffield gave him a quick glance as he came in and smiled
+encouragingly; she must have been satisfied with the neatness of his
+appearance. He shook hands with his guests and to each one said
+something civil. When he came to me he said:
+
+“It’s very good of a busy and successful man like you to come all this
+way to see an old fogey.”
+
+I was a trifle taken aback, for he spoke as though he had never seen me
+before, and I was afraid my friends would think I had been boasting when
+I claimed at one time to have known him intimately. I wondered if he had
+completely forgotten me.
+
+“I don’t know how many years it is since we last met,” I said, trying to
+be hearty.
+
+He looked at me for what I suppose was no more than a few seconds, but
+for what seemed to me quite a long time, and then I had a sudden shock;
+he gave me a little wink. It was so quick that nobody but I could have
+caught it, and so unexpected in that distinguished old face that I could
+hardly believe my eyes. In a moment his face was once more composed,
+intelligently benign, and quietly observant. Luncheon was announced and
+we trooped into the dining room.
+
+This also was in what can only be described as the acme of good taste.
+On the Chippendale sideboard were silver candlesticks. We sat on
+Chippendale chairs and ate off a Chippendale table. In a silver bowl in
+the middle were roses and round this were silver dishes with chocolates
+in them and peppermint creams; the silver salt cellars were brightly
+polished and evidently Georgian. On the cream-coloured walls were
+mezzotints of ladies painted by Sir Peter Lely and on the chimney-piece
+a garniture of blue delft. The service was conducted by two maids in
+brown uniform and Mrs. Driffield in the midst of her fluent conversation
+kept a wary eye on them. I wondered how she had managed to train these
+buxom Kentish girls (their healthy colour and high cheek bones betrayed
+the fact that they were “local”) to such a pitch of efficiency. The
+lunch was just right for the occasion, smart but not showy, fillets of
+sole rolled up and covered with a white sauce, roast chicken, with new
+potatoes and green peas, asparagus and gooseberry fool. It was the
+dining room and the lunch and the manner which you felt exactly fitted a
+literary gent of great celebrity but moderate wealth.
+
+Mrs. Driffield, like the wives of most men of letters, was a great
+talker and she did not let the conversation at her end of the table
+flag; so that, however much we might have wanted to hear what her
+husband was saying at the other, we had no opportunity. She was gay and
+sprightly. Though Edward Driffield’s indifferent health and great age
+obliged her to live most of the year in the country, she managed
+notwithstanding to run up to town often enough to keep abreast of what
+was going on and she was soon engaged with Lord Scallion in an animated
+discussion of the plays in the London theatres and the terrible crowd at
+the Royal Academy. It had taken her two visits to look at all the
+pictures and even then she had not had time to see the water colours.
+She liked water colours so much; they were unpretentious; she hated
+things to be pretentious.
+
+So that host and hostess should sit at the head and foot of the table,
+the vicar sat next to Lord Scallion and his wife next to the duchess.
+The duchess engaged her in conversation on the subject of working-class
+dwellings, a subject on which she seemed to be much more at home than
+the parson’s lady, and my attention being thus set free I watched Edward
+Driffield. He was talking to Lady Hodmarsh. She was apparently telling
+him how to write a novel and giving him a list of a few that he really
+ought to read. He listened to her with what looked like polite interest,
+putting in now and then a remark in a voice too low for me to catch, and
+when she made a jest (she made them frequently and often good ones) he
+gave a little chuckle and shot her a quick look that seemed to say: this
+woman isn’t such a damned fool after all. Remembering the past, I asked
+myself curiously what he thought of this grand company, his neatly
+turned out wife, so competent and discreetly managing, and the elegant
+surroundings in which he lived. I wondered if he regretted his early
+days of adventure. I wondered if all this amused him or if the amiable
+civility of his manner masked a hideous boredom. Perhaps he felt my eyes
+upon him, for he raised his. They rested on me for a while with a
+meditative look, mild and yet oddly scrutinizing, and then suddenly,
+unmistakably this time, he gave me another wink. The frivolous gesture
+in that old, withered face was more than startling, it was embarrassing;
+I did not know what to do. My lips outlined a dubious smile.
+
+But the duchess joining in the conversation at the head of the table,
+the vicar’s wife turned to me.
+
+“You knew him many years ago, didn’t you?” she asked me in a low tone.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+She gave the company a glance to see that no one was attending to us.
+
+“His wife is anxious that you shouldn’t call up old memories that might
+be painful to him. He’s very frail, you know, and the least thing upsets
+him.”
+
+“I’ll be very careful.”
+
+“The way she looks after him is simply wonderful. Her devotion is a
+lesson to all of us. She realizes what a precious charge it is. Her
+unselfishness is beyond words.” She lowered her voice a little more. “Of
+course he’s a very old man and old men sometimes are a little trying;
+I’ve never seen her out of patience. In her way she’s just as wonderful
+as he is.”
+
+These were the sort of remarks to which it was difficult to find a
+reply, but I felt that one was expected of me.
+
+“Considering everything I think he looks very well,” I murmured.
+
+“He owes it all to her.”
+
+At the end of luncheon we went back into the drawing room and after we
+had been standing about for two or three minutes Edward Driffield came
+up to me. I was talking with the vicar and for want of anything better
+to say was admiring the charming view. I turned to my host.
+
+“I was just saying how picturesque that little row of cottages is down
+there.”
+
+“From here.” Driffield looked at their broken outline and an ironic
+smile curled his thin lips. “I was born in one of them. Rum, isn’t it?”
+
+But Mrs. Driffield came up to us with bustling geniality. Her voice was
+brisk and melodious.
+
+“Oh, Edward, I’m sure the duchess would like to see your writing room.
+She has to go almost immediately.”
+
+“I’m so sorry, but I must catch the three-eighteen from Tercanbury,”
+said the duchess.
+
+We filed into Driffield’s study. It was a large room on the other side
+of the house, looking out on the same view as the dining room, with a
+bow window. It was the sort of room that a devoted wife would evidently
+arrange for her literary husband. It was scrupulously tidy and large
+bowls of flowers gave it a feminine touch.
+
+“This is the desk at which he’s written all his later works,” said Mrs.
+Driffield, closing a book that was open face downward on it. “It’s the
+frontispiece in the third volume of the _edition de luxe_. It’s a period
+piece.”
+
+We all admired the writing table and Lady Hodmarsh, when she thought no
+one was looking, ran her fingers along its under edge to see if it was
+genuine. Mrs. Driffield gave us a quick, bright smile.
+
+“Would you like to see one of his manuscripts?”
+
+“I’d love to,” said the duchess, “and then I simply must bolt.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield took from a shelf a manuscript bound in blue morocco, and
+while the rest of the party reverently examined it I had a look at the
+books with which the room was lined. As authors will, I ran my eye round
+quickly to see if there were any of mine, but could not find one; I saw,
+however, a complete set of Alroy Kear’s and a great many novels in
+bright bindings, which looked suspiciously unread; I guessed that they
+were the works of authors who had sent them to the master in homage to
+his talent and perhaps the hope of a few words of eulogy that could be
+used in the publisher’s advertisements. But all the books were so neatly
+arranged, they were so clean, that I had the impression they were very
+seldom read. There was the Oxford Dictionary and there were standard
+editions in grand bindings of most of the English classics, Fielding,
+Boswell, Hazlitt, and so on, and there were a great many books on the
+sea; I recognized the variously coloured, untidy volumes of the sailing
+directions issued by the Admiralty, and there were a number of works on
+gardening. The room had the look not of a writer’s workshop, but of a
+memorial to a great name, and you could almost see already the desultory
+tripper wandering in for want of something better to do and smell the
+rather musty, close smell of a museum that few visited. I had a
+suspicion that nowadays if Driffield read anything at all it was the
+_Gardener’s Chronicle_ or the _Shipping Gazette_, of which I saw a
+bundle on a table in the corner.
+
+When the ladies had seen all they wanted we bade our hosts farewell. But
+Lady Hodmarsh was a woman of tact and it must have occurred to her that
+I, the excuse for the party, had scarcely had a word with Edward
+Driffield, for at the door, enveloping me with a friendly smile, she
+said to him:
+
+“I was so interested to hear that you and Mr. Ashenden had known one
+another years and years ago. Was he a nice little boy?”
+
+Driffield looked at me for a moment with that level, ironic gaze of his.
+I had the impression that if there had been nobody there he would have
+put his tongue out at me.
+
+“Shy,” he replied. “I taught him to ride a bicycle.”
+
+We got once more into the huge yellow Rolls and drove off.
+
+“He’s too sweet,” said the duchess. “I’m so glad we went.”
+
+“He has such nice manners, hasn’t he?” said Lady Hodmarsh.
+
+“You didn’t really expect him to eat his peas with a knife, did you?” I
+asked.
+
+“I wish he had,” said Scallion. “It would have been so picturesque.”
+
+“I believe it’s very difficult,” said the duchess. “I’ve tried over and
+over again and I can never get them to stay on.”
+
+“You have to spear them,” said Scallion.
+
+“Not at all,” retorted the duchess. “You have to balance them on the
+flat, and they roll like the devil.”
+
+“What did you think of Mrs. Driffield?” asked Lady Hodmarsh.
+
+“I suppose she serves her purpose,” said the duchess.
+
+“He’s so old, poor darling, he must have someone to look after him. You
+know she was a hospital nurse?”
+
+“Oh, was she?” said the duchess. “I thought perhaps she’d been his
+secretary or typist or something.”
+
+“She’s quite nice,” said Lady Hodmarsh, warmly defending a friend.
+
+“Oh, quite.”
+
+“He had a long illness about twenty years ago, and she was his nurse
+then, and after he got well he married her.”
+
+“Funny how men will do that. She must have been years younger than him.
+She can’t be more than—what?—forty or forty-five.”
+
+“No, I shouldn’t think so. Forty-seven, say. I’m told she’s done a great
+deal for him. I mean, she’s made him quite presentable. Alroy Kear told
+me that before that he was almost too bohemian.”
+
+“As a rule authors’ wives are odious.”
+
+“It’s such a bore having to have them, isn’t it?”
+
+“Crushing. I wonder they don’t see that themselves.”
+
+“Poor wretches, they often suffer from the delusion that people find
+them interesting,” I murmured.
+
+We reached Tercanbury, dropped the duchess at the station, and drove on.
+
+
+
+
+                                   V
+
+
+IT WAS true that Edward Driffield had taught me to bicycle. That was
+indeed how I first made his acquaintance. I do not know how long the
+safety bicycle had been invented, but I know that it was not common in
+the remote part of Kent in which I lived and when you saw someone
+speeding along on solid tires you turned round and looked till he was
+out of sight. It was still a matter for jocularity on the part of
+middle-aged gentlemen who said Shank’s pony was good enough for them,
+and for trepidation on the part of elderly ladies who made a dash for
+the side of the road when they saw one coming. I had been for some time
+filled with envy of the boys whom I saw riding into the school grounds
+on their bicycles, and it gave a pretty opportunity for showing off when
+you entered the gateway without holding on to the handles. I had
+persuaded my uncle to let me have one at the beginning of the summer
+holidays, and though my aunt was against it, since she said I should
+only break my neck, he had yielded to my pertinacity more willingly
+because I was of course paying for it out of my own money. I ordered it
+before school broke up and a few days later the carrier brought it over
+from Tercanbury.
+
+I was determined to learn to ride it by myself and chaps at school had
+told me that they had learned in half an hour. I tried and tried and at
+last came to the conclusion that I was abnormally stupid (I am inclined
+now to think that I was exaggerating), but even after my pride was
+sufficiently humbled for me to allow the gardener to hold me up I seemed
+at the end of the first morning no nearer to being able to get on by
+myself than at the beginning. Next day, however, thinking that the
+carriage drive at the vicarage was too winding to give a fellow a proper
+chance, I wheeled the bicycle to a road not far away which I knew was
+perfectly flat and straight and so solitary that no one would see me
+making a fool of myself. I tried several times to mount, but fell off
+each time. I barked my shins against the pedals and got very hot and
+bothered. After I had been doing this for about an hour, though I began
+to think that God did not intend me to ride a bicycle, but was
+determined (unable to bear the thought of the sarcasms of my uncle, his
+representative at Blackstable) to do so all the same, to my disgust I
+saw two people on bicycles coming along the deserted road. I immediately
+wheeled my machine to the side and sat down on a stile, looking out to
+sea in a nonchalant way as though I had been for a ride and were just
+sitting there wrapped in contemplation of the vasty ocean. I kept my
+eyes dreamily averted from the two persons who were advancing toward me,
+but I felt that they were coming nearer, and through the corner of my
+eye I saw that they were a man and a woman. As they passed me the woman
+swerved violently to my side of the road and, crashing against me, fell
+to the ground.
+
+“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew I should fall off the moment I saw
+you.”
+
+It was impossible under the circumstances to preserve my appearance of
+abstraction and, blushing furiously, I said that it didn’t matter at
+all.
+
+The man had got off as she fell.
+
+“You haven’t hurt yourself?” he asked.
+
+“Oh, no.”
+
+I recognized him then as Edward Driffield, the author I had seen walking
+with the curate a few days before.
+
+“I’m just learning to ride,” said his companion. “And I fall off
+whenever I see anything in the road.”
+
+“Aren’t you the vicar’s nephew?” said Driffield. “I saw you the other
+day. Galloway told me who you were. This is my wife.”
+
+She held out her hand with an oddly frank gesture and when I took it
+gave mine a warm and hearty pressure. She smiled with her lips and with
+her eyes and there was in her smile something that even then I
+recognized as singularly pleasant. I was confused. People I did not know
+made me dreadfully self-conscious, and I could not take in any of the
+details of her appearance. I just had an impression of a rather large
+blond woman. I do not know if I noticed then or only remembered
+afterward that she wore a full skirt of blue serge, a pink shirt with a
+starched front and a starched collar, and a straw hat, called in those
+days, I think, a boater, perched on the top of a lot of golden hair.
+
+“I think bicycling’s lovely, don’t you?” she said, looking at my
+beautiful new machine which leaned against the stile. “It must be
+wonderful to be able to ride well.”
+
+I felt that this inferred an admiration for my proficiency.
+
+“It’s only a matter of practice,” I said.
+
+“This is only my third lesson. Mr. Driffield says I’m coming on
+wonderful, but I feel so stupid I could kick myself. How long did it
+take you before you could ride?”
+
+I blushed to the roots of my hair. I could hardly utter the shameful
+words.
+
+“I can’t ride,” I said. “I’ve only just got this bike and this is the
+first time I’ve tried.”
+
+I equivocated a trifle there, but I made it all right with my conscience
+by adding the mental reservation: except yesterday at home in the
+garden.
+
+“I’ll give you a lesson if you like,” said Driffield in his
+good-humoured way. “Come on.”
+
+“Oh, no,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
+
+“Why not?” asked his wife, her blue eyes still pleasantly smiling. “Mr.
+Driffield would like to and it’ll give me a chance to rest.”
+
+Driffield took my bicycle, and I, reluctant but unable to withstand his
+friendly violence, clumsily mounted. I swayed from side to side, but he
+held me with a firm hand.
+
+“Faster,” he said.
+
+I pedalled and he ran by me as I wobbled from side to side. We were both
+very hot when, notwithstanding his struggles, I at last fell off. It was
+very hard under such circumstances to preserve the standoffishness
+befitting the vicar’s nephew with the son of Miss Wolfe’s bailiff, and
+when I started back again and for thirty or forty thrilling yards
+actually rode by myself and Mrs. Driffield ran into the middle of the
+road with her arms akimbo shouting, “Go it, go it, two to one on the
+favourite,” I was laughing so much that I positively forgot all about my
+social status. I got off of my own accord, my face no doubt wearing an
+air of immodest triumph, and received without embarrassment the
+Driffields’ congratulation on my cleverness in riding a bicycle the very
+first day I tried.
+
+“I want to see if I can get on by myself,” said Mrs. Driffield, and I
+sat down again on the stile while her husband and I watched her
+unavailing struggles.
+
+Then, wanting to rest again, disappointed but cheerful, she sat down
+beside me. Driffield lit his pipe. We chatted. I did not of course
+realize it then, but I know now that there was a disarming frankness in
+her manner that put one at one’s ease. She talked with a kind of
+eagerness, like a child bubbling over with the zest of life, and her
+eyes were lit all the time by her engaging smile. I did not know why I
+liked it. I should say it was a little sly, if slyness were not a
+displeasing quality; it was too innocent to be sly. It was mischievous
+rather, like that of a child who has done something that he thinks
+funny, but is quite well aware that you will think rather naughty; he
+knows all the same that you won’t be really cross and if you don’t find
+out about it quickly he’ll come and tell you himself. But of course then
+I only knew that her smile made me feel at home.
+
+Presently Driffield, looking at his watch, said that they must be going
+and suggested that we should all ride back together in style. It was
+just the time that my aunt and uncle would be coming home from their
+daily walk down the town and I did not like to run the risk of being
+seen with people whom they would not at all approve of; so I asked them
+to go on first, as they would go more quickly than I. Mrs. Driffield
+would not hear of it, but Driffield gave me a funny, amused little look,
+which made me think that he saw through my excuse so that I blushed
+scarlet, and he said:
+
+“Let him go by himself, Rosie. He can manage better alone.”
+
+“All right. Shall you be here to-morrow? We’re coming.”
+
+“I’ll try to,” I answered.
+
+They rode off, and in a few minutes I followed. Feeling very much
+pleased with myself, I rode all the way to the vicarage gates without
+falling. I think I boasted a good deal at dinner, but I did not say that
+I had met the Driffields.
+
+Next day at about eleven I got my bicycle out of the coachhouse. It was
+so called though it held not even a pony trap and was used by the
+gardener to keep the mower and the roller, and by Mary-Ann for her sack
+of meal for the chickens. I wheeled it down to the gate and, mounting
+none too easily, rode along the Tercanbury Road till I came to the old
+turnpike and turned into Joy Lane.
+
+The sky was blue and the air, warm and yet fresh, crackled, as it were,
+with the heat. The light was brilliant without harshness. The sun’s
+beams seemed to hit the white road with a directed energy and bounce
+back like a rubber ball.
+
+I rode backward and forward, waiting for the Driffields, and presently
+saw them come. I waved to them and turned round (getting off to do so)
+and we pedalled along together. Mrs. Driffield and I complimented one
+another on our progress. We rode anxiously, clinging like grim death to
+the handle-bars, but exultant, and Driffield said that as soon as we
+felt sure of ourselves we must go for rides all over the country.
+
+“I want to get rubbings of one or two brasses in the neighbourhood,” he
+said.
+
+I did not know what he meant, but he would not explain.
+
+“Wait and I’ll show you,” he said. “Do you think you could ride fourteen
+miles to-morrow, seven there and seven back?”
+
+“Rather,” I said.
+
+“I’ll bring a sheet of paper for you and some wax and you can make a
+rubbing. But you’d better ask your uncle if you can come.”
+
+“I needn’t do that.”
+
+“I think you’d better all the same.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield gave me that peculiar look of hers, mischievous and yet
+friendly, and I blushed scarlet. I knew that if I asked my uncle he
+would say no. It would be much better to say nothing about it. But as we
+rode along I saw coming toward us the doctor in his dogcart. I looked
+straight in front of me as he passed in the vain hope that if I did not
+look at him he would not look at me. I was uneasy. If he had seen me the
+fact would quickly reach the ears of my uncle or my aunt and I
+considered whether it would not be safer to disclose myself a secret
+that could no longer be concealed. When we parted at the vicarage gates
+(I had not been able to avoid riding as far as this in their company)
+Driffield said that if I found I could come with them next day I had
+better call for them as early as I could.
+
+“You know where we live, don’t you? Next door to the Congregational
+Church. It’s called Lime Cottage.”
+
+When I sat down to dinner I looked for an opportunity to slip in
+casually the information that I had by accident run across the
+Driffields; but news travelled fast in Blackstable.
+
+“Who were those people you were bicycling with this morning?” asked my
+aunt. “We met Dr. Anstey in the town and he said he’d seen you.”
+
+My uncle, chewing his roast beef with an air of disapproval, looked
+sullenly at his plate.
+
+“The Driffields,” I said with nonchalance. “You know, the author. Mr.
+Galloway knows them.”
+
+“They’re most disreputable people,” said my uncle. “I don’t wish you to
+associate with them.”
+
+“Why not?” I asked.
+
+“I’m not going to give you my reasons. It’s enough that I don’t wish
+it.”
+
+“How did you ever get to know them?” asked my aunt.
+
+“I was just riding along and they were riding along, and they asked me
+if I’d like to ride with them,” I said, distorting the truth a little.
+
+“I call it very pushing,” said my uncle.
+
+I began to sulk. And to show my indignation when the sweet was put on
+the table, though it was raspberry tart which I was extremely fond of, I
+refused to have any. My aunt asked me if I was not feeling very well.
+
+“Yes,” I said, as haughtily as I could, “I’m feeling all right.”
+
+“Have a little bit,” said my aunt.
+
+“I’m not hungry,” I answered.
+
+“Just to please me.”
+
+“He must know when he’s had enough,” said my uncle.
+
+I gave him a bitter look.
+
+“I don’t mind having a small piece,” I said.
+
+My aunt gave me a generous helping, which I ate with the air of one who,
+impelled by a stern sense of duty, performs an act that is deeply
+distasteful to him. It was a beautiful raspberry tart. Mary-Ann made
+short pastry that melted in the mouth. But when my aunt asked me whether
+I could not manage a little more I refused with cold dignity. She did
+not insist. My uncle said grace and I carried my outraged feelings into
+the drawing room.
+
+But when I reckoned that the servants had finished their dinner I went
+into the kitchen. Emily was cleaning the silver in the pantry. Mary-Ann
+was washing up.
+
+“I say, what’s wrong with the Driffields?” I asked her.
+
+Mary-Ann had come to the vicarage when she was eighteen. She had bathed
+me when I was a small boy, given me powders in plum jam when I needed
+them, packed my box when I went to school, nursed me when I was ill,
+read to me when I was bored, and scolded me when I was naughty. Emily,
+the housemaid, was a flighty young thing, and Mary-Ann didn’t know
+whatever would become of me if _she_ had the looking after of me.
+Mary-Ann was a Blackstable girl. She had never been to London in her
+life and I do not think she had been to Tercanbury more than three or
+four times. She was never ill. She never had a holiday. She was paid
+twelve pounds a year. One evening a week she went down the town to see
+her mother, who did the vicarage washing; and on Sunday evenings she
+went to church. But Mary-Ann knew everything that went on in
+Blackstable. She knew who everybody was, who had married whom, what
+anyone’s father had died of, and how many children, and what they were
+called, any woman had had.
+
+I asked Mary-Ann my question and she slopped a wet clout noisily into
+the sink.
+
+“I don’t blame your uncle,” she said. “I wouldn’t let you go about with
+them, not if you was my nephew. Fancy their askin’ you to ride your
+bicycle with them! Some people will do anything.”
+
+I saw that the conversation in the dining room had been repeated to
+Mary-Ann.
+
+“I’m not a child,” I said.
+
+“That makes it all the worse. The impudence of their comin’ ’ere at
+all!” Mary-Ann dropped her aitches freely. “Takin’ a house and
+pretendin’ to be ladies and gentlemen. Now leave that pie alone.”
+
+The raspberry tart was standing on the kitchen table and I broke off a
+piece of crust with my fingers and put it in my mouth.
+
+“We’re goin’ to eat that for our supper. If you’d wanted a second
+’elpin’ why didn’t you ’ave one when you was ’avin’ your dinner? Ted
+Driffield never could stick to anything. He ’ad a good education, too.
+The one I’m sorry for is his mother. He’s been a trouble to ’er from the
+day he was born. And then to go an’ marry Rosie Gann. They tell me that
+when he told his mother what he was goin’ to do she took to ’er bed and
+stayed there for three weeks and wouldn’t talk to anybody.”
+
+“Was Mrs. Driffield Rosie Gann before she married? Which Ganns were
+those?”
+
+Gann was one of the commonest names at Blackstable. The churchyard was
+thick with their graves.
+
+“Oh, you wouldn’t ’ave known them. Old Josiah Gann was her father. He
+was a wild one, too. He went for a soldier and when he come back he ’ad
+a wooden leg. He used to go out doing painting, but he was out of work
+more often than not. They lived in the next ’ouse to us in Rye Lane. Me
+an’ Rosie used to go to Sunday school together.”
+
+“But she’s not as old as you are,” I said with the bluntness of my age.
+
+“She’ll never see thirty again.”
+
+Mary-Ann was a little woman with a snub nose and decayed teeth, but
+fresh-coloured, and I do not suppose she could have been more than
+thirty-five.
+
+“Rosie ain’t more than four or five years younger than me, whatever she
+may pretend she is. They tell me you wouldn’t know her now all dressed
+up and everything.”
+
+“Is it true that she was a barmaid?” I asked.
+
+“Yes, at the Railway Arms and then at the Prince of Wales’s Feathers at
+Haversham. Mrs. Reeves ’ad her to ’elp in the bar at the Railway Arms,
+but it got so bad she had to get rid of her.”
+
+The Railway Arms was a very modest little public house just opposite the
+station of the London, Chatham & Dover Railway. It had a sort of
+sinister gaiety. On a winter’s night as you passed by you saw through
+the glass doors men lounging about the bar. My uncle very much
+disapproved of it, and had for years been trying to get its license
+taken away. It was frequented by the railway porters, colliers, and farm
+labourers. The respectable residents of Blackstable would have disdained
+to enter it and, when they wanted a glass of bitter, went to the Bear
+and Key or the Duke of Kent.
+
+“Why, what did she do?” I asked, my eyes popping out of my head.
+
+“What didn’t she do?” said Mary-Ann. “What d’you think your uncle would
+say if he caught me tellin’ you things like that? There wasn’t a man who
+come in to ’ave a drink that she didn’t carry on with. No matter who
+they was. She couldn’t stick to anybody, it was just one man after
+another. They tell me it was simply ’orrible. That was when it begun
+with Lord George. It wasn’t the sort of place he was likely to go to, he
+was too grand for that, but they say he went in accidental like one day
+when his train was late, and he saw her. And after that he was never out
+of the place, mixin’ with all them common rough people, and of course
+they all knew what he was there for, and him with a wife and three
+children. Oh, I was sorry for her! And the talk it made. Well, it got so
+Mrs. Reeves said she wasn’t going to put up with it another day and she
+gave her her wages and told her to pack her box and go. Good riddance to
+bad rubbish, that’s what I said.”
+
+I knew Lord George very well. His name was George Kemp and the title by
+which he was always known had been given him ironically owing to his
+grand manner. He was our coal merchant, but he also dabbled in house
+property, and he owned a share in one or two colliers. He lived in a new
+brick house that stood in its own grounds and he drove his own trap. He
+was a stoutish man with a pointed beard, florid, with a high colour and
+bold blue eyes. Remembering him, I think he must have looked like some
+jolly rubicund merchant in an old Dutch picture. He was always very
+flashily dressed and when you saw him driving at a smart pace down the
+middle of the High Street in a fawn-coloured covert-coat with large
+buttons, his brown bowler on the side of his head and a red rose in his
+buttonhole, you could not but look at him. On Sunday he used to come to
+church in a lustrous topper and a frock coat. Everyone knew that he
+wanted to be made churchwarden, and it was evident that his energy would
+have made him useful, but my uncle said not in his time, and though Lord
+George as a protest went to chapel for a year my uncle remained
+obdurate. He cut him dead when he met him in the town. A reconciliation
+was effected and Lord George came to church again, but my uncle only
+yielded so far as to appoint him sidesman. The gentry thought him
+extremely vulgar and I have no doubt that he was vain and boastful. They
+complained of his loud voice and his strident laugh—when he was talking
+to somebody on one side of the street you heard every word he said from
+the other—and they thought his manners dreadful. He was much too
+friendly; when he talked to them it was as though he were not in trade
+at all; they said he was very pushing. But if he thought his
+hail-fellow-well-met air, his activity in public works, his open purse
+when subscriptions were needed for the annual regatta or for the harvest
+festival, his willingness to do anyone a good turn were going to break
+the barriers at Blackstable he was mistaken. His efforts at sociability
+were met with blank hostility.
+
+I remember once that the doctor’s wife was calling on my aunt and Emily
+came in to tell my uncle that Mr. George Kemp would like to see him.
+
+“But I heard the front door ring, Emily,” said my aunt.
+
+“Yes’m, he came to the front door.”
+
+There was a moment’s awkwardness. Everyone was at a loss to know how to
+deal with such an unusual occurrence, and even Emily, who knew who
+should come to the front door, who should go to the side door, and who
+to the back, looked a trifle flustered. My aunt, who was a gentle soul,
+I think felt honestly embarrassed that anyone should put himself in such
+a false position; but the doctor’s wife gave a little sniff of contempt.
+At last my uncle collected himself.
+
+“Show him into the study, Emily,” he said. “I’ll come as soon as I’ve
+finished my tea.”
+
+But Lord George remained exuberant, flashy, loud, and boisterous. He
+said the town was dead and he was going to wake it up. He was going to
+get the company to run excursion trains. He didn’t see why it shouldn’t
+become another Margate. And why shouldn’t they have a mayor? Ferne Bay
+had one.
+
+“I suppose he thinks he’d be mayor himself,” said the people of
+Blackstable. They pursed their lips. “Pride goeth before a fall,” they
+said.
+
+And my uncle remarked that you could take a horse to the water but you
+couldn’t make him drink.
+
+I should add that I looked upon Lord George with the same scornful
+derision as everyone else. It outraged me that he should stop me in the
+street and call me by my Christian name and talk to me as though there
+were no social difference between us. He even suggested that I should
+play cricket with his sons, who were of about the same age as myself.
+But they went to the grammar school at Haversham and of course I
+couldn’t possibly have anything to do with them.
+
+I was shocked and thrilled by what Mary-Ann told me, but I had
+difficulty in believing it. I had read too many novels and had learnt
+too much at school not to know a good deal about love, but I thought it
+was a matter that only concerned young people. I could not conceive that
+a man with a beard, who had sons as old as I, could have any feelings of
+that sort. I thought when you married all that was finished. That people
+over thirty should be in love seemed to me rather disgusting.
+
+“You don’t mean to say they did anything?” I asked Mary-Ann.
+
+“From what I hear there’s very little that Rosie Gann didn’t do. And
+Lord George wasn’t the only one.”
+
+“But, look here, why didn’t she have a baby?”
+
+In the novels I had read whenever lovely woman stooped to folly she had
+a baby. The cause was put with infinite precaution, sometimes indeed
+suggested only by a row of asterisks, but the result was inevitable.
+
+“More by good luck than by good management, I lay,” said Mary-Ann. Then
+she recollected herself and stopped drying the plates she was busy with.
+“It seems to me you know a lot more than you ought to,” she said.
+
+“Of course I know,” I said importantly. “Hang it all, I’m practically
+grown up, aren’t I?”
+
+“All I can tell you,” said Mary-Ann, “is that when Mrs. Reeves gave her
+the sack Lord George got her a job at the Prince of Wales’s Feathers at
+Haversham and he was always poppin’ over there in his trap. You can’t
+tell me the ale’s any different over there from what it is here.”
+
+“Then why did Ted Driffield marry her?” I asked.
+
+“Ask me another,” said Mary-Ann. “It was at the Feathers he saw her. I
+suppose he couldn’t get anyone else to marry him. No respectable girl
+would ’ave ’ad ’im.”
+
+“Did he know about her?”
+
+“You’d better ask him.”
+
+I was silent. It was all very puzzling.
+
+“What does she look like now?” asked Mary-Ann. “I never seen her since
+she married. I never even speak to ’er after I ’eard what was goin’ on
+at the Railway Arms.”
+
+“She looks all right,” I said.
+
+“Well, you ask her if she remembers me and see what she says.”
+
+
+
+
+                                   VI
+
+
+I HAD quite made up my mind that I was going out with the Driffields
+next morning, but knew that it was no good asking my uncle if I might.
+If he found out that I had been and made a row it couldn’t be helped,
+and if Ted Driffield asked me whether I had got my uncle’s permission I
+was quite prepared to say I had. But I had after all no need to lie. In
+the afternoon, the tide being high, I walked down to the beach to bathe
+and my uncle, having something to do in the town, walked part of the way
+with me. Just as we were passing the Bear and Key, Ted Driffield stepped
+out of it. He saw us and came straight up to my uncle. I was startled at
+his coolness.
+
+“Good afternoon, Vicar,” he said. “I wonder if you remember me. I used
+to sing in the choir when I was a boy. Ted Driffield. My old governor
+was Miss Wolfe’s bailiff.”
+
+My uncle was a very timid man, and he was taken aback.
+
+“Oh, yes, how do you do? I was sorry to hear your father died.”
+
+“I’ve made the acquaintance of your young nephew. I was wondering if
+you’d let him come for a ride with me to-morrow. It’s rather dull for
+him riding alone, and I’m going to do a rubbing of one of the brasses at
+Ferne Church.”
+
+“It’s very kind of you, but——”
+
+My uncle was going to refuse, but Driffield interrupted him.
+
+“I’ll see he doesn’t get up to any mischief. I thought he might like to
+make a rubbing himself. It would be an interest for him. I’ll give him
+some paper and wax so that it won’t cost him anything.”
+
+My uncle had not a consecutive mind and the suggestion that Ted
+Driffield should pay for my paper and wax offended him so much that he
+quite forgot his intention to forbid me to go at all.
+
+“He can quite well get his own paper and wax,” he said. “He has plenty
+of pocket money, and he’d much better spend it on something like that
+than on sweets and make himself sick.”
+
+“Well, if he goes to Hayward, the stationer’s, and says he wants the
+same paper as I got and the wax they’ll let him have it.”
+
+“I’ll go now,” I said, and to prevent any change of mind on my uncle’s
+part dashed across the road.
+
+
+
+
+                                  VII
+
+
+I DO not know why the Driffields bothered about me unless it was from
+pure kindness of heart. I was a dull little boy, not very talkative, and
+if I amused Ted Driffield at all it must have been unconsciously.
+Perhaps he was tickled by my attitude of superiority. I was under the
+impression that it was condescension on my part to consort with the son
+of Miss Wolfe’s bailiff, and he what my uncle called a penny-a-liner;
+and when, perhaps with a trace of superciliousness, I asked him to lend
+me one of his books and he said it wouldn’t interest me I took him at
+his word and did not insist. After my uncle had once consented to my
+going out with the Driffields he made no further objection to my
+association with them. Sometimes we went for sails together, sometimes
+we went to some picturesque spot and Driffield painted a little water
+colour. I do not know if the English climate was better in those days or
+if it is only an illusion of youth, but I seem to remember that all
+through that summer the sunny days followed one another in an unbroken
+line. I began to feel a curious affection for the undulating, opulent,
+and gracious country. We went far afield, to one church after another,
+taking rubbings of brasses, knights in armour and ladies in stiff
+farthingales. Ted Driffield fired me with his own enthusiasm for this
+naïve pursuit and I rubbed with passion. I showed my uncle proudly the
+results of my industry, and I suppose he thought that whatever my
+company, I could not come to much harm when I was occupied in church.
+Mrs. Driffield used to remain in the churchyard while we were at work,
+not reading or sewing, but just mooning about; she seemed able to do
+nothing for an indefinite time without feeling bored. Sometimes I would
+go out and sit with her for a little on the grass. We chattered about my
+school, my friends there and my masters, about the people at
+Blackstable, and about nothing at all. She gratified me by calling me
+Mr. Ashenden. I think she was the first person who had ever done so and
+it made me feel grown up. I resented it vastly when people called me
+Master Willie. I thought it a ridiculous name for anyone to have. In
+fact I did not like either of my names and spent much time inventing
+others that would have suited me better. The ones I preferred were
+Roderic Ravensworth and I covered sheets of paper with this signature in
+a suitably dashing hand. I did not mind Ludovic Montgomery either.
+
+I could not get over what Mary-Ann had told me about Mrs. Driffield.
+Though I knew theoretically what people did when they were married, and
+was capable of putting the facts in the bluntest language, I did not
+really understand it. I thought it indeed rather disgusting and I did
+not quite, quite believe it. After all, I was aware that the earth was
+round, but I _knew_ it was flat. Mrs. Driffield seemed so frank, her
+laugh was so open and simple, there was in her demeanour something so
+young and childlike, that I could not see her “going with” sailors and
+above all anyone so gross and horrible as Lord George. She was not at
+all the type of the wicked woman I had read of in novels. Of course I
+knew she wasn’t “good form” and she spoke with the Blackstable accent,
+she dropped an aitch now and then, and sometimes her grammar gave me a
+shock, but I couldn’t help liking her. I came to the conclusion that
+what Mary-Ann had told me was a pack of lies.
+
+One day I happened to tell her that Mary-Ann was our cook.
+
+“She says she lived next door to you in Rye Lane,” I added, quite
+prepared to hear Mrs. Driffield say that she had never even heard of
+her.
+
+But she smiled and her blue eyes gleamed.
+
+“That’s right. She used to take me to Sunday school. She used to have a
+rare job keeping me quiet. I heard she’d gone to service at the
+vicarage. Fancy her being there still! I haven’t seen her for donkey’s
+years. I’d like to see her again and have a chat about old days.
+Remember me to her, will you, and ask her to look in on her evening out.
+I’ll give her a cup of tea.”
+
+I was taken aback at this. After all, the Driffields lived in a house
+that they were talking of buying and they had a “general.” It wouldn’t
+be at all the thing for them to have Mary-Ann to tea, and it would make
+it very awkward for me. They seemed to have no sense of the things one
+could do and the things one simply couldn’t. It never ceased to
+embarrass me, the way in which they talked of incidents in their past
+that I should have thought they would not dream of mentioning. I do not
+know that the people I lived among were pretentious in the sense of
+making themselves out to be richer or grander than they really were, but
+looking back it does seem to me that they lived a life full of
+pretences. They dwelt behind a mask of respectability. You never caught
+them in their shirt sleeves with their feet on the table. The ladies put
+on afternoon dresses and were not visible till then; they lived
+privately with rigid economy so that you could not drop in for a casual
+meal, but when they entertained their tables groaned with food. Though
+catastrophe overwhelmed the family, they held their heads high and
+ignored it. One of the sons might have married an actress, but they
+never referred to the calamity, and though the neighbours said it was
+dreadful, they took ostentatious care not to mention the theatre in the
+presence of the afflicted. We all knew that the wife of Major Greencourt
+who had taken the Three Gables was connected with trade, but neither she
+nor the major ever so much as hinted at the discreditable secret; and
+though we sniffed at them behind their backs, we were too polite even to
+mention crockery (the source of Mrs. Greencourt’s adequate income) in
+their presence. It was still not unheard of for an angry parent to cut
+off his son with a shilling or to tell his daughter (who like my own
+mother had married a solicitor) never to darken his doors again. I was
+used to all this and it seemed to me perfectly natural. What did shock
+me was to hear Ted Driffield speak of being a waiter in a restaurant in
+Holborn as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. I knew
+he had run away to sea, that was romantic; I knew that boys, in books at
+all events, often did this and had thrilling adventures before they
+married a fortune and an earl’s daughter; but Ted Driffield had driven a
+cab at Maidstone and had been clerk in a booking office at Birmingham.
+Once when we bicycled past the Railway Arms, Mrs. Driffield mentioned
+quite casually, as though it were something that anyone might have done,
+that she had worked there for three years.
+
+“It was my first place,” she said. “After that I went to the Feathers at
+Haversham. I only left there to get married.”
+
+She laughed as though she enjoyed the recollection. I did not know what
+to say; I did not know which way to look; I blushed scarlet. Another
+time when we were going through Ferne Bay on our way back from a long
+excursion, it being a hot day and all of us thirsty, she suggested that
+we should go into the Dolphin and have a glass of beer. She began
+talking to the girl behind the bar and I was horrified to hear her
+remark that she had been in the business herself for five years. The
+landlord joined us and Ted Driffield offered him a drink, and Mrs.
+Driffield said that the barmaid must have a glass of port, and for some
+time they all chatted amiably about trade and tied houses and how the
+price of everything was going up. Meanwhile, I stood, hot and cold all
+over, and not knowing what to do with myself. As we went out Mrs.
+Driffield remarked:
+
+“I took quite a fancy to that girl, Ted. She ought to do well for
+herself. As I said to her, it’s a hard life but a merry one. You do see
+a bit of what’s going on and if you play your cards right you ought to
+marry well. I noticed she had an engagement ring on, but she told me she
+just wore that because it gave the fellows a chance to tease her.”
+
+Driffield laughed. She turned to me.
+
+“I had a rare old time when I was a barmaid, but of course you can’t go
+on for ever. You have to think of your future.”
+
+But a greater jolt awaited me. It was halfway through September and my
+holidays were drawing to an end. I was very full of the Driffields, but
+my desire to talk about them at home was snubbed by my uncle.
+
+“We don’t want your friends pushed down our throats all day long,” said
+he. “There are other topics of conversation that are more suitable. But
+I do think that, as Ted Driffield was born in the parish and is seeing
+you almost every day, he might come to church occasionally.”
+
+One day I told Driffield: “My uncle wants you to come to church.”
+
+“All right. Let’s go to church next Sunday night, Rosie.”
+
+“I don’t mind,” she said.
+
+I told Mary-Ann they were going. I sat in the vicarage pew just behind
+the squire’s and I could not look round, but I was conscious by the
+behaviour of my neighbours on the other side of the aisle that they were
+there, and as soon as I had a chance next day I asked Mary-Ann if she
+had seen them.
+
+“I see ’er all right,” said Mary-Ann grimly.
+
+“Did you speak to her afterward?”
+
+“Me?” She suddenly burst into anger. “You get out of my kitchen. What
+d’you want to come bothering me all day long? How d’you expect me to do
+my work with you getting in my way all the time?”
+
+“All right,” I said. “Don’t get in a wax.”
+
+“I don’t know what your uncle’s about lettin’ you go all over the place
+with the likes of them. All them flowers in her ’at. I wonder she ain’t
+ashamed to show her face. Now run along, I’m busy.”
+
+I did not know why Mary-Ann was so cross. I did not mention Mrs.
+Driffield again. But two or three days later I happened to go into the
+kitchen to get something I wanted. There were two kitchens at the
+vicarage, a small one in which the cooking was done and a large one,
+built I suppose for a time when country clergymen had large families and
+gave grand dinners to the surrounding gentry, where Mary-Ann sat and
+sewed when her day’s work was over. We had cold supper at eight so that
+after tea she had little to do. It was getting on for seven and the day
+was drawing in. It was Emily’s evening out and I expected to find
+Mary-Ann alone, but as I went along the passage I heard voices and the
+sound of laughter. I supposed Mary-Ann had someone in to see her. The
+lamp was lit, but it had a thick green shade and the kitchen was almost
+in darkness. I saw a teapot and cups on the table. Mary-Ann was having a
+late cup of tea with her friend. The conversation stopped as I opened
+the door, then I heard a voice.
+
+“Good-evening.”
+
+With a start I saw that Mary-Ann’s friend was Mrs. Driffield. Mary-Ann
+laughed a little at my surprise.
+
+“Rosie Gann dropped in to have a cup of tea with me,” she said.
+
+“We’ve been having a talk about old times.”
+
+Mary-Ann was a little shy at my finding her thus, but not half so shy as
+I. Mrs. Driffield gave me that childlike, mischievous smile of hers; she
+was perfectly at her ease. For some reason I noticed her dress. I
+suppose because I had never seen her so grand before. It was of pale
+blue cloth, very tight at the waist, with high sleeves and a long skirt
+with a flounce at the bottom. She wore a large black straw hat with a
+great quantity of roses and leaves and bows on it. It was evidently the
+hat she had worn in church on Sunday.
+
+“I thought if I went on waiting till Mary-Ann came to see me I’d have to
+wait till doomsday, so I thought the best thing I could do was to come
+and see her myself.”
+
+Mary-Ann grinned self-consciously, but did not look displeased. I asked
+for whatever it was I wanted and as quickly as I could left them. I went
+out into the garden and wandered about aimlessly. I walked down to the
+road and looked over the gate. The night had fallen. Presently I saw a
+man strolling along. I paid no attention to him, but he passed backward
+and forward and it looked as though he were waiting for someone. At
+first I thought it might be Ted Driffield and I was on the point of
+going out when he stopped and lit a pipe; I saw it was Lord George. I
+wondered what he was doing there and at the same moment it struck me
+that he was waiting for Mrs. Driffield. My heart began to beat fast, and
+though I was hidden by the darkness I withdrew into the shade of the
+bushes. I waited a few minutes longer, then I saw the side door open and
+Mrs. Driffield let out by Mary-Ann. I heard her footsteps on the gravel.
+She came to the gate and opened it. It opened with a little click. At
+the sound Lord George stepped across the road and before she could come
+out slipped in. He took her in his arms and gave her a great hug. She
+gave a little laugh.
+
+“Take care of my hat,” she whispered.
+
+I was not more than three feet away from them and I was terrified lest
+they should notice me. I was so ashamed for them. I was trembling with
+agitation. For a minute he held her in his arms.
+
+“What about the garden?” he said, still in a whisper.
+
+“No, there’s that boy. Let’s go in the fields.”
+
+They went out by the gate, he with his arm round her waist, and were
+lost in the night. Now I felt my heart pounding against my chest so that
+I could hardly breathe. I was so astonished at what I had seen that I
+could not think sensibly. I would have given anything to be able to tell
+someone, but it was a secret and I must keep it. I was thrilled with the
+importance it gave me. I walked slowly up to the house and let myself in
+by the side door. Mary-Ann, hearing it open, called me.
+
+“Is that you, Master Willie?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+I looked in the kitchen. Mary-Ann was putting the supper on a tray to
+take it into the dining room.
+
+“I wouldn’t say anything to your uncle about Rosie Gann ’avin’ been
+here,” she said.
+
+“Oh, no.”
+
+“It was a surprisement to me. When I ’eared a knock at the side door and
+opened it and saw Rosie standing there, you could ’ave knocked me down
+with a feather. ‘Mary-Ann,’ she says, an’ before I knew what she was up
+to she was kissing me all over me face. I couldn’t but ask ’er in and
+when she was in I couldn’t but ask her to ’ave a nice cup of tea.”
+
+Mary-Ann was anxious to excuse herself. After all she had said of Mrs.
+Driffield it must seem strange to me that I should find them sitting
+there together chatting away and laughing. I did not want to crow.
+
+“She’s not so bad, is she?” I said.
+
+Mary-Ann smiled. Notwithstanding her black decayed teeth there was in
+her smile something sweet and touching.
+
+“I don’t ’ardly know what it is, but there’s somethin’ you can’t ’elp
+likin’ about her. She was ’ere the best part of an hour and I will say
+that for ’er, she never once give ’erself airs. And she told me with ’er
+own lips the material of that dress she ’ad on cost thirteen and eleven
+a yard and I believe it. She remembers everything, how I used to brush
+her ’air for her when she was a tiny tot and how I used to make her wash
+her little ’ands before tea. You see, sometimes her mother used to send
+’er in to ’ave her tea with us. She was as pretty as a picture in them
+days.”
+
+Mary-Ann looked back into the past and her funny crumpled face grew
+wistful.
+
+“Oh, well,” she said after a pause, “I dare say she’s been no worse than
+plenty of others if the truth was only known. She ’ad more temptation
+than most, and I dare say a lot of them as blame her would ’ave been no
+better than what she was if they’d ’ad the opportunity.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  VIII
+
+
+THE WEATHER broke suddenly; it grew chilly and heavy rain fell. It put
+an end to our excursions. I was not sorry, for I did not know how I
+could look Mrs. Driffield in the face now that I had seen her meeting
+with George Kemp. I was not so much shocked as astonished. I could not
+understand how it was possible for her to like being kissed by an old
+man, and the fantastic notion passed through my mind, filled with the
+novels I had read, that somehow Lord George held her in his power and
+forced her by his knowledge of some fearful secret to submit to his
+loathsome embraces. My imagination played with terrible possibilities.
+Bigamy, murder, and forgery. Very few villains in books failed to hold
+the threat of exposure of one of these crimes over some hapless female.
+Perhaps Mrs. Driffield had backed a bill; I never could quite understand
+what this meant, but I knew that the consequences were disastrous. I
+toyed with the fancy of her anguish (the long sleepless nights when she
+sat at her window in her nightdress, her long fair hair hanging to her
+knees, and watched hopelessly for the dawn) and saw myself (not a boy of
+fifteen with sixpence a week pocket money, but a tall man with a waxed
+moustache and muscles of steel in faultless evening dress) with a happy
+blend of heroism and dexterity rescuing her from the toils of the
+rascally blackmailer. On the other hand, it had not looked as though she
+had yielded quite unwillingly to Lord George’s fondling and I could not
+get out of my ears the sound of her laugh. It had a note that I had
+never heard before. It gave me a queer feeling of breathlessness.
+
+During the rest of my holidays I only saw the Driffields once more. I
+met them by chance in the town and they stopped and spoke to me. I
+suddenly felt very shy again, but when I looked at Mrs. Driffield I
+could not help blushing with embarrassment, for there was nothing in her
+countenance that indicated a guilty secret. She looked at me with those
+soft blue eyes of hers in which there was a child’s playful naughtiness.
+She often held her mouth a little open, as though it were just going to
+break into a smile, and her lips were full and red. There was honesty
+and innocence in her face and an ingenuous frankness and though then I
+could not have expressed this, I felt it quite strongly. If I had put it
+into words at all I think I should have said: She looks as straight as a
+die. It was impossible that she could be “carrying on” with Lord George.
+There must be an explanation; I did not believe what my eyes had seen.
+
+Then the day came when I had to go back to school. The carter had taken
+my trunk and I walked to the station by myself. I had refused to let my
+aunt see me off, thinking it more manly to go alone, but I felt rather
+low as I walked down the street. It was a small branch line to
+Tercanbury and the station was at the other end of the town near the
+beach. I took my ticket and settled myself in the corner of a
+third-class carriage. Suddenly I heard a voice: “There he is”; and Mr.
+and Mrs. Driffield bustled gaily up.
+
+“We thought we must come and see you off,” she said. “Are you feeling
+miserable?”
+
+“No, of course not.”
+
+“Oh, well, it won’t last long. We’ll have no end of a time when you come
+back for Christmas. Can you skate?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“I can. I’ll teach you.”
+
+Her high spirits cheered me, and at the same time the thought that they
+had come to the station to say good-bye to me gave me a lump in my
+throat. I tried hard not to let the emotion I felt appear on my face.
+
+“I expect I shall be playing a lot of football this term,” I said. “I
+ought to get into the second fifteen.”
+
+She looked at me with kindly shining eyes, smiling with her full red
+lips. There was something in her smile I had always rather liked, and
+her voice seemed almost to tremble with a laugh or a tear. For one
+horrible moment I was afraid that she was going to kiss me. I was scared
+out of my wits. She talked on, she was mildly facetious as grown-up
+people are with schoolboys, and Driffield stood there without saying
+anything. He looked at me with a smile in his eyes and pulled his beard.
+Then the guard blew a cracked whistle and waved a red flag. Mrs.
+Driffield took my hand and shook it. Driffield came forward.
+
+“Good-bye,” he said. “Here’s something for you.”
+
+He pressed a tiny packet into my hand and the train steamed off. When I
+opened it I found that it was two half-crowns wrapped in a piece of
+toilet paper. I blushed to the roots of my hair. I was glad enough to
+have an extra five shillings, but the thought that Ted Driffield had
+dared to give me a tip filled me with rage and humiliation. I could not
+possibly accept anything from him. It was true that I had bicycled with
+him and sailed with him, but he wasn’t a sahib (I had got that from
+Major Greencourt) and it was an insult to me to give me five shillings.
+At first I thought of returning the money without a word, showing by my
+silence how outraged I was at the solecism he had committed, then I
+composed in my head a dignified and frigid letter in which I thanked him
+for his generosity, but said that he must see how impossible it was for
+a gentleman to accept a tip from someone who was practically a stranger.
+I thought it over for two or three days and every day it seemed more
+difficult to me to part with the two half-crowns. I felt sure that
+Driffield had meant it kindly, and of course he was very bad form and
+didn’t know about things; it would be rather hard to hurt his feelings
+by sending the money back, and finally I spent it. But I assuaged my
+wounded pride by not writing to thank Driffield for his gift.
+
+When Christmas came, however, and I went back to Blackstable for the
+holidays, it was the Driffields I was most eager to see. In that
+stagnant little place they alone seemed to have a connection with the
+outside world which already was beginning to touch my daydreams with
+anxious curiosity. But I could not overcome my shyness enough to go to
+their house and call, and I hoped that I should meet them in the town.
+But the weather was dreadful, a boisterous wind whistled down the
+street, piercing you to the bone, and the few women who had an errand
+were swept along by their full skirts like fishing boats in half a gale.
+The cold rain scudded in sudden squalls and the sky, which in summer had
+enclosed the friendly country so snugly, now was a great pall that
+pressed upon the earth with sullen menace. There was small hope of
+meeting the Driffields by chance and at last I took my courage in both
+hands and one day after tea slipped out. As far as the station the road
+was pitch dark, but there the street lamps, few and dim, made it easier
+to keep to the pavement. The Driffields lived in a little two-story
+house in a side street; it was of dingy yellow brick and had a bow
+window. I knocked and presently a little maid opened the door; I asked
+if Mrs. Driffield was in. She gave me an uncertain look and, saying she
+would go and see, left me standing in the passage. I had already heard
+voices in the next room, but they were stilled as she opened the door
+and, entering, shut it behind her. I had a faint impression of mystery;
+in the houses of my uncle’s friends, even if there was no fire and the
+gas had to be lit as you went in, you were shown into the drawing room
+when you called. But the door was opened and Driffield came out. There
+was only a speck of light in the passage and at first he could not see
+who it was; but in an instant he recognized me.
+
+“Oh, it’s you. We wondered when we were going to see you.” Then he
+called out: “Rosie, it’s young Ashenden.”
+
+There was a cry and before you could say knife Mrs. Driffield had come
+into the passage and was shaking my hands.
+
+“Come in, come in. Take off your coat. Isn’t it awful, the weather? You
+must be perishing.”
+
+She helped me with my coat and took off my muffler and snatched my cap
+out of my hand and drew me into the room. It was hot and stuffy, a tiny
+room full of furniture, with a fire burning in the grate; they had gas
+there, which we hadn’t at the vicarage, and the three burners in round
+globes of frosted glass filled the room with harsh light. The air was
+gray with tobacco smoke. At first, dazzled and then taken aback by my
+effusive welcome, I did not see who the two men were who got up as I
+came in. Then I saw they were the curate, Mr. Galloway, and Lord George
+Kemp. I fancied that the curate shook my hand with constraint.
+
+“How are you? I just came in to return some books that Mr. Driffield had
+lent me and Mrs. Driffield very kindly asked me to stay to tea.”
+
+I felt rather than saw the quizzical look that Driffield gave him. He
+said something about the mammon of unrighteousness, which I recognized
+as a quotation, but did not gather the sense of. Mr. Galloway laughed.
+
+“I don’t know about that,” he said. “What about the publicans and
+sinners?”
+
+I thought the remark in very bad taste, but I was immediately seized
+upon by Lord George. There was no constraint about him.
+
+“Well, young fellow, home for the holidays? My word, what a big chap
+you’re growing.”
+
+I shook hands with him rather coldly. I wished I had not come.
+
+“Let me give you a nice strong cup of tea,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+
+“I’ve already had tea.”
+
+“Have some more,” said Lord George, speaking as though he owned the
+place (that was just like him). “A big fellow like you can always tuck
+away another piece of bread and butter and jam and Mrs. D. will cut you
+a slice with her own fair hands.”
+
+The tea things were still on the table and they were sitting round it. A
+chair was brought up for me and Mrs. Driffield gave me a piece of cake.
+
+“We were just trying to persuade Ted to sing us a song,” said Lord
+George. “Come on, Ted.”
+
+“Sing, ‘All Through Stickin’ to a Soljer,’ Ted,” said Mrs. Driffield. “I
+love that.”
+
+“No, sing ‘First We Mopped the Floor with Him.’”
+
+“I’ll sing ’em both if you’re not careful,” said Driffield.
+
+He took his banjo, which was lying on the top of the cottage piano,
+tuned it, and began to sing. He had a rich baritone voice. I was quite
+used to people singing songs. When there was a tea party at the
+vicarage, or I went to one at the major’s or the doctor’s, people always
+brought their music with them. They left it in the hall, so that it
+should not seem that they wanted to be asked to play or sing; but after
+tea the hostess asked them if they had brought it. They shyly admitted
+that they had, and if it was at the vicarage I was sent to fetch it.
+Sometimes a young lady would say that she had quite given up playing and
+hadn’t brought anything with her, and then her mother would break in and
+say that _she_ had brought it. But when they sang it was not comic
+songs; it was “I’ll Sing Thee Songs of Araby,” or “Good-Night, Beloved,”
+or “Queen of My Heart.” Once at the annual concert at the Assembly
+Rooms, Smithson, the draper, had sung a comic song, and though the
+people at the back of the hall had applauded a great deal, the gentry
+had seen nothing funny in it. Perhaps there wasn’t. Anyhow, before the
+next concert he was asked to be a little more careful about what he sang
+(“Remember there are ladies present, Mr. Smithson”) and so gave “The
+Death of Nelson.” The next ditty that Driffield sang had a chorus and
+the curate and Lord George joined in lustily. I heard it a good many
+times afterward, but I can only remember four lines:
+
+               _First we mopped the floor with him;_
+               _Dragged him up and down the stairs;_
+               _Then we lugged him round the room,_
+               _Under tables, over chairs._
+
+When it was finished, assuming my best company manners, I turned to Mrs.
+Driffield.
+
+“Don’t you sing?” I asked.
+
+“I do, but it always turns the milk, so Ted doesn’t encourage me.”
+
+Driffield put down his banjo and lit a pipe.
+
+“Well, how’s the old book getting along, Ted?” said Lord George
+heartily.
+
+“Oh, all right. I’m working away, you know.”
+
+“Good old Ted and his books,” Lord George laughed. “Why don’t you settle
+down and do something respectable for a change? I’ll give you a job in
+my office.”
+
+“Oh, I’m all right.”
+
+“You let him be, George,” said Mrs. Driffield. “He likes writing, and
+what I say is, as long as it keeps him happy why shouldn’t he?”
+
+“Well, I don’t pretend to know anything about books,” began George Kemp.
+
+“Then don’t talk about them,” interrupted Driffield with a smile.
+
+“I don’t think anyone need be ashamed to have written _Fairhaven_,” said
+Mr. Galloway, “and I don’t care what the critics said.”
+
+“Well, Ted, I’ve known you since I was a boy and _I_ couldn’t read it,
+try as I would.”
+
+“Oh, come on, we don’t want to start talking about books,” said Mrs.
+Driffield. “Sing us another song, Ted.”
+
+“I must be going,” said the curate. He turned to me. “We might walk
+along together. Have you got anything for me to read, Driffield?”
+
+Driffield pointed to a pile of new books that were heaped up on a table
+in the corner.
+
+“Take your pick.”
+
+“By Jove, what a lot!” I said, looking at them greedily.
+
+“Oh, it’s all rubbish. They’re sent down for review.”
+
+“What d’you do with them?”
+
+“Take ’em into Tercanbury and sell ’em for what they’ll fetch. It all
+helps to pay the butcher.”
+
+When we left, the curate and I, he with three or four books under his
+arm, he asked me:
+
+“Did you tell your uncle you were coming to see the Driffields?”
+
+“No, I just went out for a walk and it suddenly occurred to me that I
+might look in.”
+
+This of course was some way from the truth, but I did not care to tell
+Mr. Galloway that, though I was practically grown up, my uncle realized
+the fact so little that he was quite capable of trying to prevent me
+from seeing people he objected to.
+
+“Unless you have to I wouldn’t say anything about it in your place. The
+Driffields are perfectly all right, but your uncle doesn’t quite approve
+of them.”
+
+“I know,” I said. “It’s such rot.”
+
+“Of course they’re rather common, but he doesn’t write half badly, and
+when you think what he came from it’s wonderful that he writes at all.”
+
+I was glad to know how the land lay. Mr. Galloway did not wish my uncle
+to know that he was on friendly terms with the Driffields. I could feel
+sure at all events that he would not give me away.
+
+The patronizing manner in which my uncle’s curate spoke of one who has
+been now so long recognized as one of the greatest of the later
+Victorian novelists must arouse a smile; but it was the manner in which
+he was generally spoken of at Blackstable. One day we went to tea at
+Mrs. Greencourt’s, who had staying with her a cousin, the wife of an
+Oxford don, and we had been told that she was very cultivated. She was a
+Mrs. Encombe, a little woman with an eager wrinkled face; she surprised
+us very much because she wore her gray hair short and a black serge
+skirt that only just came down below the tops of her square-toed boots.
+She was the first example of the New Woman that had even been seen in
+Blackstable. We were staggered and immediately on the defensive, for she
+looked intellectual and it made us feel shy. (Afterward we all scoffed
+at her, and my uncle said to my aunt: “Well, my dear, I’m thankful
+you’re not clever, at least I’ve been spared that”; and my aunt in a
+playful mood put my uncle’s slippers which were warming for him by the
+fire over her boots and said: “Look, I’m the new woman.” And then we all
+said: “Mrs. Greencourt is very funny; you never know what she’ll do
+next. But of course she isn’t quite quite.” We could hardly forget that
+her father made china and that her grandfather had been a factory hand.)
+
+But we all found it very interesting to hear Mrs. Encombe talk of the
+people she knew. My uncle had been at Oxford, but everyone he asked
+about seemed to be dead. Mrs. Encombe knew Mrs. Humphry Ward and admired
+_Robert Elsmere_. My uncle considered it a scandalous work, and he was
+surprised that Mr. Gladstone, who at least called himself a Christian,
+had found a good word to say for it. They had quite an argument about
+it. My uncle said he thought it would unsettle people’s opinions and
+give them all sorts of ideas that they were much better without. Mrs.
+Encombe answered that he wouldn’t think that if he knew Mrs. Humphry
+Ward. She was a woman of the very highest character, a niece of Mr.
+Matthew Arnold, and whatever you might think of the book itself (and
+she, Mrs. Encombe, was quite willing to admit that there were parts
+which had better have been omitted) it was quite certain that she had
+written it from the very highest motives. Mrs. Encombe knew Miss
+Broughton too. She was of very good family and it was strange that she
+wrote the books she did.
+
+“I don’t see any harm in them,” said Mrs. Hayforth, the doctor’s wife.
+“I enjoy them, especially _Red as a Rose is She_.”
+
+“Would you like your girls to read them?” asked Mrs. Encombe.
+
+“Not just yet perhaps,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “But when they’re married I
+should have no objection.”
+
+“Then it might interest you to know,” said Mrs. Encombe, “that when I
+was in Florence last Easter I was introduced to Ouida.”
+
+“That’s quite another matter,” returned Mrs. Hayforth. “I can’t believe
+that any lady would read a book by Ouida.”
+
+“I read one out of curiosity,” said Mrs. Encombe. “I must say, it’s more
+what you’d expect from a Frenchman than from an English gentlewoman.”
+
+“Oh, but I understand she isn’t really English. I’ve always heard her
+real name is Mademoiselle de la Ramée.”
+
+It was then that Mr. Galloway mentioned Edward Driffield.
+
+“You know we have an author living here,” he said.
+
+“We’re not very proud of him,” said the major. “He’s the son of old Miss
+Wolfe’s bailiff and he married a barmaid.”
+
+“Can he write?” asked Mrs. Encombe.
+
+“You can tell at once that he’s not a gentleman,” said the curate, “but
+when you consider the disadvantages he’s had to struggle against it’s
+rather remarkable that he should write as well as he does.”
+
+“He’s a friend of Willie’s,” said my uncle.
+
+Everyone looked at me, and I felt very uncomfortable.
+
+“They bicycled together last summer, and after Willie had gone back to
+school I got one of his books from the library to see what it was like.
+I read the first volume and then I sent it back. I wrote a pretty stiff
+letter to the librarian and I was glad to hear that he’d withdrawn it
+from circulation. If it had been my own property I should have put it
+promptly in the kitchen stove.”
+
+“I looked through one of his books myself,” said the doctor. “It
+interested me because it was set in this neighbourhood and I recognized
+some of the people. But I can’t say I liked it; I thought it
+unnecessarily coarse.”
+
+“I mentioned that to him,” said Mr. Galloway, “and he said the men in
+the colliers that run up to Newcastle and the fishermen and farm hands
+don’t behave like ladies and gentlemen and don’t talk like them.”
+
+“But why write about people of that character?” said my uncle.
+
+“That’s what I say,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “We all know that there are
+coarse and wicked and vicious people in the world, but I don’t see what
+good it does to write about them.”
+
+“I’m not defending him,” said Mr. Galloway. “I’m only telling you what
+explanation he gives himself. And then of course he brought up Dickens.”
+
+“Dickens is quite different,” said my uncle. “I don’t see how anyone can
+object to the _Pickwick Papers_.”
+
+“I suppose it’s a matter of taste,” said my aunt. “I always found
+Dickens very coarse. I don’t want to read about people who drop their
+aitches. I must say I’m very glad the weather’s so bad now and Willie
+can’t take any more rides with Mr. Driffield. I don’t think he’s quite
+the sort of person he ought to associate with.”
+
+Both Mr. Galloway and I looked down our noses.
+
+
+
+
+                                   IX
+
+
+AS OFTEN as the mild Christmas gaieties of Blackstable allowed me I went
+to the Driffields’ little house next door to the Congregational chapel.
+I always found Lord George and often Mr. Galloway. Our conspiracy of
+silence had made us friends and when we met at the vicarage or in the
+vestry after church we looked at one another archly. We did not talk
+about our secret, but we enjoyed it; I think it gave us both a good deal
+of satisfaction to know that we were making a fool of my uncle. But once
+it occurred to me that George Kemp, meeting my uncle in the street,
+might remark casually that he had been seeing a lot of me at the
+Driffields’.
+
+“What about Lord George?” I said to Mr. Galloway.
+
+“Oh, I made that all right.”
+
+We chuckled. I began to like Lord George. At first I was very cold with
+him and scrupulously polite, but he seemed so unconscious of the social
+difference between us that I was forced to conclude that my haughty
+courtesy failed to put him in his place. He was always cordial, breezy,
+even boisterous; he chaffed me in his common way and I answered him back
+with schoolboy wit; we made the others laugh and this disposed me kindly
+toward him. He was for ever bragging about the great schemes he had in
+mind, but he took in good part my jokes at the expense of his grandiose
+imaginations. It amused me to hear him tell stories about the swells of
+Blackstable that made them look foolish and when he mimicked their
+oddities I roared with laughter. He was blatant and vulgar and the way
+he dressed was always a shock to me (I had never been to Newmarket nor
+seen a trainer, but that was my idea of how a Newmarket trainer dressed)
+and his table manners were offensive, but I found myself less and less
+affronted by him. He gave me the _Pink ’Un_ every week and I took it
+home, carefully tucked away in my great-coat pocket, and read it in my
+bedroom.
+
+I never went to the Driffields’ till after tea at the vicarage, but I
+always managed to make a second tea when I got there. Afterward Ted
+Driffield sang comic songs, accompanying himself sometimes on the banjo
+and sometimes on the piano. He would sing, peering at the music with his
+rather short-sighted eyes, for an hour at a time; there was a smile on
+his lips and he liked us all to join in the chorus. We played whist. I
+had learned the game when I was a child and my uncle and aunt and I used
+to play at the vicarage during the long winter evenings. My uncle always
+took dummy, and though of course we played for love, when my aunt and I
+lost I used to retire under the dining room table and cry. Ted Driffield
+did not play cards, he said he had no head for them, and when we started
+a game he would sit down by the fire and, pencil in hand, read one of
+the books that had been sent down to him from London to review. I had
+never played with three people before and of course I did not play well,
+but Mrs. Driffield had a natural card sense. Her movements as a rule
+were rather deliberate, but when it came to playing cards she was quick
+and alert. She played the rest of us right off our heads. Ordinarily she
+did not speak very much and then slowly, but when, after a hand was
+played, she took the trouble good-humouredly to point out to me my
+mistakes, she was not only lucid but voluble. Lord George chaffed her as
+he chaffed everybody; she would smile at his banter, for she very seldom
+laughed, and sometimes make a neat retort. They did not behave like
+lovers, but like familiar friends, and I should have quite forgotten
+what I had heard about them and what I had seen but that now and then
+she gave him a look that embarrassed me. Her eyes rested on him quietly,
+as though he were not a man but a chair or a table, and in them was a
+mischievous, childlike smile. Then I would notice that his face seemed
+suddenly to swell and he moved uneasily in his chair. I looked quickly
+at the curate, afraid that he would notice something, but he was intent
+on the cards or else was lighting his pipe.
+
+The hour or two I spent nearly every day in that hot, poky, smoke-laden
+room passed like lightning, and as the holidays drew nearer to their end
+I was seized with dismay at the thought that I must spend the next three
+months dully at school.
+
+“I don’t know what we shall do without you,” said Mrs. Driffield. “We
+shall have to play dummy.”
+
+I was glad that my going would break up the game. While I was doing prep
+I did not want to think that they were sitting in that little room and
+enjoying themselves just as if I did not exist.
+
+“How long do you get at Easter?” asked Mr. Galloway.
+
+“About three weeks.”
+
+“We’ll have a lovely time then,” said Mrs. Driffield. “The weather ought
+to be all right. We can ride in the mornings and then after tea we’ll
+play whist. You’ve improved a lot. If we play three or four times a week
+during your Easter holidays you won’t need to be afraid to play with
+anybody.”
+
+
+
+
+                                   X
+
+
+BUT THE term came to an end at last. I was in high spirits when once
+more I got out of the train at Blackstable. I had grown a little and I
+had had a new suit made at Tercanbury, blue serge and very smart, and I
+had bought a new tie. I meant to go and see the Driffields immediately I
+had swallowed my tea and I was full of hope that the carrier would have
+brought my box in time for me to put the new suit on. It made me look
+quite grown up. I had already begun putting vaseline on my upper lip
+every night to make my moustache grow. On my way through the town I
+looked down the street in which the Driffields lived in the hope of
+seeing them. I should have liked to go in and say how-do-you-do, but I
+knew that Driffield wrote in the morning and Mrs. Driffield was not
+“presentable.” I had all sorts of exciting things to tell them. I had
+won the hundred-yard race in the sports and I had been second in the
+hurdles. I meant to have a shot for the history prize in the summer and
+I was going to swot up my English history during the holidays. Though
+there was an east wind blowing, the sky was blue and there was a feeling
+of spring in the air. The High Street, with its colours washed clean by
+the wind and its lines sharp as though drawn with a new pen, looked like
+a picture by Samuel Scott, quiet and naïve and cosy: now, looking back;
+then it looked like nothing but High Street, Blackstable. When I came to
+the railway bridge I noticed that two or three houses were being built.
+
+“By Jove,” I said, “Lord George _is_ going it.”
+
+In the fields beyond little white lambs were gambolling. The elm trees
+were just beginning to turn green. I let myself in by the side door. My
+uncle was sitting in his armchair by the fire reading the _Times_. I
+shouted to my aunt and she came downstairs, a pink spot from the
+excitement of seeing me on each of her withered cheeks, and threw her
+thin old arms round my neck. She said all the right things.
+
+“How you’ve grown!” and “Good gracious me, you’ll be getting a moustache
+soon!”
+
+I kissed my uncle on his bald forehead and I stood in front of the fire,
+with my legs well apart and my back to it, and was extremely grown up
+and rather condescending. Then I went upstairs to say how-do-you-do to
+Emily, and into the kitchen to shake hands with Mary-Ann, and out into
+the garden to see the gardener.
+
+When I sat down hungrily to dinner and my uncle carved the leg of mutton
+I asked my aunt:
+
+“Well, what’s happened at Blackstable since I was here?”
+
+“Nothing very much. Mrs. Greencourt went down to Mentone for six weeks,
+but she came back a few days ago. The major had an attack of gout.”
+
+“And your friends the Driffields have bolted,” added my uncle.
+
+“They’ve done what?” I cried.
+
+“Bolted. They took their luggage away one night and just went up to
+London. They’ve left bills all over the place. They hadn’t paid their
+rent and they hadn’t paid for their furniture. They owed Harris the
+butcher the best part of thirty pounds.”
+
+“How awful,” I said.
+
+“That’s bad enough,” said my aunt, “but it appears they hadn’t even paid
+the wages of the maid they had for three months.”
+
+I was flabbergasted. I thought I felt a little sick.
+
+“I think in future,” said my uncle, “you would be wiser not to consort
+with people whom your aunt and I don’t think proper associates for you.”
+
+“One can’t help feeling sorry for all those tradesmen they cheated,”
+said my aunt.
+
+“It serves them right,” said my uncle. “Fancy giving credit to people
+like that! I should have thought anyone could see they were nothing but
+adventurers.”
+
+“I always wonder why they came down here at all.”
+
+“They just wanted to show off, and I suppose they thought as people knew
+who they were here it would be easier to get things on credit.”
+
+I did not think this quite reasonable, but was too much crushed to
+argue.
+
+As soon as I had the chance I asked Mary-Ann what she knew of the
+incident. To my surprise she did not take it at all in the same way as
+my uncle and aunt. She giggled.
+
+“They let everyone in proper,” she said. “They was as free as you like
+with their money and everyone though they ’ad plenty. It was always the
+best end of the neck for them at the butcher’s and when they wanted a
+steak nothing would do but the undercut. Asparagus and grapes and I
+don’t know what all. They ran up bills in every shop in the town. I
+don’t know ’ow people can be such fools.”
+
+But it was evidently of the tradesmen she was speaking and not of the
+Driffields.
+
+“But how did they manage to bunk without anyone knowing?” I asked.
+
+“Well, that’s what everybody’s askin’. They do say it was Lord George
+’elped them. How did they get their boxes to the station, I ask you, if
+’e didn’t take them in that there trap of ’is?”
+
+“What does he say about it?”
+
+“He says ’e knows no more about it than the man in the moon. There was a
+rare to-do all over the town when they found out the Driffields had shot
+the moon. It made me laugh. Lord George says ’e never knew they was
+broke, and ’e makes out ’e was as surprised as anybody. But I for one
+don’t believe a word of it. We all knew about ’im and Rosie before she
+was married, and between you and me and the gatepost I don’t know that
+it ended there. They do say they was seen walkin’ about the fields
+together last summer and ’e was in and out of the ’ouse pretty near
+every day.”
+
+“How did people find out?”
+
+“Well, it’s like this. They ’ad a girl there and they told ’er she could
+go ’ome and spend the night with her mother, but she wasn’t to be back
+later than eight o’clock in the morning. Well, when she come back she
+couldn’t get in. She knocked and she rung but nobody answered, and so
+she went in next door and asked the lady there what she’d better do, and
+the lady said she’d better go to the police station. The sergeant come
+back with ’er and ’e knocked and ’e rung, but ’_e_ couldn’t get no
+answer. Then he asked the girl ’ad they paid ’er ’er wages, and she said
+no, not for three months, and then ’e said, you take my word for it,
+they’ve shot the moon, that’s what they’ve done. An’ when they come to
+get inside they found they’d took all their clothes, an’ their
+books—they say as Ted Driffield ’ad a rare lot of books—an’ every
+blessed thing that belonged to them.”
+
+“And has nothing been heard of them since?”
+
+“Well, not exactly, but when they’d been gone about a week the girl got
+a letter from London, and when she opened it there was no letter or
+anything, but just a postal order for ’er wages. An’ if you ask me, I
+call that very ’andsome not to do a poor girl out of her wages.”
+
+I was much more shocked than Mary-Ann. I was a very respectable youth.
+The reader cannot have failed to observe that I accepted the conventions
+of my class as if they were the laws of Nature, and though debts on the
+grand scale in books had seemed to me romantic, and duns and money
+lenders were familiar figures to my fancy, I could not but think it mean
+and paltry not to pay the tradesmen’s books. I listened with confusion
+when people talked in my presence of the Driffields, and when they spoke
+of them as my friends I said: “Hang it all, I just knew them”; and when
+they asked: “Weren’t they fearfully common?” I said: “Well, after all
+they didn’t exactly suggest the Vere de Veres, you know.” Poor Mr.
+Galloway was dreadfully upset.
+
+“Of course I didn’t think they were wealthy,” he told me, “but I thought
+they had enough to get along. The house was very nicely furnished and
+the piano was new. It never struck me that they hadn’t paid for a single
+thing. They never stinted themselves. What hurts me is the deceit. I
+used to see quite a lot of them and I thought they liked me. They always
+made one welcome. You’d hardly believe it, but the last time I saw them
+when they shook hands with me Mrs. Driffield asked me to come next day
+and Driffield said: ‘Muffins for tea to-morrow.’ And all the time they
+had everything packed upstairs and that very night they took the last
+train to London.”
+
+“What does Lord George say about it?”
+
+“To tell you the truth I haven’t gone out of my way to see him lately.
+It’s been a lesson to me. There’s a little proverb about evil
+communications which I’ve thought well to bear in mind.”
+
+I felt very much the same about Lord George, and I was a little nervous,
+too. If he took it into his head to tell people that at Christmas I had
+been going to see the Driffields almost every day, and it came to my
+uncle’s ears, I foresaw an unpleasant fuss. My uncle would accuse me of
+deceit and prevarication and disobedience and of not behaving like a
+gentleman, and I did not at the moment see what answer I could make. I
+knew him well enough to be aware that he would not let the matter drop,
+and that I should be reminded of my transgression for years. I was just
+as glad not to see Lord George. But one day I ran into him face to face
+in the High Street.
+
+“Hulloa, youngster,” he cried, addressing me in a way I particularly
+resented. “Back for the holidays, I suppose.”
+
+“You suppose quite correctly,” I answered with what I thought withering
+sarcasm.
+
+Unfortunately he only bellowed with laughter.
+
+“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself if you don’t look out,” he answered
+heartily. “Well, it looks as if there was no more whist for you and me
+just yet. Now you see what comes of living beyond your means. What I
+always say to my boys is, if you’ve got a pound and you spend nineteen
+and six you’re a rich man, but if you spend twenty shillings and
+sixpence you’re a pauper. Look after the pence, young fellow, and the
+pounds’ll look after themselves.”
+
+But though he spoke after this fashion there was in his voice no note of
+disapproval, but a bubble of laughter as though in his heart he were
+tittering at these admirable maxims.
+
+“They say you helped them to bunk,” I remarked.
+
+“Me?” His face assumed a look of extreme surprise, but his eyes
+glittered with sly mirth. “Why, when they came and told me the
+Driffields had shot the moon you could have knocked me down with a
+feather. They owed me four pounds seventeen and six for coal. We’ve all
+been let in, even poor old Galloway who never got his muffins for tea.”
+
+I had never thought Lord George more blatant. I should have liked to say
+something final and crushing, but as I could not think of anything I
+just said that I must be getting along and with a curt nod left him.
+
+
+
+
+                                   XI
+
+
+MUSING thus over the past, while I waited for Alroy Kear, I chuckled
+when I considered this shabby incident of Edward Driffield’s obscurity
+in the light of the immense respectability of his later years. I
+wondered whether it was because, in my boyhood, he was as a writer held
+in such small esteem by the people about me that I had never been able
+to see in him the astonishing merit that the best critical opinion
+eventually ascribed to him. He was for long thought to write very bad
+English, and indeed he gave you the impression of writing with the stub
+of a blunt pencil; his style was laboured, an uneasy mixture of the
+classical and the slangy, and his dialogue was such as could never have
+issued from the mouth of a human being. Toward the end of his career,
+when he dictated his books, his style, acquiring a conversational ease,
+became flowing and limpid; and then the critics, going back to the
+novels of his maturity, found that their English had a nervous, racy
+vigour that eminently suited the matter. His prime belonged to a period
+when the purple patch was in vogue and there are descriptive passages in
+his works that have found their way into all the anthologies of English
+prose. His pieces on the sea, and spring in the Kentish woods, and
+sunset on the lower reaches of the Thames are famous. It should be a
+mortification to me that I cannot read them without discomfort.
+
+When I was a young man, though his books sold but little and one or two
+were banned by the libraries, it was very much a mark of culture to
+admire them. He was thought boldly realistic. He was a very good stick
+to beat the Philistines with. Somebody’s lucky inspiration discovered
+that his sailors and peasants were Shakespearean, and when the advanced
+got together they uttered shrill cries of ecstasy over the dry and spicy
+humour of his yokels. This was a commodity that Edward Driffield had no
+difficulty in supplying. My own heart sank when he led me into the
+forecastle of a sailing ship or the taproom of a public house and I knew
+I was in for half a dozen pages in dialect of facetious comment on life,
+ethics, and immortality. But, I admit, I have always thought the
+Shakespearean clowns tedious and their innumerable progeny
+insupportable.
+
+Driffield’s strength lay evidently in his depiction of the class he knew
+best, farmers and farm labourers, shopkeepers and bartenders, skippers
+of sailing ships, mates, cooks, and able seamen. When he introduces
+characters belonging to a higher station in life even his warmest
+admirers, one would have thought, must experience a certain malaise; his
+fine gentlemen are so incredibly fine, his high-born ladies are so good,
+so pure, so noble that you are not surprised that they can only express
+themselves with polysyllabic dignity. His women difficultly come to
+life. But here again I must add that this is only my own opinion; the
+world at large and the most eminent critics have agreed that they are
+very winsome types of English womanhood, spirited, gallant, high-souled,
+and they have been often compared with the heroines of Shakespeare. We
+know of course that women are habitually constipated, but to represent
+them in fiction as being altogether devoid of a back passage seems to me
+really an excess of chivalry. I am surprised that they care to see
+themselves thus limned.
+
+The critics can force the world to pay attention to a very indifferent
+writer, and the world may lose its head over one who has no merit at
+all, but the result in neither case is lasting; and I cannot help
+thinking that no writer can hold the public for as long as Edward
+Driffield without considerable gifts. The elect sneer at popularity;
+they are inclined even to assert that it is a proof of mediocrity; but
+they forget that posterity makes its choice not from among the unknown
+writers of a period, but from among the known. It may be that some great
+masterpiece which deserves immortality has fallen still-born from the
+press, but posterity will never hear of it; it may be that posterity
+will scrap all the best sellers of our day, but it is among them that it
+must choose. At all events Edward Driffield is in the running. His
+novels happen to bore me; I find them long; the melodramatic incidents
+with which he sought to stir the sluggish reader’s interest leave me
+cold; but he certainly had sincerity. There is in his best books the
+stir of life, and in none of them can you fail to be aware of the
+author’s enigmatic personality. In his earlier days he was praised or
+blamed for his realism; according to the idiosyncrasy of his critics he
+was extolled for his truth or censured for his coarseness. But realism
+has ceased to excite remark, and the library reader will take in his
+stride obstacles at which a generation back he would have violently
+shied. The cultured reader of these pages will remember the leading
+article in the Literary Supplement of the _Times_ which appeared at the
+moment of Driffield’s death. Taking the novels of Edward Driffield as
+his text, the author wrote what was very well described as a hymn to
+beauty. No one who read it could fail to be impressed by those swelling
+periods, which reminded one of the noble prose of Jeremy Taylor, by that
+reverence and piety, by all those high sentiments, in short, expressed
+in a style that was ornate without excess and dulcet without effeminacy.
+It was itself a thing of beauty. If some suggested that Edward Driffield
+was by way of being a humourist and that a jest would here and there
+have lightened this eulogious article it must be replied that after all
+it was a funeral oration. And it is well known that Beauty does not look
+with a good grace on the timid advances of Humour. Roy Kear, when he was
+talking to me of Driffield, claimed that, whatever his faults, they were
+redeemed by the beauty that suffused his pages. Now I come to look back
+on our conversation, I think it was this remark that had most
+exasperated me.
+
+Thirty years ago in literary circles God was all the fashion. It was
+good form to believe and journalists used him to adorn a phrase or
+balance a sentence; then God went out (oddly enough with cricket and
+beer) and Pan came in. In a hundred novels his cloven hoof left its
+imprint on the sward; poets saw him lurking in the twilight on London
+commons, and literary ladies in Surrey and New England, nymphs of an
+industrial age, mysteriously surrendered their virginity to his rough
+embrace. Spiritually they were never the same again. But Pan went out
+and now beauty has taken his place. People find it in a phrase, or a
+turbot, a dog, a day, a picture, an action, a dress. Young women in
+cohorts, each of whom has written so promising and competent a novel,
+prattle of it in every manner from allusive to arch, from intense to
+charming; and the young men, more or less recently down from Oxford, but
+still trailing its clouds of glory, who tell us in the weekly papers
+what we should think of art, life, and the universe, fling the word with
+a pretty negligence about their close-packed pages. It is sadly frayed.
+Gosh, they have worked it hard! The ideal has many names and beauty is
+but one of them. I wonder if this clamour is anything more than the cry
+of distress of those who cannot make themselves at home in our heroic
+world of machines, and I wonder if their passion for beauty, the Little
+Nell of this shamefaced day, is anything more than sentimentality. It
+may be that another generation, accommodating itself more adequately to
+the stress of life, will look for inspiration not in a flight from
+reality, but in an eager acceptance of it.
+
+I do not know if others are like myself, but I am conscious that I
+cannot contemplate beauty long. For me no poet made a falser statement
+than Keats when he wrote the first line of _Endymion_. When the thing of
+beauty has given me the magic of its sensation my mind quickly wanders;
+I listen with incredulity to the persons who tell me that they can look
+with rapture for hours at a view or a picture. Beauty is an ecstasy; it
+is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It
+is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all: that is
+why the criticism of art, except in so far as it is unconcerned with
+beauty and therefore with art, is tiresome. All the critic can tell you
+with regard to Titian’s Entombment of Christ, perhaps of all the
+pictures in the world that which has most pure beauty, is to go and look
+at it. What else he has to say is history, or biography, or what not.
+But people add other qualities to beauty—sublimity, human interest,
+tenderness, love—because beauty does not long content them. Beauty is
+perfect, and perfection (such is human nature) holds our attention but
+for a little while. The mathematician who after seeing Phèdre asked:
+“_Qu’est-ce que ça prouve?_” was not such a fool as he has been
+generally made out. No one has ever been able to explain why the Doric
+temple of Pæstum is more beautiful than a glass of cold beer except by
+bringing in considerations that have nothing to do with beauty. Beauty
+is a blind alley. It is a mountain peak which once reached leads
+nowhere. That is why in the end we find more to entrance us in El Greco
+than in Titian, in the incomplete achievement of Shakespeare than in the
+consummate success of Racine. Too much has been written about beauty.
+That is why I have written a little more. Beauty is that which satisfies
+the æsthetic instinct. But who wants to be satisfied? It is only to the
+dullard that enough is as good as a feast. Let us face it: beauty is a
+bit of a bore.
+
+But of course what the critics wrote about Edward Driffield was
+eye-wash. His outstanding merit was not the realism that gave vigour to
+his work, nor the beauty that informed it, nor his graphic portraits of
+seafaring men, nor his poetic descriptions of salty marshes, of storm
+and calm and of nestling hamlets; it was his longevity. Reverence for
+old age is one of the most admirable traits of the human race and I
+think it may safely be stated that in no other country than ours is this
+trait more marked. The awe and love with which other nations regard old
+age is often platonic; but ours is practical. Who but the English would
+fill Covent Garden to listen to an aged prima donna without a voice? Who
+but the English would pay to see a dancer so decrepit that he can hardly
+put one foot before the other and say to one another admiringly in the
+intervals: “By George, sir, d’you know he’s a long way past sixty?” But
+compared with politicians and writers these are but striplings, and I
+often think that a _jeune premier_ must be of a singularly amiable
+disposition if it does not make him bitter to consider that when at the
+age of seventy he must end his career the public man and the author are
+only at their prime. A man who is a politician at forty is a statesman
+at three score and ten. It is at this age, when he would be too old to
+be a clerk or a gardener or a police-court magistrate, that he is ripe
+to govern a country. This is not so strange when you reflect that from
+the earliest times the old have rubbed it into the young that they are
+wiser than they, and before the young had discovered what nonsense this
+was they were old too, and it profited them to carry on the imposture;
+and besides, no one can have moved in the society of politicians without
+discovering that (if one may judge by results) it requires little mental
+ability to rule a nation. But why writers should be more esteemed the
+older they grow, has long perplexed me. At one time I thought that the
+praise accorded to authors when they had ceased for twenty years to
+write anything of interest was largely due to the fact that the younger
+men, having no longer to fear their competition, felt it safe to extol
+their merit; and it is well known that to praise someone whose rivalry
+you do not dread is often a very good way of putting a spoke in the
+wheel of someone whose rivalry you do. But this is to take a low view of
+human nature and I would not for the world lay myself open to a charge
+of cheap cynicism. After mature consideration I have come to the
+conclusion that the real reason for the universal applause that comforts
+the declining years of the author who exceeds the common span of man is
+that intelligent people after the age of thirty read nothing at all. As
+they grow older the books they read in their youth are lit with its
+glamour and with every year that passes they ascribe greater merit to
+the author that wrote them. Of course he must go on; he must keep in the
+public eye. It is no good his thinking that it is enough to write one or
+two masterpieces; he must provide a pedestal for them of forty or fifty
+works of no particular consequence. This needs time. His production must
+be such that if he cannot captivate a reader by his charm he can stun
+him by his weight.
+
+If, as I think, longevity is genius, few in our time have enjoyed it in
+a more conspicuous degree than Edward Driffield. When he was a young
+fellow in the sixties (the cultured having had their way with him and
+passed him by) his position in the world of letters was only
+respectable; the best judges praised him, but with moderation; the
+younger men were inclined to be frivolous at his expense. It was agreed
+that he had talent, but it never occurred to anyone that he was one of
+the glories of English literature. He celebrated his seventieth
+birthday; an uneasiness passed over the world of letters, like a
+ruffling of the waters when on an Eastern sea a typhoon lurks in the
+distance, and it grew evident that there had lived among us all these
+years a great novelist and none of us had suspected it. There was a rush
+for Driffield’s book in the various libraries and a hundred busy pens,
+in Bloomsbury, in Chelsea, and in other places where men of letters
+congregate, wrote appreciations, studies, essays, and works, short and
+chatty or long and intense, on his novels. These were reprinted, in
+complete editions, in select editions, at a shilling and three and six
+and five shillings and a guinea. His style was analyzed, his philosophy
+was examined, his technique was dissected. At seventy-five everyone
+agreed that Edward Driffield had genius. At eighty he was the Grand Old
+Man of English Letters. This position he held till his death.
+
+Now we look about and think sadly that there is no one to take his
+place. A few septuagenarians are sitting up and taking notice, and they
+evidently feel that they could comfortably fill the vacant niche. But it
+is obvious that they lack something.
+
+Though these recollections have taken so long to narrate they took but a
+little while to pass through my head. They came to me higgledy-piggledy,
+an incident and then a scrap of conversation that belonged to a previous
+time, and I have set them down in order for the convenience of the
+reader and because I have a neat mind. One thing that surprised me was
+that even at that far distance I could remember distinctly what people
+looked like and even the gist of what they said, but only with vagueness
+what they wore. I knew of course that the dress, especially of women,
+was quite different forty years ago from what it was now, but if I
+recalled it at all it was not from life but from pictures and
+photographs that I had seen much later.
+
+I was still occupied with my idle fancies when I heard a taxi stop at
+the door, the bell ring, and in a moment Alroy Kear’s booming voice
+telling the butler that he had an appointment with me. He came in, big,
+bluff, and hearty; his vitality shattered with a single gesture the
+frail construction I had been building out of the vanished past. He
+brought in with him, like a blustering wind in March, the aggressive and
+inescapable present.
+
+“I was just asking myself,” I said, “who could possibly succeed Edward
+Driffield as the Grand Old Man of English Letters and you arrive to
+answer my question.”
+
+He broke into a jovial laugh, but into his eyes came a quick look of
+suspicion.
+
+“I don’t think there’s anybody,” he said.
+
+“How about yourself?”
+
+“Oh, my dear boy, I’m not fifty yet. Give me another twenty-five years.”
+He laughed, but his eyes held mine keenly. “I never know when you’re
+pulling my leg.” He looked down suddenly. “Of course one can’t help
+thinking about the future sometimes. All the people who are at the top
+of the tree now are anything from fifteen to twenty years older than me.
+They can’t last for ever, and when they’re gone who is there? Of course
+there’s Aldous; he’s a good deal younger than me, but he’s not very
+strong and I don’t believe he takes great care of himself. Barring
+accidents, by which I mean barring some genius who suddenly springs up
+and sweeps the board, I don’t quite see how in another twenty or
+twenty-five years I can help having the field pretty well to myself.
+It’s just a question of pegging away and living on longer than the
+others.”
+
+Roy sank his virile bulk into one of my landlady’s armchairs and I
+offered him a whisky and soda.
+
+“No, I never drink spirits before six o’clock,” he said. He looked about
+him. “Jolly, these digs are.”
+
+“I know. What have you come to see me about?”
+
+“I thought I’d better have a little chat with you about Mrs. Driffield’s
+invitation. It was rather difficult to explain over the telephone. The
+truth of the matter is that I’ve arranged to write Driffield’s life.”
+
+“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me the other day?”
+
+I felt friendly disposed toward Roy. I was happy to think that I had not
+misjudged him when I suspected that it was not merely for the pleasure
+of my company that he had asked me to luncheon.
+
+“I hadn’t entirely made up my mind. Mrs. Driffield is very keen on my
+doing it. She’s going to help me in every way she can. She’s giving me
+all the material she has. She’s been collecting it for a good many
+years. It’s not an easy thing to do and of course I can’t afford not to
+do it well. But if I can make a pretty good job of it, it can’t fail to
+do me a lot of good. People have so much more respect for a novelist if
+he writes something serious now and then. Those critical works of mine
+were an awful sweat, and they sold nothing, but I don’t regret them for
+a moment. They’ve given me a position I could never have got without
+them.”
+
+“I think it’s a very good plan. You’ve known Driffield more intimately
+than most people for the last twenty years.”
+
+“I think I have. But of course he was over sixty when I first made his
+acquaintance. I wrote and told him how much I admired his books and he
+asked me to go and see him. But I know nothing about the early part of
+his life. Mrs. Driffield used to try to get him to talk about those days
+and she made very copious notes of all he said, and then there are
+diaries that he kept now and then, and of course a lot of the stuff in
+the novels is obviously autobiographical. But there are immense lacunæ.
+I’ll tell you the sort of book I want to write, a sort of intimate life,
+with a lot of those little details that make people feel warm inside,
+you know, and then woven in with this a really exhaustive criticism of
+his literary work, not ponderous, of course, but although sympathetic,
+searching and . . . subtle. Naturally it wants doing, but Mrs. Driffield
+seems to think I can do it.”
+
+“I’m sure you can,” I put in.
+
+“I don’t see why not,” said Roy. “I am a critic, and I’m a novelist.
+It’s obvious that I have certain literary qualifications. But I can’t do
+anything unless everyone who can is willing to help me.”
+
+I began to see where I came in. I tried to make my face look quite
+blank. Roy leaned forward.
+
+“I asked you the other day if you were going to write anything about
+Driffield yourself and you said you weren’t. Can I take that as
+definite?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Then have you got any objection to giving me your material?”
+
+“My dear boy, I haven’t got any.”
+
+“Oh, that’s nonsense,” said Roy good-humouredly, with the tone of a
+doctor who is trying to persuade a child to have its throat examined.
+“When he was living at Blackstable you must have seen a lot of him.”
+
+“I was only a boy then.”
+
+“But you must have been conscious of the unusual experience. After all,
+no one could be for half an hour in Edward Driffield’s society without
+being impressed by his extraordinary personality. It must have been
+obvious even to a boy of sixteen, and you were probably more observant
+and sensitive than the average boy of that age.”
+
+“I wonder if his personality would have seemed extraordinary without the
+reputation to back it up. Do you imagine that if you went down to a spa
+in the west of England as Mr. Atkins, a chartered accountant taking the
+waters for his liver, you would impress the people you met there as a
+man of immense character?”
+
+“I imagine they’d soon realize that I was not quite the common or garden
+chartered accountant,” said Roy, with a smile that took from his remark
+any appearance of self-esteem.
+
+“Well, all I can tell you is that what chiefly bothered me about
+Driffield in those days was that the knickerbocker suit he wore was
+dreadfully loud. We used to bicycle a lot together and it always made me
+feel a trifle uncomfortable to be seen with him.”
+
+“It sounds comic now. What did he talk about?”
+
+“I don’t know; nothing very much. He was rather keen on architecture,
+and he talked about farming, and if a pub looked nice he generally
+suggested stopping for five minutes and having a glass of bitter, and
+then he would talk to the landlord about the crops and the price of coal
+and things like that.”
+
+I rambled on, though I could see by the look of Roy’s face that he was
+disappointed with me; he listened, but he was a trifle bored, and it
+struck me that when he was bored he looked peevish. But though I
+couldn’t remember that Driffield had ever said anything significant
+during those long rides of ours, I had a very acute recollection of the
+_feel_ of them. Blackstable was peculiar in this, that though it was on
+the sea, with a long shingly beach and marshland at the back, you had
+only to go about half a mile inland to come into the most rural country
+in Kent. Winding roads that ran between the great fat green fields and
+clumps of huge elms, substantial and with a homely stateliness like good
+old Kentish farmers’ wives, high-coloured and robust, who had grown
+portly on good butter and home-made bread and cream and fresh eggs. And
+sometimes the road was only a lane, with thick hawthorn hedges, and the
+green elms overhung it on either side so that when you looked up there
+was only a strip of blue sky between. And as you rode along in the warm,
+keen air you had a sensation that the world was standing still and life
+would last for ever. Although you were pedalling with such energy you
+had a delicious feeling of laziness. You were quite happy when no one
+spoke, and if one of the party from sheer high spirits suddenly put on
+speed and shot ahead it was a joke that everyone laughed at and for a
+few minutes you pedalled as hard as you could. And we chaffed one
+another innocently and giggled at our own humour. Now and then one would
+pass cottages with little gardens in front of them and in the gardens
+were hollyhocks and tiger lilies; and a little way from the road were
+farmhouses, with their spacious barns and oasthouses; and one would pass
+through hopfields with the ripening hops hanging in garlands. The public
+houses were friendly and informal, hardly more important than cottages,
+and on the porches often honeysuckle would be growing. The names they
+bore were usual and familiar: the Jolly Sailor, the Merry Ploughman, the
+Crown and Anchor, the Red Lion.
+
+But of course all that could matter nothing to Roy, and he interrupted
+me.
+
+“Did he never talk of literature?” he asked.
+
+“I don’t think so. He wasn’t that sort of writer. I suppose he thought
+about his writing, but he never mentioned it. He used to lend the curate
+books. In the winter, one Christmas holidays, I used to have tea at his
+house nearly every day and sometimes the curate and he would talk about
+books, but we used to shut them up.”
+
+“Don’t you remember anything he said?”
+
+“Only one thing. I remember it because I hadn’t ever read the things he
+was talking about and what he said made me do so. He said that when
+Shakespeare retired to Stratford-on-Avon and became respectable, if he
+ever thought of his plays at all, probably the two that he remembered
+with most interest were _Measure for Measure_ and _Troilus and
+Cressida_.”
+
+“I don’t think that’s very illuminating. Didn’t he say anything about
+anyone more modern than Shakespeare?”
+
+“Well, not then, that I can remember; but when I was lunching with the
+Driffields a few years ago I overheard him saying that Henry James had
+turned his back on one of the great events of the world’s history, the
+rise of the United States, in order to report tittle-tattle at tea
+parties in English country houses. Driffield called it _il gran
+rifiuto_. I was surprised at hearing the old man use an Italian phrase
+and amused because a great big bouncing duchess who was there was the
+only person who knew what the devil he was talking about. He said: ‘Poor
+Henry, he’s spending eternity wandering round and round a stately park
+and the fence is just too high for him to peep over and they’re having
+tea just too far for him to hear what the countess is saying.’”
+
+Roy listened to my little anecdote with attention. He shook his head
+reflectively.
+
+“I don’t think I could use that. I’d have the Henry James gang down on
+me like a thousand of bricks. . . . But what used you to do during those
+evenings?”
+
+“Well, we played whist while Driffield read books for review, and he
+used to sing.”
+
+“That’s interesting,” said Roy, leaning forward eagerly. “Do you
+remember what he sang?”
+
+“Perfectly. ‘All Through Stickin’ to a Soljer’ and ‘Come Where the Booze
+Is Cheaper’ were his favourites.”
+
+“Oh!”
+
+I could see that Roy was disappointed.
+
+“Did you expect him to sing Schumann?” I asked.
+
+“I don’t know why not. It would have been rather a good point. But I
+think I should have expected him to sing sea chanteys or old English
+country airs, you know, the sort of thing they used to sing at
+fairings—blind fiddlers and the village swains dancing with the girls
+on the threshing floor and all that sort of thing. I might have made
+something rather beautiful out of that, but I can’t _see_ Edward
+Driffield singing music hall songs. After all, when you’re drawing a
+man’s portrait you must get the values right; you only confuse the
+impression if you put in stuff that’s all out of tone.”
+
+“You know that shortly after this he shot the moon. He let everybody
+in.”
+
+Roy was silent for fully a minute and he looked down at the carpet
+reflectively.
+
+“Yes, I knew there’d been some unpleasantness. Mrs. Driffield mentioned
+it. I understand everything was paid up later before he finally bought
+Ferne Court and settled down in the district. I don’t think it’s
+necessary to dwell on an incident that is not really of any importance
+in the history of his development. After all, it happened nearly forty
+years ago. You know, there were some very curious sides to the old man.
+One would have thought that after a rather sordid little scandal like
+that the neighbourhood of Blackstable would be the last place he’d
+choose to spend the rest of his life in when he’d become celebrated,
+especially when it was the scene of his rather humble origins; but he
+didn’t seem to mind a bit. He seemed to think the whole thing rather a
+good joke. He was quite capable of telling people who came to lunch
+about it and it was very embarrassing for Mrs. Driffield. I should like
+you to know Amy better. She’s a very remarkable woman. Of course the old
+man had written all his great books before he ever set eyes on her, but
+I don’t think anyone can deny that it was she who created the rather
+imposing and dignified figure that the world saw for the last
+twenty-five years of his life. She’s been very frank with me. She didn’t
+have such an easy job of it. Old Driffield had some very queer ways and
+she had to use a good deal of tact to get him to behave decently. He was
+very obstinate in some things and I think a woman of less character
+would have been discouraged. For instance, he had a habit that poor Amy
+had a lot of trouble to break him of: after he’d finished his meat and
+vegetables he’d take a piece of bread and wipe the plate clean with it
+and eat it.”
+
+“Do you know what that means?” I said. “It means that for long he had so
+little to eat that he couldn’t afford to waste any food he could get.”
+
+“Well, that may be, but it’s not a very pretty habit for a distinguished
+man of letters. And then, he didn’t exactly tipple, but he was rather
+fond of going down to the Bear and Key at Blackstable and having a few
+beers in the public bar. Of course there was no harm in it, but it did
+make him rather conspicuous, especially in summer when the place was
+full of trippers. He didn’t mind who he talked to. He didn’t seem able
+to realize that he had a position to keep up. You can’t deny it was
+rather awkward after they’d been having a lot of interesting people to
+lunch—people like Edmund Gosse, for instance, and Lord Curzon—that he
+should go down to a public house and tell the plumber and the baker and
+the sanitary inspector what he thought about them. But of course that
+could be explained away. One could say that he was after local colour
+and was interested in types. But he had some habits that really were
+rather difficult to cope with. Do you know that it was with the greatest
+difficulty that Amy Driffield could ever get him to take a bath?”
+
+“He was born at a time when people thought it unhealthy to take too many
+baths. I don’t suppose he ever lived in a house that had a bathroom till
+he was fifty.”
+
+“Well, he said he never had had a bath more than once a week and he
+didn’t see why he should change his habits at his time of life. Then Amy
+said that he must change his under linen every day, but he objected to
+that too. He said he’d always been used to wearing his vest and drawers
+for a week and it was nonsense, it only wore them out to have them
+washed so often. Mrs. Driffield did everything she could to tempt him to
+have a bath every day, with bath salts and perfumes, you know, but
+nothing would induce him to, and as he grew older he wouldn’t even have
+one once a week. She tells me that for the last three years of his life
+he never had a bath at all. Of course, all this is between ourselves;
+I’m merely telling it to show you that in writing his life I shall have
+to use a good deal of tact. I don’t see how one can deny that he was
+just a wee bit unscrupulous in money matters and he had a kink in him
+that made him take a strange pleasure in the society of his inferiors
+and some of his personal habits were rather disagreeable, but I don’t
+think that side of him was the most significant. I don’t want to say
+anything that’s untrue, but I do think there’s a certain amount that’s
+better left unsaid.”
+
+“Don’t you think it would be more interesting if you went the whole hog
+and drew him warts and all?”
+
+“Oh, I couldn’t. Amy Driffield would never speak to me again. She only
+asked me to do the life because she felt she could trust my discretion.
+I must behave like a gentleman.”
+
+“It’s very hard to be a gentleman and a writer.”
+
+“I don’t see why. And besides, you know what the critics are. If you
+tell the truth they only say you’re cynical and it does an author no
+good to get a reputation for cynicism. Of course I don’t deny that if I
+were thoroughly unscrupulous I could make a sensation. It would be
+rather amusing to show the man with his passion for beauty and his
+careless treatment of his obligations, his fine style and his personal
+hatred for soap and water, his idealism and his tippling in disreputable
+pubs; but honestly, would it pay? They’d only say I was imitating Lytton
+Strachey. No, I think I shall do much better to be allusive and charming
+and rather subtle, you know the sort of thing, and tender. I think one
+ought always to _see_ a book before one starts it. Well, I see this
+rather like a portrait of Van Dyck, with a good deal of atmosphere, you
+know, and a certain gravity, and with a sort of aristocratic
+distinction. Do you know what I mean? About eighty thousand words.”
+
+He was absorbed for a moment in the ecstasy of æsthetic contemplation.
+In his mind’s eye he saw a book, in royal octavo, slim and light in the
+hand, printed with large margins on handsome paper in a type that was
+both clear and comely, and I think he saw a binding in smooth black
+cloth with a decoration in gold and gilt lettering. But being human,
+Alroy Kear could not, as I suggested a few pages back, hold the ecstasy
+that beauty yields for more than a little while. He gave me a candid
+smile.
+
+“But how the devil am I to get over the first Mrs. Driffield?”
+
+“The skeleton in the cupboard,” I murmured.
+
+“She is damned awkward to deal with. She was married to Driffield for a
+good many years. Amy has very decided views on the subject, but I don’t
+see how I can possibly meet them. You see, her attitude is that Rose
+Driffield exerted a most pernicious influence on her husband, and that
+she did everything possible to ruin him morally, physically, and
+financially; she was beneath him in every way, at least intellectually
+and spiritually, and it was only because he was a man of immense force
+and vitality that he survived. It was of course a very unfortunate
+marriage. It’s true that she’s been dead for ages and it seems a pity to
+rake up old scandals and wash a lot of dirty linen in public; but the
+fact remains that all Driffield’s greatest books were written when he
+was living with her. Much as I admire the later books, and no one is
+more conscious of their genuine beauty than I am, and they have a
+restraint and a sort of classical sobriety which are admirable, I must
+admit that they haven’t the tang and the vigour and the smell and bustle
+of life of the early ones. It does seem to me that you can’t altogether
+ignore the influence his first wife had on his work.”
+
+“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
+
+“Well, I can’t see why all that part of his life shouldn’t be treated
+with the greatest possible reserve and delicacy, so as not to offend the
+most exacting susceptibility, and yet with a sort of manly frankness, if
+you understand what I mean, that would be rather moving.”
+
+“It sounds a very tall order.”
+
+“As I see it, there’s no need to dot the i’s or to cross the t’s. It can
+only be a question of getting just the right touch. I wouldn’t state
+more than I could help, but I would suggest what was essential for the
+reader to realize. You know, however gross a subject is you can soften
+its unpleasantness if you treat it with dignity. But I can do nothing
+unless I am in complete possession of the facts.”
+
+“Obviously you can’t cook them unless you have them.”
+
+Roy had been expressing himself with a fluent ease that revealed the
+successful lecturer. I wished (a) that I could express myself with so
+much force and aptness, never at a loss for a word, rolling off the
+sentences without a moment’s hesitation; and (b) that I did not feel so
+miserably incompetent with my one small insignificant person to
+represent the large and appreciative audience that Roy was instinctively
+addressing. But now he paused. A genial look came over his face, which
+his enthusiasm had reddened and the heat of the day caused to perspire,
+and the eyes that had held me with a dominating brilliance softened and
+smiled.
+
+“This is where you come in, old boy,” he said pleasantly.
+
+I have always found it a very good plan in life to say nothing when I
+had nothing to say and when I do not know how to answer a remark to hold
+my tongue. I remained silent and looked back at Roy amiably.
+
+“You know more about his life at Blackstable than anybody else.”
+
+“I don’t know about that. There must be a number of people at
+Blackstable who saw as much of him in the old days as I did.”
+
+“That may be, but after all they’re presumably not people of any
+importance, and I don’t think they matter very much.”
+
+“Oh, I see. You mean that I’m the only person who might blow the gaff.”
+
+“Roughly, that is what I do mean, if you feel that you must put it in a
+facetious way.”
+
+I saw that Roy was not inclined to be amused. I was not annoyed, for I
+am quite used to people not being amused at my jokes. I often think that
+the purest type of the artist is the humorist who laughs alone at his
+own jests.
+
+“And you saw a good deal of him later on in London, I believe.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“That is when he had an apartment somewhere in Lower Belgravia.”
+
+“Well, lodgings in Pimlico.”
+
+Roy smiled drily.
+
+“We won’t quarrel about the exact designation of the quarter of London
+in which he lived. You were very intimate with him then.”
+
+“Fairly.”
+
+“How long did that last?”
+
+“About a couple of years.”
+
+“How old were you then?”
+
+“Twenty.”
+
+“Now look here, I want you to do me a great favour. It won’t take you
+very long and it will be of quite inestimable value to me. I want you to
+jot down as fully as you can all your recollections of Driffield, and
+all you remember about his wife and his relations with her and so on,
+both at Blackstable and in London.”
+
+“Oh, my dear fellow, that’s asking a great deal. I’ve got a lot of work
+to do just now.”
+
+“It needn’t take you very long. You can write it quite roughly, I mean.
+You needn’t bother about style, you know, or anything like that. I’ll
+put the style in. All I want are the facts. After all, you know them and
+nobody else does. I don’t want to be pompous or anything like that, but
+Driffield was a great man and you owe it to his memory and to English
+literature to tell everything you know. I shouldn’t have asked you, but
+you told me the other day that you weren’t going to write anything about
+him yourself. It would be rather like a dog in a manger to keep to
+yourself a whole lot of material that you have no intention of using.”
+
+Thus Roy appealed at once to my sense of duty, my indolence, my
+generosity, and my rectitude.
+
+“But why does Mrs. Driffield want me to go down and stay at Ferne
+Court?” I asked.
+
+“Well, we talked it over. It’s a very jolly house to stay in. She does
+one very well, and it ought to be divine in the country just now. She
+thought it would be very nice and quiet for you if you felt inclined to
+write your recollections there; of course, I said I couldn’t promise
+that, but naturally being so near Blackstable would remind you of all
+sorts of things that you might otherwise forget. And then, living in his
+house, among his books and things, it would make the past seem much more
+real. We could all talk about him, and you know how in the heat of
+conversation things come back. Amy’s very quick and clever. She’s been
+in the habit of making notes of Driffield’s talk for years, and after
+all it’s quite likely that you’ll say things on the spur of the moment
+that you wouldn’t think of writing and she can just jot them down
+afterward. And we can play tennis and bathe.”
+
+“I’m not very fond of staying with people,” I said. “I hate getting up
+for a nine-o’clock breakfast to eat things I have no mind to. I don’t
+like going for walks, and I’m not interested in other people’s
+chickens.”
+
+“She’s a lonely woman now. It would be a kindness to her and it would be
+a kindness to me too.”
+
+I reflected.
+
+“I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll go down to Blackstable, but I’ll go
+down on my own. I’ll put up at the Bear and Key and I’ll come over and
+see Mrs. Driffield while you’re there. You can both talk your heads off
+about Edward Driffield, but I shall be able to get away when I’m fed up
+with you.”
+
+Roy laughed good-naturedly.
+
+“All right. That’ll do. And will you jot down anything you can remember
+that you think will be useful to me?”
+
+“I’ll try.”
+
+“When will you come? I’m going down on Friday.”
+
+“I’ll come with you if you’ll promise not to talk to me in the train.”
+
+“All right. The five-ten’s the best one. Shall I come and fetch you?”
+
+“I’m capable of getting to Victoria by myself. I’ll meet you on the
+platform.”
+
+I don’t know if Roy was afraid of my changing my mind, but he got up at
+once, shook my hand heartily, and left. He begged me on no account to
+forget my tennis racket and bathing suit.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XII
+
+
+MY PROMISE to Roy sent my thoughts back to my first years in London.
+Having nothing much to do that afternoon, it occurred to me to stroll
+along and have a cup of tea with my old landlady. Mrs. Hudson’s name had
+been given to me by the secretary of the medical school at St. Luke’s
+when, a callow youth just arrived in town, I was looking for lodgings.
+She had a house in Vincent Square. I lived there for five years, in two
+rooms on the ground floor, and over me on the drawing room floor lived a
+master at Westminster School. I paid a pound a week for my rooms and he
+paid twenty-five shillings. Mrs. Hudson was a little, active, bustling
+woman, with a sallow face, a large aquiline nose, and the brightest, the
+most vivacious, black eyes that I ever saw. She had a great deal of very
+dark hair, in the afternoons and all day on Sunday arranged in a fringe
+on the forehead with a bun at the nape of the neck as you may see in old
+photographs of the Jersey Lily. She had a heart of gold (though I did
+not know it then, for when you are young you take the kindness people
+show you as your right) and she was an excellent cook. No one could make
+a better _omelette soufflée_ than she. Every morning she was up betimes
+to get the fire lit in her gentlemen’s sitting room so that they needn’t
+eat their breakfasts simply perishing with the cold, my word it’s bitter
+this morning; and if she didn’t hear you having your bath, a flat tin
+bath that slipped under the bed, the water put in the night before to
+take the chill off, she’d say: “There now, there’s my dining room floor
+not up yet, ’e’ll be late for his lecture again,” and she would come
+tripping upstairs and thump on the door and you would hear her shrill
+voice: “If you don’t get up at once you won’t ’ave time to ’ave
+breakfast, an’ I’ve got a lovely ’addick for you.” She worked all day
+long and she sang at her work and she was gay and happy and smiling. Her
+husband was much older than she. He had been a butler in very good
+families, and wore side-whiskers and a perfect manner; he was verger at
+a neighbouring church, highly respected, and he waited at table and
+cleaned the boots and helped with the washing-up. Mrs. Hudson’s only
+relaxation was to come up after she had served the dinners (I had mine
+at half-past six and the schoolmaster at seven) and have a little chat
+with her gentlemen. I wish to goodness I had had the sense (like Amy
+Driffield with her celebrated husband) to take notes of her
+conversation, for Mrs. Hudson was a mistress of Cockney humour. She had
+a gift of repartee that never failed her, she had a racy style and an
+apt and varied vocabulary, she was never at a loss for the comic
+metaphor or the vivid phrase. She was a pattern of propriety and she
+would never have women in her house, you never knew what they were up to
+(“It’s men, men, men all the time with them, and afternoon tea and thin
+bread and butter, and openin’ the door and ringin’ for ’ot water and I
+don’t know what all”); but in conversation she did not hesitate to use
+what was called in those days the blue bag. One could have said of her
+what she said of Marie Lloyd: “What I like about ’er is that she gives
+you a good laugh. She goes pretty near the knuckle sometimes, but she
+never jumps over the fence.” Mrs. Hudson enjoyed her own humour and I
+think she talked more willingly to her lodgers because her husband was a
+serious man (“It’s as it should be,” she said, “’im bein’ a verger and
+attendin’ weddings and funerals and what all”) and wasn’t much of a one
+for a joke. “Wot I says to ’Udson is, laugh while you’ve got the chance,
+you won’t laugh much when you’re dead and buried.”
+
+Mrs. Hudson’s humour was cumulative and the story of her feud with Miss
+Butcher who let lodgings at number fourteen was a great comic saga that
+went on year in and year out.
+
+“She’s a disagreeable old cat, but I give you my word I’d miss ’er if
+the Lord took ’er one fine day. Though what ’e’d do with ’er when ’e got
+’er I can’t think. Many’s the good laugh she’s give me in ’er time.”
+
+Mrs. Hudson had very bad teeth and the question whether she should have
+them taken out and have false ones was discussed by her for two or three
+years with an unimaginable variety of comic invention.
+
+“But as I said to ’Udson on’y last night, when he said, ‘Oh, come on,
+’ave ’em out and ’ave done with it’, I shouldn’t ’ave anythin’ to talk
+about.”
+
+I had not seen Mrs. Hudson for two or three years. My last visit had
+been in answer to a little letter in which she asked me to come and
+drink a nice strong cup of tea with her and announced: “Hudson died
+three months ago next Saturday, aged seventy-nine, and George and Hester
+send their respectful compliments.” George was the issue of her marriage
+with Hudson. He was now a man approaching middle age who worked at
+Woolwich Arsenal, and his mother had been repeating for twenty years
+that George would be bringing a wife home one of these days. Hester was
+the maid-of-all-work she had engaged toward the end of my stay with her,
+and Mrs. Hudson still spoke of her as “that dratted girl of mine.”
+Though Mrs. Hudson must have been well over thirty when I first took her
+rooms, and that was five and thirty years ago, I had no feeling as I
+walked leisurely through the Green Park that I should not find her
+alive. She was as definitely part of the recollections of my youth as
+the pelicans that stood at the edge of the ornamental water.
+
+I walked down the area steps and the door was opened to me by Hester, a
+woman getting on for fifty now and stoutish, but still bearing on her
+shyly grinning face the irresponsibility of the dratted girl. Mrs.
+Hudson was darning George’s socks when I was shown into the front room
+of the basement and she took off her spectacles to look at me.
+
+“Well, if that isn’t Mr. Ashenden! Who ever thought of seeing you? Is
+the water boiling, ’Ester? You will ’ave a nice cup of tea, won’t you?”
+
+Mrs. Hudson was a little heavier than when I first knew her and her
+movements were more deliberate, but there was scarcely a white hair on
+her head, and her eyes, as black and shining as buttons, sparkled with
+fun. I sat down in a shabby little armchair covered with maroon leather.
+
+“How are you getting on, Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, I’ve got nothin’ much to complain of except that I’m not so young
+as I used to was,” she answered. “I can’t do so much as I could when you
+was ’ere. I don’t give my gentlemen dinner now, only breakfast.”
+
+“Are all your rooms let?”
+
+“Yes, I’m thankful to say.”
+
+Owing to the rise of prices Mrs. Hudson was able to get more for her
+rooms than in my day, and I think in her modest way she was quite well
+off. But of course people wanted a lot nowadays.
+
+“You wouldn’t believe it, first I ’ad to put in a bathroom, and then I
+’ad to put in the electric light, and then nothin’ would satisfy them
+but I must ’ave a telephone. What they’ll want next I can’t think.”
+
+“Mr. George says it’s pretty near time Mrs. ’Udson thought of retiring,”
+said Hester, who was laying the tea.
+
+“You mind your own business, my girl,” said Mrs. Hudson tartly. “When I
+retire it’ll be to the cemetery. Fancy me livin’ all alone with George
+and ’Ester without nobody to talk to.”
+
+“Mr. George says she ought to take a little ’ouse in the country an’
+take care of ’erself,” said Hester, unperturbed by the reproof.
+
+“Don’t talk to me about the country. The doctor said I was to go there
+for six weeks last summer. It nearly killed me, I give you my word. The
+noise of it. All them birds singin’ all the time, and the cocks crowin’
+and the cows mooin’. I couldn’t stick it. When you’ve lived all the
+years I ’ave in peace and quietness you can’t get used to all that
+racket goin’ on all the time.”
+
+A few doors away was the Vauxhall Bridge Road and down it trams were
+clanging, ringing their bells as they went, motor buses were lumbering
+along, taxis were tooting their horns. If Mrs. Hudson heard it, it was
+London she heard, and it soothed her as a mother’s crooning soothes a
+restless child.
+
+I looked round the cosy, shabby, homely little parlour in which Mrs.
+Hudson had lived so long. I wondered if there was anything I could do
+for her. I noticed that she had a gramophone. It was the only thing I
+could think of.
+
+“Is there anything you want, Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.
+
+She fixed her beady eyes on me reflectively.
+
+“I don’t know as there is, now you come to speak of it, except me ’ealth
+and strength for another twenty years so as I can go on workin’.”
+
+I do not think I am a sentimentalist, but her reply, unexpected but so
+characteristic, made a sudden lump come to my throat.
+
+When it was time for me to go I asked if I could see the rooms I had
+lived in for five years.
+
+“Run upstairs, ’Ester, and see if Mr. Graham’s in. If he ain’t, I’m sure
+’e wouldn’t mind you ’avin’ a look at them.”
+
+Hester scurried up, and in a moment, slightly breathless, came down
+again to say that Mr. Graham was out. Mrs. Hudson came with me. The bed
+was the same narrow iron bed that I had slept in and dreamed in and
+there was the same chest of drawers and the same washing stand. But the
+sitting room had the grim heartiness of the athlete; on the walls were
+photographs of cricket elevens and rowing men in shorts; golf clubs
+stood in the corner and pipes and tobacco jars, ornamented with the arms
+of a college, were littered on the chimney-piece. In my day we believed
+in art for art’s sake and this I exemplified by draping the
+chimney-piece with a Moorish rug, putting up curtains of art serge and a
+bilious green, and hanging on the walls autotypes of pictures by
+Perugino, Van Dyck and Hobbema.
+
+“Very artistic you was, wasn’t you?” Mrs. Hudson remarked, not without
+irony.
+
+“Very,” I murmured.
+
+I could not help feeling a pang as I thought of all the years that had
+passed since I inhabited that room, and of all that had happened to me.
+It was at that same table that I had eaten my hearty breakfast and my
+frugal dinner, read my medical books and written my first novel. It was
+in that same armchair that I had read for the first time Wordsworth and
+Stendhal, the Elizabethan dramatists and the Russian novelists, Gibbon,
+Boswell, Voltaire, and Rousseau. I wondered who had used them since.
+Medical students, articled clerks, young fellows making their way in the
+city, and elderly men retired from the colonies or thrown unexpectedly
+upon the world by the break up of an old home. The room made me, as Mrs.
+Hudson would have put it, go queer all over. All the hopes that had been
+cherished there, the bright visions of the future, the flaming passion
+of youth; the regrets, the disillusion, the weariness, the resignation;
+so much had been felt in that room, by so many, the whole gamut of human
+emotion, that it seemed strangely to have acquired a troubling and
+enigmatic personality of its own. I have no notion why, but it made me
+think of a woman at a crossroad with a finger on her lips, looking back
+and with her other hand beckoning. What I obscurely (and rather
+shamefacedly) felt, communicated itself to Mrs. Hudson, for she gave a
+laugh and with a characteristic gesture rubbed her prominent nose.
+
+“My word, people are funny,” she said. “When I think of all the
+gentlemen I’ve ’ad here, I give you my word you wouldn’t believe it if I
+told you some of the things I know about them. One of them’s funnier
+than the other. Sometimes I lie abed thinkin’ of them, and _laugh_.
+Well, it would be a bad world if you didn’t get a good laugh now and
+then, but, lor’, lodgers really are the limit.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIII
+
+
+I LIVED with Mrs. Hudson for nearly two years before I met the
+Driffields again. My life was very regular. I spent all day at the
+hospital and about six walked back to Vincent Square. I bought the
+_Star_ at Lambeth Bridge and read it till my dinner was served. Then I
+read seriously for an hour or two, works to improve my mind, for I was a
+strenuous, earnest, and industrious youth, and after that wrote novels
+and plays till bedtime. I do not know for what reason it was that one
+day toward the end of June, happening to leave the hospital early, I
+thought I would walk down the Vauxhall Bridge Road. I liked it for its
+noisy bustle. It had a sordid vivacity that was pleasantly exciting and
+you felt that at any moment an adventure might there befall you. I
+strolled along in a daydream and was surprised suddenly to hear my name.
+I stopped and looked, and there to my astonishment stood Mrs. Driffield.
+She was smiling at me.
+
+“Don’t you know me?” she cried.
+
+“Yes. Mrs. Driffield.”
+
+And though I was grown up I was conscious that I was blushing as
+furiously as when I was sixteen. I was embarrassed. With my lamentably
+Victorian notions of honesty I had been much shocked by the Driffields’
+behaviour in running away from Blackstable without paying their bills.
+It seemed to me very shabby. I felt deeply the shame I thought they must
+feel and I was astounded that Mrs. Driffield should speak to someone who
+knew of the discreditable incident. If I had seen her coming I should
+have looked away, my delicacy presuming that she would wish to avoid the
+mortification of being seen by me; but she held out her hand and shook
+mine with obvious pleasure.
+
+“I am glad to see a Blackstable face,” she said. “You know we left there
+in a hurry.”
+
+She laughed and I laughed too; but her laugh was mirthful and childlike,
+while mine, I felt, was strained.
+
+“I hear there _was_ a to-do when they found out we’d skipped. I thought
+Ted would never stop laughing when he heard about it. What did your
+uncle say?”
+
+I was quick to get the right tone. I wasn’t going to let her think that
+I couldn’t see a joke as well as anyone.
+
+“Oh, you know what he is. He’s very old-fashioned.”
+
+“Yes, that’s what’s wrong with Blackstable. They want waking up.” She
+gave me a friendly look. “You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last. Why,
+you’re growing a moustache.”
+
+“Yes,” I said, giving it as much of a twirl as its size allowed me.
+“I’ve had that for ages.”
+
+“How time does fly, doesn’t it? You were just a boy four years ago and
+now you’re a man.”
+
+“I ought to be,” I replied somewhat haughtily. “I’m nearly twenty-one.”
+
+I was looking at Mrs. Driffield. She wore a very small hat with feathers
+in it, and a pale gray dress with large leg-of-mutton sleeves and a long
+train. I thought she looked very smart. I had always thought that she
+had a nice face, but I noticed now, for the first time, that she was
+pretty. Her eyes were bluer than I remembered and her skin was like
+ivory.
+
+“You know we live just round the corner,” she said.
+
+“So do I.”
+
+“We live in Limpus Road. We’ve been there almost ever since we left
+Blackstable.”
+
+“Well, I’ve been in Vincent Square for nearly two years.”
+
+“I knew you were in London. George Kemp told me so, and I often wondered
+where you were. Why don’t you walk back with me now? Ted will be so
+pleased to see you.”
+
+“I don’t mind,” I said.
+
+As we walked along she told me that Driffield was now literary editor of
+a weekly paper; his last book had done much better than any of his
+others and he was expecting to get quite a bit as an advance on
+royalties for the next one. She seemed to know most of the Blackstable
+news, and I remembered how it had been suspected that Lord George had
+helped the Driffields in their flight. I guessed that he wrote to them
+now and then. I noticed as we walked along that sometimes the men who
+passed us stared at Mrs. Driffield. It occurred to me presently that
+they must think her pretty too. I began to walk with a certain swagger.
+
+Limpus Road was a long wide straight street that ran parallel with the
+Vauxhall Bridge Road. The houses were all alike, of stucco, dingily
+painted, solid, and with substantial porticos. I suppose they had been
+built to be inhabited by men of standing in the city of London, but the
+street had gone down in the world or had never attracted the right sort
+of tenant; and its decayed respectability had an air at once furtive and
+shabbily dissipated, that made you think of persons who had seen better
+days and now, genteelly fuddled, talked of the social distinction of
+their youth. The Driffields lived in a house painted a dull red, and
+Mrs. Driffield letting me into a narrow dark hall, opened a door and
+said:
+
+“Go in. I’ll tell Ted you’re here.”
+
+She walked down the hall and I entered the sitting room. The Driffields
+had the basement and the ground floor of the house, which they rented
+from the lady who lived in the upper part. The room into which I went
+looked as if it had been furnished with the scourings of auction sales.
+There were heavy velvet curtains with great fringes, all loops and
+festoons, and a gilt suite, upholstered in yellow damask, heavily
+buttoned; and there was a great pouffe in the middle of the room. There
+were gilt cabinets in which were masses of little articles, pieces of
+china, ivory figures, wood carvings, bits of Indian brass; and on the
+walls hung large oil paintings of highland glens and stags and gillies.
+In a moment Mrs. Driffield brought her husband and he greeted me warmly.
+He wore a shabby alpaca coat and gray trousers; he had shaved his beard
+and wore now a moustache and a small imperial. I noticed for the first
+time how short he was; but he looked more distinguished than he used to.
+There was something a trifle foreign in his appearance and I thought
+this was much more what I should expect an author to look like.
+
+“Well, what do you think of our new abode?” he asked. “It looks rich,
+doesn’t it? I think it inspires confidence.”
+
+He looked round him with satisfaction.
+
+“And Ted’s got his den at the back where he can write, and we’ve got a
+dining room in the basement,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Miss Cowley was
+companion for many years to a lady of title and when she died she left
+her all her furniture. You can see everything’s good, can’t you? You can
+see it came out of a gentleman’s house.”
+
+“Rosie fell in love with the place the moment we saw it,” said
+Driffield.
+
+“You did too, Ted.”
+
+“We’ve lived in sordid circumstances so long; it’s a change to be
+surrounded by luxury. Madame de Pompadour and all that sort of thing.”
+
+When I left them it was with a very cordial invitation to come again. It
+appeared that they were at home every Saturday afternoon and all sorts
+of people whom I would like to meet were in the habit of dropping in.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIV
+
+
+I WENT. I enjoyed myself. I went again. When the autumn came and I
+returned to London for the winter session at St. Luke’s I got into the
+habit of going every Saturday. It was my introduction into the world of
+art and letters; I kept it a profound secret that in the privacy of my
+lodgings I was busily writing; I was excited to meet people who were
+writing also and I listened entranced to their conversation. All sorts
+of persons came to these parties: at that time week-ends were rare, golf
+was still a subject for ridicule, and few had much to do on Saturday
+afternoons. I do not think anyone came who was of any great importance;
+at all events, of all the painters, writers, and musicians I met at the
+Driffields’ I cannot remember one whose reputation has endured; but the
+effect was cultured and animated. You found young actors who were
+looking for parts and middle-aged singers who deplored the fact that the
+English were not a musical race, composers who played their compositions
+on the Driffields’ cottage piano and complained in a whispered aside
+that they sounded nothing except on a concert grand, poets who on
+pressure consented to read a little thing that they had just written,
+and painters who were looking for commissions. Now and then a person of
+title added a certain glamour; seldom, however, for in those days the
+aristocracy had not yet become bohemian and if a person of quality
+cultivated the society of artists it was generally because a notorious
+divorce or a little difficulty over cards had made life in his own
+station (or hers) a bit awkward. We have changed all that. One of the
+greatest benefits that compulsory education has conferred upon the world
+is the wide diffusion among the nobility and gentry of the practice of
+writing. Horace Walpole once wrote a _Catalogue of Royal and Noble
+Authors_; such a work now would have the dimensions of an encyclopædia.
+A title, even a courtesy one, can make a well known author of almost
+anyone and it may be safely asserted that there is no better passport to
+the world of letters than rank.
+
+I have indeed sometimes thought that now that the House of Lords must
+inevitably in a short while be abolished, it would be a very good plan
+if the profession of literature were by law confined to its members and
+their wives and children. It would be a graceful compensation that the
+British people might offer the peers in return for the surrender of
+their hereditary privileges. It would be a means of support for those
+(too many) whom devotion to the public cause in keeping chorus girls and
+race horses and playing _chemin de fer_ has impoverished, and a pleasant
+occupation for the rest who by the process of natural selection have in
+the course of time become unfit to do anything but govern the British
+Empire. But this is an age of specialization and if my plan is adopted
+it is obvious that it cannot but be to the greater glory of English
+literature that its various provinces should be apportioned among the
+various ranks of the nobility. I would suggest, therefore, that the
+humbler branches of literature should be practised by the lower orders
+of the peerage and that the barons and viscounts should devote
+themselves exclusively to journalism and the drama. Fiction might be the
+privileged demesne of the earls. They have already shown their aptitude
+for this difficult art and their numbers are so great that they would
+very competently supply the demand. To the marquises might safely be
+left the production of that part of literature which is known (I have
+never quite seen why) as _belles lettres_. It is perhaps not very
+profitable from a pecuniary standpoint, but it has a distinction that
+very well suits the holders of this romantic title.
+
+The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the
+sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty.
+The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes; he makes
+the best of us look like a piece of cheese. It is evident then that the
+writing of poetry should be left to the dukes, and I should like to see
+their rights protected by the most severe pains and penalties, for it is
+intolerable that the noblest of arts should be practised by any but the
+noblest of men. And since here, too, specialization must prevail, I
+foresee that the dukes (like the successors of Alexander) will divide
+the realm of poetry between them, each confining himself to that aspect
+with which hereditary influence and natural bent have rendered him
+competent to deal: thus I see the dukes of Manchester writing poems of a
+didactic and moral character, the dukes of Westminster composing
+stirring odes on Duty and the Responsibilities of Empire; whereas I
+imagine that the dukes of Devonshire would be more likely to write love
+lyrics and elegies in the Propertian manner, while it is almost
+inevitable that the dukes of Marlborough should pipe in an idyllic
+strain on such subjects as domestic bliss, conscription, and content
+with modest station.
+
+But if you say that this is somewhat formidable and remind me that the
+muse does not only stalk with majestic tread, but on occasion trips on a
+light fantastic toe; if, recalling the wise person who said that he did
+not care who made a nation’s laws so long as he wrote its songs, you ask
+me (thinking rightly that it would ill become the dukes to do so) who
+shall twang those measures on the lyre that the diverse and inconstant
+soul of man occasionally hankers after—I answer (obviously enough, I
+should have thought) the duchesses. I recognize that the day is past
+when the amorous peasants of the Romagna sang to their sweethearts the
+verses of Torquato Tasso and Mrs. Humphry Ward crooned over young
+Arnold’s cradle the choruses of Œdipus in Colonus. The age demands
+something more up-to-date. I suggest, therefore, that the more domestic
+duchesses should write our hymns and our nursery rhymes; while the
+skittish ones, those who incline to mingle vine leaves with the
+strawberry, should write the lyrics for musical comedies, humorous verse
+for the comic papers, and mottoes for Christmas cards and crackers. Thus
+would they retain in the hearts of the British public that place which
+they have held hitherto only on account of their exalted station.
+
+It was at these parties on Saturday afternoon that I discovered very
+much to my surprise that Edward Driffield was a distinguished person. He
+had written something like twenty books, and though he had never made
+more than a pittance out of them his reputation was considerable. The
+best judges admired them and the friends who came to his house were
+agreed that one of these days he would be recognized. They rated the
+public because it would not see that here was a great writer, and since
+the easiest way to exalt one man is to kick another in the pants, they
+reviled freely all the novelists whose contemporary fame obscured his.
+If, indeed, I had known as much of literary circles as I learned later I
+should have guessed by the not infrequent visits of Mrs. Barton Trafford
+that the time was approaching when Edward Driffield, like a runner in a
+long-distance race breaking away suddenly from the little knot of
+plodding athletes, must forge ahead. I admit that when first I was
+introduced to this lady her name meant nothing to me. Driffield
+presented me as a young neighbour of his in the country and told her
+that I was a medical student. She gave me a mellifluous smile, murmured
+in a soft voice something about Tom Sawyer, and, accepting the bread and
+butter I offered her, went on talking with her host. But I noticed that
+her arrival had made an impression and the conversation, which had been
+noisy and hilarious, was hushed. When in an undertone I asked who she
+was, I found that my ignorance was amazing; I was told that she had
+“made” So and So and So and So. After half an hour she rose, shook hands
+very graciously with such of the people as she was acquainted with, and
+with a sort of lithe sweetness sidled out of the room. Driffield
+accompanied her to the door and put her in a hansom.
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford was then a woman of about fifty; she was small and
+slight, but with rather large features, which made her head look a
+little too big for her body; she had crisp white hair which she wore
+like the Venus of Milo, and she was supposed in her youth to have been
+very comely. She dressed discreetly in black silk, and wore round her
+neck jangling chains of beads and shells. She was said to have been
+unhappily married in early life, but now for many years had been
+congenially united to Barton Trafford, a clerk in the Home Office and a
+well known authority on prehistoric man. She gave you the curious
+impression of having no bones in her body and you felt that if you
+pinched her shin (which of course my respect for her sex as well as
+something of quiet dignity in her appearance would have never allowed me
+to do) your fingers would meet. When you took her hand it was like
+taking a fillet of sole. Her face, notwithstanding its large features,
+had something fluid about it. When she sat it was as though she had no
+backbone and were stuffed, like an expensive cushion, with swansdown.
+
+Everything was soft about her, her voice, her smile, her laugh; her
+eyes, which were small and pale, had the softness of flowers; her manner
+was as soft as the summer rain. It was this extraordinary, and charming,
+characteristic that made her the wonderful friend she was. It was this
+that had gained her the celebrity that she now enjoyed. The whole world
+was aware of her friendship with the great novelist whose death a few
+years back had come as such a shock to the English-speaking peoples.
+Everyone had read the innumerable letters which he had written to her
+and which she was induced to publish shortly after his demise. Every
+page revealed his admiration for her beauty and his respect for her
+judgment; he could never say often enough how much he owed to her
+encouragement, her ready sympathy, her tact, her taste; and if certain
+of his expressions of passion were such as some persons might think
+would not be read by Mr. Barton Trafford with unmixed feelings, that
+only added to the human interest of the work. But Mr. Barton Trafford
+was above the prejudices of vulgar men (his misfortune, if such it was,
+was one that the greatest personages in history have endured with
+philosophy) and, abandoning his studies of aurignacian flints and
+neolithic ax heads he consented to write a Life of the deceased novelist
+in which he showed quite definitely how great a part of the writer’s
+genius was due to his wife’s influence.
+
+But Mrs. Barton Trafford’s interest in literature, her passion for art,
+were not dead because the friend for whom she had done so much had
+become part, with her far from negligible assistance, of posterity. She
+was a great reader. Little that was noteworthy escaped her attention and
+she was quick to establish personal relations with any young writer who
+showed promise. Her fame, especially since the Life, was now such that
+she was sure that no one would hesitate to accept the sympathy she was
+prepared to offer. It was inevitable that Mrs. Barton Trafford’s genius
+for friendship should in due course find an outlet. When she read
+something that struck her, Mr. Barton Trafford, himself no mean critic,
+wrote a warm letter of appreciation to the author and asked him to
+luncheon. After luncheon, having to get back to the Home Office, he left
+him to have a chat with Mrs. Barton Trafford. Many were called. They all
+had _something_, but that was not enough. Mrs. Barton Trafford had a
+_flair_, and she trusted her _flair_; her _flair_ bade her wait.
+
+She was so cautious indeed that with Jasper Gibbons she almost missed
+the bus. The records of the past tell us of writers who grew famous in a
+night, but in our more prudent day this is unheard of. The critics want
+to see which way the cat will jump, and the public has been sold a pup
+too often to take unnecessary chances. But in the case of Jasper Gibbons
+it is almost the exact truth that he did thus jump into celebrity. Now
+that he is so completely forgotten and the critics who praised him would
+willingly eat their words if they were not carefully guarded in the
+files of innumerable newspaper offices, the sensation he made with his
+first volume of poems is almost unbelievable. The most important papers
+gave to reviews of them as much space as they would have to the report
+of a prize fight; the most influential critics fell over one another in
+their eagerness to welcome him. They likened him to Milton (for the
+sonority of his blank verse), to Keats (for the opulence of his sensuous
+imagery), and to Shelley (for his airy fantasy); and, using him as a
+stick to beat idols of whom they were weary, they gave in his name many
+a resounding whack on the emaciated buttocks of Lord Tennyson and a few
+good husky smacks on the bald pate of Robert Browning. The public fell
+like the walls of Jericho. Edition after edition was sold, and you saw
+Jasper Gibbons’s handsome volume in the boudoirs of countesses in
+Mayfair, in vicarage drawing rooms from Land’s End to John o’ Groats,
+and in the parlours of many an honest but cultured merchant in Glasgow,
+Aberdeen, and Belfast. When it became known that Queen Victoria had
+accepted a specially bound copy of the book from the hands of the loyal
+publisher, and had given him (not the poet, the publisher) a copy of
+_Leaves from a Journal in the Highlands_ in exchange, the national
+enthusiasm knew no bounds.
+
+And all this happened as it were in the twinkling of an eye. Seven
+cities in Greece disputed the honour of having given birth to Homer, and
+though Jasper Gibbons’s birthplace (Walsall) was well known, twice seven
+critics claimed the honour of having discovered him; eminent judges of
+literature who for twenty years had written eulogies of one another’s
+works in the weekly papers quarrelled so bitterly over this matter that
+one cut the other dead in the Athenæum. Nor was the great world remiss
+in giving him its recognition. Jasper Gibbons was asked to luncheon and
+invited to tea by dowager duchesses, the wives of cabinet ministers, and
+the widows of bishops. It is said that Harrison Ainsworth was the first
+English man of letters to move in English society on terms of equality
+(and I have sometimes wondered that an enterprising publisher on this
+account has not thought of bringing out a complete edition of his
+works); but I believe that Jasper Gibbons was the first poet to have his
+name engraved at the bottom of an At Home card as a draw as enticing as
+an opera singer or a ventriloquist.
+
+It was out of the question then for Mrs. Barton Trafford to get in on
+the ground floor. She could only buy in the open market. I do not know
+what prodigious strategy she employed, what miracles of tact, what
+tenderness, what exquisite sympathy, what demure blandishments; I can
+only surmise and admire; she nobbled Jasper Gibbons. In a little while
+he was eating out of her soft hand. She was admirable. She had him to
+lunch to meet the right people; she gave At Homes where he recited his
+poems before the most distinguished persons in England; she introduced
+him to eminent actors who gave him commissions to write plays; she saw
+that his poems should only appear in the proper places; she dealt with
+the publishers and made contracts for him that would have staggered even
+a cabinet minister; she took care that he should accept only the
+invitations of which she approved; she even went so far as to separate
+him from the wife with whom he had lived happily for ten years, since
+she felt that a poet to be true to himself and his art must not be
+encumbered with domestic ties. When the crash came Mrs. Barton Trafford,
+had she chosen, might have said that she had done everything for him
+that it was humanly possible to do.
+
+For there was a crash. Jasper Gibbons brought out another volume of
+poetry; it was neither better nor worse than the first; it was very much
+like the first; it was treated with respect, but the critics made
+reservations; some of them even carped. The book was a disappointment.
+Its sale also. And unfortunately Jasper Gibbons was inclined to tipple.
+He had never been accustomed to having money to spend, he was quite
+unused to the lavish entertainments that were offered him, perhaps he
+missed his homely, common little wife; once or twice he came to dinner
+at Mrs. Barton Trafford’s in a condition that anyone less worldly, less
+simple-minded than she, would have described as blind to the world. She
+told her guests gently that the bard was not quite himself that evening.
+His third book was a failure. The critics tore him limb from limb, they
+knocked him down and stamped on him, and, to quote one of Edward
+Driffield’s favourite songs, then they lugged him round the room and
+then they jumped upon his face: they were quite naturally annoyed that
+they had mistaken a fluent versifier for a deathless poet and were
+determined that he should suffer for their error. Then Jasper Gibbons
+was arrested for being drunk and disorderly in Piccadilly and Mr. Barton
+Trafford had to go to Vine Street at midnight to bail him out.
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford at this juncture was perfect. She did not repine.
+No harsh word escaped her lips. She might have been excused if she had
+felt a certain bitterness because this man for whom she had done so much
+had let her down. She remained tender, gentle, and sympathetic. She was
+the woman who understood. She dropped him, but not like a hot brick, or
+a hot potato. She dropped him with infinite gentleness, as softly as the
+tear that she doubtless shed when she made up her mind to do something
+so repugnant to her nature; she dropped him with so much tact, with such
+sensibility, that Jasper Gibbons perhaps hardly knew he was dropped. But
+there was no doubt about it. She would say nothing against him, indeed
+she would not discuss him at all, and when mention was made of him she
+merely smiled, a little sadly, and sighed. But her smile was the _coup
+de grâce_, and her sigh buried him deep.
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford had a passion for literature too sincere to allow a
+setback of this character long to discourage her; and however great her
+disappointment she was a woman of too disinterested a nature to let the
+gifts of tact, sympathy, and understanding with which she was blessed by
+nature lie fallow. She continued to move in literary circles, going to
+tea parties here and there, to soirées, and to At Homes, charming always
+and gentle, listening intelligently, but watchful, critical, and
+determined (if I may put it crudely) next time to back a winner. It was
+then that she met Edward Driffield and formed a favourable opinion of
+his gifts. It is true that he was not young, but then he was unlikely
+like Jasper Gibbons to go to pieces. She offered him her friendship. He
+could not fail to be moved when, in that gentle way of hers, she told
+him that it was a scandal that his exquisite work remained known only in
+a narrow circle. He was pleased and flattered. It is always pleasant to
+be assured that you are a genius. She told him that Barton Trafford was
+reflecting on the possibility of writing an important article on him for
+the _Quarterly Review_. She asked him to luncheon to meet people who
+might be useful to him. She wanted him to know his intellectual equals.
+Sometimes she took him for a walk on the Chelsea Embankment and they
+talked of poets dead and gone and love and friendship, and had tea in an
+A.B.C. shop. When Mrs. Barton Trafford came to Limpus Street on Saturday
+afternoon she had the air of the queen bee preparing herself for the
+nuptial flight.
+
+Her manner with Mrs. Driffield was perfect. It was affable, but not
+condescending. She always thanked her very prettily for having allowed
+her to come and see her and complimented her on her appearance. If she
+praised Edward Driffield to her, telling her with a little envy in her
+tone what a privilege it was to enjoy the companionship of such a great
+man, it was certainly from pure kindness, and not because she knew that
+there is nothing that exasperates the wife of a literary man more than
+to have another woman tell her flattering things about him. She talked
+to Mrs. Driffield of the simple things her simple nature might be
+supposed to be interested in, of cooking and servants and Edward’s
+health and how careful she must be with him. Mrs. Barton Trafford
+treated her exactly as you would expect a woman of very good Scotch
+family, which she was, to treat an ex-barmaid with whom a distinguished
+man of letters had made an unfortunate marriage. She was cordial,
+playful, and gently determined to put her at her ease.
+
+It was strange that Rosie could not bear her; indeed, Mrs. Barton
+Trafford was the only person that I ever knew her dislike. In those days
+even barmaids did not habitually use the “bitches” and “bloodys” that
+are part and parcel of the current vocabulary of the best-brought-up
+young ladies, and I never heard Rosie use a word that would have shocked
+my Aunt Sophie. When anyone told a story that was a little near the
+knuckle she would blush to the roots of her hair. But she referred to
+Mrs. Barton Trafford as “that damned old cat.” It needed the most urgent
+persuasions of her more intimate friends to induce her to be civil to
+her.
+
+“Don’t be a fool, Rosie,” they said. They all called her Rosie and
+presently I, though very shyly, got in the habit of doing so too. “If
+she wants to she can make him. He must play up to her. She can work the
+trick if anyone can.”
+
+Though most of the Driffields’ visitors were occasional, appearing every
+other Saturday, say, or every third, there was a little band that, like
+myself, came almost every week. We were the stand-bys; we arrived early
+and stayed late. Of these the most faithful were Quentin Forde, Harry
+Retford, and Lionel Hillier.
+
+Quentin Forde was a stocky little man with a fine head of the type that
+was afterward for a time much admired in the moving pictures, a straight
+nose and handsome eyes, neatly cropped gray hair, and a black moustache;
+if he had been four or five inches taller he would have been the perfect
+type of the villain of melodrama. He was known to be very “well
+connected,” and he was affluent; his only occupation was to cultivate
+the arts. He went to all the first nights and all the private views. He
+had the amateur’s severity, and cherished for the productions of his
+contemporaries a polite but sweeping contempt. I discovered that he did
+not come to the Driffields’ because Edward was a genius, but because
+Rosie was beautiful.
+
+Now that I look back I cannot get over my surprise that I should have
+had to be told what was surely so obvious. When I first knew her it
+never occurred to me to ask myself whether she was pretty or plain, and
+when, seeing her again after five years, I noticed for the first time
+that she was very pretty, I was interested but did not trouble to think
+much about it. I took it as part of the natural order of things, just as
+I took the sun setting over the North Sea or the towers of Tercanbury
+Cathedral. I was quite startled when I heard people speak of Rosie’s
+beauty, and when they complimented Edward on her looks and his eyes
+rested on her for a moment, mine followed his. Lionel Hillier was a
+painter and he asked her to sit for him. When he talked of the picture
+he wanted to paint and told me what he saw in her, I listened to him
+stupidly. I was puzzled and confused. Harry Retford knew one of the
+fashionable photographers of the period and, arranging special terms, he
+took Rosie to be photographed. A Saturday or two later the proofs were
+there and we all looked at them. I had never seen Rosie in evening
+dress. She was wearing a dress of white satin, with a long train and
+puffy sleeves, and it was cut low; her hair was more elaborately done
+than usual. She looked very different from the strapping young woman I
+had first met in Joy Lane in a boater and a starched shirt. But Lionel
+Hillier tossed the photographs aside impatiently.
+
+“Rotten,” he said. “What can a photograph give of Rosie? The thing about
+her is her colour.” He turned to her. “Rosie, don’t you know that your
+colour is _the_ great miracle of the age?”
+
+She looked at him without answering, but her full red lips broke into
+their childlike, mischievous smile.
+
+“If I can only get a suggestion of it I’m made for life,” he said. “All
+the rich stockbrokers’ wives will come on their bended knees and beg me
+to paint them like you.”
+
+Presently I learned that Rosie was sitting to him, but when, never
+having been in a painter’s studio and looking upon it as the gateway of
+romance, I asked if I might not come one day and see how the picture was
+getting on, Hillier said that he did not want anyone to see it yet. He
+was a man of five and thirty and of a flamboyant appearance. He looked
+like a portrait of Van Dyck in which the distinction had been replaced
+by good humour. He was slightly above the middle height, slim; and he
+had a fine mane of black hair and flowing moustaches and a pointed
+beard. He favoured broad-brimmed sombreros and Spanish capes. He had
+lived a long time in Paris and talked admiringly of painters, Monet,
+Sisley, Renoir, of whom we had never heard, and with contempt of Sir
+Frederick Leighton and Mr. Alma-Tadema and Mr. G. F. Watts, whom in our
+heart of hearts we very much admired. I have often wondered what became
+of him. He spent a few years in London trying to make his way, failed, I
+suppose, and then drifted to Florence. I was told that he had a drawing
+school there, but when, years later, chancing to be in that city, I
+asked about him, I could find no one who had ever heard of him. I think
+he must have had some talent, for I have even now a very vivid
+recollection of the portrait he painted of Rosie Driffield. I wonder
+what has happened to it. Has it been destroyed or is it hidden away, its
+face to the wall, in the attic of a junk shop in Chelsea? I should like
+to think that it has at least found a place on the walls of some
+provincial gallery.
+
+When I was at last allowed to come and see it, I put my foot in it fine
+and proper. Hillier’s studio was in the Fulham Road, one of a group at
+the back of a row of shops, and you went in through a dark and smelly
+passage. It was a Sunday afternoon in March, a fine blue day, and I
+walked from Vincent Square through deserted streets. Hillier lived in
+his studio; there was a large divan on which he slept, and a tiny little
+room at the back where he cooked his breakfast, washed his brushes, and,
+I suppose, himself.
+
+When I arrived Rosie still wore the dress in which she had been sitting
+and they were having a cup of tea. Hillier opened the door for me, and
+still holding my hand led me up to the large canvas.
+
+“There she is,” he said.
+
+He had painted Rosie full length, just a little less than life-size, in
+an evening dress of white silk. It was not at all like the academy
+portraits I was accustomed to. I did not know what to say, so I said the
+first thing that came into my head.
+
+“When will it be finished?”
+
+“It is finished,” he answered.
+
+I blushed furiously. I felt a perfect fool. I had not then acquired the
+technique that I flatter myself now enables me to deal competently with
+the works of modern artists. If this were the place I could write a very
+neat little guide to enable the amateur of pictures to deal to the
+satisfaction of their painters with the most diverse manifestations of
+the creative instinct. There is the intense “By God” that acknowledges
+the power of the ruthless realist, the “It’s so awfully sincere” that
+covers your embarrassment when you are shown the coloured photograph of
+an alderman’s widow, the low whistle that exhibits your admiration for
+the post-impressionist, the “Terribly amusing” that expresses what you
+feel about the cubist, the “Oh!” of one who is overcome, the “Ah!” of
+him whose breath is taken away.
+
+“It’s awfully like,” was all that then I could lamely say.
+
+“It’s not chocolate-boxy enough for you,” said Hillier.
+
+“I think it’s awfully good,” I answered quickly, defending myself. “Are
+you going to send it to the Academy?”
+
+“Good God, no! I might send it to the Grosvenor.”
+
+I looked from the painting to Rosie and from Rosie to the painting.
+
+“Get into the pose, Rosie,” said Hillier, “and let him see you.”
+
+She got up on to the model stand. I stared at her and I stared at the
+picture. I had such a funny little feeling in my heart. It was as though
+someone softly plunged a sharp knife into it, but it was not an
+unpleasant sensation at all, painful but strangely agreeable; and then
+suddenly I felt quite weak at the knees. But now I do not know if I
+remember Rosie in the flesh or in the picture. For when I think of her
+it is not in the shirt and boater that I first saw her in, nor in any of
+the other dresses I saw her in then or later, but in the white silk that
+Hillier painted, with a black velvet bow in her hair, and in the pose he
+had made her take.
+
+I never exactly knew Rosie’s age, but reckoning the years out as well as
+I can, I think she must have been thirty-five. She did not look anything
+like it. Her face was quite unlined and her skin as smooth as a child’s.
+I do not think she had very good features. They certainly had none of
+the aristocratic distinction of the great ladies whose photographs were
+then sold in all the shops; they were rather blunt. Her short nose was a
+little thick, her eyes were smallish, her mouth was large; but her eyes
+had the blue of cornflowers, and they smiled with her lips, very red and
+sensual, and her smile was the gayest, the most friendly, the sweetest
+thing I ever saw. She had by nature a heavy, sullen look, but when she
+smiled this sullenness became on a sudden infinitely attractive. She had
+no colour in her face; it was of a very pale brown except under the eyes
+where it was faintly blue. Her hair was pale gold and it was done in the
+fashion of the day high on the head with an elaborate fringe.
+
+“She’s the very devil to paint,” said Hillier, looking at her and at his
+picture. “You see, she’s all gold, her face and her hair, and yet she
+doesn’t give you a golden effect, she gives you a silvery effect.”
+
+I knew what he meant. She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than
+the sun, or if it was like the sun it was like the sun in the white mist
+of dawn. Hillier had placed her in the middle of his canvas and she
+stood, with her arms by her sides, the palms of her hands toward you and
+her head a little thrown back, in an attitude that gave value to the
+pearly beauty of her neck and bosom. She stood like an actress taking a
+call, confused by unexpected applause, but there was something so
+virginal about her, so exquisitely springlike, that the comparison was
+absurd. This artless creature had never known grease paint or
+footlights. She stood like a maiden apt for love offering herself
+guilelessly, because she was fulfilling the purposes of Nature, to the
+embraces of a lover. She belonged to a generation that did not fear a
+certain opulence of line, she was slender, but her breasts were ample
+and her hips well marked. When, later, Mrs. Barton Trafford saw the
+picture she said it reminded her of a sacrificial heifer.
+
+
+
+
+                                   XV
+
+
+EDWARD DRIFFIELD worked at night, and Rosie, having nothing to do, was
+glad to go out with one or other of her friends. She liked luxury and
+Quentin Forde was well-to-do. He would fetch her in a cab and take her
+to dine at Kettner’s or the Savoy, and she would put on her grandest
+clothes for him; and Harry Retford, though he never had a bob, behaved
+as if he had, and took her about in hansoms too and gave her dinner at
+Romano’s or in one or other of the little restaurants that were becoming
+modish in Soho. He was an actor and a clever one, but he was difficult
+to suit and so was often out of work. He was about thirty, a man with a
+pleasantly ugly face and a clipped way of speaking that made what he
+said sound funny. Rosie liked his devil-may-care attitude toward life,
+the swagger with which he wore clothes made by the best tailor in London
+and unpaid for, the recklessness with which he would put a fiver he
+hadn’t got on a horse, and the generosity with which he flung his money
+about when a lucky win put him in funds. He was gay, charming, vain,
+boastful, and unscrupulous. Rosie told me that once he had pawned his
+watch to take her out to dinner and then borrowed a couple of pounds
+from the actor manager who had given them seats for the play in order to
+take him out to supper with them afterward.
+
+But she was just as well pleased to go with Lionel Hillier to his studio
+and eat a chop that he and she cooked between them and spend the evening
+talking, and it was only very rarely that she would dine with me at all.
+I used to fetch her after I had had my dinner in Vincent Square and she
+hers with Driffield, and we would get on a bus and go to a music hall.
+We went here and there, to the Pavilion or the Tivoli, sometimes to the
+Metropolitan if there was a particular turn we wanted to see; but our
+favourite was the Canterbury. It was cheap and the show was good. We
+ordered a couple of beers and I smoked my pipe. Rosie looked round with
+delight at the great dark smoky house, crowded to the ceiling with the
+inhabitants of South London.
+
+“I like the Canterbury,” she said. “It’s so homey.”
+
+I discovered that she was a great reader. She liked history, but only
+history of a certain kind, the lives of queens and of mistresses of
+royal personages; and she would tell me with a childlike wonder of the
+strange things she read. She had a wide acquaintance with the six
+consorts of King Henry VIII and there was little she did not know about
+Mrs. Fitzherbert and Lady Hamilton. Her appetite was prodigious and she
+ranged from Lucrezia Borgia to the wives of Philip of Spain; then there
+was the long list of the royal mistresses of France. She knew them all,
+and all about them, from Agnes Sorel down to Madame du Barry.
+
+“I like to read about real things,” she said. “I don’t much care about
+novels.”
+
+She liked to gossip about Blackstable and I thought it was on account of
+my connection with it that she liked to come out with me. She seemed to
+know all that was going on there.
+
+“I go down every other week or so to see my mother,” she said. “Just for
+the night, you know.”
+
+“To Blackstable?”
+
+I was surprised.
+
+“No, not to Blackstable,” Rosie smiled. “I don’t know that I’d care to
+go there just yet. To Haversham. Mother comes over to meet me. I stay at
+the hotel where I used to work.”
+
+She was never a great talker. Often when, the night being fine, we
+decided to walk back from the music hall at which we had been spending
+the evening, she never opened her mouth. But her silence was intimate
+and comfortable. It did not exclude you from thoughts that engaged her
+apart from you; it included you in a pervasive well-being.
+
+I was talking about her once to Lionel Hillier and I said to him that I
+could not understand how she had turned from the fresh pleasant-looking
+young woman I had first known at Blackstable into the lovely creature
+whose beauty now practically everyone acknowledged. (There were people
+who made reservations. “Of course she has a very good figure,” they
+said, “but it’s not the sort of face I very much admire personally.” And
+others said: “Oh, yes, of course, a very pretty woman; but it’s a pity
+she hasn’t a little more distinction.”)
+
+“I can explain that to you in half a jiffy,” said Lionel Hillier. “She
+was only a fresh, buxom wench when you first met her. _I_ made her
+beauty.”
+
+I forget what my answer was, but I know it was ribald.
+
+“All right. That just shows you don’t know anything about beauty. No one
+ever thought very much of Rosie till I saw her like the sun shining
+silver. It wasn’t till I painted it that anyone knew that her hair was
+the most lovely thing in the world.”
+
+“Did you make her neck and her breasts and her carriage and her bones?”
+I asked.
+
+“Yes, damn you, that’s just what I did do.”
+
+When Hillier talked of Rosie in front of her she listened to him with a
+smiling gravity. A little flush came into her pale cheeks. I think that
+at first when he spoke to her of her beauty she believed he was just
+making game of her; but when she found out that he wasn’t, when he
+painted her silvery gold, it had no particular effect on her. She was a
+trifle amused, pleased of course, and a little surprised, but it did not
+turn her head. She thought him a little mad. I often wondered whether
+there was anything between them. I could not forget all I had heard of
+Rosie at Blackstable and what I had seen in the vicarage garden; I
+wondered about Quentin Forde, too, and Harry Retford. I used to watch
+them with her. She was not exactly familiar with them, comradely rather;
+she used to make her appointments with them quite openly in anybody’s
+hearing; and when she looked at them it was with that mischievous,
+childlike smile which I had now discovered held such a mysterious
+beauty. Sometimes when we were sitting side by side in a music hall I
+looked at her face; I do not think I was in love with her, I merely
+enjoyed the sensation of sitting quietly beside her and looking at the
+pale gold of her hair and the pale gold of her skin. Of course Lionel
+Hillier was right; the strange thing was that this gold did give one a
+strange moonlight feeling. She had the serenity of a summer evening when
+the light fades slowly from the unclouded sky. There was nothing dull in
+her immense placidity; it was as living as the sea when under the August
+sun it lay calm and shining along the Kentish coast. She reminded me of
+a sonatina by an old Italian composer with its wistfulness in which
+there is yet an urbane flippancy and its light rippling gaiety in which
+echoes still the trembling of a sigh. Sometimes, feeling my eyes on her,
+she would turn round and for a moment or two look me full in the face.
+She did not speak. I did not know of what she was thinking.
+
+Once, I remember, I fetched her at Limpus Road, and the maid, telling me
+she was not ready, asked me to wait in the parlour. She came in. She was
+in black velvet, with a picture hat covered with ostrich feathers (we
+were going to the Pavilion and she had dressed up for it) and she looked
+so lovely that it took my breath away. I was staggered. The clothes of
+that day gave a woman dignity and there was something amazingly
+attractive in the way her virginal beauty (sometimes she looked like the
+exquisite statue of Psyche in the museum at Naples) contrasted with the
+stateliness of her gown. She had a trait that I think must be very rare:
+the skin under her eyes, faintly blue, was all dewy. Sometimes I could
+not persuade myself that it was natural, and once I asked her if she had
+rubbed vaseline under her eyes. That was just the effect it gave. She
+smiled, took a handkerchief and handed it to me.
+
+“Rub them and see,” she said.
+
+Then one night when we had walked home from the Canterbury, and I was
+leaving her at her door, when I held out my hand she laughed a little, a
+low chuckle it was, and leaned forward.
+
+“You old silly,” she said.
+
+She kissed me on the mouth. It was not a hurried peck, nor was it a kiss
+of passion. Her lips, those very full red lips of hers, rested on mine
+long enough for me to be conscious of their shape and their warmth and
+their softness. Then she withdrew them, but without hurry, in silence
+pushed open the door, slipped inside, and left me. I was so startled
+that I had not been able to say anything. I accepted her kiss stupidly.
+I remained inert. I turned away and walked back to my lodgings. I seemed
+to hear still in my ears Rosie’s laughter. It was not contemptuous or
+wounding, but frank and affectionate; it was as though she laughed
+because she was fond of me.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XVI
+
+
+I DID not go out with Rosie again for more than a week. She was going
+down to Haversham to spend a night with her mother. She had various
+engagements in London. Then she asked me if I would go to the Haymarket
+Theatre with her. The play was a success and free seats were not to be
+had so we made up our minds to go in the pit. We had a steak and a glass
+of beer at the Café Monico and then stood with the crowd. In those days
+there was no orderly queue and when the doors were opened there was a
+mad rush and scramble to get in. We were hot and breathless and somewhat
+battered when at last we pushed our way into our seats.
+
+We walked back through St. James’s Park. The night was so lovely that we
+sat down on a bench. In the starlight Rosie’s face and her fair hair
+glowed softly. She was suffused, as it were (I express it awkwardly, but
+I do not know how to describe the emotion she gave me) with a
+friendliness at once candid and tender. She was like a silvery flower of
+the night that only gave its perfume to the moonbeams. I slipped my arm
+round her waist and she turned her face to mine. This time it was I who
+kissed. She did not move; her soft red lips submitted to the pressure of
+mine with a calm, intense passivity as the water of a lake accepts the
+light of the moon. I don’t know how long we stayed there.
+
+“I’m awfully hungry,” she said suddenly.
+
+“So am I,” I laughed.
+
+“Couldn’t we go and have some fish and chips somewhere?”
+
+“Rather.”
+
+In those days I knew my way very well about Westminster, not yet a
+fashionable quarter for parliamentary and otherwise cultured persons,
+but slummy and down-at-heel; and after we had come out of the park,
+crossing Victoria Street, I led Rosie to a fried fish shop in Horseferry
+Row. It was late and the only other person there was the driver of a
+four-wheeler waiting outside. We ordered our fish and chips and a bottle
+of beer. A poor woman came in and bought two penn’orth of mixed and took
+it away with her in a piece of paper. We ate with appetite.
+
+Our way back to Rosie’s led through Vincent Square and as we passed my
+house I asked her:
+
+“Won’t you come in for a minute? You’ve never seen my rooms.”
+
+“What about your landlady? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
+
+“Oh, she sleeps like a rock.”
+
+“I’ll come in for a little.”
+
+I slipped my key into the lock and because the passage was dark took
+Rosie’s hand to lead her in. I lit the gas in my sitting room. She took
+off her hat and vigorously scratched her head. Then she looked for a
+glass, but I was very artistic and had taken down the mirror that was
+over the chimney-piece and there was no means in the room for anyone to
+see what he looked like.
+
+“Come into my bedroom,” I said. “There’s a glass there.”
+
+I opened the door and lit the candle. Rosie followed me in and I held it
+up so that she should be able to see herself. I looked at her in the
+glass as she arranged her hair. She took two or three pins out, which
+she put in her mouth, and taking one of my brushes, brushed her hair up
+from the nape of the neck. She twisted it, patted it, and put back the
+pins, and as she was intent on this her eyes caught mine in the glass
+and she smiled at me. When she had replaced the last pin she turned and
+faced me; she did not say anything; she looked at me tranquilly, still
+with that little friendly smile in her blue eyes. I put down the candle.
+The room was very small and the dressing table was by the bed. She
+raised her hand and softly stroked my cheek.
+
+I wish now that I had not started to write this book in the first person
+singular. It is all very well when you can show yourself in an amiable
+or touching light; and nothing can be more effective than the modest
+heroic or pathetic humorous which in this mode is much cultivated; it is
+charming to write about yourself when you see on the reader’s eyelash
+the glittering tear and on his lips the tender smile; but it is not so
+nice when you have to exhibit yourself as a plain damned fool.
+
+A little while ago I read in the _Evening Standard_ an article by Mr.
+Evelyn Waugh in the course of which he remarked that to write novels in
+the first person was a contemptible practice. I wish he had explained
+why, but he merely threw out the statement with just the same
+take-it-or-leave-it casualness as Euclid used when he made his
+celebrated observation about parallel straight lines. I was much
+concerned and forthwith asked Alroy Kear (who reads everything, even the
+books he writes prefaces for) to recommend to me some works on the art
+of fiction. On his advice I read _The Craft of Fiction_ by Mr. Percy
+Lubbock, from which I learned that the only way to write novels was like
+Henry James; after that I read _Aspects of the Novel_ by Mr. E. M.
+Forster, from which I learned that the only way to write novels was like
+Mr. E. M. Forster; then I read _The Structure of the Novel_ by Mr. Edwin
+Muir, from which I learned nothing at all. In none of them could I
+discover anything to the point at issue. All the same I can find one
+reason why certain novelists, such as Defoe, Sterne, Thackeray, Dickens,
+Emily Brontë, and Proust, well known in their day but now doubtless
+forgotten, have used the method that Mr. Evelyn Waugh reprehends. As we
+grow older we become more conscious of the complexity, incoherence, and
+unreasonableness of human beings; this indeed is the only excuse that
+offers for the middle-aged or elderly writer, whose thoughts should more
+properly be turned to graver matters, occupying himself with the trivial
+concerns of imaginary people. For if the proper study of mankind is man
+it is evidently more sensible to occupy yourself with the coherent,
+substantial, and significant creatures of fiction than with the
+irrational and shadowy figures of real life. Sometimes the novelist
+feels himself like God and is prepared to tell you everything about his
+characters; sometimes, however, he does not; and then he tells you not
+everything that is to be known about them but the little he knows
+himself; and since as we grow older we feel ourselves less and less like
+God I should not be surprised to learn that with advancing years the
+novelist grows less and less inclined to describe more than his own
+experience has given him. The first person singular is a very useful
+device for this limited purpose.
+
+Rosie raised her hand and softly stroked my face. I do not know why I
+should have behaved as I then did; it was not at all how I had seen
+myself behaving on such an occasion. A sob broke from my tight throat. I
+do not know whether it was because I was shy and lonely (not lonely in
+the body, for I spent all day at the hospital with all kinds of people,
+but lonely in the spirit) or because my desire was so great, but I began
+to cry. I felt terribly ashamed of myself; I tried to control myself, I
+couldn’t; the tears welled up in my eyes and poured down my cheeks.
+Rosie saw them and gave a little gasp.
+
+“Oh, honey, what is it? What’s the matter? Don’t. Don’t!”
+
+She put her arms round my neck and began to cry too, and she kissed my
+lips and my eyes and my wet cheeks. She undid her bodice and lowered my
+head till it rested on her bosom. She stroked my smooth face. She rocked
+me back and forth as though I were a child in her arms. I kissed her
+breasts and I kissed the white column of her neck; and she slipped out
+of her bodice and out of her skirt and her petticoats and I held her for
+a moment by her corseted waist; then she undid it, holding her breath
+for an instant to enable her to do so, and stood before me in her shift.
+When I put my hands on her sides I could feel the ribbing of the skin
+from the pressure of the corsets.
+
+“Blow out the candle,” she whispered.
+
+It was she who awoke me when the dawn peering through the curtains
+revealed the shape of the bed and of the wardrobe against the darkness
+of the lingering night. She woke me by kissing me on the mouth and her
+hair falling over my face tickled me.
+
+“I must get up,” she said. “I don’t want your landlady to see me.”
+
+“There’s plenty of time.”
+
+Her breasts when she leaned over me were heavy on my chest. In a little
+while she got out of bed. I lit the candle. She turned to the glass and
+tied up her hair and then she looked for a moment at her naked body. Her
+waist was naturally small; though so well developed she was very
+slender; her breasts were straight and firm and they stood out from the
+chest as though carved in marble. It was a body made for the act of
+love. In the light of the candle, struggling now with the increasing
+day, it was all silvery gold; and the only colour was the rosy pink of
+the hard nipples.
+
+We dressed in silence. She did not put on her corsets again, but rolled
+them up and I wrapped them in a piece of newspaper. We tiptoed along the
+passage and when I opened the door and we stepped out into the street
+the dawn ran to meet us like a cat leaping up the steps. The square was
+empty; already the sun was shining on the eastern windows. I felt as
+young as the day. We walked arm in arm till we came to the corner of
+Limpus Road.
+
+“Leave me here,” said Rosie. “One never knows.”
+
+I kissed her and I watched her walk away. She walked rather slowly, with
+the firm tread of the country woman who likes to feel the good earth
+under her feet, and held herself erect. I could not go back to bed. I
+strolled on till I came to the Embankment. The river had the bright hues
+of the early morning. A brown barge came down stream and passed under
+Vauxhall Bridge. In a dinghy two men were rowing close to the side. I
+was hungry.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XVII
+
+
+AFTER THAT for more than a year whenever Rosie came out with me she used
+on the way home to drop into my rooms, sometimes for an hour, sometimes
+till the breaking day warned us that the slaveys would soon be scrubbing
+the doorsteps. I have a recollection of warm sunny mornings when the
+tired air of London had a welcome freshness, and of our footfalls that
+seemed so noisy in the empty streets, and then of scurrying along
+huddled under an umbrella, silent but gay, when the winter brought cold
+and rain. The policeman on point duty gave us a stare as we passed,
+sometimes of suspicion; but sometimes also there was a twinkle of
+comprehension in his eyes. Now and then we would see a homeless creature
+huddled up asleep in a portico and Rosie gave my arm a friendly little
+pressure when (chiefly for show and because I wanted to make a good
+impression on her, for my shillings were scarce) I placed a piece of
+silver on a shapeless lap or in a skinny fist. Rosie made me very happy.
+I had a great affection for her. She was easy and comfortable. She had a
+placidity of temper that communicated itself to the people she was with;
+you shared her pleasure in the passing moment.
+
+Before I became her lover I had often asked myself if she was the
+mistress of the others, Forde, Harry Retford, and Hillier, and afterward
+I questioned her. She kissed me.
+
+“Don’t be so silly. I like them, you know that. I like to go out with
+them, but that’s all.”
+
+I wanted to ask her if she had been the mistress of George Kemp, but I
+did not like to. Though I had never seen her in a temper, I had a notion
+that she had one and I vaguely felt that this was a question that might
+anger her. I did not want to give her the opportunity of saying things
+so wounding that I could not forgive her. I was young, only just over
+one and twenty, Quentin Forde and the others seemed old to me; it did
+not seem unnatural to me that to Rosie they were only friends. It gave
+me a little thrill of pride to think that I was her lover. When I used
+to look at her chatting and laughing with all and sundry at tea on
+Saturday afternoons, I glowed with self-satisfaction. I thought of the
+nights we passed together and I was inclined to laugh at the people who
+were so ignorant of my great secret. But sometimes I thought that Lionel
+Hillier looked at me in a quizzical way, as if he were enjoying a good
+joke at my expense, and I asked myself uneasily if Rosie had told him
+that she was having an affair with me. I wondered if there was anything
+in my manner that betrayed me. I told Rosie that I was afraid Hillier
+suspected something; she looked at me with those blue eyes of hers that
+always seemed ready to smile.
+
+“Don’t bother about it,” she said. “He’s got a nasty mind.”
+
+I had never been intimate with Quentin Forde. He looked upon me as a
+dull and insignificant young man (which of course I was) and though he
+had always been civil he had never taken any notice of me. I thought it
+could only be my fancy that now he began to be a little more frigid with
+me than before. But one day Harry Retford to my surprise asked me to
+dine with him and go to the play. I told Rosie.
+
+“Oh, of course you must go. He’ll give you an awfully good time. Good
+old Harry, he always makes me laugh.”
+
+So I dined with him. He made himself very pleasant and I was impressed
+to hear him talk of actors and actresses. He had a sarcastic humour and
+was very funny at the expense of Quentin Forde, whom he did not like; I
+tried to get him to talk of Rosie, but he had nothing to say of her. He
+seemed to be a gay dog. With leers and laughing innuendoes he gave me to
+understand that he was a devil with the girls. I could not but ask
+myself if he was standing me this dinner because he knew I was Rosie’s
+lover and so felt friendly disposed toward me. But if he knew, of course
+the others knew too. I hope I did not show it, but in my heart I
+certainly felt somewhat patronizing toward them.
+
+Then in winter, toward the end of January, someone new appeared at
+Limpus Road. This was a Dutch Jew named Jack Kuyper, a diamond merchant
+from Amsterdam, who was spending a few weeks in London on business. I do
+not know how he had come to know the Driffields and whether it was
+esteem for the author that brought him to the house, but it was
+certainly not that which caused him to come again. He was a tall, stout,
+dark man with a bald head and a big hooked nose, a man of fifty, but of
+a powerful appearance, sensual, determined, and jovial. He made no
+secret of his admiration for Rosie. He was rich apparently, for he sent
+her roses every day; she chid him for his extravagance, but was
+flattered. I could not bear him. He was blatant and loud. I hated his
+fluent conversation in perfect but foreign English; I hated the
+extravagant compliments he paid Rosie; I hated the heartiness with which
+he treated her friends. I found that Quentin Forde liked him as little
+as I; we almost became cordial with one another.
+
+“Mercifully he’s not staying long.” Quentin Forde pursed his lips and
+raised his black eyebrows; with his white hair and long sallow face he
+looked incredibly gentlemanly. “Women are always the same; they adore a
+bounder.”
+
+“He’s so frightfully vulgar,” I complained.
+
+“That is his charm,” said Quentin Forde.
+
+For the next two or three weeks I saw next to nothing of Rosie. Jack
+Kuyper took her out night after night, to this smart restaurant and
+that, to one play after another. I was vexed and hurt.
+
+“He doesn’t know anyone in London,” said Rosie, trying to soothe my
+ruffled feelings. “He wants to see everything he can while he’s here. It
+wouldn’t be very nice for him to go alone all the time. He’s only here
+for a fortnight more.”
+
+I did not see the object of this self-sacrifice on her part.
+
+“But don’t you think he’s awful?” I said.
+
+“No. I think he’s fun. He makes me laugh.”
+
+“Don’t you know that he’s absolutely gone on you?”
+
+“Well, it pleases him and it doesn’t do me any harm.”
+
+“He’s old and fat and horrible. It gives me the creeps to look at him.”
+
+“I don’t think he’s so bad,” said Rosie.
+
+“You couldn’t have anything to do with him,” I protested. “I mean, he’s
+such an awful cad.”
+
+Rosie scratched her head. It was an unpleasant habit of hers.
+
+“It’s funny how different foreigners are from English people,” she said.
+
+I was thankful when Jack Kuyper went back to Amsterdam. Rosie had
+promised to dine with me the day after and as a treat we arranged to
+dine in Soho. She fetched me in a hansom and we drove on.
+
+“Has your horrible old man gone?” I asked.
+
+“Yes,” she laughed.
+
+I put my arm round her waist. (I have elsewhere remarked how much more
+convenient the hansom was for this pleasant and indeed almost essential
+act in human intercourse than the taxi of the present day, so
+unwillingly refrain from labouring the point.) I put my arm round her
+waist and kissed her. Her lips were like spring flowers. We arrived. I
+hung my hat and my coat (it was very long and tight at the waist, with a
+velvet collar and velvet cuffs; very smart) on a peg and asked Rosie to
+give me her cape.
+
+“I’m going to keep it on,” she said.
+
+“You’ll be awfully hot. You’ll only catch cold when we go out.”
+
+“I don’t care. It’s the first time I’ve worn it. Don’t you think it’s
+lovely. And look: the muff matches.”
+
+I gave the cape a glance. It was of fur. I did not know it was sable.
+
+“It looks awfully rich. How did you get that?”
+
+“Jack Kuyper gave it to me. We went and bought it yesterday just before
+he went away.” She stroked the smooth fur; she was as happy with it as a
+child with a toy. “How much d’you think it cost?”
+
+“I haven’t an idea.”
+
+“Two hundred and sixty pounds. Do you know I’ve never had anything that
+cost so much in my life? I told him it was far too much, but he wouldn’t
+listen. He made me have it.”
+
+Rosie chuckled with glee and her eyes shone. But I felt my face go stiff
+and a shiver run down my spine.
+
+“Won’t Driffield think it’s rather funny, Kuyper giving you a fur cape
+that costs all that?” said I, trying to make my voice sound natural.
+
+Rosie’s eyes danced mischievously.
+
+“You know what Ted is, he never notices anything; if he says anything
+about it I shall tell him I gave twenty pounds for it in a pawnshop. He
+won’t know any better.” She rubbed her face against the collar. “It’s so
+soft. And everyone can see it cost money.”
+
+I tried to eat and in order not to show the bitterness in my heart I did
+my best to keep the conversation going on one topic or another. Rosie
+did not much mind what I said. She could only think of her new cape and
+every other minute her eyes returned to the muff that she insisted on
+holding on her lap. She looked at it with an affection in which there
+was something lazy, sensual, and self-complacent. I was angry with her.
+I thought her stupid and common.
+
+“You look like a cat that’s swallowed a canary,” I could not help
+snapping.
+
+She only giggled.
+
+“That’s what I feel like.”
+
+Two hundred and sixty pounds was an enormous sum to me. I did not know
+one _could_ pay so much for a cape. I lived on fourteen pounds a month
+and not at all badly either; and in case any reader is not a ready
+reckoner I will add that this is one hundred and sixty-eight pounds a
+year. I could not believe that anyone would make as expensive a present
+as that from pure friendship; what did it mean but that Jack Kuyper had
+been sleeping with Rosie, night after night, all the time he was in
+London, and now when he went away was paying her? How could she accept
+it? Didn’t she see how it degraded her? Didn’t she see how frightfully
+vulgar it was of him to give her a thing that cost so much? Apparently
+not, for she said to me:
+
+“It was nice of him, wasn’t it? But then Jews are always generous.”
+
+“I suppose he could afford it,” I said.
+
+“Oh, yes, he’s got lots of money. He said he wanted to give me something
+before he went away and asked me what I wanted. Well, I said, I could do
+with a cape and a muff to match, but I never thought he’d buy me
+anything like this. When we went into the shop I asked them to show me
+something in astrakhan, but he said: No, sable, and the best money can
+buy. And when we saw this he absolutely insisted on my having it.”
+
+I thought of her with her white body, her skin so milky, in the arms of
+that old fat gross man and his thick loose lips kissing hers. And then I
+knew that the suspicion that I had refused to believe was true; I knew
+that when she went out to dinner with Quentin Forde and Harry Retford
+and Lionel Hillier she went to bed with them just as she came to bed
+with me. I could not speak; I knew that if I did I should insult her. I
+do not think I was jealous so much as mortified. I felt that she had
+been making a damned fool of me. I used all my determination to prevent
+the bitter jibes from passing my lips.
+
+We went on to the theatre. I could not listen to the play. I could only
+feel against my arm the smoothness of the sable cape; I could only see
+her fingers for ever stroking the muff. I could have borne the thought
+of the others; it was Jack Kuyper who horrified me. How could she? It
+was abominable to be poor. I longed to have enough money to tell her
+that if she would send the fellow back his beastly furs I would give her
+better ones instead. At last she noticed that I did not speak.
+
+“You’re very silent to-night.”
+
+“Am I?”
+
+“Aren’t you well?”
+
+“Perfectly.”
+
+She gave me a sidelong look. I did not meet her eyes, but I knew they
+were smiling with that smile at once mischievous and childlike that I
+knew so well. She said nothing more. At the end of the play, since it
+was raining, we took a hansom and I gave the driver her address in
+Limpus Road. She did not speak till we got to Victoria Street, then she
+said:
+
+“Don’t you want me to come home with you?”
+
+“Just as you like.”
+
+She lifted up the trap and gave the driver my address. She took my hand
+and held it, but I remained inert. I looked straight out of the window
+with angry dignity. When we reached Vincent Square I handed her out of
+the cab and let her into the house without a word. I took off my hat and
+coat. She threw her cape and her muff on the sofa.
+
+“Why are you so sulky?” she asked, coming up to me.
+
+“I’m not sulky,” I answered, looking away.
+
+She took my face in her two hands.
+
+“How can you be so silly? Why should you be angry because Jack Kuyper
+gives me a fur cape? You can’t afford to give me one, can you?”
+
+“Of course I can’t.”
+
+“And Ted can’t either. You can’t expect me to refuse a fur cape that
+cost two hundred and sixty pounds. I’ve wanted a fur cape all my life.
+It means nothing to Jack.”
+
+“You don’t expect me to believe that he gave it you just out of
+friendship.”
+
+“He might have. Anyhow, he’s gone back to Amsterdam, and who knows when
+he’ll come back?”
+
+“He isn’t the only one, either.”
+
+I looked at Rosie now, with angry, hurt, resentful eyes; she smiled at
+me, and I wish I knew how to describe the sweet kindliness of her
+beautiful smile; her voice was exquisitely gentle.
+
+“Oh, my dear, why d’you bother your head about any others? What harm
+does it do you? Don’t I give you a good time? Aren’t you happy when
+you’re with me?”
+
+“Awfully.”
+
+“Well, then. It’s so silly to be fussy and jealous. Why not be happy
+with what you can get? Enjoy yourself while you have the chance, I say;
+we shall all be dead in a hundred years and what will anything matter
+then? Let’s have a good time while we can.”
+
+She put her arms round my neck and pressed her lips against mine. I
+forgot my wrath. I only thought of her beauty and her enveloping
+kindness.
+
+“You must take me as I am, you know,” she whispered.
+
+“All right,” I said.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XVIII
+
+
+DURING ALL this time I saw really very little of Driffield. His
+editorship occupied much of his day and in the evening he wrote. He was,
+of course, there every Saturday afternoon, amiable and ironically
+amusing; he appeared glad to see me and chatted with me for a little
+while pleasantly of indifferent things; but naturally most of his
+attention was given to guests older and more important than I. But I had
+a feeling that he was growing more aloof; he was no longer the jolly,
+rather vulgar companion that I had known at Blackstable. Perhaps it was
+only my increasing sensibility that discerned as it were an invisible
+barrier that existed between him and the people he chaffed and joked
+with. It was as though he lived a life of the imagination that made the
+life of every day a little shadowy. He was asked to speak now and then
+at public dinners. He joined a literary club. He began to know a good
+many people outside the narrow circle into which his writing had drawn
+him, and he was increasingly asked to luncheon and tea by the ladies who
+like to gather about them distinguished authors. Rosie was asked too,
+but seldom went; she said she didn’t care for parties, and after all
+they didn’t want her, they only wanted Ted. I think she was shy and felt
+out of it. It may be that hostesses had more than once let her see how
+tiresome they thought it that she must be included; and after inviting
+her because it was polite, ignored her because to be polite irked them.
+
+It was just about then that Edward Driffield published _The Cup of
+Life_. It is not my business to criticize his works, and of late as much
+has been written about them as must satisfy the appetite of any ordinary
+reader; but I will permit myself to say that _The Cup of Life_, though
+certainly not the most celebrated of his books, nor the most popular, is
+to my mind the most interesting. It has a cold ruthlessness that in all
+the sentimentality of English fiction strikes an original note. It is
+refreshing and astringent. It tastes of tart apples. It sets your teeth
+on edge, but it has a subtle, bitter-sweet savour that is very agreeable
+to the palate. Of all Driffield’s books it is the only one I should like
+to have written. The scene of the child’s death, terrible and
+heart-rending, but written without slop or sickliness, and the curious
+incident that follows it, cannot easily be forgotten by anyone who has
+read them.
+
+It was this part of the book that caused the sudden storm that burst on
+the wretched Driffield’s head. For a few days after publication it
+looked as though it would run its course like the rest of his novels,
+namely that it would have substantial reviews, laudatory on the whole
+but with reservations, and that the sales would be respectable, but
+modest. Rosie told me that he expected to make three hundred pounds out
+of it and was talking of renting a house on the river for the summer.
+The first two or three notices were noncommittal; then in one of the
+morning papers appeared a violent attack. There was a column of it. The
+book was described as gratuitously offensive, obscene, and the
+publishers were rated for putting it before the public. Harrowing
+pictures were drawn of the devastating effect it must have on the youth
+of England. It was described as an insult to womanhood. The reviewer
+protested against the possibility of such a work falling into the hands
+of young boys and innocent maidens. Other papers followed suit. The more
+foolish demanded that the book should be suppressed and some asked
+themselves gravely if this was not a case where the public prosecutor
+might with fitness intervene. Condemnation was universal; if here and
+there a courageous writer, accustomed to the more realistic tone of
+continental fiction, asserted that Edward Driffield had never written
+anything better, he was ignored. His honest opinion was ascribed to a
+base desire to play to the gallery. The libraries barred the book and
+the lessors of the railway bookstalls refused to stock it.
+
+All this was naturally very unpleasant for Edward Driffield, but he bore
+it with philosophic calm. He shrugged his shoulders.
+
+“They say it isn’t true,” he smiled. “They can go to hell. It is true.”
+
+He was supported in this trial by the fidelity of his friends. To admire
+_The Cup of Life_ became a mark of æsthetic acumen: to be shocked by it
+was to confess yourself a philistine. Mrs. Barton Trafford had no
+hesitation in saying that it was a masterpiece, and though this wasn’t
+quite the moment for Barton’s article in the _Quarterly_, her faith in
+Edward Driffield’s future remained unshaken. It is strange (and
+instructive) to read now the book that created such a sensation; there
+is not a word that could bring a blush to the cheek of the most
+guileless, not an episode that could cause the novel reader of the
+present day to turn a hair.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XIX
+
+
+ABOUT SIX months later, when the excitement over _The Cup of Life_ had
+subsided and Driffield had already begun the novel which he published
+under the name of _By Their Fruits_, I, being then an impatient dresser
+and in my fourth year, in the course of my duties went one day into the
+main hall of the hospital to await the surgeon whom I was accompanying
+on his round of the wards. I glanced at the rack in which letters were
+placed, for sometimes people, not knowing my address in Vincent Square,
+wrote to me at the hospital. I was surprised to find a telegram for me.
+It ran as follows:
+
+    _Please come and see me at five o’clock this afternoon without
+    fail. Important._
+
+                                                   ISABEL TRAFFORD.
+
+I wondered what she wanted me for. I had met her perhaps a dozen times
+during the last two years, but she had never taken any notice of me, and
+I had never been to her house. I knew that men were scarce at teatime
+and a hostess, short of them at the last moment, might think that a
+young medical student was better than nothing; but the wording of the
+telegram hardly suggested a party.
+
+The surgeon for whom I dressed was prosy and verbose. It was not till
+past five that I was free and then it took me a good twenty minutes to
+get down to Chelsea. Mrs. Barton Trafford lived in a block of flats on
+the Embankment. It was nearly six when I rang at her door and asked if
+she was at home. But when I was ushered into her drawing room and began
+to explain why I was late she cut me short.
+
+“We supposed you couldn’t get away. It doesn’t matter.”
+
+Her husband was there.
+
+“I expect he’d like a cup of tea,” he said.
+
+“Oh, I think it’s rather late for tea, isn’t it?” She looked at me
+gently, her mild, rather fine eyes full of kindness. “You don’t want any
+tea, do you?”
+
+I was thirsty and hungry, for my lunch consisted of a scone and butter
+and a cup of coffee, but I did not like to say so. I refused tea.
+
+“Do you know Allgood Newton?” asked Mrs. Barton Trafford, with a gesture
+toward a man who had been sitting in a big armchair when I was shown in,
+and now got up. “I expect you’ve met him at Edward’s.”
+
+I had. He did not come often, but his name was familiar to me and I
+remembered him. He made me very nervous and I do not think I had ever
+spoken to him. Though now completely forgotten, in those days he was the
+best-known critic in England. He was a large, fat, blond man, with a
+fleshy white face, pale blue eyes, and graying fair hair. He generally
+wore a pale blue tie to bring out the colour of his eyes. He was very
+amiable to the authors he met at Driffield’s and said charming and
+flattering things to them, but when they were gone he was very amusing
+at their expense. He spoke in a low, even voice, with an apt choice of
+words: no one could with more point tell a malicious story about a
+friend.
+
+Allgood Newton shook hands with me and Mrs. Barton Trafford, with her
+ready sympathy, anxious to put me at my ease, took me by the hand and
+made me sit on the sofa beside her. The tea was still on the table and
+she took a jam sandwich and delicately nibbled it.
+
+“Have you seen the Driffields lately?” she asked me as though making
+conversation.
+
+“I was there last Saturday.”
+
+“You haven’t seen either of them since?”
+
+“No.”
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford looked from Allgood Newton to her husband and back
+again as though mutely demanding their help.
+
+“Nothing will be gained by circumlocution, Isabel,” said Newton, a
+faintly malicious twinkle in his eye, in his fat precise way.
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford turned to me.
+
+“Then you don’t know that Mrs. Driffield has run away from her husband.”
+
+“What!”
+
+I was flabbergasted. I could not believe my ears.
+
+“Perhaps it would be better if you told him the facts, Allgood,” said
+Mrs. Trafford.
+
+The critic leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of the fingers
+of one hand against the tips of the fingers of the other. He spoke with
+unction.
+
+“I had to see Edward Driffield last night about a literary article that
+I am doing for him and after dinner, since the night was fine, I thought
+I would walk round to his house. He was expecting me; and I knew besides
+that he never went out at night except for some function as important as
+the Lord Mayor’s banquet or the Academy dinner. Imagine my surprise
+then, nay, my utter and complete bewilderment, when as I approached I
+saw the door of his house open and Edward in person emerge. You know of
+course that Immanuel Kant was in the habit of taking his daily walk at a
+certain hour with such punctuality that the inhabitants of Königsberg
+were accustomed to set their watches by the event and when once he came
+out of his house an hour earlier than usual they turned pale, for they
+knew that this could only mean that some terrible thing had happened.
+They were right; Immanuel Kant had just received intelligence of the
+fall of the Bastille.”
+
+Allgood Newton paused for a moment to mark the effect of his anecdote.
+Mrs. Barton Trafford gave him her understanding smile.
+
+“I did not envisage so world-shaking a catastrophe as this when I saw
+Edward hurrying toward me, but it immediately occurred to me that
+something untoward was afoot. He carried neither cane nor gloves. He
+wore his working coat, a venerable garment in black alpaca, and a
+wide-awake hat. There was something wild in his mien and distraught in
+his bearing. I asked myself, knowing the vicissitudes of the conjugal
+state, whether a matrimonial difference had driven him headlong from the
+house or whether he was hastening to a letter box in order to post a
+letter. He sped like Hector flying, the noblest of the Greeks. He did
+not seem to see me and the suspicion flashed across my mind that he did
+not want to. I stopped him. ‘Edward,’ I said. He looked startled. For a
+moment I could have sworn he did not know who I was. ‘What avenging
+furies urge you with such hot haste through the rakish purlieus of
+Pimlico?’ I asked. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’ I
+asked. ‘Nowhere,’ he replied.”
+
+At this rate I thought Allgood Newton would never finish his story and
+Mrs. Hudson would be vexed with me for turning up to dinner half an hour
+late.
+
+“I told him on what errand I had come, and proposed that we should
+return to his house where he could more conveniently discuss the
+question that perturbed me. ‘I’m too restless to go home,’ he said;
+‘let’s walk. You can talk to me as we go along.’ Assenting, I turned
+round and we began to walk; but his pace was so rapid that I had to beg
+him to moderate it. Even Dr. Johnson could not have carried on a
+conversation when he was walking down Fleet Street at the speed of an
+express train. Edward’s appearance was so peculiar and his manner so
+agitated that I thought it wise to lead him through the less frequented
+streets. I talked to him of my article. The subject that occupied me was
+more copious than had at first sight appeared, and I was doubtful
+whether after all I could do justice to it in the columns of a weekly
+journal. I put the matter before him fully and fairly and asked him his
+opinion. ‘Rosie has left me,’ he answered. For a moment I did not know
+what he was talking about, but in a trice it occurred to me that he was
+speaking of the buxom and not unprepossessing female from whose hands I
+had on occasion accepted a cup of tea. From his tone I divined that he
+expected condolence from me rather than felicitation.”
+
+Allgood Newton paused again and his blue eyes twinkled.
+
+“You’re wonderful, Allgood,” said Mrs. Barton Trafford.
+
+“Priceless,” said her husband.
+
+“Realizing that the occasion demanded sympathy, I said: ‘My dear
+fellow.’ He interrupted me. ‘I had a letter by the last post,’ he said.
+‘She’s run away with Lord George Kemp.’”
+
+I gasped, but said nothing. Mrs. Trafford gave me a quick look.
+
+“‘Who is Lord George Kemp?’ ‘He’s a Blackstable man,’ he replied. I had
+little time to think. I determined to be frank. ‘You’re well rid of
+her,’ I said. ‘Allgood!’ he cried. I stopped and put my hand on his arm.
+‘You must know that she was deceiving you with all your friends. Her
+behaviour was a public scandal. My dear Edward, let us face the fact:
+your wife was nothing but a common strumpet.’ He snatched his arm away
+from me and gave a sort of low roar, like an orang-utan in the forests
+of Borneo forcibly deprived of a cocoanut, and before I could stop him
+he broke away and fled. I was so startled that I could do nothing but
+listen to his cries and his hurrying footsteps.”
+
+“You shouldn’t have let him go,” said Mrs. Barton Trafford. “In the
+state he was he might have thrown himself in the Thames.”
+
+“The thought occurred to me, but I noticed that he did not run in the
+direction of the river, but plunged into the meaner streets of the
+neighbourhood in which we had been walking. And I reflected also that
+there is no example in literary history of an author committing suicide
+while engaged on the composition of a literary work. Whatever his
+tribulations, he is unwilling to leave to posterity an uncompleted
+opus.”
+
+I was astounded at what I heard and shocked and dismayed; but I was
+worried too because I could not make out why Mrs. Trafford had sent for
+me. She knew me much too little to think that the story could be of any
+particular interest to me; nor would she have troubled to let me hear it
+as a piece of news.
+
+“Poor Edward,” she said. “Of course no one can deny that it is a
+blessing in disguise, but I’m afraid he’ll take it very much to heart.
+Fortunately he’s done nothing rash.” She turned to me. “As soon as Mr.
+Newton told us about it I went round to Limpus Road. Edward was out, but
+the maid said he’d only just gone; that means that he must have gone
+home between the time he ran away from Allgood and this morning. You’ll
+wonder why I asked you to come and see me.”
+
+I did not answer. I waited for her to go on.
+
+“It was at Blackstable you first knew the Driffields, wasn’t it? You can
+tell us who is this Lord George Kemp. Edward said he was a Blackstable
+man.”
+
+“He’s middle-aged. He’s got a wife and two sons. They’re as old as I
+am.”
+
+“But I don’t understand who he can be. I can’t find him either in _Who’s
+Who_ or in Debrett.”
+
+I almost laughed.
+
+“Oh, he’s not really a lord. He’s the local coal merchant. They call him
+Lord George at Blackstable because he’s so grand. It’s just a joke.”
+
+“The quiddity of bucolic humour is often a trifle obscure to the
+uninitiated,” said Allgood Newton.
+
+“We must all help dear Edward in every way we can,” said Mrs. Barton
+Trafford. Her eyes rested on me thoughtfully. “If Kemp has run away with
+Rosie Driffield he must have left his wife.”
+
+“I suppose so,” I replied.
+
+“Will you do something very kind?”
+
+“If I can.”
+
+“Will you go down to Blackstable and find out exactly what has happened?
+I think we ought to get in touch with the wife.”
+
+I have never been very fond of interfering in other people’s affairs.
+
+“I don’t know how I could do that,” I answered.
+
+“Couldn’t you see her?”
+
+“No, I couldn’t.”
+
+If Mrs. Barton Trafford thought my reply blunt she did not show it. She
+smiled a little.
+
+“At all events that can be left over. The urgent thing is to go down and
+find out about Kemp. I shall try to see Edward this evening. I can’t
+bear the thought of his staying on in that odious house by himself.
+Barton and I have made up our minds to bring him here. We have a spare
+room and I’ll arrange it so that he can work there. Don’t you agree that
+that would be the best thing for him, Allgood?”
+
+“Absolutely.”
+
+“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here indefinitely, at all
+events for a few weeks, and then he can come away with us in the summer.
+We’re going to Brittany. I’m sure he’d like that. It would be a thorough
+change for him.”
+
+“The immediate question,” said Barton Trafford, fixing on me an eye
+nearly as kindly as his wife’s, “is whether this young sawbones will go
+to Blackstable and find out what he can. We must know where we are. That
+is essential.”
+
+Barton Trafford excused his interest in archæology by a hearty manner
+and a jocose, even slangy way of speech.
+
+“He couldn’t refuse,” said his wife, giving me a soft, appealing glance.
+“You won’t refuse, will you? It’s so important and you’re the only
+person who can help us.”
+
+Of course she did not know that I was as anxious to find out what had
+happened as she; she could not tell what a bitter jealous pain stabbed
+my heart.
+
+“I couldn’t possibly get away from the hospital before Saturday,” I
+said.
+
+“That’ll do. It’s very good of you. All Edward’s friends will be
+grateful to you. When shall you return?”
+
+“I have to be back in London early on Monday morning.”
+
+“Then come and have tea with me in the afternoon. I shall await you with
+impatience. Thank God, that’s settled. Now I must try and get hold of
+Edward.”
+
+I understood that I was dismissed. Allgood Newton took his leave and
+came downstairs with me.
+
+“Our Isabel has _un petit air_ of Catherine of Aragon to-day that I find
+vastly becoming,” he murmured when the door was closed behind us. “This
+is a golden opportunity and I think we may safely trust our friend not
+to miss it. A charming woman with a heart of gold. _Venus toute entière
+à sa proie attachée._”
+
+I did not understand what he meant, for what I have already told the
+reader about Mrs. Barton Trafford I only learned much later, but I
+realized that he was saying something vaguely malicious about her, and
+probably amusing, so I sniggered.
+
+“I suppose your youth inclines you to what my good Dizzy named in an
+unlucky moment the gondola of London.”
+
+“I’m going to take a bus,” I answered.
+
+“Oh? Had you proposed to go by hansom I was going to ask you to be good
+enough to drop me on your way, but if you are going to use the homely
+conveyance which _I_ in my old-fashioned manner still prefer to call an
+omnibus, I shall hoist my unwieldy carcase into a four-wheeler.”
+
+He signalled to one and gave me two flabby fingers to shake.
+
+“I shall come on Monday to hear the result of what dear Henry would call
+your so exquisitely delicate mission.”
+
+
+
+
+                                   XX
+
+
+BUT IT was years before I saw Allgood Newton again, for when I got to
+Blackstable I found a letter from Mrs. Barton Trafford (who had taken
+the precaution to note my address) asking me, for reasons that she would
+explain when she saw me, not to come to her flat but to meet her at six
+o’clock in the first-class waiting room at Victoria Station. As soon
+then as I could get away from the hospital on Monday I made my way
+there, and after waiting for a while saw her come in. She came toward me
+with little tripping steps.
+
+“Well, have you anything to tell me? Let us find a quiet corner and sit
+down.”
+
+We sought a place and found it.
+
+“I must explain why I asked you to come here,” she said. “Edward is
+staying with me. At first he did not want to come, but I persuaded him.
+But he’s nervous and ill and irritable. I did not want to run the risk
+of his seeing you.”
+
+I told Mrs. Trafford the bare facts of my story and she listened
+attentively. Now and then she nodded her head. But I could not hope to
+make her understand the commotion I had found at Blackstable. The town
+was beside itself with excitement. Nothing so thrilling had happened
+there for years and no one could talk of anything else. Humpty-dumpty
+had had a great fall. Lord George Kemp had absconded. About a week
+before he had announced that he had to go up to London on business, and
+two days later a petition in bankruptcy was filed against him. It
+appeared that his building operations had not been successful, his
+attempt to make Blackstable into a frequented seaside resort meeting
+with no response, and he had been forced to raise money in every way he
+could. All kinds of rumours ran through the little town. Quite a number
+of small people who had entrusted their savings to him were faced with
+the loss of all they had. The details were vague, for neither my uncle
+nor my aunt knew anything of business matters, nor had I the knowledge
+to make what they told me comprehensible. But there was a mortgage on
+George Kemp’s house and a bill of sale on his furniture. His wife was
+left without a penny. His two sons, lads of twenty and twenty-one, were
+in the coal business, but that, too, was involved in the general ruin.
+George Kemp had gone off with all the cash he could lay hands on,
+something like fifteen hundred pounds, they said, though how they knew I
+cannot imagine; and it was reported that a warrant had been issued for
+his arrest. It was supposed that he had left the country; some said he
+had gone to Australia and some to Canada.
+
+“I hope they catch him,” said my uncle. “He ought to get penal servitude
+for life.”
+
+The indignation was universal. They could not forgive him because he had
+always been so noisy and boisterous, because he had chaffed them and
+stood them drinks and given them garden parties, because he had driven
+such a smart trap and worn his brown billycock hat at such a rakish
+angle. But it was on Sunday night after church in the vestry that the
+churchwarden told my uncle the worst. For the last two years he had been
+meeting Rosie Driffield at Haversham almost every week and they had been
+spending the night together at a public house. The licensee of this had
+put money into one of Lord George’s wildcat schemes, and on discovering
+that he had lost it blurted out the whole story. He could have borne it
+if Lord George had defrauded others, but that he should defraud him who
+had done him a good turn and whom he looked upon as a chum, that was the
+limit.
+
+“I expect they’ve run away together,” said my uncle.
+
+“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the churchwarden.
+
+After supper, while the housemaid was clearing away, I went into the
+kitchen to talk to Mary-Ann. She had been at church and had heard the
+story too. I cannot believe that the congregation had listened very
+attentively to my uncle’s sermon.
+
+“The vicar says they’ve run away together,” I said. I had not breathed a
+word of what I knew.
+
+“Why, of course they ’ave,” said Mary-Ann. “He was the only man she ever
+really fancied. He only ’ad to lift ’is little finger and she’d leave
+anyone no matter who it was.”
+
+I lowered my eyes. I was suffering from bitter mortification; and I was
+angry with Rosie: I thought she had behaved very badly to me.
+
+“I suppose we shall never see her again,” I said. It gave me a pang to
+utter the words.
+
+“I don’t suppose we shall,” said Mary-Ann cheerfully.
+
+When I had told Mrs. Barton Trafford as much of this story as I thought
+she need know, she sighed, but whether from satisfaction or distress I
+had no notion.
+
+“Well, that’s the end of Rosie at all events,” she said. She got up and
+held out her hand. “Why will these literary men make these unfortunate
+marriages? It’s all very sad, very sad. Thank you so much for what
+you’ve done. We know where we are now. The great thing is that it
+shouldn’t interfere with Edward’s work.”
+
+Her remarks seemed a trifle disconnected to me. The fact was, I have no
+doubt, that she was giving me not the smallest thought. I led her out of
+Victoria Station and put her into a bus that went down the King’s Road,
+Chelsea; then I walked back to my lodgings.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XXI
+
+
+I LOST touch with Driffield. I was too shy to seek him out; I was busy
+with my examinations, and when I had passed them I went abroad. I
+remember vaguely to have seen in the paper that he had divorced Rosie.
+Nothing more was heard of her. Small sums reached her mother
+occasionally, ten or twenty pounds, and they came in a registered letter
+with a New York postmark; but no address was given, no message enclosed,
+and they were presumed to come from Rosie only because no one else could
+possibly send Mrs. Gann money. Then in the fullness of years Rosie’s
+mother died, and it may be supposed that in some way the news reached
+her, for the letters ceased to come.
+
+
+
+
+                                  XXII
+
+
+ALROY KEAR and I, as arranged, met on Friday at Victoria Station to
+catch the five ten to Blackstable. We made ourselves comfortable in
+opposite corners of a smoking compartment. From him I now learned
+roughly what had happened to Driffield after his wife ran away from him.
+Roy had in due course become very intimate with Mrs. Barton Trafford.
+Knowing him and remembering her, I realized that this was inevitable. I
+was not surprised to hear that he had travelled with her and Barton on
+the continent, sharing with them to the full their passion for Wagner,
+post-impressionist painting, and baroque architecture. He had lunched
+assiduously at the flat in Chelsea and when advancing years and failing
+health had imprisoned Mrs. Trafford to her drawing room, notwithstanding
+the many claims on his time he had gone regularly once a week to sit
+with her. He had a good heart. After her death he wrote an article about
+her in which with admirable emotion he did justice to her great gifts of
+sympathy and discrimination.
+
+It pleased me to think that his kindliness should receive its due and
+unexpected reward, for Mrs. Barton Trafford had told him much about
+Edward Driffield that could not fail to be of service to him in the work
+of love in which he was now engaged. Mrs. Barton Trafford, exercising a
+gentle violence, not only took Edward Driffield into her house when the
+flight of his faithless wife left him what Roy could only describe by
+the French word _désemparé_, but persuaded him to stay for nearly a
+year. She gave him the loving care, the unfailing kindness, and the
+intelligent understanding of a woman who combined feminine tact with
+masculine vigour, a heart of gold with an unerring eye for the main
+chance. It was in her flat that he finished _By Their Fruits_. She was
+justified in looking upon it as her book and the dedication to her is a
+proof that Driffield was not unmindful of his debt. She took him to
+Italy (with Barton of course, for Mrs. Trafford knew too well how
+malicious people were, to give occasion for scandal) and with a volume
+of Ruskin in her hand revealed to Edward Driffield the immortal beauties
+of that country. Then she found him rooms in the Temple and arranged
+little luncheons there, she acting very prettily the part of hostess,
+where he could receive the persons whom his increasing reputation
+attracted.
+
+It must be admitted that this increasing reputation was very largely due
+to her. His great celebrity came only during his last years when he had
+long ceased to write, but the foundations of it were undoubtedly laid by
+Mrs. Trafford’s untiring efforts. Not only did she inspire (and perhaps
+write not a little, for she had a dexterous pen) the article that Barton
+at last contributed to the _Quarterly_ in which the claim was first made
+that Driffield must be ranked with the masters of British fiction, but
+as each book came out she organized its reception. She went here and
+there, seeing editors and, more important still, proprietors of
+influential organs; she gave soirées to which everyone was invited who
+could be of use. She persuaded Edward Driffield to give readings at the
+houses of the very great for charitable purposes; she saw to it that his
+photographs should appear in the illustrated weeklies; she revised
+personally any interview he gave. For ten years she was an indefatigable
+press agent. She kept him steadily before the public.
+
+Mrs. Barton Trafford had a grand time, but she did not get above
+herself. It was useless indeed to ask him to a party without her; he
+refused. And when she and Barton and Driffield were invited anywhere to
+dinner they came together and went together. She never let him out of
+her sight. Hostesses might rave; they could take it or leave it. As a
+rule they took it. If Mrs. Barton Trafford happened to be a little out
+of temper it was through him she showed it, for while she remained
+charming, Edward Driffield would be uncommonly gruff. But she knew
+exactly how to draw him out and when the company was distinguished could
+make him brilliant. She was perfect with him. She never concealed from
+him her conviction that he was the greatest writer of his day; she not
+only referred to him invariably as the master, but, perhaps a little
+playfully and yet how flatteringly, addressed him always as such. To the
+end she retained something kittenish.
+
+Then a terrible thing happened. Driffield caught pneumonia and was
+extremely ill; for some time his life was despaired of. Mrs. Barton
+Trafford did everything that such a woman could do, and would willingly
+have nursed him herself, but she was frail, she was indeed over sixty,
+and he had to have professional nurses. When at last he pulled through,
+the doctors said that he must go into the country, and since he was
+still extremely weak insisted that a nurse should go with him. Mrs.
+Trafford wanted him to go to Bournemouth so that she could run down for
+week-ends and see that everything was well with him, but Driffield had a
+fancy for Cornwall, and the doctors agreed that the mild airs of
+Penzance would suit him. One would have thought that a woman of Isabel
+Trafford’s delicate intuition would have had some foreboding of ill. No.
+She let him go. She impressed on the nurse that she entrusted her with a
+grave responsibility; she placed in her hands, if not the future of
+English literature, at least the life and welfare of its most
+distinguished living representative. It was a priceless charge.
+
+Three weeks later Edward Driffield wrote and told her that he had
+married his nurse by special license.
+
+I imagine that never did Mrs. Barton Trafford exhibit more preëminently
+her greatness of soul than in the manner in which she met this
+situation. Did she cry, Judas, Judas? Did she tear her hair and fall on
+the floor and kick her heels in an attack of hysterics? Did she turn on
+the mild and learned Barton and call him a blithering old fool? Did she
+inveigh against the faithlessness of men and the wantonness of women or
+did she relieve her wounded feelings by shouting at the top of her voice
+a string of those obscenities with which the alienists tell us the
+chastest females are surprisingly acquainted? Not at all. She wrote a
+charming letter of congratulation to Driffield and she wrote to his
+bride telling her that she was glad to think that now she would have two
+loving friends instead of one. She begged them both to come and stay
+with her on their return to London. She told everyone she met that the
+marriage had made her very, very happy, for Edward Driffield would soon
+be an old man and must have someone to take care of him; who could do
+this better than a hospital nurse? She never had anything but praise for
+the new Mrs. Driffield; she was not exactly pretty, she said, but she
+had a very nice face; of course she wasn’t quite, quite a lady, but
+Edward would only have been uncomfortable with anyone too grand. She was
+just the sort of wife for him. I think it may be not unjustly said that
+Mrs. Barton Trafford fairly ran over with the milk of human kindness,
+but all the same I have an inkling that if ever the milk of human
+kindness was charged with vitriol, here was a case in point.
+
+
+
+
+                                 XXIII
+
+
+WHEN WE arrived at Blackstable, Roy and I, a car, neither ostentatiously
+grand nor obviously cheap, was waiting for him and the chauffeur had a
+note for me asking me to lunch with Mrs. Driffield next day. I got into
+a taxi and went to the Bear and Key. I had learned from Roy that there
+was a new Marine Hotel on the front, but I did not propose for the
+luxuries of civilization to abandon a resort of my youth. Change met me
+at the railway station, which was not in its old place, but up a new
+road, and of course it was strange to be driven down the High Street in
+a car. But the Bear and Key was unaltered. It received me with its old
+churlish indifference: there was no one at the entrance, the driver put
+my bag down and drove away; I called, no one answered; I went into the
+bar and found a young lady with shingled hair reading a book by Mr.
+Compton Mackenzie. I asked her if I could have a room. She gave me a
+slightly offended look and said she thought so, but as that seemed to
+exhaust her interest in the matter I asked politely whether there was
+anyone who could show it to me. She got up and, opening a door, in a
+shrill voice called: “Katie.”
+
+“What is it?” I heard.
+
+“There’s a gent wants a room.”
+
+In a little while appeared an ancient and haggard female in a very dirty
+print dress, with an untidy mop of gray hair, and showed me, two flights
+up, a very small grubby room.
+
+“Can’t you do something better than that for me?” I asked.
+
+“It’s the room commercials generally ’ave,” she answered with a sniff.
+
+“Haven’t you got any others?”
+
+“Not single.”
+
+“Then give me a double room.”
+
+“I’ll go and ask Mrs. Brentford.”
+
+I accompanied her down to the first floor and she knocked at a door. She
+was told to come in, and when she opened it I caught sight of a stout
+woman with gray hair elaborately marcelled. She was reading a book.
+Apparently everyone at the Bear and Key was interested in literature.
+She gave me an indifferent look when Katie said I wasn’t satisfied with
+number seven.
+
+“Show him number five,” she said.
+
+I began to feel that I had been a trifle rash in declining so haughtily
+Mrs. Driffield’s invitation to stay with her and then putting aside in
+my sentimental way Roy’s wise suggestion that I should stay at the
+Marine Hotel. Katie took me upstairs again and ushered me into a largish
+room looking on the High Street. Most of its space was occupied by a
+double bed. The windows had certainly not been opened for a month.
+
+I said that would do and asked about dinner.
+
+“You can ’ave what you like,” said Katie. “We ’aven’t got nothing in,
+but I’ll run round and get it.”
+
+Knowing English inns, I ordered a fried sole and a grilled chop. Then I
+went for a stroll. I walked down to the beach and found that they had
+built an esplanade and there was a row of bungalows and villas where I
+remembered only windswept fields. But they were seedy and bedraggled and
+I guessed that even after all these years Lord George’s dream of turning
+Blackstable into a popular seaside resort had not come true. A retired
+military man, a pair of elderly ladies walked along the crumbling
+asphalt. It was incredibly dreary. A chill wind was blowing and a light
+drizzle swept over from the sea.
+
+I went back into town and here, in the space between the Bear and Key
+and the Duke of Kent, were little knots of men standing about
+notwithstanding the inclement weather; and their eyes had the same pale
+blue, their high cheek bones the same ruddy colour as that of their
+fathers before them. It was strange to see that some of the sailors in
+blue jerseys still wore little gold rings in their ears; and not only
+old ones but boys scarcely out of their teens. I sauntered down the
+street and there was the bank refronted, but the stationery shop where I
+had bought paper and wax to make rubbings with an obscure writer whom I
+had met by chance was unchanged; there were two or three cinemas and
+their garish posters suddenly gave the prim street a dissipated air so
+that it looked like a respectable elderly woman who had taken a drop too
+much.
+
+It was cold and cheerless in the commercial room where I ate my dinner
+alone at a large table laid for six. I was served by the slatternly
+Katie. I asked if I could have a fire.
+
+“Not in June,” she said. “We don’t ’ave fires after April.”
+
+“I’ll pay for it,” I protested.
+
+“Not in June. In October, yes, but not in June.”
+
+When I had finished I went into the bar to have a glass of port.
+
+“Very quiet,” I said to the shingled barmaid.
+
+“Yes, it is quiet,” she answered.
+
+“I should have thought on a Friday night you’d have quite a lot of
+people in here.”
+
+“Well, one would think that, wouldn’t one?”
+
+Then a stout red-faced man with a close-cropped head of gray hair came
+in from the back and I guessed that this was my host.
+
+“Are you Mr. Brentford?” I asked him.
+
+“Yes, that’s me.”
+
+“I knew your father. Will you have a glass of port?”
+
+I told him my name, in the days of his boyhood better known than any
+other at Blackstable, but somewhat to my mortification I saw that it
+aroused no echo in his memory. He consented, however, to let me stand
+him a glass of port.
+
+“Down here on business?” he asked me. “We get quite a few commercial
+gents at one time and another. We always like to do what we can for
+them.”
+
+I told him that I had come down to see Mrs. Driffield and left him to
+guess on what errand.
+
+“I used to see a lot of the old man,” said Mr. Brentford. “He used to be
+very partial to dropping in here and having his glass of bitter. Mind
+you, I don’t say he ever got tiddly, but he used to like to sit in the
+bar and talk. My word, he’d talk by the hour and he never cared who he
+talked to. Mrs. Driffield didn’t half like his coming here. He’d slip
+away, out of the house, without saying a word to anybody, and come
+toddling down. You know it’s a bit of a walk for a man of that age. Of
+course when they missed him Mrs. Driffield knew where he was, and she
+used to telephone and ask if he was here. Then she’d drive over in the
+car and go in and see my wife. ‘You go in and fetch him, Mrs.
+Brentford,’ she’d say; ‘I don’t like to go in the bar meself, not with
+all those men hanging about’; so Mrs. Brentford would come in and she’d
+say, ‘Now Mr. Driffield, Mrs. Driffield’s come for you in the car, so
+you’d better finish your beer and let her take you home.’ He used to ask
+Mrs. Brentford not to say he was here when Mrs. Driffield rang up, but
+of course we couldn’t do that. He was an old man and all that and we
+didn’t want to take the responsibility. He was born in this parish, you
+know, and his first wife, she was a Blackstable girl. She’s been dead
+these many years. I never knew her. He was a funny old fellow. No side,
+you know; they tell me they thought a rare lot of him in London and when
+he died the papers were full of him; but you’d never have known it to
+talk to him. He might have been just nobody like you and me. Of course
+we always tried to make him comfortable; we tried to get him to sit in
+one of them easy chairs, but no, he must sit up at the bar; he said he
+liked to feel his feet on a rail. My belief is he was happier here than
+anywhere. He always said he liked a bar parlour. He said you saw life
+there and he said he’d always loved life. Quite a character he was.
+Reminded me of my father, except that my old governor never read a book
+in his life and he drank a bottle of French brandy a day and he was
+seventy-eight when he died and his last illness was his first. I quite
+missed old Driffield when he popped off. I was only saying to Mrs.
+Brentford the other day, I’d like to read one of his books some time.
+They tell me he wrote several about these parts.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  XXIV
+
+
+NEXT MORNING it was cold and raw, but it was not raining, and I walked
+down the High Street toward the vicarage. I recognized the names over
+the shops, the Kentish names that have been borne for centuries—the
+Ganns, the Kemps, the Cobbs, the Igguldens—but I saw no one that I
+knew. I felt like a ghost walking down that street where I had once
+known nearly everyone, if not to speak to, at least by sight. Suddenly a
+very shabby little car passed me, stopped, and backed, and I saw someone
+looking at me curiously. A tall, heavy elderly man got out and came
+toward me.
+
+“Aren’t you Willie Ashenden?” he asked.
+
+Then I recognized him. He was the doctor’s son, and I had been at school
+with him; we had passed from form to form together, and I knew that he
+had succeeded his father in his practice.
+
+“Hullo, how are you?” he asked. “I’ve just been along to the vicarage to
+see my grandson. It’s a preparatory school now, you know, and I put him
+there at the beginning of this term.”
+
+He was shabbily dressed and unkempt, but he had a fine head and I saw
+that in youth he must have had unusual beauty. It was funny that I had
+never noticed it.
+
+“Are you a grandfather?” I asked.
+
+“Three times over,” he laughed.
+
+It gave me a shock. He had drawn breath, walked the earth and presently
+grown to man’s estate, married, had children and they in turn had had
+children; I judged from the look of him that he had lived, with
+incessant toil, in penury. He had the peculiar manner of the country
+doctor, bluff, hearty, and unctuous. His life was over. I had plans in
+my head for books and plays, I was full of schemes for the future; I
+felt that a long stretch of activity and fun still lay before me; and
+yet, I supposed, to others I must seem the elderly man that he seemed to
+me. I was so shaken that I had not the presence of mind to ask about his
+brothers whom as a child I had played with, or about the old friends who
+had been my companions; after a few foolish remarks I left him. I walked
+on to the vicarage, a roomy, rambling house too far out of the way for
+the modern incumbent who took his duties more seriously than did my
+uncle and too large for the present cost of living. It stood in a big
+garden and was surrounded by green fields. There was a great square
+notice board that announced that it was a preparatory school for the
+sons of gentlemen and gave the name and the degrees of the head master.
+I looked over the paling; the garden was squalid and untidy and the pond
+in which I used to fish for roach was choked up. The glebe fields had
+been cut up into building lots. There were rows of little brick houses
+with bumpy ill-made roads. I walked along Joy Lane and there were houses
+here too, bungalows facing the sea; and the old turnpike house was a
+trim tea shop.
+
+I wandered about here and there. There seemed innumerable streets of
+little houses of yellow brick, but I do not know who lived in them for I
+saw no one about. I went down to the harbour. It was deserted. There was
+but one tramp lying a little way out from the pier. Two or three
+sailormen were sitting outside a warehouse and they stared at me as I
+passed. The bottom had fallen out of the coal trade and colliers came to
+Blackstable no longer.
+
+Then it was time for me to go to Ferne Court and I went back to the Bear
+and Key. The landlord had told me that he had a Daimler for hire and I
+had arranged that it should take me to my luncheon. It stood at the door
+when I came up, a brougham, but the oldest, most dilapidated car of its
+make that I had ever seen; it panted along with squeaks and thumps and
+rattlings, with sudden angry jerks, so that I wondered if I should ever
+reach my destination. But the extraordinary, the amazing thing about it
+was that it smelled exactly like the old landau which my uncle used to
+hire every Sunday morning to go to church in. This was a rank odour of
+stables and of stale straw that lay at the bottom of the carriage; and I
+wondered in vain why, after all these years, the motor car should have
+it too. But nothing can bring back the past like a perfume or a stench,
+and, oblivious to the country I was trundling through, I saw myself once
+more a little boy on the front seat with the communion plate beside me
+and, facing me, my aunt, smelling slightly of clean linen and eau de
+cologne, in her black silk cloak and her little bonnet with a feather,
+and my uncle in his cassock, a broad band of ribbed silk round his ample
+waist and a gold cross hanging over his stomach from the gold chain
+round his neck.
+
+“Now, Willie, mind you behave nicely to-day. You’re not to turn round,
+and sit up properly in your seat. The Lord’s House isn’t the place to
+loll in and you must remember that you should set an example to other
+little boys who haven’t had your advantages.”
+
+When I arrived at Ferne Court Mrs. Driffield and Roy were walking round
+the garden and they came up to me as I got out of the car.
+
+“I was showing Roy my flowers,” said Mrs. Driffield, as she shook hands
+with me. And then with a sigh: “They’re all I have now.”
+
+She looked no older than when last I saw her six years before. She wore
+her weeds with quiet distinction. At her neck was a collar of white
+crêpe and at her wrists cuffs of the same. Roy, I noticed, wore with his
+neat blue suit a black tie; I supposed it was a sign of respect for the
+illustrious dead.
+
+“I’ll just show you my herbaceous borders,” said Mrs. Driffield, “and
+then we’ll go in to lunch.”
+
+We walked round and Roy was very knowledgeable. He knew what all the
+flowers were called, and the Latin names tripped off his tongue like
+cigarettes out of a cigarette-making machine. He told Mrs. Driffield
+where she ought to get certain varieties that she absolutely must have
+and how perfectly lovely were certain others.
+
+“Shall we go in through Edward’s study?” suggested Mrs. Driffield. “I
+keep it exactly as it was when he was here. I haven’t changed a thing.
+You’d be surprised how many people come over to see the house, and of
+course above all they want to see the room he worked in.”
+
+We went in through an open window. There was a bowl of roses on the desk
+and on a little round table by the side of the armchair a copy of the
+_Spectator_. In the ash trays were the master’s pipes and there was ink
+in the inkstand. The scene was perfectly set. I do not know why the room
+seemed so strangely dead; it had already the mustiness of a museum. Mrs.
+Driffield went to the bookshelves and with a little smile, half playful,
+half sad, passed a rapid hand across the back of half a dozen volumes
+bound in blue.
+
+“You know that Edward admired your work so much,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+“He reread your books quite often.”
+
+“I’m very glad to think that,” I said politely.
+
+I knew very well that they had not been there on my last visit and in a
+casual way I took one of them out and ran my fingers along the top to
+see whether there was dust on it. There was not. Then I took another
+book down, one of Charlotte Brontë’s, and making a little plausible
+conversation tried the same experiment. No, there was no dust there
+either. All I learned was that Mrs. Driffield was an excellent
+housekeeper and had a conscientious maid.
+
+We went in to luncheon, a hearty British meal of roast beef and
+Yorkshire pudding, and we talked of the work on which Roy was engaged.
+
+“I want to spare dear Roy all the labour I can,” said Mrs. Driffield,
+“and I’ve been gathering together as much of the material as I could
+myself. Of course it’s been rather painful, but it’s been very
+interesting, too. I came across a lot of old photographs that I must
+show you.”
+
+After luncheon we went into the drawing room and I noticed again with
+what perfect tact Mrs. Driffield had arranged it. It suited the widow of
+a distinguished man of letters almost more than it had suited the wife.
+Those chintzes, those bowls of pot-pourri, those Dresden china
+figures—there was about them a faint air of regret; they seemed to
+reflect pensively upon a past of distinction. I could have wished on
+this chilly day that there were a fire in the grate, but the English are
+a hardy as well as a conservative race; and it is not difficult for them
+to maintain their principles at the cost of the discomfort of others. I
+doubted whether Mrs. Driffield would have conceived the possibility of
+lighting a fire before the first of October. She asked me whether I had
+lately seen the lady who had brought me to lunch with the Driffields,
+and I surmised from her faint acerbity that since the death of her
+eminent husband the great and fashionable had shown a distinct tendency
+to take no further notice of her. We were just settling down to talk
+about the defunct; Roy and Mrs. Driffield were putting artful questions
+to incite me to disclose my recollections and I was gathering my wits
+about me so that I should not in an unguarded moment let slip anything
+that I had made up my mind to keep to myself; when suddenly the trim
+parlour-maid brought in two cards on a small salver.
+
+“Two gentlemen in a car, mum, and they say, could they look at the house
+and garden?”
+
+“What a bore!” cried Mrs. Driffield, but with astonishing alacrity.
+“Isn’t it funny I should have been speaking just now about the people
+who want to see the house? I never have a moment’s peace.”
+
+“Well, why don’t you say you’re sorry you can’t see them?” said Roy,
+with what I thought a certain cattiness.
+
+“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Edward wouldn’t have liked me to.” She looked
+at the cards. “I haven’t got my glasses on me.”
+
+She handed them to me, and on one I read “Henry Beard MacDougal,
+University of Virginia”; and in pencil was written: “Assistant professor
+in English Literature.” The other was “Jean-Paul Underhill” and there
+was at the bottom an address in New York.
+
+“Americans,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Say I shall be very pleased if
+they’ll come in.”
+
+Presently the maid ushered the strangers in. They were both tall young
+men and broad-shouldered, with heavy, clean-shaven, swarthy faces, and
+handsome eyes; they both wore horn-rimmed spectacles and they both had
+thick black hair combed straight back from their foreheads. They both
+wore English suits that were evidently brand new; they were both
+slightly embarrassed, but verbose and extremely civil. They explained
+that they were making a literary tour of England and, being admirers of
+Edward Driffield, had taken the liberty of stopping off on their way to
+Rye to visit Henry James’s house in the hope that they would be
+permitted to see a spot sanctified by so many associations. The
+reference to Rye did not go down very well with Mrs. Driffield.
+
+“I believe they have some very good links there,” she said.
+
+She introduced the Americans to Roy and me. I was filled with admiration
+for the way in which Roy rose to the occasion. It appeared that he had
+lectured before the University of Virginia and had stayed with a
+distinguished member of the faculty. It had been an unforgettable
+experience. He did not know whether he had been more impressed by the
+lavish hospitality with which those charming Virginians had entertained
+him or by their intelligent interest in art and literature. He asked how
+So and So was, and So and So; he had made lifelong friends there, and it
+looked as though everyone he had met was good and kind and clever. Soon
+the young professor was telling Roy how much he liked his books, and Roy
+was modestly telling him what in this one and the other his aim had been
+and how conscious he was that he had come far short of achieving it.
+Mrs. Driffield listened with smiling sympathy, but I had a feeling that
+her smile was growing a trifle strained. It may be that Roy had too, for
+he suddenly broke off.
+
+“But you don’t want me to bore you with my stuff,” he said in his loud
+hearty way. “I’m only here because Mrs. Driffield has entrusted to me
+the great honour of writing Edward Driffield’s Life.”
+
+This of course interested the visitors very much.
+
+“It’s some job, believe me,” said Roy, playfully American. “Fortunately
+I have the assistance of Mrs. Driffield, who was not only a perfect
+wife, but an admirable amanuensis and secretary; the materials she has
+placed at my disposal are so amazingly full that really little remains
+for me to do but take advantage of her industry and her—her
+affectionate zeal.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield looked down demurely at the carpet and the two young
+Americans turned on her their large dark eyes in which you could read
+their sympathy, their interest, and their respect. After a little more
+conversation—partly literary but also about golf, for the visitors
+admitted that they hoped to get a round or two at Rye, and here again
+Roy was on the spot, for he told them to look out for such and such a
+bunker and when they came to London hoped they would play with him at
+Sunningdale; after this, I say, Mrs. Driffield got up and offered to
+show them Edward’s study and bedroom, and of course the garden. Roy rose
+to his feet, evidently bent on accompanying them, but Mrs. Driffield
+gave him a little smile; it was pleasant but firm.
+
+“Don’t you bother to come, Roy,” she said. “I’ll take them round. You
+stay here and talk to Mr. Ashenden.”
+
+“Oh, all right. Of course.”
+
+The strangers bade us farewell and Roy and I settled down again in the
+chintz armchairs.
+
+“Jolly room this is,” said Roy.
+
+“Very.”
+
+“Amy had to work hard to get it. You know the old man bought this house
+two or three years before they were married. She tried to make him sell
+it, but he wouldn’t. He was very obstinate in some ways. You see, it
+belonged to a certain Miss Wolfe, whose bailiff his father was, and he
+said that when he was a little boy his one idea was to own it himself
+and now he’d got it he was going to keep it. One would have thought the
+last thing he’d want to do was to live in a place where everyone knew
+all about his origins and everything. Once poor Amy very nearly engaged
+a housemaid before she discovered she was Edward’s great-niece. When Amy
+came here the house was furnished from attic to cellar in the best
+Tottenham Court Road manner; you know the sort of thing, Turkey carpets
+and mahogany sideboards, and a plush-covered suite in the drawing room,
+and modern marquetry. It was his idea of how a gentleman’s house should
+be furnished. Amy says it was simply awful. He wouldn’t let her change a
+thing and she had to go to work with the greatest care; she says she
+simply couldn’t have lived in it and she was determined to have things
+right, so she had to change things one by one so that he didn’t pay any
+attention. She told me the hardest job she had was with his writing
+desk. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed the one there is in his study
+now. It’s a very good period piece; I wouldn’t mind having it myself.
+Well, he had a horrible American roll-top desk. He’d had it for years
+and he’d written a dozen books on it and he simply wouldn’t part with
+it, he had no feeling for things like that; he just happened to be
+attached to it because he’d had it so long. You must get Amy to tell you
+the story how she managed to get rid of it in the end. It’s really
+priceless. She’s a remarkable woman, you know; she generally gets her
+own way.”
+
+“I’ve noticed it,” I said.
+
+It had not taken her long to dispose of Roy when he showed signs of
+wishing to go over the house with the visitors. He gave me a quick look
+and laughed. Roy was not stupid.
+
+“You don’t know America as well as I do,” he said. “They always prefer a
+live mouse to a dead lion. That’s one of the reasons why I like
+America.”
+
+
+
+
+                                  XXV
+
+
+WHEN MRS. DRIFFIELD, having sent the pilgrims on their way, came back
+she bore under her arm a portfolio.
+
+“What very nice young men!” she said. “I wish young men in England took
+such a keen interest in literature. I gave them that photo of Edward
+when he was dead and they asked me for one of mine, and I signed it for
+them.” Then very graciously: “You made a great impression on them, Roy.
+They said it was a real privilege to meet you.”
+
+“I’ve lectured in America so much,” said Roy, with modesty.
+
+“Oh, but they’ve read your books. They say that what they like about
+them is that they’re so virile.”
+
+The portfolio contained a number of old photographs, groups of
+schoolboys among whom I recognized an urchin with untidy hair as
+Driffield only because his widow pointed him out, Rugby fifteens with
+Driffield a little older, and then one of a young sailor in a jersey and
+a reefer jacket, Driffield when he ran away to sea.
+
+“Here’s one taken when he was first married,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+
+He wore a beard and black-and-white check trousers; in his buttonhole
+was a large white rose backed by maidenhair and on the table beside him
+a chimney-pot hat.
+
+“And here is the bride,” said Mrs. Driffield, trying not to smile.
+
+Poor Rosie, seen by a country photographer over forty years ago, was
+grotesque. She was standing very stiffly against a background of
+baronial hall, holding a large bouquet; her dress was elaborately
+draped, pinched at the waist, and she wore a bustle. Her fringe came
+down to her eyes. On her head was a wreath of orange blossoms, perched
+high on a mass of hair, and from it was thrown back a long veil. Only I
+knew how lovely she must have looked.
+
+“She looks fearfully common,” said Roy.
+
+“She was,” murmured Mrs. Driffield.
+
+We looked at more photographs of Edward, photographs that had been taken
+of him when he began to be known, photographs when he wore only a
+moustache and others, all the later ones, when he was clean-shaven. You
+saw his face grown thinner and more lined. The stubborn commonplace of
+the early portraits melted gradually into a weary refinement. You saw
+the change in him wrought by experience, thought, and achieved ambition.
+I looked again at the photograph of the young sailorman and fancied that
+I saw in it already a trace of that aloofness that seemed to me so
+marked in the older ones and that I had had years before the vague
+sensation of in the man himself. The face you saw was a mask and the
+actions he performed without significance. I had an impression that the
+real man, to his death unknown and lonely, was a wraith that went a
+silent way unseen between the writer of his books and the fellow who led
+his life, and smiled with ironical detachment at the two puppets that
+the world took for Edward Driffield. I am conscious that in what I have
+written of him I have not presented a living man, standing on his feet,
+rounded, with comprehensible motives and logical activities; I have not
+tried to: I am glad to leave that to the abler pen of Alroy Kear.
+
+I came across the photographs that Harry Retford, the actor, had taken
+of Rosie, and then a photograph of the picture that Lionel Hillier had
+painted of her. It gave me a pang. That was how I best remembered her.
+Notwithstanding the old-fashioned gown, she was alive there and
+tremulous with the passion that filled her. She seemed to offer herself
+to the assault of love.
+
+“She gives you the impression of a hefty wench,” said Roy.
+
+“If you like the milkmaid type,” answered Mrs. Driffield. “I’ve always
+thought she looked rather like a white nigger.”
+
+That was what Mrs. Barton Trafford had been fond of calling her, and
+with Rosie’s thick lips and broad nose there was indeed a hateful truth
+in the criticism. But they did not know how silvery golden her hair was,
+nor how golden silver her skin; they did not know her enchanting smile.
+
+“She wasn’t a bit like a white nigger,” I said. “She was virginal like
+the dawn. She was like Hebe. She was like a white rose.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield smiled and exchanged a meaning glance with Roy.
+
+“Mrs. Barton Trafford told me a great deal about her. I don’t wish to
+seem spiteful, but I’m afraid I don’t think that she can have been a
+very nice woman.”
+
+“That’s where you make a mistake,” I replied. “She was a very nice
+woman. I never saw her in a bad temper. You only had to say you wanted
+something for her to give it to you. I never heard her say a
+disagreeable thing about anyone. She had a heart of gold.”
+
+“She was a terrible slattern. Her house was always in a mess; you didn’t
+like to sit down in a chair because it was so dusty and you dared not
+look in the corners. And it was the same with her person. She could
+never put a skirt on straight and you’d see about two inches of
+petticoat hanging down on one side.”
+
+“She didn’t bother about things like that. They didn’t make her any the
+less beautiful. And she was as good as she was beautiful.”
+
+Roy burst out laughing and Mrs. Driffield put her hand up to her mouth
+to hide her smile.
+
+“Oh, come, Mr. Ashenden, that’s really going too far. After all, let’s
+face it, she was a nymphomaniac.”
+
+“I think that’s a very silly word,” I said.
+
+“Well, then, let me say that she can hardly have been a very good woman
+to treat poor Edward as she did. Of course it was a blessing in
+disguise. If she hadn’t run away from him he might have had to bear that
+burden for the rest of his life, and with such a handicap he could never
+have reached the position he did. But the fact remains that she was
+notoriously unfaithful to him. From what I hear she was absolutely
+promiscuous.”
+
+“You don’t understand,” I said. “She was a very simple woman. Her
+instincts were healthy and ingenuous. She loved to make people happy.
+She loved love.”
+
+“Do you call that love?”
+
+“Well, then, the act of love. She was naturally affectionate. When she
+liked anyone it was quite natural for her to go to bed with him. She
+never thought twice about it. It was not vice; it wasn’t lasciviousness;
+it was her nature. She gave herself as naturally as the sun gives heat
+or the flowers their perfume. It was a pleasure to her and she liked to
+give pleasure to others. It had no effect on her character; she remained
+sincere, unspoiled, and artless.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield looked as though she had taken a dose of castor oil and
+had just been trying to get the taste of it out of her mouth by sucking
+a lemon.
+
+“I don’t understand,” she said. “But then I’m bound to admit that I
+never understood what Edward saw in her.”
+
+“Did he know that she was carrying on with all sorts of people?” asked
+Roy.
+
+“I’m sure he didn’t,” she replied quickly.
+
+“You think him a bigger fool than I do, Mrs. Driffield,” I said.
+
+“Then why did he put up with it?”
+
+“I think I can tell you. You see, she wasn’t a woman who ever inspired
+love. Only affection. It was absurd to be jealous over her. She was like
+a clear deep pool in a forest glade into which it’s heavenly to plunge,
+but it is neither less cool nor less crystalline because a tramp and a
+gipsy and a gamekeeper have plunged into it before you.”
+
+Roy laughed again and this time Mrs. Driffield without concealment
+smiled thinly.
+
+“It’s comic to hear you so lyrical,” said Roy.
+
+I stifled a sigh. I have noticed that when I am most serious people are
+apt to laugh at me, and indeed when after a lapse of time I have read
+passages that I wrote from the fullness of my heart I have been tempted
+to laugh at myself. It must be that there is something naturally absurd
+in a sincere emotion, though why there should be I cannot imagine,
+unless it is that man, the ephemeral inhabitant of an insignificant
+planet, with all his pain and all his striving is but a jest in an
+eternal mind.
+
+I saw that Mrs. Driffield wished to ask me something. It caused her a
+certain embarrassment.
+
+“Do you think he’d have taken her back if she’d been willing to come?”
+
+“You knew him better than I. I should say no. I think that when he had
+exhausted an emotion he took no further interest in the person who had
+aroused it. I should say that he had a peculiar combination of strong
+feeling and extreme callousness.”
+
+“I don’t know how you can say that,” cried Roy. “He was the kindest man
+I ever met.”
+
+Mrs. Driffield looked at me steadily and then dropped her eyes.
+
+“I wonder what happened to her when she went to America,” he asked.
+
+“I believe she married Kemp,” said Mrs. Driffield. “I heard they had
+taken another name. Of course they couldn’t show their faces over here
+again.”
+
+“When did she die?”
+
+“Oh, about ten years ago.”
+
+“How did you hear?” I asked.
+
+“From Harold Kemp, the son; he’s in some sort of business at Maidstone.
+I never told Edward. She’d been dead to him for many years and I saw no
+reason to remind him of the past. It always helps you if you put
+yourself in other people’s shoes and I said to myself that if I were he
+I shouldn’t want to be reminded of an unfortunate episode of my youth.
+Don’t you think I was right?”
+
+
+
+
+                                  XXVI
+
+
+MRS. DRIFFIELD very kindly offered to send me back to Blackstable in her
+car, but I preferred to walk. I promised to dine at Ferne Court next day
+and meanwhile to write down what I could remember of the two periods
+during which I had been in the habit of seeing Edward Driffield. As I
+walked along the winding road, meeting no one by the way, I mused upon
+what I should say. Do they not tell us that style is the art of
+omission? If that is so I should certainly write a very pretty piece,
+and it seemed almost a pity that Roy should use it only as material. I
+chuckled when I reflected what a bombshell I could throw if I chose.
+There was one person who could tell them all they wanted to know about
+Edward Driffield and his first marriage; but this fact I proposed to
+keep to myself. They thought Rosie was dead; they erred; Rosie was very
+much alive.
+
+Being in New York for the production of a play and my arrival having
+been advertised to all and sundry by my manager’s energetic press
+representative, I received one day a letter addressed in a handwriting I
+knew but could not place. It was large and round, firm but uneducated.
+It was so familiar to me that I was exasperated not to remember whose it
+was. It would have been more sensible to open the letter at once, but
+instead I looked at the envelope and racked my brain. There are
+handwritings I cannot see without a little shiver of dismay and some
+letters that look so tiresome that I cannot bring myself to open them
+for a week. When at last I tore open the envelope what I read gave me a
+strange feeling. It began abruptly:
+
+    _I have just seen that you are in New York and would like to see
+    you again. I am not living in New York any more, but Yonkers is
+    quite close and if you have a car you can easily do it in half
+    an hour. I expect you are very busy so leave it to you to make a
+    date. Although it is many years since we last met I hope you
+    have not forgotten your old friend_
+
+                               ROSE IGGULDEN (_formerly Driffield_)
+
+I looked at the address; it was the Albemarle, evidently a hotel or an
+apartment house, then there was the name of a street, and Yonkers. A
+shiver passed through me as though someone had walked over my grave.
+During the years that had passed I had sometimes thought of Rosie, but
+of late I had said to myself that she must surely be dead. I was puzzled
+for a moment by the name. Why Iggulden and not Kemp? Then it occurred to
+me that they had taken this name, a Kentish one too, when they fled from
+England. My first impulse was to make an excuse not to see her; I am
+always shy of seeing again people I have not seen for a long time; but
+then I was seized with curiosity. I wanted to see what she was like and
+to hear what had happened to her. I was going down to Dobbs Ferry for
+the week-end, to reach which I had to pass through Yonkers, and so
+answered that I would come at about four on the following Saturday.
+
+The Albemarle was a huge block of apartments, comparatively new, and it
+looked as though it were inhabited by persons in easy circumstances. My
+name was telephoned up by a Negro porter in uniform and I was taken up
+in the elevator by another. I felt uncommonly nervous. The door was
+opened for me by a coloured maid.
+
+“Come right in,” she said. “Mrs. Iggulden’s expecting you.”
+
+I was ushered into a living room that served also as dining room, for at
+one end of it was a square table of heavily carved oak, a dresser, and
+four chairs of the kind that the manufacturers in Grand Rapids would
+certainly describe as Jacobean. But the other end was furnished with a
+Louis XV suite, gilt and upholstered in pale blue damask; there were a
+great many small tables, richly carved and gilt, on which stood Sèvres
+vases with ormolu decorations and nude bronze ladies with draperies
+flowing as though in a howling gale that artfully concealed those parts
+of their bodies that decency required; and each one held at the end of a
+playfully outstretched arm an electric lamp. The gramophone was the
+grandest thing I had ever seen out of a shop window, all gilt and shaped
+like a sedan chair and painted with Watteau courtiers and their ladies.
+
+After I had waited for about five minutes a door was opened and Rosie
+came briskly in. She gave me both her hands.
+
+“Well, this is a surprise,” she said. “I hate to think how many years it
+is since we met. Excuse me one moment.” She went to the door and called:
+“Jessie, you can bring the tea in. Mind the water’s boiling properly.”
+Then, coming back: “The trouble I’ve had to teach that girl to make tea
+properly, you’d never believe.”
+
+Rosie was at least seventy. She was wearing a very smart sleeveless
+frock of green chiffon, heavily _diamanté_, cut square at the neck and
+very short; it fitted like a bursting glove. By her shape I gathered
+that she wore rubber corsets. Her nails were blood-coloured and her
+eyebrows plucked. She was stout, and she had a double chin; the skin of
+her bosom, although she had powdered it freely, was red, and her face
+was red too. But she looked well and healthy and full of beans. Her hair
+was still abundant, but it was quite white, shingled and permanently
+waved. As a young woman she had had soft, naturally waving hair and
+these stiff undulations, as though she had just come out of a
+hairdresser’s, seemed more than anything else to change her. The only
+thing that remained was her smile, which had still its old childlike and
+mischievous sweetness. Her teeth had never been very good, irregular and
+of bad shape; but these now were replaced by a set of perfect evenness
+and snowy brilliance; they were obviously the best money could buy.
+
+The coloured maid brought in an elaborate tea with _pâté_ sandwiches and
+cookies and candy and little knives and forks and tiny napkins. It was
+all very neat and smart.
+
+“That’s one thing I’ve never been able to do without—my tea,” said
+Rosie, helping herself to a hot buttered scone. “It’s my best meal,
+really, though I know I shouldn’t eat it. My doctor keeps on saying to
+me: ‘Mrs. Iggulden, you can’t expect to get your weight down if you will
+eat half a dozen cookies at tea.’” She gave me a smile, and I had a
+sudden inkling that, notwithstanding the marcelled hair and the powder
+and the fat, Rosie was the same as ever. “But what I say is: A little of
+what you fancy does you good.”
+
+I had always found her easy to talk to. Soon we were chatting away as
+though it were only a few weeks since we had last seen one another.
+
+“Were you surprised to get my letter? I put Driffield so as you should
+know who it was from. We took the name of Iggulden when we came to
+America. George had a little unpleasantness when he left Blackstable,
+perhaps you heard about it, and he thought in a new country he’d better
+start with a new name, if you understand what I mean.”
+
+I nodded vaguely.
+
+“Poor George, he died ten years ago, you know.”
+
+“I’m sorry to hear that.”
+
+“Oh, well, he was getting on in years. He was past seventy though you’d
+never have guessed it to look at him. It was a great blow to me. No
+woman could want a better husband than what he made me. Never a cross
+word from the day we married till the day he died. And I’m pleased to
+say he left me very well provided for.”
+
+“I’m glad to know that.”
+
+“Yes, he did very well over here. He went into the building trade, he
+always had a fancy for it, and he got in with Tammany. He always said
+the greatest mistake he ever made was not coming over here twenty years
+before. He liked the country from the first day he set foot in it. He
+had plenty of go and that’s what you want here. He was just the sort to
+get on.”
+
+“Have you never been back to England?”
+
+“No, I’ve never wanted to. George used to talk about it sometimes, just
+for a trip, you know, but we never got down to it, and now he’s gone I
+haven’t got the inclination. I expect London would seem very dead and
+alive to me after New York. We used to live in New York, you know. I
+only came here after his death.”
+
+“What made you choose Yonkers?”
+
+“Well, I always fancied it. I used to say to George, when we retire
+we’ll go and live at Yonkers. It’s like a little bit of England to me;
+you know, Maidstone or Guildford or some place like that.”
+
+I smiled, but I understood what she meant. Notwithstanding its trams and
+its tootling cars, its cinemas and electric signs, Yonkers, with its
+winding main street, has a faint air of an English market town gone
+jazz.
+
+“Of course I sometimes wonder what’s happened to all the folks at
+Blackstable. I suppose they’re most of them dead by now and I expect
+they think I am too.”
+
+“I haven’t been there for thirty years.”
+
+I did not know then that the rumour of Rosie’s death had reached
+Blackstable. I dare say that someone had brought back the news that
+George Kemp was dead and thus a mistake had arisen.
+
+“I suppose nobody knows here that you were Edward Driffield’s first
+wife?”
+
+“Oh, no; why, if they had I should have had the reporters buzzing around
+my apartment like a swarm of bees. You know sometimes I’ve hardly been
+able to help laughing when I’ve been out somewhere playing bridge and
+they’ve started talking about Ted’s books. They like him no end in
+America. I never thought so much of them myself.”
+
+“You never were a great novel reader, were you?”
+
+“I used to like history better, but I don’t seem to have much time for
+reading now. Sunday’s my great day. I think the Sunday papers over here
+are lovely. You don’t have anything like them in England. Then of course
+I play a lot of bridge; I’m crazy about contract.”
+
+I remembered that when as a young boy I had first met Rosie her uncanny
+skill at whist had impressed me. I felt that I knew the sort of bridge
+player she was, quick, bold, and accurate: a good partner and a
+dangerous opponent.
+
+“You’d have been surprised at the fuss they made over here when Ted
+died. I knew they thought a lot of him, but I never knew he was such a
+big bug as all that. The papers were full of him, and they had pictures
+of him and Ferne Court; he always said he meant to live in that house
+some day. Whatever made him marry that hospital nurse? I always thought
+he’d marry Mrs. Barton Trafford. They never had any children, did they?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Ted would have liked to have some. It was a great blow to him that I
+couldn’t have any more after the first.”
+
+“I didn’t know you’d ever had a child,” I said with surprise.
+
+“Oh, yes. That’s why Ted married me. But I had a very bad time when it
+came and the doctors said I couldn’t have another. If she’d lived, poor
+little thing, I don’t suppose I’d ever have run away with George. She
+was six when she died. A dear little thing she was and as pretty as a
+picture.”
+
+“You never mentioned her.”
+
+“No, I couldn’t bear to speak about her. She got meningitis and we took
+her to the hospital. They put her in a private room and they let us stay
+with her. I shall never forget what she went through, screaming,
+screaming all the time, and nobody able to do anything.”
+
+Rosie’s voice broke.
+
+“Was it that death Driffield described in _The Cup of Life_?”
+
+“Yes, that’s it. I always thought it so funny of Ted. He couldn’t bear
+to speak of it, any more than I could, but he wrote it all down; he
+didn’t leave out a thing; even little things I hadn’t noticed at the
+time he put in and then I remembered them. You’d think he was just
+heartless, but he wasn’t, he was upset just as much as I was. When we
+used to go home at night he’d cry like a child. Funny chap, wasn’t he?”
+
+It was _The Cup of Life_ that had raised such a storm of protest; and it
+was the child’s death and the episode that followed it that had
+especially brought down on Driffield’s head such virulent abuse. I
+remembered the description very well. It was harrowing. There was
+nothing sentimental in it; it did not excite the reader’s tears, but his
+anger rather that such cruel suffering should be inflicted on a little
+child. You felt that God at the Judgment Day would have to account for
+such things as this. It was a very powerful piece of writing. But if
+this incident was taken from life was the one that followed it also? It
+was this that had shocked the public of the ’nineties and this that the
+critics had condemned as not only indecent but incredible. In _The Cup
+of Life_ the husband and wife (I forget their names now) had come back
+from the hospital after the child’s death—they were poor people and
+they lived from hand to mouth in lodgings—and had their tea. It was
+latish: about seven o’clock. They were exhausted by the strain of a
+week’s ceaseless anxiety and shattered by their grief. They had nothing
+to say to one another. They sat in a miserable silence. The hours
+passed. Then on a sudden the wife got up and going into their bedroom
+put on her hat.
+
+“I’m going out,” she said.
+
+“All right.”
+
+They lived near Victoria Station. She walked along the Buckingham Palace
+Road and through the park. She came into Piccadilly and went slowly
+toward the Circus. A man caught her eye, paused and turned round.
+
+“Good-evening,” he said.
+
+“Good-evening.”
+
+She stopped and smiled.
+
+“Will you come and have a drink?” he asked.
+
+“I don’t mind if I do.”
+
+They went into a tavern in one of the side streets of Piccadilly, where
+harlots congregated and men came to pick them up, and they drank a glass
+of beer. She chatted with the stranger and laughed with him. She told
+him a cock-and-bull story about herself. Presently he asked if he could
+go home with her; no, she said, he couldn’t do that, but they could go
+to a hotel. They got into a cab and drove to Bloomsbury and there they
+took a room for the night. And next morning she took a bus to Trafalgar
+Square and walked through the park; when she got home her husband was
+just sitting down to breakfast. After breakfast they went back to the
+hospital to see about the child’s funeral.
+
+“Will you tell me something, Rosie?” I asked. “What happened in the book
+after the child’s death—did that happen too?”
+
+She looked at me for a moment doubtfully; then her lips broke into her
+still beautiful smile.
+
+“Well, it’s all so many years ago, what odds does it make? I don’t mind
+telling you. He didn’t get it quite right. You see, it was only
+guesswork on his part. I was surprised that he knew as much as he did; I
+never told him anything.”
+
+Rosie took a cigarette and pensively tapped its end on the table, but
+she did not light it.
+
+“We came back from the hospital just like he said. We walked back; I
+felt I couldn’t sit still in a cab, and I felt all dead inside me. I’d
+cried so much I couldn’t cry any more, and I was tired. Ted tried to
+comfort me, but I said: ‘For God’s sake shut up.’ After that he didn’t
+say any more. We had rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road then, on the
+second floor, just a sitting room and a bedroom, that’s why we’d had to
+take the poor little thing to the hospital; we couldn’t nurse her in
+lodgings; besides, the landlady said she wouldn’t have it, and Ted said
+she’d be looked after better at the hospital. She wasn’t a bad sort, the
+landlady; she’d been a tart and Ted used to talk to her by the hour
+together. She came up when she heard us come in.
+
+“‘How’s the little girl to-night?’ she said.
+
+“‘She’s dead,’ said Ted.
+
+“I couldn’t say anything. Then she brought up the tea. I didn’t want
+anything, but Ted made me eat some ham. Then I sat at the window. I
+didn’t look round when the landlady came up to clear away, I didn’t want
+anyone to speak to me. Ted was reading a book; at least he was
+pretending to, but he didn’t turn the pages, and I saw the tears
+dropping on it. I kept on looking out of the window. It was the end of
+June, the twenty-eighth, and the days were long. It was just near the
+corner where we lived and I looked at the people going in and out of the
+public house and the trams going up and down. I thought the day would
+never come to an end; then all of a sudden I noticed that it was night.
+All the lamps were lit. There were an awful lot of people in the street.
+I felt so tired. My legs were like lead.
+
+“‘Why don’t you light the gas?’ I said to Ted.
+
+“‘Do you want it?’ he said.
+
+“‘It’s no good sitting in the dark,’ I said.
+
+“He lit the gas. He began smoking his pipe. I knew that would do him
+good. But I just sat and looked at the street. I don’t know what came
+over me. I felt that if I went on sitting in that room I’d go mad. I
+wanted to go somewhere where there were lights and people. I wanted to
+get away from Ted; no, not so much that, I wanted to get away from all
+that Ted was thinking and feeling. We only had two rooms. I went into
+the bedroom; the child’s cot was still there, but I wouldn’t look at it.
+I put on my hat and a veil and I changed my dress and then I went back
+to Ted.
+
+“‘I’m going out,’ I said.
+
+“Ted looked at me. I dare say he noticed I’d got my new dress on and
+perhaps something in the way I spoke made him see I didn’t want him.
+
+“‘All right,’ he said.
+
+“In the book he made me walk through the park, but I didn’t do that
+really. I went down to Victoria and I took a hansom to Charing Cross. It
+was only a shilling fare. Then I walked up the Strand. I’d made up my
+mind what I wanted to do before I came out. Do you remember Harry
+Retford? Well, he was acting at the Adelphi then, he had the second
+comedy part. Well, I went to the stage door, and sent up my name. I
+always liked Harry Retford. I expect he was a bit unscrupulous and he
+was rather funny over money matters, but he could make you laugh and
+with all his faults he was a rare good sort. You know he was killed in
+the Boer War, don’t you?”
+
+“I didn’t. I only knew he’d disappeared and one never saw his name on
+playbills; I thought perhaps he’d gone into business or something.”
+
+“No, he went out at once. He was killed at Ladysmith. After I’d been
+waiting a bit he came down and I said: ‘Harry, let’s go on the razzle
+to-night. What about a bit of supper at Romano’s?’ ‘Not ’alf,’ he said.
+‘You wait here and the minute the show’s over and I’ve got my make-up
+off I’ll come down.’ It made me feel better just to see him; he was
+playing a racing tout and it made me laugh just to look at him in his
+check suit and his billycock hat and his red nose. Well, I waited till
+the end of the show and then he came down and we walked along to
+Romano’s.
+
+“‘Are you hungry?’ he said to me.
+
+“‘Starving,’ I said; and I was.
+
+“‘Let’s have the best,’ he said, ‘and blow the expense. I told Bill
+Terris I was taking my best girl out to supper and I touched him for a
+couple of quid.’
+
+“‘Let’s have champagne,’ I said.
+
+“‘Three cheers for the widow!’ he said.
+
+“I don’t know if you ever went to Romano’s in the old days. It was fine.
+You used to see all the theatrical people and the racing men, and the
+girls from the Gaiety used to go there. It was _the_ place. And the
+Roman. Harry knew him and he came up to our table; he used to talk in
+funny broken English; I believe he put it on because he knew it made
+people laugh. And if someone he knew was down and out he’d always lend
+him a fiver.
+
+“‘How’s the kid?’ said Harry.
+
+“‘Better,’ I said.
+
+“I didn’t want to tell him the truth. You know how funny men are; they
+don’t understand some things. I knew Harry would think it dreadful of me
+to come out to supper when the poor child was lying dead in the
+hospital. He’d be awfully sorry and all that, but that’s not what I
+wanted; I wanted to laugh.”
+
+Rosie lit the cigarette that she had been playing with.
+
+“You know how when a woman is having a baby, sometimes the husband can’t
+stand it any more and he goes out and has another woman. And then when
+she finds out, and it’s funny how often she does, she kicks up no end of
+a fuss; she says, that the man should go and do it just then, when she’s
+going through hell, well, it’s the limit. I always tell her not to be
+silly. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her, and isn’t terribly upset, it
+doesn’t mean anything, it’s just nerves; if he weren’t so upset he
+wouldn’t think of it. I know, because that’s how I felt then.
+
+“When we’d finished our supper Harry said: ‘Well, what about it?’
+
+“‘What about what?’ I said.
+
+“There wasn’t any dancing in those days and there was nowhere we could
+go.
+
+“‘What about coming round to my flat and having a look at my photograph
+album?’ said Harry.
+
+“‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I said.
+
+“He had a little bit of a flat in the Charing Cross Road, just two rooms
+and a bath and a kitchenette, and we drove round there, and I stayed the
+night.
+
+“When I got back next morning the breakfast was already on the table and
+Ted had just started. I’d made up my mind that if he said anything I was
+going to fly out at him. I didn’t care what happened. I’d earned my
+living before, and I was ready to earn it again. For two pins I’d have
+packed my box and left him there and then. But he just looked up as I
+came in.
+
+“‘You’ve just come in time,’ he said. ‘I was going to eat your sausage.’
+
+“I sat down and poured him out his tea. And he went on reading the
+paper. After we’d finished breakfast we went to the hospital. He never
+asked me where I’d been. I didn’t know what he thought. He was terribly
+kind to me all that time. I was miserable, you know. Somehow I felt that
+I just couldn’t get over it, and there was nothing he didn’t do to make
+it easier for me.”
+
+“What did you think when you read the book?” I asked.
+
+“Well, it did give me a turn to see that he did know pretty well what
+had happened that night. What beat me was his writing it at all. You’d
+have thought it was the last thing he’d put in a book. You’re queer
+fish, you writers.”
+
+At that moment the telephone bell rang. Rosie took up the receiver and
+listened.
+
+“Why, Mr. Vanuzzi, how very nice of you to call me up! Oh, I’m pretty
+well, thank you. Well, pretty and well, if you like. When you’re my age
+you take all the compliments you can get.”
+
+She embarked upon a conversation which, I gathered from her tone, was of
+a facetious and even flirtatious character. I did not pay much
+attention, and since it seemed to prolong itself I began to meditate
+upon the writer’s life. It is full of tribulation. First he must endure
+poverty and the world’s indifference; then, having achieved a measure of
+success, he must submit with a good grace to its hazards. He depends
+upon a fickle public. He is at the mercy of journalists who want to
+interview him and photographers who want to take his picture, of editors
+who harry him for copy and tax gatherers who harry him for income tax,
+of persons of quality who ask him to lunch and secretaries of institutes
+who ask him to lecture, of women who want to marry him and women who
+want to divorce him, of youths who want his autograph, actors who want
+parts and strangers who want a loan, of gushing ladies who want advice
+on their matrimonial affairs and earnest young men who want advice on
+their compositions, of agents, publishers, managers, bores, admirers,
+critics, and his own conscience. But he has one compensation. Whenever
+he has anything on his mind, whether it be a harassing reflection, grief
+at the death of a friend, unrequited love, wounded pride, anger at the
+treachery of someone to whom he has shown kindness, in short any emotion
+or any perplexing thought, he has only to put it down in black and
+white, using it as the theme of a story or the decoration of an essay,
+to forget all about it. He is the only free man.
+
+Rosie put back the receiver and turned to me.
+
+“That was one of my beaux. I’m going to play bridge to-night and he rang
+up to say he’d call round for me in his car. Of course he’s a Wop, but
+he’s real nice. He used to run a big grocery store down town, in New
+York, but he’s retired now.”
+
+“Have you never thought of marrying again, Rosie?”
+
+“No.” She smiled. “Not that I haven’t had offers. I’m quite happy as I
+am. The way I look on it is this, I don’t want to marry an old man, and
+it would be silly at my age to marry a young one. I’ve had my time and
+I’m ready to call it a day.”
+
+“What made you run away with George Kemp?”
+
+“Well, I’d always liked him. I knew him long before I knew Ted, you
+know. Of course I never thought there was any chance of marrying him.
+For one thing he was married already and then he had his position to
+think of. And then when he came to me one day and said that everything
+had gone wrong and he was bust and there’d be a warrant out for his
+arrest in a few days and he was going to America and would I go with
+him, well, what could I do? I couldn’t let him go all that way by
+himself, with no money perhaps, and him having been always so grand and
+living in his own house and driving his own trap. It wasn’t as if I was
+afraid of work.”
+
+“I sometimes think he was the only man you ever cared for,” I suggested.
+
+“I dare say there’s some truth in that.”
+
+“I wonder what it was you saw in him.”
+
+Rosie’s eyes travelled to a picture on the wall that for some reason had
+escaped my notice. It was an enlarged photograph of Lord George in a
+carved gilt frame. It looked as if it might have been taken soon after
+his arrival in America; perhaps at the time of their marriage. It was a
+three-quarter length. It showed him in a long frock coat, tightly
+buttoned, and a tall silk hat cocked rakishly on one side of his head;
+there was a large rose in his buttonhole; under one arm he carried a
+silver-headed cane and smoke curled from a big cigar that he held in his
+right hand. He had a heavy moustache, waxed at the ends, a saucy look in
+his eye, and in his bearing an arrogant swagger. In his tie was a
+horseshoe in diamonds. He looked like a publican dressed up in his best
+to go to the Derby.
+
+“I’ll tell you,” said Rosie. “He was always such a perfect gentleman.”
+
+                                THE END
+
+
+
+
+                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES
+
+Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
+spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
+
+Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
+occur.
+
+[The end of _Cakes and Ale_ by W. Somerset Maugham]
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78723 ***
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+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78723 ***</div>
+
+<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *</span></p>
+
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+
+<div class='lgl' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Title:</span> Cakes and Ale</p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Date of first publication:</span> 1930</p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Author:</span> W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965)</p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Date first posted:</span> July 31, 2017</p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Date last updated:</span> July 31, 2017</p>
+<p class='line0'>Faded Page eBook #20170731</p>
+</div> <!-- end rend -->
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+&amp; the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net</p>
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+<div class='lgc' style='margin-top:2em;'> <!-- rend=';fs:.8em;' -->
+<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM</p>
+<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
+<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>All rights reserved</span></p>
+<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
+<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='sc'>Triangle Books Edition Published January 1941</span></p>
+<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.5em;font-size:.8em;'><span class='sc'>Reprinted January 1941</span></p>
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+<p class='line0' style='margin-top:2em;font-size:1.2em;'>CAKES AND ALE</p>
+<hr class='tbk101'/>
+<p class='line0' style='margin-bottom:20em;font-size:1em;'><span class='gesp'>W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM</span></p>
+</div> <!-- end rend -->
+
+<hr class='pbk'/>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">I</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I have</span> noticed that when someone asks for you on
+the telephone and, finding you out, leaves a message
+begging you to call him up the moment you come in,
+and it’s important, the matter is more often important
+to him than to you. When it comes to making
+you a present or doing you a favour most people are
+able to hold their impatience within reasonable
+bounds. So when I got back to my lodgings with just
+enough time to have a drink, a cigarette, and to read
+my paper before dressing for dinner, and was told
+by Miss Fellows, my landlady, that Mr. Alroy Kear
+wished me to ring him up at once, I felt that I could
+safely ignore his request.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Is that the writer?” she asked me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It is.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She gave the telephone a friendly glance.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Shall I get him?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, thank you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What shall I say if he rings again?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ask him to leave a message.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very good, sir.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She pursed her lips. She took the empty siphon,
+swept the room with a look to see that it was tidy,
+and went out. Miss Fellows was a great novel reader.
+I was sure that she had read all Roy’s books. Her
+disapproval of my casualness suggested that she had
+read them with admiration. When I got home again,
+I found a note in her bold, legible writing on the
+sideboard.</p>
+
+<div class='blockquote100percent'>
+
+<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Mr. Kear rang up twice. Can you lunch with him to-morrow?
+If not what day will suit you?</span></p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I raised my eyebrows. I had not seen Roy for
+three months and then only for a few minutes at a
+party; he had been very friendly, he always was, and
+when we separated he had expressed his hearty regret
+that we met so seldom.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“London’s awful,” he said. “One never has time
+to see any of the people one wants to. Let’s lunch
+together one day next week, shall we?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’d like to,” I replied.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll look at my book when I get home and ring
+you up.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had not known Roy for twenty years without
+learning that he always kept in the upper left-hand
+pocket of his waistcoat the little book in which he
+put down his engagements; I was therefore not surprised
+when I heard from him no further. It was
+impossible for me now to persuade myself that this
+urgent desire of his to dispense hospitality was disinterested.
+As I smoked a pipe before going to bed
+I turned over in my mind the possible reasons for
+which Roy might want me to lunch with him. It might
+be that an admirer of his had pestered him to introduce
+me to her or that an American editor, in
+London for a few days, had desired Roy to put me
+in touch with him; but I could not do my old friend
+the injustice of supposing him so barren of devices as
+not to be able to cope with such a situation. Besides,
+he told me to choose my own day, so it could hardly
+be that he wished me to meet anyone else.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Than Roy no one could show a more genuine cordiality
+to a fellow novelist whose name was on everybody’s
+lips, but no one could more genially turn a cold
+shoulder on him when idleness, failure, or someone
+else’s success had cast a shade on his notoriety. The
+writer has his ups and downs, and I was but too
+conscious that at the moment I was not in the public
+eye. It was obvious that I might have found excuses
+without affront to refuse Roy’s invitation, though he
+was a determined fellow and if he was resolved for
+purposes of his own to see me, I well knew that
+nothing short of a downright “go to hell” would
+check his persistence; but I was beset by curiosity.
+I had also a considerable affection for Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had watched with admiration his rise in the
+world of letters. His career might well have served
+as a model for any young man entering upon the pursuit
+of literature. I could think of no one among my
+contemporaries who had achieved so considerable
+a position on so little talent. This, like the wise man’s
+daily dose of Bemax, might have gone into a heaped-up
+tablespoon. He was perfectly aware of it, and it
+must have seemed to him sometimes little short of a
+miracle that he had been able with it to compose
+already some thirty books. I cannot but think that he
+saw the white light of revelation when first he read
+that Charles Dickens in an after-dinner speech had
+stated that genius was an infinite capacity for taking
+pains. He pondered the saying. If that was all, he
+must have told himself, he could be a genius like the
+rest; and when the excited reviewer of a lady’s paper,
+writing a notice of one of his works, used the word
+(and of late the critics have been doing it with agreeable
+frequency) he must have sighed with the satisfaction
+of one who after long hours of toil has completed
+a cross-word puzzle. No one who for years
+had observed his indefatigable industry could deny
+that at all events he deserved to be a genius.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy started with certain advantages. He was the
+only son of a civil servant who after being Colonial
+Secretary for many years in Hong-Kong ended his
+career as Governor of Jamaica. When you looked
+up Alroy Kear in the serried pages of <span class='it'>Who’s Who</span>
+you saw <span class='it'>o. s.</span> of Sir Raymond Kear, K. C. M. G.,
+K.C.V.O. <span class='it'>q.v.</span> and of Emily, <span class='it'>y.d.</span> of the late Major
+General Percy Camperdown, Indian Army. He was
+educated at Winchester and at New College, Oxford.
+He was president of the Union and but for
+an unfortunate attack of measles might very well
+have got his rowing blue. His academic career was
+respectable rather than showy, and he left the university
+without a debt in the world. Roy was even
+then of a thrifty habit, without any inclination to
+unprofitable expense, and he was a good son. He
+knew that it had been a sacrifice to his parents to
+give him so costly an education. His father, having
+retired, lived in an unpretentious, but not mean,
+house near Stroud in Gloucestershire, but at intervals
+went to London to attend official dinners connected
+with the colonies he had administered, and on these
+occasions was in the habit of visiting the Athenæum,
+of which he was a member. It was through an old
+crony at this club that he was able to get his son,
+when he came down from Oxford, appointed private
+secretary to a politician who, after having made a
+fool of himself as Secretary of State in two Conservative
+administrations, had been rewarded with
+a peerage. This gave Roy a chance to become acquainted
+at an early age with the great world. He
+made good use of his opportunities. You will never
+find in his works any of the solecisms that disfigure
+the productions of those who have studied the upper
+circles of society only in the pages of the illustrated
+papers. He knew exactly how dukes spoke to one
+another, and the proper way they should be addressed
+respectively by a member of Parliament, an
+attorney, a book-maker, and a valet. There is something
+captivating in the jauntiness with which in his
+early novels he handles viceroys, ambassadors, prime
+ministers, royalties, and great ladies. He is friendly
+without being patronizing and familiar without being
+impertinent. He does not let you forget their
+rank, but shares with you his comfortable feeling
+that they are of the same flesh as you and I. I
+always think it a pity that, fashion having decided
+that the doings of the aristocracy are no longer a
+proper subject for serious fiction, Roy, always keenly
+sensitive to the tendency of the age, should in his
+later novels have confined himself to the spiritual
+conflicts of solicitors, chartered accountants, and
+produce brokers. He does not move in these circles
+with his old assurance.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I knew him first soon after he resigned his secretaryship
+to devote himself exclusively to literature,
+and he was then a fine, upstanding young man, six
+feet high in his stockinged feet and of an athletic
+build, with broad shoulders and a confident carriage.
+He was not handsome, but in a manly way agreeable
+to look at, with wide blue frank eyes and curly hair
+of a lightish brown; his nose was rather short and
+broad, his chin square. He looked honest, clean, and
+healthy. He was something of an athlete. No one
+who has read in his early books the descriptions of
+a run with the hounds, so vivid, and so accurate, can
+doubt that he wrote from personal experience; and
+until quite lately he was willing now and then to
+desert his desk for a day’s hunting. He published
+his first novel at the period when men of letters, to
+show their virility, drank beer and played cricket,
+and for some years there was seldom a literary
+eleven in which his name did not figure. This particular
+school, I hardly know why, has lost its bravery,
+their books are neglected, and cricketers though they
+have remained, they find difficulty in placing their
+articles. Roy ceased playing cricket a good many
+years ago and he has developed a fine taste for claret.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy was very modest about his first novel. It was
+short, neatly written, and, as is everything he has
+produced since, in perfect taste. He sent it with a
+pleasant letter to all the leading writers of the day,
+and in this he told each one how greatly he admired
+his works, how much he had learned from his study
+of them, and how ardently he aspired to follow, albeit
+at a humble distance, the trail his correspondent had
+blazed. He laid his book at the feet of a great artist
+as the tribute of a young man entering upon the
+profession of letters to one whom he would always
+look up to as his master. Deprecatingly, fully conscious
+of his audacity in asking so busy a man to
+waste his time on a neophyte’s puny effort, he begged
+for criticism and guidance. Few of the replies were
+perfunctory. The authors he wrote to, flattered by
+his praise, answered at length. They commended his
+book; many of them asked him to luncheon. They
+could not fail to be charmed by his frankness and
+warmed by his enthusiasm. He asked for their advice
+with a humility that was touching and promised
+to act upon it with a sincerity that was impressive.
+Here, they felt, was someone worth taking a little
+trouble over.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>His novel had a considerable success. It made him
+many friends in literary circles and in a very short
+while you could not go to a tea party in Bloomsbury,
+Campden Hill, or Westminster without finding him
+handing round bread and butter or disembarrassing
+an elderly lady of an empty cup. He was so young,
+so bluff, so gay, he laughed so merrily at other
+people’s jokes that no one could help liking him. He
+joined dining clubs where in the basement of a hotel
+in Victoria Street or Holborn men of letters, young
+barristers, and ladies in Liberty silks and strings of
+beads ate a three-and-sixpenny dinner and discussed
+art and literature. It was soon discovered that he
+had a pretty gift for after-dinner speaking. He was
+so pleasant that his fellow writers, his rivals and
+contemporaries, forgave him even the fact that he
+was a gentleman. He was generous in his praise of
+their fledgeling works, and when they sent him
+manuscripts to criticize could never find a thing amiss.
+They thought him not only a good sort, but a sound
+judge.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He wrote a second novel. He took great pains
+with it and he profited by the advice his elders in the
+craft had given him. It was only just that more than
+one should at his request write a review for a paper
+with whose editor Roy had got into touch and only
+natural that the review should be flattering. His
+second novel was successful, but not so successful as
+to arouse the umbrageous susceptibilities of his competitors.
+In fact it confirmed them in their suspicions
+that he would never set the Thames on fire. He was
+a jolly good fellow; no side, or anything like that:
+they were quite content to give a leg up to a man
+who would never climb so high as to be an obstacle
+to themselves. I know some who smile bitterly now
+when they reflect on the mistake they made.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But when they say that he is swollen-headed they
+err. Roy has never lost the modesty which in his
+youth was his most engaging trait.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I know I’m not a great novelist,” he will tell you.
+“When I compare myself with the giants I simply
+don’t exist. I used to think that one day I should
+write a really great novel, but I’ve long ceased even
+to hope for that. All I want people to say is that I
+do my best. I do work. I never let anything slipshod
+get past me. I think I can tell a good story and I
+can create characters that ring true. And after all
+the proof of the pudding is in the eating: <span class='it'>The Eye
+of the Needle</span> sold thirty-five thousand in England
+and eighty thousand in America, and for the serial
+rights of my next book I’ve got the biggest terms
+I’ve ever had yet.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And what, after all, can it be other than modesty
+that makes him even now write to the reviewers of
+his books, thanking them for their praise, and ask
+them to luncheon? Nay, more: when someone has
+written a stinging criticism and Roy, especially since
+his reputation became so great, has had to put up
+with some very virulent abuse, he does not, like most
+of us, shrug his shoulders, fling a mental insult at
+the ruffian who does not like our work, and then
+forget about it; he writes a long letter to his critic,
+telling him that he is very sorry he thought his book
+bad, but his review was so interesting in itself, and
+if he might venture to say so, showed so much critical
+sense and so much feeling for words, that he felt
+bound to write to him. No one is more anxious to
+improve himself than he and he hopes he is still
+capable of learning. He does not want to be a bore,
+but if the critic has nothing to do on Wednesday
+or Friday will he come and lunch at the Savoy and
+tell him why exactly he thought his book so bad?
+No one can order a lunch better than Roy, and generally
+by the time the critic has eaten half a dozen
+oysters and a cut from a saddle of baby lamb, he
+has eaten his words too. It is only poetic justice
+that when Roy’s next novel comes out the critic
+should see in the new work a very great advance.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>One of the difficulties that a man has to cope with
+as he goes through life is what to do about the persons
+with whom he has once been intimate and whose
+interest for him has in due course subsided. If both
+parties remain in a modest station the break comes
+about naturally, and no ill feeling subsists, but if
+one of them achieves eminence the position is awkward.
+He makes a multitude of new friends, but the
+old ones are inexorable; he has a thousand claims on
+his time, but they feel that they have the first right
+to it. Unless he is at their beck and call they sigh
+and with a shrug of the shoulders say:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ah, well, I suppose you’re like everyone else. I
+must expect to be dropped now that you’re a success.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>That of course is what he would like to do if he
+had the courage. For the most part he hasn’t. He
+weakly accepts an invitation to supper on Sunday
+evening. The cold roast beef is frozen and comes
+from Australia and was over-cooked at middle day;
+and the burgundy—ah, why will they call it burgundy?
+Have they never been to Beaune and stayed at the
+Hôtel de la Poste? Of course it is grand to talk of the
+good old days when you shared a crust of bread in a
+garret together, but it is a little disconcerting when
+you reflect how near to a garret is the room you are
+sitting in. You feel ill at ease when your friend tells
+you that his books don’t sell and that he can’t place
+his short stories; the managers won’t even read his
+plays, and when he compares them with some of the
+stuff that’s put on (here he fixes you with an accusing
+eye) it really does seem a bit hard. You are embarrassed
+and you look away. You exaggerate the
+failures you have had in order that he may realize
+that life has its hardships for you too. You refer to
+your work in the most disparaging way you can and
+are a trifle taken aback to find that your host’s opinion
+of it is the same as yours. You speak of the fickleness
+of the public so that he may comfort himself by
+thinking that your popularity cannot last. He is a
+friendly but severe critic.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t read your last book,” he says, “but I
+read the one before. I’ve forgotten its name.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>You tell him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was rather disappointed in it. I didn’t think
+it was quite so good as some of the things you’ve
+done. Of course you know which my favourite is.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And you, having suffered from other hands than
+his, answer at once with the name of the first book
+you ever wrote; you were twenty then, and it was
+crude and ingenuous, and on every page was written
+your inexperience.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’ll never do anything so good as that,” he
+says heartily, and you feel that your whole career
+has been a long decadence from that one happy hit.
+“I always think you’ve never <span class='it'>quite</span> fulfilled the promise
+you showed then.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The gas fire roasts your feet, but your hands are
+icy. You look at your wrist watch surreptitiously and
+wonder whether your old friend would think it offensive
+if you took your leave as early as ten. You have
+told your car to wait round the corner so that it
+should not stand outside the door and by its magnificence
+affront his poverty, but at the door he says:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’ll find a bus at the bottom of the street. I’ll
+just walk down with you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Panic seizes you and you confess that you have
+a car. He finds it very odd that the chauffeur should
+wait round the corner. You answer that this is one
+of his idiosyncrasies. When you reach it your friend
+looks at it with tolerant superiority. You nervously
+ask him to dinner with you one day. You promise to
+write to him and you drive away wondering whether
+when he comes he will think you are swanking if you
+ask him to Claridge’s or mean if you suggest Soho.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy Kear suffered from none of these tribulations.
+It sounds a little brutal to say that when he
+had got all he could out of people he dropped them;
+but it would take so long to put the matter more
+delicately, and would need so subtle an adjustment
+of hints, half-tones, and allusions, playful or tender,
+that such being at bottom the fact, I think it as well
+to leave it at that. Most of us when we do a caddish
+thing harbour resentment against the person we have
+done it to, but Roy’s heart, always in the right place,
+never permitted him such pettiness. He could use
+a man very shabbily without afterward bearing him
+the slightest ill-will.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Poor old Smith,” he would say. “He is a dear;
+I’m so fond of him. Pity he’s growing so bitter. I
+wish one could do something for him. No, I haven t
+seen him for years. It’s no good trying to keep up
+old friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact
+is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is
+to face it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But if he ran across Smith at some gathering like
+the private view of the Royal Academy no one could
+be more cordial. He wrung his hand and told him
+how delighted he was to see him. His face beamed.
+He shed good fellowship as the kindly sun its rays.
+Smith rejoiced in the glow of this wonderful vitality
+and it was damned decent of Roy to say he’d give
+his eye-teeth to have written a book half as good as
+Smith’s last. On the other hand, if Roy thought
+Smith had not seen him, he looked the other way;
+but Smith <span class='it'>had</span> seen him, and Smith resented being cut.
+Smith was very acid. He said that in the old days Roy
+had been glad enough to share a steak with him in a
+shabby restaurant and spend a month’s holiday in a
+fisherman’s cottage at St. Ives. Smith said that Roy
+was a time server. He said he was a snob. He said
+he was a humbug.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Smith was wrong here. The most shining characteristic
+of Alroy Kear was his sincerity. No one can
+be a humbug for five-and-twenty years. Hypocrisy is
+the most difficult and nerve-racking vice that any
+man can pursue; it needs an unceasing vigilance and
+a rare detachment of spirit. It cannot, like adultery
+or gluttony, be practised at spare moments; it is a
+whole-time job. It needs also a cynical humour;
+although Roy laughed so much I never thought he
+had a very quick sense of humour, and I am quite sure
+that he was incapable of cynicism. Though I have
+finished few of his novels, I have begun a good many,
+and to my mind his sincerity is stamped on every one
+of their multitudinous pages. This is clearly the chief
+ground of his stable popularity. Roy has always sincerely
+believed what everyone else believed at the
+moment. When he wrote novels about the aristocracy
+he sincerely believed that its members were dissipated
+and immoral, and yet had a certain nobility
+and an innate aptitude for governing the British
+Empire; when later he wrote of the middle classes
+he sincerely believed that they were the backbone
+of the country. His villains have always been villainous,
+his heroes heroic, and his maidens chaste.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When Roy asked the author of a flattering review
+to lunch it was because he was sincerely grateful to
+him for his good opinion, and when he asked the
+author of an unflattering one it was because he was
+sincerely concerned to improve himself. When unknown
+admirers from Texas or western Australia
+came to London it was not only to cultivate his public
+that he took them to the National Gallery, it was
+because he was sincerely anxious to observe their
+reactions to art. You had only to hear him lecture to
+be convinced of his sincerity.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When he stood on the platform, in evening dress
+admirably worn, or in a loose, much used but perfectly
+cut, lounge suit if it better fitted the occasion,
+and faced his audience seriously, frankly, but with
+an engaging diffidence you could not but realize that
+he was giving himself up to his task with complete
+earnestness. Though now and then he pretended to
+be at a loss for a word, it was only to make it more
+effective when he uttered it. His voice was full and
+manly. He told a story well. He was never dull. He
+was fond of lecturing upon the younger writers of
+England and America, and he explained their merits
+to his audience with an enthusiasm that attested his
+generosity. Perhaps he told almost too much, for
+when you had heard his lecture you felt that you
+really knew all you wanted to about them and it was
+quite unnecessary to read their books. I suppose that
+is why when Roy had lectured in some provincial
+town not a single copy of the books of the authors
+he had spoken of was ever asked for, but there was
+always a run on his own. His energy was prodigious.
+Not only did he make successful tours of the United
+States, but he lectured up and down Great Britain.
+No club was so small, no society for the self-improvement
+of its members so insignificant, that
+Roy disdained to give it an hour of his time. Now
+and then he revised his lectures and issued them in
+neat little books. Most people who are interested in
+these things have at least looked through the works
+entitled <span class='it'>Modern Novelists</span>, <span class='it'>Russian Fiction</span>, and
+<span class='it'>Some Writers</span>; and few can deny that they exhibit a
+real feeling for literature and a charming personality.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But this by no means exhausted his activities. He
+was an active member of the organizations that have
+been founded to further the interests of authors or
+to alleviate their hard lot when sickness or old age
+has brought them to penury. He was always willing
+to give his help when matters of copyright were the
+subject of legislation and he was never unprepared to
+take his place in those missions to a foreign country
+which are devised to establish amicable relations between
+writers of different nationalities. He could
+be counted on to reply for literature at a public
+dinner and he was invariably on the reception committee
+formed to give a proper welcome to a literary
+celebrity from overseas. No bazaar lacked an autographed
+copy of at least one of his books. He never
+refused to grant an interview. He justly said that
+no one knew better than he the hardships of the
+author’s trade and if he could help a struggling journalist
+to earn a few guineas by having a pleasant
+chat with him he had not the inhumanity to refuse.
+He generally asked his interviewer to luncheon and
+seldom failed to make a good impression on him.
+The only stipulation he made was that he should
+see the article before it was published. He was never
+impatient with the persons who call up the celebrated
+on the telephone at inconvenient moments to
+ask them for the information of newspaper readers
+whether they believe in God or what they eat for
+breakfast. He figured in every symposium and the
+public knew what he thought of prohibition, vegetarianism,
+jazz, garlic, exercise, marriage, politics,
+and the place of women in the home.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>His views on marriage were abstract, for he had
+successfully evaded the state which so many artists
+have found difficult to reconcile with the arduous
+pursuit of their calling. It was generally known that
+he had for some years cherished a hopeless passion
+for a married woman of rank, and though he never
+spoke of her but with chivalrous admiration, it was
+understood that she had treated him with harshness.
+The novels of his middle period reflected in their unwonted
+bitterness the strain to which he had been
+put. The anguish of spirit he had passed through
+then enabled him without offense to elude the advances
+of ladies of little reputation, frayed ornaments
+of a hectic circle, who were willing to exchange an
+uncertain present for the security of marriage with
+a successful novelist. When he saw in their bright
+eyes the shadow of the registry office he told them
+that the memory of his one great love would always
+prevent him from forming any permanent tie. His
+quixotry might exasperate, but could not affront
+them. He sighed a little when he reflected that he
+must be for ever denied the joys of domesticity and
+the satisfaction of parenthood, but it was a sacrifice
+that he was prepared to make not only to his ideal,
+but also to the possible partner of his joys. He had
+noticed that people really do not want to be bothered
+with the wives of authors and painters. The
+artist who insisted on taking his wife wherever he
+went only made himself a nuisance and indeed was
+in consequence often not asked to places he would
+have liked to go to; and if he left his wife at home,
+he was on his return exposed to recriminations that
+shattered the repose so essential for him to do the
+best that was in him. Alroy Kear was a bachelor and
+now at fifty was likely to remain one.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He was an example of what an author can do, and
+to what heights he can rise, by industry, common-sense,
+honesty, and the efficient combination of means
+and ends. He was a good fellow and none but a cross-grained
+carper could grudge him his success. I felt
+that to fall asleep with his image in my mind would
+insure me a good night. I scribbled a note to Miss
+Fellows, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, put out
+the light in my sitting room, and went to bed.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">II</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> I rang for my letters and the papers next
+morning a message was delivered to me, in answer
+to my note to Miss Fellows, that Mr. Alroy Kear
+expected me at one-fifteen at his club in St. James’s
+Street; so a little before one I strolled round to my
+own and had the cocktail, which I was pretty sure
+Roy would not offer me. Then I walked down St.
+James’s Street, looking idly at the shop windows, and
+since I had still a few minutes to spare (I did not
+want to keep my appointment too punctually) I
+went into Christie’s to see if there was anything I
+liked the look of. The auction had already begun
+and a group of dark, small men were passing round
+to one another pieces of Victorian silver, while the
+auctioneer, following their gestures with bored eyes,
+muttered in a drone: “Ten shillings offered, eleven,
+eleven and six” .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. It was a fine day, early in June,
+and the air in King Street was bright. It made the
+pictures on the walls of Christie’s look very dingy.
+I went out. The people in the street walked with a
+kind of nonchalance, as though the ease of the day
+had entered into their souls and in the midst of their
+affairs they had a sudden and surprised inclination to
+stop and look at the picture of life.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy’s club was sedate. In the ante-chamber were
+only an ancient porter and a page; and I had a sudden
+and melancholy feeling that the members were all
+attending the funeral of the head waiter. The page,
+when I had uttered Roy’s name, led me into an
+empty passage to leave my hat and stick and then
+into an empty hall hung with life-sized portraits of
+Victorian statesmen. Roy got up from a leather sofa
+and warmly greeted me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Shall we go straight up?” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was right in thinking that he would not offer me
+a cocktail and I commended my prudence. He led me
+up a noble flight of heavily carpeted stairs, and we
+passed nobody on the way; we entered the strangers’
+dining room, and we were its only occupants. It was
+a room of some size, very clean and white, with an
+Adam window. We sat down by it and a demure
+waiter handed us the bill of fare. Beef, mutton and
+lamb, cold salmon, apple tart, rhubarb tart, gooseberry
+tart. As my eye travelled down the inevitable
+list I sighed as I thought of the restaurants round
+the corner where there was French cooking, the
+clatter of life, and pretty painted women in summer
+frocks.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I can recommend the veal-and-ham pie,” said Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll mix the salad myself,” he told the waiter in
+an off-hand and yet commanding way, and then, casting
+his eye once more on the bill of fare, generously:
+“And what about some asparagus to follow?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That would be very nice.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>His manner grew a trifle grander.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Asparagus for two and tell the chef to choose
+them himself. Now what would you like to drink?
+What do you say to a bottle of hock? We rather
+fancy our hock here.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I had agreed to this he told the waiter to
+call the wine steward. I could not but admire the
+authoritative and yet perfectly polite manner in which
+he gave his orders. You felt that thus would a well-bred
+king send for one of his field marshals. The wine
+steward, portly in black, with the silver chain of his
+office round his neck, bustled in with the wine list
+in his hand. Roy nodded to him with curt familiarity.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Hulloa, Armstrong, we want some of the Liebfraumilch,
+the ’21.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very good, sir.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How’s it holding up? Pretty well? We shan’t
+be able to get any more of it, you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m afraid not, sir.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s no good meeting trouble halfway, is it,
+Armstrong?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy smiled at the steward with breezy cordiality.
+The steward saw from his long experience of members
+that the remark needed an answer.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, sir.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy laughed and his eye sought mine. Quite a
+character, Armstrong.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, chill it, Armstrong; not too much, you
+know, but just right. I want my guest to see that we
+know what’s what here.” He turned to me. “Armstrong’s
+been with us for eight and forty years.”
+And when the wine steward had left us: “I hope you
+don’t mind coming here. It’s quiet and we can have
+a good talk. It’s ages since we did. You’re looking
+very fit.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>This drew my attention to Roy’s appearance.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not half so fit as you,” I answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The result of an upright, sober, and godly life,”
+he laughed. “Plenty of work. Plenty of exercise.
+How’s the golf? We must have a game one of these
+days.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I knew that Roy was scratch and that nothing
+would please him less than to waste a day with so
+indifferent a player as myself. But I felt I was quite
+safe in accepting so vague an invitation. He looked
+the picture of health. His curly hair was getting very
+gray, but it suited him and made his frank, sunburned
+face look younger. His eyes, which looked
+upon the world with such a hearty candour, were
+bright and clear. He was not so slim as in his youth
+and I was not surprised that when the waiter offered
+us rolls he asked for Rye-Vita. His slight corpulence
+only added to his dignity. It gave weight to his observations.
+Because his movements were a little more
+deliberate than they had been you had a comfortable
+feeling of confidence in him; he filled his chair
+with so much solidity that you had almost the impression
+that he sat upon a monument.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I do not know whether, as I wished, I have indicated
+by my report of his dialogue with the waiter
+that his conversation was not as a rule brilliant or
+witty, but it was easy and he laughed so much that
+you sometimes had the illusion that what he said
+was funny. He was never at a loss for a remark
+and he could discourse on the topics of the day with
+an ease that prevented his hearers from experiencing
+any sense of strain.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Many authors from their preoccupation with words
+have the bad habit of choosing those they use in conversation
+too carefully. They form their sentences
+with unconscious care and say neither more nor less
+than they mean. It makes intercourse with them somewhat
+formidable to persons in the upper ranks of
+society whose vocabulary is limited by their simple
+spiritual needs, and their company consequently is
+sought only with hesitation. No constraint of this sort
+was ever felt with Roy. He could talk with a dancing
+guardee in terms that were perfectly comprehensible
+to him and with a racing countess in the language of
+her stable boys. They said of him with enthusiasm
+and relief that he was not a bit like an author. No
+compliment pleased him better. The wise always use
+a number of ready-made phrases (at the moment I
+write “nobody’s business” is the most common), popular
+adjectives (like “divine” or “shy-making”),
+verbs that you only know the meaning of if you live
+in the right set (like “dunch”), which give ease and
+a homely sparkle to small talk and avoid the necessity
+of thought. The Americans, who are the most efficient
+people on the earth, have carried this device
+to such a height of perfection and have invented
+so wide a range of pithy and hackneyed phrases
+that they can carry on an amusing and animated conversation
+without giving a moment’s reflection to
+what they are saying and so leave their minds free
+to consider the more important matters of big business
+and fornication. Roy’s repertory was extensive
+and his scent for the word of the minute unerring; it
+peppered his speech, but aptly, and he used it each
+time with a sort of bright eagerness, as though his
+fertile brain had just minted it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Now he talked of this and that, of our common
+friends and the latest books, of the opera. He was
+very breezy. He was always cordial, but to-day his
+cordiality took my breath away. He lamented that
+we saw one another so seldom and told me with the
+frankness that was one of his pleasantest characteristics
+how much he liked me and what a high opinion
+he had of me. I felt I must not fail to meet this
+friendliness halfway. He asked me about the book
+I was writing, I asked him about the book he was
+writing. We told one another that neither of us had
+had the success he deserved. We ate the veal-and-ham
+pie and Roy told me how he mixed a salad. We drank
+the hock and smacked appreciative lips.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And I wondered when he was coming to the point.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I could not bring myself to believe that at the
+height of the London season Alroy Kear would
+waste an hour on a fellow writer who was not a
+reviewer and had no influence in any quarter whatever
+in order to talk of Matisse, the Russian Ballet
+and Marcel Proust. Besides, at the back of his gaiety
+I vaguely felt a slight apprehension. Had I not
+known that he was in a prosperous state I should
+have suspected that he was going to borrow a hundred
+pounds from me. It began to look as though luncheon
+would end without his finding the opportunity to say
+what he had in mind. I knew he was cautious. Perhaps
+he thought that this meeting, the first after so
+long a separation, had better be employed in establishing
+friendly relations, and was prepared to look
+upon the pleasant, substantial meal merely as ground
+bait.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Shall we go and have our coffee in the next
+room?” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If you like.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think it’s more comfortable.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I followed him into another room, much more
+spacious, with great leather armchairs and huge
+sofas; there were papers and magazines on the
+tables. Two old gentlemen in a corner were talking
+in undertones. They gave us a hostile glance, but this
+did not deter Roy from offering them a cordial
+greeting.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Hullo, General,” he cried, nodding breezily.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I stood for a moment at the window, looking at
+the gaiety of the day, and wished I knew more of
+the historical associations of St. James’s Street. I
+was ashamed that I did not even know the name of
+the club across the way and was afraid to ask Roy
+lest he should despise me for not knowing what every
+decent person knew. He called me back by asking
+me whether I would have a brandy with my coffee,
+and when I refused, insisted. The club’s brandy was
+famous. We sat side by side on a sofa by the elegant
+fireplace and lit cigars.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The last time Edward Driffield ever came to
+London he lunched with me here,” said Roy casually.
+“I made the old man try our brandy and he
+was delighted with it. I was staying with his widow
+over last week-end.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Were you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She sent you all sorts of messages.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s very kind of her. I shouldn’t have thought
+she remembered me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes, she does. You lunched there about six
+years ago, didn’t you? She says the old man was so
+glad to see you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t think <span class='it'>she</span> was.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you’re quite wrong. Of course she had to be
+very careful. The old man was pestered with people
+who wanted to see him and she had to husband his
+strength. She was always afraid he’d do too much.
+It’s a wonderful thing if you come to think of it that
+she should have kept him alive and in possession of
+all his faculties to the age of eighty-four. I’ve been
+seeing a good deal of her since he died. She’s awfully
+lonely. After all, she devoted herself to looking after
+him for twenty-five years. Othello’s occupation, you
+know. I really feel sorry for her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s still comparatively young. I dare say she’ll
+marry again.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no, she couldn’t do that. That would be
+dreadful.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>There was a slight pause while we sipped our
+brandy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You must be one of the few persons still alive
+who knew Driffield when he was unknown. You saw
+quite a lot of him at one time, didn’t you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“A certain amount. I was almost a small boy and
+he was a middle-aged man. We weren’t boon companions,
+you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps not, but you must know a great deal
+about him that other people don’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose I do.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have you ever thought of writing your recollections
+of him?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good heavens, no!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you think you ought to? He was one of
+the greatest novelists of our day. The last of the
+Victorians. He was an enormous figure. His novels
+have as good a chance of surviving as any that have
+been written in the last hundred years.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wonder. I’ve always thought them rather boring.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy looked at me with eyes twinkling with laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How like you that is! Anyhow you must admit
+that you’re in the minority. I don’t mind telling you
+that I’ve read his novels not once or twice, but half
+a dozen times, and every time I read them I think
+they’re finer. Did you read the articles that were
+written about him at his death?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Some of them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The consensus of opinion was absolutely amazing. I read every one.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If they all said the same thing, wasn’t that rather
+unnecessary?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy shrugged his massive shoulders good-humouredly, but did not answer my
+question.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I thought the <span class='it'>Times Lit. Sup.</span> was splendid. It
+would have done the old man good to read it. I hear
+that the quarterlies are going to have articles in their
+next numbers.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I still think his novels rather boring.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy smiled indulgently.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Doesn’t it make you slightly uneasy to think that
+you disagree with everyone whose opinion matters?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not particularly. I’ve been writing for thirty-five
+years now, and you can’t think how many geniuses
+I’ve seen acclaimed, enjoy their hour or two of glory,
+and vanish into obscurity. I wonder what’s happened
+to them. Are they dead, are they shut up in madhouses,
+are they hidden away in offices? I wonder if
+they furtively lend their books to the doctor and the
+maiden lady in some obscure village. I wonder if they
+are still great men in some Italian pension.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes, they’re the flash in the pans. I’ve known
+them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’ve even lectured about them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“One has to. One wants to give them a leg up if
+one can and one knows they won’t amount to anything.
+Hang it all, one can afford to be generous.
+But after all, Driffield wasn’t anything like that. The
+collected edition of his works is in thirty-seven volumes
+and the last set that came up at Sotheby’s sold
+for seventy-eight pounds. That speaks for itself. His
+sales have increased steadily every year and last year
+was the best he ever had. You can take my word for
+that. Mrs. Driffield showed me his accounts last time
+I was down there. Driffield has come to stay all right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Who can tell?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, you think you can,” replied Roy acidly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was not put out. I knew I was irritating him
+and it gave me a pleasant sensation.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think the instinctive judgments I formed when
+I was a boy were right. They told me Carlyle was a
+great writer and I was ashamed that I found the
+<span class='it'>French Revolution</span> and <span class='it'>Sartor Resartus</span> unreadable.
+Can anyone read them now? I thought the opinions
+of others must be better than mine and I persuaded
+myself that I thought George Meredith magnificent.
+In my heart I found him affected, verbose, and insincere.
+A good many people think so too now. Because
+they told me that to admire Walter Pater was
+to prove myself a cultured young man, I admired
+Walter Pater, but heavens how Marius bored me!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, well, I don’t suppose anyone reads Pater
+now, and of course Meredith has gone all to pot
+and Carlyle was a pretentious windbag.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You don’t know how secure of immortality they
+all looked thirty years ago.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And have you never made mistakes?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“One or two. I didn’t think half as much of Newman
+as I do now, and I thought a great deal more
+of the tinkling quatrains of Fitzgerald. I could not
+read Goethe’s <span class='it'>Wilhelm Meister</span>; now I think it his
+masterpiece.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And what did you think much of then that you
+think much of still?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, <span class='it'>Tristram Shandy</span> and <span class='it'>Amelia</span> and <span class='it'>Vanity
+Fair</span>. <span class='it'>Madame Bovary</span>, <span class='it'>La Chartreuse de Parme</span>,
+and <span class='it'>Anna Karenina</span>. And Wordsworth and Keats
+and Verlaine.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think
+that’s particularly original.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind your saying so at all. I don’t think
+it is. But you asked me why I believed in my own
+judgment, and I was trying to explain to you that,
+whatever I said out of timidity and in deference
+to the cultured opinion of the day, I didn’t really
+admire certain authors who were then thought admirable
+and the event seems to show that I was
+right. And what I honestly and instinctively liked
+then has stood the test of time with me and with
+critical opinion in general.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy was silent for a moment. He looked in the
+bottom of his cup, but whether to see if there were
+any more coffee in it or to find something to say, I
+did not know. I gave the clock on the chimney-piece
+a glance. In a minute it would be fitting for me to
+take my leave. Perhaps I had been wrong and Roy
+had invited me only that we might idly chat of
+Shakespeare and the musical glasses. I chid myself
+for the uncharitable thoughts I had had of him. I
+looked at him with concern. If that was his only
+object it must be that he was feeling tired or discouraged.
+If he was disinterested it could only be
+that for the moment at least the world was too much
+for him. But he caught my look at the clock and
+spoke.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see how you can deny that there must be
+something in a man who’s able to carry on for sixty
+years, writing book after book, and who’s able to
+hold an ever-increasing public. After all, at Ferne
+Court there are shelves filled with the translations
+of Driffield’s books into every language of civilized
+people. Of course I’m willing to admit that a lot he
+wrote seems a bit old-fashioned nowadays. He flourished
+in a bad period and he was inclined to be long-winded.
+Most of his plots are melodramatic; but
+there’s one quality you must allow him: beauty.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes?” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When all’s said and done, that’s the only thing
+that counts and Driffield never wrote a page that
+wasn’t instinct with beauty.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes?” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wish you’d been there when we went down to
+present him with his portrait on his eightieth birthday.
+It really was a memorable occasion.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I read about it in the papers.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It wasn’t only writers, you know, it was a thoroughly
+representative gathering—science, politics,
+business, art, the world; I think you’d have to go a
+long way to find gathered together such a collection
+of distinguished people as got out from that train
+at Blackstable. It was awfully moving when the P.M.
+presented the old man with the Order of Merit. He
+made a charming speech. I don’t mind telling you
+there were tears in a good many eyes that day.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did Driffield cry?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, he was singularly calm. He was like he
+always was, rather shy, you know, and quiet, very
+well-mannered, grateful, of course, but a little dry.
+Mrs. Driffield didn’t want him to get overtired and
+when we went into lunch he stayed in his study, and
+she sent him something in on a tray. I slipped away
+while the others were having their coffee. He was
+smoking his pipe and looking at the portrait. I asked
+him what he thought of it. He wouldn’t tell me, he
+just smiled a little. He asked me if I thought he
+could take his teeth out and I said, No, the deputation
+would be coming in presently to say good-bye
+to him. Then I asked him if he didn’t think it was a
+wonderful moment. ‘Rum,’ he said, ‘very rum.’ The
+fact is, I suppose, he was shattered. He was a messy
+eater in his later days and a messy smoker—he scattered
+the tobacco all over himself when he filled his
+pipe; Mrs. Driffield didn’t like people to see him
+when he was like that, but of course she didn’t mind
+me; I tidied him up a bit and then they all came in
+and shook hands with him, and we went back to
+town.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I got up.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I really must be going. It’s been awfully
+nice seeing you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m just going along to the private view at the
+Leicester Galleries. I know the people there. I’ll take
+you in if you like.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s very kind of you, but they sent me a card.
+No, I don’t think I’ll come.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We walked down the stairs and I got my hat.
+When we came out into the street and I turned to
+ward Piccadilly, Roy said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll just walk up to the top with you.” He got
+into step with me. “You knew his first wife, didn’t
+you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Whose?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Driffield’s.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” I had forgotten him. “Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Fairly.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose she was awful.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t recollect that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She must have been dreadfully common. She was
+a barmaid, wasn’t she?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wonder why the devil he married her. I’ve
+always been given to understand that she was extremely
+unfaithful to him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Extremely.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Do you remember at all what she was like?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, very distinctly,” I smiled. “She was sweet.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy gave a short laugh.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s not the general impression.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not answer. We had reached Piccadilly, and
+stopping I held out my hand to Roy. He shook it,
+but I fancied without his usual heartiness. I had
+the impression that he was disappointed with our
+meeting. I could not imagine why. Whatever he had
+wanted of me I had not been able to do, for the
+reason that he had given me no inkling of what it
+was, and as I strolled under the arcade of the Ritz
+Hotel and along the park railings till I came opposite
+Half Moon Street I wondered if my manner
+had been more than ordinarily forbidding. It was
+quite evident that Roy had felt the moment inopportune
+to ask me to grant him a favour.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I walked up Half Moon Street. After the gay
+tumult of Piccadilly it had a pleasant silence. It was
+sedate and respectable. Most of the houses let
+apartments, but this was not advertised by the vulgarity
+of a card; some had a brightly polished brass
+plate, like a doctor’s, to announce the fact and others
+the word <span class='it'>Apartments</span> neatly painted on the fanlight.
+One or two with an added discretion merely gave
+the name of the proprietor, so that if you were
+ignorant you might have thought it a tailor’s or a
+money lender’s. There was none of the congested
+traffic of Jermyn Street, where also they let rooms,
+but here and there a smart car, unattended, stood
+outside a door and occasionally at another a taxi
+deposited a middle-aged lady. You had the feeling
+that the people who lodged here were not gay and
+a trifle disreputable as in Jermyn Street, racing men
+who rose in the morning with headaches and asked
+for a hair of the dog that bit them, but respectable
+women from the country who came up for six weeks
+for the London season and elderly gentlemen who
+belonged to exclusive clubs. You felt that they came
+year after year to the same house and perhaps had
+known the proprietor when he was still in private
+service. My own Miss Fellows had been cook in
+some very good places, but you would never have
+guessed it had you seen her walking along to do her
+shopping in Shepherd’s Market. She was not stout,
+red-faced, and blousy as one expects a cook to be;
+she was spare and very upright, neatly but fashionably
+dressed, a woman of middle age, with determined
+features; her lips were rouged and she
+wore an eyeglass. She was businesslike, quiet, coolly
+cynical, and very expensive.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The rooms I occupied were on the ground floor.
+The parlour was papered with an old marbled paper
+and on the walls were water colours of romantic
+scenes, cavaliers bidding good-bye to their ladies and
+knights of old banqueting in stately halls; there
+were large ferns in pots, and the armchairs were
+covered with faded leather. There was about the
+room an amusing air of the eighteen eighties, and
+when I looked out of the window I expected to see
+a private hansom rather than a Chrysler. The curtains
+were of a heavy red rep.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">III</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I had</span> a good deal to do that afternoon, but my
+conversation with Roy and the impression of the day
+before yesterday, the sense of a past that still dwelt
+in the minds of men not yet old, that my room, I
+could not tell why, had given me even more strongly
+than usual as I entered it, inveigled my thoughts to
+saunter down the road of memory. It was as though
+all the people who had at one time and another inhabited
+my lodging pressed upon me with their old-fashioned
+ways and odd clothes, men with muttonchop
+whiskers in frock coats and women in bustles
+and flounced skirts. The rumble of London, which I
+did not know if I imagined or heard (my house was
+at the top of Half Moon Street), and the beauty
+of the sunny June day (<span class='it'>le vierge, le vivace et le bel
+aujourd’hui</span>), gave my reverie a poignancy which
+was not quite painful. The past I looked at seemed
+to have lost its reality and I saw it as though it
+were a scene in a play and I a spectator in the back
+row of a dark gallery. But it was all very clear as
+far as it went. It was not misty like life as one leads
+it when the ceaseless throng of impressions seems to
+rob them of outline, but sharp and definite like a
+landscape painted in oils by a painstaking artist of
+the middle-Victorian era.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I fancy that life is more amusing now than it was
+forty years ago and I have a notion that people are
+more amiable. They may have been worthier then,
+possessed of more solid virtue as, I am told, they
+were possessed of more substantial knowledge; I do
+not know. I know they were more cantankerous;
+they ate too much, many of them drank too much,
+they took too little exercise. Their livers were out
+of order and their digestions often impaired. They
+were irritable. I do not speak of London of which
+I knew nothing till I was grown up, nor of grand
+people who hunted and shot, but of the countryside
+and of the modest persons, gentlemen of small
+means, clergymen, retired officers, and such like
+who made up the local society. The dullness of their
+lives was almost incredible. There were no golf
+links; at a few houses was an ill-kept tennis court,
+but it was only the very young who played; there was
+a dance once a year in the Assembly Rooms; carriage
+folk went for a drive in the afternoon; the
+others went for a “constitutional!” You may say
+that they did not miss amusements they had never
+thought of, and that they created excitement for
+themselves from the small entertainment (tea when
+you were asked to bring your music and you sang
+the songs of Maude Valérie White and Tosti) which
+at infrequent intervals they offered one another; the
+days were very long; they were bored. People who
+were condemned to spend their lives within a mile of
+one another quarrelled bitterly, and seeing each
+other every day in the town cut one another for
+twenty years. They were vain, pig-headed, and odd.
+It was a life that perhaps formed queer characters;
+people were not so like one another as now and they
+acquired a small celebrity by their idiosyncrasies, but
+they were not easy to get on with. It may be that we
+are flippant and careless, but we accept one another
+without the old suspicion; our manners, rough and
+ready, are kindly; we are more prepared to give and
+take and we are not so crabbed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I lived with an uncle and aunt on the outskirts of
+a little Kentish town by the sea. It was called Blackstable
+and my uncle was the vicar. My aunt was a
+German. She came of a very noble but impoverished
+family, and the only portion she brought her husband
+was a marquetry writing desk, made for an ancestor
+in the Seventeenth Century, and a set of tumblers.
+Of these only a few remained when I entered upon
+the scene and they were used as ornaments in the
+drawing room. I liked the grand coat-of-arms with
+which they were heavily engraved. There were I
+don’t know how many quarterings, which my aunt
+used demurely to explain to me, and the supporters
+were fine and the crest emerging from a crown incredibly
+romantic. She was a simple old lady, of a
+meek and Christian disposition, but she had not,
+though married for more than thirty years to a
+modest parson with very little income beyond his
+stipend, forgotten that she was <span class='it'>hochwohlgeboren</span>.
+When a rich banker from London, with a name that
+in these days is famous in financial circles, took a
+neighbouring house for the summer holidays, though
+my uncle called on him (chiefly, I surmise, to get a
+subscription to the Additional Curates Society), she
+refused to do so because he was in trade. No one
+thought her a snob. It was accepted as perfectly
+reasonable. The banker had a little boy of my own
+age, and, I forget how, I became acquainted with
+him. I still remember the discussion that ensued
+when I asked if I might bring him to the vicarage;
+permission was reluctantly given me, but I was not
+allowed to go in return to his house. My aunt said
+I’d be wanting to go to the coal merchant’s next, and
+my uncle said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Evil communications corrupt good manners.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The banker used to come to church every Sunday
+morning, and he always put half a sovereign in the
+plate, but if he thought his generosity made a good
+impression he was much mistaken. All Blackstable
+knew, but only thought him purse-proud.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Blackstable consisted of a long winding street that
+led to the sea, with little two-story houses, many of
+them residential but with a good many shops; and
+from this ran a certain number of short streets, recently
+built, that ended on one side in the country
+and on the other in the marshes. Round about the
+harbour was a congeries of narrow winding alleys.
+Colliers brought coal from Newcastle to Blackstable
+and the harbour was animated. When I was old
+enough to be allowed out by myself I used to spend
+hours wandering about there looking at the rough
+grimy men in their jerseys and watching the coal
+being unloaded.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was at Blackstable that I first met Edward
+Driffield. I was fifteen and had just come back from
+school for the summer holidays. The morning after
+I got home I took a towel and bathing drawers and
+went down to the beach. The sky was unclouded and
+the air hot and bright, but the North Sea gave
+it a pleasant tang so that it was a delight just to
+live and breathe. In winter the natives of Blackstable
+walked down the empty street with a hurried
+gait, screwing themselves up in order to expose as
+little surface as possible to the bitterness of the
+east wind, but now they dawdled; they stood about
+in groups in the space between the Duke of Kent and
+the Bear and Key. You heard a hum of their East
+Anglian speech, drawling a little with an accent that
+may be ugly, but in which from old association I still
+find a leisurely charm. They were fresh-complexioned,
+with blue eyes and high cheek bones, and their hair
+was light. They had a clean, honest, and ingenuous
+look. I do not think they were very intelligent, but
+they were guileless. They looked healthy, and though
+not tall for the most part were strong and active.
+There was little wheeled traffic in Blackstable in
+those days and the groups that stood about the road
+chatting seldom had to move for anything but the
+doctor’s dogcart or the baker’s trap.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Passing the bank, I called in to say how-do-you-do
+to the manager, who was my uncle’s churchwarden,
+and when I came out met my uncle’s curate. He
+stopped and shook hands with me. He was walking
+with a stranger. He did not introduce me to him. He
+was a smallish man with a beard and he was dressed
+rather loudly in a bright brown knickerbocker suit, the
+breeches very tight, with navy blue stockings, black
+boots, and a billycock hat. Knickerbockers were uncommon
+then, at least in Blackstable, and being young
+and fresh from school I immediately set the fellow
+down as a cad. But while I chatted with the curate
+he looked at me in a friendly way, with a smile in his
+pale blue eyes. I felt that for two pins he would have
+joined in the conversation and I assumed a haughty
+demeanour. I was not going to run the risk of being
+spoken to by a chap who wore knickerbockers like a
+gamekeeper and I resented the familiarity of his good-humoured
+expression. I was myself faultlessly dressed
+in white flannel trousers, a blue blazer with the arms
+of my school on the breast pocket, and a black-and-white
+straw hat with a very wide brim. The curate
+said that he must be getting on (fortunately, for I
+never knew how to break away from a meeting in the
+street and would endure agonies of shyness while I
+looked in vain for an opportunity), but said that he
+would be coming up to the vicarage that afternoon
+and would I tell my uncle. The stranger nodded and
+smiled as we parted, but I gave him a stony stare.
+I supposed he was a summer visitor and in Blackstable
+we did not mix with the summer visitors. We
+thought London people vulgar. We said it was
+horrid to have all that rag-tag and bobtail down
+from town every year, but of course it was all right
+for the tradespeople. Even they, however, gave a
+faint sigh of relief when September came to an end
+and Blackstable sank back into its usual peace.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I went home to dinner, my hair insufficiently
+dried and clinging lankily to my head, I remarked
+that I had met the curate and he was coming up that
+afternoon.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Old Mrs. Shepherd died last night,” said my
+uncle in explanation.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The curate’s name was Galloway; he was a tall
+thin ungainly man with untidy black hair and a small
+sallow dark face. I suppose he was quite young, but
+to me he seemed middle-aged. He talked very quickly
+and gesticulated a great deal. This made people
+think him rather queer and my uncle would not have
+kept him but that he was very energetic, and my
+uncle, being extremely lazy, was glad to have someone
+to take so much work off his shoulders. After
+he had finished the business that had brought him
+to the vicarage Mr. Galloway came in to say how-do-you-do
+to my aunt and she asked him to stay
+to tea.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Who was that you were with this morning?” I
+asked him as he sat down.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that was Edward Driffield. I didn’t introduce
+him. I wasn’t sure if your uncle would wish you to
+know him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think it would be most undesirable,” said my
+uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why, who is he? He’s not a Blackstable man,
+is he?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He was born in the parish,” said my uncle. “His
+father was old Miss Wolfe’s bailiff at Ferne Court.
+But they were chapel people.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He married a Blackstable girl,” said Mr. Galloway.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“In church, I believe,” said my aunt. “Is it true
+that she was a barmaid at the Railway Arms?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She looks as if she might have been something
+like that,” said Mr. Galloway, with a smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Are they going to stay long?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I think so. They’ve taken one of those houses
+in that street where the Congregational chapel is,”
+said the curate.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>At that time in Blackstable, though the new
+streets doubtless had names, nobody knew or used
+them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Is he coming to church?” asked my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t actually talked to him about it yet,”
+answered Mr. Galloway. “He’s quite an educated
+man, you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I can hardly believe that,” said my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He was at Haversham School, I understand, and
+he got any number of scholarships and prizes. He
+got a scholarship at Wadham, but he ran away to
+sea instead.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’d heard he was rather a harum-scarum,” said
+my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He doesn’t look much like a sailor,” I remarked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he gave up the sea many years ago. He’s been
+all sorts of things since then.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Jack of all trades and master of none,” said
+my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Now, I understand, he’s a writer.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That won’t last long,” said my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had never known a writer before; I was interested.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What does he write?” I asked. “Books?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I believe so,” said the curate, “and articles. He
+had a novel published last spring. He’s promised to
+lend it me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wouldn’t waste my time on rubbish in your
+place,” said my uncle, who never read anything but
+the <span class='it'>Times</span> and the <span class='it'>Guardian</span>.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What’s it called?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He told me the title, but I forget it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Anyhow, it’s quite unnecessary that you should
+know,” said my uncle. “I should very much object
+to your reading trashy novels. During your holidays
+the best thing you can do is to keep out in the open
+air. And you have a holiday task, I presume?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had. It was <span class='it'>Ivanhoe</span>. I had read it when I was
+ten, and the notion of reading it again and writing
+an essay on it bored me to distraction.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I consider the greatness that Edward Driffield
+afterward achieved I cannot but smile as I remember
+the fashion in which he was discussed at my
+uncle’s table. When he died a little while ago and an
+agitation arose among his admirers to have him
+buried in Westminster Abbey the present incumbent
+at Blackstable, my uncle’s successor twice removed,
+wrote to the <span class='it'>Daily Mail</span> pointing out that Driffield
+was born in the parish and not only had passed long
+years, especially the last twenty-five of his life, in the
+neighbourhood, but had laid there the scene of some
+of his most famous books; it was only becoming then
+that his bones should rest in the churchyard where
+under the Kentish elms his father and mother dwelt
+in peace. There was relief in Blackstable when, the
+Dean of Westminster having somewhat curtly refused
+the Abbey, Mrs. Driffield sent a dignified letter
+to the press in which she expressed her confidence
+that she was carrying out the dearest wishes of her
+dead husband in having him buried among the simple
+people he knew and loved so well. Unless the notabilities
+of Blackstable have very much changed since
+my day I do not believe they very much liked that
+phrase about “simple people,” but, as I afterward
+learnt, they had never been able to “abide” the second
+Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">IV</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>To my</span> surprise, two or three days after I lunched
+with Alroy Kear I received a letter from Edward
+Driffield’s widow. It ran as follows:</p>
+
+<div class='blockquote100percent'>
+
+<p class='hang'><span class='sc'>Dear Friend</span>,<br/>
+<span class='it'>I hear that you had a long talk with Roy last week
+about Edward Driffield and I am so glad to know that
+you spoke of him so nicely. He often talked to me of
+you. He had the greatest admiration for your talent and
+he was so very pleased to see you when you came to lunch
+with us. I wonder if you have in your possession any
+letters that he wrote to you and if so whether you would
+let me have copies of them. I should be very pleased if
+I could persuade you to come down for two or three
+days and stay with me. I live very quietly now and have
+no one here, so please choose your own time. I shall be
+delighted to see you again and have a talk of old times.
+I have a particular service I want you to do me and I
+am sure that for the sake of my dear dead husband you
+will not refuse.</span></p>
+
+<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;'><span class='it'>Yours ever sincerely</span>,</p>
+<p class='line0' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'><span class='sc'>Amy Driffield</span>.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had seen Mrs. Driffield only once and she but
+mildly interested me; I do not like being addressed as
+“dear friend”; that alone would have been enough to
+make me decline her invitation; and I was exasperated
+by its general character which, however ingenious
+an excuse I invented, made the reason I did not
+go quite obvious, namely, that I did not want to. I
+had no letters of Driffield’s. I suppose years ago he
+had written to me several times, brief notes, but he
+was then an obscure scribbler and even if I ever kept
+letters it would never have occurred to me to keep
+his. How was I to know that he was going to be
+acclaimed as the greatest novelist of our day? I hesitated
+only because Mrs. Driffield said she wanted me
+to do something for her. It would certainly be a
+nuisance, but it would be churlish not to do it if I
+could, and after all her husband was a very distinguished man.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The letter came by the first post and after breakfast
+I rang up Roy. As soon as I mentioned my name
+I was put through to him by his secretary. If I were
+writing a detective story I should immediately have
+suspected that my call was awaited, and Roy’s virile
+voice calling hullo would have confirmed my suspicion.
+No one could naturally be quite so cheery so
+early in the morning.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good God, no.” His healthy laugh rippled along
+the wires. “I’ve been up since seven. I’ve been riding
+in the park. I’m just going to have breakfast. Come
+along and have it with me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I have a great affection for you, Roy,” I answered,
+“but I don’t think you’re the sort of person I’d care
+to have breakfast with. Besides, I’ve already had
+mine. Look here, I’ve just had a letter from Mrs.
+Driffield asking me to go down and stay.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, she told me she was going to ask you. We
+might go down together. She’s got quite a good
+grass court and she does one very well. I think you’d
+like it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What is it that she wants me to do?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ah, I think she’d like to tell you that herself.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>There was a softness in Roy’s voice such as I
+imagined he would use if he were telling a prospective
+father that his wife was about to gratify his wishes.
+It cut no ice with me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Come off it, Roy,” I said. “I’m too old a bird
+to be caught with chaff. Spit it out.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>There was a moment’s pause at the other end of
+the telephone. I felt that Roy did not like my expression.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Are you busy this morning?” he asked suddenly.
+“I’d like to come and see you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right, come on. I shall be in till one.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll be round in about an hour.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I replaced the receiver and relit my pipe. I gave
+Mrs. Driffield’s letter a second glance.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I remembered vividly the luncheon to which she
+referred. I happened to be staying for a long week-end
+not far from Tercanbury with a certain Lady
+Hodmarsh, the clever and handsome American wife
+of a sporting baronet with no intelligence and charming
+manners. Perhaps to relieve the tedium of domestic
+life she was in the habit of entertaining persons
+connected with the arts. Her parties were mixed and
+gay. Members of the nobility and gentry mingled
+with astonishment and an uneasy awe with painters,
+writers, and actors. Lady Hodmarsh neither read the
+books nor looked at the pictures of the people to
+whom she offered hospitality, but she liked their company
+and enjoyed the feeling it gave her of being in the
+artistic know. When on this occasion the conversation
+happened to dwell for a moment on Edward Driffield,
+her most celebrated neighbour, and I mentioned
+that I had at one time known him very well
+she proposed that we should go over and lunch with
+him on Monday when a number of her guests were
+going back to London. I demurred, for I had not
+seen Driffield for five and thirty years and I could
+not believe that he would remember me; and if he
+did (though this I kept to myself) I could not believe
+that it would be with pleasure. But there was
+a young peer there, a certain Lord Scallion, with
+literary inclinations so violent that, instead of ruling
+this country as the laws of man and nature have
+decreed, he devoted his energy to the composition
+of detective novels. His curiosity to see Driffield was
+boundless and the moment Lady Hodmarsh made her
+suggestion he said it would be too divine. The star
+guest of the party was a big young fat duchess and
+it appeared that her admiration for the celebrated
+writer was so intense that she was prepared to cut
+an engagement in London and not go up till the
+afternoon.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That would make four of us,” said Lady Hodmarsh.
+“I don’t think they could manage more than
+that. I’ll wire to Mrs. Driffield at once.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I could not see myself going to see Driffield in
+that company and tried to throw cold water on the
+scheme.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’ll only bore him to death,” I said. “He’ll hate
+having a lot of strangers barging in on him like this.
+He’s a very old man.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s why if they want to see him they’d better
+see him now. He can’t last much longer. Mrs. Driffield
+says he likes to meet people. They never see
+anybody but the doctor and the parson and it’s a
+change for them. Mrs. Driffield said I could always
+bring anyone interesting. Of course she has to be
+very careful. He’s pestered by all sorts of people
+who want to see him just out of idle curiosity, and
+interviewers and authors who want him to read their
+books, and silly hysterical women. But Mrs. Driffield
+is wonderful. She keeps everyone away from
+him but those she thinks he ought to see. I mean,
+he’d be dead in a week if he saw everyone who wants
+to see him. She has to think of his strength. Naturally
+we’re different.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Of course I thought I was; but as I looked at them
+I perceived that the duchess and Lord Scallion
+thought they were too; so it seemed best to say no
+more.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We drove over in a bright yellow Rolls. Ferne
+Court was three miles from Blackstable. It was a
+stucco house built, I suppose, about 1840, plain and
+unpretentious, but substantial; it was the same back
+and front, two large bows on each side of a flat
+piece in which was the front door, and there were two
+large bows on the first floor. A plain parapet hid the
+low roof. It stood in about an acre of garden, somewhat
+overgrown with trees, but neatly tended, and
+from the drawing room window you had a pleasant
+view of woods and green downland. The drawing
+room was furnished so exactly as you felt a drawing
+room in a country house of modest size should be
+furnished that it was slightly disconcerting. Clean
+bright chintzes covered the comfortable chairs and
+the large sofa, and the curtains were of the same
+bright clean chintz. On little Chippendale tables stood
+large Oriental bowls filled with pot-pourri. On the
+cream-coloured walls were pleasant water colours by
+painters well known at the beginning of this century.
+There were great masses of flowers charmingly
+arranged, and on the grand piano in silver frames
+photographs of celebrated actresses, deceased authors,
+and minor royalties.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was no wonder that the duchess cried out that
+it was a lovely room. It was just the kind of room
+in which a distinguished writer should spend the
+evening of his days. Mrs. Driffield received us with
+modest assurance. She was a woman of about five
+and forty, I judged, with a small sallow face and
+neat, sharp features. She had a black cloche hat
+pressed tight down on her head and wore a gray
+coat and skirt. Her figure was slight and she was
+neither tall nor short, and she looked trim, competent,
+and alert. She might have been the squire’s
+widowed daughter, who ran the parish and had a
+peculiar gift for organization. She introduced us to
+a clergyman and a lady, who got up as we were
+shown in. They were the Vicar of Blackstable and
+his wife. Lady Hodmarsh and the duchess immediately
+assumed that cringing affability that persons
+of rank assume with their inferiors in order to show
+them that they are not for a moment aware that
+there is any difference of station between them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then Edward Driffield came in. I had seen portraits
+of him from time to time in the illustrated
+papers but it was with dismay that I saw him in the
+flesh. He was smaller than I remembered and very
+thin, his head was barely covered with fine silvery
+hair, he was clean-shaven, and his skin was almost
+transparent. His blue eyes were very pale and the
+rims of his eyelids red. He looked an old, old man,
+hanging on to mortality by a thread; he wore very
+white false teeth and they made his smile seem
+forced and stiff. I had never seen him but bearded
+and his lips were thin and pallid. He was dressed in
+a new, well-cut suit of blue serge and his low collar,
+two or three sizes too large for him, showed a
+wrinkled, scraggy neck. He wore a neat black tie
+with a pearl in it. He looked a little like a dean in
+mufti on his summer holiday in Switzerland.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield gave him a quick glance as he came
+in and smiled encouragingly; she must have been satisfied
+with the neatness of his appearance. He shook
+hands with his guests and to each one said something
+civil. When he came to me he said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s very good of a busy and successful man like
+you to come all this way to see an old fogey.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was a trifle taken aback, for he spoke as though
+he had never seen me before, and I was afraid my
+friends would think I had been boasting when I
+claimed at one time to have known him intimately.
+I wondered if he had completely forgotten me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know how many years it is since we last
+met,” I said, trying to be hearty.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He looked at me for what I suppose was no more
+than a few seconds, but for what seemed to me quite
+a long time, and then I had a sudden shock; he gave
+me a little wink. It was so quick that nobody but I
+could have caught it, and so unexpected in that distinguished
+old face that I could hardly believe my
+eyes. In a moment his face was once more composed,
+intelligently benign, and quietly observant. Luncheon
+was announced and we trooped into the dining room.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>This also was in what can only be described as
+the acme of good taste. On the Chippendale sideboard
+were silver candlesticks. We sat on Chippendale
+chairs and ate off a Chippendale table. In a
+silver bowl in the middle were roses and round this
+were silver dishes with chocolates in them and peppermint
+creams; the silver salt cellars were brightly
+polished and evidently Georgian. On the cream-coloured
+walls were mezzotints of ladies painted by
+Sir Peter Lely and on the chimney-piece a garniture
+of blue delft. The service was conducted by two
+maids in brown uniform and Mrs. Driffield in the
+midst of her fluent conversation kept a wary eye on
+them. I wondered how she had managed to train
+these buxom Kentish girls (their healthy colour and
+high cheek bones betrayed the fact that they were
+“local”) to such a pitch of efficiency. The lunch was
+just right for the occasion, smart but not showy,
+fillets of sole rolled up and covered with a white
+sauce, roast chicken, with new potatoes and green
+peas, asparagus and gooseberry fool. It was the
+dining room and the lunch and the manner which
+you felt exactly fitted a literary gent of great celebrity
+but moderate wealth.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield, like the wives of most men of letters,
+was a great talker and she did not let the conversation
+at her end of the table flag; so that, however
+much we might have wanted to hear what her
+husband was saying at the other, we had no opportunity.
+She was gay and sprightly. Though Edward
+Driffield’s indifferent health and great age obliged
+her to live most of the year in the country, she managed
+notwithstanding to run up to town often enough
+to keep abreast of what was going on and she was
+soon engaged with Lord Scallion in an animated
+discussion of the plays in the London theatres and
+the terrible crowd at the Royal Academy. It had
+taken her two visits to look at all the pictures and
+even then she had not had time to see the water
+colours. She liked water colours so much; they were
+unpretentious; she hated things to be pretentious.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>So that host and hostess should sit at the head and
+foot of the table, the vicar sat next to Lord Scallion
+and his wife next to the duchess. The duchess engaged
+her in conversation on the subject of working-class
+dwellings, a subject on which she seemed to be
+much more at home than the parson’s lady, and my attention
+being thus set free I watched Edward Driffield.
+He was talking to Lady Hodmarsh. She was apparently
+telling him how to write a novel and giving
+him a list of a few that he really ought to read. He
+listened to her with what looked like polite interest,
+putting in now and then a remark in a voice too low
+for me to catch, and when she made a jest (she made
+them frequently and often good ones) he gave a
+little chuckle and shot her a quick look that seemed
+to say: this woman isn’t such a damned fool after all.
+Remembering the past, I asked myself curiously what
+he thought of this grand company, his neatly turned
+out wife, so competent and discreetly managing, and
+the elegant surroundings in which he lived. I wondered
+if he regretted his early days of adventure. I
+wondered if all this amused him or if the amiable
+civility of his manner masked a hideous boredom.
+Perhaps he felt my eyes upon him, for he raised his.
+They rested on me for a while with a meditative look,
+mild and yet oddly scrutinizing, and then suddenly,
+unmistakably this time, he gave me another wink.
+The frivolous gesture in that old, withered face was
+more than startling, it was embarrassing; I did not
+know what to do. My lips outlined a dubious smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But the duchess joining in the conversation at the
+head of the table, the vicar’s wife turned to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You knew him many years ago, didn’t you?” she
+asked me in a low tone.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She gave the company a glance to see that no one
+was attending to us.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“His wife is anxious that you shouldn’t call up
+old memories that might be painful to him. He’s very
+frail, you know, and the least thing upsets him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll be very careful.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The way she looks after him is simply wonderful.
+Her devotion is a lesson to all of us. She realizes
+what a precious charge it is. Her unselfishness is
+beyond words.” She lowered her voice a little more.
+“Of course he’s a very old man and old men sometimes
+are a little trying; I’ve never seen her out of
+patience. In her way she’s just as wonderful as he is.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>These were the sort of remarks to which it was
+difficult to find a reply, but I felt that one was expected
+of me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Considering everything I think he looks very
+well,” I murmured.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He owes it all to her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>At the end of luncheon we went back into the
+drawing room and after we had been standing about
+for two or three minutes Edward Driffield came up
+to me. I was talking with the vicar and for want of
+anything better to say was admiring the charming
+view. I turned to my host.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was just saying how picturesque that little row
+of cottages is down there.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“From here.” Driffield looked at their broken outline
+and an ironic smile curled his thin lips. “I was
+born in one of them. Rum, isn’t it?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But Mrs. Driffield came up to us with bustling
+geniality. Her voice was brisk and melodious.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Edward, I’m sure the duchess would like to
+see your writing room. She has to go almost immediately.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m so sorry, but I must catch the three-eighteen
+from Tercanbury,” said the duchess.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We filed into Driffield’s study. It was a large room
+on the other side of the house, looking out on the
+same view as the dining room, with a bow window.
+It was the sort of room that a devoted wife would
+evidently arrange for her literary husband. It was
+scrupulously tidy and large bowls of flowers gave
+it a feminine touch.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“This is the desk at which he’s written all his
+later works,” said Mrs. Driffield, closing a book
+that was open face downward on it. “It’s the frontispiece
+in the third volume of the <span class='it'>edition de luxe</span>. It’s
+a period piece.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We all admired the writing table and Lady Hodmarsh,
+when she thought no one was looking, ran
+her fingers along its under edge to see if it was
+genuine. Mrs. Driffield gave us a quick, bright smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Would you like to see one of his manuscripts?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’d love to,” said the duchess, “and then I simply
+must bolt.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield took from a shelf a manuscript
+bound in blue morocco, and while the rest of the
+party reverently examined it I had a look at the
+books with which the room was lined. As authors
+will, I ran my eye round quickly to see if there were
+any of mine, but could not find one; I saw, however,
+a complete set of Alroy Kear’s and a great
+many novels in bright bindings, which looked suspiciously
+unread; I guessed that they were the works
+of authors who had sent them to the master in
+homage to his talent and perhaps the hope of a few
+words of eulogy that could be used in the publisher’s
+advertisements. But all the books were so neatly
+arranged, they were so clean, that I had the impression
+they were very seldom read. There was the
+Oxford Dictionary and there were standard editions
+in grand bindings of most of the English classics,
+Fielding, Boswell, Hazlitt, and so on, and there
+were a great many books on the sea; I recognized
+the variously coloured, untidy volumes of the sailing
+directions issued by the Admiralty, and there were
+a number of works on gardening. The room had the
+look not of a writer’s workshop, but of a memorial
+to a great name, and you could almost see already
+the desultory tripper wandering in for want of something
+better to do and smell the rather musty,
+close smell of a museum that few visited. I had a
+suspicion that nowadays if Driffield read anything
+at all it was the <span class='it'>Gardener’s Chronicle</span> or the <span class='it'>Shipping
+Gazette</span>, of which I saw a bundle on a table in the
+corner.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When the ladies had seen all they wanted we bade
+our hosts farewell. But Lady Hodmarsh was a
+woman of tact and it must have occurred to her that
+I, the excuse for the party, had scarcely had a word
+with Edward Driffield, for at the door, enveloping
+me with a friendly smile, she said to him:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was so interested to hear that you and Mr.
+Ashenden had known one another years and years
+ago. Was he a nice little boy?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield looked at me for a moment with that
+level, ironic gaze of his. I had the impression that
+if there had been nobody there he would have put his
+tongue out at me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Shy,” he replied. “I taught him to ride a bicycle.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We got once more into the huge yellow Rolls and
+drove off.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s too sweet,” said the duchess. “I’m so glad
+we went.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He has such nice manners, hasn’t he?” said Lady
+Hodmarsh.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You didn’t really expect him to eat his peas with
+a knife, did you?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wish he had,” said Scallion. “It would have
+been so picturesque.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I believe it’s very difficult,” said the duchess.
+“I’ve tried over and over again and I can never get
+them to stay on.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You have to spear them,” said Scallion.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not at all,” retorted the duchess. “You have to
+balance them on the flat, and they roll like the devil.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What did you think of Mrs. Driffield?” asked
+Lady Hodmarsh.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose she serves her purpose,” said the
+duchess.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s so old, poor darling, he must have someone
+to look after him. You know she was a hospital
+nurse?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, was she?” said the duchess. “I thought perhaps
+she’d been his secretary or typist or something.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s quite nice,” said Lady Hodmarsh, warmly
+defending a friend.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, quite.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He had a long illness about twenty years ago,
+and she was his nurse then, and after he got well he
+married her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Funny how men will do that. She must have
+been years younger than him. She can’t be more than—what?—forty
+or forty-five.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I shouldn’t think so. Forty-seven, say. I’m
+told she’s done a great deal for him. I mean, she’s
+made him quite presentable. Alroy Kear told me that
+before that he was almost too bohemian.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“As a rule authors’ wives are odious.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s such a bore having to have them, isn’t it?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Crushing. I wonder they don’t see that themselves.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Poor wretches, they often suffer from the delusion
+that people find them interesting,” I murmured.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We reached Tercanbury, dropped the duchess at
+the station, and drove on.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">V</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>It was</span> true that Edward Driffield had taught me
+to bicycle. That was indeed how I first made his
+acquaintance. I do not know how long the safety
+bicycle had been invented, but I know that it was
+not common in the remote part of Kent in which I
+lived and when you saw someone speeding along on
+solid tires you turned round and looked till he was
+out of sight. It was still a matter for jocularity on
+the part of middle-aged gentlemen who said Shank’s
+pony was good enough for them, and for trepidation
+on the part of elderly ladies who made a dash for
+the side of the road when they saw one coming. I
+had been for some time filled with envy of the boys
+whom I saw riding into the school grounds on their
+bicycles, and it gave a pretty opportunity for showing
+off when you entered the gateway without holding
+on to the handles. I had persuaded my uncle to let
+me have one at the beginning of the summer holidays,
+and though my aunt was against it, since she
+said I should only break my neck, he had yielded to
+my pertinacity more willingly because I was of course
+paying for it out of my own money. I ordered it
+before school broke up and a few days later the carrier
+brought it over from Tercanbury.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was determined to learn to ride it by myself and
+chaps at school had told me that they had learned
+in half an hour. I tried and tried and at last came
+to the conclusion that I was abnormally stupid (I
+am inclined now to think that I was exaggerating),
+but even after my pride was sufficiently humbled for
+me to allow the gardener to hold me up I seemed at
+the end of the first morning no nearer to being able
+to get on by myself than at the beginning. Next day,
+however, thinking that the carriage drive at the
+vicarage was too winding to give a fellow a proper
+chance, I wheeled the bicycle to a road not far away
+which I knew was perfectly flat and straight and so
+solitary that no one would see me making a fool of
+myself. I tried several times to mount, but fell off
+each time. I barked my shins against the pedals and
+got very hot and bothered. After I had been doing
+this for about an hour, though I began to think that
+God did not intend me to ride a bicycle, but was determined
+(unable to bear the thought of the sarcasms
+of my uncle, his representative at Blackstable)
+to do so all the same, to my disgust I saw two people
+on bicycles coming along the deserted road. I immediately
+wheeled my machine to the side and sat down
+on a stile, looking out to sea in a nonchalant way as
+though I had been for a ride and were just sitting
+there wrapped in contemplation of the vasty
+ocean. I kept my eyes dreamily averted from the
+two persons who were advancing toward me, but I
+felt that they were coming nearer, and through the
+corner of my eye I saw that they were a man and
+a woman. As they passed me the woman swerved
+violently to my side of the road and, crashing against
+me, fell to the ground.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew I should fall
+off the moment I saw you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was impossible under the circumstances to preserve
+my appearance of abstraction and, blushing
+furiously, I said that it didn’t matter at all.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The man had got off as she fell.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You haven’t hurt yourself?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I recognized him then as Edward Driffield, the
+author I had seen walking with the curate a few
+days before.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m just learning to ride,” said his companion.
+“And I fall off whenever I see anything in the road.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Aren’t you the vicar’s nephew?” said Driffield.
+“I saw you the other day. Galloway told me who
+you were. This is my wife.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She held out her hand with an oddly frank gesture
+and when I took it gave mine a warm and hearty
+pressure. She smiled with her lips and with her eyes
+and there was in her smile something that even then I
+recognized as singularly pleasant. I was confused.
+People I did not know made me dreadfully self-conscious,
+and I could not take in any of the details
+of her appearance. I just had an impression of a
+rather large blond woman. I do not know if I noticed
+then or only remembered afterward that she wore a
+full skirt of blue serge, a pink shirt with a starched
+front and a starched collar, and a straw hat, called in
+those days, I think, a boater, perched on the top of
+a lot of golden hair.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think bicycling’s lovely, don’t you?” she said,
+looking at my beautiful new machine which leaned
+against the stile. “It must be wonderful to be able
+to ride well.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I felt that this inferred an admiration for my proficiency.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s only a matter of practice,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“This is only my third lesson. Mr. Driffield says
+I’m coming on wonderful, but I feel so stupid I could
+kick myself. How long did it take you before you
+could ride?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I blushed to the roots of my hair. I could hardly
+utter the shameful words.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I can’t ride,” I said. “I’ve only just got this bike
+and this is the first time I’ve tried.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I equivocated a trifle there, but I made it all right
+with my conscience by adding the mental reservation:
+except yesterday at home in the garden.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll give you a lesson if you like,” said Driffield
+in his good-humoured way. “Come on.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why not?” asked his wife, her blue eyes still
+pleasantly smiling. “Mr. Driffield would like to and
+it’ll give me a chance to rest.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield took my bicycle, and I, reluctant but unable
+to withstand his friendly violence, clumsily
+mounted. I swayed from side to side, but he held me
+with a firm hand.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Faster,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I pedalled and he ran by me as I wobbled from
+side to side. We were both very hot when, notwithstanding
+his struggles, I at last fell off. It was very
+hard under such circumstances to preserve the standoffishness
+befitting the vicar’s nephew with the son
+of Miss Wolfe’s bailiff, and when I started back
+again and for thirty or forty thrilling yards actually
+rode by myself and Mrs. Driffield ran into the middle
+of the road with her arms akimbo shouting, “Go it,
+go it, two to one on the favourite,” I was laughing
+so much that I positively forgot all about my social
+status. I got off of my own accord, my face no doubt
+wearing an air of immodest triumph, and received
+without embarrassment the Driffields’ congratulation
+on my cleverness in riding a bicycle the very first
+day I tried.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I want to see if I can get on by myself,” said
+Mrs. Driffield, and I sat down again on the stile
+while her husband and I watched her unavailing
+struggles.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then, wanting to rest again, disappointed but
+cheerful, she sat down beside me. Driffield lit his
+pipe. We chatted. I did not of course realize it then,
+but I know now that there was a disarming frankness
+in her manner that put one at one’s ease. She
+talked with a kind of eagerness, like a child bubbling
+over with the zest of life, and her eyes were lit all
+the time by her engaging smile. I did not know why
+I liked it. I should say it was a little sly, if slyness
+were not a displeasing quality; it was too innocent
+to be sly. It was mischievous rather, like that of a
+child who has done something that he thinks funny,
+but is quite well aware that you will think rather
+naughty; he knows all the same that you won’t be
+really cross and if you don’t find out about it quickly
+he’ll come and tell you himself. But of course then
+I only knew that her smile made me feel at home.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Presently Driffield, looking at his watch, said that
+they must be going and suggested that we should
+all ride back together in style. It was just the time
+that my aunt and uncle would be coming home from
+their daily walk down the town and I did not like to
+run the risk of being seen with people whom they
+would not at all approve of; so I asked them to go
+on first, as they would go more quickly than I. Mrs.
+Driffield would not hear of it, but Driffield gave me
+a funny, amused little look, which made me think
+that he saw through my excuse so that I blushed scarlet,
+and he said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Let him go by himself, Rosie. He can manage
+better alone.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right. Shall you be here to-morrow? We’re
+coming.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll try to,” I answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>They rode off, and in a few minutes I followed.
+Feeling very much pleased with myself, I rode all the
+way to the vicarage gates without falling. I think I
+boasted a good deal at dinner, but I did not say that
+I had met the Driffields.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Next day at about eleven I got my bicycle out of
+the coachhouse. It was so called though it held not
+even a pony trap and was used by the gardener to
+keep the mower and the roller, and by Mary-Ann for
+her sack of meal for the chickens. I wheeled it down
+to the gate and, mounting none too easily, rode along
+the Tercanbury Road till I came to the old turnpike
+and turned into Joy Lane.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The sky was blue and the air, warm and yet fresh,
+crackled, as it were, with the heat. The light was
+brilliant without harshness. The sun’s beams seemed
+to hit the white road with a directed energy and
+bounce back like a rubber ball.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I rode backward and forward, waiting for the
+Driffields, and presently saw them come. I waved
+to them and turned round (getting off to do so)
+and we pedalled along together. Mrs. Driffield and
+I complimented one another on our progress. We
+rode anxiously, clinging like grim death to the
+handle-bars, but exultant, and Driffield said that as
+soon as we felt sure of ourselves we must go for
+rides all over the country.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I want to get rubbings of one or two brasses in
+the neighbourhood,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not know what he meant, but he would not
+explain.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Wait and I’ll show you,” he said. “Do you think
+you could ride fourteen miles to-morrow, seven there
+and seven back?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rather,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll bring a sheet of paper for you and some wax
+and you can make a rubbing. But you’d better ask
+your uncle if you can come.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I needn’t do that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think you’d better all the same.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield gave me that peculiar look of hers,
+mischievous and yet friendly, and I blushed scarlet.
+I knew that if I asked my uncle he would say no.
+It would be much better to say nothing about it. But
+as we rode along I saw coming toward us the doctor
+in his dogcart. I looked straight in front of me as
+he passed in the vain hope that if I did not look at
+him he would not look at me. I was uneasy. If he
+had seen me the fact would quickly reach the ears
+of my uncle or my aunt and I considered whether it
+would not be safer to disclose myself a secret that
+could no longer be concealed. When we parted at
+the vicarage gates (I had not been able to avoid
+riding as far as this in their company) Driffield said
+that if I found I could come with them next day I
+had better call for them as early as I could.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know where we live, don’t you? Next door
+to the Congregational Church. It’s called Lime Cottage.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I sat down to dinner I looked for an opportunity
+to slip in casually the information that I
+had by accident run across the Driffields; but news
+travelled fast in Blackstable.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Who were those people you were bicycling with
+this morning?” asked my aunt. “We met Dr. Anstey
+in the town and he said he’d seen you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>My uncle, chewing his roast beef with an air of
+disapproval, looked sullenly at his plate.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The Driffields,” I said with nonchalance. “You
+know, the author. Mr. Galloway knows them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They’re most disreputable people,” said my
+uncle. “I don’t wish you to associate with them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why not?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not going to give you my reasons. It’s enough
+that I don’t wish it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How did you ever get to know them?” asked my
+aunt.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was just riding along and they were riding
+along, and they asked me if I’d like to ride with
+them,” I said, distorting the truth a little.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I call it very pushing,” said my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I began to sulk. And to show my indignation when
+the sweet was put on the table, though it was raspberry
+tart which I was extremely fond of, I refused
+to have any. My aunt asked me if I was not feeling
+very well.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” I said, as haughtily as I could, “I’m feeling
+all right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have a little bit,” said my aunt.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not hungry,” I answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Just to please me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He must know when he’s had enough,” said my
+uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I gave him a bitter look.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind having a small piece,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>My aunt gave me a generous helping, which I ate
+with the air of one who, impelled by a stern sense of
+duty, performs an act that is deeply distasteful to
+him. It was a beautiful raspberry tart. Mary-Ann
+made short pastry that melted in the mouth. But
+when my aunt asked me whether I could not manage
+a little more I refused with cold dignity. She
+did not insist. My uncle said grace and I carried my
+outraged feelings into the drawing room.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But when I reckoned that the servants had finished
+their dinner I went into the kitchen. Emily
+was cleaning the silver in the pantry. Mary-Ann was
+washing up.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I say, what’s wrong with the Driffields?” I asked
+her.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann had come to the vicarage when she was
+eighteen. She had bathed me when I was a small boy,
+given me powders in plum jam when I needed them,
+packed my box when I went to school, nursed me when
+I was ill, read to me when I was bored, and scolded
+me when I was naughty. Emily, the housemaid, was
+a flighty young thing, and Mary-Ann didn’t know
+whatever would become of me if <span class='it'>she</span> had the looking
+after of me. Mary-Ann was a Blackstable girl. She
+had never been to London in her life and I do not
+think she had been to Tercanbury more than three
+or four times. She was never ill. She never had a
+holiday. She was paid twelve pounds a year. One
+evening a week she went down the town to see her
+mother, who did the vicarage washing; and on Sunday
+evenings she went to church. But Mary-Ann
+knew everything that went on in Blackstable. She
+knew who everybody was, who had married whom,
+what anyone’s father had died of, and how many
+children, and what they were called, any woman had
+had.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I asked Mary-Ann my question and she slopped a
+wet clout noisily into the sink.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t blame your uncle,” she said. “I wouldn’t
+let you go about with them, not if you was my
+nephew. Fancy their askin’ you to ride your bicycle
+with them! Some people will do anything.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I saw that the conversation in the dining room
+had been repeated to Mary-Ann.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not a child,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That makes it all the worse. The impudence of
+their comin’ ’ere at all!” Mary-Ann dropped her
+aitches freely. “Takin’ a house and pretendin’ to be
+ladies and gentlemen. Now leave that pie alone.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The raspberry tart was standing on the kitchen
+table and I broke off a piece of crust with my fingers
+and put it in my mouth.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We’re goin’ to eat that for our supper. If you’d
+wanted a second ’elpin’ why didn’t you ’ave one when
+you was ’avin’ your dinner? Ted Driffield never could
+stick to anything. He ’ad a good education, too. The
+one I’m sorry for is his mother. He’s been a trouble
+to ’er from the day he was born. And then to go
+an’ marry Rosie Gann. They tell me that when he
+told his mother what he was goin’ to do she took
+to ’er bed and stayed there for three weeks and
+wouldn’t talk to anybody.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Was Mrs. Driffield Rosie Gann before she married?
+Which Ganns were those?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Gann was one of the commonest names at Blackstable.
+The churchyard was thick with their graves.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you wouldn’t ’ave known them. Old Josiah
+Gann was her father. He was a wild one, too. He
+went for a soldier and when he come back he ’ad a
+wooden leg. He used to go out doing painting, but
+he was out of work more often than not. They lived
+in the next ’ouse to us in Rye Lane. Me an’ Rosie
+used to go to Sunday school together.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But she’s not as old as you are,” I said with the
+bluntness of my age.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’ll never see thirty again.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann was a little woman with a snub nose
+and decayed teeth, but fresh-coloured, and I do not
+suppose she could have been more than thirty-five.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rosie ain’t more than four or five years younger
+than me, whatever she may pretend she is. They tell
+me you wouldn’t know her now all dressed up and
+everything.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Is it true that she was a barmaid?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, at the Railway Arms and then at the Prince
+of Wales’s Feathers at Haversham. Mrs. Reeves
+’ad her to ’elp in the bar at the Railway Arms, but
+it got so bad she had to get rid of her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The Railway Arms was a very modest little public
+house just opposite the station of the London, Chatham
+&amp; Dover Railway. It had a sort of sinister gaiety.
+On a winter’s night as you passed by you saw through
+the glass doors men lounging about the bar. My uncle
+very much disapproved of it, and had for years been
+trying to get its license taken away. It was frequented
+by the railway porters, colliers, and farm
+labourers. The respectable residents of Blackstable
+would have disdained to enter it and, when they
+wanted a glass of bitter, went to the Bear and Key
+or the Duke of Kent.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why, what did she do?” I asked, my eyes popping
+out of my head.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What didn’t she do?” said Mary-Ann. “What
+d’you think your uncle would say if he caught me
+tellin’ you things like that? There wasn’t a man
+who come in to ’ave a drink that she didn’t carry
+on with. No matter who they was. She couldn’t stick
+to anybody, it was just one man after another. They
+tell me it was simply ’orrible. That was when it
+begun with Lord George. It wasn’t the sort of place
+he was likely to go to, he was too grand for that, but
+they say he went in accidental like one day when his
+train was late, and he saw her. And after that he
+was never out of the place, mixin’ with all them
+common rough people, and of course they all knew
+what he was there for, and him with a wife and three
+children. Oh, I was sorry for her! And the talk it
+made. Well, it got so Mrs. Reeves said she wasn’t
+going to put up with it another day and she gave her
+her wages and told her to pack her box and go. Good
+riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I said.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I knew Lord George very well. His name was
+George Kemp and the title by which he was always
+known had been given him ironically owing to his
+grand manner. He was our coal merchant, but he
+also dabbled in house property, and he owned a share
+in one or two colliers. He lived in a new brick house
+that stood in its own grounds and he drove his own
+trap. He was a stoutish man with a pointed beard,
+florid, with a high colour and bold blue eyes. Remembering
+him, I think he must have looked like
+some jolly rubicund merchant in an old Dutch picture.
+He was always very flashily dressed and when
+you saw him driving at a smart pace down the middle
+of the High Street in a fawn-coloured covert-coat
+with large buttons, his brown bowler on the side of
+his head and a red rose in his buttonhole, you could
+not but look at him. On Sunday he used to come to
+church in a lustrous topper and a frock coat. Everyone
+knew that he wanted to be made churchwarden,
+and it was evident that his energy would have made
+him useful, but my uncle said not in his time, and
+though Lord George as a protest went to chapel for
+a year my uncle remained obdurate. He cut him
+dead when he met him in the town. A reconciliation
+was effected and Lord George came to church again,
+but my uncle only yielded so far as to appoint him
+sidesman. The gentry thought him extremely vulgar
+and I have no doubt that he was vain and boastful.
+They complained of his loud voice and his strident
+laugh—when he was talking to somebody on one
+side of the street you heard every word he said from
+the other—and they thought his manners dreadful.
+He was much too friendly; when he talked to them
+it was as though he were not in trade at all; they
+said he was very pushing. But if he thought his hail-fellow-well-met
+air, his activity in public works, his
+open purse when subscriptions were needed for the
+annual regatta or for the harvest festival, his willingness
+to do anyone a good turn were going to break
+the barriers at Blackstable he was mistaken. His
+efforts at sociability were met with blank hostility.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I remember once that the doctor’s wife was calling
+on my aunt and Emily came in to tell my uncle that
+Mr. George Kemp would like to see him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But I heard the front door ring, Emily,” said
+my aunt.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes’m, he came to the front door.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>There was a moment’s awkwardness. Everyone
+was at a loss to know how to deal with such an unusual
+occurrence, and even Emily, who knew who
+should come to the front door, who should go to
+the side door, and who to the back, looked a trifle
+flustered. My aunt, who was a gentle soul, I think
+felt honestly embarrassed that anyone should put
+himself in such a false position; but the doctor’s wife
+gave a little sniff of contempt. At last my uncle collected
+himself.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Show him into the study, Emily,” he said. “I’ll
+come as soon as I’ve finished my tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But Lord George remained exuberant, flashy, loud,
+and boisterous. He said the town was dead and he
+was going to wake it up. He was going to get the
+company to run excursion trains. He didn’t see why
+it shouldn’t become another Margate. And why
+shouldn’t they have a mayor? Ferne Bay had one.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose he thinks he’d be mayor himself,” said
+the people of Blackstable. They pursed their lips.
+“Pride goeth before a fall,” they said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And my uncle remarked that you could take a
+horse to the water but you couldn’t make him drink.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I should add that I looked upon Lord George with
+the same scornful derision as everyone else. It outraged
+me that he should stop me in the street and
+call me by my Christian name and talk to me as
+though there were no social difference between us.
+He even suggested that I should play cricket with
+his sons, who were of about the same age as myself.
+But they went to the grammar school at Haversham
+and of course I couldn’t possibly have anything to
+do with them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was shocked and thrilled by what Mary-Ann told
+me, but I had difficulty in believing it. I had read too
+many novels and had learnt too much at school not
+to know a good deal about love, but I thought it was
+a matter that only concerned young people. I could
+not conceive that a man with a beard, who had sons
+as old as I, could have any feelings of that sort. I
+thought when you married all that was finished. That
+people over thirty should be in love seemed to me
+rather disgusting.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You don’t mean to say they did anything?” I
+asked Mary-Ann.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“From what I hear there’s very little that Rosie
+Gann didn’t do. And Lord George wasn’t the only
+one.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But, look here, why didn’t she have a baby?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>In the novels I had read whenever lovely woman
+stooped to folly she had a baby. The cause was put
+with infinite precaution, sometimes indeed suggested
+only by a row of asterisks, but the result was inevitable.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“More by good luck than by good management, I
+lay,” said Mary-Ann. Then she recollected herself
+and stopped drying the plates she was busy with. “It
+seems to me you know a lot more than you ought
+to,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Of course I know,” I said importantly. “Hang it
+all, I’m practically grown up, aren’t I?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All I can tell you,” said Mary-Ann, “is that when
+Mrs. Reeves gave her the sack Lord George got
+her a job at the Prince of Wales’s Feathers at Haversham
+and he was always poppin’ over there in his
+trap. You can’t tell me the ale’s any different over
+there from what it is here.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then why did Ted Driffield marry her?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ask me another,” said Mary-Ann. “It was at
+the Feathers he saw her. I suppose he couldn’t get
+anyone else to marry him. No respectable girl would
+’ave ’ad ’im.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did he know about her?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’d better ask him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was silent. It was all very puzzling.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What does she look like now?” asked Mary-Ann.
+“I never seen her since she married. I never
+even speak to ’er after I ’eard what was goin’ on at
+the Railway Arms.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She looks all right,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, you ask her if she remembers me and see
+what she says.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">VI</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I had</span> quite made up my mind that I was going out
+with the Driffields next morning, but knew that it
+was no good asking my uncle if I might. If he found
+out that I had been and made a row it couldn’t be
+helped, and if Ted Driffield asked me whether I had
+got my uncle’s permission I was quite prepared to
+say I had. But I had after all no need to lie. In the
+afternoon, the tide being high, I walked down to
+the beach to bathe and my uncle, having something
+to do in the town, walked part of the way with me.
+Just as we were passing the Bear and Key, Ted
+Driffield stepped out of it. He saw us and came
+straight up to my uncle. I was startled at his coolness.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good afternoon, Vicar,” he said. “I wonder if
+you remember me. I used to sing in the choir when
+I was a boy. Ted Driffield. My old governor was Miss
+Wolfe’s bailiff.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>My uncle was a very timid man, and he was taken
+aback.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes, how do you do? I was sorry to hear
+your father died.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ve made the acquaintance of your young
+nephew. I was wondering if you’d let him come for
+a ride with me to-morrow. It’s rather dull for him
+riding alone, and I’m going to do a rubbing of one
+of the brasses at Ferne Church.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s very kind of you, but——”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>My uncle was going to refuse, but Driffield interrupted
+him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll see he doesn’t get up to any mischief. I
+thought he might like to make a rubbing himself. It
+would be an interest for him. I’ll give him some
+paper and wax so that it won’t cost him anything.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>My uncle had not a consecutive mind and the
+suggestion that Ted Driffield should pay for my
+paper and wax offended him so much that he quite
+forgot his intention to forbid me to go at all.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He can quite well get his own paper and wax,”
+he said. “He has plenty of pocket money, and he’d
+much better spend it on something like that than on
+sweets and make himself sick.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, if he goes to Hayward, the stationer’s, and
+says he wants the same paper as I got and the wax
+they’ll let him have it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll go now,” I said, and to prevent any change
+of mind on my uncle’s part dashed across the road.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">VII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I do</span> not know why the Driffields bothered about me
+unless it was from pure kindness of heart. I was a
+dull little boy, not very talkative, and if I amused
+Ted Driffield at all it must have been unconsciously.
+Perhaps he was tickled by my attitude of superiority.
+I was under the impression that it was condescension
+on my part to consort with the son of Miss Wolfe’s
+bailiff, and he what my uncle called a penny-a-liner;
+and when, perhaps with a trace of superciliousness,
+I asked him to lend me one of his books and he said
+it wouldn’t interest me I took him at his word and
+did not insist. After my uncle had once consented to
+my going out with the Driffields he made no further
+objection to my association with them. Sometimes we
+went for sails together, sometimes we went to some
+picturesque spot and Driffield painted a little water
+colour. I do not know if the English climate was better
+in those days or if it is only an illusion of youth,
+but I seem to remember that all through that summer
+the sunny days followed one another in an unbroken
+line. I began to feel a curious affection for the undulating,
+opulent, and gracious country. We went
+far afield, to one church after another, taking rubbings
+of brasses, knights in armour and ladies in
+stiff farthingales. Ted Driffield fired me with his own
+enthusiasm for this naïve pursuit and I rubbed with
+passion. I showed my uncle proudly the results of
+my industry, and I suppose he thought that whatever
+my company, I could not come to much harm when I
+was occupied in church. Mrs. Driffield used to remain
+in the churchyard while we were at work, not
+reading or sewing, but just mooning about; she
+seemed able to do nothing for an indefinite time without
+feeling bored. Sometimes I would go out and sit
+with her for a little on the grass. We chattered about
+my school, my friends there and my masters, about
+the people at Blackstable, and about nothing at all.
+She gratified me by calling me Mr. Ashenden. I
+think she was the first person who had ever done
+so and it made me feel grown up. I resented it vastly
+when people called me Master Willie. I thought it
+a ridiculous name for anyone to have. In fact I did
+not like either of my names and spent much time
+inventing others that would have suited me better.
+The ones I preferred were Roderic Ravensworth and
+I covered sheets of paper with this signature in a
+suitably dashing hand. I did not mind Ludovic Montgomery
+either.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I could not get over what Mary-Ann had told me
+about Mrs. Driffield. Though I knew theoretically
+what people did when they were married, and was
+capable of putting the facts in the bluntest language,
+I did not really understand it. I thought it indeed
+rather disgusting and I did not quite, quite believe
+it. After all, I was aware that the earth was round,
+but I <span class='it'>knew</span> it was flat. Mrs. Driffield seemed so frank,
+her laugh was so open and simple, there was in her
+demeanour something so young and childlike, that
+I could not see her “going with” sailors and above
+all anyone so gross and horrible as Lord George.
+She was not at all the type of the wicked woman I
+had read of in novels. Of course I knew she wasn’t
+“good form” and she spoke with the Blackstable
+accent, she dropped an aitch now and then, and sometimes
+her grammar gave me a shock, but I couldn’t
+help liking her. I came to the conclusion that what
+Mary-Ann had told me was a pack of lies.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>One day I happened to tell her that Mary-Ann
+was our cook.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She says she lived next door to you in Rye Lane,”
+I added, quite prepared to hear Mrs. Driffield say
+that she had never even heard of her.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But she smiled and her blue eyes gleamed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s right. She used to take me to Sunday
+school. She used to have a rare job keeping me quiet.
+I heard she’d gone to service at the vicarage. Fancy
+her being there still! I haven’t seen her for donkey’s
+years. I’d like to see her again and have a chat about
+old days. Remember me to her, will you, and ask her
+to look in on her evening out. I’ll give her a cup
+of tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was taken aback at this. After all, the Driffields
+lived in a house that they were talking of buying and
+they had a “general.” It wouldn’t be at all the thing
+for them to have Mary-Ann to tea, and it would make
+it very awkward for me. They seemed to have no
+sense of the things one could do and the things one
+simply couldn’t. It never ceased to embarrass me, the
+way in which they talked of incidents in their past that
+I should have thought they would not dream of mentioning.
+I do not know that the people I lived among
+were pretentious in the sense of making themselves
+out to be richer or grander than they really were, but
+looking back it does seem to me that they lived a life
+full of pretences. They dwelt behind a mask of respectability.
+You never caught them in their shirt
+sleeves with their feet on the table. The ladies put on
+afternoon dresses and were not visible till then; they
+lived privately with rigid economy so that you could
+not drop in for a casual meal, but when they entertained
+their tables groaned with food. Though catastrophe
+overwhelmed the family, they held their heads
+high and ignored it. One of the sons might have married
+an actress, but they never referred to the calamity,
+and though the neighbours said it was dreadful,
+they took ostentatious care not to mention the theatre
+in the presence of the afflicted. We all knew that the
+wife of Major Greencourt who had taken the Three
+Gables was connected with trade, but neither she nor
+the major ever so much as hinted at the discreditable
+secret; and though we sniffed at them behind their
+backs, we were too polite even to mention crockery
+(the source of Mrs. Greencourt’s adequate income)
+in their presence. It was still not unheard of for an
+angry parent to cut off his son with a shilling or to
+tell his daughter (who like my own mother had married
+a solicitor) never to darken his doors again. I
+was used to all this and it seemed to me perfectly
+natural. What did shock me was to hear Ted Driffield
+speak of being a waiter in a restaurant in Holborn
+as though it were the most ordinary thing in the
+world. I knew he had run away to sea, that was romantic;
+I knew that boys, in books at all events, often
+did this and had thrilling adventures before they
+married a fortune and an earl’s daughter; but Ted
+Driffield had driven a cab at Maidstone and had been
+clerk in a booking office at Birmingham. Once when
+we bicycled past the Railway Arms, Mrs. Driffield
+mentioned quite casually, as though it were something
+that anyone might have done, that she had
+worked there for three years.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It was my first place,” she said. “After that I
+went to the Feathers at Haversham. I only left there
+to get married.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She laughed as though she enjoyed the recollection.
+I did not know what to say; I did not know
+which way to look; I blushed scarlet. Another time
+when we were going through Ferne Bay on our way
+back from a long excursion, it being a hot day and
+all of us thirsty, she suggested that we should go into
+the Dolphin and have a glass of beer. She began
+talking to the girl behind the bar and I was horrified
+to hear her remark that she had been in the business
+herself for five years. The landlord joined us and
+Ted Driffield offered him a drink, and Mrs. Driffield
+said that the barmaid must have a glass of port,
+and for some time they all chatted amiably about
+trade and tied houses and how the price of everything
+was going up. Meanwhile, I stood, hot and cold
+all over, and not knowing what to do with myself.
+As we went out Mrs. Driffield remarked:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I took quite a fancy to that girl, Ted. She ought
+to do well for herself. As I said to her, it’s a hard
+life but a merry one. You do see a bit of what’s going
+on and if you play your cards right you ought to
+marry well. I noticed she had an engagement ring
+on, but she told me she just wore that because it gave
+the fellows a chance to tease her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield laughed. She turned to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I had a rare old time when I was a barmaid, but
+of course you can’t go on for ever. You have to think
+of your future.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But a greater jolt awaited me. It was halfway
+through September and my holidays were drawing
+to an end. I was very full of the Driffields, but my
+desire to talk about them at home was snubbed by
+my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We don’t want your friends pushed down our
+throats all day long,” said he. “There are other
+topics of conversation that are more suitable. But
+I do think that, as Ted Driffield was born in the
+parish and is seeing you almost every day, he might
+come to church occasionally.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>One day I told Driffield: “My uncle wants you to
+come to church.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right. Let’s go to church next Sunday night,
+Rosie.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I told Mary-Ann they were going. I sat in the
+vicarage pew just behind the squire’s and I could
+not look round, but I was conscious by the behaviour
+of my neighbours on the other side of the aisle that
+they were there, and as soon as I had a chance next
+day I asked Mary-Ann if she had seen them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I see ’er all right,” said Mary-Ann grimly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did you speak to her afterward?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Me?” She suddenly burst into anger. “You get
+out of my kitchen. What d’you want to come bothering
+me all day long? How d’you expect me to do my
+work with you getting in my way all the time?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right,” I said. “Don’t get in a wax.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know what your uncle’s about lettin’ you
+go all over the place with the likes of them. All them
+flowers in her ’at. I wonder she ain’t ashamed to
+show her face. Now run along, I’m busy.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not know why Mary-Ann was so cross. I did
+not mention Mrs. Driffield again. But two or three
+days later I happened to go into the kitchen to get
+something I wanted. There were two kitchens at the
+vicarage, a small one in which the cooking was done
+and a large one, built I suppose for a time when country
+clergymen had large families and gave grand
+dinners to the surrounding gentry, where Mary-Ann
+sat and sewed when her day’s work was over. We
+had cold supper at eight so that after tea she had
+little to do. It was getting on for seven and the day
+was drawing in. It was Emily’s evening out and I
+expected to find Mary-Ann alone, but as I went
+along the passage I heard voices and the sound of
+laughter. I supposed Mary-Ann had someone in to
+see her. The lamp was lit, but it had a thick green
+shade and the kitchen was almost in darkness. I saw
+a teapot and cups on the table. Mary-Ann was having
+a late cup of tea with her friend. The conversation
+stopped as I opened the door, then I heard a
+voice.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good-evening.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>With a start I saw that Mary-Ann’s friend was
+Mrs. Driffield. Mary-Ann laughed a little at my
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rosie Gann dropped in to have a cup of tea with
+me,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We’ve been having a talk about old times.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann was a little shy at my finding her thus,
+but not half so shy as I. Mrs. Driffield gave me that
+childlike, mischievous smile of hers; she was perfectly
+at her ease. For some reason I noticed her
+dress. I suppose because I had never seen her so
+grand before. It was of pale blue cloth, very tight
+at the waist, with high sleeves and a long skirt with
+a flounce at the bottom. She wore a large black straw
+hat with a great quantity of roses and leaves and
+bows on it. It was evidently the hat she had worn in
+church on Sunday.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I thought if I went on waiting till Mary-Ann came
+to see me I’d have to wait till doomsday, so I thought
+the best thing I could do was to come and see her
+myself.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann grinned self-consciously, but did not
+look displeased. I asked for whatever it was I
+wanted and as quickly as I could left them. I went
+out into the garden and wandered about aimlessly.
+I walked down to the road and looked over the gate.
+The night had fallen. Presently I saw a man strolling
+along. I paid no attention to him, but he passed backward
+and forward and it looked as though he were
+waiting for someone. At first I thought it might
+be Ted Driffield and I was on the point of going out
+when he stopped and lit a pipe; I saw it was Lord
+George. I wondered what he was doing there and
+at the same moment it struck me that he was waiting
+for Mrs. Driffield. My heart began to beat fast,
+and though I was hidden by the darkness I withdrew
+into the shade of the bushes. I waited a few minutes
+longer, then I saw the side door open and Mrs. Driffield
+let out by Mary-Ann. I heard her footsteps on
+the gravel. She came to the gate and opened it. It
+opened with a little click. At the sound Lord George
+stepped across the road and before she could come
+out slipped in. He took her in his arms and gave her
+a great hug. She gave a little laugh.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Take care of my hat,” she whispered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was not more than three feet away from them
+and I was terrified lest they should notice me. I was
+so ashamed for them. I was trembling with agitation.
+For a minute he held her in his arms.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What about the garden?” he said, still in a
+whisper.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, there’s that boy. Let’s go in the fields.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>They went out by the gate, he with his arm round
+her waist, and were lost in the night. Now I felt my
+heart pounding against my chest so that I could
+hardly breathe. I was so astonished at what I had
+seen that I could not think sensibly. I would have
+given anything to be able to tell someone, but it was
+a secret and I must keep it. I was thrilled with the
+importance it gave me. I walked slowly up to the
+house and let myself in by the side door. Mary-Ann,
+hearing it open, called me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Is that you, Master Willie?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I looked in the kitchen. Mary-Ann was putting the
+supper on a tray to take it into the dining room.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wouldn’t say anything to your uncle about Rosie
+Gann ’avin’ been here,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It was a surprisement to me. When I ’eared a
+knock at the side door and opened it and saw Rosie
+standing there, you could ’ave knocked me down with
+a feather. ‘Mary-Ann,’ she says, an’ before I knew
+what she was up to she was kissing me all over me
+face. I couldn’t but ask ’er in and when she was in I
+couldn’t but ask her to ’ave a nice cup of tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann was anxious to excuse herself. After
+all she had said of Mrs. Driffield it must seem
+strange to me that I should find them sitting there
+together chatting away and laughing. I did not want
+to crow.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s not so bad, is she?” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann smiled. Notwithstanding her black decayed
+teeth there was in her smile something sweet
+and touching.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t ’ardly know what it is, but there’s somethin’
+you can’t ’elp likin’ about her. She was ’ere the
+best part of an hour and I will say that for ’er, she
+never once give ’erself airs. And she told me with
+’er own lips the material of that dress she ’ad on cost
+thirteen and eleven a yard and I believe it. She remembers
+everything, how I used to brush her ’air
+for her when she was a tiny tot and how I used to
+make her wash her little ’ands before tea. You see,
+sometimes her mother used to send ’er in to ’ave her
+tea with us. She was as pretty as a picture in them
+days.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mary-Ann looked back into the past and her funny
+crumpled face grew wistful.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, well,” she said after a pause, “I dare say
+she’s been no worse than plenty of others if the truth
+was only known. She ’ad more temptation than most,
+and I dare say a lot of them as blame her would ’ave
+been no better than what she was if they’d ’ad the
+opportunity.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">VIII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The weather</span> broke suddenly; it grew chilly and
+heavy rain fell. It put an end to our excursions. I was
+not sorry, for I did not know how I could look Mrs.
+Driffield in the face now that I had seen her meeting
+with George Kemp. I was not so much shocked
+as astonished. I could not understand how it was
+possible for her to like being kissed by an old man,
+and the fantastic notion passed through my mind,
+filled with the novels I had read, that somehow Lord
+George held her in his power and forced her by his
+knowledge of some fearful secret to submit to his
+loathsome embraces. My imagination played with
+terrible possibilities. Bigamy, murder, and forgery.
+Very few villains in books failed to hold the threat
+of exposure of one of these crimes over some hapless
+female. Perhaps Mrs. Driffield had backed a bill; I
+never could quite understand what this meant, but I
+knew that the consequences were disastrous. I toyed
+with the fancy of her anguish (the long sleepless
+nights when she sat at her window in her nightdress,
+her long fair hair hanging to her knees, and watched
+hopelessly for the dawn) and saw myself (not a boy
+of fifteen with sixpence a week pocket money, but a
+tall man with a waxed moustache and muscles of
+steel in faultless evening dress) with a happy blend
+of heroism and dexterity rescuing her from the toils
+of the rascally blackmailer. On the other hand, it
+had not looked as though she had yielded quite unwillingly
+to Lord George’s fondling and I could not
+get out of my ears the sound of her laugh. It had
+a note that I had never heard before. It gave me a
+queer feeling of breathlessness.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>During the rest of my holidays I only saw the
+Driffields once more. I met them by chance in the
+town and they stopped and spoke to me. I suddenly
+felt very shy again, but when I looked at Mrs. Driffield
+I could not help blushing with embarrassment,
+for there was nothing in her countenance that indicated
+a guilty secret. She looked at me with those
+soft blue eyes of hers in which there was a child’s
+playful naughtiness. She often held her mouth a little
+open, as though it were just going to break into a
+smile, and her lips were full and red. There was
+honesty and innocence in her face and an ingenuous
+frankness and though then I could not have expressed
+this, I felt it quite strongly. If I had put it into words
+at all I think I should have said: She looks as straight
+as a die. It was impossible that she could be “carrying
+on” with Lord George. There must be an explanation;
+I did not believe what my eyes had seen.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then the day came when I had to go back to
+school. The carter had taken my trunk and I walked
+to the station by myself. I had refused to let my
+aunt see me off, thinking it more manly to go alone,
+but I felt rather low as I walked down the street.
+It was a small branch line to Tercanbury and the
+station was at the other end of the town near the
+beach. I took my ticket and settled myself in the
+corner of a third-class carriage. Suddenly I heard
+a voice: “There he is”; and Mr. and Mrs. Driffield
+bustled gaily up.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We thought we must come and see you off,” she
+said. “Are you feeling miserable?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, of course not.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, well, it won’t last long. We’ll have no end
+of a time when you come back for Christmas. Can
+you skate?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I can. I’ll teach you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Her high spirits cheered me, and at the same time
+the thought that they had come to the station to say
+good-bye to me gave me a lump in my throat. I tried
+hard not to let the emotion I felt appear on my face.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I expect I shall be playing a lot of football this
+term,” I said. “I ought to get into the second fifteen.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She looked at me with kindly shining eyes, smiling
+with her full red lips. There was something in her
+smile I had always rather liked, and her voice seemed
+almost to tremble with a laugh or a tear. For one
+horrible moment I was afraid that she was going
+to kiss me. I was scared out of my wits. She talked
+on, she was mildly facetious as grown-up people are
+with schoolboys, and Driffield stood there without
+saying anything. He looked at me with a smile in his
+eyes and pulled his beard. Then the guard blew a
+cracked whistle and waved a red flag. Mrs. Driffield
+took my hand and shook it. Driffield came forward.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye,” he said. “Here’s something for you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He pressed a tiny packet into my hand and the
+train steamed off. When I opened it I found that it
+was two half-crowns wrapped in a piece of toilet
+paper. I blushed to the roots of my hair. I was glad
+enough to have an extra five shillings, but the thought
+that Ted Driffield had dared to give me a tip filled
+me with rage and humiliation. I could not possibly
+accept anything from him. It was true that I had
+bicycled with him and sailed with him, but he wasn’t
+a sahib (I had got that from Major Greencourt)
+and it was an insult to me to give me five shillings.
+At first I thought of returning the money without
+a word, showing by my silence how outraged I was
+at the solecism he had committed, then I composed
+in my head a dignified and frigid letter in which I
+thanked him for his generosity, but said that he
+must see how impossible it was for a gentleman to
+accept a tip from someone who was practically a
+stranger. I thought it over for two or three days
+and every day it seemed more difficult to me to part
+with the two half-crowns. I felt sure that Driffield
+had meant it kindly, and of course he was very bad
+form and didn’t know about things; it would be
+rather hard to hurt his feelings by sending the money
+back, and finally I spent it. But I assuaged my
+wounded pride by not writing to thank Driffield for
+his gift.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When Christmas came, however, and I went back
+to Blackstable for the holidays, it was the Driffields
+I was most eager to see. In that stagnant little place
+they alone seemed to have a connection with the outside
+world which already was beginning to touch my
+daydreams with anxious curiosity. But I could not
+overcome my shyness enough to go to their house
+and call, and I hoped that I should meet them in the
+town. But the weather was dreadful, a boisterous
+wind whistled down the street, piercing you to the
+bone, and the few women who had an errand were
+swept along by their full skirts like fishing boats in half
+a gale. The cold rain scudded in sudden squalls and
+the sky, which in summer had enclosed the friendly
+country so snugly, now was a great pall that pressed
+upon the earth with sullen menace. There was small
+hope of meeting the Driffields by chance and at last
+I took my courage in both hands and one day after
+tea slipped out. As far as the station the road was
+pitch dark, but there the street lamps, few and dim,
+made it easier to keep to the pavement. The Driffields
+lived in a little two-story house in a side street; it was
+of dingy yellow brick and had a bow window. I
+knocked and presently a little maid opened the door;
+I asked if Mrs. Driffield was in. She gave me an uncertain
+look and, saying she would go and see, left
+me standing in the passage. I had already heard
+voices in the next room, but they were stilled as she
+opened the door and, entering, shut it behind her.
+I had a faint impression of mystery; in the houses of
+my uncle’s friends, even if there was no fire and the
+gas had to be lit as you went in, you were shown into
+the drawing room when you called. But the door was
+opened and Driffield came out. There was only a
+speck of light in the passage and at first he could
+not see who it was; but in an instant he recognized
+me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’s you. We wondered when we were going
+to see you.” Then he called out: “Rosie, it’s young
+Ashenden.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>There was a cry and before you could say knife
+Mrs. Driffield had come into the passage and was
+shaking my hands.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Come in, come in. Take off your coat. Isn’t it
+awful, the weather? You must be perishing.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She helped me with my coat and took off my
+muffler and snatched my cap out of my hand and
+drew me into the room. It was hot and stuffy, a tiny
+room full of furniture, with a fire burning in the
+grate; they had gas there, which we hadn’t at the
+vicarage, and the three burners in round globes of
+frosted glass filled the room with harsh light. The
+air was gray with tobacco smoke. At first, dazzled
+and then taken aback by my effusive welcome, I did
+not see who the two men were who got up as I came
+in. Then I saw they were the curate, Mr. Galloway,
+and Lord George Kemp. I fancied that the curate
+shook my hand with constraint.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How are you? I just came in to return some
+books that Mr. Driffield had lent me and Mrs. Driffield
+very kindly asked me to stay to tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I felt rather than saw the quizzical look that Driffield
+gave him. He said something about the mammon
+of unrighteousness, which I recognized as a quotation,
+but did not gather the sense of. Mr. Galloway
+laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know about that,” he said. “What about
+the publicans and sinners?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I thought the remark in very bad taste, but I was
+immediately seized upon by Lord George. There was
+no constraint about him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, young fellow, home for the holidays? My
+word, what a big chap you’re growing.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I shook hands with him rather coldly. I wished I
+had not come.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Let me give you a nice strong cup of tea,” said
+Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ve already had tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have some more,” said Lord George, speaking
+as though he owned the place (that was just like
+him). “A big fellow like you can always tuck away
+another piece of bread and butter and jam and Mrs.
+D. will cut you a slice with her own fair hands.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The tea things were still on the table and they
+were sitting round it. A chair was brought up for
+me and Mrs. Driffield gave me a piece of cake.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We were just trying to persuade Ted to sing us
+a song,” said Lord George. “Come on, Ted.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Sing, ‘All Through Stickin’ to a Soljer,’ Ted,”
+said Mrs. Driffield. “I love that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, sing ‘First We Mopped the Floor with
+Him.’ ”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll sing ’em both if you’re not careful,” said
+Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He took his banjo, which was lying on the top of
+the cottage piano, tuned it, and began to sing. He
+had a rich baritone voice. I was quite used to people
+singing songs. When there was a tea party at the
+vicarage, or I went to one at the major’s or the doctor’s,
+people always brought their music with them.
+They left it in the hall, so that it should not seem
+that they wanted to be asked to play or sing; but
+after tea the hostess asked them if they had brought
+it. They shyly admitted that they had, and if it was
+at the vicarage I was sent to fetch it. Sometimes
+a young lady would say that she had quite given up
+playing and hadn’t brought anything with her, and
+then her mother would break in and say that <span class='it'>she</span>
+had brought it. But when they sang it was not comic
+songs; it was “I’ll Sing Thee Songs of Araby,” or
+“Good-Night, Beloved,” or “Queen of My Heart.”
+Once at the annual concert at the Assembly Rooms,
+Smithson, the draper, had sung a comic song, and
+though the people at the back of the hall had applauded
+a great deal, the gentry had seen nothing
+funny in it. Perhaps there wasn’t. Anyhow, before
+the next concert he was asked to be a little more
+careful about what he sang (“Remember there are
+ladies present, Mr. Smithson”) and so gave “The
+Death of Nelson.” The next ditty that Driffield sang
+had a chorus and the curate and Lord George joined
+in lustily. I heard it a good many times afterward,
+but I can only remember four lines:</p>
+
+
+          <div class='poetry-container' style=''>
+          <div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
+<div class='stanza-outer'>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>First we mopped the floor with him;</span></p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Dragged him up and down the stairs;</span></p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Then we lugged him round the room,</span></p>
+<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Under tables, over chairs.</span></p>
+</div>
+</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
+
+<p class='pindent'>When it was finished, assuming my best company
+manners, I turned to Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you sing?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I do, but it always turns the milk, so Ted doesn’t
+encourage me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield put down his banjo and lit a pipe.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, how’s the old book getting along, Ted?”
+said Lord George heartily.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, all right. I’m working away, you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good old Ted and his books,” Lord George
+laughed. “Why don’t you settle down and do something
+respectable for a change? I’ll give you a job
+in my office.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m all right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You let him be, George,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+“He likes writing, and what I say is, as long as it
+keeps him happy why shouldn’t he?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I don’t pretend to know anything about
+books,” began George Kemp.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then don’t talk about them,” interrupted Driffield
+with a smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think anyone need be ashamed to have
+written <span class='it'>Fairhaven</span>,” said Mr. Galloway, “and I don’t
+care what the critics said.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, Ted, I’ve known you since I was a boy and
+<span class='it'>I</span> couldn’t read it, try as I would.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, come on, we don’t want to start talking about
+books,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Sing us another song,
+Ted.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I must be going,” said the curate. He turned to
+me. “We might walk along together. Have you got
+anything for me to read, Driffield?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield pointed to a pile of new books that were
+heaped up on a table in the corner.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Take your pick.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“By Jove, what a lot!” I said, looking at them
+greedily.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’s all rubbish. They’re sent down for review.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What d’you do with them?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Take ’em into Tercanbury and sell ’em for what
+they’ll fetch. It all helps to pay the butcher.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When we left, the curate and I, he with three or
+four books under his arm, he asked me:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did you tell your uncle you were coming to see
+the Driffields?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I just went out for a walk and it suddenly
+occurred to me that I might look in.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>This of course was some way from the truth, but
+I did not care to tell Mr. Galloway that, though I
+was practically grown up, my uncle realized the fact
+so little that he was quite capable of trying to prevent
+me from seeing people he objected to.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Unless you have to I wouldn’t say anything about
+it in your place. The Driffields are perfectly all right,
+but your uncle doesn’t quite approve of them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I know,” I said. “It’s such rot.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Of course they’re rather common, but he doesn’t
+write half badly, and when you think what he came
+from it’s wonderful that he writes at all.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was glad to know how the land lay. Mr. Galloway
+did not wish my uncle to know that he was on
+friendly terms with the Driffields. I could feel sure
+at all events that he would not give me away.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The patronizing manner in which my uncle’s curate
+spoke of one who has been now so long recognized as
+one of the greatest of the later Victorian novelists
+must arouse a smile; but it was the manner in which
+he was generally spoken of at Blackstable. One day
+we went to tea at Mrs. Greencourt’s, who had staying
+with her a cousin, the wife of an Oxford don,
+and we had been told that she was very cultivated.
+She was a Mrs. Encombe, a little woman with an
+eager wrinkled face; she surprised us very much because
+she wore her gray hair short and a black serge
+skirt that only just came down below the tops of her
+square-toed boots. She was the first example of the
+New Woman that had even been seen in Blackstable.
+We were staggered and immediately on the defensive,
+for she looked intellectual and it made us feel shy.
+(Afterward we all scoffed at her, and my uncle said
+to my aunt: “Well, my dear, I’m thankful you’re not
+clever, at least I’ve been spared that”; and my aunt
+in a playful mood put my uncle’s slippers which were
+warming for him by the fire over her boots and said:
+“Look, I’m the new woman.” And then we all said:
+“Mrs. Greencourt is very funny; you never know
+what she’ll do next. But of course she isn’t quite
+quite.” We could hardly forget that her father made
+china and that her grandfather had been a factory
+hand.)</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But we all found it very interesting to hear Mrs.
+Encombe talk of the people she knew. My uncle had
+been at Oxford, but everyone he asked about seemed
+to be dead. Mrs. Encombe knew Mrs. Humphry
+Ward and admired <span class='it'>Robert Elsmere</span>. My uncle considered
+it a scandalous work, and he was surprised
+that Mr. Gladstone, who at least called himself a
+Christian, had found a good word to say for it. They
+had quite an argument about it. My uncle said he
+thought it would unsettle people’s opinions and give
+them all sorts of ideas that they were much better
+without. Mrs. Encombe answered that he wouldn’t
+think that if he knew Mrs. Humphry Ward. She was
+a woman of the very highest character, a niece of
+Mr. Matthew Arnold, and whatever you might think
+of the book itself (and she, Mrs. Encombe, was
+quite willing to admit that there were parts which
+had better have been omitted) it was quite certain
+that she had written it from the very highest motives.
+Mrs. Encombe knew Miss Broughton too. She was
+of very good family and it was strange that she
+wrote the books she did.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see any harm in them,” said Mrs. Hayforth,
+the doctor’s wife. “I enjoy them, especially
+<span class='it'>Red as a Rose is She</span>.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Would you like your girls to read them?” asked
+Mrs. Encombe.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not just yet perhaps,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “But
+when they’re married I should have no objection.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then it might interest you to know,” said Mrs.
+Encombe, “that when I was in Florence last Easter
+I was introduced to Ouida.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s quite another matter,” returned Mrs.
+Hayforth. “I can’t believe that any lady would read
+a book by Ouida.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I read one out of curiosity,” said Mrs. Encombe.
+“I must say, it’s more what you’d expect from a
+Frenchman than from an English gentlewoman.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but I understand she isn’t really English.
+I’ve always heard her real name is Mademoiselle
+de la Ramée.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was then that Mr. Galloway mentioned Edward
+Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know we have an author living here,” he
+said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We’re not very proud of him,” said the major.
+“He’s the son of old Miss Wolfe’s bailiff and he
+married a barmaid.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Can he write?” asked Mrs. Encombe.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You can tell at once that he’s not a gentleman,”
+said the curate, “but when you consider the disadvantages
+he’s had to struggle against it’s rather remarkable
+that he should write as well as he does.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s a friend of Willie’s,” said my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Everyone looked at me, and I felt very uncomfortable.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They bicycled together last summer, and after
+Willie had gone back to school I got one of his
+books from the library to see what it was like. I read
+the first volume and then I sent it back. I wrote a
+pretty stiff letter to the librarian and I was glad to
+hear that he’d withdrawn it from circulation. If it
+had been my own property I should have put it
+promptly in the kitchen stove.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I looked through one of his books myself,” said
+the doctor. “It interested me because it was set in
+this neighbourhood and I recognized some of the
+people. But I can’t say I liked it; I thought it unnecessarily
+coarse.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I mentioned that to him,” said Mr. Galloway,
+“and he said the men in the colliers that run up to
+Newcastle and the fishermen and farm hands don’t
+behave like ladies and gentlemen and don’t talk like
+them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But why write about people of that character?”
+said my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s what I say,” said Mrs. Hayforth. “We
+all know that there are coarse and wicked and vicious
+people in the world, but I don’t see what good it
+does to write about them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not defending him,” said Mr. Galloway. “I’m
+only telling you what explanation he gives himself.
+And then of course he brought up Dickens.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Dickens is quite different,” said my uncle. “I
+don’t see how anyone can object to the <span class='it'>Pickwick
+Papers</span>.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose it’s a matter of taste,” said my aunt.
+“I always found Dickens very coarse. I don’t want
+to read about people who drop their aitches. I must
+say I’m very glad the weather’s so bad now and
+Willie can’t take any more rides with Mr. Driffield.
+I don’t think he’s quite the sort of person he
+ought to associate with.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Both Mr. Galloway and I looked down our noses.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">IX</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>As often</span> as the mild Christmas gaieties of Blackstable
+allowed me I went to the Driffields’ little house
+next door to the Congregational chapel. I always
+found Lord George and often Mr. Galloway. Our
+conspiracy of silence had made us friends and when
+we met at the vicarage or in the vestry after church
+we looked at one another archly. We did not talk
+about our secret, but we enjoyed it; I think it gave
+us both a good deal of satisfaction to know that we
+were making a fool of my uncle. But once it occurred
+to me that George Kemp, meeting my uncle in the
+street, might remark casually that he had been seeing
+a lot of me at the Driffields’.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What about Lord George?” I said to Mr. Galloway.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I made that all right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We chuckled. I began to like Lord George. At first
+I was very cold with him and scrupulously polite, but
+he seemed so unconscious of the social difference between
+us that I was forced to conclude that my
+haughty courtesy failed to put him in his place. He
+was always cordial, breezy, even boisterous; he
+chaffed me in his common way and I answered him
+back with schoolboy wit; we made the others laugh
+and this disposed me kindly toward him. He was for
+ever bragging about the great schemes he had in
+mind, but he took in good part my jokes at the expense
+of his grandiose imaginations. It amused me
+to hear him tell stories about the swells of Blackstable
+that made them look foolish and when he mimicked
+their oddities I roared with laughter. He was
+blatant and vulgar and the way he dressed was always
+a shock to me (I had never been to Newmarket
+nor seen a trainer, but that was my idea of how a
+Newmarket trainer dressed) and his table manners
+were offensive, but I found myself less and less affronted
+by him. He gave me the <span class='it'>Pink ’Un</span> every week
+and I took it home, carefully tucked away in my
+great-coat pocket, and read it in my bedroom.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I never went to the Driffields’ till after tea at the
+vicarage, but I always managed to make a second
+tea when I got there. Afterward Ted Driffield sang
+comic songs, accompanying himself sometimes on
+the banjo and sometimes on the piano. He would sing,
+peering at the music with his rather short-sighted
+eyes, for an hour at a time; there was a smile on his
+lips and he liked us all to join in the chorus. We
+played whist. I had learned the game when I was
+a child and my uncle and aunt and I used to play
+at the vicarage during the long winter evenings. My
+uncle always took dummy, and though of course we
+played for love, when my aunt and I lost I used to
+retire under the dining room table and cry. Ted
+Driffield did not play cards, he said he had no head
+for them, and when we started a game he would sit
+down by the fire and, pencil in hand, read one of the
+books that had been sent down to him from London
+to review. I had never played with three people before
+and of course I did not play well, but Mrs. Driffield
+had a natural card sense. Her movements as a
+rule were rather deliberate, but when it came to
+playing cards she was quick and alert. She played the
+rest of us right off our heads. Ordinarily she did not
+speak very much and then slowly, but when, after a
+hand was played, she took the trouble good-humouredly
+to point out to me my mistakes, she was
+not only lucid but voluble. Lord George chaffed her
+as he chaffed everybody; she would smile at his banter,
+for she very seldom laughed, and sometimes make a
+neat retort. They did not behave like lovers, but like
+familiar friends, and I should have quite forgotten
+what I had heard about them and what I had seen
+but that now and then she gave him a look that embarrassed
+me. Her eyes rested on him quietly, as
+though he were not a man but a chair or a table, and
+in them was a mischievous, childlike smile. Then I
+would notice that his face seemed suddenly to swell
+and he moved uneasily in his chair. I looked quickly
+at the curate, afraid that he would notice something,
+but he was intent on the cards or else was lighting
+his pipe.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The hour or two I spent nearly every day in that
+hot, poky, smoke-laden room passed like lightning,
+and as the holidays drew nearer to their end I was
+seized with dismay at the thought that I must spend
+the next three months dully at school.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know what we shall do without you,”
+said Mrs. Driffield. “We shall have to play dummy.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was glad that my going would break up the
+game. While I was doing prep I did not want to
+think that they were sitting in that little room and
+enjoying themselves just as if I did not exist.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How long do you get at Easter?” asked Mr.
+Galloway.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“About three weeks.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We’ll have a lovely time then,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+“The weather ought to be all right. We can
+ride in the mornings and then after tea we’ll play
+whist. You’ve improved a lot. If we play three or
+four times a week during your Easter holidays you
+won’t need to be afraid to play with anybody.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">X</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>But the</span> term came to an end at last. I was in high
+spirits when once more I got out of the train at Blackstable.
+I had grown a little and I had had a new suit
+made at Tercanbury, blue serge and very smart, and
+I had bought a new tie. I meant to go and see the
+Driffields immediately I had swallowed my tea and
+I was full of hope that the carrier would have brought
+my box in time for me to put the new suit on. It
+made me look quite grown up. I had already begun
+putting vaseline on my upper lip every night to make
+my moustache grow. On my way through the town
+I looked down the street in which the Driffields lived
+in the hope of seeing them. I should have liked to
+go in and say how-do-you-do, but I knew that Driffield
+wrote in the morning and Mrs. Driffield was not
+“presentable.” I had all sorts of exciting things to
+tell them. I had won the hundred-yard race in the
+sports and I had been second in the hurdles. I meant
+to have a shot for the history prize in the summer
+and I was going to swot up my English history during
+the holidays. Though there was an east wind
+blowing, the sky was blue and there was a feeling of
+spring in the air. The High Street, with its colours
+washed clean by the wind and its lines sharp as though
+drawn with a new pen, looked like a picture by Samuel
+Scott, quiet and naïve and cosy: now, looking
+back; then it looked like nothing but High Street,
+Blackstable. When I came to the railway bridge I
+noticed that two or three houses were being built.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“By Jove,” I said, “Lord George <span class='it'>is</span> going it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>In the fields beyond little white lambs were gambolling.
+The elm trees were just beginning to turn
+green. I let myself in by the side door. My uncle was
+sitting in his armchair by the fire reading the <span class='it'>Times</span>.
+I shouted to my aunt and she came downstairs, a
+pink spot from the excitement of seeing me on each
+of her withered cheeks, and threw her thin old arms
+round my neck. She said all the right things.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How you’ve grown!” and “Good gracious me,
+you’ll be getting a moustache soon!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I kissed my uncle on his bald forehead and I stood
+in front of the fire, with my legs well apart and my
+back to it, and was extremely grown up and rather
+condescending. Then I went upstairs to say how-do-you-do
+to Emily, and into the kitchen to shake hands
+with Mary-Ann, and out into the garden to see the
+gardener.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I sat down hungrily to dinner and my uncle
+carved the leg of mutton I asked my aunt:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, what’s happened at Blackstable since I was
+here?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Nothing very much. Mrs. Greencourt went down
+to Mentone for six weeks, but she came back a few
+days ago. The major had an attack of gout.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And your friends the Driffields have bolted,”
+added my uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They’ve done what?” I cried.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Bolted. They took their luggage away one night
+and just went up to London. They’ve left bills all
+over the place. They hadn’t paid their rent and they
+hadn’t paid for their furniture. They owed Harris
+the butcher the best part of thirty pounds.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How awful,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s bad enough,” said my aunt, “but it appears
+they hadn’t even paid the wages of the maid
+they had for three months.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was flabbergasted. I thought I felt a little sick.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think in future,” said my uncle, “you would
+be wiser not to consort with people whom your aunt
+and I don’t think proper associates for you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“One can’t help feeling sorry for all those tradesmen
+they cheated,” said my aunt.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It serves them right,” said my uncle. “Fancy
+giving credit to people like that! I should have
+thought anyone could see they were nothing but adventurers.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I always wonder why they came down here at all.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They just wanted to show off, and I suppose they
+thought as people knew who they were here it would
+be easier to get things on credit.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not think this quite reasonable, but was too
+much crushed to argue.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>As soon as I had the chance I asked Mary-Ann
+what she knew of the incident. To my surprise she
+did not take it at all in the same way as my uncle and
+aunt. She giggled.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They let everyone in proper,” she said. “They
+was as free as you like with their money and everyone
+though they ’ad plenty. It was always the best
+end of the neck for them at the butcher’s and when
+they wanted a steak nothing would do but the undercut.
+Asparagus and grapes and I don’t know what
+all. They ran up bills in every shop in the town. I
+don’t know ’ow people can be such fools.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But it was evidently of the tradesmen she was
+speaking and not of the Driffields.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But how did they manage to bunk without anyone
+knowing?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, that’s what everybody’s askin’. They do say
+it was Lord George ’elped them. How did they get
+their boxes to the station, I ask you, if ’e didn’t take
+them in that there trap of ’is?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What does he say about it?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He says ’e knows no more about it than the man
+in the moon. There was a rare to-do all over the
+town when they found out the Driffields had shot the
+moon. It made me laugh. Lord George says ’e never
+knew they was broke, and ’e makes out ’e was as
+surprised as anybody. But I for one don’t believe a
+word of it. We all knew about ’im and Rosie before
+she was married, and between you and me and the
+gatepost I don’t know that it ended there. They do
+say they was seen walkin’ about the fields together
+last summer and ’e was in and out of the ’ouse pretty
+near every day.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How did people find out?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s like this. They ’ad a girl there and
+they told ’er she could go ’ome and spend the night
+with her mother, but she wasn’t to be back later
+than eight o’clock in the morning. Well, when she
+come back she couldn’t get in. She knocked and she
+rung but nobody answered, and so she went in next
+door and asked the lady there what she’d better do,
+and the lady said she’d better go to the police station.
+The sergeant come back with ’er and ’e knocked
+and ’e rung, but ’<span class='it'>e</span> couldn’t get no answer. Then he
+asked the girl ’ad they paid ’er ’er wages, and she
+said no, not for three months, and then ’e said, you
+take my word for it, they’ve shot the moon, that’s
+what they’ve done. An’ when they come to get inside
+they found they’d took all their clothes, an’ their
+books—they say as Ted Driffield ’ad a rare lot of
+books—an’ every blessed thing that belonged to
+them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And has nothing been heard of them since?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, not exactly, but when they’d been gone
+about a week the girl got a letter from London, and
+when she opened it there was no letter or anything,
+but just a postal order for ’er wages. An’ if you ask
+me, I call that very ’andsome not to do a poor girl
+out of her wages.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was much more shocked than Mary-Ann. I was
+a very respectable youth. The reader cannot have
+failed to observe that I accepted the conventions of
+my class as if they were the laws of Nature, and
+though debts on the grand scale in books had seemed
+to me romantic, and duns and money lenders were
+familiar figures to my fancy, I could not but think
+it mean and paltry not to pay the tradesmen’s books.
+I listened with confusion when people talked in my
+presence of the Driffields, and when they spoke of
+them as my friends I said: “Hang it all, I just knew
+them”; and when they asked: “Weren’t they fearfully
+common?” I said: “Well, after all they didn’t
+exactly suggest the Vere de Veres, you know.” Poor
+Mr. Galloway was dreadfully upset.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Of course I didn’t think they were wealthy,” he
+told me, “but I thought they had enough to get along.
+The house was very nicely furnished and the piano
+was new. It never struck me that they hadn’t paid for
+a single thing. They never stinted themselves. What
+hurts me is the deceit. I used to see quite a lot of
+them and I thought they liked me. They always made
+one welcome. You’d hardly believe it, but the last
+time I saw them when they shook hands with me
+Mrs. Driffield asked me to come next day and Driffield
+said: ‘Muffins for tea to-morrow.’ And all the
+time they had everything packed upstairs and that
+very night they took the last train to London.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What does Lord George say about it?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“To tell you the truth I haven’t gone out of my
+way to see him lately. It’s been a lesson to me. There’s
+a little proverb about evil communications which I’ve
+thought well to bear in mind.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I felt very much the same about Lord George, and
+I was a little nervous, too. If he took it into his head
+to tell people that at Christmas I had been going to
+see the Driffields almost every day, and it came to
+my uncle’s ears, I foresaw an unpleasant fuss. My
+uncle would accuse me of deceit and prevarication
+and disobedience and of not behaving like a gentleman,
+and I did not at the moment see what answer
+I could make. I knew him well enough to be aware
+that he would not let the matter drop, and that I
+should be reminded of my transgression for years.
+I was just as glad not to see Lord George. But one
+day I ran into him face to face in the High Street.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Hulloa, youngster,” he cried, addressing me in
+a way I particularly resented. “Back for the holidays,
+I suppose.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You suppose quite correctly,” I answered with
+what I thought withering sarcasm.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Unfortunately he only bellowed with laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself if you don’t
+look out,” he answered heartily. “Well, it looks as
+if there was no more whist for you and me just yet.
+Now you see what comes of living beyond your
+means. What I always say to my boys is, if you’ve
+got a pound and you spend nineteen and six you’re
+a rich man, but if you spend twenty shillings and sixpence
+you’re a pauper. Look after the pence, young
+fellow, and the pounds’ll look after themselves.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But though he spoke after this fashion there was
+in his voice no note of disapproval, but a bubble of
+laughter as though in his heart he were tittering at
+these admirable maxims.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They say you helped them to bunk,” I remarked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Me?” His face assumed a look of extreme surprise,
+but his eyes glittered with sly mirth. “Why,
+when they came and told me the Driffields had shot
+the moon you could have knocked me down with a
+feather. They owed me four pounds seventeen and six
+for coal. We’ve all been let in, even poor old Galloway
+who never got his muffins for tea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had never thought Lord George more blatant.
+I should have liked to say something final and crushing,
+but as I could not think of anything I just said
+that I must be getting along and with a curt nod left
+him.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XI</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Musing</span> thus over the past, while I waited for Alroy
+Kear, I chuckled when I considered this shabby incident
+of Edward Driffield’s obscurity in the light of
+the immense respectability of his later years. I wondered
+whether it was because, in my boyhood, he was
+as a writer held in such small esteem by the people
+about me that I had never been able to see in him
+the astonishing merit that the best critical opinion
+eventually ascribed to him. He was for long thought
+to write very bad English, and indeed he gave you
+the impression of writing with the stub of a blunt
+pencil; his style was laboured, an uneasy mixture
+of the classical and the slangy, and his dialogue
+was such as could never have issued from the mouth
+of a human being. Toward the end of his career,
+when he dictated his books, his style, acquiring a
+conversational ease, became flowing and limpid; and
+then the critics, going back to the novels of his
+maturity, found that their English had a nervous,
+racy vigour that eminently suited the matter. His
+prime belonged to a period when the purple patch
+was in vogue and there are descriptive passages in
+his works that have found their way into all the
+anthologies of English prose. His pieces on the sea,
+and spring in the Kentish woods, and sunset on the
+lower reaches of the Thames are famous. It should
+be a mortification to me that I cannot read them without
+discomfort.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I was a young man, though his books sold
+but little and one or two were banned by the libraries,
+it was very much a mark of culture to admire them.
+He was thought boldly realistic. He was a very good
+stick to beat the Philistines with. Somebody’s lucky
+inspiration discovered that his sailors and peasants
+were Shakespearean, and when the advanced got together
+they uttered shrill cries of ecstasy over the
+dry and spicy humour of his yokels. This was a commodity
+that Edward Driffield had no difficulty in supplying.
+My own heart sank when he led me into the
+forecastle of a sailing ship or the taproom of a public
+house and I knew I was in for half a dozen pages
+in dialect of facetious comment on life, ethics, and
+immortality. But, I admit, I have always thought the
+Shakespearean clowns tedious and their innumerable
+progeny insupportable.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Driffield’s strength lay evidently in his depiction
+of the class he knew best, farmers and farm labourers,
+shopkeepers and bartenders, skippers of sailing
+ships, mates, cooks, and able seamen. When he introduces
+characters belonging to a higher station in
+life even his warmest admirers, one would have
+thought, must experience a certain malaise; his fine
+gentlemen are so incredibly fine, his high-born ladies
+are so good, so pure, so noble that you are not surprised
+that they can only express themselves with
+polysyllabic dignity. His women difficultly come to
+life. But here again I must add that this is only my
+own opinion; the world at large and the most eminent
+critics have agreed that they are very winsome
+types of English womanhood, spirited, gallant, high-souled,
+and they have been often compared with
+the heroines of Shakespeare. We know of course
+that women are habitually constipated, but to represent
+them in fiction as being altogether devoid
+of a back passage seems to me really an excess of
+chivalry. I am surprised that they care to see themselves
+thus limned.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The critics can force the world to pay attention
+to a very indifferent writer, and the world may lose
+its head over one who has no merit at all, but the
+result in neither case is lasting; and I cannot help
+thinking that no writer can hold the public for as
+long as Edward Driffield without considerable gifts.
+The elect sneer at popularity; they are inclined
+even to assert that it is a proof of mediocrity; but
+they forget that posterity makes its choice not from
+among the unknown writers of a period, but from
+among the known. It may be that some great masterpiece
+which deserves immortality has fallen still-born
+from the press, but posterity will never hear of it; it
+may be that posterity will scrap all the best sellers
+of our day, but it is among them that it must choose.
+At all events Edward Driffield is in the running. His
+novels happen to bore me; I find them long; the
+melodramatic incidents with which he sought to stir
+the sluggish reader’s interest leave me cold; but he
+certainly had sincerity. There is in his best books
+the stir of life, and in none of them can you fail to
+be aware of the author’s enigmatic personality. In his
+earlier days he was praised or blamed for his realism;
+according to the idiosyncrasy of his critics he
+was extolled for his truth or censured for his coarseness.
+But realism has ceased to excite remark, and
+the library reader will take in his stride obstacles at
+which a generation back he would have violently
+shied. The cultured reader of these pages will remember
+the leading article in the Literary Supplement
+of the <span class='it'>Times</span> which appeared at the moment of
+Driffield’s death. Taking the novels of Edward Driffield
+as his text, the author wrote what was very
+well described as a hymn to beauty. No one who read
+it could fail to be impressed by those swelling periods,
+which reminded one of the noble prose of Jeremy
+Taylor, by that reverence and piety, by all those
+high sentiments, in short, expressed in a style that
+was ornate without excess and dulcet without effeminacy.
+It was itself a thing of beauty. If some
+suggested that Edward Driffield was by way of being
+a humourist and that a jest would here and there
+have lightened this eulogious article it must be replied
+that after all it was a funeral oration. And it
+is well known that Beauty does not look with a good
+grace on the timid advances of Humour. Roy Kear,
+when he was talking to me of Driffield, claimed that,
+whatever his faults, they were redeemed by the
+beauty that suffused his pages. Now I come to look
+back on our conversation, I think it was this remark
+that had most exasperated me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Thirty years ago in literary circles God was all
+the fashion. It was good form to believe and journalists
+used him to adorn a phrase or balance a sentence;
+then God went out (oddly enough with cricket
+and beer) and Pan came in. In a hundred novels his
+cloven hoof left its imprint on the sward; poets saw
+him lurking in the twilight on London commons, and
+literary ladies in Surrey and New England, nymphs
+of an industrial age, mysteriously surrendered their
+virginity to his rough embrace. Spiritually they were
+never the same again. But Pan went out and now
+beauty has taken his place. People find it in a phrase,
+or a turbot, a dog, a day, a picture, an action, a dress.
+Young women in cohorts, each of whom has written
+so promising and competent a novel, prattle of it
+in every manner from allusive to arch, from intense
+to charming; and the young men, more or less recently
+down from Oxford, but still trailing its clouds
+of glory, who tell us in the weekly papers what we
+should think of art, life, and the universe, fling the
+word with a pretty negligence about their close-packed
+pages. It is sadly frayed. Gosh, they have
+worked it hard! The ideal has many names and beauty
+is but one of them. I wonder if this clamour is anything
+more than the cry of distress of those who cannot
+make themselves at home in our heroic world of
+machines, and I wonder if their passion for beauty,
+the Little Nell of this shamefaced day, is anything
+more than sentimentality. It may be that another
+generation, accommodating itself more adequately
+to the stress of life, will look for inspiration not in a
+flight from reality, but in an eager acceptance of it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I do not know if others are like myself, but I am
+conscious that I cannot contemplate beauty long. For
+me no poet made a falser statement than Keats when
+he wrote the first line of <span class='it'>Endymion</span>. When the thing
+of beauty has given me the magic of its sensation my
+mind quickly wanders; I listen with incredulity to
+the persons who tell me that they can look with rapture
+for hours at a view or a picture. Beauty is an
+ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really
+nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of
+a rose: you can smell it and that is all: that is why
+the criticism of art, except in so far as it is unconcerned
+with beauty and therefore with art, is tiresome.
+All the critic can tell you with regard to
+Titian’s Entombment of Christ, perhaps of all the
+pictures in the world that which has most pure
+beauty, is to go and look at it. What else he has to
+say is history, or biography, or what not. But people
+add other qualities to beauty—sublimity, human interest,
+tenderness, love—because beauty does not
+long content them. Beauty is perfect, and perfection
+(such is human nature) holds our attention but for
+a little while. The mathematician who after seeing
+Phèdre asked: “<span class='it'>Qu’est-ce que ça prouve?</span>” was not
+such a fool as he has been generally made out. No
+one has ever been able to explain why the Doric
+temple of Pæstum is more beautiful than a glass of
+cold beer except by bringing in considerations that
+have nothing to do with beauty. Beauty is a blind
+alley. It is a mountain peak which once reached leads
+nowhere. That is why in the end we find more to entrance
+us in El Greco than in Titian, in the incomplete
+achievement of Shakespeare than in the consummate
+success of Racine. Too much has been
+written about beauty. That is why I have written a
+little more. Beauty is that which satisfies the æsthetic
+instinct. But who wants to be satisfied? It is only to
+the dullard that enough is as good as a feast. Let us
+face it: beauty is a bit of a bore.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But of course what the critics wrote about Edward
+Driffield was eye-wash. His outstanding merit was
+not the realism that gave vigour to his work, nor
+the beauty that informed it, nor his graphic portraits
+of seafaring men, nor his poetic descriptions of salty
+marshes, of storm and calm and of nestling hamlets;
+it was his longevity. Reverence for old age is
+one of the most admirable traits of the human race
+and I think it may safely be stated that in no other
+country than ours is this trait more marked. The awe
+and love with which other nations regard old age is
+often platonic; but ours is practical. Who but the
+English would fill Covent Garden to listen to an
+aged prima donna without a voice? Who but the
+English would pay to see a dancer so decrepit that he
+can hardly put one foot before the other and say to
+one another admiringly in the intervals: “By George,
+sir, d’you know he’s a long way past sixty?” But
+compared with politicians and writers these are but
+striplings, and I often think that a <span class='it'>jeune premier</span> must
+be of a singularly amiable disposition if it does not
+make him bitter to consider that when at the age of
+seventy he must end his career the public man and the
+author are only at their prime. A man who is a politician
+at forty is a statesman at three score and ten.
+It is at this age, when he would be too old to be a
+clerk or a gardener or a police-court magistrate, that
+he is ripe to govern a country. This is not so strange
+when you reflect that from the earliest times the old
+have rubbed it into the young that they are wiser than
+they, and before the young had discovered what nonsense
+this was they were old too, and it profited them
+to carry on the imposture; and besides, no one can
+have moved in the society of politicians without discovering
+that (if one may judge by results) it requires
+little mental ability to rule a nation. But why
+writers should be more esteemed the older they grow,
+has long perplexed me. At one time I thought that
+the praise accorded to authors when they had ceased
+for twenty years to write anything of interest was
+largely due to the fact that the younger men, having
+no longer to fear their competition, felt it safe to
+extol their merit; and it is well known that to praise
+someone whose rivalry you do not dread is often a
+very good way of putting a spoke in the wheel of
+someone whose rivalry you do. But this is to take a
+low view of human nature and I would not for the
+world lay myself open to a charge of cheap cynicism.
+After mature consideration I have come to the conclusion
+that the real reason for the universal applause
+that comforts the declining years of the author who
+exceeds the common span of man is that intelligent
+people after the age of thirty read nothing at all. As
+they grow older the books they read in their youth are
+lit with its glamour and with every year that passes
+they ascribe greater merit to the author that wrote
+them. Of course he must go on; he must keep in the
+public eye. It is no good his thinking that it is enough
+to write one or two masterpieces; he must provide a
+pedestal for them of forty or fifty works of no particular
+consequence. This needs time. His production
+must be such that if he cannot captivate a reader by
+his charm he can stun him by his weight.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>If, as I think, longevity is genius, few in our time
+have enjoyed it in a more conspicuous degree than
+Edward Driffield. When he was a young fellow in
+the sixties (the cultured having had their way with
+him and passed him by) his position in the world of
+letters was only respectable; the best judges praised
+him, but with moderation; the younger men were
+inclined to be frivolous at his expense. It was agreed
+that he had talent, but it never occurred to anyone
+that he was one of the glories of English literature.
+He celebrated his seventieth birthday; an uneasiness
+passed over the world of letters, like a ruffling
+of the waters when on an Eastern sea a typhoon
+lurks in the distance, and it grew evident that there
+had lived among us all these years a great novelist
+and none of us had suspected it. There was a rush
+for Driffield’s book in the various libraries and a
+hundred busy pens, in Bloomsbury, in Chelsea, and
+in other places where men of letters congregate,
+wrote appreciations, studies, essays, and works, short
+and chatty or long and intense, on his novels. These
+were reprinted, in complete editions, in select editions,
+at a shilling and three and six and five shillings
+and a guinea. His style was analyzed, his philosophy
+was examined, his technique was dissected. At
+seventy-five everyone agreed that Edward Driffield
+had genius. At eighty he was the Grand Old Man of
+English Letters. This position he held till his death.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Now we look about and think sadly that there is
+no one to take his place. A few septuagenarians are
+sitting up and taking notice, and they evidently feel
+that they could comfortably fill the vacant niche. But
+it is obvious that they lack something.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Though these recollections have taken so long to
+narrate they took but a little while to pass through
+my head. They came to me higgledy-piggledy, an
+incident and then a scrap of conversation that belonged
+to a previous time, and I have set them down
+in order for the convenience of the reader and because
+I have a neat mind. One thing that surprised
+me was that even at that far distance I could remember
+distinctly what people looked like and even
+the gist of what they said, but only with vagueness
+what they wore. I knew of course that the dress,
+especially of women, was quite different forty years
+ago from what it was now, but if I recalled it at all
+it was not from life but from pictures and photographs
+that I had seen much later.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was still occupied with my idle fancies when I
+heard a taxi stop at the door, the bell ring, and in a
+moment Alroy Kear’s booming voice telling the butler
+that he had an appointment with me. He came in,
+big, bluff, and hearty; his vitality shattered with a
+single gesture the frail construction I had been building
+out of the vanished past. He brought in with
+him, like a blustering wind in March, the aggressive
+and inescapable present.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was just asking myself,” I said, “who could
+possibly succeed Edward Driffield as the Grand Old
+Man of English Letters and you arrive to answer my
+question.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He broke into a jovial laugh, but into his eyes
+came a quick look of suspicion.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think there’s anybody,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How about yourself?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear boy, I’m not fifty yet. Give me another
+twenty-five years.” He laughed, but his eyes
+held mine keenly. “I never know when you’re pulling
+my leg.” He looked down suddenly. “Of course one
+can’t help thinking about the future sometimes. All
+the people who are at the top of the tree now are
+anything from fifteen to twenty years older than me.
+They can’t last for ever, and when they’re gone who
+is there? Of course there’s Aldous; he’s a good deal
+younger than me, but he’s not very strong and I don’t
+believe he takes great care of himself. Barring accidents,
+by which I mean barring some genius who
+suddenly springs up and sweeps the board, I don’t
+quite see how in another twenty or twenty-five years
+I can help having the field pretty well to myself. It’s
+just a question of pegging away and living on longer
+than the others.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy sank his virile bulk into one of my landlady’s
+armchairs and I offered him a whisky and soda.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I never drink spirits before six o’clock,” he
+said. He looked about him. “Jolly, these digs are.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I know. What have you come to see me about?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I thought I’d better have a little chat with you
+about Mrs. Driffield’s invitation. It was rather difficult
+to explain over the telephone. The truth of the
+matter is that I’ve arranged to write Driffield’s life.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me the other day?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I felt friendly disposed toward Roy. I was happy
+to think that I had not misjudged him when I suspected
+that it was not merely for the pleasure of my
+company that he had asked me to luncheon.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I hadn’t entirely made up my mind. Mrs. Driffield
+is very keen on my doing it. She’s going to help me
+in every way she can. She’s giving me all the material
+she has. She’s been collecting it for a good
+many years. It’s not an easy thing to do and of course
+I can’t afford not to do it well. But if I can make a
+pretty good job of it, it can’t fail to do me a lot of
+good. People have so much more respect for a novelist
+if he writes something serious now and then. Those
+critical works of mine were an awful sweat, and they
+sold nothing, but I don’t regret them for a moment.
+They’ve given me a position I could never have got
+without them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think it’s a very good plan. You’ve known Driffield
+more intimately than most people for the last
+twenty years.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think I have. But of course he was over sixty
+when I first made his acquaintance. I wrote and told
+him how much I admired his books and he asked me
+to go and see him. But I know nothing about the
+early part of his life. Mrs. Driffield used to try to
+get him to talk about those days and she made very
+copious notes of all he said, and then there are diaries
+that he kept now and then, and of course a lot of
+the stuff in the novels is obviously autobiographical.
+But there are immense lacunæ. I’ll tell you the sort
+of book I want to write, a sort of intimate life, with
+a lot of those little details that make people feel warm
+inside, you know, and then woven in with this a
+really exhaustive criticism of his literary work, not
+ponderous, of course, but although sympathetic,
+searching and .&nbsp;.&nbsp;. subtle. Naturally it wants doing,
+but Mrs. Driffield seems to think I can do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m sure you can,” I put in.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see why not,” said Roy. “I am a critic,
+and I’m a novelist. It’s obvious that I have certain
+literary qualifications. But I can’t do anything unless
+everyone who can is willing to help me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I began to see where I came in. I tried to make
+my face look quite blank. Roy leaned forward.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I asked you the other day if you were going to
+write anything about Driffield yourself and you said
+you weren’t. Can I take that as definite?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Certainly.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then have you got any objection to giving me
+your material?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“My dear boy, I haven’t got any.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that’s nonsense,” said Roy good-humouredly,
+with the tone of a doctor who is trying to persuade
+a child to have its throat examined. “When he was
+living at Blackstable you must have seen a lot of
+him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was only a boy then.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But you must have been conscious of the unusual
+experience. After all, no one could be for half an
+hour in Edward Driffield’s society without being impressed
+by his extraordinary personality. It must
+have been obvious even to a boy of sixteen, and you
+were probably more observant and sensitive than the
+average boy of that age.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wonder if his personality would have seemed
+extraordinary without the reputation to back it up.
+Do you imagine that if you went down to a spa in
+the west of England as Mr. Atkins, a chartered
+accountant taking the waters for his liver, you would
+impress the people you met there as a man of immense
+character?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I imagine they’d soon realize that I was not quite
+the common or garden chartered accountant,” said
+Roy, with a smile that took from his remark any appearance
+of self-esteem.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, all I can tell you is that what chiefly bothered
+me about Driffield in those days was that the
+knickerbocker suit he wore was dreadfully loud. We
+used to bicycle a lot together and it always made me
+feel a trifle uncomfortable to be seen with him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It sounds comic now. What did he talk about?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know; nothing very much. He was rather
+keen on architecture, and he talked about farming,
+and if a pub looked nice he generally suggested stopping
+for five minutes and having a glass of bitter,
+and then he would talk to the landlord about the
+crops and the price of coal and things like that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I rambled on, though I could see by the look of
+Roy’s face that he was disappointed with me; he
+listened, but he was a trifle bored, and it struck me
+that when he was bored he looked peevish. But
+though I couldn’t remember that Driffield had ever
+said anything significant during those long rides of
+ours, I had a very acute recollection of the <span class='it'>feel</span> of
+them. Blackstable was peculiar in this, that though
+it was on the sea, with a long shingly beach and
+marshland at the back, you had only to go about
+half a mile inland to come into the most rural country
+in Kent. Winding roads that ran between the great
+fat green fields and clumps of huge elms, substantial
+and with a homely stateliness like good old Kentish
+farmers’ wives, high-coloured and robust, who had
+grown portly on good butter and home-made bread
+and cream and fresh eggs. And sometimes the road
+was only a lane, with thick hawthorn hedges, and the
+green elms overhung it on either side so that when
+you looked up there was only a strip of blue sky between.
+And as you rode along in the warm, keen air
+you had a sensation that the world was standing still
+and life would last for ever. Although you were
+pedalling with such energy you had a delicious feeling
+of laziness. You were quite happy when no one
+spoke, and if one of the party from sheer high spirits
+suddenly put on speed and shot ahead it was a joke
+that everyone laughed at and for a few minutes you
+pedalled as hard as you could. And we chaffed one
+another innocently and giggled at our own humour.
+Now and then one would pass cottages with little
+gardens in front of them and in the gardens were
+hollyhocks and tiger lilies; and a little way from
+the road were farmhouses, with their spacious barns
+and oasthouses; and one would pass through hopfields
+with the ripening hops hanging in garlands.
+The public houses were friendly and informal, hardly
+more important than cottages, and on the porches
+often honeysuckle would be growing. The names they
+bore were usual and familiar: the Jolly Sailor, the
+Merry Ploughman, the Crown and Anchor, the Red
+Lion.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But of course all that could matter nothing to
+Roy, and he interrupted me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did he never talk of literature?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think so. He wasn’t that sort of writer. I
+suppose he thought about his writing, but he never
+mentioned it. He used to lend the curate books. In
+the winter, one Christmas holidays, I used to have
+tea at his house nearly every day and sometimes the
+curate and he would talk about books, but we used
+to shut them up.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you remember anything he said?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Only one thing. I remember it because I hadn’t
+ever read the things he was talking about and what
+he said made me do so. He said that when Shakespeare
+retired to Stratford-on-Avon and became respectable,
+if he ever thought of his plays at all, probably
+the two that he remembered with most interest
+were <span class='it'>Measure for Measure</span> and <span class='it'>Troilus and Cressida</span>.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think that’s very illuminating. Didn’t he
+say anything about anyone more modern than
+Shakespeare?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, not then, that I can remember; but when
+I was lunching with the Driffields a few years ago I
+overheard him saying that Henry James had turned
+his back on one of the great events of the world’s
+history, the rise of the United States, in order to
+report tittle-tattle at tea parties in English country
+houses. Driffield called it <span class='it'>il gran rifiuto</span>. I was surprised
+at hearing the old man use an Italian phrase
+and amused because a great big bouncing duchess who
+was there was the only person who knew what the
+devil he was talking about. He said: ‘Poor Henry,
+he’s spending eternity wandering round and round
+a stately park and the fence is just too high for him
+to peep over and they’re having tea just too far for
+him to hear what the countess is saying.’ ”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy listened to my little anecdote with attention.
+He shook his head reflectively.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think I could use that. I’d have the
+Henry James gang down on me like a thousand of
+bricks.&nbsp;.&nbsp;.&nbsp;. But what used you to do during those
+evenings?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, we played whist while Driffield read books
+for review, and he used to sing.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s interesting,” said Roy, leaning forward
+eagerly. “Do you remember what he sang?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Perfectly. ‘All Through Stickin’ to a Soljer’ and
+‘Come Where the Booze Is Cheaper’ were his favourites.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I could see that Roy was disappointed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did you expect him to sing Schumann?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know why not. It would have been rather
+a good point. But I think I should have expected him
+to sing sea chanteys or old English country airs, you
+know, the sort of thing they used to sing at fairings—blind
+fiddlers and the village swains dancing with the
+girls on the threshing floor and all that sort of thing.
+I might have made something rather beautiful out
+of that, but I can’t <span class='it'>see</span> Edward Driffield singing
+music hall songs. After all, when you’re drawing a
+man’s portrait you must get the values right; you
+only confuse the impression if you put in stuff that’s
+all out of tone.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know that shortly after this he shot the moon.
+He let everybody in.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy was silent for fully a minute and he looked
+down at the carpet reflectively.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I knew there’d been some unpleasantness.
+Mrs. Driffield mentioned it. I understand everything
+was paid up later before he finally bought Ferne
+Court and settled down in the district. I don’t think
+it’s necessary to dwell on an incident that is not really
+of any importance in the history of his development.
+After all, it happened nearly forty years ago. You
+know, there were some very curious sides to the old
+man. One would have thought that after a rather
+sordid little scandal like that the neighbourhood of
+Blackstable would be the last place he’d choose to
+spend the rest of his life in when he’d become celebrated,
+especially when it was the scene of his rather
+humble origins; but he didn’t seem to mind a bit.
+He seemed to think the whole thing rather a good
+joke. He was quite capable of telling people who
+came to lunch about it and it was very embarrassing
+for Mrs. Driffield. I should like you to know Amy
+better. She’s a very remarkable woman. Of course
+the old man had written all his great books before
+he ever set eyes on her, but I don’t think anyone can
+deny that it was she who created the rather imposing
+and dignified figure that the world saw for the last
+twenty-five years of his life. She’s been very frank
+with me. She didn’t have such an easy job of it. Old
+Driffield had some very queer ways and she had to
+use a good deal of tact to get him to behave decently.
+He was very obstinate in some things and I think a
+woman of less character would have been discouraged.
+For instance, he had a habit that poor Amy
+had a lot of trouble to break him of: after he’d finished
+his meat and vegetables he’d take a piece of
+bread and wipe the plate clean with it and eat it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Do you know what that means?” I said. “It means
+that for long he had so little to eat that he couldn’t
+afford to waste any food he could get.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, that may be, but it’s not a very pretty habit
+for a distinguished man of letters. And then, he
+didn’t exactly tipple, but he was rather fond of going
+down to the Bear and Key at Blackstable and having
+a few beers in the public bar. Of course there was
+no harm in it, but it did make him rather conspicuous,
+especially in summer when the place was full
+of trippers. He didn’t mind who he talked to. He
+didn’t seem able to realize that he had a position to
+keep up. You can’t deny it was rather awkward after
+they’d been having a lot of interesting people to
+lunch—people like Edmund Gosse, for instance, and
+Lord Curzon—that he should go down to a public
+house and tell the plumber and the baker and the
+sanitary inspector what he thought about them. But
+of course that could be explained away. One could
+say that he was after local colour and was interested
+in types. But he had some habits that really were
+rather difficult to cope with. Do you know that it
+was with the greatest difficulty that Amy Driffield
+could ever get him to take a bath?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He was born at a time when people thought it
+unhealthy to take too many baths. I don’t suppose
+he ever lived in a house that had a bathroom till he
+was fifty.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, he said he never had had a bath more than
+once a week and he didn’t see why he should change
+his habits at his time of life. Then Amy said that he
+must change his under linen every day, but he objected
+to that too. He said he’d always been used
+to wearing his vest and drawers for a week and it
+was nonsense, it only wore them out to have them
+washed so often. Mrs. Driffield did everything she
+could to tempt him to have a bath every day, with
+bath salts and perfumes, you know, but nothing
+would induce him to, and as he grew older he wouldn’t
+even have one once a week. She tells me that for
+the last three years of his life he never had a bath
+at all. Of course, all this is between ourselves; I’m
+merely telling it to show you that in writing his life
+I shall have to use a good deal of tact. I don’t see
+how one can deny that he was just a wee bit unscrupulous
+in money matters and he had a kink in him
+that made him take a strange pleasure in the society
+of his inferiors and some of his personal habits were
+rather disagreeable, but I don’t think that side of
+him was the most significant. I don’t want to say anything
+that’s untrue, but I do think there’s a certain
+amount that’s better left unsaid.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you think it would be more interesting if
+you went the whole hog and drew him warts and
+all?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I couldn’t. Amy Driffield would never speak
+to me again. She only asked me to do the life because
+she felt she could trust my discretion. I must
+behave like a gentleman.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s very hard to be a gentleman and a writer.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t see why. And besides, you know what the
+critics are. If you tell the truth they only say you’re
+cynical and it does an author no good to get a reputation
+for cynicism. Of course I don’t deny that if I
+were thoroughly unscrupulous I could make a sensation.
+It would be rather amusing to show the man
+with his passion for beauty and his careless treatment
+of his obligations, his fine style and his personal
+hatred for soap and water, his idealism and his tippling
+in disreputable pubs; but honestly, would it
+pay? They’d only say I was imitating Lytton Strachey.
+No, I think I shall do much better to be allusive
+and charming and rather subtle, you know the sort
+of thing, and tender. I think one ought always to
+<span class='it'>see</span> a book before one starts it. Well, I see this rather
+like a portrait of Van Dyck, with a good deal of
+atmosphere, you know, and a certain gravity, and
+with a sort of aristocratic distinction. Do you know
+what I mean? About eighty thousand words.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He was absorbed for a moment in the ecstasy of
+æsthetic contemplation. In his mind’s eye he saw a
+book, in royal octavo, slim and light in the hand,
+printed with large margins on handsome paper in
+a type that was both clear and comely, and I think
+he saw a binding in smooth black cloth with a decoration
+in gold and gilt lettering. But being human,
+Alroy Kear could not, as I suggested a few pages
+back, hold the ecstasy that beauty yields for more
+than a little while. He gave me a candid smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But how the devil am I to get over the first Mrs.
+Driffield?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The skeleton in the cupboard,” I murmured.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She is damned awkward to deal with. She was
+married to Driffield for a good many years. Amy
+has very decided views on the subject, but I don’t see
+how I can possibly meet them. You see, her attitude
+is that Rose Driffield exerted a most pernicious influence
+on her husband, and that she did everything
+possible to ruin him morally, physically, and financially;
+she was beneath him in every way, at least
+intellectually and spiritually, and it was only because
+he was a man of immense force and vitality that he
+survived. It was of course a very unfortunate marriage.
+It’s true that she’s been dead for ages and
+it seems a pity to rake up old scandals and wash a
+lot of dirty linen in public; but the fact remains that
+all Driffield’s greatest books were written when he
+was living with her. Much as I admire the later
+books, and no one is more conscious of their genuine
+beauty than I am, and they have a restraint and a
+sort of classical sobriety which are admirable, I must
+admit that they haven’t the tang and the vigour and
+the smell and bustle of life of the early ones. It does
+seem to me that you can’t altogether ignore the influence
+his first wife had on his work.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I can’t see why all that part of his life
+shouldn’t be treated with the greatest possible reserve
+and delicacy, so as not to offend the most exacting
+susceptibility, and yet with a sort of manly
+frankness, if you understand what I mean, that would
+be rather moving.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It sounds a very tall order.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“As I see it, there’s no need to dot the i’s or to
+cross the t’s. It can only be a question of getting
+just the right touch. I wouldn’t state more than I
+could help, but I would suggest what was essential
+for the reader to realize. You know, however gross
+a subject is you can soften its unpleasantness if you
+treat it with dignity. But I can do nothing unless I
+am in complete possession of the facts.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Obviously you can’t cook them unless you have
+them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy had been expressing himself with a fluent ease
+that revealed the successful lecturer. I wished (a)
+that I could express myself with so much force and
+aptness, never at a loss for a word, rolling off the
+sentences without a moment’s hesitation; and (b)
+that I did not feel so miserably incompetent with my
+one small insignificant person to represent the large
+and appreciative audience that Roy was instinctively
+addressing. But now he paused. A genial look came
+over his face, which his enthusiasm had reddened and
+the heat of the day caused to perspire, and the eyes
+that had held me with a dominating brilliance softened
+and smiled.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“This is where you come in, old boy,” he said
+pleasantly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I have always found it a very good plan in life to
+say nothing when I had nothing to say and when I
+do not know how to answer a remark to hold my
+tongue. I remained silent and looked back at Roy
+amiably.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know more about his life at Blackstable than
+anybody else.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know about that. There must be a number
+of people at Blackstable who saw as much of
+him in the old days as I did.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That may be, but after all they’re presumably
+not people of any importance, and I don’t think they
+matter very much.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I see. You mean that I’m the only person
+who might blow the gaff.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Roughly, that is what I do mean, if you feel that
+you must put it in a facetious way.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I saw that Roy was not inclined to be amused. I
+was not annoyed, for I am quite used to people not
+being amused at my jokes. I often think that the
+purest type of the artist is the humorist who laughs
+alone at his own jests.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And you saw a good deal of him later on in London,
+I believe.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That is when he had an apartment somewhere in
+Lower Belgravia.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, lodgings in Pimlico.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy smiled drily.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We won’t quarrel about the exact designation
+of the quarter of London in which he lived. You
+were very intimate with him then.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Fairly.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How long did that last?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“About a couple of years.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How old were you then?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Twenty.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Now look here, I want you to do me a great
+favour. It won’t take you very long and it will be of
+quite inestimable value to me. I want you to jot down
+as fully as you can all your recollections of Driffield,
+and all you remember about his wife and his relations
+with her and so on, both at Blackstable and in
+London.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear fellow, that’s asking a great deal.
+I’ve got a lot of work to do just now.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It needn’t take you very long. You can write it
+quite roughly, I mean. You needn’t bother about
+style, you know, or anything like that. I’ll put the
+style in. All I want are the facts. After all, you
+know them and nobody else does. I don’t want to be
+pompous or anything like that, but Driffield was a
+great man and you owe it to his memory and to English
+literature to tell everything you know. I shouldn’t
+have asked you, but you told me the other day that
+you weren’t going to write anything about him yourself.
+It would be rather like a dog in a manger to
+keep to yourself a whole lot of material that you
+have no intention of using.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Thus Roy appealed at once to my sense of duty, my
+indolence, my generosity, and my rectitude.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But why does Mrs. Driffield want me to go down
+and stay at Ferne Court?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, we talked it over. It’s a very jolly house to
+stay in. She does one very well, and it ought to be
+divine in the country just now. She thought it would
+be very nice and quiet for you if you felt inclined to
+write your recollections there; of course, I said I
+couldn’t promise that, but naturally being so near
+Blackstable would remind you of all sorts of things
+that you might otherwise forget. And then, living in
+his house, among his books and things, it would make
+the past seem much more real. We could all talk
+about him, and you know how in the heat of conversation
+things come back. Amy’s very quick and
+clever. She’s been in the habit of making notes of
+Driffield’s talk for years, and after all it’s quite
+likely that you’ll say things on the spur of the moment
+that you wouldn’t think of writing and she can
+just jot them down afterward. And we can play
+tennis and bathe.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not very fond of staying with people,” I said.
+“I hate getting up for a nine-o’clock breakfast to eat
+things I have no mind to. I don’t like going for walks,
+and I’m not interested in other people’s chickens.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s a lonely woman now. It would be a kindness
+to her and it would be a kindness to me too.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I reflected.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll go down to Blackstable,
+but I’ll go down on my own. I’ll put up at
+the Bear and Key and I’ll come over and see Mrs.
+Driffield while you’re there. You can both talk your
+heads off about Edward Driffield, but I shall be able
+to get away when I’m fed up with you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy laughed good-naturedly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right. That’ll do. And will you jot down anything
+you can remember that you think will be useful
+to me?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll try.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When will you come? I’m going down on Friday.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll come with you if you’ll promise not to talk
+to me in the train.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right. The five-ten’s the best one. Shall I come
+and fetch you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m capable of getting to Victoria by myself. I’ll
+meet you on the platform.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I don’t know if Roy was afraid of my changing my
+mind, but he got up at once, shook my hand heartily,
+and left. He begged me on no account to forget my
+tennis racket and bathing suit.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>My promise</span> to Roy sent my thoughts back to my
+first years in London. Having nothing much to do
+that afternoon, it occurred to me to stroll along and
+have a cup of tea with my old landlady. Mrs. Hudson’s
+name had been given to me by the secretary of
+the medical school at St. Luke’s when, a callow youth
+just arrived in town, I was looking for lodgings. She
+had a house in Vincent Square. I lived there for five
+years, in two rooms on the ground floor, and over
+me on the drawing room floor lived a master at Westminster
+School. I paid a pound a week for my rooms
+and he paid twenty-five shillings. Mrs. Hudson was
+a little, active, bustling woman, with a sallow face,
+a large aquiline nose, and the brightest, the most
+vivacious, black eyes that I ever saw. She had a great
+deal of very dark hair, in the afternoons and all day
+on Sunday arranged in a fringe on the forehead with
+a bun at the nape of the neck as you may see in old
+photographs of the Jersey Lily. She had a heart of
+gold (though I did not know it then, for when you
+are young you take the kindness people show you as
+your right) and she was an excellent cook. No one
+could make a better <span class='it'>omelette soufflée</span> than she. Every
+morning she was up betimes to get the fire lit in her
+gentlemen’s sitting room so that they needn’t eat
+their breakfasts simply perishing with the cold, my
+word it’s bitter this morning; and if she didn’t hear
+you having your bath, a flat tin bath that slipped
+under the bed, the water put in the night before to
+take the chill off, she’d say: “There now, there’s my
+dining room floor not up yet, ’e’ll be late for his
+lecture again,” and she would come tripping upstairs
+and thump on the door and you would hear her shrill
+voice: “If you don’t get up at once you won’t ’ave
+time to ’ave breakfast, an’ I’ve got a lovely ’addick
+for you.” She worked all day long and she sang at
+her work and she was gay and happy and smiling. Her
+husband was much older than she. He had been a
+butler in very good families, and wore side-whiskers
+and a perfect manner; he was verger at a neighbouring
+church, highly respected, and he waited at table
+and cleaned the boots and helped with the washing-up.
+Mrs. Hudson’s only relaxation was to come up
+after she had served the dinners (I had mine at half-past
+six and the schoolmaster at seven) and have a
+little chat with her gentlemen. I wish to goodness I
+had had the sense (like Amy Driffield with her celebrated
+husband) to take notes of her conversation, for
+Mrs. Hudson was a mistress of Cockney humour.
+She had a gift of repartee that never failed her, she
+had a racy style and an apt and varied vocabulary,
+she was never at a loss for the comic metaphor or
+the vivid phrase. She was a pattern of propriety and
+she would never have women in her house, you never
+knew what they were up to (“It’s men, men, men all
+the time with them, and afternoon tea and thin bread
+and butter, and openin’ the door and ringin’ for ’ot
+water and I don’t know what all”); but in conversation
+she did not hesitate to use what was called in
+those days the blue bag. One could have said of her
+what she said of Marie Lloyd: “What I like about ’er
+is that she gives you a good laugh. She goes pretty
+near the knuckle sometimes, but she never jumps
+over the fence.” Mrs. Hudson enjoyed her own
+humour and I think she talked more willingly to her
+lodgers because her husband was a serious man (“It’s
+as it should be,” she said, “ ’im bein’ a verger and
+attendin’ weddings and funerals and what all”) and
+wasn’t much of a one for a joke. “Wot I says to
+’Udson is, laugh while you’ve got the chance, you
+won’t laugh much when you’re dead and buried.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Hudson’s humour was cumulative and the
+story of her feud with Miss Butcher who let lodgings
+at number fourteen was a great comic saga that
+went on year in and year out.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s a disagreeable old cat, but I give you my
+word I’d miss ’er if the Lord took ’er one fine day.
+Though what ’e’d do with ’er when ’e got ’er I
+can’t think. Many’s the good laugh she’s give me in
+’er time.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Hudson had very bad teeth and the question
+whether she should have them taken out and have
+false ones was discussed by her for two or three years
+with an unimaginable variety of comic invention.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But as I said to ’Udson on’y last night, when he
+said, ‘Oh, come on, ’ave ’em out and ’ave done with
+it’, I shouldn’t ’ave anythin’ to talk about.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had not seen Mrs. Hudson for two or three years.
+My last visit had been in answer to a little letter in
+which she asked me to come and drink a nice strong
+cup of tea with her and announced: “Hudson died
+three months ago next Saturday, aged seventy-nine,
+and George and Hester send their respectful compliments.”
+George was the issue of her marriage with
+Hudson. He was now a man approaching middle age
+who worked at Woolwich Arsenal, and his mother
+had been repeating for twenty years that George
+would be bringing a wife home one of these days.
+Hester was the maid-of-all-work she had engaged
+toward the end of my stay with her, and Mrs. Hudson
+still spoke of her as “that dratted girl of mine.”
+Though Mrs. Hudson must have been well over
+thirty when I first took her rooms, and that was five
+and thirty years ago, I had no feeling as I walked
+leisurely through the Green Park that I should not
+find her alive. She was as definitely part of the recollections
+of my youth as the pelicans that stood at the
+edge of the ornamental water.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I walked down the area steps and the door was
+opened to me by Hester, a woman getting on for
+fifty now and stoutish, but still bearing on her shyly
+grinning face the irresponsibility of the dratted girl.
+Mrs. Hudson was darning George’s socks when I
+was shown into the front room of the basement and
+she took off her spectacles to look at me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, if that isn’t Mr. Ashenden! Who ever
+thought of seeing you? Is the water boiling, ’Ester?
+You will ’ave a nice cup of tea, won’t you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Hudson was a little heavier than when I first
+knew her and her movements were more deliberate,
+but there was scarcely a white hair on her head, and
+her eyes, as black and shining as buttons, sparkled
+with fun. I sat down in a shabby little armchair covered
+with maroon leather.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How are you getting on, Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’ve got nothin’ much to complain of except
+that I’m not so young as I used to was,” she answered.
+“I can’t do so much as I could when you was
+’ere. I don’t give my gentlemen dinner now, only
+breakfast.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Are all your rooms let?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I’m thankful to say.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Owing to the rise of prices Mrs. Hudson was able
+to get more for her rooms than in my day, and I
+think in her modest way she was quite well off. But
+of course people wanted a lot nowadays.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You wouldn’t believe it, first I ’ad to put in a
+bathroom, and then I ’ad to put in the electric light,
+and then nothin’ would satisfy them but I must ’ave
+a telephone. What they’ll want next I can’t think.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Mr. George says it’s pretty near time Mrs.
+’Udson thought of retiring,” said Hester, who was
+laying the tea.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You mind your own business, my girl,” said Mrs.
+Hudson tartly. “When I retire it’ll be to the cemetery.
+Fancy me livin’ all alone with George and
+’Ester without nobody to talk to.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Mr. George says she ought to take a little ’ouse
+in the country an’ take care of ’erself,” said Hester,
+unperturbed by the reproof.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t talk to me about the country. The doctor
+said I was to go there for six weeks last summer. It
+nearly killed me, I give you my word. The noise of
+it. All them birds singin’ all the time, and the cocks
+crowin’ and the cows mooin’. I couldn’t stick it. When
+you’ve lived all the years I ’ave in peace and quietness
+you can’t get used to all that racket goin’ on
+all the time.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>A few doors away was the Vauxhall Bridge Road
+and down it trams were clanging, ringing their bells
+as they went, motor buses were lumbering along,
+taxis were tooting their horns. If Mrs. Hudson heard
+it, it was London she heard, and it soothed her as
+a mother’s crooning soothes a restless child.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I looked round the cosy, shabby, homely little
+parlour in which Mrs. Hudson had lived so long. I
+wondered if there was anything I could do for her.
+I noticed that she had a gramophone. It was the only
+thing I could think of.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Is there anything you want, Mrs. Hudson?” I
+asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She fixed her beady eyes on me reflectively.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know as there is, now you come to speak
+of it, except me ’ealth and strength for another
+twenty years so as I can go on workin’.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I do not think I am a sentimentalist, but her reply,
+unexpected but so characteristic, made a sudden lump
+come to my throat.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When it was time for me to go I asked if I could
+see the rooms I had lived in for five years.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Run upstairs, ’Ester, and see if Mr. Graham’s
+in. If he ain’t, I’m sure ’e wouldn’t mind you ’avin’
+a look at them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Hester scurried up, and in a moment, slightly
+breathless, came down again to say that Mr. Graham
+was out. Mrs. Hudson came with me. The bed was
+the same narrow iron bed that I had slept in and
+dreamed in and there was the same chest of drawers
+and the same washing stand. But the sitting room
+had the grim heartiness of the athlete; on the walls
+were photographs of cricket elevens and rowing men
+in shorts; golf clubs stood in the corner and pipes
+and tobacco jars, ornamented with the arms of a
+college, were littered on the chimney-piece. In my
+day we believed in art for art’s sake and this I exemplified
+by draping the chimney-piece with a Moorish
+rug, putting up curtains of art serge and a bilious
+green, and hanging on the walls autotypes of pictures
+by Perugino, Van Dyck and Hobbema.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very artistic you was, wasn’t you?” Mrs. Hudson
+remarked, not without irony.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very,” I murmured.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I could not help feeling a pang as I thought of all
+the years that had passed since I inhabited that room,
+and of all that had happened to me. It was at that
+same table that I had eaten my hearty breakfast and
+my frugal dinner, read my medical books and written
+my first novel. It was in that same armchair that I
+had read for the first time Wordsworth and Stendhal,
+the Elizabethan dramatists and the Russian novelists,
+Gibbon, Boswell, Voltaire, and Rousseau. I wondered
+who had used them since. Medical students,
+articled clerks, young fellows making their way in
+the city, and elderly men retired from the colonies
+or thrown unexpectedly upon the world by the break
+up of an old home. The room made me, as Mrs.
+Hudson would have put it, go queer all over. All the
+hopes that had been cherished there, the bright
+visions of the future, the flaming passion of youth;
+the regrets, the disillusion, the weariness, the resignation;
+so much had been felt in that room, by so
+many, the whole gamut of human emotion, that it
+seemed strangely to have acquired a troubling and
+enigmatic personality of its own. I have no notion
+why, but it made me think of a woman at a crossroad
+with a finger on her lips, looking back and with
+her other hand beckoning. What I obscurely (and
+rather shamefacedly) felt, communicated itself to
+Mrs. Hudson, for she gave a laugh and with a characteristic
+gesture rubbed her prominent nose.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“My word, people are funny,” she said. “When I
+think of all the gentlemen I’ve ’ad here, I give you
+my word you wouldn’t believe it if I told you some
+of the things I know about them. One of them’s
+funnier than the other. Sometimes I lie abed thinkin’
+of them, and <span class='it'>laugh</span>. Well, it would be a bad world if
+you didn’t get a good laugh now and then, but, lor’,
+lodgers really are the limit.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XIII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I lived</span> with Mrs. Hudson for nearly two years
+before I met the Driffields again. My life was very
+regular. I spent all day at the hospital and about six
+walked back to Vincent Square. I bought the <span class='it'>Star</span>
+at Lambeth Bridge and read it till my dinner was
+served. Then I read seriously for an hour or two,
+works to improve my mind, for I was a strenuous,
+earnest, and industrious youth, and after that wrote
+novels and plays till bedtime. I do not know for what
+reason it was that one day toward the end of June,
+happening to leave the hospital early, I thought I
+would walk down the Vauxhall Bridge Road. I liked
+it for its noisy bustle. It had a sordid vivacity that
+was pleasantly exciting and you felt that at any
+moment an adventure might there befall you. I
+strolled along in a daydream and was surprised suddenly
+to hear my name. I stopped and looked, and
+there to my astonishment stood Mrs. Driffield. She
+was smiling at me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you know me?” she cried.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes. Mrs. Driffield.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And though I was grown up I was conscious that
+I was blushing as furiously as when I was sixteen. I
+was embarrassed. With my lamentably Victorian
+notions of honesty I had been much shocked by the
+Driffields’ behaviour in running away from Blackstable
+without paying their bills. It seemed to me
+very shabby. I felt deeply the shame I thought they
+must feel and I was astounded that Mrs. Driffield
+should speak to someone who knew of the discreditable
+incident. If I had seen her coming I should
+have looked away, my delicacy presuming that she
+would wish to avoid the mortification of being seen
+by me; but she held out her hand and shook mine
+with obvious pleasure.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I am glad to see a Blackstable face,” she said.
+“You know we left there in a hurry.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She laughed and I laughed too; but her laugh was
+mirthful and childlike, while mine, I felt, was
+strained.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I hear there <span class='it'>was</span> a to-do when they found out we’d
+skipped. I thought Ted would never stop laughing
+when he heard about it. What did your uncle say?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was quick to get the right tone. I wasn’t going
+to let her think that I couldn’t see a joke as well as
+anyone.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you know what he is. He’s very old-fashioned.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that’s what’s wrong with Blackstable. They
+want waking up.” She gave me a friendly look.
+“You’ve grown a lot since I saw you last. Why,
+you’re growing a moustache.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” I said, giving it as much of a twirl as its
+size allowed me. “I’ve had that for ages.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How time does fly, doesn’t it? You were just a
+boy four years ago and now you’re a man.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I ought to be,” I replied somewhat haughtily.
+“I’m nearly twenty-one.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was looking at Mrs. Driffield. She wore a very
+small hat with feathers in it, and a pale gray dress
+with large leg-of-mutton sleeves and a long train. I
+thought she looked very smart. I had always thought
+that she had a nice face, but I noticed now, for the
+first time, that she was pretty. Her eyes were bluer
+than I remembered and her skin was like ivory.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know we live just round the corner,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“So do I.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We live in Limpus Road. We’ve been there almost
+ever since we left Blackstable.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ve been in Vincent Square for nearly two
+years.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I knew you were in London. George Kemp told
+me so, and I often wondered where you were. Why
+don’t you walk back with me now? Ted will be so
+pleased to see you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>As we walked along she told me that Driffield
+was now literary editor of a weekly paper; his last
+book had done much better than any of his others
+and he was expecting to get quite a bit as an advance
+on royalties for the next one. She seemed to know
+most of the Blackstable news, and I remembered how
+it had been suspected that Lord George had helped
+the Driffields in their flight. I guessed that he wrote
+to them now and then. I noticed as we walked along
+that sometimes the men who passed us stared at Mrs.
+Driffield. It occurred to me presently that they must
+think her pretty too. I began to walk with a certain
+swagger.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Limpus Road was a long wide straight street that
+ran parallel with the Vauxhall Bridge Road. The
+houses were all alike, of stucco, dingily painted, solid,
+and with substantial porticos. I suppose they had
+been built to be inhabited by men of standing in the
+city of London, but the street had gone down in
+the world or had never attracted the right sort of
+tenant; and its decayed respectability had an air
+at once furtive and shabbily dissipated, that made
+you think of persons who had seen better days and
+now, genteelly fuddled, talked of the social distinction
+of their youth. The Driffields lived in a house
+painted a dull red, and Mrs. Driffield letting me into
+a narrow dark hall, opened a door and said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Go in. I’ll tell Ted you’re here.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She walked down the hall and I entered the sitting
+room. The Driffields had the basement and the
+ground floor of the house, which they rented from
+the lady who lived in the upper part. The room into
+which I went looked as if it had been furnished with
+the scourings of auction sales. There were heavy
+velvet curtains with great fringes, all loops and festoons,
+and a gilt suite, upholstered in yellow damask,
+heavily buttoned; and there was a great pouffe in
+the middle of the room. There were gilt cabinets in
+which were masses of little articles, pieces of china,
+ivory figures, wood carvings, bits of Indian brass;
+and on the walls hung large oil paintings of highland
+glens and stags and gillies. In a moment Mrs. Driffield
+brought her husband and he greeted me warmly.
+He wore a shabby alpaca coat and gray trousers; he
+had shaved his beard and wore now a moustache and
+a small imperial. I noticed for the first time how
+short he was; but he looked more distinguished than
+he used to. There was something a trifle foreign in
+his appearance and I thought this was much more
+what I should expect an author to look like.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, what do you think of our new abode?” he
+asked. “It looks rich, doesn’t it? I think it inspires
+confidence.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He looked round him with satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And Ted’s got his den at the back where he can
+write, and we’ve got a dining room in the basement,”
+said Mrs. Driffield. “Miss Cowley was companion
+for many years to a lady of title and when she died
+she left her all her furniture. You can see everything’s
+good, can’t you? You can see it came out of a gentleman’s
+house.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rosie fell in love with the place the moment we
+saw it,” said Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You did too, Ted.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We’ve lived in sordid circumstances so long; it’s
+a change to be surrounded by luxury. Madame de
+Pompadour and all that sort of thing.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I left them it was with a very cordial invitation
+to come again. It appeared that they were at
+home every Saturday afternoon and all sorts of
+people whom I would like to meet were in the habit
+of dropping in.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XIV</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I went</span>. I enjoyed myself. I went again. When the
+autumn came and I returned to London for the winter
+session at St. Luke’s I got into the habit of going
+every Saturday. It was my introduction into the world
+of art and letters; I kept it a profound secret that
+in the privacy of my lodgings I was busily writing;
+I was excited to meet people who were writing also
+and I listened entranced to their conversation. All
+sorts of persons came to these parties: at that time
+week-ends were rare, golf was still a subject for
+ridicule, and few had much to do on Saturday afternoons.
+I do not think anyone came who was of any
+great importance; at all events, of all the painters,
+writers, and musicians I met at the Driffields’ I cannot
+remember one whose reputation has endured; but
+the effect was cultured and animated. You found
+young actors who were looking for parts and middle-aged
+singers who deplored the fact that the English
+were not a musical race, composers who played their
+compositions on the Driffields’ cottage piano and
+complained in a whispered aside that they sounded
+nothing except on a concert grand, poets who on
+pressure consented to read a little thing that they
+had just written, and painters who were looking for
+commissions. Now and then a person of title added
+a certain glamour; seldom, however, for in those
+days the aristocracy had not yet become bohemian
+and if a person of quality cultivated the society of
+artists it was generally because a notorious divorce
+or a little difficulty over cards had made life in his
+own station (or hers) a bit awkward. We have
+changed all that. One of the greatest benefits that
+compulsory education has conferred upon the world
+is the wide diffusion among the nobility and gentry
+of the practice of writing. Horace Walpole once
+wrote a <span class='it'>Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors</span>;
+such a work now would have the dimensions of an
+encyclopædia. A title, even a courtesy one, can make
+a well known author of almost anyone and it may
+be safely asserted that there is no better passport
+to the world of letters than rank.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I have indeed sometimes thought that now that
+the House of Lords must inevitably in a short while
+be abolished, it would be a very good plan if the
+profession of literature were by law confined to its
+members and their wives and children. It would be
+a graceful compensation that the British people might
+offer the peers in return for the surrender of their
+hereditary privileges. It would be a means of support
+for those (too many) whom devotion to the
+public cause in keeping chorus girls and race horses
+and playing <span class='it'>chemin de fer</span> has impoverished, and a
+pleasant occupation for the rest who by the process
+of natural selection have in the course of time become
+unfit to do anything but govern the British Empire.
+But this is an age of specialization and if my plan
+is adopted it is obvious that it cannot but be to the
+greater glory of English literature that its various
+provinces should be apportioned among the various
+ranks of the nobility. I would suggest, therefore, that
+the humbler branches of literature should be practised
+by the lower orders of the peerage and that the
+barons and viscounts should devote themselves exclusively
+to journalism and the drama. Fiction might
+be the privileged demesne of the earls. They have
+already shown their aptitude for this difficult art and
+their numbers are so great that they would very
+competently supply the demand. To the marquises
+might safely be left the production of that part of
+literature which is known (I have never quite seen
+why) as <span class='it'>belles lettres</span>. It is perhaps not very profitable
+from a pecuniary standpoint, but it has a distinction
+that very well suits the holders of this romantic
+title.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end
+and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human
+mind. It is the achievement of beauty. The writer of
+prose can only step aside when the poet passes; he
+makes the best of us look like a piece of cheese. It
+is evident then that the writing of poetry should be
+left to the dukes, and I should like to see their rights
+protected by the most severe pains and penalties, for
+it is intolerable that the noblest of arts should be
+practised by any but the noblest of men. And since
+here, too, specialization must prevail, I foresee that
+the dukes (like the successors of Alexander) will
+divide the realm of poetry between them, each confining
+himself to that aspect with which hereditary
+influence and natural bent have rendered him
+competent to deal: thus I see the dukes of Manchester
+writing poems of a didactic and moral character,
+the dukes of Westminster composing stirring
+odes on Duty and the Responsibilities of Empire;
+whereas I imagine that the dukes of Devonshire
+would be more likely to write love lyrics and elegies
+in the Propertian manner, while it is almost inevitable
+that the dukes of Marlborough should pipe in an
+idyllic strain on such subjects as domestic bliss, conscription,
+and content with modest station.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But if you say that this is somewhat formidable
+and remind me that the muse does not only stalk
+with majestic tread, but on occasion trips on a light
+fantastic toe; if, recalling the wise person who said
+that he did not care who made a nation’s laws so
+long as he wrote its songs, you ask me (thinking
+rightly that it would ill become the dukes to do so)
+who shall twang those measures on the lyre that the
+diverse and inconstant soul of man occasionally
+hankers after—I answer (obviously enough, I should
+have thought) the duchesses. I recognize that the day
+is past when the amorous peasants of the Romagna
+sang to their sweethearts the verses of Torquato
+Tasso and Mrs. Humphry Ward crooned over young
+Arnold’s cradle the choruses of Œdipus in Colonus.
+The age demands something more up-to-date. I suggest,
+therefore, that the more domestic duchesses
+should write our hymns and our nursery rhymes;
+while the skittish ones, those who incline to mingle
+vine leaves with the strawberry, should write the
+lyrics for musical comedies, humorous verse for the
+comic papers, and mottoes for Christmas cards and
+crackers. Thus would they retain in the hearts of
+the British public that place which they have held
+hitherto only on account of their exalted station.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was at these parties on Saturday afternoon that
+I discovered very much to my surprise that Edward
+Driffield was a distinguished person. He had written
+something like twenty books, and though he had
+never made more than a pittance out of them his
+reputation was considerable. The best judges admired
+them and the friends who came to his house
+were agreed that one of these days he would be recognized.
+They rated the public because it would not
+see that here was a great writer, and since the easiest
+way to exalt one man is to kick another in the pants,
+they reviled freely all the novelists whose contemporary
+fame obscured his. If, indeed, I had known
+as much of literary circles as I learned later I should
+have guessed by the not infrequent visits of Mrs.
+Barton Trafford that the time was approaching when
+Edward Driffield, like a runner in a long-distance
+race breaking away suddenly from the little knot of
+plodding athletes, must forge ahead. I admit that
+when first I was introduced to this lady her name
+meant nothing to me. Driffield presented me as a
+young neighbour of his in the country and told her
+that I was a medical student. She gave me a mellifluous
+smile, murmured in a soft voice something about
+Tom Sawyer, and, accepting the bread and butter I
+offered her, went on talking with her host. But I
+noticed that her arrival had made an impression and
+the conversation, which had been noisy and hilarious,
+was hushed. When in an undertone I asked who she
+was, I found that my ignorance was amazing; I was
+told that she had “made” So and So and So and So.
+After half an hour she rose, shook hands very graciously
+with such of the people as she was acquainted
+with, and with a sort of lithe sweetness sidled out
+of the room. Driffield accompanied her to the door
+and put her in a hansom.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford was then a woman of about
+fifty; she was small and slight, but with rather large
+features, which made her head look a little too big
+for her body; she had crisp white hair which she
+wore like the Venus of Milo, and she was supposed
+in her youth to have been very comely. She dressed
+discreetly in black silk, and wore round her neck
+jangling chains of beads and shells. She was said
+to have been unhappily married in early life, but now
+for many years had been congenially united to
+Barton Trafford, a clerk in the Home Office and a
+well known authority on prehistoric man. She gave
+you the curious impression of having no bones in her
+body and you felt that if you pinched her shin (which
+of course my respect for her sex as well as something
+of quiet dignity in her appearance would have never
+allowed me to do) your fingers would meet. When
+you took her hand it was like taking a fillet of sole.
+Her face, notwithstanding its large features, had
+something fluid about it. When she sat it was as
+though she had no backbone and were stuffed, like
+an expensive cushion, with swansdown.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Everything was soft about her, her voice, her smile,
+her laugh; her eyes, which were small and pale, had
+the softness of flowers; her manner was as soft as
+the summer rain. It was this extraordinary, and
+charming, characteristic that made her the wonderful
+friend she was. It was this that had gained her
+the celebrity that she now enjoyed. The whole world
+was aware of her friendship with the great novelist
+whose death a few years back had come as such a
+shock to the English-speaking peoples. Everyone had
+read the innumerable letters which he had written to
+her and which she was induced to publish shortly
+after his demise. Every page revealed his admiration
+for her beauty and his respect for her judgment;
+he could never say often enough how much he owed
+to her encouragement, her ready sympathy, her tact,
+her taste; and if certain of his expressions of passion
+were such as some persons might think would
+not be read by Mr. Barton Trafford with unmixed
+feelings, that only added to the human interest of the
+work. But Mr. Barton Trafford was above the prejudices
+of vulgar men (his misfortune, if such it was,
+was one that the greatest personages in history have
+endured with philosophy) and, abandoning his studies
+of aurignacian flints and neolithic ax heads he consented
+to write a Life of the deceased novelist in
+which he showed quite definitely how great a part of
+the writer’s genius was due to his wife’s influence.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But Mrs. Barton Trafford’s interest in literature,
+her passion for art, were not dead because the friend
+for whom she had done so much had become part,
+with her far from negligible assistance, of posterity.
+She was a great reader. Little that was noteworthy
+escaped her attention and she was quick to establish
+personal relations with any young writer who showed
+promise. Her fame, especially since the Life, was now
+such that she was sure that no one would hesitate to
+accept the sympathy she was prepared to offer. It was
+inevitable that Mrs. Barton Trafford’s genius for
+friendship should in due course find an outlet. When
+she read something that struck her, Mr. Barton Trafford,
+himself no mean critic, wrote a warm letter
+of appreciation to the author and asked him to luncheon.
+After luncheon, having to get back to the Home
+Office, he left him to have a chat with Mrs. Barton
+Trafford. Many were called. They all had <span class='it'>something</span>,
+but that was not enough. Mrs. Barton Trafford had
+a <span class='it'>flair</span>, and she trusted her <span class='it'>flair</span>; her <span class='it'>flair</span> bade her
+wait.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She was so cautious indeed that with Jasper Gibbons
+she almost missed the bus. The records of the
+past tell us of writers who grew famous in a night,
+but in our more prudent day this is unheard of. The
+critics want to see which way the cat will jump,
+and the public has been sold a pup too often to
+take unnecessary chances. But in the case of Jasper
+Gibbons it is almost the exact truth that he did
+thus jump into celebrity. Now that he is so completely
+forgotten and the critics who praised him
+would willingly eat their words if they were not
+carefully guarded in the files of innumerable newspaper
+offices, the sensation he made with his first
+volume of poems is almost unbelievable. The most
+important papers gave to reviews of them as much
+space as they would have to the report of a prize
+fight; the most influential critics fell over one another
+in their eagerness to welcome him. They likened him
+to Milton (for the sonority of his blank verse), to
+Keats (for the opulence of his sensuous imagery),
+and to Shelley (for his airy fantasy); and, using
+him as a stick to beat idols of whom they were weary,
+they gave in his name many a resounding whack on
+the emaciated buttocks of Lord Tennyson and a few
+good husky smacks on the bald pate of Robert Browning.
+The public fell like the walls of Jericho. Edition
+after edition was sold, and you saw Jasper Gibbons’s
+handsome volume in the boudoirs of countesses in
+Mayfair, in vicarage drawing rooms from Land’s
+End to John o’ Groats, and in the parlours of many
+an honest but cultured merchant in Glasgow, Aberdeen,
+and Belfast. When it became known that Queen
+Victoria had accepted a specially bound copy of the
+book from the hands of the loyal publisher, and had
+given him (not the poet, the publisher) a copy of
+<span class='it'>Leaves from a Journal in the Highlands</span> in exchange,
+the national enthusiasm knew no bounds.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>And all this happened as it were in the twinkling
+of an eye. Seven cities in Greece disputed the honour
+of having given birth to Homer, and though Jasper
+Gibbons’s birthplace (Walsall) was well known,
+twice seven critics claimed the honour of having discovered
+him; eminent judges of literature who for
+twenty years had written eulogies of one another’s
+works in the weekly papers quarrelled so bitterly
+over this matter that one cut the other dead in the
+Athenæum. Nor was the great world remiss in giving
+him its recognition. Jasper Gibbons was asked to
+luncheon and invited to tea by dowager duchesses, the
+wives of cabinet ministers, and the widows of bishops.
+It is said that Harrison Ainsworth was the first English
+man of letters to move in English society on terms
+of equality (and I have sometimes wondered that
+an enterprising publisher on this account has not
+thought of bringing out a complete edition of his
+works); but I believe that Jasper Gibbons was the
+first poet to have his name engraved at the bottom
+of an At Home card as a draw as enticing as an
+opera singer or a ventriloquist.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was out of the question then for Mrs. Barton
+Trafford to get in on the ground floor. She could
+only buy in the open market. I do not know what
+prodigious strategy she employed, what miracles of
+tact, what tenderness, what exquisite sympathy, what
+demure blandishments; I can only surmise and admire;
+she nobbled Jasper Gibbons. In a little while
+he was eating out of her soft hand. She was admirable.
+She had him to lunch to meet the right
+people; she gave At Homes where he recited his
+poems before the most distinguished persons in England;
+she introduced him to eminent actors who gave
+him commissions to write plays; she saw that his
+poems should only appear in the proper places; she
+dealt with the publishers and made contracts for
+him that would have staggered even a cabinet minister;
+she took care that he should accept only the
+invitations of which she approved; she even went
+so far as to separate him from the wife with whom
+he had lived happily for ten years, since she felt that
+a poet to be true to himself and his art must not be
+encumbered with domestic ties. When the crash came
+Mrs. Barton Trafford, had she chosen, might have
+said that she had done everything for him that it was
+humanly possible to do.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>For there was a crash. Jasper Gibbons brought out
+another volume of poetry; it was neither better nor
+worse than the first; it was very much like the first;
+it was treated with respect, but the critics made reservations;
+some of them even carped. The book was a
+disappointment. Its sale also. And unfortunately
+Jasper Gibbons was inclined to tipple. He had never
+been accustomed to having money to spend, he was
+quite unused to the lavish entertainments that were
+offered him, perhaps he missed his homely, common
+little wife; once or twice he came to dinner at Mrs.
+Barton Trafford’s in a condition that anyone less
+worldly, less simple-minded than she, would have described
+as blind to the world. She told her guests
+gently that the bard was not quite himself that evening.
+His third book was a failure. The critics tore
+him limb from limb, they knocked him down and
+stamped on him, and, to quote one of Edward Driffield’s
+favourite songs, then they lugged him round
+the room and then they jumped upon his face: they
+were quite naturally annoyed that they had mistaken
+a fluent versifier for a deathless poet and were determined
+that he should suffer for their error. Then
+Jasper Gibbons was arrested for being drunk and
+disorderly in Piccadilly and Mr. Barton Trafford
+had to go to Vine Street at midnight to bail him out.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford at this juncture was perfect.
+She did not repine. No harsh word escaped her lips.
+She might have been excused if she had felt a certain
+bitterness because this man for whom she had done
+so much had let her down. She remained tender,
+gentle, and sympathetic. She was the woman who
+understood. She dropped him, but not like a hot
+brick, or a hot potato. She dropped him with infinite
+gentleness, as softly as the tear that she doubtless
+shed when she made up her mind to do something
+so repugnant to her nature; she dropped him with
+so much tact, with such sensibility, that Jasper Gibbons
+perhaps hardly knew he was dropped. But there
+was no doubt about it. She would say nothing against
+him, indeed she would not discuss him at all, and
+when mention was made of him she merely smiled,
+a little sadly, and sighed. But her smile was the <span class='it'>coup
+de grâce</span>, and her sigh buried him deep.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford had a passion for literature
+too sincere to allow a setback of this character long
+to discourage her; and however great her disappointment
+she was a woman of too disinterested a nature
+to let the gifts of tact, sympathy, and understanding
+with which she was blessed by nature lie fallow. She
+continued to move in literary circles, going to tea
+parties here and there, to soirées, and to At Homes,
+charming always and gentle, listening intelligently,
+but watchful, critical, and determined (if I may put
+it crudely) next time to back a winner. It was then
+that she met Edward Driffield and formed a favourable
+opinion of his gifts. It is true that he was not
+young, but then he was unlikely like Jasper Gibbons
+to go to pieces. She offered him her friendship. He
+could not fail to be moved when, in that gentle way
+of hers, she told him that it was a scandal that his
+exquisite work remained known only in a narrow
+circle. He was pleased and flattered. It is always
+pleasant to be assured that you are a genius. She
+told him that Barton Trafford was reflecting on the
+possibility of writing an important article on him
+for the <span class='it'>Quarterly Review</span>. She asked him to luncheon
+to meet people who might be useful to him. She
+wanted him to know his intellectual equals. Sometimes
+she took him for a walk on the Chelsea Embankment
+and they talked of poets dead and gone
+and love and friendship, and had tea in an A.B.C.
+shop. When Mrs. Barton Trafford came to Limpus
+Street on Saturday afternoon she had the air of the
+queen bee preparing herself for the nuptial flight.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Her manner with Mrs. Driffield was perfect. It
+was affable, but not condescending. She always
+thanked her very prettily for having allowed her to
+come and see her and complimented her on her appearance.
+If she praised Edward Driffield to her,
+telling her with a little envy in her tone what a privilege
+it was to enjoy the companionship of such a great
+man, it was certainly from pure kindness, and not
+because she knew that there is nothing that exasperates
+the wife of a literary man more than to have
+another woman tell her flattering things about him.
+She talked to Mrs. Driffield of the simple things her
+simple nature might be supposed to be interested in,
+of cooking and servants and Edward’s health and
+how careful she must be with him. Mrs. Barton
+Trafford treated her exactly as you would expect a
+woman of very good Scotch family, which she was,
+to treat an ex-barmaid with whom a distinguished
+man of letters had made an unfortunate marriage.
+She was cordial, playful, and gently determined to
+put her at her ease.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was strange that Rosie could not bear her; indeed,
+Mrs. Barton Trafford was the only person
+that I ever knew her dislike. In those days even
+barmaids did not habitually use the “bitches” and
+“bloodys” that are part and parcel of the current
+vocabulary of the best-brought-up young ladies, and
+I never heard Rosie use a word that would have
+shocked my Aunt Sophie. When anyone told a story
+that was a little near the knuckle she would blush to
+the roots of her hair. But she referred to Mrs. Barton
+Trafford as “that damned old cat.” It needed
+the most urgent persuasions of her more intimate
+friends to induce her to be civil to her.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be a fool, Rosie,” they said. They all
+called her Rosie and presently I, though very shyly,
+got in the habit of doing so too. “If she wants to she
+can make him. He must play up to her. She can work
+the trick if anyone can.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Though most of the Driffields’ visitors were occasional,
+appearing every other Saturday, say, or
+every third, there was a little band that, like myself,
+came almost every week. We were the stand-bys; we
+arrived early and stayed late. Of these the most faithful
+were Quentin Forde, Harry Retford, and Lionel
+Hillier.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Quentin Forde was a stocky little man with a fine
+head of the type that was afterward for a time much
+admired in the moving pictures, a straight nose and
+handsome eyes, neatly cropped gray hair, and a black
+moustache; if he had been four or five inches taller
+he would have been the perfect type of the villain
+of melodrama. He was known to be very “well connected,”
+and he was affluent; his only occupation was
+to cultivate the arts. He went to all the first nights
+and all the private views. He had the amateur’s
+severity, and cherished for the productions of his
+contemporaries a polite but sweeping contempt. I
+discovered that he did not come to the Driffields’
+because Edward was a genius, but because Rosie was
+beautiful.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Now that I look back I cannot get over my surprise
+that I should have had to be told what was
+surely so obvious. When I first knew her it never
+occurred to me to ask myself whether she was pretty
+or plain, and when, seeing her again after five years,
+I noticed for the first time that she was very pretty,
+I was interested but did not trouble to think much
+about it. I took it as part of the natural order of
+things, just as I took the sun setting over the North
+Sea or the towers of Tercanbury Cathedral. I was
+quite startled when I heard people speak of Rosie’s
+beauty, and when they complimented Edward on
+her looks and his eyes rested on her for a moment,
+mine followed his. Lionel Hillier was a painter and
+he asked her to sit for him. When he talked of the
+picture he wanted to paint and told me what he saw
+in her, I listened to him stupidly. I was puzzled and
+confused. Harry Retford knew one of the fashionable
+photographers of the period and, arranging
+special terms, he took Rosie to be photographed. A
+Saturday or two later the proofs were there and we
+all looked at them. I had never seen Rosie in evening
+dress. She was wearing a dress of white satin,
+with a long train and puffy sleeves, and it was cut
+low; her hair was more elaborately done than usual.
+She looked very different from the strapping young
+woman I had first met in Joy Lane in a boater and
+a starched shirt. But Lionel Hillier tossed the photographs
+aside impatiently.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rotten,” he said. “What can a photograph give
+of Rosie? The thing about her is her colour.” He
+turned to her. “Rosie, don’t you know that your
+colour is <span class='it'>the</span> great miracle of the age?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She looked at him without answering, but her full
+red lips broke into their childlike, mischievous smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If I can only get a suggestion of it I’m made for
+life,” he said. “All the rich stockbrokers’ wives will
+come on their bended knees and beg me to paint them
+like you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Presently I learned that Rosie was sitting to him,
+but when, never having been in a painter’s studio and
+looking upon it as the gateway of romance, I asked
+if I might not come one day and see how the picture
+was getting on, Hillier said that he did not want
+anyone to see it yet. He was a man of five and thirty
+and of a flamboyant appearance. He looked like a
+portrait of Van Dyck in which the distinction had
+been replaced by good humour. He was slightly above
+the middle height, slim; and he had a fine mane of
+black hair and flowing moustaches and a pointed
+beard. He favoured broad-brimmed sombreros and
+Spanish capes. He had lived a long time in Paris and
+talked admiringly of painters, Monet, Sisley, Renoir,
+of whom we had never heard, and with contempt of
+Sir Frederick Leighton and Mr. Alma-Tadema and
+Mr. G. F. Watts, whom in our heart of hearts we
+very much admired. I have often wondered what
+became of him. He spent a few years in London trying
+to make his way, failed, I suppose, and then
+drifted to Florence. I was told that he had a drawing
+school there, but when, years later, chancing to be
+in that city, I asked about him, I could find no one
+who had ever heard of him. I think he must have
+had some talent, for I have even now a very vivid
+recollection of the portrait he painted of Rosie
+Driffield. I wonder what has happened to it. Has it
+been destroyed or is it hidden away, its face to the
+wall, in the attic of a junk shop in Chelsea? I should
+like to think that it has at least found a place on the
+walls of some provincial gallery.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I was at last allowed to come and see it, I
+put my foot in it fine and proper. Hillier’s studio was
+in the Fulham Road, one of a group at the back of a
+row of shops, and you went in through a dark and
+smelly passage. It was a Sunday afternoon in March,
+a fine blue day, and I walked from Vincent Square
+through deserted streets. Hillier lived in his studio;
+there was a large divan on which he slept, and a
+tiny little room at the back where he cooked his
+breakfast, washed his brushes, and, I suppose, himself.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I arrived Rosie still wore the dress in which
+she had been sitting and they were having a cup of
+tea. Hillier opened the door for me, and still holding
+my hand led me up to the large canvas.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“There she is,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He had painted Rosie full length, just a little less
+than life-size, in an evening dress of white silk. It
+was not at all like the academy portraits I was accustomed
+to. I did not know what to say, so I said the
+first thing that came into my head.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When will it be finished?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It is finished,” he answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I blushed furiously. I felt a perfect fool. I had not
+then acquired the technique that I flatter myself now
+enables me to deal competently with the works of
+modern artists. If this were the place I could write
+a very neat little guide to enable the amateur of pictures
+to deal to the satisfaction of their painters with
+the most diverse manifestations of the creative instinct.
+There is the intense “By God” that acknowledges
+the power of the ruthless realist, the “It’s so
+awfully sincere” that covers your embarrassment
+when you are shown the coloured photograph of an
+alderman’s widow, the low whistle that exhibits your
+admiration for the post-impressionist, the “Terribly
+amusing” that expresses what you feel about the
+cubist, the “Oh!” of one who is overcome, the “Ah!”
+of him whose breath is taken away.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s awfully like,” was all that then I could lamely
+say.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s not chocolate-boxy enough for you,” said
+Hillier.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think it’s awfully good,” I answered quickly,
+defending myself. “Are you going to send it to the
+Academy?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good God, no! I might send it to the Grosvenor.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I looked from the painting to Rosie and from
+Rosie to the painting.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Get into the pose, Rosie,” said Hillier, “and let
+him see you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She got up on to the model stand. I stared at her
+and I stared at the picture. I had such a funny little
+feeling in my heart. It was as though someone softly
+plunged a sharp knife into it, but it was not an unpleasant
+sensation at all, painful but strangely agreeable;
+and then suddenly I felt quite weak at the knees.
+But now I do not know if I remember Rosie in the
+flesh or in the picture. For when I think of her it is
+not in the shirt and boater that I first saw her in,
+nor in any of the other dresses I saw her in then or
+later, but in the white silk that Hillier painted, with
+a black velvet bow in her hair, and in the pose he had
+made her take.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I never exactly knew Rosie’s age, but reckoning
+the years out as well as I can, I think she must have
+been thirty-five. She did not look anything like it.
+Her face was quite unlined and her skin as smooth
+as a child’s. I do not think she had very good features.
+They certainly had none of the aristocratic
+distinction of the great ladies whose photographs
+were then sold in all the shops; they were rather
+blunt. Her short nose was a little thick, her eyes were
+smallish, her mouth was large; but her eyes had the
+blue of cornflowers, and they smiled with her lips,
+very red and sensual, and her smile was the gayest,
+the most friendly, the sweetest thing I ever saw. She
+had by nature a heavy, sullen look, but when she
+smiled this sullenness became on a sudden infinitely
+attractive. She had no colour in her face; it was of
+a very pale brown except under the eyes where it
+was faintly blue. Her hair was pale gold and it was
+done in the fashion of the day high on the head with
+an elaborate fringe.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She’s the very devil to paint,” said Hillier, looking
+at her and at his picture. “You see, she’s all gold,
+her face and her hair, and yet she doesn’t give you
+a golden effect, she gives you a silvery effect.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I knew what he meant. She glowed, but palely,
+like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was like
+the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn.
+Hillier had placed her in the middle of his canvas
+and she stood, with her arms by her sides, the palms
+of her hands toward you and her head a little thrown
+back, in an attitude that gave value to the pearly
+beauty of her neck and bosom. She stood like an
+actress taking a call, confused by unexpected applause,
+but there was something so virginal about
+her, so exquisitely springlike, that the comparison
+was absurd. This artless creature had never known
+grease paint or footlights. She stood like a maiden
+apt for love offering herself guilelessly, because she
+was fulfilling the purposes of Nature, to the embraces
+of a lover. She belonged to a generation that did not
+fear a certain opulence of line, she was slender, but
+her breasts were ample and her hips well marked.
+When, later, Mrs. Barton Trafford saw the picture
+she said it reminded her of a sacrificial heifer.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XV</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Edward Driffield</span> worked at night, and Rosie,
+having nothing to do, was glad to go out with one or
+other of her friends. She liked luxury and Quentin
+Forde was well-to-do. He would fetch her in a cab
+and take her to dine at Kettner’s or the Savoy, and
+she would put on her grandest clothes for him; and
+Harry Retford, though he never had a bob, behaved
+as if he had, and took her about in hansoms too and
+gave her dinner at Romano’s or in one or other of
+the little restaurants that were becoming modish in
+Soho. He was an actor and a clever one, but he was
+difficult to suit and so was often out of work. He
+was about thirty, a man with a pleasantly ugly face
+and a clipped way of speaking that made what he
+said sound funny. Rosie liked his devil-may-care attitude
+toward life, the swagger with which he wore
+clothes made by the best tailor in London and unpaid
+for, the recklessness with which he would put a fiver
+he hadn’t got on a horse, and the generosity with
+which he flung his money about when a lucky win
+put him in funds. He was gay, charming, vain, boastful,
+and unscrupulous. Rosie told me that once he
+had pawned his watch to take her out to dinner and
+then borrowed a couple of pounds from the actor
+manager who had given them seats for the play in
+order to take him out to supper with them afterward.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>But she was just as well pleased to go with Lionel
+Hillier to his studio and eat a chop that he and she
+cooked between them and spend the evening talking,
+and it was only very rarely that she would dine
+with me at all. I used to fetch her after I had had my
+dinner in Vincent Square and she hers with Driffield,
+and we would get on a bus and go to a music
+hall. We went here and there, to the Pavilion or the
+Tivoli, sometimes to the Metropolitan if there was
+a particular turn we wanted to see; but our favourite
+was the Canterbury. It was cheap and the show was
+good. We ordered a couple of beers and I smoked
+my pipe. Rosie looked round with delight at the
+great dark smoky house, crowded to the ceiling with
+the inhabitants of South London.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I like the Canterbury,” she said. “It’s so homey.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I discovered that she was a great reader. She liked
+history, but only history of a certain kind, the lives
+of queens and of mistresses of royal personages; and
+she would tell me with a childlike wonder of the
+strange things she read. She had a wide acquaintance
+with the six consorts of King Henry VIII and there
+was little she did not know about Mrs. Fitzherbert
+and Lady Hamilton. Her appetite was prodigious
+and she ranged from Lucrezia Borgia to the wives
+of Philip of Spain; then there was the long list of
+the royal mistresses of France. She knew them all,
+and all about them, from Agnes Sorel down to
+Madame du Barry.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I like to read about real things,” she said. “I
+don’t much care about novels.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She liked to gossip about Blackstable and I thought
+it was on account of my connection with it that she
+liked to come out with me. She seemed to know all
+that was going on there.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I go down every other week or so to see my
+mother,” she said. “Just for the night, you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“To Blackstable?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was surprised.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, not to Blackstable,” Rosie smiled. “I don’t
+know that I’d care to go there just yet. To Haversham.
+Mother comes over to meet me. I stay at
+the hotel where I used to work.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She was never a great talker. Often when, the
+night being fine, we decided to walk back from the
+music hall at which we had been spending the evening,
+she never opened her mouth. But her silence
+was intimate and comfortable. It did not exclude you
+from thoughts that engaged her apart from you; it
+included you in a pervasive well-being.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was talking about her once to Lionel Hillier and
+I said to him that I could not understand how she
+had turned from the fresh pleasant-looking young
+woman I had first known at Blackstable into the
+lovely creature whose beauty now practically everyone
+acknowledged. (There were people who made
+reservations. “Of course she has a very good figure,”
+they said, “but it’s not the sort of face I very much
+admire personally.” And others said: “Oh, yes, of
+course, a very pretty woman; but it’s a pity she hasn’t
+a little more distinction.”)</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I can explain that to you in half a jiffy,” said
+Lionel Hillier. “She was only a fresh, buxom wench
+when you first met her. <span class='it'>I</span> made her beauty.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I forget what my answer was, but I know it was
+ribald.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right. That just shows you don’t know anything
+about beauty. No one ever thought very much
+of Rosie till I saw her like the sun shining silver. It
+wasn’t till I painted it that anyone knew that her
+hair was the most lovely thing in the world.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did you make her neck and her breasts and her
+carriage and her bones?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, damn you, that’s just what I did do.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When Hillier talked of Rosie in front of her she
+listened to him with a smiling gravity. A little flush
+came into her pale cheeks. I think that at first when
+he spoke to her of her beauty she believed he was
+just making game of her; but when she found out
+that he wasn’t, when he painted her silvery gold,
+it had no particular effect on her. She was a trifle
+amused, pleased of course, and a little surprised, but
+it did not turn her head. She thought him a little
+mad. I often wondered whether there was anything
+between them. I could not forget all I had heard of
+Rosie at Blackstable and what I had seen in the
+vicarage garden; I wondered about Quentin Forde,
+too, and Harry Retford. I used to watch them with
+her. She was not exactly familiar with them, comradely
+rather; she used to make her appointments
+with them quite openly in anybody’s hearing; and
+when she looked at them it was with that mischievous,
+childlike smile which I had now discovered held such
+a mysterious beauty. Sometimes when we were sitting
+side by side in a music hall I looked at her face; I do
+not think I was in love with her, I merely enjoyed the
+sensation of sitting quietly beside her and looking at
+the pale gold of her hair and the pale gold of her skin.
+Of course Lionel Hillier was right; the strange thing
+was that this gold did give one a strange moonlight
+feeling. She had the serenity of a summer evening
+when the light fades slowly from the unclouded sky.
+There was nothing dull in her immense placidity; it
+was as living as the sea when under the August sun
+it lay calm and shining along the Kentish coast. She
+reminded me of a sonatina by an old Italian composer
+with its wistfulness in which there is yet an
+urbane flippancy and its light rippling gaiety in which
+echoes still the trembling of a sigh. Sometimes, feeling
+my eyes on her, she would turn round and for a
+moment or two look me full in the face. She did not
+speak. I did not know of what she was thinking.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Once, I remember, I fetched her at Limpus Road,
+and the maid, telling me she was not ready, asked
+me to wait in the parlour. She came in. She was in
+black velvet, with a picture hat covered with ostrich
+feathers (we were going to the Pavilion and she had
+dressed up for it) and she looked so lovely that it
+took my breath away. I was staggered. The clothes
+of that day gave a woman dignity and there was
+something amazingly attractive in the way her virginal
+beauty (sometimes she looked like the exquisite
+statue of Psyche in the museum at Naples) contrasted
+with the stateliness of her gown. She had
+a trait that I think must be very rare: the skin under
+her eyes, faintly blue, was all dewy. Sometimes I
+could not persuade myself that it was natural, and
+once I asked her if she had rubbed vaseline under her
+eyes. That was just the effect it gave. She smiled,
+took a handkerchief and handed it to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rub them and see,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then one night when we had walked home from
+the Canterbury, and I was leaving her at her door,
+when I held out my hand she laughed a little, a low
+chuckle it was, and leaned forward.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You old silly,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She kissed me on the mouth. It was not a hurried
+peck, nor was it a kiss of passion. Her lips, those
+very full red lips of hers, rested on mine long enough
+for me to be conscious of their shape and their warmth
+and their softness. Then she withdrew them, but
+without hurry, in silence pushed open the door,
+slipped inside, and left me. I was so startled that I
+had not been able to say anything. I accepted her
+kiss stupidly. I remained inert. I turned away and
+walked back to my lodgings. I seemed to hear still in
+my ears Rosie’s laughter. It was not contemptuous
+or wounding, but frank and affectionate; it was as
+though she laughed because she was fond of me.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XVI</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I did</span> not go out with Rosie again for more than a
+week. She was going down to Haversham to spend
+a night with her mother. She had various engagements
+in London. Then she asked me if I would go
+to the Haymarket Theatre with her. The play was
+a success and free seats were not to be had so we
+made up our minds to go in the pit. We had a steak
+and a glass of beer at the Café Monico and then
+stood with the crowd. In those days there was no
+orderly queue and when the doors were opened there
+was a mad rush and scramble to get in. We were hot
+and breathless and somewhat battered when at last
+we pushed our way into our seats.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We walked back through St. James’s Park. The
+night was so lovely that we sat down on a bench.
+In the starlight Rosie’s face and her fair hair glowed
+softly. She was suffused, as it were (I express it awkwardly,
+but I do not know how to describe the emotion
+she gave me) with a friendliness at once candid
+and tender. She was like a silvery flower of the night
+that only gave its perfume to the moonbeams. I
+slipped my arm round her waist and she turned her
+face to mine. This time it was I who kissed. She did
+not move; her soft red lips submitted to the pressure
+of mine with a calm, intense passivity as the water
+of a lake accepts the light of the moon. I don’t know
+how long we stayed there.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m awfully hungry,” she said suddenly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“So am I,” I laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t we go and have some fish and chips
+somewhere?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Rather.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>In those days I knew my way very well about Westminster,
+not yet a fashionable quarter for parliamentary
+and otherwise cultured persons, but slummy
+and down-at-heel; and after we had come out of the
+park, crossing Victoria Street, I led Rosie to a fried
+fish shop in Horseferry Row. It was late and the only
+other person there was the driver of a four-wheeler
+waiting outside. We ordered our fish and chips and
+a bottle of beer. A poor woman came in and bought
+two penn’orth of mixed and took it away with her in
+a piece of paper. We ate with appetite.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Our way back to Rosie’s led through Vincent
+Square and as we passed my house I asked her:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Won’t you come in for a minute? You’ve never
+seen my rooms.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What about your landlady? I don’t want to get
+you into trouble.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, she sleeps like a rock.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll come in for a little.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I slipped my key into the lock and because the
+passage was dark took Rosie’s hand to lead her in.
+I lit the gas in my sitting room. She took off her hat
+and vigorously scratched her head. Then she looked
+for a glass, but I was very artistic and had taken
+down the mirror that was over the chimney-piece and
+there was no means in the room for anyone to see
+what he looked like.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Come into my bedroom,” I said. “There’s a glass
+there.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I opened the door and lit the candle. Rosie followed
+me in and I held it up so that she should be able to
+see herself. I looked at her in the glass as she arranged
+her hair. She took two or three pins out,
+which she put in her mouth, and taking one of my
+brushes, brushed her hair up from the nape of the
+neck. She twisted it, patted it, and put back the pins,
+and as she was intent on this her eyes caught mine
+in the glass and she smiled at me. When she had replaced
+the last pin she turned and faced me; she did
+not say anything; she looked at me tranquilly, still
+with that little friendly smile in her blue eyes. I
+put down the candle. The room was very small and
+the dressing table was by the bed. She raised her hand
+and softly stroked my cheek.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I wish now that I had not started to write this
+book in the first person singular. It is all very well
+when you can show yourself in an amiable or touching
+light; and nothing can be more effective than
+the modest heroic or pathetic humorous which in this
+mode is much cultivated; it is charming to write
+about yourself when you see on the reader’s eyelash
+the glittering tear and on his lips the tender smile;
+but it is not so nice when you have to exhibit yourself
+as a plain damned fool.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>A little while ago I read in the <span class='it'>Evening Standard</span>
+an article by Mr. Evelyn Waugh in the course of
+which he remarked that to write novels in the first
+person was a contemptible practice. I wish he had
+explained why, but he merely threw out the statement
+with just the same take-it-or-leave-it casualness
+as Euclid used when he made his celebrated observation
+about parallel straight lines. I was much
+concerned and forthwith asked Alroy Kear (who
+reads everything, even the books he writes prefaces
+for) to recommend to me some works on the art of
+fiction. On his advice I read <span class='it'>The Craft of Fiction</span>
+by Mr. Percy Lubbock, from which I learned that
+the only way to write novels was like Henry James;
+after that I read <span class='it'>Aspects of the Novel</span> by Mr. E. M.
+Forster, from which I learned that the only way to
+write novels was like Mr. E. M. Forster; then I
+read <span class='it'>The Structure of the Novel</span> by Mr. Edwin
+Muir, from which I learned nothing at all. In none
+of them could I discover anything to the point at
+issue. All the same I can find one reason why certain
+novelists, such as Defoe, Sterne, Thackeray, Dickens,
+Emily Brontë, and Proust, well known in their day
+but now doubtless forgotten, have used the method
+that Mr. Evelyn Waugh reprehends. As we grow
+older we become more conscious of the complexity,
+incoherence, and unreasonableness of human beings;
+this indeed is the only excuse that offers for the
+middle-aged or elderly writer, whose thoughts should
+more properly be turned to graver matters, occupying
+himself with the trivial concerns of imaginary
+people. For if the proper study of mankind is man
+it is evidently more sensible to occupy yourself with
+the coherent, substantial, and significant creatures of
+fiction than with the irrational and shadowy figures of
+real life. Sometimes the novelist feels himself like
+God and is prepared to tell you everything about his
+characters; sometimes, however, he does not; and
+then he tells you not everything that is to be known
+about them but the little he knows himself; and since
+as we grow older we feel ourselves less and less like
+God I should not be surprised to learn that with advancing
+years the novelist grows less and less inclined
+to describe more than his own experience has
+given him. The first person singular is a very useful
+device for this limited purpose.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie raised her hand and softly stroked my face.
+I do not know why I should have behaved as I then
+did; it was not at all how I had seen myself behaving
+on such an occasion. A sob broke from my tight throat.
+I do not know whether it was because I was shy and
+lonely (not lonely in the body, for I spent all day
+at the hospital with all kinds of people, but lonely
+in the spirit) or because my desire was so great, but
+I began to cry. I felt terribly ashamed of myself; I
+tried to control myself, I couldn’t; the tears welled
+up in my eyes and poured down my cheeks. Rosie saw
+them and gave a little gasp.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, honey, what is it? What’s the matter? Don’t.
+Don’t!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She put her arms round my neck and began to cry
+too, and she kissed my lips and my eyes and my wet
+cheeks. She undid her bodice and lowered my head
+till it rested on her bosom. She stroked my smooth
+face. She rocked me back and forth as though I were
+a child in her arms. I kissed her breasts and I kissed
+the white column of her neck; and she slipped out
+of her bodice and out of her skirt and her petticoats
+and I held her for a moment by her corseted waist;
+then she undid it, holding her breath for an instant
+to enable her to do so, and stood before me in her
+shift. When I put my hands on her sides I could feel
+the ribbing of the skin from the pressure of the
+corsets.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Blow out the candle,” she whispered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was she who awoke me when the dawn peering
+through the curtains revealed the shape of the bed
+and of the wardrobe against the darkness of the
+lingering night. She woke me by kissing me on the
+mouth and her hair falling over my face tickled me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I must get up,” she said. “I don’t want your
+landlady to see me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“There’s plenty of time.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Her breasts when she leaned over me were heavy
+on my chest. In a little while she got out of bed. I
+lit the candle. She turned to the glass and tied up
+her hair and then she looked for a moment at her
+naked body. Her waist was naturally small; though
+so well developed she was very slender; her breasts
+were straight and firm and they stood out from the
+chest as though carved in marble. It was a body made
+for the act of love. In the light of the candle, struggling
+now with the increasing day, it was all silvery
+gold; and the only colour was the rosy pink of the
+hard nipples.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We dressed in silence. She did not put on her corsets
+again, but rolled them up and I wrapped them
+in a piece of newspaper. We tiptoed along the passage
+and when I opened the door and we stepped out into
+the street the dawn ran to meet us like a cat leaping
+up the steps. The square was empty; already the
+sun was shining on the eastern windows. I felt as
+young as the day. We walked arm in arm till we
+came to the corner of Limpus Road.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Leave me here,” said Rosie. “One never knows.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I kissed her and I watched her walk away. She
+walked rather slowly, with the firm tread of the
+country woman who likes to feel the good earth under
+her feet, and held herself erect. I could not go back
+to bed. I strolled on till I came to the Embankment.
+The river had the bright hues of the early morning.
+A brown barge came down stream and passed under
+Vauxhall Bridge. In a dinghy two men were rowing
+close to the side. I was hungry.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XVII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>After that</span> for more than a year whenever Rosie
+came out with me she used on the way home to drop
+into my rooms, sometimes for an hour, sometimes
+till the breaking day warned us that the slaveys would
+soon be scrubbing the doorsteps. I have a recollection
+of warm sunny mornings when the tired air of
+London had a welcome freshness, and of our footfalls
+that seemed so noisy in the empty streets, and
+then of scurrying along huddled under an umbrella,
+silent but gay, when the winter brought cold and rain.
+The policeman on point duty gave us a stare as we
+passed, sometimes of suspicion; but sometimes also
+there was a twinkle of comprehension in his eyes.
+Now and then we would see a homeless creature huddled
+up asleep in a portico and Rosie gave my arm
+a friendly little pressure when (chiefly for show and
+because I wanted to make a good impression on her,
+for my shillings were scarce) I placed a piece of
+silver on a shapeless lap or in a skinny fist. Rosie
+made me very happy. I had a great affection for her.
+She was easy and comfortable. She had a placidity
+of temper that communicated itself to the people she
+was with; you shared her pleasure in the passing
+moment.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Before I became her lover I had often asked myself
+if she was the mistress of the others, Forde,
+Harry Retford, and Hillier, and afterward I questioned
+her. She kissed me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be so silly. I like them, you know that. I like
+to go out with them, but that’s all.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I wanted to ask her if she had been the mistress
+of George Kemp, but I did not like to. Though I had
+never seen her in a temper, I had a notion that she
+had one and I vaguely felt that this was a question
+that might anger her. I did not want to give her the
+opportunity of saying things so wounding that I
+could not forgive her. I was young, only just over
+one and twenty, Quentin Forde and the others seemed
+old to me; it did not seem unnatural to me that to
+Rosie they were only friends. It gave me a little
+thrill of pride to think that I was her lover. When
+I used to look at her chatting and laughing with all
+and sundry at tea on Saturday afternoons, I glowed
+with self-satisfaction. I thought of the nights we
+passed together and I was inclined to laugh at the
+people who were so ignorant of my great secret. But
+sometimes I thought that Lionel Hillier looked at
+me in a quizzical way, as if he were enjoying a good
+joke at my expense, and I asked myself uneasily if
+Rosie had told him that she was having an affair with
+me. I wondered if there was anything in my manner
+that betrayed me. I told Rosie that I was afraid
+Hillier suspected something; she looked at me with
+those blue eyes of hers that always seemed ready to
+smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t bother about it,” she said. “He’s got a
+nasty mind.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had never been intimate with Quentin Forde. He
+looked upon me as a dull and insignificant young man
+(which of course I was) and though he had always
+been civil he had never taken any notice of me. I
+thought it could only be my fancy that now he began
+to be a little more frigid with me than before. But
+one day Harry Retford to my surprise asked me to
+dine with him and go to the play. I told Rosie.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, of course you must go. He’ll give you an
+awfully good time. Good old Harry, he always makes
+me laugh.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>So I dined with him. He made himself very pleasant
+and I was impressed to hear him talk of actors
+and actresses. He had a sarcastic humour and was
+very funny at the expense of Quentin Forde, whom
+he did not like; I tried to get him to talk of Rosie,
+but he had nothing to say of her. He seemed to be
+a gay dog. With leers and laughing innuendoes he
+gave me to understand that he was a devil with the
+girls. I could not but ask myself if he was standing
+me this dinner because he knew I was Rosie’s lover
+and so felt friendly disposed toward me. But if he
+knew, of course the others knew too. I hope I did
+not show it, but in my heart I certainly felt somewhat
+patronizing toward them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then in winter, toward the end of January, someone
+new appeared at Limpus Road. This was a
+Dutch Jew named Jack Kuyper, a diamond merchant
+from Amsterdam, who was spending a few weeks
+in London on business. I do not know how he had
+come to know the Driffields and whether it was esteem
+for the author that brought him to the house,
+but it was certainly not that which caused him to
+come again. He was a tall, stout, dark man with a
+bald head and a big hooked nose, a man of fifty, but
+of a powerful appearance, sensual, determined, and
+jovial. He made no secret of his admiration for
+Rosie. He was rich apparently, for he sent her roses
+every day; she chid him for his extravagance, but
+was flattered. I could not bear him. He was blatant
+and loud. I hated his fluent conversation in perfect
+but foreign English; I hated the extravagant compliments
+he paid Rosie; I hated the heartiness with
+which he treated her friends. I found that Quentin
+Forde liked him as little as I; we almost became
+cordial with one another.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Mercifully he’s not staying long.” Quentin Forde
+pursed his lips and raised his black eyebrows; with
+his white hair and long sallow face he looked incredibly
+gentlemanly. “Women are always the same;
+they adore a bounder.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s so frightfully vulgar,” I complained.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That is his charm,” said Quentin Forde.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>For the next two or three weeks I saw next to
+nothing of Rosie. Jack Kuyper took her out night
+after night, to this smart restaurant and that, to one
+play after another. I was vexed and hurt.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He doesn’t know anyone in London,” said Rosie,
+trying to soothe my ruffled feelings. “He wants to
+see everything he can while he’s here. It wouldn’t be
+very nice for him to go alone all the time. He’s only
+here for a fortnight more.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not see the object of this self-sacrifice on
+her part.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But don’t you think he’s awful?” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No. I think he’s fun. He makes me laugh.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you know that he’s absolutely gone on
+you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, it pleases him and it doesn’t do me any
+harm.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s old and fat and horrible. It gives me the
+creeps to look at him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think he’s so bad,” said Rosie.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You couldn’t have anything to do with him,” I
+protested. “I mean, he’s such an awful cad.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie scratched her head. It was an unpleasant
+habit of hers.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s funny how different foreigners are from
+English people,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was thankful when Jack Kuyper went back to
+Amsterdam. Rosie had promised to dine with me the
+day after and as a treat we arranged to dine in
+Soho. She fetched me in a hansom and we drove on.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Has your horrible old man gone?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I put my arm round her waist. (I have elsewhere
+remarked how much more convenient the
+hansom was for this pleasant and indeed almost essential
+act in human intercourse than the taxi of the
+present day, so unwillingly refrain from labouring
+the point.) I put my arm round her waist and kissed
+her. Her lips were like spring flowers. We arrived.
+I hung my hat and my coat (it was very long and
+tight at the waist, with a velvet collar and velvet
+cuffs; very smart) on a peg and asked Rosie to give
+me her cape.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m going to keep it on,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’ll be awfully hot. You’ll only catch cold
+when we go out.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t care. It’s the first time I’ve worn it. Don’t
+you think it’s lovely. And look: the muff matches.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I gave the cape a glance. It was of fur. I did not
+know it was sable.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It looks awfully rich. How did you get that?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Jack Kuyper gave it to me. We went and bought
+it yesterday just before he went away.” She stroked
+the smooth fur; she was as happy with it as a child
+with a toy. “How much d’you think it cost?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t an idea.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Two hundred and sixty pounds. Do you know
+I’ve never had anything that cost so much in my life?
+I told him it was far too much, but he wouldn’t listen.
+He made me have it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie chuckled with glee and her eyes shone. But
+I felt my face go stiff and a shiver run down my
+spine.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Won’t Driffield think it’s rather funny, Kuyper
+giving you a fur cape that costs all that?” said I,
+trying to make my voice sound natural.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie’s eyes danced mischievously.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know what Ted is, he never notices anything;
+if he says anything about it I shall tell him I
+gave twenty pounds for it in a pawnshop. He won’t
+know any better.” She rubbed her face against the
+collar. “It’s so soft. And everyone can see it cost
+money.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I tried to eat and in order not to show the bitterness
+in my heart I did my best to keep the conversation
+going on one topic or another. Rosie did not
+much mind what I said. She could only think of her
+new cape and every other minute her eyes returned
+to the muff that she insisted on holding on her lap.
+She looked at it with an affection in which there was
+something lazy, sensual, and self-complacent. I was
+angry with her. I thought her stupid and common.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You look like a cat that’s swallowed a canary,”
+I could not help snapping.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She only giggled.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s what I feel like.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Two hundred and sixty pounds was an enormous
+sum to me. I did not know one <span class='it'>could</span> pay so much
+for a cape. I lived on fourteen pounds a month and
+not at all badly either; and in case any reader is not
+a ready reckoner I will add that this is one hundred
+and sixty-eight pounds a year. I could not believe
+that anyone would make as expensive a present as
+that from pure friendship; what did it mean but that
+Jack Kuyper had been sleeping with Rosie, night
+after night, all the time he was in London, and now
+when he went away was paying her? How could she
+accept it? Didn’t she see how it degraded her? Didn’t
+she see how frightfully vulgar it was of him to give
+her a thing that cost so much? Apparently not, for
+she said to me:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It was nice of him, wasn’t it? But then Jews are
+always generous.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose he could afford it,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes, he’s got lots of money. He said he
+wanted to give me something before he went away
+and asked me what I wanted. Well, I said, I could
+do with a cape and a muff to match, but I never
+thought he’d buy me anything like this. When we
+went into the shop I asked them to show me something
+in astrakhan, but he said: No, sable, and the
+best money can buy. And when we saw this he absolutely
+insisted on my having it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I thought of her with her white body, her skin so
+milky, in the arms of that old fat gross man and his
+thick loose lips kissing hers. And then I knew that
+the suspicion that I had refused to believe was true;
+I knew that when she went out to dinner with Quentin
+Forde and Harry Retford and Lionel Hillier she
+went to bed with them just as she came to bed with
+me. I could not speak; I knew that if I did I should
+insult her. I do not think I was jealous so much as
+mortified. I felt that she had been making a damned
+fool of me. I used all my determination to prevent
+the bitter jibes from passing my lips.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We went on to the theatre. I could not listen to
+the play. I could only feel against my arm the
+smoothness of the sable cape; I could only see her
+fingers for ever stroking the muff. I could have borne
+the thought of the others; it was Jack Kuyper who
+horrified me. How could she? It was abominable to
+be poor. I longed to have enough money to tell her
+that if she would send the fellow back his beastly
+furs I would give her better ones instead. At last she
+noticed that I did not speak.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’re very silent to-night.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Am I?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Aren’t you well?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Perfectly.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She gave me a sidelong look. I did not meet her
+eyes, but I knew they were smiling with that smile
+at once mischievous and childlike that I knew so
+well. She said nothing more. At the end of the play,
+since it was raining, we took a hansom and I gave
+the driver her address in Limpus Road. She did not
+speak till we got to Victoria Street, then she said:</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you want me to come home with you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Just as you like.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She lifted up the trap and gave the driver my address.
+She took my hand and held it, but I remained
+inert. I looked straight out of the window with angry
+dignity. When we reached Vincent Square I handed
+her out of the cab and let her into the house without
+a word. I took off my hat and coat. She threw her
+cape and her muff on the sofa.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why are you so sulky?” she asked, coming up
+to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m not sulky,” I answered, looking away.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She took my face in her two hands.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How can you be so silly? Why should you be
+angry because Jack Kuyper gives me a fur cape?
+You can’t afford to give me one, can you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Of course I can’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And Ted can’t either. You can’t expect me to
+refuse a fur cape that cost two hundred and sixty
+pounds. I’ve wanted a fur cape all my life. It means
+nothing to Jack.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You don’t expect me to believe that he gave it
+you just out of friendship.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He might have. Anyhow, he’s gone back to Amsterdam,
+and who knows when he’ll come back?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He isn’t the only one, either.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I looked at Rosie now, with angry, hurt, resentful
+eyes; she smiled at me, and I wish I knew how to
+describe the sweet kindliness of her beautiful smile;
+her voice was exquisitely gentle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, my dear, why d’you bother your head about
+any others? What harm does it do you? Don’t I give
+you a good time? Aren’t you happy when you’re with
+me?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Awfully.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, then. It’s so silly to be fussy and jealous.
+Why not be happy with what you can get? Enjoy
+yourself while you have the chance, I say; we shall
+all be dead in a hundred years and what will anything
+matter then? Let’s have a good time while
+we can.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She put her arms round my neck and pressed her
+lips against mine. I forgot my wrath. I only thought
+of her beauty and her enveloping kindness.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You must take me as I am, you know,” she whispered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right,” I said.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XVIII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>During all</span> this time I saw really very little of Driffield.
+His editorship occupied much of his day and in
+the evening he wrote. He was, of course, there every
+Saturday afternoon, amiable and ironically amusing;
+he appeared glad to see me and chatted with me for
+a little while pleasantly of indifferent things; but
+naturally most of his attention was given to guests
+older and more important than I. But I had a feeling
+that he was growing more aloof; he was no
+longer the jolly, rather vulgar companion that I had
+known at Blackstable. Perhaps it was only my increasing
+sensibility that discerned as it were an invisible
+barrier that existed between him and the
+people he chaffed and joked with. It was as though
+he lived a life of the imagination that made the life
+of every day a little shadowy. He was asked to speak
+now and then at public dinners. He joined a literary
+club. He began to know a good many people outside
+the narrow circle into which his writing had drawn
+him, and he was increasingly asked to luncheon and
+tea by the ladies who like to gather about them distinguished
+authors. Rosie was asked too, but seldom
+went; she said she didn’t care for parties, and after
+all they didn’t want her, they only wanted Ted. I
+think she was shy and felt out of it. It may be that
+hostesses had more than once let her see how tiresome
+they thought it that she must be included; and
+after inviting her because it was polite, ignored her
+because to be polite irked them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was just about then that Edward Driffield published
+<span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span>. It is not my business to criticize
+his works, and of late as much has been written
+about them as must satisfy the appetite of any ordinary
+reader; but I will permit myself to say that
+<span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span>, though certainly not the most celebrated
+of his books, nor the most popular, is to my
+mind the most interesting. It has a cold ruthlessness
+that in all the sentimentality of English fiction strikes
+an original note. It is refreshing and astringent. It
+tastes of tart apples. It sets your teeth on edge, but
+it has a subtle, bitter-sweet savour that is very agreeable
+to the palate. Of all Driffield’s books it is the
+only one I should like to have written. The scene of
+the child’s death, terrible and heart-rending, but
+written without slop or sickliness, and the curious
+incident that follows it, cannot easily be forgotten
+by anyone who has read them.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was this part of the book that caused the sudden
+storm that burst on the wretched Driffield’s
+head. For a few days after publication it looked as
+though it would run its course like the rest of his
+novels, namely that it would have substantial reviews,
+laudatory on the whole but with reservations, and
+that the sales would be respectable, but modest. Rosie
+told me that he expected to make three hundred
+pounds out of it and was talking of renting a house
+on the river for the summer. The first two or three
+notices were noncommittal; then in one of the morning
+papers appeared a violent attack. There was a
+column of it. The book was described as gratuitously
+offensive, obscene, and the publishers were rated for
+putting it before the public. Harrowing pictures
+were drawn of the devastating effect it must have on
+the youth of England. It was described as an insult
+to womanhood. The reviewer protested against the
+possibility of such a work falling into the hands of
+young boys and innocent maidens. Other papers followed
+suit. The more foolish demanded that the book
+should be suppressed and some asked themselves
+gravely if this was not a case where the public prosecutor
+might with fitness intervene. Condemnation
+was universal; if here and there a courageous writer,
+accustomed to the more realistic tone of continental
+fiction, asserted that Edward Driffield had never
+written anything better, he was ignored. His honest
+opinion was ascribed to a base desire to play to
+the gallery. The libraries barred the book and the
+lessors of the railway bookstalls refused to stock it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>All this was naturally very unpleasant for Edward
+Driffield, but he bore it with philosophic calm. He
+shrugged his shoulders.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“They say it isn’t true,” he smiled. “They can go
+to hell. It is true.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He was supported in this trial by the fidelity of
+his friends. To admire <span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span> became a
+mark of æsthetic acumen: to be shocked by it was
+to confess yourself a philistine. Mrs. Barton Trafford
+had no hesitation in saying that it was a masterpiece,
+and though this wasn’t quite the moment for Barton’s
+article in the <span class='it'>Quarterly</span>, her faith in Edward Driffield’s
+future remained unshaken. It is strange (and
+instructive) to read now the book that created such
+a sensation; there is not a word that could bring a
+blush to the cheek of the most guileless, not an episode
+that could cause the novel reader of the present
+day to turn a hair.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XIX</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>About six</span> months later, when the excitement over
+<span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span> had subsided and Driffield had
+already begun the novel which he published under
+the name of <span class='it'>By Their Fruits</span>, I, being then an impatient
+dresser and in my fourth year, in the course
+of my duties went one day into the main hall of the
+hospital to await the surgeon whom I was accompanying
+on his round of the wards. I glanced at the rack
+in which letters were placed, for sometimes people,
+not knowing my address in Vincent Square, wrote to
+me at the hospital. I was surprised to find a telegram
+for me. It ran as follows:</p>
+
+<div class='blockquote-right90percent'>
+
+<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>Please come and see me at five o’clock this afternoon
+without fail. Important.</span></p>
+
+<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'><span class='sc'>Isabel Trafford.</span></p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I wondered what she wanted me for. I had met
+her perhaps a dozen times during the last two years,
+but she had never taken any notice of me, and I had
+never been to her house. I knew that men were scarce
+at teatime and a hostess, short of them at the last
+moment, might think that a young medical student
+was better than nothing; but the wording of the telegram
+hardly suggested a party.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The surgeon for whom I dressed was prosy and
+verbose. It was not till past five that I was free and
+then it took me a good twenty minutes to get down
+to Chelsea. Mrs. Barton Trafford lived in a block of
+flats on the Embankment. It was nearly six when I
+rang at her door and asked if she was at home. But
+when I was ushered into her drawing room and began
+to explain why I was late she cut me short.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We supposed you couldn’t get away. It doesn’t
+matter.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Her husband was there.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I expect he’d like a cup of tea,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I think it’s rather late for tea, isn’t it?” She
+looked at me gently, her mild, rather fine eyes full
+of kindness. “You don’t want any tea, do you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was thirsty and hungry, for my lunch consisted
+of a scone and butter and a cup of coffee, but I did
+not like to say so. I refused tea.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Do you know Allgood Newton?” asked Mrs.
+Barton Trafford, with a gesture toward a man who
+had been sitting in a big armchair when I was shown
+in, and now got up. “I expect you’ve met him at Edward’s.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had. He did not come often, but his name was
+familiar to me and I remembered him. He made me
+very nervous and I do not think I had ever spoken
+to him. Though now completely forgotten, in those
+days he was the best-known critic in England. He
+was a large, fat, blond man, with a fleshy white face,
+pale blue eyes, and graying fair hair. He generally
+wore a pale blue tie to bring out the colour of his
+eyes. He was very amiable to the authors he met at
+Driffield’s and said charming and flattering things to
+them, but when they were gone he was very amusing
+at their expense. He spoke in a low, even voice, with
+an apt choice of words: no one could with more point
+tell a malicious story about a friend.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Allgood Newton shook hands with me and Mrs.
+Barton Trafford, with her ready sympathy, anxious
+to put me at my ease, took me by the hand and made
+me sit on the sofa beside her. The tea was still on
+the table and she took a jam sandwich and delicately
+nibbled it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have you seen the Driffields lately?” she asked
+me as though making conversation.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was there last Saturday.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You haven’t seen either of them since?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford looked from Allgood Newton
+to her husband and back again as though mutely
+demanding their help.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Nothing will be gained by circumlocution, Isabel,”
+said Newton, a faintly malicious twinkle in his eye,
+in his fat precise way.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford turned to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then you don’t know that Mrs. Driffield has run
+away from her husband.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What!”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was flabbergasted. I could not believe my ears.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps it would be better if you told him the
+facts, Allgood,” said Mrs. Trafford.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The critic leaned back in his chair and placed the
+tips of the fingers of one hand against the tips of
+the fingers of the other. He spoke with unction.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I had to see Edward Driffield last night about a
+literary article that I am doing for him and after
+dinner, since the night was fine, I thought I would
+walk round to his house. He was expecting me; and
+I knew besides that he never went out at night except
+for some function as important as the Lord
+Mayor’s banquet or the Academy dinner. Imagine
+my surprise then, nay, my utter and complete bewilderment,
+when as I approached I saw the door
+of his house open and Edward in person emerge. You
+know of course that Immanuel Kant was in the
+habit of taking his daily walk at a certain hour
+with such punctuality that the inhabitants of Königsberg
+were accustomed to set their watches by the
+event and when once he came out of his house an
+hour earlier than usual they turned pale, for they
+knew that this could only mean that some terrible
+thing had happened. They were right; Immanuel
+Kant had just received intelligence of the fall of the
+Bastille.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Allgood Newton paused for a moment to mark the
+effect of his anecdote. Mrs. Barton Trafford gave
+him her understanding smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I did not envisage so world-shaking a catastrophe
+as this when I saw Edward hurrying toward me, but
+it immediately occurred to me that something untoward
+was afoot. He carried neither cane nor gloves.
+He wore his working coat, a venerable garment in
+black alpaca, and a wide-awake hat. There was
+something wild in his mien and distraught in his
+bearing. I asked myself, knowing the vicissitudes
+of the conjugal state, whether a matrimonial difference
+had driven him headlong from the house or
+whether he was hastening to a letter box in order
+to post a letter. He sped like Hector flying, the
+noblest of the Greeks. He did not seem to see me
+and the suspicion flashed across my mind that he
+did not want to. I stopped him. ‘Edward,’ I said.
+He looked startled. For a moment I could have
+sworn he did not know who I was. ‘What avenging
+furies urge you with such hot haste through the rakish
+purlieus of Pimlico?’ I asked. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
+‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘Nowhere,’ he replied.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>At this rate I thought Allgood Newton would never
+finish his story and Mrs. Hudson would be vexed
+with me for turning up to dinner half an hour late.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I told him on what errand I had come, and proposed
+that we should return to his house where he
+could more conveniently discuss the question that perturbed
+me. ‘I’m too restless to go home,’ he said;
+‘let’s walk. You can talk to me as we go along.’ Assenting,
+I turned round and we began to walk; but
+his pace was so rapid that I had to beg him to moderate
+it. Even Dr. Johnson could not have carried on
+a conversation when he was walking down Fleet
+Street at the speed of an express train. Edward’s
+appearance was so peculiar and his manner so agitated
+that I thought it wise to lead him through the
+less frequented streets. I talked to him of my article.
+The subject that occupied me was more copious than
+had at first sight appeared, and I was doubtful
+whether after all I could do justice to it in the columns
+of a weekly journal. I put the matter before
+him fully and fairly and asked him his opinion.
+‘Rosie has left me,’ he answered. For a moment I
+did not know what he was talking about, but in a
+trice it occurred to me that he was speaking of the
+buxom and not unprepossessing female from whose
+hands I had on occasion accepted a cup of tea. From
+his tone I divined that he expected condolence from
+me rather than felicitation.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Allgood Newton paused again and his blue eyes
+twinkled.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’re wonderful, Allgood,” said Mrs. Barton
+Trafford.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Priceless,” said her husband.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Realizing that the occasion demanded sympathy,
+I said: ‘My dear fellow.’ He interrupted me. ‘I had
+a letter by the last post,’ he said. ‘She’s run away with
+Lord George Kemp.’ ”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I gasped, but said nothing. Mrs. Trafford gave
+me a quick look.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Who is Lord George Kemp?’ ‘He’s a Blackstable
+man,’ he replied. I had little time to think. I
+determined to be frank. ‘You’re well rid of her,’ I
+said. ‘Allgood!’ he cried. I stopped and put my hand
+on his arm. ‘You must know that she was deceiving
+you with all your friends. Her behaviour was a
+public scandal. My dear Edward, let us face the
+fact: your wife was nothing but a common strumpet.’
+He snatched his arm away from me and gave a sort
+of low roar, like an orang-utan in the forests of
+Borneo forcibly deprived of a cocoanut, and before
+I could stop him he broke away and fled. I was so
+startled that I could do nothing but listen to his
+cries and his hurrying footsteps.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You shouldn’t have let him go,” said Mrs. Barton
+Trafford. “In the state he was he might have thrown
+himself in the Thames.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The thought occurred to me, but I noticed that he
+did not run in the direction of the river, but plunged
+into the meaner streets of the neighbourhood in
+which we had been walking. And I reflected also that
+there is no example in literary history of an author
+committing suicide while engaged on the composition
+of a literary work. Whatever his tribulations, he
+is unwilling to leave to posterity an uncompleted
+opus.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was astounded at what I heard and shocked and
+dismayed; but I was worried too because I could not
+make out why Mrs. Trafford had sent for me. She
+knew me much too little to think that the story could
+be of any particular interest to me; nor would she
+have troubled to let me hear it as a piece of news.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Poor Edward,” she said. “Of course no one can
+deny that it is a blessing in disguise, but I’m afraid
+he’ll take it very much to heart. Fortunately he’s
+done nothing rash.” She turned to me. “As soon as
+Mr. Newton told us about it I went round to Limpus
+Road. Edward was out, but the maid said he’d only
+just gone; that means that he must have gone home
+between the time he ran away from Allgood and
+this morning. You’ll wonder why I asked you to
+come and see me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not answer. I waited for her to go on.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It was at Blackstable you first knew the Driffields,
+wasn’t it? You can tell us who is this Lord
+George Kemp. Edward said he was a Blackstable
+man.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He’s middle-aged. He’s got a wife and two sons.
+They’re as old as I am.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But I don’t understand who he can be. I can’t
+find him either in <span class='it'>Who’s Who</span> or in Debrett.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I almost laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, he’s not really a lord. He’s the local coal
+merchant. They call him Lord George at Blackstable
+because he’s so grand. It’s just a joke.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The quiddity of bucolic humour is often a trifle
+obscure to the uninitiated,” said Allgood Newton.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We must all help dear Edward in every way we
+can,” said Mrs. Barton Trafford. Her eyes rested
+on me thoughtfully. “If Kemp has run away with
+Rosie Driffield he must have left his wife.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose so,” I replied.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Will you do something very kind?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If I can.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Will you go down to Blackstable and find out exactly
+what has happened? I think we ought to get in
+touch with the wife.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I have never been very fond of interfering in other
+people’s affairs.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know how I could do that,” I answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t you see her?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I couldn’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>If Mrs. Barton Trafford thought my reply blunt
+she did not show it. She smiled a little.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“At all events that can be left over. The urgent
+thing is to go down and find out about Kemp. I shall
+try to see Edward this evening. I can’t bear the
+thought of his staying on in that odious house by
+himself. Barton and I have made up our minds to
+bring him here. We have a spare room and I’ll arrange
+it so that he can work there. Don’t you agree
+that that would be the best thing for him, Allgood?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Absolutely.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“There’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay here indefinitely,
+at all events for a few weeks, and then he
+can come away with us in the summer. We’re going
+to Brittany. I’m sure he’d like that. It would be a
+thorough change for him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The immediate question,” said Barton Trafford,
+fixing on me an eye nearly as kindly as his wife’s, “is
+whether this young sawbones will go to Blackstable
+and find out what he can. We must know where we
+are. That is essential.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Barton Trafford excused his interest in archæology
+by a hearty manner and a jocose, even slangy way
+of speech.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He couldn’t refuse,” said his wife, giving me a
+soft, appealing glance. “You won’t refuse, will you?
+It’s so important and you’re the only person who
+can help us.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Of course she did not know that I was as anxious
+to find out what had happened as she; she could
+not tell what a bitter jealous pain stabbed my heart.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I couldn’t possibly get away from the hospital
+before Saturday,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’ll do. It’s very good of you. All Edward’s
+friends will be grateful to you. When shall you return?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I have to be back in London early on Monday
+morning.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then come and have tea with me in the afternoon.
+I shall await you with impatience. Thank God,
+that’s settled. Now I must try and get hold of Edward.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I understood that I was dismissed. Allgood Newton
+took his leave and came downstairs with me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Our Isabel has <span class='it'>un petit air</span> of Catherine of
+Aragon to-day that I find vastly becoming,” he murmured
+when the door was closed behind us. “This
+is a golden opportunity and I think we may safely
+trust our friend not to miss it. A charming woman
+with a heart of gold. <span class='it'>Venus toute entière à sa proie
+attachée.</span>”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not understand what he meant, for what I
+have already told the reader about Mrs. Barton
+Trafford I only learned much later, but I realized
+that he was saying something vaguely malicious about
+her, and probably amusing, so I sniggered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose your youth inclines you to what my
+good Dizzy named in an unlucky moment the gondola
+of London.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m going to take a bus,” I answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh? Had you proposed to go by hansom I was
+going to ask you to be good enough to drop me on
+your way, but if you are going to use the homely conveyance
+which <span class='it'>I</span> in my old-fashioned manner still
+prefer to call an omnibus, I shall hoist my unwieldy
+carcase into a four-wheeler.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He signalled to one and gave me two flabby fingers
+to shake.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I shall come on Monday to hear the result of
+what dear Henry would call your so exquisitely delicate
+mission.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XX</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>But it</span> was years before I saw Allgood Newton again,
+for when I got to Blackstable I found a letter from
+Mrs. Barton Trafford (who had taken the precaution
+to note my address) asking me, for reasons that
+she would explain when she saw me, not to come to
+her flat but to meet her at six o’clock in the first-class
+waiting room at Victoria Station. As soon then as I
+could get away from the hospital on Monday I made
+my way there, and after waiting for a while saw her
+come in. She came toward me with little tripping
+steps.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, have you anything to tell me? Let us find
+a quiet corner and sit down.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We sought a place and found it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I must explain why I asked you to come here,”
+she said. “Edward is staying with me. At first he did
+not want to come, but I persuaded him. But he’s
+nervous and ill and irritable. I did not want to run
+the risk of his seeing you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I told Mrs. Trafford the bare facts of my story
+and she listened attentively. Now and then she
+nodded her head. But I could not hope to make her
+understand the commotion I had found at Blackstable.
+The town was beside itself with excitement.
+Nothing so thrilling had happened there for years
+and no one could talk of anything else. Humpty-dumpty
+had had a great fall. Lord George Kemp
+had absconded. About a week before he had announced
+that he had to go up to London on business,
+and two days later a petition in bankruptcy
+was filed against him. It appeared that his building
+operations had not been successful, his attempt to
+make Blackstable into a frequented seaside resort
+meeting with no response, and he had been forced
+to raise money in every way he could. All kinds of
+rumours ran through the little town. Quite a number
+of small people who had entrusted their savings to
+him were faced with the loss of all they had. The
+details were vague, for neither my uncle nor my
+aunt knew anything of business matters, nor had I
+the knowledge to make what they told me comprehensible.
+But there was a mortgage on George
+Kemp’s house and a bill of sale on his furniture. His
+wife was left without a penny. His two sons, lads
+of twenty and twenty-one, were in the coal business,
+but that, too, was involved in the general ruin. George
+Kemp had gone off with all the cash he could lay
+hands on, something like fifteen hundred pounds, they
+said, though how they knew I cannot imagine; and
+it was reported that a warrant had been issued for
+his arrest. It was supposed that he had left the country;
+some said he had gone to Australia and some
+to Canada.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I hope they catch him,” said my uncle. “He ought
+to get penal servitude for life.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The indignation was universal. They could not
+forgive him because he had always been so noisy
+and boisterous, because he had chaffed them and
+stood them drinks and given them garden parties, because
+he had driven such a smart trap and worn his
+brown billycock hat at such a rakish angle. But it
+was on Sunday night after church in the vestry that
+the churchwarden told my uncle the worst. For the
+last two years he had been meeting Rosie Driffield
+at Haversham almost every week and they had been
+spending the night together at a public house. The
+licensee of this had put money into one of Lord
+George’s wildcat schemes, and on discovering that
+he had lost it blurted out the whole story. He could
+have borne it if Lord George had defrauded others,
+but that he should defraud him who had done him
+a good turn and whom he looked upon as a chum,
+that was the limit.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I expect they’ve run away together,” said my
+uncle.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said the churchwarden.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>After supper, while the housemaid was clearing
+away, I went into the kitchen to talk to Mary-Ann.
+She had been at church and had heard the story too.
+I cannot believe that the congregation had listened
+very attentively to my uncle’s sermon.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“The vicar says they’ve run away together,” I
+said. I had not breathed a word of what I knew.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why, of course they ’ave,” said Mary-Ann. “He
+was the only man she ever really fancied. He only
+’ad to lift ’is little finger and she’d leave anyone no
+matter who it was.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I lowered my eyes. I was suffering from bitter
+mortification; and I was angry with Rosie: I thought
+she had behaved very badly to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose we shall never see her again,” I said.
+It gave me a pang to utter the words.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t suppose we shall,” said Mary-Ann cheerfully.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I had told Mrs. Barton Trafford as much
+of this story as I thought she need know, she sighed,
+but whether from satisfaction or distress I had no
+notion.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, that’s the end of Rosie at all events,” she
+said. She got up and held out her hand. “Why will
+these literary men make these unfortunate marriages?
+It’s all very sad, very sad. Thank you so much for
+what you’ve done. We know where we are now. The
+great thing is that it shouldn’t interfere with Edward’s
+work.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Her remarks seemed a trifle disconnected to me.
+The fact was, I have no doubt, that she was giving
+me not the smallest thought. I led her out of Victoria
+Station and put her into a bus that went down
+the King’s Road, Chelsea; then I walked back to my
+lodgings.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXI</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>I lost</span> touch with Driffield. I was too shy to seek
+him out; I was busy with my examinations, and when
+I had passed them I went abroad. I remember vaguely
+to have seen in the paper that he had divorced Rosie.
+Nothing more was heard of her. Small sums reached
+her mother occasionally, ten or twenty pounds, and
+they came in a registered letter with a New York
+postmark; but no address was given, no message
+enclosed, and they were presumed to come from
+Rosie only because no one else could possibly send
+Mrs. Gann money. Then in the fullness of years
+Rosie’s mother died, and it may be supposed that
+in some way the news reached her, for the letters
+ceased to come.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Alroy Kear</span> and I, as arranged, met on Friday at
+Victoria Station to catch the five ten to Blackstable.
+We made ourselves comfortable in opposite corners
+of a smoking compartment. From him I now learned
+roughly what had happened to Driffield after his wife
+ran away from him. Roy had in due course become
+very intimate with Mrs. Barton Trafford. Knowing
+him and remembering her, I realized that this was
+inevitable. I was not surprised to hear that he had
+travelled with her and Barton on the continent, sharing
+with them to the full their passion for Wagner,
+post-impressionist painting, and baroque architecture.
+He had lunched assiduously at the flat in Chelsea
+and when advancing years and failing health had imprisoned
+Mrs. Trafford to her drawing room, notwithstanding
+the many claims on his time he had gone
+regularly once a week to sit with her. He had a good
+heart. After her death he wrote an article about her
+in which with admirable emotion he did justice to her
+great gifts of sympathy and discrimination.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It pleased me to think that his kindliness should
+receive its due and unexpected reward, for Mrs.
+Barton Trafford had told him much about Edward
+Driffield that could not fail to be of service to him
+in the work of love in which he was now engaged.
+Mrs. Barton Trafford, exercising a gentle violence,
+not only took Edward Driffield into her house when
+the flight of his faithless wife left him what Roy
+could only describe by the French word <span class='it'>désemparé</span>,
+but persuaded him to stay for nearly a year. She
+gave him the loving care, the unfailing kindness, and
+the intelligent understanding of a woman who combined
+feminine tact with masculine vigour, a heart
+of gold with an unerring eye for the main chance.
+It was in her flat that he finished <span class='it'>By Their Fruits</span>.
+She was justified in looking upon it as her book and
+the dedication to her is a proof that Driffield was
+not unmindful of his debt. She took him to Italy
+(with Barton of course, for Mrs. Trafford knew
+too well how malicious people were, to give occasion
+for scandal) and with a volume of Ruskin in her
+hand revealed to Edward Driffield the immortal
+beauties of that country. Then she found him rooms
+in the Temple and arranged little luncheons there,
+she acting very prettily the part of hostess, where
+he could receive the persons whom his increasing
+reputation attracted.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It must be admitted that this increasing reputation
+was very largely due to her. His great celebrity came
+only during his last years when he had long ceased
+to write, but the foundations of it were undoubtedly
+laid by Mrs. Trafford’s untiring efforts. Not only
+did she inspire (and perhaps write not a little, for
+she had a dexterous pen) the article that Barton at
+last contributed to the <span class='it'>Quarterly</span> in which the claim
+was first made that Driffield must be ranked with
+the masters of British fiction, but as each book came
+out she organized its reception. She went here and
+there, seeing editors and, more important still, proprietors
+of influential organs; she gave soirées to
+which everyone was invited who could be of use. She
+persuaded Edward Driffield to give readings at the
+houses of the very great for charitable purposes; she
+saw to it that his photographs should appear in the
+illustrated weeklies; she revised personally any interview
+he gave. For ten years she was an indefatigable
+press agent. She kept him steadily before the
+public.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Barton Trafford had a grand time, but she
+did not get above herself. It was useless indeed to
+ask him to a party without her; he refused. And when
+she and Barton and Driffield were invited anywhere
+to dinner they came together and went together. She
+never let him out of her sight. Hostesses might rave;
+they could take it or leave it. As a rule they took it.
+If Mrs. Barton Trafford happened to be a little out
+of temper it was through him she showed it, for while
+she remained charming, Edward Driffield would be
+uncommonly gruff. But she knew exactly how to draw
+him out and when the company was distinguished
+could make him brilliant. She was perfect with him.
+She never concealed from him her conviction that he
+was the greatest writer of his day; she not only referred
+to him invariably as the master, but, perhaps
+a little playfully and yet how flatteringly, addressed
+him always as such. To the end she retained something
+kittenish.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then a terrible thing happened. Driffield caught
+pneumonia and was extremely ill; for some time his
+life was despaired of. Mrs. Barton Trafford did
+everything that such a woman could do, and would
+willingly have nursed him herself, but she was frail,
+she was indeed over sixty, and he had to have professional
+nurses. When at last he pulled through, the
+doctors said that he must go into the country, and
+since he was still extremely weak insisted that a nurse
+should go with him. Mrs. Trafford wanted him to
+go to Bournemouth so that she could run down for
+week-ends and see that everything was well with
+him, but Driffield had a fancy for Cornwall, and
+the doctors agreed that the mild airs of Penzance
+would suit him. One would have thought that a
+woman of Isabel Trafford’s delicate intuition would
+have had some foreboding of ill. No. She let him
+go. She impressed on the nurse that she entrusted
+her with a grave responsibility; she placed in her
+hands, if not the future of English literature, at
+least the life and welfare of its most distinguished
+living representative. It was a priceless charge.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Three weeks later Edward Driffield wrote and
+told her that he had married his nurse by special
+license.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I imagine that never did Mrs. Barton Trafford exhibit
+more preëminently her greatness of soul than
+in the manner in which she met this situation. Did
+she cry, Judas, Judas? Did she tear her hair and
+fall on the floor and kick her heels in an attack of
+hysterics? Did she turn on the mild and learned Barton
+and call him a blithering old fool? Did she inveigh
+against the faithlessness of men and the wantonness
+of women or did she relieve her wounded
+feelings by shouting at the top of her voice a string
+of those obscenities with which the alienists tell us
+the chastest females are surprisingly acquainted? Not
+at all. She wrote a charming letter of congratulation
+to Driffield and she wrote to his bride telling her that
+she was glad to think that now she would have two
+loving friends instead of one. She begged them both
+to come and stay with her on their return to London.
+She told everyone she met that the marriage had
+made her very, very happy, for Edward Driffield
+would soon be an old man and must have someone
+to take care of him; who could do this better than
+a hospital nurse? She never had anything but praise
+for the new Mrs. Driffield; she was not exactly
+pretty, she said, but she had a very nice face; of
+course she wasn’t quite, quite a lady, but Edward
+would only have been uncomfortable with anyone
+too grand. She was just the sort of wife for him. I
+think it may be not unjustly said that Mrs. Barton
+Trafford fairly ran over with the milk of human
+kindness, but all the same I have an inkling that if
+ever the milk of human kindness was charged with
+vitriol, here was a case in point.</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXIII</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When we</span> arrived at Blackstable, Roy and I, a car,
+neither ostentatiously grand nor obviously cheap,
+was waiting for him and the chauffeur had a note for
+me asking me to lunch with Mrs. Driffield next day.
+I got into a taxi and went to the Bear and Key. I
+had learned from Roy that there was a new Marine
+Hotel on the front, but I did not propose for the
+luxuries of civilization to abandon a resort of my
+youth. Change met me at the railway station, which
+was not in its old place, but up a new road, and of
+course it was strange to be driven down the High
+Street in a car. But the Bear and Key was unaltered.
+It received me with its old churlish indifference: there
+was no one at the entrance, the driver put my bag
+down and drove away; I called, no one answered;
+I went into the bar and found a young lady with
+shingled hair reading a book by Mr. Compton
+Mackenzie. I asked her if I could have a room. She
+gave me a slightly offended look and said she thought
+so, but as that seemed to exhaust her interest in the
+matter I asked politely whether there was anyone
+who could show it to me. She got up and, opening a
+door, in a shrill voice called: “Katie.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What is it?” I heard.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“There’s a gent wants a room.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>In a little while appeared an ancient and haggard
+female in a very dirty print dress, with an untidy
+mop of gray hair, and showed me, two flights up, a
+very small grubby room.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Can’t you do something better than that for me?”
+I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s the room commercials generally ’ave,” she
+answered with a sniff.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Haven’t you got any others?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not single.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then give me a double room.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll go and ask Mrs. Brentford.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I accompanied her down to the first floor and she
+knocked at a door. She was told to come in, and when
+she opened it I caught sight of a stout woman with
+gray hair elaborately marcelled. She was reading a
+book. Apparently everyone at the Bear and Key was
+interested in literature. She gave me an indifferent
+look when Katie said I wasn’t satisfied with number
+seven.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Show him number five,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I began to feel that I had been a trifle rash in declining
+so haughtily Mrs. Driffield’s invitation to stay
+with her and then putting aside in my sentimental
+way Roy’s wise suggestion that I should stay at the
+Marine Hotel. Katie took me upstairs again and
+ushered me into a largish room looking on the High
+Street. Most of its space was occupied by a double
+bed. The windows had certainly not been opened for
+a month.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I said that would do and asked about dinner.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You can ’ave what you like,” said Katie. “We
+’aven’t got nothing in, but I’ll run round and get it.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Knowing English inns, I ordered a fried sole and
+a grilled chop. Then I went for a stroll. I walked
+down to the beach and found that they had built an
+esplanade and there was a row of bungalows and
+villas where I remembered only windswept fields.
+But they were seedy and bedraggled and I guessed
+that even after all these years Lord George’s dream
+of turning Blackstable into a popular seaside resort
+had not come true. A retired military man, a pair of
+elderly ladies walked along the crumbling asphalt.
+It was incredibly dreary. A chill wind was blowing
+and a light drizzle swept over from the sea.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I went back into town and here, in the space between
+the Bear and Key and the Duke of Kent, were
+little knots of men standing about notwithstanding
+the inclement weather; and their eyes had the same
+pale blue, their high cheek bones the same ruddy
+colour as that of their fathers before them. It was
+strange to see that some of the sailors in blue jerseys
+still wore little gold rings in their ears; and not only
+old ones but boys scarcely out of their teens. I sauntered
+down the street and there was the bank refronted,
+but the stationery shop where I had bought
+paper and wax to make rubbings with an obscure
+writer whom I had met by chance was unchanged;
+there were two or three cinemas and their garish
+posters suddenly gave the prim street a dissipated
+air so that it looked like a respectable elderly woman
+who had taken a drop too much.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was cold and cheerless in the commercial room
+where I ate my dinner alone at a large table laid for
+six. I was served by the slatternly Katie. I asked if
+I could have a fire.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not in June,” she said. “We don’t ’ave fires after
+April.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll pay for it,” I protested.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Not in June. In October, yes, but not in June.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I had finished I went into the bar to have
+a glass of port.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very quiet,” I said to the shingled barmaid.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it is quiet,” she answered.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I should have thought on a Friday night you’d
+have quite a lot of people in here.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, one would think that, wouldn’t one?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then a stout red-faced man with a close-cropped
+head of gray hair came in from the back and I guessed
+that this was my host.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Are you Mr. Brentford?” I asked him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that’s me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I knew your father. Will you have a glass of
+port?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I told him my name, in the days of his boyhood better
+known than any other at Blackstable, but somewhat
+to my mortification I saw that it aroused no
+echo in his memory. He consented, however, to let
+me stand him a glass of port.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Down here on business?” he asked me. “We get
+quite a few commercial gents at one time and another.
+We always like to do what we can for them.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I told him that I had come down to see Mrs. Driffield
+and left him to guess on what errand.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I used to see a lot of the old man,” said Mr.
+Brentford. “He used to be very partial to dropping
+in here and having his glass of bitter. Mind you, I
+don’t say he ever got tiddly, but he used to like to
+sit in the bar and talk. My word, he’d talk by the
+hour and he never cared who he talked to. Mrs. Driffield
+didn’t half like his coming here. He’d slip away,
+out of the house, without saying a word to anybody,
+and come toddling down. You know it’s a bit of a
+walk for a man of that age. Of course when they
+missed him Mrs. Driffield knew where he was, and
+she used to telephone and ask if he was here. Then
+she’d drive over in the car and go in and see my
+wife. ‘You go in and fetch him, Mrs. Brentford,’
+she’d say; ‘I don’t like to go in the bar meself, not
+with all those men hanging about’; so Mrs. Brentford
+would come in and she’d say, ‘Now Mr. Driffield,
+Mrs. Driffield’s come for you in the car, so
+you’d better finish your beer and let her take you
+home.’ He used to ask Mrs. Brentford not to say
+he was here when Mrs. Driffield rang up, but of
+course we couldn’t do that. He was an old man and
+all that and we didn’t want to take the responsibility.
+He was born in this parish, you know, and his first
+wife, she was a Blackstable girl. She’s been dead these
+many years. I never knew her. He was a funny old
+fellow. No side, you know; they tell me they thought
+a rare lot of him in London and when he died the
+papers were full of him; but you’d never have known
+it to talk to him. He might have been just nobody like
+you and me. Of course we always tried to make him
+comfortable; we tried to get him to sit in one of
+them easy chairs, but no, he must sit up at the bar;
+he said he liked to feel his feet on a rail. My belief
+is he was happier here than anywhere. He always
+said he liked a bar parlour. He said you saw life
+there and he said he’d always loved life. Quite a
+character he was. Reminded me of my father, except
+that my old governor never read a book in his life
+and he drank a bottle of French brandy a day and
+he was seventy-eight when he died and his last illness
+was his first. I quite missed old Driffield when
+he popped off. I was only saying to Mrs. Brentford
+the other day, I’d like to read one of his books some
+time. They tell me he wrote several about these
+parts.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXIV</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Next morning</span> it was cold and raw, but it was not
+raining, and I walked down the High Street toward
+the vicarage. I recognized the names over the shops,
+the Kentish names that have been borne for centuries—the
+Ganns, the Kemps, the Cobbs, the Igguldens—but
+I saw no one that I knew. I felt like a
+ghost walking down that street where I had once
+known nearly everyone, if not to speak to, at least
+by sight. Suddenly a very shabby little car passed
+me, stopped, and backed, and I saw someone looking
+at me curiously. A tall, heavy elderly man got out
+and came toward me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Aren’t you Willie Ashenden?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then I recognized him. He was the doctor’s son,
+and I had been at school with him; we had passed
+from form to form together, and I knew that he had
+succeeded his father in his practice.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Hullo, how are you?” he asked. “I’ve just been
+along to the vicarage to see my grandson. It’s a
+preparatory school now, you know, and I put him
+there at the beginning of this term.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He was shabbily dressed and unkempt, but he
+had a fine head and I saw that in youth he must have
+had unusual beauty. It was funny that I had never
+noticed it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Are you a grandfather?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Three times over,” he laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It gave me a shock. He had drawn breath, walked
+the earth and presently grown to man’s estate, married,
+had children and they in turn had had children;
+I judged from the look of him that he had lived,
+with incessant toil, in penury. He had the peculiar
+manner of the country doctor, bluff, hearty, and
+unctuous. His life was over. I had plans in my head
+for books and plays, I was full of schemes for the
+future; I felt that a long stretch of activity and fun
+still lay before me; and yet, I supposed, to others I
+must seem the elderly man that he seemed to me. I
+was so shaken that I had not the presence of mind
+to ask about his brothers whom as a child I had
+played with, or about the old friends who had been
+my companions; after a few foolish remarks I left
+him. I walked on to the vicarage, a roomy, rambling
+house too far out of the way for the modern incumbent
+who took his duties more seriously than did my
+uncle and too large for the present cost of living. It
+stood in a big garden and was surrounded by green
+fields. There was a great square notice board that
+announced that it was a preparatory school for the
+sons of gentlemen and gave the name and the degrees
+of the head master. I looked over the paling;
+the garden was squalid and untidy and the pond in
+which I used to fish for roach was choked up. The
+glebe fields had been cut up into building lots. There
+were rows of little brick houses with bumpy ill-made
+roads. I walked along Joy Lane and there were
+houses here too, bungalows facing the sea; and the
+old turnpike house was a trim tea shop.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I wandered about here and there. There seemed
+innumerable streets of little houses of yellow brick,
+but I do not know who lived in them for I saw no one
+about. I went down to the harbour. It was deserted.
+There was but one tramp lying a little way out from
+the pier. Two or three sailormen were sitting outside
+a warehouse and they stared at me as I passed. The
+bottom had fallen out of the coal trade and colliers
+came to Blackstable no longer.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Then it was time for me to go to Ferne Court and
+I went back to the Bear and Key. The landlord had
+told me that he had a Daimler for hire and I had
+arranged that it should take me to my luncheon. It
+stood at the door when I came up, a brougham, but
+the oldest, most dilapidated car of its make that I
+had ever seen; it panted along with squeaks and
+thumps and rattlings, with sudden angry jerks, so that
+I wondered if I should ever reach my destination.
+But the extraordinary, the amazing thing about it
+was that it smelled exactly like the old landau which
+my uncle used to hire every Sunday morning to go
+to church in. This was a rank odour of stables and of
+stale straw that lay at the bottom of the carriage;
+and I wondered in vain why, after all these years,
+the motor car should have it too. But nothing can
+bring back the past like a perfume or a stench, and,
+oblivious to the country I was trundling through, I
+saw myself once more a little boy on the front seat
+with the communion plate beside me and, facing
+me, my aunt, smelling slightly of clean linen and eau
+de cologne, in her black silk cloak and her little bonnet
+with a feather, and my uncle in his cassock, a
+broad band of ribbed silk round his ample waist and
+a gold cross hanging over his stomach from the gold
+chain round his neck.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Now, Willie, mind you behave nicely to-day.
+You’re not to turn round, and sit up properly in
+your seat. The Lord’s House isn’t the place to loll
+in and you must remember that you should set an
+example to other little boys who haven’t had your
+advantages.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>When I arrived at Ferne Court Mrs. Driffield and
+Roy were walking round the garden and they came
+up to me as I got out of the car.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I was showing Roy my flowers,” said Mrs. Driffield,
+as she shook hands with me. And then with a
+sigh: “They’re all I have now.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She looked no older than when last I saw her six
+years before. She wore her weeds with quiet distinction.
+At her neck was a collar of white crêpe and at
+her wrists cuffs of the same. Roy, I noticed, wore with
+his neat blue suit a black tie; I supposed it was a sign
+of respect for the illustrious dead.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll just show you my herbaceous borders,” said
+Mrs. Driffield, “and then we’ll go in to lunch.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We walked round and Roy was very knowledgeable.
+He knew what all the flowers were called, and
+the Latin names tripped off his tongue like cigarettes
+out of a cigarette-making machine. He told Mrs.
+Driffield where she ought to get certain varieties that
+she absolutely must have and how perfectly lovely
+were certain others.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Shall we go in through Edward’s study?” suggested
+Mrs. Driffield. “I keep it exactly as it was
+when he was here. I haven’t changed a thing. You’d
+be surprised how many people come over to see the
+house, and of course above all they want to see the
+room he worked in.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We went in through an open window. There was
+a bowl of roses on the desk and on a little round table
+by the side of the armchair a copy of the <span class='it'>Spectator</span>.
+In the ash trays were the master’s pipes and there was
+ink in the inkstand. The scene was perfectly set. I
+do not know why the room seemed so strangely dead;
+it had already the mustiness of a museum. Mrs.
+Driffield went to the bookshelves and with a little
+smile, half playful, half sad, passed a rapid hand
+across the back of half a dozen volumes bound in
+blue.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know that Edward admired your work so
+much,” said Mrs. Driffield. “He reread your books
+quite often.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m very glad to think that,” I said politely.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I knew very well that they had not been there on
+my last visit and in a casual way I took one of them
+out and ran my fingers along the top to see whether
+there was dust on it. There was not. Then I took
+another book down, one of Charlotte Brontë’s, and
+making a little plausible conversation tried the same
+experiment. No, there was no dust there either. All
+I learned was that Mrs. Driffield was an excellent
+housekeeper and had a conscientious maid.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We went in to luncheon, a hearty British meal of
+roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and we talked of
+the work on which Roy was engaged.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I want to spare dear Roy all the labour I can,”
+said Mrs. Driffield, “and I’ve been gathering together
+as much of the material as I could myself.
+Of course it’s been rather painful, but it’s been very
+interesting, too. I came across a lot of old photographs
+that I must show you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>After luncheon we went into the drawing room
+and I noticed again with what perfect tact Mrs.
+Driffield had arranged it. It suited the widow of a
+distinguished man of letters almost more than it
+had suited the wife. Those chintzes, those bowls of
+pot-pourri, those Dresden china figures—there was
+about them a faint air of regret; they seemed to reflect
+pensively upon a past of distinction. I could have
+wished on this chilly day that there were a fire in the
+grate, but the English are a hardy as well as a conservative
+race; and it is not difficult for them to maintain
+their principles at the cost of the discomfort of
+others. I doubted whether Mrs. Driffield would have
+conceived the possibility of lighting a fire before the
+first of October. She asked me whether I had lately
+seen the lady who had brought me to lunch with the
+Driffields, and I surmised from her faint acerbity
+that since the death of her eminent husband the great
+and fashionable had shown a distinct tendency to
+take no further notice of her. We were just settling
+down to talk about the defunct; Roy and Mrs. Driffield
+were putting artful questions to incite me to
+disclose my recollections and I was gathering my wits
+about me so that I should not in an unguarded moment
+let slip anything that I had made up my mind
+to keep to myself; when suddenly the trim parlour-maid
+brought in two cards on a small salver.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Two gentlemen in a car, mum, and they say, could
+they look at the house and garden?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What a bore!” cried Mrs. Driffield, but with astonishing
+alacrity. “Isn’t it funny I should have been
+speaking just now about the people who want to see
+the house? I never have a moment’s peace.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, why don’t you say you’re sorry you can’t
+see them?” said Roy, with what I thought a certain
+cattiness.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Edward wouldn’t have
+liked me to.” She looked at the cards. “I haven’t got
+my glasses on me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She handed them to me, and on one I read “Henry
+Beard MacDougal, University of Virginia”; and in
+pencil was written: “Assistant professor in English
+Literature.” The other was “Jean-Paul Underhill”
+and there was at the bottom an address in New York.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Americans,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Say I shall be
+very pleased if they’ll come in.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Presently the maid ushered the strangers in. They
+were both tall young men and broad-shouldered, with
+heavy, clean-shaven, swarthy faces, and handsome
+eyes; they both wore horn-rimmed spectacles and they
+both had thick black hair combed straight back from
+their foreheads. They both wore English suits that
+were evidently brand new; they were both slightly
+embarrassed, but verbose and extremely civil. They
+explained that they were making a literary tour of
+England and, being admirers of Edward Driffield,
+had taken the liberty of stopping off on their way to
+Rye to visit Henry James’s house in the hope that
+they would be permitted to see a spot sanctified by
+so many associations. The reference to Rye did not
+go down very well with Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I believe they have some very good links there,”
+she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She introduced the Americans to Roy and me. I
+was filled with admiration for the way in which Roy
+rose to the occasion. It appeared that he had lectured
+before the University of Virginia and had
+stayed with a distinguished member of the faculty.
+It had been an unforgettable experience. He did not
+know whether he had been more impressed by the
+lavish hospitality with which those charming Virginians
+had entertained him or by their intelligent
+interest in art and literature. He asked how So and
+So was, and So and So; he had made lifelong friends
+there, and it looked as though everyone he had met
+was good and kind and clever. Soon the young professor
+was telling Roy how much he liked his books,
+and Roy was modestly telling him what in this one
+and the other his aim had been and how conscious
+he was that he had come far short of achieving it.
+Mrs. Driffield listened with smiling sympathy, but
+I had a feeling that her smile was growing a trifle
+strained. It may be that Roy had too, for he suddenly
+broke off.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“But you don’t want me to bore you with my
+stuff,” he said in his loud hearty way. “I’m only
+here because Mrs. Driffield has entrusted to me the
+great honour of writing Edward Driffield’s Life.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>This of course interested the visitors very much.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s some job, believe me,” said Roy, playfully
+American. “Fortunately I have the assistance of Mrs.
+Driffield, who was not only a perfect wife, but an
+admirable amanuensis and secretary; the materials
+she has placed at my disposal are so amazingly full
+that really little remains for me to do but take advantage
+of her industry and her—her affectionate
+zeal.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield looked down demurely at the carpet
+and the two young Americans turned on her their
+large dark eyes in which you could read their sympathy,
+their interest, and their respect. After a little
+more conversation—partly literary but also about
+golf, for the visitors admitted that they hoped to get
+a round or two at Rye, and here again Roy was on
+the spot, for he told them to look out for such and
+such a bunker and when they came to London hoped
+they would play with him at Sunningdale; after this,
+I say, Mrs. Driffield got up and offered to show them
+Edward’s study and bedroom, and of course the garden.
+Roy rose to his feet, evidently bent on accompanying
+them, but Mrs. Driffield gave him a little
+smile; it was pleasant but firm.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Don’t you bother to come, Roy,” she said. “I’ll
+take them round. You stay here and talk to Mr.
+Ashenden.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, all right. Of course.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The strangers bade us farewell and Roy and I
+settled down again in the chintz armchairs.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Jolly room this is,” said Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Very.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Amy had to work hard to get it. You know the
+old man bought this house two or three years before
+they were married. She tried to make him sell it,
+but he wouldn’t. He was very obstinate in some ways.
+You see, it belonged to a certain Miss Wolfe, whose
+bailiff his father was, and he said that when he was
+a little boy his one idea was to own it himself and
+now he’d got it he was going to keep it. One would
+have thought the last thing he’d want to do was
+to live in a place where everyone knew all about
+his origins and everything. Once poor Amy very
+nearly engaged a housemaid before she discovered
+she was Edward’s great-niece. When Amy came
+here the house was furnished from attic to cellar
+in the best Tottenham Court Road manner; you
+know the sort of thing, Turkey carpets and mahogany
+sideboards, and a plush-covered suite in the
+drawing room, and modern marquetry. It was his
+idea of how a gentleman’s house should be furnished.
+Amy says it was simply awful. He wouldn’t let
+her change a thing and she had to go to work with
+the greatest care; she says she simply couldn’t have
+lived in it and she was determined to have things
+right, so she had to change things one by one so that
+he didn’t pay any attention. She told me the hardest
+job she had was with his writing desk. I don’t know
+whether you’ve noticed the one there is in his study
+now. It’s a very good period piece; I wouldn’t mind
+having it myself. Well, he had a horrible American
+roll-top desk. He’d had it for years and he’d written
+a dozen books on it and he simply wouldn’t part with
+it, he had no feeling for things like that; he just happened
+to be attached to it because he’d had it so long.
+You must get Amy to tell you the story how she managed
+to get rid of it in the end. It’s really priceless.
+She’s a remarkable woman, you know; she generally
+gets her own way.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ve noticed it,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It had not taken her long to dispose of Roy when
+he showed signs of wishing to go over the house with
+the visitors. He gave me a quick look and laughed.
+Roy was not stupid.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You don’t know America as well as I do,” he said.
+“They always prefer a live mouse to a dead lion.
+That’s one of the reasons why I like America.”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXV</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When Mrs. Driffield</span>, having sent the pilgrims on
+their way, came back she bore under her arm a portfolio.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What very nice young men!” she said. “I wish
+young men in England took such a keen interest in
+literature. I gave them that photo of Edward when
+he was dead and they asked me for one of mine, and
+I signed it for them.” Then very graciously: “You
+made a great impression on them, Roy. They said
+it was a real privilege to meet you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ve lectured in America so much,” said Roy,
+with modesty.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but they’ve read your books. They say that
+what they like about them is that they’re so virile.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The portfolio contained a number of old photographs,
+groups of schoolboys among whom I recognized
+an urchin with untidy hair as Driffield only because
+his widow pointed him out, Rugby fifteens with
+Driffield a little older, and then one of a young sailor
+in a jersey and a reefer jacket, Driffield when he ran
+away to sea.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Here’s one taken when he was first married,”
+said Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>He wore a beard and black-and-white check
+trousers; in his buttonhole was a large white rose
+backed by maidenhair and on the table beside him a
+chimney-pot hat.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“And here is the bride,” said Mrs. Driffield, trying
+not to smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Poor Rosie, seen by a country photographer over
+forty years ago, was grotesque. She was standing
+very stiffly against a background of baronial hall,
+holding a large bouquet; her dress was elaborately
+draped, pinched at the waist, and she wore a bustle.
+Her fringe came down to her eyes. On her head was
+a wreath of orange blossoms, perched high on a
+mass of hair, and from it was thrown back a long
+veil. Only I knew how lovely she must have looked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She looks fearfully common,” said Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She was,” murmured Mrs. Driffield.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>We looked at more photographs of Edward, photographs
+that had been taken of him when he began
+to be known, photographs when he wore only a
+moustache and others, all the later ones, when he
+was clean-shaven. You saw his face grown thinner
+and more lined. The stubborn commonplace of the
+early portraits melted gradually into a weary refinement.
+You saw the change in him wrought by experience,
+thought, and achieved ambition. I looked again
+at the photograph of the young sailorman and
+fancied that I saw in it already a trace of that aloofness
+that seemed to me so marked in the older ones
+and that I had had years before the vague sensation
+of in the man himself. The face you saw was a mask
+and the actions he performed without significance.
+I had an impression that the real man, to his death
+unknown and lonely, was a wraith that went a silent
+way unseen between the writer of his books and the
+fellow who led his life, and smiled with ironical detachment
+at the two puppets that the world took for
+Edward Driffield. I am conscious that in what I have
+written of him I have not presented a living man,
+standing on his feet, rounded, with comprehensible
+motives and logical activities; I have not tried to:
+I am glad to leave that to the abler pen of Alroy
+Kear.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I came across the photographs that Harry Retford,
+the actor, had taken of Rosie, and then a photograph
+of the picture that Lionel Hillier had painted of her.
+It gave me a pang. That was how I best remembered
+her. Notwithstanding the old-fashioned gown, she
+was alive there and tremulous with the passion that
+filled her. She seemed to offer herself to the assault
+of love.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She gives you the impression of a hefty wench,”
+said Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“If you like the milkmaid type,” answered Mrs.
+Driffield. “I’ve always thought she looked rather like
+a white nigger.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>That was what Mrs. Barton Trafford had been
+fond of calling her, and with Rosie’s thick lips and
+broad nose there was indeed a hateful truth in the
+criticism. But they did not know how silvery golden
+her hair was, nor how golden silver her skin; they
+did not know her enchanting smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She wasn’t a bit like a white nigger,” I said. “She
+was virginal like the dawn. She was like Hebe. She
+was like a white rose.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield smiled and exchanged a meaning
+glance with Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Barton Trafford told me a great deal about
+her. I don’t wish to seem spiteful, but I’m afraid I
+don’t think that she can have been a very nice
+woman.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s where you make a mistake,” I replied.
+“She was a very nice woman. I never saw her in a
+bad temper. You only had to say you wanted something
+for her to give it to you. I never heard her say
+a disagreeable thing about anyone. She had a heart
+of gold.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She was a terrible slattern. Her house was always
+in a mess; you didn’t like to sit down in a chair because
+it was so dusty and you dared not look in the
+corners. And it was the same with her person. She
+could never put a skirt on straight and you’d see about
+two inches of petticoat hanging down on one side.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“She didn’t bother about things like that. They
+didn’t make her any the less beautiful. And she was
+as good as she was beautiful.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy burst out laughing and Mrs. Driffield put her
+hand up to her mouth to hide her smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, come, Mr. Ashenden, that’s really going too
+far. After all, let’s face it, she was a nymphomaniac.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think that’s a very silly word,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, then, let me say that she can hardly have
+been a very good woman to treat poor Edward as she
+did. Of course it was a blessing in disguise. If she
+hadn’t run away from him he might have had to bear
+that burden for the rest of his life, and with such
+a handicap he could never have reached the position
+he did. But the fact remains that she was notoriously
+unfaithful to him. From what I hear she was absolutely
+promiscuous.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You don’t understand,” I said. “She was a very
+simple woman. Her instincts were healthy and ingenuous.
+She loved to make people happy. She loved
+love.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Do you call that love?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, then, the act of love. She was naturally
+affectionate. When she liked anyone it was quite
+natural for her to go to bed with him. She never
+thought twice about it. It was not vice; it wasn’t lasciviousness;
+it was her nature. She gave herself as
+naturally as the sun gives heat or the flowers their
+perfume. It was a pleasure to her and she liked to
+give pleasure to others. It had no effect on her character;
+she remained sincere, unspoiled, and artless.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield looked as though she had taken a
+dose of castor oil and had just been trying to get the
+taste of it out of her mouth by sucking a lemon.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t understand,” she said. “But then I’m
+bound to admit that I never understood what Edward
+saw in her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Did he know that she was carrying on with all
+sorts of people?” asked Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m sure he didn’t,” she replied quickly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You think him a bigger fool than I do, Mrs. Driffield,”
+I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Then why did he put up with it?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I think I can tell you. You see, she wasn’t a woman
+who ever inspired love. Only affection. It was absurd
+to be jealous over her. She was like a clear deep pool
+in a forest glade into which it’s heavenly to plunge,
+but it is neither less cool nor less crystalline because
+a tramp and a gipsy and a gamekeeper have plunged
+into it before you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Roy laughed again and this time Mrs. Driffield
+without concealment smiled thinly.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“It’s comic to hear you so lyrical,” said Roy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I stifled a sigh. I have noticed that when I am most
+serious people are apt to laugh at me, and indeed
+when after a lapse of time I have read passages that
+I wrote from the fullness of my heart I have been
+tempted to laugh at myself. It must be that there is
+something naturally absurd in a sincere emotion,
+though why there should be I cannot imagine, unless
+it is that man, the ephemeral inhabitant of an insignificant
+planet, with all his pain and all his striving
+is but a jest in an eternal mind.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I saw that Mrs. Driffield wished to ask me something.
+It caused her a certain embarrassment.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Do you think he’d have taken her back if she’d
+been willing to come?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You knew him better than I. I should say no. I
+think that when he had exhausted an emotion he took
+no further interest in the person who had aroused
+it. I should say that he had a peculiar combination
+of strong feeling and extreme callousness.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know how you can say that,” cried Roy.
+“He was the kindest man I ever met.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Driffield looked at me steadily and then
+dropped her eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wonder what happened to her when she went
+to America,” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I believe she married Kemp,” said Mrs. Driffield.
+“I heard they had taken another name. Of
+course they couldn’t show their faces over here
+again.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When did she die?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, about ten years ago.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“How did you hear?” I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“From Harold Kemp, the son; he’s in some sort
+of business at Maidstone. I never told Edward. She’d
+been dead to him for many years and I saw no reason
+to remind him of the past. It always helps you if you
+put yourself in other people’s shoes and I said to
+myself that if I were he I shouldn’t want to be reminded
+of an unfortunate episode of my youth. Don’t
+you think I was right?”</p>
+
+<div><h1><span style="font-family:'ch';">XXVI</span></h1></div>
+
+<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Driffield</span> very kindly offered to send me back
+to Blackstable in her car, but I preferred to walk.
+I promised to dine at Ferne Court next day and
+meanwhile to write down what I could remember of
+the two periods during which I had been in the habit
+of seeing Edward Driffield. As I walked along the
+winding road, meeting no one by the way, I mused
+upon what I should say. Do they not tell us that style
+is the art of omission? If that is so I should certainly
+write a very pretty piece, and it seemed almost a pity
+that Roy should use it only as material. I chuckled
+when I reflected what a bombshell I could throw if
+I chose. There was one person who could tell them
+all they wanted to know about Edward Driffield and
+his first marriage; but this fact I proposed to keep
+to myself. They thought Rosie was dead; they erred;
+Rosie was very much alive.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Being in New York for the production of a play
+and my arrival having been advertised to all and
+sundry by my manager’s energetic press representative,
+I received one day a letter addressed in a handwriting
+I knew but could not place. It was large and
+round, firm but uneducated. It was so familiar to me
+that I was exasperated not to remember whose it
+was. It would have been more sensible to open the
+letter at once, but instead I looked at the envelope
+and racked my brain. There are handwritings I cannot
+see without a little shiver of dismay and some
+letters that look so tiresome that I cannot bring
+myself to open them for a week. When at last I tore
+open the envelope what I read gave me a strange
+feeling. It began abruptly:</p>
+
+<div class='blockquote'>
+
+<p class='pindent'><span class='it'>I have just seen that you are in New York and
+would like to see you again. I am not living in New
+York any more, but Yonkers is quite close and if you
+have a car you can easily do it in half an hour. I
+expect you are very busy so leave it to you to make a
+date. Although it is many years since we last met I
+hope you have not forgotten your old friend</span></p>
+
+<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:1em;'><span class='sc'>Rose Iggulden</span> (<span class='it'>formerly Driffield</span>)</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I looked at the address; it was the Albemarle, evidently
+a hotel or an apartment house, then there was
+the name of a street, and Yonkers. A shiver passed
+through me as though someone had walked over my
+grave. During the years that had passed I had sometimes
+thought of Rosie, but of late I had said to myself
+that she must surely be dead. I was puzzled for
+a moment by the name. Why Iggulden and not Kemp?
+Then it occurred to me that they had taken this name,
+a Kentish one too, when they fled from England. My
+first impulse was to make an excuse not to see her;
+I am always shy of seeing again people I have not
+seen for a long time; but then I was seized with
+curiosity. I wanted to see what she was like and to
+hear what had happened to her. I was going down to
+Dobbs Ferry for the week-end, to reach which I had
+to pass through Yonkers, and so answered that I
+would come at about four on the following Saturday.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The Albemarle was a huge block of apartments,
+comparatively new, and it looked as though it were
+inhabited by persons in easy circumstances. My name
+was telephoned up by a Negro porter in uniform and
+I was taken up in the elevator by another. I felt uncommonly
+nervous. The door was opened for me by
+a coloured maid.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Come right in,” she said. “Mrs. Iggulden’s expecting
+you.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I was ushered into a living room that served also
+as dining room, for at one end of it was a square
+table of heavily carved oak, a dresser, and four
+chairs of the kind that the manufacturers in Grand
+Rapids would certainly describe as Jacobean. But
+the other end was furnished with a Louis XV suite,
+gilt and upholstered in pale blue damask; there were
+a great many small tables, richly carved and gilt, on
+which stood Sèvres vases with ormolu decorations
+and nude bronze ladies with draperies flowing as
+though in a howling gale that artfully concealed those
+parts of their bodies that decency required; and each
+one held at the end of a playfully outstretched arm an
+electric lamp. The gramophone was the grandest
+thing I had ever seen out of a shop window, all gilt
+and shaped like a sedan chair and painted with Watteau
+courtiers and their ladies.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>After I had waited for about five minutes a door
+was opened and Rosie came briskly in. She gave me
+both her hands.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, this is a surprise,” she said. “I hate to think
+how many years it is since we met. Excuse me one
+moment.” She went to the door and called: “Jessie,
+you can bring the tea in. Mind the water’s boiling
+properly.” Then, coming back: “The trouble I’ve
+had to teach that girl to make tea properly, you’d
+never believe.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie was at least seventy. She was wearing a very
+smart sleeveless frock of green chiffon, heavily
+<span class='it'>diamanté</span>, cut square at the neck and very short; it
+fitted like a bursting glove. By her shape I gathered
+that she wore rubber corsets. Her nails were blood-coloured
+and her eyebrows plucked. She was stout,
+and she had a double chin; the skin of her bosom,
+although she had powdered it freely, was red, and her
+face was red too. But she looked well and healthy
+and full of beans. Her hair was still abundant, but
+it was quite white, shingled and permanently waved.
+As a young woman she had had soft, naturally waving
+hair and these stiff undulations, as though she
+had just come out of a hairdresser’s, seemed more
+than anything else to change her. The only thing that
+remained was her smile, which had still its old childlike
+and mischievous sweetness. Her teeth had never
+been very good, irregular and of bad shape; but
+these now were replaced by a set of perfect evenness
+and snowy brilliance; they were obviously the best
+money could buy.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>The coloured maid brought in an elaborate tea
+with <span class='it'>pâté</span> sandwiches and cookies and candy and little
+knives and forks and tiny napkins. It was all very
+neat and smart.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That’s one thing I’ve never been able to do without—my tea,”
+said Rosie, helping herself to a hot
+buttered scone. “It’s my best meal, really, though I
+know I shouldn’t eat it. My doctor keeps on saying
+to me: ‘Mrs. Iggulden, you can’t expect to get your
+weight down if you will eat half a dozen cookies at
+tea.’ ” She gave me a smile, and I had a sudden inkling
+that, notwithstanding the marcelled hair and the
+powder and the fat, Rosie was the same as ever. “But
+what I say is: A little of what you fancy does you
+good.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I had always found her easy to talk to. Soon we
+were chatting away as though it were only a few
+weeks since we had last seen one another.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Were you surprised to get my letter? I put Driffield
+so as you should know who it was from. We
+took the name of Iggulden when we came to America.
+George had a little unpleasantness when he left
+Blackstable, perhaps you heard about it, and he
+thought in a new country he’d better start with a new
+name, if you understand what I mean.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I nodded vaguely.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Poor George, he died ten years ago, you know.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m sorry to hear that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, well, he was getting on in years. He was past
+seventy though you’d never have guessed it to look
+at him. It was a great blow to me. No woman could
+want a better husband than what he made me. Never
+a cross word from the day we married till the day
+he died. And I’m pleased to say he left me very well
+provided for.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m glad to know that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, he did very well over here. He went into
+the building trade, he always had a fancy for it, and
+he got in with Tammany. He always said the greatest
+mistake he ever made was not coming over here
+twenty years before. He liked the country from the
+first day he set foot in it. He had plenty of go and
+that’s what you want here. He was just the sort to
+get on.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have you never been back to England?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I’ve never wanted to. George used to talk
+about it sometimes, just for a trip, you know, but
+we never got down to it, and now he’s gone I haven’t
+got the inclination. I expect London would seem very
+dead and alive to me after New York. We used to
+live in New York, you know. I only came here after
+his death.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What made you choose Yonkers?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I always fancied it. I used to say to George,
+when we retire we’ll go and live at Yonkers. It’s
+like a little bit of England to me; you know, Maidstone
+or Guildford or some place like that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I smiled, but I understood what she meant. Notwithstanding
+its trams and its tootling cars, its
+cinemas and electric signs, Yonkers, with its winding
+main street, has a faint air of an English market
+town gone jazz.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Of course I sometimes wonder what’s happened
+to all the folks at Blackstable. I suppose they’re most
+of them dead by now and I expect they think I am
+too.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I haven’t been there for thirty years.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I did not know then that the rumour of Rosie’s
+death had reached Blackstable. I dare say that someone
+had brought back the news that George Kemp
+was dead and thus a mistake had arisen.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I suppose nobody knows here that you were Edward
+Driffield’s first wife?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no; why, if they had I should have had the
+reporters buzzing around my apartment like a swarm
+of bees. You know sometimes I’ve hardly been able
+to help laughing when I’ve been out somewhere playing
+bridge and they’ve started talking about Ted’s
+books. They like him no end in America. I never
+thought so much of them myself.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You never were a great novel reader, were you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I used to like history better, but I don’t seem to
+have much time for reading now. Sunday’s my great
+day. I think the Sunday papers over here are lovely.
+You don’t have anything like them in England. Then
+of course I play a lot of bridge; I’m crazy about
+contract.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>I remembered that when as a young boy I had first
+met Rosie her uncanny skill at whist had impressed
+me. I felt that I knew the sort of bridge player she
+was, quick, bold, and accurate: a good partner and
+a dangerous opponent.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You’d have been surprised at the fuss they made
+over here when Ted died. I knew they thought a lot
+of him, but I never knew he was such a big bug as all
+that. The papers were full of him, and they had pictures
+of him and Ferne Court; he always said he
+meant to live in that house some day. Whatever made
+him marry that hospital nurse? I always thought he’d
+marry Mrs. Barton Trafford. They never had any
+children, did they?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ted would have liked to have some. It was a
+great blow to him that I couldn’t have any more after
+the first.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t know you’d ever had a child,” I said with
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes. That’s why Ted married me. But I had
+a very bad time when it came and the doctors said
+I couldn’t have another. If she’d lived, poor little
+thing, I don’t suppose I’d ever have run away with
+George. She was six when she died. A dear little thing
+she was and as pretty as a picture.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You never mentioned her.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, I couldn’t bear to speak about her. She got
+meningitis and we took her to the hospital. They put
+her in a private room and they let us stay with her.
+I shall never forget what she went through, screaming,
+screaming all the time, and nobody able to do
+anything.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie’s voice broke.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Was it that death Driffield described in <span class='it'>The Cup
+of Life</span>?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that’s it. I always thought it so funny of
+Ted. He couldn’t bear to speak of it, any more than
+I could, but he wrote it all down; he didn’t leave
+out a thing; even little things I hadn’t noticed at the
+time he put in and then I remembered them. You’d
+think he was just heartless, but he wasn’t, he was
+upset just as much as I was. When we used to go
+home at night he’d cry like a child. Funny chap,
+wasn’t he?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>It was <span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span> that had raised such a
+storm of protest; and it was the child’s death and
+the episode that followed it that had especially
+brought down on Driffield’s head such virulent abuse.
+I remembered the description very well. It was harrowing.
+There was nothing sentimental in it; it did
+not excite the reader’s tears, but his anger rather
+that such cruel suffering should be inflicted on a little
+child. You felt that God at the Judgment Day would
+have to account for such things as this. It was a very
+powerful piece of writing. But if this incident was
+taken from life was the one that followed it also?
+It was this that had shocked the public of the ’nineties
+and this that the critics had condemned as not
+only indecent but incredible. In <span class='it'>The Cup of Life</span> the
+husband and wife (I forget their names now) had
+come back from the hospital after the child’s death—they
+were poor people and they lived from hand to
+mouth in lodgings—and had their tea. It was latish:
+about seven o’clock. They were exhausted by the
+strain of a week’s ceaseless anxiety and shattered by
+their grief. They had nothing to say to one another.
+They sat in a miserable silence. The hours passed.
+Then on a sudden the wife got up and going into
+their bedroom put on her hat.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’m going out,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“All right.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>They lived near Victoria Station. She walked
+along the Buckingham Palace Road and through the
+park. She came into Piccadilly and went slowly toward
+the Circus. A man caught her eye, paused and
+turned round.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good-evening,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Good-evening.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She stopped and smiled.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Will you come and have a drink?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t mind if I do.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>They went into a tavern in one of the side streets
+of Piccadilly, where harlots congregated and men
+came to pick them up, and they drank a glass of beer.
+She chatted with the stranger and laughed with him.
+She told him a cock-and-bull story about herself.
+Presently he asked if he could go home with her; no,
+she said, he couldn’t do that, but they could go to a
+hotel. They got into a cab and drove to Bloomsbury
+and there they took a room for the night. And next
+morning she took a bus to Trafalgar Square and
+walked through the park; when she got home her
+husband was just sitting down to breakfast. After
+breakfast they went back to the hospital to see about
+the child’s funeral.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Will you tell me something, Rosie?” I asked.
+“What happened in the book after the child’s death—did
+that happen too?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She looked at me for a moment doubtfully; then
+her lips broke into her still beautiful smile.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s all so many years ago, what odds does
+it make? I don’t mind telling you. He didn’t get it
+quite right. You see, it was only guesswork on his
+part. I was surprised that he knew as much as he
+did; I never told him anything.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie took a cigarette and pensively tapped its end
+on the table, but she did not light it.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“We came back from the hospital just like he said.
+We walked back; I felt I couldn’t sit still in a cab,
+and I felt all dead inside me. I’d cried so much I
+couldn’t cry any more, and I was tired. Ted tried to
+comfort me, but I said: ‘For God’s sake shut up.’
+After that he didn’t say any more. We had rooms
+in the Vauxhall Bridge Road then, on the second
+floor, just a sitting room and a bedroom, that’s why
+we’d had to take the poor little thing to the hospital;
+we couldn’t nurse her in lodgings; besides, the landlady
+said she wouldn’t have it, and Ted said she’d
+be looked after better at the hospital. She wasn’t a
+bad sort, the landlady; she’d been a tart and Ted
+used to talk to her by the hour together. She came
+up when she heard us come in.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘How’s the little girl to-night?’ she said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘She’s dead,’ said Ted.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I couldn’t say anything. Then she brought up the
+tea. I didn’t want anything, but Ted made me eat
+some ham. Then I sat at the window. I didn’t look
+round when the landlady came up to clear away, I
+didn’t want anyone to speak to me. Ted was reading
+a book; at least he was pretending to, but he didn’t
+turn the pages, and I saw the tears dropping on it.
+I kept on looking out of the window. It was the end
+of June, the twenty-eighth, and the days were long.
+It was just near the corner where we lived and I
+looked at the people going in and out of the public
+house and the trams going up and down. I thought
+the day would never come to an end; then all of a
+sudden I noticed that it was night. All the lamps were
+lit. There were an awful lot of people in the street.
+I felt so tired. My legs were like lead.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Why don’t you light the gas?’ I said to Ted.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Do you want it?’ he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘It’s no good sitting in the dark,’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He lit the gas. He began smoking his pipe. I
+knew that would do him good. But I just sat and
+looked at the street. I don’t know what came over
+me. I felt that if I went on sitting in that room I’d
+go mad. I wanted to go somewhere where there were
+lights and people. I wanted to get away from Ted;
+no, not so much that, I wanted to get away from all
+that Ted was thinking and feeling. We only had two
+rooms. I went into the bedroom; the child’s cot was
+still there, but I wouldn’t look at it. I put on my hat
+and a veil and I changed my dress and then I went
+back to Ted.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘I’m going out,’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Ted looked at me. I dare say he noticed I’d got
+my new dress on and perhaps something in the way
+I spoke made him see I didn’t want him.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘All right,’ he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“In the book he made me walk through the park,
+but I didn’t do that really. I went down to Victoria
+and I took a hansom to Charing Cross. It was only
+a shilling fare. Then I walked up the Strand. I’d made
+up my mind what I wanted to do before I came out.
+Do you remember Harry Retford? Well, he was
+acting at the Adelphi then, he had the second comedy
+part. Well, I went to the stage door, and sent up
+my name. I always liked Harry Retford. I expect
+he was a bit unscrupulous and he was rather funny
+over money matters, but he could make you laugh
+and with all his faults he was a rare good sort. You
+know he was killed in the Boer War, don’t you?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t. I only knew he’d disappeared and one
+never saw his name on playbills; I thought perhaps
+he’d gone into business or something.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No, he went out at once. He was killed at Ladysmith.
+After I’d been waiting a bit he came down and
+I said: ‘Harry, let’s go on the razzle to-night. What
+about a bit of supper at Romano’s?’ ‘Not ’alf,’ he
+said. ‘You wait here and the minute the show’s over
+and I’ve got my make-up off I’ll come down.’ It made
+me feel better just to see him; he was playing a
+racing tout and it made me laugh just to look at him
+in his check suit and his billycock hat and his red
+nose. Well, I waited till the end of the show and then
+he came down and we walked along to Romano’s.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Are you hungry?’ he said to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Starving,’ I said; and I was.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Let’s have the best,’ he said, ‘and blow the expense.
+I told Bill Terris I was taking my best girl
+out to supper and I touched him for a couple of quid.’</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Let’s have champagne,’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Three cheers for the widow!’ he said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know if you ever went to Romano’s in the
+old days. It was fine. You used to see all the theatrical
+people and the racing men, and the girls from the
+Gaiety used to go there. It was <span class='it'>the</span> place. And the
+Roman. Harry knew him and he came up to our
+table; he used to talk in funny broken English; I
+believe he put it on because he knew it made people
+laugh. And if someone he knew was down and out
+he’d always lend him a fiver.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘How’s the kid?’ said Harry.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Better,’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I didn’t want to tell him the truth. You know
+how funny men are; they don’t understand some
+things. I knew Harry would think it dreadful of me
+to come out to supper when the poor child was lying
+dead in the hospital. He’d be awfully sorry and all
+that, but that’s not what I wanted; I wanted to
+laugh.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie lit the cigarette that she had been playing
+with.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“You know how when a woman is having a baby,
+sometimes the husband can’t stand it any more and
+he goes out and has another woman. And then when
+she finds out, and it’s funny how often she does, she
+kicks up no end of a fuss; she says, that the man
+should go and do it just then, when she’s going
+through hell, well, it’s the limit. I always tell her not
+to be silly. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her, and
+isn’t terribly upset, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just
+nerves; if he weren’t so upset he wouldn’t think of
+it. I know, because that’s how I felt then.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When we’d finished our supper Harry said:
+‘Well, what about it?’</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘What about what?’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“There wasn’t any dancing in those days and there
+was nowhere we could go.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘What about coming round to my flat and having
+a look at my photograph album?’ said Harry.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I said.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“He had a little bit of a flat in the Charing Cross
+Road, just two rooms and a bath and a kitchenette,
+and we drove round there, and I stayed the night.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“When I got back next morning the breakfast was
+already on the table and Ted had just started. I’d
+made up my mind that if he said anything I was going
+to fly out at him. I didn’t care what happened. I’d
+earned my living before, and I was ready to earn it
+again. For two pins I’d have packed my box and left
+him there and then. But he just looked up as I came in.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“ ‘You’ve just come in time,’ he said. ‘I was going
+to eat your sausage.’</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I sat down and poured him out his tea. And he
+went on reading the paper. After we’d finished breakfast
+we went to the hospital. He never asked me
+where I’d been. I didn’t know what he thought. He
+was terribly kind to me all that time. I was miserable,
+you know. Somehow I felt that I just couldn’t get
+over it, and there was nothing he didn’t do to make
+it easier for me.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What did you think when you read the book?”
+I asked.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, it did give me a turn to see that he did
+know pretty well what had happened that night.
+What beat me was his writing it at all. You’d have
+thought it was the last thing he’d put in a book.
+You’re queer fish, you writers.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>At that moment the telephone bell rang. Rosie took
+up the receiver and listened.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Why, Mr. Vanuzzi, how very nice of you to call
+me up! Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you. Well, pretty
+and well, if you like. When you’re my age you take
+all the compliments you can get.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>She embarked upon a conversation which, I gathered
+from her tone, was of a facetious and even flirtatious
+character. I did not pay much attention, and
+since it seemed to prolong itself I began to meditate
+upon the writer’s life. It is full of tribulation. First
+he must endure poverty and the world’s indifference;
+then, having achieved a measure of success, he must
+submit with a good grace to its hazards. He depends
+upon a fickle public. He is at the mercy of journalists
+who want to interview him and photographers who
+want to take his picture, of editors who harry him
+for copy and tax gatherers who harry him for income
+tax, of persons of quality who ask him to lunch
+and secretaries of institutes who ask him to lecture,
+of women who want to marry him and women who
+want to divorce him, of youths who want his autograph,
+actors who want parts and strangers who
+want a loan, of gushing ladies who want advice
+on their matrimonial affairs and earnest young men
+who want advice on their compositions, of agents,
+publishers, managers, bores, admirers, critics, and
+his own conscience. But he has one compensation.
+Whenever he has anything on his mind, whether it
+be a harassing reflection, grief at the death of a
+friend, unrequited love, wounded pride, anger at the
+treachery of someone to whom he has shown kindness,
+in short any emotion or any perplexing thought,
+he has only to put it down in black and white, using
+it as the theme of a story or the decoration of an
+essay, to forget all about it. He is the only free man.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie put back the receiver and turned to me.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“That was one of my beaux. I’m going to play
+bridge to-night and he rang up to say he’d call round
+for me in his car. Of course he’s a Wop, but he’s real
+nice. He used to run a big grocery store down town,
+in New York, but he’s retired now.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Have you never thought of marrying again,
+Rosie?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“No.” She smiled. “Not that I haven’t had offers.
+I’m quite happy as I am. The way I look on it is
+this, I don’t want to marry an old man, and it would
+be silly at my age to marry a young one. I’ve had my
+time and I’m ready to call it a day.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“What made you run away with George Kemp?”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’d always liked him. I knew him long before
+I knew Ted, you know. Of course I never thought
+there was any chance of marrying him. For one thing
+he was married already and then he had his position
+to think of. And then when he came to me one day
+and said that everything had gone wrong and he was
+bust and there’d be a warrant out for his arrest in
+a few days and he was going to America and would
+I go with him, well, what could I do? I couldn’t let
+him go all that way by himself, with no money perhaps,
+and him having been always so grand and living
+in his own house and driving his own trap. It wasn’t
+as if I was afraid of work.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I sometimes think he was the only man you ever
+cared for,” I suggested.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I dare say there’s some truth in that.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I wonder what it was you saw in him.”</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Rosie’s eyes travelled to a picture on the wall that
+for some reason had escaped my notice. It was an
+enlarged photograph of Lord George in a carved
+gilt frame. It looked as if it might have been taken
+soon after his arrival in America; perhaps at the
+time of their marriage. It was a three-quarter length.
+It showed him in a long frock coat, tightly buttoned,
+and a tall silk hat cocked rakishly on one side of his
+head; there was a large rose in his buttonhole; under
+one arm he carried a silver-headed cane and smoke
+curled from a big cigar that he held in his right hand.
+He had a heavy moustache, waxed at the ends, a
+saucy look in his eye, and in his bearing an arrogant
+swagger. In his tie was a horseshoe in diamonds. He
+looked like a publican dressed up in his best to go
+to the Derby.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>“I’ll tell you,” said Rosie. “He was always such a
+perfect gentleman.”</p>
+
+<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:3em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:.8em;'>THE END</p>
+
+<hr class='pbk'/>
+
+<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:1.2em;'>TRANSCRIBER NOTES</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
+Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been
+employed.</p>
+
+<p class='pindent'>Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious
+printer errors occur.</p>
+
+<p class='line'>&#160;</p>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78723 ***</div>
+</body>
+<!-- created with fpgen.py 4.54e on 2017-08-01 01:44:46 GMT -->
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+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78723
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78723)