The Best British Short Stories of 1922 | Page 7

be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract we were
negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And you, you
blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word the
whole thing depends."
"I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this."
"You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way.
You insulted him about the merest quibble--in my house!"
"He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I
corrected him."
"Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in
the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in
the way you did. And you--you think of going into politics!"
The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed.
Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled:
"I'm very sorry."
"I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical."
"What's that, sir?"
"You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman's, find him, and apologize.
Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If you
can't find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I give
you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a

handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again,
you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess
will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you have
dishonoured. Now you can go."
Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at
Knightsbridge. Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer
had given him till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done
should be done after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of
his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing.
Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point
comes when success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all
so absurdly trivial--a mere argument about the position of a street that
had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about
Wych Street?
Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but
would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling
argument about a street?
In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting
a pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for
companionship at such a moment--the right companionship. How
lovely it would be to have--a woman, just the right woman, to talk this
all over with; some one who understood and sympathized. A sudden
vision came to him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit
of La Toccata, and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in his
ears. Would Adela be--just the right woman? In very truth, did he really
love Adela? Or was it all--a rag? Was life a rag--a game played by
lawyers, politicians, and people?
The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind
principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was past
midnight when he suddenly muttered a low "Damn!" and walked to the
bureau. He took up a pen and wrote:
"Dear Mr. Sandeman,--I must apologize for acting so rudely to you last
night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on

going into the matter, that you were quite right about the position of
Wych Street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please forgive me.
Yours cordially,
"Francis Lowes-Parlby."
Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have
imagined at that point that the matter was finished. But there are certain
little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and they
kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. He kept on
repeating to himself, "It's all positively absurd!" But the little greedy
demons pranced around the bed, and they began to group things into
two definite issues. On the one side, the great appearances; on the other,
something at the back of it all, something deep, fundamental,
something that could only be expressed by one word--truth. If he had
really loved Adela--if he weren't so absolutely certain that Sandeman
was wrong and he was right--why should he have to say that Wych
Street was where it wasn't? "Isn't there, after all," said one of the little
demons, "something which makes for greater happiness than success?
Confess this, and we'll let you sleep."
Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons
possess. However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of
tranquillity. And conscience holds before our eyes some mirror of an
ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly