The Death of the Lion | Page 7

of any observation the movement in question, the bid for success
under a lady's name, might suggest to Mr. Paraday. But the poor man,
without catching the allusion, excused himself, pleading that, though
greatly honoured by his visitor's interest, he suddenly felt unwell and
should have to take leave of him--have to go and lie down and keep
quiet. His young friend might be trusted to answer for him, but he
hoped Mr. Morrow didn't expect great things even of his young friend.
His young friend, at this moment, looked at Neil Paraday with an
anxious eye, greatly wondering if he were doomed to be ill again; but
Paraday's own kind face met his question reassuringly, seemed to say in
a glance intelligible enough: "Oh I'm not ill, but I'm scared: get him out
of the house as quietly as possible." Getting newspaper-men out of the
house was odd business for an emissary of Mr. Pinhorn, and I was so
exhilarated by the idea of it that I called after him as he left us: "Read
the article in The Empire and you'll soon be all right!"

CHAPTER V.

"Delicious my having come down to tell him of it!" Mr. Morrow
ejaculated. "My cab was at the door twenty minutes after The Empire
had been laid on my breakfast-table. Now what have you got for me?"
he continued, dropping again into his chair, from which, however, he
the next moment eagerly rose. "I was shown into the drawing-room, but
there must be more to see--his study, his literary sanctum, the little
things he has about, or other domestic objects and features. He wouldn't
be lying down on his study- table? There's a great interest always felt in
the scene of an author's labours. Sometimes we're favoured with very
delightful peeps. Dora Forbes showed me all his table-drawers, and
almost jammed my hand into one into which I made a dash! I don't ask
that of you, but if we could talk things over right there where he sits I
feel as if I should get the keynote."
I had no wish whatever to be rude to Mr. Morrow, I was much too
initiated not to tend to more diplomacy; but I had a quick inspiration,

and I entertained an insurmountable, an almost superstitious objection
to his crossing the threshold of my friend's little lonely shabby
consecrated workshop. "No, no--we shan't get at his life that way," I
said. "The way to get at his life is to--But wait a moment!" I broke off
and went quickly into the house, whence I in three minutes reappeared
before Mr. Morrow with the two volumes of Paraday's new book. "His
life's here," I went on, "and I'm so full of this admirable thing that I
can't talk of anything else. The artist's life's his work, and this is the
place to observe him. What he has to tell us he tells us with THIS
perfection. My dear sir, the best interviewer is the best reader."
Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. "Do you mean to say that no
other source of information should be open to us?"
"None other till this particular one--by far the most copious--has been
quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear sir? Had you
exhausted it when you came down here? It seems to me in our time
almost wholly neglected, and something should surely be done to
restore its ruined credit. It's the course to which the artist himself at
every step, and with such pathetic confidence, refers us. This last book
of Mr. Paraday's is full of revelations."
"Revelations?" panted Mr. Morrow, whom I had forced again into his
chair.
"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that seems to
me quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about the advent of the
'larger latitude.'"
"Where does it do that?" asked Mr. Morrow, who had picked up the
second volume and was insincerely thumbing it.
"Everywhere--in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the opinion,
disengage the answer--those are the real acts of homage."
Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. "Ah but you mustn't
take me for a reviewer."
"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful! You came
down to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I may confide to you,
did I. Let us perform our little act together. These pages overflow with
the testimony we want: let us read them and taste them and interpret
them. You'll of course have perceived for yourself that one scarcely
does read Neil Paraday till one reads him aloud; he gives out to the ear
an extraordinary full tone, and it's only when you expose it confidently

to that test that you really get near his style.