The Lesson of the Master | Page 4

successes,
the comparative absence of quality in his later work. There had been

moments when Paul Overt almost shed tears for this; but now that he
was near him - he had never met him - he was conscious only of the
fine original source and of his own immense debt. After he had taken a
turn or two up and down the gallery he came out again and descended
the steps. He was but slenderly supplied with a certain social boldness -
it was really a weakness in him - so that, conscious of a want of
acquaintance with the four persons in the distance, he gave way to
motions recommended by their not committing him to a positive
approach. There was a fine English awkwardness in this - he felt that
too as he sauntered vaguely and obliquely across the lawn, taking an
independent line. Fortunately there was an equally fine English
directness in the way one of the gentlemen presently rose and made as
if to "stalk" him, though with an air of conciliation and reassurance. To
this demonstration Paul Overt instantly responded, even if the
gentleman were not his host. He was tall, straight and elderly and had,
like the great house itself, a pink smiling face, and into the bargain a
white moustache. Our young man met him halfway while he laughed
and said: "Er - Lady Watermouth told us you were coming; she asked
me just to look after you." Paul Overt thanked him, liking him on the
spot, and turned round with him to walk toward the others. "They've all
gone to church - all except us," the stranger continued as they went;
"we're just sitting here - it's so jolly." Overt pronounced it jolly indeed:
it was such a lovely place. He mentioned that he was having the
charming impression for the first time.
"Ah you've not been here before?" said his companion. "It's a nice little
place - not much to DO, you know". Overt wondered what he wanted
to "do" - he felt that he himself was doing so much. By the time they
came to where the others sat he had recognised his initiator for a
military man and - such was the turn of Overt's imagination - had found
him thus still more sympathetic. He would naturally have a need for
action, for deeds at variance with the pacific pastoral scene. He was
evidently so good-natured, however, that he accepted the inglorious
hour for what it was worth. Paul Overt shared it with him and with his
companions for the next twenty minutes; the latter looked at him and he
looked at them without knowing much who they were, while the talk
went on without much telling him even what it meant. It seemed indeed
to mean nothing in particular; it wandered, with casual pointless pauses

and short terrestrial flights, amid names of persons and places - names
which, for our friend, had no great power of evocation. It was all
sociable and slow, as was right and natural of a warm Sunday morning.
His first attention was given to the question, privately considered, of
whether one of the two younger men would be Henry St. George. He
knew many of his distinguished contemporaries by their photographs,
but had never, as happened, seen a portrait of the great misguided
novelist. One of the gentlemen was unimaginable - he was too young;
and the other scarcely looked clever enough, with such mild
undiscriminating eyes. If those eyes were St. George's the problem,
presented by the ill-matched parts of his genius would be still more
difficult of solution. Besides, the deportment of their proprietor was not,
as regards the lady in the red dress, such as could be natural, toward the
wife of his bosom, even to a writer accused by several critics of
sacrificing too much to manner. Lastly Paul Overt had a vague sense
that if the gentleman with the expressionless eyes bore the name that
had set his heart beating faster (he also had contradictory conventional
whiskers - the young admirer of the celebrity had never in a mental
vision seen HIS face in so vulgar a frame) he would have given him a
sign of recognition or of friendliness, would have heard of him a little,
would know something about "Ginistrella," would have an impression
of how that fresh fiction had caught the eye of real criticism. Paul Overt
had a dread of being grossly proud, but even morbid modesty might
view the authorship of "Ginistrella" as constituting a degree of identity.
His soldierly friend became clear enough: he was "Fancourt," but was
also "the General"; and he mentioned to the new visitor in the course of
a few moments that he had but lately returned from twenty