The Philanderers | Page 5

name--that had been the essential thing, no matter what the career in
which it was to be won. Work he had classified according to the
opportunities it afforded of public recognition; and his classification
varied from day to day. A cause célèbre would suggest the Bar, a
published sermon the Church, a flaming poster persuade to the stage. In
a word, he had looked upon a profession as no more than a
sounding-board.
It had always seemed to Drake that this fervid desire for fame, as a
thing apart in itself, not as a symbol of success won in a cherished
pursuit, argued some quality of weakness in the man, something
unstable which would make for failure. His surprise was increased by
an inability to recollect that Mallinson had ever considered literature as
a means to his end. Long sojourning in the wilderness, moreover, had
given Drake an exaggerated reverence for the printed page. He was
inclined to set Mallinson on a pinnacle, and scourge himself at the foot
of it for his earlier distrust of him. He opened the book again at the
beginning, and let the pages slip across beneath his thumb from cover
to cover; 413 was marked on the top corner of the last; 413 pages
actually written and printed and published; all consecutive too;

something new on each page. He turned to a porter.
'How long have I before the train starts?'
'Five minutes, sir.'
'Where is the telegraph office?'
The office was pointed out to him, and he telegraphed to Mallinson at
the address of his publishers. 'Have just reached England. Dine with me
at eight to-morrow at the Grand Hotel'; and he added after a moment's
pause, 'Bring Conway, if you have not lost sight of him.--DRAKE.'
When the train started Drake settled himself to the study of A Man of
Influence. The commentary of the salesman had prepared him for some
measure of perplexity. There would be hinted references and
suggestions, difficult of comprehension to the traveller out of touch
with modern developments. These, however, would only be the
ornaments, but the flesh and blood of the story would be perceptible
enough. It was just, however, this very flesh and blood which eluded
him; he could not fix it in a definite form. He did not hold the key to
the author's intention.
Drake's vis-à-vis in the carriage saw him produce the book with
considerable surprise, conscious of an incongruity between the reader
and what he read. His surprise changed to amusement as he noticed
Drake's face betray his perplexity and observed him turn now and again
to the title upon the cover as though doubtful whether he had not
misread it. He gave an audible chuckle.
Drake looked up and across the carriage at a man of about fifty years of
age with a large red face and a close-cropped pointed beard. The
chuckle swelled to a laugh.
'You find that a hard nut to crack?' Drake noticed a thickness in the
articulation.
'I have been some years abroad. I hardly catch its drift,' explained

Drake, and then with an effort at praise:
'It seems a clever satire.'
'Satire!' guffawed the other. 'Well, that's rich! Satire? Why, it's a
manifesto. Gad, sir, it's a creed. I believe in my duty to my senses and
the effectuation of me for ever and ever, Amen. The modern jargon!
Topsy Turvydom! Run the world on the comic opera principle, but be
flaming serious about it. Satire, good Lord!'
He flung himself back on his cushions with a snort of contempt.
'Look you, I'm not a pess--' he checked at the word and then took it at a
run, 'a pessimist, but, as things are going on--well, you have been out of
the country and--and you can't help it, I suppose. You may laugh!
P'raps you haven't got daughters--not that I have either, praise glory!
But nieces, if the father's a fool, wear you out very little less. Satire, ho!
ho!'
The semi-intoxicated uncle of nieces relapsed vindictively into his
corner and closed his eyes. Occasionally Drake would hear a muffled
growl, and, looking in that direction, would see one inflamed eye
peering from a mountain of rugs.
'Satire!' and a husky voice would address the passengers
indiscriminately. 'Satire! and the man's not a day under forty either.'
Drake joined in the laugh and lit his pipe. He was not sensitive to
miscomputations of his years, and felt disinclined to provoke further
outbursts of family confidences.
Instead, he pursued his acquaintance with A Man of Influence, realising
now that he must take him seriously and regard him stamped with
Mallinson's approval, a dominating being. He found the task difficult.
The character insisted upon reminding him of the nursery-maid's ideal,
the dandified breaker of hearts and bender of