good-looking----'
'Anybody who was content to call you fairly good-looking would describe
the Taj Mahal as a pretty nifty tomb.'
'But that is not the point. What I mean is, if I marry a nonentity I
shall be a nonentity myself for ever. And I would sooner die than be a
nonentity.'
'And, if I follow your reasoning, you think that that lets me
out?'
'Well, really, Mr. Banks, have you done anything, or are you
likely ever to do anything worth while?'
Cuthbert hesitated.
'It's true,' he said, 'I didn't finish in the first ten in the Open,
and I was knocked out in the semi-final of the Amateur, but I won the
French Open last year.'
'The--what?'
'The French Open Championship. Golf, you know.'
'Golf! You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is more
spiritual, more intellectual.'
A pang of jealousy rent Cuthbert's bosom.
'Like What's-his-name Devine?' he said, sullenly.
'Mr. Devine,' replied Adeline, blushing faintly, 'is going to be a
great man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he is
more Russian than any other young English writer.'
'And is that good?'
'Of course it's good.'
'I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than any
other young English writer.'
'Nonsense! Who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to be
Russian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of the
great Russians has descended on Mr. Devine.'
'From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to
me.'
'There is no danger of that,' said Adeline scornfully.
'Oh! Well, let me tell you that there is a lot more in me than you
think.'
'That might easily be so.'
'You think I'm not spiritual and intellectual,' said Cuthbert, deeply
moved. 'Very well. Tomorrow I join the Literary Society.'
Even as he spoke the words his leg was itching to kick himself for
being such a chump, but the sudden expression of pleasure on Adeline's
face soothed him; and he went home that night with the feeling that he
had taken on something rather attractive. It was only in the cold, grey
light of the morning that he realized what he had let himself in for.
I do not know if you have had any experience of suburban literary
societies, but the one that flourished under the eye of Mrs. Willoughby
Smethurst at Wood Hills was rather more so than the average. With my
feeble powers of narrative, I cannot hope to make clear to you all that
Cuthbert Banks endured in the next few weeks. And, even if I could, I
doubt if I should do so. It is all very well to excite pity and terror,
as Aristotle recommends, but there are limits. In the ancient Greek
