'Good morning, Mr. Banks,' said Adeline.
'Good morning,' said Cuthbert hollowly.
'Such good news about Vladimir Brusiloff.'
'Dead?' said Cuthbert, with a touch of hope.
'Dead? Of course not. Why should he be? No, Aunt Emily met his manager
after his lecture at Queen's Hall yesterday, and he has promised that
Mr. Brusiloff shall come to her next Wednesday reception.'
'Oh, ah!' said Cuthbert, dully.
'I don't know how she managed it. I think she must have told him that
Mr. Devine would be there to meet him.'
'But you said he was coming,' argued Cuthbert.
'I shall be very glad,' said Raymond Devine, 'of the opportunity of
meeting Brusiloff.'
'I'm sure,' said Adeline, 'he will be very glad of the opportunity of
meeting you.'
'Possibly,' said Mr. Devine. 'Possibly. Competent critics have said
that my work closely resembles that of the great Russian Masters.'
'Your psychology is so deep.'
'Yes, yes.'
'And your atmosphere.'
'Quite.'
Cuthbert in a perfect agony of spirit prepared to withdraw from this
love-feast. The sun was shining brightly, but the world was black to
him. Birds sang in the tree-tops, but he did not hear them. He might
have been a moujik for all the pleasure he found in life.
'You will be there, Mr. Banks?' said Adeline, as he turned away.
'Oh, all right,' said Cuthbert.
When Cuthbert had entered the drawing-room on the following Wednesday
and had taken his usual place in a distant corner where, while able to
feast his gaze on Adeline, he had a sporting chance of being overlooked
or mistaken for a piece of furniture, he perceived the great Russian
thinker seated in the midst of a circle of admiring females. Raymond
Parsloe Devine had not yet arrived.
His first glance at the novelist surprised Cuthbert. Doubtless with the
best motives, Vladimir Brusiloff had permitted his face to become
almost entirely concealed behind a dense zareba of hair, but his eyes
were visible through the undergrowth, and it seemed to Cuthbert that
there was an expression in them not unlike that of a cat in a strange
backyard surrounded by small boys. The man looked forlorn and hopeless,
and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home.
This was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Brusiloff had had
from Russia had been particularly cheering. Three of his principal
creditors had perished in the last massacre of the bourgeoisie,
and a man whom he owed for five years for a samovar and a pair of
overshoes had fled the country, and had not been heard of since. It was
not bad news from home that was depressing Vladimir. What was wrong
with him was the fact that this was the eighty-second suburban literary
reception he had been compelled to attend since he had landed in the
country on his lecturing tour, and he was sick to death of it. When his
agent had first suggested the trip, he had signed on the dotted line
