He was looking through the papers on the desk.
“Not yet, I’ve just rung them up for the fifth time,” the answer came.
“Keep on at it,” Fox exhorted.
“Here’s Churchill’s letter,” he said to me. “Have an armchair; those blasted things are too uncomfortable for anything. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I took an armchair and addressed myself to the Foreign Minister’s letter. It expressed bored tolerance of a potential interviewer, but it seemed to please Fox. He ran into the room, snatched up a paper from his desk, and ran out again.
“Read Churchill’s letter?” he asked, in passing. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.” I don’t know what he expected me to do with it—kiss the postage stamp, perhaps.
At the same time, it was pleasant to sit there idle in the midst of the hurry, the breathlessness. I seemed to be at last in contact with real life, with the life that matters. I was somebody, too. Fox treated me with a kind of deference—as if I were a great unknown. His “you literary men” was pleasing. It was the homage that the pretender pays to the legitimate prince; the recognition due to the real thing from the machine-made imitation; the homage of the builder to the architect.
“Ah, yes,” it seemed to say, “we jobbing men run up our rows and rows of houses; build whole towns and fill the papers for years. But when we want something special—something monumental—we have to come to you.”
Fox came in again.
“Very sorry, my dear fellow, find I can’t possibly get a moment for a chat with you. Look here, come and dine with me at the Paragraph round the corner—tonight at six sharp. You’ll go to Churchill’s tomorrow.”
The Paragraph Club, where I was to meet Fox, was one of those sporadic establishments that spring up in the neighbourhood of the Strand. It is one of their qualities that they are always just round the corner; another, that their stewards are too familiar; another, that they—in the opinion of the other members—are run too much for the convenience of one in particular.
In this case it was Fox who kept the dinner waiting. I sat in the little smoking-room and, from behind a belated morning paper, listened to the conversation of the three or four journalists who represented the members. I felt as a new boy in a new school feels on his first introduction to his fellows.
There was a fossil dramatic critic sleeping in an armchair before the fire. At dinnertime he woke up, remarked:
“You should have seen Fanny Ellsler,” and went to sleep again.
Sprawling on a red velvet couch was a beau jeune homme, with the necktie of a Parisian-American student. On a chair beside him sat a personage whom, perhaps because of his plentiful lack of h’s, I took for a distinguished foreigner.
They were talking about a splendid subject for a music-hall dramatic sketch of some sort—afforded by a bus driver, I fancy.
I heard afterward that my Frenchman had been a costermonger and was now half journalist, half financier, and that my art student was an employee of one of the older magazines.
“Dinner’s on the table, gents,” the steward said from the door. He went toward the sleeper by the fire. “I expect Mr. Cunningham will wear that armchair out before he’s done,” he said over his shoulder.
“Poor old chap; he’s got nowhere else to go to,” the magazine employee said.
“Why doesn’t he go to the work’ouse,” the journalist financier retorted. “Make a good sketch that, eh?” he continued, reverting to his bus-driver.
“Jolly!” the magazine employee said, indifferently.
“Now, then, Mr. Cunningham,” the steward said, touching the sleeper on the shoulder, “dinner’s on the table.”
“God bless my soul,” the dramatic critic said, with a start. The steward left the room. The dramatic critic furtively took a set of false teeth out of his waistcoat pocket; wiped them with a bandanna handkerchief, and inserted them in his mouth.
He tottered out of the room.
I got up and began to inspect the pen-and-ink sketches on the walls.
The faded paltry caricatures of faded paltry lesser lights that confronted me from flyblown frames on the purple walls almost made me shiver.
“There you are, Granger,” said a cheerful voice behind me. “Come and have some dinner.”
I went and had some dinner. It was seasoned by small jokes and little personalities. A Teutonic journalist, a musical critic, I suppose, inquired as to the origin of the meagre pheasant. Fox replied that it had been preserved in the backyard. The dramatic critic mumbled unheard that some piece or other was off the bills of the Adelphi. I grinned vacantly. Afterward, under his breath, Fox put me up to a thing or two regarding the inner meaning of the new daily. Put by him, without any glamour of a moral purpose, the case seemed rather mean. The dingy smoking-room depressed me and the whole thing was, what I had, for so many years, striven to keep out of. Fox hung over my ear, whispering. There were shades of intonation in his sibillating. Some of those “in it,” the voice implied, were not aboveboard; others were, and the tone became deferential, implied that I was to take my tone from itself.
“Of course, a man like the Right Honourable C. does it on the straight, … quite on the straight, … has to have some sort of semiofficial backer. … In this case, it’s me, … the Hour. They’re a bit splitty, the Ministry, I mean. … They say Gurnard isn’t playing square … they say so.” His broad, red face glowed as he bent down to my ear, his little sea-blue eyes twinkled with moisture. He enlightened me cautiously, circumspectly. There was something unpleasant in the business—not exactly in Fox himself, but the kind of thing. I wish he would cease his explanations—I didn’t want to hear them. I have never
