I knew there had been others that he had fostered, only to see them, in the end, drift into the backwash. And now he thought I was going too. …
“Here,” he said, suddenly breaking away from the subject, “look at that.”
He threw a heavy, ribbon-bound mass of matter into my lap, and recommenced writing his report upon its saleability as a book. He was of opinion that it was too delicately good to attract his employer’s class of readers. I began to read it to get rid of my thoughts. The heavy black handwriting of the manuscript sticks in my mind’s eye. It must have been good, but probably not so good as I then thought it—I have entirely forgotten all about it; otherwise, I remember that we argued afterward: I for its publication; he against. I was thinking of the wretched author whose fate hung in the balance. He became a pathetic possibility, hidden in the heart of the white paper that bore pen-markings of a kind too good to be marketable. There was something appalling in Lea’s careless—“Oh, it’s too good!” He was used to it, but as for me, in arguing that man’s case I suddenly became aware that I was pleading my own—pleading the case of my better work. Everything that Lea said of this work, of this man, applied to my work; and to myself. “There’s no market for that sort of thing, no public; this book’s been all round the trade. I’ve had it before. The man will never come to the front. He’ll take to inn-keeping, and that will finish him off.” That’s what he said, and he seemed to be speaking of me. Someone was knocking at the door of the room—tentative knocks of rather flabby knuckles. It was one of those sounds that one does not notice immediately. The man might have been knocking for ten minutes. It happened to be Lea’s employer, the publisher of my first book. He opened the door at last, and came in rather peremptorily. He had the air of having worked himself into a temper—of being intellectually rather afraid of Lea, but of being, for this occasion, determined to assert himself.
The introduction to myself—I had never met him—which took place after he had hastily brought out half a sentence or so, had the effect of putting him out of his stride, but, after having remotely acknowledged the possibility of my existence, he began again.
The matter was one of some delicacy. I myself should have hesitated to broach it before a third party, even one so negligible as myself. But Mr. Polehampton apparently did not. He had to catch the last post.
Lea, it appeared, had advised him to publish a manuscript by a man called Howden—a moderately known writer. …
“But I am disturbed to find, Mr. Lea, that is, my daughter tells me that the manuscript is not … is not at all the thing. … In fact, it’s quite—and—eh … I suppose it’s too late to draw back?”
“Oh, it’s altogether too late for that,” Lea said, nonchalantly. “Besides, Howden’s theories always sell.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course,” Mr. Polehampton interjected, hastily, “but don’t you think now … I mean, taking into consideration the damage it may do our reputation … that we ought to ask Mr. Howden to accept, say fifty pounds less than. …”
“I should think it’s an excellent idea,” Lea said. Mr. Polehampton glanced at him suspiciously, then turned to me.
“You see,” he began to explain, “one has to be so careful about these things.”
“Oh, I can quite understand,” I answered. There was something so naive in the man’s point of view that I had felt my heart go out to him. And he had taught me at last how it is that the godly grow fat at the expense of the unrighteous. Mr. Polehampton, however, was not fat. He was even rather thin, and his peaked grey hair, though it was actually well brushed, looked as if it ought not to have been. He had even an anxious expression. People said he speculated in some stock or other, and I should say they were right.
“I … eh … believe I published your first book … I lost money by it, but I can assure you that I bear no grudge—almost a hundred pounds. I bear no grudge. …”
The man was an original. He had no idea that I might feel insulted; indeed, he really wanted to be pleasant, and condescending, and forgiving. I didn’t feel insulted. He was too big for his clothes, gave that impression at least, and he wore black kid gloves. Moreover, his eyes never left the cornice of the room. I saw him rather often after that night, but never without his gloves and never with his eyes lowered.
“And … eh …” he asked, “what are you doing now, Mr. Granger?”
Lea told him Fox had taken me up; that I was going to go. I suddenly remembered it was said of Fox that everyone he took up did “go.” The fact was obviously patent to Mr. Polehampton. He unbent with remarkable suddenness; it reminded me of the abrupt closing of a stiff umbrella. He became distinctly and crudely cordial—hoped that we should work together again; once more reminded me that he had published my first book (the words had a different savour now), and was enchanted to discover that we were neighbours in Sussex. My cottage was within four miles of his villa, and we were members of the same golf club.
“We must have a game—several games,” he said. He struck me as the sort of man to find a difficulty in getting anyone to play with him.
After that
