He was an example of what an author can do, and to what heights he can rise, by industry, common sense, honesty, and the efficient combination of means and ends. He was a good fellow and none but a cross-grained carper could grudge him his success. I felt that to fall asleep with his image in my mind would insure me a good night. I scribbled a note to Miss Fellows, knocked the ashes out of my pipe, put out the light in my sitting room, and went to bed.
II
When I rang for my letters and the papers next morning a message was delivered to me, in answer to my note to Miss Fellows, that Mr. Alroy Kear expected me at one-fifteen at his club in St. James’s Street; so a little before one I strolled round to my own and had the cocktail, which I was pretty sure Roy would not offer me. Then I walked down St. James’s Street, looking idly at the shop windows, and since I had still a few minutes to spare (I did not want to keep my appointment too punctually) I went into Christie’s to see if there was anything I liked the look of. The auction had already begun and a group of dark, small men were passing round to one another pieces of Victorian silver, while the auctioneer, following their gestures with bored eyes, muttered in a drone: “Ten shillings offered, eleven, eleven and six” … It was a fine day, early in June, and the air in King Street was bright. It made the pictures on the walls of Christie’s look very dingy. I went out. The people in the street walked with a kind of nonchalance, as though the ease of the day had entered into their souls and in the midst of their affairs they had a sudden and surprised inclination to stop and look at the picture of life.
Roy’s club was sedate. In the antechamber were only an ancient porter and a page; and I had a sudden and melancholy feeling that the members were all attending the funeral of the head waiter. The page, when I had uttered Roy’s name, led me into an empty passage to leave my hat and stick and then into an empty hall hung with life-sized portraits of Victorian statesmen. Roy got up from a leather sofa and warmly greeted me.
“Shall we go straight up?” he said.
I was right in thinking that he would not offer me a cocktail and I commended my prudence. He led me up a noble flight of heavily carpeted stairs, and we passed nobody on the way; we entered the strangers’ dining room, and we were its only occupants. It was a room of some size, very clean and white, with an Adam window. We sat down by it and a demure waiter handed us the bill of fare. Beef, mutton and lamb, cold salmon, apple tart, rhubarb tart, gooseberry tart. As my eye travelled down the inevitable list I sighed as I thought of the restaurants round the corner where there was French cooking, the clatter of life, and pretty painted women in summer frocks.
“I can recommend the veal-and-ham pie,” said Roy.
“All right.”
“I’ll mix the salad myself,” he told the waiter in an offhand and yet commanding way, and then, casting his eye once more on the bill of fare, generously: “And what about some asparagus to follow?”
“That would be very nice.”
His manner grew a trifle grander.
“Asparagus for two and tell the chef to choose them himself. Now what would you like to drink? What do you say to a bottle of hock? We rather fancy our hock here.”
When I had agreed to this he told the waiter to call the wine steward. I could not but admire the authoritative and yet perfectly polite manner in which he gave his orders. You felt that thus would a well-bred king send for one of his field marshals. The wine steward, portly in black, with the silver chain of his office round his neck, bustled in with the wine list in his hand. Roy nodded to him with curt familiarity.
“Hulloa, Armstrong, we want some of the Liebfraumilch, the ’21.”
“Very good, sir.”
“How’s it holding up? Pretty well? We shan’t be able to get any more of it, you know.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Well, it’s no good meeting trouble halfway, is it, Armstrong?”
Roy smiled at the steward with breezy cordiality. The steward saw from his long experience of members that the remark needed an answer.
“No, sir.”
Roy laughed and his eye sought mine. Quite a character, Armstrong.
“Well, chill it, Armstrong; not too much, you know, but just right. I want my guest to see that we know what’s what here.” He turned to me. “Armstrong’s been with us for eight and forty years.” And when the wine steward had left us: “I hope you don’t mind coming here. It’s quiet and we can have a good talk. It’s ages since we did. You’re looking very fit.”
This drew my attention to Roy’s appearance.
“Not half so fit as you,” I answered.
“The result of an upright, sober, and godly life,” he laughed. “Plenty of work. Plenty of exercise. How’s the golf? We must have a game one of these days.”
I knew that Roy was scratch and that nothing would please him less than to waste a day with so indifferent a player as myself. But I felt I was quite safe in accepting so vague an invitation. He looked the picture of health. His curly hair was getting very gray, but it suited him and made
