Fraternity [55]
It was Mr. Purcey driving his A.i. Damyer back to Wimbledon. Before him in the sunlight a little shadow fled; behind him the reek of petrol seemed to darken the road.
"There's a symbol for you," muttered Hilary.
"How do you mean?" said Stephen dryly. The word "symbol" was distasteful to him.
"The machine in the middle moving on its business; shadows like you and me skipping in front; oil and used-up stuff dropping behind. Society-body, beak, and bones."
Stephen took time to answer. "That's rather far-fetched," he said. "You mean these Hughs and people are the droppings?"
"Quite so," was Hilary's sardonic answer. "There's the body of that fellow and his car between our sort and them--and no getting over it, Stevie."
"Well, who wants to? If you're thinking of our old friend's Fraternity, I'm not taking any." And Stephen suddenly added: "Look here, I believe this affair is all 'a plant.'"
"You see that Powder Magazine?" said Hilary. "Well, this business that you call a 'plant' is more like that. I don't want to alarm you, but I think you as well as our young friend Martin, are inclined to underrate the emotional capacity of human nature."
Disquietude broke up the customary mask on Stephen's face: "I don't understand," he stammered.
"Well, we're none of us machines, not even amateurs like me--not even under-dogs like Hughs. I fancy you may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business. I tell you frankly that I don't live in married celibacy quite with impunity. I can't answer for anything, in fact. You had better stand clear, Stephen--that's all."
Stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done.
They walked on beside the water. Stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground. "How can I stand clear, old man, if you are going to get into a mess? That's impossible."
He saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to Hilary's. He sought within him how to deepen the impression.
"You mean a lot to us," he said. "Cis and Thyme would feel it awfully if you and B.---" He stopped.
Hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made Stephen feel inferior. He had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of brotherly love. He was irritated at his brother's insight.
"I have no right to give advice, I suppose," he said; "but in my opinion you should drop it--drop it dead. The girl is not worth your looking after. Turn her over to that Society--Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace's thing whatever it's called."
At a sound as of mirth Stephen, who was not accustomed to hear his brother laugh, looked round.
"Martin," said Hilary, "also wants the case to be treated on strictly hygienic grounds."
Nettled by this, Stephen answered:
"Don't confound me with our young Sanitist, please; I simply think there are probably a hundred things you don't know about the girl which ought to be cleared up."
"And then?"
"Then," said Stephen, "they could--er--deal with her accordingly."
Hilary shrank so palpably at this remark that he added rather hastily:
"You call that cold-blooded, I suppose; but I think, you know, old chap, that you're too sensitive."
Hilary stopped rather abruptly.
"If you don't mind, Stevie," he said, "we'll part here. I want to think it over." So saying, he turned back, and sat down on a seat that faced the sun.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PERFECT DOG
Hilary sat long in the sun, watching the pale bright waters and many well-bred ducks circling about the shrubs, searching with their round, bright eyes for worms. Between the bench where he was sitting and the spiked iron railings people passed continually--men, women, children of all kinds. Every now and then a duck would stop and cast her knowing glance at these creatures, as though comparing the condition of their forms and plumage with her own. 'If I had had the breeding of you,' she seemed to say, 'I could have made
"There's a symbol for you," muttered Hilary.
"How do you mean?" said Stephen dryly. The word "symbol" was distasteful to him.
"The machine in the middle moving on its business; shadows like you and me skipping in front; oil and used-up stuff dropping behind. Society-body, beak, and bones."
Stephen took time to answer. "That's rather far-fetched," he said. "You mean these Hughs and people are the droppings?"
"Quite so," was Hilary's sardonic answer. "There's the body of that fellow and his car between our sort and them--and no getting over it, Stevie."
"Well, who wants to? If you're thinking of our old friend's Fraternity, I'm not taking any." And Stephen suddenly added: "Look here, I believe this affair is all 'a plant.'"
"You see that Powder Magazine?" said Hilary. "Well, this business that you call a 'plant' is more like that. I don't want to alarm you, but I think you as well as our young friend Martin, are inclined to underrate the emotional capacity of human nature."
Disquietude broke up the customary mask on Stephen's face: "I don't understand," he stammered.
"Well, we're none of us machines, not even amateurs like me--not even under-dogs like Hughs. I fancy you may find a certain warmth, not to say violence, about this business. I tell you frankly that I don't live in married celibacy quite with impunity. I can't answer for anything, in fact. You had better stand clear, Stephen--that's all."
Stephen marked his thin hands quivering, and this alarmed him as nothing else had done.
They walked on beside the water. Stephen spoke quietly, looking at the ground. "How can I stand clear, old man, if you are going to get into a mess? That's impossible."
He saw at once that this shot, which indeed was from his heart, had gone right home to Hilary's. He sought within him how to deepen the impression.
"You mean a lot to us," he said. "Cis and Thyme would feel it awfully if you and B.---" He stopped.
Hilary was looking at him; that faintly smiling glance, searching him through and through, suddenly made Stephen feel inferior. He had been detected trying to extract capital from the effect of his little piece of brotherly love. He was irritated at his brother's insight.
"I have no right to give advice, I suppose," he said; "but in my opinion you should drop it--drop it dead. The girl is not worth your looking after. Turn her over to that Society--Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace's thing whatever it's called."
At a sound as of mirth Stephen, who was not accustomed to hear his brother laugh, looked round.
"Martin," said Hilary, "also wants the case to be treated on strictly hygienic grounds."
Nettled by this, Stephen answered:
"Don't confound me with our young Sanitist, please; I simply think there are probably a hundred things you don't know about the girl which ought to be cleared up."
"And then?"
"Then," said Stephen, "they could--er--deal with her accordingly."
Hilary shrank so palpably at this remark that he added rather hastily:
"You call that cold-blooded, I suppose; but I think, you know, old chap, that you're too sensitive."
Hilary stopped rather abruptly.
"If you don't mind, Stevie," he said, "we'll part here. I want to think it over." So saying, he turned back, and sat down on a seat that faced the sun.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PERFECT DOG
Hilary sat long in the sun, watching the pale bright waters and many well-bred ducks circling about the shrubs, searching with their round, bright eyes for worms. Between the bench where he was sitting and the spiked iron railings people passed continually--men, women, children of all kinds. Every now and then a duck would stop and cast her knowing glance at these creatures, as though comparing the condition of their forms and plumage with her own. 'If I had had the breeding of you,' she seemed to say, 'I could have made