Atlee muttered his thanks hastily, and went his way. If there was a thoughtfulness in the generosity of this action, the mode in which it was performed—the measured coldness of the words—the look of impassive examination that accompanied them, and the abstention from anything that savoured of apology for a liberty—were all deeply felt by the other.
It was true, Walpole had often heard him tell of the freedom with which he had treated Dick Kearney’s wardrobe, and how poor Dick was scarcely sure he could call an article of dress his own, whenever Joe had been the first to go out into the town. The innumerable straits to which he reduced that unlucky chum, who had actually to deposit a dinner-suit at an hotel to save it from Atlee’s rapacity, had amused Walpole; but then these things were all done in the spirit of the honest familiarity that prevailed between them—the tie of true camaraderie that neither suggested a thought of obligation on one side nor of painful inferiority on the other. Here it was totally different. These men did not live together with that daily interchange of liberties which, with all their passing contentions, so accustom people to each other’s humours as to establish the soundest and strongest of all friendships. Walpole had adopted Atlee because he found him useful in a variety of ways. He was adroit, ready-witted, and intelligent; a half-explanation sufficed with him on anything—a mere hint was enough to give him for an interview or a reply. He read people readily, and rarely failed to profit by the knowledge. Strange as it may seem, the great blemish of his manner—his snobbery—Walpole rather liked than disliked it. I was a sort of qualifying element that satisfied him, as though it said, ‘With all that fellow’s cleverness, he is not “one of us.” He might make a wittier reply, or write a smarter note; but society has its little tests—not one of which he could respond to.’ And this was an inferiority Walpole loved to cherish and was pleased to think over.
Atlee felt that Walpole might, with very little exercise of courtesy, have dealt more considerately by him.
‘I’m not exactly a valet,’ muttered he to himself, ‘to whom a man flings a waistcoat as he chucks a shilling to a porter. I am more than Mr. Walpole’s equal in many things, which are not accidents of fortune.’
He knew scores of things he could do better than him; indeed, there were very few he could not.
Poor Joe was not, however, aware that it was in the ‘not doing’ lay Walpole’s secret of superiority; that the inborn sense of abstention is the great distinguishing element of the class Walpole belonged to; and he might harass himself for ever, and yet never guess where it was that the distinction evaded him.
Atlee’s manner at dinner was unusually cold and silent. He habitually made the chief efforts of conversation, now he spoke little and seldom. When Walpole talked, it was in that careless discursive way it was his wont to discuss matters with a familiar. He often put questions, and as often went on without waiting for the answers.
As they sat over the dessert and were alone, he adverted to the other’s mission, throwing out little hints, and cautions as to manner, which Atlee listened to in perfect silence, and without the slightest sign that could indicate the feeling they produced.
‘You are going into a new country, Atlee,’ said he at last, ‘and I am sure you will not be sorry to learn something of the geography.’
‘Though it may mar a little of the adventure,’ said the other, smiling.