On the following morning he lunched at his club. Somehow, although he was in no sense of the word an unpopular man, it was a rare thing for any one to seek his company uninvited. The scholarly exclusiveness of his Oxford days had not been altogether brushed off in this contact with a larger and more spontaneous social life, and he figured in a world which would gladly have known more of him, as a man of courteous but severe reserve.
To-day he occupied his usual round table set in an alcove before a tall window. For a recluse, he always found a singular pleasure in watching the faces of the people in that broad living stream, little units in the wheeling cycle of humanity of which he too felt himself to be a part; but to-day his eyes were idle, and his sympathies obstructed. Although a pronounced epicure in both food and drink, he passed a new and delicate entrée, and not only ordered the wrong claret, but drank it without a grimace. The world of his sensations had been rudely disturbed. For the moment his sense of proportions was at fault, and before luncheon was over it received a further shock. A handsomely appointed drag rattled past the club on its way into Piccadilly. The woman who occupied the front seat turned to look at the window as they passed, with some evident curiosity—and their eyes met. Matravers set down the glass, which he had been in the act of raising to his lips, untasted.
“Berenice and her Father Confessor!” he heard some one remark lightly from the next table. “Pity some one can’t teach Thorndyke how to drive! He’s a disgrace to the Four-in-hand!”
It was Berenice! The sight of her in such intimate association with a man utterly distasteful to him was one before which he winced and suffered. He was aware of a new and altogether undesired experience. To rid himself of it with all possible speed, he finished his lunch abruptly, and lighting a cigarette, started back to his rooms.
On the way he came face to face with Ellison, and the two men stood together upon the pavement for a moment or two.
“I am not quite sure,” Ellison remarked with a little grimace, “whether I want to speak to you or not! What on earth has kindled the destructive spirit in you to such an extent? Every one is talking of your attack upon the New Theatre!”
“I was sent,” Matravers answered, “with a free hand to write an honest criticism—and I did it. Istein’s work may have some merit, but it is unclean work. It is not fit for the English stage.”
“It is exceedingly unlikely,” Ellison remarked, “that the English stage will know him any more! No play could survive such an onslaught as yours. I hear that Thorndyke is going to close the theatre.”
“If it was opened,” Matravers said, “for the purpose of presenting such work as this latest production, the sooner it is closed the better.”
Ellison shrugged his shoulders.