During dinner he discussed the little round of London life and its various social events with perfect sanity, and permitted himself his usual good-natured grumble at Wolfenden for his dilatoriness in the choice of a profession.
He did not once refer to the subject of his own weakness until dessert had been served, when he passed the claret to Wolfenden without filling his own glass.
“You will excuse my not joining you,” he said to his son, “but I have still three or four hours’ writing to do, and such work as mine requires a very clear head—you can understand that, I daresay.”
Wolfenden assented in silence. For the first time, perhaps, he fully realised the ethical pity of seeing a man so distinguished the victim of a hopeless and incurable mania. He watched him sitting at the head of his table, courteous, gentle, dignified; noted too the air of intellectual abstraction which followed upon his last speech, and in which he seemed to dwell for the rest of the time during which they sat together. Instinctively he knew what disillusionment must mean for him. Sooner anything than that. It must never be. Never! he repeated firmly to himself as he smoked a solitary cigar later on in the empty smoking-room. Whatever happens he must be saved from that. There was a knock at the door, and in response to his invitation to enter, Mr. Blatherwick came in. Wolfenden, who was in the humour to prefer any one’s society to his own, greeted him pleasantly, and wheeled up an easy chair opposite to his own.
“Come to have a smoke, Blatherwick?” he said. “That’s right. Try one of these cigars; the governor’s are all right, but they are in such shocking condition.”
Mr. Blatherwick accepted one with some hesitation, and puffed slowly at it with an air of great deliberation. He was a young man of mild demeanour and deportment, and clerical aspirations. He wore thick spectacles, and suffered from chronic biliousness.
“I am much obliged to you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “I seldom smoke cigars—it is not good for my sight. An occasional cigarette is all I permit myself.”
Wolfenden groaned inwardly, for his regalias were priceless and not to be replaced; but he said nothing.
“I have taken the liberty, Lord Wolfenden,” Mr. Blatherwick continued, “of bringing for your inspection a letter I received this morning. It is, I presume, intended for a practical joke, and I need not say that I intend to treat it as such. At the same time as you were in the house, I imagined that no—er—harm would ensue if I ventured to ask for your opinion.”
He handed an open letter to Wolfenden, who took it and read it through. It was dated “—— London,” and bore the postmark of the previous day.