“But it will soon be over,” he assured me. “You see——”
He stopped and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of a typewriter, smothered in documents.
“Quite,” said I uncomprehendingly. “You mean——?”
“Yes; that’s it. Exhaustion. It can’t go on for ever. It must stop some time.”
A smile that came from nowhere straggled into his face. I felt vaguely discomfited.
“You see, we are hard at it,” he said, and, as he spoke, be indicated a pale, ill-shaven youth who was wandering aimlessly about the office, his hands full of papers.
A queer little chap, Angell. Very much in earnest, of course, very sure of himself, very pushing, very “idealistic.”
. . . . . . . .
St John Ervine is a writer who already counts for much but who, a few years hence, will count for a good deal more. He is by way of being a protégé of Bernard Shaw, and earnest young Fabians have already learned to reverence him.
We worked together on The Daily Citizen, he being dramatic critic. He was not enormously popular with the rest of the staff, for he was very “high-brow”; his face was smooth, sleek and superior, and he had a habit of being friendly with a man one day and scarcely recognising him the next. My own relations with him were of the most disagreeable. A play of his was given at the Court [134] ]Theatre, and I was sent to criticise it. I did criticise it: the play was ugly, clever and sordid.