There was embarrassment between them, the awkwardness of master and pupil. To bridge it he said:
“It is a long time since you have been to see us.”
Directly he had said it he knew that he had contributed to their deception, but while he was seeking a means of withdrawal Panoukian pounced on his opportunity and dragged their three-cornered relationship back to the old footing: and Old Mole could not altogether disguise his relief.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been so busy. Old Harbottle is running a private ball, and there’s been a tremendous lot of work up and down the country.”
“Up and down the country,” repeated Old Mole.
“Yes. Harbottle’s beginning to listen to what I say. I’ve been giving him some telling questions lately, and he’s already cornered the Front Bench twice. . . . The old idiot is beginning to discover the uses of impersonal unpopularity as an instrument of success. He would never have taken the plunge by himself, and he’s very grateful to me.”
“So you are beginning to do something?”
“You can’t do much in politics. I used to think you could. You can’t do first-rate things, but I’m beginning to realize that it’s a second-rate job.” He grinned. “The odd thing is that, since I realized that, I’m getting quite to like old Harbottle. He’s second-rate. He doesn’t know it, of course, because he hasn’t the least notion of what a first-rate man is like. He is perfectly cast-iron second-rate. Most surprising of all is that I am beginning to see that every man has the right to be himself—subject, of course, to every other man’s right to kick him for it.”
“Eh?”
Old Mole was startled. Tolerance was the last thing he expected from Panoukian; it was entirely out of keeping with his boyishness. He waited for more, but nothing came; and this was the most astonishing of all, for there Panoukian sat, boyish, glistening with youth, enunciating a maxim of tolerance, and actually relishing silence. Panoukian, having nothing more to say, was content to say nothing! . . . It was too bad. Almost it seemed that he had gone through all his misery for nothing. He had striven to master his situation only at every turn to be met with the triumph of the unexpected. He had decided to start by seeing the affair from Matilda’s point of view and Panoukian’s, and now, ludicrously, maddeningly, they had both changed, and both, apparently, were being intent on showing an amicable front to him. They were—and he writhed at the thought—they were trying to spare his feelings.