“Francis Gordon,”—Heron Baynet spoke slowly, almost professionally—“might become a great writer, if he weren’t such a neurotic.”
“Oh, pater, do keep off your hobby, just for this one evening,” Patricia protested. But, once launched, her father was not an easy person to stop.
“My hobby,” he said, “is merely life. Not animal life only, but mental life—which is the most important. Francis Gordon’s hobby is—Francis Gordon. That’s where he, and most of the literary young men nowadays, are making their mistake. They’re half-baked; emasculate. Instead of facing life, they run away from it; shut themselves up in their studies—usually with some equally epicene petticoat to assist their musings. Life, the battle of life, is the only thing worth writing about. Or,” he added, “reading about.”
Again Patricia turned the conversation: “Anyway, he’s much nicer, much more human, than he used to be.”
“You mean, since he lost his money,” interrupted Violet.
Patricia nodded. . . .
On the arrival of port and cigars, the three men were left alone; and Hubert Rawlings, who felt himself just a little out of the picture, attempted to talk himself into it.
“Gunnery,” he said to the young soldier, “must be amazingly interesting. A client of mine—he’s in the steel trade—was talking to me only this morning about the Creusot factory. He says the French field-guns are infinitely better than ours. . . .”
“Really.” Jack Baynet had been trained not to talk “shop” in mess.
“Oh, yes. My friend saw them firing tests. And he was amazed, absolutely amazed.”