Mr. Clutterbuck was back at The Plâs, and the thorn in his soul struck sore. Too many words were enigmas. He suffered too much silence. He would speak.
They were together in the Art Gallery of The Plâs, Mr. Clutterbuck and Charlie, the Master and the Man.
Mr. Clutterbuck was sitting at a desk where he often did his work, under the inspiration of the big Manet which Charlie had purchased that summer of Raphael and Heinz. Fitzgerald was smoking a cigarette lazily at the end of the long room, and reading one of those articles in the Spectator which have so profound an influence week by week upon the political situation.
Mr. Clutterbuck suddenly looked up from his writing, turned round to him and said:
"Mr. Fitzgerald, what is a Peabody Yid?"
Charlie Fitzgerald was so startled that he let the premier review of the Anglo-Saxon Race fall to the floor; but a glance at Mr. Clutterbuck's honest though troubled profile reassured him.
"Oh, a Yid," he said laughing, "I suppose a Yid's a name for a German, or something of that sort. Then Peabody—oh, the Peabody Buildings!"
"Is it a kind of man, then?" said Mr. Clutterbuck, solemnly.
"Why," said Fitzgerald, thoughtfully, "I suppose it is."
"I thought it was one man," said Mr. Clutterbuck, still in doubt, and in a tone which made Charlie Fitzgerald look at him again, but again feel reassured.