Having good manners, Harry said nothing, but he thought: “I’m bothered if I will.” And immediately afterwards, as luck would have it, he was captivated by Babbington-Raikes, the famous gynecologist, who had “enthused” him. Babbington-Raikes fought against diseases of women and children with the ardour and self-sacrifice of a paladin. He was amazing. Babbington-Raikes sent him to a God-forsaken parish in Essex and afterwards to Poplar.
In each place he had learnt much; in each place he had been “downed,” like his father before him, by the powers plenipotentiary of vested interests.
And now, apparently, he was “up against them” again.
He returned, after an absence of some hours, in time to dress for dinner. Pawley gave his visitor of his best, and, whilst the trim parlourmaid waited upon them, the talk lingered in the eighteenth century. Grimshaw showed appreciation of the furniture and silver, drawing out his host to describe his adventures as a collector before prices became prohibitive to a man of modest means. An agreeable hour passed swiftly. Then the maid removed the cloth, brought in coffee, and retired. The doctor placed on the well-polished mahogany an antique box well filled with excellent cigars.
“Help yourself,” said Pawley.
Grimshaw did so.
“You are amazingly comfortable,” he said abruptly. “Your house is a sort of sanctuary. To my notion it’s just right. No man could wish to spend the evening of his life in more delightful surroundings.”
Pawley nodded. Grimshaw hesitated a moment, glancing at his host. The whimsical face encouraged him to speak frankly.
“I am wondering,” he went on, “whether any design lurks behind your charming hospitality?”
Pawley laughed.