It was a hotel much frequented by the better class of country visitors; the London man of fashion never strayed within its portals. But here, by reason of the retired situation of the place, the accommodation of the rooms, and in some degree (we may suppose) the moderate terms, the headquarters of the Pen and Pencil Club were situated. Less than three hundred yards away, the Strand was a turgid stream of noises; here was a backwater startlingly quiet.
Though certain of the vulgar upstarts, who manage to sneak into every community of proper men, not excepting literary clubland, complained that they could not get eatable food at the "Magpie," the members of the club, as a whole, did eat with some heartiness whenever they assembled around the board, which was twice a month during autumn and winter. Few of the members turned up in evening dress; the average author does not find it necessary to entirely expose his shirt-front when he sits down to his evening meal. Something of the older Bohemianism hung, like lavender in an ancient chest, about the Pen and Pencil Club; from which it will be understood that it was not exactly the Bohemianism of dirty clothes and stale beer, but rather that brotherliness which enables men of kindred tastes and interests to dispense with the artificial ceremonies of society.
Such was the spirit of the company to which Henry was introduced by his friend at the "Magpie." The buzz of talk in the club-room dazed him a little at first, and very timidly did he submit to be introduced to this celebrity and to that. Most of the members and guests assembled were standing talking familiarly, awaiting the summons to dinner.
"Let me introduce my friend Mr. Charles, of the Watchman, Mr. Angus St. Clair," said Mr. P., thus mentioning the name of a world-famous Scottish novelist, with whom Henry almost funked shaking hands.
Yet Mr. Sinclair was scarcely so impressive to gaze upon as many a City clerk; far less so than any young man behind a draper's counter in Oxford Street. He was below medium height, quite without distinction of features, and wore a faded brown suit. Withal, his publishers could sell fifty thousand copies of any book he cared to write, and the Press of the Anglo-Saxon race resounded with anecdotes about him.
"Ma name's pronounced Sinkler, but they pock-puddens will ca' me St. Clair, so what can a body do, Mr. Chairles?"
Mr. Charles couldn't enlighten him; but his host suggested that the Scotch didn't know how to pronounce their own names, and weren't very particular how they treated English ones. The secretary of the club dragged Mr. Sinclair off before he could return fire to introduce him to one craving his hand-shake, and Mr. Puddephatt, who appeared to be known only as Adrian Grant among the members, said to Henry that whenever he saw Sinclair he thought of a boiled egg, because the fellow seemed so small and thin that he felt he could break his skull with a tap of a spoon.
"Ah, Mr. Grinton, how do you do?... My guest, Mr. Charles, of the Watchman—a coming man, my dear Grinton, a coming man."
Mr. Edward Grinton shook hands with the coming man, who was never in a more retiring mood.
"I read the Watchman," he said, "and like it, but I wish it wouldn't worry about my literary style. The only test of merit in novels, Mr. Charles, is sales. Ask at any bookseller if his customers care a straw for literary style. They want a story, and I give 'em what they—Ah, Tredgold! Still slogging at that play?" and Mr. Grinton turned abruptly to another member who had two plays running at London theatres, and, in Grinton's phrase, "made pots of money."