Chilcote's eyes wandered to the desk. “You write?” he asked.
The other nodded curtly.
“Books?” Chilcote's tone was anxious.
Loder laughed, and the bitter note showed in his voice.
“No—not books,” he said.
Chilcote leaned back in his chair and passed his hand across his face. The strong wave of satisfaction that the words woke in him was difficult to conceal.
“What is your work?”
Loder turned aside. “You must not ask that,” he said, shortly. “When a man has only one capacity, and the capacity has no outlet, he is apt to run to seed in a wrong direction. I cultivate weeds—at abominable labor and a very small reward.” He stood with his back to the fire, facing his visitor; his attitude was a curious blending of pride, defiance, and despondency.
Chilcote leaned forward again. “Why speak of yourself like that? You are a man of intelligence and education.” He spoke questioningly, anxiously.
“Intelligence and education!” Loder laughed shortly. “London is cemented with intelligence. And education! What is education? The court dress necessary to presentation, the wig and gown necessary to the barrister. But do the wig and gown necessarily mean briefs? Or the court dress royal favor? Education is the accessory; it is influence that is essential. You should know that.”