"Exactly!" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis Quatorze fauteuil—"And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I want…" here drawing out a business looking note-book from her pocket she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein enumerated,—"I want to describe his personal appearance,—to know when he was born, and where he was educated,—whether his father or mother had literary tastes,—whether he had, or has, brothers or sisters, or both,—whether he is married, or likely to be, and how much money he has made by his book." She paused and gave an upward glance at Villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony stare.
"Then,"—she resumed energetically—"I wish to know what are his methods of work;—WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates them,—how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an early riser,—also what he usually takes for dinner,—whether he drinks wine or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires to rest. All this is so INTENSELY interesting to the public! Perhaps he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent tour in the East, and of course I should be very glad if he will state his opinions on the climate, customs, and governments of the countries through which he has passed. It's a great pity this is not his own house,—it is a pretty place and a description of it would read well. Let me see!"—and she meditated,—" I think I could manage to insert a few lines about this apartment, . . it would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the house of the Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,' etc.,—Yes! that would do very well!—very well indeed! I should like to know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not, whether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter case it would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have it furnished. A little discussion on upholstery is so specially fascinating to my readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn how the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . whether in the course of his travels he met with some serious accident, or illness, which gave rise to the report. Now,"—and she shut her note-book and folded her hands,—"I don't mind waiting an hour or more if necessary,—but I am sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I am, and what I have come for, he will be only too delighted to see me with as little delay as possible."
She ceased. Villiers drew a long breath,—his compressed lips parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with that peculiar pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to those who knew him well that his mind was made up, and that nothing would induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff civility:
"I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! … but I am compelled to inform you that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my friend of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would not feel so much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather insulted! Excuse my frankness,—you have spoken plainly,—I must speak plainly too. Provision dealers and sensational story writers may find that it serves their purpose to be interviewed, if only as a means of gaining extra advertisement, but a truly great and conscientious author like Theos Alwyn is quite above all that sort of thing."
The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of interrogative scorn.
"ABOVE all that sort of thing!" she echoed incredulously—"Dear me! How very extraordinary! I have always found all our celebrities so exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional notoriety! … and I should have thought a POET," this with much depreciative emphasis—"would have been particularly glad of the chance! Because, of course you know that unless a very astonishing success is made, as in the case of Mr. Alwyn's 'Nourhalma,' people really take such slight interest in writers of verse, that it is hardly ever worth while interviewing them!"
"Precisely!" agreed Villiers ironically,—"The private history of a prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!" He paused,—his temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that, after all, the indignation he felt was not so much against his visitor as against the system she represented, he resumed quietly, "May I ask you, madam, whether you have ever 'interviewed' Her Majesty the Queen?"
Her glance swept slightingly over him.
"Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!"
"Then you have never thought," went on Villiers, with a thrill of earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice—"that it might be quite as impossible to 'interview' a great Poet?—who, if great indeed, is in every way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a throne! I do not speak of petty verse-writers,—I say a great Poet, by which term I imply a great creative genius who is honestly faithful to his high vocation. Such an one could no more tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could prattle about the way it shines,—and as for his personal history, I should like to know by what right society is entitled to pry into the sacred matters of a man's private life, simply because he happens to be famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing into other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the times,—it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible. Moreover, I think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed' condemn themselves as literary charlatans, unworthy of the profession they have wrongfully adopted. You see I have the courage of my opinions on this matter,—in fact, I believe, if every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a better state of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would gradually come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you, madam,"—this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her chair—"I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that of the 'interviewer' open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work to be congenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet with many a rebuff! I hope I have not offended you by my bluntness, … "—here he trailed off into inaudible polite murmurs, while the "Tiger-Lily" marched steadily toward the door.