“No; that’ll be all right. Speak to Wilkes, will you.... Shall you be away all day?”
“I expect so,” said Eddy, feeling that Hillier looked at him askance, though the vicar didn’t. Probably Hillier didn’t approve of Sunday outings, thought one should be in church.
He sat down and began to talk about “Squibs.”
Hillier said presently, “He’s surely rather a mountebank, that Le Moine? Full of cheap sneers and clap-trap, isn’t he?”
“Oh, no,” said Eddy. “Certainly not clap-trap. He’s very genuine, I should say; expresses his personality a good deal more successfully than most play writers.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Hillier said. “It’s his personality, I should fancy, that’s wrong.”
Eddy said, “He’s delightful,” rather warmly, and the vicar said, “Well, now, I’m going to bed,” and went, and Eddy went, too, because he didn’t want to argue with Hillier, a difficult feat, and no satisfaction when achieved.
CHAPTER IV.
HEATHERMERE.
SUNDAY was the last day but one of October. They all met at Waterloo in a horrid fog, and missed the nine-thirty because Cecil Le Moine was late. He sauntered up at 9.45, tranquil and at ease, the MS. of his newest play under his arm (he obviously thought to read it to them in the course of the day—“which must be prevented,” Arnold remarked). So they caught a leisured train at 9.53, and got out of it at a little white station about 10.20, and the fog was left behind, and a pure blue October sky arched over a golden and purple earth, and the air was like iced wine, thin and cool and thrilling, and tasting of heather and pinewoods. They went first to the village inn, on the edge of the woods, where they had ordered breakfast for eight. Their main object at breakfast was to ply Cecil with food, lest in a leisure moment he should say, “What if I begin my new play to you while you eat?”
“Good taste and modesty,” Arnold remarked, à propos of nothing, “are so very important. We have all achieved our little successes (if we prefer to regard them in that light, rather than to take the consensus of the unintelligent opinion of our less enlightened critics). Jane has some very well-spoken of drawings even now on view in Grafton Street, and doubtless many more in Pleasance Court. Have you brought them, or any of them, with you, Jane? No? I thought as much. Eileen last night played a violin to a crowded and breathless audience. Where is the violin to-day? She has left it at home; she does not wish to force the fact of her undoubted musical talent down our throats. Bridget has earned deserved recognition as an entertainer of the great; she has a social cachet that we may admire without emulation. Look at her now; her dress is simplicity itself, and she deigns to play in a wood with the humble poor. Even the pince-nez is in abeyance. Billy had a selection from his works read aloud only last week to the élite of our metropolitan poetry-lovers by a famous expert, who alluded in the most flattering terms to his youthful promise. Has he his last volume in his breast-pocket? I think not. Eddy has made a name in proficiency in vigorous sports with youths; he has taught them to box and play billiards; does he come armed with gloves and a cue? I have written an essay of some merit that I have every hope will find itself in next month’s English Review. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have not brought it with me. When the well-bred come out for a day of well-earned recreation, they leave behind them the insignia of their several professions. For the time being they are merely individuals, without fame and without occupation, whose one object is to enjoy what is set before them by the gods. Have some more bacon, Cecil.”