The Island Pharisees. Galsworthy John

more settled down to complete the purchase of his wife.

      “I can’t conceive what you’re – in such a hurry for; you ‘re not going to be married till the autumn,” said Mr. Paramor, finishing at last.

      Replacing the blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from the glass, and sniffed at it. “Will you come with me as far as Pall Mall? I ‘m going to take an afternoon off; too cold for Lord’s, I suppose?”

      They walked into the Strand.

      “Have you seen this new play of Borogrove’s?” asked Shelton, as they passed the theatre to which he had been with Halidome.

      “I never go to modern plays,” replied Mr. Paramor; “too d – d gloomy.”

      Shelton glanced at him; he wore his hat rather far back on his head, his eyes haunted the street in front; he had shouldered his umbrella.

      “Psychology ‘s not in your line, Uncle Ted?”

      “Is that what they call putting into words things that can’t be put in words?”

      “The French succeed in doing it,” replied Shelton, “and the Russians; why should n’t we?”

      Mr. Paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger’s.

      “What’s right for the French and Russians, Dick,” he said “is wrong for us. When we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false. I should like to have had the catching of that fellow; let’s send him to your mother.” He went in and bought a salmon:

      “Now, my dear,” he continued, as they went on, “do you tell me that it’s decent for men and women on the stage to writhe about like eels? Is n’t life bad enough already?”

      It suddenly struck Shelton that, for all his smile, his uncle’s face had a look of crucifixion. It was, perhaps, only the stronger sunlight in the open spaces of Trafalgar Square.

      “I don’t know,” he said; “I think I prefer the truth.”

      “Bad endings and the rest,” said Mr. Paramor, pausing under one of Nelson’s lions and taking Shelton by a button. “Truth ‘s the very devil!”

      He stood there, very straight, his eyes haunting his nephew’s face; there seemed to Shelton a touching muddle in his optimism – a muddle of tenderness and of intolerance, of truth and second-handedness. Like the lion above him, he seemed to be defying Life to make him look at her.

      “No, my dear,” he said, handing sixpence to a sweeper; “feelings are snakes! only fit to be kept in bottles with tight corks. You won’t come to my club? Well, good-bye, old boy; my love to your mother when you see her”; and turning up the Square, he left Shelton to go on to his own club, feeling that he had parted, not from his uncle, but from the nation of which they were both members by birth and blood and education.

      CHAPTER VII

      THE CLUB

      He went into the library of his club, and took up Burke’s Peerage. The words his uncle had said to him on hearing his engagement had been these: “Dennant! Are those the Holm Oaks Dennants? She was a Penguin.”

      No one who knew Mr. Paramor connected him with snobbery, but there had been an “Ah! that ‘s right; this is due to us” tone about the saying.

      Shelton hunted for the name of Baltimore: “Charles Penguin, fifth Baron Baltimore. Issue: Alice, b. 184-, m. 186-Algernon Dennant, Esq., of Holm Oaks, Cross Eaton, Oxfordshire.” He put down the Peerage and took up the ‘Landed Gentry’. “Dennant, Algernon Cuffe, eldest son of the late Algernon Cuffe Dennant, Esq., J. P., and Irene, 2nd daur. of the Honble. Philip and Lady Lillian March Mallow; ed. Eton and Ch. Ch., Oxford, J. P. for Oxfordshire. Residence, Holm Oaks,” etc., etc. Dropping the ‘Landed Gentry’, he took up a volume of the ‘Arabian Nights’, which some member had left reposing on the book-rest of his chair, but instead of reading he kept looking round the room. In almost every seat, reading or snoozing, were gentlemen who, in their own estimation, might have married Penguins. For the first time it struck him with what majestic leisureliness they turned the pages of their books, trifled with their teacups, or lightly snored. Yet no two were alike – a tall man-with dark moustache, thick hair, and red, smooth cheeks; another, bald, with stooping shoulders; a tremendous old buck, with a grey, pointed beard and large white waistcoat; a clean-shaven dapper man past middle age, whose face was like a bird’s; a long, sallow, misanthrope; and a sanguine creature fast asleep. Asleep or awake, reading or snoring, fat or thin, hairy or bald, the insulation of their red or pale faces was complete. They were all the creatures of good form. Staring at them or reading the Arabian Nights Shelton spent the time before dinner. He had not been long seated in the dining-room when a distant connection strolled up and took the next table.

      “Ah, Shelton! Back? Somebody told me you were goin’ round the world.” He scrutinised the menu through his eyeglass. “Clear soup!.. Read Jellaby’s speech? Amusing the way he squashes all those fellows. Best man in the House, he really is.”

      Shelton paused in the assimilation of asparagus; he, too, had been in the habit of admiring Jellaby, but now he wondered why. The red and shaven face beside him above a broad, pure shirt-front was swollen by good humour; his small, very usual, and hard eyes were fixed introspectively on the successful process of his eating.

      “Success!” thought Shelton, suddenly enlightened – “success is what we admire in Jellaby. We all want success.. Yes,” he admitted, “a successful beast.”

      “Oh!” said his neighbour, “I forgot. You’re in the other camp?”

      “Not particularly. Where did you get that idea?”

      His neighbour looked round negligently.

      “Oh,” said he, “I somehow thought so”; and Shelton almost heard him adding, “There’s something not quite sound about you.”

      “Why do you admire Jellaby?” he asked.

      “Knows his own mind,” replied his neighbour; “it ‘s more than the others do.. This whitebait is n’t fit for cats! Clever fellow, Jellaby! No nonsense about him! Have you ever heard him speak? Awful good sport to watch him sittin’ on the Opposition. A poor lot they are!” and he laughed, either from appreciation of Jellaby sitting on a small minority, or from appreciation of the champagne bubbles in his glass.

      “Minorities are always depressing,” said Shelton dryly.

      “Eh? what?”

      “I mean,” said Shelton, “it’s irritating to look at people who have n’t a chance of success – fellows who make a mess of things, fanatics, and all that.”

      His neighbour turned his eyes inquisitively.

      “Er – yes, quite,” said he; “don’t you take mint sauce? It’s the best part of lamb, I always think.”

      The great room with its countless little tables, arranged so that every man might have the support of the gold walls to his back, began to regain its influence on Shelton. How many times had he not sat there, carefully nodding to acquaintances, happy if he got the table he was used to, a paper with the latest racing, and someone to gossip with who was not a bounder; while the sensation of having drunk enough stole over him. Happy! That is, happy as a horse is happy who never leaves his stall.

      “Look at poor little Bing puffin’ about,” said his neighbour, pointing to a weazened, hunchy waiter. “His asthma’s awf’ly bad; you can hear him wheezin’ from the street.”

      He seemed amused.

      “There ‘s no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose?” said Shelton.

      His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.

      “Here, take this away; it’s overdone;” said he. “Bring me some lamb.”

      Shelton pushed his table back.

      “Good-night,” he said; “the Stilton’s excellent!”

      His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate.

      In