Part 7 (2/2)

”Develop what?” said Miss Tarlton.

”Theories, about s.m.u.ts and smoke, you know; things people write to the papers about in the winter,” said Wentworth, whose idea of conversation was to endeavour to coruscate the whole time. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if the spark was less powerful on some occasions than on others.

”Oh,” said Miss Tarlton, not in the least entertained.

Wentworth, a little discomfited, could for once think of nothing to say.

”I suppose,” said Miss Tarlton, still patiently pursuing her investigations in the same hopeless quarter, ”you don't know the name of that quite, quite new and tiny machine?”

”Machine? What sort of machine?” said Wentworth.

”A camera,” said Miss Tarlton, with an inflection in her tone which entirely eliminated any other possibility.

”No, I'm afraid I don't,” said Wentworth. ”I don't know the name of any cameras, except that their family name is legion.”

”What?” said Miss Tarlton.

”Legion,” said Wentworth again, crestfallen.

”Oh,” said Miss Tarlton.

”Pateley would be the man to ask,” said Wentworth, desperately trying to put his head above the surface.

”Pateley? Is that a shop?” said Miss Tarlton eagerly. ”Where?”

”A shop!” said Sir William, laughing. ”I should like to see Pateley's face”--but the door opened before he completed his sentence, and his wish, presumably not formed upon aesthetic grounds, was fulfilled.

CHAPTER VI

Robert Pateley was a journalist, and a successful man. Some people succeed in life because they have certain qualities which enlist the sympathy and co-operation of their fellow-creatures; others, without such qualities, yet succeed by having a dogged determination and power of push which make them independent of that sympathy and co-operation.

Robert Pateley was one of the latter. When he was discussed by two people who felt they ought to like him, they said to one another, ”What is it about Pateley that puts people off, I wonder? Why can't one like him more?” and then they would think it over and come to no conclusion.

Perhaps it was that his journalism was of the very newest kind. He was certainly extremely able, although his somewhat boisterous personality and entirely non-committal conversation did not give at the first meeting with him the impression of his being the sagacious and keen-witted politician that he really was. Was it his laugh that people disliked? Was it his voice? It could not have been his intelligence, which was excellent, nor yet his moral character, which was blameless.

In fact, in a quiet way, Pateley had been a hero, for he had been left, through his father's mismanagement of the family affairs, with two sisters absolutely on his hands, and he had never, since undertaking the whole charge of them, for one instant put his own welfare, advancement or interest before theirs. Absorbed in his resolute purpose, he had coolness of head and determination enough to govern his ambitions instead of letting himself be governed by them. The son of a solicitor in a country town, he had made up his mind that, as he put it to himself, he would be ”somebody” some day. He had got to the top of the local grammar school, and tasted the delights of success, and he determined that he would continue them in a larger sphere. It is not always easy to draw the line between conspicuousness and distinction.

Pateley, who went along the path of life like a metaphorical fire-engine, had very early become conspicuous; he had gone steadily on, calling to his fellow-creatures to get out of his way, until now, as steerer of the _Arbiter_, a das.h.i.+ng little paper that under his guidance had made a sudden leap into fame and influence, he was a personage to be reckoned with, and it was evident enough in his bearing that he was conscious of the fact.

Such was the person who, almost as his name was on Sir William Gore's lips, came cheerfully, loudly, briskly into the room, including everybody in the heartiest of greetings, stepping at once into the foreground of the picture, and filling it up.

”Did I hear you say that you would like to see my face, Gore? How very polite of you! most gratifying!” he said with a loud laugh, which seemed to correspond to his big and burly person.

”You did,” said Sir William. ”Wentworth says you know everything about photography.”

”Ah! now, that,” said Pateley, galvanised into real eagerness and interest as he turned round after shaking hands with Lady Gore, ”I really do know at this moment, as I have just come from the Photographic Exhibition.”

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