Part 61 (1/2)

”Mr. d.i.c.kson Ingworth has called, sir,” said Smithers.

”Ask him to come in,” Toftrees said in his deep voice, and with a glint of interest in his eye.

Young d.i.c.kson Ingworth had been back from his journalistic mission to Italy for two or three weeks. His articles in the ”Daily Wire” had attracted a good deal of attention. They were exceedingly well done, and Herbert Toftrees was proud of his protege. He did not know--no one knew--that the Denstone master on the committee was a young man with a vivid and picturesque style who had early realised Ingworth's incompetence as mouthpiece of the expedition and representative of the Press. The young gentleman in question, anxious only for the success of the mission, had written nearly all Ingworth's stuff for him, and that complacent parasite was now reaping the reward.

But there was another, and greater, reason for Toftrees' welcome. Old Mr. Ingworth had died while his nephew was in Rome. The young man was now a squire in Wilts.h.i.+re, owner of a pleasant country house, a personage.

”Ask Mr. d.i.c.kson Ingworth in here,” Toftrees said again.

Ingworth came into the library.

He wore a morning coat and carried a silk hat--the tweeds and bowler of bohemia discarded now. An un.o.btrusive watch chain of gold had taken the place of the old silver-buckled lip-strap, and a largish black pearl nestled in the folds of his dark tie.

He seemed, in some subtle way, to have expanded and become less boyish.

A certain gravity and dignity sat well upon his fresh good looks and the slight hint of alien blood in his features was less noticeable than ever.

Toftrees shook his young friend warmly by the hand. The worthy author was genuinely pleased to see the youth. He had done him a good service recently, pleased to exercise patronage of course, but out of pure kindness. Ingworth would not require any more help now, and Toftrees was glad to welcome him in a new relation.

Toftrees murmured a word or two of sorrow at Ingworth's recent bereavement and the bereaved one replied with suitable gravity. His uncle's sudden death had been a great grief to him. He would have given much to have been in England at the time.

”And the end?” asked Toftrees in a low voice of sympathy.

”Quite peaceful, I am glad to say, quite peaceful.”

”That must be a great consolation!”

This polite humbug disposed of, both men fell immediately into bright, cheerful talk.

The new young squire was bubbling over with exhilaration, plans for the future, the sense of power, the unaccustomed and delightful feeling of solidity and _security_.

He told his host, over their cigars, that the estate would bring him in about fifteen or sixteen hundred a year; that the house was a fine old Caroline building--who his neighbours were, and so on.

”Then I suppose you'll give up literature?” Toftrees asked.

d.i.c.kson Ingworth was about to a.s.sent in the most positive fas.h.i.+on to this question, when he remembered in whose presence he was, and his native cunning--”diplomacy” is the better word for a man with a Caroline mansion and sixteen hundred a year--came to his aid.

”Oh, no,” he said, ”not entirely. I couldn't, you know. But I shall be in a position now only to do my best work!”

Toftrees a.s.sented with pleasure. The trait interested him.

”I'm glad of that,” he said. ”To the artist, life without expression is impossible.” Toftrees spoke quite sincerely. Although his own production was not of a high order he was quite capable of genuine appreciation of greater and more serious writers. It does not follow--as shallow thinkers tell us--that because a man does not follow his ideal that he is without one at all.

They smoked cigars and talked. As a matter of form the host offered Ingworth a drink, which was refused; they were neither of them men who took alcohol between meals from choice.

They chatted upon general matters for a time.

”And what of our friend the Poet?” Toftrees asked at length, with a slight sneer in his voice.

Ingworth flushed up suddenly and a look of hate came into his curious eyes. The acute man of the world noticed it in a second. Before Ingworth had left for his mission in Italy, he had been obviously changing his views about Gilbert Lothian. He had talked him over with Toftrees in a depreciating way. Even while he had been staying at Mortland Royal he had made confidences about Lothian's habits and the life of his house in letters to the popular author--while he was eating the Poet's salt.