★ 28 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure
Spennie’s Hour of Clear Vision
Mr. McEachern sat in the billiard-room smoking. He was alone. From where he sat he of music. The more of the evening’s entertainment, the theatricals, was over, and the and gentry, having done their by through the performance, were now themselves in the ballroom. Everybody was happy. The play had been as successful as the performance. The had himself a great from the start, his series of with Spennie having been admired, and Jimmy, as an old professional, had played his part with great and of touch, though, like the in the performance of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” on tour, he had had support. But the audience no malice.
No of is less than an audience at theatricals. It was all over now. Charteris had in the presence of eye-witnesses at one point in the second act, when Spennie, by a cue, had the play into Act III. (where his colleagues, something wrong, but not what, had it for some two minutes, to the of the audience); but now he had to forget. As he two-stepped the room the lines of on his were softened. He smiled.
As for Spennie, the of his happy all beholders.
He was still it when he the of Mr. McEachern. In every dance, he may be it, there comes a time when a man needs a cigarette from the throng. It came to Spennie after the seventh item on the programme. The room him as in every way. It was not likely to be used as a out place, and it was near to the to him to when the music of item No. 9 should begin.
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Mr. McEachern was to see him. In the the he had been unable to a word with any of the with he most to speak. He had been that no of the had been at the end of the performance. Spennie would be able to supply him with as to when the might be expected.
Spennie for an when he saw who was in the room. He was not over-anxious for a tête-à-tête with Molly’s father just then; but that after all he, Spennie, was not to for any that might be the other, he on his again and walked in.
“Came in for a smoke,” he explained, by way of opening the conversation. “Not dancing the next.”
“Come in, my boy, come in,” said Mr. McEachern. “I was waiting to see you.”
Spennie his entrance. He had that the other had the news of the breaking-off of the engagement. Evidently, from his manner, he had not. This was a nuisance.
He sat and a cigarette, about the while for an of conversation.
“Like the show?” he inquired.
“Fine,” said Mr. McEachern. “By the way—”
Spennie inwardly. He had that a man can the to any he by means of those three words.
“By the way,” said Mr. McEachern, “I Sir Thomas—wasn’t your uncle to announce——?”
“Well, yes, he was,” said Spennie.
“Going to it the dancing, maybe?”
“Well—er—no. The is, he’s not going to do it at all, don’t you know.” He the red end of his cigarette closely. “As a of fact, it’s of off.”
The other’s on him. Rotten, having to talk about this of thing!
“Broken off?”
Spennie nodded.
“Miss McEachern it over, don’t you know,” he said, “and came to the that it wasn’t good enough.”
Now that it was said he easier. It had been the of having to touch on the thing that had 187him. That his news might be a to McEachern did not his mind. He was a youth, and though he that his title had a value in some people’s eyes, he not anyone over the of him as a son-in-law. Katie’s father, the old general, him a fool, and once, an attack of gout, had said so.
Oblivious, therefore, to the a away from him, he on with great contentment, till it him that, for a lover, that very night, he was too little emotion. He himself he should have a at grief, but came to the that it not be done. Melancholy on this maddest, day of all the New Year, the day on which he had the powers of evil, as by Sir Thomas, was impossible.
“It wouldn’t have done, don’t you know,” he said. “We weren’t suited. What I to say is, I’m a of a of in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss McEachern couldn’t have been happy with me. She wants one of those capable, fellers.”
This him as a good beginning—modest but not grovelling. He continued, a of as he spoke.
“You see, dear old top—I sir—you see, it’s like this. As as are concerned, are into two classes. There’s the masterful, Johnnies and the—er—the other sort. Now, I’m the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is to be—well, not downtrodden, but—you know what I mean—kind of second fiddle. I want a wife”—his voice soft and dreamy—“who’ll me a good deal, don’t you know, my a lot, and all that. I haven’t it in me to do the master-in-my-own-house business. For me the silent-devotion touch—sleepin’ on the her door, don’t you know, when she wasn’t well, and bein’ there in the morning, and being for my thoughtfulness. That’s the of idea. Hard to put it OK., but you know the of thing I mean. A feller’s got to his old if he wants to be happy though married; what? Now, Miss McEachern was to me! Great Scot, she’d be to death in a week! Honest. She couldn’t help herself. She wants a with the same amount of go in him that she’s got.”
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He another cigarette. He was pleased with himself. Never had ideas themselves in his mind in such long and well-ordered ranks. He that he go on talking like this all night. He was every minute. He reading in some book of a girl (or chappie) who had had her (or his) “hour of clear vision”. This was what had now. Whether it was to the of what had taken place that night, or he had been up his powers with excellent champagne, he did not know. All he was that he on top of his subject. He he had had a larger audience. “A girl like Miss McEachern,” he resumed, “doesn’t want any of the hair-stroking business. She’d laugh at a if he asked for it. She needs a of the Get On or Get Out type—somebody in the six-cylinder class. And as a of fact, ourselves, I think she’s him.”
“What?”
Mr. McEachern rose from his chair. All his old had come back.
“What do you mean?”
“Fact,” said his lordship, nodding. “Mind you, I don’t know for certain. As the girl says in the song, I don’t know, but I guess. What I to say is, they and all that—calling each other by their Christian names, and so on.”
“Who?”
“Pitt,” said his lordship. He was back, a smoke-ring at the moment, so did not see the look on the other’s and the of his on the arms of his chair. He on with some enthusiasm.
“Jimmy Pitt!” he said. “Now, there’s a feller. Full of to the brim, and with go and energy. A girl wouldn’t have a moment with a like that. You know,” he confidentially, “there’s a in this idea of affinities. Take my word for it, dear old—sir. There’s a girl up in London, for instance. Now, she and I it off most amazingly. There’s a thing we don’t think about. For instance, ‘The Merry Widow’ didn’t make a of a with her; did it with me, yet look at the millions of people who about it. And neither of us like oysters. We’re affinities—that’s why. You see the same of thing all over the place. It’s a business. Sometimes makes me in re—in-what’s-its-name—you know 189what I mean. All that in the poem, you know. How it go? ‘When you were a tiddley-om-pom and I was a thingummajig.’ Dashed of work. I was reading it only the other day. Well, what I to say is, it’s my that Jimmy Pitt and Miss McEachern are by way of being something in that line. Doesn’t it you that they are just the to on together? You can see it with an eye. You can’t help a like Jimmy Pitt. He’s a sport! I wish I tell you some of the he’s done, but I can’t, for reasons; but you can take it from me he’s a sport. You ought to him. You’d like him.... Oh, it! there’s the music! I must be off. Got to this one.”
He rose from his chair and his cigarette into the ash-tray.
“So long,” he said, with a nod. “Wish I stop, but it’s no go. That’s the last let-up I shall have to-night.”
He out, Mr. McEachern seated in his chair, a to many and emotions.
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