It must have been quite soon after that, that I myself heard the first
mention of the mermaid, little recking that at last it would fall to me
to write her history. I was on one of my rare visits to London, and
Micklethwaite was giving me lunch at the Penwiper Club, certainly one of
the best dozen literary clubs in London. I noted the rising young
journalist at a table near the door, lunching alone. All about him
tables were vacant, though the other parts of the room were crowded. He
sat with his face towards the door, and he kept looking up whenever any
one came in, as if he expected some one who never came. Once distinctly
I saw him beckon to a man, but the man did not respond.
"Look here, Micklethwaite," I said, "why is everybody avoiding that man
over there? I noticed just now in the smoking-room that he seemed to be
trying to get into conversation with some one and that a kind of
taboo----"
Micklethwaite stared over his fork. "Ra-ther," he said.
"But what's he done?"
"He's a fool," said Micklethwaite with his mouth full, evidently
annoyed. "Ugh," he said as soon as he was free to do so.