And he was. It would have been funny if it hadn't been rather pathetic.
Severn had just won Manchester South in a bye-election, and that, no
doubt, gave the party a predominantly political flavour. But there was,
all the same, a fair seasoning of art and music, and I noticed that my
shy acquaintance had been put between Mildred Gorton, the novelist, and
Mrs. Hathersage (Olga Trepine, of the Caucasian Ballet). At that time,
of course, I didn't know anything at all about him--whether he were a
writer, a painter, a politician, a pianist, or just plain
nothing-at-all. All I could see was that both Mildred and Olga were
having a dreadful time trying to get a word out of him.
It was Mrs. Severn who enlightened my ignorance. I was next to her, and
during a sudden gust of chatter all about us, she whispered to me: "You
see that man over there next to Mildred Gorton? ... His name's
Terrington. I want you to talk to him afterwards. You'll find him very
reserved."
I told her then of my previous meeting with him, and she said: "It's a
shame, really, to have put him next to Mildred; she'll scare him to
death.... Geoffrey got to know him somehow or other last week. He says
he's fearfully clever in his own line--he's a research-lecturer in
bacteriology at University College."
"That sounds tremendously impressive, anyhow," I replied, and I promised
I would take him under my wing when we adjourned to the drawing-room
afterwards.
End House dinners were long and good, but I always liked most of all the
hour or so after, when Mrs. Severn, if she were sufficiently persuaded,
would play Chopin or sing. She was really more of a _diseuse_ than a
singer; indeed, the thing to do was to tell her that she reminded you of
Yvette Guilbert. She did, and she just loved being told it.
That evening she yielded to persuasion earlier than usual, and it was
just as she sat down at the piano that I managed to squirm my way across
the room to Terrington. He was standing by the French windows examining
(but hardly, I should think, admiring) a recent portrait of Severn by a
celebrated artist, and when I asked him how things were going he stared
at me reproachfully and replied: "I oughtn't to have come here. I don't
know what on earth to say to all these people. They're all terribly big
guns--except me."
"And me too," I responded cheerfully. "But then, don't forget, we
represent young and unknown genius--the hope of the future and all that
sort of thing. Severn's idea, you know, to give us a chance of mixing
with the top-dogs."
That didn't seem to console him especially, but just then Mrs. Severn
began to sing. It was an old French ballad (I remember that the chorus
consisted of the word "Rataplan" repeated many times), and it was
exactly what suited her voice and style. I gathered, more from the way
she sang it than from the words, that it was about a court intrigue, a
wicked lord chamberlain, poisoned goblets, and so on--"divinely
medieval," as I heard Mildred Gorton whispering to somebody.
When it was over I looked at my companion. "Not bad, eh?" I said, and he
shrugged his shoulders with a gesture that might have meant anything. A
few moments later, having apparently analysed himself, he remarked that
it was the sort of thing that made him feel uncomfortable.
Those were the last words he spoke to anybody until he stood in the hall
conventionally assuring Mr. and Mrs. Severn that he had had a most
delightful time. We left the End House together about half-past ten, and
walked back along the edge of the Heath. There was a frost glistening on
the roadway, and a pale haze hung over the valley towards London. He was
anything but talkative. I don't think we spoke a dozen words all the way
down to the Tube Station. We both had return tickets, and it wasn't till
we reached Mornington Crescent (my own station) that I said, feeling
curiously reluctant to bid him good-bye: "Look here, I live just round
the corner. Why not come in and have a drink with me before you go home?
It isn't late at all, you know."
"If--if you like," he answered doubtfully.
He thawed a little when I lit the gas-fire in my room and made him sit
in front of it. He said he didn't care for whisky, so I made strong
coffee. Then I offered him cigarettes, but he said he didn't smoke. At
last, by the simple method of not seeming to care what he did or didn't
do, I got him to talk. He began abruptly: "I made a fool of myself
to-night."
I replied: "I don't think you did. It's by talking a lot rather than by
not talking enough, that people most often make fools of themselves."
"Severn must have thought me a complete ass."
"Nonsense. I know Severn. He'd make sure you weren't a complete ass
before he invited you."
"Why _did_ he invite me, anyway?"
"Probably because he liked you when he first met you, and because he had
heard good things about you. He likes young men with no money and heaps
of brains--like you and me, that's to say. (I presume you haven't any
money--_I_ haven't, anyway.) He takes us up just as he might buy a
low-priced share that he fancied might treble in value if he waited long
enough.... Please don't think I'm being _really_ cynical about him. He's
a damned good fellow, and there isn't a trace of offensive patronage in
his attitude. He's too young to be a snob."
"Young, is he?"
"Well, thirty-five. That's young for a man in his line. I suppose you
know what he is--K.C., and so on?"
"I don't know anything about him at all."
"But the Stapleton case--surely you remember all that in the
newspapers?"
"I don't. I never read the newspapers."
"Good Lord--you must be a hermit! ... Anyhow, Severn's quite a big man,
and likely as not he'll end on the Woolsack. He knows everybody worth
knowing, and positively rolls in money and influence. And all that at
thirty-five, mind you, and with a wife still in her twenties and one
child aged ten. He did everything early."
He seemed startled, and I went on, satisfied that he was interested:
"Severn married her when she was eighteen--and a shop-girl in Paris.
Still, she must have been rather an exceptional shop-girl. Severn
probably spotted her just as he spots all the other winners. But his
people are Eton and Oxford to the teeth, and they wouldn't look at her,
or him either, for a long while afterwards. He'll tell you the whole
story of his early struggles if you give him half a chance--he's awfully
proud of them."
We chatted on till nearly midnight, and then, since the last tube train
had gone, I walked with him to his rather dingy lodgings in Swinton
Street, near King's Cross. (Evidently he _was_ poor; perhaps even poorer
than I.) "You must come to tea with me soon," I said, shaking hands with
him at the door. I suggested the following Wednesday, but he answered:
"I'm afraid I could never come for tea--I work at the College until
seven."
"Even on Saturdays?" I queried, and he nodded.
"And Sundays?" He smiled then and said: "On Sundays I go out for the
day. Next Sunday I'm going for a tramp across the hills from Dorking to
Reigate, and if you'd care to come with me...."