If I had a son one of the first things I should teach him would be the
art of leaving. I would have him swift in all ways, but swiftest when
the time came to go. And when he went he should go absolutely. For
although the people who leave slowly are bad enough, they are as
nothing compared with the people who make false exits and return with
afterthoughts.
The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent. Life
has these chequered moments. There is something of despatch and order
wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd
and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with
people who don't know their own minds and apparently are least likely
to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with
it. Be that as it may, house agents' offices in general have a want of
definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers'. There is no exact
spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the
clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one
you approach will transfer you to another. There is also a certain
air of familiarity or friendliness: not, of course, approaching the
camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall
with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a
cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female
clerk in a post-office.
Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction
to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with "our
Mr. Plausible," in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment
repose.
Occupying his far too tolerant ear was another client, whose need was
a country house surrounded by enough grass-land for a small stud farm.
This is what happened (he had, by the way, the only chair at that
desk):--
_Our Mr. Plausible (for the fortieth time)._ I understand perfectly. A
nice house, out-buildings and about twenty acres of meadow.
_Client_. Twenty to thirty.
_Our Mr. P_. Yes, or thirty.
_C_. You see, what I want is to breed stock--cattle and horses too.
_Our Mr. P_. Exactly. Well, the three places I have given you are all
well-adapted.
_C_. When a man gets to my age and has put a little money by he may
just as well take it quietly as not. I don't want a real farm; I want
just a smallish place where I can play at raising pedigree animals.
_Our Mr. P_. That's just the kind of place I've given you. The one
near Newbury is probably the most suitable. I should see that first,
and then the one near Alton.
_C_. You understand, I don't want a big farm. Anybody else can have
the arable. Just a comfortable house and some meadows; about twenty
acres or even thirty.
_Our Mr. P_. The biggest one I've given you is thirty. The place near
Newbury is twenty-three.
_C_. Well, I'11 go and see them as soon as I can. _[Gets up_.
_Our Mr. P_. The sooner the better, I should advise. There's a great
demand for country-houses just now.
_C.(sitting solidly down again)._ Ah, yes, but this is different. What
I want is not so much a country-house in the ordinary meaning of the
term as a farm-house, but without possessing a farm. Just enough
buildings and meadow-land to breed a few shorthorns and a yearling or
two. The house must be comfortable, you know, roomy, but not anything
pretentious. _[Gets up again_.
_Our Mr.P._ I quite understand. That's just what I've given you.
_C. (again seating himself)._ The whole scheme may be foolishness. My
wife says it is. But _(here I believe I groaned audibly; at any rate
all the other clerks looked up)_ there it is. When a man has enough to
retire on and pay the piper he's entitled to call the tune; isn't he?
_[At this point I resist the temptation to take him by the shoulders
and push him out_.
_Our Mr. P_. Quite, quite. Well, Sir, if you take my advice you'11 go
to Newbury as quickly as you can. It's a first-rate place--most highly
recommended.
_[Here the client very deliberately puts the three "orders to view" in
his inside pocket and slowly buttons his coat. I flutter on tiptoe,
eager for his chair._
_C_. If these won't do you'11 find me some more?
_Our Mr. P_. With pleasure.
_C_. Very well; good morning.
_[Moves away. I have just begun to speak when he returns._
_C_. Don't forget what I want it for. And not too far from London or
my wife will dislike it.
_Our Mr. P_. Yes, you told me that. I've got a note of it here.
_C_. And you won't forget about the acreage?
_Our Mr. P_. No."
_C.(addressing me)._ I'm afraid I've kept you waiting.
_I (like the craven liar I am)._ It's all right.
_[Client ultimately withdraws, but still with reluctance, and after
two or three hesitations and half-turns back_.
And the tragic part of it is that his name is Legion.
That is why if I had a boy I should teach him the art of leaving.
Almost nothing else matters.
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