Though among his acquaintances Summerhay always provoked
badinage, in which he was scarcely ever defeated, yet in chambers and
court, on circuit, at his club, in society or the hunting-field, he had
an unfavourable effect on the grosser sort of stories. There are men--by
no means strikingly moral--who exercise this blighting influence. They
are generally what the French call "spirituel," and often have rather
desperate love-affairs which they keep very closely to themselves.
When at last in chambers, he had washed off that special reek of
clothes, and parchment, far-away herrings, and distemper, which clings
about the law, dipping his whole curly head in water, and towelling
vigorously, he set forth alone along the Embankment, his hat tilted up,
smoking a cigar. It was nearly seven. Just this time yesterday he had
got into the train, just this time yesterday turned and seen the face
which had refused to leave him since. Fever recurs at certain hours,
just so did the desire to see her mount within him, becoming an
obsession, because it was impossible to gratify it. One could not call
at seven o'clock! The idea of his club, where at this time of day he
usually went, seemed flat and stale, until he remembered that he might
pass up Bury Street to get to it. But, near Charing Cross, a hand smote
him on the shoulder, and the voice of one of his intimates said:
"Halo, Bryan!"
Odd, that he had never noticed before how vacuous this fellow was--with
his talk of politics, and racing, of this ass and that ass--subjects
hitherto of primary importance! And, stopping suddenly, he drawled out:
"Look here, old chap, you go on; see you at the club--presently.
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