"A perfectly good fellow.Lord Beaumont of Foxwood--don't you know his name? He is a man of transparent sincerity, a nobleman who does more work than a navvy, a socialist, an anarchist, I don't know what; anyhow, he's a philosopher and philanthropist.I admit he has the slight disadvantage of being, beyond all question, off his head.He has that real disadvantage which has arisen out of the modern worship of progress and novelty; and he thinks anything odd and new must be an advance.If you went to him and proposed to eat your grandmother, he would agree with you, so long as you put it on hygienic and public grounds, as a cheap alternative to cremation.So long as you progress fast enough it seems a matter of indifference to him whether you are progressing to the stars or the devil.So his house is filled with an endless succession of literary and political fashions; men who wear long hair because it is romantic; men who wear short hair because it is medical; men who walk on their feet only to exercise their hands; and men who walk on their hands for fear of tiring their feet.But though the inhabitants of his salons are generally fools, like himself, they are almost always, like himself, good men.I am really surprised to see a criminal enter there.""My good fellow," I said firmly, striking my foot on the pavement, "the truth of this affair is very simple.To use your own eloquent language, you have the `slight disadvantage' of being off your head.You see a total stranger in a public street; you choose to start certain theories about his eyebrows.You then treat him as a burglar because he enters an honest man's door.The thing is too monstrous.Admit that it is, Basil, and come home with me.Though these people are still having tea, yet with the distance we have to go, we shall be late for dinner."Basil's eyes were shining in the twilight like lamps.
"I thought," he said, "that I had outlived vanity.""What do you want now?" I cried.
"I want," he cried out, "what a girl wants when she wears her new frock; I want what a boy wants when he goes in for a clanging match with a monitor--I want to show somebody what a fine fellow I am.Iam as right about that man as I am about your having a hat on your head.You say it cannot be tested.I say it can.I will take you to see my old friend Beaumont.He is a delightful man to know.""Do you really mean--?" I began.
"I will apologize," he said calmly, "for our not being dressed for a call," and walking across the vast misty square, he walked up the dark stone steps and rang at the bell.
A severe servant in black and white opened the door to us: on receiving my friend's name his manner passed in a flash from astonishment to respect.We were ushered into the house very quickly, but not so quickly but that our host, a white-haired man with a fiery face, came out quickly to meet us.
"My dear fellow," he cried, shaking Basil's hand again and again, "I have not seen you for years.Have you been--er--" he said, rather wildly, "have you been in the country?""Not for all that time," answered Basil, smiling."I have long given up my official position, my dear Philip, and have been living in a deliberate retirement.I hope I do not come at an inopportune moment.""An inopportune moment," cried the ardent gentleman."You come at the most opportune moment I could imagine.Do you know who is here?""I do not," answered Grant, with gravity.Even as he spoke a roar of laughter came from the inner room.
"Basil," said Lord Beaumont solemnly, "I have Wimpole here.""And who is Wimpole?"
"Basil," cried the other, "you must have been in the country.
You must have been in the antipodes.You must have been in the moon.Who is Wimpole? Who was Shakespeare?""As to who Shakespeare was," answered my friend placidly, "my views go no further than thinking that he was not Bacon.More probably he was Mary Queen of Scots.But as to who Wimpole is--" and his speech also was cloven with a roar of laughter from within.
"Wimpole!" cried Lord Beaumont, in a sort of ecstasy."Haven't you heard of the great modern wit? My dear fellow, he has turned conversation, I do not say into an art--for that, perhaps, it always was but into a great art, like the statuary of Michael Angelo--an art of masterpieces.His repartees, my good friend, startle one like a man shot dead.They are final; they are--"Again there came the hilarious roar from the room, and almost with the very noise of it, a big, panting apoplectic old gentleman came out of the inner house into the hall where we were standing.
"Now, my dear chap," began Lord Beaumont hastily.
"I tell you, Beaumont, I won't stand it," exploded the large old gentleman."I won't be made game of by a twopenny literary adventurer like that.I won't be made a guy.I won't--""Come, come," said Beaumont feverishly."Let me introduce you.
This is Mr Justice Grant--that is, Mr Grant.Basil, I am sure you have heard of Sir Walter Cholmondeliegh.""Who has not?" asked Grant, and bowed to the worthy old baronet, eyeing him with some curiosity.He was hot and heavy in his momentary anger, but even that could not conceal the noble though opulent outline of his face and body, the florid white hair, the Roman nose, the body stalwart though corpulent, the chin aristocratic though double.He was a magnificent courtly gentleman;so much of a gentleman that he could show an unquestionable weakness of anger without altogether losing dignity; so much of a gentleman that even his faux pas were well-bred.
"I am distressed beyond expression, Beaumont," he said gruffly, "to fail in respect to these gentlemen, and even more especially to fail in it in your house.But it is not you or they that are in any way concerned, but that flashy half-caste jackanapes--"At this moment a young man with a twist of red moustache and a sombre air came out of the inner room.He also did not seem to be greatly enjoying the intellectual banquet within.
