The Hypocrite. Thorne Guy

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СКАЧАТЬ hand, afraid to speak. Gobion felt a horrible remorse, but he choked down his emotion by an enormous effort of will.

      The train began to move.

      "God bless you, God bless you, old un," said Scott hoarsely.

      "An epithet is the conclusion of a syllogism," said Gobion to himself, lighting a cigarette as the train glided out of the station.

      So he went his way, and they saw him no more.

      CHAPTER III

      INITIATION

      Gobion went to the Grosvenor Hotel and dressed for dinner. Never before had he been so free, so unrestrained. A most pleasurable feeling of excitement possessed him.

      He knew he could venture where another man would fail; he had fascination, resource – he was utterly unscrupulous; it was almost pleasingly dramatic.

      He stood in the hall after dinner and lit a cigarette, watching the crowd of well-dressed people on the lounges round the wall, enjoying their after-dinner coffee.

      The excellent dinner he had eaten still wanted the final climax of coffee, and sitting down in an armchair he ordered some.

      The dreamy content of a well-fed, but not over-fed, man beamed from him. What should he do? – a music-hall perhaps – he could almost have laughed aloud in pure amusement and delight at his freedom.

      A man sitting near asked him for a match, and they began to talk in the idle desultory way of two chance acquaintances, making remarks about the people sitting round.

      A big, yellow-haired girl was talking and laughing in loud tones on the other side of the room, clattering her fan with, it seemed to Gobion, quite unnecessary noise.

      "Who is that person?" he said.

      "Which?"

      "The girl with the bun, by the potted palm."

      "Oh," said the stranger, "that is Lady Mary Aiden Hibbert; she is of a rather buoyant disposition."

      "Not to say Tom buoyant," said Gobion, punning lazily; "she seems of an amiable complexion."

      "My dear sir, complexion of both kinds is influenced by cosmetics, not by character."

      "I perceive you are a cynic."

      "Possibly," said the other in a meditative tone; "yet not so much of a cynic as a man in quest of sensations."

      "A society journalist?"

      "No, merely a man who has become tired of the higher immorality, and wants something else to do."

      Gobion laughed and got up. "I'm going to the Palace for an hour or two."

      "May I come?" said the stranger; "my name is Jones."

      "Please do. I am called Yardly Gobion. I shouldn't like to be called Jones, it's not a pretty name."

      The other smiled, he was not vexed; Gobion knew his man. They drove swiftly to the Palace through the lighted streets, talking a little on the way. When they went into the stalls the hysterio-comic of the hour was leaping round the stage in frenzied pirouettes between the verses of her song.

      The suggestive music of the dance pulsed through the audience, and when the time sank into the rhythm of the verse, they sat back in their seats with expectant eyes, and a little sigh of delight and anticipation.

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