It was amazing to Peter to hear the gods of his world alluded
to as "poor old S---- poor fellow!... Yes, indeed. I remember his coming
into breakfast one day..." or "You were asking about T---- Old Wallie, as
we used to call him--poor fellow, poor fellow--we lived together in rooms
for some time. That was before I married--and perilously, dangerously--I
might almost say magnificently near starvation we were too...."
Peter already inflamed with that earlier half-hour in the garden now
breathed a portentous air. He was with the Gods ... there on the Olympian
heights he drank with them, he sang songs with them, with mighty voices
they applauded "Reuben Hallard." He drank in his excitement many whiskies
and sodas and soon the white room with its books was like the inside of a
golden shell. The old man opposite him grew in size--his face was ever
larger and larger, his shirt front bulged and bulged--his hand raised to
emphasise some point was tremendous as the hand of a God. Peter felt that
he himself was growing smaller and smaller, would soon, in the depths of
that mighty arm-chair disappear altogether but that opposite him two mighty
burning eyes held him. And always like thunder the voice rolled on....
"My son tells me that this book of yours is a success ... that they are
emptying their purses to fill yours. That may be a dangerous thing for you.
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