Now there flashed through his mind the wonderful things that he
intended "Mortimer Stant" to be. It was to concern a man of forty (in his
confident selection of that age he displayed, most stridently, his own
youth) and Mortimer was to be a stolid, reserved Philistine, who was,
against his will, by outside forces, dragged into an emotional crisis.
At the back of his mind he had, perhaps, Maradick for his figure, but that
was almost unconscious. "Mortimer Stant" was to represent a wonderful duel
between the two camps--the Artists and the Philistines--with ultimate
victory, of course, for the Artists. It was to be.... Well what was it to
be? At present the stolid Mortimer was hidden behind a phalanx of
people--Clare, young Stephen, Cards, Bobby, Mrs. Rossiter (tiresome woman),
Alice Galleon--_That_ was it. It was hidden, hidden just as parts of "The
Stone House" had been hidden, but hidden more deeply--a regular jungle of
interests and occupations was creeping, stealthily, stealthily upon him.
And then his eye fell upon an open letter that lay on his table, and, at
the sight of it, he was seized with a burning sense of shame. How could he
have forgotten?
The letter ran--
_My dear Mr. Westcott,
You have not been to see me for many months. Further opportunities may, by
the hand of God, be denied you.
Come if you can spare the time.
Pages:
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503