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Updated: June 27, 2025
Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelings on the evening of the arrival of Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d'Audierne. She was conscious of the little facts of everyday existence. She dressed for dinner with singular care; during that repast she talked and laughed much as usual, but all the while she felt like any one in all the world but Hilda Carew.
These two gentlemen were in no way of brilliant intellect. They had their share of sound, practical common-sense, which is in itself a splendid substitute. Mr. Bodery had supplied the capital, and Mr. Morgan's share of the undertaking was added in the form of a bustling, hollow energy. The Beacon was lighted, so to speak.
"The Beacon," he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal." He threw the papers down and returned to the Times, which he unfolded. "Tell me, Hilda," he said, "is Mr. Bodery connected with this weekly journal, the Beacon?" Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of the post-bag on a nail beside the fireplace.
Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, removing the contents. He looked up. "To-morrow morning," he said, "you will be able to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling sum of sixpence." Then the stranger walked slowly past Mr. Morgan out of the room.
One needs to be a philosopher, Mr. Bodery." "But," suggested the Englishman, "there may be changes. It may all come right." The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis. "If it began at once," he said, "it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present in the present France is governed by newspaper men."
He is pointing you out to the station-master." As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket. "There," he said, "we are safe. I think I can manage that fly." Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubby knees. "Now," he said, "tell me all about Vellacott." Sidney did so.
"Unless," added Hilda, "a telegram comes today." Christian laughed. "Unless," he said gravely, "the world comes to an end this evening." It happened during the precise moments occupied by this conversation, that Mr. Bodery, seated at his table in the little editor's room, opened the flimsy brown envelope of a telegram. He spread out the pink paper, and Mr.
Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke. "By the way," he said, "who is this person this Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's."
He took the letters from his pocket, and looked at the addresses again. "One is from Trevetz," he said slowly, "and the other from Mrs. Strawd." "Nothing from Mr. Bodery?" asked she indifferently. He had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, turning, he held Trevetz's letter against the wall while he wrote across it. Without ceasing his occupation, and in a casual way, he replied:
Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray. Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic. "Yes," he said calmly, "that really seems to be the case." "And newspaper men," pursued the Vicomte, "what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politicians in France to-day is the aggrandisement of themselves." Mr. Bodery yawned.
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