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Updated: June 21, 2025
Yes, he was positively glad to see them. "Come in, come in," he called out hospitably. Followed by Mr. Scogan, Denis climbed the little ladder and stepped over the threshold. He looked suspiciously from Gombauld to his sitter, and could learn nothing from the expression of their faces except that they both seemed pleased to see the visitors.
Scogan replied, "and with intention. It made him seem even profounder than he actually was. But it was only in his aphorisms that he was so dark and oracular. In his Tales he was always luminous. Oh, those Tales those Tales! How shall I describe them? Fabulous characters shoot across his pages like gaily dressed performers on the trapeze.
"But you will not remain so for long," added Mr. Scogan sepulchrally. The young lady giggled again. "Destiny, which interests itself in small things no less than in great, has announced the fact upon your hand." Mr. Scogan took up the magnifying-glass and began once more to examine the white palm. "Very interesting," he said, as though to himself "very interesting. It's as clear as day."
Carminative the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which..." "Do come to the point, my dear Denis," protested Mr. Scogan. "Do come to the point." "Well, I wrote a poem the other day," said Denis; "I wrote a poem about the effects of love." "Others have done the same before you," said Mr. Scogan. "There is no need to be ashamed."
"No," she said, rather indignantly, when at last she heard what Denis was saying. "Certainly not. Has anyone been suggesting that I am?" "No," said Denis. "Mr. Scogan told Mary she was one." "Did he?" Jenny lowered her voice. "Shall I tell you what I think of that man? I think he's slightly sinister." Having made this pronouncement, she entered the ivory tower of her deafness and closed the door.
"Not at all," Mr. Scogan answered politely. "I was merely amused by my own speculations." "And what were they?" "The idlest, the most academic of speculations. I was looking at you one by one and trying to imagine which of the first six Caesars you would each resemble, if you were given the opportunity of behaving like a Caesar. The Caesars are one of my touchstones," Mr. Scogan explained.
He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future." Denis blushed scarlet. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his novel with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. "You're entirely wrong," he said. "My novel is not in the least like that." It was a heroic lie.
Henry Wimbush's school-fellow and exact contemporary, Mr. Scogan looked far older and, at the same time, far more youthfully alive than did that gentle aristocrat with the face like a grey bowler. Mr. Scogan might look like an extinct saurian, but Gombauld was altogether and essentially human.
Training would only have destroyed his natural aptitudes. "Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's a wonderful night." "Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these still more wonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozily every time he pulled at it. He was perfectly happy. Henry Wimbush was also happy.
"Ah, but, dear lady, that's only a symbol," exclaimed Mr. Barbecue-Smith, "a material symbol of a h-piritual truth. Lambs signify..." "Then there are military uniforms," Mr. Scogan went on. "When scarlet and pipe-clay were abandoned for khaki, there were some who trembled for the future of war.
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