He had the law of me, of course, but I
had a weapon to bring him to book. I could hold him up to public scorn
and ridicule. Were he to prosecute me I could put him in the pillory
as a wretch ungrateful for his life saved by my care and skill, a
promise-breaker and something of a lunatic. On the whole, I decided he
would not venture to put me in the dock. And so sure did I feel on that
head that I proceeded to London as fast as steam could carry me. Chapter XII

The Meeting


Whenever in London my practice for years had been to put up at
my friend Dixon Hubbard's rooms in Bruton Street. We had been
schoolfellows. He was one of the most fortunate and unfortunate
creatures in the world. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he
had inherited from some cross-grained ancestor a biting tongue and
a gloomy disposition. He was an incurable misanthrope and unpopular
beyond words. At college he had been detested. Being a sickly lad,
his tongue had earned him many a thrashing which he had had to endure
without other reprisal than sarcasm. Yet he had never spared that. His
spirit was unconquerable. I believe that he would have taunted his
executioners while they burned him at the stake. I used to hate him
myself once. But one day after giving him a fairly good hammering I
fell so in love with the manly way in which he immediately thereafter
gave me a sound excuse for wringing his neck that I begged his pardon
for being a hulking bully in having lifted hand against a weaker
body but a keener brain and more untamable spirit than my own. That
conquered him. From that moment we were inseparable chums, and on an
average the privilege cost me at least two hard fights a week, for my
code was--hit my chum and you hit me. His gratitude lay in jibing at
me if I lost the fight, and if I won informing me that I was a fool
for my pains. But we understood each other, and our friendship bravely
withstood the test of time and circumstance. I found him nursing an
attack of splenitic rheumatism before a fire in his study, and we were
still only in the middle of July. His man, Miller, had just broken
a Sévres vase, and Hubbard was telling Miller in a gentle, measured
way his views of clumsiness in serving-men. Miller--a meek, dog-like
creature usually--stood before his master glowing but inarticulate
with rage. His fists were clenched and his lips were drawn back from
his teeth. Hubbard was evidently enjoying himself. He watched the
effect of his placid exhortation with a sweet smile--and he applied
his mordant softly uttered gibes with the pride of a sculptor at work
upon an image. Each one produced some trifling but significant change
in Miller's expression. Probably Hubbard was experimenting--seeking
to discover either how far he could go with safety or exactly what it
would be necessary to say in order to make Miller spring at his throat. They were both so engrossed that I entered without disturbing them. I
listened for a moment and then created a diversion. Miller's tension
was positively dangerous. I walked over, took him by the collar and
propelled him from the room. "You'll find my bag downstairs," I said. "I've come to stay." Miller gave me the look of a dog that wants but does not dare to lick
your hand. His gratitude was pathetic. I shut the door in his face. Hubbard did not rise. He did not even offer to shake hands. He half
closed his eyes and murmured in a tired voice: "The bad penny is back
again, and uglier than ever." I crossed the room and threw open a window. Then I marched into his
bedroom, seized a water jug, returned and put out the fire. "You've been coddling yourself too long," I remarked. "Get up and
put on your hat. It's almost one. You are going to lunch with me at
Verrey's." "I have a stiff leg," he remonstrated. "Fancy! Mere fancy," I returned. The room was full of steam and smoke. Hubbard said a wicked thing and
got afoot, coughing. I found his hat, crammed it on his skull and
crooked my arm in his. He declined to budge and wagged a blistering
tongue, but I laughed and, picking him up, I carried him bodily
downstairs to a cab. He called me forty sorts of cowardly bully in his
gentle sweetly courteous tones, but before two blocks were passed his
ill-humour had evaporated. He remembered he had news to give me. We
had not met for eighteen months. Of a sudden he stopped beshrewing me
and leaned back in the cushions. I knew his ways and talked about the
weather. He endured it until we were seated within the grill-room. Then
he begged me very civilly to let God manage His own affairs. "I am very willing," I said. He impaled an oyster on a fork and sniffed at it with brutal
indifference to the waiter's feelings. Satisfied it was a good oyster,
he swallowed it. "I am no longer a bachelor," said he. "I have taken unto myself a wife." "The deuce!" I cried. "Exactly," he said. "But the prettiest imp imaginable." "My dear Hubbard, I assure you----"

"My dear Pinsent, you have blundered on the truth." "But----"

He held up a warning finger. "It occurred a year ago. We lived together
for six weeks. Then we compromised. I gave her my house in Park Lane
and returned myself to Bruton Street. Pish! man, don't look so shocked. Helen and I are friends--I see her once a week now at least, sometimes
more often. I assure you I enjoy her conversation. She has a natural
genius for gossip and uses all her opportunities. She has already
become a fixed star in the firmament of society's smartest set and
aspires to found a new solar system. I allow her fifteen thousand
pounds a year. She spends twenty. My compensation is that I am never
at a loss for a subject of reflection. We shall call on her this
afternoon. A devil, but diverting. You will be amused." "Do I know her, Hubbard?" "No; you are merely acquainted. Her maiden name was Arbuthnot." "Lady Helen Arbuthnot!" I cried. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "You will find her changed. Marriage has developed her. I remember before you went away--was it to
Egypt?--she tried her blandishments on you. But then she was a mere
apprentice. Heaven help you now--if she marks you for her victim." "Poor wretch!" I commented. "I suppose you can't help it. But you ought
to make an effort, Hubbard, really." "An effort. What for?" "To conceal how crudely in love with your wife you are." He bit his lips and frowned. "Children and fools speak the truth,"
he murmured. Then he set to work on the champagne and drank much
more than was good for him. The wine, however, only affected his
appearance. It brought a flush to his pallid cheeks and made his dull
eyes sparkle. He deluged me with politics till three o'clock. Then we
drove to Park Lane. Lady Helen kept us waiting for twenty minutes. In the meantime, two other callers joined us. Men. In order to show
himself at home Hubbard smoked a cigarette. The men looked pensively
appalled. They were poets. They wore long hair and exotic gardens in
their buttonholes. And they rolled their eyes. They must have been
poets.