Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (138 page)

"It's
good,
it's
good!"
he
said,
chuckling;
"what
a
queer
devil
I
ami My
dumb
ancestors
pipe
oddly
in
me.
It's
strange,
devilish
strange; man's
but
a
mouthpiece,
and
crazy
at
that.
How
long
has
this
last thing
been
hatching?
The
story
is
old,
yet
new.
Gibbon
shall
have
it. It
will
just
suit
him.
Little
beast,
little
horror,
little
hog,
with
a
divine gold
ring
of
appreciation
in
his
grubbing
snout."

He
drank
half
a
tumbler
of
whisky,
and
tumbled
into
bed.
His
mind ran
riot.

"My
ego's
a
bit
fissured,"
he
said.
"I
ought
to
be
careful."

And
ere
he
fell
asleep
he
talked
conscious
nonsense.
Incongruous ideas
linked
themselves
together;
he
sneered
at
his
brain's
folly,
and yet
he
was
afraid.
He
used
morphine
at
last
in
such
a
big
dose
that
it touched
the
optic
centre
and
subjective
lightnings
flashed
in
his
dark room.
He
dreamed
of
an
"At
Home,"
where
he
met
big,
brutal Burford
wearing
a
great
diamond
in
his
shirt-front.

"Bought
by
my
conveyed
thoughts,"
he
said.
But
looking
down
he
perceived
that
he
had
yet
a
greater
jewel
of
his
own,
and
soon
his soul
melted
in
the
contemplation
of
its
rays,
till
his
consciousness
was dissipated
by
a
divine
absorption
into
the
very
Nirvana
of
Light.

When
he
woke
the
next
day,
it
was
already
late
in
the
afternoon. He
was
overcome
by
yesterday's
labour,
and,
though
much
less
irritable,
he
walked
feebly.
The
trouble
of
posting
his
story
to
Gibbon seemed
almost
too
much
for
him;
but
he
sent
it,
and
took
a
cab
to
his club,
where
he
sat
almost
comatose
for
many
hours.

Two
days
afterwards
he
received
a
note
from
the
editor,
returning
his
story.
It
was
good,
but
-----

"Burford
sent
me
a
tale
with
the
same
motive
weeks
ago,
and
I accepted
it."

Esplan
smashed
his
thin
white
hand
on
his
mantelpiece,
and
made it
bleed.
That
night
he
got
drunk
on
champagne,
and
the
brilliant wine
seemed
to
nip
and
bite
and
twist
every
nerve
and
brain
cell.
His irritability
grew
so
extreme
that
he
lay
in
wait
for
subtle,
unconceived insults,
and
meditated
morbidly
on
the
aspect
of
innocent
strangers. He
gave
the
waiter
double
what
was
necessary,
not
because
it
was particularly
deserved,
but
because
he
felt
that
the
slightest
sign
of
discontent
on
the
man's
part
might
lead
to
an
uncontrollable
outburst
of anger
on
his
own.

Next
day,
he
met
Burford
in
Piccadilly,
and
cut
him
dead
with
a bitter
sneer.

"I
daren't
speak
to
him—I
daren't!"
he
muttered.

And
Burford,
who
could
not
quite
understand,
felt
outraged.
He himself
hated
Esplan
with
the
hatred
of
an
outpaced,
outsailed
rival. He
knew
his
own
work
lacked
the
diabolical
certainty
of
Esplan's—it wanted
the
fine
phrase,
the
right
red
word
of
colour,
the
rush
and onward
march
to
due
finality,
the
bitter,
exact
conviction,
the
knowledge
of
humanity
that
lies
in
inheritance,
the
exalted
experience
that proves
received
intuitions.
He
was,
he
knew,
a
successful
failure,
and his
ambition
was
greater
even
than
Esplan's.
For
he
was
greedy,
grasping,
esurient,
and
his
hollowness
was
obvious
even
before
Esplan proved
it
with
his
ringing
touch.