In a sense the war was to blame, as it has been to blame for so many things. But I bore it no grudge on that account, nor did I hold my country responsible for not finding me another career in place of the one which the war had marred. To fight for a country like England is a privilege at any time, and not a task to be undertaken in the hope of reward. England is grateful to her sons, and that is enough. All I asked was the right to remain in my native land with some chance of a decent living assured. That was a problem with which I had grappled, with poor results, since the Armistice. A little reading for the Bar, followed by four years' fighting in France, is not an ideal foundation for a career or the best preliminary towards compelling the world to disgorge what it is supposed to owe you. When the war broke out I was articled to the law, but I had applied myself to the study of that profession with the easy conscience of an only son, who expects in the course of time to succeed to a quite considerable estate.
The war put an end to that expectation. The heavy taxation of the period reduced my father's rent-roll by half, and dubious advice led him to speculate on the Stock Exchange in the hope of bettering his affairs. In that hope he was mistaken, like so many more. Unsupported by special knowledge, how could he succeed where thousands failed? His speculations were fantastical, and worse than that. When he died suddenly, with the coming of the peace in sight, the family home of Harethorns, in Berkshire, was no longer ours.
I survived for a while where better men fell, but bit by bit the passing years pushed me downhill. For a time I made some poor sort of living in various ways. Legal copying, odd jobs as a clerk, and selling articles on commission (euphemistically called "travelling," this) helped out my days. These and other occupations I followed in turn, with equally barren results. Journalism I tried several times, but Fleet Street had no use for my freelance pen; perhaps because I lacked a title, or had no scandalous reminiscences to impart.
So there I sat amid the palms and glitter of the charming grill-room on this bright autumn day. I had paid my bill and tipped the waiter, and a shilling remained. My last shilling!
That lunch was a foolish extravagance or an heroic act. It depends entirely upon how you regard such things.
I had thrown prudence to the winds, gone to the Pageham for lunch, where I had as good a meal as my ten-shillings would allow. The grilled sole was excellent, and the claret (a half bottle) one of which the head waiter—an old friend of mine—had recommended in years gone by. "You can pay more, m'sieu," he had murmured, with his incomparable shrug; "oh, vair much more, but the wine might not be so good. An Englishman orders wine by a price. A Frenchman? Mais non! he knows better by far. This wine is the equal of the Chateau Margaux. See, I tell to you a trick of ze trade. But it shall be a secret between us, hein?" And he went off with the pretence of a finger to his lips.
My lunch put me in better conceit with myself. Who does not fed better for a well-cooked meal and a good glass of wine? It was a cheap lunch for the Pageham too.
■ I sipped my last glass of wine and looked about me. All the tables among the palms seemed full, but people kept arriving still. On the distant music platform the little dark conductor jerked his limbs dementedly in the crescendo finale of the coming of the Volga's boats. Around me was chatter and laughter, hurrying waiters, and faces glowing with plethoric content. The man opposite me discharged a bill of three pounds for food and wine, and lolled back somnifacient, like a gorged beast of prey.
There was a lull in the music for a while. Then the orchestra started upon some arrangement for strings, which by and by turned into Chanson Triste—that sad little Russian air. With visions of silent steppes and dim grey horizons in
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