Page:The Climber (Benson).djvu/63

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THE CLIMBER
53

pay their respects; and in this swift motor-car of his an hour's card-leaving, since without doubt everyone would be at the cricket-ground, would pave the way for further interchange. The practice of leaving cards without asking whether the mistress of the house was at home he strongly deprecated, but it was cheering, since he had so many calls to make, to know that it was probable that not anybody would be in.


He drove himself, and though the car was a powerful one, and the three miles of white, straight road between him and Brixham was empty alike of passengers and vehicles, he always checked the throbbing engines when the dial showed by its vibrating finger that he was travelling at the outside of the legal limit; for, since there was a regulation that no car should go faster than that, it was binding on drivers not to exceed such a speed, whether anybody saw them or not. The fact that one was unobserved did not relax the obligation; it would have been as consistent to call oneself an honest citizen because one only stole when nobody happened to be looking.

The breeze made by the movement was pleasant on so hot a day, and pleasant were the thoughts with which his mind entertained itself as he bowled along the straight, empty road. He was full of schemes for a useful and busy future in the large sphere into which he had lately come, and though the responsibilities which to his mind were implied by his wealth and position were immense, the burden, so far from oppressing him, was the; cause of a rich and sober exhilaration. Responsibilities really spelled opportunities, duty spelled privilege; and it was with the eagerness of youth, combined with the strength of manhood, that he planned an ever-widening influence. He did not in the least want to preach to those who squandered opportunity and melted wealth into mere excitement and sensuous gratification, and, so far as that went, the dreadful monosyllable "prig" was no label for him. But though without the desire to preach, he had almost a passion for the practice, which was the outcome of what his sermon would have been, and in so far as that went, since his desire was self-conscious, the label was correct. The couple of years he had spent in the Guards filled him now with regret for wasted time, and though he was too consistent to waste more in regretting them, the regret was a constant spur to him. Not that he had any intention of giving up London and the business of socialities, which acts both as intoxicant and soporific to his mind,