But whispering tongues can poison truth.
COLERIDGE


London in early September is a somewhat trying place. Mark
Shrewsbury found it less pleasing in reality than in his visions
during the dinner-party at Dulminster. True, his chambers were
comfortable, and his type-writer was as invaluable a machine as
ever, and his novel was drawing to a successful conclusion; but
though all these things were calculated to cheer him, he was
nevertheless depressed. Town was dull, the heat was trying, and he
had never in his life found it so difficult to settle down to work.
He began to agree with the Preacher, that "of making many books
there is no end," and that, in spite of his favourite "Remington's
perfected No. 2," novel-writing was a weariness to the flesh. Soon
he drifted into a sort of vague idleness, which was not a good,
honest holiday, but just a lazy waste of time and brains. I was
pleased to observe this, and was not slow to take advantage of it.
Had he stayed in Pump Court he might have forgotten me altogether in
his work, but in the soft luxury of his Club life I found that I had
a very fair chance of being passed on to some one else.

One hot afternoon, on waking from a comfortable nap in the depths of
an armchair at the Club, Shrewsbury was greeted by one of his
friends.

"I thought you were in Switzerland, old fellow!" he exclaimed,
yawning and stretching himself.

"Came back yesterday--awfully bad season--confoundedly dull,"