George Passant Read Online Free PDF

professional business) pushed on to the back of his head.
    I shouted down. George met us on the stairs: it did not take long to explain the news. He swore.
    We went back to Morcom’s flat to let him think it out. For minutes he sat, silent and preoccupied. Then he declared, with his extraordinary, combative optimism: ‘I expect Martineau will get me to stay behind after we’ve finished the social flummeries. It will give me a perfect opportunity to provide him with the whole truth. They’ve probably presented us with the best possible way of getting it home to the Canon.’
    But George was nervous as we entered Martineau’s drawing room – though perhaps no more nervous than he always felt when forced to go through the ‘social flummeries’, even the mild parties of Martineau’s Friday nights. He only faced this one tonight because of Olive’s nagging; while the rest of us went regularly, enjoyed them, and prized Martineau’s traditional form of invitation to ‘drop in for coffee, or whatever’s going ’ – though after a few visits, we learned that coffee was going by itself.
    ‘Glad to see you all,’ cried Martineau. ‘It’s not a full night tonight.’ There were, in fact, only a handful of people in the room; he never knew what numbers to expect, and on the table by the fireplace stood files of shining empty cups and saucers; while in front of the fire two canisters with long handles were keeping warm, still nearly full of coffee and milk, more than we should ever want tonight.
    Morcom and I sat down. George walked awkwardly towards the cups and saucers; he felt there was something he should do; he felt there was some mysterious etiquette he had never been taught. He stood by the table and changed his weight from foot to foot: his cheeks were pink.
    Then Martineau said: ‘It’s a long time since you dropped in, George, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s a bit hard if I only catch sight of my friends in the office? You know it’s good to have you here.’
    George smiled. In Martineau’s company he could not remain uncomfortable for long. Even when Martineau went on: ‘Talking of my friends in the office, I think Harry Eden is going to give us a look in tonight.’
    George’s expression became clouded, stayed clouded until Martineau baited him in his friendly manner. The remark about Eden had revived our warning: more, it made George think of a man with whom he was ill-at-ease; but no one responded to affection more quickly, and, as Martineau talked, George could put away unpleasant thoughts, and be happy with someone he liked.
    We all enjoyed listening to Martineau. His conversation was gay, unpredictable and eccentric; he had a passion, an almost mischievous passion, for religious controversies, and he loved to tell us on Friday nights that he had been accused of yet another heresy. It did not matter to him in the slightest that none of us was religious, even in any of his senses; he was a spontaneous person, and his ‘scrapes’, as he called them, had to be told to someone. So he described his latest letter in an obscure theological journal, and the irritated replies. ‘They say I’m getting dangerously near Manichaeism now,’ he announced cheerfully tonight.
    George chuckled. He had accepted all Martineau’s oddities: and it seemed in order that Martineau should stand in front of his fire, in his morning coat with the carnation in the buttonhole, and tell us of some plan for puzzling the orthodox. It did not occur to any of us that he was fifty and going through the climacteric which makes some men restless at that age. His wife had died two years before; we did not notice that, in the last twelve months, the eccentricities had been brimming over.
    Like George, we expected that he would stay as he was this Friday night, standing on his hearthrug, pulling his black tie into place over his wing collar. I persuaded him to read a letter from a choleric country parson; Martineau smiled over