the sort of man who happened to fit what happened to be the
requirements of the time, and who happened to be in a position to
take advantage of them-"
It was then my uncle cried out and called me a damned young puppy,
and became involved in some unexpected trouble of his own.
I woke up as it were from my analysis of the situation to discover
him bent over a splendid spittoon, cursing incoherently, retching a
little, and spitting out the end of his cigar which he had bitten
off in his last attempt at self-control, and withal fully prepared
as soon as he had cleared for action to give me just all that he
considered to be the contents of his mind upon the condition of
mine.
Well, why shouldn't I talk my mind to him? He'd never had an
outside view of himself for years, and I resolved to stand up to
him. We went at it hammer and tongs! It became clear that he
supposed me to be a Socialist, a zealous, embittered hater of all
ownership-and also an educated man of the vilest, most
pretentiously superior description. His principal grievance was
that I thought I knew everything; to that he recurred again and
again…
We had been maintaining an armed truce with each other since my
resolve to go up to Cambridge, and now we had out all that had
accumulated between us. There had been stupendous accumulations…
The particular things we said and did in that bawlmg encounter
matter nothing at all in this story. I can't now estimate how near
we came to fisticuffs. It ended with my saying, after a pungent
reminder of benefits conferred and remembered, that I didn't want to
stay another hour in his house. I went upstairs, in a state of
puerile fury, to pack and go off to the Railway Hotel, while he,
with ironical civility, telephoned for a cab.
"Good riddance!" shouted my uncle, seeing me off into the night.
On the face of it our row was preposterous, but the underlying
reality of our quarrel was the essential antagonism, it seemed to
me, in all human affairs, the antagonism between ideas and the
established method, that is to say, between ideas and the rule of
thumb. The world I hate is the rule-of-thumb world, the thing I and
my kind of people exist for primarily is to battle with that, to
annoy it, disarrange it, reconstruct it. We question everything,
disturb anything that cannot give a clear justification to our
questioning, because we believe inherently that our sense of
disorder implies the possibility of a better order. Of course we
are detestable. My uncle was of that other vaster mass who accept
everything for the thing it seems to be, hate enquiry and analysis
as a tramp hates washing, dread and resist change, oppose
experiment, despise science. The world is our battleground; and all
history, all literature that matters, all science, deals with this
conflict of the thing that is and the speculative "if" that will
destroy it.
But that is why I did not see Margaret Seddon again for five years.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
MARGARET IN LONDON
1
I was twenty-seven when I met Margaret again, and the intervening
five years had been years of vigorous activity for me, if not of
very remarkable growth. When I saw her again, I could count myself
a grown man. I think, indeed, I counted myself more completely
grown than I was. At any rate, by all ordinary standards, I had
"got on" very well, and my ideas, if they had not changed very
greatly, had become much more definite and my ambitions clearer and
bolder.
I had long since abandoned my fellowship and come to London. I had
published two books that had been talked about, written several
articles, and established a regular relationship with the WEEKLY
REVIEW and the EVENING GAZETTE. I was a member of the Eighty Club
and learning to adapt the style of the Cambridge Union to larger
uses. The London world had opened out to me very readily. I had
developed a pleasant variety of social connections. I had made the
acquaintance of Mr. Evesham, who had been attracted by my NEW RULER,
and who talked about it and me, and so did a very great deal to make
a way for me into the company of prominent and amusing people. I
dined out quite frequently. The glitter and interest of good London
dinner parties became a common experience. I liked the sort of
conversation one got at them extremely, the little glow of duologues
burning up into more general discussions, the closing-in of the men
after the going of the women, the sage, substantial masculine
gossiping, the later resumption of effective talk with some pleasant
woman, graciously at her best. I had a wide range of houses;
Cambridge had linked me to one or two correlated sets of artistic
and literary people, and my books and Mr. Evesham and opened to me
the big vague world of "society." I wasn't aggressive nor
particularly snobbish nor troublesome, sometimes I talked well, and
if I had nothing interesting to say I said as little as possible,