‘How long have I before the train starts?’

‘Five minutes, sir.’

‘Where is the telegraph office?’

The office was pointed out to him, and he telegraphed to Mallinson at the address of his publishers.  ’Have just reached England.  Dine with me at eight to-morrow at the Grand Hotel’; and he added after a moment’s pause, ‘Bring Conway, if you have not lost sight of him.—­DRAKE.’

When the train started Drake settled himself to the study of A Man of Influence.  The commentary of the salesman had prepared him for some measure of perplexity.  There would be hinted references and suggestions, difficult of comprehension to the traveller out of touch with modern developments.  These, however, would only be the ornaments, but the flesh and blood of the story would be perceptible enough.  It was just, however, this very flesh and blood which eluded him; he could not fix it in a definite form.  He did not hold the key to the author’s intention.

Drake’s vis-a-vis in the carriage saw him produce the book with considerable surprise, conscious of an incongruity between the reader and what he read.  His surprise changed to amusement as he noticed Drake’s face betray his perplexity and observed him turn now and again to the title upon the cover as though doubtful whether he had not misread it.  He gave an audible chuckle.

Drake looked up and across the carriage at a man of about fifty years of age with a large red face and a close-cropped pointed beard.  The chuckle swelled to a laugh.

‘You find that a hard nut to crack?’ Drake noticed a thickness in the articulation.

‘I have been some years abroad.  I hardly catch its drift,’ explained Drake, and then with an effort at praise: 

‘It seems a clever satire.’

‘Satire!’ guffawed the other.  ’Well, that’s rich!  Satire?  Why, it’s a manifesto.  Gad, sir, it’s a creed.  I believe in my duty to my senses and the effectuation of me for ever and ever, Amen.  The modern jargon!  Topsy Turvydom!  Run the world on the comic opera principle, but be flaming serious about it.  Satire, good Lord!’

He flung himself back on his cushions with a snort of contempt.

‘Look you, I’m not a pess—­’ he checked at the word and then took it at a run, ’a pessimist, but, as things are going on—­well, you have been out of the country and—­and you can’t help it, I suppose.  You may laugh!  P’raps you haven’t got daughters—­not that I have either, praise glory!  But nieces, if the father’s a fool, wear you out very little less.  Satire, ho! ho!’

The semi-intoxicated uncle of nieces relapsed vindictively into his corner and closed his eyes.  Occasionally Drake would hear a muffled growl, and, looking in that direction, would see one inflamed eye peering from a mountain of rugs.

‘Satire!’ and a husky voice would address the passengers indiscriminately.  ‘Satire! and the man’s not a day under forty either.’