Too busily occupied with practical realities to follow the thought of the age through all its divagations and into all its recesses, these Massachusetts business men had had to consider methods of access more quintessential and nuclear.  And they had decided not to hunt out the best thought in its merely germinating stages, but to wait until it had emerged and flowered to some trustworthy recognition, and then, rather than toil through recondite and possibly already reconsidered books and writings generally, to offer an impressive fee to the emerged new thinker, and to invite him to come to them and to lecture to them and to have a conference with them, and to tell them simply, competently and completely at first hand just all that he was about.  To come, in fact, and be himself—­in a highly concentrated form.  In this way a number of interesting Europeans had been given very pleasant excursions to America, and the society had been able to form very definite opinions upon their teaching.  And Mr. Britling was one of the representative thinkers upon which this society had decided to inform itself.  It was to broach this invitation and to offer him the impressive honorarium by which the society honoured not only its guests but itself, that Mr. Direck had now come to Matching’s Easy.  He had already sent Mr. Britling a letter of introduction, not indeed intimating his precise purpose, but mentioning merely a desire to know him, and the letter had been so happily phrased and its writer had left such a memory of pleasant hospitality on Mr. Britling’s mind during Mr. Britling’s former visit to New York, that it had immediately produced for Mr. Direck an invitation not merely to come and see him but to come and stay over the week-end.

And here they were shaking hands.

Mr. Britling did not look at all as Mr. Direck had expected him to look.  He had expected an Englishman in a country costume of golfing tweeds, like the Englishman in country costume one sees in American illustrated stories.  Drooping out of the country costume of golfing tweeds he had expected to see the mildly unhappy face, pensive even to its drooping moustache, with which Mr. Britling’s publisher had for some faulty and unfortunate reason familiarised the American public.  Instead of this, Mr. Britling was in a miscellaneous costume, and mildness was the last quality one could attribute to him.  His moustache, his hair, his eyebrows bristled; his flaming freckled face seemed about to bristle too.  His little hazel eyes came out with a “ping” and looked at Mr. Direck.  Mr. Britling was one of a large but still remarkable class of people who seem at the mere approach of photography to change their hair, their clothes, their moral natures.  No photographer had ever caught a hint of his essential Britlingness and bristlingness.  Only the camera could ever induce Mr. Britling to brush his hair, and for the camera alone did he reserve that expression of submissive martyrdom Mr. Direck knew.  And