"Trimmer and Washer are coming round," he said, and as he spoke the door opened to admit these gentlemen. Of the same height, but different appearance, their manner was faintly jocular, faintly supercilious, as if they tolerated everything. The one whose name was Trimmer had patches of red on his large cheek-bones, and on his cheeks a bluish tint. His lips were rather full, so that he had a likeness to a spider. Washer, who was thin and pale, wore an intellectual smile.
The little fat host moved the hand that held the meerschaum.
"Crocker, Shelton," he said.
An awkward silence followed. Shelton tried to rouse the cultured portion of his wits; but the sense that nothing would be treated seriously paralysed his faculties; he stayed silent, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar. It seemed to him unfair to have intruded on these gentlemen without its having been made quite clear to them beforehand who and what he was; he rose to take his leave, but Washer had begun to speak.
"Madame Bovary!" he said quizzically, reading the title of the book on the little fat man's bookrest; and, holding it closer to his boiled-looking eyes, he repeated, as though it were a joke, "Madame Bovary!""Do you mean to say, Turl, that you can stand that stuff?" said Berryman.
As might have been expected, this celebrated novel's name had galvanised him into life; he strolled over to the bookcase, took down a book, opened it, and began to read, wandering in a desultory way about the room.
"Ha! Berryman," said a conciliatory voice behind--it came from Trimmer, who had set his back against the hearth, and grasped with either hand a fistful of his gown--"the book's a classic!""Classic!" exclaimed Berryman, transfixing Shelton with his eyes;"the fellow ought to have been horsewhipped for writing such putridity!"A feeling of hostility instantly sprang up in Shelton; he looked at his little host, who, however, merely blinked.
"Berryman only means," explains Washer, a certain malice in his smile, "that the author is n't one of his particular pets.""For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on his horse!" growled the little fat man suddenly.
Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down.
There was something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness.
"Imagine a man writing that stuff," he said, "if he'd ever been at Eton! What do we want to know about that sort of thing? A writer should be a sportsman and a gentleman"; and again he looked down over his chin at Shelton, as though expecting him to controvert the sentiment.
"Don't you--" began the latter.
But Berryman's attention had wandered to the wall.
"I really don't care," said he, "to know what a woman feels when she is going to the dogs; it does n't interest me."The voice of Trimmer made things pleasant:
"Question of moral standards, that, and nothing more."He had stretched his legs like compasses,--and the way he grasped his gown-wings seemed to turn him to a pair of scales. His lowering smile embraced the room, deprecating strong expressions. "After all," he seemed to say, "we are men of the world; we know there 's not very much in anything. This is the modern spirit; why not give it a look in?""Do I understand you to say, Berryman, that you don't enjoy a spicy book?" asked Washer with his smile; and at this question the little fat man sniggered, blinking tempestuously, as if to say, "Nothing pleasanter, don't you know, before a hot fire in cold weather."Berryman paid no attention to the impertinent inquiry, continuing to dip into his volume and walk up and down.
