so Aynesworth thought then.
They were dining at a restaurant in the Strand, which Aynesworth had selected as representing one, the more wealthy, type of Bohemian life. The dinner and wine had been of his choosing. Wingrave had stipulated only for the best. Wingrave himself had eaten very little, the bottle of wine stood half empty between them. The atmosphere of the place, the effect of the wine, the delicate food, and the music, were visible to a greater or less degree, according to temperament, amongst all the other little groups of men and women by whom they were surrounded. Wingrave alone remained unaffected. He was carefully and correctly dressed in clothes borrowed from his new tailor, and he showed not the slightest signs of strangeness or gaucherie amongst his unfamiliar surroundings. He looked about him always, with the cold, easy nonchalance of the man of the world. Of being recognized he had not the slightest fear. His frame and bearing, and the brightness of his deep, strong eyes, still belonged to early middle age, but his face itself, worn and hardened, was the face of an elderly man. The more Aynesworth watched him, the more puzzled he felt.
“I am afraid,” he remarked, “that you are disappointed in this place.”
“Not at all,” Wingrave answered. “It is typical of a class, I suppose. It is the sort of place I wished to visit.”
In a corner of the room Aynesworth had recognized a friend and fellow clubman, who was acting at a neighboring theater. He was dining with some young ladies of his company, and beckoned to Aynesworth to come over and join them. He pointed them out to Wingrave.
“Would you care to be introduced?” he asked. “Holiwell is a very good fellow, and the girls might interest you. Two of them are Americans, and they are very popular.”
Wingrave shook his head.
“Thank you, no!” he said. “I should be glad to meet your friend some time when he is alone.”
It was the first intimation which Aynesworth had received of his companion’s sentiments as regards the other sex. Years afterwards, when his attitude towards them was often quoted as being one of the extraordinary features of an extraordinary personality, he remembered his perseverance on this occasion.
“You have not spoken to a woman for so many years,” he persisted. “Why not renew the experience? Nothing so humanizing, you know—not even cigarettes.”
Wingrave’s face fell, if possible into sterner lines. His tone was cold and hard.
“My scheme of life,” he said, “may be reconstructed more than once before I am satisfied. But I can assure you of this! There will be no serious place in it for women!”
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders. He never doubted but that in a month of two his vis-a-vis would talk differently.
“Your scheme of life,” he repeated thoughtfully. “That sounds interesting! Have you any objection, I wonder, to telling me what manner of life you propose to lead?”
It was several moments before Wingrave answered him. He was smoking a cigar in a mechanical sort of way, but he obviously derived no pleasure from it. Yet Aynesworth noticed that some instinct had led him to choose the finest brand.
“Perhaps,” he said, letting his eyes rest coldly upon his questioner, “if I told you all that was in my mind you would waive your month’s salary and get back to your journalism!”
Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders.
“Why should you suppose that?” he asked. “I am not a moralist myself, nor am I the keeper of your conscience. I don’t think that you could frighten me off just yet.”
“Nevertheless,” Wingrave admitted, “there are times when I fear that we shall not get on together. I begin to suspect that you have a conscience.”
“You are the first,” Aynesworth assured him, “who has ever flattered me to that extent.”
“It may be elastic, of course,” Wingrave continued, “but I suspect its existence. I warn you that association with me will try it hard.”
“I accept the challenge,” Aynesworth answered lightly.
“You are rasher than you imagine,” Wingrave declared. “For instance, I have admitted to you, have I not, that I am interested in my fellow creatures, that I want to mix with them and watch them at their daily lives. Let me assure you that that interest is not a benevolent one.”
“I never fancied that you were a budding philanthropist,” Aynesworth remarked, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“I find myself,” Wingrave continued thoughtfully, “in a somewhat unique position. I am one of the ordinary human beings with whom the world is peopled, but I am not conscious of any of the usual weaknesses of sentiment or morality. For instance, if that gentleman with the red face, who has obviously eaten and drunk too much, were to have an apoplectic fit at the moment, and die in his chair, it would not shock or distress me in the least. On the contrary, I should be disposed to welcome his removal from a world which he obviously does nothing to adorn.”
Aynesworth glanced at the person in question. He was a theatrical agent and financier of stock companies, whom he knew very well by sight.
“I suppose,” Wingrave continued, “that I was born with the usual moral sentiments, and the usual feelings of kinship towards my fellow creatures. Circumstances, however, have wholly destroyed them. To me, men have become the puppets and women the dancing dolls of life. My interest in them, if it exists at all, is malevolent. I should like to see them all suffer exactly as I have suffered. It would interest me exceedingly.”
Still Aynesworth remained silent. He was anxious to hear all that was in the other’s mind, and he feared lest any interruption might divert him.
“There are men in the world,” Wingrave continued, “called philanthropists, amiable, obese creatures as a rule, whose professed aim in life it is to do as much good as possible. I take my stand upon the other pole. It is my desire to encourage and to work as much evil as possible. I wish to bring all the suffering I can upon those who come within the sphere of my influence.”
“You are likely,” Aynesworth remarked, “to achieve popularity.”
Wingrave regarded him steadfastly.
“Your speech,” he said, “is flippant, but you yourself do not realize how near it comes to the truth. Human beings are like dogs—they are always ready to lick the hand that flogs them. I mean to use the scourge whenever I can seize the opportunity, but you will find the jackals at my heels, nevertheless, whenever I choose to whistle.”
Aynesworth helped himself to a liqueur. He felt that he needed it.
“One weakness alone distresses me,” Wingrave continued. “In all ordinary matters of sentiment I am simply a negation. There is one antipathy, however, which I find it hard to overcome. The very sight of a woman, or the sound of her voice, distresses me. This is the more unfortunate,” he continued, “because it is upon the shoulders of her sex that the greater portion of my debt to my fellow creatures rests. However, time may help me!”
Aynesworth leaned back in his chair, and contemplated his companion for the next few moments in thoughtful silence. It was hard, he felt, to take a man who talked like this seriously. His manner was convincing, his speech deliberate and assured. There was not the slightest doubt but that he meant what he said, yet it seemed to Aynesworth equally certain that the time would come, and come quickly, when the unnatural hardness of the man would yield to the genial influence of friendship, of pleasure, of the subtle joys of freedom. Those past days of hideous monotony, of profitless, debasing toil, the long, sleepless nights, the very nightmare of life to a man of Wingrave’s culture and habits, might well have poisoned his soul, have filled him with ideas such as these. But everything was different now! The history of the world could show no epoch when pleasures so many and various were there for the man who carries the golden key. Today he was a looker-on, and the ice of his years of bitterness had not melted. Tomorrow, at any moment, he might catch