From the day at Lympne Castle his relations with Helen had entered upon a new footing. He had prayed for Helen as good souls pray for Heaven, with as little understanding of what it was he prayed for. And now that period of standing humbly in the shadows before the shrine was over, and the goddess, her veil of mystery flung aside, had come down to him and taken hold of him, a good strong firm hold, and walked by his side. She liked him. What was singular was, that very soon she had kissed him thrice, whimsically upon the brow, and he had never kissed her at all. He could not analyse his feelings, only he knew the world was wonderfully changed about them; but the truth was that, though he still worshipped and feared her, though his pride in his engagement was ridiculously vast, he loved her now no more. That subtle something, woven of the most delicate strands of self-love and tenderness and desire, had vanished imperceptibly, and was gone now for ever. But that she did not suspect in him, nor, as a matter of fact, did he.
She took him in hand in perfect good faith. She told him things about his accent; she told him things about his bearing, about his costume and his way of looking at things. She thrust the blade of her intelligence into the tenderest corners of Kipps’ secret vanity; she slashed his most intimate pride to bleeding tatters. He sought very diligently to anticipate some at least of these informing thrusts by making great use of Coote. But the unanticipated made a brave number . . .
She found his simple willingness a very lovable thing.
Indeed, she liked him more and more. There was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, ‘awful.’ At New Romney she glanced but little—that was remote. But in her inventory—she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness—she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal ‘sing-songs’—she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo—much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins—‘Who is Buggins?’ said Helen—vague figures of indisputable vulgarity—Pearce and Carshot—and more particularly a very terrible social phenomenon—Chitterlow.
Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance, the first time they were abroad together.
They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school-play in Sandgate—at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them—when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps’ payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side-pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character—no doubt for some forthcoming play.
‘What ho!’ said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great flat hand that it suggested to Helen’s startled mind a conjurer about to palm a halfpenny.
‘’Ello, Chitt’low,’ said Kipps, a little awkwardly, and not saluting.
Chitterlow hesitated. ‘Half a mo’, my boy,’ he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. ‘Excuse me, my dear,’ he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen, and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He effected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps, while Helen stood in white amazement.
‘About that play,’ he said.
‘’Ow about it?’ asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen.
‘It’s all right,’ said Chitterlow. ‘There’s a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you. Strong.’
‘That’s aw right,’ said Kipps.
‘You needn’t tell everybody,’ said Chitterlow, with a transitory confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the ‘everybody’ just a trifle too strongly. ‘But I think it’s coming off. However—I mustn’t detain you now. So long. You’ll come round, eh?’
‘Right you are,’ said Kipps.
‘To-night?’
‘At eight.’
And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen’s, and noted her for a girl of quality . . .
There was a silence between our lovers for a space. ‘That,’ said Kipps, with an allusive movement of the head, ‘was Chitt’low.’
‘Is he—a friend of yours?’
‘In a way . . . You see, I met him. Leastways ’e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, ’e did, and so we got talking together.’
He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. ‘What is he?’
‘’E’s a Nacter chap,’ said Kipps. ‘Leastways ’e writes plays.’
‘And sells them?’
‘Partly.’
‘Whom to.’
‘Different people. Shares he sells—It’s all right, reely—I meant to tell you about him before.’
Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow’s retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence.
She turned to her lover, and said in a tone of quiet authority, ‘You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now.’
The explanation began . . . The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget, for a time, his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone.
Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine!
There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen’s manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps’ ears were soon quite brightly red.
‘Have you seen one of his plays?’
‘’E’s tole me about one.’
‘But on the stage.’
‘No. He ’asn’t ’ad any on the stage yet. That’s all coming . . . ’
‘Promise me,’ she said in conclusion, ‘you won’t do anything without consulting me.’
And, of course, Kipps promised. ‘Oo no!’
They went on their way in silence.
‘One can’t know everybody,’ said Helen in general.
‘Of course,’ said Kipps, ‘in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money.’ And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. ‘I don’t like to drop ‘im all at once,’ he added.
Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. ‘We shall live in London—soon,’ she remarked. ‘It’s only while we are here.’
It was the first intimation she gave him of their postnuptial prospects.
‘We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own.’
All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen’s efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor—there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves—but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, ‘You mustn’t say ‘centre temps,’ you must say ‘contraytom,’’ when he borrowed that expression from Manners and Rules, and she tried, at his own suggestion, to give him clear ideas upon the subject of ‘as’ and ‘has.’ A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first-fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with ‘h’ and draw a sawing breath—rather like a startled kitten—and then aspirate with vigour.
Said Kipps one day, ‘As ’e?—I should say, ah—Has ’e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?’
‘Well, ‘as’ is a conjunction, and ‘has’ is a verb.’
‘I know,’ said Kipps, ‘but when is ‘has’ a conjunction and when is ‘as’ a verb?’
‘Well,’ said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. ‘It’s has when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn’t it’s as. As, for instance, one says ’e—I mean he—He has. But one says—‘as he has.’’
‘I see,’ said Kipps. ‘So I ought to say ‘’as ’e?’’
‘No, if you are asking a question you say has ’e—I mean he—‘as he?’ She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity.
‘I see,’ said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. ‘I got it much clearer now. Has ’e? Has ’e as. Yes.’
‘If you remember about having.’
‘Oo, I will,’ said Kipps . . .
Miss Coote specialised in Kipps’ artistic development. She had early formed an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility; his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called round to see them she would show him some work of art—now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now ‘Academy Pictures,’ now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. ‘I know you like these things,’ she used to say, and Kipps said, ‘Oo, I do.’ He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. ‘That’s rather nace,’ he said to Mrs. Walshingham. ‘That lill’ thing. There.’ He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure.
He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no farther. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged, and even a sort of faded quality about her hair, and face, and bearing, and emotions, contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig’s-tail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. ‘Arthur,’ she called him from the very beginning.
She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, ‘I do like people to do’ so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses, how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, ‘quite a common man he looked,’ but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket-office with a lady, and so stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear . . . And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children—she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently—about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air . . .
In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed—and she seemed to assume—that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed; but he was surprised one day to gather that this was to be the case. ‘It wouldn’t do,’ said Helen, with decision. ‘We want to make a circle of our own.’
‘But won’t she be a bit lonely down here?’ asked Kipps.
‘There’s the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble, and Mrs. Bindon Botting, and—lots of people she knows.’ And Helen dismissed this possibility . . .
Young Walshingham’s share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hanson cab—penny a minute while he goes—how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all.
That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen’s conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them; but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting, and not so directly disagreeable, as the clear-out intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps’ delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham’s Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course—this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing—until ‘Brudderkins’ began to succeed; but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal.
When Helen spoke of London, a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle of the ‘Red Dragon,’ and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel, before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools. Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. ‘It’s perfectly easy,’ Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London, and had almost unavoidably become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then Red Hearts a-Beating, the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and naive passion and generous devotion, bold, as the Bookman said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney—she often called him Sidney—she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him, naturally, because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel . . . Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beauprés family came to nothing.
Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become ‘Cuyps,’ Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or was it Cuyp?
‘It’ll be rum at first,’ said Kipps.
‘I dessay I shall soon get into it,’ he said . . .
So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and as it were presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps’ nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate-coloured, projecting, but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing, he thought, was going off admirably. He studied Kipps’ character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with any one who would stand it. ‘He is an interesting character,’ he would say, ‘likeable—a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He’ll soon get Sang-Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now—Well—next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that.’
‘He’s going in for his bicycle now,’ said Mrs. Walshingham.
‘That’s all right for summer,’ said Coote, ‘but he wants to go in for some serious intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang-Froid’ . . .
The world, as Coote presented it, was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification, and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps—the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social gradation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers’ children, and the same dread of anything ‘common’ that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford’s establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps’ own position was removed, and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People, and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people, like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle-folk who have to manage—but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general quality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state—Society.
‘But reely,’ said the Pupil, ‘not what you call being in Society?’
‘Yes,’ said Coote. ‘Of course, down here, one doesn’t see much of it, but there’s local society. It has the same rules.’
‘Calling and all that?’
‘Precisely,’ said Coote.
Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. ‘I often wonder,’ he said, ‘whether I oughtn’t to dress for dinner—when I’m alone ’ere.’
Coote protruded his lips and reflected. ‘Not full dress,’ he adjudicated; ‘that would be a little excessive. But you should change, you know. Put on a mess jacket, and that sort of thing—easy dress. That is what I should do, certainly, if I wasn’t in harness—and poor.’
He coughed modestly, and patted his hair behind.
And after that the washing-bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned, to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as ‘chic,’ and appreciating the music highly. ‘That’s—puff—a very nice bit,’ Kipps would say; or better, ‘That’s nace.’ And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal.
The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those ‘beneath’ him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. ‘It’s jest there it’s so ’ard for me.’ said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain ‘distance,’ to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted.
‘I got mixed up with this lot ’ere,’ said Kipps. ‘That’s what’s so harkward—I mean awkward.’
‘You could give them a hint,’ said Coote.
‘Ow?’
‘Oh—the occasion will suggest something.’
The occasion came one early-closing night, when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand with his summer overcoat fully open, and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour, and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some Beethoven duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that every one about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pearce . . .
‘It’s nice to be a gentleman,’ said Pearce, and swung a penny chair into position, while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side, and leant upon his stick. He was smoking a common briar pipe!
Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed, and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pearce, and then away again, and it was evident their wonder was at an end.
‘He’s all right,’ said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps.
‘’Ello, Buggins!’ said Kipps, not too cordially. ‘’Ow goes it?’
‘All right. Holidays next week. If you don’t look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?’ ‘You going t’ Boologne?’ ‘Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet.’ ‘I shall ’ave a bit of a run over there one of these days,’ said Kipps.
There came a pause. Pearce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them.
‘I say, Kipps,’ he said in a distinct loud voice, ‘see ’er Ladyship lately?’
Kipps perceived the audience was to impressed, but he responded half-heartedly. ‘No, I ’aven’t,’ he said.
‘She was along of Sir William the other night,’ said Pearce, still loud and clear, ‘and she asked to be remembered to you.’ It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly, and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pearce. Kipps flushed scarlet. ‘Did she?’ he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. ‘Sir William suffers a lot from his gout,’ Pearce continued unabashed.
(Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pearce. ‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Kipps,’ he said.
‘I kep’ a chair for you,’ said Kipps, and removed a guardian foot.
‘But you’ve got your friends,’ said Coote. ‘Oh, we don’t mind,’ said Pearce cordially ‘the more the merrier’; and, ‘Why don’t you get a chair, Buggins?’ Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pearce, and Coote coughed behind his hand.
‘Been kep’ late at business?’ asked Pearce. Coote turned quite pale, and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time, and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pearce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone.
‘Mr. Coote, isn’t he?’ he asked.
Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension.
‘I’m rather late,’ he said. ‘I think we ought almost to be going on now.’
Kipps stood up. ‘That’s all right,’ he said.
‘Which way are you going?’ said Pearce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve.
For a moment Coote was breathless. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow, ‘I don’t think we’re in need of your society, you know,’ and turned away.
Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd.
For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly, and quite angrily for him, ‘I think that was awful Cheek!’
Kipps made no reply . . .
The whole thing was an interesting little object-lesson in ‘distance,’ and it stuck in the front of Kipps’ mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pearce with an expression between astonishment and anger.
He felt as though he had struck Pearce in the face under circumstances that gave Pearce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets, and even forget at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was.
But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true Gentleman. But it is not vocal. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was; but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety.
And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in St. Stylites’ choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side.
|
‘Christian, dost thou heed them On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an Prowl and prowl around? Christian, up and smai-it them . . . |
But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Finance, Politics, much more so those cardinal issues Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards, and ceased to speak, and panted and blew.
‘One doesn’t talk of that sort of thing,’ Coote would say, with a gesture of the knuckly hand.
‘O’ course,’ Kipps would reply, with an equal significance.
Profundities. Deep, as it were, blowing to deep.
One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Action speaks. Kipps—in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax—Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly, at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again—he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room who was his adopted sister left the Emporium—and he would sometimes go round to the Vestry for Coote, after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densmore, He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but they were introduced . . .
No! You must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman is without its ‘serious side,’ without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination, no doubt, refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who do things—impossible things; people who place themselves ‘out of it’ in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning; and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery—the Cut. The cut is no joke for any one. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set, or you may be—and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it—‘Cut by the Country.’ One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody .—Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff . . .
It never dawned upon Kipps that he could one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. It never dawned upon either of them.
Yet so it was to be!
One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far, indeed, you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the uses of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting, his own sitting! in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone . . . I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and, moreover, there was something interwoven in his being . . .