The Clicking of Cuthbert

thought of the sombre realism of Vladimir Brusiloff. It is little

wonder that he tossed in bed, picking at the coverlet, through

sleepless nights, and had to have all his waistcoats taken in three

inches to keep them from sagging.

This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian

novelist, and, owing to the fact of his being in the country on a

lecturing tour at the moment, there had been something of a boom in his

works. The Wood Hills Literary Society had been studying them for

weeks, and never since his first entrance into intellectual circles had

Cuthbert Banks come nearer to throwing in the towel. Vladimir

specialized in grey studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened

till page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commit

suicide. It was tough going for a man whose deepest reading hitherto

had been Vardon on the Push-Shot, and there can be no greater proof of

the magic of love than the fact that Cuthbert stuck it without a cry.

But the strain was terrible and I am inclined to think that he must

have cracked, had it not been for the daily reports in the papers of

the internecine strife which was proceeding so briskly in Russia.

Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at the

rate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country were

murdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventually

give out.

One morning, as he tottered down the road for the short walk which was

now almost the only exercise to which he was equal, Cuthbert met

Adeline. A spasm of anguish flitted through all his nerve-centres as he

saw that she was accompanied by Raymond Parsloe Devine.

"Good morning, Mr. Banks," said Adeline.

"Good morning," said Cuthbert hollowly.

"Such good news about Vladimir Brusiloff."

"Dead?" said Cuthbert, with a touch of hope.

"Dead? Of course not. Why should he be? No, Aunt Emily met his manager

after his lecture at Queen's Hall yesterday, and he has promised that

Mr. Brusiloff shall come to her next Wednesday reception."

"Oh, ah!" said Cuthbert, dully.

"I don't know how she managed it. I think she must have told him that

Mr. Devine would be there to meet him."

"But you said he was coming," argued Cuthbert.

"I shall be very glad," said Raymond Devine, "of the opportunity of

meeting Brusiloff."

"I'm sure," said Adeline, "he will be very glad of the opportunity of

meeting you."

"Possibly," said Mr. Devine. "Possibly. Competent critics have said

that my work closely resembles that of the great Russian Masters."

"Your psychology is so deep."

"Yes, yes."

"And your atmosphere."

"Quite."

Cuthbert in a perfect agony of spirit prepared to withdraw from this

love-feast. The sun was shining brightly, but the world was black to

him. Birds sang in the tree-tops, but he did not hear them. He might

have been a moujik for all the pleasure he found in life.

"You will be there, Mr. Banks?" said Adeline, as he turned away.

"Oh, all right," said Cuthbert.

When Cuthbert had entered the drawing-room on the following Wednesday

and had taken his usual place in a distant corner where, while able to

feast his gaze on Adeline, he had a sporting chance of being overlooked

or mistaken for a piece of furniture, he perceived the great Russian

thinker seated in the midst of a circle of admiring females. Raymond

Parsloe Devine had not yet arrived.

His first glance at the novelist surprised Cuthbert. Doubtless with the

best motives, Vladimir Brusiloff had permitted his face to become

almost entirely concealed behind a dense zareba of hair, but his eyes

were visible through the undergrowth, and it seemed to Cuthbert that

there was an expression in them not unlike that of a cat in a strange

backyard surrounded by small boys. The man looked forlorn and hopeless,

and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home.

This was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Brusiloff had had

from Russia had been particularly cheering. Three of his principal

creditors had perished in the last massacre of the bourgeoisie,

and a man whom he owed for five years for a samovar and a pair of

overshoes had fled the country, and had not been heard of since. It was

not bad news from home that was depressing Vladimir. What was wrong

with him was the fact that this was the eighty-second suburban literary

reception he had been compelled to attend since he had landed in the

country on his lecturing tour, and he was sick to death of it. When his

agent had first suggested the trip, he had signed on the dotted line

without an instant's hesitation. Worked out in roubles, the fees

offered had seemed just about right. But now, as he peered through

the brushwood at the faces round him, and realized that eight out of

ten of those present had manuscripts of some sort concealed on their

persons, and were only waiting for an opportunity to whip them out

and start reading, he wished that he had stayed at his quiet home in

Nijni-Novgorod, where the worst thing that could happen to a fellow

was a brace of bombs coming in through the window and mixing