o Harding said once, defending his friend's use of the
word "sweat" instead of "perspiration." There was no doubt the
language was deteriorating, becoming euphonistic; everybody was a
euphonist except Owen, who talked of his belly openly, blurting out
that he had vomited when he should have said he had been sick. There
were occasions when Harding did not spare Owen and laughed at his
peculiarities; but there was always a certain friendliness in his
malice, and Owen admired Harding's intelligence and looked forward
to a long evening with him almost as much as he had looked forward
to a drink of clean water. "It will be delightful to talk again to
somebody who has seen a picture and read a book," he said, leaning
over the taff-rail of the steamer. But this dinner did not happen
the day he arrived in London--Harding was out of town! And Owen
cursed his luck as he walked out of the doorway in Victoria Street.
"Staying with friends in the country!" he muttered. "Good God! will
he never weary of those country houses, tedious beyond measure--with
or without adultery," he chuckled as he walked back to his club
thinking out a full-length portrait of his friend--a small man with
high shoulders, a large overhanging forehead, walking on thin legs
like one on stilts. But Harding's looks mattered little; what people
sought Harding for was not for his personal appearance, nor even for
his writings, though they were excellent, but for his culture. A
curious, clandestine little man with a warm heart despite the
exterior. Owen had seen Harding's eyes nil with tears and his voice
tremble when he recited a beautiful passage of English poetry; a
passionate nature, too, for Harding would fight fiercely for his
ideas, and his life had been lived in accordance with his beliefs. As
the years advanced his imaginative writing had become perhaps a
little didactic; his culture had become more noticeable--Owen
laughed: it pleased him to caricature his friends--and he thought of
the stream of culture which every hostess could turn on when Harding
was her guest. The phrase pleased him: a stream of culture flowing
down the white napery of every country house in England, for Harding
travelled from one to another. Owen had seen him laying his plans at
Nice, beginning his year as an old woman begins a stocking (setting
up the stitches) by writing to Lady So-and-so, saying he was coming
back to England at a certain time. Of course Lady So-and-so would
ask