nded sugar
that announces an inveterate bachelorhood. Some men are born
bachelors. And when a man is born a bachelor, the signs unmistakable
are hardly apparent at thirty; it is not until the fortieth year is
approached that the fateful markings become recognizable. James
Norris was forty-two, and was therefore a full-fledged bachelor. He
was a bachelor in the complete equipment of his chambers. He was
bachelor in his arm-chair and his stock of wine; his hospitality was
that of a bachelor, for a man who feels instinctively that he will
never own a "house and home" constructs the materiality of his life
in chambers upon a fuller basis than the man who feels instinctively
that he will, sooner or later, exchange the perch-like existence of
his chambers for the nest-like completeness of a home in South
Kensington.

James Norris was of an excellent county family in Essex. He had a
brother in the army, a brother in the Civil Service, and a brother in
the Diplomatic Service. He had also a brother who composed somewhat
unsuccessful waltz tunes, who borrowed money, and James thought that
his brother caused him some anxiety of mind. The eldest brother, John
Norris, lived at the family place, Halton Grange, where he stayed
when he went on the Eastern circuit. James was far too securely a
gentleman to speak much of Halton Grange; nevertheless, the flavour
of landed estate transpired in the course of conversation. He has
returned from circuit, having finished up with a partridge drive,
etc.

James Norris was a sensualist. His sensuality was recognizable in the
close-set eyes and in the sharp prominent chin (he resembled vaguely
the portrait of Baudelaire in _Les Fleurs du Mal_); he never spoke of
his amours, but occasionally he would drop an observation, especially
if he were talking to Mike Fletcher, that afforded a sudden glimpse
of a soul touched if not tainted with erotism. But James Norris was
above all things prudent, and knew how to keep vice well in hand.

Like another, he had had his love story, or that which in the life of
such a man might pass for a love story. He had flirted a great deal
when he was thirty, with a married woman. She had not troubled, she
had only slightly eddied, stirred with a few ripples the placidity of
a placid stream of life. In hours of lassitude it pleased him to
think that she had ruined his life. Man is ever ready to think that
his failure comes from without rather than from within. He wrote