on was made, however,
in the case of those who lived by written criticism, the opinions of such
persons being read by all, with a varying smile, and a certain cerebral
excitement. Now and then, however, some member, violating every sense of
decency, would take a violent liking for another member's books. This he
would express in words, to the discomfort of his fellows, who, with a
sudden chilly feeling in the stomach, would wonder why it was not their
books that he was praising.

Almost every year, and generally in March, certain aspirations would pass
into the club; members would ask each other why there was no Academy of
British Letters; why there was no concerted movement to limit the
production of other authors' books; why there was no prize given for the
best work of the year. For a little time it almost seemed as if their
individualism were in danger; but, the windows having been opened wider
than usual some morning, the aspirations would pass out, and all would
feel secretly as a man feels when he has swallowed the mosquito that has
been worrying him all night--relieved, but just a little bit
embarrassed. Socially sympathetic in their dealings with each
other--they were mostly quite nice fellows--each kept a little
fame-machine, on which he might be seen sitting every morning about the
time the papers and his correspondence came, wondering if his fame were
going up.

Hilary stayed in the club till half-past nine; then, avoiding a
discussion which was just setting in, he took his own umbrella, and bent
his steps towards home.

It was the moment of suspense in Piccadilly; the tide had flowed up to
the theatres, and had not yet begun to ebb. The tranquil trees, still
feathery, draped their branches along the farther bank of that broad
river, resting from their watch over the tragi-comedies played on its
surface by men, their small companions. The gentle sighs which distilled
from their plume-like boughs seemed utterances of the softest wisdom.
Not far beyond their trunks it was all dark velvet, into which separate
shapes, adventuring, were lost, as wild birds vanishing in space, or the
souls of men received into their Mother's heart.

Hilary walked, hearing no sighs of wisdom, noting no smooth darkness,
wrapped in thought. The mere fact of having given pleasure was enough to
produce a warm sensation in a man so naturally kind. But, as with all
self-conscious, self-distrustful, natures, that sensation had