Factories -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Love stories; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
“Yes, thanks,” said Marsten, with such eagerness that the other laughed
again.
“Well, I’m delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, don’t you know. Your
name’s Langton, if I remember rightly?”
“My name is Marsten.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m the stupidest fool in the kingdom about names,
and it’s an awfully bad failing. People seem to get offended if you
can’t remember their names. I’m sure I can’t tell why. I wouldn’t care
tuppence what I was called, so long as you don’t say I’m no painter.
Then I’m ready to fight. A man who won’t fight for his art oughtn’t to
have an art. And, talking about art, I remember now that Langton was
the fellow you sent me who can play the piano as if he were a
Rubinhoff--that Russian player, don’t you know. Well, I’m thundering
glad to see you; I was just hoping to meet some fellow I knew. I’m dying
for some one to talk to. It’s a beastly dull hole, Eastbourne, don’t you
know.”
“I was never here before. It seems to me a very nice place.”
“Yes, it looks that way at first, but wait till you’ve been here a day
or two. It’s so wretchedly respectable!--that’s what I object to in it.
Respectability’s bad enough on its native heath, but sea air seems to
accentuate it, don’t you know. I can’t tell you why it is, but it’s so;
and respectability that you can put up with in London becomes unbearable
down by the sea. Haven’t you noticed that? And it’s all on such a
slender basis too: the third-class fare to Brighton is four shillings
and tuppence-ha’penny, while to Eastbourne it’s four shillings and
elevenpence, so all this swagger is on a beggarly foundation of
eightpence-ha’penny. You see what I mean? I wouldn’t give a week in
Brighton for a day in Eastbourne, although I should hate to be condemned
to either, for that matter. London is the only town that’s exactly my
size, don’t you know.”
“Then why do you stop at Eastbourne?”
“Ah, now you come to the point; now you place your finger right on the
spot. Why, indeed? Can’t you guess? I can tell in a moment why you are
here.”
“Why?” asked Marsten, in some alarm.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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