d begun with a
Pembroke fellowship and a prize poem. He had returned from his world
tour to his reflective yet original corner of _The Times_ and to the
production of books about national relationships and social psychology,
that had brought him rapidly into prominence.

His was a naturally irritable mind, which gave him point and passion;
and moreover he had a certain obstinate originality and a generous
disposition. So that he was always lively, sometimes spacious, and never
vile. He loved to write and talk. He talked about everything, he had
ideas about everything; he could no more help having ideas about
everything than a dog can resist smelling at your heels. He sniffed at
the heels of reality. Lots of people found him interesting and
stimulating, a few found him seriously exasperating. He had ideas in the
utmost profusion about races and empires and social order and political
institutions and gardens and automobiles and the future of India and
China and aesthetics and America and the education of mankind in
general.... And all that sort of thing....

Mr. Direck had read a very great deal of all this expressed
opiniativeness of Mr. Britling: he found it entertaining and stimulating
stuff, and it was with genuine enthusiasm that he had come over to
encounter the man himself. On his way across the Atlantic and during
the intervening days, he had rehearsed this meeting in varying keys, but
always on the supposition that Mr. Britling was a large, quiet,
thoughtful sort of man, a man who would, as it were, sit in attentive
rows like a public meeting and listen. So Mr. Direck had prepared quite
a number of pleasant and attractive openings, and now he felt was the
moment for some one of these various simple, memorable utterances. But
in none of these forecasts had he reckoned with either the spontaneous
activities of Mr. Britling or with the station-master of Matching's
Easy. Oblivious of any conversational necessities between Mr. Direck and
Mr. Britling, this official now took charge of Mr. Direck's grip-sack,
and, falling into line with the two gentlemen as they walked towards the
exit gate, resumed what was evidently an interrupted discourse upon
sweet peas, originally addressed to Mr. Britling.

He was a small, elderly man with a determined-looking face and a sea
voice, and it was clear he overestimated the distance of his hearers.

"Mr. Darling what's head gardener up at Claverings, _'e_ can't get sweet
peas like