Читать книгу Set Down in Malice: A Book of Reminiscences онлайн

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Let me tell you all about it.

I was introduced to Stanley Houghton in Manchester by Jack Kahane—the latter a most brilliant and engaging personality who knew everybody: or, rather, everybody knew him.

“This,” said Kahane, indicating Houghton, “is one of Miss Horniman’s pets. She is doing a play of his this week at the Gaiety. Now, let me see, Stanley, what is the name of your little play?”

Houghton laughed deprecatingly.

“Oh, I saw it last night,” said I, “and jolly good it was. But I’ve seen another play of yours besides The Younger Generation; it was founded on a story by Guy deMaupassant. That, also, was tremendously amusing.”

He frowned, and I understood from the way that he ssss1 looked over my head that I had displeased him. For a moment he was silent, then:

“I’ve just been reading some of your verses in The English Review,” said he; “quite nice, quite nice.”

So then I examined him closely and saw a tall, fair youth, with plenty of straw-coloured hair, a prominent, rather crooked nose, and a manner of painful self-consciousness. I believe that, from that moment, we distrusted each other most heartily. We parted a few minutes later and I think Houghton must have shared my suspicion and regret that we should often have to meet after that date. Kahane was and is (though he has been in France these three years and I in Macedonia) my most intimate friend, and had lately “taken up” Houghton, and whenever Kahane did a thing he did it pretty thoroughly. And friends of a friend are bound to tumble across each other continually.