“Reggie Mann is no friend of mine,” said
Montague, abruptly.
There was a pause. “How in the world do
you stand that man?” he asked, by way of changing
the conversation.
“Oh, Reggie fills his place,” was the
reply. And Mrs. Billy gazed about the room.
“You see all these women?” she said.
“Take them in the morning and put half a dozen
of them together in one room; they all hate each other
like poison, and there are no men around, and there
is nothing to do; and how are you to keep them from
quarrelling?”
“Is that Reggie’s role?” asked the
other.
“Precisely. He sees a spark fly, and he
jumps up and cracks a joke. It doesn’t
make any difference what he does—I’ve
known him to crow like a rooster, or stumble over
his own feet—anything to raise a laugh.”
“Aren’t you afraid these epigrams may
reach your victim?” asked Montague, with a smile.
“That is what they are intended to do,”
was the reply.
“I judge you have not many enemies,” added
Mrs. Billy, after a pause.
“No especial ones,” said he.
“Well,” said she, “you should cultivate
some. Enemies are the spice of life. I mean
it, really,” she declared, as she saw him smile.
“I had never thought of it,” said he.
“Have you never known what it is to get into
a really good fight? You see, you are conventional,
and you don’t like to acknowledge it. But
what is there that wakes one up more than a good, vigorous
hatred? Some day you will realise it—the
chief zest in life is to go after somebody who hates
you, and to get him down and see him squirm.”
“But suppose he gets you down?” interposed
Montague.
“Ah!” said she, “you mustn’t
let him! That is what you go into the fight for.
Get after him, and do him first.”
“It sounds rather barbarous,” said he.
“On the contrary,” was the answer, “it’s
the highest reach of civilisation. That is what
Society is for—the cultivation of the art
of hatred. It is the survival of the fittest in
a new realm. You study your victim, you find
out his weaknesses and his foibles, and you know just
where to plant your sting. You learn what he wants,
and you take it away from him. You choose your
allies carefully, and you surround him and overwhelm
him; then when you get through with him, you go after
another.”
And Mrs. Billy glanced about her at the exquisite
assemblage in Mrs. Devon’s Louis Seize drawing-room.
“What do you suppose these people are here for
to-night?” she asked.
A weekor two had passed, when one day Oliver called
his brother on the ’phone. “Have
you or Alice any engagement this evening?” he
asked. “I want to bring a friend around
to dinner.”
“Who is it?” inquired Montague.
“Nobody you have heard of,” said Oliver.
“But I want you to meet him. You will think
he’s rather queer, but I will explain to you
afterwards. Tell Alice to take my word for him.”
