Isaac became uneasy, for the spirit of imprecation sat visibly on his
son's brow. "When I said I'd make it worth your while I meant it."
"I know. It isn't that--"
"Wot is it? Wot is it then? Wot's the matter with you? Wot tomfoolery
are you up to? Is it--" (Isaac's gross forehead flushed, his speech
came thick through his stern lips.) "Is it a woman?"
He had also been young; though he had denied his youth.
The boy's white face quivered with a little wave of heat and pain. He
clasped his forehead with his hands.
"Let me think."
His fingers tightened their hold, as if to grasp thought by holding
the dizzy aching head that contained it. He could think of nothing but
Poppy. He had seen his father's point quite steadily and clearly a
minute ago; but when he thought of Poppy his brain began to turn round
and round again. He gripped his forehead harder still, to stop it.
His thinking drifted into a kind of moody metaphysics instead of
concentrating itself on the matter in hand. "It takes a poet," he said
to himself, "to create a world, and this world would disgrace a Junior
Journalist." Was it, he wondered, the last effort of a cycle of
transcendental decadence, melancholy, sophisticated? Or was it a cruel
young jest flung off in the barbarous spring-time of creative energy?
Either way it chiefly impressed him with its imbecility. He saw
through it. He saw through most things, Himself included. He knew
perfectly well that he had developed this sudden turn for speculative
thought because he was baulked of an appointment with a little variety
actress.
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