Anson Warley had had his moments of being a rather remarkable man; but
they were only intermittent; they recurred at ever-lengthening intervals;
and between times he was a small poor creature, chattering with cold
inside, in spite of his agreeable and even distinguished exterior.
He had always been perfectly aware of these two sides of himself (which,
even in the privacy of his own mind, he contemptuously refused to dub a
dual personality); and as the rather remarkable man could take fairly
good care of himself, most of Warley's attention was devoted to
ministering to the poor wretch who took longer and longer turns at
bearing his name, and was more and more insistent in accepting the
invitations which New York, for over thirty years, had tirelessly poured
out on him. It was in the interest of this lonely fidgety unemployed self
that Warley, in his younger days, had frequented the gaudiest restaurants
and the most glittering Palace Hotels of two hemispheres, subscribed to
the most advanced literary and artistic reviews, bought the pictures of
the young painters who were being the most vehemently discussed, missed
few of the showiest first nights in New York, London or Paris, sought the
company of the men and women--especially the women--most conspicuous in
fashion, scandal, or any other form of social notoriety, and thus tried
to warm the shivering soul within him at all the passing bonfires of
success.
The original Anson Warley had begun by staying at home in his little
flat, with his books and his thoughts, when the other poor creature went
forth; but gradually--he hardly knew when or how--he had slipped into the
way of going too, till finally he made the bitter discovery that he and
the creature had become one, except on the increasingly rare occasions
when, detaching himself from all casual contingencies, he mounted to the
lofty water-shed which fed the sources of his scorn. The view from there
was vast and glorious, the air was icy but exhilarating; but soon he
began to find the place too lonely, and too difficult to get to,
especially as the lesser Anson not only refused to go up with him but
began to sneer, at first ever so faintly, then with increasing insolence,
at this affectation of a taste for heights.
