Something to be hoped from him."
"Who is it?"
"You didn't hear us discussing him last night? A man called Claude
Faversham."
"Claude Faversham? A tall, dark fellow--writes a little--does a little
law--but mostly unemployed? Oh, I know him perfectly. Faversham? You
don't mean it!" Boden threw himself back in his chair with a sarcastic
lip, and relit his pipe. As he watched the spirals of smoke he recalled
the few incidents of his acquaintance with the young man. They had both
been among the original members of a small club in London, frequented
by men of letters and junior barristers. Faversham had long since dropped
out of the club, and was now the companion, so Boden understood, of much
richer men, and a great frequenter of the Stock Exchange, where money is
mysteriously made without working for it. That fact alone was enough for
Cyril Boden. He felt an instinctive, almost a fanatical, antipathy toward
the new agent. On the one side the worshippers of the Unbought and the
Unpriced; on the other Mammon and all his troop. It was so that Boden
habitually envisaged his generation. It was so, and by no other test,
that he divided the sheep from the goats.
Meanwhile, Lydia Penfold, driving a diminutive pony, was slowly
approaching the castle through the avenue of splendid oaks which led up
to it. Faversham was walking beside her. He had overtaken her at the
beginning of the avenue, and had sent on his motor that he might have
the pleasure of her society.
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