John MacNab Read Free Page A

next morning. That also could slide. He wanted, nay, he was determined, to make a mess of it.
    Then he discovered that he was hungry, and that it was nearly the hour when a man may dine. ‘I’ve only one positive feeling left,’ he told himself, ‘the satisfaction of my brute needs. Nice position for a gentleman and a Christian!’
    There was one other man in the dining-room, sitting at the little table in the window. At first sight he had the look of an undergraduate, a Rugby Blue, perhaps, who had just come down from the University, for he had the broad, slightly stooped shoulders of the football-player. He had a ruddy face, untidy sandy hair, and large reflective grey eyes. It was those eyes which declared his age, for round them were the many fine wrinkles which come only from the passage of time.
    â€˜Hullo, John,’ said Leithen. ‘May I sit at your table?’
    The other, whose name was Palliser-Yeates, nodded.
    â€˜You may certainly eat in my company, but I’ve got nothing to say to you, Ned. I’m feeling as dried-up as a dead starfish.’
    They ate their meal in silence, and so preoccupied was Sir Edward Leithen with his own affairs that it did not seem to him strange that Mr Palliser-Yeates, who was commonly a person of robust spirits and plentiful conversation, should have the air of a deaf-mute. When they had reached the fish, two other diners took their seats and waved them a greeting. One of them was a youth with lean, high-coloured cheeks, who limped slightly; the other a tallish older man with a long dark face, a small dark moustache, and a neat pointed chin which gave him something of the air of a hidalgo. He looked weary and glum, but his companion seemed to be in the best of tempers, for his laugh rang out in that empty place with a startling boyishness. Mr Palliser-Yeates looked up angrily, with a shiver.
    â€˜Noisy brute, Archie Roylance!’ he observed. ‘I suppose he’s above himself since Ascot. His horse won some beastly race, didn’t it? It’s a good thing to be young and an ass.’
    There was that in his tone which roused Leithen from his apathy. He cast a sharp glance at the other’s face.
    â€˜You’re off-colour.’
    â€˜No,’ said the other brusquely. ‘I’m perfectly fit. Only I’m getting old.’
    This was food for wonder, inasmuch as Mr Palliser-Yeates had a reputation for a more than youthful energy and, although forty-five years of age, was still accustomed to do startling things on the Chamonix aiguilles. He was head of an eminent banking firm and something of an authority on the aberrations of postwar finance.
    A gleam of sympathy came into Leithen’s eyes.
    â€˜How does it take you?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’ve lost zest. Everything seems more or less dust and ashes. When you suddenly wake up and find that you’ve come to regard your respectable colleagues as so many fidgety old women and the job you’ve given your life to as an infernal squabble about trifles – why, you begin to wonder what’s going to happen.’
    â€˜I suppose a holiday ought to happen.’
    â€˜The last thing I want. That’s my complaint. I have no desire to do anything, work or play, and yet I’m not tired – only bored.’
    Leithen’s sympathy had become interest.
    â€˜Have you seen a doctor?’
    The other hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘I saw old Acton Croke this afternoon. He was no earthly use. He advised me to go to Moscow and fix up a trade agreement. He thought that might make me content with my present lot.’
    â€˜He told me to steal a horse.’
    Mr Palliser-Yeates stared in extreme surprise. ‘You! Do you feel the same way? Have you been to Croke?’
    â€˜Three hours ago. I thought he talked good sense. He said I must get into a rougher life so as to appreciate the blessings of the life that I’m fed up with.