Now and then, however, some member, violating
every sense of decency, would take a violent liking for another member's
books. This he would express in words, to the discomfort of his fellows,
who, with a sudden chilly feeling in the stomach, would wonder why it
was not their books that he was praising.
Almost every year, and generally in March, certain aspirations would
pass into the club; members would ask each other why there was no
Academy of British Letters; why there was no concerted movement to limit
the production of other authors' books; why there was no prize given
for the best work of the year. For a little time it almost seemed as if
their individualism were in danger; but, the windows having been opened
wider than usual some morning, the aspirations would pass out, and all
would feel secretly as a man feels when he has swallowed the mosquito
that has been worrying him all night--relieved, but just a little
bit embarrassed. Socially sympathetic in their dealings with each
other--they were mostly quite nice fellows--each kept a little
fame-machine, on which he might be seen sitting every morning about the
time the papers and his correspondence came, wondering if his fame were
going up.
Hilary stayed in the club till half-past nine; then, avoiding a
discussion which was just setting in, he took his own umbrella, and bent
his steps towards home.
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