His innocent-sounding queries, his adroit leads, were
smilingly turned aside. The defense, so far as Mr. Jelnik was
concerned, was ridiculously simple: he didn't want to talk about
himself and he didn't do it.
He was perfectly willing to talk, when the humor seized him, and he
did talk, brilliantly, wittily, freely, and impersonally. The
egoistic "I" was conspicuous by its absence. And while he talked you
could see the agile antennae of The Author's winged mind feeling
after the soul-string that might lead him through the mazes of this
unusual character. That he could be deftly diverted filled The
Author with chagrin mingled with wonder.
He manoeuvered for an invitation to the gray cottage and secured
it with suspicious ease; called, and had a glass of most excellent
wine in his host's simplest of bachelor living-rooms; made the
closer acquaintance of Boris--he didn't care for dogs--and of
self-contained, dark-faced Daoud, Mr. Jelnik's East Indian
man-servant; and came home dissatisfied and determined. He scented
"copy," and a born writer after copy is, next to an Apache after a
scalp or a Dyak after his enemy's head, the most ruthless of created
beings.
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