In the afternoon as he went round the links with Horace Toomer he got some definite lights upon Sir Isaac.  
His mind was so full of Lady Harman that he couldn't but talk of her visit. "I've a possible tenant¹ for my cottage," he said as he and Toomer, full of the sunny contentment of English gentlemen who had played a proper game in a proper manner, strolled back towards the clubhouse. "That man Harman."
 
"Not the International Stores and Staminal Bread man."
 
"Yes. Odd. Considering my hatred² of his board."
 
"He ought to pay—anyhow," said Toomer. "They say he has a pretty wife and keeps her shut up."
 
"She came," said Brumley, neglecting to add the trifling³ fact that she had come alone.
 
"Pretty?"
 
"Charming, I thought."
 
"He's jealous of her. Someone was saying that the chauffeur⁴ has orders not to take her into London—only for trips in the country. They live in a big ugly house I'm told on Putney Hill. Did she in any way look—as though——?"
 
"Not in the least. If she isn't an absolutely straight young woman I've never set eyes on one."
 
"He," said Toomer, "is a disgusting creature."
 
"Morally?"
 
"No, but—generally. Spends his life ruining little tradesmen, for the fun of the thing. He's three parts an invalid⁵ with some obscure kidney disease. Sometimes he spends whole days in bed, drinking Contrexéville Water and planning the bankruptcy⁶ of decent men.... So the party made a knight⁷ of him."
 
"A party must have funds, Toomer."
 
"He didn't pay nearly enough. Blapton is an idiot with the honours. When it isn't Mrs. Blapton. What can you expect when —— ——"
 
(But here Toomer became libellous.)
 
Toomer was an interesting type. He had a disagreeable disposition⁸ profoundly modified by a public school and university training. Two antagonistic⁹ forces made him. He was the spirit of scurrility¹⁰ incarnate¹¹, that was, as people say, innate¹²; and by virtue¹³ of those moulding forces he was doing his best to be an English gentleman. That mysterious impulse which compels the young male to make objectionable imputations against seemly lives and to write rare inelegant words upon clean and decent things burnt almost intolerably within him, and equally powerful now was the gross craving¹⁴ he had acquired for personal association with all that is prominent, all that is successful, all that is of good report. He had found his resultant in the censorious defence of established things. He conducted the British Critic, attacking with a merciless energy all that was new, all that was critical, all those fresh and noble tentatives that admit of unsavoury interpretations¹⁵, and when the urgent Yahoo in him carried him below the pretentious¹⁶ dignity of his accustomed organ he would squirt out his bitterness in a little sham¹⁷ facetious¹⁸ bookstall volume with a bright cover and quaint¹⁹ woodcuts, in which just as many prominent people as possible were mentioned by name and a sauce of general absurdity²⁰ could be employed to cover and, if need be, excuse particular libels. So he managed to relieve himself and get along. Harman was just on the border-line of the class he considered himself free to revile²¹. Harman was an outsider and aggressive and new, one of Mrs. Blapton's knights²², and of no particular weight in society; so far he was fair game; but he was not so new as he had been, he was almost through with the running of the Toomer gauntlet, he had a tremendous lot of money and it was with a modified vehemence²³ that the distinguished²⁴ journalist and humourist expatiated²⁵ on his offensiveness to Mr. Brumley. He talked in a gentle, rather weary voice, that came through a moustache like a fringe of light tobacco.
 
"Personally I've little against the man. A wife too young for him and jealously guarded, but that's all to his credit. Nowadays. If it wasn't for his blatancy²⁶ in his business.... And the knighthood.... I suppose he can't resist taking anything he can get. Bread made by wholesale²⁷ and distributed like a newspaper can't, I feel, be the same thing as the loaf of your honest old-fashioned baker—each loaf made with individual attention—out of wholesome²⁸ English flour—hand-ground—with a personal touch for each customer. Still, everything drifts on to these hugger-mugger large enterprises; Chicago spreads over the world. One thing goes after another, tobacco, tea, bacon, drugs, bookselling. Decent homes destroyed right and left. Not Harman's affair, I suppose. The girls in his London tea-shops have of course to supplement their wages by prostitution—probably don't object to that nowadays considering the novels we have. And his effect on the landscape——Until they stopped him he was trying very hard to get Shakespear's Cliff at Dover. He did for a time have the Toad²⁹ Rock at Tunbridge. Still"—something like a sigh escaped from Toomer,—"his private life appears to be almost as blameless as anybody's can be.... Thanks no doubt to his defective³⁰ health. I made the most careful enquiries when his knighthood was first discussed. Someone has to. Before his marriage he seems to have lived at home with his mother. At Highbury. Very quietly and inexpensively."
 
"Then he's not the conventional vulgarian?"
 
"Much more of the Rockefeller type. Bad health, great concentration, organizing power.... Applied³¹ of course to a narrower range of business.... I'm glad I'm not a small confectioner in a town he wants to take up."
 
"He's—hard?"
 
"Merciless. Hasn't the beginnings of an idea of fair play.... None at all.... No human give or take.... Are you going to have tea here, or are you walking back now?"