used by all the other R. A.s who sold their pictures. Whereas Clifford
discovered new channels of publicity, all kinds. He had all kinds of people
at Wragby, without exactly lowering himself. But, determined to build
himself a monument of a reputation quickly, he used any handy rubble in the
making.
Michaelis arrived duly, in a very neat car, with a chauffeur and a
manservant. He was absolutely Bond Street! But at right of him something in
Clifford's county soul recoiled. He wasn't exactly... not exactly...in fact,
he wasn't at all, well, what his appearance intended to imply. To Clifford
this was final and enough. Yet he was very polite to the man; to the amazing
success in him. The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed,
snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis'
heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute
himself to the bitch-goddess, Success also, if only she would have him.
Michaelis obviously wasn't an Englishman, in spite of all the tailors,
hatters, barbers, booters of the very best quarter of London. No, no, he
obviously wasn't an Englishman: the wrong sort of flattish, pale face and
bearing; and the wrong sort of grievance. He had a grudge and a grievance:
that was obvious to any true-born English gentleman, who would scorn to let
such a thing appear blatant in his own demeanour. Poor Michaelis had been
much kicked, so that he had a slightly tail-between-the-legs look even now.
He had pushed his way by sheer instinct and sheerer effrontery on to the
stage and to the front of it, with his plays. He had caught the public. And
he had thought the kicking days were over. Alas, they weren't... They never
would be. For he, in a sense, asked to be kicked. He pined to be where he
didn't belong...among the English upper classes. And how they enjoyed the
various kicks they got at him! And how he hated them!
Nevertheless he travelled with his manservant and his very neat car,
this Dublin mongrel.
There was something about him that Connie liked. He didn't put on airs
to himself, he had no illusions about himself. He talked to Clifford
sensibly, briefly, practically, about all the things Clifford wanted to
know. He didn't expand or let himself go. He knew he had been asked down to
Wragby to be made use of, and like an old, shrewd, almost indifferent
business man, or big-business man, he let himself be asked questions, and he
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