Edward Phillips Oppenheim

The Malefactor Edward Phillips Oppenheim

Tall and burly, with features and skin hardened by exposure to the sun and winds ofmany climates, he looked like a man ready to face all hardships, equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the clothes and habits of civilization falling away from him, theformer to be replaced by the stern, unlovely outfit of the war correspondent who plays thegame. They crowded round him in the club smoking room, for these were his last fewminutes. They had dined him, toasted him, and the club loving cup had been drained to hissuccess and his safe return. For Lovell was a popular member of this very Bohemiangathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few hours' notice, to represent one of thegreatest of English dailies. A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking. His name wasWalter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories-a novelist in embryo."What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the deadly routine ofour day by day life. Here in London it seems to me that we live the life of automatons. Welunch, we dine, we amuse or we bore ourselves, and we sleep-and all the rest of the worlddoes the same. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis. Thestorms which shake humanity break over other countries. What is there left to us of life?Civilization ministers too easily to our needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder thatwe are a tired race."