What Was Expected of Miss Constantine

Without present prejudice to the question of his innermost personality, Val was at least a triumph of externals. Perhaps I should say of non-essentials -- of things which a man might not have, and yet be intrinsically as good a man -- but, having which, he was, for all outside and foreign purposes, a man far more efficient. Val was, as I shall indicate in a moment, a bit of a philosopher himself, so he could not with reason object to being thus philosophically considered. Birth had been his discreet friend -- a friend in setting him in the inner ring, among the families which survive, peaks of aristocracy, above the flood of democracy, and are more successful than Canute was in cajoling the waves; discreet in so ordering descent that, unless a robust earl, his uncle, died prematurely, Val had time to lead the House of Commons (or anything of that sort) before suffering an involuntary ascension, which might or might not be, at the political moment, convenient. He had money, too -- a competence without waiting for his uncle's shoes. He had no need to hunt a fortune: it was merely advisable for him, and natural too, to annex one under temptations not necessarily unromantic. Nobody could call Miss Constantine necessarily unromantic.

So much for birth, with all the extraordinary start it gives -- a handicap of no less than fifteen years, one might be inclined to say, roughly generalising on a comparison of the chances of the "born" and of the bourgeois. Now, about brains. If you come to think of it, brains were really a concession on Val's part; he could have achieved the Cabinet without them -- given a clever Prime Minister, at least. But he had them -- just as splendid shop-window brains as his birth was flawless under the most minute Heralds' College inspection. There was, indeed, a lavishness about his mental endowment. He ventured to have more than one subject -- a dangerous extravagance in a rising statesman. North Africa was his professional subject -- his foreign affairs subject. But he was also a linguist, an authority on French plays, and a specialist on the Duc de Reichstadt. Also he had written a volume of literary essays; and, finally, to add a sense of solidity to his intellectual equipment, he was a philosopher. He had written, and Mr Murray had published, a short book called "The Religion of Primitive Man." This work he evolved on quiet evenings in his flat off Berkeley Square in two months of an early winter in London. All that can be said about it is that it sounded very probable, and set forth in exceedingly eloquent language what primitive man ought to have believed, even if he did not, because it led to a most orthodox, if remote, conclusion. Whether he did or not, Val, and most other people, had neither time nor inclination to discover. That would, in fact, have needed a lot of reading. After all, Val might plead the example of some eminent metaphysicians.