It was during this period that I came to know him so well--came to know
him, that is, as intimately as he wished to be known. Always there was a
cloak of reserve which he put on with me, as with every one. I tried to
broaden his horizon, to have him meet other men--and women. He would go
with me once or twice to some party, for he was clever enough to see
that he must not offend me, just as he knew that I must not offend him.
We were too valuable to each other, and in that odd mixing up of our
affairs in this world here we were, after so brief an interval, in the
relationship of editor and contributor.
He knew, however, that I had always admired his literary gifts; but I
confess that the feet of clay began to creep into view when he told me,
one night at the Martin, that his favorite novelist of all time
was--Marion Crawford! That explained so much to me that I had not
understood before. I smiled tolerantly, for my own taste ran much
higher; and I seemed from then on to sense a certain cheapness in
Shelby's mind, as if I had lifted the cloth over a chair and discovered
cherrywood where I had hoped to find Chippendale. It is through such
marginalia that we come to know people. I could not reconcile Shelby's
delicate style with so forlorn a taste for other literary dishes.
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