There's nothing in it. Why, there can't be
anything in it. A fellow like that for manager? Phoo!"
Was it the clairvoyance of imbecile hatred, or mere stupid tenacity of
opinion, which ends sometimes by scoring against the world in a most
astonishing manner? Most of us can remember instances of triumphant
folly; and that ass Schomberg triumphed. The T.B.C. Company went into
liquidation, as I began by telling you. The Tesmans washed their hands
of it. The Government cancelled those famous contracts, the talk died
out, and presently it was remarked here and there that Heyst had faded
completely away. He had become invisible, as in those early days when
he used to make a bolt clear out of sight in his attempts to break away
from the enchantment of "these isles," either in the direction of New
Guinea or in the direction of Saigon--to cannibals or to cafes. The
enchanted Heyst! Had he at last broken the spell? Had he died? We were
too indifferent to wonder overmuch. You see we had on the whole liked
him well enough. And liking is not sufficient to keep going the interest
one takes in a human being. With hatred, apparently, it is otherwise.
Schomberg couldn't forget Heyst. The keen, manly Teutonic creature was a
good hater. A fool often is.
"Good evening, gentlemen. Have you got everything you want? So! Good!
You see? What was I always telling you? Aha! There was nothing in it.
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