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when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about
Hayward he lost his temper.
‘Your new friend looks like a poet,’ said Weeks, with a
thin smile on his careworn, bitter mouth.
‘He is a poet.’
‘Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pret-
ty fair specimen of a waster.’
‘Well, we’re not in America,’ said Philip frigidly.
‘How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but
stay in pensions and write poetry.’
‘You don’t know him,’ said Philip hotly.
‘Oh yes, I do: I’ve met a hundred and forty-seven of him.’
Weeks’ eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not under-
stand American humour, pursed his lips and looked severe.
Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle age, but he was in
point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long, thin body
and the scholar’s stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had
pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and
thin, long nose, and the great protuberance of his frontal
bones, gave him an uncouth look. He was cold and precise
in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion; but he had
a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the serious-
minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He
was studying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theolog-
ical students of his own nationality looked upon him with
suspicion. He was very unorthodox, which frightened them;
and his freakish humour excited their disapproval.
‘How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of
him?’ asked Philip seriously.

1 Of Human Bondage