The unctuous blandness, the
sleek courtesy was but a mask, which he wore for you just so long as you
did not hinder him by getting in his way. That was the unpardonable sin.
For Ocock was out to succeed--to succeed at any price and by any means.
In tracing his course, no goal but this had ever stood before him. The
obligations that bore on your ordinary mortal--a sense of honesty, of
responsibility to one's fellows, the soft pull of domestic ties--did
not trouble Ocock. He laughed them down, or wrung their necks like so
many pullets. And should the poor little woman who bore his name become
a drag on him, she would be tossed on to the rubbish-heap with the rest.
In a way, so complete a freedom from altruistic motives had something
grandiose about it. But those who ran up against it, and could not fight
it with its own weapons, had not an earthly chance.
Thus Mahony sat in judgment, giving rein for once to his ingrained
dislike for the man of whom he had now made an enemy. In whose debt, for
the rest, he stood deep. And had done, ever since the day he had been
fool enough, like the fly in the nursery rhyme, to seek out Ocock and
his familiars in their grimy little "parlour" in Chancery Lane.
But his first heat spent he soon cooled down, and was able to laugh at
the stagy explosiveness of his attitude. So much for the personal side
of the matter. Looked at from a business angle it was more serious. The
fact of him having been shown the door by a patient of Ocock's standing
was bound, as Mary saw, to react unfavourably on the rest of the
practice.
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