Edgar Burlock was a man of intellect and trivial thoughts and matters. If you were in need of small-talk, he was the one person you knew you could approach without whatsoever a doubt and pleasantly talk about nothing. He was non-discriminatory and could converse easily, and with as much pleasure with whites, blacks, half-castes, you name it. And he liked it. And they liked it.
Although being a founder of a few English country clubs, he was well aware of the exclusivity and the social barriers that usually follow them, and he was happy to peacefully be obliged by them; he knew no argue.
Quintessentially, Edgar Burlock was a philosophaster; he had the basic outline in his head, an idea of every topic there had ever existed, but he was no erudite. He could not think great thoughts, or write books, or paint, or create. But he could form discussions. He knew how to agree. He had a great privilege of knowing everyone and everything. And he knew how to approach, and please, and smile. He knew also of the ways of all the rumours, and could manipulate any one of them to his aid and interest and, if it would be known to him that Sir Thompson forgot to celebrate his own birthday, Edgar Burlock, with a silent utter of a word could turn the birthday into a wedding, and Thompson to Bradbury.
An interesting start to a story. Came up before going to bed. What’dya think? Maybe I’ll be able to add something more to it in the near future...
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