"That's what I should reply."
He had written:
"I am travelling to London to-morrow to apply for transfer.—Luttrell."
Luttrell read the telegram with surprise. It was not the answer which he had expected from the victim of the flesh-pots in front of him.
"You advise that?" he exclaimed.
"Yes. My dear Luttrell, as you know, you are a guest very welcome to me. But you don't belong. We—Maud Carstairs, Tony Marsh and the rest of us—even Mario Escobar—we are the Come-to-nothings. We are the people of the stage door, we grow fat in restaurants. From three to seven, you may find us in the card-rooms of our clubs—we are jolly fine fellows—and no good. You don't belong, and should get out while you can."
Luttrell moved uncomfortably in his chair.
"That's all very well. But there's another side to the question," he said, and from the deck above a woman's voice called clearly down the stairway.
"Aren't you two coming?"
Both men looked towards the door.