Humphrey joined the group and listened. ("Have a drink?" said Larkin, turning to him. "It's my shout.")
"Well," continued Larkin, "when I got to the room, there was his lordship in pants and undervest—you know how fat he is—with dumb-bells in his hands and whirling his arms about like a windmill. 'Do I look like a dying man?' he said, dancing lightly on his toes. 'Go back, young man, and tell your editor what you've seen. Good-morning.'"
"Talking of funny experiences," said one of the others, "I remember—" And so it went on, story after story, of real things happening in the most extraordinary way. It was all this that Humphrey enjoyed, this inter-change of experiences, this telling of stories that were never written in newspapers, that belonged alone to them.
Presently Tommy Pride came in. "Hullo all!" he said, "Hullo! young Quain—been busy to-day?"
They sat down together, and Humphrey noticed that Tommy's face had changed greatly, even in the last few months. The flesh was loose and colourless, and the eyes had a nervous, wandering look in them.
"Ferrol's going to send me to Paris—he told me so to-night," Humphrey blurted out.
"Splendid," said Tommy. "Good for you." And then a look of great pathos crept into his eyes, and he seemed to grow very old all at once. "I wish I had all your chances," he said wistfully. "I wonder what will be the end of me.... I hear they're making changes."
"Don't you bother," Humphrey said. "Ferrol knows what you're worth.... But, I say, Tommy, you don't mind, do you ... aren't you taking too much of that," he pointed to the whisky glass.
"Oh, hell! What does it matter," said Tommy. "What does anything matter.... I'm a little worried ... they're thinking of making changes," he repeated aimlessly.