[Advancing.] My dear chap, I've never heard anything that has given me greater pleasure. [Philip offers Roope the cigarette-box.] No, I won't smoke. [Seating himself upon the settee on the right.] When was it settled?
Philip.
[Lighting his cigarette.] The day before yesterday. I got Titterton to write me a letter—Titterton, my publisher—certifying to the enormous sales of the book, and sent it on to Sir Randle Filson. Nothing like documentary evidence, Robbie. [Leaning back in his chair with outstretched legs and exhaling a wreath of tobacco-smoke.] Twenty-five thousand copies, my boy, up to date, and still going strong.
Roope.
Wonderful.
Philip.
Phew! The critics treated me generously enough, but it hung fire damnably at first. At one particularly hellish moment I could have sworn it wouldn't do more than my usual fifteen or eighteen hundred, and I cursed myself for having been such a besotted fool as to pin my faith to it. [Sitting upright.] And then, suddenly, a rush—a tremendous rush! Twenty-four thousand went off in less than six weeks. Almost uncanny, eh? [Touching the tobacco-jar.] Oh, lord, sometimes I think I've been putting opium into my pipe instead of this innocent baccy, and that I shall wake up to the necessity of counting my pence again and apologizing to John for being in arrear with his wages!
Roope.
And Titterton's letter brought the Filsons round?
Philip.