“Has that dirty dog given you a partnership yet?” she asked.
“Diggle? Not yet. I ask him from time to time. He always seems too busy to talk about it at any length. It’s wonderful to see you here, Jona.”
“You got my letter?”
“I did. In fact, there was some considerable beano about it at home. But never mind about that.”
“You didn’t come to see me, so I was drawn here. Magnet and tin-tack.”
He looked at her little white nose. “I see the point,” he said.
“Say some more,” she said, “I like to hear you talk, Funnyface. Funny old ears. Funny old cocoanut with, oh, such a lot of milk in it. You do think a lot of thinky thoughts, don’t you. And you put them all down in those dear little books of yours.”
“Not all,” said Luke, “I’m limited in my subjects. Jam, you know. Pickles. Sardines. That hurts—to be limited. I want to be free. Here, I am imprisoned. I am buried alive. Plunged, still teething, in the brougham.”
“Still teething? I knew you were young at heart. Still, at the age of thirty-two——”
“I had intended to say that I was plunged, still breathing, in the tomb. I do get carried away so. Sometimes I form plans. I think I will leave this business and write my biography. It would be a record, not of the facts that are, but of the facts as I should like them to be.”