I stumbled on in a sort of haze.
I did not believe this to be any more than a mad shot in the dark. Sir Francis was one of those men who made mischief as Pygmalion made Galatea. He fell in love with his own conceptions—would go any lengths to gratify his passion for detraction. Do not suppose, from his prefix, that he was a bold, bad baronet. He was just an actor of the new creation—belonged to what was known by doyens of the old Crummles school as the be-knighted profession. The stage was an important incident in his social life, and he seldom missed a rehearsal of any piece to which he was engaged.
“You know this Slater?” I said, as I drove in my latchkey. “As what?”
“As a clever, disreputable, and perfectly unscrupulous journalist.”
“It's preposterous! What could induce him to part with such a notoriety?”
“The highest bidder, of course.”
“What! Sweeting? If he’s still the simple Johnny you’d have him be?”
“I’m yet to learn that the simple Johnny lacks vanity.”
“But, for him, such an unheard-of way to gratify it!”
“Opportunism, sir. There are more things in the Johnny’s philosophy than we dream of.”