Lonsdale shook his head in despair, and the monocle tinkled down upon his plate. When he had wiped it clean of marmalade, he asked Michael in a compassionate voice if he never went to the theater, and with a sigh returned to the subject of Queenie.
“It’s the most extraordinary piece of luck. A girl that everyone in town has been running after falls in love with me. Now the question is, what ought I to do? I can’t afford to keep her, and I’m not cad enough to let somebody else keep her, and use the third latchkey. My dear old chap, I don’t mind telling you I’m in the deuce of a fix.”
“Are you very much in love with her?” Michael asked.
“Of course I am. You don’t get Queenies chucked at your head like turnips. Of course I’m frightfully keen.”
“Why don’t you marry her?” Michael asked.
“What? Marry her? You don’t seem to understand who I’m talking about. Queenie Molyneux! She’s in the Pink Quartette in My Mistake.”
“Well?”
“Well, I can’t marry a chorus-girl.”
“Other people have,” said Michael.
“Well, yes, but—er—you know, Queenie has rather a reputation. I shouldn’t be the first.”