"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, proving as a rule a bore.
"That will do, Dicky! We all know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing.
"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though fleshpot of Egypt!"
He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative.
"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of making people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed of it."
"Would he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He will be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced a new edition. But for my part, I believe it is in the book. Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the public mind."
"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about them in the book from start to finish."
"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. "Fleshpots—pots—hot pots; hot potting! Hah!" He draws himself together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own."
"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown away upon the receiver of it.
"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my compliments you know. Horrid thing to be mean about anything, and if I can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good turn. Eh?"