"That's just what I don't see. There are such a number of fools everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell."
"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the——"
"Ha—ha—ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase."
"Mere slip. Serpent of old Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And—you're another."
"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me."
"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to say—or convey—because we all hanker after you."
"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?"
"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the rites of Ancient Kem!"
"Now there is one thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a fleshpot. You'll draw the line there if you please."
"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been bric-à-brac of the most recherché description. Of a most delicate shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up—not to be hoped for in these prosaic days."