“Quite certain, otherwise you will eat all the things you shouldn’t, and drink none of the things you should, and lie in bed instead of getting up at six, and sit up instead of going to bed at ten!”
Toby groaned slightly, and made a sign to a servant that he wanted more chocolate soufflée.
“Let me eat and drink, for to-morrow I go to Marienbad,” he said. “Peggy, if we are going, let’s go to-morrow, and get it over soon.”
“I can’t; I promised to go to the fiftieth performance of ‘Gambits’ with Hugh on Wednesday.”
Arthur Crowfoot drew the rug a little closer over his knees.
“Talk of waste products,” he said, “or of my talking of them! Why, the last time I saw Hugh he quoted me large chunks of ‘Gambits.’ I can’t think of anything more intensely waste product than that, especially if one hasn’t seen the play!”
“But won’t the forty-ninth performance do?” asked Toby.
“No, because the author, Andrew Robb, whom nobody knows who he is, if you will excuse the grammar, is going to appear that night,” said Peggy, “and we are all dying to see him.”
Arthur gave a short and scornful laugh.
“Why, it’s clearly Hugh,” he said. “Will you bet?”