“Look here, Babe.”
“Well.”
“Harry Venniker produces from the bottom of his box a quantity of sporting prints, and an enormous stag’s head—a ‘royal’ he called it. Did you ever see a play-box that size?”
“No. There isn’t one. ‘My dear, there is going to be a collection, and I have left my purse on the piano.’ I wish I knew Flora.”
Silence.
“‘After all, in this life the deepest, holiest feelings are inexpressible.’ Oh, I draw the line somewhere—”
“Yes, if you don’t draw the line somewhere,” murmured the Babe, “where are you to draw the line?”
“Gerald of course sobs violently on getting into bed, the first night at St. Anselm’s, and Harry puts his hand on his shoulder, and says he’ll be his friend for ever. Then ‘Gerald laid his head anew upon the pillow, and was at peace.’ Good Lord! This was an ‘incident of which the pale moon, throned in heaven, was the sole arbitress.’ He says so,” shouted Reggie, “and it is a ‘study in real life.’ He says that too, on the title-page, in capital letters. He says it very loud and plain, several times.”
The Babe chuckled comfortably, and shut up Ravenshoe.
“I read it yesterday,” he said. “Turn on to about page 90 or so. I think you’ll find the passage marked in pencil. He has to sing a song in which a swear-word comes, and when he gets to it, he breaks down, hides his face in his hands, and rushes from the hall.”