“Just why Rickie brings me,” said Miss Pembroke.
“And I suppose you’re here to study life?” said Tilliard, sitting down.
“I don’t know,” said Rickie, gazing round at the waiters and the guests.
“Doesn’t one want to see a good deal of life for writing? There’s life of a sort in Soho,—Un peu de faisan, s’il vows plait.”
Agnes also grabbed at the waiter, and paid. She always did the paying, Rickie muddled with his purse.
“I’m cramming,” pursued Tilliard, “and so naturally I come into contact with very little at present. But later on I hope to see things.” He blushed a little, for he was talking for Rickie’s edification. “It is most frightfully important not to get a narrow or academic outlook, don’t you think? A person like Ansell, who goes from Cambridge, home—home, Cambridge—it must tell on him in time.”
“But Mr. Ansell is a philosopher.”
“A very kinky one,” said Tilliard abruptly. “Not my idea of a philosopher. How goes his dissertation?”
“He never answers my letters,” replied Rickie. “He never would. I’ve heard nothing since June.”
“It’s a pity he sends in this year. There are so many good people in. He’d have afar better chance if he waited.”