"This sounds as though there might be an opening for an honest house-agent," Burton suggested.
Mr. Waddington looked dubious.
"It's never been tried. Just this once it came off, but as a regular thing I should have no confidence in it. People like to be gulled. They've been brought up to it. They ask for lies—that's why the world's so full of them. Case of supply and demand, you know."
"According to you, then," Burton remarked, a little dolefully, "it seems as though this change in us unfits us for any sort of practical life."
Mr. Waddington coughed. Even his cough was no longer strident.
"That," he confessed, "has been worrying me. I find it hard to see the matter differently. If one might venture upon a somewhat personal question, how did you manage to discover a vocation? You seem to be prospering," he added, glancing at his companion's neat clothes and gray silk tie.
"I was fortunate," Burton admitted frankly. "I discovered quite by accident the one form in which it is possible to palm off the truth on an unsuspecting public."
Mr. Waddington laid down his knife and fork. He was intensely interested.
"Art," Burton murmured softly.
"Art?" Mr. Waddington echoed under his breath, a little vaguely. The questioning gleam was still in his eyes.