Mabane laid down his brush and surveyed the newcomer critically.
"Arthur," he declared with slow emphasis, "you do us credit—you do indeed. I hope that you will show yourself to our worthy landlady, and that you will linger upon the doorstep as long as possible. This sort of thing is good for our waning credit. I am no judge, for I never possessed such a garment, but there is something about the skirts of your frock-coat which appeals to me. There is indeed, Arthur. And then your tie—the cunning arrangement of it——"
"Oh, rats!" the boy exclaimed, laughing. "Give me a couple of cigarettes, there's a good chap, and do we feed at home to-night?"
Mabane produced the cigarettes and turned back to his work.
"We do!" he admitted with a sigh. "Always on Tuesdays, you know. By-the-bye, are you going to the works in that costume?"
"Not likely! It's my day at the depôt, worse luck," Arthur answered, pausing to strike a match. "What's up with Arnold?"
"Got the blues, because his muse won't work," Mabane said. "He wants to strike out in a new line—something blood-curdling, you know—Tolstoi-like, or Hall Caineish—he doesn't care which. He wants to do what nobody else ever will—take himself seriously. I put it down in charity to dyspepsia."
"Mabane is an ass!" I grunted. "Be off, Arthur, there's a good chap, and don't listen to him. He hasn't the least idea what he is talking about."
Arthur, however, happened to be in no hurry. He tilted his hat on the back of his head, and leaned upon the table.
"I have always noticed," he remarked affably, "that under Allan's most asinine speeches there usually lurks a substratum of truth. Are you really going to write a serious novel, Arnold?"