His new friend sighed and stuck his fork into an olive.
"What affluence," he sighed, meditatively. "I have not possessed a watch for a year, and I've only ninepence in my pocket. They give me tick here. Foolish Spargetti. Long may their confidence last!"
A companion in impecuniosity. Douglas looked at his neat clothes and the flower in his buttonhole, and wondered.
"But you have the means of making money if you care to."
"Have I?" The eyeglass was carefully removed, the small wizened face assumed a lugubrious aspect. "My friend," he said, "in a measure it is true—but such a small measure. A cold-blooded and unappreciative editor apprises my services at the miserable sum of three pounds a week. I have heard of people who have lived upon that sum, but I must confess that I never met one."
"You are a writer, then?" Douglas exclaimed, eagerly.
"I am a sort of hack upon the staff of the Ibex. They set me down in a corner of the office and throw me scraps of work, as you would bones to a dog. It is not dignified, but one must eat and drink—not to mention smoking. Permit me, by-the-bye, to offer you a cigarette, and to recommend the coffee. I taught Spargetti how to make it myself."
Douglas was listening with flushed cheeks. The Ibex! What a coincidence!
"You are really on the staff of the Ibex?" he exclaimed.
The other nodded.