Undershell. Or what if I am going to show these Patricians that—Poet of the People as I am—they can neither patronise nor cajole me?
Drysdale. Exactly, old chap—what if you are?
Undershell. I don't say that I may not have another reason—a—a rather romantic one—but you would only sneer if I told you! I know you think me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success.
Drysdale. You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of the sort. I've always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day; there are even signs of it in Andromeda here and there; but you'll do better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your head. I take an interest in you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume of verse which—between you and me—has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at present, old boy!
Undershell (with bitterness). I am fortunate in possessing such a candid friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.
Drysdale. Very well. I suppose you're going first? Consider the feelings of the Culverin footman at the other end!
Undershell (as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket). You have a very low view of human nature! (Here he becomes aware of a remarkably pretty face at a second-class window close by). As it happens, I am travelling second.
[He gets in.
Drysdale (at the window). Well, good-bye, old chap. Good luck to you at Wyvern, and remember—wear your livery with as good a grace as possible.
Undershell. I do not intend to wear any livery whatever.