"I shall call my opera 'Gwendoline,'" said Mr. Hill, passing his hand through his hair; "it will be a Welsh opera. I don't think any one has ever composed a Welsh opera, Allen."
"I can't call one to mind, sir," said Allen, his eyes on his plate.
"The opening chorus," began Mr. Hill, full of his theme, "will be----"
"One moment, sir," interrupted Allen, who was not in the mood for this trifling, "I want to ask you a question."
"No! no! no! You will disturb the current of my thoughts. Would you have the world lose a masterpiece, Allen?"
"It is a very simple question, sir. Will you see Mr. Strode to-day?"
Hill, who was looking out of the window and humming a theme for his opening chorus, turned sharply. "Certainly not. I am occupied."
"Mr. Strode is your oldest and best friend," urged Allen.
"He has proved that by taking money from me," said Hill, with a deep laugh. "Why should I see him?"
"I want you to put in a good word for me and Eva. Of course," Allen raised his eyes abruptly and looked directly at his father, "you expected to see him this morning?"