“And me a deuced miserable one,” growled Sebastian, flinging himself into an arm-chair.
“That, my lad, is because you have caused Esmée de Courcy to appear at noon, in Regent Street, wearing a décolletée toilet of yellow sequins. Such riotous rollicking literary excesses are bound to result in your present reaction of soul.”
“Oh, shut up!” miserably. Stuart was sitting on the table, the novelette on his knees. Leaning forward, Sebastian snatched it away, and flung it into the fire.
“There are thousands more on the market,” chortled Stuart; “I intend to forward a copy to Magdalen; for an original exploit of one of Oxford’s sons, I think it deserves to stand in the College chronicles.”
Sebastian writhed. “Don’t be indecent, Heron,” in a feeble appeal to the other’s better nature. An appeal totally unfruitful of results.
“Surely, Levi, you didn’t send me your masterpiece in the erroneous supposition that I would take it up tenderly and treat it with care?”
“I didn’t send it to you at all.”
“No, I guessed you hadn’t sufficient guts for that! Whom have I to thank, then, for my moments of rich ripe pleasure?”
“Letty.”
“God bless Letty. Did she write it, by the way?”