“Ah yes,” said I, “and so did J. M. Synge. It has always seemed to me remarkable that Synge should do that; in your own case, of course, it is not quite so remarkable.”
“It is a comedy for Cyril Maude” (I think he said Cyril Maude). “He wired to me the other day to go up to London to see him. Yes; he wanted a comedy, and he wanted me to write it. That was about a fortnight ago. Well, the thing’s nearly finished; in another week it will be on its way to London. Rather quick work, don’t you think?”
“Quite. But all that you have told me I know already, and, really, you must know that I know. You see, Brighouse comes to the Swan Club day by day, drinks his [61] ]beer—you know, the conventionally British pint he will have in a pewter mug——”
“Yes; Harold is very British,” interrupted Houghton.
“Isn’t he? Well, as I was saying, Brighouse drinks his beer, fixes his eyes on his plate, and then spasmodically tells us all the news about you. He told us, for example, about Cyril Maude giving you a hundred (or was it a thousand?) guineas for the sight of a new comedy; he told us about The Daily Mail wanting articles from you at some colossal figure; he told us about the host of people who send you wires every day; he told us about——”
Houghton stirred uneasily, but he looked intensely gratified.
“He told us about everything,” I added, after a slight pause. “What you tell him he tells us. But why don’t you come and tell us yourself, Houghton? We never see you at the Swan Club nowadays. It must not be said of you that you desert old friends, that success has made you careless of those you once liked.”
He darted a glance at me and decided, as was indeed the case, that I was attempting to be ironical.
“The truth is,” said he, “that the company I find at the Swan Club is not always very congenial. One or two new men have been lately introduced——”
He looked away from me meaningly.