“One question? Come, that’s penance. Aren’t you lying as usual?”
“No; one only. I’ve got the rest of it.”
“Got the rest of it, eh? Nasty mess you’ve got, whatever it is, I’ll be bound. What a nice mob you press fellows are—wholesale scavengers!”
“That’s all right. This vermouth is good enough. Well, will you answer my question?”
“Possibly, if it’s not personal. But Lord knows where your insolence may run! You may ask if I’ll introduce you to a decent London club!”
Meyerbeer flushed at last.
“You’re rubbing it in,” he said angrily.
He did wish to be introduced to a good London club. “The question isn’t personal, I guess. It’s this: Who’s Zoug-Zoug?”
Smoke had come trailing out of Belward’s nose, his head thrown back, his eyes on the ceiling. It stopped, and came out of his mouth on one long, straight whiff. Then the painter brought his head to a natural position slowly, and looking with a furtive nonchalance at Meyerbeer, said:
“Who is what?”