At one end of the room was a semicircular counter, upon which were innumerable regiments of tumblers and wine-glasses and three or four huge crystal vessels of spirits, tulip-shaped, with gilded inscriptions and shining plated taps.
Behind the counter was Miss Molly Palmer, the barmaid of the hotel, and, behind her, the alcove was lined with mirrors and glass shelves on which were rows of liqueur flasks, bottles of brandy and dummy boxes of chocolates tied up with scarlet ribands.
"Now tell me, Dicker," Lothian said, lighting a cigarette, "how do you mean about Toftrees?"
The glamour of the past was on the unstable youth now, the same influence which had made him—at some possible risk to himself—defend Lothian so warmly in the drawing room at Bryanstone Square.
The splendour of Toftrees was far away, dim in Lancaster Gate.
"Oh, he's jealous of you because you really can write, Gilbert! That must be it. But he really has got his knife into you!"
Internally, Lothian winced. "Oh, but I assure you he has not," was all that he said.
Ingworth finished his whiskey and soda. "Well, you know what I mean, old chap," he replied. "He's going about saying that you aren't sincere, that you're really fluffed when you write your poems, don't you know. The other night, at a supper at the Savoy, where I was, he said you were making a trade of Christianity, that you didn't really believe in what you wrote, and couldn't possibly."
Lothian laughed. "Have another whiskey," he said. "And what did you say, Dicker?"
There was a sneer in Lothian's voice which the other was quite quick to hear and to resent. On that occasion he had not defended his friend, as it happened.