"Good God, not for the newspapers? You have not fallen to that?"
"Oh, sir, the shillings are clean by comparison."
They looked at each other for a minute or two. "You walk abroad late, Mr.
Author," says Colonel Boyce. "Do you make friends in your profession?"
"I believe I have two in the town—a hack writer for Lintot and an usher at Westminster. And what then, pray?"
"You were with them to-night?"
"You are paternal on a sudden, sir. Do you think of putting me out to nurse again?"
"So." Colonel Boyce stood up as if he had finished and then forced a laugh and slapped his son's shoulder, "Come, Harry, why quarrel? There's room enough for you here. I allow I owe you something. Join in with me."
"I have no luck in mysteries, sir. I'll wish you goodnight."
"Now you bear me a grudge," his father protested.
"What, for getting me born? Sometimes, perhaps."