“Well,” said the Manager, “it’s all right for business, so far as the Avignon tour is concerned. And, oh! I say, Egg, I don’t suppose you could keep permanently straight, could you?”
“At my time of life,” said Mr. Egg, blandly, “a gentleman’s habits are apt to be fixed.”
“I suppose so,” sighed the Manager. “Well, all the same, the London office was very much pleased with the last job you did, Egg, and they have authorized me, at my discretion, to increase your honorarium. We’ll make it a shilling a page, beginning with the present.”
When Mr. Vincent Egg reached the street, he looked at the unexpected pile of wealth in his hand.
“This is a three weeks’ go at elysium,” said he to himself; “such as I haven’t had in many a year. And, so far as I am concerned, it is the Fruit of Falsification, and the Wage of Sin.”
But when Mr. Egg next awoke from his period of slumber in M. Morel’s back-room, and stretched himself upon the hard cushion of the red velvet divan, throngs of gawking tourists were trying to steep themselves in sentiment as they gazed about the old room off the rue des Quatres Mulets, and looked over the wall at the faded orange and olive trees, and listened to the story which Virginie told, like a talking-doll, and dropped into her hand a welcome stream of copper or silver, according as they were English or Americans.
THE GHOOLLAH.
