“Yes—cloistered atmosphere is Thrumsby Burrage.”
Gomme’s eyes twinkled:
“We rejoice that a new man of genius has risen amongst us, and we do not hesitate to say that the anonymous writer of ‘The Tragedy of the Ridiculous’ is that man.”
Anthony Baddlesmere shook off boredom, stood up slowly, stared at the gaunt yellow-haired youth before him in frank tribute of bewilderment, and said at last with hoarse surprise:
“You wrote this book, Gomme?”
“Yes, sir,” said Netherby Gomme simply; “but when I write my tragedy——”
Baddlesmere clapped a hand on his shoulder, and pleasure danced in his eyes.
“But, good God! you are famous, man—famous!... And you must be making a fortune.”
“No, sir—I sold the thing for a few pounds.”
Anthony Baddlesmere strode up and down the room.