The pimply young man blew out cigarette smoke.
Netherby Gomme rose to his feet:
“I should like to ask our Master,” said he, without trace of smile on his cadaverous face, “and I ask it because I have only read Sophocles in the translation—to which of the plays of Sophocles did he allude when he burst into his splendid eulogy of the Greek genius just now—Œdipus Tyrannus, or Ajax or Hecuba, or was he thinking of the Prometheus Bound?”
Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre licked his puffy red lips uncomfortably, but said nothing. He smiled cynically to cover his hesitation—the fact was that he had never read a play by Sophocles, even in translation. There was a long tense pause.
“Sophocles had the right attitude in all his plays,” he said at last—“what is true of one is true of all.”
Netherby sat down, and laughed loud and long:
“Spoken like a game-cock!” cried he—“if a game-cock could sing——”
Noll touched his sleeve confidentially:
“But, Netherby,” said he—“Sophocles did not write Prometheus Bound. It was——”
“Hush, Noll—the ass hasn’t the smallest idea of that——”