“Oh, no,” protested the exquisite Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott; “you are quite mistaken. I have never been in Paris, and I’m not at all keen about apples.”
Gomme laughed loud. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott fidgeted uneasily.
“Are you the editor?” he asked.
Gomme smiled.
“No,” he said—and added drily: “Luckily for you.”
“Why luck-i-ly?”
Gomme coughed.
“The editor kicks like a horse.”
Ffolliott sniggered uneasily:
“Really!” he drawled. It was faintly borne in upon him that he was neither shining nor making an impression. His eyes ranged aimlessly round the room, and he added fatuously: