“So this is the sort of place where you literary fellows hang out!”
Gomme stared at him in grim silence.
The exquisite Ponsonby shifted in his seat:
“None of my people have ever been literary,” he drawled; “they all belonged to the virile professions.... At least, I suppose that’s the office-girl.... However, as I said before, I’m not a literary man myself——”
Gomme’s eyes glowed threateningly, but the resplendent fool seated before him was too heavy-witted a dullard to hear anything but the cackle of his own voice, or to be alert to anything but the sordid desire of his own eyes.
Gomme laughed drily.
“Man?... You’re not a man!” said he.
Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott was genuinely shocked:
“Really, you know——”
He stopped. He saw that this yellow-haired, gaunt other man, a loose-limbed, powerful fellow, was glaring at him in anything but friendly fashion, and he was dumb.