“If—you could hint—just hint that it is somewhat daringly original! I don’t even mind if you hint that it is rather—sinful—with—er—just a little suggestion that I am the English Maupassant, eh!... I can assure you,” he added, touching Gomme’s arm, “I can assure you that Thrumsby Burrage of The Discriminator said so at dinner last night.”
Netherby Gomme coughed:
“I did not know that Thrumsby Burrage drank,” said he.
“Does he? Indeed! Very sad!” The fussy little man’s foxy eyes turned inwards, searching through his quick weasel intelligence to discover the connection, but failed: “Very sad indeed! Genius is nearly always wanting in the moral attributes.... But to return—if you would suggest that my work contains that—er—that—er——”
Netherby Gomme nodded:
“That combination of religion and immorality which is so alluring to the British public in a work of art,” said he—“yes, I quite understand.”
Fosse roused from his self-concentration:
“N’yes,” said he—“but perhaps if I——”
“Certainly, Mr. Fosse; I was about to suggest that you should write it yourself; and we’ll whip it into shape——”
“Delighted, my dear fellow, delighted!” The fussy little man’s fussy little feet began to shuffle with eagerness; he skipped towards Gomme’s desk.