“Maybe. But supposing one day he writes lines that, like some of his handsome acts, shall never fade!”
“Oh, you think that!” said Fosse, licking his lips. “Well now, there’s Lovegood. You know, he never says a really exquisite thing—he is always ponderous—and rather obvious. He has not made his mark.”
Gomme sighed:
“Supposing he has done acts that will live in the memory of his friends, Mr. Fosse! And—perhaps—when he has been dead a hundred years——” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh—er—you really think so.” The foxy little eyes of Mr. Fosse were searching the humorist’s features keenly.
Netherby Gomme took Fosse’s arm:
“And, Mr. Fosse, there’s this Netherby Gomme, the over-rated rogue,” said he, with a whimsical twinkle in the eyes; “you know, he never really says a humorous thing.”
Fosse sighed:
“But he can write them,” he said.
Gomme laughed, and gripping the little man’s thin shoulder, said he: