Pangbutt smiled:
“That’s a volume of collected poems by Sir Gilders Persimmon,” he said.
“Indecent old thing!... May I have the fly-leaf for the chicken?”
Pangbutt almost put out his hand in panic, fearing sacrilege; but he said instead, rather stiffly:
“It is an autograph copy from my friend, Sir Gilders Persimmon; and——”
“Yes, yes—quite so. It’s luxury to write poetry when you’re rich,” he said—“poetry should be handsomely treated.”
“Ah, Anthony—we scoff at riches——”
“Who scoffs at riches?” Anthony looked up sharply.
“We all sneer at times.”
Anthony laughed: