I could not help laughing at Dibdin to-day. I called him up on the telephone and demanded what he meant by coming from devil knows where after more than two years' absence and virtually cutting me.
"Come to lunch at the Salmagundi Club," he growled.
"Does it pain you as much as that to ask me?"
"Don't be a damn fool," he retorted.
"Don't be so wickedly witty," I replied.
"At twelve-thirty," he muttered and hung up the receiver. From which I gathered that he was out of sorts.
In the hall of the Club where he was waiting, I greeted him with,
"'Is it weakness of intellect, birdie,' I cried,
'Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?'"
He stared at me.
"How you can be so light and idiotic in the face of circumstances," he began, "passes my comprehension."