She smiled at me dimly. "Did it look like a cat?"
"No, dear lady, but I'll tell you what it did look like—it looked like the author of Vawdrey's admirable works. It looked infinitely more like him than our friend does himself," I declared.
"Do you mean it was somebody he gets to do them?"
"Yes, while he dines out and disappoints you."
"Disappoints me?" murmured Mrs. Adney artlessly.
"Disappoints me—disappoints every one who looks in him for the genius that created the pages they adore. Where is it in his talk?"
"Ah, last night he was splendid," said the actress.
"He's always splendid, as your morning bath is splendid, or a sirloin of beef, or the railway service to Brighton. But he's never rare."
"I see what you mean."
"That's what makes you such a comfort to talk to. I've often wondered—now I know. There are two of them."