"——that I had to live on it, eh? Well, I'm afraid there'd have been a third after Prentice's cab this morning."
"I think that settles it," said Smeaton, looking round. "No. The novel's had its day. And what a day it's been! Let us think of that. Fielding to Henry James! It's like the creation of another world. Come! I'll give you a toast we can all drink in silence—'Speedy deliverance to Paul Ingram!' And now let's talk of something more cheerful. Who's been to see Fenella Barbour's Cuckoo dance at the Stadium?"
"I suppose that's really the stage of national development we've reached," hazarded Mackworth.
"If it is, there's something to be said for it," said Smeaton, stoutly.
"She's paying her way, anyhow," said some one. "Two hundred and fifty a week ought to keep the wolf from the door."
"Oh, the wolf at the stage door is a domesticated animal. No one wants to frighten him away."
I wasn't interested in what followed, and dropped out. Now and then a word or two struck me: "A clog-dancer with sophistications." "Anyway, you'll see a jolly pretty girl!" "No, not Jewish, Mackworth—Phœnician. Mother was Cornish, and she's a throw-back more than two thousand years straight to Carthage." "As much again for the posters. Briggses paid her four hundred for the 'Crême de Pêche.'"
And I smoked on, thinking of Ingram's rags. As our party broke up, I thought Smeaton made me a sign to stop on. When we were alone, he smoked silently for a while, and then—
"This is a more than usually filthy tragedy, Prentice."
"About Ingram? Yes, it's pretty bad."