Bindle smiled up innocently at Gimp, who gazed round him as if seeking for some explanation of Bindle's presence, then a weak and weary smile fluttered across his features, and he walked over to the side-board and mixed himself a whisky and soda.
We seized the opportunity to break off Gimp's demonstrations of his histrionic powers. We gave him a cigar, and every time he started "Haaa! I remember in 18——" somebody butted in and cut him short.
That evening Bindle was in a wicked mood. He flagrantly encouraged Gimp to talk "shop," "feeding the furnace of his self-conceit," as Dare whispered across me to Sallie.
"I went to the theatre last week," said Bindle with guile, "but I didn't see you there, sir."
"Haaa! no!" said Gimp, "I'm restin'."
"Sort o' worn out," said Bindle sympathetically.
Gimp looked sharply at Bindle, who gazed back with disarming innocence. "Haaa! a nervous breakdown," he replied.
"To judge by his nose, neuritis of the elbow," said Carruthers sotto voce.
"What was the piece you saw, J.B.?" enquired Roger Blint.
"Frisky Florrie. Them plays didn't ought to be allowed. Made me 'ot all over, it did." Then turning to Gimp he added, "I'm surprised at you, sir, sayin' there ain't nothink like the drama."