Denzil read:
"Of man's first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world—"
"Hold on!" cried Grodman; "what morbid subjects you choose, to be sure."
"Morbid! Why, Milton chose the same subject!"
"Blow Milton. Take yourself off—you and your Epics."
Denzil went. The pock-marked person opened the street door for him.
"When am I to have that new dress, dear?" she whispered coquettishly.
"I have no money, Jane," he said shortly.
"You have a sovereign."
Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the door viciously. Grodman overheard their whispers, and laughed silently. His hearing was acute. Jane had first introduced Denzil to his acquaintance about two years ago, when he spoke of getting an amanuensis, and the poet had been doing odd jobs for him ever since. Grodman argued that Jane had her reasons. Without knowing them he got a hold over both. There was no one, he felt, he could not get a hold over. All men—and women—have something to conceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific.