"I know," snorted Mrs. Crowl, "with portraits of actresses."
"Portraits? Oh, no!" said Denzil. "That would be the True—not the Beautiful."
"And what's the name of the paper?" asked Crowl.
"Ah, that's a secret, Peter. Like Scott, I prefer to remain anonymous."
"Just like your Fads. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know where the fun of anonymity comes in? If I had any gifts, I should like to get the credit. It's a right and natural feeling, to my thinking."
"Unnatural, Peter; unnatural. We're all born anonymous, and I'm for sticking close to Nature. Enough for me that I disseminate the Beautiful. Any letters come during my absence, Mrs. Crowl?"
"No," she snapped. "But a gent named Grodman called. He said you hadn't been to see him for some time, and looked annoyed to hear you'd disappeared. How much have you let him in for?"
"The man's in my debt," said Denzil, annoyed. "I wrote a book for him and he's taken all the credit for it, the rogue! My name doesn't appear even in the Preface. What's that ticket you're looking so lovingly at, Peter?"
"That's for to-night—the unveiling of Constant's portrait. Gladstone speaks. Awful demand for places."
"Gladstone!" sneered Denzil. "Who wants to hear Gladstone? A man who's devoted his life to pulling down the pillars of Church and State."