"Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?"
"I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say."
His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path.
"With talent and private means our author is fortunate?"
"I often tell him so," he said.
"If it doesn't tempt him to rest on his oars," she added delightedly. "Wealth has its dangers. Young men will be young men!"
"'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'"
"But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness.
"He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it."
"I am so glad—so glad for him. Now I have no misgivings about his future at all.... Have you?"