"Look here, Rickman," said Jewdwine, gently; "when are you going to give up this business?"
"Which business?"
"Well, at the moment I referred to your situation in the Gin Palace of Art—"
"I can't chuck it just yet. There's my father, you see. It would spoil all his pleasure in that new plate-glass and mahogany devilry. He's excited about it; wants to make it a big thing—"
"So he puts a big man into it?"
"Oh, well, I must see him started."
He spoke simply, as of a thing self-evident and indisputable. Jewdwine admired.
"You're quite right. You are handicapped. Heavily handicapped. So, for Goodness' sake, don't weight yourself any more. If you can't drop the Gin Palace, drop Miss Poppy Grace."
"Poppy Grace? She weighs about as much as a feather."
"Drop her, drop her, all the same."