“Gather your roses, while you may, Clarke,” resumed Malvolio, cheerfully. “Presently the twentieth century will throw upon you mysterious folk a searchlight in which even you will stand revealed, and then your occupation will be gone. You owe Blair a debt of gratitude, by the way, for slating you so discreetly a couple of weeks ago. It’s immensely clever how he manages to let his authors think the failure to appreciate lies in him only, and that the world at large is ablaze over their productions. Now, in that thing about you, for instance, the readers of book reviews—I wonder who they are?—must have thought Blair a schoolboy who had accidentally tangled an Olympic deity in the tail of his kite. It was only after they had paid one fifty for the volume, I dare say, that they found out the truth.”
“Don’t spoil my wife’s supper by talking shop over it,” said Terence reprovingly. “To come here for the purpose of discussing modern literature—”
“You flatter Clarke,” interrupted Malvolio.
“Is hardly my idea of entertainment. You might as well invite a letter-carrier to take a walk for pleasure.”
“Or ask Malvolio to talk about Monet—” said Clarke.
“Who has seen ‘Heart of Topaz’?” asked Terence of his guests.
“I, says the fly, with my little eye,” answered Malvolio. “It is a pretty peep-show; but she is only Mrs. Tanqueray done into Japanese. If we are to have that lady at all on our stage, let her come in the strong, original guise of Pinero’s heroine. Although you, my dear Miss Blair, must stay away when she appears—”
“Now I protest,” said Mrs. Blair. “But at this rate, we shall never find a subject of conversation upon which we agree.”
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Malvolio, whose glass Terence had just filled with a steaming golden mixture of innocent appearance.