“Lunatics are the salt of the earth. Come and dine with us once a week. Tell me a story after dinner—Gerald goes to sleep.”
“I must tell them in the Inn or they’d lose their flavor.”
“Here! Once a week—that is settled. I’ll come. Marlowe’s Inn is charming. These quiet squares, just off Holborn; these sedate houses, with their old staircases and sets of chambers, each with its stout black door, appeal to me. I like the archway, the porter at the gate. I never saw such a green garden. I love rooks. Everything is gay, cool, monastic; a most fascinating place. And such queer people! I met a man with the face of a mystic——”
“Probably Guy Blockley, the comedian.”
“There was another man with a striped waistcoat, closely cropped hair, and a bulldog jaw. He looked like a prizefighter.”
“That’s Paradale, the poet.”
“Good Heavens! Then I met a woman, very fat. She carried a pail of dirty water. No doubt she was a political hostess, famous for her parties, or a popular lady novelist.”
“She was only a charwoman—laundresses we call them in the Inn. She has probably ‘seen better days.’”
“Well—about the tales?”
“Sad tales, remember—partly sad. But you’ll get a laugh out of them.”