"Let me buy it, John," he said. "I shall go from one bookshop to another, and in each I shall say,—'What! You haven't a copy of John Landless's book! The sensation of the hour! The book London is so eager to read that the presses can't turn them out fast enough! The book—'"
John threw his cap at him. They looked at each other in the abashed way of men between whom there is deep affection.
"Your publisher's telephone wires would be hot for an hour with orders," Dr. Thorpe concluded.
"You should be a man of business," said John. "If you were a publisher I should have had an easier time."
"Nonsense! You had little or no trouble—" began Dr. Thorpe.
"You are mistaken, Doctor," said John. "I had failed, and then Phyllis pulled the strings. I can't tell you how, though. That is a secret."
"I am prepared to believe anything of her. How buoyant and beautiful she is. By the way—anything from Sir Peter?"
"Not a word. She wrote him a note, asking for her collection of valentines. They were her mother's, and she wanted them. He sent the valentines, but no reply to her note."
"Poor old buffer," said Dr. Thorpe. "Of course, he misses her dreadfully."
"I should think he would; and she misses him, too. I would be glad to see them good friends again if—if I needn't be put in a false position. He is—disgustingly rich, you know." John hesitated. He looked at the floor, and traced the pattern of the carpet with his stick. "He called me a sneak—and ordered me out of the house. But I can afford to forgive that. It was horribly sudden for the poor old chap—and—all that."