"I hope not."
Romarin had thrown up his handsome head. "Well, well!" he murmured incredulously.
"Why 'well, well'?" Marsden demanded…. "But, of course, you never did and never will know what I meant."
"By Romance? … No, I can't say that I did; but as I conceived it, it was something that began in appetite and ended in diabetes."
"Not philosophic, eh?" Marsden inquired, picking up a chicken bone.
"Highly unphilosophic," said Romarin, shaking his head.
"Hm!" grunted Marsden, stripping the bone… "Well, I grant it pays in a different way."
"It does pay, then?" Romarin asked.
"Oh yes, it pays."
The restaurant had filled up. It was one frequented by young artists, musicians, journalists and the clingers to the rather frayed fringes of the Arts. From time to time heads were turned to look at Romarin's portly and handsome figure, which the Press, the Regent Street photographic establishments, and the Academy Supplements had made well known. The plump young Frenchwoman within the glazed cash office near the door, at whom Marsden had several times glanced in a way at which Romarin had frowned, was aware of the honour done the restaurant; and several times the blond-bearded proprietor had advanced and inquired with concern whether the dinner and the service was to the liking of M'sieu.