And then there was the haughty lady who sold programmes in the Haymarket Amphitheatre—but she’s got the sack, so Cookson informs me.
Therefore, as I shall tell Norah plainly that I disapprove of the Cabin, the past can hatch no egg of discord in the shape of the Cast-Off Glove.
The only thing that I can think of as needing suppression is the part I played in Mr. Cloyster’s system.
There’s no doubt that the Reverend, Blake and I have, between us, put a fairly considerable spoke in Mr. Cloyster’s literary wheel. But what am I to do? To begin with, it’s no use my telling Norah about the affair, because it would do her no good, and might tend possibly to lessen her valuation of my capabilities. At present, my dialogues dazzle her; and once your fiancée is dazzled the basis of matrimonial happiness is assured. Again, looking at it from Mr. Cloyster’s point of view, what good would it be to him if I were to stop writing? Both the editor and the public have realised by now that his work is only second-rate. He can never hope to get a tenth of his original prices, even if his work is accepted, which it won’t be; for directly I leave his market clear, someone else will collar it slap off.
Besides, I’ve no right to stop my dialogues. My duty to Norah is greater than my duty to Mr. Cloyster. Unless I continue to be paid by literature I shall not be able to marry Norah until three years next quarter. The “Moon” has passed a rule about it, and an official who marries on an income not larger than eighty pounds per annum is liable to dismissal without notice.
Norah’s mother wouldn’t let her wait three years, and though fellows have been known to have had a couple of kids at the time of their official marriage, I personally couldn’t stand the wear and tear of that hole-and-corner business. It couldn’t be done.
(End of Sidney Price’s narrative.)
Julian Eversleigh’s Narrative
CHAPTER 21
THE TRANSPOSITION OF SENTIMENT
It is all very, very queer. I do not understand it at all. It makes me sleepy to think about it.