“Yes. Why?”
“My dear chap, I thought of it as soon as you told me of the fix you were in.”
“You might have suggested it.”
Julian slid to the floor, drained the almost empty teapot, rescued the last kidney, and began his breakfast.
“I would have suggested it,” he said, “if the idea had been worth anything.”
“What! What’s wrong with it?”
“My dear man, it’s too risky. It’s not as though you kept to one form of literary work. You’re so confoundedly versatile. Let’s suppose you did sign your work with a nom de plume.”
“Say, George Chandos.”
“All right. George Chandos. Well, how long would it be, do you think, before paragraphs appeared, announcing to the public, not only of England but of the Channel Islands, that George Chandos was really Jimmy Cloyster?”
“What rot!” I said. “Why the deuce should they want to write paragraphs about me? I’m not a celebrity. You’re talking through your hat, Julian.”