"I say, I wonder whether you've ever read any of these things—these Gridley Quayle stories? I know them by heart."
With the scarab safely in his pocket, Ashe could contemplate the brightly-colored volume the other extended toward him without active repulsion. Already he was beginning to feel a sort of sentiment for the depressing Quayle, as something that had once formed part of his life.
"Do you read these things?"
"I should say not. I write them."
There are certain supreme moments that cannot be adequately described. Freddie's appreciation of the fact that such a moment had occurred in his life expressed itself in a startled cry and a convulsive movement of all his limbs. He shot up from the pillows and gaped at Ashe.
"You write them? You don't mean, write them!"
"Yes."
"Great Scott!"
He would have gone on, doubtless, to say more; but at this moment voices made themselves heard outside the door. There was a movement of feet. Then the door opened and a small procession entered.
It was headed by the Earl of Emsworth. Following him came Mr.
Peters. And in the wake of the millionaire were Colonel Horace
Mant and the Efficient Baxter. They filed into the room and stood
by the bedside. Ashe seized the opportunity to slip out.