“I thought you said the Pen and Ink Club had only a hundred members.”
The secretary was fumbling for his glasses. He had an almost Ukridge-like knack of dropping his pince-nez in moments of emotion.
“It—it has,” he stammered.
“Well, reading from left to right, I make it nearer seven hundred.”
“I cannot understand it.”
“Perhaps they have been having a new election and letting in some writers without vision,” I suggested.
I was aware of Miss Ukridge bearing down upon us, bristling.
“Mr. Prout!”
The talented young author of Grey Myrtles leaped convulsively.
“Yes, Miss Ukridge?”