“Unhappily I have not. It is a loss,” said De Boo, “a distinct loss. By the way, when I scored so tremendously as Charles Surface at Mudderpool——”
“Hell is full of men who have scored as Charles Surface at Mudderpool,” said Mrs. Gudrun crushingly. “That sounds like a quotation, doesn’t it? Only it must be mine, because I never read. You’re a charming fellow, and a clever boy, Leo, but, as a friend, let me tell you that you talk too much about yourself. It’s bad form; and the truly great are invariably the truly modest. I must save up that epigram for my next interview, I think. There’s the auto-brougham.”
And De Boo enfolded the renowned form of his manageress in a point lace and sable wrap, and they went off to Noel Peter’s, and saw La Gr-r-ande perform.
Rehearsals of the new play, Pride of Race, at the Sceptre had scarcely commenced when in upon Teddy Candelish, laboriously smoking in his sanctum and opening the morning’s mail, swept Mrs. Gudrun.
“I haven’t a moment to breathe,” she said imperially, accepting the chair Teddy acrobatically vacated. “Come in, De Petoburgh—come in, Bobby; you are in the way, but I’m used to it. No, De Petoburgh, that cellaret’s tabooed; remember what Sir Henry said to you about liqueurs before lunch. Are there any letters of importance, Teddy, to my cheek?”
“Several bundles of press-cuttings from different firms, thirty or forty bills, a few tenders from photographers, and—and some love-letters,” replied Candelish, pointing to some neat piles of correspondence arranged on the American roll-top desk. “Usual thing—declarations, proposals, and so forth.”
“Always plenty of those—hey?” chuckled De Petoburgh, sucking a perfunctory peptoid lozenge in lieu of the stimulant denied.
“Plenty, b’Jove!” echoed Bobby Bolsover.
“Not so many as there used to be,” responded Candelish with tactless truthfulness, rewarded by the lady with a magnificent glare. “By the way, there’s one odd letter, from a girl or a woman who isn’t quite a lady, asking for an interview on private business. Signs herself by the rummiest name—Aphasia Cutts.” He presented the letter.
“Aphasia?” said Mrs. Gudrun, extending heavily jeweled fingers for the missive. “Isn’t that what De Petoburgh has when he can only order drinks in one syllable and his legs take him where he doesn’t want to go? Eh, Bobby?”