Champagne—yes—he would go to the club and drink champagne—lots of it. He wanted to hear men talk—listen to and applaud their tales of adventure. He had laughed at them—hurled at their frailty lampoons through the press, and yet tonight he would laugh with them—yes, with them, for they were right, and he, for all his wisdom, had been wrong—wrong—wrong.
God gave unto each man one life—to make the most of. That was the wise man’s creed.
“Of making many books there is no end:
and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
He arrived at the club about seven o’clock, and was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
“I don’t want to see anybody. Who is he?”
The page produced a card bearing the name, “Mr. Sefton Wainwright,” and below, “New British Drama Association.”
Every one had heard of the New British Drama Association. It was rumoured that it would be the greatest and most progressive theatrical enterprise in England. The scaffold-poles of the façade of their splendid new theatre were already being taken down, and it was said that the opening would be in the coming autumn.
“How long had he been waiting?”
“Nearly an hour, sir.”