“D’you know,” he went on, “I haven’t tasted solids for a couple of days.”
“Tea is waiting at home now,” said Eliphalet.
Sefton Bulmore rose at once.
“And I hope that home isn’t far away, either,” he flashed, with a touch of his old humour.
During the tram-ride Bulmore’s spirits rose by leaps and bounds.
“Tell you what,” he exclaimed. “You and I together—tragedy and comedy—we’ve the elements of a fortune between us—a fortune, my boy. We’ll write a play—Cinema—pooh!—No good to anyone! We’ll write such a play as was never written before. And if we don’t knock ’em——! By God!”
A light danced in Eliphalet’s eyes—the light of reviving enthusiasm.
“It’s an idea, Sefton,” he said. “An idea. Perhaps, after all, we shall be wanted.”
They bought watercress for tea, and cucumber, sardines and potted meat, so it is no small wonder that the meal was a success. Sefton Bulmore fairly expanded under its influence.
Eliphalet arranged with his landlady for an extra bed to be made up in his room.