"Yes," said he in an awestricken whisper. "That is my desire."
"Also," said I, "you love, excessively, in several places at once cooks, housemaids, governesses, schoolgirls, and the aunts of other people."
"But one only," said he, and the pink deepened to beetroot.
"Consequently," said I, "you have written much—you have written verses."
"It was to teach me to write prose, only to teach me to write prose," he murmured. "You do it yourself, because I have bought your works—all your works."
He spoke as if he had purchased dunghills en bloc.
"We will waive that question," I said loftily. "Produce the verses."
"They—they aren't exactly verses," said the young man, plunging his hand into his bosom.
"I beg your pardon, I meant will you be good enough to read your five-act tragedy."