"Epictetus," says Waldo, breakin' it to me as gentle as he can, "was a Greek philosopher. We are reading his 'Discourses.'"
"Oh!" says I. "Not so close, was I? Now, what was his line of dope—something like the Dooley stuff?"
Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like they wasn't used to indulgin' in such frivolity. They seemed to enjoy it, though, and the first thing I know I'm bein' put through a sort of highbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft I wear my pink thatch on.
Course, they didn't have to dig very deep into back-number hist'ry or B. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle was needed I admit I played up my part for all it was worth. Honest, they develops into a pair of reg'lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin' the time of their lives discoverin' that I thought Cleopatra must be one of the Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.
"And yet," says Waldo, inspectin' me curious, "your employers intrust you with a ten thousand dollar check."
"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.
"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind is much over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends with a percentage fraction. In England, now, we—"
"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the double doors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.
"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might I have a word with you in—er—in private, sir?"
"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about silly housekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."