“My hotel—singular coincidence—something of a pleasure. Glad to know you, sir. Wake me up when we arrive, kindly. Good. Find shares sixteen above par—Hecla two hundred and three. Oceans of money—no cares—a jolly life—see you later perhaps——”
And he sleeps the fitful slumber that follows over-indulgence in drink. Aleck manages to settle him in a corner, and seats himself beside the actor, who has been regarding the scene with something like amusement.
“Pretty far gone, aint he?” remarks Wycherley.
“Disgusting. What a shame; looks like a bright young fellow, too.”
“Well-loaded with long green,” asserts the actor.
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand.”
“I mean smartly heeled.”
“I’m still in the dark.”
Wycherley laughs.
“I forgot you were from over the border and not up to our professional terms. What I would imply is that he is a man of means, of money.”