“That’s by Plimsoll—a silver point—isn’t it a beautiful thing?”
“Delightful,” replied Peter.
“Well, do you know—Knott—that—” David’s pipe had gone out. He moved slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. “Do you know, Plimsoll is one of the most gifted”—he was holding a match to his pipe as he spoke—“gifted young artists in the country—and two days ago—he—was literally hungry—” David took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.
“It’s very sad, very”—Peter Knott’s tone was sympathetic—“but after all, they’re young; they could enlist, couldn’t they?”
David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before answering.
“They’re—neither of them—strong, Knott. They’d—be laid up in a week.”
“Um—hard luck that,” Peter Knott agreed. “But what’s to be done? Everybody’s in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they’re just as badly hit, aren’t they?”
“That depends—” David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. “The occasional—er—contributors—are having a bad time—but the regular journalists—the people on the staffs—are all right—of course I know cases—there’s a man called—er, let me see—I’ve got a letter from him somewhere—Wyatt’s his name—now, he’s—” David’s huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.
“By the way,” he remarked briskly, “I saw your friend Seaford yesterday.”
David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name.