"Of course you don't," said John; "I've never had a chance to prove it. For years I have been kept in the background by your family. I'm never allowed to make a joke, and if I do nobody laughs. This is my chance. I'm going to be in the limelight now. I shall be the life of the party, and it's no good trying to stop me. In fact," he finished confidentially, "I shan't be surprised if I take it up professionally. You should have heard me laughing upstairs."
"But, John," began Margery.
"Sh—!" said Cecilia; "it's no use arguing with him while he's in this mood. That's all right, John. You shall be everything you like. But as you've selected such a lot of parts for yourself perhaps you'll suggest what we can do with Alan."
"Ah," said John; "Alan! Yes, he's a problem, certainly. If he had any voice, now. I'm not sure that we want him at all. Could he do a clog-dance, do you think?"
"Don't worry," I interrupted; "I've thought of a fine part for me. All the best concert parties have a chap who sits in the corner and does nothing but look miserable. I could do that splendidly."
"That's quite true," said John approvingly; "it tickles the audience, you know, to see a fellow looking glum while everyone else is having hysterics at the funny—at the humourist. It isn't as easy as it looks, though, Alan. I shall keep saying things to make you laugh, you know. You'll find it jolly difficult to keep looking miserable once I get going."
"Not at all," I said. "That is, I shall do my best to keep serious. I shall try not to listen to you being funny."
John looked at me and considered whether it was worth following up. He decided it was not.
"I daresay he'll do," he said loftily to Cecilia; "the fellow has no sense of humour anyway."