“Agatha calls it a pill-box. I call it a bird-cage. I live here, my dear boy, because it is the utmost I can afford.”
“Rot! I've been your private secretary and know what your income is.”
I sighed heavily. I shall have to get a leaflet printed setting out the causes that led to my change of fortune. Then I can hand it to such of my friends as manifest surprise.
Indeed, I had grown so used to the story of my lamentable pursuit of the eumoirous that I rattled it off mechanically after the manner of the sturdy beggar telling his mendacious tale of undeserved misfortune. To Dale, however, it was fresh. He listened to it open-eyed. When I had concluded, he brought his hand down on the arm of the chair.
“By Jove, you're splendid! I always said you were. Just splendid!”
He gulped down half a tumbler of whisky and soda to hide his feelings.
“And you've been doing all this while I've been making a howling fool of myself! Look here, Simon, you were right all along the line—from the very first when you tackled me about Lola. Do you remember?”
“Why refer to it?” I asked.
“I must!” he burst in quickly. “I've been longing to put myself square with you. By the way, where is Lola?”
“I don't know,” said I with grim truthfulness.