“Well, tell us,” said Corinna, “I can’t stand here all day.”
“Won’t you sit down, mademoiselle?” said Bigourdin.
Corinna took her vacated chair.
“Aren’t you ever going to begin?”
“I had prepared,” replied Fortinbras benevolently, “an exhaustive analysis of our young friend’s financial, moral and spiritual state of being. But, as you appear to be impatient, I will forego the pleasure of imparting to you this salutary instruction. So perhaps it is better that I should come to the point at once. He is practically penniless. He has abandoned all ideas of returning to his soul-stifling profession. But he must, in the commonplace way of mortals, earn his living. His soul has had a complete rest for three months. It is time now that it should be stimulated to effort that shall result in consequences more glorious than the poor human phenomenon that is, I can predict. My prescription of happiness, as you, Corinna, have so admirably put it, is that Martin shall take the place of the unclean Polydore, who, I understand, has recently been ejected with ignominy from this establishment.”
His small audience gasped in three separate and particular fashions.
“Mon vieux, c’est idiot!” cried Bigourdin.
“What a career,” cried Corinna, with a laugh.
“I never thought of that,” said Martin, thumping the table.
Fortinbras rubbed his soft hands together. “I don’t deal in the obvious.”