"It's not so bad as I thought," said Langholm, throwing the newspaper
aside as his companion, whose professional name was Valentine Venn,
finished with the wine-card.
"Dear boy," said Venn, "it took a pal to spot you. Alone I did it! But I
wish you weren't so dark about that confounded cottage of yours; the
humble mummer would fain gather the crumbs that fall from the rich
scribe's table, especially when he's out of a shop, which is the present
condition of affairs. Besides, we might collaborate in a play, and make
more money apiece in three weeks than either of us earns in a fat year.
That little story of yours--"
"Never mind my little stories," said Langholm, hastily; "I've just
finished a long one, and the very thought of fiction makes me sick."
"Well, you've got facts to turn to for a change, and for once they
really do seem as strange as the other thing. Lucky bargee! Have you had
her under the microscope all the summer? Ye gods, what a part of
Mrs.--"
"Drink up," said Langholm, grimly, as the champagne made an opportune
appearance; "and now tell me who that fellow is who's opening the piano,
and since when you've started a musical dinner.
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