"I did not
catch the name."
It was repeated, with such additions as may be fairly made behind a
man's back.
"A dashed good fellow, who writes dashed bad novels," was one of these.
"You forget!" said another. "He is the 'well-known novelist' who is
going the rounds as a neighbor and friend of Mrs.--"
Looks from Venn and the doctor cut short the speech, but not before its
import had come home to the young Italian, whose hollow cheeks flushed
a dusky brown, while his sunken eyes caught fire. In an instant he was
on his feet, with no attempt to hide his excitement, and still less to
mask the emotion that was its real name.
"He knows her, do you tell me? He knows Mrs. Minchin--"
"Or whatever her name is now; yes; so he says."
"And what is her name?"
"He won't say."
"Nor where she lives?"
"No."
"Then where does he live?"
"None of us know that either; he's the darkest horse in the club."
Venn agreed with this speaker, some little bitterness in his tone.
Another stood up for Langholm.
"We should be as dark," said he, "if we had married Gayety choristers,
and they had left us, and we went in dread of their return!"
They sum up the life tragedies pretty pithily, in these clubs.
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