“Diedermayer’s a kiss-ass. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. Do not remain with me. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom.
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