and looked about him, “this is all very nice and comfortable.”
Rodney turned his head half round and smiled, with the pride of a proprietor, and then prevented himself from smiling.
“Tolerable,” he muttered.
“But I dare say it’s just as well that you have to earn your own living.”
“If you mean that I shouldn’t do anything good with leisure if I had it, I dare say you’re right. But I should be ten times as happy with my whole day to spend as I liked.”
“I doubt that,” Denham replied.
They sat silent, and the smoke from their pipes joined amicably in a blue vapor above their heads.
“I could spend three hours every day reading Shakespeare,” Rodney remarked. “And there’s music and pictures, let alone the society of the people one likes.”
“You’d be bored to death in a year’s time.”
“Oh, I grant you I should be bored if I did nothing. But I should write plays.”
“H’m!”
“I should write plays,” he repeated. “I’ve written three–quarters of one already, and I’m only waiting for a holiday to finish it. And it’s not bad—no, some of it’s really rather nice.”
The question arose in Denham’s mind whether he should ask to see this play, as, no doubt, he was expected to do. He looked rather stealthily at Rodney, who was tapping the coal nervously with a poker, and quivering almost physically, so Denham thought, with desire to talk about this play of his, and vanity unrequited and urgent. He seemed very much at Denham’s mercy, and Denham could not help liking him, partly on that account.
“Well,…will you let me see the play?” Denham asked, and Rodney looked immediately appeased, but,
