And all the time he
suffered from the suppressed longing which scarcely ever left him now,
to think and talk of Phyllis. Ventnor's fizz was good and plentiful,
his old Madeira absolutely first chop, and the only other man present a
teetotal curate, who withdrew with the ladies to talk his parish shop.
Favoured by these circumstances, and the perception that Ventnor was an
agreeable fellow, Bob Pillin yielded to his secret itch to get near the
subject of his affections.
"Do you happen," he said airily, "to know a Mrs. Larne--relative of old
Heythorp's--rather a handsome woman-she writes stories."
Mr. Ventnor shook his head. A closer scrutiny than Bob Pillin's would
have seen that he also moved his ears.
"Of old Heythorp's? Didn't know he had any, except his daughter, and
that son of his in the Admiralty."
Bob Pillin felt the glow of his secret hobby spreading within him.
"She is, though--lives rather out of town; got a son and daughter. I
thought you might know her stories--clever woman."
Mr. Ventnor smiled. "Ah!" he said enigmatically, "these lady novelists!
Does she make any money by them?"
Bob Pillin knew that to make money by writing meant success, but that
not to make money by writing was artistic, and implied that you had
private means, which perhaps was even more distinguished.
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