But a little thing upsets me. Last night I had to smoke
a cigar--the swell of the piece gives me a cigar--and he
gave me a poor one. It wasn't in tone--the unities
required that he should give me a good cigar. See? I felt
quite confused for the moment."
Elfrida's eyes had strayed to the corner of her letter.
"If you want to read that," continued Mr. Ticke, "I know
you won't mind me."
"Thanks," said Elfrida calmly. "I've read it already.
It's a rejected article."
"My play came back again yesterday for the thirteenth
time. The fellow didn't even look at it. I know, because
I stuck the second and third pages together as if by
accident, and when it came back they were still stuck.
And yet these men pretend to be on the lookout for original
work! It's a thrice beastly world, Miss Bell."
Elfrida widened her eyes again and smiled with a vague
impersonal winningness. "I suppose one ought not to care,"
said she, "but there is the vulgar necessity of living."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Ticke; and then sardonically: "Waterloo
Bridge at ebb tide is such a nasty alternative. I could
never get over the idea of the drainage."
"Oh, I know a better way than that." She chose her words
deliberately.
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