"I'm a 'virgin mind,'
am I?" he thought. "I'm a 'clean slate'? Well!... Their notion of
business is to begin by discussing the name of the theatre! And they
haven't even taken up the option! Ye gods! 'Intellectual'! 'Muses'!
'The Orient Pearl.' And she's fifty--that I swear! Not a word yet of
real business--not one word! He may be a poet. I daresay he is. He's
a conceited ass. Why, even Bryany was better than that lot. Only
Sachs turned Bryany out. I like Sachs. But he won't open his mouth....
'Capitalist'! Well, they spoilt my appetite, and I hate champagne!...
The poet hates money.... No, he 'hates the thought of money.' And
she's changing her mind the whole blessed time! A month ago she'd
have gone over to Pilgrim, and the poet too, like a
house-a-fire!...Photographed indeed! The bally photographer will be
here in a minute!... They take me for a fool!... Or don't they know
any better?... Anyhow, I am a fool.... I must teach 'em summat!"
He seized the telephone.
"Hello!" he said into it. "I want you to put me on to the drawing-room
of Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I'm in the bedroom of Suite No.
48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That's all right."
He waited. Then he heard Harrier's Kensingtonian voice in the
telephone asking who he was.
"Is that Mr. Machin's room?" he continued, imitating with a broad
farcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr.
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