“She’s not morbid; she’s mad.”
“I’m neither morbid nor mad. It’s a splendid way of amusing yourself; better than imagining the chairs in front of you at a concert quietly collapsing.” They were scarcely listening. Both of them were depending on each other to listen and answer.
“Do you still go to Ruscino’s every night Miriam?”
“With the Spaniard? How is the Spaniard?”
“He’s eaten up with dizizz.”
“With what ?”
“That’s what Miss Scott says.”
“How does she know?”
“All the doctors are prescribing for him.”
“Did they tell her?”
“I don’t know. She just said it suddenly. Like she says things. The doctors are all awfully fond of him.”
“Why are they fond of him?”
“He is extraordinary. He has given up his poster work and does lightning silhouettes, outlines of heads, at five shillings each at some gardens somewhere. Sometimes he makes five pounds an evening at it.”
“So you don’t go to Ruscino’s every evening?”