Part 25 (1/2)
”Oh! I didn't know. Writing what?”
Denzil hesitated. ”An epic poem.”
”No wonder you're in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?”
”No; it wouldn't be the least use to me.”
”Here it is, then.”
Denzil took the coin and his hat.
”Aren't you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something for me.”
Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place.
”What do you want me to write?”
”Your Epic Poem.”
Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back in his arm-chair and laughed, studying the poet's grave face.
Denzil wrote three lines and paused.
”Can't remember any more? Well, read me the start.”
Denzil read:--
”Of man's first disobedience and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world--”
”Hold on!” cried Grodman. ”What morbid subjects you choose, to be sure!”
”Morbid! Why, Milton chose the same subject!”
”Blow Milton. Take yourself off--you and your Epics.”
Denzil went. The pock-marked person opened the street door for him.
”When am I to have that new dress, dear?” she whispered coquettishly.
”I have no money, Jane,” he said shortly.
”You have a sovereign.”
Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the door viciously. Grodman overheard their whispers, and laughed silently. His hearing was acute.
Jane had first introduced Denzil to his acquaintance about two years ago, when he spoke of getting an amanuensis, and the poet had been doing odd jobs for him ever since. Grodman argued that Jane had her reasons.
Without knowing them, he got a hold over both. There was no one, he felt, he could not get a hold over. All men--and women--have something to conceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific.
Denzil Cantercot shambled home thoughtfully, and abstractedly took his place at the Crowl dinner-table.