n't got a soul.

_Woman_: I suppose you've been reading that book, Omar Khayyam, that
every one's talking about. Isn't that what it's called?

_Man_: Has Omar Khayyam reached the theatrical world? Well, there's no
doubt the earth does move, after all.

_Woman_: A little more soda, please. And just a trifle less impudence.
What book ought one to be reading, then?

_Man_: Socialism's the thing just now. Read Wells on Socialism. It'll be
all over the theatrical world in a few years' time.

_Woman_: No fear! I can't bear Wells. He's always stirring up the dregs.
I don't mind froth, but I do draw the line at dregs. What's the band
playing? What have you been doing to-day? _Is_ this lettuce? No, no! No
bread. Didn't you hear me tell you?

_Man_: I've been busy with the Priam Farll affair.

_Woman_: Priam Farll?

_Man_: Yes. Painter. _You_ know.

_Woman_: Oh yes. _Him_! I saw it on the posters. He's dead, it seems.
Anything mysterious?

_Man_: You bet! Very odd! Frightfully rich, you know! Yet he died in a
wretched hovel of a place down off the Fulham Road. And his valet's
disappeared. We had the first news of the death, through our arrangement
with all the registrars' clerks in London. By the bye, don't give that
away--it's our speciality. Nasing sent me off at once to write up the
story.

_Woman_: Story?

_Man_: The particulars. We always call it a story in Fleet Street.

_Woman_: What a good name! Well, did you find out anything interesting?

_Man_: Not very much. I saw his cousin, Duncan Farll, a money-lending
lawyer in Clement's Lane--he only heard of it because we telephoned to
him. But the fellow would scarcely tell me anything at all.

_Woman_: Really! I do hope there's something terrible.

_Man_: Why?

_Woman_: So that I can go to the inquest or the police court or whatever
it is. That's why I always keep friendly with magistrates. It's so
frightfully thrilling, sitting on the bench with them.

_Man_: There won't be any inquest. But there's something queer in it.
You see, Priam Farll was never in England. Always abroad; at those
foreign hotels, wandering up and down.

_Woman (after a pause)_: I know.

_Man_: What do you know?

_Woman_: Will you promise not to chatter?

_Man_: Yes.

_Woman_: I met him once at an hotel at Ostend. He--well, he wanted most
tremendously to paint my portrait. But I wouldn't let him.

_Man_: Why not?

_Woman_: If you knew what sort of man he was you wouldn't