As the School-master sampled his coffee the genial gentleman who
occasionally imbibed broke the silence.
"I missed you at the concert last night, Mr. Idiot," said he.
"Yes," said the Idiot, with a caressing movement of the hand over his
upper lip; "I was very sorry, but I couldn't get around last night. I
had an engagement with a number of friends at the athletic club. I
meant to have dropped you a line in the afternoon telling you about it,
but I forgot it until it was too late. Was the concert a success?"
"Very successful indeed. The best one, in fact, we have had this season,
which makes me regret all the more deeply your absence," returned the
genial gentleman, with a suggestion of a smile playing about his lips.
"Indeed," he added, "it was the finest one I've ever seen."
"The finest one you've what?" queried the School-master, startled at the
verb.
"The finest one I've ever seen," replied the genial gentleman. "There
were only ten performers, and really, in all my experience as an
attendant at concerts, I never saw such a magnificent rendering of
Beethoven as we had last night. I wish you could have been there. It was
a sight for the gods."
"I don't believe," said the Idiot, with a slight cough that may have
been intended to conceal a laugh--and that may also have been the result
of too many cigarettes--"I don't believe it could have been any more
interesting than a game of pool I heard at the club."
"It appears to me," said the Bibliomaniac to the School-master, "that
the popping sounds we heard late last night in the Idiot's room may have
some connection with the present mode of speech these two gentlemen
affect.
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