On the table lay
traces of literary occupation, sheets of manuscript, open books, and
the like. On another table stood a tray, with cups and saucers. A
kettle was boiling on the fire.
Waymark helped the conversation by offering a cup of coffee, which
he himself made.
"You smoke, I hope?" he asked, reaching some cigars from the
mantelpiece.
Julian shook his head, with a smile.
"No? How on earth do you support existence?--At all events, you
don't, as the railway-carriage phrase has it, object to smoking?"
"Not at all. I like the scent, but was never tempted to go further."
Waymark filled his pipe, and made himself conformable in a low
cane-bottom chair, which had stood folded-up against the wall. Talk
began to range over very various topics, Waymark leading the way,
his visitor only gradually venturing to take the initiative.
Theatres were mentioned, but Julian knew little of them; recent
books, but with these he had small acquaintance; politics, but in
these he had clearly no interest.
"That's a point of contact, at all events," exclaimed Waymark. "I
detest the very name of Parliament, and could as soon read Todhunter
on Conic Sections as the reports of a debate.
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