“There’s more to the drama than Othello, and more to Othello than burnt cork.” And Mr. Flippance laughed again as he dropped into his wooden arm-chair and resumed his breakfast at a little table ’twixt the bed-canopy and the window. “Sit down, won’t you? Excuse my back—I can hear all you say behind it. Ha, ha! That’s another good gag, eh?” Will, glancing round, saw that the chair not occupied by his host was hopelessly littered by his garments, mixed with papers: he therefore dropped on the high four-poster—it was now made—and cleared his throat for action. “You’ll have a drop of something,” Mr. Flippance threw backwards, mistranslating the sounds. “No, thank you!” He must not be bribed or drugged, Will felt: he had stern work before him. It was as well, however, to placate the adversary. “Glad to hear the show’s a big draw,” he said. “And who told you that?” “Er—the Bradmarsh Carrier!” “Bless her—she carries all the lies I tell her.” “Aren’t things rosy then?” “I never lie on Sundays. Ha, ha, ha! Perhaps it’s just as well Jinny won’t do business with me to-day. No, old man, I ought to be middling mollancholy, as they say here. But I’m as happy as the day is long—and it’s getting longer every day.” He drained his coffee-cup voluptuously. “Never mind my business—what’s yours?” “Mine? I haven’t come on business.” “Then you _must_ have a brandy.” He reached out and pulled the green bell-rope. “No thank you. You see—” Will swung his legs hesitatingly. “Surely you don’t think she ought to carry lies——?” “Who?” “The Bradmarsh Carrier.” “Jinny! She has to carry anything—at the proper tariff.” “But is it fair to her?” “If you mean our doing bumper business, she don’t know it’s a lie, and her telling it helps to make it true. Why, you were itching to see the show yourself, as soon as you heard other fools were flocking.” He turned a grinning face. “Come now, confess.” “I didn’t come to see the show,” Will contradicted, feeling vaguely baffled. “Of course not, being Sunday. But what _did_ you come for? Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses.” “I will,” he said eagerly. “I hear you want to buy one.” Mr. Flippance swung round, chair and all. “Then you _have_ come on business!” “No, I haven’t.” “Well, have you got a horse?” “No, but I could get one.” “And you don’t call that business!” “I didn’t mean to—!” Will was getting embarrassed. “It just slipped out. What I want to ask of you is——” “Where the devil is that waiter?” broke in the Showman, reaching for the cord again. “What I mean is,” said Will, determined to get it out before the waiter popped up, “that there’s a girl you’re leading into brazen courses!”