Good Lord, where are you from?
PRATTLE (_casually_): The ends of the earth.
DE REVES: Well, I'm damned!
PRATTLE: Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on.
DE REVES: Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?
PRATTLE: Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent ties to
wear--you can get nothing out there--then I thought I'd have a look and
see how London was getting on.
DE REVES: Splendid! How's everybody?
PRATTLE: All going strong.
DE REVES: That's good.
PRATTLE (_seeing paper and ink_): But what are you doing?
DE REVES: Writing.
PRATTLE: Writing? I didn't know you wrote.
DE REVES: Yes, I've taken to it rather.
PRATTLE: I say--writing's no good. What do you write?
DE REVES: Oh, poetry.
PRATTLE: Poetry! Good Lord!
DE REVES: Yes, that sort of thing, you know.
PRATTLE: Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?
DE REVES: No. Hardly any.
PRATTLE: I say--why don't you chuck it?
DE REVES: Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather.
That's why I go on.
PRATTLE: I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.
DE REVES: Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly
approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it.
PRATTLE: Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I
can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only----
DE REVES: Only what?
PRATTLE: Oh, I don't know.
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