In Chancery Lane
For Richard Whittington-Egan
Encountering John Lane's ghost in Chancery Lane, I asked him whither; and he made reply: `To nab that no-good Dick Le Gallienne.
He's on the drink again — at my expense.
Half an advance, and not a bob on ink!
His hand's too dithery now to push a pen.'
`I thought,' I said to little Piggie-Eyes mean petty trickster from the soil of Devon 'he was your Bodley Head bright Number One, male counterpart of his own "Golden Girl", that golden book that made a packet for you.' (`Lane got the gold,' wrote Dick, 'and I the girls.') `Don't try your luck too hard, egregious John. There's always Smithers waiting in the wings; and though he drabs and drugs, he's got the guts. Your sacking Beardsley killed The Yellow Book. Richard could go there with his mop of hair and help re-float the brave defunct Savoy "journal of succubae" — and you'd be sunk with your pale spin-off of the Decadence.'
Scorn elbowed out that sense of politesse to discourse with a shade appropriate.
I sought to moderate my show of spleen
in Chancery Lane . . . uttering empty threats. Derek Stanford
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