Tomlin stared at the ash of one of the cigars "stood" by this talkative Londoner; Hobbs, whose glass had reached a low level again, examined the dregs almost fiercely; and Siddle seemed to be about to say something, but, with his usual restraint, kept silent.

Then Ingerman made a very shrewd guess, and wondered who Doris Martin was, and what Hobbs's cryptic allusion had meant.
"Good luck to you, sir," he said, "but--take no offense--don't marry an actress.

There's an old adage, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' I would go farther, and interpolate the word 'should.' If Adelaide Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been." "D--n him," muttered Elkin fiercely.

"He's done for now, anyhow.

He'll turn no more girls' heads for a bit." "An' five minutes since you yapped at me like a vicious fox-terrier for 'intin' much the same thing," chortled Hobbs.
Siddle stood up.
"You ain't goin', Mr.Siddle ?" went on the butcher.