“Well, look at you!” observed the young man shortly.
Mr. Priestley obeyed. “I seem much the same as usual,” he ventured.
“That’s the whole point!” the young man said with force. “You’re always much the same as usual. Always!”
“I wear a different suit nearly every day,” Mr. Priestley protested wistfully.
“You know what I mean. Look at you—thirty-six, and as set and unenterprising as a man of sixty! Why don’t you move out of your rotten little rut, man? Move about! See life! Have adventures!” The young man ran a sensitive hand through his rather long black hair.
Mr. Priestley looked round the cosy bachelor room in the cosy bachelor flat; if it was a rut, it was a remarkably pleasant one. “It’s curious how restless love seems to make a man,” he observed mildly.
The young man stamped violently several times up and down the room. “I’m not restless!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’m happy!”
“I see,” replied Mr. Priestley with humility. “Have another drink, won’t you?”
The young man manipulated the decanter and siphon. “I do hate to see a man vegetating,” he growled into his glass.
“I suppose it’s the result of getting engaged,” Mr. Priestley meditated. “That sort of thing must be upsetting, no doubt.”