“I’m not surprised either,” I remarked. “It is, however, extremely deplorable.”
“It’s your own fault. Why did you introduce him?”
“A book,” I observed, “might be written on the Injustice of the Just. How could I suppose that he would—?”
By the way, I might as well state what he—that is, my young cousin George—had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to aim at being intelligible.
Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane restlessly against the leg of his trousers.
“I’ve got to go up tomorrow,” he remarked.
“Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town,” said I.
“D——d hole,” observed George.
I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.
A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.