"Well," said Mr. Tanfold, "London isn't much of a place to be in at any time."
The blue eyes of Mr. Tombs, behind their horn-rimmed spectacles, focused on him with a sudden dawn of interest. Actually, Simon was assuring himself that any man bom of woman could really look as unsavoury as Mr. Tanfold and still remain immune to beetle-paste. In this he had some justification, for Mr. Gilbert Tanfold was a small and somewhat fleshy man with a loose lower lip and a tendency to pimples, and his natty clothes and the mauve shirts which he affected did not improve his appearance, though no doubt he believed they did. But the only expression which Mr. Tanfold discerned was that which might have stirred the features of a "weeping Israelite by the waters of Babylon who perceived a fellow exile drawing nigh" to hang his harp on an adjacent tree.
"You've found that too, have you?" said Mr. Tombs, with the morbid satisfaction of a hospital patient discovering an equally serious case in the next bed.
"I've found it for the last six months," said Mr. Tanfold firmly. "And I'm still finding it. No fun to be had anywhere. Everything's too damn respectable. I hope I'm not shocking you—"
"Not a bit," said Mr. Tombs. "Let's have another drink."
"This is with me," said Mr. Tanfold.
The drinks were set up, raised, and swallowed.
"I'm not respectable," said Mr. Tanfold candidly. "I like a bit of fun. You know what I mean." Mr. Tanfold winked — a contortion of his face which left no indecency unsuggested. "Like you can get in Paris, if you know where to look for it."
"I know," said Mr. Tombs hungrily. "Have you been there?"
"Have I been there!" said Mr. Tanfold.