Michael admired the dusky blue chamber with the plain mirrors of tarnished gilt, the gleaming books and exotic engravings, and the heterogeneous finery faintly effeminate. He buried himself in a deep embroidered chair, with an ebony box of cigarettes at his feet, while Mr. Wilmot, after a myriad mincing preliminaries, sought out various highly coloured bottles of liqueurs.
“This is a jolly ripping room,” sighed Michael.
“It represents a year’s moods,” said Mr. Wilmot.
“And then will you change it?” asked Michael.
“Perhaps. The most subtly painted serpent casts ultimately its slough. Crème-de-Menthe?”
“Yes, please,” said Michael, who would have accepted anything in his present receptive condition.
“And what do you think of life?” enquired Mr. Wilmot, taking his place on a divan opposite Michael. “Do you mind if I smoke my Jicky-scented hookah?” he added.
“Not at all,” said Michael. “These cigarettes are jolly ripping. I think life at school is frightfully dull—except, of course, when one goes out. Only I don’t often.”
“Dull?” repeated Mr. Wilmot. “Listen to the amazing cruelty of youth, that finds even his adventurous Sicilian existence dull.”
“Well, it is,” said Michael. “I think I used to like it, but nowadays everything gets fearfully stale almost at once.”