“Wonderful man.... Ley’s gone off like a bee in a gale. D’they know Hancock’s down Nelly?”
Miriam glanced at Mr. Hancock wishing he could lunch in peace. He was tired. Did he too feel oppressed with the gas and the pale madder store cupboards? ... glaring muddy hot pink?
“I’ve got a blasted head on ... excuse my language. Twenty of ’em, twenty to dinner.”
“Oh yes?” said Mr. Hancock shifting in his chair and glancing about.
“Nelly! D’they know he’s down? Start on a paté, Hancock. The remains of the banquet.”
“Oh ... well, thanks.”
“You never get heads do ye?”
Mr. Hancock smiled and began a murmuring response as he busied himself with his paté.
“Poor Ro he’s got a most awful head.... How’s your uncle Mr. Hancock?”
“Oh—thank you.... I’m afraid he’s not very flourishing.”