“No, you’re wrong there,” he said. “There would have been Julia somehow, with or without Jackers. Julia’s the sort of girl who is bound to happen, like earwigs and Tripos. Julia Jackson! What a name! Did you ever hear such a name?”
Badsley had sat up on the sofa and was regarding Birds as he sat eating duck with bare chest and bare arms, clad in his preposterous college cap and gown and pair of flannel trousers.
“Do put something else on, Birds,” he said, “or take something off. You make me blush. Why is it that a man with no clothes on is quite proper, but a man with no clothes and a top hat is so wildly improper?”
“Dunno, and duncare. I’m quite comfortable, I am. I wish there was some more food.”
“Whereas in silks my Julia goes,” said Jim.
“Take her, then: she’s your Julia. You said so,” said Birds, with his mouth full. “That’s all right.”
“Birds, you talk about girls in a perfectly beastly way,” said Badsley.
“I don’t talk about them at all unless somebody else begins. Then I say what I think, like a little gentleman. I like girls, smart ones, like those in revues, just for a little while. Whereas Badders——”
“Badders the troubadour touched his guitar,” said Jim. “But I hope he won’t.”
“I won’t,” said Badders. “All the same, to pass through a single day without feeling keen about a girl seems to me an awful waste of time.”