Lucy, the barmaid, was in great form. Someone had given her a copy of The Yellow Book, with its strange ornamentation.
"They do get these books up in a rum way now," she said, pointing to the figures blazoned on the cover.
"You shouldn't find fault with that, my dear," he said. "The fig-leaf was the grandmother of petticoats"; and everyone roared.
"Can anyone recommend me a new religion?" said a fat man who did sporting tips for The Moon.
There was a yell at once. "Flintoff wants a new religion." "Theosophist!" "Absintheur!" "Jew!" "Mahomedan!"
"Theosophist?" said the fat man; "no, I think not. Madame Blavatski was too frankly indecent. Absintheur might perhaps suit if it wasn't for Miss Marie Corelli. Jew is quite out of the question; there are two difficulties, pork and another. Mahomedan! well, that isn't bad. As many wives as you like—the religion of the henroost. Yes, I think I'll be a Mahomedan."
"How about drinks?" said Gobion.
"Oh, damn! Yes, I forgot that, I must stick to Christianity after all." He limped to the table to get a match.
"What's the matter with your leg?" said Heath.
"I hurt it last night going home in the fog."