“Yes, Ffolliott.” Doome laughed. “Civilization has its drawbacks—there is the hand mirror.”
Ffolliott came nearer, and, disregarding the insinuation, added with drunken confidence:
“D’you know, Doome—you don’t mind my saying so—but I believe you’re engaged.”
“Nonsense, Ffolliott!”
Doome got up from his grim bench and slapped the weak-limbed exquisite a sounding thump on the narrow shoulders with heavy jocular hand’s buffet, so that he spilled the liquor down the front of him.
Ffolliott, when he had wiped himself dry with dandified handkerchief, said:
“Oh—it’s no use your pretending to be so colossally gay, you know. I always notice that when a fellow makes a delirious fool of himself (hiccup) about a woman (hiccup) he becomes austere—morally austere.”
“Hiccup!” said Rippley; and there was loud applause at the tables.
Doome laughed:
“You were always a comic ass, Ffolliott,” said he—“but when did you degenerate into a philosopher?”