“Shush!” said Doome impatiently.
Ffolliott giggled:
“D’you know,” said he—“I started to tell him such a comic story to-day—by George, I’ll tell it to you,” he tittered. “You know how ridiculous a woman with a pronounced nose looks in a bathing-dress! Well. But—perhaps I’d better not tell you—I’m sure you’re engaged——”
Doome slapped the narrow shoulders again with jovial hand, and sent more liquor flying down Ffolliott’s trousers:
“By Hermes, you are a clever fellow, Ffolliott,” said he.
“Oh, no—not always,” bleated the affected voice of Ffolliott—“I’m rather deliriously clever at times—in a flukey sort of way. I don’t mean to be. It’s hereditary. My mother’s uncle was a rural dean, you know, and——”
“But why do you wear an eyeglass?”
Ffolliott simpered:
“Foljambe of Baliol was the most pronounced man at the ’varsity; he is the most pronounced man at the bar—and Foljambe wears an eyeglass.”
“Does he?”