"Sit down." Olva pulled out the whisky and two siphons of soda. "If I didn't want you I'd say so."
He filled himself a strong glass of whisky and soda and began feverishly to drink.
Bunning sat down.
"Don't be such a blooming fool. Take off your gown if you're going to stop."
Bunning meekly took off his gown. His spectacles seemed so large that they swallowed up the rest of his face; the spectacles and the enormous flat-toed boots were the principal features of Bunning's attire. He sat down again and gazed at Olva with the eyes of a devoted dog. Olva looked at him. Over Bunning's red wrists the brown ends of a Jaeger vest protruded from under the shirt.
"I say, why don't you dress properly?"
"I don't know—-" began Bunning.
"Well, the sleeves of your vest needn't come down like that. It looks horribly dirty. Turn 'em up."
Bunning, blushing almost to tears, turned them back.
"There's no need to make yourself worse than you are, you know," Olva finished his whisky and poured out some more. "Why do you come here? . . . I'm always beastly to you."