“Nothing particular. I’ve been—er—rather slack.” And with their feel around his waist his trousers seemed to echo: ‘Slack!’
“Ah!” said Bryce-Green. “Here we are! Do you like claws?”
“Tha-a-nks. Anything!” To eat—until warned by the pressure of his waist against his trousers! Huh! What a feast! And what a flow of his own tongue suddenly released—on drama, music, art; mellow and critical, stimulated by the round eyes and interjections of his little provincial host.
“By Jove, Caister! You’ve got a mêche blanche. Never noticed. I’m awfully interested in mêches blanches. Don’t think me too frightfully rude—but did it come suddenly?”
“No, gradually.”
“And how do you account for it?”
‘Try starvation,’ trembled on Caister’s lips.
“I don’t.”
“I think it’s ripping. Have some more omelette? I often wish I’d gone on the regular stage myself. Must be a topping life, if one has talent, like you.”