Bob Pillin went on with desperation:
“I should like to know what your objection to me is.”
The old man turned his head so far as he was able; a grim smile bristled the hairs about his lips, and twinkled in his eyes. What did he object to? Why—everything! Object to! That sleek head, those puppy-dog eyes, fattish red cheeks, high collars, pearl pin, spats, and drawl-pah! the imbecility, the smugness of his mug; no go, no devil in any of his sort, in any of these fish-veined, coddled-up young bloods, nothing but playing for safety! And he wheezed out:
“Milk and water masquerading as port wine.”
Bob Pillin frowned.
It was almost too much for the composure even of a man of the world. That this paralytic old fellow should express contempt for his virility was really the last thing in jests. Luckily he could not take it seriously. But suddenly he thought: 'What if he really has the power to stop my going there, and means to turn them against me!' And his heart quailed.
“Awfully sorry, sir,” he said, “if you don't think I'm wild enough. Anything I can do for you in that line—”
The old man grunted; and realising that he had been quite witty, Bob Pillin went on:
“I know I'm not in debt, no entanglements, got a decent income, pretty good expectations and all that; but I can soon put that all right if I'm not fit without.”
It was perhaps his first attempt at irony, and he could not help thinking how good it was.