Replacing the blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from the glass, and sniffed at it. “Will you come with me as far as Pall Mall? I 'm going to take an afternoon off; too cold for Lord's, I suppose?”
They walked into the Strand.
“Have you seen this new play of Borogrove's?” asked Shelton, as they passed the theatre to which he had been with Halidome.
“I never go to modern plays,” replied Mr. Paramor; “too d—-d gloomy.”
Shelton glanced at him; he wore his hat rather far back on his head, his eyes haunted the street in front; he had shouldered his umbrella.
“Psychology 's not in your line, Uncle Ted?”
“Is that what they call putting into words things that can't be put in words?”
“The French succeed in doing it,” replied Shelton, “and the Russians; why should n't we?”
Mr. Paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger's.
“What's right for the French and Russians, Dick,” he said “is wrong for us. When we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false. I should like to have had the catching of that fellow; let's send him to your mother.” He went in and bought a salmon: