"You can be of help to me, old man, if you would? I mean, you know the local ropes and that's half the game!"
At least here was Strauss adumbrating interests definite, if not exalted, some sort of terminus ad quem. How nauseatingly void and vain had life in Doomington become!
Strauss proceeded. "Another thing! I've developed a sudden consuming passion for, what d'you call 'em, creplach, absolutely soaked in shmaltz, you know the sort ... and potato blintsies ... and let me see, there's mameliggy, um, yes, mameliggy!"
Memories of the curiously-flavoured Roumanian dish as served on special occasions by Mrs. Sewelson vividly presented themselves.
"Oh, so you're a Roumanian, Mr. ... I mean, Strauss?" Philip juxtaposed.
"No, no, don't misunderstand! One of my great pals in the old Mincing Lane days, Rupert Kahn—poor devil, he's doing twelve months now, somebody told me—was engaged to a Roumanische nekaveh for a time, till he made off with the engagement rings and her silver combs, and you couldn't blame him either—calves like the hind legs of an elephant.—Oh, appalling! ... But I say, don't you think we'd better be moving on?" Strauss interrupted himself. They emerged from the doorway and Strauss slipped his arm through Philip's as though the dawn of their acquaintance was already ancient history.
"Where the hell am I wandering off to, Massel, old dear?" Strauss speculated. "I'm afraid I'm a trifle light-headed. It must be that champagne the Inland Company so beneficently provide, eh? Half a bottle of fizz always cuts more of a dash than a whole of Sauterne, although it's not strictly the thing for lunch, would you say? Still, it's worth the difference, every time! What's your preference?"
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a connoisseur myself! Palestine's wine's about as far as I've gone, with occasional whiskey and lekkach"—Strauss looked puzzled—"you know, those curly little cakes! It's not been quite my line, somehow!"
"Poor old thing!" mused Strauss. "You've not moved very far and that's a fact! At about your age—I think my calculations are right—I'd spent three or four week-ends with Marjorie in Brighton ... Oh, curse the man! Him and his dirty Doomington manners!" The youth scowled uglily. Somebody, evidently displeased by the expansive manner Strauss had adopted for his procession down Transfer Street, had thrust a vicious elbow into the grey tweed waist. For one horrible moment it seemed that Strauss was mobilizing his resources for a punitive expectoration, but the West End reassumed control in time and Strauss continued:—
"Oh, yes, Brighton, Marjorie, as I was saying! That girl was a sponge, nothing more or less! She'd just open her mouth and pour the stuff down like rainwater pouring down a spout. Gee, that's a while ago now! Still, I don't think—damn those motors!—a show like Transfer Street is the place for one's confessions, what do you say? One oughtn't to let oneself rip like this, but you've got the sort of face one can trust, Massel, if I may say so. Somehow I generally manage to land on my feet when I arrive in a strange town, though I take no credit to myself for it, mark you! I remember once, first time I landed in Bordeaux ... But for God's sake let's go somewhere and have some tea. Then we can discuss the boarding-house business and the way the wind blows in Doomington. How do you feel about it?"