What is the bluest blue?
It is not the sky of Italy; it is not the Sapphire of the Maharajah of Baipal, it is not the Blue Diamond of the King of Siam, nor is it the blue gentian that blooms on the high Alps, it is not Rickett's blue, it is not Prussian blue, which is, parenthetically, out of fashion just now, nor is it the blue of a tuppence highpenny stamp. All these are blues. But the blues at the front when it rains, these are the bluest blues. And it never rains but it pours.
We sit there, the four of us, namely, Charlie, Guncotton, Pringle, and I.
We smoke and feel miserable.
"It rains," states Guncotton.
"Does it?" asks Charlie.
"It does," answers Pringle, and I finish the series with a:
"Rotten weather!"
A stillness follows.
We go on puffing, feeling thoroughly soaked.