'You've--face.'
'You also.'
'Will I be supposed to make any remark when I'm dying--any last farewells, or any of that kind of thing?'
'You might express contrition for a wasted life.'
'Yours?--or mine? A bit of yours has been wasted; especially lately--eh? A lot of time seems to waste when you're waiting for dead men's shoes.'
'It's for you to see that I don't have to wait much longer.'
He was silent again. Again he regarded his cigar. A curious smile parted his thin, colourless lips. 'I'm to be the Marquis of Twickenham?'
'You are.'
'Because I'm so like him?'
'Exactly.'