“Hullo! Mr. Quiltan,” he said. “Excuse my song—went with the comb strokes. Liked your play no end—top hole! Sit down, won’t you. What you come to see me for, eh?”
Quiltan hesitated.
“It’s difficult to answer,” he replied, “for really I don’t know.”
“That’s the style. Just a friendly visit.”
“Not altogether. I want to talk to some one—and I chose you. I’m in love.”
“I envy you.”
“You needn’t, for I’m as miserable as hell.”
“It’s all a part of it.”
“And I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s all a part of it.”