“But, my dear Ezekiel,” I began.
He interrupted me coldly.
“I must beg you in future,” he said, “to call me Mr. Stool.”
I stared at him.
“Call you Mr. Stool,” I gasped, “after all these years of impassioned friendship?”
He waved his hand.
“I repudiate them,” he said. “I repudiate them in their entirety.”
I drew myself up to a right angle with my lap.
“But, Mr. Stool,” I said, “surely you must realize the enormous magnitude of your escape?”
“Escape?” he said. “Escape from what?”