A QUESTION OF COURTESY.
"Permit me, Sir, to pass you the potatoes."
"After you," I inclined.
My fellow-passenger helped himself, shrugging his eyebrows. It was a provocative shrug—a shrug I could not leave at that.
"You shrug your eyebrows," I challenged.
"A thousand pardons," he answered; "but one never escapes it."
He courted interrogation. "What is it that one never escapes?" I asked.
"The elaborate unselfishness of the age," he replied a little petulantly. "I had two friends who starved to death of it."
"Indeed!" I offered him the salt.