As we slunk off down the Square, after as painful a five minutes as I care to remember, Willoughby kept repeating, “Very unlucky—very unlucky,” till we arrived at our own door. Then he began to laugh.
“And what is the joke?” I asked.
“There is no joke,” he said—“no joke at all.”
“Indeed there is not,” I said bitterly. “You must remember that, unlike yourself, I live here permanently.”
“I realise it,” said Willoughby. “But do you not think, on consideration, that that really gives you the advantage? I mean, you have thus the opportunity of living down the unfortunate accusation of inebriety that has been brought against us, which I shall not be in a position to do.”
I hate living things down.
Commercial Candour.
From a restaurant bill-of-fare:—
“Develled Leg of Foul and Curly Bacon, 2/6.”