Why should he have a face at all?
But, if he must have one to feed
And smell with, let the man install
A better kind, and thank his luck
That all his headpiece hasn't come unstuck.
O.S.
A WHIFF OF THE BRINY.
As I entered the D.E.F. Company's depôt, Melancholy marked me for her own. Business reasons—not my own but the more cogent business reasons of an upperling—had just postponed my summer holiday; postponed it with a lofty vagueness to "possibly November. We might be able to let you go by then, my boy." November! What would Shrimpton-on-Sea be like even at the beginning of November? Lovely sea-bathing, delicious boating, enchanting picnics on the sand? I didn't think. Melancholy tatooed me all over with anchors and pierced hearts, to show that I was her very own, not to be taken away.
I clasped my head in my hands and gazed in dumb agony at the menu card. A kind waitress listened with one ear.