He looked unnaturally thin and bent, Ludlow, attired in a suit of cottage tweed, a smoky grey, a thing surely inherited from some plethoric uncle, for it hung on his Lordship like a bag and at the same time was too short in particulars. His trousers were certainly not intended to show all that length of woollen sock, and his wrists shot out from his sleeves like a conjurer’s whenever, as now, he straightened his arms. His Oxford collar, cut off too soon, exposed a lean craning neck.
Belvoir was seated at the table. He was on the point of remarking in his blandest voice:
“And you know, my dear Ludlow, the notion of obscenity is certainly modern.”
“No such thing,” sputtered Lord Ludlow. “Your opinions are atrocious, sir, and your books are vile. You should be boiled in oil for your opinions, sir—and for your books you should, er, er—be parboiled!”
“And you, my good sir, should be embalmed,” rejoined Belvoir with equanimity. “You are embalmed, by Jove! A good job, too. That will explain everything.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“Not at all. My good sir, have you ever descended to fundamentals from that altitude of sublime cerebration that you seem to be soaring in whenever I expound my lowly beliefs?”
“Fundamentals? What do you mean by fundamentals?”
“I mean facts.”
“You mean a perversion of the facts, sir!”