"A conservative diagnosis," Wandel answered. "His language sounded quite foreign, but with effort its sense could be had; and the rooms were fairly full. You know, just before dinner—the usual crowd."
"Somebody should have shut him up," George cried.
"We did, with difficulty, and not all at once," Wandel protested. "Dicky's taken him home with the aid of a pair of grinning hyenas. They did make one think of that."
"It's not to be borne," George muttered. "He ought to be killed."
"By all means, my dear George," Wandel agreed, "but we're back in New York. I mean, with the armistice murder ceased to be praiseworthy. They're punishing it in the usual fashion. You quite understand that, George?"
George tried to laugh.
"Quite. Go ahead."
"He really had some excuse," Wandel went on, "because when he first came in no one realized how bad he was—and they jumped him with congratulations and humour, and he went right out of his head—became stark, raving mad; or drunk, as you choose."
"What did he say?" George asked, softly.
Wandel half closed his eyes.