Maybe it’s his loss. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. Everything proclaimed the mischievous propensities of the recent occupants of the chamber. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances.
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