"I'm not surprised either," I remarked. "It is, however,
extremely deplorable."

"It's your own fault. Why did you introduce him?"

"A book," I observed, "might be written on the Injustice of the
Just. How could I suppose that he would--?"

By the way, I might as well state what he--that is, my young
cousin George--had done. Unless one is a genius, it is best to
aim at being intelligible.

Well, he was in love; and with a view of providing him with
another house at which he might be likely to meet the adored
object, I presented him to my friend Lady Mickleham. That was on
a Tuesday. A fortnight later, as I was sitting in Hyde Park (as
I sometimes do), George came up and took the chair next to me. I
gave him a cigarette, but made no remark. George beat his cane
restlessly against the leg of his trousers.

"I've got to go up tomorrow," he remarked.

"Ah, well, Oxford is a delightful town," said I.

"D----d hole," observed George.

I was about to contest this opinion when a victoria drove by.

A girl sat in it, side by side with a portly lady.