on his forearms.

He could not believe that he looked forty-three and a half. And yet
he had recently had an idea of shaving off his beard, partly to defy
time, but partly also (I must admit) because a friend had suggested to
him, wildly, perhaps--that if he dispensed with a beard his hair might
grow more sturdily ... Yes, there was one weak spot in the middle
of the top of his head, where the crop had of late disconcertingly
thinned! The hairdresser had informed him that the symptom
would vanish under electric massage, and that, if he doubted the
_bona-fides_ of hairdressers, any doctor would testify to the value of
electric massage. But now Edward Henry Machin, strangely discouraged,
inexplicably robbed of the zest of existence, decided that it was not
worth while to shave off his beard. Nothing was worth while. If he was
forty-three and a half, he was forty-three and a half! To become bald
was the common lot. Moreover, beardless, he would need the service of
a barber every day. And he was absolutely persuaded that not a barber
worth the name could be found in the Five Towns. He actually went to
Manchester--thirty-six miles--to get his hair cut. The operation
never cost him less than a sovereign and half a day's time ... And he
honestly deemed himself to be a fellow of simple tastes! Such is the
effect of the canker of luxury. Happily he could afford these simple
tastes, for, although not rich in the modern significance of the term,
he paid income tax on some five thousand pounds a year, without quite
convincing the Surveyor of Taxes that he was an honest man.

He brushed the thick hair over the weak spot, he turned down his
wristbands, he brushed the collar of his jacket, and lastly, his
beard; and he put on his jacket--with a certain care, for he was
very neat. And then, reflectively twisting his moustache to military