doesn't understand. They don't ever understand, these easy, half-alive,
untempted folks! She's never been away from a world of afternoon calls,
broughams and shopping! I tell her I'm a beer-bum--yes, that's the word
for it in Australia! Not a pretty word--not a pretty thing either! I
gave the Mater and Pater a picture of myself once--broken shoes tied on
with string, trousers tied on with a bit of rope because I'd sold my
braces for threepence--slinking along in the gutter outside the Theatre
Royal picking up cigarette ends that had been thrown away! Counter
lunches! D'you know what counter lunches are?"

She shook her head. It seemed as though he were trying to shock her, as
he piled on his miseries to her.

"Three times a day the hotel keeper in Australia covers his counter in
all sorts of food--cold meat, bread, cheese, pickles, cakes--oh, just
everything there is going. He doesn't want you to go out to get food,
you see, and perhaps get caught by some other pub. You don't have to
pay. You just eat what you like, so long as you go on buying drinks or
having them bought for you. There's a lot more there to eat than you
want. You don't want much when you're boozing. I lived on counter
lunches once--crayfish and celery mostly, with vinegar and cayenne--for
four months. I spent not a single penny on food the whole time. Then I
nearly died in hospital. They had me in the padded cell for three days."

"Were you mad?" she whispered, wishing he would tell her no more, but
fascinated by the horror of it all, the pity of it. "I think you are
mad, really, even now--talking like this, almost as if you're proud of
it."

"No, I'm not mad--only the usual pink rat sort of madness. The thing's