And, believe me, when Doris described him as lookin' a little odd she's
said sumpun. Cyril was all of that. As far as figures goes he's big
and impressive enough, with sort of a dignified bulge around the
equator. But that face of his, with the white showin' through the
pink, and the pink showin' through the white in the most unexpected
places! Like a scraped radish. No, that don't give you the idea of
his color scheme exactly. Say a half parboiled baby. For the pink
spots on his chin and forehead was baby pink, and the white of his
cheeks and ears was a clear, waxy white, like he'd been made up by an
artist. Then, the thin gray hair, cropped so close the pink scalp
glimmered through; and the wide mouth with the quirky corners; and the
greenish pop-eyes with the heavy bags underneath--well, that was a map
to remember.

And the worst of it was, I couldn't. Sure, I'd met it. No doubt about
that. But I follows the bunch into the house like I was in a trance,
starin' at Cyril over Westy's shoulder and askin' myself urgent, "Where
have I seen that face before?" No, I couldn't place him. And you know
how a thing like that will bother you. It got me in the appetite.

Maybe it was just as well, too, for I'd got half way through the soup
before I notices anything the matter with it. My guess was that it
tasted scorchy. I glances around at Vee, and finds she's just makin' a
bluff at eatin' hers. Doris and Westy ain't even doin' that, and when
I drops my spoon Doris signals to take it away. Which Cyril does,
movin' as solemn and dignified as if he was usherin' at a funeral.
Then there's a stage wait for three or four minutes before the fish is
brought in, Cyril paddin' around ponderous with the plates. Doris
beckons him up and demands in a whisper: