"_Vanitas vanitatum_," said I. "_Omnia vanitas_."

"Rot!" said Dale.

"It's true."

"I must fetch Eleanor Faversham back from Sicily," said Dale.

"Don't," said I.

"Well, I give you up," he declared, pushing his chair from the table and
swinging one leg across the other. I leaned forward and scrutinised his
ankles.

"What are you looking at?"

"There must be something radically wrong with you, Dale," I murmured
sympathetically. "It is part of the religion of your generation to wear
socks to match your tie. To-day your tie is wine-coloured and your socks
are green----"

"Good Lord," he cried, "so they are! I dressed myself anyhow this
morning."

"What's wrong with you?"

He threw his cigarette impatiently into the fire.

"Every infernal thing that can possibly be. Everything's rotten--but
I've not come here to talk about myself."