“You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. "I am so excessively fond of snuff. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. Oh! you young people!” The young man with the orange tie, in spite of Sisyphus-like efforts on the part of Goopes to get the topic on to a higher plane, displayed great persistence in speculating upon the possible distribution of the affections of highly developed modern types. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. He winced from the wasp-like sting. “Eight, Cavendish Square. He died in the war. Smith," observed Wood.
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