And now..." Mr.McCunn's command of language was inadequate to describe the transformation.
"You're a precise, pragmatical Scot," was the answer.

"Hang it, man, don't remind me that I'm inconsistent.

I've a poet's licence to play the fool, and if you don't understand me, I don't in the least understand myself.

All I know is that I'm feeling young and jolly, and that it's the Spring." Mr.Heritage was assuredly in a strange mood.

He began to whistle with a far-away look in his eye.
"Do you know what that is ?" he asked suddenly.
Dickson, who could not detect any tune, said "No." "It's an aria from a Russian opera that came out just before the war.
I've forgotten the name of the fellow who wrote it.