I approached him suavely.
"I was wondering," I said, "as it's impossible to strike a match in this wind, whether you would let me light my pipe from yours." "It's empty," he growled.
"Take a fill from my pouch," said I.
The mud-turtle loaded his pipe, handed me my pouch without acknowledgment, stuck his pipe in his breeches pocket, spat again, and, deliberately turning his back, on me, lounged off to another post on a remoter and less lunatic-ridden portion of the shore.

Again I laughed, feeling, as the poet did with the daffodils, that one could not but be gay in such a jocund company.
There are no amenities or urbanities of life in Murglebed to choke the growth of the Idea.

This evening it flourishes so exceedingly that I think it safe to transplant it in the alien soil of Q 3, The Albany, where the good Rogers must be leading an idle existence peculiarly deleterious to his morals.
This gives one furiously to think.

One of the responsibilities of eumoiriety must be the encouragement and development of virtue in my manservant.
Also in my young friend and secretary, Dale Kynnersley.

He is more to me than Rogers.