I rose and warmed myself by the fire.

Dale regarded me uncomprehendingly.
"You look as if the prospect bored you to tears.

I thought you would be delighted." "_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.