For the first time in my life I cursed Marcus Aurelius.

I shook my fist at him as he stood on the shelf within easy reach of my hand.

It was he who had put into my head this confounded notion of achieving eumoiriety.

Am I dealing to myself, I asked, a happy lot and portion?
Certainly not, I replied, and when Rogers brought me my brandy and soda I drank it off desperately.

After that I grew better, and drew up a merry little Commination Service.
A plague on the little pain inside.
A plague on Lady Kynnersley for weeping me into my rash undertaking.
A plague on Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos for aiding and abetting Lady Kynnersley.
A plague on Captain Vauvenarde for running away from his wife; for giving up the army; for not letting me know whether he is alive or dead; for being, I'll warrant him, in the most uncomfortable and ungetatable spot on the globe.
A plague on Dale for becoming infatuated with Lola Brandt.