But as everyone knows: "Face joy's a costly mask to wear, 'Tis bought with pangs long nourished And rounded to despair;" and he looked now even more worn and old than he had done at Ben Rhydding in the first days of his trouble.
However, he turned resolutely away from the subject I had introduced and began to discuss titles for his novel.
"It's impossible to find anything new," he said, "absolutely impossible.
I declare I shall take to numbers." I laughed at this prosaic notion, and we were still discussing the title when we reached home.
"Don't say anything about it at lunch," he said as we entered.

"My father detests my writing." I nodded assent and opened the sitting-room door--a strong smell of brandy instantly became apparent; the Major sat in the green velvet chair, which had been wheeled close to the hearth.

He was drunk.
Derrick gave an ejaculation of utter hopelessness.
"This will undo all the good of Ben Rhydding!" he said.

"How on earth has he managed to get it ?" The Major, however, was not so far gone as he looked; he caught up the remark and turned towards us with a hideous laugh.
"Ah, yes," he said, "that's the question.

But the old man has still some brains, you see.