"I found myself this
evening trying to kiss my landlady's daughter, who is not in the least
good-looking. I was attracted by the programme of a music hall and had
hard work to keep from going there. A man asked me the way to Leicester
Square just now, and I almost directed him wrongly for the sheer
pleasure of telling a lie. I nearly bought some ties at an outfitter's
shop in the Strand--such ties! It's awful--awful, Mr. Waddington!"
Mr. Waddingon nodded his head compassionately.
"I suppose you know what you're talking about," he said. "You see, I
have already taken my second bean and to me the things that you have
spoken of seem altogether incredible. I could not bring myself to
believe that an absolute return to those former horrible conditions
would be possible for either you or me. By the bye," he added, with a
sudden change of tone, "I've just managed to get a photograph of the
Romney I was telling you of."
Burton waved it away.
"It doesn't interest me in the least," he declared gloomily. "I very
nearly bought a copy of Ally Sloper on my way down here."
Mr. Waddington shivered.
"I suppose there is no hope for you," he said. "It is excessively
painful for me to see you in this state.
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