Orlo, as I had predicted, was in the bar having a gin and ginger. He lowered the beaker as I drew near and regarded me in a squiggle-eyed manner like a fastidious luncher observing a caterpillar in his salad.
"Oh, it's you," he said.
I conceded this, for he was right. No argument about it
(from Aunts Aren't Gentlemen, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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