And then Reggie Byng arrived in his grey racing car, more cheerful
than any of them.
Fate could not have mocked George more subtly. A sorrow's crown of
sorrow is remembering happier things, and the sight of Reggie in
that room reminded him that on the last occasion when they had
talked together across this same table it was he who had been in a
Fool's Paradise and Reggie who had borne a weight of care. Reggie
this morning was brighter than the shining sun and gayer than the
carolling birds.
"Hullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ul-Lo! Topping morning, isn't it!"
observed Reggie. "The sunshine! The birds! The absolute
what-do-you-call-it of everything and so forth, and all that sort
of thing, if you know what I mean! I feel like a two-year-old!"
George, who felt older than this by some ninety-eight years,
groaned in spirit. This was more than man was meant to bear.
"I say," continued Reggie, absently reaching out for a slice of
bread and smearing it with marmalade, "this business of marriage,
now, and all that species of rot! What I mean to say is, what about
it? Not a bad scheme, taking it big and large? Or don't you think
so?"
George writhed.
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