There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Pity you aren’t under my command. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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