Page:The Criterion - Volume 4.djvu/63

Rh "ivrogne". That is when I'm sober enough to remember the French word. If I'm too far gone, I just put "drunkard". They all know English, nowadays.'

'Oh,' said Gregory coldly.

'It’s a capital profession,' Paxton confided. 'It permits you to do whatever you like—any damned thing that comes into your head. Throw your arms round any woman you fancy, tell her the most gross and fantastic impertinences, insult the men, laugh in people’s faces—everything’s permitted to the poor drunkard, particularly if he’s only a poor colonial and doesn’t know any better. Verb sap. Take the hint from me, old boy. Drop the monocle. It’s no damned good. Be a boozer; you'll have much more fun. Which reminds me that I must go and find some more drink at all costs. I’m getting sober.'

He disappeared into the crowd. Relieved, Gregory looked round in search of familiar faces. As he looked, he polished his monocle, took the opportunity to wipe his forehead, then put the glass to his eye.

'Excuse me.' He oozed his way insinuatingly between the close set chairs, passed like a slug ('Excuse me'), between the all but contiguous backs of two standing groups. 'Excuse me.' He had seen acquaintances over there, by the fireplace: Ransom and Mary Haig and Miss Camperdown. He joined in their conversation; they were talking about Mrs. Mandragore.

All the old familiar stories about that famous lion huntress were being repeated. He himself repeated two or three, with suitable pantomime, perfected by a hundred tellings. In the middle of a grimace, at the top of an elaborate gesture, he suddenly saw himself grimacing, gesticulating, he suddenly heard the cadences of his voice repeating, by heart, the old phrases. Why does one come to parties, why on earth? Always the same boring people, the same dull scandal and one’s own same parlour tricks. Each time. But he smirked, he mimed, he fluted and bellowed his