stuff, eh?”
“Packed.”
“That poem—‘ Solitude ’?”
“What a gem!”
“A genuine masterpiece.”
“Pure tabasco. Who wrote it?”
“It was signed,” said Sippy, a little coldly.
“I keep forgetting names.”
“It was written,” said Sippy, “by Miss Gwendolen Moon. Have you ever met Miss Moon, Bertie?”
“Not to my knowledge. Nice girl?”
“My God!” said Sippy.
I looked at him keenly. If you ask my Aunt Agatha, she will tell you—in fact, she is quite likely to tell you even if you don’t ask her—that I am a vapid and irreflective chump. Barely sentient, was the way she once described me: and I’m not saying that in a broad, general sense