“Extraordinary,” said Tuppence. “Is it because she still thinks you’re a Priest?”
“No,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “I should say it’s because she’s at last taken in that I’m not one. Hullo! what’s this?”
“This” was a young man with flaming red hair, a pugnacious jaw and appallingly shabby clothes. He had walked into the room and was now striding up and down muttering to himself.
“Hell!” said the red haired man, loudly and forcibly. “That’s what I say—Hell!”
He dropped into a chair near the young couple and stared at them moodily.
“Damn all women, that’s what I say,” said the young man, eyeing Tuppence ferociously. “Oh! all right, kick up a row if you like. Have me turned out of the Hotel! It won’t be for the first time. Why shouldn’t we say what we think? Why should we go about bottling up our feelings, and smirking, and saying things exactly like everyone else? I don’t feel pleasant and polite. I feel like getting hold of someone round the throat and gradually choking them to death.”
He paused.
“Any particular person?” asked Tuppence. “Or just anybody?”
“One particular person,” said the young man grimly.
“This is very interesting,” said Tuppence. “Won’t you tell us some more?”
“My name’s Reilly,” said the red haired man. “James Reilly. You may have heard it. I wrote a little volume of Pacifist poems—good stuff, although I say so.”