The poor dear looked dreadfully bored (unless his monocle lied) as he sat there with his hat upon his head striped blue collar round his neck pearl gray jacket round his torso yellow flannels round his legs olive spats upon his feet: so he sipped his thin liqueur or puffed spirals from his pipe the while his naked eye roamed ever so wistfully across Lago Di Como: beautiful, yes, a sheet of serenity, the surrounding mountains voluptuous indeed, yes, but what use is a body that's carved out of stone and invitations whose speech is so silent, and life such as this enough of a dullness with nothing to do its whole length and breadth except to yawn and to yearn for London far away where at least there are streets and something going on and a soul or two to chat with, and the women who accost you use a tongue that's civilized: so what's a chap to do when his energy is low with his spats upon his feet yellow flannels round his legs pearl gray jacket round his torso striped blue collar round his neck and his head beneath his hat: except perhaps tenderly to remove the last article and caress his troubled brow with a languid cambric kerchief? |