“Reuben, come here. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. “No. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor.
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