*    *    *    *    *

The fact that not one of these blisters should be married filled him with an austere disapproval.
If they had the least spark of civic sense, he felt, they would have taken on the duties and
responsibilities of matrimony years ago. But no. Intent upon their selfish pleasures, they had
callously remained bachelors. It was this spirit of laissez-faire, Mordred considered, that was
eating like a canker into the soul of England.

*    *    *    *    *

And, so far from his rivals being weeds, they were one and all models of manly beauty, and the
spectacle of their obvious worship of Annabelle cut my nephew like a knife.

*    *    *    *    *

Mordred's genius, as we have seen, lay in the direction of starting fires. Putting them out called
for quite different qualities, and these he did not possess. On the various occasions of holocausts
at his series of flats, he had never attempted to play an active part, contenting himself with going
downstairs and asking the janitor to step up and see what he could do about it. So now, though under
the bright eyes of Annabelle Sprockett-Sprockett he would have given much to be able to dominate
the scene, the truth is the Biffies and Guffies simply played him off the stage.

*    *    *    *    *

In the matter of camping out in devastated areas my nephew had, of course, become by this time
an old hand. It was rarely nowadays that a few ashes and cinders about the place disturbed him.
But when he had returned to his bedroom one look was enough to assure him that nothing practical
in the way of sleep was to be achieved here. Apart from the unpleasant, acrid smell of burned poetry,
the apartment, thanks to the efforts of Freddie Boot, had been converted into a kind of inland sea.
The carpet was awash, and on the bed only a duck could have made itself at home.

*    *    *    *    *

The soul of modesty, he could not affront Annabelle with the spectacle of his bare toes.

*    *    *    *    *