he went on, decrescendo, 'promiscuously, herded together, like animals. Worse than animals.'
They had halted; they confronted one another.
'How can you?' repeated Gregory, trying to reproduce the generous indignation of a moment since. But anticipations of nausea were creeping up from his stomach, like a miasma from a marsh, filling his mind, driving out from it every thought, every emotion except the horrid apprehension of being sick.
Spiller's large face suddenly lost its monumental, Victorian celebrity's appearance; it seemed to fall to pieces. The mouth opened, the eyes puckered up, the forehead broke into wrinkles and the deep lines running from either side of the nose to the corners of the mouth expanded and contracted wildly, like a pair of demented glove stretchers. An immense sound came out of him. His great body was shaken with gigantic laughter.
Patiently—patience was all that was left him, patience and a fading hope—Gregory waited for the paroxysm to subside. He had made a fool of himself; he was being derided. But he was past caring.
Spiller so far recovered as to be able to speak. 'You're wonderful, my dear Gregory,' he said gasping. The tears stood in his eyes. 'Really superb.' He took him affectionately by the arm and still laughing, walked on. Gregory perforce walked too; he had no choice.
'If you don't mind,' he said after a few steps, 'I think we'll take a taxi.'
'What, to Jermyn Street?' said Spiller.
'I think, we'd better,' Gregory insisted.
Climbing into the vehicle, he managed to entangle his monocle in the handle of the door. The string snapped; the glass dropped on the floor of the cab. Spiller picked it up and returned it to him.
'Thank you,' said Gregory and put it out of harm's way into a waistcoat pocket.
