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A plague on the little pain inside.
A plague on Lady Kynnersley for weeping me into my rash undertaking.
A plague on Professor Anastasius Papadopoulos for aiding and abetting
Lady Kynnersley.
A plague on Captain Vauvenarde for running away from his wife; for
giving up the army; for not letting me know whether he is alive or dead;
for being, I'll warrant him, in the most uncomfortable and ungetatable
spot on the globe.
A plague on Dale for becoming infatuated with Lola Brandt. A plague on
him for beguiling me to her acquaintance; for bursting into the room at
that unfortunate moment; for his generous, unsuspecting love for me;
for his youth and hope and charm; for asking me to dine with Lola and
himself in ripping cosiness.
A plague on myself--just to show that I am broad-minded.
And lastly, a plague, a special plague, a veritable murrain on Lola
Brandt for complicating the splendid singleness of my purpose. I don't
know what to think of myself. I have become a common conundrum--which
provides the lowest form of intellectual amusement.


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