It was a habit of his to talk to himself. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. Here, it might be anything at all. They set about everyone—everyone. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. " "And I'm glad your worship's recognition doesn't come too late," observed the Master.
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