Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. “It’s not. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people. That person advanced towards him. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident.
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