Sybarite could compass: he was as
inefficient as any gnat in any web....
Through the halls resounded the cacophonous clangour of a cracked gong
announcing dinner. Sighing, P. Sybarite rose and knocked the ashes
delicately from his pipe--saving the dottle for a good-night whiff
after the theatre.
Being Saturday, it was the night of ham-and-beans. P. Sybarite loathed
ham-and-beans with a deathly loathing. Nevertheless he ate his dole of
ham-and-beans. He sat on the landlady's right, and was reluctant to
hurt her feelings or incur her displeasure. Besides, he was hungry:
between the home-exerciser and the daily walks to and from the
Brooklyn Bridge, his normal appetite was that of an athlete in pink of
training.
Miss Lessing sat on the same side of the main dining-table, but half a
dozen chairs away. P. Sybarite couldn't see her save by craning his
neck. He refused to crane his neck: it might seem ostentatious.
Violet and her George occupied adjoining chairs at another and smaller
table. Their attendance was occasionally manifested through the medium
of giggles and guffaws. P. Sybarite envied them: he had it in his
heart to envy anybody young enough to be able to see a joke at that
dinner table.
By custom, the landlady relinquished her seat some minutes in advance
of any guest. When P. Sybarite left the room he found her established
at a desk in the basement hallway.
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