2


A grey sadness surged over Bill Dawlish. The sun hid itself behind
a cloud, the sky took on a leaden hue, and a chill wind blew
through the world. He scanned Shaftesbury Avenue with a jaundiced
eye, and thought that he had never seen a beastlier thoroughfare.
Piccadilly, however, into which he shortly dragged himself, was
even worse. It was full of men and women and other depressing
things.

He pitied himself profoundly. It was a rotten world to live in,
this, where a fellow couldn't say _noblesse oblige_ without
upsetting the universe. Why shouldn't a fellow say _noblesse
oblige?_ Why--? At this juncture Lord Dawlish walked into a
lamp-post.

The shock changed his mood. Gloom still obsessed him, but blended
now with remorse. He began to look at the matter from Claire's
viewpoint, and his pity switched from himself to her. In the first
place, the poor girl had rather a rotten time. Could she be blamed
for wanting him to make money? No. Yet whenever she made suggestions
as to how the thing was to be done, he snubbed her by saying
_noblesse oblige_. Naturally a refined and sensitive young girl
objected to having things like _noblesse oblige_ said to her. Where
was the sense in saying _noblesse oblige_? Such a confoundedly silly
thing to say. Only a perfect ass would spend his time rushing about
the place saying _noblesse oblige_ to people.