And when we had done that George wanted
the shaving tackle. We told him that he would have to go without shaving
that morning, as we weren't going to unpack that bag again for him, nor
for anyone like him.
He said:
"Don't be absurd. How can I go into the City like this?"
It was certainly rather rough on the City, but what cared we for human
suffering? As Harris said, in his common, vulgar way, the City would
have to lump it.
We went downstairs to breakfast. Montmorency had invited two other dogs
to come and see him off, and they were whiling away the time by fighting
on the doorstep. We calmed them with an umbrella, and sat down to chops
and cold beef.
Harris said:
"The great thing is to make a good breakfast," and he started with a
couple of chops, saying that he would take these while they were hot, as
the beef could wait.
George got hold of the paper, and read us out the boating fatalities, and
the weather forecast, which latter prophesied "rain, cold, wet to fine"
(whatever more than usually ghastly thing in weather that may be),
"occasional local thunder-storms, east wind, with general depression over
the Midland Counties (London and Channel). Bar. falling."
I do think that, of all the silly, irritating tomfoolishness by which we
are plagued, this "weather-forecast" fraud is about the most aggravating.
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