As I entered the D.E.F. Company's depôt, Melancholy marked me for her own.
Business reasons--not my own but the more cogent business reasons of an
upperling--had just postponed my summer holiday; postponed it with a lofty
vagueness to "possibly November. We might be able to let you go by then, my
boy." November! What would Shrimpton-on-Sea be like even at the beginning
of November? Lovely sea-bathing, delicious boating, enchanting picnics on
the sand? I didn't think. Melancholy tatooed me all over with anchors and
pierced hearts, to show that I was her very own, not to be taken away.
I clasped my head in my hands and gazed in dumb agony at the menu card. A
kind waitress listened with one ear.
"Poached egg and bacon--two rashers," I murmured.