‘Strindberg,’ I said. ‘I don’t like Strindberg.’
George bent forward, and tapped his pipe out on the hob.
‘Nor do I,’ he said.
I had chilblains on my fingers. It was cold that afternoon, and
raw, and they tingled and hurt. It was partly the chilblains
that made me feel so wretched. I stretched my hands out to the
fire.
George filled his pipe slowly, and lit it. The flame flickered
up and down against his face as he drew it in. He grunted and
threw the match away.
He said:
‘Hugo is a fool.’