During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. Yet, I suppose that at the present moment I am the most envied man in the room. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. All right really. The attempt was unsuccessful. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty.
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