human
I was in the café at the time, I told him.
gpt
You were there with Jack Summertown. I'm surprised that either of you got out alive.
human
You were there? he echoed with a burst of boyish laughter.
gpt
It was a great night! I've still got some of the marks! I wondered who you were.... Of course, we've got scores of friends in common. You know Bertrand Oakleigh in the House? Well, he lives here. The place in Princes Gardens is being used as a hospital, so George has a room at his Club and the old man stays with us. He gave us the house--he's always been astonishingly generous to me--but of course I couldn't accept it like _that_. I only let him give it to me on condition that I was allowed to share it with others. Perhaps now my symbolism----
human
I'm sorry my wife's not here, he said.
gpt
Let me see, she wasn't in the last time, either; the fact is, Colonel Grayle telephoned to say that he'd been given a box for some theatre and would we dine with him and go on? I'd already promised to dine at the House and I don't go to the play much, anyway, but she thought she'd like to go, and she hasn't come in yet. To-night you've _got_ to wait.
human
Look at the time,
gpt
I set mine by Big Ben this evening,
human
Ah, but I can't see it. I--haven't the use of my eyes, you know. If you feel you must go, I will only remind you that the door will be open next time. I've got any amount to talk to you about, and my wife will be most frightfully sorry to have missed you again. I rather gathered that you and Grayle and she had been dining in the same house that night, but you were at different ends of the table, and she didn't hear your name.
gpt
I don't yet know yours,
human
David O'Rane, he answered.
gpt
There's no particular reason why you should, unless George has ever talked to you about me. Now, will you swear--on your honour--that you'll come again? And it must be before I go away. Good-night!
human
I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and stalks, Refuse and rubbish.... But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse and kick him for his pains,-- Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,-- How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,-- Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch.