The two friends contrasted strikingly with each other. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. “What do you think of that?” he asked. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. One learns to sit up.
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