She looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.

Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.

She gave me another of those long keen looks, and I could see that she was again asking herself if her favourite nephew wasn't steeped to the tonsils in the juice of the grape.

I suppose he must have taken about a nine or something in hats. Shows what a rotten thing it is to let your brain develop too much.

Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse.

I clutched at the brow. The mice in my interior had now got up an informal dance and were buck-and-winging all over the place like a bunch of Nijinskys.

There's a sort of wooly headed duckiness about you. If I wasn't so crazy about Marmaduke, I could really marry you Bertie.