The house wants painting.

It is going the way of the church, indeed." "Ah!" said Turner, glancing at him over the bill of fare.

"So you have to sell an engraving.

It goes to the heart, I suppose ?" Marvin laughed and rubbed his spare hands together, with an assumption of cheerfulness in which some one less stout and well-to-do than his companion might have perceived that dim minor note of pathos, which always rings somewhere in a forced laugh.
"One has to face it," he replied.

"Ne cedas malis, you know.