I am pernicketty in a few ways and hate tobacco ash on my carpet; every room in the house is an arsenal of ash trays.

In normal mood Adrian punctiliously observed the little laws of the establishment.

This scattering of cigar ash was a sign of spiritual convulsion.
"Have you explained the matter to Doria ?" I asked.
He halted before me performing his new uncomfortable trick of slithering thumb over finger tips.
"No," he snapped.

"How can I ?" I replied, mildly, that it seemed to be the simplest thing in the world.
He broke away impatiently, saying that I couldn't understand.
"All right," said I, though what there was to understand in so elementary a proposition goodness only knows.

I was beginning to resent this perpetual charge of non-intelligence.
"I think we had better clear out," he said.