“No, really it’s rippling out of me.” George Ring tap-danced with one foot and made a rhythmical, kissing noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“What a place to drop a man in. In the middle of streets and houses and traffic and people.”

The young woman wagged her finger at her toe. "You be still.” Her friends were giggling now, covering their faces and peeping out at Mr. Allingham between their fingers, telling each other to go on, saying “hotcha” and “hi de ho” and “Minnie the Moocher’s Wedding Day” as George Ring tapped one narrow, yellow buckskin shoe and strummed on the counter. They rolled their eyes and said, “Swing it, sister,” then hissed again into a giggle.

“I’ve been nibbling away for fifty years now,” Mr. Allingham said, “and look at me. Look at me.” He took off his hat.

“There’s hair,” whispered the young woman with the hole in her stocking.

His hair was the color of ferrets and thin on the crown; it stopped growing at the temples but came out again from the ears. His hat had made a deep, white wrinkle on his forehead.

“Here we are nibbling away all day and night, Mrs. Dacey. Nibble nibble.” His brown teeth came over his lip. “No sense, no order, no nothing, we’re all mad and nasty. Look at Sam there. There’s a nice harmless boy, curly hair and big eyes and all. What’s he do? Look at his bloody bottle.”

“No language,” said the woman behind the bar. She looked like a duchess, riding, rising and sinking slowly as she spoke, as though to the movements of a horse.

“Tantivy,” Samuel said, and blushed as Mr. Allingham pointed a stained finger.

“That’s right. Always the right word in the right place. Tantivy! I told you, people are all mad in the world. They don’t know where they’re going, they don’t know why they’re where they are, all they want is love and beer and sleep.”

“I wouldn’t say no to the first,” said Mrs. Dacey. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she said to the woman behind the counter, “he’s a philosopher.”

“Calling everybody nasty,” said the woman, rising. “There’s people live in glass houses.” Over the hurdle she goes, thought Samuel idly, and she sank again onto the hidden saddle. She must do miles in a night, he said to his empty glass.

“People think about all kinds of other things.” George Ring looked at the ceiling for a vision. “Music,” he said, “and dancing.” He ran his fingers along the air and danced on his toes.

“Sex,” said Mr. Allingham.

“Sex, sex, sex, it’s always sex with you, Donald. You must be repressed or something.”

“Sex,” whispered the young woman by the fire.

“Sex is all right,” Mrs. Dacey said. “You leave sex alone.”

“Of course I’m repressed. I’ve been repressed for fifty years.”

“You leave sex out of it.” The woman behind the counter rose in a gallop. “And religion,” she said.