LONDON
upon his flushed face. He responded with a glare. Couldn't he go without things if he liked?
"What's this?" said Kipps to a great green cone.
"Ice," said the waiter.
"I'll 'ave some," said Kipps.
He seized a fork and spoon and assailed the bombe. It cut rather stiffly. "Come up!" said Kipps, with concentrated bitterness, and the truncated summit of the bombe flew off suddenly, travelling eastward with remarkable velocity. Flop, it went upon the floor a yard away, and for a while time seemed empty.
At the adjacent table they were laughing together.
Shy the rest of the bombe at them?
Flight?
At any rate, a dignified withdrawal.
"No!" said Kipps, "no more," arresting the polite attempt of the waiter to serve him with another piece. He had a vague idea he might carry off the affair as though he had meant the ice to go on the floor—not liking ice, for example, and being annoyed at the badness of his dinner. He put both hands on the table, thrust back his chair, disengaged a purple slipper from his napkin, and rose. He stepped carefully over the prostrate ice, kicked the napkin under the table, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and marched out—shaking the dust of the place, as it were, from his feet. He left behind him a melting fragment of ice upon the floor, his Gibus hat, warm and compressed in his chair, and in addition every social ambition he had ever entertained in the world.
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