. those grim, ironical, hopeless, gray,
despairful situations which* the Rus
’ sian novelists love to write about, and
i I d!>uld not find it in me to blame
■ Ukridge for taking direct action in
, this crisis. My only regret Was that
bad luck caused so excellent a plan to
miscarry.
My first intimation that he had been
i trying to hurry’ matters on came when
i he and I were walking along the
King’s road one evening, and he drew
me into Markham Square, where he
once had had rooms.
"What’s the idea?" I asked, for I
disliked the place.
“Teddy Weeks lives here," said
Ukridge. "In my old rooms.” I could
not see that this lent any fascination
to the place.
