One foot in the grave

. . . after all, the old man was in his nineties, and it must be a great ordeal to have to make his way, even being driven, through all the bustle of London on the brink of hostilities. But a glance across the table reassured him — one foot in the grave he might have, and shockingly ravaged he might look, but Sir Harry appeared in no need of consideration. His flushed satyr face was grinning contentedly, his glossy white whiskers and mane shone in the lamplight, which glinted on the mass of bronze and silver and gold miniatures on his breast, and on the orders which hung on ribbons over his massive shoulders.


Mr American, pp.517-18, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.


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