John was a thoroughly unreliable man. He lay on the rug, making every effort to look languid and bored. He was wearing long curled hair with an Indian headband. We didn't speak a word. With widespread hands he explored the grass around him, supporting himself on his outspread fingers. No moss, no ivy, nothing cluttered the bareness of the place. He opened a lacquered box and took out a cigarette. His first act was always to smoke a cigarette at any serious crisis in his life. I sat there sipping my drink, once more tempted to blame him for everything. I hadn't smoked a cigarette in five weeks; I stopped smoking the second day I was there. ‘You just like lying around doing nothing.’