The Consumptive

"And that's another thing. I don't know what allowance my uncle makes you, but I don't mind betting you're spending double. All this," he said, including in a wide sweep of his hand the evidences of profligacy about him. It was true; my room had cast its austere winter garments, and by not very slow stages, assumed a richer wardrobe. "Is that paid for?" (The box of a hundred cabinet Partagas on the side board). "Or those?" (A dozen frivolous, new books on the table.) "Or those?" (A Lalique decanter and glasses.) "Or that particularly noisome object?" (A human skull lately purchased from the School of Medicine, which, resting in a bowl of roses, formed, at the moment, the chief decoration of my table. It bore the motto, Et in Arcadia ego inscribed on its forehead.)

"Yes," I said, glad to be clear of one charge. "I had to pay cash for the skull."

From Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh