The claret had made Mr. Soper not only sociable but jocose.  “Reasons?  That’s a new name for ’em.  If he don’t want more than one at a time, I wish he’d introduce the rest of ’em to me.”

“I daresay he would be very happy, if he thought you would understand them, Mr. Soper.”

“Understand ’em?  Why, I don’t suppose they talk Greek.”

“Ryzors,” said Spinks indignantly, “could give ’em points if they did.  He speaks the language.”

Mr. Soper replied that in that case perhaps Mr. Rickman would oblige him with the Greek for “crumby bits.”

At the moment Mr. Rickman did not look like obliging Mr. Soper with anything.  The provocation was certainly immense.  Mr. Soper’s voice inspired him with a fury of disgust.  The muscles of his mouth twitched; the blood rushed visibly to his forehead; he stood looming over the table like a young pink thunder-god.

Mrs. Downey and Mr. Partridge retreated in some alarm.  Mr. Soper, however, was one of those people who are not roused but merely disconcerted by the spectacle of passion.  Mr. Soper said he supposed he could “make a ’armless remark.”  And still thirsting for companionship he pursued Mrs. Downey to the drawing-room.  As he went, he fingered his little box of bon-bons as if it had been a talisman or charm.

Rickman poured himself out some claret which he drank slowly, with closed eyelids, leaning back in his chair.  “For God’s sake, Spinks,” he muttered; “don’t speak to me.”

“All right, old chappy, I won’t.”  But he whispered, “I wouldn’t go off just yet, Ryzors, if I were you” (by “going off,” Mr. Spinks meant departure in a train of thought).  “He’ll be back in another minute.”

He was back already, sociable, elated, smoking a cigar.  Upstairs with the ladies he and his bon-bons had met with unprecedented success.  Rickman opened his eyes.

“Ever try,” said Mr. Soper, “a Flor di Dindigul?  ’Ave one.  You’ll find the flavour very delicate and mild.”  He held it out, that Flor di Dindigul, as an olive branch to the tempestuous young man.

It was not accepted.  It was not even seen.

Rickman rose to his feet.  To his irritated vision the opposite wall seemed to heave and bulge forward, its chocolate design to become distended and to burst, spreading itself in blotches on the yellow ochre.  On the face of the hideous welter swam the face of Mr. Soper, as it were bodiless and alone.

He drew in his breath with a slight shudder, pushed his chair back from the table, and strode out of the room.

Spinks looked after him sorrowfully.

“Wy couldn’t you leave him alone, Soper?  You might see he didn’t want to talk.”

“How could I see wot he wanted?  One minute ’e’s as chatty and sociable—­and the next he’s up like three dozen of bottled stout. It’s wot I sy. You can’t dee-pend on ’im with any certainty.”

That opinion was secretly shared by Miss Flossie Walker.