It might be thought that after all this there would have been a painful explanation on the following morning, but nothing of the sort happened.  After all the greatest art is the art of ignoring things, without which the world could scarcely go on, even among the savage races.  Thus on this occasion the two chief actors in the scene of the previous night pretended that they had forgotten what took place, as I believe, to a large extent truly.  The fierce flame of drink in the one and of passion in the other had burnt the web of remembrance to ashes.  They knew that something unpleasant had occurred and its main outlines; the rest had vanished away; perhaps because they knew also that they were not responsible for what they said and did, and therefore that what occurred had no right to a permanent niche in their memories.  It was, as it were, something outside of their normal selves.  At least so I conjectured, and their conduct seemed to give colour to my guess.

The doctor spoke to me of the matter first.

“I fear there was a row last night,” he said; “it has happened here before over cards, and will no doubt happen again until matters clear themselves up somehow.  Marnham, as you see, drinks, and when drunk is the biggest liar in the world, and I, I am sorry to say, am cursed with a violent temper.  Don’t judge either of us too harshly.  If you were a doctor you would know that all these things come to us with our blood, and we didn’t fashion our own clay, did we?  Have some coffee, won’t you?”

Subsequently when Rodd wasn’t there, Marnham spoke also and with that fine air of courtesy which was peculiar to him.

“I owe a deep apology,” he said, “to yourself and Mr. Anscombe.  I do not recall much about it, but I know there was a scene last night over those cursed cards.  A weakness overtakes me sometimes.  I will say no more, except that you, who are also a man who perhaps have felt weaknesses of one sort or another, will, I hope, make allowances for me and pay no attention to anything that I may have said or done in the presence of guests; yes, that is what pains me—­in the presence of guests.”

Something in his distinguished manner caused me to reflect upon every peccadillo that I had ever committed, setting it in its very worst light.

“Quite so,” I answered, “quite so.  Pray do not mention the matter any more, although—­” These words seemed to jerk themselves out of my throat, “you did call each other by such very hard names.”

“I daresay,” he answered with a vacant smile, “but if so they meant nothing.”

“No, I understand, just like a lovers’ quarrel.  But look here, you left some diamonds on the table which I took to keep the Kaffirs out of temptation.  I will fetch them.”

“Did I?  Well, probably I left some I.O.U.’s also which might serve for pipelights.  So suppose we set the one against the other.  I don’t know the value of either the diamonds or the pipelights, it may be less or more, but for God’s sake don’t let me see the beastly things again.  There’s no need, I have plenty.”