from sitting down, legacy from the quarter of an hour he had been compelled to sit while that hound worried at his throat.  He was opposite one of the pictures now.  It gleamed, dark and oily, limning a Scots Grey who had mounted a wounded Russian on his horse, and was bringing him back prisoner from the Balaclava charge.  A very old friend—­bought in ’fifty-nine.  It had hung in his chambers in the Albany—­hung with him ever since.  With whom would it hang when he was gone?  For that holy woman would scrap it, to a certainty, and stick up some Crucifixion or other, some new-fangled high art thing!  She could even do that now if she liked—­for she owned it, owned every mortal stick in the room, to the very glass he would drink his champagne from; all made over under the settlement fifteen years ago, before his last big gamble went wrong.  “De l’audace, toujours de l’audace!” The gamble which had brought him down till his throat at last was at the mercy of a bullying hound.  The pitcher and the well!  At the mercy—–!  The sound of a popping cork dragged him from reverie.  He moved to his seat, back to the window, and sat down to his dinner.  By George!  They had got him an oyster!  And he said: 

“I’ve forgotten my teeth!”

While the man was gone for them, he swallowed the oysters, methodically touching them one by one with cayenne, Chili vinegar, and lemon.  Ummm!  Not quite what they used to be at Pimm’s in the best days, but not bad—­not bad!  Then seeing the little blue bowl lying before him, he looked up and said: 

“My compliments to cook on the oysters.  Give me the champagne.”  And he lifted his trembling teeth.  Thank God, he could still put ’em in for himself!  The creaming goldenish fluid from the napkined bottle slowly reached the brim of his glass, which had a hollow stem; raising it to his lips, very red between the white hairs above and below, he drank with a gurgling noise, and put the glass down-empty.  Nectar!  And just cold enough!

“I frapped it the least bit, sir.”

“Quite right.  What’s that smell of flowers?”

“It’s from those ’yacinths on the sideboard, sir.  They come from Mrs. Larne, this afternoon.”

“Put ’em on the table.  Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s had dinner, sir; goin’ to a ball, I think.”

“A ball!”

“Charity ball, I fancy, sir.”

“Ummm!  Give me a touch of the old sherry with the soup.”

“Yes, sir.  I shall have to open a bottle:” 

“Very well, then, do!”

On his way to the cellar the man confided to Molly, who was carrying the soup: 

“The Gov’nor’s going it to-night!  What he’ll be like tomorrow I dunno.”

The girl answered softly: 

“Poor old man, let um have his pleasure.”  And, in the hall, with the soup tureen against her bosom, she hummed above the steam, and thought of the ribbons on her new chemises, bought out of the sovereign he had given her.