he
told it. For, according to him, the whole affair had come about without
any assistance of his. "What the deuce was I to do? Chucked herself
full at my head, did the little one. No invitation necessary--a ripe
plum, boys! Touch the plum--and off it tumbles! As pretty a little
thing, too, as ever was made! Had everything arranged by the second
meeting. Papa to set us up; house in New York; money IN HULLE UND
FULLE!"

At the mention of New York, the lean American looked grave. "Look here,
you, don't think you're the whole shoot because you've got a wave in
your hair!" he murmured in English.

But Schilsky did not hear him; his voice droned on, giving the full
particulars of this particular case. He grew momentarily opener.

"One no sooner out of the door than the other was in," he asserted, and
laughed long to himself.

For some time past, Maurice had been possessed by the idea that what
was happening concerned him very nearly, and that he ought to interfere
and put his foot down. His hands had grown cold, and he sat vainly
trying to speak: nothing, however, came, but little drunken gulps and
hiccups. But the first mention of Ephie's name seemed to put new
strength into him; he made a violent effort, and rose to his feet,
holding on to the table with both hands. He could not, however, manage
to attract attention; no one took any notice of him; and besides this,
he had himself no notion what it was that he really wanted to say.

"And drowns his sorrows in the convivial glass!" he suddenly shouted in
English, at the top of his voice, which he had found. He had a vague
belief that he was quoting a well-known line of poetry, and, though he
did not in the least understand how it applied to the situation, he
continued to repeat it, with varying shades of fervour, till some one
called out: "Oh, stop your blasted rot!"

He laughed hoarsely at this, could not check himself, and was so
exhausted when he had finished that it took him some time to remember
why he was on his feet. Schilsky was still relating: his face was
darkly red, his voice husky, and he flapped his arms with meaningless
gestures. A passionate rebellion, a kind of primitive hatred, gripped
Maurice, and when Schilsky paused for breath, he could contain himself
no longer. He felt the burning need of contradicting the speaker, even
though he could not catch the drift of what was said.

"It's a lie!" he cried fiercely, with such emphasis that every face was