hen he had set it down. "I can think just as
well with a gin-fizz as without one. And I didn't know Ferguson well;
and I didn't like him at all. I read his books, and I admired him. But
he looked like the devil--_the_ devil, you'll notice, not _a_ devil.
With a dash of Charles I by Van Dyck. The one standing by a horse. As
you say, he cocked his hair. It went into little horns, above each
eyebrow. I'm sorry he's lost to the world, but it doesn't get me. He
may have been a saint, for all I know; but there you are--I never cared
particularly to know. I am serious. Only, somehow, it doesn't touch me."

And he proceeded to make use of crushed ice and lemon juice.

"Oh, blow all that," said Havelock the Dane finally, over the top of his
glass. "I'm going to tell you, anyhow. Only I wish you would forget your
prejudices. I want an opinion."

"Go on."

Chantry made himself comfortable.

II

"You remember the time when Ferguson didn't go down on the _Argentina_?"

"I do. Ferguson just wouldn't go down, you know. He'd turn up smiling,
without even a chill, and meanwhile lots of good fellows would be at the
bottom of the sea."

"Prejudice again," barked Havelock. "Yet in point of fact, it's
perfectly true. And you would have preferred him to drown."

"I was very glad he was saved." Chantry said it in a stilted manner.

"Why?"

"Because his life was really important to the world."

Chantry might have been distributing tracts. His very voice sounded
falsetto.

"Exactly. Well, that is what Ferguson thought."

"How do you know?"

"He told me."

"You must have known him well. Thank heaven, I never did."

Havelock flung out a huge hand. "Oh, get off that ridiculous animal
you're riding, Chantry, and come to the point. You mean you don't think
Ferguson should have admitted it?"

Chantry's tone changed. "Well, one doesn't."

The huge hand, clenched into a fist, came down on the table. The crystal
bottle was too heavy to rock, but the glasses jingled and a spoon slid
over the edge of its saucer.

"There it is--what I was looking for."

"What were you looking for?" Chantry's wonder was not feigned.

"For your hydra-headed prejudice. Makes me want to play Hercules."

"Oh, drop your metaphors, Havelock. Get into the game. What is it?"

"It's this: that you don't think--or affect not to think--that it's
decent for a man to recognize his own worth."

Chantry did not retort. He dropped his chin on his chest and