don't seek a cheap notoriety by demanding milk and soda.'

'I have never taken any pledge,' said Mr Cupples, examining his mutton
with a favourable eye. 'I simply don't care about wine. I bought a
bottle once and drank it to see what it was like, and it made me ill.
But very likely it was bad wine. I will taste some of yours, as it is
your dinner, and I do assure you, my dear Trent, I should like to do
something unusual to show how strongly I feel on the present occasion. I
have not been so delighted for many years. To think,' he reflected aloud
as the waiter filled his glass, 'of the Manderson mystery disposed of,
the innocent exculpated, and your own and Mabel's happiness crowned--all
coming upon me together! I drink to you, my dear friend.' And Mr Cupples
took a very small sip of the wine.

'You have a great nature,' said Trent, much moved. 'Your outward
semblance doth belie your soul's immensity. I should have expected
as soon to see an elephant conducting at the opera as you drinking
my health. Dear Cupples! May his beak retain ever that delicate
rose-stain!--No, curse it all!' he broke out, surprising a shade of
discomfort that flitted over his companion's face as he tasted the wine
again. 'I have no business to meddle with your tastes. I apologize. You
shall have what you want, even if it causes the head-waiter to perish in
his pride.'

When Mr Cupples had been supplied with his monastic drink, and the
waiter had retired, Trent looked across the table with significance. 'In
this babble of many conversations,' he said, 'we can speak as freely as
if we were on a bare hillside. The waiter is whispering soft nothings
into the ear of the young woman at the pay-desk. We are alone. What do
you think of that interview of this afternoon?' He began to dine with an
appetite.

Without pausing in the task of cutting his mutton into very small pieces
Mr Cupples replied: 'The most curious feature of it, in my judgement,
was the irony of the situation. We both held the clue to that mad hatred
of Manderson's which Marlowe found so mysterious. We knew of his jealous
obsession; which knowledge we withheld, as was very proper, if only in
consideration of Mabel's feelings. Marlowe will never know of what he
was suspected by that person. Strange! Nearly all of us, I venture
to think, move unconsciously among a network of opinions, often quite
erroneous, which other people entertain about us. I remember, for
instance, discovering q