And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip Are dug from the mines of canary; And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip With hogsheads of claret and sherry. . I ——” He stopped short. The decision had been sound.
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