the dining-room, a prey to agitated thoughts, discovered my wife in the act of filling the Spanish Jug with water from a glass vessel of common shape.
"There!" she said, standing back and surveying it fondly, "now wasn't it worth a little trouble? It will always stand here"—and she set it on a shelf—"filled, so that you will have sweet, cold water to drink whenever you want it. And there is a glass to stand beside it." With these words she hurried off to her bedroom to unpack the American trunk.
Ten minutes later, having done my best to allay the detestation of four fellow-creatures, I returned to the dining-room. I was hot and tired. For it was not only by money that I had curried favour with those men. I had helped with the harp-case. I was, I say, hot and tired.
My eye fell upon the Spanish Jug and its attendant glass.
The words "sweet, cold water" recurred to me.
I possessed myself of the Spanish Jug.
I tilted it above its glass.
Nothing happened. I said: "The nozzle is blocked up."
I blew into the nozzle.
A sound resembling the hollow roar of the wind in a sea-cave resulted.
