Certainly not, sir. Your father demands nothing of you. Only he asked me to see that you had a good cellar.
But it's against the law, protested Harold.
I think, sir, that your father hopes that you will break a few.
Drains was very solemn, but there was a maliciously ironic twinkle in his eyes.
Break the law!
Well, some of them. Everybody does.
I never have. . . . Then, impulsively, Let me taste it. He sipped the concoction in a gingerly manner. Ugh! It's very bitter.
Drains made something of a ceremony of the dinner. It was served precisely as if there had been eleven guests present, at least one of whom was entitled to a crest on his stationery. There were little attentions. Is your chop too well done, sir? What kind of dressing do you prefer on your salad, sir? Do you drink black coffee, sir? Nevertheless, Harold did not eat much. He was conscious of a growing perturbation in his mind and a continued acceleration in the beating of his heart. When, at length, he had finished—and it had seemed a very long dinner—, the returned to his comfortable chair. He was through with the Globe. He picked up the Nation and read an editorial which seemed very radical to him. What was the world coming to? Anarchists and Socialists.
