IX
"The morning begins auspiciously, does it not, my son?" he said. "And still the day is young. Indeed, it cannot be more than eleven of the clock. The rum decanter, Brutus."
The lines about his mouth softened as his gaze met mine, and his smile grew broader. "I pride myself," he went on, "that my example is all I promised. I fear I shall fall down in only one respect. Perhaps you have observed it?"
"If I have," I answered, "I have forgotten."
"My table manners," he said. "I fear they are almost impeccable." And he walked over to the window, taking care, I noticed, not to stand in front of it.
"Sad, is it not, that I should fail in such a trivial matter? But it happened so long ago while I was courting your mother, to be exact. My father-in-law, rest his soul, was an atrocity at table. The viands, my son, scattered from his knife over the board, like chaff before the flail. Yet, will you believe it? Any time he chose to speak his
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