I told him that I was not ‘Alcide. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. He'd have some fun with that Chinaman before the morning was out. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. "Heed her not. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now.
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