“More Russianism,” said Mr. Mercaptan, and shook his head.
“Ah, why indeed?” Coleman lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “For religious reasons,” he said, and made the sign of the cross.
“Christlike in my behaviour,
Like every good believer,
I imitate the Saviour,
And cultivate a beaver.
There be beavers which have made themselves beavers for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. But there are some beavers, on the other hand, which were so born from their mother’s womb.” He burst into a fit of outrageous laughter which stopped as suddenly and as voluntarily as it had begun.
Lypiatt shook his head. “Hideous,” he said, “hideous.”
“Moreover,” Coleman went on, without paying any attention, “I have other and, alas! less holy reasons for this change of face. It enables one to make such delightful acquaintances in the street. You hear some one saying, ‘Beaver,’ as you pass, and you immediately have the right to rush up and get into conversation. I owe to this dear symbol,” and he caressed the golden beard tenderly with the palm of his hand, “the most admirably dangerous relations.”
“Magnificent,” said Gumbril, drinking his own health. “I shall stop shaving at once.”