Belleville sat opposite smoking a cigar. He was dressed very smartly in a frock suit and a tall hat was set jauntily on his brow. He wore a geranium in his buttonhole. His face was wreathed in smiles. A bottle of champagne was set before him on a table and he sipped at a glass with an air of triumphant good-humour.
I found that I could speak; my gag had been removed.
"Water!" I implored him.
He started, then pressed forward with his glass. "Where the devil is your mouth?" he said.
He could not see me, that was plain.
"Here!" said I. "Water."
"It is my wedding morn—and you shall toast me in wine or go thirsting," he rapped out.
Then he found my lips and I drank life into my veins. I have never tasted draught one-half so glorious.
"I was married less than an hour ago," he said, "at a registrar's office. She's no longer Miss Ottley, Pinsent."