“You flatter me, monsieur,” said Ned a trifle grimly, and he sat himself down by the table and returned with a pretty hardihood the glances directed at him.
For some moments no one spoke. The placid man—a prosperous farmer by token of his button-bestrewed jacket and substantial small-cloths—put a piece of sugar-candy in his mouth and drank down his glass of hollands over it in serial sips. The student, looking to him on the table for his cue, sat with the expression of a chorister whom a comrade secretly tickles. Mr Murk felt himself master of the situation so long as he resisted the temptation to be the first to break the silence.
Suddenly the young man with the guitar unbonneted himself, kicked his hat up to the ceiling, gave an insane laugh on a melodious note, and turned to the new-comer.
“I surrender,” said he; “I would rather lack wine than speech.”
“Both are good in moderation,” said Ned.
“Bah! a monk’s aphorism, monsieur; moderation makes no history. It is to grow fat under one’s fig-tree—like Lambertine here” (he signified the contented farmer, who chuckled and shut his eyes).
“And what of the wise Ulysses?” quoth Ned.
“He saved himself for the orgy,” cried the stranger. “He was moderate only that he might taste the full of enjoyment. I go with you there.”
“Not with me, indeed.”
“No, of course. There are blind-worms amongst men. For me I swear that human life has an infinite capacity for pleasure.”