“A most exhaustive work upon marriage,” he said, running over its pages, “I finished it myself last spring. The Germans are the only thorough scholars we have, and this book by Westermark will remain a standard work.”
These matter-of-course remarks of his did not interest me, so I made no reply, and merely filled two goblets with the sangaree, offering him one. He raised the glass to his lips like one accustomed to heavy draughts, emptied half of it, looked at the liquor, looked at me, looked at the liquor again, set it down, and said nothing. I refilled it before taking my seat. Thinking that I was not observing him, he scrutinized me again, once more looked at the liquor, saw me empty my glass, rubbed his nose, and then emptied his again. For a time, we sat in silence.
“Do you want to know what Westermark taught me, though he contradicts it himself?”
I nodded, looking him full in the eyes.
“I came to the conclusion that the Almighty had married a monogamous woman to a polygamous man.”
As he set down his glass, I knew that the liquor was beginning to work. I felt like another Ethan Brand.
“There’s rum in your sangaree;” he said, compressing his lips.
“Yes, to give it flavor with the cherry bounce—don’t you like it?”
“Very much indeed. It’s difficult to procure real Medford rum these days.”
“Let me fill your glass.”