“Myself,” said he.
I stared.
“Can you see through either of those three?” he asked, tapping them one after the other.
“No,” said I.
“Now if I put a little more milk into them”—he did—“it makes no difference. They were muddy and thick before, and they remain muddy and thick. But”—and he held the milk jug impressively over the first glass—“if I put the least drop into this one”—he did—“see how visible it is. The admirable clearness is instantaneously dimmed. The pollution spreads at once. The entire glass, owing to that single drop, is altered, muddied, ruined.”
“Well?” I inquired, as he paused and stared hard at me.
“Well?” said he. “Do you not see?”
“See what?” said I.
“My point. It’s as clear as the first glass was before I put milk into it. The first glass, my dear Baron, is you, with your sound and perfect constitution.”
I bowed.