Sam did as he was bid. Ratcliff filled the glass with the dark ruby liquid, and said, “Now toss it off, you rascal. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
Sam meekly obeyed, and put down the emptied goblet. Ratcliff skirmished feebly among the bottles a few minutes longer, then rose, and made his way unsteadily to the sofa.
“Sam, you solemn nigger, what’s o’clock?” said he.
“The clock is just striking ten, sir.”
“Possible? Have I been three—hiccup—hours at the table? Sam, see me up-stairs and put me to bed.”
Half an hour afterwards Ratcliff lay in the heavy, stertorous slumber which wine, more than fatigue, had engendered.
He was habitually a late sleeper. It wanted but a few minutes to eleven o’clock the next morning when Sam started to answer his bell. Ratcliff called for soda-water. Sam had taken the precaution to put a couple of bottles under his arm, foreseeing that it would be needed.
It took a full hour for Ratcliff to accomplish the duties of his toilet. Then he went down to breakfast. And still the one thought that pursued him was how best to extort compliance from that beautiful maiden up-stairs.
A brilliant idea occurred to him. He would go and exert his powers of fascination. Without importunately urging his suit, he would deal out his treasure of small-talk: he would read poetry to her; he would try all the most approved means of making love.
Again he knocked at her door. It was opened by Sister Agatha, who at a sign from him withdrew into the adjoining room. Clara was busy with her needle.