"I would rather have some hot chocolate," Skkiru said. "That is, if you have no objection to drinking with a beggar."
"My dear fellow—" Cyril put an arm around Skkiru's muddy shoulders—"we ethnologists do not hold with caste distinctions. Come in and have chocolate—with a spot of rum, eh? That'll make you right as a trivet in a matter of seconds."
It wasn't until much later, after several cups of the finest chocolate he had ever tasted, that Skkiru announced himself to feel quite recovered.
"Please do not bother to accompany me to the door," he said. "I can find my own way. You do me too much honor. I would feel shamefaced."
"But—" Cyril began.
"No," Skkiru said. "It is—it is bad form here. I insist. I must go my way alone."
"All right," Cyril agreed.
Raoul looked at him in some surprise.
"All right," Cyril repeated in a louder tone. "Go by yourself, if an escort would bother you. But please give the door a good bang, so the lock will catch."