And he sat down, quaking like a jelly.
The triviality of the dinner had been in those two minutes dwarfed and drowned in my mind. I did not want to go and see a political widow, and a captain who collected apes; I wanted to hear what had brought this dear, doddering old vicar into relation with immediate perils.
“Will you have a cigar?” I said.
“No, thank you,” he said, with indescribable embarrassment, as if not smoking cigars was a social disgrace.
“A glass of wine?” I said.
“No, thank you, no, thank you; not just now,” he repeated with that hysterical eagerness with which people who do not drink at all often try to convey that on any other night of the week they would sit up all night drinking rum-punch. “Not just now, thank you.”
“Nothing else I can get for you?” I said, feeling genuinely sorry for the well-mannered old donkey. “A cup of tea?”
I saw a struggle in his eye and I conquered. When the cup of tea came he drank it like a dipsomaniac gulping brandy. Then he fell back and said:
“I have had such a time, Mr Swinburne. I am not used to these excitements. As Vicar of Chuntsey, in Essex”—he threw this in with an indescribable airiness of vanity—“I have never known such things happen.”
“What things happen?” I asked.