Mr. Pardoe rose to his feet. The performance was a credit to him. He made a last effort to exorcise the demon of levity that possessed him. ‘My friend, you have had enough. More than enough. You are intoxicated.’
Dionysus paused in his drinking to fix a waggish eye on Mr. Pardoe. ‘Drunk. Drunk as a god. Aren’t you! Why the devil don’t you drink? Imprison you for sobriety.’
He held a brimming glass to the lips of Mr. Pardoe, and, as he drank, the poor bewitched gentleman saw his host swell till the house could no longer contain that vast bulk. Himself a flame of exultation, Mr. Pardoe stared until the eyes of Dionysus became fierce seas, sparkling with unearthly light, towering in storm, and the glory of his sunset-face filled the sky.
3
‘... eight.’ The last stroke of eight o’clock. Mr. Pardoe, rubbing his eyes, saw that his wife’s face still wore the expression of bored patience with which she was accustomed to receive his domestic sermons, and that Timothy, as before, balanced himself on one leg and jerked his body backwards and forwards by way of passing time. They seemed to be waiting for him.
‘What’s this?’ cried Mr. Pardoe, staring at the paper in his hand. He recognized The Bondholder’s Register. An alarming idea visited him. ‘Am I...?’ He looked down at his legs, stroked his arms. Yes, he was. He breathed deeply in his relief. ‘My dear, did you notice anything, anything unusual?’
Blank faces greeted him.
‘Between the seventh and eighth stroke of the hour—did anything happen to me?’
His wife took a step towards him. Her eyes became anxious. ‘No, dear. Are you feeling ill?’
‘No, no. Perfectly well. Just a whim of mine. A mere fancy. Nothing at all. Nothing.’