‘Penderel,’ he told him promptly—told the bottle too.
‘Mr. Penderel, of course,’ said Mr. Femm. ‘Do you think you could join me in a drink?’
‘Mr. Femm, I feel that I could, with pleasure, join you in a drink.’ They were like two old club cronies.
Mr. Femm stood over the bottle. ‘It is not whisky, which all you young men drink now, I believe. This is gin, which I prefer to all the other spirits, except, of course, the very old brandies. With some lemon, a little sugar perhaps, some hot water if you care for it, gin is excellent, and, remember, the purest of the spirits.’
‘I do remember,’ said Penderel, heartily. ‘Gin for me, with pleasure. I used to drink it with the sea-dogs. The Navy, at least the commissioned part of it, has a passion for gin. After it gave up rum, it went straight to gin. The brave fellows sit round all night, dropping remarks about turbines and torpedoes, the coast of Manchuria, and beautiful blue-eyed girls, and drinking gin with admirable steadiness and ease.’ He watched the other pour out the liquor, accepted lemon and sugar, refused water, and then, glass in hand, remarked: ‘We must have a toast.’
Mr. Femm looked thoughtful, even philosophic, with the faint ghost of conviviality hovering about him. ‘Mr. Penderel, I give you a toast that you will not appreciate, being young. I give you—Illusion!’ And he lifted his glass.
‘I’m all for it. Illusion!’ He gasped a little for it was unusually strong stuff. But that was better. A few more such toasts and illusion would be something more than a wistful sentiment. ‘But don’t imagine that I’m too young to appreciate the value of illusion. I’m just the right age. I was born too late or too early to escape the rotten truth, and I’ve been stubbing my toes against flinty facts ever since I left school.’
Mr. Femm smiled grimly. He was about to say that that itself was one of youth’s illusions. Penderel could see it coming: he had heard it before. But then Mr. Femm surprised him by not speaking at all; he merely stared on after the smile had vanished and took a sip from his glass. The next moment his eyes seemed to be looking out into horrible space, and his face was twitching. He appeared to be listening. ‘A dreadful night,’ he muttered at last. ‘It seems to be getting worse.’
‘It’s a brute, certainly,’ Penderel replied, ‘but apparently there’s no danger here. Miss Femm and your man seem to be positive that this house is safe enough.’
‘But even if it is, we may be completely cut off, shut in here.’ The man seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Penderel.