Brissenden half rose from his chair as he spoke, as if with the intention of departing to the restaurant forthwith.
Martin’s fists were tight-clenched, and his blood was drumming in his temples.
“Bosco! He eats ’em alive! Eats ’em alive!” Brissenden exclaimed, imitating the spieler of a locally famous snake-eater.
“I could certainly eat you alive,” Martin said, in turn running insolent eyes over the other’s disease-ravaged frame.
“Only I’m not worthy of it?”
“On the contrary,” Martin considered, “because the incident is not worthy.” He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. “I confess you made a fool of me, Brissenden. That I am hungry and you are aware of it are only ordinary phenomena, and there’s no disgrace. You see, I laugh at the conventional little moralities of the herd; then you drift by, say a sharp, true word, and immediately I am the slave of the same little moralities.”
“You were insulted,” Brissenden affirmed.
“I certainly was, a moment ago. The prejudice of early youth, you know. I learned such things then, and they cheapen what I have since learned. They are the skeletons in my particular closet.”
“But you’ve got the door shut on them now?”
“I certainly have.”