"I've been trying to tell you—"
"And now you must.... Is there a cigar handy?... Thanks.... This whiskey is prime stuff.... Go on. I'm waiting."
"Well," Peter Kenny confessed sheepishly. "I'm in love—"
"And you proposed to her to-night at the ball?"
"Yes, and—"
"She refused you."
"Yes, but—"
"So you decided to do the manly thing—go out and pollute yourself with drink?"
"That's about the size of it," Peter admitted, shamefaced.
"It's no good reason," announced P. Sybarite. "Now, if you'd been celebrating your happy escape, I'd be the last to blame you."