'You're seeing me now.'
'This is a matter on which I can hardly enter, here, and now. I should prefer, with your permission, to see you again to-morrow.
'To-morrow's Sunday.'
'That makes no difference to me.'
'Oh! you don't honour the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.' He emptied his glass. 'Give me some more.' A bottle of whisky was standing at his elbow. I poured some out. When I was proceeding to dilute it with water, he stopped me. 'None of that. Neat.' He swallowed what I had given him. 'Thank God for alcohol. There's nothing like it, when you've got where I am.--What's that you were saying about wanting to see me to-morrow?'
'Where can I see you--and when?'
'Where? In the grave; if I keep on feeling like I'm feeling now. I've slept too much.--Give me some more.'
He tilted his glass.
'You've had enough.'
'D----n you, man, what the devil do you mean by telling me I've had enough? I never have enough. If I had all that's in the world I wouldn't have enough. It's my stuff, not yours. Give me some more.' I poured him out a little. 'Don't stint, you're not paying.' Again he swallowed at a gulp what I had given him. It seemed, instead of stupefying, to clear his head. 'That's more like it. Now I'm feeling better. After half a bottle I'm pretty well, and after a bottle I'm nearly right. Listen to me. I'll see you tomorrow, Sunday morning, at the York Hotel, in Stamford Street. After twelve o'clock. Say half-past. Make a note of it.'