Ezekiel stared at her over the glass of Portugalade, which I had handed on to him before beginning my speech.
“How do you mean late?” he said.
“Wasn’t that what you said?” asked Miss Moonbeam.
“Yes, but I meant dead,” said Ezekiel. “He’s been dead some time.”
“You don’t mean it?” said the naval officer.
“Yes. It’s rather nice,” said Ezekiel.
“I see,” said Miss Moonbeam. “You didn’t get on together?”
“I meant the Portugalade,” said Ezekiel.
“—I can only implore you,” I continued, “while there’s still time—before the craving for stimulants has finally overcome you—to cast them away from you with both hands, to crush them under foot, to leave them for ever.”
I glanced at Ezekiel, who was wiping his mouth.