"You must have known him well. Thank heaven, I never did."
Havelock flung out a huge hand. "Oh, get off that ridiculous animal you're riding, Chantry, and come to the point. You mean you don't think Ferguson should have admitted it?"
Chantry's tone changed. "Well, one doesn't."
The huge hand, clenched into a fist, came down on the table. The crystal bottle was too heavy to rock, but the glasses jingled and a spoon slid over the edge of its saucer.
"There it is—what I was looking for."
"What were you looking for?" Chantry's wonder was not feigned.
"For your hydra-headed prejudice. Makes me want to play Hercules."
"Oh, drop your metaphors, Havelock. Get into the game. What is it?"
"It's this: that you don't think—or affect not to think—that it's decent for a man to recognize his own worth."
Chantry did not retort. He dropped his chin on his chest and thought for a moment. Then he spoke, very quietly and apologetically.