A few days later my father pointed out the announcement of Howard's death in The Times as we sat at breakfast.
I nodded.
"Yes; I heard at the Club he was dying."
"What was it? They don't say here."
"No," I said; "they would not."
"What was it?"
"Excess."
We neither said anything further with reference to it, but Howard's death was in both our thoughts, and as we got up from the table he said, suddenly,—
"There's a great thing in having a quiet, moderate nature, or at least self-control," and then he added afterwards, as if struck by a sudden amending thought, "Well, of course, that comes virtually to the same thing."
"Does it?" I thought. "By Jove, not to the man himself!"