. . . Arise and fly The reeling faun, the sensual feast;

    Move upward, working out the beast,

And let the ape and tiger die.

—tennyson, In Memoriam (1850)

For the twenty-ninth time that morning Sam caught the cook’s eye, directed his own to a row of bells over the kitchen door and then eloquently swept them up to the ceiling. It was noon. One might have thought Sam glad to have a morning off; but the only mornings off he coveted were with more attractive female company than that of the portly Mrs. Rogers.

“’E’s not ‘imself,” said the dowager, also for the twenty-ninth time. If she felt irritated, however, it was with Sam, not the young lord upstairs. Ever since their return from Lyme two days before, the valet had managed to hint at dark goings-on. It is true he had graciously communicated the news about Winsyatt; but he had regularly added “And that ain’t ‘alf of what’s a-foot.” He refused to be drawn. “There’s sartin confidences” (a word he pronounced with a long i) “as can’t be yet spoken of, Mrs. R. But things ‘as ‘appened my heyes couldn’t ‘ardly believe they was seein’.”

Sam had certainly one immediate subject for bitterness. Charles had omitted to dismiss him for the evening when he went out to see Mr. Freeman. Thus Sam had waited in and up until after midnight, only to be greeted, when he heard the front door open, by a black look from a white face.

“Why the devil aren’t you in bed?”

“’Cos you didn’t say you was dinin’ out, Mr. Charles.”

“I’ve been at my club.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And take that insolent look off your damned face.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam held out his hands and took—or caught—the various objects, beginning with sundry bits of outdoor apparel and terminating in a sulphurous glare, that Charles threw at him. Then the master marched majestically upstairs. His mind was now very sober, but his body was still a little drunk, a fact Sam’s bitter but unseen smirk had only too plainly reflected.

“You’re right, Mrs. R. ‘E’s not ‘imself. ‘E was blind drunk last night.”

“I wouldn’t ‘ave believed it possible.”

“There’s lots o’ things yours truly wouldn’t ‘ave believed possible, Mrs. R. As ‘as ‘appened hall the same.”

“’E never wants to cry off!”

“Wild ‘osses wouldn’t part my lips, Mrs. R.” The cook took a deep-bosomed breath. Her clock ticked beside her range. Sam smiled at her. “But you’re sharp, Mrs. R. Very sharp.”

Clearly Sam’s own feeling of resentment would very soon have accomplished what the wild horses were powerless to effect. But he was saved, and the buxom Mrs. Rogers thwart-ed, by the bell. Sam went and lifted the two-gallon can of hot water that had been patiently waiting all morning at the back of the range, winked at his colleague, and disappeared.

There are two kinds of hangover: in one you feel ill and incapable, in the other you feel ill and lucid. Charles had in fact been awake, indeed out of bed, some time before he rang. He had the second sort of hangover. He remembered only too clearly the events of the previous night.

His vomiting had driven the already precarious sexual element in that bedroom completely out of sight and mind. His unhappily named choice had hastily risen, pulled on her gown, and then proved herself to be as calm a nurse as she had promised to be a prostitute. She got Charles to his chair by the fire, where he caught sight of the hock bottle, and was promptly sick again. But this time she had ready a basin from the washstand. Charles kept groaning his apologies between his retches.

“Most sorry . . . most unfortunate . . . something disagreed...” “It’s all right, sir, it’s all right. You just let it come.”

And let it come he had had to. She went and got her shawl and threw it round his shoulders. He sat for some time ludicrously like an old granny, crouched over the basin on his knees, his head bowed. After a while he began to feel a little better. Would he like to sleep? He would, but in his own bed. She went and looked down into the street, then left the room while he shakily got dressed. When she came back she herself had put on her clothes. He looked at her aghast.

“You are surely not... ?”

“Get you a cab, sir. If you just wait...”

“Ah yes ... thank you.”

And he sat down again, while she went downstairs and out of the house. Though he was by no means sure that his nausea was past, he felt in some psychological way profound-ly relieved. Never mind what his intention had been; he had not committed the fatal deed. He stared into the glowing fire; and strange as it may seem, smiled wanly.

Then there came a low cry from the ne............