For a moment, Handy was completely put out, then extending his hand, he said: "Fogg, you may not know it, but you're a humorist. That wasn't half bad, as we say in England. I was never there, but it goes, all the same." Fogg smiled, but Handy looked serious. He was in a troubled state of mind on account of Fogg's expressed determination to leave the house. He remembered all too vividly that he had been chief engineer of Fogg's escapade of the preceding night. He had to economize on truth; originate a fit, burst a blood-vessel, and carry out several minor details to make the undertaking thoroughly convincing. These, of course, he was willing to father, and, for that matter, felt a certain pride in their performance, when he remembered they resulted in relieving the troubles of a friend. But he was hurt when he came to reflect that the friend for whom he had undertaken so much had so little regard for the fitness of things and embarrassments of the situation as to venture forth the following day. It was too much for his sensibilities. "The idea, Fogg, of showing yourself in public to-day, or to-morrow, or even the next day, is simply preposterous. It is out of the question. I may almost pronounce it like flying in the face of Providence. Remember, you are still a sick man, and I am sponsor for your illness. Bear in mind, you were taken out of the theatre as good as a dead one, in the garb of _Claude Melnotte_." "Yes; and thanks to that infernal Smith," interrupted Fogg, "the suit is as good as ruined, with the stuff he spilt over it."